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changisworld · 1 month

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Overstimulation with Jeongin

word count:2,642

18+, MDNI!! smut below

©ANY translation, copy & paste, posting of my work is strictly forbidden for ANY posts/ writing i post.

The final part of my 8 part masterlist of the extension of this & this headcanon of the members!!;3

Kinks & pleasures masterlist here main masterlist here

->SMUT WARNINGS: dommish!Innie, sub!reader, overstimulation, dacryphilia, use of sex toys, oral (f rec) use of flavoured lube. manipulation(???) mention of safe word but not used(light system), tittie sucking, PIV, pull out method, dirty talk, praise, squirting, aftercare is brief but happens more off screen

->I think this is actually my favourite from the whole series along with Seungmins heheh so i hope you all like it as much as I do :3

When you had first started to get to know Jeongin, you've always noticed how soft & playful he is & when you first started to get to know him sexually, you assumed he would be the exact same sweet boy, but how quickly he proved you wrong, it could have genuinely gave you whiplash.

You're straddling Jeongin as you're both on your bed, making out messily as your hands cup his sharpened jawline & his are resting comfortably on your ass, the fabric of your leggings stretching over his skin, simply resting there, caressing your curves at the same pace as both of your lips move.

"So pretty, take your shirt off f'me, wanna see your tits" he cheekily asks, his lips shiny with his spit as he breaks the kiss. You obviously rush to do as he asks, giggling as he lets out a small, happy hum as your bare chest is now on show for him & he is quick to pull you forward just enough so your chest is level with his face, before latching onto your left nipple.

You fiddle with his soft hair, grinding slowly against his clothed cock, but despite the layers of clothes covering it, you can feel it hardening. "You've got a good mouth" you say, mindlessly & you chuckle as Jeongin switches nipple, slightly nibbling down on it just the way you like.

"Yeah? I've got some more tricks I can do with it" he giggles as he flips you both over so you're on your back. "Lemme show you" he adds on as he takes the hem of your leggings & starts pulling them off your body & you huff, but you help him take them off anyway.

"Your sex drive is far too high, we fucked literally three hours ago!" you tease him as your legs spread just enough so he can slot his waist between so he can kiss you again, but he doesn't take you up on the silent offer, instead his dimpled, cheeky smile as he settles his knees on the floor at the bottom of the bed, his face now level with your covered cunt, your lace black thong presenting a small wet patch.

"I can't help it when I am with you, just one orgasm, we don't even need to fuck, just wanna taste & you do too don't you? you're so wet y/n" he purrs as he nudges his nose against your cunt, groaning at the smell.

You sigh as he starts kissing your thighs, suckling down on your sweet spots which make your legs threaten to shut around him, but are blocked by his head & shoulders.

Jeongin can tell you're getting antsy with the way you're trying to hump onto his face & he forces himself to pull back & reach into the bedside drawer & pull out your bullet vibrator & also something of his own choice, his strawberry flavoured lube.

The minute you notice the lube in his hand, you knew this would be a long scene. "Innie, just one, I want to actually function later" you chuckle & he rolls his eyes playfully up at you as he pulls your underwear down your legs, now leaving you completely bare.

He blows a cold string of air on your glistening folds & his eyes are glued to the way you clench around nothing but air & he bites his bottom lip before he opens the cap of the lube & squirts a small dollop of it just above your clit & you wince.

Jeongin puts the vibrator to the side for now but keeps it in arms reach obviously, but he doesn't waste any more time before diving into your pussy, it looking too endearing to keep himself back anymore.

You've realised long ago that he has a kind of 'specific order' in how he eats pussy, one hundred percent of the time always starting off by kitten licking your entire cunt, paying extra attention to the small spot just in between your clit & your hole, always making you want more.

He spreads the lube around your pussy, making you so wet that you're surprised his mouth doesn't quite literally slip off your pussy, which makes you laugh in your head at the thought of it.

"Innie, don't tease" you whimper in a soft voice, not wanting to jerk your hip because you know he will give you way more than you can handle simply because 'you wanted more so he gave you more'. "I'm not, just wanting to taste before I eat, don't rush me!" he replies, his fox eyes peeking up at you, the bottom half of his face hidden by your own body & you shut your legs around his head, playfully.

Jeongin is quick to pull your thighs back open & he looks at you with frowned eyes, his smile still plastered on his face & you can't help but get butterflies but also a bit nervous, not knowing what his look exactly means but you're quick to find out.

"You're so needy, & you told me my sex drive was too high." he chuckles, before he dives in. He has picked up his pace on his usual walkthrough on how he usually tastes you, before switching from tasting to eating, & one thing about Jeongin is he genuinely eats as if it's his last meal, & you lurch forward but Jeongin is quick to push you back onto the bed, his mouth not even daring to leave your mound.

Jeongin's eyes are staring up at you, with a mix of lust but also just love, & you are able to pick up on the look, his main way of non verbally showing he loves you despite how harsh he can be to you during sex & how far he pushes you to your limits.

Jeongin makes quick work of suckling on your folds, his tongue parting them as he flattens his tongue against it, lapping at your cunt, making you whimper & hum as your fingers weave into his soft hair but you don't dare tug on it, you just rub & play with his hair softly, trying to maybe get him to not be as harsh as you think he's gonna be.

Jeongin latches onto your clit & his soft lips suction to the button, tongue swirling around it in the specific pattern he knows gets you over the edge the quickest, savouring your raw taste on his taste buds, he starts palming himself over his sweatpants to try ease some of the pressure on his pulsating cock.

"Innie, g-gonna cum" you groan, your fingers clenching in his hair, making him groan in return as he can quite literally feel your clit pulsate in his mouth & he keeps the pace the exact same & your thighs slightly shake around his head before your stomach tightens & your first orgasm.. first of very many just this time alone washes over you & your toes curl, Jeongin chuckling up at you as he watches you writhe, his tongue not giving over.

You are panting as your high eventually bubbles away, but the feeling of his tongue doesn't bubble away, as he keeps the exact same speed. "Innie n-no more, sleepy" you murmur, your hips twitching at the slightly painful feeling sinking in.

"Cmon, you can handle one more, you've only came once today, it's fine" he purrs & you look down at him as soon as you process his words. "Jeongin you've made me cum four times today, my clit is gonna fall off" you cry & jeongin gets back to what he was doing, sucking & tasting before swallowing the remainder of the lube that he hasn't already swallowed & replies to you by saying "nuh uh, only gave you one today, can't you remember?" before he decides to be 'nice' & give you a small break & sits back on his knees slightly as he decides that your hole needs some attention too, so he slides two of his long, slender fingers into you, a small squelching noise being heard.

"You're so wet, you enjoy this almost as much as i do don't you" he teases as he starts scissoring them in & out of you & you can't help but chase the feeling despite it stinging from overstimulation, & any comeback you had dies in your throat as you bask in the feeling, whimpering & whining at the feeling.

As your eyes are shut & your arms are thrown over your face as you try fuck yourself on his fingers & as you're distracted, Jeongin reaches to grab the small vibrator placed on the bed & before you realise, he has turned it on & has placed it on your already swollen clit & you hiss & tense up, your cunt clenching around his fingers.

"Ah, fuck Innie, s-so much" you blabber, your hips subconsciously trying to get more feeling from the vibrator while also trying to escape from it at the same time, but he is so quick to stop you from trying to shuffle away. "Don't run from it, I wouldn't give you anything you couldn't handle, so be good, mkay? gimme one more then I'll stop, pinky swear" he talks, his voice sounding breathless as if he was the one receiving it all.

You can't do anything other than nod at his words as he then adds a third finger, meeting almost no resistance from how soaked you really are, but you feel even impossibly fuller & you let out a whine.

You can feel what feels like your millionth orgasm of the day bubbling up in the pit of your stomach again as Jeongin starts poking & probing against your soft spot at the same time he switches the vibrator to the highest setting & you can tell your orgasm feels different & you know what it is.

"Innie, cumm-" you're cut off by yourself as your orgasm hits you harder this time & this time it squirts out of you & sprays onto the vibrator before spraying onto his bare chest, before dripping down his skin along with dripping down onto the knuckles that are poking out from your hole before he is forced to pull them out from how hard you're clenching around them & he takes it upon himself to fiddle with your clit at a quick pace to pull the rest of your orgasm out of you, humming at the sight.

Your hair is sticking to your face because of the thin layer of sweat & your legs can't help but shut around his hand & he pulls it away from your abused cunt, letting you catch your breath slightly as he takes this opportunity to take off the rest of the clothes he still has on, his cock leaking at the tip so much you'd assume he had already came in his pants.

"So good aren't you, I think you can handle just one more" he states, not really bothering to ask. "Too much Inniee" you pant, your legs still closed but Jeongin opens them before positioning himself between them. "What's your colour?" he asks, his voice turning softer as he pumps himself slowly with one hand & caresses your thigh with the other.

"Gr-green" you whimper to him, your voice completely hushed out & raspy sounding & dry from using it so much. Jeongin smiles down at you, his dimples making your heart flutter & you make grabby hands & he knows to fold himself forwards to be face level with you as he lines himself up with you before pushing in, making you both moan in unison.

"How is it you're always so tight hmm? I literally fucked you open earlier & even made you squirt but you're still dying for more" he buzzes, his own voice raspy too as he begins to fuck you at a slow pace, deciding to give you the small amount of time to adjust.

"So- so big, fuck" you whimper, clenching uncontrollably around his long, slender cock & Jeongin can't help but blush at your words.

He starts to pick up his pace, his tip bullying into your cervix, kissing it roughly with each thrust as he tries to shut his own growing whimpers & groans by kissing you, mostly to shut himself up because he would rather be mute than let himself miss your noises & the way your cunt is squelching around him each time he thrusts makes him thankful he did so.

You struggle to kiss him back as you are allowing yourself to fully swallow yourself in the pleasure the man above is giving you.. the only man who could do this for you, your eyes watering & even a few tears start to escape your eyes from the painful pleasure, your cervix being poked & no doubt bruised but the feeling of your G-spot being also poked & also probably bruised, covers the painful part almost entirely.

"S-wanna cum a-again Inn, ca-can't handle it" you shriek as you turn your head sideways enough just to break your lips apart to tell him & he can't even chuckle at your state, his own orgasm starting to form as he stands back, his pace not faltering as he has to mentally beg himself to not let his eyes shut so he doesn't miss anything.

He thinks to himself your clit looks 'abandoned' or 'lonely' so of course he fixes that issue, by yet again partnering it with his thumb & you lurch forward, your hands making quick work of trying to paw his hand from your clit but he uses his other hand to push yours away.

"Keep em away, I know you're g-gonna cum again, gonna cum too, t-so tight" he groans, his eyebrows furrowed as he is biting down on his bottom lip & you clench your fingers so hard into the bedsheets that they're turning white as you can't stop moaning, the room full of the sounds.

"Cryin f'me? is it that much for you y/nnie? just let go, so pretty when you cry" he utters as he watches your face contort & your toes start curling again as your legs shake around him again & before you can warn him, you're squirting for the second time & Jeongin has to pull himself out from how tightly you constrict & not even a couple of seconds after he is fisting his cock while watching your own orgasm spray out of you, he is cumming all over your lower tummy, a few drops shooting up towards your tits.

He tries to get his breath back as quickly as possible as he is also helping you by picking you up & making quick work of helping move to the bathroom & setting you on the countertop as he starts running a bath before turning around to kiss you all over your cheeks & drying the tears from your cheeks & then kissing you all over again, moving your dampened hair rom your face.

"Wait here f'me & Ima get us water then we can bath together, I'll bring your chocolate too" he says in his completely normal cheery voice, before running out of the room still naked into the kitchen.

->Taglist & anon list is open!

@jisungml

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comfortless · 5 months

Note

Offering you a prompt because I know you could make it perfect! ( ๑‾̀◡‾́)✨ You know about Minoan Bull Leaping? What about that with a hybrid Köni?

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. König is a man here!!: ears and a tail and a set of horns but that’s it!, fem (afab) reader, nondescript animal death, codependency and a little possessive behavior, reader gets injured, historical inaccuracies, one-sided worship, mentions of violence, reader is a virgin for three seconds, cunnilingus, smut.

word count: 11.5k.

You’ve practiced this, and still the tension and nervousness bleeds through you, courses like a steady river under skin and curves around bone. The bulls are so much larger than the fallen trees and heavy stones you’ve danced around and over for practice, and the nights spent tempting them with treats had never been enough to prepare. Twigs and jagged edges are nothing in comparison to the horns of very alive and breathing beasts; petting their heads is far simpler than prancing over their horns.

The bulls wait in the field, grazing, sturdy monoliths amidst a sea of green below the warm light of the sun. It kisses every inch of skin, highlights the determination and giddiness on the faces of others and lines your frown in shadow. Three feral bulls for two men and a woman far more practiced than you; a rugged, adolescent thing with his horns barely poking through waits just for you, misplaced from the herd and huffing indignantly some distance from the rest.

You watch the others go, one by one, as they skip and somersault toward their gruffer partners. Your hand rises up the expanse of your robe to brush over the jewels layered along your throat. Their movements are rushing water, fluid and perfect, so elaborate and pretty that you fear even blinking will cause you to miss the most important details.

And then they reach their bulls.

Some huff, one tilts his head in curiosity. An attempt to gore, perhaps, except… these things are not vicious, only happy creatures. They know the importance of the dance just as you do. When the curious one does accept the grasp of a man’s hands over his horns, you feel yourself beginning to walk, possessed by the need to claim your own bull and perform just as they do.

The show that you put on is less graceful, but does not lack heart. A trip on your first somersault that sends you into the grass, righted immediately when you hear your bull huff only paces away. You laugh, coo, and chirp as you approach with more balance. The sparkling jewels dance over your skin just as the others dance over their bulls, leap after leap, and the animals remain calm.

Yours is no different. He allows you to graze your fingertips over the soft fur of his back, does not so much as flinch when your press your palms flat over the sides of his face. The horns poking out of his skull are rounded at their tips, not yet properly grown in. You kiss the dip between his eyes and tell him how special this performance must be. To tame a wild animal is something divine in itself, but to tame a bull takes someone truly virtuous.

The grass tickles along your calves, the sun feels so warm and lovely against your face. You sigh in contentment as your steps lead you back, arms raised in preparation to jump. The others cheer you on, guide you with their voices as they wait next to their animals. The scent of nectar and pine lulls you to comfort, allows you the courage that you lacked initially; knees bend and arms raise, your eyes locked on the sprouting horns.

With your posture immaculate, you take your first leap.

The sun catches on something tar black and glimmering waiting in the trees just out past the pasture. Two tall horns springing from either side of a head, the stature of a man, just as your fingers curl over the calf before you’s much smaller horns.

The heart in your chest ceases its pounding for a moment, and your eyes must have widened the very same as a child’s would when encountering something sweet or shiny to treasure.

There’s a man attached to those horns in the tree line. Though you could not make out his face beneath all of the shade and foliage, you were so certain that it must have been a man.

A man larger than any man in Crete. Impossible and imposing.

The tumble that follows this reverie is what breaks away any hope of this being a lovely day.

Your concentration was broken the very second that the creature showed itself, and it was far too late to stop even when you were no longer a part of what was occurring between you and your sable-furred calf. The animal senses the not-right about the situation, takes it as a cue to move just as you were lifted over him and sends you sprawled out into the blooming wildflowers. The earth at your back, the sky to your front, and the pain takes its time to trickle in like winter chill and crawl up from your soles to the base of your neck.

The thin gold of your necklace must have snapped, because one of the jewels lies over your middle now, and several others have been left for dirt and birds to claim in the grass.

It’s your bull that comes to worry over you first, his wet nose nudges at your cheek when the scent of blood from broken skin taints the air with iron. It’s just a scrape along your palm, sullied by the peak of a jagged rock lying buried just below the soft soil of the pasture. The blood runs in small streams when you marvel at the wound, held up keeping sun from your eyes.

His coarse tongue finds its way to your hair, retrieves the flowers from it as if his stomachs could not wait for the consoling to be done to be fed. In your stupor, you almost want to call the poor thing stupid, but you only tell him that he’s done as well as you hoped.

You’ll dance with him again, you promise.

The injury takes time to recover from, even with the most patient of healers seated at your bedside. He reminds you that a woman of your standing is something special in herself. Proud, noble, and meant to be wed in the coming months each time he layers salve over the scrapes and the expanse of bruising along your back. Your linens are changed by the slaves of your household, new jewels provided in abundance and placed around your neck as though you even need to look presentable now, bruised and stuck in your bed.

No one knows what you saw, not really. You aren’t even certain what that vision was. They whisper of madness when you bring it up. The Minotaur remains in the labyrinth, far away from here and bedded down in the dark. Men don’t possess the horns of bulls, and you must have damaged your head too, because no one believes a word you speak about it, about him.

Your mistake, you learned, was probably what spurred your poor calf to be chosen for sacrifice. A bad omen forfeit, maybe. So young and gentle, and now gone. The soft fur off his ears and the quivering of his nose wouldn’t be felt again, and worse still…What if you were not meant to leap with them at all?

There is fruit and barley served up onto a plate made of bone as you’re ordered to eat by your healer. People can be crueler than bulls, you think to yourself; you haven’t even got the desire to eat after hearing such a thing. You’re bleeding from the heart when the first bite is forced into your mouth, gut twisting and fingernails digging into soft linen.

“I promised…” Your voice is muffled by a particularly fat portion of plum. It goes ignored by the withering old healer that tilts your head back and strokes your jaw with a soft palm to encourage you to swallow.

“Eat.”

And when you don’t, when you spit it back onto the plate, you’re rewarded with another bite and further encouragement as your sobs fill the room. It should be expected, not as hard as bone or as tough as the skin of the fruit when you’re finally offered sweet wine to swallow it down. You shouldn’t be a mess over an animal who served his purpose well and would be heralded as some savior for giving some clumsy woman trust and a chance.

It’s just that there’s so much more to it, for you. Patches of purple and swelling are much easier to spot than guilt and other turmoils.

Your first should have been beautiful, should have left those watching with stars dancing in their irises. You couldn’t even handle a calf, and you feel more pitiful and helpless the longer that you harp on those thoughts.

You rest and have dreamless bouts of slumber. You walk alongside the healer, leaning against the old man for support when you find the pain is still very much there, stinging and vile. The people about the city always smile to you, offer you flowers and sweet fruit and ask when you’ll be well enough to dance again.

Often, it even soothes the ache that they can’t see well enough. Provides some hope that, yes, you can return to what you’ve always hoped to do, display your grace and strength and find some place in a flowery pasture before the day of your wedding. You’ve heard of women tearing a place that makes them bleed on horseback, how getting the pain over and done with then has made consummation far easier when that day comes for them. Maybe that could happen for you too.

You ask to hear the story of the Minotaur more times than should be appropriate from the slaves of your household. Some of them are foreign, not entirely sure of just how it should be told. You find yourself especially fond of one of them who twists her words to make everything seem honey.

“…I like to think that he wasn’t alone down there,” she finishes on her second retelling of the night. The first had ended with a separate possibility altogether, one that saddened you to the core.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” she laughs, taking the comb of carved bone to your hair, gently running it through each tangle provided by your pillow from lying in bed for the entire day. “Maybe he had friends or…”

“A wife?,” you question in amusement. Bulls didn’t take wives, even if they were part manâ€¦

“He is a man. Surely he had a woman,” she laughs again, bright and giddy, and follows it with a shrug. “You said that you saw him. Maybe it’s a sign.”

“I didn’t say it was him,” you almost wail in embarrassment. It was true that you had endlessly questioned and pondered for the past few weeks, speculated on what may or may not have been there, beneath the trees when you took your fall. For some odd reason, your fascination with that creature had ignited a flame someplace in your chest, growing ever brighter with each day that passed. “He didn’t have a bull’s head. Only the horns.”

She plucks at your hair with the comb a little longer in silence before setting it aside and casting you an almost fretful glance. “That sounds scary…”

“Oh,” you sigh. She’s right, of course. There were plenty of terrible things described with those attributes. But… if bulls didn’t scare you, then surely bullmen could not be any worse. “He didn’t hurt anyone though.”

“But you did get hurt,” the girl reminds you sympathetically.

You swallow dryly, and at last decide to put these fantasies aside. Your injuries were almost healed in full, and the last thing that you needed was for everyone to think that you were not simply wounded, but crazy too. A mad woman wouldn’t find a husband, and you were not a cow meant to be fantasizing over bullmen. The place you were given since birth was that of noble standing, a woman worth her weight in pearls and gold, not meant for fields and horns.

When morning rises and the yellow-red glow of the sun pokes its way through your window, you find you’re able to stand properly without the old man’s help to keep you upright.

You wash your face with the water from the clay pot in the corner, smile to yourself when you dab carmine onto your cheeks and smear it with the palm of your hand to look the part of some blushing dove.

Your robe is clean and soft when its pulled over you and fastened, delightfully comfortable when there’s no more bruising to irritate. Incense is lit, and you immerse yourself in what is before you rather than in shadow.

There’s a clamoring in the street below your window as you finish preparing for the day, both cheers and shouts of fear that stir both confusion and trepidation in your belly. It takes some time before you can coax yourself into taking a peek, find the strength in your trembling legs to look upon what may very well be the final march for a man deemed worthy of execution or perhaps some other misfortune.

Everything is painted honey and gold over the chalked clay of the buildings and the smooth stones layered over the streets.

There are women fleeing, a few cowardly men accompanying them. Children walk backwards or affix themselves to high walls to stare back at what’s being led by soldiers clutching thick lines of woven rope.

The thing that follows behind them leaves your heart in your throat, because it… he, is no prisoner or omen.

The bullman from your endless daydreaming walks with his arms fastened behind him, thick tail flicking in irritation at his backside, soft auburn ears fold back against his head.

The face, closer now, intrigues you the most, because as you’ve claimed endlessly: he only looks the part of a man. Some rugged barbarian, for certain, but still he does not bare any resemblance to the Minotaur or any other beast from the tales and songs. Though his nose is crooked, and pale scarring layers in abundance over tanned flesh, he looks almost sweet. There’s a gentleness about him that betrays the strangeness of his silhouette from before.

And he bleeds crimson like any other man, from a wound dug out in his shoulder where a spear must have pierced him. The blood along his chest has not even had the time to dry.

The poor man is bleeding and naked, not a scrap of cloth to conceal him any place, not even where his hair curls above his loins.

You imagine what the healer and slave girl must think now, when the subject of your endless ramblings is out on display for the entire city. Whether monster or forgotten god, the bullman is here, and in your haze of thought you will yourself to storm out into the street. There are hisses of confusion and fear all filtered and feathering on the air, many voices, but what is worse are the screams.

He doesn’t even possess it within him to look afraid, only terribly annoyed or maybe even somber. It was difficult to tell by the lack of expression on his face. His eyes are sad, but his lips are pressed into the barest line. The only indication that he feels anything at all is the swishing of his tail, a tell of anger in bulls. Maybe in men baring their resemblance, too.

“Where are you taking him?,” you demand, a shrill cry from your doorstep.

No answer comes your way from the soldiers at his side.

“Please…”

The words fail you as you find yourself stepping in front of this march. Ten soldiers to keep one man in a hold, it was ridiculous. Though he towered over them and possessed horns sharp enough to gore, to see him like this… It all stirred so much emotion within you that you almost think you must have really injured something in your skull, because the city spins around you and your eyes sting fiercely.

Every step halts when you begin to sob right there in the street like a bereaved wife finding out her husband has been tortured or killed in some distant land. Even the bullman seems intrigued by your tears. The quiet blue of his eyes flits from what stands beyond you to your face, puffed and slick with tears. Why cry for a man you do not know?, he seems to ask wordlessly. Why throw yourself out in the midst of danger?

“… my bull is dead, so I would like to…” To dance with this one. To see past the abomination of what he was and maybe cherish him in the way he deserved without deserving.

His ears prick forward, and he huffs something whispering and foreign in his tongue. Just one word that you’re uncertain of the meaning of, probably demeaning considering that you had called him an animal, not man. But he speaks. He speaks and that is enough for the soldiers to exchange cautious glances from the titan they lead to the curious display of the crying woman in front of them.

“You want to dance with this bull?,” one asks, both amusement and disbelief painting each syllable.

You nod your head, weak but fiercely resolute in your wish.

Not “this bull”, but perhaps “this god”.

You’re both stripped bare of any defenses, fates left in the hands of men who only know to kill and fuck. Somehow luck shimmers through, because you’re presented with one of the ropes a soldier carries. It’s offered to you with a stiff, callused hand, dropped unceremoniously into the palm that rises up to wait.

You walk beside your bull, not where you would rather lead him but where the other men urge for you to go. People watch on with curious stares, and you know most assuredly that when your healer hears of this new derangement, you will suffer another fortnight in bed with herbs and prayers over your head.

The bull watches you the entire time with a stare that lacks any emotion. The beast could be grateful, humiliated, or considering ripping you apart the moment his binds were undone and you wouldn’t have the slightest idea of it until he was upon you. What’s stranger still is that you don’t fear him. He looks to you the entire time and your hand clutching the rope does not tremble. Your pulse races, but only with something beyond fear, something an ordinary man has never gifted to you.

The gated pasture is bears a cool breeze when you enter, you watch as one of the men ties your new bull to a post and tells you that he is wicked, but the only crime he’s being accused of is being what he is.

“You’re hurt,” you assess a little dumbly when everyone has paraded away. The grass stains the white linen you wear as you sink to your knees at the titan’s side.

You’ve nothing to tend to his wound with. Dirt is smudged into the divide in his flesh with gentle swipes of your thumb, a strip ripped from your robe when you try to stop the bleeding further. He hisses when you fasten it tight, shoots you a glare that both makes stars fall in your eyes and sets a stampede to rush in your heart. Your heart, you think, but really it’s something else. You feel hot all over and it’s the stupidest thing.

“I know, I know..,” you mumble as you tie the cloth, straighten yourself out and cover the expanse of your thigh that’s been revealed as you settle back into place. “Can you move it?”

“Yes.”

It hardly registers that he’s freed himself somewhat until a massive hand curls tightly around your wrist. The touch is not at all gentle, it’s probing, the tip of each digit leaving small curved indentations in your flesh, intent on keeping you thoroughly in place.

“Why aren’t you afraid?” His voice comes as an odd grumbling, seemingly unused for some time. It isn’t deep, either, which comes as the most jarring thing about all of this. It’s so pleasant, that even with his iron hold you find yourself smiling as a flurry of affection stirs between your breasts.

Because I was right, you yearn to say, but hold your tongue for fear of seeming too brazen and less subservient than you should be, catering to a god you’ve never even heard of. Both man and bull, something divine and strikingly handsome even with his soft features.

“Should I be? Will you curse me..?,” you ask, softening your grin to glance up at him through your lashes. Demure and flirtatious before you even think to catch yourself. A maiden should be more cautious dealing with ordinary men or things not yet known, but even when your expression reverts to one of mere curiosity, it seems too late.

His nostrils flare as he regards you; then, his hand shifts upward to stroke at your bare shoulder, fingertips move to dance over your clavicle. The hand comes to rest beneath your jaw, a thumb carefully brushing over your chin. Then, he withdraws all at once, turns his head with a huff of breath. He doesn’t bellow as the other males in the pasture, does little to seem more cow than man in your presence. Perhaps it’s a practiced courtesy: to appear more human than the additions crowning his head suggest.

“Dummes mädchen.” He doesn’t tell you what that means, and his voice canters off to silence when you push and prod to ask.

He doesn’t budge when you ask where he’s come from, some distant land across the sea you even speculate. You ask him what he is in name, and in turn his ears seem to lower, flatten further, as though he were trying to hide them altogether. There wasn’t much he could do about the horns, though.

The bull barely even returns your shy glances, the only indication that he knows and rather likes that you’re still seated at his side is the flare of pink that rises from his throat to settle upon his cheeks, the way his jaw tightens and loosens when you speak.

“What is your name?,” you ask him when the silence grows too much. You’re starting to feel beads of sweat prick at your skin from the glow of the summer sun above, and more than anything you want some closeness, some proof that maybe your listless life is not a total loss. Earning a god’s favor would only be too lovely, the perfect cure for the unnamed thing that ails you. “So that I might worship you properly?”

That prompts a response.

He turns to you with a forced stoicism, one that does little to subdue the way his eyes widen and his face burns. Being jabbed at and held captive like an animal would make any man more than a little unhappy or wary, but your words dissolve that into smoke in an instant. He tells you his name in a keening sort of voice, one reserved for wolves or agitated horses.

“König.”

You repeat it, once, twice.

It sounds funny and foreign, too simple for what he appears to be. You tell him your own when he doesn’t ask, repeat it just the same so he remembers his only acolyte. Someone so cute for a god of beasts or maybe even good harvests.

You wanted to pry further, have every secret expelled from his tongue, unite in words and quell that horrid, demanding passion. It’s why men run way to brothels, you supposed. Excitement and the allure of something pretty to stake a claim into… but you’re a maiden rather than some feather-headed soldier.

“When you’re better, we will dance,” you declare with a hope that he might understand. “My first offering to you.”

König stirs, rumbles someplace in the expanse of chest. His hair curls there in the widest patch, you note, trails down right to thighs that make brick resemble only soft clay. You’ve never openly ogled a man like this, and it doesn’t feel shameful, not when you’re convinced you already have an understanding here.

You couldn’t imagine he would crawl on his knees for you to prance over him like a yearling deer, bellow like a proper animal when you took his horns in hand. The ugly, ivory prongs about his head looked too dangerous anyhow. One slip… you didn’t want to imagine what would happen then.

“… Richtig.” Then, “What do I give to you?”

His question confuses you fully, because the way he speaks it does not seem curious at all. As if there’s already a resolution in the words. No clothing, no weapons, not even a coin. The only thing present and available is what sits between his thighs, a daunting pillar. He asks only for a consent to what he does not bring out in words, only hinted at from the way his gaze drags up from your throat to your eyes.

The strangest mating rite from the strangest man of all…

You don’t ask him about that.

You let the words hang in the air for a stretch of time. Then, you fetch him some water from the creek just past the field. You untie the binds still shackling him to the fence post as he drinks from the shallow bowl. He laps at it like a dog, furrows his brow a little when you’re caught staring again.

There’s too much to look at to entirely separate yourself from him. And he speaks so oddly it’s difficult to distract him with conversation. So you settle to admire, and he does so in turn. When you find yourself watching the way his chest puffs with each intake of breath, his stare only maps you the same, mimicking or appraising.

He grunts, too; flicks an ear when he stares down at your lap and embarrassment immediately floods you when you realize that his senses are not entirely human, either.

You fold your hands into your lap and part your lips to speak again, to maybe ask him why he came here at all to serve as some distraction from the way he appraised your hips with that dreadful stare.

“When?,” he interrupts immediately, casting his dish aside and straightening up to look down upon you. Exacting some misplaced wrath, you assume. Let a woman leap over him and maybe have his freedom after. He just wants it over with, and you can’t blame him at all.

“I told you… when you’re better.”

That must not have been the right thing to say, because his injured arm is the one he gathers you with, brings you up and over him to press your chest to his and glare down at you. The glow of the setting sun seems dull by comparison to the ember in his eyes.

“I am fine.”

The calendars have been a blur since you fell. You huff and pout in thought, trying to think in spite of the way the closeness has you feeling dumb and dizzy.

“A few days..,” comes your answer, quiet and apologetic. “I’m nearly certain.”

König sighs and you feel it flutter your hair, the warmth on your neck. His arm drifts from around you, as if to signal that you could depart at any moment. Whatever had possessed you now leaves you in place, flustered and miserably infatuated. It pains you that he only seems exasperated by this entire ordeal rather than enthused, but he seems to soften somewhat when you don’t bolt away immediately. The tension leaves his shoulders slowly, and the summer sky of his eyes is placid instead of burning.

He could strike you down at any moment, leave you gored out here in the grass with common bulls, destroy the fence and maybe all of the people in the city too… but he seems intent on just keeping this silly oath and having you seated here.

“They caught me when I came to find you,” he says, blunt and careless, as if seeking out a woman he saw once from across a field is just a common thing to do. The very same as worshiping some creature driven out from the forest. “I saw you. Then you fell.”

“You were looking for me?” Your words are expressed with shaky intakes of breath, nerves alight with both love and caution. Led toward you by want, a thing you both seemed to feel.

He goes utterly stiff at that, but grits his teeth softly as his gaze casts down to where you’re seated in his lap.

A chance meeting… or maybe it was something as wonderful as fate after all.

You looked the part of lovers already, and perhaps that’s made him shy… but bulls don’t get shy, and König is no exception here, because his hand immediately rises to lift the robe covering you, drifts the linen up to reveal the soft fabric of your loincloth.

“Yes,” he grunts, staring down at the prize between your legs. A reward he’s already promised to himself, one you freely give when you don’t give him a smack or shove his hands away.

He smells of the forest: of wispy pine nettles, water from a spring, juniper. Of a man, whose closeness you had yet to have entirely. No bristling comes; you don’t close yourself off. He’s the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen— sad cow eyes and the bulk that only comes from a life rich with work and fighting, survival and instinct.

Had he ever even had a woman?, you wonder. Did he find you lovely, too?

König huffs appreciatively, lowers his head to your chest to bump his nose against your breasts. You release the breath that was caged unbeknownst to yourself, and your arms come around him naturally, cradle him there. Maybe he had never even been held… So, you pet him, trail your hand along the nape of his neck, up and through the messy strands of hair atop his head.

“You are injured too,” he hums into plushness, breath washing over thin fabric and causing your nipples to rise in answer. He must have felt the scab on your palm, healing, but still coarse and stiff. Even in what you perceive must be some sort of courtesy, worrying over your scrape, he doesn’t peel himself away from what entices him most here. His hands descend to stroke at your sides, trail down lower until both palms are fitted against your backside.

He squeezes, slow and intentional, weighs your flesh in hand. Explorative and further appreciative when another hiss leaves his lips to filter out along your clothed sternum. If he were not seated on his tail, you imagine it would have swayed fiercely, excited by the earlier fight and now the prospect of breeding some silly woman. You don’t have that indicator to read his thoughts, but the throb of the mighty weapon between his legs is enough to know. It’s warm and hard beneath you, gives a slight jump when your fingers dance over the base of his horns.

“I got hurt because of you.”

“Little maiden… I would never hurt you. Only please you,” he declares, sounding prideful. Just as a bull should, even in such a predicament. Like a god, proper and true. Surely this city would be cursed for what they’ve done to him. He will fuck their virgins and leave everything else scorched and ruined. And a part of you is almost giddy to know the very first would be you.

You’ve yet to touch men, but you knew well enough what the wetness down there meant, what his erection meant. Why men grope and fondle just as he does to you now, when a hand rises to tug down the top of your thin dress, when his head lifts just enough to lick at the side of your tit.

The air around you both thrums, pulses as though there are thunder strikes surrounding. And the sky is still clear when your head lolls back to face it in full as a nipple is enveloped by a hungry maw. He suckles at you, pushes his hips upward and strokes at your ass when you whine and pant. The cover of nightfall grants you some mercy, because no one is around to hear those cries or the way he grunts into your flesh, greed pouring from the both of you. No gods or stable hands, only a glassy moon and a blanket of star shine amidst murky sable like sea water.

When he lies you back, viciously lapping at your breasts, sucking your skin to grind between his blunt teeth, you take the horns into your hands again to tug him close. He groans, bellows like a man starved into your chest, drool and bruises layered over your skin. You should be in bed, waiting for some droning dullard to wed you first… not allowing a beast of a man to lower you into grass and dine upon you like this.

The gods would probably find this humorous… even if he might very well be one of them. How easily mortals could be swayed, even virtuous women, at the appeal of some miserable thing to save with an ugly, big cock.

But one or two bullmen was more than enough for this world, surely. No spawn of yours would be sent to a labyrinth deep below the earth, dark and desolate, and you’ve already bled this moon…

It pains you to push back against the face that sends pure fire through your belly with each swipe of his tongue, but you do. König seems both dumbfounded and frustrated when he separates from your flesh, the moon in his eyes eclipsed in full.

“I can’t..,” you try to explain, to tell without telling that you don’t want to push some horned infant from your cunt just because you like him a little. You wet your lips and stare up at him, hopeless and lost here.

“Why?” Your bull doesn’t understand, because of course he doesn’t. He’s trying to give you the only thing that he has to offer. Maybe he’s fucked other women before, women who took him gleefully and sang pretty beneath him, coated that raging thing between his muscular thighs in their essence and left lovely pictures in his memory. You don’t know why that thought alone is enough to make your head feel cloudy with wrath.

He asks again when you tug your bottom lip between your teeth. Bulls may be sacred, but no one’s ever said that they were not stupid.

König only pulls away enough to hover over your sex instead, panting gruffly like something starved and prepared to plunder an unsuspecting hen. Still, he waits for an answer, and you don’t think to spare yourself enough to close your parted thighs.

“I thought we would… after we danced,” you try, and maybe that would have worked if you didn’t have your softness and every treasure laid bare to him like a submissive vixen.

The beast only shakes his head and raises your legs to rest over each of his bare shoulders, corded in muscle and heat. He doesn’t nick you with his horns, careful even as he pushes his face right to your womanhood. The loincloth remains in place, but it’s the most fragile barrier. His breath makes your toes curl as it hits your sex, sends a wave of pure want swooping from your chest right to your cunt.

“You smell..,” he muses quietly, trails off as though drunk on just a whiff of you. When a thick finger tugs the cloth aside, you squirm from panting breath arcing over sensitive flesh. It’s the wettest you’ve ever been: little fantasies did nothing by comparison to the real thing, presented right before you and inspecting you down there.

He flattens his tongue over your entrance and relishes in the way that makes you squeal, draws back just to repeat the motion and watch you with pupils blown when your chest begins to rise and fall rapidly.

“You have not been touched.” His ears flick as he speaks, gaze dragging down, back to the pussy that calls for him.

“No… that’s why- ah-“

The ideas of children and expectations are long forgotten when his tongue presses to a spot that sends you shivering. It circles over it, too warm and heavy to bear. Your back arches, breasts heave, and he laughs into your cunt knowing he’s found the very spot that would make you forsake all but him.

The torture grows delicious and lovely, what he had done to your breasts is exactly what he does there. He suckles at the bud, scrawls his name over it with a wet, lapping tongue. You feel as though you truly have gone mad, fingers curling into the earth to keep you in place, because not even the gods could tear you away from this moment, not now…

It’s when your trembling thighs begin to tense and your voice grows further pitched that König decides to probe at you with a finger, too. It slips in with resistance, and the intrusion is strange… both horrible and ethereal at once. The titan finds a space inside of you, one to curl his finger against. It’s clumsy, uncertain until he finds that that is what makes you cry the loudest.

There’s a blinding white as though the sun has seared its way into your skull, sent the rays of its warmth into your very veins. It brings about a haze, leaves you quivering and panting as bliss rolls over you in steady waves. He gives you another lick, from your slit down to your ass before sitting up. Not an ounce of hesitation is weighed in his stare or his actions when he brushes the thick cockhead through your labia.

“I am going to fuck you,” he declares in a groan, already feeding you a fat inch of him. There’s still lingering resistance, but the honey that drips there now is in abundance, coats him with each shallow thrust.

You choke on the pain of such a sudden stretch, but find yourself only leaking more at the sight of him: a god laying claim to some mortal girl, you, above you, in you. The sounds he makes only ripen the elation. There’s desperation in each grunt, and his eyelids flutter as though he’s found something truly holy.

He drops over you, an arm to either side of your head when he sinks in fully. As if to dull the ache of your womanhood, at the loss of your title of maiden, he licks your cheek, the corner of your mouth, any place to soothe. When you capture him in a real kiss, your taste still lingers there upon his lips.

He seems even more delighted that you would show him affection than what’s occurring between you. The press of his hips comes to a halt, because he savors that display of what is or isn’t love. It’s almost shy, the way his mouth molds over yours, the way a hand drifts to your hair to pet at you. The other lowers to take your thigh and draw it up and keep you pinned in place.

You think to hold him now, too, when he breaks away from the kiss to gaze down at you with a shimmering stare, one that speaks more substance than anything he’s given you in your entire conversation. Your nails stay bedded down with the dirt, though, knowing with a fierce certainty that once he moved again it would be the only tether to dull the ache of a vicious fucking.

Except, he’s only gentle.

The cock inside of you takes a slow drag out, teasing and tentative as though trying to memorize every ridge inside.

It’s agony, because it feels like lovemaking.

Beasts don’t make love, they only have violent ruts and part ways entirely. König fucks like a man devoted. His eyes never stray from your face when he pushes back inside, all too careful. It must feel better than the being amongst his kind in the mountain he descended from, because the sounds he makes are fragile, barely contained whines that seem foreign from a man of his stature.

“I have been… watching you for so long, little..,” he huffs, burying his hand into your hair and dropping his head to press his forehead to your own. The words barely register, hardly make sense when the thick tip of him pushes right into the softest part of you again. It’s better than a finger… better than anything you’ve ever felt, and with everything so doughy and hot what you want to say only comes in a keening whine.

“Gods,” he continues when your sounds are smothered and blanketed by the filthy, sloppy sounds of your own wetness. You must be soaking the very earth you lie upon, dewy and warm. “Better than I dreamed.”

The slowness paves way for a heady, brutal thrust when he realizes that he isn’t hurting you. It only feels better the more that he moves, with each thick vein along his cock felt, with how he repeatedly spears against that spot that brings tears of rapture to the corners of your eyes. That new pace does not relent. You squeeze him the most like this, savoring in how he carves his way inside, molds you to take shape for him in what looks like pure violence but feels like love.

The sounds of impact and the scent of sweat and arousal surround you, the moon above and everything beneath it seem of so little importance now.

König does not silence himself even though you wished that he would. He pants against your face in his mother tongue, babbling endlessly as pleasure spikes for him. It wouldn’t be long until he filled you to the brim with thick spurts of seed, you could feel it in the way he throbbed against your walls, how each thrust was more prolonged and deep. Your mind swims, pleasure so intense its as if you’re drowning in the deepest depths of the sea itself.

“I came from the valley..,” he tells you in a feverish whisper, only now recalling that you didn’t know a thing about him before offering your cunt, maybe even your heart…

“Not a god… not anyone…”

It’s too much when his hips press in faster, when his cock reaches the end of you, over and over in frenzied repetition. Overwhelmed and stuffed to capacity, you sob and quiver, taking him into your arms and clawing at his broad back. The pain only seems to make him more feral, because his hands leave your thigh and your hair to grasp at your face instead, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he bares his teeth and spears into you relentlessly.

“Little one… I want this for the rest of my life,” he growls. “Promise me…”

The words sit on your tongue, fully prepared to surrender yourself to some beast of a faraway valley, chased and poked with spears or fire… Any hope of a cozy life would be forfeit here, already has been the moment you allowed him between your legs. It’s a horrible secret, one surely only Pasiphaë must have known of… how wonderful it felt to be bedded by a man like this. Not old enough to have fathered the Minotaur, but surely bred to be something akin to him.

“…I promise,” you whisper, perhaps desperate for this torturous copulation to end… or continue. Feeling so whole, full, right. Your offering is beating warm and overflowing in your chest, and König only looks as though he’s about to break at your words. The blue of his eyes grows glassy, translucent waves painting over each iris, but those tears don’t shed. They’re only dismissed with more needy rasps.

He growls, hooks his teeth into the sensitive flesh of your throat when his strokes begin to stutter. Your bull comes with a muffled howl, pumps pearly ropes of seed as deeply into you as he can manage. Your hiss of surprise is stifled with a blazing kiss where he moans into your open mouth, delves his tongue as deeply as his cock. He pumps several more times, intent on spilling every last drop inside, none wasted.

It seeps to earth when he parts from you, when he inspects the milk and honey of successful union between your legs. He looks surprised, confused almost when that stare is guided back up towards you as his chest continues to rise and fall swift with exertion.

You raise yourself up on your elbows, draw your legs shut. Not in shame, but… apparent embarrassment, your former courage is diminished when he looks at you as though you’re the most peculiar thing beneath the stars, when you’ve revealed yourself almost entirely and had him fuck and take apart all of it.

Maybe it’s the same for this beast, because his surprise and unshed tears are so evident here. He no longer looks the part of a god, but a lost man.

Not anyone, he had said. Is that what he felt? Or only what he had been told..?

“You’re not a monster,” you whisper. The chill of night settles over your skin, but there’s still warmth here, blooming like a flower in volcanic soil; the sun itself was incomparable to this peculiar thing that had taken root here.

He snorts at that and shakes his head. The ears there are cute and pluming with fluff, a reddish brown that suits him so remarkably. He’s kissed by the sun, even bathed in moonlight here. The prettiest of monsters, if he’s fooled himself into believing he is one.

“You should not have given yourself to me,” he tells you as his eyes narrow. The threat holds no weight, if it were one at all, because he grasps at you and pulls you in close; brings your cheek to his chest, right over his pounding heart. “I will not leave you alone.”

“Good.”

Maybe he’s speaking through the haze of a good fuck after being the cause for screams or raised weapons for so long, but you pray it comes from a truth. You’ve offered him a full meal of you, a treasure that none other has had, left yourself weak and aching all for one. His grip only tightens around you, refusing to let go as if to confirm your belief.

You’re brought back to the earth with your bull curled at your back, two powerful arms snaked around your middle with his nose pressed into your hair.

“After your dance, you will come with me.” There’s no longer a request, only an order. You’ve accepted him as both your man and mate, and it seems to please him greatly. His chest puffs against you, pride and contentment harbored there.

“To where?,” you ask him dreamily. The sea is what you’ve seen the most of, and the foothills and mountains seem a distant place. You imagine that maybe where he’s arrived from must have had others like him, maybe the women there were what he had had before… And maybe that makes you more precious somehow, different and coveted because you hadn’t run, only charmed him with questionable nursing and a request to prance over his back.

“Everywhere,” he answers immediately, stroking at the dip between your breasts. “I will never let you go.”

— — —

You’re separated from your bull come morning. It’s heart wrenching and terrible after a night of such passion, but you couldn’t allow for anyone to see you out there with your clothes in disarray and sperm slick and running down your legs. You had waited for him to sleep, for his dreaming to give way to raucous snoring before you slipped away, casting him a woeful glance. The giggling on the way from the pasture would have been terribly humiliating had anyone been awake to hear, but you were fortunate last night.

Come morning, there’s a pain between your legs and traces of blood in your loincloth. You hastily cast that from your body, hide it beneath your mattress before crawling back into bed with your thoughts a whirl. Candied fruit and precious stone, everything sap sticky and sad all the same… because as much as you would like to venture there, to see him, it was most rational to keep away.

If you were caught, you could only imagine the trial or lack thereof. The spears that would have come then wouldn’t miss their target. He would be deemed something far worse than a monster for daring to touch a lady such as yourself.

You bide your time tending to your duties and praying that your loss of virginity isn’t as apparent as it feels to you; when the thoughts drift back, the warmth upon your face only grows and your thighs immediately press together.

And you ponder his offer of leaving the temples and people behind to haunt someplace else with him, away from all else.

It's mad.

You barely knew him, of even what he was. He didn’t even have the sense to keep secret that he had been stalking you for some time, before you ever even noticed, with his fat cock buried inside of you. His ways of courtship lacked any shame, and maybe that’s why the passing thought of a normal man being in your future seems only lackluster. König could hunt, build, provide far better, you assumed, given his stature… And the gods gave him the knowledge of the most tempting tricks with his tongue.

The days leading up to what would call you back to him pass in a tortuous crawl. Even distracting yourself with thoughts of him in lonely silence with a hand between your thighs seems too little. You’ve even asked every slave woman here just how she gets the thoughts of men out of their heads. The advice is merely that sex does not always lead to marriage and children; they part ways like the animals in the forest and leave little room for love in their dens.

You hoped that he was thinking of you, too.

It would be ridiculous to say you’ve missed him, but seeing him in that field bound by rope again once you return is exactly what you want to shout. The birds call from the trees, singing beautifully and everything seems to glow, all except for König.

There are shadows beneath his eyes, cast long and dark from a lack of sleep. He does not even look your way when you take your place next to the others.

He’s forlorn. Maybe even pissed at having been gifted a warm meal only to have his face tugged away and a rope secured to hold him back from tasting or touching again. You should have warned him, about customs and etiquette, reassured him with your words that a little distance was fine because you’ve already made up your mind… but it seems too little and too late to peep your objections now.

The beast is led toward the other bulls by a man half his size, looking as though he’s on the brink of soiling himself from fear. The screams from before are not present now from onlookers, but König seems far less comfortable here than he did in the streets of your city.

Flowers are brought and tossed to both the hooves of bulls and the feet of dancers, yet none are presented to your partner at all. Even with green springing up below his feet, the area he waits in seems barren by comparison. It’s miserable and sad, all of it, and you once more long for being so winded against him that you two seemed to be the only things alive beneath a night sky.

You call to him when the man holding his lead gives it a sharp tug, and it’s dropped instantly as if you really hold some power over what becomes of him… You only hoped that whatever fate lay in wait for him would be coupled with your own. A passive life in a cave or something like that, where you could call him your husband, even… watch the sweat drip down the muscles of his back as he coaxed a fire to life.

Your bull tilts his head towards you, and though he tries to force the very same indifference from before his inner thoughts betray him. His brow remains furrowed, his expression grim, but his ears perk up and he immediately marches toward you. His gait is more of a charge, and had those horns been pointed to you, peril would await.

Punishment only comes in the form of a large man staring at you as though you’ve just wounded him terribly. You remind him there are no blades here with the gentlest touch of your hand along his bicep, swept down to curl at his wrist. It’s the most you could do here, and you could only pray to Aphrodite that your love would be understood regardless.

“You left,” he gruffs, raises a hand to tilt your chin up just enough to face him, though his gaze averts the second that you lock eyes. Shy, definitely not, but with so many watching, he seems entirely out of his element. The hand that graces beneath your chin even trembles, but it’s not fear you find when you search his eyes again.

Hurt.

It’s unmistakably hurt.

“I’m surprised that you did not,” your answer is a whispered one. He should have freed himself, whisked you away like an unsuspecting bride. You recall the other women’s ramblings from before, of men and how little what you experienced together may have meant.

“I do not wish to be apart from you.” He speaks as though it’s the most common knowledge of all, as though you’re a silly thing for ever believing that your want and his are one in the same. “Come with me.”

He doesn’t belong here, amidst people that cast their judgment yet herald the animals that he bears a small resemblance to.

Neither do you belong, you realize. You haven’t belonged since the day you spotted him amongst the trees.

The odd looks that follow König are cast upon you now, too. They see this peculiar beast with one of their women and think of her as sullied down to the marrow in her bones. You must smell of him, marked without a proper mark at all. He hasn’t branded you with any more than soft bruises from kissing your breasts and fitting the length of himself inside of you.

You take your risks and call them offerings, and he greedily accepts each and every one you bestow. You allow it when the hand cupping your jaw drifts lower, graces your breast with the softest touch before taking your fingers between his own.

“You have to be patient.”

He snorts at that.

Bulls are not patient creatures.

The ceremony has already begun. There are real animals here: beasts even larger than König that chew at the grass below them, flick their tails and ignore all that happens around them. There’s prancing and singing, elaborate acrobatics and leaps that must have taken years of practice.

And when you dance with your bull there is none of it.

He stands in place as you twirl around him, weaving around behind and before him as you bend to collect fallen blooms from the ground. Yellows, blues, flowers with no name or place, scavenged from fields further than the pasture. Your laughter pulls even a smile from his hardened face, a face you’ve found handsome since seeing, but must provoke terror in most men…

He’s so horribly endearing in his own ways. It’s the fastest you’ve ever fallen, or anyone in the whole world has, even… The legends and stories speak of love that shoots straight and strikes true like feathered arrows, singing on the wind until they prick their targets. You honor them just as he seems to, and you would tell them to him if only he asked.

Your head and heart are muddled and sick with love, melted down like precious metal within your body. He twists and brings you back together and whole when you’re taken up in his arms and lifted.

“I could touch the sky,” you laugh, clinging to an ivory horn. Pressing a kiss to the pointed tip of it, you swear you detect the heat from his face on your belly.

“Little one… I will take the sun for you, if you ask.”

“You would burn,” you warn.

He drops you then, cradles your body close to his chest instead and carries you as though you’re nothing more than a small dove with broken wings, something to be cared for.

“You make me burn already.”

“König…”

“No, not…” He shakes his head, smushes your cheeks between a thumb and the rest of his fingers as you’re forced to lock eyes again. The giant’s hand is careful with you, more gentle than his teeth or his…

“Call me something else. Something better.” There’s a keening to his voice, a fervent desperation there. A need to be not simply wanted. Wherever your titan has come from with his constellations of scars, the wound still there on his shoulder and all the pain he masks in behind a forced grimace… it has all led him here.

To the woman he watched practice taming bulls for weeks or months, to the only person he believed could accept what he is.

He only wanted to hear it, to have the most shattered wish answered with a tender chime. To bed you wasn’t enough: it could never be so simple. Your heart has been what he’s after all along; he reassures you in self just in voicing this.

“You’re lovely… my love,” you breathe. “You’re mine.”

His throat bobs as he swallows thickly, and the pools gathered in his eyes do seem to shed. Your face is released as he rubs away anything that may shed. The dark circles are coupled with red rings now, but still no part of him seems weak or broken. He hides that away with everything else, bottles perceived weakness and sets it out to sea and gives you the grin of a proper brute instead.

“Ja… you are mine too.”

You’re set down only as the bull leaping comes to a close, when the people retreat and König seems content in knowing that no one is left to whisk you away. It’s all that he’s waited for, to have you alone after this tradition he did not quite get. He played his part well enough, even if you hadn’t had the chance to climb onto his back as the others had with their bulls.

Only then does he begin to tell you of a life bought and sold without end, of the fighting pits you’ve only heard of and never seen. His tongue does not spare you details of chains and spears, what they do to men like him. There are hundreds of scars, each with a misery attached, some still carrying pain that never heals. Promises were always in abundance to keep him contained, weapons were smithed and placed into his hands since before he could remember…

The life you had imagined for him has never existed. There’s never been love there: he spares you the nature of the women he may have been fortunate enough to touch before, but he whispers that you’re the only one who has ever kissed him.

Your heart breaks for the wounded boy he’s buried inside, and you weep when he tells you he’s only ever prayed for a woman like you. Someone soft and cute, who didn’t run or wail… Who craved him just as terribly if not more, gashes and teeth, horns and all the rest.

And he comforts you when you cry, pulls you in so tightly that your breath catches and the tears do sob. You whisper apologies into the hair on his chest, for all the awful things you would never imagine doing to him, and he scoffs at the pity in your voice.

“Do not cry for me,” he whispers into your hair, leaves a trail of kisses along the crown of your head before dropping to his knees before you and pacifying the best he can by stroking along your back. “I have you now, hm? My little maiden, richtig?”

“Yes. Yes, always,” you promise. Another gift.

You’re led away from the pasture under the veil of nightfall, your arms curled around one of his own. There are men about carrying sharpened steel, thieves and drunkards hiding out in the dark as well, but not an ounce of fear trickles through you to diminish what’s already felt. The stars above are in abundance, brighter somehow on the night you forfeit all.

König speaks unguarded now, each question is met by a response. It’s the first time he’s ever been asked about himself, he tells you this when you express your satisfaction at finally hearing more than a few words at a time. He’s terribly cute when all of the praise and attention cause his face to ripen like summer fruit, red and shimmery with sweat rather than dew.

You’ve brought nothing for a journey, but he swears to you that there is pilfered honey, wine, fruit and furs in his den, some dark place he describes as special. It’s the only place he’s ever called home, so surely it must be.

König doesn’t warn you that the trek takes weeks, nor that the mountains are even more beautiful up close. The foliage is wild, the air fresher and free of the smell of cattle and people, and each climb seems steeper than the last. He doesn’t tell you of the wolves or bears, but you hear them at night when he pulls you even closer to him. The wild things won’t hurt you; the wildest of them all considers himself to be the king here, a ruler that they respect or dread rather than dare to cross.

It isn’t a cave that greets you when you come to rest after days and nights of exertion, but a hut built of cut wood and clay. Built as well and thoroughly as any builder from the city would have done. He tells you of where he learned such things, watching men work after sparring with animals and their own kin in pits; how they would promise to rear families in structures like this, how he hoped in crafting all of this that one day he might have the same.

“It’s wonderful,” you tell him, crossing the threshold to find just what he has already told you was waiting here, so far off from common roads that none of it has been pillaged.

The gifts come aplenty, too: a new comb make of bone for your neglected hair, jarred honey and trinkets from his travels or pulled away from a former captor’s corpse. There’s even a weapon for you here, a blade sleek and shimmering, some foreign sword that astonishingly reminds you of a part of him.

“I will find a prettier one for you,” he says as you examine the blade, heavy even when held in both of your hands. It’s only a mercy that you are not the provider here, because there would be no deer or even rabbits slain when even holding it makes your movements sluggish.

“… I like it. All of it.”

He plucks the blade from your hands with ease and casts it aside. The sound of it tapping, then clattering against the wooden boards rings out loudly before he’s upon you. The trek to the mattress seems an eternity, longer than even the venture here. Cloth and jewelry, the only lasting remnant of your former life follow suit, piling over the sharpened steel.

There’s a bear’s pelt beneath you to soften the stiff straw, less wild and ferocious than it may have been in life, now smothered by the lingering scent of him. The lonely nights spent here must have been terrible and tragic. Did he allow the shield to fall and weep then? In the comfort of bear skin and the calling of night birds outside, tears and wasted seed.

The urgency is a looming beast on the air, prevalent and fierce when you’re pulled into König’s lap. Your bull lacks the patience to prepare you with his mouth or a curled finger now, only pivots your hips to take him with a prod as his head lowers for his mouth to latch onto your breast.

“I am in love with you,” he whispers against your flesh. You’re left at his mercy as he guides you with one large hand placed upon your thigh and an arm curled around your back. It’s slow, always slow when he begins, when he’s drunk on the feel of you surrounding him and every new feeling that floods his head.

The ears prick forward when you sing for him, whimpering as he buries himself further. As though it’s the most pleasant sound he’s ever heard in the span of his life. The only thing more beautiful is the acceptance and surrender you offer. There’s never been a shield in place, no guards to watch over you… he’s the only thing; he’s broken through every gate or wall to steal you away from those perceived defenses.

He knows, too, when your panting mouth repeats his own words.

He bucks into you with more haste, slips his tongue into your mouth and groans when you take it between your teeth. Skyward and earthly with each motion, the sea and the mountain tethered as one. And maybe you’ve never leapt with the cattle from your city, but you dance with this bull so naturally that it vanquishes any doubt of where you’re meant to be. What you’ve yearned for was not the taming of animals, but maybe a man…

Your orgasm comes sudden, a wave of wet heat that drools from your core, aids in the glide of the feverish pace he guides your hips into. König’s head tilts back, bliss painted upon his expression from how you close in around him.

You take your chances and press your face to the column of his throat, biting down on him just as he had you. The salty sweat on his skin leaves its taste on your tongue as you lick over the freshly painted mark. The sounds of his own pleasure are cast away; he goes silent and still, and you almost fear you’ve made some terrible mistake here… But König comes undone at that, desperately gathers you in his hold as he pulses within you, writhes beneath you.

He refuses to release his grip even when his cock grows soft, just rolls you onto your back and covers you like the thickest blanket.

“You didn’t fall this time,” he huffs into your hair.

Though your lips part to try and order him to be quiet, he grinds his hips against your own as if to make the obscenity of his comment even more apparent. It only heightens the warmth you feel sweep up into your cheeks.

“Little dancer…”

And finally he rises above you, another wild grin slowly gracing his scarred face. A thumb brushes against the pulse in your neck until his hand rests right over the heart tucked beneath your breast. It’s better than any promise of a lofty field or a mountaintop, even covered in sweat and come, to see the way that his eyes light up with pure mirth when he feels it’s beating.

“You feel it… you didn’t lie,” he mutters, and you try your best not to allow that comment to claw amongst the others he’s made that left wounds in your heart, gashes that bleed for him.

“Why would I?,” you ask, voice so thin and soft you would think it unheard if not for the flick of his ear.

“I did not think anyone would ever…” He rubs at his face as he falls to your side, only to pull you in close again. The defenses raise in those words, but lower as they do time and time again when you nestle into his chest, pet at the curls of hair there.

“They said no one could ever love me.”

The tears in his eyes finally are laid bare. They roll down his cheeks, and he does nothing to hide them this time. You accept his silent crying without comment, the only indication you share that you know, see, is in the way you press a kiss to his jaw where they gather and spill.

“Fools, they were..,” you whisper to him, just as quietly as before. The sanctity blooms further as his chest rumbles, a contented hum coupled with a squish to bring you even closer to him.

“Ja… just fools,” he answers you in a voice not broken, only softer than it has ever been. “Like you. For this… giving so much.”

“And you are greedy.”

He nods once before reaching for your hand; his own curls over it, still splayed out over his chest. He’s no cocky, rough brute now. He pets at it with a trembling thumb.

“I will never let you go.” He speaks it as though it is a curse, rather than the blessing you’re certain that it is. Most women would fear a lustful beast raised up to kill even gladiators, yet there’s only the sweetest consoling to be found with him for you. “You will suffer me until we both die.”

“I could not imagine a better fate.”

#könig x reader #konig x reader #i did not proofread this if you spot an error do not look at me #steadily going through my inbox i pray this was worth your century long wait lil wisp..!

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hellenhighwater · 10 months

Note

do you plan on living in your current house forever or is this just like the most interestingly decorated pitstop along the way? seems like packing all your decor up would be... kind of a nightmare

Ha! No, not at all a forever home. When I took my current job, I decided I'd give it five years before I really truly sat down and decided if I wanted to move or stay. That was three years ago; I've had this house for a little over two years.

It is going to suck terribly to move.

But also...that's just one bad week, and I'm not going to live years flinching from that. Packing and moving is always awful. As I buy and modify the furniture that I have in this house, I do so with eventually moving in mind--the biggest pieces have wheels permanently added; I make things easy to disassemble; I am mindful of how deep into the house I put things and I decide carefully what things are permanently added to the house. And my furniture, while old and valuable, is also not in pristine condition. If it gets a scrape while I move it--well, that's something I can fix or live with.

As the owner of a house that is some hundred years older than I am, I do consider myself a custodian of the house as much as I am an owner. I make few permanent changes to this house that could not be reversed, and expensive modifications--like new flooring, tile, and so on--I do choose options that are not actually that outlandish when taken outside the context of the rest of my decor. I do go wild with paint colors, but that's a layer of Killz away from being bland beige if the next owner wants it to be. Houses are meant to be lived in.

I like this house a lot; I spend a lot of time in it and on it, but also...I think when I've redone every room I'll be happy for a few years and then I'll be itching for a new canvas. This house has decent bones but there are so many incredible old houses out there that I would love to get my hands on--I want a big timber-beam attic! a turret! a curving staircase! a butler's pantry! a conservatory! a library!--that I know I'll be excited to start again when I move. And maybe I'll get rid of a bunch of stuff! The fun of doing things yourself is knowing that you have the skills to replicate and improve on things if you want to.

No. My forever home is going to be much, much weirder than this. May the Terror protect whatever poor realtor has to sell it whenever I finally shuffle off this mortal coil, because it's going to be absolutely uninhabitable by anyone sane.

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jolapeno · 6 months

Text

going to make you sweat

javier peña x f!reader | main masterlist

summary: it's the hottest day of the year; you and javi want to make it hotter.

rating: 18+/explicit warnings: explicit smut. somewhat established relationship. jo's spelling, jo putting to practice her spanish. wordcount: 1.9k

It begins with the sound of the fan.

Whirring. Whirring. Blowing nothing but warm, sticky heat around the over-boiled place.

For four days, the sun has been beating down relentlessly, acting as another unforgiving tyrant ruling over Colombia, forcing waves of heat to seep into homes, regardless of whether doors and windows are closed.

All but forcing everyone to seek refuge from the scorching onslaught.

It's why he's home.

It's why you didn't protest when his hand found your lower back, guiding you out to the passenger seat of his vehicle.

The unspoken understanding between you both fizzes in the air. All silence, discreet.

Just like the rest of the clandestine nature of your relationship.

Now, you’re lying as still as possible. Not even considering sliding your leg over to touch his—even if usually, you’d have done it a handful of times.

Cool showers offered no relief—your skin was already slick with dampness before you finished drying off. Every movement made the heat feel unbearable, trickling down your neck. Your limited attire, stuffed in a spare drawer at his, offers no relief; the white tee and panties cling to your skin, feeling like additional layers you long to peel away from your bones, not just your skin.

Your eyes flick towards him at the sound of his lighter—at the paper burning at the end, before the scent greets your nostrils.

Normally, it would barely irritate you, but now it twists your annoyance into a knot and uses it to fuel its fury. A glare not forcing him to stub it out, your mood souring, further making beads of perspiration collect along your collarbone and drip down the valley of your breasts, all but pooling where your body bends and creases as you remain on the sofa.

You can feel him watching.

Eyes likely following the path of sweat descending under your top—because even in unbelievable temperatures, you’re sure he’s mentally undressing you.

Because he looks wrecked, even with the cigarette burning between his fingers/.

Javier Peña's usually put-together look of swept-to-the-side hair is currently stuck damp to his forehead as sweat drips off the end of his sloped nose. The look is so reminiscent of what you’d imagine he'd look like if he had a full free day to fuck you; if it wasn’t rushed quickies or long, drawn-out nights before the two of you collapsed into sheets before doing it all over again on three hours of sleep.

At some point between coming home early and sitting beside you, his barely buttoned shirt has been discarded, leaving him in a pair of shorts he’d pulled on when he’d been grumbling about the fucking heat, paperwork and bureaucracy all in the space of a minute.

The fact he'd shed most of his layers allows you to trace your eyes down his body. Glance at the soft curve of his stomach, the firmness of his chest and those biceps you see flex when he’s leaning when he’s doing all he can not to flick his eyes from your face to your tits.

He's already caught you.

Taking a drag on his cigarette for a suspiciously long time before blowing the smoke out in one smooth movement. Eyes on you. Fixed. Never unfocused.

And fuck, if it doesn’t make you want him that much more.

“It’s too hot.”

“I said nothing.”

You snort. Loud. Full of intent.

Mind a scrambled mess of want, as your hips shift when your eyes flick south of his neck and land on his thighs.

“C’mon, Cariño,” he drawls, stubbing out his cigarette—punching the lit end out until it’s snuffed, “Come sit on my lap.”

A battle ensures in your skull. It’s weak, both the for and against, which is how you find yourself straddling him, palm flat to your thighs—finding the heat from his body no more intense than the sweltering environment around you.

“This what you want, me all sweaty on you?”

He chews his cheek, a glint in the dark of his eyes, a blip in the pool of desire—and your heart pounds in your chest. Breaths coming in short gasps, matching the rhythm of the fan in the corner.

"I'd have you on top of me however I can."

"Course you would," you retort.

His fingers flex, itch. Sneak in inches up your skin as he continues to breathe slowly, in and out, out and in.

You’re not sure who moves first, but your lips find his—passionate, fiery. Teeth almost grazing but your tongue slides in and licks past his teeth, swallowing his moan, his hiss, as you roll your clothed pussy over his hardening cock, tasting nothing but smoke, coffee and mint, a combination you know to be him.

“Mm—fuck,” he groans.

He sounds pained when he drags his mouth from yours, his fist full of the back of your sweat-soaked tee as he drags it off over your head—throwing it, it landing on the tiles with a wet slap, forcing your head to snap to the sound.

But he’s on you.

Mouth latching to your nipple, tongue swirling, before tracing a line up your breast and across your collarbone.

“Taste so fucking good, cariño.”

It’s stifled, the moan—forcing your best smirk to show, “Put your head between my thighs and say that, Peña.”

And he considers it.

Your words.

Head tilting marginally, the slightest of movements that he’ll pretend never occurred. But he moves, shifts. Practically bucks his hips into you as he repositions, and you land on your bare back on the sofa with an oomph.

A comment arrives on your tongue, almost fizzling before it’s swallowed at the way forces your knees together and yanks your panties down your thighs. Soaked, ruined—both from the mere existence of him and the heat. Discarding them, throws them into some dark space as he glances down at the place between your thighs.

“Even in this heat, she’s pretty.”

You try not to turn away, bury your face in the smoked-scented cushions of his sofa as his words meet you. A sudden desire to hide, to cover—

“You not like that, cariño, when I call her pretty?” His knuckles part your folds, teasing, dragging them up and down as you squirm, whine his name. “Tell me.”

Somehow, all fucking unknown to you, more heat floods your cheeks. It's embroiled in embarrassment, shyness—two things you’re sure he spends most of his time trying to fuck out of you, but has failed to do so thus far—

He says your name.

Not your nickname. Not agent.

Eyes snapping to him, throat dry as he continues to tease, as his thumb presses on your clit and makes you hiss.

“No—ffff-feel embarrassed, alright? Fuck.”

You hear his tongue click—it’s the last thing you hear before ringing. Before two fingers slide into you, slide with ease as they delve deep, his frame coming over your body as he moves them, as he curls them. Doing his best to undo as his eyes come into focus, the top of his tongue dragging over his parted lips.

And the ringing dies down.

Forced to as a pebble of sweat falls from his nose and drips to your breastbone.

“No need to be embarrassed with me.”

Your hips try to buck and seek.

“Impaciencia,” he groans—moisture glistening at the base of his throat, palm keeping you down, still, fingers curled inside of you as you gasp. “You’re… fuck. I need to taste you.”

The breath of his words sweeps over your inner thigh.

“Javi, don't tease—“

“I’ve got you, cariño—don’t worry. I’ll make you come again, and again, and…”

You’re not sure if he speaks the last again—or if it’s buried into your pussy. A high chance you blank it out with other noises as his tongue fucks into your hole. Finger on your clit, swirling, drawing shapes your brain can’t manifest or conjure as you become aware of your moans.

Out of instinct, your fingers find his hair—slick with sweat, trying to curl between your fingers as his tongue flattens. All precise, taunting. Forcing you to the edge and dangling you before pulling you back.

It almost makes you thrash, forcibly lift your hips against him when his face lifts—face slick with your want as he smirks.

“Lo sé, cariño.”

“Please.”

It leaves your lips undignified, dignity gone, transformed into more raw, desperate—a plea that cuts through heat. One answered as he lifts your knee over his hip, feeling bare skin, red hot body heat and the nudging of his cock at your entrance.

He steals your breath, it stammering as he sinks into you in one fluid movement. Your fingers grasp, finding the hair at the nape of his neck again as his mouth comes to your ear, hearing it, the hiss between clenched teeth.

When he moves, your lips find his. It’s different, softer and almost gentle. All measured movements gone, lost, thrown out when you breathe him in, when your mouths are open, moaning into each other's throats as your heels dig into his lower back.

And you want to hold on.

But he’s driven you mad. Teeth grating over his shoulder as you tug on his hair. Tasting it, sweat, sex and salt. Your neck further coated in the slick of the heat, the moment; perspiration trickling, sliding over your skin as his hand grasps your hip firmly. Tightly. Practically noticing the hints of intimacy the two of you pretend aren’t there, but rumble and thrum whenever the two of you are alone.

And the thought adds to the feeling of that impending wave rising inside of you again, more angry, needy than it had been before—

“So good for me, cariño. My good girl.”

“Yours.”

It snakes out, too late to retract. Not even caring that it’s there, staining the space between you both, polluting it. Because it’s the truth.

Some days the only thing you can full on believe—

“Yeah, that’s it. Mine, right? All fucking mine?“

His hips thrust into you harder, matching the tone that makes you even wetter than you were seconds before.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

“Yes. Yes. Ye—”

“Fuck, cariño.”

You‘re close. So close. It almost blinding in the way it tries to force your eyes to clench shut, but you can't look away. Not from him. Each flex of his muscles, the way his teeth grit as he fucks into you, makes your body both taut and boneless.

“Wanna feel you, cariño,” he groans, breath ragged, tortured out. “Let me feel you come, baby. Please.”

Tightening around him, fingers jerking on his hair, he meets your eyes.

Not able to fight it, not able to stop it from unravelling as it begins to crest—

"Let me feel you come, baby. Please." His tone all full of gravel, insistent, demanding. Practically unwilling to bend as it brushes itself into your ear.

His name cracks out of your throat like thunder, slamming against the walls as it rips through you. Making your back arch into him, hearing him groan; hearing him hiss and fucking moan as you shake, thighs quaking around his sweat-tinged skin before he grunts as he spills into you.

It’s silence, except for heaving breaths.

The dull noise of the fan comes back to you, replacing the ringing from before as you slowly peel your legs from his body.

You’re not sure what you expect when he lifts his head, but it isn’t the look there. The one matched with a smile, sly but still a smile—chest rising and falling as he kneels, staring down at you.

Taking you in, flicking his eyes to the place the two of you had just been conjoined.

“Fucking hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

And even if you roll your eyes, you hide a smile behind the back of your hand, whispering a "Cállate, Peña."

#javier pena x reader #javi peña x reader #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena x you #javier peña x f!reader #javier peña x reader #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña smut #javier pena smut #javi peña smut #narcos x reader

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ghostfanwriter · 1 year

Text

✨🍑 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 🍑✨

🍑 Pairing: Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

✨ Synopsis: You catch Joel looking at a dress while on run for supplies, so you decide to bring it home... And torture him with it at a Jackson party.

🍑 Features: 🔞 Pre established relationship, possessive Joel, teasing, edging, Joel spiting in reader's mouth (🫥), real quick feet action, rough unprotected piv, oral sex (f and m receiving), Joel being insecure and soft at the end.

✨ Word count: Around 7k

🍑 About this: The Jackson couple's back! This time I wanted to touch more on their dynamics and how they work outside the bedroom. But everything builds to some possessive sex with a very possessive Joel.

✨ Author's Note: I've had this drafted for months now, and it finally matured enough to be yours 🩷

Good reading ✨🍑

You were on a run for supplies and winter clothes with Joel and a few others from Jackson. The two of you found this fancy women's clothes store and were grabbing everything that felt nice and warm. Besides, you thought of looking for nice dresses for women to wear on your solstice party, that would celebrate the end of summer and all the resources you got from it.

Joel said it was okay with him as long as you carried the bag full of dresses back home.

You finished looking around and went after Joel, who you found holding a dress in front of himself, just looking at it. His brain forming the perfect image of how your body would look in it.

He knew every line and every curve you had, having touched, bitten, kissed and squeezed you enough times to have them memorized. He thought about how life would be if things didn't go to shit.

Taking you to a party, wearing nice clothes and just drinking and having fun. He was lost in his fantasy when someone called everyone out, it was getting late and it would be dark soon. He yelled back and put the dress back where he found it, turning his head to look for you, calling you by your name.

You hide and as soon as he leaves that corner of the store you run to it and grab the dress, putting it inside your backpack and running back to the other side of the store, emerging from the clothes racks for him to find you.

"Hey, I'm here." You say. He looks at you and smiles.

"C'mon, baby, gotta go." You walk towards him and hold his hands, snuggling to his side as you walk out the store to find the others and go back home.

When he saw you struggling with its weight, Joel insisted he'd carry the bag with the dresses for you.

"Holy fucking shit!" Ellie almost screams when you walk out the bathroom. You look at her and her eyes are wide, mouth open and a ever so light blush on her cheeks. Dina turns to look at you and her face looks exactly like Ellie's, but she's also laughing.

"Oh, someone's definitely gonna fucking die tonight. Either Joel will fall dead when he sees you or he's going to kill every man that looks at you."

You laugh. You only truly saw the dress when you picked it up from your backpack to wash it over at Ellie and Dina's. You didn't want Joel seeing it and ruining the surprise.

The dress is tight and long, but has a slit on one of the legs that goes all the way to your thigh, almost to your hips. It hugs your body perfectly and you can't wait to see his face.

Winter was soon to arrive and for a good while you'll not bare to wear any less than three layers of clothes, so you wanted to enjoy your last chance to look good on something.

Joel was out working all day, and by the end of the afternoon he went home to shower.

He smiled when he found the clothes you left him perfectly laid out on top of your bed, with a perfume you got him a while back.

He was hoping to find you home, but he loved that you took your time to prepare this for him. He got ready and went straight to where the party was gonna happen to help hang lights, fix a few things and be his hot contractor self.

You were gonna meet him with Ellie and Dina, who were also dressed up on some nicer button up shirts and jeans they've found.

On the way from their house to the party, you got compliments all around, men and women turning heads to look at you. You were happy to see all the women in dresses and nice clothes. It was a privilege you had in Jackson, to dress up and have fun, and you were glad everyone was having a good time.

For just one night it was good to forget the world had ended.

You start looking for Joel as soon as you arrive at the party. Scanning the place, you find him drinking and laughing amongst a few men. It's funny how anyone around him looks blurry to you. As soon as you see your man, there's nothing else that could get your attention.

Nothing else matters.

He looks so good, so big, so strong. His wide shoulders, big frame, strong chest and stomach, his legs, spread and inviting, making you want to sit on him. His arms, showing through the flannel he's wearing, his big hand making an already tiny shot glass look even smaller.

One of the men with him locks eyes on you and Joel curiously follows his gaze.

When his eyes land on you his expression thickens immediately. He looks at you up and down, stopping at your face. Your smile disarming him completely. He puts his glass down and gets up, heavily walking towards you with a smile on his face. You open your arms, squeezing him tight when he hugs you, engulfing you in his arms.

"Missed you" You said, because spending the day away felt like an eternity.

"Thought about you all day, peach. Couldn't wait to see you." He said on your neck.

You pull away, he holds you by the waist and you keep your fingers interlaced behind his back, giving him a quick but firm kiss on the lips. "Look as good as you thought?" You ask and his face reddens — he didn't think you saw him with the dress that day. "Can't hide from you, can I?"

"Nuh-uh." You say, shaking your head and giggling.

"You look even better than I thought, amor." He kisses your cheek, a low and effective move he knows to make you melt in his hands.

"You look really good too." You praise him and he looks down at himself, wearing the outfit you sorted for him, a nice button up flannel and a new pair of jeans. A stark contrast from the worn out clothes he wears everyday. "Have to look good when I have you like this by my side, baby. Or the others will see you're too good for me and try and take you away from me."

You shoot him a stern look through your lashes and dig your nails on his back. He gets it and laughs. "Alright, no saying stuff like that about myself. Got it."

"Well, let it be known, Joel Miller, that I wouldn't leave this party with anyone else but you." You say, getting on your tiptoes to give him another quick peck on the lips.

"C'mon, stop being so fucking gay you two." Ellie teases, bringing you a drink and calling you to come hang out with your friends. "Good to see you too, Ellie." Joel says, reluctantly letting you go and watching you walk away.

It had been a long time since you've had this much fun. Hanging out with your friends, sitting on Joel's lap and listening to the stories everyone had to tell.

You laughed, drank and spent time with people you cherished.

But it didn't take long for Joel to get overwhelmed by the attention you were getting.

As soon as you started greeting people and walking around, he noticed the way people looked and touched you for even just a second too long.

This one guy approached you by the drinks table and kept talking to you. Joel doing his best to focus on his food and not break his own teeth with the force he was chewing it down.

He looked at you, young and pretty. Your dress hugging your body so nicely, your hair falling effortlessly over your shoulders, a big smile on your face.

People just couldn't look only once.

And it made him feral.

They all turned to shoot you a second look, almost as if trying to make sure they were actually seeing you. Like you were a mirage.

He couldn't blame them, though. He knew that feeling all too well. To not believe his eyes when looking at you; he felt the same when you first slept together.

He was frozen, sitting on the edge of his bed watching you undress, bringing you close to him and kissing your body, to make sure everything he was seeing was actually there, in front of him.

And he mesmerized you the same way, even today, watching him work from a distance. Your mind wandering thinking about the man, as if you've never been with him. Picturing his strong arms holding you, making you feel safe.

Whenever something broke on your house you always offered to help him fix it. Not just to be useful — even though you knew very little about fixing things, he was slowly teaching you what he knew —, but also to watch him. His muscles flexing, his hair getting messy, the thin layer of sweat that slowly covered his skin, his each time more laborious breathing.

You couldn't help but eat the man with your eyes.

You feel good knowing that amongst all the women in Jackson, you were lucky enough to be by his side.

Your chest almost aching from imagining if he were someone else's. Making you do your best to show him how much you wanted and loved him.

How much you loved when he hugged you tight, when he soothed you when you were scared or sad, how he caressed your hair for you to sleep, how he played his guitar on your porch, singing you nice songs. How he snuggled his nose on your neck before leaving for work, how loved he made you feel.

But he didn't know that. He thought he was the lucky one. That you could just leave him at any minute, going after a stronger and younger man.

He was removed from his thoughts when Tommy touched his shoulder. His tense expression softening a little. "Hey, man! Have you figured out how to make it look like an accident yet?" He laughs, looking at Joel and following his gaze, finding you by the drinks table, the guy still talking to you.

"Don't know if I want it to look like an accident." Joel says back, and his serious tone makes Tommy wonder if he's actually considering killing the man for talking to you.

Knowing his brother...

"Hum. Make him an example; send a message, right? 'Look what happens when you mess with that belongs to me!'" he says, mocking Joel. Joel shoots him a stern look, but laughs when his brother slaps his chest.

"Hey, quit it man, alright? She looks good, boys will flirt with her, get over it. I would bet my ass she would never pay them any mind." Tommy tries to ease him.

Joel sees the man get more comfortable around you, laughing and touching your arm occasionally. You look relaxed, and he fucking hates it. You're terribly oblivious to notice when someone's flirting with you — although you always cut it as soon as you notice.

It's just that this time it's taking you a bit too fucking long to do something about it.

"It's not her I'm worried about. Some of these boys think they're grown men, think they can talk to her like that." He shoves more food inside his mouth, clearly eating to release some steam.

On the other side of the salon, you're getting tired of the conversation you're in, and your face probably shows it. The guy starts accelerating his pace.

"Anyway, I was thinking you would like to leave this party? I mean, it's kind of dumb, you know? Maybe we could go to my place, or yours." Your face freezes. Was this guy flirting with you this whole time?

Fuck.

You look over a Joel, and judging by his face... yes. This guy was flirting with you.

Fuck.

You know you should shake the guy off, tell him you're not interested.

But when you keep looking at Joel... Jealousy looked so good on him, his jaw moving slowly and forcefully, his eyes hooded and dark, eyebrows low, nostrils wide. You wanna see more of it.

"I don't think it's a dumb party. It's fun, were celebrating everything summer gave us, everything we have stocked up." You say.

"Well, yeah, I guess. But not as much fun as we could have somewhere else." He said, coming closer to you. You watch Joel from your peripheral, making sure he's not coming over to murder the poor guy.

"Can't. Don't want to, honestly." You say, feeling bad at how the guy's face sinks. "Besides, I have a man, you know? Joel, Tommy's brother." The guy's face now goes pale, his eyes widen and he follows your gaze, already on Joel and Tommy.

He pulls away from you. Almost like he can see his fate on Joel's expression.

He heard the stories, of what Joel did before Jackson. He didn't want to be in one of them.

"I'm so sorry. I... I didn't know. I've never seen you two together, like together. I thought you were just close because of Ellie. I'm so sorry." He managed to say between stutters before rushing away from you.

You look back at Joel and Tommy and laugh, biting the inside of your lower lip.

You grab your drink and walk towards Joel, a silly and innocent smile on your face.

"What did he say?" Tommy asked laughing, wanting to see Joel's reaction. You look at Joel, seeing his low eyebrows and forceful chewing.

He was livid, but not at you. Maybe your oblivion, but not you. He liked how you teased him, because he knew it'd never go beyond that, and you were only doing it for him. But fuck... He hated to see men flirt with you.

"We were talking about food and supplies, and then out of nowhere he asked if we could go over to his or my place. Said we could have move fun there." You said, making Tommy laugh, Joel shaking his head furiously, still chewing his food.

"Poor guy was inviting himself to his own death." Tommy said laughing, and Joel grunted, shaking his head, still chewing.

His brother was right. If a guy showed up at your doorstep looking for you, Joel would just snap his neck on the spot.

"You need to pay more attention, baby. These boys don't wanna be your friends, I told you that." Joel says on a tender but firm tone. Tommy finishes his drink and gets up.

"He's right, sweetheart. You give these boys too much attention and they think you're theirs. Cut it as soon as they start." He advices, slapping Joel on the back of his shoulder when leaving. "Besides I don't want to help Joel hide any fucking bodies. Behave you two. Also, try and have some fucking fun, Joel! It's a party." He says, dancing away from you two.

Joel moves on his stool, spreads his legs and taps his thigh, calling you to come closer. You get in between his legs, leaning on him with your butt against his thigh. He buries his nose on your hair, caressing your sides. "I know you're right. But he was just talking about the food at first, as soon as he said that I told him I wasn't single and left." Your tone apologetic.

Joel's eyes softened. He knew he could trust you, and he hated to see you believe he thought you would flirt with anyone else. "I believe you, amor. I just hate to see it. You're mine, they should feel lucky they can look at you. Not be so fucking disrespectful." He said, kissing your temple.

Realistically, Jackson was a bit too full of people to keep track of all the couples. So, naturally, not everyone knew you and Joel were together, but it still made him angry how men would throw themselves at you.

He knows you are more than a pretty facade, and he doesn't like seeing you diminished to that. He loves you.

All of you.

The fact that you're eye candy is just a bonus he still isn't sure he deserves.

"Do you wanna dance? Let everyone see me in your arms, know I'm yours." You whisper the last part on his good ear, softly pulling his hair behind it. Your faces are close while you watch him fondly.

"Dance?" He's not much of a dancer, but he sighs at how you're looking at him.

A sweet smile across your face, your lower lip between your teeth, your eyes sweet and hopeful.

He can't say no to you.

You pull him up and he reluctantly follows you, dancing to a few songs you had on old CDs around Jackson. Your bodies are close, your head resting on his chest, his mouth on your temple, kissing you there.

"I know you do it on purpose." He suddenly says, his voice low and intimidating. Almost scary, honestly.

"What do you mean?" You look up at him, your head tilted to the side, your bodies still glued by the torsos.

"Y'know what I mean. Giving these boys attention just to piss me off. To see what I'll do about it later." His dark tone tickling your stomach, contrasting with his soft touch as he tucks your hair behind your ear.

"And what will you do about it?" You mimick his whisper.

"Still planning, bunny. But I'll make sure you don't do this again. Only I get to see this dress after tonight." He says, squeezing your waist harder. You sigh, laughing as you hug him tighter before letting him go and taking his hand in yours.

You walk him away from the crowd, talking to some people on the way, sneaking together into a bathroom and locking the door.

You pull him into a needy kiss, and he presses his already hard cock on you, taking you with hunger, his big arms engulfing you and his mouth not giving you room to breath. His beard scratches your face, the thin pain from it just making you lean further into him.

You pull away when you feel like you're gonna faint, palming him and biting his lower lip, both your breaths deep and heavy. When he mentions to open his belt, though, you lace your fingers on his locks, forcing him down.

He smirks and lets you lower him, pulling your dress up by the hips, revealing your underwear — also a new pair, one you got just for him. He groans at the sight.

He kisses your mount and licks your folds through your panties, making you laugh before pulling at the fabric, lowering it down your legs. You lets your dress go, and he groans when you open your legs and the slit of the dress grants him free access to your pussy. He spreads your folds with his thumbs, licking your clit.

"Fucking made for this, baby." He says with an amused sigh before burying his face on your folds.

He kisses, sucks and bites you with such passion, you're sure you don't last even one minute before cumming, pulling on his hair to keep balance and quietly moaning his name, little screams escaping your lips. You're doing your best to support yourself against the wall and not fall.

It's the type of orgasm that turns your brain off. Your legs struggle to hold you up, your body is shaking, you can't speak. Not even your tongue you can manage to hold inside your mouth, a wide and silly smile spread across your face.

He pulls your underwear fully out of you, and you whimper — the closest you can do to speaking, protesting, right now.

"I'll keep this. You won't need it anymore." He says, shoving your underwear into his back pocket and holding your face with both hands, his grip strong and comforting, your nails digging in his biceps.

"We'll go home now. No more playing around. You'll walk outside, say your goodbyes and I'm taking you home. I'll show you what you get for fucking teasing me, bunny." He says slowly and sternly as you look into his eyes, doing your best to pay attention and listen to him.

You're holding onto him, and he's supporting you up. You'd just fall if he let go. Your eyes are watering and wide, bliss glistening all over them. Your lips are frozen on a silly smile, and he stares at you for a second, a smile stamping his own lips.

"You're already like this and I haven't even fucked you yet, baby. So adorable." He kisses your jaw, maneuvering your face with such ease it makes you want to take him right there and then. To just handle you and do whatever he wants.

You moan into his beard, tugging on his shirt, trying to squeeze his arms. "Please, Joel." You beg in a whine.

"Uh-huh. You were teasing me till a minute ago and now you want me to treat you with my cock? You know how it works, baby." He pulls away, smiling when he sees the pout on your lips. "My way now. I'm dealing with you at home." He says kissing your pout before letting go of you, almost letting you fall on the floor.

He turns his back and leaves the bathroom, knowing damn well you were just gonna follow him and go home.

He knows you may want this even more than he does.

And he loves it.

You try to drop to your knees

"No. Not today." He says, grunting as he pulls you up.

You whine, melting into his arms, staying steady into his embrace.

But he's already mad, and he's already gonna fucking destroy you.

So why not make him give you his worst?

He is sucking on your neck when you let out amidst a moan: "You know, the men back at the party would let me do it."

He pulls away and shoots you a stern look, a cold and serious one. A look that told you clearly to not keep pushing him.

A look he rarely shot you, a complete contrast from the soft, sweet and weak gaze he'd offer you every time you looked at him.

And you know he's losing it. You know he's fighting not to throw you on the bed and fuck you until you apologize.

The problem is: he knows you never do. You've learned that if you make him mad he will fuck you, punishing you for it, so you never apologize.

Because you don't want him to stop. You love it.

You don't feel bad after it, no matter what he does to you.

You want him to do whatever he wants.

To use you like you're there just to please him, just to give him some relief. You want him to call you names, and to fuck your brain out of your body.

And then you want him to hug you tight and call you his good girl, tell you how good you did for him, how lucky he is to have you. How much he loves you.

You love it. You love him.

You love it when he gets jealous, when he possessively wraps his arms around you when a boy talks to you, how he whispers before bed that you belong to him.

Because you don't want it any other way.

"They'd looove me to do it." You say with a smile.

Maybe you drank a bit more than you should have..

"Did you behave like a fucking whore to every man you fucked, baby? Or is it just for me?" He asks, and oh... You like this. The deep and short moan you let out proof of just how much you like this.

"Just for you, Joel. Only you deserve it." You say with a smile, and he frowns, lust consuming more and more of him with every word you say. "Any other man tries to talk or fuck me like you do and I'd slit their throat." You whisper in his good ear, earning a grunt from him.

"That's because you're not a slut, angel. No. You're a good girl, the best one I've ever had in my hands. Doing all I want." He goes back to your neck. "But you sure know how to act like a whore when you want to, baby. A real good one." He says pulling your head back, allowing himself more skin on your neck.

You moan. "I do it because I know you like it."

He groans, grinding his dick on you. "As long as it's just for me."

"You know it is." You whisper. "Let me do it, show you what only you can see." You say even lower, caressing him through his jeans.

"No. My way now, you'll take what I give you." He says, throwing you on the bed, kneeling in front of you and pulling your legs, bringing you close to the edge before dropping your legs back down. "And if you're good to me, I might give you what you want."

He opens the dress's slit, kissing your mount and licking his way through your still connected folds, his tongue finding your clit between your folds and rolling circles around it.

"Oh, God — Joel." You moan, already feeling something forming inside your core.

"You tell me when you're gonna cum. If you don't, I'm not touching you here for the rest of the night." He says, his voice serious and stern.

"And how are you gonna cum if you don't touch me?" You ask, a smile on your lips.

"Plenty of ways I can cum without making you cum, baby. I can fuck this pretty face, can fuck your thighs, your tits, so many things I could do to you. You only cum after I say so. Alright?" He punctuates every way with a kiss to your mount.

You nod.

"Words, bunny, need you to use your words. Do you understand me?" He says, a stern but comforting tone, lifting your legs and resting your thighs over his shoulders, spreading your folds open with his thumbs.

"Yes, sorry, yes. I understand." You mumble, running your fingers through his hair, your entrance burning in anticipation.

"There's my smart girl." He praises before licking a streak from your entrance to your clit, your eyes rolling back. He rolls his tongue around your clit, sucking on it, his eyes focused on your face.

He teases your entrance with the tip of his tongue before pushing it inside, rolling it around inside you and bringing his thumb to your clit, drawing tight and slow circles over it.

You moan and call his name, your back arching and your lower muscles contracting. He groans and squeezes your hips, pulling you lower onto his face.

You pull his hair as he switches, french kissing your clit as he inserts one, then two of his thick fingers inside you. His beard burns your sensitive skin, and the pain makes you roll your hips on him, burying his face even deeper on you.

You lift your hips from the mattress and he holds them high, grabbing your butt and squeezing it. His hungry eyes not leaving yours for even a second.

He thrusts in and out of you with his fingers, his tongue lapping on your clit as his lips stay locked around it, sucking on it progressively harder and harder.

"Joel." You moan, the ease with which he always coaxed orgasms out of you never failing to impress.

He feels your walls tightening around his fingers and picks up his pace, sucking harder on your clit and thrusting his fingers more roughly.

When he starts curling them, right on your sweetest spot, your throat shuts and you gasp, pulling his hair harder and locking your ankles around his back.

"Joel — fuck — I'm gonna cum, please. Please, let me cum." You beg. He doesn't make it easy for you, though, intensifying his movements even more, waiting for your ultimate tell that you'd cum.

When your hips start raising even higher and your walls compress his fingers even more, he lets go of you completely. Leaving your clit throbbing, your entrance leaking and burning with need. Your mouth dry and open, your eyes watering, your legs sore and shaky.

"No, no, no. Please, Joel, don't." You plead. You hated when he edged you, because he let your orgasm start, then ruined it. Not fuelling it for you, letting it die bitterly between your legs.

You reach for your pussy, but he catches your wrists, holding them tight.

"You wanna behave like that? Talk about having other cocks in your mouth? Then you gotta be a big girl and accept the consequences of your actions, baby." He says, getting up and pulling your arms.

He pulls you into a kiss, but you're mad at him, so you don't correspond it. "So pretty all angry like this. Like you don't love it when I do this to you." He whispers close to your mouth, a playful smirk on his face.

You kiss him, deep and needy, moaning at your own taste and holding his arms, almost climbing on him to kiss him deeper. You grab his cock through his jeans, and his hips buck into your hand.

"Let me do it." You moan.

"Thinking about sucking other men made you forget your manners, baby?" He asks, biting on your throat.

"I want it." You whine.

"And how do we say?" He asks, going back to kissing your throat, his fingers intertwined tightly with the hair in the back of your head.

You let out a frustrated moan, one he knows to be an acceptance of defeat. "Please, Joel. Let me do it. I want you in my mouth, please. I promise I'll be so good."

He laughs on your neck.

You're always so good.

"Get down." He says sternly, his lips leaving your neck while he stares at you with furrowed brows.

He just can't say no to you.

To think that you ask — constantly beg — to suck his cock, was too good of a vision to waste. He had women be grossed out by it enough times to not be grateful when he has you begging so nicely for it.

You don't get down, just holding his stare as you admire his strong features. How his brows and nose frame his whole face, how his beard is starting to grey around the edges, how pretty his mouth and his eyes are.

How much you love him, how much you love when he treats you like this. Because you know he loves and respects you, and he'd never do anything to hurt you or make you feel bad.

The best word you can use to describe what you feel for him is pure adoration.

You're pulled out of your mind when be grabs your jaw.

"You wanted this, didn't you? Talked to that stupid boy to get me to do this, right? Then you got what you fucking wanted, no reason to keep being a fucking brat." He says, making you smile. His head tilts to the side, his nostrils widen and he twitches inside his jeans.

He pushes you down to your knees, opening his belt on a split, the sound of his ziper and belt making your stomach float inside your belly.

You have a silly smile on your face, and you retribute his teasing by pulling just his jeans down and licking his tip through his underwear, right where it's wet with his precum. He grunts and interlaces his fingers with your hair.

"Teased me enough, haven't you, amor?" He says with a grunt, as you suck on his clothed tip, stroking him over his underwear a few times while indulging in how big, hard and thick he feels on your hand. How you can feel him pulse sometimes, and how much you love to taste him.

The latter makes you pull his underwear down, staring at his cock for a beat and, without touching him with your hands, lick around his urethra, gathering his precum in your tongue. His cock twitches and jumps away from you, making you laugh.

"Jesus Christ, baby." He groans, furrowing his brows and pulling your hair. His hips instinctively buck forwards.

You reach for his tip again, still not touching him. You roll your tongue around it and suck him inside your mouth, applying pressure and licking your lips when you let him go, twitching again, away from you.

Joel grunts, your teasing not helping your case.

Not that you're trying to make him less mad at you anyway.

"Do it right or I'm taking it away from you." He says sternly, and you frown, instantly grabbing him, stroking him slowly as you suck and roll your tongue around his tip. "Shit. Good girl, like that." He groans, throwing his head back. His fingers caressing your head without forcing you to move.

He knows you don't need guidance with this. He loves how you blow him.

You take more of him inside your mouth, but his edging made your mouth dry, and his precum isn't enough to make him slide into your mouth easily.

"Joel?" You call, you voice small. He looks back down at you, humming in response.

"Can you help me? My mouth's a bit dry." You ask, keeping your voice sweet and low.

"Tell me what you need, peach. So pretty using your words for me like this." He says, stroking your hair gently.

"Can you... Spit on it for me?" You ask. You could just wet your mouth until he slides inside it. But he's right there above you...

"On your mouth or my cock?" He asks and you shrug. "Your choice, baby." He says softly, still stroking your hair.

"Can it be both?" You ask with a smile. He smiles and pulls you up by your armpits, grunting.

"Open wide for me." He pants, his voice raspy.

You do so, opening your mouth and sticking your tongue out.

"Now don't swallow, you're gonna need it." He says before spiting inside your mouth once, making you moan.

You swallow instantly, your core leaking when you do.

"Why such a brat today, baby?" He asks, smiling and furrowing his eyebrows. His hands cup your cheeks tenderly.

"I tried not to, I swear." You smile, biting the thumb he rubs over your lips. He pulls your lips open.

The crease between his eyebrows gets deeper when he does it again, once again earning a moan from you. "Want more?" He asks, and you nod, your brows furrowed. He does it with a smile, holding both your cheeks, your ears between his index and middle fingers while he admires the pool he made on your tongue.

He kisses your cheek, right under your eye, besides your nose. "Knees." And you fall back down, your mouth closed, full of him, doing your best to not swallow it.

He gathers some more saliva in his mouth while you take him in your mouth. You go as deep as you can with the wetness inside your mouth, stoping and looking at him.

Aiming for his cock, he spits on it, close to his base.

You take him in deeper, swishing his saliva around his cock. "There you go, amor. This month feels so fucking good." He praises as you start picking up your pace, your mouth around his tip, hand working his length, twisting your wrist, feeling his skin move under your hand. Your other hand goes to his balls, caressing and squeezing them lightly, making him grunt.

"Fuck — Taking me so well you almost made me forget you were thinking about other cocks, baby. So bad." He says and you moan. You could never think about anyone else, you just said it to piss him off.

Gladly he knows that, but gladly it doesn't mean he won't play along with it.

He holds your head with both hands, pulling your hair back, carefully gathering it in his fists, and you hold onto his thighs.

"Ready?" He asks as he pulls out of your mouth.

The tenderness in his touch and voice a stark contrast of what he's about to do to you.

"For you always." You moan back, and he caresses your scalp.

"My pretty girl." He praises. "All mine." While he places his tip inside your mouth. "Suck it."

You wrap your lips around his tip and suck on it, rolling your tongue around him, never breaking eye contact.

He pushes himself in, going all the way to the back of your throat before pulling away. Then doing it again.

A particular thrust goes even deeper, and he bottoms out inside your throat. You gag, and he holds your head in place, grunting with the squeeze.

He picks up his pace, eventually fucking your mouth. His hands pressing on the sides of your head, his thrusts deep and mean.

"Oh yeah, so so tight for me, baby. So good, could fucking cum inside this mouth." He says, thrusting deeper before pulling away from you, a thick streak of saliva still connecting his tip to your mouth. You stare up at him, admiring his imposing figure. How he towers over you, how big and strong he is.

He pulls you up and away from your adoration, fixing your hair and wiping your lips and chin with the sleeve of his flannel.

"I swear to God if I ever see you step outside wearing this dress again, baby..." He says, looking down at your body, squeezing your waist.

"If you say you're gonna do all this again I'm going out tomorrow with it." You say with a smile, and he laughs, looking at you through his lashes, that dark gaze back on his face.

He throws you on the bed, removing his shirt. You reach for him with your feet, and he kicks his pants away. You stroke him once with your feet and he holds them, keeping them tight together, thrusting a few times with his eyes closed before snapping them open and looking down at you.

"See? Another way for me to cum without making you cum. But not today, baby." He laughs, spreading your legs and opening your dress right on the slit. "So fucking made for me." He says, both at the slit and at you.

He wraps his forearm underneath you and pushes you further onto the bed, kneeling between your legs.

"Wanna apologize before I start?" He asks, running his tip through your folds, gathering your arousal.

You laugh, supporting yourself on your elbows to kiss him, and he pushes in, all the way, slowly, letting you wet every inch of him before inserting the next.

You moan into his mouth, wrapping one, then both your arms around his neck, pulling him down with you. His weight crushes you, and you gasp when he pulls almost all the way out before roughly going back in.

His first thrust sets a relentless pace, his hips slamming against yours. He wraps his left arm underneath you again, pulling you even further onto the bed, never letting himself slip out of you.

"God — Joel." You moan, screaming his name on his shoulder, his thrusts forcing air out of your lungs, making you gasp while you do your best to breath.

"So fucking tight, baby." He breaths on your hair. "Fucking made for me, just me. All — grunts— fucking — grunts —mine." He says, punctuating every last word with a thrust.

"Yours Joel. Keep me so full I can't think of anyone else." You cry on his neck, your orgasm coming closer and closer to you.

"Fuck — Such a good girl for me, only one I fucking — grunts —need." He groans, his pace somehow getting rougher. He wraps his other arm around you, keeping you locked under himself, his hips moving fast and hard.

The brush of his skin and his pubic hair on your clit is enough to make you whimper and clench around him.

"Please, Joel. I have to cum." You beg, your orgasm only not hitting you because you know better than to go against his word.

"Sure know how to take it like a whore, baby. I'm fucking you like this and you're asking to cum on my cock, huh? So fucking good." He teases, squeezing you in his embrace.

"Yes, Joel. Please, I want to." You whine, your nails digging deep into his back.

"Cum for me, baby. C'mon, you're being such a good girl for me. You deserve it." He coos, kissing your neck, somehow fucking you even rougher, even deeper, even faster, pulling a strong and deep orgasm out of you.

"Joel!" You moan almost pornographically, screaming his name passionately, your throat hurting with how loud you're being all of a sudden.

You'll certainly get some looks tomorrow. And it's not gonna be because of the dress.

The way you scream his name makes him cover your mouth — the whole bottom of your face — with his large hand.

"Shh, trying to tell the whole town who you belong to, peach? I thought that was why you wanted to dance at the party." He laughs, watching as your face contorts and grunting at how much you squeeze him. "Keep a bit more quiet for me, baby, c'mon."

He lets go of your mouth and fucks you harder, now having to forge room for himself inside you. You bite right between his neck and his shoulder, trying to not scream again. Your hips rolling as your orgasm comes to an end.

As soon as you stop quivering under him he starts rolling circles around your clit, fast and tight. You gasp, your hips moving desperately, trying to get away from the overwhelming stimulation.

"Oh, Joel. Too much, fuck." You plead, but it only makes him fasten his movements, his hips pouding you relentlessly.

"You wanna behave like a whore you gotta take it like one, bunny. Liked teasing me, didn't you? Huh? Now you're gonna squeeze me real nice again, gonna make me cum for you."

"Joel." You moan, half screaming, digging your nails in his back, trying to focus on him, his weight, his warmth, his rough fingers on your clit.

"C'mon, baby. Gonna squeeze the cum out of my cock, aren't you? You feel so good, my peach." He pants on your hair, kissing and biting on your neck.

"You're gonna cum inside me?" You ask, your voice coming out more hopeful than you expected. Your ankles instinctively tangling behind his lower back.

He laughs softly on your neck, kissing you there and squeezing your hips. "You know I can't, baby. I fucking — grunts — can't." He pants, his voice frustrated and low. "Fucking wish I could." He whispers, barely leaving your pussy before thrusting hard back in.

His confession makes you moan, clenching around him, your orgasm so close you can almost feel it.

His hips lose rythme, and he takes your hand in his, putting it between you two. He lifts himself, hands besides each side of your head. He's loud. Panting, grunting and groaning while he pounds into you.

That's why you tease him. To see this animalistic and senseless, strong and big man pound you like his life depends on it. His cock rearranging your organs to please himself.

"Cum for me, baby. So fucking close, just need to feel you again." He pants, his forehead touching yours, his pace punishing and lovingly at the same time. Punishing you for teasing him and lovingly for you to remember he loves you more than anyone else ever could.

"Joel." You scream again, a shameless and vulnerable plead for him. For him to see how good he makes you feel, how much you love being his.

"There you go, baby. C'mon, feels so good squeezing me so nice, fucking — grunts — milking my cock, gonna cum so much for you, my baby. Can't be fucking inside you. No." He says, his face hovering above yours.

"I want it, Joel. Please. My mouth, I want you." You plead, still high from your orgasm.

"Take the dress off, baby, c'mon." He whispers and you eagerly do so, squeezing him inside you when you contort your upper body to remove it. He grunts from it, slowing his movements down for a second, one of his hands holding your waist.

"Please, Joel." You beg, scratching his shoulder blades and looking at him.

"So pretty begging for me like this." He says. "Too bad you don't deserve what you want, baby." He pulls out of you, pumping himself hard and fast above your belly, and you open your mouth, a beg for him to give you some of it.

"Don't be so fucking greedy, amor. You've had plenty of it". He says right before cumming all over your stomach and breasts with loud grunts and groans.

He loves seeing you covered in him, marking you as his.

He is, thankfully, kind enough to aim some of it at your face, and you end up drinking a few streaks.

He finishes and falls on the bed besides you, staring at the roof and trying to catch his breath as you do the same.

After a minute he gets up with a grunt and goes to the bathroom, coming back with a wet towel. He dresses his underwear and sits by the end of the bed, pulling you legs by your ankles. He spreads them and runs the cloth over your swollen folds, carefully cleaning them.

He presses a kiss on each of them, kissing your clit last, laughing when you jump from the overstimulation. He licks around it, looking into your eyes and smiling.

"You don't deserve it." He laughs, lightly slapping your pussy and climbing on top of you, pressing the mattress besides your head and hovering above you.

You lift yourself to kiss his lips, wrapping your arms around his back and digging your nails deep into his skin. You let go of your own weight and he holds you both up, deepening the kiss, panting into your mouth, his beard burning your skin deliciously.

"You know I love you, don't you?" He asks, his voice low.

"You just showed me." You say with a soft laugh.

"No, amor. I mean it. You know it, don't you?" He sounds like he's about to cry.

You pull him down on the mattress with you, looking into his eyes. He wraps his arms tight underneath your body. "Of course I do, Joel. What do you mean?"

"Just keep seeing you with those boys. They're all so young. You could just have any of them." He says, his soft eyes glistening.

"But I don't want any of them. I want you, love you, only think about you." You coo, kissing his lips.

He turns you both around, and you lie on top of him, your head on the crook of his neck, inhaling his manly and woody smell.

"I love you so much." You whisper. It almost hurts how much you do. "I'm so lucky to have you, Joel." You squeeze him in your embrace, your own eyes threatening to water.

"Love you more. Luckiest, happiest man in this town with you by my side, baby." He responds, and you snuggle your face deeper on him, kissing his neck, indulging on his presence.

On how you'd never imagine leaving your man.

Hope you enjoyed it, need a jealous, possessive and soft Joel in my life to call me names and tell me how much he loves me 😫

My Masterlist 🩷

#joel miller x reader #ghostfanwriter #joel miller x female reader #joel miller #pedro pascal characters #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fluff #jealous Joel miller #possessive Joel Miller

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orangeave · 2 months

Text

all the places light does not touch

wednesday addams x gn!reader

summary: there are places in wednesday that the light doesn’t touch and she can’t help but to put you in all of them.

words: 4.2k

orange speaks: final part to the great war (part one | part two). damn, it's been a hot minute, huh? apologies for the wait, but i hope y'all will enjoy this last installment.

Gravesoil clings to Wednesday’s nail beds, a desperate plea scratching against her vocal cords that she will never admit to beyond this moment. You are mumbling to yourself, a language she’s never heard of slicing through the quiet; the mother tongue of the beast that lingers in places she cannot reach nor see. Wild, bloodshot eyes survey the empty space in front of you and veins crowd underneath your lashes. There’s a pause before you hunch over, hands reaching up to grasp tightly at your head and –

Wings ripple out of tearing flesh, blood soaking the floor underneath her former lover’s feet. An ominous, onyx liquid takes over the whites of your eyes, dripping slowly down the apple of your cheeks and leaving dark tear tracks in their wake that trail pass a shuddering throat.

How foolish she was to forget what lays dormant beneath your skin, waiting to unleash itself upon the world. Control was hard fought and just barely won after each battle, a traumatic fear for the possibility of a blood-curdling outcome hardening the usual soft color of your gaze.

Wednesday had always been there to placate the darker side of you but times were different now. The consequences of her wrongdoings were forming; in the shape of elongating teeth, in downy feathers expanding to three-times the length of your arm span, and in horns spiralling to reach the sky above them.

You were horrifyingly marvellous.

Gone is the fear from before, an innately evil force hunkering down to take its place. Tendrils of hellfire coat your skin in a blaze of heat that Wednesday can starkly feel, wraiths rising from the puddles of crimson ichor that is still shedding and staining ghoulish flesh. A sinister grin warps your features into a gruesome mosaic and she is wary of the scheming tug to your lips.

“Do you feel it?” You rasp, multiple layers of cadence making your voice echo and overlap into something otherworldly. Wednesday’s brows pinch, a frown of incomprehension downturning the corner of her lips. “The inevitable culling of this night, can you feel it?”

“Enough. You’re talking nonsense.” She sneers.

A shiver caresses the curve of her spine when you sigh solemnly in return, the ground trembling beneath your feet as you glide closer to her. Your left hand lifts and fingertips that resemble claws leave behind rivers of blood as you skim her jawline, thumb tucking into her jugular before the entirety of the extremity encloses around her throat.

The touch is light, there’s no weight in the action but Wednesday chokes all the same. A primal instinct of survival urges her to fight the hold because while running has never been in Wednesday’s repertoire, the need for bodily autonomy will always remain. Personal space is sacred when the world longs to claim and taint everything she’s ever come to own.

Nero; a first companion forcibly taken by the will of another.

Tyler; a first kiss lost to the lips of a monster.

You; a first something she’s afraid to name with an end she’s yet to come to terms with.

Each one is a death with its own cause and reaction but they all drive her further away into solitude, into a body built too big for her bones.

There’s a light within her that flickers and spiders which crawl from crevices dug into ivory calcium, seeking the warmth that it offers – it never lasts, they scurry with every faltering glow and Wednesday is left with the echo of an ancestor, of a destiny meant to be spent alone.

Be it by her hand or someone else’s, the truth of her fate lingers.

Still, the scraps from the before she seldom acknowledges; when words meant to burn were just measly thoughts to create distance and a twin heart still laid next to hers, where a sense of forever was yet to fade and hope, however gross the negligence of it was, was able to reach even the unlit corners of her, craves to forget – just for a moment – that this is who she has to be.

For everyone’s sake but most especially yours, Wednesday scatters those scraps until they exist in locations that are inaccessible, even to herself, and no one suffers more for it than she does. So, as she swallows back the bile of her desires, her tongue is sour with bitterness and syllables formulate an acrid speech that tries to chase away the taste of all that she wants but cannot have.

“All I detect is your feeble minded attempt to frighten me. You’re a bleeding heart, Tesoro, we both know you’re too soft to follow through with your meagre threats. You never were tenacious enough to do what was needed to keep me, this is no different.”

Regret is immediate; acid does not eliminate bitterness, it only serves to make the taste resonate deeper until she’s choking on the foul filth of an inescapable death. The true difference between you, she realizes, is that she’s not capable of being selfless without leaving scars on the ones she’s trying to shelter and that your way of being selfless only leaves you with more.

A thick smog of shadows gather in the atmosphere, sharpening your features and maniacal laughter washes over the cusps of Wednesday’s eardrums. Her pulse jumps and she just knows that you felt it because your grip on her throat tightens at last, unapologetic nails becoming a barbed wire necklace that itches to splay her tendons for the world to witness.

“Oh, Mulsa, that’s where you’re wrong.” You tsk with condescension. “Everything is different. I’m finally who I was always meant to be, existing outside of the fear that plagued me, and it’s all thanks to you. I have embraced my destiny, can you say the same?”

Mockery drips from your words and her reality suddenly shifts as she finds herself in a castle that assembles itself with a swish of your wrist. It reigns beautifully decrepit in nature; rotten beams of wood rib the frame, moss rests in divots of cracking stone, and moonlight glints through openings in the ceiling. You casually lean against a gothic throne of skulls that no one sits upon and Wednesday transforms into a court jester, in the presence of a lowly regent who pretends that they do not pull all of the strings behind the scenes.

“How long do you think you’ll last in this kingdom of solitude, Wednesday? Who else will you hurt in your quest for knowledge? And do the answers you find at the end of it all outweigh the expense others have to pay to get you there?” Your voice rumbles, ricocheting off stone walls before striking her exactly where you know it will hurt most.

Color touches her skin for the first time, anger and humiliation mingling to create a red sheen on pale flesh. It’s a sort of wickedness she never thought you to be capable of but perhaps she should have seen it coming.

“None of that is relevant.” She whispers harshly.

“Isn’t it? Am I not the cataclysm of your choices? Is this not me paying your dues?” Massive charcoal wings beat; once, twice, three times – they propel you upward, high into the air and tree bark horns tilt your jaw back with their weight. Specks of blood rain down from the force, painting the surrounding layout maroon, dousing Wednesday in turn. You bare your arms outward, showcasing your new form to an audience of one.

Crisp, off-white linen hugs the muscles of your torso while the sleeves furl at each elbow. Three buttons are undone, revealing a prominent collarbone and a smooth expanse of skin. Dark beige slacks loosely clutch to long legs – one slightly bent at the knee, toeing the edge of the other as you hover in place. You are all neutral tones with monochromatic undercurrents, eyes drowning in a void of black reeking of judgement, and vibrancy is lost to a death by her own hands.

Wednesday licks her lips, catching droplets of metallic liquid on her tongue. Stagnancy overrules the scent of trees in the foreground and there is no reprieve as she suffocates on nothing but the truth. Her resolve is crumbling; you may not be a ruler of this kingdom but you do have an undeniable deathgrip on her heartstrings. If you were anyone else, that fact would be revolting.

“Unless,” a pause. “Maybe this is what you wanted. You always did love everything dark and twisted.”

Slowly, you descend in front of her and there’s a soft click as the heels of your dress shoes settle down. Dust kicks up into the air, your wings breezing along the floor, and you wordlessly take four shallow strides around her. You come to stand behind her, breath fanning over the sensitive stretch of her neck. She can see you no longer but just your presence in itself is taunting.

There’s a brush of fingertips against her back, nudging her forward and before long she arrives at a set of steps. You shove her up them; the action makes her stumble and her balance is lost to the last stair. She falls into the vacant throne, which she now realizes belongs to her. Twin knees scrape the edge, making her body twist to relieve the pain and sit properly.

Indignation rises to the surface at the mistreatment and Wednesday tries to swallow it, to keep away words that will only perpetuate this discourse, but it’s fruitless. “My proclivities aren’t your concern. Up to this point, every decision you have made has been solely yours. I am not to blame for your indiscretions.”

“Perhaps.” You nod, standing resolutely at the incline up to the throne she sits upon. “Truly, I’m not here for placations or reasonings. You are partially correct in assuming that this,” your hand waves around your form, “is not the inner workings of your… machinations.”

“Then why? What is this macabre display for?” Wednesday interrupts.

None of it makes sense; how easily you forfeit your earlier claims.

“Because, in the end, this was never for you.” You start, something dark creeping along your legs. It rises to dwarf your already tall stature and features are slow to form but when they do, they are wholly monstrous and deeply unsettling. There is absolutely nothing in this world that compares and warning bells screech a dizzying spell of the danger to come should Wednesday choose to misstep in its presence.

Exaggerating steps loosen the hold it has on you, materializing into translucent flesh, and your body is distorted to her as the being stands in front of you. An arm raises, travelling up to your chest, and stuttering in wicked glee before plunging in. You gasp loudly, figure hunching over, and the being forces you straight with its free hand at your shoulder. With a dramatic flair, it rips its fingers out and they do not come back empty.

Without care or regard, the beast walks away from you, and the sight that greets Wednesday grips her with terror. The facade of power fades to nothing and you are left human but skeletal. Wings, horns, the black void; they’re all gone, and exhaustion coats your dull eyes, your knees buckling to the floor. Falling forward, your shoulders rise, head ducking low as nailbeds of blood trace the cracking stone of the floor. Convulsions attack your spine, driving a body of bones further into the ground.

“A distraction,” The beast rumbles in glee, an olden accent curling over its words. “To pull you away from the truth.” A bleeding, bruising heart rests in its palm; dark blotches covering the organ and Wednesday finds it disconcerting the way they pulsate, widening with each heavy breath you shudder. “We finally understand now; love is a weakness. For children who still play with toy soldiers, dreaming of the day they will change the world. It’s quite humorous, don’t you think?”

And there, right then, despite your best efforts to play it off as something else, Wednesday finally sees the evil for what it truly is: self-preservation. It is protection, disguising itself as rage. It is guardianship, shouldering all that you cannot and turning it into power. It is the heart in a beast’s hand, with a cage that moulds along its edges that wills itself not to break any further.

Red teeth gleam up at her, a grotesque smile staring straight through her, and dissuading her attention from the creature next to you. “I never wanted to change the world, Wednesday, not really anyway. But I did want you – not just the good parts but also the pieces of you that raged in contempt. I wanted the entirety of you: your doubt, your fear, your selfishness; the thousand-yard stare, the tempered soul, the frostbitten heart. I wanted the girl who despised even the thought of love.”

“No.” Wednesday utters except it’s too quiet, caught in her throat.

“God, Wednesday, I wanted it all – everything you were willing to part with and nothing more. Yet, you turned your back on us and you didn't even have the decency to give me a valid reason why. I deserved better than a half-assed excuse as to why it had to end. But it’s okay. Blame is a two-way street and I was wrong too. I pushed and ignored every warning sign, dancing along boundaries and fed into your suspicions without a need to prove myself to be on your side.”

“No.” She tries again.

(Still not enough, still on the cusp of- of-.)

“And I guess, this is all to say that we both had a choice and perhaps we chose wrong, though maybe the cards were always stacked against us. Now here we are, forcing each other to relieve it all over again, and it’s time to put an end to this. We finally get to have what we tried to cheat each other out of. You finally get to be free and I finally get to say goodb-.”

“No!” The single word rips and tears and mutilates her throat in the effort to leave the confines of her voice box. All her life Wednesday has been toeing the line between devastation and freedom, a weak grip on her inhibitions, always viscerally trying to prove something or another. Until a sick sense of clarity washes over what this all means; one more loss, one more all alone, one final nail in the coffin.

A death to rewrite all the others.

Falling in love with you was like falling asleep, gradually then all at once, because it crept along the edges of her vision until it was too late and despite her aversion to it, it was warm. And the days that followed were everything she thought herself to be incapable of; the quiet nights, the sound of rustling sheets as she wrote pages upon pages on her typewriter, the dulcet tones of you humming along to vibrating strings, the laughter without reservation, the eyes full of a home made just for her, the hands that held her softly in the dark.

And then, of course, the self-sabotage set in. Her wants and desires took a backseat to make room for fear, and somewhere in the midst, the ease of your love made way for her doubt and she swears you both lost something that day. The person she became to combat her loss of control isn’t something she’s proud of but maybe… maybe this is the part where she pleads with you to understand. Where she lays everything on the line; all her misgivings and the lies she tries to tell herself to circumvent all that she does not understand.

When your eyes cut across her own, you look at her like you know, and the uncaged beast only laughs as your features close themselves off from her once more. The vulnerability seeps out, draining from trembling, bloodsoaked fingers, and replacing itself with indifference before Wednesday even has the chance to rearrange her thoughts into coherency. The pleas building in her throat die, falling into the void of every other thing she’s left unsaid.

How repulsive.

Wednesday’s jaw clenches at her own inadequacy, teeth clicking in time with her shallow breaths. Hands of ice grasp tightly at each other while she tries to reform the truth she’s been meaning to say. It’s time, she attempts to coax herself. No longer will she bow to her lesser qualms.

Enough is enough.

“You were wrong.”

A feigned grace pulls her from the throne, rising up and carrying her down the steps that will lead her to you. Firm resolve weights each footfall to the stone beneath Wednesday, laying the groundwork for an outcome that doesn’t end with ties severed indefinitely. A disgusting amount of trepidation still lingers menacingly, but not for prior reasons. It washes over her because she knows that if she doesn't get this right and you walk away from her once again, it will be for the last time.

As she reaches you, the beast rears up into the space between you, your heart ducking out of sight with a single movement. Up close, Wednesday can see the second the previous glee renders itself obsolete, paving the way for rage to form in its stead. Translucence melds into mortal flesh in an instant, further providing a barrier to you and it’s features constantly flicker; sweeping into each other, refusing to commit to a lone one.

All of it is a warning: for you may have never been able to truly hurt her, but this beast holds no such inhibitions. And yet, Wednesday ignores it, skirting around the form with a brief flicker of eye contact. Rolling coals follow the movement, a sneer deepening the gouges at the corners of it’s mouth. Heat steadily rises at her back when she kneels before you, gaining in temperature, and a hearth set ablaze licks the skin of Wednesday’s nape, until sweat lines her hairline.

“Before,” Wednesdays continues despite the duality of the cold shell holding your gaze captive and the heat at her back, her fingertips fluttering around your body but never settling. “You said you’d never be good enough for me.” A scowl crawls into her features, disdain vaguely clinging to her words. “You were wrong.”

Confusion briefly overcomes the frost but it’s not enough. You flinch with every syllable, as if her words still burn; like your flesh is a step away from igniting and she’s dousing you in lighter fluid. A battlefield sprawls before her, all of her own making, and each word is a precarious mark upon the earth, hidden with landmines Wednesday tries to sidestep.

Wednesday thinks this might be part of her destiny that Goody forgot to mention – truth be told, self-loathing is akin to starvation; the hunger pains force you to eat yourself from the inside out until nothing remains. Perhaps that’s the most tragic intricacy of her fate, to commit atrocities for the sake of others' preservation, and to suffer all the more for it. Now, trying to find the medium between the two banks entirely on her willingness to push aside everything she’s ever thought to know about herself.

As Wednesday gazes upon you; you with the sunrise in your eyes and the red candle wax burning lips, she clings to the notion that it isn’t the dying that scares her, but the insurmountable loneliness that follows in the wake of your departure. It is hollow and damning because you are attempting to leave, in more ways than one, and she is running out of options that will force you to stay.

Longing breaches through the whisper of her words, “You were too much, in all the soft ways I desire to detest. Too good, too simple; too easy to love. And so, I wanted-” Wednesday’s breath falters, fingers folding to tear at the lines of each palm. “I wanted to make you pay, for forcing these ugly emotions upon me. I never wished to feel the juvenile propensity to need you, in all the foul ways weaker beings fall victim to. Yet, it is those feelings that beg of me to forfeit this charade, because, for however seldom I say it, I do love you.”

Finally, Wednesday reaches for your hand, knuckles scraping along the stone to slot her fingers between your own. “I’m in love with you, and it is all-consuming, vile, and entirely effortless. I may not know how it will end, but I believe there exists a place out there built just for the two of us; one that is otherworldly, and beautiful, and so, so alive. Destiny be damned.”

Wednesday watches as your eyes crawl the length of her face, an unreadable expression marring the expanse of your features. A shudder partly pulls your body away from her, a heavy exhale escaping your lips. She can’t tell whether her words were well received as you hunch your knees under your chin, cradling your elbows around the edges of your calves. Just as she goes to continue, desperation clinging to the fraying ends of her sanity, your free palm craters the ground beneath you.

Long forgotten wraiths spiral into view and confusion tears her form upwards onto her feet, unwittingly losing the grip she has on you. They begin to chase her and the ground beneath her feet zooms out of focus as she tries to get away. They’re faster, upon Wednesday in mere seconds, and then she’s falling, falling, falling, and for a long moment nothing comes up to catch her.

Yet again, the scenery of the throne room changes and she stumbles to her knees in a foreign land.

Grass bunches up between her fingers, wet and coarse, and a graveyard looms before her. Each tombstone lining the distance is marked with a name, cementing every loss she’s ever faced; not just of people, but places and emotions too. A beat passes before you appear at her side, steps away from an open casket set six feet in the ground. When she shuffles up to unsteady feet, the body within it looks suspiciously like you.

Your voice carries on the wind, circling her as you murmur, “What if you’re wrong?”

There’s a slew of answers on the tip of Wednesday’s tongue, but most fall short, never quite encompassing what she truly wants to say. One, though, rises above the rest, so simple it makes her want to scoff. Instead, she pushes the sound down, and in the midst of the words that follow, a part of her realizes that she’s finally learning; understanding. There are things in the world that you need not fight, nor feelings that are too childish to accept. Some things are just simple; easy.

“But what if I’m right?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Wednesday sees you sway slightly in place, her words – honest at last – completely sinking in. With a noticeable limp stuttering your footsteps, you gradually move in front of her. The tips of your dress shoes scratch along the edges of her own boots as you eliminate every ounce of Wednesday’s personal space, your arm rising up in her peripheral vision. Hesitation faults the movement, and she recognizes the doubt for what it is: a fear she never meant to place within you; of her reaction, of her motives, of her.

With time, she promises to herself to put all of her wrongs right, but for now, she gently latches onto your wrist, bringing your hand down to rest on the underside of her jaw. Your eyes flash with recognition before your forehead descends upon hers, a shaky breath exhaling against her lips that sounds like an okay. Suddenly boneless, your body sags, shoulders loosening as your other arm reaches around the small of her back, tugging her into you.

You hold onto Wednesday tighter than she ever had the audacity to covet her desires and she cannot deny the sense of home that follows.

Without fear, her feet lift up, gaining a slight height advantage to place a lingering kiss atop your head, but a figure drifts into focus before her eyes can close. The beast faintly shimmers behind the tombstone with your name on it that fades, a neutral expression on it’s face. It watches Wednesday closely, eyes of coal simmering into ash as it takes in your figure so entwined with her own. Your heart still resides in it’s palm, but even from here, Wednesday can gauge how loosely it’s grip is. A nod of a head and a quirk of lips beckons her, once last time, to take in another truth.

Love has many faces, and seldom are they seen clearly.

Your heart finds its way back to its home as the beast settles, slowly descending in height, and it’s features melt into a vaguely familiar countenance. It is you, but aged, with laugh lines marking the corners of your eyes, and a nostalgic smile at the cusp of your lips. And it is an echo, of both your and her future, teetering on the edge of a forever that will soon be fully earned.

( – there are places in wednesday that the light doesn’t touch and she can’t help but to put you in all of them.

but then you learn to become the light, and all the dark places shine.)

#jenna ortega x reader #wednesday addams imagines #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams x you #wednesday x reader #jenna ortega #wednesday addams

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thefirstforgottenpages · 5 months

Text

I Learn From The Best

Authors note: hhhhhh was on a flight and that’s enough time to write a long fic sooooo buckle up buttercups

Also MAJOR disclaimer, I may have “beef” with liv for injuring Rhea, but under no circumstance condone the threats and harassment she’s getting. At the end of the day it should never be that deep…

Warnings: Rhea Ripley x fem reader smut, wrestler! Reader, mommy/mami kink, oral, fingering, praise, squirting, swearing, liv morgan (she’s an opp rn lmao),

“Baby I’m gonna be just fine.” You offhandedly shrug your response to Rhea and continue to punch at your training dummy. Rhea shakes her head at your cockiness, smirking as she steps in front of you, forcing you to stop your aggressive jabs. You were scheduled to fight Liv Morgan later today, and wanting nothing more than to avenge Rhea, you were putting in your all. A small grin graces your features as Rhea reaches out, grabbing your waist and pulling you in, careful to be gentle with her sprained shoulder. “You’re so hot when you’re feral.” Rhea jokes with a low chuckle. You roll your eyes, but nonetheless lean into the strong arms of your girlfriend.

“I’ll riptide her to get the message across.” You snort fiddling with Rhea’s layered necklaces—something you know she secretly loves, “she’ll think it’s you reincarnated.” You continue. Rhea shakes her head amused by your antics. “C’mon I got you food.” She says gesturing to the exit to the gym. You lick your lips, happy to have a distraction from the strenuous workout. Huffing, you agree, grabbing her hand and letting her drag you towards the door.

You felt little nerves about the match as it approached. Training with Dominik, Damian and Finn had helped up your pain tolerance and get into the mindset of a smaller opponent, now knowing how Liv’s thought process would be. So as you got ready, you allowed your mind to wander to what you were going to do after the match. Or, rather, more accurately, who was going to do you after the match. Your cheeks warmed at the thought of the lewd promises that were whispered to you. “Just a little motivation.” Rhea had purred to you earlier. “Motivation indeed.” You grin you yourself as you make your way backstage.

Bouncing on the balls of your feet you wait for your music to play, when it does, you make the your way to the ring, a sinister smile gracing your lips as you eye Liv up. Your smile turns more genuine however, when you see Rhea sitting first row. With the coolness of her persona, she nods back in acknowledgement, but the arousing glint in Rhea’s blue eyes told more. They reminded you to the hopefully eventful night you had ahead of you. Winking at her, you slip into the ring waiting for the bell to start the match.

Being the favorite, the crowd was screaming itself hoarse for you, but an awed hush fell as you displayed your strength yet again in the match by throwing Liv like a rag doll. You found yourself laughing darkly as you sauntered to her crumpled form. You hoisted her up, making sure your next words were loud enough for the mics to pick up

“Oh and this one’s from Rhea.” You spit before slamming her into Rhea’s signature pin. The crowd’s responding roar was even more deafening than before. You stuck your tongue out suggestively, eyes once more scanning the crowd before they found Rhea’s prideful gaze. As the ref called the three count, you beamed, throwing Liv’s legs to the side before walking with authority out of the ring.

“Fucked that girl right up!” Dominik laughed as you got backstage, “couldn’t have done it better myself!” He grins childishly as you laugh. Damien voiced similar regards to your skill, but with less vulgarity laced in his words. “Did good kid,” he chuckled musing your hair as you received a happy punch to the arm from Finn. You then gasped as you felt a hand smooth over the curve of your hip. You know who it is before a different, knowing smile spreads on your face. Your name is cooed softly in your ear before a soft kiss is placed on your cheek. Your face blooms red as you tuck your chin into your chest. “The riptide was a nice touch.” Rhea says wrapping her arms around you. Her fingers dance nimbly up your sides, being sure to brush against any exposed skin your wrestling outfit flaunted.

“I learn from the best you know.” Your cheeky reply has her snorting, nudging her face into your neck. The soft swirl of arousal in your belly that you get from the simple affection has you mentally face palming, but, with Rhea looking like she wants to eat you alive, it seems that your sentiment is returned. “Fucking hell get a room!” Finn’s disgusted groan has you and Rhea pulling sharply away from each other. Damian said nothing, but the knowing look he gave Rhea had her shrugging, a little bit red, and shaking her longer hair to cover her face.

“Maybe we will.” You mumble softly, eyes immediately widening at the boldness of your self-inflicted embarrassment. Much to your relief however, the group of guys only laugh, unaware to the sincerity that lies behind your jest.

Rhea was well aware of your slip up, you watch in badly suppressed lust as her jaw clenched and she shifts her legs tighter together. Her hand on your hip travels lower and you nearly arch at the warm sensation. When you let out a shaky breath, Rhea coughs, speaking up to address the group. “We’ll catch up with you guys later… we’re going back to the hotel.” Her quick excuse has them nodding offhandedly, not understanding the underlying implications.

Rhea smiles at you coyly as you nudge your side into hers and she hails a taxi your way quirking her brow as you hurriedly get inside. “What’s got you in a rush doll?” Rhea pretends to fix her black lipstick, swiping two fingers over her plump lips, she holds your gaze as she does so, smirking as you shift in your seat. Her teasing has you pouting prettily, blinking up at her as you pray for the trip back to be shorter than physically possible.

As soon as you were in the hotel room, no time was wasted. All it took was one look of hunger from Rhea and you were hurriedly ridding yourself of the complicated strappy garment you had on. Her rushed hands brushed over your body. You moaned at her eagerness, already too enraptured to care if you sounded needy. You knew she wanted this just as much as you did. “Does—oh-does your shoulder hurt?” Even in this state your concern shines through the pleasure. Rhea silences your worries with a biting kiss before she shakes her head.

“Always worried about me, yeah?” Rhea’s tone sounds cocky, but the affectionate kisses she then places on your cheeks tell a different story. “Always.” You confirm breathless, carefully helping her remove her own shirt. The pathway to the bed was strewn with various articles of clothing, and Rhea chuckles in satisfaction as you push her onto the bed.

You giggle as she flips the both of you over, caging your body beneath hers as she presses her lips to your now bare chest. “You look good like this.” Rhea’s voice has dropped to a deep rasp as she eyes the black lipstick marks she’s left on your smooth skin.

“Just good?” You bait, a dizzy smile on your blushed face. Rhea only looks smug before her hand trails up to your throat. The whimper you let out as she does so is loud and drawn out. “Beautiful actually.” Rhea clarifies grinning wider at your state, her other hand slowly trails down below your stomach.

“I— holy fuck!” Your plea is cut short when Rhea’s skilled fingers shut you up. You arch into her hand as she finds your clit, “What was that darling?” It’s cruel because Rhea knows you can’t answer in this state. And as her middle and ring finger circle your soaked hole, you shake your head vigorously not being able to form a response. “Good girl,” she praises you simply, but your body reacts to her words blatantly. “Rhea…” you trail off unintelligibly and the whine in your voice has her groaning softly and rutting against the mattress as she pleasures you. “You’re so fucking tight sweetheart.” Rhea sighs as she curls her fingers.

Your eyes roll back as she rubs against your g-spot. “F-fuck mommy!” You choke out hand coming up to grip Rhea’s that was still delicately wrapped around your throat. “Feels good hmm?” Rhea questions, leaning closer to bite into your neck. No doubt leaving hickeys that you would have trouble covering up tomorrow. Your breath hitches once more as she adds another finger to your pussy. Your brain is moving slower than honey, the only thing that’s registering is how fucking good Rhea is finger fucking you. The lewd sounds that she was milking out of you would be embarrassing if you weren’t already so close to coming undone. You were quick to cover your face with your hands as Rhea noticed your change in demeanor. “Your gonna cum for me?” Even though Rhea voices it as a question, it’s more of a statement because she knows you will. “Yes—please Rhea-mommy please!” Your mewls are pornographically loud and Rhea moans at your neediness. “Since you asked so nicely.” She purrs to you before her thumb circles your clit with a precision that sends you over the edge moaning her name.

You were still drunk on the pleasure as you pulled Rhea in, your fingers gliding through her silky hair as you kissed her. She allows you to push her gently back once more as you grab at her plush thighs. As you inch further down, you’re keenly aware of the needy gasps that slip past Rhea’s parted lips. “Baby… please?” Her soft question is barely audible causing you giggle at her insistence. But you can’t deny her. How could you? Rhea chokes as you place several open mouthed kisses into her dripping cunt. “You’re a—a fucking tease.” She manages, grabbing a fistful of your hair. You press your lips to her inner thigh before you respond, voice as coy as ever.

“I learn from the best.”

#rhea ripley #Rhea ripley smut #wwe smut #Rhea Ripley x reader #Rhea ripley x reader smut #wwe fanfiction #Rhea ripley fan fiction #rhea ripley fanfiction #Rhea ripley wwe #Rhea ripley x fem!reader #Rhea ripley fic

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dean-winchester-is-a-warrior · 2 months

Text

Things Learned and Unlearned Ch. 9

Series Summary: Y/N has spent her life trying to outrun her mother's reputation. When she meets the rich and successful playboy, Dean Winchester, how quickly can he get her to stop running?

Pairings/Characters: Dean Winchester x Y/N, Sam Winchester, Jessica Winchester, Lucy Winchester (OC)

Warnings: Each chapter will have it's own warnings, but there will be smut, seduction, virgin!reader, playboy!dean, Edwardian era BS attitudes surrounding sex and women. (Technically it's set in 1900 and the Edwardian era started in 1901, but you get it.) Angst, Fluff, all the good stuff that regularly pops up in my series. 😁

Chapter Warnings: Nothing major, brief oral (f. receiving)

Word Count: 4,208

A/N: Here's Ch. 9. I so appreciate all the love and support you're all giving this series. Hope you enjoy the latest installment. ❤️

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As Dean walked up the winding garden path towards Y/N’s hotel suite, he felt his long day start to fall away from him. His meeting at lunch had not gone well.

He was attempting to put together a multi-layered deal between Winchester Shipping and Lumber, The Northern Rail and Freight Company, and Clearwater Pulp and Paper Mill in Maine. Ideally, if it worked, all three companies would benefit from a combination of lowered costs and guaranteed contracts.

His lunch meeting had been with the vice president of Northern Rail and Freight, Byron Temple. Temple wouldn’t budge on the overinflated prices they wanted from Winchester Lumber for transporting their lumber from North Carolina up to Maine.

Dean was trying to make it work, but Temple’s attitude and arrogance made Dean want to punch the guy in the mouth twice in the span of a single, hour and a half long meeting - didn't really bode well for a business partner. He was hoping the president and the board of the company would be more reasonable and less mulish.

But as he approached the garden doors, the anticipation of an evening with Y/N pushed the terrible meeting out of his mind. He opened the doors wide and walked through, only to pull up short as Y/N called to him from the bathroom across the suite.

“Dean? Close your eyes!”

Dean frowned and smiled at the same time. “What?” He asked with a chuckle.

“Please?”

He gave an indulgent sigh, and shut his eyes, covering them with his hand. “Alright. They're closed.”

He could hear the rustling of fabric and realized she must be wearing one of her new dresses. It made his smile deepen to know she was so excited to show it to him that she had him closing his eyes like a child at a birthday party.

The rustling settled and he heard her take in a big breath.

“Alright, you can open them.” She said quietly.

He dropped his hand and opened his eyes slowly. His indulgent smile dropped away too, and he was left staring, dumbfounded.

The dress she wore was a deep, sapphire blue, silk taffeta. There were tucks and ruffles all over, and all he could think was that she looked like a confection, like something sweet and iced, and delicious.

And though he didn't know very much about women's changing fashions, he could also see that the dress was stylish without being gaudy. It was draped perfectly on her naturally rounded curves, accentuating her soft figure. The dress enhanced her stunning beauty rather than overpowering it.

Lowen really did do extraordinary work.

He stared wordlessly, and his frown seemed to worry Y/N. She looked down at herself and smoothed her hand down the skirt of her dress.

“What's wrong?” She asked, turning slightly, clearly trying to work out the reason for his frown.

Dean felt bad, and smiled, shaking his head. “No, I'm sorry, sweetheart. Nothing's wrong. You're perfect.”

He took two strides forward to reach her, gripping her elbows and pulling her close. He lifted her chin with his knuckle and shook his head in wonder.

“You are never anything less than stunning, no matter what you're wearing, but…”

He stepped back an inch so he could study her from head to toe before cupping her cheek and pulling her back into the circle of his arms.

“But,” he continued, “you were made to be covered in satin and lace.”

He dropped his lips to hers, slotting his mouth against her and pulling a wholly satisfying whimper from her throat.

She breathed rapidly, shaking her head, as he broke the kiss. “I don't know if anyone was ‘made for satin and lace’, but the dress is very beautiful. So, thank you.“

He nuzzled his nose just behind her ear. “Mmm…” He moaned softly at the scent of jasmine and roses that hit him. His hands dropped to her waist and he pulled her tight against him, slightly crushing the taffeta of her skirt against his legs.

He rested his forehead on hers. “So, how badly do you want to go out this evening? I could just pull this beautiful dress off of you again and we could stay in.” He said, low and gruff.

Y/N giggled lightly, but shook her head and stepped out of his grasp making him moan again.

“Uh uh.” She said, wagging her finger at him. “I was promised a tour of New York, and Janet, our poor maid, spent almost an hour getting me into this dress and forcing my hair to look like this.”

She patted her hair, piled high with loops and curls. She nodded her head towards the plush green chair in the corner. “Had to be done just right so that I could properly wear that hat.”

Dean turned to see a truly enormous hat sitting on the cushion of the chair. Y/N picked it up and moved to the big wardrobe that stood in the corner of the room. Looking in the mirror, she began to position the hat on her head.

She had two long hat pins that she used to stab the hat into place. It looked like it was made of silk, with a fairly flat crown and a very wide brim. Both the crown and the brim were weighed down with big blue and green flowers and the whole hat was shot through with dark blue ribbon.

Y/N adjusted and readjusted the hat on her head before dropping her arms and snickering at the reflection that showed her drowning in the monstrosity.

She turned back to face Dean and held her hands up to frame her face. Her grin was wide, and an answering smile quickly spread across his face.

“What do you think?” She asked with laughter.

Dean shook his head. “I think Lowen is an excellent dressmaker, but he needs to hire a new milliner.”

She chuckled and reached up to take out the pins that held the hat in place, pulling it off her head.

She looked forlornly at the pathetic thing. “What should I do? I have two other hats, but they're just as bad.”

Dean grabbed the thing from her hand and tossed it over his shoulder.

“Oops, it blew away in the wind.”

Y/N’s laughter was rich and bright and Dean felt it in his whole body, like stepping into a patch of sunshine.

He lifted her pretty, creamy white, wool coat from the coat stand by the door, and helped her slip her arms into it before lifting it over her shoulders.

Y/N pulled on her gloves, and hooked her elbow around his arm. She threw him another bright smile.

“Alright, good sir. Lead the way to New York City.”

***

Y/N was having the time of her life. New York bustled and moved at a surprising pace, even in the late afternoon and into the evening.

For the first little while they simply walked up and down the busy sidewalks. Dean pointed out the store windows that were decorated for Christmas, and Y/N stopped to ooh and ahh over all of them.

Eventually they made their way to Pell Street for supper. As they stood outside the restaurant, Dean gave her an impish smile.

“So, I thought we could have Chinese food for dinner. I'm gonna guess you've never eaten it?”

Y/N's eyes grew large and she shook her head. “No, never.”

Dean held out his hand and pushed open the door. “Then it's an adventure.”

Y/N's head was on a swivel as they entered the warm space. Everything was decorated in gorgeous hues of red and gold, except for a large painting of a slinky green dragon adorning the far wall. On the other walls, hung beautifully framed pictures of strange, but intriguing shapes made from thick black ink.

Dean led them to a table in the corner and a young woman appeared beside the table almost instantly.

Her smile was warm as she gave a slight bow. Then she lifted her hand to indicate the menu that hung on the wall above a long counter.

“Please take your time to tell me what you would like.” Her voice was soft and her accent was one Y/N’d never heard before. It was lovely.

Y/N read over the menu and then smiled shyly, confessing to the woman. “I'm sorry, I'm not sure what to order.”

The young woman smiled back and gave another small bow. “Of course, Miss. I can please suggest the Chop Suey. Many Americans order this and enjoy.”

Y/N nodded, having no idea what that was, but she was on an adventure; she should be adventurous.

“Yes, thank you. That sounds wonderful.”

With a nod to Y/N their waitress turned her attention to Dean. He didn't bother to look at the menu when he ordered.

“I'll have the Char siu on rice, please. And a bottle of Baijiu for the table.”

The young woman gave another bow and left their table.

Y/N looked at Dean and shook her head. “You've been here before.”

Dean nodded. “A few times. The food is incredible, just wait.”

The girl was quickly back at their table with a brown crockery bottle and two small glasses.

Dean poured a small amount of the clear liquid into the bottom of the glasses and raised his for Y/N to clink against.

“To adventure.” He said with a wink.

“Adventure.” Y/N agreed. Before she could drink, though, Dean held out a hand towards her.

“Small sips. It's strong.”

Y/N was incredibly grateful for his warning when her itty-bitty sip still left her lips tingling and her throat burning.

The food came quickly and it was every bit as delicious as Dean had promised. The flavors were quite different from what she knew, but the blend of vegetables and spices was incredibly satisfying.

After dinner, they walked some more, looking around Chinatown for a little while before Dean hailed them a hansom cab back to 15th Street.

They got out of the cab in front of a massive five story building made out of beige stone. Ornate moldings and sculptures framed dozens of windows.

On the ground floor, the windows held displays of shining, sparkling jewelry along with gold and silver housewares, like large platters, goblets, place settings, and other very expensive accouterments.

Above the main doors, gold painted letters declared the name of their destination.

Tiffany & Co.

Y/N walked ahead of Dean through the front doors and her jaw dropped. The space was wide and open. Large display cases housed countless shelves filled with more glittering, shining things. Everywhere she looked was another priceless piece of handcrafted silver and gold, household decorations as well as fine porcelain and sets of china.

As they walked further into the room, Y/N could see the smaller, glass and cherrywood counters, displaying rows and rows of stunningly beautiful pieces of jewelry.

Emeralds, sapphires, rubies, opals, pearls, onyx and jade shone from every corner of the room. But more than anything else, there were diamonds. Large, small, rose cut, square cut, French cut, pear-shaped - the diamonds seemed never-ending.

Y/N snapped her jaw shut as a slim man in a finely tailored suit approached them and gave a practiced smile.

“Good evening, sir. Can I help you?”

Dean nodded. “Yes, thank you. I realize you're closing up shop soon, so we'll be brief.” He lifted a hand slightly, indicating Y/N. “I'm looking for something more to adorn this already beautiful lady with.”

The salesman nodded briskly. “And what are we hoping to adorn today? Neck, fingers, wrists, ears?”

Dean looked down at Y/N. “What do you think, sweetheart? Maybe a bracelet?”

But Y/N was shaking her head. “Dean, you can't buy me something from here.” She whispered quietly.

Dean raised an eyebrow and then turned back to the salesman. “Would you give us a moment, please?”

“Of course.” He said and moved off to busy himself elsewhere.

Dean looked back at her, but before he could even ask the question, Y/N was answering him.

“Because everything here looks like it costs a small fortune!” She swept a hand around the room. “It's too much.” She finished in a small voice.

Dean shook his head. “Do you see anything you like?”

Y/N gave him a look that said he was being ridiculous. “That is not the point.”

Dean shrugged. “Actually, it is the only point. So, a bracelet?”

When she didn't immediately object again, Dean called the employee back over.

“So, I do think we'll go with a bracelet.”

For the next thirty minutes they went through countless pieces. Y/N liked them all and couldn't make a decision, mostly because they all seemed far too extravagant to sit on her wrist.

But finally, not wanting to annoy or bother the salesman any longer, (though he was the picture of professional politeness) she chose a double strand diamond bracelet with a fairly large, teardrop ruby in the center.

They took her wrist measurement and got a sale slip ready.

“Do you have an account with us, sir?” The salesman asked.

“Yes.” Dean said with a nod. “Winchester.”

A light of recognition entered the young man's eyes and he smiled broadly. “Oh, yes, Mr. Winchester. I haven't had the pleasure of serving you, yet, but we're so happy to have your business once again.”

Dean nodded. “Of course.”

He passed Dean the slip to sign. “The bracelet will be sized and ready tomorrow. Where would you like it sent?”

Dean signed his swooping signature. “The invoice can be sent to my residence on Riverside. But the bracelet should be delivered to The Rialto on Devlin. Room 17.”

“Very good, sir.” The employee said as he gave a final smile which Dean acknowledged with a nod.

“Thank you.”

As they left the lavish store, Y/N's thoughts were very crowded in her mind.

I shouldn't have let him do that. What's going to happen if I don't stay? They didn't even say a price. I have no idea how much that bracelet cost. Why did they recognize Dean's name so quickly? Exactly how often is he buying women expensive jewelry?

Her thoughts were swirling like the soft snow that had started to fall.

Dean tucked her hand into his elbow and hailed another hack. “I have one more adventure to take you on before we head home. Think you can manage it?”

His smile was warm, and Y/N shoved the thoughts aside. Yes, adventure, boldness. That's what these two weeks were supposed to be about. Not worried thoughts and a racing mind.

She shot him a grin. “Absolutely.”

***

“Skating?” Y/N asked before biting her lip.

Dean raised his finger. “Not just skating, skating in Central Park.” He pulled her towards the wide expanse of ice.

He frowned. “Wait. You do know how to skate, right?”

Y/N shrugged delicately. “ A little. Not well. I haven't skated since I was a little girl.”

Dean gave her a wink. “Well, don't worry. I won't let you fall.”

He brought her over to a bench before walking off, calling back to her. “Wait here.”

He returned minutes later with two pairs of rented skates. Sinking to one knee in the snow, Dean lifted Y/N's foot, unlacing her boot and pulling it off before replacing it with her skate.

Y/N blushed, hoping her cheeks would just look rosy from the cold. There was something very intimate about Dean brushing his fingers over her leg and ankle, letting her feel their warmth through her very thin stockings. It felt especially intimate in this very public setting.

As always, of course, Dean noticed her reaction. He smiled at the way her breath hitched and she knew he was trailing his fingers down her calf so slowly, on purpose.

She squinted at him, accusing, but he just grinned and quickly laced her skate.

When they were both in their skates Dean stood up and took her hands as they stepped onto the ice. He held both of them, skating backwards as she tottered forward like a deer on new legs.

“Wonderful! You're a natural!” Dean teased as she gripped his fingers in a vice-like grip.

“Ha. Ha.” She said in humorless tones, though a smile curved her lips. Several times she nearly crashed to the ground, but Dean saved her every time.

She watched the other skaters enviously as they looped around them, gliding like graceful fairies with wings. But Dean pulled her focus back to him.

“Don't pay attention to them. You're improving every minute.”

That was a little bit true, the longer she was on the ice, the more steady she became, but she was still far from graceful. The two of them skated shakily for a little while, Dean spinning her around a few times, making her laugh dizzily.

As she slipped towards the ground for the fourth or fifth time, Dean caught her and lifted her a foot off of the ice, turning her into another dizzying circle, forcing a slightly undignified squeal from her throat. They ended the spin with her clutching his arms, as they wrapped around her waist, both of them laughing happily.

“Winchester!”

Dean's attention was caught and he looked up, searching for the person who'd called him.

About twenty feet ahead, Y/N noticed a plump man, a bit older than Dean, waving at him. She heard Dean's slight groan even as he lifted his hand in greeting and smiled unenthusiastically at him.

He spoke out of the side of his mouth to Y/N as he straightened up and tucked her arm modestly in his elbow.

“I'm so sorry. This could get very boring.”

The man approached them and Y/N could see he wasn't a lot more steady on his feet than she was. She wondered if Dean could catch them both if they fell.

“Winchester, funny seeing you here, of all places.”

Dean nodded and smiled much more convincingly than before.

“Bradford. Good to see you. What brings you out to the park this evening?”

Dean probably regretted asking the question when Bradford launched into a speech detailing his complete medical history. He talked non-stop for nearly ten minutes about his health over the last several months, including the fact that his doctor had prescribed him daily exercise.

He patted his rotund stomach. “Doctor Shefford says, best thing I could do would be to lose a pound or two. Or ten!” He said, chuckling happily at his own joke.

Dean smiled indulgently and that was when Bradford seemed to realize there was another person there, his gaze landing on Y/N with happy surprise.

“Oh, and might I enquire as to the name of your lovely companion?”

Y/N smiled at Bradford, liking the odd man in spite of herself.

“Yes, of course.” Dean said with a nod. “This is a friend of mine from out of town, Miss - Taylor.”

Dean stumbled ever so slightly on the false name. Bradford didn't seem to notice the hesitation at all as he tipped his small bowler hat slightly.

“A pleasure, Miss Taylor. I do hope you're enjoying your stay in New York.”

Y/N smiled pleasantly, trying not to dwell on the name. “Thank you, sir. Yes, I am very much.”

Dean seized upon the opportunity. “Though, I daresay the day's excursion is beginning to wear on you, is it not?” He looked back at Bradford. “If you'll excuse me, Bradford, I must escort Miss Taylor back to her hotel.”

Y/N sold the excuse with a delicate yawn behind her fingers. “Yes, please forgive me. It was so nice meeting you.”

Bradford waved away her worry. “Oh, of course. Nothing like some bracing exercise to tire one out. My doctor's told me so.” He reiterated.

“Yes, very true." Dean nodded. "Sound advice. Take care, Bradford. And Merry Christmas.”

“Yes, Merry Christmas!” Bradford shouted as Dean pushed Y/N forward on her skates, practically carrying her across the ice.

When they got to the bench again, Dean looked back to see Bradford skating away, hands behind his back as he glided off, a little shaky.

“He seems nice.” Y/N commented. “How do you know him?”

Dean shrugged. “We just belong to the same club. He is nice enough. But I can only take him in short intervals. He inherited his father's money a long time ago and I think he's just very bored.” He tossed her a smile. “If you really wanna keep skating, we could wait a few minutes and see if he's gotten his fill of exercise.”

Y/N shook her head, her smile soft. “No, it has been quite the excursion, we should probably head home. Or back…to the hotel, I mean.”

Dean just nodded and made quick work of divesting them of their skates and then leading them the short distance out of the park. He hailed them a final cab for the night and helped Y/N into the seat.

They rode quietly for a while, and Y/N couldn't pinpoint why she felt off. It had been an amazing evening, she should feel content and happy.

After a few minutes, Dean leaned close to her and spoke quietly. “Sorry, about the…uh, Miss Taylor. I wasn't sure…” He cleared his throat. “I mean I know nothing is…nothing is determined yet about your future. So, I wasn't sure if you'd want to use your real name. Or…but, I should have asked earlier.”

In reality, she was just a girl using a fake name to hide her shame, sitting beside a man who’d done all of this countless times before.

Y/N shrugged but admitted to herself that the clandestine nature of the fake name was what was throwing her a little. But It was also the expensive bracelet from a jewelry store that knew Dean by name from his many former visits.

Both things were sharp reminders that her happy little picture of domesticity with Dean was just a fabrication.

But she didn't want to examine these things. She wanted to pretend they weren't true. So, she tried to push the thoughts away and shook her head.

“No, that was smart. Quick thinking. It seems very unlikely that, if I…if I go home in ten days, that anyone from this life will have cause to seek me out, or to inquire about the name of your brother's governess. But all the same, it's probably best if they don't know my real name.”

Dean nodded and silence descended again for several blocks. Y/N kept trying to ignore the troublesome thoughts churning in her mind, but they were starting to make her stomach hurt. Finally, she looked up at Dean.

“Kiss me.” She demanded in a very small voice.

Dean didn't wait to be asked twice, pulling her against him, and then sinking deeper into the shadowed recesses of the jostling carriage.

He kissed her hard and deep, like he was stamping her, branding her with the scorching heat of his mouth. She whimpered and he swallowed it down whole, sucking on her tongue and consuming every moan he created.

His hands roamed over her, undoing the buttons on her coat to slip his hands inside. But he growled slightly as he met the barrier of her satin taffeta.

“You are wearing entirely too many clothes!”

Y/N gasped out her laughter just as the driver called to them.

“The Rialto.”

They sat up and Y/N tried to rebutton her coat and fix her slightly disheveled hair.

Thank god for a private entrance, she thought.

Dean paid the driver and then lifted her to the ground, pushing her forward even quicker than he had on the ice.

She was giggling and panting all the way down the garden path and through the French doors into her suite. With the doors barely closed, Dean immediately began littering her room with her strewn clothing, pulling it frantically from her body while she puffed out stern warnings not to destroy her brand new dress.

When he finally had her naked, he dropped to his knees in front of her, fully dressed, coat still buttoned; he didn't even pause to remove his leather gloves.

He simply pushed her thighs open and immediately began to feast on her. Almost instinctively, she lifted her leg over his shoulder; the fine, soft wool of his coat was smooth and sensual against the back of her leg.

A long time later they laid side-by-side on the floor, with Dean finally naked too. He'd simply yanked down the thick blanket from the bed to cover them. Y/N laid her cheek against his warm chest and sighed deeply.

She gripped his hair tightly as he pulled her apart with his mouth. When her legs got too weak to hold her up, he simply lowered her to the floor and continued.

Y/N's body was cushioned by the plush rug beneath her, but her back ended up slightly rug-burned from twisting and writhing on top of it as she cried out her ecstasy.

She was incredibly appreciative of Dean's ability to force all her churning thoughts and worries into the back of her mind. She squished them into a tiny closet there and left them alone - for the night at least.

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@sexyvixen7

@nancymcl

@hobby27

@waywardcheshire

Everything Incl. Fan Edits:

@k-slla

@leigh70

@eevvvaa

@kickingitwithkirk

@foxyjwls007

@notinthislife50

@roseblue373

@mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@avanatural

@mrsjenniferwinchester

@all-alone-he-turns-to-stone

@deangirl96

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#dean x y/n #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester au #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fan fic #dean winchester angst #dean winchester au fan fic #dean winchester fan fic series

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thatdesklamp · 1 year

Text

Spring, 2007

more intrinsic warmth + gojo pov. This one is a little more salacious. I feel like a heathen. (nsfw, if that wasn’t evident) La la la la la

Satoru was seventeen when he first dreamt of you.

It was a weird dream, which he decided later was because of the heat: it was a spring heatwave, a sweltering April night, the air thick and sticky. Satoru liked the spring usually, as the school year slid to an end, leaving him with with all the freedom and the long days and the excuses for laziness. But when it was hot, it was too hot; especially since, like you always told him, his body ran far too warm. He was great in the winter, when he never needed more than one layer whilst you were bundling up with three, but in any extreme heat he was useless.

He had stripped off in bed, thrown the blankets down to bundle at his ankles, but his bare back still stuck to the bedsheet. When he rolled over onto his stomach, the sheet was damp with his sweat. Suguru had told him to lie on the floor without the mattress, but Satoru thought that was something he only said because he’d never slept right in his life. Satoru was raised with absolute care, and he was also raised with air conditioning. He wasn’t going to sleep on the floor, whatever Suguru said. Satoru had standards.

That was why it didn’t count. When he had the weird dream, it didn’t count, because his room was so hot and he was feeling so tired and he wasn’t himself.

---

In the dream, Satoru was sat in the Chapel, his back propped up against the wall he would lean against when he used to play Pokémon. He was playing Pokémon on his Game Boy Colour—which should have been his first indication that this was a dream, because he hadn’t played on that old thing since he was an actual child—and he was moving his character through Blackthorn City. The Chapel looked like it had when you were younger and still went there every day; nowadays, now you two weren’t so childish, you went there less and less. He played the game for a few minutes, and then he realised that there was a weight on his shoulder, and he stopped. Satoru looked down, and there you were.

You had your head on his shoulder. Looking back, Satoru would note this as the second weird thing, in the long list of very weird things. The third weird thing was that, in the dream, Satoru didn’t think that this was weird at all.

He didn’t think about how, in real life, you wouldn’t want to touch anyone, or put your head on anyone’s shoulder. He also didn’t think about how, in real life, you also wouldn’t want to touch him. Not the way you were touching him in the dream, at least.

In the dream, Satoru smiled. He noticed that his arm was already around you, and that he could splay his fingers around your waist if he wanted to. You felt warm, and in the dream, the feeling was familiar. He entertained himself with that for a few seconds, and then moved his hand up, skirting higher than your waist, around your ribs.

Then, curious, he moved his hand back down to feel the curve of your side, and then further down, down to your hips. You felt different, he noted, to the way his own body felt. He knew that was because you weren’t him—you were a girl, or a woman, which he’d only really noticed a few years ago. When you were both kids, your respective genders hadn’t been a thought at all. But then you both got older, and he became aware of it, and now it was something he had to think about. And Satoru was aware of it, now. He had that thought in the dream, and later, he would realise what it had meant, because he’d thought the same in real life, too.

But it was nice, to feel. He liked touching you.

Your head moved on his shoulder. Satoru would remember this as a pivotal moment, not just in what happened, but how he had felt with your head resting on his shoulder. He had not felt guilty, then; not the way he later felt, when he woke, panting and sweaty and achingly hot. It had been normal, in the dream, for him to be touching you like that.

So, he hadn’t stopped. Satoru’s hand stayed lazily at your hip as you stirred. Then, he realised that you weren’t asleep at all: in fact, you were just as awake as he was, and you were watching his hand move on your body with a smile playing around your lips.

You looked up at him, eyes glinting. It was a smile he recognised: Satoru knew all of your smiles, each and every one. This was one of his favourites, and one of the rarest. You looked mischievous, slightly sly, and the expression sent heat coursing through him in a way that was both familiar and new.

“You could’ve just asked,” you said. You shifted from his side, and Satoru opened his mouth to protest. You clicked your tongue and placed one gloved finger against his lips. Satoru fell silent, and your lips curled up. There was anticipation, now: excitement. He knew what was coming, and he wanted it from you.

“Could I really?” Satoru asked, as he reached out to touch you again. His hands found your ass, and he grinned at you, tugging you closer.

You laughed at that, and he marvelled at how easily he could make you laugh, here. Satoru spent all of his days trying to make you laugh—it didn’t come easily, so he savoured each time like he’d never see it again.

But you just swatted him on the chest, playful, and he took the touch as encouragement. Satoru kept one hand on your ass—which he liked being able to touch, he realised, or he just knew, because in this dream he had clearly done this before—and moved the other to skirt the underside of your shirt. Your skin was burning hot, and so soft. He slipped his hand under your the fabric, and felt the dip of your back, how it arched under his touch, responsive, and then higher, to the material of your bra strap. Lace—

“Eager!” You laughed again—so easily! Satoru liked this, he definitely liked this—and gave him that cunning, knowing look again. And then you had swung one leg over his, and you were sitting in his lap, hard and directly on top of him. Satoru inhaled, sharp and surprised and aroused. Your hands had moved to his shoulders, resting there, steadying yourself. You let out a soft noise, like you had surprised yourself, but that blazing look was still in your eye, and Satoru was staring.

He could feel you: the insides of your thighs were pressing against him, and his pulse was starting to quicken. You shifted your weight, moving to the side just the smallest amount, but the movement was enough to make Satoru hiss.

“Did I do something?” you asked, eyes going wide. Your eyelashes looked long, and they fanned across your cheeks.

You knew what the answer was, and Satoru knew that you did. You moved again, this time deliberately grinding down on him, and Satoru tilted his head back against the Chapel wall and focused on breathing.

You knew what you were doing to him: it was another one of those moments you had, when he could read exactly what you were thinking, and when you could do the same for him. It usually made him nervous, that you could tell so much about what he was thinking without him even knowing it, but here he was just exhilarated.

“Hebi,” Satoru said, his voice half-choked. He heard what he said, and frowned—later, he would understand that he was on the cusp of breaking from the dream, and that saying your name had almost pushed him over the edge—but then, when your thumb moved to brush his bottom lip, he shook off any reservations.

You hummed, and dipped your head down to his neck. Your lips pressed there, burning hot, and Satoru groaned. He felt your tongue, how you kissed and licked up his throat, and he gripped tighter onto you. You moved your hips against him, and pleasure was growing there, exactly where he could feel you, where he wanted to feel you.

“Hebi,” he said again. This time, his voice was whispered, like a plea. “Hebi. Hebi.”

“I’m here,” you said back, your breath hot against his lips. “I’m right here, Satoru.”

A ragged moan was torn from his chest. His name. He loved it when you said his name—he loved it now, as he watched your lips move around it, the way your lips pursed at the end, like a kiss.

Like you knew what he was thinking, you said it again.

“Satoru. Satoru, touch me, Satoru.”

He wanted to: you wanted him to. He explored your bare skin, hand still underneath your shirt—that was his shirt, he realised. You were wearing his shirt! It was a t-shirt that fit normally on him, but it was too big for you, and it fell to just skim the tops of your thighs.

He loved it, the sight of you, of you on top of him, your lips round and soft, you wearing his shirt that was far too big for you. He wanted to take it off, but he also wanted to keep it like this: Satoru liked you wearing his clothes. He realised it in the moment, but of course he did! In the dream, you wore his clothes all the time.

Of course! The first time had been a few months ago: you had arrived at his house in the middle of the night, fresh from an incident with your family that you refused to go into detail about, and you had been blinking back tears when you had asked him if you could stay the night. You hadn’t had to ask: Satoru would have never turned you away, not ever. But Yahaba had been washing the pyjamas he kept at his house, and so you’d shrugged and walked into his room, so carefree, and picked out a t-shirt of his that had looked the biggest.

“I’ll wear this,” you had said, casual. Satoru hadn’t known what to say. He was too consumed with this new, fresh idea of you wearing his clothes, and what you would look like in them, and whether you would do it more, and he had just about managed to crack a smile and make some joke, passing it off like it was nothing.

Now, though, it wasn’t nothing. The shirt was large, and it hung low about the neckline, exposing your collarbone and the shadow of your breasts. You moved your hips down against him, this time even harder. Satoru’s fingers fisted in the bottom of the shirt, tugging you towards him.

The friction was good, and Satoru was certain that it was only made better that he got to feel you moving against him. He realised with a wave of arousal that your legs were bare, and that other than his clothes, the only thing separating your bodies was the thin strip of your underwear. And that you were doing this to him and that you wanted this, that this was good for you, too. Satoru wanted that desperately, and recognising it was staggering; Satoru wanted you to feel good, and he wanted to be the one to make you feel good.

He gripped your thighs, hard, and then almost lost control completely when you moaned against his neck. Your head dropped down to his shoulder, and he could feel your hot gasps right near his ear. It hit him that you were trying to say his name, just choked-off syllables, like the only thing you could think of was his name—his first name, Satoru. Encouraged, he pulled you down against him, controlling the movement of your hips, and both of you gasped together.

Closer, Satoru wanted. He wanted more, more of you. He felt your bra strap again and he undid it with one hand expertly, which of course he knew how to do, even though he had never been able to do that before.

The snap of your bra against your skin made you gasp, high and breathy. Satoru sucked in a breath. There was another noise he wanted to hear again: your laugh, and this. He moved his hand from your back, to the front of you, where he really wanted to touch now. When his fingers brushed your breasts, your eyes fluttered closed.

“Satoru,” you were saying, with every roll of your hips, with every rise and fall of your chest. He felt you breathing, he felt it as you shook against him when his thumb rubbed over your burning skin. “Satoru. Satoru, please… please, touch me more.”

“You want me to?” His voice was ragged: you had made his voice ragged.

“Please. Please, Satoru, it feels good, you make me feel so good—“

Satoru bit down on his lip, hard. You never spoke like this—he didn’t know that he wanted you to speak like this, but he was hard against you, painfully hard. It would have been embarrassing, but Satoru couldn’t feel that, could only focus on how much he wanted you to say that again.

Satoru spoke in a rasp, his head spinning. “I do?”

“So good.” Your hands were on his shoulders, his neck, his jaw, his chest, touching him everywhere. Every movement of your hand left searing impressions in its wake, and Satoru wanted you branded onto him.

“You—” Satoru shuddered, visceral, as he felt your hands tug at his shirt, try to pull it up. “You feel good too—“

Now he wanted your shirt off. He wanted to see, not just touch, and he wanted to put his mouth on you, the way your mouth was on him. He wanted to make you gasp like that again, and he wanted to feel you underneath him, and he wanted you, he wanted you to touch him, touch him harder, harder, harder until—

Satoru awoke, gasping.

His mattress cover was damp again, and when he looked down he realised it was uncomfortable and sticky. Satoru grimaced, and wiped his palms on the sheet. He stared up at the ceiling, and tried to will his heart to stop racing.

Satoru had had dreams like that before, obviously. But, shit, he’d never had them about you before. He had never dreamed about you so vividly, with his subconscious piecing so many half-moments together to make… whatever the hell that was.

Like the time you had borrowed his t-shirt a few months ago, or the time when you had fallen asleep on a pillow beside him and he had wondered what he could do to make you rest your head on his shoulder instead, or all those times you had called him by his first name.

He breathed in, but the air didn’t seem good enough. It was hot, and too humid, and Satoru decided that there wasn’t enough oxygen, what with all of that water floating about.

Yes: it was the heat. Besides, Satoru had heard stories of people going crazy when they got heatstroke, or whatever. It was probably something like that. It didn’t mean anything. Maybe it was just an unconscious side of his brain realising that he’d been spending so much of his time with a really, really pretty girl, and it had only just caught up to deliver the normal, maybe-weird reactions to it.

And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t considered you like that before—sure he had, kind of. Satoru was convinced that he’d be weirder to not have. You were his best friend, and he spent all of his time with you; there was one time before your big fight, and he’d not really known what to make of it, and then after, when it was like he hadn’t seen you in months, when he asked you to be his friend again. It was raining, that night, and he must have woken you up, because you were in your soft cotton pyjamas, and the shorts had ridden up on your thighs, and you hadn’t been wearing a bra, and of course Satoru had noticed. He was a guy. It didn’t mean anything, he’d known, but he also hadn’t told Suguru about it. Satoru didn’t know why he hadn’t. Something itched at him, uncomfortable.

But it hasn’t meant anything! Just how it didn’t mean anything now.

It was just the heat. It didn’t matter about anything else: he’d had a weird dream, but it wasn’t like he needed to tell you about it. You wouldn’t be able to guess, would you?

Guiltily, an image flickered across Satoru’s mind before he could stop it: the sight of you above him, your bare legs hardly covered by the long t-shirt, the purse of your lips as you said his name. Satoru pushed it away. What was he doing, thinking about you all weird like that?

This was the worst time for something like that to happen, too; it was almost a year since his and Suguru’s mission, and so it was almost a year since he had apologised, and since you had both been trying to be friends again. Friends.

Friends. It didn’t help, this. Satoru had thought you two were getting better, and even if it wasn’t exactly like it was before, it was close, really close. He wanted you in his life. He always had.

Satoru turned to the side, and then wrinkled his nose as he remembered that he needed to change his sheets.

He bunched them into a ball, and then chucked them into the laundry basket he kept in the corner of his room. He looked back at his mattress, and decided that, fuck it. Suguru was probably right. With a grunt, Satoru managed to pull it off the bedframe and onto the floor. Then, deciding that the heat wouldn’t win against him, he lay down on the mattress and tried to get to sleep.

1-1 to me, he thought, to the heat. Fresh slate. We can forget about everything, then.

You were knocking at his door.

“Hnrggh—“ Satoru blinked in the light, everything blinding and bright as it usually was. He patted on his bedside table for his glasses, then remembered he was lying on the floor. Satoru rolled out of bed and bumped his forehead on the floor, shoved his glasses onto his face, then rooted around the ground and pulled on some boxers. If it was Suguru, he’d be fine like this, because who cares? But it was you, he recognised the way you knock, and so he’d got to find a shirt—where was his shirt?—shit, last night. Shit.

Satoru stumbled to a halt. He couldn’t see you like this, after last night.

What if—and it wouldn’t be him, it would just be his body, which wouldn’t be him at all, just normal teenage instincts—he saw you and started remembering the dream? And if he remembered the dream, he’d get a hard-on way too fast, and then he’d be standing in front of you like that, and Satoru couldn’t deal with it. You were friends. That would be fucking weird, for friends to do.

Again, it was weird for friends to dream about having doing some strange dry-humping-slash-groping sex, but he had already rationalised that it was just the heat and normal teenage instincts, so that dream didn’t count.

“Gojo,” you called. “Gojo! Wake up.”

Satoru, his brain supplied, unhelpfully.

“Ah—one second, Hebi-Hebi!”

He pulled on some jogging bottoms, threw on a scruffy shirt, and then, scrapped for time, used Blue to make the door fly open.

“Finally. You’re impossible to wake—”

“Good morning!” Satoru said, taking a theatrical bow. “Good morning, everyone!”

You stared at him, blankly. “What?”

“It’s my audience. I’m saying thank you and good morning.”

“You don’t have an audience.”

“Sure I do. I’ve got you, haven’t I?”

“Not for long.” You sent him a glower, and Satoru felt his stomach flip. “You forgot to give me those worksheets for class today.”

“Oh!” Satoru did, actually, forget. You’d wanted them in yesterday, but then he had been hanging out with Suguru in the evening when you went off to chat with Shoko, and by the time he’d gotten back it was too late to do anything. “Why didn’t you remind me, Hebi-Hebi?”

Your nose crinkled. Satoru had to admit that it was pretty cute, objectively.

“I did remind you,” you said. “All of yesterday. C’mon, Gojo, how are you so irresponsible?”

“I’m not! I’m the most responsible person you’ve ever met.”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

Would you? he thought, traitorously. Would you laugh for me, again?

You tutted, pretending to be unimpressed, and then you glanced down at the floor. You frowned. “Why isn’t your mattress on the bed?”

“It—was hot.” Satoru knew he blurted it out too quickly, and that you noticed, because you always did, with him.

There was a torturous moment of silence where Satoru was convinced you had figured it all out and that he was ruined and you would never want to speak to him ever again, but then you said: “I thought you had that superiority complex thing. You know. With Geto, and the mattresses.”

“You heard about that?”

You hummed. “You must’ve told me.”

Satoru didn’t think he had. He was too focused on inconspicuously wiping his hands on the backs of his jogging bottoms without you noticing.

You noticed. Your eyebrows furrowed, and then your gaze slipped from his hands, to his backwards shirt, then to the balled-up bedsheet by the wall, and finally landing on the half-empty bottle of hand lotion Satoru had bought a few months ago, because he kept thinking that his then-girlfriend didn’t want to hold his hand because the skin was so rough.

You looked back up at him, and Satoru was certain you could see the flicker of panic on his face. You groaned, loudly and in disgust, and covered your eyes with your gloved hands.

Satoru’s heart skipped with fear. No, he couldn’t ruin it with you, not when he’d barely even—

“Gojo!” You peered back at him through your fingers, and Satoru realised with a jolt that you weren’t disgusted, you were embarrassed. “Just tell me not to come in if you’re—oh, eugh!”

Satoru’s lips parted in confusion. What? And then—

Oh! Satoru felt a heavy weight slide right off his chest, and suddenly he was light as a bird! You just thought he was jerking off! Yes—what a win!

Satoru could deal with this. He could even turn this in his favour, the way he always was trying to with you.

He grinned at you and leaned forward, bending at the hips with his hands still behind him. “What, you embarrassed?”

Your lips pinched tight together. “Shut up.”

“It’s a normal bodily response, Hebi-Hebi,” he said, delighting at your growing mortification. “I’m seventeen! And, hey, it’s not just guys who would enjoy—”

“Oh my god—”

“—so you should we congratulating me!”

Satoru beamed at you, enjoying himself a lot now.

You glowered. “I hate you.”

“Self-pleasure—”

“Don’t call it that!”

“—isn’t something that—”

“Stop talking.”

“Stop interrupting me!” Satoru couldn’t help but laugh at your expression. “I’m trying to give you a biology lesson. Just because you’re a priss—”

“I’m not—”

“And I’m sure you’re no stranger to it! After all, I’m sure you’ve…” Satoru’s brain caught up to wnat he was saying, and his voice faltered, and then trailed off.

Your eyes widened. You looked away from him, folding your arms right across your chest.

Satoru felt just as out of place. Just as he’d said it, the actual image of what he was saying had forced itself into his head. You: you, touching yourself, gasping and moaning in that same way you had in your dream. Would you sound the same as your had in his imagination? What you would look like—Satoru had not seen you naked in his dream, but he had wanted to, there.

But he could imagine. Your soft thighs, clenching around your bare hand, buried between your legs, your fingers—your fingers inside you, moving inside yourself, or rubbing circles on your clit, and Satoru’d had a girlfriend a few months ago who had liked it when he watched her masturbate, and he remembered how it had felt to be in the room with her.

It had almost been painful how hard he’d been, how much he’d wanted to touch her and be able to make her come himself—and there was a flash, just a split-second image, of Satoru’s lips on yours and his fingers curling inside you and your neck bared for him instead, and making you come. He didn’t know what it would be like, and Satoru felt his curiosity like a hunger, something that ached to be sated. Satoru swallowed.

Touching yourself, what would you think of?

Who would you think of?

You cleared your throat. “Anyway.”

Yes! Anyway!

Satoru forced out a laugh. Anyway! He pushed all those thoughts from his head—just remnants of his dream, coming to haunt him, everything perfectly normal—and grinned at you, feeling slightly delirious. He noticed that you didn’t look all that right either; you were blinking in that way you did when you were nervous or off-guard, and you still weren’t making eye contact with him. You didn’t know, did you? Was he—Satoru tried to subtly glance down—no, he was okay. You couldn’t know. Sure, you could figure out pretty much anything about him most of the time, but you weren’t a literal mind reader. You were just embarrassed for… whatever reason. Satoru didn’t know.

But he was moving on! He wasn’t thinking about it.

The silence stretched. Satoru felt awkward—he never used to feel awkward around you, but you’re still learning each other after your fight, and it’s harder than it was before.

“We good?” he asked, in a way that he realised a second later was much too vulnerable for his liking. He fixed it with a wink, and a casual stretch of his back.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. You cleared your throat again, and then nodded. “Yeah. Anyway.”

“The worksheets!” Satoru clicked his fingers in the air and hurried over to his desk. He rifled through the mess of papers, humming loudly and on purpose, and then shouted out: “Ha-ha! I’m amazing—here, look, I printed it out.”

“Good,” you said, tucking some hair behind your ear. “Hopefully Yaga won’t kill me in first period.”

“I’d have defended you from him.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome! I appreciate the appreciation, Hebi-Hebi. Being this kind and generous is a thankless job sometimes.”

“Oh, you’re such an idiot.”

But your lips were curling, and Satoru was floating on the air again, overjoyed that the awkwardness had fallen away. Success! A perfect deflection, and he’d coaxed the first half-smile of the morning from you.

Satoru laughed. And then you were just looking up at him, with that standard way you do, slightly heavy-lidded and bored, and it felt like a normal day again. It didn’t feel like anything had changed: even though it had, for him. It had changed. But between you two… it was just normal.

He hoped you couldn’t do your psychic magic trick on him, and figure out that he was feeling awkward. But why should he? After all, he was Satoru Gojo: it was him, now, him and Suguru. Both of them together, the world’s strongest. He didn’t need to feel awkward about anything! And especially not something that could be so easily explained, by the heat and by his normal teenage reactions to normal teenage stuff.

So, nothing had changed. Satoru’s face broke into a grin. That was good. You were just as close as you always were. No stress. He should just forget about it.

And he did.

And then it happened again.

#intrinsic warmth #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo smut #ikr #who am I #gojo fluff #everyone say thank you drunk maggie #she was a different girl to me I’ll tell you

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reidmarieprentiss · 2 months

Text

Bridges to Belonging

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Six Part Seven

Summary: Spencer and Y/N go on their date!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff

Warnings/Includes: suggestive conversation, self doubt, glasses Spencer, reader wears glasses/contacts but other than that i'm trying not to give her a physical description, let me know if i do put her in a narrow category!! i know i said she had curves at rossi's dinner party but to be objectively fair every human has at least one curve lmao

Word count: 5.4k

a/n: i am really enjoying writing these two :') life has been so boring since i graduated. if you're wondering how i bust these out so fast, one -- i don't have a life, and two - i wrote all of my essays the night before or the day they were due hahah

main masterlist

It was Saturday morning, and the air held a crispness that hinted at the excitement of the day ahead. Y/N stood before her wardrobe, contemplating her outfit for the day. She opted for something comfortable yet dressy enough for wherever Spencer might be taking her. The outfit was stylish but not overly formal, perfect for a day that could involve a fair amount of walking yet elegant enough for an unexpected dinner venue. She chose layers—a practical choice that allowed for adjustments depending on whether the day turned warm or cool.

As she dressed, a flutter of excitement danced in her stomach, mixed with a tinge of anxiety that she couldn't shake off. Y/N was excited, truly, but she couldn’t help tempering her anticipation with a cautious restraint. Her past experiences with relationships and dates had taught her to guard her heart. More than once, she'd been let down, left to pick up the pieces after what she thought were promising beginnings fizzled into disappointment. These memories, still vivid, cast a shadow over her current excitement, reminding her to brace for any outcome.

Approaching her dresser, Y/N paused, her hand hovering over her contact lens case. Usually, she preferred contacts for a more put together look, especially when putting extra effort into her appearance. However, remembering the discomfort of her contacts drying out during unexpected long hours, she opted for her glasses instead. She hadn't worn them the first time she met Spencer, and a small part of her worried about what he'd think. Would he notice? Would he care?

She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, now framed by the sleek lines of her glasses. Taking a deep breath, she told her reflection, "Just enjoy the day, no matter what comes," trying to bolster her spirits. She wanted to listen to that optimistic voice in her head telling her everything would be fine, that Spencer was different, that this time it wouldn't end in disappointment. Yet, she prepared herself mentally for any scenario, unwilling to let her guard down completely.

Y/N grabbed her essentials—phone, wallet, a light scarf—and slipped them into her bag. As she took one last look in the mirror, she practiced her smile, the one she’d use to mask her nerves when she met Spencer. She hoped the day would prove her fears unfounded, that it would be a turning point from her past experiences. But she kept her expectations in check, a self-protective measure honed by past heartaches.

—

As the morning sunlight streamed through the blinds of his apartment, Spencer Reid found himself standing before the bathroom mirror, his usual nerves mingling with a specific concern today. He adjusted his glasses, the frames unfamiliar against the bridge of his nose, as he leaned closer to examine his reflection. His contacts had dried out, an unfortunate oversight, leaving him no choice but to wear his glasses for the date with Y/N.

He studied himself critically. The glasses were practical, a necessity for his work, but he rarely wore them anymore. There was something about them that made him feel exposed, more like the bookish nerd he had always been, and who he had been made fun of for being, and less like the confident man he hoped to appear as today. What if she doesn’t like them? The question nagged at him, adding an extra layer of anxiety to his already jittery state.

Spencer took a deep breath, trying to center himself. He remembered reading that people often perceive glasses as a sign of intelligence and reliability, traits he hoped Y/N would appreciate. Still, he couldn't help but worry that perhaps she might prefer him without them, or that they might alter the way she saw him—literally and metaphorically.

As he turned away from the mirror, he made his way to his bedroom to choose his outfit. He opted for a smart-casual ensemble that felt comfortable yet presentable: a crisp button-down shirt paired with a well-fitted blazer, and his best jeans. The glasses, he decided, would just have to become part of his look for the day.

With his outfit sorted, Spencer paced his living room, every potential topic of conversation he had prepared buzzing through his mind. His thoughts were filled with bits of trivia about the latest exhibits at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, hoping these would spark engaging discussions between him and Y/N. He rehearsed some points in his head, mapping out how he might transition from discussing ancient artifacts to more personal subjects, like her interests and hobbies.

However, as much as he prepared, his thoughts kept drifting back to his glasses. He paused in his pacing, catching his reflection in the window. The morning light cast a soft glow that somehow made the glasses seem less obtrusive, more a part of him. "Maybe it's not so bad," Spencer muttered to himself, adjusting to his reflection.

He grabbed his notebook from the coffee table, a little ritual that always helped calm his nerves. Scribbling down some last-minute notes about things he wanted to remember—like asking Y/N about her recent projects and ensuring to mention a little-known fact about an art piece he thought she'd appreciate—helped him feel more in control.

Yet, beneath the surface of his meticulous preparations, there was an undercurrent of excitement. This wasn't just any date; it was a date with Y/N, someone who had sparked a level of interest in him that was rare and invigorating. The glasses, he realized, were just a minor detail in the grand scheme of things. What mattered was the connection they might deepen today.

Finally ready, Spencer took one last look around his apartment to ensure everything was in order before leaving. He grabbed his keys and his jacket, pushed up his glasses with a newfound sense of acceptance, and headed out the door. Today, he decided he would focus on the possibilities, not the insecurities. After all, if their connection was genuine, Y/N would see beyond the glasses to the person behind them. And perhaps, in those museum halls filled with timeless artifacts, they could find something just as enduring between them.

—

Y/N arrived at the coffee shop Spencer had texted her about, her heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and nerves. She spotted Spencer already there, waiting for her by the window, a steaming cup in front of him. He looked up as the bell above the door jingled, his face lighting up when he saw her. Despite her nervousness, Y/N felt a warm flutter in her chest at the sight of his welcoming smile.

"Hey, Y/N, over here!" Spencer called out softly, waving her over.

She walked towards him, her steps hesitant but eager. "Hey, Spencer," she greeted, her voice slightly quivering. As she sat down, she noticed his glasses and couldn't help but smile. "I like your glasses," she said, touching the frame of her own as if to point out the coincidence.

Spencer chuckled, a blush creeping up his cheeks. "Thanks, I usually wear contacts, but, you know, they dried out."

"Same here," Y/N admitted, feeling a connection over their shared minor dilemma. "It’s a glasses kind of day, I guess."

Internally, Y/N felt a surge of relief. Seeing Spencer in his glasses, looking unexpectedly handsome, eased her worries about her own appearance. My god, I didn’t think he could get anymore attractive, she thought, her initial anxiety about her own glasses fading away and being replaced with a warmth that couldn’t be helped by removing her scarf. Maybe all of her clothes.

Spencer felt a similar relief, his earlier concerns about his glasses dissolving as he saw Y/N's reaction. She doesn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, she looks adorable in hers. Maybe this isn’t such a big deal after all, he reassured himself. His thoughts remained much more pure than Y/N’s, although he couldn’t help but think about how if he tried to kiss her today their glasses would clink together. The thought made a blush rise up his neck to his cheeks.

There was a brief pause, an almost knowing silence, before Spencer leaned forward, his eyes bright with excitement. "So, I have something planned for us today. I hope you'll like it. We’re going to the Met. There’s a few exhibits I think you’d really enjoy, and then I thought we could grab dinner at a nice place nearby. How does that sound?"

Y/N's eyes widened, her earlier anxieties melting away into genuine excitement. "That sounds amazing, Spencer. I’ve always wanted to go to the Met! And dinner sounds perfect," she replied, her nervousness turning into anticipation.

Spencer seemed relieved by her enthusiasm. "Great! I wasn’t sure what you’d think. I mean, it’s a bit of a train ride, but I thought it might be fun to spend the day in New York."

"It’s more than fun, it’s perfect," Y/N assured him, her smile sincere. "I can’t think of a better way to spend the day." And she meant it, they could talk on the train ride there and back, maybe hold hands, brush thighs. It’s in the little things.

They decided to take their coffee to go, stepping out together towards the train station. As they walked, the initial awkwardness began to fade. Spencer’s eyes occasionally met Y/N’s, each glance accompanied by a shy smile. "I’m really glad you’re here with me," Spencer confessed, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone.

"Me too," Y/N responded, her heart skipping a beat. "I’ve been looking forward to this all week."

Their conversation drifted to lighter topics, each shared laugh bringing them a little closer, building a bridge over their initial anxieties. As they boarded the train, Y/N felt a newfound optimism. Today was not just another date; it was the beginning of something special, she could feel it. And as they settled into their seats, watching the cityscape start to pass by, she believed, for the first time in a long time, that her hopes were well placed.

As the train clattered along the tracks toward New York, Y/N and Spencer found themselves in the comfortable cocoon of their shared booth. The cityscape blurred past, creating a serene backdrop for their burgeoning connection.

"So, Spencer," Y/N began, leaning forward with a playful glint in her eyes, "tell me about the most bizarre case you've ever worked on. I promise I can handle it."

Spencer chuckled, a blush already tinting his cheeks. "Well, there was this one time we dealt with a suspect who believed he was a 21st-century vampire..." As he recounted the peculiarities of the case, Y/N listened intently, occasionally brushing her foot against his under the table, sending a jolt through him each time.

(Pretend this case happened earlier)

"Vampires, huh? Are you sure you aren't one?" Y/N teased, her tone light but suggestive. "You do have a certain... nocturnal charm."

Spencer's laugh was nervous, delighted. She's incredible, he thought. So bold and funny. It's utterly disarming. "I assure you, I'm not a vampire. Just a regular guy who happens to have naturally sunken eyes."

Y/N smiled and giggled, pleased with his playful response. "Good to know. I prefer my dates to be sunlight-friendly. Speaking of which, how do you usually spend your days off when you're not chasing fictional vampires or real criminals?"

Spencer found himself more relaxed as he shared more about his love for reading and rewatching sci-fi movies and TV. Y/N seemed genuinely interested, her responses peppered with witty remarks that kept him on his toes.

"Reading, huh? I should have guessed," she said, taking a sip of her coffee. "Next you'll be telling me you have a cat named Schrödinger."

"No cat," Spencer admitted, grinning. "But I wouldn't mind one. As long as it doesn't interfere with my reading."

Their conversation flowed effortlessly from books to favorite ways to spend a rainy day, each topic drawing them closer. Y/N's confidence and teasing made Spencer's heart race, but he found himself enjoying the thrill of it. She’s so refreshing, exciting even. I haven't felt this engaged in a long time.

As the train rolled closer to their destination, Spencer found himself wishing the ride wouldn't end. Y/N had the rare ability to make him blush and laugh in equal measure, a combination he found intoxicating.

"So, Spencer," Y/N leaned in closer, lowering her voice to a whisper as the train noise crescendoed around them. "If today goes well... would you consider making our next date a night at the opera? I hear it's quite the experience."

Spencer's eyes widened, both at the suggestion and her proximity. "I'd like that," he managed to say, his voice steady despite the butterflies in his stomach. "I'd like that very much."

Y/N smiled, her gaze lingering on his for a moment longer than necessary before she leaned back in her seat, satisfied with his response. Spencer watched her, a smile tugging at his lips, his earlier nerves replaced by anticipation and hope. She’s already wanting another date? I’m still hoping I can work up the courage to kiss her, he thought as the skyline of New York City came into view.

As they stepped into the grandeur of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, the vast spaces filled with centuries of art and history, Y/N's excitement was palpable. Her eyes sparkled with each new room they entered, each piece they observed. Spencer, usually reserved, found himself drawn out by her enthusiasm, his voice animated as he shared insights and facts about the artworks around them.

They wandered through the exhibit "The Philippe de Montebello Years: Curators Celebrate Three Decades of Acquisitions," where Y/N's favorite pieces resided. Her gaze lingered on each work, genuinely appreciating the artistry and the stories Spencer told her about the origins and significance of each piece.

"Did you know this particular painting was considered lost for almost two centuries before it was found in a small, forgotten chapel in Italy?" Spencer pointed to an intricate Renaissance painting, its colors vibrant even after all these years.

Y/N listened intently, her interest deepening with each fact. "I had no idea," she responded, her tone full of genuine fascination. "You know so much about all of this, Spencer. It's incredibly... exciting."

Spencer, caught off guard by her candid compliment, blushed deeply but couldn't suppress the grin that spread across his face. "Really?" he asked, his voice a mix of surprise and delight.

"Yes, really," Y/N affirmed, stepping closer to him. "Your brain is the sexiest thing about you, Spencer. The way you know all these things, the way you're so passionate about sharing them—it’s captivating."

Encouraged by her words, Spencer found himself sharing even more. They stopped in front of a medieval tapestry, its threads telling tales of battles and legends. As he explained the symbolism woven into the fabric, Y/N's admiration only grew. She watched him, not just listening but truly seeing him—someone who had finally found a receptive audience for his wealth of knowledge.

Spencer felt a thrill unlike any other. For so long, he had been used to people tuning out his ramblings, to seeing eyes glaze over halfway through his explanations. But with Y/N, it was different. She hung on his every word, her curiosity feeding his own, her enthusiasm fueling a confidence he rarely felt in social settings.

As they moved through the museum, their conversation flowed effortlessly from art to personal anecdotes, each story Spencer shared bringing a new sparkle to Y/N's eyes. He talked about his mother, his childhood filled with books instead of playdates, and she listened, understanding and nodding, sharing bits of her own life in return.

The day at the Met became more than just a date; it was a revelation for both. For Y/N, it was discovering that someone could match her enthusiasm for learning and experiencing new things. For Spencer, it was the joy of finding someone who not only appreciated his intellect but was genuinely excited by it.

As the museum began to close, and they slowly made their way out, neither of them wanted the day to end. They were lost in a bubble where art and intellect intertwined, where every fact shared was a thread pulling them closer together.

As Spencer and Y/N stepped out of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, the energy of New York City enveloped them once again. The streets buzzed with the usual symphony of honking cars, chattering pedestrians, and the distant siren of an emergency vehicle. Spencer turned to Y/N, a thoughtful look on his face.

“There’s a restaurant not too far from here where the team and I ate after wrapping up a case once,” he suggested. “It’s really good, not too fancy but the food is excellent. It might be a bit of a walk, though, so we could grab a cab if you’re tired from all the museum walking.”

Y/N, reveling in the connection they had fostered throughout the day, shook her head with a smile. “I don’t mind the walk, actually. It’s a beautiful evening, and I’m enjoying spending time with you. Let’s walk.”

Spencer nodded, visibly pleased by her eagerness to extend their time together. They started down the sidewalk, navigating through the bustling crowd. The city seemed to glow with a warm, golden light as the sun began to set, casting long shadows on the pavement.

As they were walking, the crowd around them thickened momentarily as people hurried to cross the street before the light changed. In the midst of this, a passerby stumbled a bit too close to Y/N, jostling her slightly. Instantly, Spencer’s protective instincts kicked in. He placed his hand on her lower back, gently pulling her closer to his side, away from the rush of the crowd.

The contact sent an unexpected jolt through Y/N, a spark that felt electric. Surprised and thrilled by the sensation, she instinctively reached for his bicep, feeling the solid muscle under her hand, and linked her other arm around his. The gesture was intimate, natural, and it seemed to anchor them both amidst the sea of people.

Spencer, who was so often touch-starved and reserved in his physical interactions, felt a warm thrill at her touch. His heart raced slightly, a pleasant buzz of excitement coursing through him. The feeling of her hand on his arm, her body close to his, was unexpectedly comforting and exhilarating. It was a simple gesture, but to Spencer, it felt significant, a physical affirmation of the connection they’d been building all day.

As they walked on, navigating the streets of New York toward the restaurant, Spencer felt a sense of contentment wash over him. Y/N’s presence at his side, the way she fit naturally into his space, made the city around them fade into a soft background. He found himself hoping that the evening would stretch on, reluctant to let go of the moment.

The walk to the restaurant became a leisurely stroll, each step taking them deeper into a shared comfort. They talked easily, laughter mingling with the city sounds, the initial spark at their contact evolving into a steady, warm glow. By the time they reached the restaurant, Spencer and Y/N were closer than ever, both physically and emotionally, eager to continue their evening together.

At the restaurant, the atmosphere was imbued with a sense of romance and intimacy, exactly the kind of place Spencer remembered and hoped would impress Y/N. The lighting was low and warm, casting soft shadows around the room and illuminating the tables with a gentle glow from the candles placed on each one. These candles, unscented and subtle, added a touch of elegance without overwhelming the senses. In the background, a live band played soft, sensual music, their melodies weaving through the conversations and enhancing the romantic vibe of the evening.

They were seated in an intimate curved booth that offered both privacy and comfort, allowing them to share each other's space effortlessly. It was cozy but spacious enough to not feel crowded, perfect for leaning in close and sharing quiet conversations.

Following the waiter's prompt, both Spencer and Y/N opted for red wine, a decision made easier by the fact that neither of them needed to drive back. As they sipped their wine, the rich, bold flavors seemed to deepen the already warm atmosphere, loosening inhibitions slightly.

Y/N, feeling the effects of the wine which always tended to make her feel a bit more daring, turned her full attention to Spencer. She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling with a mischievous light. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” she began in a slightly lower, flirtatious tone, “about how someone as smart as you, with all those facts in his head, must have some hidden talents I’ve yet to discover.”

Spencer, usually more reserved, felt a rush of boldness fueled by the wine and the undeniable chemistry between them. He returned her smile with one of his own, this one tinged with a newfound confidence. “Well, I might have a few surprises left,” he replied, his voice deeper than usual. “But I’m more interested in exploring what makes you... you. Besides, I find myself wanting to know all about your talents, hidden or otherwise.”

Y/N was pleasantly surprised by his reciprocation, the boldness of his words matching her own flirtatious energy. She leaned in closer, lowering her voice to match the intimacy of their booth. “Is that so? Well, I might just have to reveal a few secrets tonight,” she teased, her hand reaching under the table to lightly touch his leg.

The contact sent a thrill through Spencer, and he didn’t pull away. Instead, he welcomed it, letting her hand linger on him. The conversation shifted seamlessly from playful banter to deeper, more personal topics. They talked about their hopes, their fears, and the excitement of new experiences. Spencer found himself opening up more than he usually would, driven by the genuine interest Y/N showed in every word he said.

As the evening progressed, their connection deepened, bolstered by the wine and the enchanting setting. The music from the live band seemed to wrap around them, a soundtrack to the unfolding intimacy. Laughter and shared confidences filled their booth, the rest of the world fading into a distant murmur. For both Spencer and Y/N, the night was shaping up to be more enchanting than they had anticipated, each moment pulling them closer into a mutual fascination that promised only to grow.

As the train whisked them back towards home, the rhythm of the rails seemed to echo the residual buzz of the evening’s wine. Both Spencer and Y/N choose seats next to each other this time, their shoulders occasionally brushing in a comfortable, familiar manner. The closeness felt natural after the evening they had shared. They were both visibly tired, the excitement of the day and the indulgence in wine having drawn a gentle fatigue from them.

Despite the weariness, their conversation continued to flow smoothly, albeit with a quieter, more reflective tone than before. They leaned into each other slightly, the warmth between them palpable in the cool air of the train compartment.

“So, you’re a Doctor Who fan too?” Spencer asked, a hint of surprise and delight coloring his voice as they discovered yet another common interest.

“Yes, absolutely,” Y/N responded with a smile, her eyes lighting up. “I’ve been hooked since I was a kid. There’s just something about the Doctor’s adventures through time and space that’s captivating.”

Spencer nodded enthusiastically, his own fondness for the show sparking further attraction towards her. “I totally agree. It’s the blend of science fiction and deep moral questions that gets me. Plus, the Doctor is a great character—always changing, yet fundamentally the same.”

Their shared enthusiasm for the show spun off into a deeper discussion about their favorite episodes and Doctors, each reference pulling them closer in mutual geekdom. It was during this exchange that Spencer found himself making a spontaneous invitation, surprising even himself with his forwardness.

“You know, if you’re up for it, maybe you could come over sometime and we could watch a few episodes together? I have a pretty decent setup for a Doctor Who marathon,” Spencer suggested, his voice a mix of casual and hopeful.

Y/N’s smile broadened, and she nodded, her heart warmed by the invitation. “I’d love that. It sounds like a perfect plan.”

The ease with which they continued to talk about everything from favorite books to music showed how compatible they were, not just on a surface level but in deeper, more meaningful ways. Their laughter and shared looks filled the space around them, creating an intimate bubble even in the public setting of the train.

As the train neared their destination, both Spencer and Y/N felt a reluctance for the night to end—a sign of the significant connection they had forged. They exchanged sleepy smiles and soft words as the city lights began to grow brighter outside the train windows.

By the time the train pulled into the station, Spencer felt a sense of anticipation for their next meeting. Having Y/N in his apartment, a space he had never shared with a romantic interest before, felt like a big step, but it was one he was now eagerly looking forward to. The night had started as a hopeful date and had blossomed into the beginning of something truly special. As they stepped off the train, their hands found each other almost instinctively, a fitting end to a perfect day and the promise of more to come.

After exiting the train station, Spencer insisted on walking Y/N back to her apartment, citing crime statistics that painted a stark picture of the risks women faced when walking alone at night. Though the mood was light and jovial from their shared experiences of the day, his protective nature was evident, and Y/N appreciated his concern.

The walk to her apartment was filled with light conversation and reflective pauses, both savoring the last few moments together. The city at night provided a beautifully lit backdrop, with street lamps casting soft glows on the sidewalks and the distant sounds of the city nightlife buzzing around them. Their fingers slotted together providing enough warmth to keep fires blazing within them both.

Upon reaching her apartment building, a comfortable silence fell over them as they stood at her doorstep, reluctant to end the evening. "Thank you, Spencer," Y/N said, her voice warm and sincere. "Today was amazing. Truly."

Spencer, his hands now shoved awkwardly into his pockets, nodded, his face showing a mixture of happiness and the usual nervousness that came when he was unsure of what to do next. "I had a great time too, Y/N. I'm glad you enjoyed it. Thank you for going with me."

Sensing his apprehension and wanting to ease his nerves, Y/N stepped closer and, on an impulse, kissed his cheek gently. "Goodnight, Spencer," she smiled, her eyes holding his gaze for a moment longer than necessary.

Spencer's face turned a deeper shade of red, his mouth gaping not unlike a fish before he managed a bashful, "Goodnight, Y/N." As she turned to enter her building, Spencer stood rooted to the spot for a few seconds, a hand reflexively touching the spot on his cheek where her lips had been.

He finally uprooted his feet and hailed a cab to take him home, his mind replaying every moment of the day and the evening, but especially that last, unexpected kiss on his cheek. He was absolutely buzzing with a mix of elation and disbelief. As the city lights passed by the cab's window, he couldn't keep the grin off his face, feeling an excitement he hadn't known in a long time.

Meanwhile, Y/N, after closing the door to her apartment, immediately dialed her mom. The time difference meant it was still early where her mom lived, and she knew she’d be awake. As soon as her mom answered, Y/N gushed, "Mom, I had the best date tonight. You remember I told you about Spencer from the FBI? It was with him."

Her mom's voice, hilarious and encouraging, came through the phone. "Tell me about it! But leave out the gory details."

“Mom!” Y/N whined petulantly but did as she asked anyway—she recounted every detail from the Met visit to the candlelit dinner and the casual yet intimate conversations they had shared. She described how considerate Spencer had been, walking her home and the protective reasons behind it, and she didn’t leave out the part about the kiss on the cheek that had left her feeling a pleasant flutter in her stomach.

"Mom, he’s different, really thoughtful and so smart. I think this could be something special," Y/N admitted, her voice a mixture of hope and a bit of wonder.

Her mom's reply was full of the usual maternal optimism and caution, "Just take it one step at a time. But he sounds wonderful. I’m happy for you."

Hanging up the phone, Y/N felt a contentment settle over her. The night had been perfect, and now, sharing it had made it feel even more real. As she got ready for bed, the memories of the evening played back in her mind, each one a promise of potential tomorrows.

—

Sunday morning came too early for Y/N, her sleep interrupted by a loud banging on her apartment door. Disoriented and a bit alarmed, she pulled herself from the warmth of her bed, wondering who could be at her door at such an early hour. She wasn't expecting anyone, and the unexpected noise had her heart racing slightly as she approached the door.

Living in the city had taught Y/N to be cautious, but she also knew that only a select few knew her address—now Spencer and the Hotchners. With a mix of confusion and caution, she tiptoed to the door and peered through the peephole.

To her surprise and immediate relief, it was Penelope Garcia standing outside, her bright and colorful attire unmistakable even through the distorted view of the peephole. Penelope was holding a large carrier with what looked like coffee and pastries—a peace offering or perhaps a bribe for an early morning intrusion.

Y/N opened the door, her expression a mix of amusement and mock annoyance. "Penelope, what are you doing here this early?" she asked, though her tone was light and welcoming.

Penelope's face lit up with an excited grin, and she practically bounced on the spot. "Girl talk time! I brought reinforcements," she said, lifting the carrier slightly to emphasize the coffee and pastries. "I may or may not have used my magical database skills to find your address. I couldn't wait to hear all about your date with Spencer!"

Y/N couldn't help but laugh, shaking her head as she stepped aside to let Penelope into her apartment. "You're impossible," she said fondly. "But since you come bearing caffeine and carbs, I suppose I can forgive you."

Once inside, Penelope set the treats on the kitchen counter and turned to Y/N with wide, expectant eyes. "So? Tell me everything! Was it as magical as you hoped? Give me all the details!"

As Y/N poured them both coffee, she started recounting the events of the previous evening—from the walk through the Met to the candlelit dinner and the charming walk home. Penelope listened intently, occasionally interjecting with excited squeals or empathetic nods.

Y/N shared how comfortable she felt with Spencer, how their conversations flowed naturally, and how he made her laugh. She even blushed a bit when mentioning the protective gesture he made and the cheek kiss that ended the night.

Penelope was thrilled with every detail, her enthusiasm making Y/N relive the joy of the date all over again. "Spencer really likes you, you know," Penelope said with a knowing smile. "He even texted me because he had to tell someone how great the date went."

Hearing this, Y/N felt a warmth spread through her, her smile broadening. That man is just too sweet, I want to eat him up.