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yanderenightmare · 3 months ago

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♡ TW: implied noncon, break-up, toxic relationship, crazy ex-boyfriend, intrusive thoughts, anger issues

♡ FEM reader

Thinking about gamer boyfriend who doesn’t know what he has before it’s gone…

You told him you were leaving, but it didn’t dawn on him that’s what you’d meant. He was deep in-game—he couldn't pay attention to your whining. He figured you went out to the store or something, but later, after midnight, he realized he was hungry, and you were nowhere. Not in the kitchen making dinner, not in his bed sleeping, and not in the bathroom either.

Did you go home? He wonders, standing alone in the dark, empty silence—feeling a little put off at the sight of his room—how even in the dim light, it’s a clear fucking mess. You usually tidy up a bit for him, but you hadn’t this time—no, there’s old underwear and socks everywhere, shirts and hoodies too, empty cans and pizza boxes. It’s a bit gross, actually, he admits while scratching his neck.

The drawer he’d dedicated to you in his dresser is open and empty. Did you take everything to get it cleaned? You are a bit of a neat freak—unlike him. Suppose that would be something you’d do. Weird of you not to take any of his laundry as well, though.

Oh, well. He shoots you a “gn bby” on his phone, then collapses on his bed and falls asleep—smiles a bit as he does so—it’s nice not having you here to tell him to undress and go shower first. Yeah, you can be such a nag sometimes.

He wakes up late in the day. You’re not there. Usually, you come over to wake him with some breakfast. He checks his phone—you didn’t reply last night. It isn't that weird—you were probably already asleep at that point. But why didn’t you answer when you woke up? There’s no way you’re still asleep, right?

Fuck, he’s hungry.

“gm,” he sends—contemplates asking you what’s up but doesn’t. You must be busy with something not to have checked your phone yet.

The entire day goes by, and you still don’t answer. He doesn’t take it too hard. But he won’t deny being a bit miffed.

It’s when three days go by that he’s well and truly confused. He’s sent you several texts at this point, even called you a few times, getting a little worried something had happened to you before he got the message that he’d been blocked.

What the fuck’s going on with you?

He thinks back to the last time he saw you. What did you even say? He can’t remember. Something about being tired—something, something—I’m leaving.

He swallows thickly. No… No way, that’s what you meant, right? No, can’t be. You love him. You’re his pretty girlfriend. The one that comes with his food and later comes back for his bowl. The one that sucks his dick under his desk as he goes on a kill streak. The warm pillow he uses when he finally drags his bad posture to the bed and falls asleep.

No. Where the fuck are you? Are you sick or something? Yeah, must be, right? So delirious you’ve managed to block him somehow. You were probably only trying to call him back. You were never so tech-savvy—a fever must have worsened it. He should go to you. He can bring his pc. Or no, he can get you and bring you back here. Yeah, that would be easier.

He calls your roommate, tells her he’s coming, and asks her to let you know to get ready.

“What are you talking about?” she says through a piece of gum—her voice all dull as if bothered to have picked up the phone. Or, rather, she sounds a bit drunk. There’s music in the background. “Girl broke up with you, didn’t she?”

His blood runs cold at that. A lump forms in his throat—a thick, unmovable lump that makes him think he’s about to throw up. “N-no, she didn’t.”

“Hey!” she calls out, not to him, though—she’s covered the mic with her hand. He only hears the muted distortion of voices and bass through it before your roommate comes back to him.

“Sorry—she’s telling me a different story,” she relays, popping her gum in his ear before sneering—or, at least, that’s what he pictures. “Honestly, how long did you think she was gonna put up with cleaning up after you anyway? I know I wouldn’t last half as long as she has.” The lump in his throat grows thicker, swelling up until it's choking him. “Anyway, good luck.”

She hangs up, and he drops his phone. There’s a crack as it hits the floor. And then something wet on his face. Something hot. Something searing as it tracks down his cheeks and drops off like acid onto the floor.

What should he do? What do you want him to do? To tidy up? He can do that! He’s not some imbecile like your friend makes him out to be who can’t even do the basics of chores. Of course, he can! And so that’s what he does—hands shaking as he tidies.

It feels foreign, and he’s not even sure where to start. And it quickly proves to be a lot worse than what he’d thought. Beyond stinky clothes and dirty dishes, there’s trash, rotten food, sticky surfaces, and other things he can’t even put a name to. It’s gross, actually. Downright disgusting. How long’s it been like this?

Even after everything’s put in order, there’s a smell that lingers and no end to the dust he has to clean—cringing at the little insects that come crawling out of their hiding spots. Geez—has it really been this bad?

He falls asleep on the floor at some point—having completely forgotten to eat—then wakes up feeling awful the next day. The kitchen is barren, and so he orders take-out. Eats and then goes back to cleaning. There’s still a lot left.

It’s barely recognizable once he’s done. Nice and bright and tidy and clean. There’s a sum of a dozen large black trash bags in the hallway he needs to take out, but other than that, everything’s perfect—perfectly presentable to have you come over again.

Still, he gives it a couple of days. He knows you. You’re going to change your mind. You’re too sweet to be breaking up with him. Too nice. You wouldn’t just leave him, not like this. Yeah, you’re only trying to teach him a lesson—after a while, you’ll come back on your own. You’ll be ecstatic over what he’s done with the place—apologetic even as you tell him you were wrong about him—and then everything will go back to normal. Make-up sex and everything.

But you don’t. No. You’re nowhere to be seen or found—even after a week’s passed. You’re still gone. And he’s starting to believe you might just be gone for real.

No. He sees what this is. You’re waiting for the grand gesture, aren’t you? He never knew you could be so petty—but it’s actually kind of cute. Fine then. He’ll play along—come crawling to you on his hands and knees with the best apology you’ve ever heard. And then you can end this whole thing.

And so he finds himself at your place, pressing the buzzer, not knowing if he’s catching you at home—if not, he’ll just try again tomorrow, and so on until he does. He hears someone at the other side of the door—they must be looking at him through the peephole. It takes a while before the locks click and open.

“Hey…”

It’s you.

“Hi,” he smiles in return, happy to see you. He’s been so nervous, but somehow, your face and voice are enough to calm him down.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

Oh, of course. You weren’t expecting him. Still, it feels weird of you not to gush happily over the surprise and rush him inside. It’s not every day he goes outside—you should be a little impressed.

But no, of course, you’re playing the part of fed-up girlfriend—acting hard-to-get. He’s got you—he’ll play his part, so don’t worry.

“I wanted to apologize,” he announces. “I haven’t been a good boyfriend—I see that now. But I’ll be better from now on, I promise—come over, and I’ll prove it to you.”

As far as apologies and promises go, he thinks that sounded pretty smooth—not too desperate, not too demanding. Pretty slick, if he can say so himself.

And so, why aren’t you smiling? He can understand being nervous—so is he—but why do you look guilty?

“That’s really nice. And… I’m really happy you’re looking better. But…” you start, and his gut’s already wrenching. “I think you need more time for yourself to just… enjoy what it’s like to be independent, you know?”

No, he doesn’t know. What are you saying? And why are you holding onto the doorknob like that? Holding it steady as if you’re planning to shut it as soon as you can—why?

“Thanks for stopping by. It was nice seeing you—it really was. Take care of yourself, okay?”

It’s shutting—his plans—disappearing right before his face. He knows he isn’t owed a second shot, but this isn’t fair. You can’t be serious—are you?

“What? No, wait—” He stops you, weighing his own hand on the door, keeping it open. “Listen, I’m good now. I’ve pulled it together, you’ll see—I’ll come in, and we’ll talk about it.”

You resist, using both hands to almost push the door back on him. “I have company, so—”

“What’s up?” another voice announces himself—deep and presentful. He comes into view behind you—taller than you, taller than him—looking down his nose at him with a raised brow. “Who’s this?”

You look a bit panicked—no, embarrassed. “Oh, uhm—”

Why are you embarrassed? “Who’s that?” The bitterness in his voice surprises even himself—loaded with the same type of spite he seethes with when players use cheats to win.

“He’s an old friend, but he was just leaving,” you say, but you’re not speaking to him. No, you stroke a hand over the guy’s broad chest, looking up at him apologetically before turning back to him again, voice strict in a way he’s never heard, “Bye.”

“But—”

You shut the door. On him. In his face.

His skin crawls—goosefleshed and chilled. Was that a date? No, right? You have a brother, don’t you? Yes, must be. No way you’re dating. There’s no way, right? It’s only been a week… no way you’ve moved on in only a week, right?

You looked really nice—wearing that sweet blouse with all the little bows and that cute little skirt you’d always wear out on dates. Damn, when was the last time the two of you went on a date? Must be months ago, if he can’t even remember.

Come to think of it, the two of you would always have sex when you wore that skirt. Yeah, it’s your fuck-me-skirt. Are you going to fuck this guy too now? On the first date? Is it your first date? No, probably not—who has their first date at home? That’s more like a third or even fourth or fifth date, right? Were you dating him while the two of you were still together? Have you been cheating on him all this time? Laughing at him behind his back—talking shit with your bitch-roommate? About what a pathetic loser he is? About how he’s a slob who can’t take care of himself? How he needs you? Have you!?

He shouldn't be texting you all this from a random number. He knows that, but the full realization doesn’t dawn on him before it’s too late, and he’s sent you over a hundred messages, some small and others at such a length they take up more than what the screen allows. What the fuck’s he doing? He’d bought the new sim so that he could contact you in an emergency, not to spam you with accusations like some crazy ex.

He starts deleting them—in some desperate wishful thinking, with the hope you wouldn’t see them, but then the dotted line starts beating, jumping in taunt. His eyes are wide as he stares at it, holding his breath. Ten seconds pass before it disappears—no message sent.

You blocked him again. And he can’t blame you.

And yet, he can’t let you go, either.

He spends the first few weeks hauled up at home—his flat becoming as trashed as ever as he doomscrolls all your socials through a fake account. You’ve deleted all the pictures of him—even the ones of yourself when you’ve been with him. There’s no evidence the two of you were even dating.

How could you do this? How could you erase him like this?

He has questions, and he needs answers. You can’t just do this—the two of you haven’t even had the talk—he hasn’t even got to say his side yet!

He just wants to talk to you—why won’t you let him? He just wants you to hear him out. He deserves that much. But since you’re not giving him any option of contacting you, he’s had to resort to medieval methods—lurking outside your apartment like some creep, eyes peeled on your building’s entrance, waiting for you to show.

He’s there for hours, patiently—refusing to go home—thinking he’ll be there all night if he has to.

But then there you are—coming out of the complex, stepping down the alley, dressed all nice for the night. You seem to be in a hurry—are you on your way to another date? Well, wherever you’re going and whoever you’re meeting, they can wait.

“I need to talk—” he doesn’t get the words out.

You’d noticed him following you and tried to out-pace him—make him lose interest. But the area your flat’s situated in is a sketchy one—at least for girls, and you’d made the decision long ago that you’d never walk outside unprepared. And so, as soon as feeling the stranger's hand on your arm, you whip around to maze him right in the face.

“Argh!” he screeches and stumbles back, hands covering his eyes. “Fuck—ow-fuckin’dammit, shit—what the fuck did you do that for? Fuck—”

You were going to make a run for it, but the familiar voice has you halt—wait a minute…

You call his name, and sure enough, it’s him who looks up at you through the teary redness of your pepper spray assault.

“Oh my god, shit—I’m so sorry—I thought you were a—” you stop yourself. “Fuck—never mind. Come—” You link his arm with yours and lead him back inside the apartment you just left. “I’ll help you rinse—I’m so sorry.”

You rush him to the bathroom, seating him atop the toilet lid as you wet a cloth and start soaking his face.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see it was you—” you apologize again. “Are your eyes okay?”

“Not really,” he hisses through clenched teeth, though steals himself soon after. “But they're getting better…”

His face unswells after a good thirty minutes, after which he’s able to keep his eyes open again—sore and no doubt bloodshot, yet fine, if not for that. You’ve moved him into the living room instead, having done what you could to rinse off your attack—having provided him with an apologetic glass of water. Now sitting with him, waiting for the effects to wear off.

It feels nice to be with you again despite the circumstances—but it’s awkward how you don’t speak.

“You look nice,” he says—trying to break the tension. It’s not as if the two of you are strangers, and so you shouldn’t act like it.

“Oh, I’m going to a party—roomie’s already there, so…” you say, sitting at the edge of your seat. “If you’re okay, I should probably head out… soon.”

A silence fills his head, as well as the room—a heavy stillness before a single word leaves him. “What?” His face sinks—part confusion, part offense, and something else—something that makes his voice come out accusatory and outraged, “You maze me in the face, and you’re just gonna fuck off to a party?”

Your eyes widen.“Well… it’s—”

“No—what the fuck?” He stands abruptly. His head’s so empty except for the blinding darkness slowly overtaking it—leaving him feeling boiling and all but nuclear. “That’s all I get? Are you fucking serious?” He’s shouting now—and then he’s on you, with one hand fisting your pretty dress and another around your throat. “First, you dump me without warning, assault me like some maniac, give me a lousy apology, and then tell me to fuck off? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

You splutter his name and push, but it’s like fighting a wall.

“Where are you actually going dressed like that, huh? What’s so fucking important? Is it another date? What, with that same oaf I saw here last time? Or is it someone new already? I know how flighty you can be. I mean, fuck, I knew you were a little freaky, but I didn’t know I was dating a fucking slut!”

His strength comes as a complete and utter devastating shock. You’d think sitting in a chair all day would make any muscle obsolete—but the hands holding you don’t right now is more than anything you could hope to fight against.

“Stop! Get off me—” you cry, thrashing hopelessly as he lifts your dress and rips your lace panty down your thighs.

A growl in his voice and nothing but rage on his face.

“If anyone can get it—I might as well help myself.”

♡ INSPO

♡ BNHA – Shigaraki, Dabi, Denki, Kirishima ♡ BLLK – Nagi

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

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cybersunnie · 2 months ago

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rock-a-bye baby

RAFE CAMERON helps his drunk stepsister get ready for bed.

includes 18+ MDNI / DUBCON / STEPCEST / fem!drunk!reader / unprotected sex (pull out method) / rafe being an unreliable narrator / emotional manipulation / misogynistic undertones / wc 1.9k this is a work of fiction. the behaviors depicted do not reflect my personal beliefs, nor do i endorse or condone such behavior in real life.

Rafe hated that you were his stepsister.

A little over two years ago, you and your mom moved into his home, and because you all lived under the same roof, that made you family. Bullshit. What you were was an extra mouth to feed. A new problem he didn’t want.

And now, with your arm thrown over his shoulders, Rafe was forced to help you up the stairs.

A party was thrown at the Boneyard, and you clearly had too much to drink. He wasn’t exactly sober either, but you were slurring your words and couldn’t walk straight to save your life. A part of him wondered if you were playing it up. While he was tempted to leave you behind as not to deal with you, he knew his dad would be pissed if he had, and his dad already disliked him enough.

Eventually, the two of you made it to your room, and you fell face-first to your bed, nuzzling into your warm sheets. Rafe scoffed, a hand running down his face as he turned to leave, but you stopped him.

“Rafe,” your muffled voice called out.

He looked at you and saw you hadn’t moved a muscle. “What?”

You raised an arm. “Clothes.”

“What fucking clothes?”

When he failed to read your mind, a groan left your lips, and you rolled onto your back, a frown tugging your features.

Oh, he would do anything to wipe that off your face.

You squinted and then pointed at the clothes dresser behind him. “Nightgown. Top left drawer,” you ordered, the words strung together. Rafe couldn’t believe you were bossing him around. When he didn’t move, you pouted, “Please?”

Spoiled brat.

But because he was a good stepbrother, he bit back his snippy comments and went to retrieve your nightgown. As he opened the designated drawer, his eyes were immediately drawn to your lace panties. You must have forgotten that those were with your collection of nightgowns. He cocked a brow and picked one up, the fabric soft between his fingers. Who the fuck were you wearing these for? A little boyfriend he didn’t know about?

Rafe looked over his shoulder, and while you were preoccupied counting how many fingers you had on each hand, he slid it into his pocket. He didn’t know why he did it. An act on pure impulse, he supposed. You wouldn’t notice if one went missing, right?

He cleared his throat and grabbed a nightgown, tossing it to you.

“Nice panties,” he commented, maybe a little too casually.

Once you processed his words, a smirk tugged on his lips. You wore a scowl, but he knew you were embarrassed.

You huffed. “Shut up. You’re so weird.”

Before he could say anything more, you started taking off your shirt.

Everything within Rafe told him that that was his cue to leave, but his feet were glued to the ground. You didn’t ask him to go. Maybe you still needed him there. Maybe you wanted him to watch. That must be it. You wanted him to see what you were hiding under those clothes.

After some struggle, you pulled your shirt over your head, movements sluggish. His eyes traced the length of your shoulders, then lingered on your tits for a second too long. Even if he was your stepbrother, he was still a man. And a man had the right to admire the female body. Surely, you would understand.

“You can go now, y’know?”

His gaze snapped to your face. You looked confused, wary. Fuck, what was he doing? He should leave like you said. No, he couldn’t. Not yet.

Rafe found himself closing your bedroom door. He turned the lock. Click. “Nah, I’m gonna help you get ready for bed.”

There was a long pause. “I don’t need help.”

“Cut the shit. You can’t even walk without tripping over yourself.” Rafe walked towards your bed, crouching once he was in front of you. He placed a hand on your knee. “C’mon, just let your big brother help, hm?”

He could see the gears in your mind starting to turn, but you must have ignored it because you said, “You’re barely a year older than me.”

Rafe hummed, unfazed.

The hand on your knee lifted to the button of your shorts. “Let’s take this shit off,” he murmured, his eyes flicking to your face. You were just watching.

When he unbuttoned and unzipped it, you moved, putting on your nightgown. Poor thing. Were you getting shy? Did you not want him to see you in just your lingerie? His fingers curled into the waistband of your shorts and gave a light tug. Not needing further instruction, you stood up, and he pulled it down your legs, fighting back a grin.

Too fucking easy.

As you stepped out of your shorts, a hand on his shoulder to keep yourself steady, Rafe stared up at you. The nightgown you wore was white and silky and stopped above your knees. He itched to push them up. Luckily, he didn’t have to do a thing. You raised the silk fabric just enough to allow you to remove your bra, and his gaze dropped to where your breasts were, your nipples hardening underneath. His lips parted, and he sank to his knees.

“Rafe, what’re you doing?” you asked, your eyes still hazy from the alcohol you drank.

Only then did he realize that his hands snuck up your nightgown, fingers gripping your thighs. He was mortified. Not because of what he was doing but rather at the thought you would reject him completely.

He loosened his hold on you. “I’m just, uh, testing the waters.”

A crease formed between your brows. “What?”

“I’m testing—” his hands slid further up, “—the waters.”

And then Rafe paused. He waited for a reaction from you. For you to slap him. Curse him out. Anything. But it never came.

Instead, you reached down to pry his hands off you. “Stop, what—? I don’t understand.”

“I do.” He held you tighter, closer, his chin hitting your abdomen as he stared at you, eyes wide and frantic. You pushed his head, though your attempt was weak. “You want this. You want me.”

You stilled. There was a look that loomed over your eyes. Fear. Fear because he was right. No matter how forbidden it was. How fucked it was. You wanted him. You wouldn’t admit that to yourself, but he knew that to be true. He just needed to find proof to help you realize. So, Rafe pushed up your nightgown and worked to spread your legs apart. And there it was, your cotton panties clinging to your already weeping cunt.

“I fucking knew it,” he whispered, and his thumb hovered over your clothed pussy. “Shit, you’re so wet.”

You shoved his hand away and squeezed your thighs shut. He watched your gaze dart around your room as if the walls were closing in. You looked overwhelmed—ashamed that you had been caught wanting him the same way he wanted you. No, he couldn’t have that.

He stood up, hands reaching for your face. “Hey, hey, you’re good,” he soothed, searching for your eyes, your cheeks hot under his palms.

Finally, you looked at him. “Rafe, I—”

“You trust me, right?” He gestured to himself, fingers tapping his chest. “Right?”

You shook your head. “Yes, but we can’t—”

He shushed you, your name a whisper. “We can. We just gotta be lowkey ‘bout it, yeah?”

You looked torn, your morals pulling you one way and your desires another. But Rafe had you stretched thin, and you caved in like he knew you would. “Right, yeah.”

A pleased smile flashed across his face. “I’m gonna take care of you,” he promised, your cheeks smushed between his hands, “gonna make you feel so good.”

Then he leaned in, his nose nudging yours. You didn’t pull away. He took that as an invitation and kissed you. The first was fleeting, lips brushing, barely there. You still didn’t pull away. After that, he didn’t hold back. He licked into your mouth, hungry. You tasted like the beer you got drunk on, and now he was getting drunk on you. For something considered so vile, he never felt more alive. If this sin were his doom, he would die a happy man.

Rafe was the first to part. “Turn ‘round.” You did as you were told. He placed a hand on your shoulder and another on the small of your back. “Bend over for me. That’s it, fuck, look at you.”

He had envisioned you like this before, but seeing it with his own eyes made his cock stir. With a suppressed groan, he folded over you, his chest pressed against your back, trapping you between him and your mattress. “Gonna make this quick, don’t worry.” His hand slid between the two bodies, working to get his shorts off. “Wouldn’t want us getting caught.”

He felt you nod. You didn’t resist.

Everything after that blurred together. Movements rushed and jittery and fueled by unadulterated lust.

Rafe had your nightgown flipped over your ass and your panties down at your ankles, his hips rutting into you. He had to clamp his hand over your mouth to mute your whines, one of the sweetest sounds he had ever heard. He knew he should feel disgusted with himself, but he wasn’t. Not one bit. He was right where he wanted to be, buried deep in your warm, wet pussy. And you wanted this, too. He knew you did, despite the glazed look in your eyes. You were just lost in the pleasure of it all.

“Takin’ this dick so well,” he breathed into your ear, his thrusts growing desperate. “Shit, gonna make sure you don’t need anyone else. Just me. That sounds nice, huh?”

His mindless murmurs went unanswered.

You blinked once. Twice. You whimpered into his palm.

That was enough for him.

It was better you stayed quiet, anyway. You wouldn’t want everyone in Tannyhill to know how much of a slut you were, letting your stepbrother fuck you like this. Rafe would hate for that to happen to you.

When your cunt fluttered around his cock, he stifled a moan and sunk his teeth into your shoulder. He wasn’t going to last much longer. But he was keeping his word—he would make this quick. His hips stuttered against your ass, chasing his release, wishing he could just cum in your tight pussy with no risk of you getting pregnant.

With one last thrust, he pulled out, stroking his cock until he came, painting your ass with his cum.

He panted, his chest rising and falling. Satisfied, he stuffed his softening dick back into his boxers and put on his shorts, making sure the lace panty he took was still in his pocket. Slowly, you lifted your head off your bed and tried to push yourself up, your arms trembling.

“Don’t, alright?” Rafe leaned over you, his hand brushing back the strands of hair stuck to your face. “I told you, I’m gonna take care of you.”

There wasn’t much fight left in you. Not when you were drunk and all fucked out. So when your eyes found him, you dropped back to the mattress, nodding. He smoothed his thumb across your cheek then kissed your temple. And Rafe did as promised. He cleaned you up, helped you brush your teeth, and tucked you into bed.

Like a good stepbrother would.

sunnie speaks! stepbro!rafe lacks sooo much self-awareness its crazy. also literally the filthiest thing i ever wrote. but i hope you freaks found how fucked up he is interesting to read?? i guess??? — remember, this is a work of fiction! let's chat about stepbro!rafe

if you like my work, consider following @sunniefics to stay up to date on all my future fics!

#no one look at me #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron smut #stepbro!rafe #cw stepcest #cw dubcon #tw stepcest #tw dubcon #✶ — rafe cameron #（ sunnie writes obx! ）#file — recent works

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nanaslutt · 1 year ago

Note

Geto def gets off to being called a pervert

I see the vision clear as day anon, i hope you enjoy<3

Geto is so dirty in this holy........

contains: fem reader, roomate!geto, panty thief, teasing, dirty talk, degradation, praise, accidental voyeurism, mating press, unprotected sex, creampie, oral (reader receiving), cum eating, geto is nasttyyyyyy, slight crack at the end, shoko makes an appearance :p

MDNI

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔

“Suguru can I borrow that band tee you were wearing the other day? I’m about to go out with shoko.” you scrolled on some social media site on the sofa while you called out for your roommate in the kitchen.

Head hanging upside down off the armrest, looking at his naked back in your twisted view, waiting for his response.

Geto peeked his head briefly over his shoulder from the counter he faced, letting out a short laugh before he replied, wanting to ask if the ridiculous positions you came up with were actually comfortable.

Saving his smart remark for another day and responding that he didn’t care, followed by the location of the tshirt.

Picking up your body you placed one foot in front of the other, making quick work for his room, voice ringing out in the hall, “thanks!”

“Shoko said she’s heading here soon so I should probably start getting ready.” you shouted from his room, reaching for his second dresser drawer, where he said it would be.

Pulling the nob back and messing up his carefully folded clothes as you pulled out shirt after shirt, unfolding it to get a better view of the piece before shoving it back in when it ultimately wasn’t what you were looking for.

Eyebrows scrunching inwards when your sights landed on a piece of bright pink fabric shoved deep in the bottom of the drawer. Not remembering suguru ever wear anything like it, you pulled it out.

And you really don’t remember him wearing anything like this.

Because what you were holding between your fingers was your panties.

Jaw dropping slightly in disbelief, head turning back towards the doorway you just walked through, before snapping your neck back in front of you and digging deeper.

“Where are you guys going?” he questioned, yelling from the kitchen as he chopped up some vegetables, back facing the direction of his room.

A decent sized pile was forming of the undergarments you thought you had lost the deeper you looked. You were fuming.

Between Suguru and yourself, you divided the chores up evenly the day you moved in together. Him opting to be on laundry duty over trash, both splitting the dishes.

Never once did the thought even cross your mind that they might’ve been kidnapped by your usually sweet roommate; who is in charge of handling those same panties every day; when you were unable to find them anywhere in your space.

You scoffed in disbeleif at his antics, tongue poking the inside of your ckeek, making it bulge.

You heard him say your name from the kitchen when you didnt answer his question.

Wading up the thieved panties in your fist, you stormed out of his room. Stomping down the hall at a much hastier pace than before, his toned back once agains came into your view.

Geto paused his chopping, muscles in his body going rigid, because he swears you just threw something at his back.

Turning his body to face you, he looked down at the underwear at his feet, a smirk creeping onto his face when he drags his sights back up, making eye contact with your furious expression, brain racing with questions only he could answer.

"Whoops," he says, not an ounce of remorse in his tone. He could practically see the steam coming off of the top of your head when your face scrunched up in a scowl.

"What the fuck were you doing with my panties, do you have any idea how long I've been looking for some of those!?", he feels the anger in the air with your every word.

"You sure you want me to answer that?" he giggles, crossing his arms over his bulging pecs, letting the weight off one of his legs as he braced his lower back into the counter.

"Oh my god!" you shook your head, "you're such a fucking pervert!" you shouted.

"Woah, you don't even know what I did with them yet. Don't you think you're jumping to conclusions when you call me that, huh?" he retaliated, faux offense gracing his features before a more smug look took its place.

"There is no non..." throwing your hands up in search of the right word, "freaky explanation as to why you hid my PANTIES suguru!" Lip curled up in frustration again when laughed at your retort, “so I think my choice of words was fitting." you finished, referring to the name you called him.

"Haha! yeahh, you might be right." both hands dropped from his chest and slid into his pockets. "I wrapped them around my cock a couple of times when I was jerkin' off." An amused look sticking to his face when your jaw dropped in speechlessness, face turning completely red at his confession.

"Came all over the crotch of ur pretty panties too, pretended it was ur pussy." his big mouth continued spilling his dirty secrets out into the open air.

"Y-you," stuttering as you felt the air around you shifting into a heavier one, one that you both picked up on, heart racing in your chest matching the throbbing between your legs as you spoke, "pervert."

----

"F-fucking pervert, fuck!" you moaned into the air when his curved cock drilled perfectly into the most sensitive spot inside you for the nth time that evening.

Really hoping Shoko was taking her time as Suguru held your thighs open by your head, pushing your flexability to the limits as he bullied his thick cock inside your gushing pussy.

"Yeah? tell me how fucking nasty I am baby," he groaned with a smile. Eyes not being able to choose their favorite sight as he looked between where the two of you were connected; your cum making a ring form around the base of his cock; and your pretty drooling face that was looking so fucked out.

"S-so f-fucking disgusting for st-ealin' my dirty panties sugu-ru." words getting broken up by your pleasured moans as he brought his hips back till just the tip of his cock was caught on the rim of your little hole, before fucking it back in with such force it made you dizzy.

"C-cant believe you would d-o that." whining loudly when his thick thumb came down to rub circles into your throbbing bud.

Geto felt a tingling sensation of pleasure jolt through his spine at your harsh words, "M' sorry baby," he lied between his teeth, "got tired of seein’ ur cute little ass walk around the house in basically nothing." cooing at you when you squeezed your cunt tightly around his length at his filthy words, "h-had to do something about it,"

The both of you bounced against the bed as you let out loud Ah's and curses in response to his mean thrusts.

"Nothin' compares to this tho," Geto smiled, rubbing your clit faster when he noticed it made you tighten up your pussy, "Fucking ur pretty little pussy like this is so much better than my fist 'n holdin' ur panties against my face."

"S-suguru thats so nas-tyyy." you drawled out when he picked up his pace, fucking into you with such force and speed you thought you were gonna pass out.

Leaning his body into yours, practically crushing you with his weight with your legs dangling over his shoulders, he brought his face just inches from yours, lips grazing each others at his rough thrusts jolting you both around.

"Is it?" he replied to your declaration, opening his mouth and moaning against your lips before he closed the distance, " Felt so fucking good tho," he laughed against you, pushing his tongue into your mouth, his groans mixing with your squeals.

Less of a kiss and more of him just crushing his jaw into your own as he overwhelmed you with his tongue. Greedily inhaling your moans into his lungs as he continued his assult on your sensitive clit.

"Sugu' 'm gonna cum, fuck-" you mumbled against his wet lips. His own high-creeping rapidly up on him, feeling his balls tighten as they slapped against your ass.

"Me too baby m-me too," eyes squeezing together and eyebrows furrowing, thumb against your clit becoming sloppy as he started to lose himself, "gonna let this pervert fill you up, huh?" he babbled, breaking the kiss and buring his head in the crook of your neck while he messily sucked and kissed the skin there.

"Gonna take a-all my fucking cum like a good girl?" his moans raising in pitch, goosebumbs forming on the back of his neck hearing your loud whines and moans go straight into his ear.

"P-please, give it to me, please." you begged, "fu-ck, c-coming," you managed to voice before your cunt constricted around him, squelching noises increasing when your pussy forced your orgasm out around him, "oh m-y go-d" you repeated as he fucked you through it.

Getting thrown into overstimulation as he repeatedly hit your g-spot, not being able to move his thumb off your clit, or even voice him to do so, "cum inside me sugu-ru," you whimpered into his ear, helping him reach his end. Squealing at his rough thrusts losing their once steady pace when he came.

He bit down hard on your neck, groaning and whining into the skin as he fucked his cum into your womb. Timing his heavy thrusts with the ropes of warm seed spurting out of his dick, pressing his balls hard into your ass each time he did, making sure he really filled you up.

Geto’s eyes rolled back in his head feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm spasm around his twitching dick, milking him for all he was worth. "holy shittt." you voiced at how full he was making you feel.

Your overstimulation died down when his brain was no longer able to function well enough to remind him to play with your clit, something you were grateful for.

He silently lifted his head from the crook of your neck and pulled his incredibly sensitive cock out of your warmth. Staring between the two of you to watch his cum drip out of you, his mouth watering.

Your own arm being draped over your face while you tried to catch your breath, blocking you from seeing his next moves.

Holding your legs up and spread by your calves, he leaned down to your pussy and started sucking on your folds.

Caught off gaurd at the simulation you shot your hands down to his head, trying to push him off you at the intense feeling of his fat tongue on your mound.

He forced his tongue into the tight ring of your cunt, greedily drinking up your combined cum and moaning at the taste. Your thighs twitched with the need to shut around his head at the vibration.

Detaching his mouth from your pussy with a 'pop' he sat back on his heels, your calves still in his large palms as he stared at your abused pussy, licking his lips clean.

"So much fucking tastier than your panties." He grinned.

"You really are disgusting Suguru." Shaking your head against the sheets as he finally let your legs drop back down to the mattress.

"Careful, my cock likes when you talk to me like that." He teases, meaning every word as he tucks his drenched cock back into his boxers,

"Whatever, take me to the bathroom please." You said, ignoring his previous comment, "Cant stand and I need to pee." Holding your arms out to him.

He giggled at your dramatics; even tho he really did fuck the strength out of your legs; scooping his palms under your thighs as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

He raised you from the bed in a princess cradle and started walking you to the bathroom, "You need to learn how to take it easy. Seriously." you chastised, noticing the bruises and bite marks on your neck when you walked past a mirror, "If this is how you're going to treat me when we fuck, you're better off sticking to stealing my panties, at least they won't feel what you do to them." you complained, only partially meaning your words, which he knew.

"Don't act like your pussy doesn't throb when you see how I marked you up." you rolled your eyes at his retort, making it to the bathroom that neighbors a wall with the kitchen. He placed you down on the seat of the toilet before backing up and leaning against the doorway, facing the doorframe parallel to him as he let you do your business.

"I just had to listen to you guys fuck each other like rabbits for ten minutes, please don't make me listen to you dirty talk each other outside of the bedroom too."

You knew that voice.

"Shoko! good to see you, didn't realize you made yourself at home." Geto snarkily remarked.

"Your pretty roomie gave me a key you big oaf, now go hide in your room for awhile kay?" she brushed her hand in the air, signaling him to fuck off, "Was suposed to take her out but its sounding like you broke her legs so.. well just watch a movie here." she sighed.

Geto brought his attention back to you once more. He had to fight back the laugh burning in his lungs when he saw your crimson face buried in your hands, shinji posing on the toilet in embarrassment.

Stupid fucking panty thief.

“pt.2” here

16K notes · View notes

burymagdalene · 2 months ago

Text

Crazy Little Thing Cold Love - S. Reid x Reader

Where the fierce cold brought by their holiday with the team to a ski lodge leads reader and Spencer to seek warmth in more ways than one in their room. Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader Genre: Fluff and Smut (18+ pls pls) tags: softdom!Spence, fingersucking, dry humping, lots of messy kissing, fingering, oral (fem receiving), handjob, piv sex, overstimulation (I can’t help it), praise, fluff, of course, they love each other big time! wc: 6.1k. a/n: I genuinely did not think more than 20 people would read my last (first) fic, I was smiling ear to ear and stalked everyone who liked it basically. I hope this isn’t too long. I don’t know what the fic length sweet spot is. Anyway, I was imagining our pretty boy in the Alaska episode 5x21 while writing this. MERRY CHRISTMAS YA FILTHY ANIMAL

Despite not knowing how to ski, when Spencer invited you to join him and his team for a quick holiday to a ski lodge in Colorado, you nearly melted in excitement.

You’re over at Spencer’s apartment, bag readily in hand, watching him try to find outfits for this occasion. “Well.. I’m not going to be skiing, so I think regular clothes will be fine, hm?”

“Just bring a couple sweaters or something, that’s what I did. And a swimsuit.” You comment as you lay on your stomach on his bed, scrolling through your phone. Spencer takes his head out of his closet to spin and look at you.

“I didn’t even think about that. Of course. Thank you.” He mumbles and walks to his dresser, unsure if he even has swim trunks here. In his bottom drawer he digs through ridiculous ties and socks he’s forgotten about and begrudgingly finds the only swim trunks he had since highschool.

You scoot your body towards the end of his bed, leaning your head over to look at the way-too-short purple swim trunks he’s holding up with an unmistakably gloom look on his face. “Oh… you have to try those on. Right now.” You request through giggles.

Spencer stands up slowly placing the trunks in front of the trousers on his legs to see how the size difference from a pre-pubescent Spencer contrasts to now. How badly he’s about to be humiliated in front of his coworkers.

It’s nothing too horrifying, just blatantly un-Spencer in a way that has you both laughing at the ridiculousness of it. Seeing your boyfriend in short shorts has yet to occur! Regardless, Spencer slips off his slacks and pulls the shorts over his legs, jumping to put pants on for the first time in his life.

Spencer does not look bad. The shorts are too high up, he has probably grown about 6 inches since he picked these out. The tag is still on, he’s never even worn them. They sit nicely fitted on his upper thighs and he has his hands covering his face laughing as he shows you. In an over exaggerated manly voice you laugh out a “do a little spin for me hot stuff” at a groaning Spencer.

“Babe,” Spencer laughs “I cannot be seen in these. In front of my highly respected team as well. In front of… Morgan.” He begins to take them off and throws them into his duffle bag anyway.

“Noooo you gotta. Plus it’ll probably be just the two of us in the hot tub or whatever at a time. We’re not all going to be sitting in it together. At least I hope not…” You giggle a bit at the image. You have to give Spencer props though, him a few years ago would’ve cancelled his RSVP or purposefully left the swimsuit at home leaving him to a trip of staying in a random log cabin reading.

It’s not for a case, so the team does not have access to their own plane, making it so that you and Spencer are doomed to wake up at 5am to meet everybody at the airport. You give out multiple sleepy sidehugs, unable to believe how equipped everyone is at waking up at unbearable hours. With this though you are able to sleep through the flight from D.C. to Colorado just fine using Spencer as your pillow.

The ski lodge made you gasp when you arrived. Snow that was not present in D.C. covered every inch of the area; two levels of wooden panels lead to a huge snow slope behind the lodge. Through many “ooh’s” and “aah’s” it was finally revealed that only Rossi, Hotch, and JJ knew how to ski. Though, Emily and Morgan were equally as interested in learning from the best. This left you, Garcia, and Spencer to inside activities; watching your friends ski, groaning at lack of cell service (Garcia), reading, and the wonderfully heated pool and hottub that rested on the porch overlooking the slope. This, of course, made everyone squeal.

Rooms were doubled up and you and Spencer unpacked your bags chatting with Morgan who was leaning against the doorway regarding ski tricks.

“If you’re so uncoordinated and haven't touched a slope in your life, why would you care about how skiing can aid astronauts mobility?” Morgan questioned Spencer's rambling about astronauts who have experience with skiing and had an easier time walking on the moon.

“Well I’m not walking on the moon anytime soon either I just think it’s fascinating that cross country skiing-”

“What is that?” Morgan interrupts Spencer when a sweater covering his trunks in his bag gets put away, revealing the tiny purple fabric. You start giggling as Spencer sighs. Morgan walks into the room and picks them up from his bag. “What does this sweet girl have you wearing for her, Reid?” He teases.

Spencer definitely grabs them from his hands “Nothing! I got them when I was in highschool, I don’t go swimming a lot.” He sighs and looks down at you shaking his head as if to say “what did I say?” without speaking.

Morgan relents seeing Spencer's face redden a bit. “Ah, pretty boy, well, this look might be good for you, I can’t wait.” He exits laughing after ruffling Spencer's hair.

Spencer plops down on the bed next to you, scooping you in his arms. “This better be the most heavenly hot tub I’ll ever experience…” he sighs into your neck. You wrap your arms around him too, running your nails softly over his back and whisper back “Oh stop. You deserve a break, it will be.”

Later that day after playing a few rounds of Spades, everyone decides it's time to face the cold, put on gear and ski. Or watch them from the patio. It’s amusing even though you have no concept of how they’re going down with such elegance. It almost looks too easy for them. You have two sweaters on and a ski coat. Apparently, coming out with one sweater and a coat was so offensive to Spencer that he made you tack on another layer. “You’re the coldest person I know, please add another, baby”. Spencer, who was bundled up himself, pleaded as you spun around on your heels to redress yourself without protest because you know he’s right.

With your chin tucked into your hands, pressed between Penelope and Spencer, you all take on the roles of pseudo-Olympic commentators to pass the time. The horrible butchered transatlantic accent coming from you all worsened by the warmed eggnog held between cold palms. Spencer eagerly grins as he sees Morgan stumble a bit in his boots, “Yikes, not a good start for Morgan, whose first Olympics is this year. Now wait, wait, it is down to the wire but…YES, it looks like Morgan has gone for the gold and succeeded. Such a momentous moment in the young athletes career-”

Penelope slaps Spencer's arm, doubled over laughing at the fake news anchor voice he has adapted for this role he has put on. “Stop, stop, he’s going to get mad at you!” You all wipe the smiles off your faces and put on fake serious ones as Morgan trudges back up the slope, looking more suspicious than if you had just kept laughing. He shakes his head in disappointment towards the three of you.

All sort of tipsy and numb from the cold decide to go back inside. The rigorous ski activities today coupled with the early morning, causes the rest of the team to head to bed early. You and Spencer run towards your room at the same time, pushing past each other in the door frame as you try to stumble into warmth.

You slide your coat off and plummet to the ground to turn on the space heater with a speed as though it was a bomb you had 3 seconds left to disarm. You put your hands near it to warm them, looking up from the floor to Spencer who is smiling down at you from the bed. He silently motions with his head for you to sit over by him.

Whining and pulling yourself away from the heater, you get up and stand between Spencer's slightly open legs. He places his arms behind him and slouches back on his palms to get a better look at your face from where you’re standing. He tilts his head innocently to the side and squints at you. “Is somebody too cold? I would’ve never guessed that…”

Scoffing and pulling your arms around yourself to conserve heat you mumble back “Noooo… I mean. Just my hands. Hah, they feel like they’re made out of molasses.” Spencer gives a mocking sort of pitied smile up at you, which you ignore by the good graces in your heart. He shifts his weight back onto one hand and slips one of his chilled palms up the front of your sweater to your waist. You wince at the juxtaposition between your flushed skin under your layers and his icy hand.

You grab his wrist from under your sweater with an icier hand. “Don’t… torture me.” You beg at him. He furrows his eyes together and pouts, as if the idea of removing his hand from the curve of your waist would drain all the blood from his veins. Spencer hums and takes it off anyway, sitting up straight and taking both of your wrists into his hands, placing them together so he can cover your hands with his, moving back and forth to spark some friction into them.

The heat starts quickly from your fingertips to your wrists and you hum in content. Spencer whispers a “Yeah, you’re okay,” in response. “Your hands are freezing, I’m sorry angel.” Very malleable from the sweet heat you’re finally getting, Spencer continues to move your hands so that your palms are facing his face now. He kisses your fingertips softly, the warmth from his mouth makes you let out an almost silent moan.

“S’that nice?” He looks up into your eyes, you still standing there like if you moved all the heat you’ve accumulated on this spot of the floor would vanish. You nod breathlessly. Spencer smiles at your response, not wanting to tease you further, preferring the flush in your cheeks his warmth is supplying you over his taunting. He begins to press more soft, slow kisses over your fingertips, moving your hands at his will by your wrists.

Then there is a progression to open mouth kisses on your palms, he bends your hands down to kiss over each of your knuckles, eyelids open and trained on your face. Spencer rubs his cheek on the back of your hands and moves them again so the sensitive skin of your inner forearms are facing him. Rolling up each sleeve of your sweater, he coos at the goosebumps that raise from the air on your newly exposed skin. The kisses start from your wrists up to the crux of your inner elbow. You get a second round of goosebumps from a different source now.

You let out a rush of air at the sensitivity picking up on your arms from his mouth, from the cold. Spencer places one last kiss on your arm and nips the inside of the sensitive skin there. At this you can only make a pinched face and mutter out a simple, “Spence.”

He can’t help but grin at your placidity, he’s used to your sharp tongue, but this evening you’re nothing but soft sounds and looks. Your goosebumps soon fade as he rubs your arms up and down a few times and slides each of your sleeves back to their rightful places. “Warm?” He questions finally.

Truthfully, the space heater has kicked up enough that you don’t feel like your life's on the line anymore and you on the outside are just as warm and fuzzy as you are feeling on the inside. Still, being doted on is never something you would allow to run short if you have any say in it. “Mmm… my fingers just can’t. Get warm?” You don’t even believe yourself.

Spencer decides to take pity on you anyway through the “woe is me” act you’re executing poorly. “Ahh. Pesky things. Let me try something.” Spencer picks up your right hand again with the delicacy of picking up a butterfly and places your fingers against his lips again. This time though as he’s looking up at you and cupping your hand with both of his, he positions your middle and ring finger down so that they’re the only two pressed against his lips.

Starting off, he kisses them like before, sickly sweet, only with your warmth in mind, then ups his ante a bit. With a small parting of lips, Spencer's tongue tentatively pokes out around the fingers. He’s testing the waters. Easily, you give an eager nod of approval.

Another hum falls from Spencer's lips as he takes your two fingers, to the second knuckle, deeper into his mouth. Sucking your fingers now and staring up at you, you shuffle yourself closer to him, straddling his legs and resting your other hand against his shoulder for purchase.

Spencer’s hands slip from yours and find a place under your sweater again, and this time you let him with no complaints. You take your hand from his shoulder and cup his jaw gently with it, guiding his head back slowly, allowing him to take in more of your fingers. Spencer sucks them gently and moans around them when your fingers grip his jaw a bit too hard. You drop the hand that’s grabbing him. One has to be careful not to bruise the jaw that’s sucking their fingers. Something like that.

Letting go with a gentle pop, Spencer takes a breath of air and pushes his face up to meet yours in a wet kiss. Your wet fingers cup his face as he takes your bottom lip between his teeth and tugs.

“Mmpf-” You groan, pain spreading lightly in your mouth now. You briefly think of your first kiss, how feather-light it was that you hardly even felt him there with how tentative he was. After all this time you’ve enabled this boyfriend of yours to use his teeth to nip you like a territorial kitten who is privy to love biting.

With an open mouth you kiss him hard in a rebuttal that has him smiling against your lips. “Hmm, don’t groan, you’re not going to break,” he wraps his arms around you fully, moving his mouth to your ear now, “helpless little lamb-” his voice gentle despite his mocking candace.

You don’t feel like baring your teeth, fully satisfied with allowing Spencer to push your buttons until he inevitably notices your novel docility and rewards you for it. You know him like the back of your hand.

Wrapped in his embrace and legs open over top of him there’s an instinctual need in your brain needing you to grind down on him and a more voluntary decision bred from embarrassment that is saying too soon too soon. In the crossfire of these conflicted thoughts your thighs concoct an awkward shaky squeeze motion and immediately lift up from him.

“Going somewhere?” Spencer says in a pretend-serious tone before snickering at you once you silently sit back down on him. He understands you just as well as you do him and slips the arms that are under your sweater to brace your hips against his. “Is this what you wanted? You can take whatever you want from me.”

Sitting back down to where you were previously on his lap you card your fingers through his hair. “How chivalrous…” you murmur against his lips before you open your mouth to kiss him again. You have learned how to utilize time being spent while kissing Spencer over the course of your relationship. Rather, you have learned how to kiss each other in a way that signals immediately to the other that you’re needing this to progress past dry humping. The way your lips are slotting together and the way he’s pulling on your lips with his is a blaring sign.

After you let out a shuddering sigh while pulling away for a breath, Spencer uses this opportunity to usher you so that your back is flat against the bed and he’s resting his arms around your head on top of you. With one of his hands against your cheek and the other caging your head in you easily slip back into the version of yourselves that tremble with need, this desperation not well suited for either of you. Intolerable.

Spencer’s thigh is regrettably too far away for you to grind yourself against and in order to shake the throbbing at your center you wordlessly take his hand by your face and bring it down over your jeans. He takes the hint immediately cupping you so you can grind against his hand through the thick fabric.

He likes to pull away for this part. Spencer stops kissing you so that while he’s rubbing your clit through your pants he can hear your unoccupied mouth moaning while he kisses along your jaw and neck. He thinks of it as a cheat code really, he gets to keep kissing your skin while simultaneously hearing your progression from moans caught in your throat to small whines and begs.

Surprisingly, Spencer is the first to break and ask for the fabric barriers to be discarded, which makes you proud because you’re the one who’s the most impacted by your (basically) industrial grade jeans prohibiting you from feeling your boyfriend's fingers against you.

“Baby, these are killing me,” He’s already moving above you to unbutton your jeans and shimmy them down to around and off your ankles. “I promise I’ll keep you warm.” In all honesty you’ve forgotten about the biting wind outside and the slopes of snow toppling over, but you appreciate the sentiment regardless. The idea that being cold will genuinely stop you from having him inside you right now is laughable.

You sit up and take off your sweater and undershirt as Spencer is working on your lower half. Working as in mouthing over your cunt through your panties as you struggle to unhook your bra at the visual.

Your legs are parted, thick white socks still up to your shins, and once Spencer threw your jeans to the ground he laid between your legs to kiss and lick over your panties. You keep fumbling with the clasp whenever he sucks or kisses over your clit. Not the most efficient moment of your life. “J-Jesus, I can’t get this off.” You huff and break him out of his pussy-induced stupor.

Spencer comes up from between your legs and shuffles over and unclasps your bra with such elegance that you can’t even comment on it because you know he’s boasting over it in his head. Instead you pull over his sweater and shakily unbutton the top half of his button up shirt while he works on the bottom half. Your hands briefly meet over his middle button and he kisses your forehead with a smile as he pops the last one open for you both.

His own slacks are thrown off alongside yours on the floor and you both grab at each other to take off one anothers underwear in such an eager manner that you have to laugh at each other for a moment before finally sliding them off.

Spencer guides your head with his hand behind it as you slowly lay down besides him. Knees propped up and together, he places one of his hands on the outside of your thigh, gently running his fingers tips up and down the skin. “Why don’t you go ahead and open up your legs for me?” He asks between petting your leg.

Now, he must notice that it would be too easy for him to open them for you, like he so naturally comes to do. He’s coaxed your thighs open, held them down from the backside of your knees while you squirm from his lips sucking your clit, pushed them together and to the side when you’re squeezing his sides too tight while he’s fucking you. There is something delightfully humiliating about spreading them open yourself. So eager to display for him the shiny wetness that has been coating you for a demeaning amount of time, like gifting him a bashful merit badge for his effortless work.

You look up at him through your lashes, his eyes are fixed on the softness of your lower belly, waiting for the moment you start to move so he can see your sex being revealed the instant you do it. Pervert. Taking one of your hands away from the bed you trail it slowly from the bottom of your ribcage to the very part of your stomach that has Spencer transfixed. Teasing yourself and Spencer simultaneously, you push your hand between your closed thighs, still hiding yourself slightly, and dragging up some of the wetness you collected with your first two fingers.

This time your fingers go into your own mouth, sucking off the taste of yourself while you watch Spencer mouth breathe and the tip of his dick start to dribble. Poor thing. “I love you.” He whispers into the air, incentivizing you to just do what you’re told.

Embarrassment flushes your chest as you part your legs for him, putting both of your arms lazily above your head, finally rewarding him with saying “I love you” back once your thighs are on opposite sides from each other and your pussy is on full display.

He shuffles closer to you on his knees, arm reaching out to softly run his hand on the inside of your thigh. “Look at you… can I touch?” Spencer’s asking like he doesn’t know if he doesn’t you’ll die.

“I’ll die if you don’t.” He should get where you’re coming from. He smiles meekly to himself, proud, or maybe just plain excited, and spreads apart your lips with his fingers. Your toes curl in on themselves as he slides his middle finger through you, spreading your wetness and mulling your ache. It’s almost too much to watch this near-inspection and you turn your flushed cheeks to the side and look at how his dick is a matching shade of red to your face. You love this part. Tangible evidence to how he feels about you, not that you need any more, but seeing right in your face how being with you makes his thighs tense and cock heavy puts a smile on your face.

With two fingers now he’s collecting the sticky soft wetness that never stops collecting in times like these, and rubbing your clit with them in such a gentle way you scoff out a “Please-”

Immediately he gives in, he’s not a professional at avoiding your begs even when it's looking like he’s going to be in charge. Pressing his fingers harder against you he rubs faster circles onto where you’re pleading for it. “Being so bossy. We haven’t even started.” He quips, trying to gain back some of the fervor he has for being in control, not just sit back, be a good listener, and give give give.

Your clit throbs helplessly against his fingers. Wanting them harder and faster, wanting them inside you, in your mouth, against your throat, you can’t help but whine at the possibilities montaging in your head. Spencer watches a small dribble of white essence leak from you, mutters a “Jesus” to himself and slides his two fingers off your clit to inside of you. You choke on your moan, not expecting to be so full so quickly, it’s perfect. Spencer isn’t teasingly fucking you with his fingers. He knows how to curl them, he does so. He knows to put his forearm into it in the way that makes you stamp your legs shut. He’s fucking you quickly and easily with them as you bring your hands over your face.

“There, Spence.” You mumble against your hands, biting the skin of your palm to be courteous to everyone else in the house right now.

“I know.” He pushes against that spot in you that’s made you cry and rubs with a pressure made with love. You buck your hips and let him get away with whatever he wants to do with you, but the noise coming from his fingers in you makes you want to float out of your body.

Brows furrowed and head pressing back against the bed your hips start to twist, with a mind of their own, turning over onto Spencer's hand. This part you can’t control. “Mmm, Spencer. Okay, okay, fuck.” You’re bargaining in your own way, for something neither of you know, but Spencer figures out every time. He slips his fingers out and places them on your clit again. Wet and pruned from being inside of you, he can move fastly against it as you gasp.

“I wish you could see what I see right now. So wet. You’re about to ruin these sheets the first night, baby.” He laughs gently at you.

“Th-then stop touching me.” You bite back. Immediately scared of the idea of him following through.

Spencer would literally never do that. He rolls his eyes a bit and furrows his brows at you when you make eye contact. He hums and adds a third finger to rub circles against your clit, two not being enough anymore for a precise massage with how wet you are.

Moving slowly back flat against the bed, your pelvis gives up on trying to crush Spencer’s hand underneath them. When his other hand trails down to fuck you while he rubs your clit you look for a way to thank him without bringing humiliation to yourself for years to come. You feebly grip the base of his dick, palm fairly loose around him as he’s currently milking all of the strength from your limbs.

Spencer plainly laughs at this, it’s so you. He’s making your brain leak from your ears and you can only pump him lightly a few times. The one instance where you two have tried to 69 this story ended a similar way, with his tongue doing unspeakable things while you can just moan around his dick and wetly kiss it. It’s hard to do things while he’s fucking you.

You huff, wanting his pretty leaking dick to be getting the same amount of attention as you are. Keeping your one hand on his base to keep it from bobbing, you reach over with your other hand to rub his tip, smear himself all over the sensitive top. He’s stopped laughing now.

“Please don’t make me cum right now.” Spencer pleads softly as he starts to quickly rub your clit from side to side now instead of the circles he was doing before. Fuck, talk about a competition. Your back arches up from the bed as your hand falls limply from where it was on his tip.

Wanting to inform Spencer on how you can’t jerk him off while he’s touching you so he should just start fucking you properly is not a sentence in your capabilities right now so you try your best with a “fuck me fuck me fuck me.” Doesn’t leave much for interpretation.

He slows his fingers and pulls them away with a sad “sorry, angel…” after glancing at your sour face from the lack of stimulation you’re getting now. He slips off the bed entirely to grab a condom from his bag, and throws it on your stomach for you to open after his fingers slip trying to tear the wrapper himself from your wetness still on his fingers.

Fully situated between your legs again now Spencer looks up at the ceiling briefly while you roll the condom on him as if saying a prayer for composure before he’s inside of you. You can’t help but smile at this as you start to rub him between your legs, grabbing his attention back onto the task at hand.

Whenever Spencer first slides into you, you have to make sure to keep your eyes open to watch his face since he nearly always wears the same angelic face that you never get to see elsewhere. His mouth becomes a small “o”, his eyebrows are furrowed together, but not like he’s squeezing them down, they’re pulled up in a blissed out expression as his eyelids flutter closed. Heavenly.

He’s got one of your thighs in his grasp and he’s pushing it up against your ribs as he begins a steady pace with his hips against yours. There’s strings of your slick attached to his upper thighs from your inner legs rubbing against him. Maybe you are making too much of a mess out of these poor clean sheets.

After his initial haze of trying not to come instantly, Spencer brings back down his right hand to continue flicking your clit back and forth with his wet fingers. You bite down on his shoulder to keep from terrorizing your housemates. Your propped up foot, still covered in your warm socks, thuds softly against his back as the other one grips onto the sheets.

“Feel nice baby?” Spencer asks into your hair as you bite down onto him.

How he could ask you this is beyond you, though you suppose he’s indirectly asking you to feed into his praise kink. “You feel so perfect Spence,” you whine against him. “unhhh…might be a bit too obsessed with your cock” you slur and laugh a bit at the end, not sure what will do it for him. Nevertheless he lets out a choked whimper and loses his rhythm. Bingo.

His weight is pushing you down so you can’t wiggle away from any of the stimulation he’s giving you. It accumulates quickly and, just laying there and taking it, you don’t get enough time to warn him you’re close. You weren’t close really, it felt good and then you came. Sucking in air through your teeth your thighs squeeze around Spencer, who is murmuring “oh baby…” into your ear.

You want to kick him for how good he’s making you feel. It feels unfair and you want to throw a tantrum based on how his fingers are still rubbing your twitching clit and how much you love the feeling of drowning in his pleasure. You’d never throw a tantrum though. Right now, Spencer has caught you in a completely willing mood where you’re closer to proposing to him than anything.

It’s dizzying. Your mouth is wide open in shock as you let him touch you into overstimulation and you don’t even realize it till he lets go of the vice he had on your leg and brings his free hand to put his thumb into your mouth. Latching onto it immediately, you use it as a buffer, a gag, to prevent yourself from making too much noise or mouthing off. You bite down a little on the digit and drool rolls down your lips to your chin. Spencer takes his thumb out, collects it, and pushes it back into your mouth.

Spencer reverts back to rubbing your clit back and forth with his middle and ring finger, losing purchase a few times with how wet you are, but finding his way back to your sweet spot just as quickly. You feel the second orgasm building this time around. Your eyes shoot open, you suck softly on his thumb and he looks back down at you, recognizing the pleading look in your eyes.

“Yeah. Y-yeah, angel. S’a good girl-” he gives his sort of permission and you cum so hard you don’t realize he’s finishing right behind you.

He’s petting your hair with his hand, both wet from either your cum or your spit and you try to shove that complaint out of your head because of how sweetly he’s moaning above you as he finishes. He’s done cumming but he tends to keep sliding into you after, not ready to give up the whole experience yet. This is when you hear his prettiest sounds.

You cup his cheeks and kiss all over his face and he softly smiles and finally pulls out of you, laying on his back and scooping you on top of him. Tracing a finger over his lips softly you whisper how impossibly good he always makes you feel, how he gets you so wet that you didn’t even know you had that much in you till the tips of his ears go red and he pinches your side.

“Open for me.” He asks one more time after shaking off the blush that has accumulated from your praises. You smile and open, finally sucking off what’s left of yourself from his fingers. He pops them into his mouth after yours without a second thought and you cannot believe this is the man who gets the heebie jeebies when he has to shake hands with someone new he meets. They should be the ones hesitant to shake his hand with where they have been.

Both feeling ridiculously sticky, you shower together, not even bothering to unpack your toiletries, just using the too-lemony-smelling products the lodge has provided you with for free. Spencer washes your hair for you so you don’t even need to complain to him about how he’s dirtied it and you both trot back over to the bed with fuzzy robes on.

You cover your face with your hands at the unmistakable wet patches all over the sheets and Spencer collects them quickly and pops them into the washer.

Exhausted, you both lay side by side on the barren bed as you wait for the sheets to be done. Mumbled against your lips a proposition, “I want to see you in that hot tub.” He clearly feels bad for the goosebumps littering your torso that he’s subconsciously been trying to rub away for the last twenty minutes after you left the heat of the shower.

Blinking blankly at him for a moment in silence you purse your lips, “I was thinking about the hot tub too.” The thought of removing yourself from the room that has cold leaking back into it from the lack of physical activity now is thrilling.

Spencer laughs and sits up next to you on the bed. “Everyone is so exhausted from waking up early and skiing all day that we will be all alone so I thought now would be a good-”

“Yeah,” you nod your head enthusiastically at him. You can’t remember the last time you were in a hot tub and it sounds like a dream right now. “Let me get my suit.” You both wobbly stand up and you retrieve your swimsuit from the drawer, laughing while you toss Spencer's trunks back at him. He’s so blissed out from the sex that he doesn’t even mention the trunks, he just slips them on and heads out.

You make Spencer step onto the freezing porch first after you demand him to take the cover off the hot tub for you both, this was his idea after all. Watching from the glass door you blow your breath onto the glass to draw a little heart with an “S” inside of it in the fog. Spencer blows you a kiss in return as he skimpers out in his purple trunks and enormous ski coat.

The alternation between walking out in a swimsuit in that ungodly temperature, into the hot jets of the hot tub feels like whiplash, but once you’re fully submerged you giggle happily and sway your hands under the water.

You and Spencer play footsie under the water like two lovesick teenagers at a pool party as you look off the balcony at the snow. You nudge him under the water a bit before talking,

“Thank you so much for bringing me to this, seriously. I feel like we’re on our honeymoon.” you joke.

Spencer hums and takes your hands into his, rubbing the outside of your hand with his thumb. “Mmm, well on our actual honeymoon I’ll probably have to take you somewhere warm to avoid all this teeth chattering.” He teases back at you, but his words have an underlying sincerity that makes you sink yourself down into the water to your chin with a smile.

“You’re gonna marry meeee,” you respond in a sing-song voice, Spencer grins back for a moment then looks at you and nods earnestly.

“How could I not?”

#spencer reid #smut #spencer reid smut #spencer x reader #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fluff

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hoe4hotchner · 25 days ago

Note

Heyyy, I have a request, for HotchxReader in a established relationship, and i don’t know if you have tiktok but there are these tiktoks I watch about scenarios with a healthy relationship after a toxic one, and I think it would be really cute if you did that with Hotch or reader!! If not I totally understand!!! I love your work and can’t wait for more!! 🫶🏻

Dirty Laundry | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader | WC: 0.8k | CW: Hurt/comfort I guess, trauma response, previous toxic relationship, implied abuse i think it qualifies as. Hotch being the best man ever.

You stood by the dresser, carefully folding the last of the laundry, a rhythm you’d long since perfected. Each item was handled with accuracy, creases smoothed with your fingers before you folded and refolded until the edges were perfectly aligned. It was calming, in some way, a way to create order out of chaos, to make things look perfect like they’d just been pulled out of a bag.

Aaron appeared in the doorway, fresh from his shower, wearing a washed-out t-shirt from law school and sweatpants, his hair was still damp and slightly messy. He paused, leaning one shoulder against the frame, watching you silently for a moment. His gaze softened as he took in the way your hands moved, delicate but methodical, almost like folding laundry was some kind of sacred ritual to you.

His own instinct would’ve been to hang the shirt on a hanger or toss it in a drawer, where it’d wrinkle anyway. Besides, he would iron it in the morning before work anyway, so he didn't see the big deal in folding it as neatly as you did. But you folded everything with such care, as if giving even this small task your full attention.

“Do you always fold like that?” he asked, his voice soft and curious.

You froze.

Your breath hitched, your mind stumbling over itself to process his words. Was that judgment? Was I doing it wrong?

“I—” Your voice stuttered, and you turned around to face him, holding the neatly folded shirt against your chest like a shield. “I’m sorry,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t mean to— I can stop doing it like this if you don’t like it. I swear, I wasn’t trying to—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Aaron interrupted, his voice was low but firm, his hands already reaching out as he closed the distance between you. “Hey, sweetheart, slow down. It’s okay.”

You couldn’t stop, the spiral pulling you under as memories of sharp words and cold glares from someone else—someone from the past—filled your mind. “Why do you always do things like this? Can’t you just listen for once?” The panic bubbled up, it was hot and suffocating.

“I’ll change how I do it,” you promised, your voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“Stop,” he said, his hands gently but firmly finding your shoulders. The weight of his touch anchored you as his thumbs brushed soothing circles against your arms. Aaron moved his thumbs a little harder, putting pressure into his touch as he tried to ease the tension in your muscles. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

You blinked up at him, tears already pooling in your eyes, making his concerned face blur. “I thought—”

“I wasn’t criticizing you,” he said cutting you off before your thoughts took over completely, his voice was gentle yet steady, and his eyes locked onto yours with care. “I wasn’t upset. I was just curious. That’s all. I think it’s sweet how you fold everything so perfectly.”

Your lips trembled, and you felt yourself start to crumble under the overwhelming kindness in his tone. “I just— I didn’t want you to think I was doing it wrong,” you whispered, the words fragile, as if saying them aloud would somehow break the fragile peace you’d found with him.

Aaron’s chest ached at the raw vulnerability in your voice, at the way your shoulders had tensed till you were stiff board, as you had braced yourself for some imagined backlash. He hated that the scars from your past had you doubting yourself in the safety of his home, in his arms.

“You weren’t doing anything wrong,” he said softly, pulling you into him, wrapping you in his embrace. His hand smoothed over your hair as he kissed the top of your head, murmuring against it, “You don’t have to change anything, okay? You’re perfect just the way you are.”

You let out a shaky breath against his chest, the knot in your stomach loosening ever so slightly. “I don’t know why I reacted like that,” you admitted, your voice muffled by his shirt.

Aaron tilted his head to rest his cheek against the crown of your head. “I do,” he said simply, not explaining it further—you both knew what he meant—his voice carrying no judgment, only understanding. “And I wish I could take away all the hurt that made you feel like this. But you’re safe now, with me. I promise you that.”

His words cracked something open inside you, and the tears spilled freely now, soaking into the soft cotton of his shirt. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, only held you tighter, as if he could shield you from the echoes of your past with the strength of his embrace.

“Thank you. I love you,” you whispered after a moment, the words coming easier this time, carried by the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.

Aaron pulled back just enough to frame your face with his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks. “You never have to thank me for loving you,” he said, his voice low and full of conviction. “But I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.”

His words settled into your chest, soothing the ache you’d carried for so long.

As he leaned in to kiss you, his lips soft and tender against yours, you finally felt the weight of your past ease just a little more.

"C'mon, let's go lay down a little." He smiled, dragging you towards the bed in an attempt to move your mind away from the chores that still needed to be done and relax for once. After all, you were two to take care of the house.

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bi-writes · 5 months ago

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can we have like a pov of like what MOB would do if something did happen to simon..? luv you!

mail-order bride

your tea is cold when you pick it up to drink it. it burns you, how cold it is, and you cough a little as you set it down, grimacing as you wipe your lips.

maybe it's just one of those days. the rain is hitting a little too hard against the window. the cats have been restless. the dark one shredded your yoga mat by clawing at it under a doorway, and the orange tabby managed to knock over all of simon's plants from the windowsill (which you frantically put back inside their little pots--would plant murder be his last straw?). you left a red shirt in when you washed the whites (you apologized to all of simon's white tees), and when you noticed holes in your favorite sweats in a pattern that matched a cat's claws, you called it a day and decided to make tea (another fail).

you rub your pounding head, taking a deep breath, but you aren't given long to count down from five when your phone begins to ring.

you pick it up, not recognizing the number, but you put it to your ear as you get up to boil more water.

"hello?"

a throat clears on the other end. "do i have mrs. riley 'ere?"

you frown, leaning your hip against the kitchen counter as you turn a burner on and put the kettle over it.

"uhm...yeah. this is she," you say finally. you look at the clock; it's late, much too late. "who is this?"

"this is john. ah...captain john price, ma'am."

you clench your jaw, closing your eyes. "um...i'm sorry, i...what can i do for you? simon's not--"

"we had to call for medevac," john says lowly. "ahh...should be headin' into surgery soon. i--"

"wait--what?" you cough a little, shutting the stove off, and you're scrambling as you make your way to the bedroom. he's talking again, you realize, but you can't hear what he's saying. your eyes are moving around the room, and you frantically start to pull drawers open, grabbing a sweater, jeans, actual clothes to put on. you shed your pajamas, hopping as you slide your jeans on, and he's still talking, but you still hear nothing.

you run into the dresser, the furniture rattling, and you let the phone go, realizing you can't see because there's tears blurring your vision. you wipe them away, looking around for your purse, and when you realize what this is, an emergency--right?--you head for the bookcase in simon's study.

you toss a few books down onto the floor, your hands shaking as your fingers curl around the spine of a leather bible. you set the book down on simon's desk, flipping through the pages before you find your prized paper nestled between the pages of the book of john.

you head back to the bedroom, picking up the phone again, and you shakily dial the number that's on the back of the card. you take a seat on the bed (because where would you go anyways?), and you close your eyes as you wait for someone to pick up.

it rings for too long. you gasp a little, clutching the phone tight, and you beg for someone to pick up, please, please, please--

"'ello?"

"johnny--" you hiccup, standing up. "johnny, he...he told me--"

"wha--who--" on the other end, johnny shouts at someone to get a move on, "--bleedin' christ, who is this?"

"it's me," you whisper. "i'm...simon's--"

"ach...fuckin' hell..." there's a long, deep sigh on the other end. "oi, lass, listen, he's alright--"

"he's...b-but someone said surgery."

"right, i..." he sighs again, and you hear a door shut on the other end. "ye sit tight, luv. i'll come get ye, okay?"

you sniffle, wiping your face, "just tell me he's gonna be okay. tell me i'm worrying for nothing."

johnny chuckles a bit, and the sound soothes you just enough. "gonna be alright. lad's fuckin' dramatic, i'll tell ye tha', big brick fuckin' stepped in front of--"

"okay, johnny, please don't tell me how simon almost killed himself and get your ass over here, okay?" you snap, and johnny halts his laughing.

"right, yeah, forgive me." you hear the rattle of keys. "'m coming."

"mrs. riley?"

your head lifts up. you blink the sleep out of your eyes, rubbing them gently, and there's a petite woman in scrubs smiling at you with her mask hanging around her neck. you have two sergeants at either side of you, captain price settled leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. you have a blanket around your shoulders, and when you slip it off, johnny takes it from you gently.

"you can see him now."

you get to your feet, and when you pass simon's captain, he tips his hat at you respectfully. you hurry and follow the doctor down the hall, and when you see simon's name scribbled on a makeshift sigh on the wall, you eagerly pick up the pace until the door is opened for you.

he looks peaceful laying there. the monitors beep quietly around him, little wires and tubes falling around him, and you let out a breath when you see him blink those dark eyes awake blearily.

"tha' an angel?"

you start to cry. "you're such an asshole."

you come close to the side of the bed, taking his outstretched hand, and you clutch his big hand to your chest. you curl his hand into a fist, pressing your face against the back of his hand, kissing his knuckles there gently. he uncurls his fingers and wipes at your tears gently, shaking his head.

"gave ya a right scare, didn't i?"

"yes, you dickhead," you sniffle, and simon chuckles lowly, wincing a little as he clutches his lower stomach. you use your foot to bring the chair behind you closer, taking a seat in it as you look up at him. he turns his head to face you, giving you a pained smile, and you let out the breath you've been holding since johnny came to get you. "what's the matter with you, simon?"

"shit happens."

you try not to roll your eyes, but the anger is not lost on simon. he squeezes your hand gently, his eyes flicking up to the clock, and he grimaces when he realizes it's nearly six in the morning. you must have been here all night, waiting for him.

"is this how it's gonna be?" you ask in a whisper. when he meets your eyes again, it's more difficult this time. what you're asking isn't predictable. it isn't a straight answer. and if he gives you anything that isn't the truth, it feels like a lie, and he can't do that to you. "w-waking up in the middle of the night? hoping that the call isn't...that...hoping that--"

"not that simple," simon interrupts gently.

"well, make it simple, simon," you say firmly. even through your tears, your voice doesn't shake this time. "make it very simple for me, then."

simon purses his lips, and for the first time since you've met your husband, he hesitates. he doesn't have an answer, at least a good one.

"don't wanna lie to ya, swee'eart," simon murmurs, and you stare right back at him.

"then don't."

he sucks on his teeth, looking away, and you tug on his hand, pulling his eyes back to you.

"look at me, simon," you say, and he looks sad. he's going to tell you something that you won't want to hear. he's going to tell you something that's been the truth since he enlisted, a reality that never bothered him until he realized he had a responsibility to keep a roof over your head. there's someone waiting inside of his house. there's a place that's waiting for him on one side of the bed he shares with you. there's someone else's shoes always next to his, and someone else's name that will always be beside his own.

family.

he has a family.

"i'll try and keep ya outta here," is all simon murmurs. you smile at that. it's a promise, but he won't lie to you. always honest, your husband. he tells you things as they are. he doesn't pretend. everything with simon is the truth as he presents it, and it's eerily comforting, even if the truth isn't one that you like.

"i love you, simon," you whisper, and when you touch his face finally, the sting of the gold of your wedding is a welcome distraction.

he vows to make this the last time you see him this way. nothing is worth seeing that face of yours like this--tired, disheveled, the angry crease in your brow. you're not meant for these things. for the waiting, the crying, the worry, it's not a life he meant to give you.

for a moment, he wonders if you'd ever ask him.

will you hang it up for me? will you leave for me?

the most terrifying part, he realizes, is that he isn't sure of what his answer would be. and he isn't sure of what you would do if he told you no.

#oof angst #it betrays me #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #order up

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salingers · 3 months ago

Text

hayride.

[joel miller x f!reader]. summary: visiting home depot with your dad's best friend, joel miller. [and, him eating and fucking you, in the hay field located behind the store]. warnings: 18+ mdni. age gap. agoraphilia. anal fingering. au. begging. brat!reader. cream pie. daddy!joel. daddy!kink. dirty talk. dom!joel. jealous!joel. language. no outbreak. oral sex. no use of 'y/n'. praising. smut. unprotected piv. use of 'good girl'. use of 'slut'. word count: [about] 2,600. a/n: hi, more october-set smut, before the month's over. thank you for welcoming me into the fandom, by supporting my debut, october's end. cover by me, divider by @saradika. @saradika-graphics. <3

A decade’s fleeted, since the last time that Joel Miller’s arcing, bedroom window’s framed your body; You’re nearly an apparition.

Your mere silhouette’s evoking long-neglected memories for Joel; Your private school’s fussy graduation. Whistling, from the bleacher’s humid, metallic plank. Joel’s abruptly blinking away his proud reverie.

Your haphazard, gauzy curtains aren’t proffering any privacy. Your dresser’s girlish; A dust-ladened and weathered wicker. You’re scrounging the half-dozen drawers, sorting teenaged remnants, Joel’s guessing.

It’s arguably morally awry, that he’s guessing at all. You’ve unearthed an ivory-colored pair of panties. You’re sampling the garment’s width, against your clothed waist; Your index finger’s hooking the pliant underwear and slowly stretching. Joel curses, “Fuck’s sake.”

Joel’s denim-clad groin’s growing taut; You’re unbuttoning your pants. His conscience’s hollering, QuitWatchingQuitWatching. Then, Joel’s belatedly swiping his curtain’s panel shut. The plaid, trembling fabric’s punishing him. You’re right there.

Your peripheral’s revealing that brown, tartan material’s now obscuring Joel Miller’s looming, perusing shadow.

Your phone’s deeply droning, near plummeting from your nightstand’s uneven, wickered top. You answer, “Hi.”

Dad’s beginning, “Hi, you.” Before, “Room ‘lright?”

You aimlessly nod, “Yeah. Need ‘t paint it, though.”

The flat, stark white’s reminiscent of an operating room. A scalpel amid your dominant, gloved hand; Your abandoned internship. You’re certainly color-drenching this bland, interim room.

Dad’s conveniently chirping, “Y’know, Joel’s headin’ over ‘t The Home Depot. ‘Jus asked if I needed anythin’ for work.”

You humorously say, “The Home Depot?”

Dad amusedly huffs, “The one ‘n only.” Then, “I’ll dial ‘im back. Tell ‘im ‘t bring ‘ya.”

You’re nervously inquiring, “He won’t mind?”

Dad’s chuckling, “Kid, seriously? ‘S just Joel.”

He hasn’t been just Joel, since his absurdly sexy appearance in Dad’s FaceBook album, dorkily titled, ‘Fishin’ Missions’. Dad’s askew lens, recording Joel’s roughened, veiny hand, sizably surpassing his fish’s ample breadth; His arm’s rind, rugged and sun-freckled.

That heathered-gray muscle-tee; Hued identically to Joel’s own silvery threads. Accentuating. Your horny musing’s interrupted, when the doorbell’s nostalgic ding’s reverberated. A leadened, salacious feeling’s pin-balling your rib’s conical-shaped cage.

You’re descending the stairway’s carpeted tread. A once-over’s rushedly ensuing, amid the entry way’s gritty mirror. You’re timidly turning the front door’s bulbous knob; Your skin’s avidly warming.

Joel’s gruffing, “Waitin’ on an invitation?”

You’re feignedly snark, “Go ‘head, Miller.”

Joel’s arousingly large. His belt’s leathered and suppled; Tapering his tender waist. You’re deliriously visualizing biting it. Your teeth’s individualized grooving, engraving Joel’s every-day accessory.

He’s beckoning, “C’mere. Settlin’ in okay?”

Your pulse’s embarrassingly hurried, as Joel’s hugging you. Your nose’s upturned, against his collar’s corduroy lapel; His inherent aroma’s autumnal. A heady medley of burnt cinnamon, earthy hay.

You breathlessly retort, “Y–Yes. ‘Jus fine.”

His beard’s deliciously graying and scruffy; Bristling you. Joel’s inching away; A hand’s kneading your elbow’s point, “Grown. Ain’t ‘ya?”

You’re muttering, “Think anythin’ in my ‘ol dresser’ll fit?”

Joel rasps, “Be fittin’ somethin’ ‘a mine. Talkin’ like that.”

You teasingly tut, “Oh? Promise?”

His jaw’s tightening, “G–Get in my fuckin’ truck, ‘lready.”

The retail store’s unmistakingly orange and tan exterior’s materializing onward. Joel’s hushedly threatening, “Got ‘t behave.”

You’re amusedly assuring him, “Me? ‘Course.”

He’s backwardly parking. His arm’s generously imposing against your seat’s cushiony spine, “Lot ‘a clients ‘a mine, in ‘ere.”

His chin’s abutting along his broad, reaching shoulder’s top. Joel’s delectable, lofting nose’s leading his prominent side-profile; His pursed, upper lip’s capped under an impressive, stiff mustache. Your cunt’s pulsating. You need to rabidly rut against Joel Miller’s aging, sun-tinged face.

You’re resignedly sighing, “Fine.”

Joel replies, “Bratty fuckin’ girl.”

His accent’s aggressively Texan; Languid. Syrupy. You’re involuntarily leaking, beyond your underwear’s cottony corral. The archaic radio’s uttering early-seventies Linda Ronstadt, until Joel’s halting the ignition.

You murmur, “Any cute clients?”

Joel’s apparently unimpressed; He’s agitatedly rolling his coffee-shaded eyes. Tutting, “Best be ‘lone, when I find ‘ya.”

You’re unpromisingly shrugging, before evacuating his Ford’s heated interior. Whispering, “See ‘bout that, Miller.”

Your skin’s momentarily rasped, from the atypically frigid, October wind. The store-front’s decorated seasonally. There’s pallets, upon pallets, of pumpkins; A uniformed variety of classic orange and creamy white.

You’re distractedly mulling around carving or painting pumpkins, while Joel’s unexpectedly wrapping his freshly-shedded, heavy chore-coat against you; His hand’s comfortingly scrubbing your shoulder’s taut blade.

Joel’s deeply humming, “Better, darlin’? Hm?”

You’re instantaneously arming the clothing item’s perfectly tenderized sleeves, “M–Much, Joel.”

You’re leaning, subsequently touching his torso’s muscular crest. Joel’s thumbing your collar’s curving bone, “Warm, here?”

You whine, “Yes.”

Joel’s beginning to crane downard, until he’s chinning your shoulder’s trembling shelf. You’re gasping, as he’s fingering your loaner, Carhartt jacket’s bottom button, from behind. His arm’s caging you.

His calloused pinky’s reaching, before flitting your pant’s folded fly, “And, here?” He’s wagering, “Warmer?”

You’re groaning, “Ngh. Y–Yeah.”

Joel carnally scolds, “Filthy fuckin’ girl. A–Askin’ me ‘bout other men? While your pussy’s pre-heatin’ ‘f me?”

His finger nail’s raking your zipper’s aluminum teeth. Joel’s tauntingly whispering, “Ain’t brattin’ much, now.”

You’re begging, “L–Let’s leave.”

He’s instantly moving. You’re incoherently stunned, as Joel’s adopting an orange-colored cart, “Find ‘ya in the paintin’ section?”

You’re spluttering, “J–Joel. ‘S not what I meant.”

Joel’s winking, “Darlin’, I know what ‘ya meant.”

He’s ambling ahead, bypassing the automatic door’s yawning jaw. Your dominant hand’s flexing, electrocuted in palpable pleasure; It’s reminiscent of Mr. Darcy. You’re involuntarily summoning an image of Joel, dressed as the aforementioned aristocrat, participating in Halloween.

Joel’s robust shoulders, heaving against an incompletely unbuttoned, wispy shirt. His chest’s foggy-toned, furling hair. His head’s rain-rustled, curly strands. A high-waisted trouser; Ascending his belly’s delectable slope, whilst canopying his cock’s dilating weight. You know it’s big.

You’re unfocused; Footing the hardware store’s threshold. There’s an assortment of motion-triggered, Halloween decorations erected nearby. You’re curiously setting one, an animatronic ‘Boogeyman’. The creepy distraction’s festively futile. Joel Miller’s still permeating your skull.

The paint attendant’s named ‘Ruger’. A gun manufacturer namesake’s befitting, given Ruger’s camouflaged, distressed t-shirt. He’s an Austin, Texas quintessential, twenty-something male; A ‘modernized’ mullet-and-mustache duet? Check. A smothering of ‘patchworked’ tattoos? Check.

He’s flirtatiously greeting, “Sugar. How can I do ‘ya?”

You’re brandishing an array of complimentary paint-swatches, against his counter’s crest, “Do color-matchin’?”

Ruger’s endorsing, “Best ‘round.”

You’re inwardly wincing, but Joel’s abruptly approaching. So, “Ain’t doubt it. Clothes shouldn’t be an issue?”

Your palm’s routing your breast’s pocket; Ruger’s murmuring, “T–That jacket? ‘Moss’ by Carhartt. Got codin’.”

You’re falsely enthusiastic, “Really? You’re the best.”

Ruger tosses an isolated thumb, signaling to his computerized, machine mixer, ��Told ‘ya.” Asking, “Color’s goin’ in your bedroom?”

You’re agreeably nodding, “Yep.”

Ruger’s grinning, “Lucky paint.”

You begin, “You? Feelin’ lucky?”

Joel’s reprimanding, “Lucky that I ain’t kill ‘im.” Before, “Passin’ at my girl. Gettin’ paid ‘t do that?”

Ruger’s answering, “N–No, Sir.”

Joel’s deeply repeating, “No.” Then, “Two gallons ‘a Sherwin-Williams. Emerald. Matte finishin’, both of ‘em.”

You’re second-handedly embarrassed and incapable of meeting Ruger’s apologetic, parting peer. Joel’s efficiently emptying his cart’s plastic-composed basin, before rehoming his kindred supplies, upon the check-stand’s laminate surface. You muse, “Emerald’s two-hundred dollars ‘a paint?”

Joel’s genuinely offended, “Ain’t payin’. I’m gettin’ it.”

You’re avidly insisting, “Don’t have ‘t do that, Miller.”

Then, Joel’s rapidly reaching outward; Yanking your belt’s fraying loop. You’re firmly tugged against him. He drawls, “Want ‘t do it.”

His breath’s cinnamony and smoky; An inebriating merging of gum and cigarettes. You dizzyingly respond, “Y–Yeah?”

Joel’s languidly leaning, before brushing his nose’s point against your ear’s lobe, “Yeah.” Whispering, “Paintin’ your bedroom the color ‘a my jacket? What’s that ‘bout, darlin’ girl?”

You’re shyly stammering, “D–‘Dunno.” Accusing, “Sayin’ aloud, ‘my girl’? What’s that ‘bout, Joel?”

Joel’s grinning, “That? Want ‘t find out?”

You’re panting, “Oh?”

His palm’s barreling behind; Stuffing his pant’s pocket. You’re savoring the rattling sound of his key-ring’s recovery. Then, Joel’s rapidly shoving the mixed-metal wad inside your rear-pocket. His bulky hand’s harshly kneading your bottom’s fleshy heft; Your cunt’s thumping.

He demands, “Go ‘head. Right behind ‘ya.”

You’re ocularly rummaging around Joel’s unkempt vehicle. American Spirits. Matches. A thrifted, Patsy Cline cassette. Big Red. Coins. A dog-eared, John Steinbeck novel. The sexual suspense’s dampening your sternum; Sticky. Sweaty. You’re beginning to desperately undress.

The Carhartt coat’s discarded. Your flimsy henley’s unbuttoned. Joel’s egressing from Home Depot’s aromatic interior, before pausing at the Garden Center’s check-stand. No way. A hundred-dollar note’s being thrusted, from Joel’s girthy hand, unto the cashier’s gloved palm.

This broad, burly man’s buying you fucking pumpkins. He’s pensively plucking them. His brow’s furrowing; His forehead’s wrinkling. Joel’s literally examining them, heeding any blemished gourds. You’re bewilderedly blinking, as Joel’s palming them, like they’re… Basketballs.

Your waist’s winding, impatiently rutting against his truck’s benched seat; Your pant’s denimed seam, slotting your cunt’s drooly entry.

Then, Joel’s jerking the back-seat’s door ajar. Asking, “Pick ‘em ‘lright? Did ‘ya see?” His scruffy chin’s jutting, at his quartet of pumpkins.

You’re swallowing, “Y–Yep. Thanks, Miller.”

Joel’s gruffing, “C’mon. ‘Course, pretty girl.”

His arm’s effortlessly flexing, tanned and veined, amid transferring his plastic-bagged supplies. Joel’s guessing, “Need ‘t be fucked, in ‘ere?”

You shamelessly moan, “Mhm.”

He’s teasingly whistling, “Yeah? Ain’t far from home, baby.”

You’re grumbling, “T–Too far.”

Joel’s patronizing, “Gettin’ cocked, in ‘ere? ‘S really slutty.”

You sigh, “Don’t care. C’mere.”

The shopping cart’s rapidly returned, before the driver-seat’s groaning under Joel’s jeaned ass, “Needy pussy.” His construction boot’s tamping the brake’s pedal, “Ain’t it? Get ‘t fingerin’. Feed me somethin’ warm.”

Your brassy button’s unhitching; Your toothy zipper’s buzzing. You’re hurriedly shrugging the denimed material downward; Ankling it. His mouth’s prematurely parting. Your underwear’s transparent, flooding in arousal. Joel’s dangerously speeding, departing the feebly-populated parking lot.

He’s feverishly warning, “There’s an empty hay field, ‘round back. Bit ‘a off-roadin’. Yeah?” Directing, “Give ‘em.”

Then, Joel’s toughly tugging your panty’s waist-line. You’re shamelessly obedient; Your fabric restraint’s promptly removed. His beefy, index finger’s impatiently suspended; Pumping. Your pussy’s watering his passenger-seat’s cushioning; Your underwear’s encircling Joel’s commanding digit.

The all-terrain truck’s bumpily impeling, devouring the barren field’s acreage. Eyes involuntarily shutting, Joel’s blindly steering, inbreathing your underwear’s deluged gusset. His nostril’s flaring. His cock’s pitching, prodding below his crotch’s denimed rein; You’re stuffing your pussy’s well.

Joel’s harshly moaning, “Listen ‘t that. Cryin’ fuckin’ hole.”

You’re whimpering, “M–Mm. Ngh.”

He’s greedily ringing your plunging wrist; Yanking. The rapid removal’s obscenely squelchy. Then, Joel’s immediately slurping your index and middle finger’s balmy glaze; Your thumb’s pinning upon his chin’s graying, scratchy underside. The truck’s recklessly slowing.

Joel’s haphazardly parking. The halting, howling tires begin spewing an autumnal confetti; A misting of dry hay and auburn leaves. You’re suddenly hoisting against Joel’s bulging lap; He’s instantaneously hammering, before spitting out your moistened finger’s duet.

And, Joel Miller’s finally kissing you. His groan’s pouring, beyond your esophagus. Licking your mouth’s rippled roof; Siphoning your tongue’s humid pad. Your naked pussy’s pouncing upon Joel’s clad cock. He’s thumbing your cheek-bone’s divot and cupping your jaw-line’s hind; Whimpering.

He’s arousingly exhaling, “Ngh. ‘S fuckin’ tasty.” Then, Joel’s dropping horizontally. Laying, “Fixin’ ‘t guzzle ‘ya.”

His head’s hedging the passenger-side’s door; His boot’s budging the driver-side’s door. You’re drawing upward, as Joel’s guiding you. Your dewy hole’s ramming against Joel’s awaiting face; He’s nosing your clit’s distended mound. Your innard thigh’s twitching, “G–God. Feel fuckin’ good.”

Arousal’s rigorously sopping Joel’s beard. His mustache’s coated and creamy. Your behind’s leveraging; Ass firmly spreading. Joel’s maneuvering and manhandling you. He’s lapping, nearly pornographically swigging. You’re internally levitating; Your spine’s liquefied, “A–Ahhhh. Joel, Joel.”

Joel’s innocently whispering, “What?” Then, “Asshole’s puckerin’. Need pluggin’?”

You’re deliriously nodding, Yes. His center digit’s tantalizingly traveling below. Brushing your clit’s crest; Scooping your cunt’s slick. Your fluttering, furthest hole’s aching, against Joel’s circling, finger’s pad. He’s beginning to tandemly traverse; Eating. Fingering.

Your stomach’s tightening, as Joel’s knuckling you. His head’s nuzzling; Shaking. His beard’s rigidly whiskering, across your core’s folding, before he’s relentlessly sucking. Your clit’s flickering; You’re blindingly cumming. Joel’s airily humping; His cock’s englarging.

He’s hoarsely speaking, “A–‘Atta girl.” Praising, “Drippin’ inside ‘a my fuckin’ ear?” Sniffling, “Up my fuckin’ nose? Good, wet girl.”

You’re dizzyingly horny, “Miller. PleasePleasePlease.”

Joel’s grinning, “Please?”

Your puffy pussy’s eagerly lowering, “Yes.” You’re gyrating, against his lap’s ridge, “Fuck. F–Fuck me.”

He’s grunting, “Fuck ‘ya? Fuckin’ slut. Keep beggin’.”

Joel’s leaning upright and sitting upward. Your disoriented shirt’s being tossed away. Licking your throat’s trail; Skimming your nipple’s peak. You’re nakedly stamping atop his torso’s towering mass. Your skin’s goose-bumping, “Ngh. P–Please, Daddy.”

His brow’s amusedly arching, “Y–Yeah?” Demanding, “Who’s.” Thrust. “Your.” Thrust. “Daddy?”

Promising, “You.”

Joel’s approvingly nodding; His driver-side door’s thudding open. His arm’s muscularly solid, whilst effortlessly upholding you. You’re burrowing, at his throat’s protruding, pulsing vein, as he’s regressing vertical. His anterior boot’s pressing upon decaying hay; A gelid gust of wind’s wreathing.

He’s attentively mumbling, “Shiverin’? Let’s warm ‘ya. Hm?”

His beard’s balmy and cunt-scented. You’re being settled, amongst his driver-seat’s aged upholstering. You’re amorously fidgeting, as Joel’s flitting his belt’s metallic prong. The accessory’s yanked from his fading Wranglers, as Joel’s abutting the cushion’s edge; His zipper’s deliciously drawing.

The belt’s noisily plummeting; A leathery slap, against the floor-mat’s rubbery surface. Your waist-line’s eagerly grasped, whilst Joel’s positioning your pussy’s twingeing hole. He’s hissing, during an arousing upheaval, of his cock’s entirety; The seeping tip’s bypassing his belly-button’s nook.

His t-shirt’s becoming translucent, as pre-cum’s dampening it. You’re following the ample shaft’s terse twitching. Blurting, “Need. That.”

Joel’s attractively smug, “This?” He’s robustly swatting his cock, across your clit’s cummy summit, “Think it’ll fit?”

You whimper, “F–Fuckin’ make it.”

He’s lowly whispering, “Dirty fuckin’ mouth.” Then, Joel’s abruptly and aggressively entering, “Go ‘head. Keep mouthin’ off.”

The truck’s boisterously creaking, as Joel’s ruggedly rutting. Your cervix wall’s convulsing, crowning his cock’s head. Your shiny spend’s glossing Joel’s graying, pubic tuft. His groin’s angrily clobbering, striking your cunt’s doused expanse. You’re incoherently stammering, “N–Ngh.”

Joel’s responding, “Can’t hear ‘ya, bratty girl.”

You’re painfully stretching, inside-and-out. His jeaned, lower-portion’s gloriously grating your thigh’s rear. Your right-side leg’s hooking through the steering wheel’s median; Your left-side leg’s perching, against Joel’s widening shoulder’s tier, as he’s weightily falling forward, “Say somethin’?”

Your limb’s achingly pinned vertically; Your body’s contorting, creating an indecent, ninety-degree angle. His focused, sun-wrinkled forehead’s grown moist. His furling, silver-tinged strands begin cascading. The benched seat’s dilapidated stitching’s imprinting, decorating your back’s extent.

Your taint’s repeatedly thwacked, by Joel’s brimming balls. His angle’s hitching, hitting that spot. You’re shrieking, “A–Ah.”

Joel’s accordingly bottoming-out, “Doin’ good. Stretchin’ well. Ain’t it?” His hip’s briskly oscillating, “Good girl. Good pussy.”

You’re shuddering, “D–DaddyDaddyDaddy.”

The pleasure’s pouring. Your cunt’s palpitating; Your spine’s taut. Joel’s resultantly stroking, maintaining his pacing, but drilling harder. He’s licking, crossing your hung jaw-line’s road. His tenderized t-shirt’s feathering, against your exposed nipples, over-sensitively tapering them.

Joel’s rasping, “C’mon. Flood my fuckin’ truck.”

His tone’s arousingly languid. That’s it. You’re breathlessly cumming. Every extremity’s tightening, before blissfully dissolving. Your vision’s brightly impaired. Your climaxing moan’s fractured, as Joel’s ingesting it. His mouth’s restorative, whilst being ruining. You’re whispering, “Flood me.”

He’s whimpering, “Y–Yeah?” A prominent vein’s materializing, against his throat’s girthy rind, “Ain’t wet ‘nough, ‘lready? Greedy hole.”

Then, Joel Miller’s hotly erupting. His length’s flinching. Your fatigued, flittering hole’s wringing him. His aging brow’s bunching; You’re caressing his cinched expression. Your right-side leg’s being removed, amidst the steering wheel’s medial opening. Joel’s comforting, “Hurtin’?”

You’re indifferently shrugging; Joel’s unconvinced. His palm’s expertly massaging your leg’s weary ligament. You’re pathetically sighing, making Joel laugh. He’s kneading your knee-cap’s exhausted muscle, before fingering your calf-tendon’s aspiring knot. You stammer, “T–Thanks, Miller.”

Joel’s questioning, “How ‘bout Lowe’s, ‘morrow?”

You’re grinning, “Sure. If ‘ya sleep-over, tonight.”

#dbf!joel #dbf!joel miller #joel miller #joel miller age gap #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller smut #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x reader #joel tlou #joel x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal smut #smut

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hintsofhoney · 11 months ago

Text

Ladies With Experience

Paring(s): Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Summary: When Dean makes an off-handed comment about "preferring ladies with experience", you try (and fail) to not let it get under your skin. You're a virgin, but you've done just about everything else, and when you talk to Dean about it, he offers to be your first. He's your best friend, and you've been in love with him forever... who are you to deny him?

Tags: smut, first time, virgin!reader, dom/sub dynamics, dom!dean, p in v, oral (female receiving), spanking, fingering, not-so-innocent reader

Word Count: 5k

A/N: As always, thank you to my loves @wayward-dreamer and @makeadealwithdean for beta-ing. Would be nowhere without you two 🥰

You can also read me on Ao3!

DEAN WINCHESTER MASTERLIST | SUPERNATURAL MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

“Anyways, let’s say you’re right, fine. Who would want virgins?”

You know Sam didn’t mean it like that , and you felt stupid for letting it bother you. For letting this case bother you.

“You got me,” Dean replied with a shrug. “I prefer ladies with experience.”

And there it was, like a punch straight to the gut. You hated that it hurt you as much as it did. So what, you’ve never had sex. But you’ve done almost everything else. You knew what you liked and what you didn't. You’ve been around the block a few times with the various sex toys in your nightstand drawer. It’s not like you weren’t experienced at all . But that didn’t make Dean’s words hurt any less. You swallowed down the burger and fries from lunch that were threatening to come up, before standing up from your seat at the small motel room table.

The brothers looked at you, eyebrows raised.

“I — bathroom,” you managed, before quickly making your way there, slamming the door shut behind you.

Staring at your reflection in the dirty bathroom mirror, you let the tears fall. Silently, you wiped them away as Dean’s words echoed in your head, and you hated that you loved him. Hated that you’d never be ballsy enough to admit it to him, especially now.

Something like five minutes passed and you knew you didn’t have long before one of the boys — likely Sam — would come knocking to check on you. You flushed the unused toilet so they wouldn’t suspect anything and turned on the faucet, splashing your tear-soaked face with cold water before using a hand towel to wipe it dry. When you emerged, the guys were packing up their duffels.

“Did you find them?” you asked, hopeful.

Dean checked his gun, before flipping the safety on and stuffing it in the back waistband of his jeans.

“I sure as hell hope so, ‘cause if I’m about to crawl through the goddamn sewers for nothing —”

“They’re down there, Dean,” Sam replied, giving him a pointed look. He turned his attention to you, and if he had noticed anything off, he hadn’t let his face show it. “You coming?”

You grabbed your gun off the dresser and holstered it in reply.

Six hours later, the three of you were sweaty, panting, and splattered in blood after a close fight with dragons in the sewers. Thankfully, you hadn’t had to wade in any actual sewage. You hadn’t said a word to either brother since you had gone to the bathroom six hours ago, and to keep them from growing suspicious of your sudden silence, you opted to take a nap in the backseat of the Impala on the way back to the motel.

You stirred awake as Dean pulled into the parking lot, barely conscious enough to catch the end of the brothers’ conversation.

“I’ll get her,” Dean said.

Sam nodded and got out of the car, gently closing the passenger side door before heading inside.

You rubbed your eyes, blinking away the sleep in them as Dean’s face came into focus. He was looking at you over his shoulder, one arm resting on the top of the front bench seat.

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

It took a moment for the feeling you had been filled with prior to your nap to come back to you, his words from earlier echoing in your head. I prefer ladies with experience . You shot him a cold glare.

“Alright. What’d I do?” he asked, turning in his seat to better angle himself towards you.

The question caught you off guard.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You haven’t said a word since we left for that hunt, Y/N.”

“How do you know Sam didn’t do something?”

He replied with a knowing look.

You stared at your hands, clasped together in your lap, and muttered, “It’s nothing. Stupid.”

“C’mon, talk to me,” he urged.

You hated this. How easy he was to talk to. How you had always been able to tell him what was on your mind.

But not this . You couldn’t tell him this.

You shook your head.

“Hey,” he said softly, shifting in his seat. He was fully turned around now, reaching out to tilt your chin up, forcing you to look at those green eyes. “Talk to me,” he repeated, no room for argument in his words.

“I can’t,” you whispered. You wanted to throw up. He was your best friend, and you were utterly, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with him. He preferred girls with experience, and you had none. Not in the way that it mattered. And he had known that, thanks to a late-night stake-out game of Never Have I Ever .

His jaw clenched. “You can tell me anything, you know that.”

You briefly met his gaze. You couldn’t hold it for long.

“Was it something I said?” he prodded.

You stared at the buttons of his open flannel, your eyes quickly darting up to meet his in silent confirmation.

He sighed, pulling his hand away from your face and folding his arms on top of the backseat, resting his chin on his forearm.

“Do I at least get a hint?”

“Dean, I —”

“C’mon, Y/N. You’ve never not told me anything.”

“Why are you pushing this?”

“Because I can’t stand not talking to you.”

Your heart leaped at that confession, however innocent it might have been.

“I’m talking to you now, aren’t I?”

“Because I’m making you. You would have silent treatmented me into next week.”

You didn’t respond.

He sighed again, defeated. “Y/N, c’mon. Please? Whatever I said, I’m sorry. I’m sure I didn’t mean it.”

“You didn’t mean that you ‘prefer girls with experience’?” you retorted quite sassily. The question tumbled out before you even had time to think of the implication that came with asking it.

Dean opened and closed his mouth like a damn fish.

“Thought so.” You began to move to make your way out of the car, when Dean reached out and grabbed your wrist.

“No,” he finally said. “I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s okay if you do. I told you, it was a dumb thing to be upset about.”

“No, it’s not. I didn’t stop to think about how this case might have been affecting you. You know I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you, right?”

You swallowed, nodded. His hand felt like fire around your wrist.

“But for what it’s worth, I wasn’t serious. I don’t prefer anyone one way or the other. Sex is sex. If anyone’s willing to have it with me, I consider myself lucky.”

“Romantic,” you quipped.

A smile tugged at his lips. “I could show you, y’know.”

You almost threw up right there in the backseat. Your eyes grew wide.

“What?” you croaked.

“Well, if you’re worried about not having any experience… I just mean I’d be happy to, y’know. Show you the ropes.”

“… Of sex?” Really, you thought it was cute that he had this misconception of you. You knew about the ropes. You’d just never been tied up with them.

“Of whatever you want.”

“You think I want to have sex with you?” It came out harsher than you meant it to, like part of you still thought you could hide the fact that you were in love with him. Like if you just joked it off it would go away, and you wouldn’t have to cross this line with him, even though you so badly wanted to. But you had to protect yourself, your heart.

You didn’t miss the flash of hurt in his eyes.

“No, that’s not what I —”

You suddenly felt the need to clarify your question.

“No, I — I didn’t mean it like that either.”

Dean’s face morphed into one of confusion. “…So you do want to have sex with me?”

Your cheeks flushed red, and your throat bobbed. “Uh…”

“Forget it, stupid question, you don’t have to an—”

“Yeah,” you answered, your voice barely above a whisper. Fuck it. Who were you to hold yourself back from the one thing you’ve been wanting for years? You cleared your throat. “Yeah, I really, really do.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Seriously?”

“Oh, cut the shit, Dean. Like you’re surprised. Everyone wants to have sex with you.”

He scoffed. “ Everyone , Y/N, really?”

“There are literally smutty fanfictions written about you,” you replied, reaching into your back pocket for your phone, dead set on proving your point.

“Gross. And Becky doesn’t count as everyone.”

“Actually, Becky only writes for Sam.”

You realized what you said at the same time he did, and he eyed you suspiciously.

“Why do you know that?”

God dammit. “I don’t. I mean — I — like, she obviously loves Sam. So, like, she wouldn’t write porn about you. Obviously.”

“Uh huh…” There was an uncomfortable silence for a beat or three. And then, “How much smut have you read about me?”

Your face felt like it had just been rinsed with fucking lava, and you knew it probably looked as red as it, too.

“None!” you exclaimed, way too quickly.

Dean smirked. “You do really wanna have sex with me,” he remarked, like he couldn’t believe it.

“Trust me, the urge is fading by the second.”

His grin disappeared almost instantly. “Would it help if I told you that I think about fucking you all the time, too?”

“Well, I don’t think about it all the —”

“Y/N.” He said your name like a warning, and the tone of his voice settled right in your core.

“Yeah,” you squeaked. “Yeah, that helps.”

“Good,” he smirked, before grabbing his phone from beside him.

“Uh… What are you doing?” You watched as he scrolled for a second, pressing a button before putting the phone to his ear.

“Telling Sammy to beat it.”

Your eyes grew wide. “What!?” you whisper-yelled. “No! Just — we can just do it back here!”

He gave you a pointed look. “I’m not taking your virginity in the backseat of my car, Y/N.”

“Why not!?”

“Because we’re not sixteen, for one. And for two… I wanna make it special.” He rushed the last bit out, like he was embarrassed to say it. And he should be. You cringed as you heard it.

“Oh my God,” you began.

“Shut up.”

“You did not just say that.”

“Shut up. Sam, answer your phone, God dammit!”

“I have done, like, almost everything else, you know. In the backseats of many, many cars. You don’t need to make it special for me, Deano,” you teased.

“For the last time, shut your mouth, or I’m gonna shut it for you,” he said, the look he gave letting you know he wasn’t in the mood to play. No, he wanted to fuck you. Beyond that, he wanted to dominate you. And you were more than happy to submit.

You might have been a virgin physically, but mentally? Mentally, you’d probably give Dean a run for his money.

Sam didn’t answer. Naturally. He was probably in the shower, but you were kind of grateful because as much as you wanted Dean, you didn’t want to make Sam uncomfortable. Or worse, give him any reason to give you the talk . Because he totally would. After trying his brother two more times, Dean decided it would be better to just get a room of your own, and you were much happier with that decision.

You watched as he unlocked the door, pushing it open and stepping aside, gesturing for you to go ahead.

“Ladies first.”

“You mean you’re not gonna carry me over the threshold?” you joked. “Thought you wanted to make this special .”

He gave you an unamused look, and you shot back a sarcastic closed-mouth smile before you were being swept off of your feet and over his shoulder faster than you could process.

“Dean!” you squealed, as he carried you through the doorway, kicking the door shut behind him before practically throwing you onto the bed.

He was hovering over you seconds later, his face a few inches from yours, and the mood shifted from playful to serious.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

You nodded, your fingers coming up to play with the collar of his flannel.

“If I tell you something, you promise you won’t make fun of me?” you questioned, your eyes glued to the plaid pattern on his shirt.

“Promise.”

“I was kinda… holding out for you.” You drew your eyes up to meet his.

“Seriously?” he asked, half laughing. You could tell it wasn’t because he thought it was funny. It was because he couldn’t believe it.

You swallowed nervously, nodding again as you stared into those green eyes, and you hoped that this meant as much to him as it did to you. Something told you it did.

“I wasn’t kidding, you know,” he said.

You tilted your head in question.

“About making it special for you. I know it’s like, the grossest thing I could have possibly said but, you deserve so much better than me, and so if —”

“There’s no one better for me, you idiot.” And you almost told him everything. That you’ve been in love with him ever since you met one summer at Bobby’s, back when you were just kids. That everything felt like it led up to this moment. That you wanted him to fuck you and make love to you all at once. That you didn’t want this to be the only time he did. But instead, you grabbed his face in your hands and pulled him towards you, your lips meeting in a kiss that felt like it could have powered an entire country’s electric grid.

He deepened it, and the two of you were nothing but tongues and teeth and lips — it wasn’t sexy. It was hungry. Starved, more like. Like he had been thinking about kissing you just as long as you had been thinking about him.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling his hips down towards your denim-covered core, down until you felt the hardness underneath his jeans pressed up against the spot where you needed him most, down until you couldn’t help but grind against it. He moaned as he kissed you, so you did it again. And again. And again. And —

“You need to stop that.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command. You noticed that your arms were above your head, his hands pinning your wrists against the mattress. You don’t know when that happened, but you weren’t complaining. In fact, it spurred you on.

You smiled mischievously and rutted against him once more.

“What’re you gonna do about it, Winchester?”

He dropped his forehead to yours, steadying his breaths.

“I can fuck you like it’s your first time, or I can fuck you how I actually want to.”

“And how’s that?”

He took a shaky breath, like he was actually having a hard time controlling himself. You felt a sense of pride shoot through you at that.

“Like the fucking brat you are.”

You almost came from that alone.

Wanna know some common misconceptions about virgins? That they don’t have kinks. That they don’t watch porn. That they don’t have a plethora of sex toys in their nightstand. That they sit and crochet in their convent dorm room all day. Sure, you were years past the age when girls typically lose their virginity, but you were no saint. In fact, you enjoyed being quite the opposite. And you enjoyed being put in your place.

“Do your worst.”

It was like something in him snapped. His eyes were lust-blown and hungry and you didn’t miss the way his jaw ticked, and then he was undressing you so fast that you could’ve been part of a quick change act. He muttered something about a light system as he took off your clothes, and you nodded in a way that let him know that you already knew how all of that worked.

When you were down to just a black lace bra and panties, he paused as his fingers hooked under your waistband. He stared at you, his expression serious, and you knew that he was going to give you one more warning. One more opportunity to say, “Actually, I’d like to have a totally normal, non-kinky, first time experience, please.” But that wasn’t what you wanted.

“You sure you know what you’re asking for?”

You rolled your eyes. “I trust you. Put me in my goddamn place, Winchester. You’ve only been wanting to do it for the past two hours.”

“Oh, I’ve been waiting to do it for a lot longer than that, sweetheart.”

“Really?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, yeah,” he replied, huffing a small laugh before pulling off your panties in one swift motion. His hands came to rest on your bare thighs as he locked his eyes with yours. “Any hard limits?”

You shook your head. “I trust you. I mean, like, don’t pee on me or —”

“Not gonna happen. But… most everything else?”

“Dean,” you began, looking at him pointedly, “I trust you. If it helps, I’ve used like, toys on myself before. And I don’t mean just a vibrator, I mean like… well, you get the gist.”

“So I don’t have to go easy on you, is what you’re saying?”

“Put me in my place,” you repeated.

“Alright,” he replied, his hands gripping the underside of your thighs as he roughly pushed them apart, “but just so we’re clear, that’s the last order you’ll be giving tonight.”

Your throat bobbed and you nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

You meant it as a joke, but it didn’t come out that way. No, the title came out in a way that made his jaw clench and his eyes darken and it stoked the fire raging in your core.

Dean didn’t waste any more time talking after that, his tongue moving through your folds seconds later, drawing gasps and soft moans from your lips. You arched into him, your hands in his hair, silently begging for more. It wasn’t the first time a man had gone down on you, but it was the first time it felt like this .

He pinned your hips down to the bed with one hand splayed over your abdomen and then his tongue was inside you and “eating you out” didn’t come close to describing his ministrations. He was devouring you like his life depended on it, like the sounds you were making were a goddamn Zeppelin song that he wasn’t anywhere near done listening to. And then he added a finger, and then another, and it didn’t matter how many times you had imagined him doing this while you had your own fingers inside you — nothing would have prepared you for how good the real thing felt.

“Oh — fuck,” you gasped, and he chuckled into your sex and you had to actively think about not coming on his face and ending this whole experience early.

“You’re close,” he observed, flicking his tongue over your clit as he continued to pump his fingers in and out, and it was so fucking hot how he just knew that. It was like he had been fucking you for years, the way he knew your body, your tells.

You nodded. “Mmhm,” you confirmed, unable to form words with the way the coil in your abdomen was tightening.

“Hold it,” he ordered.

Your eyes shot open, because it wasn’t the command you were expecting, and you tried to lift your head to shoot him a cold glare but you couldn’t. And he just kept pumping, flicking, licking, chuckling — fucking asshole.

“Mm — fuck — please!” you cried out.

“When you come tonight, it’s gonna be on my cock. So hold it.”

You didn’t think you could. You had played this game with yourself and your vibrator and your self-control was majorly lacking and God his mouth and fingers felt so fucking good and you were there, the coil wound so goddamn tight, it would take nothing for you to let it snap, and then —

He stopped.

He pulled his mouth away from your core, his fingers out of your pussy, and you were writhing underneath him, because you had been right there and you needed him to be touching you again right the fuck now.

You whined.

He spanked your pussy. Not hard or anything, just enough to see if it was okay with you, and fuck, was it.

“Stop whining,” he demanded. He positioned himself so he was hovering over you again, his face inches away from yours as he stared into your eyes. “Or I’ll give you something to whine about.”

You were curious as to what that something would be, but sensed that right now wouldn’t be the best time for that question. You nodded instead.

“Good girl.” He smiled when he said it, like he knew exactly what those two words would do to you.

You squirmed underneath him, it had been too long since he’d last touched you. Too long being thirty seconds at most, but still. It had felt like hours.

“Has anyone ever told you,” he began, dipping his head to place a soft kiss on your collarbone, “that you are very,” another kiss to the other side, “very,” one more to the middle of your chest, “impatient?” He slowly pulled down the left cup of your bra, your breast spilling out of it. “Makes me wanna take my time.”

His eyes stayed glued to yours as his head moved down to your hardened nipple, taking it into his mouth at a goddamn snail’s pace. You arched your back, and he let you this time, chuckling at how easy it was to make your body react. His other hand slipped underneath you, unclasping your bra in a way that reminded you that he had a lot of experience doing so, and you refused to water the seed of jealousy that had sprouted from the thought. It didn’t matter that he had done this a million times. All that mattered was that he was doing it now, with you.

He pulled your bra off and threw it haphazardly over his shoulder, and you were suddenly very aware of the fact that you were completely naked, and he still had 87 fucking layers on, the outermost of which was still speckled with dragon blood, and it’s not that you were anywhere near clean, but you certainly didn’t want those clothes touching your bare skin.

“Dean?” you rasped, and he pulled away from your nipple to give you his full attention.

“You okay, sweetheart? Do you want to st—”

“No! God, no. It’s just —” you sighed, exasperated. This was dumb. You were going to stop him for this? Your eyes landed on a spot of blood on the shoulder of his flannel. Yes, yes you were, because that’s gross. “It’s just that your clothes are covered in monster blood and I’m like, totally naked, and I don’t want —”

He chuckled like you were the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. “I gotchya, baby.”

Baby. Baby ? You tried not to overthink the pet name as he climbed off the bed to take his clothes off, watching you the entire time. Sweetheart, you’d been called a million times. He called everyone sweetheart. But baby? Baby was his car, and no one else. Unless, that’s what you were to him now. His, and no one else’s. You filed the thought away under “Things to Think About After You Lost Your Virginity to Dean Winchester”.

He was in nothing but his boxers now, his cock already hard underneath them, and you bit your lip as he hooked his thumbs under the waistband and slid them off. And then, there he was, exactly like you’d imagined him but also better, because this was real and happening. You gaped at him, at his size. He wasn’t any bigger than the fake one you had in your nightstand, but that one was nine inches and you could never fit it all the way in. He was perfect. All of him.

“You okay?” he asked again, crawling back onto the bed.

“Mhm,” you managed, gulping.

He was on top of you again, his forearm holding up his weight as his free hand came to grab your thigh, hooking it over his hip and leaning down to kiss you. You could feel him against your core, his cock moving between your folds as he moved his hips, teasing you with it.

“Dean,” you breathed.

“Hm?”

“I want…” you couldn’t find it in yourself to finish your request.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered.

You decided you liked “baby” better.

“Please.”

“I thought you wanted me to put you in your place?”

You shook your head. “N-next time. Just, please .”

His eyebrows shot up, and you realized what you had said.

“Next time, huh?” he asked, with that shit-eating grin of his.

You rolled your eyes. He stopped moving, the smile wiped off his lips as he gripped you underneath your chin, somewhere between rough and gentle, the look on his face telling you he wasn’t messing around.

“Roll your eyes at me again, and next time I’ll really do my worst.”

You bit back a smile, and you just knew he was thinking, Brat. But you asked your question anyway.

“But not this time?” There was a devilish gleam in your eyes. You were tempting him, and he knew it.

“Do you ever get tired of being such a brat?”

“Dunno,” you shrugged. “Do you ever get tired of it?”

His jaw tensed, and he forced a sardonic, closed-lip smile. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Hm. But not this time, right?”

“Y/N —” he warned.

“Afraid you’re gonna hurt me? Scare me? What’s really keeping you from putting me in my place… Sir?”

For the second time that night, something in him snapped. You yelped as he flipped you over and grabbed your hips, dragging them upwards so your ass was in the air and your chest was on the mattress. Four hits to your cheeks came down in quick succession, and when you reached your hand behind you to block them, it was quickly pinned to the small of your back. Three more hits followed, accompanied by a pathetic, “Ow!” from your lips.

“Color?” he questioned roughly.

“So fucking green,” you replied, dazed.

Seven more hits followed, each one harder than the last, and you didn’t think there was anything better than the sting you were feeling right now. There was nothing more you wanted than for him to mark you up like this.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he commented. Five more hits.

“Oh, fuck!” you cried out at the last hit, one that felt like it reverberated through your entire body. One that definitely left a handprint behind.

“Yeah, but you like it, don’t you?” It was a rhetorical question. He spanked you four more times. “You just wanted me to mark you up, is that it? Think of me every time you sit down for the next few days, hm?” Three more.

“Mmph!” Your cries were muffled by the comforter.

“Yeah, I can tell. Look at this fucking mess.” He dragged his fingers through your soaked folds. “Jesus Christ,” he said under his breath, and then he was flipping you back over. He nestled himself between your legs, his tip teasing your entrance. His expression softened as he stared into your eyes. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Yeah,” you replied breathily.

He slid into you slow and easy, your mouth open in a silent moan as he bottomed out.

“Good?” he asked.

“So fucking good.”

When he started to move, you thought you were going to die. In a good way. In a way that made you decide right there and then that when the time did come, this was how you wanted to go out.

“Harder,” you encouraged, and he obliged. “Faster.”

He was properly fucking you now. Hard and fast and dirty. Your legs were wrapped around his waist, your heels digging into his ass, forcing him to go deeper. His head was buried in your neck, your nails were clawing up his back, and the room was filled with moans and pants and expletives that put a sailor’s mouth to shame.

“Shit, baby,” he panted into your neck. “God damn, you feel good. So fucking tight.” He sped up his thrusts, and the bed was squeaking so much that you thought it was going to fall apart underneath you, but you were too far gone to care. He reached a hand down in between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, circling it expertly. You were on the precipice of your release in seconds. And then —

“Come. Soak that fucking cock, baby. Come for me.”

And you screamed loud enough to get both you and him kicked out of the motel if they cared enough as your orgasm ripped through you. He fucked you through it, his pace only faltering moments later, right before he pulled out and painted your stomach white. It looked like a Jackson Pollock on your abdomen. Kinda hot, actually.

“You okay?” Dean asked, looking down at you as he finally caught his breath.

“More than,” you smiled.

He mirrored the look on your face before crawling off the bed and heading to the bathroom. He came back moments later with a damp washcloth, gently cleaning his masterpiece off of your skin. When he was done, he threw it across the room, aiming for the bathroom, and it landed on the tile in front of the toilet. He laid down next to you, pulling you into his chest as he pressed a soft kiss into your hair, and you wanted to ask so many questions, all at once. What were you two now? How long had he been wanting this? Would there be a next time? Instead, you opted for —

“You know in fanfictions, they write you as a submissive most of the time.”

He snorted. “They’re half right.”

“A switch?” you asked, surprised. “Lucky me.”

He chuckled softly. “Sorry about your ass.”

You shrugged. “I was asking for it.”

“Oh, you were definitely asking for it. Still, I… I dunno. It was your first time, I didn’t want to get too —”

“It was perfect, Dean.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded, smiling, dozing off already. “Yeah.”

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester smut

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