neuvillette is aware that he shouldn’t have let you get so close. but he did, and now he’s lamenting the fact that your hands are grasping at his soft horns — his fucking horns, of all places — and he might like it.
uptight and strait-laced, you’ve never known the chief justice to be someone so easily flustered. yet here he is with heat crawling up his neck, so warm that you can feel it against your palms as they ghost over his skin.
you can’t help but laugh at his current situation.
he was vehemently against you coming anywhere near his hair at first, grumbling about how his horns were on the sensitive side and he would rather not have to go into work feeling uncomfortably aware of their presence on his head.
however, you were hard to deny with that little smile on your face and such soft hands grabbing at his arms, tugging him closer. a sweet voice chanting, "please, honey? pretty please?"
neuvillette has never been good at denying you what you want.
it’s how he ends up sitting at your shared vanity. you comb through his long hair, watching him with amusement in the mirror as he huffs and jolts with every brush of your fingers against his horns.
the fact that he was letting you get anywhere near them was surely a testament to his trust in you. he was completely vulnerable here, at your mercy.
“sorry,” you mumble disingenuously, clearly enjoying seeing your usually serious husband falling apart with a simple action. you quickly tie off the end of his hair with a bow and he sighs in relief, thinking that the torment is over.
it's far from over.
he draws a sharp breath when you lean forward and press two gentle kisses on him; one on either side of his head just beside his horns.
neuvillette glowers at you in the reflection, disapproval written all over his face. "stop that," he scolds.
you do, but only because you're worried he might melt into a puddle before your very eyes if you continue.
it becomes a daily routine after that, with him sitting patiently in front of the mirror while you brush and tie off his hair. and you always end it the same way: two kisses, a soft "have a good day at work," murmured against him, and a mischievous little smile that makes him sigh.
he responds everyday with the same two words. "stop that," with a narrow-eyed glare.
the day you do stop, he's confused and irritated.
not only because you have the audacity to throw a wrench into routine again, which you know he hates, but also because he can't figure out why he misses your lips so much.
"what are you doing? i am going to be late."
"hm?" you peer up lazily from your spot on the bed, still half asleep.
"you have to do my hair."
"i thought you didn't want me to, so i slept in today."
your husband is eerily silent for a moment as he mulls over your words. then, he carefully perches himself on the edge of the bed, back turned to you expectantly and still wordless.
no, he would never admit he likes it just a little bit — the vulnerability, the trust, the feeling of your hands threading through his hair, the intimacy of it. hell no.
but neuvillette doesn't have to say a lot of things for you to understand; not when the way his skin heats up says it all; not when you're the first person to touch his horns in centuries; not when he’s saying stop that with such an affectionate glimmer in his eyes.
you give him four kisses that morning, two on either side.
© ALABOADOA 2023 — please do not translate or post my works to other platforms.
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Thinking about the nastiest, filthiest, most depraved sex with Jason. Visually, it's kind of violent, but really, it's not; you just need each other very carnally. There's no salvaging the clothes you were wearing, and the ones you wear over the next few days will have to cover you up enough so you don't get mistaken for the victim of a mauling. It didn't matter, though, didn't matter if you looked like you'd been hit by a truck or were brought to the brink of death and revived because nothing mattered when he was balls deep in your soaking cunt.
Every single time Jason hit that sweet spot deep in you, you felt like you were on the verge of dying and ascending to the great beyond. The edges of your vision go dark as you leave deep bloody scratches anywhere you can reach, refusing to be the only one who looked like the victim of a violent crime when it was over. Your legs shake uncontrollably as he draws another earth-shattering orgasm out of you, making you slip further and further into the light.
You always come back to him, though, the out-of-body experience ending when he bends you into a new position, whispering in your ear how good you are for him. It would happen again, and again, and again until you were sure you were gonna die on him or something, sure that every stroke of his cock was gonna be the one to take you out. Death's cold, clammy hands never touched you though, just Jason's warm ones wiping drool from your mouth, and lightly tapping your cheek. "You still with me?"
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