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devilmademewriteit · 8 months

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If You Lie Down With Me

pairing: (pre-ellie) dbf!joel miller x fem!afab!reader

summary: there’s only one guy in all of boston that can get you a morning after pill. unfortunately, on top of being a huge asshole, Joel Miller also happens to be your dad’s closest peer.

warnings: rough sex / smut (masturbation, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content; unprotected sex; light choking & restraint; light dom/sub dynamic; fem afab reader; reader has long-ish hair (that gets touched); plot-typical violence (guns, death); plot deviations (no Tess); medication ingestion; pet names (baby, sweetheart, angel); dubcon (slight intoxication, power imbalance, no explicit consent).

word count: 6.5k+

no use of y/n in this fic

alright y’all I’m baaaaAAAaack! so this is basically the other version of Dark But Just a Game that I started back when I was writing it & figured I’d finish it to get out of my hiatus. like any devilmademewriteit fic, it’s dark and nasty and deprived like meeeeeee <3 hope u enjoy !

don’t forget to reblog, check out my masterlist, sign up for the taglist, & leave any comments / feedback / & suggestions!

(ps: new part of Salvatore up next !)

—

“three times the guy I ever thought I would meet, so don't say you're over me when we both know that you lie”

— lana del rey, ‘If You Lie Down With Me’

—

Fuck.

Waking up to a racing heart, a pounding head, and a stomach swimming with nausea was never ideal, although it was always a better experience alone — when you could squint and hiss at the light slicing through the weaknesses in the drapes without hearing your groans echoed by a lower, louder, and annoyingly more pitiful voice.

Right. What was his name?

Jared? Jordan? Jermaine?

Ah, who cares.

If he’d wanted a safe place to nurse his hangover, he shouldn’t have fallen asleep in your bed. Sure, the odds of dad being conscious at this hour (especially the odds after a party like last night’s) were Kate Moss — no, Rolling Stones — slim, but the man would get up at some point, meaning that this poor J-whatever was likely sleeping through his only window of escape from certain homicide.

You whisper. You shake him gently. You gingerly tap the roundness of his bicep.

Huh — Not bad.

You congratulate last-night-you for reeling in this morning’s good-looking catch.

Still… nothing. Not a twitch. Nary a croaked ‘lemmesleep’ graces your ears.

After loosing an exasperated sigh and running through your options, you decide to take the most effective (and least girl-next-door) route. The corner of your elbow collides with his ribs, and the boy jumps up, his loose, blonde curls as wild as his eyes, searching the room for his attacker.

You want to smile at the scene, but the motion hurts your head.

“Y’gotta go,” you croak out, thumbs rubbing circles against your aching temples.

He collapses onto his back, copying your movement with his own fingers to his brow. “God. I feel like shit.”

Despite muttering your agreement, you let your eyelashes flutter closed and your weight turn you away from last night’s paramour: no use figuring out who he is after the (f)act — that just makes it personal.

After a few breaths, the boy moves back up to a shakey sitting position.

Probably sourcing for his clothes.

He reeks of booze and sex — but then again, so do you. His roughened, unfamiliar tenor climbs to barely above a whisper, “Z’something stuck on my leg… blood, or something…”

His interrupting your suffering comes as a deeply unwelcome annoyance, so you try to sort him out to clear him out: “Prolly just the condom,” you mumble, rolling back onto your shoulders, reluctantly supervising his movements.

He lifts up fully, sitting criss-cross and pulling his calf towards him.

“No,” he tries to laugh but succumbs to the nausea, settling for a low breath instead, “S’blood, dude, from beer darts — and I didn’t use a condom.”

Your eyes immediately dart over, settling on his naked, wretched, shivering form. He notices your ire and the hitching of your throat, immediately defensive.

“I asked if you wanted to.”

Unfortunately, he had. The memories of your drunken entanglement start to resurface inside your mind. “It just feels better without one.” This time, you curse last-night-you for being such a careless, inconsiderate, horny bastard.

You’re making problems for me, girl.

“J’s get out.”

J-whatever spares no time complying, collecting his few strewn belongings and staggering out the front door. Once it slides shut, so too do your poor, weary eyes.

Shit.

There goes the afternoon.

Getting your hands on condoms in the QZ was at least fifteen times easier than snatching a morning after pill. Those were a hot commodity, especially among the younger, less responsible crowds.

Luckily for you, as a member of aforementioned younger, less responsible crowds, you knew where your best chances lay in finding whatever it was you needed (if what you needed was deeply immoral or wholly illegal). Unluckily for you, that ‘best chance’ happened to be your dad’s closest and longest-running business partner: temperamental, judgemental, frustratingly competent, Joel ‘Local Asshole’ Miller.

But that could all be dealt with after another eight hours of sleep.

—

Opportunity strikes sooner than expected.

Miller’s in your living room by the time you wake up, the low rumble of his southern baritone recognizable even through the closed door. After scrambling to throw on some clothes, you press an ear to the chipping paint, hoping to determine the number of bodies gathered in your home.

Not many. Just Miller (and the old man, of course).

The latter’s presence bodes ill for you. This would all have to be done in secret, which was not an uncommon strategy where ever the former was involved. No one dealt with Joel Miller to conduct clean-cut, wholesome activities. No one was calling him up for a spare copy of the holy book.

No, getting him alone was essential.

A drink slams down on the counter. After a good, patient ten minutes, you hear your father (‘s rather crude way of) excusing himself to the washroom and heavy-set footsteps decrescendoing down the hall.

This is it.

You slip through the door.

At first, your company takes no notice of you, his eyes still glued to the maps and papers littering the counter before him.

Then, a low grumble: “fun night?”

His voice makes you weak in the knees — an involuntary, near ritual-like response you’d noticed around your mid teens and hadn’t managed to kick yet.

You swallow before responding. “Yes.”

It’s all you manage to muster. Miller finally looks up, wincing slightly as his back straightens. He looks tired, at least more than usual, with his wild, grey-streaked hair tousled and the lines by his mouth cutting deep into his skin.

You’re sure you don’t look much better, a suspicion proven by the man’s slowly spreading, barely-noticeable smirk. That gaze makes you self conscious, mute; your right hand snakes up, absent-mindedly dragging a fallen bra strap back to its proper position.

“So, what was his name?”

He’s teasing, sure, but Miller was there last night. He’d always had sharper perceptions than your father did, especially — and ironically — when it came to you. That skill tended to squander your confidence as the daughter of a modern-day mafia-boss and the owner of a hard, violent heart.

Rushed by the sound of your father’s footsteps, you default to honesty.

“I don’t remember.”

“Try.”

“Josh.”

Amusement flits across his stern expression. “Again.”

“Jamie.”

“Warmer.”

“J-J-something—”

“Gettin’ colder, sweetheart—”

“I need the pill.”

It just tumbles out, an exasperated, desperate plea. Miller, a bit taken aback by your candor, drains of his previous playfulness. You almost notice the split second those dark eyes glaze over. For a second, you’re almost convinced he’s distracted by his imagination’s recreations of the act that had you making such a request.

You almost notice the tingling between your thighs.

He stares. You stare back.

Fuck.

It was moments like this that made you wish Tess was still around. Oh, she wouldn’t be any kinder — no, not at all — but she’d certainly be more professional. Tess was all work, no play. Joel was…

You’re enjoying this, you bastard. You’re enjoying that I’m cornered like this, aren’t you?

The bathroom handle clicks when it turns, and your heart drops into your toes.

Maybe Miller really wasn’t going to help you. Maybe he didn’t have the pill and you’d just embarrassed yourself for nothing. Or, maybe he did, but preferred outing you to your dad at the very first opportunity — letting him deal with you the only way he knew how.

Your fears seem confirmed: his eyes leave the grace of your own, trailing back to his big, splayed hands on the countertop. Unwelcome tears burn the corners of your eyes as the panic begins to set in, as footsteps begin to fall…

“Mine. Tonight.”

It’s low and rushed, but it’s clear, cutting off to the sound of your father lumbering in. A man who saw, thought, and lived through transactions, he’s (thankfully) blissfully ignorant of the tension collapsing around him.

“Morning,” he throws your way.

A taunt, of course — it was well past noon.

You nod in acknowledgement, slowly backing into the doorway of your sacred, beckoning room. They resume their conversation from before, letting you sink into irrelevance.

Before shutting yourself in, you catch a few of Miller’s hushed words. They’re spoken casually to your father but, you later decide, surely meant for you:

“Not that one kid — Jeremy — don’t trust him.”

The door seals (well, not seals… it creaks on its rusty hinges and squeezes into its shrinking frame), and relief courses through you, reaching the very tips of your fingers.

That only lasts a minute.

Soon, you’re negotiating with the rising anxiety of being at Miller’s place alone, asking for his help with a problem that could’ve been avoided if you’d only kept your legs shut.

Alone with Miller, the both of you knowing that you hadn’t.

Crawling back under your covers, you begrudgingly make a vow of celibacy. If this was the cost of attention and a (potential) mid-range orgasm, you were about to become very frugal.

Dreams come easy, but they don’t come sweet.

Flashes of last night’s sins overlay Joel Miller’s unintelligible speech, his voice from the next room over lulling you into a rather confusing, disturbed sleep.

—

At nighttime, it’s a short walk to his building.

Down this alley, past this street, up this back stairwell. Part of being in with Boston’s seedy underbelly gained you access to the best and most up-to-date intel; by the age of twelve, you could run the safest — well, least policed — post-curfew routes from memory.

(Which had come in handy in situations a lot more dire than this.)

Sneaking in was easy, although you cursed him for being so preoccupied during the day. Coming in at this hour required some delicate maneuvers through a half-shattered window, and a less-than-graceful leap down left you with a nick on your cheekbone and a shallow cut along the side of your hand.

Thankfully, the blood mostly dries on your walk up the six or eight or ten flights of stairs. You don’t resent the exercise; it feels good to move, putting the jitters building in every still moment in abeyance.

Still moments like the kind that passes after a barely-audible, coded knock delivered by a girl sucking on the side of her hand, almost wishing for the door not to open.

It does.

He’s in jeans — dirty jeans, dusty — and a simple flannel. It’s Miller — it’s Miller at his most Joel-Miller-like-ness.

So why am I so fucking nervous?

He holds the door open, brows knitting at the sight of your hand in your mouth.

“Window,” You offer.

He mouthes a silent ‘ah,’ before leaning forward to duck his head out the door and, in the process, somewhat sandwiching you against his chest.

Maybe it’s because he smells like forest-fires, but your skin burns red-hot.

Miller looks both ways, checking the status of the hall (empty), then nudges you into the dim light of his place with the weight of his hand against your lower back.

The door shuts behind you.

You’d been here at least a million times before, but the thoughts rising now feel so… new. The jacket strewn on the side of the sagging sofa is his — Joel Miller has sat at this table and showered, slept, fucked inside these walls.

Cut it out. It’s just ‘cause you’re alone. And older.

But what about it, now that you were alone and older?

Old enough to know what goes on between a man and a woman and a little bit of desperation at just the right amounts… and there sure was a lot of him, and some desperation, too…

“Nervous?”

Your feet hit the floor, all thoughts evaporating at the sound of his word. Blushing, you try to de-code his taunt, spoken with playfulness and too much condescension.

“Wh — what’d you — nervous for what? No.”

He’s already across the room, sifting through a box of miscellaneous items. A yellowed lamp shade catches his side-profile, illuminates the smirk spreading across his face. Then, a low command:

“Relax,” and your spine settles, acceding to his wish. “Some girls get nervous, y’know, takin’ it the first time.”

Oh.

You clear your throat, daring to take a step into his place, incensed enough to trace the indents and stab-marks decorating his kitchen table.

“No.”

You’re taken aback by the accuracy and the strength underpinning your answer. It’s true, you aren’t afraid, and hadn’t been afraid of much in a very long while.

What’s a Joel Miller to your best friend’s public hanging? What’s he to a dozen rows of semi automatics raining down on your zigzagging toes? What’s he to a period cramp?

Like a bolt of lightning hitting you in the chest, that cocky, gauche and indelicate rebel you’d grown into reappears.

“I’ve been told I take things pretty well my first time.” The tension rises — this time, at your command — just as Joel does, carrying a leather pouch in his right hand. “And it’s not, anyways,” you add for good measure.

The leather drops onto the marked-up table. Joel crosses his arms.

“Not sellin’ me on givin’ you one of these, sweetheart.”

He gestures to the bag.

A mock-frown as you draw closer to him. His eyes, although severe, reflect the playfulness dancing in your own.

“Why not?” You ask, voice dripping with false innocence.

Joel’s gaze doesn’t stray as it hardens, focused on your own. “They’re for accidents, mistakes, attacks,” he explains, deep and dangerous, “Not girls who can’t keep their pretty lil’ legs together.”

Oof.

On one hand, it sounds like he’s genuinely chastising you for your careless behaviour. But, on the other, he sounds jealous, taunting, hungry.

I’ll play that hand.

Sleeping all day had left you wide awake, and that long-time, school-girl crush on the man before you was dying for content to fantasize about. Even if he pushed you off, you’d get to feel the weight of his hands on your body, right?

So, you return with a taunt of your own: “You think my legs are pretty?”

He shakes his head, his signature scowl spreading as he mostly ignores you. “I think you should at least use condoms,” a breath, “N’ know their first names.”

Ouch.

“I usually do.” you murmur, “and it broke last night.”

“Bullshit.”

“What do you mean, bullshit?”

Joel sighs and lowers himself into one of the four old, rickety chairs lining the table. His hand comes up to his temples and you notice how his legs, exhausted, part.

The man doesn’t deign to respond.

Irritation begins to well in your core, sneaking through your arms and up into your throat. The muscle in your jaw must be twitching like crazy.

How does he know? How the fuck does he always know?

Across the QZ, as a skilled liar and born and bred bandit, people tended to hold whatever image of you that you’d crafted for them.

Not Joel. Never Joel.

He saw through you in a way that had always felt… intimate. It was one of the reasons, you guessed, he didn’t dare spend too much time alone with you and why you’d always been curious about him (as a man, of course). Now, there was no avoiding your obvious vulnerability from either of you — you were stripped bare, your dressings in his hand.

It makes you want to flee as much as it makes you want to leap into his arms.

You snatch up the pouch, opening it up to find a mass of differently coloured and shaped pills. Rifling through, you ignore Joel’s stare boring into your hands’ erratic search.

“Yellow ones,” he says.

“I know what they look like,” you retort.

“‘Course you do.”

He moves faster than he should be able to.

One moment, your palm is slicing through the air, headed straight for the highest point of his cheek. The next, you’re facedown on the table. Your attacking hand is caged in by a much larger, much stronger one, pinned to the decaying wood; the other, he pins behind your back. Pills litter the floor — Joel’s boot crunches into a wayward one as he adjusts himself behind you, leaning over your struggling, smaller frame, immobilizing you with his weight.

“Let go of me—” you hiss, words smothered by the wooden surface pressed to your profile.

“—Shut up ‘n listen,” he commands, leaning over to tower over his trapped victim. “Try that again n’I’ll do worse’n kill you. Understand?”

Despite the authenticity of his threat, a strangled laugh wracks your lungs.

“Gonna turn me in for contraband, Miller? Watch them gun me down in the square?”

You smile through your heavy breaths. There, behind your hips, is a growing movement indicative of some other kind of punishment he’s got in mind.

“Or,” you continue on coyly, “Give me another reason to need that pill?”

Joel pauses, untangling your meaning.

Then, an exasperated scoff. His hold tightens on your wrist and you wince. “You always thinkin’ of the fastest way to get a man to fuck you?”

“Only when his cock’s pressed against my ass.”

He goes quiet — only for a moment. Somewhere outside, rounds echo through the night.

“Z’that what you want?” His voice is deep and threatening, promising of the kind of hard, mind-numbing fuck you’d been craving for weeks.

After a hard swallow, you nod, catching the raise of his eyebrows in your periphery.

A moment passes as he mulls over your answer. Only your shallow, anticipatory breaths populate the quiet space.

“Alright.”

And he lets go.

Heart racing, wrists aching, you flip around to his neutral, impenetrable expression.

“Get down on your knees.”

Without taking a moment to decide whether you’re living anything more than just a really fucked up dream, you sink to your knees, folding your hands in your lap (to stop them from shaking). Before you, Joel’s bulge twitches while he watches you yielding to submission, and you try to ignore the excitement building between your own two legs.

His eyes burn into yours: black, starved, weighty. He tells you to shut your own and you do, unable to resist the tone of his command. Within the self-imposed darkness, Joel’s following order — ‘open your mouth,’ — parts your lips as if they were under his spell. You wonder what you must look like to him, needy and ready to receive whatever you’re given.

He speaks again.

“Show me your tongue, angel.”

The gruffness punctuating his arousal doesn’t let you stand a chance. You let your mouth fall open wider.

Next, there’s rustling. You try to remember whether or not he’d had on a belt, listening and failing to hear the soft clinks of a buckle coming undone.

Too soon, something wraps around your chin — thick, calloused fingers — and the pressure of a thumb running down the middle of your tongue sends a rush of electricity down every stacked vertebrae. It’s slow, tantalizingly slow, as if the man were trying to memorize the feel of every groove, ridge, and bud on his leisurely way out.

When Joel drops his hand, a small weight remains at the back of your throat.

“Close.”

You do, opening your eyes to meet his own: severe and wanting — or wanting for severity?

It’s a pill. That much is obvious once the taste begins to spread, bitter and chemical and totally gag-worthy. He follows up with ‘swallow’ for his own sick enjoyment; by the time he says it, it’s clear that you already have.

What kind of game is this, Miller?

Your cheeks burn when your company kneels down. He places his big, broad hand partly on your neck, partly to the side of your jaw, and you’re still too taken aback to tear it off. The feel of his rough palm against your racing pulse silences every urge to enact revenge. Words don’t come — too quickly forgotten on one’s knees.

“You’re way too easy for your own good, sweetheart,” he near-whispers, shooting to kill in a blow packed tight with condescension. “Don’t let me see you here again.”

And that’s it: your cue to get lost.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Miller pulls away from your reddening skin, straightening to stand. You follow suit soon after, heart pumping lead, tongue bruised by the memory of his touch (more overwhelming than the metallic residue dripping down your throat).

He turns, running a few fingers through his hair. It’s the last look you get before resigning yourself to the journey back home.

Still, before turning the rusted handle, in a brief moment of respite, of clarity, you seize the final word:

“I’m only ‘easy’ when I’m drunk. Or interested.”

Silence courses through the room as Joel registers the meaning behind your confession.

“Goodnight, Miller.”

With that, you see yourself into the hallway, checking its status before tearing into the stairwell.

You barely breathe.

He wanted me — he had to have wanted me.

Miller was a pragmatic player; surely, he’d only bother to play with toys he liked like that… right?

Right?

Unable to clear your head or cool the heat radiating through your core, you take the long way home, the distant sounds of a war between rivals soothing the cacophony of noise swimming between your ears.

—

For the next two weeks, all you’re able to think about is him.

You think about him when he’s gone and when he’s in the room, grumbling in hushed tones to your father. You think about him when you’re unable to fall asleep, letting your hands slip beneath the waistband of your shorts, imagining your own fingers as thick, tan ones running through the warmth between your legs.

He takes no notice of you — a fact you deeply resent. Even in your skimpiest clothing, he’s like a damn horse with blinders on. You decide, in the past weeks, he’d either acquired the patience of Job or purged every sinful craving from his system when he’d stuck his fingers down your throat.

Naturally, you’re more than happy when, at breakfast (two in the afternoon), your father gives you the heads up about tonight’s gathering at the Bar (which was really just an asbestos-ridden basement equipped with enough prohibition-style gadgets and architecture to host a good ‘strategic meeting’ every other month).

“Everyone’s gonna be there,” he mumbles. “Need you to keep your ears open. Had to take a couple rats out last week…”

Everyone’s gonna be there.

Smiling to yourself, your thoughts start to spin out. Business, distractions, booze. Tonight would host a million opportunities for you to get him alone.

Hope blooms through your chest.

Do your worst, Miller.

—

“Man, I wish we could’ve experienced cocktails. Straight hooch is ass.”

A peer named Mel, just a year older than yourself, cringes as she sips on whatever murky liquor’s found its way into her cup.

You don’t mind the taste so much, having grown mostly immune to its taste and burn. In fact, you’d come to welcome the subsequent lapse in breath and judgement.

There was little else in this world that made you feel alive.

“Mhm,” you respond absent-mindedly, looking for a familiar scowl among the mass of scowls peppering the crowd.

A sigh to your right. “Always awesome, having your attention.”

The criticism snaps you back into your body. You smile sheepishly at your friend, apologizing through a wince.

She shrugs, her raggedy, pin-decorated jacket jingling with the movement. “S’okay. Known you long enough to know that look.”

For that, she receives a quizzical glance.

Mel comes back with a scoff. “No victims tonight?”

“Oh god,” you shoot her a look of disgust. “Do you mind not using such weird vocabulary? Make me sound like a predator.”

As the words tumble out, you zero in on the object of your search. There he is: eyebrows knit together in concentration, drink in hand, unsurprisingly (and annoyingly) in conversation with your father. A few other stragglers are in the mix, too, but they’re easily overlooked. Time slows to a full stop in his wake —only for the briefest of seconds —

“Well since the last guy actually wound up dead a week later, I think it’s fitting.”

Once again, Mel’s managed to wrangle your interest.

You stare blankly into her onyx eyes, ringlets falling through molasses around her face. “Jeremy?”

And she’s bewildered. “You didn’t hear?”

This time, both of your heads turn in the same direction.

“Ratted to FEDRA about the storehouse off tenth,” she explains, gesturing towards Miller and your father with a tilt of her head. Famous for her bravery, she stoops into your shoulder, averting his gaze and speaking under her breath, “Judging by the way they found him, my guess is it was mostly Miller’s stuff.”

It’s as if she’d screamed it.

The subject of your conversation turns to face you right as your company’s words drift off. Despite the level of noise, the amount of people, and the cloudiness of the air, you’re trapped in the corridor of your mutual stare, cornered.

The challenge, the knowing marking his expression.

“I need some air.”

You twist into the body standing behind you, shoving row after row of criminal scum out of the way. Mel doesn’t follow — she’d never hung around to comfort you, only to inform you. A mutual, typical relationship for the age, and just how things worked in the QZ.

You slam into the door, stomping into a deserted, silent alley, empty save for a few drunk strays. Your lips begin to tingle and a scream builds inside your lungs. Stalking blindly into the night, unsure of your direction, alone in half a top and a plain, ass-length skirt, shivering despite the warmth of the air…

You’re practically begging for trouble.

Just as your eyes catch the numbers on the old, rusted street sign above, just as you realize you’re on a monitored street tonight, only safe after curfew every other Monday and Wednesday, you’re grabbed by the waist, pulled into the space between two buildings, and shoved into a sheltered nook.

A dim, yellow light clicks on automatically. There’s a door (chained closed) leading into the building to your left and darkness to your right.

And there’s Joel Miller above you, his expression indeterminable.

“You asshole,” you barely hear yourself breathe over the sound of the blood rushing in your ears before lunging forward in a useless attempt to, once again, strike his profile.

He catches your wrist, no doubt having anticipated the attack. It’s written on your face, in your eyes, in your shallow, uneven inhalations. He takes your other hand before you’ve even thought to use it, lifting it above your head and slamming it against the old stucco behind you.

“You’re violent,” he says flatly.

He tightens his hold when you struggle against it. “Proud of yourself, yeah? You’re a killer.”

That inspires a slight smirk. You half expect him to return with an ‘as if you didn’t already know that.’

Instead, he says, “Sweetheart, you didn’t even know his name.”

“You should’ve told me.”

And that’s the real source of this anger: it’s rage at being the last to know.

And for what? To protect your feelings? Since when had anyone in your life bothered to do that?

“And don’t call me ‘sweetheart’,” you add for good measure.

You’d wanted him to touch you so badly for weeks now, but here, scorned at being left in the dark and confused at the death of a paramour, you only want to get free.

“And what’d he call you?” He spits, leaning down and in, inadvertently pressing his thigh between your legs — when his breath grazes the skin of your ear, it causes them to part (against your better judgement). “Got lots of names, right?” He continues to tease, “Heard your boyfriend’s pretty one for you before I shut him up — ‘that fuckin’ slut,’ f’I’m rememberin’ right.”

Despite your rage-shakes, you’re warming at the core, Joel’s pressure against it dizzying your already-addled head. It confuses you, makes the scorn easier to access.

“How did I come up, Miller?” You exhale, jutting your chin towards him. “Couldn’t help asking for all the dirty little details, could you?”

He smiles, and the act lacks any sort of kindness. “‘Lot easier gettin’ him alone once he thought he was meetin’ you.” Joel slams your wrist harder into the wall when you try to wriggle away. “Not sure you wanna keep making that kind of impression, angel.”

It’s hard to rationalize with him so close, as his pet-names echoe inside your head. He’d used your name to enact gang-law violence on a boy who’d been inside you, and yet, all you can think, all you can hear, is the way ‘sweetheart’ sounds tumbling off his lips.

“Fucking let me go, Miller,” you manage to exasperate, resenting the begging edge to every word. “I don’t need another abstinence lecture from you.”

Kicking one ankle off balance, Joel turns you around, pressing your stomach to the wall, your back into his chest. Ignoring your whines and pitiful struggle, he wraps a free hand around your neck, pushing your head against his collarbone. Your stomach erupts with butterflies as the rough pad of his thumb traces the front of your throat.

Yes — no — yes, he wants me — no, no, this is wrong, this is so wrong —

“‘Be wasted on you, anyways,” he says, rough and earnest, like his hand sliding down your chest, your breasts, your stomach, “Startin’ to realize if I can’t fix your dad’s mistakes…” and he’s finding the hem of your skirt and yanking it up, bunching the fabric around your hips —

“Might as well take advantage of them.”

He moves hungrily. He’s everywhere, sliding into your underwear and across your breasts, his big arms and suffocating biceps enveloping your entire frame.

“Joel—”

But he claps a hand over your mouth, silencing any hope of your pleas being effective.

“Think I haven’t seen you? Your lil’ looks…” a low laugh, “n’ those fuckin’ clothes?” God, the rumble, the sheer want in his voice hammers at your initial resistance, and you feel yourself welcoming the feel of his thick, long fingers, sliding between your wet folds. You’re clay, melting against the curved, firm wall of his chest.

You mewl pathetically into his palm.

Another low laugh wracks his lungs, dances at the top of your ear.

“Knew you’d be this wet for me.”

“Knew since you got down on your knees,” Joel continues, uncovering your mouth only to ease a few fingers between your lips — lips that part as though commanded, and a mouth that welcomes and caresses whatever it receives, “‘N opened this pretty lil’ mouth for me to fuck it. Can’t close my eyes without seein’ you like that — so fuckin’ needy.” He exhales from between his teeth, signalling his approval while you suck him down to the knuckles.

His fingers tease your clit and you give him your thanks by pleasuring those of his other hand.

When his hands move, it’s to hold you steady and balanced as he drags your underwear down your legs. That thick, heavy cloud of arousal hides any and all rational thoughts from view.

And he knows. He knows you’re past the point of no return, restraining you only out of his desire to rather than out of a real need to. He knows from the whine you breathe at the loss of his hand against your clit, moving to work at his belt buckle instead.

“Gonna use a condom?” You breathe, emboldened by your clearing senses at the temporary lack of stimulation.

At first, you think he’s missed your taunt.

He backs up, pulling your hips along with him until the tips of your fingers are no longer touching the decaying wall before you. Joel pulls you upright and against him with an arm around your waist and a hand around your throat, turning your head and tilting it back to meet your eyes.

You grasp onto his forearms, failing to stand, unable to breathe. His hardness digs into your back, and his cruel eyes show you just how much pleasure he takes in your struggle.

“Don’t like to waste ‘em,” he finally answers, rocking his cock against your spine, “But I will if you beg. You gonna beg?”

He manipulates your answer, fingers moving to your red-hot core — he barely grazes the nerves, only dancing over the needy flesh. You can’t tear your eyes from him either, tethered to your body through his gaze.

Joel Miller was a frustrating lover.

“N-no,” is your answer, slightly strangled and softly stuttered.

He smiles. “S’what I thought.” Then, “Show me what you can do, angel,” he coos, lips just inches away from yours, his hold on your body relaxing —

“Use your pretty lil’ hands n’ put my cock where you want it most.”

And you both know exactly where that is.

After a nod, Joel allows you to bend forward slowly — it’s like moving through honey. Your legs burn with effort as you reach between your legs to wrap a hand around his thick, hard length.

Christ, he’s huge.

He groans when you touch him and uses his own hand to help guide his tip between your folds. One hand holds your waist, fingers extended under your ribs to support your weight in a skilled show of experience.

With his tip at your aching entrance, you try to lean back, to slide yourself slowly down his many inches.

But Joel doesn’t allow it.

He pushes into you in one go, clicking his tongue at your strangled gasp —

The man hadn’t even bothered to open you up with his fingers.

“Ah, c’mon,” he condescends, “You can take it.”

Then he’s setting a hard pace, hands moving from your hips to your ribs to your biceps to your hair to your neck — anywhere he wanted to go, he went. One eventually comes to the front of your throat, tilting your eyes back and up towards the ceiling. Every one of his thrusts arches your back further until you’re contorting into a half-moon shape, standing only by the grace of his support.

And it feels so good. Joel fills you up to the brim, takes you to heaven and floods your ears with hymns, punishes you in the kind of way you’d only experienced in dreams.

Words tumble out, but they’re filled with nothingness. “Joel,” “fuck,” and “yesohgodyes,” quickly become staples of your vocabulary.

He laughs whenever you sob, grows harder every time you moan, restrains you when you try to run away.

The hand around your throat tightens, digging unforgivably into the flesh as you start to let go, as your walls begin to clench and flutter appreciatively around his cock.

“M’I making you happy, sweetheart? My cock making you smile?” He asks gruffly, pulling you back into his chest. Joel readjusts you into whatever shape you need to be in at the new angle, hips still slamming into your ass. Struggling to stand on your tiptoes, he steadies you with his arms and his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look up into his rugged face.

“Mmhm,” is all you can offer him, the pitch jumping up halfway through when the head of his cock grazes that perfect spot inside your cunt.

He doesn’t let up.

“Show me, baby—” he commands, out of breath, too, but not nearly as tortured as you, “—Show me your smile.”

You do your best, smiling up at him, degrading yourself even more at the hands of Joel-fucking-Miller. And he eats it up, loves the way your grin turns into a bitten lip and knit eyebrows over closed eyes, slowing his thrusts to rock even deeper inside you.

You moan something unintelligible, and a laugh rustles through your tangled hair.

“Am I makin’ you come?”

You nod, feeling that familiar rush of pressure blooming somewhere within that throbbing bundle of nerves under his spell.

He smirks in pride and victory, the last look you get before your head falls against his shoulder, your muscles going lax as the peak builds, as your half-sobs grow louder.

“S’it, baby, tell ‘em,” he coos, nipping and sucking the skin on the side of your throat. “Gonna tell the whole street how you take it like a good lil’ slut.”

His fingers fall to your clit, enticing you right over the edge. You vision blurs and your legs shake, but Joel talks you through your orgasm, sweet nothings starting with, “S’right — show me — yes, fuck — good girl…”

And then —

He stops.

You whine, stars dancing before your eyes as the mean, mean man inside you refuses to fuck you through your climax.

“Joel,” you plead, grinding back against him in a pathetic show of need, “Come with me.”

He does the opposite, sliding himself out of your sore opening. You turn to face him, restoring your balance with hands against his chest, gazing up at him in desire-stricken reproach.

“Use your mouth,” he says, voice gruff at your ruined sight and from his own hand on his cock, keeping his arousal level, “Not gettin’ any more help from me.”

It’s unclear whether ‘help’ means pills or his cock, but you assume both to be safe.

You try to argue (having spent the last few weeks dreaming of Joel dripping down your legs) but he just won’t budge.

Then, his voice softens.

“You know your dad’d kill me, angel.”

And it’s really the sweetness of his tone that does it.

Sinking to your knees, it’s déjà vu when you open wide for him, steadying your shaking knees with both hands on his half clothed, half naked hips. Gravel and debris dig painfully into your bare knees, but you ignore the sting, smiling instead at the taste of yourself on Joel’s cock, lips sliding adoringly down the thick length of it.

He groans his approval, tangling his fingers in your hair to help guide your movements.

As you take him in again and again and again, pleasing every inch of him, he chokes out a laugh.

“Never seen you so quiet,” he muses (mostly to himself), caressing your cheekbone with his free hand —

“Gagged by an old man’s cock.”

You pull off, pumping him with both hands, asking breathlessly, “Are you all so big?”

He smiles, eyes darkening at the dirty compliment. “Give you a few numbers n’ you can tell me.”

God, he’s beautiful from down here.

You hold his attention and lick a slow stripe down the underside of his cock, half-grinning up at his lust-filled expression.

“I only want yours, Joel Miller.”

An uneasy inhale as you take him back in, his brows furrowing and his cock growing impossibly harder. Your words please him, he returns by groaning orders and praises like: “S’all yours, baby — take it all — take aaall that dick — good fuckin’ girl.”

He’s so close and you know it, moaning in submission at his hand’s pressure against the back of your head. With your nose crunched into his abdomen, you hold your throat open for him to use it however he pleases — reduced to nothing more than the man’s plaything.

There’s a low “ah, fuck,” from above, and then you finally know what Joel Miller tastes like.

It’s better than the Plan B.

You hear nothing beyond his recovering breaths, feel nothing past pride, lust, and exhaustion.

Eventually, he loosens his grip. You pull off of him delicately, drawing a groan from between his gritted teeth when you make sure to suck every last drop of his seed into your mouth.

Sitting back on your ankles, you roll your head up to face him.

He swipes a thumb under your lips, clearing the saliva connecting you to his softening cock.

“Still mad at me?” He asks.

You’d be crazy to say yes.

“Only for pulling out.”

You note the twitch at the corner of his mustache.

Joel helps you back on your feet, using one hand to pull you up by your arm and another to arrange himself back to decency.

You adjust your shirt; Joel fixes your skirt. It’s a strange kind of silence settling inside this pocket at the side of a random, ruined building.

Then, your company clears his throat, that mask of seriousness falling over his expression once again.

“You gonna be smart?”

What ever could he mean?

Stay away from him? Stay away from men? Practice abstinence? Use protection?

Either way, you’re not one to make promises you know you can’t keep.

You cross your arms.

“No.”

He sighs.

Well, looks like things are already back to normal.

His face softens and he shakes his head, already regretting his next words. “Just — just come find me, then. I won’t do… this again, but — but I’ll help.”

You frown.

“What do you mean, ‘this’?”

He stares down into your accusatory eyes with a look you’d received many times from him, one screaming, “get real.”

“Fine,” you mutter, breaking eye-contact, “Thank you.”

With a stoic nod, he walks around you, heading back into the night. You try, in vain, to watch him go in silence — god knows you had some thinking to get to — and find that, instead of getting it out of your system, the entanglement had only left you wanting for more.

And more and more.

“Is this what you meant?” and you hear his footsteps halt, “When you told me you’d do worse than kill me? When I tried to hit you?”

It comes out before you can help it, and you twist around to face his still, broad shoulders.

You can hear the smile teasing his lips as he utters the words.

“Why are you askin’ me that?”

Still facing his back, you break into a smile of your own. “So I’ll know what I have to do to get you to do it again.”

You watch him shake his head, grey-streaked ripples in the low light.

“Try your best not to find out, angel.”

With that, he disappears into the darkness, leaving you in the flickering doorway. Thighs aching, heart racing, you take a deep breath, trying to memorize the feeling of what it felt to have them taken from you by Joel Miller.

A feeling you’d chase.

—

Put your red boots on

Baby, giddy up

Baby wants a dance

Baby gets her way

Dreamy nights

Talk to me with that whiskey breath

Twirl me twice

I'll treat you like a holiday

And don't say you're over me

When we both know that you ain't

Don't say you're over me

Baby, it's already too late

Just do what you do best with me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like a ballerina, super high

Dance me all around the moon

Light me up like the 4th of July

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When we both know that you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

When you lie down right next to me

Get your jacket on

Be a gentleman

Get into your truck

And pick me up at eight

'Cause we were built for

The long haul freight train

Burnt by fire

Without trial like a stowaway

And don't say you're over me

When they all know that you ain't

If you lay down right next to me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like ballerina super high

Dance me all around the moon

Like six times 'til I'm sick and I cry

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When they all know that you're lying

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

When you lie down right next to me

—

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sister-lucifer · 1 year

Text

Take Your Breath Away

Ticci Toby x Gender Neutral Reader

Genre: Smut

Summary: Toby is a nasty son of a bitch and pulls a terrifying trick on you

Content/Warnings: Nonconsensual breath play (the sex is consensual, the suffocation is not), bondage, Toby is a mean and nasty motherfucker, Reader almost passes out, homicidal undertones, a wee bit of degradation, listen it’s one of MY toby fics i feel like that’s a warning in and of itself, no genitalia specified for Reader, Reader and Toby are already in a relationship

Like my writing? I take requests! NSFW or SFW for any fandoms in my bio (request rules + masterlist in pinned post)!

Also, please reblog! it’s free, takes two seconds, and really helps me out

Feedback is encouraged and appreciated:)

Not fully proofread! Let me know if you see any errors!

A/N: Just to avoid confusion, in my headcanon Toby has a stutter as well as but separate from his tourette’s; i’m writing his stutter, not his tics! thankies!

It was no secret to you that Toby had some…odd “interests”. It wasn’t a secret to anyone, really. You could probably guess it just by looking at him. However, for the most part he’d been rather proficient at practicing restraint. Of course, that’s not to say he didn’t stare when you weren’t looking, and he certainly let his twitchy hands linger over your neck for a bit too long when he pulled you in. Maybe you should have kept a closer eye on him, but after getting so used to his unusual demeanor it was easy to simply brush it off. You noticed him staring throughout the day, sure, and you were definitely a bit put off when he refused to let you pull away from a kiss that had gone on for much too long, giggling to himself as you fought to catch your breath.

You really should’ve at least wondered what was up when he silently walked up behind you while you were at the counter, wrapping a strong hand around your neck without warning. You could feel him grinning against your neck as he greeted you with a hushed laugh that made you shiver. He let go when you managed choke out his name, pulling you into him by the waist as if nothing had happened. You were naturally perplexed when he walked away, but he didn’t seem to think anything of it. Why should you?

He was playful, that was all, you thought. He was mischievous and liked to push his limits to see how you’d react; it was how he learned, seeing as he was never quite in tune with social cues. It was all in good fun, you figured, even if it had been a bit startling.

Despite what you told yourself, there was no denying the malicious glint in his eyes when he posed you a jarring question:

“Would you l-let me tie you up?”

You stood quickly from where you were crouched, busy rummaging through a cabinet until Toby had violently grabbed your attention. It was out of the blue, completely unprompted, enough to have you staring at him slack-jawed in stunned silence. When you couldn’t conjure a response fast enough, he repeated his question.

“Would you let me t-tie you up?”

“W…What?”

You tilted your head in confusion, trying to wrap your mind around what could have possibly brought him to this thought.

“Just say yes or no: If I wanted t-to tie you up, would you let me?”

You struggled for a few moments more, your face beginning to feel unbearably hot.

“I mean…I— I guess? Sure?” You replied, your eyes nervously scanning Toby’s face in an attempt to ascertain anything about what he could possibly be thinking.

“Good, thanks.” He replied curtly before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

He left you standing alone, completely dumbfounded. When he didn’t return and you couldn’t form the foggiest idea of what had just happened, you sighed in defeat and returned to your task. You couldn’t really complain; you knew what you were signing up for with Toby.

Well…you sort of knew.

He was certainly a wild card. You’d think you’d have learned to expect the unexpected by now.

It took only a couple days for Toby to bring the topic up again, this time practically cornering you in your bedroom. You always felt small around Toby with his six foot four towering frame, but you felt particularly vulnerable when he has that hungry look in his eyes he always got when he really, really wanted something.

“I’ve g-got a surprise for yooouuu!” He announced, one hand behind his back to conceal whatever it was he was so excited about. “Lay down on your stomach. Quickly.”

You almost hesitated, but you were so morbidly curious you simply had to know what he was hiding. You didn’t take your eyes off of him, though.

You laid down on the bed and rested your head on your arms, watching as Toby climbed on top of you to straddle your waist. You winced when he roughly pulled your arms behind you, quickly binding them together with the rope he’d been hiding behind his back. He gave one last tug to the bindings to test them, then sat back to admire his work.

“Looks g-good on you…” He muttered, and you’d be ashamed to admit it made you a bit flustered.

He turned you over, and you were immediately greeted with the sight of his crooked smile spread wide across his face. You tried to return it, but something about it was deeply unsettling. You shuddered under the unblinking, unrelenting gaze of his dark hazel eyes.

Really, what did you have to be so nervous about? You really couldn’t shake the feeling that he was planning something, but that was irrational. You trusted Toby, didn’t you?

You did, of course. It was silly to even consider otherwise.

You happily kissed him back when he leaned down over you. He pulled away from the kiss slowly, and for a split second you caught that dark swirl of something sinister in his eyes, but it was gone just as quickly as it appeared.

It was as if locking eyes with him put you in a trance, and it felt like only a few seconds had passed between that quiet kiss and the scene of debauchery that was unfolding now.

Toby has you in his lap, his heaving chest against your back. His jittery hands have an iron grip on your hips, effortlessly bouncing you on his cock as if you weighed nothing. His heavy breath fans over your glistening skin and makes you shiver with delight.

“S-Sooo tight—“ He whispers to you with a shuddering voice. He certainly isn’t worrying about hiding his voice, more than content to pant and moan in your ear without any ounce of shame. Your hands strain against your bindings as you struggle to keep it together. It felt like every time he thrusted up into up into you he hit even deeper than before, leaving no spot untouched.

“You okay there, p-pretty thing?” Toby asks over your shoulder. You manage a nod and a weak hum in response, but any attempt at words would melt into a pitiful noise of desperation.

Toby absolutely adores seeing you like this. It gives him such a wonderful rush of confidence to hold such power over you, the power to reduce you to a trembling mess with his bare hands. The best part, though, was how willingly you allowed him to abuse that power.

You were the perfect plaything, hardly every questioning anything he did, at least not out loud. You were completely pliant in your own destruction, even if you hadn’t been made aware of it just yet.

He adjusts you in his hold, allowing him to slowly trail one hand up your body. His fingers drum against your sides in a fidgety manner as they ghost over your skin. You don’t notice what he’s doing until you feel him stroke your cheek with the back of his hand.

“Deep breaths, sweet thing, d-deep breaths…”

The words should be reassuring, relaxing even, but something threatening has creeped into his voice and is practically spilling through his toothy grin. You lock eyes with him for a brief second, holding back a gasp when you see the unmistakable darkness swirling in his eyes.

Suddenly a freakishly strong hand clamps over your nose and mouth, holding tight and immediately making your heart drop. Your air supply has been effectively cut off in an instant. Your first instinct is to fight Toby’s unfaltering hold, but you quickly find it to be pointless.

“Don’t fight it, d-don’t fight…” Toby mumbles against your neck. “You’ll only t-tire yourself out…”

He hasn’t even stopped thrusting into you, seemingly taking enjoyment in watching you squirm in distress when you both know there’s nothing you can do. Each thrust knocks a bit more air out of you, and you can already feel yourself becoming dizzy.

As you slowly lose the strength to fight, Toby only becomes more and more enthusiastic.

“Ahah…y-you’re so cute like this. I wonder if I-I can make you cum before you pass out…you think you can manage that?”

You hardly process his words, but whether or not you heard him doesn’t matter; you can’t so much as nod or shake your head in reply. Toby doesn’t need a response, though. He’s more than content to listen to himself talk.

“Y-You know I could never kill you, right?” Toby asks, but the question is not reassuring in the slightest. “No, no…I-I could never…but maybe I w-want to see what you look like when everything g-goes dark. Does that s-scare you?”

You use the last of your breath to let out a desperate whimper, but Toby merely smiles in response. Your heartbeat is unbearably loud in your ears, so much so that it’s starting to block out his voice.

“I b-bet it does,” He continues, unbothered. “You know what I-I am and yet…you willingly let m-me use you like this. Do you h-have any idea what I could do to y-you? Do you even care?”

He’s mocking you, and it stings just a bit. He’s got a point, though. I mean, what person in their right mind would be so eager to please an openly homicidal maniac? Maybe you weren’t much saner than him, all things considered…

Maybe you should have expected this.

You really start to panic when black spots start forming in your vision, dark ashen circles burning into your sight. Toby hasn’t missed a beat even once, watching you intently with crazed eyes that see every little twitch or slight move. Your vision is overtaken by the darkness all too fast and yet agonizingly slow, drawn out to a cruel degree. You can feel the last shreds of strength leaving your body, and for a moment there’s a flicker of acceptance that there really is nothing you can do, though it’s quickly washed away by your distress. There’s a split second where you’re nearly blind, only able to see the smallest shards of light, and if Toby hadn’t decided to pull his hand away right then and there you surely would have passed out.

When you finally feel him let you go you inhale on instinct, nearly sobbing with relief when your lungs finally fill with air again. You cough and heave as you fight for your breath with all you can. For a few moments you don’t notice that Toby has stopped moving his hips completely, now more invested in observing you. Your eyes watered as you struggled to calm your sporadic breathing.

“T…Toby—“ You call weakly, barely managing to speak. In response his hips twitch, reminding you that his length is still throughly nestled inside of you. You grit your teeth to hold back a broken moan.

“Heheh, did you k-know you get this…this f-funny look in your eye when you’re scared?” He asks, but you know he’s not really interested in an answer. You couldn’t give one anyways.

He adjusts your position in his lap once more, making you tense up as you feel him shift inside of you. He begins to drag a hand up your chest just as you’ve managed to calm your breathing, and it quickly finds itself dangerously close to your neck.

“T-Toby, wait—“ You begin to plead, but he quickly cuts you off.

“Shhhh, shhhh…Don’t f-fight me, pretty thing. Just let me play w-with you a bit longer…”

#ticci toby x reader #ticci toby smut #toby rogers #ticci toby #creepypasta #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta smut #creepypasta masterlist #gender neutral reader #ticci toby x reader smut #creepypasta x reader smut

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unequivocallyreid · 4 months

Text

Stay With Me Till Morning

hi guys! another fic for you :) i got a little carried away at the end, but you know how it goes. this is for any munch!spencer fans 🤗

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

summary:

Spencer and you are co-workers, strictly co-workers, despite your feelings for him. A few nights sharing a room won’t change that, right?

warnings: mentions of body-specific insecurity, fluff, smut, oral sex (fem receiving)

wc: 3.2k

if i missed anything let me know!

One of the worst things about being a newbie, at any job, is coming into a place where connections have already been made. Working at the FBI, more specifically the BAU, was no different.

Now don’t get the wrong idea, working there was a dream for you, but there was no doubt that you were severely lacking in personal relationships compared to others. Derek and Reid had a sort of brotherly bond, JJ and Emily’s like sisters, and Hotch and Rossi’s went unspoken but still glaringly obvious. You existed in their orbit, and while you had all grown to love each other, you still felt a bit like an outsider sometimes.

Unfortunately for you, this feeling intensified whenever the topic of room sharing came up. Sure there were benefits, like having a room to yourself on occasion, but usually it just served to worsen your imposter syndrome.

The case that you were working currently, sans Rossi (he was on a book tour following his latest release), pushed this feeling to surface even more.

You all were in Upstate New York investigating a series of homicides that seemed to mimic a string of murders that had occurred 20 years ago. The town you were in was on the smaller side, so the only place you could find accommodations was a small bed and breakfast.

Said BnB did not have enough rooms available for anyone to ride solo, and with Rossi gone, Hotch and Morgan were buddied up, leaving Emily and JJ and Reid and you. Naturally, Emily and JJ bunked up together, leaving you to share a room with the boy wonder.

It’s not that you didn’t like Reid, quite the opposite actually, you liked him too much. You’ve always had a propensity for falling incredibly deeply incredibly fast, and when you met Spencer for the first time you proved you reputation correct.

Your first impression probably put him off slightly, but he was gracious enough not to show it. When Hotch introduced you, the first thing you thought was how ridiculous attractive the man in front of you was. His high cheekbones and big, brown eyes drew you in immediately. To make matters worse, he was fucking adorable. After snapping back to reality, you offered Spencer your hand, which he declined citing the pathogens and it being safer to kiss.

In one of your more impressive displays of cluelessness you said, “I think we could make that happen.”

This caused Spencer to flush and a ghost of a smile to grace Hotch’s face. Thankfully, in the last few months you had redeemed yourself slightly, developed a rapport with the doctor, and stood by hopelessly as you crush developed into a nasty little monster.

So, no sharing a room with Spencer wasn’t really an issue, but still, might just be the thing that breaks you.

“There’s only one fucking bed?”

You’d spoke far too soon.

After assuring Spencer you were completely fine and not at all uncomfortable with sharing a room with him, you and him walked together to your room, only to find a scene straight out of a shitty romance novel.

When Spencer heard you and noticed that there was in fact, only one bed, he immediately said, “I can sleep on the couch.”

Maybe you should’ve just agreed and saved yourself from a week of sexual frustration, but you couldn’t.

“Spence, that couch is maybe five feet long. I don’t even think I could sleep on it.”

You looked at him then to muster up some courage, “We can share the bed. We’re both adults.”

He looked slightly pained, which panicked you a bit. God, how fucking embarrassing.

“Or I can take the couch. I wont let you, but if you’re uncomfortable I can. I’m a bit shorter.”

Spencer hurried to speak, “No!”

His outburst took you by surprise but he quickly went on.

“I mean, no. I’m not uncomfortable. I just don’t want you to be at all or feel like I’m forcing you to sleep with me. Fuck, or I mean next to me-“

You cut him off before he could fall into a tailspin.

“We’ll share then.”

Sharing the bed had actually not been that bad for you at first. You were on your third day in New York, and you were making steady progress on the case. Hopefully, it would be wrapped up in a day or two.

Aside from the fact that you barely spent any time in the room, you had managed to stay on your side bed. The only spot of trouble was the dreams you were having, dreams about the person next to you that would turn even the worst sinner’s cheeks red. Still, Reid was acting no different, so at least you were confident you weren’t talking, or, god-forbid, moaning, in your sleep.

It had been an incredibly hard day. Not only was it freezing, but you had been outside and away from temperature controlled environments for far too long. Immediately once you got back to the Inn you were staying at, you asked Spencer if he’d mind you taking the shower first.

“I’m freezing my ass of right now. You don’t mind do you?”

“No, of course not. You know it’s kind of a superstition, but there’s some actual evidence that being cold can make you sick. I just read a study which showed 10% of people exposed to-“

You cut him off before he could finish.

“Spence, I’d love to hear about all that, but please just wait till I’m out of the shower.”

“Oh! Yeah, of course. Sorry.”

You shook off his apology as it wasn’t needed. That was one thing you didn’t get about the rest of the team; you loved hearing all the little tid bits of information that Reid let out. Yeah, he was like a literal encyclopedia at times, but it was never annoying. If anything it made you like him more. You loved the way he lit up when he told you about something he’d just read about, or read about 15 years ago. It was cute.

Getting into the shower was like a blessing. The water rolled over your cold skin and helped to loosen the muscles you’d been stressing all day. If you were bolder, or clueless to Spencer’s aversion to touch, you’d ask him to give you a shoulder rub. Your mind wondered off to where else he might touch you, but that was just wishful thinking.

After spending a near gratuitous amount of time in the shower, you shut off the water and reached for a towel. Only once you’d started drying off did you realize in you haste to warm up you’d forgotten to bring your sleep clothes into the bathroom with you. Now, you had to walk out in a tiny, hotel towel right in front of Reid. Sure, it was the start of a few of your fantasies, but in real life the idea seemed mortifying.

As quietly as possible, to not draw attention to yourself, you opened the bathroom door. With one hand gripping the point where the towel connected with itself, you tried to tiptoe unnoticed to your suitcase.

“Y/n?”

You looked up to see Spencer watching your frame like a hawk. As he took in your damp, barely covered figure, you wished to yourself that the lights in the room weren’t so fucking bright.

“I, uh, forgot to bring my clothes in,” and with that, you raced back into the bathroom to change.

After taking a minute to collect yourself, you make your way out of the bathroom again. The room is, thankfully, much darker and you see Reid tucked into his side of the bed. You climb in next to him.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. That was weird. I, I won’t forget my clothes again.”

“It didn’t, Y/n, don’t worry.”

With that, you both tried your best to fall asleep and put the day behind you.

When you wake up, it’s decidedly not light out and you are decidedly not alone on your side of the bed. One of Spencer’s arms is over your waist, holding you against his body. Still, you don’t know why you’ve woken up.

You tend to be a pretty heavy sleeper, and you know that some light spooning wasn’t enough to wake you up. As you lay awake, trying to figure out why you are up and what to do next you feel Spencer move behind you.

Now, you definitely know what woke you. Spencer, who could barely look you in the eye after seeing you in a towel, was grinding into while you slept. Obviously, he was asleep too, but that didn’t stop the shock of it all from hitting you like a fucking bus. He was silent aside from the occasional whimper, which sent shockwaves straight to your core each time he let one slip.

Despite this, again, being the start to a few of your own wet dreams, you were pretty literally stuck between a rock and a hard place. You felt like you’d be taking advantage of Reid if you didn’t wake him, but if you did you know he’d just about die from embarrassment. Or, worse, he’d think that you somehow executed all of this in a sick ploy. Not likely, but still a source of anxiety.

It took you a few minutes to get your head on straight, what with the burning feeling brewing in your abdomen, but eventually you realized that waking him up was pretty much the only thing you could do.

“Spence,” you said while gently shaking his shoulder.

“Spence, love, you gotta wake up.”

You were turned toward him now and saw his eyes open a crack, “Y/n? What’s wrong what’s goin-“

The realization of your situation also hit him like a truck, which was sort of comforting because at least you weren’t alone in the feeling.

“Oh my god, Y/n. Fuck, I’m so sorry. Jesus, I, I can’t- Fuck I’m so sorry.”

He went to spring out of bed, but your hand grabbed his arm before he could.

“Spence, it’s okay I promise. Honestly I’m surprised it didn’t happen earlier.”

“No, no it’s not. You don’t even like me that way and I was all over you-“

You cut him off when you heard this, “Spence, what do you mean I don’t like you like that?”

“You heard me right? I said your name?”

The world stops spinning, “What?”

“Oh, oh no. Look, I’m so sorry. I’ll go sleep in one of the cars. Fuck, I’m so-”

“Spencer stop. Please stop apologizing.”

It’s like an old Western showdown for a moment, the two of you staring at each other without making a move.

“Were you dreaming about me?”

He nodded, about to speak and likely offer more apologies. But, before he gets the chance you push your lips to meet his.

The kiss is soft and gentle. At first, his lips don’t move against yours, and you start to pull back, worried you read the situation wrong. Fortunately, before your lips could even part from his, he’s pulled you back in. His hands find the side of your face and his lips pressed into yours with a bruising intensity. Slowly, his hands moved to your waist, holding you in place.

The feeling rushing through you was unlike any you’d ever experienced. His lips molded to yours so perfectly it was almost unbelievable. If you’re hands weren’t so preoccupied by his hair, you’d pinch yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming. With a move you didn’t think he’d possibly pull, Spencer bit into your lip, making you gasp. He took the opportunity to press further into the kiss, tracing your tongue with his.

Before you could fall completely into the kiss you pulled away to ask, “Spence, are you sure this is what you want?”

“I’ve been thinking about it since the day we met, Y/n.”

With that, he pulled you back in. His hands moved more surely on you, dipping below your shirt. The feeling of his skin on yours sent shockwaves through your body. You moved to take off his shirt in turn, desperate to feel even more of him. He was relentless, breaking free from your lips to drag his mouth down your neck and over your exposed collar bone.

You felt needier than ever, and evidently so did he. In another move you didn’t expect (maybe you should throw your expectations out the window at this point) he grabbed your hips and pulled you into his lap. With you straddling him, he moved to take your shirt off. Insecurity grabbed hold of you before you could push it away.

You stilled his hands in yours, “I haven’t let anyone see me like this in a long time. Just, please don’t be disappointed by what you see.”

His face morphed into one so full of love that it made your teeth ache.

“You’re my dream, Y/n. You’ll never, ever disappoint me.”

You let go of his hands and they resumed their previous journey, pushing up your shirt and letting that part of you be bare to him. Admittedly, you had to fight the urge to cover yourself, but when you saw his face you knew it was pointless. He was ogling you, not offensively, but more like he couldn’t believe you were actually in front of him.

“You’re so, so beautiful.”

His words didn’t erase the thoughts you had, but they certainly made them easier to ignore. Moving up from your waist, he went to cup your breast, fingers playing with your nipple which made your back arch into him. He took the opportunity to flip you over so you were laying underneath him. The weight of his body over you was heavenly. You felt him press himself into your center through his sweatpants. There were just thin layers of clothes between you now.

“Will you let me taste you? I’ve been dying to.”

You’re stunned from words but you manage to nod your head. As he moved down your body, he took your shorts and panties with you, leaving you completely exposed. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel scared of the feeling or his reaction to you. With Spencer, you felt completely at home.

You felt him kiss down your things, teasing you in a way that made you feel completely crazy. His breath ghosted over your core, but he still hadn’t made contact with where you needed him most.

“Spencer, please.”

Hearing your voice must have broken his resolve. He dove in like a man starved. In the past, you hadn’t found yourself enjoying the presence on a man’s head between your legs. Not that you had much experience, but the men who had you in that way always seemed to treat it as a means to an end. One of the two boyfriends you’d had refused to go down on you at all, and the other wouldn’t unless you were completely shaved. Safe to say you didn’t feel like you were missing much.

Everything was different with Spencer. He licked into you there was no place he’d rather be. His tongue over traced over your cunt as he tried to find all the places that drove you wild, and god did he. The noises in the room were obscene, from the moans falling from your lips to the sound of his driving you to an orgasm.

You locked your hands in his hair, grinding into his face without even noticing that you were. You were so close, and you found the final push in his fingers. God, his beautiful fingers.

His mouth was on your clit as he pushed two digits into you, curling in before pulling out, over and over until your legs begin to shake. His unoccupied hand pressed on your lower stomach, building up the feeling until you burst.

You repeated a mantra of his name as you came harder than you can ever remember coming before. The sensation took you out for a minute, but when you came back down and looked down at Spencer, you saw him staring at you in awe and completely soaked.

“Fuck, Y/n. Have you, have you done that before? I think that was the sexist thing I’ve ever seen.”

You were confused for a moment, wondering why he’d think you hadn’t orgasmed before. That was before you felt the damp fabric of the bed beneath you.

“Oh! Oh god, uh, no I haven’t. I’m sorry I didn’t-“

“Don’t apologize for that, Y/n. Fuck, I’d spend the rest of my life between your legs if it meant I could see that again.”

The constat praise falling from him had you noticeably riled up, and you pulled him up, back on top of you.

“Spencer, please. I want you. I want you inside me.”

“Fuck, Y/n.”

He made incredibly quick work of his own pants, freeing himself. Your mouth dropped open as you took him in. He was big, the biggest you’d been with, and he was pretty. You would have drooled if it wasn’t for his lips pressing into yours. He ran his middle finger through your folds before grasping himself. He followed his own path and ran his member through your dripping cunt.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so perfect.”

The pet name made you even more desperate, “Please, Spence. Fuck, please.”

He put you out of your misery, sinking into you in one motion. You had to adjust to his size, but the feeling of him inside you, as close to you as possible had you reeling. You bucked your hips up, urging him to move.

He gave you exactly what you wanted, pushing into you at a perfect pace as he whispered sweet nothings in your ear.

You were overcome and all you could mutter was “thank you, thank you, thank you” in time with each of his thrusts. When he started to push into you harder, you couldn’t help but squeeze down on him.

His hips stalled, “You’re gonna make me come, Y/n. You’re so fucking tight”

You let your hands take down his back, “Please, Spence. Want you to, want to feel you come in me.”

His pace picked up, and you could feel how close he was. Still he wasn’t done. His fingers again found your clit and rubbed circles on it.

“Need to feel you come on me first baby. Need you to come.”

His words made your head spin. It only took a few more thrusts before you were coming again, just as intense as the first time. You pulsed around him and it pushed him over the edge. You felt him come inside you, filling you completely.

“I love you.”

You couldn’t stop the words from spilling out, but you froze immediately after saying them, worried that you had ruined everything. But, just as he had done before, Spencer quelled your worries.

“I love you too. God, I love you.”

The next morning was bliss. You woke in Spencer’s arms, and let him into you again. The sex was slow and you each let the three words spill uninhibited.

When you went downstairs, ready to finish the case, you were met with the sheepish faces of your team.

Derek spoke first, “I’d say congratulations if you both weren’t so loud last night.”

While you were mortified, watching the rest of the team hold back their chuckles, you couldn’t help but agree that this was all a moment to celebrate.

End

let me know what you think!!

#spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #there was only one bed #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #fic rec #fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #a bit cliche but here we are #criminal minds smut #spencer reid is a munch

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gimmethatagustd · 7 months

Text

blood on the sheets | kth

Despite what some people may think, your roommate isn't a monster. You know Taehyung; he'd never hurt anyone.

↳ pairing: vampire!taehyung x human!(f)reader

↳ wc/date: 4.7k | October 2023

↳ warnings: blood, biting, blood drinking, yandere, (technically temporary) character death, homicidal tendencies, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus (face sitting), period sex, unprotected vaginal sex, blood as lube, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, yandere, dubcon blood drinking, dubcon sex, vampire venom is intoxicating, mc and tae complain about men who are rude toward menstruating people and ik that some men do menstruate so pls know that they are referring to cis men in this context

↳ notes: this is for @taehyungcentral for halloween 🦇 i hope it's everything you wanted bby. you nasty whore

↳ more notes: this is very unedited i'm sorry jhskds i also REALLY wanted to keep it at a normal drabble length and i obviously failed. so i'll try to do better with the rest of the halloween drabbles lmfao rip

↳ masterlist / taglist

↳ what was jai listening to? this vampire kpop playlist hali showed me

Halloween 2023 Masterlist

“Doesn’t he, y’know, creep you out?”

Robin takes a sip of her cocktail with lips so accustomed to being pursued in snootiness that little wrinkles have formed around the edges of her mouth despite her young age. It’s a shame, but the look is fitting. Sometimes, a person’s ugliness on the inside does reflect on the outside.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask with thinly-veiled irritation.

You haven’t known Robin for a long time, though you suppose it wouldn’t have mattered if you knew her for a day or an entire year. She’s the type of person you could spend hours talking to and walk away knowing nothing about her. You’re simply coworkers, and that’s enough for you.

Robin shrugs and tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder when she turns to blatantly stare across the room. The bar isn’t big, just large enough for a few tables and booths lining the walls and a small dancefloor in the middle of the room. It’s intimate, so your coworkers picked it for the office’s monthly night out. Alcohol, catchy pop music, and hipster bars are perfect ingredients for morale-boosting activities, but Robin doesn’t know how to not be nasty.

You follow her gaze, and a small smile lifts the corners of your mouth despite her rude question when you see who she’s looking at.

The cup in Taehyung’s hand is colored glass. In the dim lights, the cup appears to be a dark forest green that pairs prettily with his fire-engine red hair and the contacts that turn his dark eyes a mossy color. You helped him pick out the contacts while the two of you got ready for the work outing. The green are just as alluring as the other colored contacts he owns, but they’re less intimidating than his favorite gray ones.

The colored cups are the bar’s effort to hide the deep crimson liquid inside. Supposedly, it’s for the comfort of all their patrons, but everyone knows what passes through Taehyung’s plush lips when he brings the cup to his mouth.

You watch his throat bob as he swallows. The v-cut of his shirt exposes his elegant neck and collarbones, not that you’re looking or anything.

“He eats people, for Christ’s sake. How could you live with something like that?”

Your vodka-cranberry drink is down to the ice, and your patience for Robin has melted with it.

“Fuck you,” you snap. “Taehyung doesn’t eat people. And he’s not a thing; he’s a person.”

It’s so unlike you to be this aggressive, but something mean twists inside your stomach whenever you’re forced to interact with people like Robin, who use their prejudice to infect everyone around them. Vampires have been integrated into human society for decades with very few incidents, yet there are still humans like Robin who hold onto the horror stories of the past.

Besides, Robin doesn’t even know Taehyung. You’ve brought him around your coworkers before as a plus-one to work events, but Robin doesn’t actually know him. She doesn’t know how kind he is, how he looks after you when even your friends rarely do, how he goes out of his way to prove that just because he’s a vampire doesn’t mean he’s a monster.

The pounding of your heart is enough evidence that you aren’t used to this hostile behavior. You nearly knock over your chair when you stand, and your hands are too shaky to pick up your drink from where it sits on the table before you.

Robin glares at you with eyes that pierce through your tough facade. Her cherry-red lips part to expose teeth more dangerous-looking than a vampire’s fangs, but whatever she has to say dies on her tongue.

“Hey, love.” Taehyung’s fingers skirt your lower back, and the cold of his fingertips bleeds through your thin shirt. “You okay?”

“Yup!” You give Taehyung a slight smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I was just telling Robin that I’m going home. Is that alright?”

Taehyung hums in understanding, his fingers now pressing against your hip bone. The pressure is light, but it’s enough to force your body to turn slightly to face him rather than the table where Robin still sits.

You naturally gravitate toward him regardless. When you first became friends and shortly before you decided to live together, you’d playfully accused Taehyung of using his vampiric charms on you.

“I don’t need magic to make you fall in love with me, baby,” Taehyung had replied with a lopsided grin, no fangs in sight.

Admittedly, you spent far too many of the following nights replaying that comment in your head.

“Of course,” Taehyung slips his index finger through one of your belt loops and tugs on it absentmindedly, “I’ll leave with you; I’ve lost interest in listening to Seokjin’s passionate rambling. There’s only so much video game lore I can handle.”

Robin mutters something snarky under her breath that you can’t hear, but your heart hurts because you know Taehyung can. You’re sure it’s his superhuman hearing that set him off to rescue you from Robin’s bitchy attitude, considering how your heart is beating at a worrying pace. This situation is yet another example of how kind Taehyung is.

Robin doesn’t know shit.

Going home is a good call for more than just escaping Robin’s bitchy behavior. From the time it takes Taehyung to drive home, your lower stomach begins to hurt with such extreme stabbing pain that you can barely walk upright once you arrive. Taehyung has to wrap his arm around your shoulders and slowly guide you up the elevators and down the hall to your apartment's front door. Once he enters the passcode, he helps you inside and leads you into the kitchen.

“You weren’t supposed to start for another week,” Taehyung comments off-handedly as he fetches you a glass of water. He speaks with the casualness of discussing the weather or your weekend plans.

It makes your cheeks warm, and you stare at the water in your glass once he hands it to you. “How do you know that?”

“I pay attention to you, love,” Taehyung murmurs. You should think it’s weird when he inhales deeply through his nose, but you only feel warm as goosebumps scatter across your skin. “I can also… smell it.”

With a gentle grip on your waist, Taehyung draws you closer to where he leans against the kitchen counter. Once you’re standing directly before him, he slips his hand beneath your shirt to press his cold palm against your lower stomach. The gut-wrenching pain is still there, but in the mix of the pain, butterflies are swirling about, and the cool of his skin feels good against your too-hot body.

Some of your friends have commented on how you act with Taehyung - or, more so, how Taehyung acts with you. He's touchy, and personal boundaries mean very little. For some, it would be off-putting how Taehyung initiates touch without asking, but you find it comforting. You don't mind; if anything, you're endeared by it. It means he's comfortable with you and knows you trust him.

Trust, you're quickly learning, is important for vampires in a world that distrusts them.

“I’m sorry. I’m sure that’s really gross.”

“Gross?” Taehyung rubs his thumb along the sensitive skin of your stomach and watches you intently with his mossy green eyes. It should be unnerving, but you’re too captivated by Taehyung to think anything of it.

“All my ex-boyfriends never even wanted to talk about periods, let alone…” You’re too shy to finish your sentence; repeating what Taehyung said seems too embarrassing. It’s embarrassing enough that you’re comparing your roommate to your ex-boyfriends.

You let out a quiet sigh when Taehyung removes his hand from beneath your shirt. He takes your empty glass from your hands and places it on the kitchen counter. Letting Taehyung take care of you feels nice, especially when your period cramps make breathing difficult.

“Humans are strange,” Taehyung murmurs as he gently turns you around by your shoulders to guide you to your bedroom. “There is nothing dirty or disgusting about blood. It is natural. A life source, in more ways than one.”

After changing into a new pair of underwear and comfy pajamas, you slip into your bed and patiently wait for Taehyung to finish getting ready for bed.

It isn’t unusual for you to spend time together at night, especially since you don’t have much time that overlaps due to Taehyung being nocturnal. He doesn’t sleep all day, but getting all covered up is a hassle just to brave the sunlight, so Taehyung prefers to spend his days inside.

You get cuddled in your blankets with a heating pad pressed to your lower stomach. At the same time, Taehyung sets up his laptop on your bed before you, pulling up your favorite reality TV show because he knows you’re too sensitive to handle anything emotional.

Taehyung is dressed in a loose white t-shirt and form-fitting grey sweatpants. It’s a deadly combination, and you hate that he can hear your heart flutter when he climbs into bed with you. You’re close enough that your shoulders press together, and Taehyung’s cool temperature seeps into your body, contrasting nicely with the heating pad resting on your stomach.

Sometimes, you wonder if Taehyung has figured out that he’s the reason you're a jittery mess. You wonder if he knows that your heart races around him, not because you’re afraid of him but because you’ve considered what it would feel like to let him sink his fangs into your flesh.

He probably has no idea, you think as you appraise him out of the corner of your eye. He's charming and naturally flirty. He probably thinks you're just matching his energy.

You're terrible at flirting anyway.

Clearing your throat, you adjust the blankets and try to focus on the TV show. However, it’s difficult to concentrate with Taehyung snuggled against your side. He’s being more affectionate than usual, likely because you get more sensitive when you’re on your period. You can’t complain. It feels nice to have his strong arm curled around your waist and his large hand resting against your hip.

“Comfortable?” Taehyung turns his head to the side to speak against the curve of your ear. His cool breath against your skin makes you shiver.

“Mhm,” you hum. “Are you?”

“I’m with you, aren’t I?”

“Shut up,” you hiss and give Taehyung a sharp slap to the leg that you know won’t hurt him.

You slide further into the blankets to rest your head on Taehyung’s shoulder. There’s no reason for you to be whispering, but you do. Perhaps it’s the atmosphere, your bedroom dark except for a single bedside lamp casting a shallow yellow glow, and Taehyung’s laptop lighting up your bed sheets a pale blue.

After a few minutes of silence between the two of you passes while the show plays through, Taehyung begins thrumming his fingers against your hip.

“Were your exes truly mean to you about something so natural?”

“What?” You twist your torso slightly to look up at him. “Like, not wanting to talk about periods and stuff?”

Taehyung nods. He’s no longer wearing his contacts, so you can see the lamp’s yellow light reflect in his deep red eyes, making them burn orange. Having known Taehyung for a year now, you’ve learned that the color of his eyes changes pretty regularly. You aren’t sure what the colors mean, though you’re pretty sure they have more to do with his mood than his hunger levels – contrary to what vampire films and novels might lead you to believe.

“Well, yeah. Guys think periods are gross. A lot of people do, honestly. Because of blood, and also, y’know, misogyny and all that shit.” You shrug, having come to terms with these facts long ago. “Like, one time I told my ex about this article I read that said orgasms can temporarily relieve cramps, and he went on this whole rant about how period sex is disgusting. It made me feel like I was disgusting, honestly. But whatever.”

Throughout your explanation, Taehyung’s face slowly contorts until he looks legitimately upset. It startles you because why should he care about any of this?

Sweet Taehyung is too empathetic for his own good, you think.

“Human men are pathetic,” Taehyung finally says with a snort. “Period sex sounds fun.”

You struggle to swallow with how dry your mouth and throat have become. Why did you bring up sex while you sit halfway leaned against Taehyung’s chest in your bed, with the lights off, quite literally Netflix and chilling on a Friday night?

“W-well,” you start to stutter but quickly try to pull yourself together, “I wouldn’t know.”

Taehyung hums and then falls silent again, so you assume the topic is dropped. That is until a few more minutes pass with Taehyung’s fingers playing with the hem of your t-shirt, and he eventually leans toward your ear again.

“Would you like to find out?”

This time, you turn around to face Taehyung. He keeps his head bent, which positions his face to be level with yours. You can smell the woody notes of his cologne that make you salivate.

“What?” you squeak, but you hear him more clearly than you hear your own thoughts.

“You still have cramps, don’t you?” You nod. “I could help you, love. You need not suffer.”

Blood rushes to your ears, causing your heartbeat to throb inside your brain. The pounding has a ripple effect, creating beating waves that roll throughout your entire body. It's as though you've become a giant heart trembling and pulsing from the prospect of having sex with the man you've desired in secret for far too long.

Likely noticing your body falling into distress, Taehyung cups the side of your face with his free hand. Using his hold on you, he tilts your head slightly. His eyes bore into yours with such intensity that you don’t think it’s physically possible for you to look away.

“Are you afraid of me?”

"No," you respond without hesitation. You aren't.

Your response pleases Taehyung, and you're reminded of the importance of trust. When he smiles, you think his canines look slightly pointier than usual.

"You know," Taehyung begins slowly, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your slightly parted lips. "Humans drown themselves in shame. I have never understood it. What is so reprehensible about pleasure, hm? Is it so wrong to seek it?"

"I don't know," you admit through a breathy exhale when Taehyung brushes the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip.

"Your ex made you feel ashamed, didn't he?"

You nod, rendered speechless from how Taehyung trails his fingers along your jaw and neck. Gently, he presses his index and middle fingers against the soft spot of your throat where your heart panics beneath your skin.

Taehyung wets his lips.

"I could make you feel good."

All it takes is a light tap of his fingers against your hip, and you're leaning into Taehyung's chest. His large hand slides from the side of your neck to the back of your head, pulling you into a bruising kiss. It's deep and demanding, sending your head spinning as you struggle to keep up with Taehyung's soft lips.

You moan when the tip of his tongue flicks against your mouth, coaxing you open for him to taste. You fall apart for him willingly, ready to bear your soul if he so much as whispers the request against your lips.

Taehyung could kiss you forever; he doesn't need to breathe. You have to force yourself to pull back to gasp for air when you begin to feel lightheaded, and you struggle to register that you've somehow ended up in Taehyung's lap. You straddle his firm thighs with your knees on either side of his hips and your fingers digging into his broad shoulders. It's embarrassing, the feeling of suddenly having no control over yourself, but Taehyung squeezes your hips when you try to get up.

"Will you let me?" His eyes are a deep red, nearly black, as he searches your face for your answer when you don't immediately respond.

Your entire body throbs with anticipation. Sleeping with Taehyung is everything you've forced yourself not to imagine - out of shame because what is more shameful than thirsting over your roommate who has no interest in you?

Except he does. You can feel his hard cock underneath you, and when you subtly scoot your ass against it, his fingers dig deeper into your hips.

"Please," you whisper. The word barely leaves your lips when you're suddenly tossed onto your back.

Taehyung's nimble fingers slip beneath your t-shirt and push it up, murmuring, "Lift your arms, love," and discarding it onto the floor in one sweep. Leaning forward, Taehyung kisses each of your now-exposed nipples, flicking his cool tongue over them until they're hard and wet.

You moan and instinctually arch your back, pushing your chest against his open mouth.

"Can't wait to taste you," Taehyung groans into your skin as he slips his hands into the elastic waistband of your pajama shorts. The fabric easily slides down your legs. Taehyung flings them onto the floor, where they melt into a pool of blood-red silk. "You smell delicious. Always do."

Understanding Taehyung's praises is difficult when he lights up your nerves with every kiss and harsh suck of your skin into his mouth. You don't feel anything sharp for now, but you want to. Again, it's shame that squanders the urge to admit your desires to Taehyung. All you can do is tangle your fingers in his pretty red hair and stare into his eyes as he sucks wet kisses down your stomach.

Your thighs are already slightly wet with your arousal and, unfortunately, blood. It's hot and sticky. You try to close your legs, but Taehyung keeps them propped open. To your horror, you watch him drag his hands up your inner thighs, smearing the little traces of arousal and blood that have rubbed off onto your skin. It leaves light pink streaks on his palms.

With dark eyes, Taehyung holds your gaze as he brings one hand to his mouth and licks up the entire length of his palm.

"Fuck," he lets out a shuddery moan, eyes fluttering closed. "Goddamn, love."

It shouldn't be hot, the feral look in Taehyung's eyes when he opens them again. It shouldn't be hot, the way his fangs naturally drop. He snaps his mouth shut, and you watch his throat bob as he swallows a few times. His fangs are gone the next time he opens his mouth.

"Sit on my face."

You nearly choke. "Excuse me?"

Reaching behind his head, Taehyung pulls his t-shirt off with one hand. Smooth, unblemished skin glows honey gold in the dim lighting. Possessed, you can't stop yourself from reaching out to run your hands down his chest. His abs tense and contract when you caress them. By the time you reach the waistband of his sweatpants, you've lost the little bit of courage you had.

"I want you to sit on my face." Taehyung's voice is thick and gravelly. There's a dangerous edge to it that you can't quite name.

"O-okay," you whimper.

A thrill pulses through your body when you remember what Taehyung is.

He's a person, not a monster. But he's dangerous all the same.

Taehyung lies on his back and holds his arms out, coaxing you forward. His large hands squeeze your thighs, just below your ass, to haul you further up until you're hovering right over his face.

"Are you su-"

"It is impossible for you to understand how painful it has been to wait for this moment." Taehyung holds eye contact with you as he slides his hands up to squeeze your ass cheeks and pull your pussy down onto his mouth.

"Oh my god," you moan, scrambling to grab the bedframe to steady yourself.

Taehyung licks a stripe from your entrance to your clit, lapping up the mouthwatering mixture of arousal and blood gushing from you with every pulse of your pussy. Using the tip of his tongue, he swirls your clit, flicking it repeatedly until he gets tired of that and sucks it into his mouth instead.

Your thighs quiver, and chants of Taehyung's name flow from your lips like honey as he tongues your entrance. His mouth is relentless, nipping, licking, and sucking your clit until you're trembling so severely that Taehyung has to prop his arms up to hold most of your weight. It only gets worse when he presses his tongue inside your pussy, fucking into you as he devours your sweet blood and juices with the moans of a starved man.

"T-Taehyung," you gasp, reaching down to dig your fingers into his hair. Your nails scrape against his scalp, and the rumble of his moans into your pussy is to die for. "I'm gonna come, oh my god, oh, pl-, ah, please d-don't-"

Your eyes, which had fallen shut as you focused on the feeling of Taehyung's mouth on your pussy, fly open when something sharp presses into the inside of your thigh. You look down to see Taehyung's fangs buried into your flesh, just at the crease of your inner thigh, where the skin is soft and supple. The pain quickly morphs into mind-numbing pleasure, so white hot that it feels like your brain is melting out of your ears when you finally come.

You slump forward with your face pressed against the wall and your hands weakly gripping the bed frame as your body convulses in Taehyung's hold.

"Tae, Tae, Taehyung, oh god." It hurts how deeply he bites into you, but the longer he clamps on, the more intoxicated you become by the venom all vampires carry in their bite.

It's distracting, the way you feel like you're floating. Your eyes flutter as you feel Taehyung pull you onto the bed on your back. He hovers over you, the bloodied face of a fallen angel closing in on you.

"I'm your first," Taehyung states the question, already knows the answer, but you nod your head to confirm. Taehyung is the first vampire to bite you. It's why the effects are so intense; your body has no built-up immunity.

He's smug as he leans forward to kiss you, shoving his tongue into your mouth to force you to taste yourself on him. It doesn't taste good, but you aren't thinking when you stick your tongue out to lick the blood and cum off his lips. You lick and suck his lips, cleaning them off just to let him dirty you up.

"Fuck, love, you're so fucking sexy," Taehyung growls once you release his bottom lip from between your teeth. "Mine. All mine. You're mine."

You give him a sleepy smile and loop your arms around his neck. "Yours."

Taehyung nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck and runs his tongue along the crease, swiping back and forth between wet kisses.

"Gonna fuck you now, baby." He rakes his fangs down your neck, drawing blood in thin parallel lines. "Mark you, ruin you. Do you want that? Want me to make you feel good?"

Blood trickles down both sides of your neck to pool in your collarbones. Eventually, the pools overflow, sending rivers of red cascading down your chest, past your hardened nipples, and the hickeys Taehyung sucked into the skin of your abdomen. Between your legs, a giant black bruise spreads in your inner thigh, and blood trickles from the multiple puncture wounds there.

“Please, fuck me, please,” you beg, eyes half-closed. Your head lolls to the side to watch Taehyung remove his sweatpants. Red splotches cover the grey fabric like a homemade tie-dye.

“Look at you,” Taehyung’s voice is saccharine. He kneels in front of you on the bed and squeezes the thigh he bit into. With a yelp, your entire body jerks from the pain, though the haze of Taehyung’s venom makes the discomfort temporary. “So pretty.”

Your blood drips from Taehyung’s fingers and follows the lines in his palms down to curve around his wrist. Something stirs inside your stomach as Taehyung smears your blood all over his cock, using it as a lubricant to jerk himself off. His skin turns slick and shiny red.

With his free hand, he cups the back of your knee to hike your leg up, adjusting you into the perfect position for him to swirl the head of his cock in the blood on your thigh. Gathering more on the tip, Taehyung gives himself one last squeeze before positioning himself between your legs.

He isn’t gentle when he enters you, sinking his cock into you in one bloody thrust. How his hip presses into the crease of your thigh hurts, applying pressure to your wounds that still bleed, but the pleasure of Taehyung’s thick cock pounding into you is enough to block out the pain. You’re so high, your soul barely attached to your body as Taehyung fucks you, each stroke fast and deep. His grip on you is supernaturally rough. Bruises immediately bloom across your skin, and his blunt nails dig crescent cuts into your skin.

More blood.

“Feel good, love?” Taehyung’s voice is on edge. He practically growls, and his words are slightly slurred from his fangs dropping down once again. This time, he doesn’t try to retract them. When he kisses you, you feel them press against your lips like cold daggers. One slices a small cut in the corner of your mouth, and blood collects in the creases of your lips until Taehyung sucks it all up.

“Can’t, fuck, get enough.” Taehyung punctuates his sentiments with a snap of his hips. Pleasure rolls off of you in waves, dragging your mind deeper and deeper into a blank void. Taehyung is dizzying, so pretty with his bloody mouth and wild eyes.

Your eyes flutter shut when you feel his lips press against your neck, leaving kisses far gentler than the way he fucks you. The coil building in your stomach is so hot and tight that you don’t even feel the pain of Taehyung biting your neck. You immediately come, your orgasm ripping through your body as Taehyung’s fangs rip through your flesh.

Taehyung moans through his teeth as he comes inside of you, filling you up at the same time he empties you.

“Taehyung,” you try to whisper, but your mouth hardly moves.

He’s drinking too much.

The realization hits you too late. There are bite marks all along your neck, the inside of your thighs, your tits, your wrists. Taehyung has his lips latched onto one of your bloody nipples, lapping up your skin. Your bed is flooded in red, soaked through the sheets and into the mattress.

“You’re mine, love.” Taehyung runs a bloody hand down your face, leaving streaks along your temple. “Fuck those bitches you work with. Those pieces of shit who think you couldn’t possibly love someone like me. They’re wrong, baby—all this shame. Humans drown in it, but not us. We won’t drown.”

Red tears stream down Taehyung’s high cheekbones. You want to comfort him but realize in a panic that you can’t move. With wide eyes, you stare up at Taehyung in a silent plea.

“Shhh, it’s okay, love. You have to let go. Let go for me, and then I’ll keep you safe. Forever, I’ll keep you safe.” Taehyung brings his wrist to his mouth. There’s a sickening crunch, and thick, black blood slides down Taehyung’s forearm like tar.

His elegant fingers squeeze your jaw, forcing you to keep your mouth open as he presses his bleeding wrist to your lips.

“Mine,” Taehyung repeats as he smears his black blood on your lips and lets it leak onto your tongue. “And I will be yours, just like you wanted. No one else's.”

Leaning down, Taehyung digs his fangs into your throat one final time and drinks until your last breath dies in your lungs.

Halloween 2023 Masterlist

do not copy, repost, modify, or translate any of my work

#bts x reader #taehyung x reader #bts fanfic #taehyung fanfic #taehyung angst #taehyung smut #bts angst #bts smut #jai writes #gimmethatagustd #halloween 2023 #bots

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meiieiri · 7 months

Text

water’s edge | concept dump

₊˚.༄ pairing: crown prince!gojo satoru x f!reader | setting: modern royal au

₊˚.༄ summary: in a world where titles define their fates, gojo satoru, the crown prince of japan, and his wife-to-be, face a tempestuous court of deception and schadenfreude. as they waltz on the edge of ruin, can their love endure the treacherous waters that threaten to pull them apart, or will the whims of the enigmatic chrysanthemum throne prove strong enough to drown them both?

₊˚.༄ warnings: mean!gojo (but that’s not even the worst of it oh my god what monstrosity have i created), arranged marriage, illness, allusions to criminal activity that may include reckless homicide, physical battery and attempted murder. mentions of depression, cheating, physical and emotional abuse, trauma, adultery. fictional depiction of the japanese imperial family, etc.

LINK TO FULL FIC MASTERLIST HERE!

₊˚.༄ Crown Prince!Gojo who is the only son of the emperor and empress of Japan, the beloved and long-awaited child of his parents. As a child, he had been showered with endless praise and veneration as the one, true, legitimate heir to the chrysanthemum throne. The entire imperial household had expected the prince to inherit an unwavering sense of duty to the crown and to his people much like his fore-bearers, only to be severely disappointed when the prince turns out to be a pathological card shark with ambiguous morals, and a serial womanizer who has slept with countless women from aristocratic backgrounds during the height of his bachelor years.

₊˚.༄ Crown Prince!Gojo who finally incurs his father’s wrath after a nasty bar brawl that leads to him getting unceremoniously arrested and is stripped of his title and properties as crown prince, favoring his half-brother, Prince Suguru Geto, who had been born of the emperor’s affair with one of the empress’s ladies-in-waiting. This incident has prompted his mother, the empress, to help in ratifying his public image by arranging Satoru to marry a commoner with an impeccable standing in Japanese society in a bid to re-portray Satoru as a responsible, married man. The empress, in turn, offers to grant you, Satoru’s future wife-to-be, anything your heart could ever desire.

₊˚.༄ Crown Prince!Gojo who engages in a pantomime act of being a loving husband to you during a state banquet by showering you with endless praise in his speech addressed to all the world leaders in the Akasaka Palace’s reception hall. When he was asked to introduce you, his new wife, the honeyed words came so easily to him. “You see, the princess (Y/N) is no ordinary woman,” he chuckles into the microphone causing the guests to giggle at the sight of what looks to be a bashful newlywed.

“Other than being the first breath of fresh air our family has ever had the pleasure of knowing in so long, and the most active member in our family when it comes to supporting the many royal charities and foundations, she is…” he trails off. You dared to follow the wandering gaze of your husband, who seems to be searching for another pair of eyes in the room. His eyes eventually stop their search, softening at the sight of the one he loved. For a second, you think he is looking at you, and your heart naively skips a beat in your chest as if all these months of inattention and animosity were finally coming to an end.

“…My better half, the keeper of my own heart.”

Many of the ambassador’s wives who sat beside you nudged you in congratulations for being so blessed with such a devoted husband. You crane your head back to smile warmly at them for the kind words only to have ice coat your veins instantly when you see his Chief-of-Staff, Himiko Zenin, sitting about two seats behind you, staring directly at your husband with a wistful look in her eyes, exchanging words of love in a silent oath — one that is far more certain than the rising and the setting of the sun as each day passes with your husband hating you a tad bit more than yesterday, and one that is far more truthful than the wedding vows you shared.

Of course, writing this godforsaken death march-like speech was easy for Satoru, simply because these words of devotion and love were never intended for you anyway; this poetic spiel was written with another woman ensnaring his mind.

₊˚.༄ Crown Prince!Gojo who sneaks out of bed during your wedding night, sparing one last cold glance at your sleeping form before he saunters out the imperial villa to meet his girlfriend in a nearby mountain resort, about half a mile away from the villa. His personal chauffeur had been sworn to secrecy, else, he would incur the wrath of the crown prince.

“I thought you couldn’t get away,” Himiko moans wantonly into his mouth as he roughly takes her from behind, the lewd wet sounds of their lovemaking echoing through the room. He had taken the liberty of secretly bringing Himiko along to your honeymoon, by booking the most expensive suite in the resort for her under another name.

“The bitch is too fucked out to even notice I’m gone— mmph—“ he throws his head back, releasing a pleasured groan when Himiko meets his sharp thrusts, grinding teasingly on his cock as she does so. He grips her hips tightly, readjusting his hips to pound into her from another angle, the muscles on his abs tightening as he gets lost in the feeling of her tight, luscious walls. “Sh-shit, ‘m-m gonna cum—“

“—Ah! S-Satoru,” she was close too, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as the fat tip of his member roughly prods at her cervix.

He half-expected Himiko to be angry with him for engaging in intimate acts with you, but she simply acts like she didn’t hear him. And even if she was upset, why should he, of all people, apologize? She should have known that becoming his mistress entailed having to endure these kinds of things as these were simply Satoru’s marital duties, and by extension, his duty to the crown.

His high washes over him like a tidal wave crashing into the rock shore, grunting as he involuntarily thrusts as he releases inside her, Himiko collapsing onto the pillows as he does. “O-oh, haaa- agh,” his deep tenor moans into her long black hair as his seed paints her walls, holding her close to his form, their heartbeats racing a million miles an hour.

He pulls out his flaccid cock, plopping down next to her, pulling her small frame for her head to rest on his chest. “I just need to have father reinstate me as heir apparent and return all my estates, then,” he kisses her once, his lips moving in sync with her soft ones.

“…We’ll get rid of her.”

₊˚.༄ Crown Prince!Gojo who blatantly and publicly humiliates you by bringing along Himiko Zenin to a state visit to the imperial family’s counterpart in Monaco rather than you, his rightful wife. And when asked of your whereabouts, Satoru simply replies with a casual shrug, his hand squeezing Himiko’s smaller ones as she usurps the banquet thrown in your honor by the Monacan royal family while you watch the horrific scene unfold on your television screen, your heart shattering into a million pieces as Himiko and Satoru uncaringly waltz with one another in front of the watchful eyes of the entire world throughout the evening.

₊˚.༄ Crown Prince!Gojo who crucifies you for your acts of sincere charity, believing you to be actively humiliating Himiko despite having no intentions whatsoever resembling his baseless accusation. “Did you honestly think your little publicity antics would go unpunished? I bet you were just itching for the attention, weren’t you?” he snarls at you the second you come back from a visit to one of the hospitals you had commissioned for the treatment of children with rare diseases, a compassionate act which had been heavily televised by national broadcasting stations and even international news agencies. “If you wish to compete with Himiko, wife, then, by all means. But I swear to you, I will do everything — everything I can — to make the entire world know just how much of an opportunistic whore you are—”

You gaze up at your husband with fear in your eyes. “…I was not competing with Himiko, can I not care for our people — your people? I’m sure they need someone to promote their interests when their own prince couldn’t be bothered to do so!” you retaliate but are quickly shot down when he throws his scotch glass at the wall, causing you to flinch when it shatters on impact.

“I will make sure this humiliation you dealt to Himiko will return to you tenfold, (Y/N),” he dangerously seethes, coming to the aid of his mistress. “Celebrate your victory all you want, wife, but make no mistake, this is far from over.”

₊˚.༄ Crown Prince!Gojo who indifferently scoffs when you crumble into a sobbing mess after yet another argument with him. “W-what can I do to make you not hate me so much? P-please tell me, Satoru.” The only response you receive is your husband dangerously moving closer to you, his eyes, dark with pure loathing. Instinctively, you step backward, only to be met by the cold wall of your shared bedroom. “S-Satoru—“

“—Here’s what you can do: do exactly as I say, without question,” he traps you between his arms, his breath hot on your skin, his lips dangerously close to yours, his voice dripping with the venom that could turn every silver thread in your heart into a hue that resembled charcoal black. “If I tell you to kiss me, you kiss me. If I tell you to get out, you get out. If I tell you to shut up, you sew your mouth shut or rip your tongue out, I really don’t give a damn. If I tell you to die…”

…

“…You drop dead.”

a/n: meh, just wrote this at the top of my head to get rid of this stupid writer’s block since hehe i have like eighteen drafts of jjk smut and drabbles in my tumblr folder rn help :’)

might turn this into a multi-chapter fic depending on how it is received. so lemme know your thoughts by reblogging, liking or commenting on this post!

#jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo angst #jjk angst #gojo satoru x reader angst #gojo x reader

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