Can you do jealous Djed? Thank you!!
DESPERATE FOR SHELTER — DJED SPENCE.
pairing: djed spence x reader(afab) genre: smut, NSFW warnings: needy/insecure!djed spence, soft jealousy (he's a yearner!!), oral (f. receiving), established relationship, very cutesy and soft actually wc: 3k a/n: thank you for the request!! i'm not usually a fan of the typical "you're mine" jealousy trope, so i hope you won't be disappointed!
The metal of the bench is cool against the backs of your thighs, the late-afternoon sun dipping low enough to stretch long shadows across the pitch. You’ve watched the session from start to finish — you always do, knowing how much it means to him — but for the last twenty minutes, you’ve just been mindlessly scrolling on your phone, letting the distant rumble of shouts wash over you.
Practice wrapped up a while ago, the rest of the team already scattered toward the locker rooms. Djed promised he’d be out by eight. It’s quarter past now.
You’re just about to push yourself up to stretch your legs and shake off the chill when a shadow falls over you, blocking the last of the sunlight.
“Hey?”
You look up. It isn't Djed.
It’s one of the newer guys — broad-shouldered, carrying a casual grin, and inexplicably still wearing his full training kit. You’ve spotted him around the grounds over the last week or so, but you’ve never actually spoken to him. Honestly, you rarely talk to any of Djed’s teammates. The rest of the squad knows you’re Djed's girl, and more importantly, they know how territorial he gets. But this guy is clearly a kamikaze. He hasn't gotten the memo yet.
Well. He’s about to.
“Hi.” You offer a brief, polite smile — the customer-service kind that lasts maybe two seconds and makes it obvious you aren't interested.
He misses the hint entirely.
“So... can I get the pretty girl’s name?”
The polite smile stays pinned to your face, nowhere near reaching your eyes. “I have a boyfriend.”
He chuckles, a little too loud for the emptying pitch. “Right, yeah, that’s what they all say when you try to say hello.”
Without asking, he drops onto the bench beside you — closer than he has any right to be, his thigh almost pressing against yours. He starts rambling about the session, gesturing lightly, clearly trying to pivot and slide into a smooth conversation. But you’re not even listening anymore, because his hand has landed on the bench right next to yours. His fingers lightly graze the edge of your knuckles.
Maybe it’s an accident.
Then his pinky hitches over yours.
You immediately yank your hand back, your heart giving a sharp kick against your ribs. “I don’t think-”
“Hey.”
Just one word, but it’s enough to tell you Djed has seen plenty. And judging by the slow thud of his footsteps on the turf, he’s already closed the distance. If this rookie had an ounce of sense, he’d gather his things and disappear. Instead, he just sits there. Idiot.
You turn your head just as Djed stops right at the edge of the bench. You stand up immediately and step into his side like a lifeline.
A light sheen of sweat still gleams on his temples, his long dreadlocks pulled back away from his face. He doesn't look at you. His eyes are locked onto the other player — dark, unreadable, his mouth pressed into a flat line.
His arm comes around your waist. It isn't gentle, but it isn't rough either. Just heavy. Protective. His fingers sink right into the soft flesh above your hip, anchoring you to his side. You can feel the heat of him through his shirt.
“Good session?” he asks, though he isn't asking you.
The guy blinks, trying to recover his footing. “Yeah, yeah, decent. Was just keeping your girl company.”
A tiny, bitter laugh threatens to bubble up in your throat. Now he acts like having a boyfriend means something.
Djed’s thumb shifts. It slips right beneath the hem of your shirt, finding bare skin. The sudden warmth of his palm sends a shiver straight down your spine. He still doesn't look down at you — his eyes remain locked onto the other man, unblinking.
“Appreciate that,” Djed says, his voice dangerously low.
His thumb drags a lazy circle against your waist. The pad of his skin is calloused and warm, pressing in just firm enough that you know it’ll leave a faint, tender mark by morning. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from letting out a breathy gasp.
“We should grab food,” he continues, the casual edge in his tone entirely fake. “You hungry, baby?”
You manage a small nod. It’s hard to keep a straight face watching the rookie slowly back away the second Djed’s focus shifts off him.
“I’ll let you two get to it, then. Good meeting you.” With a quick step, the guy turns on his heel and practically vanishes into the shadows, like he was never there at all.
Djed doesn't say a word. His jaw is set, the muscle flexing right beneath his ear, and the arm locked around your waist hasn't loosened even a fraction. You’re pinned flush against his side, like you’ve been stitched into his skin.
Finally, when the sound of the rookie’s hurried footsteps fades into total silence, you can’t hold it in anymore. You break into a quiet laugh, ducking your head to bury your face in the warm crook of his neck.
“You should’ve seen his face,” you murmur, teasing him softly. “You really need to be a little nicer to the new guys.”
You know he’s going to roll his eyes before he even does it.
Sure enough, his chest huffs against yours. “New guys need to learn not to flirt with taken girls.”
You twist slightly within his grip, just enough to look up at him. He’s still staring down the empty place where the guy was standing a minute ago, his nostrils flared, his breathing slow and measured.
“Hey,” you try again, softer this time. “Look at me. I’m right here.”
That breaks the spell.
He exhales and lets his forehead fall forward to rest against the crown of your head. His dreads drape over your shoulders, tickling your cheek, smelling like fresh grass, heat, and that familiar clean scent that’s entirely him.
“Let’s go home.”
The drive is silent.
Djed’s hand rests on your thigh the entire way, his palm heavy and warm through the fabric of your skirt, his broad fingers flexing tight against your skin every time the car idles at a red light. You watch the blurred yellow haze of the streetlamps flicker past the window, wondering what’s going on behind those quiet eyes. He’s never been the yeller. Never thrown a punch. But the weight of his grip tells you everything he isn't saying out loud — a quiet energy humming just beneath his skin.
The flat is dark when you walk in. He kicks off his trainers, drops his keys on the sideboard.
You’re only halfway through shrugging off your jacket when his arms come around you from behind, pulling you back against his chest so suddenly your breath hitches. He doesn't let you step away — his arms wrap tight around your waist, burying you in his warmth, molding your back completely flush against his chest.
Before you can even loosen the sleeves, he buries his face into the sensitive curve of your neck. He nuzzles deep into your skin, inhaling you in one shaky breath, like he’s trying to erase every single person who looked at you tonight. His hand slips inside your jacket, palm resting flat against your ribcage, right over the thumping rhythm of your heart.
Unlike your own wildly racing pulse, his breathing is steady and calm. His hand smooths slowly down over your lower stomach and hip, holding you so firmly it’s as if he’s afraid you’ll dissolve right through his fingers if he lets go.
The longer he holds you like this, the messier your breathing becomes. For a split second, a flicker of embarrassment washes over you — he’s clearly in such a raw, overwhelmed state right now, holding onto you like you’re made of fragile glass, and yet you can’t stop the sudden heat pooling in your belly from the stroke of his hand against your skin, or the delicious thrill of your back pressed tight against his broad chest.
“Djed?” you whisper softly.
A low sound rumbles from his chest — not words, but a deep and needy whine that vibrates straight through your collarbone. His thumb strokes the side of your neck once, slow and deliberate, tracing your jumpy pulse before his hands slide beneath your thighs and sweep you up off your feet. He effortlessly peels the half-off jacket down your arms, letting it pool onto the floor as he carries you down the dim hallway.
He lays you down softly in the middle of the mattress. The bedroom is bathed in the warm glow of the little nightstand lamp in the corner — the soft, golden light he always leaves on when he comes home exhausted from training, making the room feel enclosed and safe. He follows you down, but he doesn't pin you beneath his weight or hover over you. Instead, he shifts downward, sinking between your legs and pressing his face right into your stomach. His hands grip your waist and hips like he’s anchoring himself to you, his nose nudging the fabric of your top as he lets out a breath he feels like he’s been holding for hours.
“Couldn’t stand it,” he mutters into your belly button. “Seeing him next to you.”
Your hands drift to his head, fingers sliding into his dreadlocks. “Nothing happened.”
“He touched you.”
“Barely.”
You can feel the subtle tension in his jaw, the raw bruise to his pride. You know he feels stupid for being this affected — he knows you love him, knows there’s no reason to be threatened, but logic doesn't stop the quiet sting of seeing someone else step into his space. Around you, he can’t even pretend to hide it.
Djed’s arms tighten around your middle. He’s so much bigger than you — his broad shoulders and long legs draped heavily over the lower half of the bed. It’s a striking contrast: this massive athlete curled against your lap like he’s desperate for shelter. Looking down at him like this, so raw and stripped of his public composure, sends another ache straight to the pit of your stomach. A slow heat pooling low in your hips, turning your skin warm.
His hands shift, sliding beneath the waistband of your top just enough for his warm palms to press flush against the skin of your waist.
“Take this off,” he murmurs, his large hands tugging impatiently at the hem of your top. It’s a plea, you realize.
You lift your arms, letting him peel the fabric over your head and toss it to the floor. Your bra follows seconds later. The cool air hits your chest, but before you can shiver, his mouth is on your stomach — open, hot, and wet, trailing slow, heavy kisses across your ribcage.
His dreads spill across your torso like dark silk, tickling the sensitive skin of your waist.
“Tell me I’m the only one,” he pleads, the words pressed directly into your sternum. “Tell me.”
“You’re the only one,” you breathe, your fingers tightening in his hair as a sudden wave of arousal makes your skin feel painfully sensitive.
His tongue traces a maddeningly slow line along the underside of your breast. “Again.”
“Djed, you’re the only-”
He takes your nipple into his mouth, and the rest of the sentence dissolves into a gasp. His lips are soft but insistent, sucking with a rhythm that sends a bolt of heat straight down between your thighs. Your hips involuntarily arch off the mattress, seeking a friction that isn't there yet.
One of his hands slides lower, his thumb hooking beneath the waistband of your skirt. He doesn’t rush — that’s the thing about Djed. Even when he’s needy, even when he’s desperate, he takes his time, worshipping every inch of you. He switches to your other breast, laving it with the exact same slow, agonizing devotion while his fingers tug down your skirt with agonizing patience.
You lift your hips to help him, kicking the clothes away until you’re completely bare beneath him in the golden light, while he’s still fully dressed in his training kit.
“Not fair,” you pant, the contrast making you feel deliciously exposed.
Djed chuckles, shooting you a quick, playful glare that makes your cheeks flush. But before he moves down any further, he grabs the hem of his own shirt with one smooth motion, pulling it over his head and tossing it somewhere behind him.
The sudden sight of him — his defined abs, broad chest, and rich, dark skin gleaming in the warm lamplight — makes your breath catch in your throat. He’s still wearing his heavy training joggers, but now you have the bare expanse of his chest right above you
Djed lifts his head, his eyes finally meeting yours. They’re dark, heavy-lidded, and rimmed with a raw vulnerability that makes your heart hammer against your ribs.
“Need to taste you,” he rumbles.
Your stomach clenches hard at the words. He shifts down further, settling his broad chest between your knees, spreading your thighs wide over his shoulders. His calloused thumbs press right into the soft crease where your thigh meets your hip, massaging slow circles into your skin that leave your breathing ragged.
“Look at me.”
You do.
He holds your gaze as he lowers his mouth, and the first stroke of his tongue is so soft you almost don’t feel it. Then firmer, parting you, finding the spot that makes your back arch off the mattress.
A ragged breath tears from your throat, caught somewhere between a gasp and a whimpering sigh, as your head falls back against the pillows. Your eyes roll shut on their own, the world blurring into pure sensation as your left hand blindly clutches at the duvet, knuckles turning white as you bundle the fabric in your fist.
His dreads brush the insides of your thighs, sending goosebumps shivering across your sensitive skin. The contrast between his coarse hair and your bare skin makes your hips pulse in anticipation. Your right hand searches for him, your fingers tangling deep into the dreads, pulling him closer — gripping tight just to anchor yourself against the sudden, overwhelming wave of heat pulling low in your belly.
“So good,” he murmurs into you, the vibration shooting sparks through your core. “Taste so good, baby.”
His tongue works in patterns you can’t track — lazy circles, then flat strokes, then sudden flicks that have desperate sounds tearing from your throat. He reads your body like a language he’s fluent in, adjusting the rhythm and pressure based on every hitched breath, every shudder, every way your hips roll against his face.
One of his hands leaves your waist, sliding lower until a finger presses lightly against your entrance. Not pushing in yet — just resting there, waiting for your permission. The simple weight of his fingertip brushed against you, hovering without pushing, makes your hips shift up against him in desperate impatience, practically begging for more.
“Please, Djed…” The word cracks out of you.
He slides in one finger, then two, curling upward in a way that makes your vision stutter. Your head falls back against the pillows, every muscle in your body taut, hit by the realization that you never want this feeling to end — that if he stopped now, it would break you.
And it’s like he hears the silent plea in your posture. His mouth never stops, his tongue relentless now, driving you wild while his fingers work in perfect sync. The dual sensation has you climbing toward something so intense it feels dangerously close to shattering you completely.
You force your eyes open, fighting through the haze to look down at him. The view from above completely wrecks you: his dark eyebrows furrowed in intense focus, his mouth slick and devoted between your thighs, working so earnestly to pull every broken gasp out of you. Watching him give himself over to you so completely, looking so dangerously handsome and concentrated on your pleasure, almost sends you over the edge right then and there.
He pulls back just a fraction, his lips glistening, his chin slick in the soft amber light. His eyes look up at you, completely wrecked and wide with a desperate, heavy need.
“Tell me,” he pleads. “Please… just tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you whisper. “Only yours, Djed.”
He leans in to press a hot, lingering kiss to the delicate skin of your inner thigh, his breath searing hot against your damp skin as a shudder rolls through his shoulders at the raw sound of your voice.
He adds a third finger, stretching you gently, and you watch the muscles in his forearm flex with the motion. His mouth descends again, sucking hard on your clit, and the combination finally tips you over the edge.
Your body convulses. Overwhelming pleasure snaps through you, making your thighs clamp tight around his head. He groans into you, relishing the way you squeeze around his fingers, riding out every pulse, every aftershock, until you’re left completely limp, trembling, and gasping for air against the pillows.
For a long moment, the room is silent except for the sound of your shared breathing. His fingers slowly slip free, leaving you feeling delightfully empty and aching for the rest of him.
He crawls back up your body slowly, leaving a trail of damp kisses across your stomach, your chest, and the sensitive crook of your throat. His face is entirely undone — lips swollen, eyes needy, his dreads falling wild around his shoulders as he collapses against you.
“Don’t ever leave me,” he whispers, burying his face into your neck as his chest heaves.
His hips press flush against your thigh, and you can feel how painfully hard he is, his dick trapped behind the thick fabric of his joggers. But he doesn’t demand anything, he doesn't ask. He doesn’t rut against you or try to rush you. He just clings to you, his massive arms wrapped tightly around your waist, his ragged breaths cooling against your collarbone.
You run your fingers through his hair with soothing strokes. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A shudder rolls through him. After a beat of quiet silence, he shifts just enough to rub the heavy bulge of his length along the side of your thigh. The friction sends a fresh pulse of heat pooling low in your stomach, reawakening that familiar ache between your legs.
“Need to be inside you,” he whispers, so quiet you barely catch it. “Need to feel you around me…”
He lifts his head, his glassy eyes searching your face for permission.
And then he waits.
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the ledger of sins
