Work Text
Owen is nearly five hours into writing a report that isn’t getting any easier and rueing his agreement to dedicate his Saturday to something this mundane when Joan walks into his home office, takes him by the hand, and drags him into his bedroom.“I’m kind of in the middle of something,” he feels obliged to complain, but goes willingly when she pushes him towards the bed.“I’ve let you be in the middle of it all morning, and I’m bored of waiting,” she says. “Sit back against the headboard.”While he moves, she strips out of her clothes and unpins her long hair. He breasts bounce as she shakes it loose.He licks his lips. “I have a deadline,” he says, but even pretending to object is difficult to pull off when she’s coming towards him with that look on her face.“Better be fast then,” she quips, crawling up the bed and then turning and settling between his legs, her back against his chest. She hooks her legs over his so they’re spread wide, and rests her head against his shoulder. He breathes in the smell of her shampoo. “It shouldn’t take you too long to give me just a little orgasm, right?”He puts his hands on her breasts instead of her clit just to be obstinate, rolls her nipples between his fingers until her breathing gets heavy.“And do I get an orgasm during this little study break?” he asks.She laughs. “Maybe if there’s time at the end.”
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He’s always appreciated lingerie. Not that he could articulate why, but there’s something about the delicacy of the lace and the way a woman moves so deliberately when she’s wearing it, her careful motions revealing her hyperawareness of the garment’s fragility, that catches his attention. And of course he loves the texture of it against his skin, loves running his fingers over the patterns and edges of it slowly.
Joan doesn’t believe in lingerie. She barely believes in bras.
“They’re unhealthy, you know,” she tells him when he discovers that she takes hers off as soon as she gets home from work. “Bad for your spine. And it’s not like my breasts don’t look perfectly fine without it.”
Owen is not inclined to disagree.
The concession she makes for him is stockings — an old-fashioned design, stitched from silk, with seams running up the back. When she guides him down her body and slips her legs over his shoulders, he can feel the line of them press into his back down to where her heels dig into his ribs. The sensation is at odds with the slipperiness of the fabric.
Being able to feel but not see them hits a spot in him he didn’t expect.
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Joan loves watching Owen cry. He’s always so quiet about it. His chest heaves with deep breaths and there’s small, aborted moans in the back of his throat as the tears well up and spill over, one by one, and it’s always beautiful. Her favorite thing about it is probably that he doesn’t try to hide it, just lets the tears run down his face without shame — not that there’s much room for any kind of shame after he’s let her strip him naked and tease him to the point of tears.
When he’s tied up she’ll sometimes brush the tears away for him or catch them on her fingertips before they can drip off his jaw. Usually, though, her hands are otherwise occupied, grasping onto his shoulders as she rides him slowly, or carefully carving scratch marks down his thighs.
She like to kiss him all over, afterwards. When he’s cried, she can taste the salt of it across his skin.
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As far as non-standard erogenous zones go, Joan has a thing for the curve of Owen’s back. When she pulls him into a kiss and holds him close with a hand right there, he basically melts against her.
What she really likes, though, is how his hands rest right about the dip of his spine when he gets down on his knees facing away from her, crosses his arms behind himself, and lets her bind them carefully.
And what she loves is that when she folds him forward until his face is buried in the mattress and he’s holding most of his weight on one shoulder as she slides a finger into him and curls it until he moans, and then runs her free hand over the small of his back to steady him, he always shivers with pleasure.
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Joan has a presence about her, a way of taking up space that is frankly impressive considering she’s five foot nothing with her heels on the ground. She usually switches it off at work. With patients, she’s perfectly unthreatening; while observing Ellie’s experiments she's so unassuming that she practically melts into the wall. But ten minutes later, she can walk into Owen’s office with so much authority in her stride that no one would dare question her. It’s a transformation that he’s never quite mastered or understood, but when she clicks the lock on the door and tells him to remove his tie, he can barely remember that a less commanding version of her exists.“I have a theory,” she says, making her way around his desk.He wants to tell her that he has a meeting in ten minutes, but of course she would have checked his schedule before coming in like this, and of course she wouldn’t do anything that would get them found out, so he just slips the tie loose and leans back in his chair.“What about?”“You,” she replies calmly, coming to a stop directly in front of him. She places one knee in the middle of the seat and slides it forward until he has to spread his legs to accommodate her, and then she rather methodically opens his suit coat and removes the audio recorder from the interior pocket. She clicks it on and places it on the desk.She tilts his head back slowly with a guiding hand on his chin, and ghosts the other hand across his neck. She presses her thumb against the hollow of his throat firmly enough that he reflexively opens his mouth to catch his breath. In the silence he can hear his own breathing go slightly ragged as his heartbeat picks up. He swallows loudly. Her knee presses more firmly against him, and he’s already half hard.“I suspect that you would sound absolutely lovely choking around a cock,” Joan says, and it’s only her slightly dilated pupils that give away she’s being affected by this at all. “I don’t have one of those with me right now, but I’d like to experiment.”She drags her thumb across his bottom lip and then slides one finger into his mouth as far as she can reach, pressing down against the back of his tongue until he can feel it in his throat. Between that and the continued pressure against his neck, he only lasts a few seconds before he’s gagging and coughing. He pulls away reflexively, and Joan lets him go for a moment before putting her hand around the back of his neck.“Once more,” she says, and he can’t do anything but lick his lips and open his mouth again willingly. She keeps her hand on the back of his neck while she presses two fingers into his mouth, and that makes it slightly easier to breathe around it for a little bit longer, but he’s still gagging wetly against her fingers again within seconds; this time her grip is firm enough that he can’t squirm out of it until she lets him. When she finally releases him and withdraws her fingers, he curls forward, coughing and gasping and as hard as he’s ever been.She runs her wet fingers through his hair and makes a dispassionate hmmm sound.“Interesting,” she says.By the time he catches his breath, she’s disappeared out the door.He turns the recorder off and slips it back into his pocket and tries to figure out how the hell he’s supposed to keep himself together for the rest of the day.
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After, she unknots the scarves, makes him stretch his arms and legs and back and neck, prods him into the shower and then into pajamas.
(“Boxers are not pajamas. Honey. You’re going to wake up cold in an hour.”
“Not if you keep me warm.”
“At least put on a shirt.”)
She stacks pillows so she’s more reclining than lying down, and then she lets him crawl between her legs and lay face-down across her chest. She bends her knees around his hips and runs her hands through his hair, down the back of his neck, over his shoulders and back, carefully avoiding the scratch marks she’d left there earlier.
He shifts, and his jaw presses against one of her ribs. “What’re you thinking?” he asks, eyes closed, right on the edge of consciousness.
Joan traces a finger along his eyebrow and then down his cheek, the gentlest ghost of a touch. “How beautiful you look —”
“Sap.”
“ —
especially
when you’re all tied up like that.”
He laughs and she can feel it against her chest. “Kinky,” he says.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
He just hums sleepily, but he’s smirking.
God, she likes him way too much.
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Joan doesn’t like scarves for herself, or ropes or handcuffs or any of the other materials Owen’s used or seen used to tie someone down. She likes his hands.
So he wraps his fingers tightly around her upper arms and pushes her back against a wall and then kisses her hungrily as she squirms against him; he shoves her to her knees and holds her in place with both hands tugging at her hair as he presses himself into her mouth and keeps her there until her face goes red; he lays one forearm across her hips and presses her into the bed with all of his weight as he rubs his other thumb over her clit.
He leaves bruises sometimes. When she asks him to. Marks from his fingers or his teeth all down her neck and chest and thighs. She looks at them in the mirror for a week afterwards and feels a thrill in the pit of her stomach. That alone balances out the inconvenience of having to wear a scarf into the office every day, which means that catching Owen flushing and looking away when he sees her adjust her collar is just a bonus.