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50 ways to leave your lover. (6k followers celebration fic!)
(michael 'robby' robinavitch x ex-wife!reader)
The four times Robby tries to win you back after your divorce, and the one time he finally manages to lock it all down.
warnings: 18+, mdni! explicit sexual content, ex-husband!robby, robby's done some work pre-sabbatical in this universe, doesn't follow pitt s2 timelines, age gap (34/52), robby sleeps with his medical student (what's new?) oral (f receiving), protected sex, ditching dates for your ex-husband w/c: 5k
main masterlist // robby masterlist
Number one. Eighteen months post-divorce. The Abbot-Mohan wedding.
Stupid Jack Abbot.
Were it not his wedding day today, you'd seriously consider wringing his neck. The only thing stopping you is the prospect of widowing Samira after three hours of marriage.
Your first encounter had been right at the front door, where Robby and Jack were positioned to greet the guests.
This, you were prepared for.
Jack's his best friend. There was no way he wasn't going to be at this wedding. So, you plaster a smile across your face, and put on the show of a lifetime.
Jack's easy. You've always liked him. He was Best Man at your own wedding to Robby.
It becomes more of a struggle when your eyes land on the man you thought you'd be with for the rest of your life. "Michael," You nod curtly, decidedly not going in for the hug you had with Jack.
He holds a hand to his chest in faux-offence. "You wound me, sweetheart. I thought we put the animosity to bed with the divorce settlement."
There hadn't been much to settle. No children, and Robby let you keep the house. The only thing he let you give him was your engagement ring.
The sight of it made you sick. A reminder of all the ways you failed each other.
At the time, it felt like an attack - like he was trying to one-up you, prove that he could be the bigger person. Eighteen months on, you're endlessly glad you didn't have to try and find another place to live while your world was crumbling around you.
"You look good," he continues, and when your gaze meets his, you know he's being sincere.
"I should get inside," is your reply. "I promised Dana I'd grab seats for her and Benji."
And with that, your first interaction with Robby in twelve months comes to a close.
*****
Glancing quickly at the seating chart, your heart sinks when you see your name scrawled next to Michael Robinavitch. Normally Best Man is up beside the couple, but the Mohan-Abbots had opted for a sweetheart table.
Meaning you're doomed to four hours of your ex-husband's company. And what's worse: you're enjoying it.
Robby's always looked good in a tux, but the charm offensive is at its highest today - pressing a kiss to your cheek in greeting, dealing out the compliments in spades, and refilling your glass each time it starts to get low.
"Remember ours?" He asks, voice quiet as he leans over to you during the first dance.
"Of course I do. We danced to Roy Orbison and then my heel snapped halfway through, so I had to go barefoot for the rest of the night."
"That was a good day," He muses, expression unreadable as he watches Jack and Samira. He looks almost... wistful?
"Yeah, it was. Pity they weren't all like that."
Against all the odds, COVID had been one of the better times for you and Robby. Freshly married, where the work had been absolute hell, you'd found solace in each other.
Things were good, until they weren't. Until Robby couldn't outrun his demons anymore, and then stopped trying entirely.
"Yeah, uhm, about that..." He says softly. "I wanted to apologise."
This you weren't expecting. Arching an eyebrow, you turn towards him. "For what?"
"For everything," Robby murmurs, his gaze finally dropping from Jack and Samira to his own hands. He swallows hard, his jaw tight as he traces the line of his thumb. "For checking out. Giving up on us."
Your hand tightens around your wine glass, as you search his expression - looking for the catch, the deflection. You find none. "It's in the past now, anyway." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "We just... weren't meant to be. And that's fine."
"Mhm," is his only response. As if unconvinced.
You're not even sure you've convinced yourself, much less him, and against your better judgement, he talks you into a dance.
Were it not a wedding, you're positive you'd be able to resist him. But when it feels like everybody around you is perfectly happy and coupled up, you find it incredibly easy to slip back into Robby's embrace.
You still have some sense.
Keeping his hand firmly on your waist, rather than slipping downwards to where it used to settle, you try and think of anything but the man in front of you.
The potential melanoma that you saw in clinic last week.
Not the wrinkle lines that crease at Robby's eyes.
Your shopping list for next week.
Not how warm he feels against you.
The fact that you're running out of Black Honey.
Not anything to do with Michael Robinavitch.
You tap out after a ballad, unable to take the proximity to him anymore, and excuse yourself to go mingle with Dana and Perlah.
The rest of the night is spent willing yourself not to look back over at him.
*****
"You know, it'll be us next," Robby says, voice low as he watches you say goodbye to Samira.
"By us, do you mean your ex-wife?" Jack asks, eyebrow arched. "Because I hate to break it to you, brother, but you've already done that. And it went up in fuckin' flames."
"It would be different this time," Robby shakes his head.
"Yeah? How?"
"You'll see." Robby pats Jack on the back, and gets to his feet, moving to intercept you as you make for the door. The stairs down from the venue are pretty steep, and he clocked your Louboutins during dinner.
He bought you that pair on your honeymoon. He wonders if you remember.
"Need a hand?"
He can see that you're about to decline, before taking a sample step, and letting out a sigh. "Yes, please."
Robby tries not to let the contact get to his head too quickly as he slips an arm through yours. He hadn't even realised until tonight just how much he's missed you.
Truly.
The days after he moved out of your shared house had been some of the worst of his entire life. After about six months of no-contact, he'd finally decided that he needed to get his life together, and move on with things.
Get back on the horse, as Jack put it.
Except now it's eighteen months on from the divorce, he's been on exactly zero dates, and all he can think about is winning you back.
"This is purely because I can't walk in these shoes," You warn. "Nothing more."
Robby's jolted from his daydream and back to reality. Right. You don't want him back at all.
He's gotta find a way to change that.
Number two. Nineteen months post-divorce. A persistence.
After Jack and Samira's wedding, you're not expecting to see Robby again until they start having kids and you're invited to the baby shower.
That doesn't appear to be the case when you watch his motorcycle pull into the parking lot of your clinic exactly one week later.
A notch appears between your brows immediately, but you're still in the middle of a consultation - you have a feeling that your patient wouldn't be too thrilled with you leaping up to investigate.
Instead, you assure her that her mole has not, in fact, grown three centimetres since you saw her last week. It takes multiple pictures and two rulers before she'll even consider that it may be stress-related.
By the time you're finished, the last person you want to deal with is your ex-husband.
At least it's a paeds clinic after lunch. The children tend to be much easier to handle, and usually have straight-forward presentations. Eczema, contact dermatitis, or psoriasis for the teens.
All things you can do in your sleep.
But first, lunch. And getting Michael Robinavitch to leave.
He's leaning over the desk at reception, one of his more charming smiles plastered across his face as he talks to Pippa at reception. âI was just wondering if you knew when she'd be finishâ oh, there she is. No need. Thanks for all your help.â
You've known Pippa for two years, and you've never once seen her crack a smile out in the lobby. She's practically grinning at Robby.
Uh oh.
This is bad.
Still scowling at him, you reach for the collar of his shirt and tug sharply, forcing him to fall into step behind you as you head for your office.
You don't need to air all your dirty laundry in the middle of your practice.
As soon as the door clicks shut, you're spinning on your heel. âWhat the hell are you doing here?â
Robby just shrugs. âYou said you work Fridays usually. Thought you might like some company for lunch.â
âYou know - ex-husbands don't usually just hang out with their ex-wives.â
âWhen have we ever been ordinary though?â He's exhaustingly chipper today - a far cry from his demeanour during the latter years of your marriage.
You take him in, trying to work out if this is all some big practical joke. After trying to tell yourself that the Abbot-Mohan wedding was a fluke, you grudgingly have to admit to yourself that Robby does look good.
He's got exactly the right amount of scruff going for him right now, he's lost the alcohol bloat, and he seems like there's less of the world's weight on his shoulders.
âI don't think this is a good idea.â
âLunch is always a good idea,â He replies easily. âThree meals a day, and all that.â
There's no way out of this. Once Robby sets his mind to something, he's going to get it. Sighing heavily, you reach for your bag and jacket. âOnly if you're paying.â
âAlways, sweetheart.â
You fight the urge to remind him that your salary exceeds his by about 40k a year these days, with all the private work.
Even when you were married, you were still the official breadwinner of the family. Skin pays more than emergencies.
âAnd don't call me sweetheart.â
You're expecting some kind of quip, or snarky remark, but he just nods, and offers you his hand. âGot it.â
âWe're not holding hands.â
Another nod, and he follows you out of the clinic and onto the street. You pretend to miss the looks exchanged between your staff.
A few of them know Robby already, and you're betting the ones that don't are wondering why you've been keeping him a secret.
âNoted. Hand-holding's more of a date two activity then?â
The expression on your face is nothing short of murderous. âThis is not a date. It's lunch.â
âWith somebody you've slept with many, many times before.â
Whatever illusions you'd managed to conjure of Robby after the wedding are completely shattered.
Because Michael Robinavitch is many things, but cool and suave are not amongst them. He's annoying and persistent, and a bad husband.
âI'm going back inside and ordering from Uber Eats-â
âNo, no, no - wait!â A hand curls round your wrist, and you think that there might be a hint of desperation in his tone. âM'sorry, shit - just, don't go.â
âWhy not?â Yanking your arm out of his grasp, you cross them both over your chest, and do your best to stare him down.
He swallows heavily, voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. âI miss you.â
"Robby," You sigh, but he cuts you off.
"We were in each other's lives for almost a decade - don't you think it's a little unnatural for that to have all disappeared? Surely we can be friends."
You have to bite back a scream. "If I remember correctly, it was you who didn't want to be friends."
"I didn't want us to break up in the first place!"
It slips out without thought, and you're suddenly regretting taking a lunch break at all. "I'm not doing this here," You start, but he beats you to the draw.
"Fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He scratches the back of his neck, and glances around the sidewalk before his chin drops to his chest. "I've been doing the work. Going to therapy, no more alcohol, you name it. M'even taking some time off work to really get into it all."
The Robby you were married to would never have considered taking the blame for his actions.
"Can't undo the last decade, Michael," you reply softly.
"I know," he insists. "I know. Believe me. It's a well-discussed topic in therapy. I just... I'm trying to be better. And I want to try and make things right with you. One hundred percent platonically."
"You literally just called this a date," you deadpan.
He scoffs. "I didn't say I was perfect."
Number three. Twenty months post-divorce. Another man.
Apparently, you and Robby text now.
You're as surprised as anybody else, but in the time you've been separated, Robby's persistence appears to have intensified greatly.
Each Thursday, he meets you at the clinic for lunch, having bribed newly-qualified attending Frank to cover for him.
He offers to pick you up after nights out, which you accept more often than not (you hate getting Ubers when you're drunk).
Currently?
He's fixing your busted boiler.
You'd be lying if you said that you hadn't dropped it into a text because you knew that he would drop everything to come and fix it for you. Even with a sabbatical looming in just a week, his reply had been instantaneous.
Now, you're perched on the washing machine while you watch a sweaty Robby tinker around in the washroom.
He's already been warned that you have a date tonight, and therefore has to be finished by seven - complete honesty is the main policy of this tentatively developing friendship.
All you'd received in response had been a thumbs up.
That means he's furious.
Really, it had been a little mean on your part. But he doesn't have a claim to you anymore, and you need him to know that if he's going to still be in your life.
When you excuse yourself to the bathroom, you're not expecting your phone to be in Robby's hand when you return. "Roger from Hinge said he's going to be late tonight."
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"Your phone vibrated. Thought it might have been an emergency."
You snatch it out of his grasp and scowl. "Why would an emergency text and not call?"
You both go to step at once, awkwardly colliding chest-to-chest. "Can I see a picture of him?"
"What? No!"
"Why not? Thought we were being honest."
It amazes you that Robby manages to somehow be the most serious man you've ever met, and also emulate a toddler with his petulance. You reach for your phone, and don't even notice Robby dipping his head.
His lips are on yours, and suddenly you're twenty-six again and making out with your attending for the first time after the worst shift of your life.
You'd already decided that Emergency Medicine was not for you, but that Michael Robinavitch absolutely was.
In your head, it was going to be a fling. Something sexy and secret for your final year of med school.
The wedding had been a surprise - you never thought that Robby was the type.
The 3 carat emerald cut bezel had told you otherwise. You'd never been able to build up the courage to ask him exactly how much money he spent on it.
The divorce had been an even bigger surprise.
Not to you, by the end. The last eighteen months of your seven-year-marriage had been decidedly less-than-stellar, to the point where couples counselling couldn't even make a dent.
After COVID and Pittfest, you didn't even recognise your husband anymore. You didn't recognise yourself.
While your mind might be surprised by the contact, your body certainly isn't, and you gasp into his mouth.
His hands are everywhere, hauling you closer to him, and you can feel your carefully-applied lipstick smudging across his cheek.
It's only after two minutes of kissing that you finally pull back, and surface to catch your breath. "Robby, I have to go - I have plans."
He's not quite so easily deterred, though. "Yeah, with a guy who looks just like me." You didn't even make it to showing Robby his photo, and yet he's right. Tall, dark, and broody - you've very clearly got a type. He leans in to kiss you again, feeling a perverse sense of pleasure when you melt into his touch. "You could have the real thing, baby. I'm right here."
That's the problem. Ever since you reconnected with him at Jack and Samira's wedding, it's like Robby has been everywhere.
He's practically inescapable.
He moves to suck a mark onto your collarbone, and you make the feeblest of attempts to push him off. "This is a bad idea."
"It's only a bad idea if we make it one," Robby hums, crowding you up against the kitchen counter, as you feel your willpower start to seep away. You have plans with Roger in thirty minutes.
But when Robby sinks to his knees in front of you, hiking one leg over his shoulder, you forget he even exists. âSay the word, and I will,â He mumbles.
There are many words that would end this right now.
Stop. No. Don't.
And yet, your lips can't seem to conjure any of them. You try and form each of the letters, but the only one that forms is an R.
Then an O.
Two B's.
And a Y.
He doesn't need to move your underwear to get you where you need to go. Kissing and nipping, licking and sucking - your grip on the doorframe tightens with every passing second.
Suddenly, you're struck with a vision of a morning with Robby, a week before you filed for divorce. A vision of what your future could be like if you let him in again.
The television hums in the background, something neither of you is watching. Dinner's been sitting in the oven on low for almost half an hour. The chicken is drying out.
You hear him sigh before he even rounds the corner into the kitchen.
"Hey." His voice is flat. Tired.
You look up from the sink. "Hey."
He drops his keys into the bowl by the door. Misses. Doesn't bother picking them up.
"Long day?"
"Mhm."
You wait for something more. Anything. But it doesn't come.
"You want me to plate up dinner?"
"If you want."
It's always 'if you want' these days. It's a Herculean effort to bite your tongue. "My brother called - asked if we wanted to come round next weekend."
"M'working." It's barely more than a grunt.
"You've worked the last six Saturdays - surely someone else could cover. Jack would cover. You could tell them no for once."
"I can't."
"You mean you won't."
"Stop!"
Your voice is the firmest it's been all night. Chest heaving, it's all you can manage to scramble away from Robby. He kneels where he is, hands hesitating where you were just a second ago.
"W-What's wrong? Did I do something?"
Your lip is trembling. âI don't think I can do this again. You hurt me so much, Michael. I-I mean, you're fucking leaving in a week-â
Robby's face falls.
âM'going on sabbatical, not leaving. I'm really trying to work the rest of my shit out. Let me do that, and then let me win you back. Please. I haven't done any of this solely to get you back. But I can't imagine being with anyone else.â
He folds his hands together.
"I spent a long time thinking providing was enough. That if I worked harder, put in more hours, kept the lights on, paid the mortgage..." He shrugs. "That was love."
"You stopped talking to me."
"I know."
"You stopped letting me in."
"I know."
Finally, you summon the courage to ask the million dollar question. "Would it be different this time? If we did it again?"
"Yes." He sounds so sure of his answer that you're almost envious.
But you're still not quite ready. "I hope you're not expecting me to sit at home for three months and wait for you."
"Never," he replies immediately, and you genuinely believe him. "I just want to be in the running again. And earn it. Properly."
Number four. Two years post-divorce. A date.
Robby. 22:01.
Just got back to town
What are you up to?
You hate your heart for doing a little flip as soon as it sees Robby's name flash on your phone.
Two years ago, the same sight made you sick to your stomach.
He had told you that he'd be in touch when he was finished with his sabbatical, but you assumed that meant you'd get a call a week after he was home. Not the same night.
Maybe Michael Robinavitch has had some character growth. Maybe he could be a good husband this time round-
No. You can't let yourself think like that.
You and Robby got divorced for a reason. Many reasons. More reasons than you got married in the first place.
He was married to his work, first and foremost. Never once did he stray, and he barely even glanced at the nurses and interns who would look at him with stars in their eyes, and yet you were still the other woman within your own marriage.
Then there were the self-destructive tendencies. The times when he'd hit the alcohol a little too hard after a long shift, and be almost unresponsive for hours as he slept it off.
Mostly, you think it was the refusal to try and help himself.
To try therapy. Properly. Not just a few meetings before calling it quits, but really making some efforts towards self-improvement. He couldn't do it for himself, and he wouldn't do it for you.
You couldn't handle the stress long-term. Of not knowing when he'd be home that night, or whether you were getting sweet, romantic Michael, or sour-faced Robby.
It had been the hardest decision of your life, serving him with divorce papers.
But it clearly all worked out for the better. You're both healthier apart, though happier is probably debatable. You like the peace that being single affords you.
So why are you considering letting him back in, after all the therapy and work to get over him?
"Is everything okay?" Mark's voice cuts through your spiral, and your gaze snaps up to him.
"Hm?"
"You get bad news or something? You've been staring at your phone for like two minutes."
Shit.
Your fingers start moving before you can consider your response. If Robby's matured so much, he'll be perfectly alright with this.
You. 22:04.
I'm on a date, actually
"Sorry, it was just work. Asking for a consult." Your smile is tight, and you're hoping he doesn't see through the very obvious lie.
If he does, he doesn't comment on it, and you return to your conversation about shares, or stocks, or something equally boring.
Robby had handled all the investment stuff while you were married, and now you pay someone to do it for you.
Finally, he heads up to the bar to get more drinks, and you slip your phone out again.
Robby. 22:05.
When will you be done?
I'll come and pick you up.
Miss my girl.
A text like that from anybody other than Robby would have earned an instant block. Unfortunately, despite his three months away, you're still not immune to the Robinavitch charm.
You never have been.
Besides - you'd already decided you weren't going to sleep with Mark tonight. He's a nice enough guy, but the deal had been sealed when you'd been discussing music, and he hadn't known who Patti Smith was. This man is not your soulmate. But going home alone would mean a date with your vibrator, and one orgasm at most.
Robby would double that, at least.
You. 22:21.
...Not your girl
But you can pick me up around 11.
You shoot him the address of the bar, and consider how you're definitely going to hell for this.
The rest of the date passes in half-time, so painfully slowly that you figure you must have a few new wrinkles than you did at the start. Finally, it's time to make your escape. To ease the impending blow, you throw down your half of the cheque in notes, along with a sizeable tip. "You know, I'm really sorry, but there actually was a work emergency. Thought it would be okay, but they need me in."
"A... dermatology emergency?"
"They're more common than you'd think - my colleague is coming to pick me up," You lie through your teeth. "But I had a really nice night."
Another lie.
You try to dart out so that Mark won't see you leave with Robby, but no luck. The motorcycle is pulled up to the curb with Robby leaning against it, a second helmet in his hands.
âI thought you were going to bring the car!â You hiss, throwing Mark an apologetic glance over your shoulder.
"Bike was what I was riding, and I missed my girl. Mark have a problem with that?"
"If he knew you were my ex, probably."
Maybe you and Robby do deserve each other. God, you're awful. Robby clips the helmet under your chin, and you pretend to not notice your date's gaze staring at you both while he waits for his car to be brought round.
"You ready?"
You nod, though you feel anything but. You've never liked the bike, much to Robby's chagrin. One of his favourite things is having you wrap your arms around his waist while he drives.
*****
Fuck, he knows you too well. It's almost unfair, that even after over a year of separation that he still knows you better than anybody in the world.
There are no pleasantries. No discussions. Just a beeline for the house, before clothes are discarded in a haphazard manner as you try and make it to the bedroom in one piece.
You don't quite make it there before Robby gives you orgasm number one. Torso on the top landing, he gets carried away on the staircase, leaving you totally seeing stars.
Thankfully, he's more than familiar with the house layout, and carries you the rest of the way.
âW-Wait - condom," You interrupt. Last thing you need is a baby to complicate matters. He reaches for the bedside table, complete muscle memory, but you shake your head. âDown one.â
He huffs a little, obviously put out at the change in what he still considers to be his home.
Of course, the fact that you have these at all makes his blood boil a little.
Not that you can't have seen other people.
You've been separated for almost two years, and were growing apart long before that, but god is he so glad to have you like this again. In the home that you both shared - on the bed that he paid for.
Like nothing ever went wrong.
Determined to put the memory of all other men to shame, Robby takes you around his cock, before giving you his fingers and tongue again. By the time you come down, you're more spent than he's ever seen you before.
You're barely awake as you curl into his side. "How was the trip?"
"Really great," he answers honestly. "Did me a lot of good, but I'm glad to be back. Missed you too much."
"Shouldn't be telling you this," you hum slightly, eyes fluttering closed. "But I missed you too."
Number five. Three years post-divorce. Forever.
âYou have some white coming in,â You hum, fingers carding through Robby's hair where his head rests in your lap. The windows are cracked open just enough to let a breeze in, and you can hear the faint sounds of a lawn mower down the street.
"Yeah?"
"Mhm."
You separate a few strands between your fingers, tilting his head toward the light. "Right here. My favourite old man."
Robby scoffs. "That feels excessive."
"Well, you did marry a woman eighteen years younger than you. Feels like something you brought on yourself."
You think back to the man who used to come home after twelve-hour shifts, kiss you on the forehead, tell you he was just tired, then carry the weight of the world around in silence until it crushed everything else.
This version of Robby still has bad days.
Still wakes up anxious sometimes. Annoyed. Still gets overwhelmed by work. Still occasionally retreats to the garage or the backyard for half an hour when his head gets too loud.
The difference is that he always comes back.
And he lets you help.
Sure, it had been a little embarrassing announcing that you were back with your ex-husband - especially after all the shit that had gone down between you both.
But Robby had been right.
There's no one else you could ever imagine being with.
Despite all this, you're still shocked when the next words fall from his lips. "Marry me."
"What?" Your fingers freeze mid-motion, and you try to gage from his upside-down expression whether he's joking or not. You don't think he is.
"Marry me. Again."
"Holy shit," You breathe, head spinning. "What? Are you joking?"
He sits up, turning to take your hands in his. "Deadly serious, sweetheart. I uh, didn't really know what the etiquette was for this kind of thing - I know you liked your first ring, but that felt sort of like bad karma. So I was thinking, if you say yes, we could go shopping for a new one together."
A few years ago, you would have been making the biggest mistake of your life. Now, you don't feel a shred of hesitation. "Yes."
His face breaks into a smile. "Yeah?"
You nod, lip between your teeth as you fight back tears. "Fuck it. Let's get married again."
Pillow Talk - Jack Abbot x Wife! Reader (ft. Michael Robinavitch)
Since so many of you you liked Double Date, I thought Iâd make a companion / part 2 fic đ
Summary: Robby needs dating advice and who else would he go to? His favourite married couple: You and Jack.
Tags: Mildly nsfw, fluff, humour, mention of mental health, Jack is down bad for his wife, Robby is kind of a man-whore, Reader is in her mid-late 30s and is a university professor, reader is afab, no physical description of reader, canon divergence, slightly mild swearing, brief but implied mention of abortion, Robby is at minimum straight but is a raging bisexual although he doesnât know it yet.
Word Count: 1.2k
A/N: Just Robby being bad at boundaries and dating.
It had started off as a regular Friday evening where Jack had the night off and you ordered Chinese take out and putting on an X-Men movie that Jack wanted to watch. More than halfway through the movie and finishing your food, you and Jack had gotten distracted by each other before heading towards your bedroom. After peeling both your clothes off and Jack riling you up, he pounded into you relentlessly with your back sunk into the mattress. That was how Robby found you when he unexpectedly, and quite rudely, barged into your bedroom and sat on your vanity stool sighing in what seemed like despair. He averted his eyes and patiently waited for you and Jack to finish like a good unannounced house guest.
"Do we have a "open vacancy" sign on our bedroom door that I don't know about?" You practically cried as Jack pulled out leaving you to haul a blanket over you both to retain some dignity.
Robby paid no attention to your qualms, "You weren't answering your phones."
"We were busy." Said Jack plainly. He pulled you in closer and wrap an arm around you tightly planting a kiss on your forehead.
"I could tell."
"Before you two gossip girls start shit taking, can you please hand me that shirt?" You asked pointing to the plain black t-shirt belonging to your husband that sat on the dresser.
Robby tossed the piece of clothing towards you which you caught and pulled over your head before climbing out of bed and heading into the ensuite to clean up.
As you were cleaning yourself up, you heard the two men bicker in the background.
"What are you doing here? It's 11pm."
"I need some advice about Noelle."
"And you decided now would be the best time? On my night off? While I'm fucking my wife?"
"...yes."
Walking out of the bathroom, you appear unimpressed at Robby for interrupting your night. These types of nights were few and far in between as Jack decided to take SWAT missions much to your dismay. You had argued about it with him constantly saying that his free time could be used to do something productive like volunteering at the VA or catching up on sleep.
"Are you sure the reason you came this late is because youâre underperforming and needed a live demonstration? And not because you canât keep a girlfriend for no more than three months?â You questioned with a hint of jest and sarcasm as you lied down in bed next to your husband pulling the blankets closed to your body.
âYouâre hilarious. Remind me to bring you food next time so my honour is not verbally attacked.â Said Robby unamused at your joke.
âThereâs a next time? At least send us a calendar invite first.â Jack added stretching himself like a cat in your bed then pulling you in close to wrap his arms around your waist.
âI saw Noelle today,â Robby began. He stood up from your vanity seat and sat down on your bed kicking off his sneakers before lying down with his back against the headboard closing his eyes.
âGod, Robby, if you wanted a threesome, you couldâve just asked.â You interrupted as Jack let out a bewildered choke.
Robby chose to ignore you.
âShe asked about my plans for my sabbatical and insinuated that I cancel my road trip and spend time with her instead.â
"Okay? And?" Jack urged him on.
"I told her I'd consider it."
You sighed frustratedly while snuggling into your husband further, "What you need to consider is a psychiatrist and some good drugs, but please continue."
Robby opened his eyes to shoot daggers at you. Your suggestion, however, was made out of concern. You had seen Jack struggle with his mental health over the last several years and you had suggested that he seek out help from a psychiatrist who could prescribe him medication to help with the PTSD and the nightmares. His pain was both physical with the partial loss of his leg and mentally, and it broke your heart when some days it became unbearable for him to get out of bed.
âAnyways,â Robby continued, âshe wants to go out to dinner again and I think sheâs hinting at wanting something more.â
âAnd whatâs wrong with that? Does she have two left feet or something? Or sheâs divorced with a child at home?â Asks Jack.
Robby looked at the two of you with a look that screamed Are you even being serious right now?
âWait,â you stopped to think, âare you still upset about Heather moving back to Portland? Are you still in love with her? We told you that it wasnât a good idea to shack up with your med student but did you listen? No! Men.â
âSweetheart, letâs not bring up the past. Itâs too late in the night to dissect Robbyâs trauma.â
âSomething happened within the last year didnât it?!â You ignored Jack staring at the other man intensely trying to get an answer.
âYears ago, when we were together Heather was pregnant. She got rid of it. And I only found out the afternoon before that shooting at PittFest.â
You and Jack twist your head to look at each in shock with wide eyes.
âWell thatâs a plot twist.â You said astonished looking back at the older doctor, âI mean good for her for exercising her rights but Iâm sorry that you found out on the worst possible day ever.â
âIâm working through it.â
Jack shifted in his spot propping himself onto an elbow, âBut you have your doubts because you keep thinking about the what ifs. I get it.â
âEither way, regardless of what Jack and I think, you need to put big-girl panties on and make a decision on if you want a future with Noelle. I like her, Jack likes her. Marry her, donât marry her.â
âYouâre no help, you know that.â Robby rolled his eyes at you for what felt like the umpteenth time that night.
You scoffed returning him the favour. âMy area of research is not the dating life of man-whores. If it was, Iâd be publishing books like âHow to Spot a Tool in 30 Seconds or Lessâ. Now, itâs late and if youâre staying in the guest room, be sure to turn off the lights. If not, please get the hell out so we can finish what you interrupted.â
The next time you saw Robby and Noelle was when you dropped Jack off at work on the Fourth of July.
âIs heâ is he breaking up with her?â You questioned standing across from your husband at the nurses station. Hospital drama was so much better than that at the university.
âI donât know. But that is the most awkward hug between two people that Iâve ever seen. Itâs making me uncomfortable.â Replied Jack still staring at the couple across the room.
âStop making a face before he says something to us!â
âToo late.â He said as you both watch Robby give you both the middle finger like a petulant teenager.
Looking at Jack once more you leaned in close, âif we ever get divorced, youâre getting full custody.â
Jack laughed before leaning in to meet you halfway and planting a kiss on your lips, âas if that would happen.â
HAIIII!!!!! i saw brat taming and feminization on your will write list and IMMEDIATELY ran to send you a request LOL!!!! thinking about spence being a bitch to you at work, and you punish him by forcing him to wear cute pink panties or somethingâŠ. and reader is like super mean and manhandles him around and makes him go all dumb!!!! (he loves it OBVIOUSLY!!!!!!!) BTW i love your fics so much!!!! KEEP SPREADING THE SUB!SPENCER AGENDA!!!!!!!!!!
My Girlfriendâs a Bitch!
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader
word count: 6k
check out the masterlist for more! spencer requests welcome
summary: your boyfriend has such a mouth on him. after dealing with it all day, itâs hard to bear it any longer. make him wear a cute little pair of panties and call him your good girl, maybe thatâll set him straight.
tags and warnings: smut, sub!spencer x dom!reader, brat taming, feminization/forcefem (ehh same diff), spanking (sorry ik this wasnât in the request, i just have no self-control), brief mommy kink, dacryphilia, manhandling (or womanhandling ig) bau!reader, mentions of child death (the case they are working on), light degradation, brief dumbification, wrist pinning, no sex just handjob over the panties
a/n: this fic is combining THREE asks (others here and here) since apparently we all wanna brat tame spence lol! sorry other anon, kept the mommy kink brief since i didnât know if the other people requesting were cool with it. more mommy kink spencer in the future. hypocritical of me bc i threw in spanking. i know nobody likes spanking but unfortunately i do so if you want your spencer-reid-in-panties fic u must first sit through smacking his rear 4 a while.
The resident genius had been micromanaging everything down to the last detail. Case files, briefing notes, even his own coffee order for crying out loud.
And you werenât off the hook either. You were Spencerâs girlfriend, but the way he was criticizing your reports, he mustâve mistaken you for an intern.
It wasnât that he meant to be cruel. His brain just ran faster than everyone elseâs. At least, thatâs what you continued to remind yourself. Today, he just⊠hadnât bothered filtering himself.
Afterall, there was a chance it had something to do with the current case the BAU had been assigned.
It was never not difficult when a child was the victim. Was, as in, there is no great countdown to saving this young life. There is no possibility, no chance, the unit was already showing too late. Well, too late, perhaps, to save this life, but just in time before another can be lost.
Something about the case Spencer was taking extremely personally. Particularly when the leading suspect at this point in time was a classmate whoâd allegedly bullied the victim relentlessly at school. When they brought the kid in, fearful and wringing his hands, you were assigned to his interrogation first, hoping a warm face and gentler approach would lower his stress levels enough to tell anything useful. But Spencer immediately steamrolled this.
He barreled towards the door to the dimly lit interrogation room. As you floundered, saying you had thought heâd been assigned to case notes, heâd said âCase notes? What am I, a secretary?â before blowing past you.
You still trailed him into the room, sitting beside him at the table, jaw tense and eye twitching as he doesnât let you salvage this interrogation for even a moment.
The boy stammers, âI-I didnât lie! I was with my friendââ
Spencer cuts him off, his voice clipped and cold. âYour friend says you left at 8PM. You told us you were together all night. I think you can do better than that.â
The kid is shaking, eyes darting between Spencerâs intense stare and you, like pleading with you for help, and thatâs when you once again attempt to intervene.
You speak up softly, âHey,â you say, reaching out and resting a hand on the table. âItâs okay if you made a mistake. We just need the truth.â
You shoot Spencer a look. He sends one back at you.
But the kid seems to respond better to your gentler tone. âI-I messed up,â he admits, voice breaking. âI left early âcause I got scaredâŠâ
âScared of what?â Spencer asks instantly. âYou didnât seem scared when your little friend told you about the murder plot, did you?â
The kid pales. âIâŠ! No, I didnât know anything about a murder!â he squeaks.
Your eyes narrow. You hadnât wanted Spencer to mention that detail yet. The interrogation was spiraling out of control fast.
Spencer leans in even closer, looming. âThen explain to me why,â he says slowly, âyour friend had specifically told you not to talk about what happened that night?â
The kidâs throat bobs. âL-listen, Mister⊠Agent⊠guyââ
âDoctor.â
âD-Doctor,â he stammers, âI swear I didnât do anything! My friendâ he told me not to say anything because⊠because he did something bad!â
Your lips tense. A confession squeezed out by fear was faulty. You knew that. This kid would say anything to make Spencer stop looking at him like that. And you were beginning to get irked by this good-cop bad-cop nonsense you were forced to be a part of.
You stand, your chair screeching against the floor. âDoctor, thereâs a detail weâre forgetting that I think weâd do well to review,â you say, voice even. You look down at the boy with the warmest expression you can manage. âYouâre not in trouble now, alright, sweetie? Just sit tight for us.â
The kid exhales shakily, grateful for your kindness. Meanwhile, Spencer glares at you like youâre betraying him.
The second the door shuts behind you both, he rounds on you. âSweetie? I mean, really? What was that?â he says incredulously. âHeâs lying, you saw it! He knows something, and youâve deliberately undermined our chances of getting a confession!â
âYou were scaring him, Spencer,â you say firmly. âThatâs not how you get a reliable statement.â
âI was building momentum,â he says, voice clipped and precise in the way that pisses you off. Like heâs reciting a textbook. A textbook that said exactly how you were wrong and he was right. âStandard interrogation protocol involves controlled pressure to elicit truthful statements. Which, apparently,â his tone drips with sarcasm, âyou decided to derail by coddling him.â
Offended, your expression shifts, frustration bubbling. âI was assigned to this interrogation for a reason, Spencer.â
âActually, if you canât handle not being nice to a potential accessory to murder, I think you were assigned wrong, Agent.â
You gape at him. You can hardly believe your ears.
âWe need results,â he continues, âand your methods arenât qualified for this interrogation. So why donât you just let me handle this?â He tries to push past you, but you catch him by the collar.
âWhat the hell is wrong with you today?â
âY/N, youâre wasting time! This is aââ
âWould you lose the goddamn attitude?â
âLet go of me. What the hell? I donât need you manhandling meââ
âWhy are you being such a fucking brat?â
Spencer turns slightly red with indignation. He yanks his collar free. âIâm not being a brat! What, you think just because weâre dating, everythingâs your business now?â
âYou clearly seem determined to make it everyoneâs business today.â
âNo offense, Y/N, but Iâm not the one holding up the interrogation, which we only have approximately,â he sarcastically pretends to hum in thought, as if he didnât already have the answer in less time than someone could comprehend, â3 minutes and 48 seconds to finish and get a confession out of this guy.â
You want to explode. You sputter for a moment. âIf you had just dropped the fucking attitude, we wouldâve already gotten the confession!â
Spencer scoffs, âOh, sure, because clearly your method of patting him on the head and calling him âsweetieâ was gonna make this guy confess to conspiracy.â
ââThat guyâ is a kid, Spencer!â
âAnd believe it or not, age doesnât equate to innocence, and you donât have a clue what kids like him are capable of.â
At that, both of your tunnel visions finally widen, and you at last take in your positions.
Youâre standing almost chest to puffed up chest, jaws tight and breathing rapid. Spencerâs hands are clenched into fists, your eyes are blazing with fury, and both of you are glaring at each other like youâve never seen the other before. Both furious, embarrassed that this escalated so far, but neither willing to release the clawed grip you had on your prides.
From an outsiderâs perspective, itâs hard to believe youâre two people who love each other.
There was love still within the both of you, of course, a petty argument like this not enough to untangle each other from your souls. It was simply muffled by frustration and exhaustion from working together for far too long.
You stare at each other, unblinking, some kind of unspoken staring contest between you before the interrogation room door creaks open, towards which both of you whip your heads.
Morgan stands there, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised to the sky. âYou two done?â
A small amount of tension is released between the two of you. But Spencer, always one to get the last word, mutters, âYeah, I think she is.â
You whirl your head back around, fury reignited, and you couldâve exploded then and there if not for Morgan, who swiftly breaks the two of you apart.
âAlright,â he says firmly, âBoth of you, cool off.â
Gladly. Youâre quick to storm out of the room.
Spencer doesnât follow. He stands there stiffly, jaw still locked, watching you stomp off down the hall with sharp footsteps.
Morgan frowns at him deeply, clearly unimpressed. âJesus, kid, can you just focus? We got a case here.â
The car ride home is agony.
Tense silence from the both of you. No music, the only sound the hum of the engine and the only thing in the air the lingering irritation from the brief, snippy argument about who was driving. (It was you, since apparently asking Spencer meant you just âcouldnât do that either.â)
Spencer stares straight ahead, expression frustratingly unreadable, cold and distant. You look much the same, gripping the wheel and stubbornly refusing to look at him even once.
When you get home is when Spencerâs big mouth starts moving like a motor.
âWow, gotta say, smoothest case by far. Real productive. You know, itâs funny, if half of you guys had just listened to me in the first place, this case wouldâve been a lot more efficient. Did you notice that?â
You ignore him, kicking off your shoes as he trails behind you, continuing his snobby little speech.
âAnd I mean, really, what was the point of that interrogation? It wasnât like you had some brilliant new angle.â He tosses his lanyard onto the counter a little harder than necessary. âNo, no, please, just ignore my input next time. Itâs not like youâre talking to a guy with an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory. I canât remember the last time I knew what I was talking about, you know?â
Spencer mindlessly follows you through the apartment, the only thought in his mind proving himself right and making sure you heard it. You pass through the bedroom doorway with him hot on your heels.
âAnd honestly, if youâd just trusted me, if anyone had just trusted my analyses from the startâ which consistently turn out to be correct, if anybodyâs keeping scoreâ we wouldnât have wasted half a day chasing dead leads.â
You silently peel off your shirt as he blabs, the rest of your work clothes following until youâre left in your underwear.
Spencer stands in front of the mirror, not looking your way, undressing with sharp, quick motions.
âNot to mention you decided to take over like you knew better,â he continues. âWhich you didnât, by the way. You donât have my training in geographic profiling.â
Spencer seemingly begins to grow frustrated by your lack of responses. He stops undressing halfway, stepping over to you where youâre perched on the bed.
âOh, so youâre just gonna ignore me now? Really? What, are you gonna ignore me all night?â
âIâm sorry, did you want a reaction?â You sneer.
âYes, actually,â comes his automatic response. âA warranted reaction from my girlfriend. Like, I donât know, âYouâre right, Spencer,â or âMaybe I messed up,â not whatever it is you think youâre doing here.â
You stand from the bed. âYou want a warranted reaction?â
âYes!â Spencer stays planted. âI want you to acknowledge that I was right about the case. That my method wouldâve worked if you hadnât interferedââ
With a vice grip, you grab his arm before he manages to finish his quippy little response. With a harsh motion, you yank him closer, close enough your noses are nearly touching.
Spencerâs words die. For a fraction of a second, he forgets the argument. His lips part slightly, eyes darting between yours and your mouth again, instinctively leaning in just the tiniest bit before catching himself.
Then, quick as it happened, you shove him again, pulling him down by the arm until he stumbles onto the bed, body bent awkwardly over the mattress and face buried in the blanket. Your fist winds into his hair, pressing his face deeper and smothering his shocked protests.
He tries to push up, but your grip is strong and sudden. âWhaâ Y/N!â His cry is muffled by fabric.
His eyes widen when he feels your other hand begin to work off his belt, and he starts to twist and writhe on the bed with a growing sense of desperation.
âHey! Youâ wait!â He stammers, heart beginning to slam against his ribs.
You yank his slacks down until they hit the ground. Spencer is filled with humiliation by the position for all of two seconds before itâs replaced by something much more pertinent. Pain, as it rips through his body at the first crack of your hand down on his ass.
A sharp, undignified noise escapes him as pain blooms across his backside. His entire body tenses up. You spanked him. And the shock of it makes him freeze for a second, wide eyed and jaw slack. âO-Ow!â He cries.
You hold him by the waist firmly, pressing his back, forcing him into a slight arch. Your hand comes down again, a red outline of your palm already beginning to form. Spencer cries out girlishly.
Spencerâs legs kick instinctively. Another sharp smack lands as your response.
âY/N, whaâ! S-stop!â His voice cracks embarrassingly high.
You donât stop. The sound of skin slapping skin resounds through the bedroom.
Spencerâs eyes water. He didnât realize his ass could hurt like this. âHey! Hey!â he gasps between hits. This wasn't fair punishment for an argument, not in his mind, but oh, god, it was working on him in ways you probably intended.
He twists his arm and tries to reach behind himâ to grab your hand, shield his ass, he doesnât know. Something, anything. But your fist quickly clamps around his wrist, and you effortlessly pin his arm in place against his back. He whines and moans into the blanket in protest, cut off by his own gasp as you spank him again.
The pain radiates in hot waves across his backside, and between the embarrassment and the sting, he starts to cry, silent tears soaking into the blanket beneath him.
âF-fuckâŠ! Mommy, please!â He whines out pathetically.
You arenât letting up. Each strike lands with precision, reddening his skin more and more. Spencer jumps with each contact, yelping and shrieking and whining. You can hear him sniffling against the blanket, muffled pleas for mercy and gasps of confusion.
His voice is high and broken. âP-please! Iâm sorry! I-I wonât argue again, I swear! Mommy!â he bawls into the blanket between hit after hit.
Heâs never been this humiliated in his life. And yet somehow, impossibly, there was something else too. Something confusingly warm blooming low in his stomach that makes him cry out even harder.
âThought you wanted a reaction, Spence,â you hiss.
Spencer sniffles hard, tears dripping freely down his cheeks. âY-yeah, but notâ not this!â he wails.
He had wanted the reaction he was hoping for: of you admitting defeat and the two of you going to bed with the knowledge that he was right all along. No part of that included being manhandled and punished like a naughty kid.
âI get it! I-Iâm sorry!â
âYeah, you get it now? Why didnât you get it when you were running your mouth, huh?â
Spencer hiccups through his tears. âIâI was right thoughâŠ!â he defends himself weakly, but it feels pathetic the moment it leaves his mouth. He wasnât winning anything here beside a sore backside and wet cheeks.
Your palm slaps his skin again, coming down with a force as you give a frustrated, exasperated sigh. âNope. Try again.â
âOkay! Okay, IâI shouldnât have argued!â he blurts out, voice wobbly. He sniffles hard, trying to remember how to breathe through the tears. âIâm sorry for being a brat! I didnât mean to! I⊠I just wanted you to listen! Mommy, please.â
âWhy? Because youâre so smart?â You baby-talk him mockingly. ââCause you're such a smart boy? Oh, if only everybody listened to Spencer."
Your taunting in that tone makes his stomach twist weirdly again. âWâ wellâŠ!â He considers it for a moment. ââŠYeah?â
Down comes your hand again. âWrong answer,â you spit.
Spencer yelps. âNo! I meanâ yes! No!â Heâs flailing now, desperate to say the right thing. Whatever would make you stop your assault on his rear end. âI shouldnât have been a smartass!â he blurts out between sniffles. âI was wrong and rude andâ and Iâm sorry! Please, please, Mommy, c-can I⊠have a break?â He writhes against the bed, his pitiful expression buried in the mattress.
He moans like a bitch when your hand cracks down on that same spot. âLook at yourself, smart guy. Canât even understand you. Weeping like a baby. Whereâs that big tough Agent, huh? Whereâs Doctor Reid?â You jostle him slightly because you can, manhandling him. âI only see a whiny little boy, getting spanked for his attitude.â
Despite being a sniveling, squirming, tear-streaked mess, he still protests, indignant. âI-Iâm not being⊠w-whiny!â
âIâm not whiny!â You immediately mock him in a theatrically high pitch, âIâm not being whiny, Mommy!â
He just drops his head into the blanket again in defeat.
He takes a shuddering breath, trying to compose himself through his tears and lifts his face slightly from the blanket. âI'm sorry, Mommy,â he says louder, voice cracking. âI-Iâm sorry. I was being a brat! Alright? Iâm sorry. Youâ you were right about the interrogation, a-and I shouldnât have talked to you like that. I know that now. Please, please. I-I don't need to be spanked anymore, okay? God, my ass really, really hurtsâŠâ
Youâre quiet as you consider the desperate, pleading apology that tumbled from his lips. You rub his reddened, stinging backside in slow soothing circles, humming as you admire the scattered outlines of your handprints across his cheeks, clustering in blotches of red. â...You always cry like a girl? Or is it just for me?â You still mock, much to his disappointment.
Spencer sniffles again, his shoulders still rising and falling unevenly from crying. "Thereâs, um⊠you know, thereâs no such thing as âcrying like a girlâ... actually. Thatâs sexist rhetoric,â He mumbles into the blanket.
âMm. Youâre just saying that âcause Iâm right and youâre embarrassed.â
His face burned hotter than his sore backside. âMa- maybe,â he admits quietly. â...lt's true, though.â
âWhat? That youâre a girl?â You snicker.
Spencer huffs, annoyed, but too exhausted and emotionally drained to retort back properly. âNo,â he mutters. âThat⊠that crying isnât gendered.â His voice is endearingly nasally, his nose stuffed from weeping. He sniffles again uselessly. â...Are you, um⊠done spanking me?â
You ignore him. âSounded pretty girly to me.â You idly fondled his ass as you talk. âBeen pretty bitchy like one, too."
He squirms, feeling so small beneath your hands that grope him like a girl. âW-well,â he mutters, voice still thick. âI guess I was being a brat. A-and now Iâm not.â He peeks over his shoulder at you, eyes red and puffy. âDoesnât... make me a girl. Can⊠can we be done now? Please?â
Scheming, you flash him a wicked grin. âYou certainly look like a girl from this angle.â You tangle your fingers where his long brown locks were thickest, âAll this isn't helping.â
âIt's notâ it's not that long,â he denies weakly, squirming. âC-can I please get up now? My ass is really soreââ
âYou need a tampon, Spence?â You snicker, âWhere are your panties?â
âY/N!â He whines, mortified. âI-I donât wear⊠p-panties! Iâm a guy!â He tries to kick his legs out in protest but winces when the movement pulls at his sore skin.
"Oh, well, thatâs no good!" You pat his ass. Mild, in comparison to how you had been hitting him this whole time, but the dull sting still sends a jolt through his body. âOnly naughty girls walk around without panties. Are you naughty?â
Spencer whimpers. âI-Iâm not a girl, Y/N? What are you doing?â
âHere, weâll fix your little panty problem.â You take a step back, holding the nightstand for balance as you slide your white underwear down your legs and hike them up Spencerâs. The way he slightly lifts his hips to assist you doesn't go unnoticed.
You snap the elastic against his skin, giggling at the way it makes him squeak. âAw, Spence..â You coo at the way his hard cock spills out the side of the underwear, âYou donât fit.â
Spencer is mortified. The underwearâ your underwearâ is a horribly foreign feeling to his body. Too small, clinging to his ass, not quite fitting his lower half like it would fit to the slope of a womanâs. And not exactly made with enough fabric to hold⊠his boy parts. Understandably.
He tries to cover himself with one hand while still lying on his stomach, but itâs useless. âHa-ha. Yeah, very funny,â he coughs to hide his arousal. âVery funny, Y/N. Can I please get up now?â
He starts to shift in place, trying to pull himself up, but your palms make contact with his back and give him a shove back into the bed. The heavy handling sends more heat to the pool in his stomach as he swallows hard âBut baby, you look so cute! Donât tell me you donât like it?â
He shouldnât be this turned on. He shouldnât be turned on at all, arguably. But his body is betraying him completely. His cock is hard and throbbing where it escapes the fabric.
Heâs at a loss for words, unsure of how to respond. ââŠI-I donât know, okay? I donât know. Why are you being so⊠weird?â
âNo? You want something prettier?â
ââŠPrettier?â he repeats dumbly.
âOf course, silly me.â You rip off the panties in a way that makes him feel oddly scandalized.
You leave him for a moment, walking away to your closet. He hears the padding of your footsteps. Hesitantly, he once again pulls himself up on his elbows, hoping to crawl out of the humiliating position of still being bent over the bed, but you swiftly return behind him before he gets very far. You effortlessly push him back down without a thought.
âThese work better?â You dangle a frilly, girly pair of pink panties in front of his face.
Spencer makes a terrified little noise. The underwear looked like it belonged to a doll, not him. âI...I canât wear that,â he squeaks.
You pull him back by the hips, and he takes it submissively. You sweep the panties under one leg, then the other. The frilly fabric climbs higher, over his thighs, over the curve of his ass.
Spencer feels humiliated in a way heâs never felt before. The lace tickles weirdly against his skin. Not to mention tight. He canât seem to move without the underwear squeezing awkwardly, putting unfortunate pressure on his cock.
âY/NâŠâ he whines miserably.
âOh, sit up, let me see you,â You coo.
Mortified by the idea, Spencerâs hands wriggle under his abdomen to cover his aching cock. He swallows, squeezing his legs together. âNo, no, I- uh... think l'll stay right here.â
âCâmooon, I wanna see my pretty girlfriend.â
Spencer nearly chokes. He sputters, âGirlfriend?! I-Iâm notââ
But youâre already pulling him by the arms. With a firm tug, you maneuver Spencer around and up to perch on the edge of the bed.
Youâre met with the beautiful sight of your boyfriendâs wide-eyed and horrified expression, sweetly flushed down to his neck in embarrassment, hands still trying and failing to hide his arousal.
The pink lace clings awkwardly around his hips, a stark outline of his hard cock trapped within the girly fabric, the two contrasting each other nicely. He looks ridiculous. He feels humiliated. He guesses that was the goal.
âAw, sweetieâŠâ you faux-pout, tone condescending, âyou all wet for me under there?â
âWet? I-Iâm notâ!â he stammers, scrunching his nose at the feminizing term. âNo! Thatâsâ thatâs not what this is!â He instinctively squeezes his thighs together tighter, as if that would hide the obvious evidence of his erection. âWhy are you doing this?â He asks, miserable.
âBeen puffing out your chest all day,â You sigh, âbeen so big and mean. Just imagine if your co-workers saw Doctor Reid like thisâŠâ
His blood runs cold with horror. âNo! Nonono,â he whimpers. âPlease donât tell anyone.â
âThese suit you, yâknow?â You pull the panties back, running your finger along the inside of the lace. âI think I like you better in these,â you mock.
Spencer shivers at your words. He hates this.
âŠOkay, maybe not entirely hates it. But he hates how much itâs affecting him.
âW-what? Whaâ what kind of question is that?â
âI mean, look at yourselfâŠâ your hands run over his body. âYou donât look much like a boy.â
He knows what youâre implying. No part of him is particularly manly. But still, âI-Iâm a guy,â he insists weakly, voice suddenly a little smaller.
âYouâre a guy?â You repeat, nodding along condescendingly.
His cock stirs. âMhm.â He squirms.
âSo it doesnât make you wet when I call you my good girl? My pretty little girlfriend?â
âIâm not wetâŠâ He denies the feminine term sheepishly. âJust, um⊠slightly moistened.â
You grin with triumph. âRight. Lay back for me, pretty girl.â
Spencer hesitates, but he slowly, obediently lies back on the bed. ââŠOkay.â The frilly panties ride up in an unfortunate matter. His hands rest awkwardly at his sides. Heâs nervous. Excited? Maybe a little of both. Reoccurring feelings when it comes to sex with you.
You crawl atop him, a position heâs well familiar with now. You run a finger along the seam of the underwear, inadvertently tracing his dick, âShould I play with your pussy?â
âY/N,â he breathes, voice shaky. âI-I donât have a⊠you know.â
âA what? Speak.â
Spencerâs throat bobs, his face burning. âI donât have a⊠pussy,â he whispers the naughty word shyly. His hips shift slightly under you.
âYeah, you do, and itâs dripping for me, silly girl.â You glide your nails over the skin of his abdomen, tracing circles around where he wants you. His skin prickles with goosebumps, and his cock throbs painfully.
âP-pleaseâŠâ he whimpers, shamefully begging.
âPlease what, baby? Open your mouth, since youâve been so good at that today.â
Spencerâs lips part, instinctively obeying your command. âPlease⊠please touch me? You can tease me more, I-I wonât complain.â
You plant your hands on either side of his head and slowly lower your face to his until your lips hover above his own, until you can feel his rapid, nervous breaths. âTell me youâre my good girl.â
Spencerâs heart is hammering so loud he swears you can hear it. His lips tremble. He doesnât want to say it, but he wants your kiss. ââŠI-Iâm your good girl,â he whispers.
You seal your lips against his with a barely concealed victorious smile. Spencerâs eyes immediately shut, and he melts into it like heâd been waiting all day, his mouth moving against yours. You tilt your head at an angle, kissing him deeper while Spencerâs fingers twitch like he wants to grab onto you.
At some point, his hands finally give in, fingers curling around your waist, pulling you closer. He kisses back desperately, as if desperate to win your approval back. Look how good he kisses you. Look how good heâs being for you. Donât you wanna give him what he wants?
You pull back all too soon, and he whines pitifully.
âYou want me to play with you? Want me to play with your pretty pussy?â
He nods rapidly, eyes wide and pleading.
âYes,â he breathes, voice cracking. âPlease⊠I want you to.â
With a smirk, you graze your palm over the bulge in the panties. âWho knew all I had to do was put you in my panties and suddenly you remember how to behave?â
Spencer moans in his mouth. Your hand on him feels amazing. He bites his lip, hips bucking up into your touch slightly. âI-I always behave,â he lies weakly. âJust⊠didnât wanna listen before, you know?â
You caress him over the fabric with slow, gentle circles. âYou were nasty before.â
âMhm⊠yeah,â he admits, voice airy. âBut Iâmâ Iâm good now. Really good.â Heâs putty under your hands, completely pliant and eager for whatever youâll give him next.
âYou wanna say youâre sorry to me?â
Spencer doesnât hesitate. âSorry, Y/N,â he murmurs instantly, soft and sincere. âIâm sorry for being a brat today. Really sorry.â His eyes are big and pleading as he looks up at you, waiting to be rewarded with more of your touch. âIâll be your good girl, Iâll be whatever you want me to be.â
You donât slide your hand under the lace. You grip his cock over the panties, closing the fabric around his dick and stroking the length of him up and down. The material adds a new kind of friction, every stroke sends waves of pleasure through him.
Spencer gasps, arching into your touch. âOh, fuck,â he breathes out shakily.
âStupid boy,â You degrade as you touch him, your tone airy and condescending. âStupid boy in cute little panties. Go on, make noise for me,â you circle your fingers around the outline of his tip, âMoan like a girl and tell me how youâre not one.â
Spencer whimpers, high and girlish noises slipping out as if at your command. âMmmâ ah!â His hips jerk into your hand. âI-Iâm not a girl! I-I swearâŠâ But his voice is so soft and sweet, so high and needy itâs hard to convince anyone. His cock throbs under your fingers at the demeaning insults.
You watch him unravel with delight, pressing your thumb harder against his tip through the fabric, rubbing firmer circles. His jaw gapes.
âLiar,â you scoff. âCouldâve fooled me.â Your other hand slides up to graze his nipple.
He canât think straight anymore. Spencerâs breath comes in short, uneven gasps. âY/Nâplease,â he begs again, writhing under you. His body is alight with sensation. His hands fist the sheets beneath him.
You alternate between stroking him harshly over the panties and rubbing your fingers over his head, grinding the fabric into his tip, and it makes him so dizzy the way you stop and start so unpredictably. He cries at the overwhelming pleasure, squeezing his eyes shut and rolling his hips up and back, as though trying to encourage you and escape you all at once.
You can only laugh at the sight. âYou trying to buck me off or something, baby?â
âN-no,â he gasps. âI-I donât know what Iâm doingââ
You shift closer, crawling further atop him until your knees press into his thighs, pinning them into the mattress and trapping him with your weight. He watches. He feels so small under you, pinned and helpless. His chest rises fast, his lips parted, waiting for whatever youâll do next. Thereâs nowhere to go now but wherever you lead him.
You run your tongue along the inside of your teeth, eyes raking over him pervertedly, admiring the view. He tightens his lips nervously, feeling scrutinized.
He jolts fearfully when you roughly grasp his wrists and pin them above his head. You're hovering above him now, a shiver running through him as he fidgets in this new position. âYou got any more complaints about my methods, Doctor?â
His arms stretched above him, he shakes his head rapidly, eyes wide. âN-no.â
âNo? None?â You cross his wrists, squeezing them in one palm as the other glides down to rub his weeping cock again. He inhales sharply. The front of the panties are damp, the pink color darkened slightly. âYou sure? You donât wanna tell me how right you are? How youâre so much smarter? Go on, tell me all about it.â
Youâre taunting him, goading him into making him babble like a fool while You touch him, knowing his mind was blank and no thought was coherent.
âI-IâŠâ He stammers uselessly, struggling to form a sentence.
âCâmon, whereâs that big brain of yours, sweet girl? Donât tell me you lied to me. Donât tell me you donât know better.â
Your hand works him between your thighs, the front of the panties soaked with a devastating amount of pre-cum for how vehemently he denied his arousal.
The friction maddening through the thin fabric. He writhes just to feel the way your knees push deeper into his thighs, the way your grip tightens around his wrists.
âI-I donâtâ I canât think,â he admits weakly. âJust⊠touch me more.â
âOh, I donât like girls with no manners.â
He doesnât even know what you mean by that, but the disapproval in your tone scares him. âP-please! Please! I-I meant please, I meant pleaseâ pleasepleaseplease keep touching me, please.â
He writhes under your hands, wrists fighting to free themselves, desperate to hold you for stability. You smother any attempt to shake off your grip with a smug smile.
You quiet for a moment, assessing him, watching him struggle like the muscles in his arms were just for show. Not like he had much, anyway. But this was just pathetic. You snort. âYouâre faking it,â You accuse.
âIâm not faking it!â His voice pitches higher. âY-youâre⊠strong!â His wrists twist harder against your grip. It does nothing.
You laugh, practically cackling at him, then return your attention back to his neglected cock, stroking and rubbing and grinding over the tent in the panties.
His hips jerk into every stroke, chasing the friction like an addict. The stimulation is relentless. Your hand never stops, always moving, teasing him with just the right pressure.
Spencerâs breath comes in short gasps. His legs twitch where theyâre pinned under your knees. His entire body is tensing, coiling tighter and tighter with every stroke. Heâs getting close. So close he canât even form words anymore, just breathy, whimpering noises escaping him as his orgasm builds.
âYou gonna wet those panties soon, Reid?â You coo from somewhere in the fog.
Spencerâs eyes squeeze shut, and he nods frantically. âY-yeah⊠yeah,â he gasps. âGonna cumâ oh, god.â
âDonât tell me youâre gonna mess these pretty things upâŠâ You rub the pads of your fingers over the lace while your palm works his cock.
âI-I canâtâ ah! Canât stop it,â he babbles, hips stuttering up into your hand.
âOh, poor baby. Canât even help yourself. Gonna cum from a little touching?â
The touching was only half of it, all of Your pretty and mocking words that served to emasculate him only made his cock twitch harder.
âMm-hm!â he whimpers pathetically. âAndâ and I like, um, f-fuck! Being your good girl.â
âYeahâŠâ You coo, âThatâs what you were made for. None of this smartie-pants nonsense. Uh-uh. You just be my good girl.â Your wrist flicks, you caress circles against his dick with quickened speed. Spencerâs body is curving up into your touch. âBe my good girl from now on. Make a mess in your panties for me. âKay? Thatâs it. There it is.â
Spencer can hardly get a word in before his orgasm hits him like a wave. His back arches off the bed, his legs stiffening under your weight as he cums hard into the ruined panties. âMmmmfâ!â He bites his lip to muffle himself, eyes squeezing shut. His body quakes through the orgasm, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over him. The panties are soaked from his heavy release.
He finally goes limp after an impressive amount of time, body spent. He pants softly in a blissed out daze. You still stroke him lazily until his dick gives one last twitch, then you softly rub your thumb over his tip almost affectionately.
Spencer gives a weak grateful whimper at the gentle aftercare, though he winces slightly at the oversensitivity. He blinks up at you, air coming out in little puffs, cheeks rosy and hair tussled from tossing around.
You release his wrists, sliding your hand down to his cheek, cupping his face for a moment. Just a moment. Before Spencer can even lean into your comfort, the tender touch is ripped away as you lift your hand and whip it back down against his cheek. His head snaps to the left. âDonât ever get smart with me again,â you say coldly.
He swallows once, wide eyes blinking in stunned silence, before he gives his response in a meek and rapid nod of his head. âY-yeah. Yes. Never again.â
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