Summary: you go on a date with Spencer, but he forgets about dinner. We also learn more about reader :) there hopefully will be a part three. I was always planning to make this a series.
Wc: 1507
CW: no edits :(, fluffy, a part where Spencer lowkey runs away. A little ooc Spencer (he forgets dinner), Bold for text messages, Angola ferret named Milo. smarty pants reader!!! Early-mid seasons. (Also I fleshed out the reader a little more sorry if it sounds a lil different than pt 1)
The next afternoon, you had arrived at the café early. Not because you were eager. A small but fascinating library resided beside the date spot. One where you had bought a fascinating book all about Palynology!
So in casual you fashion, you came early to smooth some nerves by doing your favorite activity. Learning, and upon closer examination of the layout, you had found a rather cozy spot to reside in. (one coincidentally close to Spencer's location from the day you had asked him out)
For the next fifteen minutes, you, a small worn journal, a set of highlighters, assorted colors of pens, and sticky notes we’re your best friend. Anything you were curious about was jotted down, whether for further research or out of fascination.
You had already began to annotate the book at home, various printed papers of academic research papers and notes. Each attached to a corresponding paragraph with a small heart, star, or smiley face.
You were currently halfway through annotating a page about pollen morphology when the bell above the door chimed. The little twinkle melodic within the mumble of people talking through the room.
Looking up to see Spencer standing in the doorway. A dark green cardigan sliding off his shoulders. A brown messenger bag, slung over his shoulders. His hair looked just as soft and uncooperative as yesterday, a small section falling into his eyes as he scanned the room.
There was a nervousness to him that made your heart squeeze in your chest. One hand adjusting his sleeve, shifting his weight slightly as he looked around
Then he spotted you and smiled. You weren’t prepared. It was so warm, and made your hands shake and sweat. The feeling of nervousness that was washed away by task-oriented concentration was once again instilled within you as you watched him walk closer.
Each step is like a fever dream. By the time he had reached your table, you were pretending to be very deeply invested into the book about pollen, and not how lethally handsome he was for your date.
”Hi.” The smile in his voice was glaringly obvious. You glanced up as he at down across from you. For a second neither of you spoke. Then his eyes zeroed on your textbook.
“What is that?” He asked curiously.
“A textbook” you stated, smoothing your palms on the knit of your sweater.
“I gathered, what is it about?” He said more directly, with a hint of sarcasm. The smile tugged at the edges of your lips, his annoyed face was as handsome as his smile.
“Palynology, its the—“ you began as you watched him carefully. You didnt want to be boring on your first date.
”—Study of pollen and spores. I know,” he said, as if it wasn’t a niche fact that you stumbled upon at the book store a few days ago.
But instead of annoyance, you could only feel the spark of excitement beginning to burn within your cheeks. “You know what it is?” You hoped you sounded more calm than you felt.
”A little.” He said casually. and your entire face lit up.
The conversation after that flowed easier. Well easier than yesterday. Your palms were no longer sweaty, just moving in and out of your peripherals as you began gesturing around as you word-vomited the exciting information you had learned.
That mostly one sided conversation somehow brought you to explaining about forensic palynology. It’s uses and little facts you learned. Crime scenes, evidence, and then came the dreaded question.
”what do you do? Like-“ he paused searching. “-as a job.”
“..hmm….. i work in forensics.” You said, wincing slightly at the vagueness.
The answer sat between you, deliberately vague, and you hoped and prayed he wouldn’t be able to see into that. But from the sharpness of his eyes you could tell he probably could tell.
Your eyes flitted around him instead, the pressure of keeping eye contact turned your stomach sour. Towards the window, then a cabinet. A nervous habit you never could break.
”interesting.” He said easily.
“Yep.” You nodded quickly.
His lack of conversation made you feel analyzed, like he was reading into every single reaction or lack there of you were offering.
”So what made you so interested in palynology?” The relief was almost instantaneous. The speed in which you brightened was almost comical.
“Okay, so the thing about pollen is—“ you began rambling, not noticing how Spencer smiled into his coffee.
-
Hours somehow passed. Neither of you had noticed a the minutes ticked away. Well your journal noticed, now filled with many, many, new facts.
Conversation drifted, from work, to hobbies, to likes and dislikes, to book, to technology. This was the first and only strong difference of opinion you had all day.
”You dislike technology?” you stared at him. Technology was the only reason you were able to work.
Spencer nodded like he wasn’t more serious and sure about anything in his life. Strong affirmative on the whole, hating technology thing.
“It isn’t as reliable as books.” He stated plainly.
“Okay, true,” you said, pointing at him lazily. “But a mas spec was and is a very useful if not necessary for forensics”
Spencer paused before narrowing his eyes slightly.
You folded your lips guiltily, as if caught red handed. You winced as the subtle sharpness returned to his eyes.
“If ‘mas spec’ is what i think it is, what are you doing using a mass spectrometer?” Her questioned, a neat eyebrow raising.
The answer that slipped out was embarrassing, “Mass spec things.” As if you couldn’t make it worse. You just shrugged helplessly as if it was something you heard off the street and not a piece of fine machinery you used and watched over people using.
His questioning expression only deepened.
“Hah.. haha. Did you know its been five hours since the date started.” You laughed nervously. The fact spilled out before you could rein it in. Your finger pointing to the clock perched on the counter top. as if checking if the statement were true.
his eyes widened as if he forgot something important.
”Oh.”
you frowned at his tone. That oh felt very concerning.
“Oh?” You repeated gently, like it would break a really, really good dream.
Spencer immediately checked his watch. Then the clock. Back to the watch.
“I forgot something— i—I have to go.” He stood, moving awkwardly and swiftly from around his chair
He watched as your expression had lost its glow, the brightness and flush leaving your cheeks as dejection settled in. That and how you all of a sudden became very interested in organizing the papers spread out on the table from your rant earlier.
“I—“ you cleared your throat. “I should let you go then.” Something softened in his expression
”Yeah..” even with that confirmation he isn’t move. Stayed for a second to watch you collect your notes. Finally Spencer nodded and turned toward the door.
The bell twinkled again, but this time it was as he disappeared outside. You huffed a sigh into the air. At least you didn’t accidentally disclose any confidential information.
Another thirty minutes and you probably would’ve started talking about laboratory procedures… Or evidence processing.
The door opened again.
You jumped and snapped your head up, just to watch as Spencer walked back into the café with hurried steps. His cheeks flushed and hair a little more tousled than before.
”i forgot something..” he breathed. before you could even overthink, he pulled out his phone and turned it toward you.
”i forgot to ask for your number.” He was serious. The knots that twisted themselves into your stomach loosened. A sigh escaping you as you smiled again.
You reached over and typed it into the phone, and texted yourself, waiting until the familiar jingle rattled from your own device as confimation. Simple. Easy.
When he glanced down at your contact, he smiled again.
”Good. Thank you” he said before he hurried out the door.
Even if he wasn’t as perfect as you expected, somehow that human made him even more attractive.
-
Later when you got home, changed clothes, cooked something small, and set the textbook on your table, your phone buzzed. a text flashing across the open screen.
it was from Spencer.
Dr Reid
I made it
You smiled, of course his first text was formal.
I was only forty-three minutes late to a team dinner.
You laughed.
I have been informed that it’s apparently my personal record
I was also inclined to ask if you were interested in a second date. There is a meuseum exhibit opening this week end.
There was pause before he texted again. for someone who hated technology he sure texts a lot. (You still couldn’t believe he was interested in you.
You strike me as someone who reads every informational plaque
You stared at it before giggling. The noise causing a small scampering ferret, your baby Milo to come running onto your lap. Your fingers rested in his long fur before you started typing back.
You
Thats the nicest thing anyone has ever said or noticed about me.
Dr Reid
Good. It was intended to be a compliment.
And somehow, with a five-hour date, endless talking, and the stack of notes you’d taken while talking to him… he wanted another date. That idea made you smile into your wiggling noodle of a son.
tags: spencer x bau!reader, no use of y/n, someone switched the fluff machine back on, 5 plus 1 fic, hand-holding, coworkers to crushes, reader has an idea, spencer's mostly just being polite about it, UNTIL
warnings: germ talk, spencer mentions hypothetical medical conditions
word count: 6.7K
summary: five times you take spencer's hand and one time he takes yours.
note: suggested by @emmadellaposta-blog in this comment:
May I propose to you a fic where Spencer tells reader he wants to get over some of his Germaphobia so she just randomly throughout the day starts holding his hand and when he asks what she’s doing she replies “exposure therapy” but it just leads to them realizing they have feelings for each other
title is from a glistening pleasure song. the song has ZERO connection to the fic i just love those words in that order.
~*~*~
ONE
"What the hell is that guy's problem?"
You don't recognize the voice at first, but you do recognize the face of the cop who's still not done rolling his eyes when you and Spencer turn the corner of the hallway at the local precinct. He's the one who spent more time glaring at Spencer than he did actually working when you were all at the crime scene earlier, as if Spencer not shaking his hand was some kind of personal insult and Reid hadn't evaded everyone's handshakes.
His fellow uniform, whose back is to you, shrugs, completely oblivious to the first guy's panicked expression when he sees you approaching. "It's the BAU. You probably have to be just a little crazy to do that job. Maybe he's just crazier than the rest of them."
"It's not strictly speaking a requirement, but it definitely helps," you say brightly, stopping several feet away from them. "We talk to so many assholes everywhere we go, a little bit of craziness helps us power through."
Next to you, you can tell that Spencer has gone rigid; you're not sure if he stopped walking because you did or if he actually froze.
There's really no way to pretend it isn't obvious that the two street cops are talking about him. Especially with the way they glance awkwardly at him and scurry off down the hallway without even acknowledging your comment. Probably lucky that this didn't turn into a full-blown discussion, Hotch wouldn't be impressed if he heard you talked to the locals like that. He'd do his whole Disappointed Dad routine of not shouting but looking very disappointed as he told you he expected better.
You turn to look at Spencer, pulling a face that makes it clear exactly what you think of those guys, but Spencer shakes his head at you.
"I'm not crazy," he says. "Actually my Mysophobia is quite mild. I just don't trust other people to keep their hands clean, and neither should anyone else."
You don't say anything about the disinfectant wipes in his desk drawer back at Quantico, or the way his shoes are lined up neatly in his hallway at home. (The temptation to nudge one of his chucks out of alignment had been almost too great to resist, but you had honestly been worried he'd retaliate by doing something to your car and it'd smell of rotten eggs for six months. He'd do the calculations and decide that revenge was worth having to take a taxi to work until the metro was running again. Or he'd get a ride from Emily.)
"Fuck them," you say dismissively.
"I'd rather not." He pulls a face and it takes you a second to realize he's joking. When you snort with laughter, he smiles at you, looking just a little smug.
"No, that'd probably be even more unhygienic," you agree. He opens his mouth to speak and you hold up a hand to stop him. "Nope. You will not give me any stats on that, you will not ruin sex for me forever."
Spencer closes his mouth like a fish.
"Thank you," you say, nodding.
"Perhaps it'd be easier, though," he says, making no moves to start walking again.
"Never having sex again?" Is he about to give you some honest feedback on your dating life?
"No." He shakes his head, too caught up in his own train of thought to really notice what you asked. "If I just shook people's hands."
"I mean, maybe," you agree, because it probably would make some things simpler. Just, none of those things are important. "But don't make yourself do something you don't want to do because that guy's a douche canoe."
"I'm not," he insists, looking down at his hands.
"Give me your hand sanitizer," you say, reaching out, palm up.
"What?" He frowns at you but immediately digs into his pocket for the small bottle. He squeezes a blob of the cool gel into your cupped palm and you rub your hands together, carefully spreading it on both of them before the alcohol evaporates and it dries out. Spencer is still watching you as he pockets the hand sanitizer.
When you're done, you hold up both hands to him, showing off just how clean they are and he raises his eyebrows in what you assume is approval. So you reach out and take his hand, not to shake but to hold.
"What are you doing?" His hand is stiff but he doesn't pull away.
"Exposure therapy," you say, squeezing.
The muscles in his hand relax slightly, but you can feel his palm getting sweaty. His hand is warmer than you thought it'd be, his skin softer. Somehow you expected calluses and dry skin, but his hands are as soft as the rest of him.
He wraps his fingers around your hand, submitting himself to the project.
"Spencer?" you ask a few seconds later.
"Hmm?"
"Are you counting?"
He looks like he's going to deny it but then he smiles, slightly shamefaced. "Yes."
"One minute, okay?" you tell him.
"Okay," he agrees, nodding, looking both ways as if he's worried someone will see the two of you standing in the middle of a police station hallway at 1 in the morning holding hands.
Some fears are more rational than others, you think to yourself as Spencer mouths, "59, 60," and then quickly lets go of your hand and shoves his own in his pocket.
TWO
You're in Garcia's office, sitting behind her as she types away, making things appear and disappear on her many monitors. Next to you Spencer is leaning against the desk you're perched on, his hands at his sides.
You indicate his pocket with your index finger and he pulls a "what?" face. When you mime rubbing something into your hands he looks at Garcia and then at you before he slowly pulls the hand sanitizer from his pocket and squirts some of it into your hand.
Garcia doesn't notice at all, still typing away, and you reach for Spencer's hand. He lets you take it, but you can see his eyes going slightly wide with panic.
"There are still more than a thousand hits," she says, taking a break from typing and starting to turn around in her chair.
"Can you limit it to just women who were divorced in the last six months?" he asks quickly, moving your joined hands behind your back where hopefully Garcia won't be able to see them.
"I never knew that was your thing, Doctor Reid," she jokes, turning back to her screens. "But I can indeed."
"It's not my thing," Spencer argues, "but it looks like it might be the UnSub's."
"No, I think Penelope's onto something there," you joke. Next to you Spencer is tense, but you're pretty sure it's more to do with the fact that you've got a firm grip on his hand than the joking. So you keep talking as a way to distract him. You're doing him a solid, basically. "How long after the ink is dry on the divorce papers do you make your move, Spencer? Do you hang around outside Family Court, scouting for future girlfriends?"
Penelope lets a giggle slip out, clearly appreciating the absurdness of the joke. Spencer Reid scouting for girlfriends anywhere. You're honestly hilarious.
Spencer on the other hand doesn't even dignify your joke with an answer. You think he might let go of your hand, but no. It hasn't been 60 seconds yet and you're pretty sure he's counting.
"Catching them on the rebound," you go on, smirking. You're going to keep it up until he reacts. "Clever to get them at their most vulnerable."
"Are you projecting?" he asks, head tilted innocently as he looks at you. "It sounds like you've thought about this a lot."
Touché, Doc.
"Ooooh," Garcia hums, sounding impressed.
You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back and then lets go.
If nothing else, this project is going to give you a very good idea of just how long 60 seconds is.
THREE
The case was exhausting, both physically and mentally, and practically everyone is asleep in their seats, with the exception of Hotch who is reviewing paperwork in the seat behind you while JJ snores quietly across from him, her own file abandoned on the table between them.
Next to you Spencer is sleeping with a pillow against the window, forced to make do after Morgan beat him to the bench where he's sleeping soundly under a blanket.
You shift, trying to get comfortable, accidentally hitting Spencer with your elbow.
"Sorry," you whisper when he opens one eye to look at you.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" he asks, opening his other eye.
You shrug, because you don't really want to admit that he was right and you were wrong, you shouldn't have packed your jacket in your hold bag, and you shouldn't have turned down a blanket when Rossi offered you one, and now you're too cold to sleep while Rossi is curled up across the aisle from Hotch, warm and comfortable under the blanket you refused.
Spencer doesn't say anything, just shakes his head at you with a faint smile, and then rearranges his blanket until it's covering you both. You lean closer to him so he can wrap it all the way over you.
"Thanks," you mumble, leaning your head against his shoulder, relaxing in the delicious warmth of the pre-heated blanket.
"Mhmm," he says, pushing his pillow back in place and tilting his head against it once more. When he settles, his hand brushes yours, knuckles moving against your fingers, and you chase him, pushing your hand into his. You might as well make the most of this time and do another therapy session.
Not acknowledging what you're doing in any other way at all, he turns his wrist so he can wrap his hand around yours properly, both of your hands falling into your lap. When you squeeze, he squeezes back, and then you feel his shoulder relax as he settles.
You wait with your eyes closed for the minute to pass, but when the 60 seconds are up he doesn't let go, so you don't either. Maybe he's ready to go for two minutes. You're nodding off when you finally feel his hand move, but instead of pulling it back, he's intertwining his fingers with yours.
His breathing is slow and even, you're pretty sure he's sleeping. Somehow it feels wrong to still be holding his hand when he's not aware of it, like you're… overstepping some boundary, tricking him. You try to pull away your hand, loosening your grip on him so you can push his hand back in his own lap, but he tightens his grip. It's not exactly firm, but definitely determined.
You smile, closing your eyes and burrowing closer to him until you're comfortable.
You're woken up a few hours later by him gently nudging you with his shoulder and then saying dryly, "You drooled on me."
His fingers are still braided through yours under the blanket and you use your other hand to wipe your chin and then the knit of his cardigan. "Sorry."
When you look at him his face is so close you can't really interpret his expression, but you don't think he looks disgusted.
Also, he hasn't let go of your hand.
"We're landing," you say, looking out the window at the Quantico air strip coming into view.
"That's why I woke you up," he replies.
"Oh." You honestly thought it was to complain about the drooling.
His thumb brushes a soothing circle on the back of your hand, and then he carefully releases you, pulling his hand away just in time to be able to give the blanket to JJ so she can stow it away.
You smile at him, impressed, and he smiles back.
FOUR
The bar is crowded but Emily and JJ managed to secure a table big enough for the whole team. There's a constant shuffling of seats, people drifting to the dance floor and back again, going to buy rounds of drinks, using the restrooms; and somehow you end up nursing your second piña colada pressed into Spencer's side while he's discussing interrogation techniques with Hotch and you're trying to understand what Penelope is telling you about the changes she made to her computer setup in excruciating detail.
Spencer shifts, moving even closer to you when Morgan pushes onto the rounded bench on Hotch's other side, and his hand ends up trapped between your thighs somehow. You move closer to Garcia, giving him space to pull his hand free, trying to pretend you don't notice the way his hand strokes your leg when he removes it.
Because he's not stroking your leg, he's just… moving his hand.
You clear your throat and nod, because Penelope looks like that's the reaction she's expecting, and she grins. "You weren't listening, were you?"
Spencer's hand is resting on his thigh now, but you're sitting so close to him that his pinky finger is still brushing your leg every time one of you moves. You're maybe moving a lot, not particularly comfortable on the bench seat.
You grimace in apology, your own hand settling on your thigh, so close to his that you could probably just stretch out your pinky and touch his.
"Well if you don't want to talk about my computer you can just tell me all about the date you went on last week," Penelope says and you realize this was her plan all along. Sneaky bitch, oh how you love her.
Next to you Spencer shifts again, his whole body going rigid when his pinky touches yours. You can feel him turn to look at you and when your eyes meet, he's frowning. You can guess what's bothering him, of course. Your hands touching under the table and you haven't been anywhere near hand sanitizer for well over an hour. What you have been doing is touching all sorts of unclean things, like the bar and the bench and money, the ultimate culprit in the exchange of germs, or so you've been told once.
Well, good. Time for him to lose the training wheels, you decide, and take his hand in yours, smiling with what you hope looks like encouragement.
His frown deepens, like he's thinking through a complicated game of chess, or maybe trying to talk himself off a ledge, and then he curls his fingers around yours, turning back to Hotch, his focus clearly going back to the conversation he and Morgan are having.
"Oh, it was great," you tell Penelope, feeling a little spark of excitement at how well Spencer's doing with his whole desensitization. You're kind of a genius for coming up with this, you tell yourself, pleased little butterflies fluttering around your stomach while Spencer's thumb rubs against your hand. "Yeah, he told me after dinner that he forgot his credit card so I had to pay, then suggested we both go back to his place because then we could share the taxi I'd also be paying for."
Penelope snorts. "And did you?"
You scoff. "No! I gave him three bucks and told him to take the metro, then I took a taxi home. By myself."
She laughs, delighted and you launch into the whole sorry tale about this absolute turd of a man you had to spend nearly two hours sitting across from at a restaurant because you hadn't organized a fake emergency call.
Next to you, Spencer's back goes less rigid as he clearly gets used to holding another person's unsanitized hand in this uncontrolled environment.
You squeeze his fingers, trying to convey how impressed you are by his progress.
He squeezes back, moving in his seat so his arm isn't bent at an odd angle under the table, making sure you're sitting so close that your joined hands aren't noticeable to anyone else. Your hands are resting on your thigh, his long fingers brushing against your tights. Or, well, not so much 'brushing' as, sort of, kind of stroking your leg, maybe? Not deliberately, of course, you know that, it's just what happens when you're both forever being jostled around as other people move around you.
Penelope gets up to go to the bar and really, there's plenty of space on your other side now, you could move away from Spencer's side, but then you'd have to let go of his hand, so you stay where you are, reluctant to let go before he does. He's doing so well, you want to see just how long he's able to do this for.
The room isn't cold, but somehow you still have goosebumps.
"Sorry about your date," he says suddenly, head tilted towards you, voice so low that no-one else can hear him.
You turn to look at him. "Don't be. My friend Katie set me up, she has terrible taste in men. The only surprising thing about that date is that she didn't want him for herself."
"Still. It sounded like you had a pretty bad time."
You shrug, one arm moving against his. "It's fine. Not the end of the world. There will be other dates, and maybe they'll be less terrible."
Spencer frowns, then nods. "Yeah, definitely."
"Why do you look so unconvinced? You think I'm doomed to a life of terrible dates?"
"No." He's shaking his head, but that frown isn't going anywhere. "That's not it."
"Then what?"
Under the table, Spencer's grip on your hand tightens and he looks uncomfortable. You wonder if he managed to forget he was holding your hand and now he realized it and wants to let go.
"It's fine," you tell him, because it is. He's been holding your hand for almost half an hour, your shoulder is actually getting a little stiff by this point. "You did really well."
"What?"
You squeeze his hand, since you can't exactly blurt out 'you're doing a very good job holding my hand' in front of all your teammates. Who knows what they'd read into that?
Spencer blinks. "Oh. Right. Thanks."
When you let go of his hand, it takes a few seconds for his fingers to loosen their grip, but when he does, you catch him surreptitiously rubbing his hand against his knee, not quite like he's trying to wipe you off, but still. Kind of like that.
When he gets up to leave half an hour later, he looks kind of uncomfortable when he says goodnight to you, raising his arms, and for a mad second you think he's going to hug you, but then he adjusts his satchel and you realize it was just falling off his shoulder.
FIVE
One of your favorite things about Spencer is, although his head can get kind of deep in the work clouds, once the case is over, if there's time before the jet takes you back home, you can pretty much always tempt him to go book shopping with you.
Sometimes you don't even really have to tempt him, because he has that eidetic memory, and he remembers you once telling him how you spent an entire day in your favorite bookshop in the world when you were in high school and now here you are in Portland and JJ has dismissed you both since you weren't on the team that did any actual apprehending of anyone, so there's less paperwork for you to do.
Spencer glances at his watch and then at JJ and then he tilts his head towards the exit while looking at you. And half an hour later, you're in heaven.
Book heaven.
You get distracted in the used books section, browsing biographies, and lose track of Spencer. When you resurface in Poetry it's been almost an hour and you realize you should probably find him. If you make everyone wait for you at the jet, they're not going to look the other way when you sneak off ever again.
You go through the aisles, looking for him, fairly certain he's in the used books section as well. There's enough to look at here, he wouldn't have made it to the new books, soulless historyless paperbacks.
You're not sure how you know that he's close, you just do. He's in the next aisle, definitely, and you're trying to decide if you should sneak up on him or that'd be a mistake considering what you both spent the last four days doing.
But then you hear it: "We have the paperback version as well, if you prefer."
You don't actually have to look to know this woman is flirting with Spencer. Her voice is so loaded with it, it's amazing the fire alarms aren't going off.
"Oh, that's fine. I prefer hardbacks." Spencer is polite but friendly in a way that's definitely not a rejection and you give in to temptation and remove a few books from the shelf so you can peer into their aisle.
18th century philosophy. Because of course.
And of course that woman is pretty with her nose piercing and purple-tinted hair and t-shirt that's just a little tighter than it's probably supposed to be, but in the most flattering way. A t-shirt that says, very loudly, "I can get you all the books you want, anytime, just come to bed with me."
Not literally, that would have been super weird to put on a work uniform, but it's definitely what the shop logo stretched out across her chest is implying.
"Well, if you need anything, just let me know. I'm Frankie, by the way." You wonder if the fire alarms are silent but fire trucks are actually on their way.
"Oh. Thanks," Spencer says and you can see his cheeks going all splotchy and red like he's too warm.
You stand up on tiptoes, which changes your view, and you realize why he looks like he's boiling.
She's touching his hand.
How unprofessional!
For just a second you think you've turned into your grandmother, who also cares way too much how people in the service industry behave even if their behavior has zero impact on her, and you think you might ask to speak to the manager, but then Spencer shakes his head no to something this absolute trollop just said, and which you didn't hear because your ears were ringing with righteous indignation, and she releases him.
And you realize something. You try not to, but you can't help it.
Because you're relieved. You don't care that this woman talks to customers like she wants to lick honey off of them, just so long as those customers aren't Spencer.
And you'd feel bad that clearly your exposure therapy hasn't really worked yet, because he couldn't have looked less comfortable and you know he gets shy sometimes, and it seemed clear that he liked her, and maybe if you had done a better job preparing him for this he would have been okay with her touching him.
Maybe you should also feel bad about the fact that there's a little part of you that's delighted that he'll let you hold his hand and not that woman.
No, you should definitely feel bad about that. Except you don't want any woman holding his hand other than you.
Once the aspiring honey-licker is gone, you walk into Spencer's aisle, trying to look like you didn't know he was there. If he notices, he doesn't say anything, just holds up the book he definitely already read most of and tells you he's going to buy it.
"You wouldn't prefer the paperback?" you ask innocently. He doesn't know you know, after all.
He looks at you, then at the gap in the bookshelf you forgot to refill, then back at you. "No." He says it like it's simple and your whole world didn't just spin on its axis.
Oh.
Your stomach does a little flip as you try not to read anything into that completely innocuous answer. Then he starts walking towards the cash registers, moving the book to the hand that's further from you, the one closest to you hanging loosely at his side.
You take it, carefully wrapping your hand around his, and he does the same, his fingers curling themselves around you.
You pass the woman he didn't want touching him earlier, and you think he might let go of you, but instead he just smiles politely at her, his grip on you not changing at all.
She smiles back, and then she smiles at you, looking all friendly and maybe a little bit apologetic and not at all like she wants to claw your eyes out.
You hope you smile back, but you honestly aren't sure what your face is doing at all.
You just know you're holding Spencer's hand and you don't want to let go.
Terrifying.
ONE
This was your idea. Spencer has reminded himself of that fact 27 times on his way from his apartment to the cinema.
He had asked Emily to go to the Eisenstein festival with him, she had made up some transparent excuse like he wasn't a professional lie detector, and you had said, "I'll go with you, Spencer. It sounds like fun."
And his lie detector just short circuited right then and there.
There's no part of him that thinks you're going to enjoy sitting through any one of the three movies that are playing back to back today, but he didn't question it. He did rewind mentally to make sure you had heard enough of the conversation to understand what he had been suggesting, and yes. You were there the whole time, actually sitting next to Emily when he had first brought it up.
But if you only said it sounded like fun because you felt sorry for him that no-one wanted to go with him to his black and white, Soviet era movie marathon, then he was going to just pretend he didn't notice.
And then he'd sit next to you in that cinema for at least 278 minutes, depending on the versions they were screening which the poster had been frustratingly vague about. Plus commercials. All in all, he'd estimate at least five hours. Sitting next to you. In a dark cinema.
Spencer doesn't believe in prayers or wishing on shooting stars, but he would have done both yesterday if he thought it might have done anything to lower the risk of a case coming up and cancelling your plans together. But he didn't need to, because here he is.
You're already there when he arrives, standing under the awning outside looking at your phone, and for just a second he's worried there's a text from JJ and you're being called into work, but his own phone hasn't said anything at all, and when you look up and spot him you smile, not apologetically or with anything like regret (real or pretend), but like you're genuinely happy to see him.
"Perfect timing," you say when he stops in front of you.
Spencer is seven minutes early. He smiles.
"Katie has been texting me non-stop." You hold up your phone as if to show him, and it actually beeps and lights up as if you planned it.
"Your friend with terrible taste in men?" There could be other Katies, obviously, but he's pretty sure this is the only one you've mentioned knowing.
"Uhhuh. She found another gem. She started dating a guy who's—and I could not be more certain of this—involved in some Ponzi scheme. He's got a friend who's single and she's convinced we'd hit it off." You open the text and read it, rolling your eyes, and then you shove your phone at him.
'Come on just give him a chance. What do you have to lose?' Spencer hands the phone back to you. "Does she mean, other than your money?"
You snort. "Who cares about money, Spencer? What about my dignity?"
He smiles, blowing an amused huff of air out through his nose. "I suppose there's that as well," he agrees. How much dignity does he have left considering the fact that he's about to spend his Sunday with you watching movies he knows you won't enjoy, when he could have explained to you that you wouldn't enjoy them and why, but he chose not to, because he didn't want you to back out?
Considering the fact that you spending time with him out of pity doesn't stop him looking forward to it? Considering the fact that he spent the entire morning wondering if you're going to take his hand in the cinema and actually getting excited at the prospect of sitting in a dark cinema screen holding his colleague's hand because she thinks she's curing him of… caring about hygiene?
Spencer isn't sure how dignity is measured, but he is pretty sure he doesn't have a whole lot of it left to measure.
"We're getting popcorn, right?" you ask, walking ahead of him into the cinema.
Spencer had planned on getting a coffee, maybe some pretzels. It's barely 11AM. "Of course."
At the concession stand you start picking up bags of candy at what he assumes is random, but then you show him two bags of pretzels, holding them up in turn. There's a third option, but he's never eaten that one in the office and you haven't touched it. He shrugs because he's fine with either and you throw both on the counter. "And a large popcorn with butter and a diet coke and a coffee with more sugar than you think should be legal. Actually, once you hit that point, just add a little more."
The teenager behind the counter looks at you, wide-eyed and a little scared.
"Three sugars," Spencer corrects you and you smirk.
He shakes his head at you, nudging you away from the counter before you can do any more damage. Doing some quick calculations based on what you've picked up, he throws some money on the counter before you can get your purse open.
"I was going to pay," you say, eyebrows furrowed. "You got the tickets."
Spencer, who can see the remainder of his dignity escaping out the door as he goes through the rites of an actual date, just shrugs. "You're doing me a favor, coming with me. The least I can do is feed you."
You look up at him. "Oh. I figured we'd go out for food after?"
He looks at the mountain of snacks you picked up, the tub of popcorn in your arm, bigger than your head. There's no way he can look you in the eye right now, not when you basically said you want to go out for dinner. With him. "And what's this? Appetizers?"
"No." You hug the popcorn closer like he threatened to take them away from you. "But aren't these movies seven years long? I feel like Russian movies are going to be long."
"They're not that long." He holds the door open and you walk into the screen ahead of him. The room is about half full, with people mostly centered in the middle rows. The front and back rows are both empty.
You stop, turning to look at him. "Where do you want to sit?"
Normally he'd prefer the front row, for his eyesight, but he nods his head towards the back row instead. You look just a little surprised, but walk in ahead of him, settling in one of the seats in the middle of the row.
He deposits your appetizers on the little table attached to his seat and sits down next to you. And then he waits.
You spend the first half hour eating popcorn, offering the tub to him at regular intervals, and then you open the bag of twizzlers, slowly chewing your way through one of them as you squirm in your seat.
"Are you scared you'll fall asleep if you sit still for too long?" he leans in and whispers.
You jump, startled. "No. I'm just hoping I can find the right angle and then this will make sense to me."
"It won't," he whispers. "Sit still."
Then he very casually and not at all deliberately puts his lower arm on the armrest between your seats, his hand within easy reach. It has worked well in the past, after all, there is previous evidence that his method is sound. If he makes his hand available, maybe allows his fingers to touch yours, more often than not you will take his hand.
It's a pretty devious thing to do, he's aware of that, and he's not really sure when your supposed exposure therapy stopped being something he allowed you to do because you seemed so determined to help him, and instead changed into something he didn't really mind before finally becoming something he actually wants you to do.
He wants to hold your hand, he wants to touch you, and he does not want your friend Katie to set you up on any more dates. Because you're right: statistically, eventually one of them will be a nice guy, and you'll like him.
But he won't - and this is the real problem here - be Spencer.
The first movie ends and you still haven't made any moves to touch his hand. You haven't actually moved much at all, and for a while he thought you had fallen asleep, but no. You were staring at the screen, your nose scrunched up adorably as you tried to follow the narrative.
Maybe Spencer should have double-checked that there would be subtitles…
When the lights come on for the 15 minute break between screenings, you get out of your seat. "I've just gotta—" you trail off, pointing at the exit to the lobby and the other people making their way out.
"You forgot your purse," he says, grabbing it from your seat and holding it out to you after you've passed him.
You turn and stare at him. "What?"
"If you're going to sneak off." He's mostly joking. Mostly. He's also a little bit worried you do want to leave.
But then you smile, shaking your head at him like he's being silly, and he feels like maybe he was.
"We can do something else," he offers all the same. Maybe you don't want to get away from him, but you could still want to get away from Eisenstein.
You take a step back towards him, almost but not quite knocking your knee against his. "Spencer, we're not leaving. There are two movies left, I'm coming back."
"You just want me to feed you," he says. Mainly to remind himself that's something you said you expected to happen.
Dinner and a movie. Would it be possible for you to do anything more date-like? In a completely platonic way, of course. Two more movies left for you to platonically take his hand.
"Exactly," you say, and this time you do actually nudge him with your leg. Luckily you aren't looking at him, so you don't see the way he has to suck a pleased smile all the way into his mouth.
This time, he lets you walk away, and when you return nine minutes later, you're holding another coffee for him. "You take it black, right?" you joke, handing it to him.
He takes a sip and you ordered it just the way he likes it, which he knew you would. "Thanks."
When he puts the coffee back in the cup holder between your seats, he brushes against your arm, sitting on the edge of the armrest. Strictly speaking the thing isn't wide enough for two, it's very much a territory to negotiate over, but you're taking up less than half of it.
Spencer spends about ten minutes wringing his hands in his lap, trying to decipher the situation. You shift, twice, but your hand doesn't move. It's still there, half on, half off the armrest.
Like it's undecided, or like it's trying to run away and you aren't letting it, or like it wants to be there and you don't want it to.
How is he supposed to know what to do?
The answer is probably that he isn't supposed to do anything. This isn't a date, it only looks like one from a distance, and just because he can't focus on the movie because all he can think about is holding your hand, that doesn't mean you want him to. You haven't technically told him that his exposure therapy is over, but you haven't held his hand since Portland, two weeks ago.
Like maybe doing it in public was some kind of graduation ceremony and didn't make him want to stay in that bookshop forever, never mind catching the jet back to Quantico.
He shifts, sighing deeply, only realizing how loud it was when you turn to look at him. "Sorry."
"You okay?" you whisper, leaning a little closer to him.
He's not, not at all. He's spiraling just a little bit. "Yeah, of course."
You look at him carefully, like maybe you don't believe him, and he turns back to face the screen so he doesn't have to look you in the eye. Then he takes a deep breath and places his arm on the armrest, taking up most of the remaining space on it.
His pinky finger is maybe an eighth of an inch away from yours and he digs it into the velvet of the armrest to stop it from twitching and accidentally touching you, although he's not quite sure why.
Maybe because it feels too much like begging to be touched, suddenly, after not being touched at all for so long?
But then, while the score crescendos dramatically, he suddenly feels it: Your pinky finger feathering along his and then away. At first he thinks he imagined it, but then it happens again, and again. And this time, it actually settles against his.
When Spencer turns to look at you, you're staring intently at the screen, looking for all the world like you're completely engrossed in the movie.
He moves his pinky so it's covering yours.
You don't move. At all.
He moves his pinky a little more, until it's settling on your ring finger.
You still aren't moving.
He feels his heart rate increase, the way it might do ahead of a myocardial infarction, or possibly a panic attack. But there's no pain in his left arm, no cold sweats, no shortness of breath.
He swallows, then he places his hand over yours, covering it completely.
Your thumb twitches but you don't pull away, so Spencer decides he might as well go for broke and wrap his fingers around your hand.
That's it, he's done it. He's holding your hand.
And then you move, your hand shifting. He's about to release you, worried he overstepped, but all you do is turn your hand and intertwine your fingers with his, pulling his hand off the armrest and into your lap.
Spencer double-checks the signals his body is sending him, just to make completely sure this isn't a heart attack.
He turns to look at you, and he's pretty sure you're smiling, your eyes still on the screen. "Okay?" he asks.
You turn your head and now he's sure you're smiling. "Of course."
When the second movie ends, you don't get up. Your hand is still intertwined with his, resting in your lap, and Spencer hopes you'll never move.
"This, um, this exposure therapy has really worked well," you say and there's something in your voice that makes him look at you.
"I guess," he says, because he's not convinced it has, really. He's pretty sure he won't be shaking anyone's hand unless it's yours.
You lift up your joined hands to show him. "I mean, we've been holding hands for like an hour."
He blinks.
"It's nice." Your voice is soft and you aren't looking at him, so he lets himself smile at your words.
tw: use of y/n, nudity (non-sexual, non-consensual), bullying, humiliation, insecurity (body), think I swore once of twice, spencer being a little creepy kinda
word count: 2269
a/n: I hate this. also I was inspired by another author but I cant for the life of me find their fic
spencer reid was a certified people watcher.
despite being a virtual ghost in the eyes of the rest of the school, he knew each and every name of every student that attended it. seriously, put a yearbook in front of him, face without their names, and he could pinpoint each and every one with not so much as a stutter.
not to make him sound like a creep, oh no. it was simply a biproduct of being a complete and total loser.
spencer spent most of his free time at school tucked away in the library, shoulders hunched as he crunched through as many books as the hour break he had would let him.
he even ate his lunch there.
on his first day, he tried sitting in the cafeteria with everyone else, but some jock at least two years his senior threw a panini right at his head, mayo splattering against his glasses. it was sad how quickly labels were assigned and people were sorted into their stations in the hierarchy of high school.
after that day, little fourteen year old spencer retreated to the safety of the library, where he could eat his lunch and read his books in blissful silence.
established in his role of ‘dork’, spencer became accustomed to watching rather than speaking. the days passed in a flurry of teenagers, talking about the parties they were invited too and who was hooking up with who, whilst spencer simply watched and kept a record of every single incident, his stubborn brain refusing to let them go.
some people found it creepy, how he knew every single name whilst never actually speaking to these people he seemed to know so intimately. what they didn’t know was that it was hard to do anything but know these people when nobody ever tried to know him.
but out of everyone he knew, he knew you the best.
you’d transferred to his school midway through second year, and were assigned the seat next to him in science. the rest of the class chuckled in sympathy, pitying you for having to sit next to nerdy, creepy spencer reid, who was too smart and too pedantic for his own good.
you, however, seemed to be oblivious of the very obvious social hierarchy that had been established long before your time, smiling at spencer the way you did with every other person.
that was probably a mistake.
because poor spencer hadn’t been given so much as a kind gesture for over a year. and that tiny little meaningless gesture meant the world to him.
from then, he’d been on your like a moth to a flame. well, kind of.
he observed you with more intent that he ever had with the rest of his peers, keeping a mental note of the days you came in beaming, and the days your smile seemed to drop. by your first month here, he had memorised your schedule and known you better than any of your friends whilst having little more than a polite conversation with you.
he thought you were perfect, from the way your hair seemed to effortlessly fall over your shoulder and how your eyes glistened in the sun.
your one flaw, he observed, was your friends.
unfortunately, you had fallen in with a group of less than kind people. to your oblivion, they often found themselves picking on the less popular kids and being all around dicks to everybody, but acting like regular, nice people around you. maybe they just liked taking advantage of your naivety and assumption in the good of all people.
it was today, however, that these people became real and more than just characters in his memory. he was, as usual, sitting in the library, entertaining himself with some light reading (i.e. war and peace), when harper hillman approaches him. he was already shocked that someone as popular as harper would come up to him, but even more so at the sight of seeing her in a library. “hi spencer.”
she sits down, as if she’s been invited too and not just interrupted his lunch, looking straight at him with purpose, her false politeness covering up a mischievous gleam behind her eyes. looking back, spencer probably should’ve noticed that.
“hi.” he peeps out, his voice barely more than a whisper, hoarse and a little croaky, to his embarrassment.
“how are you?” she keeps going with this façade of kindness, revelling in spencer’s nerves and obvious discomfort.
“i’m…fine.” his tone is laced with suspicion, shoulders hunching to make himself smaller.
“good.” she nods, fake smile gleaming, “so, you know y/n?”
he flushes a little at your name. it’s embarrassing how so little as your name reduces him to a blushing, stuttering mess. “yeah.” he nods, trying to think of anything else to cool his face down.
“well, she told me to tell you to meet her out by the football field.”
“what? why?”
“she wants to talk to you. just go, okay? she really wanted to see you.”
spencer can feel it as he stands up, the joke building, the humiliation foreboding. but something keeps his legs moving, all the way to the football field. his imagination is filled with images of you, sweet as ever, stood in the late afternoon sun, waiting for him with that lovely smile of yours. no matter his worries of it being some joke, of being bullied yet again, it all falls short at the possibility of you actually waiting for him.
but when he reaches the field, he doesn’t see you. instead, he’s met with what seems to be at least half the football team, along with a few of your female friends.
“hey, reid.” one of them says, tone laced with amusement.
“what…i don’t..” but he does know, he can see it in there smiles. well, smirks. he can see so plainly that this is yet another set up to humiliate him. he doesn’t know why he hadn’t realised, so blinded by the image of you that he couldn’t see what was right in front of him.
they grab him then, and he clenches his eyes shut and just waits for the beating. he takes one punch to the face before it all properly starts. it was a feeling he hadn’t been used to. the single mercy of being beaten up was that he’d experienced it before and the feeling was something he was familiar with, something he had become so accustomed to that it never felt as bad as the first time.
instead, he can feel them pulling at his clothes, dragging him to something until he can feel the sting of a metal pole against his back. he doesn’t even try to fight as they tie his hands behind his wrists, keeping his trapped against the goal post, focusing all of his attention of not letting the tears welling in his eyes fall. spencer was far used to being bullied, humiliated, that he had realised that dignity wasn’t lost in the beatings, the bruises they left, and the laughs from the onlookers. dignity was only lost when you let them know that it was getting to you.
the laughing is too much though, a heavy weight on his chest, reminding him of his stupidity. he let his crush on you, his stupid, built on nothing crush, lead him into yet another embarrassment that could’ve been avoided.
“let’s just hope y/n doesn’t see you like this, genius.” he can tell by the cruel tone of his voice and the harsh pat of his shoulder, that you would 100% see him like this. that’s when he lets his dignity slip.
he starts begging, not even entirely knowing what he’s saying, just pleading to be given his clothes back and set free. that just makes them laugh more.
if he wasn’t humiliated enough, that’s when he hears your confused giggle.
blindfolded and being guided by harper, you giggle obliviously as you stumble forward. “harper, what’s going on? what’s the surprise?”
“just wait, you’ll love it. i promise.”
your so blinded by your loyalty and affection for your friend, that you’re completely stunned when the blindfold drops. your blood runs cold, and your smile drops.
the first thing you see is spencer, hopelessly writhing against the goal post in a futile attempt to free himself. then, all you see is the sweet boy from science class who always helped you when you didn’t understand, who had never hurt anyone, who was so plainly innocent that he was the perfect target for cruelty. you just never assumed your friends would be the ones to enact such cruelty.
your friends only stop laughing when you stop moving.
“wait- what are you doing?” one of them asks, but you’re so laser focused on getting him free that you don’t even take notice.
you shrug off your jacket, and cover him the best you can with it, before turning back to your friends. “leave.” your voice is colder than you’ve ever heard it, firm and direct. in truth, you feel like crying for the poor boy, but you need them to know that this isn’t a joke, not to you.
“what?” harper spits, sounding genuinely confused as to why you aren’t thanking them for whatever this is. “y/n, we did this for you!”
“i don’t care, just leave!”
that does it. they’ve never seen you anything but pleasant and aimable, and so they take one last look, before stalking off the field.
you turned back to spencer, and see his lip quivering.
“okay, im going to get you off, okay? i won’t look, i promise.” your voice is back to its soft, sweet normality, just tinged with a little sadness and a little anger. you cover your eyes with your hand to give him a little more comfort.
you work at the ropes for what feels like forever, feeling spencer shake beside you as he doesn’t say a single word. but you eventually do free him, scampering to gather his clothes for him, and turning around as he changes.
“im done.” he says once he’s finished, and you turn around to see him. his clothes are smothering his mud from the wet field, and they look a little crumpled. he looks even worse. his eyes are bloodshot, staring down at the floor, shoulders hunched around himself to make him smaller.
you look at him for a second, and you start to feel yourself tear up. but you won’t cry. it’s not like his pity will make you feel any better. “i’m really sorry.” your voice cracks.
he just looks at you for a second, not really knowing what to say. “i…it’s not your fault.”
“i’m still sorry. i didn’t know,” you continue, the words spilling out of you. “if i did, i-…i would’ve tried to stop them. i’m really so, so sorry, spencer.”
he’s rendered speechless, and you feel a little bashful having him just stand there and stare at you like that, like you’ve grown two heads. you sway on your feet, waiting for him to say something or do something, but he never does, just keeps staring at you, and so you try and fill the noise. “um…do you have a ride home? can i drive you?”
he looks a little stunned for a second, but nods. “sure, if it’s not too much to ask.” he peeps out, tone awkward and uncertain.
“you didn’t ask. i offered.” you correct, beginning to walk, assuming he’s walking with you, but when you turn back to look, he’s rooted in place. “come on, spence.”
the nickname throws him for a second, before scampering to walk in tow with you. the walk to the parking lot is a little awkward. spencer’s mind is filled with the anxiety over the knowledge that you’ve seen him naked, with his scrawny legs and skinny ribs. he’d always been insecure about his body. he knew he wasn’t buff and athletic like some of the other guys at school, who’d you been seen with from time to time. it was bad enough the concept of you seeing him without the shield of his clothes. he’d never expected you actually ever see him like that.
he feels like he’s seen heaven when he sees your car, a little pink volkswagen beetle. the pair of you get in, and you immediately turn up the heat. you’d seen spencer shivering as the pair of you walked up.
the radio starts, playing your previously set station; 60s. he’d noticed you around the halls with your Walkman, but he’d never gotten close enough to hear whatever you were playing. turns out, you were a beatle-head.
the ride is silent, except for the low buzz of the car, the radio humming and spencer mumbling the directions to his house. you pull up to a small house, not far from your own, and still the car. spencer doesn’t move.
“thank you.” he says, finally breaking the silence. his voice is a little steadier, but there’s still a subtle shake and a quietness.
“of course, spencer. you don’t have to thank me.”
he nods, not saying anything. he then reaches for the door, but you put a hand on his arm to stop him.
he looks at you curiously, eyebrows slightly raised, big puppy eyes filled with confusion.
you lean forward, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “bye. ill see you tomorrow, okay?”
he just nods, throat closed, mouth dry, the apples of his cheeks turning red. he stumbles out of the car, looking back once and waving, before going inside.
"Patrick likes his apartment spotless, his transactions clean, and his control absolute. Tonight you take all three away from him—slowly, gently, and with a toy he didn't know he wanted until it was already inside him."
A/N: I was carried away by the delicious @mergers-and-executions Sub!Patrick content, and I needed to write it down.
The apartment feels too clean with you in it.
I invited you here after almost a week. Seven days of silence on my end because I told myself I could stop. I couldn’t. The need had been building like pressure behind my eyes until I finally called you from the office phone, voice low so no one would hear. You didn’t sound surprised. You never do.
Now you’re here, standing in the middle of my living room like you belong, and everything I own suddenly feels like evidence against me. The perfect white couch. The glass and chrome coffee table. The halogen lights that make everything sharp and almost lifeless. My place is a temple to control and you’re walking through it barefoot, wearing a simple black dress. You know what you want. That fact alone already irritates me.
I hate how much I want you here anyway.
I go to the safe in the bedroom and come back with cash. Crisp hundreds. I hold the stack out without ceremony.
You look at it, then at me. Your expression doesn’t change.
“I don’t want your money tonight,” you say.
The words land strangely. I feel off-balance. The transaction is how I keep this manageable. How I remind myself what this is. Without it, the need feels too raw.
You step closer. Close enough that I can smell your skin under the faint trace of whatever soap you use.
“I want your mouth,” you say simply. “That’s all.”
Something tightens in my chest. I don’t argue. I never do when you use that tone.
We end up in the bedroom. My bedroom. The bed is huge, the sheets are spotless and white, and they cost more than most people could ever hope to earn. You undress without performance. The black dress pools on the floor. No bra. Just the black underwear you slide down your legs. I watch you. I should be repulsed. I am repulsed. And yet my cock is already hard, pressing against the front of my trousers like it has a mind of its own.
I undress too. My suit folded neatly over the chair because even now I can’t stop the habit. When I’m naked you look at me for a long moment, then climb onto the bed.
“On your back,” you say.
I obey.
You move over me in one fluid motion, turning so your knees are on either side of my head. 69. The position is deliberate. You’re in control even like this. I can feel the heat of your cunt hovering above my face as you settle. Your hand wraps around my cock at the same time, slow and firm.
Then your mouth is on me.
The first slow slide of your lips down my length makes my hips jerk. You take me deep on the second stroke, no hesitation, and I have to bite back a sound. Your tongue works the underside while you suck, steady and unhurried. One of your hands rests on my thigh. The other slides lower.
I feel your finger press against my asshole before I can prepare for it.
My entire body goes rigid.
You don’t push in right away. You circle the tight ring of muscle with a slick finger—you must have used your own spit or something from your mouth—while you keep sucking me. The dual sensation is overwhelming. I can’t think. I can only feel the wet heat of your mouth around my cock and the insistent pressure at my entrance.
When you finally push the finger inside, slow but unrelenting, I make a sound I’ve never heard from myself before. Half groan, half something closer to a whimper. The stretch burns. It feels wrong. Invasive. Humiliating. My body tries to clench around the intrusion and you make a pleased sound around my cock, like you enjoy the resistance.
You start to move the finger in and out in time with your mouth. Shallow at first. Then deeper. Crooking it just enough to drag against something inside me that makes my vision blur.
You pull off my cock just long enough to speak, voice low and calm.
“Do you love it?”
The question is quiet. Almost gentle. It cuts straight through me.
I don’t answer. I can’t. My hands are fisted in the pristine white sheets. My expensive bed. My perfect apartment. And you have a finger in my ass while you suck my cock like you own it. I hate you. I hate how sure you are of what you want. I hate that you know exactly how to take me apart like this. I hate that you refused the money. I hate that this feels more intimate because of it.
You push your finger deeper and suck harder at the same time.
“Answer me, Patrick.”
The use of my name while you’re knuckle-deep inside me makes something crack.
“Yes,” I grind out. The word tastes like defeat. “I love it.”
You hum around my cock like you’re satisfied and reward me by taking me all the way to the back of your throat. Your finger keeps moving—steady, deliberate, fucking into me while your mouth works me with obscene wet sounds. I can feel myself getting close embarrassingly fast. The combination is too much. The finger inside me, the way you control every movement, the knowledge that this is happening in my own bed where everything is supposed to be clean and ordered.
I try to focus on your body above me instead. Your cunt is right there, glistening. I could lift my head and put my mouth on you but you haven’t told me to. So I don’t. I just lie there and take what you give me while you finger my ass and suck me like you’re trying to pull every last bit of control out of me through my cock.
You add a second finger without warning.
The stretch burns hotter. My hips buck involuntarily and you pin one thigh down with your free hand, holding me still while you work both fingers deeper. The pressure against that spot inside me is relentless. I see white. My breathing turns ragged.
You pull off my cock again, lips shiny, and look back at me over your shoulder.
“Say it again,” you say. “Tell me you love having my fingers in your ass.”
I want to refuse. I want to flip you over and fuck you until you stop talking. The violent urge rises fast and sharp. But my cock is throbbing and my body is clenching around your fingers and I’m already too far gone.
“I love it,” I say, voice hoarse. “I love your fingers in my ass.”
You smile—small, satisfied—and take me back into your mouth.
This time you don’t stop. You suck harder, fingers moving faster, and I come with a broken sound that echoes off the clean white walls of my bedroom. It hits me hard, pulses thick and helpless down your throat while you keep working me through it, fingers still buried inside me, drawing it out until I’m shaking and oversensitive and can’t do anything but lie there beneath you.
When you finally pull your fingers free and let my cock slip from your mouth, I feel empty in more ways than one.
You shift off me and turn around, settling beside me on the bed like you belong there. Your hand rests lightly on my chest, right over my racing heart.
I stare at the ceiling. My expensive sheets are damp. My perfect apartment smells like sex and you. I feel wrecked. Used. And I already know I’ll let you do it again.
The aftershocks are still rolling through me when you move.
I should tell you to get dressed and leave. I should shower until my skin feels like mine again.
Instead I watch you reach for your bag on the floor.
You pull out a black leather harness and a silicone cock already attached to it. Not huge. Not small either. Realistic. You hold it up like you’re showing me a new watch.
“I brought this,” you say simply. “I want to fuck you with it.”
The words hit me like ice water.
My body goes still. For a second I can’t even process it. Pegging. In my bed. In my apartment. The place I keep spotless and controlled. You want to put that thing inside me while I’m still shaking from the last orgasm you pulled out of me with your fingers and mouth. You came here already knowing exactly what you wanted to do to me.
Humiliation burns hot behind my ribs. I open my mouth to refuse, to tell you this is too far, that you’re in my space now and you don’t get to decide this. But you speak first.
“I’ll be gentle,” you say. Your voice is calm. Almost kind. “I know it’s your first time. I’ll go slow. I promise.”
The promise shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t be enough to stop the protest on my tongue. But I’m still floating from the last orgasm and my cock is already twitching again at the thought of you taking even more from me. I hate how weak it makes me feel. I hate that part of me wants to know what it will feel like.
I don’t say yes. I don’t say no. I just lie there while you strap the harness on with practiced movements, the black leather looking obscene against your skin. You slick the toy with lube from a small bottle you also pull from the bag. Everything about this is planned. You came here tonight already intending to do this to me.
You lie down behind me and pull me back against your chest. Spooning. One of your arms slides under my neck. The other reaches down between my legs. Your hand wraps around my cock, still sensitive, and strokes me slowly back to full hardness while the slick head of the strap-on presses against my ass.
“Breathe,” you murmur against the back of my neck. Your tongue traces a slow line up to my ear. “Relax for me.”
I try. I fail. The first push is more pressure than pain, but it’s still too much. Too intimate. Too wrong. I feel myself stretch around the head of the toy and a low, broken sound escapes my throat before I can stop it. You don’t stop. You keep stroking my cock with one hand and rock your hips forward with steady patience until the toy sinks deeper.
The fullness is overwhelming. I can feel every inch. My body keeps trying to clench and push it out, but you’re patient. Gentle, just like you promised. One slow inch at a time until your hips are flush against my ass and I’m shaking in your arms.
“Good,” you whisper. Your tongue licks the side of my neck again, warm and wet. “You’re taking it so well.”
You start to move.
Slow, shallow thrusts at first. The drag of the toy inside me lights up nerves I didn’t know existed. Every time you push in you stroke my cock at the same pace. The dual sensation is too much. I can’t think. I can only feel your body curled around mine from behind, the way you hold me steady while you take what you want. Everything about the way you move, the way you know exactly what you’re doing, irks me. It should disgust me. It does disgust me. And I’m still rocking back onto the toy like I need it.
You fuck me like that for what feels like forever. Steady. Controlled. Your hand never stops moving on my cock. Your tongue keeps tracing patterns on my neck between soft bites. I’m moaning. I can hear myself. Low, helpless sounds I’ve never made before. At one point the noise gets too loud—a broken, desperate groan when you angle the toy just right—and you reach up, turn my face toward you, and kiss me hard. Swallow the sound. Your tongue slides into my mouth while you keep fucking me from behind and stroking my cock.
The kiss is almost tender. That makes it worse.
I come again with your tongue in my mouth and the toy buried deep in my ass. It hits harder than the first one. My whole body locks up. I spill over your fist in thick pulses while you keep moving inside me, drawing it out until I’m twitching and oversensitive and can’t do anything but sag back against you.
You don’t pull out right away. You hold me through the aftershocks, hand still wrapped loosely around my softening cock, lips brushing the side of my neck.
When you finally slide the toy free I feel empty in a way that makes my face burn.
You roll me onto my back like I weigh nothing. Before I can catch my breath you’re straddling my chest, then moving higher until your knees are on either side of my head. You lower yourself onto my face without asking.
“Clean me up,” you say. “And get me ready for the next round.”
Your cunt is wet against my mouth. I can taste myself on you from earlier and the sharp, clean taste of your arousal. I open my mouth and lick because I don’t have the strength to refuse. My jaw aches. My ass still feels stretched and used. I’m lying naked on my pristine white sheets while you sit on my face, riding my tongue as though it's the most natural thing in the world.
And I let you.
Because you promised to be gentle.
Because I invited you here.
Because even now, with your thighs framing my head and your slick pussy grinding against my mouth, I can already feel my cock trying to stir again.
You rock against my face slowly, one hand braced on the wall behind me, the other stroking through my hair like you’re praising a pet. I can hear your breathing change. I can feel you getting wetter on my tongue. I keep licking. I keep swallowing everything you give me. Because right now it’s the only thing I’m allowed to do.
And because some sick, humiliated part of me already wants to know what you’re going to do to me next.
To have and to hold chapter six: s*x, birth, death
➼ pairing: Spencer reid x SecretWife!FBI!Reader
➼ summary: Gideon calls you into work
➼ what to expect:
➼ warnings: Angst, mentions of events of 2x11 'S*x, birth, death*, discussions about schizophrenia
➼ Chapter Five / Chapter six
"You're Dr Reid"
"I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"I just know what you do"
"Okay?" Spencer is almost on auto pilot in the conversation, only just now catching up and processing the interaction "Look, i saw you at georgetown a few weeks ago, you gave a lecture on sexual sadism and how you helped catch the Mill Creek Killer in St. Louis"
"Uh... not much of a public speaker"
"I don't know I thought you seemed cool."
"You look kind of young to go to georgetown."
"I'm a Junior at Northwest High school"
"And you just go to lectures on anger-excitation for fun?"
"I don't have a lot of friends"
"So you're interested in profiling?"
"Yeah I mean, I read a lot, you know...true crime, like graphic novels mostly, they're all about whether there's such a thing as evil or like nature vs nurture, all that. So I figured it'd be smart to hear it from an expert. So you said a lot of them killed prostitutes?"
"That's the number one serial killer target actually"
"Is that for sex or because they think they're dirty and they need to be punished?" spencer is used to discussing morbid topics out in the open given his job but even he felt a bit strange in this conversation, in the middle of a public subway station with a teenager.
"Were you waiting here for me?"
The boy looks down "What would it mean if somebody were stabbing them and cutting off their hair?"
"I've never heard of a case like that" Or at least he hadn't recently, there's been plenty but something in the back of his mind telling him that he shouldn't feed into this. "Do you want to go to the BAU with me and maybe talk to some of my other team members?"
"Actually I have to get to school" he tries to walk off
"Give me your name and number and I'll call you and..." The boy get's lost in the crowd, unable for spencer to follow him. Instead he franctically launches himself back towards the BAU.
"JJ, who's your contact at the DC police?"
"Victor Barnes, why? You need me to call him?"
Spencer picks up the phone "Hi, detective Barnes please?"
"What's wrong?" Gideon wanders over. "We need to get that to everyone as soon as possible" he nods to the notebook he's been scrawling in.
"Hi detective Barnes this is Special Agent Dr Spencer Reid of the behavioural analysis unit at quantico, have you had any recent murders involving prostitutes, maybe just Jane Does? They would've been stabbed to death and their hair would've been cut off by the killer"
"When was the most recent victim?... I'll explain when i see you, I'll meet you in half an hour"
"What's going on?"
"DC may have a serial killer, and I think I just let him get away"
You expect a call from spencer about this time of day, you're at home doing paperwork, Charlotte sat reading some books nearby. When your phone rings, your shocked to see it's gideon and not spencer.
"Hi Jason is everything okay?"
"Yes, yes everything is fine, sorry to bother you y/n but we have a... strange case and... well I think that Reid has gotten in his head about it... I think he may have left something at home, if you're available" You know what he means, spencer will not be happy if he thinks Gideon asks you to come in to check on him like you're his mother. It has to be your idea.
"Alright, I'll... find something, I just need to drop Lottie off with the nanny"
You have to admit that what you end up landing on is not the best excuse for you to come out to quantico for but it does help that you also work in the building.
Gideon is at the lifts when you get there "What's up Jason?"
"Well...we have a kid with probable sadistic tendencies that Reid bumped into in the subway that is asking for us to help him stop from killing" Your brows raise in shock at the answer "Gees, that's... quite the case study"
"Reid thinks he's responsible for the kid"
Ah.
"I see..." as you trail off you spot Spencer stepping out of the conference room with morgan and a teenage boy with curly hair. "Wait... is that the kid?"
"Yes, why?"
You sigh "I think i know what this is about" Gideon looks back to you in question "He looks like spencer did when we were in highschool just... older"
The kid is escorted into a different room, for detainment or evaluation you don't know. Spencer spots you from across the bullpen, brows furrowing at your presence as he approaches you two. "hi, is everything okay, is Charlotte okay?"
In all fairness you should have considered that you only show up at the BAU during emergencies "She's fine, we're fine, I just was on my way in to drop off some paper work and noticed that somehow I ended up with your glasses so I thought I'd stop by"
"Okay... thanks" he accepts them, mildly confused as he's convinced that he left them on your bedside table this morning. "Excuse me" Gideon walks away.
"He called you didn't he?"
"What?"
"Y/n."
You sigh "Yes... and I'm glad he did... that kid-"
"His name is nathan"
"You can't project yourself onto him spencer"
"Is that what you think I'm doing"
"On a first glance yes-"
"On a first glance, you don't know anything about this case"
"I don't need to I know you" You huff, dragging him to a quieter area of the BAU "ignoring that he looks close enough like you, you get snappy when you're defensive like this not to mention you're a fixer, if a kid approaches you for help to stop killing you cannot help yourself which is a good thing, it is, but you cannot personalise it"
spencer huffs, biting the inside of his cheek as he avoids an eyeroll "What do you think is up with him? Nathan?"
"... Gideon reckons that it's not an if he kills its a when... but... I can't believe that's true he wants help, he doesn't want to do anything bad-"
"You and I both know that sometimes its not enough, but its good that he sought out help before he did anything because something can be done-"
"Yeah lock him up what good is that going to do him"
"Spencer."
"Y/n."
"Psychopatic impulses is not schizophrenia"
"who said anything about schizophrenia?"
You give him an unimpressed look "You know why I bring it up, I'm not doing this to be mean spencer, I worry, if you make this personal you are going to set yourself up for heartbreak"
He doesn't say anything just walking away.
You sigh, you hate fighting with him, but you also hate watching him get himself into states like this.
"I told him the same thing you know?" Garcia appears out of seemingly nowhere, clearly eavesdropping on the conversation either conciously or not. "I was hoping you would be able to get through to him"
You shake your head "There is no getting through to him, he just closes up the more you try, he was like this with..."
"With?"
"Spencer thinks that by not curing schizophronia he has both failed his mother and himself... it's hereditary... his biggest fear is an impending illness one day coming for him... I think this was always going to be personal for him"
Come midnight you're still up, pacing the living room. When spencer does come him the door shuts a little harder than usual, not quite a slam given the sleeping toddler but enough to feel it in your spine.
You don't say anything to eachother at first, just a deadeyed, exhausted stare, a pang in your chest at his exhaustion.
"Nathan wasn't the unsub we were looking for..."
You nod, trying to muster up a smile to little success "That is good"
"I... I think he'll be alright" You nod, quietly stepping closer to him, taking off his glasses and putting them to the side. "Are you alright?"
Something visibly cracks in him at the question, stubborness burning out into exhaustion. Your pout slightly at the sight, pushing back some of his hair "It's okay not to be... I... I was blunt earlier I shouldn't have brought it up-"
"You're right."
All other words die at your lips, hands ultimately falling to rest on his shoulders. "I have to believe that nothing is inevitable"
"they are two, very different situations"
"They're similar enough"
"No they're not, one's an genetic impulse one is an illness"
"You don't see-"
"I'm trying to, spencer, i really am..."
"I know, I know..." His eyes squeeze shut, forehead resting against yours. "I am terrified... terrified that there will be a day that I don't recognise you, or charlotte."
You say nothing, you want to say everything, that it will be okay, that it's all in his head, or just I love you, but everything feels wrong, and it becomes muddles which melt into your silence, all you can do is hold him tighter in hopes that it tells him that you're not going anywhere.
Which made it so much harder when he got a frantic phone call later that night from Nathan.
➼ pairing: Spencer reid x SecretWife!FBI!Reader
➼ summary: Both of your coworkers meddle in your love lives
➼ what to expect: "All I'm saying is that you need to have some fun in your life! Get a man! Go on dates! you may stress out less that way"
➼ warnings:Mentions of events from 2x06 'The last word'
➼ Chapter four / Chapter six
You're on a case yourself when you get a call from Spencer "Hello?" you hesitate when going to press answer, your partner still not knowing who he is. "Hi Spencer what's up?" you awkwardly judge at their reaction, knowing that you're going to get questions when its over.
"Hey are you on a case right now?"
"Yes but I can talk"
"We have two unsubs operating in the same city sending messages to each other via classifieds I was just wondering if you had any thoughts?" You raise a brow at the question, he often tells you interesting things about cases after they close but he never actively calls you for opinions while on a case unless you had already been brought in to consult.
"I...sure have you looked into the submission type that paper accepts?"
"What do you mean?" he knows what you mean, which is the stranger thing of this call.
"Well not all classifieds are classified sometimes papers only accept submissions in person"
"Would any unsubs risk going in in person"
"If they're confident enough, anything interesting about the messages themselves?"
"They're calling themselves sunny and holden"
"Like the catcher in the rye?"
"Exactly"
"Sounds interesting... and like you have things handled"
"There's no harm in getting a second opinion"
"Mm, Goodnight spencer"
"Goodnight" your brows furrow at the strange call, placing the phone down. "Who was that?"
"Someone I met over at the BAU wanting a second opinion on a case" You shrug, in a way you are glad that spencer did call about a case because it makes this a lot easier excuse to make now.
Your partner, williams, looks at you unconvinced. "Really now?"
"Yes, you heard, I wouldn't be having a conversation like that with someone outside the buerau"
"You also wouldn't call someone random from the buerau by their first name"
"Alright he's a friend"
"Mm okay" a smirk betraying her, she leans back in her seat, going back to watching the building that you've been pain stakingly watching for the past few hours.
"What do you want from me here?"
"I just think that it's good that you finally have a guy"
"Aren't you jumping a little here?"
She shrugs "I don't think so"
"Sure..."
"All I'm saying is that you need to have some fun in your life! Get a man! Go on dates! you may stress out less that way" You didn't realise that you stress out this much.
"This is why we don't discuss my personal life, because you come out with stuff like this"
"Come on, when was the last time you had a date?"
You are about to laugh off the question until it crosses your mind.
When did you last have a date?
Of course you've never been on a first date in the way that normal people do, dates to you have never been about getting to know a potential partner just about existing with the one you already have.
That being said, when was your last date night?
And was there a possibilty the reason why you're apparently uptight is because it was before charlotte was born?
You finally stumble into the apartment after your stakeout, checking to see if Charlotte is tucked in properly before sitting down on your bed, slipping off your heels, your phone burning a hole in your pocket.
You shouldn't call, out of anything you could bother him with it shouldn't be this.
That being said the next thing you know the phone is ringing. "Hello?"
God he sounds tired, which you're not surprised about considering that he is chasing two unsubs on this case. "Hey, how's the case going?"
"Well we've caught one unsub we're hoping to use that to lure out the other one, are you home now?"
"Yes just got in, Lottie's asleep"
"Were you on a case earlier?"
"On a stakeout yeah thats why I was being a bit more formal than usual... Williams said something though and it got me thinking"
"Hm?"
"When did we last go on a date?"
"What?"
"Because I was thinking about it and unless my memory isn't what it used to be I think the last one was December 6th 2003 at that outdoor theatre"
There's a momentary pause over the other side of the phone.
"That... is also the last to my recollection also, not counting nights in... what were you talking about where this came up?"
"She thought that we were having a fling because I called you spencer"
"She's not fully wrong"
"Yes but she doesn't need to know that" you mutter back in amusement.
"Not the end of the world though, it doesn't sound like she's anywhere close to finding out the truth"
"yeah i'm not worried about that..."
"But you're worried about something?"
"I wouldn't say worried, I guess I was just thinking is all...I'm going to get some sleep it's been a long day, good night"
Spencer ends up staring into the distance while he waits for JJ to finish her press conference, the phone call replaying in his mind on repeat. "Hello, pretty boy"
Morgan breaks him from his trance "Huh?"
"I can practically see the cogs turning from over here, what's on your mind?"
Spencer's lips purse at the question, hesitating to answer "How often do couples go on dates after they get married do you reckon?"
"Well now that I can't answer, unfortunately marriage isn't this division's forte, why? Something up with y/n?"
"Apparently we haven't been on a date since 2003"
"Three years? That's a long time" JJ exclaims in shock as she re-enters the room. "It wasn't on purpose! I mean we both have cases, and a child... I didn't even notice until today... that's bad isn't it? I should've noticed"
"Is y/n mad at you?"
"No she's just as confused as I am... but now I have noticed... it's bothering me, and I think it's bothering her aswell"
"You may not wanna hear this but do you know what this sounds like?" Morgan leans back in her chair.
"Hm?"
"You need to get laid"
"What?"
"I'm just saying it as it is, you're both very busy witha kid, you haven't had a date night in years, when was the last time the two of you had some... time alone"
"More recently than 2003 if that's what you're asking"
"Fair but just think about it, you have a nanny right? Take a night and pay her overtime"
Spencer returns from Michigan at a normal time for once which feels rare for him, to come home and his family be both in the apartment and awake.
It makes him realise how few waking hours he gets with you both.
"Hey" he neatly hangs up his blazer and messanger bag as he enters the apartment.
He finds the two of you in the kitchen, Charlotte unpacking a box of shiny black shoes. "What's this?" he questions as he picks her up off the counter
"They are...school shoes" You awkwardly answer, looking anywhere but at him while you go to turn the coffee machine on. "School shoes?"
"Lottie has been... reccomended that she takes a break from nursery" you pray that Spencer picks up on what exactly you mean by that. His brows furrow "Charlotte how about you go and pick out a doctor who dvd I'll watch it with you"
Charlotte runs off happily, new shoes in hand.
"She got kicked out of nursery?"
"Apparently more fights have broken out at the nursery and so they took the liberty of contacting the school up the road to explain the situation and see if they are willing to take her in the august intake..."
"And you said yes?"
"I wasn't given much of a choice, its that or homeschool her for the next year and we can't do that... besides Lottie seems excited about it"
"Why didn't you call me?"
"It only happened today and I knew you were coming home, I figured that it would be easier to tell you in person, besides it's not set in stone yet, they've said we can come and view the school on saturday"
"Okay well... maybe its a good thing...don't worry about it for now, why don't you come and sit and watch with us" He takes your hand, dragging you away from the kitchen towards the living room.
"You know I know nothing about doctor who right?"
"You don't need to know, come on"
Soon enough you're both curled up on the couch, Charlotte sat on the floor as close to the TV as physically possible, or at least as close that you'll let her. "I was thinking" He whispers to you over the genesis of the daleks. "About what you said about dates, what are you doing saturday?"
To have and to hold chapter four: The Empty planet
➼ pairing: Spencer reid x SecretWife!FBI!Reader
➼ summary: You get called in for a case with the BAU
➼ what to expect:
➼ warnings: Mention of events from 2x08 'the empty planet'
➼ Chapter three / Chapter five
You're only vaguely aware of the warm body pressed against you before the call comes, half asleep but awake enough to enjoy his presence, a rare moment of peace where the two of you are not agents or parents just husband and wife joining a morning of peace.
Until a call comes in.
You both stirr with a groan "Is it yours or mine?" you grumble into Spencer's chest as he picks his head up to look at the cells on the nightstand "Mine" he pats your shoulder in warning before sitting up slightly, you adjusting to place your head back in his chest with the new position as he answers.
"Hello?"
You can barely hear JJ's voice on the otherside of the line, Spencer looks down at you with a look you both know all too well, he has a case. You nod silently, accepting that he was going to have to go soon.
Another call comes in.
Your brows furrow as you sit up properly now, grabbing your own cell, hitting accept. "Hello?"
"Hi L/n, we have a case and need you in ASAP, someones called in a possible terror threat that could be national, we're sending you in to join task forces with the BAU"
"I...Okay thank you I'll be in as soon as you can" Your jaw drops slightly as you hang up, Spencer's call finishing about the same time as you. "Where are you going?" You ask first.
"Don't know yet, you?"
"The BAU Apparently" The two of you share a look of bewilderment and shock until reality sets in of a national terror alert possibly being at play, jumping out of bed. "Do you know why they want you to join us?" Spencer asks, hurried as he pulls on a pair of pants.
You shrug, slipping off your nightgown "Its a possible national emergency and I work in intelligence i've consulted on other teams before" picking out a dress from the closet.
"It's strange they didn't tell us where the case is" he wanders the room in search of his glasses, buttoning up his shirt, you pick them up from your nightstand, smiling as you push them on to his face "They probably don't know yet they did say it's national"
Patting his chest you step away to slip on a pair of heels "Could you call lily? I'm going to go and wake up Lottie" spencer nods, picking up his blazer.
You slip out and into the nursery, Charlotte already stood up and holding the bars of her crib, bed hair facing every which way as she lets out small dissatisfied sounds, clearly only just woke up. "Morning sweet girl"
"Hi mama" You pick her up out of the crib, a welcome move for her. "Mama did you get a case?" She's all too smart for her age as you know, realising by now that if your in a smart dress or if her father is in a sweater and blazer that means work.
"I did, Papa did too, Lily's going to come round and drop you off at pre-school"
"Ugh"
"I know I'm sorry baby I wish I could stay with you" you run your free hand through her hair as you carry her into the kitchen. "It's not that, pre-school"
You frown "You don't want to go to pre-school?"
"I told you I don't" she sulks as you place her down in a chair, Spencer comes rushing in "Lily's on her way, morning" Spencer places a kiss on Charlotte's cheek.
"How about this, I'll leave some extra pocket money for you and Lily to go to the shops after pre-school, but only if you try and take part in your teachers activities?" Charlottes face lights up, as you start to feel a little guilty that you're already resorting to bribery.
A knock on the door indicates that you really should get moving. "That will be lily, have a great day, we'll call as soon as we can"
The two of you walk into the BAU together, unfamiliar and strangely exposing as you do so. "Morning JJ how was your weekend?" JJ is on a mission as she passes the two of you barely acknowledging your presence as she B-lines to hotch's office.
"She's the media liason in a national emergency she must be stressed as hell right now"
Spencer nods in agreement as he watches hotch's office intently. "You can drop your go bag at my desk" With a hand hovering over your lower back as he leads you to his desk area in the centre of the BAU Bullpen. "So this is where you work? I didn't get a proper look last time"
Searching the desk you are met with mostly trinkets that you expect, a crossword book, a few mini magic tricks, and yet tucked into the wall of the desk is a postcard for Charlotte, North Carolina.
You pick it up, a smile growing on to your face as you quickly put together why its there "Spencer you've never even been to north carolina"
"I know...but if anyone asks I went on vacation there, I...it was the only reminder I could think of that was the smallest risk"
"I think its sweet" You smile down at the post card, delicately placing it aback down on his desk "I should figure out something similar for my desk"
"On a bus, in the city where it all began, get my message out"
"Message? What message?"
"That this is only the beginning, until this is all brought under control people will die"
JJ pauses the recording "In the last 20 minutes, virtually identical threats have been made to st of the coast to coast news networks in the country, its same message just different words"
"So it's not a recorded message or script? Displays a measure of confidence"
"Commitment aswell, if this is a mission based attacker he has no hesitation at all if he managed to get through multiple phone calls stating what he's going to do" You somewhat mutter out to no one in particular, making notes.
You're met with slight silence which is when you look up "What?"
"Have you been learning profiling or something?"
You shrug "No but to do undercover work you need to know you're target it requires some level of behavioural analysis"
"He could have easily just called one network this guy clearly wants attention" Spencer chimes in.
"That's typical behaviour for a personal cause bomber. One bomb has a finite impact, make a bunch of phone calls that magnifies my explosion 100 times"
"We have the additional recorded calls being gathered for assessment "
"The networks say the calls came from a restricted number, two have given limited permission to trap and trace teh lines if we should need to."
"You got a news organisation to agree to a trap and trace?"
"Who could say no to me?" Garcia smirks.
"At homeland security's request the networks are going to keep this quiet until we've assessed the situation"
"If this threat isn't followed by an event, no one will take any future calls seriously"
"So, we're going to tell the media to go ahead with the story?" Garcia suggests.
"Absolutely not" You and hotch chime in at the same time.
"Threats like this with an unspecified location will just cause tremendous panic"
"No one will in the country will go near a bus and will lash out against those who try its not worth it until we can at least pinpoint a city" You explain, writing down the notes to see if you recognise that pattern.
"Then...what are we gonna do?"
"Unfortunately, all we can do is wait"
You hum in agreement "That being said...probablistically I have narrowed it down to possibly 30 cities" you mutter, hovering a pen up and down a list.
"What? How? That message was so vague there's nothing we can pull except for behavioural points" Morgan stares at you confused.
"Exactly, I studied the behaviour, wording and probability, the caller said 'the city where it all began' not town, or place, therefore it has to be a city, as for what began who knows however chances are it is either where the unsub lived at somepoint in their life or since it is a mission it could be some sort of movement or creation, either way both are more likely in major cities since there is more housing and more developmental funding. This unsub wants impact and to be national news aswell, no offence to places like portland but that just won't do the job that leaves us with cities such as Washington DC, New york, Chicago, San francisco, LA, Seattle, Vegas, you get the picture, I would rule out new york on that list though if the unsub is targeting public transport there it would be a subway train not a bus"
There is a slight hesitation in wake of your rambling as you realised that you've gotten a bit carried away "Of course thats theoretical though, it may be useful however to notify emergency services in those cities to prioritise call ins surrounding buses"
"What is profiling if not theoretical, good idea, JJ send out a notice to local law enforcement on Dr L/n's list"
With a polite nod you hand over the notepad to JJ, biting your cheek as you realise you may have rambled on a little too long. "Wheels up in 30"
The group breaks up, rushing to grab their go bags.
"You did well you know" Gideon captures your attention befor eyou leave, now just being the two of you in the round table room. "Hm?"
"You when you spoke, you stopped yourself afterwards as if you regreted speaking, it was useful info you shouldn't have" You sigh "I have...picked up Spencers tendency to ramble I fear"
"Well we're used to it by now"
You give a polite smile "Thats good Gideon but... genius suits spencer I... it does not suit me, which is why I really must get out of that habit"
You walk off to the jet before he gets chance to inquire further.
"So seattle's where it all began" Spencer notes as you all walk through the streets on the way to the bus site. "We just need to figure out what it is"
"Off the top of my head I can think of grunge music and overpriced coffee"
"and Grey's anatomy" You joke, taking a sip of said overpriced coffee as you overlook the destroyed bus. "Doesn't seem significant enough"
"It's a personal cause bomber it only needs to be signficant to him"
You all step closer the site "Agent Nick Casey, seattle field office"
"SSA Hotchner, how do you do? This is Dr Spencer Reid, SSA Morgan, Agent Jareau, SSA Gideon and Dr Y/n L/n"
"Have you identified the device?"
"Looks like a small pipe bomb attached to an umbrella" Casey explains, you note details down in your notebook. "I'd like to take a look at those bomb fragments as soon as possible I've got bomb squad experience" Morgan steps forward.
"I'd like to also just to rule out the possibility of it being any known existing terror groups usually there is some sort of M.O even in bomb design" You chime in.
Casey nods "As soon as they're catalogued" Your phone suddenly buzzes.
Incoming call: SSA Anderon...
"Excuse me" You step away from the site as you answer "Hello?"
"Hello Dr L/n I just wanted to check in I've only just come back of leave, you got sent to consult on a BAU national emergency case?"
"Yes, in seattle"
"Well I have my concerns, of course you're there to consult given the intelligence we have on known terror groups and organisations in the US my concern is mostly the conflict of interest of your husband"
"How so?"
"You're meant to consult yes, but you know protocol, we don't share intelligence betweek taskforces unless necessary"
"So what you think I'm more suseptible to spilling state secrets because this team happens to contain my husband?"
Theres a pause.
"I'm just confirming that you know the delicacy of the situation that you are in"
"Respectfully but there is no greater risk of me working on the same case as him than also living with him. Trust me to professional and let me do my job"
You hang up.
"Everything okay?" Morgan asks as he approaches you "Fine, just my supervisor being a bit overbaring"
"Components have just ben catalogued if you want to come back to the station with me to look them over"
"I want to apologise" Morgan steps back from the evidence board, your brows furrow as you look to him "What for?"
"Last time we saw eachother I questioned why you were married to Reid, that was rude of me I shouldn't have done that" You shrug "You apologised in the moment it's water under the bridge to me"
"I only bring it up because it has started to make sense to me now" you hum back in question, focusing back in on making notes on the board. "What do you mean?"
"Well I think it clicked for the rest of the team when you went on a tangent about housing and development probabilities in major cities, however there was a different moment to me"
"Go on"
"When you first came to the BAU, during the Randall Garner case the first thing you did was enter the round table room and kiss him on the cheek"
"I think most spouses greet eachother that way Morgan"
"Sure, but this is Spencer Reid we're talking about, I've seen the man be repelled by a simple handshake or high five, he has recited to me the statistics on germ transmission via kissing so many times and yet when it was you, he leaned into it" You let out a bit of a laugh "I mean you know that Kissing transmits less germs than-"
"Shaking hands, yes, I know, Reid's told me enough times."
"Also, I don't think I need to remind you we have a kid right? Charlotte didn't come from nowhere"
"Touche, but please I don't want anymore details than that"
You smirk, stepping away from the board "I think your morbid curiosity does but don't worry I don't kiss and tell anyway"
Spencer enters a little after "I just had an interesting conversation with the author of Empty Planet" he flicks through the pages of his new seattle bought copy "Also sneakily got a signiture while I was there"
"Of course you did, I need another coffee, anyone?" Spencer lets out a hum of confirmation, as you walk past you make a point to give a slighty prolonged kiss on his cheek. He raises a brow as you walk away "She usually hates public contact" he mutters more to himself in confusion than anyone else.
➼ pairing: Spencer reid x SecretWife!FBI!Reader
➼ summary: While spencer is away in texas your daughter is causing problems at school
➼ what to expect: "I just want to hear your voice"
➼ warnings:Angst? Mentions of events from 2x06 'the boogeyman'
➼ Chapter two / Chapter four
1 New Email from [email protected]
Re: Work from home Case notes
Hello Y/n,
Your request to work from home has been approved, Agent Williams will drop off the file for the Phildelphia case at some point today. If you could work on formulating a list of potential sources where we may have an in for undercover work, Williams and Peterson are on their way to interview.
Enjoy your time at home,
S. Emerson
Spencer is in texas, Charlotte had been sent home from Pre-school for causing trouble and your babysitter is sick so now you're desperately trying to keep files for a cartel case you're working far out of reach from Lottie.
For a troublesome toddler who was causing such havoc that she was sent home she seems to be perfectly content now, lying on her stomach on the floor of your living area, doctor who playing in the background while she scribbles away in a notebook.
You debate internally whether you should message spencer about it, he's caught up on the otherside of the country, it could be nothing she could just be having a bad day.
Your phone buzzes
1 new message: Just landed in texas, I'm on the way to Ozona now, is everything okay at home? Love you.
It's like he's telepathic sometimes you swear.
Message to 'S.Reid': Good, everything is fine, pre-school called saying that Lottie's been getting into arguments with other kids and not listening to teachers, they want me to come in and have a meeting tomorrow. Love you too xx
You hesitate at the sight of his contact name, it's too formal, it used to be necessary, could just save him as 'husband' or anything. But now his team knows, does that mean you should abandon cover completely?
"Hi, Is charlotte okay?" His voice is soft as it echoes through your phone, a buzzing in the background that indicates that he's in a car. "she's fine, sat watching doctor who now, her teacher didn't say much when I picked her up just asked to have a parent meeting tomorrow"
"Is that Mrs reid on the phone I hear?" You assume thats morgan
"Dr Reid actually" you tease back.
"Did Charlotte tell you what the fights were about?" You shake your head even though you know he can't see you "I asked but she said she wasn't arguing with anyone"
"I...see..."
You sigh "Yeah I think it may have been a misunderstanding it might just be that she didn't know what tone she was speaking with"
"Yeah maybe" Charlotte perks up at the sound of her dad's voice, sitting up "Papa?" She calls from the other room.
How on earth did she hear that?
Soon she comes toddling in with a force, crashing into your leg "I think she wants to talk to you" you laugh, running your fingers through his hair. "I can quickly, we'll be arriving at the local police station soon"
You hand the phone over to charlotte, who uses both hands to hold it to her ear with how heavy it is compared to her. "Hi papa"
You don't hear the other side of the conversation well enough to process what hes saying. "Mhm" she hums back.
"Mhm....okay....bye papa..." She holds the phone up to you, wide eyed as she does so, with a brow raised you go back to the call. "What did you say to her?"
"Don't worry about it....look we're about to arrive and this unsub is not leaving a lot of time between attacks so I've got to go"
"Okay good luck, call me tonight if you can"
"I will, bye"
You sigh as you hang up, placing the phone down in the desk and looking down at Charlotte.
"Everything okay?" Hotch questions as spencer puts down the phone. "Hm?"
"The call, is everything alright?"
"Oh yeah its fine Charlotte just got into a bit of trouble at pre-school" He shrugs off, still not used tobeing able to talk about stuff like parenting with the team.
"Its still strange to picture Reid as a dad" JJ chimes in from the back of the SUV. "Its like seeing a baby pigeon, you know it can happen but its still...strange"
"What? What's that supposed to mean?"
Morgan laughs "Nothing pretty boy, I guess Charlotte's not taking after you then I can imagine you were a little teachers pet in school"
"Not necessarily in pre-school being in trouble could mean anything" Hotch adds "We had to have a meeting with Jack's pre-school because he was struggling to settle in and was lashing out it could be nothing"
Spencer hums, leaning his head against the glass "Yeah except for the fact that Charlotte has been in pre-school for almost two years" he mutters, brows furrowed as he re-reads the message on his phone.
"Oh my god I just realised..." JJ gasps "Spence has been a dad longer than Hotch"
A shocked silence fills the car for a moment "Nah that just ain't right"
"Is it seriously that hard to believe that I could father a child?"
"Father a child? No, Have one this young, kinda"
"We should probably get to the case" Spencer diverts the subject, opening the case file as he opens the door of the car.
"Thank you for coming in Dr L/n I know you and Charlottes Dad are very busy" Lottie's teacher greets you with a nervous smile as you sit down in the office "It's no problem... Is everything okay? Lottie still hasn't really told me what happened"
She sighs "Yes...sorry if we made you worry it's just that we think that the situation is a bit complicated to tell you at handover so we felt it best that we have a meeting instead. Charlotte has been very... argumentative I guess is the word recently, yelling in other kids faces, not wanting to participate in activities and yelling at the teachers that try to get her involved"
Your jaw drops slightly at the explanation "I...see...that... sorry that's just a bit of a shock I know she can get a bit cranky at times but what kid doesn't? She's not like this at home"
The teacher nods, pulling out some papers from a drawer "I would imagine that would be the case, Charlotte is a lovely child Dr l/n but I feel that the reason this may be the case is...frustration"
"Frustration?"
"We are of the belief that Charlotte is getting...bored with pre-school because her development is so far ahead from the rest of her class when she's brought into a group activity that is on their development level she gets frustrated... our suggestion is that we have Charlotte assessed to see if she is at a stage to put her into elementary school early"
You freeze at her words, they shouldn't scare you, you know that. It just means Charlottes doing well at school that's all, and yet they do. You just can't place why out of the long list of reasons. "I...see...really?"
"Well she on a learning level is absolutely at the stage of a first year elementary schooler, her reading age is beyond even that, it will just depend on whether we think she is independant enough to go into kindergarten without needing to rely on teachers for stuff like the bathroom and eating" You know she already is, which is a problem, for you, not her.
"I...I see...I will need to talk to Charlotte's father about this excuse me..." You step out the office, Charlotte reading in the hallway with another teacher. "Come on Lottie we're going home now"
The silent car journey back to your apartment leaves you alone with your thoughts for a little too long "Lottie do you like going to pre-school?"
She shrugs "Sometimes"
"Why only sometimes? You have friends don't you?"
"I do...but they're hard to talk to"
Your brows furrow, eyes darting between the road and the mirror to see her in the backseat "How so?"
"they...don't get it"
"Don't get what?"
"Anything...they take too long... I have to wait for them"
Oh.
Now this is familiar, and it is something that both you and spencer have experienced from time to time, being on a complete other wave length of the people around you that if you have yet to learn how to regulate emotions properly, like a small child, it can be overwhelming and frustrating.
Spencer calls late that night, you wait for him to call since from the sounds of things it is a very fast paced case. "Hey...how's the case going?" you slip into a bed thats far too cold for your liking, flicking through the file for your own case.
"Its...going interesting, I'm stuck staking out inside a dark old house that Garcia thinks is haunted." you hum out a half focused laugh. "She's just trying to get to you love, just don't tell them that you're freaked out by the dark you won't hear the end of it"
"Yeah I think it's a bit too late for that...how did the meeting with Charlotte's pre-school go?"
You sigh "They...want to move her up a grade or two"
"Already?"
"Mhm...apparently the arguments she was causing is because she didn't understand why her friends were taking so long to understand things"
"Well...if they think thats best for her that may not be the worst thing... I know you worry about her struggling socially it'll probably be easier for her to socialise if shes surrounded by kids that can keep up with her"
"Its not just that I...there are so many reasons why I don't want her to be moved up...or be...like..."
"...like us?"
You sigh. "We had eachother, she is alone."
"She's not even four years old give her time"
"Time is what I want to give her it seems like everyone else that wants to rush her"
"y/n." His voice is sterner than usual, spencer not being "Is this about Charlotte now or about you?"
"What?"
"Psychologically speaking when in non-lethal situations parents are most protective over their children when it comes to experiences that said parent has experienced themselves"
"You just had to go into behavioural analysis didn't you?"
A breathy laugh barrells down the phone "Hey I didn't fight you on going into CID undercover, besides I don't need profiling experience to understand my wife"
Something seizes in your chest slightly at the word wife, even over five years in it doesn't go when he's away on a case "Is it...so wrong that I don't want my daughter to grow up as quickly as we did? Following our footsteps she could be out of the house in a decade"
"What does she want?"
"i haven't asked her directly...she says that she doesn't like talking to kids her age because they take too long to understand things"
Spencer pauses, a bit of a distant clambering coming through the overside of the line. "Spence you okay?"
"Yeah just...tripped... Look a decade is a long time y/n even if what you think will happen does, she will always be our daughter and if anyone is equipped to help her with the difficulties of being at a different point from her peers its us"
You sigh "Yeah...I know...I know that we should do it if it is what is best for her I just worry"
"Well you're already doing better than our parents in that regard..." Theres another clanging on his side of the line "I've gotta go someones in the house, sorry, Love you" He hangs up before you get the chance to respond.
Its late when the jet lands in Virginia, the case following Spencer home just a little more than usual, he has had harder cases, ones where he's been injured or have taken a toll on him mentally. But this one stuck in his mind even as he slipped into the apartment.
Charlotte is asleep when he wanders into the nursery to check on her. Not even tall enough to climb out of her crib yet somehow might be going into elementary school soon.
To his shock you're still awake when he reaches your shared room "What are you doing up?" His voice is soft incase it echoes down the hall, shrugging off his blazer. You give a tired smile, placing down your notepad with the case file on your nightstand. "Catching up on work, also couldn't sleep...how was the case?"
"Yeah... yeah it was alright, we caught the unsub...obviously" he rambles, messily untying his tie. Your face falls slightly "It was kids wasn't it?"
His face scrunches in confusion, pushing his glasses up slightly. "What?"
You give him a knowing look, slipping out of bed, nightgown falling just past your knees "Everytime you come home from a case involving kids you spend on average two extra minutes in Lotties room, if she's awake you hold her just a little longer and a little tighter than usual"
"I thought I was the profiler" he mutters humorously, hands falling to your hips "I'm a woman of many talents" you shrug, pulling the tie from around his neck. "I also know because I do the same, so it's a bit of a cheat"
"How was your day?" He pulls you a little closer as you go for his glasses, slipping them off "I feel like you've heard about most of my day"
"Tell me again" he pecks your lips, dragging you over to the bed "Anything as long as it isn't case stuff, I just want to hear your voice"
➼ pairing: Spencer reid x SecretWife!FBI!Reader
➼ summary: Two geniuses sworn in as FBI agents realise very quickly that it is better for safety to keep their family lives secret, however that sometimes is easier said than done.
➼ what to expect: "Okay, so tell me, what does keep the young Dr Reid awake at night?"
➼ warnings: n/a
➼ Chapter 1 (coming soon)
It was early. Far too early for Spencer to make any sense of it all, barely lucid he's dragging himself through the apartment, brain addled from constant interrupted sleep across the night.
How did a coffee end up in his hand?
Apparently so out of it he did not even percieve you sat on the kitchen counter, your own cup of coffee in hand, his shirt lazily buttoned up and sliding off your shoulder. "You got a case?"
"Yeah, close though, Virginia"
You nod, taking a sip of your own drink "That good, all goes well you may be home today or tomorrow"
He hums out an agreement, pressing a kiss to your forehead before taking a sip of coffee, shaking his head in an attempt to wake himself up.
You hum out a small laugh at his state "You know I could have stayed up with her a couple of times right?" waving his hand dismissively Spencer pulls on his sweater. "Its alright, I couldn't sleep anyway."
"Ah so I see where she gets it from then"
"Mm, well, good luck with her tonight"
"I'll live, good luck with the case" with a chaste kiss he turns to leave, to leave behind the domesticity for a ritualistic case but before he does you grab his arm.
"Hey, are you alright?"
"Fine, just... insomnia you know? Give my love to Charlotte when she wakes up"
With a satisfying enough answer you let him go "I will... tell me if everythings okay? I'm on call as well but I'll keep my phone on, Lily said she'd watch Lottie if I get a case before you come back"
Spencer is on coffee number three by the time he's in the BAU break room, adding enough sugar to put a bakery out of business "Easy there, tough guy. Have some coffee with your sugar" Morgan laughs, patting his shoulder on the way by.
"I need something to wake me up" he mutters, brows furrowed on the simple task of stirring his drink.
"Late Night?"
"Very"
"My man."
"Not that kind of late night." He wishes it was, or at the very least he wishes that he could explain what kind of late night it actually was but it is probably for the best that he doesn't. Today is not the day to blow your cover for no reason. Morgan laughs.
"Okay, so tell me, what does keep the young Dr Reid awake at night? Wait, let me guess, memorising some obscure textbook?"
Try staying up with a three year old that insists that she cannot sleep because she needs to read to the end of her famous five book, then it is that she needs milk, then just plain not tired. Ultimately, Jail break, running to your bedroom because why not?
"No, no, no. Working on cold fusion. No, I got it, I got it, watching star trek and laughing at the physics mistakes"
Close, doctor who, but only one episode, she likes the pretty colours of the intro sequence.
"Actually, there aren't that many scientific errors in Star Trek, especially considering how long ago it was made, there are certain improbabilities, but not that many outright errors"
Summary: Skippable bonus chapter where Alga gets his period!
Tags: MDNI, smut, unprotected piv, cervical stimulation, menstruation, kind of gross at parts.
Word Count: 6.1k words
Read on AO3
Masterlist
It was always coming. She was always coming. From the moment that you stopped testosterone, you knew it, sensed it— in the very back of your mind, you dreaded it. An arrival that you could do nothing but brace for. Distantly, you wondered what would happen if it never came, a warning that one of the emperors’ attempts bore fruit and you’d be in for nine months of sheer agony.
It should have made it easier when it finally came.
It didn’t.
Sitting at your desk, you shifted in your seat and felt it. That familiar wetness— and not the pleasant kind that you had grown somewhat accustomed to. Your face pulled into a grimace when you stood. Ugh, it was dribbling out of you, a great, messy flood that would only serve to make you miserable for the next several days. This month would be a heavy flow, it seemed. Of course it would. How glorious. Despite the fact that you knew what you would see upon looking down, your worst fears were confirmed when you saw a thin rivulet of blood running down your calf.
Before you got top surgery, you had accounted for the arrival of your monthly woes through a certain tenderness in your breasts. With them gone, there was no particular warning. Maybe you had been a bit snippy lately, and maybe you had been prone to tears— not that you would let anyone see them lest there were threats of execution vollied against any who had so much as breathed near you. None of it had processed to you as a grim tiding, the dark clouds on the horizon that signaled the return of an old enemy.
Even before testosterone, you had always been irregular. Where most people found a rhythm to their cycle, you never had one. Aunt Flo would arrive when she wanted to and you had absolutely no say in the matter. All you could do was grit your teeth against the deluge of what a few missed months would accumulate.
Like now. You looked down at your seat and let out an annoyed groan when you saw a puddle, and another sound of despair left you when you tapped your butt to find that your tunic was soaked and clinging to your skin. This was humiliating, you thought with a burning face. Already your masculinity had been called into question more times than not, and the arrival of your period would only levy even more scrutiny against you. There was no way that you could skitter away to your room so you could hide for a week — maybe longer! — without drawing unwanted attention. Not only would you be seen soaked with the color of your shame, but you would be forced to contend with <i>those two</i> in no time at all.
Geta and Caracalla would be weird about your menstruation. There was no doubt about that in your mind. Cisgender men always were, whether it be some sort of weird fetish, or a subject of extreme disgust, you couldn’t imagine that two men from an ancient era would be much better. Maybe it would be a bit of both knowing them. Irritation flooded your system enough to make your eyebrow twitch.
Upon remembering the time period, you felt a chill run through your veins. How did Romans handle periods again? Would you be stuck with rags stuffed down your underwear, or some kind of belt that was certain to be far more uncomfortable than what you usually wore? Even before your surprise journey through time, you had worried about your pad being seen through your jeans in public, you couldn’t imagine how glaring whatever Roman invention you’d be subjected to would be.
The longer you thought about it, the more your chest tightened. Your head felt foggy, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. Caracalla would return to your clinic soon and find you a mess. That was not a situation that you found yourself wanting. What you needed was a change of clothes and a goddamn diva cup, though one was certainly more out of reach than the other. Maybe, if you were very lucky, you might be able to find some stray menstrual products in the secret pockets of your duffel bag. All you had to do was get to your room to search it.
Against your will, your pupils dragged to the floor below you where a few drops of blood had already begun to puddle. It wasn’t enough for you to worry that this was more than a ridiculously heavy flow, but it was enough for you to realize that there was no hiding what you were going through. Hopping in place a few times to steel your nerve, you inhaled a deep breath and trotted to the door to your clinic to poke your head into the hall.
“Um.” There was always a guard at your door these days. Geta said that you were especially vulnerable now. If you hadn’t almost been kidnapped, you would have called him paranoid. “Please fetch Justina and ask her to bring me a change of clothes.”
The guard nodded to you, then the second guard on the other side of the door, before marching off to do as you requested. Slipping back into your clinic, you decided to clean up as best you could before she arrived. This was already humiliating enough, you didn’t need to leave a mess behind as well.
First you found a few scraps of cloth that you stuffed into your underwear until you found a more permanent solution. That should work well enough to catch the majority of the blood, though you weren’t entirely convinced that there wouldn’t be any leaking. After, you scrubbed up your chair and the floor as best you could, taking care to face the door in case any unexpected guests arrived. This way, no one would see the stain on the back of your tunic unless they managed to sneak behind you— which you would not allow.
In the middle of your cleaning, your head snapped up when there was a quick knock of announcement and the doors slid open wide enough for Justina to enter without causing too much of a fuss. Relief and embarrassment mingled in a dizzying array. Hanging from her arm was a fresh tunic. You could kiss her.
“Did you spill a tonic on yourself again, medicus?” Justina huffed, more playful than annoyed. She paused when she caught sight of your expression, a childish vision as if you had done something you had been explicitly forbade. A beat passed before she pursed her lips. “What manner of nonsense are you soon to set upon me?”
“I… I, uh…” You were a grown man, this shouldn’t be so hard to articulate. There was nothing embarrassing about menstruation, you were a physician and this was an entirely natural process. If any of your patients accidentally bled on your examination table, you would not hold it against them. Your eyes shot to Justina, the distinctly Roman woman, and you remembered that you did, in fact, have a reason to be nervous. “I am bleeding.”
Within seconds, Justina’s features steeled with determination as she approached, her hands outstretched to examine you. “I would prefer my practice to not be on you, amicus, I will do my best to—”
“I am menstruating.” Best to get it out before the situation got more awkward than it already was. Justina froze. Her pupils lifted from your abdomen to your face, then trailed to the spot between your legs. With a few slow blinks, Justina tucked her hands back at her sides and opened her mouth, only to snap it closed yet again. Maybe a bit of humor would lighten the air. “Uh, it was, um… No lie that I have the anatomy of a woman. I even suffer their monthly woes. You and I are alike, dear apprentice.”
A strangled laugh tumbled from behind your lips as you stared up at the mural of Asclepius rather than your friend’s face.
Justina was quiet as she circled around you to see if what you said was true. Upon seeing the red stain at your back, she let out a sigh. “It is as you say, medicus. Forgive me for my hesitation, I… You look so masculine, I had never thought that…”
“How else am I to carry an heir?” You asked with another awkward bark, more of a sharp exhale than anything mirthful.
The silence was heavy, only to be broken by a deep breath from your companion. You turned to find her eyes shut. When she opened them, determination shined brightly within her irises. “Have you anything to soak up the blood?”
“Rags,” You supplied with a shrug. Footsteps outside the clinic made you jump and you shouldered off your tunic in record time. As whoever outside passed, you balled the fabric up to toss it as far from yourself as possible and made grabby hands at the clothing Justina cradled.
She handed it to you without complaint. “How did… men of your country handle their monthly bleed?”
“The supplements we take, uh, dry up the fluid within.” Matching commonly held Roman beliefs would do you well in a situation such as this. Pliny the Elder wrote about his theories regarding menstrual blood some hundred years ago from the time period you found yourself in. More than likely, these beliefs were still commonly held, such as the concept that menstruation balanced out excess humors. Glancing at Justina, you wondered if she believed that menstrual fluid could cause insanity in dogs. “What it means is that I did not get pregnant this cycle, with the blood comes the egg that did not get fertilized.”
Justina cut off your ramble with a scoff and a raised eyebrow. “Egg? Like a hen?”
As you spoke, you dressed yourself, pleased to no longer have the evidence of your more feminine features visible. “Yes, an egg. A very, very small egg, smaller than even a grain of sand. This egg is released monthly, and then, when the seed does not take, it is expelled with blood.”
Narrowing her eyes, she searched you in an effort to decide whether you were joking or not. “I would know if I had an egg inside of me.”
“It is very, very small, my friend.” When she did not look convinced, you smiled at her. “Once I receive the next cadaver, I will show you and Aelius the ovaries where the eggs are located. This is no jest.” A hum left you as you tapped your chin. “Think of it as… a very small seed. The fluid that men produce is the rain that waters it, and the blood within are the roots that adhere it.”
Justina shook her head with a small huff. “I know how to reproduce, medicus. I expect to see these little eggs at another time when you are not at risk of bloodying my shoes.”
A grimace made your lips pull back. “Very good point. How long do you believe I will be able to hide in my room?”
“An hour,” she deadpanned. With a hand between your shoulder blades, she pushed you into the hall and in the direction of your quarters. Unfortunately, you had to agree with her. Caracalla would be the first to discover your predicament, Geta soon to follow. How either would react was…
Not beyond you. Even now, you could almost hear them, the lust that would color Caracalla’s words and Geta’s elation that you would be considered fertile in time for the wedding. You scrunched your nose in thought. Orgasms were good for cramps, perhaps this wouldn’t be entirely miserable.
Not that you felt particularly desirable right now. All you really considered yourself to be was gross and sticky. Every step felt slick, the blood pooling against the rags between your legs. It was sure to dry in clumps, causing your pubic hair to mat, so you would need to bathe regularly. Or, bite the bullet and risk nicking your dick with rudimentary razors. You frowned, deciding to wash up later that night, even if you wondered if you should wear a tampon in the baths— they were big enough that you had begun to equate them with a pool. Not that you figured you would have one. Whatever, you’d bleed in the water, it would probably be fine.
Once you reached your room, you bid Justina farewell. A part of you wanted to plead with her to keep the emperors busy enough so that you could rot for a few hours, though she was a free woman now, and you would not subject her to those two unless she did so herself. With a friendly kiss on your cheek, she left you alone in your bedroom to become well acquainted with your sheets and a promise to return with more comfortable supplies. While Justina may have been a mere apprentice, she had been a woman for many years. Enough so that she had her own tricks and remedies up her sleeve. With that in mind, you cast a glance at your duffel bag where maybe you’d find a stray tampon, or maybe a loose Midol, only to flop onto your bed in defeat.
May as well get used to life without modern comforts. You’d be here for the foreseeable future. Curling into a ball, you decided to take a nap before the worst of the cramps hit— actual cramps, not the ginger ones you knew were coming. As the world went dark, you tried not to think about how easy it would be to lock your door and be done with it.
As if Geta wouldn’t have it beaten down.
Through your sleepy haze, you awoke to Justina placing a tea on your bedside table alongside a bag of ancient toiletries. You would sift through it later, examine your options when you weren’t feeling so awfully gross. With every movement, you would awake to a dampness on your sheets, proof that you were leaking through your tossing. To make matters worse, your dreams were odd, leaving you sweaty and delirious. Something about… Carrotcalla the Rabbit and a bowl of Trix cereal. No matter how hard you tried to think of anything else, that particular vision kept returning to you. At least he looked cute with floppy bunny ears. Geta dressed as a Playboy Bunny flashed in your mind, causing you to smile as you snuggled deeper into your blankets.
Rustling caused your eyes to snap open, almost comically fast. There, beside your bed, was Caracalla, digging through the bag that Justina left behind. He pulled out what looked to be a woolen tampon, turned it around in his hand a few times, before tossing it over his shoulder. Contaminated. That would not be going inside of you after that. Then again, Caracalla’s dick was inside of you on a regular basis and who knew where that thing had been. Maybe you could brush the dirt off of it.
“What are you doing?” Considering how groggy you were, the question came out harsher than you intended. Caracalla narrowed his eyes at you and pulled out what appeared to be a pad, made out of linen wrapped wool. He sniffed it, moving to throw it into the pile that was building behind him before you managed to snatch it from his hands. “Stop. I need that.” Your gaze traveled to the, now empty, cup of tea that Justina had brewed for you. Caracalla’s lips looked wet. “Did you drink all of it?”
“Yes. It was disgusting, what was it?” Though he appeared displeased at your lack of excitement for his arrival, he sat on your bed and placed his hand on your calf. Against your better judgment, you dream returned full force. If you squinted your eyes, you could almost see white rabbit ears atop his head. “Do not look at me as if I have gone mad. What’s yours is mine, melimelum.”
With an annoyed sigh, causing Caracalla to tighten his grip on your thigh, you rose to sniff what was left of the concoction. Of course, your body decided now was a grand time for a cramp. Clutching your lower belly, you squeezed your eyes shut against the ache, biding your time until it ebbed away into something bearable.
“Alga?” Worry made Caracalla’s voice crack. His hands were on you at once, slipping under your arms to probe at your gut, in search of a wound. “If you vomit on me, I will never forgive you.”
Yes, he would. As soon as he forgot. A little cry made his examination more rough, his little fingers digging into the meat of your stomach. At least the external pain helped distract from what was internal. “I am fine, Caracalla. I will not vomit, nor will I die.”
He scooted closer to you, only for his nose to wrinkle. Hopping off of the bed, he pulled back the blankets to reveal the blood that had missed the rags in your pants and stained the mattress.
His voice raised into a shriek. “You’re bleeding?! Who had wounded you? Tell me and I will have them—”
“I am fertile, Caracalla.”
That made his jaw snap shut and his eyebrows furrow in thought. Without a word, he stared at the blood on your bed, then his pupils edged toward your legs. Slowly, like a predator, a smile bloomed on his face as he fell into the sheets on all fours and crawled to cage your body with his own. “I can see that, dulcis.” His palm was flat against your thigh, pushing upward into the apex of your legs. Fingers slipping under the waistband of your boxers, he dipped between your folds to admire the redness glistening against his skin. To your horror, he then popped those digits in his mouth.
“Disgusting, caesar!”
Caracalla grinned, sucking himself clean. “Then why is it so sweet, melculum?”
“Because you are lecherous and foul,” you proclaimed as you clamped your legs shut as firmly as you could manage. Caracalla’s hand snapped forward to jam between your thighs, slowly squirming towards your core no matter how much you tightened your grip. You were aware that you could probably break his hand with enough pressure. How lucky he was that you were neither spiteful nor cruel. “Are you able to stop, or has lust clouded your senses?”
His lips twitched into a kitten-like smirk. “Lust has clouded my senses, dulcis, I cannot control myself any longer.”
Caracalla waited for you to relax, an unspoken answer to what he had posed as a wordless question. A pleased huff left him, his shoulders drooping as he placed each of his palms against your inner thighs and pushed them open. With guiding motions, he lifted your hips so that your tunic pooled at your waist. With practiced motions, he ripped away your underwear and tossed them over his shoulder. “There you are.”
As soon as he spoke, you realized how filthy you must look down there, hair clumped together with blood, and god forbid your body decided that now is a fine time to unload a clot. You snapped your legs shut. “I have changed my mind!”
Dilated pupils flickered to meet yours behind narrowed eyes. “Gods above! Let me fuck you!”
“I’m gross!” You cried, your face entirely aflame. “You will be disturbed!”
Furiously, Caracalla pushed your legs apart once more, this time slotting his body between them so that you could not deny him this time. His face was scrunched in annoyance. “When has blood ever stopped me? Now cease your whining and begin moaning.”
Before you could protest again, Caracalla snapped his hips forward, entering you in a single swift motion. The brutality of it made your back arch, your head throwing back with a cry. Caracalla ground his pelvis against your dick, pushing until you were sure that he would bruise you. He liked to do this sometimes. It was to make sure that he was as deep as he could go. Something about cumming in your womb. Either way, it made you throb, so any anatomy lesson was pushed to the sidelines. As if he’d listen anyway.
Pulling out, Caracalla looked at his bloodied cock with half-lidded eyes. His mouth was open in awe, only for him to grin and bite his lip. Without warning, he jerked back inside of you, eliciting a whine. “I can pretend that you are a virgin again, sweet Alga. I have always wanted to fuck you bloody.”
“Fre— eak—!” You managed to squeal between thrusts that had the top of your head inching closer to the wall. It hurt, though not unpleasantly. Death would be preferable than admitting it — as if you wouldn’t get off on that too — but you were as much of a freak as he was.
Distantly, you began to imagine how much blood was getting smeared onto the sheets, and further how much of a pain they would be to clean. That thought alone very nearly made your dick shrivel into a little husk, not that Caracalla would allow for that. He picked up the pace, forcing himself at a deeper angle that had your vision swimming. With a fumbling hand, he jerked your clit in a shaky rhythm. An afterthought, though an appreciated one that had you crying out for more.
“Hurry up!” He spit out through clenched teeth. His face was flushed a pretty shade of crimson, one hand burying into the flesh of your thigh, and his gaze turned upward. Every time he would glance down at where you were connected, his hips would stutter. “Seeing my cock painted red is going to make me…”
As he sucked in a watery breath, you closed your eyes and tried to focus on the sensations. Of being stretched — filled — Caracalla’s hand massaging your dick, the sounds of his fervent pleasure, it all built up inside of you until you couldn’t contain it anymore. You could feel yourself clenching around him, each pulse sending another wave of pleasure through your body. When Caracalla kept pawing at your clit, you slapped him away before you became too oversensitive. A snarl ripped from him, furious for only a moment before it dissolved into a kittenish mewl. He slumped on top of you, nuzzling his face into your neck.
Against your better judgment, you fell asleep like that. Whatever mess you made could be cleaned up later.
A tender kiss was what woke you next. With your eyes closed, you patted around to find Caracalla, quickly discovering his spot empty, though not cold. Swinging your arm upward, the arc you made stopped when your palm tapped against a cheek that was a bit more defined than Caracalla’s. Slender fingers wrapped around your wrist. You opened your eyes to see Caracalla furiously washing himself at the foot of the bed, only for Geta to pitch himself into your field of vision with a smile that was more of a frown.
“Hitting your husband, now, Alga?” He was being playful, thank god. You didn’t know if you could deal with one of Geta’s patent pending verbal lashings right now. “I thought you frowned on such matters.” Geta paused, as if to let you respond, only to hush you when you opened your mouth. His pupils darted to the damp spot on the sheets. “I am unable to say how happy I am, carissimus. You will provide Rome with an heir yet.”
“We aren’t even married yet,” you grumbled, more sleepy than annoyed.
This earned a huff and a roll of his eyes. “Clearly the seed did not take root if you are bleeding, Alga.”
“That beast over there—” When you pointed at Caracalla, he looked up from where he had lifted the hem of his tunic to scrub between his legs. His cock was limp. And stained red. He looked somewhat infuriated. “—Has already copulated with me. Perhaps I will be at the altar, fat and ugly.”
“A beast,” Caracalla scoffed. “As if you did not like it.”
Both of you ignored him. Geta seemed to be fixated solely on you, his nose somewhat wrinkled. “Nothing would be more beautiful to me, you fool.”
“Spoken with a wrinkled nose,” you snipped, though you meant it less than your tone betrayed. Deep inside, a warmth had bloomed throughout your chest at the sweetly spoken declaration. While you had no true desire to be pregnant, you knew it was only a matter of time considering that ancient methods of contraception were not procedures that you would want to perform on yourself. At least you didn’t have to deal with it quite yet.
Geta dragged his thumb along your cheek bone, brown eyes warm with a devoted sort of affection that made you feel warm. “Stupid words spoken from an intelligent man.”
“I have never seen a man pregnant,” Caracalla piped up from the end of the bed. His tunic was wet. It seemed that the hem had been dipped into the bucket. Whether it was an accident, or Caracalla’s idea of innovation, you weren’t sure. Geta’s cluck indicated that he was annoyed and he headed deeper into your room to find one of your togas that Caracalla had gifted you from his own closet. “Such a thought is too lecherous for me.”
You rolled your eyes, holding out your hand for the towel Caracalla had in his fist. His eyes flickered over you, lips curling mischievously for a split second, only for his nose to wrinkle into a scowl when you glared. “I did not know there was any thought too lecherous for you, Caracalla.”
“Spoilsport,” he chuffed, though he did toss the rag at your face, more playful than helpful. Rather than respond, you began cleaning between your legs without staining the sheets more than they already were. Caracalla pattered to your side and watched your motions, more rapt than you really would have preferred. There was no time for a round two. Thankfully, his pupils returned to your face. “I called you a name, Algacula, are you not upset?”
Fishing for a response was not new to you. Caracalla did it often when he wanted your attention — or anyone’s attention, really, and with Geta rifling through your wardrobe, you were who was available. “All you ever call me are nicknames, why would I be angry over a new one?”
That gave Caracalla pause before his face scrunched up, almost muppet-like. You had to swallow a laugh. “Your name is foreign and ugly. Alga was given to you by your emperor, you should be more grateful.”
“Ah, yes—” Careful to keep your tone light as this was still a sore spot for Geta, mere feet away, you said “— something of little worth, how could I have forgotten?”
While you could hear Geta bracing for a squawk, Caracalla pinched your nose shut. Punishment, you supposed. “It also means ‘seaweed.’ The same shade as your hair. Do not attempt to trouble me needlessly. I like your new name and I shall not change it.”
“Leave us,” Geta snapped, dumping a clean tunic into his brother’s arms. “I would like to speak with our medicus privately.”
With a scoff, Caracalla moved as if he was about to punch Geta, causing the taller twin to flinch. Triumphant, Caracalla preened, though his face had given way into a sneer. “Asking about that rash you were talking about? The one under your balls? As if Alga would fuck such a diseased man!”
Cackling, Caracalla bid only you goodbye before exiting into the hall with his bundle of fabric that he was most certainly going to throw off of a nearby balcony. You never knew him to change due to being a slight bit wet, and he likely considered Geta to be an overbearing nag right now. Your gaze flickered back to him, the sole emperor in your chambers, his face a bright shade of red.
“I have no such rash!”
Did it count as round two if it was with a different man? There was an ache between your legs again, one that could not be settled by clenching your thighs together. While you considered taking care of the issue alone, the fact of the matter was that you felt almost as if you were transforming into some manner of beast. Geta needed to be inside of you before you died. Your previous question churned in your mind as words tumbled from your lips. “May I see?”
Geta drew himself up taller, his face flaring deeper in color. “And you do not believe me over my brother! I should have known! Your favoritism knows no b—”
“I know there is no rash. I want to see your cock. Idiot.”
He blinked, his face frozen in outrage before slowly, steadily, and with a speed that made you want to ask him if he experienced extreme mood swings often, his mouth pulled into a smirk. “I see your monthly woes have made you an attentive lover, meus vitus. If you wish to have your way with me to satiate your lunacy, then perhaps, I will submit.”
“You are the least fuckable man I have ever met,” you said in English, careful to keep your tone sultry. Before he could ask what you meant, you grinned up at him, proud of your deception. “Take me however you please. I find myself needy.”
It was the most blunt about sex that you had ever found yourself, but, no matter how hard you tried, you could not take your eyes from the bulge in Geta’s tunic. Nor the way it tented at your brazen declaration. He looked younger in his excitement, more Caracalla’s age as he clambered into the bed, his eyes bright. It was silly how excited that Geta got about bedding you, no matter how desired that it made you feel. With a hand cupping your cheek, he pressed his lips against yours, more chaste than the erection against your thigh betrayed.
“I will take such good care of you,” he murmured against your lips. The whine you let out would have been embarrassing if you weren’t as horny as you were. His fingers prodded at your slit. “You’re so wet.”
“That would be the blood,” you couldn’t help but correct through heady kisses.
Geta pulled back to narrow his eyes at you and not so subtly wipe his hand clean on your sheets. “Ah.”
Reaching lower, you grazed his cock with your palm in a desperate attempt to guide him inside. “Afraid to bloody your sword, Geta?”
Again, he frowned at you, pushing forward with his cock to slowly sink within your depths. He sucked in a breath between his teeth, his eyes screwed shut as you let out a guttural moan. However much Geta despised his cock, you adored it twice as much. It was the prefect size to fill you so completely, brushing against your cervix in a way that made your toes curl. The pain ached in a way that made your dick throb where it was pressed against Geta’s pelvis.
Unlike with Caracalla, who was rough and unyielding, sex with Geta was sensual. His thrusts were slow, a habit he had picked up so as not to overwhelm his partners with his size. He had never had the luxury of rutting into someone, and from the way his thighs tensed, you could tell he wanted to.
“Pretend that you are mad at me,” it left you before you could stop it. A desperate plea that you weren’t sure if he would indulge, and one that would humiliate you when you remembered it later.
Geta opened his eyes, staring down at your expression with open confusion. “Why would I—?”
“Please.”
“Oh, Alga, how can I be mad when you’re being so sweet for me?” Despite what he said, he pulled out a few inches before slamming back in. A test that made you see stars and a grin to spread across his face. “But, if you insist.”
For as gentle as Geta acted during intimacy, he did not build up to a more brutal pace. Once he decided that you could take it, he reared his hips back until only his tip was inside of you, then sheathed himself with a single jolt. The noise that pulled from you was not one that you processed, or even really heard, but it was enough to make Geta laugh.
“It is a shame that it is only seven days a month that I can truly fuck you,” Geta said between pants. “I will savor every moment.”
Sensation blurred to the fire in your veins, stoking hotter as pain and pleasure bloomed in your lower belly. Geta’s grip on you tightened, his pace bruising. It was hard to breathe through the gasps that tore through your strangled throat. Your head was spinning, vision blurring— until it all exploded at once. Everything went dark as ecstasy caused your body to lock, clenched tight around Geta in a way that had him still and shivering. His voice shook in a way that bordered on womanly. It was sweet, you acknowledged, so far from yourself that a tornado could rip through Palatine Hill and you wouldn’t notice.
By your bedside, the remains of Justina’s tea sat untouched. You would drink it when you came back to yourself, sticky with sweat, with the weight of Geta’s heaving chest against yours. One limp arm raised to wrap around Geta, to hold him tighter as his cum spilled from between your legs.
These sheets needed to be changed. That was your last thought before you, once again, drifted into nothingness.
Lasting all of five minutes before Geta was shaking you awake. You cracked open your eyes to see him in a change of clothes and somewhat worried, one hand on your shoulder. “Carissimus. Are you still with me?”
“You did not fuck me to death,” you mumbled, swatting him away.
He laughed, a small huff, partnered with a minute twitch of your lips. “How crude of you, medicus.”
“I am allowed if I am bleeding.” Raising yourself to a sitting position, you winced at the achiness of your body. It wasn’t from cramps, but from the activity you had engaged in. Twice. In a row. Menstruating turned you into an animal, and you did not like it much. You enjoyed being in control of yourself, of being polite and chaste as you had been expected your entire life. It seemed that either your paramours were rubbing off on you, or your period loosened your tongue. Maybe both. “I must dress.”
The sound of rippling water made you hum. Turning, you saw Geta knelt before you with the bucket from earlier, now full of clean water, and a fresh rag. He spread your legs open and guided you to the edge of the bed. You blinked, surprised by the tenderness, but most importantly, the act of direct submission from Geta, of all people. Without a word, he cleaned you up, slowly dragging the damp fabric across the bruises he had left.
Once he deemed you sufficiently doted on, he kissed the side of your knee. “I love you.”
And, to your utmost surprise, he said your name. Your real name, that foreign nonsense that he had deemed so unnecessary.
When all you did to respond was part your lips, Geta scowled. ‘So my love is not reciprocated?”
“You said my name.”
“I am not like my brother.” Geta stood and gave your cheek a quick swipe with his thumb. “I love you, foreign and all.” Then, with that ridiculous smirk, he ruined it all, as he had a tendency to do. “I prefer you civilized, however, Alga.”
Pursing your lips, you retrieved a new pair of underwear and what looked to be a rudimentary sanitary napkin from the bag Justina had left. “I believe you do that on purpose. Certainly, you must.”
“Do what?” His genuine confusion indicated that he did not. You sighed, more fond that you cared to admit.
“Nothing, Geta. Nothing at all.” You met his eyes with an exasperated grin, your eyes full of affection enough to make his hackles lower. “I love you too, my husband.”
A/N: Oh my god I’ve been chipping away at this for some time now. I’m taking a break from writing in general right now until I get my medication sorted out. Rexulti withdrawals are noooooo fucking joke gang. But yes!! I hope this was enjoyable, and I’ve definitely discovered that smut is not my specialty. It’s hard to write well and I don’t think I’m gonna try to write it in anyway that isn’t natural to me anymore.
Some historical notes on this chapter, I’ll try to keep it short. Eggs were not discovered in mammals until like wayyyyy past Rome’s existence, and I believe the first human egg was visualized im the 1900s??? This makes me believe that the average Roman would think that you sounded crazy if you mentioned a ‘human egg.’ I could be so wrong though, this is just me guessing.
Also! Romans had semi decent memstruation products, I GUESS. Like… it could be way worse than it was. For help with pain there was something I read about rudimentary tampons being soaked in opium? I think that may be another time period however.
As for news about me, I started a new job! Yay! I also lost my health insurance. Boo! Writing will be bery sporadic while I get settled in, sigh. I also have been considering getting into more original work??? I’ll get back to you on that one. Never fear, my friends, I will write fanfiction forever!!!
Thank you for reading and stay cool <33 Arc two of Do Not Blame the Sea is up next amd I’m sooooo excited to write it.
tag list: @snazzylavenderlady @jacaerysblog @cherrysweets-world @justlibra @001mon @blackbearbluues @fionaapplelover2010
The first photo is from 1956. It shows a Black woman watching members of the Ku Klux Klan (a terrorist, racist, far-right organization focused on white supremacy) walking along a sidewalk in Montgomery, Alabama (USA). I couldn't find the photo's author, but most sources state that it was taken in 1956.
The second photo shows members of the Patriot Front group (a white supremacist and nationalist group, formed in 2017, that openly advocates what they call "American Fascism") traveling on the subway during the 250th anniversary of the U.S. independence in Washington D.C., while a Black woman watches them. The photo is by photographer Cheney Orr, taken on July 4, 2026, 70 years after the first photo.
standford!art having a huge crush on the women's volleyball team captain with plump thighs, soft and curvy in all the best places who giggles and makes fun of his stuttering when he tries to talk to her and when he finally gets her in hes bed he doesnt even know what to do with all that 🍑😛
CAPTAIN’S ORDER
summary: Art just got dragged to watch the women’s volleyball team practice and he didn’t expect to see you. Didn’t expect to keep showing up like it wasn’t obvious. Keeps telling himself he’s just supporting the university, which is bullshit, because his eyes stay locked on your thighs every time you move. And when you look at him? Game over.
pairings: stanford!art donaldson x vball captain!reader
warnings: 13.9k words. mature themes. unprotected p in v. cunnilingus. tongue fucking. creampie. cockwarming. dacryphilia. overstimulation. praise kink. breast play (sucking/groping). semi-public teasing. implied somnophilia. light d/s dynamic. read responsibly.
note: another ask that’s been sitting in my inbox for over a month but never forgotten. i hope this fic brings to life exactly what you were imagining when you sent it in, anon, because when art finally gets between reader’s thighs, he really does cry about it.
It starts with your thighs. Thick, strong, impossible not to stare at. He doesn’t even mean to stare. But it’s the kind that flexes when you move and bounces when you laugh. Most of the time, it’s half-visible beneath shorts that never quite stay put when you play. He wasn’t even supposed to be there. He’s too tired to go… but his teammates are annoying as hell. So only came because the guys were going. Not because of you. Someone mentioned a late-night volleyball practice and the whole crew was already lacing up. He doesn’t even pay attention to what they are saying when they’re joking like idiots, half-bored and desperate for anything that wasn’t another silent evening in the dorms. Art just shrugged, and dragged himself along. He wasn’t expecting anything. He wasn’t even paying attention.
But then he walked into the gym and saw you. You were on the court, hand braced against your hip, and holding a volleyball like you weren’t even thinking about it. You are barking instructions to your teammates without raising your voice. The authority is there, and he can feel it in his spine. And don’t get started with the shirt you wore because it was damp at the collar, clinging to your lower back, sleeves shoved up past your elbows. Hair is fixed and tied with a scrunchie. Shorts are tight and snug across your hips, it’s hugging your body curves. Pacing along the court lines, pointing to each mistake your team makes, and calling formations like you own the whole goddamn space.
And maybe you did. That- that kind of person does not come easily to other people. Authoritative. Leading. Intimidating. Confident. You didn’t look like you were trying to be impressive. It’s not like he feels threatened, no… he feels like he’s been enchanted, honestly. You weren’t showing off to those eyes who are watching you. Just moving with the kind of natural authority that made it impossible not to watch. Even when you smiled, it was focused- half-distracted, half-mocking. Like you had bigger things on your mind than being stared at. Like you knew they were there and didn’t give a shit. Maybe you don’t, but it doesn’t stop people from watching you. Then you dropped low into a crouch and called for a set, Art thought he might actually forget how to breathe. Or he might have seen God and gone to heaven. Your legs coiled under you, tense and clean and perfect, then released as you sprang up and swung. Damn, look at that… The sound of your spike echoing sharply against the gym walls.
He was already sitting by then- front row of the bleachers with a Gatorade bottle loose in his hand that was warm by now. His hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, still slightly damp from his own practice- but he hadn’t even registered the feeling of it in his skin. He didn’t remember walking over. It’s like the last thing he can remember is being at the tennis court and now he’s in the gym watching you. Didn’t hear whatever dumb thing the guy next to him said. All he could do was watch. Like target locked. He’s like Cupid who can’t let go of someone until he gets them.
He thinks he’s going crazy because he can’t even form clear thoughts when you turn. Jogged a few steps. Adjust your shorts with one hand, your shirt with the other. Glanced up. Just once. Just briefly. But it’s enough to scan the bleachers where half the tennis team sat slouched in their t-shirts, hoodies, or whatever they are wearing, and yeah don’t forget the backward caps as if they’re pretending not to ogle. Your gaze passed right over them- right over him- without slowing. You didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Didn’t acknowledge a single one of them. But okay, you might stare a little at that blonde boy who looks like he just pissed his pants. His flushed cheeks that can pass like someone slapped him. Cute.
It literally took him three seconds from squashing the bottle he’s holding when he gets a glimpse of you turning your head to their side. You hadn’t even looked at him directly. Might not have seen him at all. Well, that’s what he thought. But it didn’t matter. He could already feel the image sinking under his skin- especially the curve of your ass jiggle when you jump, and the way your thighs moved when you walked back into position. He saved and locked the whole thing into memory like it’s his storage which has a lot of space for it. Just for you. You can’t really blame him, right? He’s just a guy! He’s blonde and maybe he’s also a little dumb when it comes to girls. And… he’s just admiring, that’s all. You have a good… thick… thighs… big… ass… of course, he will appreciate them.
From watching your practice because his teammates forced him turned into a pattern. A routine. It was just supposed to be one time thing, just him sitting there with the guys, pretending he didn’t care, pretending you didn’t fuck him up a little and make a mark in his mind. But then it happened again. And again. A few days later, he just happened to be walking past the gym after eating outside the campus. The next week, he quickly finished his workout at the gym and the doors were open. Eventually, he just started going. Not with the guys. Not with anyone. Just him. Alone in the bleachers. Always in hoodies. He’s just quiet. Just watching the team. He told himself it was nothing. It was relaxing. At some point, it is because it’s not his own practice being watched on, but others. Well, that’s almost the reason. That he liked the pace of the drills, the echo of sneakers on hardwood, the slap of their hands on the ball. He liked studying athletes outside his sport. Which was bullshit. He knows he’s not fooling anyone but himself. Because all he really did was track you on the court. He doesn’t give a fuck about other girls in the court.
Eyes just stuck on you. The way you moved. The way you drink your water. The way you stood when you weren’t thinking about it- hip cocked, one leg bent, hands loose at your sides. The way you glare at your teammates when they do something stupid for multiple times in a row. The way your shorts never quite stayed put when you called plays. The way your shirt clings to your body when you are sweaty. You always looked a little flushed. A little shiny from the sweat. Your thighs flex when bent a little as you wait for the ball. Your ass shifted when you turned. And he watched. Silently. Obsessively. Dumb as hell about it. It’s like he’s having a massive crush on you. He didn’t think anyone noticed. But they did. They just walk up to gang him up and ask why he’s always here. But maybe they notice his attention is always on their captain- always looking at you.
It actually started with small things. One of the middle blockers nudges you during the water break, muttering something under her breath, and both of you snickering behind your bottles. Another girl glanced toward the bleachers while they stretched. The new recruit smirked as you spiked, yelling “someone’s watchingggg you.” And you- you said nothing. Of course you didn’t. You don’t have time for guys. Until one night, when practice was ending, and he was still sitting there, hands folded over his knee, pretending to scroll on his phone even though the screen was black.
You walked straight over him. He looked up too fast when he saw you were already halfway to him. Hair sweaty. Face glowing like a glazed donut. Breath was a little uneven from the last round of drills you did with the girls. Shirt clinging to your back, and shorts hugging every inch of your ass. You looked confident. Effortless. Beautiful. Sexy. Hot. He would suck the shit out of your thighs and bite your ass if you gave him the chance. Because how can he not when you are curvy in the best places he can imagine? It’s proportioned just right. Like it really fits you. You are a girl who knows how to carry it with confidence. He must be in heaven right now because you just stopped in front of him with your hands on your hips and your eyebrows are slightly raised like you are asking him something he doesn’t know. He blinked like he was buffering. He’s thanking all the gods existing for this moment brought to his feet. Thank you. Thank. You.
“I know you,” you said. Your tone is casual. He blinked, too stunned to say anything other than a “Huh?” Why are you talking to him? He’s not prepared. He’s not mentally ready! He looks like shit. It’s not like he doesn’t want you here… but it’s just surprising. He didn’t actually think he would face you like this. “You’re a player too,” you added and cocking your head like you were already teasing him. “I-uh. Tennis,” he stuttered, nodding too fast. You chuckle. God, it was unfair how easy it sounded. “Thought I recognized you. You’ve been watching practice for days, right?”
He hesitated. Maybe it’s been weeks already but you are just being a kid by just saying days as if he only watches you for three days and not longer. “No-I mean-I just happened to be” He can’t even form a proper sentence and he’s stuttering like a fucking kid who’s in front of his whole class for the first time. “Mmhm.” You took a half-step closer. “You’re cute when you lie.” His face burned. Oh, shit. Please, is he already blushing just because you said he’s cute? Anyone, save him.
He dropped his eyes to your shoes like they could save him. You smiled like you’d already won. “You coming next week?” He nodded. Then panicked. “I mean- if you don’t mind.” Saying this only to make him not look like he’s too eager to come next week and see you again. “I don’t,” you said. “See you, tennis boy.” After making him stutter and blush you just walk back to your team with the same confident sway he’d been watching for two weeks straight- only now he had permission.
Oh, boy and then it happened… after that interaction, you started wearing the tighter shorts. Not dramatically, not all at once. Just a subtle shift- fabric that clung a little closer, hem that sat a little higher, waistband that hugged your hips just right. They were still athletic, still comfortable, still your best pair to move in. But they moved differently. They rode up when you crouched. Bunched when you served.
Showed more of your thighs when you paced. And every time you reached for the ball cart, it felt like just a little more of your ass peeked out than it should’ve. The girls didn’t care. It was off-season, half the team was showing skin, and you were all just trying to survive the sweat. But when they noticed you tugging the waistband up before warmups? When they caught you adjusting the tightest pair right before water breaks? That’s when the comments started.
“Shorts getting smaller?”
“He’s already looking, babe.”
“Make it bounce. Just once.”
And maybe you did. Not for them. Not even to be mean. But because he kept showing up. Quiet. Hoodied. Alone. Sitting in the same spot near the front with his knees apart, fingers clenched around a bottle he never drank from, eyes locked to the court like he wasn’t even aware he was staring.
He thought he was subtle. He wasn’t. You started watching for it- those little flickers of panic when your eyes met his, the way he’d immediately drop his gaze, sometimes all the way to the floor, sometimes straight to your legs like it made things worse. The flush on his neck gave him away every time. It would rise slowly, just under his jaw, spreading red until his ears burned and he had to shift in his seat like that would make it go away.
You never called him out for it but you turned in his direction just to see if he was still there. And every time? He was. He didn’t say a word. But he kept showing up. Watching like he couldn’t help it. Like the way your ass bounced when you landed a jump set was going to kill him slowly. And you let him. Every single night. Because if he wanted to look? You were going to give him something to remember. And the worst part was, you knew. You always did every time he came to the practices. And now? Now it’s over.
You’d won the whole thing- the NCAA championship, the final match, the fucking moment-and campus feels like it’s glowing. The house is packed, music shaking the walls, and the rest of your team is already half-drunk. Everything smells like sweat and sugar and noise. And he’s here, too. Of course he is. It’s not hard to spot him. He’s just in the corner with someone else, maybe his friends or his teammates, not that it matters.
He’s holding the red cup with alcohol in it, and he’s in his typical hoodie that covers his neck like it’s calming his nerves. Legs spread too wide for your liking and it’s definitely taking up much space for someone who doesn’t want to get noticed. Curls are damp and a little flattened at his forehead which have not fully dried off after he showered. Just staying there and he hasn’t moved in a while ever since he sat down. Just sips from his drink and watches the crowd like he’s still on the sidelines.
But his eyes keep coming back to you. Every time you laugh. Every time your medal catches the light. Every time you raise your arms and your shirt lifts a little- he’s looking. And then he’s not. But you know he is. So you take your time getting there. You weave through people slowly, nodding, laughing, swaying with the music until you’re close enough that your thighs brush his knee when you stop. You lean one shoulder against the couch arm beside him and look down like you didn’t plan it.
“You hiding?” you ask. His eyes snap up, wide. His cup dips slightly in his hand. “No- just, um. Sitting,” he says. His voice is soft. Almost careful. “Congrats. You were… insane tonight.” Your lips twitch. “Yeah?” He nods. Quick. A little nervous. “Yeah. I mean-you always are. But tonight-yeah.” You let your smile show. Slow. Knowing. “You watched?”
“Of course.”
“Cute.”
His gaze drops to his drink like it might help. You don’t move. Just let the music thump around you while the silence between you gets heavier. His cup shifts in his hands. His fingers tap once against the rim. “God you are drunk already, aren’t you?” you tease him. Smirk on your face and lashes flutter as you look at him. “I’m not drunk.” You laugh softly. “You are.” He doesn’t argue again. Just looking at you. Really look this time. You’re still flushed from the win, still glowing, your legs pressed close to his, your medal glinting against your chest. You don’t say anything else. You just let it hang there- like you’re giving him space to figure out what he wants to do about it.
He doesn’t move. You do. You don’t wait. You don’t ask. Don’t hesitate. Don’t even give him time to shift his cup out of the way. You just move in one slow, easy motion, medal tapping against your chest as you drop straight into his lap like it’s the most obvious seat in the room. The couch dips hard. His breath stutters. And then he just… freezes. One hand was still holding his drink. The other stiff against his thigh. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares straight ahead like he can’t trust his own body. You’re warm in his lap. Solid. Real. Pressed against him in a way that feels permanent.
Your back settles comfortably to his chest as if you've done this before, like you just have your own seat on his lap. Like you belong there. Like he belongs to you. He doesn’t know where to look. His eyes bounce from your shoulder to your hand to the empty space across the room like maybe it’ll swallow him. But his neck is already flushed. His jaw’s tight. The tension under his hoodie is so loud to the point you can feel it vibrate straight into your system.
And then someone sees you. “OH MY GOD!” one of your teammates screams across the room, slapping another girl’s arm. “She actually sat on him,” another gasps, fake shocked. “You’re so done for, babe,” a third adds, giggling as they start crossing the room like sharks smelling blood. You don’t look at them. You don’t even blink. Instead, you press a little closer, leaning back against his chest just enough that your hips shift in his lap, and lift your drink to your mouth with a lazy smile.
“Hey,” you call out casually, waving over someone you know near the edge of the couch, “did you see that last point? Setter almost tripped over me.” They laugh, sliding into the conversation like nothing’s burning beneath you. You keep your voice light. Breathless. Like sitting on Art Donaldson’s lap in front of ten people is just another end-of-season ritual. “Oh my god, yeah,” someone else chimes in, “you looked pissed.”
“I was,” you hum, grinning as you take another sip. “They would’ve blamed me if it went out. And I’m the one carrying the whole backline, apparently.” The girls laugh again. One of them crouches next to the couch just to whisper, “Is he breathing?” loud enough that you know he can hear it. You still don’t flinch. Instead, mid-laugh, you slide your hand down and take his free one gently from his thigh- like it’s just been waiting and place it directly onto yours. His palm lands warm on your skin. Just above the knee. You leave it there.
He twitches, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to stay. But you keep talking. Smiling. Turning your head to the conversation without moving anything else. His hand stays. And god, the way he’s holding his breath? Like it might all vanish if he shifts too hard. Like one wrong move might wake him up. But this is real. You’re glowing. He’s still not going anywhere. The conversation doesn’t stop. Someone’s halfway through retelling a point from the second set-badly- while another girl keeps waving her drink for emphasis, sloshing liquid over her hand with every exaggerated detail. Everything is loud, flushed, and breathless. Post-championship high. But in that corner of the couch, you’re still pressed into his lap, drink in hand, posture easy like you’re not doing anything at all. Like this is just comfort. Like his thighs weren’t tensed under you from the second you sat down.
You keep your smile soft, eyes tracking the group in front of you, nodding along like you’re listening. But your weight shifts slightly- just enough to adjust your seat, just enough to reposition the hem of your shorts, just enough that your hips roll forward in the smallest, slowest arc over his lap. It could pass for nothing. It probably does. No one flinches. No one calls it out. You’re laughing at something someone says across the couch, your drink raised, your medal still cold against your chest. You look relaxed. Still glowing. But under you, his body reacts like he’s been struck. He stiffens. Breath stutters. His hand tightens just slightly on your thigh- barely there, more instinct than decision and you feel it. The way his legs shift. The way his jaw clenches. The way his eyes flick downward like looking anywhere else might help.
It doesn’t. So you do it again. Another soft shift. Another innocent adjustment. Another drag of pressure that’s barely anything-but still enough to make his cup tilt in his grip. You glance down, watching his knuckles go pale where he grips the rim. Then you lean in. Not dramatically. Just enough. Your head dips toward his like you’re reacting to something someone said, like you’re about to whisper a joke. Your mouth grazes the shell of his ear. And without looking at him, without breaking rhythm, you murmur: “I can feel how hard you are, you know.” Soft. Easy. Like it’s a fact.
And before he can even begin to answer, you’re smiling again. Turning slightly, laughing at something across the couch, like nothing happened. You take another sip from your cup. Your free hand presses lightly against his thigh, thumb brushing the edge of your own skin, grounding the heat between you like you don’t even notice it. But he does. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. You feel the tension ripple through him- contained, barely managed, and absolutely wrecked. You can feel the way his fingers twitch on your leg as he lays them there to rest.
His breath is shallow like he’s trying to keep himself together like a puzzle piece. You don’t have to say another word. Not really because you don’t need to. His body says everything for him. You couldn’t leave early. Of course not. You were the captain. You had speeches to give. Teammates to hug. People to thank and photos to smile through and drinks to toast. You had to carry the trophy into the second location and take ten thousand blurry selfies and act like your legs weren’t already tired from the five-set match and hours of celebration.
But he waited. Quiet. Patient. Still buzzing from the way you’d whispered in his ear like it’s some secret he needs to keep. Still hard beneath the waistband of his jeans long after you stood up from his lap and vanished into the crowd. He didn’t follow you. Didn’t ask. Just watched you walk away with your medal still swinging and your voice echoing in his head like you’d dropped a match into his lungs. He waited until the lights were low and the house started emptying. Until someone tossed him a bottle of water and a spare sweatshirt and told him to “get out of there before you combust.”
Now he’s here. On his knees. Face buried between your thighs like he’s praying. His hands grip the back of your legs as if it’s the only thing keeping him motivated to be here. And you’re still wearing his goddamn hoodie he gave you in the middle of the party because of your soaked shirt. You’re still wearing the medal. Your shorts are somewhere on the floor. And his mouth is slow. Careful. Worshipful. Like this is a favor you’re letting him perform. Like he’s just lucky to be allowed here between your thighs, under your fingers, lips dragging wet across your skin as he licks and kisses and breathes you in like this is the win he’s been chasing all year. You let your head fall back against the pillows. Fingers curling in his hair. He groans low when you pull quietly, desperate, like he loves it and you feel it all the way through you.
You haven’t said a word since you let him in. You didn’t have to. He’s now where he wants to be and he’s been dreaming of this moment ever since he saw you the first time. He waited. Through the noise, the bodies, the championship high that kept everyone buzzing long after the final whistle. Through photos and toasts and too many sticky drinks, through the sweat clinging to your skin and the way your shirt had started to turn see-through beneath the lights-clinging where it shouldn’t, sheer enough to show everything beneath. You hadn’t noticed. You were still laughing, flushed and sparkling from the win, from the way everyone was looking at you like you’d won it alone.
He noticed. He always noticed. He was still quiet, still sitting off to the side like he didn’t want to take up space, but he got brave, just once. Pulled his hoodie off over his head, walked over without meeting your eyes, and held it out like a peace offering. “You look cold,” he mumbled, even though you didn’t. Even though he was the one shivering. You took it anyway. Slipped it over your shoulders, your sticky shirt bunched underneath, the sleeves falling past your hands. You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t have to. The look you gave him- tired and soft and knowing. It was more than enough. It stayed with him all night.
And now you’re in his dorm. Your back against his pillows, his hoodie still on, legs bare and spread over the sheets like you’ve always belonged here. Your shorts are somewhere on the floor. Your hair’s a mess. There’s a fading smudge of glitter near your collarbone from someone else’s celebration. He’s on his knees in front of you, his eyes wide- beautiful blue eyes gazing up to you with full adoration behind them. He can’t believe this is happening, that you are here, perfect and real.
Because he can't, not really. Sure, he imagined what the possible things could happen when you’re in front of him but this isn’t part of it. He definitely has fantasized how about having you, to touch you, to have you in his bed, to press his lips on your thighs. And now you are open and waiting for him with that big smile of yours like this isn’t breaking the shit out of him. Like this is not a big deal. Didn’t even know where the fuck he should begin with all of this. There’s so much of you. So much thigh. So much curve. Your ass spilling over the edge of the mattress when you shift, soft and devastating. He doesn’t speak. Just moves closer. Places both hands on your legs and strokes slowly, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.
Then he leans in. Presses a kiss to your inner thigh. Then another. Then a third, dragging his lips over your skin like he’s trying to prove he deserves this- every inch, every breath, every second of it. You sigh, tilting your hips slightly toward him. “Hey,” you murmur, lazy, playful, and voice curling under the low hum of the dorm fan. “You good down there?” He looks up, dazed. Swallows. “I just…” He shakes his head, almost laughs, eyes dropping again to your legs spread in front of him. “I don’t even know what to do with all of you.” You smile. Really smile. It’s a little smug. A little sweet. You lean back further, stretching out in his hoodie, your medal glinting faintly against the fabric. “Then take your time,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.” And neither is he.
He still hasn’t touched your panties. Not really. Not yet. If someone asks him how he’s doing, his answer will be 50-50. He will be the happiest man in the world right now, but he’s also the one who’s so fucked up and going spiraling inside. Why? Because he’s been kneeling between your thighs and just staring like he’s processing all of this before he touches and tastes you for the first time. His hands are warm and shaking when he moves them slowly towards your thighs, tracing their flesh and curve as if he’s memorizing the feeling and the shape of them in his palms. Both of his hands move to squish and squeeze it once… feeling and testing the water first. Then again, nails digging a little into the flesh and both of them gripping your thighs fully like he doesn’t want to let go.
There are no words that can be found in his mouth. Eyes not looking up at you, he just keeps kneading and gently stroking the softest parts of them, where no one gets to touch unless you let them. His thumb slides up inside your inner thighs, and it’s close enough where you want him to touch you. When he exhales, it’s shaky as if he’s getting triggered by just holding your thighs. Then came the kisses. They’re soft at first. Careful. Barely there. Just slow presses of his lips along the edge of your thigh, then a little higher, then lower again. He’s not trying to tease you. He’s not playing a game. He’s just trying to understand you through touch. Through taste. He doesn’t want to take it because he’s scared to take it so fast, and it will be gone in the blink of an eye.
You watch him as you lean back slightly while being propped on your elbows. Didn’t even notice how the fabric of your panties got a wet patch in the middle and is clinging more to your cunt with a sticky feeling. But it’s frustrating because he still doesn’t touch you. He just keeps kissing your thighs, your hips, and the very tops where skin gets soft and sensitive, his mouth dragging slowly and softly like he’s praying. You thread your fingers through his curls. Tug gently. Tilt his face just a little closer to where you want him. And he moans. Not loud. Not for anyone but you. Just a low, helpless sound against your skin that makes your thighs twitch and your stomach pull tight.
You wait a beat. Let him breathe. Then, sweet and quiet: “You like my thighs, baby?” He stills. You feel it- every inch of him freezing for just a moment, like he forgot how to answer. His breath fans against your skin. He doesn’t even take off his lips off your thigh when he nods. So afraid to let go when he doesn’t even get all of the taste he can get. His voice is low and a little cracked when he speaks, like he’s thinking of many possible responses he can give to you, but this is the only one he can give and probably enough: “Yeah. Fuck. I- yeah.”
That made you smile. Can’t help it. You tilt your hips just a little closer to his face and let your knees fall wider. “Thought so.” He hums like he might fall apart. Kisses your thigh again, slower this time, then noses gently against the edge of your panties, still not pulling them aside. His hands move up to your hips, holding them steady, like you are the only thing grounding him right now. You’re still wearing his hoodie. He’s still on his knees. And he hasn’t even tasted you yet. But god- he already looks wrecked. He doesn’t move until you let him.
You let him take his time kneeling between your thighs, and his lips drag slowly along your skin. You just let him even though his breath is warm and uneven. You let him even though he’s almost breaking himself by just doing this slowly just to ground himself and not get so lost in it. You let him hold your hip with his hand while the other one is grazing his thumb on your outer thigh. You let him even though what you want is for him just to eat your pussy out. You’re still in your panties- thin, soaked, and clinging- and he’s close enough to feel everything but hasn’t touched the center of you yet. Not really. Not until you say so.
When he finally looks up, he’s flushed. Eyes wide. Jaw slack. He doesn’t speak, but you feel that he’s asking. Needing. Like he wants it so bad it hurts, but he’s still too careful to assume. You nod. Just a little. Your fingers slip into his curls, light and gentle, and you guide his head forward- not forceful, not rushed, just there. Letting him know. “Go ahead, baby,” you say quietly. “I want you to.” That’s the key to open the gates, and the floods flood in quickly.
He takes a breath before he leans in. The mouth found the fabric first, lips parted, and moved against the soaked panties. Tongue dragging flat and licking it softly and slowly like he doesn’t care if there’s a barrier or not. He can taste you still. He doesn’t push. Don't bite. He exhales like he’s smelling the scent of you, and this is making you feel a little shy even though you are a confident person. He’s making your knees weak by just doing that through the fabric. God, you even feel the way his hand tightens in your skin, the way it presses deeper in the flesh. You feel it in the way his moan rumbles low and soft into your heat, his mouth working a little more intentionally now- open kisses, wet and steady, dragging through your folds beneath the fabric.
It’s not perfect. It’s not practiced. But it’s hungry. It’s real. He licks again, slower this time. Tongue flat, broad, and firm. Then again. Each one a little deeper, more sure. And when he starts sucking softly through the fabric, you tug his hair just enough to make his eyes flutter closed. “That’s it,” you murmur, voice low. “Right there.” You’re not teasing. Not guiding out of pity. You’re just showing him what you like, but you are showing him what he’s doing right. Because he is. And you want him to know it.
He moans quietly against it and even grunts there like the sound came straight from his abdomen, and you can feel how it vibrates right and straight to your pussy. It makes your breath catch with just that action he made. Hips rolled instinctively, and he likes the way it’s benefiting him that you grind into his mouth because he can taste more of you; it also means you feel good, and he’s going to enjoy it more, which he shows by pressing his tongue harder, dragging his lips, and burying his face deeper like this is the most important thing in the world. He doesn’t ask for more. But he’s aching for it. Still licking you through your panties, sloppy and slow and completely gone for it- hands gripping, thighs flexed, body trembling just slightly from how long he’s been holding himself together- he looks like a mess. And you haven’t even let him take them off yet.
He’s not as gentle anymore. Still slow, still careful, but there’s something deeper in the way he moves now- like need is starting to win out over hesitation. His mouth presses harder. His tongue drags with more weight. Each kiss sinks lower, each stroke of his tongue lingers longer, and when you shift under him, hips rocking just slightly into his face, he moans like it hurts. It’s all through the fabric- your panties wet, clinging, soaked with how long he’s been teasing, but it doesn’t stop him. If anything, it makes him greedier. Hungrier. He licks right through it, like he wants to memorize your heat before he’s ever allowed to feel it bare.
And then he finds it. Right there- your clit, swollen and sensitive under the thin cotton and the second he locks his mouth around it, everything gets hotter. He doesn’t rush. He just sucks. Open-mouthed and slow, the fabric darkening with every breath, his lips wet and shaky as he pulls soft sounds from you without ever touching skin. His fingers dig into your hips like he’s trying to hold you steady, keep you right there, and keep himself from going insane. You arch your back for him. You whimper but barely audibly. And then he pulls back. Just a little. Just enough. But his mouth is still parted. His lips look shiny, and his breathing is unsteady, with his pupils blown widely like he’s love-struck by it. “Can I?” he asks, voice raw, barely there. “Please?”
You don’t speak. Hands just reach down gently, and you slip your fingers beneath the waistband of your panties to drag the wet panties slowly to the side. Hold it there for him. The second you do, he exhales like it’s a relief. Like gratitude because he’s been waiting for this moment- to lean in, to part his mouth against it, to lick it directly without any fabric from it. He’s not teasing; he just continues what he’s doing- licking and sucking your pussy. He doesn’t even care if the fabric is just pulled aside; his hands still come up. It’s steady and soft when he brushes yours to push them from holding your panties.
He didn’t even second-guess or hesitate to do it; he just did. He replaces your grip with his own to hold your panties now. Fingers slip beneath the band like it’s some instinct he has over you. Didn’t even yank or fumble over it. He just takes over gently, like this is something to be careful with. Something he should do, not you. And it shows in how he holds it tightly and how his thumb is tucked against your hips and how his knuckles graze your skin when he leans in. The look in his eyes is low, and it even rolled behind when he dragged his tongue in full length to your pussy lips in one slow stroke. That one is not slick or sloppy, nor is it hurried, but it’s deep and intentional to be like that. It’s a continuous movement that starts from the bottom end, and it doesn’t stop until his tongue reaches your clit, and he doesn’t tease you.
He carefully licks and enjoys the moment like he’s trying to understand and learn how you taste and feel in his mouth. The sounds released against your cunt are barely audible; it’s a quiet groan, but it vibrates through your body, and he does it again when he notices that you reacted when he does that. It doesn’t take long before he gives another slow stroke of his tongue, thicker and firmer this time, before it flattens and spreads each pass of it from the base up to the clit. The other hand settles on your thigh, and fingers that hold you are grounding him as he eats you deeper, like pulling him away will be more of a fight than just pushing his head out there.
He keeps holding your panties to the side. His grip is firm now, not letting them slip even as his tongue moves in long, languid motions- up and down, again and again as if he wants to open you with his mouth alone. His nose nudges your clit, and he doesn’t even flinch. He leans into it. Stay there. Letting the pace be guided by how your hips move, your breath hitches and catches, and the way your thighs can’t help but close around his head without your control. And he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses in closer. He’s not licking anymore. His tongue is fucking you now, steadily thrusting it beyond the slit and inside of you, which makes your body twitch.
He’s not messy with what he’s doing; he’s gentle and doing it softly, which makes you want to cry because all you want is for him to eat you like he’s hungry for it. But there’s an appeal to how controlled the pressure he’s doing is, how each stroke drags through the slick like he’s syncing his body to yours. His grip tightens around the panties he’s holding to the side while his other hand remains on your thigh to keep your legs open before he guides it to his shoulder and you let him without any hesitation. You also did the same to your other leg so you can wrap it around him. Locking him in place where he belongs, and you are sure he likes it in the way he groans when your ankles cross behind his back.
The sound is low and deep as if he's been suppressing it ever since he latched his mouth there. His tongue thrusting slowly, rolling it, and focusing on getting it deeper if that’s even possible. Your hips roll up to meet it, fingers tangled in his hair, breath breaking against your lips, and you can feel the heat climbing fast now, climbing hard. It’s too good. Too much. You can’t stay quiet. “God, baby…” You breathe, one hand sliding down to cradle the back of his head. “You’re really doing that, huh?” He moans into you, deeper this time, and it shakes through your core. You feel it all the way down. You let out a soft laugh, breathless and messy, and your voice dips low as your thighs pull him closer. “Using your tongue like it’s your cock,” you murmur, lifting your hips right into his face. “Is that what you wanted?” Your fingers tighten. “Wanted to fuck me like this?”
Another thrust of his tongue, firmer this time, slower. You gasp. Try again. “Do you feel how wet I am for you?” He can’t answer. He doesn’t even try. He just groans- long and drawn out and devoted- and keeps going. His tongue sinks deeper, mouth dragging, face flushed and buried, like this is the only thing he’s ever wanted. You’re open for him, shaking under him, and he just keeps fucking you- tongue pushing in, lips catching on your clit, hands gripping tighter now, holding you open like he needs to feel you fall apart around his mouth. His hips rock subtly into the mattress, like even his body can’t take it anymore, like he’s getting off just from the sounds you make. And still- he doesn’t stop. He holds your panties aside with a hand that’s almost trembling, rubs softly against his sheets, and fucks you with his tongue like he’d die if you told him to stop. Thighs start to squeeze his head instinctively, body responding to how he’s thrusting and moving his tongue in your cunt; he also does it fast. Switching from shoving inside and sucking it.
You like how steady his mouth is and how devoted he is to what he’s doing and how fucking real this feels now. Sounds were released and made by him when you do it, not because he’s overwhelmed but because this is exactly what he wanted. He’s proving that with how his fingers dig into your hips to keep you down in place while his tongue is still licking, slower now, deeper at your entrance. And then he sucks. Not a tease. Not a pass. A full suction. Lips sealed around your pussyhole, tongue still inside you, sucking like he’s trying to pull you open, like he wants to drink from the source.
His moan breaks against you, low and guttural, and it doesn’t stop. His mouth stays right there, sealed and locked and obsessed with the heat and taste of you, the wet swell of your hole fluttering against his tongue. You can’t even breathe- you just stare down at him, mouth open, chest rising fast, and he keeps sucking you like your pussy’s the only thing he’s ever needed. His tongue pushes deeper while his lips pull back- just enough to draw again- soft, wet suction, like he’s kissing your hole, like he’s trying to inhale it. He breathes through his nose, desperate and steady, jaw moving as he tongue- fucks you in rhythm with the sucking, like this is how he wants to get you off. Mouth full of your hole. Tongue buried. His whole face was soaking in it.
“Oh my god- fuck… right there- don’t stop-” Your words don’t even sound like words anymore. Your thighs lock tighter. He shifts to fit better beneath them, tilts his head to stay sealed against you, sucking, sucking, sucking, the pressure tender but unrelenting, and every time his tongue strokes in deeper, your walls flutter around him and he moans like he feels it in his cock. He’s not even thinking anymore. Just sucking your pussyhole like he belongs there. Like he wants to taste you to come. Like he wants to swallow it.
And when it happens- when you start to shake, when your hands tighten in his hair, when your body starts to give- he doesn’t pull back. He sucks harder. Because that’s his reward. And he’s starving. You don’t mean to beg, not really- but it slips out anyway. Breathless, cracked, barely a whisper between gasps. “Don’t stop, baby. Please, don’t stop.” And he doesn’t. Not when you sound like that. Not when you’re pulling him tighter with your thighs like you’d drag him inside if you could.
He groans the second he hears it- low and deep, like something inside him breaks- and seals his mouth tighter over your pussyhole, lips locking around your entrance, tongue still pushing slow and deep inside you like he’s trying to fuck you open with his mouth alone. It’s not messy, it’s not hurried- it’s focused. Hungry. Every movement exact, every kiss purposeful, every slow suck like he’s trying to drink the orgasm out of you.
And then it happens. Your body starts to give in, hips stuttering against his face, hands fisting in his hair, and thighs trembling so tight around his head. He moans into it again- louder this time, like he’s grateful. Your pussy pulses around his tongue, and he just stays there, still sucking your hole through it, slow and deep and perfect. He wants to feel every twitch with his whole mouth. Your breath catches. Your muscles tighten. You feel yourself fall apart around his tongue, and he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t ease up. He just stays locked in place, licking and sucking through every flutter of your cunt like he’s not finished until you’re empty. You breathe out something like a laugh, ruined and shaking, head falling back against the pillow as your thighs slowly loosen around him. “You’re going to kill me,” you whisper.
He groans again; it’s low and desperate before he sucks your pussyhole one more time. Like he’s still not full. He almost looks disappointed when he pulls back because he doesn’t speak at all. His breathing is hard, his face is flushed, his lips are wet, his gaze looks like he’s lost before he stands up with all of that, and his hair is a little damp, and he’s just there on the edge of the bed like he’s not sure what to do next. But when you nod at him, he starts taking off his shirt, and his sweats are shoved down to the floor along with his boxers in them. Cock sprang out at the action, and it’s already flushed and soaked at the tip. It’s hard and looks painful because it’s so red and leaking. You managed to pull your panties away from your body, and he took a deep breath at the sight.
He climbs to the bed without saying anything, and his hands cage your body, hovering over you with his shallow breathing. Legs automatically parted for him without even thinking, just welcoming and ready. He leans forward slowly, not guiding himself inside yet and not pushing. He is just lining up and letting the thick, leaking head of his cock drag through the mess he made of you. Not fucking. Not teasing. Just pressing himself along your slit like he needs the friction just to stay alive.
His hips rock gently, slow and unsteady, and his cock slides wetly between your folds- bare, deliberate glides that catch on your clit just enough to make him shiver. He didn’t even look at you; he just buried his face in your neck the moment his cock made contact with your pussy. Breath hot against your skin, and his voice could pass as a whisper, how low or shy he sounds when he’s fucked up and speaking through the strain stuck in his throat. “Fuck- I don’t- I can’t… this is-”
He doesn’t finish. Just hides there, panting, letting the length of his cock rub again and again against your pussy like he’s afraid to go further, like this alone might undo him. You feel the tip drag up over your clit and down again, slick and thick and so careful, like he’s savoring every inch of pressure he gets without fully slipping inside. You smile into his hair, fingers running down his back, soft and slow, as you press your lips to his temple. “You feel so good,” you murmur, barely above a whisper. “You’re okay, baby.”
He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a moan, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to your shoulder like he needs to hide from how much he feels. His cock drags down again- thick and hot and heavy- grinding softly against your clit until your breath hitches. “You’re shy now?” You tease, you say gently, still breathless, still smiling. “After everything you just did to me?” He laughs, but it’s ruined- broken into your neck, quiet and trembling- and he just keeps moving. Not pushing in. Not yet. Just rubbing slowly, back and forth, dragging the head through your folds like he’s trying to memorize what it feels like to be this close. Like, this is the whole thing. Like you’re already enough.
And all you can do is hold him. Let him rut into your cunt like you’re his first and last. Let him feel it. Because he’s not fucking yet. He’s falling. You shift under him, just enough to let your hips tilt and your thighs open wider, guiding him in closer with the softest squeeze of your legs. His cock slides through your slickness as if it belongs there, thick and hot and already flushed deep, the tip catching at your entrance before gliding back up to your clit again- slow, shaky, almost desperate. Breath shaky against your skin, warm and making you shiver. Your neck could feel how he’s shaking and the way his arms get tense on either side of your body like he’s holding back from being fucked up completely.
“Put it in,” you tell him, commanding even. Your lips brushed against his ear when you told him that. “I want you.” But he doesn’t move. Not in the way you expect. He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t look at you. He just thrusts forward again, dragging himself through your folds like he can’t stop, like he’s too far gone to do anything else. His face stays hidden in your neck, lips parted, breath catching as his cock glides through your slick with slow, shaky pressure.
“I-I can’t,” he whispers, and it breaks right out of him, raw and low. “Your thighs…” He grunts against your skin with his hips twitching and the head of his cock sliding between your wet slit every time he rocks forward, but it’s slower this time. He’s trying to feel every skin and shape with each thrust while his whole body trembles above you, yet he still keeps going. He keeps rubbing his cock between your folds, enjoying the press and drag again and again.
“They’re so soft,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You’re so warm- I can’t think- fuck, you feel too good…” Each glide is heavier than the last. His cock pulses every time he passes over your clit, and still, he doesn’t lift his head. He just stays there, breath stuttering, mouth hot against your throat as he keeps rutting into you like your thighs are going to make him come. But he feels overwhelmed and flushed over you regardless of how he stays still but loses and goes crazy about how you feel.
“Just- just a little more,” he says, but it’s not really towards you but to himself, as if he’s trying to justify how his cock keeps chasing the friction you can give to him. “Just… like this. Just a little longer…” You can feel it- the way his cock slips and stutters along your entrance, how your pussy clenches around nothing with every pass, and how his whole body’s begging for you to pull him in. But he won’t do it until you ask again. Or until you guide him. Because right now? He’s too deep in it. Too shy to look at you. Too obsessed with your thighs. Too gone to stop.
He keeps rutting between your folds, cock dragging slowly and soaked through your slick, trembling above you like he’s trying so hard to stay composed, but his body’s already begging. His breath breaks into your skin, face still tucked into your neck like he can’t look at you, like he’s too shy to see what he’s doing to you. The tip of his cock catches against your clit and then slides down again, dragging over your entrance in a slow, sticky glide that makes you ache- and still, he doesn’t push in. He just keeps rocking, lost, murmuring into your throat like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Feels so good… I can’t- fuck your thighs- your pussy is so…” It’s too much for him. So you help. You reach between your bodies without saying anything; your hand is steady and slow before your fingers wrap around the base of his cock. You feel him twitch and shudder the second you make contact with it, and there’s also a breathless gasp muffled into your shoulder while you guide him down. Not forceful. Not demanding. Just be careful. Sweet. Like you’re lining up a child’s spoon to their mouth. Like he needs help eating.
“Shhh,” you whisper, hand soft over his cock, guiding the head back to your entrance. “Let me, baby. I’ve got you,” he whined. He buries deeper into your neck, one hand fisting the sheets, the other slipping under your back like he’s holding on for dear life. And when your pussy flutters as the tip of his cock finally nests right against you, ready to sink in, that’s when you feel everything in him falter.
“You don’t have to think,” you murmur, rocking your hips up just slightly to help. “Just let me do it for you.” He nods. It’s tiny and slow, and he follows your hand. And then he pushes. Just an inch. Then another. That made him moan. Loud, desperate, shaking. The sound breaks into your throat, echoing into your skin like he’s never felt anything like it before, like it’s too much, like you’re too much, like being inside you might kill him.
But you just hold him there. Your hand was still wrapped around the base of his cock, and your other arm was around his back. Keeping him close as his body sinks slowly into yours like this is how he learns what love feels like. And when he bottoms out, trembling and silent, stuffed full into the wet heat of you. Then you feel him fall apart- without moving.
Just shaking, moaning, hiding, and finally… finally inside. He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried as deep as he can go. His cock is thick and warm and pulsing inside you like he’s been waiting his whole life to fit somewhere like this. His face is hidden in your neck with his breath shaking, skin damp. The rest of his body feels like it’s trying to remember how to exist. He isn’t tense- he’s soft all over, like just being inside you has taken something out of him. You hold the back of his head as his hips stay still. His full weight is against you as his chest presses to yours, and you don’t rush him. You just let him feel it and let him just take his moment there.
“You did so good,” you praise him like your breath almost catches. You make sure your voice sounds soft against his ear with your hand still cradling him like he’s some precious diamond that might fall apart and break if you stopped holding him. “You’re doing so good, baby.” He exhales like it hurts to hear that. A sound low in his throat, muffled by your skin, but real. His fingers push deeper to the point his nails dig into your waist, but not painfully enough to leave a bruise, just enough to grip you like you are the only one grounding him. You could feel the tremble run through his system before he said something again.
“Thank you,” he mutters before repeating the same words again and again like he can’t just stop himself, “Thank you- f-fuck, thank you-” Your lips touch his hair and hum while you let him keep hiding there. Let him fall apart gently, slowly, and all the way inside you. He’s so deep. You can feel every twitch of his cock that makes your breath catch, but he’s still not moving- just holding. Just staying. And when your hips shift up ever so slightly, when your walls flutter around him from just the weight of it, he moans. It’s not loud. It’s not showy. It’s helpless.
“Feels good, baby?” you ask him. It’s like you are rocking him in your arms, the way your words are warm and slow. When he nods, it makes you smile, and it’s so endearing how he still presses into your throat like he’s not ready to do that yet because he might cum quickly. “So good,” he whispers. “You’re so warm. I didn’t know- I didn’t know it could feel like this.” He starts to move. Not much. Just a slow roll of his hips, the tiniest drag of his cock inside you, but it’s enough to make both of you gasp. He does it again, just a little deeper, and you tighten your arm around him like he’s about to slip through you.
“That’s it,” you murmur. “You’re doing so well. You feel so good inside me, baby.” He breathes something that isn’t even a word- just a noise, a broken sound caught halfway between a moan and a prayer- and rocks into you again. Slow. Careful. So present it aches. And still, he thanks you. “Thank you,” he murmurs again. “I want to make you feel good. I just want to make you come. I just want to be good.”
“You are,” you assure him, brushing your lips against his temple. “You are. You’re so good. You’re perfect, baby.” He makes another sound into your neck, and it’s almost a sob but soft. Grateful. His cock pulses as he starts to move a little more, hips finding rhythm, but it’s slow and shallow, like he wants to make love to you with every inch he has.
And the whole time, you hold him like he’s yours. Because he is. The moment you let him inside your world, you consider him yours. You know he’s not just fucking and pushing his cock inside of you. You know he’s thanking you for letting him be here, and it’s not hard to pick up by the way he’s acting. He figured out how you like the rhythm, and he has this attitude where he wants to please people, so he wants to match it. There’s something gentle in the way he moves. It’s still restricted because, you know, he’s shy in the way you can feel it, like he’s not certain if he’s allowed to want you this much as he does. His hips rolled, and he thrust smoothly and deeply. You can feel each stroke of his cock; it’s enough to make your back arch into him and moan your lungs out to show him that you like it.
He responded with the way he holds you, like he’s asking for something, but not with words. With his whole body. With the way he keeps you wrapped up. The way he trembles. He doesn’t pull back to look at you. He stays close, mouth brushing your cheek, breath caught in his throat as he starts to move a little deeper. His cock slowly thrusts inside of you. You can feel its thickness and size filling you up, and you can feel it every time he pushes it inside. His voice is shaky and low. “Does that feel good?” And then he asks another, but it’s barely louder than a breath. Thankfully, you are skin to skin, so you heard it: “Am I doing it right?” You gasp, clenching around him, hands sliding down his back to hold him closer, and you nod into his skin as you whisper,
“Yes, baby. So good. You fuck me so good.” That breaks something open in him. It’s like your praises are fucking him up but not in a loud way. It shows the way his hips stutter every time he hears it, as your words land exactly and hit what he wants to hear. His cock goes deeper, if that’s even possible, but it kisses your cervix because the angle is just right. It earns a low groan from him before he thrusts another again and repeats what he did. One of his hands remains beneath your lower back while the other is resting at your waist. Both hands holding you gently and firmly at the same time to anchor himself to your body.
“S-shit. You’re so tight,” he mutters when he feels you clench around him, and he doesn’t even care if he doesn’t sound in control anymore. “Feels like you’re pulling me in.” It’s obvious how he’s trying hard to keep everything under control and slow, to make everything last, and how he wants to stay in the moment. Every thrust is deep, full, and intentional. There’s no rush. Just this overwhelming need to stay connected, to do it right, to make you feel everything he’s too shy to say out loud. He lets out a shaky breath, and then- “Can I go a little harder?” It comes out hesitant, like he’s asking permission for something he already aches for.
He doesn’t move until you give it. “Yes, baby,” you breathe, tilting your hips for him. “Take what you need. I’ve got you.” He moans into your skin and starts again, but this time with a little more pressure behind each thrust of his hips. Not fast. Not rough. But with more rhythm and not sloppy. His cock pushes in and out of you with steady movements before he kisses your jaw down to your neck like he’s dreaming and can’t believe that you let him do this. “I love how you feel- p-please- mhngh-” he moans out softly even though he’s not really starting yet, and his words feel dreamy. “I love being inside you. I love how you wrap around me…”
How he moans, how he breaks, how he twitches, and how his movements stutter just drive you to purposely squeeze him tighter just to earn another sound from him, and his body even reacts. He’s so fucked out already, and you don’t even care at this point if you will cum or not because just watching the way he thrusts, the way his breath catches, and the way his cock stays inside like he never wants to leave is enough for you just to get pleasure out of it.
You can even feel how close he’s getting, but he’s still holding it. There’s already tension bubbling through his stomach and the shake that traveled down to his thighs, and how his hips twitch when your pussy grips around him. But he doesn’t let go. Not yet. Not until you tell him. Because even now, even while he’s fucking you perfectly, filling you completely, thrusting deep and soft and full like he’s learning what devotion feels like, he still needs your voice to carry him through.
He continues to rock and move inside you. His hips rolling with a slow but focused rhythm and his cock dragging deeper with each roll of his hips. It’s like his cock has already imprinted the shape of him inside of your pussy by now, and he certainly knows your body now too. He’s hitting the right angle, how to press it right, and how to stay deep like he’s cock-warming from your pussy for a few moments before he pulls out and pushes again. And you moan just from the stretch alone he’s giving you. Warm breath stays against your throat, and arms hold you carefully as his pace gets faster and heavier.
Then he pulls back a little, just enough to see you better. His eyes flick down, lips parted like he’s been thinking about it this whole time, and his hands slip to the front of the hoodie still wrapped around your body. His hoodie. It’s yanked up halfway and damp with sweat, and he can see how your shirt underneath is still clinging to your skin. Lips found your jaw as his hands pushed up the hoodie from your body more, and it exposed the shape of your body underneath. He takes his time with it and doesn’t rush even though he’s already inside of you. It’s like taking it off his intimate area and resting his cock there in your pussy.
It doesn’t take long before his fingers find the hem of your shirt after your hoodie. He pushes it up too, but inch by inch until it’s bunched above your bra and shows the swell of your chest. He also slides that up too, just enough to let go of your chest and show your nipples to him. His palms cup your tits while he continues to fuck you. And when he sees them- when his thumbs brush over your nipples, and your back arches into his touch- he groans. “God, fuck- look at you…” His voice is unsteady and cracking.
His head lowers, and his mouth is warm against your chest, just hovering above it while he’s still inside of you and still moving. Besides your thighs and ass, your tits are also the ones that always caught his attention, so he’s not forgetting about them today, of course. So he drags his hips forward and deeper and pulls out just enough until it reaches close to the head of his cock while he gropes your tits like he’s been dreaming about it. Hands are big and a little clumsy because of the eagerness to touch them, but he’s also starved for it, so his thumbs keep brushing back and forth. His fingers are curling and gripping under the swell as he continues squeezing it softly like a stress ball, and he wants to feel every part of you in every way he can.
His cock doesn’t stop moving inside of you; he keeps thrusting and pressing, but the difference is he’s watching you now. Eyes on your breasts and how they bounce with every roll of his hips. He likes the way your lips part or how you bite your bottom lip. And he loves the way your legs wrap around his body to pull him deeper and lock him in. “You’re perfect,” he compliments you, voice low but obviously sounding like he’s already pussy-whipped. “So fucking perfect,” he adds before he leans in again and his mouth latches onto your right chest. His tongue licks softly around your breast before he starts sucking your nipple and licking it as he does so. Each suckling earns a groan from him, and it's also because of how your pussy clenches more around him when he starts doing that. And even then- even inside you, even shaking- his hands stay soft.
Because he’s not just fucking you. He’s worshipping. And he wants all of you in his hands. He continues moving inside of you, liking how deliciously his cock drags deep with each thrust and how his mouth is hot on your nipple and wrapped around it like it’s the only thing that keeps him sane. Hips rolling with focused and steady movements, and each thrust was thick and heavy. It presses right into your cervix while everything about what he’s doing feels careful… gentle… attentive… grateful. He’s the kind of boy who knows how to fuck but still puts the person’s pleasure above his and still listens with his whole body, and right now? He’s waiting for you to tell him he’s doing it right.
And then it happens. One thrust lands just a little harder, hips catching the curve of your ass at just the right angle, and the sound it makes- wet and full and sharp- claps. It echoes. He freezes. Just for a second. Like he wasn’t expecting it to sound that loud. Like he didn’t realize how noisy it could be. And then your pussy clenches around him- tight and needy- and your ass jiggles against his hips as he rocks back in..His breath breaks on your neck. And then he groans. “Oh my god-” And he does it again. Another thrust. Deeper. Harder. Just to hear that sound again. Clap. Clap. Clap. The slap of skin-on-skin, the way your ass bounces into him with every push- it wrecks him.
He starts moving faster, hips snapping forward with a rhythm that’s still tender but filthy underneath, all guided by the sound of your body against his. “Fuck- your ass- shit- it’s so- god-” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just moans into your chest and keeps fucking you, deep and steady, and clap clap clap with every stroke, the rhythm filling the room like he’s addicted to it. His hands slide down to grab the curve of it now, fingers digging in, guiding you into him, watching the way it moves, feeling the way your pussy pulls him in tighter with every sound.
“Feels so good- feels so fucking good- you’re so soft- can’t stop- want to keep watching it- please-” He’s moaning into your skin now, sucking at your tits between each thrust, fucking you harder but still holding you like you’re precious. Like you’re his. His cock presses deep and thick inside you, your body bouncing into his hips over and over, the wet slap making his hips twitch like it’s too much and still not enough. “Thank you- thank you- your pussy’s so warm- I don’t want to come yet- I’m trying- fuck- I’m trying to be good-” And he is. Even now- slamming into you harder with every clap of your ass, breath breaking against your collarbone- he’s still trying to hold back. Still waiting. Still need you to say it’s okay. Because he won’t come until you tell him to. Because you own him now.
Hands travel up to his chest without thinking; it’s warm and steady. Your hand stays there while the other rests on his jaw, and fingers curl around his jaw while his hips move deep. Wet skin slapping against each other echoes in the room, and you guide his face up until his eyes meet yours. He looks completely fucked out when you take a look at him; his eyes are glassy, his lips are parted, and his brows are knit closely as if he’s going to cry because you hold him like that. He’s still moving inside you, slow but hard, cock dragging deep as his breath catches, hips twitching like he’s trying not to fall apart with every thrust. “I-” he gasps, voice already breaking. “I need it… I need your pussy… please…” It’s barely a sentence. Just a tangle of want and panic slipping past his lips like he thinks you might take it away.
And it doesn’t even make sense- he’s already inside you, fucking you so deep your toes curl, the clap of his hips against your ass echoing through the room- but he still asks like he hasn’t earned it. Like he needs permission to feel this good. You tighten your grip on his face, cradling his jaw with both hands, not rough- just firm, grounding. Like you’re keeping him here. Like you want him to feel it. “You’ve got it, baby,” you whisper, voice warm, steady, and made for him. “You’re inside me. You’ve been inside me this whole time.” His eyes flutter shut while he shudders at your words. It took him some moments before he looked at you again, eyes so beautiful and blue, wide, and lashes standing out, the corner of his eyes tearing a little, and he looked like he was not even in the moment and so gone.
Thrust grows faster, deeper, and heavier. His hips snap into your body with a deeper rhythm of his movement. It’s like your words trigger something and unlock the reason for him to let go. It’s not like this with other girls; he’s not this messy. He’s not the one being fucked up. But when it comes to you, he couldn’t just help to press closer and mouth your jaw like he’s some kind of person who’s afraid of distance. Hands grips your hips tighter to keep himself together, but he’s not succeeding with that plan either. “I love your pussy,” he dumbly says, not even realizing what he’s saying. “I love how it feels- I love how it holds me- I don’t want to stop- please let me-” His words got cut off with a whine when you shut him up with a kiss, and it’s slow and deep. Lips sliding together as your thighs wrap tighter around his waist to suffocate and make him closer to you.
You rock up to welcome and meet each thrust he’s doing. His whole body is shaking and trembling now, but you enjoy every thrust he gives because it’s making your pussy flutter even more, and you clench so tight that his cock can barely breathe. He’s pulling back enough so he can rest his forehead against yours. He can’t even form a proper sentence with the way his breath is hitching and voice is shaking: “Please… I’m gonna come. I can’t- I can’t hold it- can I come inside? Please- please tell me I can…” And he means it. Not just the words. Not just the ask. He’s eager for your permission, and it shows in the way he says it and looks at you while he begs. He’s asking for trust. For you. And you owe him.
Your hands are still on his face, thumbs brushing just beneath his eyes as his hips move, slow but firm, cock dragging deep with every thrust like he’s scared to stop. His face is hot and red, soaked with sweat, and his eyes are closing from the pleasure, but it still looks like he’s pleading for something. He’s completely gone. You know he’s closer than before because his hips falter and get more sloppy, and his grip on your body tightens like he needs something to hold. His moans soften and break into little sounds that make you crazy inside when you feel his hot breath on your neck and hear it so close.
Pussy squeezes and clenches around him. It’s tight and unintentional; it goes quickly to his system, and he gasps, hips jerking, and cock twitches deep inside your cunt. Eyes open quickly and find yours again. It’s teary, wide, and desperate. That made you lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek before you spoke against it. The voice sounded so sweet and tender, teasing him. “Inside or outside, baby?” The question is messing with his head. He takes a deep breath like it hurts just to think which option is the best, but pulling out and busting it in your stomach is the option he likes the least.
He nods even though the question does not require a yes or no answer; his body shudders, and he’s literally a wreck, like he’s about to cry when he starts speaking, “Inside. Please. Inside- please, please.” Your smile is soft, nearly cruel in how sweet it sounds when you murmur back, “You want a creampie, baby?” And that’s all it takes. He whines into your skin, shuddering as his hips stutter, cock throbbing at the edge. Forehead pressed to yours when his head falls forward like he needs to make contact and can’t hold himself together unless he feels you right there keeping him from fucking up more. “Please let me- please- I want to come inside- I want to feel it- I want to fill you up.”
“Are you going to come for me?” you whisper, voice just above a breath. “Gonna fill me up just like that?” He nods again- frantic now, voice trembling as he moans against your mouth. “I need to- fuck- please- I’m trying- I need you-” And you don’t make him wait. You wrap your legs tighter around him, pull him closer, your lips right against his ear as you breathe it out. “Come for me, baby. Fill me up.” And he does. Right then. His whole body jerks, hips slamming forward as his cock throbs inside you, thick spurts spilling deep, soaking you with everything he’s been holding in. He moans into your neck, long and low, shaking as he presses as deep as he can go, whispering over and over, “Thank you, thank you, thank you-” You don’t even realize you’re close until his voice breaks again. Until he whispers ‘Thank you’, like it’s all he knows how to say, his cock throbbing deep inside you, hips stuttering like he’s holding back tears.
And then it crashes all at once- the tight clench of your pussy around him, the ache deep in your belly, your thighs locked around his hips as your orgasm gushes out of you, hard and wet and so full. His voice barely held together. His body was trembling. Your pussy clenches around him as he comes so hard he whimpers. And still- he doesn’t let go of you. Doesn’t stop kissing your cheek, your jaw, or your shoulder. Because you let him have it. Because he asked and you said yes. Because he’ll never want anything else again. He gasps like you just pulled the air out of his lungs, crying out as his cock jerks inside you, spurting hard, filling you, pushing so deep it feels like he’s trying to live inside your body.
And then he collapses. Not away. Not off. But forward. Into you. Face buried between your tits before he groans. His breath is warm against it, and his lips are parted and wet like he’s drooling as he stays there like it’s a safe haven. “Thank you,” he whines, his voice sounding so small and his breath shaking when he says that. “Thank you- fuck- thank you.” You cradle his head gently, your fingers running through his damp curls, your body still fluttering around him as he keeps thrusting- small, slow, aftershock rolls, messy and deep and needy. And then his lips find your nipple again. He sucks. Slow. Soft. Like a baby. Like he needs it. Like it soothes him. His mouth wraps around you, tongue moving gently, cock still twitching inside you, still leaking into your cunt while he moans low and broken.
“Feels so good,” he whispers against your skin, suckling like he can’t stop. “You feel so good- so warm- I don’t want to leave-” His hips rock forward again- shallow, weak little thrusts- as more comes spilling out of him, slippery and wet between your thighs, your bodies pressed so close there’s no space left for anything else. Just his mouth on your tits. His cock is still inside you. His voice said thank you like you saved his life.
And you did. Maybe at some point you do, but God, he feels so blessed right now. His hips continue to move and keep thrusting through it even if it's slowly, weakly, and sloppily. He just doesn’t know how to stop because his cock keeps pulsing before he gives one last slam of his cock inside before he can feel it thick, hot, and pull and settle inside. It feels good and makes your clench and clit pulse. His breath stutters against your chest before he slows down. The pace falters. The tension in his thighs gives way. His moans soften into sighs.
And he drops. Full weight. Skin to skin. Still inside. His body settles into yours like he’s finally come home. Like he belongs there. His chest presses to your breasts, sticky and flushed, his cheek against your skin, and he doesn’t move. Except his mouth. He keeps sucking your nipple- soft now, slower, not even for arousal anymore. Just comfort. Just closeness. Lips parting around you like he’s calmed by the shape of your chest in his mouth, and you just let his tongue brush lazily on your skin. Let his cock twitch and soften while he’s buried inside. Let him, even if it’s heavy, thick, warm, and wet from the mixed cum from both of you.
He groans quietly, like he knows he should pull out but can’t. “Don’t- don’t make me leave,” he murmurs, voice thick and dazed, breath spreading across your chest. “Wanna stay right here…” You hum and pet through his hair, your fingers gentle along the nape of his neck, and he melts. All over again. Just drips down into you like he’s yours now. Like he always was. He shifts once- barely- just to press his body closer, thighs flush against yours, sticky warmth seeping between you where he came so hard it spilled out. “Feels so good,” he whispers. “Feels so safe. Just let me… just like this…” And his mouth stays there. Still suckling like you’re his. Still there inside of you, just cock-warming, and he’s acting like he can’t bear to pull out.
So you let him, and you stroke his hair while his breathing starts to calm down and slow. You could feel the tension ease from his shoulders, system, arms, spine, and whole body. He slowly sinks into yours, naked and warm. Liking the way you both warm each other and how he stays inside you even though it’s softened now, thick and heavy and resting where he emptied himself, warm come leaking around him, between your thighs, seeping into the sheets- but he doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even try. Just continuing to suckle at your nipple despite his mouth slackening a little, but he feels more hungry. His mouth parted softly, and it lulled him deeper into your chest like it’s not even about sex anymore.
It’s about comfort. About staying. About being allowed to have this. You feel him sigh against your skin- long and low- and then he mumbles something that barely makes it past your skin. “Don’t move… I want to sleep like this…” You smile into his hair, wrapping your arms tighter around him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Okay,” you whisper. “Stay right here, baby. I’ve got you.” He hums contentedly, dazed, so sweetly tired. His mouth doesn’t move and stays in the same place. It’s latched gently while his cock also rests inside of you despite how it’s softening because he loves having you around him like it belongs there.
He also feels a sense of possessiveness as he does this because he feels like you were made to keep him warm. And he falls asleep like that. Breathing against your chest. Held in your arms. Loved in the deepest, wettest, and fullest way. Still inside. Still touching. Still yours. You close your eyes, one hand stroking his back, the other holding his head to your breast, and let him rest. Because you know. He’s not going anywhere. He can’t. Because you’re his home now. And he never wants to leave.
Patrick and art being inseparable best friends who share everything and somehow you’re included in that… you originally start going out with art but you both get blackout drunk one night and wake up in art’s bed with Patrick naked and asleep on his stomach between you two. strangely, it just makes sense that this would happen eventually, and none of you really mention it. that is, until one day, you find yourself stranded on campus after your car breaks down and Patrick, asking a cigarette out his window, offers you a ride. you feel awkward because you know you’ve fucked him before but neither of you remember it. Patrick, as presumptuous as ever, asks if you’d like to hang out at his place. you give him a mischievous look and shrug. Why not? obviously, you don’t watch the movie he put on; within ten minutes patrick is fucking you from behind and you’re just whimpering and being so needy, pushing your ass against his dick and drooling onto his sheets that he thinks it would be funny to FaceTime his best friend. Art picks up on the second ring and is immediately confused by Patrick’s shit eating grin as he fumbles to turn the camera around. You’re too delirious to even understand what’s happening and art’s face grows red hot.
“Dude.” He’s in public and embarrassed. “Fuck you.”
