A/n: This is the first fanfic adjacent writing I’ve ever done, and it’s only just the beginning of a story. Please lmk if you’d like more and if you enjoyed it!
My whole future had been planned since the moment I had been born. My parents already making arrangements for who I was to marry and how many children they expected me to have. So like any reasonable person would, I ran away. My boots scuffed the dusty roadside, kicking up dirt absentmindedly. The sun beating down on me only served to make my current situation more unbearable. I had been hitchhiking for a few weeks now, not trying to get anywhere in particular. Simply desperate to escape the hold my hometown had on me. I throw my backpack off my shoulders and kneel to rummage through the pack. I pull a stray, smushed granola bar from the bottom and plop down on the dusty roadside, dirt puffing up around me for a moment. The country road was quiet, if not slightly eerie. The only sound being the soft rustling of leaves and distant moo’s from far away cows. I sat there for a while, the sun beating down on my tanned back. After what feels like hours of deafening silence, the distant rumbling of an engine hit my ears.
I stand quickly and shove the granola wrapper into my jeans pocket. I jut my thumb out towards the road, my arm stretched long. Covering my eyes to block the sun, I got a better look at the speeding vehicle, it was a bright yellow tour bus. My brows furrowed at the sight, having never seen anything quite like it before. The eccentric looking bus stopped a few yards away from me. The brakes squealed at the sudden stop, making me cringe slightly. The door creaked open and out popped the head of a middle aged man. The smile plastered across his face was unnerving, but trying to be polite, I gave a small smile back. “Hello darlin’ d’you need a ride?” He was looking at me from the bottom step of the bus, craning his neck to get a good look. I nodded my head, inching closer to the door. He gave a big smile and stepped to the side, “Well then, Welcome to the Magical Mystery Tour!” I glanced at the rainbow letters haphazardly painted on the side of the bus once more before reluctantly making my way inside.
Immediately I was bombarded with the sight of brightly colored clothes, weird hats, and the faint smell of weed in the air. I scanned the isles of seats, searching for a single empty chair. My eyes landed suddenly on the empty spot by a smaller man with shaggy hair. I shuffled through the crowded walkway- trying my best not to trip over the feet and bags that were carelessly thrown down upon the passengers arrival. I plopped down next to the man, throwing my large, dusty backpack by my feet. I glanced to the side for a moment trying to get a better look at the man next to me. My eyes raked over his body quickly, jumping from his face, to the clothes he wore, to his fidgeting hands. My heart pumped a little harder as I whipped my head forward, trying to look out the front windscreen. You couldn’t deny that the shaggy looking man was attractive, despite the strange company he seemed to surround himself with. After a few moments, one of the men in the seats in front of me turned around, locking eyes with me. He gave a little grin, sarcastically tipping the brim of his bowler's hat before turning to the man sitting next to you. “Say Paul, why don’t you introduce yourself to the bird?”
The toothy man reeked of weed. His eyes, although hidden behind small circular glasses, were bloodshot and half lidded as he giggled at himself. I scrunch my face up and tried not to make eye contact with him. After a long silence, the man seemed to get bored at the lack of entertainment, rolling his eyes and plopping back into his chair. Only then did I feel a soft tap on my shoulder. I turned my head, eyes meeting the brown doe eyes of the slightly greasy man next to me. A smile is spread across his face, likely stoned if I had to guess. “Hello darling, I’m Paul.” It was like his voice was rattling around in my skull, not only was he good looking, but he had a nice voice too. I clear my throat after a few moments, introducing myself with a small smile. He repeats my name, as if testing it out, eyes scanning my face as he does so. “I like that. Suits you love.”
𑣲 the british press loved to call noel gallagher “sour-faced” as if it were any news to him.
he had been painfully aware of that fact since he can remember. his aunts and mum would always tease whenever they’d look at his baby pictures, fondly pointing out the same unimpressed scowl he still wore decades later.
people tend to think that the remedy to a grumpy man is a good sunshine. but deep down, a tiny part of him has always doubted that.
because when he was eight years old, he met you: a tiny furious girl wearing a pink sweater and overalls. you grew up side by side ever since, tangled in a way neither of you ever quite untangled – not even years later, when the band needed someone steady enough to manage the chaos.
and all those years later, somehow, the only person who could snap the sour-faced bastard back into place was the one who’d known him before the world did – the same one who could shake him up just as easily.
summary : You're on the hunt for an unsub who's forcing his victims to perform carnal acts or die. What you don't know is that he's set his sights on you and your colleague, Dr. Spencer Reid.
wc : 12k
tags/warnings : no use of y/n, dead dove do not eat, fuck or die, noncon/dubcon, nonconsensual filming, kidnapping, voyeurism, fingering, oral sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, forced orgasms
authors note : lowkey locked in and started writing again after like two years and made a new account because im into a completely different fandom now lol
★
“Do you think it’s the serial killer in Seattle?” You whispered to Emily, she had rolled her chair over to your desk when Hotch announced an emergency meeting in five.
”I don’t know what else it could be, it’s all the news is talking about. I’m just surprised we weren’t called in sooner, the escalation from this guy is practically unheard of.” She whispered back.
”I heard he’s up to four victims a day, I don’t know when this guy even sleeps.” You clicked through the files on your computer, trying to tie up any loose ends in your paperwork before the meeting. Anytime an emergency meeting was called it was almost always accompanied by a “Wheels up in ten.”
“They’re up to five,” Spencer leaned towards the partition between your desks, he didn't look up, his eyes still focused on the book in his hands. “We don’t know that the unsub is male, the victims are male and female.”
“It was originally just women, I’m like ninety percent sure it’s a man.” You cocked an eyebrow at Emily as you logged out of your computer, standing up and leaning over the partition to see what he’s reading.
The Divine Comedy
“Again?” You scrunch up your nose, you don’t know how he reads the same books over and over again.
“Yes, again.” He flips the page, his finger arched as it slides down the page, his eyes following the trail. When you first started you hadn’t believed them when they said no one reads as fast as Reid, you brought in book after book, trying to catch him in a lie until you couldn’t deny it anymore. “There’s actually a really interesting ongoing case in Toronto, a killer leaving pages with lines from Dante’s Infernos that seem to hint towards his next victim. I was hoping we might be called in to give some insight on the situation but it seems extremely likely that we’ll be on a plane to Seattle soon.” He closed the book, giving you that devastating little side smile of his.
Not his usual overworked, tight lipped smile he used most of the time at work. His genuine little smirk that he only used when he really meant it.
Don’t profile him.
It’s common courtesy. Don’t profile your fellow profiler.
“What do you think about this guy in Seattle?” You say as you watch him put the book into his go bag, he’ll finish it in the first five minutes on the plane.
”I think…” His voice trails off, running his fingers through his mess of hair. “Something about everything they’re releasing seems off, we’re missing a big chunk of information, that might be deliberate from the news stations or it might be a choice from the unsub. Either way I’m curious to see what the files say if this is in fact our case.” When he stood and started heading towards the conference room you followed, whispering to Emily about how you’d never been to Seattle.
Hotch was on the phone so you did your best to enter the room as quietly as possible, joining the group. You sit next to Spencer, watching as he rhythmically taps each of his fingers to his thumb, sorting out some kind of pattern you don’t understand. When he stops you realize he’s watching you stare, quickly, you turn away, cheeks burning hot.
Your relationship with Spencer was complicated.
Well, your lack of relationship with Spencer was complicated.
You joined the BAU a little under a year ago, taking the desk next to his. You’d heard all about him, the youngest member of the BAU, (until you arrived.) with an eidetic memory and an IQ to rival the brightest minds of the FBI. Meeting him made you realize he was the brightest mind of the FBI.
The boy genius.
Unfortunately for you, boy genius was also known by another nickname.
Pretty boy.
Something so stupid, that should have been inconsequential, opened your eyes to something you’d give anything to unsee.
The second the name left Morgan's mouth you had giggled into your hand, laughing at the idea of anyone thinking your dorky, walking encyclopedia of a desk mate was pretty. Instead you smiled at him, planning to give him a playful punch to the shoulder or a wink, instead you were staring into those ever changing hazel eyes. Wide eyed like a deer he watched as you had giggled, his gaze hit you like a punch to the stomach as you considered for the first time since you met him that Spencer Reid might be pretty.
Then you couldn’t stop considering it.
The way his hair curls around the ends. The way his eyes change colors in certain lighting. The way his slender, precise, fingers are constantly in motion, fighting to keep up with the speed his brain is working at. His pretty chin, his pretty lashes, his pretty brows, his pretty arms, his pretty hips, his pretty jaw. God that fucking jaw. Somedays you would just stare at his jaw, leering at him from your side of the desk as he works, all while you fight the urge to reach out and grab him by his pretty chin and kiss all along the edge of that pretty jaw.
You wanted to kill Morgan.
How were you supposed to get anything done once he opened your eyes to this? He had opened a door you couldn’t seem to close, no matter how hard you tried. And god did you try, but no matter what you did, he always did something in a certain way that drew you right back in.
The way he scrunched his eyebrows and got real quiet when he was focusing.
The way he always perked up when someone mentioned a book they were reading, no matter what it was.
The way he second guessed himself, even though no one else was doubting his knowledge.
The way he would decline a handshake. Claiming that it was more hygienic to kiss.
He had shaken your hand on your first day.
A fact that now haunted you, keeping you up at night as you tossed and turned and asked yourself, why?
It was easier not to think about it. It was the one case you just couldn’t seem to crack, and with real killers out there you had to focus on the cases that you could solve.
You resigned yourself to being his friend, and pushing down any unprofessional thoughts that lurked in the back of your mind.
“Let’s get started, we’ve got about twenty minutes before I want us on the jet.” Hotch passed out rather sizable files. You immediately opened yours, not at all surprised to see that you’re heading for Seattle. “I’m sure everyone here has heard plenty about the case but the public has not been made aware of the sheer extent of what’s happening.” He turned towards the screen, clicking the remote until it settled on a list of website links.
As you flip through the file your stomach churns, you can feel the tension in the rooms as everyone sees the same things you’re seeing.
The first body was found two years ago.
Four months after that a surviving victim came forward.
More bodies were found but none of them were connected to the crime until recently. They’d been so spread out in time and location no one had put the pieces together until now. They’re taking up to five people a day, with an expectation of continued escalation. It wasn’t just that they were killing people that made everyone in the room uneasy, it was what happened prior to the killings.
Local news broadcasts implied that the killer was taking victims captive, holding them for twenty four hours, and choosing at random afterwards to either kill them afterwards or release them. Like a Russian roulette of release or slaughter.
It’s clear that that’s not at all what’s happening.
Victims seem random, some are taken alone, some are taken in groups of two or three. Surviving victims report finding themselves in an empty room, with concrete floors, bare walls, a red door without a handle, and bright lights. The only thing in the room with them is miscellaneous bedding and anyone who might be with them. They don’t remember how they got there, or how they left.
Once they wake they are always stripped down to their underwear, the unsub speaks to them remotely, explaining to them a set or rules. From there they either play along or their body is found a few days later, always in dumpsters around the city. You can’t help but wonder how many bodies weren’t found.
“We can’t confirm every victim was related but we have good reason to believe there were dozens happening outside of Seattle.”
”I don’t understand, what exactly is he doing with them once he has them?”
”He’s making videos, and uploading them online.” Hotch motions towards the website list. “These are just the sites that have had the videos taken down, more pop up every hour.”
There’s so many.
“How the hell is that legal?” Morgan closes his case file, you watch as his fist clenches and unclenches.
“It’s not.” Spencer speaks without looking up from the file, you’re sure he’s read it over twice by now. “We’re dealing with a voyeur, he never makes appearances in the videos he’s making, but he micromanages every action taken by the victims.”
”Why isn’t it public knowledge that his motives are sexual?” Emily speaks up now, glaring at Hotch with a look that you know holds the rage that’s meant for the unsub.
“Many of the surviving victims didn’t initially reveal what was really going on, due to either shame or fear of not being believed. Stories didn’t match, people weren’t making the connection between cases.” He sounds tired, then again Hotch always sounds tired.
”Shame. This bastard’s likely preying on their humiliation, it’s how he gets off.” Morgan stands as he speaks, dialing his phone as he heads towards the door. “I’m gonna see if Garcia can link any solved missing persons cases to people in the videos, maybe see if we can identify victims who might’ve stayed quiet.” When he’s gone you turn back to Hotch.
“So he’s impotent?” You speak softer than the rest of the group, cringing as you flip to a page in the file that lists every video he’s made, the titles and victims listed beside each one. “He can’t perform so he lives out his fantasies vicariously through his victims, when they won’t play nice it reminds him of his own inabilities and he lashes out.”
“Not necessarily,” You can feel the heat off of Spencer's body as he speaks, putting his arm around your chair and leaning in close while his other hand points through the list you’re eying. “The titles of his videos are positive and speak almost highly of his victims, if he were impotent he would most likely resent his victims for being able to perform when he can’t. His videos would use much more degrading language.” His finger follows specific examples for you.
Beautiful girl gets a special treat from handsome stranger
Good girl solo session
Two men sharing a pretty lady
Gorgeous angel plays with herself
You try to ignore just how close he is to you as you read through the list.
“Then what’s his motive?” Your attention turns back to Hotch as he speaks, Spencer pulls himself back from you in one swift motion.
”If he’s not impotent then he’s a sexual psychopath.” This time when you speak you can see Spencer nodding in your peripheral vision. “He won’t stop until he’s caught, he feels no remorse for what he’s done and we can expect continuous escalation from here. He’ll go bigger and bolder until he gets sloppy and we catch him.”
“So we need to catch him fast.” You could see Emily thinking as she spoke. “The victimology is odd.”
“I noticed the same thing. It was all women and one at a time up until about nine and a half months ago. His solo victims are still exclusively women but now he often brings in men with them.”
“We need to find out what happened that made him switch.” Hotch turns the screen off, giving you all a curt nod. “Wheels up in ten.”
The team around you disperses, hushed whispers filling the space until they dissipate and it’s just you and Spencer, staring down into the case files.
“There’s something else in the victimology, why didn’t anyone point this out?” You hold the file out towards him. “All the female victims look the same.” You can tell by how he grimaces that he already realized that.
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“Then why didn’t anyone say anything! Clearly these women are a surrogate for someone else so…” Your voice trails off when you see the look on his face.
Oh.
The hair color, eye color, and body type.
They’re all the same as yours.
“I’m gonna grab a coffee before we board, do you want one?” He speaks softly as he stands, you nod, collecting yourself before following after him. Heading towards your desk to grab your go-bag.
★
“I know this isn’t pleasant for anyone but I need you all to understand exactly what we’re dealing with.” Hotch had his laptop set up where everyone could see it. The thumbnail of the video already made you feel sick.
A woman in her underwear, curled up in the corner of the room. A wiry young man in a shirt and his boxers sits in the middle of the room, hugging his knees to his chest.
“This kind of thing is my least favorite part of the job.” Emily grumbled beside you and you couldn’t help but nod in agreement. You have to remind yourself that you can handle this. You were selected to be a part of this team, you have to handle it.
You were the youngest on the team, like Spencer you were brought on in your early twenties, shockingly young for the BAU. You didn’t have the field experience most agents have before joining, just a specific set of skills that made you invaluable. Advanced pattern recognition skills, an encyclopedic knowledge of forensics, and of course the fact that you pieced together a dozen cold cases in college. You could catch a killer in your sleep.
Sex crimes were different, you didn’t have the experience in them and they made you a bit emotional. You knew it was something you’d eventually get used to, but that thought made you sad most days. You can’t imagine ever being desensitized to any of this.
“We’re just going to watch the first few minutes, I want to give everyone a chance to hear how our unsub speaks and how he reacts to things. I believe it will give us a much clearer understanding of what we’re walking into.” The entire plane was silent as he pressed play, standing silently like a statue, turned away from the screen. He had clearly already seen it and has no interest in watching it again.
It’s as bad as you expected, probably worse.
Hotch only made you all watch about five minutes, unfortunately that was too much for you. But he was right, it did give you plenty of insight into your unsub. They communicated with their victims through an intercom system, a disembodied voice that can be heard making demands. The thing that stands out to you most is the formality. He gives them detailed and clinical instructions, how to act, when to moan, what position to be in, all the way down to how fast he wants them to go. He signals them to begin with one clear command.
“Action!”
The two terrified victims moved shakily, the woman looking like she was on the verge of a breakdown, and the man had tears spilling down his cheeks. You could see the silver of his wedding band glimmering on the screen.
You knew from the file that the victims were almost always strangers, despite the fact that the female victims had visual similarities; they were still seemingly selected at random. Unlucky women who were in the wrong place at the wrong time, trapped because they looked a certain way. They looked like you.
It made you want to cry. Watching the way they trembled as they hesitantly touched each other, you could hear the man in the video repeating himself softly.
“Is- is this okay? Are you okay? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
If you cried right now no one would think less of you, you almost let yourself. The woman is despondent, her eyes squeezed shut, when she starts to cry you have to look away. You can feel your companions glance in your direction and you know that they’re all thinking because it’s what you’re thinking.
She looks too much like you.
If you squint she’s your spitting image.
“Excuse me.” You mumble as you push past Hotch towards the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind you.
You are good at your job, great at your job, you’ve never let a case get to you before but this? It’s too much, you’ve never been asked to watch a video of two people being raped. It’s too much.
You run the water, letting the sound drown out the crying you can still hear out in the cabin.
“God damn it! At least pretend like you like it you stupid fucking slut!” So much for Spencer's theory that he thought highly of his victims. When you finally hear the laptop close and the audio turn off you step out of the bathroom, but not before looking yourself over in the mirror.
All you see is the girl from the video.
You stumble back out into the cabin, Derek has taken your seat next to Emily, they speak in hushed whispers as they work through her notes. When you step out she gives you a reassuring smile.
You take Derek's seat on the bench next to Spencer, he gives you a tight lipped sympathetic look. The last thing you want is for him to pity you.
“From the sounds of it he doesn’t hold much respect for his victims, the derogatory language would imply that he does resent them but the video titles say differently. I can’t wrap my head around it.” You speak in a hushed voice so only he can hear you as you open one of the files, flipping back to the page of titles. Not once does he use degrading language toward the women, he regrets them as beautiful, gentle, angels.
“Something seems to be happening between the videos being made and the upload time that makes him feel…” He chews on his lip, his brows furrowing as he searches for the solution.
“Regret?”
“No, regret would imply that he feels badly about this, as a sexual psychopath he feels no remorse for what he’s done. It’s almost like he’s lying to himself with the titles, like that’s what he wants them to be. They can’t live up to whoever he wants them to be.” He sounds unsure but it makes sense. Whoever he’s using these women as a surrogate for is who he actually wants, these women can’t live up to her no matter how hard they try. But when he titles and uploads the videos he’s thinking of her, so the language switches back to favorable. He turns to look at you, both of you eye to eye, a strangely serious moment as he runs his fingers along the spine of the file. “Are you okay?”
It’s so earnest it nearly knocks the wind out of you, his big hazel eyes searching for an answer.
“I’m… fine. It’s just hard sometimes, but I think I’m alright, I’ll feel even better when we catch this guy.” You give him an encouraging smile that you know doesn’t reach your eyes. “But I appreciate you checking in.” The look of relief he gives you nearly melts your heart.
“Then let’s catch this guy.” His smile falters a bit as he thinks. “Something just isn’t clicking for me, it’s incredibly frustrating.”
“We’re missing something.” You mumble as he nods.
“Something vital. It’s like we’re missing one big puzzle piece right in the middle of a nearly finished picture.”
“Exactly. I understand that there must be a woman out there that he’s focused on but I just feel like there are too many possible alternative motives.” You flip through the victims photographs, living and deceased. “Is he a porn addict? Maybe the stuff online just wasn’t doing it for him anymore so he resorts to making his own?”
“I was thinking the same thing but from what I can tell the videos he’s making are relatively tame. I had Garcia send me a list of all the general themes in the videos and it’s all pretty standard vanilla intercourse, he isn’t having them engage in anything objectively taboo.” He holds the sheet out to you, you take it from him, immediately searching the page for answers.
Missionary
Missionary
Missionary
Missionary with handcuffs
Missionary
Medical Play
Missionary
Doggy Style
Missionary
Gun Play
Missionary
”Medical play?” You scrunch up your face as you try to imagine that, all you can think about is needles.
“Not at all uncommon, typically a doctor patient roleplay involving very impersonal, and detached intercourse.” You want to poke at him for knowing that off the cuff but you’re too distracted by his choice of words.
“I hate that you call it intercourse.” You feign a grimace at him.
”That’s the professional terminology.” He grins back at you, a real bonafide Spencer Reid smile.
“I know, you just make it sound so… clinical.”
”In this setting it should be clinical!” His voice hitches up, his smile never faltering.
“I’m sure it is, Dr. Reid.” You tease as you bump your shoulder against his. Laughing as his ears burn red, he clears his throat loudly.
“I would assume he’s trying to fulfil some specific fantasy but nothing he’s doing seems to have any correlation.” His tone stays light but you can tell this case is bugging him, he doesn’t like being confused, no one does but especially him.
“So is he a sexual psychopath or a sadist?” You throw him a bone, a question he can make sense of that you want an answer to.
“He doesn’t seem like a sadist, a sadist enjoys the cruelty of the act, although I wouldn’t fully rule out sadism. It’s actually rather fascinating reading the transcripts of our unsubs videos. He doesn’t seem to enjoy what he’s doing but he has to for some reason, it’s like it’s a chore. Not necessarily that it’s a compulsion that he can’t help but like it’s a job he’s clocking in for. I’m hoping when we speak to some of the victims we’ll get a clearer picture of what happened.” He speaks vividly with his hands, as he gets caught up in his ramblings a chime signals that you’re soon to land.
You felt yourself leaning into him as the plane began its descent.
You hope to get this entire case sorted and taken care of quickly. Everything about it made you queasy, the faster you got out of Seattle the better.
When you land you all end up in separate cabs heading in different directions. With too many victims and too many bodies it only makes sense to split up.
★
Your head hurts like hell.
Jesus, what the fuck happened last night? You definitely didn’t go out drinking, you didn’t catch the guy. Yet you feel like you have an absolutely wicked hangover. You can hardly open your eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights burning your retinas as you try to orient yourself.
Definitely not a hotel room.
You have no idea where you are.
Okay, that’s fine, just stay calm, it’s imperative in situations like these to remain calm.
“Find a focus point. The last thing that happened to you before you lost consciousness. Where were you? What were you wearing? Who was with you? What time was it?”
Hotch’s emergency hostage training rings around in the dizzy mess that is your train of thought.
You would have landed in Seattle around 8:00 P.M.
You were in a cab heading to the most recent surviving victims home.
You were wearing black trousers, and an olive green short sleeved turtle neck, you had tucked your blazer into your bag.
You were in the cab, there had been an unfamiliar sound, like air being let out of a balloon.
Or gas being released into a car.
Deep breaths.
In,
and out.
You force your eyes open, locking eyes on the first thing you can focus on.
Directly in front of you is a large red metal door, with no handle.
Fuck.
Turning quickly, your eyes find a folded pile of blankets, pillows strewn about, and a small room with four walls and no windows.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
“Don’t freak out, at least not physically. The moment you break down you’re giving your captor power over you.”
You chewed the inside of your cheek, digging your nails into your palms as you steady your breathing.
In,
and out.
In,
and out.
In,
and out.
“Hello, Agent. You cannot fathom how delightful it is to finally meet you.” You immediately recognize the voice that crackles over the unseen intercom.
This can’t be happening.
You swallow, fighting the urge to scream.
”I would like to make a movie with you.” It’s like he’s in the room with you, you can practically hear the smile on his face. You cringe when you hear the wet sound of him licking his lips.
”I bet you would.” You fight the urge to mumble, speaking clearly as Hotch would instruct you to do. ”Is this the part where I choose between being murdered or being raped?” You turn your head, trying to find where the camera you know is watching you might be.
“Oh, no, you sweet thing, you wound me.” His voice is a sickening coo, as if he’s soothing a frightened animal. “You, and your whole team, you misunderstand me.”
”Our entire job is to understand you.” You scoff, desperate to appear nonchalant while your head spins and your heart races.
”And you are doing a terrible job.”
”Then why don’t you help me, fill in the gaps, let’s start with a name.” You try to act as confident as you’ve seen the rest of the team be when faced with an unsub.
”I think you know I cannot answer that, it would ruin the fun before we have even started. I simply cannot have you screaming out clues during my movie.”
”Your movies? Is that what you call the snuff you’ve been peddling?”
“Oh come now, you think of me as some demented, perverse deviant. That is how I know your profile is all wrong.” By the time they find you you’ll be another girl on one of those websites. ”I am an artist.”
“I wouldn’t call anything you do art.”
”Art is subjective, perhaps you are not my intended audience.” He sounds so smug, you know he’s pleased with himself.
”And who is?”
”Hmm… What a question.” You know by the way his tongue clicks that whatever he says next will be a lie. ”People who want to feel something. Everyone likes sex, some people are just willing to admit it.”
”Bullshit. You’re making them for someone specific, a specific group of people just as sick as you are.”
“I suppose you are right, in a way. Some of my recent work has been… self indulgent.”
“So who’s the woman?” There’s only silence in response when you ask the question that's been on your mind since you read the file. “Who’s the unlucky lady that we all look like?”
The silence is deafening until you finally hear that crackling voice again.
“I cannot wait to start, angel.”
”Then why haven’t we started? You’ve got me here, I’ve seen your videos, I know how this goes.” You’ve seen Hotch push and push an unsub until they crack but you don’t have the experience he does and your voice shakes.
”Clearly you do not, or you would not have so many questions.” There’s a pause again, as he thinks something over before you hear him again, for the first time he sounds almost unsure. ”We simply cannot start without your co-star.”
Your entire body froze, your breath catching in your throat.
In all of his videos with multiple people they all wake up together, why would he stray from his usual routine just for you? You have no idea and you aren’t excited to find out.
“Until then I suggest you get comfortable, I am not sure how long it will take before he makes an appearance but I have a sneaking suspicion you will not be in suspense for very long.”
”What do you mean?”
The laugh that flows from the intercom settles in your stomach, heavy and vile.
“I know he will not keep you waiting, I am certain it will only be a few hours before we are ready.”
You open your mouth to question further but the speaker clicks and you know the conversation is over. Looking around the room you know there’s nothing you can do but wait. Clawing at the door will get you nowhere. Screaming will get you nowhere. And crying will get you nowhere.
Pacing the room tells you next to nothing, the walls are concrete, as well as the floor, there’s no windows.
Likely underground.
You trace your fingers along the edge of the red door, there’s no gaps, when you push yourself up against it there’s no give. The ceiling is a mess of pipes and wires, you know somewhere up there are cameras, capturing your every move.
Not the best situation to find yourself in.
“It will only be a few hours before we are ready.”
You feel like an inmate on death row. You know without a shadow of a doubt that the team doesn’t have a sufficient profile to find you in the next few hours, unless they pull off some kind of miracle.
What twisted fate does he have in store for you. The possibilities for your ‘co-star’ are endless. You’re almost thankful for the hiss of gas as you feel your vision get blurry, at least he isn’t going to make you sit here and stew.
★
This time when you wake you’re being shaken by someone, your immediate instinct is to fight, if this is your captor this will likely be your only chance to escape. You grab at the hands on your shoulders, forcing them away from you as you kick wildly, throwing yourself at him and pinning him down, until you’re straddling him under your hips. You’re about to start punching, as hard as you can so you take a moment to force your eyes open once again. It will do you no good to slam your fist into concrete.
When you open your eyes you aren’t met with a stranger though, instead you’re staring at familiar wide hazel eyes.
“Hey, you’re all good, it’s just me.” His voice is so soft, like he’s not about to take a beating, hands up defensively and all. “Just me.”
“Oh my god.” Too many thoughts are firing through your brain, instead of focusing on the horrifying implications of his arrival you fold over against him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you embrace him.
Hesitantly, his arms wrap around you as well, anchoring you in this sea of madness.
“I’m gonna guess based on your reaction that you know exactly where we are.” His words are still gentle as he holds you tight, releasing you when you finally pull back, crawling off of him. You both orient yourselves, standing and doing a turn about the room.
“I woke up alone, he changed his MO.” You listen, waiting for your captor to finally make himself known. You know he’s there, he wouldn’t miss this. Watching with bated breath for both of your reactions.
He winces as he reaches for the back of his head.
“I wasn’t gassed or slipped something like his usual victims either,” He turns to you, concern becoming more and more apparent on his face. “did he talk to you?”
“Briefly, he definitely fits the sexual psychopath profile, he doesn’t think anything he’s doing is wrong. What do you remember? How did he get you here? I was knocked out in the cab, then I woke up here…” You trail off as you motion for him to turn so you can look at the back of his head. You tentatively run your fingers through his hair, you find a bit of blood drying, it looks like he’s been bludgeoned with something. “He’s never physically hurt a victim like this, he doesn’t get hands on unless they don’t cooperate and even then it’s almost always done with a gun. All the victims were shot to death, not beaten.”
“We‘re still dressed.” Spencer motions to himself, he’s still in his button up, cardigan, and dress pants and you’re still in the same clothes as well.
“Just another thing we can add to the list of things that make no sense.” You’re so close, you can taste it. “Maybe because we’re federal agents? He isn’t sure what the best course of action is because he’s never dealt with something on this scale.”
“I just don’t get it.” He’s still hung up on the clothes, you can tell as he pulls on his tie, straightening it. You both know from the tapes and files that the first thing he does is undress his victims, leaving them in their undershirts, bras, and underwear. “It’s a part of the ritual, he shows them how much control he has over them by stripping them of basic comforts.”
“We’re different.” Your voice falls to a whisper. Everything is different for you two, like you’re his guests of honor.
“All the other victims recall being taken together, from the same location, we weren’t selected at random like them. We hadn’t even spoken to the local police department when you were taken, did he anticipate our arrival? Is he concerned about the FBI getting involved?” The gears in your head twist and turn as he rambles on. Painting a horrifying picture as you realize the only possible explanation. “And then he took me, which makes no sense. He already has you, if he plans to ransom us back then he doesn't need two of us.”
He isn’t going to ransom you.
“If his goal was just to make another video he would have done it with just you.”
That wasn’t his goal.
“Reid.” Your voice cracks but he’s hyper focused now on his own mental processings, his hands waving around as he paces back and forth.
“Is it respect? Because of our positions in the bureau? It would make sense why we’re still dressed, but he’s previously taken doctors, lawyers, plenty of people in positions of authority. It makes no sense for him to stray just for us.”
We’re different. Different from every single person he’s taken previously.
“Reid.” Your voice is so quiet now you can’t blame him for not hearing you.
“No- no, that makes no sense, he shouldn’t have taken you at all, he’s been so cautious up until now. He moves with the intention of never getting caught, our unsub isn’t stupid enough to choose federal agents as his targets. Is it possible we’re dealing with-”
You step in front of him, effectively silencing him and stopping him in his tracks.
“He’s been after us all along.” For a moment his expression is blank, you watch as his eyes get wider, and wider. And just like it did for you, everything clicks into place, he’s given no time to react as the crackle of the intercom makes both of you look up.
“I have been after you all along.” That polite voice rings out once more.
Your entire body tenses up.
Shoulders and jaw locking into place as your feet step into a defensive stance.
You know he isn’t talking to Spencer.
“My girl.” He speaks in a gooey, loving tone that makes you want to crawl out of your skin. “I have been after you since you first graced my screen all those years ago. How lucky I was to stumble upon you as I wasted away, searching for my muse. And finally, completely by accident, there you were. An FBI training video, used to educate the public on a few basic things, you smiled and talked about your program. I must have watched that video a thousand times. You had but a few moments on screen but god were they glorious.”
You can feel Spencer's presence change, he was on edge before but now his body language shifts from nervous to something else. His mouth is settled into a deep frown as he steps between you and the door, like he can protect you from this nightmare.
Oh my god.
Spencer.
You’d been so relieved to have someone here with you that you hadn’t even begun to process the implications of his presence. And now he’s here, standing between you and a man obsessed with you.
You need to get him out of here immediately.
”You were glowing, the camera loved you.” He speaks about you like you’re a past lover, someone he once knew dearly and is now reminiscing about. “I could not get you out of my head after that. In everything I watched, I compared every actress to you. I looked online, desperately trying to find someone, anyone, who could hold a candle to you. Every woman I brought here, every cheap trinket, was a pale comparison to your light.”
“Then why bring Reid into this at all? I’d think you’d want me all to yourself?” You manage to keep your tone even despite the fact that you feel deep in your bones like he’s already violated you. “Maybe our profile was right, you’re impotent, so you had to bring someone in to do the job you know you can’t.”
In a way he has already violated you, through every woman he brought here as a surrogate for you.
All of these people suffered because of you.
“Don’t taunt him.” Spencer whispers, soft enough that your captor likely can’t hear him. “It will only result in a negative reaction. I’m starting to think he really is a sadist.”
“Maybe I am.” For the first time you hear his prim and proper tone drop to something darker, more authentic. ”A sadist, that is, as far as the impotence goes, I do not think that is a theory you want to test.” Spencer's reaction is more severe than your own as he practically growls. The subtle changes that you’ve been trained to notice, the clicking of his jaw, the clenching and unclenching of his fist, the tilt of his gaze as his stare turns to a glare. “I felt more like a masochist than a sadist when I was finally able to see you again on my screen, after searching for so long for a morsel of information on you. You were not an easy girl to find. I remember my joy, my pure bliss, when I saw you again. A euphoria that was immediately destroyed by the presence of Dr. Reid.” You’re pretty sure you know what he’s talking about, when you joined the BAU you were sent out with Spencer to a few schools around Virginia to talk to the students about becoming a profiler. They did a news segment on it, Penelope, Morgan, and Emily teased you about it for weeks because you were staring at Spencer like a schoolgirl in love the whole time. “My heart was broken into a thousand tiny pieces. My shining star, ogling some man in a constant state of disarray. Mismatched socks, tangled hair, wrinkled pants, it was nearly enough to drive me mad. How could my angel settle for such a mess?”
”Reid and I aren’t together.”
”We aren’t together.”
The two of you respond in unison, the room fills with crackling laughter.
”I told myself that… that it did not matter, that I could just have you and be happy. And for a while that was the plan. Until I went to Quantico to see you.”
You want to vomit.
You’ve probably seen him before, he was there, watching, and you missed it.
”You and your precious team, out at some dive bar, it took all my strength to not take you then and there. But I told myself to wait. I told myself everything had to be perfect. I told myself that your colleagues would spoil everything if I tried to take you then. I told myself it would not hurt to buy you a drink, to say hello, but as I made my way over to you, you were intercepted by Dr. Reid.” It doesn’t take a background in profiling to tell that he isn’t as fond of Spencer as he is you. ”And you just lit up.”
Even in this moment, in this situation, you find yourself burning red with embarrassment. Your little crush on Spencer was coming back to bite you in the ass in full force.
“Like he was the sun, and not just some insignificant dying star in your orbit.”
In the most twisted way humanely possible.
”I knew then and there that I could never make you shine like that. I want your films to be perfect. You would not be perfect all alone, you would be dull, but with Dr. Reid you will sparkle like a diamond.”
“I‘ll do whatever you want, please, just let him go.” You hope your voice doesn’t shake too bad as you call out to the faceless man. You can’t help but ask for his safety now that you know it’s too late.
”You will do whatever I want regardless, even if it pains me, he is an integral part of this production.”
You turn, walking to the nearest wall and slumping down against it, it’s all you can do to keep yourself from screaming. All you’ve wanted to do since you woke up here is scream.
“I have seen the way he looks at you too. From an objective and artistic standpoint he is the perfect scene partner, looks of yearning that I could not beat out of an actor.”
Spencer is silent as you look up at him, a few tears finally slip past your steely resolve and down your cheeks, blurring your vision so you don’t see his reaction as he turns away from you.
“Make yourself comfortable, agents. We start shooting tomorrow.” You’re left with the click of the intercom and your own uneven breathing.
The energy in the room has shifted from awful to downright unbearable.
Spencer eventually sits against the wall opposite to you, you watch him through your hair as he twitches, fingers tapping against each other until they grow restless and sift through his hair instead.
“I suppose the first conclusion we should have come to is that we’re set to meet the same fate as the previous victims” He breaks the silence first, sounding haggard.
The same fate.
The man behind the voice is going to make demands of you very soon and if you don’t meet them he’s going to be sending you back to Quantico in bodybags.
“His speech is overly formal, no contractions, he’s a control freak. Likely in a position of power with a career that lets him afford a set up like this and lets him take time off to spend with his victims.” Your tone is monotonous as you continue to stare at your shoes rather than him.
“We don’t need to profile him right now.” God does he sound sincere when he says it. He’s typically all work and no play but now, here, even he can’t keep that up.
“Then what are we supposed to do?”
“Evaluate our options.” He stands, cautiously walking to your side of the room and sitting down beside you, giving you a wide berth of space. “We have a general idea of what to expect tomorrow, we should… make decisions.”
“On if we’re gonna rape each other?” You don’t mean to sound so harsh but you can’t help it, you immediately regret it when he flinches like he’s been slapped.
“I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, I swear.” He scootches a little further away as if to prove his point and you hide your face in your hands, stifling another scream that eventually escapes as a groan.
How many times have you imagined being with him? How often do you spend your lonely nights after closing a case lying in bed, wide awake, imagining what it would be like if he were beside you? And here he is, practically being served to you on a silver platter.
“Reid…”
“I mean it. I don’t care about the alternative, you’re in charge here, whatever you say goes.”
“You get a say in this too you know.”
“It’s different.” He sounds so sure.
“It’s not.” You’re offended on his behalf that he would assume he doesn’t have a choice here. “You have as much of a choice as I do.”
“I need you to trust me, it’s different.” It clearly pains him to say it, it makes you want to reach out to comfort him but you can’t move. Your body is still locked up defensively.
“Explain.”
“This situation is bad enough as is, I’m begging you not to make me do this.” He sounds so beaten down you know it would be cruel to push.
“Fine.”
“Thank you.”
“I think we should do it. It’s the obvious choice, it’s the only way we make it out of here alive.” You say it like you’re making a decision on something as mundane as what to have for lunch.
“I agree.”
“We won’t be like the others, it won’t just be one time. He’s been saying films, plural.” He’s been waiting for you, he isn’t going to make one little movie, he’s going to make a whole franchise with the two of you.
“He plans on keeping us.”
“Until the team finds us.”
After they watch every movie you make.
“Are you up for that?”
Up for sex with the coworker you’ve spent the last year fantasizing about?
“I don’t know.”
This is punishment for every sick, perverted thought you’ve ever had about him.
“You don’t have to decide now, you can change your mind whenever you want.” He says it as if changing your mind wouldn’t result in fatal consequences.
“No amount of talking it over first is going to make this okay, you know that, right Reid?” You snap, tired of the voice in your head demanding your attention.
What if you like it?
“Hey, we’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna go step by step, and I don’t care what the consequences are, if you want to stop we’ll stop. And we can take breaks, and we can be professional about it, I can make it very detached-”
What if he realizes you like it?
“Can we lay down?” Your voice is small, and tired. You really are tired, even if you’re mostly just desperate for him to stop talking.
“I’ll set up the blankets.” He gives you the closest thing to a smile that he can as he lays out a few of the blankets on the cold concrete, making something akin to a bed as you lay down beside him. As if on cue the fluorescent lights above you flicker out until only a small red bulb is left, bathing you in the dim light.
“He’s probably still watching us.” You whisper as you roll over, the two of you face to face, even in the dark you can make out his concerned features.
“I’m sure he is. There’s no privacy here, even in our whispers.” He speaks softly too, and you know he’s right.
You’ll be under nonstop observation in this little room.
“Goodnight, Reid.” You whisper as you roll away from him, facing the wall in the darkness.
He doesn’t respond, all you hear is fingers tapping on the cement beside you.
★
You know the man on the intercom is speaking to you but all you can hear is the ear splitting ringing in your ears.
“Five times?” You squeak out as Reid takes your hand in his, giving you a reassuring squeeze.
“I would like to see what my new toys can do. So yes, I want to see five orgasms from my shining star, I do not care how you do it, I just want it to happen. As a bonus, I will not even micromanage you, I will let you work through it together, I want the scene to feel organic and natural. ”
You couldn’t bring yourself to talk to Spencer when the two of you woke up and now you’re regretting it, you should have come up with a game plan.
But you didn’t, and now you’re being given instructions that you don’t know if you can follow.
Five? With the pressure you’re under right now? Not to mention that the most you’ve ever done in a row is two and you did it yourself. None of your previous partners had ever given you more than two orgasms, most of them struggled to give you one.
“I can’t do this.” You can feel your heart starting to race once, your breath shaky and quick. If you don’t pull it together you’re gonna start hyperventilating.
“Why should we listen to you at all? Clearly you adore her, you wouldn’t hurt her like your other victims, what would stop us from sitting here and waiting for the rest of our team to finally arrest you.” You want to tell him to stop, you know it won’t make a difference.
“Dr. Reid, you are not in a position to be arguing with me. She may not be expendable but you certainly are.”
There is a moment of quiet between the two of them, you watch as Spencer goads him, cocking an eyebrow as he looks up towards the ceiling.
“If you refuse to cooperate I suppose she and I will have to sort out the next course of action. Let us play a round of Would you Rather, my angel.” Everytime he calls you by a pet name you want to claw your own ears off. “Would you rather, I come into that cell of yours and shoot your companion dead and have you all to myself? I do not know if I can promise to keep my hands to myself while in such close proximity to you all alone, I might just have to indulge in a taste. Or would you rather I keep him alive, chain him to the wall in your room, draw out his life for god knows how long as I make you watch him decay? Of course I’ll still want to make my movies so you will have to touch yourself as you watch me stick a funnel down his throat. I wonder how much gasoline he will have to drink before he loses the attitude? Which of those options is preferable to you, my love?”
You just burst into tears.
Your entire body trembles as you do your best to remain standing. He catches you, pulling you into a hug as you let out a sob, praying you might wake up and realize this was all just a terrible dream. You can feel him rubbing circles into your back for a few quiet moments, you know that the absence of commentary from the unsub is his way of letting you know he’s waiting for your decision.
“I can’t- you can’t. I can’t be alone with him, please Reid- don’t leave me alone with him.” You mumble into his shirt as his hands go to your shoulders, he pulls you back and bends down to be eye level with you. Your noses just a few inches apart, he’s shockingly calm as he nods.
“Hey, it’s okay, we’re gonna be okay.” He says it so confidently you almost believe him.
Almost.
”I won’t leave you alone with him, I promise.” His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing away stray tears. “We can do this, you can do this.” You try to nod but his hands hold your head in place, his eyes are dark as he stares at you with an intensity that makes you want to avoid his gaze.
“Spence-” You don’t know what you’re going to say, but whatever it was is cut off when he leans forward and crashes his lips into yours.
Your brain has no time to process what’s happening as you relinquish any resistance and let him.
He kisses you like he’s hungry. Like he’s starving for it. Not like he has to do it because some pervert is watching from behind a screen and expects it of him. Your mouth matches his movements as best it can, trying to keep up with the sheer ferocity. His mouth opens, demanding more and more as you feel his teeth graze your bottom lip you gasp and he pulls back.
“I won't leave you alone.” He sounds so sure of himself all you can do is nod. “Just pretend he’s not here, it’s just you and me.” He pulls you close again, fingers tapping against the back of your neck as he presses his forehead to yours. “Just you and me, can you do that?”
“Y-yeah, I can do that.” Your heart is racing so loudly he can definitely hear it.
It’s just the two of you.
“We can do five, all you have to do is lay here, okay? I’m gonna take care of it. I’m gonna take care of you.” You don’t understand how he can be so collected right now but you’re glad he is because you’re struggling to put together sentences. “I know it’s a lot, you’ll be okay, I’m gonna handle it. We’re gonna get through to the end. If we can do that we’ll be all done for a little while.”
“But that’s just one day done, we don’t know how long-” You’re starting to spiral as he gently places his hand over his mouth, quietly shushing you.
“One day at a time. We’re gonna take this one day at a time.” He slowly lowers his hand, nodding at you as he does. “I want to hear you say it’s okay.”
“It’s okay.” You don’t sound at all sure of yourself as he guides you to the blankets and eases you down so that you’re laying down propped up on a pillow.
“I want to hear you say what we’re gonna do so that I know you understand. I’m not going to stop until you’ve come five times.” His fingers hover above the button of your pants. Those fingers that you’ve stared at from your own desk. Fingers that you constantly find yourself fixated on. Long, defined, adept. You’ve seen him solve rubix cubes, spin pens, and flip through books. You’ve dreamed about those fingers and now they’re here, taunting you.
“You’re going to take care of it.” You stare at him, his pupils are so blown his eyes look almost black, his hair is a mess, it always is. He’s waiting, he wants a proper response. “I want you to take care of it.”
That’s clearly what he wanted to hear.
With expert dexterity his fingers loop around the button of your slacks and pull it up and open while his other hand slides your zipper down.
“I’m going to partially undress before I touch you, to make you feel more comfortable and less exposed in comparison.” He’s already tugging his black cardigan off, tossing it aside as yanks his tie loose, throwing it in the same direction. Without missing a beat he unbuttons his shirt, leaving it on but fully unbuttoned as you stare at the skin there. Even now you can’t help but gawk at the pale skin. He isn’t muscular by any means, but you can see that he’s surprisingly toned. You do your best not to stare wide eyed, everything about this situation is awful, you don’t need to make it worse by getting caught staring.
Although it probably doesn’t matter considering what he’s about to do.
He’s so gentle with you. One hand sliding under you to lift you a tiny bit as he pulls your slacks down until they’re completely off, folding them in half before he sets them aside. Only Spencer fucking Reid would nicely fold your pants before fingering you.
Jesus Christ, this is happening.
You lay back, unable to look at him as you arch your hips to help him as he slides a finger under both sides of your panties. You take a deep breath as he removes them as effortlessly as your pants, setting them aside as well.
You squeeze your legs together, tilting your head back and closing your eyes. You can feel his hands on your hips, grounding you for a moment as you try and slow your breathing.
One of his hands moves from your side to the center, you burn hot, covering your face with your hands as he tenderly spreads your legs and there’s no going back as you find yourself completely exposed to him. He’s silent, you can feel him still holding your thighs apart now as you sit up, daring a look at him. He lays in front of you on his stomach, staring at your core with an intensity you’ve seen him use when he can’t solve a case and he’s spent an hour just staring at the white board.
“Jesus, Reid, you do know what you’re doing, right?” You can’t help it as you grumble, exasperated.
“I know what I’m doing, I’m just trying to decide the best course of action to do this as efficiently as possible.” His tongue pokes out of his mouth, wetting his lips as you lean back again, groaning this time.
He’s torturing you.
“Please- please just do it.” You try not to sound like you’re whining but at this point why bother holding on to any dignity you have left? All of your self respect went out the window the second he pulled your panties down. If he keeps laying there just staring at it you’re going to take matters into your own hands.
Thankfully, that seems to be all he needed to hear, you feel his fingers brush up against you as you suck in a sharp inhale. One hand resting on your hips, holding you in place as the other finally brushes up against you. You can feel him moving tentatively as he parts your folds, swiping a digit through the wetness there.
He knows exactly how much you like this you sick fuck, look at you, dripping.
When the pad of his thumb swipes over your clit you squeak, arching your back until he gently pushes you back down, he moves in slow, precise, circles that make your head spin. A finger prods at your entrance for only a moment before he pushes it fully in.
Your curiosity gets the better of you and you prop yourself up on your elbows, a whimper slipping past your lips as he curls his finger, pressing into that sensitive spot that almost makes you fall back over.
His pretty brown locks are tucked neatly behind his ears now. His eyes, still dark and wide, his brow furrowed. You watch him lick his lips for a moment before he curls his finger again, simultaneously pressing down hard on your clit. Testing, seeing what makes you tick. You can’t suppress the moan that bubbles out of you. He’s so meticulous, timing the pumping of his finger with the slow circles of his thumb, he finally looks away from your cunt to stare at your face, watching your reaction as he abruptly adds another finger without warning. Your eyes squeeze shut as you gasp. They feel better than you ever could have imagined, long and nimble, he works you like he’s an expert after just a few minutes of experimenting with pace and patterns. Curving them at the perfect time, in sync with the increasing pace of his thumb.
“Reid-” You start to groan his name as you can feel the knot forming in your stomach.
You’re going to come immediately and he’s going to know just how much of a slut you are. Writhing for him on the cold hard floor.
“Shh… I’ve got you.” He plays you like he knows your body better than you do, and at this point, he might. Before you can react he’s pistoning his fingers in and out of you as you let out an obscene sound. The hand that held your hips down is spreading your legs apart now, he watches, enraptured as you clamp down on his fingers, your legs trembling as he practically rips your first orgasm out of you. Your fingers claw at the pillows behind you as you arch your back up, pushing yourself against his fingers as you ride it out.
“Fucking- oh my god, Reid, Fuck-” You start to sit up but he coaxes you back down, sushing you softly, his fingers still slick as he slides them up and down your folds. You squirm under him, your sensitive bundle of nerves screaming for a moment's respite as he brushes up against them. “I need a second Reid.” You grumble but he doesn’t let up, deliberate little bumps against you as you whimper.
His pointer and middle finger find your clit now, applying just the right amount of pressure as you fight the urge to push him off of you.
“There was an interesting study done where a researcher suggested that the woman he was studying had a hundred and thirty four orgasms over the course of a single hour. Of course it’s difficult to track that sort of thing, they went based on her heart rate to get the number as close to exact as possible.” He’s unrelenting against you, his left hand grips your thigh, pushing your legs further apart as he continues.
“Reid, please.” you can’t handle his ramblings right now.
“Obviously what she was experiencing wouldn’t technically be classified as multiple orgasms, it would be considered stacked orgasms because she wasn’t given time to come down from her initial orgasm.” The knot in your stomach is already forming again, he picks up the pace, scooping up the wetness from your initial orgasm and using it as a lubricant for his brutal little movements, increasing the pressure until you’re a whimpering mess. “Typically with stacked orgasms the goal is to prevent a person from fully climaxing, and to keep them in an orgasmic state. I think that’s our best course of action if we want to get this done as quickly as possible.”
“I can’t- I- It’s already too much, Spence- Reid, I can’t do five like this.” Why is it so fucking hot when he does that? You hadn’t realized until just now how much you love the sound of his voice, even if you want to shove him off of you before he can force another orgasm out of you before you’re ready.
“If you’d like me to give you a break that’s completely fine but I think you’ll be better in the long run if we stack them. Not only will we be done sooner but if we take breaks our unsub will likely get bored and resort to more extreme forms of entertainment quicker. If we keep him entertained then he’s more likely to give us space to put on a show for him.”
“Put on a show for him? Is it a good idea to encourage him?” Your voice pitches up an octave as he lightly pinches your clit, his brow furrowing as he studies your reaction.
“He’s encouraged either way but if we play nice he’s far less likely to lash out or escalate.” You can feel your second orgasm approaching rapidly and you know he wants you to make a choice. He rubs your clit between his finger and his thumb and you just melt.
“Fuck, Reid.” You cover your face with your hands, letting loose a string of expletives.
“Don’t call me Reid, I think we’re beyond that.” He sounds so stern, a desperate edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. “Please.” He sits up as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge, you can see the focus on his face, and when you look down you can see the reaction in his pants.
Completely normal, he’s a straight guy, you’re like a personal pornstar in front of him right now, try not to be too flattered.
“Spence- Spencer, fuck.” You can hardly think straight with all of this, all you know is that you trust him. “Fine, you’re right, do it. Whatever you need to do to do the stacked thing.” Your words fade into groans as your second orgasm hits you, another wave cresting over you. You hardly get a moment to breathe before you can feel him shifting positions, you shoot up when you feel the wet, hot heat of his mouth clamp on to you. “Spencer!” His name is punched out of you as his tongue encircles your engorged clit. He runs his tongue up and down your dripping seam before he pulls away, lips wet and pink as he stares up at you with those stupid puppy dog eyes. “What the fuck!”
“We agreed he needed a show to be kept happy.” He sounds confused as to why you’re stopping him, the look on his face is so close to disappointment that you just lay back.
“Then put on a show.” You mumble as he returns to his work, you bury your face in your hands, trying to swallow the moans fighting their way out of you as he wraps his lips around your clit. His tongue moves in rapid patterns, alternating between sucking and licking at you, eating you just like he kissed you, like he’s starving. Your fingers eventually find themselves tangled in his hair, tugging at him gently as he devours you.
You lose it when he moans against you.
A low whine as he rocks against a pillow he placed under his hips when you weren’t looking.
You’re so fucked.
The sight of him sends you over the edge that you’re becoming all too familiar with.
Already? Jesus, he definitely knows that you like this.
A painful overstimulation, coupled with the force of your third shaking orgasm. Your thighs squeeze his head and, god, he doesn’t let up even for a second. Your entire body feels hot, tears prickling at your eyes. It’s too much, you’re glad you told him not to stop because honestly you don’t know how you’d start again. Your thighs shake, and you’re fighting the urge to kick him away as he tilts his head down the tiniest bit, his tongue lapping at your weeping hole as his nose bumps your clit.
“Reid- Spencer, Spence.” You’re limited to a stuttering of his name as his arms loop under your thighs, throwing your legs over his shoulders, effectively locking you in place as he pulls you closer. His tongue delves into you as he buries his face between your legs, pushing himself deeper and deeper until your back is arching up and off the ground.
You’re trapped between two urges. The need to kick him off of you to ease the pain, to stop the delicious burning being delivered to your overworked clit with every focused lap of his tongue. After three orgasms every touch is like a flaming hot poker that you just can’t get enough of. The other urge is to grab him by the back of his head and hold him there forever.
That urge is the one that won out in the end. Your hands tangling themselves into his curls, tugging shamelessly at him, needing more and more of the delicious pain he’s drilling into you. Your body is spent, writhing as he tries his damndest to pull another orgasm from you.
”I don’t think I can-“ You mumble out through breathy moans, pulling admittedly a little too hard on his hair, but all that earned you was a lengthy groan, the vibrations rocking through your center.
“You can.” He’s muffled, you can hardly hear him as he stays buried in your cunt, refusing to pull back for even a moment.
You’re glad he seems so sure because you certainly aren’t. He pulls one of his arms back, slotting his fingers between your folds once more. Easily sliding two fingers back into you as let out a pitiful squeak.
Yeah, you can.
You definitely can, he presses his fingers deep, focusing on that sweet spot nestled away inside of you.
When they say Spencer Reid knows everything they really mean it, he knows how to twist his tongue against you in a way that makes you scream like a fucking pornstar. He knows how to work his fingers into you and find every single nerve that lights you up. He knows how to work you better than you work yourself. When he adds a third finger you feel yourself tensing again. He works tirelessly, never faltering. Tears are flowing freely now from your eyes, you’re so fucking tired, everything hurts, everything feels so good. When he flattens his tongue against your clit you gush around his finger, soaking the bottom half of his face.
You can’t remember ever coming so hard, let alone squirting like this. It’s enough to snap him out of his animalistic state, when he looks up at you try not to look too shocked.
You’re probably just as much of a sight at this point.
His lips are wet and swollen, he wipes the bottom half of his face on his shirt and you recall every time he’s made a big deal of germs around the office. Clearly that’s all been abandoned. You’ve put his hair in a state of disarray. When you finally look him in the eyes you can’t look anywhere else.
Dark and desperate.
“Was that five?” Your voice is raw and quiet, when you break the silence he shakes his head, crawling up your body until he’s on all fours above you. His knee locked firmly between your thighs, likely soaking his pants with your juices.
“Almost.” He whispers back, his tongue poking out before he chews his lip. You shake your head in return, your entire body trembles as a fresh flood or tears rushing out of you.
“No, no I can’t do another one, I’m all done.” You bring your hands up to cup his cheeks, begging him as if this is his choice and not some cruel gods, still watching you somewhere on a little screen as if this is all just a silly little movie and not your sadistic reality.
“You can, I know you can, you’re so strong. You’re so good.” He whispers so sweetly, it almost makes you forget the circumstances of all of this. “Just one more, I know you can last just a little longer.”
“Spencer, please, it hurts too much.” You cry unabashedly. Moving your hands down his neck to his chest, clinging to his shirt collar. His touch is light as he brushes your hair back and out of your face.
“Deep breath, stay with me sweetheart.” He kisses your forehead and it really does make a difference in grounding you. It’s so strangely personal and intimate, even knowing that he’s gonna have to put you through another crushing orgasm he treats you with such tenderness.
“Please.” Your voice sounds so small, and you’re thankful for the recognition in his eyes when he nods. He knows you aren’t asking him to stop, you’re asking him to finish this.
When he kisses you this time he isn’t as forceful as he was the first time. There’s a gentleness, it crosses your mind that he isn’t putting on a show for the camera with this kiss, this kiss is just for you. For just the two of you.
You whimper when his hand wanders down your body and between your legs for what you hope is the final time today. You feel raw down there, you know he can feel it too because his hand flies back up to his mouth, you watch with morbid fascination as his lips part and he sucks his fingers, wetting them and returning them to your cunt.
“You’re doing so good, so good, so good for me, all for me.” He’s moving in focused, deadly accurate circles. Kissing you between his praises, his free hand continues to sweep your hair away from your face. He’s hovering over you in an awkward position as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth while you whine. The muscles in your stomach ache and scream as you feel the burning knot forming once more.
You groan, the buzz of pleasure is almost entirely gone, replaced solely by the dull, blunt pain of overstimulation.
“Just me, just for me now, okay? This one isn’t for him, or anyone else, just me.” He’s rambling, picking up the pace, the strokes becoming more chaotic as he mumbles, seemingly to himself more than you. The shocks to your clit are erratic and relentless, as you feel yourself approaching a release you know is inevitable. His knee shifts, when his body presses down against you you can feel the outline of his cock against your hip, he positions himself in a way that can’t be comfortable, it makes it hard to focus on achieving any kind of release until you realize what he’s doing.
Just for him.
He’s covering you up, since you can’t see the cameras you have to assume they’re on the ceiling, tucked away near the fluorescents where you can’t find them. Regardless of where they are, if they’re from an elevated angle they won’t see your face, or most of your body as far as you're concerned.
Just. For. Him.
You cry out his name when you come, repeating it like a prayer as you sob against him, he kisses your face. Your cheeks, your forehead, your eyelids, your chin, and your lips as he murmurs against your skin.
“I knew you could do it, look at you. So good, so pretty.” Whispers branded onto your skin with his lips.
He wipes between your legs with the blanket, making you whine.
“You did so good.”
You’ve never felt so spent in your entire life. There’s no energy left in your body so you just let him work, he pulls your panties back up your legs. He tries to get your pants back on but the tight fabric makes you cringe so he doesn’t bother. Instead he wraps his cardigan around your shoulders before laying back, pulling you against his still bare chest with a sigh.
You sit in silence for what feels like hours, catching your breath and fighting sleep, your eyelids heavy.
The crackling of the speaker startles you, you’d been so focused on Spencer you’d almost forgotten the dark reality of your situation. For a moment your captor doesn’t speak, he just claps, loud, cruel, beats.
“I have no notes. I knew you would be incredible, I just- I did not realize how good it would be.” He sounds so worked up you swear he’s crying. “You really are my muse, you have inspired me, I have to go, I need to put together tomorrow's script, rest well my shining star.”
In a swift motion as if a switch has been flipped the lights go dark, and you’re left alone in the void with only Spencer to cling to. For a moment, you aren’t sure what to say. What do you talk about after what just happened? Eventually you figure it out, right as you’re about to pass out from exhaustion.
“You called me sweetheart.” You practically sigh the words out, your fingers find a button on his shirt, twisting it between your thumb and forefinger.
“I did, should I not have? I wasn’t sure if I could pull that off, I don’t think I’ve ever used a pet name on anyone, maybe ever. It’s kind of Morgan's thing.” He sounds apologetic as he combs his fingers through your hair before sliding them down your back.
“No, I liked it. Sweetheart works, it’s… timeless, and simple.” He rubs your back as you shut your eyes, mumbling against his chest as you trace a line up and down his sternum.
“Get some sleep.” You don’t bother resisting, you feel like you’re already halfway there.
“Goodnight, Spencer.”
“Goodnight, Sweetheart.”
a/n : hope yall enjoy, you can find me on ao3 under the same username, all updates go on there a few days earlier than they will on here
“That’s what our kids would look like.” While waiting for the kettle to boil, Noel had been inspecting the pieces of paper littering the front of the fridge, looking past the tacky magnets he’d collected from tourist shops the world over, and focusing on the two childhood photos you’d stuck side by side over the top of a long-abandoned shopping list; if he squints, he can almost imagine a world were you met as kids, instead of in sticky pub on a random weekday in your early twenties.
“I hope they look like you, you’re cuter.” Confident, as though it were a scientific fact rather than a matter of opinion, you wave your teaspoon in the direction of his photo; a copy of his year seven school portrait that made you coo every time you caught sight of it, looking all smart in his blazer and tie with the sides of his eyes crinkling up in the same way they do now. Having kids together was something you’d talked about plenty of times when you were both drunk, munching on the takeaway food you’d got on the way home, though the subject had never been breached in the light of day.
“Don’t be daft.” Noel dismisses, reaching up to get the teabags from the top cupboard. Lately, he’d lost count of the number of meals he’d burnt because he was too busy staring at your childhood photo and daydreaming; wondering what it’d be like to try and make dinner with a tiny version of you tugging at his jumper for his attention, and if his heart would ever recover. “You just feel sorry for me cause’ of my bowl cut.”
“No, I still think you’re cuter.” Stubborn in the same way he is, you’re unwavering with your stance. He still remembers how you’d sat in his mother’s front room on Christmas Day, still adorning the paper crown you’d worn at dinner, with a photo album open in your lap and your bottom lip jutted all the way upon seeing him as a toddler waddling around in his winter coat, as though the notion of him once being so little and so cold was enough to make you burst into fits of tears.
“You're biased, is what you are.” Noel watches you pour two sugars into your own mug and holds back his usual comment about how all your teeth are going to fall out one day. Instead, he nibbles on the inside of his cheek and smiles down at his feet, grinning at the contrast of his Adidas trainers next to your worn pink slippers, looking like your very own version of yin and yang, and laughs to himself.
ii.
“I feel like we need a licence for it.” Flicking your indicators on to turn left, you lean forward slightly, as though being closer to the windscreen might help you see through the masses of rain hitting the glass. It was the middle of spring, and although the man doing the weather report earlier that morning had insisted on clear skies, you’d both been met with nothing but a big grey cloud and a row of paps with umbrellas as you rushed from the front door to unlock his car.
“For turning?” Suddenly appalled, Noel moves from where he’d been wiping the condensation off the passenger window with the sleeve of his jacket, erasing all the little doodles he’d done to see you smile. He knows you can be an anxious driver, especially behind the wheel of the expensive cars he’d bought with his residual cheques, though this new notion seems incredibly far-fetched, even for someone who still avoids roundabouts years after passing their driving test.
“No, for having a baby.” Ever since you’d come off your birth control pills and decided not to renew your prescription, fragments of this same conversation had begun to seep into the domestic routines of your shared life; just yesterday, while brushing your teeth, you’d explained to him how odd it was, finally not caring about getting pregnant, when you and your friends had spent most of your adult lives trying to aviod it like the plague, and treating pending pregnancy tests like the female version of russian roulette. “It feels wrong that anyone can just try for one.”
“If Liam’s done it, then any prick can have a go.” While Noel had welcomed being an uncle with open arms, hearing his brother talk about changing nappies and clearing up baby sick never failed to make him laugh; if anyone stood as a pillar of reassurance that you’ll never feel quite mature enough to have kids, it was Liam, who took more interest in his son’s baby toys than anything else during his wife’s pregnancy, despite insisting otherwise. “You’ll be perfect.”
iii.
“That nice?” Lips pressed against the side of your neck, Noel shamelessly darts his tongue out to taste your sweat; under the glow of his bedside lamp, with a gleaming sheen of it over your skin, you look like a cinematic wet dream, straight out of a sex scene in a romantic film he vaguely remembers seeing and hasn’t recalled until now. His breath stutters in his throat, caught there like he’s been stabbed in the chest, as his fingers slip between your thighs. “You’re so wet, Jesus.”
“Can’t help it.” For a moment, with your voice all needy, he sees a glimpse of the girl whose hands shook when you both slept together for the first time; back when he used to have to kiss your knuckles, and mumble jokes into your hair to calm you down. It was so uncharacteristic of you to sound like that now, though maybe part of you has reverted back to that mindset with the new weight of what you were doing, that this was something with a tangible purpose, an end goal.
“No, it’s good.” He reassures gently, trying to remember how to form a proper thought as his mouth falls agape at the sight of his fingertips going all shiny with your slick, and the little whiny moan you do at the loss of contact. Sometimes, he wishes he had a better memory so he could play that sound on loop, along with the visual of you fluttering your eyelashes shut and squeezing at his forearm as he presses his fingers in, sinking down to the first knuckle with the kind of practised ease that comes with years of love. “Fucking squeezing around nothing.”
“Noel.” You breathe out, for no particular reason, in the same way he sometimes does with your name, just to feel the warm familiarity of the word on your tongue. It was remarkable the way you could turn something as simple as his name into something that sounded like tender poetry, especially after the years he’d spent rejecting it and dismissing it as nothing but a cruel joke that he was named after Christmas when he was born almost six months after the fact in late May.
“Not gonna waste it. Gonna fill you up, swear.” Though it was early days and he had next to no knowledge of how this whole ‘trying for a baby’ thing worked, he could still grasp the common-sense aspect of it all and knew he would have to go against years of habit and try not to pull out at the last minute. Later, he’d perhaps read up on it, realise he probably has to time things better with your cycle, or try that old wives' tale of holding your legs up for ten minutes afterwards. Though this would be good enough for now, more than good enough actually. “I promise.”
iv.
“Don’t. You might be pregnant.” Exhaling a plume of smoke from between his lips, Noel refuses your hand that’s reaching out for a drag of his cigarette. It was perhaps too optimistic a concern, though not a completely deluded one, since your pursuit of trying to have kids had expanded into having unprotected sex on most surfaces in the house, and tracking your period on the calendar in the kitchen with a pack of glittery gel pens you’d found in the junk drawer.
“God, you’ve gone and jinxed it now.” Chewing on the last of your cereal, you huff, letting your spoon clatter dramatically against the bowl. Upon opening the curtains and seeing a blue sky, you’d both insisted on eating your breakfast outside, completely undeterred by the wet garden furniture and the damp grass if it meant sitting in the sun and pretending like you were in the countryside, rather than a little patch of green behind a house in London. “Touch wood.”
“I’m not touching wood, it’s fine.” Only superstitious when he truly felt like it, Noel shakes his head and taps some cigarette ash onto his empty plate. Unlike you, he was a firm believer that words could never hinder biology or fate, and that talking about it all he liked would probably do nothing but bore you senseless; two days ago, he’d expressed premature worry about how he was going to teach his kid to swim when he couldn’t do it himself, and you’d had to reassure him that he didn’t even have one yet.
“You have to.” Though your eyebrows are furrowed in the middle with concern, all Noel can think about is how cute you look in your pyjamas with his hoodie on to keep you warm from the mid-morning cold; for something to do with your fingers, you’d tied the strings up into a neat bow, and all he could do was joke about how much it made you look like a cartoon character, as he laughed through bites of his jam-covered toast. "Go on."
“Fine. Touch wood.” Giving in, Noel presses his palm against the top of the table, saying the words aloud like they might add an extra layer of good luck to soothe your worry. Truthfully, he knew it’d only be a matter of time before he did what you wanted, since denying you anything for too long felt like it would cause him physical pain; he’d once tried to explain to his brother how leaving you to go on tour sometimes felt like having a heart attack, though he’d only been met with a puzzled expression.
“Thank you.” You nod definitively, picking up your bowl to drink the chocolate-flavoured milk still sitting at the bottom, just as your kid will probably do in five years' time, when Noel will have the perfect opportunity to use that world-renowned phrase of ‘you’re just like your mother’ and actually wholeheartedly mean it.
Summary: After the iconic Wembley gig in July of 2000, you find yourself in bed with a man for the very first time. Oh, and he’s married.
Notes: Quite a few aspects of this were informed by personal experiences (it turns out they DO still diagnose nymphomania AND men can be married without you knowing!) And a quick shoutout to @maeveygravy1234 for inspiring me with her posts thirsting for innocent!reader x Noel.
Apologies for the long wait- it’s been a busy week for me and ultimately I’m never actually satisfied with what it write, no matter how many drafts I do.
Warnings: unprotected sex, p in v, foreplay, Noel is technically married, loss of virginity, etc.
Word Count: 6.7k
“Come to Wembley.”
Noel says it with a tone that makes it sound so simple, like your attendance is the most obvious thing in the world. It’s the same way he says, “I’ll be at the studio,” when he kisses your cheek before slipping out of the flat in the morning, and it holds the same surety as his usual order at the pub. The way Noel invites you is warm and solid and something hard to hit back at. Still, your stomach flutters in a way that’s more nervous than excited. He’s still technically married, and the press- which follows him around like baby ducks- would have a field day if they saw a new young thing standing side stage with starry eyes and peach-flavored lip gloss. You feel guilty enough as is- flaunting what would undoubtedly be perceived as an “indiscretion” would cripple you. Already, when you’re out to dinner together, you glance sideways when his hand wanders down to cup your ass, and you find yourself sneaking in and out of his new flat like a honeypot in a spy novel. On the rare nights you spent alone at your place, you stood in the poxy, too-small shower until the water ran tepid, as if it could wash away the sins you were committing and swirl them down the drain with your shampoo bubbles.
Noel continued, trying to reassure you when he clocked your hesitation. “Meg won’t be there if that’s what you’re worried about."
Meg. Her name made you wince, even though you had no personal issues with her. Her only crime was that she wouldn’t be “the other woman” when The Sun published its inevitable exposé.
“I’ll see about it.” Your voice comes out quieter, smaller than you’d intended, and you pick at your cuticle- anything to take the focus off of Noel. You can feel his stare boring holes into you, famous brows furrowed, trying to work out your response. Having expected you to agree enthusiastically, it took him a few seconds to recalibrate when you instead seemed to almost brush him off.
The dim light in the lounge, paired with the flickering image on the television- some shit show that neither of you care about- illuminated your face softly, in a way that felt private and domestic and made his heart inadvertently squeeze with a flash of tenderness. Noel’s hand, ruby ring cool on your skin, cupped your chin and tilted your face towards his. “What’s this about, then?” he asked gently. “What’s wrong? D’you not wanna come?”
You cursed his ability to read you like a book. Noel Gallagher was sharp as a tack and far, far more perceptive than the presenters at the BRAT awards would ever give him credit for. He was also older, wiser, and more shrewd than you. These were qualities you found attractive- ones that had drawn you to him, well before his marriage had crumbled- but damn, it made him intimidating, especially when these qualities were paired with the uncanny intensity of his blue eyes.
When you managed to meet those eyes, you saw a glimmer in his that showed a little boy, a boy who was scared you’d say no to his invitation, a boy who was embarrassed that you wouldn’t want to see him do what he loved, and a boy who desperately needed to be reassured. The little boy was trapped inside the body of a cocky and sarcastic thirty-three-year-old, but he was somehow still looking right at you, and for him, you found your voice. “No, I want to come, I really do. Just…the press.”
Noel’s grip on your chin tightened almost imperceptibly. “What about them? Those bastards been botherin’ you?”
“No, no. They don’t know about me still.”
A silence stretched between you, and while you sensed Noel was waiting for you to elaborate on that last point, he eventually picked up the thread for you. “If we’re gonna do this, they’re gonna find out,” he said gently. “And I want you there, y’know. Not hidin’ behind some roadies. Sidestage, with all the others.”
His tone was low, almost as if he didn’t like the way the words felt in his mouth, like they were getting stuck on the way out and being quieter would ease the way. Noel was an endlessly talented songwriter, a man who had written songs such as “Slide Away” and “Wonderwall”. The whole world knew that somewhere, deep down, he had a heart and emotions; they all went into the songs. Facilitating the exposure of his innermost self without the armor of a guitar and his brother’s voice was far, far rarer, and for him to say so clearly how much he needed you was one of those exceptions.
Despite your obsession with privacy, you’d certainly been to see Oasis before. Just a year ago, there had been an exclusive gig held as a benefit for some cause or other- the ozone layer? Whales? Cancer patients?- a benefit that was really an excuse for the rich and famous to drink and network and behave badly in the name of a good cause.
All anyone could talk about was who had tickets, how much they’d bribed an insider for tickets, and who could possibly get a spare ticket. As a low-ranking member of the Oasis/Creation entourage, you hadn’t put much thought or effort into securing your own attendance. While as the office intern, you knew how both Gallaghers took their tea, you couldn’t have sung any song other than “Wonderwall” with any confidence. Better to let those well-connected gits who hung onto every chord in the entire catalogue, including Noel’s legendary B-sides, take up the limited seats.
It was late when the elder Gallagher approached your small desk on his way out of the offices. He glanced your way as he passed through the now-empty lobby, blue eyes obscured by sunglasses and his hair beginning to curl at the nape of his neck from the heat of the summer day.
“Hey.”
Even though you were the only soul around, it didn’t cross your mind that he would be addressing you. Noel Gallagher never spoke to you. While Liam would occasionally toss a “thanks, lass” your way when you handed him a pen or brought glasses of water to a conference room, his older brother was a stoic observer with a sharp, unreadable face that you often interpreted as being displeased, no matter how careful you were to prepare his tea just as he wanted it. His face still looked displeased, or at least disinterested, and he snapped on the gum he’d been chewing all afternoon as an attempt to curb the craving for something stronger.
“You comin’ to the show?” he asks, and he catches how you look around the room, looking for the person he’s talking to. It’s endearing when you blush, finally making the connection that you are indeed that person. Your cheeks grow hot, and you pick at your cuticle, internally panicking, because this was Noel Gallagher.
“Um, I wasn’t planning on it. I know a lot of people want to go, and there are lots of people who should probably be there instead of me- “
Though you aren’t looking directly at him, you can hear a chuckle, and you can picture what his face must look like. You’ve seen him smile and laugh before- when you’d come into the room right after Liam had said something daft- and it made your head spin a little, the way his eyes disappeared up under those famous brows, smile pushing them up into little half-moons. Surely what you had said wasn’t that funny.
“Who the fuck cares about ‘em? I’d rather have you there.”
He continues on his way, sunglasses on to shield him from the world, and when the elevator doors close behind him, he leaves you on tenterhooks, a sensation that is not improved when you arrive at work the next day to find an envelope on your desk, strewn casually on top of that day’s mail. It has your name on it, in blocky lettering that you’ve seen on other papers that float around the workplace. The Chief’s handwriting.
Inside is not just a ticket, but a VIP pass- the type friends and family get, not interns. When Noel pops into the building later, he gives you a nod and is quickly pulled into a conversation about finances. Still, the nod is enough to solidify the fact that the pass is meant for you, and that the conversation- if you could call it that- the night before had been real. “See you tonight,” he calls out over his shoulder. “Wear summat nice!”
Later, after hours of trying on and rejecting every item of clothing you owned, “summat nice” was donned and you were wielding your pass shyly, standing in a throng of people on Noel’s side of the stage. And when he blew a kiss in that direction just before “Wonderwall”, it wasn’t intended for Meg- but for you.
From that point on, your relationship developed quietly alongside the stories splashed across the tabloids- stories that charted in excruciating detail the collapse of Noel and Meg’s marriage and the widespread fallout cast over their large group of mutual, jet-setting friends. Noel had decamped to a bachelor pad, a very posh one, and you’d first come over under the guise of helping him decorate. Amongst the endless conversations about wall color and whether a shag carpet would really be so tacky, a closeness knit you two together, to the point where you were now sitting on his sofa in a quandary.
~xoxoxoxo~
In the end, it was never really in question. On yet another hot July night, you’re sidestage, this time with no Meg in sight, and instead of a star-studded spectacle, you’re looking out over a crowd of 70,000 rabid, screaming fans who are looking at Noel like he’s walking on water when he tears into the intro of “Live Forever”. When he’s onstage, the lights shining down, you doubt he can see you. It’s only when the band pull the classic move of walking offstage before the encore that you can actually smile at him and meet his eyes. He locks his gaze with yours after raking his eyes over your body. Tonight, “summat nice” was a miniskirt and a t-shirt that was almost sheer, worn braless. You’d never worn something that bold before- something that befitting of a rock star’s girl- and it made him go weak in the knees like a fucking teenager. When he goes back onstage, he is clutching the front of his jeans, the denim straining behind the guitar. You’ve gone and made him hard in front of the largest audience of his entire life- at a gig that’s being professionally filmed, for fuck’s sake!
He’s still hard when you throw your arms around him as he comes offstage again, tossing his guitar to a waiting roadie. You cling to him like a koala, giddy with the excitement of the show and the songs and him- Noel. It’s impossible for you not to feel the hard bulge pressing against you as you squeal with praise. The lads give him a look as they pass by- a look that pokes fun at your outsized joy, entertained and somewhat flummoxed by how much you adore him. The first response he has- the only one that both shuts you up and sticks it to the band- is to kiss you senseless.
“Cheeky thing, d’you feel that? Gave me a problem in front of a fucking stadium, now you’re gonna solve it like a good girl.” He braces his arm around you, feeling how now your knees go just a little weak at the proposition, one he’d wanted to make since he first laid eyes on you.
One of the nice aspects of playing Wembley is that you and Noel can just go back to his after, rather than faff about with a hotel. The ride- quiet and dark and tense with desire- is just long enough for you to start overthinking everything. The thought of having sex with him- while obviously incredibly appealing- made you feel on the flip side the anxiety of someone being hunted for sport.
It’s okay, though. Maybe you can bluff, maybe you can focus on your breathing and relax and Noel will never have to know. It’s possible, right? He’ll probably just think you’re a lousy lay though, and that might be worse.
By the time you get home, you’ve committed to the facade and kiss and touch and taste Noel just like every other time the two of you had made out. You’ve never gone farther, and Noel has joked that it’s because he’s not yet divorced. “Once the papers are signed, I bet you’ll be fuckin’ me in the nearest closet at the goddamn courthouse.”
Lying back on his massive bed, your hands shake as they roam, repeating familiar movements in the shadow of naivete that looms over you like a storm cloud.
“You’re trembling, birdie. What’s goin’ on? That ready for it, eh?”
Your mouth is dry as paper, because you’ve been caught and you know it’s too late to recover from it. You’ve paused too long, and Noel’s frown reflects the fact that your tremors are not from desire, but from something much more distressing.
“Hey, hey…” Slowly, like you’re a wild animal that might startle, he brings one palm to your chest, feeling the racing of your heart. “What’s wrong?”
It’s only when you shrink into yourself, eyes fixed on the hem of a pillowcase, that you can rip off the proverbial bandage. “‘M a virgin. Never done…that.”
Your confession is mumbled, almost whispered. Now though, it’s your boyfriend’s turn to search for something to say. His eyes widen in surprise, too fast for him to help it. He’d assumed that, as a university graduate with a fantastic figure and outgoing personality, you’d had at least a few hookups along the way. After all, it was the 90s- women had been liberated, right?
“It’s not that I don’t want to, Noel. It’s just…”
The hand on your chest slinks upward, cupping your jaw with quiet care, thumb stroking over your pouting lips. “So why haven’t ya?”
The question pins you to the bed like a butterfly specimen. It’s a reasonable ask in this day and age, and one you’re hard-pressed to find a simple answer for. After all, it’s just sex. Most people your age have 5-10 years of experience to draw on, having lost their virginity in the clandestine secrecy of a backseat, or in a drunken haze at a weekend house party. Sometimes you wish you could go back in time and make different choices- follow a halfway-decent classmate into a hedgerow on lunch break and just get the whole thing over with. Then you could fast forward to now, with Noel’s face so close you can feel his minty breath and his nose nudging gently at your cheek, and know what to do. In this alternate reality, you’d be able to rock his fucking world without any pretense of overthinking or insecurity. Instead, though, he’s waiting for you to tell him why you’re such a frigid bitch.
Your eyes flutter shut, unable to meet the intensity of both his gaze and his question. How vulnerable do you get with Noel Gallagher? It crosses your mind to lie, to think of something simple and sweet, but you know the Chief will see right through anything less than the truth.
“There are three reasons.” You paused to swallow, your mouth feeling like it’s made of chalk, thanks to your nerves. “I’m scared it’ll hurt.”
Noel hummed in response to this- it wasn’t at all shocking; every lass worried about that. If there was one thing that was common knowledge amongst all virgins the world over, it’s that getting your cherry popped could hurt- or at least not feel entirely pleasant. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, wordlessly coaxing you to continue.
“I’m scared because I won’t know what to do. That it won’t be good for you, or you’ll be disappointed…or whatever.”
“And then,” you paused, tensing in Noel’s arms, because you’d never had the courage to vocalize this before. The deep shame that had been brewing within you since your teenage visit to the psychiatrist at St. Francis’ hospital flooded your system like a tidal wave overtaking a seaside village. “When I was sixteen, I got sick. And when my mum took me to see a shrink, they told me…”
You forgot how to breathe for a minute, body stiffening as he cupped your cheek, running a rough thumb along your cheekbone.
“What’d they say to you, sweetheart?” The murmured inquiry is encouraging, not pressuring, and this reminder of how caring Noel could be eased your fear of opening yourself to him. Despite the famously gruff and antagonizing exterior, the man was actually as sweet on the inside as a Cadbury egg.
“They told me I was a nymphomaniac,” you continued, almost too quietly for Noel to hear, the words whispered half into his collarbone. “And I always thought that maybe as long as I didn’t…you know. That I could control it, control myself. Because what if once I have sex, and let myself do that, I can’t stop myself?”
The room seems to echo with the silence once your trembling voice finishes sharing your greatest concern, the words evaporating into the rough stubble beneath Noel’s jaw. For a moment, you wonder if you just imagined saying all that, that you’d only been rehearsing it in your head. But then a noise breaks the quiet. An incredulous chuckle, rumbling through Noel’s chest, vibrating against your hand that’s now pressed against it and tracing circles in the pelt of dark hair that grows there.
“You’re tryin’ to tell me that you’re scared you’ll want me to fuck you too often? Is that it?”
Noel can feel the hot embarrassment that colors your face, even if it’s hidden from view against his skin now. Being a menace, he devilishly chooses to punctuate his words, nosing down the column of your neck, pressing gentle pecks to the tender spot below your jaw.
“That ain’t a fucking problem, love. That’s a fucking blessing.”
His descending kisses tickle in a way that makes your thighs clench, and you can’t help but squirm from the sensation, briefly forgetting your embarrassment.
“Now I’m gonna tell ya a secret, okay?” His voice is cheekily conspiratorial. “Don’t go telling your little girl friends. But girls don’t really have to do nish. As long as you’re alive and willing, that’s all a man really needs. It’s girls that get disappointed, not lads.”
Noel’s thick fingers tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and having been at least somewhat reassured, you manage to pull your face away from its hiding spot against his skin. You even manage to give your boyfriend a shaky nod and open your eyes as he tilts your chin up to face him. He locks his gaze with yours, so heated that it almost burns you. “Now,” he continues in a voice made rough with desire, “if ya really are a nympho, you must have touched yourself loads of times. Is that true?”
“Noel…” Your voice is whiny, reticent to let him go down this road of inquiry, because the answer is yes, and he damn well knows it.
“I’m just tryin’ to see what I’m working with here. How often, love?” His warm hand snakes up under your shirt, resting on the dip of your waist. It’s heavy and all too chaste, the type of placement that wouldn’t get a second look if he’d done it while sitting next to you in a restaurant or bar. It’s not nearly close enough to all the places you wish it were, lying here on bedsheets, chest to chest, face to face.
“Every day. Sometimes more than once.” Noel lets out a noise like someone just strangled him, because the mental image that springs to mind with your admission is too much for him to take silently. You twist the knife a little deeper with even more honesty. “Once I got a callous on- down there.”
“Show me.”
It’s not a request, but a demand given by a man who wants you to obey without fear. As much as you would rather not- would rather he just do what he likes instead of putting you under a spotlight- you acquiesce, settling your head down on the fluffy pillow and flipping over onto your stomach. It doesn’t give Noel the best view, but if he wants to see how you actually make yourself cum, this is it.
You’re still wearing your too-sheer shirt, your panties are still on, and Noel is transfixed by the vision of your fingers rubbing over the soaking fabric clinging to your folds, fingertips nudging your clit in time with the grinding of your hips into his sheets. Before long, you’ve lost awareness of his presence, chasing a familiar high. It’s only when his hand cups your ass and administers a playful squeeze to the firm flesh that you startle back into reality, to the bedding that smells like his cologne and the intensity of his eyes that are watching your every movement.
“Is that all you’ve got?” His question is teasing, and not meant to be snide at all, but you still wilt a little. In fact, that was the extent of your solo adventures. Why mess with a good thing? It got you off every time, and you hadn’t seen the need to experiment further. Plus, putting your fingers inside had not been something you’d ever relaxed enough to actually manage.
His own fingers slip under the elastic of your knickers, letting it snap back against your skin. “Gotta take these off,” he rasps, and without any resistance, he flips you over so he can see your face again. “This too,” he gestures at your shirt, which has already gotten bunched up and is halfway to your armpits anyway.
“But…you’ll see me.”
Those iconic blue eyes twinkle back at you, Noel smirking like he’s just won a prize. “That’s the idea,” he responds smugly, sitting back on his heels and tugging at the hem of your top. “It’s already see-through, love. Arms up.”
The semi-security of the shirt is replaced with the cool exposure of the air, and your arms come across your chest by reflex, trying to cover yourself from Noel’s hooded gaze.
“Fuckin’ hell.” It’s almost a whisper, two words said with the intensity of worship, and the rawness somehow makes you feel empowered, and the instinct to conceal your nakedness fades a little. “Look at you.” His question is rhetorical, or maybe he’s just talking to himself, trying to tether himself as your body is revealed to him in a moment he’d imagined so many times before. From the way he sounds, it’s clear he doesn’t even notice the spots you are always so critical of- the chickenpox scar that left a little white divot on your ribs, or the fact that your left breast had a tiny mole on the underside of it. Almost needing to reassure himself that you are real, he reached up to cup that very breast, the soft and pliant mound of flesh perfectly filling his hand. Noting the harsh intake of breath his touch triggers, he’s reassured that you want this just as much as he does. Reverently, he presses an open-mouthed kiss to your sternum, right on top of the cheeky little bow tattooed there.
“Do you ever touch your tits?” It’s hard for you to answer as his thumb drags teasingly across a nipple, the stiffened peak sensitive to his touch in a way that it never had been to your own.
“N-no. Not really. It didn’t feel like this.”
A huff of breath ghosts over your collarbone, and before you can say anything else, the soft, wet embrace of Noel’s mouth wraps around the rosy tip, a sensation unlike anything you’d ever felt. The gentle sucks feel like they’re directly connected to your core, your neediness intensifying as he very carefully nips the tender flesh. Your hands fly to Noel’s shaggy hair, clutching at him as you writhe against the rumpled sheets, gasping as his tongue flicks out against your hard nipple. It’s playful and intimate and so, so hot. Touching your own breasts had always felt no different than touching your knee or your shoulder, but when Noel did it, it felt like both heaven and sin at the same time.
He moves his lips to your other breast, his fingers nimbly taking his mouth’s former place and pinching the spit-covered flesh. It’s silent in the room except for the soft sounds his mouth makes against your body, and your gasping breath that comes as tense and stuttering as the movements your hips have started making against nothing at all.
While you lie beneath Noel, mind hazy with the burning desire that he’s stoking in you with every subtle movement of his tongue, his lips, and his skillful hands. His breath ghosts over your ribs, leaving little pecks in his wake as he shifts himself to sit more comfortably between your legs. His finger traces a gentle path along the delicate waistband of your knickers, snaking under the lacy trim and pulling them away from your abdomen before snapping them back, just enough to make you jump but not enough to actually hurt.
“Lemme take these off for you.” While it’s not phrased as a question, Noel’s intonation rises slightly as he speaks, hoping for your consent. It’s tempting- very tempting- to give it, but you can feel how wet you are already, and it feels safer to keep that hidden. Too many insecurities whirl through your mind like a dust storm: what if I’m too wet? What if I’m not wet enough? What if my pussy doesn’t look like that of the other girls he’s been with?
Ever observant, your boyfriend runs a soothing hand up and down your thigh. “S’okay, baby. What’s up?”
Your legs attempt to close, though with Noel in the way, it’s hardly effective. He nudges them wider in response, just enough to challenge you, but not cross your subtle boundary. “You’re gettin’ shy on me again.” He leans down to press a kiss to your tummy, running his nose across the sensitive skin.”
“I just don’t know- you seeing me down there. If it doesn’t look like-”
Noel cuts you off firmly. “Stop it. Stop it right now. You’re fuckin’ perfect. No man has ever seen a cunt he didn’t like.” Your silence and the way you bite your lip are clear indicators that you are still skeptical. He reaches for his belt, undoing the buckle. “Here, I’ll go first, okay?”
He shucks his jeans off, carelessly tossing them onto the floor, leaving him in just his boxers. Just as casually, he pulls them off, freeing his cock, which is hard as a rock and weeping at the pink tip. You’d certainly noticed the bulge in his pants before, and earlier tonight onstage you could see how it bobbed when he walked. Still, even considering those data points, it’s larger than you would have expected- and perhaps even more concerning, the thickness is impressive. You’ve never put so much as a finger inside of yourself, so fitting a cock equivalent to a Coke can inside will, in your view, probably require an episiotomy.
Regardless of the way your breath hitches and your brain goes offline, your body still keeps score, because the sight of him only makes your panties wetter. Noel’s hand wraps around his thickness, giving himself a few pulls to take the edge off.
“Noel.” Your voice is tiny, shaky. “That’s never gonna fit in me.”
It’s an almost humiliating moment of vulnerability, which your boyfriend responds to with a fond chuckle before surging forward to kiss you, cock now pressing hard and warm against your hip. “God, you’re so fucking sweet.” He nibbles your lip playfully as he reaches down between your legs, hand cupping your soaked mound. “It’ll fit, sweetheart, I promise. I’ll get you nice and ready for me.”
You nod, which he uses as a cue to slip the wet garment off, helping you kick them off with trembling legs. You’ve never been seen like this before, but Noel’s fingers are dancing between your thighs, tracing patterns over your swollen lips and expertly finding your clit, the sensitive nub somehow even more responsive to him than it is to you. Pulling back from where he’d been sucking on the sweet spot at the base of your neck, he lets his piercing gaze settle on the mess you’ve made. “Look how fucking wet you are.” He holds his fingers up for your view, and they glisten in the dim light, covered in your desire. Entranced, you can’t find your breath when he slips those same fingers into his crooked mouth, sucking on them with the same relish one would a teaspoonful of honey.
“You taste so fucking good.” His voice is rough, and without any further preamble, desperate for more, he lowers his head to the apex of your thighs, thumbs parting the soft lips to see the source of your slick, breath dangerously close to your flesh. Before you can feel self-conscious, Noel’s pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your folds, moaning as soon as his tongue meets your cunt.
You were familiar with the common viewpoint that men “didn’t like” going down on women. You certainly would never have expected someone as brash and in charge as Noel to do it, at least not without a lot of grumbling and very little technique. Still, it was clear from the precision and sheer enthusiasm with which he dove into your cunt that he had done this many, many times before, and that he truly didn’t want to be doing anything else other than worshipping you. He delicately sucked on one lip and then the other, even going so far as to push his tongue inside of you, a sensation that made you instinctively grab at his hair in pleasure. It was intoxicating and all-consuming, and as your pleasure built layer upon layer, Noel strategically pulled away. Ignoring your guttural whine at the loss of contact, he brought one finger up to your entrance, running the rough pad through the wetness.
“Gonna start with just one.” He pecks a reassuring kiss to your inner thigh before entering you. While the feeling of it is unfamiliar, it’s reassuring when he fully inserts it without any resistance, though it doesn’t feel as pleasurable as you’d hoped it would. Still, you lie back and let him slowly plunge the digit in and out, his mouth once more lavishing attention to your needy clit.
The stretch of a second finger makes you gasp, but the sweet reward is that Noel has found a spot inside you that feels wicked. The sensation you’d vaguely felt before, when rubbing your clit- that there was something deeper, an itch that needed to be scratched somewhere inside- that was real. Your boyfriend was now rubbing tight circles right there, and the pressure coupled with his darting tongue are just too much. Clinging to the dark strands of his hair and bucking yourself against his jagged nose, an orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave. It’s so overwhelming that you can’t even say anything, can’t warn Noel, who is right at the epicenter. Your thighs squeeze his head and the rhythmic contractions of your walls pulse against his fingers, determined to not let him pull away this time.
His tongue, softer now, works you through your climax, and only pulls away when you cry out from the overstimulation. He kisses your hip before sitting back up, his lips swollen from their excellent work. His chestnut hair is messed up from your grasping hands, and he is gazing at you with the drunk desire one could only give to Venus herself.
“Y’taste so good, baby.” Noel’s voice is rough, and he cages you with his arms, sweeping your mouth into a deep kiss that tastes like…you. It should make you cringe, but it doesn’t- Noel had drunken from you reverently, and his zest for it opened you to the intimacy of this taste. The room already smells of sex and sweat, a heady mixture that clings to the sheets, a background note to Noel’s familiar aftershave.
“Noel,” you murmur into his neck, fingers going to the chain he wore around his neck and fiddling with it. “Can we- I mean, can you…” You trail off, shy and so keyed up that it’s all you can do not to just moan like a bitch in heat.
He tucks a loose strand of hair back behind your ear. “Use your words, baby.”
His cock twitches between you, the thickness still and hot between your spread thighs. You can sense how close it is, almost like your clit is so sensitive it has its own awareness. While it’s still a scary proposition, that fear is being tempered by the thrill of it all. You want Noel Gallagher more than you’ve ever wanted anything before. You’ll die if he doesn’t bury himself inside you and press himself so hard against you that you fuse together. You need his lips and his kisses and his cock like you need air to breathe and water to drink. It’s too much, and a tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it. “Need you to fuck me, please. Please, Noely-“
Noel smiles an indulgent, devilish smirk, one that lights his eyes with something utterly sinful. “Are you ready for my cock, baby? Y’think you can take it?”
The answer to that second question is still very much a no, but dear god, you’ll happily die trying. He slaps the head of it against your clit, tap-tap-tapping the still sensitive bundle. Your so wet that the glistening liquid has painted itself all over your mound, your thighs, and is even beginning to mark the bedsheets. It’s clear from just a quick glance that you’re as wet as you could possibly be, and so Noel gently nudges through your folds.
It’s deceptive- the first few centimeters feel fine, but that’s because he’s not actually inside of your body yet, just in between the soaked lips. As he pushes past the threshold, he can feel your body lock up, every muscle taut. This is punctuated with a startled gasp, and together these make him pause, a pang of concern racing through him.
“Shhh, baby. Does it hurt?” His voice is soft, coaxing you out of the shell you’re trying to crawl back into. Your flushed, blushing face is turned to one side, pressed into the pillow, eyes screwed shut against a jolt of panic.
“Y-yeah. It’s too much.” To your surprise, more tears are falling now, and it’s not so much from the burning stretch, but from your frustration at not being able to take him. It’s embarrassing, how bad you want him deep inside and how utterly uncooperative your body is being despite that. You hate your body, because despite your desire, it’s betraying you; you hate yourself for not being able to give Noel some much-deserved pleasure.
Noel’s big hand rubs warm, gentle circles on the soft skin of your thigh, soothing you as he leans down to kiss away the tears. “You can handle it, love. You’re a big girl, an’ you’re made for me. Just let your body feel what it needs to feel.” Expert fingers find your clit again, rubbing in a precise rhythm. It helps, as the feeling is both a source of distraction and further lubrication. He’s able to slowly work his cock further inside, enthralled by the view of your flesh stretching to accept him and by the wet heat you welcome him with.
It’s working- biology is taking over, your overthinking ebbing into the background. Still, he needs to make some more room if he’s going to fuck you the way he wants to. “Hold on, darlin’. Lift your hips for me.” Capable hands cup your ass and adjust the tilt of your pelvis. In doing so he finally bottoms out, pressed flush against you and fighting valiantly against his need to thrust.
Time seems to stand still for a moment once he’s fully penetrated you, and it feels like an intoxicating mixture of being speared and trapped and taken. Noel is in control- isn’t he always?- and you’ve never been so vulnerable. An awareness flickers across your hazy mind in this moment how much you trust him, despite the fact that you’d never discussed anything that deep. But Noel’s inside you, on top of you, and somehow you feel safe in his arms.
You know he’s been with other women- he’s been married, for fuck’s sake, and you knew there’d been plenty of girls before that chapter too. But surely, none of those girls had ever been made to feel as good as you did now. You can feel his heartbeat inside you, beating in sync with your own- like he’s yours.
Wet kisses are trailing down your neck, and somehow your hips do instinctively know what to do. Noel starts with slow, shallow thrusts, and you gradually buck your hips to meet him, finding a natural rhythm between you. It’s a little embarrassing, the sounds your cunt makes as he works it over- wet, obscene noises that belong in a low-budget porno. Your whimpers and choked moans also wouldn’t be amiss on one of those VHS tapes, mortifying as it is to realize that yes, those sounds are indeed falling from your slick and kiss-swollen lips. It’s truly involuntary; you could only keep quiet if you bit your lip until it bled, and Noel clearly likes hearing you. “Sound like an angel, fuck. Keep doin’ that, just as y’are. You’re takin’ me so well.”
His cock is pressing and grinding against that special spot inside of you, and coupled with his attention on your clit, you’re cumming fast. It’s intense, having him inside you, feeling your cunt clench down on him with a primal desperation to not let him go. Still, he’s careful to fuck you through the wave of pleasure before tipping himself over the edge with one final thrust, burying himself as deep as he can go before filling you, warm and sticky.
Afterglow creeps into the suite, dim lights still and golden as they cast shadows over your fucked-out body. Noel’s collapsed on top of you, and even though he’s not a large man, it’s still welcome when he manages to roll over beside you, allowing you to breath a little easier. His cock feels big coming out, too, and the seep of pearly liquid that comes behind it makes your thighs tremble.
The room is quiet as you both catch your breath, the only sound being the distant hum of the city outside the tall windows. You’re boneless and spent in the best way, unable to move even if the house were burning down. It’s vaguely impressive to you that your boyfriend actually manages to rise up, pulling away with a kiss to your sweaty forehead. “Lemme get ya sorted, love.”
The damp towel Noel returns with wipes the sheen of sweat from your brow and your collarbone, before landing gently between your thighs. With little dabs, he cleanses you of his cum, and of the streaks of blood that are a testament to your former innocence. Only once he deems you sufficiently “sorted” does he toss the duvet over you both, pulling you into him with secure and loving arms.
His chest rises and falls against your back, legs tangling together. It’s a scene familiar throughout millennia- two lovers intertwined, passions temporarily sated. It’s a position that naturally comes with a surrender to the vulnerability of intimacy, to facing the fear of being known. It’s how you drift off to sleep, Noel’s wedding band cool where it’s pressed against your skin.
contains: [+] used in place of y/n, toothrotting fluff, probably grammar/spelling mistakes, very brief mentions of the band fighting with each othe
summary: since you've come to visit your brother, paul, he's offered to introduce you to his band. in exchange, you offer to paint them, telling him you need the practice anyways. you didn't think you'd meet anyone like minded until you met george.
author's note: not gonna lie to you guys, i’ve been sick all week 😓 i wrote this whole thing on my 'puter as i was trying to get better and scraped SOO MUCH of it LMAOO!! im trying something new with my writing too so hopefully you guys like it LOL!!!
“where the bloody hell is paul?” john sighs as he glances at the clock.
ringo interrupts his own humming to answer john, “he’s gone to go pick up his sister.” impatient as ever, john mumbles something sour under his breath while ringo goes back to practicing his parts of the song and humming again.
john starts talking about the wasted practice time and picking any other day for her to come ‘round but george tunes it all out. paul’s sister? he thinks, trying to remember the early days of their band. for the life of him, he can’t think of any significant memories of you.
“have we met paul’s sister?” george joins in the conversation, finally looking up from his guitar.
“don’t think i have.” ringo responds with a shrugs, “paul’s told me that she’s not one to stay in one place.”
“oh, hold on. is it that art college girl?” john perks up suddenly, looking the most positive he’s looked all day since he walked into the studio. “she’s a proper visionary, that one.”
george’s stuck in his own head, thinking of all the times he’s been over to the mccartney family house. all those times and he’s never seen paul’s sister? he’s met micheal, paul’s brother, plenty of times throughout the years and he hadn’t met you once? had he been so unobservant in the past that he’d never seen you or has paul just neglected to introduce you two?
his train of thought is interrupted by a loud voice over the intercom.
“beatles, i’m finally here!” paul’s voice sings out, a voice laughing behind him. “c’mere, [+]. don’t just laugh over there– come say hello!”
from inside the recording room, the beatles watch as paul pulls you into a side hug, putting the microphone next to your mouth. you gladly take the mic from him, looking over all the members of the band.
“hello, every beatle!” you wave enthusiastically to all of them behind the window. george swears that the polka dots on your sleeves look like smears in the air from how fast you wave to the band.
while you and paul laugh with each other and enter the recording room, everything else in the room fades into the background for george, your smiley and care-free demeanour being the only thing that remains clear.
he watches as john hugs you, asking about how life’s been treating you and your canvas. you’re humble, george notes, listening to how you describe your art as something that comes out as life goes by. he thinks that’s why john likes you so much– as he’s never met anyone he’s been as fond until you.
“oh!” paul finally says as he spots george’s very obvious staring, “i don’t think you’ve met george and ringo, have you?” you’re quick to shake your head, moving away from john to stick your hand out for george.
“hello!” your smile is infectious, his mind chirps at him, “you’re george, right?” he takes your hand, his head jerking nervously instead of nodding normally. “that’s right. it’s lovely to meet you, [+].”
neither of you pull away from the handshake, trying to read one another. the eye contact isn’t uncomfortable, surprisingly– you feel as if hes looking into your eyes to know your soul. his eyes are searching over your face, almost like he gets more and more mesmerized by you the longer he stares.
“oi, turn off your googly eyes, hassa!” ringo chimes in from behind george, clapping a loving hand on his shoulder, “i wanna say hello too.”
finally, he lets go, blinking out of his trance and moving aside for ringo to meet you. like george, you’re over the moon to meet him, shaking his hand and introducing yourself.
“[+]’s here to visit for a while and she’s offered to paint us.” paul says proudly, pushing you in front to show off how cool his sister is. “so lads, what d’ya think?”
john speaks up first, saying that the idea’s bloody brilliant and that he can’t wait to see how it comes out. ringo agrees next, joking with you to not forget to paint him in since he’s on the drums. george talks last, nodding on about how they haven’t been painted yet and how it’ll surely end up in a museum. both of you laugh and you wave off george’s comment but george isn’t joking. from everything he's seen today, he knows it’ll be phenomenal.
so there you sat, on a stool in the studio in front of an easel and canvas, carefully watching them play their songs and interact with each other. you paint the background first, then the simple silhouettes of each beatle, then the paint on top of that. each stroke of your brush brings the picture more to life, carefully adding details to each of the members.
as each hour passed, you began noticing more and more glances from harrison. his guitar doesn’t once buzz and his fingers never stop plucking on the strings but somehow, his eyes trace over the concentration of your face every other few minutes. he thought he was slick with how he was checking if you were enjoying your time in the studio, which he understands quickly that you are. you smile each time you back up to see the full canvas, not even close to the end result but somehow still satisfied with the results either way.
watching you paint every miniscule detail of this room that practically became home for the lads sparked something in him. you seemed so free from the world behind the easel, every brush against the canvas not only bettering your already easy mood but also putting him at ease too. he can feel the atmosphere change around him and the band. the once empty, somewhat tense air around the band now settled to be calm. each member is now joking and laughing through each mistake instead of snapping at one another.
he begins thinking your presence is one sent down to help them specifically.
🥛
you come by more and more frequently as the days pass by. some days you bring your canvas, your sketch book, your paints and charcoals– whatever element of art calls to you that day. you’ll be sketching paul’s bass absentmindedly while listening to him play one day and the next you’ll be blending the pastels of john’s portrait while he asks about where you’re off to next.
maybe that’s what he’s missing, george thinks to himself. maybe an outlet would make him as relaxed as you are.
🍨
“what’re you up to, luv?” a familiar british voice says behind you during the band’s lunch. the chair next to you scrapes against the tile floor. you don’t look up, your hands covered in charcoal as your pencil drags against the rough paper. “tryin’ to sketch a face by memory, george.”
he hums next to you, watching your hand sweep side to side to draw what he can only imagine is a beautiful replica of the person.
click!
it sounds next to you and you pause, looking up to see george, camera in hand pointed directly at you. he stays looking at you through the lens of the camera. you’re timeless– so timeless that he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over how stunning you are.
he looks down at your sketch book and there it is. it’s a charcoal portrait of him. it’s a side profile, his eyes focused down on something (his guitar probably, now that he thinks about it), and the lights shining down on him are creating shadows on his sharp features. no one’s ever drawn him, certainly not like this either. just looking at it, anyone could tell love and detail was put into it. the sketch is so intimate and personal to him.
“is that me?” he asks, his eyes looking over each and every small tick and line made on the paper.
you watch him marvel over your drawing and you laugh for the first time all day.
the entire day, the band’s been focused on making their songs sound new and “not like the same rubbish” meaning you were stuck listening to negotiating and bickering about instruments and lyrics. on a day that started off so gloomy and draining, george is the only one that could make you forget about it all.
“oh yeah!” you hold up the drawing for him to look at, “just wanted to do a simple warm up while you all have your break time.”
he hums and nods, eyes looking up from his drawn portrait to look over to you. you point at his camera, “you takin’ inspiration from me?” from anyone else, he’d think it’s egotistical to say that. however, from you, you say it with that same smile he fell in love with weeks ago and he can’t bring himself to find it offensive.
"yeah, yeah," he chuckles, glancing down at his camera in hand to try and hide the blush on his face. "you've caught me red-handed."
you're looking at him with a expression that he can only describe as adoration. “that's brilliant, george! is it alright if i try?” he nods softly before looking down to your hand and passing the camera to you, curious to see what you’ll do.
you closely look over the camera, turning it around and looking at each button. “always thought photography was beautiful…” you say softly, bringing the camera to your eye. from behind the lens of the camera, you look at george and you can’t help but stop and stare at him. his entire expression is full of affection but it’s his eyes that speak the most.
george’s eyes are always the easiest to read. not because he’s obvious with how he feels but because of the vulnerability that he shows is in the most subtle of ways. the fact his eyes soften when they look at you, or that they’re always crinckled at the outer corners because of his smile, or how they track after you when you leave the room– you learn quickly that he doesn’t do these things with anyone else. just you.
click!
you don’t rush to put the camera down, slowly lowering it to be met with george, who’s eyes haven’t left you once since he’s sat down. “perfect.” you practically whisper, your lips involuntarily smiling for you. he chuckles when you say that, looking away for a brief moment before meeting your eyes again. "yeah, right back at ya."
“it’s been nice,” you break the small silence between the two of you, placing the camera down on the table, “meeting someone who gets it. the beauty of art and it all.”
"what 'bout john?" he asks. "what 'bout john?" you playfully echo back at him.
he laughs at himself. "well, he's right fond of your art and all. he seems like he gets it." he explains, pointing at the portrait of him in your sketchbook. "i mean, you show this to him and he'll call you a genius and all that."
“well, he doesn't get it,” you shake your head, softly chuckling at the statement, “not fully at least. he's blinded by the fact that i was able to make it and not him. that's why he's so fond of me.”
"as in he sees you as a muse of sorts?" he clarifies, slowly understanding what you were trying to say.
you stare at the ceiling as you think. “in my opinion, i think he does.” you nod finally, “in a way. i really don't think he means to– that's just how he is.”
focusing back at george, you smile, “but you see beyond that it's me that made it, you just think it's all together lovely.”
"well, it is right lovely. yer a lovely person." he adds the last part after a moment of hesitation, "everyone who doesn't get it is daft."
you laugh, “most everyone’s daft then.”
"never say they weren't." he says it so casually you almost don’t process the words, just the weight of it.
you move closer to him, letting the moment take over your thinking. he feels your hand move to hold his cheek, gently turning his head to your lips. you press the kiss into his cheek, soft and fleeting before you pull away.
“thank you for being the only ‘not-daft’ one here.” you smile before getting up and grabbing your things to leave.
now george's sure you've been sent down to help him specifically.
if it’s okay with you could you please do anything to do with 80s george x reader? thank you !!
Racing to Cloud Nine
George Harrison x Reader
Your husband, George, loves F1 and racing. While testing his skills one cloudy English day, you both test which is better with some hands-on competition: F1 or NASCAR.
CW: fluff, NSFW (some choking), language, F1/NASCAR references (sorry if they're confusing they shouldn't impede understanding though🫶)
Word Count: 1.8k
Standing on the side of a long stretch of road beneath the cloudy skies of England, you watched in awe as George's black 1980 Porsche 924 Carrera GT appeared on the horizon and sped past you in a matter of seconds. The force of the vehicle racing through drew the skirt of your dress up in a draft that begged to follow after him and nearly stole the tan sun hat from your head, making you hurriedly shoot your hand up to hold it still.
When he reappeared from the other side and came to a skidding stop mere feet in front of you, you clicked your finger on the stopwatch and smiled down at the cocky driver who peered out the window with his elbow out to stare at you. "Well 'ello, gorgeous. Who left a pretty lil' thing like you out there all alone?" He teased with a smile, nodding his head back into the car to motion you to hop inside. You rolled your eyes in response and leaned down to kiss his warm lips before walking around the monster of a modified model to pull open the door and fold inside. The familiar smell of leather and George's cologne filled your nose as you settled into your seat and flashed him the numbers on the tiny screen. "32.3 seconds-- best time yet, Earnhardt." You jabbed back and placed the stopwatch inside the center console. George coolly placed his left hand on your upper thigh and squeezed. "Fangio, love. We're an F1 household despite your best efforts."
"Who says?"
George glanced at you from the side of his eyeline and revved the engine, giving you a chance to quickly buckle your seatbelt before he tore off down the empty roads like a light. While his right hand gripped the top of the wheel, the other slid down to your knee to find its way beneath the hem of your dress and move back up the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitched in your throat as you looked over at him, but his eyes never left the road. "George, stay focused." You warned.
"Oh I am, darlin'. Don't worry about me: I can handle a naughty girl... like the Carrera." The musician-turned-racer could be cruel when he wanted, and this was one of those times. The back streets were clear of all other vehicles, so it was obvious that the heat rising in your face and stomach was not caused by a fear of George's negligence; rather, it was the assuredness with which his hand moved along your skin and squeezed possessively to remind you who exactly controlled this ride he had the two of you on.
Trees, fields, and signs sped past your window in streaks that seemed to hypnotize you, pulling you deeper and deeper into a trance of speed and desire egged on by the rumble of the engine and your lover's touch until you finally demanded, "pull over."
The guitarist hardly gave you a glance before he obeyed and whipped the car around onto a hidden side road, his permed hair becoming the slightest bit tousled from the force. "What's wrong, love?" He questioned. Before either of you could come up with a further line of question or answer you unbuckled and climbed over the seats to cradle George's lap, hold either side of his face in your hands, and press a hard kiss against his lips which parted immediately to accept yours. His eyes shut and crinkled at the corners in satisfaction, a notion mirrored by the hands moving up from your thighs to your hips and rubbing circles in the skin.
He was deceivingly elegant in his movements while yours were hungry: hands dragging his face closer to yours, hips moving downward, tongue darting between his teeth, and breath flowing freely into his mouth as though you were feeding him oxygen and needed none for yourself. While you weren't quite sure what had led you to this place: George's sexy car? His possessive touch? The competitive nature of his international F1 versus your (disrespected) American NASCAR? How quickly he had obeyed you? It didn't matter now that you had him here.
Without your noticing, one of George's hands had left your hips and slipped out from under your dress, instead snaking its way between both your heaving bodies until his thumb and index finger sat beneath your jaw and around your throat. He pressed down on either side of your neck just enough to get your attention and halt your movements, at which point you pulled back and stared at the messy driver breathlessly. Both of your lips were swollen, faces hot, and heads of hair alive with static, but George's eyes just darkened at the delicious sight. "Backseat. Now."
The second his grip loosened, you nodded and climbed between the two black leather seats to get in the back bench seat, laying back and watching him climb out of the driver's seat to get in the passenger's and pull the seat as far forward as it could go so he could get in and give the two of you as much room as possible. It was certainly cramped, but you could never have been more thankful to be looking up at the man crawling over you. His arms now extended on either side of your head and one leg bent between yours and the backrest, his other extended on the floor of the car. At this angle his dark permed hair fell over both of your faces and covered you both in a near privacy curtain as you reconnected again, the hand carefully placed at your throat now keeping you at bay and making the kiss slow and sloppy like George preferred.
But, as you preferred, your hands reached between the two of you and found the lowest buttons of his shirt, beginning to undo the fabric and moaning into his mouth when he squeezed in response. It certainly didn't stop your movements, which succeeded and opened up his shirt to reveal his torso to your greedy hands that hurriedly moved to caress every inch of him. The guitarist chuckled against your lips and pulled away to look down and see you smirking proudly. "You 're one sneaky lil' minx." He growled playfully, to which you only looked down at his chest and sighed. "I know what I want."
George raised a brow at that response, squeezing the thumb and index finger around your neck to get your eyes on his again. When you finally made eye contact with him, you heard a zipper and felt movement below but didn't dare look away. Even when you felt his free hand reach back up underneath the skirt of your dress and grab the edge of your panties, working then off of your hips and ass with a bit of force until they were down to your knees, you didn't look away. The only indication that you were aware of anything except George's eyes was soft gasps and whimpers begging for him to move faster.
"I know what I want." He purred back almost to mock you, running his middle and index finger over the slit of your vulva before sliding them inside of you without warning. You gasped "George!" breathlessly, his name sounding like a prayer from your throat. His fingers curled skillfully and aimed to earn more beautiful sounds from your lips, which now formed to spit into your hand. You reached down between the two of you to find his already hardened length and wrapped your fingers around it, moving up and down every time he curled his fingers. You now moved in unison, your hot breaths intermingling and fogging up the windows of the modded car to be totally yours.
Once he felt you had been sufficiently relaxed-- and before he could be pushed to the brink-- he pulled his digits from inside of you and instead wrapped them around his cock to line himself up with your entrance. He looked away only once to make sure the two of you were in sync and then immediately returned his attention back to your face. "Ready?"
You nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, fuck yes." He smiled and leaned down to kiss you, squeezing your throat just enough to excite you before he pushed in altogether. You let out a long, drawn out moan into his mouth and wrapped both arms around his neck, your hands moving to curl into his soft brown hair. Once the initial burn was gone, a soft hum played through your body and George took the hint to pull back and slam inside again, repeating the motion on a steady basis that he had learned over the years.
Once a comfortable tempo was found, George pulled away from the kiss to admire your fucked-out frame. With each thrust you jolted upward and whined, eyes half-lidded but never leaving his face. "God, you're beautiful like this." He cooed while holding your jaw in place. You nearly hid from the comment but had learned after years of loving him that it would never be allowed-- nor would you truly want it to be. Instead, you released a hand from his hair and lowered it to his cheek and finally down to his chin, pulling him back into a loving kiss. "It takes a NASCAR girl to do it like this, Harrison." You teased, and he laughed.
His movements would never get sloppy, but you knew the signs of his climax: snappy thrusts, heavy breathing, and delicious whimpers as he buried his face in your neck. When that finally began and he bent into that damned spot that sent you spiraling every time, you knew it was nearly time. You wrapped your arms back around your lover and whispered his name over and over, both of you moaning and gasping lubriciously until his back arched and you both came: him a shuddering groan of your name and you with a squealing moan into his shoulder.
Your bodies laid magnetized to one another-- and the leather seat thanks to the heat-- unable to move for a long while. Rather than complain or even attempt to move, though, you instead stroked the back of George's head and back, scratching light circles underneath the fabric that now laid slack around his body. While he caught his breath laying in the space between your neck and your shoulder, shuddering whenever you brushed a little too lightly over an especially sensitive spot, you stared up at the foggy windows and smiled. Through the natural privacy blockers created by your sex rose hundreds of clouds that knew nothing about cloud nine, and that secret knowledge saved for you and your husband was enough.
