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reidmarieprentiss · 1 month ago

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Life With Spencer

Part One

Summary: Living life with Spencer, ups, downs, firsts, and hopefully -- lasts.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, mild angst, mild hurt/comfort, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: choppy -- like real life lol, open ending, smut & suggestive content (18+), criminal minds cases & violence, sooo in love, people being mean to Spencer, reader is nervous, reader is also grumpy when woken up (real), virgin!Spencer, awkward/real-life scenarios, no real timeline - they been dating for like a year…

Word count: 20.4k

a/n: i just keep imagining what it would be like to be true, domestic partner's with spencer *sighhhhh* i would love to make this a series if anyone has any suggestions for real-life scenarios with our man!!! part two is already underwayyyyyyy

main masterlist part two

It started, of all places, in a post office.

Spencer was there to send a specialty package to his mom, carefully wrapped and labeled in his neatest handwriting and checked at least three times before approaching the counter. You were there picking up a fresh sheet of funky stamps for the biweekly cards you sent to your own mom. You caught him eyeing your stamps; he caught you noticing how he triple-checked the zip code, and before either of you knew it, you were both lingering by the door, pretending you weren’t waiting for the other to say something.

He didn’t ask for your number that day. He didn’t even ask your name. But you remembered his awkward smile, and he remembered how your laugh sounded like a punctuation mark at the end of his favorite kind of sentence.

Approximately two months later, after a few more accidental post office encounters—some real, some not-so-accidental on his part—Spencer finally worked up the courage to ask if you’d like to get a cup of coffee sometime. Nothing fancy. Just... coffee. You said yes without hesitation. Not because you loved coffee or anything—you didn’t even drink it that much—but because it was him.

About five weeks after that first coffee—after getting to know each other over steaming mugs, awkward pauses, and shared smiles that turned less awkward with every meeting—Spencer asked you on an official date. He said it like it was a formal event, and you agreed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Three weeks after the first date, you had your first kiss. He asked, of course—“Can I kiss you?”—softly, like a secret he wasn’t sure he could say aloud. You whispered “Please” and met him halfway.

One day later, he showed up at your doorstep, cheeks pink, breath short, and hands full of slightly wilted grocery store flowers. He blurted out, “I’d like to be your boyfriend officially. I wish I had more patience, but I don’t.” You laughed, said yes, and pulled him inside for some checkers and records. You both forgot the flowers on the kitchen counter until hours later when he gasped and apologized profusely for “botching the presentation.”

One month into dating, you finally had a proper make-out session. It happened on your couch after you watched an old movie you’d half-paid attention to. His hands were still a little unsure like he was afraid of taking up too much space, but you guided them to your hips gently, making room for all the ways he was still learning how to want.

Three months after that—after gentle kisses, warm touches, and whispered confessions—you started experimenting more fully. Slowly. Carefully. Clothes stayed mostly, but curiosity replaced fear. Hands explored. Bodies pressed close.

When you start experimenting, it’s clear right away that Spencer is a complete virgin.

Not in the accidental, whoops-it-just-never-happened kind of way. No—he carried this with him deliberately, quietly, like a fragile artifact wrapped up in careful layers of hesitation and logic.

He’d had a few kisses here and there—fumbling, fleeting moments of curiosity and awkward courage—but nothing past that. The most notable, of course, was the one in the pool with Lila Archer, which he mentioned to you once with a sheepish, barely-there smile and a lot of eye contact with the floor.

But what else could anyone expect? He was a child prodigy placed in public schools in Las Vegas—twelve years old, surrounded by kids over his age, twice his size, and with none of the social tools they’d already started to learn. By the time those awkward, formative years passed him by, he was in college. Then, the Bureau. Then, the field.

Life didn’t exactly leave time or space for learning how to kiss someone without overthinking it, how to touch someone like it was normal, or how to be touched without freezing.

So, with you, it starts very slow.

Very, very, painfully, reverently slow.

Not because he doesn’t want it. And not because you’re hesitant, either. But because he feels everything. Every brush of your fingers over his collarbone. Every time your thigh touches his on the couch. Every time your lips linger too long near the corner of his mouth, just waiting for him to close the gap.

And Spencer doesn’t want just to do things. He wants to understand them. Feel them. Memorize the lines of your body like poetry he’s afraid to get wrong.

So the first time your hand slips beneath the hem of his shirt, his breath stutters like a skipped heartbeat.

He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t panic. But he’s so still.

Like his body doesn’t know yet what it’s allowed to want.

And you… you go slowly. Tenderly. You kiss him like you have all the time in the world and like he’s never been kissed quite right before. You let your hands rest on his chest, warm and grounding, not moving unless he shifts toward you first.

And when he finally does—when Spencer leans in, his lips parting slightly and his hands shaking just a little as they find your waist—you can feel the trust. You can feel how much it took for him to get there.

…

After all the slow touches, the careful kisses, the long silences that weren’t uncomfortable but sacred, it finally reached that tipping point. That moment when your hand, light and sure, drifted lower, brushing down the center of his chest, past his ribs, over the soft skin of his stomach—just warm skin beneath your fingers, taut with tension but never rejection.

You weren’t rushing. You would never rush him.

But he was trembling now, just slightly, beneath your hand, and when your fingers reached the waistband of his pants, pressing there gently like a question—Can I? Are we okay?—

Spencer’s breath hitched sharply in his throat, his entire body freezing like someone had hit pause on him mid-thought, mid-movement, mid-desire.

And then—

“Virgin!” he blurted out, like a siren going off in the middle of a church.

You blinked. Pulled back just a little, more surprised by the sudden volume than anything else.

He was already burying his face in his hands. “Oh my God.”

“Wait,” you said softly, trying not to laugh—not at him, never at him, but just at the Spencer-ness of the entire thing. “Did you just—did you just shout the word ‘virgin’ at me?”

His voice was muffled through his hands. “I panicked.”

You bit your lip, reaching out to gently tug his hands away so you could see his face, which was redder than you’d ever seen it.

“I figured,” you said with a small smile, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “That you hadn’t… done this before.”

Spencer stared at you, his eyes wide and embarrassed and pleading for you not to think less of him. “I didn’t want to lie. I just didn’t want to ruin anything. And then your hand was—you were right there—and I didn’t know what to do or say, and I—”

“Spence,” you cut in gently, placing your hand over his heart. “Hey. You didn’t ruin anything. I’m really glad you told me.”

He swallowed hard, trying to read your expression. “You are?”

“Of course,” you nodded. “I want all of you. That includes all the firsts, too. I don’t care how much or how little you’ve done. I just care that you’re here and that you trust me.”

He looked like he was still trying to compute that. His jaw flexed slightly, eyes darting from your mouth to your eyes and back. “I do,” he said softly. “Trust you, I mean.”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth, sweet and slow. “Then let’s take our time.”

—

It happened in the quietest moment, a few months in.

Not during a grand gesture, not in the middle of a kiss, or some cinematic slow dance under string lights. It happened while you sat on the couch with your legs draped over his, your shared dinner growing cold on the coffee table, and an old record playing in the background.

Spencer looked over at you—your hair a little messy, one sock slipping down, hoodie too frumpy, and absolutely the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen—and said it.

“I love you.”

Just like that.

No stutter. No warning. No long-winded buildup, though with Spencer, that in itself was a miracle. Just three soft, perfectly-formed words like he'd been thinking them every day and finally found the courage to let them go.

You blinked.

Your chest swelled instantly, and that kind of joy was so overwhelming that it felt like your heart might burst right through your ribs. Your whole body felt lighter like gravity itself had relaxed around you. You wanted to scream. Laugh. Cry. Dance. Climb into his lap and never get up again.

Because you loved him. So much. And hearing it from him—from Spencer, who measures his words with surgical precision, who doesn’t say things unless he means them with his entire being—meant everything.

And yet.

Your brain-to-mouth connection short-circuited.

Like… completely fried.

You opened your mouth to say it back, to tell him how long you’d wanted to say it, how long you’d wanted to hear it, how long you’d been feeling it—but nothing came out. Not one word. Not even a breath.

You could feel your face trying to smile or do something, but it wasn’t a smile. Oh God, it wasn’t a smile. It was… it was a grimace.

Not because of him. Not because of the words. Not because of the moment.

Because of you.

You were mad at yourself for freezing. For making this look like anything other than the greatest thing ever said to you—that’s ever happened to you.

Spencer’s face fell just a little—not much, just the faintest furrow of his brow, the tiniest flicker of uncertainty. He didn’t take it back. He didn’t apologize. But he noticed. Of course, he did.

And still, you couldn’t speak.

Inside, you were screaming I love you too, so loud the words echoed through your bones, pounding against your ribs like they were trying to break free.

But your lips stayed parted in useless shock, your eyes wide, and that half smile half grimace—God, that awful grimace—still hovering across your face.

And Spencer, sweet, brilliant Spencer, reached out slowly, brushing your hand with his fingertips.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “You don’t have to say it back yet.”

But you shook your head, once, twice—because no, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t why you couldn’t talk. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t hesitation. It wasn’t doubt.

It was love. Overwhelming, soul-consuming love. So big and deep it clogged your throat, tripped over every nerve ending, shorted out the parts of you meant to speak.

“Please just tell me what you’re thinking,” Spencer tried again, his voice barely above a whisper now, brittle at the edges with the kind of laugh that only shows up when someone is trying really hard not to fall apart. “I—” he looked down, smiled, almost like he was apologizing just for existing, “I can’t read you right now, and it’s… really scary.”

You opened your mouth again, but nothing came out except a soft breath that shook with the effort. You reached for his hands, squeezing them tightly in yours, grounding yourself, grounding him.

Inside, your thoughts were screaming:

I love you. I love you. I love you so much.

Why won’t the words come out?

You wanted to say it perfectly. You tried to mirror what he gave you. But your brain was betraying you in real-time, too caught up in the height of the moment to deliver the simple truth you’d been carrying around for weeks.

So you just stared at him—at the man who loved you, who chose you to say those words to first, who gave them to you without condition, without waiting for safety or the right moment. He gave them to you because they were true.

And the best you could do right now was squeeze his hand tighter and will your heart to speak for you.

But you saw the hurt flash across his face. Subtle. Quick. He blinked it away like it hadn’t happened, but it had.

Your silence was crushing him.

And still, the words wouldn’t come.

“Do you…” Spencer started, and you felt it in the way his hands tightened just slightly around yours, and his eyes searched your face like he was trying to read a language he suddenly didn’t understand. “Do you want to slow things down?”

He asked it like it physically pained him to say. Like the words had to be forced out through a throat full of thorns. Like he was terrified, they might be the match that set the whole thing on fire.

Your heart broke.

That wasn’t it at all. Not even close.

But from his side of things—from the outside looking in—it must’ve seemed like you froze because you didn’t want him to say it. Like your silence was a retreat. A signal to pump the brakes.

You shook your head so quickly that it blurred your vision, your voice finally punching through the barricade in your chest. “No.”

Spencer exhaled all at once like the breath had been stuck somewhere in his lungs since the moment he said I love you. His shoulders slumped, his expression softening instantly.

“Okay,” he breathed, a tiny smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Okay… Do you, um—” he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, suddenly shy again��“do you love me?”

You nodded fast, almost too fast. “Yes.”

His face lit up—full and real. His grin was goofy and toothy and completely unguarded, like the question had been blooming in his heart for weeks, and your answer finally let it open.

“Did you forget how to speak?” he teased gently, eyes dancing now, the tension gone.

“Mhm,” you hummed, biting your bottom lip as you felt the heat rise to your cheeks.

Spencer laughed softly and leaned in, resting his forehead against yours, still smiling. “I’ll take unintelligible nodding,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, warm, teasing, and thick with affection.

Then he tilted his head just slightly and leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a slow, sweet kiss—unhurried, tender, the kind of kiss that didn't ask for anything, only offered.

It wasn’t desperate or rushed. It wasn’t about the fear of losing each other or the relief of still being here. It was quiet. Certain. Gentle in the way only love can be when it’s finally spoken aloud.

Your eyes fluttered closed, and your hand curled into the soft cotton of his shirt as you kissed him back, anchoring yourself to the moment and to him.

And just before you pulled apart, he whispered against your lips, “I love you,” again, like he’d never get tired of saying it.

You kissed him once more instead. Slow. Firm. Certain.

…

The exploration continued—sweet, slow, exploratory. Neither of you were in a rush to reach any finish line, and truthfully, there was something delicious about not rushing. About drawing everything out until the tension between you was so thick, it clung to your skin like humidity.

It started with kisses that deepened over time—long, open-mouthed, tongue-slow kisses that left both of you breathless and warm. Your hands started roaming more freely, lingering on his hips, his ribs, and the dip of his lower back, and when you slid them beneath his shirt just to feel the heat of him, Spencer whimpered like you’d done something forbidden.

And he loved it.

You touched over clothes for a long time, and somehow, that made it feel more intense. The layers didn’t mute anything—they made it better. More anticipation. More teasing. Rubbing, pressing, dragging your palm down the length of him through denim, through soft cotton pajama pants when he was sleepily pliant in bed—he’d gasp like he couldn’t believe how good it felt. Like you were magic, and he was still trying to figure out how.

But grinding?

Spencer really, really liked grinding.

The first time it happened, it hadn’t been intentional. You were in his lap, straddling him during a particularly intense makeout session on your couch, your bodies pressed so close you couldn't tell whose heart was beating faster. You shifted your hips without thinking, just adjusting your weight—and he whined.

A real, honest-to-God whine. High-pitched and needy, muffled by the kiss but unmistakable.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, lips swollen, your breath ghosting over his. “Oh,” you said, surprised and wickedly delighted. “You like that.”

His head fell back against the couch cushion, eyes fluttering shut, throat working hard around the truth. “Yes,” he breathed, like it pained him to admit it. “So much.”

From then on, it became a regular part of your experimentation. Clothes stayed on, but the heat between your bodies didn’t need anything more. You’d climb into his lap or pull him into yours, and slowly, so slowly, you’d move, letting your hips rock against his, coaxing out all those noises he barely knew he could make.

He’d grip your hips like you might float away, bury his face in your shoulder, and whisper your name over and over like it was a prayer. Sometimes, he’d tremble before anything even happened—just from the rhythm, the friction, the build.

And you loved watching him unravel.

You made it safe. You made it sweet. You made it good.

And Spencer? Spencer made it feel like no one else had ever touched you like this. Because no one had ever made him feel like this.

But the first time Spencer finished in his pants?

God, was he mortified.

It wasn’t even supposed to go that far—not technically. You’d been kissing in bed, bodies pressed close, your hands under his shirt, his on your thighs, your hips moving in lazy, deliberate circles against his. It was slow, indulgent, just another one of those experimental nights where nothing needed to happen, where the point wasn’t release—it was intimacy.

But his breathing had gone uneven, his hands had tightened their grip, and he had buried his face in your neck like he was trying to disappear inside you completely. You knew. You knew what was coming. You could feel it.

And then, with a gasp so quiet it sounded like he was shocked it happened at all—he came.

In his pants.

And froze.

Completely, totally, tragically still.

“Don’t,” he whispered hoarsely, his face still pressed into your skin, and you could feel the heat radiating from his ears. “Oh my God. Don’t say anything.”

You blinked, momentarily stunned, then slowly pulled back just enough to look at him.

His face was red. Not blushing. Not pink. Red. Like he was seconds away from dissolving into atoms and leaving this plane of existence entirely.

“I—” he stammered, already reaching for the edge of the blanket like he might try to escape from under it. “That wasn’t supposed to— I didn’t mean to—God.”

But you couldn’t even speak.

Not because you were embarrassed. Not because you were annoyed.

Because you were floored.

You had never seen anything so honest, so raw, so real in your life.

You bit your lip, watching him scramble, and you could swear to God you’d died and gone to heaven.

The man you loved had just lost control with you.

You could feel the mortification radiating off of him in waves. His entire body had gone still in that telltale Spencer Reid way like he was internally building a forty-page psychological thesis on his own perceived humiliation.

You sat back slowly, your hands still on his shoulders, grounding him, steadying him.

“Hey,” you whispered, leaning in to nudge his temple with your nose. “Look at me?”

He hesitated. Then he lifted his face just barely, just enough for you to see the blooming red flush across his cheeks and neck. His lashes lowered like he couldn’t bear to meet your eyes.

“I—” he started voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to. It just—you—and then—”

“Shhh,” you murmured, cradling his jaw in both hands. “You’re okay.”

His eyes fluttered shut again, lips pressing into a tight line, but then you kissed the corner of his mouth—soft, reassuring, no heat this time, just warmth.

When you pulled back, your smile was easy, teasing, but genuine. “Spencer… that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He let out a choked laugh—more like a groan, really—and dropped his hands over his face in total embarrassment.

And then—

“You’re evil,” he muttered, voice muffled by the back of his hand, but it didn’t have an ounce of venom. If anything, it was laced with disbelief. With wonder. With that particular kind of amazement, only Spencer could radiate after experiencing something that both shocked and deeply overwhelmed him.

You didn’t say anything right away. You just smiled against his skin, pressing lazy, lingering kisses along the edge of his jaw, then lower, to the slope of his throat—soothing, adoring. Reassuring him with touch, because you knew his brain was still spinning, his thoughts still racing, probably analyzing your tone, your face, your body language, checking for signs of judgment that would never be there.

“I mean it,” you whispered eventually, your voice warm and honest against the damp heat of his neck. “That was… incredibly hot.”

Spencer groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re going to keep saying that, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation, grinning. “Forever. I’ll probably bring it up at random moments. Grocery store. Your birthday. Funerals—”

“Funerals?!” he squeaked, lifting his head to look at you, horrified and helpless.

You shrugged, delighted. “If the memory hits, it hits.”

He dropped his head back onto the pillow with a dramatic thunk. “I’ve created a monster.”

“You created a very happy girlfriend,” you corrected, crawling up just enough to look him in the eyes. His were still wide, still a little panicked, but they’d softened now—especially under the weight of your smile.

Your hand came to rest against his cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye. “Spence,” you said softly, seriously, “you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t embarrass yourself. You didn’t scare me off. You let yourself feel, and that’s beautiful. It’s real.”

He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… I’ve never—”

“I know.” You kissed him again, this time slow and deep and full of all the words you hadn’t yet said.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes were glassy in that way that always made your chest ache.

“I love you,” you said gently, almost like a secret. “Every part of you. Even the part that panics when things feel too good.”

Spencer let out a quiet breath, one that felt like a release, and turned his face into your palm.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

Then, after a beat—

“…But I do need to change my pants.”

You snorted, collapsing onto the bed beside him in a fit of laughter. “Deal. But I’m helping.”

“Of course you are,” he grumbled, but you could feel him smiling.

…

And approximately five months after that, he asked if you wanted to have sex.

He didn’t pressure. He didn’t push. He sat beside you in bed after a particularly long, drawn-out evening of tangled limbs, whispered names, and asked quietly, “Would you want to, sometime?”

You turned to him, brushing the hair from his forehead, and asked just as gently, “Do you feel ready?”

And when he nodded—just once, eyes wide and sure—you kissed him and said, “Then yes.”

—

You and Spencer had joined the team out for a night at O’Kieffe’s, the warm, slightly too loud bar just a block away from Quantico that everyone seemed to gravitate toward after a good case or a big change. It was the latter tonight—David Rossi had officially joined the BAU, and the team wanted to mark the occasion with drinks, stories, and maybe a little too much bar food.

Spencer had been hesitant at first. Bars weren’t exactly in his comfort zone—the crowd, the noise, the unpredictable lighting, the clinking of glasses, and the echo of music bouncing off the wood-paneled walls all tended to overwhelm him faster than he liked to admit. But when you gently placed your hand on his arm, reminding him that this wasn’t a night about chaos but celebration, he nodded.

He could do this—for you. And maybe even a little for Rossi.

Because the truth was, Spencer was excited. Really, truly excited. He wasn’t always great at expressing that kind of thing in the ways people expected—there’d be no loud cheers or performative toasts—but there was a particular brightness in his eyes as he adjusted his sweater cuffs and followed you into the bar.

Rossi was a legend. Spencer had read everything the man had written—twice—and the idea of learning from someone with field experience that rivaled Gideon's but without the same emotional volatility was, in his words, “an intellectually stabilizing opportunity.” You’d laughed when he said it, but you’d seen it for what it was: Spencer was hopeful. That was rare. And beautiful.

As for you, you were just happy to see the team again. The BAU didn’t often give space to breathe, let alone celebrate, and being surrounded by the people who lived in the trenches with Spencer—Derek with his teasing, Penelope with her sparkle, JJ already organizing everyone's drink orders, and Emily nursing a beer in her corner—made the night feel a little lighter.

You and Spencer had slid into the booth side by side, your thigh resting against his under the table. He was already reciting a fact about Italian wine in Rossi’s honor before you’d even removed your jacket, and you smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder for just a second as the bar's noise faded into the background.

“Hey,” JJ grinned as she approached with two menus and two drinks. “Look who came out of his cave tonight.”

Spencer blinked up at her, already mid-sentence about vineyard elevations. “Technically, I was in the lab today—”

JJ handed you a drink and ruffled his hair affectionately. “Uh-huh. Sure, genius. Welcome to the land of the living.”

You laughed softly into your glass. Spencer looked at you, eyes squinting like, is that supposed to be funny?, and you just leaned closer, whispering, “You’re doing great, baby.”

Spencer relaxed for the first time since walking in—just a little, but it was enough.

Predictably, Spencer asked for an Arnold Palmer—his go-to when he wanted to blend in at a bar. The bartender raised an eyebrow, as they always did, but he didn’t notice. Or if he did, he pretended not to, too focused on getting the ratio of iced tea to lemonade just right when he asked. You, on the other hand, simply shrugged when the girls offered to order something for you.

“Surprise me,” you’d told Penelope, sliding the laminated menu back across the sticky table. “Just nothing blue.”

Penelope gasped, one hand over her heart. “Blasphemy. You don’t like blue drinks?”

“I don’t like them when they come up,” you replied, and Emily, across from you, choked on her beer from laughing.

JJ leaned in. “I’m getting you something sweet but deadly. You’re welcome.”

You grinned. “I trust you with my life and my blood sugar.”

By the time your mystery drink arrived—pink, fizzy, and dangerously good—you were nestled between Spencer and Emily, your arm tucked behind Spencer’s back along the booth. He sat upright, knees a little too close together, fingers twitching over his glass as he listened intently to Rossi talk about his early days in the field.

He wasn’t talking much, but his eyes were wide and bright, darting between whoever was speaking and the condensation on his glass like he was cataloging every second of the conversation. Every now and then, he’d lean into you slightly when he heard something particularly interesting or particularly absurd, his shoulder bumping yours like a silent: Did you catch that?

You didn’t work for the BAU, didn’t know all the lingo, the history, the inside jokes that shot back and forth like rubber bands across the table—but it didn’t matter. You liked watching them. The way JJ would cover her mouth when she laughed too hard. The way Derek told a story with his whole body, practically reenacting the events across the table. The way Penelope reached for everyone’s arm when she got excited, physically incapable of holding her enthusiasm in place.

“I’m telling you,” Derek said now, pointing an accusatory finger at Emily. She dropped her badge into the sewer grate and then tried to fish it out with a police baton—in front of the suspect.”

“I still caught him,” Emily muttered, nursing her drink.

“Yeah, because he was laughing too hard to run.”

Everyone howled. Even Spencer, who usually reserved his laughter for niche jokes or obscure references, chuckled into his Arnold Palmer.

You leaned in, mouth near his ear. “You look happy,” you said softly.

He turned to you, his smile shy but steady. “I am.” He looked back at the table, then at you again. “I think… this is good. It feels good.”

And it did. There was something about the warmth of the bar, the laughter, the closeness of bodies pressed into booths and leaning across tabletops that felt more like a family reunion than a work celebration.

When Rossi raised his glass and toasted to “the next chapter,” everyone clinked their drinks together with grins and mock solemnity. You lifted yours, too, even though you didn’t know what chapter they were on.

Spencer clinked your glass gently with his own, then held your gaze for a second too long.

“What?” you asked, amused.

He shook his head, smiling softly. “Nothing. Just glad you’re here.”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Morgan groaned dramatically, clutching his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “Reid, you’re buying the next round for burning our eyes with your little love fest over here.” He fake gagged for good measure, head tilted back like he was in the final scene of a tragedy.

Penelope slapped his shoulder with a firm thwack, her bangled wrist jingling as she did. “Derek! He’s in love! Leave him alone!”

Spencer, mid-sip of his Arnold Palmer, choked slightly on the lemonade, the tips of his ears immediately blooming pink.

Across the booth, Hotch barely disguised his amusement, lips twitching toward a smile that never fully broke through—but his eyes gave him away. “It is Spencer’s turn,” he said, deadpan.

That was all it took.

With a quiet sigh and cheeks still flushed like he'd accidentally been assigned to deliver a TED Talk on romance, Spencer gave you a look that was half wish me luck and half I should’ve stayed home. Then, wordlessly, he scooted out of the booth, brushing your knee as he passed, and stood beside the table, preparing to memorize everyone’s drink orders.

“Okay,” he muttered, locking in. “Everyone… just… say it slowly. No overlapping. JJ, you first.”

It was a mess, of course. Everyone calling out orders with no respect for his system—Penelope wanted something sparkly and strong but not too strong, Derek wanted whatever beer came in a glass, not a mason jar, JJ changed her mind twice, and Emily was now teasing Spencer by naming obscure cocktails just to see if he’d recognize the ingredients.

He somehow caught it all with focused determination.

As he finally finished and headed for the bar, Rossi leaned back in his seat with the kind of casual flair that only came with age and absolute confidence. Without a word, he reached into his jacket pocket and slipped a black card between two fingers, holding it just low enough that only Spencer could see.

Spencer blinked at him.

Rossi gave a sly wink. “Go on, kid. It’s on me tonight.”

Spencer hesitated, brow furrowed, fingers curling slightly at his sides. “But—”

“No buts,” Rossi interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “You’re celebrating me, remember? Least I can do is pay for the honor.”

Spencer looked down at the card now resting in his palm, then back at Rossi. The older man was already returning to his drink as if the conversation was finished.

And, well, it was.

Spencer tucked the card carefully into his wallet and headed for the bar, still blushing, still flustered—but smiling all the same.

So he made it up there—shoulders slightly hunched, hands fidgeting with the corner of a cocktail napkin, cheeks still pink from Rossi’s gesture, Derek’s teasing, and the general social exhaustion that came with being Spencer Reid in a crowded bar.

He’d given the bartender the list in his soft, fast voice—apologetic but thorough. “One scotch neat, one whiskey sour, one gin and tonic, two beers, one cosmopolitan, one appletini, and—uh—an Arnold Palmer. Please.”

The bartender, to their credit, didn’t even blink. They just nodded and turned away, starting on the scotch first. Spencer exhaled, relieved, and stepped aside slightly to make room at the bar for someone else.

But apparently, someone had been listening.

And wasn’t impressed.

Behind him, a man snorted loudly—one of those exaggerated, performative sounds meant to be heard. “Jesus, what are you ordering for? A daycare?”

Spencer blinked, head turning slowly, confused. “I—what?”

The man was older, maybe in his late thirties or forties. He was tall and broad, with the overconfident stance of someone who had never once questioned his place in the world. He was nursing a Jack and Coke as if it gave him some kind of authority, his eyes rolling toward Spencer as if he were the one holding up the entire establishment.

“I said,” the man drawled, louder now, clearly looking for an audience, “if you’re gonna order drinks for the whole choir group, maybe let the rest of us get a round in first.”

Spencer stared, eyebrows pinching in confusion. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was a limit on group orders.”

The man snorted again. “Well, there should be. Who even drinks an appletini anymore? You trying to get your girlfriend drunk off juice boxes?”

Spencer's mouth opened, then closed again, a dozen facts about cocktail popularity and historical alcohol trends immediately loading into his brain, ready to be deployed like a defense mechanism. But something about the man’s smug grin—so certain, so pleased with himself—stopped him.

Because this wasn’t a conversation. It was a provocation.

Spencer shifted on his feet, visibly uncomfortable but unwilling to rise to the bait. “They're for my friends,” he said simply, voice low. “It’s a celebration.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay, genius. How about next time you call ahead for catering?”

At that moment, the bartender slid the scotch in front of Spencer, followed quickly by the whiskey sour.

Spencer nodded his thanks but didn’t look away from the man, who had turned back to his drink with a smirk, clearly satisfied he’d gotten in the last word.

But then, with a calmness that even surprised himself, Spencer murmured, “You know, statistically, men who police other people’s drink orders are often projecting latent insecurities about their own masculinity, particularly when in public settings designed to measure dominance, such as bars.”

The man blinked.

Spencer reached for the next glass being slid across to him. “But please,” he added, without looking up, “tell me more about how a fruit-based cocktail threatens you.”

It was clinical. Precise. Barely a jab at all—at least, not to most people. But to a drunk man with too much ego and not enough brain cells to process nuance, it was fighting words.

The stool next to Spencer scraped back with an ugly screech as the man stood, puffing out his chest like a cartoon character about to pick a bar brawl.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” he slurred, stepping in too close, looming over Spencer like that would somehow make him feel bigger, stronger, smarter.

Spencer stiffened immediately, his fingers tightening slightly around the rim of the next drink, his eyes fixed forward like if he didn’t make direct eye contact, he could defuse the situation with sheer avoidance.

“I didn’t insult you,” he said carefully, quietly. “I made an observation. Based on empirical data.”

“Oh, data?” the man sneered, leaning in now, the smell of cheap liquor wafting off him. “You one of those little trivia guys? That it? You think you’re better than me because you read a book?”

Spencer’s breath caught, his shoulders rising a little, defensively—familiar posture. You’d seen it before. Fight or freeze.

And this wasn’t Spencer’s scene. Not by a long shot. He could navigate conversations with senators, unravel a serial killer’s psychosis with a few words—but bar aggression? Drunk men with something to prove? That was another beast entirely.

“I’m just here to pick up drinks for my team,” Spencer said, holding the man’s stare now, standing his ground but not escalating. “I don’t want trouble.”

Unfortunately, the guy did.

He shoved Spencer’s shoulder hard enough to slosh two drinks onto the bar. “Then don’t go running your mouth like a smartass, Poindexter.”

The bartender snapped to attention. “Hey!”

And before the situation could combust any further—

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—”

Derek Morgan appeared out of nowhere behind the guy, voice low, controlled, but laced with threat. He placed one firm hand on the man’s shoulder and turned him just enough to get him out of Spencer’s space.

“This guy bothering you, Pretty Boy?” Derek asked without breaking eye contact with the drunk.

Spencer cleared his throat, stepped back, adjusting his glasses. “He had some… strong opinions about fruit-based beverages.”

Derek clicked his tongue, expression flat as he stared the man down. “Yeah, well, I have strong opinions about idiots starting fights in public places. You wanna keep going?”

The man blinked, unsteady on his feet now that he was no longer the biggest guy in the conversation. He mumbled something that might have been “not worth it,” and turned, staggering back to his bar stool further down the line.

Derek waited a beat, watching him go. Then he turned back to Spencer, his demeanor shifting instantly. “You good?”

Spencer nodded, still holding two drinks with extreme care. “Yes. That was… unpleasant.”

“You wanna head back with what you’ve got? I can come grab the rest.”

“No,” Spencer said, squaring his shoulders like he needed to prove to himself that he could finish the job. “I’m okay.”

Derek smiled, clapped a hand to his back. “Proud of you, man.”

Spencer sighed. “I was trying to de-escalate.”

Derek chuckled. “Spencer. You probably just told a drunk guy his manhood was tied to a cosmo.”

“…Statistically, it probably is.”

“Let’s just get these drinks.”

When the two men arrived back at the booth, arms full of drinks and expressions full of something, the mood shifted immediately. Whatever easygoing laughter had been drifting between the team members froze mid-air the second they saw Spencer’s pink ears and Derek’s look of guarded amusement.

You sat up straight, eyes narrowing instinctively as you scanned Spencer’s face—flushed, stiff around the jaw, very clearly trying to pretend nothing had happened.

Emily was the first to speak, her voice laced with suspicion. “What the hell was all that?”

“Yeah,” JJ chimed in, frowning as she took her drink from the line Spencer was meticulously assembling on the table. “What did Macho Man want with Spence?”

Penelope gasped. “Wait—was there drama?!”

Spencer sighed, softly and with great effort, as if this was the last thing he wanted to relive. Derek, on the other hand, leaned back in the booth like he was settling in for storytime.

“Oh, you should’ve seen it,” Derek said, grinning. “Reid here almost triggered a bar fight because someone took offense to him ordering an appletini.”

“It was not about the appletini,” Spencer muttered, sitting down beside you. “It was about the man’s deeply rooted insecurities surrounding masculinity and his inappropriate hostility in response to a completely factual observation.”

You turned to him immediately. “What did you say?”

Spencer gave you a look. The one that always meant you’re going to mock me but I’m not wrong. He folded his hands in front of him like he was testifying in court. “I asked him to tell me more about how a fruit-based cocktail threatens him.”

Emily slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. JJ stared at him, blinking in disbelief. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, he did,” Derek confirmed, shaking his head. “I got over there just in time to stop the guy from launching into him.”

“Is he okay?” Penelope asked, peering over Spencer’s shoulder as if expecting to find evidence of bruising or trauma.

“I’m fine,” Spencer said flatly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… a little overstimulated. I didn’t expect to be insulted over a beverage. And shoved.”

You frowned, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “Someone touched you?”

Spencer nodded. “It wasn’t hard. It was just… unwelcome.”

“That’s it,” you said, scooting back in your seat as if about to go confront the man yourself. “Where is he? I just wanna talk. Maybe throw an appletini in his face.”

Spencer caught your hand quickly, and despite everything, a small smile tugged at his lips. “It’s okay. Derek handled it.”

You looked at Derek, who gave you a look that said handled might be a mild way of putting it.

“I used my words,” Derek said innocently. “Mostly.”

The table burst into laughter, and the tension slowly unraveled.

But you leaned in close to Spencer, lowering your voice just enough so it was only for him. “Are you okay, baby?”

His eyes met yours instantly, the tension still clinging to the corners of his mouth but softening under your gaze. You could see how hard he was trying to seem fine for everyone else’s sake—keeping his posture stiff, his voice level—but here, with you so close, it cracked a little.

Spencer nodded quickly, that earnest little head bob that told you he was trying to be brave. “I am,” he said, almost like a question he was answering for himself as much as for you. Then, more gently, “Can we go soon?”

“We can leave whenever you want, my love,” you said without hesitation, your hand sliding to rest on his thigh under the table—a quiet, grounding touch, warm and solid.

Unlike the man at the bar, whose shove had left a static buzz of tension under Spencer’s skin, your touch had the opposite effect. His muscles eased almost instantly under your palm like a string had been loosened somewhere deep in his chest.

He exhaled. Really exhaled. Not one of those shallow, polite breaths he gave when people asked how he was—but a real, whole-body sigh.

Spencer reached down to place his hand over yours on his thigh, holding it there like a lifeline. “Thank you,” he murmured.

You gave him a small smile, one that said always and pressed your thumb against his leg in a slow, gentle circle.

The rest of the table carried on around you—Derek recounting the confrontation to Penelope with far more dramatic flair than necessary, JJ laughing into her drink, Emily shaking her head like she couldn’t believe this night was real—but all you could focus on was Spencer.

His hand in yours. His heartbeat slowing. The way his body leaned subtly closer to you now, like he knew he was safe again.

And soon, the two of you would be walking out of this place together, hand in hand, far from anyone who’d ever make him feel small.

—

You wanted to make tonight special for your man.

Spencer deserves so much. The world and more.

But tonight, you’ll start with a room—his room—lit soft and made sacred with intention.

So you get a little cheesy with it. Romantic. Old-school. The kind of thing people roll their eyes at in movies but secretly dream of. You plan.

You sneak into his apartment while he’s at work—not really sneaking, of course; you have a key, gifted in a quiet moment weeks ago when he pressed it into your hand like he was asking a question he couldn’t voice.

You let yourself in and begin.

First, the bed. His iron-framed, slightly squeaky, endearingly old-fashioned bed that he once admitted, reminded him of something he saw in a museum as a kid. You wind strands of fairy lights around the bars—golden and warm, gentle on the eyes, soft enough to keep the room dreamy but clear. You test them a few times, adjusting one crooked hook, unplugging, and replugging until they fall just right.

Next, come the flower petals—not just roses. You went for color. Texture. Variety.

Soft pinks, fiery oranges, cool lavender, pale yellows. A little chaotic. A little wild. Like your love for him. You scatter them across the sheets like confetti at a celebration. Because it is one.

You set out the unscented candles on his nightstand—small, discreet, and safe. You almost got the kind that crackles like a fire, but you remembered his sensitivity to noise as much as scent.

You want to indulge him, not overwhelm him.

On the foot of the bed, you place the box of condoms and a bottle of lube—both neatly arranged, unassuming, and respectful, but there. Like a promise, not a demand.

It’s not about seduction, not in the usual sense. It’s about care.

It’s about telling him without words, You are safe here. You are wanted. You are adored.

And it’s about readiness. His and yours.

So you sit on the edge of the bed when it’s all finished, looking around the room, heart full and nervous, because love like this—good love—always comes with a bit of fear.

Now, all that’s left is to wait for the man you love to walk through the door.

…

Spencer trudged up the steps to his apartment, every muscle in his body heavy with the weight of the day. His satchel strap bit into his shoulder, and the knot in his neck hadn’t loosened since 2:17 p.m. when the case had turned from frustrating to tragic. By the time he reached his front door, he was fully prepared to collapse, microwave something vaguely edible, and not speak to another human being until at least tomorrow.

But then—

He opened the door and paused.

Your shoes. Neatly placed by his coat rack.

You wore the same pair when you went to that used bookstore downtown and got caught in the rain on the walk back. They were the ones with the faint scuff mark near the toe where you tripped trying to race him to the car.

Spencer’s breath caught, and without even realizing it, his hand relaxed on the strap of his satchel.

“Y/N?” he called out, his voice already softer. Hopeful.

“In here, lover,” you sang back, your voice floating out from his bedroom, warm and amused and full of something deliciously mischievous.

Spencer blinked, confused for half a second by the nickname—it wasn’t your usual one. Then he laughed under his breath, his lips twitching into a smile that pushed away the rest of the day’s gloom like sunlight through storm clouds.

He slipped off his shoes, his heart pounding faster now—not with anxiety, but with anticipation.

He had no idea what was waiting for him. Only that you were here. And that was always enough.

He dropped his satchel carefully by the door, toes brushing his shoes into their usual corner, both out of habit and because he knew you liked when things were neat. And something about tonight—something about your voice and the way it lilted with that playful energy—told him this wasn’t a night for messes.

He padded down the hallway slowly, each step easing him further out of his work mindset.

You called him lover.

Lover.

His ears were still warm from it.

The bedroom door was open, but dimly lit from within, and when Spencer stepped into the doorway—his hand grazing the frame like he needed to steady himself—his breath left him in a stunned, hushed exhale.

“Y/N…” he said again, but it wasn’t a question this time. It was a reverent acknowledgment.

The fairy lights cast golden halos over everything—the iron of the bedframe, the petals scattered in a riot of color over his sheets, your silhouette seated calmly in the middle of it all, serene and radiant and waiting for him.

The room looked like something out of a book he hadn’t read yet. Like something meant to be unwrapped slowly. Like something dreamed about.

You looked at him with a grin that betrayed your nerves and your excitement all at once. “Hi,” you said, your voice gentler now. “Rough day?”

Spencer’s hand dragged slowly down his chest like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. He nodded, blinking at you like you were a mirage. “It… was. But this—” he gestured to the lights, the petals, you— “This is…”

“Too much?” you asked quietly.

He shook his head fast, walking toward you now like he remembered how to move. “No. No, it’s—perfect.”

You reached for him, and he came willingly, kneeling on the bed beside you, hands cautious as they cupped your face.

“I didn’t want to rush,” you whispered, your thumb brushing the slight furrow between his brows. “But I wanted you to know I’m still ready. If you are.”

Spencer’s breath caught, and he swallowed hard, his forehead leaning against yours like he needed the contact to hold himself together.

“I’ve never felt more ready for anything,” he whispered back, his voice trembling with awe.

But still, Spencer was nervous.

No, nervous didn’t quite cover it—he was trembling with a complex blend of anticipation, reverence, and a lingering thread of panic that tugged at him even as he stood in front of you, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.

His fingers trembled slightly as you helped him out of his shirt, your touch so gentle, so patient, that it almost brought tears to his eyes. Every movement of yours said we’re okay. You’re safe. I want this with you.

And he did want it. He’d said yes with more certainty than he’d ever given anything outside of a statistical theorem. But the reality of it—being here, with you, about to cross that line—was almost too much. He didn’t know where to look. His gaze darted from your eyes to the sheets to the petals and back again, never quite settling.

You could feel how tightly he was holding himself together. Not out of fear but because he wanted so badly to get it right. To be everything you deserved.

You smiled gently, stepping close and running your fingers along his jaw. “Hey,” you said softly, your tone like silk. “You’re allowed to look at me, you know.”

He swallowed hard and gave a jerky little nod. “I know. I just—I’m trying to be respectful. And grounded. And not... combust.”

You giggled, your fingers trailing down to the hem of your own shirt. “Well, if you combust, I’ll stop.”

“Don’t combust,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

And then—without flourish, without teasing—you pulled your shirt up and over your head and tossed it to the floor.

And Spencer—

Spencer stopped functioning.

Whatever careful control he’d been trying to maintain, whatever self-soothing technique he was cycling through in his mind—it all evaporated.

His jaw quite literally dropped. His eyes widened like a Victorian gentleman seeing an ankle for the first time.

You had never seen anyone look more stunned.

And then he said it. Barely above a whisper. Like it was a scientific observation, a sacred discovery, and a prayer, all at once:

“…Boobs.”

You bit your lip, trying so hard not to laugh. “Yes, Spence. Boobs.”

He blinked, still staring. “Those are… incredible.”

You stepped closer, chest brushing against his, watching as his entire body stiffened, overwhelmed in the most delightful way. “You can touch them, you know.”

“I can?” he asked, eyes snapping to yours with something just shy of awe.

With your guidance, you nodded slowly, and his hands lifted, tentative but eager, warm palms grazing over your skin like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

And that was it.

That was when all of Spencer Reid’s encyclopedic knowledge, IQ points, and graduate degrees—just left the building.

His brain?

Off.

His mouth?

Open.

His dick?

Throbbing.

His hands cupped you with the kind of reverence usually reserved for priceless artifacts or first editions.

And you? You were beaming.

Because seeing Spencer lose his carefully composed mind over you—over something as simple and as yours as your bare chest—was everything you’d hoped for and more.

His hands, once tentative, were now resting firmly on your chest. Spencer had gone quiet, which wasn’t unusual for him—he was a man who could live inside silence with ease—but this was different. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes wide as he watched his own hands explore you, gently, like you were something fragile and sacred.

He looked up at you with wonder written all over his face, his cheeks flushed, curls hanging slightly over his forehead. “You’re so soft,” he whispered, almost like he was afraid saying it too loud would break the moment.

You smiled, heart thudding in your chest at the way he marveled at you like he’d never seen anything so beautiful. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “I didn’t know—I mean, I knew technically, but—” his eyes flicked back down, thumbs brushing slowly over your skin, “—this is better than any description I’ve ever read.”

That made you laugh, and the sound of it seemed to ground him, his shoulders relaxing just enough that you could see him starting to come back to himself. Not the nervous, overthinking version—your Spencer. The one who trusted you. The one who wanted this.

“You okay?” you asked, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone.

“I think I’m in love with your entire body,” he murmured, dazed and breathless. Then blinked. “And yes. I’m okay.”

You leaned forward and kissed him soft and slow, letting your fingers trail down his spine, pressing gently at the small of his back. He gasped a little when your hips shifted, brushing against him where he was already hard and twitching in his boxers.

He whimpered. You felt it rather than heard it—low in his throat, vibrating through his chest.

“Can I take these off?” you asked, fingers ghosting over the waistband of his pants.

He nodded quickly, breath shallow. “Yes. Yes, please.”

You moved slowly, tugging his pants and underwear down with care, and he hissed through his teeth when the cool air met his skin. He was already flushed, already leaking at the tip, and so sensitive that when you brushed your hand along him lightly, his whole body arched.

“God,” he gasped, burying his face in your neck. “I—I might not last long. I’m sorry.”

You smiled and turned your face to kiss his temple. “Spence. I want you to feel good. That’s the whole point.”

He nodded, clinging to you, one arm wrapping around your waist as if he needed to anchor himself. You made sure everything was slow. Gentle. The kind of slow that said there’s no rush, that said we have all the time in the world, that said I want you to feel safe.

Every touch was measured—not tentative, not clinical, but intentional. Like music played on vinyl, every movement had its own warm, human hum.

When you reached for the condom, he caught your wrist—not firmly, not to stop you, but just enough to pause you.

“C-can I… can I do it?” he asked, voice so quiet it cracked in the middle. “I—I read about it. I practiced.”

Your heart nearly burst.

You nodded immediately, smiling, letting the packet rest in his palm. “Of course, baby. I love that you did research.”

Spencer exhaled and nodded like you’d given him permission to breathe for the first time in ten minutes. His fingers worked the foil carefully, a little clumsy but deliberate. You saw the concentration on his face, the way he bit the inside of his cheek as he rolled it down himself with both hands, going slow and steady like it was an experiment he’d studied and was now conducting in real-time.

When he finished, he looked up at you, a little pink from embarrassment, a little proud. “I, uh… I read that using both hands gives you better control and minimizes breakage. And I didn’t want to fumble if I waited till the moment—”

You leaned down and kissed him before he could spiral. “You did perfect.”

He flushed deeper, blinking up at you like you’d just handed him the Nobel Prize.

Then you reached for the lube.

Spencer’s breath hitched.

He watched with fascination—his eyes dark and wide—as you popped the cap and squeezed a small amount onto your fingers.

“Okay?” you asked, holding his gaze.

He nodded slowly, lips slightly parted. “Yeah… yes. Please.”

You reached between your bodies and wrapped your slicked hand around him, and he gasped.

Not just a sharp intake of breath, not just a quiet sound—a whole-body gasp. His hips twitched off the bed, his fingers dug into the sheets like he was trying to stay grounded, and his head tipped back into the pillow with a groan that echoed in the quiet room.

“F-fuck,” he whispered, eyes fluttering closed. “I—I didn’t—I didn’t expect it to feel like that.”

You stroked him once, slow and careful, and his whole body shuddered.

You leaned close to his ear, voice low and teasing but full of love. “Too much?”

“No,” he rasped, shaking his head furiously. “Not too much. Just… a lot. I’m trying not to—”

You smiled, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “You don’t have to try so hard. Just feel it. I’ve got you.”

And he did. He let go.

Of the nerves. Of the pressure. Of the shame.

He let himself be exactly who he was—soft, flushed, wide-eyed, and open—yours.

And when you finally guided him inside you—after his hands had gripped the sheets, after you’d whispered to each other that you were ready—he gasped so hard you worried for a moment he’d stopped breathing.

His hands found your waist. His head tipped back. His lips parted, eyes squeezed shut.

“Oh my God.” Spencer squeaked more than said.

You stilled, letting him adjust, letting both of you adjust. You were warm and tight and Spencer was entirely overwhelmed. You leaned forward to kiss him, your hair brushing his cheek, and he kissed you back like he had nothing else to hold onto.

“Is it okay?” you whispered.

“Better,” he gasped. “So much better.”

You moved gently at first—carefully, deliberately—just shifting your hips enough to feel him deeper, to let your bodies adjust to each other, to the newness of it all. Spencer's breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide and glossy as he looked up at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Like he couldn’t believe this was real.

His hands gripped your hips—not possessively, but like he was grounding himself. His fingers trembled where they rested against your skin, his thumbs brushing mindless, reverent circles, like he was trying to memorize your shape through touch alone.

You leaned down slightly, brushing your nose against his. “Still okay?” you whispered, watching every little flicker in his expression.

His breath left him in a soft, unsteady sigh. “Yes,” he managed, the word barely audible like it had to travel through his entire body before it reached his mouth. “Yes, but I—God, you feel—”

He trailed off, not because he didn’t want to finish the sentence, but because he couldn’t. Because Spencer Reid—man of thousands of words, probably fluent in countless languages, master of articulation—had gone completely, blissfully, speechless.

You pressed your lips to his jaw, then his cheekbone, and then the corner of his mouth, letting your own breath warm his skin as you began to move again.

Slow. So slow it didn’t even feel like movement at first—just heat, friction, pressure, and presence.

You watched him like it was your full-time job, like nothing else mattered. The way his mouth trembled with every shallow thrust. The way his eyes kept trying to stay on you, but fluttered shut when the sensation overwhelmed him. The way his chest rose and fell like he was trying to breathe through something far more profound than pleasure.

His entire body was taut with restraint like he was terrified to let go.

“You don’t have to hold back,” you whispered against his lips.

He opened his eyes again, wide and fragile and desperate all at once. “I don’t want it to be over too fast.”

You smiled softly, brushing his curls back from his damp forehead. “Don’t worry about that, baby. We can go again later. Or not. But you don’t need to prove anything, Spence. Just let me take care of you.”

That undid him more than anything. His throat worked as he swallowed, and his hands dragged up your sides, shaking slightly. He nodded—almost frantically—but his voice was quiet. “Okay. Okay.”

You picked up the pace just slightly, just enough to build tension, just enough to draw a longer moan from his chest. It was low and raw like he hadn’t meant to let it out, but you kissed him before he could shrink away from the sound.

“You sound so good, baby,” you whispered.

That almost did it.

His head tilted back, jaw slack, brows furrowed like the pleasure hurt in the best way. His legs shifted beneath you, trying to find stability in a moment where he felt anything but stable.

And then he said your name.

Not just said it—moaned it.

Like it had been carved into the moment. Like it was the only word he knew.

Your bounces were deliberate, and your thighs were sore. His chest was flushed, and his breathing was uneven. And when your hands slid up his ribs, he reached for you—pulling you closer, needing the anchor of your body against his.

You buried your face in his neck, breathing in his scent and murmuring soft encouragements, each one laced with love. And he whimpered your name again, his hands tightening on your back.

“I—I’m close,” he whispered as if confessing a secret. “I—I don’t want to, but I—I can’t stop—”

You kissed the hinge of his jaw, your voice breathless but tender. “Don’t stop. Let go, Spence. I’ve got you.”

And he did.

With one last, desperate gasp��your name caught somewhere between a cry and a prayer—he came. Hard. His whole body curling into you as if the force of it broke something open inside him.

You didn’t move right away. You let him ride it out, breathing him in, one hand combing gently through his hair as his arms wrapped around you, holding on like he was afraid you’d disappear.

When he finally blinked up at you, cheeks flushed, lashes damp, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I’ve never felt anything like that in my life.”

You smiled, cupping his face like he was made of something precious. “I know, baby.”

“I… I love you.”

You kissed him, slow and full and deep. “I love you too.”

You collapsed beside him afterward, pressing your forehead to his, your hands still tangled in his hair.

Spencer was panting softly, blinking up at the ceiling with wide, glassy eyes. “I didn’t know it could feel like that,” he whispered.

You kissed him once, twice, as your fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest. “It’s not always like that,” you said honestly. “But with you? I hoped it would be.”

He turned his head to look at you, his expression open and unguarded, his smile small and unbelievably tender.

“I think I’m gonna love you even more now,” he whispered.

You laughed, soft and full, your chest aching with how much you adored him. “Good. Because I already do.”

Then—just as your breathing began to slow, your heartbeat settling into that warm, post-release haze of intimacy—Spencer suddenly shot up.

Not all the way, not jarringly, but enough that his arms unwrapped from around your back, and he was propping himself on one elbow, brows furrowed in frantic realization. His eyes, still glassy and dazed from everything you'd just shared, snapped open with a kind of panic so sincere it was almost endearing.

“You didn’t finish,” he said, voice high and tight, like he’d just remembered he'd left the oven on.

You blinked, a little startled, then broke into a laugh so warm and affectionate it made your chest ache. “Spence—”

But he wasn’t letting it go.

“No—I mean—you didn’t,” he said again, the urgency in his tone almost comical as he began searching your face, your body, trying to confirm with his eyes what he already knew. “I—I wasn’t paying attention like I should have—I was too in my own head—”

“Baby,” you cut in, reaching up to smooth your hand over his hair, which had gone wild in the most adorable way. “It’s okay. We’ll get there. You don’t have to—”

“But I want to,” he blurted, his hand already sliding to your thigh like he couldn’t imagine not finishing what he started. “I need to. Please let me—can I?”

You blinked again, caught somewhere between touched and incredibly turned on by how serious he was, how devoted.

“Spencer,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips, “you just lost your virginity about two minutes ago.”

“Yes, and you gave me the most incredible experience of my life,” he said without missing a beat. “And it would be a travesty if I didn’t do the same for you.”

You bit your lip, utterly undone by the sheer passion in his voice, the way his brow pinched like this was the most urgent mission he’d ever undertaken.

“I’ll be gentle,” he added, now trailing kisses along your shoulder, his hand dipping lower with increasing confidence, “but I’m not sleeping until you finish, too.”

You sighed, already melting beneath his touch. “You really are the sweetest man alive.”

“Statistically speaking,” he mumbled against your skin, “I hope to be the most attentive man alive.”

You laughed, warm and breathless, affection coloring your voice even as your body already started to respond to his touch. “Okay, but Spence—”

The rest of your sentence dissolved into a shaky moan as his fingers, always so long and graceful and careful, pushed gently inside of you with the kind of curious reverence only he could carry. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t practiced—it was Spencer. Learning you. Exploring you. Honoring you.

“Yes?” he asked innocently, blinking up at you like he hadn’t just curled his finger in a way that sent heat shooting up your spine.

You tried to compose yourself, your hands fisting lightly in the sheets. “I don’t always finish—Jesus—even with proper stimulation. Sometimes it just—doesn’t happen.”

Rather than looking disappointed, Spencer tilted his head slightly, his eyes flickering with interest like you’d just given him an unsolved puzzle. “I read that some women can’t,” he said calmly, his voice low and thoughtful, still curling his finger slowly, watching your body respond with studious awe. “There are a variety of contributing factors—psychological, physiological, environmental. In fact, studies show that up to ten to fifteen percent of women may experience lifelong anorgasmia, meaning they’ve never had an orgasm, while others may experience situational or acquired anorgasmia due to stress, trauma, or hormonal imbalances.”

You were trying to stay focused, truly, but it was hard when he was speaking in that careful, clinical tone—that tone—while his finger was so very much not clinical.

“Some data also suggests,” he continued, utterly unbothered by your increasingly unsteady breathing, “that difficulty reaching climax can be compounded by performance anxiety or pressure, even in safe, loving relationships, which is why it’s especially important to prioritize pleasure over completion and—”

You whined. Loudly.

It tore out of you unbidden, high, and needy, and Spencer’s fingers stilled immediately. His brows lifted in alarm as he looked up at you, concern flickering in his eyes despite the obvious state of bliss you were in.

“Wait—are you okay?” he asked gently, the pads of his fingers softening their pressure but not withdrawing entirely. “Too much? Did I—”

“No, no,” you gasped, one hand flailing out to grab at his wrist again, grounding yourself. “Please don’t stop.”

He hesitated for a moment, scanning your face like he was recalibrating, and you managed a breathless, half-laugh, half-moan.

“Please keep telling me your nerdy shit,” you begged, tilting your hips ever so slightly toward his hand, needing more of him. “It’s working, baby.”

Spencer’s eyes widened like he couldn’t quite process what you’d just said. “It is?”

You nodded emphatically, lips parted, your whole body flushed with need. “So much. Talk to me. Please.”

And that was all the permission he needed.

His mouth quirked into a crooked, bashful smile—adorably smug now that he knew what effect he was having—and he cleared his throat like he was preparing to give a keynote address.

“Well… the clitoris has over eight thousand nerve endings, which is actually more than the penis,” he murmured, returning his fingers to their earlier rhythm, slow and steady, curling just right, “and it's the only human organ whose sole purpose is pleasure. Studies show that stimulation of this area often requires consistency and pressure—not necessarily penetration—and…”

You moaned again, louder this time, arching under the weight of both his fingers and his voice.

He kept going.

“…and many women experience heightened sensitivity when paired with psychological stimulation, such as auditory input or praise, which might be why you’re reacting so strongly to this right now—your mind and body are responding in tandem, which is actually ideal for maximizing the—”

You cut him off with a cry, your hand slamming down against the mattress beside you, voice breaking on his name as you got closer and closer to the edge.

Spencer's pupils blew wide, lips parted as he watched you unravel beneath him. “You’re amazing,” he whispered, his voice shaking slightly now. “You’re so responsive, you’re—God, you’re beautiful—”

“Don’t stop,” you panted, your voice trembling, high and thin, your body arched against the sheets as your thighs quivered around his wrist. “Please—”

Spencer's breath hitched, the seriousness in your tone lighting something molten in his chest. He didn’t stop—not even a little. His fingers kept their firm, deliberate rhythm, his knuckles glistening in the warm light, his eyes fixed on your face like he was reading your every reaction like scripture.

“Okay,” he whispered, lips parted, breath catching on every syllable. “I won’t. I promise. Just… breathe through it. You’re doing so good.”

But then, as if his brain couldn’t help itself—as if the next fact physically needed to be said or he might combust—he added, almost breathless with excitement, “You know, some evolutionary biologists argue that the clitoris evolved as a mechanism to promote pair bonding, not reproduction. Which would mean that your pleasure is literally coded into our species to keep us together—emotionally, and psychologically. It’s one of the few functions that exists solely to reinforce trust and intimacy between partners, which I think is just…”

You whimpered beneath him, your body shuddering. “Spencer—oh my God—”

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, but with a lopsided, flushed grin. “I can’t help it. You’re letting me touch you, and my brain is like, ‘Now’s the time to dump eight thousand years of evolutionary sexual research.’”

Your laugh cracked open into another moan as his fingers curled again—just right.

“I’m gonna lose my mind,” you gasped, hands clenching the sheets. “If you don’t make me come right now while quoting Darwin, I swear to God—”

“Technically it was Sarah Blaffer Hrdy who first—”

“SPENCER.”

“Right. Shutting up. But also not stopping.”

And he didn’t.

Your whole body was shaking, strung tight as a wire, teetering right on the edge—but you couldn’t stop him. Wouldn’t stop him. Because Spencer Reid, brilliant and so sweet and currently knuckle-deep inside you, was passionately info-dumping about sexual evolution and female anatomy like he was reading it straight from a journal he co-authored.

And it was the sexiest goddamn thing you’d ever heard.

“—and actually, there’s evidence in Bonobo communities that female orgasm plays a social role in maintaining alliances, which some anthropologists believe might translate to human behavior as well—oh, right there?” he asked mid-sentence, breathcatching as he felt your body clench around his fingers.

You gasped, gripping the sheets as heat coiled tighter in your belly. “Yes, yes, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

He didn’t. If anything, he grew more focused, his voice dropping lower, rougher now with awe and affection. “You’re so responsive, it’s beautiful. The way your pelvic floor contracts during climax is—statistically—it’s just—God, I could write a thesis on this. You, I mean. This.”

That was it.

Something about the way he said write a thesis on this while his fingers moved in perfect rhythm, while his thumb gently pressed right there, while his wide, eager eyes stayed locked on your face like you were the most precious discovery he’d ever made—

It sent you crashing over the edge.

You came with a loud, stuttering cry, your body curling in on itself as Spencer kept his touch steady through the waves of it, like he knew exactly how to help you ride it out. Your orgasm pulsed hard and fast, and he felt it—his jaw dropping, his own breath shaky with awe.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, still stroking you so gently it nearly drove you mad. “You just came while I was talking about Bonobos.”

You nodded weakly, tears prickling the corners of your eyes from the intensity, your lips split in a wrecked smile. “Your brain is so hot, baby.”

Spencer let out a stunned laugh, curling beside you, hand now resting on your thigh as he kissed your temple with reverence.

“I feel like I should give a TED Talk after this,” he whispered, still a little breathless.

You giggled, voice still hoarse. “You just did.”

And somewhere in Spencer’s mind, he filed this away under Data Collection: Partner’s Orgasm Most Frequently Triggered by Academic Enthusiasm.

He was absolutely taking notes.

“See?” Spencer said softly, still flushed, still basking in the wonder of what just happened like he’d accidentally discovered a new element. His fingers brushed over your thigh, gentle and aimless, as he smiled down at you with all the smug pride of a man who had just scientifically rocked your world.

“Told you data is sexy.”

You let out a breathless laugh—a mix of exhaustion and affection—and rolled your head toward him on the pillow. “You have literally never said that before.”

His grin only widened, curls falling slightly into his eyes as he tucked one hand under his cheek like he was trying to play coy. “I’ve thought it. Repeatedly. Constantly. For years.”

You gave him a tired huff of a laugh, your hand lazily tracing circles on his chest. “Well… you might want to prepare some new information for next time, then. Maybe a bibliography. A few case studies. Something about… I don’t know—neurochemical bonding during prolonged foreplay?”

Spencer’s eyes lit up like you’d handed him a Christmas morning of erotically charged research prompts.

“I have articles on that,” he whispered, delighted. “I mean, obviously not for this exact context, but the neurobiological mechanisms of oxytocin release are actually—”

“Next time, baby,” you said, pulling the blanket over both of you with a giggle. “I need to regain function first.”

He chuckled, kissed your shoulder, and snuggled in close, already mentally drafting an annotated lecture for your next round.

Because if Spencer Reid had learned one thing tonight, it was this:

Your pleasure wasn’t just about touch. It was about trust and love… and, just maybe, a full-body response to the words evolutionary psychology.

God help you. You’d created a monster.

And you couldn’t wait for next time.

“Um… darling, I need to shower,” Spencer said suddenly, shifting slightly beneath the blankets, his voice soft but tinged with just enough awkward urgency to make you blink.

“Yeah?” you asked, glancing over at him with a sleepy smile, your cheek still resting against his shoulder.

He hesitated. “I… forgot to take the condom off.”

You sat up so fast the blanket fell from your shoulders. “Ew! Spencer!” you yelped, though your voice was laced with disbelief and laughter more than actual disgust.

He winced, scrunching his nose, clearly embarrassed. “I got distracted by your brain and your body and your orgasm and also your face, so—yes, I forgot.”

You flopped back onto the bed, groaning into the pillow. “Sometimes I forget that even though you are a very good, clean, above-average man—you are still, at the end of the day, just a man.”

“I deserve that,” he muttered, already standing and gingerly tiptoeing toward the bathroom like a child who just got scolded for forgetting to put away their science fair volcano.

“You go shower and I’ll go pee,” you called after him, swinging your legs off the bed.

“Peeing after sex is actually good for both men and women,” he called from the bathroom, his voice already returning to its usual scholarly rhythm, “because it helps prevent urinary tract infections by flushing out any bacteria that may have—”

You cut him off with a laugh, padding toward the hallway bathroom. “Save the dirty talk, please,” you teased, glancing over your shoulder with a wicked grin.

He poked his head around the doorframe, shirtless, blushing, and grinning right back at you. “I’m literally talking about hygiene—”

“And somehow,” you smirked, disappearing into the bathroom, “you’re still turning me on.”

You heard him laugh through the door, the warm sound echoing through your apartment like a promise of many, many more awkwardly perfect nights to come.

—

Spencer had been shot.

The words alone were enough to send the entire team spiraling, every muscle in motion, every decision sharpened by panic laced with practiced urgency. It had happened while Spencer was protecting a victim from the unsub, and then a single, deafening shot that echoed louder than anything else that day.

The bullet hit Spencer in the leg. Not a graze. A hit.

It wasn’t the worst-case scenario, not by a mile—not chest, not head—but it didn’t matter. Not to them. Not to people who had already seen this man bleeding and broken before, carried out on a stretcher but unable to leave the pain behind. The last time he’d been seriously injured in the field, it had left emotional (and physical) scars that never quite healed. So no, it wasn’t just a leg. It was Spencer. It was history repeating itself.

They got him to the hospital as fast as possible, local sirens blaring, uniforms parting like the Red Sea to make way for the gurney. Hotch barked orders with a clenched jaw, Rossi moved like a soldier who’d done this too many times, and JJ never let go of his hand until she physically had to.

Penelope wasn’t on the scene.

She was over two hundred miles away, back at Quantico, surrounded by her banks of monitors and softly glowing LED lights, but it might as well have been a different planet. When the call came in—that Spencer had been shot—her hands froze mid-keystroke. For a second, her entire world narrowed to the sound of Hotch’s voice crackling through her headset and the sharp, clinical way he’d said, “Reid’s been hit.”

She didn’t hear anything after that.

The room around her blurred as her fingers slowly slipped away from the keyboard, her chair spinning a fraction as she pushed back, needing space that didn’t exist. She wasn’t used to this kind of helplessness.

Because this time, she couldn’t run searches or hack into anything that would make a damn bit of difference.

All she could do was wait.

She sat in her chair like the floor had dropped out from beneath her, her fingers laced tightly in her lap—knuckles white, nails pressing into her skin. The BAU bullpen buzzed faintly behind her, voices low and moving fast, but she felt suspended in a slow-motion kind of grief that hadn’t hit its target yet.

Her screens were still lit up with the case. But she didn’t look at them.

She didn’t look at anything.

She just stared at the wall, heart thudding in her throat.

And then she remembered you.

You weren’t there. You hadn’t been on this case—you didn’t even know.

The thought nearly made her nauseous.

“I’ll call,” she told them before Hotch could speak. “You’ll be too clinical. Y/N deserves more than that.”

He didn’t argue.

Penelope stepped away from her desk, heart hammering as she pressed your name on her phone and held it to her ear. She expected tears. Gasps. Maybe even anger.

What she got instead… was calm.

“Hey, Penelope,” you answered on the second ring, voice groggy like you’d been napping or just getting in from something mundane.

“Hi, um… okay. Okay, don’t freak out,” she said immediately, pacing the linoleum tiles, hand pressed to her chest. “He’s okay. He’s going to be okay. Spencer’s alive.”

There was a pause.

“Okay,” you said quietly, no tremor in your tone. “What happened?”

Penelope blinked, caught off guard. “He was—uh, he was shot. In the leg. They’re still at the hospital in Detroit. He’s stable. He was awake in the ambulance. There was a lot of blood, but they think the bullet missed the femoral artery. He’s in surgery now.”

“Okay,” you said again, the word even and deliberate. “And he's… alive. Just to confirm.”

“Yes,” she said quickly, her voice cracking. “Yes, he is. I swear to you.”

Penelope waited, unsure what to say next.

You exhaled through the line. “Thank you for calling. Please text me the name of the hospital. I’m getting on a flight.”

Penelope nodded, even though you couldn’t see her. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll text you everything. And if you need me to help book—”

“I’ll take care of it, thank you, Penelope. Just… let me know if anything changes.”

“I will,” she promised.

And with that, the call ended, and Penelope stared down at her screen with tears in her eyes, already typing the hospital info into a message, already knowing you’d be on the next flight out.

You were a complete wreck while grabbing your stuff, arms moving too fast, heart pounding harder than your body could keep up with. Your fingers fumbled clumsily over zippers and drawers, not bothering to fold anything, not checking the weather, not even thinking about what you might need once you got there.

There.

Detroit.

Where Spencer was.

Dating Spencer had taught you many things—how to listen differently, be patient in silence, and decode the pauses between his words—but it had also taught you how to prepare. You had a go bag because of him. A real one. The kind people made fun of on TV, but the kind you knew might be the difference between being there when it mattered or showing up too late.

And you weren’t going to be late.

By the time you were out the door and in the car, you were already on the phone with the airport. You didn’t care about the airline. You didn’t care about the seat.

It was mildly irrational. Definitely not budget-friendly. But you couldn’t help it.

You weren’t dating Spencer when he was kidnapped. You hadn’t even met him yet. But you knew. You knew. Not all of it—never all of it—but you knew enough. Enough to make your stomach turn with what-ifs. Enough to know that field injuries like this weren’t just about bullets and blood loss. They were about fear. Trauma. Flashbacks. They were about the past coming back up through the cracks.

You didn’t know what state you were going to find him in.

And that’s what made your hands shake.

The flight felt like forever, even though you got lucky with timing and minimal delays. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t drank anything. You hadn’t spoken to anyone except for a rushed text to Penelope saying boarding now.

It wasn’t until the plane reached altitude—until the jolt of ascent settled into the hum of flight and the flight attendant started her quiet aisle shuffle—that you felt like you could breathe.

Not fully. Not deeply. But enough.

You leaned back into your seat, closing your eyes, the ache of your worry pulling behind your ribs like it had settled there for good. You hoped—God, you hoped—that maybe sleep would find you.

And if it did, you hoped your dreams would be filled with happy Spencer. The version of him who laughed too hard at his own obscure jokes. The one who sipped his coffee with both hands like it might fly away if he didn’t hold on tight. The one who woke you up by reading to you.

Not the one bleeding in an ambulance. Not the one in a hospital gown.

Just him. Just yours.

…

JJ was sitting with Spencer, perched on the small plastic chair beside his hospital bed, her legs crossed, one foot bouncing softly as she kept the mood light, steady—talking about whatever came to mind. She was recounting something Penelope had said on the phone earlier, something about a new case file font she’d tried out just to annoy Hotch, and though Spencer’s laugh was more of a soft exhale, his eyes crinkled at the corners. He was tired, yes, pale and sore and dressed in one of those thin, awful gowns—but he was okay.

The surgery had gone well. It was a clean removal with minimal damage. It would take time to recover, but physically, he’d be fine.

Still, the team wasn’t taking any chances. They were rotating in and out of the room, never leaving him alone—not just for his safety, but for his comfort. For the emotional fallout that might come later. No one said it aloud, but they all remembered what happened the last time Spencer returned from a hospital bed.

Meanwhile, out in the waiting room, Derek stood up from where he’d been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking up every time the elevator dinged. When he spotted you—wrinkled from travel, hair messy, eyes burning with the kind of tiredness that had nothing to do with sleep deprivation—he moved fast.

“Hey,” he said, walking quickly toward you.

“Is he—”

“He’s okay,” Derek interrupted gently, placing both hands on your shoulders as if to hold you up and reassure you simultaneously. “He’s really okay. Out of surgery, awake. JJ’s in there with him now. He’s a little loopy, but he’s fine.”

For the first time since Penelope’s call, your lungs actually filled. Not just shallow breaths or half inhalations, but real, full air. You closed your eyes briefly and nodded, a shaky sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh escaping your throat.

Without hesitation, you threw your arms around Derek, hugging him tight—tighter than he expected, but he didn’t hesitate to hug you back. He rubbed your back once, steady, and said, “He’s been asking about you.”

You pulled away, nodded again, and then took off, your footsteps fast and sure down the hallway as you followed Derek’s directions toward Spencer’s room.

As you pushed the door open, your fingers trembling just slightly around the handle, you couldn't help yourself. Even with your heart hammering, the sterile smell of antiseptic hitting your nose, and the distant beep of monitors echoing down the hall, your instinct kicked in.

“Knock knock,” you called softly into the room, a crooked smile tugging at the edge of your mouth even as your chest swelled with emotion.

You said it automatically now, like muscle memory. Because you knew it bothered him.

“Why do you have to say it when you’re already doing it?” he’d asked you once, eyebrows knit in frustration, voice laced with genuine confusion.

And you had just grinned at him with all the smug delight of someone discovering the easiest way to get under a person’s skin. Ever since it has become your thing.

Now, standing in the doorway of a bright white hospital room that smelled too clean and looked too sharp, the words felt softer than usual. They were familiar, a tether to normalcy.

JJ was the first thing you saw—her blonde hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, her eyes wide, already filled with a deep, quiet sympathy that made your stomach tighten all over again. She rose from her seat beside the bed, stepping back gently, making space for you without saying a word.

And then you looked at him.

Spencer.

Awake. Propped up against thin pillows in an oversized gown, his blanket drawn up to his waist. His curls were a little flattened, his face pale, but his eyes—those wide, soulful eyes—were fixed on you.

His expression shifted the moment your eyes met. Not relief, not even joy—fear.

Like he didn’t know what you were going to say. Like he was preparing for disappointment or maybe even anger. Like a part of him still hadn’t entirely accepted that you came. That you would always come.

You stepped inside without thinking, letting the door swing slowly shut behind you.

“Hey there, handsome,” you said with a grin, your voice all honey and lightness, doing everything in your power to wrap him in reassurance from the second you stepped inside. You needed him to see it in your face—it’s okay, I’m okay, you’re okay, we’re okay.

“Hi,” Spencer replied, smiling back, but the expression was small, a little hesitant like he still wasn’t sure he deserved your warmth just yet. His fingers fiddled with the edge of the blanket, and you could see it all—every flicker of worry, every ounce of vulnerability behind those eyes.

You didn’t let it linger. You walked fully into the room, letting the door shut gently behind you, and stopped at the foot of his bed. Then, very dramatically, you planted both hands on your hips and gave him your best mock-disappointed look, brows drawn, chin tilted.

“Now, Spencer,” you began sternly, “what are we not supposed to do?”

His brows furrowed immediately in confusion, and he looked to JJ for help, who shrugged back at him like don’t look at me.

You huffed, all theatrical sigh and exaggerated disappointment, before prompting him with the first few syllables: “Not… get… sh—”

“Not get shot,” he said quickly, nodding solemnly like a child admitting to having snuck a cookie. His lips twitched upward, and the sparkle in his eyes was back, even if just faintly.

“Exactly,” you said, stepping closer now. “And what did you do, Spencer?”

“I got shot,” he said, shrugging slightly, finally getting into the silliness of your game but still watching your face like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was in trouble or not.

“You got shot,” you repeated with a long, exaggerated sigh. “I suppose,” you added as you perched gently on the edge of the bed, “it’s probably for the best that it missed any major organs… or your chest… or your head…”

“Probably,” Spencer giggled, his voice light for the first time all day, the sound bubbling up like it surprised even him.

JJ let out a breath she’d been holding, smiling quietly as she excused herself from the room, giving you both the privacy you needed.

But you barely noticed. All your focus was on him—his smile, his soft laugh, the way his shoulders started to drop from around his ears, the tension finally easing under your presence.

You reached up gently, your fingers trailing over the small, scattered freckles on his cheek—the ones you always traced when you were trying to calm yourself as much as him. He leaned into the touch slightly, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he opened them again to meet yours.

“How’s your pain?” you asked softly, voice low and even.

“Tolerable,” he replied, pressing his lips together tightly in that way that told you it wasn’t exactly tolerable but that he didn’t want to dwell on it.

You tilted your head just a little. “Did you let them give you anything?”

“Only to put me under,” he said, shifting uncomfortably like he expected a lecture.

“Understood,” you nodded, not pushing, already moving on to keep him from feeling like he had to defend himself. “When can you bathe?”

Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you saying I stink?” he asked, genuinely scandalized, like you’d just called him unhygienic in front of a live audience.

“No…” you said carefully.

Spencer groaned, head falling back against the pillow, a dramatic whine escaping him. “Ughhh.”

“It’s not that, baby,” you assured him quickly, your hand stroking gently over his curls as you leaned closer, your smile widening. “Your curls are just a bit greasy, and I was going to offer to wash them for you…”

His groan cut off immediately.

“Oh,” he said. Quietly. Sheepishly. His cheeks turned the lightest shade of pink.

“Yeah,” you grinned, lowering your voice to something teasing. “You know I like taking care of you, right?”

He blinked at you, lips twitching up. “…Even when I stink?”

You squinted at him playfully, pulling back a few inches like you had to really think about it. “Hmm… so every morning then?”

“Y/N!” Spencer gasped, completely betrayed, his mouth hanging open as if you’d just published a scientific paper slandering his good name.

“I’m just saying!” you defended, raising both hands in a mock surrender. “You’re a sweaty sleeper, babe. I didn’t invent thermoregulation.”

He narrowed his eyes at you; lower lip puffed out in an almost comically perfect pout. “You’re supposed to be comforting me in my time of need, and instead, you’re making fun of me for bodily functions I can’t control.”

“Not quite,” you grinned, settling back in closer. “If I were going to make fun of you for bodily functions you can’t control, I’d bring up how often you prematur—”

You didn’t get to finish the sentence.

Spencer’s hand darted up and cupped your cheek, and in a split second, he pulled you into a kiss—not aggressive, but firm enough to make it very clear that this was an intervention.

He kissed you like it had been years instead of days. Like the pain, the fear, the sterile room, none of it mattered anymore because you were here, and he was still breathing, and this—your lips on his, the way your breath caught slightly in surprise—was the only thing that had felt real all day.

And yes, part of it was to shut you up. But mostly, it was because he’d been aching to kiss you since the moment he walked out of your apartment and onto that case.

So he did.

And you let him.

Until finally, you pulled back just slightly, your forehead still pressed to his.

“Okay,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “You’re forgiven for getting shot.”

He smiled, eyes still closed. “You’re forgiven for being the worst.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, letting it linger. Your lips barely moved as you mumbled against his mouth, “You need to brush your teeth.”

Spencer pulled back just enough to look at you, blinking in slow treachery.

“I hate you,” he said flatly, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest smile.

You beamed. “That’s fair.”

He sighed dramatically, flopping his head back against the pillow like you’d wounded him more than the bullet. “Shot in the leg, emotionally abused by my girlfriend, and now I’m being accused of poor hygiene… what a week.”

You tucked yourself gently under his arm, careful of the IV and monitor wires, laying your head on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ll still love you. Even if your breath could melt glass.”

“You’re lucky I can’t chase you right now.”

“You’re lucky I showed up at all, stinky.”

He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered, pressing a kiss into your hair. “I really am.”

…

Once Spencer had finally drifted off to sleep, his breathing deep and even, his hand still loosely curled around yours atop the blanket, you waited a minute longer—just to be sure. You brushed your thumb gently over the back of his hand, watching the subtle rise and fall of his chest, letting the steady beep of the monitor reassure you that he was still right there.

When you were sure he was out, you stood up carefully, placing his hand down with the kind of tender precision you only ever used on him, and slipped quietly from the room.

You found the rest of the team just outside in the family waiting area, spread out across plastic chairs and vending machines, all looking somewhere between emotionally drained and physically wrecked. JJ was the first to notice you, sitting forward slightly when she saw the door shut behind you.

“He’s asleep,” you said softly, and several shoulders visibly relaxed. “I’ve got him. You all can go. Seriously. Get some rest. I’ll stay and fly back with him when he’s cleared for travel.”

Rossi nodded first, reassuringly touching your shoulder as he passed. Derek gave you a tired smile and a gentle squeeze on the arm. Emily offered you her water bottle and a “Call us if you need anything.” One by one, they all filed out, grateful and exhausted.

JJ lingered.

She stood beside you for a moment, her arms folded loosely, her expression thoughtful. She looked at the door to Spencer’s room, then back to you.

“How are you so calm?” she asked suddenly.

You blinked. “Hmm?”

JJ’s gaze softened, but she looked genuinely curious. “You just… even when you first walked in there, you were joking around. Will would’ve been crying the second he saw me like that.”

You smiled a little at that, but it wasn’t teasing. It was quiet, knowing. A little sad.

You shrugged. “Spencer would only feel worse if he knew I was scared.”

JJ tilted her head, watching you carefully.

“He knows I’m worried,” you continued, your voice softening, “he knows I care. But taking his mind off the bad things for a bit… it always seems to bring him back to me.” You let out a slow breath. “He doesn’t need my fear. He needs my peace.”

JJ nodded slowly, her eyes glistening just slightly as she looked at you—not just as someone Spencer loved, but someone who understood him, down to the very thread.

“You’re good for him,” she said quietly.

“Thank you, I try to be,” you replied. Then, with a tired smile, “Please go home and rest, JJ. We’re okay.”

And you meant it. Even if your hands were still shaking. Even if you knew the actual processing would hit you later. For now, Spencer was sleeping. He was safe. And you’d be the calm. For both of you.

—

You stood up abruptly from where you were hunched over your laptop, notes, and reference books spread out like an academic battlefield. Spencer looked up from where he was quietly reading across from you, a slight crease in his brow as your chair scraped back a little too fast.

“Spencer.”

His eyes widened a bit, and he was immediately attentive. “Yes?”

You took a deep breath, squared your shoulders, and tried—tried��to channel some confidence, even as you felt your face go warm. “I think this is going to make you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry, but I think it’s time we… break a certain barrier in our relationship due to… pressing matters.”

Spencer closed his book slowly. “Okay…” he said cautiously, clearly preparing himself for anything from an emotional confession to a breakup to a shared trauma.

“I need to poop.”

There was a beat of silence. Just a breath, just a blink.

And then Spencer burst out laughing.

You gasped in protest. “Spencer!”

He tried to hold it in; he really did, but his shoulders shook as he pressed his hand to his mouth. “Darling,” he said through chuckles, “that is a perfectly normal and healthy bodily function without which you would die. I hardly think it’s uncomfortable to know you poop. I do, too. I wish you wouldn’t find it so embarrassing.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, laughter muffled through your fingers. “Can you just like, put your headphones in please?”

Spencer paused, then blinked. “Oh! Yes,” he said, like he’d just solved a logic problem. He reached over for his headphones with a smile so sweet it made your stomach flip, even now.

As you shuffled toward the bathroom, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cloak of shame and dignity combined, he called after you with barely concealed amusement:

“Fan setting five!”

You groaned again—louder this time—but it was laced with affection and appreciation and the kind of mortification that only happens when you’re fully, disgustingly in love.

Behind you, Spencer chuckled softly to himself and returned to his book, utterly unfazed.

—

Healed and walking without a cane, Spencer Reid finds himself craving something beyond his lonely apartment after a long, taxing case. The case had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. The images were still fresh in his mind, too vivid and raw to shake off. He had returned to the BAU with the team, but instead of heading home to his own place, something—perhaps instinct or something deeper he didn’t quite have words for—drew him elsewhere.

He needed comfort. Not in the abstract sense but in the form of something familiar, warm, grounding. And his thoughts turned to you.

Maybe it was how you listened without interruption or how your presence made his pulse slow to something bearable. Maybe it was the memory of your hands brushing through his hair the last time he confessed a hard case to you or how you didn’t try to fix things; you just made space for him to feel. Whatever the reason, he found himself heading to your apartment without really making the decision to do so—it was simply where he needed to be.

You hadn’t been expecting him. In fact, you were fast asleep due to the late hour of the night. Usually, he wasn’t someone you ever needed to prepare for. He came as he was, and you let him.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know yet—was how tightly he was holding himself together just outside your door. He hadn't texted or called ahead. Part of him wanted to, part of him worried it wasn’t fair just to show up. But the rest of him, the exhausted, rattled, overwhelmed part of him, hoped—needed—you to be there.

And so, now, he stands on the other side of your apartment door.

He hasn’t opened it with his key yet.

He hasn’t gathered the strength.

But he’s there.

Moments from walking through it.

Moments from letting everything he's been holding in finally fall apart in the one place he thinks he might be able to survive doing so—with you.

You’re typically a deep sleeper. The kind who can sleep through a thunderstorm, a neighbor’s dog barking, or even Spencer fidgeting beside you in the middle of the night when his brain just won’t let him rest. You’ve slept through him flipping through pages at 2 a.m., through him pacing quietly down the hallway while whispering to himself about theories and timelines. You’ve even managed to sleep through a bout of him reorganizing your bookshelf once—though, to be fair, you had threatened him with death afterward.

But when you are woken up, it’s never graceful. It’s never subtle. Your body feels it before your brain catches up, dragging you into the gray haze of almost consciousness with a heavy reluctance that makes every movement around you feel like a personal offense.

So, when Spencer walks through the door sometime past midnight, utterly wrung out from whatever horrors the case held, he’s doing his very best to be quiet. His best, which is, as you’ve come to know, not quite good enough.

The first offense is the keys. Instead of placing them down gently on the little wooden table, you bought specifically for this purpose—the one that lives inches from the door and makes not a sound when used properly—he goes for the hooks. Of course, he does. And the second the metal keyring clatters against the other keys already hanging there, it sounds like someone dropped a sack of cutlery in your skull.

You stir beneath the covers, brows knitting without opening your eyes.

Then it’s the lock. Not just the turn of the deadbolt, which would have been fine, but the chain. He slides the latch into place with the kind of finality that belongs more to vaults or prison cells, and your face scrunches tighter as a small, annoyed breath escapes you.

He doesn't hear it.

Next, he hangs his coat—and his satchel. Not one. Not the other. Both. They swing and tap against the wall and the hooks with a dull thud and a slight clang of hardware, as if he’s installing wind chimes instead of shedding layers.

You shift in bed, blinking against the dark, still too sleep-heavy to sit up but now fully aware that he's home.

And then—then—he kneels to untie his shoes.

He can’t just kick them off. Oh no. He has to bend, untie, straighten, and remove each shoe like he’s unwrapping a rare artifact. It takes forever. Or maybe only thirty seconds. But it feels like an eternity in your freshly awoken, vaguely grumpy haze.

You lie there, motionless except for the long exhale that slips from your lips, face buried into the pillow as your fingers curl beneath your cheek.

And from the other room, completely unaware that you’re already awake—and annoyed—you hear Spencer sigh. A quiet, heavy, weary sound. The kind of sound that has less to do with your frustration and more to do with the weight he’s brought in with him.

And just like that, your irritation flickers and begins to dissolve.

Because it’s Spencer. And if he’s doing a bad job at being quiet, it’s only because he’s holding himself together by threads.

Just as you begin to drift back toward something like rest, eyes fluttering shut again, there’s another sound—sharp, hollow, metallic.

Clang.

Your eyelids fly back open, face pressed flat into the pillow as you exhale sharply through your nose, teeth gently clenching.

That was the soap bottle. It had to be. You know that sound. It’s the specific, hollow bop of the plastic pump top smacking against the side of the sink—a sound that could only happen if someone, say, reached over a bit too carelessly and knocked it over with the back of their hand.

You know because you’ve done it yourself before, and you know because Spencer—you love him—does it every single time he washes his hands in your kitchen.

Which, naturally, is what he’s doing now. Of course, he is. Even in the dead of night, with half his mind fogged over and weighed down by a brutal case, he’s still Spencer—still meticulous, still compulsive, still so anchored to his rituals that he has to scrub the case off his skin before he can do anything else.

You listen to the sound of the faucet running muted splashes as he scrubs. Then, a quiet squeak squeak squeak from the way the old tap vibrates when it’s twisted shut. Silence again—for all of two seconds.

Then you hear the cabinet door open and the soft clink of glass—he’s getting a cup, which you expect. You anticipate it. You brace for it.

But your patience wasn’t strong enough to brace for the next thing.

The dishwasher.

That damn dishwasher.

It’s old. Loud. Temperamental. You’ve both talked about replacing it at least a dozen times, but somehow, it still hangs on, groaning through each cycle like a cranky elderly relative refusing to retire. Even just opening the door sounds like someone’s dragging furniture across a hardwood floor.

So when Spencer, dear, considerate, detail-oriented Spencer, finishes his glass of water and—rather than setting it on the counter or even tucking it into the sink like a normal sleep-deprived human—opens the dishwasher to place it inside?

You groan.

Out loud this time. A soft, pained, muffled groan into your pillow.

“Are you fucking serious, Spencer?” you mutter, barely audible, eyes still closed but now tinged with the kind of sleepy irritation only reserved for people you trust enough to hate momentarily.

He still hasn’t realized you’re awake. You know, because he hasn’t apologized yet. And Spencer always apologizes when he knows he's woken you up.

So you wait. Eyes closed. Limbs heavy. Ears sharp and honed like some kind of war veteran for the next sound he might make, wondering if he’s going to open the fridge for no reason or maybe alphabetize your spice rack.

Because at this rate, you wouldn’t put it past him.

By the time Spencer finally makes it to the bedroom—after clanging through the kitchen like a one-man orchestra, after the soap bottle debacle, after summoning the ghost of your dishwasher—you’re fuming. Not in a rageful, righteous kind of way, but in the profoundly exhausted, silently seething way that only someone who was sound asleep fifteen minutes ago and is now wide awake can truly understand. Every muscle in your body aches for the sweet relief of unconsciousness, your bones practically begging to sink back into the mattress, curled up against the person responsible for your current irritation.

You’re ready to cuddle your boyfriend. Feel his arms slip around your body, press your face into the soft cotton of whatever shirt he’ll wear, and fall back asleep surrounded by warmth and familiarity. That’s what you want.

But no.

Apparently, Spencer has other plans.

You hear the gentle sound of movement as he approaches. And for a blissful moment, you think maybe he’s finally going to settle. Finally, he’s going to be still.

And then—click.

A golden halo of light floods the room, piercing against your closed eyelids.

He turned on the fucking lamp.

“Spencer!” you groan, your voice thick with the weight of sleep and disbelief. You don’t even lift your head; just bury your face deeper into the pillow like maybe if you suffocate yourself fast enough, you’ll get some peace.

You hear a sharp inhale from across the bed, followed by the scrambling guilt in his voice as he fumbles to switch the lamp back off. “Oh—I’m so sorry, my love,” he blurts out in a rush, his words tumbling over each other like a toppled stack of books. You can practically hear the wince in his voice. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

You shot him a deathly glare, your eyes narrow and glittering with exhaustion-fueled fury, your cheek still pressed into the pillow.

“And you thought the lamp wouldn’t wake me up?” you snapped, voice muffled but cutting.

Spencer didn’t flinch. Instead, he smiled—soft, sheepish, and entirely too amused for someone who had just committed a domestic war crime.

“Angel, I’ve turned on the ceiling light and opened the blinds, and you slept through it,” he said with an unapologetic shrug, pulling off his cardigan like this was a perfectly rational argument.

You only rolled your eyes, dragging the covers over your shoulder and throwing your head back down dramatically, your silent message clear: you were Done.

But Spencer wasn’t. Of course, he wasn’t.

Now came the process of taking off his clothing items one by one—meticulous as ever—folding them neatly and placing them in a precise little pile on your dresser. Shirt, pants, socks. Each with a pause in between, as though he were entering a meditative state instead of preparing for bed at an ungodly hour.

You thought he would be done. He should have been done.

But no.

“Spence, baby, please come to bed,” you whined, voice thick and laced with misery so intense it bordered on theatrical.

“I can’t just yet, need to shower. I’ve been in the jet.”

You groaned again, long and guttural. “I don’t care!”

He froze in place, hands halfway to his waistband, and you could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. That neurotic, overtired, rule-following brain of his was calculating, weighing the comfort of a hot shower against the wrath of his barely conscious girlfriend.

Finally, you sighed. “Whatever. Just—be fast. And don’t get your hair wet.”

Spencer opened his mouth like he was about to protest—something about hygiene or flight germs or possibly the sanctity of scalp cleanliness—but one look at your face told him to cut his losses.

By the time he got out of the shower, the bathroom door creaking open quietly, towel slung low on his hips, and found spare clothes in the second drawer of your dresser (the one you'd unofficially reserved for him), you had already drifted back to sleep.

He moved gently, slipping on an old T-shirt and sweats and carefully easing into bed beside you. He tried to be careful, tried to match your breathing, tried not to jostle the mattress too much. He scooted behind you, winding an arm around your body, tucking his body against yours like a perfect puzzle piece.

Even in your sleep, you instinctively nudged closer, your head coming to rest on his chest, your body curving against his. It should’ve been a perfect moment.

But then—

“Did you sanitize?”

Your voice was slurred and drowsy but suspicious. Too suspicious.

Spencer stayed quiet.

He sanitized your fucking shower like he didn’t trust you to keep it clean yourself.

“I can’t—” you sighed, pulling away. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

And just like that, your warmth disappeared, taking with it the fleeting peace Spencer had hoped to find.

Spencer let out the softest, most pitiful exhale—half sigh, half whimper—as you peeled yourself away from his hold. The sheets rustled with protest as you threw them off your legs in a dramatic flourish that would've been funny if it weren't for the sheer, bone-deep fatigue clinging to both of you. You didn’t even open your eyes all the way. You didn’t need to. Your body was moving on instinct now, led by principle and pride.

He propped himself up on one elbow, watching helplessly as you dragged your sleepy form out of the bed with the kind of slow, exaggerated misery that only someone who’d just started to fall back into a good sleep could produce. Your blanket trailed behind you, caught on your foot, and when you reached down to yank it free, you muttered something under your breath that sounded like a curse aimed squarely at him.

Spencer stayed frozen, guilt draped over his shoulders like another weighted blanket.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” he finally said, his voice hushed but urgent, like he knew if he raised it even a little, you'd bolt. “Come on, that’s ridiculous.”

You were already halfway to the door. “So is you climbing into bed an unsanitized like a reckless public health risk,” you muttered sarcastically, rubbing your eyes as you shuffled forward.

Spencer groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I’m sorry I cleaned your shower, I just—you know I can’t help it.”

You sighed, hard and sharp through your nose, arms crossed tightly over your chest as though holding yourself together. “We can have this argument tomorrow,” you muttered, voice strained. “I’m too tired right now.”

Spencer nodded slowly, guilt still weighing down his features. “So come back to bed,” he pleaded, soft and hesitant like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to ask.

“No. I’m mad at you,” you huffed, your tone petulant but cracking at the edges. You turned your face slightly away from him as if even looking at him would break the last thread of your patience.

There was a beat of silence, tense and stretched. Then, quietly—too quietly—he said, “I can just go home then… I’ll come over tomorrow.”

That was it.

That was the thing that broke you.

The exhaustion, the frustration, the sheer emotional mess of being woken up, being irritated, feeling like your effort and your space weren’t enough for the person you love—all of it slammed into you at once no warning. You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to tell him to do whatever he wanted—but instead, all that came out was a strangled, breathless sob.

Your shoulders shook as the tears slipped down, hot and fast. The kind of crying that happens when you’ve held it in too long when your chest tightens up and your throat closes, and suddenly you’re not just crying about one thing, but everything.

Spencer immediately scrambled out of bed, panic flooding his features. “Hey—hey, no, please don’t cry,” he said in a rush, crossing the room. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t want to be here—God, please don’t cry—”

He reached for you, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure if you’d swat him away. “I’m such an idiot,” he breathed, eyes scanning your face, helpless. “You clean your place better than I do mine, I just—after cases, I get weird, and I didn’t want to bring the jet germs into your space, and I overthought it and—”

You just kept crying. Silent now, but still unraveling.

“I love your shower,” he said desperately. “I love you. I want to be here. Please don’t make me go.”

Your face crumpled even more. You didn’t have the energy to yell. Didn’t have the willpower to keep storming off.

“I just wanted to sleep next to you,” you whispered through the tears, voice tiny and cracked. “That’s all I wanted.”

Spencer’s heart broke right there in his chest.

“Okay,” he said immediately, wrapping his arms around you. “Okay. I’ve got you. Come here. We’ll go to bed. No more disturbances. Just sleep. You and me.”

And this time, when he guided you back to the bed, you let him.

Well—for a second.

“Wait.”

Spencer froze mid-step, one arm still around you, the other half-lifting the blanket. He held his breath like the wrong response might send you spiraling again.

“Yes, baby?” he asked, soft and cautious.

You sniffled, then let out the tiniest, soggiest giggle through your still-wobbly breath. “I need to blow my nose now.”

He blinked. Then smiled, wide and helpless, pure affection melting across his features.

“Okay,” he said, already turning to grab the tissue box from your nightstand like it was the most urgent task he’d ever been assigned. “Emergency tissue protocol engaged.”

You laughed louder this time, the sound breaking through the remnants of your tears like sunlight through clouds. “Cover your ears; I’m going into the bathroom.”

Spencer furrowed his brows, confused but obedient. “Why?”

“I don’t want you to hear me!” you called over your shoulder as you hurried toward the bathroom, tissue clutched in hand like a weapon.

He blinked after you, then shrugged, deadpan: “...I’ve had worse fluids of yours on me—”

“EW!” you yelped from inside the bathroom, your voice muffled by the door you slammed behind you. “Why would you say that?! You absolute menace!”

Spencer chuckled to himself, crawling back into bed and tucking the blankets around him with a smug grin. “I was just saying,” he muttered under his breath, knowing full well you could still hear him. “Boundaries seem a little inconsistent.”

You groaned dramatically, the sound somewhere between scandalized and exhausted. “You’re so lucky I love you,” you shouted through a noseful of tissues. “If we were six months earlier into this relationship, I’d be drafting the breakup text right now.”

Spencer smiled, stretching out in the bed with his hands folded under his head like the little shit he absolutely was. “You’d never,” he called back, sing-songy and far too comfortable. “You’re too emotionally invested.”

You flung the door open so hard it could have bounced off the stopper. “Keep talking, Doctor Reid, and I will send you home just to prove a point.”

He sat up, eyes wide, all mock innocence. “I’m silent. I’m asleep. I don’t even exist. I’m vapor.” He dove under the covers in a ridiculous display of peacekeeping, burrowing himself down to the chin and blinking up at you like a chastised golden retriever.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed again. Not just a giggle this time, but an actual, warm laugh that curled in your chest.

You trudged back to bed, dramatically wiping your nose one last time before dropping the tissues in the little wastebasket by the nightstand. “You’re annoying,” you said as you climbed in.

“And yet, you let me stay.” He opened his arms wide, a smug little smile creeping in again. “Incredible.”

You glared at him but curled into his side anyway, letting your head rest on his chest with a huffy sigh.

“I cleaned your shower because I’m obsessive-compulsive and could only see in germs,” he mumbled into your hair. “Not because I think you’re dirty.”

“I know,” you whispered, already half-asleep. “But next time? Just… don’t make it sound like I live in filth.”

“I’d never.”

“You basically did.”

Spencer kissed your forehead. “You’re the cleanest person I know.”

“You’re not forgiven.”

“You’re literally falling asleep on me right now.”

“Shut up and hold me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He tightened his arms around you, and finally, you both fell asleep this time.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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rodolfoparras · 7 months ago

Text

A Helping Hand (Or two, or three..)

Thinking about Somnophila with monster!reader, having your boyfriend dead asleep after a long work week, stripped naked and laying face down on the sheets, practically leaving his ass for your taking

God he looks so pretty like this, you think as you reach out with a tentacle to caress the exposed skin. Usually you’d try to keep your hands to yourself, not wanting to wake him up after such a long week but he looks absolutely delectable like this with the sheets only covering his upper half and laying in such position that would make it so easy for him to take your cock.

So you allow your tentacle to trace the bottom of his spine, hearing the hitch of his breath as the cold wet tentacle brushes right below his birth mark, and watching it leave a wet trail behind as it works its way to his thighs, the slim limb gingerly pulling his legs apart til all you can see is the puckered ring of muscles.

“Oh fuck,” you breathe out, feeling the blood pool to your lower half and you watch as your tentacle takes the liberty to go further with its touch.

Despite the cold wet feeling grazing his skin, he’s receptive as ever to it: fully allowing the wet sticky limb to cup his cheeks, letting it squeeze and grope the skin like his ass belongs to it, watching him buck his hips as the tentacle tugs and taunts his puckered him and hearing it pulling sweet sweet sweet sounds out of him.

You can’t help but be surprised at his reaction since you’ve never touched him like this before, let alone showed him your tentacles, fearing it would have him running out the door. However looking at him now he doesn’t seem to mind them at all.

For a moment you think that in his sleep induced state he must believe that it’s you, his boyfriend, touching him like this, that’s why he must be so comfortable with it but you can see the furrow in his brow, can hear the choked “who” “what” almost as if he’s still trying to comprehend who- what is touching him right now

While you’re lost in your thoughts the tentacle manages to line itself up with his puckered rim, the slimy limb teasingly circling his clenching hole before it starts to slowly sink inside him.

It’s wet enough to easily slink inside and a bit bigger than the size of your fingers or tongue but he takes it oh so easily, allows the tentacle to slowly stretch him out without much resistance.

It’s almost like it knows his body better than you do as it takes him apart bit by bit, prodding and poking at the wall of nervous and leaving him quaking on the sheet; slowly erasing the furrow in his brow and replacing it with a look of pleasure, and silencing any questions with long hard thrusts til he’s only able to only utter sounds of pleasure.

“Mpfh! Fuck! Sir please!” He blabbers out and you can only watch in surprise as your boyfriend addresses you- it by a title you’ve never heard him use before, seemingly uncaring about who or what is fucking him anymore, matter of fact he seems all too eager at the thought of it being someone else other than you.

It’s like his words seem to fuel it on as another tentacle spurts from your chest and buries itself deep inside of him.

This time a loud scream escapes the other man, and you watch him jerk on the mattress probably having been woken up from his deep slumber by now but he still keeps his head down, wildly panting into the mattress “huh- what-wh-”

He doesn’t manage to get another word out as both of the tentacles ram into him, the force of the thrusts sending him forward as another scream escapes his lips. “Fuck oh - oh fuck!”

You can only watch as the tentacles continue to ram into your boyfriend, obscene squelching sound mingle with his scream and you watch his hole practically gaping every time they momentarily slip out of him.

You’re only brought out your trance when you feel a third tentacle wrap itself around your poor weeping dick, the wet limb softly stroking you from rot to tip as you watch your boyfriend get fucked by the other two limbs.

Slowly but surely the man inches closer to the edge and you watch him practically humping the sheets as the tentacles continue to fuck him “fuck fuck fuck, going to cum-“ he manages to splutter out and just as the words leave his mouth you watch him freeze up before he cums,“oh- oh god”

You’re quick to follow along, cumming right on his ass, and watching the tentacles eagerly clean it up.

The man before you slumps back onto the sheets as the tentacles pull out of him, and by the soft snores escaping his lips you can tell he’s already asleep. The limbs are quick to retract to your chest and you spend a couple of moments catching your breath.

Once he’s back to conscious, he turns to you with a lazy smile on his voice, sounding raspy as ever when he says “I had the strangest dream babe”

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suuuupernovaaa · 16 days ago

Text

patrol

summary: joel keeps you warm on patrol.

warnings/tags: 18+, smut, jackson joel, on horseback, sort of in public, fingering

MASTERLIST

It wasn’t easy to drag your ass out of bed this early, but Joel had promised to finally take you on patrol, after weeks of begging, and so you hauled yourself up and got cleaned up.

“Layers,” Joel had instructed, so you dressed in your warmest clothes. When you met Joel at the door, he zipped your jacket up to the top, and put a hat on your head.

“Approved?” you asked, and he nodded.

“It’s going to be boring,” he said, maybe trying to convince you or himself, and you just shrugged and walked out the door. You could hear him groan behind you, but you went anyway.

After a quick speech about safety, you were off with three others for a morning patrolling, looking for any activity, anything to report back on.

And sadly, Joel was right. It was boring, and cold. You tried to keep yourself from shivering, but you failed. Even with Joel pressed against your back, his warmth seeping in to replace yours, it was still bitingly cold. Maybe you could have waited until a spring patrol.

He probably said yes now so you’d be miserable and never want to join again. He had an absolute obsession with keeping you out of harms way, and even though nothing ever happened on patrol, he still didn’t want you outside the city walls.

“Cold, baby?” he asked, and you could hear the smirk in his voice.

“No,” you replied, and he laughed.

One of his gloved hands let go of the reigns, and wrapped around your waist.

“Don’t lie to me now,” he chided, and you rolled your eyes.

His hand was rubbing, back and forth over your coat, in an effort to warm you up. You looked ahead; the two of you had fallen pretty far behind the rest of the group, who trotted along without glancing back.

When you looked back down, Joel had removed his glove, his hand exposed to the chilly air.

“Joel,” you hissed, and he shushed you.

“Quiet now,” he whispered. “Just gonna warm you up a little.”

You squirmed in the saddle as his hand went lower, skimming the waistband of your jeans. With deft fingers, he unbuttoned them.

“Joel!” you gasped, and he shushed you again. You could hear the grin in his voice as he did it.

His fingers slipped lower, and lower, and you felt his breath on your neck.

If anyone turned around, would they be able to tell what was happening? Or were they too far away?

His fingers were still moving, in your panties now, and when he found his mark, you arched your back and let out an involuntary moan.

“That’s right, baby. Sing for me,” he whispered in your ear.

His fingers ran along your wet core, teasing, and you moved your hips with him, the rhythm of the horse’s steps assisting.

When he circled your clit the first time, you gasped. Joel knew exactly how to touch you, speeding up and slowing down, alternating between gently circling your clit and teasing your entrance until you felt like you were going to go insane.

“Joel, please,” you whimpered, and looked back at him.

He brought his mouth roughly down to yours as he thrust two fingers inside of you, and his lips muffled your scream as his tongue found its way to yours.

He fucked you rough and fast with his fingers, swallowing your moans while he did. You were grinding against his hand, desperate for him, and you could feel your release building quickly.

“Oh fuck, Joel,” you moaned into his mouth.

“Be a good girl,” he demanded. “Come on my hand. Now, baby.”

Stars danced behind your eyes as a powerful orgasm exploded through you, and he covered your mouth with his again to muffle your cries.

His expert fingers kept working through your orgasm and the next, until you were left sagging and panting.

He removed his fingers then, fastening your pants and putting his glove back on his filthy fingers.

“Fuck, Joel,” you said, and he chuckled.

“Just trying to keep my woman warm,” he replied, and kissed your neck once more.

#joel miller fic #Joel miller smut #Joel miller

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aliwritex · 5 months ago

Text

max thoughts: baby making

an: little blurb i wrote today after i dreamed i was pregnant. 1.9k warnings: name calling (?), cum inside (obv), fingering, butt plug overstimulation.

You had been waiting for Max to get home since he told you he had landed in Nice, all dressed up in the sexiest little nightgown and matching crotchless panties.

“Ugh, Maxie, finally.” You ran to the door when he unlocked it from the outside. “Here, drink this” you handed him a open can of redbull as you took his bags for him, throwing them all on the floor.

“What? Redbull? Baby what-?” he stood confused in front of you.

“I was ovulating this week, tonight’s the last night, need you to fuck me now. Drink”

“Now, now?” he asked, shocked by your frantic state.

“Now, so you can give me as many as you can. I’ll be in the bedroom”

“‘kay, i’m coming” he told you as you were already making your way to the bedroom.

He started taking his clothes off by the door as he tried to drink the redbull. By the time he reached the room he had half downed half of the can but still had his underwear and shirt on.

Max had to stop his rushing when he opened the door though. You were on the edge of the bed, your ass in the air and face buried in the pillows as you arched, the crotchless panties giving him a view of your already wet folds.

“Fuck,” he sighed, setting down the can and taking off his shirt, “do I get this every time, now?”

“I’ll think about it if you give me three loads tonight”

“You’ll kill me” he walked over to you and his palm met your exposed ass with a slap, caressing it after the impact.

“Take off your underwear, Max.” you turned around sitting on the edge of the bed as you watched him strip completely. “Want me to take this off?” you asked, referring to your top.

“Keep it on”

You pulled him closer to you by the hips, your hand reached for his hardening cock and led it to your mouth. Your tongue darted out to lick at his tip then meet the base and drag all the way back up. He closed his eyes in pleasure, hand reaching to comb your hair out of your face but as soon as you felt him hard enough you pulled away and he whined.

“You know what we’re here for, come on. No complaining when you get to fuck me raw and come inside.”

“I hate you so much. Right, lay down.” He watched as you got comfortable, spreading your legs up for him. He could see your glistening middle as you looked ip at him. “Were you doing something?” he asked before swiping his finger between your folds and taking it to his mouth.

“Maybe. I was watching something, to keep myself ready for you”

“I think you’re going too far” he chuckled as he laid his body over yours, kissing your neck as his hand guided his cock into you.

You both groaned when he filled you up, you pressed his ass with your feet, making him go deeper. You started moving your hips up but Max stopped you, holding them down so he could fuck your properly.

He stood back up and started snapping his hips against yours. He had built up the pace to fast thrusts, using you to get himself off, just like you wanted. Your legs had been thrown over his shoulders so he could fuck as deep as possible into you.

Max tugged on your flimsy top, pulling until your tits popped out, he watched them bounce with every thrust of his hips. His hand reached out for them, feeling the soft flesh against his palm before he bent over your body.

“Fuck, baby, ‘m not gonna last” he whined against your neck.

“Don’t want you to, ‘t’s okay. Fill me up, Maxie”

One of your hands caressed the short hair on the back of his head as the other slipped between your bodies to reach your clit. He slowed his thrusts, making his movements deeper, the tip of his cock hitting your cervix perfectly as you felt your orgasm build up.

“Fuck” he groaned, dragged out as he came inside you.

You held him in place with your leg as you moved your hips in circles, chasing your orgasm as his hand replaced yours in your clit. His agile fingers quickly bringing you to spasm and release around him.

“Stay for a second” you plead as you held him close to you.

“Baby, my legs are giving up” he chuckled, his breath tickling your neck and making you let go.

Max pulled out and stood up, helping you up the bed before he laid on his side, next to you. You pulled his face down to kiss him, quickly shoving your tongue into his mouth and running your nails down his chest.

“Give me a second, love” he chuckled as his own hand ran down your chest to your stomach. “Lemme take this off”

He tugged on your panties and helped you pull them down till you were kicking them off. His lips met your neck, slowly covering the skin with kisses while his fingers reached between your folds. He collected the cum that was starting to spill out of you and pushed it back inside, the action making your back arch off the bed.

“Max” you whined “I don’t need this, need you to fuck me again”

“No? Thought the contractions of the orgasm helped the sperm in” he teased, kissing the side of your face as he worked his fingers inside you.

“You’re the biggest turn off ever.”

“Yet you’re here, trying to hold your moans back” he kissed you to shut you up, curling his fingers to make you squirm around him.

He always worked you so well with his fingers, knowing all your cues, when to curl, where to press, he was just perfect at making you feel good. So it was no surprise when you pulled away from his kiss to moan.

“So fucking close, Max” you whined

“I know, baby. Don’t hold back, come for me”

His raspy voice and the way his beard was rubbing against your neck threw you over the edge as his fingers pressed your gspot. You bit your lip to stop the loud moans that would come out of your mouth, soft grunts coming out instead.

“So fucking pretty for me.” he kissed your face, flipping on top of you. “Want me to fuck you again, love?”

“Please” you sighed, pulling his neck down to kiss him again.

His movements this time were slower and calmer. He kissed you through it, the entire time, your hands wrapping around his tiny waist and making their way up to his broad shoulders, the way your nails dragged on his skin driving him crazy.

Moans were flowing from your mouth to his and vice versa, everything almost too intense. The combination of touches and feelings making your muscles tense up as you felt your third orgasm approaching.

You came together, intensifying each others pleasure as you moved slowly to ride down your highs. You smiled as he kissed you, making him smile too and pull away, to look down at you.

“I’m never letting you shave again. I love this.” you told him, running your hand on his jaw.

He just nodded, letting his body fall on top of yours, his face settling on the crook of your neck. He only got up after a couple minutes.

“I’m gonna get water and a snack so we don’t pass out.”

“Can you bring me some grapes?” you asked purposefully and he nodded, leaving the room.

You knew Max was planning to be done after the second round so you came up with a better plan. You asked for the grapes because they were hidden in the back of the fridge, still unopened and unwashed so he’d take sometime with that.

That’s the time you needed to give him a little motivation.

You opened the drawer on your side of the bed and pulled out a bottle of lube and a heart shaped but plug, small so you could quickly take it. You tried to be as fast and efficient as you could with your prep and in minutes you had it in. So you positioned yourself like you were when he first walked in and waited.

It didn’t take too long before Max opened the door. He almost dropped the water bottles and the bow he had in his hands.

“Fuck, baby” he groaned “I can’t”

“What?” you turned your head to look at him immediately

“It’s really tempting but i don’t think i can, love”

“Of course you can, Maxie. Please, i need you to.” you begged you the whiniest voice as he approached you.

“Sit up, baby”

You obeyed and winced when your ass met the mattress, making the plug dig deeper inside you which made Max’s cock twitch.

“Max, we’re never gonna have a baby if you don’t put enough effort into it.” you said, running your hands over his hips and love handles.

“I’m pretty sure people can have babies without fucking three times in a row. You’re just a fucking whore” he told you, tilting your head up with a hand on your chin to make you look at him.

“I’m your whore, though. And I’m so fucking horny, baby. So ready for you.”

“Turn around. You wanna bend over or get on your knees?”

You smiled and settled back into position, arching as much as you could for him. Max watched and you swayed your ass in the air for him and reached out. His thumb pushed the plug like it was a button, making you whine and push back against his hand.

“Fuck! Some day i’m gonna actually be able to tell you no” he sighed and caressed your ass.

His hand slipped up your back, bunching up your nightgown so he could see the curve of your spine and your waist. He started kissing the same trail his hand took as his other worked on getting his cock ready for you.

“You know you’re gonna make me cum so quick” he sighed as he tapped the tip of his cock on your cunt.

“As long as you cum inside me”

Max threw his head back as he pushed into you, the stimulation on his spent cock almost too much. He stopped for a second so he didn’t burst before starting to move his hips. He was being incredibly and unnecessarily slow, dragging his cock in and out of you and watching as his previous release coated him and spilled out of you with every thrust.

You got impatient and started fucking yourself on him, rolling your hips as you moved back onto him and your fingers played with your clit. His moans were coming out in grunts as he squeezed your waist.

“Baby, slow down” he whined.

You let out a negative groan in response, your fingers speeding up on your clit. You kept on fucking yourself on him till he came with a ridiculously loud moan, the pumping of his cock triggering your own orgasm. You too came with a loud moan and your knees completely gave out, making you fall on the bed, Max slipping out of you.

He just let himself fall on the bed too, right next to you, his hand brushing the sweaty hair off your face.

“Done?” he asked and you nodded “Good, I’m so done. Are you okay?”

“Do you think we did it this time?” you mumbled

“Relax, baby. Don’t worry about it, we have all the time in the world.” he told you before kissing your forehead and falling asleep almost instantly — he could deal with the mess later.

#mv1 smut #mv1 imagine #mv1 x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen smut #a writes #thoughts

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simmplerussiangirl · 4 months ago

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The Fugitive

Ambessa Medarda x The Reader

Synopsis: It's very simple. You're Ambressa's wife and you were afraid you could kill her with your magic. So you ran away from the capital. It's about what happened after that

Word count: 1.2k

Author: Sorry, I'm really crazy about magic and Ambessa.

Three weeks ago during your training with Ambressa, you couldn't do anything. Your magic, your legs, your arms weren't working, it was like someone had replaced you. And so when you were once again working with a new spell, you couldn't hold the magic in your hands, and a large ball of pure energy exploded in your hands. It didn't hurt you, because your magic is an extension of you and it can't hurt you.

But Ambresse... The woman managed to cover herself with her shield and didn't get badly wounded. But the magic hit her arm. You instantly ran over to her as you recovered from the shock. Her left arm was bleeding, and the cuts were in the shape of the runes you'd drawn so diligently in the air a couple minutes before.

« It's okay, Witchy « the girl wheezed and leaned on her other arm to stand up, drops of blood falling from her hand to the floor. « It's okay, I'm not going to die from these scratches. Don't worry, you didn't hurt me badly and the runes didn't go deep under my skin. You just cut my skin. Don't worry.»

But I just watched in silence, unable to say anything. The thought flashed through your mind of what would have happened if Ambressa had been standing there without her shield as usual. Would you have killed her? Most likely.

That night you fled the capital, hoping to shield your beloved wife from yourself and your magic. But, of course, you were found and brought back.

Now you enter Ambressa's office, where she has been negotiating with her people about the war. Your heart sinks as she throws the warriors out of the room she was talking to in a cold and menacing voice. As the men left the room not forgetting to bow to you and Ambessa, the woman stood up from the table and walked around it. Leaning her hips against it in front of you, she folded her arms across her chest. You could feel waves of displeasure from the girl, and she didn't even try to hide it. For a while, you were both silent. You because you were insanely ashamed of what you had done. She because she was waiting for your excuses.

You looked at the hand you'd wounded and saw the scattering of rune scars and breathed heavily, raising your gaze to her eyes.

« I was scared» you swallowed and hugged yourself to your shoulders, trying to pull yourself together «scared that I might accidentally kill you with my magic. You're very lucky you had your shield on that day. If you hadn't, it probably would have ended very badly.»

I lowered my eyes to the floor, unable to find the strength to look into her eyes, where you could see the depths of worry and boundless love.

« Villains can't have family and happiness. I knew that, but I hoped it wouldn't affect us, but it did.»

«You're not a villain» Ambressa said in a steady voice, not trying to comfort, but rather stating it as a fact.

« I almost killed you!»

«But you didn't.»

«But I could» I cringed even more at the thought of it «that's why I left, because I don't want to. I can't live with the idea that I've done you irreparable harm. Now you've led with your hand, but what if.... If next time it doesn't work out.»

Ambressa was silent and only watched you standing by the door like a little battered kitten who doesn't know what to do.

«You can run around as long as you like. But I'm gonna find you wherever you are. I'll find you and I'll bring you back home to me. You're my wife, my responsibility and I won't let you think you're evil. Even if you destroy the entire Earth, I'll find a million excuses for you and make everyone believe it. Let alone the fact that you hurt me a little while you were practicing. It's just a scratch and you couldn't have hurt me worse.”

Ambressa moved around the room like a predator. Her steps were slow and measured. Her arms were folded across her chest as she sat down on the couch near the fireplace. The fire danced across her face, making her features look more and more menacing. The girl didn't look at me, which made my heart whimper.

She certainly was not angry now. She was never angry with you. Was displeased or pissed off, but not angry. At the moment her heart was gripped by anxiety. A vice gripping her heart at even the phantom possibility of losing you. She was terrified that one morning she would wake up and realize you were gone again. The thought alone made her clench her eyes, trying to push such a thing away from her.

«But...»

« No buts.» Ambressa said it in a tone after which there could be no arguments. She cut off any doubts, causing a flame of hope and boundless love to erupt inside you. Seeing you slump your tense shoulders, the girl smiled and spread her arms, inviting you into her strong, warm embrace. «Come to me, my Witch.»

And you came. Of course you did. Almost running, you threw yourself into her arms, wrapping both arms around her waist and hiding from the world in her neck. You greedily inhaled the pleasant scent of the girl's perfume mixing with her natural odor. It was such a familiar scent that you had missed so much in a couple of weeks that it seemed that if you hadn't heard it for a couple more days, you would have gone crazy.

Ambressa's hand stroked your back in a soothing gesture. She kissed the top of your head a couple times and turned back to the fire, glad to have you around again. The demons inside her calmed down, no longer lashing out, wanting to kill anyone who looked at her the wrong way. The creatures quieted, and Ambressa sank into the long-awaited calm, clutching you to her.

You, in turn, clutched her clothes in your hands, afraid to open your eyes and not see your beloved. At such an action on your part, Ambressa laughed a little, admiring your childish behavior.

«Have you had enough of running?» she whispered into the top of your head between kisses.

You didn't say a word, but nodded affirmatively, drew your legs closer, and turned to the fire.

«You won't run away again?» Ambressa's hand gently tousled your disheveled hair.

«Never again in your life.» You whispered, and rested your head on her shoulder, moving it slightly, like a cat wanting to be petted. « I thought I was going to die without you... I missed you so much. Waking up every day and not seeing you, not hearing your voice, not feeling your touch - it's my hell...»

« I love you.» You continued after a little silence. «More than anyone else in this world.»

The clan head moved her hand to your shoulder and pressed you against her. Her heart ached pleasantly at your warm words, she literally melted when you told her how you felt.

«Me too, Witchy, me too.»

Thanks for reading. If there are any comments I accept criticism in a mild form. Don't break my heart :)

#arcane ambessa #ambessa x reader #ambessa medarda #arcane #arcane season 2 #arcane x reader #arcane x y/n #x reader #ambessa league of legends #i need this old lady so bad #ambessa medarda x reader

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anonymousicecream · 7 months ago

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Toilet? Really? (Joy x M Reader)

Day 5: Public Sex in Toilet + Cheating

Being the secret boyfriend of a famous girlgroup member is hard, VERY HARD, especially since she still has a boyfriend who, like the public, doesn't know about my relationship with hers. You're currently at one of her shoots with Diesel, as a 'photograph assistant' while you're actually just standing there, doing nothing besides imagining the dirty things you'll do to her IN THAT outfit.

"Alright, good job Ms Sooyoung, we'll take a 40 minute break everyone!" The shooting director announced. You breathe in relief, knowing that you don't know what might happen to you if you continue to see her in that outfit. Your daydream was then interrupted again by Sooyoung, who bumped onto you, walking past you before she looked back at you, smirking seductively before mouthing 'toilet' to you. You waited for a few minutes, while making sure you have a condom in your pockets, before you walked to the toilet. Since it's a singular toilet with only one stall, you immediately went into the ladies' bathroom. Once in there, you were greeted by Sooyoung, leaning against the sink, legs wide open, exposing her red cherry panties.

"I know how you've been looking at me." Sooyoung said lustfully as you start walking slowly towards her, unbuttoning your dress shirt, exposing your toned abs to her, as well as the cold air in the bathroom. "Oh I know, and I also know, how you've been teasing me all day long." You said, before you leaned in, just missing her lips, making sure she doesn't kiss you, while your hands move down onto her thighs, caressing them softly as you felt her breathes getting heavier.

Your hands, after several actions on her thighs, managed to reach her panties, where you caressed her pussy through her panties. You set her panties aside before inserting a finger into her, making her gasp. You used your other hand to guide it up from her hips onto her lips, parting them slightly, producing a moan from her. "I know you've been holding them back baby, moan louder for me, I lock the door so this whole area's off charts, only I can hear your moans baby." You whispered to her ears, while also adding another finger into her pussy and increasing your pace by a bit, making her whimper.

"P-Please, fuck me, please." Sooyoung moaned into your ears. "Not yet." You said, before kneeling down, getting your face in front of her pussy. You removed your fingers and replaced it with your tongue, leaning in to lick her pussy up and down. "Ahhhh Fuckk" Sooyoung moaned, her moans getting louder after each time you lick her pussy. When she got wet enough, you waste no time to dive deeper, pulling her hips against your face, allowing you to get deeper into her pussy, exchanging between licking and sucking her pussy, making her produce more juices. "H-How the fuck are you this good? FUCK!" Sooyoung asked. "Lots of practice on your pussy." You replied, before continuing to feast on her pussy.

"I'm close." Sooyoung said. "Just cum whenever you want." You then add a finger into her pussy, making you finger her while you also eat her out. Not only that, you used your other hand to reach over to her ass, rubbing her asshole from the outside. This, combined with the fact that you have been stimulating her for the past 5 minutes, brought her the long awaited orgasm.

"FUCK!!!" She moans loudly, followed by even louder ones after each squirt of her juices went out, squirting onto your face. Your fingers continued moving on her asshole and in her pussy while you just stay there, enjoying as each squirt came out. "When was the last time you had an orgasm?" You asked her, before she replied immediately. "Three weeks ago." "Ah, that's why." You then sucked her pussy again for a few seconds, before standing up and reaching into your pocket, grabbing a pack of condom.

Seeing this, Sooyoung unbuttoned and lowered your jeans aggressively, before grabbing the condom, tearing the pack open and then rolling it on your dick. You then lift her up a bit, aligning your cock with her pussy, before lowering her onto your cock. "Fuck you're big." "I know." You said, making her roll her eyes. "You can move now." You start thrusting in and out of her slowly, allowing you to get deeper into her after each thrust. Once you manage to open her inside, you started increasing your pace, thrusting into her faster and faster before you eventually bottomed out inside her. Your thrusts continued, which was accompanied by the moans she gave as well as the scratches on your neck.

"Faster!" Sooyoung moaned, and you obliged, fucking her even faster and deeper. You also used your hand to play with her tits and pussy, rubbing them, matching your thrusts. You didn't forget to lower her dress straps, allowing you to occasionally lean in to suck on her tits.

Unexpectedly to her, you pulled out of her and set her down, before you turned her around, pushing her upper body against the mirror, before you spank her ass repeatedly. You then enter her again, thrusting in and out of her hard and fast, trying to give her the long awaited orgasm. "I know you're close, just cum whenever you want." You said into her ears, and this was enough to trigger her orgasm as she came, squirting her juices onto your cock. You continued fucking her through her orgasm, helping her intensify and prolong it, before she eventually stopped cumming. You thrusted a few more times before resting deep inside her.

"Did you finish?" She asked, to which you shake your head. "Alright." Sooyoung said, pushing you away from her. She then recomposed herself and turned her around, before kneeling in front of you. "Your cum's going inside me one way or another." She then removed your condom and threw it away before she insert your cock into her mouth, licking the tip repeatedly, before she starts going deeper. The effort she put in, as well as her tongue movements colliding with your cock, as well as her mouth's warmth, helped you closer to your orgasm.

"Let me try something before you cum." She said, before sucking your cock again, this time hollowing her mouth even more, making it tighter. However, what surprised you most was when she bottomed your cock out, letting your tip hit her throat. She repeated this again before she went as deep as possible, holding your cock steady in her throat before she gagged. "Just fill my mouth." You then grabbed her head and held her steady, before you start mouthfucking her. She managed to keep her mouth tight, allowing you to carve her mouth while also reaching her throat repeatedly. It took a few more thrusts before you came.

"MMMMHHHHH MMMMHHHHH" Sooyoung's moans got muffled by your cock as you spurt your load into her throat. After you finished cumming, Sooyoung pushed your cock out of her throat and opened her mouth wide, showing you your load, before she swallowed it all. She didn't forget to lick your excess cum on your cock, which made you cum again, this time on her face and cleavage.

#kpop #kpop gg #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #male reader #kpop imagines #red velvet smut #red velvet joy #joy smut #joy #joy red velvet #park sooyoung

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sai-int · 3 months ago

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LOW COUNTRY | HARD LUCK

johnny mactavish x reader

[PREV] [NEXT] [AO3] [MLIST]

pining—but nothing ever comes easy

Ever since the fence checks some three weeks ago, you and Johnny have been inseparable.

Always near each other. Always finding excuses to linger. The small things are driving you insane—fingers brushing when you pass tools to each other, stolen glances when you think the other isn’t looking. Thick, suffocating tension that's replaced most of the humidity since summer’s left.

A few days after the fences while walking back home from the stables, he bumped into you—a harmless accident, at first. You had nudged him back, bumping your shoulder against his bicep. Then he nudged you back. So you nudged him again. And then, without warning, he full-on shoved you, sending you both stumbling into a pit of mud, arms flailing, laughter bursting from your lungs as he landed on top of you, splashing each other in the process.

You had both ended up completely covered, caked in thick, cool mud, layers of it sticking to your clothes, your skin, your hair. There was no saving anything now. The mud clung to every inch of you, heavy and wet, the kind that made your boots feel like they weighed a hundred pounds each. You had looked like a couple of disasters, and there was no point in trying to salvage the mess.

Which meant there was only one solution: the hose.

You both had trekked the rest of the way to the house, mud squelching with every step, straight to where the hose lay coiled by the back door. The second you grabbed it, you turned the nozzle on Johnny, blasting him with a sharp, cold stream of water. He had let out a yelp before bursting into laughter, standing there with his hands on his hips like this was the funniest thing in the world. You had aimed right for his chest, soaking him instantly, the fabric of his shirt clinging to his skin as the mud slid off.

Then he had snatched the nozzle from you, cranking it on full blast.

You barely had time to react before he drenched you. The icy water sent a shiver straight through your spine, soaking you completely. You had shrieked, sputtering as you tried to swat at him, but he kept spraying, grinning like a devil as you both ended up more soaked than you were in the first place. Mud slid off in chunks, the water mixing with the dirt until you were both just a dripping, shivering mess.

Eventually, you had both trudged inside, still dripping all over the hardwood floor, still grinning. The evening had passed in a haze of warmth—hot showers, dry clothes, the comforting scent of the farmhouse wrapping around you like a well-worn quilt. It was one of those moments that stuck with you, one of those memories you’d look back on during the rougher days.

But the world keeps spinning, and the last remnants of August are scattered and blown away with the leaves as September rolls in. September cools the lingering summer heat, but with it comes the rain.

A lot of rain.

The crop fields eventually flood. They barely ever have time to dry despite the tile lines, weeds take root faster than you can pull them, and harvesting is next to impossible. Every step outside is a battle against the sinking earth.

The animals are restless and need even more attention, the barns reek of damp hay, and everything feels like it takes twice the effort. The mud is relentless, coating their coats and clinging to their hooves, and Johnny’s right there with them, hosing them down, cleaning their hooves before hoof rot can take hold. The mud pits are the worst, constantly growing, threatening to swallow everything in their path.

It’s a never-ending cycle that chews through your patience like rust on metal.

Even the simplest tasks feel like a battle. The dampness seeps into your clothes, cold against your skin, making it impossible to feel dry for more than a few minutes. The weight of the work drags on, each chore stretching longer than the last, and there’s no break in sight. It’s exhausting, the kind of tiredness that sticks to your bones and makes you wonder if you should just sleep in and forget about the farm for one day of your damned life.

You used to dread this time of year, but now, there’s Johnny.

Every time frustration threatened to settle in, he was there, breaking the tension with some terrible joke that was so stupid you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound ringing out through the fields, cutting through the dreary days like sunbeams cascading through the cracks in the clouds.

September 8th was the start of it all— the first serious downpour since the Spring. It didn’t bring hurricane levels of devastation, per se, but it definitely gave Johnny a run for his money. After watching him scramble to fill muddy pits in the pastures with gravel, the next day you decided to teach Johnny how to do it with the tractor, for efficiency’s sake. But first, you had to teach him how to actually drive a tractor.

The midday sky was surprisingly clear, blue skies with a couple clouds, the sun shining but hardly doing enough to dry up the ground. The air still carried the fresh scent of wet grass from the previous night’s downpour. You were both already filthy—mud smeared up your jeans, damp hay clinging to your shirts, the sticky kind of sweat settling beneath your collars from the morning’s labor.

It was the kind of day that stretched long, the kind where there was too much to do and not enough hands to do it. The both of you had spent most of the day patching up the farm from whatever damage the rain did.

Johnny had leaned against the rusting side of the machine as you gave him a general rundown of how the tractor worked—its parts, what to use it for, what not to use it for. His baby blues were locked on you, arms crossed with his faded flannel rolled up to his elbows, forearms streaked with dirt. His hair was all grown out, a mess, tousled from the wind with just a few strands curling against his forehead where sweat had dampened them.

After—you realized a slight predicament.

There was, in fact, only one seat.

Which, you obviously knew. You had just… Forgotten. It’s not like you had anyone else to share it with until a month ago, and it wasn’t exactly built for more than one person, and lord knew this old ‘72 hunk of junk wasn’t equipped with any fancy modifications.

Still, you and Johnny stood on either side of it, both perched on the step bars, staring at the problem in front of you.

“So,” Johnny had said, running a hand through his hair. “How’re we doin’ this?”

You had frowned, scanning the interior like the answer was hidden somewhere in the cracked leather or dusty floorboards. “Uh…”

“Ye gonna balance on the fender?”

You snort, “That’s a terrible idea.”

“Alright,” he said easily, grinning as he cocked his head. “Guess tha’ leaves my lap.”

Your eyes had snapped to his, narrowing as heat prickled at your neck. “Yeah, I’m sure you’d enjoy that.”

He chuckled, far too pleased with himself. “No one’s stoppin’ ye from enjoyin’ it too.”

“So, you’re saying you would enjoy it?”

He lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug, palms slightly upturned as if the answer was obvious, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You had opened your mouth to argue, but before you could even think of another alternative, he had already climbed up, settling into the seat like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then, without missing a beat, he had turned toward you, eyebrows raised expectantly.

You had just stared at him. Incredulously.

He had stared right back, completely unbothered. Then, he slung one arm over the back of the seat, stretching out like he had all the time in the world, and patted his thigh.

“Can wait all day, Hen.”

You had huffed, crossing your arms. “You’re insufferable. Genuinely.”

“Ye love it.”

Fuck him and that stupid little grin.

You had climbed up, settling onto his lap with as much dignity as you could muster, ignoring the way your pulse jumped at the warmth of him beneath you.

You stuttered through a more detailed explanation while ignoring the heat in your cheeks. You told him about the throttle, the gears, how to ease the clutch off when he lets go of the parking gear. You hoped he would gently ease the thing forward instead of throwing it into motion like a lunatic.

You looked back at him occasionally from where you were perched atop his thick thigh and he would nod along, serious, focused, like he was actually going to listen. You should have known better.

The second he stretched his arms around you and on the wheel, gripping it like he was about to tame a wild beast, Johnny just had to be Johnny.

The engine had growled as he threw it into gear, and before you could shout at him to slowly let off the clutch , the tractor lurched forward like it had been shot out of a cannon.

The wheels had spun up mud, slinging it in every direction. You had barely had time to curse before—CRACK, the tractor had slammed dead-on into the fence ahead. The sound of splintering wood had been so loud it echoed, the entire structure shaking as the impact sent a fresh spray of wood pieces flying. The whole thing had happened so fast, leaving nothing but the dull hum of the idling engine and the unmistakable sight of a fence massacre.

Johnny had frozen in the seat, hands still gripping the wheel like it might try to escape. His eyes had been locked on the wreckage, mouth slightly parted in dumbfounded horror. You had been the same way, staring at the fresh hole in the fence, at the broken post dangling pathetically from its base.

Then laughter erupted out of you.

It had punched through the silence, doubling you over, your arms wrapping around your stomach as you absolutely lost it.It had been the kind of laughter that stole your breath, that shook your shoulders and left you gasping, because of course this would happen. Of course.

Johnny had groaned, dragging a hand down his face, mud smeared across his cheek from where he had touched it earlier.

“Fan-tastic,” he muttered.

You had barely gotten the words out through your laughter. “If your goal was destruction, then great job.”

You felt his glare on the back of your head, but there had been no real heat behind it—just pure, exhausted exasperation. He had known, just as well as you did, that this was never something you were ever going to let him forget.

“Oh, ha-ha. Real funny,” he had deadpanned, finally releasing the steering wheel, resting one arm loosely around your waist and the other on his thigh.

“I’m sorry, I swear,” you had wheezed, still bent over, hands on your knees as you tried to pull yourself together. But the second you looked back at the fence, at the carnage he had caused, another burst of laughter had escaped. You had clamped a hand over your mouth, shaking your head. “Okay—okay, I’m done.”

Johnny had squinted at you, clearly not buying it.

“Uh-huh,” he had drawn, “Think tha’ was funny, do ye?”

You had snorted, wiping at your eyes, still breathless. “I mean—yeah, kind of.”

“Yeah? How funny’s this then?”

Before you could react, his hands had shot out, fingers digging into your ribs. You had yelped, instinctively jerking away, but he had been faster. His arms had wrapped around you, keeping you against him as he attacked your sides, relentless, grinning like the menace he was.

“Oh, god—Johnny, please!” you had shrieked, laughter spilling from you in uncontrollable waves as you twisted in his grasp, trying to escape.

“What was that abou’ ‘destruction’? Hmm?” he teased, chuckling as you squirmed, his grip strong enough to keep you trapped but gentle enough not to actually hurt you.

Through your breathless giggles, you had tried to shove at his shoulders, but your strength was useless in the face of your own traitorous laughter. “This— This can’t get worse than the fence!”

“Oh, but can’t it?” His fingers had found a spot just above your waistband, and you had nearly fell off the tractor right then and there.

“Johnny!” you had gasped between fits of laughter, trying desperately to push him off.

Eventually, either out of mercy or just the need to breathe himself, he had finally stopped, still grinning as you staggered back, hands on your knees, panting.

“Oh God—” Your breaths came in gasps, “You’re the worst,” you had huffed, face flushed, chest heaving.

He had just smirked, all smug and self-satisfied. “I know.”

Even though you had wanted to glare at him, to scowl and tell him off, you just… couldn’t.

Instead, you had rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly before turning your attention back to the fence. Another thing to add to the never-ending list of work to be done. The thought should’ve frustrated you, but instead, a quiet warmth settled in your chest—the kind that came from the easy company, the laughter, the way he made even the worst days feel lighter.

Speaking of things piling up, just two days later, you found out Shimmer was pregnant.

At first, you weren’t sure. Maybe she was just putting on weight, despite the diet you had her on. But then you started noticing the little things—how her middle grew rounder, how she moved slower, more deliberate, only bothering to graze when necessary. She’d nuzzle into your shoulder more often, leaning her weight against you in a way that felt almost… maternal. And when she missed her heat cycle, that sealed it.

You had your answer.

Pregnant mares don’t always get special treatment from their stallions, but Scout’s different. He’s a gentle giant, and he’s still sticking by her, lingering behind her. When they graze, he just hovers by, protecting her, ears flicking attentively, like he knows she’s carrying something precious. A bond like that’s a rare thing, but you can’t say you’re surprised.

It just meant more work, more things to keep an eye on. She’d need extra care in the coming months—better feed, closer monitoring, maybe even a vet visit just to be sure. And yet, despite the added responsibility, you couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of excitement. A foal.

Something new. Something good.

Maybe that was what you needed—a reminder that not everything about this time of year had to be miserable. That there were still things worth looking forward to.

Little things had a way of breaking through the routine, slipping into the cracks of everyday life in a way that softened the edges. Like the prospect of a foal. Or Johnny’s absolutely horrible jokes. Or—Dixie.

Johnny had been trying—really trying—to befriend the old girl, but there was hesitation in him, something careful and cautious. He had mentioned once that he wasn’t too fond of dogs. You hadn’t pushed to know why. Instead, on one particularly easy day, you had found yourselves in the sheep barn, sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor. Dixie was curled up in your lap, her graying fur warm against your skin, her breathing slow and steady.

Johnny had watched from a short distance, his arms resting loosely on his knees, his expression unreadable. You had patted the empty space beside you, wordlessly inviting him closer.

Johnny had sat next to you, his gaze soft as he watched Dixie—how her chest had risen and fallen in a peaceful rhythm, her graying muzzle tucked under her paws, the faintest snores escaping her every so often. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved—just watched her for a while, his eyes following every slow rise and fall of her chest, like he was memorizing the simple, quiet moment.

The silence had stretched between you, comfortable, not needing words. There had been something in the way Johnny had focused on the old dog, something unexpectedly tender in his expression. He had reached out, tentatively at first, his fingers hovering just above her fur, unsure if he should touch or leave her undisturbed. Dixie hadn’t stirred, the slow rhythm of her breathing a quiet invitation for him to try.

His fingers had grazed the top of her head, gentle, testing. She hadn’t reacted, just let him. After a moment, he had stroked his hand down her back, a slow, uncertain motion that had turned steady as he realized—she wasn’t a threat. She had leaned into the touch, and Johnny's hand had moved with more confidence, his gaze softening as he continued.

You hadn’t interrupted. You had just watched, silently, as something had shifted in his expression—a flicker of adoration, quiet affection, the kind you had seen in moments that had come and gone without fanfare. And yet, each time, those moments had burrowed deeper under your skin, nestling into places you didn’t quite know how to name.

There had been an undeniable warmth that had settled in your chest, something that didn’t quite belong but had fit all the same.

You never used to care for small things like this—like the way Johnny cares for something as simple as Dixie, the way he tackles you into the mud or makes you laugh until you cry.

Everything he does—everything he is—steadily takes root in you in ways that leave you confused but increasingly and indubiously tethered to him.

And then Pa notices.

Of course he does.

He’s been around long enough to hear the way you and Johnny laugh—really laugh, not just the surface-level chuckles, but the deep, real laughter that comes from inside, the kind that makes you forget about the world for a while. He hears the little jabs, the teasing, the way Johnny’s softened around you, the subtle changes in the way you interact, the way you both speak your own language without realizing it.

Pa sees it all—the way you and Johnny are starting to slip into a rhythm, a shared dynamic that no one else quite understands. He sees the little looks that pass between you two when the other isn’t looking, how your smiles have grown more weighted, less guarded.

He’s not blind, not deaf, and he’s certainly not stupid. It’s in the way you speak to each other, the way your shoulders brush when you’re close, the quiet moments that pass between you and Johnny that tell a story he doesn’t need words to understand.

As dinner wrapped up one evening, the silence stretched just a little too long as you cleaned up. Pa leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing just a little as he watched you and Johnny exchange a look and small, pinched smiles, an inside joke that only the two of you understand.

When Johnny headed upstairs to shower for the night, Pa spoke. His voice was calm. Too calm. Eerily casual, but laced with weight, like a loaded gun aimed under the table, safety off.

“There better not be anything happenin’ between you two.”

Your hands froze in the sink. The words hit all at once, but they sank in slowly, like a thresher cutting through a field, one pass at a time. You turned your back to the sink, swallowing hard against the bile rising in your mouth. Pa’s eyes are already on you, steady, unyielding.

“That boy’s here to work—” he paused, his gaze sharpened, “and that’s that.”

Heat crept up your neck, a slow burn of embarrassment, irritation, something else you couldn’t name if you tried. Half of you wanted to snap—ask him why the hell it would matter anyway. Tell him he should mind his own damn business. But you knew he was right.

Because technically, nothing is happening—but simultaneously, everything is. The glances. The touches, how the tension between you both feels like a wire pulled too tight, on the verge of snapping.

You scoff, shaking your head. “Nothing’s happening.”

Because what the hell else are you supposed to say? That you’re aching for something to happen? That you can always feel Johnny looking at you like he’s fighting a battle with himself—like he’s on the edge of breaking, one heartbeat away from pulling you into him and kissing you senseless, but he won’t. He’s just staring, and you’re both drowning in it. And it’s driving you insane, gnawing at you, every nerve screaming for him to make a move, but he won’t.

Yes, things are happening. But if he never actually does anything, does it even count? If you load the shells and pump the forearm, but don’t plan on pulling the trigger, what’s the fuck’s point of even bringing out the shotgun?

You clenched your jaw, exhaled slowly through your nose, and turned back to the sink, shoving plates into the drying rack with more force than necessary.

Behind you, Pa didn’t say another word. He didn’t have to.

It’s September 14th, a lazy Sunday evening, and the world has slowed to a quiet hum as the sun dips below the horizon. The air is growing crisper by the day, the subtle whispers of fall creeping in, carrying the chill that promises the change of seasons.

And then, the crack of the bat.

Cecil Fielder, the Detroit Tigers' powerhouse, smashes a home run clean out of Milwaukee Stadium. From the kitchen radio, Ernie Harwell’s voice cuts through the hum of the evening, crackling with excitement, his call booming through the house—“That one’s looooong gone!”

You can’t help but smile at the familiar sound, the way Harwell’s voice seems to carry more energy than the whole room. Even Pa stirs in his chair, the game catching his attention for a moment, though his eyes are still fixed on the TV.

You’re standing side by side with Johnny at the sink, cleaning up after dinner. Plates clink, the dish sponge flicks lazily in your hands, and you both nudge each other, sharing some silent joke only the two of you get. His whispers and half-laughs make you giggle like a teenager, the kind of stupid, effortless laughter that catches you by surprise and escapes before you even know it. It’s easy—too easy—like it’s always been this way, like you’ve been doing this for years.

Johnny’s leaning on the counter next to you, drying a plate as he cracks another joke, his voice low enough that Pa can’t hear. Across the room, Pa’s planted in his armchair, eyes locked on the TV, his face stone still as the news anchor drones on about the hurricane coming Thursday. The rain’s been on and off for days, and the weatherman’s only making it sound worse.

The news perks your ears and you put down the sponge. You wander through the kitchen doorway, leaning against the stairwell banister as you watch the screen, arms crossed, brows slightly furrowed as you listen to the predicted wind speeds for Hurricane… Bob? They were just running out of names these days.

Johnny silently follows, pausing just behind you. You feel him before you see him, solid and steady, a quiet heat at your back. He’s gentle, reliable like the weight of a heavy coat in winter. Always lingering, steadily hovering.

Like he’s protecting you. Whether he means to or not.

Today’s just one of those fucking days.

The 18th starts with a crack of thunder rattling the house, jerking you awake from a restless sleep. The sound is too loud, like it’s coming from inside your own room. You pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders, but it doesn’t block the noise, doesn’t drown out the howl of the wind through your windows or the draft that accompanies it. You groan, sinking back into the pillow, praying for a few more minutes of sleep. You glance at the clock—7:03 AM. Shit, you should’ve been up 30 minutes ago.

Oh right—it’s Thursday.

With a grunt, you push the covers off and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your feet hit the cool floor with a soft thud, your socks slipping slightly as you stand. You push your bedroom door open and make your way across the hall, steps muffled by the runner. The faint sound of running water comes from the bathroom, steady and constant, and you frown.

You hesitate for a moment, then knock lightly on the door, only to hear the water stop, a muffled grunt from inside. He’s not done yet. You wait a few minutes longer, but the sound of the water running again makes your patience snap.

“Johnny,” you say, your voice rough from sleep, “I need to get in there.”

No answer. There’s no time for this bullshit, you were supposed to be up at 6:30. You twist the knob slowly, and when you crack open the door, he’s shirtless, muscles rippling as he hunches over the sink, mouth covered with white toothpaste-foam. You don’t bother with pleasantries, you just fling the door open, stepping into the space and reaching around him to grab your toothbrush.

He lifts his head, blinking at you through the mirror with a lazy, half-awake look. “Cah i no’ ha fi minuhts?”

Between the accent, the toothbrush wedged in his mouth, and your foggy mind, you don’t even try to decipher what he just said. You stare at him for a beat longer than necessary before turning away with your toothbrush in hand, mumbling something under your breath about him always hogging the bathroom. Guess you’ll have to brush your teeth in the kitchen sink. How cleanly.

The moment you step downstairs, the kitchen feels heavy, almost suffocating like it’s been holding its breath all night. You inhale deeply, trying to shake off the tired haze still hanging on to your thoughts.

You set to work on breakfast, but from the start, everything goes wrong. The eggs burn, the bacon curls into crispy charred strips, the toast miraculously gets stuck in the toaster causing it to burn, and when you finally start to scramble the eggs again, they spill over the edge of the pan, landing in a sizzling mess.

You curse under your breath as you glance at the clock. 7:34—already too late. You should’ve been out in the fields by now, getting everything locked down before the storm rolls in. Apparently the Universe has other plans today, but everyone’s gotta eat, right?

You try to salvage what you can from the mess you made, but it’s like everything’s working against you. Nothing cooperates. The more you try to fix it, the worse it gets, and soon, you're moving in circles, rushing, frantic. You can feel the little voice in your head nagging you—telling you you're already behind, that you’re fucking everything up.

Just when you're ready to scream, the sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupts your spiraling. You barely look up, but when you do, you see Johnny—looking like a goddamn daydream. His work jeans fit just right, hugging his thighs and ass in a way that makes your chest tighten. And that shirt—tight, the kind that shows off the muscles you know are hiding underneath. He looks like he just stepped out of a catalog, and it makes your stomach flip in ways you're really not in the mood for.

Meanwhile, you're still in your pajamas, frizzy hair sticking up like you’ve been wrestling a tornado, and in the middle of World War III (smacking the toaster to get it to just spit up the damn bread). You narrow your eyes as he strolls into the kitchen, fresh as a daisy, not a hair out of place.

He glances at you with a grin that’s too soft for how much it’s getting on your nerves. “Mornin’,” he says casually, like he didn’t just hog the bathroom for 45 fucking minutes.

“We, uh... gonna eat breakfast?” he asks casually, as if you’re not struggling to get anything on the table before Pa’s complaints come flying in from the living room via pigeon.

Your nerves tighten as you slam the spatula a little too harshly, the sound of it smacking against the pan filling the otherwise still air. Johnny could tell something was eating at you, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t say anything more. You can feel the weight of his gaze, feel the way it lingers on you. Normally it’d be enough to make you weak in the knees—but today—it’s enough to make you want to slam the pans on the stove and walk away.

“I’m working on it.”

Gloves are off, now, Bob.

Once you finally get something halfway edible on the plates, you sit down at the table, hands tight around your coffee mug, just trying to breathe for a moment. Johnny’s sitting next to you and Pa’s already in his usual chair. He’s half-hidden behind a wrinkled newspaper, but you can feel his eyes flicking up to you and Johnny, that same sharp, assessing gaze you felt your whole childhood. It makes your skin crawl. It’s that look that says he knows more than he’s letting on, but purposefully keeping his trap shut.

You shove a forkful of food into your mouth, chewing with a dull, rhythmic motion, as if each bite might somehow lessen the mounting tension in the air, like you were trying to swallow the storm before it hit the farm.

Pa’s voice breaks through the stillness, “Those animals need to be locked up before the rain hits. Don’t want ‘em out there when it starts comin’ down hard.”

Your throat tightens. The Nobel Committee is waiting for your next profound revelation, Pa. You exhale through your nose, but your frustration continues to rise in a slow, steady burn. Everything about this day is stacking against you, one thing after another.

And to make it worse, there’s Johnny. Just… being Johnny.

He’s sitting there, relaxed as ever, like there’s nothing wrong. He’s just eating, like everything’s normal. Like you’re not both staring down Hurricane Bob as he’s about to nearly ransack the farm. Johnny’s untouchable, the stress glides off his back like water on duck feathers and it fucking grates on you. The calmness he exudes feels like it’s directly mocking the chaos you’re already drowning in.

You and Johnny don’t get to the fields anywhere near as early as you should’ve. The rain’s already started. It’s light at first, just a steady drizzle, but it doesn’t take long before it picks up, turning the soil beneath your boots into mush. The crop field is nearing the point where you can’t even walk through it without your boots sinking with every step, and harvesting is absolutely out of the question. The ground’s too wet, the crops and weeds too soft to even think about pulling.

On Johnny’s end, the animals, already edgy from the rain, get startled by the noise, their nerves running wild. They don’t want to cooperate, moving erratically and making every damn task harder than it needs to be. The usual rhythm of the work feels completely out of sync.

It’s a mess. The kind of mess that makes you wonder if it’s even worth trying today. But you keep going. Because what else is there to do?

By midday, the sky grows heavier, the wind picks up, biting at your skin as it stirs the trees, carrying the unmistakable scent of rain and earth. The pressure builds in every gust, every shift in the atmosphere. It’s only a matter of time until the storm breaks.

You finish up what you can with the crops, but it feels futile. Every movement feels wasted, undone by the breeze and the moisture in the air. You let out a heavy sigh, frustration building all on top of your shitty morning.

With a groan, you turn away from the field. The cool air creeps in through the holes of your clothes, but you press forward, boots squelching in the mud as you walk the path toward the stables. You don’t need to look at the sky to know it’s about to break wide open.

The stable door creaks as you tug it open, the familiar smells of hay and leather greeting you like a small comfort in the growing chaos outside. You make your way down the line of stalls, pulling your jacket tighter against the chill creeping in. You spot Shimmer, her dark eyes following you as you approach her stall.

You run a hand over her sleek coat, the gentle stroke grounding you for a moment. Her soft nicker brings a small smile to your face. You grab her tack, moving through the motions without thinking, attaching the bridle and girth with a practiced ease. It’s familiar—her, the routine, the comforting weight of the leather in your hands.

When you take the lead and step to walk her out of the stall, you freeze.

Scout’s stall is directly across from Shimmer’s, usually home to the large, chestnut stallion. But now—there’s no Scout. The stall is empty, the gate shut, the hay undisturbed.

For a moment, you just stand there, staring at the empty stall, the air thick with the growing tension of the storm outside. Your mind races for an explanation. Johnny must have taken Scout out already, right? He wouldn’t leave the horse unattended, especially not with the weather about to turn. You glance outside toward the livestock pastures, but the view’s obstructed by some hills.

A knot tightens in your stomach, but you shake it off, telling yourself he’s probably already on it, handling the animals, preparing them for what’s to come. Still, the unease gnaws at you, but you push it down, forcing your focus onto Shimmer.

You settle the saddle on her back and then move to the stirrups, lifting yourself onto her back with ease.

The wind outside howls, rattling the stable doors. The storm is nearing its worst, and if you don’t get a move on, the animals are screwed. You glance down at Shimmer, her steady, calm presence offering a small comfort amidst the shitshow that’s been your day so far.

You click your tongue to the roof of your mouth, urging her forward, but as you move toward the stable door you can’t shake the nagging feeling that something’s still off, but there’s no time to dwell on it now. Johnny’s out there, already dealing with the rest of the animals, and you figure you might as well give him a hand.

You ride over to the livestock pastures, gripping the reins as the wind picks up, circling around you like a pack of wolves, pulling at your jacket and tugging at your hair loose from where it’s tied up. The storm is worsening, the skies darkening overhead. The last thing you need is for the livestock to be caught out in it, panicking and running wild.

You approach the pastures, you tug on the reins, leaning back in the saddle to halt Shimmer’s forward momentum. You scan the fields, squinting through the rain, and your heart skips a beat when you realize—Johnny’s nowhere to be seen.

Instead, you’re met with chaos. Half the cows are scattered across their respective fields, their bodies jerking with erratic movements, as if the very air itself has made them nervous, spooked. Their eyes are wide, and their bodies huff short, panicked breaths as the storm bears down on them.

Your heart drops to your ass as the panic rises in your chest. You swallow hard, trying to force the anxiety down, but the knot only tightens. You can feel it in the pit of your stomach, that sickening sense of urgency. If you don’t get these animals into the barn soon, They're already testing the fences, straining against them, and you know it’s only a matter of time before they break through and bolt. That’s the last thing you need.

You urge Shimmer forward, kicking her into a trot as you take her into the pastures, trying to herd at least the cows in the right direction and toward the barn. But they’re not cooperating. Their anxiety is spreading like wildfire, and it’s only getting harder to keep them together. Your heart pounds in your chest as you try to make sense of it all.

The rain begins to fall in a steady trickle, but you know it’s only the beginning.

Where the fuck is Johnny?

After about 45 grueling minutes, you and Shimmer manage to get the cows into their barn. You see Johnny’s already fed them and cleaned their water troughs, but why were they all just out? Once you know for a fact all the cows are secure, you lock up the barn and kick Shimmer into a gallop, riding toward the rest of the pastures with your heart beating a mile a minute. Thunder crackles overhead and lightning strikes across the sky like a claw. The storm’s not waiting for you, and neither are the animals. Each raindrop that hits your face feels like a reminder of how much time is slipping away.

Your gaze darts from barn to barn, every corner, every shelter—hell, even the wells where you know Johnny sometimes checks for strays—your mind a tangled mess of questions, frustration, and fear.

You can’t help but think something’s happened to him. Something must’ve, right? Your stomach tightens with each passing second, every minute that ticks by.

You call for him, your voice lost in the howling wind. You can barely hear yourself over the storm, but you shout anyway, hoping, praying that he'll answer, that he'll show up and make everything make sense again.

But the rain is coming down harder now, turning the earth beneath Shimmer's hooves into a slippery mess, and the more you search, the more it feels like you’re chasing shadows. The storm is swallowing the land, the mist of it clouding your thoughts, and everything is slipping through your fingers like water. The harder you try to hold on, the more it seems to break apart.

"Johnny!" you shout again, but the wind swallows the sound before it can even reach the next field. Your heart beats harder, faster—every second feeling like a threat as you urge Shimmer on, desperation creeping into your veins. You can’t afford to lose him.

And then, finally, you spot Scout.

You pull Shimmer to a halt outside the sheep barn, your legs burning from the frantic ride, your chest tight with the effort of trying to keep your head above water. You dismount quickly, tying her next to Scout, who is securely tied up outside. Most of the sheep are already safely inside, and for a brief second, relief floods through you.

But it’s short-lived.

You push open the rattling barn door, the sound of it scraping against the floor unnervingly loud in the tense silence, and you call for him, “Joh-”

The sight of him hits you like a slap in the face.

He’s sitting there, propped up against one of the pillars, Dixie curled up in his lap, her body trembling with anxiety. His fingers stroke the top of her head in slow, calming motions, completely unaware of your presence.

You stare, your heart still thudding in your chest. You don't know what to think. You don’t know what to feel—frustration and worry all swirling together in a tight knot in your stomach. You were pissed, thinking he’d skipped out on you, or worse, that something had happened to him. That maybe he was hurt, and you weren’t there to help him, somehow riding in all the wrong directions like an idiot. You’ve been stressed and anxious, and now here he is, sitting in the dim barn with Dixie, like the skies are blue and the birds are chirping.

You almost want to hate it— to hate him for looking so comfortable when everything about this day has been shit from the second it started. The sight of him, so quietly gentle with Dixie, should be endearing. Hell, if this weren’t happening, you might’ve thought it was sweet.

But just like that, the moment of softness is swallowed up by a loud crash of thunder. A harsh crack that shakes the barn, pulling you back to reality, and the air thickens with the weight of the impending chaos outside. You grit your teeth and march over to him, your boots thudding against the wet floor. Each step feels like it echoes in the chaos of the storm.

You glare at him sitting there, his hands gently petting Dixie, so unbothered, so utterly calm .

“You—” your voice cracks, thick with anger, “you couldn’t be bothered to get the fuckin’ cows in, could you? Left me to deal with all that shit by myself. They were about to break through the fucking fence—”

“Love, listen—” He starts, but you don’t let him speak. You’re already too fired up, the frustration spilling out, impossible to stop.

“No! You don’t get to say anything right now! You’re supposed to be helping! We were supposed to be trying to get everything locked down as soon as possible, and you—” your breath hitches as you cut yourself off, “you were just—just here! Doing—” you wave your hands around in the air, gesturing to the barn, “nothing!”

The rain pelts against the tin roof, but it's still not enough to drown out your voice.

“I’ve had a shit day, Johnny! A shit day. First breakfast—then I had to rush through everything—did you know my shirt’s on backwards?—couldn’t catch a damn break, the fucking crops all mushy, and then—then this shit!” You pant, trying to catch your breath between the ranting and the way your heart is still palpitating.

“I’ve been riding around, looking for you, calling for you, freaking out... I thought something happened to you! I thought—God, I thought you were hurt, or worse—” Your voice breaks and you just turn away from him.

His face flickers with something. Guilt? Confusion? You aren’t sure, but the way his eyebrows are furrowed and his jaw is slack tells you it’s both.

You take a deep breath, rubbing your temples for a moment, trying to clear your head, but it’s no use. You exhale slowly, the weight of everything is too much, and you finally stop.

You face him, but you don’t meet his eyes. “Just lock up the barn,” you say tersely. “Dixie will be fine.”

Without waiting for him to respond, you turn on your heel and storm back outside, shoving the barn door open. You climb back onto Shimmer without a word, the tension between your shoulders still tight, your anger still seething beneath the surface. You urge her into a trot, the barn shrinking behind you as you make your way back to the stables

The rain feels like a waterfall now, soaking through your jacket in an instant, and it’s hard to see past the sheets of water pouring down. The wind has picked up, slapping each raindrop against your skin with a force that’s starting to sting, making the trees around you bend with it, their branches groaning under the pressure. Your boots slide in the stirrups as you urge her forward. The rain’s deafening, drowning everything but the sound of your own pulse in your ears.

You hear frantic whinnies, high-pitched and panicked in the distance, echoing from the stables. Your stomach drops. If I had just finished breakfast sooner, if I hadn’t wasted time, none of this would be happening. The thought eats at you. You grit your teeth as you push forward.

You can just barely hear Scout as Johnny follows you, his figure a blur in the rain as he rides behind you. He’s trying to catch up, but that doesn’t matter right now. You’ve got to get to the horses.

You hold the reins tighter, kicking her into a gallop, desperation mixing with anger. The wind’s so fierce it nearly knocks you sideways. The air feels thick with it, heavy and suffocating, making every breath harder to catch as you push Shimmer faster, your heart hammering, just as frantic as the animals inside.

When you finally reach the stables, Shimmer’s front is caked with mud, but you make it inside with a breath of relief. You dismount, heart still racing from the ride, and immediately lead Shimmer to her stall. She’s jittery, her sides heaving from the sprint, but she’s calm enough now that you can quickly unbuckle her tack and guide her into the hay. You slip the halter off, and she nuzzles your arm, her warm breath a small comfort.

Once she’s settled, you hurry to the other stalls trying to calm the other horses. The barn’s echoing with frantic hooves and anxious whinnies, the air thick with their panic. You work your way down the row, talking softly to each one, doing your best to calm them with gentle strokes and soft whispers, though your own nerves are barely holding it together.

You hear the heavy thud of boots on the floor just as the last horse settles down—no thanks to him. You turn to see Johnny slide in through the door, Scout at his side. His clothes are drenched, hair sticking to his forehead. He leads Scout to an empty stall, whispering softly to him as he removes his tack.

Once all the horses are okay, you find yourself standing near Shimmer, absently running your hand along her coat, trying to calm your racing thoughts, Your back is to Johnny.. He’s on the other side of the barn, taking some pieces of hay out of Scout’s hair. His back is to you.

A bright flash of lightning, then thunder booms across the sky like a gunshot. The weight of it all crashes down like a ton of bricks, the pressure in your chest suddenly unbearable. It’s not just the rain, not just the howling wind—it’s just fucking everything.

Johnny and all the weeks of what-ifs and wondering what you two are, and the hours—the fucking hours—you spent racing against time today, trying to keep everything together, Pa’s words from the other night echoing in your mind like a warning. The ever-present ache in your muscles from the long hours in the fields, the weight of your sopping wet jacket.

Everything about this day has been a fight—against the rain, against the animals, against your own fucking emotions. It feels like you’ve been battling the whole world since you shucked off your blankets this morning, and now the weight of everything else comes crashing down with it,

You’re fucking done.

You push off the stall with a violent jerk, your fists clenched tight at your sides. Without thinking, you storm off, every stride taking you further from whatever the hell this is, whatever the hell he’s making you feel.

The adrenaline still pumps through your veins, a sharp edge that slices through the fog of your thoughts, and the anger, the rage—it explodes with each furious step, each squelch of mud beneath your foot. You can feel it all spilling out of you—every ounce of pent-up frustration, every silent scream, every moment you’ve tried so hard to hold it all together, and every goddamn moment he’s reeled you in so close you could feel the heat of his skin.

You’re sick of the rain. Sick of the way it makes everything feel like it’s flooding, drowning you in everything you can’t control. Sick of him. Sick of waiting for something to happen when all you ever get are vacillating gestures of affection and unsung words.

And most of all, you’re sick of yearning for something you shouldn’t, something that can’t happen no matter how much you crave it.

You don’t look back as you storm out. You can’t. Not when everything feels like it’s slipping through your fingers like water, drowning you in all the things you’ll never have.

The rain pelts you as you move through it, but it doesn't stop you. You head toward the old barn by the crop fields, the one long abandoned and filled with dry hay, broken machinery, and bags of bad fertilizer. It’s empty. Quiet. And that’s exactly what you need.

Johnny’s so lost in his own thoughts, in the quiet rhythm of his movements with Scout, that he doesn’t notice you leave at first. His hands are steady, methodical, as he dries the horse’s muzzle, brushing away the dampness with the cloth. The soft strokes against the horse’s coat are the only sounds in the barn, other than the wind and the distant thunder.

For a moment, it feels like time has stopped, just him and Scout as he replays your words in his mind. But then, as if pulled out of a trance, Johnny glances up, his brow furrowing with guilt when the silence lingers a little too long.

He clears his throat, the words hanging between them before he speaks, breaking the tension, “Can we talk, Hen?” His voice is low, careful—a gentle prod into the quiet.

His gaze flicks over to you, but you’re long gone.

It takes a moment for it to click. When he turns around, that’s when he sees it—the stable door is swinging wide in the wind, the hinges creaking, but it’s the wet trail of your footprints on the floor that really catches his attention.

His stomach drops. Without another thought, he’s after you before he even knows what he’s doing.

Of course, he’s right there, trailing behind you. Because Johnny can never let things be easy, and he won’t let you push him away even when you need him most.

You hear his footsteps behind you in the distance as he calls your name, the soft squelch of his boots in the mud, but you don’t stop. You don’t turn around. You just keep walking, your legs moving on their own as you trudge through the hurricane .

The fury in your chest surges with every step you take, mixing with the rain that’s pouring down harder, as if the heavens themselves are pissed off too. It feels like everything is pushing you forward, pushing you away from him, away from all of it. Away from the guilt, the confusion, the frustration, the ache of wanting something that just isn’t happening.

But Johnny doesn’t stop. His heavy footsteps continue, relentless, just like him. You can feel him getting closer, like he’s not going to let you fall apart alone. And it only makes you angrier, because goddamn it, why can’t he just let you have this? Let you be angry without trying to fix it? Let the rain wash it away like you need it to?

The storm roars, drowning out most of what Johnny’s trying to say, but you hear your name through the flashes of lightning and the deafening booms of thunder. His voice is laced with agonizing concern, and it only makes the frustration claw at you harder. You keep your head down, not slowing your pace, not giving him the satisfaction of a response. You just need to escape, to have some silence—some space to breathe.

His voice keeps calling, cutting through the storm. You can feel his presence nearing, until his hand wraps around your forearm. The sudden pressure shocks you, making you spin around, hair plastered to your face, eyes wide, breath coming out in quick bursts from the cold and the adrenaline.

"Leave me the fuck alone," you snap, but he doesn’t let go. His grip is firm, but not forceful—steady, like he’s not letting you walk away from this.

His face is right there, close enough that you can see the tension laced in his jaw, the distress etched deep in his eyes. He doesn’t speak at first, just stares at you, lips parted like he’s about to say something. His chest rises and falls with his breath, like he’s trying to steady himself, trying to figure out how to fix this.

"I-I’m sorry," he stutters, his voice soft, but still thick with urgency. "I didn’t mean tae leave ye hanging like that earlier. But damn it, just tell me what’s happenin’. Please."

You stare him down, your heart still racing, pulse in your ears. You’re shaking—not from the cold, not from the rain—but from the tension that’s built up between you two. It’s like everything’s been pulling tighter and tighter, and now it’s ready to snap.

“It’s nothing,” you shout over the barrage of rain. You know it’s a lie the second it leaves your mouth. You can’t even convince yourself, and you doubt you convinced him.

He gives you a look, and for a split second, his frustration mirrors yours. “Bullshit,” he yells insistently. “I know ye better than that. Ye wouldn’t be out ‘ere in this weather, shuttin’ me out like this unless something’s up. So stop actin’ like it’s nothin’.”

You stare at him, chest heaving. Your fingers flex into fists at your sides, but they’re trembling. “What do you want me to say, Johnny? That I’m pissed? That I’m beyond frustrated?”

He steps toward you, ignoring the way the rain is soaking him through. His eyes are searching yours, his face inches from yours, and the intensity in them just makes everything worse.

“I want ye tae tell me what’s goin’ on! This isn’t you,” he says, his words sharp but laced with concern. “The you I know wouldn’t react like this. Talk tae me, Hen.”

For a second, you freeze, your heart pounding in your ears. The storm seems to roar even louder, as though it’s trying to drown out everything, but all you can hear is your own pulse in your head. You don’t know how to say it—don’t know how to say what’s been building inside you for weeks.

It feels like you've been holding your breath too long, choking on something sharp and acrid, unfit for human lungs. The longer it sits in your chest, the more it festers, burning like acid searing down your throat.

Hold it in any longer, and you might come undone, as if the rain pouring around you could melt you down and wash you away with the rest of the puddles on the earth.

“I'm tired of waiting, Johnny,” you say, your voice unsteady but resolute. “Tired of holding my breath for something that’s never gonna happen.”

Johnny’s expression shifts, confusion washing over him like a wave.

“What the hell are ye talkin’ abou’?” He steps even closer, his brows furrowed, his voice low but filled with something close to desperation. “What’s never gonna happen?”

You let out a breath, angry and sad all at once, “This!” you shout, throwing your hands up, motioning to both of you, the rain, the storm, everything. “Us! All of it! I’m tired of waiting for... I don’t know, for things to change, for it to finally make sense! You... you act like you want this but then never make a move. And— And I’m sick of trying to figure out what you want when you won’t even fuckin’ say it.”

The words hang in the air between you, and for a second, you regret them. You wish you could take them back, shove them back down your throat and stitch up your lips, but it’s too late now. The truth is out, and you only hope it doesn’t ruin everything.

Johnny looks like someone just hit him with two shots to the liver. His face softens—guilt, regret, maybe even hurt flash across his features—but it’s quickly replaced with something else. His lips part, but he doesn’t speak right away. He’s too busy processing everything you just threw at him.

After a second, he steps forward, his hair plastered to his forehead, wet with rain and falling into his eyes, his shirt sticking to his muscles in ways that you can’t help but notice. He lifts a hand, shaky but determined as he gently cups your cheek. His touch is like a bonfire against your frozen skin, grounding you despite the roar of the hurricane around you.

“Don’t say that,” he mutters, his voice gravelly, the storm pushing his words into your chest like a physical force. His gaze locks onto yours, a fire behind it that refuses to be put out.

“I’m no’ tryin' to make ye wait. I just... I don’t know how to say it without messing it all up. I never did.” His lips twist, and you can tell he's trying to keep it together, like everything inside him wants to explode but he’s holding it in just to communicate to you.

The rain hits like bullets against his face, but his eyes stay fixed on yours. It’s hard to breathe with him so close, with the weight of everything heavy in the air between you two. He’s holding something back, and you can see it—he’s trying not to let it slip.

You want to say something, but the words feel lost in your throat, swallowed by the storm. He steps forward, closing the space between you until there’s nothing but rain and your ragged breaths separating you.

“God,” he sighs your name, “ye think I don’t see how ye look at me? I’m no’ fuckin’ blind.”

His hands are warm when they find your shoulders, gripping like he’s afraid you might slip away, like you might get washed away in the flood. “Ye’re scared ‘cause I’ve never made this real—’cause I’ve never said it. I’ve been scared too. Scared to let ye see how much I need you—”

One hand slides from your shoulders to cup both your cheek once more, the roughness of his fingertips tender against your damp skin as the other snakes around your waist.

“Love, I’m no’ asking ye tae wait around for me,” he says, voice breaking just enough that it shakes you. “I’m asking you to stop wondering if you matter to me, because you do. I’m just... tryin’ tae figure out how tae make it real for the both o’ us.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, and your breath hitches. For a moment, there is no storm, no farm, no Pa, just his hand on your face and the weight of his words hanging between you. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel the hot tears mix with the rain as they slip down your face.

His thumb brushes over your cheek again, this time slower, lingering, as if committing the curve of your face to memory. He looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, the only thing that has ever mattered.

You let out a sharp breath, something between a laugh and a sob, your chest heaving with the weight of everything that’s led to this moment. The frustration, the waiting, the wondering. The days and hours spent circling each other like the Earth and the Moon—locked in orbit, never quite colliding. Until now.

He tilts his head, breath warm against your lips. His fingers tighten at your waist, and the space between you disappears. His lips meet yours, soft and searching, hesitant like he’s afraid he might break you if he's not careful. But you don’t want careful. You don’t need careful. You need real.

You need him.

You want him.

So you kiss him back, pushing up against him, pressing into every solid inch of him, hands fisting the sodden fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go.

And that’s all it takes for his restraint to snap.

He groans against your mouth, the sound low and desperate, and then suddenly, it’s no longer a kiss—it’s a claiming, a long-overdue confession written in the way his hands pull you closer, in the way his lips part against yours, deepening, consuming, drinking you in like you’re something he’s been dying for. His hands slide up, one cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist so tight you think you might just melt into him.

The storm rages on, but it’s nothing compared to what’s building between you. The air crackles, electric, charged with the heat of something unstoppable. Your fingers tangle in his wet hair, pressing him impossibly closer, and he shudders against you, a quiet, needy sound slipping past his lips that has your heart threatening to beat out of your chest.

You can taste the rain on his lips, feel the fevered heat of him searing into your skin, even through the cold. And it’s intoxicating. Maddening. Because this—this is everything you’ve been waiting for.

When you finally break apart, it’s not because you want to. It’s because you have to breathe. Foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, his nose nudges yours in the softest, most aching touch. His hand cradles your face so gently, the other hand still splayed across your back like he can’t bring himself to let go.

The world goes quiet. The thunder rumbles overhead, but it sounds distant now, like it belongs to another world entirely.

“You’re it,” he says, voice hoarse, the rain still beating down.

“Fuck, you’ve been it since the second you opened your door.”

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menagerofmischief · 8 months ago

Note

Hello, idk if you are comfortable writing for dom!female reader, if not you can just leave that one out :)

Server: Franco Colapinto

Starter: hummus nachos

Hot appetizer

Mains: carbonara

Drinks: espresso (dom!reader)

Pumpkin spice latte

Dessert: Yes

Favorite track: monza

Dia's Diner Menu

hummus nachos teammates hot appetizer sweet sex carbonara "Look so good on my cock" espresso dom/sub (dom!reader) pumpkin spice latte losing virginity (virgin!Franco) dessert aftercare + mint tea body worship (on the house)

Franco Colapinto x Williams!driver!reader

TW: unprotected sex (don't do it tho), dom!reader, cowgirl

WC: 1.4k

A/N: I haven't written anything in a while so this may actually be shit. Also, not BETA'D, we die like Logan's F1 career.

It all started rather simply, really. A bunch of people from the grid went out clubbing to celebrate the end of the race and the three week break that was going to follow it. The club was full of people, music loudly blasting from the speakers.

One drink after another and one thing leading up to the next, I ended up dancing with Franco. He was the newest addition to my team, two races in after he replaced Logan mid season, Franco was turning up to be a rather good driver.

We’ve been friendly right from the start, possibly more than friendly if you counted all those light touches and consonant flirting. It was safe to say we were being much more than friendly right now as my hips were grinding against his while his face was hidden in the crook of my neck, lips gently sucking on the skin there.

“Do you want to go back to the hotel?” I barely managed to ask, the heat around us and his lips on my neck making it hard to find my voice and speak up.

“Yes,” he breathed out, hands gripping my waist. “Please.”

≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺

We barely made it to my hotel room, stopping our exploring touches and pulling away once the elevator doors slid open and rushing to open the door and get inside.

As soon as I closed the door I was back to lightly touching Franco, leaning my body into his and kissing him deeply, feeling his tongue run against my own.

“God, you’re so pretty.” I said, pulling away from him to get a good look. His hair was messed up, cheeks flushed red and eyes half closed.

He let out a breathless laugh, smiling at me before diving back down into another kiss. “Please,” he all but whined, hands tugging at the bottom of my dress.

“Please what?” I asked, lips brushing against his with every word spoken. “You need to use your words to tell me what you want, pretty boy.”

“Want you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Need you. Need to feel you, please”

“There we go,” I said, a smile playing on my lips while my fingers were quickly undoing the buttons of his shirt. Once the last button was popped open Franco wasted no time in shrugging his shirt off, leaving his upper body bare.

“Fuck,” my hands moved on their own, first palms flat against his chest, his stomach and muscles and then moving to explore every inch of his skin I could.

“Never done this before . . . Feels good, fuck.” He said under his breath but I caught every word, my movement instantly stopping while I stared at him. His eyes opened wide, pupils blown as he realized what he said and panic became noticeable on his face.

“You’re a virgin?”

I went to pull my hand away but he grabbed my wrist before I could and returned it to his chest. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop. I’m not entirely inexperienced I promise! I know how to pleasure you, please let me…”

“No sweetheart it’s not that.” I lifted one hand up to cup his cheek, offering him a comforting smile which seemed to ease his nerved just a bit. “It’s just . . . are you sure you want to do this? With me? Now?”

“Yeah, yes - I’m sure, I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

“Okay,” I whispered, watching as his shoulders relaxed. “Let’s get these off then.” I touched the waistband of his jeans and Franco eagerly nodded, reaching to open his jeans but I moved his hands aside and did it myself.

I kneeled down, hearing Franco’s breath hitch, his eyes focused on me. I pulled his jeans down, leaning to place a kiss on each of his thighs. “You’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen,” I told him, stroking the skin of his thigh before reaching to pull down his boxers as well. “With the prettiest dick too.”

I placed a kiss on the tip of his cock causing Franco to moan. One of his hands went into my hair, grabbing a fist full and gently pulling me back. I looked up at him through my eyelashes and saw the look of desperation on his face.

“I’d love that, really would,” he rambled, his fingers easing in my hair making sure not to pull any out. “But I need to feel you around me, please. Wanna be in you, please, please!”

“Come on, let’s get on the bed,” I said, pulling off my dress while Franco eagerly scrambled to sit on the bed, pushing himself up towards the headboard. I took my panties off as well, leaving myself in my bra only and made my way to join Franco on the bed.

I crawled up the bed until I was straddling Franco, the tip of his cock barely rubbing against my clit causing me to take a few breaths. “Gonna let me ride you, baby?”

Franco moaned when I slid my pussy against the length of his dick, his hands coming up to grip my waist for support. “Yes,” he whispered, voice thick with desire and need. “Ride me. Use me for your pleasure.”

I wasted no time, reaching a hand between our bodies to grab his dick and position the tip at my already slick entrance. I slowly sunk down on his, hissing at the initial stretch and the burn of getting used to his size.

After a few seconds I began moving, lifting up my hips a few inches and pushing them back down again, making both of us moan. Franco’s hands slipped from my waist to the back of my thighs, he gripped them hard enough for me to know they were going to bruise tomorrow, and began helping me bounce on his cock.

“Fuck,” Franco grunted, face scrunched up in please. “Look so good on my cock. Feel amazing too. So much better than I imagined.”

“Yeah?” I asked, with a breathless laugh. “Imagined me bouncing on your dick, using you to get my fill. Did you touch yourself while thinking about what I would sound like with your dick in my pussy?”

Franco whined. I could tell he was getting close by the way his cock twitched inside of me. He let go of my thighs, one hand wrapping around me and pulling me closer to his chest while the other sneaked between us to rub on my clit.

My body felt like it was on fire, every nerve light up with his touch. It felt good, all of it felt so good. His dick sliding in and out of me, hitting my sensitive spots with every movement, his tip kissing against my cervix from how deep he was and his fingers desperately rubbing circled on my clit.

I came with a loud moan, Franco following right behind, his orgasm triggered by mine. He put his face in my neck, muffling the sound of his moans as he came.

We both stopped moving for a few moments, taking deep breaths and allowing ourselves to ride down the high. Then I slowly lifted myself of him, his now softening dick slipping out of me. He looked so blissed out I couldn’t help myself but lean to kiss him.

“Where are you going?” He asked me as I slipped out of the bed. His hand reaching towards me, a lazy smile on his lips as he wiggled his fingers.

“To the toilet real quick, then I’ll be right back.” True to my word, I went to the toilet quickly, using a warm towel to wipe his cum from my pussy. I returned back to bed with two bottles of water and a box of Oreo’s.

I passed one bottle to Franco while I settled up next to him, placing a kiss on his cheek before leaning my head on his shoulder. His arm wrapped around me. “That was … “

“Amazing?”

“Yeah, amazing sound about right.”

Silence filled the room for a few moment before Franco spoke up. “This wasn’t really a one time thing for me. I like you, a lot.”

I smiled, “I like you too. A lot.” I took his free hand in mine, intertwining our fingers together. “But we can talk about it more in the morning. Right now let’s just cuddle.”

Franco chuckled, “Let’s cuddle,” he agreed.

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freshxsturniolo · 1 year ago

Text

how much did you hear? chris sturniolo x femreader

SUMMARY :chris and nick think you're fast asleep on the couch after watching a movie and chris confesses he's in love with you.

You feel your boyfriend pull the blanket down and over your feet as you feel his weight shift from the sofa, his thighs you'd had your feet tucked under now replaced by the blanket and the absence of his arm across the length of your leg as his hand had been resting at your hip. You had fallen asleep, for sure, and you could hear the soft sound of some music playing on the TV rather than the movie you had just been watching, but you were too tired to even stir, so you allowed yourself to fall back into a soft slumber. You could hear brief sounds around you, but you knew sleep would come over you again soon.

Chris had been your boyfriend for the last 6 months, and you had never felt anything like what you did for Chris with anyone else. You were nervous at first, knowing Chris had voiced his fear of relationships in the past, but it had progressed much quicker than either of you had anticipated. You were each others shadow, and if you weren't together you were sending each other randoms messages, letting the other know you could wait to see them again, or that you were you simply thinking of the other. It was wholesome, that was the best way you could describe it. On this particular day, you were both so tired and wanted nothing more than to be in each other presence. Both being tired from working and some other social events that had left both your social batteries a little drained and your bodies a little sleep deprived, so a movie on the sofa had been the perfect idea. Matt and Nick had also joined, but at some point Matt had gone to his room and the chuckle you just heard from Nick confirmed he had stayed for the duration. In your light sleep, you heard both Chris and Nick enter the kitchen just behind you, and the general clatter of them moving around, grabbing drinks and more snacks, no doubt getting ready to turn on their consoles and play something together whilst you slept, which only made you nuzzle your head into the cushion you were lay on even further, feeling less guilty for falling asleep instead of spending time with your boyfriend and his brothers. But just as you were about to doze off, you heard Nicks voice. Soft, so not to wake you, but unaware you were only lightly falling asleep.

"I love that Y/N feels comfortable enough to just come over and sleep like this, with all of us in the room." You smile at Nicks words, eyes still closed, glad that he had noticed that not only had Chris become a comfort for you, so had Nick and Matt. "She loves you guys." Chris speaks. "Good. Cause we love her." Nick says. There's silence, and you open your eyes slightly. You were facing the TV and didn't want to draw attention to the fact you were awake, but suddenly you wanted to hear in. You had sometimes felt a burden to the three triplets since becoming Chris' girlfriend. He spent less time alone with them these days and you were afraid Nick and Matt resented you for that, so to hear they didn't could only make your heart sing. But your heart stopped singing, and suddenly it was dancing out of your chest when you heard Chris speak next. "Nick, can I tell you something?" he said, and he almost sounded scared. Anxious. Like he wasn't sure how to get his words out. There was silence from his brother and you had wipe your tongue across your teeth, suddenly feeling your mouth go dry. "What?" Nick said. Silence again, but you strained your ears to listen. "I'm in love with her." Your eyes were wide. Your heart was hammering in your chest. You had an inkling over the last few weeks that Chris was going to tell you he loved you. The way he looked at you sometimes when you were sat in silence. The way he had started lingering around your mouth after a kiss, like he wanted to say something. The way he said your name to get your attention and when you asked what was wrong, he would smile and say nothing and go back to what he was doing. It was giving your butterflies every time, and there were times you had almost said it for him, because you too loved him. So much. "I know." you hear Nick say, and you have to stifle a laugh so they don't know you're awake. "You know?!" Chris speaks now, and theres a pitch to his voice. "Chris, the whole world probably knows. It's so obvious" Nick says again. "Have you told her?" "No" Chris sighs. "So tell her."

You were itching to sit up. You wanted him to tell you, so badly. And you wanted to tell him back. But something about telling him in front of his brother didn't feel right. "What if she doesn't say it back, bro?" You practically hear the eyeroll Nick gives him. "I promise you, she will." Theres silence again. And you can hear them opening cupboard doors once more, the conversation now turning to something completely different, and you don't know how you're going to pretend to be asleep when they come back. You felt hot, the overwhelming feeling to rip the blanket from your skin was overpowering and you wondered if you could get away with acting like you had only just risen, when announced he needed the bathroom. "I'll be 2 minutes, get the game ready." Your heart starting hammering again as your heard Nick run upstairs to his bathroom, closing your eyes quickly knowing he would have to pass you as he did so, but you opened them again once you heard his footsteps disappear. But then the moment you opened your eyes, you heard your boyfriends footsteps come closer, and you knew it was too late. Your eyes locked. He stopped in his tracks. Can of Pepsi in hand and a bowl of chips in the other. You smiled, and the blush appeared on his cheeks immediately. "How long have you been awake?" he asks, leaning forward to put his drink and snack on the table, before standing back upright and not moving another inch. "A while." you say, but it's almost a whisper. "Did you -" he stops and ruffles his hair. "How much did you hear?" He knew. He knew you'd heard him. You smile again, and finally sit yourself up. You know he's not going to move, the blush on his face is proof enough he feels nervous. Or embarrassed. Maybe both. So you push the blanket off of your body and stand yourself up. He takes in your body. One of his black hoodies and shorts, and when he reaches your eyes he finally lets out a breath of air. You chuckle. You hold out your hand as you walk to him and when he you finally reach him, he grabs hold of it tightly. "I'll say it back." you whisper. You hear Nick open the door to his bathroom from upstairs. He's singing the words to Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter, and suddenly Chris relaxes, a small chuckle escaping his lips. It was now, or it would hang over us. "I love you." You stare at him for a second, before letting go of his hand and warping your arms around his neck. His arms immediately come around your waist and he pulls you closer, his nose grazing against your neck. "I love you too, Chris. So much." He lets out a chuckle before you pull away and look at other other, your arms still around his neck and his still around your waist, and he leans forward to plant a kiss on your lips. "I wanted to tell you so long ago." he whispers now, the sound of Nicks footsteps finally coming down the stairs. You knew he was only seconds away from walking in on you both, but if Chris wasn't moving, neither were you. "Me too. Me too." you smile, and you lean froward and kiss him again. You both let out a chuckle into each others lips as you hear Nicks footsteps come to abrupt stop. You remove your lips from his to look over his shoulder, and Chris turns his head in the same direction, both still wrapped together. "Did you tell her?" Nick says, an excited look on his face as he looks between you both. "Tell me what?" you say, playing dumb as you look at the side of your boyfriends face just in time to see him roll his eyes before turning to face you. "Shut up," he whispers, before planting another kiss on your lips, pulling away and pushing you backward slightly so he can grab hold of your hand to walk you back over to the couch. "I'll take that as a yes, shall I?" you hear Nick say, and you turn around and give him a smile.

You spend the rest of the night with your legs draped over Chris', your hands twirling around in his hair as you peacefully watch him playing his games with Nick, turning round and giving you the occasional kiss when he had a spare second he didn't need to concentrate. And when you get into bed that night, Chris' arms holing you tightly into his chest, it's the first night of many more he whispers I love you before you fall to sleep.

#chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo fluff #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo triplets

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puck-luck · 10 days ago

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hiii can i get an espresso shot w caramel syrup (on the kitchen counter) w nico pls

Nico’s sex drive always increases tenfold after the season ends. Your theory is that once he’s not doing daily workouts and getting all of his frustrations out on the ice, he turns to releasing his energy through quickies throughout the house or longer sessions in your bedroom. You never know when Nico is going to pounce.

You didn’t expect him to sidle up behind you while you were brewing coffee first thing in the morning, hair piled onto your head messily just to get it out of the way and pajamas still crumpled from how they’d ridden up and shifted as you slept.

Your clothes are always in disarray in the morning and while lots of that can be attributed to the natural wear and tear of being unconscious for multiple hours a night, the rest of it must be attributed to your octopus boyfriend, who will roll over in bed while holding onto you. He’s done it more than once, usually two or three times a week, where he’ll keep his arms tight around your waist and his sleepy breaths close to your ear as he lifts you into the air and then plants you on his side of the bed, facing the opposite nightstand. It always jolts you awake and Nico always stays asleep.

The late night wakeups from your boyfriend’s sheer strength has not affected your coffee intake, but you still crave the rich taste each morning. It’s part of your routine and if it gives you a burst of energy, to help you get through the day, so be it.

The way Nico has you bent over the counter, coffee dripping into your mug and his fingers dipping into the space between your legs, is not part of that routine. ‘Dipping’ is too gentle a word to use, actually– Nico’s fingers are stroking your insides deftly, preparing your hole to take the cock that is pressing against your bare thighs. Your sleep shorts– Nico’s boxers– are pooled around your ankles and your nipples are cold against the marble countertop, even though they’re protected by the cotton of your t-shirt.

It’s the first thing in the morning and Nico is priming you for his cock. How is this your life?

Your nails attempt to dig into the smooth stone beneath you, unable to grasp on anything to steel yourself in the wake of the pleasure you’re feeling. He’s so talented with his fingers, so eager to make you moan and squirm beneath him.

His other hand is sure against your hip, a comforting presence. Nico bends over your body and kisses the back of your neck, mumbling sweet Swiss-German sentences that you don’t catch all of as he drags his lips down your spine.

His fingers leaving your cunt feels like a loss, but it’s quickly replaced by the stretch of his blunt cockhead and the slide of his shaft into your body.

“Mm, schatz,” Nico grunts lowly. His hips rock forward until his pelvis is flush with yours, which is when he pauses and hinges at the waist so that, for a brief moment, your bodies are aligned from shoulder to ankle. There’s no time for you to respond before Nico jumps into action, thrusting forcefully, chasing the feeling of your muscles clenching him so tightly.

He pounds into you, knees knocking into the cabinets beneath the counter and sounding hollowly. They’ll be plenty bruised by tomorrow and you won’t even have gotten them by dropping down in front of Nico and worshipping the cock that has you so weak.

By the time he’s coming, palms flat on the counter and creating condensation, you know that this won’t be the only time Nico takes you today. When he’s sinking to his knees and licking you out before pulling his boxers back up and fixing them around your hips, then stealing your full coffee mug to finish making your drink to your liking, you know that today is one of those days where Nico is just insatiable.

#1 year of puck-luck!#andy writes anything🍄#nico hischier #nico hischier smut #nico hischier blurb #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier fanfiction #nh blurb #nh13 #nh13 x reader

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growth-opportunities · 2 months ago

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We all know Stacy's mom has got it goin' on, but what about Stacy after her second puberty?

It had been weeks now and Stacy still hadn't gotten used to her new size. Her body was still learning that she could no longer sleep on her back and so, as her alarm blared, she did her best to reach out for the snooze button. Every movement, every flail of her arm sent ripples and wobbles through the enormous tits that say heavy on her chest, pinning her in place beneath them. By the time she finally managed to turn off the alarm, she was sweating, heart pounding, chest heaving. The few minutes that the snooze button earned her would pass in frustration and exhaustion but not a wink of sleep. As she caught her breath, she tried to roll onto her side, rocking back and forth to build up enough momentum. She had gotten pretty good at it by now and, as she tried not to let herself get distracted by the massive mounds on her chest, she finally was able to swing her breasts over and-

FWUMP!

The warmth of the bed and the covers was quickly replaced by the cold of the floor beneath Stacy, no longer under her tits bust resting on top of them. Her focus had been on getting out from beneath her breasts, which meant she wasn't thinking about how close the edge of the bed was. Her tits found the edge, though, and dragged her right over it, gravity winning out the floor rising up to meet her. She groaned, flailing her legs in frustration, burying her face in her own cleavage and letting out a scream. Above her head, once more just out of reach, her alarm started again.

Her life wasn't supposed to turn out this way. Her body wasn't supposed to turn out this way. She was just frustrated, that's all. Boys she thought had crushes on her, boys she invited over to her place, turned out to just be interested in her mom. And, if she was honest with herself, Stacy couldn't blame them. Her mother really did have it going on. She had a flawless hourglass figure, breasts big enough to dwarf her head and wide, womanly hips to match. Curiosity got the better of her once when doing the laundry, but knowing that her mother was a 34K did nothing to quell her anger. And puberty had left Stacy a perfectly good body! Her friends were jealous of her! F-cups and a nice ass to go with them. Half the school, guys and girls, ought to have been drooling over her! But she just couldn't compare to her mother's enormous figure and that left her overlooked.

After calming down and buckling in from her morning frustration, Stacy managed to rise up to her feet, nearly losing her balance. Her tank top, mercilessly stretched by her gargantuan bust, had ended up flossed between her tits, one of them bursting out. She adjusted, slipping it back in, though she didn't know why. A deep sigh rattled out of her as she lifted one of her few remaining bras out of her dresser, the cup taking up almost the entire drawer. As she turned it over in her hands, her eyes caught a small tear forming near the front of the band, where the two cups came together. It was a small tear, not even half an inch, but experience had taught her that small tears like that had ways of turning into big tears with a single jump or jostle. She groaned, making a mental note to order a new one before slipping it on anyway. It might be on its last legs, but it was all she had.

From everything she had read online, it was only supposed to give her a little boost. Most women were happy if they managed to get three cup sizes out of the medley of supplements and lotions and that was all Stacy was really looking for. While it would be nice to beat her mother, she just wanted to be able to compete! She was excited at the first cup size she gained. Elated at the second. Content at the third. Concerned at the fourth. Anxious at the fifth. Worried enough at the sixth to finally talk to a doctor. A bevy of tests and three more cup sizes later, she at least had something of an answer. The best guess of the team of doctors that oversaw her case was that her second puberty was either latent or dormant and the cocktail of treatments she had given herself was enough to jump start the process. Having a reason why she was changing so much and so rapidly was reassuring, but less reassuring was the fact that they couldn't tell her when it would stop. Or, for that matter, if it would stop.

The sheer size of her breasts had turned going down the stairs into an athletic challenge. Not only did her breasts bounce every time she dropped down to the next step, nearly brushing against her chin, but they blocked out a huge portion of her view. It came down to grace and balance, keeping herself upright so that she didn't go tumbling downward. The narrow walls on either side of the staircase gave her pause but, at least for now, there was an inch or two of clearance on either side so she wasn't at risk of getting stuck. Yet. She begged her mother to make sure the stairs were clear for her; if there were something sitting on a step, she wouldn't know it was there until she stepped on it and that would almost definitely mean a long, bumpy, bouncy ride down to the bottom. She'd be lucky if her shirt remained intact.

Stacy struggled to adapt to her breasts. Clothing was a constant hassle, buying a new wardrobe only to outgrow it a week later. Her friends' playful teasing turned into faux jealousy which, eventually, turned into real jealousy. Julia, one of her oldest friends, refused to speak to her. She didn't think there was any actual cheating going on, but hearing her boyfriend moan Stacy's name was enough to blame the growing woman for the failing relationship. Even baggy, oversized sweatshirts couldn't hide her gargantuan bust, pulling them tight and a bit of tit spilling out underneath. Just walking down the sidewalk made a scene, people gawking and whispering and, occasionally, outright yelling at her for being obscene. She avoided the produce section at the grocery store entirely, worried that just holding a cucumber would be enough to send some pearl-clutching religious bit into conniptions. The worst part is that they weren't entirely wrong, as their sensitivity had increased almost in proportion to her size. It wasn't uncommon for her to greet the dawn, sweaty and exhausted, still kneading her tits, having lost count of the orgasms around 2am.

As Stacy made her way towards the front door, already bracing herself to go through it at an angle to keep her breast from getting stuck, something in the laundry room caught her eye. She squeezed inside and there, on top of a pile of laundry, was her mother's bra. Her lips broke into a smirk, her first positive expression of the day, as she read the tag: still 34K. Stacy glanced over her shoulder, making sure her mother wasn't anywhere nearby before pressing the bra up to one of her tits. She bit her lip, shuddering as she realized that just one of the cups wasn't quite big enough to cover her areola and the entire bra, band and all, wouldn't reach around one of her tits, let alone both. She set the bra back in its spot and made her way outside, a new spring in her step and a smile on her lips.

For a fleeting moment, Stacy felt that, maybe, all the struggles were worth it.

#artist cred: nahcegalliv #breast expansion #breast growth #breast obsession #breast envy #size greed #second puberty #GO asks #size struggles #suffering from success

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bunny-jpeg · 9 months ago

Text

. 。・゜✭・mean・✫゜・。.

max verstappen liked to make you cry. it wasn't your fault, you were the sister of his infamous rival so if max couldn't make charles cry then he'd make you cry. that time he hid your favourite teddy bear and teased you for loving it so much as a teenager. the other time he pushed you into a corner and got into your face how something so pathetic shouldn't be in the paddock getting in everyone's way. you remember when he scared off a sweet boy that you were talking to a year before max left for f1, you saw how he stalked to you. you'd always remember it like a lion being possessive over a specific gazelle it wanted to feast on. only max could work you bones between those massive teeth. he loved the waterworks, how you'd sniffle and your eyes would be rimmed a deep red. how you'd wipe your eyes frantically and your plush bottom lip would wobble. it lit something sick in a young max. you learned that even bullies can win prizes and races, get sponsorships and get his way into formula one.

and what turned into teasing from a bratty teen boy turned into an insatiable hunger in adulthood. even now well into his twenties, that front lobe full developed, max still liked to make you cry. except instead of calling you names or pulling your hair, he was bullying that sweet pussy of yours. his large hand over your mouth as he had you bent in half against the couch in his driver's room. you had taken a week off of school to come see your brother, but max got you into his space before you could find charles. and that was when the fun began. you looked up at the wold champion with big, wet eyes. the tears trickled down a little onto max's hand. max replaced his hand with his other one to he could lick the salty tears off of it. the taste made him shudder, it was like tasting sparkling diamonds. the richest feeling he could have only on par with his fat cock shoved into your achy cunt. he continued to fuck you, watching your expressions change with each thrust of his hips. he had to make sure that his leaky cock was stuffed deep in your pretty hole.

the wetness in your eyes only excited him more, he continued to fuck you up against the couch, keeping you pinned under him as he fucked the daylights out of you. his weepy little cry baby.his cock touched the deepest parts of you, he wanted to make sure every last drop got pushed into the back of your pussy. letting his poor cock just batter the hell out of your sweet cunt. he had been with a fair number of women, but he was your first (and only). he wouldn't allowed anyone else to touch and your brother was (unknowingly) his guard dog. charles would never let you date someone, his only sister should be focusing on her studies. not focused on boys. but yet, max verstappen was bullying your pussy and making your mascara run down your sweet cheeks. poor thing looked like a raccoon.max silenced you with a kiss and his palms on your bare breasts.

max wanted to breed that sweet little cunt. see your bottom lip wobble as you tell your older brothers (who thought you were a virgin) that you were becoming a mother to the next greatest in formula one. don't worry, he'd make sure you were nice and safe, of course you could finish your schooling. but you might have to do it in monaco because he wanted to be with his baby. the three of you somewhere safe. you'd be closer to your family then you were before, he'd make sure that you lived a charmed life. as his, all his. his cock prodded against sensitive parts of you and you felt your brain go numb. you choked back whines as he held your mouth once more. let him just get a good feel for your soft, gentle cunt. he needed to make sure you could fit all of him, after all he'd be the only one who'd ever fuck you. you sniffled and looked at him with wet eyes. he licked his lips. you looked divine, like an angel. the kind that max got his claws into and plucked all their feathers off. the sounds of your fucking were messy and wet. you swallowed back all the moans you could, but you felt limp against him. your tears reaching your chin. you sniffled and maintained eye contact and felt the twist in your core. you looked so cute, he had made a total mess of you. you looked so pretty, the center of max's world. the subject of so many fantasies. but as your eyes almost roll back from the pleasure of it, all max couldn't get enough. he'd every way he could, make sure that a few tears slipped out. he was sadistic, but the hunger grew every time he went without. he'd be good to you, just let him finish inside. it's where it was meant to be.

"max."

the world champion loved to make you cry, except instead of pulling your pigtails. his hand was deep in your hair as he forced you up and down on his cock, drooling creamy promises into your soaked cunt.

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ryewwww · 1 month ago

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hi baby! i wanted to ask if you could do a yandere!eren x virgin!naive!reader? like, the reader is very naive and kind and she loves eren a lot, and eren becomes very possessive and obsessive over her? can it be nsfw with soft slapping, noncon, and praise while also degrading her? thank you <3

- hihi! I hope this is okay :)

⚠️: NONCON, slapping, degradation, praising, loss of virginity, jealous!eren

Read at your own risk. I am not responsible for your media consumption

Eren had never seen someone as sweet as you—so soft, so innocent.

You had just moved to town, wide-eyed and unsure, making you an easy target.

He noticed right away how shy you were, always avoiding direct eye contact, fumbling over your words.

The way you dressed made it even worse for him. The flowy sundresses, soft pastel skirts, all delicate and feminine.

You were exactly the kind of girl he could break, and that thought excited him.

He spent a week watching you, studying the way you carried yourself, how you interacted with people (or rather, how you struggled to).

Then, he made his move, smooth, charming, effortless.

His flirting had you melting, cheeks warm, voice small. You were too sweet for your own good.

At first, he thought it was just lust—he’d fuck you once and get you out of his system.

But then he saw how easily you clung to him, how much you wanted him, and it made him hungry for more.

Getting your number was effortless. One conversation, a soft smile from him, and you were handing it over like it was nothing.

“Wanna study together?” was all it took to get you alone.

Study dates turned into real dates.

You didn’t party, which meant he had to wait a little longer to get you in bed. But it’s fine, he liked the build-up.

He knew you were in deep. After three months, you were already looking at him like he was your whole world.

He had you wrapped around his finger, and you didn’t even realize it.

And when the moment finally came, when you shyly whispered that you wanted him. He didn’t hesitate.

You were nervous, trembling underneath him, completely untouched.

He made sure to whisper sweet things, how pretty you were, how good you were being for him.

But the moment he pushed in, he couldn’t help but laugh at your little whimper.

“So fucking tight. Saved yourself just for me, didn’t ya?”

You were struggling to take him, eyes glassy, fingers digging into his shoulders.

He hushed you, cupping your cheek, murmuring praise but his hips didn’t slow down.

“Shh, baby, you can take it. Don’t cry now—you wanted this, remember?”

Soft slaps against your cheek whenever you tried to squirm away.

He kept you pinned, forced you to feel every inch.

“No one’s gonna fuck you better than me, baby. I’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”

You were overwhelmed, overstimulated but fuck, Eren’s so hot, you couldn’t get enough.

And when he finally filled you, pressing deep inside, he grinned at the sight of your fucked-out expression.

“That’s it, baby. Good fucking girl.”

Once he finishes, Eren’s sense starts coming back

He pulled out with a satisfied sigh, barely sparing you a glance.

He cleaned himself up, then wiped you down carelessly

Handed you your clothes, barely looking at you. “Get dressed.”

The warmth was gone, replaced with indifference. You felt like you were nothing to him. And maybe you were.

The car ride home was silent, tense.

When he dropped you off, he didn’t wait for you to get inside, didn’t say a word, just drove off like it was any other night.

You cried yourself to sleep, heart aching, body sore, wondering what you did wrong.

The next day, you searched for him on campus, hoping for some kind of explanation.

But when you finally saw him, his eyes barely flickered in your direction.

Cold. Careless. Like you were a stranger.

You tried texting but got no response.

Calling him went straight to voicemail.

He got what he wanted, so why would he bother with you now?

Two months passed, and you forced yourself to move on, burying the hurt.

Eren should’ve been fine—he was fine.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself. But no matter how much time passed, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Your soft little whimpers, the way you trembled beneath him, the way you looked at him like he was everything.

He doesn’t want to admit it but he misses you. Misses you so fucking much that sometimes he’ll drive by your house to make sure you’re not with anyone else

It was hard to get a hold of you (without seeming like he’s trying too hard bc he has a massive ego lol) you weren’t around anymore. No classes together. No run-ins.

University was too big. The chances of seeing you again were slim.

That is, until one afternoon, when he walked into the library and froze.

You. Sitting beside some guy, leaning in close, brows furrowed as you worked on something together.

You looked focused, innocent, completely unaware of Eren’s presence

Jealousy burned in his chest. He didn’t like the sight at all.

But he didn’t make a scene. Instead, he watched, waited, planned.

Two hours later, you packed up, smiling politely as you waved goodbye to the guy.

You had no idea you were being followed.

The halls were quiet. It was nearing 6 PM, most students had already left.

As you walked down the empty corridor, a strong hand suddenly gripped your wrist.

Before you could scream, you were yanked into an empty conference room, door slamming shut behind you.

A hard body pressed against yours, a familiar scent filling your senses.

You struggle immediately, hands pushing at his chest, trying to twist out of his grip.

Eren shoves you against the table, pressing his body flush against yours, caging you in.

His voice is low, mocking, "Miss me, sweetheart?"

“N-no! Let me go!”

He slaps you when you try to protest. “Don’t start whining, now.”

He’s furious, but it comes out smooth, asks if you really thought you could just forget him, move on so easily.

Hands roaming, gripping your waist, your hips. He doesn’t give you a chance to run.

“That guy in the library—you let him touch you?” His jealousy is seething, fingers tightening.

Shoves a knee between your legs, forcing them apart.

You shake your head, stammering, but he’s already convinced himself that you were going to replace him.

"You let me take your virginity, and now you’re acting like some untouched little thing again?"

Yanks up your skirt, rips your underwear like it’s nothing.

“Bet you’ve been aching for this, huh? Acting all innocent, but you love it when I handle you like this. Stupid little thing. Such a fucking tease.”

He forces you onto the table, holding you down by the nape of your neck.

He pulls down his sweats, thrusting his hard length between your wet cunt and you whimper.

When he does thrust in, it’s with no mercy.

Overpowering, forceful—you’re gasping, crying, but he doesn’t stop.

More slaps, this time to your ass when you squirm too much. “Stay still, baby. I’ll make you feel good.”

He’s pulling your hair, softly slapping your face when you don’t answer his questions.

“Tell me. Were you whoring around for the last two months? So upset that I didn’t care for you so you spread your legs. Classic, sweetheart.”

His voice turns almost sweet, condescending. "Aw, you crying? Thought you wanted this.”

Doesn’t stop until he’s satisfied, grinding deep inside you, pressing a kiss to your trembling shoulder.

When he finally fills you up, he stays there, making sure you take every drop.

You’re breathless, laid on the table bare, pussy sore from taking the pounding.

Your skin gleamed in sweat and your thoughts were all over.

“Let’s go back to my place, yeah?”

#tw: dark fic #tw: noncon #eren smut #eren jaeger smut #eren yeager smut #yandere aot #yandere eren #aot smut #tw: dark content #eren yandere #eren x you #dark eren #eren aot #eren x reader #eren yeager #eren jaeger

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httpsserene · 11 months ago

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I LOVED daniel ricciardo x max verstappen x reader!! could you write a part 2?

𝖍𝖙𝖙𝖕𝖘𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖊'𝖘 2𝕶 𝕾𝖕𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖑 | 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖆𝖓𝖎𝖊𝖑 𝕽𝖎𝖈𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖔 𝕰𝖉𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐞: 𝐊.𝐎. !

summary: Okay, Daniel may have won the first round. He cleared her dry spell with no problem and used Max to do it, too. That’s completely fine, she will never complain about experiencing some of the best orgasms of her life. But, Max (the man unable to not have the last word) coerces her into giving Daniel a taste of his own medicine. As soon as they can manage to walk on two feet, without a wobble. Mark their fucking words. pairing: daniel ricciardo x max verstappen x fem!black!reader content warning: 18+ only. mdni. explicit sexual content. author recommends reading part one before this. polyamory. threesome. massages. overstimulation. multiple orgasms. safe, sane, and consensual. bondage. safeword mention. unprotected sex. ruined orgasm. handjob. oral sex (male receiving). edging. crying during sex. praise kink. nipple play. dom/sub ig? joking during sex. dom!max verstappen. switch!daniel ricciardo. sub!reader. vaginal sex. anal sex (male). sex toys (butt plug). frottage. don’t like don’t read. no beta we die like men. edited by the author, though. this is a fictional depiction of real-life people, and this is not an accurate representation of them. word count: 4.3k words

author’s notes: to all the lovely readers who begged for a part two of my f1 kinktober special | overstimulation kink w danny & max. these tags may look crazy...okay, they are but the fic is reasonably crazy i would say. this was humbling to write, you have been warned. my 2k followers special comes to its end with this final installment and there will be no part three of this fic < 3. i may repost this on ao3 in a week or so, for ease of reading as i know long fics on tumblr are kind of annoying :)

(i'm going to take a little pause from writing daniel ricciardo fics but those of you that have requested things for him i will get to them in due time xxx)

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Your body feels like it’s been wrung out: legs wobbly, thighs bruised, hips aching, back broken, and numb with heat between your legs. You refuse to wear pants as the friction is too paralyzing to take more than a few steps. Loose dresses are your best friend–for the first couple of days, you even went commando around the ranch—thank god neither one of your boyfriends clued into that.

However, it’s not like you disliked the oversensitivity and aching muscles that came after sex. You loved the feeling even more as it was the first time you’d been properly fucked in a few months. Having that unending thirst for Max and Daniel quenched; it’s heightened how you experience life. You swear that your vision feels sharper, your melanated skin softer, anything you eat tastes better than delicious, the homemade lemonade is sweeter, and most importantly, your desperation has calmed. While you love life on the farm, where living has become succulent under your senses—Max’s attitude has done a complete 180°.

His energy is completely subdued. It’s like Daniel drained the cum and brat out of him. Max is all stuttered words when he makes eye contact with either of you, blushing fully at the lightest tease or brush of skin, voice soft when he speaks, usual bluntness replaced with shyness, and he’s even clingier than normal. If he hasn’t glued himself underneath Daniel’s arm, he’ll be plastered against your back.

You wonder if he’s embarrassed that Daniel changed their “plan” on him at the last minute, or if it’s because Daniel used him as a tool to get you off—but, asking Max would only scare him away or cause the brat to resurface…so you don’t verbalize your theories. You find Max in this state more adorable than usual, and you won’t complain if it means a surplus of Max-cuddles.

Yet, the figurative rug is pulled from beneath your feet when the three of you go Christmas shopping. Daniel had separated from the two of you to go pick up a gift for his nephew, leaving you and Max alone to browse through knickknacks that decorate the shelves. Your eyes were caught by cat ornaments that looked exactly like Jimmy and Sassy but before you could reach out to grab, them Max grabbed you by the hand and pulled you to hide in the next aisle over.

“I want to break Daniel with so many orgasms that he won’t be able to speak by the time we’re done with him,” Max states bluntly. The brat is back.

“Regulate your volume,” you whisper-yell at him, hand moving to cover his mouth as you look around to see if anybody heard your Dutch boyfriend, “We are in public and you decided now is the time to bring this up?!”

He pulls your hand off his face, looking at you with wide eyes, “But, liefje–c’mon! Daniel’s been way too smug recently. Whenever I’m around him he doesn’t miss the chance to mention how he made me cry—made you cry, too!”

“Inside voice, Max,” you bite out, continuing to look at the Christmas decorations in this aisle.

“Fine,” Max whispers, rolling his eyes, “Technically, it’s another Christmas present for him if you think about it.”

“I’m trying not to think about it if you haven’t noticed.”

“Don’t you want to even the board? Imagine it: Daniel underneath the two of us, and we’re overwhelming him with pleasure. Doesn’t that sound like a good time?”

You stop walking abruptly and Max runs into your back. You spin around and stare at him with narrowed eyes and a flared nose.

“You seriously thought the best time to discuss this is in the middle of a family-friendly store, where our boyfriend is picking up a gift for his nephew?”

“Yes.”

“If you stop talking about it for the entire time we’re shopping today, I’ll consider it. We can discuss this when the phantom feeling of his cum on my skin goes away.”

That evening, you and the Dutchman watch Daniel fix a motorbike out in the driveway from the garage. He’s shirtless, sweat dripping down his face and back, you can see every muscle engage and relax as he moves. He’s silhouetted by the Australian sunset and you hear Max choke on his breath when Daniel’s loose jeans slip down his hips, exposing the waistband of his briefs—twin sighs of disappointment leave you both when he catches and drags them back up. With shaky hands, you grab the pitcher of lemonade you prepared to pour a glass for each of you. Ignoring how you missed the glass on your first few attempts, you two bring the drinks to your lips and dry the cups embarrassingly quickly to satiate your desperation—the lemonade doesn’t help.

Daniel finishes with the bike and wipes his hands on a towel he had tucked into his back pocket, looking your guys’ way. He smiles brightly—shamefully, you wave in response and Max tucks a nonexistent strand of hair behind his ear; the two of you are acting like school girls with a crush.

The Australian stands and in a few relaxed strides, he comes to a stop in front of you two.

“Can you pour me a glass, sweetheart?” his request rumbles out velvety.

Stuttering, you scramble to do as he asked and find that Max has reached for the pitcher as well when your hands bump into each other. The two of you freeze and stare at each other with wide eyes; Max’s blush blooms red across his face and yours warms the brown skin of your cheeks. Daniel’s chuckle of amusement snaps you out of it; Max pours the drink, and you hand it off to the Australian, avoiding eye contact. He brings the glass to his lips and drains it dry. You and the Dutchman stare with gaped mouths, watching the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, whimpering and pressing your thighs together at his ah in satisfaction when finished.

He leans down to place the glass back on the tray and smirks at you and Max, “Absolutely delicious. It almost tastes as sweet as either of you is acting right now.”

Both of you stay silent, squirming in your lawn chairs. Daniel takes a second to slowly press both of your mouths closed with a nudge of his fingers before straightening up and clearing his throat.

“Thank you for the drink, sweetheart,” Daniel cocks his head to the side in question, before winking, his smug aura radiating off of him, “Or should I say, ‘sweethearts?’ As both of you seemed so eager to help me quench my thirst.”

Your mouth pops open again and Max audibly whimpers next to you. Daniel laughs and walks to enter the house, “Don’t feel afraid to join me in the shower.”

The plan is set before Daniel’s out of the shower. You’ve changed into a black mini slip dress, curls loosely cascading down your back as you’ve draped yourself on top of the bed sideways, face-down on your tummy, not caring how the back of your dress has ridden up a couple of inches. Max laid himself on his side next to you, dressed in a navy Enchanté shirt and a pair of Daniel’s briefs that hug at his thighs a little too tightly, and plays with the bottom hem of your dress, letting his fingers drift underneath to press at bruises that haven’t healed from that night.

At the sound of the shower shutting off, the two of you glance at each other; Max checking in with you one last time before you guys follow through with the plan. At your nod, Max presses a soft kiss to your lips and goes back to fiddling with your dress. You rest your head on your folded arms and as your eyes flutter shut, the bathroom door opens.

You hear Daniel humming some country song and he gets about three steps into the room before he stops abruptly.

“Well, if I had known this would be waiting for me out here, I wouldn’t have spent a lifetime in the shower waiting for you guys to take me up on my offer.”

Max makes a noise of confusion, his hand pausing at your hemline, “What are you talking about? We just thought it would be nice to give you a massage—you know, prevent any muscle tightness from when you were hunched over the bike.”

“Is that so, pretty girl?” Daniel questions you, looking past Max. He’s dried off from his shower already, skin gleaming thanks to your cocoa butter lotion he probably stole, hair still damp but not dripping, and a towel wrapped around his waist. You’re sure he’s trying to sniff out any weakness; to see if he can bend you into revealing Max’s agenda for tonight. Little does he know that you’re not an accomplice, you’ve put a good amount of work into this plan too.

In response, you offer a small smile and hold up a bottle of massage oil that was previously tucked into your side. Daniel’s narrowed eyes flit between the two of you, and then he relaxes, shrugging loftily as he motions for the two of you to move so he can lie down.

“Okay, sure,” Daniel laughs, falling into the bed as soon as the space is available, lying flat on his stomach, face planting into the pillows and his next words are muffled but loud enough to understand, “You don’t have to use ‘giving me a massage’ as an excuse to feel me up, but I’m not going to turn it down if you’re so willing to do so.”

You and Max are kneeling on opposite sides of Daniel’s body on the bed, resting on the heels of your feet, and you muffle a giggle at Max rolling his eyes at your boyfriend’s words. The younger man slaps his hand on Daniel’s back, grinning at the stifled yelp that sounds from near the headboard, and coos sarcastically, “Do you think you can handle that level of pain? Considering this is a deep-tissue massage?”

You drizzle a nice amount of oil on the middle of his back, letting your laughter escape as Daniel pleads, “Woah—hear me out, what about a regular massage? I would like to end this massage without crying from soreness, please.”

Slowly the two of you turn to look at each other, smiles spreading across your lips, and Max murmurs, “Oh. You’ll be crying by the end of this.”

You ignore Daniel begging for mercy underneath you and beginning massaging. For all of the Dutchman’s ribbing, the two of you are gentle. Your hands soothingly rub any tension out of his back; the two of you are only doing this to melt Daniel into the bed. He protests and grumbles through the both of you digging into his shoulders, but quiets as you make your way down his back, practically moaning when you push a knot out from behind his shoulder blade. Max manages to wrangle out a whimper when he presses his thumb into the dimple of his lower back. Neither of you gets close to the towel resting low on his hips; you want to keep him as calm and unaware as possible, but getting close to that towel would do the opposite. When Daniel’s breathing slows and his sounds of relief start to lessen, Max gently coaxes Daniel into rolling on his back with ease.

The brunette’s eyes flutter open, but you tut disapprovingly when his gaze meets yours. With a kiss on his forehead, Daniel closes his eyes at your word, not fighting you for a second. And from that point, you and Max begin conditioning the older man to get used to only having one pair of hands on him at a time. Max massages his chest, you take a break, you massage his chest, Max takes a break; and as Daniel starts to relax at the rhythm, you guys slowly increase the length of your breaks.

Until the breaks get long enough to slip the ties that you guys fastened to the headboard out.

Daniel was so entranced at the sight of you and Max sprawled on his bed that he forgot to examine his surroundings. They’re silk ties, with pre-made straps for you to tighten as soon as his hands are inside them. The two of you take it to the next step; you each begin to massage his arms (still employing your regular breaks), raising them upwards to “get a better angle.” Daniel doesn’t even shift at the change, he just hums under his breath when either of you soothes across a good spot. And with little effort, you and Max raise both of his arms and smoothly slip his tattooed hands into the ties, tightening the straps in the blink of an eye.

The older man startles, eyes flying open as he tries to yank his wrists free of the binds, “Uhhhh, what the fuck?”

Both of you watch as Daniel tries to free himself without any luck, enjoying the show as the silk ties prove they won’t give out. Chills shudder down your spine as your older boyfriend tries to order the two of you to release him, but he must see the feral glint shine in your eyes because he switches to asking when neither of you moves.

“You know what to say if you really want us to let you go, Daniel,” Max states bluntly, pulling off his Enchanté shirt easily.

You hum in agreement, straddling the Australian’s hips and simultaneously tugging your slip dress over your head and tossing it to the side, exposing your bare body before seating yourself on the bulge showing through the towel. Daniel chokes out a curse, his eyes dancing between yours and Max’s bodies being dangled in front of his face without being able to touch.

He tests the binds for any give half-heartedly before sniffing dismissively, jaw tightening as he challenges Max, “Do your worst, baby.”

Max scoffs out a laugh, “That is the plan.”

From there you and Max turn into savages. Both of you bypass kissing Daniel, pressing lips and biting bruises along his neck and torso instead. The man can only cry out as Max terrorizes his nipples with teeth and pinching fingers while you paint marks on his hipbones and navel. The older man isn’t convinced that the night will end without the two of you seriously attempting cannibalism but the thought is pushed away when the towel is tugged off his hips.

Max laughs mockingly and flicks Daniel’s already-hardened length, “Well, this will be even easier than we thought, liefje.”

“I was half-hard from the minute you guys put your hands on me,” Daniel snipes, “Don’t let this go to your head.”

You raise an eyebrow in question, tilting your head to the side innocently which contrasts the strong grasp of your hand around the head of Daniel’s cock, “Isn’t that a compliment, though? Anyways, it clearly went to your head.”

Daniel groans in pleasure as you start to rapidly stroke along his quickly reddening length, “That was a terrible pun–fuck–but, I’m only letting it slide because your hand is on my cock.”

He bucks up into your fist and you release him immediately, smiling as you see him choke down a whimper of disappointment. The older man isn’t left alone for long, as Max drags the tip of his index finger along the slit of Daniel’s cock before flattening his palm across the head and roughly circling it to overwhelm him with an alarming amount of pleasure-coated friction.

The brunette can’t stifle his cries this time nor can he buck his hips, thanks to the Dutchman pinning him down with his free forearm. Max pulls both of his hands away quickly, delighting in Daniel’s sounds of displeasure, the two of you watching as he attempts to chase a hand that isn’t there anymore. His length is throbbing, pulsing angrily, redder than the blush that stains his tanned chest. You swallow wantingly. Both of you thought that you would be able to get a few more rounds out of a handjob, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.

Max gets his hand around the base and yours circles the tip. Simultaneously, the two of you start rubbing him off in time, keeping your fists just tight enough and your motions just quick enough to hurtle Daniel to the edge. He throws his head back into the pillows, hips freely bucking as neither one of you attempts to stop him, his hands pulling against the ties all the while,

“You can cum whenever you want, Daniel,” Max states.

The older man lets out several pants of desperation, calling both of your names as he nears his climax. And when you both see the telltale sign of Daniel’s chest rising and falling heavily, you release his cock.

“No! Wait–shit,” he tries to gasp, but it’s too late. His cock starts leaking, jerking pathetically as cum drips down his length in ribbons—his orgasm ruined. Dry sobs escape his lungs as he humps the air, looking for friction that isn’t there, continuing to beg for a hand even as he struggles to breathe as a result of the unsatisfying release.

You let him come down hard, offering support in a quick squeeze of the meat of his thigh over his tattoo. When he catches his breath, his eyes flutter open. Max sees the wetness gathered in the waterlines and moves in the blink of an eye, enveloping Daniel’s still-hard cock in his mouth.

The Australian’s back arches off the bed, hips racing forward then backward as he cries out, unsure if the feeling of Max’s mouth is good. Both pairs of your hands fly forward to still Daniel, forcing him to feel every crevice of Max’s tongue and throat, trying to bring him to another orgasm as quickly as possible. It works, Daniel stops fighting and starts obeying, rolling upward into Max’s mouth, whimpering out depravedly as he struggles against his binds again. You see his abs start to undulate in waves, a second orgasm trying to form and you slip your hand underneath Max’s chin, lightly squeezing at Daniel’s balls—and the tears fall as his release slams into him like a semi-truck.

The younger man swallows around Daniel, humming as he does it, yet the bobbing motion of his head doesn’t stop—Max is going to try his hardness to prevent Daniel from going soft, even as the older man tries to fight and twist away from the wet grasp of his throat. The Australian’s tears paint his cheek as he sobs messily, and you’re quick to check in with him as Max’s mouth is occupied.

“Daniel, color?” you manage to make your voice sound steady, but your thighs are trembling, your cunt pulsing with wetness and need.

The man whimpers, eyes unseeingly looking down at you and Max as he cries messily, “Green.”

You moan breathily, finally giving in to your urges and rushing forward to messily kiss Daniel. You let him cry into your mouth, nipping at his lips and tasting his tears before pulling away. Max pulls off Daniel’s cock with a reedy gasp and moves backward quickly so you can slip in between them, seating your cunt atop the half-hard length and beginning to grind along him. The brunette makes a sound as if he’s been punched in the gut, arms pausing in their fight against the ties before they resume with renewed strength. Daniel scrambles to get his feet underneath him, trying to buck off the hot, wet drag of your cunt against his cock. It’s pulsing so violently that he swears he can feel it in his throat.

Max knocks his feet down, and tugs Daniel’s chin to look at him with a hardened grasp, with his voice rough and croaky he commands, “Can you give us one more, Daniel?”

Daniel's glossy, brown eyes stare at Max without answer, mouth parted as drool slips from the corners of his lips. The Dutchman’s brow tightens with worry and he releases his chin to pull you off. But, before he can stop you, Daniel gasps out desperately.

“M’ green—please, please, Max,” Daniel nods viciously, “Green, green—one more.”

The younger man soothes Daniel with sweet words, praising and comforting him as he leans forward to pepper his lips and neck with kisses and kitten licks, pausing to motion you to continue.

You line up Daniel’s cock easily and murmur out a ‘thank you’, before sinking down and not stopping until your ass meets his pelvis, uncaring of how he attempts to shake you off. His body is reacting in too much, but Max and you both see and hear how his brain interprets it as too good.

You keen in pleasure but your noises are deafened by Daniel’s cries and begs for relief. Well aware that you have to get yourself off so Max can have a turn, you find that toe-curling angle with the help of Max directing your hips, holding yourself steady with one hand behind you on the bed and the other drawing rapid circles on your clit. Max moves to let you rest your back along his chest, your frizzed curls a mess as they bounce with your movements.

The visual stimulation of Daniel in front of you moaning and heaving for more, the frantic twitching of his length inside of you, the sound of your skin slapping against his, and Max’s voice ghosting right by your ear, the ‘good girl’ that left his lips taking a second to process; all of it pushes you into the abyss. You don’t know if it’s you or Daniel that screams, your blood rushing in your ears and your vision flashing white clouds your mind as the explosion of pleasure burns your nerve endings.

With a choked ‘fuck,’ you slump over, slipping off his twitching cock and slinking down next to Daniel as you shiver and shake through the last dregs of pleasure. Max flutters over both of you, unsure if he should keep pushing the limit, but both you and Daniel yell confirmations of “Green!” that have Max ripping off his briefs, reaching between his legs and whimpering as he carefully tugs out the plug he’s had in for the entire time.

Daniel’s eyes roll in disbelief, his brain exhausted to the point where he can’t string together any words to communicate his confusion.

Max huffs out a hysterical giggle, one hand stroking along his cock as he tosses the plug off the side of the bed. “Fuck–you were in the shower forever, Daniel. I’ve had that in for too long.”

The younger man shakes as he lowers himself on Daniel’s cock, bottoming out with a whimper as he mouths down at Daniel, “Just one more, baby, okay? Make me come, yeah?”

The older man’s moan is curdled with overstimulation, but he finds the will to get his feet underneath him and shakily thrust upwards into Max, hoping somehow that that’s enough. Max lets his head fall back in pleasure, thankful for the moving pressure of Daniel’s cock inside of him rather than the consistent annoyance of the plug holding him open. Coupled with the stretch of his rim and his hand furiously twisting along his length, Max reaches his peak quickly.

Before taking the plunge, he chokes out words of praise at Daniel and you rush to do the same, understanding that Max is attempting to push Daniel over the edge as well. You see tears of frustration build in Daniel’s eyes as he struggles to fully give in, and you fall forward to tug at his nipples with your teeth, reinvigorating Daniel’s attempts at slipping from the silk ties. At the sight, Max shouts, body tightening and then relaxing as he strokes out ribbons of cum. Daniel’s hips stutter when the first drop of cum lands on his skin and you feel his lungs halt as the strongest orgasm—most likely dry, at that—wreaks havoc upon his body.

His body goes limp underneath the two of you, and his hands droop in their binds. You speedily untie Daniel’s arms as Max slowly slips off the man’s rapidly softening length, trying to lessen any unwanted stimulation for the unaware Australian. You catch his arms before they fall against the bed, rubbing your hands against them to coax proper blood flow in them. Spent, Max stumbles to Daniel’s side, taking one arm out of your hands and matching your movements.

“Good job, liefje,” Max breathes out, smiling up at you with an exhausted smile, his hair drenched with sweat and falling in front of his eyes. You blush and kiss him sweetly, “It was your idea!”

Max shakes his head, pausing his hands to reach down and brush Daniel’s curls off his forehead, “No; you made half of the plan. So, it was our idea.”

The Australian groans, eyes fluttering open but they’re still clouded enough that you both know he’s going to need more than enough TLC tonight, “ —idea made me think i w‘sgonna die.”

Max laughs, rubbing circles around the man’s temple, “I guess we forgot to factor in your old age as a variable, didn’t we, liefje?”

Daniel’s face flutters in displeasure at being referred to as “old,” even when he’s not quite come down, “Mean, Maxy.”

You giggle, “That’s what he calls mean out of this entire experience?”

The Dutchman presses kisses to both of your foreheads before he stumbles out of bed, “I’m going to grab some fruit and cream for Daniel’s wrists. Should I grab anything else?” He directs the question to you.

Of course, the Australian jumps in before you have the chance to respond, “Lemonade, please.”

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