#megwritesriddles

Riddle had formed an attachment to you by pure accident. He hadn’t even looked your way once when, in the fifth year, the two of you were paired up for prefect patrols. He peripherally registered that you were beautiful, but he didn’t spend much time with thoughts like these generally, just kept them in mind. Beautiful girls could have a lot of influence without realising it, he’d found, so he maintained polite relationships with a few, just in case he should need them for something. It started that way with you, too; he had been polite so that your patrols together could be tolerable, and if he sorely needed a favour from you some day, you may be suggestible to it. Yet, you had surprised him. Initially having dismissed you as nothing but a pretty face, he’d been incredibly surprised to learn you were an excellent healer, talented far beyond your years. The two of you had come across a few second years at the edge of the forbidden forest, one of whom had been badly injured by some vicious magical plant he hadn’t seen in the dark of the night. You had been able to cast some healing charms and use some nearby magical plants to keep the boy stable until Riddle could fetch the matron from the hospital wing to take over. The matron had complimented you profusely, implying that your ability with the spells had saved the boy's life. Riddle’s opinion of you shifted immediately; you were a valuable person to know if he ever found himself in trouble. As the two of you continued your patrol, he subtly questioned you about the display he had just seen. You explained that you were fascinated with all types of healing magic, teaching yourself in your free time and researching ferociously. 

From that day onward, Riddle formed an odd fascination with you. Despite him seeing healing magic as a soft subject, he couldn’t deny that no one in Hogwarts, other than himself, was able to teach themself such high-level magic. You were clearly dedicated, and unfortunately, healing was incredibly necessary in his future plans. As the years passed and his ambitions formed, he increasingly pictured you there by his side, healing him as he explored the darkest magic, perhaps providing your services to his Knights, but primarily for him. After that day, the two of you had begun discussing magic and potions during your patrols, building a camaraderie that Riddle had with no one else. You would even listen to his discoveries regarding dark magic, though he posed it as wondering how you might heal someone from such spells. He didn’t know if you were oblivious or just willing to turn a blind eye, but you were always willing to indulge these discussions, often returning to him with research on the topic you’d done in your own time, fascinated by the challenge of healing people from such obscure dark magic. 

Although he resented the word, the two of you were undoubtedly friends. He had started to realise his attachment to you had grown out of hand, frequently finding himself distracted by the flush of your cheeks or the curve of your lips as the two of you spoke. He was not easily distracted. Graduation was rapidly approaching, meaning his access to you would likely end. He was sure you would write to him, sentimental as you were, but he needed more than that. You were the only person he trusted to heal him if anything were to go wrong with his plans. Yet, he knew he could not simply come out and ask you to come live with him after graduation. The two of you were not that close; he had seen to that himself, hoping the hold you had over him would disappear with a little distance. It had not, in fact, the longer he was apart from you, the more irritable he felt. 

So, slowly, he began spending more time with you. Finding you in the library and sitting down beside you without a word, drawing you away from your friends on Hogsmeade trips with the promise of interesting books to show you, then plying you with coffee and cake to stay with him rather than return to your friends. As exams approach, he invites you to study with him in his dorm for some peace and quiet, as the library is getting busier each passing day. His single dorm, courtesy of his role as Head Boy, gives him a great opportunity to get you accustomed to his presence in close quarters. You spread out to study on his bed, surrounded by his scent as he sits at the desk, smug, because lately you’ve been asking him if you can come here, rather than him inviting you. He would subtly suggest that he’d heard your friends making cruel remarks about you on occasion, thrilled when it worked as planned, and you withdrew from them, coming to spend even more time with him.

The creation of his first Horcrux had been an accident. He had planned to start the process after graduation, intending to seek out his Muggle father and grandparents. But fate had different plans. Every few weeks, he went to check on the Basilisk that resided in the Chamber of Secrets under the school, keeping her fed and loyal until he intended to utilise her sometime after graduation. One evening, upon returning from the Chamber, he noticed that he had himself a witness, Myrtle Warren, who immediately began shrieking. He hadn’t even meant to do it, panicking and speaking parseltongue, unleashing the basilisk onto the girl, who quickly went quiet. He only realised what had happened when he saw a part of his soul split from his body, looking for an object in which to settle. He scrambled; he hadn’t intended for this to happen so early, but he had to make sure he didn’t damage his soul by leaving it without a vessel for too long. He had very little with him, but in his bag, he found a necklace he had been planning to gift to you as a birthday present. He’d been carrying it around since he bought it so that you wouldn’t find it prematurely. Running out of time, he directed the shard of his soul into the necklace. 

Only that night, safely hidden now in his room, did he consider what gifting you this necklace might mean. He found he liked the idea of you carrying around a piece of him a little too much, like he was staking a claim. His soul’s constant presence was likely to make you feel even more connected to him, and him to you. The gift of a necklace from Riddle surprised you, but you were drawn to it, admiring it and quickly putting it on, him moving your hair aside and clasping it around your neck for you. He’d told you it looked beautiful on you and you had blushed deeply.

The necklace had unexpected effects on you, the dark magic radiating from it affecting you, making you irritable with others and causing you to want to withdraw socially, amplifying some of your worst impulses. Riddle didn’t mind so much; it was achieving many of his plans for him. The fear caused by the death at Hogwarts, along with the influence of the Horcrux at your neck, had you gravitating toward Riddle more and more to feel safe and calm, convinced nothing bad could happen to you with him there to protect you. Riddle accepts your presence with open arms, glad to get to keep a close eye on both you and the necklace. He has impressed upon you many times to never take off the necklace and to keep it safe, and you had kept your word so far, but he preferred to keep an eye just in case. He subtly reinforced your feelings, telling you that you would always be safe with him, and that you couldn’t trust anybody else, as no one knew how Myrtle had died. 

Finally, with the perfect storm of his manipulation, the effect of the Horcrux and the fear he had inadvertently awakened throughout the school, he was able to convince you to stay the night with him in his room. He may have had one of his Knight’s frighten you on your walk back from his room last night, but no matter what he’d done to get here, he finally had you where he wanted you, wanting to spend all your time, even your most vulnerable, with him. 

You’d brought a small overnight bag on patrol with you, clinging to Riddle’s arm as the two of you did your rounds, afraid. Riddle almost felt bad for you, but mostly, he just felt a dark satisfaction creeping through him at your reliance on him for a sense of safety. He knew you were in no real danger; he was the threat, and he would never harm you… not physically anyway. He only wanted what was best for you, and by the time his plans came to fruition, the safest place for you would undoubtedly be under his protection. Not to mention how much your presence could benefit his cause and how much he needed to have you close by so he could watch over you and his soul that you took such good care of. He felt a sense of warmth each time you fiddled with the necklace at your neck, as if you were touching his soul. If it had been anyone else, the feeling would have undoubtedly been invasive, repulsive even, but as it was you, he merely felt a little aroused.

As soon as the two of you could feasibly be considered done with your patrol, you dashed off to his Head Boy dorm, making sure not to be caught. Once inside, Riddle wanted to pounce on you, your constant fiddling with the necklace having filled him with need, but he knew he had to wait, taking a calming breath. He couldn’t afford to scare you off, not yet, while you still had places to run and people to seek comfort in. He had to be gentle, romantic even, and you were the only person in the world for whom he was willing to pretend. Besides, he had a plan for tonight that he couldn’t ruin by acting too early. He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, looking down at you.

“The door is locked, darling, no one can get in, we are safe, get yourself ready for bed,” he murmurs in his best attempt at reassurance. His hand trails featherlight to the necklace at your neck, then withdraws. He’d been touchier these last few weeks, getting you gradually used to him, so you don’t flinch despite the intimate touch, merely nodding nervously and heading into the attached toilet. You unpack your small bag, brushing your teeth, washing your face and securing your hair before changing into your nightgown. You blush as you look at yourself in the mirror. You had intentionally packed your shortest nightgown, but now that you were actually here with Riddle, your confidence was faltering. Still, you had nothing else with you, so you crept out into his room and slid into the bed shyly. Riddle’s eyes fix on you curiously, the necklace around your neck running hot as he looks at you. Still trying not to frighten you, he slowly heads into the bathroom, getting himself ready for bed. As he brushes his teeth, he hears distant thunder, smirking to himself. He knew you were quite jumpy, especially lately, so this would give him the perfect opportunity to make you feel safe and secure. 

Once he joins you in the bed once more, you’re already trembling nervously, jumping at each thunder clap, convinced it was someone trying to break down the door, despite knowing better. He laughs at you, softly, the mocking not detectable over your intense nerves, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close, pleased when you immediately curl into his chest. 

“I’m scared,” you squeak, balling your hands into the soft material of his night shirt. He tuts gently.

“I see that, darling, you’re shaking like a little leaf,” he says, rubbing your back slightly. “But I won’t let any harm come to you, ever,” he assures, a dark current running through his voice. You whimper as thunder booms once more, hiding your face in his shoulder. Riddle feels his patience thinning slightly. You were a highly intelligent witch, yet you were so afraid of thunder, even when he had sworn to you that you’d be safe. “Do you hear me?” he asks slowly, trying not to let his annoyance show. He grabs your chin, tilting your head so you’re forced to meet his eye. “No harm will come to you so long as you’re with me, I swear to you, you have no reason to fear, do you hear me?” You nod nervously. Riddle huffs. “Words.”

“Yes… I hear you,” you stammer, clinging to him. His hand drops from your chin, fiddling with your necklace. It’s strange that he cannot feel his own touch on it, yet he is still drawn to the object all the time. “But what about–” you begin.

“No, you are safe with me,” he whispers through his teeth. “Now stop trembling, it’s ridiculous,” Riddle spots from the drop in your expression that he wasn’t meant to say that. He takes a deep breath; he isn’t well practised in this compassion thing, but he’s performing it the best he can. “I just mean that I don’t want you to feel frightened, darling,” he says as softly as he can, pressing a kiss to your hair. This seems to placate you a little. He rubs your side gently, feeling the shape of your body beneath his hand. The feeling of arousal from earlier wakes up within him as he touches your body freely for the first time. And you aren’t stopping him, just looking up at him as he touches you, your trembling subsiding and changing shape into excitement. He can sense it too, and he figures it's time for him to act. “Let me relax you, show you there’s nothing to worry about when I’m around,” he husks, pressing his lips to your temple, just needing to feel your bare flesh beneath his lips somehow. His hand sneaks down to your thigh, settling below the hem of your nightgown. “Would you like that?” When you nod, he huffs. “Words,” he repeats, his voice tight. 

“Yes,” you whisper, shy and apologetic, trying to focus on his hand caressing your thigh rather than the sound of thunder. 

“Was that so hard?” he tuts, pushing up the hem of your nightgown, his other arm still wrapped firmly around your waist. His hand seeks out the warmth between your legs, pressing against you through the fabric of your underwear. You jolt, not having expected things to escalate so quickly “Focus on me,” he reminds you harshly as your eyes flick to the window at a flash of lightning, rubbing against you forcefully, making you whimper. Your head spins at how fast this has escalated. Riddle’s hand spreads your thighs forcefully, then returns to rubbing at you over your underwear, his fingers swirling over the spot that makes your whole body twitch. You look up at him, not wanting him to tell you off again. His eyes are dark as he looks down at you, full of something you can’t place. As he removes your underwear, you try to lean up and kiss him, but he pulls away, shaking his head. “Not yet, darling,” he chastises, pushing your underwear down to pool at your ankles and returning his hand between your legs, rubbing at your now bare skin. He can feel the sticky arousal pooling as he rubs at your clit roughly yet pleasurably. You whimper softly at the feeling, embarrassment decorating your cheeks, yet you don’t want him to stop. Your necklace feels hot against your skin, your head spinning as Riddle begins to speak once more. “Doesn’t that feel nice? Your body certainly likes it… Only I can make you feel this way,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear, breath washing over the side of your neck.

“It feels nice,” you choke out in response, squirming a little, unable to believe how quickly you allowed him to do this. Sure, you’d been attracted to him a long time, but you had been so scared just earlier, and now your body was begging for him, like you were under the influence of something, something deeply desperate. 

“That’s a good girl,” he hums, immensely pleased with your compliance. He withdraws his hand for a moment, making you whine, looking up at him in confusion. Riddle grabs his wand from the nightstand, mumbling a few quiet words. You only get a split-second to wonder what he’s cast when you feel a soft buzzing against your clit. Your body jolts in surprise, but the feeling simply follows, making you gasp for breath. Riddle pulls down your squirming hips harshly, holding you in place as his other hand returns between your legs, two of his fingers beginning to ease inside of you without much warning. You gasp, your hips trying to thrash but being unable, the vibrating not faltering for a second. “That’s it, doesn’t that feel good?” he coos, watching his fingers disappear within you with a dark satisfaction. You are most certainly his now. You can’t respond with anything but a breathless whine, the onslaught of sensations barely letting you breathe. You feel your brain turning to mush, no longer able to form cohesive thoughts beyond his fingers pumping in and out of you and the ceaseless vibration on your most sensitive spot. Trying to ground yourself, your nails dig into his arm, a drawn-out moan of his name leaving your lips, legs closing around his arm as his fingers begin to pump faster. 

You feel yourself teetering on the precipice, not having the presence of mind to let Riddle know. Your eyes roll back, your toes curling, and your lips parting in a silent shout as the waves of pleasure go through you. You feel dizzy, your hips trying once more to withdraw from the sensations, yet being physically unable. Riddle's lips brush your ear. 

“Shhh, shhh, you’re a strong girl, I know you can handle it,” he comforts mockingly, continuing to work you through the waves of pleasure, yet not stopping even as they subside. Your whole body shakes, unable to handle the sensations, even as a warm, syrupy feeling lingers in the pit of your stomach. His fingers press against a soft spot deep within you, making you jolt. You hadn’t realised the sensations could get even more intense. You want to tell him to slow down, but something keeps you quiet, makes you lean into him instead of away and makes you feel warm when he bites your neck to leave a mark. Your mind is hazy from the vibrations, and he knows it. “You’re safe with me,” he whispers in your ear, his voice rough. “You can’t trust anyone but me. I’m all you need,” he grunts, curling his fingers against that spongy spot once more. “You don’t need anyone else, you belong with me and me alone,” he hisses, biting your neck once more. “Say it, you belong to me,” he urges, growling in annoyance when you only whimper. “Say. It.” he demands harshly, his hand on your hips slipping up into your hair, pulling it so you’re forced to look up at him. 

“I belong to you,” you choke out, squirming, too hazy to register his words properly, but vulnerable enough to digest them, just as he wants you. 

“That you do, good girl,” he growls, rewarding you for your declaration by finally pressing his lips to yours, measuredly gentle amid the onslaught of sensation between your legs. You try to follow him as he pulls away, and he tuts at you. “Only if you say it again,”

“I belong to you,” you moan, desperate for his gentleness, needing him as close as possible. He smirks, pleased that he’s got you. He grants you another gentle kiss, and another and another as you repeat your words over and over. He doesn’t tire of hearing it, especially with that desperation in your voice. His kisses, soft yet burning hot, push you to the edge once more, your hand balling into his pyjama shirt in an attempt to ground yourself again, but it’s no use. The pleasure makes you dizzy all over again, pleading with him against his lips. Your body collapses against the bed heavily; you hadn’t even realised that you’d tensed yourself off of it chasing Riddle’s lips, breathless and oversensitive. Riddle reaches for his wand, ending the vibrating spell, satisfied that you’ve been subjected to his charms enough for the night. You lay there beside him, still clearly out of sorts. He smirks down at you, rubbing your thigh as if to comfort you. 

“Alright, my darling?” he asks, knowing that he had just completely overwhelmed you. That had been his intention, and it seemed to have worked like he’d hoped, as you curl into him once more, seeking safety and comfort. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close and letting you feel protected. He was sure he would only have to do this a few more times until you would be ready to hear about his plans for you in the future. You might even be ready now, but it was better to be safe than sorry, and anyway, next time he was going to fuck you properly, have his way with you like he really wants. For that, you had to be ready. He feels you touch your necklace, and it sends a pleasant jolt through him. “What’s got you fiddling?” he asks gently.

“Just felt compelled to touch it,” you shrug, your voice hoarse and weak. He presses a kiss to your forehead. He feels the gentle, warm caresses deep in his soul.

“Touch it all you like, darling, it’s yours after all.”

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Tom Riddle had done the impossible, if he did say so himself. Born loveless, raised in an orphanage, he had clawed his way up the social ranks at Hogwarts to where he was today. It had taken precise layers of charm and deceit, convincing those around him that he was worthy of more than the cards he had been dealt. It hadn’t hurt that the one blessing his parentage had offered him was his looks, which made convincing certain people of his worth much simpler, but ultimately, he would be nowhere without his perseverance. He had done it, built himself from nothing, and nobody could take that from him. Here he was now, almost at the very top of the social hierarchy at Hogwarts, elected Head Boy, coveted by every witch at the school. There was only one step left between him and the legitimacy he craved: a wealthy pureblood wife. If he were to access the jobs he was after, the power he desired, he needed proximity to a good family. Most of his peers were simply born with this privilege, and while he had been invited to many high society balls over the years, he knew he had no family who would vouch for him when it came to getting a good job. At the moment, he was an impressive oddity to be admired. How strange, this handsome, intelligent man with a name we do not recognise, hasn’t he done well for himself? But the novelty would fade once his pureblood peers were getting their undeserved positions in the ministry, and Riddle was left behind to take the apprentice route like everybody else. 

You were the ideal candidate to be his wife. In fact, Riddle has had his sights set on you for quite a while now. Your family was perhaps the wealthiest and best-regarded of all the pureblood families. Your father wasn’t the Minister of Magic, but the power he held in his position meant he may as well have been. If the wizarding world had royalty, it would be your family. That was exactly the kind of connection he needed to get where he was going. You and Riddle were to be wed; the only problem being that you were difficult. Very difficult. It was a large part of why he’d set his sights on you in particular. Despite your wealth, status and beauty, your dismissive and abrasive attitude to male suitors meant that not many men had dared to seek your hand. Less competition, Riddle had thought perhaps a little naively. He didn’t mind a challenge: he could charm almost anyone. Almost.

His attempts to woo you had begun last year, starting simple with approaching you in the hall and telling you that you looked lovely. Without fail, you would brush him off, your face set in a seemingly permanent scowl. Riddle persisted. He left gifts at your desk, fancy chocolates, ribbons for your hair, luxurious hand creams in scents that reminded him of your perfume. Each gift was accepted, but you never looked that enthusiastic, offering the chocolates around to your friends, using the ribbons to tie your textbooks rather than your hair. However, the fact that you hadn’t thrown them back in his face was a win in Riddle’s book, as he had witnessed you do a few years ago when being pursued by an older student. He continued his efforts, approaching you in the library in the hopes of speaking with you at least once a week. His charm was always fully switched on, a handsome smile on his face, his voice soft and full of compliments. Still, you were unfazed. If he was lucky, the two of you would exchange a few sentences before you told him you wished to be alone; most days, he would get nothing from you at all. Your lack of other suitors kept him going, because at least he knew your aloof attitude wasn’t related to being promised to somebody else.

After over a year of this behaviour, you had begrudgingly grown used to it. On days he was sick or busy with Head Boy duties, it would be odd not to receive a little gift or be showered with compliments before class. You didn’t miss it as such; it was merely the change in your routine that bothered you. You were always a little more friendly with him the next day, without strictly meaning to be. Riddle basked in his success each time, the fact that you would actually speak with him a little. You were intelligent, funny, perfect. Each little bit that you let him in only strengthened his resolve to marry you. The two of you would be the perfect couple; everybody would admire you both, be sick with envy. You would give him that last step up he needed toward the future he deserved. The thought was what kept him going on days you were particularly challenging. 

Although Riddle was not much of a partier himself, he knew appearances were of the essence in building up his image and maintaining the position he had worked so hard for. So despite having no interest in such mindless frivolities, he had dragged himself to the party in the Slytherin common room this evening and made his rounds, making sure people took note of his presence. He had hoped he would catch a chance to speak with you at this party, but as he approached your group of friends, he immediately noticed a distinct lack of you. As casually as he could, he inquired about your whereabouts, secretly a little sick at the thought that you might have found a quiet corner with some boy. 

“She’s in her dorm, said this party was a trivial affair and that she wanted to enjoy her time alone,” your friend Agnes quotes you, rolling her eyes. Riddle couldn’t help but smile. It sounded like you. It sounded like him. He wasn’t sure why you couldn’t seem to see that the two of you were a good match. After a little more polite conversation, he deems it acceptable for him to excuse himself. Making his way up the stairs toward the toilets for a moment alone, he hesitates at the landing, his eyes drawn down the corridor toward the seventh-year girls' dorms. Toward where you were. He could see some light peeking out from under one of the doors, presumably yours. After checking he was alone on the staircase, his legs carried him down the corridor toward you. He knew it was improper, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He reaches the door, seeing your nameplate, which confirmed you were inside. He could hear soft, melodic humming from inside, your voice. He had never heard you so carefree and takes a moment just to listen. The tune is vaguely familiar, but he can’t quite place it. With a deep breath, he places his hand on the doorknob and lets himself inside.

You were sitting at your vanity, curling your hair and humming to yourself, enjoying being alone. With your dormmates away, you had been taking some time to indulge in yourself, experimenting with a new hairstyle without anybody telling you to hurry up so they could use the vanity and allowing your mind to wander to things you couldn’t think about with others around, fantasising. You caught sight of Riddle in the doorway through your vanity mirror, your eyes meeting for a moment before you turned in your seat to face him. 

“Oh, you,” you look him up and down, unimpressed. Riddle gives his best charming smile, which almost makes you roll your eyes. 

“Just came to check on you, shouldn’t you be socialising with your housemates?” He steps inside, shutting your door behind him, shutting you in together.

“I tried to avoid it, but you give me no choice, as usual,” you huff, turning back toward the mirror and examining your freshly curled hair. Riddle takes a few slow, measured steps until he stands behind your chair, watching you admire yourself in the mirror. He spots a facial moisturiser that he had gifted you a few weeks ago, open on your vanity, clearly used. It makes him smile. “Well, since you’re here,” you begin, meeting his eye in the mirror once more, arranging your hair. “What do you think of the curls?”

“Beautiful,” he answers simply, reaching out to gently trace a finger along a strand of your hair, twisting it around his finger and letting it go. He’s surprised that you don’t object, but you seem preoccupied with scrutinising your hair.

“Well, do you think a tighter or looser curl would be better?" you urge. He chuckles because he hardly knows a thing about this, lucky that his hair waves attractively on its own.

“I am sure any type of curl would suit you,” he murmurs, leaning his forearms on the back of your chair, his head now close to yours. You roll your eyes.

“You’re useless, you would say I looked beautiful no matter what I did,”

“It’s not my fault that you’re so gorgeous,” he hums, catching your glare through the mirror, laced with a blatant affection he isn’t used to seeing from you. You seem much more relaxed than usual. Considering he’d barged in here without warning, it’s a little odd. “You don’t seem that bothered about me being in your room,” he comments, his eyes straying toward what you’re wearing. A simple white nightdress and a silky robe wrapped around you. The fact that you aren’t trying to cover up is also strange, but he isn’t complaining. 

“I figured you were here to offer to eat me out or something,” you shrug. Riddle freezes, pulling back a bit so he can look at your face rather than simply your reflection. He’s sure he hasn’t heard you correctly, or if he has, that he does not understand the implication correctly.

“Eat… you?” he asks slowly, studying your expression. 

“You know, go down on me,” you clarify. If Riddle wasn’t so baffled by your words, he would have been embarrassed by the flush of pink that dusts his ears and cheeks. He has never heard you talk this way.

“I… what?” he blinks, trying to come up with what else you might possibly be referring to. You can’t possibly be casually suggesting he came here to… His eyes dart up as you stand from your chair, turning toward him. He hesitates, looking up at you for a moment before straightening up.

“I know what you want from me, and you’re running out of time, I mean, we graduate in two months… I figured perhaps you were here to resort to drastic measures to earn my affections,” you explain, watching in amusement as the composed, brilliant Tom Riddle practically stutters before you. He swallows, trying his best to get back in control of himself.

“Would it work?” he asks quietly, watching as you twirl your hair. He’d never expected you to be so direct, but he cannot deny the hardening of his cock, he likes it. You shrug with a smirk, unsure why you’re being so brazen. It was his fault for walking in on your fantasising time. You were already a little aroused when he walked in; you could hardly even admit to yourself that he’d been on your mind even before he entered. He takes a moment to consider the risks of what he’s about to do. If you’re simply messing with him, this could completely squander his chances with you. Yet the glint in your eye as you look him up and down is new. And strong. Whatever has gotten into you is something he hopes never leaves. “Then yes, you caught me,” he swallows, slowly moving to kneel before you. “I came here in the hopes of kissing your cunt,” 

“Riddle!” you giggle at his lewd language, shocked and excited, a jolt of arousal going through your body. He smiles up at you, almost sheepishly, moving your vanity chair out of the way so that you can lean back against the vanity and he can move in between your legs. His whole body trembles as he leans in and presses his lips to your skin just below the hem of your nightdress, leaning his forehead to your thigh and closing his eyes. This was not where he had been expecting this evening to go: he took several deep breaths to calm himself down. His hands slowly slide up the outside of your thighs, lifting the hem of your nightdress. His lips followed suit, tracing their way up the plush skin of your thighs with little kisses. Your eyes met as he looked up at you, making sure that you weren’t about to kick him off of you. You merely watch him like you are curious, like you could not believe he was doing this, he could hardly believe it himself. The fact that you were allowing him to do this was a great shock to him, but if this was what would finally win you over, he would do it for hours, until his jaw locked. He bunched your nightdress around your waist, taking a moment to admire your underwear, pink and satiny. Seeing the wet spot already there, he could not resist, leaning forward and pressing his nose to you, taking a deep, blissful breath. Vaguely, he registers you giggling in surprise once more, but all he can focus on is the smell of you, the drool pooling under his tongue at the idea of tasting you. He cannot compare your scent to anything he has smelled before, and yet somehow his body already knows you are delicious. First, he presses a light kiss to you through the fabric, then another, then another. His tongue presses against your core through the thin fabric, and you moan in shock, his tongue running back and forth over the fabric until it is wet and he can properly feel you through it. The wet fabric slides against you as he attempts to get as close as possible to you, forcing your legs to spread further to accommodate him. The hints of your taste he gets through the fabric drive him wild; he wants more. Pulling back just a little, he opens his eyes to look up at you, grabbing at your underwear.

“May I take these off?” he breathes. He feels like a dog at its master's feet, begging, but he finds that when you look down at him like that, cheeks flushed and pupils blown, he really doesn’t mind. With a nod, he is working the fabric down your legs with abandon, slowing down to manoeuvre the fabric over your feet, placing gentle kisses just above your white cotton socks as he frees you of the garment and tosses it away into the room. As he wedges his way back between your legs to return to his work, he sees you, bare and dripping with the nectar of the gods. He shivers, taking a moment to kiss your thighs and just above the patch of hair protecting you so he could properly fill his lungs. He feels your eyes on him, and he relishes in it. After one last deep breath, he dives in. His hands grip your hips as his tongue slides through your wet folds, taking in every drop of you that you can spare. You’re both moaning, his vibrations feeling excruciatingly good as his tongue finds its way to circling your clit. One of your legs drapes over his shoulder to give him better access to you, pushing himself as close as he possibly can get in order to lap at you properly. His tongue flicks over your clit more often as he swirls his tongue, testing your reactions, listening for your noises and paying attention to the twitches of your body. Your mind is swimming with pleasure, hand threading into Riddle’s hair, which he only takes as a sign to pick up his pace, his whole mouth working to bring you over the edge. He mumbles something against your clit, something about your taste that you cannot make out, but his sheer enthusiasm tells you it must be something good. You feel the cool glass of the vanity mirror against your back. Riddle’s hands gripping your rear are the only thing protecting you from the edge of the table. Your body thrashes as his lips close around your clit, suckling and flicking his tongue just right. 

“Riddle– ah! Tom–” You whine and whimper, your grip on his hair growing tighter, nails digging into his scalp, not that he seems to mind. Your cry of his name spurs him on; he’s determined to prove himself, continuing to alternate between sucks and licks. He feels your whole body tensing up, knowing you’re nearly there, he makes sure to keep doing exactly what he’s doing, burying his face against you. Your body goes stiff as you explode, a prolonged whine leaving your lips, hips thrashing against Riddle’s face. You struggle for breath, your vision going white behind your eyelids, and warmth spreads through your entire body. Still, Riddle keeps going, working you through the waves of pleasure as they crash over you and basking in the taste of your release melting on his tongue. You twitch weakly as Riddle soothes his tongue over your pulsing core until you have finally ridden out your full climax. He sits back and looks up at you, licking his lips and letting go of your nightdress. It falls back down past your hips, though now it is all wrinkled. You stare at each other, both panting with exertion.

The reality of what has just transpired begins to set in. Neither of you is sure what to say or do now. Riddle remains knelt at your feet, ignoring his raging arousal, waiting for you to say something. The silence stretches on so long that he almost hopes you tell him to leave and never come back, so at least he might have some clarity. He swallows, still waiting. Never in his life has he felt so unsure, so out of control. How had he ended up here? And if this was possible, why had he not been devouring you every night for the past year? He stares up at you, cogs turning in his mind. 

“You can stand,” you finally say, voice a little hoarse. 

“Oh, right,” he clears his throat and stands. It’s almost a little strange to look down at you again. He quite enjoyed looking up at you. From his standing position, his lingering arousal is much more obvious. You chuckle, smiling at him. “It’s a pretty natural reaction to doing something like that,” he defends himself quietly. You nod. Another silence stretches between you. “So… have I won your affections yet?” he asks as casually as he can muster. You think on his words and realise, yes, he has. In fact, he had quite a while ago, you had just enjoyed his chasing you.

“Yes,” you smile. He raises a brow, thinking for a moment that you’re messing with him until you step forward and embrace him. Although it’s a little unnatural and stilted, especially as he has to angle his hips away from you, he embraces you in return. He isn’t used to affection, or the idea that his pursuit of you might have finally paid off. 

“I sort of thought I would have to chase you forever,” he chuckled against your hair, which had lost a lot of its curliness from the exertion. You chuckle in return.

“Oh, yes, you do, don’t get complacent on me now, Riddle,” you tease. “I still expect presents and compliments and… your oral talents that you so generously demonstrated this evening,”

“I would not dream of getting complacent, you minx,” he purrs. “I will happily show you my talents each and every day. And anyway, I thought you were calling me Tom now,” he pulls back to look down at you. You roll your eyes, blushing a little. Yes, that had slipped out, hadn’t it?

“I will hold you to that… Tom,”

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Tom Riddle was absolutely besotted with you. It was a depth of feeling no one had thought him capable of. He, himself, had always believed a feeling like this was not destined for him. Even in childhood, he had been sure he would never be weak enough for such frivolous emotions, that he would never notice the fairer sex the way some of his older peers did. But on that Hogsmeade trip in third year, with you in that lovely dress, he had noticed you. Not only noticed you, but felt you deep in his chest, where he’d never felt anything, as you had playfully reminded him that you’d bested him in the recent charms exam. He had wanted to find you annoying, but all he could do was feel almost dizzy. Nothing had been the same since.

These feelings were something you had never been privy to. You had long thought you meant fairly little to him. Sure, the two of you had slept together a few times throughout sixth and seventh year, but it had never been obvious to you how serious it was. You assumed he had been sleeping with other girls at the same time, or at the very least that you were only a means to an end to him. A stress relief to allow him to focus on his studies more completely, a little fun between his endless Head Boy patrols. He had never said he loved you, never taken you on a date, you’d be forgiven for not knowing what he’d been feeling all along. 

After graduation, he felt your absence like a black hole. He had managed to keep his dalliances with you at Hogwarts to a minimum, in an attempt to prevent exactly this. The endless ache for your presence. He had only managed this by constantly staring at you, fantasising, reminiscing. But now you weren’t there and he was beginning to forget the details of your face, the routine of your sex. Yet he had a reputation to upkeep, a strength and lack of indulgence he was known for. He was disciplined, above the needs of the heart or the flesh. The moment he came up with an excuse to send for you, he did.

Him and his Knights had now moved into a large manor, taken over by disposing of the old muggle man who used to call the place home. Riddle had never grown up in decadence. The large master suite he had to himself, the house elves at his disposal, it was all odd. Intoxicating.  In the spirit of ruthlessly taking whatever he wanted, he had sent for you. As far as his Knights knew, he merely wanted you there to be at his ‘disposal’, a plaything. They seemed amused by the idea, thinking how in his position they would do the same. He resented some of their comments, but played along, unwilling to reveal the excitement gathering in his chest at the thought of seeing you once more.

Although the invite was a little odd, you packed up your things and moved into the manor. Riddle set you up in the room beside his, having an adjoining door quickly installed for ease of access. He seemed very pleased to have you there, but tried his best to seem aloof. Each evening after he finished his various strategising tasks, hearing the progress his Knights had made in recruitment, he would rush to his room to have you. Often you would let yourself into his room, laying on his bed in a little negligee set he had gotten for you to wait for him. He wasn’t able to hide the adoration in his eyes when he would find you there. 

Now with access to the means, Riddle took pleasure in offering you the finer things in life. Pretty things like clothes or jewellery. Perhaps perfume, books or whatever else you fancied. Whenever you commented that you wanted something, he would roll his eyes, saying you were greedy, spoiled, that you ought to be grateful for what you had. Yet the next day, you would find a box wrapped in a ribbon at the end of your bed without fail. The label would always read ‘for the princess, TMR’. You knew he was trying to sound mocking, but it never landed when he gave in to your every whim. You always thanked him of course (mostly with your mouth), very grateful to be kept in the manner you were. 

At first, you had assumed you would be kept like a glorified house pet. This was alright with you, you likely wouldn’t be any better off in an arranged marriage, which would be expected of you otherwise. Yet life with Riddle was far freer than you expected. He gave you free run of the manor, authority over the house elves and even some of his Knights. Anyone who dared insult you was made an example of swiftly, so you were begrudgingly respected wherever you went. You had access to his library, to all his notes on his plans, access which was granted to no one else. He encouraged you to read and pursue your interests, saying it was much more interesting to converse with you each evening when you actually had something of substance to tell him, but really he just admired your drive. It was what he had always liked, what had drawn him in, that thirst for knowledge. Many times he’d even consulted you on his next best course of action, sometimes blatantly ignoring his other followers in favour of trying whatever you suggested. Most importantly, you were free to leave. He had presented you with a bag of galleons and the keys to the main gate on the day of your arrival, telling you to hide them somewhere only you knew. They were for if you ever needed to leave, he explained. At first, this gesture had confused you, but you soon realised that by offering you simple means to leave, it was more meaningful each time he woke up to you still beside him. Especially when he’d been a little difficult the previous night, which he could quite often be. You were making the choice to be there with him, which is what he wanted more than he could possibly admit to anyone. 

Though it was impossible to hide his obvious affection for you, he still tried. He told his followers that he was merely indulging in you, and that you had some good ideas from time to time. Everyone in the manor knew he was soft on you, but didn’t dare to say anything, as he was not soft on anything else. His affections were an open secret.

Even alone with you, Riddle was still trying to cling to a pointless air of indifference. After sleeping together, he would usually roll over and begin to read, pretending to ignore you. You knew the truth. In his en suite was a warm bath emitting your favourite scents, a few candles nearby ever since you’d mentioned you liked the ambience. Perched nearby was a platter of your favourite fruits, the pieces cut into fancy shapes by the house elves, mostly hearts. Riddle would say this was unintentional, that he would tell the elves to stop doing the hearts, but they were always there. Once you had soaked in the bath for a little while, Riddle would enter, pretending to be merely there to wash his hands. It was a silly pretense, you weren’t sure why he still bothered with it. It was oddly endearing, this little routine he put on. He would sit by you while you bathed, having some fruit and feeding you a few pieces too. You’d learned fast not to mention it. Wrapped in your plush monogrammed robe that always hung in his en suite, you would come out to find a pyjama set laid out for you. Usually something silky and attractive, a little nightgown or a short set, whatever he was in the mood to see you in that day. Changing into them often led to a little show, which he appreciated, watching you with blatant tenderness. 

Finally, you would crawl into his bed beside him and he would ‘begrudgingly’ allow it, making a show of grumbling and rolling his eyes, mentioning that you had your own room. Yet in moments, his arms would be around you, rubbing your back or stroking your hair as you discuss your days, him taking note of anything you mention wanting, even in passing. It was addicting to him to be able to offer you whatever you wanted, considering the way he had grown up, and in many ways he was perhaps overcompensating, but you hardly minded. If you were peckish, he would send for the finest foods for you, steak, caviar, whatever you craved. He watched keenly as you enjoyed your meal, allowing you to feed him a few bites if he was in a good mood. He would kiss drops of sauce off of your lips, tutting at you for being a messy eater, yet having a hint of a smile. Despite never hearing the words, you would feel in that moment the depth of feeling you had missed for all those years. And you loved him too.

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It wasn’t what you would picture as a prison. The plush furnishings, grand windows and monumental bookcases suggested an atmosphere of comfort and luxury, but make no mistake, this palatial room was your holding cell. The order had fallen, and the writing had been on the wall for some time now, however, there was no giving up in the fight against evil, so they fought until the bitter end. You were one of the lucky few still alive after the battle on the grounds of Hogwarts, although you hardly felt lucky given the circumstances. You stared at the ridiculously ornate, but admittedly beautiful, wedding dress hung in the small walk-in-wardrobe across from your bed, wishing it would light on fire from the anger in your gaze alone. But of course, it doesn’t. You have been stripped of your magic, your wand is who knows where and your room is enchanted to allow no magic inside it, all to prevent your escape.

Why he chose you, you can’t understand. Sure, you were from a well-established pureblood family with a deep history as he’d explained to you the one time you’d seen him since your capture, but there were many girls like that for him to have his pick of. You were angry and defiant, you didn’t wish to bend to him, you spoke back and you lashed out when he tried to touch you. Why would he choose that over, say, your relative Bellatrix, who seemed to constantly be vying for his affection and shared your heritage? Throughout the war, you had constantly found yourself facing against him. He had even commented on occasion that it was always you in his way. Perhaps, this was merely his final revenge.

“I don’t even like you!” you’d protested, sitting across from him at the grand dining table of the Malfoy or Nott or Lestrange manor, whichever of his snivelling followers house this was, shackled to the tall-backed, velvet upholstered chair.

“You do,” he’d smiled smoothly, sipping his red wine, eyes drinking you in with something like amusement. “You think I’m handsome, you can’t deny that,” he added with a smirk. Your cheeks bloomed red and you scoffed, looking down at your shackled hand, the other free to allow you to eat. He’s right, you can’t deny it, you’re aware of his skill at legilimency and you’re sure he has watched a few of the dreams you’d had since you’d got here and been told you were to marry him a few weeks ago. Filthy dreams about what your wedding night might look like, how rough he might be with you or how gentle. Later that night, a dream of him bending you over this very dining table, unaware of how close he had been to really doing so. Avoiding his eye, you continued.

“That is hardly enough to base a marriage on,”

“I have known marriages based on less,” he mused. “You will like it more than you think,” The smile that followed those words stirred your stomach in a way you don’t wish to try to interpret.

The wedding is a few days later. The decor in the manor is much darker than the decor for a usual wedding might be, feeling more mournful than anything else. It fits your mood, although from what you gather it’s merely an aesthetic consideration for the death eaters that put the event together. Your dress is beaded in intricate designs, black beads twisting around a white silk base, painting a design of thorns and roses across the fabric that almost reminds you of chains. Beautiful chains. How very fitting. Your veil is black, as is the bouquet of roses you are given to carry down the aisle. You wonder who designed everything, it was beautiful, presumably one of the death eater’s wives who had an otherwise unused eye for aesthetics. Bellatrix, the only relative you have around, is the one to walk you down the aisle, holding your arm oppressively the whole way. She is clearly bitter that she is not in your shoes, but still eager to please Riddle, who waits, standing tall and proud in front of all his death eaters in a pressed, pitch-black suit.

When you reach him, he slides his arm around your back and holds you tight, making sure you couldn’t possibly leave if you tried. He’s never touched you before, his hand is cold, large and imposing, making you want to lean in and away all at once. You are not asked to recite any vows or to say ‘I do’, the decision has been made for you. Once Riddle has agreed that he will take you as his wife, he turns you toward him by your waist and lifts your veil carefully, tutting at your unhappy expression underneath. He cups your chin and tilts your face up, leaning down to kiss you to seal your marriage. The kiss is forceful and possessive, but despite yourself, you lean in just a little, heat shooting through your veins as his lips press to yours. He is handsome and powerful, and as much as you want to resist, as much as you hate all he stands for, your body is weak. His fingers tighten into your dress, gripping the small of your back. You know what it means. You’re his now. 

Riddle keeps you held captive at his side throughout the reception as he talks and drinks with his followers. You can tell from the way they glance at you at his side, that they are as confused as you are about why he chose you to be his bride and not one of the many willing girls and women amongst his followers, but have clearly been told not to dare question his decision. Trying your best to distract yourself, you play with the wedding ring on your finger. A thin serpentine silver band winding around your ring finger, inset with emeralds and black star sapphire. Once again, you wonder who might have picked it out for you. Surely, not Riddle himself? To your surprise, Riddle also wears a wedding band. A plain one with a subtle carving of a serpent, complimenting yours without being anywhere near as ostentatious. It’s a surprise that he would want to advertise himself as being married, you hadn’t expected it, but you aren’t sure what to make of it, so you don’t dwell. At least the food at the beginning of the reception had been delicious, and the cake your favourite flavour, decorated with the same thorny patterns as your dress. 

You find yourself incredibly annoyed to stand around and listen to these men talk and laugh, wanting to retreat to your room, despite knowing what will follow. It’s your wedding night, and Riddle made it clear that he expects you to comply with traditional wedding night activities with him. At first, you were angry and disgusted, but now you just feel like you want to get to it as soon as possible, only to get it over and done with. His ever-present hand on your waist or lower back doesn’t help this feeling. Finally, once he is also sick of listening to his followers' drivel, he guides you out of the hall in which the wedding was held and up the stairs, not towards your quarters, but his own. You’re tense as you walk, knowing what is drawing ever closer and closer. His hand softly rubs your waist as he escorts you, presumably trying to ease a little of your tension, not wanting your apprehension to ruin his wedding night. 

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, which was somehow even larger than the one in the room you’d been staying in, you watch him loosen the tie at his neck, pouring himself a little champagne. 

“Want any, darling?” he smirks, sipping the drink, his eyes roaming the flattering figure your dress gave you. Part of you wondered whether you should drink to numb the experience, but all the same, you wanted your faculties about you. You shake your head silently and he shrugs. “Later then,” Once his drink is finished, he comes to sit beside you. You stiffen as his cold hands gather up your hair and move it out of the way, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your back. He waits a moment before popping the first clasp on your back. Goosebumps erupt across your skin and your muscles tighten, drawing in a breath. “You’re surprisingly willing, I told you that you’d like this more than you thought,” he ponders aloud with a hint of teasing, continuing to pop the clasps down your back. “I almost miss the fight,” he slips the sleeve of the dress off of your shoulder and bites down gently on the bare flesh. “Almost,”

The feeling of the cold air of the room meeting your skin sends a fit of shivers through you, the fabric of the dress pooling at your waist and baring your breasts to the air, your nipples hardening to peaks in an instant. Riddle hums, watching like a hawk over your shoulder, his hands caressing your skin just beneath your breasts, drawing yet another shiver from you. He slowly bites up and down your shoulder, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp, to leave behind small possessive marks. His warm chest presses to your bare back, the soft fabric of his dress shirt brushing against your skin, his suit jacket shed much earlier in the evening. 

“What has you so willing now, darling? You were so… incensed before,” he taunts, just gently brushing his thumbs on the underside of your breasts, his breath tickling your neck. 

“I just want to get it over with,” you mumble, observing as his large hands move across your skin. He chuckles.

“I’m sure,” he hums, clearly not believing you. You wouldn’t believe you either. “Be a good girl and stand for me,” Very hesitantly, and fighting against several tonnes of pride, you rise to your feet, jolting as he gently eases your dress down over your hips, taking caution not to rip the dress or damage the beading. Once it passes the swell of your hips, it falls easily to the ground, leaving you in only a pair of panties. You remain facing away from him, too sheepish to turn. His fingertips trace the edge of the material on your hips, down to your rear. You twitch away from his touch and he tuts. “Come now, you’re only prolonging this,” he gently grips your hips, guiding you back toward the bed, his hands skimming over you as he twists you around and lays you down against the pillows. Staring up at him, you notice a disconcerting predatory look in his eyes, despite the otherwise uncharacteristic softness in his expression. Even more bothersome is the way your stomach flips upon seeing it. He crawls up the bed to loom over you, a smirk decorating his handsome face. “Such a pretty picture you are, my beautiful bride,” he husks, leaning down to nip at your pulse point. You close your eyes. Bride. You couldn’t believe that word was real. This time, you feel the bite of his teeth and you know he’s leaving a proper mark. A whimper leaves your throat despite your reservations and you feel him grin against your skin, pleased to have evidence of your enjoyment of this, despite your performative protestations.

You keep your eyes closed as you feel him withdraw from you, hearing the rustle of fabric as he removes his dress shirt and the clank of metal as he reaches for his belt. Your thighs clench as the reality of what’s coming washes over you properly. Despite everything that you know should have you running for the hills, you are curious, too curious for your own good. So curious that when you feel his fingers hooking into the fabric of your underwear and beginning to softly tug downward, you wordlessly lift your hips and allow him to bare you to his gaze. He growls softly, presumably noticing the arousal that has gathered as he spreads your legs. 

“You don’t like me, darling?” he scoffs, repeating your words from a few days before.

“No,” you murmur. He brushes his thumb against your lower lip, which makes you part them obediently and clench around nothing. He notices your reaction instantly and gives a smug laugh.

“You are a terrible liar,” he purrs, placing his thumb on your tongue. “I think you like me very much,” he watches, enraptured, as you suckle on his thumb for the briefest of moments before you collect yourself once more. 

“I do not,” you protest weakly, finally opening your eyes to look up at him again, but you know you aren’t remotely convincing. “There is a difference between liking and lusting,” you huff. He rolls his eyes, though he looks amused.

“I suppose that is true, I’ll give you that,” he hums, using his now moist thumb to come down and begin gently circling your clit, drawing a ragged gasp from you. “You don’t like me, but right now, I reckon all that matters is lust, don’t you, darling?” Your head falls to the side as you avoid his knowing gaze, breaths coming short as he continues his intoxicating circles, the sensation enhanced by how worked up he has you. Your hips squirm lightly and he just seems to find it entertaining. You hear the rustle of fabric once more but pay it no mind, eyes fluttering shut at the syrupy pleasure he’s providing you.

You shoot up in surprise when you feel him prodding softly at your entrance, your eyes flying open to meet his. He shushes you gently, pushing you back down to lie and despite yourself, you go. His thumb never stops circling, making you more compliant than usual. He’s hot and hard against you and it makes you moan. It’s awful to realise just how badly you want him to press inside.

“You knew it was coming, just relax, we don’t want it to hurt, do we?” he soothes with his slightly patronising tone, but you just give a shaky nod. “There we go, you can be so good when you want to be,” he coos. After a few more calming circles on your clit, he’s pressing inside of you slowly. Your eyes roll back and your lips part, your walls fluttering as you do your best to accommodate him. He shifts, looming over you even more, propping his hand at the side of your head to support his weight. 

His eyes are dark as he stares down at you, growling in pleasure, finally inside of you like he has wished to be for so long. All those years of your infuriating scheming and fighting, only to end up a whimpering mess beneath him in your marital bed. The grin that graces his lips is downright devilish. He has you where he wants you, completely, rocking his hips a few times to draw those rousing mewls from your lips once more. Your hand grips his arm, the cool metal of your wedding band digging into his skin. Finally, he has you here and you’re willing, no matter what you assert. The sinful pleasure he’s giving you feels like sweet revenge as he begins to fuck into you properly, hips slamming into yours, slick sounds filling the room, claiming you entirely, consummating your marriage. The marriage you had claimed not to want, but never once tried to disrupt as it happened.

“You know what I think, darling?” he grunts, you don’t answer with anything other than a cry of pleasure as he angles himself to thrust even deeper inside you. “I think you do like me, and you will forever, whether you want to or not,”

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Things had been tense for a while between you and Shane. You could feel it, he’d started acting cold again from time to time, like back when you first met him, not the sweet guy that you had known for a couple of months there when everything seemed fine. You supposed it was just the end of the honeymoon phase, or maybe he was just in some sort of autumn funk, but you assumed it would blow over, he’d had bad days before, but this was just an extended one. Surely. But no. 

He’d been cheating on you. When you’d found the conversations on what he’d always told you was a ‘gridball discussion board’ online, you were floored. He’d begged and pleaded with you to forgive him, that he wouldn’t do it again, that he hadn’t even met them in person, but that made it all the worse. He threw away what he had with you, months of effort to get him to trust you, you ignoring everyone who said you were significantly out of his league, giving him kindness and understanding at every turn, for someone he hadn’t even met in person. He continued to plead with you to stay, that it was a mistake and you were better than anyone else, but you were too proud. You gathered what few things you had in his room and stomped out never to return. It hurt, badly, you had put so much time and effort into your relationship with him, an effort everyone told you that you’d been wasting. It seemed in the end, they’d been right all along.

Shane continued sending letters and trying to corner you in town, telling you how much he regretted what he did and how badly he needed you back. Deep down, you knew he only wanted you to come care for him again. You weren’t sure if he’d ever really loved you or if he’d merely used you. How can you cheat on someone you love? Every time he said he still loved you, the words felt more poisonous. He finally begins to leave you alone again after a while, pouting and glaring at you whenever you are nearby, trying his best to look pitiful so you might come crawling back. You couldn’t believe that this was the man you’d thought you’d loved.

A benefit of the end of your relationship was that you were spending more time with friends again, namely, male friends. Shane had always been deeply jealous and insecure, indirectly making you cut off all your male friends, always paranoid that you might choose them over him. What was the expression? Every accusation is a confession? Sam and Sebastian welcomed you back with open arms, not asking many questions, glad you were joining them for pool again. They could tell you were sad, especially the first few weeks, but opted to try to cheer you up rather than ask you about it. It was clear that it was over between you and Shane, and Sebastian couldn’t be more happy. 

He’d been planning to make a move on you back in spring, but your relationship had started with Shane and he was out in the cold, even as your friend. He understood though, he knew Shane was deeply jealous, so accepted your apologies and promises never to let someone come between the two of you again. He pays you special attention, letting you win at pool to cheer you up and buying you your favourite drinks, anything to wipe that sad look off your face. He’s occasionally intervened and demanded Shane to leave you alone, which only angers the man further, but he does stand down.

It’s one of those nights where he’s paying you special attention, he’d told Shane to ‘fuck off’ from glaring at you across the Saloon a few hours ago and was staying late with you to talk. He’d missed you a lot while you’d been hiding away from the world with Shane, you seemed so much lighter these days, you almost had a glow about you. He had his arm slung around your shoulder, a risky move which had paid off, listening to you talk on a tucked away couch, just the two of you. You were a little tipsy, not enough to be worrisome, but enough to have you rambling. You’d never really talked about what happened with Shane, but everyone knew it must have been something bad, based on how the two of you were acting. The leading theory in town was an argument about his drinking that couldn’t be solved, perhaps he had broken something while drunk. When you reveal to him that he’d been cheating, Sebastian’s jaw hangs open for a moment. Your cheeks flush and glance around nervously in his silence.

“He what?” Sebastian hisses. 

“They hadn’t even met in person it was just… chats–” you ramble, trying to play it down so Sebastian would stop looking at you like that.

“Still! I can’t believe his audacity! To cheat on you… he was insanely lucky you ever even gave him a second glance,” Sebastian scoffs. He’d always felt this way, but knowing what Shane had willingly thrown away, he feels wildly incensed, anger growing inside him. “No one deserves that but especially not you! You’re stunning and he’s… well, him,” he rolls his eyes, if he was a more violent man, he would go knock some sense into Shane with his fists, but he knew you would never approve of that, you were really too sweet for your own good. You blush and look down, shrugging.

“I don’t know about stunning…”

“You are,” he asserts, glancing over your lightly flushed cheeks and shy expression. “He’s a complete idiot for giving you up, seriously,”

“Well, at least he’s disappointing them in bed now, not me,” you giggle, quickly covering your mouth when you realise what you’ve said aloud, eyes widening. The wine you’d had really loosening your lips, letting things out you’d kept to yourself for too long, itching to gossip. Sebastian’s eyes also widen before letting out a bark of laughter, a smirk settling on his face.

“Damn, cold,” he teases, gently poking your arm to get you to lower your hand. He cups your chin between his fingers and tips your head up to look at him, relishing in the deepening of your blush. “He couldn’t please you?” You bite your lip and shyly shake your head.

“He didn’t try that hard… to be fair,” you try to defend, but you hear yourself and know it sounds weak, it’s hardly a defence, just a further indictment of him. Sebastian’s fingers tighten on your chin, anger coursing through him again. You had been an angel sent from heaven into his life and he hadn’t even tried to please you.

“He’s a piece of shit, to be fair, a total scumbag, you deserve everything,” Sebastian declares, his jaw tight. “He should have been giving you like… 5 orgasms a night, kissing the ground you walked on,” he huffs. You giggle at his hyperbole, though your blush deepens, not used to openly discussing stuff like this, especially not with Sebastian’s thumb rubbing your jaw so gently, his face hovering close to yours. You taste the words before he says them. “That’s what I would do if I had you… you would always be satisfied, always,” he purrs, another risky move but he’s willing to make it. You take a shaky breath and slip your eyes closed, your mind filled suddenly with images of Sebastian pleasing you. “I would never be stupid enough to let you go or hurt you, I’d treat you like you deserve,”

Your lips crash to his without thinking, and his hands instantly fall to your waist, tugging you closer. He hums in excitement, he’d been waiting for this for so long and here it was. You taste delicious, with a hint of the wine from earlier that evening and a sweetness that was entirely your own. He tilts his head to press closer to you, tugging you closer until your legs settle across his lap, one hand caressing your hip, the other moving up to your hair. Your arms snake around his neck, pulling the two of you chest to chest in desperation. You had never felt this way with Shane, pure electricity coursing through your veins, your tongues meeting in a sensual dance, swirling and caressing. 

“Let me please you,” he murmurs between kisses, hand sneaking onto your back beneath your shirt. “Let me show you what it can be like, let me give you what you deserve,” with a breathless nod, he’s lifting you to your feet and the two of you are leaving the Saloon hand in hand.

The way back to your farm is full of your tipsy giggling, his hands softly brushing up and down your body and frequent stops to kiss. You can’t seem to keep your hands off of each other as you press each other up against trees and fences to have another taste. When you finally arrive at your farm, you stumble through the door, lips still connected, hands fisted in the fabric of his hoodie. Every cell in your body is on fire, you haven’t felt this amount of lust in a while, and all the sinful promises Sebastian had whispered against your mouth on your way here only made the anticipation grow. You pull him into the bedroom, stealing kisses as you go, which he returns with a smile. The eagerness surprises him in the best way, you seem totally obsessed with the idea of finding out what he can do for you, and he’s more than happy to show you. He pushes you down onto the bed, caging you in between his arms, hovering above you, moving his kisses down your jaw. The gasp that leaves your lips and that look in your eyes has his cock straining against his jeans. 

“So sexy, babe,” he growls, nipping your collarbone and placing a questioning hand on your stomach, just beneath your shirt. “Can I?” you nod, writhing beneath him. Your shirt is quickly shed and Sebastian looks over your chest with a clear look of arousal. “You’re so perfect, I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he kisses and nips all over your chest, playfully making his way down your stomach to hear your breath hitch. He won’t use his mouth now, he feels too desperate to be inside of you, but he’s sure he’ll be using his mouth a lot in the future if he has his way, which it seems like he will. You’re completely willing beneath him, so aroused, pupils blown wide, body flushed and chest heaving lightly. “Want me?” he asks teasingly, toying with the button of your jeans. You nod helplessly. “Where?” he prompts, feeling a little drunk on the power he has over you right now. You huff softly.

“Inside… please, Sebastian, don’t tease right now,” you pout and he chuckles, finding your expression delicious, he leans up and pecks your pouty lips with a smile. 

“Sorry babe, I want to be inside you too,” he cups your cheek, kissing you deeper for a moment, which you enthusiastically reciprocate. “I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he promises deeply, popping open your jeans as he nips your bottom lip, helping you wiggle out of them, discarding them by your bed. There’s a quiet metallic thud and you both disconnect to look down at the source of the noise. “Oh shit, sorry,” he mumbles, realising your phone had been in your pocket, hurriedly reaching down to lift it and place it on the bedside table before returning to your lips. 

“Guess you were too eager,” you tease playfully and he agrees with a hum, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth, his fingers tracing the edges of your underwear. He is happy to pull back and lift his arms when you start to tug at his hoodie and then the t-shirt underneath, smug when you look over his torso admiringly, eyes dark with lust.

“Like what you see?” he teases, unbuttoning his jeans, imagining himself soon between your legs.

“Yeah,” you sigh softly. “I do…” Not bothered to feel insecure, Sebastian strips his boxers with his jeans, eyes lighting up when your mouth falls open at the sight of him. “Wow…” He knows he’s well-endowed, but is flattered by your reaction, being even more sure now that he can show you a very good time. You lift your hips as he tugs down your underwear, eyes glued on his rock-hard twitching length. You’re incredibly flattered by how aroused he seems as he looks you over.

“So stunning, can’t wait to bury my cock in you,” he purrs, massaging your inner thighs. From the corner of his eye, he notices your phone lighting up but tries his best to ignore it. There were more important things on his mind. He smirks as your body reacts to his words. 

“Please,” you breathe. “I need it,” 

He doesn’t need asking twice, settling between your legs, carefully positioning himself and making sure you’re ready for him, but as you whine pleadingly, it’s harder to be cautious. Slowly, he begins to press into you, relishing the warmth of you around his cock, squeezing softly. You both throw your heads back in sync, letting out pleased sounds. You feel like the perfect fit, taking him in so perfectly like you were made for him. He glances down to make sure you’re okay, your chest heaving and little whimpers leaving your throat. 

“Are you okay babe?” he asks breathlessly, eyes darting to your phone for a moment as it lights up again. You nod and mewl, wrapping your legs around his hips to get him to move. He chokes out a groan as he finally bottoms out, twitching within you. He knew you’d be amazing, but he couldn’t anticipate this. How did you feel so good? It seemed almost inconceivable. How could anyone give this up? He braces himself, his hands on either side of your head, pecking your lips before beginning to slowly rock in and out of you. Your hands fly up to clutch his back, and he groans at the feeling, drinking in the moans you let out against his lips. “Does that feel good? Yeah?” he husks, speeding up a little as your reactions egg him on. 

“Y-yeah… oh!” you whimper, your mouth falling open as he speeds up, letting out a constant string of moans. He can hear in your voice just how good you feel and the thought arouses him impossibly more, you’re so enchanting, you drive him crazy. He raises himself a little more so he can look down at you as he thrusts in and out, watching your eyes roll back in pleasure. He grips your hips, lifting you so he can sit up and continue thrusting. The new angle makes you gasp, his name falling as a whine from your lips, which he affectionately returns, smoothing his hands over your body as he ravishes you. He can see your phone continuously lighting up on the nightstand and it’s driving him crazy. He halts for just a moment, met by a whimper of protest from you, to reach over, intending merely to turn over the phone but then noticing who is messaging you.

About ten messages from ‘Shane DON’T ANSWER’ flood onto your screen, including a missed call. Sebastian growls in anger. He remembers you mentioning how he wouldn’t leave you alone no matter how many times you’d asked and how you were considering just blocking his number at this point. You plead softly with Sebastian to continue, craning your head from your lying position to try and understand why he’d stopped moving. Several of the messages mention Sebastian himself, saying how someone had seen the two of you leaving the Saloon together, followed by several insecure accusations. Sebastian can’t help but scoff a laugh at his insolence, picking up your phone and opening it. You raise your brows under him.

“What are you doing?” you ask quietly, watching as he taps through your phone, shifting your hips to try and get that delicious friction back. Sebastian bites his lip and his eyelids flutter, you feel like heaven, and he hates himself for stopping, for depriving the both of you, but he has an idea. He opens your messages, seeing days of Shane talking to himself in your messages, switching between begging and anger. That man was so pathetic, he couldn’t understand what you’d ever seen in him.

“Don’t worry, just lie there for me, babe,” he smirks, opening the camera attached to the messaging app and scrolling to the video function. You’re shifting your hips in search of pleasure again, and it looks so sexy through the camera, watching himself disappear inside of you. He groans loudly, clicking the record button on the screen. The flash comes on in the dim light, alerting you to what’s going on, and your brows fly up. He shushes you by placing a finger to his lips, beginning to thrust into you once more. All your protests die on impact, melting into a choked moan. Sebastian watches, enraptured as he slides in and out of you through the camera, grunting and speeding up, struggling to keep the camera steady when all he wants to do is completely lose himself in you once more. He can hear the steady slap of skin on skin and a mixture of both of your moans. The thought of sending this to Shane, claiming you away from him finally, makes him feel feral, and he thrusts into you even faster and harder than before. He tilts the camera up to show your face, and though obscured by your arm thrown over your eyes, it’s clear who it is. You whine over and over, your lips parted in pleasure. “Yeah? Fuck… tell me how good it feels,” he grunts.

“So good Seb…” you whine lewdly, stretching out the words, shaky with every thrust he gives you. The fact you’ve said his name sends a powerful jolt through his body and he pounds into you harder, making you shout out in ecstasy. He was showing you pleasure you’d never felt before, you’d been a little sceptical at the start of the evening, but now you knew you were never going back, he was hitting some spot within you that had you seeing stars, a spot you hadn’t even known you had, touching it again and again, leaving you in heaven. The fact he was filming you… excited you more than it should have, you couldn’t help imagining what it might look like. 

“That’s it, babe, cum for me, yeah… show how much you love it, fuck… you look so sexy,” he husks, pounding into you relentlessly, no longer focused on the camera, staring down at you hungrily. It’ll be clear what’s happening anyway. His free hand is all over you, squeezing and caressing as he continues thrusting with all his might, feeling you tightening around him, your moans increasing in volume. “Yes… that’s it,”

“Seb!” you wail, your legs shaking violently around his hips, pleasure exploding behind your eyes, more intense than you had felt, possibly ever. The knowledge you’re being filmed only heightens the experience tenfold, tingles running up and down your body, a warm syrupy feeling settling in your lower stomach. He whispers soothing praises as you spasm around his cock, making him choke on his words occasionally, still softly thrusting into you. You gasp for breath, still moaning with each aftershock that courses through you. In this calmer moment, Sebastian fumbles with your phone, shakily typing out a caption for the vulgar clip he just captured. 

“Don’t text again, we’re busy,” he types, though a little inaccurately in his aroused haze. The message is still clear. He presses send, makes sure it’s gone to Shane and then tosses your phone aside, noticing it already beginning to blow up with messages from him. Your cheeks are burning as you look up at the cocky smile on Sebastian’s face.

“I can’t believe I just let you do that,” you giggle breathlessly as he strokes your cheek with his thumb, still giving you a moment to compose yourself, though remaining inside of you. “I’ll probably regret it in the morning,”

“Nah, babe, you looked so hot, it’s his fault for giving you up,” Sebastian assures, leaning down to peck your lips. You smile and kiss back.

“I felt hot, but still… it’s not exactly something I’m used to,”

“Me neither, but it was sexy as hell, maybe we should do it more often,” he smiles, tucking a few kisses under your jaw. 

“Oh? You think we’ll do this again?” you tease. He grins against your skin, moving back up to hover over you, beginning to ever-so-slowly thrust into you once more, making you gasp. He growls playfully. 

“Oh yes… you deserve so much more pleasure, babe, and I intend to give it to you,”

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The air was still hot and heavy, despite the late hour. The music pounds in your ears, and the coloured lights dance across your body rhythmically, always managing to shine in your eyes no matter how you shift. You could see exactly why Spencer had left early, and you were beginning to find yourself envious of it. He couldn’t handle a club on a good day, and this was clubbing amplified ten times over. Humidity trickles down your back as you try to find the rest of the team, making you shift uncomfortably. The Miami heat was no joke. The first team member you find, Derek, is a little preoccupied to say the least, shirtless and liplocked with what looks like a bikini model. You decide against bothering him, glancing around once more. You locate JJ and Emily by the pool table and approach.

“I’m calling it a night… I’m getting a headache,” you shout over the music. They both lean in to try to hear you, forcing you to repeat yourself, but louder this time. Emily nods.

“You need someone to walk you?” she shouts back, lining up a shot.

“Nah, it’s just through the hotel lobby,” you wave your hand dismissively, already turning to leave.

“Check on Spencer, will you?” JJ grins slyly over the top of her drink, non-alcoholic, which you’ll have to ask her about later. You roll your eyes with a smile, despite knowing Spencer’s room was exactly where you were headed. JJ and Emily chuckle as you leave, pushing your way through the sweaty, charged crowd into the hotel lobby. It is immediately much quieter, but there are still people hanging around drinking. Once inside the elevators, you dig through your little purse for your compact to check your makeup. It wasn’t the best clubbing look you’d ever had. One of your work skirts, rolled and pinned into a mini, and a tank top. Your makeup was slightly smudged and shiny from the humidity, as you didn’t have a proper setting spray with you. The decision to stay in Miami for a while after having solved the case here was a last minute one. Everybody needed a bit of time to let loose, especially Hotch, but that being said, you hadn’t actually seen him at the club. You hoped he’d at least found some upscale bar in which to have a drink. Stepping out onto Spencer’s floor, you try your best to fix your makeup, at least to have it look smudged in a more attractive way. Once reaching his door, you figured it would just have to do. You put away your compact, knocking on the door and waiting. Soon after, the door swings open, revealing a slightly surprised-looking Spencer on the other side. 

“Oh! Hey!” he grins a little nervously. He’s already in his pyjamas, not having expected a visit, but he should have figured you’d want to check he was okay, you were sweet like that. You slip into the room, sitting down and taking off your shoes, rolling your ankles. They were only your work shoes, and yet you were incredibly sore. You couldn’t imagine what kind of pain some of those girls in the club were in, considering how high their heels had been. Spencer trails you inside, sitting down on the hotel bed, watching as you neatly tuck your shoes under the desk. You lean back against the desk chair, relishing in the air conditioning for a while. Spencer pulls at his thin white pyjama shirt nervously, feeling a little too exposed. He’s worried you can see his heart rate increase as you lean your head back, rolling your neck to relieve some stiffness. After a few silent moments, you speak.

“You okay?” You tilt your head, looking him up and down. He swallows.

“Fine… leaving was definitely the right decision, this really isn’t my scene,” he laughs nervously. You smile in response.

“Yeah, turns out it isn’t mine either… It’s impossible to feel good about yourself here.”

“Why not?” Spencer asks, confused by your choice of words. You shrug. 

“Well… you know what everyone says about the girls in Miami…” you trail off, fluffing out your hair a bit for airflow. Spencer just furrows his brow deeply.

“No… what?” His earnest tone makes you smile at him softly, but he just looks confused. 

“They’re all these… flawless model types, you know? I mean, it’s bad enough for my self-esteem hanging out with JJ and Emily all the time, but being in a room full of models?” you chuckle. You’re mostly joking, but Spencer looks upset.

“Why would you feel insecure? You’re beautiful,” he insists. You smile, a light blush dusting your cheeks, probably not visible under your slight sunburn. 

“Sure, I’m cute enough, but I’m no knockout…” You begin to explain yourself. “Like… you see how many guys check JJ out whenever we go anywhere?”

“Lots of guys check you out,” he states as if it’s an indisputable fact. You raise a brow.

“Okay… but in comparison to how many guys check out JJ?”

“I don’t really pay attention to that,” he answers without thinking much about what that tells you. Both of you go quiet for a moment.

“But you pay attention to who checks me out?” you clarify with a grin. Spencer looks down, his fingers curling nervously into the sheet of the bed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

“I spend more time around you,” he defends himself weakly, running a hand through his hair. While that is true enough, the two of you spend almost all your time together outside of work alone, not out and about where guys might be checking you out. You don’t press the issue further. 

“Look, what I just meant was… the girls here seem to be unreasonably flawless… like I haven’t even seen a single person with cellulite here, except myself,” you joke. Spencer scoffs. 

“That’s statistically impossible, cellulite affects 80 to 90 percent of adult women and there is no effective treatment for it, so they aren’t treating it away! It’s ridiculous because it affects so many women, but it’s still associated with profound negative self-image and decreased quality of life, which is even more ridiculous because it doesn’t even look bad–” he cuts himself off, seeing your slightly annoyed expression. He smiles sheepishly. 

“I know all that!” you sigh. “Just maybe the 10 to 20 percent of women unaffected come here, or they’ve figured out a way to hide it…” Spencer wants to interject, but he senses whatever he says isn’t necessarily going to help. He bites his lip to keep quiet. “Or like stretch marks… that affects a lot of people, right?” you ask rhetorically, but Spencer can’t stop the words slipping from his mouth.

“Up to 90 percent of women and 80 percent of men,” he spits out quickly. You nod.

“Exactly, well, how come I haven’t seen anyone here with a single one?” you huff.

“Stretch marks fade and can be much harder to see, especially in dim lighting… and anyway… they’re normal… they’re nothing for you to feel insecure about,” he tries to assure you, but the waiver in his voice isn’t reassuring. He just desperately wants you not to feel this way; you’re so unbelievably beautiful to him, yet you’re beating yourself up over the most trivial things. It almost annoys him that someone as beautiful as you could be insecure, when he had been bullied about his appearance growing up, but the earnest sadness in your eyes softened him. You really believed these things about yourself, as silly as it was, and he could empathise. 

“You haven’t seen my stretch marks, they’re bad… like way worse than most people’s,”

“I’m sure they’re not,” Spencer assures, shifting a little closer to you. He watches in confusion as you stand up from the desk chair, tugging one side of the waist of your skirt down, revealing the stretch marks that decorate your hip and the top of your thigh. Spencer feels like the air has been punched out of him, his eyes going wide. God… the curve of your hip and thigh, the sight of the pink lace of your underwear across your hip, floral, delicate and yet so sexy it was painful. Even your stretch marks, the source of your insecurity, arouse him deeply. He takes a shaky breath as you look at him expectantly. “They’re beautiful,” he whispers, unable to tear his eyes away. You roll your eyes, figuring he’s just trying to be nice. The wide-eyed way he’s looking at them makes you think they’ve shocked him. 

“Come on, you can admit that they’re not exactly sexy… I mean, sure, I guess someone could look past them if they really liked me, but they themselves aren’t attractive,” you press, unsure why you can’t just accept his niceties.

“They’re attractive,” Spencer swallows, then blurts. “I mean, I’m hard right now,”

The room goes deathly quiet, a deep redness spreading up Spencer’s neck to his face as he realises what he has just admitted. At first, you assume he’s just making a very odd, out-of-character joke to try to make you feel better, but seeing how red he’s gone, and how he’s now trying to stammer out an apology, you realise he isn’t joking at all. Unable to help yourself, your eyes fall to his lap. Beneath the thin fabric of his pyjama pants is a very obvious bulge that twitches slightly when Spencer realises you’re looking at it. He could just die of mortification right now. Neither of you says anything, both trying to figure out what happens next. You can’t deny that you are growing aroused now yourself, knowing he’s that rock hard from just the sight of some of your hip. You reach for the zip of your skirt, slowly pulling it down, watching as Spencer’s cock jumps again in anticipation, even though his brain hasn’t even caught up to what’s happening.

“You really do think I’m beautiful,” you whisper, letting your skirt fall away, leaving you in your lacy pink underwear. You were glad you’d worn a cute matching set today. Spencer’s eyes go even wider, and he swallows loudly.

“God— so beautiful…” he watches enraptured as you kneel on the bed beside him, his heart is nearly pounding out of his chest, watching as you tug your tank top over your head. He whines at the sight of you there in your underwear. It’s like a dream he’s had many times over, but somehow you’re even more beautiful in real life. He takes a moment to commit the sight of you thoroughly to memory, then can’t help himself. His hands come forward, his fingers tracing gently at the stretch marks on the curve of your hip, his other hand settling on your waist. When you don’t object or pull away, he twitches in his pants again, letting out a soft noise. “How are you so perfect?” he whispers, awestruck by you. You blush, wanting to object, point out your flaws, but suddenly Spencer dives for you. He licks up one of your stretch marks, biting your plush skin softly once he reaches the top.

“Spencer!” you giggle in surprise, having not expected that at all. He kisses and bites at your hip a few times, sighing in contentment each time. He can’t believe he gets to do this, and he wants to make sure you never doubt your attractiveness again. You shift, realising he’s bent in a way that must be uncomfortable in order to reach you. He follows without question as you shuffle up to lie against the pillows. You welcome him between your legs, and he shivers, looking down at you. His pupils are blown and his cheeks flushed, chest heaving already. You reach up, threading your hand into his hair and pulling him down into your first proper kiss. He makes a soft, delighted noise at the contact, his hand moving to cup your jaw, the other propping him up over you. His hips slot to yours, his hardness pressing heavily between your legs. Lips move together rhythmically and tongues caress each other tentatively at first, while Spencer shifts his hips until he’s rutting against you just right, hearing the hitch in your breath that indicates he’s found the right angle. He presses closer, beginning to rock against you. His lips stray from yours, pressing down your cheek and jaw lovingly. 

“You are so beautiful, every inch of you,” he mumbles, his lips moving toward your neck. “So perfect it’s unbelievable,” you whine softly, your hands still tangled in his hair as he works his way down. The hand that had been on your jaw slips behind you, fumbling with the clasp of your bra, his lips pressing warm, wet kisses to the lacy edge of the bra. He nuzzles his nose to your chest as he gets the bra undone, and you help him slip it off of you. His hand comes back around to gently cup your breast, admiring the shape and the weight in his hand. “There’s no part of you that isn’t perfect, you know how unfair that is?” he teases, latching his lips onto the swell of your breast. You squirm softly beneath him as he experiments with different touches, seeing what you like. He shifts his attention between each of your breasts periodically, still rocking his hips against your clothed clit. There’s an ever-growing wet patch on the front of his pyjama pants, but he doesn’t mind so much. All he wants is for you to feel as beautiful as you are to him. He whines when you pull him away from you, the disappointment in his eyes clear as he practically pouts at you. You just chuckle, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt. “Oh,” he grins sheepishly. 

He sits back, tugging the shirt over his head. The urge to cover up flashes through him, but he figures it would be pretty hypocritical of him. His hands slide over your hips onto your thighs, massaging gently as you take him in.

“You look so gorgeous lying there like that,” he breathes. “I can’t believe you’re letting me touch you like this,” you lean up to kiss him in response, your bare chests pressing together. His arms wrap around you affectionately.

“Of course I am… I’ve wanted it for a while,” you confess. A warm feeling spreads in Spencer’s chest.

“I have too… since the moment I met you… I’ve never been so attracted to anyone in my life…” he whispers between kisses, laying you back down. His kisses move down your body once more, lingering briefly at your breasts, leaving a few soft pink marks behind as evidence that he’d been there. His kisses continue down your stomach, stopping just above the line of your panties. His eyes flick up to meet yours as his hands slide up your thighs, trembling slightly, wrapping around the sides of your panties and beginning to ever-so-slightly tug them down. He works them down slowly, stopping to soothe kisses onto your hips as they’re revealed. “God… you’re so hot,” he whispers as he kisses away your insecurities. The way he says it, the earnest devotion in his voice makes you believe that he really means it with everything he has. As he discards your panties, he spreads your thighs and practically begins to drool. “Even your pussy is pretty,” he chuckles as if almost in disbelief, leaning in to take a whiff of you, not caring if he seems weird for it. He wants to experience you with every sense. Drool pools beneath his tongue at the smell of you, the arousal already dripping from you. You’re blushing profusely, a little shy at him inspecting you so closely, but he seems utterly bewitched. He pulls back a little bit, peppering kisses on your inner thighs, making sure to apply extra affection to your stretch marks there. His free hand reaches up, spreading you open, and he groans against your skin at the sight. He’d been trying to pace himself a bit, but finds himself unable to. The sight and smell of you are driving him crazy, and he has to have a taste. He kisses his way up your thigh, a little rushed, eyes flicking up to you for your reaction. You look shy but excited, chest heaving and cheeks flushed. “You don’t even know how stunning you look right now,” he whispers. “Such a beautiful face, such a beautiful body… how could you have ever been insecure? I don’t understand how every man who’s ever seen you hasn’t fallen to his knees at the sight of you,” he sings your praises as he kisses all over your body, closing in on where you want him most, kissing around your most sensitive parts to make sure you’re thoroughly ready for him, as he’s not sure he’ll be able to pace himself.

“That’s a bit much,” you mumble, blushing, but Spencer shakes his head against the seam of your thigh.

“No… it’s true… you’re like some sort of goddess… you drive me crazy… you always have but now I know what you have under your clothes… I’m going to want you all the time,” he whispers, punctuating the end of his sentence with a gentle lick through your folds, gathering the taste of you on his tongue. Both of you moan simultaneously. “You even taste heavenly… are you even real?” he mumbles to himself, pressing his face back against you and beginning to lap at you rhythmically, his eyes closed in bliss. His hands slide up and down your hips and thighs, soothing and massaging gently, keeping you still so he can devour you, already addicted to the sweet, sultry taste of you. Your head falls back into the pillows, his name leaving your lips in a needy sigh, which draws a groan from Spencer’s chest. As your thighs tighten around his head, his actions grow more desperate, tongue swirling around your clit, flicking at it and suckling gently, occasionally dipping down for another taste of your essence. He seemed to instinctively know exactly what you liked, working you over so perfectly, despite being completely lost in the taste of you. He had no idea that eating pussy could feel this good. He always knew he wanted to do it for you, but now he realised it was just as much for him. His hips grind softly against the mattress as he speeds up his ministrations, moaning as he hears you panting his name, your hand threading into his hair and tugging at it gently. He glances up at you, watching as your body writhes and your gorgeous face becomes even more enchanting as it twists in pleasure. He was so gone for you; no one in the world would ever compare to you. His body jerks in pleasure, and he pants against you for a moment before returning to his work, even more determined. He holds down your hips, suckling at your clit sloppily, hearing as your moans increase in speed and pitch, he knows you’re close, and he wants to please you more than anything, prove that he’s worthy of you. He continues diligently, even as your hips try to thrash and your thighs tighten around his head almost painfully now.

Your whole body siezes up, and with a shout of his name, you come undone. Waves of pleasure spread through you; you almost feel dizzy from it, especially as Spencer carefully continues his work, making sure not a drop of your release is wasted, gently licking you clean. You throb under his tongue as your body tries to come down; he doesn’t quite let you, but eventually, when he hears you whining and feels you trying to pull away, he withdraws. Your eyes meet, and he smiles almost nervously, licking his lips clean. He kisses his way up your body slowly, relishing the flutter of your heartbeat beneath his lips. 

“That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced,” he mumbles, looking down at you, taking in the redness on your cheeks and the sheen of sweat on your forehead. “Was it good for you?” he asks, a hint of nerves seeping in. You nod, still catching your breath. “You looked so beautiful when you came,” 

“So did you,” you grin tiredly and he blushes.

“Oh… you noticed that, did you?” he chuckles sheepishly. “Sorry… I couldn’t help it… you’re so attractive and– well you get it… was it pathetic of me?” he seeks your reassurance, to which you shake your head, pressing your lips to his for a moment. 

“No… at least I know I really do make you crazy,” you chuckle. Spencer laughs.

“You didn’t deduce that from… literally everything else?” his fingers brush across your hip again, as if not touching you now is impossible. 

“Okay… maybe you mentioned it at some point, I can’t be sure,” you joke. Spencer rolls his eyes.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,”

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It wasn't often that you ventured out of the computer cave you shared with Penelope at the BAU. In fact, it wasn't often that you were even there, either. Your position at the BAU was not full-time; you were on call. Brought in only when another brain working on the digital aspects of the case was imperative, or when Penelope was called away on the case, and someone had to be on standby with the FBI computers, which no portable solution, even Penelope's, could compare to. Penelope would focus on extracting information from confiscated laptops, while you would run her usual database searches, your extra RAM making it a smoother process. Other than that, you were almost always at home, maybe the grocery store if there were no delivery people available. Having grown up isolated socially, not much about you had changed with age. You had the most fun at home alone, reading, gaming, and generally ignoring the rest of society, no matter how much Penelope tried to lure you to go out. It was lucky you'd gotten this job with the FBI, but the things you saw through your work hardly encouraged you to put yourself out there. You were happy the way you were, even if the rest of the BAU looked at you with varying amounts of pity after asking you what you'd been up to since they last saw you.

This was only the second time you had ever been brought out for a case. The jet was still a major novelty to you, something that amused Morgan to no end, unable to hide a chuckle when you marvelled aloud at the size of the bathroom while inside it. The current case involved what seemed like hundreds of hard drives found in an abandoned house where a victim had been dumped, labelled with dates that appeared to connect to other local missing persons cases. As likely as it was that the unsub was sending you on a wild goose chase, it was still necessary to check; clues to the identity of the unsub could still lie in the contents of these hard drives, even accidentally, and it seemed he was leaving intentional clues.

"Probably hoping for notoriety, it reminds me of the Zodiac Killer sending out his coded letters, which seems to have secured him a place in infamy. This unsub is likely after fame, probably from a sense of loneliness in his day-to-day life or a feeling of being overlooked and underappreciated," Spencer had explained, wringing his hands, his eyes sweeping the rest of the team on the jet for their reactions. "We're likely looking for someone in highly solitary work, almost certainly something involving coding; the lack of human interaction has eroded his sense of empathy and social norms, worsening any mental health issues that may have originated in childhood." You and Penelope had exchanged a slightly amused look, as if to say 'sounds familiar'. Penelope likes you too much to mean anything bad by it, but you very deliberately ignored the glances you get from some other members of the team, as you aren't sure they're all so understanding. Spencer followed everyone else's eyeline toward you, but simply shot you a polite smile, not quite understanding why everyone had gone oddly quiet now. Spencer was always sweet to you, never seeming concerned about the way you spent your freetime like the others did. He wasn't exactly the most social creature himself, other than playing chess at the local park, which he'd been doing less since the whole fiasco with his father, anyway. You two would often sit together when eating lunch, discussing interests or just sitting quietly. He always missed it when you weren't on call. There was a silent understanding between the two of you, a natural comfort he didn't feel much with others. At least, not as quickly as he'd felt it with you.

Upon landing, it was go-go-go. The team split up, some heading to the dumpsite, some to visit the victim's family, and others, you weren't even sure where. You and Penelope set up at the local police station in a dusty back room. It was far from glamorous, but they had outlets and Ethernet cables, so it would do. Trawling through the hard drives was boring and repetitive. You felt guilty saying so to Penelope, seeing as you had found several images of other victims in various horrible states, but the files on the drives were mainly filler, things designed to slow down the investigation and send the search in the wrong direction. A few helpful things were discovered, and calls were made back and forth between you and the various agents out on the field as they gave you names and faces to search for. By the end of the working day, you were exhausted both emotionally and physically. Then, another blow as you were waiting for the rest of the team to congregate at the police station. Penelope wanted you to swap rooms with Morgan. The two of them had recently deepened their flirting in a way you did not understand how they thought others could not see. Even you had noticed, and you were by no means a profiler like the rest of the team. Still, they tried to deny being involved, even though they wanted to share a hotel room.

"Derek just can't put up with Spencer reading all night," Penelope pouts. "We figured you wouldn't mind so much." It's a weak lie, even to your ears, but you feel bad denying your one true friend in the BAU anything. And… Spencer was pretty cute. You felt pathetic even thinking it; he likely saw you as a loser like everyone else did. It wasn't his fault; you did very little to dispel that image. You felt awful for some of the thoughts that crossed your mind at the prospect of sharing a room with him. God, what if you accidentally told him that you'd made him on your Sims save and that he was dating your simself? Penelope begins good-naturedly teasing you for the bright blush that has spread on your cheeks, and it snaps you from your thoughts a little. "He already agreed to room with you. Come on, it would be rude of you to say no to him," she teases, nudging you.

"Fine, but you owe me, Penelope," you grumble, slouching a little, trying to disappear within yourself. You prayed you hadn't packed that romance novel with the guy that looked like Spencer on the cover. What pyjamas had you even brought? No doubt nothing cute, probably your most stained, holey t-shirt, knowing your luck. You hide your head in your hands, not looking up as some of the team pile into the back room. They ask Penelope if you're okay, and she, to her credit, says that you were struggling with some of the stuff you'd seen that day. Luckily, the team accepts that explanation. That too, you weren't used to seeing so many graphic crime scene images in a day, even despite where you worked. Today was shaping up to be one for the books, something you would not forget in a hurry.

You keep curled into yourself in the back of the SUV on the drive to the hotel where the team was staying. There was a strong temptation to plead with Penelope to switch back. Technically, agents weren't supposed to stay in mixed-gender lodging; it was a HR violation for certain, but you could hear Morgan and Penelope chatting happily next to you and could not bring yourself to make them miserable just because you were. Spencer had agreed to room with you, so he could not be repulsed by you, surely. You would just have to immediately go to sleep and not say a word to him to avoid incriminating yourself. You were tired and upset; surely he would understand as much.

Once Hotch had handed out all the room keys, Spencer approached you with that familiar, awkward, tight-lipped smile. Not unhappy, just unsure. Nervous perhaps. He shows you his room key, the same number as on yours. He's already swapped with Morgan, who is heading with some of the others toward the hotel bar. There is a silent moment between you as you look down at your worn work shoes, feeling embarrassed by a peel in the faux leather. Cheap. You hadn't had money for much else before this job. Well, you had, you'd just spent it souping up your PC. At least it had paid off getting you this job.

"Do you want to uh… join them at the bar?" Spencer offers, fidgeting with the key in his hand. You swallow, feeling completely lame because, no, you didn't, as much as you knew it would be the sociable thing to do. You needed peace and quiet.

"No, but please, go join them, I don't mind if you get in late—"

"Don't worry, I didn't feel like it anyway, too much noise and alcohol," he chuckles to himself, eyes tracing the tension of your shoulders. He wants to ask if rooming with him makes you feel uncomfortable, but does not want to put you on the spot by asking you so. Instead, he's silent again, clearing his throat. After a few moments, you turn toward the elevator, and Spencer follows behind. As the two of you sail up to your floor, you catch sight of him standing behind you in the mirrored surface of the elevator. His hands are wrapped tightly around the strap of his satchel, the room key between his fingers. He's noticeably taller than you, and you look down to hide the blush that blooms at the thought. Some of the things you've read over the years flash through your mind, and you feel dirty for thinking these things so close to him. He follows diligently behind as you scurry down the hall to room 803. It's a twin room, a bed on each wall and a small bathroom near the room entrance. It's small, providing no relief from Spencer's presence as he stands behind you at the room's entrance, politely waiting for you to select your bed first. Usually, you would insist he chose first, but you're desperate to take a proper breath, so you scamper to the furthest bed, against the wall with the windows and place your bag on it. He makes his way to the other, satisfied with your choice.

The rest of your evening is spent trying your absolute hardest to pretend Spencer is not there. Though you would usually change straight into your pyjamas, you, of course, had not brought any bottoms, only an oversized t-shirt (luckily not quite your most well-loved one, although there did seem to be a mystery stain at its hem). You force yourself to go about your night routine in your work clothes, which feels abnormal and doesn't help you ignore Spencer's presence much. He seems content to do his own thing, unpacking his bag into the drawers of his bedside table. You brush your teeth and wash your face in the bathroom, trying your best to pull your hair back for bed in an attractive way, but feeling you look terrible whichever way you do it. In the end, you resign yourself to the messy bun. Some guys like that look, right? Spencer had changed into his nightwear while you'd been brushing your teeth. A flannel set. He looks cute, and you curse yourself when you notice you've been staring for a moment. He was more embarrassed than you were by far. He finally grew a little suspicious when you climbed into bed in your workwear.

"Did you not bring pyjamas?" he asks carefully, already looking through his bag to see if he brought spare to offer you.

"Uh… I did… sort of… I just don't have any… uh… bottoms," you croak, avoiding his eyes. Silence follows, then an audible swallow from Spencer, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Oh… that's okay… I can look away," he clears his throat, getting into bed and facing the wall, so close that his forehead is practically pressed to it. You almost want to giggle at the gesture, but you're too nervous. Fumbling, you change clothes under your covers as best as you can, then tuck yourself in so tightly you're certain no part of you other than your head is peeking out. At your signal, Spencer rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. After a pregnant pause, where both of you clearly want to speak but don't, Spencer sets up his clip-on reading lamp and selects a book to read. "I can turn the main light off?" he offers, his voice surprisingly fragile.

"Okay," you mumble, eyes flicking to him just as the room is plunged into darkness. It takes your eyes a little while to adjust, spotting the small glow of Spencer's reading light turn on, pages turning at Spencer's signature superhuman speed. You close your eyes and begin to count sheep, not knowing what else to do.

Several hours later, you still weren't asleep. Despite the exhaustion of the day, in the quiet and dark of the night, you were unable to shake the images you'd seen earlier that day from your mind. Typically, your job was just cross-referencing names on databases, breaking down firewalls, perhaps creating phishing links to fool particularly daft unsubs, not… what you'd been doing today. You were tired, painfully tired. Though you weren't sure of the exact time, it was certainly well past midnight, and the working day began again tomorrow at 8. You weren't used to this, and as the exhaustion grew deeper, your thoughts began to turn more defeatist, spiralling without an end in sight. You weren't cut out for this job, you wouldn't amount to anything, you were a disappointment, no one would ever love you. Late-night classics that always snuck in when you were at your most vulnerable. You knew what was happening, yet you were powerless to stop it, your mind prodding expertly at your weakest spots. In an effort to distract yourself, you turned to your usual nightly tactic, placing yourself in romantic scenarios, playing them out in your head. The first few attempts you made at settling on a scenario, it was Spencer who kept popping into your mind as the love interest. It felt a little shameful on a normal day, but with him lying mere feet away from you, it felt downright immoral to imagine him like this. With great force, you changed the man in your head into a character from your favourite TV show. Sure, the character was an awful lot like Spencer, but it was the best you could do for now.

None of your usual hits were working to keep you distracted from your darker thoughts. The 'one bed' trope, a usual favourite of yours, felt particularly dangerous at the moment, causing another wave of shame to go through you. God, if Spencer only knew what you were thinking right now, he'd hate you. He'd be knocking on Morgan and Penelope's door, willing to sleep on their floor to get away from you. You felt pathetic. Wrong. It was a feeling that had come over you many times during your life, but now it felt especially suffocating. The idea of quitting your job at the BAU after this case even crossed your mind, just to save Spencer from you. You weren't good enough for this job anyway. You weren't sure how you had tricked Penelope into taking you on as her on-call substitute, but you had somehow. Surely, your house of cards would crumble any day now. No more job, friends, money, anything.

A whisper of your name snaps your eyes open. It's Spencer, voice soft and concerned. His reading light is still glowing weakly in the dark, an open book on his chest. He'd heard the change in your breathing, the sniffles you'd been trying to keep quiet. It was only then that you processed the wet tracks on your cheeks. You'd been crying. For who knows how long now. The thoughts had certainly been spiralling for a good while. Out of embarrassment, you try your best to even out your breathing, but it's too little too late. You take a gulp of air, flinching at the hiccup that leaves your throat. A long exhale from your mouth.

"Yes?" The weak quality of your reply makes you cringe. You clear your throat. "Yes?" It's a little less shaky now, but still, it is obvious that something was the matter.

"Are you… crying?" he asks as delicately as he can, trying to pick out your expression in the dark. You're mostly hiding behind your duvet, so he can't make out what's going on. He certainly heard you crying, as bad as he can be at reading moods sometimes, he is fairly certain of that. A long silence stretches between you. You can't exactly deny it; it's obvious that you have been crying, but admitting it out loud feels far too embarrassing, so you elect instead to stay quiet. Traitorous as ever, your body forces you to sniffle, demanding a clear airway to breathe through. Hidden behind your duvet, you carefully wipe your nose. "Please… what's wrong?" Spencer sits up and switches on the main light. Both of you immediately recoil at the harsh artificial sun, and he switches it straight back off, electing instead to turn on his bedside lamp, which is far dimmer, its light funnelled downward by its shade. He's looking over at you, and you feel pathetic hiding behind your duvet like you are, but you feel unable to face him like this. Subtly, you try to dry your cheeks.

"I just can't sleep," you mumble. It isn't a lie; you have been trying to sleep for hours now, and you were very tired. But of course, it wasn't the main reason behind your tears. Spencer's eyes remain on you. You can't tell if he buys your explanation or not. He seems to take a moment to think.

"That can be… very frustrating… is it my lamp that's keeping you up?" he fretted, rustling around to turn off his portable reading lamp. You shake your head, because frankly, in all your ruminating, you'd hardly noticed the light at all.

"No,"

"Well, I'll turn it off anyway, just in case," he swallows, tucking the lamp away into his satchel by the bed, desperate not to be the cause of your upset. Then, he turns to look at you properly, smiling at the sight of you peeking nervously out from beneath your duvet, like a shy little creature. A kitten, perhaps.

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment, although Spencer repeatedly glances away and then back to you. You worry you're making him uneasy, but really, your gaze is making him nervous. In a good way. He realises that he's managed to distract you from crying, which is an improvement, but you still need to sleep. Uncomfortable in the silence and wanting desperately to help, he can't stop himself from opening his mouth.

"If you’re having trouble with sleep onset, we could try a somatic relaxation technique to lower your cortisol, or I could see if they have any chamomile tea around here since the apigenin binds to brain receptors to reduce anxiety. It usually works for me when my mind won't quiet down, which is... fairly often. I like to read as well… when I can't sleep. I could lend you one of my books! Reading can reduce cortisol levels by 68 percent because it forces the brain into an altered state of consciousness that eases muscle tension and lowers your heart rate—" he cuts himself off when he hears another soft sniffle. You hadn't meant to interrupt him; you liked his little rambles, but you'd needed to clear your nose. In the dim light, you can't see the blush on his cheeks from the realisation that he'd just been talking at you when you really needed to sleep. He clears his throat, turning to look at you again. With his eyes now more adjusted to the dim lighting, he can see the exhaustion on your face, the need for distraction from whatever it was that was clearly on your mind. There's a warmth in his chest, a wholly unfamiliar urge to crawl into that bed beside you. It reminds him of something he read the other day. Like usual, the words slip out without much consideration. "A 2007 study published in the Journal of Sleep Research found that the release of oxytocin and prolactin during physical intimacy significantly reduces cortisol and accelerates sleep onset—" He finally hears himself, his cheeks going bright red and his voice falling away. "Uh… I mean…" he coughs, trying to hide the squeak in his voice. He did not just say that. He was having a bad dream, surely.

"Physical intimacy?" you clarify, voice soft and confused. Was he…? No, it was just a fact he remembered, you were reading too much into it, cursing yourself for the images flashing through your mind. He wouldn't want to do that with you. But boy, did you want it. It was disgraceful how fast your body was reacting to the idea of physical intimacy with Spencer, but you couldn't stop it. You were touch-starved, desperate. It took significant effort not to start whining and begging. Just as you were beginning to consider excusing yourself to the bathroom to get off (Spencer was right, it would help you sleep), he spoke again.

"I'm so sorry, that must have made you really uncomfortable, I—" he's clearly panicking, and even through the haze of your sudden arousal, you feel the urge to reassure him.

"No, it's okay, physical intimacy would probably help… that's just science, right?" you joke weakly, trying not to make it noticeable that you are clenching your thighs together beneath the duvet. Spencer exhales heavily. Relieved? You hope so.

"Yeah, that's the science, the Journal of Sleep Research is pretty reputable," he chuckles, fiddling with the edge of his duvet. The urge to join you in your bed from before is stronger now at your casual reaction. He could see the shape of your body under your duvet, shifting slightly. As he remembers that you aren't wearing any pyjama bottoms, he's mortified at the speed at which his cock decides to wake up. You'd always had this strange magnetic effect on him. When he found out he'd be rooming with you, he was worried this would happen. He'd been doing so well, staying so in control… until now. He pulls up his knees in the hopes of concealing the predicament from you. "Uh… do you want to try it?" he blurts, a simple question that knocks the air out of both of your lungs. The implication is clear, and once again you must fight to keep in a whine. Is he messing with you? He's not the type, but this suggestion… it also seems unlike him.

"What?" you stammer, trying to figure out if you just hallucinated those words, as it seemed the most plausible explanation. Spencer coughs, strongly considering pretending he said something else. But the way your body is shifting, the tiny glimmer of hope is enough.

"I could uh… touch you," he offers nervously.

"Yes," you can't stop the response from shooting out of you like a bullet. Perhaps you had fallen asleep and were now in a surprisingly vivid wet dream. At the very least, you should be allowed to enjoy it. With comparable speed, Spencer is crawling into your bed, slipping under the duvet with you. His forwardness makes you tremble in excitement. He smiles down at you, nervous sweat beading at his temples. This isn't something he normally does, but he feels desperate; he wants to touch you, take away whatever is paining you, help you sleep soundly. The way you're looking up at him makes his stomach swoop, nervous, excited, expectant. Emboldened by the thought that you may simply be dreaming, you wrap your trembling arms around Spencer's neck, to which he responds in kind by wrapping his arms around your waist. His whole body jolts as if electrocuted when his palm makes contact with bare skin, where your sleep shirt has ridden up. He smiles shyly, his hand hesitating before settling there on your skin. His heart is pounding, breathing growing shallow from sheer excitement. His body is tense, deliberately not pressing against yours, but he melts immediately as you shift closer, pressing himself against you. The feeling of him against your thigh, warm and hard, has a pleasant shiver running through you. He's into this, into you, you can feel it. You're not dreaming, and Spencer is really here, slowly and anxiously trailing his hand down from your waist to your thigh. He wants to touch you, feel you, make you feel good. "You want to touch me," you exhale in disbelief. Ordinarily, you'd be humiliated by the outburst, which so obviously reveals your lack of sexual activity, but Spencer is just smiling that timid yet earnest smile.

"I do," he chuckles breathlessly, toying carefully with the slightly frayed edge of your panties. It comforted you greatly that he didn't seem to mind your state of dress. In fact, he was looking at you like you were the most desirable thing on this earth, like he could hardly believe he was worthy of touching you. It felt ridiculous to you how he could be so excited by you, but you didn't want to discourage him. Not when you'd been thinking about this practically every day since you met him, even when you'd been trying to convince yourself you weren't. You reach down, wriggling yourself out of your panties, relishing in the stutter in Spencer's breath. He moves away the duvet, wanting to see you, which diminishes your confidence just a little. As the duvet ruffles the air around you, you catch a whiff of yourself. It's nothing offensive, but it is stronger than usual from your arousal, and you flinch, embarrassed by the scent. Spencer takes a deep breath, the scent going straight to the primal part of his brain, his cock twitching against your hip, his arousal deepening. "You smell good," he mumbles, his hand finding your waist again. "I've never been this…" he trails off with a shy laugh, not quite ready to say it. There's always been something about you, something special, that brought out that primal part of him. As much as he wanted to give in to those new urges, he knew the point here was to help you sleep. He would have to be gentle.

Slowly, his hand travels down to your stomach, then your abdomen, and then even lower. Despite extensive anatomical knowledge, he's a little unsure whether he'll be successful in pleasing you. He takes another deep breath and looks to you for confirmation that he can continue. You look back up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown, even in the dim light. As his fingertips trace a little lower, you whimper, and he cannot hold himself back, desperate to hear more. His hand slips between your thighs, finding you wet and warm, clearly aroused. His touch featherlight, he runs his fingers up and down your folds a few times, acquainting himself with the area, his whole body shuddering. You can't stop the gasp you let out at his touch, the way your body immediately leans into the contact as if quenching a years-long thirst. Finding your clit with surprising ease (why did most men complain about this exactly?), he begins gently rubbing the pads of his fingers back and forth, gentle, but firm enough for it to do something. He drinks up your little moans, soft and breathy, your legs parting just a little to better accommodate him. Your body was tense, hips already lifted off the mattress and twitching with his touch.

"Relax," he urged softly, his back and forth blurring into a soft circling motion. "Just breathe, I want you to feel good." You nodded, your body still wound tight with anticipation. You forced yourself to relax onto the bed, letting the moans spill from between your lips. The touch was soft, yet overwhelming, pleasure radiating out from your core into your entire body like sweet thick syrup. You could think of little else but Spencer as he looked down at you, his breaths short, eyes twinkling as he watched you with rapt attention. As much as Spencer wanted to let go, he knew this would be the most relaxing pleasure he could offer you, and at this hour of night, as much as he wanted more, his priority was helping you sleep. He focused his circles a little tighter, still not pressing too hard. "Close your eyes, there you go, you look so pretty," he whispers. "Does it feel good?" he urges, his fingers working deftly, never letting up, never faltering. Trying your best to nod, you whimper, whimpering once more as his free hand hooks around your waist to hold you close, briefly adjusting his angle. The gentle hold on you feels almost as arousing as the delicious pressure on your clit, the closeness, the feel of his heartbeat against your arm. His fingers trace maddening circles on your skin, his forehead falling to yours, drinking in every shiver and moan you have to offer him as he finally picks up his pace. The change is enough to drive you crazy, your hips beginning to twitch once more, legs shaking. "You're doing so well, just let it happen," Spencer whispers, feeling the tension spreading through your body, the slightly higher pitch of your beautiful moans. He keeps his fingers moving whichever way makes you react the most, determined to give you your much-needed orgasm. He can feel you pulsing beneath his fingertips, the feeling bringing him the lewdest thoughts he'd ever had in his life.

"Spencer!" you moan in desperation just as your body thrashes, your hips snapping up from the mattress, tremors running through your body. Heat spreads through you, along with a feeling of bliss so heavy it's like nothing you remember. Spencer keeps his forehead to yours, telling you over and over to breathe. His fingers remain circling your clit, but slower, gentler now. Your cunt pulses, twitching at each delicate brush over your swollen clit, a hum starting from deep within your chest. Once your body has finally ceased its jolting, you relax into the mattress, trying to gather your breath. His hand sits motionless against you, feeling the radiating warmth, his eyes closed. He wants nothing more than to sink inside of you, imagining just how warm and wet you'd feel around him, but he controls himself, because it's worked.

He can hear your breath slowly but surely deepening as you lie there together, your muscles relaxing. Your exhaustion is getting to you, just as he'd planned it to. He has a million things he wants to do, a million things he wants to ask, but he has to stop himself. You need sleep. He needs it too, but he will have to give himself a while to lose his erection first. That will be difficult with you curled up beside him, but his arm is still under you, holding you close, and he finds he wants to stay close, even if it means putting off his sleep. Your voice jolts him from his thoughts.

"Thanks, Spencer," you slur with a tired smile, tucking yourself against him as he doesn't seem to be pulling away. "It was very generous of you to help me sleep like that."

"It was selfish, actually," he chuckles, his nerves slowly returning.

"There are many more selfish things than getting someone off," you giggle, eyes drooping. "Sorry, I can't return the—"

"No, the point was for you to sleep," he cuts you off, though, based on what time it is, neither of you would be much use at work tomorrow, no matter what. Still, you deserve the rest.

"Can I come to you every time I can't sleep from now on?" you tease, drowsiness lowering your inhibitions. He nods against your hair. "That would be like… every night, you realise?"

"That's alright," he swallows. "I usually sleep pretty late anyway, I'd be happy to stay up and uh… help," he smiles to himself, a little smug as what he's done sinks in. You've practically fallen asleep already, head on his shoulder, mouth hanging ajar, soft purrs puffing out. "From now on, I only want to room with you," he whispers into the dark night, before closing his eyes as well.

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Neville’s 21st birthday had been going well. He’d met up with his friends at a tavern in Diagon Alley for a nice pub dinner. Shared memories and laughter had filled the evening, and Neville had even had a pint, despite not being much of a drinker himself. The air was warm as his group migrated onto the street outside the tavern, chatting and postponing their goodbyes as much as possible. The night eventually had to come to an end; it was a weekday after all, and his friends had places to be the following morning. Neville didn’t mind; he wasn’t one for pub crawls or big parties and was looking forward to going home and reading after this lovely evening. He hugged Luna and Ginny goodbye, thanking them for their gifts and for coming to see him despite Ginny’s packed Quidditch schedule, to which they both insisted they would always make time for him. It warmed his heart; he was so grateful to have friends like these. That feeling of gratitude would soon disappear completely. 

He should have known something was up when Hermione broke off from Harry and Ron to go home with the girls. He definitely should have known something was wrong when Harry, Ron, Dean and Seamus all insisted on walking him back to his flat a few streets down, but he was blinded by the glow of a pleasant and oddly peaceful evening. It finally clicks that something is badly wrong when, in the middle of enjoyable chit-chat, Seamus suddenly blurts.

“You still a virgin, Nev?” Neville turns to face him in surprise, but his friends all laugh knowingly rather than being at all surprised by the turn in conversation.

“Why does that matter?” he huffs, swallowing and standing up a little straighter, feeling suddenly ganged up on. 

“You’re 21, mate! Bit old to have never been with anyone… not even a guy?” Ron grins. Neville sputters. 

“No! Not even a guy! You know I’m not–” he cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. “I’m fine, I don’t mind… it’ll happen when it happens,” he says firmly, ignoring his friend's shared laughter and continuing down the street to his flat entrance. The presence of his friends no longer feels so nice. They hadn’t teased him about this in a long time, barely at all since the battle. Maybe they were just hoping that after the battle it would change, but it hadn’t. Secretly, he had hoped it more than anyone else. His friends jog to catch up with him, clapping him on the back.

“That might change tonight,” Dean teases cryptically, and Neville just keeps walking, figuring they’re trying to lure him to come out and try to meet someone. They’d tried that once before, and it hadn’t ended so well. Neville reaches the entrance to his flat, above a quiet potion supply shop. He fumbles the key into the door as his friends laugh and jeer about him getting some, all clearly having had too much to drink at the pub.

“Happy birthday to me,” Neville grumbles to himself quietly as he opens the door.

“Hey! You don’t even realise how happy we’ve made it!” Harry laughs loudly as Neville slips into his flat. He doesn’t pay any mind to the meaning behind Harry’s or Dean’s words, figuring they’re just drunk. Now he’s upset with his friends, even if he knows they don’t necessarily mean any harm. He climbs the stairs toward his living room door, grumbling to himself and running a hand through his hair. When he opens the door, he jumps slightly. Someone’s in his living room.

You turn in surprise when the door opens, even though you’d been expecting him, trying to look like you hadn’t been snooping through the pictures on his mantle. You make yourself straighten up and smile at him. Neville just looks shocked and confused. 

“Who are you?” he demands nervously, looking you up and down. You don’t look much like a burglar, dressed nicely, your makeup done, very pretty.

“Didn’t your friends tell you? I’m here for you…” You tilt your head, not understanding his shock. Surely his friends wouldn’t have surprised him like this. For a moment, Neville racks his brain, remembering his friend's cryptic teases from before, as well as a prolonged absence of theirs toward the end of dinner. He curses loudly, smacking his forehead.

“Are you an escort or something?” he asks, tensely, trying not to be upset with you since he knows this isn’t your fault. 

“No… well… sort of for the night, I guess, your friends were offering money for anyone who wanted to sleep with you,” you explain as he heads for his kitchenette, filling himself a glass of water and downing it quickly. You follow, standing in the corner and watching him. “I figured you were in on it, like this was some weird birthday thing you guys did, plus I knew Dean in school, so I trusted him, you know?” You explain yourself, realising it had perhaps been strange of you to agree to this. He stays by the sink, rubbing his hand down his face and sighing. 

“Well, I wasn’t in on it… they’re just doing this to make fun of me… or help in their own stupid way or whatever,” he grumbles. 

“Oh… well, look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just… they approached me, said you had trouble talking to women and that as a birthday gift they were helping you out… like I said, I assumed you were in on it, like you knew they were picking you a girl or something… I don’t know… it sounds stupid now I’ve sobered up a bit,” you shrug.

“You said they were offering money?” he clarifies, turning to you finally. He looks frustrated, but he’s trying not to take it out on you, which you appreciate.

“Yeah… I figured that was just them being silly… trying to make up for getting you a cheap gift, I don’t know,” you pull the pouch of coins from your purse, sliding them to him on the kitchen counter. “Here, I wasn’t in it for the money anyway; I just thought you were cute,” He opens the pouch, realising there is real money inside. His stomach sinks.

“Merlin, how hopeless do they think I am that they’re spending actual money on this?” he mumbles, handing you back the pouch. “I’d rather you have it than them, at least,” you nod and put the money back in your purse, but leave a few coins on his dining table when he turns back to the sink, feeling bad for him.

“I’m really sorry, I’ll just go,” you turn on your heels and head for his door. Neville is about to let you go, despite a slight reluctance in his chest, when he spots his friends still lingering outside his place from the kitchenette window, laughing and having a smoke. He curses again, rushing for you and stopping you at the door. 

“Actually, could you maybe stay?” he chuckles nervously, turning you around. “They’re hanging around outside, I– if they actually think we s… slept together, they might leave me alone about this finally,” he swallows, feeling lame and guilty for asking you to stay, but this might be his one chance to make his friends think he’s gotten ‘laid’ as they would so crudely put it. You raise a brow but shrug.

“You want me to just hang around for a few hours or something?” he nods. “I guess I can do that, I don’t particularly have anywhere to be,” you head back into the living room, sitting down on the sofa and placing your bag on the side table. Now that he’s properly looking at you, he can’t help but think that you’re incredibly gorgeous, distractingly so. He isn’t used to having pretty girls in his house, reading the title of his coffee table book curiously. It’s strange. 

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks, then adds. “Basically, all I have is water.”

“A water then,” you smile, watching him disappear back into the kitchenette. A few moments later, he returns with two glasses, placing one down on the side table beside you. He hesitates nervously before sitting down on the end of the sofa you have made yourself comfortable on, clearing his throat. Both of you are silent for a long moment, sipping your waters and looking around. Bored, you finally speak up. “Why would they do this to you? Seems like more of an April Fool's thing than a birthday thing,” you comment. Neville takes a deep sigh. 

“They think it’s pathetic that I’m still a virgin,” he confesses. “They’re trying to help,” he huffs, rubbing his brow, feeling your eyes on him. 

“You’re a virgin? I knew you were a bit shy, but really? How come? You’re not interested in sex?” The questioning makes him blush deeply. 

“It’s not that I’m not interested in it… It’s just never happened for me, that’s all,” he defends, looking down at his glass of water. You look him up and down. He’s tall and broad, the baby fat mostly gone from his face. Decorated with a slight stubble and soft hair, he looks like a very handsome man. His shy demeanour is also very endearing, and whenever you’ve interacted with him, he’s been nothing but kind, even now when you would have understood if he’d been openly angry. 

“I can’t see why, you’re very desirable,” you tell him honestly, smiling as his cheeks flush slightly. 

“Have you been paid to say that too?” he deflects, looking away in the hopes of being able to ignore the fact you’re staring at him. He’s not used to having the attention of somebody he finds so attractive. You laugh softly, nudging his leg with your foot.

“I told you, I’m not here for the money… I thought you were cute and decided to play along with your friends,” his discomfort amuses you slightly, his cheeks red and his head hung low. “I won’t make you do anything, of course, and I’ll even tell your friends that you rocked my world the next time I see them, just to sell it,” you joke, relieved when he gives a small, earnest laugh. 

“I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t believe that,” he turns to you, smiling slightly.

“Why not?” 

“They know I’m completely clueless… if you say I blew your mind or something, they’d probably cotton on that we’re lying immediately,” he traces a shape into the condensation on his glass.

“Oh come on! I’m sure you could blow my mind if you really tried, beginner's luck,” you tease, nudging him. He laughs again, his cheeks going redder, the idea of pleasing you going through his head, sending a pleasant shiver through him. Maybe this situation wouldn’t turn out so bad.

“You really think I’m cute? Like… you would… you know… without any money involved?” he asks quietly, his eyes on the ground. 

“Mhmm, is that so hard to believe? You’re handsome… I would’ve assumed you would have had lots of takers after what you did in the battle, are you waiting for love or something?” you purr, shifting closer, feeling his body language opening up to you. A sigh leaves his lips, his eyes finally meeting yours properly. Merlin, you were even prettier up close, and he could catch a glimpse down your dress… His eyes dart away nervously, cheeks perpetually pink. 

“Not even that I just… I guess I’ve had a few people interested, but… I think they thought I was some brave hero… they seemed to lose interest quickly upon realising I could barely look them in the eye,” 

“You are a brave hero, even if you’re a bit shy too,” you soothe, running a hand through his hair. He doesn’t push you away, his pupils dilating slightly, his breathing picking up, feeling dizzy at the touch. You were actually touching him, and he was letting you despite his fears. You made him feel oddly comfortable, clearly attracted to him, but not being pushy and respecting his thoughts and feelings. Seeing his nerves pick up a little, you decide to reassure him. “You can tell me to stop at any time and I will listen, promise,” you whisper, and he nods, but doesn’t tell you to stop, even as you shift into his lap. He swallows, his hands settling on your thighs at your encouragement, a ragged breath slipping from between his lips. “My services have already been paid for, you know? If you wanted to take advantage after all,” you tease softly, leaning your forehead to his, surprised by how willing he seemed now. 

“I… I… I do…” he stammers, surprised at himself, perhaps he had been more desperate than he realised all this time, and with such a sweet, pretty girl offering so readily… “But I’m afraid… I have no idea what I’m doing,” he admits, fingers tightening on your thighs. 

“That’s okay… I don’t mind being in charge,” you chuckle deeply, brushing your lips to his. He leans forward, unknowingly turning what you had meant as a teasing touch into a real kiss. His eyes slip shut, lips moving tentatively against yours, relaxing a little as your arms wrap around his neck. The kiss feels good, warm, soft and comfortable. He goes willingly as you push him to lean back properly against the sofa, never disconnecting your lips, sighing in pleasure. He hadn’t expected to actually end up like this with you, but he’d ended up being powerless to your charms and his own buried desires. As your hips begin to rock against his, he realises just how long he’s been fantasising about something like this happening to him, moaning as you tug at his hair, tilting his head back for better access to him. The desire is mounting fast, and he realises after waiting 21 years that he barely wants to wait a second more, his arousal straining embarrassingly against his jeans, fully at attention already. Despite the embarrassment of it, he feels he can tell you the truth. 

“I want more…” he whispers between ever deeper kisses. “You don’t have to be gentle with me… please,” his eyes opening as you pull back to look down at him. “I’ve waited so long,” he pleads, feeling a little pathetic. It would probably be best for this encounter to be slow and gentle, perhaps you should retreat to his bedroom, but that isn’t what he wants. “Please,” he repeats, swallowing as he looks down your body, taking in the sight of you straddling his lap. He bucks up slightly, and you giggle. 

“What a needy, needy thing I’ve found myself,” you tease, but figure you should put the poor guy out of his misery. “You already want to be inside me, huh? That fast?” you taunt, shifting to kneel over him. He whimpers softly, knowing how silly it is, but all he wants is to feel what it’s like, your words making him even needier. When he notices that you’re tugging your underwear down from under your dress, a wave of relief washes over him. He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your neck.

“Merlin, thank you, thank you…” he murmurs. “I need to know what it’s like… I need you… thank you so much,” he continues, gasping against your skin as you fiddle with the clasp of his jeans, undoing them the best you can with him leaning against you. 

“You reek of desperation, honey,” you tease softly, helping to free him from his boxers. 

“I know… I know… I’m sorry,” he whispers, nuzzling your neck. “I just… you’re making me feel completely different… I feel like I’m hypnotised,” he mumbles, leaning back to watch as your hand wraps around him. He moans, eyelids drooping. He wants to be embarrassed by already being rock-hard and leaking, but he can’t seem to care as your free hand pulls up the hem of your dress. “Is this actually happening?” he asks hazily, making you giggle.

“Yes, you okay?” your hand moves up and down his cock slowly, teasingly, relishing in the soft groans he gives you in return. 

“Mhm, please don’t stop,” his hands find your waist, bunching up your dress even further, trying to guide you toward him. 

“Ah ah, I’m in charge, remember?” you tut, pulling back, making him whine. By now, you’re just messing with him, but it’s pleasing you too much to stop just yet.

“I’m sorry– please,” he pleads. “Please, I need this, I need to feel what it’s like, please,” you hear him sniff lightly, seeing tears of frustration gathering in his eyes, your expression softening. He really is desperate. “I’ve had to wait so long and now you’re here…”

“Oh, honey…” You coo, cupping his cheek with your free hand, rubbing your thumb over his cheekbone. “You want it so badly,” you taunt, adjusting yourself so you’re just inches from sinking down onto him. He whimpers needily, letting out a raw noise as you shift down, rubbing his tip through your folds, teasing yourself and getting yourself ready for him. In Neville’s eyes, you’re only torturing him further. He feels the warmth and wetness radiating from your core, calling out to him like a siren song, beckoning him deeper, but he doesn’t dare push, knowing you pulled away the last time he tried. He couldn’t risk that again, so instead stayed still, groaning in desperation. He couldn’t believe it was about to happen; he’d started to think he’d be a virgin the rest of his life, but here you were, beautiful and real, grinding yourself against his aching cock, your forehead resting on his. He feels a tear slip onto his cheek as you continue teasing, but hides it by tilting up to kiss you, your lips moving together softly. You feel his wet lashes flutter against your cheek and decide to show mercy. 

You pull back just a bit, realigning yourself so that you can sink down onto him. He mumbles a few more incoherent pleas, his eyes glued to where the two of you will soon meet. His hands are tight on your waist, the only thing anchoring him to reality. Finally and mercifully, he feels you sink down, his length gradually surrounded by your tight heat. His body trembles, his eyes rolling back. It feels good. Better than good. He doesn’t even have the words for the bliss he feels as he bottoms out within you, your thighs meeting each other as you seat yourself fully in his lap. You breathe heavily against his neck, his first sign that you are actually affected by what you’re doing like he is, trying to get used to the large intrusion. He embraces you, relishing in the feeling of you, another tear slipping from his eye.

“Thank you… thank you…” He murmurs, twitching within you. He feels you clench around him, and his whole body tenses. It’s almost all over in that moment, and he feels the embarrassment again, realising he really isn’t going to last. “I’m… I won’t be able to uh…” he pants.

“I know, I figured,” you soothe, your chin leaning on his shoulder. His hand slides up your back. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, rubbing his nose along your jaw, relishing the scent of your perfume mixed with the newly discovered scent of sex. “It feels too good,”

“Yeah? You like it?” You shift your hips slightly, making him groan. 

“Yeah… so much… I… I’m close…” he breathes. Your lips press to his, and he happily reciprocates, holding you close as you grind yourself against his lap gently. He can’t stop the whimpers spilling into your kiss, but you hardly mind, committing the sweet sounds to memory. “Feels so good,” he whispers, his breath catching as you speed up a little. “Oh… oh…” he screws his eyes shut, the feeling of you moving around him too much to handle. Too warm and wet and perfect. It only takes a few more moments until fireworks explode behind his eyes, a choked version of your name leaving his lips. You moan in return, feeling as he comes inside of you hard. His arms tremble around you, his hips bucking gently as he rides out his pleasure. You continue to kiss him, and he tries his best to return the gesture, but he’s fighting for breath, his head spinning. He collapses back against the sofa, slowly opening his eyes, seeing you still sitting in his lap.

“Merlin… I’m sorry… thank you,” he laughs tiredly, his nerves returning. 

“Sorry about what?”

“Finishing in… um… inside,” he blushes, running his hand through his hair which he notices in embarrassment is rather sweaty. You shrug him off, not bothered. You were on the potion anyway. He watches in awe as you pull away from him, some of his release dripping down your leg. He can hardly believe he’s just had sex with you, of all people, a beautiful virtual stranger whom his friends brought to his house. You seem to sense his train of thought.

“Your friends got their money’s worth in the end, then,” you tease, grabbing a tissue from the coffee table to clean up. He blushes. 

“I’m still cross with them, though,” he huffs, taking the tissue from you and carefully wiping you clean. He’s a bit embarrassed to touch you so intimately, but he figures he made the mess. 

“You’re still shy,” you point out, slightly amused. He chews his lip. 

“Well… all this is still pretty new to me… even if we did just… you know…”

“Fair enough, maybe you should have your friends pay me again sometime, for some exposure therapy,” you joke, and he chuckles. 

“Would you come back? Do that again?” he asks quietly, discarding the tissue. 

“Yes,” you answer him honestly. 

“Even if I didn’t pay your going rate?” he jokes shyly as you shift to sit sideways across his lap, his hand gently moving to your lower back so you don’t fall. 

“Only if you plead with me, but you seem to be quite good at that,” this comment makes Neville blush profusely. He’d never known he had such a desperate side, but had found he’d liked letting go with you. He looks up at you, taking in your slightly smudged makeup, yet your confident smile, soft at the edges. You were so beautiful, even more so now that he’d formed a connection with you. He was in disbelief, but for the second time that night, he felt incredibly grateful for the people in his life, even if he was going to yell at them before telling them so. 

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hey you! want to get tagged in my work when it comes out? click here! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧