Riding My (t.h. x female reader)

Eight - Ride (T) *

9k, warnings: explicit smut, including loooots of making out, oral (fem receiving), unprotected intercourse; detailed depiction of the "logistics of not using a condom"; shower shenanigans

summary: you finally get to live out that fantasy...

☆

The ceiling light flickers in Tom's bedroom just as he pulls his lips away from yours. He's been pressing you against the bathroom door this whole time, his kisses hungrier and needier, more sexual every time he stopped for a shallow breath. He loves the way your body has melted into his. The way you relent tonight when he pulls your thigh up to his hip. And just like last night, you stop his kiss, but tonight it's to say, "You can't—"

"I've got you," he assures you, knowing you've always been wary of your figure. With a nod and a bump of his nose on yours, he whispers, "Jump."

You nod back and acquiesce, letting him carry you onto the bed in his arms, but it wouldn't be him if something didn't happen. He trips over his own feet and somehow manages to hold on to you firmly and twist to the side, landing on his back on the bed in full klutz Tom mode.

"What are you do-ing?!" you panic, closing your eyes with a sudden shriek.

"Shh-shh," Tom says, trying hard not to laugh. "You're gonna have to be a little quieter. You know the walls are paper thin around here."

As he speaks, he lets you slip off of him onto the mattress and adjusts himself so that you're both on your sides, his leg slipping in between yours all on its own.

"Mhmm, I know," you sigh, dropping a soft peck on his mouth.

Tom caresses your hair and pulls you closer for another kiss, the previous foolishness thrown to the back of his mind. All he wants is your lips on him, your body close, the purpose of this kiss blooming in his chest as he spins onto his back and helps you crawl over him.

He's ready for what's about to happen, for how he's about to be truly intimate with you for the very first time. Everything is changing, so he decides to tread carefully so as not to scare you off. His kiss becomes less frantic, one hand on the side of your neck, the other on your head, keeping you bent over him.

Yet you start grinding onto him, surprising him with your fervor.

Since you're so eager, he'd rather play this game your way, so he groans in response, daring to say, "You've done that before, baby girl." Teasing you by using your special pet name, the one reserved for passionate moments such as this, while helping you move over his crotch.

"Are you gonna—" you start, but don't finish the sentence. You try to kiss him instead.

Tom knows better by now, knows that you wish for more, that you're afraid to put it into words, that something in you — perhaps your past and your self-consciousness — is making you doubt that you can utter your thoughts. The plan then is to show you that you can. That you can trust him. That he wants to hear you tell him nothing but the truth.

"Tell me," he urges you on, but you remain quiet, so he gives you his best pout. When you giggle in response, Tom adds a little frown to his previous expression.

"Stop doing the puppy dog face, it's not the time," you chastise him, arms caging his head.

"Oh, so you can't tell me what you want me to do, but you can tell me what not to do, why is that?" He keeps teasing you, going a different route to tell you that you're safe with him. There's another giggle and a gentle pat on his chest before you bury your face in his neck, body going lax over his, soft and pliant for a few seconds until he says, "You're giggling," in a sing-song tone.