Sweet Spots (Part 1, M/f reader POV)

lord help me jesus fucking christ I cannot believe I'm posting here after over a decade of lurking

I've been up mining dopamine writing these stupid little POVs the last few nights so I hope they amuse you or get you off, enjoy :devilish: (also i'm not a writer, I went to school for fucking accounting and these are first drafts with no edits because I cannot be bothered so pls excuse mistakes and general shittiness)

You were on your phone too late. You’re on your phone too late every night, watching tiktoks and scrolling reddit for anything that might quiet your mind for a few precious seconds and hoping those would suffice to get you off to sleep. No amount of his good-natured spooning, assurances, or offers to get you glasses of water is ever enough, which frustrates him to no end. He’s ordered at least three kinds of herbal tea, won’t you just try it? All of which invariably taste like dirt, installed the latest in humidifying and temperature control, and drawn you bath after bath of lavender-honey-melatonin bubbles. Still, you lie awake.

Tonight wasn’t any different than usual. You took your lavender bath, drank your cinnamon tea. You took your melatonin and CBD gummies. He gave you one of his cotton T-shirts to wear to bed over your panties because it’s huge on you and soft and smells like him. The whole place does, because it’s his place. It would be yours, too, if you’d said yes any of the times he asked you to move in. He played something calming from a “Spa Sound Bath” playlist on Spotify and changed the sheets, white, and warmed the bed before you got out of the bath. Very gently, he took your phone and stuck it in his nightstand, kissed you good night, and turned off the lamp.

You got fifteen minutes. Maybe. He’s out like a light, of course, the bastard. You’d be madder if he weren’t so beautiful in sleep- awake, too, obviously, but sleeping there was just something so soft, almost angelic in the way his eyelashes fanned out and his forehead leveled. In sleep, his brows weren’t drawn from the stress of work, wasn’t frowning at his watch. You look at him a while or try to, in the low lavender glow of a night light by the door, it’s supposed to be calming, there are studies about this, and try to figure out a way to get your phone out of the drawer on the other side of him. Too much shifting and he’ll wake up, and he’s got a long day tomorrow. You’ll be sneaky, though, grab your phone, spend the next six hours or so scrolling Reddit, leave as early as you can, run home, and grab a few hours of sleep before work.

You edge onto your side, reaching over him, gripping the side of the drawer, and-

“Darling,” he drawls, “We talked about this.”

“I’m sorry,” you exhale, “I didn’t think I’d wake you.”

“It’s okay, I want you to wake me when you can’t sleep.”

“Why? There’s no point. I won’t get any sleep anyway, why should we both suffer?”

“Because,” he starts, propping himself up on his elbow to look at you, “I can think of some other things we can do to get you to drift off. Come here.” He lies back down and loops an arm around your waist, pulling you across his chest. “Comfy?”

“Sure, but you can’t be, I’m crushing you-“ you insist, pushing off him with the heels of your hands until he stops you.

“That’s not true and you know it, you tiny little liar.”

“I should just go home, you have that- that thing tomorrow, at work,” you hedge. “You can drive me if you want, or I can just call an Uber.”

“The proposal? It’s finished. If I needed to give it any more work or prep at this hour, I’d be screwed. I can do the whole thing backwards. Besides, it’s past midnight, I’m not putting you in an Uber, and I parked a few blocks down. Too cold to go looking for the car. You’re stuck, sweetheart, I just wish you were enjoying it as much as I am.”

“I’m enjoying it- of course I’m enjoying it, I wouldn’t be spending half my nights somewhere I can’t even sleep if it weren’t the only time I get with you since you’ve been so busy, but it’s stressful not being able to perform a basic human function. Like, I feel bad that you feel bad that I can’t sleep, and you’re trying so hard to help and it’s just not working.”

He frowns, or you think he does in the low light, “You don’t have to feel bad. I just want you to be taken care of. Will you let me? Take care of you?”

You shudder. It’s hard for you to be vulnerable in front of him, this perfect man that everyone wants. “I can try.”

“Good. Come here.” You oblige, settling on his chest before he sits you back up and peels his shirt off of you, leaving you in just your panties. “I think you’ll like this.” Of course, you don’t feel sleepy at all now. Now, you’re curious, a little nervous, and vaguely turned on. He pulls you back down and kisses the top of your head, running his palms down your shoulders, then your back, then back up your sides. Across, down, across, up, across, down, across, up. His hands are warm and dry and huge, one of the first things that drew you to him. You played coy and offered to compare hand sizes at the bar, floored when his palm was easily twice the size of yours and even more floored when he didn’t break eye contact. He leverages a little pressure now, breaking up the tension in your shoulder blades. “You’re all knotted up, baby. I wish you’d told me earlier, I could have worked it out before bed.” You want to laugh. You’ve got a history of back tension long enough to rival a CVS receipt. Still, he’s not bad at this. He squeezes you across the ribcage hard enough that your mid-back pops and with it comes a wave of relief. You sigh, and he chuckles on a soft exhale, “Like that?”

“Mmm,” you respond, starting to sink into it. You’re nowhere near sleep, but this is even better. He pushes harder into your back and you wince, sucking your teeth. “Too hard.”

“Sorry,” he replies, immediately withdrawing his hands. “I’ll go softer. A lot softer.” He starts to run his fingertips up and down your back, not quite scratching, not quite a flutter. Up, down. Up, down. He ventures outward to your sides and does the same thing, up, down, up, down, too fast to be relaxing but too slow to be irritating. You notice him brush his knuckles across the sides of your breasts right where they swell out but it’s only a second until he’s back in the rhythm and you question whether you ever felt it. His fingertips trail from the corners of your shoulders in toward your neck, then up the neck, back down, up, down, until he gets to your ears, his fingers now lazily playing around them. Your heart flutters, and you give a soft laugh, your shoulders instinctively coming up to protect your ears. He notices. Oh no. “Ticklish there, baby?”

“A little. Sorry, you just surprised me.” You lie. The correct answer is yes, a lot, I know you noticed and I’m so embarrassed.

He takes your face in his hands and aims it toward him, what little you can see of him in the muted purple light, “Don’t apologize. Ever.” He smiles a smile you know well. Usually, it’s the preface to let’s go on Splash Mountain or Roller skating is SO easy, let me teach you and right now is just about the scariest thing you could have seen. “I want to try something.”

“Oh no.”

“Yes,” he insists, authoritative but not unkind. He takes both your hands and sits you up, sitting up himself. “You just said you’d try to let me take care of you. I want to know you meant it. Did you mean it?”

“Yes, of course I did, but-“

“Good.” He answers simply. No further questions. You watch as he stacks a few pillows behind himself so he can lie on his back at a 45 degree angle. “Give me a hug. Tight as you can.”

“What? Why?”

“Let me. Take care of you,” he says again. You’re not getting any answers. You know he’d never hurt you, so you chance it and wrap your arms around him. “Good. Legs too, like a koala.” You comply, feeling a bit like you should take a breath and hold it when he leans back down onto the pillows. He kisses the top of your head again. “Good job, baby. Trust me?”

“Of course, but-“

“Do me a favor? Pull on your arms.” Oh, no. The pillow setup is forgiving but he weighs a ton, there’s no pain but you’re pretty well stuck. You give your legs a tug too, for good measure, but they’re just as stuck.

“What are we doing?”

“I think,” he starts, sliding a finger along the back waistband of your panties, “you just aren’t tired enough to sleep. It’s my fault, really, I didn’t even consider giving you a good working-over. You’re just so fighty. And fast, and little, I didn’t ever think I’d get you compliant like this.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You’re incensed. “I’m not compliant, I just-“

“Complied? I asked you to hug me, you did, I asked you to pull on your arms, you did. Don’t fight it, sweetheart. It’s for your own good,” he says into the bend of your shoulder, planting a kiss there. “I’m doing this for your worried mind. You need release.”

“You resent it.”

“I could never. I love you and your worried mind, but right now, we need to snap you out of it, okay? Let me take care of it. Bring you back to the physical,” he drops, palming your lower back again. He’s so sweet. You can’t imagine what he’s got planned, maybe more of the same? Or you’ll count backwards from 100? Maybe he’s going to rock you. His hands brush gently on either side of your spine, stroking up and down, up and down, until it dawns on you.

“Are you…? Going to-“

“Shhhhh.”

“I don’t wanna-“

“You’re cute when you don’t wanna. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but-“ he stills his hands, looking down at you until he catches your eyes with his, “you don’t have a choice.”

“Sorry, what are we doing?”

“I read about this. The journal, maybe. Taking away the distraction of choice and forcing physical awareness to the forefront of the mind until the point of exhaustion is a great way to induce sleep. You just need to trust me, can you do that? I’ll stop right now if you can’t.”

You’re tempted to say no. You’re tempted to call this whole thing off, now that he’s given you the power to do so… but you can’t deny that you’re curious. His hands on your skin have you feeling a whole other set of emotions besides, turned on and wanting and raw. You’re already mostly naked in his bed- what are the chances this ends well for you? Pretty high, you decide, and say nothing.

“Good choice. Now, relax.” You listen to the spa sounds as he circles your back with fingertips again, this time venturing closer to your sides. He draws lazy spirals just a little too lightly for your liking, his nails catching and driving you to shivers. He notices, chuckles a bit. “Cold?”

“Obviously, I’m naked in your refrigerator room.”

He sighs, reaching for a remote on his nightstand. “The cold was supposed to help you sleep.” He clicks a button a few times and you can hear the air shut off. “You’ll warm up in a little bit.” How? How does he know? What is he planning? You have a sinking suspicion but don’t want to call him out in case it sounds as ludicrous as you think, even though you’re desperate to ask what working over he was referring to. You don’t have to wonder for long, because his hands continue their circuit of stroking up and down your back, close to your sides. When he gets to the bottom, he delivers a tiny, slight pinch, eliciting a squeak. Did you really just squeak? “Ticklish?” Oh, no.

“Not really.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. Can’t we just watch an old movie? Or meditate? Or fuck?” You try, fully aware he knows you’re bullshitting.

“If you’re not ticklish, then what are you trying to avoid? What are you so scared of?”

“I’m not scared, I’m just- I hate wasted effort. This is stupid.”

“Shhh. We’ve talked in circles for long enough, just let me do what I’m doing. You might even like it,” he postulates, delivering another squeeze to your sides, a little higher. You tense. He notices. He continues squeezing, not hard enough to hurt or jar, just small enough to cause a jump, one spot at a time, punctuated by fingers tracing your back. It almost feels good until he squeezes again, and you suck your teeth. You don’t want to laugh. You don’t want to lose control. “Give it up, baby. I want to hear you laugh.”

“I’m not ticklish, so I’m not going to laugh. It’s just a logistical impossibility. You could tell me a joke.”

“Okay,” he obliges. “Who has two trapped hands and lies about how ticklish she is?”

“Is it-“

Before you can answer, he delivers a series of merciless squeezes to both of your sides, and you nearly jump out of your skin. “Stop! I-“ you gasp, desperately trying not to laugh before the first one breaks loose. “Please!”

“Please what?”

“I-“

“Please continue, got it,” he finishes, almost wickedly, moving higher up your sides in the cruelest way.

“Stop!”

“Why would I stop? What reason would you want me to stop, if you’re not ticklish?”

“I am!”

“You are what?”

You take as deep a breath as he’ll allow and swallow your pride in the same instant. “Ticklish!”

“Say it. The whole thing. I’ll stop.”

“Okay! Okay! I’m ticklish!”

“Okay.” He withdraws his hands immediately, moving to gently pet you on the back of your shoulders. You catch your breath, floored that it could feel like that: so intense with so little effort from him. “I love your laugh.”

“I hate you.”

“Sure about that?” He asks, moving his hands slowly toward your sides.

“No! No. I lied. I love you.”

“I love you. Ticklish little insomniac girl.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head and you exhale, relieved.

“Can I have my hands back now?” You ask, fully aware of how ridiculous it sounds.

“No?” He answers, genuinely baffled. “You’re not done. Lots left to do.”

“Like what?” You’re confused. What else could he possibly be planning?

“Hmm. I think,” he starts, tracing down your back with those same far-too precise, far too strong fingers, “Probably your ribs for a bit,” he lists, sliding his fingers in between the bottom two with just enough pressure for you to gasp. “I’m not done with your sides either,” he trails down, delivering a soft, very pointed squeeze right where it kills you. You want to interject, to protest, but you’re terrified and turned on and terrified by how turned on you are. “Your neck, your ears…” he continues, drawing lazy circles there, then sliding back down to your butt, “Your ass, obviously,” he squeezes it, more pleasure than discomfort. He traces down the outsides of your hips and you hold your breath. Please, if there is a god, do not let him know about this spot. You’re hoping he hasn’t figured it out, you’ve tried to stay so still when he kisses you there while you’re messing around. There’s no way he knows. Just stay calm, stay still, and-

“Right here too, I think. You always tense up,’ You can feel his massive thumbs trailing inward on the crease right where the pockets of your jeans hit. He goes so, so slowly, no pressure at all, until he reaches the spot and gives the softest, most devastating push in. It’s hardly any pressure at all, but you almost hit the ceiling as you cry out and your body tries to free itself in earnest. You hear him, feel him laugh under you, why should you be laughing, you bastard? “That bad? Jesus, baby, I’m gonna have to work on that for you. All that energy trapped in there, someone has to let it out. No wonder you can’t sleep.”

“Okay, asshole, we could both be sleeping right now if you weren’t trying some insane terror tactic you read about in the fucking Journal.”

“Really think you should take a minute to consider your situation before you call me an asshole again.”

“Are you done?”

“No. Look at me,” he instructs, withdrawing his hands from your hips and guiding your face towards his. “This is for you. Because I love you. Because we can’t keep doing this every night. You’re gonna get tickled, then you’re gonna sleep like the dead. I am relieving you of the illusion of choice and forcing you to focus on physical awareness. And I’m not going to pretend I’m not enjoying it.” He kisses you, though there isn’t any passion. It’s more of a period on the end of the sentence. “I’m gonna go from your hips down your thighs,” he continues, squeezing his way down so softly you want to cry, “probably spend a little time behind your knees too.” This is tricky, because your legs are wrapped around him, but he wedges his index fingers behind them and presses a series of soft pulses right into the sweet spot, just to test it, and you respond by wrapping your legs tighter, forcing his fingers further in. Which makes him laugh. Again. “You’re so funny. Your body doesn’t know it’s making things worse on itself. I can’t get my fingers out now, babe. Guess we’re stuck here.” He keeps his fingers pulsing, you keep squeezing. “This is a good exercise, actually. Focus on the physical. I’m gonna keep tickling you until you stop squeezing me, then we’ll move on.”

“I can’t-“ you start, frantically.

“Yes, you can. Focus, baby.” It’s so hard. You whimper-laugh every step of the way, forcing yourself to think about the other stimuli in the room- the way he smells, the feel of his T-shirt against your bare skin, the lavender light, the relaxing music on low until you can partially relax and feel the muscles in your thighs pull away. You breathe a sigh of relief, happy that it’s over for now and terrified for the next few hours. “That was great, baby, good job. I’m proud of you. Was that really so bad?” He presses another kiss to the top of your head.

“Are you done now?” You ask, making a point to sound weaker than you feel. In truth, you’re positively humming with energy. You can feel him, hard against your ass, and you know he is, too. Maybe if he thinks you’re low on stamina, he’ll want to fuck you before you run out of energy?

“Not nearly. Stop asking. And don’t play sleepy with me, I know you’re still wired,” he answers, flatly. Oh. This stern no-nonsense twist is doing something to you, but you’re not sure what. “I just can’t help but feel like I’ve forgotten something…” He drawls, taking his time delivering soft touches to all the parts of you he’s going to terrorize later and working his way upward until-

No.

Oh, no.
In all honesty, it was stupid of you to hope he wouldn’t go there. It’s probably the most well-known tickle spot in the history of the world, of course he was always going to find it. He draws his nails across your shoulders and upper arms, dancing ever closer to the spot you want them the least. “I think you probably have a sweet spot under your-“

“No!” You plead, drawing your elbows as close as you can, which doesn’t do all that much for you, to be fair.

“Oh, that bad, huh? I gotta see this.” Fuck. His index fingers slowly drag toward your underarms, settling softly in their centers but not moving. No pressure, no scribbling, just sitting there. You’re hysterical, of course, laughing and whimpering and tugging on your arms even though he isn’t doing anything. You’re bewildered and relieved when he takes them out without incident, chuckling. He gives you a few seconds to catch your breath.

“You’re-? Not going to-?”

“Oh, I am. Don’t worry. I just need you pliant first. Can’t get anything done if you’re freaking out the whole time.”

You groan, angry and frustrated. Who is this guy again? Other than your emergency contact? And who is he to imprison you like this under the guise of oh, it’s for you, baby, to help you sleep like he’s such a fucking saint. It’s rude, honestly. Maybe you should dump him. He doesn’t give you long to explore that particular train of thought as he starts to deliver on exactly what he said he would do.

“I’m going to start now. I’ll stop when you’re ready.”

“I’m ready!”

“You’re not.” He shakes his head. You can hear him smile. “But it’s cute that you keep trying to get out of this.” Oh, it’s cute? If he thinks it’s so fucking cute, you’ll show him trying to get out of this. You shake your arms and legs as much as you can, pulling like your life depends on it and certain that you look insane. You make no progress. “Hey, hey, shhh. Stop that. I’ll be gentle. The more you fight, the worse it gets, okay?” You give a dejected, angry groan. Fuck this. How bad can it get? You’ll grit your way through it. “Do you want to count down, or should I?”

“Oh, how nice of you to let me choose. I’ll do it. One billion, nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety nine thousand nine hundred ninety nine, nine-“

“Three.”

“Wait, wait, wait. There must be something we can agree on here. What if-“

“Two.”

“Wait! What if you just-“

“One.”

All of a sudden, there’s no more time to hedge. He starts in on your sides, tweaking and squeezing like he’s looking for something. “There?” First, down by your hip bone where he runs his index fingers along inside the hollow there, then slowly up to just underneath your ribs. “What about right there?” It isn’t violent, but it’s all the more devastating for how soft and insistent it is. He’s right, he is being gentle, he’s just killing you in the process. Every time he finishes a circuit of down to up, he rubs your sides with his palms to reset the muscles and keep them warm and responsive. If he went too hard, too fast, you’d tense up and it would be painful. He’s figured out the best way to get you laughing and keep you there. He gives you a break after a few minutes, and asks, “how are we feeling?”

“Are you serious?” You gasp.

“Ready for round two?”

“N-“ he doesn’t wait for an answer. He starts fondling your ribs at the sides, sliding, squeezing, wiggling.

“The trick is-“ he narrates as you laugh, “you’ve got to go between each rib. That’s where the good stuff is. See this-“ he pinches you directly on the bone, causing you to yelp, “is not what we want. This, however-“ he wiggles his thumbs in between two ribs on either side of you, making you squeal, “that’s exactly what I was looking for. I wonder how many you have?”

“You said-“ you eke out, “you’d be- HA- gentle!”

“Oh, I am. I’m being so gentle. You don’t even realize it, but I’m barely touching you. You’re just really sensitive. If I weren’t being gentle, it would be a lot more like this.” He drills his knuckles into either side of you, vibrating hard, and you very nearly scream. “See? So much better this way. Stop complaining. If you can count your ribs for me, I’ll move on. I’ll even help you, see? One…” He starts, outlining your bottom most set of ribs while you shriek, “two…. three…” It’s agony, and it’s ecstasy. There’s a part of you that doesn’t hate this and you’re not in the right frame of mind to define it, but you like being out of the driver’s seat. You like being close to him. You like that he’s spending time getting to know your body, although you wish it were in a different way, below the belt. “I lost count, babe, were we on six or seven? Better start over…”

“No!” You beg, but it’s too late. He’s back at one.

The rest of your ribs are agonizing, especially as he gets closer to your underarms. You pull desperately at your arms, even though you know they’re not going anywhere, and he definitely notices. After twelve ribs, he’s decided to move on. He draws circles with his fingers, fluttering, up your spine and to your neck. This is sort of nice, a break, even, until you notice your shoulders coming up to protect you, and you notice him noticing. He sighs. “Still fighting it, huh?”

“I can’t help it, you’re killing me. It’s just a reflex.”

“I’m not killing you. I will help you, though, any reflex can be beaten with a little effort. We can make it a game.” You groan, and he laughs. You have no more energy for games. You’re starting to see what the point of this all was, the fatigue setting into your body and no room in your mind for anything other than this. “Okay, we don’t have to make it a game. I’ll just start tickling you-“

“No! Please! I want to play the game.”

“Okay, okay, we can play a game, calm down. I’m gonna hold your head to one side and work on your neck, your ear, and you have to keep your shoulders down. Any time your shoulders come up, you get poked in the ribs and we start over. If you can make it two minutes on each side without your shoulders coming up, we’ll move on. Doesn’t have to take more than four minutes altogether- you can make it four minutes, right? I know you can. We’ll condition you out of this in no time.” Sigh. You wish you’d just let him tickle you, he might have gotten bored of it sooner than you’ll beat this stupid game. There’s a little competitive edge you’re trying to coax out, you usually have it, but you’re getting tired and fed up and- wow, turned on. The idea of his strong, gentle hand holding your head to one side while the other strokes your neck is just- wow. What is happening to you? “I’ll start the timer.” He gathers your hair in his hands and bares your left shoulder, lacing his fingers in and holding your head solidly to one side. He gives your shoulder a little push to remind you to keep it down, and you comply. Compliant. “Two minutes, starting… now.” He’s so gentle about it, to start. He rakes his nails from the tip of your shoulder up your neck just under your ear and back down. It’s surprisingly nice, until he starts wiggling his fingers, feather-light, and your shoulder shoots back up. He sighs, stops the timer, delivers a merciless poke to both sides of your ribs that makes you jump, grabs your hair again, a little rougher this time, and starts the timer again. This time, he wastes no time on being pleasant. He starts under your jaw, drawing one nail back and forth, back and forth, all the way down to your shoulder, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. He circles back up to your ear, just under it, around the back, and-

“Nope,” he says, stopping the timer. He pokes you again, harder this time.

“Hey!” You squeak in protest. “What happened to gentle?” You get the sense he’s playing annoyed, impatient, to mask how thrilled he is you keep losing.

“Sorry you keep losing, sweetheart. Not my problem. Going again.” He throws gentle out the window this time, pulling your head to the side and surprising you by forcing your shoulder down with the other hand and going in with his mouth. You take a sharp inhale when you feel what he’s doing: hot, wet, agonizingly slow. You couldn’t protect yourself even if you wanted to now, the way he’s holding you. The slight sucking and scrape of teeth against your skin as he moves his mouth back and forth might actually kill you. Yes, it’s sexy as hell, yes, you’re turned on, but worse, it… tickles? You’re not sure whether to laugh or moan, so you groan in frustration and feel him laugh into your neck. He hums while he does what he does, adding vibration and a whole new layer to the insanity. When his timer beeps, he immediately resets it, switches hands, and does the whole thing again on the other side of your neck. It’s arguably worse this time, since at least the first side got a warm up. You want to cry by the time the second timer beeps, you’re so turned on. “Good job,” he murmurs, moving his hands through your hair and massaging your temples.

“I didn’t even do anything. You were holding me.”

“I know. I like holding you. You weren’t supposed to win that game anyway, so I got what I wanted.”

“Don’t you always?”

“No. I want you to sleep.”

“I can try now. I think I’m sleepy enough,” you lie. He sees right through it.

“Nope,” he shakes his head. “Nice try, though. I’ll give you a break.” You wonder what that means until he palms down your back to your ass and boldly starts fondling it.

“Who is this break for, again?” You ask, listening to the bass in his chest as he laughs in response and doesn’t answer. He takes each side in one massive hand and squeezes, pushes, massages until the whole thing is warm and buzzing. You settle in, deciding to relax, placing your head against his chest and very nearly letting your guard down.

And then.

You feel him ever so slowly smoothing his fingers over the waist band of your panties, which are soaked, and you both know that. He works his fingertips along the sides, right around to-

“No.”

“Sorry, babe.”

“You’re not sorry!”

“Nope. But I’m not the only one who lied here tonight, so you’re gonna have to take it. Ready?”

“Of course not!”

“Steady?”

“Fuck you.”

“Promise?” You give a petulant scoff and then you feel it starting. He’s playing with you, dragging his fingers from your back to front, around your hips, starting over when he gets close. He goes slower each time, and it is maddening. You can still feel him, hard, right there. You angrily shake your hips, trying to lose his hands, which seems to reach him, although not in the way you were expecting. You were expecting he’d drop this and want to fuck, and you got a pause and an annoyed sigh in response. “Don’t do that again.” Oh. He doesn’t want to be hard. He wants to keep going, and be able to focus. Not if you have anything to say about it. You go again, shifting your hips as much as your arrangement allows. He stops again, asks, “What did I just say?” Annoyed like a teacher. He grabs you under your ass and hitches you further up on his body, then lifts his hips and pushes your thighs (not gently) further down before resettling his weight over them. Freshly stuck, you evaluate your new angle. A little higher up, with your legs lower down, which leaves you more open to- oh, for fuck’s sake. He slides his fingers into your pocket creases, made newly vulnerable by your position. He opened them, taking away what little protection you had by virtue of the smaller angle, and made it impossible for you to squeeze him away.

“That was mean,” you breathe, horrified by the feel of his fingertips on your naked hips.

“I warned you. Don’t try to fuck with me like that while I’m trying to do something nice for you.”

“Nice for me? What is nice for me about this? It’s fucking two in the morning, I’m exhausted, and my boyfriend is-“

“You’re not exhausted, babe! That’s the whole point! Are you gonna pout about it the whole time, or can we get on with this?” You laugh, uninfluenced by his fingertips. What’s the point in having a good attitude now? He’s still going to do whatever he wants until he’s done, and you’re along for the ride, for better or worse.

“I’m gonna pout about it!”

“Fine. Your choice. But I can promise you you’re gonna smile, unless you developed superpowers in the last five seconds.” You lock eyes with him, determined to win this staring contest even if you know you’ll be screaming your head off in thirty seconds anyway. You do win, he’s the first to look away, when he breaks, laughing, “I can’t. Look at you. Look how cute you are, even when you know you’re about to lose. I’ll tell you what, I’ll make you a deal. You show me a good attitude in the next thirty seconds, I’ll be so gentle. It won’t even tickle.”

You groan, “What is with you and games tonight? Count your ribs, hold still, have a good attitude, what could you possibly be getting out of this? I thought the point was to get me tired, not make me-“

“Compliant?” He finishes for you, raising an eyebrow. A slow smile spreads across his face as you realize, oh. This is not about me not being able to sleep. You exhale, long and slow, waiting to know what to say.

“Look, do you want a blowie? Or brownies? I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I think,” he starts, punctuating each phrase with a kiss on your head, “it’s cute (kiss) that you (kiss) think you (kiss) know what (kiss) I want (kiss). You’ve stalled me a while, I’ll give you that, but you’ve got ten seconds to decide if you want this to be bad or worse. If you give me attitude, I’m going right in and I’m not stopping until you break. If you want me to be a little gentler, you have to ask for it. Say please.” You say nothing. He clears his throat. “Ten, nine, eight-“

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“Say exactly what you want me to do. I already told you what I’m gonna do regardless, you have to tell me how you want me to do it.”

“I don’t want you to do it at all!”

“Seven, six-“

“Fine! Oh. My god. Fine. Please,” you bite out, through your teeth, “Do it gently.”

“Do what gently?”

“Oh my GOD. Fucking fine. Please tickle me very very very gently.”

“Okay. Where?”

“For fuck’s sake!”

“Five, four, three-“ he slides his hands around the front, situating his thumbs right where it’ll kill you.

“There! Tickle me there!”

“Jesus, someone really wants to be tickled. Just so I’m clear, where are we talking? Say the whole thing.” You take a deep, deep breath, stalling for time.

“Please, please tickle me very gently right in my hip pocket area. VERY gently.”

“Okay. All you had to do was ask.” He starts in, pressing tiny, pulsating circles with his thumbs. Right there. Both sides. “Like that?” It’s incredible, you think, with what little brain power you have at the moment, how he’s able to achieve surgical precision like that despite not being able to see what he’s doing. The new angle and the fact that you’re pressed against him really aren’t helping you- you can’t do much other than squeeze him with your thighs and laugh. He’s merciless, transitioning to gentle squeezes along the whole tendon in a maddeningly irregular rhythm. “How about this?” You feel your whole body go limp as you laugh into his chest, probably tearing up enough to wet his shirt. “You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “This part’s almost over.” You don’t care. There’s nothing to be done. There’s no fight left. You’re barely squeezing him with your legs. You’ve stopped pulling on your arms and lifting your head. Nothing else even exists right now, just your spots and his hands and some distant, pathetic sound that may or may not be you. After five minutes or fifty years, he eases up, goes back to stroking the area with no pressure at all and slides his hands between you down toward your inner thighs, spread out and pressed against him. He might be finished for now, you think, and maybe wants to give you a little of what you want? He has to be able to feel how wet you are.

Just when you think he’s going where you want him to, he stops short and curls his fingertips into your inner thigh, squeezing agonizingly close to your center. “No. Please.”

“I gotta, babe. You’re not done yet. You’re doing great, just a little longer.” He delivers a few more soft pinches until he seemingly decides you’ve had enough there for now and thankfully opts for larger, full-hand squeezes down your thighs until he gets to your knees. You’ve run out of energy to physically fight, but you’re incensed and ready to strike verbally.

“I cannot believe that after putting me through all of that, you are still doing this. I rescind the offer of a blow job. You’re never getting one again.”

He sucks his teeth, “And here I was, thinking you’re nearly done, just a few more minutes and I’d let you sleep. Clearly, I was wrong. Enjoy yourself,” he snaps, then disengages entirely, slipping his hands under your knees and making you regret your words. He strokes and scribbles enough to get you laughing, then wiggles and presses firmer, deeper, unrelenting.

“Wait! I’m sorry! I’m so-“ it doesn’t matter. He’s ignoring you. He doesn’t even seem interested, absentmindedly producing hell for you, casually as if he were stuck in traffic. “Please!” Nothing you say matters. Once again, you lose the will to fight, opting instead to laugh into his chest as your body goes completely limp. This isn’t as bad as your hips, but it’s a close second, and he’s so blasé about it, you question if it will ever stop. At least with your hips, he was gentle. It was a sacrament. Now he might as well be a stranger. You’re tearing up at the persistent pressure, misery and agony and laughter all in one when he suddenly stops and takes your face in his hands.

“That’s what you get,” he says, softly, kissing the tears off your face. “Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” you sigh. You don’t know what you’re apologizing for and you honestly couldn’t care less. You’re just glad it’s over.

“Good. You did so well, sweetheart. Just one more spot and you’ll get what you want.” The world stops on a dime. What?!

“One-? One more spot? But-“

“You didn’t think I forgot, did you? Your sweet spot.” No.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, frantic, “oh my god, please, please, I can’t. I can’t.”

“You don’t have to do anything, baby. Just let me take care of it. I’ll be gentle.”

“But WHY?” You whine, exhausted and scared. You can’t remember the last time someone really, really tickled you under your arms. You just know you have to protect them at all costs, some vague memory of your brothers messing with you as a kid at the center of it. You don’t know how it’ll feel. You were hysterical before, when he just put his hands there and didn’t even move them, you can’t imagine dealing with it right now, already overstimulated.

“Because, baby. You’re not worn out yet.” HA. Worn out. Like you’re even pretending at this point that this whole thing has anything to do with your sleep schedule, which by the way is fucked, due to this hours-long detour. But even worse, you are worn out. You think. Pretty sure there’s no fight left.

“But I am,” you insist. He shakes his head no.

“Nope. You’re still fighting me.”

“I’m not!” He moves his hands very suddenly toward your underarms, and you shriek and pull. He gives a pointed look you can barely see in the muted light as if to say see? I told you. “It’s a reflex,” you whine again.

“Reflexes can be conditioned out. If you were really, truly worn out, you wouldn’t be trying to get away. I don’t like that you’re trying to get away from me.”

“You’re tickling me!”

“Because I love you. It’s a moot point. We can talk about it when you’re worn out. Just relax now, the sooner you stop fighting it, the sooner it’s over.” Like hell. If he’s so insistent you’re not worn out yet he can reap the consequences. You fight. With everything left, you tug on your arms and manage to make a little headway moving your elbows closer to your sides. He sighs, a little disappointed and a little impressed at your efforts. “Please lift your arms up.”

“Fuck no.”

“Would you like me to lift them for you?”

“Choke.”

“Okay,” he says, pleasantly enough, before gently but firmly taking your elbows and forcing them back up, lifting his own body to resettle his weight and keep them nice and high. You groan. You’re not above begging, are you? He takes his fingertips to your upper arms, fluttering them slowly, slowly towards your underarms.

“Please. Please don’t do this,” you try, growing more and more frantic as his fingers close in, “I can’t take it. I really, I physically can’t. You’re not being fair!” You try pulling at your arms again, certain he’d stop if you dislocated a shoulder or two. You’re that desperate. “I’ll scream! Or I won’t scream, I’ll give you whatever you, want, just please not there!” You hear him take a deep breath.

He pauses, as if actually considering it, says, “Yes, there. Right there,” and then wickedly slides his fingers under both arms. You curse yourself for shaving them that night, in the stupid lavender bath. He starts slowly, testing, listening to your reactions and adjusting his technique from stroking to spidering, fingertips versus fingernails. You cry out when his nails hit and bury your face into his chest, screaming into him as if he were a pillow. “That bad? I think you’re exaggerating.” You groan in response. He just chuckles and goes slower, methodical, covering the whole area. You’re reminded of why you protect your underarms so fiercely, never wearing sleeveless clothing, never lifting your arms if you can avoid it: it’s torture. It’s by far your worst spot, the only silver lining being that he hasn’t applied any real pressure yet. Maybe he won’t, maybe this is enough of a reaction to satisfy him. You’re laughing with total abandon and shaking back and forth despite yourself. Your toes flex underneath him.

“You really can’t take it, can you? Right there?” He teases, not letting up.

“NO,” you cry into him between laughs.

“Poor thing. My poor baby. You’re almost there. Just stop fighting it, it’ll be over.” What does that even mean? Stop fighting it? Stop twitching? You suppose, according to his logic, if you were really and truly done, you wouldn’t have any juice left to move, but you just can’t see it happening. You’re exhausted, and ticklish, and stuck, possibly forever. His poor neighbors.

“You,” you grind out, hiccuping, “are- the- fucking- worst!” Is he, though? After all of this, is he really? You know without a doubt you’re not going to dump him for this. On another level, you didn’t hate this nearly as much as you want him to think you did. You liked not having control, admit it. You like that he wanted to unravel you and figure out all your secrets. You’re embarrassed you put up such a fight, and you’re embarrassed you wouldn’t really mind all that much if he wanted to do this again.

“If that’s what you think, I guess I have nothing to lose. Sorry about this, baby.” He takes his index fingers, very slowly, and starts to apply pressure, just around the edges of your hollows. Oh, god. Oh, no. This is devastating, the slow, firm wiggle into the absolute depths of your sanity, the way he’s- what is he doing? “Just gotta find it,” he whispers, focused like you’ve never seen him before. He can only feel what he’s doing, but what is he doing? You’re a whimpering mess, your stomach hurting with the force of all the laughing you’ve done tonight- what is he doing?! He wiggles in different spots around your underarm, each one miserable in their own right, testing, waiting for your reactions. You laugh and squeal, he moves again, you laugh and squeal, he moves again. This way, that way, closer, further, toward the upper arm, toward the ribs, a little more toward the front, too, far, now toward the back. It’s really not that large of a target, but you know he’s mapping it out in his head until he hits- Jesus. Fucking Christ.

“Oh my God, NO!” You scream as he finds what he’s looking for and lets out a laughing sigh. There’s really no fight left now. Every part of your body goes limp and you wish you’d just pass out, but you’re still in there, forced to feel every horrified nerve ending and laugh, laugh, laugh.

“Your sweet spot. Found it, huh? Surprisingly hard. You’re okay. Just a little longer,” he assures, continuing to press circles in. It’s blinding, how much it tickles. You’re half wracked with laughter, half with sobs, nothing more to do. Your consciousness is fraying around the edges, which is alright with you, you wish it would fray faster. “It’s so bad, huh? Right there,” he teases, dragging you back from the edge. You wish he’d just shut up. He lets up a little bit, asks, “What do you want right now?” You don’t know what to say. You can’t actually say anything, or even think anything beyond it tickles it tickles it tickles. So you don’t. You lay there, on top of him, and you keep taking it. This seems to mollify him, so he stops, finally. Jesus. You’re barely aware as he lifts his body off your arms and legs and gathers you, rocking you back and forth as you finish laughing. “Shhh. It’s okay. It’s over,” he whispers. “You did so well, baby. I’m so proud of you.” Over and over until you calm down, a limp pile in his arms. You’re relieved, most of all, and weirdly proud about getting through all of it without passing out, but you’re also… well. You feel him laying you down and kissing down your body in the dark, stopping when he hits a sticky spot on your upper thigh. He peels your panties off, completely soaked. “I think you’re a little bit of a mess, babe.” You offer back a vague mhmm, too tired to problem-solve this right now. Luckily, he asks, “Do you want me to take care of this for you?” Like, change the sheets? You wonder. Or- oh. He presses another kiss closer to where you want it. “Do you want me to? I don’t have to, but if you-“

“Yes,” you hiss. He doesn’t need any more than that. Your body is already completely exhausted, but you know what’s coming next. You never let him do this when he’s gone down on you before, even though he’s always offered, since you’ve always complained I don’t know what to do with my hands! He’s nice enough to bind them for you. It’s not a punishment, it’s a reward. Taking the illusion of choice out of the equation so you can focus on the physical. He takes off his shirt, twists it and loops it over your hands, then hooks it onto the headboard. One distraction down. This would never have happened before, but you’ve crossed so many boundaries tonight, this only seems natural. You’re grateful for it. He cushions you under your head with a soft pillow and slides another one under your lower belly, elevating your hips, before taking your legs over his shoulders and giving you what your body aches for. It’s almost a shame, how quickly you come. “More.” He obliges, going softer and slower this time; it’s agonizing, but it’s what you want. Long arcs, slow, light circles, sucking, kissing, release. You don’t even notice that he turned the lamp on until you’re finished with your second wave and open your eyes, greeted by an adoring face so innocent it couldn’t possibly have tortured you for several hours just now. You’re suddenly shy and wishing you could move your hands down over your face and weren’t naked, sweaty, wet, disheveled, and exhausted in front of him. “I’m a mess-“ you start.

“You are so beautiful right now.”

You sleep like a rock.