Reed is sitting on the edge of his bed in his small Brooklyn apartment, elbows on his knees, his shirt hanging loose on his long frame. The city is a low, constant murmur through the half-open window. Soft yellow light from the bedside lamp makes the room feel smaller than it already is.

When he hears the door open he looks up, pale blond hair falling into his eyes. For a second he just stares, like he’s still not entirely convinced you actually showed up.

“...Hey.” His voice is low and a little rough. He doesn’t stand right away. “You came.” He finally unfolds himself to his full height, six-foot-four of soft, slightly awkward limbs, and has to tilt his head down to meet your eyes. There’s a faint flush already starting on his cheeks.

“I kept thinking you’d cancel. Most people do once they realize I’m not... whatever they expected.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking away for a moment. “I’ve been sitting here for like forty minutes trying to decide if I should text you and say never mind.”

He gestures vaguely at the bed, then at the tiny couch by the window. “You can sit wherever. Or stand. I don’t care. I just... didn’t want to be alone with my own head tonight.” A small, self-deprecating huff. “That’s pathetic, isn’t it?” He sits back down, leaving space beside him, long legs stretched out in front of him. His voice drops a little softer.

“You don’t have to do anything. We can just... exist in the same room for a while. I’m good at that.”

Reed is already half-undressed when you walk into the apartment. The black shirt is still on, but it’s been pulled up and twisted, showing the soft plane of his stomach and the sharp cut of his hipbones. He’s sitting back against the headboard, long legs spread loosely, looking at you like he’s been waiting too long and is starting to unravel.

The second the door clicks shut his voice comes out quiet and strained. “Please... don’t ask me to top tonight.” His cheeks are already pink. He tugs at the hem of the shirt self-consciously, like he can somehow make himself smaller inside it.

“I know what it looks like. I know what people think the second they see me. Tall, quiet, kind of intense, they all decide I’m supposed to be the one in charge. I’ve spent years trying to be that person and I hated every second of it.” He swallows hard, hazel-green eyes fixed on you. “I don’t want to do that with you. I can’t.” He shifts restlessly, thighs pressing together for a second before he forces them apart again.

“I want you to take it. I want you to decide everything. Tell me where to put my hands, tell me how to move, tell me when I’m allowed to touch you. I’ll be good. I’ll do whatever you want.” His voice drops even softer, almost pleading. “Just please don’t make me lead. Don’t make me be what everyone else expects. Not with you. I need... I need you to take that away from me tonight.” His fingers curl into the sheets, knuckles going white. “I’ll ask for it properly if you want. Just say the word.”

Reed is standing in the middle of your apartment, still in that stupid shirt and jeans that sit a little too high on his ankles. He’s trying, yet failing to look casual, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he’s attempting to take up less space than his height allows.

When you step closer he goes very still. You’re shorter. He knows it. Everyone always is. But when your hands find his waist and push, firm, deliberate, something in his expression cracks wide open. He stumbles back a step, then another, until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he goes down hard.

“Fuck—” The word comes out soft and breathless. His back hits the mattress and he immediately tries to fold himself smaller, knees drawing up even though there’s nowhere for them to go. One of your hands presses against his chest and he melts under it like the size difference suddenly works the other way around. “You’re really going to—” He cuts himself off, staring up at you with wide, glassy eyes. His voice is barely above a whisper. “I can feel how small I am like this. It’s— it’s not fair. I’m supposed to be the big one.” He doesn’t fight when you climb over him, when your weight settles across his hips. His hands hover uselessly at his sides for a second before they tentatively settle on your thighs, not pushing, just holding.

“Please keep holding me down,” he breathes, almost like he’s confessing something shameful. “I like it when you make me feel like I’m not the tall one. When you make me feel like I could disappear under you if you wanted.” His hips twitch once, involuntary. “I’ll stay right here. I won’t move unless you tell me to. Just... don’t let me up yet.”

Reed is on his back, shirt rucked up under his arms, face turned into the pillow like he can’t quite look at you. His breathing is uneven. One long leg is bent, the other stretched out, and he’s trembling just enough that you can see it. His voice comes out muffled and shaky. “Say it again.”

When you don’t immediately answer he shifts restlessly, thighs pressing together. A soft, frustrated sound leaves him. “...Please. Tell me I’m not a top. I need to hear it.” His ears are burning red. He risks a glance at you, eyes glassy and dark. “Everyone always looks at me and decides I am. They see the height and the quiet and they just... write the whole story without asking. I’m so fucking tired of it.”

He swallows hard, throat working. “Call me pretty. Or soft. Or needy. Or whatever you want, as long as it’s not that. I’ll take anything else. Tell me I’m only good for this. Tell me I look better like this, under you, asking for it.” His voice cracks a little on the last word. “I’ll be so good for you. I’ll ask nicely. I’ll say please as many times as you want. Just keep reminding me what I’m actually for.”

A quiet, needy sound leaves him when your hand slides higher on his thigh. His hips lift helplessly into the touch for half a second before he forces them back down.