#GOD......SO MANY MORE QUESTIONS......AND YET... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jacksabbotts · 10 hours ago

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SPENCER REID x FEM!BSF!READER . ᵒ . ➛ TW explicit sexual content, sexual themes involving power imbalance ( e.g., inexperience vs. experience ), intense psychological/emotional vulnerability, erotic language and descriptions, dubious consent fantasy elements ( phase one spencer’s secret masturbation / voyeuristic context ), praise kink, degradation kink, overstimulation, edging, etc. depending on phase, masturbation ( solo + mutual ), deep internal monologues bordering on obsession, insecurity-based arousal and shame, light manipulation ( reader teasing ), sexually explicit metaphors and imagery, reference to past trauma/insecurity ( emotional, not physical ), swearing, explicit dialogue

. ᵒ . ➛ AUTHORS NOTES this took absolutely forever, im sorrrry to the anon who first requested it. and to my first request anon ( i dub thee 🌟 bc you are a STARRRR! ) this is Freaky ( with a Capital F just like you asked 😏 and tumblr freakin ate your ask while i was replying to it lmao ). also every letter has four phases to coincide with each phase of spencer as shown on the series masterlist ( that is why it took literally forever for me to finish this ). it is not required to read the other parts of the series, but it will give some context. this is only A-L, part two is M-Z ( had break it up bc tumblr would let me post that many words lmao )

. ᵒ . ➛ WORD COUNT ~ 16.2k

masterlist | series masterlist | dividers by @cafekitsune | join the taglist | requested!!!

a is for aftercare ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

it takes spencer exactly one second after coming to regret it. not the act—never the act—but the idea that maybe he was too rough, or too quiet, or too eager, or not eager enough. that maybe you didn't enjoy yourself as much as he needed you to.

so the second your body stills beneath him, spencer is already scanning you for signs of distress. his breathing is heavy, uneven, and so is yours—but his is more panicked. yours is post-orgasmic. he can’t quite tell the difference yet.

his hand, shaky and trembling, cups the side of your face with the kind of delicate awe reserved for museum glass and rare books. 'did i—are you okay?' he asks. 'please tell me i didn’t… was it too much?'

you smile. you try to speak, but your lips are swollen and your body is jelly. he looks utterly torn, its almost adorable.

he doesn’t move off of you right away—he’s too worried that pulling away too fast will hurt you somehow. he’s never done this before. not like this. not with you. so when he does pull out, it’s slow, like he’s afraid you’ll break. his eyes flicker to where your bodies part, and he flushes from the neck up.

he doesn’t say it out loud, but something about seeing your slick on him short-circuits his brain and then he’s up—naked and fumbling, asking you where the towels are even though this was his apartment and they are his towels. he brings back a warm one from the bathroom, mumbling an apology every time he dabs too close to a sensitive spot.

'sorry—sorry. i’m so sorry. i shouldn’t have—no, wait, that’s not right, i wanted to, i just—god, i hope that was good for you.'

once he’s convinced you’re okay, he clambers back into bed with a gentleness that breaks your heart a little. he wraps himself around you, one arm across your waist, lips pressed to your temple like a benediction.

there’s a moment of silence. then he whispers against your hair: 'was it ok?' the question was actually quite ridiculous for the moment because your sweaty bodies were pressed together in every single way possible and you were almost a hundred percent sure you were still shaking in post-orgasmic thrill.

his soft cock had drifted while he wiggled to get comfort. now sitting comfortably between your slick hot thighs and you wondered if he could feel the way you were still leaking for him, despite your oversensitivity.

spencer reid in phase one is the kind of man who would tuck your hair behind your ear, ask if you need water, offer to rub your back, ask again if you're sure you're okay, and then lie awake for hours watching you sleep—not in a creepy way, but in a 'how did I get this lucky' way.

and just before he finally dozes off, he murmurs it. barely audible. barely brave enough. 'i want to be good at this for you.'

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

you’ve barely caught your breath before he’s already on you.

not sexually—affectionately. his fingers are already ghosting down your arm, across your waist, smoothing along the softest parts of you like he’s trying to calm a storm he started.

he’s flushed, hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. you’re both a little wrecked—your legs shaky, your lips kiss-bruised—and yet spencer looks at you like he’s still starved.

'okay?' he whispers, even though your whimpering praise had all but answered that minutes ago.

his thumb brushes over your cheekbone, then down your neck—his hand slipping possessively over the curve of your shoulder. you nod, and he melts. 'you looked so pretty like that,' he murmurs. 'fucking beautiful.'

his words come easier now. praise and sweetness. he mumbles them into your hair. into your throat. into the flushed skin just beneath your collarbone as he starts to kiss you again—not like before, not hungry or rushed. but soft.

'i don’t want you to move,' he tells you. 'i want you to stay just like this.'

but he moves anyway. forces himself up and out of the warm tangle of limbs, tugging on his boxers as he heads to the bathroom to get a warm washcloth. he cleans you up with the kind of devotion that borders on religious—murmuring soft apologies when you flinch, even if it’s just from sensitivity.

after, he gets back into bed and pulls you onto his chest.

'you were so good for me,' he breathes. 'i hope i was good for you too.' and then he holds you like a secret. like he’s scared someone might take you from him if he loosens his grip. his hand draws slow, absentminded shapes over the curve of your spine, and he’s so close to sleep—but his mouth keeps going.

'i think about you all the time.' he breaks off, suddenly shy. 'not just like this. i mean… always.' you smile against his chest. he kisses your forehead, and that’s when you know : he doesn’t just want to be inside you. he wants to be in your life.

he wants the nights and the mornings and everything in between.

spencer reid in phase two aftercare is clingy, chatty, and deliciously lovesick. he praises you so much you nearly blush. he cleans you up like it’s a sacred act. and he falls asleep curled around you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded to earth.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

you're panting, wrung the fuck out and barely coherent.

and spencer is still looking at you like he wants more, but he doesn’t touch. at least not right away. because you’re trembling, and that makes something primal in him snap—the same way it did when he came into you ( in to a condom, because this is still fresh ) while growling how tight and perfect you felt around his cock.

his hand goes straight to your thigh, fingers splayed, grounding you. his touch is a brand now—you belong to me etched into your skin without a word.

'you’re shaking,' he says, voice low. almost scolding. he doesn’t mean to, but his voice is rougher now. post-sex spencer doesn’t speak with his usual soft concern—he’s wrecked. so gone for you he’s trying to hold himself together.

'you okay, baby?'

he waits. makes you meet his eyes and when you nod—barely able to muster the strength—he exhales like he’d been holding his breath since the second he came.

then he moves. fast, comically so.

he practically scoops you up, tucking you into his lap, one arm locking around your waist while his other hand starts rubbing down your back. he’s whispering now—urgent and reverent.

'you were perfect. you’re so perfect.' 'i don’t think i’ll ever get over that.' 'you’re not allowed to leave. you hear me? not after that.'

he keeps petting you—down your spine, over your ribs, behind your neck. he needs you close. needs to touch you. he’s not done claiming you, even if the sex part is over.

and when he finally lays you down to clean you up?

he’s all focus.

gentle hands. kiss to your knee. apology when he sees the marks he left. another kiss to each one.

'you okay?' 'you need water?' 'do you feel sore? i can—' he stops, swallows. then adds softly : 'i don’t want to hurt you. i never want to hurt you.'

it’s quiet for a minute while he takes care of you. you’re too soft to speak. too warm. too full of love and dopamine.

he climbs back into bed behind you—wraps his entire body around you like he can physically shield you from the world. you smile. then melt as his hand splays over your belly and pulls you back, snug against his chest.

he doesn’t sleep for hours.

he just holds you. watches you. breathes you in like a drug. and when you wake sometime near sunrise, you’ll find his fingers still tangled in yours.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

you’re gone.

totally used up—back arched, legs still twitching, your throat raw from begging him not to stop.

you’ve come more times than you can count. you’ve even cried a little and he hasn’t even come yet.

he’s too focused on you.

so when your body finally collapses into the mattress, trembling and marked from his hands, teeth, belt—spencer drops the act like a switch flipped.

his whole body softens.

'hey. you with me, sweetheart?'

he’s off the bed in seconds—wet washcloth in hand, water bottle already opened, blanket pulled over your shoulders before you can shiver. one of his hands rubs small circles into your back while the other brushes sweaty hair off your forehead.

'there you are,' he whispers. 'there’s my pretty girl.'

gone is the man who just made you cry while choking on his cock. gone is the man who called you his little slut while he fingered you until your voice broke and the sheets soaked.

now? now he’s your spencer. your everything. and he’s treating you like something fragile and holy.

'drink for me,' he says, voice low. 'just a few sips.'

you’re so far gone all you can do is let him guide the bottle to your lips. you drink. he watches.

then he kisses you.

soft, so fucking soft. barely there. not to start anything. just to ground you.

'you’re okay. you did so good for me. the best i’ve ever had.'

you start to whimper—emotional, overwhelmed—and spencer immediately hushes you. 'i know, baby. i know. you’re okay. i’ve got you.'

he lies beside you, pulling you into his chest, hand sliding over your chest to feel your heartbeat. not sexual—he just needs proof you’re real.

because after what you let him do to you? after the filth he spilled into your ear, the bruises he left behind, the way you smiled through it?

he’s never loved anyone more and he can’t let go. not now. not ever.

he presses a kiss to your temple. one to your neck. one to every fingertip.

you mumble something—half-conscious—and he whispers back :

'i’ll run you a bath when you’re ready.' 'you don’t have to move. i’ll carry you.' 'i’ll clean the sheets. just sleep, my sweet girl. just sleep.'

and you drift off—head on his chest, safe and warm—before you can even make it to the tub.

b is for body part ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

your thighs. specifically : the soft, warm, needy flesh of them grinding against him in your sleep.

he can’t un-feel it.

that night in the hotel bed changed everything. you were asleep, sure. dreaming. unaware. but your legs had wrapped around his like you were meant to be there. your knee had pressed right into his aching cock and your hips had rocked, and you had moaned, and he had listened to all of it—biting his lip and gripping the sheets while he jacked off beside you like a man possessed.

now he can’t stop looking at your thighs.

he stares when you wear pencil skirts. he flushes when you fold your legs beside him on the jet. he remembers the weight of your leg slung over his, how slick you’d been. how warm. how tight.

when you finally touch him again—really touch him—he’ll gasp when you climb onto his lap. his hands will go straight to your thighs. his mouth will follow.

because now he knows how they feel. he just wants to know how they taste.

his neck.

specifically : the spot just below his ear.

it started by accident.

you had leaned in to whisper something during a case briefing, and your lips had brushed that tender patch of skin. he’d flinched. his ears had gone red. and you’d smiled, because now you had intel.

you start doing it more often. leaning in too close. tilting your head so your breath tickles just below his jaw. he gets so flustered—and then you’re grinning to yourself for the next hour.

but then, he tells you what happened that night. the wet dream. the fact that he stayed perfectly still while your moans and movements drove him to finish in that shared bed.

you’re not mad. not at all.

in fact, the next time you two are alone, you tilt his chin, lean in, and press a kiss—right there.

his hands fly to your waist. his breath shudders and you whisper, 'told you that spot would kill you.'

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

your mouth.

at this stage, spencer is deep in the 'i should not be thinking this' phase. he is riddled with guilt and confusion—obsessed with you in a way that makes his stomach hurt. and it starts with your mouth.

he watches it constantly. when you talk. when you laugh. when you bite your lip while reading something. when you lick whipped cream off your spoon at the coffee shop and he nearly drops his book.

and then there’s your smile—that teasing little i know what i’m doing to you smirk that haunts him at night.

he’s not proud of it, but he thinks about it. ahat your mouth would look like wrapped around his cock. would you drool as he pushed it is as far down your throat as he could, would you gag. what you’d sound like if he kissed you, really kissed you, until your lips were red and swollen and desperate.

he knows he shouldn’t, but that’s what makes it worse. 'she probably doesn’t even mean to do it,' he tells himself. 'or maybe she does. god. maybe she knows. maybe she knows exactly what she’s doing.'

and suddenly he’s hard again.

for you, its his hands. no contest.

you stare at them all the time.

long, elegant fingers that twitch when he’s nervous, that spin pens and fiddle with sugar packets. that brush over file folders like they’re something sacred. that tug at his tie when he’s flustered.

and then you imagine them doing everything else. gripping your hips. curling inside you. pinning your wrists down. gripping the headboard while he finally loses control.

you’re not subtle about it either. you give him pens just to watch him fiddle. you touch his fingers unnecessarily when passing case files. you make excuses to show him things on your phone so he’ll hover behind you, hand braced on the desk beside your thigh.

you love his hands and you can’t wait to find out what else they can do.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

your hips.

specifically : the dip where your waist curves into the bone—where he can grip, pull, anchor.

by now, he knows. knows you’re teasing him. knows you want him just as bad. and when he finally gets to touch you, spencer’s hands will find your hips first. like he’s been waiting for permission to hold you still.

he’s bolder now. his hands splay over your curves like he owns them. not out of dominance, but worship—because they’ve haunted his dreams. he uses your hips like a map and a metronome: holding you down when you grind against him, guiding your pace when you ride him for the first time.

his fingers leave light bruises. his mouth presses kisses along every inch he can reach. and when you whimper and tell him you can’t take anymore, he digs his fingers just a little deeper into the flesh there and says:

'yes, you can. stay still for me, sweetheart. i need—god, i need to feel you take it.'

and when you do?

he falls apart all over again.

its still his hands. ( what can you say? )

specifically : his fingers. the ones that turn pages and cradle coffee cups—and now, fuck you so tender it makes your whole body tremble. because when spencer finally stops hesitating—when he chooses to put those brilliant, clever fingers on you—everything changes.

he learns fast. he asks questions. he watches your body and listens to what it needs. when you tell him how to touch you, he doesn’t just obey—he memorizes. he practices. he wants to be perfect for you.

and he is. you could write essays about his fingers. the way he curls them just right. the way his thumb finds your clit like he was born to touch it. the way he looks up at you from between your thighs, glasses fogged, tongue out, and murmurs, 'that’s it, baby. show me how you like it.'

you love his hands so much, you start holding them all the time. in meetings. on walks. under tables. over your chest while he fucks you slow.

one day you say, 'god, spence—your hands are perfect.'

he’ll blush, because of course he will, but later that night? he’ll say—

'you like them better here?' as he slides two fingers into your pussy.

'or here?' as his palm presses flat against your tummy while he fucks you from behind.

'or maybe…' as he brushes your hair back, cups your cheek, and kisses you so deep you forget your name.

and the answer is always:

yes.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

your throat.

and not just for the obvious reasons. ( though those reasons definitely count. )

in this phase, sspencer’s obsession sharpens. the playfulness of phase one, the awe of phase two, the worship of phase three—it all fuses into something hot and dangerous and feral in the best fucking way.

he loves your throat because he can watch it work when you swallow his cum.

he loves your throat because he can feel your moans vibrate against his palm when he gently wraps his hand around it.

he loves your throat because he can lean in during an argument and whisper—

'careful. you keep pushing, and i’m gonna fuck you until your voice breaks.'

and the next morning?

he’ll kiss your sore throat better. with tea and honey and guilt-laced affection.

but he’ll still smirk when you flinch a little at the memory of him growling 'open for me' with your head tilted back against the wall.

he touches your throat when he’s soft, too. when he’s falling asleep with your pulse against his fingertips. when you say something tender and he cups your jaw like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

because at the end of the day, it’s not just about sex. it’s about how you make him feel alive. how he wants to feel your heartbeat to remind himself : she’s real. this is real. i don’t have to be alone anymore.

his cock. there’s no delicate way to say it.

you love everything about him—his brain, his hands, his back, his mouth—but by phase four?

his cock is your new religion.

and it's not just about the size ( though it’s so good, thick and long and pretty, flushed pink with that slight curve that drives you insane ). it’s not even just how he uses it ( though that’s gotten filthy, hasn’t it? ). it’s the way he loses control when you give it attention.

you touch him and he unravels. you lick him and he whimpers. you ride him and he worships.

you love how vocal he is. how needy he gets. how he tries to hold back but always ends up begging.

'please—god, please, don’t stop.' as you hollow your cheeks and suck.

'feels so good, sweetheart. you feel so fucking good.' as you grab his thigh and force him to go further into you your mouth.

'i can’t—i’m gonna come. gonna come for you, baby—please—' as his tip grazes down your throat.

you can feel how much he wants you in every thrust. every twitch. every desperate grip on your hips, your thighs, your jaw.

you love how his cock fits in your mouth. how it stretches your cunt. how it leaks like he’s been ready for you—like he’s just been waiting for permission to ruin you.

you’ll tell him, breathless and smug and completely fucked-out :

'this is mine, spence. all of it.'

and he’ll say, without hesitation— 'yours. always.'

phase four is not about restraint.

it’s about relief.

the full-body exhale after holding back for too long.

c is for cum ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer hasn’t meant to cum in any of these early moments of phase one. he’s not even thinking about orgasm as a goal. he’s just trying to survive.

you’ve kissed him once—maybe twice. you’ve touched him barely. you’ve said a few devastating things that hit him square in the libido and then acted like you didn’t even notice. he doesn’t know what’s allowed, what’s wanted, what’s imagined, and what’s real.

all he knows is cock has never behaved this way before.

it’s always messy. always mortifying. always unexpected. he finishes :

in his pants in the jet bathroom after you text and ask he needs help with his hard on that you most definitely caused.

in his bedroom the night that you ask 'did you think about me when you touched yourself on the jet?' in the middle of the bullpen when he was supposed to be doing paperwork.

in his hand while guilt-jacking it to the sound of you moaning his name and fucking yourself on his thigh. and then again in the shower to the memory of your soaked thighs grinding on him in your sleep.

in your car, when your hand slips over his clothed cock and strokes him so sweetly he doesn’t even get the chance to warn you—he just chokes out your name, spills over his boxers, and pants apologies like a sinner in a confessional.

every single time, he’s horrified by how quickly he comes. every single time, he spirals afterward.

'i’m so sorry, i didn’t mean to— i can clean it up— i just— you— i— i didn’t—'

he doesn’t understand how you can stay so calm. he thinks he’s ruined everything. ( he hasn’t )

you’re just sitting pretty, pretending not to be the orchestrator of his entire sexual collapse.

his thoughts rang from, 'you’re disgusting' to 'you couldn’t even hold out thirty seconds' to 'she’s going to laugh in your face.'

you’ve seen it all—his stammering, his blushing, the way he avoids eye contact after he finishes like a schoolboy caught passing a dirty note.

you just smile.

'don’t worry, spence,' you tell him. 'we’ll work on your stamina next time.'

his soul leaves his body.

his cock twitches again.

he has no idea what to do with you.

he doesn’t just like cumming—he likes cumming because of you.

the way you say his name when you know he’s close.

the way your fingers wrap around him, just curious, just careful.

the way you don’t make fun of him when he spills too fast, too hard, too full of want.

he starts to crave the release—but also the praise. the tiny gasps you make when he moans. the way your lips part when you realize he’s close. the look on your face when you ruin him.

by the end of phase one, he’s still shy, still guilt-ridden, still unsure.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

you’ve had the talk.

you know that he knows about the wet dream. the handjob. the shower.

you were not mad. you were turned on. which honestly broke spencer’s brain for a second.

now you’re in this hazy, delicious middle-ground : not dating. not just friends. definitely not innocent.

and he’s discovering something about himself : you make him needy.

this is mutual masturbation territory. the first time you both do it in front of each other, it starts slow. you’re teasing him verbally like always—just soft whispers :

'show me how you do it when i’m not there.' 'do you touch yourself when you think about the car?' 'tell me what you think about when you come.'

he resists—at first. but he’s so worked up, he’s aching. you don’t touch him this time. not directly. you just sit there, legs parted, fingertips teasing your waistband.

and spencer—god.

he fists his cock, groaning your name before he can even stop himself. it’s messy. loud. gut-wrenching. he finishes fast again, but this time he doesn’t spiral.

this time you tell him :

'good boy.'

and spencer ascends.

she wants to see me come. she likes it. she touches herself thinking about me. she touches herself for me. i can let her watch.

his orgasm isn’t just physical anymore—it’s performative in the best way. he still feels a little shy, but he’s starving for your reaction.

he loves the gasp you make when he leaks down his own fist. he loves the tiny moan you let out when he pants your name.

he loves that you keep your eyes on him the whole time.

'don’t stop watching,' he begs one night, breathless.

and you don’t.

spencer doesn’t want to cum alone anymore.

he wants to be beside you, across from you, under you—whatever it takes to feel that connection when he finally lets go. he’s beginning to understand that pleasure isn’t something to be ashamed of, especially not when it’s with you.

and he’s starting to think…

maybe you don’t want to stop. maybe this isn’t just a phase. maybe this is becoming something more.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

at this point, the gloves are off—literally and metaphorically. you and spencer are doing it. regularly. desperately. obsessively.

he’s still your best friend, still sweet, still babbles post-orgasm, but now?

he begs. he curses. he cries when you edge him long enough. and when he comes—it’s an event.

spencer doesn’t just cum in phase three. he falls apart. he crumbles. he writhes. he gasps your name like it’s sacred.

you’ve figured out the exact way to ruin him :

two fingers under his jaw to make him look at you, a filthy praise-whisper in his ear ( like 'don’t you dare finish until i say so' )

a rhythm that he’s not allowed to break

he asks permission now, every time. he says it like he’s going to die if you say no.

'please, i can’t—please let me—i want to be good, i need—'

sometimes you say yes. sometimes you wait until he’s shaking so hard he’s tearing up. when you finally say 'now,' he explodes. and then he thanks you for it, breathlessly, repeatedly, until you kiss the words off his mouth.

this isn’t just about lust anymore. this is emotional. sensory. total surrender.

spencer doesn’t care if he whimpers, or moans, or sobs into your chest. he doesn’t care if he cums too fast or too hard or too loud.

he just wants you. every second. every nerve. every ruined breath.

spencer finally understands that pleasure can be exquisite and still be safe. that it’s okay to need something intense—because you make it okay.

he learns how far he can go. how much he can take. and that the second he looks into your eyes and says 'i can’t take it'—you’ll say 'yes, you can. just one more for me, baby.'

and he will.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

sex with spencer is no longer about discovery—it’s devotion. not just heat, not just hunger—it’s soul-deep, bone-shaking, terrifyingly good.

when spencer finishes now?

it’s slow. it’s tender. it’s devastating.

he comes with his face buried in your neck, your name whispered like a prayer, body trembling from restraint he’s long since lost. he holds you tighter than ever—like he thinks you’ll disappear if he lets go.

there’s no shame now. no guilt. no second-guessing. he wants you to see him fall apart.

you’ve seen him cry with your name on his lips.

you’ve watched him come so hard he can’t stay upright after. you’ve whispered things in his ear that he’ll remember on his deathbed. you’ve taken him apart and put him back together a hundred times—and he trusts you to do it again.

spencer cums with complete surrender in phase four. he holds eye contact. he holds your hand. he might say thank you, might say fuck, i need you, might just say more.

you don’t need a rhythm anymore. you just need him. and he just needs you.

he no longer begs to finish—he just asks where.

''inside you?' 'on your stomach?' 'your chest?' 'your mouth?'

and when you tell him?

he listens.

he obeys.

and he thanks you like you’ve given him a gift every single time.

d is for dirty talk ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer doesn’t mean to talk dirty.

he honestly can’t help it when he is around you.

it’s less about confidence and more about desperation—the kind that leaks out when he’s too worked up to self-censor. he’s not giving you a rehearsed fantasy; he’s muttering the exact, raw thoughts spinning through his spiraling brain.

his mouth moves faster than his filter, and that’s what makes it so devastating.

it’s accidental, breathless, panicked arousal.

'f-fuck, d-don’t stop—don’t stop, please—' 'god, do you even know what you’re doing to me?' 'i’m not gonna make it. i’m not—i can’t—'

he says the quiet parts out loud. things he meant to keep to himself, things like :

'i think about your mouth when i’m trying to work.' 'i’ve imagined you doing this since the first time i saw you.' 'you’re so fucking pretty it hurts.'

sometimes he gasps things he doesn’t realize are audible. whispers against your throat when he’s too far gone to care.

'you’re evil.' 'i’m so hard it hurts.'

and the worst part? he blushes as soon as he realizes he’s said any of it out loud. he’ll try to backpedal. stammer an apology. hide his face in your shoulder and groan :

'i didn’t mean to say that—oh my god—forget i said that—'

but you never do.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

he’s evolving.

there’s still shyness. still blushes. still that nervous energy thrumming just under the surface—but something’s shifted. he knows now that you want him. that you like him. that he doesn’t have to keep everything locked behind his teeth.

so he starts experimenting.

and once he gets a taste of how wrecked his words make you? he can’t stop. he doesn’t always say it smoothly. but when it lands? it lands hard.

'you wore that on purpose, didn’t you?' 'you like being a distraction? fine. now you’ve got my full attention.'

sometimes, it’s soft and reverent. other times, it’s ragged—growled through gritted teeth while he’s rutting into you with a rhythm that makes your toes curl.

'you’re so fucking soft.' 'you don’t even know what you do to me.' 'i think about you like this all the time.'

and sometimes—just sometimes—he whispers what he wants to do next.

'i want you to moan my name.' “let me be on top.”

he doesn’t realize how filthy he sounds. He’s still shocked when you moan louder in response. Still stunned when your eyes roll back because of a sentence that just slipped out of his mouth.

but god, does he love your reactions. they feed him. they build him. and the more he gets? the bolder he becomes.

there are moments in phase two where the dirty talk becomes domineering. not because he wants power—but because he craves your submission. not control. not force.

just need.

you’ll see it in the way he pants :

'tell me you want me.' 'say it. say it again.'

and when you do? he’ll lose every last shred of composure he worked so hard to keep.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

phase three spencer reid is dangerous.

not because he’s cruel—never that. but because he knows exactly what he’s doing now.

he’s past the blushing. past the guilt. past wondering if he’s imagining it when you tremble at his words.

he knows what gets you there and he uses it.

ohhh, he use it.

dirty talk in phase three isn’t just filth for the sake of it. it’s a fucking strategy. he says things that no man should say in that voice. that low, velvety, wicked voice.

'is that what you needed, baby? my fingers in you, nice and deep?' 'i can feel you clenching. you’re already close, aren’t you? you get off on this.' 'you’ve been teasing me for weeks. you earned this.'

he’s a scholar of your body now—knows how it ticks. he maps it with his mouth. marks it with his words.

'you’re my favorite thing to study.'

phase three spencer is a goddamn menace when you’re on the edge. he talks you there. keeps you there. then backs off, just to hear you whine.

'beg for it. say please, and maybe i’ll let you come.' 'look at you. fucking soaking. did i do this to you?' 'this pussy’s mine now, you know that, right?'

he’s smug. he��s relentless, but he’s so attentive.

when you fall apart?

he’s right there to whisper it into your hair :

'that’s it, baby. that’s my girl. so perfect for me, soakin my fingers.'

by now, he’s not afraid to name things. to ask for things. he’ll even suggest them with that casual, scholarly tone.

'next time, i want your hands tied.' 'would you let me film you coming for me?' 'let’s try that thing you looked up last night, sweetheart. i saw your search history.'

you will combust and he will smile.

because phase three spencer reid knows he’s got you wrapped around his long, clever fingers—and that his voice alone is enough to bring you to your knees.

he’s filth. he’s power. he’s a walking, talking thesis on how to fuck someone senseless using only words.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four spencer reid is unrecognizable from the bashful, blushing boy he used to be. he's still sweet. still soft. but only after. because when he’s inside you?

he’s filthy. he's unhinged. he is fucking possessive.

and his dirty talk? it drips with ownership.

at this stage, you belong to him—and he makes sure you feel it in every word.

'you’re gonna take it, baby. you’re gonna take every inch, just like that.' 'so cockdrunk you forgot your own name, huh? good thing you only need to remember mine.' 'i love how loud you get when i fuck you deep. you know the neighbors hear you, right?'

he says it right into your mouth. into your ear. onto your skin as he bites your shoulder to keep from moaning too loud himself.

he doesn’t hold back anymore—not with his thrusts, and not with his mouth.

phase four spencer doesn’t ask. he tells.

'open your legs wider. that’s it.' 'put your hands behind your head—i want you to watch your tits bounce when you come.' 'rub your clit for me. come on now.'

and the moment you hesitate, he chuckles—darkly.

'what’s wrong, sweetheart? suddenly shy? you weren’t shy when you begged for my cock in the elevator.'

he talks you through every orgasm. describes it in real time.

'look at that. you’re shaking so hard. so fucking pretty when you come for me.'

he toes the line between worship and ruin.

'you’re such a fucking mess for me, baby. ruined that pretty pussy on my fingers alone.' 'you beg so well, i almost feel bad teasing you. almost.' 'god, i love it when you cry like this. you wanna come that bad, huh?'

then—without fail—he’ll pull you close, brush the hair from your face, and murmur :

'mine. all mine.'

because phase four spencer is possessive in the bedroom. gentle outside of it. but here? in the dark? on your knees?

he’s merciless.

and the worst part?

he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

e is for experience ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

he is, in a word, inexperienced. but don’t confuse that with clueless.

he’s a genius, after all and the fact that he hasn’t done much? only makes everything ten times hotter.

he knows the mechanics. he knows every scientific study on erogenous zones. can recite entire Kinsey reports from memory.

but when it comes to you?

to your bare skin under his trembling hands? he's overwhelmed to say the least.

'you feel… so much softer than i expected. not that i—i wasn’t imagining, i just—'

he blushes. he stammers. he can’t stop looking. you catch him staring at your bra like it’s a quantum puzzle. he’ll murmur things like :

'i didn’t think i’d ever get this close to someone like you.' 'are you… sure you want me to…?' 'what do you like? i want to… get it right.'

he’s terrified he’ll mess it up. that you’ll compare him to someone else. that he won’t know what to do with his hands. ( he doesn’t. )

so you guide him and when he listens? he really listens. the first time he kisses down your stomach, it’s not smooth. it’s hesitant and careful. like he’s afraid you’ll evaporate if he goes too fast.

but when your fingers thread into his hair and you sigh—he exhales like he’s been blessed.

'i didn’t know it would feel this… electric.'

afterward, he fumbles to pull your shirt down.

'are you okay? did i—was it… okay for you?'

you tell him yes. of course.

but that’s not enough for him. he wants proof.

he wants to memorize every twitch, every moan, every breath you took while wrapped around him.

because he doesn’t just want to be good at sex.

he wants to be good for you.

and phase one spencer reid?

he may be inexperienced but he learns very fast.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

he has done a lot of thinking and a lot of touching.

most of it? behind closed doors. in the shower. in bed. in hotel bathrooms with a hand clamped over his mouth while replaying your voice in his head.

'did you think of me when you touched yourself on the jet last week?'

yeah. that question lives rent-free in his brain. he absolutely did. he still does.

he's still not experienced in the traditional sense but he’s mentally catalogued every sound you’ve made near him. he’s committed your reactions to memory—filed under 'use this to make her shake'.

he’s a little braver now. a little bolder.

he touches himself with you in mind. not just a vague fantasy version—you.

your voice. your laugh. the way you looked at him over your coffee that morning.

he strokes himself with your name on his tongue. sometimes he finishes faster than he wants to—because your smile is enough to undo him.

he hasn’t actually had sex with you. not yet.

but you’ve palmed him through his pants. you’ve whispered filthy things in his ear. you’ve brushed your lips against his jaw and asked, 'what are you thinking about, spence?' in the most devastating voice imaginable.

and he has so much pent-up experience now—secondhand, yes, but sharpened to a dangerous point by longing.

if he ever gets the chance?

he won’t just be good. he’ll be unhinged.

phase two spencer can tell you, with academic precision, exactly how to make a woman orgasm.

but he doesn’t need to anymore because by now?

he’s dreaming of your moans on a loop. he’s memorized the tension in your thighs when you tease him. he knows how it feels when you grind on his thigh in your sleep.

and maybe, when he’s alone—tugging at himself in the dark—he wonders what it would be like if you really touched him. if you watched. and maybe, maybe… he comes with your name on his lips.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

spencer reid is no longer imagining you.

he has you.

your body. your moans. your praise. your nails in his back. he knows what you taste like, sound like, look like when you fall apart—and he is addicted.

he might not have been your most experienced partner in the beginning, but by now? he’s borderline feral and his experience is intimately, exclusively, dangerously tailored to you.

the quietest man in the room is now the one who pins you to the mattress and fucks you so slowly you forget your own name.

he’s so hungry for you it’s embarrassing. he’s been studying—you, your body, your sounds—and he uses everything he’s learned. Every angle. every breath.

he’s not just a fast learner—he’s a devoted one and now that he knows how to get you to shake?

he won’t stop until you do.

he wants all of it.

not just your body. not just the high.

he wants the learning curve. he wants to memorize how your breath hitches when he curls his fingers just right. he wants to build you from the inside out. he wants to write essays in his head about what your pleasure sounds like.

and then he wants to make you sob it all over again.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

by phase four he not just experienced.

he is confident.

not cocky or careless. but deeply, devastatingly self-assured in the way only someone who’s loved you—known you—worshipped you—can be.

he knows what you need before you say it. he knows how to pull it from your throat before you think to beg. he doesn’t ask, 'did you like that?' anymore.

he tells you :

'yeah you liked that. i felt it.'

and then he does it again.

he takes his time—every time—because he knows how much it ruins you when he drags it out. he teases you not because he’s insecure, but because he knows exactly how to hold you on the edge.

knows how to touch you until your thighs shake and your eyes flutter and you’re whimpering his name like a prayer. knows when to still his fingers and whisper, 'you’re not ready yet. be patient.'

he doesn’t need to prove anything anymore.

you already taught him that he’s everything you want. now he wants to show you just how much he’s learned.

and oh, does he show you.

he’ll push your body to limits you didn’t know it had. hold you through overstimulation. whisper corrections when your hands shake too much to undo his belt properly.

'eyes on me, sweetheart. that’s it. you’re doing so good.'

his voice is deeper now when he’s buried inside you. thicker. rougher. laced with years of yearning and practice and love. and when you clench around him and cry out, trembling?

he kisses your damp cheek, strokes your hair, and murmurs :

'perfect. just like that. you gonna cum on my cock again, baby?'

because you made him this way.

all that teasing in phase one? all the longing in phase two? the holy-shit-i-can’t-believe-this-is-real wonder of phase three?

it’s all still there. but now, it’s funneled into the man above you. the one gripping your hips. the one fucking you like you’re the last person on earth.

and when he comes, he always comes deep. pressed flush against you, whispering broken things against your skin. sometimes your name. sometimes a full dissertation on how tight you are and how good your squeezing him.

f is for favorite position ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

he is in the deep end of uncharted waters now—flustered, overwhelmed, barely holding on by the thread of his last clean pair of slacks.

he’s never had to think about this before. favorite position? It’s a miracle he’s not short-circuiting from just imagining you naked.

still, if you pressed him—if you leaned in real close, batted your lashes, asked all sweet and sly—

'spence, tell me your favorite position…'

he’d stammer for a bit, push up his glasses, mutter something about how it’s really just about proximity to emotional intimacy and mutual safety—before quietly admitting:

'uh… probably missionary.'

and it’s not because he lacks imagination.

it’s because it’s the one where he gets to see you.

its because he wants to know what your face looks like when you come. because he wants to bury his head in your neck when it’s too much. because the thought of holding himself above you—watching you squirm, cry out, wrap your legs around him?

it's enough to make him absolutely combust.

'i think about it,' he’d whisper later. 'your legs hooked behind me. your hands in my hair. you saying my name like that…'

he never finishes the sentence. but the pink blooming in his cheeks tells you enough.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer is newly deflowered, in every possible way—emotionally, physically, spiritually ( you wrecked him, and he liked it ).

he’s no longer a trembling virgin, but he’s still awkward, reverent, and achingly in love with you. and now that he knows what it feels like—how your body fits under his, around him, on him—he’s hooked.

so what’s his favorite position?

You riding him. ( with his hands on your hips like you’re going to disappear. )

because it lets him watch everything.

your tits bouncing.

your mouth slack with pleasure.

your eyes—half-lidded, drunk on him.

and god help him if you grab his hands and press them to your chest. if you tell him to just relax and let you take care of him?

he melts. he melts.

he never realized how hot it would be to be so completely, deliciously used—until you leaned in and whispered :

'don’t think, baby. just feel.'

and now? he craves it.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

phase three spencer is a man transformed.

he’s confident and commanding. utterly insatiable. gone is the stammering virgin with trembling fingers. now he’s got your wrists pinned, your name on his tongue, and a roughness in his voice that should be illegal.

so what’s his favorite position?

from behind. but not just any kind of behind. chest to your back, one hand in your hair, the other on your throat or between your legs.

because he likes the control now. he likes watching your face in the mirror—your eyes fluttering, lips parted, that dazed expression he put there.

because it lets him guide your pace. whisper filth into your ear. wrap a hand around your throat and feel your pulse flutter every time he thrusts deeper.

he loves hearing you beg—loves how desperate you get when he slows down just to tease.

'spencer, please—' 'i know, sweetheart. i know. but i’m not done with you yet.'

and if you try to push back into him?

mistake. he’ll grip your hips so tight they’ll bruise, groan into your neck, and make you pay for being greedy.

in the best way, of course.

his second favorite?

over his desk. clothes bunched. legs shaking. he still files his reports at that desk—still thinks about it every time he sits down.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four spencer is devastating.

he’s not just confident—he’s obsessed. comfortable in your body. in his own. in you. everything he does now is deliberate, filthy, and tailored to exactly what he knows makes you lose it.

so what’s his favorite position?

reverse cowgirl. with your back arched, his hands gripping your hips, and his eyes locked on the way you take him.

because spencer is completely gone for you.

it’s visual torture in the best way.

he gets to watch the drag of your body as you sink down onto him. see the bounce, the reverberation, the pure sin of it. trace every curve with greedy, possessive eyes and run his hands over your ass, your waist, your thighs like he owns you ( because honestly at this point, he does, and you love it ).

'jesus christ, you look unreal,' he pants, watching your slick thighs tremble. 'i want you to see what you do to me—look.' he no longer waits for permission and he grabs your phone. records it. just for him. just for you.

when you grind? his hands slip to your stomach. one travels up, between your breasts, over your throat. he doesn’t choke—he holds.

firm. reverent. worshipful.

'you’re so perfect,' he whispers, voice wrecked. 'so fucking perfect. you were made for this.'

he lets you ride him whenever you want because spencer lives to be used by you, but when he initiates?

it’s slow, deep. utterly unforgiving.

and after?

he kisses every inch of you. tells you how beautiful you looked, how good you were for him. strokes your skin like it’s priceless.

g is for goofy ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ all phases

goofy spencer is endearing in every single way, but in phase one—before either of you has admitted what’s going on—it’s especially adorable.

because he doesn’t mean to be funny. he’s just… spencer.

starts rambling mid-flirt because he’s nervous. you’ll say, 'you always this red when you get teased?' and he’ll launch into a fact about vasodilation and increased blood flow until he realizes… you’re grinning at him.

laughs like a dork when you poke his side. like full-on snort. then gets embarrassed about it.

says something wildly inappropriate by accident and immediately panics:

'god, you’re just trying to ruin me.' then it sets in. 'i–um—i don’t mean ruin as in—you know—sexually—like—um—emotionally, i guess? or intellectually? . . . i’ll stop talking now.'

you catch him watching you one day and say, 'see something you like, dr. reid?' and spencer, deadpan, says :

'i was admiring the structural integrity of your penmanship.'

then immediately blushes so hard he has to turn away. ( he was definitely watching the curve of your ass. he just panicked.)

sometimes you flirt too well, and he fumbles.

'i bet i could make you come in under two minutes.' 'you mean… arrive? like… come over? because i live… farther? from here?” ( brain blue screens )

He’s the king of awkward giggles, scientific facts in very wrong moments, and accidentally saying 'moisture content' when talking about kissing.

and you?

you love every second of it.

h is for hair ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer doesn't mean to notice your hair the way he does.

he tells himself it’s harmless—just an idle observation. a scientific curiosity. aesthetic appreciation. nothing more.

but then you lean over your desk and it falls ( he’s catalogued all your hair textures in his mind like a walking pantone wheel of temptation ). he gets distracted—loses his train of thought mid-sentence because the overhead lights just hit you so—and his hands twitch like they want to touch. just one strand.

he imagines what it feels like constantly.

wonders whether it’s soft like cotton or heavy like silk. if it smells like your shampoo or like something that’s just you.

wonders what you’d do if he asked to tug on it.

wonders what kind of sound you’d make.

and when you sit next to him on the jet, nodding off after a long case, your head lolled gently toward him and your hair brushing his arm?

he wants to bury his face in it. suffocate in it. he wants to know what it would be like if your head was on his chest, not just his bicep.

he also thinks a lot about what’s underneath.

your pubic hair, specifically. ( he’s mortified by how often he thinks about it. )

are you shaved? trimmed? bare? natural? do you wax? do you care? would you let him see it? touch it? mouth it?

he bets it’s the same shade as what’s on your head. he bets it’s beautiful. he bets it would drive him out of his goddamn mind.

as for him?

he’s self-conscious about his own body hair. always has been.

his curls? he those tame, gelled behind his ears in phase one. wild they frame his face, soften his jawline, fall into his eyes when he’s reading. while he is working, his ear length hair is slicked back.

you’ve told him—casually—that you like his hair this length. called it cute. tugged it once teasingly. he thought about that for hours.

( you don’t know that he almost offered to let you braid it one night on the jet. he chickened out. he still regrets it. )

below the neck?

spencer keeps things neat but natural.

he trims down there, mostly for hygiene, but he doesn’t go fully bare—he read an article once about skin irritation and ingrown hairs and decided he’d rather not risk it. besides, he thinks you'd like it. think you’d scratch your nails lightly through it while you kissed your way down—

( he stops that thought every time. it never works. )

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

it starts with your shampoo.

that first night at his apartment—your first almost-date—you'd washed your hair in his shower. left his bathroom foggy and fragrant, the scent trailing behind you like perfume.

spencer didn’t mean to sniff the air like a lunatic.

but he did and then he buried his face in the throw blanket you'd wrapped around your shoulders and inhaled like a man starved.

he recognizes that scent now. knows it better than anything. can pinpoint it when you walk by in the bullpen, when you leave his desk after teasing him senseless. when you lean over the evidence board and your hair brushes the paper beside his hand—he feels it like a live wire.

he doesn’t stop there.

he touches.

when you lie on his couch watching reruns, he’ll sneak his hand up to cradle the back of your head. pretend it’s about comfort. stability. but really? he just wants to card his fingers through it. slowly. absentmindedly.

he plays with the ends while you ramble about something that isn't him. he knots it around his finger like he's tethering you to him.

he brushes it back from your cheek just to see your face—just to look—and his fingers linger too long every time.

you never complain. you never pull away. ( that might be what ruins him most. )

he hasn’t touched your hair down there yet. but god, he wants to. he’s thought about it. desperately. vividly. late at night, he curls a pillow behind his head and jacks off slow to the thought of your thighs pressed open for him. imagines what your pussy looks like—bare or trimmed or messy and soft.

he’s ready for anything. doesn’t care what’s there or what isn’t. he’d mouth over it either way, tug at it gently with his teeth if you let him. he thinks he’d love the texture of it on his tongue.

you’ve seen the hair on his chest now. not all of it—just a flash that first night he peeled off his sweater and sat beside you on the bed, pretending not to notice the way your eyes dropped.

he caught your glance and now he keeps the top few buttons of his shirts open on purpose. he doesn't know what you'd do if you saw the rest of it—the trail down his stomach, the soft hair dusting his thighs. but God, he wants to find out. he wants you to touch. to kiss. to tug when he fucks you so slow he makes you cry.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

he fists your hair when he kisses you.

not hard. not at first.

it starts gentle—curious fingers weaving through the strands at the nape of your neck, thumb tracing the shape of your skull like he’s cataloguing it. he tucks the hair behind your ear just so he can lean in and whisper something filthy, and when you shiver, he smiles.

but when your mouth opens beneath his?

when your tongue meets his, needy and greedy, and you tug at his shirt like you want to climb inside him—

he grabs a handful and he pulls. he learns quickly what you like.

how tilting your head just right makes you whimper. how soft tugs at your roots make you melt, but sharp ones make you gasp and clench around his fingers when they’re inside you.

he’s obsessed.

obsessed with the way your hair tangles in his sheets. with the way it clings to your forehead with sweat when he’s got his mouth buried between your legs. with how it smells, how it tastes when it gets caught between his teeth because he won’t stop kissing your neck long enough to push it away.

you get your revenge.

your fingers in his hair—curling in those long chestnut waves he never quite manages to tame. you thread your hand through them when he goes down on you, encouraging him, holding him in place like he isn’t already starving for you.

he never knew his hair could be such a weak spot until you tugged—really tugged—right as he made you come. he groaned like it hurt, like you’d dragged it out of his soul, and now he can’t stop chasing that sound.

his body hair becomes another fixation.

he’s always been shy about it—but never shaved his chest or his stomach, never trimmed anything but what seemed polite. now, he sees the way your eyes trail over him when he pulls off his shirt. sees the way your fingers stroke lower and lower when you’re curled together in bed, lips trailing after them.

and when your nails rake through the hair on his thighs as you sink to your knees in front of him? the way you grab his wrists and guide his own hands into your hair, making a makeshift ponytail. the way you groan against his heavy cock when he tugs on it hard.

he swears he blacks out for a second.

and when it’s over, when the sweat dries and the sheets are soaked and he’s still wrapped around you like he’ll die if you leave—he strokes your hair for hours. twirls it, studies it, kisses your temple through it.

he’ll bury his face in it when he thinks you’re asleep and whisper the things he’s not brave enough to say aloud.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

spencer is addicted.

not in the bashful, hesitant, slow-burn way he used to be. not even in the reverent awe. this is different. this is need. this is the way your hair lives on his pillow, the way your scent clings to his sweaters, the way his fingers curl into the back of your head on instinct—like his body knows you’re his before his brain can catch up.

he loves all of it.

clean or messy. styled or tangled. damp from the shower or damp from sweat. he loves the way it gets in your mouth when you're laughing. the way it fans across your back when you’re face-down in the sheets. the way you let him brush it out after long days, humming under your breath while he works from root to end, gentle and methodical like it’s an equation with only one right answer.

and when it comes to what’s beneath the silk and strands—he’s got every inch memorized.

he kisses the soft skin behind your ear before curling his fingers into your hair and tugging you down onto him. he trails his lips down the path your part carves into your scalp. he mouths at your temple, your crown, your jaw, worshipping the parts of you others overlook. and when your hair sticks to your skin after he’s ruined you, when he pushes it back to get a better look at your face, he always murmurs—

'you’re so pretty like this.' 'please don’t hide from me. i wanna see everything.'

he lets you play with his, too.

sometimes he sits at your feet while you braid it, twist it, fluff it just because it makes you happy. he lets you use conditioner in the shower, even if it smells 'too sweet.' he groans when you tug on it, especially if you do it while straddling him with purpose.

and when you run your fingers through it absently while reading on the couch—his head in your lap, eyes fluttering closed—he’s convinced that nothing, not even sex, feels more intimate than this.

curtains and drapes?

he doesn’t care. never did. not about yours, not about his.

trimmed, bare, bushy, dyed—he loves you in every form you take. but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice. he notices everything.

the first time you dye it? he stares for ten minutes before saying a word, then spends the rest of the day touching it like it’s holy. the first time you cut it short? he keeps murmuring 'you’re still my girl' like you needed reminding. and when you get it done just for fun—maybe styled, blown out, twisted up—he cannot keep his hands to himself.

when he’s between your thighs, he uses your hair like a leash.

fingers wrapped. fist clenched. holding you steady while he whispers 'you’re doing so well for me.'

and when you’re on top, riding him slow and steady, he uses it to anchor himself—tugging you down so your foreheads touch, his mouth panting out half-formed praise against your lips, a whispered 'you’re mine, baby, mine—mine—' falling hot and broken between breaths.

he’s not afraid anymore.

he’ll tell you when you look good. he’ll groan when you fluff your hair in the mirror. he’ll drop to his knees and bury his face between your legs just because he loves how it smells.

i is for intimacy ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer is terrified of intimacy.

not because he doesn't want it. god, he aches for it—deep down, bone-deep, where he’s spent his whole life compartmentalizing. but he’s awkward. scared. still trying to convince himself that what you’re doing isn’t flirting. that you couldn’t possibly mean the touches, the teasing, the looks. that he must be projecting.

so the intimacy? it sneaks up on him.

it’s your hand brushing his when you pass him a file. the way your pinky lingers for half a second too long and he thinks about it for days.

it’s you falling asleep on his shoulder during the jet ride and him forgetting how to breathe. how your hair smells like shampoo and citrus and something soft and warm that makes him dizzy. how your weight against his arm feels better than anything he’s ever earned.

it’s your knees bumping under the conference table. your laughter when he nervously stumbles over a word and the way you nudge him like it’s an inside joke. like you’ve already memorized all his little tells.

you call him spence in a tone no one else uses. he thinks about that, too. he thinks about you, constantly.

but Spencer doesn’t understand intimacy in the casual, effortless way you seem to. for him, it's built from the ground up. studied. tested. analyzed. intimacy isn’t easy. it’s not even safe.

but you make it feel almost okay.

you sit too close. you touch his wrist when you laugh. you tuck his hair behind his ear once, and he damn near malfunctions.

you let him ramble. you listen.

you memorize how he takes his coffee and you never tease him when he double-knots his shoelaces or uses two straws for iced drinks. you ask how his mom is. you ask if he’s okay in a way that’s not just polite—it’s real.

and it terrifies him.

because this—this is real intimacy. and if he lets himself believe it’s more than friendship, if he lets himself hope . . .

well, he’s not sure he’ll survive it if he’s wrong.

so he pulls back sometimes.

he stammers. gets flustered. tries not to look too long when you lean over his desk and your perfume hits his nose and short-circuits his frontal lobe.

but late at night—alone, in bed—he replays it all.

the way you said his name. the brush of your fingers. the sleepy sigh you made when you curled into his side without even thinking.

and he wonders if you feel it too. if you're afraid like he is. if intimacy has ever wrecked you the way it’s already started to wreck him.

because he’s falling and it feels a lot like flying straight into the sun.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

he is beginning to understand that what’s happening between you isn’t just friendship.

you’ve crossed lines now—delicate, invisible lines drawn in jet cabins and late-night hotel rooms. there have been touches. moans. mutually broken silences. but still… no formal acknowledgment. no confessions. just tension that simmers under every word, every glance.

intimacy in phase two is unguarded vulnerability, cloaked in denial.

you come over for dinner.

you sit on his couch, your legs tucked beneath you like you belong there, and you ask about his favorite books. not just what he likes—but why.

and he tells you.

tells you too much. pens up about stories that saved him as a child. tells you about loneliness, about hope, about fear of losing control. he tells you things he hasn’t told anyone—because you asked. because you looked at him like his words mattered.

you listen without blinking.

you ask again.

and then you tell him something real—something about your past, or a fear you haven’t shared before—and suddenly, you’re sitting in the kind of silence that means everything.

this is the intimacy of shared laughter over dinner dishes. his hoodie on your shoulders because you said you were cold. your socked feet brushing under the blanket while you watch something neither of you are really paying attention to

and he notices everything.

he notices when you lean your cheek into your palm while watching him speak. notices when your eyes flick to his mouth. notices that your smile always comes slower, softer when it’s just the two of you.

he’s obsessed with it.

he’s terrified by it.

because he wants you now—not just physically ( though god knows that hasn’t lessened )—but emotionally. profoundly. intellectually.

intimacy for spencer is him stealing glances when you’re not looking, memorizing the way you laugh when you’re tired, the sleepy rasp in your voice when you call him late to say goodnight.

it’s the moment he confesses what happened in the hotel room. the one-bed incident. how he couldn’t help himself.

he expects you to pull away.

but you don’t.

you blink. you smile. you say you wish you’d been awake.

and he swears the earth tilts a little.

intimacy is inch by inch with him, especially now. it's the kind that lingers in the air after you’ve left. it’s a heartbeat louder when your fingers accidentally touch. it’s falling in love with someone who’s already halfway in your arms—but neither of you have dared to look down.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

this is where the dam finally breaks.

there’s no more plausible deniability. no more unspoken maybe’s. you’ve touched. you’ve teased. you’ve crossed every line you once pretended not to see.

and spencer is yours. emotionally, physically. wholly but the intimacy in phase three isn’t just about lust or even possession.

it’s about recognition.

this version of intimacy is quieter than people expect. spencer brushing your hair out of your face while you sleep. the first time you call him 'baby' and he blushes so hard you think he might combust.

the way he presses his forehead to yours and breathes you in after sex, like he’s trying to memorize what happiness feels like.

he’s still awkward. still rambles when he’s nervous. still stammers when you call him handsome like you mean it. but he wants to be close now. desperately. freely.

he touches you without hesitation : a hand on your back when you walk through doors, fingers tracing your knee when you sit beside him, lips pressed to your temple for no reason at all.

he smiles more.

he starts saying 'i missed you' even if it’s only been a day.

he learns to ask—not just about your day, but about your feelings. about your past. about your fears. he listens. remembers. repeats it back at the perfect moment to remind you he was always listening.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

spencer is now undone. he’s not shy about it anymore. not tentative, not afraid. there’s no mask left—only hunger, devotion, and a love so intense it borders on worship.

it isn’t just woven into your sex life—it’s in everything he does.

he touches you like he’s trying to memorize the soul beneath your skin.

he looks at you like you hung the constellations with your bare hands.

he speaks to you like there’s no one else in the world who could possibly understand.

this is the version of Spencer who slides into your side of the bed just to steal your warmth. grumbles if you leave the house without a goodbye kiss. puts your name in his phone with a heart next to it and checks it when he misses you ( which is always ).

you’ve become his safest place.

that’s what intimacy means now.

it means pulling your hand to his chest when he has nightmares. letting you hear him cry for the first time and not apologizing for it.

whispering 'i trust you' against your shoulder when the weight of the world gets too heavy.

physically, he’s more open than ever. he undresses slowly in front of you now—no hesitation, no shame. he lets you press your lips to the scars and the softness he once tried to hide.

he initiates more than he ever used to—not out of lust, but because he needs your closeness like breath in his lungs.

and when he talks to you? it’s vulnerable and messy and honest.

'i don’t know what i’d do without you.' 'sometimes i wake up and panic, because i think this is a dream.' 'no one’s ever loved me like you do. i hope i make you feel even half that.'

by now, spencer doesn’t just crave your body—he craves your presence. your voice. your opinion. your hand on his back when he’s stressed. your silence when he’s overstimulated.

he’s stopped hiding how much he needs you.

and every time he breathes you in, every time he whispers your name against your skin, you can feel the truth in it. you are his entire world.

j is for jacking off ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer doesn’t plan on doing it. he doesn’t mean to. but lately, it’s become more of a necessity than a choice.

because spencer is frustrated and borderline desperate. teetering on the edge of a spiral every time you so much as touch his arm or say his name in that voice. and he’s confused—because you’re still his best friend, but now you’re also a walking temptation in tiny skirts and soft perfume and teasing eyes that linger a little too long.

so he jacks off a lot. shamefully and quietly and always to the thought of you.

it usually happens after the team goes their separate ways. after the tension from the jet or the hotel or the bullpen has nowhere else to go.

he’ll close the door to his apartment and immediately feel the weight of it pressing against his zipper—the ache that’s been following him around since you made that comment about how big his hands are. or how you leaned over to show him something on your tablet, and your bralette—navy blue, he noticed—was the only thing shielding your breasts from his face.

and suddenly his resolve cracks like a matchstick.

most of the time, he doesn't even make it to the bed. Sometimes it's the couch. Sometimes the bathroom. Sometimes the shower, turned too hot, his forehead braced against tile while his hand works himself in fast, angry strokes.

because he feels guilty. like a pervert. like a bad friend. but your name is right there on the tip of his tongue as he pants into his palm, and the fantasy is so vivid—so real—that his toes curl and his thighs tremble before he can even stop it.

he imagines you a couple different ways. you on your knees, tongue out, eyes wide. you straddling his lap, gasping into his mouth.

you asleep beside him, soft and warm, and—God—grinding on his thigh without even realizing it. ( that one isn’t a fantasy. that one actually happened. )

and afterward, he lays there. shaky. spent. sticky and ashamed.

he tells himself it has to stop.

but it never does.

because he’s already hard again the next morning—just from the sound of your laugh echoing through the hallway.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer knows by now you want him. you’ve made it impossible not to. he still second-guesses everything ( because he’s spencer ), but the line between fantasy and reality has started to blur—and it’s driving him insane.

you’ve kissed. touched. you’ve even said things—filthy, whisper-soft things in the dark—that make his knees go weak just remembering. but you haven’t fucked yet.

and that’s the problem.

because now when he jacks off, it’s not from afar. it’s not fueled by guilt and secret shame. it’s fueled by you. the real, tangible, maddening you. and it’s so much worse.

he’ll be alone in his apartment, pacing.

because he wants to wait. because he wants it to be perfect.

because you said you weren’t ready—not yet—and he respects that, he does. but he’s already ruined three pairs of briefs this week thinking about your tongue in his mouth and your hand on his belt, unbuckling him with slow, teasing fingers while you whisper.

‘is this what you think about when your alone?’

( it is. )

so when he jacks off in phase two, it’s slower. needier.

he’ll lie in bed with the lights off, one hand fisted around his cock, the other clutched over his mouth to stop the whimpering. he’s embarrassed by how easily he unravels—how sensitive you’ve made him, how just the memory of your breath in his ear is enough to make his spine arch off the mattress.

he comes with your name punched from his lungs, like he’s apologizing to the air. and then he texts you :

‘im sorry. i thought about you again.’

and you always reply :

‘good. i hope you made a mess.’

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

he doesn’t have to imagine you anymore.

he shouldn’t have to jack off at all, not really—not when you’ve touched every inch of him with your mouth and your hands and your words. not when you’ve kissed him into moaning submission against your living room couch and ridden him so thoroughly he forgot how to spell his name. not when his sheets still smell like your shampoo.

and yet it’s worse now. because now he knows exactly what you look like when you whimper. how your hips stutter when you’re right on the edge. how you say his name when you’re about to fall apart.

now, when he jacks off, it’s no longer fantasy—it’s memory.

he’ll try to hold out. He will.

he’ll tell himself not tonight, you just saw her, and you can wait, you have a meeting in the morning—but his hand betrays him the second he pictures the outline of your thighs wrapped around his waist.

it starts with just a touch. just a little pressure through the front of his boxers. but soon he’s panting like a man fucking possessed, muttering curses under his breath, fucking up into his palm like it’s your fist around him instead.

he gets vocal now. he never meant to—but you ruined him. you told him he sounded hot when he begged. and now, every time he closes his eyes and hears your voice purring.

'are you gonna come for me, spence?'

he knows he’s lost.

he finishes fast and hard, a total mess—spilling across his stomach.

'fuck, baby—yes, oh god—ugh'

and bites down hard on the side of his hand to keep from saying your name so loudly the neighbors complain.

sometimes—especially the nights he misses you—he calls you afterward. voice still hoarse. breathing still shallow.

you always know and you always say :

'did you finish, sweetheart?'

to which he breathes :

'not enough. i need the real thing.'

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

spencer barely has time to jack off.

but when he does, it's because he physically has to.

because you’ve been gone all day lecturing at a conference in another city, and he needs you like he needs oxygen. because he spent all night replaying that moment in the hallway when you tugged his tie and whispered you wanted to ruin him after dinner—and then had the audacity to leave before dessert.

so now he’s in your shared bedroom, still in his slacks, fist clenched around his cock, fucking into his hand with quiet, determined gasps—head tipped back, lips parted, flushed pink all the way down to his chest.

it’s no fantasy. it’s memory soaked in devotion. he’s not imagining your tits bouncing above him or your mouth around his cock—he’s remembering it in four—fucking—k clarity. he knows exactly how you smell, how your voice trembles when you say his name. he knows what you look like when you come with your hand in his hair, your thighs trembling around his ribs.

and even then, even with all that—the realest reel of all reels playing in his mind—it still isn’t enough.

he finishes with a groan, his body curling forward with the force of it, cum streaking across his hand, chest, belly. he pants hard, shaky, and a little embarrassed at how fast he unraveled—how needy he still is after everything.

then he cleans up, tugs on one of your shirts, and crawls into bed on your side, pressing his face into your pillow, just to smell you.

because even after you’ve made love to him a hundred times, after you've taken him apart and worshipped every inch of him—spencer still jacks off like he’s starving for you and he always will.

k is for kinks ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

when this all starts, he honestly doesn't think he has any kinks. ( he absolutely fucking does. )

he's still telling himself you're his best friend. still pretending he doesn’t fantasize about your mouth or your thighs or the way you say his name when you’re tipsy and teasing. still convincing himself that the boners you give him in the bullpen are just unfortunate accidents, not evidence of some very specific desires bubbling to the surface.

but spencer’s biggest phase one kink? verbal submission. not yours. his.

he doesn’t know the term for it yet, but something about the way you talk to him in that silky, smug voice—the way you lean close and purr.

'is that a blush, dr. reid?' or 'did you just flinch when i said cock?' makes him un—fucking—ravel.

you talk him into things. you talk him off. you tease him until he’s squirming and then you coo, 'use your words, spence.'

and God, he wants to.

he wants to say he’s hard. that he’s aching. that he needs help, yours specifically. that if you keep edging him with your dirty little questions, he’s going to finish in his pants like a virgin.

he wants to beg, and that terrifies him.

he doesn’t know how much he likes being coaxed and bossed around until you start doing it in the smallest, most innocuous ways

'sit down, sweetheart.' 'hands on the table, baby, i’m not done talking to you.'

his brain short-circuits every time.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

things have officially crossed the line. you’ve kissed. you’ve touched. you’ve broken through the teasing and stepped into something far more dangerous: exploration.

this is the era of awkward confessions, blurted admissions, and getting caught staring. it's the phase where you're not fucking yet—but you're circling it, circling each other, slowly removing the layers of denial. and with that vulnerability comes the first real talk about what you like. what he likes.

and he really likes : praise kink ( his, not yours ).

spencer craves your praise the way a starved man craves sunlight. the second you whisper 'good boy', he is done. melting. blushing. eyes fluttering shut as if the words physically affect him.

you tell him he’s smart when he figures out how to undo your bra one-handed. you tell him he’s so good with his hands when his fingers slip into your panties. you call him perfect when he whimpers against your mouth.

he needs it—desperately—and you quickly learn how to weaponize it.

he is also a huge fan of consent play and gentle dom/sub dynamics. you ask for everything in phase two.

'can i touch you here?' 'do you want me to take it out?' 'spence… can i make you cum?'

spencer is already submissive, but now he’s discovering that the asking turns him on just as much as the act.

he’s never had a partner treat him like this before—like he’s worth asking, worth waiting for, worth ruining. you call the shots, and he follows beautifully, but only because he knows you’ll never push him too far.

mutual masturbation is a big one in phase two because of the fact that the two of you haven't actually fucked yet.

neither of you have had sex yet—not with each other at least. but you’ve watched each other. and oh God, Spencer’s kink for being watched begins to blossom.

he’s embarrassed. he hides behind his hands, pants still around his thighs, and he can’t believe he’s letting you see him like this. but the second you say, 'don’t hide from me, baby. let me see,' he moans so pretty you almost come on the spot.

watching you touch yourself? he nearly cries. he’s never seen anything more erotic in his life.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

by phase three, sex is on the table. and on the floor. and up against the wall of your apartment because you were arguing about who started it and now he’s got your thighs around his waist and you’re both panting into each other’s mouths like starved animals.

this phase is hungry. it’s messy. it’s greedy. spencer’s kinks start to go from soft-focus fantasy to full-throttle reality—and he is so ready to give you what you want… even if it scares him a little.

you’ve discovered that you love pulling the strings—and now you want to see what happens when he snaps.

he never in a million years thought that hair pulling would be one of his top three kinks but with you everything has been flipped upside down and turns on it's side.

he really didn’t know he liked it until you tugged during a particularly frantic make-out session. the whimper that left his mouth? ungodly. and now he can’t stop thinking about your fingers in his hair, scratching his scalp while he’s buried inside you.

number two is being pinned down. he still wants to be in control. but when you push him down on the mattress and straddle him? he lets go and when you lean over, whispering 'stay still or i’ll stop'—he’s not going anywhere.

you riding, though, that has got to be his all time favorite. this is a huge turning point. spencer starts to love watching you take what you need. he’s obsessed with the way you roll your hips, the way you grind slow at first just to tease him.

the view? immaculate.

the loss of control? delicious.

now things are starting to get nasty because phase three spencer, he's got a spit kink.

oh, he tries not to think about it. but the second you lick your fingers before stroking him? he’s fucking obsessed. gone fucking feral over it.

and when you ask him to lick yours too? he does it without question—eyes locked on yours, brain short-circuiting with the intimacy of it all.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four is the final act of mutual ruin.

by now, you and Spencer know each other’s bodies better than your own. the sex is still sweet—but it's no longer tentative. the teasing, the boundaries, the experimental sparks have all collapsed into one deep, simmering inferno of obsession, comfort, and knowing.

this is when the dirty talk is fluent. where the bruises are intentional. where he doesn’t ask—he tells and you don’t hesitate to give it right back.

spencers phase four kinks consist of breeding kinks, mirror play and a good ole possession kink.

the breeding kink started as a whisper. a drunk mumble. a breathless, 'i want to fill you up' while he was too far gone to filter himself. now he says it sober. now he looks you in the eye when he says 'stay still. i’m not done with you yet.'

the mirror play is fucking feral. he doesn’t just want to watch you—he wants you to watch, too. wants you straddling his lap in front of the hotel mirror, wants to see your eyes when he ruins you from behind. wants to say, 'look how pretty you are when you’re mine.'

his possession, it’s subtle—but intense. his hand at your throat, not for pressure but for presence. his bite marks on your inner thighs. his cum leaking out of you hours later.

spencer is still soft, still slow, still sweet—but he’s deliberate now. every orgasm is a claim.

the mutual masturbation has also been turned up to an all time high. he used to be shy. now he asks to watch. sometimes it’s during long-distance calls. sometimes it’s just across the room, sprawled out, breathless, making eye contact while you tease each other. because now you both like to show off.

l is for location ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

at this stage, you and spencer haven’t technically done anything . . . not really. but the tension? it’s nuclear. every shared space becomes a new form of psychological warfare—your favorite game.

phase one spencer is still clinging to the belief that he’s virtuous. you, on the other hand, are slowly dismantling that fantasy with your flirtation and well-timed positioning. so while the two of you haven’t officially crossed the line yet, certain locations are already branded with tension—and are destined to become the first battlegrounds.

the bau sanctioned jet is where you first teased him. where your bralette ‘just so happened’ to peek out while you leaned over to show him something on your tablet. where you asked if he needed help jerking off in the tiny airplane bathroom.

that seat—second from the left, near the window—is now forever cursed. he hasn’t been able to sit there since.

the bullpen, a technically public place. technically risky. technically very, very inappropriate ( even though it was very empty at the time of your little game. )

that didn’t stop you from sliding your foot up his calf one night, all soft and slow, while asking him the most mundane question about a file. you knew what you were doing. he almost spilled his coffee.

the hotel room was next. the night you rolled onto him in your sleep. the night you moaned his name into his neck. the night he jacked off right next to while you were sleeping and again in the bathroom like a sinner because he couldn’t handle how good you looked wrapped around his thigh.

this location haunts him. he sees the numbers two-fourteen and he fucking flinches.

phase one ends with a very memorable car ride. you offered him a ride home. he said yes and then your hand was on his cock, and he was too tired to stop it—too gone to care.

when he came in his pants just as you pulled into his complex, the location of your car became a personal circle of hell. one he’ll gladly visit again. frequently as he fucking can.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

now the line is crossed—and you’ve both leapt over it like it never existed. you’re no longer just teasing spencer; you’ve tasted him, touched him, unraveled him. and he’s hooked. addicted. willing to take you anywhere you let him.

but that doesn’t mean he’s reckless. oh no. phase two spencer is still spencer—anxious, calculating, obsessively thoughtful. which means he chooses locations with precision. and if he doesn’t get a say in the setting? he’ll still make the most of it.

his favorite spots with you include his apartment living room, specifically his couch. after your first time, spencer didn’t want to rush you. so instead of dragging you to the bedroom, he let it happen on his couch—slow and soft and nervous and needy. that creaky, secondhand couch has now become his altar.

it’s where he kisses your knees while you're curled up in his oversized sweater. where he lays his head in your lap after long days and lets you card your fingers through his hair. where you straddled him for the first time, whispering 'let me take care of you' into his mouth.

next is the shower, preferably his because it gives him some semblance of control.

spencer didn’t expect to like showering together as much as he does—but something about you all slippery and giggly under the spray of warm water undoes him. it’s the intimacy, the nudity, the trust. it’s the way you tilt his chin up to rinse shampoo from his curls. the way he uses his long fingers to massage conditioner into your scalp like you’re the most delicate thing on earth.

sometimes it leads to sex. sometimes it doesn’t. but it always leads to spencer kissing your wet shoulder with reverence.

the library has surprisingly because a favorite. you went in to help him shelve books for a lecture he was preparing. you came out wrecked—tucked into a corner behind the 306s, muffling your moans into his neck while he made you come on his fingers. the library will never be the same.

( and neither will dewey decimal classification 306.7. )

honestly anyway private enough to kiss you fucking senseless his a win for him. the office copy room? yes. you make some excuse about needing help changing the toner and he is the first one to volunteer. then your pulling him into the room and backing him up to the door and when he asked about the toner, your already kissing him. his lips his neck. your hand gripping his sweater vest like its the only think keeping you grounded in the moment.

an empty conference room after hours. that one secluded hallway in quantico with the weird vending machine no one uses. of course, your dragging him in there and before the door his even closed you grabbing at his belt and palming his cock through his slacks.

spencer doesn’t always plan these moments—but once he starts kissing you, once his hand slips beneath your blazer or under your skirt or around your jaw, he doesn’t stop. he can’t.

he needs to be touching you. holding you. anywhere you’ll let him.

even if he’s red-faced for the rest of the day.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

the game is gone. the teasing, the dancing, the uncertainty—burned up in the heat of full-blown obsession. you’re not just lovers now. you’re something dangerously close to addicted. to each other’s skin. each other’s voices. each other’s bodies.

as spencer spirals deeper into the messy, heady high of you, he stops giving a damn where it happens—so long as it does.

but the thing is? he’s still spencer.

so while he’ll let you pull him into a bathroom stall, or ride him half-dressed in a locked file room, he still remembers every single place you’ve ever touched him. every surface you’ve ever gasped his name against. and that memory? fuels him. it controls him.

his favorite spots, now that he is hooked, range drastically.

up against a wall. any wall. all walls. you’ve made him associate drywall with orgasms.

it started in his apartment—your back to the hallway wall, his hands in your hair, hips pinning you in place while you whispered, 'i want you to lose control.'

he did. he does. he will—again and again, every time you push him back with that look in your eye.

walls are sturdy. reliable. you can climb him like a tree, dig your nails into his back, grind against him until he forgets every word he’s ever learned.

he’s ruined at least one framed print that way.

your kitchen countertop? yes please.

it happened one night after dinner. you were tipsy. he was jealous. some guy at the restaurant had smiled at you for too long, and you had smiled back.

so spencer kissed you with his hands under your thighs and lifted you straight onto the counter. pushed aside your plates. fucked you slow and intense with his tie still on.

now he eyes that countertop every time you make pancakes. every time you sit there swinging your legs. he wonders if you know what you do to him—right there in your own home.

and his desk, that has become your favorite.

he didn’t plan it. god, he really didn’t.

but it was a late night. you were helping him with paperwork. you looked up at him like he hung the stars and whispered, 'would it help if i sat in your lap?' ( it didn’t help. )

not with the paperwork, anyway.

now his desk is stained with ink, your cum, and memory and the echo of your breathless whimper when he slipped a hand up your shirt and you told him you wanted to thank him properly.

and lastly the passenger seat of your car. there’s just something about you behind the wheel. all confident and in control. something about him sinking into the seat, exhausted from the day, and letting you drive.

it’s become your little ritual now. a hand on his thigh. soft music. the slow creep of anticipation every time you take the long way home.

once, you didn’t even wait. you pulled into the garage, unbuckled him, and made him come with your hand fisted around him while the engine was still warm.

now the passenger seat smells like sex and summer and your shampoo—and spencer has never loved a car so much in his life.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

you could fuck spencer anywhere—and he’d let you. fucking gladly and desperately.

but that’s the thing : you don’t need to sneak anymore. there’s no hiding, no pretending. no more blurred lines or messy justifications.

you're his. he’s yours. fully. totally. irrevocably. how ever the fuck you want to define it.

now he wants you in the places that mean something.

not because he’s afraid of getting caught—but because being with you has finally started to feel safe. and still : he’s filthier than ever.

your shared bed is a big one. with the sheets half-peeled off. the place he makes love to you the most.

it’s not always sweet. sometimes it’s rough. sometimes it’s sleepy and slow. but always, always, it ends with him wrapping his arms around you like he’s never letting go.

spencer pulls the blankets up to your chins after. kisses your temple. traces circles over the bite mark he left behind.

it’s his sanctuary now. the safest place on Earth. because it smells like you. like sex. like lavender detergent and vanilla skin.

next is the bathtub. he’s a romantic, your spencer and now he’s got the confidence to show it. he’ll draw the bath himself. light a candle or two. say it’s for you, of course—but he slides in behind you anyway, letting you lean against him as warm water laps over both your thighs.

you ride him slow in that tub. whine against his neck. whimper his name while water sloshes over the rim and he fucks you deeper than you thought possible with just his hips beneath the surface.

when you collapse back against him, he holds you like treasure. washes you tenderly. massages your scalp. murmurs sweet nothings.

the living room couch, you clothes are still half on. you're both still shy about the possibility of guests—even if there are none.

which makes it all the better.

it’s always when you’re watching something—documentary, movie, nothing that matters—when he turns to kiss your bare shoulder. or when you toss your legs in his lap with a knowing smirk.

the tv still playing while he tugs your panties aside. one hand braced on the cushion. the other pulling your mouth to his to muffle the sounds of both your moans.

you’ve broken that poor couch in so many ways now. but neither of you care.

against the bookshelves in his apartment is a particularly filthy one. you were reading. he was watching you. then you were pinned.

your cheek pressed to the spine of crime and punishment. his hand wrapped in your hair. your moans muffled by dostoevsky.

one hand flicking your clit and the other around your neck as he drives you into the bookshelf. slapping skin and wood creaking is just the tip of the sensations.

after that, he swore you were never allowed to wear that sweater in his library again. the one that rides up when you stretch. the one he swears is cut just to tease him. the one you wear on purpose.

now you read in his lap. and the shelves hold more secrets than any of the books.

lastly, the elevator in your building. too many late-night visits. too many heated goodbyes.

one night you didn’t wait. you were kissing before the doors even closed. he had you against the mirror before the first floor dinged.

now he pulls you in by your coat collar every time you step inside. you pretend to protest—every time. but he knows better. you’re already lifting your skirt before the doors shut.

because fuck, you just can't wait any longer. your cunt is throbbing and you had been staring at his fuck hard ass cock for the last thirty minutes.

once, the elevator got stuck between floors.

neither of you minded.

🔖 . @sammyreidslut @mggskny @theburgundyonmytshirt1989 @nesiamenick @alastorssimp @oldmanbunnylover @nfwmb-gvf @kmc1989 @sillymuffintrashflap @reidsbabyhoney @qardasngan @cynbx @g3n3zshack

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you

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ksascriptt · 1 day ago

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this is ourselves under pressure

jack abbot x reader

dr jack abbot x veteran!resident!fem!reader

warnings : decently heavy angst, mentions of a lot of violence and very clear ptsd, mentions of death and mutilation, anxiety attack rep which may not be how everyone is but it’s self indulgent, mentions of jacks late wife, kinda inaccurate military operations talk, some comfort, their both heavily damaged tbh, english is not my first language!!

summary : too many reminders of a harsh past left you shaking on a roof in a way that was awfully familiar to jack. somehow, it just fit together that he knew how to help you.

word count : 4,116 (new record ! )

notes : eek !! this has been in the process for like. a fat minute. again, english is not my first language so please be gracious with any mistakes, i initially wrote this in third person then decided i hated it ! i actually proofread and edited this though, unlike my other fics.

6:48 AM. it wasn’t busy, but god, it was a rush in the ED. or maybe you just felt that way. was it just you?

it had been all too familiar, a cross of far too much in your mind before your eye. the best memories that were quick to become warped by the worst.

sweaty. shaky. unstable. you felt like your own body, your own brain, were becoming unreliable. unsafe, even. even if you couldn’t help it, everything about it felt wrong. it still felt like the blood dripping down your cheek and the ringing in your ears after both shots reverberated through the air.

a tragic, yet unfortunately common case — a 14 year old boy with a GSW to the throat — that had rendered one of the best residents frozen. you didn’t just freeze, no, that wasn’t like you.

jack, ever the saint, recognized this — he recognized the anxious nature in which you clawed at your collarbone, how your eye widened, how your left knee jerked back and forth.

“go. sit down. you will not work this one, kid.” he said it softly from across the room, no hostility in his voice. he understood. more than anything. and once he saw shen had it under control, he moved to follow you.

it was a blur, sprinting out into the hall and up the stairs. eventually, you found the solace of the roof. fresh air. slinking to the concrete ground on the — thankfully — safe side of the railing, your nails violently scratched at your collarbone as though it would calm the episode. an anxious tic you’d had for many years. grazing over the ball chain that carried your tags didn’t help.

memories intertwined with one another, but one stood out in particular. the one that ruined your life, the one that kept you up for days at a time, that rendered you useless to PTSD on the bad days. the pitt seemed so far away as you sunk into the worst voids of your brain.

you were twenty. slowly climbing the navy’s hierarchy alongside your twin brother. enlisted together at seventeen—it was supposed to be smart. you didn’t know it would destroy you.

your third true deployment, out on the coast of the UAE. it had started safely, plenty of backup and views, but suddenly it had trickled down to just the twins. a dark room — a basement, maybe? — with a flickering light and something dripping. your hands were bound and your head throbbed and the burn in your face made it clear what the dripping was. your blood pouring out of your nose and mouth. what happened??

the question was discarded as you finally opened your eyes, blinking at the fuzzy image of your brother next to you. ”mikey? are— what happened?”

it felt like a fever dream, but there wasn’t time for answers when the door slammed open, the sound bouncing off the crumbling walls. four men barged in, harsh orders barked in a language you didn’t speak and didn’t recognize. both of you were grabbed, guns pulled hastily as they questioned her in the foreign dialect.

“please, just- let us go, we ha-“

your voice was cut off by the harsh whip of a pistol against your brothers cheekbone.

were you still on the roof of the hospital? it felt like you were crammed into that basement again.

more threats or orders spat at you, though not understood. twenty minutes of brutal beatings and questions without answers. then it was the final yell before the ringing sound after the trigger was pulled.

firing into the throat of your counterpart. your twin brother. your other half.

he stared at you, his sister, for a second, choking as blood gushed from his throat and out his mouth. eyes wide.

realizing he wouldn’t see the sun rise again.

as you sat on the roof in front of the sunrise.

a scream left your throat.

“wait- wait, wai- MIKE ! please, no, no-“

a second shot, moving across your right eye, most of it exiting, notable wounds marking the right half of your face.

it went black, and it was four days before you woke up again.

your breathing quickened, nails collecting blood under them as it began to seep into the collar of your scrub top. the vision you retained was blurry and the skin-coloured stick-on eyepatch felt like it was compensating for a lie that went too far.

rocking where you sat in a ball on the ground, it felt like the cool air had turned into four walls, closing in. like your lungs were too big for your ribcage and the pounding in your head was the same as it was in that basement. the rational side of your brain couldn’t make sense of the fact that it wasn’t.

you hadn’t heard the door

opening nor jack running to your side, but he was quick to do so. abbot was far more experienced with PTSD episodes, but he knew you already had underlying anxiety, apparently since you were a child is what he’d figured out. that never made it easier. “hey— hey, can you look at me, kid?” the man spoke softly, gentle enough to ease your winding brain into the words.

“i’m here. you’re okay,” he consoled you, one arm looping around your back as he fell seated to the ground, resting his prosthetic on the ground with a sigh. his hand gently gripped your wrist and pulled it away from where you had scratched your collarbone raw.

in some ways, the touch was grounding, comforting. maybe it was what you needed. but that didn’t suppress the choked sobs that tore through your throat. “i- i don’t.. jack, please-“ you hiccuped out, breathing uneven as you shook next to him.

jack knew better. he didn’t stop you from feeling it, he didn’t try to fix it. he knew you needed someone to support the emotional toll that weighed down on you. and he wanted it to be him. “it’s alright, honey. you’re gonna be okay. you gotta breathe for me.”

his head rested against the railing, eyeing his watch as the end of your shift quickly approached. thank fucking god, he would feel horrible if you had to continue working directly after this. your body shook harshly and he had to pinch his eyes shut, hating how someone so young, so kind, could deal with the burden that nobody should have to face. but jack let you feel it there, and he decided he would help you talk through it later.

tears slowed, heartbeats got gentler and the choking feeling of guilt began to subside a little, or become less apparent to you. “ah.. ‘m sorry, i jus- i dunno what happened..” you murmured into his chest where your tears had been caught. you knew, though. the truth had never left you.

it was such a stark contrast to jack, seeing this side of you. you were always so calm, funny, always knew just what to say. patients and staff loved you. this wasn’t the resident he’d learned to love. this was the raw, bloody insides of the person who depended on him. but somehow, he already knew how to love you properly like this.

“ ‘s jus’- that kid, he.. he looked so much like..” you paused to swallow harshly. “he looks so much like mikey did when we were kids.”

jack knew the bare minimum about your past, as you did his, but he knew enough to figure out why seeing that child threw you off.

“it’s alright.” a beat passed as jack thought. “what was he like?” he quietly asked, hoping the prompting of remembrance could pose as some semblance of comfort.

with a small sniffle, you rubbed at the patch covering a bit of the scar on your eye. “mikey was my twin. 7 minutes older than me, so he kinda always thought he was in charge,” you dryly laughed out. “we ar- we were pretty different, but he was my best friend.”

memories flooded, taking in every detail as they had happened. “we both did really good in sports, but i was uhm.. more academically gifted than he was, i guess.” you almost smiled at the thought of going to school everyday with your other half. “when we graduated, i got scholarships for pre-med, but he couldn’t get his grades up enough to fully qualify. so he enlisted in the navy,” you took a fair amount of time explaining to jack, something he understood. “i wouldn’t let him do it alone, so i did too.” a pause left the air thick with emotion. your head fell a little lower now.

“i guess it didn’t matter, though, not if he died anyway.”

the years of college, psychiatrists, and physical therapy were torture. but you made it through med school, ended up in Pittsburgh, more than 4,000 kilometres from home. you had jack. dana. robby (whom you refused to call michael). cassie. samira. they made it worth it some days. you had a life now, one that had people who didn’t all know what had happened. it was the start of moving on and some part of you still hated that.

“of course it mattered.” jacks voice was finally present after a few moments of silence, his strong arm curling around the gently shaking form of your body. “it mattered because you cared. it mattered because he mattered to you,” the older man comforted.

“i think you’ve obviously noticed my… face, eye.. you know,” you began, letting out a nerve-filled breathy laugh. “i didn’t get the full reconstructive surgery by choice. it just- i don’t know, it didn’t feel right. it didn’t feel right having them patch me up like it never happened.”

a breath. coming to terms with it as you spoke everything into existence for the first time.

“because i think when everything, i guess, went to shit, i didn’t want to get rid of that piece of him. it would’ve been like by trying to cover up that part of me, i was trying to cover him up.”

there was a soft click from dr. abbott’s watch as the end of their shift arrived like a breath of air after being underwater. “uh- I don’t think you should be alone right now, kid,” he clarified, clearing his throat, “in case you have another episode. would you be okay coming home with me?”

of course, you’d been to jacks home before, but this was different. walls down. emotions raw. scars present. but you knew that he knew well enough of what to do.

“..yeah, i think.. i think that’d be okay.”

a soft smile of relief hit his face at your response.

it helped, having that sort of unspoken, unnamed connection — made it safer, more reliable. of course, reliability was never an issue with either of you. especially not with jack.

it wasn’t a particularly long drive to his house, just under 10 minutes — but the silence of the ride was beyond pleasant. jack had texted robby before they left, about shift change and the handover — how shen would inform him on anything he needed to know.

there wasn’t words spoken, the soft hum of the music on the radio — something system of a down, it was too quiet to hear — played in the background. and for once, the quiet didn’t leave a pang in your chest. because after all the nights spent alone, dark and quiet in your home, the company was everything to you. night shift hadn’t exactly made you feel any less alone, not when you knew how much it screwed up connections, but it held some sort of solace for you. getting to see the sunrise again each day at the end of your shift.

your thoughts were interrupted by jack opening the passenger side door, giving you a moment to get out before closing it and locking the car. “oh, thank you,” you mumbled, standing just past the sidewalk on the front walk. you trailed after jack inside, taking in the way the dim blues of the waking sun slowly started to light up the porch.

his house was nice, you’d realized, though large for just one person. the door shut behind you and his keys dropped on the glass table by the door. it was clean, a little dust collected here and there, but it was a home. that much was clear. the throw blankets on the couch made sure of that, at least if the pictures on the mantle and walls didn’t.

“it’s, uhm.. it’s a nice house, jack.”

you smiled as best as you could with how heavy your face felt. and a small smile crossed his face with more weight behind it. “yeah, it is. thank you,” he finally replied after a moment, voice gentle and a little raspy. you didn’t pry for details, you knew better — but it was recognizable what happened.

“you hungry? i can make something, or..” he trailed off, eyebrows slightly raised as he awaited your opinion. you had taken a seat on the soft couch, cautiously sinking in as you considered the question. “uh, only if you are,” you answered. a simple nod, jack walked to his softly lit kitchen, making something presumably wonderful (he was a great cook).

eating had been something you’d struggled with for years, a symptom of ptsd you would never admit to. maybe it shouldn’t have been a shock that jack recognized that, knowing the bond between you.

“how does waffles sound? i’ve got strawberries, too.”

something that looked an awful lot like a genuine smile met your lips. “yeah, that sounds good. thank you, jack.”

a responsive hum and the sound of pans and cupboards in the kitchen was heard as you waited, curled up on the couch in a ball, shoes kicked off near the others beneath the coffee table. eventually, the greying man came over, the strain in his stride a little more prominent, lacking much of an expression. “foods almost done, did you want to go change into something a little comfier?” he offered. “you can grab something out of my dresser.”

you thought for a moment. the kindness that he emitted enveloping you sounded more than appealing. at your nodding, he rubbed your shoulder in a comforting matter as you stood slowly from the couch, before making his way back to the kitchen.

you walked the short hallway to his bedroom — pristine, hardly anything out of place — and frankly, it felt very much like Jack in there. the running blade on a short shelf and the crutches next to it. a perfectly made king bed with a soft blue duvet. opening the dark wood dresser, you found neatly folded and organized drawers full of clothes.

you cautiously reach in for a soft, worn-in t-shirt and open another drawer for shorts. ones you find to be a little too large, so you make the swap for a pair of boxers that sat towards the back.

changing in the spacious bathroom connected to his bedroom, you can’t help but use the fixation on learning about jack as a distraction from your own.. issues. jack’s cologne faintly fed into your nose, making your tense shoulders relax a little more as you slipped his shirt over your head. the same cologne you’d smelt when he guided you through procedures or brought you a water bottle and a few reprimanding words to take care of yourself. the same cologne you’d smelled every time he got down to your level to help you on a bad day.

you observed the oddly spacious bathroom for a second longer before quietly leaving, shutting the door softly. the carpet of his bedroom floor felt soft beneath your socked feet, grounding in a way that was more than being beneath you. as you walked into the kitchen once more, the sight of jack humming a song (one you recognized heavily and could almost name, you think) and arranging two plates of waffles with sliced strawberries on them was a sight you thought you could get used to.

a smile started to creep its way onto your face at that. maybe having something like that would be nice. something where you got to do mundane tasks and see the most raw, domestic moments of each other. doing laundry and taxes, cooking breakfast after a hard shift.

“hey, kid, foods ready,” jack stated with a smile, having quickly realized you’d been standing there. “thank you,” you hummed in response.

you stood for just another second, considering, before taking a breath and peeling off the eyepatch — with a light wince at the pulling of some rough tissue — and throwing it in the trash can. washing your hands, you realized that for one of the first times without it on, you didn’t feel like there was a spotlight burning through the scarred half of your face. it was a safe option here. but it was still scary, even if it was something so miniscule as removing a glorified bandaid, having something so vulnerable just.. visible.

jack knew better than to say anything, but it made him feel a little better knowing that you were comfortable enough to be your true self, no coverups. so in an attempt to aid that comfort, he silently sat down on the counter barstool and removed his prosthetic, letting it lean against the cupboard. you looked a little more sure of yourself when he did. so you took a seat next to him to eat.

and it was calm, serene, something you both needed. the presence. you needed someone to be there for you, and jack needed someone to be there for. your knees rested against each other for a moment before you stood again, taking both plates to put in the dishwasher.

something about this all felt so familiar. like you two had been silently eating dinner and just sitting next to each other for years. like maybe it was all more than a feeling of longing. like the notion of the undeniable love had been there all along.

“it was never your fault, you know.”

jack didn’t push — he gave you the option of safety. he was a net to catch whatever you needed to get off your chest.

because not only did he care, but he understood. he understood the relief of having a scarred piece of both your body and soul on display and he understood how to not make you feel like it was all pinned on you.

because, really, empathy is one of the greatest gifts to living creatures — where’s the harm in showing it to those you love?

at some point, a tear welled in your eye. and jack couldn’t help but thumb it away when it fell to your cheek, his hand cradling your hand more gently than you’d ever been touched. so maybe it made sense when you leaned across the short gap of the stools and fell into his chest, his arms acting as a shield from everything that tried to claw you from the inside out.

it was quiet for a few moments, no heavy sobs or screaming. no more words yet, nothing breaking through. but he held you. just tear stains on his shirt and strong arms around you.

“i don’t know how to make it go away, jack,” you mumbled softly. vulnerability was laced through the words as they tumbled out.

the older man deeply inhaled, eyeing the early morning sun out the small window in the kitchen — his only window that didn’t have a blackout curtain on it. exhaling now.

“honestly, kid? i don’t know that it ever does go away. it’s a part of you, to some degree. there’s good days, there’s bad days. but there’s worse days, the ones that it feels like you’re there again. you learn to live with it, though. or it learns to live with you.”

he knew that well enough now, well enough to provide some comfort. jack had his bad days, the days that his house didn’t feel like the home it once was. the days of phantom pain and panic attacks. but he had more good days the more he learned about what happened and how to cope with it.

you shifted a little, looking up at him with a tear covered face, some stray hairs plastered to your left cheek and jaw. you opened your mouth to speak, then shut it again. the words didn’t come to you like you thought they would. but he understood nonetheless. the same way you understood the pictures on the mantle and bedside table and the value they held.

it was late (early) and despite the weight of it all, it was obvious you both needed sleep, especially after a shift like that one. that much was evident in the eye bags and voices that started to get a little groggy.

“i think maybe we should go to bed, jack.” your voice was a little gravely after the onslaught of emotions from just a few moments earlier. but neither of you moved. not yet. “yeah, probably. did you wanna crash with me?” jack asked after a few moments, voice a little more hushed.

sleeping in a bed with jack abbot — your attending (and unofficial best friend that neither of you knew about) — put you somewhere between thankful, mentally fist-pumping, and dreading it. “mhm,” you hummed in agreement, anyway. letting out that smoothie of thoughts didn’t seem like a great idea.

maybe if your brain was a little less scrambled, you would make several comments that could be deemed inappropriate by hr standards, but you could hardly stay awake without crying every five minutes right now. however, the morning is very much a different situation. that was a bridge to cross when you got there.

coherent thoughts were not something you were thriving in currently. every part of your brain had spent the past hour and a half trying to avoid the scariest memories of your life that half of the people you knew didn’t even know about. so god forbid you get a little excited and distracted at sharing a bed with a stupidly hot older man.

jack attached his prosthetic once more to walk to the bedroom — he didn’t have his crutches — and you frowned a little after realizing he did. the two of you made your way into his tidy room, your eye flicking around the area again.

when you sat down on the edge of the bed, falling back with your legs dangling to nearly touch the floor, jack just watched — only for a moment. but it brought a smile to his face. the comfort seemed like it had always been there, like maybe you two were more than what you thought you were initially.

it was the sense of peace that made it feel right. after his second of smiling like a fool at your blissfully (still suffering) face, jack snapped out of it and decided to get ready for bed. shedding his pants and shirt, he removed his prosthetic once more and the sleeves on the stump.

as soon as they were in their rightful place on top of the shorter dresser by his crutches, he sat on his side of the bed, leaned up against the headboard. you still hadn’t moved.

“hey, c’mon, kid. you’ve been through it today, time to get some sleep,” jack reminded with a couple knuckles tapping on your shoulder. you groaned playfully and flipped onto your stomach, pushing yourself up his bed to be a little more level with him — or his lap, anyway, which is where your head ended up.

your eye was shut, but you still let him run his fingers along your scalp and silently observe your scar with a smile. “mhm, i know,” you hummed in response. using your legs, you kicked the blanket onto your body and jacks legs.

it seemed perfect, almost, the dim lighting from the bedside lamp and how it hit your face. even the rough, gaping scar and bone that sat on the right side of your face held more beauty than it seemed. it was calm, unlike earlier. the switch in your attitude was clear after you got to his house and really spent the time to let jack take care of you.

“goodnight, sweetheart.”

jack flicked off the lamp and scooted down to lay in the bed, maneuvering you on top of his broad chest and one arm wrapping around your back.

“goodnight, jack.”

and you neither of you said the words, but the weight of them was still there.

#ksascriptt #new script #the pitt #the pitt x reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot #jack abbot #dr jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x vet!res!reader

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idanceuntilidie · 2 days ago

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Friendly Rivalry

Yandere perfect student x fem(?) reader

AUTHORS NOTE; So this was inspired by that drama I watched by the same title that had some yuri and I was like oh my god! So i whipped something up with that in mind. The reader is implied to be a girl BUT there are no prononus used besides you and such so maybe it can be still considere gn? anyway enjoy cus I sure as hell making a part two.

Remember your breathing exercises? Breathe in, hold, count to 7 and then let go. Now do it enough so you won’t get dizzy later. Your luggage shuffles across the sidewalk. Despite being small it's terribly heavy, it hit your legs on multiple occasions now and you wish you had someone to drive you. No matter, you followed the navigation motivated to get to your destination. After 20 minutes or so you finally arrive at Marble Hills High School The most prestigious highschool in the country for girls. Not many get into this school. You have to be either exceptionally smart or wealthy. It took a lot of work, sweat and restless nights. You were first in every single class, a shining example to your fellow peers. People treat you differently once you start getting good grades. Yet you wanted more, the high from achievements was not enough. Finally you tried transferring to Marble Hills and by some divine luck you got accepted. With shaky hands you watched as people passed you by, blurring into a blue swarm with pristine uniforms. You can even smell how much money they have. You briefly looked at your shorts and sweater, sadly you were sticking like a sore thumb. You can’t help but sigh, standing makes you more obvious. Slowly you shuffled along, luggage in hand trying to maneuver between people finally seeing clearing at the main building. God finally. You almost ran to the front desk, with the biggest yet polite smile you could muster only to be met with a wall. The woman at the desk had the most obvious scowl the world has ever seen. Oh this will be good. She barely looked at you before saying. “The community college is 10 minutes away.” She admired her red nails. “Well actually..” “Yes?” “I am the transfer, I-” “Oh, it’s you huh?” she finally looked at you, sharp green eyes looking you up and down, finally meeting your eyes and staring into your soul. She didn’t even look away before handing you a schedule that might as well could be a colour wheel. “Your class is 3B, the next building over. Don’t be late.” she hissed and went back to admiring her nails. Your soul might have left at this point as you took the paper in your sweaty hands. Well these years will be lovely.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ In and out. You didn’t manage to get into the dorms in time so still, you were stuck in your casual clothes sitting in a room with a bunch of people chattering away. They eyed you briefly, before rolling their eyes and continuing to chat away. Still shaking you sat in the back, perfectly synchronising with the teacher who walked into the classroom. She was tall, looking just as sharp as the woman at the front desk. Her face barely showed any emotion as she spoke. “Welcome to another year, let’s start with what this school is expecting you all to complete this year.” Your hand moved swiftly along the paper, noting out the books you will need, important tests, mock exams. Finally it came to questions. “Miss! Which class is Vivianne in?” one of the girls squealed. “Pleaaase tell us?” another begged and soon more and more girls chimed in. The teacher only sighed, as she looked at them. Nodding her in disapproval of their behaviour. When she tried to speak a soft knock came at the door, before it opened and a very stunning girl came through. Her soft black hair swayed as she walked in. Somehow her figure made the uniform look good, and her eyes made you pause. You were almost sure her eyes were black until a small ray sun hit them. So in fact they were warm chocolate perfectly matching her olive complexion. It doesn’t take a genius to piece the puzzle together, this is probably; Vivianne. You did see her name pop up a lot while roaming through the halls, most noticeably on the board that showed the prides of the school and all of the achievements. Finally you saw her face to complete the full mental image. “Hello fellow classmates” Vivian Ashworth smiled, yet it didn’t reach her eyes who were empty despite the warm feeling. “Finally, is the ceremony over?” The teacher looked at the girl. She nodded, tucking hair behind her ear. “Good, I expect great things from you this year Vivianne.” Finally the girls probably came to realise their idol came to class with them. They yelled, squealed and some even begged for her to sit with her. You watch this ordeal, wiping off your clammy hands against your shorts. Vivianne looked at the class with a polite smile, probably scanning it for the perfect seat. At some point you locked your eyes with her, the interaction made your breath hitch. Something shined in her eyes now, despite looking empty just a few minutes earlier. She didn’t listen to the begging and pleading and walked to you. Her perfectly manicured hand stretched out to you. Oh, oh no. “Hi I am Vivianne.” she beamed, “Can I sit next to you?” You blinked at her, once, twice. Yet she still had her hand out, smiling cheerfully. She still existed. Begrudgingly you shook her hand, already feeling the stares and the radiating hate. She sat next to you and proceeded to talk your ear off about everything and nothing while you tried not to notice her hand reaching for your thigh under the desk.

God, this will be a long, long day. ⊹ ࣪ ˖

Your shoulder slammed into the bathroom stall. You recognised one of them, she sat in front of you, patting the place next to her saying to Vivianne how she saved it just for her. Next to her were two other girls, they didn't look too delighted to be there.

“Hey transfer student.” she smiled sweetly, her nails dug into your shoulder painfully. “I see Vivianne chose you this year huh? What do you want for changing seats?”

“Wow, buying your way again Abby?” one of the girls laughed

“You are just jealous, you can’t do it too.” Abby hissed.

“Cat got your tongue transfer student?” the third girl hummed as she played with your hair.

You were still against the stalls, good thing everything is so clean here, otherwise you might have thrown up.

“Name your price” Abby spoke again, finally letting go of your shoulder. “Unlike you I can buy anything, just say what you want.”

“If that was the case you would buy better make up, the zit on your forehead is distracting.” You hummed, rubbing your shoulder. Abby's face went red, while the other girls laughed.

“Okay, I can do that. I will think of what you can pay me back with.”

“Listen here little bitch,” Red faced Abby hissed through her teeth. “Don’t get too cocky now, I eat whores like you for breakfast and-”

The bathroom door opened up with a bang and you barely registered who came in before you were pulled out of the room. You felt like your arm was going to pop out of its socket with how much force you were yanked away from the conversation. Honestly you liked the little showdown so this was disappointing.

Viviann smiled proudly as she dragged you through the halls, her hand was soft and despite looking fragile her grip was tight. The students who saw you two were shocked to say the least but still moved away to make way for you two.

“My God Y/N, I couldn’t find you,” the girl giggled “Were you hiding from me? I wanted to eat lunch with you!”

Your mind was blurring but you nodded, letting her drag you away. You did feel like anything you would say wouldn’t change her mind. Amongst the chaos in your head only one thought remained clear. What the hell is happening?

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whytheylosttheirminds · 18 hours ago

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june gloom part 2: is this gonna end ever? - r.c.

rafe cameron x pogue!reader

note: originially posted on my old blog in September! there are only two parts and will be no happy endings so only read if you're prepared for true angst!!

cw: hurt no comfort, smut, 18+ minors do not interact!

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Crickets chirped a chorus around you as you laid back on the flannel blanket, the grass beneath making a soft pillow for your head. Your lips wrapped around the blunt, lungs expanding to welcome the smoke. You hummed in pleasure as the high-end strain went down way smoother than any of the trash you would usually get on The Cut.

“God, this is good shit,” you said with a lazy smile.

“Only the best for you,” Rafe smirked, leaning over on the blanket to pull the joint from your lips so he could join in your revelry.

He took a long drag and let it go in a smoke ring that rose above you and disappeared into the starry sky. You tried and failed to stifle your laugh.

“What’s funny?” He asked, eyes glazed over with his high.

“Nothing,” you chuckled. “Just…what frat house did you learn that in?”

“Shut up,” he teased back, making you laugh harder.

“No, I’m sure the sorority girls found that very sexy,” you continued.

“They did actually, thank you,” he joked. “You would’ve too.”

“Yeah right, I’d make a great Phi Beta Whateverthefuck,” you huffed sarcastically.

“Did you go to college?” He asked.

You’d known Rafe for about three months, spending nearly every night together since you first met at that club. You had talked about just about everything under the sun except yourselves, you were caught off-guard by this excavation into your history.

“Um, no,” you answered, taking the blunt back from him.

“Why not?”

You shrugged, taking another hit, “didn’t wanna.”

“Do you regret it?” He continued.

You sat up and pulled your knees to your chest, looking down at him with a frown.

“What?” He questioned.

“Why the sudden interest?” You said, harsher and less playful than you’d intended to.

Rafe sat up next to you, pulling his knees towards himself to mirror you. His eyes were intense on your face as he mumbled, “you don’t want me to get to know you?”

Truthfully, you wanted that and so much more, but you couldn’t tell him that. You knew this was just a way for him to pass the time until he could get you in bed again, and maybe you were okay with that. You decided you’d entertain the line of questioning, just this once, not knowing then that this was just the first of many deep, meaningful conversations you’d share with him.

You took a deep breath and said, “what do you want to know?”

He looked up at the stars as he considered the answer to that question. You took the opportunity to admire the way the moonlight reflected off of the sharp angle of his jaw.

He decided on “what’s your biggest dream?”

You bit your lip and looked down at your bare feet, digging them into the blanket, not used to this kind of conversation and yet feeling curiously comfortable opening up to him.

“I want to go to India,” you answered honestly. “I read a book when I was a kid about a little girl who grew up in India and I’ve wanted to go ever since.”

Rafe nodded in approval, “that’s a good one. You should go.”

“Yeah, as soon as I win the lottery, it’ll be my first stop,” you joked bitterly.

“Or I could just take you,” he shrugged.

You smiled at him, incredulous.

“What?” He asked, genuinely unsure of the meaning behind the look you were giving him. You realized he might actually be serious, even though you knew it would never really happen.

“Nothing. That’s sweet,” you smiled. “But I want to get there on my own. I wanna earn it.”

“I can respect that,” he conceded.

“Anytime you wanna lend me that private jet, though, just hit me up,” you teased.

Rafe chuckled, eyebrows raised, “oh I see…you’re using me.”

“I thought that was obvious,” you smiled coyly.

“Uh-huh,” Rafe said, playfully shoving your shoulders so you fell back onto the blanket.

You giggled as he climbed over you, caging you in between his arms as he held himself up, looking down at you, tucked perfectly beneath him.

“I think I’m okay with that.”

He leaned down and kissed you, his tongue sweeping over your bottom lip tenderly, lowering himself down until you were chest to chest…

“Are you listening to me?”

Your friend waved her hand in front of your face, trying to get your attention.

“Sorry, what?” You were pulled from your thoughts.

“I said they want us there at four this friday,” she showed you an email on her phone.

“Oh,” you blinked, coming back to the moment. “Where is it?”

“Some mansion on Figure 8. It’s a wedding, but they're doing like a whole weekend thing, so it’s Friday through Sunday. Last time I worked one of these I made over five hundred.”

When she first told you about the catering gig this weekend, you turned her down. You’d been carefully avoiding the north part of the island for the last six months, and a whole weekend would be a high-risk endeavor. However, you didn’t have to check your bank account to know you were near broke, and Figure 8 was where the real money was made. You agreed and ironed your white button down and black slacks, your go-to outfit for catering gigs.

As you pulled up to the address your friend had sent you, you cursed under your breath. The estate was huge, the old house immaculately kept and towering proudly under a crystal blue sky. You turned down the radio as your beat up car sputtered its way up the long, grand drive.

“We’re definitely not on the south side anymore,” you joked to yourself.

You pulled around back to the service entrance as directed by your friend’s text and tracked her down in the crowd of other blue collar workers. Everyone was moving quickly, arranging the massive party space according to the wishes of some unseen bride and groom.

You were put to work right away, polishing silverware and arranging it as instructed by the very specific, color-coded diagram you had been given. Tonight was only the rehearsal dinner, and there were two-hundred names on the guestlist. You chatted with your friend as you did various other chores, speculating about who could possibly be the owner of this massive property.

“Maybe it’s a crime lord,” your friend joked. “Like some mafia type shit.”

“Maybe it’s a celebrity,” you guessed.

You didn’t have to wonder for long.

“Hey! A little help here!” A delivery driver called to you as he struggled to lift something large and rectangular out of his truck, the mystery item protected with a large, black sheet.

You ran over to give him a hand, and he directed you to a big easel he had set out, “picture of the happy couple,” he explained. You called your friend over, informing her you were about to have all your questions answered.

Once you had set the canvas down, you asked the delivery driver if you could remove the sheet. “I don’t give a fuck, my job’s done,” he said, hopping back in his truck and driving off. You and your friend giggled as you did a little countdown and drumroll routine. You pulled the sheet away and her mouth fell open

“Of fucking course,” she immediately took out her phone to take a picture.

You stepped back to look at the giant, blown up portrait. Every muscle in your body tensed and the blood drained from your face, you grabbed the back of a nearby chair for support.

There on the oversized canvas, smiling that perfect, crooked, arrogant, beautiful smile, was Rafe Cameron.

He had his arm around the woman you recognized to be the one he’d left you for, calling off your whirlwind love affair in pursuit of something more optically appealing to his family. He’d found it; they were gorgeous together.

Six months had passed since you’d last seen him. The first few months were the hardest you’d ever faced. At first, you went out almost every night, needing to stay shitfaced to keep your mind from wandering to him or your fingers from dialing his number. Eventually, you had to delete him from your phone, not trusting yourself in those late night moments when you missed him so much you thought you might die. No amount of booze or weed could make you forget the feeling of his hands on your body, the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes when he fucked you that last time. Your friends started getting worried. You blacked out so often, you couldn’t keep a job. After three or four months of your reckless behavior, they called a sort of intervention and convinced you to calm down.

You decided if you were going to be alone, you’d make yourself good company.

You stopped drinking, and even gave up cigarettes. It took several false starts, but the patch got you through it. You picked up good habits, too, starting your mornings with yoga and meditation. You were planning to go back to school, tired of career-hopping through dead-end minimum wage jobs. You stopped eating take out so much, started grocery shopping and saving every spare cent you had for a travel fund. You even cut and dyed your hair, finding freedom in the ability to change whenever you wanted, in the fluidity of answering to no one but yourself. You were still untamed, but for the first time in your life, you felt a semblance of control. You decided you’d build a beautiful life even if you had to scratch and claw your way to it. And you’d do it all by yourself.

Slowly, and with the most effort you’d given anything ever, you were finally starting to get over Rafe Cameron.

Or so you thought. Now, standing in his backyard, decorating for his wedding, you felt like you were right back where you were that night in June, lying naked on your bed while he walked out of your life forever.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” A high-pitched, angry voice startled you, pulling your eyes away from the picture.

You whipped your head around to see her, even more stunning than she was in pictures, her wide Disney-princess eyes shooting daggers at you. Your first and most irrational thought was that she somehow knew who you were. The delusion of that concept was quickly made apparent.

“The picture was supposed to stay covered until tonight,” she barked at you and your friend, who looked at you with wide-eyed panic. “Aren’t you the fucking caterers? Why are you even out here?”

“S-sorry,” you stammered out, your mind reeling as it tried to connect to your reality. You picked up the sheet off the ground. “We’ll cover it back up.”

“No, don’t touch it! Where’s your manager?” She demanded, her hands on her hips. “They need to know about this. What are your names?”

Your friend looked at you with wide eyes, you knew she needed this job even more desperately than you did. Plus, she’d stuck her neck out to get you hired and now she’d lose the money and her credibility.

“It was me,” you blurted out. “Not her. Don’t worry, you don’t need to get anyone fired, I’ll just leave.”

It wasn’t a big sacrifice, considering you were already thinking if you stayed another minute you might have a full blown panic attack. At least if you threw yourself under the bus and got fired, your friend would have no reason to question why you ran from the property crying.

“Fine, whatever,” she dismissed your act of loyalty with a wave of her manicured hand while your friend looked at you with grateful eyes. “What’s your name then?”

“Don’t worry about it,” you handed her the sheet, which she snatched from your hands irritably. “I’ll just go.”

You tried to keep your composure as you walked back toward the house, praying you’d remember your way back to your car. Your heart was pounding, your anxiety and shock threatening to bubble over, you could feel tears springing up and your hands shaking.

You rounded one of the many corners of the massive house, finally out of her line of vision, and broke into a sprint. You passed through another courtyard, where more preparations were underway. There were far too many eyes on you. If you remembered correctly, there was only one more turn before the part of the property you were parked on.

Dirt crunching under your feet, you slid around the corner and straight into something hard and large. You let out a sharp “ouch” as your face burned with the force of the collision. To your horror, you realized you’d run into a person. You kept your eyes low, looking at the man’s feet as you held a hand over your face, wondering for a moment if you’d broken your nose. Then, a familiar scent flooded your senses, and you felt a large hand rest on your shoulder.

“Woah, I’m sorry, are you okay?” Rafe’s voice asked, clearly unaware of who he was talking to, you looked so different than you did six months ago.

You raised your wide eyes to look at him, hand still cradling your throbbing nose. You took him in through rapidly blinking lashes, begging yourself not to cry. His face shifted slowly from concern for a stranger to recognition of someone all too familiar.

He pulled his hand from you in shock, his mouth opening and closing and opening again, trying to form words that just weren’t coming. You knew you needed to get out of there before they did.

“I’m fine,” you said firmly, hoping he understood you were talking about more than just your injured face.

You sidestepped him and kept running, leaving him standing wide eyed and ashen faced as he watched you get into your car and peel away from his home, and away from him.

₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *

The key rattled against the lock, your hands shaking as you tried to get into your apartment. When you finally got the door opened, you peeled off your clothes quickly, as if they were covered in something radioactive. You pulled on a tank and some sleep shorts, fully ready to get in bed and stay there for days. Everything in you was unraveling. The sight and sound of him undoing the steel backbone you had built for yourself. You climbed under the covers, curled into a ball, and sobbed.

You cried so hard, it knocked you out. Without trying to, your body fell into a hazy, uneasy kind of sleep, haunted by images of Rafe. When you woke, blinking confusedly at the fuzzy outline of the time on your alarm clock, it was dark outside. The clock read 11:03pm. You pulled yourself from your bed with a groan, craving something to comfort you in your post-meltdown emptiness.

As you stood at the sink, filling the kettle for some tea, your mind replayed the events of the day. He’s getting married tomorrow. The rehearsal dinner that you helped set up for was probably over by now. You pictured him saying goodnight to her with a kiss, hanging his tux for the morning, making sure he had the rings ready. You already knew you’d lost him, but the permanence of tomorrow’s events felt like a boot on the neck of the small part of you that still wondered what if.

Your phone rang out loudly on the kitchen table, making you jump, so startled you almost dropped the tea kettle, the water now overflowing. You set the kettle down on the stove and turned on the burner before looking at your phone screen, which read “unknown number.” You hit decline and let it go to voicemail. After a minute, you poured your tea and sat at the table, watching as your phone lit up again with notification of a new voicemail. You unlocked it and pressed play.

You knew the voice immediately, though it was coming out slurred and strained. You clutched the phone to your ear with both hands to hear better.

“Heyyyy baby. It’s me. I’m sorry for calling so many times, blowin’ up your phone and you’re probably out somewhere, looking fuckin’ gorgeous like always. Shit there’s probably guys lined up to take you home. Do you remember when we met? Fuck you looked so hot. I thought if you said no to going home with me I might literally die. But you said yes! You said yes and you took me home and we, fuck…god…it was so good, you’re so good. Not just the sex. I mean, yes your pussy is so perfect, but…shit it’s raining…but you were- you are…jesus Rafe get it together. I can’t remember what I was saying. I’m so drunk, I- ouch, fuck!- I miss you, baby. It's cold out here but I don’t care, I couldn’t be there anymore. I couldn’t listen to them talk about this fucking wedding. Fucking flowers and table settings and shit I don’t care about any of that…just, please…baby…I need-”

Your phone beeped loudly, the voicemail cut off for length. You replayed it, twice. Outside your kitchen window, you could see the rain getting heavy. The low was in the 30s tonight, and it was supposed to keep raining for hours. You couldn’t hear much in the background behind Rafe’s drunken rambling, but you could tell he was outside. You pictured him stumbling into a ditch somewhere. He had hurt himself on the voicemail, did he fall? You couldn’t stand the thought of him alone, out in the cold rain, hurt.

Despite every instinct, you pulled up the number he called from and texted him.

Today 11:14pm

Where are you?

Today 11:16pm

‘Unknown’ shared their location with you.

You grabbed your coat and keys and ran out the door before you had time to second guess yourself. You found him lying on the beach, his clothes soaked through from the rain that was still falling heavily. He’d clearly thrown up, just a few feet from where he was laying now. You ran to his side and quickly checked that he was breathing.

“Jesus, Rafe,” you recoiled at the overwhelming aroma of booze radiating off of him.

His eyes flew open at the sound of your voice.

“Baby?” he groaned.

“We gotta get out of here, Rafe,” you struggled to help him up.

With an enormous amount of effort, you got him into your car. He leaned his head against the cold window as you drove, his breath fogging up the glass with each exhale. You looked over at him every few seconds to make sure he was still conscious.

Once in your apartment, stumbling through the door with his arm over your shoulder, you led him into the bathroom, guiding him to sit on the edge of the tub while you ran the shower, water heating slowly.

You tapped his arms.

“Up,” you instructed. He lifted his arms obediently and looked up at you through half-lidded eyes as you peeled off his wet polo, doing everything you could to avoid staring at his bare torso.

“Think you can do the rest yourself?” You motioned to his lower half.

“No,” he said with a smirk.

“Rafe,” you warned, not playing around.

“I can do the rest myself,” he said with his hands up in defense.

You left him in the bathroom fumbling with his belt. While he showered, you brewed a pot of coffee and poured two steaming mugs, sitting uneasily at the table when he finally emerged from the bathroom. He was in only his boxers and you blushed aggressively, as if you hadn’t seen him naked a hundred times before. He caught the redness in your cheeks as you looked down at your hands, swallowing hard.

“Sorry,” he said earnestly. “My clothes are still wet.”

You pushed back your chair and walked to your bedroom, returning with folded clothes in your hands. He looked suspiciously at the men’s t-shirt and basketball shorts you gave him, cocking his eyebrow at you. You just glared back at him, tilting your head slightly as if to say I dare you to give me shit about where I got them. He didn’t push it, pulling them on wordlessly.

“Coffee?” You offered once he was dressed.

“Please,” he slumped into the chair across from you, sipping the coffee with a sigh.

“Feeling better?” You asked.

“Much better, thanks,” he said. “Never mix rum and redbull.”

You snorted, “I could’ve told you that.”

“Well you weren’t there were you?” The sentence started playfully but ended with a bite.

You sipped your coffee, wondering who would be first to acknowledge the elephant in the room. You sat in silence for a few minutes, both drinking your coffee and letting the air grow thick between you.

Finally, he caved and spoke first, “why’d you leave?”

“Why would I stay?” You responded, voice dripping with spite.

“I- I guess I don’t know.” Now it was Rafe avoiding your eyes.

“Does she know…about me?” You asked timidly.

“No,” he mumbled, before sipping up the last drop of his coffee.

“And where does she think you are right now?”

“My bachelor party.”

“We should get you back there, then.” You stood and collected both mugs, bringing them to the sink.

Rafe scoffed, “you’re kicking me out again?”

“I never kicked you out, Rafe. You left,” you said, clutching the edge of the sink, bracing for an argument.

But he didn’t argue, he just let the silence settle between you for a long moment before finally saying, “I wish I hadn’t. I miss you.”

You turned, expecting to find him still slumped over the table, but he had stood and was now startlingly close. You jolted, squaring your shoulders in defense as he got closer to you.

“Don’t say that,” you pleaded. “I can’t do this with you.”

“Then why’d you come get me?” He asked, his eyelids low as he looked down at you. “Why’d you bring me here?

“Why’d you call me?” You asked back.

“I asked you first,” he said, no playful smile to match his childish words.

“Why does it matter?” You sighed.

“‘Cause it does, it matters to me, please just give me a reason,” his voice grew more desperate as he stepped even closer to you, his looming body caging you against the sink. He searched your face as he waited for you to respond, needing an answer you couldn’t give him.

“Are you gonna marry her?” Your words tightened the tension already growing between you, causing Rafe to close his eyes in frustration.

“I don’t want to talk about her,” he shook his head.

Rafe lifted his hand slowly, placing it on your waist. He squeezed gently at the soft skin of your side. You leaned into his touch for just a second before coming to your senses.

“Are you? Going to marry her?” You repeated stubbornly.

“Yes,” He said, eyes falling from your face to his hand on your side.

“Then you shouldn’t be touching me,” you grabbed Rafe’s hand and lowered it from you. “I won’t be a mistress. I won’t be that dirty pogue who fucks a married guy, I wanna be something better than that.”

You slipped out from between him and the sink, pacing to the other side of the room, but his body turned aggressively to follow you.

“You are. You’re so much better,” his voice cracked with urgency as he rushed to reassure you.

You shook your head in anger, raising your voice as you snapped, “then why are you marrying someone else?”

“Because I have to!” He matched your heated tone, as if he was the one to have something to be mad about.

“We’re going in circles, Rafe! We are in the exact same spot we were six months ago! Except I’m a different person now. It changed me, losing you. I got better, I got healthy, I got sober. I got over you!” You were yelling now, searching for the words to make him understand that he wasn’t the only one who had something to lose.

“Well I didn’t get over you,” he stated simply.

“No, you got engaged,” you pointed out.

“Fuck that, fuck her, you know I don’t love her!” He scoffed. “You saw her today, you know she’s a bitch.”

“That’s really nice, Rafe, you should put that in your vows,” you huffed sarcastically.

“Oh c’mon, she doesn’t love me either,” he rolled his eyes. “She still fucks around, everyone knows it.”

He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but it took you by surprise. You searched his face for a sign as to whether it was true or just something he made up to make you sympathize with him. The way his eyes fell to the ground and the apples of his cheeks blushed slightly told you it was true, she cheated on him, and he was ashamed of it. It made you sick, the thought of someone having him so close and caring so little. The only thing worse than the thought of her treating him like that was the thought of him accepting it as if it was what he deserved. You should’ve felt sad for him, but it just made you angrier.

“Then why, Rafe? Why?” You knew you were becoming a broken record but you just could not wrap your head around his choice. “Why are you still with her?” You hated the way it made you sound like you were blaming him for her actions, but you needed to understand.

“Because I’m going to have to end up with someone like her anyway, I may as well just get it over with,” he said with a resigned shake of his head.

“That’s fucked up, Rafe,” you said, even though you knew he already knew it.

“It is what it is,” he shrugged, defeated.

Your eyes caught the clock on your stove. It was almost 1am. Rafe was supposed to be saying his vows in twelve hours, and you knew if he stood here in your apartment for another minute, looking at you so helplessly, you’d crumble for him.

“I think you should go home,” you said, trying and failing to mean it.

“Not yet,” Rafe said, his tone implying there was something more he was waiting for.

And even though you wanted to, you just couldn’t give it to him.

Mustering the last of your pride, you took a deep breath and said, “If you’re waiting for me to ask you not to marry her, we’re both gonna be disappointed. I’ve been doing good, Rafe. I got my life together, and I won’t be responsible for ruining someone else’s. It’s not on me, you have to decide. If you don’t want to marry her, then don’t marry her. But do it for you, because I’ve got me covered.”

Rafe considered your words, standing completely still as they washed over him. He had to choose. He could either ruin his reputation and potentially lose his family to be happy with you or keep the lifestyle he’d grown so accustomed to and be miserable with her. He looked so sad, and you desperately wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but you stayed silent, wanting him to say what he was feeling all on his own for once. You needed a simple answer.

But Rafe Cameron never did anything the simple way.

He didn’t say anything, he just started walking toward you. Once he was close enough to touch you, and your back was against the wall, he reached up to touch your face gently with one finger, silently asking if you were still in pain from your collision earlier. When you didn’t wince or push him away, he leaned down, bringing his lips dangerously close to yours.

“Just one more time, please. Don’t kick me out, be with me one more time,” he whispered against your skin.

You shook your head slowly, whispering back, “I won’t kick you out, but I also won’t let you touch me and then marry her.”

“Fine, I won’t touch you.”

Rafe leaned back, only slightly, pulling his face away so you were level with his chest. He folded his hands behind his back to show you he meant it. You could smell his familiar musk, his chest so close to your face you could hear his heartbeat as you looked up at the pulsing veins in his neck. His hair, still wet from the shower, flopped messily over his forehead. A single drop fell from his bangs and landed on your collarbone. Rafe’s eyes darkened as he tracked the droplet rolling across your exposed skin, down your chest, over the curve of your tits and finally disappearing into your tank top.

Eyes locked to Rafe’s, you lifted your hand slowly, placing it over the spot the water had fallen, sliding your fingers delicately down the drop’s path. When you reached the neckline of your tank top, Rafe’s eyes consuming every movement, you reached up with your other hand and lowered one of the straps of your top slowly. You dragged your hand down further, cupping your breast through your lacy bralette and biting your lip at the pressure.

Rafe’s jaw clenched. He put one hand on the wall next to your head to steady himself, bringing his body impossibly closer while still not touching you. His other hand fell to his side, moving dangerously close to his dick.

“You better not touch yourself either, or I swear to god I’ll stop,” you warned him.

“Don’t stop,” He brought the drifting hand up to the wall on the other side of your head. “Please, baby.”

Butterflies erupted in your stomach at his voice, raspy and strained with need. With two hands on the hem of your shirt, you pulled it slowly over your head, leaving you in just the see-through undergarment.

“Take that off too,” Rafe tried to sound dominant, but his voice cracked, betraying him.

“You’re not in any position to make demands,” you scolded with a shake of your head. “And you’re not going to see me naked. You have a fianceé for that.”

Rafe was pained by this, his nostrils flailing as he clenched his jaw in frustration. You ignored him and put your hands back on your body, palming both of your tits again before trailing lower over your stomach. Rafe’s tongue darted out of his mouth and licked his lips as he watched the way your stomach flexed with anticipation, hands finally landing on the waistband of your sleep shorts. One hand pulled the elastic back while the other slid beneath it slowly. When your fingers ran over the fabric of your panties, teasing your clothed clit, your head fell back against the wall and your jaw fell slack. Rafe ran one of his hands through his hair as he watched pleasure flood your face, desperate to touch something, anything. The hand still on the wall closed into a fist. You started rubbing circles over your clit through your panties, the fabric already soaked through, wet since the sight of him in his boxers. Your breath hitched when you found the perfect rhythm and you closed your eyes tight, a melodic moan rising from your throat.

“Fuck baby, you’re so fucking sexy,” Rafe growled through gritted teeth.

Your eyes flew open and you pulled your hand from your shorts, suddenly very aware of the lack of space between you and the vulgarity of what you were doing. You slid under his arm and hurried to the other side of the kitchen.

“You should go,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around yourself and shivering at the sudden loss of his warmth.

Rafe stayed still, trying not to spook you. His head dipped low, looking down at his ringing hands.

“I missed you,” he mumbled helplessly.

“You mean you missed fucking me?” You asked spitefully.

One agonizingly slow step at a time, Rafe crossed the room. You turned from him as if to push him away, literally giving him the cold shoulder. But he wasn’t deterred, he just got closer and closer until he was right behind you, close enough for his breath to sweep across your shoulder as he said, “yeah, what if I do? I miss it so much. There’s not a day that passes without me wishing I was here, fucking you so good you scream my name.”

His arrogant words made you so fucking angry, and so fucking wet.

What little resistance you had mustered disappeared. Breathless, you whispered, “what else do you miss?”

“I miss your little moans,” he continued, the corner of his lips raising slightly at the sight of the goosebumps that shot up your arms. “I bet you still cry out for me when you make yourself come, don’t you? I want you to show me.”

“We can’t do this,” you shook your head.

“No, I can’t do this,” he corrected you. “You can do whatever you want.”

No fight left, you took his suggestion, and soon you were laying back on your bed, your shorts thrown on the floor, your hand moving feverishly under your panties. Rafe laid next to you, his body drawn in as close as it could possibly get while keeping his promise not to touch you. You’d made no such promise, the hand you weren’t rubbing over your slick folds gripping his arm for purchase as you moaned at your own touch.

“Talk to me,” you begged.

“Yeah?” He said excitedly, as if he had been waiting for permission.

You nodded desperately, bringing your eyes to his as one of your fingers dropped down to enter yourself.

“You remember the first time we fucked?” He began. “Right here on this bed. I took you from behind. You were so tight around my cock, like you were fucking made for me.”

You added a second finger, driven by his filthy words. His jaw clenched, restraining himself with more effort than he’d ever given anything as he watched you writhe.

“Keep going,” you whined, eyes squeezed shut.

“I had to turn you around, I had to see that pretty face when you came for me for the first time,” he recalled. “God, I bet you wish it was me stretching you out right now, don’t you? You wish it was my cock pounding you into the mattress until you can’t breathe, huh?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, lips pouting, overwhelmed by the memories and your need to feel him.

“Best pussy I’ve ever had,” he groaned, feeling himself twitching in his pants, desperate for his own release but committed to yours. “I need to see you come, baby, one more time. Please come for me?”

You cried out as you clenched around your own fingers, their size so inadequate with him so close, knowing what he could be doing to you. But you meant what you said, you couldn’t let him touch you, not while his bride was sleeping just across town, no idea her groom was in some pogue’s bed, begging her to come for him. Maybe it was sick, but the thought of him being so desperate for you that he was risking everything with her made your thighs clench around your hand, nearing the edge.

“Tell me about the first time you saw me,” you pleaded, the rasp in your voice warning him you were close.

“Holy shit, baby, you were so fucking sexy,” he said, rising up from the bed and propping himself on his arm to hover over you, the proximity throwing you into even more of a frenzy. “Dancing in that club, the way you move, shit, I wanted to lay you down on that dancefloor and fuck you right there. So did every other guy in there. But they didn’t get to, I did. And I’ve never been the same since I first touched you.”

It was all too much, his words, the memory, the sensation of your fingers sliding in and out so easily, the way he was talking making you so wet. Your high crashed into you like a truck, your back arching off the bed, your chest bumping into his as you came with his name on your lips.

“There she is, that’s my girl,” Rafe exhaled as you rode out your high. Eventually, your muscles gave out from the pleasure and you slumped back into the bed.

He watched you in rapture as your chest rose and fell with labored breaths, struggling to recover. Neither of you knew what to do next, the shock of what just happened washing over you. Your body was so exhausted from the chaos of the day and the aftershocks of your orgasm, all you wanted was him, and you were too tired to fight it.

“Rafe?” You whispered into the darkness of your bedroom, the light of the moon the only thing illuminating the small space.

“Yeah?” He whispered back.

“Can you hold me?” Your voice sounded so small, and you hated the vulnerability of your request, but at this moment the only thing you wanted in the world was to feel his arms around you.

“I thought you didn’t want me to touch you?” He teased gently.

“I said I’m getting better, not that I’m perfect,” you smiled, turning your body towards him. “And I want to know what it feels like to fall asleep in your arms. Just once.”

“Is it gonna be an issue?” He asked. You knew what he really meant was, “are you going to regret sleeping with an engaged man?”

The answer was yes, but you didn’t care.

“Just let me be a little selfish,” you said, turning around so your back was against his chest, pulling his arm around you. “I had you first.”

“You still have me,” he whispered against your neck, pulling your body into his.

“Shhh,” you said, lifting your fingers gently to his lips. “Go to sleep, Rafe.”

He smiled and did as he was told.

₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *

The sunlight landing on your face is what woke you from the deepest and sweetest sleep you’d had in six months. Your first instinct was to smile, humming in satisfaction as you stretched your well rested muscles.

Your second instinct was to reach for him.

You shouldn’t be surprised, shouldn’t pull your knees to your chest, shouldn’t be crying alone in your cold bed. Of course he left. He was always going to leave.

Some small, pathetic voice in the back of your mind said, “maybe he just went to break things off with her.”

Even though it made you feel like the most pitiful girl in the world, you checked his location, still available from the night before. He was on Figure 8, the address you had gone to yesterday. He was at his wedding.

He had wanted you to ask him not to marry her. He never would’ve said it, but you could see it on his face. He had too much to lose, too many people depending on him, too much weight on his shoulders. But maybe he would’ve given it all up, if only you’d asked.

You threw your phone across the room in frustration. Maybe you should’ve just asked him to stay with you, maybe you should’ve put your pride aside this one time, maybe this was all your fault.

You were up and out of bed before you had time to talk yourself out of it. You pulled on your catering clothes from the night before. Surely, they wouldn’t let you in the gate if you looked like some wedding crashing pogue, but maybe you could slip in undetected if it seemed like you still worked there.

You don’t even remember driving there, your stomach on fire with nerves and something that might even be excitement, as you raced across the island. The clock in your car read 1:03pm, and you prayed to whatever god was listening that the ceremony had started late.

As you planned, they let you right in the gate when you said you were with the caterer. You didn’t even bother to park at the service entrance, your tires squealing as you came to a stop right in front of the house, leaving the engine running as you ran towards the ceremony site. You could hear music playing in the distance, hoping it was the processional.

But when you turned the corner, you heard a large crowd break into applause. You came to a halt, backing up to hide under the cover of a tree a few yards from the end of the aisle. You watched as Rafe appeared, his beaming bride on his arm. He dipped her low, giving her a kiss as the crowd cheered again, the gold ring on his left hand glinting in the sunlight.

You were too late.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂

a/n: sorry.

#queue #rafe cameron #obx #rafe #obx fic #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron and reader #rafe cameron and you #rafe cameron and y/n

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