yolgart

[yolgart]

Professional Conduct My Ass -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader

You should’ve stopped at the second orgasm.

Maybe the third.

But Spencer had been looking at you like that—rumpled curls, shirt half-buttoned, a smug little smirk on his stupidly handsome face—and you had gone full slut. Now it was 7:12 AM, and you were in your bathroom mirror trying to make concealer do what no government-issued forensic cover-up ever could.

Your throat looked ravaged.

You tilted your head and winced. A neat ring of bruises, Spencer’s fingers like little trophies circling your neck in deep plum and ink-blue. And then the hickeys—dear God, the hickeys. He looked like a vampire victim.

You turned back to the bedroom, horrified. “We cannot go to the office like this.”

He was shirtless, bent over tying his shoes, and it was just—unfair. All lean lines and lanky muscle and a constellation of bruises blooming like wildflowers across his neck and shoulders.

You whistled. “I really went to town on you.”

“You bit me,” he said, straightening and pointing to a crescent mark just below his collarbone. “You left dental evidence.”

You shrugged. “It was a compliment. In the moment.”

He stared at you. “We have to go to work. With Hotch. And Morgan. And JJ. And Garcia. And we have a case briefing,” he said, rubbing his face like it physically pained him to remember.

You were too busy dabbing concealer onto your neck like a madwoman to look back at him. “You’re literally the smartest person in the Bureau and you let this happen.”

“Excuse me?” he shot back, slipping on his button-up with a hiss. “You bit me like I was a chew toy!”

“Only because you said—” You stopped yourself. “Never mind.”

He raised a brow. “‘Only because I said…?’ What?”

You muttered something about having a latex allergy and being turned on by fucking raw and kept blending.

You arrived at Quantico seven minutes late, coffee in hand, silently daring the elevator to move faster as you and Spencer stood like statues inside.

You sit down two chairs away from Spencer. Not next to him. Never next to him. You learned that lesson last week when you accidentally let your knees touch under the table and Morgan nearly imploded from curiosity.

He’s wearing a scarf.

Spencer Reid is wearing a scarf. In July.

JJ arches a brow. Morgan outright snorts. “Pretty boy, what’s with the neckwear? You join a jazz band?”

You immediately shove a too-hot sip of coffee in your mouth to avoid making a noise. Spencer blinks at Morgan like a man choosing violence.

“Had a sore throat this morning,” he says too quickly. “Didn’t want it to get worse.”

Garcia, bless her meddling heart, swivels around in her chair. “Oh no! Are you sick? Do you need tea? I have lemon ginger in my desk—”

“No! No. I’m fine.” Spencer coughs, like he’s trying to make the lie more convincing. “Just… precautionary.”

Emily’s eyes flick from him to you, to the scarf, to your turtleneck, then down to your wrists, where you accidentally forgot to cover one of his bruises with foundation. A ring-shaped imprint from his hand still lingers faintly. Her brow arches. Her mouth twitches.

You pretend not to notice. You focus on the whiteboard.

Hotch walks in, files in hand.

“Morning,” he says. “Briefing’s starting now. Let’s keep it efficient.”

9:12am Post-Brief Coffee

You’re waiting for coffee when Emily walks in, holding a mug and a smug look.

“Nice neck,” she says casually.

You freeze. “Excuse me?”

“You and Reid are really subtle, you know that?”

You nearly spill your drink. “We’re not—”

She holds up her hand. “Relax. I don’t care. Just… maybe cool it with the murdery makeout sessions before team meetings.”

Your face burns. “Noted.”

“And FYI,” she adds, stepping past you, “you’ve got a bite mark on your shoulder. Left side. Might wanna rethink the tank top.” You glance down and swear under your breath.

Walking back to your desk, coffee in hand before you collapse into your chair. Spencer sent you a text from across the bullpen:

SPENCER: We are so bad at being secretive.

YOU: I told you not to leave a fingerprint on my neck.

SPENCER: You told me to choke you.

YOU: I was drunk on your nerd dick. That doesn’t count.

SPENCER: Fair. Still. We need a new plan.

YOU: New plan: no more fucking before briefings.

SPENCER: Counter-offer: we fuck gently next time.

You met his eyes across the room.

That smug little smile was back. You bit your lip.

God help you.

You were going to do it all over again.

a/n: hehehe

[yolgart]

The App Designed to Be Deleted

Prof! Spencer Reid x Prof! Reader, no mention of Y/N

WC: 2.3k - short and sweet

Mentions of misshapen dick pics and STDs, minor discussion of consent, tons and tons and tons of fluff, Spencer being a little too forward, a little bit of angst if you squint really, really hard, reader is struggling on the dating apps (and aren't we all)

Life is tough for a single girl who’s focused on her career and her education. There’s almost a decade where higher education consumes every waking moment of her day. Graduate classes, teaching seminars, grading and lecturing and testing and writing and researching. Countless nights spent awake trying to pour over books and data and numbers. There’s the occasional guy, or maybe even a serious relationship, but when you’re twenty-eight and unsure where this PhD in Abnormal Psychology is going to take you, you have a hard time committing to Mike, the guy with the nice smile that you met at your friend’s birthday party, who’s a lawyer in Colorado Springs and has no plans of moving. And then after that, there’s the demands of the career. There’s the typical teaching schedule and writing for publication so that you can compete with other Assistant Professors who want tenure. So when a man named Spencer Reid comes into your life, with his shaggy, curly brown hair, and his five o’clock shadow, you try not to focus on him. But at the same time, it’s hard not to focus on him. 

He commands a room and not just because all the girls in the room are batting their eyelashes at him and making heart eyes. In the first class he taught at your university, at least seventy-five percent of the class were female students auditing the course just because they were in love with the professor. You couldn’t blame them. You’d sat in on his lectures too. You still do sometimes. He’s charming, but in a self-deprecating way. Kind to a fault. Overly attentive to others’ needs.Prone to ramble and gesticulate wildly, but you kind of love that about him - the way that he talks with his hands. 

Spencer doesn’t have an office at the university. It’s unfortunate but because he’s just a visiting professor who comes every other month, they don’t have space for him to “set up.” You, on the other hand, lucked into a corner office with two windows and a view of the campus green. You have a small, overstuffed love seat in the corner, pressed between two bookshelves that’s across from your desk. Spencer is hopeless with his University-issued laptop, so you give him your desktop, and you sit on the laptop on the couch to do your work. 

Currently, he’s typing away at something. You don’t ask questions. His brow is furrowed, eyes narrowed. He’s focused. Your eyes, on the other hand, are swimming across the computer screen. Another terribly written paper on the effects of alcohol and drug use on the brain and the prevalence of schizophrenia amongst substance abusers. Based on some of the insertions, you’re half convinced it was written by AI. You push your computer to the side and pull out your phone. Twenty-five notifications from your dating app, which is utterly excessive. You roll your eyes. 

Flicking through your screen, you see that you’ve matched with Matt F., the thirty-five year old doctor in Bethesda and Sean T., the thirty year old Podcaster on Dupont Circle. They’ve both sent you the standard “hey beautiful :)” that you tend to get on these things. But the bulk of the notifications are from Neil, the forty-six year old in Alexandria who sent a total of — and you’re counting here — twenty pictures of his dick. It’s all the same picture, sent twenty times, with the caption “u like ?? Wana suk??” You want to throw your phone across the room. 

The messages might have come in over the past twelve hours, but still… Why should you be punished for going twelve or so hours without checking your dating app? You’re a fully grown adult woman with a career. You shouldn’t have to stoop to dick picks just because Neil is insecure about his floppy wiener. Obviously, your disdain at your phone gets Spencer’s attention. He turns to you on full alert, eyes already assessing you. You can tell he’s wondering how he can fix the unknown, unseen problem. You don’t know how to tell him that he’s perfect, and therefore you’ll be fine. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks, eyes searching you for any sign of physical distress. 

“Neil in Alexandria,” you say, gesturing toward your phone. “He sent me twenty dick pics over the past twelve hours, always with the caption asking me if I liked his penis and if I wanted to suck it.” 

You close your eyes, leaning your head back on the couch. You don’t see Spencer’s reaction. You don’t see his frown deepening. You don’t watch him get up from your desk, though you can hear his sneakers as he walks across the creaky hardwood floor of the office to sit on the coffee table across from you. And when you open your eyes, he’s right there, smiling softly, looking sad. 

“That’s a violation of your consent and your bodily autonomy. Did he ask your permission first?” Spencer asks. 

“Of course not,” you say. “But look. Who wants to see a floppy dick twenty times. It’s not even erect. It’s just there, and small. Looking like an Muppet’s nose.”

You hand Spencer your phone, and he looks at the picture with mild disdain. But then his eyes squint again, and then he’s zooming in on the picture. You wonder if it’s with mild interest. He did tell you about that guy in college…Ian…Isaac…Ethan… You can’t remember. There was some experimentation. But he’d always been interested in women predominantly. He’d told you about that too, late one night, between glasses of red wine. You’d talked about Lila Archer, the actress with the stalker that Spencer was sworn to protect and had ended up making out with in her own pool. You’d talked about Austin, the bartender and almost-victim of a serial killer in Atlanta who picked up girls at bars and then murdered them. He’d given her his personal cell number. They’d talked for a while, but it never went anywhere. There was Maeve Donovan, the love of his life, his soulmate, and the only woman he’d ever wanted to marry or imagined a future with. There was Dylan Einstein, the insanely smart coroner in Indianapolis that had assisted the team with a competition between two serial bombers. There was Agent Dorian Loker with the NSA, with whom Spencer had been on a stake out for several days. There was Maxine Brenner, the most normal girl in the world, who Spencer had met at the park and who had been taken hostage by an escaped convict and hit woman who wanted Spencer dead. 

You’ve never met anyone with a track record almost as bad as yours, but Spencer might have you beat. You can’t help the giggle that bubbles up in your throat as Spencer continues to scrutinize the picture. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, pressing your foot lightly against his shin, giving him a soft kick. 

“I think he has a mass on his testes,” Spencer says. “It looks kind of serious. Ask him if he has problems with urination. That could be why he is unable to get an erection. If he has a mass it could cause ED.” 

“I’m sorry, are you diagnosing the idiot in my DMs with testicular cancer?” You ask. 

“Potentially. Do you want me to ask him if he has trouble urinating?” Spencer asks. 

You laugh. “That would make my year, Spence, if you responded to that onslaught of dick picks by asking him if he has trouble peeing.” 

Spencer zooms in one more time on the picture, eyes narrowing. 

“No, actually, it’s lymphogranuloma venereum,” Spencer says, handing you back the phone. “It’s a particular strain of chlamydia trachomatis, which causes open sores and swollen lymph glands in the genital area. I would recommend he inform his doctor. It can be treated with three weeks of doxycycline twice daily, but he’ll need to abstain from all sexual activity and have follow up testing before resuming sexual activity. Make sure he knows he’s at high risk for rectal strictures, fistulas, and elephantiasis.”

“It already looks like he has elephantiasis of the testes,” you say, taking back your phone and zooming in on the picture as Spencer had done. 

“Then he should also do a round of ivermectin,” Spencer says. “I’m glad you showed me the picture.”

You fire off the text, legs crossed, foot bouncing against Spencer’s leg as you type out the instructions for what he should tell his doctor. Spencer watches you closely. You can feel his eyes on you as you bite your lip, thinking through what to say in a way that this guy can understand. Obviously, you can’t use the scientific terminology. 

“The thing is,” you say, as you fire off the text, “I’m not a sex object, and to be quite honest, I very rarely want to be treated like one. Sex requires mutual attraction and a level of intimacy that you can’t necessarily cultivate over the computer.”

Pressing send, you place your phone beside you on the couch. You’re still captured under Spencer’s gaze. He’s studying you softly, and you feel comforted under his kind brown eyes. It’s how he puts everyone at ease, even though he’s a genius.  

“You know, women are more likely than men to desire forms of non-sexual intimacy with people in general, regardless of gender. Men, on the other hand, are culturally conditioned to believe that the only kind of intimacy that they are permitted is sexual intimacy. Added to that the need for visual stimuli as a replacement for intellectual and emotional stimulation through the prolific oversharing of pornography has completely eroded the desire for meaningful relationship building and replaced it with the need and expectation of instant gratification for the sake of ejaculation,” Spencer says, looking cool and casual, like he’s in the middle of a lecture and not sitting in front of you with his thighs on either side of your legs, the toe of your shoe scraping against his calf. 

You wonder, if even for a moment, if something more could happen. If maybe this friendship was going to transcend its boundaries. If maybe your crush on him was just that obvious. If maybe he was showing his hand, too. Or possibly — probably — it was just wishful thinking on your part. Wishing that you could delete your dating app and actually be in love with a man who understood you, who saw you for who you were, who loved you in spite of your flaws — or maybe even because of them. 

“So what do you recommend for a girl like me who’s looking to fall in love?” you ask. 

You don’t expect him to answer. You expect him to stumble over his words. You expect him to blush and stutter and look horrified at the mere implication that he could have an opinion on your love life. 

Instead, he says with all sincerity and conviction, “You can embrace the love that’s been right in front of you the whole time.” 

And without another thought, without any hesitation, he leans forward and cups your cheek, pulling your lips into his, melting together as if you belonged like this. And you swear you do. He drinks from your lips like a man dying of thirst, and you welcome it, pouring into him the same kind of energy with which he’s captivated you. Barely separating his lips from yours, he shifts so that he is sitting beside you on the loveseat and then pulls you into his lap, cradling you close to him. And you let him. You embrace the love that’s been right in front of you the whole time, literally, physically, arms around his neck, hands up in his hair, heart beating out of your chest. 

A knock at your closed office door interrupts, and you practically jump off of his lap, trying to calm your racing heart and cool down the flush on your cheeks. He casually walks to the door, like nothing has happened, like you weren’t just making out like teenagers on your couch. It’s a student, wanting to meet with him. He invites her to sit across from him at your desk, and you return to your spot on the loveseat, return to grading, even though your mind is elsewhere, and your heart is across the room focused on a student’s problem. Your lip gloss stains his lips just a tad, but he doesn’t seem to notice, or brush it off. You wonder if the student across from him notices and knows he’s loved. 

Even after she departs, Spencer goes back to work like nothing has happened, and you go to teach your final class of the day wondering if it was all a fluke, if you imagined the whole thing. The guy from your dating app calls you a bitch for accusing him of a STD and malformed genitalia. You anticipate that Spencer will be gone when you get back to the office. It’ll be close to five-thirty, and he’ll be going by his mom’s facility before heading home. He always does on Tuesdays. Instead, he’s waiting for you, sitting on the edge of your desk when you return to your office. Tie off, shirt and sweater sleeves rolled up his forearms. 

“Ready for dinner?” He asks, looking casual and comfortable and like he truly belongs there, asking you questions like that. 

You drop your laptop and your books on the desk, stepping between his legs, hands running up over his chest and across his shoulders, while he looks down at you with a hint of a smirk, only love in his eyes. 

“Dinner?” You ask. 

“You think I’m not going to take my girlfriend out on a date?” Spencer teases, hands resting on your hips, spanning them entirely. 

“Girlfriend?” You ask.

He captures your lips in a kiss. “Delete your dating app.”

“Well, it did say it was designed to be deleted,” you concede. 

[yolgart]

HOW YOU GET THE GIRL – rafe smau

05. 06. 07.

rafe’s private notes:

insta:

your messages:

rafe’s messages:

your messages:

taglist: @drewsephrry @rafecameronswhore @bewitchedarchive @sebastianstansblog @lvcersvoid @judesgfirl @sc05 @californiapeachorchard @starkeying @lacyydollette @rafessbaby @riki-shenanigans @dashingday @laniirackssss @fairyjinn @silkylovey @harringtonsbowgirl @sophiek222 @luvs4rafe @defnotayonna @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @co6mos @s0phreakingfunny @frmeeden @yolgart @em-dotty @lupinslibraries @tinythebunni @flvredcas @r0vena @ursogorgeous13 @lifeonawhim @frankoceanluvr11 @cokewithcameron @amelialovesrafe @vanessa-rafesgirl @nonbeliever1 @xoxo4chrisss @ii2sanrio @luvvly-lydia @daddyrafeslittleslut @mattyskies @moonywhisp3rs @m1sche1fm4nag3d @r0binsparkles @jaasworld @loverliner @my-diary1 @wolfiee10 @yar16 @rafecameronswhoore @pa1strifies @angelicameron @bambigirl10

[yolgart]

✮⋆˙ . shy!reader 'forgetting' to tell rafe it's their birthday.

warnings — none, really! fluffy & a little angsty.

cherie’s note — requested here! <3 thank you anon, one of my fav requests to write so far!

rafe's heart had dropped the second he'd seen the post.

your best friend had posted a series of pictures of you onto her instagram — some happy, cute little smile gleaming at the camera, while others were more silly, posing awkwardly in front of public attractions, or screenshots taken from snapchats.

all captioned with the same memo — happy birthday!

birthday?

rafe blinked at the screen, thumb frozen over the post as a strange, sinking feeling pooled in his chest. he swiped back up to the top, reread the caption, stared at the collage of pictures again.

it was your birthday. and you hadn't said a thing.

not when he picked you up earlier that week. not when you'd been curled up beside him on the couch. not when he kissed the top of your head goodbye that same night, murmuring something about seeing you soon.

you hadn't hinted at it. you hadn't acted any different.

and that's what made it sit so uncomfortably in his chest.

he's picking his truck keys up from the kitchen island before he can even think about it.

the knock startles you at first. it was late — not too late to disrupt, though late enough to have you questioning who'd be visiting at this time. your family had already came and gone, friends dropping by earlier in the afternoon to say hello, and then leaving shortly after.

birthdays weren't a big thing for you.

but there he was, standing opposite when you opened the door — towering over you, even through the doorframe.

"rafe?"

"why didn't you tell me?" he asked. no hello, no soft lead-in. just the question — low, and a little confused.

you blinked up at him. "tell you... what?"

he lifted his phone, the screen illuminating. held it in your line of sight. the instagram post.

"oh."

"yeah." his jaw flexed. "oh."

you looked away. "i didn't... i didn't want to make it a thing. it's not really important — just another day, really."

rafe lets out a sharp breath through his nose, clearly unamused by the excuse. "it is important. it's you."

you hugged your arms tighter around yourself, suddenly feeling very small in the doorway. vulnerable. "i wasn't trying to keep it from you. i just didn't want to bother you or make it awkward or—"

he stepped forward, cutting you off with a look. "you think your birthday would bother me?"

you didn't say anything. the silence was deafening in the small corridor, the evening air gliding past the both of you through the open door.

rafe reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled something out — a small white cupcake, stuffed into a takeout box, frosting a little smudged onto the clear lid. a candle rattled somewhere within the box.

"gas station didn't have anything y'know... fancy," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "but i figured... it's better than nothing, right? not much i can do on short notice."

your eyes stung instantly.

you blinked fast, hands hovering awkwardly, like you didn't know what to do. "rafe..."

he held the box out toward you.

"let me in, birthday girl," he said, quieter this time. "let me give a shit, okay?"

you nodded.

and when you stepped aside to let him in, your chest ached in that warm, fragile kind of way. he wrapped his arms around your shoulders, pulling you into a tight hug.

you hold the fragile, little box within your palms — though the damage to the sweets had already been done, sitting in his pocket since the gas station.

"happy birthday, pretty girl," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "i'm adding today to my calendar app for next year — and i'm doing it right, next time.”

cherie's taglist <3 — @sexybr9nette, @fawnfate, @bonjourjiminie, @bunniecouture, @kaydennnn, @rafessbaby, @girldisrupted, @vunhun, @mattyskies, @rafestoothbrush, @harrrrystylesslut.

[yolgart]

buddie x criminal minds quote.

have this been done before? idk, this is my first 911 post and i thought this quote fit them perfectly.

[yolgart]

The Ties that Bind: Master List

Synopsis: Being the older sister of a literal genius? It’s not easy. Raising said genius from childhood on? An act of love. Uprooting your life again when he gets in over his head? A no brainer. Finding a new family and support system for yourself? Well, you suppose that’s just luck. 

AN 1: Shout out to @winterscaptain​ for letting me borrow her idea of the time line so things don’t have to be so linear. Be sure to check out her amazing series A Joyful Future (Aaron Hotchner x Reader) 

AN 2: I will not be doing every episode of the series. That might actually kill me. More than likely I’ll pick the big episodes and then add in other one shot/ happy moments not included in the series. Anything currently listed is planned. More will be added later. 

AN 3: If there is no link attached to a title, then that story is going to be written eventually but it’s there for me to plan accordingly :)  

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Link to Taglist  Something you want to see in the series click here

The birth of Spencer 

Library 

William Leaves 

Aardvark  

Magician

Two Years-First day of High School

Trip to the Grocery Store

Going Away to College

Don’t you want a normal life? 

Discovery of Self (Spencer Leaves for the FBI) 

Extreme Aggressor (Episode 1 AU) 

Birthday Boy!! (Episode 4 AU) 

LDSK (Episode 6 AU) 

The Fox (Episode 7 AU) reflection on the broken family they come from) 

Derailed (Episode 9 AU) 

Somebody’s Watching (Episode 18 AU) 

Weekly Calls 

Meeting Joel

Fisher King (AU) 

Visit Home

Revelations ( Episode 15 AU) 

Jones (episode 18 AU)  

Moving In

The New Norm (Living with Spencer) 

AA 

Apartment Hunting 

Gideon’s Goodbye

Rossi Returns 

Penelope 

Damaged (Episode 14 AU) 

Hanging Out

Nuances 

A Higher Power (Episode 15 AU) 

Reading in the Park 

Siblings 

Tabula Rassa (Episode 19 AU) 

Lo Fi (Episode 20 AU) 

Mayhem (Episode 1 AU) 

Minimal Loss (Episode 3 AU) 

Instincts (Episode 6 AU) 

Memoriam (Episode 7 AU) 

Disastrous Pickup 

Pleasure is my Business AU (Episode 16) 

Omnivore (Episode 18 AU)  Part 1 of the Reaper Arc

Amplification (Episode 24 AU) 

Nameless, Faceless Episode 1AU Part 2 of the Reaper Arc

First Fight  (Part 3 of the Reaper Arc)

Come Here Often?

Fresh Air   

100 (Episode 9 AU)  (Part 4 of the Reaper Arc)

Slave of Duty (Episode 10 AU the final part of the reaper arc) 

Bedtime 

ER (Part 1 of reader and Aaron getting together) 

The Loss of JJ

Devil’s Night (Episode 4 AU) 

Sleepover

Poker

Remmy 

Chaperones (Part 2 of reader and Aaron getting together, 1 year after ER)

Red Dress and Bad Date (Part 3 of reader and Aaron getting together)

First Date 

Breakfast

Headaches (Corazon episode) 

Details 

Toasty Warm

What Happens at Home (Seaver gets told off) 

Into the Woods (Episode 9) 

Unplanned 

Gideon Finds Out 

T-Shirt 

Moving Day

Farmers Market 

Family Tree

Coda (Episode 16 AU) 

 Lauren  (Episode 18 AU) 

Lauren Part 2

Wedding Planning Part 1

Wedding Planning Part 2

Pakistan

Wedded Bliss 

Coming Home 

Corrine

Maeve

[yolgart]

infodumping spencer you are. so special to me

[yolgart]

[yolgart]

UNTOUCHED ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: spencer’s never done this before, and you’re more than happy to teach him how — slowly, thoroughly, and with plenty of praise. he’s always been an eager learner, but you weren’t expecting him to enjoy it this much.

genre: smut | w/c: 2.3k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI!! virgin!spencer, experienced!reader, heavy praise, reader calls spencer good boy & other pet names, subtle sub!spencer vibes, making out, breast/nipple play, brief masturbation (f), fingering, finger sucking, oral (f receiving), reader talks him through it, spencer cums in his pants, glasses!s2!reid, no use of y/n

a/n: yeah so this is probably the filthiest thing I have ever written (but still somehow so soft??). nobody look at me idk what came over me. it just happened, ok? lmao enjoy BYE. tbh not my most eloquently written fic but I haddd to get this out of my system

Your relationship with Spencer, although wonderful, is still very new. There’s been a few slow, tentative makeouts on this very couch, but nothing more. It always stops before things escalate too far — he pulls back, or gets called into work, or a TV commercial ruins the moment, or some other force of the universe steps in to keep all the orgasms you know you could be having behind lock and key.

Tonight, you have plans to change that once & for all.

You’re not sure who leaned in first. It might’ve been you — let’s be honest, it usually is — but by the time you’re in Spencer’s lap, one knee on either side of his thighs and your fingers curled into the soft fabric of his shirt, it doesn’t really matter. His lips part against yours, pink and already a little swollen. His glasses are fogged at the edges, and his hands hover uselessly at your waist like he can’t decide what to do next.

So you make the decision for him.

You rock forward, slow and deliberate — just enough to drag your body against his — and his breath catches on a quiet sound he probably doesn’t even realize he making.

The cushions dip under your knees, and everything smells like him: old paper, bergamot soap, something faintly spicy underneath. He tastes like a heavenly mix of breath mints and the honey tea you made for him earlier.

Spencer always kisses like he’s studying you — memorizing pressure points, cataloging every hitch of breath, every soft sound. The drag of your bottom lip. The little touches that make your spine arch.

But there’s tension in him, too.

You feel it in the set of his shoulders, the stiffness in his hands, the twitch of his thighs when you shift your weight. Something’s holding him back.

You slow the kiss, draw away just enough to trace the line of his cheekbone with your nose, letting your lips brush the shell of his ear.

“Spence,” you murmur, breath warm against his skin. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

He stills.

“I—” His voice falters, eyes wide behind his crooked glasses. “I haven’t really, um… done this before.”

You blink.

“You haven’t…” you echo, tilting your head.

His ears flush deep red as he shakes his head.

“I mean— some stuff, yeah,” he says quickly. “Kissing. A little touching. But… not much more than that.”

There’s something raw in his expression, like he’s waiting for you to flinch.

Instead, you kiss him. Soft and steady, nothing showy — just the kind of kiss that says I want you anyway.

When you pull back, his eyes are still closed.

“Spencer,” you whisper.

He opens them slowly.

“You being a virgin isn’t gonna scare me off.”

You thread your fingers into his hair, pushing it back gently from his forehead. His curls are soft, and he shivers when your thumb grazes his ear.

“I kind of like the idea of it, actually,” you murmur.

“You do?”

You smile. “I think I’d like being the first person to show you how good you can feel.”

He goes quiet again, clearly overthinking.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” you ask softly, brushing your nose against his.

He swallows. “No, no. I just… I don’t want to do something wrong. I don’t want to mess it up.”

“Baby,” you whisper against his mouth. “You’re not going to mess anything up.”

You kiss him once more — slow, deep — and feel the hitch in his breath when your tongue brushes his.

“I’ll teach you,” you murmur with a smirk.

You shift to straddle him more fully, your skirt hiking higher around your hips as you settle across his lap. You can feel him under you, hard and twitching through his pants, and he gasps when your hips press down.

“You okay?” you ask, voice low.

He nods too fast.

You raise an eyebrow. “Use your words, Spencer.”

“Yes,” he breathes. “I-I’m okay.”

You smile and roll your hips again, dragging the lace between your legs over the firm outline of his cock. You kiss along his jaw, down the column of his throat, mouthing at a spot above his collarbone until he shivers.

“You like that, don’t you?” you murmur against his skin.

“Yes,” he chokes, hips jerking upward. “Fuck—yes.”

You laugh softly as your hands slip under the hem of your top, peeling it off slowly and tossing it aside.

Spencer stares like a baby deer caught in headlights.

Your black lace bra is sheer, nipples already peaked beneath the fabric. You reach behind you, unclasp it with one practiced motion, and let the straps fall from your shoulders.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

“Touch me,” you murmur.

His hands are shaking when they rise — gentle at first, tentative. He cups your breasts like he’s sure he might be dreaming. His thumbs brush over your nipples and you let out a soft moan, pressing forward into the touch.

“Harder, baby,” you whisper. “Don’t hold back.”

He obeys. His touch deepens, massaging one breast as he catches the nipple of the other between his thumb and forefinger, upping the pressure as he rolls and twists. His confidence grows.

And then his mouth replaces his hands.

His tongue is hesitant at first, then deliberate, then filthy. He sucks your nipple into his mouth and his teeth scrape, just barely, as you grind down against him in response.

“That mouth,” you gasp, threading your fingers into his hair. “God, Spencer. You’re doing so well already, sweet boy.”

He groans into your skin, and you feel every twitch of his hips beneath you, the desperation in every movement.

“So good for me,” you murmur, letting your thumb trace the flush on his cheek. “Such a fast learner.”

He whines — helpless and sweet — and you cradle his jaw, bringing his face back up to meet yours to kiss him again, messy and open-mouthed, before guiding his hand between your thighs. Your skirt slips higher, lace panties exposed, already damp.

You press his fingers down against the wet spot.

“Feel what you do to me,” you whisper. “I’ve been wet since the first time you kissed me tonight.”

You move his hand against the lace, helping him slide two fingers along your covered folds. He gasps when he feels how wet you are — not just damp, not just eager — soaked.

“Oh my god,” he breathes.

“Not God,” you murmur cheekily, smirking as you kiss the corner of his mouth. “Just me.”

You draw his fingers upward to circle your clit once — slow, precise — and then pull his hand away.

Spencer watches, dazed, as you slide off his lap and lay down against the couch cushions, hiking your skirt up higher and moving your panties to the side. His breath shudders out in a long, low exhale, his eyes fixed on your bare core.

Then you touch yourself for him — slow, deliberate strokes, dragging through your slick and back up again to circle your clit. Your eyes never leave his.

“This is how I want you to touch me,” you murmur. “Not too fast. Just enough pressure. Like this, okay?”

He nods, transfixed.

You slide two fingers inside yourself, moaning softly, then draw them out again. You hold them up to him with a smirk.

“Want a taste?” you ask, voice thick.

He nods greedily.

“Say please, baby.”

“Please,” he whimpers.

You press your fingers to his mouth, and he sucks them in without hesitation. His tongue curls, eyes fluttering shut as he moans, licking you clean like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

“Good boy,” you breathe, pulse skipping. “Taste how much I want you.”

He sucks harder. You see the way his hips shift — searching for something to rut into and failing. He’s panting now, tension coiled so tight you can feel it.

You pull your fingers from his mouth, slide your hand down, and curl your fingers around his wrist again.

“You try now,” you murmur.

You guide his hand back between your thighs and help him find your clit. His fingers are a little shaky, but you hold him there and let him feel the way your body responds beneath his touch.

“That’s it,” you whisper. “Just like I showed you. You can go slow.”

He moves carefully, eyes flicking between your face and your core, trying to memorize every twitch and sound.

You sigh, low and breathless. “Good job, baby. Feels s’good.”

Your praise lands like a spark — his shoulders straighten, his strokes grow bolder, more confident. He draws tight little circles over your clit, then dips down, gathering more slick before coming back up again, mirroring your earlier actions.

“Jesus,” he breathes, staring at you. “You’re so wet.”

“For you, Spence,” you pant, arching into his touch. “I’m like this because of you.”

He groans, and you can feel the effort it takes for him to keep his hips still, to stay focused on you instead of chasing the heat building in his own body.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “You’re gonna make me come like this if you keep going.”

“I want to,” he says eagerly. “I want to make you feel good. Please let me make you come. Please.”

God, does he sound desperate for it. You lean up just enough to kiss him messily before gently easing his hand away.

“And you will,” you murmur, shifting your legs open wider. “But not like this. Want you to do it with your mouth.”

His breath hitches. His pupils dilate. And within a few seconds, he’s nodding with excitement.

You smirk and hook your fingers into the waistband of your panties, peeling them down slowly and letting them fall to the floor.

He’s between your thighs in a heartbeat — laid out on his stomach, elbows braced on the couch, arms wrapped around your thighs, chin tilted up and eyes locked on your cunt.

You run your fingers through his hair and smile down at him softly as you guide him closer. His warm, shaky breath ghosts over your skin.

“Start slow,” you whisper. “Use your tongue and lips together. Don’t overthink it. Just feel.”

He nods, then leans in.

The first lick is cautious — a single drag of his tongue from bottom to top — and he pauses at the end, waiting. When you shiver, he breathes out like he’s been given permission.

“Good,” you murmur. “So good, baby. Keep going.”

He does.

The second lick is more confident. By the third, he’s circling your clit with shaky precision — steadier each time.

“That’s it,” you breathe. “Such a fast learner, aren’t you, Spence?”

He groans — low and hungry — the sound vibrating through your deepest parts as he nods against your core.

And then he devours you.

There’s nothing careful about it now. His tongue moves in messy circles, his lips parting, mouth opening wider. He sucks at your clit and moans like a man possessed.

Your thighs clamp around his shoulders and his rhythm falters — gets sloppier, wetter, better. He’s all-in now, relentless, eating you out like he’s starving, like this is what he was made for. Like he’s been waiting his whole life to make you fall apart. He’s taking cues from your reactions — repeating his movements when you moan, experimenting with his tongue as your hand tightens in his hair, reading every twitch of your hips as if it’s an answer key.

“Oh, fuck—Spencer, YES. Good boy. My good boy.”

The words land heavy, and he whimpers loudly in response. His hands grip your thighs hard, and that’s when you feel it — the tension in his body, the way he’s moving. Subtle at first, then more desperate. You glance down and catch the flex of his hips as they grind into the couch cushion beneath him.

“Don’t stop,” you pant. “Don’t you fucking stop, Spence. You’re doing so good for me. ‘M so close.”

He groans — guttural — as his lips close around your clit once more, and your orgasm rips through you like heat lightning. It hits all at once, spine arching, thighs locking tight around his head as you cry out his name, shuddering through it.

He doesn’t let up. His tongue keeps moving, soft but focused, even as you writhe under him. The aftershocks roll through you, deep and dizzying.

Somewhere in the haze you hear it — a quiet, choked sound. A sharp inhale. A low groan.

You don’t register what it means until you feel him go still. His arms lock. His mouth freezes.

When he finally lifts his head, his face is flushed and slick, lips swollen, and his eyes…

His eyes are wide. Embarrassed. Almost guilty.

“I—I didn’t mean to,” he stammers, voice wrecked. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t— I just—”

You blink, confused for a moment before it hits you:

Spencer Reid, your perfect, sweet boyfriend, just came in his pants, completely untouched.

Came. In. His. Pants.

Untouched.

Your heart stutters.

“Oh,” you whisper. “Spence.”

He flinches. “I’m so sorry—”

“Hey.” You sit up a bit, still breathless, and reach down to cradle his face between your palms. His skin is hot — not just blushing, but burning.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say, voice low but sure. “Please look at me.”

He does, barely.

“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.”

He blinks. “What?”

You smile. “That mouth of yours just gave me an orgasm that made me see stars. And then you came in your pants just from eating me out? That’s so hot, Spence.”

He swallows, stunned. His gaze softens. The worry’s still there, but it’s quieter now. His eyes shine.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, straightening his glasses and smoothing his hair. “You’re more than okay.”

You guide him up, help him collapse against your chest, your fingers still threading through his hair as his breath slows. He’s quiet, pliant, curled into you like a lazy puppy.

Eventually he shifts, wincing a little at the sticky mess in his pants.

You giggle.

“C’mon,” you murmur, kissing his temple. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You tug him gently off the couch and take his hand, leading him toward the bathroom. He hesitates, glancing down at the wet stain on his slacks, embarrassment rising again, but you squeeze his fingers and smile.

“Don’t look so ashamed,” you whisper. “You made a mess because you were too turned on by me to stop. That’s nothing to be ashamed of, baby.”

You lean in, lips brushing his neck.

"It's incredibly sexy.”

He groans softly — part laugh, part surrender.

“We’re not done, you know,” you add as you push open the bathroom door. “That was just your first lesson.”

He swallows hard. “N-not done?”

You shake your head as you step closer, fingers unfastening his belt with ease, and press a wet kiss just below his ear.

Your lips curve.

“You’ve still got so much to learn.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

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[yolgart]

HOLD YOU ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

warning: implied drug use, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional codependency, hurt/comfort, self loathing?, typical rafe stuff... let me know if you would like me to add more!

you were half watching reruns on the living room couch and chewing gummy bears one by one with lazy bites, when the door slams like a gunshot, loud and sudden. your hand freezes mid air, gummy bears sticking to your fingers. the air shifts. everything stills.

it rattles the frame, the sound hitting your chest like a bullet. he doesn’t say anything. not right away. just storms right past the living room and you, pacing back and forth like some sort of animal, trembling fingers digging into his hair like he was about to start clawing his own brain out.

“rafe?” you call, cautious and unsure. the way you always seemed to talk when he got like this.

no answer. just him, muttering under his breath, jaw clenching and teeth grinding when he stops his string of profanities about it all.. his father, his sister, and then the pogues.

you sit up slow, afraid if you moved too quickly you might spook him. suddenly you felt cold all over as you get up and round the corner. hesitantly, you follow the sound of his heavy breathing. “rafe?” you repeat.

he spins and turns around so fast it makes you flinch, breath catching in your throat — not necessarily because you were scared of him, no, not really. but because his eyes are wild and unreadable, pupils huge and blown out, darting everywhere like he can’t land on one single thought. he sniffs hard like his brain is trying to catch up with itself, stuck in fast forward.

you didn’t even have to ask. you already knew.

“you— you wanna know what he said to me?” his voice cuts in sharp, thick with venom. “you know what that— that bastard said?”

your heart drops as you blink slow, doll-like. you shake your head a little, “no.., what did he—”

he interrupts with a laugh— dark, sharp, nothing truly humorous about it. “he said i’m nothing without him. that i’ll fuck it all up like i always do. said i’m just.. just some kid with a fucking coke habit.” his voice cracks on the last word and your stomach twists unforgivingly.

you step closer, but he moves back. “don’t,” he snaps before immediately looking like he hates himself for it, rubbing his face.

“sorry, sorry.” he mutters. “just— fuck. i just— i’m not gonna let him win, okay? swear to god.” he scoffs, shaking his head and licking his lips.

you stand there in your fuzzy socks and sleep shirt, staring at him like he was still the boy you met last summer at the country club. like he was still the kook prince, even if his crown was cracked and rusted.

“i know,” you agree softly, because it’s the only thing you can bring yourself to say when your heart is hammering this much against your chest. “you won’t.”

his nose twitches before he looks up at at the ceiling in a way that makes you wonder whether was begging god or cursing him.

and then he was moving again, fast and desperate towards you. he grabs your face in both his hands, pressing his forehead to yours, anchoring himself there as if the whole world would go spinning off its axis. “you believe in me, right?” he breaks, wrecked. “you believe in me, right baby?”

your lip wobble instinctively. you loved when he called you that. like you were soft and sweet and dumb enough to stay even when the fire was already licking up your legs. “of course i do,” you sniff back, your eyes burning as your vision gets blurry.

his hands shake besides your cheeks, breath was all over your face. “i just— i just need him to shut the fuck up. just for one day. one fucking day where he doesn’t make me feel like— like i’m some fucking… stupid screw up who—”

you kiss him.

you don’t know what else to do.

you just kiss him like he wasn’t unraveling right in front of you — like he wasn’t making you nervous with how hard he was shaking. he kisses you back like it hurts. it was the only thing in the world keeping him from breaking into a million screaming pieces.

“you’re all i fucking have,” he whispers into your mouth. “if i lose you— if you leave me — i’ll… ill lose my fucking mind.” he grits.

you don’t know what to say. because, truthfully, what were you supposed to do with a boy like him? a boy who bleeds love and rage in the same breath. “you’re not gonna lose me,” you tremble, voice barely working. “i’m here.”

his eyes search yours, fierce and frantic. “say it again.” you swallow. “i’m here, rafe.”

“tell me you love me.”

“i do love you.”

“say it like you mean it.” he almost begs, nose brushing yours, needing to hear it straight from the center of your soul.

you were crying now. stupid, quiet tears. not because you were scared. but because he was breaking in real time, and you were trying to catch all the pieces.

you grab his face right back, thumbs sweeping over his skin gently, like a deer petting a wolf. “i love you,” you say again. “i love you so much rafe.”

his whole chest heaves, words having punched the air back into his lungs as he leans into your touch, starved for it.

and then..

he starts laughing.

he wipes at his mouth, grin twitching, eyes glossing over. “you love me,” he repeats, almost mocking it. “jesus. poor little baby.”

“rafe…”

he moves away suddenly, not being able to stand being seen anymore. “you shouldn’t,” he pauses before continuing, “you shouldn’t love me. i’m not— i’m not fucking safe. i’m not nice.”

you watch him go in circles like a ghost with nowhere to haunt.

“stop it,” you almost whimper. “i love you.”

and when he looks back at you, something behind his eyes are gone... shattered into something deeper. darker. rafe stared at you like you’d just handed him your heart.

like you were insane.

and maybe you were. maybe you were just another girl too in love with a boy who loved nothing but chaos.

“fuck,” he whispers.

and then he was on his knees in front of you, head pressing to your stomach as if he could physically crawl inside your skin just to hide from the weight of it all.

his arms wrap tight around your hips, bruising tight. but you don’t move, don’t tell him to get up or calm down.

you simply let him stay there. you weren’t blind to it, no. not the fire in his blood, not the sharp, cruel edge of his love. no, you knew it all already.

but maybe you were wired different too. maybe not in the same, loud, teeth baring way. but enough.

enough to stay.

enough to reassure , “i’ve got you,” like a spell.

just you and him.

forever.

i’ve posted this before then took it down but now it’s here again with some slight little changes >.< i hope you guys enjoy it and please as always reblog + give me feedback please! it really means a lot and motivates me to keep writing ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა

[yolgart]

— 100 days of summer !!

rafe cameron x reader warnings: unrequited love, emotional manipulation (subtle, possibly unintentional), pining, false hope, situationships, angst angst angst angst word count: 2,700k

rafe met you on a wednesday. you were wearing a blue dress. he would remember that later, though he pretended not to notice it at the time—just gave you a lazy smile from across the break room as you poured two sugars into your coffee and stirred it exactly four times. you didn’t look at him, but you didn’t need to. you were magnetic without trying. and rafe, well, rafe was already circling. he didn’t believe in fate. he didn’t believe in much of anything, actually. not since the last girl he opened up to broke his heart in two. it was the type of heartbreak that made it hard to function. but then he saw you, and you made him want to believe in everything.

which was inconvenient.

you weren’t like the other girls. he hated how cliché that sounded even in his own head, but it was true. you weren’t desperate to be liked. you weren’t flirting with your eyes or hoping to catch his attention. you were…busy. always reading some novel on your lunch break, laughing too loud with one of the interns, humming a song he couldn’t place under your breath. you didn’t care that he was the guy everyone else orbited around. that, in rafe’s stupid, fragile heart, made you the sun.

the first time he tried to talk to you, it took him an hour to even get out of his chair. he planned out different ways he could be casual, even nonchalant. he thought of knocking over that glass of pens you always keep to close to the edge of your desk. but he scratched that—all nervous that he might break the mug and make you upset. when he finally got the courage to stand up, he stopped in front of your desk and couldn’t speak. his throat went dry and all he could do was stare. then when he got flustered and walked away, he ended up knocking over your pens anyway. ironic.

you looked up slow, like you hadn’t even noticed he was standing there until the crash. a sea of blue and black ink rolling across the floor, highlighters spinning like roulette wheels. he just stood there, frozen, red to the ears, hating himself for the way his palms were sweating. “uh—shit. sorry. that was-”

“intentional?” you asked, one brow lifting.

“no. definitely not.” he swallows harshly, scratching the back of his neck. “unless it worked.”

you chuckled. then, like the sun through an overcast sky, your mouth curved. it was a small smile, the same one you’d give to a random lady on the street or to someone who held the door. “you were trying to flirt?”

he gave a helpless sort of laugh, shoved a hand through his hair. “i was trying to talk to you. the flirting was supposed to come later.”

you leaned forward in your chair, arms folded on your desk. head tilted like you were studying him. “and what exactly were you going to say?”

he opened his mouth, ready to use the same charm that works on everyone. but his brain just…paused. honest to god, he just blanked. then, with the same boyish shrug he used in meetings when he didn’t know the answer, he said, “i forgot. something cool. probably something about coffee.”

you smiled again, this time with teeth. not a wide grin, but just enough to knock the breath out of his lungs. “well. i’m y/n,” you said, extending a hand like this was a boardroom and not the most embarrassing moment of his week. “now you don’t have to pretend you don’t know my name.”

he shook your hand. held it for maybe half a second too long. “rafe,” he said, voice low and a little shaky.

“i know,” you replied, already turning back to your book. “you’re the guy everyone else orbits around.” a chuckle slips past your lips, like an inside joke you had with yourself that rafe didn’t get. whatever it meant, it made him blush.

and that was day one.

~

day 5

the next time he spoke to you, it was outside of the office. cindy invited everyone to the dive bar down the street, rambling something about ‘it’s good to have fun once in a while’. someone sent a mass text. rafe wasn’t going to go—he never did—but then he remembered the way you smiled when you thought no one was looking…and he went.

you were already there when he walked in. sitting on a sticky vinyl stool with a gin and tonic sweating in your hand, legs crossed, head tilted back as you laughed at something cindy was saying. you weren’t dressed up, just in jeans and a tank top and your usual gold jewelry (rafe has your stack memorized at this point) but he stopped in the doorway like you’d knocked the air out of him. you looked happy and careless. as if the version of you he’d been trying to reach had already slipped through his fingers. you noticed him eventually. gave a lazy wave, but didn’t bother to even get up. he ordered something cheap and stood by the jukebox like it was a shield. he desperately tried not to stare and ultimately failed.

you were tipsy, that was obvious. not sloppy, just loose around the edges. easier with your body. then, of course, the karaoke started. you didn’t volunteer—not yet at least. someone else sang don’t stop believing and a girl in finance butchered bad romance. but then someone shoved the mic into your hand and yelled “do the one you always do!”.

you protested for about a minute. then rolled your eyes, stood up, and said, “fine. but you’re all tone deaf.”

and rafe could barely breathe. you picked dreams by fleetwood mac and your voice wasn’t perfect, but it was soft and raspy in places, sweet in others. you swayed a little on the tiny stage, twirling the mic cord around your wrist like a girl who didn’t care who was watching. except you did glance at him once. just once and it made something shatter in his chest.

afterward, you stumbled back toward the table, flushed and glowing. you collapsed onto the stool beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. “enjoy the show?” you asked, pulling the drink out of his hand and taking a sip like it was yours.

“you’re not supposed to be good at that,” he said, still dazed.

you shrugged. “i’m not. you’re just drunk.” he wasn’t. not even close. you sat there beside him the rest of the night. let your knee rest against his under the table. laughed when he leaned in to tell you a joke. leaned in closer when you whispered something back. and for a second, he thought maybe, maybe this was how it started. maybe this was day one all over again. but then the lights came on. someone called a car and you were gone again before he could ask you to stay.

~

day 20

you spent the whole afternoon wandering the bookstore. it wasn’t planned. you’d bumped into each other by the bagel place on 7th. he was on his way to get coffee, you were already holding one, humming something soft as you walked. somehow, without even agreeing on it, you both started walking together. you were wearing a sundress. white, with tiny flowers. your sunglasses pushed up on your head. he didn’t know if you did that on purpose, but it made his chest ache.

the bookstore smelled like old paper and lavender, and you both drifted into it like it was a right of passage. “i used to want to work in one of these,” you said, fingertips trailing across the spines. “be the kind of person who knows everything about every book.”

“you probably already do,” he said, watching you instead of the shelves. the polish on your nails was chipping around the edges, but you didn’t care. you pulled out a book and scanned through the pages. when you put it back, he grabbed it again and scanned the title. american psycho. for some reason, he assumed you’d already read that about a hundred times. he didn’t bother to ask.

you laughed. shook your head. “i know a lot about people. not books.” he followed you through the aisles like a shadow. listened to you read the back of a novel in a whisper. watched you tuck one under your arm. then another. then a third. he offered to carry them. you said no, then handed them over anyway. “you’d like this one,” you said, pulling out a copy of norwegian wood.

he tilted his head. “how do you know?” he didn’t read a lot. it wasn’t something he was raised around. his mother died when he was young and his father wasn’t the type to read him bedtime stories. by the time he was a teenager, he was much more interested in working out and video games than a lousy old story.

you looked at him for a moment. eyes boring into his soul so deeply that he swore you knew all his secrets. “because it’s about wanting someone who never really belongs to you.” you said it so casually, like it was a comment about the weather or a passing compliment. he didn’t know what to say to that. so he didn’t say anything and paid for the book. you sat in the park after, lying in the grass like two kids skipping school. you shared a lemonade and your lipstick stained the straw. he read the first chapter aloud and you closed your eyes, listening. every time he stumbled over a word, you smiled. every time he looked up, you were already looking at him.

when the sun started to dip behind the buildings, you turned on your side and asked, “do you think people can really be in love? like actually? not just infatuated or obsessed or codependent—but in love?” he said yes, but too quickly. you just hummed and didn’t answer or explain why you asked. after that day, rafe felt like he’d been handed something fragile—something breakable—and already, he was holding it too tight.

~

day 50

it was raining the night you kissed him. not the type of rain you see in rom-coms. not the kind where someone runs down the street shouting wait—don’t go. it was just a slow, steady drizzle that blurred the city into something quieter. you’d gone to see a movie—a new release that was supposed to break the box office. he’d picked it because he thought you’d like it and you had. he could tell. you didn’t say much during, just leaned forward in your seat and let your eyes go glassy, your lips parted like you were tasting the heartbreak before it even hit.

afterward, you didn’t want to go home. so you walked. he forgot his umbrella at home like an idiot, but you didn’t mind. there was no real destination. just the two of you wandering aimlessly through puddles and streetlights, talking about the film, about the characters, about how loneliness feels different when it’s on screen. he remembers you said, “do you ever feel like something big is about to happen? even when nothing is?”

he nodded because he didn’t trust himself to speak. you paused under the awning of some corner shop, the kind that sells wilted flowers and tarot cards. your hair was soaked. your cheeks were flushed. he’d never seen you like this—like the version of you that lived in his fantasies wasn’t as far from the truth as he thought. you looked up at him, wide-eyed and strangely still. “can i kiss you?”

his heart did something ugly in his chest. twisted itself into a knot and offered it up like a gift. “yeah,” he breathed. “yeah, please.” you kissed him like you’d been thinking about it forever. slow and open mouthed, a little clumsy. his hands didn’t know where to go, so he touched your face like it was the only part of you that was real. you were shivering, so he pulled you closer. you let him. this is where he really thought it was it. this is where the story shifts. this is where you stop looking through him and start choosing him back.

but then you pulled away and rested your forehead against his and exhaled. “you’re a good person, rafe,” you said softly. “you make things feel easy.” he wanted to ask what that meant. but you were already walking away. and in his heart, something bloomed. something cruel and naive and bright. he thought it meant love.

~

and now it’s day 100. he knows because he’s been keeping track. not publicly—not with red Xs on a calendar or anything—but in his head, in that strange, obsessive part of his brain that stores the important stuff: the look on your face the first time he made you laugh, the color of your dress at the bar, the sound you make when you’re trying not to cry. the number of days since you kissed him in the rain and made him believe you meant it.

you’re waiting by the elevators, arms folded, unreadable. you asked if you could talk, which is never a good sign. and here you are, two floors below the office, surrounded by beige carpet and low ceilings and the hum of a vending machine that only sells off brand soda.

he wants to say something charming. break the tension. but you’re not looking at him. you shift your weight, bite your lip. “i think i’ve been unfair to you.”

his throat goes dry. “what?”

“i like you, rafe. i do. but this-” you gesture vaguely. to the space between you. to the ghosts hanging off your words. he thinks your relationship is the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and you think the word this sums it up. “i think maybe you thought this was something it wasn’t.”

he stares at you and blinks. he waits for the punchline. he waits for you to smirk in that teasing way. maybe even laugh at him for how naive he is. it doesn’t come. “are you serious?” he says, and it comes out too loud, too sharp.

you flinch. “don’t-”

“kissing in the copier room?” he cuts in. “shower sex at your place? the way you’d look at me sometimes like—like maybe you felt it too? friends, my fucking balls.”

your face twists. something ugly heats in your stomach. “i told you what i wanted,” you say, soft and measured, like you’ve practiced it. “you let yourself think it was more.”

“because it was more.” he’s practically pleading. “it is more!”

you shake your head. “not to me.” tears form at your waterline. you wipe them away and stare at the floor. your arms circle your chest like that’ll shield you from the shame. the three words leave your tongue and hit him like a knife. you step back like you’re giving him space, like distance might soften the blow. but he’s already splintering. already replaying every memory, wondering which parts were real and which were just hope dressed up as something else. “you’re still my friend, if you want to be,” you offer.

and it’s almost cruel, how gentle your voice is. as if he should thank you for the shrapnel. you don’t wait for an answer. the elevator dings and you step inside, leaving a ghost of your perfume. rafe watches the doors close on something that never really belonged to him—hands shaking, chest hollow, mind echoing with the same dumb thought over and over.

god, what an idiot. he thought he was the main character. he thought this was one of those fairytales that have a heartbreaking conflict, yet, always seem to resolve in the end. but this isn’t a love story. he’s not a prince or the man who gets another shot. this is day 100 and he’s alone again. just like he was on day 1 and just like he’ll be on day 500.

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[yolgart]

Maybe I’m just not on that side of Tumblr, but I’m shocked more people aren’t talking about Lewis Hamilton’s post-qualifying interview.

You have a seven-time World Champion — one of the undisputed GOATs of Formula 1 — saying, “I’m useless, absolutely useless … the team, they have no problem. You’ve seen the car is on pole. So, they probably need to change driver.”

I genuinely have no words. How does every World Champion who signs with Ferrari leave a broken man?

[yolgart]

BLISS!

when you're forced to tolerate your ex-husband on a vacation with your kids... contents: forced proximity, one bed trope hehe, reader and rafe have two kids together, fluff! wc: 560

you did your best to avoid rafe in any way you could while being the mother of his children; you truly did. only speaking to him when it revolved around the kids, despite his efforts to spark up a conversation with you.

until one sunday evening, after dropping the kids off with you for the week, he says, "we're goin' on vacation."

"oh really, where? i need to pack the kids anything?" you ask.

"waterpark and nah i got it. but you'll need to pack a bag or somethin'," you raise a brow at his words before laughter erupts from your chest.

"you serious ray?" you deadpan when he nods.

"the kids said they wanted to go on a vacation with both of us, so that's what we're doin'," and that's exactly what the four of you did.

rafe booked the penthouse suite of a beachside hotel. floor-to-ceiling windows in the combined kitchen and living room, as well as in the bedrooms.

the master bedroom has a california king bed, while the guest bedroom has two queen-sized ones. both bedrooms have their own en-suites with luxurious plumbing and amenities provided.

putting your purse on the bed, you ask, "you really couldn't have gotten two beds?"

"you could always sleep in the kids room," he shrugs, knowing you just got them to sleep in their own beds.

"look, mommy, they made the towels into ducks." your son and daughter come rushing into the bedroom, holding up the duck-shaped towels.

you let it go, knowing you wouldn't win this battle, but not without sending a sharp glare rafe's way.

"like what you see, doll?" rafe asks, feeling your eyes on his toned torso and biceps.

"don't know what you're talking about," you murmur, continuing to massage the sunscreen into your skin.

"who am i kiddin'? you got two of me runnin' around right now," he says, gesturing to your kids playing in the pool.

rolling your eyes, you grumble, "whatever."

that evening, you all go to the restaurant provided by the hotel. the dining area overlooking the setting sun and the beach.

the kids are distracted with the coloring sheets with seemingly abundant activities for them to do, leaving you to try to avoid conversing with rafe.

"get your hand off me, cameron," you grit out when you feel the warmth of his palm on your thigh.

"never stopped me before," he says, caausing you to groan at his words.

rubbing your temple, you reply," that was obviously different. we were married then."

"nah, we're still married, baby, and you know it."

the kids are asleep, and you and rafe are both freshly showered.

already knowing what you're thinking, rafe says," don't even think about separatin' us with a pillow."

rafe turns off the lights as you slide into bed, trying to stay as far away as possible, the large bed making that easy for you.

yet your ex-husband makes it difficult for you to sleep, as all you hear as you shut your eyes is the sound of rustling fabric, along with the excessive shifting he's doing.

mumbling into your pillow, you say, "you never tossed and turned this much before."

putting his arms behind his head, he replies, "now you're reminiscing?"

you roll over with a sigh, tucking your body closer to his in the exact way you used to.

a/n: i got this idea from a tiktok i saw and thought it was so rafe coded lol

[yolgart]

❦⋆ bridgerton au ~ the second choice (bonus chapter)

note: he’s such a jealous little rake (i need him biblically)

he’s not watching you. he isn’t. he just happens to be standing at the edge of the ballroom floor with a glass of something amber and sharp in his hand, and his gaze just so happens to flicker in your direction. again..and again. you look like trouble tonight, which is cruel, because you’ve always looked like that to him. but now, in that pale blue gown with pearls threaded into your hair and a coy smile tucked just beneath your cheekbone—now it’s worse.

now he can’t stop thinking about how the bodice fits snug around your ribs. how your laugh carries even through the music. how some bloody baron’s son is leaning just a little too close as he bows and extends a hand. “may i have the pleasure?” the man asks, voice polished and pleasant. you glance up. and for a moment, you hesitate. rafe sees it. he notices the brief flick of your eyes in his direction—just long enough to set his jaw, just quick enough to pretend it didn’t happen. then you smile at the man and nod, sliding your gloved hand into his like it means nothing. like you don’t see the way rafe’s fingers tighten around his glass.

you’re twirling now and smiling. you even laugh once, which causes him to squeeze his glass to hard that he merely cracks. he’s not mad because you’re happy. but because someone else is the reason. because some over dressed, underqualified, soft palmed little lordling is getting your attention, your charm, your gaze. rafe is left with heat in his chest and the distinct, stomach turning ache of not being chosen.

he wasn’t going to ask you. he’d told himself that. he didn’t want to dance. he doesn’t care for these things. and besides, he knows you would’ve said no. you always do. but still, he can’t help but watch your waist being touched by someone else’s hand. can’t help but follow the curve of your spine as you step, turn, step, all poise and poetics, like the stage was made for you. as if you aren’t the same girl who throws barbs like daggers and walks through rose gardens with dirt on her skirts.

he doesn’t realize he’s glaring until wheezie sidles up beside him and says, “you look murderous.” her eyes sparkle with mischief that only a younger sister can hold.

“go away.” he rumbles, voice deeper than usual.

“are you jealous?” she nods in the direction of you and that lord with the awful haircut.

he gives her a look that could set linen on fire. “don’t be stupid.” he tosses the rest of his drink back. the amber liquor burns as he passes down his throat.

“well, you’re staring at her like she owes you money.” her lips curl into a devilish grin. she’s been watching her brother glare daggers towards you for the better part of the ball. even sarah nudged her arm and motioned to the dark cloud over rafe’s head at one point.

“she owes me nothing.”

“you sure act like she does.” he doesn’t respond. the music’s slowing, the dance is ending, and you’re curtsying now—smiling, radiant, just a little out of breath—and the other man leans in close to whisper something in your ear. whatever he says, it makes you shake your head, amused, polite, and utterly perfect. you walk away before he can follow.

rafe watches all of it. watches you. the ache doesn’t lessen. because deep down, he knows he wouldn’t have had to ask. you would’ve said yes—if you wanted to. but you didn’t. not to him. not once. not yet. that’s what cuts the most. rafe cameron was never anyone’s second choice. and yet, here you are. brushing past him with a smile that isn’t for him. always just out of reach and always walking away.

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[yolgart]

౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ THINKING ABOUT dating early seasons spencer reid

౨ৎ early seasons spencer reid, the genius with an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory that has never failed him, who turns out to be a complete idiot when it comes to love and romance.

౨ৎ early seasons spencer reid who you end up asking out because he never had the courage to do it, even after years of pining and months of “c’mon pretty boy, go for it !” from morgan.

౨ৎ early seasons spencer reid who’s actually just rambling to you one morning about how brewing coffee is actually a physical change, not a physical one. you listen, nodding as he talks before cutting him off :

“maybe you could show me ?”

౨ৎ early seasons spencer reid who, after a couple of coffee and bookstore dates, can finally manage a conversation with you without blushing or stuttering.

౨ৎ early seasons spencer reid who doesn’t want to tell anyone that you’re dating at first. he just can’t believe that it’s real, that you’re real, and that you willingly chose to be with him.

౨ৎ early seasons spencer reid who practically has a heart attack the first time you say “i love you”. instead of making fun of him like everyone else would, you repeat it about a dozen times, kissing his face between your words.

౨ৎ early seasons spencer reid who visibly freezes when you invite him to stay for the night for the first time. but somehow, his constant need for space and alone time is completely thrown out the window the minute you introduce him to cuddling.

౨ৎ early seasons spencer reid who shows his love for you through the little things, and it makes you swoon. step by step, he lets you in and reveals himself to you in a way he never has with anyone else.

౨ৎ early seasons spencer reid who got a phone just for you, (thanks to garcia). if he never thought he’d really need one before, he’s very grateful to be able to see your pretty face through pictures and facetime calls when he’s away.

౨ৎ early seasons spencer reid, the quintessential romantic. he doesn’t even realise how thoughtful he’s being until you tear up one day when he gifts you an annotated copy of your favourite book. he just wipes your tears and asks repeatedly what he did wrong. the poor boy.

౨ৎ early seasons spencer reid, who’s honestly a bit clueless about women but does his best to understand. soon enough, he know everything about you - from how much ice cream tubs you go through when you’re on your period, to which pillows and blankets are supposed to be “decorative” on your bed, and how much time you need for your sunday night “everything shower”

౨ৎ early seasons spencer reid, who becomes a completely different man after a couple of months or dating you. everyone notices his growing confidence and happiness, and that’s all because of you

౨ৎ early seasons spencer reid who’s absolutely and unconditionally in love with you. it may have taken him time to admit hit feelings to you and to himself, but you can be sure he’ll never, ever take you for granted.

[yolgart]

Low key based on ur most recent fic but Reader who’s already shy but a complete sweetheart, is friends with the pouges bc they grew up with each other! But their all low key mean to her aspecially when she started dating Rafe years on their still mean to her :( . Especially because now she’s been with Rafe for years and she’s pregnant! Rafe has had enough he wasn’t going to have the pouges make his girl miserable andy time but especially not when she’s carrying his baby! :(

“just a joke,” pope says, hands up like that’s supposed to mean something. like that erases the way your face fell. like you weren’t already shrinking into yourself before the punchline landed.

you laugh, barely. that fragile kind of laugh people make when they’re trying not to cry. jj snorts. “c’mon, don’t go all sensitive now. you used to take a joke.”

you used to do a lot of things. like believe they liked you. like believe you belonged. but you don’t say any of that. you just twist the ring on your finger, one hand curled instinctively over the swell of your stomach. protective and quiet. “i’m fine,” you mumble, but you’re not looking at anyone.

that’s what finally sets rafe off. he’s been standing behind you, letting you fight your own battles like you always insist on doing. letting them think he’s the threat and you’re the peacekeeper. letting them talk to you like that because you never tell them not to. but now you’re not fine and now you’re his. “no, you’re not,” rafe says, low.

the room stills. john b stiffens; jj’s smirk falters; sarah shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “i said i’m fine-” you try again, but rafe steps forward, hand sliding around your waist like it’s second nature.

“don’t talk to her like that,” he says, louder this time. voice calm. dangerous. “not when she’s standing right here. not when she’s carrying my kid.” you flinch, just slightly, at the way he says it. not from fear, but from force. from how real it sounds out loud. rafe doesn’t care. “you think just because she doesn’t bark back, you get to keep throwing punches?” he sneers. “you think i haven’t seen the way you look at her? like she’s some traitor for not playing poor forever?”

no one speaks and he takes that as a hint to continue. “she’s better than you,” he says, quietly now. the venom is gone, leaving just truth. “always has been. the only reason she ever let you treat her like this is because she thought you loved her.” he glances at you, gentle and furious all at once. “you don’t deserve her.”

the silence after is the kind that rattles. you squeeze his hand. for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel small.

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[yolgart]

a cart girl flirting with scc!rafe

warnings: marital angst, flirting, sexual joke

you shouldn’t be watching him.

you’re supposed to be reading your book, legs curled in a sunny lounge chair, heart rate steady, drink sweating gently beside you.

you’re not supposed to be watching your husband—

but you are.

he’s on the course.

button-down open at the throat, forearms taut as he leans over a club. laughing at something his friend says. god, even from here he looks so confident. easy. like he belongs here.

and then she pulls up.

a bright little golf cart. pink visor. glossy lips.

just another cart girl who looks like she walked out of a catalog for tan lines and college break.

she leans against the edge of the cart and starts talking to him.

you can’t hear what she says.

but you see him smirk.

you see him nod.

you see her flip her hair.

you know that look.

because he used to give it to you.

and now, all you can do is sit there, the hem of your sundress damp where you dipped your legs in the pool, wondering if she knows.

if she sees the ring.

if she cares.

you’re not mad at him—not exactly.

he hasn’t done anything wrong.

he hasn’t even looked at her that way.

but you’re suddenly so aware of how young you were when he married you.

how many people still think you were just some girl he liked the look of.

how you’re still playing house in a body that’s changed—twice.

in a skin that sometimes feels like it doesn’t belong to you anymore.

you think about the little things you’ve given up.

the jobs you never took.

the late-night crying on the bathroom floor.

the meals. the folding. the appointments. the wiped noses. the soft “i love you”s whispered into his shirt at 3 a.m. when the baby wouldn’t sleep.

you think about all of it.

and still—part of you wonders if it's enough.

because what if one day it isn’t?

what if one day he wants to feel young again, too?

what if one day a girl like that flirts with him—and he lets her?

you’re still staring at them when you hear someone clear their throat beside you.

you glance up. and there he is.

rafe.

hands on his hips, looking down at you, brow slightly raised.

“you good?”

he must’ve come off the course early. he’s sweating, shirt stuck to his back, jaw clenched like he already knows you’ve seen too much.

you try to nod. try to smile. but your lips are trembling.

“yeah,” you whisper. “just—thinking.”

he sits. slides onto the lounger beside you, way too big for the space, his knee bumping yours as he leans over and brushes your cheek.

“don’t,” he says simply.

“don’t what?”

“don’t think so hard.”

he takes your chin in his hand, tilts your face to look at him. and there’s something so firm in his eyes. so sharp.

“that girl? she was asking if we needed water. that’s it.”

you blink.

“but she was—”

“yeah,” he cuts in gently. “she was. and if i was twenty-three again? i probably would’ve flirted back. maybe even gotten her number.”

he shrugs, smiling faintly.

“but i’m not. i’m married. i’ve got a wife in a dress i picked out last week. with our baby’s spit-up on her shoulder. who still blushes when i kiss her. and who i’d pick over every goddamn girl on this planet.”

you look at him, eyes glassy.

“even when i’m not her anymore?”

his brows crease.

“baby,” he breathes. “you’re more her now than you’ve ever been.”

and before you can say anything—he leans in and kisses you.

full. certain. warm.

and just loud enough that the cart girl driving away can see exactly who he belongs to.

and later, when you're packing up your book and towels, he throws an arm around you and murmurs, half-teasing, half-serious:

“next time you get jealous, just tell me. i’ll fuck you in the cart.”

you laugh.

and maybe—just maybe—you believe him.