racketelio
18+media + literary art enjoyer
62 posts
Latest Posts by racketelio
Head empty just Liv Hewson
This specific clip of them stays in my mind💥
He’s my favorite mythical animal.
saw a cockatoo that looked exactly like the evil bird from rio today. didn't even get to take a picture.
OMG I JUST CHECKED THE SNEAK PEEK AND A PETER BOT???? OH I'M EATING THIS UP THE SECOND I GET IT (on a seriosu note good luck with the acc issues i'd lose my mind)
pretending i’m not going insane maybe it’ll make them email me back faster
PETER BOT PETER BOT
i'm lit gnawing and biting on them. biceps like apples i wanna take a bit and then suck on the juice.
do you see what i'm seeing
licking all up on them arms … that joaquin scene makes me go Crazy
no jo we love youuuuu
sometimes i feel off-putting Af like omg i’m sorry im just incapable of talking to people 😞😞 I love U all very dearly
i need these four to become besties or i’ll sue
why he kinda...
only kinda?? Cmon now girl…
never wanted 2 be a cat more MRRRROWWW
having thoughts about t4t cowboy artrick | 18+ MDNI
two boys who met on a ranch out in a desert town, the distance from civilization and the quiet of the work keeping them safe from suspicion, from having to reveal secrets that they’d rather keep close to their chests. but they find comfort in each other—in the stupid, small smile Art affords Patrick across the field, in the flicks to the hat that Patrick fondly gives Art as he passes him on his spotted mare. they rarely speak for the first few months, but the farther down the line they get, the more comfortable they become with one another. soon they’re eating lunch side by side, taking jobs together, and Patrick even shares his cigarettes with Art when they have breaks to keep them from sweltering in the sun.
Patrick will ask Art what it’s like to be a blue-eyed cowboy, what with the sun sensitivity and all. it makes Art laugh, and it makes his stomach twist to know that Patrick looks at his eyes. Art asks Patrick about his mare: how long he’s had her, what her favorite snacks are, how she likes to be brushed. it only takes a few weeks for Patrick to notice that Art took his answers to heart, treating his girl the way she likes. it’s the little things that drive them closer together, that drive them to lingering looks and brushes of fingers as the pass saddles and ropes between them. it makes Art’s head spin when he catches Patrick’s eyes on him—it makes Patrick’s stomach clench when Art flashes him that smile. it’s all boiling under the surface until they both can’t handle it anymore.
all those big feelings come to pass when Patrick takes Art back to his room in the company building under the guise of “smoking and drinking” but they’re barely through the door before Art is pressed against the wall next to the, Patrick’s hands all over his toned body. Art moans softly, going pliant under his touch, his own hands cradling the back of Patrick’s head, tangling in his hair. “wanted this for so long…can barely stand the way you smile at me, fucking tease—“ Patrick moans out between kisses, his stomach twisting at the sound of Art’s returning whines and soft sounds. “my smile turn you on? that’s a new one.” the blonde shot back, laughing softly when Patrick lightly smacked his hip, lips moving down to his jaw. “don’t sass me..not right now..”
it was a shock that Art promptly shut his mouth, letting the brunette guide him to the bed and toss him down. he watched with rapt attention as he undressed himself, pulling off his shirt and his sweaty tank top before his hands reached for his belt. “wait.” Art said, sitting up and slowly crawling to the edge of the bed. he looped his fingers into Patrick’s belt loops, tugging him closer, eyes looking up into his. “may i..cowboy?” he asked in a soft tone, full of desire. Patrick swallowed tightly and gave a short nod, his lips parted. “yeah. go ahead.”
he watched with rapt attention as Art slowly undid his buckle, slipping the leather from the metal and letting it hang in front of his pockets. he gave Patrick one last look before he gently undid his jeans, sliding the zipper down. but he didn’t take his pants off, he left that for Patrick to do when he felt like he wanted to. the brunette’s cheeks were flush as he watched the blonde, and when he stopped he leaned down and kissed him, guiding him back to lay against the bed as he came to straddle his hips, hands cupping his cheeks. Art sighs, hands on Patrick’s hips, guiding him to rock down against him. “fuck…” he breathed out at the friction it provided.
Patrick gently tugs Art’s own shirt off, kissing his face as he does. but his heart slows when he looks down and sees the matching scars across his lover’s chest… his eyes dart back to those baby blue’s, looking through them, searching for answers. “you—you, too..?” he says, ever so soft and vulnerable. Art swallows and nods gently, his hand finding their place on Patrick’s shoulders. “yeah. me too.” it’s a tender, quiet moment when they both realize they aren’t alone. they connect with each other, they have something that tethers them to one another. it drives Patrick forward, as he undresses them both down to their bare bones and fondly strokes Art’s tdick. it drives Art as he guides Patrick to take a seat on his face, letting him lap and suckle at his most intimate parts. it drives both of them mad with lust and fondness, their moans and whines filling the air, leaving them sticky and panting in each others arms.
from then on..the farm doesn’t feel so lonely anymore.
FAIRY!ART HEADCANONS
pairing: fairy!art x cottagecore princess!fem!reader
tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @imperishablereverie, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna
⟡ art is the kind of fairy that looks like he was born from a wish—soft-spoken and starlit, with wings that shimmer like frost on spider silk. they catch the light in rippling colors, translucent as soap bubbles, delicate but fast. when he flutters around you, they make the faintest hum, like the air itself sighs in his presence. you swear they glow stronger when he’s near you—especially when he’s flustered. which is often.
⟡ he’s angelic in the way dew is angelic. not perfect. not polished. but fragile and wild and full of wonder. he wears a tunic of moss velvet and sun-dyed silk, stitched with golden beetle-thread. his hair is a halo of honey curls that never fall the same way twice, always a little windswept, like he’s just tumbled out of a flower bed. his cheeks are berry-pink and his nose is dusted with freckles, as if he’s been kissed by clover pollen. he smells like crushed violets and rain.
⟡ “you left out honey again,” he mumbles once, not looking at you. he’s hiding in your herb shelf, crouched behind the rosemary, eyes wide and guilty. “so i… thought you wouldn’t mind if i took a bit.” you don’t mind. not even a little. but you pretend to be stern anyway. just to see the way his wings droop. just to make him pout.
⟡ he calls you “the big one” when he doesn’t think you can hear. like you’re a marvel. a myth. a towering creature of warm hands and soft breath and gentle curiosity. sometimes he calls you “my lady,” half-teasing, twirling a blade of grass like a rapier. but when you stroke his wings—carefully, reverently—he gets quiet. “you shouldn’t touch them,” he whispers once, his voice a tremble. “they’re… they’re very delicate.” and then, softer: “but… you can. if you want.”
⟡ he brings you tiny, ridiculous things: a thimble of moonlight. a moth’s eye, opalescent and still. a string of pearls no bigger than dewdrops, fastened together with spiderweb thread. once, a shard of mirror, cracked and glinting, so you can “see yourself how he sees you.” you don’t dare ask what that means. but your throat tightens anyway.
⟡ he’s shy with affection. not because he’s afraid of you—but because he’s so clearly not. you’re something bigger. older, maybe. like the forest itself whispered you into being. when you brush his curls back or cup him in your hand, his breath catches. when you hum while you work and he lays in the crook of your neck, his whole body stills—like he’s listening to the bones beneath your skin sing. “you smell like warm sugar,” he says one morning, all tangled in your scarf. “and… safety.”
⟡ sometimes you find him asleep on your windowsill, wings curled in like petals closing for the night. sometimes curled in the hollow of your palm, arms tucked under his cheek, breath rising and falling like a cat’s. he mumbles in his sleep. always your name. or maybe just your scent. or maybe the little nickname he made up for you that no one else knows: “my thornless rose.”
⟡ he gets jealous. adorably, irrationally jealous. of squirrels. of bees. of the wind when it tangles in your hair. “i was going to do that,” he grumbles once, watching a butterfly land on your wrist. “stupid flutter-bitch.” he doesn’t mean it. but you still laugh so hard you drop your basket of blackberries.
⟡ he is terrified of cats. once, you came home to find him clinging upside-down to the rafters, shouting: “death beast! orange! hungry!” it took two spoonfuls of honey and three kisses to coax him down. he refuses to speak to the cat now. but he’ll sit on your shoulder and glower at it with his arms crossed like a miniature warlock.
⟡ your favorite thing is how easily he laughs. not giggles. not chuckles. laughs. big, bright bursts of sound like sunlight spilled in a field. like he’s never been taught to keep joy quiet. he’ll dance in your teacups and leap across your rolling pin, leaving smudges of berry juice behind, just to make you smile. “do you like it when i do that?” he asks, flushed and breathless. you say yes. so he does it again. and again.
⟡ “you don’t want a crown?” he asks once, tiny legs dangling from the rim of your mixing bowl. you’re elbow-deep in flour. you shake your head. “good,” he says. quieter. “you don’t need one. you already feel like a kingdom.”
⟡ when you’re sad, he doesn’t ask questions. he just lays himself across your heart and sings in that strange, lilting tongue you don’t recognize but somehow understand. the language of rain and roots and wings. it feels like someone brushing your soul with the back of their hand. afterward, you sleep better. always.
⟡ sometimes he forgets how small he is. puffs his chest out. tries to protect you from bees and beetles and the odd nosy owl. “i’ll hex it,” he says darkly, waving a twig like a sword. “don’t you dare, artemis,” you whisper. he pouts. “that’s not my name.” you arch a brow. he blushes. “but i like when you say it.”
⟡ he leaves you love notes. or what he thinks are love notes. scribbled on birch bark, inked with berry juice, full of half-spelled flowers and symbols only fae understand. once you deciphered one. it said: your laugh makes the trees hold their breath. you folded it into your locket. he pretends not to notice. but he glows the first time he sees you wear it.
⟡ he loves when you hum. loves when you knead bread. loves when your hands are smudged with jam and he can kiss the tips of your fingers like a knight returning from war. “i could live in your pocket forever,” he says once, curled into a spool of thread. “i’d never ask for a crown. just crumbs and kisses.”
⟡ he wants to protect you. in the only way a fairy can. with enchantments. with bloom. with joy so old it tastes like the first spring. he weaves soft spells into your aprons. presses tiny sigils into the mud near your doorstep. he never says what they’re for. but the wolves stay away. and your dreams stay warm.
⟡ “you’re not what i expected,” he whispers, once. you’re half-asleep. fire crackling. his tiny form tucked under your chin. “i thought princesses were cold. porcelain. like glass you couldn’t touch. but you… you’re soft.” his wings flutter. his voice hitches. “you made space for me. in your hands. in your heart.”
⟡ art smells like all the sweetest things in the world—crushed sugar petals, sun-warmed clover, the faint fizz of lemonade in late spring. when he curls into the pocket of your apron, you swear the scent clings to the fabric for hours. it’s like having a piece of a dream stitched to your hip.
⟡ he doesn’t just flutter—he twirls, spins, zips in little loops like a dandelion seed caught in a spell. when he’s happy, his wings sparkle like frost caught on silk thread. when he’s really happy, they chime. softly. like bells far away in a fog. once, you heard it and forgot what sadness felt like for a whole minute.
⟡ when he gets excited, he can’t help but glow a little—literally. a faint golden shimmer pulses under his skin, especially at the tips of his ears and in the whorls of his tiny knuckles. “stop looking,” he squeaks when you notice. “i’m not blushing. i’m—charged. from pollen. obviously.”
⟡ he’s hopeless with doors. they’re too big. too stubborn. so he knocks—gently, rapidly, with both fists—until you come open them. once you asked why he doesn’t just slip under. “rude,” he said with an offended flick of his wing. “besides. you always answer.”
⟡ he nests. shamelessly. your wool basket? claimed. the curve of your favorite teacup? claimed. the bonnet you left on the windowsill? conquered. he drags little scraps of felt and flower fluff into tiny dens, curls up with a satisfied sigh, and guards them like a baby dragon guarding glitter. “this is where i do my dreaming,” he explains solemnly. “it needs to be soft.”
⟡ he sings to your garden when he thinks you aren’t listening. high, silvery notes that make the tomato vines shiver and the snapdragons bloom sideways. you caught him once, mid-aria, standing on a mushroom with his arms flung wide like a tiny opera star. he hasn’t recovered from the embarrassment.
⟡ “you shouldn’t keep me,” he says once, looking up from the curled curve of your palm. “fairies are wild. feral. mischievous.” and then, quieter: “but… i think i like being yours.”
⟡ he once got stuck in your bread dough. just stuck, like a honeybee in jam. you had to carefully peel him out and rinse him with warm water, and he just sat on your drying rack afterward, wrapped in a linen napkin like a soggy prince, pouting and mumbling about “ambush kneading.” you laughed until you cried. he tried to stay grumpy. he failed.
⟡ he gets hiccups when he eats too much jam. tiny, airborne hiccups that make him hover an inch off the ground every time. once he got so flustered, he flew into your cupboard and stayed there until you promised not to tell the bees.
⟡ he’s utterly, completely enamored with your voice. whether you’re talking, humming, sighing—it all makes his wings twitch. sometimes, he’ll pretend to be asleep just so he can lie there and listen to you whisper nonsense to the kettle. “it’s like honey being poured into my ears,” he told you once. then blinked. “that sounded gross. but i meant it nice.”
⟡ he gets tangled in your hair constantly. it’s not on purpose. (except when it is.) he’ll pretend he just happened to land there, but you’ll feel his hands combing through a curl and hear him mutter, “mine,” under his breath like a dragon counting gold.
⟡ when he really misses you—like when you’re out all day gathering herbs or walking into town—he leaves flower petals in your shoes. little folded ones, marked with silvery ink that reads things like come home soon, miss your hands, and i tried talking to the cat. she hates me still.
⟡ you once made him a cloak from the corner of an old silk scarf. he lost his mind. wouldn’t take it off for days. kept swooping dramatically around the kitchen like a leaf in a gust of wind. “do i look noble?” he asked, striking a pose atop your butter dish. you said yes. he hasn’t stopped talking about it since.
⟡ he measures time in pastries. “has it been one tart since you smiled?” “that was three scones ago.” “you promised to kiss me before the next muffin, and this—” dramatic pause “—is a muffin.”
⟡ “i don’t know what love is like for humans,” he says once, brushing pollen from your knuckles. “but if it’s like what i feel when you say my name… then i think i do.”
⟡ he doesn’t like thunderstorms. they make his wings heavy, and the air too sharp. but he’ll never say he’s scared. he just curls under your collar, shivering slightly, and says, “it’s cozy in here.” and you pretend not to notice the way he buries his face in your neck.
⟡ he once tried to impress you by catching a firefly. it ended badly. his hair singed. the firefly escaped. but he held out the glow cupped in his palms like treasure anyway and said, very seriously, “i brought you a star.”
⟡ his favorite place in the world is your shoulder. from there, he can press his face into your neck, listen to your breath, and whisper the tiniest compliments in your ear. “you smell like a story,” he said once. “the kind i’d live in.”
⟡ “if i was your size,” he says once, curled under your chin with his hand pressed over your pulse, “i’d kiss you until the stars begged us to stop.” you choke on your tea. he grins. and adds, “but for now… i’ll just listen to how your heart speeds up when i say things like that.”
⟡ “i think i’m in love,” he blurts one evening, after a honey tart and a lot of staring. you glance at him. he clears his throat. “with… um. teacups. and linen. and… and girls with wild hair and big hands who tuck me into thimbles like i’m something worth keeping.” you don’t say anything. you just scoop him into your palm, and he leans into it like a sunflower.
YAYYYY IJM BACK IN!!!! Thank u anon...
marvel bots Today. ill drop a sneakpeek from my laptop soon + hopefully another misc req release this week :))
What if Jess and Lupe go to the bar to get lit and Lupe gets into an argument that spirals into an altercation? Well Jess has to jump into to finish it of course! and to make things worse, when they get back to the house, they realize they're locked out for the night :o)
Dang I wish I had fanfic brain! I have more for this!
both cropped and not because i like the crop but their pants look so goodt :o)
Did I think Thunderbolts was cute? Yes.
Do I also fundamentally disagree with a government run superhero team that borderline disrespects everything Sam Wilson went through to remake Captain America? Also yes.
..I fear Thunderbolts bought out the most annoying John Walker fans..ever.
"He killed a terrorist! Hes better than Sam" you either didnt watch Falcon and the Winter soldier at ALL, or you're a weird, illiterate loser who just hates black characters. Like..people who think John is this cool character who did nothing wrong piss me the hell off.
He has an inferiority complex and he thinks he deserves the shield and a better title simply cuz he was a good SOLDIER. Like..that was his damn job. He didnt do it cuz he cared about helping and he doesnt deserve the fucking shield.
Also..the flag smasher he killed wasn't a terrorist, like..the whole point was they were being forgotten and shoved away cuz everyone who got snapped came back AND THEY HAD NO WHERE TO GO, then John, killed him even AFTER HE WAS ACTIVELY SURROUNDING. John was a giant fucking baby throughout the entire show and made Sam's life WAY harder cuz he couldn't deal with the fact he wasn't Captain America.
And then he goes up and he neglects his fucking son cuz hes reading articles about himself, and he screams at his wife??? And..this is your goat?? Really. You cant bash Sam for fucking existing and then claim John is this complex, interesting hero when he fucking isn't.
John was FUNNY in Thunderbolts and useful on the occasion. That doesnt make him the new Captain America, nor does it even make him good. Like..if you hate Sam and love John, Im just gonna assume you're racist cuz..aint no other explanation 🤨
here's a lil jesslupe kiss for the road :o)
cheating on your shitty boyfriend with your best friend johnny storm??? ummm . . . check! ✅️
"shit, baby." he chuckles into your mouth, your legs wrapping around his waist— nails digging into his broad forearms by your head.
"your pussy really fuckin' needed me, huh? poor thing." he hums before pulling his hips back and thrusting deeper into you, earning a shudder from your body.
you moan into his mouth, your eyes fluttering shut— his arms lock around your head as he drives his cock deeper and deeper. it feels so good— your lips opening in a trembling 'o' shape as he drills into you.
your eyes are almost crossing and it makes him laugh— "never thought i'd hafta be the one to treat this pussy right." you nod, and he places a kiss on your lips before speaking— "your boyfriend ain't got shit on me."
you whine, whimper, hiss—
"johnnyyy—. . johnny, oh my god . . fuck— i'm!"
"yeah, yeah. cum for me then, drench me, baby. lay it on me. i deserve it for fucking ya so good." he hums, lips pressing against yours. his tongue licking into your mouth with ease, prodding at yours— its so hot.
you whine for a moment, voice cracking as your cunt convulses around his cock in pulses. he groans, eyes shutting for a brief moment before opening quickly to watch your fucked out face.
he feels you drench his pelvis in squirt, your legs trembling and voice going a pitch higher as he continues to fuck into you— effortlessly riding out your orgasm and overstimulating you.
"mmmnn! mmnn.. ! i luuhhh— mmnn... i luhh youuu—" you whine, hooking your arms around his neck, fat heavy tears spilling from your eyes as he pulls you impossibly close.
"yeah. i love you too, baby. fuck— fuck, i love you."
later . . . — your boyfriend stares at his phone, the message popping up out of nowhere. it reads —
' shiiiiit broo... this ur girl?? she sayin she love me! 😬😬 '
1 video attachment .
' my fault big dawg 💪'
the quad squad
they will save the world. together.
raw. next question.
listen i know i'm a lesbian nad all but i need to eat him. umnumnum. rghhghg. he's always either smiley or confused and i WANT HIMMMMM
His curls…. i’m fuckign gnawing at the bars of my enclosure PLEASE JUST ONE CHANCEHDJSJDJF
Just watched the Thunderbolts... and in Jesus's name I rebuk it.
Several red flags: ( spoiler below or whatever)
During her hearing, Valentina said that the situation with the Red Hulk was a proof that there was "No reliable heroes anymore "
When Bob asked about his hair being dyed blond she said "it's more traditional, speaks to all Americans "
The two previous points merge in what I can only describe as THE BIGGEST MICROAGGRESSION I've ever seen. Because they just called him unfit for the mental of Captain America, and something about how being white and having blond hair is what America needs.
The way they handled the subject of mental healness was not it. Just very surface level and VERY WHITE CENTRIC.
Lastly, Bucky Barnes and his uneven bob that became a sad blowout is not welcomed on my blog until Doomsday clarifies the situation because as of now your case looks bad. Really bad. Whatever Sam said you deserved it because not seeing how having a all white Avager team (Ava is very passing to me) that is SUPPORTED BY THE GOVERNMENT is armful to him. And literally ties to what Sam said at the end of BNW and to constantly having to prove that they (POC) are fit to do the job.
I've never rumbled so much on any platform before, but here we are.
Everyone acting like Sam fans are just humorless bitter meanies is killing me tbh 😭
Ummm sorry, but I think we’ve been pretty chill for a good ten years now lol. I mean, they didn’t even let the man be a social worker from Harlem for goodness sakes!! Erased his comic history with Steve and significant chunks of their friendship, largely forgot about his family and friends, sidelined and forgot about Sam himself too. For years! Gave him a show instead of a movie, and hired a guy who clearly hates him to write it. Then years of zero cameos, not even a shoutout or two. Finally gave him a movie, that was really good by the way, but then when they do manage to finally acknowledge him in another project it’s just to insult him. And, whole time that all this is happening, they’re glazing the hell out of a whole slew of other characters who objectively deserve the hype less than Sam.
Actually, yeah, we’ve been gracious af.
“Why does Sam care about suing the thunderbolts but doesn’t care about Kamala’s team?”
Because Sam isn’t doing it for petty reasons. He’s doing it to stop the government from having any control over the legacy HE helped build.
Kamala isn’t assembling a team of child traffickers, murderers, and self centered people unlike a certain other team. Kamala is assembling people that Sam would also choose in a heart beat.
Next.
back to being that annoying yjs fan who points out that it is odd to want to live vicariously through a violent, thoughtless, and delusional character like shauna shipman. the weight of her loss isn’t equitable to her actions because it’s not supposed to be. before anything else, shauna shipman was an insecure teenage girl who lost her best friend and her baby. a pure extension of her was taken before she ever learned to understand the novelty of what she had. that loss turned her into the woman who recollects on her time in the wilderness as fun. that loss turned her into a negligent, impulsive hypocrite who died with the things tethering her to her already compromised humanity. not fully, but enough that she would rather propel herself as a warrior and try to reclaim any of what was taken from her. that immense pain turned her into a wounded person, a wounded animal, and the narrative should absolutely allow her to be that with no apology; however, the people praising shauna for hurting others and wanting to glorify the projection of her pain onto characters like mari or callie are odd. you guys don’t want women to be angry in the narrative because you get mad when taissa is angry. you got mad when mari was angry. you guys want shauna to be angry and take it out on travis by antagonizing him with his dead brother (notice the pattern there) while everyone claps for her.
disliking shauna ≠ misunderstanding shauna.
you all are the ones misunderstanding that we can feel bad for the people shauna has hurt without minimizing her pain. you all are the ones who suddenly become hypercritical of a character’s rage and how it manifests when they’re a person of color, and i’m not going to sugarcoat it because that’s what it is. disliking taissa, mari, travis, or any other character on this show is not unreasonable. i’m not saying disliking them is racist. i’m saying that applauding the tyrannical white character and demonizing any poc character for displaying the same rage (without the main character treatment) is weird.
it’s even weirder to suggest that recognizing shauna’s presence in the story and disliking her actions means that we don’t deserve to watch the evil cannibalism show the same as you. at the end of the day, this narrative is not meant to be a pleasant one, and shauna’s pain has shaped her into an unpleasant person. the issue is parading around as emotionally or literarily superior because you have empathy for shauna and no other character on the show. the same people who endorse shauna villainize any other character who operates out of pain when the point is not to villainize them at all. these characters are full of nuance, full of cruelty and even their own forms of gentleness after the relentless jaws of the wilderness. people can recognize that and recognize character’s actions as objectively wrong and it is that deep when microaggressive attitudes materialize out of thin air when the narrative allows characters like taissa to operate in their pain.
it’s not just microaggressions though. the same fans screaming for people to just have “fun” with the show crucify others for disagreeing with them in any capacity. it’s going beyond enjoyment on the basis of complexity, entertainment value, etc. that’s dumb.
SAY THAT AGAIN.
summary: Spencer is known to talk a lot, always spluttering facts and analysis to people. Everyone always gets annoyed at him for that, except you, who thinks it’s so hot of him. So what happens when you start to flirt shamelessly with Spencer and tell him to use that mouth between your legs?
pairing: spencer reid x afab coworker.
cw: +18. mdni. 1.4k words. praise. submissive spencer. soft dom reader. oral sex (reader receiving). workplace setting. semi-public. light hair pulling. soft mocking & teasing. dirty-talking.
taglist: @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @magicalmiserybore @destinedtobegigi @fwaist @talsorchard @lovefaist @shahabaqsa0310 @prismozo @jesuistrestriste
The bullpen was always a little too loud on Fridays. Even with the weight of the week dragging on everyone’s shoulders, the team still found ways to stir up banter between case files. You were on your third coffee and second round of edits to your victimology when Spencer started talking again.
"Actually, there’s a statistically significant link between victims who are last seen leaving bars alone and offenders who grew up in households with substance abuse. It’s often a subconscious association—they target vulnerability they recognize from childhood experiences."
You didn’t even look up from your computer screen. You didn’t have to. You could see him in your periphery, perched on the corner of your desk like he always did when he felt like talking but didn’t want to be annoying.
Everyone else groaned.
"Reid," Morgan said without looking up. "No one's trying to psychoanalyze the bar scene, man."
JJ gave him a tired smile. "Maybe just let us finish the file first?"
But you? You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. Because while everyone else rolled their eyes at Spencer’s endless supply of facts, you were quietly, wildly obsessed.
You liked the way he talked. Not just the cadence, fast and breathless, but the certainty in it. The pure, unfiltered excitement he had about things most people barely noticed. It made your brain light up.
It also didn’t hurt that he was cute as hell, with his tie always slightly crooked and his curls getting messier as the week went on. You’d had a crush on him since your third day at the BAU. That was eight months ago, and somehow you were still holding it together.
Sort of.
"Keep going, Reid," you said casually, eyes still on the screen. "You were saying something about behavioral mimicry?" Spencer froze, blinking like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly.
Then he leaned in, voice lower now, almost conspiratorial. "Right—uh, yes. Behavioral mimicry. So there’s this phenomenon where serial offenders, especially disorganized ones, subconsciously recreate aspects of their own trauma. So if, say, they were abandoned at a train station, they might pick their victims from transit centers or leave the bodies there as a symbol of—"
You looked up slowly, smiling as your eyes locked on his. "God, that mouth of yours."
His lips parted. "What?"
You tilted your head. "Nothing. I just like hearing you talk."
His brows pulled together, confused. You watched the blush crawl up his neck and knew exactly what you were doing. "Actually, most people find it annoying," he said, a little too fast.
You stood up, brushing against his knee as you moved to grab another file. "I’m not most people." He swallowed hard.
By the end of the day, he was visibly short-circuiting.
You weren’t mean about it. Just a little flirty. Soft touches on his arm when you passed by. Compliments about his tie, his lecture from the week before, the way he’d handled the victim’s family. Spencer, being Spencer, didn’t know what to do with it.
It wasn’t until the two of you ended up alone in the briefing room, long after the others had left, that he finally broke. You were leaning against the table, flipping through photos, when he hovered near the door.
"You, uh… you keep complimenting me today," he said quietly. You looked up with an amused smile. "Is that so weird?"
He ran a hand through his curls. "Kind of? Yes? I mean, not—uh—not in a bad way. I just—"
You dropped the photos and stepped closer. He stopped talking immediately. You looked up at him—he was taller—and reached to tug lightly at the knot of his tie. "You want me to stop?" you asked.
His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up. "No."
"Good." You pulled him in by the tie and kissed him.
He made the softest, most surprised sound, mouth moving eagerly under yours. Your hands slid into his hair, tugging gently. He melted into it. You pulled back slightly, grinning at how he was acting. Almost like a puppy.
"You ever kissed someone who wanted to shut you up and hear you talk at the same time?" you murmured. He looked wrecked already. "I… I don’t know."
"Well," you whispered, brushing your lips over his again. "I’ve thought about that mouth between my legs more times than I can count. So maybe it’s time you give me a little demonstration, Dr. Reid."
He blinked, stunned. "Y-You want me to—"
"Use that brain and that mouth," you said. "Be a good boy for me, yeah?"
You didn’t even make it out of Quantico.
You pulled him into one of the unused consult rooms, the door locked behind you. There was a couch along the back wall, and it was just big enough. The room smelled like dry-erase markers and stale coffee, but all you could focus on was Spencer kneeling in front of you, hands shaking slightly as you guided him.
You sat back, thighs spread, skirt pushed up.
"Take your time," you said softly. "But I want you to look at me the whole time, okay?" He nodded, so eager it almost broke your heart.
And then he leaned in.
His hands rested on your thighs like he didn’t know what to do with them, until you grabbed one and laced your fingers through it. "Start with kissing," you said. "Everywhere. Take it slow."
And he did. Lips brushing your inner thigh, trailing higher, then back down again. He paused at the waistband of your underwear, kissing right through it, a little tremble running through him.
"You're doing so good," you murmured, stroking his curls. "Don’t be shy."
He licked his lips, eyes wide as he hooked his fingers into the fabric and tugged gently. You lifted your hips to help him, watching as he pushed them down and stared like he’d never seen anything so perfect.
"You smell so good," he whispered, blushing immediately after he said it.
You laughed softly, brushing his hair back. "Do I, now? Why don’t you show me how much you like the smell?"
Spencer lowered his head.
The first drag of his tongue was cautious—gentle, exploratory. He moaned, actually moaned, into you, like the taste had short-circuited his brain. He licked again, slower this time, then circled your clit with delicate, deliberate pressure with the pad of his tongue. Taking his time with you were his last meal on Earth.
"Just like that," you breathed. "Yes, Spencer—just like that. God, you’re so good at this."
The praise made him whimper.
You kept a hand in his hair, guiding him when he needed it. He settled into a rhythm quickly, a little desperate, his tongue working you open like he was memorizing every reaction. When you gasped, he did it again. When your thighs tensed, he moaned against you.
"Such a quick learner," you said, voice breathy. "No wonder you finished multiple PhDs before thirty."
His groan vibrated against your clit. You tugged his hair gently. He looked up at you, mouth glistening, pupils blown wide. "You like when I talk about how smart you are while you eat me out?" He nodded, dizzy.
"I knew it. God, Spencer, you’re a mess down there. So eager. You could lecture me on criminal psychology while making me cum, couldn’t you?"
"I-I could try," he mumbled, voice muffled against your thigh. You smiled, pulling him back in.
He sucked your clit this time, tentative at first, then harder when you moaned. You let your head fall back against the wall, hips grinding against his mouth, hands gripping his curls with just enough pressure to let him know you were in charge.
"Don’t stop," you whispered. "I’m close. Be a good boy and keep going—make me cum, boy genius."
He moaned like it was his name.
You came hard, thighs clenching around his face, his tongue working you through it with unrelenting devotion. He didn’t stop until you pulled him back by the hair, gently, catching your breath. His mouth was red and shiny, chin soaked.
"You okay?" you asked, brushing his hair from his face.
He nodded quickly. "Yes. Very okay." You pulled him up onto the couch with you and kissed him, tasting yourself on his lips. He melted into it again, arms winding around you like he never wanted to leave. "Spencer," you said between kisses, "if you want to do that again sometime… just start talking."
He grinned shyly, breathless. "I usually can’t stop."
"Exactly," you whispered, nipping his lower lip. "That’s what makes you so good at it."