!nerd Art Who’s So Desperate He Doesn’t Let You Two Feet In The Door..like Easyyy White Chocolate

if you spam-like me I’m assuming you want to see me staring up at you as I mouth at your clit jsyk

a doordash ad just called me a good boy

girl they're literally us btw

MY SHAYLAS THEY R SO CUTE omg i forgot they were friends #topgun

literally Us. the danny to my lewis

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."

new lurking blog turned posting blog i can't wait until i get mutuals again

goodnight yj nation (and a forehead kiss for all my mutuals)!!!

  A HELPING HAND

summary: it's the last night at mark rebelatto's tennis academy for art and patrick. the last night of being bunkmates, the last night of staying up to talk about tennis, the last night before art is off to stanford and patrick goes on tour. when art falls asleep, patrick usually jerks off like any regular guy with needs. it's not weird of course. he taught art how to jerk off in this very room afterall. but tonight is different. patrick would already be finishing into a sock if it weren't for arts quiet little sobs.

pairing: patrick zweig x art donaldson

content warning: 18+ mdni mlm mutual masturbation mutual handjob internalized homophobia?

word count: 2.4k

authors note: ahh this is my first fic! i was inspired by a post i saw a week or two ago but i can't remember what the @ was. the concept stuck with me and i just had to write something. i hope it's enjoyable... if it is i'll make a part two. happy reading!!

taglist: @fwaist @pittsick @cowboyfaists @manipulatemedonaldson @glassmermaids @zionna @femme-lusts

for the last hour, patricks hand has progessively slid lower and lower until it's found purchase at the waistband of his boxers. he'll occasionaly dip his fingers beneath it out of boredom, but he can't find it in him to go any further. not when the room is practically calling out to him. each corner holds a different memory. the walls, which have heard all of the late the night conversations between him and art. the trophies, that they've both worked their asses off for. the beds, where patrick taught art how to jerk off when they were younger. where they talked about kat zimmerman. where they came at the same time. it was underlined with a sensuality both of them would take to the grave. he can't believe it but he might miss the place. not the constant pressure nor his judgy peers. just the memories. all of which are with art.

speaking of, patrick looks across the room in an attempt to make out arts figure in the dark. his eyes have a hard time adjusting and he can only hope he's asleep. he opens his mouth to check but thinks better of it and looks up at the ceiling. his fingers slip under the waistband of his boxers once more, sliding more downwards than before. he's about to wrap a hand around his growing hardness when he hears something. he yanks his hand back and sits up slightly, eyes searching the darkness.

if patrick strains his ears enough he can hear the muffled cries coming from the direction of arts bed. he sits up completely and plants his feet on the floor, causing it to creak under the new weight. patrick curses inwardly to himself when it goes quiet. "art? are you uh.. are you awake?" he whispers loudly in hopes that his best friend won't ignore him.

"...yeah, sorry if i woke you up." art whispers back after a beat. patrick almost laughs at how pathetic he sounds. like he always does. but the sniffle that follows is enough to have him crossing the room and sitting down on arts bed.

the silence that follows is uncomfortable and long. uncomfortably long, if you will. patrick has never been good at comfort. he can't even think of an instance where he's actually comforted someone. he tends to just make a joke in hopes of lightening the mood. that or he aborts the scene before tears fall. too late now. "what's wrong?" the words don't even sound like his own and it takes him by surprise. it's something he's never asked before in his life. apparently it surprises art even more because he sits up and gives him a curious look. "why do you care? it doesn't even matter." patrick scoffs at that. "it does matter." his tone is uncharacteristically soft. "but you're also keeping me up, so either talk to me or spare me the trouble." he redeems himself before art has more questions that he can't answer. why does it even matter?

another beat. "i'm just— i don't know— i'm sad, i guess. about leaving. we grew up here and now we're moving on. leaving it in the past." he shrugs and looks down at his lap like a kicked puppy. patrick only sighs because art's right. he himself was reminiscing for the last hour, barely even able to get hard because of the memories plaguing him. "i get it, this place means a lot to us. but you got accepted into stanford and i'm going on tour. we're going further than we ever dreamed of. we'll finally have more to our names than this shitty academy." he laughs and ruffles arts curls, settling for the joking tactic. "yeah.. you're right." his tear stained eyes finally meet patricks and he offers a sad smile. patrick offers one back and it's far different than his customary smirk or grin.

but it was gone as quick as it came. "are we done here? 'cause you kinda ruined my me time, if you catch my drift." patrick makes a jerking off gesture with his hand, as if his words weren't comprehendable alone. "right..." arts smile falters when he notices the tent in patricks boxers. was that there the whole time?

he should be disgusted if it was. here he is, crying and in need of comfort. maybe even a lullaby. all the while his best friend is harboring a boner and can't even offer him a hug. but if the way his own cock is filling out says anything about what he's feeling, it's definitely not disgust.

and of course patrick catches on immediately, eyes watching the quickening growth in arts boxers. it's only then that he's reminded of his own which he left aching and wanting. their attention shifts from their dicks to each other once again. it's even quieter than before. so quiet that the gears in patricks mind can almost be heard working overtime.

eventually, he voices what he was thinking so hard about. "i could help you take your mind off of things if you want—" art shakes his head vigorously as if he'd rather die. "no, i don't want." patrick scoffs "really? well, i didn't know you were the type to get a random boner." he nods to the tent in arts boxers that now matches his own. "i'm not— i don't— it's a natural reaction—" art stammers, a flush already rising to his cheeks. "a natural reaction to what? my dick?" patrick grins, fully aware he has him cornered. all art can do is grab one of his pillows and plant it firmly over his lap, avoiding patricks gaze yet again.

there's that gleam in patricks eye. the one that shines when he's planning something regrettable, which is often. "come on, art." patrick drawls and leisurely crawls over him. he rips the pillow from his grip and sets it off to the side. "do you remember when i taught you how to jerk off? we did it together, right here in this room. you on this bed, a whimpering mess." he smiles down at art, dimples making him look slightly less devilish. "it's our last night here. you really wanna spend it sulking? let's just.. give each other a hand." his fingers trail down arts bare torso before he finds and palms his buldge, relishing in the whine it pulls from him. "for old times sake." he adds, as if that will make it any better. "f—for old times sake?" art asks hesitantly, unsure how he's even able to form words at this point. "yeah, for old times sake." patrick echoes and his palm presses down harder.

when art bucks his hips up instead of telling him off, patrick takes it as a yes and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of arts boxers. he tugs them down slowly as if to prolong his discomfort. when they're finally off, he tosses them into the void and his own follow suit. patrick props one hand beside arts head for support as the other finds his hip. art is staring between them, to which patrick follows his line of sight. their cocks are rock solid and straining against their stomachs, arts leaking pre-cum already. patrick removes his hand from its place on arts hip and wraps it around his base, avoiding arts at all costs. you see, palming and actually touching are totally different things. to the two of them at least.

he strokes himself once. twice. by the third, art is grabbing his own and mimicking patricks motions. they set a pace with their hands in sync whether it's purposeful or not. the previous silence of the night is now filled with ragged breathing and the occasional moan. patrick focuses his eyes on the headboard while art shuts his every now and then. they never make eye contact. it's an unspoken rule. one that would be way weird if broken. although, patrick does take the chances when arts eyes are closed to admire him. he watches the slight flutter of his eyelids, or how his eyebrows scrunch with pleasure, but mainly the way his lips part to let out sounds that go straight to patricks gut.

he doesn't even realize that his hand is leaving his cock and wrapping around arts until it's too late. arts eyes fly open and his hand stills. he wants to pull his hand away and ask him what he's doing. but they're making eye contact—dammit they're making eye contact—and all rational thoughts flee his mind. especially when patrick slowly moves their hands, guiding arts strokes. he's not even touching him and yet it's enough to make him lose it. "please—" art chokes out, staring into patricks eyes pleadingly. "please what?" it almost comes out tauntingly but it's far from it. "let's just... help each other out, like you said." the words leave a weird taste in arts mouth but he ignores it. patrick stops the movement of their hands and stares at art in contemplation. his eyes flick from arts to his lips then back. "alright. no kissing though, i'm not gay or anything." patricks words are laced with underlying meaning but they're both too lost in the moment to acknowledge it. arts insistent head nodding speaks for itself.

arts hand slips out from under patricks, allowing him to truly grip his cock. the moans they both let out is an obscene combination. patrick should've have stopped it from going this far. he knew that. but when arts hand wraps around his own ache he can't find any reason why he would.

they resume the pace of earlier but it quickly turns frenzied. hands pump, thumbs rub tips, free hands grab balls. their noses either drag across the others cheek or smush against one another. they share the same breath but they never kiss and they maintain their eye contact rule (with the exception of earlier.)

it isn't long before they're both thrusting into each others fists. art mostly, the needy thing. "fuck yeah— just like that." patrick moans into arts ear, so very tempted to pull the lobe into his mouth and suck on it. "like this?" arts tone is almost innocent even as he flicks his wrist. "mmmh exactly." patricks movements get sloppier, so do arts. the heat between them is boiling but the feeling is so good it feels like they're in heaven and hell all at once.

their climaxes rise at the same time, art working through his faster. "please pat— oh shit— patrick i'm gonna—" his words are cut off by a moan that sounds like it was extorted straight from his soul. patricks name on arts lips is enough to have his orgasm following right after. "yes— just like that art- fuuuuck-" ropes of white come shoot out from their swollen tips, crossing paths before landing on each others stomachs.

patrick collapses onto his back next to art, both boys covered in the others release and gasping for air. they don't find it in themselves to look at each other, at the damage they've done. they just stare at the ceiling and relish in the left over pleasure.

patrick is the first one to make a move, getting up and looking around for his boxers. art sits up to watch him. definitely not to stare at his naked form. once he finds them, patrick pulls them on and tosses arts to him. he takes a moment to let what they just did sink in. he looks over art from head to toe as he tugs his boxers on himself. his eyes linger a little too long on the mess on arts stomach. his mess on arts stomach. arts mess on his stomach. a strange feeling of pride swells in his chest and it makes him feel sick. he knows art must feel just as sick, if not more. it's not like patrick has never thought about this before. he has. more times than he'd like to admit. it's that he knows art hasn't and never will. so he deems it best to avoid it.

he walks into their bathroom and comes back with two cloths. he carelessly throws one to art and walks back to his side of the room to clean himself off in the mirror. however, he keeps an eye on art in the reflection. he watches as he quickly wipes off the liquid as if it was toxic waste. patrick does it himself, and they discard them in their trash bins.

art fixes his pillows and pulls the sheets over him whilst patrick settles himself back in his own bed. they don't exchange looks or even a goodnight. they simply turn over and fall asleep.

  —

in the morning, patrick and art are up at their typical time. aka the ass crack of dawn. they're both tired, like usual, but more so from their late night activities. they each mutter a goodmorning and make small talk here and there while they get ready for the day. "how'd you sleep?" "good, you?" "pretty good." "nice."

when the time comes for packing, patrick almost expects to see art crying as he brings in empty boxes. but he's not. his demeanor is entirely different than how it was last night. before... everything.

"want some help?" patrick offers when art begins to stuff his respective boxes. "sure, if you don't mind." they spend an hour packing all of arts stuff, nice and neat, and another hour packing patricks stuff, unorganized and an overall mess.

by the end of it the room looks empty, but they both know it's not. it's full. full of memories and shared moments. full of secrets that will never leave. full of whatever happened between them last night.

patrick is the one to break the heavy silence. "wanna play a match later? i'll even buy us some beer after." art switches his focus, eyes locking with patricks (now that the rule isn't in place) and grins. "only if you get the good stuff."

"when have I ever not gotten the good stuff?" from the smiles on both of their faces, you wouldn't think that they were leaving a big chunk of their lives behind. you also wouldn't think that they jerked each other off the night prior.

Hi jo sorry if this isn’t what you normally write and you can ignore it if you want. I would just love a sort of comfort fic of reader losing their virginity to art but she’s uncomfortable and wants to stop and he’s sweet about it

No pressure I love everything you put out ♡

don't apologise pookie this is sweet :) <3

warnings: 18+ sex (p in v), insecure/uncomfortable reader, loss of virginity, very quickly (+ poorly) written apologies x

This is decidedly not how you expected losing your virginity to go.

Art was a gentleman. Waiting patiently for months, never pressuring you into anything despite the fact he'd spent countless nights leaving your dorm blue-balled and in dire need of a cold shower. Even when you suggested taking that next step, he made you insist several times that it was really what you wanted.

No, he wasn't the problem.

It took fifteen minutes with his head between your thighs for you to cum. That part was great. It was what came next that made things awkward: Art perched above you, one hand entwined with our own while the other guided him into you. The stretch was overwhelming, enough to render you breathless for the next few seconds as he eased in slowly. Each thick, solid inch has your toes curling and your lungs desperately gathering air.

An affirmative nod of your head to confirm that you were okay (you weren't) and he was rocking into you, groaning about how tight and good you felt. Everyone always said it gets better. But it's been two minutes of him thrusting into you, jaw slack with pleasure and eyes screwed shut while he babbles praises senselessly about how well you're taking it, and things are decidedly not better.

You can't take it anymore. The discomfort of having another person so deep inside you, the stretch, the burning pain...

"Art, stop."

He doesn't hear you at first. You're quiet, drowned out by the sound of skin slapping against skin and his ragged sounds of pleasure.

"Art." Your free hand finds his shoulder. Fingers curling into the sweat-slick skin, face strained in displeasure. "Stop, please."

Now you've got his attention. His eyes snap onto yours again, hips slowing to a halt. "What?" He blinks lamely. Despite his initial obliviousness, at least he's stopped moving.

"I just... I can't," you explain weakly, choking on a hitched breath.

It's not the most eloquent reply ever, but what are you supposed to say? This is awful. It's nothing like I expected. I'm having a terrible time. It hurts, it's uncomfortable, it's—

You could say all of that, actually. You just don't want to hurt his feelings.

"Okay," he says, brows furrowing. "Are you, um... are you okay? I'm sorry, was I going too fast?"

His hand moves to push your hair gently out of your face. Sweet boy. You can't find it in yourself to be upset.

"No, you're fine," you reply, trying for a smile. It falls terribly flat.

"Are you—" A pause, hand squeezing yours as he braces himself up on his other one. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you reply, embarrassed by the way his eyes are searching your face with such genuine concern. You wish you could just melt into the mattress and pretend this never happened. "Can you just... can you get off, please?"

"Oh!" He blinks, glancing down. "Right. Yeah, yeah. I'm sorry."

The process of him pulling out is far less agonising, and you breathe a sigh of relief, body relaxing beneath him. He's still watching you with that same worried look as he lays down next to you, fingers twitching by his sides uncertainly.

"Too much?" He asks tentatively. You nod sheepishly, eyes averted. "I'm so sorry, baby. I didn't—did I hurt you? Are you okay?"

It feels like the hundredth time he's posed the question, but he's panicking inwardly about your apparent state of discomfort as you shift restlessly, eyes fixated on some point over his shoulder. You feel embarrassed. Guilty. Like a failure.

What's the point in him dating you if you can't even handle sex?

You don't voice any of that out loud, but he can see it in your eyes; the way your bottom lip quivers slightly as the all of the emotions cross plainly across your face. Or how your eyes glisten with unshed tears.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, voice cracking.

"No, no, no. Why are you apologising?" He replies instantly. He lifts a hand, pausing before he makes contact. "Is this okay?" When you nod your head, his hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly over your skin.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, baby. It's okay."

Your head shakes insistently. "No, I should be able to do it. I mean, what's the point if I can't?"

His knuckles linger against your cheek, and then he laughs. Just a soft huff of amusement, but enough to have you knitting your brows at him.

"What's the point?" He repeats softly, eyes crinkling down at you. "It's just sex, babe."

"Sex is a very integral part of a relationship!" You argue, wiping feebly at your eyes.

"Maybe," Art says, shrugging noncommittally as he watches your aborted attempt sympathetically. "Doesn't mean we have to have sex right now. There's always room to try again in the future, right?"

You hate that he makes sense. It's hard to wallow in your own self-pity when he's looking at you so tenderly, still caressing your cheek. "Right," you mumble reluctantly. "And if the future is never?"

"We'll tackle that hurdle when we get there," he says, dipping his head to kiss the tip of your nose. "Stop stressing. Let's just put a movie on and relax, 'kay?"

You pout at him for a second longer before relenting. Your head falls back into the pillow with a sigh as he settles back beside you, an arm draped across your middle to reach for the remote. A few more sniffles can be heard as you settle down.

"Thank you."

It's quiet, but he hears it. He sends you a soft smile. "You don't need to thank me."

"Well, I am," you reply, shifting to rest your head against his shoulder. All you get in reply is a light chuckle.

A few moments pass as he flicks through the channels before you speak up again. "Can you maybe put your boxers back on? I don't want to see your dick."

He snorts, tilting his head to press a kiss into the top of your hair. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

butch arms on main

So who’s gonna supply me with James potter rugby fics