Spencer thinks you hate him. That couldn't be further from the truth.
pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader
genre: fluff
content: idiots in love, a little bit of miscommunication, reader is anxious, gn!reader i think, mutual pining, garcia the matchmaker, not proofread
wc: 1.4k
a/n: in second person this time :) i hope you all enjoy, let me know your thoughts! requests are open :D likes and reblogs appreciated!
dividers by @/saradika-graphics - thank you!
Spencer is not good for your head.
Every time he's in the room, your brain stops working. Just- flatlines. No activity. All you can do is stare, stumble over yourself, blush, and eventually flee from the room in a panic.
It's his fault, really. With his stupid big brown eyes and his stupid hair and his stupid hands and his stupid voice, and the way his eyebrow crinkles at the halfway point when he's thinking really hard about something. And the way the corners of his mouth turn down when he's thought of something that he thinks is funny, but thinks no one else will find amusing, and the way that his collar is never quite straight. He's always around, always trying to strike up conversation, and it's infuriating.
Not because you don't want to talk to him. Because you do. Because you do, and you can't.
You're stirring a spoonful of sugar into your second cup of tea of the day when Spencer walks into the break room. His collar is slightly askew, his purple tie a little bit crooked (and, you think, knotted wrong), and he's carrying his mug. You know it's his because it's patterned with the periodic table. If that wasn't a dead giveaway, it's specially labelled with his name on the bottom.
He flashes you a smile, and your heart seizes. You're pretty sure you look like a deer in headlights, your eyes wide and a little panicked.
Spencer stops in front of you, and you're pretty sure you've died. You've died, and this is your heaven- or purgatory, maybe, since you still can't get your mouth to work.
"You're standing in front of the coffee maker." His voice is smooth and uncertain, a little amused, matching the quirk of his lips.
Your mind blue screens. "That- I- um, yeah. I am." You make no motion to move, and he tilts his head, like a curious puppy.
"Would you, um... mind moving?" Spencer asks, blinking at you. You let out a squeak, and duck out of the way, your cheeks beginning to flame.
"Sorry! I, uh, that's- yeah." You manage, intelligently, before bolting out of the break room and back to your desk. You've just gotten to your desk when you realize that you've forgotten your tea in the break room, freshly brewed and now abandoned on the counter. You sigh, pushing your chair back, making your way over to Garcia's lair of computers.
Spencer is pretty sure you hate him.
You're decently new to the BAU, having been there under a year, and at first, he thought you were jut shy. You were awkward around the entire team, not just him. But as the weeks passed, you became smiley, articulate, and entirely endearing, with everyone except for him.
With him, you're... different, to say the least. He clearly makes you uncomfortable, if the flushed cheeks and inability to meet his eye is anything to go by. There's moments he thinks he might be getting through to you, when you nod along with one of his statistics during briefings, or try to hide a smile at one of his nerdy jokes. But then he tries to talk to you directly, and you shut down again.
And Spencer just had to develop feelings for you. The one person in his life that can't stand being in the same room as him for longer than necessary. He's not the type to spend time and energy on people who clearly don't want to be around him, but you... there's something different about you.
When he approaches you in the break room, you give your stuttered answer, followed by your usual quick departure. He hadn't even wanted coffee, if he was being completely honest. He had just wanted a chance to talk to you.
Spencer sighs, leaning his hands on the counter and hanging his head. And then he notices your tea, left on the counter. He glances into the bullpen, but you're not at your desk. Spencer hesitates, before picking up the mug and bringing it over to your desk. He takes one of the pens out of your cup, a purple one, and writes a quick note, leaving it with your tea.
"You need to figure out how to talk to him," Garcia is saying, but you're barely listening, having heard this spiel at least a dozen times from her. You roll your eyes.
"I'm trying, Pen, I am," you mumble, fidgeting with one of the trinkets she has proudly displayed on her desk. "It's like I lose all control of my mouth when I'm around him. I can't... make it work." You set the trinket down, sitting back in your seat.
Garcia sighs, clicking her tongue. "The two of you are hopeless, honestly," she mutters, her manicured nails clicking on her keyboard.
You wrinkle your nose indignantly, giving her a look. "What? No," you protest. "We work fine together, so it's not like it even matters."
"You do," she agrees, looking over at you for a second and wiggling her eyebrows. "But you could work together so much better. And in much different ways."
Her innuendo isn't lost on you, and you narrow your eyes. "What, you think this stupid crush is even going to go anywhere?" You grumble.
"He likes you too." It's not a question, but a definitive statement. You blink.
"He told you that?" You ask.
"Well, no, but..." Garcia trails off for a moment, tapping a nail against her teeth. "C'mon, we can all tell. You need to just-"
"Okay, well, thank you for your delusions," you interrupt, pushing your chair back and standing up. "Gotta get back to work. You know how it is."
"Not delusions," she calls back, as you start to walk back to the bullpen. "Observations."
You consider this as you walk back. Observations. Maybe he feels it too? Or maybe, you've ruined any chance you might have had by being completely socially inept around him. Would it even change anything if you knew he liked you? Would you be able to make your mouth work, say something that didn't sound like you were speaking English for the first time?
You're still pondering the possibility when you sit down at your desk.
There's a mug. Your mug. And a note.
"Sorry for scaring you out of the break room. You forgot something. S.R."
You stare at the note, at the purple pen, at the loops and smudges on the paper. There's a smiley face haphazardly drawn in the bottom corner, and it's so Spencer that it makes your heart ache.
That's it, you decide. You have to do something.
In an uncharacteristic show of bravery, you take a breath, pushing back from the chair and standing up, making your way over to his desk. Spencer is bent over a case file, his glasses low on the bridge of his nose.
"You didn't," you say, a bit too loudly, and you finch at the volume of your own voice. Spencer startles, looking up from his work.
"What?"
"You didn't," you repeat, at a more normal volume. You can feel your cheeks start to burn, but you push on. "Scare me. Out of the break room, I mean."
He blinks up at you owlishly. "Oh. Then why did you-"
"I like you," you blurt. You can't help it. The blush creeps down your neck, across your chest under your sweater. Spencer stares. "Like, I like like you. Which make me sound like I'm in third grade, but I just-" You let out a heavy breath, your shoulders shrugging helplessly. "I get all tongue tied, around you. You make me... you make me nervous." Your voice gets quieter as you go on, and Spencer's heart swells.
"Yeah?" He asks, tilting his head, fighting back a smile.
"Yeah," you manage, nodding meekly. "And you don't have to... say anything. I just wanted you to... to know." You turn on your heel, then, intending to go back to your desk, but a hand catches yours. Spencer's slender fingers wrap around your wrist, halting you in place.
"Your tea is probably cold by now," Spencer says, his voice soft. His gaze is intense, but gentle, full of affection. "Let me buy you a new one."
Butterflies flood through your stomach, and you manage a very shy smile, giving a little nod. "Um, like... just hanging out, or.."
He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Like a date. If you'd want."
i feel like art would have a babbling problem. like, he can’t stfu the closer he gets to cumming, so you have fun finding different ways to occupy his mouth while you suck him off or ride him. first instinct is sitting on his face or shoving your fingers in his mouth
// MDNI; art donaldson x reader
warnings; smut, oral (m receiving), praise, fluffy af ending, light dom/sub undertones, sub!art, art definitely has a praise kink i don’t make the rules 🫡
Art has always been loud— loud on the court, grunting and groaning as he plays, loud when he’s kissing you, breathy whines and gasps that you swallow greedily with your own mouth.
But most importantly, he’s loud in bed.
You always know when he’s about to cum; those corded thighs tighten around your head, back arching from the bed. His lips- rubied and swollen from your greedy mouth against his own- part around a moan, a drawn out whine, and an outright shout when your tongue laves across the tip of his weeping cock, drooling and flushed from your attention.
“Baby, baby, please,” he babbles. “Need it so bad. Gonna fuckin’ cum, please, baby.”
One of your manicured hands drags its way up his glistening chest, slick with sweat and littered with dark marks from your hungry teeth. He moans again, and you part his lips with a gentle thumb, pressing two digits flat against his tongue; he takes them greedily, suckling against the curve of your knuckles as you work him over with your other hand. You resist the urge to roll your eyes— always so obedient.
“Good boy,” you giggle. “Pretty baby.” He whines. You soothe him with a kiss to the tip of his cock.
His hips sporadically jerk as you seal your lips over him, sinking downward until the heavy length of him is settled snugly in your mouth. His chest stutters, a bare leg twining under your arm and round your waist until his heel presses into the base of your spine.
You know he’s cumming before he does.
His breath seizes, missing a beat. The muscles in his thighs tighten as he grinds further upwards into your warm mouth, and then he’s spilling into you with a sob.
His mouth is a wet throbbing around your knuckles, tips of your fingers still pressed to the dip of his tongue. You coast your thumb over the underside of his chin, pressing to the hollow of his throat— he preens under the attention.
“Shh, shh,” you coax. He bends at the waist, hooking a lithe hand under each of your armpits, and you’re dragged up and over his front until you’re nose to nose.
“Baby,” he sighs, nuzzling his cheek against your own. “Love you.”
“Love you too, pretty baby,” you coo. He’s almost limp underneath your weight, eyes half lidded and crinkling at the corners. “Can I have a kiss?”
summary: Yelena is notoriously difficult to get close to- she has a hard time opening up or connecting with all she's been through. However, after two years of working together, she... seems to have a soft spot for you? What you don't know is that your teammates have started to take note of this, and after a mishap on a mission, you start to think that maybe something is up with the former widow.
authors note: this is my first masterlist and i cannot emphasize enough that i do not know what i'm doing!! but! it will be updated as we go. regardless, thank you for enjoying it as much as i have enjoyed writing it <3
“is that—” Martha Kent points over at Billy, who is climbing up onto the tractor. “—safe?”
“I know how to drive one, ma’am!” Billy calls out, grinning wide as he finally settles on the seat. Martha visibly relaxes, nodding her head as she steps back.
“Well, don’t let me be a nuisance, just don’t go crashing or running over things, ‘ya hear?”
“Got it, Mrs. Kent!”
“Is it safe?” Hal asks. Clark looks over at him, the rest of the group watching Billy.
“You watched him pilot a plane as you writhed on the floor in agony.”
Hal shut his mouth. “Touché.”
The tractor sputtered to life, the sound almost deafening. Clark covered his ears, Bruce beside him doing the same.
“When did he grab the keys?” Bruce asks, watching as Billy starts to reverse, jostling around on the tractor seat. “Doesn’t your dad usually keep them on his person?”
“Yep,” Clark replied, popping the ‘P’.
“Hm.”
“Mhm.”
inspired off this wonderful post, AGAIN !!! and also referencing this fic i wrote inspired by it as well.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
your words won't tell me — an established-relationship azurido fic featuring Riddle refusing to talk about his Trauma, accidental love confessions, and lots and lots of cuddling. excerpt below the cut!
Synopsis:
Azul, more than most, understands the desire for privacy and the reluctance to be too vulnerable in front of another. Yet, in the months since he began dating Riddle Rosehearts, all he has wanted is for his boyfriend to confide in him. Things come to a head after Riddle finally admits to his mother that he has chosen another career path, but luckily, Azul is there to pick up the pieces.
Pairing: Azul/Riddle
Words: 5,575
Riddle's mother was calling him again.
The phone buzzed sharply against their wooden table in the library, vibrating with all the severity of a time bomb. Azul looked up from where he sat across from Riddle, pausing mid-note to see Riddle staring at the phone wearily. Of course, Azul hadn't seen the caller ID on the phone, but he knew who it was nonetheless. All of Riddle's usual signs were there: the quick hitch in his breathing when he glanced at his phone, the sudden tightness in his shoulders. The way his pleasant expression had faded and his face was left devoid of any real expression but mild dread.
Azul recognized it all too well, so he was entirely unsurprised when Riddle turned to him with an apologetic expression.
"I'll be right back," he said, his voice brittle. Azul nodded quickly, shooting him what he hoped was a supportive smile and not the scowl he felt like donning at the thought of Riddle's mother.
Riddle got up from his seat, walking to a far corner of the library to cast a quick silencing spell. Azul watched him walk away, waiting until the other boy rounded the corner before letting his smile wane.
Since he had started dating Riddle, Azul had managed to piece together parts of his relationship with his mother. Riddle never liked to talk about it, so Azul had had to rely on throwaway statements and his own observations from the past year if he wanted to draw any conclusions.
He had known already that Riddle's mother was overbearing—it seemed the entire school knew that much, especially after his overblot last semester. But Azul hadn't realized quite how controlling she was until the first time she had called Riddle in front of him, about a week into their relationship. Azul had watched as Riddle's entire body tensed up subconsciously, his pupils dilating as he stared down at the caller ID.
Later, when Azul asked, Riddle mentioned that she called him every evening to receive a full report of what he had accomplished during the day, like he was a soldier on active duty. Azul had wondered at the time why he felt the need to drop everything to answer her calls, why he couldn't just call her back later.
Riddle had shot him an incredulous look. "And have her summon me right back home?" he asked. "No, one of her rules is that I must pick up the phone when she calls. No exception."
Azul had scoffed in disbelief. "And if you're in the shower, or something of the sort?" he asked, not expecting Riddle to actually have an answer. Perhaps he should have known better.
"She calls me precisely at 7:00pm. That's when her shift at the hospital ends, and she always expects me to be ready for her call then," Riddle replied calmly, as though that was perfectly rational. Azul blinked, grappling with the realization that Riddle really did believe in its rationality.
"Right," Azul had responded slowly, letting the subject drop for the moment.
A week after that, during one of their evening study sessions in Azul's VIP room, Riddle had hung up the phone looking far more withdrawn than before. When he came back to set next to Azul, his face kept shifting imperceptibly, like maintaining a normal expression was a struggle. His posture had also changed, making him look like he was trying not to crumple in on himself.
Azul had asked him—begged him, almost—to tell him what was wrong. But Riddle let nothing slip, just repeating that he had to keep studying, that he wasn't doing enough. That he wasn't enough. It had broken Azul's heart, a bit. Eventually, Azul had been able to convince him not to get back to studying immediately. It wouldn't be effective to study under emotional duress, he had reasoned. By the end of it, Azul wasn't sure that Riddle quite agreed with him, but at least he stopped fighting Azul on the matter.
Instead, he had just let Azul hold him until his breathing steadied.
