blluesiide

[blluesiide]

And I, I Had a Feeling That I Belonged

happy pride month! once again back with another pride collection drabble featuring Bisexual!Spencer with some loving mentions of Ethan :) bi!Spence's first pride parade. enjoy. I love you all. title from Tracy Chapman's 'fast car'.

"This might be a bit cold, okay?" You gently speak.

Spencer nods, hands coming up to hold your waist as you lift his chin. You're standing between his legs in the bathroom, a face painting pallet resting on the counter. You're painting a rainbow on his cheek for his first pride parade.

He flinches a little, trying to resist the urge to scrunch up his nose at the cold feeling. When it's done, you rinse the brush, dipping it into the other colors to paint a little bisexual flag on his other cheek. His eyes are big, looking up at you in anticipation.

His hands curl into the fabric of your shirt, thumb absentmindedly drawing soft circles.

When it's finished, you blow a little to help it dry, patting it down with a little powder before pressing a warm kiss to his forehead. He hugs your midsection, mindful not to smear the paint on your clothing. "Can I see?"

"Go ahead. I'm gonna put this away."

You exit the bathroom to return the supplies to their rightful drawer, and Spencer swallows hard, standing up as his hands flex at his side. When he steps in front of the mirror and sees the flags branded on his own skin, he feels oddly euphoric. A heat arises behind his eyes and he blinks rapidly, not wanting to ruin your beautiful work. When you return, you find him staring at himself, really looking.

You don't say anything, but you place a loving hand on his back, rub a few circles into it and smile.

"You ready?" You prompt quietly.

"Yeah," he nods "Yes. I'm... I'm ready." Your hand trails down, interlocking your fingers. He smiles softly at you, and you grab your things and head out.

His first pride. He never had time to think about what he liked when he was a kid. Even into his teenage years, he was more worried about his mom than anything else. He has no time for crushes, especially not when nobody came near him to begin with. It wasn't until he met Ethan that he became aware that he could even fall for someone at all.

First it was gazing over his features, quiet study sessions in the library, his dorm... Late nights and hushed voices, gentle teasing, until Spencer realized he didn't mind the proximity. Until the heat in his cheeks and the fluttering of his heart were clearly caused by feelings far beyond simple friendship.

It was nice, that time. He looks back on it fondly, his heart still fluttering when he thinks of the times he would look up to find Ethan's eyes already locked on his, that soft smirk on his lips as he admired him.

It broke his heart when Ethan decided to leave, his feelings burning at the tip of his tongue. He swallowed them down, knowing there was no point in telling him, now. If he was unhappy, he didn't want to make him stay. If being a musician in New Orleans was what he needed, then so be it. Spencer chalked it up to his bad luck, another person he cared for leaving him in the end.

There's a part of Spencer that will always care for him. A part of him that will always fluster when they meet again, and Ethan steps into his personal space, something he's never once objected to. He's only ever felt that ease with one other person, you.

You, who showed him nothing but love and support. You, who had infinite patience for him, his job, his lifestyle. You, who always left the light on for him. You, who painted his sexuality on his cheeks. You, with your hand in his as you attend his first ever pride parade, a celebration of pure queer joy and elation. A celebration of the self, of the community, of belonging. Something Spencer never thought he would have a sense of in his life.

To see the joy, the lack of fear, the wild acceptance and celebration of everyone, every shape, size, color, background, all coming together to support and love one another... It brings tears to his eyes again.

He's never felt so happy. So, free. So, himself.

When the final float passes you by, the energy doesn't end. People walk the streets, adorned in flags and colors of all kinds, holding hands with their loved ones, celebrating on sidewalks and in front of businesses. He looks around and sees people of all ages, and realizes that he, too, could grow older and be happy. That he could live, and have a future, and that everything isn't bad in the world.

It strikes him deeply, how important this all is. He swallows down a lump in his throat, apologizing to his younger self for not looking into this sooner. For not knowing. For everything bad he's ever said to himself.

"Happy Pride!" A person shouts as they walk past, and he doesn't even think, just shouts back, "Happy Pride!"

A soft sob slips past his lips, and he turns towards you, who quickly reaches up to catch his tears, "Honey, your makeup!" You softly say, protecting the flags from his tears.

He lets out a wet laugh, cups your cheeks and kisses you firmly. "I love you." He whispers.

"I love you," you return. "So much."

"Thank you." He murmurs, kissing you again. "Thank you."

That night, after the paint has been washed away, he still feels it. The joy, the celebration. The pride. This is a part of him. Intrinsically, undeniably.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

[blluesiide]

i hate it here

chapter summary: You meet Bucky at therapy where Dr. Raynor shares a small office with Dr. Cole. You two slowly connect over mystery books and coffee outings. Until one day you don't show up. word count: 3.4k+ pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader notes: i've mentioned a few times offhandedly that i have depression (and anxiety) and i that i have attempted - i don't want pity or anything, just stating a fact. i started therapy like 4 months ago and have been doing much better! anyways, i got to thinking about how one of the only characters who has been in therapy (in the mcu) is bucky. i guess you could kinda count tony, but he was talking to bruce so idk. anyways, that's how this came along. it was kinda my version of journaling, since i suck at it. please read the warnings/tags! warnings/tags: post tfatws, therapy, allusions to depression, alpine mention!, reader has a dog, mentions/allusions to a suicide attempt, some fluff, two people finding each other through trauma, insomnia, nightmares, slight angst, depressive spiral

The Brooklyn office is small—four hardback chairs, a scuffed laminate floor, and walls the color of old oatmeal. You’re already there when Bucky shuffles in, early as usual, hood pulled low despite the July heat.

You’re curled over a paperback, thumb smoothing the crease in the spine. He recognizes the look: concentration hiding nerves. He clears his throat, drops into the chair opposite you.

Silence stretches. Tick-tick-tick from the receptionist’s keyboard. Bucky counts each tap like gunshots until— “Chapter’s not great,” you mutter, not looking up. “It’s supposed to be a detective story, but the villain is obvious by page three.”

Bucky blinks. Small talk, right. He hunts for something non-awkward to say. “Maybe the detective’s just slow,” he offers.

That earns a tiny huff of laughter. You glance up, eyes warm but tired. “You ever read mysteries?”

“Not since… a long time.” He swallows. “But I used to like Agatha Christie.”

“Classic.” You close the book, mark your place with a Metro receipt. “I’m Y/N.”

He opens his mouth—hesitates—then sticks out a flesh-and-blood hand. “Bucky.” The metal one stays shoved under his sleeve.

The receptionist calls your name first. You stand, shoot him a quick, encouraging smile. Something inside his rib cage gives a startled twitch.

---

“Still having trouble sleeping?” Dr. Cole asked. She shared an office with Dr. Raynor, you were just lucky to find a therapist close to your place.

You shrugged, “yeah. It’s just insomnia. I did a sleep test, had to put the mask on and sleep with it for 2 nights. Doctor found nothing, so...”

"Let's talk about what happens when you try to sleep," Dr. Cole said, pen poised.

"I stare at the ceiling," you answered. "Count cracks in the paint, listen to Sparky snore, think about—stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Classes, rent, whether my brother’s eating decent food at school—everything that isn't restful."

Dr. Cole nodded. "Nightmares?"

"More like reruns. Same memories on loop." You rubbed your eyes. "They don't even change; they're just… loud."

She clicked her pen. "Medication helping?"

“I guess. Not with the sleep part though. But nothing helps with sleep.”

Dr. Cole tilted her head. “What do you do between the moment you turn off the light and the moment you give up?”

“Phone. Crossword. Sometimes I Google ‘why can’t I sleep’ like it’s gonna give a brand-new answer.”

“Ever try talking instead of scrolling? Out loud, I mean—narrate the day, get it out of your head.”

You snort. “My dog’ll think I’m confessing state secrets.”

“Sparky might surprise you.” Dr. Cole’s smile is small but real. “Okay, homework: pick one night this week, no screens after ten, narrate the day to Sparky, then lights out. Deal?”

“Fine. If she tattles, that’s on you.”

“Noted.” She scribbles, caps the pen. “Same time next week?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” You stand, tugging your bag onto your shoulder. The chair legs squeak; the sound feels louder than it is.

---

Bucky’s still in the waiting area, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it owes him money. He glances up when the door clicks shut behind you.

“How’d it go?” he asks, voice low.

“About as fun as a dentist with feelings.” You fish the Metro receipt-bookmark from your book, wave it. “But I got homework.”

“Therapists love homework.” He shifts, pats the chair beside him that you’re about to vacate. “Good luck.”

“You, too.” You nod toward the closed door. “Raynor doesn’t bite, right?”

“She’s thinking about it.” His mouth twitches. “You really hate that book?”

“Detective’s got two brain cells, both fighting for custody. I’m gonna finish it just to spite him.”

“Want a recommendation when you’re done?”

“Only if it’s Christie.” You step backward toward the lobby doors. “I like the classics.”

He lifts two fingers in a mock salute. “Deal.”

The receptionist calls, “Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky pushes up, metal hand still hidden in the sleeve. As he passes, he murmurs, “see you next week, Y/N.”

Your pulse trips over itself. “Next week.”

---

Raynor doesn’t wait for him to sit. “Early again. You practicing small talk in the hallway?”

He drops into the chair. “Maybe.”

“How’s the loneliness doing?”

He thinks of a paperback clutched between your hands and the way your eyes lit when he said Christie. “Less loud.”

“That’s new.” Raynor flips her notepad open. “Let’s talk about it.”

---

A week later you’re back, five minutes early for once. Bucky’s already there—of course—thumb tapping a silent rhythm on his thigh.

“You beat me again,” you say.

“I’m competitive.” He nods to the paperback in your grip. “Finished?”

“Killer was the dog walker. I want my money back.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles. “Brought you this.” From his jacket pocket he produces a scuffed copy of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.

You take it, thumb the brittle spine. “Vintage.”

“So am I.”

You sit—this time in the chair beside him, not across. Your shoulders almost touch.

Receptionist looks up. “Y/N?”

You rise, clutching the book. “Hold my spot?”

“Always.” He watches you disappear behind the door, heart beating a little less like a war drum. Raynor will call it progress. He’ll call it something quieter: hope.

---

July heat’s worse a week later—New York humidity that sticks to your lungs. You and Bucky leave your sessions at the same time for once, shoulders brushing as the door swings shut.

“Raynor let you out early?” you ask.

“She thinks negative five minutes counts as progress.” He eyes the battered copy of Roger Ackroyd in your hand. “Any good?”

“Ten times smarter than last week’s disaster. Thanks for the rec.” You nudge his elbow. “Coffee? There’s a cart across the street.”

He squints at the sky. “Gonna melt anyway. Sure.”

---

The cart umbrella rattles in the breeze. You order an iced latte and Bucky sticks to plain drip, black.

“Old-man coffee,” you tease.

“Watch it, I’m sensitive.” He sips, winces. “So—you do the Sparky homework?”

“Yeah. She stared at me like I’d grown a second head, then fell asleep halfway through my monologue about rent.”

“Did you sleep any better?”

“Hour, maybe two.” You shrug. “But hey, progress.”

He nods, knocks a knuckle on the paper cup. “Nightmares kept me up. Raynor wants me journaling.”

“Journaling, narrating—therapists love verbs.” You dig in your tote, pull out a slim notebook. “Take mine. Blank pages intimidate me anyway.”

He turns it over. “Purple glitter stars?”

“Judge and I take it back.”

He clutches it to his chest. “No, no—precious now.”

Your laugh bubbles out before you can stop it. A beat passes; his smile lingers. Something warm hangs between you—comfortable, tentative.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, tapping the notebook. “For the… sparkly lifeline.”

“Anytime, Barnes.”

You check your phone. “Gotta run—class in fifteen. Same time next week?”

He hesitates, then, “Actually—Raynor’s moving my slot. Thursday, four?”

You scroll your calendar. “I can swing that.” Smile. “I’ll bring a better bookmark.”

He salutes with his coffee. “Deal.”

---

The waiting-room AC’s broken. You fan yourself with your Metro receipt as Bucky strides in, hair damp from a shower that didn’t stick.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey.” He holds up the notebook—half the pages now filled. “Turns out journaling’s just talking on paper.”

“Therapists everywhere rejoice.”

The receptionist calls his name first this time. He freezes. “Switch with me?”

You shrug. “Fair’s fair. Go.”

He exhales, heads in. As the door shuts, you spot the corner of a page sticking out of the notebook—your name scrawled at the top. Your heart skips and you look away fast.

---

Bucky’s session is short—fifteen minutes. He steps out, cheeks pink.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Raynor… uh, suggested social exposure therapy.”

“Meaning?”

“Coffee that isn’t from a cart.” He scratches the back of his neck. “With a friend.”

You grin. “I know a place that sells donuts bigger than your hand.”

“Sound dangerous.”

“Live a little, Barnes.”

He offers an arm—the flesh-and-blood one. You loop yours through without overthinking.

“Hope they have purple-glitter donuts,” he mutters.

You snort. “Don’t tempt me.”

Street noise swallows the rest, but the silence between you feels easy, not heavy. Two insomniacs, two notebooks, one slow, stumbling orbit.

And maybe—just maybe—sleep won’t feel so impossible tonight.

---

You push the shop door open, tiny bell chiming. The smell of fried sugar and espresso hits like a hug. Bucky’s already at a corner table, sunglasses perched on his head, studying the menu like it’s classified.

“Morning,” you say, sliding into the seat across.

He looks up, relief softening his shoulders. “Saved you the last maple-bacon monstrosity.”

“You get a medal for that.”

“Working on it.” He nods at your iced coffee. “Still cold-brew loyal?”

“Ride or die.” You sip. “How’s the notebook?”

He pulls the purple-star journal from his jacket, thumb tapping the cover. “Halfway through. Raynor says I’m oversharing—‘but in a good way.’”

“Therapist code for ‘keep going.’”

“Yeah.” He hesitates. “I wrote about… the bridge dream. First time on paper.”

You lean in. “Any lighter?”

“Maybe a gram.” He flicks his gaze to the donut display. “Your turn—sleep narration working?”

“Managed four hours straight on Wednesday.” You raise the coffee in salute. “Progress.”

He grins. “Therapists everywhere rejoice.”

A server comes by to hand off the plates: his chocolate-glazed, your maple-bacon slab.

You rip off a chunk, point it at him. “So—social exposure therapy. How exposed are we aiming?”

“Raynor suggested a museum. Crowds, but no one expects small talk.”

“I’m free Sunday afternoon. Think you can handle the Met?”

He pretends to weigh it. “If they still allow grumpy ex-assassins.”

“Only if they don’t touch the art.”

“No promises.”

---

You both pause at a sarcophagus. Tourists swirl around, soundtrack of camera shutters. Bucky leans close. “Mummies have it figured out. Eternal rest.”

“Jealous?”

“A little.”

You smirk. “Try counting cracks in the ceiling. Works great.”

“Smart-mouth.” He nudges your shoulder. Metal—the sleeve’s rolled up. First time he hasn’t hidden it.

You glance at the vibranium, then meet his eyes. “Cool arm.”

He exhales—some tension you didn’t know was there. “Thanks.”

A kid nearby gasps, whispers to her dad. Bucky stiffens. You step slightly in front of him, blocking the view. “Ignore them. They’re staring at the arm, not you.”

“Same thing.”

You tilt your head. “To me it’s just… part of the package.”

He blinks. “Package, huh?”

“Don’t get cocky, Barnes.”

He chuckles, shoulders loosening. You wander onward, conversation dipping from art to worst cafeteria food, back to sleep tactics.

---

Apartment’s dark except for phone glow. Sparky snores at your feet.

Your screen lights: Bucky Barnes – New Text

“Tried narrating to Alpine. She walked off mid-monologue. Rude cat.” “You asleep?”

You smile, thumbs flying.

“Wide awake, obviously.” “Want to test a theory? Phone call, five minutes max. Talking’s supposed to tire the brain.”

Three dots… then your phone rings.

“Hey,” you whisper.

His voice is low, scratchy. “If this puts you to sleep I’ll be offended.”

“Then be interesting.”

He snorts. “No pressure.”

Minute one: weather complaints. Minute two: misheard song lyrics. Minute three: you yawn.

“Tired?” he asks, softer.

“Keep talking.”

He does—about the Met gift shop, how the snow-globe pyramids looked fake, how he bought one anyway.

“Why?” you mumble.

“For you,” he says. “Figured you could narrate to it when Sparky’s bored.”

Warmth floods your chest. “That’s… weirdly sweet.” There was silence for a few seconds, except his breathing. You blink, heavy-lidded. “Still there?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Don’t hang up yet.”

“Not planning to.” He pauses. “Sleep, Y/N.”

“Night, Bucky.”

Phone still against your ear, you drift. First dreamless night in months.

Bucky listens to your steady breaths, eyes finally closing. Tomorrow’s problems can wait. Tonight, two insomniacs found quiet on the same line.

---

Dr. Cole taps her pen lightly on the pad. "You seem brighter today."

You shift slightly, feeling oddly caught out. "Actually slept last night. Whole five hours."

She raises an eyebrow, gently amused. "And what changed?"

You consider the phone call, the quiet voice on the other end, and shrug. "I think talking helps more than I realized."

Dr. Cole nods knowingly. "Having someone listen tends to do that."

"Yeah." You pick at your thumbnail. "I might be figuring that out."

"Good," she says simply. "Keep figuring."

---

Bucky’s waiting outside when you finish, leaning against the brick wall in sunglasses and a worn ball cap. He pushes off as soon as you step into the sunlight.

"Stalking now?" you joke, nudging his shoulder.

"Just passing by." He falls into step beside you. "Coffee? I need advice."

"Advice?"

He grimaces. "Raynor wants me attending a group session next week. Apparently, that's my next exposure step."

You glance at him. "Sounds terrifying."

"It is. Hence the advice request."

You smile softly. "I don't do groups, but… you handled crowds at the Met fine."

"That was because of you." He shrugs one shoulder, eyes ahead. "You distract me."

Warmth blooms in your chest. "In a good way?"

"In the best way."

Silence lingers, comfortable this time. The coffee cart is in sight, heat shimmering off pavement.

"Maybe… I could wait outside the group room," you offer quietly. "Just for moral support."

He stops, turns to you, eyes bright behind the lenses. "You'd do that?"

You tilt your head, fighting a smile. "I’d even bring a bad detective book."

"Deal."

---

The hallway smells faintly like industrial cleaner. You’re on a metal folding chair, feet kicked up against the wall, paperback open in your lap, Sparky dozing at your feet.

The group-room door opens. Voices murmur, shoes shuffle. Bucky emerges last, eyes slightly wide, tension in his shoulders. He spots you immediately, relief clear.

You shut the book. "You survived."

"Barely."

"Anyone bite?"

"Only verbally." He nods at Sparky. "She allowed?"

"Emotional support dog," you deadpan. "Completely legit."

He crouches slowly, metal fingers gentle against Sparky’s fur. She yawns, entirely unconcerned. Bucky straightens, a genuine smile tugging at his mouth. "Thanks for waiting."

"Always."

You start walking toward the exit together, his pace matching yours easily. "Was it worth it?" you ask.

He exhales deeply. "Yeah. Sort of. I talked. Once. About nightmares."

"That’s huge."

"Didn’t feel huge."

"It will tomorrow."

He looks sideways at you, hesitant. "Can I… call tonight?"

Your heart thuds softly. "Every night if it helps."

"It does," he says quietly. "It helps a lot."

The sunlight fades gold over the city as you step outside. Bucky pauses, hands in his pockets.

"You know," he says carefully, "I started therapy because the government made me. I stayed because… I thought it was the right thing to do. But now—"

"Now?" you prompt softly.

"Now I'm staying because it led me to you."

You swallow, suddenly shy. "That’s… nice."

He chuckles gently, shaking his head. "Yeah. Nice."

You bump his shoulder. "Don't mock my vocabulary."

"Never." He smiles. "Call you later?"

"Better."

He watches you walk away, heart steadier than it’s been in months.

---

Your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter, vibrating against your toothbrush holder. You squint at the caller ID, toothbrush in your mouth.

Dad.

You spit toothpaste, rinse quickly, and swipe to answer. "Hey, Dad."

"Y/N," he starts, tone already tense. "Got a minute?"

You sigh quietly, gripping the sink. "I have therapy soon. Everything okay?"

He pauses. You hear him clear his throat—never a good sign. "Look, I just got your mail. Bill from the hospital came again."

"Yeah, they keep sending it even though I set up payments—"

"I read it," he interrupts, voice clipped. "You know how it feels to read 'psychiatric hold' on a bill addressed to my kid?"

You close your eyes, jaw tightening. "I didn't ask you to open it."

"You're my kid. Of course I opened it. Y/N, we never talked about it. You just went silent, moved on like nothing happened—"

"I didn't move on."

"Then explain it," he says sharply. "Explain why you'd do something like that. Was it us? Your mom? Me? You never gave us a chance—"

"Dad, please stop."

He doesn’t. "We raised you to be stronger than this, Y/N. What happened to you?"

Your chest aches. Tears sting your eyes, hot and furious. "I have to go."

"Y/N—"

You hang up, tossing the phone onto your bed. You sit down hard, head in your hands, breathing jaggedly until your lungs ache. "Fuck," you whisper, wiping at tears you don't want to fall. "Fuck."

Your phone buzzes again. You don't pick it up.

---

Bucky checks his phone again—fourth time in ten minutes. The receptionist taps at her keyboard, and the clock above ticks louder than usual. Still nothing.

He types out another quick message:

"You close? Saving you a seat."

Five minutes pass as his knee bounces. Another text:

"You okay?"

Raynor opens her office door. "Barnes?"

He stares at your empty chair, then back at her. "Can we reschedule?"

She frowns slightly. "Is something wrong?"

"I gotta check on something." He stands abruptly. "I'll call."

Raynor just nods slowly. "Alright. Call if you need anything."

He’s already out the door.

---

He knocks gently at your apartment door, listening closely. "Y/N?"

No answer.

Bucky knocks again. "Y/N, it's me. You missed therapy. Just checking in."

Silence. Anxiety creeps up his spine, icy and familiar. He tries the handle. Locked.

He pulls out his phone again, sends a text:

"Outside your door. Please open."

Nothing. He leans his forehead against the wood, closing his eyes briefly. "Please," he murmurs.

Then, faintly, your voice comes through: "It's unlocked now."

---

Your apartment’s dark, curtains drawn tight. Sparky is curled on the couch, lifting her head as Bucky steps inside. You’re sitting cross-legged in the corner of the couch, eyes swollen, a blanket draped over your shoulders.

"Hey," he says softly, approaching slowly. "Mind if I sit?"

You shake your head silently, eyes fixed on your hands.

Bucky sits carefully beside you, keeping a cautious distance. "You wanna talk about it?"

You don’t answer. He waits, watching your profile, noticing the tightness in your jaw, the subtle trembling in your hands.

"My dad called," you say finally, voice thick. "He got a bill from the hospital. From… a while ago."

Bucky nods slightly. "Didn’t go well?"

A shaky laugh escapes your throat. "He blamed me. Said… said they raised me stronger. Like I chose to be weak."

Your voice cracks on the last word. Tears spill over, quiet and unstoppable. "I didn’t choose this."

Bucky’s throat tightens. "I know."

"He asked what happened to me," you whisper, voice breaking. "I don't know how to answer that."

He moves closer, gentle and slow. "You don’t have to know right now."

You swallow hard. "I keep trying to be better. Therapy, homework, all the fucking talking—but it’s never enough." You bury your face in your hands, shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to—"

"Hey," he interrupts gently. "Stop apologizing."

You cry harder, trying to hold back sobs that spill through your fingers. He doesn't say anything more—just reaches out slowly, carefully pulling you against him. You tense at first, then melt against his chest. His arms circle you gently but firmly, his hand stroking your back as you tremble.

"You don't have to do this alone," he says softly, his voice steady in your ear. "I promise."

You nod, unable to speak. Sparky whines softly, shifting closer, pressing warmth into your side.

Bucky holds you until the tears slow, until your breathing evens slightly, his grip never loosening.

"You don't have to explain anything," he whispers finally. "Not to him, not to me—not until you're ready."

You sit up slowly, wiping your eyes, embarrassed. "Sorry," you whisper again.

He squeezes your shoulder gently, shaking his head. "No more apologies."

You sniff softly, leaning your head back against the couch. "I missed therapy."

"Cole'll forgive you. I skipped too."

You glance at him, eyes tired but softer. "They’ll kill us both."

"They’ll deal." He smiles gently, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. "You hungry?"

You shake your head slowly. "Not yet."

"Then we'll wait." He leans back beside you, Sparky settling between you both. "We have time."

You let out a breath, lighter now. The ache still lingers in your chest, but it’s quieter, bearable. "Thank you," you whisper.

He looks at you, steady and calm. "Anytime, Y/N."

sparky is actually the name of my one of my dogs, so you can tell i'm super creative, lol. to lighten things up, here's a picture of her:

we've had her since i was in elementary, so like 12-14 years? she's also around the same age. we think she's have golden retriever, half chihuahua. i know that sounds insane but google that and look at the pictures - a few of them look exactly like her. she's a rescue, so we aren't sure about age, etc. anyways, thank you for reading!

[blluesiide]

PERFECT PICTURE REACTIONS, ACTUALLY

Twisted Truth And Half The News

abstract: spencer reid is not a liar. he just... doesn't always tell you everything. especially when he's across the country in a hospital and there's nothing you can do about it. title from Lies by Thompson Twins. this is a longer one!

Spencer Reid was not a liar.

He was just... Selectively honest. A master at compartmentalization, if you will.

He lied to protect. At least, that's what he told himself. That's what he convinced himself growing up with his mom, who was already dealing with so much he didn't want to burden her with problems he was going through.

He's not used to being worried about, and he's not used to being honest about things. It's a quality that not only comes with the job, but also with the trauma he's endured over the years. When you spend your life dismissing your own struggles in order to look favorable, people genuinely caring to ask how you are begins to feel like an intrusion.

He wonders if the team sees it, the way he curbs his micro expressions when the questions they ask prod a little too much at his aching soul. They probably can. But they've never pushed, not really when it didn't matter, so sometimes, he let some honesty slip through with them.

With you, however, it's different. He doesn't want you to worry, to stress, to find out that maybe he's not worth the risk and leave. No. So he fibs. It's to protect you, he says. He doesn't think he could handle it if you turned into another Maeve, precious life lost because of his inadequacies- No, he sighs. It wasn't his fault. He had to stop framing it that way, the therapist told him so.

He really doesn't want you to worry about him, to spend your time afraid for him. So, he... Selects his truth wisely.

The team is away on a case, yes. That's the truth. What he doesn't tell you is that he's no longer working on the case. He sends his every day text to you like normal, reinforcing the idea that they're getting the bad guy. Saving the day. That they're so close to finding him. Any day now. He doesn't tell you that the unsub, in a close encounter, shot him. And he definitely doesn't tell you that he's in the hospital, unfit to travel. He's fine, really. There's no need to worry you, especially when you're so far away with nothing you could do about it, anyways.

So, the texts continue, even within the next couple days when the team catches the unsub, and preps to fly back. He tells you the case is a long one, and that they need more time. That things will be busy, so he might not text as much.

When the team arrives back in Quantico, your text messages stop. He thinks that maybe you're busy, or you're taking his words seriously, not wanting to bombard him with text messages when they're so close to catching the killer.

He wishes you were there. He's tired of the smell of antiseptic, even when he breathes normally (as normally as he can with a hole in his abdomen) even with smell being the weakest sense, he hasn't gotten used to the hospital smell. He's always hated it. It's ironic, he thinks. In his own room, safely sealed off from the germs of the waiting room or the humid hallways, you'd think he'd be content, the antiseptic serving as a reminder that everything around him is clean, and safe. But he hates it all the same.

He wants you, your warmth, the smell of your shampoo, your lips pressed to every part of his face that you can reach. The comfort of your bedding...

He's pulled from his thoughts when the doctors come in, run some quick tests, ask him some questions, gaze at the healing wound and assess how well he can move. He's ecstatic when he's cleared to go home. He refuses the offer to have the team come collect him on the jet, but he does accept the first class voucher they offer him instead.

He texts you that the case is done, and he's on his way home. He tells you it will take longer than usual, pulls some random fact out of his mind about how it takes longer for the jet to fly back because of tail winds and other words he hopes sound convincing.

When he lands, he breathes in deeply, wincing a little as his hand settles on his abdomen. He thinks he's lucky that the bullet miraculously didn't pucture any major arteries, or damage his internal organs. Once he's exit the gate, he turns, spots the waiting area that JJ is standing in, nervously wringing her hands.

He doesn't fasten his pace, he can't, frankly. But he heads over to her, a soft smile on his lips that drops a little as he sees the look in her eyes. His eyebrows furrow, already assessing. When he reaches her, he smiles again, giving her a tentative hug as he buries his face into her shoulder, relaxing a bit.

"Hey, Spence." Her voice is soft as always. He relaxes a little more against her before backing up, "Where's the car?"

That little panicked look reaches her eyes again, and she speaks steadily, "There wasn't anywhere to park, but I didn't want you to come out and not see anyone, so I hopped out and it's being brought around."

"Is Morgan driving?" He asks.

"No," she begins delicately, "Listen, Spence-" but before she can continue, the black SUV pulls up and he stares at the tinted windows until the driver door opens and you step out.

He freezes, stomach dropping, and you pause only for a moment to look him over, you huff quietly and then you walk right up to him. His arms automatically start to open, but he's left like that when you lean down and grip his go bags, yanking them up, walking towards the back of the vehicle. You place them in the trunk, slam it shut hard enough to make both him and JJ flinch, and then you open the back seat door, crossing your arms and waiting.

Spencer knows better than to speak. So he slowly makes his way to the door a careful hand placed on it to help him maneuver inside without bending too harshly.

Your hand grips his arm, helping him in, and he feels it then, the tremble in your hand.

When he's in, you close the door softer than the trunk, and then JJ climbs in as you round the vehicle.

"How did-" he starts, but you climb in quickly, shutting your door. You take one steadying breath before rubbing between your eyes. It's quiet in the car.

Once there is an opening in the traffic, you pull out, driving carefully so he won't be jostled too much.

JJ and Spencer alike know better than to try and talk as if nothing is wrong. He figures JJ must have told you something was up. He wonders if that's why your messages stopped, leaving him to his own devices.

When you pull up to Spencer's apartment, you all get out. JJ hugs Spencer one more time, her warm voice offering a quiet "Glad you're okay." in his ear. "Thanks," he whispers back, hand firmly splayed out between her shoulder blades.

You hand her the keys when they part, and she takes the SUV, heading off back to the bureau. You help him up all the steps, into the elevator, carrying his bags as you unlock his front door.

The quiet is too tense, and he's getting worried. Now that he's in his own apartment, he feels his body relaxing, all the stiffness in his muscles attempting to flee. The fatigue is hitting him really hard, having just traveled several hours to get home.

His eyes close for a moment, and you stare, a frown on your face. You want nothing more than to lay everything out on the line right now, to lay into him for hurting you as much as he has within the past week, but you can't. Not when you know there's a hole in him, a bandage barely concealing the wound, and almost no pain medication in his system.

Admittedly, you asked the team to call the hospital, make sure they didn't give him an opioids. JJ had assured you that was the first thing they had told them upon getting him to the hospital. You feel your own shoulders sag. You can't do it. Not now.

So you do the next best thing, you leave the room, finding his comfiest pajamas and you return, forcing him to stand so you could help him change. You do it quietly, and the only words exchanged are a quiet "Thank you." By Spencer, and a quiet "Yeah." From you.

When he's changed you get him a glass of water, some over the counter pain killers that will likely do next to nothing for the severity of his injury, but you hope placebo will give him some relief.

Laying him down, you tuck his soft sheets over his body, not too tight. Then, you begin to leave. "You're not gonna lay with me?" He asks, voice already fading into drowsy territory. "I don't want to. If you need anything just call out." It hurts as it leaves your mouth, and it sinks into Spencer's chest, something akin to the bullet that entered his system days prior. He swallows. "Okay."

Truth be told, you wanted to. You wanted nothing more than to cry, hold him close, so close that he would never get hurt again. But you couldn't. You'd never have the nerve to speak up to him about all of this if you laid with him then. It was all he wanted, to be in your arms. But you couldn't do it.

He's too tired to stay awake and stew, so he sleeps. Sleeps deeply through the rest of the night. The next morning, he struggles to get up, but he manages to use the bathroom. When he hobbles into the living room, he spots you curled up on the sofa, hands gripped firmly on the pillow that you hold against you. It makes his heart ache in his chest. You look so cold and small.

He bends as best he can, covering you with a throw blanket. He startles when you look up immediately. You were never asleep to begin with. You look more than tired. Exhausted, really. He feels it, too.

"You're not meant to be up." You say, voice groggy, raspy. It goes right through him.

"I had to use the bathroom." He says, swallowing the lump in his throat.

You rub your face, hand over your eyes like you're nursing a headache, and then you slowly get up, sighing as you make your way into the kitchen. He looks down at the discarded blanket, lets out his own sigh, and slowly follows you into the kitchen.

You're already working towards making breakfast, knowing one of his medications can't be taken on an empty stomach. Your hands work quickly, but you pause for a moment when he says your name. It sounds like he's going to start explaining, but you can't stand it so you quickly strike back with, "Don't." You don't turn around to look at him, you just keep still.

"You're just... Scaring me, is all." He murmurs.

You turn around, eyes wide as you look at him incredulously, like you couldn't believe he had the audacity to say it. "Scaring you?"

He feels every muscle in his body tense, and he has to lean against the counter to fight against the pain.

Your expression softens a little, almost desperate, though there is clear and evident fire in you.

Your lip trembles, and you turn around quickly. "You need to eat." You say, voice flat. "Or you can't take your meds."

He doesn't argue, just stands until he feels tired, and then he sits back down again. He watches you move. Pushes a hand through his hair. He's really aching to have you close. He always missed you when he was away, but it hurts more to have you right here and not be able to indulge in the comfort of your arms. There was a time where Spencer didn't like being touched. Sometimes he still doesnt, but he's grown to appreciate and even need the occasional hug from his team, and physical affection from you, which was what he craved the most, especially during times like these. It was the only home he wanted to come back to.

He flinches when you set the plate down a little hard in front of him, and looks at you with wide eyes. He sees guilt take over your features, and you shrink back immediately. "Eat. I'll get your meds." You say quietly, leaving the room.

He doesn't have much of an appetite, but he eats everything, anyways. You made it, after all. It must have healing properties. He likes to think he could make you laugh about it if things weren't so tense.

When you return, red around the eyes, you set the bottle down. "Two of these. At least 8oz of water after."

You stand there, the silence taking over. You clench your jaw, swallowing. A moment later, you feel it, Spencers hand warm and delicate against your side. He's pulling softly, probably with as much strength as he can muster. You resist, but then your relief that he's alive, the fear of almost losing him takes over and you step into his embrace, his ear pressing to your chest as his hands grip at the back of your shirt. His eyes close, trembling as he inhales you as deeply as he can without hurting himself. Holds you a little tighter when he hears the hitch in your breath, feels the jump in your chest as your hands meet his back, and his curls.

A quiet cry slips past your lips. You sniffle, and you feel the strength leaving your legs. You lean into him, hoping you're not straining his wound.

"Sweetheart," he lets out, his own voice thick with emotion.

"Why?" You cry, backing up to wipe your own tears. "Why did you lie to me?"

"I didnt-"

"No!" You cry, a little louder, "You lied to me! You lied to me and you could have died-" your voice cuts out, and you clutch at your chest as a sob rips through you.

"I didn't want you to worry-"

"I do!" You raise your voice. "I do worry! I will always, worry, Spencer! It's what people who love each other do!"

He goes quiet at that, and you keep going when you've caught your breath. "You got shot, you were bleeding out on someone's lawn, and when you woke up in the hospital you chose not to tell me. You chose to lie. That's bullshit! How do you think I felt to find out my boyfriend almost died, and to have to hear it from your coworker and not from you! Am I so unimportant to you-"

"You are important to me." He interrupts.

"How? How does this make me important to you?"

"What would you have done? Nothing, except sit here and stress out about how I'm doing."

"Because I love you! I deserved to know! You're not sparing me by not telling me. You scared me, so much. I thought, if you can't be honest with me, maybe you don't lov-"

"Don't." His voice is sharp. "Don't go there. I had my reasons."

"Spencer," you breathe, "This wasn't some small thing. It made me feel like I had no place in your life."

"There's nothing you could have done-"

"I don't care! I don't care, Spencer!" You yell, pacing away from him.

The tears come back, hot as they pour out of your eyes quickly.

"This was worse. Not knowing was worse."

You sit on the ground, hands covering your face as you cry. You know that maybe this is ridiculous, but it really struck a nerve.

"You hurt me so much." You cry, feeling pathetic.

"I'm so mad at you. But more than that, I'm just so fucking sad. It's like you think I don't know what the risks are. Like I can't handle it. And I can."

"I was so scared," your voice breaks, and you curl into yourself.

It's quiet in the room for a long time. It isn't until you look up that you realize Spencer has his hands over his own eyes, his throat bobbing up and down.

You wipe your face, forcing yourself to stand up, despite the protest of the pounding in your head.

You approach him, hand landing on his shoulder, and he looks up at you, sniffles as tears slip down his cheeks. He licks his lips, "I'm sorry," he whispers, voice failing him as he pulls you into him again.

"I'm so sorry." He whispers again.

It's so broken, so shattered that you immediately respond, "I know. I know, Spencer. Please don't cry. Please-"

A small sob slips past his lips, followed by a grunt, his hand coming up to his abdomen.

"Okay, take your medicine, please. Please take it, we need to lay you back down."

You're still so emotional, but you're worried about him popping a stitch.

You cup his face, thumbs brushing tears away, and you place kisses in their wake. It makes him cry more, hands wrapping around your wrists, like he doesn't want you to leave.

"I missed you." He speaks, eyes glimmering.

"I missed you, too." You speak, wiping more tears, placing more kisses.

"I wanted you with me. You're all I thought about."

"I would have gone to you."

"I know you would have."

"Tell me, next time. Please?"

"I will."

"Promise?"

He nods, "I promise. Please just, don't leave."

"I was never going to."

He looks at you a little longer, thumb brushing over the inside of your wrist. It takes a few minutes of quiet consolation, but eventually he gets his meds down, 8oz glass of water following promptly.

You part from him just once, presenting a red jello cup from the fridge with a small spoon. He lets out a wet laugh, hugs you again.

It takes some time to maneuver him into the bedroom. You get a facial cloth and some warm water and clean his face and neck for him, and he feels grateful, and terribly, terribly sleepy.

When it's all done, he gives a soft tug at your shirt, and you already know. Spencer would ask for this sometimes, when he finally grew more comfortable in your relationship, he admit that he needed grounding. There were many ways he'd ask, but one in particular was skin to skin contact. He just wanted to share that warmth, feel you against him, it wasn't sexual, it was pure connection and comfort for him.

You slip it off, sliding into bed with him, and you carefully maneuver your arms around him.

"I love you." You murmur into his curls.

"I love you." He replies, not missing a beat.

As you drift off into slumber, he raises a tired arm, hand cupping your cheek as he gives you one soft kiss. Despite it's gentle nature, it's deep, apologetic, and grateful. You press your lips firmer against his, grateful that you still get to do this. Then, you bury your face against his neck, let him inhale against your hair, and he finally relaxes, really relaxes.

You end up taking some time off of your own work to take care of him, and he finds many ways to make everything up to you.

He learned that he can protect you, but not in the ways he thought he was doing. Lying isn't protecting, and it feels so much better to let you in, even if that small scared kid in his mind objects from time to time.

He's alive. He plans on spending every day he has showing you how much he loves you, how grateful he is to have you to come home to, to tend his wounds, wash his hair, and hold him, showing him a tender love that he never thought he deserved or could have before. He is determined to show you that you do have a place in his life. A very big place.

[blluesiide]

Twisted Truth And Half The News

abstract: spencer reid is not a liar. he just... doesn't always tell you everything. especially when he's across the country in a hospital and there's nothing you can do about it. title from Lies by Thompson Twins. this is a longer one!

Spencer Reid was not a liar.

He was just... Selectively honest. A master at compartmentalization, if you will.

He lied to protect. At least, that's what he told himself. That's what he convinced himself growing up with his mom, who was already dealing with so much he didn't want to burden her with problems he was going through.

He's not used to being worried about, and he's not used to being honest about things. It's a quality that not only comes with the job, but also with the trauma he's endured over the years. When you spend your life dismissing your own struggles in order to look favorable, people genuinely caring to ask how you are begins to feel like an intrusion.

He wonders if the team sees it, the way he curbs his micro expressions when the questions they ask prod a little too much at his aching soul. They probably can. But they've never pushed, not really when it didn't matter, so sometimes, he let some honesty slip through with them.

With you, however, it's different. He doesn't want you to worry, to stress, to find out that maybe he's not worth the risk and leave. No. So he fibs. It's to protect you, he says. He doesn't think he could handle it if you turned into another Maeve, precious life lost because of his inadequacies- No, he sighs. It wasn't his fault. He had to stop framing it that way, the therapist told him so.

He really doesn't want you to worry about him, to spend your time afraid for him. So, he... Selects his truth wisely.

The team is away on a case, yes. That's the truth. What he doesn't tell you is that he's no longer working on the case. He sends his every day text to you like normal, reinforcing the idea that they're getting the bad guy. Saving the day. That they're so close to finding him. Any day now. He doesn't tell you that the unsub, in a close encounter, shot him. And he definitely doesn't tell you that he's in the hospital, unfit to travel. He's fine, really. There's no need to worry you, especially when you're so far away with nothing you could do about it, anyways.

So, the texts continue, even within the next couple days when the team catches the unsub, and preps to fly back. He tells you the case is a long one, and that they need more time. That things will be busy, so he might not text as much.

When the team arrives back in Quantico, your text messages stop. He thinks that maybe you're busy, or you're taking his words seriously, not wanting to bombard him with text messages when they're so close to catching the killer.

He wishes you were there. He's tired of the smell of antiseptic, even when he breathes normally (as normally as he can with a hole in his abdomen) even with smell being the weakest sense, he hasn't gotten used to the hospital smell. He's always hated it. It's ironic, he thinks. In his own room, safely sealed off from the germs of the waiting room or the humid hallways, you'd think he'd be content, the antiseptic serving as a reminder that everything around him is clean, and safe. But he hates it all the same.

He wants you, your warmth, the smell of your shampoo, your lips pressed to every part of his face that you can reach. The comfort of your bedding...

He's pulled from his thoughts when the doctors come in, run some quick tests, ask him some questions, gaze at the healing wound and assess how well he can move. He's ecstatic when he's cleared to go home. He refuses the offer to have the team come collect him on the jet, but he does accept the first class voucher they offer him instead.

He texts you that the case is done, and he's on his way home. He tells you it will take longer than usual, pulls some random fact out of his mind about how it takes longer for the jet to fly back because of tail winds and other words he hopes sound convincing.

When he lands, he breathes in deeply, wincing a little as his hand settles on his abdomen. He thinks he's lucky that the bullet miraculously didn't pucture any major arteries, or damage his internal organs. Once he's exit the gate, he turns, spots the waiting area that JJ is standing in, nervously wringing her hands.

He doesn't fasten his pace, he can't, frankly. But he heads over to her, a soft smile on his lips that drops a little as he sees the look in her eyes. His eyebrows furrow, already assessing. When he reaches her, he smiles again, giving her a tentative hug as he buries his face into her shoulder, relaxing a bit.

"Hey, Spence." Her voice is soft as always. He relaxes a little more against her before backing up, "Where's the car?"

That little panicked look reaches her eyes again, and she speaks steadily, "There wasn't anywhere to park, but I didn't want you to come out and not see anyone, so I hopped out and it's being brought around."

"Is Morgan driving?" He asks.

"No," she begins delicately, "Listen, Spence-" but before she can continue, the black SUV pulls up and he stares at the tinted windows until the driver door opens and you step out.

He freezes, stomach dropping, and you pause only for a moment to look him over, you huff quietly and then you walk right up to him. His arms automatically start to open, but he's left like that when you lean down and grip his go bags, yanking them up, walking towards the back of the vehicle. You place them in the trunk, slam it shut hard enough to make both him and JJ flinch, and then you open the back seat door, crossing your arms and waiting.

Spencer knows better than to speak. So he slowly makes his way to the door a careful hand placed on it to help him maneuver inside without bending too harshly.

Your hand grips his arm, helping him in, and he feels it then, the tremble in your hand.

When he's in, you close the door softer than the trunk, and then JJ climbs in as you round the vehicle.

"How did-" he starts, but you climb in quickly, shutting your door. You take one steadying breath before rubbing between your eyes. It's quiet in the car.

Once there is an opening in the traffic, you pull out, driving carefully so he won't be jostled too much.

JJ and Spencer alike know better than to try and talk as if nothing is wrong. He figures JJ must have told you something was up. He wonders if that's why your messages stopped, leaving him to his own devices.

When you pull up to Spencer's apartment, you all get out. JJ hugs Spencer one more time, her warm voice offering a quiet "Glad you're okay." in his ear. "Thanks," he whispers back, hand firmly splayed out between her shoulder blades.

You hand her the keys when they part, and she takes the SUV, heading off back to the bureau. You help him up all the steps, into the elevator, carrying his bags as you unlock his front door.

The quiet is too tense, and he's getting worried. Now that he's in his own apartment, he feels his body relaxing, all the stiffness in his muscles attempting to flee. The fatigue is hitting him really hard, having just traveled several hours to get home.

His eyes close for a moment, and you stare, a frown on your face. You want nothing more than to lay everything out on the line right now, to lay into him for hurting you as much as he has within the past week, but you can't. Not when you know there's a hole in him, a bandage barely concealing the wound, and almost no pain medication in his system.

Admittedly, you asked the team to call the hospital, make sure they didn't give him an opioids. JJ had assured you that was the first thing they had told them upon getting him to the hospital. You feel your own shoulders sag. You can't do it. Not now.

So you do the next best thing, you leave the room, finding his comfiest pajamas and you return, forcing him to stand so you could help him change. You do it quietly, and the only words exchanged are a quiet "Thank you." By Spencer, and a quiet "Yeah." From you.

When he's changed you get him a glass of water, some over the counter pain killers that will likely do next to nothing for the severity of his injury, but you hope placebo will give him some relief.

Laying him down, you tuck his soft sheets over his body, not too tight. Then, you begin to leave. "You're not gonna lay with me?" He asks, voice already fading into drowsy territory. "I don't want to. If you need anything just call out." It hurts as it leaves your mouth, and it sinks into Spencer's chest, something akin to the bullet that entered his system days prior. He swallows. "Okay."

Truth be told, you wanted to. You wanted nothing more than to cry, hold him close, so close that he would never get hurt again. But you couldn't. You'd never have the nerve to speak up to him about all of this if you laid with him then. It was all he wanted, to be in your arms. But you couldn't do it.

He's too tired to stay awake and stew, so he sleeps. Sleeps deeply through the rest of the night. The next morning, he struggles to get up, but he manages to use the bathroom. When he hobbles into the living room, he spots you curled up on the sofa, hands gripped firmly on the pillow that you hold against you. It makes his heart ache in his chest. You look so cold and small.

He bends as best he can, covering you with a throw blanket. He startles when you look up immediately. You were never asleep to begin with. You look more than tired. Exhausted, really. He feels it, too.

"You're not meant to be up." You say, voice groggy, raspy. It goes right through him.

"I had to use the bathroom." He says, swallowing the lump in his throat.

You rub your face, hand over your eyes like you're nursing a headache, and then you slowly get up, sighing as you make your way into the kitchen. He looks down at the discarded blanket, lets out his own sigh, and slowly follows you into the kitchen.

You're already working towards making breakfast, knowing one of his medications can't be taken on an empty stomach. Your hands work quickly, but you pause for a moment when he says your name. It sounds like he's going to start explaining, but you can't stand it so you quickly strike back with, "Don't." You don't turn around to look at him, you just keep still.

"You're just... Scaring me, is all." He murmurs.

You turn around, eyes wide as you look at him incredulously, like you couldn't believe he had the audacity to say it. "Scaring you?"

He feels every muscle in his body tense, and he has to lean against the counter to fight against the pain.

Your expression softens a little, almost desperate, though there is clear and evident fire in you.

Your lip trembles, and you turn around quickly. "You need to eat." You say, voice flat. "Or you can't take your meds."

He doesn't argue, just stands until he feels tired, and then he sits back down again. He watches you move. Pushes a hand through his hair. He's really aching to have you close. He always missed you when he was away, but it hurts more to have you right here and not be able to indulge in the comfort of your arms. There was a time where Spencer didn't like being touched. Sometimes he still doesnt, but he's grown to appreciate and even need the occasional hug from his team, and physical affection from you, which was what he craved the most, especially during times like these. It was the only home he wanted to come back to.

He flinches when you set the plate down a little hard in front of him, and looks at you with wide eyes. He sees guilt take over your features, and you shrink back immediately. "Eat. I'll get your meds." You say quietly, leaving the room.

He doesn't have much of an appetite, but he eats everything, anyways. You made it, after all. It must have healing properties. He likes to think he could make you laugh about it if things weren't so tense.

When you return, red around the eyes, you set the bottle down. "Two of these. At least 8oz of water after."

You stand there, the silence taking over. You clench your jaw, swallowing. A moment later, you feel it, Spencers hand warm and delicate against your side. He's pulling softly, probably with as much strength as he can muster. You resist, but then your relief that he's alive, the fear of almost losing him takes over and you step into his embrace, his ear pressing to your chest as his hands grip at the back of your shirt. His eyes close, trembling as he inhales you as deeply as he can without hurting himself. Holds you a little tighter when he hears the hitch in your breath, feels the jump in your chest as your hands meet his back, and his curls.

A quiet cry slips past your lips. You sniffle, and you feel the strength leaving your legs. You lean into him, hoping you're not straining his wound.

"Sweetheart," he lets out, his own voice thick with emotion.

"Why?" You cry, backing up to wipe your own tears. "Why did you lie to me?"

"I didnt-"

"No!" You cry, a little louder, "You lied to me! You lied to me and you could have died-" your voice cuts out, and you clutch at your chest as a sob rips through you.

"I didn't want you to worry-"

"I do!" You raise your voice. "I do worry! I will always, worry, Spencer! It's what people who love each other do!"

He goes quiet at that, and you keep going when you've caught your breath. "You got shot, you were bleeding out on someone's lawn, and when you woke up in the hospital you chose not to tell me. You chose to lie. That's bullshit! How do you think I felt to find out my boyfriend almost died, and to have to hear it from your coworker and not from you! Am I so unimportant to you-"

"You are important to me." He interrupts.

"How? How does this make me important to you?"

"What would you have done? Nothing, except sit here and stress out about how I'm doing."

"Because I love you! I deserved to know! You're not sparing me by not telling me. You scared me, so much. I thought, if you can't be honest with me, maybe you don't lov-"

"Don't." His voice is sharp. "Don't go there. I had my reasons."

"Spencer," you breathe, "This wasn't some small thing. It made me feel like I had no place in your life."

"There's nothing you could have done-"

"I don't care! I don't care, Spencer!" You yell, pacing away from him.

The tears come back, hot as they pour out of your eyes quickly.

"This was worse. Not knowing was worse."

You sit on the ground, hands covering your face as you cry. You know that maybe this is ridiculous, but it really struck a nerve.

"You hurt me so much." You cry, feeling pathetic.

"I'm so mad at you. But more than that, I'm just so fucking sad. It's like you think I don't know what the risks are. Like I can't handle it. And I can."

"I was so scared," your voice breaks, and you curl into yourself.

It's quiet in the room for a long time. It isn't until you look up that you realize Spencer has his hands over his own eyes, his throat bobbing up and down.

You wipe your face, forcing yourself to stand up, despite the protest of the pounding in your head.

You approach him, hand landing on his shoulder, and he looks up at you, sniffles as tears slip down his cheeks. He licks his lips, "I'm sorry," he whispers, voice failing him as he pulls you into him again.

"I'm so sorry." He whispers again.

It's so broken, so shattered that you immediately respond, "I know. I know, Spencer. Please don't cry. Please-"

A small sob slips past his lips, followed by a grunt, his hand coming up to his abdomen.

"Okay, take your medicine, please. Please take it, we need to lay you back down."

You're still so emotional, but you're worried about him popping a stitch.

You cup his face, thumbs brushing tears away, and you place kisses in their wake. It makes him cry more, hands wrapping around your wrists, like he doesn't want you to leave.

"I missed you." He speaks, eyes glimmering.

"I missed you, too." You speak, wiping more tears, placing more kisses.

"I wanted you with me. You're all I thought about."

"I would have gone to you."

"I know you would have."

"Tell me, next time. Please?"

"I will."

"Promise?"

He nods, "I promise. Please just, don't leave."

"I was never going to."

He looks at you a little longer, thumb brushing over the inside of your wrist. It takes a few minutes of quiet consolation, but eventually he gets his meds down, 8oz glass of water following promptly.

You part from him just once, presenting a red jello cup from the fridge with a small spoon. He lets out a wet laugh, hugs you again.

It takes some time to maneuver him into the bedroom. You get a facial cloth and some warm water and clean his face and neck for him, and he feels grateful, and terribly, terribly sleepy.

When it's all done, he gives a soft tug at your shirt, and you already know. Spencer would ask for this sometimes, when he finally grew more comfortable in your relationship, he admit that he needed grounding. There were many ways he'd ask, but one in particular was skin to skin contact. He just wanted to share that warmth, feel you against him, it wasn't sexual, it was pure connection and comfort for him.

You slip it off, sliding into bed with him, and you carefully maneuver your arms around him.

"I love you." You murmur into his curls.

"I love you." He replies, not missing a beat.

As you drift off into slumber, he raises a tired arm, hand cupping your cheek as he gives you one soft kiss. Despite it's gentle nature, it's deep, apologetic, and grateful. You press your lips firmer against his, grateful that you still get to do this. Then, you bury your face against his neck, let him inhale against your hair, and he finally relaxes, really relaxes.

You end up taking some time off of your own work to take care of him, and he finds many ways to make everything up to you.

He learned that he can protect you, but not in the ways he thought he was doing. Lying isn't protecting, and it feels so much better to let you in, even if that small scared kid in his mind objects from time to time.

He's alive. He plans on spending every day he has showing you how much he loves you, how grateful he is to have you to come home to, to tend his wounds, wash his hair, and hold him, showing him a tender love that he never thought he deserved or could have before. He is determined to show you that you do have a place in his life. A very big place.

[blluesiide]

learning together - s.r

♡ summary: neither of you know what you're doing but you can learn together pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: pure innocent fluff nothing more nothing less :) wc: 1.7k request here

You never thought you'd get this far. Being in a relationship with Spencer was like nothing you'd ever experienced (because you hadn't) and you were surprised you made it this long. It was his first relationship as well and sure, you'd both kissed other people before but being committed to another person is a whole new level.

You'd asked him out, approaching him on his way out from work and asking him to dinner. He said yes and, though your first few dates had been cancelled by the inevitable case coming in, you official first date was perfect. Perfect in the sense that you both had an amazing time.

In reality, a lot had gone wrong on the date. You went to dinner and spilled spaghetti sauce on your nice blouse, then, with Spencer's jacket on, you took a nice walk in the park where Spencer fell in the fountain.

Soaking wet and stained red, the two of you went back to your apartment. You let him in, offering him the shower and throwing his clothes in the dryer. Neither of you stopped to question whether it was normal or not for him to be in your apartment or using your shower on a first date.

You were doing what you wanted because you liked each other and you were choosing to live in the moment. Cheesy, right?

-

"Do you think this is weird?"

"Do I think what's weird?" You asked, your fingers trailing down his nose. You were both on your couch, you slouched against the armrest, Spencer laying fully on his back, his head in your lap. You were absentmindedly touching him, hands in his hair, fingertips tracing every inch of his face, jaw, collarbones.

"Us. What we're doing, you know, like... how close we are for how long we've been together." Of course he was worried about that. Spencer was the type to want to make sure everything he did was the correct way to do that thing. He wanted to do friendships 'right', not talk about all his weird interests so much, get them the right gift on their birthday, that kind of thing. Of course he wanted to make sure he was doing it right with you.

"I don't know, Spence. I don't think there's a set rule of how long we have to be together before we can do things like this. I know you aren't normally touchy with everyone but doesn't the fact that you're comfortable right now, like this, say something?"

He pondered the thought. You were right, technically, he was comfortable with your touch. He didn't mind the feel of your hands on him.

"I guess so."

"If you want to slow down-"

"No!" He cleared his throat, a blush spreading up his neck to his cheeks. "No, no, I don't want to slow down. I like you." He tilted his head back so he was looking at you upside down. He gave you a small, goofy grin.

"Yeah?" He nodded, his smile growing. "I like you too."

Your first kiss was messy and clumsy and perfect. It was your third date and Spencer, ever the gentleman, walked you back to your apartment. You wanted to invite him upstairs but his unease about the pace of your relationship made you worried. You were afraid to scare him away.

"This is me." You said awkwardly, brushing your hair behind your ear.

"Tonight was fun."

"Yeah." You agreed and you both stood in a cumbersome silence. Neither of you wanted to leave yet. You glanced at Spencer and caught him staring at your lips. Angling your body more towards him, you stepped closer.

"Can I... May I kiss you?" Spencer asked nervously.

"Please." He leant down, his head tilting slightly. Slightly chapped lips met yours, moving softly. His hands awkwardly came up to cup your jaw, the kiss clumsy but passionate. Teeth and tongue clashing, heavy breaths filling the barest space between you.

Your back met the brick wall of your apartment building. Surely first kisses weren't meant to be this heavy right? You were supposed to start with little pecks and gradually move to biting lips and slipping tongue. But the way Spencer moaned softly into your mouth made you forget all about the way things were 'supposed to go'.

He pulled away when he realized how far it had gone, looking down at you. You pressed against the wall, chest heaving. You with your lip gloss smudged and your hair tousled. You. You.

"I- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" You cut him off, pulling him down by his purple tie and crashing your lips against his once again.

"Don't apologize." You murmured against him, your arms winding around his neck. "You're perfect."

Maybe it didn't matter that it should have been too soon for the two of you to be doing this and maybe it didn't matter that you wanted more, so much more from him. Because this was your relationship. You never thought you'd get this far with him but then again, you never thought that he'd be this good of a kisser.

It was stupid. The whole thing was stupid. Your first fight as a couple was what you'd expect. You fought over a stupid subject, not even anything memorable. Halfway through the argument you'd both forgotten what you were yelling about (not literally, spencer knew what you were arguing about but you were so far into it that he didn't care anymore).

The fight lasted maybe 5 minutes but it felt like an hour. You both said mean things, you both raised your voice, and in the end, you stormed off, leaving Spencer in his living room as the front door to his apartment slammed behind you.

He realized almost immediately that it was pouring rain outside and you were out there with no umbrella, no jacket, nothing. He sprung off the couch, racing after you, snagging his umbrella by the door before he left.

He shouted your name, running onto the sidewalk. You weren't ten feet away from the apartment but he rushed to you, struggling to open the umbrella before holding it above your head. You shuffled closer to him so he could huddle under it as well.

"I'm sorry." He said, raising his voice to be heard over the storm.

"I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have yelled at you, it was so stupid." You called back.

"No, it's my fault. I was the one who started it." You went back and forth, trying to take the blame before he finally surged forward, kissing you. You stopped mid sentence, tilting your head back to make it easier on his neck. Like something out of a movie, the umbrella fell from his hand, the rain pouring down over the two of you as his grabbed your face.

He kissed you passionately for no more than 10 seconds before pulling away, remembering himself.

"We should go inside, we're going to get hypothermia." He said, bending to pick up his umbrella. You giggled, nodding and following him inside, keeping tucked to his side to stay under the umbrella.

For your first anniversary, one full month of being together, Spencer went all out. He wanted it to be special but, in all seriousness, he had no clue what he was doing. How big were you supposed to go for a one month anniversary? Did normal couples even celebrate that kind of thing or was it too insignificant to even bother giving a second thought?

Spencer didn't know. All he knew was that he gave it more than a second thought. He gave this event a third, fourth, a fifth thought. Frankly, it was all he could think about the week before.

With some planning, he made it really special. He learned how to cook your favorite meal, the one your mom always made you when you were a kid, he bought your favorite wine, lit some vanilla candles (ones that he had spent nearly an hour in the store for, probably looking like a maniac smelling all the candles to find the one that smelled most like your perfume).

He set it all up, finishing around ten minutes before you were supposed to come over. When he answered the door, you found him slightly disheveled, an adorable apron hanging from his neck and tied around his waist, his hair tousled from running his hands through it nervously.

"Hi!" He gave you a big grin. "You look really pretty. I like what you did with your hair."

"Thank you. Can I come in?" You grinned at his giddiness.

"Oh- yeah. Yes, come in." He stepped aside, ushering you in. He gently pulled your coat off for you, hanging it up.

"It smells good in here."

"Thanks, I- uh, I learned how to make that meal you like. I didn't burn anything this time." He led you to the dining room table, pulling out a chair for you.

"Look at you, mister romantic. I'm proud of you." You sat down in the chair, smiling up at him as he pushed you closer to the table. He took the apron off, tossing it on the counter before he sat across from you.

"It's not too much?"

"No, it's perfect."

"Really? I wasn't sure because I didn't know if we were supposed to celebrate this."

"Baby, I don't think there's anything we're supposed to or not supposed to do. We can literally do whatever we want."

"Yeah, you're right." He agreed, serving himself some of the delicious looking food he cooked for you. Turns out, his meal tasted just as good as it looked and when you finished, you helped him clean up, you washing dishes, him drying.

As you splashed water at him, giggling, he realized something. He was actually alright with not knowing what you were doing. He just wanted this. Whatever this was. Just you, and him, doing what you wanted because you were with each other. That's all he ever wanted.

Taglist: @superbeaglewitch, @perfectgoopfishuniversity-blog, totallynotabuckybarnessimp, @dramioneforevertilltheend. @cynbx, @diminombre

[blluesiide]

those cruel words - s.r

♡ summary: you're forced to use your boyfriend's insecurities to save his life pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: violence, degrading language, cursing wc: 1.9k based on this request

This was never supposed to happen. The house was supposed to be empty. It was the location with the lowest risk of the three that Garcia dug up. The unsub owned three separate plots, and he wasn't supposed to be at this one. That's why, you assumed, Hotch sent you and Spencer to this one. He couldn't take the chance of spreading his team so thin just to keep Reid at the precinct, Reid who still hadn't passed his field qualifications.

When you kicked the door down, walking in ahead of him, you were expecting an empty house. You started clearing the bottom floor, peeking around corners, guns out. You were in the living room when you heard a thump from somewhere across the house.

"Spencer?" No response. You slowly made your way, Glock out in front of you, back through the rooms. "Spencer!" You tried again, still no response. You enter the lounge, stopping in your tracks when you find Spencer on the ground, the unsub standing above him, a gun pointed at his head.

"Drop the gun." The man says, pouting his at you. "Now." He urges when you don't immediately comply. You slowly raise your hands in surrender, lowering your gun to the ground. The last thing you needed was a bullet in your flesh, or worse, a bullet in Spencer.

A groan sounds from below and you glance down to find Spencer coming to. The unsub had hit him across the head with a gun, knocking him out cold before he could even react.

"Are you with him?" The unsub asks, gesturing with his pistol. There were a thousand ways this situation would go. Maybe a third of them ended with both of you getting out of this alive. If you were going get out of this, you had to play this right. A plan was already forming in your head and, as much as it hurt, it seemed like the best idea right now.

"Unfortunately." You said, adding a bitter tone to your voice. Spencer's gaze raised to you and from the small, shadowed glimpse you caught of him, you noticed a bruise forming on his temple.

"Oh?" The unsub seemed intrigued so you continued.

"He's a pain in my ass. Never does what he's told."

"Ah, so you're the boss?"

"I will be some day, once my asshole chief kicks the bucket." Okay, now you were just making stuff up. Fortunately the unsub knew nothing about you and you were convincing enough for him to lower his gun. Unfortunately, that gun found its way back to Spencer. Spencer who was now propped up on his arms, looking at you confused. You'd never talked about him like this before.

"I hear that." The unsub agreed. Spencer grunted, drawing his attention back to him. "Get up." He barked. Spencer pushed himself to his knees, his head pounding. Before he could fully stand, the unsub kicked him in the stomach. Your boyfriend keeled over, a hand to his stomach as a small whine slipped past his lips. You flinched as if he'd hit you. That's what it felt like having to watch him get hurt.

"How's that feel, Reid? Cause it feels a hundred times worse having to sit through your rambling every goddamn day." Spencer winced. The beating didn't hit nearly as deep as your words. "God, I've been waiting for this to happen. You know how many times I've wished one of these criminals would beat his ass? He's barely ever in the field though, too weak to pass his qualifications."

The unsub chuckled, fisting his hand before punching Spencer across the face again. He groans, sprawled on the floor again.

"Get back up." When Spencer wasn't fast enough, the unsub grabbed him by the collar, yanking him to his feet. You had to speed this up. You couldn't stand to watch him get hurt anymore, let alone have to keep insulting him to his face.

Spencer stumbled on his feet, hands in the air in surrender. He flinched when the unsub lurched at him, laughing mockingly at his victims fear.

"You want a turn?" The unsub suddenly turned to you, asking with a vicious smirk.

"Fuck yeah, I do." You cracked your knuckles, stepping closer to Spencer who was staring at you with wide, glassy eyes. Hunched into himself, head ducked slightly, he looked like a kicked puppy. "I've been dreaming about this." You made a fist, thinking about the place you could hit him that would hurt the least. You would try to hold back the power in your punch but you weren't sure you could be convincing enough.

After a hesitant second of staring into his eyes, which the unsub took as you playing up the anticipation, you punched him in the jaw. His head snapped to the side and he stumbled as the unsub cackled.

"You know what'll be more fun?" The unsub left for a moment to the kitchen, coming back with a steak knife. Spencer's eyes widened as he stalked closer. "I wanna see him bleed." Your heart stuttered. There was no way you'd let this man take a knife to your boyfriend.

"I don't know-"

"Come on, I thought you hated him."

"I do. He's a fucking pussy." The unsub stepped up to you. He pressed the knife into your hand before setting a heavy hand on Spencer's chest, pushing him roughly back into the wall.

"Then cut him open." Your hand was nearly shaking as your mind raced to figure out what to do. You stepped closer to Spencer who pressed himself further against the wall, looking at you with those glassy brown eyes. You lifted the knife, schooling your expression as the unsub watched you closely. Instead of moving the knife closer to Spencer's throat, you turn, quickly slicing at the unsub. He yelps, stumbling back as his cheek bleeds.

You spot your gun on the ground, rushing for it. The unsub catches you around the waist before you can grab at it, throwing you into a side table that tumbles onto the ground with you. He snatches your gun up, aiming it at you.

"Fucking bitch! I really believed you. We could have had fun together. Shame I have to kill you now." He cocks the gun as you stare at him from the ground, helpless, propped up on your elbows. You flinched, eyes squeezing shot when a gun shot went off but you didn't feel anything. No pain. You slowly opened your eyes to find Spencer, standing behind the unsub as he fell to the ground, a gun in his hand.

"Spence." You breathed, getting to your feet. "Spencer." Your voice was soft as you wrapped your arms around him, holding him tight. He didn't hug you back, frozen to his spot. He couldn't make himself do it, your words ringing clear in his head as it pounded painfully.

Pain in my ass. Never does what he's told. Having to sit through your rambling every goddamn day. Too weak- fucking pussy-

The bright lights of the ambulance and the cop cars were hurting his head. He closed his eyes again but he got a quick scolding from the paramedic on his right.

After you pulled away from him, awkwardly dropping your arms, you turned to cuff the guy. He was alive, Spencer's bullet had only found his shoulder, but he was losing blood and had been rushed to the hospital. By then, the rest of the team had realized that both other addresses were empty and they showed up to the house with a barrage of cops and medics.

Spencer stared across the lawn where you were stuck talking to Hotch. He was making you go over everything, checking in on you, asking what happened to Spencer, rather than bombard Spencer himself with questions.

Before he knew it though, you were making your way across the yard to him, your strides filled with purpose and determination. His gaze found yours but he couldn't hold it long, dropping his head slightly. He didn't lift it until he felt a gentle hand on his cheek.

"Spence?" Your voice filled his ears as he looked at you again. You scanned his face, cataloging every visible wound, storing the information away for later. "Are you okay?"

"Mhm." He hummed. He didn't trust his voice not to crack. You sighed, guilt eating away at your insides.

"Baby, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean anything I said, I had to pretend, I- I had to get him to trust me-"

"I know. I get it." You didn't believe him. Your eyes caught the ugly bruise on his chin, the one you'd put there. He had another bruise around his eye, a cut on his temple, and you were sure there was bruising on his torso. But the bruise on his chin just killed you. You'd hurt him.

"I'm sorry." You whispered, your other hand finding that side of his face, fingertips gentle against his blue and purple skin. "Spencer, I need you to know that I didn't mean it, okay?" He nodded, before wincing at the pain behind his eyes. But you still weren't convinced.

"I love you. I love you so much." You pressed a kiss on his nose. "I love everything about you. Your brain, your heart, your voice." You punctuated each sentence with a kiss to said area. His forehead, his chest, his lips. He lowered his gaze to the ground and your smile fell off your face. "You don't believe me."

"It's not that, I just... It's what you said. It's true. All of it."

"No, no, Spencer-" You cupped his face, making sure your touch was soft enough to not hurt him. You had hurt him enough already. "It wasn't, it's not true."

"It is. I'm a pain to be around. I talk too much, I'm too weak to even-"

"Hey. Stop it. Don't talk about yourself like that." You realized how hypocritical you sounded, given you'd just put those ideas in his head. "Spencer, please, I'm telling you it's not true. Don't you think I would know?" He hadn't thought about it like that.

"I guess so..."

"You have to trust me when I say this... you are perfect the way you are. I wouldn't have fallen in love with you if you were someone else." He lets a small smile creep onto his face.

"I love you too." He murmurs. Your hands drop from his face, finding his in his lap. You bring both of his hands to your lips, kissing the backs of them. But when you spotted the blood on your knuckles from when you'd punched him, your smile fell. "It's okay. You had to." Spencer said softly.

"Yeah. I had to." You mumbled, dropping your hand. Spencer ushered you forward, kissing your lips. "I'm still sorry though."

"It's okay. I forgive you." You brushed the hair out of his face. You had already started planning how you were going to pamper him all week. You'd make sure to put a balm on his bruises, make sure his cut is properly cleaned, and attempt to kiss everything better.

When Spencer looked into your eyes and smiled, you knew everything would be fine. He might take a little more convincing to finally believe you but you'd give him every reassurance he needed. And you were both going to be just fine.

Taglist: @superbeaglewitch, @perfectgoopfishuniversity-blog, totallynotabuckybarnessimp, @dramioneforevertilltheend. @cynbx, @diminombre

[blluesiide]

IN WHICH spencer proudly shows off his wife at the BAU

౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ “that’s my girlfriend, suckers”/“my wife, even better”

the case was tiring. it was a long, exhausting day of sitting around the briefing room with the rest of the team. you were trying to stay awake, observing emily who was sitting at her usual spot next to you, and penelope on your left. frantically tapped on her keyboard.

all of you were racking your brains as you went over the documents for what felt like the hundredth time. but thanks to you, after a couple of hours and coffee refills, it was finally done.

you did it. you cracked the code. you saw the tiny detail no one did, causing everyone to finally let out a relieved breath when you explained your much plausible hypothesis.

“i don’t know what we’d do without you, pretty girl” said derek when you finished rambling, allowing himself to stretch out his arms to release the pent up tension.

you just smiled, and spencer’s eyes locked with yours from the other side of the room. he was grinning goofily, dimples showing. surprisingly, he wasn’t even slightly disappointed by the fact that he wasn’t the one to solve the case this time.

instead, he cheered happily, his hand fixing his tousled hair “that’s my girlfriend, suckers !”

but the thin silver band around your finger reflected the sunlight streaming in the room as you put the files down, like a reminder to him and everyone else.

the whole team rolled their eyes, and you didn’t miss their shared amused glances, aw well as the way rossi rolled his eyes. if noticing your sickeningly sweet behaviour had been fun when you two began dating, it was now a common occurrence for all your colleagues.

“your wife, spencer.”

he looked around, chuckling to himself at your correction, before a smile creeped up his face.

“my wife, even better !”

[blluesiide]

ꨄPublic Display of Awkward — S.R

masterlist + navigation

genre: fluff/comfort word count: 1,1k

paring: Spencer Reid x Reader (established relationship)

warnings & summary: no warnings. Spencer isn’t used to public displays of affection—but with you, he wants to learn.

author’s note: lots of tenderness and public displays of affection! I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions or feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Spencer wasn’t the hand-holding type.

Not because he didn’t want to be, but because he wasn’t sure how.

In the quiet privacy of your apartment, he could press a kiss to your shoulder without overthinking it. He could hold your hand for hours on the couch, curled together beneath a shared blanket. But out there—in public, surrounded by eyes and assumptions and attention—it felt different. It felt… observed.

You were walking side by side, close enough that your jacket sleeves brushed now and then, but not touching—not really. The crowd around you moved in waves: parents tugging along kids, couples snapping photos, a street musician playing something jazzy near the café. Spencer kept glancing around, his posture a little tense, as he always was in bustling spaces.

You noticed the way his fingers twitched sometimes near his coat pocket—like maybe he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t know if it was the right moment. So you made it easier. You slipped your hand into his without a word, letting your fingers lace gently through his. A silent offer, no pressure. Just a question with skin instead of words.

Spencer went still for a beat. Not in panic, but in calculation. He looked down at your hands, then at your face, like he was double-checking your intent. You didn’t look back—just kept walking, giving him space to choose what to do with it.

And he did. Carefully, Spencer curled his fingers between yours and gave the faintest squeeze. Then, as you reached the edge of the sidewalk and paused to wait for the light, you felt it: his thumb brushing slow and deliberate across the back of your hand.

A small movement — thoughtful, almost fragile.

“Do you like when I do that?” he asked, voice soft, as if he might stop if the answer was anything but yes.

But you could only smile, feeling your heart thudding. “I do,” you said simply. “Very much.”

And he nodded—just once—like he was storing that information away somewhere important.

He thought about it later that night. He thought of how easy you made it look. How holding hands in public wasn’t a statement for you—it was just affection, simple and honest. How when people passed by, you didn’t drop his hand or change the subject or pull away. He thought about all the reasons it had always been hard for him: the scrutiny, the exposure, the fear of not doing it right. But more than that, he thought about how proud you looked when you had him close.

And he realized: if you weren’t ashamed of him, maybe he didn’t have to be ashamed of showing it either.

The next morning, while the two of you stood in line at your favorite little corner café—him reading the day’s specials with furrowed brows like he was reviewing a thesis, you gently swaying on your feet behind him—he reached for your hand again. No hesitation this time. His fingers found yours with a quiet certainty, warm and steady, and before you could so much as glance at him, he lifted it slowly to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of it. Soft, casual even. Like he’d done it a hundred times, like it was something he did on every slow morning, in every line, surrounded by the half-asleep city.

“Spence?” You blinked, surprised, and tilted your head with a smile tugging at your lips.

He glanced down, eyes warm, a hint of mischief dancing there like sunlight on water. “What?” he asked, though he definitely knew.

“That’s… new,” you replied, grinning now.

He hummed, pressing another feather-light kiss to your knuckles—less hesitant, more familiar this time. “Well,” he said softly, “it’s what people do sometimes. When they’re in love.”

That startled something tender in your chest. You stared at him, caught off guard in the best way.

It happened again, days later, in the grocery store—aisles too bright, music too soft to recognize. The place was quiet for a Thursday evening. You were standing in front of the greens, comparing bunches of parsley like it was a life-altering decision, when Spencer drifted over to you.

He didn’t say anything, just came to stand beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. You felt him there more than saw him—his quiet, comforting presence, the way he always fit next to you without effort.

Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead. A slow, thoughtful kiss. No hesitation, no awkward pause. Just his lips against your skin, gentle and grounding.

You didn’t move. Just closed your eyes for a second, let it happen, let yourself feel the way he was starting to settle into you—more confident in the way he loved you, in the way he showed it.

He pulled back slowly, hand grazing your lower back for a moment, and then wandered off toward the cereal aisle, as if he hadn’t just made your whole chest feel like it was glowing.

The “payoff for his efforts”, as Spencer later named it, was different — you were halfway home from dinner down the sidewalk when Spencer just… stopped walking.

It was subtle—just a quiet pause, like he’d remembered something important mid-step. You turned to look at him, brow slightly raised, but he wasn’t looking at the street or the sky. He was looking at you. Really looking. And not in that intense, cataloging way he sometimes had when he was working.

His hand found yours again, fingers lacing without effort, like muscle memory. There wasn’t a sound in the world except the soft clink of a spoon stirring coffee from a café behind you, the wet hush of tires on damp asphalt. And then Spencer leaned in—slow, hesitant for half a second—and kissed you.

It was soft, almost reverent. The kind of kiss that didn’t need to prove anything. That didn’t rush, didn’t take. Just… offered. The press of his lips against yours was gentle, steady, like he’d taken all the words he could never quite say and folded them into the space between you. It wasn’t his first kiss with you, not by far—but it felt like a beginning anyway. His fingers moved to your waist, squeezing it once, as if grounding himself. Your hand came up to rest lightly against his chest, where his heart beat quick and certain beneath your palm. And when he finally pulled back—just slightly, just enough to breathe—he stayed close, his forehead nearly brushing yours.

You were smiling. You hadn’t realized you were until he did too.

“I think I get it now,” he whispered.

You tilted your head. “Get what?”

“Why people do this kind of thing in public.”

Thank you for reading ♥︎

[blluesiide]

JUST LIKE HEAVEN ౨ৎ

IN WHICH spencer and you had a one night stand, and he realises he truly loves you when you get shot on the field

it all happened too quickly.

so quickly, that you weren’t exactly sure what you were currently referring to. was it the BAU’s visit to the police department in which you worked, and their stupidly talented doctor reid, who’d somewhat lost his words the second you walked in ?

or was it the consequences of that wrongly assumed profile, delivered too quickly by the federal agents who’d refused to give more time to analyse the situation, and gotten themselves as well as your team into terrible danger ?

because these two events, although somewhat linked, had very different outcomes. one resulted in the presence of a certain brown haired genius in your bed, last night after work. and the other, in you being shot to the chest by the UNSUB.

maybe the point in common was the fact that you’d ended up in a horizontal position because of a man you barely knew.

twice.

but for very different reasons.

“agent down. we need medics !!!!!” you heard someone shout right in your ear, interrupting your inner monologue. damn, that sounded terrible. was it normal for the voice in your head to talk so much ? was it even normal to have hear a voice ?

you quickly realised you were on the ground, back against the freshly mowed grass of the UNSUB’s lawn. organised, you thought. that was the part of the profile you’d been wrong about.

you struggled to move, and to speak, which only fed your panic. the previously bright green grass absorbed the sticky liquid pooling out of you, and you wondered how exactly you had ended up here, in a pool of your own blood. it was all blurry in your mind.

shouts. gunshots. people running.

your eyes might’ve been closed, but you could still hear it all, until a familiar voice caught your attention.

“can you hear me ?” spencer asked, his voice tinged with the slightest amount of worry he wasn’t supposed to feel on the field. “you don’t have to open your eyes, just- please, squeeze my hand or something-“

“you broke the rule” you thought, almost smiling to yourself as you remembered his words from last night. “we shouldn’t get too close to eachother at work,” he’d said, while he was putting his shirt back on after you two had taken part in a not-so-professional activity.

“not that i don’t want to, cause i really do. but, you just… mess with my head, and i don’t want it to impact the case”

unfortunately, it had. and spencer knew it.

feeling like you were slowly slipping away, betrayed by your own body, you gathered all the energy you had left to do so, trying your best to make him know you were still there, despite your body going limp on the ground.

it wasn’t exactly a squeeze, more like a featherlight brush of your pinky finger against his, but spencer felt it. and never in his life had he been so relieved. it was one thing to lose an agent, but even more so when this agent happened to have have made him consider the meaning of the “love at first sight” he’d never believed in, a couple of hours prior.

“the medics are on their way” he reassured you, not even sure you could hear him, but he had to give it a try. “and they got the UNSUB, i’m staying here with you”

he kept his promise.

with his hand pressed firmly against the spot under your rib where you were still bleeding. with his calming voice, trying to keep you conscious by talking to you until the medics got here. with his fingers still laced with yours as they took you into the ambulance. he stayed.

if you had been able to talk, you would’ve told him many things. first, that you didn’t feel like you were dying at all. if anything, you felt like you were falling asleep after a long day, muscles and bones going soft as you joined him in your dreams.

then, you would’ve told him that he shouldn’t have stayed. his presence next to you weakened the rest of the team, and meant he hadn’t followed protocol.

and lastly, you really would’ve liked to tell him that he should have stayed. last night, when the two of you were getting to know each other, when you wished for comfort and craved human affection after he’d left.

but you couldn’t speak right now.

there was no one to shut him up, and no warm voice to reassure him. “listen, please, please…” he kept repeating on the ambulance, begging him not to leave like everyone else in his life had.

“not now, okay ? you didn’t even have the chance to yell at me for approaching in front of the team…” damn, how, you wished to be conscious and awake to hear the rest of his words. unfortunately, the machines beeping around you and the darkness that surrounded you made you fall back into a deep slumber.

and even then, spencer was still there, under different conditions. you two were back in your bed, legs tangled as if you were trying to merge your bodies together. and you could see his beautiful eyes, looking into yours as he traced the birthmarks on your arm. but that was all a dream.

when you woke up, you most definitely felt dead. but the pounding in your head followed quickly, and as you opened your eyes to find yourself in a depressingly bright hospital room, you realised death would’ve been too easy.

“oh, there you are” he spoke gently, careful not to startle you. you thought you heard voices again, but turned around to find him sitting on a chair next to the bed, dark circles under his beautiful hazel eyes.

you managed to croak out weakly. “you look like hell”

of course the first thing you’d say to him after all of this was sarcastic. he smiled, proud of himself because he understood the joke for once.

“why, thank you. you look like heaven”

if there was once thing spencer reid couldn’t do, it was lying. a tired smile creeped up your pale face, and the sharp pain in your abdomen reminded you why you were there in the first place.

“if this is what heaven is like, i want a refund. i didn’t pay for this”

“technically, you didn’t pay at all. the bureau is responsible for any injuries on the field, even exterior individuals. your hospital bills are covered” spencer stated, to which you chuckled.

“oh… that was a joke, yeah ?

“yes.”

“right.. good joke”

silence surrounded both of you again, and you brushed your fingertips against your ribs to assess the damage. his eyes darted away, as he thought of you in the same position under different circumstances.

“the doctors stitched you up, you’ll be alright. he missed the lung by a few millimetres, it could’ve been- i mean, you could’ve-…”

“i know…”

“i really thought you were going to…” he admitted, refusing to look at you.

you repeated. “i know…”

if this was fate’s way of bringing the two of you together, it was definitely ironic. and also, way too painful on your side. then again, you’d never really lucked out in love, so this would probably be another funny story to share with your friends, after too many drinks.

unless…

“look,” spencer said, sitting up in his seat as if to prepare himself for rejection. “i know the circumstances are bad, and we agreed on calling it a mistake. but it wasn’t, for me. and i really thought i was gonna lose you today.”

his words made you soften, you tilted your head as he kept going, awkwardly using his hands as he spoke.

“i’m saying lose you, but i never even had you in the first place. and i don’t want that- i mean, i want to have you. yeah, i’m rambling”

you chuckled, which comforted him a bit.

“basically, i’m trying to say i’d like to have you before having to think about losing you. not that i ever want to think about losing you” he corrected himself, nose scrunching up at the thought of it.

“i’d like that too…”

he almost looked unsure, as if he was expecting you to somehow get up or run away which was completely absurd because you were physically unable to move, linked to the machines and the beeping monitors, and also because you were most definitely in love with him.

“really ?”

“yes, really. i can’t thank you enough for staying with me. i mean, you broke protocol-“

spencer raised a brow “actually, we broke protocol the minute you took me back to your place.”

laughing, you leaned back against the pillow, thouroughly amused by the situation. he really was something else. “okay, fair enough. so… i’d like to break protocol with you again.”

“is that a joke again ?” he asked, fingers tapping against the arm rest of the chair. after all, you had a knack for sarcasm.

“no, most definitely not a joke.”

“good. i’d like to break protocol with you too…”

[blluesiide]

To Grin At You Once More

abstract: you braid spencers hair. title from Scrub by Henri Bardot, highly recommend. song is total opposite vibe lyrically in comparison to this but I was listening to it while writing! long hair reid, my beloved. my sweetheart.

You roll your shoulders a bit, feeling the tightness after a long day at work. Spencer's shoes are resting nearly by the front door, one of those rare nights he gets to sleep in your bed.

"Spence?" You call out softly, setting your things down.

"Bathroom!" He shouts, and you realize you can hear the sink running.

You step down the hall, tracing the wall with the tip of your fingers until you reach the open door, and you see him sitting on the lid of the toilet, pajamas on and hair towel gently dabbing at the excess water.

You inhale deeply, "It smells so good in here." You sigh.

"Hi." He grins at you, arms lowering as you approach, stepping between his legs to hug him.

"Hi," you reply, letting out a breath of relief.

"You smell so yummy." You comment, and he chuckles affectionately.

Your hand comes up to cup the back of his head, damp curls slipping between your fingers.

He smiles up at you, eyes watching your face with a mix of curiosity and adoration. You let him stare for a couple seconds before you lean down and press your lips against his forehead.

His eyes close automatically, leaning into it, and you murmur softly against his skin, "Can I braid your hair?"

"Only if you're gentle."

"I'm always gentle."

He hums, hand on your waist as his fingers slip just under your shirt to touch your waist. The smile resting upon his lips is easy, natural. You have that effect on him.

He swallows, glancing down at your lips, and you oblige, bending down even if the angle is slightly uncomfortable, just to kiss him.

His hand is warm, wide as it splays across the expanse of your cheek. You kiss until the twinge in your back causes you to lower to your knees, and Spencer follows, tilting down to meet you in your new position, his other hand pushing your hair back, hand holding your hair in place by your ear.

When your lungs finally object and force you to part, Spencer lets out a bashful breath. No matter how long he's been dating you, it will never fail to fluster him, how easily he loses himself in you, how it feels like the first time every time.

Your hand rests on his knee, mindful of the still-healing bone beneath skin. Your thumb brushes gently over it, and the corner of Spencers lip quirks up. "Go get cozy? I'll be in soon."

He nods once, holding his hand out to you so you can stand and then help him stand.

By the time you enter the room, Spencers hair is mostly dry, and he's sitting up, finger tracing down the pages of a book you know he's read a million times over. He sets it aside when you approach.

Spencer liked to be present when you were around. Not preoccupied by case files, or books. He'd gladly sit, content just to breathe with you. He didn't always enjoy silence, but with you it never felt empty. With you he welcomed it, finding a solace be never thought he'd be granted again.

Your fingers work carefully against his scalp, weaving thoughts of love, safety, and comfort into each section of the braids. When it's finished, he gently tugs at them with his fingers, the smooth pattern weaving itself into his memory. He turns, smiles at you, soft, relaxed and ready for bed. He thinks about the ring box in the back of the top drawer of his dresser, blinks softly at you, and pulls you under the covers with him.

You press a gentle kiss between his brows, one on his nose, and he mirrors your actions, pressing his own kisses to your skin before you both meet, lip to lip.

It's short, and when he presses his forehead to yours and softly says, "I love you." Your heart soars in your chest. "I love you." You return. He breathes it in, like it's the only thing he's ever needed.

Maybe it is.

[blluesiide]

“steve, you’re staring,” you mumble with your eyes closed. it’s late into the night when you can feel your boyfriend’s eyes bore into your face, and he chuckles lightly when realizing that he’s been caught.

“am i not allowed to look at the prettiest person who exists? ‘cause like, it hasn’t really sunk in yet that you’re in my bed of all beds that exist,” he puts his hand on your cheek while you’re opening your eyes, meeting his gaze in the dark room.

he’s wearing a tired smile on his face as if he could fall asleep any minute, he can barely keep his eyes open, but he just wants to look at you, even if it means he’ll lose some hours of sleep. “we’ve been together for three years, steve, it’s not the first time i’m in your bed,” you reflect his smile with one of your own before shuffling slightly closer towards the man, wrapping an arm around him to stay close.

“i know, but it still feels like the first time you stayed over. don’t think i’ll ever get tired of it to be honest, just having you here. like, i could never imagine anyone else here,” he admits. “don’t wanna sound sappy, but my life would be absolutely miserable without you.”

“really, why?”

“i don’t know, it’s just that life actually has a meaning when i’m with you. i just wanna protect you from everything bad, make you laugh, kiss you, hug you, greet you when you get home from work, talk with you until we fall asleep, travel and see the world with you, hold you when you’ve had a bad day, i wanna do everything with you. and sometimes i just think about how fucking lucky i am for having you,” steve rubs his thumbs against your cheek while speaking and the smile on your face grows wider as your eyes begin to water.

“and i’m lucky for having you, steve. i wanna do everything with you too, and i love you, so so much,” you mumble before he leans in to press a gentle kiss to your lips. it’s quick but enough to make your heart beat faster than it already did.

he leans his forehead against yours. “i love you too, baby,” he closes his eyes and just holds you close, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. “so much, you could never imagine.”

[blluesiide]

blanket fort - omg “you’re so cute when you’re half asleep.” with steve RAHH

Thank you Mal ilysm!

Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 296 words

You’re luxuriating in the warm, syrupy goldenness on the insides of your eyelids, but the click of a camera snaps you right out of it. 

“Steve,” you whine. “Don’t.” 

“Shh.” You can hear laughter in your boyfriend’s tone. “Go back to sleep, babe.” 

It’s an enticing proposition. You start to, but another click squashes that notion. 

“Stop.” You reach for the camera, but you’re slow and lazy. Steve easily keeps it away from you. 

“Go back to sleep,” he says again. 

“I wasn’t sleeping.” You squint against the sun. “And I can’t if I know you’re taking pictures of me.” 

Steve hums. “Sure, you’re not sleeping. That book’s really gripping you, huh?” 

You forgot about your book. You raise your head, and there’s a small puddle of drool seeping into the pages. “Shit.” 

Steve laughs, smug and fond at once.

“I was half sleeping,” you admit. You lift yourself up from where you’re laying on your stomach on the soft grass of Steve’s backyard, stretching. 

“Hey, c’mon,” your boyfriend protests. His hand lands in the center of your back as you arch it, feeling the crackling of your joints. “You looked so comfortable. Lay back down, baby.” 

“Yeah, so you can take more pictures of me drooling?” You fix him with a faux glare, totally not affected by how the light sheen of sweat on his face makes him seem to glow in the sun. “Pass.” 

“You’re so cute when you’re half asleep,” Steve coaxes. 

“I’m burning those pictures, Harrington.” 

“Oh, yeah?” He picks the polaroids up from where they’re laid face-down on the grass and sticks them in his back pocket, giving it a pat. “Okay, come and take them.” 

You roll your eyes, and Steve laughs as you flop back down onto the grass. 

[blluesiide]

Attacking, Defending Until There's Nothing Left Worth Winning

abstract: a badly timed conversation leads to a rough patch with spencer, and both of you are still learning how to regain your balance. title from Don't Wanna Fight by Alabama Shakes.

You've never been good at this. Confrontation. So when Spencer Reid raises his voice at you in an argument that quickly spiralled out of control, you do what you've always done. Walk away.

"I need a minute." Was all you said, quickly evacuating from the room in hopes that the distance would ease the burning in your throat, settle the rising waves behind your eyes.

You end up sleeping on the sofa, Spencer shutting himself in the room, not once coming out. You don't even remember what the original argument was about, you just know there was bad timing on your end, and hair trigger frustration on his due to a particularly grueling case.

The next morning you do what you always remember doing when you were younger, continuing on like nothing happened. You know you'll have to talk about it eventually, but you don't know when. So you get up, dragging limbs from a rough night's sleep, and begin making a pot of coffee for Spencer. You make eggs, and toast. You even fry up some potatoes. Carb. Carb. Protein. Diuretic. You hear his voice in your mind.

You've just finished plating everything up when Spencer enters the room, the dark circles under his eyes sunken deeper than the day before.

"Good morning." You say, pouring his coffee. "Eat up."

He simply stands, staring at the scene in front of him.

"Sleep well?" You ask, trying to push past the awkwardness, but immediately you realize it's the wrong question.

"No." It's flat. Unamused. "Oh." Is all you say back.

"Oh." He repeats. "Is this what you're going to do?"

You freeze. "You're going to pretend like nothing happened? That none of what happened yesterday even occured?"

"I just, just wanted to-"

"Wanted to what?" He interrupts.

You feel the burn of your throat again, the urge to react, to hurt. "I need a minute." You say, aiming to walk past him. He doesn't grab you, but follows quickly.

"You always need a minute! You can't just walk away and pretend nothing happened!"

"I need a minute to regulate, and I can't do that if you won't leave me alone for two seconds!"

It's quiet. So quiet you're afraid to move.

Before you know it, he's turned, walked away back towards the bedroom, and you sit down, face in your hands as your lips tremble.

You don't know how long you sit there, but soon enough, Spencer returns, walking right past you towards the front door, fully dressed with his satchel and FBI badge in hand.

"Spencer wait," you call, desperate as you get up and follow him.

He doesn't slow down.

"I made breakfast," you cry, and the broken sound almost makes him stop.

The door closes and you're left there. Alone. You stand for several minutes before you turn away, make your way to the kitchen and see the cold food abandoned.

You only stomach one piece of toast before you feel a sob bubble up from your throat, and you just sit on the kitchen floor, back resting against the cabinet as you cry into your hands.

You never intended on fighting. You didn't want him to hurt. But you don't know what to do. Here, in the isolation of the apartment.

So you clean. Trembling hands wiping carefully at each surface as if you could somehow purge it of the memories of last night and this morning.

You wash the dishes, apologetic for using them.

You hang up his cardigan, the one he always lets you wear when the apartment runs cold, feeling like you don't deserve it's warmth, anymore.

By the time dinner rolls around, you don't know what to do. If he's even coming home. He didn't text all day, but neither did you.

You turn off the majority of the lights late in the evening, wrap your arms around a throw pillow and curl up on your side on the sofa. You managed a bowl of cereal around dinner, knowing Spencer would be even more upset with you if you hadn't eaten all day. It wasn't enough, but you didn't want more.

By the time he comes home, you close your eyes, pretend you're asleep. He walks right past you, not even seeing you in the dark.

It's a few minutes later when his soft footsteps pad into the living room, stopping right by the sofa.

You swallow. It's a couple seconds later when you feel it, the way he tugs at your leg, forcing you to uncurl as he lays his lengthy body on the sofa next to you, pulling you into his chest. You're stiff, unsure. Until his palm glides warmly across your back, and a quiet, "I'm sorry." Slips past his lips.

Your lips immediately turn downward, trembling all the while as heat builds behind your eyes.

"I shouldn't have left like that this morning." He soothes, hand continuing it's gentle ministrations. "I never should have raised my voice." He continues, "I should have given you space when you asked for it."

You sniffle, his scent filling your senses as you finally wrap your arms around him. "I'm sorry, too." You cry, "I didn't want to fight, I didn't mean to start it. I had bad timing, I should have given you space as well. I just didn't want to react badly, I wanted to be mature. But I couldn't do it."

"I didn't give you the chance to." He says, hand cupping the back of your head.

"I'm sorry. I'm still learning." You cry.

"I am, too." He agrees gently.

He takes a deep breath, then backs up a little to look at you, wiping tears from your face.

"Can you forgive me?"

"Of course I can. Can you forgive me?" You ask.

"Yes." He says, pressing a warm kiss to your forehead.

You stay like that for a while. Spencer doesn't mention that leaving you like that reminded him of his own parents, of the angry man in his house.

He doesn't want to be like that.

"Come to bed?" He asks. "It's cold without you."

"Okay," you nod.

You do your routines quietly, climbing into bed and cuddling close. Spencer makes a point of cupping your cheeks, looking into your eyes as he tells you he loves you, and presses a warm kiss right between your brows. He holds you tightly, knowing what needs to happen to avoid this in the future, and also makes a mental note to thank Penelope for talking some sense into him at the office.

You'll talk it through another time, but for now, you'll safely rest in one anothers arms, making up for the time lost the night before.

[blluesiide]

★ ;— when bucky slips into the Winter Soldier, only your touch can bring him back. even when he doesn’t remember you, his body does—your voice, your warmth. In the quiet of your shared apartment, you remind him he’s still human, still loved..and he always finds his way back to you.

you were used to it by now—the random moments when he slipped between who he really was and who they turned him into. the Winter Soldier. It usually happened after the nightmares…after the trigger words being repeated over and over in his head, the past mistakes he did while he was still brainwashed by them. but without a command, he was harmless. still, when he reverted, he was still unpredictable. dangerous in a way, only someone trained to be a weapon could be.

you were the only one who could handle him—you and bucky always stayed close to one another. you could tell when every moment he switched, even when he didn’t know you, when his memories were buried deep, he still recognized the feeling of your touch. the warmth of your hand. the way you looked at him like he was still human. It was 3 a.m. in the small apartment you shared—a quiet space meant to keep him grounded. safe. you had gotten up for a glass of water, padding quietly into the kitchen, unaware of the familiar dark blue eyes fixed on you from the shadows. you took a sip, set the glass down—and that’s when you felt it. that undeniable weight of someone watching you. you turned. there he stood in the doorway, still and silent.

this wasn’t your bucky.

his jaw was tense, face expressionless, posture military straight. and those bright blue eyes—usually filled with something soft and warm—were darker now. emotionless. cold. but you didn’t panic. you knew better. without a command, he wouldn’t hurt you. You turned to face him completely. “come,” you said gently, in Russian. he moved. you took a cautious step back, suddenly reminded of just how tall he really was. you’d be lying if you said your heart wasn’t racing. he stopped a few inches away, towering over you, eyes locked on yours. still, you smiled—small, soft and slowly lifted your hand to his cheek. the effect was immediate..he leaned into your touch.

he remembered instantly.

“do you remember who I am?” you spoke again in Russian, your voice barely above a whisper. he shook his head no, but you saw it—the confusion. the flicker of something familiar. he didn’t know your name.. your face. but the moment your skin touched his, he felt it. safe. warmth. a sense of calm he didn’t understand. he didn’t know why—but you made him feel human. he stepped in closer, pressing you gently back against the counter. “your touch…?” he murmured in Russian, almost like a question. he leaned in further, like a lost soul searching for something familiar. his metal arm braced beside you on the countertop, boxing you in. you didn’t move. you couldn’t. then, unexpectedly, he turned his head and pressed a kiss into your palm. a sigh left his lips—slow, steady, almost like an exhale of recognition. In that moment, you felt the shift. his posture softened. his muscles relaxed.

your bucky was back.

“It happened again,” he murmured, his voice low and full of shame. you reached up, tugging him closer until your bodies were pressed together, chest to chest. “It did,” you whispered, “but you didn’t hurt me.” he frowned, eyes clouded with guilt. “buck, listen to me,” you said gently, “I know you’d never hurt me. and even if you did, I wouldn’t be angry. what they did to you—you didn’t have a choice. so believe me when I say this..I’m not afraid of you.”

you leaned your forehead against his. he closed his eyes, breathing deeply. a sigh of relief slipped from his lips. It sounded crazy, but you loved these moments. the vulnerable ones. they reminded you that bucky trusted you enough to let his guard down. that he didn’t always has to be strong. you took a shaky breath and opened your eyes, finding his still closed, his face leaning into your touch. then, with a quiet sigh, he slid his hands—one metal, one flesh—around your thighs and lifted you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist.

he felt safe with you. and you felt just as safe with him.

[blluesiide]

THINKING ABOUT girl dad!spencer reid

girl dad!spencer who called himself “the happiest man in the world” when you gave birth to your first daughter, his eyes practically glinting with joy.

girl dad!spencer who didn’t just want a wife and a kid, but wanted to be a husband and a father. and that’s what made you want to marry him in the first place.

girl dad!spencer who was so scared to reproduce his own father’s mistakes, that he spent your entire pregnancy reading books on parenthood.

girl dad!spencer who doesn’t sing your daughter to sleep like you do, because he’s got a terrible singing voice. instead, he whispers random facts and stories to her, even though she doesn’t understand half of it.

girl dad!spencer who gets up early on saturday mornings to make pancakes for both of you, and never raises his voice when the little girl spills maple syrup everywhere.

girl dad!spencer who lets your daughter do glam on him, even if his colleagues laugh when he presents cases with pink nails.

girl dad!spencer who never ever treats her like a baby, having regular talks with her about life and her favourite books, to make her feel important.

girl dad!spencer who comes back from week long cases and wants to make it up, so he makes her skip school and takes her to the park, never without getting ice cream.

girl dad!spencer who regularly acknowledges the fact that you’re an amazing mother. in his mind, he’s not even half a great as you are, and he never takes you for granted.

girl dad!spencer who almost tears up when his two favourite girls wake him up on father’s day, practically crushing him when you attack him with cuddles

girl dad!spencer who is SUCH A DILF

[blluesiide]

summary — pining!reader admiring spencer while he’s reading to here

pairings — pining!reader x oblivious!spencer

warnings — fluff, spencer blushing and stuttering

The soft lamplight cast a warm glow across the room, illuminating the pages of the worn book in Spencer’s hands. You, perched on the edge of the plush armchair opposite him, felt a familiar ache in your chest. He was reading aloud, his voice a low, comforting rumble that filled the quiet space, and you were utterly captivated – not just by the story, but by him.

His brow was furrowed in concentration, the glasses perched on his nose slipping ever so slightly. A stray lock of brown hair had fallen across his forehead, and you had an almost overwhelming urge to reach out and brush it back. He paused, looking up to meet your gaze, a small, inquiring smile playing on his lips. "And then, the hero realized his true strength lay not in his brawn, but in his intellect," he read, a hint of triumph in his tone.

You offered a breathless, "Mm-hmm." Every fiber of your being was focused on him, a silent symphony of admiration echoing in your mind. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he was amused by a passage, the subtle gestures he made to emphasize a point, the sheer intelligence that radiated from him – it all contributed to the quiet turmoil in your heart. You were pining, plain and simple, and Spencer, bless his brilliant, oblivious heart, had absolutely no inkling.

He continued reading, the narrative unfolding beautifully, but your mind was elsewhere, constructing elaborate scenarios where he did notice, where he returned even a fraction of the affection you felt. You imagined him looking up, his eyes widening with a sudden realization, a blush creeping up his neck as he saw you not just as a friend, but as something more.

And then, as if summoned by your deepest wishes, it happened. He came across a particularly tender passage, a description of quiet affection between two characters, and his voice faltered, a faint blush beginning to dust his cheeks. He cleared his throat, his gaze flickering from the book to you, then quickly back to the page. His fingers, usually so steady, fumbled slightly with the corner of the book.

"Are you alright, Spencer?" you asked, a hopeful tremor in your voice.

He mumbled something inarticulate, his blush deepening. "Just this particular phrasing rather evocative," he managed, his voice a little softer than before. He tried to continue reading, but a slight stammer crept into his words, tripping over a few syllables. He kept his eyes glued to the page, but you could almost feel the heat radiating from his face.

A slow, delighted smile spread across your lips. He was blushing. Spencer Reid was actually flustered. It was a tiny crack in his carefully constructed intellectual fortress, a fleeting glimpse of something soft and vulnerable.

🏷, @spencerreid66 @starrii-sturns @sleepysongbirdsings @khxna @raysmayhem-72 @multiversefanfics @boopiemadz

[blluesiide]

It Sparks Across Flesh

abstract: going to the movies causes you acute distress, but spencer knows one way to bring your mind back to the present (title from A New Kind of Love by Frou Frou)

The movie theatre can be a fun place. People from all walks of life sitting down with their snacks in hand, ready to watch a good film.

You don't know why it makes you anxious. You're always fine, just up until you actually sit down. There's a moment, in the stillness of such a large, dark, cold room full of strangers and uncertainties that unsettles you for a moment, despite knowing nothing will really happen.

Spencer notices the hitch in your breath, he always does. Even with the only light in the room emitting from the large silver screen in front of you.

He doesn't say anything, but he slowly reaches up, brushing your hair back as he leans in, and presses one warm, firm kiss on your neck, just below your ear. The breath from his nose tickles your skin, and he stays long enough for you to take one deep breath, and he rests his forehead against the side of your head as his hand finds its place on your thigh.

You take another deep breath, steadier as you lean against him. When he backs up a bit to look at you, steady as ever, you offer a soft smile.

You don't have to say the words 'thank you'. He smiles softly back, kisses your cheek, and leaves his hand on your thigh as he turns back towards the screen. His warmth pours into you, enough to relax your muscles and enjoy the evening.