luwritesstuff

[luwritesstuff]

hey y'all

sorry i was MIA for a while kind of got my heart ripped to shreds (again) and now i am questioning my entire life but hi i may or may not be coming back with some new things we shall see

[luwritesstuff]

𝙄 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙖 𝘽𝙚 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨 // 𝙎.𝙍

Summary: “Tell me what you’d like for us to do together.” — or the one where Spencer finds in himself his first serious relationship and must navigate intimacy for the first time too.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader (she/her)

Word count: 14.2k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ♡ Virgin!Spencer, dry humping, Spencer cums in his pants bc why not, fingering (f! receiving), some insecurities and sex used as a coping mechanism mentioned but otherwise very fluffy.

A/N: Happy (belated) Valentine! Set in the same universe as THIS, so go read that first if you want to know more about how they met and their dynamic. English is not my first language and please tell me what you think? That's all for now ♡

The early morning light seeped through the heavy curtains—thick and dark, softening the edges of the dawn—yet still, the light found its way, spilling in through the gaps, casting pale, golden shadows across the unmade bed. You stirred beneath the weight of the blanket, tangled around your bare legs, drifting in that fragile space between slumber and waking. The air was cold—the kind of raw, unrelenting cold only January could bring—lingering in the room, palpable even beneath the warmth of the sheets.

Sheets. They were Spencer’s dark green sheets. 

You stretched, finally waking up. The room was filled with nothing but the low hum of the radiator and the audible breaths from the man beside you. The world outside is still asleep. Soon, car engines would rumble to life, footsteps would slap against wet pavement, and the sky would brighten into daylight. But for now, your tired eyes had nothing else to focus on but his steady breathing. 

You shifted onto your side, the mattress dipping slightly beneath your weight. Spencer was lying there, still soundly asleep. His hair was a mess as it fell over his forehead, lips parted with the slow rhythm of his breath. Your heart did a… thing—an erratic, fluttering thing that Spencer would probably have a precise physiological explanation for. To you, it was just nerve-wracking. You wanted to reach out, to brush the hair from his face, to trace the line of his jaw, to simply exist closer. Alas, a small space remained between you, as if you’d drifted apart in the night. Cuddling wasn’t off-limits, but whatever was unfolding between you two was still new. 

So new that it was scary for you both.

New in the sense that touches didn’t come instinctively, that words didn’t fall from your lips without second-guessing yourself—that every. single. advance. felt like a make-or-break moment. 

Like—whoops—you kissed him too hard, too long, and now he was going to think that all you wanted was to sleep with him. 

You didn’t. Or you did, but it wasn’t why you liked him. 

You liked that he was smart, that he could ramble on for hours just like you could—except he usually made more sense. You liked that he was sensitive, that it felt like you could tell him anything (even though you never did). You liked that he was observant, that he noticed the small things most people overlooked. Like how he’d bring you dinner from your favorite restaurant during your evening shifts at the library. How he’d carry your bag on the way home because bringing work home with you meant lugging around a fuck-ton of books. How he knew you liked honey in your tea but couldn’t stand when it was substituted with sugar. The little things.

That he was stupidly attractive and that you had raging hormones inside of you truly came second to all of that. 

Right on cue, Spencer’s eyes fluttered open, pulling you from your train of thought. With tired movements, he stirred around in bed, finally finding you to look at. 

Your heart clenched at the sight of him. 

“Your hair is getting long, Spence,” you mumbled, your voice gruff from not having spoken yet today. 

Spencer’s lips pressed together in a small, sleepy frown as he blinked at you in slow, uncoordinated intervals. His hand moved from underneath the blanket to softly tug backwards at the hair that hung before his eyes. 

He’d gone from being terrified of you seeing him shirtless to almost always sleeping without wearing anything on his upper body. You heard yourself sigh at the view of his exposed neck and collarbones as the covers slipped down. His skin looked so soft. You knew that it was. Yet it wasn’t just yours to touch. You didn’t dare to. 

Flipping onto your stomach, you smushed your face into the pillow, breathing in the scent of the laundry detergent he used. A simple, clean, and understated scent that went up your nostrils and clouded your brain like it was a fucking drug. 

You saw in your periphery how Spencer rested his hand next to your face on the mattress, casually with his palm flat against it. It almost tickled in your fingers, wanting to reach out and touch him. 

A sound slipped from him, something between a sigh and a groan, low and strained. He shifted, but not closer. His hand twitched against the mattress, fingers flexing once before going still. Freezing, almost.

Your brows furrowed. “Why do you look so uncomfortable?” 

“No, uhm—” 

You pushed up slightly, watching his expression. “Spencer, is something wrong?” 

“Stop talking, please,” he muttered, eyes squeezed shut.

You blinked at his sudden plea, concern creeping in just as he bolted upright, sheets falling from his body and landing messily on the bed again. 

“I need to go to the bathroom,” he announced. 

You propped yourself up on your elbows, brows drawing together. “That’s all?” 

Spencer didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his hand shot out, grabbing his pillow with a clumsy sort of urgency. He held it in front of himself, almost like a shield.

Your gaze flickered between him and the pillow, realization hitting like a slow burn. ���You’re taking your pillow to the bathroom��oh!”

Heat flooded your face as the truth settled. A grin threatened to pull at your lips, but you bit down on it, trying to keep your expression neutral. Spencer’s back went impossibly straighter, his grip on the pillow tightening like it had betrayed him. You fought the urge to tease him. His entire body radiated embarrassment, his cheeks a deep shade of red, and for all the things Spencer was—brilliant, logical, analytical—he was also so deeply, painfully shy about certain things.

Morning wood was a normal phenomenon. You knew that Spencer knew that. In a weird way, you felt a sense of pride because of it. It had happened while he was sleeping next to you. Sure, it was an involuntary response many times. But Spencer had also literally asked you to stop talking because you affected him. Didn’t make it any less mortifying for him, though. 

“Spencer, you don’t have to be embarrassed,” you said gently.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he all but rushed into the bathroom, shutting the door with a sharp, definitive click.

You exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking your head, falling back onto the mattress. “Did you just lock the door?” 

From inside the bathroom, you could hear rattling. His voice came, muffled but unmistakably miserable. “Can we please forget that this ever happened?” 

“I mean, yeah we could do that. Or we could talk about it like adults.” 

Silence.

Your lips formed into a grin.

“Are you at least taking care of it in there?” 

More silence.

Then, finally, a defeated, “I’m—I’m gonna wait it out.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled up, rolling onto your side to cuddle back into the covers. “Suit yourself.”

A few minutes passed before the door creaked open again. Spencer hesitated in the hallway outside his bedroom, looking both exhausted and like he wanted to disappear. His face was still a little pink, his hair a mess from sleep and, presumably, from pressing his forehead against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. The pillow was no longer needed as a shield. No imprint could be seen through the flannel of his pajama pants, because of course, you looked. 

You tilted your head, your smile softening. “Over now?” 

“I need to get to work,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “But we’ll talk about it later, okay?”

You sat up fully, resting against the headboard, watching as he moved toward his dresser, already reaching for a change of clothes. “You’ll get a case and be gone for a week,” you pointed out. “I know how this works.”

His hands stilled for a moment.

“So,” you continued, “can I talk while you get ready?”

Spencer hesitated, then gave a slow nod. He kept his focus on his dresser as he changed out his sleepwear for his everyday attire. 

You took a breath. “I know that we’ve… experienced different things—” 

“I haven’t experienced anything,” Spencer cut you off. 

“You made out with Lila Archer in a pool. That’s something.” 

He huffed, throwing you a look over his shoulder. 

“Okay. Low blow. I’m sorry for that.” 

One drunken night out with the team (well, sober for you and Spencer), and you had found out so many things about Spencer that he probably would’ve never told you himself. 

You sort of knew to not make fun of him because of his lack of experience, but you also had this thing where your brain just said the first thing it could think of in every goddamned situation. It got you in trouble, but in this case it almost felt necessary to show him how casual a conversation about intimacy could be. 

You kicked the covers off of your legs and sat on the edge of the bed before you continued talking. “We’ve lived different lives, done different things, but if we want to figure us out together, then we have to talk about the sexual stuff too—” 

“But I don’t know how,” Spencer pointed out, walking around the room to face you, standing so close but not close enough. A few inches forward and his legs would be touching yours. 

You sighed. “I’m not saying we do it all right now. I guess I’m more asking how you feel about it. If you can explain it without running off to hide the next time you wake up with a boner?”  

Spencer’s face twisted at your direct use of words, and you could easily spot it. All for being casual… when your crude words might actually do more harm than good. 

He sat down next to you, still half-dressed with a button-up shirt undone and his tie in a tight grip in his hand. 

“I don’t take opportunities,” he simply stated. 

You frowned in confusion. “Yeah, you do.” 

He hadn’t reached his level of success without recognizing opportunities and pursuing them. His intellect alone wouldn’t have guaranteed anything. He had to view the world as something to learn from, to make something good or at least knowledgeable from it, which he had in your eyes.  

“No,” he corrected, turning slightly. “I mean, like social ones. I don’t put myself out there. And now I’m a grown man with no experience. That feels wrong.”

“Wrong in what way?” 

Spencer’s jaw clenched as he swallowed, his gaze dropping to where your hands rested in your lap. He exhaled, his fingers curling against his palm. “It feels like I should’ve just gotten drunk in college and gotten it over with.”

A surprised snort came from you before you could stop it. “Spencer, you were a child when you went to college.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” he admitted, “the first time.”

You shook your head, smile lingering. “Well, you still shouldn’t have done anything you weren’t comfortable with. And if you aren’t comfortable now either, that’s fine. But please, talk to me about it before you push me away.”

Spencer’s fingers flexed once before he reached for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. You liked when he was the one to initiate contact because that meant you weren’t crossing any of his boundaries. 

“I don’t want to push you away. I’ve just never felt this way before,” he murmured, voice hesitant. His grip on your hand tightened slightly. “And it scares me. Honestly. But the idea of never moving past this, of never trying for something more… that scares me even more.”

You squeezed his hand in return. 

“Okay. That’s good for me to know. We can work with that.” 

You hadn’t realized how tense the mood was until you saw Spencer visibly relax at your words, his shoulders slouching down as he let go of your hand to start buttoning his shirt. 

“I guess I should get ready too,” you murmured. 

Before your legs could even hit the floor, Spencer’s palm pressed against your bare thigh, his touch gentle but firm, halting you in place.

“You know you don’t have to leave just because I am,” he said. His gaze, soft and lingering, traced over your face. “You’re allowed to stay. Sleep some more. You’re working the night shift, right?” 

You hummed in confirmation, only focused on the warmth from his hand spreading through to your skin, creating a ball of fire in your stomach. Your little sleep shorts did nothing to cover the skin he was touching. He probably wasn’t even aware of how he was affecting you, seeing the contact as simply innocent. 

“Mhm, so stay,” he urged. “There’s stuff in the fridge to make breakfast.”

Spencer shifted, scanning the dimly lit room until he spotted his bag on the floor. Leaning over the side of the bed, he rummaged through it before pulling out his keys. With a small jingle, he dangled them in front of you.

“I’ll leave you my home keys. Lock when you leave and throw them in my mail slot.” 

Your fingers closed around them, the metal cool against your palm. He had a little keychain with the Las Vegas welcome sign. That the sweetest man you’d ever met was from Sin City was still a juxtaposition you almost couldn’t believe. 

“Spence?”  

He tilted his head, looking at you musingly. 

You smiled, your fingers treading to tug lightly on the sleeve of his shirt. 

“Kiss me before you go.” 

For a second, he just sat there. 

Then, slowly, the bed dipped as he braced himself against the mattress, his palm planting next to your waist. His nose brushed yours, and the warmth of his breath ghosted against your lips. There was a pause—a heartbeat—before he closed the space between you.

He kissed you, soft and hesitant at first. 

If you asked Spencer, he probably knew the exact amount of kisses you’d shared. Or he could at least calculate some sort of estimated number. You just knew that it was still a new, almost paralyzing feeling for you. You couldn’t even begin to fathom the nerves that he was feeling. 

But when you kissed him back with more intent, when your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt, you felt it. The way he melted, just a little.

When he pulled back, his forehead lingered against yours, breath unsteady.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

Then, with a reluctant sigh, he straightened, stepping back to finish getting ready. You crawled back beneath the covers, letting your head hit the pillow once again. 

You watched him with quiet amusement as he pulled on a sweater, smoothing it down with precise, almost methodical movements. His hands moved quickly—buttoning his cuffs, slipping on his watch—but there was an unspoken hesitation in the air, something that made him pause every so often. 

“You’re staring,” you pointed out. 

He huffed a small breath through his nose, shaking his head as he picked up his bag. “I’m… acknowledging.”

You raised a brow. “Acknowledging what?”

Spencer didn’t answer. He simply smiled and swung the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder, adjusting it absently before making his way to the front door. Just as his fingers curled around the handle, he hesitated.

And then, slowly, he turned back.

You were still in his bed, tangled in the sheets, looking entirely at home. He almost wanted to laugh at how it made him feel, seeing your bare foot stick out or how your hair was a little messy from sleep. 

Spencer wished he understood why his heart did a… thing every time he looked at you. The thing, where it felt like it was doing somersaults around in his ribcage. 

He swallowed, forcing himself to speak. “I don’t do this,” he admitted. “I don’t casually wake up with someone and… feel okay about leaving.”

You smiled, smushing your cheek against the pillow. “You’re not leaving. You’re going to work.” 

“You don’t mind me rushing out?” 

“I love having a big bed all to myself. Go to work, genius. I’m a phone call away.”

Spencer’s grip on his bedroom door tightened before he finally turned to leave. He stepped into the hallway but couldn’t help himself—one last glance. One last look at you in his bed, at the imprint he had left beside you, at the way you had settled into his space so effortlessly.

As he walked to the train station, a pep in his step, he had the time to reflect on what had actually happened this morning and how it was something that he had never actually experienced before. 

Someone else seeing him aroused. 

And his stupid inability to talk about sex. Well, he’d had to do it for a few different cases. But that was objective facts about the human psyche and sexuality as a concept. This was as subjective as it could be. It was literally about his own… penis. 

His inability to have sex was an even worse subject for him to think about. Inability was maybe the wrong word. Was it more about how he hadn’t wanted to? 

You were right, though. He hadn’t seen the point in doing it in college, not because he was emotionless and only focused on his studies and career, but because if he had done it, it wouldn’t have been meaningful. He needed sex to be meaningful to serve the purpose he felt like it would have in his life. 

It’d be pointless for him to have pointless sex. That was clear, and still true. 

But then you’d stormed into his life with your unapologetic way of being—your sharp wit and easy laughter. You had your own layers he had yet to peel back, but it didn’t scare him as much as it did excite him to know you that way. You, with your warmth and your patience, with the way you made him feel wanted without expectation, like he wasn’t some puzzle missing too many pieces to be worth solving.

And you were the furthest thing from pointless to him. Intimacy with you didn’t feel like something to analyze or rationalize. It felt like something to want.

Life felt futile without a sense of contribution, without the feeling that his experiences grew with him rather than passing by like scenery outside the window of a bus. The people around him changed, but he remained the same as he had been at age fifteen—only more rugged, more worn-out, and with a face that now bore the knowledge of what Dilaudid did to the body. He couldn’t let that stay the same anymore. He had to learn to see it differently.

Fuck, he needed to figure this out.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

Spencer turned off the engine as he parked, letting the windshield wipers go one more time to take away the last lingering raindrops. It was late in the evening, and the streetlights reflected gold through the windows. He sent you a quick text that he had arrived before stepping out of his car. The cool February air hit him as he adjusted his scarf, his own breath fogging up his glasses that he had to wear when he drove. 

He scanned the street for the house number in the address you had texted him, spotting it quickly. The building itself was a modest townhouse. A little worn down but full of character, with overgrown and leafless rosebushes lining the front of it. The windows of your friend’s apartment glowed warmly against the night, the silhouettes of moving figures behind sheer curtains. He could hear muffled voices, occasional bursts of laughter, and the faint notes of an indie song playing scratchily from a speaker. He recognized it as something you’d listen to, but nothing more distinct than that. 

He hesitated near the entrance, slowly walking up the stairs to the front door, taking in the view showing through the curtains. 

Girls' night. Spencer was no stranger to the concept. He and Morgan had been turned down plenty of times when they’d tried to tag along with the women of the BAU after work. He’d also seen them the next day—giggly, whispering, exchanging knowing looks about whatever had happened. He wondered if you’d be the same. Would you come back all giggly, or did girls' night mean something different depending on the group? He didn’t know your friends, after all.

A second later, the door swung open, and there you were—stepping out into the night, huddled in your coat. You didn’t notice him right away, busy adjusting your bag over your shoulder as you waved something off behind you, closing the door with a thud. 

Something being one of your friends that Spencer could just about see a sliver of. 

Turning around, he watched as you almost got scared of his presence, not expecting him to be standing so close. You lifted your hands to your face in mild shock, and Spencer couldn’t help but let out a little laugh. 

“Red?” he asked, tilting his head in mild curiosity.

Your nails. Newly painted a bright red color. So painting nails was part of girls’ night. For weeks after you started seeing each other, Spencer had quietly wondered how your nails were always so perfectly done. He now knew that one of your friends was training to be a nail technician and would gladly accept anyone whose fingers she could practice on. 

You glanced down at your hands as if just remembering them. “For Valentine’s Day,” you replied matter-of-factly. 

Spencer hummed, taking the opportunity to hold one of your hands in his own. Was he supposed to ask you to be his Valentine? Before he could respond with anything more, the muffled sound of laughter and movement from behind the door stopped him in his tracks. And he watched you shift uncomfortably because of it. 

“Can we walk to the car, now?” you asked, almost dragging him down the entrance stairs, your eyes flickering between the door and where his car was parked. 

“Why are you in such a hurry?” he croaked out, almost immediately clocking what he thought was embarrassment from your side. Down the stairs, he gripped your hand stronger, making you unable to walk further. “Do you not want your friends to see me?” 

The way you instantly turned to face him, eyes wide with disbelief, made something tighten in his chest.

“You really think that?” you asked, voice soft, a little breathless, like the idea alone was absurd. “Spencer, no—it’s the opposite, really.”

He blinked, lips parting slightly, but before he could ask what that meant, you sighed and pointed with your free hand up to the apartment again. “My friends are standing in the window trying to get a look at you.” 

Looking up, the sheer curtains betrayed them. All of them huddled close to the window to see… well, what were they supposed to see?  

“I’ll get a text in approximately 30 seconds where they will guesstimate the size of your penis and how you are in bed.” 

You deadpanned the words. Spencer would never understand how you did it. It didn’t faze you in the slightest, as you moved to get your phone from your coat pocket. 

Spencer choked. “What? But we’ve never—”

Sure enough, your phone buzzed with a new text message. He didn’t get another word in before you read it out loud. 

“Grower, not a shower. 4 inches soft. Probably kinky in a subtle way, like he’ll tie your hands up while asking about your day.” 

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, adjusting his glasses like that would somehow hide the way his flustered blush was spreading up all the way to his ears. He barely managed to form a coherent thought, let alone a response. 

Instead, his brain short-circuited, flashing between two equally mortifying thoughts: (1) The fact that your friends—people he had never even spoken to—were speculating about his sex life. And (2), the fact that you were standing here, repeating it all so casually, without any indication that it embarrassed you in the slightest.

Did they really think that? Did you?

And worse—could they be right?

Because, if he was being honest, Spencer had thought about it. A lot. Maybe more than was healthy. He thought about the way it would feel, the sound you would make. The way he imagined your body to look naked was some sort of fictional image burned into his mind like some old TV screen. Would he like to tie you up? Would that hurt your wrists? 

He had thought about it so much that the idea of it actually happening made him feel like his entire body would shut down.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He was scared that you were so special to him, and that he could never be special enough to you. Because you’d done it all before. Even your friends knew that. To the point where they expected it from you—that your sexual endeavors were common enough that they became a casual topic of conversation. Spencer believed that Morgan might faint if he told him that he’d been thinking of having sex with you, like obsessively thinking. If it did happen, you’d always be special to him. Hell, even if it never happened, you were special enough to probably linger in his mind for decades. To you, it was possible for him to just be another number. A notch in your bedpost. Not that you’d ever describe it like that. He knew that. But still, the premise remained. 

“See?” you said, nudging him lightly, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts. “We should’ve started walking when I said it because now you’re all embarrassed.”

“I’m not—” he started, but faltered, because clearly, he was. “Could they really guess all that from just looking at me?” 

“I don’t know, you’re the profiler,” you pointed out, trying to drag him closer to the car again, but Spencer stayed rooted. “They’re mostly doing it to mess with me because I refused to share any gossip with them tonight.” 

“Is that what girls’ night means? You just sit around and gossip?” he wondered out loud. 

You snorted, shaking your head. “Oh, like you don’t know the ins and outs of Morgan’s love life?” 

“That’s different,” he argued immediately. “I never ask to know anything, but he tells me anyway.” 

You shot him a pointed look. “And you listen.”

He opened his mouth to counter, but quickly shut it again because, well… you had a point. Instead, he huffed, looking down at the sidewalk as he let you make your way to the car. 

After a beat of silence, he glanced over at you, still holding your hand in his. “But really, do I look like I would… act like that?” 

The hesitation in his tone made you pause, turning your head to take him in properly. He wasn’t just flustered anymore—he was genuinely unsure because he had never even considered how people perceived him in a… sexual manner. 

You exhaled, tilting your head at him. “I don’t know what you want me to say—that you practically have a sign on your forehead saying virgin? Would that be better?” 

“No, no,” he said quickly. “I just…” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know how to talk about this.”

Your expression softened. “I know that, which is why I wanted us to go immediately.” 

He opened his mouth, grasping for something to say that would make him feel like he had some semblance of control over the situation. “You didn’t have to read that text out loud.” 

“It’s impossible to lie to you. You know that.” 

By the time you both reached the car, Spencer rushed ahead, opening the passenger door for you. It was instinct, something he did without thinking. But when he turned back to see you watching him, something flickered in your expression. 

“I should learn how to talk about it, though.” He cleared his throat. “That’d be useful for when it eventually happens.” 

He watched you smile as he said it. He hinted at it actually happening. That it was something he wanted. 

“We don’t have to hurry,” you assured as you slid into your seat. 

Spencer swallowed hard, moving around to the driver’s side. He slipped into his seat, hands gripping the wheel, eyes stubbornly focused straight ahead as he started driving. He could feel your gaze on him, patient but knowing. 

You knew him. Even after quite a short time. He couldn’t exactly remember the date on which he first saw you at the library. But it had been 36 days since your first kiss on New Year’s Eve. And you knew him.

He didn’t have to hide a single part of himself from you. Because you seemed to like them all. Or, at least, understand them all. From the shy little boy who was too smart for his own good, seeing his mother get sick and his father turn absent—to the messy adult version of him who had struggled with addiction and closeness in any sort of relationship. You understood them all, though the layers. And you liked some of them to the point where it made you visibly affected. And you protected him in ways that he protected himself too. 

Spencer could only hope to get to know you well enough to understand all versions of you. That you’d let him in, even to your darkest corners. Because he liked you so much it hurt, and felt protective over you in a way that wasn’t even comparable to the most helpless of victims he’d encountered. 

“Don’t do that thing with your tongue.” 

That startled him enough to glance at you. “What thing?” 

“Poking the inside of your cheek with it and looking all smug.” 

Spencer blinked, confused. He hadn’t even realized that he was doing anything, completely lost in his own head. “Is it disturbing for you?” 

“No, it’s distracting. You look hot.” 

“Oh.” He blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. “S-should I drive to your place or mine?” 

Smooth segue, Spencer. Really smooth. 

“You’re assuming we’re spending the night together? Awfully presumptuous, Spence,” you said, placing a hand on your chest to mimic being offended. 

Spencer tried to keep his face straight, forcing a serious answer from you. 

“Drive to your place, it’s bigger.” 

“But I’ve never even seen your apartment,” he argued. 

“For good reason,” you muttered. “It’s messy.” 

“I do not care.” 

“Fine, my place it is,” you sighed, telling him where to drive. “But if you’re mean about it, I’m kicking you out.” 

Spencer only nodded. 

He saw you relax into your seat after that, turning the heat down in the car, humming along quietly to whatever was playing the radio. Spencer thought about how he could easily get used to having you next to him, especially in simple moments like this. Picking you up, or coming home from work and seeing you in his space. Or maybe him being in your space. It almost clouded his brain, the easy domesticity. He had to remind himself that he was driving a couple of times. 

And then he thought of it. A joke, really. He could do that sometimes—think of something to say in conversations long after they had ended. Usually it was to save himself from remembering something embarrassing or unfitting that he’d actually said, but this time, he just wanted to make you laugh. 

“It’s more like 5 inches soft, by the way.” 

“Excuse me?” 

You squealed, leaning forward while also staring at him with eyes wide open. Your hand gripped the car door, and Spencer was momentarily scared your nails would scratch the interior. 

He grinned, acting unbothered. “Just thought I’d let you know.”

You exhaled sharply, your hand still gripping the door, trying (and failing) at holding back a giggle. “I’ll deflower you right in this car if you want to.” 

Spencer felt the color drain from his face at the sound of your words. He couldn’t beat you at your own game. That game being dropping the most sexually charged remarks in casual conversation. 

“No?” you teased. “Then stop with the dirty talk.” 

This was going to be a very long short drive. 

.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

On Valentine’s Day, Spencer found himself at the train station after coming home from a difficult case in Detroit. It had been such a long and simultaneously hurried process that he hadn’t even realized that they were coming back home on Valentine’s Day. Garcia’s homemade pink cupcakes waiting for them at the office had refreshed his mind. 

So, now he stood at the train station in D.C., unsure of whether to go home, to the library, or to your apartment. Mostly he worried about you picking up his phone call, pacing the platform with his phone pressed against his ear. Or maybe he was worried you wouldn’t pick up at all. Your shift had just ended. You should be able to answer. He really should’ve asked you to be his Valentine instead of waiting until the 14th to even think about it, or what if you found it all to be capitalist bullshit anyway—

“Hi Spence! How’s Michigan?”

Your happy voice coming through the speaker in his phone halted his spiraling thoughts. 

“Hi—Uhm, I’m actually home, or at the station. We could wrap up early and not have to spend another night.” 

“Well, that’s good, I guess. Successful case?” you wondered, breathing heavily. He could picture you walking around the library with quick steps, which was what you were doing by the sound of it. 

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Spencer answered. He’d noticed that you were often too curious for your own good. Every time he could tell you details from a case, you regretted it afterwards, not actually wanting to know such gruesome things. “Why does it sound like you’ve just run a marathon?” 

You let out a breathless laugh. “We had a bunch of arts and crafts for the kids today, and they made a whole mess. Glue, glitter, paper scraps everywhere. And I swear, once kids figure out how to use scissors, they think they’re unstoppable.”

A faint smile tugged at Spencer’s lips as he imagined it. You were so good with the kids coming to the activities organized by the library. 

“Sounds chaotic.”

“Oh, it was,” you confirmed. “Somehow, a three-year-old managed to glue his own sleeve to the table, which, honestly, is kind of impressive.”

Spencer chuckled, rubbing at his temple. “Remind me again why you do this voluntarily?”

“Because it’s cute,” you shot back. “And because somebody has to make sure kids don’t leave libraries thinking they’re just boring old book storage units.”

His smile widened, but before he could respond, you hesitated.

“So, uhm…” you started.

Spencer picked up on it immediately. “You’re running late?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

He glanced at the clock. He hadn’t even made it home yet, and he already knew you were going to exhaust yourself staying behind to clean up. “You know, we don’t have to—”

“But I’ll tell you what,” you interrupted, voice decisive. “Since you’re on my side of town, why don’t you go to my place, and then I’ll show up when I’m done cleaning up?”

Spencer hesitated. He still wasn’t entirely used to the casual intimacy of something as simple as waiting for you at your place. But then again, this—the way you made space for him so effortlessly—was exactly why it had never felt overwhelming.

You didn’t press him for an answer, just kept going, voice slightly distracted like you were already multitasking. “I’ll tell my neighbor to leave my extra set of keys under my doormat right now.”

Spencer nodded before realizing you couldn’t see him. “That’d be great,” he said instead. “I’ll see you later.”

There was a pause, just long enough for him to picture you—probably still standing in the middle of the library, hands on your hips, surveying the mess before sighing and getting back to work.

Then, softer, “Mhm. Buh-bye, Spence.”

The call ended with a quiet click, and for a long moment, Spencer just stood there, staring at his phone.

Being in your apartment alone? Yeah, no. That was weird. 

* * * 

Spencer arrived at your building just as the streetlights flickered on, the city settling into early evening. A bouquet of tulips in his hand, clenched in a tight grip as he made his way up to your level. They were a mixture of red, white, and orange tulips. 

He remembered Garcia once going on a rant about how no woman had red roses as her favorite flower and that men only gave them as gifts as custom and because they hadn’t cared enough to get to know the woman’s actual favorite flower. 

At his quick stop at a flower shop, Spencer had cursed himself for never asking about your favorite flower. But he at least knew he couldn’t buy roses. If not for you, then for the sake of Garcia not being disappointed in him. 

So tulips it was. They were a symbol of affection, after all. He’d read about their symbolism stemming from the Persian tale of Farhad and Shirin. A tragic love story not too far from mirroring Romeo and Juliet. And the colors—red was for love, white was for honesty, and orange was for understanding. Spencer wasn’t sure if he’d tell you all of that. Maybe if you asked. But it was still a nice thought for him to know that his gift had a meaning as is, beyond his intention. 

He rounded the corner to your door, only to pause when he spotted an older woman standing by it, hands clasped in front of her as if she had been waiting for him. Her hair was a soft gray, pulled back into a bun, and she wore a thick cardigan. Kind eyes appraised him from behind gold-rimmed glasses, and when her gaze dropped to the flowers, her lips twitched in approval.

“Tulips?” she mused. “Good choice.” 

Spencer blinked, caught slightly off guard. “Oh—uh, thank you?”

Her smile deepened knowingly. “You must be Spencer.”

“I am, yes.”

She gave a small nod, then reached into her cardigan pocket, pulling out a keyring. “I’m Edith, the neighbor with her keys,” she explained simply. “She asked me to leave them under the doormat, but I figured I’d wait and hand them off in person.”

“Oh, right! Thank you,” Spencer said, taking them carefully from her outstretched hand.

The woman didn’t step away immediately. Instead, she studied him for a long moment, eyes twinkling with something he couldn’t quite place. And then, in a softer voice, she added, “I know it’s not my place to pry, but be kind to her.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed slightly. “Of course,” he said quickly. 

The neighbor hummed, satisfied but not entirely done.

“You’re very welcome to take care of that girl,” she said gently. “Because I don’t think anyone else does.”

It wasn’t pity in her voice. It wasn’t sadness, either. It was just an observation, simple and steady, spoken by someone who had been watching quietly from the sidelines, possibly for a long time. 

He swallowed, fingers curling slightly around the keys in his palm, not having the time to overthink what she’d said. 

“I will.” 

The woman nodded once before turning to walk up the stairs, heading back to her own apartment. 

Spencer watched her go, then turned back to your door.

He let himself inside, stepping into your space. Spencer had adored your apartment ever since the first time you had him over, that time he’d picked you up from girls’ night. 

It was a small space, crowded with your things. You’d moved in fresh out of high school. It was something about not being able to wait any longer to get out of your mother’s house. Then you’d stayed in the same apartment all through college and when you started working at the library. 

And yes, it was messy. But you were a bit of a mess yourself, so it only made sense. It wasn’t unclean in any way, but you placed things around you without any rhyme or reason. You were still able to find everything, though. Spencer had noticed that quite quickly, observing you in your own space. While he’d lounged in the bed after one of your now very casual sleepovers, he’d seen you find your sweater hung on the kitchen door and your favorite tea mug on the bathroom sink. 

There wasn’t a pattern. He had a pattern for most things in his own apartment. But this made sense to you. 

Spencer dropped your keys in a bowl on a table in your entryway. He didn’t want to feel any responsibility over them. It was weird enough to be alone in your space. 

The apartment was eerily quiet as he kicked off his shoes and took a seat on your couch, the tulips placed on your coffee table. He’d wait for you to put them in water, not wanting to go through your kitchen cabinets looking for a vase. 

He thought he could read for a while or maybe turn on the TV. But he didn’t end up doing anything. He mostly looked around the room, twiddling with his fingers as his eyes lingered on your bookshelf and on the artwork you had decided to hang on the wall. 

The blanket draped over the couch, was it handmade? The coasters on your coffee table, were they souvenirs? The Polaroid pictures blu-tacked to your bedroom door, who were they off? 

Spencer could spend hours asking you questions, he thought. He’d find your reasonings interesting even if they weren’t. 

If it had gone ten minutes or an hour when you barged in through the door with the loudest sigh he’d ever heard, Spencer couldn’t answer. You didn’t even say hi when you saw him sitting on your couch, you just dropped your coat to the floor and smiled, taking in the sight. 

“Tulips?” you exclaimed, dropping your bag on the floor too the second you noticed the bouquet lying on the coffee table. Toeing off your Converse on the way over, you looked at him, eyes wide with excitement. “I freaking love tulips!”

Spencer shifted where he sat, lips curving into a small smile. “I hoped so.” 

“But why? For Valentine’s day?” 

His face warmed, and he hummed in acknowledgment as you picked up the flowers, inhaling their scent. 

Spencer watched as you busied yourself placing them in a vase of water, moving around the kitchen like it was second nature. He was about to tell you to leave them in their wrapping to soak for an hour before cutting the stems, but you seemed to already know that. It was supposed to make them last longer. You loved tulips enough to know that. Spencer saw that as a positive indication. 

“I totally didn’t plan anything special for today,” you admitted, walking back into the living room and placing the flowers back on the table. “Did you want us to do something?” 

“Not really,” he answered. “I just got home from a case, and you have acrylic paint on your shirt. Safe to assume we’re both too tired to go out?” 

You glanced down at your stained crewneck and groaned. “Ugh. Yeah. That tracks.”

Your next move shouldn’t have surprised Spencer as much as it did. 

Standing in front of him, you lifted the sweater over your head, the shirt you had on underneath rising with it slightly. The skin of your stomach exposed to him, but what he focused on was how your belt cinched at your waist and how your slacks basically fitted like a second skin before they flared out at the legs. 

“How do you get them to fit so well?” he asked before thinking. 

With your head peeking out from the sweater as you tugged it off, hair getting messy in the process, you raised your eyebrows in amusement. “Spencer, are you staring at my ass?” 

His mouth opened, then closed again. He had definitely been looking.

You only laughed, shaking your head. “I tailor them myself.”

Spencer exhaled, grateful for the shift in conversation. “That makes sense,” he mumbled. “They look nice.”

You walked off to your bedroom, throwing the stained sweatshirt into your hamper of dirty laundry like you were the next big thing in the NBA. 

By the sound of it, you were changing out of your clothes completely. If Spencer had stretched his neck, he might’ve been able to see it through the door. But he didn’t. It didn’t feel appropriate even though he suspected that you left the door wide open on purpose. 

You tiptoed back into the living room wearing shorts and a big t-shirt, your bare feet barely making a sound across the old wooden floors. Spencer should be used to seeing you look so casual, but he was unsure if he ever would be. 

“I got you that book you were looking for, by the way. Someone returned it today,” you started to say as you bent over to rummage through your bag. “And uh… this,” you hesitated, handing him not only the book but also a bright pink slip of paper. “A very insistent little girl told me I had to make my own.” 

You’d made a Valentine’s card. For him. You’d made it for him. Holding the pink paper in his hands, Spencer’s heart squeezed at the sight—messy crayon doodles, slightly uneven letters spelling out Happy Valentine’s Day. It was simple, kind of ridiculous, and absolutely perfect. 

He couldn’t get a word out, simply staring at it. 

You plopped down on the couch beside him, sprawling out with ease, moving pillows and blankets around. At first, you bent your knees to not touch him, but then on instinct you moved them to be in Spencer’s lap as he got the book and card out of the way. 

Your toes matched the red nail polish on your fingers. He hadn’t noticed that before. 

“Why did you want it, anyway? Didn’t think it was your kind of poetry,” you asked, not bothered by his lack of reaction to the card. 

Although, maybe his silence was enough for you to see through him like glass. He’d never gotten a Valentine’s Day gift before. Garcia got everyone cupcakes, sure, but he’d never received one with romantic intentions. 

“It isn’t. But you read it and seemed to enjoy it.” Spencer straightened, finally finding something to say. Answering questions was something he could manage. “Also, the poem about being a vacuum cleaner seemed too odd to ignore.” 

You’d mentioned it once at the library. The second time you talked to each other. He’d been reading a book on Nobel Prize winners, and you’d approached him, offering him tea and questioning him about his job. A John Cooper Clarke poetry collection in your lap. There was something about a poem and a vacuum cleaner. He remembered thinking that he had to read it, no matter how stupid it sounded. 

You snorted. “Yeah, it’s… weirdly moving.”

Spencer placed the card on the coffee table, patting it with his palm like it meant something. He’d have to save it. Put it on his fridge or make a shoebox of memories with you. 

He then started going through the book. It was muscle memory for him. If he had a book in his hands, he would read it immediately. 

The poetry was so simple, it only would’ve taken him minutes to finish the entire thing. But once he read a line out loud to you, seeing a happy and content smile, he knew he couldn’t hurry through it. So, he read it to you instead. 

The couch was just big enough for the two of you—him sitting upright against the armrest, and you sprawled across the cushions with your feet in his lap, half-buried under a blanket. With nervous fingers, he’d started to trace absentminded patterns on your shin.  

The air smelled faintly of old books and lavender, your signature candle flickering softly on the coffee table next to the tulips. Every now and then, Spencer would pause between stanzas, glancing over at you like he was gauging your reaction. Most of the time you interrupted him yourself, feeling the need to question something. 

“I wanna be your vacuum cleaner, breathing in your dust.” 

You blinked at the ceiling. “What does that even mean?”

“I think it’s a metaphor.”

“For what? Codependency?”

“Or devotion,” Spencer theorized. 

“I wanna be your Ford Cortina, I will never rust.” 

You squinted. “Is that a reliable car?”

“Pretty sure they’re not. Must be irony,” he answered. 

The next interruption wasn’t your doing. You felt the shift before you saw it—his gaze lingering, the gentle press of his fingers against your shin turning more intentional.

“What?” you asked out of curiosity. “Did I miss a spot when I shaved or something?” 

“No, uhm…” He ran his thumb lightly over a faint line near your knee. “Is this a scar or a birthmark?” 

“Scar, I think.” You twisted slightly to glance down. “Might be from when I tried to pick up skateboarding.” 

Spencer’s lips quirked. Yeah, that sounded about right.

“Does it look gross?” you asked. 

He couldn’t fathom a scar looking gross. Not when it was healed. Because if he thought that about someone else’s scars, what would they think about his? 

“I’m not one to speak when it comes to scars,” he mumbled, hesitant.

“I think yours are kinda badass, from stuff you’ve lived through,” you reassured him, a light sparking in your eyes. 

“Skateboarding is cool,” Spencer tried to argue.  

“I never even managed to stand on the board,” you muttered, a smile shining through. “I have another scar on my ribs from scratching my entire side on the sidewalk.” 

He had momentarily forgotten about the book. His focus was only on the skin his fingertips traced and how the scar made a little indent from where it had been scratched open. 

“Can I see it?” Spencer asked without thinking. 

“Not without, like, flashing you my boobs,” you answered plainly. 

Spencer’s fingers abruptly stopped moving as he first thought he hadn’t heard you right. Then he realized that he had asked to see a scar on your ribs. And your ribs were close to your breasts. That was how the human body was shaped.  

“Oh—” His brain seemed to stutter, like a skipping record. “Would that…?”

“You don’t think it’d be a bad idea?” You sat up from your lying position, taking the book in your hands as you bent your legs over his lap. “I could do it. It’s not crossing any boundaries for me. I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” he murmured.

You smiled back, shifting so you could press a soft kiss to the side of his jaw. He tensed slightly beneath you—not in rejection, but in that way he always did when he wasn’t sure what to do.

“Good,” you whispered.

For a second, you just looked at him. He could sense that you were trying to read his reaction. He wasn’t sure he had a reaction. Or at least one that was reasonable.

Tucking your lower lip between your teeth, a small sigh escaped you. Spencer only briefly had time to wonder if you were disappointed, but your attention turned back to the book, a finger tracing the page to find the next line of the poem. 

“If you like your coffee hot, let me be your coffee pot.” 

You snorted. “Okay, now he’s just saying words.”

Spencer cleared his throat, trying to concentrate on something other than the fact that you basically wanted to be shirtless in front of him. 

“Isn’t that the point of writing? Putting words together?” 

“Smartass.” You scrunched your nose at him.  

He let his eyes linger on the page for a while before he read the next words. He didn’t realize their meaning until they left his mouth. 

“You call the shots, I wanna be yours.” 

You were so close to him. He could hear your breaths, feel them if he focused. The bare skin of your legs touching his covered ones, a burning sensation through the fabric. It was like his ears started ringing by how quickly his heart was beating. He could only wonder if yours was beating even half as fast. 

Spencer wasn’t avoiding eye contact—not exactly—but he was looking at you like he was working through a puzzle, like he was waiting for the right words to magically fall into place before saying them.  

“I have to start thinking rationally about this,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You furrowed your brows. “This meaning sex?” 

“I guess…” He hesitated, his lips pressing together. “It’s about you, in general.” 

“And by that, you mean?”

“It’s biology,” he stated, the beginning of a ramble. “Attraction is a chemical process driven by neurotransmitters. It releases dopamine and oxytocin that are associated with the feelings of reward and attachment. The limbic system is highly active in people experiencing romantic attraction. Essentially, the brain treats attraction like an addiction, reinforcing behavior that leads to emotional and physical closeness.” 

You tilted your head. “So… that’s what’s happening here? Biology?” 

Spencer let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “It is. That’s why you make me incapable of thinking straight and why I get so nervous. I have to realize that it’s biology even though it feels like fiction to me. Does that even make sense?” 

“Nope.” 

“Great. Well—” 

“Spencer.” You sat up fully this time, your legs folding beneath you as you shifted to face him, placing the book on the table with a thud. “There is nothing rational about love.” 

Love. You’d used the word love.

He wanted to continue explaining, but he wasn’t sure he wanted it to make sense. Maybe you were right. Even though there was a scientific explanation for everything he was feeling, there was also a reason as to why people turned to fictional stories when they searched the matters of love. The feelings were allowed to be so irrational that they felt impossible. 

“And that’s not me confessing my love for you, by the way. That’s kind of early, but we’re en route to love, right? Neither of us is in this only for sex?” you continued talking, your hand reaching out to hold his. 

Spencer heard himself laugh. It would be the shittiest sex-only relationship ever, because, well, you weren’t having sex. But then he nodded, agreeing with you—you were in too deep to call it casual. 

“Morgan called you my girlfriend today, and I didn’t even try to correct him. I used to always do that,” he said, something hesitant in the way he admitted it because he was still trying to make sense of it himself.

With an assertive move, you grabbed his hand. “Good. We’re on the same page.” 

Spencer looked down at your joined hands before glancing back up at you. He swallowed. “I’m your…” 

“You’re my boyfriend,” you confirmed, and the way his lips parted slightly, like he was tasting the word, made you squeeze his hand again.

“I’m your boyfriend.”

You nodded, smiling. “Yeah. And don’t overthink it, okay? We can just… be.”

You said it so simply. Easiest thing in the world. Spencer wanted to believe it was. His mind couldn’t accept it so easily, though. It worked overtime in general, but he wasn’t sure he had ever thought so much about the same thing. Being in a relationship, having a girlfriend, sex. He almost wished he could preoccupy his mind with other things, some difficult chess strategy or some foreign literature. But no. It was all you up there. 

And what did you think about it? He didn’t know. 

Spencer cleared his throat, saying, “I’m not sure I’ve asked you how you feel about all of this.” 

“How do I feel about sex?” 

You made a little confused face, and Spencer nodded as an answer, letting the room go quiet as you thought of what to say. You fiddled with the fringe of a blanket with your free hand, the other still holding Spencer’s. 

“I think…” you exhaled. “I think you respect me more than I respect myself.” 

Spencer found it miraculous that you were able to keep eye contact with him even though the smallest of tears formed on your waterline. 

“What’s it been? Over a month? And you haven’t seen me naked,” you continued, almost a surprised tone in your voice. 

45 days. It had been 45 days. He had to force himself to not say it out loud. 

“You haven’t asked, or just… done. Nothing. I’m not sure I know how to react to that. I feel like I should have to throw myself at you to make you like me, but you’re not like that.” 

“I like you just as you are,” Spencer whispered, unsure if it was the right moment for him to speak. 

“I know that, but it’s new for me. I haven’t done all this with someone who actually cares before,” you said, voice sounding like you were constricting the words. 

Your grip around his fingers tightened, and Spencer found himself rubbing circles on the back of your hand with the pad of his thumb. He didn’t dare to reach up and touch your face, but he wanted to. 

Your lip noticeably quivered as you continued, “I haven’t always… valued intimacy the way I should have. And I haven’t exactly been with men who saw beauty in being with me instead of just lust.

It was strange, the way those words made his chest ache. 

You’d mentioned it before—when he admitted he was a virgin, you’d said something about finding it a little amusing that someone could go so long without sex, especially when it had been a coping mechanism for you. He assumed that meant earlier in your life, but truth be told, he didn’t really know. 

Spencer thought back to what Edith had said in the hallway. She’d said that no one had been taking care of you. That didn’t necessarily mean you’d been alone, just that you hadn’t always surrounded yourself with the best people.

And yet, looking at you now, he couldn’t see it. You made it look effortless—being warm, being kind, holding him close like it was second nature. How you were so well put together that no one would ever even notice things you’d been through unless you told them. And you didn’t tell anyone. 

He struggled to picture it—the same girl who had made him a handmade Valentine’s card, who curled up against him on the couch like she belonged there, had also been the girl who once used to stumble home drunk or high, clinging to some guy whose name would be forgotten in the morning. The thought alone made his stomach twist. Someone having their way with you and your mind having convinced you that you didn’t have a choice—thinking that you were so desperate to be liked that you didn’t even mind if it was only for a moment. 

It didn’t fit. You didn’t fit with that image.

Or maybe you did, and he just didn’t know it yet. There was still so much to learn about you, so much you hadn’t yet shared.

Spencer watched as you almost turned on yourself, his silence becoming too much for you to deal with. It hadn’t been his intention to make you uncomfortable, or to make your words seem even heavier than they were because of his lack of reaction. 

“You’re not too good at talking about this either, are you? About what you want?” he wondered, keeping his eyes on you, trying to convey that his silence wasn’t judgment. It was attention. 

A soft huff of laughter escaped you. “No, I guess I’m not.” You paused for a moment before adding, “But I like taking it slow. It makes it feel… different. Special, like it never has before.”

His chest tightened. Like it never has before.

He didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t know how to put into words the way it made him feel—some odd mixture of relief and sadness. He wished he didn’t, but it was relief he felt when he realized that while everything of this was new to him, some aspects were also new to you. The blind leading the blind in a way. 

“I’m sort of scared of being too much for you,” you murmured. “Or for everyone, really.”

Spencer inhaled sharply, shaking his head almost instantly. “But you’re not—”

“And you don’t think you’re ever going to be enough, do you?” you interrupted, watching as the words hit him like a direct shot to the chest.

His lips parted, but no sound came out. He blinked at you, caught off guard, his fingers tightening around yours like he needed something to hold onto. It wasn’t a question. Not really. It was an observation. A fact. One he couldn’t even bring himself to deny. He felt inadequate in every sense when it came to intimacy. 

You reached up, brushing your fingers against his cheek. “We make an interesting pair, huh?” you mused.

Spencer exhaled a quiet laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Interesting was definitely a synonym for dysfunctional in this case. 

“Yeah,” he murmured. “We really do.”

You smiled, leaning in until your forehead pressed against his. You were curled in his arms now, your chest touching his, hand resting on his shoulders as you searched his face. His breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers came up to rest gently against your jaw, his touch featherlight, reverent.

“Tell me what you’d like for us to do together.” 

“I—” He swallowed. “I think I’d like to kiss you for a while. If that’s okay.”

You nodded gently. “Can I sit in your lap?”

Spencer couldn’t form a sentence to answer, but he lifted his hands, inviting you to move closer. Not closer than you ever had been before, but it was by far the most intimate position you’d found yourself in. 

You straddled him, knees on either side of his hips and your ass pressed against his lap. Your exposed thighs painted before Spencer like a landscape of skin. Before he could look at your face, his eyes were glued to the slight pattern of your skin, with scattered scars and birthmarks. 

Close enough, Spencer snuck in a light peck on your lips. The first of many, he hoped. 

Your hands lingered by your side before you lifted them to slowly rest around his shoulders, tickling the skin of his neck, diving your fingers in his hair to stroke his scalp with gentle tugs. He liked it so much that a little noise left his mouth as he couldn’t help but feel his body melt against yours. 

Spencer’s arms were stiff, palms pressed against the couch cushion. He didn’t know if or where to touch you. 

You started to litter his face with little kisses—on his cheeks, jaw, and mouth. He canted forward to meet you halfway, overwhelmed by the feeling of your chest pressed against his. 

Pulling back, you cupped his face, simply looking at him for a moment. “Your face should come with a warning sign. You’ve got bone structure like you were carved out of marble by Da Vinci or something,” you said, leaning back in to kiss him.  

“You’re thinking of Michelangelo,” he mumbled, although the words got lost against your mouth. 

“Huh?” You didn’t stop kissing him.

“Nothing.”

Yeah, it was nothing to bring up compared to what was going on.

He always felt like he had gotten the hang of kissing someone, but with you it was a new sensation every time. And with your tongue slipping inside his mouth, your teeth grazing his lips—an open-mouthed and messy make-out session—he might as well have been fifteen all over again.  

You teased him, and he knew it. Panting in his mouth, gnawing his lips raw. And your hands, god your hands that never stopped wandering. It was innocent, fingers through his hair or running along his arms, but still enough for Spencer’s brain to go haywire. 

He wasn’t sure it was intentional the first time you did it, but he felt your hips move against him. A slow brush forward that could’ve just been you adjusting your position. Spencer’s response was instant, a sharp breath leaving his mouth, entering yours. He was convinced it wasn’t intentional when you simply continued kissing him. But then you did it again. Not once, but repeatedly. 

Spencer was getting harder with every instant your hips ground against his, and surely you noticed it too, because he could feel you smiling through the kisses. 

“You’re allowed to touch me, y’know?” 

His head snapped up at your words, stopping the kissing. 

“But—uhm, where?” 

You gave him a look—one of those knowing, amused looks. “Anywhere. Did you want to see the scar?” 

His throat went dry. He managed a nod.

“So, touch my waist and take my shirt off.” 

He didn’t expect you to be so direct. Maybe he should always expect that from you. 

Spencer took his time, gazing at you sat on his lap. Your lips were wet from kissing, and you had mascara smudged under your eyes. He found you breathtaking, sitting there in a frumpy old t-shirt, smiling at him like he was the dumbest thing ever. 

Carefully, he let his hand settle on your thigh, fingers barely touching your skin. He saw how your eyes followed the way his hands moved, slowly upward, sinking his fingers into the skin in a way that made it spill out between them. 

When he finally reached the fabric of your shirt, he pushed it up, letting his eyes find yours as a way to reassure that it was indeed okay. You did nothing but nod, helping him slowly peel it over your head. Spencer was too busy looking at how cute your face scrunched up when the collar got caught around your head to see that you weren’t wearing a bra. When you carelessly tossed the shirt onto the floor and then let yourself just sit still in his lap, that was when Spencer took in the sight of you, bare aside from your shorts. 

Spencer was pretty sure his eyes went as wide as dinner plates. 

Taking him out of his trance, you started talking, doing a little shift with your hips and crossing your arms over your chest. “This might be the first time I’m nervous about being naked in front of someone.” 

Spencer tilted his head, talking too fast for his own good. “You didn’t mind getting undressed when you had to help me shower after my injury.”

“Wearing a bra and shorts is not the same as being naked,” you stated. 

He dared to move his hands again, finding your arms, absently tracing the skin. You relaxed, uncovering your chest again, letting him see your breasts again. Admittedly, he had a hard time focusing on your face, but he tried his best. 

“What are you nervous about?”

He watched you hesitate, your lips pressing together before you shrugged. The movement was small, but Spencer saw through it. You were trying to sound casual, but the slight tightness in your voice betrayed you.

“What if you think I’ve got weird nipples or something?” 

“T-they’re not weird,” he blurted, far too quickly, and immediately cringed at himself. He scrambled to recover. “Perfectly normal, in fact.”

“Perfectly normal?” 

“Well…” He cleared his throat, cheeks still rosy. “They’re kind of pretty.” 

You giggled in disbelief. “You think my nipples are pretty, Spence?” 

“I think you’re pretty,” he corrected. “And they’re attached to you, so yeah. Pretty.” 

“Well, why don’t you touch them, then?” 

He couldn’t argue with that. As his hands traveled up the sides of your body, he began to stroke the underside of your breasts, taking in the way you reacted to his touch. 

That was when he saw it. The entire reason you were in this position. A puny little scar on the right side of your ribs. Scratched your entire side on the sidewalk. No, it wasn’t longer than an inch. 

Spencer could feel the faint ridge of the scar beneath his touch, but he wasn’t thinking about that anymore. He was thinking about how warm you were, how soft. He was thinking about how insanely close you were to him, how his breaths hit your skin as soon as they left his mouth. 

He cupped your breasts fully, admiring the way they fit in his palms and how the ample skin felt malleable to the touch. Your nipples pebbled under his touch, and your breathing turned quicker as he twiddled them slightly between his fingers. 

“You can kiss them too, y’know.” 

Spencer took in the feeling of having some sort of control over his emotions and over the situation. Fuck yeah, could he kiss them. He started at your sternum with a soft peck, then traced down the valley between your breasts. He looked up at you through heavy eyelashes, his warm brown eyes staring you down as his lips explored. Your jaw slackened, nodding at him reassuringly.

When he took your nipple between them, he heard you hiss at how he purposely teased you. He sucked on the tender skin, mouth on one as he cupped the other. Spencer felt so lost in what was happening that he didn’t even realize he was almost biting down on your skin, grazing your nipple with his teeth until a high moan escaped you.

Your hips rutted forward again, his boner now something that couldn’t be ignored. And by the look of it, the friction was enough to cause you pleasure as well. Spencer wasn’t even sure he’d seen that as a possibility before. But your shorts were thin, and the material of his pants was rough enough to rub your heat every time you moved. 

Spencer only pulled away when his lungs burned for air, releasing your nipple with a soft, wet pop. For a moment, he stared, mesmerized by the way it glistened with his saliva, a fleeting mark of what he’d done. 

You looked at him, grinning. 

His hands found a comfortable space in the divots on either side of your waist as he watched your hands fall from his shoulders down between you. You didn’t touch, or take things any further. They just simply rested on him—on the prominent tent in his slacks. 

“Was, uhm… was this all that you wanted for us to try?” Spencer whispered. 

The air in the room had somehow turned harder to inhale. Humid.   

“I thought I’d start with something less explicit before I tell you that I want your dick inside of me.” 

Spencer now forgot how to breathe. Completely. 

A little giggle escaped you as you took his face in your hands, your palms cold against his skin. Or maybe he was just impossibly warm. He didn’t want to think about how he must have looked—hair a tousled mess, skin pinking, probably blushing all the way down to his toes.

You pushed his hair off his forehead, tilting your head as you asked, “I’ve made you all flustered, haven’t I?” 

Spencer groaned, pressing his head back against the couch like he was seeking divine intervention. His boner, the elephant in the room, lodged in the space between your bodies, wasn’t enough for you to notice? 

“Do you enjoy torturing me?”

You laughed, hands placed aimlessly on his chest. “I don’t. I just think it’s cute.”

He opened his eyes, peering at you warily. “What’s cute?”

“You.”

Spencer let out a long breath, shaking his head. “You can’t just call me cute after—” He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Never mind.”

You bit back a smile, leaning in again, your nose brushing his. “I mean it, though.”

His hands, which had remained mostly still against your waist, flexed slightly. “Me being cute?”

“No.” You kissed the corner of his mouth. “That I want you.”

Spencer’s breath caught, and for a moment, he just looked at you—like he was trying to memorize this moment, like he wanted to capture exactly how it felt to have you in his lap, saying things that he never thought he’d hear from you. Or anyone for that matter. 

“We don’t have to be nervous,” you murmured. “I think we’re both allowed to want each other.”

“I do want you,” he admitted. “I just… I want to do this right.”

“You will. Let me take care of you, Spence.” 

He didn’t have much else to say when your lips were back on his, tongue slipping into his mouth. Your hips, god your hips, began to move with more intent, practically squeezing his bulge between your crotch and himself. And your tits, moving with every bounce you made. 

Every inch of his skin turned to goosebumps as your fingers sneaked under his shirt, ripping it from where it had been tucked in to his pants. You scratched his skin, and he could imagine the contrast between the red polish and his pale complexion.

Spencer no longer hesitated to explore you. His hands were in tight grips on your hips, wandering to the curve of your ass as he helped you move in rhythm. Glancing down between you, he swore he could see a damp spot blooming on the fabric of your shorts—but that wasn’t what captivated him most.

The best part was when you broke the kiss, gasping for air, your lips parted in a breathless moan. He could shamelessly watch how your face twisted in pleasure. You had an innocent delicacy to your facial features despite the raw need in your body’s movements.

Oh, was he really watching an angel… 

The both of you quickly got lost in the hazy feeling of not knowing where his hands on you started and where your hands on him ended. Spencer heard how he whined with each of your movements, but he couldn’t have cared less, hips bucking uncontrollably, canting forward to meet your thrusts. 

“Does it feel good?” you murmured, grazing your teeth against his lips. 

A strangled breath was all he could reply with, his hands roaming endlessly for something to grab, something to ground him. 

“Don’t stop, p-please.” 

So he could form words, only that they were pathetic. 

It didn’t take long between when Spencer realized that the friction alone would be enough for him to orgasm and it actually happening. He’d been too pent up for too long of a time to even think about holding it back. The feeling so rushed that he couldn’t warn you, or even say something to you. All that left his mouth were stuttered moans and curse words. He normally wasn’t one to use rude words, but this was uncontrollable. 

“Oh god, oh fuck—” 

He felt a warm liquid spreading from where his cock was tucked in pants, soaking through to stain the fabric. His body froze, and he tried his best to stop his panting breaths as ropes of cum continued to leak out. Out of instinct, his hands left your body, flying up to his achingly blushing cheeks. 

You abruptly stopped moving at his reaction, taking in the sight for a second before your hands clutched around his wrists, moving his hands from covering his face. 

“No, no. I’m not even giving you the right to be embarrassed right now, Spence,” you said sternly, your eyes flickering between him and evidence of his release. “That was like the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

He kissed you to shut you up. Soft, gentle kisses that calmed him down and made you rest your weight back down onto his thighs. Lost in the fact that he’d just had his first orgasm in front of someone else, his mind wandered to you, and if you’d enjoyed it as much as he had. But… you hadn’t finished, had you? 

Spencer pulled away, distraught at the thought of taking but not giving. “You didn’t—” 

“No, but that wasn’t the point of this,” you cut him off, further explaining, “Sex isn’t always about making the other person cum. This time, for instance, I think it was mostly about us getting more comfortable with each other.” 

“But we still didn’t have sex.” 

“Sex is whatever you want it to be.” You let out a little sigh, not out of annoyance but out of amusement. “If this is all that you’re comfortable with, then this is sex to you.” 

That made sense, even to him. But now that he had gotten a little taste, he couldn’t wait to be comfortable for more.

“B-but I do want more,” he argued. “More of you.” 

“We’ll get there.” 

“You don’t want me to help you out now?” 

He wasn’t sure where his sudden confidence came from, and by the look of it, neither did you. Your eyes went a little wide as you struggled to answer. Spencer felt a sense of pride at the fact he could make you nervous. 

You shyly looked away, mumbling, “Only if you’re comfortable.” 

“I am. I promise you that I am,” he assured you, turning your face by a light grip on your chin. 

You could move your hips against him with all intent to make him feel good, but you got visibly flustered at the thought of him doing the same to you. Adorable. 

“How—I mean, I could continue getting off on your thigh,” you said quickly, tucking your hair behind your ears in a practiced, nervous manner. “Or you could use your fingers.” 

“Fingers. Can I use my fingers?” 

You hummed while nodding, agreeing immediately, kissing him quickly. 

Making room on the couch, you both tossed some of the decorative pillows on the floor before Spencer laid you down on your back, him halfway spooning your side so that you both would fit.

The kissing continued as Spencer thought of what to do. He’d read a lot about it. He should be able to figure it out. His hands found home, massaging the plush skin of your thighs, thinking that was a simple way to start. Your chest rose as his fingers trailed over your body. You were desperate. 

But maybe so would anyone be if they’d essentially been very close to climaxing and then having it all ripped away. 

Spencer felt so unconvincing as his fingers fumbled with the elastic waistband of your shorts. You were about to be so naked, and he was still fully dressed. You didn’t seem to mind, though. Actually, you were very quick to untie the shorts yourself, pushing them down your legs and then onto the floor. 

Your panties were a simple white with little floral lace details. And he’d been right; you’d soaked right through them. He looked at you carefully, his brown eyes studying yours as his hand played with the lacy upper hem. 

“Keep them on, just—fuck, touch me.” 

He looked at you, twisting and turning under his touch, words falling out of your mouth carelessly. 

Then his hand made contact with your warm, sticky skin. 

First over your pubic bone and then over a slight thatch of hair. 

Spencer brushed what he thought was your clit with featherlight touch, taking in your reaction before delving his fingers between your folds, a surprising feeling with how velvety smooth the pooling wetness he found was. His digits circled down over your entrance before retreating. 

You bit your lip to the point where it looked painful, keeping everything on the inside, turning your head into his chest. 

Spencer stopped moving his hand, using his free one to tilt your head right back, forcing eye contact. “I wanna hear you. Tell me what to do.”

“Move a little higher,” you said, a whine coming from your throat as soon as he followed suit. With a little calculating, Spencer concluded the little bud he was touching was your clit. “Oh, fuck—right there, Spence.” 

He used his pointer and ring finger to slowly explore, moving in gentle circles, touching a place that made your stomach tense and breathing sharpen and separate. Spencer could look at you all day as you enjoyed yourself, letting out a little floating laugh between moans, crinkling your nose as he touched the spot again and again. 

“Kiss me,” you asked between breaths, your eyelids getting heavy the faster his fingers moved. 

His free hand stroked against your jawbone before he leaned down to kiss you, not knowing if he was doing it right. But apparently he was, by the way you whined under his mouth, eyes rolling back. 

“Should I—” He swallowed. “Should I do something more? I read that many women can’t climax from penetration and that clitoral or oral stimulation is easier—”  

Your eyes went wide as he spoke, interrupted by his continued movements. “Fuck, Spence—You wanna use your mouth on me?” You shook your head, hiding into his chest again. “No, this is enough. You’re enough.” 

His fingers slipped between your folds with more ease, hearing the wet sounds he could bring from your pussy. The more he moved, the more he wanted to turn you into a sweet mess at the touch of his fingertips.

“God, you’re gonna make me—” 

You tensed up, and Spencer felt it. And then you let it all go. 

It was like you lost all stability in your bones, turning into a fluid source of warmth in Spencer’s embrace, as his fingers slid messily over your clit, losing momentum, your underwear soaked and stretched out over the back of his hand. 

Spencer had been unsure of if he could notice if you faked an orgasm or not. He now knew that there was nothing fake about you. You let out a last, long breath, and Spencer slowly circled your clit before he pulled his hand away, letting it linger on your naked stomach. 

“Was that okay?” he felt the need to ask. 

You looked up at him, breathing still uneven and your eyes slightly dopey, practically collapsing in his arms. “Okay? Spencer, you were fucking amazing.” 

As Spencer held you, right there on your couch, and you slid your palm over his his chest, resting it tight above the place where his heart was still erratically beating, he felt himself lose control over basically everything. The world narrowed down to you—your skin, your scent, your breathing. Not that much else mattered to him. He wasn’t sure it ever would again. 

“I wish I met you earlier in life.” 

The words left him before he could stop them, and maybe it was a little ridiculous—like meeting you earlier would have suddenly made life easier, like it would have changed anything at all. But still. He truly wished that.

You kissed his neck, murmuring, “We’ve got all the time in the world, Spencer.” 

His fingers skimmed along your arm before settling at your waist, holding you close. You felt so softagainst him, so warm, but after a moment, he felt the residual stickiness of sweat and everything else clinging to both of you. His nose wrinkled slightly, and he knew you caught it before he even spoke.

“Do you wanna go change? Wash your hands? Can’t imagine it’s comfortable being sticky.” 

You probably felt just as sticky as he did, but Spencer could tell—he knew—your suggestion had less to do with yourself and more to do with him, his germaphobia, and his sensory issues. Because you were always thinking about him, about the things that made him uncomfortable, about the ways you could make things easier for him without making a big deal out of it. And wasn’t that just the sweetest thing? Spencer thought so. 

“Mhm,” he hummed, helping you stand from the couch, legs looking a bit wobbly. “And you should go pee. Prevents UTIs.” 

“I know that,” you muttered. 

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitched. Sitting up himself, he let you slip away, watching as you padded across the wooded floors. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to seeing your body being so casually naked. But he would love the future time he’d spend trying to get used to it at least. 

“You wanna watch a movie?” you asked, voice sounding almost drowsy, as you picked up your shorts and t-shirt that had been thrown on the floor. “I got The Princess Bride on Blu-ray, and we could order Indian food.” 

Spencer could do nothing but smile, his mind echoing empty of thoughts. “Sure thing.” 

Thank you for reading! Please tell me what you think ♡ And yes, for those of you who didn't know, the Arctic Monkeys song is originally a JCC poem.

[luwritesstuff]

OH MY GOSH 💔💔💔 You did my request and you did it so so perfectly. Thank you so much! That was my first ever request sent and it was so sweet. Buck is definitely meant to be a girl dad i just can't see otherwise especially with the way he handles jee 🩷!! Thank you!

i wholeheartedly agree ❤️ and i think he would have so much fun doing her hair and taking her on daddy/daughter dates

[luwritesstuff]

Just read "for better or for worse" with spencer reid and love it. Feel free to ignore if this is too angsty or not your vibe but I'd love to see a follow up where they go the surrogacy route and at first reader is excited they get to have a kid but then starts crying in private bc she's upset that she doesn't get to experience being pregnant and missing key moments (like the baby's first kick and stuff) and spencer finds out and comforts her somehow. If you don't wanna write this no biggie!

hi! i want you to know i got your request and its in progress (hoping to get it out this weekend) love this idea!

[luwritesstuff]

Hi!! I was wondering if you'd take a request for Evan Buckley x f!reader where they're new parents and the baby wakes them up in the middle of the night, but one night buck tries to take care of the baby so reader doesn't wake up but she ends up catching the sweet moment with Buck and the baby. Idk if her features really matter but just in case, brown hair and brown eyes would be nice? Sorry if this is a bad prompt or if this request is too long!

yes yes yes, Buck was literally made to be a dad! this one was short but i hope it captured the cuteness you were looking for 🫶🏻

baby buckley

wc: 570

notes: girl dad buck, that's it tbh. no use of y/n, fem!reader

It had been 3 months since you gave birth to the most amazing little girl you and Buck could've asked for. She had her daddy’s wild curls and your big, brown eyes and she really was an angel, when she wasn't crying. Which seemed to be nonstop. You drove your husband crazy with the constant worry and the constant calls to her doctor, ‘are you sure this is normal?’. In the end, she had colic that had finally begun to go away in the past few weeks. But she was still a baby and she still woke you up multiple times a night to feed. Despite being prepared for the lack of sleep, the exhaustion had hit you hard. Buck was amazing, of course. He got up every time, bringing her to you if she needed to feed and staying up with you until both of his girls were back to sleep.

Despite her crying dying down as she got better, you still heard your baby crying even in your sleep. Which is why when she actually was crying one night, you slept right through it, your subconscious brain convincing you that you were just imagining it. It took a full five minutes for you to startle awake when you realized. But the crying on the monitor had stopped, maybe you were imagining it? You decided you weren't going to be able to go back to sleep until you saw your baby girl sleeping peacefully and didn't even register that Evan wasn't next to you in the bed that you groggily climbed out of.

You frowned when you heard whispers coming from your daughter's room and felt relief float over you when you poked your head in and saw Buck sitting in the rocking chair with her in his arms. “Don't tell Mommy, but I threw away that singing cow that went missing. I know you liked it, but I was going a little crazy, peanut. I'll buy you as many toys as you want as long as they don't sing like that,” Buck whispered and tickled her tummy, producing a giggle that turned into a yawn halfway through.

You watched quietly while Buck had a one-way conversation with your daughter until she fell back asleep and her little snores filled the room. Neither of you moved for a few minutes, Buck watching your baby girl and you watching him. Once she was back in her crib, you stepped fully into the room, finally alerting him to your presence. “I knew you threw Mr. Cow away, you monster,” you poked his chest before wrapping your arms around his waist.

“Don't give me that. You hated that thing just as much as I did,” Buck pointed out and slid his arms around your shoulders, “I didn't wake you up, did I? She just needed a change.”

You shook your head and leaned up to steal a kiss from him, “I was just sleeping weird and wanted to check on her,” you mumbled and let your head fall to his chest, already beginning to fall back asleep standing up.

“C’mon then, let's get back to bed before she wakes up again,” Evan whispered and half walked, half carried you back to your room. You were both nearly out cold by the time your heads hit the pillow, but you both found the energy to mutter ‘I love you's’ before dozing back off.

[luwritesstuff]

“How can you say that?” You mumbled into his shirt and pulled back to meet his eyes, “if you were with someone else, you could be a dad. I’m keeping you from having a baby because my body is fucked up and it doesn’t work right, how can you not blame me?”

uhhhhh

i'm not saying this is a healthy or correct line of thinking, but a lot of people (like myself) that struggle with infertility often feel a lot of guilt and blame themselves for their inability to have children and/or give their partners children

[luwritesstuff]

for better or for worse

Spencer Reid x reader

wc: 1.3k

notes: mentions of infertility & miscarriages, fem!reader, angst, no use of y/n

Five years ago, staring down at a positive pregnancy test would have you scared shitless. Five months ago, you would have been overjoyed. Now, you couldn’t pinpoint any one feeling swimming around in your gut. You wanted to be excited; you and Spencer had been trying to have a baby for almost a year now. But after two false positives and one devastating miscarriage, you weren’t going to let yourself get your hopes up. And you certainly weren’t going to get Spencer’s hopes up, he already spent enough time worrying about you. He could find out the good news when you were sure it was actually good news. 

As it turns out, it wasn’t easy keeping such a big secret from your husband. Spencer had always been good at reading you, it was what made your relationship work so well. This week was no different. Spencer could tell something was wrong, no matter how many times you assured him that everything was fine. So he tried to respect your boundaries and trusted that you would come to him if something was seriously wrong.

Finally, you went to your doctor during your lunch hour, and something was seriously wrong. You could no longer keep this to yourself and pretend everything was fine. So, okay, you had to tell Spencer. But it was the middle of a workday; it would have to wait until you were both home. You were basically useless at work after that and for the first time you wished you didn’t share an office with one of your best friends, Penelope. It would be easier to break down and cry without her questioning glances every few minutes. 

“Hellooo? Anyone home?” Penelope waved her hand in front of your face, getting your attention, “What’s going on with you? You’ve been spaced out all day, actually since lunch. Which was also odd, because since when do you not eat with Spencer? And-”

“I’m fine, Pen,” You cut her off, not in the mood to deal with an interrogation, “Sorry. I’m just not feeling well. Sorry I wasn’t paying attention, what did you need?”

Penelope dropped the conversation reluctantly and switched gears back to the case you were researching. You silently thanked her for the distraction from your own mental spiral and pushed your doctor’s appointment to the back of your head. This worked for a few more hours until there was a knock on your office door and Spencer’s head poked in. You glanced up from your computer and offered him a quick smile, “Hey, honey. What’s up? I thought you were over at the police station with Morgan.”

“I uh, came back. Just wanted to check on you. Both of you, see how things are going,” Spencer wasn’t convincing and he didn’t even try to hide the glances he kept sending Penelope. 

You sent your own glare towards Penelope and mumbled a “traitor” under your breath as she passed you to ‘refill her tea’ in the kitchen. You sighed and turned back towards your desk as Spencer pulled a chair up next to you. “She really didn’t need to call you over here, I’m just not feeling well and we can talk when we get home,” you tried to be reassuring, but as usual, Spencer saw right through you. 

“Well, the case is already being wrapped up at the police station so all that’s left is paperwork. Which we can both do at home, so why don’t we just head out now? You shouldn’t be working if you’re getting sick,” Spencer was gentle when he took the laptop from your hands and began packing it into your bag. 

You sighed and dropped your hands to your lap, “I’m not sick, Spence, I’m just in a weird mood. I don’t want to go home yet, I just want to finish this report and we can talk later and,” you reached up to wipe at your eyes that were betraying you and rolling tears down your cheeks. You turned your head away from your husband, which was obviously useless, as he pulled your hands down and rolled your chair to face him.

When you met Spencer’s gaze it was filled with nothing but concern and love and that only made you cry harder. “What’s going on, sweetheart? I can’t fix it if you don’t talk to me,” he practically begged and your heart ached. Okay, so this was happening now. 

“I went to the doctor’s earlier,” you started and before Spencer could lecture you about not telling him, you continued, “I took a pregnancy test last week and it was positive. And I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t want to get your hopes up if I screwed it up again. And so I went and saw Dr. Walsh today at lunch, to make sure it was positive,” you stopped to sniffle and wipe your eyes again and Spencer took the opportunity to pull you into a hug. 

“Baby, hey. First of all, listen to me,” Spencer frowned and tilted your chin up to look at him, “you did not screw anything up. A shitty thing happened and we lost our baby, but that was not on you, okay? And I always want to know these things, even if I worry and get my hopes up, I want to know.”

You nodded and squeezed his hands for support, trying to swallow down the guilt you felt for not giving him a baby. “There’s um, there’s more. Dr. Walsh, she did some tests. Ones she didn’t do last time and,” you paused and looked down to where your hands were connected, where your rings reflected off of each other, “she said I can’t have kids. I’m so sorry, Spencer.”

Sobs wracked your body as you said the words out loud for the first time since you’d heard them that afternoon. Spencer’s own tears finally fell and he was silent for a while as he continued to hold you, rubbing your back and pressing firm kisses to the top of your head. “I’m here, it’s okay,” his voice was wet from crying, “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. It’s not your fault, sweetheart. I don’t blame you and you don’t have anything to apologize for because it’s not your fault.”

“How can you say that?” You mumbled into his shirt and pulled back to meet his eyes, “if you were with someone else, you could be a dad. I’m keeping you from having a baby because my body is fucked up and it doesn’t work right, how can you not blame me?”

“Don’t say that. Stop it,” Spencer frowned, “I want a child with you. I don’t want kids with someone else, I want them with you. You’re my wife, I married you because I love you and I want to have a life with you and I chose to do that with or without kids,” Spencer’s voice was firm like it was when you argued, and you tried to let your brain believe him, “I love you, okay? I’m so sorry this happened, but I love you and this isn’t going to stop us from being parents. There's so many more options out there. I know it wasn’t what we planned, but we’ll figure it out.”

After you calmed down and your breathing evened out, Spencer finished packing your work bag and grabbed his own from his desk on your way out of the building. It was silent until you were home and curled up next to Spencer on the couch. “You’d really be okay with a surrogate? Or adoption?” You asked quietly.

“Of course,” Spencer’s answer was immediate, “They’re going to be our kid no matter who gives birth to them.”

You nodded and intertwined your fingers with his, “Okay, you’re right. You’re gonna be a really good dad, Spence. I love you.”

[luwritesstuff]

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Happy Birthday, Dean Winchester

Familiar (request)

[luwritesstuff]

Eddie Diaz Masterlist

moving too fast? (request)

to love you on my worst days (request)

dating in the 21st century (request)

[luwritesstuff]

Spencer Reid Masterlist

home safe

to love and be loved

breaking point

comfort

for better or for worse

[luwritesstuff]

i've got at least half a dozen spencer drabble ideas swimming through my little brain, if you even care

my requests are open, if you even care 😤😤😤

(all jokes, all love. send in reqs if you feel the desire xo)

[luwritesstuff]

the cold!reader romantic nation, everybody 🫡

[luwritesstuff]

fifth time's the charm - Spencer x reader

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader, established relationship, 2nd person, no use of Y/N Summary: Spencer tries and fails to propose too many times. 2.6k Content: just fluff and love A/N: came to me in a fever dream. I'm sorry and you're welcome! incredibly cute divider by @esote-rika. thanks for the plot inspo @gold-onthe-inside & @alsofoundinpeas

masterlist

It’s been a month since Spencer snuck away from work early and picked up the ring. It was just a tiny gold thing, with a beautiful little vintage marquise cut diamond set right in the middle. He’d picked it out himself, and he was pretty proud—he knew you weren’t much for flashy things, and the conversation of what style you’d wanted had happened early on in your relationship. He’d been carrying it around for a month now, hiding it away in his shoulder bag, the one he used for work, the one he knew you wouldn’t touch just in case there were confidential case files inside. He knew it was safe, and he knew you suspected next to nothing. You’re not good at bluffing, or at telling a little white lie, and he loves that about you. You’re easier to read than a Dr. Seuss book, and because of this, he knows he’ll be able to catch you by surprise with the ring. 

The two of you were sickeningly sweet for each other; A baseline level of very happy was the undercurrent for your relationship. You were fully charmed, as was he. The way he gushed over you, couldn’t seem to stop touching you—you were his person, and he made sure you knew this. 

You trusted him implicitly. When he went away, you healthily missed him—while you couldn’t fully understand his job, you knew when he was away he was saving lives, and that was something that made you feel very proud. When he was home, he cared for you in such a tender way—in the way that he brought you flowers every time he returned home, no matter how long he was away (you’d even had to buy more vases when you ended up with three different bouquets in the span of a week), in the way that he made sure to ask you how you were doing every day, in the way he seemed to always know what to say or what you needed—his incessant caring and consideration helped you to blossom as an individual, and he’d stand back proudly, watching you shine. 

His grand plan is to take you on a date to the coffee shop you’d first met inside. The two of you had frequented the coffee shop as strangers, and it took about six months of shy smiles before you’d finally worked up the nerve to say hey—and Spencer had essentially never shut up after that.

You’d both get coffee, and you’d share a cinnamon bun, and you’d sit at the table in the corner next to the wall of books; he’d reach behind you for a book on the shelf, and with some sleight of hand he’d return with a ring.

He was appropriately nervous, but he was confident you’d say yes. You never wanted anything flashy, or public, and you know the quiet, familiar corner that you both treat with reverence will be the perfect scene to start the rest of your lives. 

The day comes, and your sweet evening coffee date is planned; he hasn’t told anyone at the office, and he knows the room full of profilers has picked up on his nervous excitement, but they are graciously not teasing him about it. He’s just finished up his last bit of the report he had left from the last case he’d worked, hand around the small ring box in his bag, checking to make sure it was still there for the hundredth time. At 5 o’clock, he’s standing up to pull on his jacket, practically bouncing with anticipation—and Hotch walks out of his office, calling out that they all have a new case.

Spencer’s heart plunges past his feet and right through the floor. He reaches into his bag and pulls out the ring box, flipping it open. He stares at the ring, so disappointed he almost wants to cry. 

Of course, he’d known there was always the possibility he could get ripped away on a case, and had been curbing his excitement a bit with that in mind-–but it was so close, and as the hours drew closer, he’d thought for certain that tonight would be the night he’d ask you to marry him. 

He catches Prentiss staring at the ring with wide eyes, and he shoots her a wry smile with a sniff and a shrug.

“You’re proposing?” she asks through an incredulous laugh, walking over to congratulate him. “When?”

“Was supposed to be tonight,” he laughs dryly, but the sound is a little wet with tears. He shakes his head again with a sniff. “I suppose I'd better call her; can you tell Hotch I’ll be up as soon as I can?” he asks, and Emily’s expression is full of pity as she nods and walks away quietly. 

He blinks a few times, trying a few deep breaths before he calls you; he knows if he sounds too upset you’ll pick up on it and start to suspect that something is wrong, and he still doesn't want to ruin the surprise. 

You pick up after one ring, and he maybe overcompensates on his cheerful tone as he greets you. 

“Hey baby,” you answer, “you off work yet?” Your sing-songy voice is so carefree, and despite his disappointment, he still gets butterflies when you call him baby.

“No,” he says, “we actually just got called onto a case,” he said, trying to sound casual, but you still hear a bit of wobble in his voice. 

“Oh, that’s okay,” you say sweetly, also trying to mask your own disappointment; you’d been looking forward to your coffee date, but you also knew by now that you were both at the mercy of Spencer’s job. You tried not to be disappointed–-rescheduled dates were almost more common than not, and you knew he’d make it up to you tenfold like he always does. 

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbles, kicking the floor. You think you hear him sniffle, and that makes your heart hurt. “Oh baby, you know how much I love you, right?” you ask, and he chuckles–because of course you’re comforting him, without even being able to understand why he’s as upset as he is—your heart of gold makes him smile, and he promises to himself to make sure you understand someday just how much this means to him. For now, at this moment, he holds his tongue.

“I know, baby,” he answers, smiling big to himself. “I’d better go join the briefing,” he confesses, and you sigh gently.

“Be safe, I love you,” you say sweetly.

“I love you too,” you have no idea how much I love you, he finishes in his head, before ending the call and walking up to the briefing room. 

The second time Spencer tries to propose to you, it isn’t his work that gets in the way. In fact, it’s so silly really, Spencer can’t even be upset about it. 

The two of you are on a walk in the park by your house–it’s midday on one of Spencer’s rare days off, and the two of you have been roaming the city, doing some of your favorite things together. First the farmer’s market, then a pop into one of your favorite brunch spots—and now, walking off the meal around the pretty lake with the majestic swans you always liked to watch. Along the lake is a picturesque little gazebo, and on this beautiful day in late spring, the dragonflies you love hover along the water. 

His grand plan is to get on one knee in the gazebo; it was private, and it was a place you both loved--it was actually the first place you'd been on a date.

You make your way to the gazebo, only to find it already occupied by a couple holding hands—and “it’s okay,” you say, the two of you can just keep walking, move on to another part of the park, and Spencer seems put out, but you don't really get the big deal–and then you both hear a squeal, looking over to see the man in the gazebo on one knee, proposing to his girlfriend.

You’re so excited, practically jumping as you clap your hand over your mouth, happy tears welling up in your eyes, you're such a romantic—and you spin around, enthusiastically whacking Spencer on the arm, who is actually laughing out loud.

“Why are you laughing?” you ask, laughing too, and you’re actually crying now, almost blubbering. “It’s so sweet! How romantic, what a perfect way to propose!” You spin back around and watch the couple who are now hugging, a photographer hidden in the bush snapping away on her camera. Spencer grabs your hand, still chuckling and shaking his head; his heart is full of love, and nerves, and he can’t even be frustrated about the ring that will have to spend another day in his pocket.

The third time Spencer tries–-and fails–-to propose, it is entirely your fault. It is so wholly and utterly your fault, that he swears he will spend the rest of your lives never letting you live it down. 

You’re on a walk again, this time at the US Botanic Garden, and really, he should’ve known better—your reverence for plants was sure to be distracting. You’re like a kid at Disney World, honestly, the grand entrance to the enormous atrium your own personal Main Street at Magic Kingdom. 

As you hold hands, you notice his palms are sweatier than normal, but you chalk it up to the extra humidity in the greenhouse. You’re pulling him around, pointing at different leaves, inspecting roots, providing detailed information on every plant you see, and you are too consumed by the flora around you to pick up on his extra speedy heartbeat and the way his hand keeps flying to his pocket, checking the ring box. 

The first time he kneels, you’re staring at a small bubbling fountain, mesmerized by the trickle of water and the reflection of the sun in the fountain. He swallows, looking at his feet, building up the courage as he pulls the ring box out of his pocket—and you gasp.

He looks up, expecting to meet your eyes, but you’re not there. His eyes snap over to look down the path, and you're knelt over a fucking pothos, practically petting its leaves—and you absolutely haven’t noticed him, fully on one knee, diamond on display. 

He stays in position for a second, staring at you in complete disbelief. He’s waiting for you to look back, and he waits for a full twenty seconds, and you just don’t look back. He huffs out an incredulous laugh before finally deciding the moment had passed, and he snaps the ring box back closed, every ounce of courage he’d built up completely gone. 

He stands back up, and you’re so oblivious. 

“Spencer, are you coming?” you ask over your shoulder, but you’re still looking at the plant. 

“Coming,” he replies, his voice a mix of patient disbelief and absolute awe. 

After you make a lap around the big greenhouse and head out the door to the outside gardens, he musters up another bit of courage to try again.

You notice him bend down to tie his shoe, and right as kneels, you see a butterfly, a migratory monarch that catches your eye just over his shoulder. Again you gasp, and run off past him, watching the butterfly as it lands on a flower. You actually giggle, and when you look back, he’s still kneeling, but has turned around to watch you. He’s looking at you fondly as you raise an eyebrow. 

“It’s a monarch,” you explain, “what are you still doing on the ground?”

He’s absolutely deflated, but he still laughs, shaking his head as he stands up again to join you. 

“One day, your love for flora and fauna might get you in trouble,” he teases, placing a kiss on the top of your head, and you don’t really understand. You reply with a shrug and grab his hand, dragging him along to the next bit of the garden. 

Two days later, you’re out to dinner; you’ve had a glass of wine, or maybe two, it doesn’t matter; you’re both laughing so much, absolutely giggling with each other—and you have a moment where you notice the way his eyes glitter in the low light, you’re absolutely consumed by the bow of his lips, by the way they move so much when he talks, and you just want to kiss him—so you do. You lean over the table and plant a big fat kiss on his lips, and when you sit back, you have no control over the words that leave your mouth. 

“I want to marry you, Spencer Reid,” you say, beaming.

Spencer feels like he’s having a heart attack. His heart is absolutely pounding inside his chest, and the blood rushes to his cheeks—his hands fly to his pocket under the table, where the ring box can just barely be outlined through his trousers. He feels caught, and he panics—before realizing that you want to marry him. 

His face shows surprise for the moment it takes for him to process what you say, and then he’s beaming back at you. “I love you,” he says, reaching across the table and squeezing your hand. 

A week later, you’re asleep in bed. It’s late, and Spencer has been away on a case for the last five days—he’s due to be back late tonight, but urged you not to wait up late for him. So you’d showered, and watched tv, and stayed up as late as you could, before finally drifting off in your bed with the TV still on. 

When Spencer finally gets home, he unlocks the door and quietly dumps his bag by the door. The case was long and sad and hard and he was exhausted—and all he could think about was crawling into bed next to you. 

He walks down the hallway towards the bedroom, starting to frown as he hears the television; surely you’re not still awake? But his frown turns fond as he looks in the door, seeing you slumped over, looking like a child who resists sleep to stay up and watch a movie. 

He moves about the room, changing into his pajamas, trying to quietly creep around as he turns off the lights and the television, but he must not be quiet enough. “Spence, you’re home,” you croak from the bed, pushing yourself up to a sit and stretching your arms out for a hug. 

“I’m home, baby,” he says, folding himself into your arms. He nuzzles his nose into your neck, breathing in the smell of your shampoo. Your hair is still damp from your shower, and he squeezes you tighter. 

He thinks to himself that you feel like home, and he can’t wait another instant. 

“Wait right here,” he says as he stands up, quickly sprinting down the hall. You confusedly rub at your eyes, waiting for him to come back in. As he makes his way back down the hall, his steps sound softer, he’s no longer in a rush. You give him a questioning look as he makes his way back into the bedroom. 

He’s got one hand tucked behind his back as he crouches next to you on the bed, and your half-asleep brain tries to process what’s happening.

“Do you know how much I love you?” he asks, and you smile. 

“Not as much as I love you,” you respond, giggling. “What’s this about?”

He analyzes your face before his eyes lock with yours, and he swallows. He uses his free hand to hold your face, drawing your attention towards only him. 

“I’ve tried to ask you this question four times now, and I think if you don’t give me the answer I’m looking for, I might not ever recover,” he says intensely, teasingly, and you can tell he’s hiding nerves. 

“Baby, I don’t want to spend another day without a ring on your hand. Will you marry me?”

[luwritesstuff]

i am simultaneously self-improving and being self destructive dont ask me how i just am

[luwritesstuff]

home safe

spencer reid x reader

notes: fighting, minor mentions of guns and explosions, happy ending, no use of y/n, gn!reader

wc: 1.7k

It was just after 1 AM when Spencer finally used his key to your shared apartment and dropped his bag by the door. You were sat on the couch with your arms crossed and neither of you said a word while he placed his shoes on the rack and shrugged out of his jacket. Spencer chewed on his lower lip as he took in the anger on your face, “I'm sorry, I-”

“No,” you said calmly and stood up, grabbing your mug and preparing to go to bed, “I don't want to hear it. I stayed up to make sure you got here alive, now I'm going to bed.”

“Wait, no, but,” Spencer sighed and stopped himself from reaching out to grab your arm, “we need to talk about this, honey. I'm really sorry and you're right to be mad, but please don't go to bed angry.” In another argument on another day you might've agreed, but you hadn't slept properly all week and you weren't ready to be reasonable with him.

“Oh, now you want to talk?” You turned back around to face him and dropped your mug back onto the coffee table. Your arms found their place crossed back over your chest and suddenly everything you've been feeling came spilling out, “I've been trying to talk to you all week and now you want to talk? That's not how this works, Spencer! You ignored me and lied to me and you made our friends lie to me. I didn't know if you were dead or alive and you couldn't be bothered to pick up your damn phone for a week. I sat here feeling useless and scared and you just, what? Didn't care?”

Spencer shook his head and you could tell you got to him because his eyes were turning red and he was blinking away tears. “No, that's not it. Of course I cared, I do care. I just, I didn't want to worry you. It was a small injury and then I was just so focused on finishing the paperwork so I could get home to you. I'm fine, okay? It's just a few stitches, but I know you would've sat here by yourself worrying all week if I told you.”

You scoffed and turned to go back into your room, hearing him follow after you. You dug through the closet to find one of your overnight bags and began shoving clothes into it. “What do you think I did instead?” Your phone charger and laptop followed a few changes of clothes, “Do you think that I didn't go through every single scenario and think of every single way you were hurt? I thought, maybe he's dead, maybe he's relapsed and overdosed somewhere, maybe the entire fucking team blew up on the jet because not a single one of you told me what was going on!”

“You would've known something was wrong if I called,” Spencer’s argument was weak and he knew it. His heart dropped when you began packing and he frantically started taking out everything you'd put into the duffel, “No, hey, what are you doing? Baby, I'm sorry. I should've had someone call you, I know that. But I ignored an order from Hotch and I got hurt and I knew you'd be angry with me and worried and I just thought it'd be better to explain everything in person.”

“Cut it out, Spencer,” you mumbled and began repacking everything he took out. “I hate your job. You guys do amazing work and you help people and I admire it so much, but I hate how often it takes you away from me and I hate how dangerous it is and I hate how it follows you home. But none of that matters to me when I'm with you. I have learned to cope with those things because you always come home and you always communicate and you're always so good at reassuring me, but this? This was the worst week of my life and I never want to feel like this again. I will not go through this again and especially not when you could have prevented it. I'm staying at my sisters,” you zipped up your bag and carried it out to the living room.

Spencer stood on the other side of the living room, watching you slide your shoes and coat on. “Was that, I mean, are you breaking up with me?” His voice was weak and he couldn't wipe the tears from his face faster than they were falling.

You sighed and let your shoulders sag before turning back around to look at him. “I need some space, Spencer. There was a second where I really thought you were dead and I felt like part of me had died too. That's not… It isn't okay. I can't keep going like this,” your voice was softer now, no longer spitting out anger but hurt.

Spencer didn't say anything else, he knew nothing he said was going to help and arguing more was only going to make things worse. So he let you leave and tried to stop his heart from following you out the door.

The stay at your sister’s ended up lasting two weeks before you were ready to face Spencer again. He'd texted you a few times, asking how you were, when you'd be home, telling you he loved you. You had answered a couple of the texts, and eventually when he asked if you could talk in person, you couldn't find it in yourself to keep staying away.

“Hi, uh. How have you been?” Spencer was stiff and awkward as he sat in front of you at your favorite cafe with your two favorite coffee’s between you. In the back of your mind, you thought that Spencer reminded you of how he acted on your first date and you let the thought warm your heart just a little bit.

You shrugged and picked at the almond croissant in front of you, “I'm okay. Work has been keeping me busy and my sister got a new puppy. How's your arm?” You asked and nodded to his left bicep where a bullet wound was beginning to heal.

“It's fine, it's good. Doctor says it's healing like it's supposed to,” Spencer said and reached up to feel his shoulder absentmindedly. “Thank you for meeting me. I miss you and I know I have a lot to make up for, I just. I really wanted to see your face.”

You stopped a smile from showing but reached across the table to hold his free hand. “I missed you, too. I'm sorry I haven't been in touch more, but I needed some space to think and clear my head, you know?”

Spencer nodded and gave your hand a small squeeze, “Of course, it's okay. I did something really awful to you and… and I just feel terrible. I should have communicated with you and told you what was going on. I know if the roles were reversed, I'd be so freaked out not hearing from you for that long. I don't know what I was thinking, I'm sorry.”

“I know,” you sighed and leaned back in your chair, “I understand that you were trying to protect me and everything, but I want to know these things, Spencer. I want to know if you're hurt or struggling, that's what being in a relationship is. We need to be able to rely on each other and be honest with each other. And I need to be able to trust you. Every time you leave for a case, there's a little worry that sits in my chest and tells me that it might be the last time I see you. The only way that feeling goes away is if you tell me what's going on and keep me in the loop.”

“You're right. Completely. That's why I got this,” Spencer reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of pagers, “You're the only person that will have the number to this. I'm gonna have it with me at all times, so if I'm on a case or my phone is dead or broken, I'll still have this with me. And if you page me, I'll answer. No matter what. If I'm in the field and I can't answer, I'll page you back and you'll know that I got it and I'll call you as soon as I can.”

If there was one thing Spencer was good at besides being a genius, it was romantic gestures. The thought of using a pager made you want to laugh, but you looked at them sitting in his hands and it made your heart clench. Spencer really only answered work calls on his phone while he was on a case, and you'd grown used to only hearing from him once every day or two. You were used to sitting and waiting anxiously at the end of the day to make sure that he made it back to whatever hotel the BAU was at.

“Are you sure?” You asked softly and reached out to take one of the matching pagers and flip it over in your hands, “I know that you get busy at work. I don't want you to think that I'm being clingy or that I don't understand. I'm fine just hearing from you at the end of the day.”

Spencer shook his head and leaned across the table to kiss your cheek, “I don't think that at all. I don't want you to sit anxiously and feel like you can't call me or that I won't answer. I don't ever want you to feel like you did that week again. I never want to make you feel that way again, honey.”

You nodded slightly and slipped the pager into your purse. “I love you. And I forgive you, yeah? We’re okay,” you promised and after you threw your empty cups away, you pulled Spencer into a tight hug. He held you back just as tightly and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. You were back in your apartment the next day and Spencer kept his promise, he only ever made you feel secure and every time he left for a case, he made it back home to you.

[luwritesstuff]

oh yes, i'm having inspiration 🙏🏻 send in reqs if you please for ur favs

HURT / COMFORT : STARTERS

a collection of quotes, phrases, and sayings for when your muse needs a little TLC. change & alter as needed.

THE HURT:

“Nah, it’s not that bad. I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t think I can walk that far… or at all.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”

“Will you stay with me? Just until I fall asleep?”

“I’m sorry, I’m just—I’m just really tired.”

“I don’t need a break. I’m okay.”

“It was my fault. It was all my fault.”

“I think I need help.”

“So, I don’t think I’m dying, or anything, and it’s probably not that serious, but… I’m kinda bleeding. A lot.”

“Is the room spinning right now, or is that just me?”

“No, I’m okay, I just… I hit my head. Really hard. I’ll be okay, just give me a second.”

“I’m not sick! I’m fine!”

“No, I don’t think any of my bones are broken, or anything like that. Just bad bruises.”

“Yeah, but you should see the other guy.”

“I’m fine. This just happens sometimes. It’s normal for me.”

“I’ve got a headache.”

“Seriously, though, I’m fine! Stop making such a big deal out of it!”

“I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I don’t need your help, and I definitely don’t need your pity. Fuck off.”

“Please tell me I don’t look as bad as I feel.”

“I think I’m running a fever.”

“So, what’s the prognosis, Doc? Am I gonna live?”

“Stop fussing over me! I’m not a baby!”

“Can I stay with you tonight? I just… really don’t want to be alone right now.”

“No, I-I’m okay. It was just a nightmare. Go back to sleep.”

“I… can’t actually remember the last time I had something to eat.”

“You shouldn’t be here. You’ll get sick, too.”

THE COMFORT:

“Honey, have you been crying? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I think you’d better take a break.”

“It’s not your fault, sweetheart. You did everything you could.”

“You don’t have to go through this alone. I’m right here for you if you’ll just let me in.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. Don’t ever let yourself believe that there is.”

“You really don’t realize just how many people love you, do you?”

“If you’re not going to take care of yourself, at least let me do it for you!”

“I’m sorry. I know it hurts.”

“You’re not alone, baby. You never have been.”

“Let’s get you some food.”

“You’re dead on your feet, poor thing. Come on, you need some sleep.”

“Stay where you are. I’m coming to get you.”

“Tell me where it hurts.”

“How many times have I told you to be more careful?!”

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m right here, okay? I’m not gonna leave you. I’m never gonna leave you.”

“Oh, honey, you’re safe now. I promise. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Go ahead and take a shower. I’ll fix you something to eat.”

“What happened to you, baby?”

“I’ll kill that bastard. I’ll kill him for what he did to you.”

“You look like shit, man.”

“Whoa, whoa, take it easy! You got pretty banged up back there, and you don’t want to go making yourself worse.”

“I’m not trying to baby you. It’s called taking care of my friends.”

“Sweetheart, you’re burning up! Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell anyone you were sick?”

[luwritesstuff]

Heya! Can I get an Eddie Diaz x fem!reader?

911 is my newest obsession and I love his character :)

So sorry for the delay! real life is kicking my ass lately 😮‍💨 but i hope you love this!!

Moving Too Fast?

Eddie Diaz x fem!reader

wc: 1.1k

notes: afab!reader, no use of y/n. fluff, fluff, and more fluff :)

The first time Eddie said it, you thought it was a joke. You were on a call and complaining about having to drive all the way across town to get more clothes to stay with your boyfriend. It was a complaint you aired out often, you lived only a few miles from Eddie, but with LA traffic, the drive regularly took you over 20 minutes. Eddie shrugged his shoulders, “Why don't you just bring all of your clothes next time?” He'd said it so nonchalantly that you were sure he had been joking. Your patient began coding before you could ask and the topic didn't come up again until a few days later.

The two of you were alone in the loft of the firehouse on dish duty when it came up again. Which was really Eddie loading dishes into the dishwasher while you sat on the counter and watched, occasionally stealing a kiss. “Come over later?” He asked, shutting the door to the dishwasher and finally coming to stand between your legs.

You hummed and let your arms sling over his shoulders, “Can't. It's laundry day, and you know I have to be there so Mrs. Everly doesn't take my clothes out of the washer.” You weren't thrilled to be in your 30’s and still using a shared laundry space, but your apartment was rent controlled and really, you'd never had a reason to move. Until Eddie spoke again.

“You know, if you lived with me, you wouldn't have to fight anyone for a washing machine. I even have a dryer, too,” Eddie was so casual, again, and you had to take a minute to look at each other to tell if he was being serious. “I mean it,” he answered before you could ask, “Move in with me. I'm closer to work, too.”

And okay, he made some good points. You'd save so much on gas and his place really was nicer, but, “What about Chris? It's his home, too. And-” Before you could finish, the alarm was pulling you out of your conversation and down to the engines. The two of you shared a look that the conversation wasn't over, even if the rest of the day was back to back calls and you barely had a chance to catch your breath. Let alone make a major decision about the future of your relationship.

Later came when you were leaving the locker rooms and Eddie caught you before you could sneak out to the parking lot without him. “I already talked to Christopher about it weeks ago. What else is scaring you?” He was by your side instantly and reaching for your free hand.

You sighed and gave his hand a squeeze, “I'm not scared, Eddie. It's just a big decision, okay? And it's not one that I thought I'd be making today and it's just-” You stopped to stand in front of him, “It's a lot. I love you, and yes, eventually we should move in together, but-”

“It's a lot,” Eddie finished your sentence and leaned down to catch you off guard with a quick kiss, “I know. You don't have to answer right now. Just promise me you'll think about it at least?” He asked. And you weren't a monster, so obviously you nodded and leaned up to steal another kiss. After a promise to see each other the next day, you went your separate ways.

It wasn't really a conscious decision to show up on Eddie’s doorstep later that evening. But you were on your way down the half-broken steps to the laundry room and suddenly you felt ridiculous. Why were you about to fight an old woman over a washing machine just to stay in an apartment that was falling apart and in one of the most inconvenient parts of the city? Before you could talk yourself out of it, you decided that no, you weren't going to do that.

Which is how you ended up standing in front of Eddie with your laundry basket in your hands and a duffel bag slung over your shoulder. “You're not allowed to get tired of me. Or judge how many sweatshirts I have,” was all you said, letting the grin on Eddie’s face mirror your own.

“Deal,” he said and reached out to take the basket from your hands in favor of pulling you inside. “You're really sure about this? I wasn't trying to pressure you earlier, it just felt like something we should start talking about,” he added and you felt your heart ache fondly. Eddie’s need to check in only made you feel more secure in your decision.

“I wouldn't have just sat in that traffic if I wasn't sure, trust me,” you hummed and dropped your duffel in favor of reaching up to cup your hands around the back of Eddie’s neck. “You and Buck are gonna have to figure out how to get my dresser in your room, though. I'm not mixing my neatly folded clothes with your mess of crumpled up shirts.”

“I think you mean our room,” was all Eddie said before effectively ending the conversation with a firm kiss. “I love you,” he mumbled against your skin and dragged you down the hall to your room.

Later, when your clothes were drying and Eddie had gotten the rest of your stuff from your car, you were laying on his chest while he ran his fingers over your scalp. “Hey,” he spoke softly and sat up on his elbow to look down at you, “what you said earlier, about me getting tired of you. You don't really think that, do you?”

You shrugged and felt unable to make up some excuse with the way his brown eyes were staring into you. “I know you wouldn't, honestly. But you know about the last time I lived with someone I was dating and there's a reason I've lived alone ever since, you know? I know that this is the right decision for us, but I can't help worrying that it's gonna ruin this amazing thing we have going on.”

“That's not gonna happen, baby. You're it for me and I wouldn't have asked you to do this if I thought for even a second that it wouldn't work,” Eddie’s voice was reassuring as always and you couldn't help but agree. “Besides, even if we have second thoughts, Chris is never letting you leave. He's excited to finally have someone that cooks living here,” he teased. You rolled your eyes and pulled him down into a kiss, “You're right, I can't abandon him here with your disastrous cooking.”

“I love you,” Eddie promised.

You believed him, “I love you, too.”