#acts of service as a love language

[milkmynk]

Me @ my discord friends when the novel translator goes on hiatus

[swagvo1d]

i want to share an orange with you, lovingly, tenderly

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Love Languages

Acts of Service

Doing something for the partner that they will enjoy or makes their life easier.

cooking for them

running errands for them

giving them a massage

planning something fun to do together

doing household chores

cleaning and caring for their car

making appointments for them

giving them a night off by caring for the kids

packing them lunch boxes

making them breakfast

cleaning the house unprompted

drawing them a bath

bringing them their favourite snacks

arranging a self-care day for them

being there for them for important and unimportant events

asking about them and listening to what they have to tell

More: Love Language - Showing, not telling love | Love Language - Showing you care

[vroomvroomwee]

If I ever give you an interesting rock without uttering a word, you should know that that is the highest form of love I am capable of displaying and the highest honour I can bestow upon you

[tevanbuckley]

thinking about the fact that chimney was on the way to the bachelor party when he pulled over.

because yeah he didn’t really want one, but buck clearly put a lot of effort in and it’s his way of showing he cares and he really does love his dumbass little brother enough to indulge him, and when the dust settled he probably felt bad that buck spent all night thinking he’d ghosted him.

[ao3feed-rickorty]

Acts of Service As A Love Language

by SugarMagic

No one can deny that Rick and Morty love each other. Too bad they’re each feeling a different kind of love.

Words: 5907, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Rick and Morty

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Underage

Categories: M/M

Characters: Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty), Morty Smith

Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith

Additional Tags: Pity Sex, Manipulation, Rick isn’t a pedophile, but he is a sad sack of crap, First Time, Angst and Porn, Idiots in Love, Kink Meme

Check it out on AO3 | https://archiveofourown.org/works/45395497

[midnightorchids]

Jason’s love language is acts of service.

He struggles with initiating physical touch sometimes and he’s not the best at giving gifts or saying the right words.

But what he is good at is showing his love through his actions.

As long as Jason is around, you will never, EVER, have to worry about the dishes being dirty. You’ll never tie your own shoe laces and you will never have to carry your own bag.

He’ll make sure that your makeup is off and that your skin care is done on nights when you’re too tired. He’ll brush your hair and tie it for you too.

He’ll peel your oranges and make sure you’ll have at least one home cooked meal every day. He’ll iron your clothes and bring you a hot cup of tea.

With Jason by your side, you’ll never have to worry about doing your tedious tasks alone.

Jason can’t say I love you, but he doesn’t need to, his actions prove it enough.

[sweetlullabyebye]

Characters that are absolute lovesick disasters but also brutal killers are... definitely something

[keyotosprompts]

i'd give you everything ‧₊˚✩彡

acts of service prompts

⇴ person a is lying in bed but has to get up and get their computer for work. while hearing person a complain, person b gets up and grabs the computer for person a (midrant).

⇴ "let me pay you back." "no." "no? why?" "because i love you."

⇴ person a is slumped asf and their head is in an uncomfortable position on their pillow. person b gently lifts person a's head up and places it comfortably on person b's shoulder/bicep.

⇴ person b is not very vocal about how they love, so they tend to show person a that they love them with actions. person b always covers the corner of the table, walks on the side of the sidewalk, and puts a hand over person a's head when there's rain (and no umbrella).

⇴ "shit, i forgot to grab an umbrella. i didn't know it was raining" (sad face). "it's okay" (grabs jacket and puts it over a or puts a hand over a's head while running through the rain together)

⇴ grocery shopping but person b is putting everything in the bags in specific categories based on different factors so person a doesn't have stress about where anything is placed (just me?)

⇴ person b finishes up a project for person a because person a is on the verge of collapse ("when did i finish this??" and person b is just like "last night")

⇴ person a knowing that person b doesn't take care of themselves, so person a comes over to person b's house and brings them a care box. it's filled with all their favorite snacks/drinks (bonus points if person b didn't tell them what their favorites were, person a just knew).

⇴ "if you need anything, don't even hesitate to ask."

⇴ "are you kidding? you thought you needed to ask?" (percabeth anyone??)

⇴ person a & b are sitting around together, until b notices that a is shivering. they get up and sprint towards their shared room, grabbing a blanket and wrapping a in it.

⇴ ^^ "get in here too" with a cheeky cute smile that b cannot help but swoon over. it's like their heart is about to rupture out of their chest after looking at a's smile. they feel a grin break across their face as they snuggle up to a.

⇴ person a always drives around person b, even if it's inconvenient for their schedule. to person a, they'd rather take the long road and get to do something for b.

[thewhoreforhordes]

At Your Service

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭!!: could i request carl x reader and it’s just a bunch of different moments where he shows acts of service as a love language and how the group notices and teases him or smth?? TYYYYY

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐥’𝐬 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐥’𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐈𝐃𝐈𝐎𝐓, 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩

𝐞𝐫𝐚: 𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐚

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐥 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Carl would DEFINITELY teach you how to shoot a gun if you didn't know already. He can't have you out with walkers without you knowing how to shoot.

It was a peaceful morning in Alexandria, as you sat at your dining table drinking, likely well past expired, instant coffee, flipping through a book you and Carl had found on a run weeks prior.

Of course, your calm period would soon end with a knock at your door. You cock a curious eyebrow at the door before taking one last sip of your coffee and sighing, before getting up to see who it is.

You are pleasantly surprised to see Carl standing there, with a look you can only describe as purposeful. "Oh hey, Carl! I wasn't expecting you today." You beamed with a smile that Carl adored so much.

But, he wasn't just here to gawk over your pretty smile. "May I come in?" He inquired, glancing around the inside of your home behind you.

You nodded suspiciously, stepping aside for him, and shutting the door behind him. "So what's up?"

"I want to teach you how to use a gun, Y/N."

"Okay, straight to the point." You giggle, walking over to him and crossing your arms. "Why, exactly?"

"You need to be safe outside the walls. You can't keeping using your knife, or whatever's available at the time, Y/N/N." He glances down at you, and you can tell he's serious.

Carl doesn't take the safety of his loved ones as a joke.

—ミ★彡—

Which, is how you ended up here after what felt like hours of convincing to Carl, but in reality was about twenty minutes.

He stood so close behind you, you could feel his breath on your neck. "So, I want you to keep a steady stance—" He began to explain, as you felt watching eyes on the two of you. You turn in the direction of the sensation. It was Tara snickering to herself about this situation.

Needless to say, you— well, Carl— never lived that moment down.

"'Oh, Y/N, let me press up against you to teach you how to shoot a gun!!'" One of the resident teens in Alexandria, who was Carl's friend, teased, laughing his ass off.

"It wasn't like that! She just.. didn't know how to shoot one so I.. offered to teach was all." Carl muttered with a scoff.

"Dude, you were totally rubbing up on her!" The teenager continued, tears forming in his eyes from the utter enjoyment.

Carl giving you his flannel when it's chilly outside.

It was a frigid December evening in the gated community, and you walked, travel-cup in hand, alongside the sheriff's boy.

"I totally miss normal holidays. What do you think, instead of evergreen trees we string a walker up with Christmas lights?" You glance over at the boy who's cheeks were lightly dusted with pink, which you could only assume was caused by the cold.

"Good luck finding Christmas lights." Carl chuckled to himself as a cold blast of winter air blows through the town, swaying trees, and causing goosebumps to form on your skin.

You shiver at the icy wind, holding your arms. Carl takes immediate note of this and slides his flannel over your shoulders without a word.

"What's this for?"

"You seemed cold." He shrugged, playing off the gesture like nothing.

But to you it was everything.

Wearing his flannel around after that, however? So. Much. Teasing. From. The. Group.

Having been called to an urgent meeting by Rick, you glance around your living room for something quick to throw on to protect against the temperatures.

After a moment or so of searching, you spot something messily thrown over the back of your couch.

Carl's flannel.

You debate wearing it, realizing the implications it brings and what the group might think of it, although the urgency of the moment causes you to throw all of that out the window, as you snatch it off the couch and race out the door while putting it on.

—ミ★彡—

You stood in the town hall of sorts within the safe-zone, swaying upon your feet, your arms crossed and your eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

Carl stood next to Rick as always, scanning the group for all who were in attendance. Soon enough, his eyes fell upon you, for longer than they probably should've.

Were you wearing his shirt?

His face flushed, remembering how you got it. Wow, did you look good. As you spoke to Aaron about plans for recruiting, you began to feel eyes boring into your soul.

Shit, was the flannel too big of a deal? No one had said anything to you about it— yet. You started to run through every thought before looking up and meeting Carl's eyes for a second, causing him to look away embarrassed.

"I think if we take this path—" Aaron paused, inspecting the expression on your face. He assumed you'd stopped paying attention a second ago due to you nodding along to clearly horrible ideas, but he couldn't figure out why you were so unfocused.

Luckily, it didn't take a genius to realize why you were spacey. He followed your stare, ending up at the sheriff's boy, making him chuckle.

Having heard what sounded like a teasing laugh, you snap out of your trance of sorts, shooting a glare to Aaron. "What?" You ask harshly.

"Nothing, just seems like a certain blue-eyed cowboy has your attention, so much so you think walking straight into a horde sounds like a good idea." He barely stifles his laughter.

"Who? Carl? No, no!" You exclaim, desperately trying to explain the situation.

"Isn't that his flannel?" Aaron cocks an eyebrow at you, snorting.

You pause in your tracks, realizing he has a point. You were wearing his flannel, and you were staring at him across the hall.

He had caught you red-handed.

Little things mattered to you, even if they were things you didn't even need help with.

You stood, waltzing around the library a few blocks from Alexandria. Having freshly been de-walkerfied, and deemed safe, you waltzed around between the bookshelves utterly carefree.

Of course, you had dragged Carl along, however he was happy to join, of course. He loved reading a good comic or two, and where better to find them than a safe, undead-less library?

Having found yourself in what was previously the young adult novel section, which is now  miscellaneous books strewn about haphazardly upon a few shelves.

A frown quickly spread on your face, for your favorite section to be in such disarray. You began placing the books back where they belonged, starting from the bottom shelf and working your way up.

Unfortunately for you, once you reached the shelf at eye-level, you realized one of the books needed, was placed on the top shelf. You sighed, and lifted up onto your tippy-toes, and reached as far as your arm would let you, to no avail.

Carl, on the other hand, had found a lovely area to sit and read some comic he stumbled upon, thankfully for you, within eyesight of the young adult novel section. As you struggled to reach for the book, Carl flipped the page, glancing up over the papers, to be met with your predicament.

You stretched and grabbed, only to be met with nothing. Suddenly, the book you needed was plucked off the top shelf and into your hand with one swift motion. You glance up confused, to be met with your one-eyed beauty.

"Here." He says simply, giving you a small smile.

"I could've gotten it, you know." You roll your eyes, with an equally as stupid small smile.

"I know you could've. Just didn't want to watch you struggle."

Of course, he knew that you wouldn't have been able to grab it anytime soon, but who was he to say that?

Author's Note: aahhh!!! you guys this is my first carl request thank you so much!! i hope i did it justice and you guys enjoy!! i'm sorry this took so long i've been so busy with family and friends!! let me know if there's anything else you want me to do! be good peeps! <3

[gavramous]

gaz is out of commission after a rough mission. a broken arm, some bruised ribs, and a minor concussion have left him on bed rest in a hospital close to base. he gets visits daily, from his sister who happens to live nearby, and from price, ghost, and soap, keeping him up to date with the happenings at work.

the recruits are a pain in the arse, as always, soap tells him. price lets him know that there's no update on makarov at the moment, but laswell is chasing a potential lead, so fingers crossed. but ghost, after he's asked how gaz is feeling, usually just sits there, reading a book. not that gaz is complaining, because, if he asks, ghost will tell him what's happening in the story.

he apprciates it all, their comraderie, their care for him. they don't have to visit him so much, with their busy schedules, but they do, and he treasures their relationships.

it's ghosts 'turn' to sit with him for the day. they don't actually hold any sort of consistent order for when they visit him, but price said that one time, and it's stuck. ghost had walked into gaz's room with two apples and sat down on the chair to gaz's left. he immediately pulled out a mean looking knife - how he was able to get that thing through the hospital to his room, gaz has no idea - and starts slicing the first apple.

"how'r you faring then?"

"horribly, sir," gaz tells him. he's said this every day since he's been admitted. he's not really doing horribly. well, not physically, at least. sure, his ribs still ache, but he's mainly just bored out of his mind.

"mm, you don't look too good."

seems ghost is over his pessimism. "how kind you are to me."

ghost tuts, and holds out a slice of apple for him.

"what's this?"

"an apple, garrick, you're not that far gone, are you?"

"oh, full of jokes today, huh? obviously i'm asking why you're cutting me up an apple like you're my mum."

"ought not to question your mother so much, hm? just take it."

so gaz does. he's never one to turn down fresh fruit. through his chewing, gaz thanks ghost. ghost hums in acknowledgement, and there's silence as gaz eats. once he's done, ghost cuts and hands him another slice.

ghost breaks the silence after a bit. "it's weird, you know that?"

"what is?"

"your addiction to apples."

"i'm not addicted."

"no?" ghost challenges. "you eat at least one every day."

"what are you even paying that much attention for?" gaz questions.

"can learn a whole lot from observation." ghost shrugs as he hands him another slice.

"yeah? from eating habits?" gaz takes the offered slice.

"like you wouldn't believe." ghost is obviously joking. okay, maybe it's not obvious, gaz isn't soap, with his eerie ability to read ghost's jokes and moods like an open book with size 60 font, but he's getting there. and he's pretty sure ghost is joking right now. so he chuckles and says, "you're full of it."

ghost waves his knife in gaz's direction. "watch yourself, sargeant," he says, eyes crinkled slightly, pleased that gaz understood he was joking.

ghost is a little weird like that, gaz thinks. he's subtle and dry with his humour, leaving it up to others to figure out if he's serious or not, and he always seems pleased when people get he's joking. maybe it's his way of being seen. gaz is assuming now, he knows, but he's got nothing else to do, cooped up in this room. he enjoys trying to decipher the way his friends work every now and then. he feels he understands them better this way.

"why'r you fueling my addiction then?" gaz jokes back, "you obviously disapprove of my habits."

ghost doesn't answer. instead, after a minute or so, he asks, "you want another slice?"

"yes please."

he's hit with a wave of appreciation for ghost in that moment. he's found somewhat of a family in this team, and he'll value it for as long as they're able to work together.

[sun-marie]

A moment, some point in late Act 2

(based off the Patch 4 notes mentioning we can now wash the dirt off our companions 💜)

[cassianandfenrysaremyboyos]

The way Hades has set up an elaborate system to channel light from the world above, down into the underworld just for Persephone 💕😭

[icarryitin]

Help Me?

spencer reid/gn!reader

i love being in this guy’s brain there is just something so Character about him🧡 and happy birthday to you anon!!🥳

series masterlist

word count: 4.5k // warnings: injury description (dislocated shoulder), mentions of injections and pills for pain relief, poor and inaccurate medical knowledge, non-sexual undressing, would you believe me if i told you the sexual tension in the second half of this was accidental? for those reasons this is 18+

summary: You get injured on a case, and Spencer gets to play nurse. It’s a special kind of torture for both of you.

“Try it, see what happens.”

You appear out of the shadows ahead of them, the gun in your hands aimed carefully at the Unsub’s back, like a goddamn guardian angel.

The guy isn’t going to give up without a fight, even with three federal agents to contend with, that much is obvious. His grip on his weapon is far shakier than any of yours, fingers twitching ever closer to the trigger. You’ve made the split second decision to launch yourself at him before he has the chance to fire off a shot.

Which means Spencer has a front row seat to the sickening thud of your side against the ground when you tackle the Unsub. He’s grateful that he and Hotch aren’t staring down the barrel of a gun anymore, but less grateful that it’s come at the price of the grimace clear on your face. You’ll be bruised for sure, going down as hard as you do.

“Are you okay?” Hotch asks you as he hauls the Unsub up by his cuffed wrists. You take a moment to check yourself over, mentally inventory every joint and nerve, before you nod. Spencer holds a hand out towards you, which is taken without hesitation and you start pulling yourself up off the ground.

The crack of your shoulder as it pops out of the socket is so loud that the vibration of it tingles through your interlaced fingers and all the way up to his own.

A sharp yelp, followed by a weak whimper that makes his stomach flip, and he drops your hand like it’s scalding hot. You pull it into your chest with your good arm, palm cradling your elbow to give yourself a little support. Maybe you’d hit the ground a little harder than you meant to. It’s definitely dislocated. He can’t help but feel like it’s his fault.

Maybe that’s why he’s manoeuvring around you, where you sit pouting in a dusty heap. It’s what he tells himself anyway, as he slips large hands underneath your FBI vest – fingers pressed snugly against your ribs, separated by only a thin shirt, and he carefully helps you to your feet. The action has his face dangerously close to yours, so close that he’s terrified you’ll be able to hear how shallow his breaths are. But you seem to be far too focused on your own breathing to really register his proximity. Hotch is ahead already, Unsub in tow, but you’re the only thing Spencer is worried about right now. Someone else can collect the abandoned firearm from the ground, he has more important things to do. Like getting you into the care of a professional instead of his clumsy hands.

“Can you walk?”

A rhetorical question if he’s ever asked one. It’s your arm he’s pulled out of the socket, not a leg. You nod anyway, gently, but you don’t pull away from him. Instead your voice is soft, unsure.

“Help me?”

Of course he does, as if he’d be able to do anything else.

Does he really need to keep a hold on you, help you across the warehouse floor and out to an ambulance? Probably not. Does he do it anyway? Absolutely. You don’t seem to mind the closeness, judging by the way you lean into the solidity of him as the two of you shuffle towards the open door. He relishes in it, just a little. Because for all the camaraderie and familiarity that has built your friendship over the past few years, touches like this are so rare. Rare and usually instigated by you, when a case has hit him a little too close to home. It’s precious. To have you in his arms the way he’s wanted, wished for, literally dreamed about. There’s an irony in his earlier misplaced attempt to help you up, somewhere. Why can he only have you this close when one of you is hurting?

Raised eyebrows from the rest of the team be damned, he’ll carry you to the ambulance if he has to. He doesn’t but he’d try if you asked.

Spencer has seen all manner of terrible things. He’s seen them happen to strangers, friends, he’s been the one under the spotlight more than once. But he finds himself wholly unprepared to watch you wince as you hop up onto the back of the ambulance, legs dangling over the edge, arm still cradled protectively close to your chest. You flinch almost violently when the paramedic approaches you with outstretched hands which, in turn, only makes you hiss in pain. Your apology is small, quiet, sheepish. Everything he knows you not to be, which only makes him feel that much worse about being the reason you’re in this position in the first place. He’s not, the little logical voice in his brain tells him it was the fall you took, but he’s the one who offered to help you up. Can’t take that back.

“Do you have to?” You’re arguing with the paramedic when his brain checks back in to the conversation.

A sling has been placed by the open medical bag beside you, but it’s the object next to it that has your eyes wider than dinner plates. A needle, carefully sealed in its little package, ready and waiting to give you the pain relief that all three of you know you’re in desperate need of. There’s no way your shoulder can be reset here without it.

“You look at dead bodies all day, and you’re telling me you’re afraid of this?” The paramedic means well, he knows she does, but the grating sound of the sterile packaging being ripped open only serves to shrink you away from it even further.

“Phobias are rarely rational. In fact, the dictionary definition refers to one as being an extreme or irrational fear of, or aversion to, something. Phobias relating to medical procedures are pretty common actually.”

The barely hidden eye roll he gets from the paramedic would suggest he’s not helping the situation, but it’s the look that you give him. The one he gets across coroner slabs and conference tables and crime scenes, that tells him he is.

“I wouldn’t be offended if you didn’t want to, considering this is kind of my fault,” Spencer holds his hand up between you, wiggling his fingers in front of a sad little smile, “But squeeze away.”

“I don’t know, I might break it.” You’re going for a light-hearted joke, but your gritted teeth pay you no favours.

“Then we’ll call it even.”

You take his hand, and he wonders if he’ll need to ask the paramedic to break out the defibrillator next – judging by the way his heart stutters in his chest.

And, to your credit, you only almost break it. The first squeeze is tight, muscles in your forearm trembling as the needle plunges deep into your shoulder. It won’t be enough to completely numb you, the paramedic confirms, but it’ll go a fair way towards dulling the pain. You should really go to a hospital, a bodge job in the back of an ambulance isn’t exactly Bureau protocol, but he knows that isn’t happening. God forbid you ever get shot, he’s sure that getting you treated properly for something like that would be more traumatic for you than any injury.

The second squeeze isn’t something he’s prepared for. You hang onto his hand as though your life depends on it once the paramedic has decided the painkillers have kicked in enough, though her fingers on your shoulder still have you tensing. She tells you to relax, uselessly. Instead, you turn your head away, bury it into Spencer’s shoulder, and dig your nails into the back of his hand. His knuckles crack under the pressure, synchronised popping absolutely miniscule compared to the thunderous pop your shoulder gives when the paramedic manipulates it back into place. Tears seep through his shirt as they dampen his shoulder, the tension in your jaw gives away the sob you’re biting back. You swallow it before you pull your face from the security of his warmth – brave face, as always – and dutifully allow the paramedic to tug the Kevlar vest over your head to make way for the sling she’s prepared.

You’re too on edge to really pay attention to the instructions she’s giving you, too preoccupied on slowing your heart rate to hear about the over the counter pain meds you should take, how long you need to keep the sling on. So, Spencer listens. He remembers, as he always does. He nods and tells her he’ll make sure you do everything by the book, because he knows you won’t be on your way to the doctor’s office in a hurry if your recovery doesn’t go to plan.

JJ popping up in your field of vision seems to lighten your mood, the stiffness falls away and you choke out a laugh alongside a sarcastic comment about heroics being above your paygrade. It’s fake, the laughter. Your spine is still rigid, smile a little too tight to be true. But nobody else seems to notice. They’re just glad you’re alright. Something about your rapid mood change scratches an itch in his brain, the smallest part of it that’s just a little smug. Because you don’t let on about your fear to the others. Just him.

Spencer piles into the back of the second SUV after you, behind Rossi and Emily, and takes it upon himself to make sure you’re strapped in. Admittedly, you could manage it yourself, but he doesn’t want you to. There are eyes on the back of his head when he leans over to carefully pull the seatbelt across you, when he makes sure to steer clear of your sling, but they’re easy to ignore when you’re watching him the way you are. Your quiet affirming hum follows the click of the seat belt plug when you meet his questioning gaze, calming the pounding in his chest and he doesn’t pull back right away. Involuntarily, his eyes drop to your lips for the barest of moments.

He could kiss you.

Right here, right now. In the back of the SUV, with your arm in a sling, and your colleagues watching on. He could do it. But he doesn’t.

He knows what he wants your first kiss to be like – a little pocket of his brain is dedicated to it, plays scenario after scenario in the moments before he settles down to sleep every night. Silly little bedtime stories.

Except they’re not silly, because somewhere along the way he stumbled out of his harmless little crush and into something much more serious. He knows what it is, he won’t put a name to it. Instead, he daydreams. It’s not always the same, the location varies - sometimes you’re at work, in the bullpen or the conference room, or obscured from the rest of the team by the metallic bulk of an SUV. Sometimes you’re in his apartment, in the kitchen, by the window in the living room, in the doorway of his bedroom. Sometimes it’s just a street corner, at night, at midday, dawn, dusk. But you, you’re always the same. You always look at him with a smile that could light the entire city, and he just tells you.

Spills his guts out all over the floor, every part of him left raw and vulnerable, as he tells you he loves you - has always loved you. Maybe even before he met you. He tells you how his heart stopped in his chest that first morning you walked into the BAU office, how he nearly spilled his coffee down his shirt, how his glasses steamed up with the heat from his cheeks. How Derek, JJ, Garcia, the entire team has been teasing him for literal years. How sometimes he thinks he catches you looking at him, but that’d be just too good to be true wouldn’t it?

And then your smile grows, and you take a step further into his space until there’s scarcely any room between you. That’s when you tell him you do look at him, you look at him all the time. Because you love him, just as hopelessly and desperately and effortlessly as he loves you. That’s when he kisses you. When he grasps your face in his hands and takes a deep breath of you before crashing into you with a bruising force. You take it, of course you do, just as eagerly as he pours himself into it. The kiss of a lifetime. That’s how he’d do it.

But he can’t do any of that, not now.

So, he pulls back, plugs his own seatbelt in, and lets himself wallow in the post-case stillness that settles in the car. Punctuated by Penelope’s voice through the speaker on your phone though it may be. She’s relieved, a little mad that you’d put yourself in harm’s way, but ultimately glad you’re safe. He smiles to himself at that, he can’t help but agree.

Quantico’s parking garage is dark this time of night, of course it would be, but the chill of the concrete seeps into his bones. You shiver beside him as he helps you slide out of the SUV. Goodbyes are short, sweet, exhausted. Each member of the team wandering towards their own vehicles, leaving you and Spencer standing alone under the fluorescent lights.

“Let’s get you home, superhero.” He grins at you as his hand settles gently on the small of your back, guiding you towards the street exit.

It’s not far to the train station, the streets are still busy even at this time of night. Tourists and businessmen and politicians all alike. But you don’t get jostled in the slightest, he makes sure of it - carefully weaving through the throngs to get you safely to your platform. It’s only as he steps onto the train with you that you realise his own home is in the complete opposite direction. It’s borderline unfair how fuzzy he feels at your concern for his own journey.

“I said I was getting you home, not getting you to the station.” He can’t help the fond smile that settles on his features as you look up at him from your seat. He’s chosen to stand, partially in front of you, as a sort of makeshift barrier between your injured arm and any potential commuters who might stumble into you. He holds his hand out to you expectantly and it takes you another moment to fish your keys out of your bag. They’re placed softly in his palm, your fingers barely brushing his. The touch is so gentle compared to the way you almost squeezed that same hand to death only a couple of hours earlier. He just about manages to suppress the shudder that threatens to buckle his knees, and he counts his lucky stars that your building is only a block away from the train’s destination.

The thought only occurs to Spencer when he’s halfway over the threshold of your apartment, too preoccupied with getting you back safely to realise he’s actually never been in your home before. Organised chaos is the term he’d use. The open plan kitchen and living area is tidy but cluttered, books of every genre piled on shelves with no real strategy, a haphazard stack of second hand vinyls that are mostly Tom Waits sit atop an old record player, a small collection of cacti in mismatched terracotta pots are lined up on your little kitchen windowsill. The cupboards are a deep green, which should really be at odds with the peach tinged wash on the walls, but the combination is just soft enough to work. It’s very you.

“I can take care of myself, you don’t have to stay.”

Your name leaves his lips in the same tone it usually does before he can stop it, the same heavy sigh that wraps around the letters more often than not. God, you know exactly how to push his buttons, even when you don’t mean to. You’re missing the point entirely – he wants to take care of you. It’s so rare that you let him.

“Nice try,” He says as he sets your work bag down on one of the chairs at the round kitchen table, “Get changed, I’ll fix up some dinner.”

“You will?” The teasing grin on your face is either because you don’t think he can cook, or because you can’t. He’s leaning towards the former.

“Hey, I’m a man of many talents.”

You stand there for another long few seconds, just watching him. It’s not dissimilar to the look you gave him at the ambulance, in the SUV, on the train home. Like there’s something you’re desperate to say to him; only, you’re not sure how to say it. So you turn on your heel and close the bedroom door behind you.

Spencer physically has to shake off the weight of your gaze before he can move again, even after you’re gone. His own bag finds its place beside yours, jacket folded and draped neatly over the back of the metal chair. It’s the kind of dining set he’d expect to see outside a Parisian cafe, as opposed to being tucked in the corner of a DC apartment. Chipped white metalwork and all, probably originally a garden set, but it fits the eclectic thrift store vibe you’ve curated throughout the space. He finds himself drifting towards your overstuffed bookshelf, to the beat up record player and the pile of albums - the protective sleeve of each one shabbier than the last. He’d been right at first glance, the collection is mostly second-hand Tom Waits albums - with a little Queen, The Magnetic Fields, and Fleetwood Mac in the mix. The album on top is the most dog-eared, and he doesn’t have to employ a single one of his profiling skills to know this one is the most loved, most played, and he’s sure you’ll appreciate the comfort of some background noise. So he’s concentrating on sliding the record out of the sleeve, carefully placing it onto the turntable, and setting the needle down.

The bluesy first bars of Tom Waits’ Heartattack and Vine fill the room at the same time you open the bedroom door, looking more than a little sorry for yourself. And, to his credit, Spencer does a pretty good job of not laughing at the picture of you in the open doorway.

You’ve got yourself tangled up, all wrinkled shirtsleeves and oozing embarrassment - one sleeve dangles empty by your side where the other is still firmly encased by the sling, your sole free arm pokes out of the bottom of your sweater. Your eyebrows are drawn as you look everywhere but at him.

“Can you…?” You trail off. A breath pushes its way out of your lungs, half-sigh and half-helpless laugh.

“Come on.” He erases the distance between you in two strides, hands turning you at the waist before he can even really think about what he’s doing. You shuffle into the room ahead of him, soft rug shielding your socked feet from the cold of the wooden floor. He’s pleased to find the same decorative tastes extend through to your bedroom.

Another bookshelf, also stuffed to the brim with enough material to start your own bookstore. A little wooden desk by the window paired with a chair that doesn’t match, the wall to the right of it is plastered in multicoloured post it notes - a few of them catch his eye, reminders and ideas and shopping lists. Your bedspread is the same dark green as your kitchen cabinets, although it’s mostly obscured by a mess of patchwork blankets and jewel toned decorative pillows. Your sunshine plush has pride of place balanced against the left-hand bedpost on top of the headboard. Even without an eidetic memory, he’d remember the look on your face when he won it for you. Undercover at a travelling carnival in Oregon, the job at hand was to lure out an Unsub whose tastes fit you to a T, but he’d been uncharacteristically powerless to resist at least trying to get something for you. Your cover was a couple, anyway. He’d only been in character. Not only do you still have it, but it has pride of place, and something about it has his pride rearing its head.

You’re fussing with your pyjamas, a threadbare hoodie and garishly patterned sweatpants, when he turns his attention back to you. The reality of the situation seems to hit you both in the same moment.

Spencer is going to have to undress you.

It’s not how he imagined it would be - and that is definitely not something he needs to think about right now. He could keep his eyes closed? Although not being able to see where he should put his hands is arguably more dangerous than it would be to pay attention. He has to clear his throat before he can find his voice.

“I’m going to have to take this off,” He gestures to the sling, hoping he sounds less noticeably wrecked to you than he does to himself, “But we’ll go slow, okay?”

It’s cruel, is what it is, to watch you nod your agreement, to witness your unshakeable trust that he won’t hurt you so closely. Ultimately, it’s not overly different to the way he checks over your protective vest. There’s a strategy, a system to it just the same as the task that lies ahead, and he’ll follow it step by scientific step.

The sling is first, straps carefully undone and the support sliding off your arm - you both support it, your elbow in his palm where yours settles under your wrist. The one free hand you have between you, Spencer’s, works your shirt up over your uninjured shoulder and tugs it over your head. His eyes never drift beyond what you’ve asked of him, though it isn’t for lack of temptation. He slides the remaining sleeve off of your injured arm with a touch so light that neither of you wouldn’t know it was there if not for the skim of his fingers over your bare skin. Your hoodie replaces your work shirt just as carefully, in reverse. Injured arm first, head, uninjured arm. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth absentmindedly as he concentrates on looping the sling over the thick cotton, securing your arm tight to your chest again. Job done, and without too much embarrassment. He’d call that a success.

“Would you mind-” You struggle for a moment, “The clasp is fiddly.”

Spencer doesn’t know what you mean at first, and then it clicks - and it’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room. You need him to undo your trousers. He can do that, he can do it. He might feel like he’s about to spontaneously combust over the request, but he can do it.

There’s not a whole lot he wouldn’t do for you, to tell the truth.

It takes him longer than it should to slip the hook out of its clasp, usually nimble fingers fumbling under the weight of both of your gazes. But he doesn’t stop there. Because his usually brilliant mind is buzzing with static and his hands are moving of their own accord and the teeth of the zip on your trousers as he pulls it down is loud.

Spencer pulls back like he’s been shocked, while your eyes remain firmly glued to his hands. Hands that now wring themselves with anxiety as he quietly asks if you can manage the rest. You don’t respond verbally - it takes another long second, but you start shimmying the trousers off of your hips with your free hand. The slightest glimpse of bare thigh has him spinning on his heel and marching towards the kitchen in search of food.

He’s not thinking about the soft material of your sweatpants being pulled carefully over your legs in the other room, as he roots around in your kitchen cupboards. He’s not. A can of chopped tomatoes, a handful of half-empty spice jars, just about enough dry spaghetti for two. It’ll do. A pot of water is set on the stove to boil, the noise is enough of a distraction when the bedroom door opens again behind him. You shuffle about for a few minutes, digging around your shelves and Tom Waits’ gravelly tone cuts off abruptly to be replaced by the softer voice of Stevie Nicks instead. The volume ticks down a couple of notches before you join Spencer in the kitchen as he warms the tomatoes and spices alongside the boiling noodles, moving around him with the same ease you do in the office. You pull out two bowls that don’t match - one is shallower and wider and glazed a sunshine yellow, there’s a chip in the lip of it. The other one is smaller, deeper, glazed navy blue instead and with a cheeky face etched into the pottery. Its nose protrudes slightly, rounded out on one side. He can’t help his smile when he dishes out two equal portions and the red sauce drips down onto the bowl’s nose. He swipes at the mess with his thumb before handing you the bowl.

“Thank you.” You search out his gaze this time, urging him to look you in the eye. For cooking, or what he’s sure is your favourite bowl, or staying. He’s not sure. He wants to tell you that you don’t have to thank him, he’d drop anything and everything at any moment if you needed him to. But something in your eyes has stolen his voice, a flicker of something he’s far too terrified to acknowledge. So he only smiles, takes the yellow dish in his hands, and follows you to the comfort of your vintage floral couch.

It’s not a table dinner kind of evening, you seem to have decided. Although the precarious balance of the bowl on your knees suggests otherwise, as you try to eat one handed. Spencer leans forward to pull the cushion from behind his back, his own dinner temporarily abandoned on the floor in front of him, and he picks up your bowl to slide the cushion across your lap in lieu of a tray. Your laugh is quiet, you don’t look at him, but whatever tension had built in the bedroom dissipates with the sound.

Even so, he shoots off a text to Penelope while you’re preoccupied with your spaghetti, asks if she can lend you a helping hand for the next few days if you need one. You shouldn’t need the sling for more than a week anyway. She responds with a smiley face and a kiss almost immediately. It’s not the first time in his life he’s thanked whatever mystical force is responsible for Penelope Garcia.

Spencer will corral you to the doctor’s office for a checkup in a few days, he’ll make sure you do your stretches, he’ll set alarms for your painkillers. And, ultimately, he’ll come back if you ask him to. He’ll help you in and out of your pyjamas if that’s what you want, of course he will.

Regardless of the way it sets his insides aflame. He’ll do it for you.

yes i know reader inserts are blank slates yes this apartment is basically just my own flat no i don’t care thank u🧡🧡

[yesloulou]

the holding the umbrella with two hands the lil shufflings to keep up with daniel to keep him dry the way he kept talking and talking the way his whole upper body looked strained

[mossyvil]

i’ve been thinking about how vil would actually be a very sweet and thoughtful boyfriend, more than people give him credit for

he has a very good eye for details and little things that are easily overlooked. he pays close attention to people, and that only increases if he has a special interest in someone. over the time you’ve been dating, vil files away little things he notices about you

he remembers your favorite things, and randomly uses it to surprise you when he knows you need a pick-me-up. he reminds you to take breaks when he knows you’ve been pushing yourself to do too much lately, and while he isn’t forceful about it, he won’t take no for an answer

all of his gifts are very meticulously planned, he remembers things you’ve mentioned in passing even months later. he does little things to make your life easier, like bringing you lunch or tidying up your room

it isn’t hard at all for him to do these things for you. sure, his days are filled to the brim with meetings and photo shoots, but he makes sure he has time to check up on you at the very least. it makes him feel better, knowing that the one he loves has a little bit less on their plate