#well... flangst

[lunar-years]

My little hunger games fic will be dropping this weekend 🤗 I know I keep saying soon but it’s genuinely just about written and just needs to be edited 😁

[pathologicalreid]

i like it when you sleep for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of it | s.r.

in which Spencer Reid is a mosaic of every person he's ever known, and you are the only one who has ever been able to bring him back to the present

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff (flangst) content warnings: pregnant!reader, takes place following the believer storyline, abandonment issues, fear of being a parent, spencer reid is sooooo in love with his wife word count: 1.84k a/n: long ass fic title idk blame matty healy!!

His hand was growing sweaty in yours, but he couldn’t get himself to relax his grip. Slow breaths moved your chest while you slept peacefully next to him, the occasional whistle from your nostrils made the corner of his mouth quirk up. 

Adjusting his head on the pillow, Spencer winced slightly at the way the pillowcase felt on his new wounds. Cuts and bruises littered his face, but nothing hurt him the way the tear tracks on your face had when he finally made it back to the BAU. It had been the only thing on his mind when that blade had been pressed to his throat—what it meant to be leaving you behind. 

Spencer couldn’t take his eyes off of you, continuously studying your sleeping form to ensure you were undisturbed. He knew you hadn’t been sleeping well, a result of the wriggling baby that was growing in your womb, and yet, you’d still been up for the majority of the night, waiting for him to return to you and then making sure he was taken care of once he got home. You’d spent an hour trying to take care of the cut in his hairline while he tried to herd you to bed. The glorious symbiosis of marriage, he supposed, you being there to take care of him while he took care of you. You brought him to his knees. 

Though you were past viability, he still worried about you and the baby, knowing you hadn’t closed your eyes until four in the morning did nothing to quell the anxiety thrumming through his body. It seemed that the only thing that was helping was seeing you sleep, having the physical representation of his life on the other side of his mattress was all he could do to stay calm. 

His anxiety about becoming a father had manifested itself in stacks of parenting books littered throughout his life—piled up on his nightstand, the coffee table, and even his desk in the bullpen. Not only had he been collecting books on fatherhood, but motherhood as well, so he could help you adjust to your new role even better than he could adjust to his own. Though, none of that mattered if he never lived to see this dream come to fruition, and ever since he saw your positive pregnancy test, he found himself considering a life without the BAU. 

Everyone considered him still young, still the kid of the team, but his future faced him square in the eyes everytime he looked at you. He was eye to eye with a decision to make, to choose which mentor he truly wished to emulate. Did he want to be the one who took on everything until it became too much? Tearing him apart limb from limb until he had to take off in the middle of the night to put himself back together, only to have the ghosts of his past come back to haunt him. He could be the one who nearly lost everything, sticking it out even when everyone would’ve understood taking the other path. Remaining a leader to the team because he was a hero to his son—until he wasn’t. Then, there was the one who had chosen ambition over everything else in his life, collecting beginnings of stories only to never experience the middle, only finding answers when the story had reached a resolution. 

Maybe he placed too much stake in the men that he had once looked up to, previously too young to see the flaws in the way they forged their paths and too captivated to recognize the flaws in their process. 

Lost, he opened his eyes again to find you, taking up the arduous task of committing your every trait to memory. Naturally, your likeness was branded to the backs of his eyelids, making you the first person he saw when he woke up in the morning and the last person he saw when he went to bed every night—even when you were miles away. He’d never had the privilege of seeing you in this exact moment before, how your nostrils flared with each exhale and your lips had parted slightly against the pressure of your pillow. Once every few minutes, your fingers would twitch from their place intertwined with his, and he’d just watch. 

The way your hair fell across the champagne colored pillow case was nothing short of art, as if it had been precariously arranged on the sheets instead of mere happenstance. The way your sleep shirt had bunched up over your shoulder, pulling the side of the shirt up to expose the skin of your hip and, coincidentally, your bump, threatened to take his breath away. 

There were moments, blips in his timeline, where he nearly forced himself to acquiesce the concept of becoming a father. Having a kid of his own, moving on from being the friend who was the designated godfather and allowing himself to endure everything that a child had to offer. Only, he worried he didn’t have enough to offer his child, if he’d lost too much of his own childhood to have empathy for the baby you were carrying. Everyone told him that the concern would wear off eventually, but there was no light at the end of this tunnel. There was no end for terror when the catalyst was right around the corner. 

Shifting himself down the mattress, he held his arm over his head so your fingers could remain intertwined, shuffling until your belly was eye level. He sighed gently, silently admiring the work that your body was doing—changing, shifting—all to bring new life into this world. “I have to tell you something, Kit,” he murmured to the baby. 

The nickname had been chosen by you, deciding that no matter the gender of the baby, their nickname would be Kit. You didn’t yet know if they’d be Christopher or Kathleen, but they would be Kit. 

“When everyone asked, I told them I wasn’t scared of the Believers,” he explained to the fetus, who was just barely developed enough to hear what was going on outside of the womb. He’d spoken to them before, reading aloud from whatever book he happened to be reading at the time. Once, when you’d been upset, kept awake by a baby who was active at night, he’d even sung a lullaby to them, trying to console both of you at once. 

He glanced up at you, ensuring that his tender whispers weren’t prohibiting your sleep before continuing. “I wasn’t. I knew that the team would get to me, but at the same time… I was petrified. Scared,” he pointlessly simplified his phrasing as if he were speaking to a child sitting on his lap. 

There had only been one word cycling through his head while a knife was held to his throat—baby. “I was scared I wouldn’t be able to meet you.” 

If he committed himself to ignoring his work and the interpersonal relationships that he’d curated at work, Spencer would find that there was little else in his life that held significance—save for you and the baby. He had his mother, but even the simplest of memories were continuing to fall from her mind like the petals of a flower. The inner beauty of you was that this life was just beginning, a newly sowed garden of his own to share—to cultivate and protect. 

Every moment of his life had been forcibly seared on himself by his memory, even the terror that burned his chest earlier tonight would remain in a locked box for years to come, but sometimes, when he closed his eyes and searched for you, he discovered gratitude. There was a blessing beneath what he previously would’ve sworn was a curse, he could travel with the team and see memories of you and the family that the two of you created.

But would that ever be enough? 

What was the true value of a glimpse of his own child when he knew you’d be at home, facing all of the late nights and diaper changes alone? Would he feel content in being a part of his child’s life when what he truly craved was being a whole of their life? He’d never truly had that, his own father perpetually had one foot out the door for his entire childhood before he finally left. He’d experienced loss of that caliber time and time again until he met you, the one person who took his breath away. You had stayed, and he felt as though he belonged beneath you. On his knees before you while you took on responsibilities that couldn’t fit into his own schedule—menial tasks like laundry and grocery shopping and taxes. This wasn’t fair to you. This wasn’t fair to your baby, being mistreated by the world before they took their first sobbing breath. 

The night before your wedding, he’d confessed to you that he was scared he’d given up the best years of his life to the BAU, and you’d assured him that was impossible. That didn’t stop the doubt from creeping in at times like these, moments where the job got a little too scary, when there had to be a call home and a protective detail placed. Those were the moments when he looked to you and knew if you told him it was too much, he’d throw in the towel, but you never did. You’d never ask that of him, and part of him has always known that it needed to be a decision he made for himself. 

Next to him, you shifted slightly on the bed, your nose wrinkling in distaste as the sun rose, resulting in rays of light beaming in through the blinds. As always, you brought him back, returning his thoughts to the present tense because he was here now, in bed next to you. The sun was walking up his wife, the mother of his child, and after everything he had put her through the night before, he couldn’t tolerate the actions of the celestial being. 

Spencer got out of bed, precariously placing his feet on boards that wouldn’t creak while he made his way to the window, tugging the string of the blinds until light had been completely forbidden from the bedroom. When he turned around, he saw your hand reaching out, flexing your fingers like you were trying to grab something—trying to grab him. “Come back,” your sleep-muddled voice called out for him. 

The smile that bloomed on his face was unavoidable, everything that’s grown in his garden before him in plain view. He made his way back to bed, climbing under the covers with you and opening his arms for you to slide into. You rested your head gently on his chest, falling back to sleep to the beat of his heart, leaving him with nothing left to concern himself with but the gentle way your eyelashes curled over your cheeks.

[nereidprinc3ss]

promiscuous

in which spencer reid doesn't like that flirty!reader is going on a date. he makes that known. (bandages universe)

flangst, 18+ for discussions of sex warnings/tags: gn!reader I think, mentions of going to a bar/going for drinks, very suppressed mutual pining, jealousy from Spencer, reader implied to engage in casual sex, reader calls themself a slut somewhat disparagingly but like as a joke, it all gets resolved, he is very sweet, he rambles when he's nervous a/n: oh God I love them so much they are like so in love and they literally have no idea at all because they're so dumb... but WE can tell.. turning point for them

“Penelope wanted me to confirm that you guys are coming to drinks with us tonight?”

It’s something of a standing tradition for the BAU on the last Friday of every month, and usually you’d agree, but tonight, you have other plans. 

“Raincheck for me,” you say, sliding some files into your bag which you do not plan on reviewing. “I have a thing.”

“What thing do you have on a Friday night?” Morgan asks skeptically. You don’t bother looking at him as you hide a smile. 

“A date, Morgan. You jealous?”

“You’re going on a date?”

You’d nearly forgotten Spencer was in the room until he spoke—he’s been in one of those quiet moods of his where he sort of floats around everyone else and makes himself insubstantial. As you cast him a sidelong glance, trying to figure out his tone of voice, you see he’s frowning. Nearly grimacing. His brows are drawn so tight you’re worried he’ll give himself a headache. 

“Uh, yeah. I am.” Suddenly, your parade feels a little rained on. 

“With who?”

You pause, looking back down at your desk with a new frown of your own and shaking your head as if you could clear it that way. “Just… some guy from OT.”

“Dalton?”

Ding ding ding. Somehow he got it right on the first guess, and for some reason, you wish he hadn’t. You don’t want Spencer knowing who you’re going on a date with. It feels wrong. 

“Does it matter?” You evade, shoving your things with a little more force into your bag. 

“Well Dalton is an idiot, so I guess I’m just trying to figure out why you’d go out with him.”

“And if it’s not Dalton?”

“Then I’d tell you all the guys in OT are idiots and you shouldn’t waste your time on any of them.”

“Alright—” Morgan passes between your desks, placing a friendly hand on your back as he does. “I’m gonna let you two hash this out by yourselves.” He gives you a look, eyebrows raised, unsmiling, that means, go easy on the kid. It makes you feel terribly guilty. And more than a little defensive. 

“Night,” you call halfheartedly. He only waves as the glass doors swing shut behind him, leaving you and boy genius alone in the bull pen.

Silence falls, cloistering you as you finish packing up together. It seems to magnify the buzz of the overheads. You notice him intentionally lingering, and you sling your bag over your shoulder with a sigh. 

“Okay,” you say, turning to face him with your whole body. He seems uncomfortable with that, but you’re not letting this go. “What is this? Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you,” he mumbles, refusing to meet your eyes. “I just think—”

“Yeah. You’ve made your thoughts abundantly clear. I don’t know why you’re judging me for going on a date.”

“I’m not judging you! I just think you deserve better than a guy who looks like he… snorts protein powder for every meal and has less capacity for intelligent conversation than a mealworm.”

“Okay. Do you have someone in mind?”

The words come out a little sharper than you’d meant for them to. A little louder. Spencer looks like a scolded puppy as he swallows. 

“Not specifically. Just—someone more like you.”

He just doesn’t get it. You fold your jacket over your arm. 

“Yeah, well, until someone more like me comes along and asks me out, Dalton is the best I’ve got. I know he’s not my soulmate, Reid. But he asked me to drinks, and I said yes.”

The room is mostly dark. Only a few fluorescents remain on to cast Spencer in an almost clinical glow against a dark grey background. You’ve been here before. It feels like an interrogation. An environment where you’re practically begging for the truth without saying please, but there’s only room for measured dishonesty. 

Spencer speaks under his breath, fiddling with the strap of his own bag. “He’s not good enough for you.”

“What do you want me to do?” It’s an exasperated, confrontational sigh. Your arms raise and fall heavily back to your sides. Another long grey hallway of silence that leads nowhere. When it becomes clear he doesn’t have the answer, or he’s not comfortable sharing, you straighten. “I’ll see you Monday, Reid.”

Your spirits are completely dampened as you trudge to the elevators. What once seemed like an exciting opportunity now only serves as a depressing reminder that you’re wasting your time with a man who isn’t what you want. Maybe you should just call the whole thing off. 

“Wait,” Spencer calls, half-jogging to catch the open elevator. His bag bobs with every step, pens and things jingling around inside. It’s endearing, even though you’re upset with him. Your arms remain stubbornly crossed, but he makes it anyway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your mood.”

You laugh dryly. “Yeah, well…”

“It’s just that…” he sniffs and looks down, hair falling in front of his face. He really is sweet, even when he’s kind of a dick. He’s full of so much sincerity he doesn’t know what to do with it all. “I know how you are—you’re special, and funny, and intelligent, and, and Dalton—all those qualities are wasted on him. He looks at you and he just sees a pretty face. It may sound trite, but… he doesn’t deserve you.”

You sigh again, heart squeezing. The glowing light on the panel of floor numbers flickers. “I know your heart is in the right place, alright? But it’s not about who deserves me or who doesn’t. I’m not a prize. I’m a person, and people like to feel wanted. Sometimes, it’s just—it’s about who’s there, and who likes me enough to say it to my face. Sometimes that’s all I need, and I know you didn’t mean it like this, but when you say he doesn’t deserve me, it really seems like you’re not considering what I might want at all. Maybe Dalton is what I want.”

God—this elevator ride is like, comedically long. 

“Is he what you want?”

At least he has the bravery to ask. 

You glance over at Spencer, washed out bloodless and looking like he’s prepared to flinch, like he doesn’t know if he’s ready for the answer. The doors ding and slide open, and stale air whooshes from the chrome compartment into the lobby like a held breath finally exhaled. You swallow. 

“I don’t know why it matters to you.”

“Because you’re my friend and I want to see you happy,” he insists, trailing after you as you speed walk through the lobby. Every click of your heeled boots echos. 

“Then shouldn’t you be supporting me?”

“I’m not going to support you in making the wrong choice.”

The conversation spills out into the bitter-cold parking lot. You turn around to face him. 

“Respectfully, you have no idea what’s right or wrong for me. I don’t like whatever this is,” you say, gesturing with a finger between the two of you, as if the conflict were a tangible thing—a phone line hanging between your hearts. “I don’t know if it’s, like, jealousy, or some misplaced feeling of possessiveness, or protectiveness, or—”

“It’s not like that!” He splutters. 

“Okay—so what is it like? If you want to see me happy, why don’t you support me in pursuing the things that make me happy? And if that’s meaningless sex with some guy from operational tech, so be it! You are not in a position to give your two cents on who I sleep with!”

“I wasn’t trying to—I wasn’t even thinking about—about sex! I don’t care who you sleep with!”

He’s turning increasingly pink. 

“Fine. But if you weren’t thinking about sex, if you thought I was under any illusion that Dalton was going to be my fucking Prince Charming then clearly you’re not equipped to have this conversation. I know he’s an idiot. I’m not looking for my soulmate—thank you, though, for reminding me that it’s completely fucking pointless to even pretend. I love you, Spencer, but grow up. And stay out of my business.”

And with that, you’re turning on your heel and marching toward your car. Spencer calls your name—once. Twice. The wind lashes against your bare arms and stings your eyes as you fumble with your keys. 

It’s just the wind. 

Nothing else. 

-

Maybe you’re simply not meant for love. 

It’s a narcissistic thought in the sense that everyone has it at some point in their lives—everyone falls victim to the delusion that they are so uniquely wretched, so singularly incapable of being understood by another person. It’s the universal illusion of solitude. And you’d thought yourself above it for a long time. In college, there was fling after fling. Your bed was never empty if you didn’t want it to be. In your young adult life, you have other priorities—but you rarely have to be alone. 

Now, though, as you sit on a rickety metal stool deep in the bowels of the Bureau’s records room, banished to sort through files in search of one that had been mishandled during a cold case and is now supposedly relevant again, (although you’re not sure it actually exists) you’re pondering the nature of those connections you’d been so sure your life was full of. Were they all artificial? Designed by you subconsciously to manufacture a sense of complacent satisfaction? To stave off the aching, gnawing loneliness in your gut that you’re only now becoming aware of and has been eating you away in bigger and bigger bites since Friday night?

Morgan was supposed to be just as arm-deep into a box of dusty manila folders as you are now, but he talked his way out of it, and you’re sitting in an awkward twenty-minute-long-so-far silence with Spencer. Which isn’t helping anything. 

The tension comes and goes like the moon pulling the tides. It’s like you can sense it wafting off of each other—you feel it in the prickle on the back of your neck and the buzz in your stomach when he’s about to say something, and you glance over, and he’s already looking at you with his lips parted, and then he doesn’t say anything after all, and the silence reinforces itself. 

It gets frustrating. 

Not to mention this task is equal parts mind numbing and infuriating. Maybe Hotch just hates you. 

Eventually Spencer clears his throat, and you welcome the distraction. 

“What year are you on?”

You give him a long look which he doesn’t reciprocate, because you want to say, really? But eventually you pick up the edge of the box you’re sifting through and double check. 

“Uh… June 1979 through August 1979.”

He nods matter-of-facts. “They should be making us wear gloves.”

Your incoming tangent spidey senses are tingling. It’s not exactly an opportune time, but it’s better than silence. 

Plus—you’re pretty sure this is his idea of a peace offering. 

“Why’s that?” You mutter, flicking through yellowed papers. 

“Wood pulp paper contains an alum-rosin mixture to minimize ink bleeding, but in the presence of moisture such as that introduced in trace amounts by our fingertips it generates a diluted sulfuric acid solution. They didn’t start adding alkaline buffers into paper until 1986, and the cellulose chains that comprise the structure of the paper inevitably shorten and break down over time, so we’re actively degrading these documents by touching them without gloves.”

“Did you say sulfuric acid?”

“I said a diluted sulfuric acid solution,” he clarifies, utterly missing the point of your question as he so often does in that disarmingly endearing way of his. “Sorry, by the way.”

You look up from a photo of bloodied bell-bottom jeans. He’s caught you by surprise. 

“For what?”

“For—”

He struggles with the words—you watch his lips form a few silent ones before he gives up on the nonchalant act and sets his file on his lap. He can’t seem to tear his eyes from it, but you don’t mind. 

“For everything on Friday. I… I know it was none of my business. I sometimes struggle with… keeping my thoughts to myself. Especially when it concerns someone I care about. But I wasn’t judging you, I swear. What you said about—about sex, I—” he sighs, obviously frustrated with himself, and pushes a bit of hair out of his eyes. “That’s not where my mind was at, at all. Whatever you… do, or don’t do, is none of my business. Obviously. You don’t need me to tell you that. You don’t need me to tell you anything. I just really wanted to clarify that I wasn’t shaming you or judging you for—”

“Spencer,” you say gently, cutting him off and reeling him in before he can dig any deeper. 

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He glows under the canned lighting, a soft aura of white blurring the edges of him. The stale room buzzes. It’s otherwise quiet down here. Peaceful, almost. 

From anyone else, you might consider it overstepping. 

You wouldn’t have been willing to forgive them in the first place. 

But it’s not anyone else. 

“Thank you, for apologizing. I really appreciate it.”

He glances up at you, sort of hunched—always trying to make himself smaller than whatever force created him had intended. The deep brown of his eyes is melted and swirling and sweet and nervous. He’s not naturally good at these interpersonal things, but he’s always trying. He’s always pushing himself for you.

Do you ask too much? 

Do you offer enough in return?

Struck by sudden insecurity, you look away. Go back to your files. 

Perhaps you made a mountain out of a molehill and told him to climb it. 

“I mean, I am kind of a slut. I wouldn’t blame you for thinking so,” you laugh airily. “Maybe it was a good reality check.”

A trailing silence. An air conditioner kicks on. 

“What? That’s not—that’s not at all what I was trying to say.”

“Spencer, it’s fine.”

His stool squeaks as he sits up straighter. 

“No, I really want you to understand. Even if I cared or thought about how many people you might sleep with—which I don’t—and even if I determined that you were… sexually promiscuous, I wouldn’t assign a moral value to that judgement. Sexual promiscuity is observed all the time in the animal kingdom, it’s biologically sound and justified and in less misogynistic cultures where bonds forged between humans weren’t socioeconomic arrangements dependent on women being viewed as commodities first and foremost, it’s completely unremarkable. But I haven’t made that determination. All I know is that… you’re you. And that’s all that’s ever going to matter to me.”

Silence falls. Your voice gets stuck in your throat. 

How does he so casually show you more kindness than anyone else has ever managed to show you in your life?

Spencer takes pity on you. 

“And… we’ve talked entirely too much about something that’s none of my business today.”

It’s wry and earns a chuckle from you. Even Spencer manages a chagrined smile. That same strand of hair falls loose as he looks down. Light bounces from his self-effacing smirk. 

You fiddle absentmindedly with the fraying corner of a folder, and you’re about to open your mouth, about to speak into the sparkling cloud that the easy laughter and the melted tension has left in its wake, and tell him how much you appreciate him and how kind he truly is and undoubtedly whatever you say will be made more beautiful because of it—because of the affection you have for each other—and then you stop, eyes catching on the case file between your fingers. You frown. 

“Wait—what’s the case number we’re looking for?”

“91 18 00063 7.”

You hold the file up, eyes alight. 

“I found it.”

Spencer frowns and takes it without asking. You watch as he reviews the number in tiny black typeface along the top of the document. His brow scrunches in disbelief. 

“I genuinely didn’t think we were ever going to find it,” he murmurs after leading through the photos and glances back up at you. “We had thirty years of boxes to look through and you found it in under an hour. You’re like magic.”

It’s impossible not to smile. You feel all warm and sparkly as you snatch it back from him and stand, straightening your jacket. 

“Will you tell that to Hotch?”

“I… will tell anyone who will listen,” he assures you, and you’re confident he’s following as you make your way through the maze of stacks. “Are we not gonna clean up our mess?”

“There are people who will take care of that later.”

“Yeah. Like me. During my lunch break.”

“Don’t worry. You’re going to be well rewarded for your efforts today.”

“What does that mean?” He mumbles, and you can practically hear his blush. 

You smile to yourself. 

Still got it. 

for more of these two, check out the bandages universe masterlist!

[blueheron15]

TOO SOON TO TELL YOU I LOVE YOU

pairing: jj x fem!routledge!reader

summary: jj navigating his childhood and adolescence while seeing john b as a brother, but y/n as something… more.

warnings: flangst, suggested smut

a/n: wow this was longer than i thought it was gonna be and thats why i am edging yall with the ending... THERE WILL BE A PART TWO

jj and john b had been brothers since third grade. it was common knowledge for everyone on the island. don't cross john b unless you wanted to deal with jj, too, or vice versa. it was a well-known fact.

they began playing together at recess, and soon, john b came back home talking about his new friend. he would eventually begin bringing two lunches to school with him so jj could actually eat.

the first time they hung out outside of school, they went fishing off of the ocean at the chateau. they were called inside for lunch by the ringing of a bell.

"wut was that?" jj asked in his southern drawl, toothless mouth quirking in confusion as he dropped a minnow back into the water.

"my daddy's callin' us back for lunch." john b explained, beginning to pull up the anchor of the johnboat.

"is your daddy nice?" jj asked, helping his friend gather the ropes.

"he's just a normal dad." john b shrugged, adjusting his hat before starting the motor.

"my dad hates me." jj explained, as if it were a simple fact of life. he sat down.

"well, i think mine'll like you."

from that day on, jj had practically been adopted into the routledge family. the littlest sibling, y/n routledge, was only five when they met, and was relatively closed off at first. while the four of them ate at the table that day, big john had shown an affection towards his son and jj, but made no effort to include his daughter in the conversation.

the age gap, which seemed significant at first, slowly dwindled away as john b's friend group expanded to the rest of the pogues. y/n hung out with them sometimes, too.

jj had always thought she was nice, and he enjoyed getting a rise out of her, but his best friend for life was her brother. that's who he was looking for on the night he happened to fall in love with her.

y/n was 12, and jj was 14. he knew john b was at a small party kiara was throwing (a farewell party to kildare high school, if you will), but he was hoping he would be back by one am. jj stumbled into the chateau, tripping over the step into the house.

"shit!" he cursed, his already bruised cheek making contact with the dusty hardwood floor. "ugghhhh" he groaned, slowly hoisting himself up.

"jj?" he heard a voice mumble.

his head snapped up, finding y/n standing in the kitchen. suddenly, his cheeks flushed as he looked at his star wars pajama pants, embarrassed that she was seeing him like this. "uh, yeah." he cleared his throat, taking a step further into the dimly lit house. "hey, y/n."

he could have sworn he heard her sniffle, but she too took a step forward, flicking on the living room light.

"isn't it passed your bedtime?" jj asked, at the same time y/n said "what happened to you?"

his hand made it's way to the back of his neck, scratching. "nuthing." he said dismissively. "just got inta an argument with my old man."

her face contorted into a frown, walking up to him and grabbing his arm. as she lead him into the bathroom, he had a strange thought that she looked adorable in her polka dot pajama pants and one of pope's old t shirts.

"why'd he do this to you?" she asked softly, grabbing disinfecting ointment from the cabinet. "sit on the toilet so i can clean you up."

jj rolled his eyes, deflecting. "i dont need you to clean me up. was lookin' for your brother anyway."

"well," she started, confirming his previous thought. "john b's not here, and neither is my dad cuz he never is, and in case you didn't know, it's been 10 years since my mama left, and i'm all alone, and i'd really not like to be alone right now so could you please just sit?"

she finished her rant with a stray tear leaking down her cheek, a red face, and a huff of air. jj tried not to let his grin show. they way she got so flustered, the way she annunciated each word, made his heart flutter despite the heaviness of the situation. "hold your horses, i'll stay." he said, raising his hands up in surrender.

he sat down on the toilet lid as she tended to his busted lip, cut under eye, and bruised cheek. she worked in silence for a little while.

"he did this to me cuz im a piece of shit." he eventually muttered.

"you're not." she insisted, shaking her head.

"you only think that because i'm john b's friend." he scoffed. "maybe he's right, anyway. he caught me stealin from the gas station. maybe i deserved this."

she looked at him. jesus, jj thought, when did her eyes become so... pretty? "you didn't think we're friends?"

jj looked down at the floor, before bashfully meeting her gaze. "guess we are now."

jj slept over, obviously, and they sat together on the couch as she showed him the only existing photo of her and her mother.

"i wonder if she would like me if she knew me now." y/n thought out loud.

jj took it upon himself to use humor to make her feel better. "pretend im your mom." he shrugged.

"what?" she squeaked, looking at him like he was crazy.

he cleared his throat before raising it an octave to make him sound like a woman. "oh, y/n!" he exclaimed, grabbing the ends of her hair. "my daughter, you're sooo beautiful!"

"ew!" she she giggled as jj got closer and closer to her. "get off me jj!" she laughed, playfully shoving him away.

"you don't want some lovin' from your mama?" he teased, still in a girly voice.

she kicked him gently, squealing in delight at his antics. "you're not my mama!" she insisted.

they began wrestling playfully, jj pushing her so she was laying on the couch, pinning her down. and, when john b walked in, he thought it was nothing more than some classic routledge and maybank sibling bonding.

-`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´-

from that moment on, there was an undeniable shift between the two of them. somehow, y/n had gone from nice, to adorable, to pretty at her thirteenth birthday party. the pogues and some of her girlfriends from school had been invited to the chill hang out at the chateau.

she was talking to some of her other friends, in a lovely white sundress and brown cow boy boots, when jj nearly choked on the vodka he had added into his lemonade.

"i never realized how pretty y/n was." pope commented, swinging on the hammock.

"what?!" jj shrieked, spitting out his drink.

"ew, dude." kiara said, rolling her eyes.

"don't you think she looks nice?" pope inquired.

"uh, well, i mean, um" jj stuttered. "what?"

"that's all i'm sayin, dude. y/n is-"

"y/n is what?" john b asked, joining them.

"pope's got a lil crush." kie said, smirking.

"t-this is outrageous!" jj exclaimed.

"why do you even care?" asked kie.

"b-because-"

"obviously because she's like a sister to him and it's gross." john b explained, rolling his eyes. "new rule. no macking on my sister."

"you got that pope?" jj asked seriously, pointing an accusatory finger.

"i wasn't planning on macking on her!" pope cried, defending himself.

jj huffed. "good." he muttered under his breath. he definitely did think pope macking on y/n would be gross. but not for the reason john b had said. something stirred within his chest. it was a gross, green feeling.

...was he jealous?

-`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´-

when jj was sixteen and when y/n was fourteen, the "no macking on y/n" rule had been transformed into the "no pogue on pogue macking" rule. this was due to both y/n and kiara being mature enough to wear bikinis. like, proper bikinis.

it was the first day of summer break. kiara was back from the kook academy, jj didn't have to deal with fucking geometry anymore, he snuck off the previous night with some touron older girl and had his first time behind a tree, and holy hell life was good. the pogues joined some other students at the beach for surfing and a bonfire.

but his eyes were on y/n.

shit, was he a pervert? after all, she was only 14, and one of his best friends. she came fishing with him and john b even though she didn’t particularly enjoy the activity. they were constantly play wrestling, or giving each other sea shells as little gifts. and, jj constantly called her mama, much to john b’s demise. it was one of their inside jokes.

she had just looked so good in her blue bikini and she was actually growing boobs. as jj sat on the sand, watching her surf, he barely noticed kiara and another girl approach him.

“hey, j!” kie called.

“‘sup?” he asked, not taking his eyes off of y/n. she was an amazing surfer, but he was ready to jump into action if she happened to wipe out.

“this is lacy.” kiara said, motioning to the girl next to him. she had a nice rack and a sexy body, with beautiful blonde hair. “i went to the look academy with her.”

“oh?” jj said, raising a brow. “a kook, huh? watchu doin’ on this side of the island, princess?” he shamelessly flirted. kie rolled her eyes in disgust, but lacy placed her palm against a tree, leaning in seductively.

“everyone on figure eight thinks they’re too proper to have fun for a night.” she shrugged.

jj grinned. he was catching her drift, alright.

he brought her back to chateau and fucked her good. well, at least he tried to. but with the image of y/n in his mind, he came in like 15 seconds. he made it up to her by eating her out, which was divine, pleasing her in the way he believed every woman should be.

lacy left, and after jj cleaned himself up and put on a fresh pair of boxers and gray sweatpants, he exited big john’s room, which was now practically his after the man’s disappearance, to get a drink.

he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw y/n sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter. she gave him a knowing look, rolling her eyes as the tears fell.

“shit.” he cursed, walking up to her. “uh. you heard that?”

she scoffed. “everyone heard it. i don’t care about that, though. it’s just… i… do you think i’m pretty, jj?”

“what’re you talkin about?”

she hiccuped. “am i pretty?” she repeated. he let out a breath. shit, how was he supposed to answer that? hell yeah, she was pretty. but she took his silence as a no. “i know i’m not. but it’s not fair that everyone sees me as just some little kid.” she explained. “none of the guys in my grade want to date me. i h-haven’t even kissed anybody yet, and you guys are all having sex, and it’s not fair!”

he tentatively sat down on a stool next to her. “you’re still young.”

“so that means i’m ugly?” she retorted.

“i think yer the prettiest girl on this whole damn island.” jj explained. he was so vulnerable, wide blue eyes staring into hers.

“… you do?”

“i do.” he said softly, nodding. he extended a hand, tucking a stray frizzy and sun dried lock of hair behind her hair. “i really do, mama.” he wondered out loud.

“well…” her heart was beating out of her chest as she took in a shaky breath. “thank you.” she grinned cheekily, cheeks beat red.

“you’re welcome.” he said, tailing a finger down her cheek before going to get up.

“wait” she said in a distressed tone. she grabbed his arm, stood up, and quickly pulled him foreword, pressing her lips to his.

it barely lasted two seconds, and jj didn’t even have time to close his eyes before y/n was pulling away.

she stepped back, staring at him. he brought a hand up to ghost over his lips. he had never felt so much electricity. his lips were literally buzzing.

“kie told me her first kiss made her want to puke.” y/n stated. “um. are all first kisses supposed to be that good?” she asked, clearing her throat.

“uh.” he said, voice hoarse. “mine sure as hell wasn’t.”

“oh.”

“yeah… oh.”

“okay. um, g’night jay!” she squeaked, retreating into her room.

jj was doomed.

-`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´-

y/n routledge had ruined every other girl for jj. he was absolutely besotted with her.

but, the problem was, he couldn't have her. john b would forbid it.

"it's just like, fuckin gross, man!" john b complained, laying on the hammock as he mindlessly threw a hackey sack in the air, catching it. "like, i don't wanna see you macking on my little sister, sorry."

"she's her own person, man." jj said, waxing his board. "just let her be."

"he's a douche." john b insisted. he wasn't very fond of y/n's first ever boyfriend. "she's only 15, why does she even need a boyfriend?"

"i got a feelin' you'll hate anyone she dates." jj replied with an eye roll.

"probably." john b cringed.

jj fought back a shudder. would he hate me if i dated her?

suddenly, y/n came speeding around the corner on her bike, pushing it to the ground and ditching it, sprinting into the house.

"what the hell?" jj asked. him and john b were immediately following her inside.

"y/n?" john b asked, swiftly approaching her. "what's wrong?"

she stood in the middle of the living room, her body wracking with sobs. "h-he... he..." she couldn't even get the words out as she covered her hand with her mouth.

"did he hurt you? what's happenin?" jj asked, concerned. he placed a hand on each of her shoulders, craning his neck down so they were at eye level with each other.

her lips quivered as she sighed, and jj's heart broke.

"he broke up w-with me." she finally managed to get out.

jj recoiled, and him and john b shared a look.

"he's dead."

that night, after the three of them laid together in bed (a y/n sandwich, with her in the middle of the two boys) and did all the girly post break up shit u see in movies together, it was nearing two am when they decided to call it a night.

jj sat on the edge of her bed for a little while, watching her tuck herself in tight underneath the covers.

"you gonna be okay?" he asked.

she hiked up a shoulder. "i'm gonna have to be."

a beat of silence passed. "he's a fuckin idiot for fumbling you." she snorted. "it's true!" jj insisted, his voice growing higher in insistence.

y/n smiled sadly. "thanks, jay."

he gave her a solute. "well, goodnight, mama." he went to get up, but she reached out.

"wait. um. i don't really wanna be alone tonight."

"oh. you want me to get jb, or...?"

in a small and vulnerable voice, she asked. "can you stay?"

"uh, y/n, im not sure how good of an-" he protested, running a hand through his messy blonde locks.

"please, jj." she begged, her voice cracking.

jj didn't stand a chance. "you know i can't say no to you." he whispered, a soft smile on his face.

y/n reached behind her, grabbing an extra pillow and handing it to him. he grabbed the extra blanket on the edge of her bed, getting comfortable on the floor.

they laid in silence for a few moments, just listening to the hum of the crickets and the crashing of the waves in the distance. jj was 99% sure she was asleep, and moved to get up, when she finally spoke.

"he broke up with me because he kept trying to force me to have sex but i didn't want to." she confessed, her words awkwardly cutting through the silence.

"are you fucking kidding me?" jj asked, disgusted.

"please don't kill him." she sighed.

"please don't kill him," jj repeated, mocking her tone. "nah, fuck that. what's this guys address? i swear, i'm gonna-"

"you're gonna do what, jj?" she retorted.

"egg his house, slash his tires, beat him up, i don't know! the point is, that was a dick move. and that's not okay to do. especially to you. cuz your-"

he stopped himself. in the midst of their heated conversation, they had both propped themselves up on their elbows, y/n looking down at jj and him looking up at her. they lowered themselves back down in to a recumbent position.

"i'm what?" y/n whispered.

jj thought for a moment. you’re my girl. you’re so incredibly special. that’s what his mind was thinking. but he couldn’t say that. could he?

“because you’re like a sister to me.” he choked out. he didn’t sound believable at all.

“am i really though?” she pressed.

jj wanted to cry at the unfairness of it all. “we can’t, y/n.” he forced himself to say.

“…i know.” she conceded. “but maybe…” she thought out loud. she let a hand dangle down, off the edge of the bed. “friends can hold hands, right?”

he intertwined their fingers together, holding his arm up for her. “yeah. they can.”

-`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´-

jj and y/n continued to find loopholes in order to be able to act on some of their feelings while not making it obvious for john b.

friends kissed each others cheeks. friends took naps together, bodies intertwined in the hammocks. friends got jealous of flirting. friends called each other nick names like “mama” or “baby” or “bub.”

right?

y/n was providing light in jj’s fucked up life, which become increasingly worse with this search for gold.

jj knew that y/n was having a hard time with her brother following in her fathers footsteps. this made them grow closer, as the barrier that was john b was less and less present, constantly on the go or with sarah cameron.

for fucks sake, they were held at gun point today by barry, who jj knew bc he used to sell coke to his dad.

who, speaking of which, beat him to shit. jj didn’t know how to deal with everything and so he bought a hot tub.

he couldn’t be bothered at pope and kie lecturing him. he couldn’t be bothered that he blew the money. but when y/n stepped inside the hot tub upon seeing the bruises on his abdomen, holding him tight against her chest and stroking his hair, he finally broke down.

he allowed her to dry him off and get him into some clothes. they lay together in her room, this time, both together on her bed as jj needed the physical affection.

he was practically on top of her, his face nuzzled into her neck, but she didn’t mind. she ran her fingers through his hair and up and down his back, to the point where he was practically purring and melting completely into her, mending their bodies together as one.

he was never so vulnerable, not with anyone else.

“thank you,” he croaked out. “for dealing with me.”

“hey.” she gently reprimanded. “don’t say it like it’s some kind of chore. i want to be able to help you, bub. we all do.”

he nodded, to tired to put up a fight. “only want your help tho.”

she smiled into his temple. “i feel like you’re the only person who actually gets me.“ she admitted.

“me too.”

that morning, upon waking up, the two of them had shifted to jj spooning her from behind, holding on tightly. and y/n didn’t mind one bit.

“morning,” she whispered sleepily, intertwining their legs together.

he groaned, stretching his legs out, but not separating them from hers. “mornin’”

“i gotta show ya somethin” he said after a few minutes of laying there admiring y/n. she looked so serene and peaceful in his arms, the sunlight streaming in from the windows and making her look like an angel.

“uh oh what did you steal?” she joked.

“i didn’t steal anything.” he said with an eye roll, sitting up and walking out of the room momentarily. he returned with something shiny in his hands. “i got u somethin when i splurged on the hot tub.”

“jj” she gently chided, propping herself up on her elbows.

“it’s fine.” he protested. “everyone knows the cats ass is dope as fuck. here.”

he held out a gold chain with a small j on it.

y/n held it in her hands, smiling down at it, then looking up at him.

“j as in…” she trailed off, smirking. “jj?”

he nodded and unspoken words passed between them. he put in on her neck, and she thought to herself that she would never take it off.

-`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´-

the night of john b and sarah’s “death” was the best and worst night of y/n and jj’s lives.

“we… we lost em.” shoupe said, his words echoed by the booming thunder. “i’m sorry.”

“you lost them? what do you mean you lost them? like they’re gone? what are you talking about?” pope tried to frantically clarify.

jj’s jaw clenched. kiara’s face dropped. and y/n just stood there, numb as her heart plummeted into a deep abyss.

“they took an open boat into a tropical depression, pope.” the officer explained.

“so they’re dead?” kie asked.

“we don’t know.” said shoupe.

jj’s anger took over. “you drove em straight into the storm, man! are you kidding me?! come here!” he growled, pummeling shoupe.

“jj, stop!” kiara cried.

“get over here! i’m gonna kill you you bastard! you killed them!” he said, trying to fight off the other cops who were restraining him.

pope tried to reason with shoupe, and kiara was begging for it all to stop.

everything was going in slow motion for y/n. her brother… her brother was dead. there was no way he and sarah could have made it through that storm.

as kiara’s parents enveloped her into a hug, and as pope’s parents came in, extremely worried for their son and his friends, jj and y/n made eye contact.

all they had left was each other.

jj calmed down, and when he ripped himself out of the police’s grip, he walked toward y/n who ran and jumped up into his arms. he held her tight, silent tears running down his cheeks as she wailed.

“no, no!” she whimpered, clinging to jj as if they were the last two people on earth.

“i know baby.” he tried to comfort. “i know.”

they found themselves in the porch the chateau, each sitting on an opposite end of the couch, staring outside. jj was smoking his weed and y/n took the occasion puff.

both of their voices were hoarse and eyes were puffy from crying.

“what am i gonna do?” she wondered, voice cracking. “you can’t let them take me away, jj. y-you can’t.”

“and i won’t.” he promised. “i swear. no one is gonna take you, or hurt you. ever. okay? if they do it’s gonna be over my dead body.”

he scooted closer towards her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her into him.

“my brother.” jj said solemnly, shaking his head and exhaling a puff of weed. “john b was, is, my brother. i don’t know, man… do you think he’s really dead?”

“i don’t know. i don’t know anything anymore.” she whispered.

“well, there’s one thing i do know.” he said. “with everything happening… shit, who knows? who knows what’ll happen to us? i just… i-i gotta tell ya… john b may be like a brother to me, but you were never like a sister to me.”

with wide eyes, she turned her head towards him. “jj… what are you saying?”

“i’m sayin that… y/n i’ve never seen you as just jb’s lil sister. i’ve always seen you as- as you. you know i’m not good at expressing my feelings.” he took a deep breath, nervous. but he looked into her eyes. “but i want to try.”

she smiled, for the first time all night.

“you’re cute, but somehow sexy at the same time. you make me wanna actually open up to you, and be vulnerable, and be better. a-and, you’re so fucking funny too, dude. i know you’ve always struggled with separating yourself from your dad and john b. and maybe sometimes you think that nobody notices you. but y/n, you’re all i notice. you’re everywhere, all the time, and it’s so scary. but… what’s scarier is the fact that i could lose you like john b and you would always think i saw you as a little sister.”

she snorted at that through the tears. she was rendered speechless.

jj let out a shaky breath. she closed the small distance between the two of them, straddling his hips as they kissed with the taste of weed, perfume, and salty tears invading their senses.

they kept crying hard, but kept kissing harder.

“i love you.” jj said. and once it left his lips, it’s like the damn burst. “fuck i love you so much y/n. i love you so much. we’re gonna be okay. i got you. i got you, mama.”

“i love you” she said, nodding her head. “i love you too, jj.”

so it was safe to say that jj loved each of the routledge siblings.

but y/n?

that was his girl. his person.

(and, when john b came back from the dead, he’d be grossed out to see jj and his little sister macking. but he knew jj would do anything for her.

so, when y/n routledge became y/n maybank a few years later, john b and jj would actually be brothers.)

it was always gonna be P4L, but it was routledge and maybank first.

he used a hand to hold her back, gently flipping them over so that he was hovering on top of her, his beautiful biceps caging her in.

he slid his tongue over her bottom lip and she granted him entrance as they made out. wanting, needing to be closer, she hooked her ankles around his lower back, arching into him and feeling his erection.

"fuck" he panted. he trailed his kisses lower, nipping her ear lobe, sucking on her neck.

"mm r-remember when my first boyfriend broke up with me?" she said through whimpers. "i didn't wanna have sex with him. n-not because i wasn't ready, but because... i always wanted it to be you."

he let out a groan. "jesus, y/n..." he detached his lips from her neck, loving the hickey that had formed there.

"jj... please. i need you." she said, tears staining her cheeks.

he kissed them away. "i need you too, mama." he breathed. they looked into each other's eyes. "ive never needed anyone so bad. all those other girls... they were to distract me from you because i never thought this would happen."

"john b made it a rule to not mack on you." he continued.

she smiled, but it was quickly replaced by a sob at the mention of her brother.

"let me take care of you.. i can't stand to see you hurtin like this."

"please" she whimpered.

and so, she let her legs fall to each side of jj's torso, and he began shimmying down her shorts...

taglist:

@4jjsbank @mkcolon1 @agnxstic @groovypeanutoperatorzonk @starsval @sollamimi @obxcc @onelonelybitch @tv-girllover07

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Mrs. R Part Four

Previous Part | Masterlist | Last Part

Notes: Not beta-read.

Warnings: Angst and fluff. Flangst. A lotta cursing. Ends happily, I promise!

Summary: Your eyes dart to the time in the upper right-hand corner of the screen.

It's late—but for all of your qualms about whatever the hell you and Robby are or aren't, for better or for worse, in sickness or in a health, for richer or for poorer, you still care about him.

One glimpse. That's all it takes to convince you that you need to get over him, and to finally move beyond the foolish delusion that the two of you are ever going to get back together.

Robby has been saying that it's something that he's been meaning to do, have you over to his new place—that it's not as sad as you're probably imagining, that you'll be impressed.

And he's sort of right. It's not as sad as you were imagining. It's a little sadder.

You're not completely surprised by the nearly-empty fridge, the scatter of mail on the counter. You are heartened by the little touches of your old life together there, the few things that he took from your home that are scattered throughout the kitchen, the living room.

And he should've known that when you went to the bathroom that you were going to snoop.

That's why spotting the women's perfume bottle on the counter is so fucking jarring.

There aren't touches of anyone else, nothing that you looked at and immediately felt that they weren't his but this—?

The bottle shape is familiar, and you're sure the label would be too if you hadn't suddenly lost the ability to read. You stand in his bathroom staring at the bottle. Your hands are frozen over the drawer that you were about to pull open and snoop through. Your heart is pounding in your ears; your throat feels like someone's just crammed a boulder down it. You try to swallow past it, clear your throat a few times, but it won't budge.

You need to get out of there. You can't tell him that you're not feeling well, because he'll insist on running a full living room diagnostic. You're sure your BP is up, that your skin is going hot with upset. You can't imagine the conversation going well—

"And what were you doing when you felt the onset of symptoms?"

"Oh, just realizing that I don't have a snowball's chance in hell of fixing this."

You take a step back, draw in a deep breath, flex your shaking hands. No, this is fine. You can get out of this. You pull your phone out of your pocket, wincing as you hear Robby pass down the hall nearby. You open the ringtone menu on your phone, tapping one and letting it play loudly for a few beats before you pretend to answer a call from your best friend.

"Hello?...Honey, are you okay?...Chlo—Chloe, calm down," You fake your conversation, forcing yourself to pace through your answers. You glance toward the door, biting the inside of your cheek. Is he still nearby? How much of this can he hear? "What?—Oh, god, I'm so sorry! Are you hurt?...Yeah, of course I can come."

You glance up as the bathroom's overhead bulb begins to flicker.

"No no, don't worry about that. Drop a pin, I'll be there as soon as I can."

You shove your phone into your pocket and yank the bathroom door open—nearly smacking right into Robby. He has a hand up as if to knock, and lowers it as you pull up short.

"Everything okay?"

"I—Yes—No," Shit. "Chloe called, she had a whole fiasco—Bad date, and then she got rear-ended. I'm really sorry, but I've gotta go."

Robby nods a touch, stepping back. "You want me to come with you?"

"No! No," You hurry to cover off on your too-quick answer with a smile and a pat on the shoulder. You lean up, pecking his cheek before you skirt around him, hurrying down the hall.

"Thanks for having me over. I um—" You glance back, jerking your thumb over your shoulder. "You should probably fix that bulb."

--

To your credit, you do talk to Chloe that night. It's mostly to warn her that in case she somehow runs into Robby, to let him know that her car is fine. And you know that she has more questions, but maybe it's the weariness in your voice that lets you off of the hook for the night. You know that you'll have to answer for the fact that you were even talking to Robby in the first place, something that you've neglected to mention since the light bulb situation kicked you into a new personal level of hell.

And you're so, so tempted to let yourself stew on this all for one more night, but you decide that you can't just wallow anymore.

For as difficult as this is going to be, it's been a long time coming. You need to make changes.

--

It's not a complete surprise when he turns up at your door. You've been avoiding him for the better part of a month, coming up with excuse after excuse after excuse to not see him, to not answer his phone calls.

What does surprise you is what he says. Not hello, not how are you, just—

"You're selling?"

You puff your cheeks up and push the air out in a long breath. Maybe you should've answered one one of his messages sooner. Then he wouldn't have taken it upon himself to turn up, and to run into the real estate agent hammering in a sign out front.

You cross your arms and lean in the doorway, eyeing the sign, the slight swing of For Sale in the breeze.

"Yeah. You looking to buy? I'm sure I could get you the ex-husband and bulb-fixer discount."

"When did you decide to move?"

"Been meaning to. This is too much house for me. I use, like, a third of the space. Don't even go in the basement, remember?"

"Where are you looking?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're going to stay in Pittsburgh, so—which neighborhoods?"

The fact he says it with such certainty makes irritation flare in your gut. You curl your hand into a fist out of sight, give a short shrug.

"I don't know if I am."

Robby's brow tip up, his chin dropping toward his chest as he takes that in.

"You don't know?" He repeats, a disbelieving laugh falling from his lips. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just means I'm still weighing my options."

"Where else would you go?"

"I dunno...Philly, New York, LA—"

"You're serious."

"I'm thinking about it."

Robby's eyes narrow, brow furrowing as he takes you in. You fight to stay still, to hold his gaze, even when every part of you wants to retreat inside, close the door, and lock it until he leaves.

"When were you planning on telling me?" He asks.

"What's that matter? It's not like I need your permission, right?" You don't mean for it to sting, but the way Robby's head jerks back makes you think that you've hit a target you didn't even know was up to be aimed for.

"No," He finally says. "You don't need my permission."

"Great, so I don't know what the fuss is about—"

"I guess I mistakenly thought that friends told each other things—"

"Oh, please," You splutter a bitter laugh. "When's the last time you fucking told me anything important?"

"This again?"

"You can't 'this again' me when you're the one that brought this shit up, Michael."

"There's a difference between that and you moving across the fucking country!"

"I'm not—I'm not absolutely gonna, I'm just thinking about it!"

"If this place sells tomorrow, where are you gonna go?"

"I'll figure it out."

"You can't just fly by the seat of your pants on shit like this."

"Whatever happens, I will work something out."

"Since when do you want out of Pittsburgh?"

"Since when do you give a fuck about what I want?"

"HEY!"

The two of you turn to see your neighbor, Diane, standing on her steps, glaring at the two of you as she waves toward where her kids are playing in the yard.

"Do you mind? Watch the language."

"Please," Robby scoffs," You curse more than the two of us combined."

"Yeah, blow it out your ass, Diane," You snap. She blanches, tightening her robe around her and pointing a warning finger at you.

"Keep that up and I'm calling the fucking cops."

"Now who needs to watch their language," You sneer, glaring at her until she goes back inside. You draw in a deep breath, keeping your focus just over Robby's shoulder.

"...Look," You say quietly, "I've got shit to do, so. You should go."

"Jesus fucking christ," Robby scoffs, turning and heading down the front walk. You force yourself inside, shutting and locking the door before sagging heavily against it, drawing in a deep, shaky breath. Your hand curls into a fist, and you just manage not to slam it against the wood grain. Hitting something won't solve anything. You have to start weeding through your living room for the things that you absolutely don't need—things that you can sell online, or just put out on the curb to get rid of.

Then you can go back to apartment hunting online, browse the internet, and see if you can google your way into figuring out where the hell you're going next. The house needs some work, there's no way it'll sell tomorrow—unless Robby decides he does want to buy.

The thought freezes you in your tracks on the way to the living room. You don't think...You'd asked, teased, but you'd been kidding—

"No. No," You mutter to yourself, shaking your head as you turn into the living room. There's no way he would do that. You have some books to sort through, then name-change paperwork to get rolling on, and then some apartment hunting as you passively watch House Hunters.

--

The call is atypical—has been for a couple of weeks now. Robby hasn't reached out since your blowout on the steps. No quick calls, no voice notes, no💡gracing your chats.

That's why seeing his name flash up on your screen in the middle of your nightly doom scroll catches you so off-guard. Your eyes dart to the time in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. It's late—but for all of your qualms about whatever the hell you and Robby are or aren't, for better or for worse, in sickness or in a health, for richer or for poorer, you still care about him.

You answer, raising the phone to your ear. It's quiet for a moment, and you hedge, "Robby?"

More silence—and then a sniffle.

You're throwing the covers off of yourself and getting out of bed before you can even think about it.

"Hang on, okay?" You yank your drawers open, grabbing the first pair of sweatpants and sweater that you see. "Give me twenty, I'll be right there. Do you wanna stay on with me?"

You tuck the phone between your shoulder and your ear, wiggling out of your pajama pants and tugging the sweatpants on.

"Michael? You've gotta talk to me, honey," You press when the quiet persists. You hear him draw in a deep breath, then push it out slowly.

"Okay," He finally mumbles.

"Okay what? Okay you want to stay on?"

"I'll see you in twenty minutes."

"You don't want me to stay on?"

"No. No. S'okay."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Okay I'll be there soon. I—" Love you. The words are automatic, but they clog in your throat, your fingers flexing around the phone. "I'll be there as soon as possible."

--

You're hardly across the threshold with the door shut and locked behind you before he's leaning into you, pressing his face into your neck and drawing in a tight, shaky breath. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, gently scrubbing your nails over his nape as he shakes.

You don't tell him to let it out, that you're there, that everything's going to be alright, that nothing's gonna hurt him. You learned a long time ago that Robby can dish platitudes, but he doesn't like to take them—and he's already been hurt so damn much. He needs someone to look at the walls that he builds up around himself and identify and patch leaks before the dam breaks. You knew it was work, at least—if one a friend or family member was sick or had passed, he would've told you over the phone.

His hands curl in the fabric of your shirt, anchoring tight; you feel his eyelashes fluttering, spreading warm tears against your skin. You let him stay there, your heart breaking with each soft sob and sniffle.

When he draws back, you let him. He doesn't go far, only lifting one of his hands from you to scrub at his eyes.

"Thought you said twenty minutes," He mumbles.

You frown, brow furrowing. "I did."

"It's only been ten. How many traffic laws did you break?"

"Let me and the speed cameras worry about that."

Robby pushes out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. You reach up, gently swiping away a few of his tears as you cup his cheeks. You let yourself search his weary face—his red-rimmed eyes, tear-stained face, quivering lips.

"What's going on, Mikey?" You press softly. His gaze drops to the floor, and you watch his shoulders tense. It's the first brick of a new wall—once he's all cried out, the dam needs to be rebuilt, maybe at double-time now that you're there. A wave of irritation is pushed down by petty attraction as his hands flex in the fabric your shirt. You expect him to tell you to forget it, that it was a lapse in judgement when he called you, that he's fine. You watch him wet his lips, see him open his mouth, and—

"Can you stay tonight?"

--

It's not an easy night of sleep for you. You have to stop yourself from fidgeting. You constantly find yourself in that hazy space between light sleep and wakefulness. Whenever Robby shifts, when he mumbles in his sleep, when his fingers skim along the strip of skin exposed between your borrowed pajama top and sweatpants, your heart beats double-time.

You're not entirely sure when you manage to drift off, or what exactly it is that wakes you up first—the sunlight creeping through the curtains, or the tender brush of Robby's lips against the underside of your jaw. You hum softly at the sensation, that way his beard prickles against your skin. You press up unthinkingly against his palm where it's anchored against your hip, keeping your body tucked tightly against his.

Your hand lifts sleepily, fingers sliding into his hair as the kisses lazily drift higher and higher. The tantalizing pressure of his teeth closing around your earlobe makes you pull in a soft, sleepy gasp, your thighs squeezing together beneath the sheets to quell the growing ache there. His answering hum sends a pulse of want through you—but it also wakes you up.

You push yourself to sit up, the speed of it knocking Robby's hand aside. You stare down a your lap as you try to sort through the mess of feelings twisting in your belly.

Robby's soft murmur of, "What is it?", the sleep-roughened timbre of his voice, does nothing to quiet your thoughts. You raise your hands, scrubbing at your eyes.

"Are you working today?" You ask.

"'No."

Considering the state he was in last night, that's for the best.

"Okay. Okay, good." You swallow thickly, looking around. You left your sweatshirt in the bathroom, didn't you? When you got changed—

You still as Robby's hand slides across your thighs, his face pressing into your hip. You bite the inside of your cheek, steeling yourself.

"I've gotta go." The words come out firmly, but you don't make a move.

"Can't stay for coffee?"

"No. No, I can't stay for coffee," You insist, forcing yourself from his hold as you slide out of bed, "And I can't keep doing this."

"Can't keep doing what?"

"This!" You wave toward him as he sits up. "This one-leg-in-one-leg-out shit! Things need to change, Robby. It's gonna suck for a little while, but—"

"Is that what this move about?"

"Yes! Not—I mean, partially, yeah. I need to sort out my shit, I have to remember who I am without you and I don't think I can do that here. Not when we're both a phone call away."

You bite your lip as Robby dips his head, scrubbing his palms over the back of his neck.

"Besides," You push on, "You're—You've moved on, so. I think it's about I do, too."

"Moved on?" He laughs derisively. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

You fix him with a stern look. "I saw the perfume last time I was here, Michael. Look, it's fine—" Even though it most certainly does not feel fine—"And expected, we're divorced, but—" You falter as Robby yanks open the bedside drawer, drawing out something and tossing it to you. You fumble to catch it, and your stomach churns when you realize it's the same perfume bottle from the bathroom.

"Michael, I said—"

"Look at the bottom."

You frown, tipping the bottom as he says, and going still when you see the familiar, half-torn, half-faded Christmas label. It had been one of your worst Christmases together—Robby had been working overtime, and had been so tired when he'd tried to wrap presents that he'd wound up sticking labels on the wrong side of half of your gifts.

You run your thumb across the adhesive, shaking your head.

"I don't understand."

"It got packed up with my things when I moved. I kept meaning to give it back, but I kept forgetting, and then it got further away, and—" He draws in a deep breath. "And then when I stayed the night, a few weeks ago—and I slept better than I have in months. I tried to convince myself it was the scent of you on the sheets that I needed, tried spraying it on the pillows but it isn't enough." He shakes his head, dark tired eyes flitting to your face. "It's you."

Your heart skips a beat, and your fingers tighten around the bottle as tears prickle at your eyes. You lower yourself to the edge of the bed, pulling in a deep, shaky breath. You hear the rustle of the sheets as Robby shifts, coming closer.

"...You still want me to stay for coffee?" You hedge.

"I want you to stay for a lot more than that."

You tip your head to the side, warily meeting his eye, and finding an almost boyish smile on his face.

"...Robby," You sigh, setting the bottle on the bed. "I mean it, I can't...I can't survive in this emotional purgatory. I'm tired of tying myself up in knots trying to figure out what the hell you're thinking—And it's not so easy as just being more open with communication," You warn as he lowers his head. "We've got...Stuff. We know one another so well but we still get tripped up by this shit."

"I know." Robby reaches out, taking one of your hands between his. "But I also know that when I needed someone last night, the only person I thought to call was you."

"Because you knew I'd answer?"

"Because even if you didn't, I could still listen to your message. I could still hear your voice." His own breaks with the admission. "I need you. And I've missed the hell out of you."

You reach up with your free hand, gently stroking across his cheek.

"I've missed you, too," You murmur, "You grumpy old man."

He splutters a laugh, and you smile, relaxing as Robby raises your hand and presses a gentle kiss to the back of it.

"Whatever you decide, I can't stop you—I won't," Robby clarifies, "But...Cards on the table: I don't want you to leave."

You nod a little. "Cards on the table: I'm not so sure I want to leave either. And—" You reach up, running your fingers over his nape before giving it a gentle tug. "You still need a haircut."

--

"Okay! So I know what I read on the intake form, but I'd like to hear it in your own words from the two of you: What brings you to marriage counseling today?"

You hesitate, eyeing Robby on the other end of the couch. He gestures forward, softly urges, "Please."

"Well, this might be a bit unorthodox. " You shift in your seat, "Robby—Michael," You correct, "And I are divorced. Have been for a while now. But we've been talking a lost more lately, and the lines between our relationship have...Never felt more blurred than they do now."

"Would you say that's an accurate assessment, Michael?" The counselor prods, and he gives a nod.

"Yeah, I'd say that's pretty accurate."

"What would you say has been your biggest stumbling block throughout the relationship?"

"Communication."

The two of you manage it in unison, and it takes everything in you not to burst out laughing at the stunned look on the counselor's face.

"I promise we didn't practice that."

"Well," She chuckles, leaning back in her seat. "In some aspects, the two of you are seem to still be in sync. Why don't you tell me a little about how the two of you met?"

--

"I didn't think we'd get homework," You grumble, stepping outside.

"It's all part of the process."

"Yeah, but week one? Harsh." You tuck your hands into your pockets, glancing up the block. "You headed to the Pitt?"

"Yep. Shift starts in half an hour."

"Alright. Be careful, huh?"

"Always am." Robby glances back toward the doorway. "It's gonna be weird, not talking to you until next week."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know," You fidget, shifting from foot to foot. "But honestly, if something happens at work and you need to—You know." You lean in a little, fake-whispering, "We could just lie."

He grins, taking a step closer. "Oh, no. We're doing this right."

"Such a stickler."

Before you can argue further, Robby cups your cheeks, drawing you in for a soft kiss. You hum against his lips, raising your hands and grasping his hoodie. You should lean away sooner than you do, but for you a few moments, you can't bring yourself to care that you're standing in the middle of the block in broad daylight, right outside the marriage counselor's office. But hey, maybe it's a good look. The sight of a kissing could could give off a good impression, drum some business up for her. Really, you're doing her a favor.

You lean away, letting your eyes slip closed again as Robby tips his chin up, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Seriously, though," You murmur. "If you really need—"

"I know."

"Okay." You nod, finally letting go and giving his chest a teasing push. "Have a good shift, Dr. Robinavitch."

He takes two steps back down the block, eyes still fixed on you as a warm smile grows on his face.

"I'll see you next week, Mrs. Robinavitch."

Last Part

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[bbyg4rl]

gentle love

cw: flangst, argument, happy ending !

summary: a heated argument leaves you and JJ reeling.

a/n: you can assume this is after the topper thing in s1 but its not really specific so it can be at any point in time!

JJ had never known love like yours. He had never known love that was gentle, a love so soft it wrapped around him like warmth. A love so nurturing, it could sustain him more than food ever could.

You were his own slice of heaven—his safe space. The one thing that could restore him when the world knocked him down.

He reveled in the way you looked at him—like he was the only boy in the world, the only one that mattered. The way your eyes softened and your lips curved into a smile in his presence sent a spark through him he couldn’t explain. Being with you was the best feeling in the world. He loved knowing you were his, and even more, that he was yours.

But like all beautiful things, your relationship had its struggles too. JJ wasn’t one for communication. When something overwhelmed him, he’d turn tail and run—usually straight into your arms. But when it was you who stirred those feelings in him, he was lost, unsure where to go or what to do.

All couples fight—it’s normal. Not everyone can get along all the time, right?

The argument started like any other. You were angry at him for getting into a fight with some random Kook, and he brushed it off, insisting he was fine and that you didn’t need to worry. But this time was different. This time, it wasn’t just a fight—he had pulled a gun on someone.

Normally, you would have talked him through his anger, calmed him down like you always did. But the weight of exam stress had made you sharper, less patient, and he didn’t take it well.

Blunt words were exchanged, tempers flared. His frustration boiled over as he snapped, “You never understand me.” His voice was raw, edged with something almost desperate. Then, quieter, almost to himself, he muttered, “Maybe this just isn’t working anymore.”

Before you could respond, before the weight of his words could fully sink in, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Tears welled in your eyes as you collapsed onto the floor, clutching your knees as waves of pain rippled through your chest. You had never fought with JJ like this before.

Your fingers found the necklace around your throat, trembling as you rubbed your thumb frantically over the J-initial locket. What did he mean by that? His words echoed in your mind like a broken record, each repetition cutting deeper.

Did this mean you had to take the necklace off? That you had lost him? The questions swirled in your head, suffocating you as you sobbed against the cold bedroom floor.

Eventually, the exhaustion, the heartbreak, and the sheer weight of it all pulled you under, dragging you into unconsciousness.

You're only woken up by JJ's calloused hands gently cupping your jaw, pulling you into him. Blinking up at him, you find tears streaming down his face, his expression shattered with guilt. His breath trembles, and then—a wrecked sob escapes him, your name breaking apart on his lips.

You assume he let himself in through the window, just like he had countless times before. A quick glance at the clock tells you it’s been an hour since he left—an hour that felt like an eternity.

Looking back at him, you pull him close, a mix of relief and heartbreak crashing over you. He wraps you in a tight embrace, arms locking around you as if afraid you might slip away. His grip is desperate, unyielding—like he’s holding on for dear life.

You sit in silence, finding comfort in each other’s arms as your breathing slows, your hearts steadying together. The quiet wraps around you like a fragile truce until, finally, his voice cuts through it.

"I’m sorry."

"I'm sorry too" you whisper back, your voice barely above a breath. You know he was only doing what he could in the circumstances he was trapped in.

"I should've let you explain before I snapped at you." You look up at him, a pang of guilt striking your heart as the words leave your lips.

"It's alright," he murmurs, his southern drawl soft, almost sheepish. "I shouldn't have yelled at ya either. I was bein’ a dick."

You both settle back into silence, the weight of unspoken emotions lingering between you. Then, his voice breaks through again.

"I hope you know I’ll never leave your side. Whatever I said before... I was just angry. I didn’t mean it."

His words tumble out in a rush, his tone almost frantic—like he’s trying to take his previous words back, like he’s just stepped on a puppy’s tail and is desperate to make it right.

You press your palm against his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart as he apologizes. It’s a silent gesture—one that tells him you believe him, that you accept his apology without needing to say a word.

"I could get rid of the gun if you want me to" he murmurs softly against your temple. "You mean more to me than a piece of metal."

"No, it’s okay. Keep it. Just… don’t get into trouble." Your voice is quiet but firm, a stern edge creeping in.

He nods without argument, pulling you closer, his arms tightening around you. Then, with a sigh, he buries himself in the crook of your neck, as if that’s the only place he truly feels safe.

You turn your head, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. "Please don’t ever tell me you’d leave me again," you whisper, your voice trembling, fragile with fear.

He lifts his gaze to yours, guilt pooling in his eyes. "Never" he vows before pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

Then, without a word, he reaches for the ring on his pinky finger, sliding it off effortlessly. He gestures for your hand, taking it in his own as he carefully slips the small ring onto your finger.

"Never again." he murmurs, a silent promise, a quiet commitment to never hurt you.

You cradle his face in your hands, pulling him into a slow, lingering kiss—deep and unhurried, saying everything words couldn’t. He was yours, and you were his. That was all that mattered.

Entwined in each other’s arms, you stay on the floor, neither willing to let go. The bed is forgotten, lost in the warmth of his touch and the quiet intensity that lingers between you.

check out my other works ! masterlist

[mariasont]

hiii! could you write aaron x bau! reader where they have a child that’s like 2 or around that age - so still very little but one day they came back from a case and yn was so unwell and turns out that she’s pregnant again but they weren’t planning and work’s been so busy and she’s a bit scared how aaron’s going to react🥺 thanks!!!! 🫶🏻

Two Heartbeats Later - A.H

summary: you weren’t planning for another baby, but life doesn’t wait for timing to be perfect and hotch shows you that sometimes the best things are the ones you don’t see coming pairing: aaron hotchner x wife!reader tags: pregnant reader, unplanned pregnancy, soft!hotch, domesticity, flangst, happy ending, established relationship, a little post pregnancy stress wc: 2.3k

You barely made it past the front door when your body gave up the charade. Like it had been so wired together with caffeine and pure fucking spite, like every muscle had been clenched so tight for so long that the moment your brain registered home, everything unspooled at once. 

You go-bag slid from your shoulder, the strap half biting for half a second before it was gone. You think you heard it hit the floor. Think you heard the keys, still clenched in your uncooperative fingers, rattle against the table. Shoes still on. Jacket too. But taking it off required effort, and you'd run out of that hours ago. The couch was there, and then so were you. Face-first, half-breathing, half-existing.

The sigh that pushed from your chest felt endless, like it had been lodged inside you for days. Weeks maybe. Years.

The house was quiet. Unnaturally so. 

No padding feet, no sticky hands pulling at your sleeve, no stubborn, sleepy voices demanding one more story before bed. Jessica had taken Jack and your two-year-old, Bella, insisting that you and Aaron need real sleep after back-to-back cases.

You should have been relieved. It should have felt like a luxury. Should have.

Aaron's voice reached you from somewhere behind. "Well, aren't you dramatic."

You exhaled, too drained to even roll your eyes, barely mustering the energy to glance at him over the arm of the couch. He was by the door, still half in shadow, arms loose at his sides and watching you with that look on his face that he got sometimes, the one that said you were both completely insane and completely adored, all in equal measure.

You made a noise. Not words, not quite a groan either, the sound barely making it past the cushions.

"That bad?"

You lifted a limp arm and let it flop back onto the couch.

"I see." A pause. "Should I be concerned?"

"Probably."

The fridge door hissed as it opened, then shut. The tap turned on, ran for a few seconds, then clicked off. A glass placed, not set, not dropped, just placed, onto the counter. Then, the soft shuffle of socked feet across the floor. The indication he was near by the couch dipping under his weight.

And then there was his hand, finding your leg, fingers pushing into the space between your ankle and the couch. One shoe. Then the next. Like he'd done this a thousand times before. Which he had. Because you were beyond lucky. Fortunate. Blessed. All the vocab words that could be synonymous with you being undeserving. His palm dawdled, thumb dragging absently over the thin stretch of skin just above your heel. 

Your heart did something stupid and weak in your chest.

"You're a very doting husband," you murmured, aiming for teasing but landing somewhere softer, somewhere warmer.

Aaron chuckled, shifting beside you until he was comfortable, his arm draping over the couch as he turned toward you. "Yeah, I don't get many complaints."

You peeked up at him through tired, half-lidded eyes. "I could complain."

"But you won't." His palm flattened against your hip before slipping away. Gone too soon on purpose, you were sure. "You like being spoiled too much."

You let out a small, drowsy hum. "Maybe."

His hand moved to your back, dragging up the ridges of your spine and smoothing over the knots you'd stopped noticing until now. And it was unfair, really, because he then found that space at the base of your neck, and you were done for. 

You should have let yourself be submerged in it. Into him. Into this. You wanted to. Needed to. 

But your brain was perpetually doing loops, swinging from thought to thought, refusing to land. Because as much as you wanted to focus on your very handsome, very intuitive husband, on the way he just knew what you needed before you even had to ask, on his touch, on jus the undeniable, singular himness of him (which, okay, maybe wasn't a real world, but you were too tired to litigate that) — all you could hear was JJ's voice.

"God I remember that level of wiped. I felt the same way before I found out about Michael."

It had been a throwaway comment, made with a laugh as you'd all packed up to head home. It was the kind of thing that should have rolled right off your back. And it had, at first. You'd scoffed, waved it off and blamed it on the jet lag and the late nights and the way your body never quite figured out how to recalibrate between cases.

But now, laying on the couch, staring at at the cushions like they held divine answers, every part of you felt off. Tender in a way you didn't like, in a way that felt far too familiar. 

And you couldn't ignore it. Well, you could. Probably. Maybe. Except no you couldn't because JJ was unfortunately, irritatingly, horrifyingly right.

Aaron repositioned beside you. "You're quiet."

"I'm tired." As if that could be the end of it. Like if you said it just right, it could turn into an irrefutable fact.

"No kidding." A pause. Then softer, nudging. "Try again."

You turn onto your side, eyes catching his before you brain can screech abort mission, bad idea, too much eye contact, danger. And in that same instant you were even surer of your discernment.

Because this isn't suspicion or paranoia or stress or an overactive imagination.

This is real.

The strange dragging in your limbs, the hot-cold whiplash that makes you constantly second-guess your own damn thermostat, the nausea you wrote off as too many takeout meals and too little sleep.

Your body had known for weeks.

It felt like someone had upended a bucket of ice water down your back. Or no, actually, more like a door slamming shut on every single ounce of stability you had spent years clawing toward. 

Because there was no room for this. No room in the schedule, not in the fridge (which, let's be honest, was already one yogurt cup away from disaster), and certainly not in the tenuous, barely-functioning balancing act that was your life.

Jack's school projects, his late-night study sessions, his growing independence that you want to encourage, needed to encourage, but what if you're pushing too hard? What if you're not pushing enough? Bella's refusal to eat anything that isn't shaped like a star, her impossible stubbornness, her need for you that takes up every ounce of energy you have left. 

And work. Gods, work. The late nights, the cases that leave bruises on you emotionally and physically, the constant demand to give more, be more, solve more.

You barely made it though last time. How are you supposed to do it again?

Before you can spiral any further, before your brain can really sink its teeth into the oh my gods, you're fucked of it all, you're moving, no, being moved, with absolutely no input on your part, being hauled into Aaron's lap.

"Do I need to bribe you out of whatever's happening in that head of yours?" he muses, shifting so his hands can slip beneath your shirt, palm warm against too-cold ribs. "Or do I just have to annoy you until you snap out of it?" You blink at him, heavy-lidded, and he smiles, unfairly amused. "Because I can talk about legal precedents and federal jurisdiction until you pass out from boredom."

You groan dramatically, letting your head fall against his shoulder like you're already picturing it.

"Not the legal precedents," you mumble, voice muffled by his shirt. "Anything but that."

"That's what I thought."

You peek up at him, pouting. "I'll take bribery, please."

He smirks and inclines his head like he's mulling it over. "What's my price?"

You angle your head, shifting just enough that he’ll get the hint, because obviously he’s not dense, and obviously you don’t have to spell it out.

Aaron's chuckle is warm and affectionate, and his smirk slips into something more partial. "Well, lucky me."

His lips graze yours like he has nowhere else to be, like the rest of your world isn't hanging on by a thread. And for just one selfish second, you let yourself chase it, into that fleeting illusion that everything is fine.

But then he pulls away, and it's gone. The illusion crumbles, slipping through your fingers like sand.

Because he's too good. Too selfless. Too willing to bear everything like it won't eventually crush him. And now here you are, about to pile more onto his already impossible load. Another thing for him to carry, to shoulder, to make space for when there's already so little left. You don't know if you can stand it, don't know if you can watch the depletion deepen in his eyes and be the reason for it.

Aaron catches it in seconds, because nothing ever gets past him, because you could probably breathe funny and he'd be asking what's wrong. His teasing vanishes immediately, replaced by something gentler, and something infinitely worse. 

His hand is on your face before you can neutral your expression, his thumb at the corner of your mouth, like he's trying to press the emotion back in, to stop it from spilling over.

"You're breaking my heart, sweetheart," he murmurs, fixing his head to meet your gaze. "Tell me how to fix it."

Your hands lift, like the movement might shake the words loose, might make sense of everything in your head, but they fall just as fast, fingers tangling into the material of his shirt.

“It’s just — I don’t know, I should’ve seen it coming, right? But I didn’t, and now it’s like —” You squeeze your eyes shut, breath shaking. “Aaron, I’m so sorry. I don’t even know how it happened, I don’t know what to think, I don’t —”

"Hey, honey," Aaron interrupted, his thumbs sweeping careful paths down your tear-stricken cheeks. His brow dips. "Slow down for me, okay? I need you to breathe."

You try, you really do, but your chest feels like it's wrapped in steel bands, too tight to expand properly, and your thoughts are useless, spinning too fast, overlapping, crashing into each other.

"You're talking in circles, baby. Help me understand."

A sound claws its way out of your throat, half a sob, half hysteria.

Aaron just watches, expectantly, like he's waiting for the moment it all clicks into place. For you to say it. For you to crack wide open.

"Aaron, I'm — God, I'm pregnant."

For a long, stretched-out second, he doesn't move.

His eyes flicker between yours, scanning, searching, reading every inch of your expression before, instinctively, unconsciously, they drop downward. To your stomach.

His hands follow, hesitantly, like they already knew, like something deep in him had felt it before his mind could catch up. But he doesn't touch you, not yet. His fingers just hover, inches from your shirt, like he's afraid to break something delicate. Like he needs to believe in it first.

"You're —?" It's not even a word, just a shape in his mouth, just air barely pushed into sound.

You nod, and oh, something gives way, splinters inside you, breaks open just like he was wanting and suddenly, you can't stop talking.

"I know," you whisper, voice breaking, hands swiping furiously at damp cheeks. "I know."

Your shoulders tremble, fresh tears slipping past your lashes, and damn it, you can't stop them, can't stop any of it.

"I'm so sorry, please don't be upset, I don't know how this happened, I didn't mean for it to happen, I —,"

"Hey." You freeze instantly. "Stop." He pauses for a second as if trying to figure out the right thing to say. "Why are you apologizing?"

You open your mouth, already scrambling for some kind of justification, some kind of explanation, but he's faster.

"Pretty sure we were both there when this happened," he says, voice so deadpan, you almost didn't hear the amusement as his mouth flicked upward. "Fairly certain it was a mutual effort."

You let out a choked, watery laugh. "But we weren't expecting this. We didn't plan for this, and the timing is awful, and work is insane, and Bella —,"

"— will be fine."

"Jack —,"

"— will love it."

"And what about us?"

Aaron's hand moves again, actually pressing to your stomach now. And then he smiles, this tiny, crooked, almost smug little thing that makes your stomach flip in a completely different way, like he's remembering something good, something soft, something dangerously sentimental.

"Did I ever tell you," he murmurs, tilting his head slightly, like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to drop this, "that you weren't even supposed to be on my team?"

Your brows furrow instantly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he says finally, "you were supposed to be off in some White Collar division. Probably catching investment bankers committing tax fraud."

"Then how did I end up here?"

Aaron snorts, actually snorts. "A clerical error."

"Are you serious?"

"Like I said, Strauss meant to assign you to the White Collar division." His thumb strokes along your jaw, like he’s trying to soften the absurdity of what he’s about to say. "But someone messed up the paperwork. By the time she noticed, you'd already started your first week."

A sharp, incredulous breath escapes you. "So I got on the team by accident."

"Not entirely," he murmurs. "Strauss asked if I wanted her to fix it. Move you where you were actually supposed to go."

"And?"

His hands find their way into your hair before you can process the movement —fingertips brushing against your scalp, smoothing strands away, tucking them behind your ears, like he needs to see you.

"And I almost told her yes." And he says it in a way that makes you think maybe he still can't believe it. "Not because of your skills," he continues. "But because I knew — I knew that if I spent any more time with you, I was going to fall in love with you. And I didn't want that," he admits. "Because I wasn't sure if I was ready for something that permanent."

He'd never told you this. Not in words. Maybe in glances, in pauses, in the way he always found you first, in a crowd, in a crime scene. But never like this. Never out loud.

Your brain tries to process it, but it's like pouring water into a cup that's already full, it spills over, sloshes everywhere, and makes a mess of things.

You almost laugh except there's this awful, aching tightness in your throat, and you think if you let the sound out, it might not be a laugh at all. 

"So what changed?"

He lets out a breath, a small, almost reluctant smile playing at his lips. "You told me to relax."

"Excuse me?"

“You were new. Three weeks in. I was this close to telling Strauss yes. Had the email typed out, my finger hovering over send. And that whole week, I had been —” he pauses, smirks faintly, “— a pain in the ass. And you just —” another shake of his head, “— you knocked, walked in, took one look at me, and said, Hotch, you need to relax.”

A long, drawn-out pause.

"And then you walked out."

You let out an unguarded laugh. "No, I didn't."

"You did. And I remember thinking — who the hell does she think she is?" Then, without hesitation, he pulls you flush against him, like that thought alone is hilarious in retrospect. "And then, two seconds later, thinking — I hope she never stops. And you never did. Thank God for that." His forehead presses to yours. "Because now, you're my beautiful wife. The mother of my children. You know, I spent so much of my life thinking I needed a plan but turns out the best things happen when you don't."

And then he kisses you and damn it, he tastes like that coffee, the stupidly expensive, unnecessarily strong stuff he insists on smuggling onto the jet, the kind that is so obnoxiously him it makes your head spin.

Dark roast, sharp on his tongue and now on yours, transferring straight into you like somehow he's the one who's addicting.

And maybe he is. Because when he pulls back, there's another smirk at his mouth, but his hand stays at the nape of your neck, like he's already considering doing it again. And Jesus, you hope he does.

"You know," he muses, far too casual for a man about to be slapped. "if we really think about it, this might actually be your fault."

Your jaw drops. "Come again?"

He tilts his head, all easy amusement, all knowing. "You were the one who insisted on that very thorough stress relief session a few weeks ago."

Your face flames. "Aaron!"

“Oh, don’t act innocent,” he hums, tilting his head like he’s thinking, like he’s remembering in excruciating detail. “I was there. I distinctly recall the moment you climbed into my lap and said —”

"Stop talking."

"— Aaron, I need to —"

Your hand clamps over his mouth, but his laughter is instant, vibrating against your palm, his eyes crinkling at the corners, full of mischief and love and the kind of thing that turns your brain to static.

"You’re the worst," you mutter.

Aaron just smirks, prying your hand away, pressing a kiss to your lips like a punctuation mark. "Says the one who keeps letting me knock her up."

taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[reiding-writing]

hiyaa, cold reader series is so so amazing i just read it all in one sitting again but i was wondering if you could do one where she's jealous of a woman who starts flirting with spencer on a case maybe? maybe she's pissed because it's "unprofessional" but really she's pissed because he's being flirted with

AS IT SEEMS — SPENCER REID!

a local detective seems to hang on spencer’s every word. the unprofessionalism of it all really frustrates you.

spencer x cold!reader | 3.3k | flangst | cold!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

a/n — is this… progression?

The flashing red-and-blue lights of the local PD’s vehicles paint shifting patterns across the asphalt as the BAU team steps onto the scene.

The air is thick with the scent of damp pavement and something acrid—gunpowder, maybe, or the lingering remnants of a nearby dumpster fire.

Officers mill about with that particular brand of tension that comes from knowing the FBI has been called in, half-relieved, half-defensive.

You take it all in quickly, the details slotting into place in your mind like a well-practiced routine. The weight of your badge clipped to your belt, the holster pressing against your hip—everything is familiar, grounding. But then she appears.

Detective Elena Foster is sharp-jawed and self-assured, the kind of woman who wears authority like a second skin. Her strides are long, purposeful, the confidence in her posture making it abundantly clear that she knows exactly how competent she is.

And she’s looking at Spencer like he’s fascinating.

You stand slightly off to the side as introductions are exchanged, arms crossed over your chest, expression unreadable. You’re practiced at this—at keeping your face neutral, your tone cool, your presence sharp enough to command respect without ever needing to raise your voice.

It’s always been easy. But right now, as Foster’s hand lingers just a little too long in Spencer’s when she shakes it, something tightens in your chest.

“Dr. Reid,” she says, eyes flicking over him with open appreciation. “I read your paper on statistical anomalies in serial offender data last year—brilliant work,”

Spencer, to his credit, looks momentarily startled. “Oh—thank you,” he says, blinking. “That was actually an extension of some previous research on—”

“That’s impressive,” she interrupts, flashing him a smile. “I’d love to pick your brain about it later, if you’ve got time,”

You watch as her fingers graze his forearm in a way that is entirely unnecessary.

He doesn’t seem to notice, too preoccupied with processing the compliment, his mind already spinning with whatever information he had been about to share. You, on the other hand, notice everything. The deliberate lean-in, the way her voice dips just slightly when she speaks to him, the way her eyes linger.

It’s unprofessional.

That’s what irritates you. Not the fact that her attention is singularly fixed on him, or that he’s being flirted with in the middle of a crime scene. Certainly not that she’s touching him when she doesn’t need to be.

It’s the principle of the matter. This is an active investigation, and Foster should be focused on the case, not Spencer’s academic credentials and whatever else has caught her interest.

Your jaw tightens as you glance toward Hotch, who doesn’t seem to care about the interaction as long as it doesn’t interfere with the briefing. Morgan, beside you, exhales a quiet chuckle under his breath, like he’s picked up on something amusing. You ignore it.

“I assume we have a body to look at?” you say, voice even.

Foster blinks at you, as if only just remembering your presence. You don’t react, don’t shift under her assessing gaze, don’t give her anything to work with. Eventually, she nods.

“Of course,” she says smoothly. “Right this way,”

She turns, and Spencer follows, already mid-sentence about some statistical deviation he had noticed in the case file. And you?

You stay exactly where you are for half a second longer than necessary, exhaling slowly through your nose before following after them.

—

You follow the team through the cordoned-off area, past uniformed officers and the murmuring press lingering at the edges, searching for scraps of information. The crime scene is up ahead—an abandoned warehouse, dimly lit and rank with the scent of stagnant water and decay. It should have your full attention.

But instead, you feel your focus splintering.

Just behind you, Spencer is still speaking, his voice carrying that familiar, eager cadence he gets when discussing something intellectually stimulating. “It’s interesting—well, not interesting in the traditional sense, given the context, but rather statistically significant—that the unsub’s victim selection aligns with a pattern previously seen in—”

“Oh, I love that you talk like that,” Foster’s voice is warm, teasing, admiring. “Most people dumb things down, but you don’t. That’s rare,”

You stiffen.

It’s unprofessional.

That’s what you tell yourself as you watch the way she tilts her head slightly when he speaks, as if absorbing every syllable. As if he’s the most fascinating thing in the room. She leans in a fraction closer—just enough to make it noticeable, just enough to make your stomach twist.

It’s unprofessional, you think again, but the words don’t sit quite right in your mind anymore.

Because the truth is, you shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t be noticing the way Foster looks at him. You shouldn’t be hyper-aware of the way her fingers brush the edge of his sleeve again, so light it could almost be accidental. You shouldn’t be waiting for him to pull back, to shake off the attention like he does when social interaction becomes too much.

Except he doesn’t. He just lets it happen.

And that irritates you.

So you do what you always do when something threatens to knock you off balance—you shut it down.

“Reid.”

Your voice cuts through the air, sharper than you intended. The team stops, turning toward you. Even Foster straightens slightly, blinking at the sudden shift in tone. Spencer glances over, his expression a mixture of mild confusion and concern.

You exhale, tightening your grip on the case file in your hands. “We’re here to solve a murder,” you say, your voice even but firm. “Not to make friends.”

Foster’s eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t comment. Morgan, who had been watching the interaction unfold with barely concealed amusement, makes a low sound in his throat—something close to a chuckle. You ignore it.

“I wasn’t aware discussing case patterns was off-limits,” Spencer says, tilting his head. His tone is neutral, but there’s a hint of something else there.

You meet his gaze, keeping your own unreadable. “It’s not,” you say. “Just keep it relevant.”

It’s not a lie. You are focused on the case. You do want to keep things professional. That’s all this is. That’s the only reason your patience is stretched thin.

Except.

Except you can still feel the ghost of Foster’s laugh curling around Spencer’s words. Except your shoulders haven’t relaxed since the moment she touched him. Except your own thoughts are turning against you, pressing in like a vice, asking the question you really don’t want to answer—

If you’re so unaffected, why do you have to convince yourself of it?

—

The investigation continues with the same steady pace, but your attention keeps wandering.

Every time you glance toward Spencer and Foster, you find her leaning in a little too close, her voice a little too sweet as she asks him to clarify some trivial detail. She’s careful—always careful—never quite crossing a line, but the way she speaks to him, the way she looks at him, it grates at you.

The word “unprofessional” loops endlessly in your mind, but each time you tell yourself that, something inside you pushes back.

You’re not jealous. You just want her to focus. This is a case, for God’s sake.

But the more she smiles at him, the more he just stands there, absorbed in the conversation, oblivious to the subtle dance she’s performing, the more that uncomfortable twist in your stomach tightens. Every laugh, every overly familiar gesture, stirs something inside you that you can’t quite name.

You can feel your teeth grinding as they talk, your gaze hardening on the two of them. You’re trying to focus on the case, you’re trying to ignore the nagging irritation building in your chest, but the more they interact, the more annoyed you become.

She’s practically flirting, and Spencer isn’t doing anything about it. Or, if he is noticing, he’s pretending it doesn’t bother him.

But it bothers you. Why does it bother you?

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the evidence bag in your hand, and before you know it, you’re standing too close to them, watching as Foster tries to steer Spencer away from the group to discuss something you know is irrelevant to the case.

It’s not urgent. You know it’s not urgent. But when you hear the soft cadence of her voice inviting Spencer to join her for a “quick chat” away from the others, the words explode out of you.

“Reid.” you say sharply, the sound of his name a snap. The words feel harsh even to your own ears.

Spencer’s head jerks around, blinking at you in surprise. His lips part, but you cut him off again, your voice colder than you intended. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

Foster stops mid-sentence, blinking in confusion at the sudden interruption. Her eyes flick to Spencer, and then back to you. The tension in the air thickens, but you don’t care.

You don’t care.

Except you do. And that makes it worse.

Spencer’s gaze softens as he turns back to you, the furrow in his brow deepening, something akin to concern flashing across his face. It only makes you more frustrated.

“I’m not finished yet,” Spencer protests quietly, but there’s a careful note in his voice, the kind that suggests he’s trying to be diplomatic, to avoid upsetting you.

You blink, realising you’ve taken another step too far. Your heart skips a beat at the softness in his voice, and for just a moment, you feel guilty. He’s just trying to help, trying to be professional. And yet, the only thing you can focus on is her.

You don’t let the guilt linger long. “Then stop getting distracted.” you snap, then force yourself to look away, eyes darting back to the scene as if it somehow holds your attention now. You’re already backing off, leaving the words hanging in the air.

Spencer stares at you for a beat longer than necessary, confusion and concern still flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t press it. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t question you further. Instead, he shifts back toward the group, muttering something to Morgan about a pattern in the evidence, and you hear the subtle shift in his voice—he’s letting it go.

But you don’t feel relieved.

The knot in your chest tightens again. Why did you say that? Why did you let her get to you?

You tell yourself it’s about professionalism. It’s about the case. You don’t have time for distractions, not when the clock is ticking. And you definitely don’t have time to unravel this feeling that’s spreading through you like an infection.

Spencer doesn’t argue. He doesn’t snap back at you, doesn’t give you the defensive posture that you might expect from anyone else. Instead, he does something that immediately pulls the rug out from under you.

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

For a moment, the world around you blurs, the noise of the crime scene and the murmurs of the team fading into the background. It’s just Spencer’s eyes, filled with something you can’t quite place—concern, maybe, or confusion, maybe a little of both. But it’s soft. Too soft.

Your pulse spikes, and for a split second, it feels like the floor is tipping beneath you. It’s so disarming, the quiet concern in his gaze, and it makes the frustration building inside you flare even higher.

“Are you okay?”

The question is simple, unassuming, and it cracks something inside you. It’s not a challenge, not a reprimand—it’s genuine, and that’s what makes it harder to brush off.

No. You’re not okay.

You’re furious, but you can’t explain why. You’re hurt, but you can’t pinpoint the cause. You’re jealous, and the idea of admitting that to yourself is enough to send your thoughts spiraling. And all the while, Spencer’s standing there, oblivious to the storm building inside you, just waiting for your response.

You can’t look at him anymore.

“I’m fine,” you mutter quickly, not meeting his eyes. You swallow, forcing your chest to loosen, fighting the sudden weight that presses down on your shoulders.

Your words come out stiff, rehearsed, and even to your own ears, they sound like a lie. But you say them anyway. Because it’s easier than admitting the truth.

You don’t wait for him to say anything else. You turn abruptly, your boots echoing on the concrete floor as you walk away, away from Spencer and away from the nagging feeling that he might see through you if you stay.

But you’re not running. You’re not hiding. You’re just… focused.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

As you round the corner, your mind keeps racing, fighting to keep everything in order. You tell yourself you don’t care about the detective’s attention.

You tell yourself it’s unprofessional, it’s inappropriate. And you tell yourself that you’ve seen it all before, that Spencer’s just being Spencer—oblivious to the subtle ways people gravitate toward him.

But none of that feels convincing anymore.

By the time you’ve reached the far side of the warehouse, your hands are trembling slightly. You push them into your pockets, trying to centre yourself. You feel the familiar coldness wrapping around you again, your professional mask sliding back into place like armour. It’s easier this way.

A sharp breath escapes your lips as you lean against the wall, your head pressed back, eyes closed for a moment. Focus.

You force yourself to take another breath. You’re here for the case. That’s all.

But as the minutes pass, the tight knot in your chest refuses to loosen, and all you can think about is the way Spencer’s face looked when he asked you that question. Are you okay?

And, just for a fleeting second, you wonder if he knows more than you think.

—

The rest of the case proceeds, but something has shifted.

There’s an undeniable tension now—both around you and within you. As you walk through the newest crime scene, examining evidence and speaking with witnesses, Spencer doesn’t give you the space you’d expected.

He stays close, hovering just behind you, always near enough that you can feel the warmth of his presence even when you’re too busy to glance at him.

He’s speaking to you more than usual, asking for your input first, even in situations where it’s clear he already has the answers. It’s as if he’s checking in with you constantly, gauging your reaction before making any decisions of his own.

The subtle shift doesn’t go unnoticed by anyone. Foster, who had been so eager to claim his attention earlier, is starting to back off, visibly frustrated by his sudden disinterest in her suggestions. She tries a few more times to pull him away for a “quick chat,” but Spencer doesn’t respond to her advances the way he did before.

Instead, he looks to you.

“Hey, I think we might need a second look at the victim’s phone records,” he says, voice casual but with an edge of expectation, like he already knows you’ll agree. “What do you think?”

You pause, the request startling you slightly. Spencer doesn’t usually ask for your opinion on the more technical aspects of a case, but you don’t have time to process it. The words come automatically.

“Yeah, definitely. It might give us a window into the unsub’s next move.”

Spencer nods in approval, his face softening slightly as he absorbs your response. But there’s something else there, something unspoken—a quiet acknowledgment.

He doesn’t say anything, just continues to stay close as the investigation progresses, as if he’s subtly keeping his distance from Foster without even addressing it.

You’re still frustrated—at him, at the detective, at yourself—but there’s a tiny, almost imperceptible shift in your chest. That small part of you that feels like you’ve been seen. That he noticed.

Every time Foster attempts to direct him away from the group, Spencer brushes her off with a polite but clear, “I’ll be right with you,” his eyes flicking to you before he moves to stand closer. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you even want to acknowledge it. But it’s there—an undercurrent you can’t ignore.

Your mind still races with frustration. You can’t shake the gnawing feeling that something’s off, and you can’t decide if it’s the case, the detective, or yourself. But every time Spencer looks to you for direction, every time he positions himself just a little too close, your frustration starts to dull, replaced by something else.

He’s noticing you. He’s listening.

When the team breaks for a quick huddle to discuss their next steps, Spencer stands beside you. Not next to Morgan or Hotch, not pulling away to talk to Foster. He’s deliberately close, his shoulder just grazing yours as he flips through his notes.

“You alright?” he asks again, in that soft, concerned tone that makes you almost uncomfortable. It’s like he’s waiting for you to admit something, like he already knows there’s something you’re not saying.

You want to brush him off, to tell him to stop worrying about you, but the question catches you off guard. For a brief moment, the irritation—toward him, toward Foster, toward everything—subsides, and you're left with something unspoken hanging between you two.

"I’m fine," you mutter again, a little more convincingly this time, even though it’s not true. But you can’t find the words to explain it. Not when you’re still trying to convince yourself that none of this should matter.

Spencer doesn’t push. He just nods, the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at his lips before he pulls away to engage with the team, but he keeps an eye on you, always just a little more attentive than usual.

You try to shake off the feeling that this—whatever this is—matters, but it’s hard to deny. The connection between you two is there, unspoken, and for some unknown reason you’re feeling a lot more vulnerable than usual.

And that, more than anything, is what frustrates you the most.

[freelancelobotomy]

.ೃ࿐ 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗼𝘀 [𝗦.𝗥]

!!! MINORS DNI !!! ✧.*Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader ⋆·˚ ༘ WC: 4k ༊*·˚Summary: Cadets at the top of their class at the FBI Training Academy, Reader and Spencer are both offered a position at the BAU as a Supervisory Special Agent. When only one of them can be picked for the job, things in their complicated relationship get extremely rocky. ✧.*CW: Smut, Flangst, SoftDom!Spencer, breeding!kink, arguing, kissing, grinding, afab reader descriptions, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it), slight overstimulation, praise, slight dumbification (good girl, sweet girl rigmarole), ⋆·˚ ༘ *A/N: oh hi there. First time writing smut wow. Parts 1, 2, and 3, to gravity are linked but this can definitely be read as a stand alone /prologue!

“I like it,” you said, running your fingers through Spencer’s hair. He’d stopped slicking it back—for the first time since you met him four months ago at the Academy. Your time at the program was coming to a close—three days and counting until it was over.

Not for you both. Or at least, that’s what you’d thought.

Spencer had promised you that he’d move back to Las Vegas. He said he’d been thinking about it for a while, since he wanted to live closer to his mother so he could visit more frequently, instead of writing her letters every day. His original plan was to stay in California after graduating from CalTech, but after falling head over heels for you, he’d firmly decided on Vegas.

“I don’t know how I feel about it. It’s a little boyish for my taste.”

“I think you look handsome,” you said, a smile creeping onto your face as you noticed his cheeks pinkening.

You two kissed for the first time about three and a half weeks ago. You’d been up late—two in the morning—arguing over Nietzsche, debating whether suffering and meaninglessness were the same thing. He’d said something that pissed you off. You don’t quite remember what it was because, honestly, you were too focused on his ochre eyes intensely gazing into yours and the exhausted yet enticing rasp in his voice. You leaned in and kissed him.

You’d kissed boys before, but it was nothing like this. And thank God it wasn’t.

You two had kissed a lot after that—like frisky high school kids who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. But you never had…the talk. The closest you ever got to discussing a relationship or how you really felt about each other was the conversation about him moving to Vegas.

He pressed a sweet kiss to your lips.

“Spencer Reid, Y/N Y/L/N, and Francesca Patterson, report to the courtyard, please,” a voice called from the speakers.

You, Spencer, and Frannie walked to the courtyard.

“Do you think we’re in trouble?” Frannie asked. She was your roommate at the Academy—a soft-spoken, non-confrontational girl who was three years your senior, just like most everyone else in the program. Except Spencer.

“I don’t think so,” Spencer said lowly. “This is something else.”

Once you approached the courtyard, all of you gawked at the legend standing in front of you: the esteemed BAU agent Jason Gideon. Spencer practically idolized him.

“Agent Gideon,” you said with a smile.

The Assistant Director of the Academy, Marvin Doute, cleared his throat. “Jason Gideon is here because he specifically requested to speak with each of you for your outstanding test scores and your displays of interest in joining the BAU.”

“You,” Agent Gideon said, looking directly at Spencer. “Spencer Reid. IQ of 187. Three doctorates as well. Tell me about that.”

“Uhm—I…” Spencer’s mouth opened for a moment, words failing him. “I uh… have an eidetic memory and can read 20,000 words per minute, and I have a BA in Psychology and Sociology, and PhDs in Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering.” He grinned down at you, and you mirrored his expression.

“Hi. I’m Y/N Y/L/N. It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” you said, giddily.

Agent Gideon gave you a polite grin and a firm nod.

“I’m Frannie—Francesca,” your friend stuttered.

“All of you are friends?” Agent Gideon asked. He was taller than you expected.

“Yes,” you nodded. Spencer looked down at you.

“The word friend is common. The fact is rare,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

“Plato,” Spencer said. Gideon narrowed his eyes at him. Spencer’s lips pressed together into a flat line. “Phaedrus. One of his middle period works. While there was an earlier belief that it was one of his first dialogues, most scholars now agree it was composed around the same time as The Republic and Symposium.”

“Y/N,” Gideon said, switching his focus to you. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” you said, hesitantly.

“All of you are twenty-two and FBI cadets? That’s no small feat. Very impressive.”

“Actually, I’m twenty-five,” Francesca blurted.

“Well,” Gideon said, staring back at all of you a bit awkwardly, “you’re top of your classes academically. Still worth celebrating, don’t you think?”

“I’d like to take all of you to dinner. Have a conversation with the future of the FBI. A good friend of mine has a restaurant five minutes from here. Rented out the entire place just for us, so don’t miss it. Oste’s. 8 PM tonight. Look nice.”

Gideon walked away and continued talking to Doute as they left the courtyard.

The fan in your dorm blasted cool air onto your face as you slipped your heels on. You wanted to look classy. And mature. You’d styled your hair into a swoopy side part that would make Hollywood starlets envious, and slipped on a black mini dress that hugged you in all the right places.

Jason Gideon was a man, after all. You still needed to look good.

Spencer looked breathtaking—you can’t go wrong with a classic black and white tux. You and Spencer carpooled with Francesca to Oste’s. The dinner didn’t drag on, but it wasn’t brief either. It felt more like a circle jerk of Spencer and Gideon attempting to match wits. Every now and then you’d butt in, but Gideon’s focus on Spencer was persistent. Relentless. It wasn’t that he resented you or Frannie—he just recognized something in Spencer that required all of his attention. Maybe Spencer reminded him of himself.

But at the end of the night, you caught it.

When leaving Oste’s, Spencer had put his hand on the small of your back—and Gideon was watching. Again, moments later, you were chilly when you stepped out into the night air, and Spencer offered you his coat. You took it, but his fingers lingered as you accepted it.

Gideon was watching.

You thought you were reading too much into his strange behavior, until—

“Spencer,” he said.

Spencer’s head turned away from your direction toward Gideon.

“May I speak with you for just a moment?”

Frannie and you looked at each other.

We just lost the job.

Spencer briefly looked back at you, then walked with Gideon a little further down the block as you and Frannie waited for the valet to bring her car around.

“I’m gonna use the bathroom. This night blows,” Frannie said, returning inside the restaurant, muttering something about stupid Spencer and the patriarchy.

You were alone.

Spencer was just down the block. You could faintly hear them speaking in the still evening air.

“Do you love her?” Gideon’s voice asked. You turned away, pretending to be preoccupied with something in your purse, trying to look uninterested.

“Yes,” Spencer answered.

“Well then... it was nice meeting you, Spencer.”

“Are you lost, beautiful?” the valet woman asked as she pulled the car up next to you. You laughed at her theatrics.

“Depends. Who’s asking?” you said.

“Are you a cadet down at the Academy?” the woman asked. She was beautiful—tan, freckled skin, midnight-black hair, and piercing blue eyes. She was built, too.

“Yes, I am. How did you know?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“I used to be one. I can smell it on you,” she said.

“You think all cadets smell like Penhaligon’s? Now I know you have no idea what you’re talking about,” you grinned.

She laughed heartily.

“Your boyfriend down the street buy that for you?” she whispered, smirking.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you said, shaking your head.

“If I was hunching someone with great legs like yours, we’d be on our honeymoon already,” she purred. “Gideon comes down here a lot, but he never brings trainees along. Must be an opening down in the wonderful world of the BAU.”

“Must be,” you said, staring down the block.

Gideon firmly shook Spencer’s hand, discreetly passing him something. You narrowed your eyes.

The woman shook her head. “When you’re done chasing smoke and mirrors, let me know when you’re ready for something a little more... tangible.”

She handed you a notepad with her number on it. She must’ve jotted it down while you were looking down the block. Her name: Saesha. She winked at you and then took her place back on the stool at the valet desk.

Gideon pulled off, honking as he drove past.

“Who was that?” Spencer asked.

“No one.”

You had deepened the kiss as the idea of Spencer consumed you. You had already missed him, even though you were perched on his lap. And even though he hadn’t technically gotten the job yet: you had a gut feeling that this would be the last week the two of you would spend together.  His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. You moved your lips to his jaw, pressing kisses into his flushed skin, marking him as yours. You knew that no one had ever kissed him like this before, and the thought that you were his first for this brought a sense of peace and possession. You nipped at his skin, paying special attention to his pulse points, inhaling his scent. You knew that pheromones were a pseudoscientific myth, but the aroma of his cologne mixing with the ph of his skin was so intoxicating you could eat him alive.

You whined softly, needing him more than ever. It was just the two of you in his dorm, his roommate absent for a funeral and not due back until graduation. Spencer hissed, grabbing your hips harshly, sending a jolt of desire straight to your core. "Y/n," he groaned, "Wait—stop, stop, stop." You pulled your head back from his neck, your eyes searching his face. You felt his hardness underneath you and quickly jumped up from his lap, realizing you had been unintentionally grinding against him. Heat rushed to your face. "Oh my gosh!" you gasped, "I’m sorry—I didn’t realize that I—"

"No, you’re perfectly fine!" he assured, his cheeks flushed. "It’s just that I uh… didn’t want to finish before we even started—not that we have to get started or do anything at all. We could just—" You cut him off, reclaiming your spot on his lap and silencing him with a kiss. His hands roamed underneath your shirt, lightly scratching your back, sending shivers down your spine. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, his breath shaky. "Can I take this off?" he asked, his hands gripping the bottom of your dress. 

You nodded, your voice catching in your throat. "Mhm." You weren’t wearing a bra underneath, and his hands quickly found your breasts as he pressed a kiss to your jawline. "God, you're so beautiful," he whispered, rubbing his thumbs over your nipples, making you arch your back and moan shamelessly.

You rolled your hips against his thigh, seeking friction. "Spencer, please," you whined. 

"Use your words," he said breathlessly, pulling back to look into your eyes.

"Need you to fuck me," You slurred as your orgasm built. Spencer exhaled shakily, his eyes dark with desire. "Lie on your back, angel," he instructed. 

You complied, eager to be close to him again. Spencer gets undressed and your glands salivate as his dick springs free from his boxers. You’d never seen one before but he was pretty, pearlescent precum dripping from the head. He moved in between your legs, rubbing the tip of his cock through your folds. "So wet…’nd soft," he whispered, his eyes locked on your pussy. He slapped the head of his cock against your clit, making you whine with need.

He pushed into you slowly, his thick tip stretching you. You wince at the sudden intrusion. "I know. I’ll be gentle, pretty," he whispered, capturing your lips in a sweet kiss. He took one of your hands into his, his thumb stroking your knuckles as he began to move. The feeling of him stretching you was slightly painful but dizzyingly good. The stingy pinprick-like sensation morphed into the type of overwhelming pleasure that made you shiver against him. You whined, and he buried his head into your shoulder, his hips moving in a steady rhythm. He pulled almost all the way out before thrusting back into you, eliciting a choked sob from you. Spencer’s face pulled away, his eyes snapping to yours. "Are you okay?" he asked softly. 

"More than okay," you whispered as he began to pick up the pace.

"Fuck honey you feel s’good," he slurred, pounding into you, the head of his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes your eyes glaze over. "Give me your legs," he said, and you immediately bent your knees, giving him better access. His hands found the back of your thighs, and he folded you in half, his hips returning to its snapping pace after positioning you into a mating press. "Good girl. Such a responsive listener," he rasped, his voice hoarse with effort. Your hips bucked to meet his, the coil in your stomach tightening as the lewd squelching of your cunt and his crass words sent you spiraling.

 You craned your head to watch him fuck you. Your slick coated your ass and his hips, the strings of the heady liquid connected by them. The sight of a creamy ring of your liquer collecting around the base of his cock made the walls of your pussy flutter around him, your eyes finding his half lidded gaze. His fawn curls falling into his face, his swollen kiss bitten lips formed an ‘o’ shape as he took in restricted gasps—God, he’s so pretty… the feeling of his dick stretching you so good knocked the breath from your lungs.

 "You’re so deep," you hiccuped as the head of his cock hit your G-spot over and over. Your whimpers ceased as your jaw dropped, and tears stung your eyes from the intense pleasure. You arched your back off the mattress, your arms wrapping around Spencer, scratching his back. He winced slightly, a smirk growing on his face as he realized how close you were. "You’re so cockdrunk," he breathed. "Can’t think about anything else, can you?" A bead of his sweat dripped from his chest onto yours, and you whined in response. . “Just me–” Squelch squelch “holding you down as you writhe against me while I fuck you bareback and–” moan “my cock filling you up, huh pretty?”

“S’ too much,” You sobbed as heat pooled in your abdomen. 

His gaze locked onto yours, and he cooed, "You can take it, sweet girl. Tell me what you want."

You felt emboldened, your body alive with need. "Need you to come inside me," you whimpered, your voice barely recognizable. Spencer’s hips stuttered, and he let out a breathy whine. 

"You can’t just say things like that, Y/n," he rasped, his voice strained. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him on, your heels digging into his back. "I... I’m not gonna last much longer," he panted, his baby hairs curling at his hairline from the sweat beading at his temple. "Pleaseee baby," you begged, tears welling up in your eyes. "I wan’ it so bad Spence. Please, baby, give it to me."

He groaned, his head finding the crook of your neck, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "I fuck you once and you already want me to fill you up with my babies?" He teased, his hips bucking against yours, his voice a low hum. 

“I’ve always wanted to have your babies” You breathed.

"Your pussy feels so good," he whined, lifting his head to look at you, his eyes wild with desire. Fap fap fap "Oh God...y/n. I’m gonna give it to you, okay?" He groaned, his arms holding you closer as his resolve began to unravel. "I’m gonna get you pregnant," he mumbled, his words sending a shudder of anticipation through your body. It was all talk of course (you were on birth control and Spencer knew that) but something about it sent you reeling.

Your second orgasm consumed you, leaving you hot and trembling, your body clinging to Spencer like your life depended on it. You could feel every inch of him, every ridge, every vein all of it pulsing inside you, the weight of his body on yours, the sweat of his skin mixing with yours. It was overwhelming, and you loved every second of it. Spencer followed soon after, his eyebrows furrowing and his mouth falling open as he buried himself deep inside you. "Take it," he moaned, his dick twitching as it kissed your cervix before spilling his seed into your pussy, flooding your womb. You could feel the heat of his cum, it leaking out of you around his cock, and it sent you into another spiral of pleasure.

"Spencer," you whimpered, your body sensitive and your legs shaking. His lips found yours, desperate and needy, his kiss swallowing your cries of pleasure.

Your chests heaved as you both huffed, your breaths ragged when he pulled away from the kiss. "I love you," he breathed, not realizing he had said it until the words were out. His eyebrows shot up, and the air around you both fell still.

You looked into his eyes, seeing your own feelings reflected back at you. "I...I love you too," you admitted, your voice soft but sure. 

A slow smile spread across his face, and he pressed a soft kiss to your lips. "Yeah?" he asked, his voice gentle. 

You nodded, your eyes welling up with tears of bittersweet happiness. "Yeah," you whispered. He smiled against your lips, kissing you softly before pulling back to look at you. 

"I meant it, you know," he said, his thumb brushing away a tear that escaped from your eye. "Every word. I love you, Y/n. I want this, with you. I want it all."

You felt a warmth spread through you at his words, a happiness that you had never known before. You smiled at him, your heart full. "I want it all too," you said, your voice steady and sure. He smiled back at you, his eyes shining with unshed tears. 

"Good," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening around you. You could feel his heart beating against your chest, steady and strong, and you knew that you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The next morning, when you woke up, Spencer wasn’t asleep next to you. Instead, he was on the phone on the other side of the room.

“Morning. What time is it?” you asked.

“Good morning,” he said, covering the speaker of his phone. “It’s a quarter to one. I’m on the phone with Jason right now.”

Your stomach dropped. Why is he calling him right now? you thought. And since when did Spencer call him Jason?

By the time Spencer finished his phone call, you had already cleaned yourself up, combed your hair, wiped the runny mascara from beneath your eyes, and brushed your teeth. When you walked out of the bathroom and saw his face—he looked so happy. But then his expression devolved into something else: sorrow.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, approaching him from across the room.

“Jason—he… I got it. He offered me a position at the BAU,” he said quietly.

You knew it. You were sad that it wasn’t you, and you hated that. Be happy for Spencer, you told yourself.

“You did?” you gawked, forcing a smile onto your face, laughing giddily. “Spencer, that’s amazing!” You threw your arms around him.

He hugged you back—reluctantly. You looked up at him, searching his face for what you might’ve said wrong. Were you not convincing enough?

“You—” he sighed. “Y/N, don’t do this,” he said quietly, shaking his head and stepping back from you.

You were confused.

“Do… what? I don’t…” you asked, baffled.

“That was your dream job. You don’t have to be happy for me right now. I’m sorry. I wish you’d gotten it instead of me,” he said.

Your heart sank, and your chin began to wobble as tears stung your eyes. No no no no no don’t cry don’t cry. This is great. For Spencer. Celebrate Spencer.

“But I’m so proud of you—” you rasped out.

“But you want me to go back to Vegas with you,” he said, with a look in his eyes you had never seen before. What was it? Resentment? Vitriol?

You blinked back tears, hurt by his sudden shift in tone and the absence of warmth from the arms that had held you only moments ago.

“I mean, yeah. I love you, Spencer. You said that after the sixteen weeks were up, you’d fly back to Vegas with me so we could be togeth—” you sniffled, foolishly.

“Y/N, it’s the BAU,” he argued.

“You love the BAU more than you love me?” you asked, wounded. “Did you share a bed with Jason last night too?”

“So you slept with me to manipulate me into staying?” he asked, bluntly.

His words landed like a slap.

“How could you say that to me?” you whispered, your voice quiet—because if it had been a decibel louder, it would’ve cracked and you would’ve dissolved into tears. “I didn’t manipulate you into anything. Why would you say that?”

“I don’t understand why you can’t be happy for me—” he shouted, his voice firm and resolute.

“I was! I fucking tried! And now—you’re—you’re painting me as some ‘temptress master manipulator,’ and you’re mad at me!” you choked out.

“I’m not mad at you, we’re having a conversation.”

You nodded, the true reason for his personality switch dawning on you.

“You’re picking a fight with me because you want a reason to leave. You’re trying to justify choosing Jason over me,” you chuckled bitterly, pushing your hair out of your face. “What the fuck is your problem? I’ve never seen this side of you before. Just last night you told me that you loved me and now?—”

You stepped closer to him, looking down at your shoes, trying to hide the tears in your eyes.

“You’re my best friend, Spencer. Don’t be like this. Please. Tell me what’s really going on with you.”

“Best friend? You don’t know me, Y/N. Have you ever thought of that?” he said. “Maybe sixteen weeks—”

“Four months—” you corrected him, hurt.

“Sixteen weeks is all that we should’ve had together. Maybe this happened for a reason.”

“You’re breaking up with me? Because I was happy you got a job offer?”

“We’re not breaking up because we were never together. I don’t break up with my best friends.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.” You took a step closer to him, your pointer finger pressing against his chest. “You’re so busy trying to get back at everyone who’s ever hurt you that you fuck over the only people who care about you.”

Spencer shook his head, forcing a bitter smile onto his face. “It’s too late to prove yourself as a profiler to Jason. Don’t try to prove yourself to me. If he’d picked you, it’d be a different story. You would’ve been on the earliest flight to Quantico. This morning.”

You wouldn’t have. He knew that you wouldn’t have, but he needed to tell himself that—so he could walk away from you. So he could leave you before you hurt him.

He put his hand on your shoulder as tears fell from your eyes.

“I didn’t mean that,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I love you, Y/N. I’m sorry that I couldn’t keep my promise about Vegas, and I’m sorry for getting upset at you for something that’s completely my fault. It’s not fair.” His hand moved to lovingly hold the side of your face. “Let’s just enjoy these last two days and—”

You shoved him hard before grabbing your stuff and heading for the door.

“Y/N—I didn’t mean any of it. Please! Just wait a second… I’m sorry—”

Smack. You slammed the door shut behind you as you left Spencer’s dorm. The door swung open just as you neared the elevator.

“Y/N. I’m sorry. Please, let’s talk about this.”

You turned after pressing the elevator button. Ding.

“Sixteen weeks, huh?” you said, stepping inside the elevator. You swiped your keycard to access the floor with the girls’ dorms and pressed the button to close the doors.

[thatfanficstuff]

My Doctor - Nine/Ten

Pairing: The Doctor x Soulmate!Reader

warnings: mention of pregnancy, flangst

The Doctor was new. New face, new body, new him. Same soulmark that mirrored the one splashed across your ribs. An ache settled in your chest as you watched him tinker with the console of the TARDIS. It seemed as he shifted from one man to another, he remembered everything. Everything but you. He glanced up occasionally as he worked and you searched for any sign of recognition in his gaze. Nothing. Just that blank look behind his eyes. His mind’s erasure of you so complete, it pierced through you like a blade.

Rose noticed your pain. Of course, she did. With a gentle grip on your arm, she led you to the side. Asked if you were okay. You gave her a nod, afraid you’d break if you tried to speak. He remembered her. Every adventure they’d had together. He just didn’t remember that you’d been there too, that you’d been around much longer than the blonde companion. You felt his stare from across the room as he tried to put together the pieces of what he’s missing. You brushed Rose off and took a seat at the side of the room, leaving her to return to your Doctor.

You blinked hard, willing the stinging in your eyes to fade. The Doctor’s hands flew over the controls, adjusting, spinning, pulling. It was easy for you to see your Doctor in the man before you, but it left you feeling hollow, empty. Every so often, he glanced over at Rose, his grin wide and full of life. It was like watching a movie of what you’d had with him that started to flicker and fade. He knew Rose. He remembered Rose. But when he finally turned that attention on you, his eyes held nothing but curiosity. The blankness in them, sliced through you, cruel and cold and your hand dropped to cover your still-flat stomach. You wondered if he’d even care that his child grew there. Surely, he'd remember you if he did.

You sucked in a ragged breath and turned away from the sight of them. Together. You drifted down the hall of the TARDIS, no real destination in mind, just needing a break. A breath.

“Hey,” Rose’s gentle voice drew you to a stop. You leaned against the wall and turned to watch her close the distance between you. “I’d ask you again if you’re okay, but I know you’re not.”

“I just thought he’d remember,” you whispered, the words more fragile than you intended. “I thought with enough time, he’d remember, but there’s nothing. To him, I’m just your friend. Another tagalong.”

“But you’re not. You’re so much more than that.” She grasped your hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. “Show him your mark. Tell him who you are.”

You hesitated, considering her words before you thought of those empty stares. “He remembered you, Rose. He grinned at you, gave you a hug then looked at me and asked who I was. I don’t know if I can possibly convey to you how that feels.”

“He’ll remember you. I know he will,” she insisted. “I’ve never seen two people that belong together more than you two.”

You gave a little shrug. “Maybe he doesn’t want to remember me, Rose. If he doesn’t remember me, he can’t lose me. Maybe it’s for the best.”

“Don’t—” She cut off as the Doctor called her name.

A soft, sad smile curled your lips. “You should see what he needs. You know he’ll only get in trouble if we leave him alone for too long.”

“You’re driving me crazy,” she muttered as she watched you walk away. “You’re both driving me crazy.”

When she entered the room, she found the Doctor leaning against the console with a distant look on his face as he passed his hand through his hair as if testing its length. He was still finding himself, this new Doctor. She only wished he’d find his way to you, as well.

Time passed as it always did in the TARDIS, out of order and tripping along like you’d lose everything if it didn’t speed by. You floated through the halls like a ghost, having more conversations with Rose while the echoes of your relationship haunted every corner. You weren’t trying to avoid the Doctor but every interaction only broke your already shattered heart more.

You found him leafing through books in the library, some of them you knew he’d read many times before. He made some joke about the new him loving a good mystery and you nearly cried at the irony. In the kitchen, you found him trying every type of tea you’d collected in your journeys, the joy on his face causing a pang of regret you couldn’t experience it with him. That he didn’t even think of asking you to join him. You thought of when you first met him, of adventures and promises and how certain you were it would never end. The Doctor with his grin as wide as the big, bright universe.

“I’ll tell him myself if you won’t,” Rose declared, her arms crossed over her chest as she caught you watching him again one day.

You sighed, tired down to your core. “It’s not that simple.”

“He needs to know. You think you’re doing this for him, but you’re not being fair to yourself.”

She was right. You knew she was, but you were so afraid. You pressed a hand to your stomach, to the small piece of him that you still possessed, as you whispered all your fears. “What if it doesn’t matter? What if he still doesn’t remember? What if I’m not enough?” Your voice sounded as broken as you felt.

You drifted from the room and the Doctor sent a sharp glare to his companion. “It’s not fair, you know. You two whispering all the time. It’s enough to drive me mad.”

“As if you aren’t already,” she teased before giving him a long, appraising look. “Who do you think she is? Really?”

Frustration clouded his features and he tugged at his hair. “You said she was your friend.”

“And do you believe that’s all she is?”

He was silent for a beat. “I don’t know what to believe.”

“You feel it, don’t you?”

“What?”

“That empty space inside. Like a piece of you is missing.”

He nodded slowly, the motion uncertain as confusion twisted his features.

“Then what are you going to do about it?”

“Ask.” It’s more a question than an answer.

“Think you can handle that?” she teased, but there’s a softness in her words.

“I can handle anything,” he retorts.

The edges of her mouth tilted up. “Go on then.”

“Go on what?” he bounced on his feet.

“Go on and ask, you big idiot.”

He watched her leave until she was out of sight then turned back to the console. His gaze drifted back to the door where you’d disappeared, suddenly full of the need for answers.

The Doctor had summoned you to the control room. He was alone when you entered, his eyes hidden behind his glasses as he frowned at something on the screen in front of him. His focus shifted to you as you walked in. There was an almost electric charge in the air as your eyes met.

“You’re pregnant.” A statement. A cold confirmation of everything you’d feared. He knew and he still didn’t remember. Still didn’t want you. The silence stretched and you were certain you could hear the sound of your heart breaking for the last time. “You can’t travel with me like that. It’s not safe for you or the baby.”

The words sliced through you. It was the end even if he’d never remember it as such. You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. The TARDIS hummed low and her lights dimmed as if she was mourning your loss. You’d miss her too, but it was time to go. To leave your universe behind. He studied you as you walked toward the door, those bright eyes once full of love now shining with something you didn’t recognize.

Your hand went to your stomach as if to shield your child from its father’s indifference. You could barely see through the tears that blurred your vision. “Goodbye, Doctor.” The words were so faint they were barely there at all.

“Unless,” he said suddenly as you reached for the door. “Unless that’s my baby and you possess all the protections being my soulmate would give you. There’s nowhere better for a little Time Lord than a TARDIS.”

You froze, disbelief swamping you before you spun around to face him, your eyes wide and searching. You were scared to believe it, scared not to. “You remember?” Your voice was fragile as you took a step closer. “You know who I am?”

His lips tilted in a small smile. He patted the console with affection. “She might have jogged my memory a bit,” he admitted.

Your breath shuddered as you just stood there. Fear kept you anchored, not wanting to risk shattering this fragile possibility.

“Well?” His eyes were bright with challenge, with mischief. It was so terribly, wonderfully him. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

A sob escaped your lips and your hands covered your mouth as tears flooded your eyes. He crossed the space between you in three long strides. His arms wrapped around you for the first time as this Doctor, as this man, the feeling so different, but so wonderfully right. You clung to him in desperation and need, afraid this was all some horrible dream and when you woke, he’d look at you with that blank stare once more.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his breath warm in your hair. His hold was firm, real. “Why didn’t you say anything? Even when you thought I wanted you to leave?”

You wanted to tell him everything, to confess every horrible thought you’d had since Nine became Ten. All you managed was a small broken sound.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, to really look at you. He cupped your face in his hand and the gesture was so familiar you wondered how you could have ever doubted him. He traced your cheek with his thumb. “Talk to me, love.”

You shrugged. “I thought maybe you didn’t remember because you didn’t want to. That you didn’t want me anymore.”

The Doctor gave a small huff as if the idea is too ridiculous to even consider. “Time Lord. New body, new face, same me. I will never not want you.”

You suddenly felt so light, so relieved. “I wasn’t sure,” you whispered, keeping a tight hold like he’d disappear if you let go.

“Well, now you know.” There is nothing but certainty in his words. You sagged against him, feeling whole for the first time since you watched him regenerate and forget.

He pressed his lips to your temple, melting away the remnants of your doubt and fear. “Besides, why would I ever want to forget someone like you?”

“Someone like me, huh?” you asked with a laugh.

He chuckled, the sound filling you with warmth and affection. “Two someones, it seems.”

The TARDIS hummed, her lights bright and vibrant as she celebrated your reunion. Your head found his shoulder, your hand laid over his hearts. He was yours. You were his. It was everything you thought you’d lost. It was yours and you were never letting go again.

[reidsapplelady]

RIDE OR DIE — /A. HOTCHNER/

SUMMARY: You, a street racer, gets questioned by the feds about murders that are linked to your illegal racing feud. You refuse to cooperate, & they threaten to arrest you but you know they won't.

hotch x fem!street racer!reader ⸝⸝ slow burn & flangst ⸝⸝ enemies to lovers ⸝⸝ non established relationship

WARNINGS: mentions of murder, use of y/n, typical cm violence, blood, gunshot wounds and being tied up.

DANI'S NOTES: heh,, trigger's based off of someone that i actually know,, bare eith me cause i wrote most of this when i was sleepy idk if im cooking,, i saw a pretty lady on a motorbike and i thought of this when i was walking home,, heh your friends' names are kenzie and jay,, sorry i dont make the rules (yes i do)

W/C: 2k+ (ik i surprised myself there too)

The scent of gasoline and smoke reaches to Hotch and Rossi, they both cover grimaced at the scent as they observe the place. It was an abandoned ship yard that was turned into a makeshift race track.

Hotch hated the smell and the environment.

He notices a few glances from the men and women surrounding the place, before some people actually realize what's happening and sneakily made a run for it. You weren't that far, you were leaning on your motorbike, your foot on the foot peg, and you were lazily holding on to your helmet with two fingers as you talked to your friends.

A breeze flew by, your hair flowing with the wind. You seemed to have no care what was going on around you.

"Y/N L/N?" Rossi spoke up as they both approached you, you turn around to face them with a raised eyebrow before they flashed their badges. "We're Agents Rossi and Hotchner."

Your friends looked at eachother before they stepped back, giving you space and leaving you behind witth the agents. You immediately clear your throat as you put your helmet on your motorbike.

"Well, shit." You scoffed as you crossed your arms as you exhaled. "You gonna drag me in for all kinds of exhibition of speed?" You roll your eyes at the two of the agents.

"Actually, you're associated with two of our victims, in fact, you were last seen with the both of them. And when we checked their belongings in their car, both had a photograph of you and said victims." Rossi explains as he puts his badge back in his pocket.

"A lot of people have a crush on me, it's a curse of being incredibly hot." You joke nonchalantly as you shrugged at his implication.

Hotch didn't even blink before he started to speak again, "You were cited for numerous cases of exhibition of speed last month."

You shrug your shoulders at his words, "So what? I've got fans and a rap sheet. You want a cookie for that discovery?"

Rossi's lips twitched as he sighed sharply, meanwhile Hotch's gaze never left you. You could feel the weight of his stare, and you would be lying if you said you weren't nervous or attracted to him.

"You run this circuit, you know who's dealing, who's fixed and who's angry, so I suggest you start talking." Hotch says as he maintains eye contact with you.

"I don't know who's killing people if that's what you're talking about, Agent." You sigh as you continued. "And i'm not really interested in helping you."

"We could charge you with obstruction of justice right now." He threatens, staring daggers right at you.

"Try me. I'll get bailed out by Kenzie and Jay anyway." You counter.

Rossi gave a humorless, quiet chuckle as he looked at Hotch. "She's not afraid, Hotch."

"She isn't because she thinks this is a game." He replies to Rossi.

"I don't think it's a game." You scoff as you corrected, "Look, I get that people that are affiliated with street racing are dying but have you thought about actually catching the fucking killer? You're wasting your time darling." You say as you turned around to grab and put on your helmet, nodding to your friends who were now retreating to their vehicles to follow you.

Hotch just nodded to Rossi before they retreat to the black SUV that was not far behind them and drive back to the local precinct. But before Hotch gets in the vehicle he glances at you one more time as you put on your helmet and race out of the area, the loud sound of you and your friends' engines slowly grows quiet.

A few hours go by, and you found yourself sitting in an interrogation room like you owned the place. Your feet were on top of the table, your head was looking up at the ceiling, staring like you were bored. Maybe because you are bored.

You maintain this position until you hear the door creaking open, your head now faced towards the door, and you see Hotch.

"Feet off the table." Hotch says as he sat down right in front of you.

"Wow, I certainly missed you too." You tease as you didn't bother to change the position of your feet.

"You ever think about cooperating?" he asks as he opens the folder he has in his hands.

You leaned back as you set your feet off of the table, "You ever think of asking nicely?"

He didn't look up from the file, "You're not here as a guest. Three people are dead and two of them were associated with you. You're wasting time."

"You invited me," you scoff before flashing him a small smirk, "Is this not a date?"

Finally, he looked at you, not with anger, but with annoyance. Yes he was annoyed but you expected him to be mad.

"Cut the act," he said. "Tell me why I shouldn't charge you with obstruction of justice?"

"Tell me why you haven't yet." You snap at him.

Hotch ignored your words, "Talk." He said.

You sigh in defeat as you shifted to a more comfortable position on your seat. "Theres a name." you disclosed.

"His alias is Trigger, but we don't know his real name. Never bothered telling us." You explain, "He automatically lost a race due to him getting caught by me, he was trying to sabotage my motorbike by trying to put the wrong type of oil in my engine and popping the tires. Nobody's seen him in months." You continued to elaborate your history with Trigger.

"But way before that, we were friends."

Hotch's brows twitched as he asked, "Has he threatened anyone?"

You sighed as you try to recall, before coming up with something. "Oh yeah, after he pulled that little stunt, with my motorbike, he was muttering on how he was gonna kill everyone." Hotch takes note of your words as he listens

"Tell me more about him." Hotch's hands were now together as he kept staring at you.

"He's unhinged," you muttered, "the type where he thinks revenge is some sort of power play.." you grimaced as you elaborated further.

"Help us find him," Hotch said. "Before another name ends up in the coroner's office."

You hesitated. Your mask slipped for the first time, and you hated it. You feared that you might get hurt, or worse— your friends get hurt.

Hotch notices the change in your behavior, "You don't strike me as someone who just stands by."

"Why do you care," you scoff "I'm not a victim."

"No, but you could be." He says with no hesitation,

Hotch leans back on his chair as he observes you.

"Are you profiling me, Agent Hotchner?" You ask as you raise an eyebrow.

"No, I'm just observing you." He comments on your assumption.

You scoff as you lean back in your chair, "All I know is that he lives in an apartment."

"Do you know the details?" He asks.

"I know the building, I just forgot the apartment number." Your fingers were now fidgeting with eachother as you disclosed more information, Hotch looks at you with a soft glint in his eyes.

"Thank you." He gave you the smallest smile— but hey, atleast it's better than nothing.

"Find the son of a bitch before he hurts me and my friends."

You were now standing. Standing in front of the pool of blood that belonged to your friends. Their dead bodies tied up and a gunshot wound to their head. Kenzie's laughter echoed in your ears, but you knew it was in your head.

You hear the sound of the doorknob behind you clicking, you immediately grab the crowbar that was near you, only for the door to reveal it was Hotch and a woman with black hair.

"Lower your weapon." Hotch says with a low and controlled tone as he slowly holsters his gun. You let go of the crowbar, the clanging noise echoed in the garage.

He approaches you slowly with concern, "Are you hurt?"

You snap out of your trance as you look at him, now processing everything. "Yeah." You spoke, your voice was hoarse and low.

Tears now prickle your eyes, "I was a few minutes late." You whisper to Hotch. He doesn't raise an eyebrow, but instead he listens.

"I was out grabbing food for them cause they wanted food— and then.." You sobbed, your hands make their way to your face to rub away the tears.

He doesn't say i'm sorry, cause he knows that you don't want it. "You're not safe here." He muttered to you.

You don't argue back, not this time. He guides you to the black SUV that they have and drive you to the local PD to put you in protective custody.

The drive to the PD wasn't loud, yet it wasn't quiet either. You were in the backseat as the woman who was sitting in the front seat, that you now identified as Prentiss was talking to Hotch.

The two of them escorts you to a room where it was closed and quiet, Prentiss left the two of you together after escorting you to the room.

"Do you think this is my fault?" You blurted as you sat down on the couch, your eyes lands on him.

"No." He answers as he observes you.

"I mean— I was the one that called him out, he hates me. He killed my friends, and people that knew me." You rambled.

"Your friends were killed by a psychopath that always had murder tendencies. You were simply just the trigger." He interrupts your rambling.

"So basically, my fault." You sigh. "Ironic how his name is trigger and I was his trigger." You tried to lighten the mood.

Your hands grip your knees, you hate how fragile you felt right now.

"I'm not built for this, I'm used to getting injured, but this?" you just chuckle, it wasn't a genuine one.

He sits on the chair next to the sofa you were sitting on. "You're stronger than you think."

You shook your head as you sniffled. "No. No, you don't know me."

"I feel like I'm starting to." He blurted, and this time there was something in his tone that catched you off guard. Soft, Honest, Warm.

You stare at him— You don't even realize it until a few seconds before you shook your head.

"We'll catch him." He assures.

You click your tongue, "Do you do this for everyone?" You ask.

He raised an eyebrow, "What?"

"You know, staying with a potential victim and engaging in small talk." You elaborate.

"Kind of." He shrugs as you chuckle at his answer.

"I thought you hated me." You blurted as you leab your back against the sofa.

"I never hated you." Hotch's expression shifts as he whispered to you.

You tilt your head at his words, "Really? Cause you were glaring daggers at me during the interview and our first meet."

"Interrogation habits." He stated as you hummed.

"Why is this happening to me?" You blurted once again.

Hotch doesn't answer, he just looks at you with sympathy.

"I'm so bad at expressing my feelings, sorry." You rub your eyes, trying to rub away the tears that was prickling your eyes.

"You don't need to be sorry. You've lost your friends in a gruesome way and you're still coping." He comforts you with his words. "Feel free to just.. let it all out."

You close your eyes as tears start rolling down your cheek, what you didn't expect was his hand landing on your cheek to rub your tears away. He mutters a sorry to you, not out of sympathy but because he touched you.

"I don't.. I don't wanna be alone." You murmur to Hotch.

"You're not." He paused before continuing, "You should sleep." You nod as you lay on your side on the couch, Hotch was just on the chair beside you.

As you drift in your sleep, you realize something terrifying. You trust him now.

all rights reserved — © reidsapplelady

[marauroon]

JEALOUSY, RESOLVED — REMUS LUPIN!

remus proves his devotion to your relationship, and his friends do too.

remus lupin x fem!reader | flangst | 1.3k | masterlist.

part one. | part two.

a/n — who doesn’t love a happy ending?

The next morning is tense.

You wake up with swollen eyes, a heaviness lingering in your chest, and a dread that settles deep in your stomach. Remus had held you for what felt like hours, whispering apologies and promises that everything would be okay, but now, in the stark morning light, you're not so sure.

You avoid him for the first half of the day. It’s cowardly, you know, but you don’t have the strength to face him yet—or worse, to face them. The Marauders, the trio that seems to fill Remus’s life with laughter and light, the friends you’d always felt overshadowed by.

What would they think of you now? You’re sure Remus has told them everything.

After lunch, however, you can’t avoid it any longer. As you’re leaving the Great Hall, you spot Remus waiting just outside the entrance, leaning against the wall with an expression that’s somewhere between determined and nervous. You hesitate, but he sees you before you can make your escape, and his eyes soften.

“Hey,” he says gently, stepping forward. “Can we talk? Please?”

There’s no escape this time, so you nod and follow him out onto the grounds, walking silently side by side until you’re far enough from prying eyes.

You expect him to start with another apology, but instead, he stops and looks at you with a seriousness that takes you by surprise.

“Can you meet us tonight?” he asks, his voice firm but kind. “In the common room. After dinner.”

“Why?” Your tone is wary, guarded.

“Because I want to make this right,” he says, his eyes searching yours. “I talked to the others. They want to talk to you, too.”

You open your mouth to argue, to say that you’re not ready, that you don’t need their pity or their explanations, but there’s something in Remus’s expression—some mix of resolve and hope—that makes you swallow your protests.

“Okay,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. He smiles, relief washing over his features, and it’s almost enough to make you believe that maybe, just maybe, things can be different.

—

That evening, you feel like you’re walking to your own execution as you make your way to the Gryffindor common room.

The Marauders are waiting for you, clustered together on the couches near the fire. They stop talking when you arrive, and the sudden silence is almost unbearable.

You sit down hesitantly, the cushion feeling too soft, too warm beneath you. Remus gives you an encouraging nod, and you take a steadying breath, trying to muster what little courage you have.

It’s James who speaks first, his voice unusually gentle. “Look, we know we’ve been... well, maybe a bit clueless,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Remus told us how you’ve been feeling, and we’re really sorry. We didn’t realise you felt... left out.”

“Or that we were making you feel that way,” Sirius adds, and his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. He’s not wearing his usual roguish grin; instead, he looks almost vulnerable. “We never meant to make you feel like you weren’t welcome.”

You don’t know what to say, so you just look down at your hands, twisting them in your lap. It’s Remus’s hand that comes to rest gently over yours, grounding you.

“You’re not just Remus’s partner,” James says, leaning forward, his voice sincere. “You’re one of us, if you want to be. We just... I think we didn’t know how to include you without making it weird.”

“We’re kind of rubbish at being subtle,” Sirius admits, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “We’re used to it just being the four of us. But that doesn’t mean there’s no room for you. We want there to be.”

There’s a silence, and you realise they’re all waiting for you to say something. You take a shaky breath. “I just... don’t want to get in the way,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“A burden?” James says, his eyebrows shooting up. “Are you kidding? You’re brilliant! Remus is always talking about how smart you are, how funny—how you’re the only one who can keep up with him in a debate about some obscure magical creature.”

“And you’re bloody good at Potions,” Peter adds with a grin, his eyes bright with something like admiration. “Better than any of us, anyway. Remember that time you saved me from failing that essay on Veritaserum?”

The compliments catch you off guard, and you feel a warmth spreading through your chest, an unfamiliar lightness. You glance at Remus, who’s watching you with a hopeful smile, and something in you begins to ease.

“We didn’t mean to push you away,” James says earnestly. “We want you to be part of this—of us. If you want that, too.”

You hesitate, feeling the weight of the decision. But then you think of all those moments you spent on the edges, wishing you could be part of the laughter, part of the friendship that Remus shared so easily with them. Maybe it’s not too late to be part of it, too.

“Okay,” you say softly, and it’s like a dam breaking. The tension in the room dissolves, replaced by a flood of relief and warmth.

Sirius whoops and claps you on the back, nearly knocking you off the couch. “Brilliant! I knew you’d come around.”

“Welcome to the gang,” James says with a wide grin, extending his hand. You take it, and he pulls you into a quick, awkward hug that makes you laugh in spite of yourself.

“We gotta get you a nickname-!” Peter jumps ahead of himself in his enthusiasm, and Sirius falls straight into planning it with him.

Remus’s arm wraps around your shoulders, and he presses a soft kiss to your temple. “Thank you,” he whispers, and you know he means it for more than just showing up.

—

From then on, things are different.

At first, it’s a bit awkward—the boys seem overly careful not to exclude you, going out of their way to make sure you’re involved in every conversation and inside joke.

But slowly, it becomes more natural. You find yourself laughing with them, teasing Sirius about his hair routine or rolling your eyes when James brags about his Quidditch moves.

They start inviting you to their adventures—sneaking down to the kitchens at midnight for snacks, or helping with the latest prank they’re planning on the Slytherins.

You even start contributing your own ideas, and when one of your plans works better than expected, Sirius gives you an impressed nod, muttering something about a “bloody genius.”

It’s not perfect, and sometimes you still feel a pang of jealousy when Remus slips easily into an old memory with them, but it’s not the same sharp, unbearable ache it used to be. Because now, when he turns to share a smile, you’re there beside him, part of the circle, part of the jokes.

It’s one evening, weeks later, where you’re all crammed together on the couch—Sirius snoring softly on one end while James dozes against the other—that it kind of properly sinks in.

Remus’s head is resting on your shoulder, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on your wrist, and you feel... content.

For the first time, you don’t feel like an outsider looking in. You’re one of them now. A part of the Marauders, in all their messy, chaotic glory.

[pathologicalreid]

You write fluff and flangst absolutely amazingly and I’m in awe every dang time!

Buuut since you’ve got spring break coming up, a little fic idea that’s in my head that I’ll never do justice! (If you’re interested)

Fem!reader finding out an adorable way to tell Spencer she’s pregnant. I don’t care if they’re dating or married or what - but like she puts together a crossword, or a puzzle and he just doesn’t get it. (If you wanna throw angst in, he leaves without getting it for a case and then realizes it in the middle of the night.)

puzzling | S.R.

trying to tell Spencer you're pregnant, but he's too concerned with your well-being to fill out your custom crossword puzzle

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: pregnancy and misc. symptoms., talk of fainting and blood tests. word count: 1.69k a/n: welcome back to the spencer reid dilf agenda! i hope this does your request justice and thank you for entrusting me with this idea!!!! <3

you

It was your pride and joy, the collection of folded papers that sat on the kitchen counter, next to a cup of coffee that you had already filled for him.

On your fake newspaper, you had created a custom crossword puzzle. With four very important clues.

Across: “Early stage of life”

Across: “American actress Frances _”

Down: “Must be finished by”

Down: “Veteran’s Day month”

You smiled softly to yourself as you heard Spencer’s footsteps coming down the staircase. Padding over to the kitchen counter, you sat on one of the stools, a cup of tea in front of you.

Before he even looked at the newspaper, Spencer leaned over to kiss you good morning, “You look tired,” he whispered, hooking a finger under your chin as if he were investigating the dark circles underneath your eyes.

“Way to make a girl feel good about herself,” you teased lightly, even though you knew he was right. At least you felt tired.

He rolled his eyes, “You know that’s not what I meant.” Turning to grab his mug of coffee off of the counter, he observed you again, “Are you sure your doctor said nothing was wrong?”

Smiling, you gave him a brief nod. You had gone to see your doctor a few days ago for nausea and fatigue, and Spencer would’ve gone with you had he not been on the other side of the country on a case. “They’re running some tests, but they didn’t see anything blatantly wrong,” the doctor was running a few blood tests, checking your iron levels and HCG.

Using his free hand, Spencer reached over and moved a lock of hair out of your face, “They said your blood pressure was low?”

Low blood pressure, as it turned out, was a pregnancy symptom that was most common in the first trimester. “You’re freaking out over nothing, Spence,” you told him. Really, it was something. A rather large something – or small, depending on how you wanted to look at it. “Come on, it’s crossword time,” you told him, using the end of the pen to tap on the newspaper.

“I worry about you when I’m away. You do know that low blood pressure can cause syncope, right? Did they prescribe you anything for it?” He asked, ignoring your wishes to move on and do the crossword.

There was a small part of you that just wanted to tell him, but frankly, you had worked too hard on the crossword puzzle to give yourself away like that. You couldn’t tell him that they didn’t prescribe you anything because they didn’t know how far along you were. A larger part of you knew that if you just got him to work on the puzzle, he would have his answers in about seven minutes.

Then his phone rang, he pulled the device out of his pocket, and the Caller ID on the screen caused you to slump your shoulders forward. It was Garcia. “Hey Garcia,” he greeted on the phone, “at the tarmac?”

You set your head on the counter and sighed in defeat as Spencer hung up the phone.

“Are you alright?” He asked you softly, tenderly wrapping an arm around your torso.

Humming, you sat back up, ignoring the stars in your field of vision as you did so. “I’m fine, you should go,” you insisted.

Spencer shook his head, “No, you’re sick. I’ll call Garcia back and tell her I have to stay back.” Acting bewildered at the idea that he had been so remiss as to agree to do his job while you were unwell.

You reached out and set a hand on his, “It’s alright, love. I can take care of myself,” you reminded him. Besides the fact that you were wholly self-sufficient, the only reason why Spencer would be asked to meet the team at the tarmac was if they were headed toward a particularly gnarly case – they needed all hands on deck.

“Promise me you’ll check in? Call your mom if you need any help, please,” he requested, pleading eyes following you as you got up to hug him.

Nodding, you wrapped your arms around him, “You should take the crossword with you.” Pulling away, you haphazardly refolded the newspaper and handed it to him.

Furrowing his brow, Spencer inspected the paper that you had given him. “We always do the crossword together on Saturdays,” he found you incredibly helpful on the pop culture clues. “We could save this one and then have two for next week,” he offered.

God. No. Your eyes widened at the idea of having to keep your secret for another week, shaking your head, you shrugged, “No, you should take it. It’ll make me look forward to next week even more,” you insisted.

He folded, and with a sweet kiss to the forehead, he was off to go save lives, remaining entirely unaware of the one growing inside of you.

him

The judgmental Italian behind him was proving to be a distraction, “Did you find something?” Spencer asked, eyeing the evidence board with frustration. Something bugged him about the case, and he couldn’t figure out exactly what it was.

“Not right now, but it’s three in the morning,” Rossi said, joining Spencer by the evidence board. “Why don’t you give that big brain of yours a break?”

Shaking his head, Spencer crossed his arms in front of his chest, “I tried. I can’t stop thinking about the case.” Men were popping up dead in a small Missouri town at an alarming rate, and he felt so close to a breakthrough.

Dave nodded like he understood the feeling, that was probably why he had emerged from his hotel room so early, returning to the precinct before the sun peeked over the horizon. “What do you usually do to wind your brain down?”

Raising his eyebrows, Spencer shrugged, “Crossword puzzles,” he admitted, any word puzzle would do the trick.

The chuckle from the older man next to him startled Spencer, “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” Rossi looked around the precinct, “I’m sure we can find one around here somewhere.”

“No,” Spencer said, “I have one in my bag, actually.” He refrained from including the detail that you had given him the crossword puzzle, or else he’d never hear the end of it.

Clapping him on the back, Rossi lifted his coffee cup, “Then I suggest you go take the thirty seconds to fill out that puzzle and then get some rest.”

Once he was back in his hotel room, he changed before pulling out the pile of papers that you had sent him off with. Sitting on top of the bed, he filled out the puzzle in approximately six minutes and forty-three seconds. Once the letters were filled in, he skimmed the puzzle – just to check it over.

The only one that might’ve given him trouble was about an American actress – usually he had you to help him with pop culture, but he recalled having the same last name as an actress in Days of Our Lives.

It was interesting that the words “Baby” and “Reid” were right next to each other.

Wait.

Quickly, he calculated the odds that the words “Baby” “Reid” “Due” and “November” were all in the puzzle and when the numbers were put together, they made your anniversary. Spencer just as quickly called you, listening to the phone ringing.

His heart was racing as he waited to see if you answered the phone. “Hey,” your groggy voice came through the receiver.

“Where did you get this crossword puzzle?” He asked you, flipping through the rest of the newspaper for the first time.

You hummed softly, “You’re doing it right now?”

Looking at the alarm clock on his bedside table, he dropped his face into his hands. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t even think about the time,” it was just past four in the morning now, making it just past five in the morning in Virginia. “I just thought that…” his voice trailed off. What if it was just a coincidence?

There was silence on your end of the call, and he wondered if you had fallen asleep. You hadn’t been feeling well, and he’d woken you up with his phone call. “You thought what, Spence?”

The teasing lilt in your voice had given you away to him immediately. He knew. Every one of his suspicions were confirmed, “Y/N Reid,” he breathed.

“Spencer Reid,” you countered.

He took a deep breath, “Are you pregnant?”

“Yeah,” you answered simply, with about as much enthusiasm as he expected from you at five in the morning.

It all started to make sense to him. The low blood pressure, the drowsiness, and even the slight caginess when it came to him asking about your doctor’s visit. He swiped away a few stray tears, “I don’t know what to say.” It wasn’t a feeling he was overly used to.

You cleared your throat, “Are you happy?” Nerves clouded your voice, and he could hear you becoming more awake – more alert.

“I am,” he searched aimlessly. Elated. Thrilled. Ecstatic. “I’m so happy,” he told you, at a loss for words. “I don’t know what to say, I just… God, are you okay?” Dread washed over him, you were alone, sick, and pregnant at home and he was halfway across the country.

Sighing, he heard a ruffling on the other end of the call. “I’m great. I’m exhausted, I had no idea being pregnant was so tiring. I mean, I knew, but I didn’t know.” You sighed again, “I’m not making any sense.”

He laughed lightly at your rambling, “You’re making perfect sense. Chances are your energy will return during the second trimester.”

“Don’t get my hopes up.” You paused again for just a moment, “I’m sorry if I scared you. With the whole doctor’s appointment thing. They really are keeping an eye on my blood pressure and whole slew of other things, but they know the root cause.”

A giddy smile grew on his face, “It’s because you’re pregnant.”

A soft hum came through the phone, “It’s because I’m pregnant,” you concurred.

[redocity]

Evan Buckley x fiancée reader

Reader and Evan are recently engaged. Reader gets shot by the sniper instead of Eddie, Buck gets covered in her blood and attempts to save her (like the episode) and then just go from there please ❤️‍🩹. Please include lots of angst, sadness and happiness too 🫶

EMERGENCY ROOM - E.BUCKLEY

after a completely normal day on the job, you get shot seemingly out of nowhere. buck does not handle it well.

WARNINGS: spoilers for 04x13 and 04x14, established relationship, major character injury, blood, guns, buck is on the verge of a mental breakdown for most of it

buck x fiancée!reader II flangst Il 4.2k Il requests open!

a/n: i had so much fun writing the little fluffy bits at the beginning and the end i love them your honour

₊ ⊹ masterlist!!

“I know right?” You finally had a few minutes to fawn over your newest accessory now that you’d managed to secure Charlie away from his mother and get him into an ambulance, holding your left arm up in front of you and wiggling your fingers to show off the shiny rock on your ring finger towards Eddie. “Who would’ve thought he was so focused on the details?”

“Hey!” Buck nudges you as he walks past, shaking his head with a smile. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“People like you aren’t exactly known for their ‘detail orientation’ Buck,” Eddie laughs as he walks past him, pushing his head with the palm of his hand. “Good job on defying expectations,”

“Hey I am plenty detail oriented thank you,” gestures outwards exasperatedly, glancing at you for backup for his statement. You give him nothing more than a shrug of your shoulders.

“Shannon was the same when I bought her ring don’t worry,” Eddie pats Buck’s shoulder. “Went on this whole rant about how she never expected me to put so much thought into how it looked, I think it’s just a girl thing,”

“It’s not-” You scoff, putting a hand up in front of him in absolute astoundment. “I am trying to show my appreciation for the thought that went into making this ring fit my preferences, and you are making me feel disrespected,”

You point between the two boys in exaggerated disappointment, turning your face away from the two with a click of your tongue and a shake of your head.

“Oh come on baby seriously?” Evan sighs dramatically, crossing his arms over his chest and letting his head fall back until he’s facing the sky.

“You’ve hitched your wagon to a tank,” Eddie pats Buck’s shoulder once more, and the two share a short laugh.

“I’m gonna ride with Charlie to the hospital, you two good to get back to the station and tell Bobby?” Buck nods towards Eddie, giving him a small nudge towards the ambulance. “Yeah go ahead, we got it from here,”

“Thanks,” He returns Buck’s nod and then sends a finger salute in your direction. “See you later Mrs. Buckley, try not to kill him before the wedding,”

You laugh shortly at Eddie’s jest, shaking your head. “See you Eddie, give us a call if anything happens,”

“Will do!” He shoots the two of you a wave as he jogs towards the ambulance, climbing inside before the doors get shut behind him.

“Mrs Buckley,” Buck takes a few steps forward to grasp gently at your hips and pull you close to his chest, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. “I could get used to the sound of that,”

You give a soft hum as his lips press to your temple, turning your face upwards to kiss him properly. “I’d hope so,”

You pull out of his grasp with a soft laugh, pressing the keys to the paramedic car against Buck’s chest for him to take before actually beginning to walk towards the vehicle.

“We’ll have to get you a new turnout jacket too,” Buck follows behind you with a smile etched onto his face, eyes scanning over the last name printed on the back of your jacket. One you wouldn’t have for much longer.

“It’d be pretty confusing to have two Buckleys in the same station, the jacket might have to stay,” You turn around to face him once more with a smile of your own, arms crossed across your chest. “We’ll know the truth though,”

You shoot Buck a wink and he laughs, stopping a few feet in front of you and mirroring the way your arms are crossed with his own. “Are you saying that I can’t show off the fact that you’ll have my last name to every single stranger we meet on the job? Because I don’t know if that’s gonna fly with me,”

“I’m sure you’ll find an excuse to let them know, you’ve got a talent-” Your retort is halted by a sharp sound, then a searing pain in your right shoulder, and then you can feel yourself tumble to the floor as your legs give out underneath you under no will of your own.

Buck flinches as you do, a mix of shock from the noise and an instinctual reaction to the splatter that covers side of his face and stripes of his button down shirt.

Then it feels like the world just stops. Buck stands there with wide eyes as he watches you hit the pavement, in an awake state of sleep paralysis as a pool of blood begins to seep onto the pavement and stain the tarmac red underneath you.

He wanted to shout, to run, to move, Anything.

But he couldn’t so much as curl his hands into fists as he stood stationary in shock, eyes wide and locked onto where you’d crumpled into yourself on the concrete.

It took one of the other firefighters on the scene physically tackling him down to the ground for him to move, and even then his eyes never left yours, just barely open as you slip in an out of consciousness.

“Get down!” Mehta yelled across the group of vehicles as he pulled Buck behind one of the trucks, covering him with his own body as he tried to radio for help. “Shots fired. Shots fired a firefighter is down. I repeat, a firefighter is down!”

Buck can feel himself hyperventilate, his hearing going quiet until the sounds of the civilians nearby are drowned out and replaced with his own racing heartbeat. He watches as your hand crawls forward along the pavement in his direction as if silently trying to confirm to him that you were okay, but the far away look in your eyes wasn’t reassuring him at all.

Then your eyelids fluttered and you weren’t looking at him anymore, your hand left still in front of you with the stones on your finger glinting in the sunlight like a sick taunt of Buck’s anguish.

Shots continued to rain over the fire engines, and as Mehta moved from Buck to radio dispatch again he mustered all of the strength he physically could under the rush of adrenaline in his system to make a break for where you were laying, crawling underneath the bed of the truck as cover as he watched you roll from your side onto your back. “Come on baby! I’m coming I got you!”

You groan through the pain as you roll over, still conscious despite the agony raging through your shoulder and down the rest of your arm as you squint your eyes from the harsh sunlight.

Buck gets as far out as he can without exposing himself to the raining shots, grasping at your wrist as soon as he’s close enough and tugging until you’re dragged under the engine and onto the other side protected by the metal of the truck.

The friction sends another sharp wave of pain through your body, a sharp yell leaving your throat as you’re dragged across the concrete.

“Get her in the cabin! Quickly!” Mehta and a few other firefighters from station 133 rush to open and prep the back of the truck to cover you inside, and Buck pulls you into a fireman’s hold over his shoulder as quickly — and carefully — as he can to secure you safely.

Another shot is fired in the group’s direction as you’re pulled out of Buck’s hold and onto the seats, shattering the glass of the window and only further hastening the efforts of the firefighters as everyone clambers into the truck to rush away from the scene, leaving the paramedics car you’d driven over in erupted in flames on the side of the road.

“Okay, we got you, we got you you’re okay,” Buck lays you down across the back of the truck with help from one of the paradmedic’s from station 133 with panic written all over his face, continuing to speak reassurances to you in haste, mostly trying to reassure himself that you would be alright.

He rips open the top of your uniform shirt, paying no mind to the buttons that are pulled from their stitching in his haste to cover your gunshot wound in gauze and stop it from bleeding out. “We got you baby you’re okay, just- just stay with me okay?”

Your vision is blurry as you blink up at him, and you can vaguely hear Mehta calling for a trauma unit on standby as you attempt to lift your head slightly to clear your vision of Buck’s face. “…Are you hurt? There’s a lot of blood..”

Buck follows your eyes as they trail down the stains covering the front of his torso, and he shakes his head quickly as he brushes a stray strand of hair from your face. “No no no, I’m good baby, you just hang on for me okay?”

The hand that’s not stopping your wound from bleeding all over the place moves to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing over your cheek softly, a stark contrast to the way he practically barks at the driver of the truck to hurry up.

You barely manage to lift up your arm to cover his hand with your own over your cheek, shaking your head slightly under his palm. “You shouldn’t shout at people…”

“I know baby I’m sorry-” He takes a sharp breath in as he turns his attention back to focusing on you and not on the fact he felt like this drive was taking forever.

The paramedic in the back helps to stabilise your head as you start to slip out of consciousness again, and buck rubs his thumb over your cheekbone to get you to keep your eyes on his. “Hey, three minutes away, you’re so close, I just need you to hang-”

It wasn’t working very well.

The paramedic preps and secures an oxygen mask over your mouth as your eyes start to flutter closed.

“I just need you to hang on…please…”

This wasn’t what was supposed to happen.

He’d just asked you to marry him, you were supposed to be spending the evening celebrating.

You were supposed to get married and have children and grow old together.

Not get shot and bleed out in the back of a fire truck.

Buck jumps out of the vehicle the minute it stops in the hospital, practically screaming for the doctors to come and get you out.

“Through and through, upper torso,” Mehta explains your injury with just as much panic as Buck, although remains decidedly more collected as he barrels out of the front to watch you get pulled onto a gurney. “Large caliber-”

“We’ve got transfusion ready-” One of the nurses gives Mehta a nod before stopping as she takes in the last part of the explanation. “Did you say large caliber?”

“It was a sniper-”

“Pulse is weak! Trauma bay 2, quickly!” The medical team rush with you on the gurney towards the entrance of the hospital’s emergency unit with Buck watching on like everything was happening in slow motion. “Let’s set up for a thoracotomy-”

“Buckley, are you okay?” Mehta looks over at Buck with concern written all over his face as he examines the stains of your blood covering his face, torso, and hands, and Buck waves him off with nothing but a dismissive nod as an answer as his eyes remain locked on the door you disappear into, the the 133 firefighters, Mehta included, following after you inside.

He was not okay.

—

“Hey,” Eddie approached Buck carefully, but he still jumped at his voice anyhow. Eddie gave a short sigh through furrowed eyebrows, face contorting in concern. “She’s gonna be okay man, she’s strong, you know that don’t you?”

Eddie placed his hand slowly on Buck’s shoulder, immediately able to feel the trembling in his hands that traveled up his arms and into his back. “She was standing right in front of me I-”

“Hey.” Eddie swerved Buck to look at him, shaking his head. “This was not your fault. Nobody knows what happened. When’s going to be alright, you’ve just gotta put faith in her,”

Buck took a series of short, staggered breaths through his nose with a small nod, clasping his hands together to keep them from shaking. “I need to change- And have a shower-”

“You need to take a second to breathe,”

“You don’t get it I-” Buck exhales heavily, his eyes flickering as he turns to face Eddie. “I can still feel it under my fingernails and no matter how many times I wash my hands it won’t go away-”

“Okay slow down for a second,” Eddie raises his hand up to stop Buck from falling into a spiral. “You can’t go home alone like this, you’re not okay,”

“I don’t know what to do-”

“Alright, you’re coming back with me, come on,” Eddie pats Buck’s shoulder, guiding him through the parking lot towards his car.

—

A sniper who was specifically targeting firefighters, who would’ve thought.

Being sent back out into the field wearing bullet proof vests and swat protection didn’t feel any more secure than proceeding unprotected Buck thinks. If they were going to get shot with a bullet proof vest on then the sniper would just aim for somewhere not covered by the vest.

And it only proved to remind him that you didn’t have the protection you needed when you were shot. Why should he be surrounded by swat agents and covered in kevlar when you weren’t afforded the same luxury.

You ‘took one for the team’ as people would say. But you shouldn’t have had to. Why you?

It was such a selfish thought, but he would’ve rathered any other firefighter on the scene get shot as long as it wasn’t you. He’d’ve rathered get shot himself than it being you.

But apparently the universe was conspiring against him, making him watch and suffer from the sidelines as everything he cared about got ruined one by one.

Maybe that was why he was so reckless. Maybe that was why he climbed the crane with zero protection when he knew he could’ve been shot at from any of the windows of the surrounding skyscrapers and loose his own life whilst still debating how he would live if you lost yours.

He could see the look Bobby gave him as he was lowered down to the ground again, preparing himself for another scolding about him being ‘reckless’ once they got back to the station.

But it never came.

In fact, Bobby didn’t speak to him at all.

“Are you gonna say anything to me?”

Bobby puts down the chopping knife with a sigh, turning around to see Buck leant against the kitchenette sink. “I don’t know Buck, what would you like me to say?”

“Uh… I mean- I mean usually it’s- ‘what were you thinking?’ or ‘that was reckless’ or my… personal favourite ‘you could’ve been killed’.”

“It doesn’t seem like I need to have that conversation, you know it by heart already.” Bobby gestures exasperatedly before picking the knife back up to continue chopping the onion on the table in front of him. “And still, you went full Buck.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing-” Buck approaches Bobby slowly, arms braced over his stomach in a self-soothing fashion.

Bobby sighs once more as Buck doesn’t drop the conversation, giving up his chopping to put his full attention on Buck. “You’ll never be the guy who thinks before he acts. And i’ve learned to come to terms with that,”

”In part because I realised I don’t have a choice, you’re never gonna change,” Bobby gestures outwards with his hands before clasping them together. “But also because… I know no matter what actions you take, no matter how dangerous or impulsive they may be, they come from your heart because you care.”

“Wow, uh, thank you,” Buck gives a soft chuckle as he claps his fist into his hand, clearly happy that he wasn’t getting a scolding this time around.

“Today was not that.” Bobby paused for a second before continuing. “You didn’t get caught up in some moment and rush in where angels fear to tread, you made a deliberate choice to make yourself a target.”

“Yeah.” Buck shrugs his shoulders exasperatedly. “I made myself a target because I wasn’t gonna let any of you guys take that risk because I cannot handle anyone else getting hurt right now.”

“And what about her? How do you think she would feel if she wakes up in the hospital to find out you got yourself killed because you weren’t being careful?”

Buck didn’t really have an answer to that question.

“You have responsibilities Buck. You have a responsibility to this team, you have a responsibility to your fiancée, and most importantly you have a responsibility to yourself.” Bobby shakes his head disappointedly, crossing his arms over his chest. “You cannot keep putting yourself in reckless situations Buckley because there are people around you that need you alive.”

Buck exhales heavily, biting the inside of his cheek. “Look I couldn’t protect her from getting shot, but today? I had an opportunity to protect the rest of you. So I did.”

Bobby sighs as he turns back to the half diced onion, finishing chopping it slowly. “We are a team, and we’re supposed to protect each other.”

There’s a small moment of silence before Bobby turns to look at Buck for a final time, a stern expression on his face, although lingering traces of gracefulness simmer into the wrinkles by his eyes. “Don’t do it again.”

—

The doctors said the surgery went well. It was probably one of the most relieving moments of his life.

He didn’t have time to visit you immediately though, the team had to go on a call out first.

And of course, because nothing was ever easy, the man who’d called 911 from the fire was also the sniper who was targeting firefighters.

Bobby ended up with a pistol shot to his abdomen, and after helping Athena get into the building dressed in firefighter gear to subdue the sniper the team headed straight to the hospital, now with two team members induced for bullet wounds instead of just one.

Bobby’s was much less severe than yours, but he was still put in for surgery, and Buck decided that it was a good time to visit you down the hall in the recovery unit.

You were still unconscious when he arrived, and it physically pained him to see you hooked up to so many machines as he took a seat at your bedside.

“Hey baby…” He took your limp hand in his own, fingers brushing over your knuckles and the ring still resting on your finger. “The doctors said that your surgery went well… So you should wake up soon…”

He lets out a small stunted exhale as he lifts your hand up to his mouth to press a kiss to your fingers. “I was so worried about you… God you scared me half to death-”

He continues to fiddle aimlessly with your fingers as he recounts the events of what happened to your sleeping self, how he risked his life, how Athena ran into a burning building to find Bobby and how he’d been bothering Eddie and Christopher for the last few days so he wouldn’t have to be on his own.

He told you how he’d moved the reservation of your engagement dinner so you wouldn’t have to miss it, laughing softly to himself at how excited you were to go to that specific resturaunt and try everything they had to offer.

He stayed after regular visitor hours were over, using his position as your fiancé to stay just a little while longer as a priority visitor, not wanting to miss the moment you woke up.

He ended up missing it anyway.

You woke up slowly, eyes fluttering open to the florescent lighting and the rhythmic beeping of the heart rate monitor.

The most prominent thing though, was an added weight on your left thigh, right near your stomach.

A mop of sandy blond hair is what meets your sight first, then your follow it down to his broad shoulders and his back, awkwardly bent forward in his chair to lay his weight on top of you. Then you noticed your hands caged together, his fingers intertwined with yours and held close to his chest.

The sight makes your heart melt a little, and you smile softly as you achily pull your right hand over to thread your fingers through his hair.

He stirs almost immediately, and you can feel his eyelashes brush against your thigh through the thin hospital bedsheets as he pushes himself upwards slowly until he’s supporting his own weight again.

“Hi baby…”

Buck lets out a short breath as your voice meets his ears, features flooded with relief. “Hi…”

You mirror the smile that breaks onto his face with your own, expression still laced with fatigue but also filled with your absolute love for him. He’d really stayed with you in the hospital for so long he’d fallen asleep.

“How’re you feeling?” Buck’s gaze flickers from your face to your bandaged right arm, and you give him a small shake of your head to dismiss his worries.

“I’m okay, takes more than puny bullet to put me out of commission,” You give him a soft wink and he gives you a little chuckles in return.

“You’re one tough lady…” he leans forward towards you until your foreheads brush against each other and your noses bump together. “I’m glad you’re okay…”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” You laugh softly, shaking your head against his and causing your noses to brush back and forth. “You put a ring on it remember?”

You pull back enough to flash your hand at him and show of your ring like he wasn’t the one who bought it for you.

He pulls your hand down into his lap without a care in the world for looking at the gemstone on your finger, his eyes not wavering from yours for even a second as he cups your face for a kiss, one filled with all the love and pain and anxiety and relief that he’d felt over the last few days.

“I love you so much-”

His lips leave you almost breathless, and you give his hand a soft squeeze. “I love you too Evan,”

He pulls you in for another kiss almost before you can even finish your sentence, and you laugh softly against his lips at the fervour. as you return his enthusiasm.

He shifts his hand down from your face closer to your neck as the kiss continues, and you groan against his mouth as it brushes a little too close to the brushing around your shoulder, pulling away with a hiss of pain.

“Ow ow ow-”

“Oh I’m so sorry-” Buck brings both his hands up away from you like he’s not exactly sure what to do with them, eyes wide in imminent panic of hurting you further.

The expression on his face sends you into a small fit of giggles, and it’s enough to ease his panic back into calmness as you prove that he hadn’t actually hurt you.

“You always were a little rough with your hands,” You tilt your head against the pillow with an amused expression on your face, and it’s enough for him to crack a smile himself as you reach up your hand to pull his head back down towards yours.

Your lips connect more with his teeth than his own lips as you kiss him through his smile, and he laughs softly into your mouth at your statement. “You’ve never complained,”

“I never will complain,” You shake your head against his softly with a laugh of your own, one that’s cut off by his lips on yours once more.

All’s well that ends well he supposes.

[blueheron15]

CINNAMON

pairing: jj maybank x bsf!reader

summary: when you struggle with your eating disorder and body image issues, jj is always there to help you. cuz that's what best friends do... right?

warnings: flangst, ed

a/n: i rewrote this a million times but think i’m finally happy with it. if your struggling with something similar, YOU ARE NOT ALONE! my inbox is always open ♡

you stood in front of the mirror in your bathroom. you were in a cute, lose white tank top that stopped a few inches above your belly button and a short white skirt with little pink flowers scattered around. you made sure your thigh gap was visible, and the faint outline of some of your ribs. because in some, sick way you had wanted other girls at the kegger to ogle at your slimness.

something inside of you was wrong. very wrong. you were so put together. giggly. full of life. sometimes you even thought you were pretty. but in this moment, you wouldn't use any of those adjectives to describe yourself. you were so in your head. you were broken.

you hated yourself. maybe you even deserved the constant hunger pain. the dizziness whenever you stood, or moved too fast.

you had body image issues to the third degree, and developed an eating disorder at the ripe age of 13. sometimes you felt fine. normal. but other times, like this, it was hard to function.

bracing your hands against the counter, you inhaled a deep breath. you're okay. you're okay.

you slowly lifted your head back up, not wanting to look yourself in the eyes, but u were interrupted by a knocking at your bedroom window.

you were pretty sure it was jj. tucking your hair behind your ears, you padded over and a soft smile graced your lips as you were met with jj’s face on the other side of the glass.

he was in his usual attire- ripped tank top, cargo shorts, boots, and a backwards cap- as you opened the window and guided him in. he immediately flopped down on your bed and got comfortable on his back.

“how’re you on this fine evening?” he questioned in a southern drawl.

“all good in the hood.” you lied.

“yeah, well not for me. i was lookin all over for you dude! why didn’t you tell me you were leavin? woulda come with you.”

“first of all, get your shoes off of my bed.”

“yes ma’am.” he saluted, sitting up to take off his boots.

“and,” you sighed, opening a drawer to pull out your pajamas. you really did not wanna cry right now. but you could feel your throat pulsing and lips beginning to wobble. “i don’t know.” you mumbled. “i just don’t feel well.”

you quickly walked into your bathroom, closing the door shut behind you, wrapping your arms around yourself. “fuck,” you mutter under your breath, palming your face.

“woah, woah, woah.” you heard jj call as he scrambled off of your bed, standing in front of the door. he shook the handle, but it was locked. he moved to rest his palm against the door. “what’s wrong, bubba?” he asked softly.

you hiccuped at his words. it was the nick name you often used for him when comforting him after a fight with his dad, or cleaning up his cuts and bruises.

he called you the name too, in your vulnerable moments like this. while rare, he had experienced your break downs before. with him being the only person you could open up to without the fear of judgement.

at first, he would often get angry and frustrated. no one was allowed to think so terribly about his girl like that. not even herself. when he was there, he learned to gently coax you out of your thoughts, the only person capable of doing that.

“c’mon,” he gently prodded. “what’s goin on in that pretty little head of yours?”

you moved to sit on the toilet, pulling your legs up to your chest and resting your head in the crook of your knees as you silently cried. “don’t know.”

“don’t bullshit me, y/n.” he said with concern.

“i- god i just feel fucking insane! like, why can’t i have a normal time at a normal party with out comparing myself to everyone else? why can’t i eat like a normal person? like, i didn’t even wanna drink that much because i know i’ll get bloated. i c-can’t function sometimes and i know saying this out loud prob’ly makes me look crazy, even to myself… but i’m just so tired, jay.” you whimpered.

he was on the verge of tears himself as he leant his forehead against the door. he was just as clueless as you. he didn’t know why you always restricted meals, or often just didn’t eat in general. he didn’t understand how food genuinely tasted like ash in your mouth because it had become so difficult for you to swallow, metaphorically and literally.

he didn’t understand how you thought you were anything less than absolutely perfect. so he offered the only thing he could.

“i’m sorry, baby.”

“it’s fine.” you mumbled, defeated.

“it’s not,” he insisted gently. “i… i know i’m not your therapist or whatever. but i always wanna help you in anyway i can. so… please, let me in.”

your eye brows scrunched in confusion, thinking back to a minute ago when you basically poured your heart out. “i just did.” you said, confused.

“no, like, let me in.” he said, jiggling the door knob.

“oh,” you said, a genuine grin coming over you face. you reached over without fully sitting up and unlocked the door, which was open in an instant.

“c’mere.” he said, opening his arms and pulling you into a hug. his muscular arms providing a sense of home and security.

i’m so tired. you repeated. whether you said it in your head out loud, you weren’t sure. but regardless, jj caught you as you jumped up and locked your ankles behind his lower back, nuzzling your face into his neck and holding onto him just as tightly as he was holding on to you.

he buried his face into your hair, inhaling your scent and pressing kisses to your head, leaning against the wall as he held you up. “you’re good. i gotcha, mama. you’re gonna be okay.”

you’re not sure how long he held the two of you up, but you were dozing off as you played with the hairs on the nape of his neck.

“alright,” he finally said, rearranging his grip on you and walking out of the bathroom. he placed you down on your side of the bed. “how’s this sound; you change into your pajamas, i make us a lil snack, and then we watch a movie, or go to bed. hmm?”

you nodded languidly. he snatched the clothes you had taken from your drawer off of your dresser- a lose fitted blue t shirt and a pair of cotton shorts, holding them out for you with one hand.

the other hand scratched at his eye. a nervous tick.

now, it’s not like he wanted to see you getting changed in this moment. but you are the leading star of his wet dreams….

obviously, though this was not the time. he knew that.

but the emotional toll of the break down and the psychical toll of you being hungry had run its course. you felt your limbs melting into the bed. so, with flushing cheeks, you asked him quietly. “um. can you…” you started, nodding your head to the clothes.

his eyes nearly bugged out of his head and he tried not to sound hopeful. “y’sure?”

“don’t wanna move.” you shrugged. you watched as a suggestive glimmer adorned his eyes. ah, jj maybank. ever the pervert. you kicked his shin with your foot.

“hey, watch it!” his voice rose an octave as he jumped back to defend himself “you just said you were too tired to move!”

“don’t be a perv, j. it’s the same thing as me being in a bikini.”

“not really” he mumbled, sitting down next to you.

jesus, you didn’t have it in you to fight anymore as you felt your eyes tearing up again. “whatever, i’ll just-“ you started, extending a hand to grab your pjs.

“hey, no.” he insisted, placing his hand over yours and gently putting it back on your side. “i’ll do it, y/n.”

you closed your eyes, leaning your head against the headboard as you nodded. here you were- offering yourself to someone so intimately in your most vulnerable state. and it wasn’t even about sex. jj had never experienced anything like you before.

his fingertips ghosted over the hem of your top. “arms up.” he whispered huskily, stripping you of your shirt. he let a hand gracefully fall on top of your stomach, lightly trailing his fingers up and down, his thumb sweeping over your side and your ribs. your eyes screwed shut impossibly tight.

a tear rolled down your cheek as you wearily opened your eyes. he was staring at you with not a pitiful look like you had expected. his expression was fairly neutral as he took it all in, but there was a hint of… love in his eyes.

he grabbed your ankles, threading them through your skirt, leaving you in a bra and panties. he then dressed you so delicately, his calloused and bruised hands juxtaposing the way he handled you in his arms.

“good?” he asked, smiling with pride at dressing you, giving your hips a squeeze. you nodded, then he rushed out of the room, promising to “be right back!”

he came back carrying an assortment of chips and some containers of fruit, placing them down on your nightstand table.

the two of you ate together for a while in silence, your room illuminated only by the movie playing in the background. you laid next to each other, shoulder and thighs touching. occasionally, when he noticed you struggling, he’d pop and raspberry into ur mouth and coddle you, using his fingers to grip you jaw and move it up and down, causing you to giggle and nearly choke.

after a while, with a mouthful of chips he said. “we’re basically married now, you know that right? like, all this shit i just did for you? it’s what fuckin elderly couples do for each other.”

you snorted. “yeah, right. ur not even my boyfriend.”

“well, can i be?” he teased.

“no.” you replied in a deadpan tone.

this was a common conversation between the two of you- best friends who were not so secretly in love with each other.

“fuck you.”

“fuck you.”

a beat of silence. you placed your baggie of chips on your night stand, and turned on your side to rest your head against his chest. “i’m tired.” you sighed. “thanks for helping me.” you murmured lazily.

“‘course,” he said, kissing your head. “g’night. love you.”

“love you too.”

[cherrys-muses]

𓍯 ִֶָ FEBRUARY FIFTH; side b — nothing can change this love - sam cooke | divorced dad!e. munson x reader

w; flangst(?) mostly angst who am i kidding, divorced parents core — except they get along, both are still in love!!!! an; when i saw this picture, i knew i had to use it plus add a scene about how eddie was holding r like that </3 actually enjoyed this one:,)

mixtape here!

“Baby, be careful!” You call out to the running girl with pigtails. She easily hops over the building her brother had left spread out on the floor while he uses the bathroom. 

She opens the door, squeaking when she sees Eddie — a daddy’s girl, for sure. Eddie chuckles and picks her up from the porch. “You gotta listen to mommy, Parker. And it’s cold out, where’s your shoes?” 

You glance at Eddie when he steps in, but look away quickly. He shuts the door behind himself, pulling the beanie from his head. He glances at you. “You look nice.” 

It’s just something you threw on for dinner, and a quick makeup look so Parker and Colin weren’t in the living room by themselves too long. “Thanks. You do too.” You nod. 

He gives a tight smile, before looking at Parker. “And look at you! Are you ready to go out for dinner?” 

“Yes!” She claps. Eddie chuckles softly. 

“Did you and your brother pick a restaurant yet?” 

She grins and swings her feet. “Enzo’s,” Eddie groans playfully. “Daddy! It’s yummy! And they have noodles!” Her tiny hands press against his cold cheeks. 

“Okay…Okay, but next time mommy gets to pick. You both have picked that out four times in a row.”

Both Eddie and yourself had agreed to do dinners together on weekends and holidays — even including valentine’s day. Eddie was hesitant, but you were insistent on the kids knowing that you both could still get along, even under the circumstances. 

He eventually agreed. 

He knew it would be hard to go through a dinner with his family, as if it were like old times, because…well, he still loves you deeply. 

Colin finally hops off the last step and begins picking up his toys. You smile and kneel down to help. “Thanks for picking up, love.” 

Colin smiles and nods, sliding the box back into its place. “Alright, shoes! Where are they?” Eddie begins to turn animatedly, making Parker laugh and quickly hold onto the leather jacket he was wearing. 

“There!” She points quickly. Eddie lets out a playful breath. 

“Thank goodness.” He steps over and grabs her little hi-top converse before walking towards the couch and plopping down. 

“I’m going to go touch up a bit and slip my shoes on.” 

Eddie looks over at you quickly, nodding as he gives you a small smile. “Yeah. That’s fine.” 

You nod and walk towards the steps. Eddie looks back at Parker’s shoe, a frown now pulling at his lips. “You okay, daddy?”

Eddie quickly peeks up at the girl. He stares at her for a moment. She’d gotten his hair — wild curls, a deep brown, but her face was yours. He smiles softly, pushing a strand of hair from her long lashes nodding. 

“I’m okay, baby,” He then looks over at Colin once he finishes and pulls him close, giving him a hug. “How was school? You give Kacey that—”

“Shhh!” Colin quickly shushes Eddie. Eddie’s eyes widened slightly. “Mama doesn’t know.” He whispers. 

“Oh, right,” Eddie winces as he nods. “Sorry, bud. But, how was school?” He lifts his brows. Did you give that Valentine's card to Kacey? It’s a silent question that Colin picks up on quickly. 

Colin grins then. “Good.” He nods. I did. She looooved it. 

Eddie snorts a bit, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, standing. “Alright. You wanna get in the car? That way we can leave when mom gets finished?” 

They both agree and quickly walk towards the coatrack. Eddie stands from the couch. “We’ll be outside warming up the car!” He calls out. 

“Alright! I’ll be finished in a second!” 

Leaving it at that, Eddie and the kids head to the car. He’s quick to turn on the heat before buckling in both of them, slipping into the car. 

You finally slip into the passenger seat, quickly buckling up. “Sorry.” 

Eddie looks at you, the words he wants to say escaping him for a moment when he does. You look too beautiful — and it literally takes away his breath. He gulps quietly, blinking. You let out a small sigh, glancing back at Parker and Colin before looking over at Eddie. “You okay?” 

He stares for a moment long before shaking his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go.” 

You frown, watching as he backs out of the driveway quickly. 

—

“Thanks for helping me carry them in.” You hang up the kids coats that Eddie brings down the stairs. 

He nods, watching as you slip off your heels, kicking them over to the coffee table as he slips his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. Of course.”

You step into the kitchen. “You want a drink?” You grab a wine glass, holding it up and shaking it. 

It’s a bad idea, but he nods and slips off his jacket. You grab an extra one and the wine, walking back into the living room. 

“Oh, drinking in the living room, huh?” He walks over and sits by you with a small smirk. You roll your eyes and hand him a glass. 

“It’s a holiday.” 

You just really didn’t feel like sitting at a table again. Eddie snorts and allows his arm to lay across the back of the couch, taking a sip. You're silent for a moment, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth. 

“Would you…want to dance?” He asks quietly. 

You look over at him. “You hate dancing.” 

He winces a bit at all the times you’d asked him to dance with you, yet, he’d always find excuses — finally landing on I hate dancing, you know that as a ‘reason’. 

Now he wants to dance with you — even if it’s only this once. 

“It’s a holiday.” He places the cup down, walking towards the radio that you had set up next to a chair. He flips through a couple of channels, pausing as Sam Cooke’s ‘Nothing Can Change This Love’ starts to play. He gulps a bit, eyes glancing back at you. 

You stare at the radio as it begins to play — your wedding playing in the forefront of your mind, the same melody playing out. 

You finally look up at Eddie when his hand is outstretched for yours. Sitting the wine down, you slip your hand into his as he pulls you from the couch, walking towards the dim part of the room. 

“We don’t—”

“Be quiet.” He mutters. You nod, allowing yourself to slide your hands up his biceps. He’d been working out a tiny bit — you could tell. He’d cut his hair after the second month of the divorce. You felt a twinge of sadness when he showed up to pick up the kids that day. 

His hands pull you close, resting on your sides as they slowly wrap around — his left hand sliding up between your shoulder blades. 

One hand lingers on his bicep while the other has a mind of its own, sliding upwards as it rests on the back of his neck. You sway with him, leaning forward and resting your forehead against his cheek. 

He tilts his head a bit, gripping you softly. Your nose nudges the underside of his jaw, eyes slipping closed as your heart feels as if it’s breaking in your chest. 

Your chin quivers, body moving closer as you wrap both arms around his neck now, a hand resting in his curls. His brows pinch together, tightening his grip on you, this time not releasing. He doesn’t know if you feel uncomfortable, but he won’t pull away until you ask him too. 

He’s holding you as if you’d slip away. He doesn’t want to lose you a second time. 

His nose presses against your temple when his lips brush over your cheekbone. “Do you want me to—”

Your own grip tightens and he feels a tear drop onto his neck. “No. No, please don’t let me go,” You whisper, your voice cracking as you speak. “Please.” The hand on the back of his head even tightens slightly. 

You’d both stop moving, now only swaying in place. Eddie nods, trying to bring you closer if he could — he wanted to melt into you. But he couldn’t, so this would have to suffice. Your chest heaves against his with panicked breaths. 

“It’s okay…Breathe…breathe for me, sweetheart. I’m not letting you go,” He presses his lips to your cheek softly. “I’m not. It’s okay. I’m here.” He whispers. 

You nod your head a bit jerkily against his shoulder, your hand gripping at his shirt, wrinkling the material. Eddie didn’t care — if it was something to ground yourself, to make sure you know he’s still there with you, that he’s not letting go, he’d let you do whatever. 

He pushes away the hair that covers your face without pulling his face away from yours, holding the back of your neck. 

“I’m here. I’m not letting you go.” He whispers. 

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