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genre: angst. hurt/comfort. tags: reader has depression & adhd, reader is described to have hair long enough to be tied up but is otherwise gender neutral, mentions of self harm, antidepressants, suicidal ideation, self-neglect, body horror(?) (creepy depictions of depression feeling like you're 'rotting'.) w/c: 3.4k ༄
summary: you're not sure when the rot accumulated to this degree. it's been growing for longer than you can remember. the only reasonable thing to do is to let it fester until it deems you free. except, spencer won't fucking let you.
There’s a bomb in your apartment. You can hear the ticking. A slow countdown to your inevitable demise.
You can hear flies. Buzzing over empty takeout boxes. You stare at them, eyes so dry it hurts to squint, and try to remember how long they’ve been there. You find you have no clue.
The vague memory of eating pizza presents itself in your head, blurred at the edges, feeling more like remembering an old dream than a real moment you lived. You can hardly differentiate these days. Yesterday (was it yesterday?) you’d stared at your trash can, confused by the three bags still sitting beside it, swearing you’d thrown them out.
There’s a faint buzzing. You feel it more than hear it, which is weird, ‘cos you haven’t been doing a lot of that. It’s beneath you. Or inside you. In your spine, maybe.
Perhaps you’re finally decomposing. Your body’s been merged with the mattress for so long that they’ve fused into one substance. You swear you can feel the rot climbing into your body. Making its way up your spine. Slithering beneath your ribs. Settling down metaphorical suitcases and making its bed. Not even considering the possibility that it might leave someday.
You imagine maggots crawling out of you—out of a hole in your chest, like an open wound that never quite shut. Not spilling with blood in some dramatic movie-like fashion. Just empty. As if someone had taken a hole puncher to your sternum. Soon enough, the flies will abandon cardboard for flesh. Crawl over your skin. Buzz near your ears just how you hate it. But you won’t realise it this time. You won’t swat them away or even groan. You’re dead already, even if your eyes are still seeing and your nose is still sucking in oxygen and your heart is still beating, despite your best efforts.
Maybe biology was wrong. Somehow, somewhere, the scientists messed up. Maybe they should’ve created more specific terms. Shouldn’t have forced all living organisms to only have two states to choose from. Because whatever this is, your current state of being, it doesn’t quite fit the term alive. Yet, scientifically, medically, physically, you’re not dead either.
You imagine death wouldn’t quite feel like this anyway. It would feel warm. It would feel like floating on a cloud and finally being able to shut your eyes. It would feel like silence. Not the deafening kind. Not the awkward kind. Not the eerie kind. The comforting kind. Just pure, ceaseless silence, both physically and mentally. The world would stop invading your privacy with its abhorrent, constant soundwaves. With its beeping cars and footsteps and wind and voices and all those repulsive signs of life. That you might be able to achieve with headphones, if only you’d gather the energy to use your legs. But the issue of your brain remains. At least in death, your mind wouldn’t race from one unnecessary thought to another, as if it were hellbent on being as scrambled and overwhelming and useless as it could possibly get.
You can feel the buzzing again. A smidge higher this time. You close your eyes, waiting for the rot to continue its climb up your spine. Begging it to move faster. You imagine it growing vines, wrapping tight around your heart to stop its incessant, unnecessary beating. You imagine the vines creeping out of your chest, along with the maggots, wrapping themselves around your bed, your nightstands, the floor, the wardrobe, the whole room, the whole apartment, until it is all but one substance. Until nothing differentiates you, a supposed human, from the hardwood floors or the empty fridge or the blackout curtains. Until it’s like there is no proof of you ever having existed. They’d only find you once you’re buried too deep beneath the rot. Once you’ve decomposed enough that even your bones have crumbled into sludge. They wouldn’t assume you to be a person at all. Maybe they’d take samples. Add you to the periodic table. Parading around a highly unstable, brand new, extremely confusing element.
There’s a beam of light. It’s blinding. It’s accompanied by warmth—subtle, but there—and you wonder if you’ve ever felt such deep relief. Death’s finally come for you. You’d always dreamed of someone, something coming to save you. And it’s here. You welcome it by shutting your eyes, patient for what feels like the first time as you wait for the decomposition process to begin. You just hope the part where your brain quietens comes soon.
You hear your name. You open your eyes again. Wonder if perhaps death needs you to sign a form before taking you to the underworld. You’re not sure if your muscles function anymore, but for this, you’re willing to try.
You thank some mysterious force for helping you sit up. In another life, perhaps you’d have tried to investigate it. Use that curious mind of yours to its greatest potential as the adults had always insisted was possible.
You hear your name again. There’s something on your cheek. It’s warm. All-consuming. Encompassing your body with a sensation that feels foreign enough to be terrifying. Jarring enough that your brain snaps out of dreaming its own demise.
“Hey. There you are.”
You stare, blankly, at some blurry being in front of you, waiting for your eyes to focus, like an old camera. The liquidy browns and beiges somehow form into—
Spencer.
“Yeah. I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
You hadn’t realised you’d said it out loud. What if you’d said something else too? Your body’s been betraying you for a while now. You’ve given up on gaining any semblance of control. It’s irritating. You wish you could lay back down and shut your eyes and continue decomposing again.
“Hey. Look at me.”
Oh. He’s actually real. Like, physically. You confirm by tentatively poking his arm.
Speaking feels like trying to get an old machine to run again. Your throat’s so dry it hurts. You’re sure your lip must be bleeding in at least three different spots.
The rim of a bottle presses against the inside of your bottom lip. A hand against your back. A faint whisper to drink. You feel the water going down. Imagine it dissolving all the rot you’d been accumulating. You find yourself annoyed at the erasure of your progress and pull away.
“Why’re you here?”
Your voice comes out raspy. Rough around the edges. Hollow inside. At least that’s how it sounds to you. It’s true form is annoyed.
“I haven’t heard from you in days.”
“Well, maybe that means I want to be alone.”
You’re not sure what’s making you reply so curtly. The words come out before going through any kind of verification.
“Yeah, I’m not letting that happen. C’mon. I brought food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You look like you’ve lost a hundred pounds. Get up.”
“Go away.”
“Please? Y’know what, I’ll just bring it here.”
He disappears into your living room and you finally take the chance to look around at your surroundings. Your mind unhelpfully provides snapshots of the current state of your apartment. Piles of dishes in the sink. Three tied up trash bags near the trash can. Enough clutter on the bedroom floor that walking has become an obstacle course.
Your own state isn’t all that better. Inside never has been, but it’s started to show too. The rot’s been seeping out of you for days now, out of your eyes and your ears and your mouth and your pores. Your hair’s been re-tied-up so many times, the hair tie has frayed around the edges. There’s a fast food chain’s worth of grease in there. Your nails are bitten raw. There are mystery stains on your t-shirt. And most of all, you stink.
This is the complete opposite of how you’d like to present yourself. Especially to Spencer, of all people. Spencer, who is your… something. Best friend, definitely. Boyfriend, maybe, if you’d had the energy to let it get there. You don’t remember when your life went from hopeful to hopeless. You recall the lovely date he’d taken you on. The midnight conversations. The bookstores that smelled of old pages and coffee. The feeling of his lips against yours.
But underneath it all, the undertone of every single seemingly happy moment in your life, has been layers upon layers of what can only be described as pure melancholy. It doesn’t matter if you gain the energy to socialise, or are laughing at a joke, or are enjoying a nice meal, or are celebrating your birthday. Beneath it all, that sadness has never quite left. It changes, sure, manifests itself as anger, or dread, or numbs itself into a dull ache, but it doesn’t go away. It makes the precarious act of normalcy extremely difficult. It makes simple things like small talk with a coworker feel like moving a massive rock uphill while a rope tries to drag you down simultaneously.
There’s a steaming box of pasta in front of you. A plastic bottle of water. A clean fork in your hand. A hand on your knee.
“You need to eat, love.” He sounds so soft it feels wrong. Like he doesn’t belong in this wasteland of your misery. In this rotting apartment that’s seconds away from collapsing.
“I haven’t showered.”
“I know. It’s alright. One thing at a time.”
“No, I smell. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“That’s what you’re worried about? How you look? Honey, I’m more focused on keeping you alive here.”
“No. You need to— You need to go away. I wanna be alone.”
“Not happening. Eat.”
You huff, feeling the anger simmer up again. “Spencer—”
“Eat. Please.”
His expression hits you like a wrecking ball. It’s so fucking gentle. You hate it.
You stab the pasta with your fork, shoving it in your mouth as if trying to prove a point. Instead, you freeze. You feel sick. Your stomach protests. It’s become accustomed to the hollowness same as you. But unfortunately, stupid Spencer is making you eat this stupid food to keep your stupid body alive, so you force it down anyway. Begrudgingly, yes, but at least it’s working.
After watching you for a few bites, he gets up, grabs a trash bag you didn’t know you had, and starts picking things off the floor.
“Can you tell me why you’re here now?” you mutter, downing the water bottle in one go because God, you hadn’t realised you’d needed it this much.
“You weren’t answering my calls.”
Right. “...I don’t know where my phone is.”
There's a brief silence, broken only by the crinkle of the trash bag and Spencer's footsteps.
“So, what, you just came over ‘cause I wasn't responding?” you mutter, aiming for amused, teasing, but your tone is far too brittle.
Spencer straightens up and makes eye contact before responding. “Yes, I did. I was— I am worried about you.”
You scoff, “What, that I'm getting bad again? S'that how incompetent you think I am?”
“Don't do that.”
“I don't need to be saved. I can't be saved. You should know that by now. You've tried enough. Just… give up or something, I dunno. Leave me be.”
Your voice tapers off by the end, as if you're not quite sure you even want what you're saying. You haven't been sure of much these days.
But it's true. Months ago, Spencer had been the one to drag you to the psychiatrist. Spencer had been the one to convince you that you weren't overreacting, that it doesn't matter if other people have it worse, that you do in fact, deserve help and that you can be saved.
Except, the current state of your life begs to differ. You'd downed fifty milligrams of serotonin everyday. Then a hundred. Even before that, you'd made countless detailed plans to get yourself out of this funk. Tried keeping a routine and going out and forcing yourself to get in the shower and being positive or whatever the fuck all those articles had said. But every single time, without fail, it would end in you screaming into your pillow, or picking at your sticky sleeves.
If being medicated didn't change anything either, perhaps it's time to give up. The rot has spread too far, too thick, latched itself onto your ribs. It's been growing for a while now. Spencer needs to realise that he's too late. He can't stop it. You can never be fixed.
The mattress dips in front of you. You feel it rather than see it, keeping your gaze fixed to your lap and your torn fingernails.
“Listen to me,” he starts, voice soft, trash bag discarded, eyes fixed on yours even if you won't reciprocate, “You can't give up. I know it's hard. I know you have bad days, but you have to believe me when I say that there is still hope.”
“That's the thing. I don't believe you, Spence.”
“Then let me believe enough for the both of us. Please. You're not a lost cause. You're strong and you're trying and— and as exhausting as it is you need to keep trying. You can get your life back, I promise you.”
You didn't notice the dampness on your cheeks. Not until Spencer's thumbs brushed it away. Nor did you notice the trembling his arms tried to stop as they wrapped around you, tucking your face against his shoulder.
Your voice comes out in jagged pieces. Like glass shards, sharp at the edges, brittle in the center.
“I just— Spence, I'm so tired.”
His hand rubs a circle onto your back. “I know, honey.”
“And— I- Nothing works. The meds don't work. The— They— I still have bad days and I can't focus or- or sleep or do anything and I'm so tired of finding new solutions ‘cause nothing fucking works!”
You're in too deep to stop it now. It's getting hard to breathe, ‘cos your nose has gone all stuffy and your body shivers with hiccuped breaths and the tears won't stop and you have so much more you want to complain about. But your mind's racing, constantly playing five audio tracks at once, along with being emotionally overwhelmed. You can't possibly string together words.
“I know, honey. I know. We'll— We'll figure it out.”
You don't notice how he sounds so choked up all of a sudden. You don't notice the tears dampening his shirt or the fork falling off the bed as you crawl closer into his arms. All you do is let the rot seep out through tears, let Spencer coax it out of your spine, so that there is at least a little more room inside your chest.
— x.
Spencer holds a water bottle to your mouth. Wipes your tears and your nose. Only leaves to dig for a brush in the clusterfuck that is your vanity. He ties your hair up again, knowing it'd overstimulate you otherwise, and tucks you into bed so gently, you feel like a toddler. You'd protest if you weren't half asleep.
When you wake, the apartment is clean. The clutter is gone. You recognise the whir of the washing machine—a rare sound these days. And the corner of your bedsheet, the one that had slipped off days ago, is tucked in neatly again.
Motivated only by the need to investigate, you make your way to the kitchen, stopping only to let the wave of vertigo pass, and Spencer's still there. His presence hadn't been a fever dream. The apartment serves as evidence. He's at the sink, his back to you, plates clinking as he does your dishes like it's the most natural thing in the world to him.
“You… cleaned,” you mutter, collapsing onto a chair. Just a few seconds of walking and your legs already ache.
He turns, expression melting into what can only be described as pure affection.
“Hey. Yeah, I did. Not everything, though. The bathroom could use a clean, but I thought the dishes were of higher priority. Oh, and I put your leftover pasta in the fridge. And, I found your phone.” He holds up the device, looking very proud of himself as he hands it to you.
“Where did you—”
“Under your bedsheet. Must've gotten lost in there ‘cause your bed wasn't made.”
“Right. Thanks.”
“I'm gonna go pick up your prescription soon too, after this. S'there anything else you need? I was wondering if I could stock your fridge with meals that you can just reheat. Rice would be good. With chicken and vegetables, so your body gets the nutrients it needs. I know you like broccoli. It's high in vitamin C, K, and antioxidants. But I can make something else if you'd like. Maybe—”
His words used to feel comforting once. Right now, they're suffocating. They claw at your chest, tightening vines made of guilt around your throat, overloading your brain with far more information than it can handle.
“Spencer.”
He pauses immediately, giving you a sheepish look that only tightens the guilt. “Sorry. Too much?”
You shake your head, “No. No, just—” A pause as you look for the words. “Um. Thank you. I- You're doing too much. You don't have to.”
His brows furrow, as if you'd just said something absurd or gotten his favourite fact wrong. “‘Course I have to. I care about you.”
That makes you pause. It makes your head feel fuzzy and your eyes widen and your chest loosen.
He steps closer. You expect him to sit on the chair beside you, or stand. What you don't expect is for him to kneel. He fully gets on his knees right there on the hardwood floor, taking your hands between both of his, looking up at you with the softest, most earnest brown eyes. He looks like a puppy. Or a deer. Perhaps a hybrid of both.
“Look at me. I want to take care of you. This isn't some obligation or burden to me. I— I'm not doing it out of necessity, honey, it's pure want. I want to help you get better. I want to do your dishes, and cook for you, and brush your hair, for the only reason that it might make you feel at least one percent better.”
You blink away the all-too-familiar sting. “Spence—”
“Uh-uh. I'm not done yet. Remember what I told you on the drive home from the hospital?”
You recall the feeling after your first appointment. The image of your prescription in your hands, fingers crinkling the paper. You recall Spencer's hand resting on your knee, and more specifically, the conversation.
“...I'm sorry. About… all of this.”
“What?”
“I- I feel bad. You shouldn't have to… take care of me like this. I hate that I can't do it myself.”
He'd waited for a red light before responding, so he could look at you when he did. “I'm not planning on leaving you just ‘cause things get hard, y'know.”
You'd turned to look at him.
“I'm here. Not just for the dates and the friendship and the good days, but the bad ones too.”
“...Yeah,” you whispered. He can see the recognition in your eyes.
“You haven't ruined anything. And certainly not… this. Us. I need you to know that I love every part of you. Every past and every future version of you. And I'd consider it a privilege to be there for all of them.”
You're crying again. It's unfair. He's being so unfair. What are you even supposed to say to that? What are you meant to do, except chew at your lip and stare at your lap ‘cause looking at him only makes the tears flow faster? What are you supposed to do but focus on the way his thumb traces figure-of-eights around your knuckles?
You've handled every hardship alone. It's just how you're wired. Just how you were born. Supposedly, God didn't feel the need to send you a saviour. Not until now.
And he hasn't even saved you yet. That's the ridiculous part. You know this doesn't fix everything. He hasn't quite gotten rid of the rot in your chest or the mess in your head. You know that, even if he does, it'll return again. And again. And again. And again. And you'll keep trying to give up. You'll beg and cry and scream for it to end. You'll make yourself bleed just to feel some semblance of control. You'll snap at people who don't deserve it. You'll try to shut him out at least a hundred more times. It could be years before you ‘get better’. You've never been one for patience.
But for some ridiculous reason you can't wrap your head around, he's still here. Still yours. You find that that realisation makes the journey at least a little bit tolerable.
a/n: this was extremely self indulgent. in case you couldn't tell already. just pure projection written at 4am, really. based on my own personal experiences. oh to have spencer reid come in and whisk me away and save from The Rot™️.
────ᯓ★ reblogs are the best way to help out writers on this platform. if you enjoyed, i'd love to hear your thoughts!
man I miss spelody. I miss my stupif daughter. I miss quantum entanglement. but the motivation. it does not miss me. it wants to be as far away as possible.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
synopsis: in which spencer is so focused on taking care of your family that he forgets about himself
pairing: dad! spencer x gn parent! reader
genre: fluff
wc: 1.1k
notes/tags: lowkey not a fan of this but i believe in posting everything, inspired by my own sunburn <3, boy dad AND girl dad spence for both target audiences, spence uses magic as bribery, it was very painful to type ‘soccer’ as a brit
masterlist // pls reblog if you enjoy it helps promote the fic so much !!
————————————☀️———————————
You raised a hand over your eyes, shielding them from the glaring sun and leaning back on your free palm as you watched your kids run around just ahead of you. The picnic blanket Spencer had laid out for you was warm, littered with fruit and candy and paper cups spread out between you both. He seemed to be examining the sun, his own shielded eyes darting between the sky and your children as they kicked around the football they’d brought along.
“I think we need to reapply their sunscreen.” He said, reaching for your kids’ backpacks.
“Are you sure?” You turned to look at him and the warm flush on his cheeks. “We only put it on them a couple hours ago.”
Spencer rummaged through your daughter’s dinosaur backpack before finally finding the bottle, pulling it out and setting it on the blanket. “Exactly. The recommended wait time between applications is approximately two hours, and given the fact they’ve been running around and sweating it off for one of those hours they’re actually overdue.”
You felt yourself smile as you turned your attention back to your kids, just in time to see your son let his little sister score a goal in their make-shift soccer field marked by twigs. Your husband had tried to play alongside them for a while, but was ultimately benched when he stumbled over his own feet for the third time.
“They’re also due a hydration break.” He muttered, diving back into the bags. “Where are the chips we packed? They need something salty to replenish their electrolytes.”
“You know we’re just watching them play, not coaching a soccer game.” You teased, smirking at him over your shoulder.
“Well, I did coach in high school.”
You tilted your head at him. “I thought that was basketball?”
“I dabbled in soccer too.” He shrugged, zipping the bag shut and gently tossing it to the side. “But don’t tell Morgan. He’ll realise I was hustling him in his game against Anderson as payback for that prank he pulled on me.”
“You’re full of surprises, Dr Reid.” Laughing, you took a sip of the lemonade he’d poured for you, leaning back once more and feeling the warmth of the sun kiss your skin. “I take it you want me to reapply too?”
Spencer leaned over, pressing a kiss to your temple as he placed the spare bottle of sunscreen in your hand. “Have I ever told you how smart you are?”
Chuckling, you unscrewed the cap, finding yourself thanking the summer heat for disguising the blush in your cheeks. He waved your kids over, offering his sarcastic apologies when they grumbled and groaned and trudged their way back to the picnic blanket.
“But Daddy, it feels yucky!” Your daughter whined, snatching her arm back when Spencer reached out for it.
“I’ll bet you sunburn feels even yuckier.” You chimed in as you slathered your own arms.
“I bet it doesn’t.” She huffed, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Her bottom lip jutted out in a pout, looking awfully familiar as her big brown eyes narrowed at him. It’s like looking at a pair of twins, you thought.
“I guarantee it does.” Spencer reached out again, tucking her breeze blown hair behind her ears. “Sore burns, peeling skin- nausea. This is serious, honey.”
Her eyes dropped to the floor as she scuffed her shoe against the grass stubbornly. Spencer sighed, gently tilting her head back up to look at him. Her face was red, her skin brandishing a light flush that made a little knot of panic tighten in his chest.
“Sweetheart, are you sure I can’t-“ he returned his hand to her ear, pulling back a piece of candy seemingly from thin air, “bribe you?”
Instantly her eyes lit up, widening with marvel as she squealed. “How did you do that!” She giggled, sticking her hand out to take the candy from him, only for him to pull it back.
“You have to let Daddy put your sunscreen on okay?” You nudged, but she was nodding before you’d even finished speaking, enthusiastically lunging for the sweet as she plopped herself down cross legged on the blanket.
Your son watched on, amazed, before grinning at Spencer. “Dad, I think there’s something in my ear too!”
A short while later and many magic pieces of candy down they were both running around again, Spencer at ease for another couple of hours and peacefully snacking on the cookies you’d brought for him. He’d been thorough, the sunscreen practically becoming a second layer of skin everywhere the sun’s rays might reach- their hands, their faces, all the way to the tips of their noses, even behind the ears he’d pulled all the magic candy from.
“Happy now?” You said, shuffling on the blanket until the rolled up sleeve of his cardigan was brushing your arm.
“Hmm.” He hummed, nose scrunching. “Almost.”
“Almost?”
Holding back a smile, he raised his arm, beckoning you closer with a tilt of his head. You obliged in a heartbeat, letting his arm fall around you, tucking you into his side as your head lolled onto his shoulder. You could’ve fallen asleep as he placed a tender kiss to your crown.
“Now I’m happy.”
Bonus
Later At Home
“Oh my God.” You gasped. Spencer was shuffling slowly into the kitchen, skin red and raw. “Oh, honey you look like you were roasted on a spit.”
“Yeah, I know.” He murmured miserably. You stepped towards him, gently brushing the tip of his nose with one finger, pulling away when he winced through his teeth.
“I’m sorry!” Looking him up and down, you pouted at the redness sticking out of his sleeves and creeping up his chest and to his neck. “How did this even happen? All you did today was talk about sunscreen.”
“I was so focused on making sure the kids were safe,” he looked down pathetically, almost whimpering at the sight of his burning skin, “I guess I forgot about myself.”
You sighed, wanting to reach out for him but not wanting to hurt him. Despite the wounded-puppy look on his face you couldn’t help the tiny smile pulling at your lips. Of course Spencer Reid would get so swept up in magic tricks and reciting the dangers of sun damage that he would forget to actually protect himself from it.
“You’re too caring for your own good.” You risked a hand in his hair, carefully avoiding his scalp as you brushed your fingers through it. “Diagnosis: sunburn. Treatment?”
“Aloe vera?” Spencer’s head tilted, following your movements.
“You need help putting it on?”
He smiled at you, small and slightly embarrassed. “Please.”
Giggling softly, you held out your hand for him to take, delighted that his hands were sunburn-free enough to do so. “Come on, Rudolph.”
synopsis: in which spencer is so focused on taking care of your family that he forgets about himself
pairing: dad! spencer x gn parent! reader
genre: fluff
wc: 1.1k
notes/tags: lowkey not a fan of this but i believe in posting everything, inspired by my own sunburn <3, boy dad AND girl dad spence for both target audiences, spence uses magic as bribery, it was very painful to type ‘soccer’ as a brit
masterlist // pls reblog if you enjoy it helps promote the fic so much !!
————————————☀️———————————
You raised a hand over your eyes, shielding them from the glaring sun and leaning back on your free palm as you watched your kids run around just ahead of you. The picnic blanket Spencer had laid out for you was warm, littered with fruit and candy and paper cups spread out between you both. He seemed to be examining the sun, his own shielded eyes darting between the sky and your children as they kicked around the football they’d brought along.
“I think we need to reapply their sunscreen.” He said, reaching for your kids’ backpacks.
“Are you sure?” You turned to look at him and the warm flush on his cheeks. “We only put it on them a couple hours ago.”
Spencer rummaged through your daughter’s dinosaur backpack before finally finding the bottle, pulling it out and setting it on the blanket. “Exactly. The recommended wait time between applications is approximately two hours, and given the fact they’ve been running around and sweating it off for one of those hours they’re actually overdue.”
You felt yourself smile as you turned your attention back to your kids, just in time to see your son let his little sister score a goal in their make-shift soccer field marked by twigs. Your husband had tried to play alongside them for a while, but was ultimately benched when he stumbled over his own feet for the third time.
“They’re also due a hydration break.” He muttered, diving back into the bags. “Where are the chips we packed? They need something salty to replenish their electrolytes.”
“You know we’re just watching them play, not coaching a soccer game.” You teased, smirking at him over your shoulder.
“Well, I did coach in high school.”
You tilted your head at him. “I thought that was basketball?”
“I dabbled in soccer too.” He shrugged, zipping the bag shut and gently tossing it to the side. “But don’t tell Morgan. He’ll realise I was hustling him in his game against Anderson as payback for that prank he pulled on me.”
“You’re full of surprises, Dr Reid.” Laughing, you took a sip of the lemonade he’d poured for you, leaning back once more and feeling the warmth of the sun kiss your skin. “I take it you want me to reapply too?”
Spencer leaned over, pressing a kiss to your temple as he placed the spare bottle of sunscreen in your hand. “Have I ever told you how smart you are?”
Chuckling, you unscrewed the cap, finding yourself thanking the summer heat for disguising the blush in your cheeks. He waved your kids over, offering his sarcastic apologies when they grumbled and groaned and trudged their way back to the picnic blanket.
“But Daddy, it feels yucky!” Your daughter whined, snatching her arm back when Spencer reached out for it.
“I’ll bet you sunburn feels even yuckier.” You chimed in as you slathered your own arms.
“I bet it doesn’t.” She huffed, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Her bottom lip jutted out in a pout, looking awfully familiar as her big brown eyes narrowed at him. It’s like looking at a pair of twins, you thought.
“I guarantee it does.” Spencer reached out again, tucking her breeze blown hair behind her ears. “Sore burns, peeling skin- nausea. This is serious, honey.”
Her eyes dropped to the floor as she scuffed her shoe against the grass stubbornly. Spencer sighed, gently tilting her head back up to look at him. Her face was red, her skin brandishing a light flush that made a little knot of panic tighten in his chest.
“Sweetheart, are you sure I can’t-“ he returned his hand to her ear, pulling back a piece of candy seemingly from thin air, “bribe you?”
Instantly her eyes lit up, widening with marvel as she squealed. “How did you do that!” She giggled, sticking her hand out to take the candy from him, only for him to pull it back.
“You have to let Daddy put your sunscreen on okay?” You nudged, but she was nodding before you’d even finished speaking, enthusiastically lunging for the sweet as she plopped herself down cross legged on the blanket.
Your son watched on, amazed, before grinning at Spencer. “Dad, I think there’s something in my ear too!”
A short while later and many magic pieces of candy down they were both running around again, Spencer at ease for another couple of hours and peacefully snacking on the cookies you’d brought for him. He’d been thorough, the sunscreen practically becoming a second layer of skin everywhere the sun’s rays might reach- their hands, their faces, all the way to the tips of their noses, even behind the ears he’d pulled all the magic candy from.
“Happy now?” You said, shuffling on the blanket until the rolled up sleeve of his cardigan was brushing your arm.
“Hmm.” He hummed, nose scrunching. “Almost.”
“Almost?”
Holding back a smile, he raised his arm, beckoning you closer with a tilt of his head. You obliged in a heartbeat, letting his arm fall around you, tucking you into his side as your head lolled onto his shoulder. You could’ve fallen asleep as he placed a tender kiss to your crown.
“Now I’m happy.”
Bonus
Later At Home
“Oh my God.” You gasped. Spencer was shuffling slowly into the kitchen, skin red and raw. “Oh, honey you look like you were roasted on a spit.”
“Yeah, I know.” He murmured miserably. You stepped towards him, gently brushing the tip of his nose with one finger, pulling away when he winced through his teeth.
“I’m sorry!” Looking him up and down, you pouted at the redness sticking out of his sleeves and creeping up his chest and to his neck. “How did this even happen? All you did today was talk about sunscreen.”
“I was so focused on making sure the kids were safe,” he looked down pathetically, almost whimpering at the sight of his burning skin, “I guess I forgot about myself.”
You sighed, wanting to reach out for him but not wanting to hurt him. Despite the wounded-puppy look on his face you couldn’t help the tiny smile pulling at your lips. Of course Spencer Reid would get so swept up in magic tricks and reciting the dangers of sun damage that he would forget to actually protect himself from it.
“You’re too caring for your own good.” You risked a hand in his hair, carefully avoiding his scalp as you brushed your fingers through it. “Diagnosis: sunburn. Treatment?”
“Aloe vera?” Spencer’s head tilted, following your movements.
“You need help putting it on?”
He smiled at you, small and slightly embarrassed. “Please.”
Giggling softly, you held out your hand for him to take, delighted that his hands were sunburn-free enough to do so. “Come on, Rudolph.”
synopsis: when spencer comes home from a rough case in the middle of the night tired and injured, he wants nothing more than to spend the day in bed with you (and to make you breakfast)
genre: fluff !
wc: 1.6k
notes/tags: another sleepy spence fic? from cherrygarcia-07? its likelier than you think, im so sorry that im always writing him hurt i promise i love him, spencer has Anxiety, puppy coded! spencer strikes again
masterlist // pls reblog if you enjoy it helps promote the fic so much !!
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It was odd. You were sure you’d fallen asleep in a bigger bed than you’d woken up in. Now that you think about it, the bed was colder last night too. You blinked awake slowly, adjusting to the amber glow peeking through the blinds, listening to the distant sound of the world waking up outside. The sun. Of course. That must be why it felt so warm. Yet as you caught up with your consciousness you became aware of a weight over your waist, small, rhythmic puffs of air against the back of your neck. Your lips melted into a sleepy smile as you realised.
Spencer.
He must’ve come home in the middle of the night, careful not to wake you as he climbed into bed beside you. You could picture him, all heavy limbs weighed down with exhaustion and tie discarded on the sofa somewhere in the dark as he shuffled like a zombie into your shared room. It was never easy for him, coming home this late. The team usually stayed overnight wherever they were when a case ended deep in the night, opting to make it home for the morning instead. Whatever case they’d been working on must’ve been harrowing enough that they just wanted to get away as fast as possible.
You stretched as much as you could without stirring him, delighting in his sleepy grumble as he dreamily nuzzled further into you. From the way he had anchored himself to you, you could tell this was a much needed rest. You lay there for a while just listening to him, to the steady sound of his breathing and the occasional murmurs and mumbles that accompanied them, before you found yourself itching with the urge to see his face. Slowly, cautiously, you turned over in his grasp, cringing at every creak of the mattress and each rustle of sheets. Ah, there he is.
There was a graze on his cheek, red and raw and stinging- but he was alive. A cut curved over his lip, dark, dried blood making it look worse than it probably was but it made your chest tighten all the same. His hair fanned out over the pillow behind him, a little stringy like he’d been too drained to wash it. You made a note to do it for him when he was ready. Gently, you let your finger hover over the deep purple beneath his eyes, confirmation that this was probably the first decent sleep he’d gotten all week. Spencer’s cheekbones were always prominent. You always told him it made him look like a statue, carved and chiseled like he belonged in a museum. Yet now as the rising sunlight found them, the shadows beneath them looking darker and more hollow than usual- he looked frail.
You lay there for a while, just observing. It was something he often did to you after a bad case, too hyper vigilant to let himself rest. He needed the confirmation that you were okay, he needed to see the rise and fall of your chest to steady his own. It wasn’t often that it was the other way round.
“How long have you been watching me?” A low voice mumbled. It was thin and gravelly, like he’d been yelling until it broke.
“Hm?” You looked up from where you’d been staring at the split in his lip to find two half-lidded eyes squinting at you. “I haven’t been.”
Spencer let out a small huffed laugh. “That’s funny. I could’ve sworn I’ve been feeling your breath on my face for the past five minutes.”
“Nope. Must’ve dreamt it.” He began to smile but began wincing where his lip clearly stung. You kept your voice gentle as you swiped your thumb across it. “Are you okay?”
He groaned, like he deliberated answering and ultimately decided against it. Instead he lifted his arm from your waist, beckoning you closer against his chest. “Come here.”
You obliged, biting back your insistence and cuddling into him. He’d tell you when he was ready. For now, you allowed yourself to sink into him, feeling his arms wrap around you as you slung your legs over his. It’d been a long case. Too many nights of falling asleep in an empty bed, of not waking to the smell of coffee that always seemed to cling to him. Spencer’s knuckles began grazing up and down your spine, a hypnotic rhythm threatening to lull you back to sleep right there.
He let out a content sigh, mumbling to himself. “I think I’m going to stay home today.”
“What?” Your eyes shot open. In all the years you’d known him, he’d never ever taken a day off for himself. For his mother? Of course. For you? In a heartbeat. But you were convinced he would rather crawl into work straight from his deathbed than to simply exist at home with nothing important to do. Rolling off of him slightly, you propped yourself up so that your face hovered over his, narrowed eyes squinting down at him. “Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”
He pouted, as if the sudden absence of you in his arms was physically breaking his heart. “I got my report done on the jet. I don’t have any paperwork that needs doing.” He reached out, desperately trying to guide you back to him and pouting even more when you stayed put. “I just really want to stay home today.”
“And do what?” You asked, leaning down and giving him a peck on the tip of his nose to appease the big, sad eyes he was giving you.
“Nothing.” He shrugged.
“Nothing?” Your eyebrows shot up, scandalised. “Pigs must be flying.”
Spencer chuckled, wincing as his split lip protested. “The idea of laying on the sofa in my pyjamas with you and catching up on Doctor Who is far more appealing to me than sitting at my desk for eight hours while everyone fails to pretend the past week didn’t happen. And for once, I have an opportunity to do the former.”
“The case was that bad?” You asked softly. You tried to soothe him, gently brushing back his sleep-tousled hair from his forehead, but his gaze dropped.
“Can you please just come here?” His voice was small as his big eyes found you again, his arm reaching for you once more and this time you let him pull you back into the warmth of his chest.
“So I’m not allowed to get up and make you breakfast?” You muffled into his shirt.
His arms wrapped even tighter around you. “I can make my own breakfast. And yours too while I’m up.”
You tried to lift your head up, but you found it pinned beneath his chin, breath fanning over the flushed skin of his neck. “What happened to doing nothing?”
“I am doing nothing.” He retorted, and though you couldn’t see his face you could tell his eyebrows had pinched. After so long, you could practically hear it in his voice, in the way his inflection rose ever so slightly. The perfect foundation for teasing him.
“Well,” you began, smiling against his neck, “‘doing nothing’ implies lying here motionless. Not getting up, not moving, not talking- definitely not making us both breakfast. Literally ‘doing nothing’. Unless of course you meant it figuratively- but that’s not what you said so…”
“Are you-“ Spencer let out a sharp laugh, his chest jostling beneath you. “Are you really arguing semantics with me right now so that I’ll let you make me breakfast?”
“Depends.” Finding your strength, you untangled yourself from his grasp just enough to hover your face over his again. “Is it working?”
“No.” He laughed again, a grin growing on his face much to the misfortune of his split lip. “But it was a very cute attempt.”
A tiny drop of blood emerged from the cut, making you cringe with concern as you lifted your thumb to it and swiped it away. As the sun continued to flood the room, the graze on his cheek seemed darker, angrier where it intruded his skin. Even the way he clung to you felt pained, desperation worsening his aching bones as he fastened you to him like he’d fall apart without you. Whatever happened must’ve haunted him. He was often a little over protective, a little obsessive over your safety. But it wasn’t often that he was afraid to let you out of his sight, especially in your own apartment.
“You want me to come with you?” Your hand drifted to his cheek, sweeping over the raw skin as gently as you could. “Make breakfast together?”
Beneath you, Spencer’s chest deflated like he was exhaling all the terror that had flooded his lungs over the past week. He took your hand from his cheek, bringing it to his lips and pressing a thankful kiss to your knuckles. “Please.”
“Alright.” You flashed him a smile, kissing his lips before pulling away with a teasing glimmer in your eyes. “You can do that thing where you hug me from behind like a koala and pretend to be helpful while I do all the work.”
“What?” He squeaked, following you as you hopped out of bed. “I do not do that.”
You turned the corner into the kitchen, laughing as he followed at your heel like a puppy. “You totally do. I bet you the last pancake in the stack that you do.”
“Deal.” He scoffed. “I can’t wait to eat that last pancake.”
SAVE THE DATE - a prof!reader x Spencer Reid event
YOU'RE INVITED! Join Spencer Reid and prof!reader as they prepare for the upcoming wedding—going shopping together, ironing out their fake dating story, and growing closer along the way. I will post one fic every other day, for a total of five fics, all of which will be added to the series masterlist, slotted in between parts to fit the main timeline.
Please note, they ARE NOT the ones getting married—just attendees… as a fake couple…
SAVE THE DATES:
Thursday, July 23
Saturday, July 25
Monday, July 27
Wednesday, July 29
Friday, July 31
PINK IN THE NIGHT masterlist | main masterlist | event tag: esoterika's save the date
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good morning or night! I hope your day has been lovely so far. I had an idea for a short Matt writing, if you’d be willing.
have you ever seen the post online about this woman (lives in an apartment complex) who gained a crush on her blind neighbor? She started wearing the same perfume everyday and always using the wrong key first to unlock her door, so that he’d know it was her. And I just thought that was adorable. How would Matt react to a situation similar to that?
a/n: thank you so much for your request :) i'm so sorry it took me this long to get to it. life has genuinely been insane lately. adulting amirite. anw, I hope u like it! havent written in a while so this may be absolute shit. hah.
Matt knew something was up.
The new neighbour in apartment 6B had never been this clumsy before. He's sure of it because she's been occupying his thoughts far too much as of late.
Can you blame him? The guy has heightened senses. He doesn't want to listen to your botched impression of Frank Sinatra while you sweep your floors. It's just that… the sound waves happen to make it to his ears. He can't help it!
These observations, ones his brain had filed away way before you'd even introduced yourself, are what make him question why you've gotten… louder.
He's heard your (several) keychains jingle as you unlock your door, every day at five p.m. He's memorised the subtle scents of your vanilla deodorant and lavender shampoo. The scruff of your converse and the drag of your untied laces against the floor are enough to alert him of your presence.
Yet, ever since you finally worked up the courage to have your first conversation with him, things… changed.
You'd been there a week, spending most of it unpacking and decorating and making several trips downstairs to throw out boxes because of course the elevator doesn't work, when you finally mustered up the courage to introduce yourself.
You'd never been a very social person. Quiet, reserved, the kid in the back of the class diligently working on their assignment. You like keeping to yourself. You were sure you'd go a month without even knowing your (hot) neighbour's name if it weren't for the two of you meeting in the hallway.
You'd stepped out in your pajamas, about to head downstairs for your pizza delivery, when you saw him coming upstairs. That hard set of his jaw, dark red glasses reflecting the ceiling light, suit slightly rumpled from the workday, and… was that a bruise under his eye?
Whatever. You're not here to stare at attractive men. Get your pizza and go.
But then the end of his cane just happened to bump against your foot.
“Oh, sorry,” you muttered awkwardly, stepping back. The way he tilted his head to the side, like a curious puppy, was unfairly attractive.
“No worries. You're my new neighbour, right? 6B?” Matt replies smoothly, with the annoying confidence of a man who knows he's irresistible.
You blinked, red in the face, instinctively fixing your hair before realising how embarrassingly stupid that is. “Yeah. I just moved in a week or so ago.”
His smile is more of an amused smirk. You've never felt so observed.
“Matt,” he says, extending his hand for you to shake. You notice the callouses on his hands before you remember to say your own name. It's annoying how attractive he is. How even his voice as he tests your name on his tongue sounds like it belongs in a rom-com (or on pornhub). How his tie is just slightly loosened, the curve of his pink lips, the stubble on his face, his slender fingers. You're starting to feel like a pervert now.
After the most awkward conversation of your life (awkward on your part, amusing on his), you decide you just have to get his attention.
Typically, in movies, you'd watched women dress themselves up to get their love interest’s attention. Clearly, that won’t work for this scenario. Scandalous tops and pretty hair-dos won't cut it.
So, you focus on the other senses.
You start wearing high heels instead of converse. You spray on so much perfume it gives you a headache the first time. You ‘accidentally’ drop your keys while unlocking your door. Essentially, you turn yourself into a nuisance just for an opportunity to spark conversations with Matt.
And somehow, it seems to work.
It had taken a while, and a lot of convincing from Foggy and Karen, but Matt finally admitted to himself that you might be doing this for him. The timeline matches up. You'd never answered phone calls in the hallway or smelled that… strong before.
And besides, Matt knows what he's doing. That evil little fucker knows he's charming enough to get into anyone's pants, pre-established crush or not. So, he starts conversations with you. He knows damn well by now that you're too awkward to do it yourself.
He compliments your perfume. Asks you questions and actually listens—with that annoyingly sexy smirk and tilted head. He ‘bumps into’ you at the corner store.
Matt beams the day you show up at his door with a box of cookies, shifting your weight on your feet, your heart racing as you thrust the box into his hands. “I, um, made extra. So, I thought I might share. …They're chocolate chip!”
He makes sure his fingers brush yours when he accepts the box. Prolongs the moment because hearing your heart beat faster and your words get clumsier as you take him in—soft gray t-shirt, sweatpants hanging loose, messy hair, and dear god, he's not wearing his glasses. You can't believe the universe deprived you of his beautiful eyes for this long. They're brown with the tiniest hint of green around the edges, almost go—
He clears his throat. You blink.
“Sorry— what were you saying?”
Matt has to bite back a chuckle. He almost feels bad for you, you poor thing. You're so flustered you don't know what to do with yourself. He can't imagine the other ways he could affect you.
So, in a moment of impulsivity, and probably far too many hormones, he gestures to his apartment with his head. “Please, come in. We can share.”
Chocolate chip cookies aren't the only thing the two of you share that night.
And the best part? You so confidently think this had been your doing, that those extra lengths you'd gone to were what got his attention. As if he hadn't been noticing you since the day you moved in.
He lets you have it. You need to work on your self esteem anyway.
one of these days my body is going to give up on my mind. they've been in a toxic, push-and-pull relationship since before they knew each other's names. the kind where one is too stubborn to give up on the self-destructive one. the mind doesn't seem to have any plans to stop. it'll try and try, listen to the body, attempt to fuel and fix and rest and treat, but one tick and the mind runs to the safety of darkness again. to the familiarity of anguish.
because what is safety if not what you're comfortable with? if not what you've known all your life? if not what is familiar? the mind has attempted to listen. it's tried to believed that one just needs to accept happiness in and let it sit before it starts seeping into every corner rather than looming over the mind in one big chunk. but how long? is it truly worth it to sit there, in a state of discomfort, of anxiety, just for the chance that the mind may hold out long enough? it's not as if the happiness would override the anguish during its spreading process. the darkness will always remain in the cracks and crevices, in the nooks and crannies that the light can not reach. even if, some fateful day, happiness spreads just enough to start feeling warmer than the dark, who's to say it won't climb back out again? who's to deny the darkness of its home? the home its lived in all its life and has now suddenly been evicted from? because, what, it doesn't belong? why would it have been there in the first place then?
who's to say joy and anguish aren't inherently similar? both represent abstract concepts, can be categorised by the close-minded into simply good and bad. but if the dread's been there long enough that it aches the second factory-engineered-serotonin tries to fight it, you wonder who the true villain really is. isn't depriving one of their home, convincing them they don't belong, a bad thing?
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please write more dad!harvey it brought me to tears and you write it so well!!
𝑆𝑢𝑟𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒, 𝐼'𝑚 𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑟. ༉ ‧ ₊ ˚.
when Harvey walks into the office on his day off in a three-piece suit, your daughter on his hip like it’s nothing unusual, the firm’s best-kept secret quickly becomes everyone’s favourite gossip.
꒰ঌ ໒꒱ Thank you, anon. Genuinely, that means a whole ton. I’ll likely write more when the mood strikes again—he’s not done with me yet, so there’s probably more of him coming eventually.
︶⊹︶︶⠀†⠀︶︶⊹︶
By eleven o’clock on a quiet Thursday morning, Pearson Specter was running on the subdued energy of people who had come in voluntarily and regretted it almost immediately.
Associates moved through the bullpen with coffees in hand, senior partners barked instructions through half-open office doors, and the steady hum of printers and phones carried across the thirty-second floor.
Then Harvey Specter stepped out of the elevator carrying a baby.
At first, no one reacted properly because the sight made so little sense that it took several seconds for anyone’s brain to catch up. Harvey looked exactly as he always did—immaculate charcoal three-piece suit, polished shoes, expensive watch, coat folded over one arm, expression composed with the effortless confidence that usually preceded either a million-dollar deal or someone getting fired.
The only difference was the small child balanced comfortably against his shoulder, one tiny hand fisted in the lapel of his suit jacket.
Donna looked up from her desk, smiled automatically, and then froze so completely that the smile remained suspended on her face like a glitch.
“Harvey,” she said slowly, as though testing whether he was real.
“Donna.”
“Why are you here?”
“My partner’s working.”
That should have been the shocking part, but somehow it wasn’t. The truly catastrophic detail arrived a second later, when Harvey adjusted the baby higher against his shoulder and the golden band on his left hand caught the light.
Donna stared.
Not because she had never seen the ring before, but because she suddenly realised she had seen it hundreds of times and had somehow never questioned it. Harvey had been wearing a wedding ring long enough for everyone’s brain to quietly file it under things that belong to Harvey, alongside tailored suits and impossible confidence.
“You’re married,” she said, sounding personally betrayed by the discovery.
Harvey frowned faintly, as though she had just informed him the sky was blue. “Yes.”
“Since when?”
“A while.”
“That is not a time frame.”
He opened his mouth to answer, but the baby chose that moment to lift her head, revealing enormous hazel eyes and a soft pink bow tied into dark hair that looked suspiciously familiar. She blinked sleepily, looked up at Harvey, and said, with the solemn importance unique to toddlers, “Dada.”
Donna made a strangled noise that sounded like every maternal instinct she possessed colliding at once.
Harvey’s entire face changed. The sharp edges softened, the habitual guard dropped away, and he smiled down at her with an ease that almost nobody inside the firm had ever witnessed. “Morning, sweetheart.”
Tiny fingers immediately reached for his tie and grabbed it with triumph.
“Oh my God,” Donna whispered, now fully committed to her emotional crisis. “You have a daughter.”
“Still true.”
Only then did she properly notice what the little girl was wearing.
A white frilly dress with delicate embroidered flowers along the hem, white frilled socks, and tiny pink shoes polished to an almost absurd shine. Everything matched. Everything fit. Everything was somehow immaculate despite the fact she was currently chewing thoughtfully on the end of Harvey’s tie.
Donna narrowed her eyes. “Who dressed her?”
“I did.”
“No, seriously.”
“Donna.”
“Harvey, that outfit has coordination.”
He looked down at his daughter with unmistakable pride. “I’m capable of matching colours.”
“On a baby?”
“Different size. Same principles.”
By now the entire bullpen had quietly stopped pretending not to stare. Associates whispered behind computer screens, secretaries exchanged looks, and one junior lawyer nearly walked into a glass wall while trying to get a better view. Harvey ignored all of them with the ease of a man who had spent his career being watched.
He simply shifted his daughter onto one arm and headed for your office.
You were halfway through revising a contract when your door opened without a knock.
“You said you’d be fifteen minutes,” you said without looking up.
“I got distracted.”
“Harvey, you left forty-five minutes ago.”
“Traffic.”
“In the elevator?”
Only then did you glance up, and the rest of the sentence disappeared from your mind.
Harvey stood in the doorway looking entirely too pleased with himself, your daughter balanced on his hip and dressed like she belonged in the catalogue of a very expensive children’s boutique. The pink bow sat perfectly in her hair. Her shoes matched it. Even her socks had been folded neatly.
Your eyebrows lifted. “Well. Someone looks adorable.”
Your daughter squealed, immediately reaching for you.
You crossed the office and kissed the top of her head before Harvey set her carefully onto the leather sofa. Instead of immediately climbing onto the furniture like a tiny gremlin, she remained where he placed her, legs swinging happily while he crouched to straighten the skirt of her dress and adjust one sock that had slipped slightly lower than the other.
“There,” he said, leaning back to admire his work before looking up at you with the smug satisfaction of a man presenting evidence in court. “See? I’m capable.”
You folded your arms, taking your time as you inspected both him and the child. “You dressed her yourself?”
“Every piece.”
“Including the bow?”
“Took two attempts.”
“And the shoes?”
“Matched them intentionally.”
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. “I genuinely expected you’d show up with her wearing one sock, your pocket square, and whatever jacket was closest to the door.”
Harvey looked deeply offended. “That is an outrageous accusation.”
“You once forgot your own suitcase on a business trip.”
“I remembered the important things.”
“Like what?”
“You.”
The answer arrived so easily, so matter-of-factly, that it caught you off guard despite years of marriage. Harvey merely loosened his tie where tiny fingers had wrinkled it and sat beside your daughter, lifting her onto his lap as though the motion were the most natural thing in the world.
She settled against his chest immediately, one small hand patting the fabric of his vest while he absently smoothed her hair.
Outside the glass walls of your office, people were absolutely staring. By Monday morning the entire firm would know that Harvey Specter was married with a daughter, and apparently enough paternal devotion to spend his day off colour-coordinating a toddler’s outfit.
Inside the office, though, none of that seemed particularly important.
Harvey looked at you over your daughter’s head, the wedding ring on his hand catching the afternoon light, and smiled with a softness that belonged to almost no one else.
“So,” he said, entirely unaware that he had just become the biggest piece of gossip Pearson Specter had seen in years, “are you impressed yet?”
Harvey leaned back into the sofa, one arm draped along the backrest while the other remained securely around your daughter, who had become entirely fascinated by the buttons on his waistcoat.
Her tiny fingers worked with determined concentration, occasionally managing to slip one free before Harvey quietly fastened it again without so much as glancing down.
You watched him for a moment before returning to your desk, gathering together the loose pages you had abandoned the moment they'd walked through the door. There was little point pretending you were about to return to work.
Harvey had never been particularly good at simply dropping by, and today, with your daughter perched comfortably on his lap, there wasn't a chance either of you would be discussing anything remotely legal.
"So," you said, sinking back into your chair and turning it slightly towards them, "how did nursery go?"
Harvey's eyes lifted immediately, the corners of his mouth softening into something that barely qualified as a smile and yet somehow meant infinitely more than the cocky grins he handed out in courtrooms.
"It was good."
"'Good'?"
"It was..." He paused, searching for a word he didn't often have to search for. "Better than I expected."
You smiled knowingly. "I told you she'd settle."
"I know."
"You were convinced she'd cry the entire morning," you said, unable to keep the knowing smile from your face as you watched him absentmindedly smooth another invisible crease from the skirt of her dress.
Harvey's eyes flicked up to yours, a faint crease forming between his brows in immediate protest. "I wasn't convinced."
"No?" You leaned back slightly in your chair, folding your arms with quiet amusement. "You packed three comfort toys."
"They all serve different purposes," he replied without missing a beat, as though that explained everything.
One eyebrow arched almost instinctively.
Harvey caught the look and, instead of backing down, merely adjusted your daughter's dress where it had slipped from one shoulder, his expression remaining infuriatingly sincere.
"They're emotionally distinct."
A quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it, and the corner of Harvey's mouth betrayed him, lifting into the smallest smile despite the fact he was clearly trying to maintain his dignity.
"I was being prepared."
"You were panicking."
"I was not panicking," he said, the denial arriving just a fraction too quickly to be convincing.
"You asked the teacher six different questions before you'd even taken your coat off."
"I wanted to know the staff-to-child ratio." Harvey shrugged lightly, as though that were an entirely reasonable concern, one hand absently rubbing slow circles against your daughter's back while she continued to fiddle with the buttons on his waistcoat.
"You asked whether they sanitised the crayons."
"They put everything in their mouths," he defended, looking genuinely baffled that this required any explanation at all.
"And then," you continued, unable to resist dragging out the evidence against him, "you asked whether the climbing frame complied with safety regulations."
"It looked high."
"It was about two feet tall."
Harvey glanced down at your daughter, who chose that exact moment to enthusiastically throw one leg over his lap in an attempt to investigate his watch instead.
"Two feet," he repeated quietly, almost to himself. "For someone her size, that's still... proportionally significant."
You simply stared at him.
He had the grace to avoid your eyes and llet out a slow breath through his nose, somewhere between accepting defeat and refusing to admit it. "I was doing due diligence."
"You were hovering."
"I was parenting."
Your daughter, blissfully unaware that she had become the subject of debate, abandoned Harvey's waistcoat in favour of reaching up to pat his cheek. The gesture was clumsy, little more than an enthusiastic slap cushioned by impossibly small fingers, but Harvey reacted as though she'd handed him something precious.
His expression softened immediately.
"Okay, wow."
She giggled.
The sound filled the office with an ease that expensive furniture and polished glass never could.
You found yourself watching Harvey more than you were watching her.
He wasn't performing. There was no audience he was trying to impress, no carefully crafted persona sitting across from you in one of his immaculate suits. His shoulders had relaxed against the sofa, his tie sat ever so slightly crooked where small hands had tugged at it all morning, and there was something almost impossibly gentle in the way his thumb absentmindedly stroked circles against your daughter's back.
"So?" you prompted quietly.
He looked back at you. "She made a friend."
"A friend?"
"Mhm."
"Already?"
"There was another little girl." He nodded towards your daughter, who was now trying with immense concentration to fit two fingers into one of Harvey's cufflinks.
"They apparently spent half the morning following each other around."
"Following?"
"The teacher said neither of them really played with anything." He smiled to himself, eyes dropping fondly to the little girl in his lap. "They just... kept making sure the other one was still there."
Your own smile became softer. "That sounds like her."
Harvey nodded once. "There was painting."
"Oh?"
He looked faintly resigned. "I've washed blue paint out of one of my shirts."
"Only one?"
"She was surprisingly accurate."
"Harvey Specter complimenting a toddler's paint accuracy."
"You didn't see her technique."
"I'd have paid to hear you say that sentence five years ago."
"I would've laughed in your face."
"I know."
He looked back at you then, and whatever dry retort he'd been preparing seemed to disappear before it reached his mouth.
Instead, he simply watched you.
There was an openness to his expression that almost no one else was ever afforded. His eyes lingered on your face with the same quiet certainty they always had when it was just the two of you, as though the rest of Manhattan had ceased to exist somewhere beyond the office walls.
It was ridiculous, really.
Harvey, whose entire career had been built on confidence so absolute it bordered on arrogance, was looking at you with the biggest, softest puppy eyes imaginable.
There was no calculation behind them.
Just affection, exhaustion from an early morning with a toddler and the unmistakable look of a man who had stumbled into a life he had never expected to want, only to discover he couldn't imagine existing without it.
"I think..." he began quietly, almost as though admitting it to himself before anyone else, "I think she likes it there."
You tilted your head.
"And how do you feel about that?"
He exhaled through a small smile, glancing down as your daughter yawned dramatically before instinctively curling herself closer against his chest.
"I hate it."
You laughed. "I knew it."
He let out a quiet sigh through his nose, lowering his gaze to where your daughter had begun absentmindedly tracing tiny circles over the fabric of his waistcoat with one finger.
"I spent three hours wondering what she was doing," he confessed, his voice softer now, stripped entirely of the confidence that usually accompanied every sentence he spoke.
"Harvey," you said gently, the fond exasperation in your voice making it abundantly clear that this revelation surprised you far less than it probably should have.
"I checked my phone every ten minutes."
"You weren't supposed to stay outside."
"I didn't." The answer came quickly, almost defensively, though the slight shift in his posture suggested he already knew exactly where this conversation was headed.
"You drove around the block."
Harvey's jaw tightened just enough for you to notice. "...Maybe."
"Twice."
Silence.
He finally looked back up at you, wearing an expression that could only be described as mildly sheepish, a remarkably rare look on Harvey Specter, as one shoulder lifted in a small, almost apologetic shrug.
"I was nearby."
"You were surveilling a nursery."
"I was ensuring operational excellence," he replied with all the composure of a man attempting to argue a completely indefensible case, gently tucking a loose strand of your daughter's hair back behind her ear as though that somehow strengthened his position.
"It was a nursery, Harvey."
"It was my daughter."
The answer came so simply, so matter-of-factly, that every trace of humour dissolved almost immediately.
He looked down at the little girl curled comfortably against him, his thumb instinctively brushing over the small hand resting against his chest before he spoke again, quieter this time.
"I just wanted to be close if she needed me."
That, more than anything else he'd said all morning, explained why he'd never really driven away. Instead of the legendary closer, the city's best attorney, or the man whose name alone could intimidate an opposing counsel, all you saw was your husband.
A father trying to understand that loving someone this much meant accepting they would keep growing without asking permission.
"You know what happened when I picked her up?" he asked after a moment, his voice quieter than it had been all morning.
You shook your head, watching him instead of prompting him to continue. He rarely volunteered moments like this without being asked.
Harvey glanced down at your daughter for a second before looking back up at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. "The teacher opened the door..." He paused, letting out a small breath through his nose. "She spotted me before anyone said anything."
His expression softened in a way that would have been unrecognisable to anyone outside that office.
"She just..." He gave the faintest shake of his head, almost amused by his own inability to describe it. "Dropped whatever she was doing and came running over like I'd been gone for a month instead of three hours."
A quiet chuckle escaped him, low and almost disbelieving.
"Didn't even look back."
He looked down at the little girl sleeping against his chest, instinctively brushing his knuckles over her back with absent tenderness before speaking again.
"She practically launched herself into my arms." His smile widened, small but completely genuine. "Nearly knocked me over, actually."
His eyes lingered on her for another beat before lifting to meet yours again.
"I've spent my entire career chasing wins." He shook his head once, the admission coming easier than he'd expected. "Nothing's ever made me feel like that did."
please write more dad!harvey it brought me to tears and you write it so well!!
𝑆𝑢𝑟𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒, 𝐼'𝑚 𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑟. ༉ ‧ ₊ ˚.
when Harvey walks into the office on his day off in a three-piece suit, your daughter on his hip like it’s nothing unusual, the firm’s best-kept secret quickly becomes everyone’s favourite gossip.
꒰ঌ ໒꒱ Thank you, anon. Genuinely, that means a whole ton. I’ll likely write more when the mood strikes again—he’s not done with me yet, so there’s probably more of him coming eventually.
︶⊹︶︶⠀†⠀︶︶⊹︶
By eleven o’clock on a quiet Thursday morning, Pearson Specter was running on the subdued energy of people who had come in voluntarily and regretted it almost immediately.
Associates moved through the bullpen with coffees in hand, senior partners barked instructions through half-open office doors, and the steady hum of printers and phones carried across the thirty-second floor.
Then Harvey Specter stepped out of the elevator carrying a baby.
At first, no one reacted properly because the sight made so little sense that it took several seconds for anyone’s brain to catch up. Harvey looked exactly as he always did—immaculate charcoal three-piece suit, polished shoes, expensive watch, coat folded over one arm, expression composed with the effortless confidence that usually preceded either a million-dollar deal or someone getting fired.
The only difference was the small child balanced comfortably against his shoulder, one tiny hand fisted in the lapel of his suit jacket.
Donna looked up from her desk, smiled automatically, and then froze so completely that the smile remained suspended on her face like a glitch.
“Harvey,” she said slowly, as though testing whether he was real.
“Donna.”
“Why are you here?”
“My partner’s working.”
That should have been the shocking part, but somehow it wasn’t. The truly catastrophic detail arrived a second later, when Harvey adjusted the baby higher against his shoulder and the golden band on his left hand caught the light.
Donna stared.
Not because she had never seen the ring before, but because she suddenly realised she had seen it hundreds of times and had somehow never questioned it. Harvey had been wearing a wedding ring long enough for everyone’s brain to quietly file it under things that belong to Harvey, alongside tailored suits and impossible confidence.
“You’re married,” she said, sounding personally betrayed by the discovery.
Harvey frowned faintly, as though she had just informed him the sky was blue. “Yes.”
“Since when?”
“A while.”
“That is not a time frame.”
He opened his mouth to answer, but the baby chose that moment to lift her head, revealing enormous hazel eyes and a soft pink bow tied into dark hair that looked suspiciously familiar. She blinked sleepily, looked up at Harvey, and said, with the solemn importance unique to toddlers, “Dada.”
Donna made a strangled noise that sounded like every maternal instinct she possessed colliding at once.
Harvey’s entire face changed. The sharp edges softened, the habitual guard dropped away, and he smiled down at her with an ease that almost nobody inside the firm had ever witnessed. “Morning, sweetheart.”
Tiny fingers immediately reached for his tie and grabbed it with triumph.
“Oh my God,” Donna whispered, now fully committed to her emotional crisis. “You have a daughter.”
“Still true.”
Only then did she properly notice what the little girl was wearing.
A white frilly dress with delicate embroidered flowers along the hem, white frilled socks, and tiny pink shoes polished to an almost absurd shine. Everything matched. Everything fit. Everything was somehow immaculate despite the fact she was currently chewing thoughtfully on the end of Harvey’s tie.
Donna narrowed her eyes. “Who dressed her?”
“I did.”
“No, seriously.”
“Donna.”
“Harvey, that outfit has coordination.”
He looked down at his daughter with unmistakable pride. “I’m capable of matching colours.”
“On a baby?”
“Different size. Same principles.”
By now the entire bullpen had quietly stopped pretending not to stare. Associates whispered behind computer screens, secretaries exchanged looks, and one junior lawyer nearly walked into a glass wall while trying to get a better view. Harvey ignored all of them with the ease of a man who had spent his career being watched.
He simply shifted his daughter onto one arm and headed for your office.
You were halfway through revising a contract when your door opened without a knock.
“You said you’d be fifteen minutes,” you said without looking up.
“I got distracted.”
“Harvey, you left forty-five minutes ago.”
“Traffic.”
“In the elevator?”
Only then did you glance up, and the rest of the sentence disappeared from your mind.
Harvey stood in the doorway looking entirely too pleased with himself, your daughter balanced on his hip and dressed like she belonged in the catalogue of a very expensive children’s boutique. The pink bow sat perfectly in her hair. Her shoes matched it. Even her socks had been folded neatly.
Your eyebrows lifted. “Well. Someone looks adorable.”
Your daughter squealed, immediately reaching for you.
You crossed the office and kissed the top of her head before Harvey set her carefully onto the leather sofa. Instead of immediately climbing onto the furniture like a tiny gremlin, she remained where he placed her, legs swinging happily while he crouched to straighten the skirt of her dress and adjust one sock that had slipped slightly lower than the other.
“There,” he said, leaning back to admire his work before looking up at you with the smug satisfaction of a man presenting evidence in court. “See? I’m capable.”
You folded your arms, taking your time as you inspected both him and the child. “You dressed her yourself?”
“Every piece.”
“Including the bow?”
“Took two attempts.”
“And the shoes?”
“Matched them intentionally.”
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. “I genuinely expected you’d show up with her wearing one sock, your pocket square, and whatever jacket was closest to the door.”
Harvey looked deeply offended. “That is an outrageous accusation.”
“You once forgot your own suitcase on a business trip.”
“I remembered the important things.”
“Like what?”
“You.”
The answer arrived so easily, so matter-of-factly, that it caught you off guard despite years of marriage. Harvey merely loosened his tie where tiny fingers had wrinkled it and sat beside your daughter, lifting her onto his lap as though the motion were the most natural thing in the world.
She settled against his chest immediately, one small hand patting the fabric of his vest while he absently smoothed her hair.
Outside the glass walls of your office, people were absolutely staring. By Monday morning the entire firm would know that Harvey Specter was married with a daughter, and apparently enough paternal devotion to spend his day off colour-coordinating a toddler’s outfit.
Inside the office, though, none of that seemed particularly important.
Harvey looked at you over your daughter’s head, the wedding ring on his hand catching the afternoon light, and smiled with a softness that belonged to almost no one else.
“So,” he said, entirely unaware that he had just become the biggest piece of gossip Pearson Specter had seen in years, “are you impressed yet?”
Harvey leaned back into the sofa, one arm draped along the backrest while the other remained securely around your daughter, who had become entirely fascinated by the buttons on his waistcoat.
Her tiny fingers worked with determined concentration, occasionally managing to slip one free before Harvey quietly fastened it again without so much as glancing down.
You watched him for a moment before returning to your desk, gathering together the loose pages you had abandoned the moment they'd walked through the door. There was little point pretending you were about to return to work.
Harvey had never been particularly good at simply dropping by, and today, with your daughter perched comfortably on his lap, there wasn't a chance either of you would be discussing anything remotely legal.
"So," you said, sinking back into your chair and turning it slightly towards them, "how did nursery go?"
Harvey's eyes lifted immediately, the corners of his mouth softening into something that barely qualified as a smile and yet somehow meant infinitely more than the cocky grins he handed out in courtrooms.
"It was good."
"'Good'?"
"It was..." He paused, searching for a word he didn't often have to search for. "Better than I expected."
You smiled knowingly. "I told you she'd settle."
"I know."
"You were convinced she'd cry the entire morning," you said, unable to keep the knowing smile from your face as you watched him absentmindedly smooth another invisible crease from the skirt of her dress.
Harvey's eyes flicked up to yours, a faint crease forming between his brows in immediate protest. "I wasn't convinced."
"No?" You leaned back slightly in your chair, folding your arms with quiet amusement. "You packed three comfort toys."
"They all serve different purposes," he replied without missing a beat, as though that explained everything.
One eyebrow arched almost instinctively.
Harvey caught the look and, instead of backing down, merely adjusted your daughter's dress where it had slipped from one shoulder, his expression remaining infuriatingly sincere.
"They're emotionally distinct."
A quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it, and the corner of Harvey's mouth betrayed him, lifting into the smallest smile despite the fact he was clearly trying to maintain his dignity.
"I was being prepared."
"You were panicking."
"I was not panicking," he said, the denial arriving just a fraction too quickly to be convincing.
"You asked the teacher six different questions before you'd even taken your coat off."
"I wanted to know the staff-to-child ratio." Harvey shrugged lightly, as though that were an entirely reasonable concern, one hand absently rubbing slow circles against your daughter's back while she continued to fiddle with the buttons on his waistcoat.
"You asked whether they sanitised the crayons."
"They put everything in their mouths," he defended, looking genuinely baffled that this required any explanation at all.
"And then," you continued, unable to resist dragging out the evidence against him, "you asked whether the climbing frame complied with safety regulations."
"It looked high."
"It was about two feet tall."
Harvey glanced down at your daughter, who chose that exact moment to enthusiastically throw one leg over his lap in an attempt to investigate his watch instead.
"Two feet," he repeated quietly, almost to himself. "For someone her size, that's still... proportionally significant."
You simply stared at him.
He had the grace to avoid your eyes and llet out a slow breath through his nose, somewhere between accepting defeat and refusing to admit it. "I was doing due diligence."
"You were hovering."
"I was parenting."
Your daughter, blissfully unaware that she had become the subject of debate, abandoned Harvey's waistcoat in favour of reaching up to pat his cheek. The gesture was clumsy, little more than an enthusiastic slap cushioned by impossibly small fingers, but Harvey reacted as though she'd handed him something precious.
His expression softened immediately.
"Okay, wow."
She giggled.
The sound filled the office with an ease that expensive furniture and polished glass never could.
You found yourself watching Harvey more than you were watching her.
He wasn't performing. There was no audience he was trying to impress, no carefully crafted persona sitting across from you in one of his immaculate suits. His shoulders had relaxed against the sofa, his tie sat ever so slightly crooked where small hands had tugged at it all morning, and there was something almost impossibly gentle in the way his thumb absentmindedly stroked circles against your daughter's back.
"So?" you prompted quietly.
He looked back at you. "She made a friend."
"A friend?"
"Mhm."
"Already?"
"There was another little girl." He nodded towards your daughter, who was now trying with immense concentration to fit two fingers into one of Harvey's cufflinks.
"They apparently spent half the morning following each other around."
"Following?"
"The teacher said neither of them really played with anything." He smiled to himself, eyes dropping fondly to the little girl in his lap. "They just... kept making sure the other one was still there."
Your own smile became softer. "That sounds like her."
Harvey nodded once. "There was painting."
"Oh?"
He looked faintly resigned. "I've washed blue paint out of one of my shirts."
"Only one?"
"She was surprisingly accurate."
"Harvey Specter complimenting a toddler's paint accuracy."
"You didn't see her technique."
"I'd have paid to hear you say that sentence five years ago."
"I would've laughed in your face."
"I know."
He looked back at you then, and whatever dry retort he'd been preparing seemed to disappear before it reached his mouth.
Instead, he simply watched you.
There was an openness to his expression that almost no one else was ever afforded. His eyes lingered on your face with the same quiet certainty they always had when it was just the two of you, as though the rest of Manhattan had ceased to exist somewhere beyond the office walls.
It was ridiculous, really.
Harvey, whose entire career had been built on confidence so absolute it bordered on arrogance, was looking at you with the biggest, softest puppy eyes imaginable.
There was no calculation behind them.
Just affection, exhaustion from an early morning with a toddler and the unmistakable look of a man who had stumbled into a life he had never expected to want, only to discover he couldn't imagine existing without it.
"I think..." he began quietly, almost as though admitting it to himself before anyone else, "I think she likes it there."
You tilted your head.
"And how do you feel about that?"
He exhaled through a small smile, glancing down as your daughter yawned dramatically before instinctively curling herself closer against his chest.
"I hate it."
You laughed. "I knew it."
He let out a quiet sigh through his nose, lowering his gaze to where your daughter had begun absentmindedly tracing tiny circles over the fabric of his waistcoat with one finger.
"I spent three hours wondering what she was doing," he confessed, his voice softer now, stripped entirely of the confidence that usually accompanied every sentence he spoke.
"Harvey," you said gently, the fond exasperation in your voice making it abundantly clear that this revelation surprised you far less than it probably should have.
"I checked my phone every ten minutes."
"You weren't supposed to stay outside."
"I didn't." The answer came quickly, almost defensively, though the slight shift in his posture suggested he already knew exactly where this conversation was headed.
"You drove around the block."
Harvey's jaw tightened just enough for you to notice. "...Maybe."
"Twice."
Silence.
He finally looked back up at you, wearing an expression that could only be described as mildly sheepish, a remarkably rare look on Harvey Specter, as one shoulder lifted in a small, almost apologetic shrug.
"I was nearby."
"You were surveilling a nursery."
"I was ensuring operational excellence," he replied with all the composure of a man attempting to argue a completely indefensible case, gently tucking a loose strand of your daughter's hair back behind her ear as though that somehow strengthened his position.
"It was a nursery, Harvey."
"It was my daughter."
The answer came so simply, so matter-of-factly, that every trace of humour dissolved almost immediately.
He looked down at the little girl curled comfortably against him, his thumb instinctively brushing over the small hand resting against his chest before he spoke again, quieter this time.
"I just wanted to be close if she needed me."
That, more than anything else he'd said all morning, explained why he'd never really driven away. Instead of the legendary closer, the city's best attorney, or the man whose name alone could intimidate an opposing counsel, all you saw was your husband.
A father trying to understand that loving someone this much meant accepting they would keep growing without asking permission.
"You know what happened when I picked her up?" he asked after a moment, his voice quieter than it had been all morning.
You shook your head, watching him instead of prompting him to continue. He rarely volunteered moments like this without being asked.
Harvey glanced down at your daughter for a second before looking back up at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. "The teacher opened the door..." He paused, letting out a small breath through his nose. "She spotted me before anyone said anything."
His expression softened in a way that would have been unrecognisable to anyone outside that office.
"She just..." He gave the faintest shake of his head, almost amused by his own inability to describe it. "Dropped whatever she was doing and came running over like I'd been gone for a month instead of three hours."
A quiet chuckle escaped him, low and almost disbelieving.
"Didn't even look back."
He looked down at the little girl sleeping against his chest, instinctively brushing his knuckles over her back with absent tenderness before speaking again.
"She practically launched herself into my arms." His smile widened, small but completely genuine. "Nearly knocked me over, actually."
His eyes lingered on her for another beat before lifting to meet yours again.
"I've spent my entire career chasing wins." He shook his head once, the admission coming easier than he'd expected. "Nothing's ever made me feel like that did."
