Description - Y/N loves taking care of her friends but after a night of drinking it seems like they donât want her to. She worries that they might not want her around and panics. They ease her worries and harry has something to confess.
Word count - 4700 (my god that seems excessive)
Warnings - insecure reader, mentions of eating, female pronouns, some description of panic attack, underage drinking, maybe a little ooc for harry at the beginning. angst at the beginning but it turns into fluff. If you just want the heartbreak you could stop halfway through cause thats a mood and same.
A/N - I had to bring Luna into this because she is an angel and the love of my life. Harry is my favorite idiot and Ron is an angel. Anyway Iâm done, just a notice that there is description of a mild panic attack, this is based on how they feel for me. The insecurities are also based on me. This is just to say that this in no way means that this writing is supposed to be universal and i in no way mean to offend.
MASTERLIST
You had been taking care of Harry for as long as you had known him. When you met him on the train you realized that you wanted to protect him and keep him safe. He had already been through enough. Unfortunately, that didnât exactly work out. Over the years you would try to help him but he inevitably found himself in deep trouble and in need of help. You were always happy to fill that role, not that you were always successful. You would do anything for him. especially once you realized that you had real and hard feelings for the young wizard. You saw him and the way he looked at other girls, you knew he didnât like you in that way. So instead of saying anything, you just didnât mention it and continued to give him your all.
You took care of all of your friends most of the time. You enjoyed being needed. That was why, while standing in the corner of the party, you were ready to step in to help any of your friends. There was almost always a party after every match and Harry normally got pretty wasted. You stayed sober most of the time so you could take care of your friends if you needed to. You had held Hermioneâs hair back multiple times. She partied rarely but when she did it was intense. You also liked to keep your eye on Harry who would get decidedly out of it and would often find himself passed out somewhere uncomfortable or unable to keep his dinner down. You felt his eyes on you and he made his way towards you. You could tell from looking at him that he was properly wasted. He wasnât blackout but a few more drinks and he would be. You smiled at him as brightly as you could.
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summary: there are two things that everyone in the ER knows about youâyou're incredible at your job and extremely hot. the thing that they don't know is that you're dating one of their newest residents and have been for years.
MASTERLIST
pairings: dennis whitaker x RT!reader (respiratory therapist)
cw/tags: female reader (she/her pronouns used), described as having breasts and wearing a thong and bralette, mentions of cleavage and nipples, hair long enough for the top half to be tied back in a nondescript way. established relationship, typical pitt warnings (hospitals, intubations, chest compressions, sedation drugs, etc etc), swearing, ogilvie being a freak lowkey, very very minor and casual inappropriate conduct i guess (everyone wants you badly okay is it such a crime??), garcia calls you 'hot shot,' HPV in this context stands for 'hot potato voice,' not human papillomavirus lmfao, no smut but a few sexually explicit references
takes place on the fourth of july but absolutely zero reference to any real events of season 2 so no spoilers!
the pitt needs to introduce some respiratory therapists okay or else
PART 2 HERE :)
Dennis knows youâre hot, obviously. Everyone with eyes knows that youâre hot. He still sometimes canât believe the fact that he gets to date someone like you, even though youâve been together for years at this point. You were working in a clinic that he did one of his first medical school rotations at, and for whatever reason, you had liked him.Â
You got a job at PTMC a year later, and you absolutely loved the fast-paced chaos that was the ER and ICU.Â
When it came time for Dennis to spend a few months at the trauma centre he decided to set some ground rules, not wanting anyone to give him special treatment because they knew he was dating one of their best respiratory therapists. No, he wanted to establish himself as a good student on his own, and he didnât want to risk anyone making fun of you for being with him, not that he told you about that reason.Â
You had agreed, hesitantly, but ultimately thought that it made sense to keep things at work strictly professional.Â
At first, that had been fine. You actually spent the vast majority of your time in the ICU, since the patients up there typically needed more oversight regarding ventilation settings, and most of the doctors in the ER were more than capable of handling emergent intubations on their own. The two of you didnât even cross paths for the first couple weeks that he was working in the ER, which was different from when he was doing internal medicine and admitting patients to the ICU frequently.Â
October 30th, 2024
âFifty-eight year old male, severe SOB and throat swelling, sats eighty-eight on non-rebreather,â The paramedic says, wheeling a gurney through the ambulance bay doors.Â
âWhitaker!â Samira calls, and he races over, holding his stethoscope so it doesnât fall as he moves.Â
âTemp thirty-nine, difficulty swallowing, HPV,â The paramedic continues. âHistory of type two diabetes, hypertension, and obstructive sleep apnea.â
The patient is propped up on the gurney, not laying fully back, likely because he wouldnât be able to breathe if he did so. Samira counts down when they make it to the trauma room, hands moving the patient onto the hospital bed. She asks the patient for his name as Whitaker starts his exam, shifting between nurses as they try to figure out whatâs going on. He shines his penlight into the manâs mouth, swallows some mild panic, then speaks.Â
âDrooling, significant submandibular swelling, limited mouth opening,â He says. âUnable to visualize the posterior pharynx, reduced neck extension.â
Mel has her stethoscope to the manâs back, listening carefully. âLungs sound clear, but weâve got significant stridor.â
Dennis takes a piece of gauze to wipe away some drool from the patientâs mouth. âUnable to handle secretions.â
âSats decreasing,â Princess says. âDown to eighty-two.â
âOkay, weâre gonnaâ need to intubate, and fast,â Samira says. âMel, youâre up.â
Mel orders ketamine and rocuronium, then positions herself by the patientâs head. It becomes extremely obvious that this intubation wonât be easy, but Mel attempts it anyway.Â
âThereâs a lot of swelling,â She says.Â
âWhereâs Robby?â Samira asks, and one of the nurses leaves to go find him. The video laryngoscope is inserted, but Mel genuinely canât see anything on the screen. Sedation starts to kick in, and the patient goes limp.Â
âI canât visualize the epiglottis,â Mel says, her voice still calm, but Dennis can see a small amount of panic in her expression as she attempts to insert the tube. âI canât get it in.â
âOkay, first pass failed,â Samira adds, keeping everyone in the room up to speed. She takes a closer look at the screen, shaking her head. âPage respiratory and surgery, stat.â
Samira gives the intubation a try, but she canât pass the tube either, and the patient is desatting quickly. âWhere the hell is Robby?â
âStuck with another patient,â Mateo says, replacing the bag over the patientâs face, squeezing it every few seconds.Â
Rushed footsteps echo across the linoleum floors from outside, and Dennis looks up just in time to see you push the door to the room open, the badge that reads your name and âRTâ over a purple background swinging back and forth from your sprint to the department. Dennis sees the way the room relaxes, thanking god that youâre the responding respiratory therapist.
He also sees how good you look.Â
You donât have an undershirt on for once, and the slight v-neck of your scrubs shows off a bit more skin than usual. You somehow manage to make hospital issued scrub pants look amazing, and if he didnât know any better he would think that they had been tailored to your body. The fabric shows off the curve of your ass perfectly.Â
âWhatâs up?â You ask, grabbing a pair of gloves, slipping into them as you move to the head of the bed.Â
âFifty-eight year old male, severe mouth and neck swelling, two failed intubation attempts,â Mel explains. âSats down to seventy.â
You do a brief exam, hands feeling up the sides of his neck and jaw, then you look inside his mouth, nodding.Â
âOkay, I need more pillows under his head, prop him up more,â You say. âEars to sternal notch alignment, please.â
You take hold of the mask that Mateo was keeping pressure on, using both hands to seal it around the patientâs face as he continues to squeeze the bag. Garcia opens the door to the room, taking in the situation.Â
âWhatâs up, party people?â She asks, looking at the patientâs face. âYikes, we should crike.â
âYou know me better than that,â You counter, shifting your arms out of the way as Jesse packs pillows and blankets underneath the patients head. âCanât let you surgeons have all the fun.â
âWhatâs your plan here, hot shot?â She asks, an emphasis on hot that makes Dennis look up.Â
âLetâs add a PEEP valve, ten centimetres,â You say, and Mel jumps into action, grabbing the piece that youâve asked for and fitting it to the mask. âI need someone on suction, too.â
âYep, got it,â Dennis says, scrambling a bit with the tube, his hands shaking ever-so-slightly. Youâre calmer than everyone else in the room.Â
âSats up to ninety-two,â Princess says, eyes flicking over the monitor.Â
He doesnât miss the way you look at Garcia, a small smirk on your face as she holds her hands up, letting you work.Â
âOkay, letâs try intubation again with a bougie,â You say. âDonât stop with that suction, Whitaker. Princess, can you take over for me?â
The nurse takes your place, positioning her hands over the mask exactly how yours had been. Jesse hands you the laryngoscope, which you toy with for a second, turning the light on and making sure you can see the monitor. Princess pulls the mask off once youâre in place, and you slide it into the patient's mouth.Â
âDr. Mohan, can you put some pressure right here.â You put your free hand on the patientâs neck, and Samira moves to copy the action. âGood, right against the thyroid cartilage. Press towards the spine.â
Samira follows the instructions with ease, doing exactly what youâve asked.Â
âUp and to the patientâs right a bit,â You add, keeping your eyes on the monitor as you hold steady. Samira adjusts. âOkay, perfect, hold it there. Bougie.â
You take the bougie in hand, and Dennis keeps the suction going, trying to keep the field clear of fluids. You donât look at the screen for a moment, sliding it past the tracheal rings on feel alone, and then you glance back over, confirming the placement. Jesse hands you the tube when you reach your hand out, and you slip it over the bougie, inserting it into the airway. Dennis watches it on the monitor, a rush of pride swelling over him.Â
âIâm in,â You say, pulling the bougie out. Mateo attaches the bag to the end of the tube, and the monitorâs beeping comes to a stop as his sats hold steady. "Yellow on end-tidal."
âSats up to ninety-eight,â Mel says, turning to look at you. âThat was awesome.â
She raises her hand, giving you a high-five, which makes you grin.Â
âThanks for the assist,â Samira adds, the sentence punctuated by your last name. The door between the trauma rooms open, revealing Robby, whoâs eyes instantly land on you.Â
âRobby,â You greet.Â
âOh, good,â He says. âShe got your airway, I assume?â
Dennis doesnât miss the way his eyes trail up and down over your figure. Mel canât look away from you either, eyes snapping between Robby and your chest. He watches her squeeze them shut for a moment, shaking her head lightly to bring herself back to the case. You pull your gloves off as you walk over to the door, turning to Garcia before you leave.Â
âWhen will you learn to stop underestimating me?â You ask, teasingly.Â
âNever,â Garcia shoots back, a flirtatious smile on her lips. âKeeps you sharp.â
You roll your eyes, then leave the room without a second thought, tossing your gloves into the garbage outside. Dennis stares at the doorway until he hears Robby ask Samira what she plans on doing next.Â
After that it became extremely clear that everyone in the ER thought you were hot, which Dennis couldnât blame them for, but it still bugged him. Peoples eyes lingered on you a little too long whenever you were around, movements a second delayed because they were too busy thinking about you. It didnât matter if you were just checking on a ventilated patient or trying to intubate a critical case, people were always watching.Â
They also talked about you.Â
Like, a lot.
It was driving Dennis insane.Â
And after ten months he just couldnât take it anymore.Â
You were elated when he landed an emergency medicine residency at PTMC, as was he, but it also meant that he had to keep watching people pine after you.Â
The Fourth of Julyâa dreaded day in the emergency room, one that both of you were working. One of the boarders who had been waiting for an ICU bed desatted an hour into the day, resulting in your subsequent page and arrival to the department. Dennis comes out of a patientâs room, Ogilvie and Joy behind him, to you leaning against the nurses desk, laughing at something Dana had said.Â
He almost stops walking at the sight.Â
Your hair isnât fully pulled back, the lower half out and styled perfectly around your jaw and shoulders. The top half is tied up, slightly frizzed. Youâre wearing the typical navy blue scrubs with a white long-sleeve underneath, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, your forearms tensed as you brace yourself against the desk.Â
âOh, Whitaker and friends,â Dana says, gesturing for him to come over, then she says your name. âThese are some of our new med students.â
Ogilvie moves so fast it makes Dennisâ head spin.Â
âHi, James Ogilvie,â He says, outstretching his hand for you to shake, an obviously flirtatious smile on his face. âMS4.â
You raise an eyebrow, shaking his hand as you say your name. âRespiratory. Nice to meet you.â
âUh, this is Joy,â Dennis says, and she gives you a wave. It might be the most enthusiastic thing sheâs done all morning.Â
âSheâs one of our best RTâs,â Dana adds. âCan intubate pretty much anyone.â
âVery good to know,â Ogilvie says, still smiling. âIâll keep that in mind.â
You smile back, completely friendly, no undertones. âOur entire team is great, donât ever hesitate to page. Weâre happy to help out. I have a patient, but again, nice meeting you.â
You turn away from them, your badge colliding with the desk, unclipping from your shirt and clattering to the floor. You huff in annoyance, bending over to pick it up. Youâre flexible enough to not have to bend your knees much at all, a fact that Dennis knows very well, but the back of your shirt rides up just as your scrub pants shift, and he catches a glimpse of your hot pink thong.Â
Yolanda emerges from one of the rooms behind Dennis, a low whistle leaving her lips when she sees you, not hesitating to walk over as you stand back up.Â
âNice thong, hot shot,â She says, and your hand collides with her shoulder in a playful push. You pull the waistband of your pants up, tug your shirt down, clip your badge back on and walk away. Trinity appears in Dennis' peripheral, a smirk on her face and arms folded over her chest as she looks to where you just were. Even Danaâs eyes are wide, and she takes a second before speaking.Â
âShowâs over,â She says, referring to the handful of people who look like they just saw a ghost, frozen in place.Â
âHoly shit,â Ogilvie mumbles, and Dennis can finally move again, hands reaching for a tablet so he can pull up a patientâs chartâany chart. âPlease tell me sheâs single.â
Dennis isnât sure if the question is directed at him, but Dana answers before he can open his mouth.Â
âUnfortunately not, Ogilvie,â She says, eyes now focused on her computer, glasses on.Â
Trinity pipes up. âYeah, youâd probably be the five hundredth med student sheâs rejected if you asked her out, trust me.â
âThat doesnât mean she isnât single,â James insists. âMaybe she just wasnât interested in those other med students.â
Trinity clicks her tongue behind her teeth. âNah, sheâs in a relationship, trust me. No one turns down that many people without so much as a stutter unless theyâre already spoken for.â
A trauma comes in a few hours later, a smoke inhalation patient. Theyâre coding upon arrival, one of the paramedics straddling the gurney as theyâre wheeled in, instantly gaining Robbyâs attention.Â
âWhitaker, with me,â He says, which means Ogilvie and Joy follow as well. âPage respiratory.â
âWe donât mess around with smoke inhalation,â Dennis says. âAlways get RT down here as soon as you can, those airways swell like crazy.â
âAs long as itâs that RT from earlier,â Ogilvie says.Â
Dennis says your name, followed by âand listen when they introduce themselves.â
âHow was I suppose to listen when she looks like that?â He asks. Dennis wants to punch him.Â
âYouâre disgusting,â Joy says.Â
âWhat?â Ogilvie asks. âYou thought she was hot, too.â
âYeah, but you donât hear me talking about it.â
The trauma room fills up quickly, and you arrive just as they move the patient onto the mattress, still doing compressions. Dennis doesnât miss the way Ogilvie looks at Joy when you walk in, completely oblivious to the small interaction.Â
âTalk to me,â You say, gloving up.Â
Robby gives you the summary, finishing up just as Dennis takes over on compressions. Your mouth goes dry at the sight, your breath catching in your throat for half a second. His biceps push against his scrubs, his chain dangling in front of him, the way it does when heâs fucking you.Â
âWeâwe should intubate right away,â You say, turning back to Robby.Â
âYou read my mind,â He says, and you move quickly. The intubation goes relatively smoothly, all things considered, but the patient remains in asystole.Â
Robby says your last name, making you look at him. âSwitch with Ogilvie.â
You nod, letting Donnie take over with the bag, positioning yourself over the patient and pushing into their chest hard. The arterial waveform spikes sharply on the monitor, dipping as you allow the chest to recoil, then peaks again when you push back down.Â
âNow that is how you do chest compressions,â Robby says. âOgilvie, Joy, take notes.â
âGladly,â Ogilvie whispers, happy to have an opportunity to stare at you.Â
âRhythm check,â Dennis says, glancing at his watch. You stop, lifting your hands off the patientâs chest, looking towards the monitor.Â
âV-fib,â You say, at the same time Dennis does, too. You donât look at him, but a small smile forms on your face, which makes his heart jump.Â
âCharge to two-hundred,â He says, picking up the paddles and placing them on the chest. âClear!â
Normal sinus returns after the shock, making the room collectively exhale. Dennis steps back, putting the paddles away, just as you try to squeeze past him to get to the exit, your services no longer needed. He finds himself taking a small step forward, leaving you with a smaller gap than anticipated, resulting in your ass brushing against his crotch.Â
âSorry, âscuse me,â You murmur, but you donât really mean it. Dennis has to stop himself from grabbing your hips. âPage if you need me.â
âOh, we will,â Robby says.Â
By the time the patient is stabilized youâre back in the department, just to check on something, but youâve been roped into a conversation with Samira and Victoria by the water fountain. Youâre playing with the cap on your water bottle, fingers flicking it open and closed repeatedly as Dennis walks out of the trauma room.Â
Heâs sanitizing his hands when your water bottle decides to protest the action, a stream of water shooting up and out of the straw as you pull it open again, landing all over the front of your top. Victoria and Samira gasp, as do you.Â
âShit, are you okay?â Ogilvie asks, and Dennis feels like heâs rooted to his spot as the med student steps closer to you, assessing the damage. Your entire shirt is soaked.
You let out a slightly humiliated laugh, waving him off. âYeah, Iâm totally fine. JustâŚcold.â
Your fingers grip the bottom of the shirt, yanking it over your head, revealing your almost equally wet undershirt. You frown when you look down, accepting a handful of tissues from Samira and starting to blot at the fabric.Â
Everyone in the immediate vicinity comes to a halt, eyes landing on you, his girlfriend, whoâs standing in the middle of the room with your nipples on full display. Dennis is pretty sure youâre not wearing a bra, or at least not one of much substance, and that fact is obvious to those around him, too. Robby and Dr. Al-Hashimi stop mid conversation, both of them craning their necks to see whatâs going on. Mel drops the pen sheâs holding to the ground, the clattering sound ringing in his ears. The patients that line the walls are watching, unable to look away as you scrub the front of your shirt with tissues, completely unaware of what youâve just done.Â
The nurses go silent. Cassie comes out of a patientâs room, feet stopping instantly, and Frank almost runs into her.Â
Something between possession and protection override his jealousy, forcing him to move towards you, stepping directly in front of your chest as he puts his hands on your biceps. You look up at him, then you glance over his shoulder, noticing how quiet everything has gotten.Â
âCome on,â He says, plucking a few more tissues from the box and holding them against your barely exposed cleavage and chest. You donât react at all, as though his hand has been there a million timesâbecause it has.Â
He pushes you towards the bathroom, locking the door behind the both of you. Trinity is the first to speak.Â
âSheâs dating Huckleberry?â
This seems to snap everyone else out of their daze, and people scramble to get back to work, acting as though they didnât all just collectively lose their minds over a wet t-shirt like a bunch of twelve year olds.Â
Your cheeks are hot, but you still find yourself making a joke.Â
âGuess they know weâre dating now,â You say, smiling. He exhales, a tiny laugh escaping.Â
âOr they think Iâm a creep,â He counters, and you laugh this time. He takes his own scrub top off, revealing the tan t-shirt he has underneath and his silver chain, the one that you bought for him on his most recent birthday. âArms up.â
You listen, raising your arms and letting him pull your shirt off, revealing your lace bralette. He swallows, passing you his scrub top before moving towards the hand dryer that sits on the opposite wall, sticking your shirt underneath it.Â
You grab a few paper towels, dabbing at the spots on your pants. Dennis frowns at the practically non-existent flow of air from the dryer, shaking his head.Â
âPass me your scrub top,â He says, hand outstretched. You do, dropping the ball of fabric into his palm. âIâll be right back.â
He unlocks the door, pushing it open, stepping back out into the department. Things have mostly returned to normal, but Dennis doesnât miss the way the small group of people at central go quiet when he reappears, quickly trying to act as though theyâve been working this whole time. He sighs, walking over to the scrubs machine, unclipping your badge and tapping it to the sensor.Â
He inserts your old top, then dispenses a new one. He raps his knuckles against the bathroom door, smiling when you pull it open, letting him back inside. You, begrudgingly, give him his own shirt back, sliding the navy blue top on while he does the same with the black one.Â
âThank you,â You say. âIâm sorry, I didnât realize it wouldâŚâ
You trail off, exhaling sharply, your lips curving up in a disbelieving smile. âBe such an issue.â
Dennis shakes his head, grabbing you by your waist, pressing a quick kiss to your lips.Â
âNot your fault,â He says. âButâŚmaybe wear a better bra from now on, hey?â
âYeah, yeah, definitely a good idea,â You agree.Â
Everyone has moved on by the time you open the door, and you walk towards the exit, pager already going off again. Dennis watches you go, so do a few others.Â
âSee you at home!â You call over your shoulder, and Dennisâ cheeks turn pink.Â
A/N - wow she writes for people other than robby??? it's a miracle
another night where you fight, another night of silence. another night where miya osamu sleeps with his back to you.
the realization that there is not much more you can do to save your relationship clutches at your chest with an iron grip.
the gravity of it makes you whimper. pressing your lips together, you shakily push yourself up to sit blinking back tears while blindly stepping around for your slippers, willing yourself not to sobânot here, not where he can hear. your toes touch the fluff of them, and you hurry to slip them on. you need to get out of here.
as quiet as possible, you leave your boyfriend in your shared bedroom.
you stumble to the couch and kick off your shoes, blindly searching until your fingers catch the lampshade switch. you yank it to provide some light, rattling as it flings back into place.
you pull your knees to your chest and press your forehead against your kneecaps. a numb part of your brain thinks oh, so this is where this was, when you think of the misery that quieted itself, replaced with a numbness that overtook you during the fight you had with him earlier.
the numbness that made your limbs feel like ice when he clicked off the phone call without even hearing you out.
you wanted to tell him so much, but in the face of his blank gaze and dismissive demeanor, you shut off. you have more fight in you, you know that. but tonight you just couldnât. couldnât listen to him tell you that he needed more from youâmore support, more time, more patience.
youâve given him that, right? your brain runs with thoughts you can't keep up with. you gave him yourself. you have, for months, for years. you did what you could. youâve withstood lonely anniversaries, forgotten birthdays, broken promises. youâve done everything you could. you gave what you could. you gave everything you could.
i want you to come home, you wanted to tell him eatlier tonight. come home. youâre never home. i know youâre busy at work and youâre doing what you love but please, âsamu. please.Â
love me, too.
your body wracks with a sob, the hurt fresh, as if the words that you never got to say wounded your insides instead. you wanted to tell him that, you wanted to beg for it, beg for his time, beg for his attention, beg for him to love you back. but time and time again he just turns and says heâs tired, he doesn't want to hear it, and the moment is gone, and now the fear of knowing that leaving things unsaid will destroy you, will destroy him. will destroy both of you.
you huddle closer into yourself and sob, a sharp sound in your ears making your head pound.
âbabe?â you hear through the ringing in your ears, and suddenly warm hands are on your arms. âbabe, whatâs wrong?â his voice is calm against your turmoil. âare you having a panic attack?â
ââsamu, iâmââ you shudder and he leaves for a moment, flitting to the kitchen to grab you some water.Â
âdrink, please,â he tells you, gently unfurling you to sit. you comply with shaky limbs, taking the water heâd given you in your delicate grip. a few sips are enough to calm you down, but the fear is still there.
he gingerly takes the glass and sets it aside. he kneels in front of you, taking your hands and soothingly rubbing his thumbs against your skin. his fingers are hot, almost like a furnace, but when you realize that he's not, he's fine, your hands are freezing, you resist the urge to pull away as he warms your palm.
when he looks up to smile at you, you see the exhaustion on his face, and, instantly, you hate yourself for it. for this.
"i'm sorry," you blurt out, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over.
his hand leaves yours and cups your cheek. "for what, baby?"
âi love you so much, osamu,â you tell him without thinking, voice thick and wet and miserable. you press the palm of the hand he let go of against his cheek, hiccuping when he closes his eyes to lean into your touch.Â
âi love you, too,â he says, ready to apologize for the fight, but it's not about that.
not anymore.
you pull away. the confusion and hurt on his face is making everything worse.
âi love you so much,â you tell him, desperately wishing that he could understand. âbut iââ you sob, âbut, osamu, i canât anymore.â
osamu presses his lips together, saying nothing. you hear him sniffle, and his fingers come forward to brush at the tears on your cheeks and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear.
âi love you so much,â you confess. âi would do anything for you. and i have, i have for years. iâve tried my best, but osamu, iâm so tired,â you sob. your voice feels like its giving out but the desperation makes the words claw themselves out of your mouth. âiâm so tired, i'm so tired and i'm so lonely, andâandâand i love you so much, but i have nothing left to give.â
you pull your hands away to hunch over and cry into your palms unable to face him. messily, you wipe at your face and push your hair back. you give him the most apologetic smile you can muster, but you're unable to see his face through your tears. âiâm so sorry i canât give you more, osamu.â
you hear him sniffle and when you wipe your tears away with the backs of your hands, his eyes are glassy. then he closes his eyes.
the pain that washes over his face is absolutely unbearable. the furrow of his brow and the wrinkle of his chin, the lines by his scowl that you know is him trying his best to keep it together.
when he opens his eyes to look at you, his eyes are no longer glassy. your heart breaks for the pain he refuses to show. âwhatâs next?â
your smile is sad and wet with tears. âi think you know.â you brush his hair back and cradle his face with your hands. âletâs⌠letâs do this in the morning, okay?â
he nods, looking away. he licks his lips and shakes his head, and he turns to face you with a furrowed brow and a little more composure despite his watery gaze. but it doesnât take long before his face crumples and he rushes to hide his face against your legs. his quiet sobs are pained and miserable, his chest shaking as he cries.Â
you press your face against his hair and cry with him.
â
the morning greets you kindly, the soft sunlight bathing your room in a sweet glow. itâs early, but you canât keep sleeping. thereâs a lot to pack.
your eyes feel hot and swollen, and bones feel heavy beneath your skin, weighing you down from getting up from the bed. still, you fight. you push yourself up to sit and notice that youâre alone. unsurprising, really; osamu has been leaving earlier and coming home later. onigiri miya needs care, needs nurturing, so itâll blossom and grow. you need to stop begrudging him for it.
you finish your morning ablutions in the bathroom and head out to the kitchen, but when you open your bedroom door, the smell of food hits your nose like a smack to the face. your stomach twists when you see a familiar broad backâosamu didnât leaveâand your fingers turn cold.
the door slides shut behind you and he turns. âgood morninâ,â he says quietly, shutting off the stove.
âgood morning,â you say, walking to your kitchenette. when you see the spread on the table, you gape despite yourself. âosamu. what isâwhat.â
he flushes, sliding a delicious looking steak unto a plate and setting it alongside the other platesânearly every single plate you own, you noteâand your dining table is bursting with food. âcooked breakfast.â
âfor how many people?â you ask, incredulous.
âi tried t'remember everythinâ you liked,â he said with a sniff, and your heart crinkles at the edges, because that means something.
âthank you,â you whisper, and you quietly take a seat while sets aside the dishware he used.Â
when he finishes, he turns to look at you, leaning on the counter. it takes him a while. âwhen you leave,â he says, âiâm going to try again.â
you stare at him, confused. you say nothing and wait for him to continue.
âi donât want you to leave,â he says, and he rubs his face in frustration. âbut i know iâveâi know i fucked up. i love you, and i never shouldâve hurt you.â he inhales through his nose. âbut i did, and i canât change that.
âbut iâm not giving up on you. not on us. youââ he clears his throat, and the dark circles beneath his eyes makes your heart feel tight. âiâll⌠if i have to start all over again, iâll do it,â he whispers, walking closer and taking your chin in his hand, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. âiâll win you back.â
âosamu,â you whisper, and his face crumples again.
âi love you too much to let you go,â he says, voice breaking as he fights back tears. âand i know that makes me a jerk. but iâm⌠i love you, so muchâso fucking much, and i hate myself for not making you feel that. for hurting you.â
he gets on his knees and tears are streaming down your face. âleave me if you have to,â he says brokenly.
âif you need space, iâll understand. but please,â he begs. âplease donât give up on me.âÂ
he does the unthinkable. he curls over and bows, back curved and forehead pressed against the backs of his hands, pressed against the floor.
the horror that overtakes you is beyond words.Â
you drop to the floor to pull him upright, not letting him do this. he wonât do this to himself, you wonât let him. not for anyone, not for you. you pull his face against yours and kiss him as hard as you can, crying as you do.
you won't let him do this.
later, you sit on the couch, arms around osamuâs middle as you lie on his chest. the idea that this could be the last time you held him like this made you want to burst into tears again.
âiâll make it up to you,â he promises, pushing your hair out of your face, gently guiding your chin up. âplease, just⌠give me another chance.â
you look up at him, and your eyes meet.
â
âhey!â atsumu greets warmly as soon as you enter the restaurant, spreading his arms wide to engulf you in a hug. âitâs so good tâsee you!â
âhi, âtsumu,â you greet, returning the hug.Â
he motions for you to sit as he picks up the menu. âknow what you want?â
you nod, not even bothering to pick up the menu. âhow are you? howâs training?â
ââm good! trainingâs good. teammates are pretty good, too.â
"yeah? like who?"
atsumu makes a show of looking at the menu. "oh, i don't you know them."
you roll your eyes at his obvious ploy to get you to start talking. âfine. ask me.â
atsumu instantly leans in, conspiratorially covering his mouth with the menu and whispering, âhow are you two? itâs been over a month now, right?â
âoi.â you twist your head to smile up at the newcomer. âstop bothering them, âtsumu.â
atsumu glares at his twin. âiâm the one who invited âem to lunch!â
osamu rolls his eyes and lays down a platter of onigiri in front of you. he snatches the menu and smacks his brotherâs wandering hands with it before they get to close. âthese are not for you.â
âbut thatâs a lot!" atsumu whines. "canât i have any?â
âno,â osamu says resolutely, then turns to you and gives you the softest smile he can muster, pinning the menu by his side and arm.
"i haven't even ordered yet!" atsumu complains.
osamu ignores him. âlet me know what you think.â
âokay,â you say with a smile.Â
âand let me know if you need to take out anything,â he continues, âiâll wrap it up for you.â he leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple. âenjoy.â
âthank you, âsamu,â you tell him before he turns to leave.Â
he smiles back at you and heads back behind the bar.
atsumu has evidently forgotten about ordering, because his eyes shuttle back and forth between you two before nodding considerably. âso i take it things are going well?â
âyeah,â you admit, picking up an onigiri. âgoing really well, actually.â
âyouâve beenâŚâ atsumu searches for the word, âis it still called âdatingâ? you broke up. but⌠entertaining each otherâŚ?â
âdonât hurt yourself,â you joke. âbut yeah. letâs call it dating. and itâs going well, thanks for asking.â you take a bite of the onigiri.
âdoes he still have a chance?â atsumu asks, genuine curiosity on his face.
you chew thoughtfully as you look back at osamu, whoâs smiling at a customer. you remember that bright morning, when he helped you pack, helped you move into your friendâs apartment. when he cooked all that food, and you found it neatly packed away in a thermal bag that had a handwritten note, reminding you to eat well.
you remember the next day, when he showed up at your friendâs door, holding flowers and inviting you out to get some ice cream. you remember his messages, his calls, his check ins on you, littered across the days, asking you how you are or if youâre eating or if you need any food.
you could call him if you needed any help, if you needed anything at all.
but reality sets in when you think of how one phone call could be a mistake, it stops you from searching his name each time you pick up the phone.
in your mind, you see his bent form, his begging, his tears. you remember his smiles and his hugs and his âsee you laterâs, his gradually growing list of unbroken promises. you remember the effort, the time heâs putting into you, putting aside for you. you remember how hard he tries for you.
it's like everything is new again.
his eyes catch yours and he gives you a small wave, and you wave back, your stomach fluttering.
synopsis: your boyfriend says something and makes you insecure.
characters: suna, kita x gn!reader
warnings: angst to fluff
note/s: reuploading my old haikyuu works so don't mind me!
suna:
ârin, you should eat.â you said, placing a tray of snacks in front of him. the teamâs practice dragged on and suna was drained by the time that practice was over.
suna grumbled, sitting up before narrowing his eyes on what you were wearing.
âis that my hoodie?â suna asked, you smiled a bit and nodded at him.
âyeah, why?â you plopped a chip on your tongue, savoring the salty taste as you chewed.
âwell, donât you have your own?â he asked, no hint of amusement in his tone at all, causing you to stop midchew. you nodded, swallowing the chip and biting back a frown.
âthen why donât you wear your own clothes? iâm not paying for the hoodies for you, (y/n).â you looked at him, trying to find signs that he was only saying that as a prank, but as you look at his fox-like eyes, you see no signs of him kidding.
âiâm sorry if it bothers yo-â âyes, it bothers me. iâve been looking for my hoodies only to see you parading them around as if it were yours.â you take note of the tears building up in your eyes as you look away and nod at him.
âiâll wash them and return it to you tomorrow morning, rin.â you said, fighting the lump that built up in your throat. you could feel suna nod at your statement as he pulled out his phone and began scrolling. you took out yours as well before sending a quick text to your friend to ask her to call you. without question, your friend did. your ringtone blasting, effectively breaking the tensed silence.
âiâm sorry, rin. (y/f/n) needs me for something. i have to go.â
âwait, (y/n).â he stopped you as you stood up and gathered your things.
âyeah?â âcan i have that hoodie back?â you wanted to laugh bitterly at that, but you stopped yourself. nodding, you took off the hoodie and placed it on his table.
âbe safe on your way out, (y/n).â you give him a smile and thanks before closing the door shut as you leave.
when you got home, you sought out every hoodie that belonged to suna before folding them up and placing them in a bag after ensuring that it was clean.
his words rung through your head as you finally let a few tears slip.
you opened your closet and pulled your own hoodies, once you were done. you let yourself fall asleep, not noticing the texts that suna was sending you.
the next day, you walked to your lockers and saw suna already waiting for you. once he felt your presence, he looked up from his phone and pocketed it before giving you a hug.
âsorry for being kind of an asshole yesterday, baby.â he said as you hugged back, swallowing the lump in your throat.
âoh, right. here are your hoodies, rin. i cleaned them before folding them.â you said, giving suna the bag. he gave you a conflicted look. he was about to say something before he was cut off by the morning bell.
âbetter go to your class, rin.â you said before pecking his cheek and walking to your class.
suna felt like there was something off about you. he shook his head at the thought. âif it bothers them, they will tell me.â he thought before heading to his class.
you managed to get used to not asking your boyfriend for his hoodies, it was hard, but you managed. even though you wanted nothing more but to inhale the cologne that left his hoodie whenever you wore them. suna, on the other hand, felt like there was something wrong, especially when you stopped bugging him.
he noticed you went out shopping more with your friends. your closet intaking more and more articles of long sleeves, he thought it was a good thing before he noticed that his hoodies stopped feeling warm after a while. Â
suna, who was supposed to be over the moon after his hoodies had been returned to him, felt like there was something missing whenever he pulled his hoodies over his figure.
your scent. it was your scent that was missing.
suna then noticed that after you returned his missing hoodies, you stopped asking for his ever since. he thought of anything that he couldâve done for you to stop approaching him, then his mind went back to what he said when he was in a bad mood.
âfuck.â
suna almost beat himself up mentally for not noticing how much his words affected you, he had to make this right.
âhey, baby.â he said, opening your roomâs door before plopping himself next to you on the bed, you gave him a smile and a peck on the cheek before scrolling through your phone.
suna peered at your phone to see you on a shopping application, scrolling through various clothing, his heart feeling heavy when you pressed on a hoodie design.
âhey.â he called out, you looked up from your phone, silently asking to continue his statement.
âit seems a bit cold in your room, do you want my hoodie?â he asked, you were tempted to say yes but his words once more evaded your thoughts.
âah, no thank you.â you smiled at the offer even though you were having a battle inside your mind for being stubborn. âi have my own.â you said before reaching out to the foot of your bed where a hoodie rested, for nights where your blanket wasnât enough.
âoh.. yeah.â suna awkwardly said, his heart dropping at the blatant rejection.
âare you sure you donât want mine? itâs your favorite hoodie.â he attempted once more. you shook your head before you started to pull your hoodie over your figure.
âno thank you, itâs yours.â you said, before you knew it you were wrapped around in sunaâs arms.
ârin⌠what?â
âi didnât mean it.â he mumbled. your eyes pricked, knowing exactly what he was talking about.
âi just really had a bad day that day, iâm so sorry for saying those words to you. i miss the scent you leave on my hoodies. i want it back.â he said, tightening his hug on your body. you ran your fingers comfortingly on his back knowing how hard this mustâve been for him to let out, especially knowing that he tends to not show off any emotions.
âaw, rin.â you sighed, he grunted in response, burying his face on your chest, trying to memorize the comforting scent that he was too foolish to let go of.
âiâm sorry too.â
âyou have nothing to apologize for. donât say youâre sorry.â his voice mumbled out. you pulled his face from your chest to face you, his eyes filled with guilt as you smiled at him.
âif it makes you feel any better. i forgive you.â you smiled.
âtake my hoodie.â
âwhat?â
âiâm going to feel better if you take my hoodie and forget the stupidity i said before.â you laughed before letting him pull off your hoodie before he replaced it with his.
his scent overfilled your senses as you pulled on the collar to sniff it.
sunaâs heart swelled up at the sight, before plopping himself beside you and cuddling against you.
âbaby?â
âyes, rin?â
âletâs go to sleep.â
 kita:
it was a tense practice. the team was feeling pressured due to kitaâs unwavering presence. atsumu and osamu kept yelling at each other. suna was just filming the whole thing, unbothered. no matter what kita said, his voice was overpowered over atsumu and osamuâs argument.
their manager, rui, had managed to quiet the twins down. the team finally letting out a breath that they held. kita showed her his thanks as the team went back to practice properly. the tension was still there.
you came in, having a small skip to your step. smiling as you went inside the gym with a bag of snacks to give to the team. you were a second-year manager, having been convinced by suna to join the volleyball team. you were glad you did because you have somehow managed to catch the attention of the cold-logic captain.
not noticing the tension in the room, you placed the snacks down and you went to the place beside your senior manager and talked about the events you missed while you were out.
after a practice set was done, rui walked out of the gym to retrieve the jerseys that were washed. you walked over to kita to relay some good news on your part.
âyouâre late.â his cold voice started. your smile dropped a bit at his tone before apologizing.
âiâm so-â
âhow are you supposed to fully take charge of the team as a manager if you canât even make it into practices on time.â by now, everyone was listening to the exchange. atsumu was looking at you worriedly as you shook your head slightly, a smile still on your face.
âlook, shin. itâs not as if i wanted to be late-â
âbut you were.â he cut you off, you swallowed and nodded your head. he was right. however, it wasnât your fault that the teacher asked you to stay back in order to relay news that you were one of the students who climbed up in the academic ranks. unable to contain your excitement to the news, you thought of buying the team some food to brighten up their day as well. being selfless was one of the traits that made kita fall for you.
âif you could just let me explain then maybe you-â
â(l/n)-san. whatever reason you have is inexcusable. you should know that as a manager you are expected to be courteous in these types of assemblies.â he stated, still with a straight face.
you are no exemption to kitaâs cold logic.
âkita-san, i donât think (l/n)-san wanted to be late.â akagi tried to help you out.
kita looked back at him with piercing eyes, the latter letting out a shiver. âhowever, they are still late. am i correct?â akagi hesitantly nodded, shooting you an apologetic look. you smiled in thanks for his defense.
kita turned to look back at you, âwe do not need a manager who thinks that they have all the time in the world and show up late to practice.â he started, your smile dropping at his words.
âhow are the third years supposed to leave when they know they are about to leave the team in the hands of an incompetent manager.â
âoi, kita.â aran warned, kita turned to face him. âyouâre going too far.â
âi have not said anything that is not based on observations.â he stated, before looking at you once more.
âyou are nowhere near rui's level of duty.â and with that, you blinked the tears you didnât know you were holding. the action shocked everyone in the room as they did not expect kita to say such words to his (s/o).
âi get it, kita. you need not remind me and i apologize for dragging the team down.â you said as loud as your voice can muster. at this point, the whole team wants to desperately console you, but you surprised them both with a smile.
âi guess you are right, kita-san.â you started. âmaybe this job is not meant for me, i apologize for not being like rui.â you bowed before making your way out the door, momentarily stopping to face suna. âi apologize for not meeting your teamâs expectations, rinta.â and with that you left the gym.
the gym was quiet. no one wants to make a sound. no one knows how to approach what just unfolded in front of their eyes.
everyone eyed each other awkwardly, suna stood up from his place and looked at kita who was cleaning a volleyball with a blank look on his face.
âwell, iâm done with practice.â suna called out, zipping his practice bag.
âpractice isnât over, we still have 2 hours!â ginjima said, looking nervously between the captain and his teammate.
âyeah, well. if i see my best friend crying due to the insensitivity of their boyfriend, i think it is my responsibility as a best friend to check up on them.â suna said, kitaâs head perking up at his words.
âpractice will still be practice tomorrow, but (y/n)âs wellbeing is my priority right now.â with those words, osamu stood up and packed up as well, deciding to side with suna on this.
âsee ya.â
 ever since that incident, you have avoided kita like the plague. which was made easy due to your year difference.
osamu and atsumu update you on his well-being, even though you donât ask. they know that you still care about their captain.
your phone is filled with countless unread messages from kita who asked about how you are and if you and him can talk. you did not reply to a single one, leaving him on delivered since the past few days.
it doesnât mean that he did not try to talk to you, because he did. it was only because suna and the twins never left your side so he did not get the proper timing.
âare you really sure about this, (y/n)?â atsumu asked as you signed the resignation form of your managerial responsibilities.
âi think it would be for the best, my own boyfriend did say that iâm not competent enough to manage you.â you smiled bitterly as flashbacks from that day evaded your mind.
suna and the twins frowned at your statement, the four of you walking to the coachâs office.
âtext us if you need up to pick you up, (y/n)-chan.â osamu said, ruffling your hair a bit. you scoffed at his actions.
âweâre in school, as if iâll get lost.â you joked as you bid the three of them goodbye and knocking on the coachâs door.
âpardon me for intruding-â your words were cut off as you realized the coach was not alone and was with kita, reviewing different reports.
âah, what brings you here, (y/n)?â the sound of your name made kita perk up, looking at you with longing despite his deadpan expression.
âi can come back at a better time, sir.â you said, the coach shook his head before gesturing to the documents on your hand.
âi came to drop off my resignation paper, iâm sorry, sir.â kitaâs eyes widened at those words and he uncharacteristically dragged you out of the room with a small goodbye to the coach, your papers in kitaâs hands.
âyou are not leaving the team, (y/n).â kita plainly stated. you scoffed, trying to retrieve back your documents.
âi donât think you have a right to say what i can or cannot do, kita-san.â
he looked down on the ground before sighing and looking back at you. next thing you knew he had his arms wrapped around you, you wanted to struggle. but you know you donât want to lie to yourself and say you do not miss your boyfriendâs presence.
you sighed, arms hanging limply at your sides, itching to hug kita back.
âiâve been a terrible boyfriend.â you almost wanted to laugh at that. you tried pulling away from his hug, but you noticed his grip tightening and his arms slightly shaking, as if you would disappear if you pulled away from his grasp.
âiâve said some things that i am not proud of.â he started, âi broke my promise to you and hurt you with my words.â
âkita-san, itâs okay.â
âitâs not okay, love.â your heart swooned at his pet name.
âi shouldnât have said those words, i wasnât thinking.â
âwell, kita-â
âsince when did you call me kita, itâs shin to you.â he cut you off, earning a short laugh from you, before your voice turned somber.
âi know you donât mean it, but like as you said. those came from observations. and youâre right. i do not deserve to be the manager.â
he pulled away slightly, âi cannot express how sorry i am to have made you doubt your capabilities like that.â he placed his chin on top of your head, you felt tears building up once more as you blinked them away, kita felt your slight shaking, he pulled away before placing his thumbs under your eyes.
âiâm sorry, love. hurting you was my last intention.â he said before pressing a soft kiss on your forehead, you gripped the hands that caressed your face before giving him a small smile.
âitâs fine, shinsuke.â
âplease stay.â
you give him a nod as his eyes softened, a small smile on his face as he leaned down to give you a soft kiss.
âi missed you.â you smiled as you pulled away.
âas have i, my love.â kita responded.
ânot to ruin your moment, but itâs time for practice.â atsumuâs voice interrupted your moment, followed by a sharp thwack on his head, courtesy of aran.
They didnât mean to hurt you â but they did.
And you started changing because of it.
Now they notice⌠and itâs already different.
USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI
âWatch what you eat,â Ushijima says, voice low, neutral. Heâs looking at your tray like itâs offended him.
You smileâa practiced, automatic thingâand laugh it off.
âOh, right. Yeah. Just hungry, I guess.â
He nods. Just once.
And thatâs the end of it. To him, anyway.
The next day, you bring a salad. You poke at the lettuce with your plastic fork, chew each bite like penance. He glances at your lunch, says nothing.
The day after, itâs just fruit. You peel a clementine slowly, fingers sticky with juice, and avoid his eyes.
Then you stop bringing your usual snack. The one he used to reach over and steal a bite of without asking. The one that always made him smileâsubtly, but still. Now your bag is empty. So are you.
By the fourth day, Tendou corners him by the gym doors.
âHey, Wakatoshi,â he says, voice too light. âYou realize sheâs barely eating, right?â
Ushijima blinks. Still, silent. His gaze drifts toward youâsitting against the wall, water bottle untouched, your eyes vacant in a way he canât quite name.
That evening, practice ends. The sun is low, gym almost empty. You sit alone on the bleachers, staring at nothing, your fingers curling around the hem of your sleeve.
He approaches without a word, sits beside you like it's instinct. In his hands: two onigiri, wrapped carefully.
âI didnât mean it that way,â he says, eyes on the rice, not you. âI just⌠I care if you're healthy. Not thinner.â
You donât respond. Your fingers twitch toward your bag, but fall short. He places one onigiri in your lap, the other in his own hands.
You pick at the rice. Slowly. Cautiously. Like youâve forgotten how to be hungry.
He doesnât speak. Just sits with you, quiet, steady. Watching.
Thereâs guilt in the way his shoulders slope. In the way his chopsticks pause every few bites, waiting to see if youâll keep going.
You finish half. Itâs the most youâve eaten all week.
He nudges the second one a little closer. Not pushingâjust offering.
âPlease eat,â he says, barely louder than a whisper. âWith me.â
And you do.
For a long time, he says nothing else. But his silence is kind now. Careful.
And when he finally looks at you, itâs with eyes that say heâs sorry in all the ways words canât.
SHIRABU KENJIRO
The words slipped out of Shirabuâs mouth like a diagnosisâclinical, cold, final.
And the worst part?
You werenât even fighting.
You had just spilled tea on your notesâweeks of lectures and scribbled diagrams now soaked through and curling at the edges. You laughed, a little sheepishly, brushing at the mess with your sleeve. âWell. Thatâs my sign to take a break, I guessââ
He didnât laugh.
He stared at the papers like theyâd personally offended him.
âYouâre not cut out for the kind of future I want.â
You blinked.
ââŚFuture?â
He nodded once, distracted, eyes already flicking back to his laptop. âMedicineâs not for people who lose focus. Who make little mistakes.â
You smiled, like it didnât sting.
Laughed, like you hadnât heard that same voice in your own head on bad days.
âRight. Of course.â
That night, you stayed up redoing your notes from scratch.
And the night after that.
And the one after that.
You started waking up before him.
Stopped doodling in the margins of your med books.
Stopped humming when you cooked, because every second needed to be productive.
Coffee became a meal. Sleep became a luxury.
You didnât complain. Didnât cry.
Just⌠shifted. Quietly. Carefully. Willfully.
The version of you Shirabu fell forâthe one who teased him while quizzing him on anatomy terms, who wore fuzzy socks to study groups, who once made him a human heart out of Jello just to prove a jokeâshe was slowly fading.
At first, he liked the change.
The silence. The discipline.
The way your pens were always aligned now.
The way you never interrupted him mid-sentence anymore.
But thenâŚ
He noticed.
You never touched him just because anymore.
Never made dumb puns over dinner.
Your shoulders stayed tense even in your sleep.
The music in your world had gone quietâand he hadnât realized how much he loved its sound until it disappeared.
One night, he came home late from the library and found you at your desk, fast asleep.
Your glasses were still on.
Your hand was stained with blue ink, fingertips trembling slightly from too much caffeine and too little rest.
There was a cut on your thumb from a broken pen.
Your lips were dry.
You looked paleâdrained, like all your color had been slowly siphoned away.
He didnât say anything. Just stood there, heart sinking.
And when he touched your hand, you didnât even stir.
He sat down beside you, swallowing guilt like poison.
âI didnât mean for you to become someone else,â he whispered, the words raw and foreign in his mouth. âI just wanted you with me. I didnât realize I was asking you to lose yourself.â
His voice cracked.
For the first time in years, he cried.
Quietly.
Beside you.
Because you were still there. Breathing. Trying.
But something in you had cracked.
And he had been the one to make the first fracture.
TSUKISHIMA KEI
That was the last thing he said to you that day.
You had just finished gushing about your favorite showâsomething about parallel universes and time loops and a sad, smiley villain who reminded you of him (your words, not his).
You were laughing, hands moving, eyes bright.
And he had sighed, leaned back in his chair, and muttered:
âAre you done yet?â
You blinked.
Laughed it off. âRight. Sorry. Got carried away.â
He didnât respond. Just went back to scrolling.
After that, you didnât talk about your favorite shows anymore.
Stopped sending him memes.
Stopped rambling in long voice notes that always ended with you laughing at your own jokes.
He noticed, of course. But didnât say anything.
Yamaguchi did.
âShe doesnât text you stuff anymore, huh?â
Tsukishima scoffed. âDidnât realize you were tracking my notifications.â
But later that night, alone in his room, he opened your chat.
Scrolled through the silence.
Past the last thing you sentâa meme, three weeks ago. A stupid one, about dinosaurs and headphones. He hadnât even reacted to it.
The empty space beneath it felt louder than any rant you used to send.
The next day, he walked past a store on the way home and froze.
In the window: a little keychain of your favorite character.
The one you wouldnât shut up about for two whole weeks.
The one he pretended not to care about but secretly knew the name of.
He bought it.
He didnât even think. Just⌠did.
The next morning, he dropped it on your desk before class. No warning. No note.
You blinked, staring at the tiny figure in your hand.
âWhatâs this for?â
He adjusted his glasses, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.
âSo youâll annoy me again.â
You stared at him for a beat, stunned. Then your lips twitched.
You didnât say anything.
But that night, he got a message.
[you]: i just rewatched episode 8 again and i need you to understand how emotionally devastating that scene was. also this keychain is SO cute i might cry.
He read it three times.
Smiled. Just a little.
(Translation: I forgive you. I missed you too.)
SUNA RINTARO
He had said it offhandedly. Barely looking up from his phone.
You had just sent him a selfieâyour hair a little messy, eyes a little dull, but your smile was there. Honest. Tired, maybe. But still you.
And he said:
âYou look tired.â
You blinked at the screen, lips twitching in a way that didnât quite reach your eyes.
Then replied,
âYeah. Been a long day.â
After that, you stopped sending selfies.
Started fixing your hair more before calls.
Wore cooler tones. More neutrals. Nothing bright. Nothing bold.
Started double-checking the lighting. Your angles. Yourself.
One day you joked,
âBetter not look tired again, right?â
But your voice was too quiet. The kind that curls at the edge of something fragile.
Atsumu noticed it first.
âShe doesnât send you stuff anymore, huh?â
Suna didnât answer.
âYou told her she looked tired, didnât you?â
He shrugged. But his thumb froze over your chat.
Unread messages: none.
The last picture you sent had disappeared after twenty-four hours. You didnât save it.
And you hadnât sent another since.
The silence in the thread felt heavier than words.
So he stared at his camera for a long second, then sighed and snapped a picture.
No filters. No angles. Just himâmessy hair, hoodie hood half-on, eyes barely open.
He sent it with a message:
âThis is how I look when I actually look tired.â
âYou always look like someone I wanna keep looking at.â
You stared at the screen. Chest aching.
Then, finally:
[you]: you're still bad at words.
[suna]: yeah. but iâm trying.
And he was.
In his own wayâawkward, quiet, a little late.
But trying.
(And somehow, that was what mattered most.)
OIKAWA TOORU
You didnât mean to bother him.
You had only sent three messages.
Short ones. Thoughtful, even.
[you]: hey, u free later?
[you]: you okay? youâve been quiet today.
[you]: let me know if you need anything. iâll leave you be. promise.
And then it came.
His reply.
Flat. Dismissive.
Laced with exhaustion and that familiar edge he gets when heâs overwhelmed.
[oikawa]: youâre really needy sometimes.
You stared at the screen for a moment too long.
Then you smiled. The kind of smile you force when people are watching.
âlol sorry. my bad.â
One last message. That was all.
And then you stopped.
You stopped texting first.
Stopped sending him memes you knew would make him laugh.
Stopped double-texting, triple-texting.
Stopped reaching out at all.
You gave him what he seemed to want.
Space.
He noticed by dinner.
By the time the team wrapped up practice, Oikawa was already scrolling through your messages, rereading old ones like a lifeline.
There were no new ones.
No âI miss you.â
No âGoodnight.â
Just⌠nothing.
He opened your chat three times that night.
Typed. Deleted.
Typed. Deleted again.
What was he even supposed to say?
Iwaizumi noticed the silence too.
âSheâs not needy,â he said while they packed up. âYouâre just used to being worshipped.â
That stung.
Because it was true.
Oikawa Tooru had always been admiredâon the court, online, in every room he walked into.
He thought love looked like attention.
He hadnât realized until now that heâd treated your warmth like a reflex, not a choice.
Until you took it away.
Until your silence said everything.
So three nights later, he was standing in front of your door.
A hoodie pulled over his head. Hands stuffed deep in his pockets. He looked small. Not in heightâbut in guilt.
He knocked.
Once.
Twice.
You opened it.
Your eyes were tired. Guarded. The space between you filled with things unsaid.
Oikawaâs voice was low. He didnât even try to smile.
ââŚI miss your âneedy,ââ he said.
You blinked, lips parting slightly.
âI miss you.â
Still, you said nothing. Just looked at him like you werenât sure if this was another performance or the real thing.
âI donât want space,â he continued. âI want your clingy texts. I want the memes. The constant check-ins. The way you send me random thoughts at midnight.â
He looked down at his shoes.
âI want everything. Even the parts I didnât appreciate.â
Silence.
Then he looked up, eyes raw.
âI only push away the people I care too much about,â he whispered. âAnd thatâs you.â
It wasnât poetic.
It wasnât dramatic.
It was just honest.
For a long moment, you stood there. Then, slowlyâquietlyâyou stepped aside.
He didnât wait for permission.
He just walked in, shoulders trembling slightly.
You closed the door behind him.
And neither of you said another word.
Because this time, he would show you through presence what he failed to express in words.
He came back.
And he didnât let go.
SAKUSA KIYOOMI
It was just a bad game.
He was frustrated. Quiet. His shoulders tight. His jaw locked.
You knew how he got.
You didnât say anything.
You just reached outâsoftly, gentlyâfor his hand.
Not to fix him. Just to say Iâm here.
But he pulled back like your touch burned him.
âDonât touch me right now.â
The words werenât loud.
They didnât need to be.
You blinked, hand frozen mid-air. Then you let it drop, your voice a quiet crumble.
ââŚSorry.â
That was it.
You stepped back. Gave him space.
And from that day on, you stayed there.
You stopped reaching for him.
Stopped brushing your fingers against his sleeve when you passed by.
Stopped fixing his hair when it curled over his forehead.
Stopped lacing your fingers through his on long walks.
You hesitated nowâevery time.
Your hands hovered near him, never landing.
And Kiyoomi⌠didnât notice.
Not at first.
But Komori did.
He waited until the locker room was empty, then slammed his locker shut louder than necessary.
âYou told her not to touch you,â he said, arms crossed. âAnd now she doesnât. Happy?â
Kiyoomi blinked, confused.
âShe flinched when you brushed her arm, Omi. She flinched. That girl used to hold your hand like it was second nature.â
The words hit harder than they shouldâve.
Komori left. Kiyoomi sat down, heart unsettled, brain replaying every tiny momentâyour hands curled into your lap, your stiff shoulders, the way your gaze flicked to his fingers then away.
It was true.
You were gone, somehow, even while still beside him.
That nightâno, early morningâhe couldnât sleep.
He stared at his phone screen in the dark, thumbs hovering. Then:
[sakusa]: iâm sorry. i didnât mean to make you feel unwanted.
No typing bubbles appeared.
He didnât expect them to.
But the next day, he found you outside the gym, hugging your arms to yourself, pretending not to see him.
He walked straight to you.
You looked up, cautious.
He didnât speak. Not yet.
He just reached forwardâand for once, it was him who was shakingâand took your hand. Both of his around yours, like anchoring something fragile.
You looked down at the connection.
Then back at him.
His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
âI want you close,â he said. âEven when Iâm upset. Especially then.â
Your lip trembled.
He held your hand tighter.
And in that quiet moment, on the edge of hurt and healing, you let yourself believe him.
Because sometimes, people push away what they need most.
And sometimes, if theyâre lucky, they get the chance to hold it again.
KENMA KOZUME
You used to sit beside him.
No words. No noise.
Just quiet company while his fingers danced across the keyboard, headset snug over his ears.
You liked being close.
He never complainedâuntil one night, between matches, he muttered without looking at you:
âYouâre kind of distracting when Iâm streaming.â
It wasnât cruel.
It wasnât sharp.
But it stuck.
You blinked. âOh.â
And after that⌠you stopped.
You stopped bringing snacks and dropping soft kisses to his temple when he won.
Stopped curling up next to him.
Stopped humming under your breath or watching from the corner of his screen.
You stayed in your room more.
Quiet. Out of sight.
Invisible.
Kenma didnât notice at firstâtoo busy adjusting his settings, managing collabs, climbing ranks.
But Kuroo noticed.
Over Discord, mid-game, as Kenma sat in silence between rounds, Kuroo muttered:
âShe doesnât bug you anymore, huh?â
Kenma blinked.
âWhat?â
âYou look kinda lonely now.â
The words landed like a delayed hit.
Kenma glanced to the sideâout of instinctâat the space where you used to sit.
Empty.
Still.
He stared longer than he meant to.
His fingers paused over the keys.
The stream kept running. The chat wondered what happened. But Kenma didnât move.
Later that night, he found himself in front of your door.
A bag of your favorite snacks in hand. Slightly crumpled from how tightly heâd been holding it.
He knocked once. Soft.
You opened the door, eyes tired.
Surprised.
He didnât speak at first. Just held out the bag.
ââŚWhatâs this?â you asked quietly.
âPeace offering.â
Your brow arched. âYou said I was distracting.â
He looked down, fingers flexing.
âI know,â he murmured. âI was wrong.â
You stayed quiet.
So he stepped forward, placed the snack gently beside his controller on his desk, then turned back to you.
âCome sit with me?â he asked.
Then, even softer:
âI miss your noise.â
You blinked.
And for the first time in days, your lips curvedâjust slightly.
He held his hand out toward you.
And this time, when you took it, he didnât let go.
Not even when the game started.
Not even when chat noticed.
Because he wasnât playing to win anymore.
He just wanted you back beside him.
Even if you distracted him.
Especially if you did.
MIYA ATSUMU
You hadnât meant to cry.
You didnât even realize it was happeningâuntil your voice cracked mid-sentence, and you saw the way Atsumuâs expression tightened, not with concern, but irritation.
âIâm not in the mood for your drama right now.â
It hit like a slammed door.
You blinked once. Twice.
Then you nodded.
"Sorry," you said, voice barely there.
And after thatâyou stopped.
You stopped venting.
Stopped opening up.
Started smiling too wide, laughing a little too quickly.
"Iâm fine."
"Just tired."
"Nothing big."
You said it so much, you almost believed it.
But Atsumu didnât.
Not at firstâhe was too wrapped up in training, in pressure, in exhaustion and ego.
But Osamu noticed.
âYou broke something, yâknow,â he said one night, tossing a towel over Atsumuâs head.
âYou might wanna fix it before it stays broken.â
Thatâs what finally made him pause.
And thatâs what led him hereâ
To the empty gym hallway, where he found you sitting against the wall, knees to your chest, eyes blank.
You didnât notice him at first.
Didnât look up.
Didnât flinch.
He walked over, crouched down, and gently rested his forehead against your shoulder.
ââŚIâm the drama,â he whispered, voice raw. âNot you.â
You stayed quiet.
He clenched his fists. Loosened them. Then tried again.
âPlease donât hide your feelings from me. Ever.â
Your throat tightened.
You looked away, eyes burning, lip tremblingâbut still, you said nothing.
So Atsumu pulled you into his arms.
Held you there. Not asking for forgiveness, not rushing itâjust there.
âI was stupid,â he mumbled into your hair.
âI was tired and selfish and I made you feel like too much.â
His voice cracked.
âYouâre not too much. I was just too stupid to handle someone real.â
You didnât say anything right away.
But your hands slowlyâfinallyâgripped the back of his jersey.
And that was enough.
Because this time, he wouldnât let go first.
KITA SHINSUKE
You were tired.
Not just physically, but the kind of tired that settles in your chest and makes everything feel heavier.
You forgot to do something small â misplanted a row of seedlings in your shared garden, or maybe you overslept and missed breakfast with him.
He didnât yell.
He never did.
Just that calm, steady voice:
âThatâs not very disciplined of you.â
No anger. Just disappointment.
And somehow, that was worse.
It clung to you for days.
You started fixing your posture more, triple-checking tasks, waking up earlier than needed.
No more lazy mornings. No more spontaneous dancing in the rain or lying in the grass just to feel the sun.
You stopped being soft. You started being⌠correct.
And he noticed.
How your laugh faded.
How your hands trembled when you thought he was watching.
It was Aran who quietly pulled him aside one afternoon.
They were harvesting. The sun was warm. But Kita felt cold at the words:
âSheâs not blooming anymore. Sheâs surviving.â
âYouâre so focused on raising standards⌠you didnât see her lower herself.â
That night, he found you tending the garden.
The same bed you both built together.
The soil was dry. The petals curled inward. And so were you.
He knelt beside you silently, heart heavy.
âDiscipline matters,â he started. âBut so does grace. I shouldâve given you more of it.â
You didnât look at him.
Your fingers kept digging gently through the soil.
So he did something rare.
He placed his hand over yours.
Soft. Still. Sure.
âYou donât need to be perfect⌠to be precious to me.â
Your breath hitched.
And when you finally looked up â eyes glassy, dirt smudged on your cheek â
he smiled, just barely.
âLetâs grow softer things. Together.â
KAGEYAMA TOBIO
Youâd tried something new.
Maybe you curled your hair, tried eyeliner, wore that outfit you werenât sure about but finally had the courage to put on.
You didnât expect a grand reaction.
But you didnât expect that either.
âYou look weird.â
He didnât laugh.
Didnât smirk.
Just said it like a volleyball stat: flat. Unthinking. Unfiltered.
You smiled like it didnât hurt.
Went to the bathroom that night and wiped it all off.
Told yourself it wasnât a big deal.
But the next day, you played it safe.
No more makeup.
Neutral clothes.
You toned it down, layer by layer, until it felt like youâd erased something.
And he didnât even seem to notice.
But others did.
Sugawara asked Kageyama during practice, teasing but genuine:
âWhat happened to all those selfies she used to send you? I kinda miss the glitter.â
Kageyama blinked.
Paused.
Scrolled through his phone that night.
Through bright lipstick, messy buns, silly filters, captioned doodles.
Gone, now.
He found you that night, seated quietly on the porch or your shared bench near the gym.
âHeyâŚâ
You looked up. Tired. Dull.
He sat beside you, awkward fingers twitching on his knee.
âYouâre⌠not weird. I mean, you are, but like. Notâbad weird. Like⌠your kind of weird. And I liked that.â
You didnât respond. Just stared ahead.
So he added, softer this time:
âIâm stupid with words. But I didnât mean to make you feel like you had to disappear.â
You swallowed.
He turned slightly, desperate and clumsy:
âPlease donât change for something dumb I said. I didnât realize how much I loved⌠all of that. All of you.â
You turned to him.
Eyes glossy, voice small:
âThen why didnât you say that sooner?â
He didnât have an answer.
So instead, he reached into his pocket and held out the phone screen â a selfie of you from a month ago.
âI saved this one. I liked your smile here the most.â
DAICHI SAWAMURA
It was something small.
You tripped on a stair and instinctively, he caught your wrist, pulling you close before you fell.
Someone whistled.
A teammate teased:Â âOoh, Daichi, playing knight in shining armor?â
He panicked. Embarrassed. Tried to play it cool.
So he shrugged and muttered,
âSheâs not my responsibility.â
Laughed it off.
But your smile didnât reach your eyes.
Youâd never expected him to take responsibility for you.
You werenât asking to be saved.
But youâd thought â maybe â it was okay to lean. To trust. To fall near him.
After that day, you stopped doing that.
You handled everything alone â even when your hands shook carrying too much, even when your emotions threatened to spill.
No more late-night texts.
No more spontaneous hangouts.
No more quiet moments walking beside him.
You avoided everyone for a while.
Until Suga found you missing again from another group outing and went straight to Daichi.
âShe knows sheâs not your responsibility, Daichi. She just thought⌠you gave a damn.â
That silenced him.
That night, he went up to the school rooftop â the place you always went when you needed to breathe.
You were already there, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes on the sky.
He didnât speak.
Just sat beside you.
Let the silence ache between you both.
Then finally, barely audible:
âI wanted to protect you. Not push you away.â
You didnât look at him. You just said, hollowly:
âYou donât have to explain. I get it.â
But he shook his head gently.
âNo, you donât. I didnât say that because I didnât care. I said it because I was scared of how much I did.â
You blinked, eyes burning.
âYouâre not my responsibility,â he whispered again â but this time softer, reverent.
âYouâre my person. Thatâs⌠different.â
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Superman desperately scanning the street during a fight to find the most morally acceptable car to throw at his opponent, knowing that not everybody has insurance, and loss of transportation can ruin a life -
A wave of incredible relief washes over him as he spots the hard geometric lines and silver paintless sheen of a Cybertruck.
What is Stephanie Myers's problem making her background characters more interesting than the mains. How am I supposed to pay attention to the guy who died from the Spanish Influenza when twins who were burned at the stake for witch accusations are there. Or the 1920s queen who killed her rapists one by one. Or the guy whose father was a vampire hunter. Or the
fluff, allusion to but no actual spice, use of nicknames literally once. not proof read and no word count on this one just know itâs very short n sweet đ¤
i miss my little cowboy show.. so hereâs a small domestic glimpse into a untitled little fic world i have in my head! maybe one day iâll write it all down and hit post.
dust floated soundlessly through the single stream of sunlight peaking through the curtains. the cold montana winter wind whistled across the windows as you stretched carefully. the firm arm wrapped snug around your waist squeezing carefully in response caused you to smile.
âwas wonderinâ when you were gonna wake up.â kayceâs voice was still rough with sleep. speaking gently, almost afraid of bursting the bubble you two shared happily.
âsays the guy who could sleep through a hurricane.â
âwe live in a landlocked state, baby. donât have to worry about those here.â he sighed as he moved to press a tender kiss the the skin behind your ear and you shook your head.
smart ass.
âyou love my ass.â okay so you did say that out loud.
âin those cowboy cuts?â you turn around to face him, his hand never leaving your bare waist in the process âwhatâs not to love.â your eyes finally met his and you felt that familiar tug in your heart.
you brought your hand up to brush a piece of hair off his forehead before resting your hand against his cheek.
âwe really should get up..â the tips of your fingers brushed against the stubble there as you pressed yourself into him ever so slightly. kayce craned his head down gently, his lips brushing against yours briefly before capturing your soft lips between his slightly rougher ones.
âfive more minutes.â he mumbled against you, a smile spreading across his face when you hummed in agreement.
the two of you werenât leaving the bed anytime soon.
people don't talk enough about how fucking funny it is that bruce can sub in his kids as batman when he's too busy. like can you imagine it from the league's perspective? imagine you have this really mysterious, geniusly scary guy that you know next to nothing about, never cracks a smile and yet always comes out on top, and one day he shows up to a league meeting and there's just something... off. about him.
you can't pin it down because he's literally acting exactly the same as usual and there's no reason to think there's anything wrong, but maybe he shifted in his seat one to many times, or he looked just a tad bit too bored during green lantern's case review, but something's just... odd. so you quietly ask superman after the meeting if anything's up with the bat bcs you know those two are closer and also clark can hear heartbeats so if something's wrong surely he'll pick it up? and without hesitation he leans over to you and mumbles 'yeah batman was busy, that's his 17 yr old son. he's a crime lord and kills people sometimes though so we're not allowed to let him into the weapons department.' and then walks away like it's normal.
like the whiplash the league must go through every time they realise that no, this is not their fearless dark and brooding leader, this is in fact one of his dipshit kids being forced to sub in bcs the real batman broke an ankle, is incredible.
wonder woman: so that's my proposed plan, what are your thoughts batman?
batman: hn. i think that- *voice raising two octaves* oh shit hold on my phones buzzing
the league:
batman, answering the phone and immediately dropping the Bat Postureâ˘: what do you mean- aw come on little wing that's not fair! but- no, NO DON'T YOU DARE TELL ALFRED I'LL BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU- IM SORRY OK I'LL BUY YOU MORE- *catches sight of the league watching him, baffled* *stiffens* ok listen i promise to replace them but i gotta go, please show me mercy iloveyoubye *hangs up*
the league:
batman:
batman: *coughs awkwardly*
superman: *sighs*
batman, to superman: ...red hood found out i ate his chocolate pretzels-
superman, shaking his head: just... just stop.
the flash: so this isn't batman either, is it?
wonder woman: if this one's also a criminal im losing my mind.
superman, tiredly: no no, this one isn't a criminal. this one's actually a cop.
batman: *sinks down in his seat* b's gonna kill me
green lantern, mystified: where does he keep GETTING you all from!?
'batman' dick, who made a pact with jason to Always Fuck With Bruce Whenever The Opportunity Arises: batman is a whore.
they think they've finally sussed out all 2 of batman's kids and then one day during a meeting 'batman' ends up on a 30 minute rant about different hacking methods this tech villain could be using that results in him half way through a sentence breaking off to say '-oh uncle clark could you pass me that pen- thanks, anyway so-' and then five minutes after that when the league have all been exchanging incredulous looks he finally freezes and is like. SHIT.
wonder woman: you're different from the other two, aren't you?
batman: maybe i am maybe i'm not, you can't prove it.
wonder woman:
green lantern: so like, are you new or have you just managed to avoid sub duty up until now?
superman, coughing: actually, this is this ones ninth occasion of replacing batman. you've just never realised before.
the league:
batman: yeah actually the other two are kinda mad i lasted longer than them...
the flash: how the fuck does he keep getting kids with the exact same build as him!??!?
'batman' tim, spent 20 minutes padding the suit out so he would look the part, still mad that bruce keeps palming WE work off on him: oh he forces us to take steroids for it.
the league, concerned:
superman, pinching the bridge of his nose: now come on red robin-
batman, fully tearing up and looking distraught: PLEASE uncle clark, it HURTS, you can't keep COVERING FOR HIM!
superman, frantically to the league: this one lies.
bonus
the league, squinting at batman:
the league: ...
superman: *head in his hands, too disappointed to do anything*
the league: *silently exchanging looks, wondering if anybody's brave enough to say anything*
duke as batman, fully aware this is fucking stupid but jason and tim fell on the floor laughing when dick came up with the idea and frankly, he wanted to see if anybody would have to guts to call him out: so, are we all ready to start the meeting?
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in which BAU fem!reader was injured on the job, but is refusing painkillers at the hospital. spencer thinks he knows why.
fluff (+a little angst)
warnings/tags: established relationship, hospital stuff, reader got beat up by an unsub, discussions of spencer's past addiction, mentions of period cramps, reader ends up being administered some sort of painkiller
a/n: another draft i found in my literal hundreds of pages of abandoned wips and fixed up cause it's cute, I hope you like!!!
Spencer is tearing through the hospital. They all keep saying youâre going to be okay, but what does that even mean? Why is nobody telling him anything? Heâs not even sure he heard what the orderly at the front desk said, but his feet are carrying him with a strident purpose through the winding white halls, so he has to assume he at least subconsciously knows where heâs going.Â
Finally he spots Penelope, a beacon in her candy-colored clothing, speaking to a doctor in hushed tones. Penelope sees him approaching and turns away from the doctor, looking harried and exhausted.Â
âIs she okay? What happened?â Spencer demands, before either of the others can say a word.Â
âSheâs okay,â the doctor assures. âShe was beat up pretty badâconcussion, broken ribs, some bruising that looks worse than it is. There was a clean shot through her arm, butââÂ
His blood runs cold. Nobody told him you were shot. Why had nobody told him you were shot?Â
âI need to see her.âÂ
The doctor frowns, glancing between the two agents.Â
âIâm sorry, are you her spouse?âÂ
âYes. No, not yet, I justâI need to see her, please. Now.âÂ
âSir, unless sheââÂ
âJust let him see her!â Penelope practically yells. âShe wants him here, believe me.â Â
The doctor clenches her jaw and scribbles something on her clipboard.Â
âOkay. Maybe you can try to convince her to accept some painkillers.âÂ
Spencerâs frown deepens.Â
âSheâs refusing pain management?âÂ
âWe gave her as much ibuprofen as we could, but she refused anything stronger than that. She has to be in a lot of pain right now, and thereâs no background of addiction.âÂ
âIâll talk to her,â Spencer says, already twisting the silver door handle. He has a sneaking suspicion as to why you denied pain treatment, and it makes him feel incredibly guilty. More than he already did, after this entire debacle.Â
The sight of you, bloodied and bruised and obviously suffering has his heart splintering right down the middle. Whatever meager semblance of a smile he can scrounge up and offer is reflected back to him on youâwhich only makes him feel worse. As always, youâre putting on a brave face.Â
âHey,â Spencer says quietly as he closes the door behind him.Â
âHi,â you croak. âHow do I look?âÂ
He approaches, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing your hair away from your face.Â
âHow do you feel? The doctor told me you wouldnât accept pain medication,â he murmurs.Â
You sniff.Â
âI feel okay. Did she tell you itâs not as bad as it looks?âÂ
But your voice is so small, so wavery and weak, that he knows youâre lying.Â
âSweetheart...âÂ
Youâve been holding it together since the unsub beat you nearly unconscious. You held it together as he ran away, even got a couple shots in before he turned around and returned fire. You held it together while you sat against the dirty truck, bleeding out, not sure if your team was coming, and you held it together in the ambulance, and for the past thirty minutes in this hospital bed. But all it takes is one gentle word from Spencer, with that concerned, solicitous look in his eye, and the floodgates are opening. Tears spring up in your eyes and begin silently falling down your dirtied cheeks.Â
âItâs okay!â you attempt to reassure him, affecting cheeriness even through the tears. âIt doesnât hurt. Iâm fine!âÂ
He says your name soft and low and he tries his best to keep his tone even though he is liable to burst into tears or start yelling at someone (not you) at any minute. Â
âI know thatâs not true. You have broken ribs and a gunshot wound. I know how badly it hurts to breathe and how it feels every time you move your arm. That is too much damage for over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. You need real analgesics.âÂ
âI donât,â you whisper. Your teary eyes make his whole body ache. He squeezes your handâthe one thatâs not connected to the wounded arm.Â
âBecause of me?â You stare at him blankly, as if youâre shocked he was able to put two and two together. âI promise you donât need to worry about that.âÂ
You sniffle.Â
âBut what ifâwhat if they give me the drugs and I get all weird and itâs, itâs like... triggering for you, or something?âÂ
âItâs been a really long time since Iâve worried about that. Iâd rather see you a little tired and out of it than in extreme pain and trying to pretend youâre not. You getting the pain relief you need in a medical emergency is not going to make me relapse.âÂ
âBut I really think I could go without,â you begin, voice already tightening around a cry. âIâveâIâve had period cramps that were worse than this.âÂ
Despite himself, he chuckles. Goes back to stroking your hair.Â
The laughter fades quickly. All the pain youâre in is so evident in your eyes. The dissociative glassiness, the tension around them, the bloodshot qualityâhe's seen it many times before, and he hates it on you.Â
âWill you please tell them youâre ready to take something? They wonât give you Dilaudid. Itâs too strong. Theyâll give you something that Iâd have no interest in anyway.âÂ
âNot funny,â you whisper.Â
He ignores this.Â
âWill you let me call the doctor back in?âÂ
You take a deep, shuddering breathâor at least, you try to, before youâre loosing a sharp squeak that deteriorates into a little sob. The ribs.Â
Spencer doesnât bother asking again, just gets up and begins to walk away as efficiently as his legs will carry him. You need painkillers and he thinks it might be fastest to just fetch the doctor or a nurse from the hallway.Â
âWait,â you plead. Â
He stops. Reminds himself that you need him right nowânot his medical opinions. Spencer turns back around and approaches again, crouching by your bedside this time.Â
âWhat, honey?âÂ
âI donât...âÂ
You trail off, overcome by something like fear in the width and shine and nervous dart of your eyes. Spencer knows, everybody at the BAU knows, that showing fear to a serial killer will get you killed that much quicker. During your time alone with the unsub, which is a can of worms Spencer literally cannot psychologically open right now, you had to put on your bravest face. Even while you were being beaten within an inch of your life. Even when you thought you were going to die, alone, and that your teamâthat Spencerâwasn't coming back for you. Because thatâs the kind of thing you have to do to cope when youâre at rock bottom. But you were terrified. Petrified. That doesnât just go awayâand Spencer knows itâll be bumping against the surface until it finds a way out. Â
He has to remember that just because you look unafraid and you act unafraid doesnât mean you arenât.Â
âYou were so brave,â he manages after heâs sure he can say it without incident, swiping moisture from your cheek. âYou did everything exactly right.âÂ
âI know,â you whisper, chin trembling. Spencer knows you, and he knows this kind of trauma well enough to know that youâre thinking, I did everything exactly right, and it wasnât enough. I did everything exactly right and this is what I have to show for it.Â
âBut nobody needs you to act like it wasnât hard, okay? You donât need to pretend like it doesnât hurt. You were so, so brave, angel. You donât have to be brave anymore.âÂ
Your eyes squeeze shut, sending a new wash of tears over your tacky cheeks. A few moments pass. You say nothing. He hopes youâre not going to hide away inside yourself like he did.Â
âWill you please, please, let me get the doctor?âÂ
At least this time you donât immediately say no.Â
âWill you come right back?âÂ
âOf course.âÂ
Finally, you nod your hesitant assent, and Spencer presses a careful kiss to your forehead.Â
A few minutes later, the doctorâwho was shocked that Spencer was able to so quickly change your very made-up mindâis back, and so is Spencer. It only takes a moment for them to determine the best course of action for you and soon the fist around his heart is loosening its grip as he watches some of the agony melting from your eyes.Â
âBetter?â he murmurs as the nurse whoâd administered the drugs leaves, fanning his thumb over the underside of your wrist. You nod, already appearing sleepy.Â
âCan you lie down with me?âÂ
He smiles at the way your words slip against each other, simply relieved that youâre able to relax and no longer in extreme pain.Â
âHospital beds arenât rated for two people.âÂ
âSpencer.âÂ
Itâs enough for him to climb onto the bedânot that he was ever going to deny you what you wanted to begin with. The fit isnât exactly perfectâhe's a bit too long and combined the two of you are just slightly too wideâbut with some finagling itâs comfortable enough. Spencer has slipped his arm underneath you and your head is on his shoulder and heâs so glad to have you in his arms and so grateful that youâre okay he does something almost like praying in his head as he kisses your hair.Â
âHey. Ask me about my bruises.âÂ
âWhy? Do they still hurt?âÂ
âYou should see the other guy.âÂ
Itâs dumb and it doesnât make sense because you didnât bother waiting for him to actually set the joke upâbut he smiles dryly nonetheless.Â
âCan you please give me... I donât know, 36 hours before you start making jokes about almost dying?âÂ
âClock starts now.âÂ
âThank you.â He feels your lips curve into a half-conscious smile against his neck. Itâs a wonderful feeling. âHow are your ribs? Breathing feels okay?âÂ
âMhm. Love breathing.âÂ
âMhm. And your arm?âÂ
âLike I got shot.âÂ
âWell, thatâs pretty much unavoidable. But not as bad as before, right?âÂ
âRight. Spencer?âÂ
âWhat, my love?âÂ
A little pleased puff of air warms his shoulder. He carefully rubs your hip.Â
âWill you tell me how brave I was again?âÂ
He takes a silent, very deep breath. Â
âYou were incredibly brave. And smart, too. Iâm really proud of you for how you handled that situation. Iâm so sorry you had to go through that, but I donât think anyone could have handled it better. Especially when you chose to stay put by the truck, instead of chase him. I know that wasnât what you wanted to do, but it was the right choice.âÂ
âI thought you guys maybe werenât coming,â you murmur, no hint of sadness in your smushed, flat voiceâlike youâre barely awake. âI waited half an hour and I thought you werenât gonna find me.âÂ
âAngel, I will always find you. We didnât stop looking even once, as soon as we noticed you were gone. Iâm just sorry I wasnât with Emily and Rossi when they got to you.âÂ
ââNelope told me... she told me you got really angry and scary.âÂ
He stares at the ceiling and considers this.Â
âI could see... how what I was feeling would be interpreted that way. I was pretty angry. But not at Penelope or any of them. I was mostly just scared.âÂ
âIâm sorry I scared you,â you whisper. âAnd Iâm sorry if I made you mad.âÂ
âYou did not. I wasnât mad at you. And itâs not your fault that I got scared. You were just trying to do your job. None of this is your fault.âÂ
âShe also said that you said fuck like... three times.âÂ
âMm... doesnât sound like me,â he evades. You giggle, and the sound is more a relief than any drug he could take.
âNo, seriously, Iâm so mad I missed it. I love hearing you swear. Tell me what you saidâand you have to cause Iâm all messed up so I get whatever I want.âÂ
He sighs in mock annoyance.Â
âWell, sheâs wrong. I only said fuck once. I used fucking as an intensifier twice.âÂ
You hum.Â
âSexy.âÂ
âAlright,â Spencer laughs, flushing as he moves his hand to your shoulder. âGo to sleep before I tell them to up your dosage, weirdo.âÂ
Spencer doesnât know when the habit had developed, but it had.
Youâre standing next to him while your relationship was still a BAU best kept secret, in the kitchenette and almost softly and absentmindedly, his nose brushes your shoulder when no one is looking, his lips following soon after.
That was offense number one (not that you minded.)
Number two came when you were upset, stressed beyond belief from playing politics in the BAU and trying to keep them from another court scandal.
Spencer was reading the file over your shoulder- a list of the BAUâs shortcomings in the words of Erin Strauss- and at your stressed sigh his nose presses into the material of your blazer and then his lips follow.
âIâm sorry angel.â You shake your head at his words.
âNot your fault, Spence. They hired me to play politics but theyâre stretching things too far. Itâs all a bunch of hypotheticals and exaggerations.â
Spencer knows what itâs like, heâs been under the criticism before with the rest of his team, heâs seen what it can do to be under the microscope like this.
âI can bring you a sugar donut from the kitchen.â You smile, leaning your head back over your chair and onto his chest.
âYouâre the best ever.â Spencer rolls his eyes as he kisses your forehead.
âIâll be back before you know it.â
Emily sees the next time it happens and she honestly canât believe her eyes.
Spencer abhors public displays of affection, he really really does. Everyone knows it, and yet youâre sleepy on the jet, already in your pyjamas as you sit beside him.
Despite Straussâ plan for you to divulge information about the team, theyâd all come to love you and your fierce protection of them.
Youâre one of them; even before youâd gotten with Spencer.
âJust close your eyes,â Spencer murmurs, his own eyes heavy, but he wants you to sleep first. Youâd not been having the best time in Oklahoma with them, youâd been up the majority of the week helping them with the case and keeping the legalities between the jurisdictions and the statue of limitations on some of the evidence.
A yawn tears through your words, âI just wanna finish my tea, Spence.â Spencer hums, watches you take a few more sips of your peppermint tea and then reach for your bag. You tug a thin blanket from it and drape it over your legs.
âYou okay, mama?â Derek asks as he sips his bourbon. You turn your head, that sluggish feeling of moving through mud filling your head.
âTired, dunno how you guys arenât.â
JJ laughs, âWe all slept babe, you were the only one trooping through.â
You shrug, Spencerâs hand tucks between your cheek and shoulder. Emily pretends to be busy pouring her own bourbon while everyone else goes about their own wind down routines, she sees the ease with which Spencerâs nose presses into the hill of your shoulder and then his kiss imprints on the same spot.
You melt under the affection too, a sticky and gooey as your face leans into his palm and your eyes shut.
âAlright, Spence.â She whispers, smiling a little as Spencer strokes your hair and your eyes become heavier.
I'LL SAY, WILL YOU MARRY ME?.â â â 㠤㠤â㠤㠤㠤 ă ¤ ă ¤ S. REID
SUMMARY ŕ§ŕ falling in love with spencer reid was never a question, only an inevitability. it was in the way he remembered things you barely remembered saying, the way he defied probability just to make you smile, the way he learned you like you were his favorite subject. four times he surprised youâquietly, sweetly, in ways only he could. and then, when it was your turn, you made sure to give him a surprise worth remembering
WARNINGS ŕ˛. excessive fluff, spencer reid being the most thoughtful man alive, reader being absolutely whipped, the bau being the ultimate group of enablers, and just an overwhelming amount of love
A/N ŕ˛. my first 4 + 1 fic for spencer, and i had to make it disgustingly sweet. this man was made for the softest love. i wrote this with heart eyes the entire time. hope you love it as much as i do âšđš
The first time Spencer surprised you, it wasnât with some grand romantic gesture or an intricately thought-out planâit was with a single sentence, delivered so casually you almost missed it.
You were at the BAU, perched on the edge of Spencerâs desk, absently flipping through a book heâd left open while he and Derek were mid-conversation about something you werenât entirely following. The buzz of the bullpen droned around you, keys clacking, phones ringingânothing unusual. You had half a mind to start daydreaming when you caught the tail end of Spencerâs words, his tone as effortless as if he were reciting a grocery list.
ââkind of like the 1972 edition of The Last Unicorn, you know, the one with the misprint where the dedication is in the wrong place. Thatâs her favorite edition. She mentioned it once, so if you ever see a copy, let me know.â
You blinked.
Your favorite edition? The one with the misprint? The edition you had rambled about onceâonceâover takeout months ago? The conversation had been a passing thought, a fleeting mention between bites of lo mein, something youâd figured was lost to the ether.
But no. Of course, Spencer remembered.
Derek smirked, a slow, knowing expression creeping across his face as he shifted his gaze to you. âDamn, pretty boy. You writing a dissertation on your girl or something?â
Heat surged up your neck so quickly it was a miracle you didnât combust on the spot. âSpencerââ
âWhat?â Spencer blinked at you, genuinely perplexed by your reaction. âYou said it was important to you. Why wouldnât I remember?â
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. âBecause I said it once. Months ago. In passing.â
He frowned, as if the very concept of forgetting something you loved was utterly foreign to him. âYou love it. That makes it important.â
Your heart stumbled over itself, warmth pooling low in your stomach. You werenât sure what to do with the way he looked at you, all soft certainty and quiet devotion, as if remembering the smallest details of your happiness was second nature to him.
Derek chuckled, shaking his head. âMan, youâve got it bad.â
Spencer barely acknowledged him, tilting his head at you. âDid I say something wrong?â
You exhaled a laugh, light and breathless. âNo, Spence. Not at all.â
You were still flustered. Still shocked. But more than anything, you were his. And that made all the difference.
The second time Spencer surprised you was at the carnival. The lights flickered like a thousand fireflies overhead, washing the fairgrounds in a kaleidoscope of color. Laughter and music tangled in the air, mixing with the scent of popcorn and fried dough. You were walking past a row of game booths with Penelope, your fingers wrapped around a half-melted cotton candy, when your eyes landed on it.
A stuffed bear, slightly lopsided but endearingly so, with soft brown fur and a tiny pink bow.
âOh, thatâs cute,â you said absentmindedly, taking another bite of your sugary treat.
The game itself was one of thoseâthe kind designed to be unwinnable. A cluster of milk bottles, stacked in a pyramid, just heavy enough and just angled enough that knocking them over with a weighted ball was statistically improbable, if not impossible.
Penelope gave you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. âSorry, sugarplum, but those are rigged to hell and back. The guy running the booth said no oneâs won that all night.â
You sighed, a little disappointed but not surprised. âFigures.â
With that, you let it go, continuing forward with Penelope while Spencer lingered behind. You didnât think much of itâhe probably got distracted by something, as he often did.
It wasnât until you were waiting in line for the Ferris wheel that you felt something tap your shoulder.
You turned, and there stood Spencer, glasses slightly askew, his cardigan sleeves pushed up, holding the stuffed bear against his chest like it was some sort of peace offering.
Your mouth parted in shock. âSpence. No.â
Spencer, looking far too pleased with himself, simply shrugged. âYes.â
You blinked. âHowâ?â
âItâs all physics.â He adjusted his glasses with one hand, shifting the bear to his other arm. âThe way the bottles are stacked, they create a deceptive center of gravity. Most people aim for the middle, but if you hit the base bottle at the exact right angleââ
âYouâre telling me you mathed the carnival?â
âYes.â He paused. âTechnically, I scienced it.â
Penelope let out an outrageously loud gasp. âBoy Wonder, did you just hack the universe for love?â
Spencer, deadpan, said, âWould you rather I hacked it for evil?â
You didnât respond, mostly because you were still too busy gaping at him. The keeper had said the game was impossible, and yet, here he was, holding the proof in his hands.
Spencer held the bear out toward you with a small, shy smile. âYou liked it.â
You took it, warmth blooming in your chest so fast it nearly knocked you off your feet.
âSpencer Reid,â you said, voice full of wonder, âyou are ridiculous.â
His expression faltered. âBut in a good way?â
You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around him in a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of him.
âYes,â you mumbled against his shoulder. âIn the best way.â
And as if he hadnât already ruined you completely, he pressed a kiss to the side of your head and murmured, âGood.â
It started as a habit you barely noticedâsomething instinctive, something you never really thought about. When emotions ran too high, whether in frustration, excitement, or joy, youâd slip into your native language. A muttered curse when you stubbed your toe, rapid-fire exclamations when you got good news, whispered endearments when Spencer did something particularly sweet.
And Spencer, for all his genius, would just stare at you, brow furrowed, lips pressed together in frustration.
âI hate not knowing what youâre saying,â he admitted once, after youâd spent two minutes ranting under your breath about something someone had said. âItâs likeâŚwatching the best scene in a movie, but without subtitles.â
You had laughed, ruffled his hair, and moved on.
You didnât think heâd actually do anything about it.
But, of course, this was Spencer Reid.
It wasnât until months later, in the middle of a particularly heated argument over whose turn it was to do laundry, that you realized something had changed.
âSpencer,â you huffed, crossing your arms. âI literally did it last week, and I swear to Godââ
You stopped mid-sentence, your frustration boiling over into a string of words in your native tongue, too sharp and fast for him to possibly understand.
Or so you thought.
Because instead of his usual confused frown, Spencer justâŚsighed. âI know, sweetheart,â he said, voice annoyingly soft. âYou feel like youâre always the one keeping things in order, and itâs frustrating when I get caught up in my work and donât notice.â
You froze.
Your brain froze.
Your soul left your body.
âDid you justâ?â
Spencer shifted on his feet, shoving his hands into his cardigan pockets like he hadnât just rocked your entire world. âI learned.â
âYou learned?â
âWell, yeah.â He shrugged, like it was nothing, like he hadnât just casually admitted to learning an entire language for you. âYou use it when youâre overwhelmed. When youâre really happy. When youâre really upset. I wanted to be able toââ He hesitated, then sighed. âI wanted to understand you. All of you.â
You were reeling.
Your Spencer, the man who got overwhelmed by new foods and wore mismatched socks on purpose, had sat down and taught himself a whole language just to keep up with you.
The worst part? He wasnât even bragging about it.
He was just looking at you with those big, earnest eyes, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
âSay something else,â you breathed, stepping closer, heart hammering in your chest.
Spencerâs lips quirked. He took your hand, lifted it to his lips, and murmured something in your languageâsomething soft, warm, achingly tender.
You didnât need a translation. You felt it.
And that was the moment you realized that if this man ever proposed, you wouldnât even need a ring to say yes.
The BAU wasnât exactly known for throwing extravagant parties, but every once in a whileâwhen the cases werenât weighing too heavy, when the team needed to breatheâsomeone would organize a gathering. Tonight, it was at a cozy, dimly lit bar, where laughter hummed in the air, and glasses clinked together in celebration of nothing and everything all at once.
You were nursing a drink, swaying absently in your seat to the upbeat music thrumming through the speakers, when a hand ghosted over yours.
Spencer.
âI thought you didnât dance,â you teased, raising a brow.
âI donât,â he said. âOr, wellâI told you I donât.â
Before you could question him, he was tugging you to your feet, guiding you toward the makeshift dance floor in the center of the room.
âSpencer,â you laughed, trying to plant your feet. âWhat are youâ?â
And then he spun you.
Spun you.
Not clumsily, not awkwardlyâgracefully, like heâd been doing this for years, like heâd memorized the movements as easily as he memorized case files. His fingers found yours effortlessly, his other hand resting lightly on your waist, pulling you close in a way that sent warmth flooding through you.
Your breath caught.
âYou lied,â you whispered, eyes wide.
Spencer had the audacity to smirk. âI omitted.â
You wanted to be annoyedâreally, you didâbut it was impossible when he was guiding you so effortlessly, his steps steady and sure, his touch sending sparks along your skin. The rest of the room faded, the music folding around the two of you like something made for this moment.
And then, over the music, someone yelledâloud, clear, amused.
"Put a ring on her, Reid!"
The team laughed, Penelope whooped, and Spencerâadorably, unbelievablyâwent scarlet.
But you?
You just smiled, pressing closer to him, because the thought had already taken root in your mind.
And if he kept surprising you like this, you had a feeling it wasnât going anywhere.
You shouldâve known things wouldnât go exactly to plan.
But in your defense, you did the math.
And for a while, everything was going perfectly.
The entire BAU was in on itâexcept Hotch, who you had strategically placed on Spencer distraction duty. You needed someone with a natural air of authority to make sure Spencer didnât suddenly wander back early, and Hotch, bless him, had agreed with only a single, unimpressed sigh.
Now, with Spencer successfully occupied, you had an entire team of federal agents setting up the most intricate, heartfelt surprise proposal the world had ever seen.
âDerek, the ribbons donât loop like that,â you huffed, pointing accusingly at the offensive display of tulle bows on the ceiling. âTheyâre supposed to be elegant and flowy, notââ you gestured wildly at the mess heâd made, ââthat.â
Derek scoffed. âPrincess, I think weâre getting a little dramatic over some bows.â
âYouâre dramatic over football games,â you shot back. âLet me have this.â
JJ and Emily were arranging candles while Penelope fussed over the lights, making sure everything had the perfect warm, golden glow. Even Rossi was involved, setting up the champagne and shaking his head fondly at your borderline-manic attention to detail.
Everything was falling into place.
Everything was perfect.
And then, the door opened.
At first, no one reacted. You were too busy adjusting the placement of the table centerpiece to notice. But then the silence hit youâthick, unnatural, the kind that only meant something had gone terribly wrong.
And thatâs when you turned.
And saw Spencer.
Standing in the doorway.
Everyone. Froze.
Your heart plummeted.
âNO, NO, NOââ You lurched forward, waving your arms as if that would physically undo the moment. âYOU CANâT BE HERE YET! YOU WERENâT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE UNTIL 7:05, I DID THE MATH. IT WOULD TAKE YOU APPROXIMATELY ONE HOUR TO GET HERE AND THREE MINUTES TO COLLECT YOUR THINGS FROM THE CAââ
Spencer blinked. âYou⌠did math?â
âThatâs not the point!â
Spencer looked around, taking in the flickering candles, the flowers, the absolute chaos of the team caught mid-action like deer in headlights.
âHotch was supposed to distract you,â you accused, glaring at the universe itself.
Spencer shrugged. âYeah, after about ten minutes of his âSo, Reid, howâs work lately?â routine, I figured I should leave him alone.â
You groaned. âDammit.â
This wasnât how it was supposed to go. You had planned this for weeks, accounted for everything, down to the minute, and yet here you wereâstanding in the middle of a half-finished proposal setup, Spencer staring at you like you were an anomaly he couldnât quite solve.
But then he smiled.
Soft. Warm. Curious.
And you realizedâit didnât matter.
The plan had never mattered. Only he did.
You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. âOkay, well, this wasnât supposed to go like this, butââ You turned, grabbed the velvet box from the table, and without any further hesitation, dropped to one knee.
Spencerâs breath hitched.
âOh.â
And suddenly, words were spilling out of you, tumbling past your lips faster than your brain could catch up.
âSpencer, I have never met anyone like you,â you started, voice thick with emotion. âYou remember every little thing I say, even if I say it once. You math carnivals just because I looked at a stuffed animal. You learned a whole language just to understand me better. You do all of these things not because you have to, but because thatâs just who you are. You love me so much that itâs written into every detail of your life, and IâI justââ
Your voice broke.
Your vision blurred.
Tears streamed freely down your face, and you knew you were a messâsniffling, shaking, soaked in emotions that shouldâve been poetic but were just loud.
âThereâs a reason girls donât do this,â you hiccuped, rubbing at your eyes, utterly failing at keeping yourself together.
Spencer let out a soft, breathless laugh.
You swallowed, gripping the ring box so tight your knuckles went white. âBut I figured youâd appreciate an unexpected variable for once.â
Silence.
A beat.
And then Spencer dropped to his knees too, hands framing your face with a reverence that made your breath stutter.
âYouâre ridiculous,â he murmured, and you were about to apologize, about to start rambling again, when he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, âAnd I love you so much it terrifies me.â
Your breath caught.
And then he kissed you.
Soft, deep, sure. Like an answer. Like a promise.
Somewhere in the background, you dimly registered Penelope sobbing, Derek muttering, âDamn, pretty boy really does have it bad,â and Rossi popping open the champagne with a satisfied sigh.
But none of it mattered.
"Will you marry me, Spencer Reid?"
Spencer pulled back just enough to whisper, âYes. Of course, yes,â and you knewâdown to your bonesâthat this was the best equation you had ever solved.
Šiamgonnagetyouback๨ৠplease refrain from copying, translating, or reposting any of my work
I'm still trying everything
to keep you looking at me.
-mirrorball, taylor swift
â âš
summary: youâve never had a date or a relationship that either didnât work out or end in disaster. now that you have spencer, youâre determined not to let it happen again
cw: referenced bad past relationships, very very vaguely referenced past domestic abuse that honestly could be taken a different way, referenced child abuse (readers parents are STILL not it) again this is a criminal minds fic so references to graphic violence
tags/tropes: hurt/comfort (do i even need to say this? you all know who i am) insecurity, like one line of misogyny and itâs in the past and not brought up again, spencer being soft n worried, HEALTHY COMMUNICATION, spencer is just as gone for reader as she is for him honestly he's just a sap
a/n: back by popular demand !! seriously guys, you have no idea how much the support and comments and reblogs and asks means to me 𼚠the overwhelming amount of love for the first fic made me so happy when people started asking about a sequel i knew i had to !!
read the crossword on the collage for a surprise :)
this one goes out to all my girlies whoâve ever felt like they needed to be less in order to get a boyfriend or keep one. weâll have our soft love just the way it was meant to be
ââË.â
Spencer is a really good boyfriend.
Like⌠a really good boyfriend. Youâre not sure if this is how having a real boyfriend is or if Spencer is just like this.
Heâs so good to you. Heâs just so- so him. You canât explain it. Canât put it into words.
Heâs very patient with you. Youâve never explicitly stated it, but heâs picked up on your previous relationship experience- or more accurately, your lack thereof. The morning after youâd gone home with him, night consisting of nothing but easy sleep and warmth, heâd asked you out for real. Asked you if youâd go on a date with him, and youâd agreed, a giddy smile fixed firmly on your face.
But you still worry.
All it takes it one conversation with your parents to push things over the edge.
âYes, dad. Heâs very good to me.â
A laugh crackles over the line. âI tell you, your mother and I never thought weâd see the day.â
The words twinge uncomfortably in your chest. âHey, Iâm not that bad. Iâve just been focused.â
âMore like uptight.â
âDadââ
âYou know, you still havenât come out to visit your poor old parents since getting this so-called cushy job. And now youâve got this boyfriend. Youâre too young to settle down. Donât you think we should meet him?â
Sometimes conversations turn so quickly they leave you strandedâ scrambling to pick up pieces of what you thought was going to happen and piece them together to make something new. Something for the new route the conversation has taken.
You couldnât hold back your sigh if you tried. âWe havenât been dating for that long dad, I donât want to spring this on himââ
âSweetie, if we donât meet him now, why might never meet him. Who knows how long heâs gonna stick around?â
(Sometimes, in moments like these, for just a split second, you wonder how a father could say something like that, to his daughter. You wonder why, wonder what you did wrong. And then, you imagine Hotch saying those same things, and you canât, and it almost makes you feel a little better.)
Your blood runs cold. âWhat could you possibly mean by that?â
âWell, you know how things have ended in the past. Iâm just saying Iâd like to meet him before heâs gone."
You don't dignify his words with a response.
"Come on, honey. I'm just joking with you."
"It's not funny."
"Don't be like that--"
"Goodbye."
You hang up, snapping the phone shut with a sigh.
The older you've gotten, the more conversations with your parents end up like this. You suppose it's the way you 'wasted your potential' or 'never made something of yourself.' They've always held resentment ever since you decided to become an agent. So you know not to take what they say to heart, because their words only come from a place of disappointment and displeasure. It's not a reflection of who you really are or what you've really accomplished.
Or at least, that's what Hotch told you when he'd overheard one of your phone calls. It meant more than you'd let on.
But your Dad's words linger in your head. They're irritating and sharp where they claw around in your head because they're true.
You can count on one hand the amount of romantic endeavors you've had. And from those, they all ended horribly. Your parents lost sympathy towards the end of your attempts, muttered words of needing to try harder to keep them, that you should be satisfied that somebody wanted you at all, that you should try to be less... you.
Try to be less... you, dear. The books and the facts- nobody wants those. Put some more effort into your appearance. Otherwise you'll end up all alone.
You'd tried to take their advice, of course. But the relationships that were fathered your parents direction were not loving. There was nothing soft or gentle or warm about them. You'd never felt more unlovable.
So when the incident with the shooter happened and you were lying on the lecture hall floor, blood coloring the carpet deep scarlet, you'd vowed to never let it happen again. That you were going to use your intellect and wit and passion for what you wanted to do- you'd promised yourself that if you survived, you would try to make your life your own, one step at a time.
This, of course, is easier said than done.
It's easy enough to refuse to let yourself get involved with men who are clearly only interested in your for your badge or your body --though the latter happens so rarely you really don't have to worry about it-- because you don't care about them. They're blips on your radar.
But Spencer? Sweet, sweet Spencer who makes you hot-cocoa and binge watches Doctor Who with you, even the later seasons, which you know he doesn't like as much but you love. Spencer who always has a grounding touch to offer, or a quiet command when you need him. Spencer who puts you first.
But there's a limit to these things, right? As far as you've seen, romantic relationship's are transactional, or conditional. Sometimes both. He can't just... keep doing this forever. It's too kind. Too sweet. It'll come to an end soon. Like, like the honeymoon era in early relationships. That's all it is. Plus, he's older than you, and you have no illusions about your unavoidable impulsiveness and naivety.
You've been told that your standards are too high before. "Struck by the hopeless romantic's arrow," your brother had said once, back when you were still in school, crying over a boy who'd told you that he didn't want to date you because you were too smart for a girl.
"That's not being hopeless romantic. There's no such thing as being too smart for a girl."
"There isn't," He'd amended, "But you're not going to have an easy time finding a guy. You of all people can't really afford to be picky."
He'd been right, in the end. So you're just... having a hard time figuring out how genuine Spencer's actions are. Guy's don't really act all romantic in the context of you. You've been told your whole life to be happy with what you get, and what you've had in the past is decidedly not lining up with how Spencer treats you.
It's a nasty little thing in your ear. Is it real? Does it matter as much to him?
When is it all going to end?
--
Rossi make's an offhand comment during a mission that you talk a lot when you're excited about the subject at hand.
JJ agrees. "It's a little unnerving when the subject is the bruising patterns of strangulation."
That little voice comes back.
Too much too much too much too much too much--
"It's useful," You protest, mouth dry.
JJ snorts, "I'm not sure about that. We need to know that the victim was strangled, not what happens to the body during blunt-force asphyxiation."
You'd grown quiet then, let the chatter and musings of the rest of the team wash over you.
Is that something Spencer finds annoying? You have always found things other's view morbid and disturbing fascinating. But JJ is right. No one wants to hear about that.
You brush the comment off, square your shoulders, get back on with the case.
Be better. Try harder.
You don't seen the furrow of Spencer's brows from where he's been watching you, or the quick look he shares with Hotch.
--
You'd never really thought about how clingy you can be before Emily makes an offhand comment about it while the two of you wait in line at a coffee shop. There's a couple in front of you, the girl all over her partner, kissing and giggling and hugging them close.
"Ugh," Emily groans once the two get their coffee and move on. "I could never understand the appeal of all that. I mean doesn't it feel stifling?"
A little stab of ice in your stomach.
"I don't know. I think it's nice."
"No, thank you. If I were her partner, I'd feel smothered."
You think about that conversation every time you take Spencer's hand or lean into his simple touches. They're invasive little things, the thoughts. It's not hard to pull back on all the touching. You never really ask for them in the first place- always too nervous to come off clingy. But you suppose just taking, taking, taking is just the same.
A quick shake of your head, not leaning in, a quiet "I'm fine." and that little nagging fear of smothering begins to quiet. It doesn't leave, but it does get quieter. For a little while, at least.
--
The hard part is trying to be less without noticeably being less. Spencer's smart- and he's a profiler. If you pull back too much too quickly, he'll notice, and you don't want to talk about this yet. You just need to make sure he'll stay. That things won'tâ
That you won't find out too late that you don't mean as much to him as he does to you.
That's the kind of thing that can't happen again. But ascertaining his true feelings and desires is difficult, because this is all kind's of new territory for you. You want to believe it's real. You really, really want to believe it's real.
But it's never been real before, so why would it be real now?
--
You've asked around (subtly and carefully, of course) about the type of girl Spencer's dated or drifted towards in the past. You know he said he wanted something soft and sweet, but you can't help but think that you're not really either, nor are you in line with his type. All things considered, you're a mess. Something tired-eyed and hollow is how you feel most days. Some sort of creature perhaps? You're honestly not sure what you are. You've spent your entire life being singled out or otherwise othered- always too smart or too different or too weird or too much or too loud or too quiet or too shy or too, too, too. Always too something. You have never been called soft or sweet. In a demeaning way, sure, but never with the quiet reverence that Spencer said it with that night.
It feels like a balancing act, a bit. Holding all those too much parts so close to your chest with one hand and shoving the ones you think Spencer wants with the other hand.
You could probably drop the one hand. The one holding the bad parts. But you're just not convinced he'll stay. You're not sure that he won't look at them with some form of disgust or pity or something else terrible.
You know the balancing act isn't sustainableâ you'll fall eventually, and everything will come crashing down, but until then, you just keep trying. Trying to see if he'll stay, trying to see what to do if he won't. How to ensure he will, if that's something that's possible.
--
The act does not hold up for as long as you hoped it would. It comes crashing down with a glass. Literally.
You and Spencer are in the kitchen on a rare weekend off, cooking and drinking wine and swaying to some little old love song.
It should be perfect, except you're worrying that you look ugly while you're dancing, and you're probably singing off-key, and he maybe wants you to shut up so he can hear the song or dance in peace.
He reaches towards you and you justâ your brain shrieks for a moment, all senses going into overdrive and you jerk backward, and your elbow knocks into your wine glass, and it falls, shattering behind you with a deafening crash.
Your entire body tenses, waiting for yelling or sighing or something, because you broke the glass, there's crystalline shards everywhere, the wine red and it looks like blood, maybe it is, maybe you're bleeding because the glass was really close to your foot when it fell but you're not sure because you can't really feel your feet or your fingers orâ
"Don't move," Spencer says, voice serious, and tears well in your eyes, because this is when it all ends isn't it? "I don't want you toâ honey?"
"Yes?" You croak.
His eyes are swimming with concern as he takes in your hunched shoulders, shallow breaths, and scared expression.
Understanding flickers in his features, and you resist the urge to hold your breath.
"Nothing is going to happen to you because of the glass, okay? Everything is fine. We're fine. I'm not mad. See? I'm not mad. I just don't want you to cut your feet on the glass. I'm going to clean this up and get your slippers, okay?"
"Okay." You breathe, voice hoarse. You wring your hands nervously as he leaves to retrieve the necessary supplies to clean the mess, heart beating so fast and so hard you're shocked you can't see it through your shirt.
He's not mad. He's not mad. You're not in trouble. Your parents aren't here. You're not grounded. You're not in trouble. He's not mad.
You're silent while he cleans, focused on getting your breathing under control while he babbles quietly about the history of glass making and the significance of types of wine glasses. The facts and history wash over you in steady waves, easing the tension in your shoulders bit by bit.
"I didn't think you were going to hit me, Spencer."
He continues cleaning. "It's okay if you did. I would never blame you for that."
"But I don't," You say, suddenly desperate, "I know you wouldn't, I've never been hit, not like that."
He's quiet for a few minutes. "Does this have something to do with how you've been acting recently?"
You freeze. "What do you mean?"
He looks up, leaning back on his knees. Making himself smaller, you realize. He's trying not to scare you again.
"You're dating a profiler. Also, I speak fluent you, and you've been chewing all your hangnails again. You only do that when you're stressed and pretending like you're not."
Your finger's twitch at your sides.
His hands come up slowly, and he rubs the length of your waist and hips. "We don't have to talk about it right now, but I think we should soon. I don't want you hurting all by yourself. You've had enough of that. That's what I'm here for."
He finishes cleaning up the glass, and finishes cooking dinner- he'd assured you he'd turned off all burners when the glass hit the floor, so nothing's burnt.
Once you've both eaten, he steers you towards the couch and wordlessly puts on Doctor Who.
The Pandorica is just about to open when you finally decide that if you don't start talking, you never will.
"My parents think you're going to leave me."
Spencer makes a wounded noise in his throat. "Why do they think that?"
"Because it's happened before. I'm, um. I'm not very good at getting into relationships. Or keeping them."
"But that's not your fault."
You sniff hard, rubbing your face with your sleeve. "It is though, isn't it? At least a little. I know I can be a lot. I know I'm not easy toâ"
You cut yourself off, but the words hang in the air anyway; unsaid.
I'm not easy to love.
"Anyway," You say, pushing through the lump in your throat. "I just thought. I don't know. I was worried that you'd get fed up with me."
"No," He whispers, voice raw and full of something a lot heavier than fond. "No, no baby. I like that you're clingy and you ramble when you get excited, because it means that we get to talk about something together."
He shifts on the couch, sitting criss-crossed, ducking his head down to catch your gaze. "You know what else I like?"
You scoot over, mirroring his position. "What?"
"I like that you always know when I need you. Even when I don't think I do, you're there. Because I do need you. This isn't a one-way street."
His words hit you straight in your chest. "Oh."
He smiles, brows a little scrunched, brown eyes a deep pool of fondness and a splash of concern. "Yeah. And I'm thinking you need me a little more than you want to let on."
The seam of your pajama pants suddenly becomes the most interesting thing in the world. Amazing, the wonders of a sewing machine.
"Maybe."
"Mmm," He hums, "So if I need you, don't you think that you're allowed to need me?"
Your fingers pick and twirl a loose thread around. "...Yes?"
A large, firm hand covers your thigh, giving it a quick squeeze. "Yes. Not only are you allowed to need me, I want you to need me. Cause you know how you're always worried about being the best girlfriend? Well, I'm always worried about being the best boyfriend."
That makes you look up. "Really?"
He chuckles again, a little puff of air fanning your face. "Yes, really. I assure you, contrary to your past experiences, this is one of those bare minimum things in a relationship."
"That does not," He continues, immediately catching the brief flicker of doubt and shame on your face, "Mean that it is your fault at all for how you were treated in the past. You wouldn't expect me to suddenly become an expert in veterinary medicine just because I've been to the vet's office a few times, right?"
"When did you go to the vet'sâ"
"Shh, I'm being a good boyfriend," He holds up a hand, lips quirking up when you can't suppress a tiny giggle, "But seriously. You had no frame of reference, right? And you were being told it was your fault. But it wasn't. You didn't deserve that."
He lets his words hang in the air for a little while and allows you time to process this new information.
"What do I do now?"
"Well," He leans in, brushing his nose against yours, curls tickling your forehead, "You've got a pretty sweet deal here. Just three things. You have to keep letting me need you, let yourself need me, and one last little thing."
"What?"
You're so close your breaths are mingling.
"Let me show you what this is supposed to look like. How a man is supposed to treat a pretty girl. His pretty girl."
"Oh, well," Heat rushes to your cheeks, your stomach doing flip-flops, "That sounds pretty hard. I don't know how I'll hold up."
His hand comes up to hold the side of your face, his thumb sweeping strokes under your eye.
"You say that now, but I know what happens to you when I get romantic. You swoon."
You laugh. "I do not swoon."
"You will."
He leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss. It isn't a kiss-kiss. He's kissing you just to kiss you; just to let you know that he's here, that you have him.
It's sweet and perfect and exactly what you need.
--
Letting yourself need Spencer is marginally easier now that you know he needs you. Now that you know you're not going all in for someone who isn't.
He also starts needing you a bit... louder.
It's late evening, and most people have gone home except you and a couple other members of the team, all still working on paperwork.
Except Spencer, who's decided to drape himself over your shoulders like a cat, his chin resting on your head.
"Don't you have work to do?"
"Either finished it or it can be done later."
You shift your shoulders, smiling at how his grumbles vibrate against your back.
He moves his head, pressing his cheek to your head instead of his chin, heaving a deep sigh.
"Your hair smells good."
"Like what?"
"You're shampoo. Yours always smell better than mine."
You continue to work through your paperwork, Spencer a continuous and solid weight against your back.
"Is this even comfortable for your back at all?"
"Doesn't matter. Need girlfriend time."
He can't see it, but you're sure he knows how hard you blush.
--
Spencer's cooking the two of you a late breakfast in the kitchen of his apartment, hair still all mussed from sleep. He's quite the sight. You can't stop staring.
You're sitting on the counter, still dressed in your pajamas, legs swinging.
"You wanna know something cool?"
"You know it,"
"Butterflies and moths can drink blood and tears. There's nutrients in them. Purple Emperor butterflies are especially known for this. It's called mud-puddling."
"So you're telling me I should make sure I bandage any open wounds before I go to a butterfly house?"
"I guess. I can't imagine they'd be able to drink enough blood to actually cause any damage."
"Maybe we'll have to go to a butterfly house. For research."
"Should we get dinner afterwards?"
"We'll deserve it, you know, for all the hard research we'll have done."
"Hmm. Yes, I suppose so."
--
Spencer's bed is infinitely more comfortable than your bed. You're pretty sure it's a combination of the fact that it's the only thing in the entire world that smells so much like him and the fact that he spent part of his large FBI paycheck on a fancy mattress. Back support is very important to him.
You're doing a little reading before bed, shamelessly sprawled all over him while he does his own reading. You've got a leg hooked over his hips, the other tangled with his legs, and your arms and head pillowed on his chest. You move a little every time he takes a breath, and more than once you've paused in your reading, mesmerized by the feeling.
He shifts under you, setting his book down on his night stand and making himself more comfortable.
"Should I move?"
"No," he says, voice deep and gravelly with sleep. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush to him, face pressed to the crook of your neck. He breathes deep, scruffy stubble scratching against your skin. "Like you close. Good for sleep."
Even with the lamp on, and your book in your hand, you fall asleep soon after him.
--
It's an ordinary evening for the two of you. Discarded dishes sit on the coffee table in front of the t.v, neither of you paying them any attention, wrapped up in each other and eyes glued to the screen.
You look up at Spencer who's watching Doctor Who with the focus of a man who's never seen it, even though you know for a fact he's seen it before, several times in fact.
"I want to know the things you like," He'd said simply, the one time you'd asked why he takes your nightly Doctor Who watching so seriously.
And tonight's no different. Tonight, he looks... well, he looks like Spencer. His face illuminated by the TV screen, his hair all mussed from you running your hands through it earlier.
And it just kind of all hits you at once. You know.
"I love you."
He looks down at you, his expression soft and surprised. When your words register, his expression is so sickeningly fond and happy you can't help but lean in, burying your face in his chest. He rubs your back consolingly, then presses a little kiss to the crown of your head.
in which spencer reid picks up uni!reader from a party. you're drunk, and he's in love with you
fluff:)
warnings/tags: established relationship, fem!reader, university!reader x professor!spencer but you're not his student, unspecified age gap, um statistic about deaths from drunk driving, spencer is a nerd
a/n: this is accidentally so romantic I'm gonna puke
The night is chillyâa still, dry type of cold that comes before snowfall. Itâs quiet, like the world is preparing for that heavy blanket of white. Even the pounding bass from the frat house doesnât make it very far before falling flat at the end of the yard. By the time Spencer gets you to his car down the block, itâs a thready pulse.Â
âThanks for walking me,â you say, giving him a saccharine smile as he opens the passenger door for you. His scoff is a thick white cloud, crystallizing against cold, shining skin, slightly pinkened from the temperature. Spencer is glowing like a star tonight. You donât know if itâs the blurriness from the alcohol in your system smudging the edges of him, or if itâs just that incandescent halo that always seems to follow him around.
âYou know I wasnât going to let you walk down frat row by yourself at one in the morning.â
You pout and look up at him, leaning close.Â
âSo you donât want me to say thank you?âÂ
Spencerâs mouth is curved in absent-minded affection as he takes advantage of the opportunity to study you up close with darting eyes, entertaining your girlish flirtation, and you in turn get to admire the starlit flush of his cheeks, the way his hair falls around his face and thick eyelashes frame irises that could melt ice. Youâre not entirely conscious of the huge grin that cracks open your face, but you suspect its presence when his own lips part, still smiling, like heâs maybe going to say something sweet. Or teasing.Â
âYouâre drunk.â
At this absolute and unarguable truth, you frown. Heâs grinning now as he adjusts the thick scarf around your neck, shielding your ears and neck further from the chill that the open car door canât block.Â
âNo Iâm not.â
âCâmere,â he murmurs, and before you can process it heâs leaning down, so of course your eyes are going to flutter shut and of course youâre going to kiss him back. The gentle ferocity of it only has you stumbling in place a little bit, and he steadies you with hands around your waist. Itâs over entirely too soon. You blink up at him, your shock and fluster betrayed by the visible huff of air dispelled as soon as he pulls away. Heâs smiling even wider now. Vindicated. Eyes sparkling. âGin? Wow. You are drunk.â
It takes you a moment longer than it usually would to decipher how he figured this out.Â
âSo you just kissed me to prove your theory right?â
The sparkling satisfaction from his indictment softens around his eyes.Â
âI knew you were drunk when you almost fell down the stairs a minute ago. The kiss was purely selfish.â
âItâs icy,â you defend, and your heart flutters as he comes in for another kiss. Itâs soft and still shockingly deep for being on the street, where anyone could seeâalthough everyone smart is inside, and anyone else is too drunk to care that his mouth is open against yours and the heat of it is translating deep in your stomach. Youâre dizzy by the time he laughs quietly against you.Â
âWhat college student is pounding gin and tonics at a frat party?â
The thick wool of his coat bunches under your searching fingers.Â
âMe,â you whisper. âI was classing up the joint.â
The final kiss he presses to your lips is sweeter and half smile. âDrunk.â
The murmured accusation shouldnât make you feel so giddy. Maybe itâs all the gin.Â
âNot.â
Another little chuckle warms the tip of your nose and your lips as he breathes it out.
âSo youâre good to drive us home?â
You itch to kiss him again, but instead, you respond, âOne person dies every thirty nine minutes in America from drunk driving.â
âGood job. You passed.â
The praise is accompanied by a thumb rubbing at your hip through denim. He probably thought you werenât listening when heâd spouted that particular statistic a few hours ago.Â
âDo I get a gold star?â
He kisses your head.Â
âWeâll see. Get in.â
On the way home, that last shot hits you. You slump down in your seat and hide your face in your hands.Â
âOh, Spencer. Iâm⌠Iâm drunk.â
You feel him glancing at you before he sets a concerned hand on your thigh.Â
âYou okay?â
Morosely you nod.Â
âYeah. I took a shot with this⌠Delta Phi Epsilon guy, right before you got there. I wasnât gonna, but he was like, no, you have to! And now I realize that was dumb.â
Spencerâs hand finds the back of your head, stroking your hair.Â
âDo you know what Iâm going to say about frat boys pressuring you to drink?â
âIt wasnât like that. He was really nice.â
âIâm sure he was,â Spencer says dryly. âLots of men become really nice when they think they might have something to gain.â
âI thought he was gay!â You laugh, uncovering your face. âSorry, dad. I wonât drink alcohol or talk to boys anymore.â
Spencer makes a face and you know youâve successfully traded pounds of flesh.Â
âIf you call me dad again Iâm making you take an abnormal psych class.â
You give him a lazy smile which he only takes his eyes off the road for a few seconds to admire.Â
âIâd take abnormal psych if you were my professor.â
That perpetual upturn at the corners of his perfect mouth flickers wider.Â
âWow. Does gin make you sexually frustrated?â
âIt makes me lazy. The professor-student thing is really low hanging fruit.â
âYeah, it is. You know Iâll expect better material from you once youâve sobered up.â
You sigh and let your head loll to the front again, studying the tunneling road through the windshield. A few flakes slash the headlights. Your mind wanders. You donât bother reeling it in.Â
âIâm really glad Iâm not your student. Iâd have the worst crush on you.â
Spencer casts you another side-long glance before adjusting the rear-view mirror.Â
âYou donât have a crush on me now?â
âOf course I do. But you like me back. If I was your student youâd never look at me like that. I would just have to pine after you and fall in deep unrequited love like all your other female students.â
He hums skeptically.Â
âI donât know what Iâd do. I canât imagine not being in love with you.â
âThere are universes where youâre not. There are infinite realities where I am your student and you donât like me back and youâre dating other girls who arenât me and youâre saying this exact stuff to them.â
âTrue. There are also infinite realities where I find you and I fall in love with you.â Spencer reaches over again, taking your hand and settling them, joined, in your lap. âFor each trillionth of a billionth of a second of the life Iâve lived thus far, there are infinite universes which exist solely so I can fall in love with you in a new way. Over and over again. Thereâs not a choice I could make in any timeline, or in any universe, that doesnât lead an infinite number of meâs to an infinite number of youâs.âÂ
The engine hums. The tires roll.Â
Other than thatâitâs dead silent.Â
Because how could he ever expect anyone to respond to that?
You slink low in your seat and bring his hand to cradle your face, warm against your cheek.Â
âI hate you,â you mumble. Spencer strokes your jaw absentmindedly, not at all concerned by your dramatics.Â
âYou hate me? I just said I love you.â
âNo, you did not. You said thâI donât even wanna call it romantic. Romantic doesnâtâI donât even know what that was. You canât just say things like that, Spencer! You canât just casually say stuff like that to me, and especially not when Iâm drunk, because Iâm gonna start crying!âÂ
The last word pitches up and perfectly illustrates your point as tears begin to roll down your cheeksâstill nipped by the cold.Â
Spencer quickly pulls the car off to the side of the abandoned road.Â
Heâs all affection as he twists to face you and take your face in his hands properly, thumbing away tears.Â
âWhat? Whatâs wrong?âÂ
âYou j-just love me so much,â you sob.
âYes,â Spencer laughs like itâs the most obvious thing in the world. âI do. I love you so much. I didnât mean to make you cry, sweetheart.â
âYouâyou donât even realize, that you said the nicest thing anyoneâs ever said to anyone, and you love me more than anyoneâs ever loved anyone, andâandââ
You cut yourself off with another hot wave of tears and a shuddering cry.Â
âOh, my girl,â Spencer coos through an adoring little laugh as he pushes hair out of your face. âYou are so drunk, baby. Come here.â
You let him undo your buckle and pull you across the console-less seat (thank you, vintage car) into his arms. For a minute or two you can hardly speak, crying into the warmth of his jacket as he holds you.Â
Eventually, you manage to raise your head and pull back enough to look at him. Immediately heâs assessing you with those soft eyes, watching how you wipe away whatever tears didnât soak into his clothing. Under his watchful gaze, you exhale a sniffing laugh.Â
âIâm sorry.â
âDonât apologize.â
Itâs so immediate youâre knocked off balance again. âWellâyou were just being nice, and Iââ
âI do love you more than anyone has ever loved anyone.â
Usually, you dislike being interrupted.Â
In this instance, youâll let it slide.Â
Itâs simply too earnest, too honest as his eyes dart between yours like he couldnât contain it. Like you said it and the thought struck him right in the faceâan obvious truth he hadnât considered before.Â
âIn infinite universes?â You sniffle.Â
âIn infinite universes,â he agrees.Â
Both of you notice the snow has started to come down outside. Over the course of a few silent minutes, it gets heavier and heavierâa soft hail, sheets of whispering white.Â
Youâve never been afraid to break the silence with him.Â
But maybe if you werenât drunk you could keep your questions to yourself.Â
âHow many snowflakes are we looking at?â
Spencer hesitates, drawn from some kind of hypnosis.Â
âHard to be sure. Heavy snowfall like this could easily put us at six inches within the hour. In that case weâve watched around point two inches fall. Visibility is probably reduced to about a quarter mile⌠point two inches across a square quarter mile is a hundred and seventeen thousand five hundred square feet of snow, average density of flakes at this temperature being about three kilograms per cubic foot of snow, and a snowflake weighs maybe⌠point zero zero zero zero zero two kilograms, so, roughlyâŚÂ very roughly⌠weâre looking at one hundred and forty two million snowflakes. Thatâs my best guess.â
You look up at him from where youâd been resting your head on his shoulder.Â
âYouâre the coolest person ever.â
He blushes.Â
Tries to reply.Â
Looks back out the window and huffs a nervous laugh, like youâve flustered him.Â
âLots of people could do that. The math isnât too complicated. Itâs also probably wrong.â
A slow smile blossoms on your face.Â
âYouâre never wrong. So⌠what percentage of infinity is a hundred and forty two million?â
âUh⌠undefined,â he laughs, looking back down at you. âBut⌠in tangible terms, which is inherently contradictory because infinity is completely intangible, and actually pretty meaningless to mathematiciansâmore of a philosophical concept than a numerical one⌠it is a very small fraction. Itâs nothing.â
âI donât want philosophical,â you murmur, reaching up to graze your knuckles along his cheekbone. âI want hard numbers.â
He catches your hand and holds the tips of your fingers to his lips as he thinks, watching hundreds of millions of snowflakes falling from the wide black heavens through narrowed eyes.Â
âA googol is written as a one followed by a hundred zeros, and a googolplex is a one followed by a googol of zeros. Thatâs the largest named number we have. It surpasses the estimated number of atoms in the universe. Itâs too large to conceptualize. Mathematicians donât really have any practical use for numbers above one trillion, but the largest number youâll find in a dictionary and which might be formally accredited is a centillion, which is a one followed by three hundred and three zeros. Itâs bigger than a googol but hardly a fraction of a googolplex. Butâokay, weâre setting aside the conceptual numbers. What was your question?â
Your head spins as you laugh.Â
Too much gin. Too many IQ points.Â
âInfinity divided by, uh⌠the number of snowflakes I can see right now.â
The engine is still onâheat blows steadily, warming your arm through a coat and sweater, and whatever it canât reach is warmed by Spencer.Â
âRight. Okay. Wellâto put it into perspective, with snowflakes, you have around one septillion that fall each year. Thatâs twenty four zeros, so⌠a lot. Are you with me?â
âNo.â
âGreat. So, a hundred and forty two million is basically infinity.â
This earns a clumsy, drunken laugh from you, and he smiles like heâd been hoping for that.Â
Itâs so warm in the cab of his car. Itâs so warm under his gaze.Â
Outside, the snow continues to fall.Â
For each flake, there is a world where you and Spencer fall in love. And in the grand scheme of things, youâre not looking at very many.Â
In infinite universes, youâll find each other. For eternity.Â
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You begin to have intimate dreams about your roommate, Spencer. [9k]
c: pining roommates, dreams, tipsy non-confessions, spencer being a sweetheart. fem!reader. this fic was requested!Â
・đŚšÂ°â§â.
i. a dreamt bruiseÂ
âWhat are you doing?âÂ
Your chest lists slightly forward as a body warms your back. Arms wrap around you, solid but gentle, arms youâve been held by a thousand times.Â
You cover them with one of your own. âWhat does it look like Iâm doing?â you feel yourself ask.Â
The room is golden, gaussian, better now heâs behind you.
âI donât know, dove. Thatâs why I asked.â His voice is soft in your ear. His hair presses to the side of your face as he hugs you âyouâve never felt love like this. Itâs palpable. Itâs in his hands.Â
Nobodyâs called you dove before, but he is, he has. It might feel strange if it werenât for how softly he said it, affection in the very marrow of the word, warmth of it kissing your cheek as he holds you. He says âdoveâ, and it feels like he loves you. Feels like youâve done something beautiful to earn it, but thatâs the beauty of it: you didnât do anything.Â
The room turns narrow, sunlight on the dining room table of your apartment. A table usually crowded thickly with books, or your work. A space has been cleared away and filled with pieces of a jigsaw.Â
âI thought you were going to do this with me,â you say, dragging a piece across the table with your fingertip.Â
âMaybe later.âÂ
âYou canât stand there all night.âÂ
Are you sure? you think he says, but things are hazy, and heâs turning you toward him suddenly, youâre standing, the puzzle forgotten. âHowâs your bruise?âÂ
âWhat?â you ask, almost sleeping as a big, kind hand drags up the front of your shirt, holding it to the underside of your breast.Â
âDoes it still hurt?âÂ
His thumb brushes over your contusion, skin on your side, your back. Itâs tender. Any breath is lost, any sense of breathing at all. Youâre not a girl so much as something being touched with care, warm joy and love and a contrasting ache wedged under your heart as he draws a circles into your skin.Â
He hums sympathetically, the weight of him ebbing as he leans away, letting your shirt fall back into place.Â
The dream stretches on for a lifetime, the two of you standing in your living room, dining table behind you, couch and TV opposite. Your life in one room, his life, his books, his furniture, but your home. You know it all well, just, in the light, you canât see the stitching.Â
He takes your face into his hand. Nobodyâs ever touched you like, turned your face up like they were moving through honey, staring at you with eyes that shade of brown. Brown, brown⌠so big. So melting.Â
Spencer holds your face gently.Â
His nose touches yours. He tips his forehead into yours, his breath skimming lips heâd just warmed as he says, âDonât worry, alright? Youâll be okay. Just take it easy,â he says, the last of his pleading lost to your mouth.Â
You wake up with a caught breath.Â
Your eyes are glued together, eyelashes threaded, gummy. You turn into the pillow beside you, slightly deflated and cold where youâd turned away in the night.Â
The room is dark when you manage to pry your eyes open. You close them just as quickly, begging your body to sleep, to plunge back into the dream. Just five more minutes of golden colour, hugging your pillow, love in somebodyâs hand, in Spencerâs hand⌠five more minutesâŚ
Your eyes open again.Â
Spencerâs hand on your cheek, guiding you carefully upwards for a kiss.Â
You raise your hand, feeling along the swell of your bottom lip with your thumb and index finger. They tremble with the weakness of having just woken up. With having something torn away from you.Â
What was that? you think, the hook of sleep lodged in your throat as you struggle to sit up. Your face tips forwards heavily, but your back doesnât hurt like it tends to in the early mornings before work. Thereâs no ache there âyour body slept well. You use your hands as anchors and drag yourself foot first from the bed. Your sheets fall to the floor with a quiet shush.Â
It felt so real that for a moment youâre wondering where Spencer went.Â
He was touching you, he was caressing your waist. You rush to the door of your room, every night left ajar, pushing it open and beelining for the bathroom. You flick on the light and stop in front of the mirror, staring at yourself, wondering if youâre foolish enough to do this, before peeling your shirt from your stomach to analyse your bruise.Â
Itâs not there.Â
You turn and contort yourself to catch the light. Maybe it was further back? But no⌠thereâs no bruise, nothing for Spencer to check. Your torso is a stretch of unharmed skin to run your hand down without pain.Â
Your head whirs.Â
From somewhere in the apartment, Spencer puts down a mug. You flush with heat at the realisation that heâs home, and panic flares when his footsteps move in your direction. Your bedrooms are on opposite sides of the apartment, and there are two bathrooms âthe bath and toilet near your room, and the en-suite to his roomâ meaning Spencerâs coming to see you specifically.Â
âHey, Y/N?â he says.Â
Itâs been a few days since he was home, and you arenât just roommates, Spencerâs your friend. He sounds happy that youâre awake, pausing at your bedroom door.Â
âIâm in the bathroom!â you say, your dry throat turning your voice to fractures.Â
âI just wanted you to know Iâm home. Are you working?âÂ
âItâs Saturday.â
He laughs. âOh. I know, I forgot. Well, can I make you breakfast? I was gonna have oats and sliced bananas and stuff.âÂ
âOkay.â You clear your throat. âIâll be right there.âÂ
âSorry,â he says, like heâs just remembered where you are. âThis is harassment. Iâll be in the kitchen.âÂ
You wash your face and brush your teeth. You head back into your room to change from your pyjamas into loungewear thatâs just as soft. The flavour of your dream follows you around, youâd like to call it sweetness, saccharinity, but it doesnât fit the bill. The feeling youâd woken with wasnât a sugar high but contentedness, like a warm evening meal. Youâd felt utterly sated, your arms reaching out for a body that wasnât there.Â
A heaviness takes your heart. Suffocating longing, you carry it to the kitchen with you to find Spencerâs already made you a cup of your tea. Heâs warming oatmeal on the stove, blueberries and bananas on the countertop. You sit at the island. You should hug him. If you hadnât dreamt of his hands on your waist what felt like mere moments ago, you wouldâve.Â
âDid you go shopping?âÂ
âI did, I went to Leaven last night. You were already sleeping at ten.â He peeks at you from over his shoulder. âLong day yesterday?âÂ
âI get too tired by Friday,â you say, averting your gaze to stare down into your mug, steam twirling up to kiss your chin.Â
âNo, I get it. Me too. Are you feeling any better today?âÂ
You were sick when he left. âIâm fine.âÂ
âOkay, good. Iâm gonna put the blueberries in with the oatmeal, is that okay?âÂ
âSure.âÂ
âOkay.â Spencerâs gaze lingers on you. He turns back to the counter.Â
He cuts two bananas. You realise he has strawberries, too, watching as he cuts them, wetness leaking from their punnets where he mustâve rinsed them in the sink. He slices out the stems and cuts the strawberries in clean halves like hearts.Â
âI missed you,â he says.Â
You canât read his tone, but you arenât cruel, even feeling shy as you are. âI missed you too. How was the case? Everyone made it home in one piece, right?âÂ
âEveryoneâs fine. Emily got into a car accident and it was pretty bad, but sheâs okay now. Recovering from her concussion at home with Sergei.âÂ
Thatâs good. Youâre glad to hear theyâre all okay, because theyâre good people, and they risk a lot to keep others safe. You forget sometimes how much Spencer puts on the line whenever he leaves.Â
You poke at him for details of the case, though legally there are things he has to keep from you, and you donât mind either way. Nothing personal can crop up while talking of murder, and for now youâd like the conversation to stay far away from you and your bed and your sudden dream.Â
You assume youâre safe, but then Spencer mentions the bruise one of the sergeants got from their weaponâs kickback and youâre flushing nervously all over again.Â
Spencer grabs two bowls from the cabinet, dark brown ceramics he got from Koreatown, the perfect size for each helping of oatmeal. The purple from the insides of the blueberries bleed into the oats as he pours.
He lays each bowl with a curve of banana slices, strawberries, and covers half with a drizzle of dark fudge sauce. âSalt?â he asks.Â
âYes, please.âÂ
Spencer grabs two spoons from the cutlery drawer. He grins when he finally turns, bowls held aloft, making his way to the stool beside you. He puts his own down first, then the cutlery, standing ever so slightly behind you as he lays your breakfast down in front of you. âWhat have you been doing while I was away?â he asks softly.Â
You canât look at him. Canât think.Â
What are you doing?Â
What does it look like Iâm doing?Â
I donât know, dove. Thatâs why I asked.Â
You lean away from his presence, desperate to have him follow, and ashamed. Spencerâs a friend, a good one, heâs kind and loving and handsome beyond description, but youâve never thought of him like that. Each time your mind slips wondering what he might be like in love, youâve let the thought go. But now...Â
You shrug, grabbing your spoon. âNot much, Spencer. This looks amazing, itâs really pretty. Thank you for cooking.âÂ
âNo problem. Are you sure youâre feeling better? You donât look so good.âÂ
You take a quick bite of oatmeal, the spoon scalding your tongue, âAh,â you say, breathing harshly around it, âIâm fine. Woke up a little wrong, thatâs all.âÂ
Spencer sits in the seat next to you with a soft smile. âGood. I donât know what Iâd do if something happened to you.âÂ
Oh, no, you think, reading way too much into how he says it. No, no, no.
â
ii factsÂ
We should explore the city, Spencer declares after breakfast, before we forget what itâs like to be outside!
You were outside yesterday before you got home, and everything sucked as much as it usually did âitâs the weekend, and the point of it is to stay home resting and or lazing, but you wouldnât usually say no to Spencer so you canât now. He canât ever know about your dream, so he canât know how youâre feeling, so you have to be the friends youâve always been.Â
Spencer analyses people for a reason, but you have practice. Youâve successfully hidden what it was that morning that made you feel cagey and tender. He knows something is wrong regardless. He attempts to fix it the best way he knows how: Spencer talks.Â
âCheese production globally outshadows coffee, tea, tobacco, and chocolate, over twenty two million metric tons of it every year, with almost half of that made in Europe alone, which is only a half million metric ton more than whatâs being eaten. The average American eats forty two pounds of cheese a year, but I donât really like cheese that much? So Iâm bringing the average down. Besides, every time I eat cheese I get strange dreams. Thereâs actually a chemical in cheese called tyramine which is linked to nightmares. Hey, you okay?âÂ
âCheese gives you weird dreams?âÂ
âWhy, have you been eating a lot of it lately?âÂ
âNo,â you say resolutely. âI hate cheese. Iâve never eaten cheese before.âÂ
âThatâs a lie.âÂ
âLetâs get donuts.â
Spencer is easily swayed. You glance around the square for the McDonaldâs and follow that to the street with the bakery, landmark to landmark, until the smell of sugar and oil is strong enough to follow. âDo you wanna know something about donuts?â he asks, crushing in behind you as you pass through the heavy wooden door of the bakery and join the line.Â
âSure.âÂ
âThey were first called oily cakes.âÂ
âI knew that,â you say, âyouâve told me that, Spencer. Thatâs the first fact anybody thinks of.âÂ
âOkay, donât be rude,â he says, giving you a playful poke in the ribs, right into the bruise that isnât a bruise.Â
You look over your shoulder at him, catching his eye. You share a long look thatâs daunted on your part and confused on his, brown eyelashes tangling in the corners the longer he looks at you. âWhat?â he asks, squinting.Â
âNothing.âÂ
âOkay,â he says, his voice lowering, quiet to match the hush of the bakery and its humming fridges, âdonât tell me. Iâll work it out eventually.âÂ
âDude!âÂ
âWhat?â he asks with a laugh.Â
âBoundaries!â you laugh back. âStop trying to figure me out.âÂ
âBut thereâs something to figure out?âÂ
Heâs evil when he smiles like that. His pride is adorable, giving his sweet face an even fresher look. Youâd pinch his cheeks if they werenât already pinking in the October cold. His scarf hasnât saved him, his coat buttoned tightly no match for the winds. Not to say itâs a bad day. The weather is fine if you keep your fingers in your pockets and your nose in the depths of your coat.Â
âWhat do we want?â you ask rather than answer.Â
They have white icing, chocolate with sprinkles, jelly middles, smiley faces. They have donut holes by the bag. âHazelnut spread,â you say, pointing at the side of the case. âThat looks good.âÂ
He enters in conspiratorial whispers with you. âApple cider doughnuts with cinnamon sugar,â he says, pointing at the row below. âWhat about a double chocolate chunk cookie? They look good. Hey, thereâs cake in the fridge.âÂ
You let him lean into your side. His hair kisses your cheek. Â
âPick whatever you want, okay?â he asks, offering a smaller smile than before. âIâm buying.â
âYou canât, Spencer Reid, I want so many things.âÂ
âItâs fine, I missed you, I dragged you out when you wanted to stay in bed.â He stares at you. âLet me,â he mouths.Â
You ignore the hot twist of your stomach and nod. Okay.Â
Spencer buys the baked goods youâd admitted to wanting and the three others youâd eyed, as well as a cookie and two fat slices of red velvet cake. He asks you to carry the box while he pays. The woman behind the counter gives you a knowing look and a flick of her head, as if to say, Lucky you. You canât quite smile back, distracted by the insinuation. You havenât thought of it before, but you and Spencer, naturally, look like a couple. You could easily be one. And the idea that she thinks so fills you with a shocking amount of smugness.Â
You and Spencer head home before dinner. On the walk back, he pulls the cookie apart and offers you half.Â
â
What if, when you fall asleep tonight, you dream of Spencer again?Â
You lay on your back with your hand on your chest, drawing circles. The cold of the evening is explained by the rain lashing your window, distant winds coming forceful now. A thunderstorm. You tap the middle of your chest in an attempt to be idle, rather than restless.Â
It isnât a dream youâd like to have again, you decide. Spencer had been soft. Youâd been familiar with each other.Â
What would it really feel like to have him touch you like that? Is Spencer confident, when heâs comfortable? Is he imposing?Â
My stomach, you think slowly, is never going to stop spinning.Â
âY/N?â Spencer asks.Â
You can hear him all the way from the kitchen.Â
âYeah?â you ask, raising your voice so it carries.Â
âCan I come and sit with you?â
Itâs an odd request. You know Spencerâs like you, no social butterfly, quiet and content to spend time by oneself because being with others hasnât always been an option. He isnât timid, however, and his asking shouldnât shock you, but it does. âSure,â you say, shifting onto one side of the bed.Â
Spencer arrives at the ajar door and lets himself in. He carries two bottles of water and a heat pack, which he likes to use when the weather allows it. A creature comfort, you assume. Something soothing and constant, like the sound of a fan at night, or rain on a window.Â
âI canât sleep,â he says, âwhich doesnât make much sense.â Spencer sits on the empty side of the bed, his lips pulled into a grimace. âI like the rain.âÂ
Heâs more handsome when heâs smiling, but thereâs a charm to him as he passes you a bottle of water and crosses his legs. The plaid slacks heâs wearing are rough with age, dark blues that seem black in the low lighting.Â
âMaybe itâs because of work,â you say.Â
âMaybe, but Iâm pretty used to getting woken up.âÂ
âRight. Itâs not easy, though, the stuff you do. It would keep me up at night if I did your job.âÂ
âI think sometimes doing my job is the only reason I can sleep.âÂ
âIt's hard. Sounds hard, Spence.â You relax into your pillow, turning to see him. Spencerâs eyes run along your hip for a millisecond, just long enough to remind you that heâs a boy, that he could see you in a different light.Â
âItâs okay,â he says.Â
âWas it hard, this time?â you ask.Â
âNo,â he whispers. âI donât know, it was bad when Emily got hurt, but sheâs so stubborn. If Morgan didnât strap her down she wouldâve kept going like nothing happened.âÂ
You and Spencer have lived together for so long that you remember a time before he even knew Emily. You answered his ad in the paper âyou hadnât realised people still put ads in the paperâ looking for a roommate. His apartment was already furnished and he didnât want to change much, but the second bedroom was spacious and the bathroom could be monopolised. As a girl, youâd been a little dubious reading about a single male looking for any gender, but his self-description was inviting. Twenty-two, just finished a doctorate, working for the FBI and expected to be away from the state at least once a month.Â
Youâd met Spencer and felt even less intimidated. He was awkward and dorky but friendly, too, with his glasses he apparently didnât want to wear, but would eventually give in (before choosing contacts), and his big red sweater fit for a grandpa. âI can make more room for you but I canât get rid of the books,â he said, âso I donât expect you to pay a neat half.âÂ
How could you pass it up?Â
âI canât believe Iâve never met them,â you say.Â
âDo you want to?âÂ
He sounds so surprised. âTheyâre your friends. Iâm your⌠friend.âÂ
âYouâre my best friend. Iâll arrange something, or try to. Itâs hard to get us all in one room when that room isnât the conference room,â he says.Â
âYou look nice in a t-shirt,â you say, not thinking as the words come out.Â
Spencer leans in to whisper, âThanks. You like this one?âÂ
His t-shirt says, I may be NErDy, but only periodically. The NErDy is made up of elements from the periodic table. Itâs a bad pun.Â
âI love it.âÂ
He reaches for you. Tentative, he squeezes your elbow. âIs there something wrong? All day itâs like⌠I donât know, did something happen when I was gone?âÂ
âDonât worry about it.âÂ
âButâŚâÂ
âPlease,â you say, as he catches the last bit of light from the hallway, every eyelash illuminated for the counting. âI donât wanna talk about it, Spencer. But thank you.âÂ
He, in a move thatâs almost uncharacteristic, pushes your arm into the mattress and leans over you. âI wanna be the first one to know when you do wanna talk,â he says firmly, holding your gaze.Â
Howâs your bruise?Â
You nod mechanically. Spencer recedes. âOkay, good,â he says, grinning.Â
âGood,â you echo, thinking of Spencer in the dream, his hand on your hip and climbing up your sore ribs. âLetâs watch TV.âÂ
â
iii. scared of snowÂ
âYouâre being weird.âÂ
âIâm not,â you refute.Â
âYou are.âÂ
Spencer frowns at you, a show full downturn of the lips. A dusting of snow lands in his hair and you both look up to catch it, a drift of it from the marquee as you pass. You donât remember when it started snowing, but it feels like itâs been coming down for days. Itâs in his eyelashes. Your sleeves are wet with it.Â
âThe snowâs making you strange.â
You hold out your hand with fingers parted, feeling his laugh travelling down his arm and into yours as he takes it, intertwining your fingers tightly. He doesnât feel cold.Â
âItâs making you strange,â you mumble.Â
You and Spencer walk down a cobbled road. Snow crunches under your shoes, turned to slush in the high traffic spots by vendors booths left curiously empty of shopkeepers, though their festive wares still line the insides, carved cuckoo birds and metal ornaments, glass balls made to be personalised for mantles. You can smell orange oil and chocolate fudge, crepe carts and churros and cinnamon, and then suddenly any hint of your olfactory sense is gone.Â
âItâs so quiet.âÂ
âItâs the snow,â he says, pulling your arm against his chest as you walk and walk, your footsteps the only sound. âIt acts as a sound absorber when itâs fluffy like this. The sound waves get caught.âÂ
Caught. You think, or say, not sure if it makes it out of your mouth.Â
âLike you,â he says, stopping in the middle of the road.Â
âWhat?â you ask.Â
Snow lands in his eyelashes. âYouâre caught,â he says.Â
You wake up thinking his hand is on your cheek. Like a nightmare, you start, still picturing his lips moving around the words. Caught, you think again, heart a hummingbird in your chest. Your mouth is dry. The heat is up âSpencer must be home again.Â
You suck in a deep breath and sit up, curling over yourself protectively.Â
You dream about Spencer more often than ever, and half the time theyâre normal dreams, which is to say, they follow no rhyme or reason, with no discernible plot. Spencer loses all his teeth, or he takes you to the movies to see one of his long Swedish films, or heâs an afterthought, a bystander. The main plot of your dream doesnât involve him at all.Â
But the other half of the time is ruining your life. You dream of Spencer holding your hand like you had been, or touching your shoulder. Never again do you dream of that tender bruise, but Spencer lifts your shirt in other scenarios. He pulls your pyjamas off, his hand inching between your legs but never touching, or he helps you out of your bra. And every time you think, why is this happening to me? Perhaps a sex dream could be explained away by want and Spencerâs proximity, but all these constant intimacies weigh heavy in your head.Â
You head to the shower and picture Spencer helping you out of your bra, and all of you goes hot, so you turn the water to lukewarm and stand until youâre cold to the point of misery. You clamber out and shiver into a towel, then your robe.Â
Spencerâs humming in the kitchen.Â
You honestly wish that the dreams made you like him less, that the sound of him might send you running back into your room, but you poke your head out of the bathroom and wait until he enters the living room. He sees you waiting, his face splitting into a smile. âHey, good morning, did you sleep better?âÂ
You canât explain the discombobulation of your dreams. Spencer had become convinced you have insomnia. You may have let him assume.Â
âSlept fine,â you croak.Â
âOkay, well get dressed and Iâll make you some coffee.âÂ
ââKay.â Your stomach pangs with nerves seeing him, reminded of tonightâs big event. âAre we still, uh, on, for tonight?âÂ
âNervous?â he asks.Â
You feel like you're about to be a fish in a pool of sharks. âOf course not.âÂ
 âYeah, still on, even JJ.âÂ
Awesome. Spencer turns around to make you your cup of coffee and you go to your room, dressing quickly, two pairs of socks. You tone your face and moisturise, fanning yourself slowly. You donât hurry to the living room, but you arenât slow, and itâs not Spencer, you tell yourself. Not Spencer. Youâre just craving the warmth of a cup of coffee.Â
You spend the morning together on the couch. Spencer reads and occasionally chats to you about whatever tome it is that specific half an hour. You make sandwiches at lunch time, he showers in the early evening. You get dressed and primped while heâs gone, and at 6PM, Spencer knocks your bedroom door to ask if youâre ready to go.Â
âCould I fake an illness?â you joke nervously.Â
Spencerâs hand falls on your handle. The door is ajar as usual, but he doesnât tread any further inside.Â
âCome in,â you say.Â
Spencer takes a single step inside before stopping. He looks you up and down without the hunger you crave from him, a more clement, familiar appreciation to him as he says, âYou look pretty.â He traces your arm, leaving the skin tingly in his wake. âReally pretty.âÂ
âThank you. I didnât want to overdress.âÂ
âItâs perfect, donât worry. And no, you couldnât fake an illness. They all know when Iâm lying, especially Hotch. And Emily, actually.âÂ
You squeeze your hands together tightly at your stomach. âI donât know why Iâm sooo nervous.â You lick your lips. âI feel like I canât stop fidgeting.âÂ
âTheyâre used to it, I promise. They know that theyâre gonna make you nervous, but theyâve sworn to be on their best behaviour, and besides, youâre not the only plus one. JJâs bringing Will, and Morganâs bringing his sister, Iâve only met her once. The focus wonât be all on you.â He lowers his voice. âAfter two drinks they forget theyâre supposed to be scary.âÂ
âWhat if I say something extremely stupid to your boss and get you in trouble?âÂ
âWhat are you going to get me in trouble for?âÂ
âI donât know. What if I accidentally tell him that that sick day you took a few weeks ago was to help me make brownies?â
âEveryone lies about sick days.â He deliberates. âMaybe not Hotch. But Iâm pretty sure he knew I was lying, and itâs explainable. I felt⌠irate.âÂ
You raise your eyebrows. âWhat?âÂ
âStaying home with you made me feel better. Which made me a better worker the next day, itâs fine.â His phone rings from somewhere in the apartment. âThatâll be JJ. Are you okay?âÂ
âIâm fine.âÂ
âYeah?â He grins. âOkay. Youâre wearing a coat, right? Itâs cold. The forecast says snow. Itâs thirty degrees out.âÂ
You layer a coat onto your jacket and a scarf to make him happy. You and Spencer get a taxi, black leather gritless under your hands, though you squeeze the seat like itâs gonna stop the car the whole time. Spencer doesnât talk much, but he looks at you unapologetically, and he smiles, and the quiet is as severe as it was in your dream that morning. If this were a dream heâd be leaning over to cradle your ear. Heâd ask in whispers if you were alright, and heâd let his hand rest kindly on your knee.Â
âWhat?â you whisper.Â
His lips part like he might answer. The car comes to a crunching stop outside the bar, and whatever it was he was going to say is kept for later. âIâll tell you after,â he says.Â
He pays for the taxi before you can work it out and you say thank you to the driver. The sidewalk is clean, broad, and glowing with the last bit of light. The sun sets behind you. The bar beckons in front.Â
Your fear is daunting.Â
You have years of practice fooling Spencer. You know that he knows your tells, so youâve changed them, and Spencer cares about you enough to ignore obvious truths if he thinks you might not want to share. His colleagues, FBI agents trained to detect deception, are going to take one good look at you and know youâre lying about⌠this.Â
Youâre plagued by dreams of Spencer, but nothing can touch the real thing.Â
You feel the space between you like itâs aflame. Spencer checks youâre with him and opens the door.Â
The bar is busy even for a Saturday. You arenât expecting the volume, the boisterousness of the patrons already slumped together over tables and waiting at the bar to get their drinks. Itâs smaller than youâd pictured too, but its size is made up for with a patio at the back, smokers haunting the door, wary of the cold.Â
You know what his friends look like already, yet seeing them in person is odd. Hotch is taller than youâd thought, Emily more startlingly pretty. JJâs frowning, and her partner Will looks like heâs about to fall asleep despite a lazy grin.Â
Hotch notices you first. He taps Emily on the elbow, who pauses in a thought to follow his gaze. Her face breaks into a smile, and if you werenât in love with Spencer Reid, you might take a tumble for his pale coworker.Â
âHello,â Spencer says, ushering you to the table with an arm behind your back.Â
âHi,â you say.Â
âHe-llo,â Emily says, leaning into the table, a strand of her hair dangerously close to a short glass of juice. âI canât believe weâre finally seeing you in person. Iâm Emily.âÂ
âY/N,â you say.Â
âAaron,â Hotch adds. (Aaron! Heâs far more intimidating casually than as a boss, it seems.)
âDerek was just here,â JJ says in way of greeting, while Will drawls from over her shoulder, âIâm Will, itâs nice to meet you.âÂ
Spencer pulls out a chair for you and promptly sits in the one beside Emily. âSorry weâre late. I forgot my wallet and we had to go back up to the apartment and the cab I called got so angry about it that he left.âÂ
You slide between the table and your chair, looking to Spencer for guidance, but heâs distracted taking his coat off and you have to look at Aaron instead.Â
His smile is immediately knowing. Read for filth in seconds. âWe don't bite.â
âNot so early in the evening,â Emily says.Â
You take a shuddering breath, thankful they canât hear it over the sounds of the bar.Â
â
âIâm caught!â you exclaim.Â
Spencer hugs you under the arms. âI know,â he says gently.Â
âCaught!âÂ
He holds back a laugh as your arms react, practically flung behind his head in a hug that threatens to cut off the oxygen supply to his brain. âI think youâve caught me, instead,â he says.Â
You laugh in his ear. Thereâs gin on your breath and the sweeter smell of orange juice. Itâs not bad, but weird to know itâs from your mouth. Or not weird. It gives Spencer a feeling like seeing the soft curve of your hip when youâre lying on your side. Like watching you bite your bottom lip when youâre distracted by the TV and worrying to yourself, which you do more often than not lately. Theyâre private things that Spencer shouldnât know about.Â
âIâm not trying to,â you say, and Spencer can smell the shot of vodka you did too, which is less pleasant. âNot trying to catch you. Not⌠Iâm sorry.âÂ
âWhat for?âÂ
âItâs hard to explain.âÂ
Over your shoulder, Spencer spots Hotchâs entertained gaze. All the team has done since you sat down together was pick on Spencer and his obviousness. Boyfriend? theyâd asked you. Looking? Sights set on someone? All while JJ nudged him under the table.Â
Things are falling apart now. JJâd departed to hold Emilyâs hair back, and Will with her. Hotch caught the eye of a woman across the way, and they sit chatting amicably at the bar with more peanuts than drinks. Derek, when he did appear, stayed for an hour with Desiree, recounting to you his most embarrassing stories of which Spencer had taken care to shield you from, and laughed at his subsequent blush.Â
He never wanted you to know about his run in with anthrax, and he especially didnât want you to know heâd been stripped nude afterwards and hosed off like a muddy dog.Â
Youâd turned to him with wide, worried eyes. âYou were poisoned?â youâd asked.Â
Itâs stuff like that that makes this difficult.Â
âI donât know if you know this,â he says now, rubbing your back, âbut Iâm good with difficult concepts.â
âI did not mean to be like this.âÂ
âYou didnât eat much.â Spencer helps you stand on your own two feet. âThey kitchenâs still open. I can get you food, how about a burger? Or we can go find you something.â
âWhat kind of burger?â you ask, poorly concealing your excitement.Â
Spencer gets you back to the table. âIâll be right back.âÂ
âWait, donât go.âÂ
âIâm gonna get food. Do you want fries?âÂ
âSpencer, what if I throw up?âÂ
Spencer shrugs. âI can rub your back?âÂ
âI donât want to throw up.âÂ
âThen drink that,â he says, sliding his glass of coke toward you. âAlcohol irritates the lining of your stomach and increases the production of stomach acid. If you drink,â âhe flinches as you knock the cup backâ âslowly you can dilute your stomach contents without upsetting it. Slowly,â he says, squeezing your hand, âIâll order food.â
âNo, wait.â You drop the glass and grab him. âPlease donât go. I donât want to throw up by myself.âÂ
âYou wonât throw up.â
âPlease,â you say, holding his wrist in both hands, your eyes shiny. âSpencer, donât go.âÂ
âI wonât.â He doesnât know how true it is and then suddenly heâs sat down. He wonât go. He wouldnât leave your side ever again if thatâs what you asked of him.Â
He puts your chairs together, entertaining your tipsy thoughts with light conversation and the occasional slight of hand. You have an aura about you, like Spencerâs doing more than close-up magic, hanging on his every word. Your nervousness had you gasping like a fish, not so subtly downing one drink, then another, but now that youâre feeling the effects of them (and a few extras), the tightness youâd held in your fingers is gone. Youâre leaning against the back of the chair with all the ease of you on the couch at home, but the easy fondness youâd usually wear while he speaks is replaced by a bright and shining awe. A sweetness like heâs remarkable. The soft line of your lips and your widened eyes.Â
Youâre not the sort of drunk that leaves you listless and ready for bed. This is giggly and fun, and so long as you donât push it youâll be alright. It wasnât enough alcohol to leave you inebriated all night, anyhow. In a few hours the giddiness will wear away, leaving you with a headache and a deep longing for your missed dinner.Â
âIâm glad you didnât let me fake food poisoning,â you say.Â
âIs that what you were thinking? Thatâs a terrible excuse. You need something with sudden onset symptoms, like an asthma attack, or pneumonia. An acute illness.âÂ
You take his hand. âI love that you know that stuff.â
Feeling as in love with you as ever, and sorry for you drunken state âhe couldâve stopped you, he just didnât thinkâ he folds your hands together, both of his, rubbing the hills of your knuckles with his thumb. Your hands look right together.Â
Thatâs what Spencer likes to think, anyway.Â
You slow like youâre tired, hand lax in his grips. Your mouth opens but nothing follows, no sigh or gripe or conversation.Â
âYou okay?â he asks softly.Â
âI think Iâm having one of those dreams again.âÂ
âYouâre awake,â he says.Â
âI donât know about that. Theyâre all like this.âÂ
He hums, smoothing his thumb down the back of your hand. âIf this were a dream, you wouldn't have control over what youâre doing. Why donât you do something you wouldnât do in a dream?âÂ
âLike what?â you ask.Â
âThereâs a ton of stuff you canât do in dreams. People find they have a poor memory, but I canât ask you to recall anything. You might not remember regardless. How about temperature?â he suggests. âMost people canât feel warm or cold in their dreams. Do you want to feel something cold?â
You watch him for a few seconds, your eyebrows pulled together unhappily. âYour hands are warm,â you say.Â
âRight.â He suspects theyâll feel warmer in just a few seconds when the hot flush in his face manages to work its way down. âIâm warm. So are you.âÂ
âSometimes I feel like youâre warm in the dream, though. You make me feel warm.âÂ
âItâs remembered, maybe.âÂ
You donât look any happier. âSometimes I wish I could stop having them, butâŚâ You duck your head. âSorry, Spencer.âÂ
âWhat are you sorry for?âÂ
Your head ducks lower. With a start to his chest, your shoulders shake, like you're inhaling the first half of a sob.Â
âHey, hey,â he says, reaching for your cheek, ducking his own head to see you, âwhatâs wrong? Itâs okay, you donât have anything to be sorry for!â he whispers emphatically. âYou have nothing to be sorry for, why would you think that?âÂ
âI keep having these dreams, all the time, andâ and Iâ Iâll mess everything up. Everything we have, Iâm going toââ You hiccup, eyes turned glassy, imploring him to forgive you for something you havenât done. âI donât feel good.âÂ
âYou havenât done anything wrong,â he says, his hand sliding back to your ear, down to your neck, âyouâre just drunk. Youâre confused.âÂ
âBut the dreamsââ
âWhat dreams?â he asks gently.Â
You blow out a daunted breath. âWhere you love me.âÂ
âI do love you.âÂ
âBut more than this. You love me more than this,â you say, shaking your head. âI really donât feel okay⌠Do you think we could go home?âÂ
Youâre so sorry and frowny that Spencer would attempt, in all his unfitness, to climb Mount Everest for you should you ask. âYeah, we can go home,â he says, rubbing your arm up and down and up again, a line of affection from shoulder to wrist. âIâll take you home. Itâs okay, Y/N. You donât have to be upset, I shouldnât have asked.âÂ
Heâs not sure what he asked, really, but the answer upset you. His heartâs racing like he just sprinted the length of the bar and youâre close to tears, this strange weepy sullenness about you as you say, âItâs okay. Letâs just go.âÂ
â
Itâs cold to be sitting out by yourself, though the snow stayed its hand another night while the temperature fell again. Your coat poses a weak defence against the chill, nipping at your nose, burning the insides of every breath, and your feet are stiff like ice in your shoes. Yet, the idea of returning to the apartment is a leaden stone in your stomach.Â
Spencer could barely look at you that morning. You hadnât given him much of a chance, slipping out of the apartment with little more than a call to say youâd be back later. Your groceries freeze in a paper bag by your feet.Â
Youâre not too embarrassed about getting tipsy. It was drinks with Spencer and his friends, not dinner. Emily had been twice as drunk, and Derek had encouraged you to drink with a round on him. Youâre mortified, however, by what youâd said. Your memory is clear enough to know youâd told Spencer about your dreams.Â
Heâd been confused at the time, but heâs a smart boy. Heâll figure it out.Â
âThis headache,â you mumble, tipping your head into your hand morosely. You rub your brow, fingers against the ache, the cold getting worse.Â
Why did it take a dream for you to realise you had feelings for Spencer? And why did you have to realise at all? If youâd never had that dream, never had that phantom bruise, his hands careful and caring and touching up to the band of your bra, you wouldnât know now what it is to want him. The dream gave you a bruise, and Spencer presses against it real or otherwise every time he looks at you. You were wrong thinking that it never happened; itâs still there, a purple lash against your ribs.Â
Every time he makes you breakfast, or he texts you from a different state, or he sits down on the couch just to talk to you. Every time he says something smart, or he tilts his head back as he laughs, or he draws a smiley face on the mirror by the doorâ
âAbout those dreams?âÂ
You rub your eyes hard. Of course heâd come to find you. âPlease donât.âÂ
âPlease,â he says. You see him through your fingers. His thick scarf is unravelled at his neck, his hair ragged around his face like heâs been raking it repeatedly behind his ears.Â
You straighten.Â
âI donât get it,â he says, âyouâve been dreaming about me? Why is that such a big deal?âÂ
âItâs embarrassing.âÂ
âI dream about you all the time,â he says. âWeâre in each other's lives, we live together, it makes sense that your hippocampus would use me. You have a lot of memories with me.â Spencer crosses his arms in front of you. âItâs freezing.âÂ
âIâll be home in a bit.â
âIâm not gonna go back without you,â he says, like thatâs a given.Â
You move across the bench to make room for him. Spencer sits.Â
You settle. The occasional bus trundles past, a limited rota for an early Sunday morning. Spencer shoves his hands into his pockets. His lips are already turning blue.Â
âI know you know what I mean,â you say.Â
Spencer presses his knees together. âEven romantic dreams where Iâm⌠where weâre together, itâs all easily explained away by brain science. You canât control what you dream, and Iâm not going to hold you to it.âÂ
Silence, silence. You tip your head back to see a horrible grey cloud closing in on you both, the sun a white and gauzy memory behind it. Spencerâs right about control, but he doesnât get that you like them. Itâs not fair to him that youâve somehow rallied a second life when youâre sleeping, where heâs your mindâs puppet, hugging and holding you, pressing his cheek to the side of your face. Saying things you wish heâd tell you now.Â
âWell, I like you.âÂ
âWhat?â you ask, coughing.Â
âNot to make things awkward or anything, but I like you. Romantically.â Spencerâs voice takes a sharp veer into high-pitched freneticism. âDoes that help at all?âÂ
âWhat?âÂ
âItâs far more embarrassing that I like you on purpose than your accidental dreams, right?â He thumbs at the inside of his wrist. âYou donât have to say anything, or think anything, and Iâm not going to change, but I have feelings for you.â Â
You feel like youâre standing at the top of a very tall building. âOh?âÂ
âI kind of thought you knew.âÂ
âHow could I know that?â you ask, cringing as a cold gust of air bites at your face.Â
Spencer takes his scarf off and pushes it into your hands. âI donât know. I guess we know less about each other than we thought.â
The way he says it.Â
Spencer wraps his scarf around you when itâs clear you arenât going to do it yourself, and he touches your cheek briefly, a brush of his fingers like he thinks heâs doing something he shouldnât be allowed to.Â
âI dream about you all the time,â he says quietly.Â
A bus passes by and shines headlights at your feet. The wind blows, your ears roar, and just above you, in a cold front to mark the season, snow begins to fall.Â
You look up simultaneously. A snowflake gets caught in Spencerâs eyelashes.Â
Just one.Â
âThis is so weird,â you mumble.Â
Spencer wipes at his eye. âCould you tell me why?âÂ
âI had a dream just like this.âÂ
He laughs warmly. âOf course you did. Forget all reason, then. Youâre prophetic.âÂ
âI donât think I couldâve predicted this.âÂ
âWhy? Itâs only snow. Virginia gets an inch of snow most Decembers.âÂ
You laugh. In a dream, this is where you and Spencer would kiss or hold hands, or rest your cheek on the otherâs shoulder, but neither of you are brave enough. And, as the snow turns to a sleet below freezing, you canât ignore the cold.Â
â
iv. the endÂ
The longest anyone has ever slept in recorded human history is eleven days. Two hundred and sixty four hours, or nearly sixteen thousand minutes, just shy of one million seconds of sleep.Â
The first pillow was invented in Mesopotamia more than nine thousand years ago, in a time where the amount of pillows a person had directly correlated their personal riches. The history of pillows is tumultuous and eclectic. Headrests made of wood, stone, or jade. Curved neck holders worn soft with use.Â
And, of all Spencerâs gifted facts, you find yourself circling back to the same one as you wait for him to wake: most dreams are no longer than twenty minutes. However, itâs important to note that the longest dream ever officially observed was in 1994, when a man managed to be in REM for just over three hours. Youâve had dreams that felt like they lasted for hours, but likely took place for just twenty minutes. If you could dream for three hours a night, you could live an entire life of longing in a pocket of time.Â
Thankfully, you have no need to hide from reality anymore. Spencer sleeps beside you and you donât want to sleep, you just want him to wake up.Â
âGood morning,â you whisper, drawing your fingertip across his cheek to encourage the hair thatâs fallen there back in line.Â
He doesnât stir. Itâs alright, you hadnât meant to wake him.Â
âI love you,â you whisper, shuffling across the sheets to feel the heat and weight of his body against your own. He doesnât move for a while, snoring gently, his breath kissing the top of your head as you burrow into the slip of space under his chin. Then, as if he were awake, he wraps his arm around you and drags you in further. His face angles down and his nose finds your forehead, and a hum of what youâd personally say is content kisses your brow.Â
You tuck your hand behind his back and rub a circle.Â
Spencer didnât last long after the initial realisation of requited feelings. In a day heâd asked if you wanted to be his girlfriend (vaguely apologetic, still worried about scaring you, though youâd already come clean about wanting him as youâd warmed your cold hands by the stove). A week later he kissed you on a date outside of the cosiest Indian restaurant in Washington, D.C, and things have been nothing but smooth sailing from there.Â
Now, when heâs feeling romantic, he brings home butter chicken and turns your face up for kissing, fork in hand. Every night before bed, he tells you to have good dreams, a self-satisfaction in his eyes that you dearly love.Â
You knew he was a dork and you liked him because of it, but the sheer increase in him is amazing. Yesterday he sent you Close to You by Carpenters over text claiming they wrote it about you. When he got home, he tried to make you dance with him in the living room. After two or three kisses, youâd let him pull you to your feet.Â
Spencer has turned loving one another into an everyday spectacularity, and not some mystical dream you ached for.Â
He squeezes the skin of your shoulder as he wakes. Heavy in the hands of sleep, Spencer rubs the tip of his nose to yours, nudging your face up, and waiting there with your lips a few millimetres apart as he finds his bearings. You donât open your eyes. Thereâs no need.Â
âTime?â he mumbles.
âI donât,â âyou clear your hoarse voice, his hand flattening protectively behind youâ âknow, um. Maybe seven. The sun was risingâŚâÂ
âYou could have woken me up,â he says, and kisses you slowly. Itâs almost gluttonous, how he does it. Not chaste at all. His hair falls into your face and tickles your cheeks, his nose smushes your own with his easy depth.Â
You hold his face and kiss him twice, following a line under his chin, where you pause, smelling yesterday's cologne on his skin. âI was hoping Iâd fall asleep again,â you confess.Â
âOh, no, donât do that.â He scoops you against him and turns onto his back as you laugh. âAngel. Letâs stay up now. Letâs just⌠stay here.âÂ
If you stay here heâs going to waylay you with a smattering of his voracious kisses, and heâs going to turn you on your back and kiss your neck. Heâll touch that place on your ribs where youâd once dreamt a bruise. Itâs a secret you couldnât keep. He likes to kiss you there when he remembers, but most of the time his hands run along it without mention. A slow caressing.Â
You push your face against his shoulder and sigh as his arms close in around you. With a little effort, you get your arms around him in turn, and you hug him for as long as you can stand the pins and needles in your fingers.Â
âYou smell so good,â you mumble.
He pats your back absentmindedly.Â
Today, youâre going to make Spencer oatmeal with banana and chocolate. Youâre going to shower, maybe together if the small space can handle it, laughing at the soap in his eyebrows and the way he squeals when you touch his hips. Youâre going to drape yourself across his lap as he reads, and heâll lean down to kiss the tip of your nose or some other strange part of you unused to affection. The top of your ear, the palm of your hand, maybe the crook of your elbow. Heâll ramble through dinner or creep up behind you to sniff your shoulder, and itâll all be choices youâve made. Nothing left to want or wanting, but being in love while wide awake.Â
âAre you tired?â you ask him.Â
He takes a deep breath of your hair. âNo,â he says, drawing a light line up your side, âIâm okay. There are worse faces to wake up to.â
You try not to fluster noticeably. Heâs always been a good roommate. Youâre still getting used to the boyfriend part, the intimacy of being complimented, but Spencer seems to have slipped into the part easily.
âSorry, that was mean. Thereâs nothing Iâd rather wake up to.âÂ
âThanks,â you mumble.Â
Youâre tired, suddenly. The minutes pass in heavy blinks âyou donât want to sleep now that heâs awake, but being here with him is warming you from the inside out. You doze and wake and Spencer doesnât say a word. His breaths come evenly against your cheek.Â
Eventually, he clears his throat, asksing, âDid you dream at all?â His voice is hewn. He rubs your chest, right over your heart.
âIâm not so sure that this isnât one,â you say, your heartbeat a crawl under his touch.
âThatâs corny.âÂ
âMm, the Spencer in my dreams is usually kinder.âÂ
âDoes he ever get to hold you like this?â he asks, letting his hand fall from your chest to wrap it back around you again.Â
You take a sleepy breath in. âNo,â you say slowly, âhe doesnât.â
・đŚšÂ°â§â.
thank youuuu for reading!! please like comment or reblog if you enjoyed!! thank youâ¤ď¸
this fic was requested! I usually link to the request I was sent at the top, but I lost the post for this one, but this is what the request said:Â
âhi angel! i have a request for roommate!spencer where r has a very romantic dream about him and starts avoiding him because she's really embarrassed but spencer is so confused as to why his roommate suddenly can't even look him in the eye. maybe one of them realizes their feelings aren't entirely platonic in the end? love you!!!â
learning sign language so you can make inappropriate comments to spencer while at work and you sign âwant to suck your cockâ and spencer just looks at you all bewildered like âsince when did you know ASL?â
dirty talking to spencer in ASL
genre: sfw with sexual innuendos
word count: 1,8k
a/n: a lil something while i'm working on kinkfest :)
Spencer Reid is a man of many talents. People say â well, specifically, Spencer once told you that learning a new skill is easiest around the age of ten and how the process will be more difficult once you reach the age of eighteen. Something about neural connections forming rapidly, the unconscious system, the critical period⌠To be honest, you lost your focus the moment he mentioned the new skill heâd learned: sign language.Â
Spencer was excited to tell you about this new skill. He already knew a handful of languages, from Russian to Yoruba, but what appealed to him most about ASL was the hand motions. How he didnât need to pronounce any of the words. You still chuckle to yourself when the memory of him pronouncing a Spanish sentence pops up in your head. How vividly you could picture Elle correcting him. There was nothing funny about him using ASL, though. In fact, you remember the way your throat tightened and your cheeks heated when his hands started moving â long fingers, decorated in veins, flexing into different symbols at a speed that other beginners would envy.
âThat means âI love you, and that sweater looks pretty on youâ.â
You had laughed. Had leaned in to press a soft kiss to his lips. âI love you,â you replied. A hot pink flush made its way onto his face, a shy smile tugging on his lips.Â
âDoes this mean youâll be speaking to me in sign now?â
Your comment was meant as mere teasing, but Spencer had taken it as a challenge. Heâd made sure to at least communicate a couple of ASL sentences to you every day. You could imagine it being a good way of practice for him. For the both of you, actually. Because over time you started to recognize some of the movements. A sign you had mistaken as rock and roll before, you had now concluded meant I love you. A swipe of his hand over his face? Pretty. There were a few others you could recognize, but as the sentences grew longer and his signs faster, you gave up.
You had always assumed everything Spencer signed to you was something sweet. Youâd smile, kiss him as a thank you, and forget about it, assuming he was complimenting you. That was until Derek caught Spencer in the act, signing something to you before the elevator doors closed in front of him, ready to head over to the lab for another case you were on.Â
âMy man,â Derek chuckled heartily, shaking his head like he couldnât believe what had just happened.
Your brows furrowed, the smile that had lingered on your face moments before dropping instantly. âWhat?â
He kept laughing, not noticing the clear confusion you were in.
âDerek!â you said, giving a soft punch to his arm to catch his attention.
âOh, you donât-â He raised an eyebrow, pointing to you and the closed elevator doors before laughing even harder.
âStop it!â You cried, getting embarrassed by the scene you were causing in the middle of the bullpen. âWhatâs so funny?â
âOh, pretty girl,â he started, taking a deep breath to recover, still grinning widely. âPretty Boy over there should be getting the title of Dirty Boy from now on.â
Your mouth opened, then quickly closed when no words came out. âI donât understand.â
Derek looked around the bullpen, finding no one near. Still, he leaned in, shielding his mouth with his hand as he recited Spencerâs words to you.
You gasp, hand clutching your chest dramatically as if starring in a soap opera. âHe didnât,â you say in full disbelief.
âOh, yes he did,â Morgan smirked in full pride.
âHow would you even know that?â
âMy buddy works at a youth center. I teach the kids football from time to time. Some speak ASL.â
You scoff. âKids have taught you these words?â
Derek shrugs. âWhat can I say? Itâs the dirty words that are most fun to learn.â
-`âĄÂ´-
You had struggled to think of anything else after that encounter, your mind wandering to every possible naughty sentence when Spencer signed to you from then on. It was frustrating, really, how he must be gleaming knowing you had no clue what he was saying. As long as he knows that youâre also up for a challenge.Â
After work that day, you told Spencer youâd be home later, having to pick something up from a friendâs house. It wasnât completely a lie â you had to pick something up, just from a different location. You parked your car in the parking lot in front of the public library, feeling like a criminal as you knocked on the glass doors. A woman in her late sixties greeted you, her kind beady eyes framed by thin glasses that hung low on her nose.
âYouâre the one who called? From the FBI?â
You nodded, smiling. âHi, yes, thatâs me. I am so sorry to be bothering you at this hour, but weâve got a killer on the loose, and itâs very urgent.â
The older woman cringed at the mention of a killer, muttering some words under her breath, and turned to grab an entire stack of books. You reached your hands out, accepting the heavy weight of the books, the title A Beginnerâs Guide to ASL written on the top one.Â
Her hand trembled lightly as she tapped the front cover. âThis one comes with a DVD.â
âOh, thatâs perfect. Thank you for your help.â
âYou better catch that bastard!â You nodded confidently in response as you turned on your heel.
-`âĄÂ´-
Unfortunately, Spencer was right: learning a new language as an adult was far from easy. Especially with the lack of time you had because of working a demanding job. You had to make do with the rare free weekends and some late nights during the week to study as much as possible.
You were tucked underneath a blanket on the couch, laptop in your lap, as you were watching a YouTube video Derek had recommended: âSign Dirty to Me: A Guide to Dirty Talk in Sign Languageâ.â
âThe next sentence weâll be learning is âI want to give you a blowjobâ.â
âA what?âÂ
You screeched, lifting yourself up on the couch at a speed that made the laptop fall on the ground with a thud. You mutter a string of curses as the video continues playing, using your foot to stomp the laptop shut.
âJesus, Spencer, canât you knock?â
You turn your body, spotting your boyfriend's tall figure leaning against the open bedroom door, an amused smile lingering on his lips. âI think youâve forgotten that youâre in my house.â
You groan at his smug grin, trying to find an excuse.Â
âWhat were you watching anyway?â He asks in curiosity before you could explain.
âNothing!â
He takes a stride toward you, and you scramble from the couch to grab the laptop, holding it tight in your arms as a safety measure. Spencer leans on the plush frame of the couch, appearing rather relaxed as a gleam sparkles in his eyes. âDonât tell me you were watching-â
âNo!â You exclaim in offense.
âI wouldnât mind it if you were.â
âI was not watching anything.â
The content look doesnât fade from his face. He looks rather pleased by the scene youâre making. The tips of his fingers brush against the bare skin of your arm. Those damn fingers. âI donât mind, angel. I would just offer you my help instead.â
You swallowed. He was distracting you, and you were not going to fall for his dirty ploys yet again. No way.
âIâm good,â you squeak, hurriedly standing up from the couch. You point at him while your other hand clutches your laptop. âI will go to the bedroom now, and you will stay here. Donât even think about moving an inch.â
Your words were only making you sound more suspicious, but you didnât care. It would be worth it in the end.
-`âĄÂ´-
Two weeks had passed since you and Derek had exposed Spencerâs dirty, little secret. Two weeks in which you had spent all your free time learning ASL. You had been nervous all morning while getting ready for work, trying to resist the urge to sign something to him. But you wanted to do it in the bullpen; you needed to see him get flustered in a crowd.Â
Your fingers had been nervously tapping on your desk, eyeing Spencer at his desk opposite yours. You were waiting on Derek, who you had promised could be there for the âbig momentâ.Â
âWhere are we going?â Penelopeâs voice sounded through the bullpen as Derek grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the desks. You throw your hands up in frustration, it wasnât the plan to make it that big of a show. âAre you kidding me?â You mouth toward Derek.
âNow,â he mouths back as he stays at a safe distance against the far wall.
Here we go.
A single kick to Spencerâs shin was enough to grab his attention. âOuch! What did you do that for?â
Biting down on your lip to hide your smile, you began moving your fingers, a little exaggeratedly, to make sure he understood.Â
Look what new skill I learned.
Spencer beams, smiling brightly as the realization dawns upon him. âHey! Since when did you know ASL?â
You donât give him an answer right away, not wanting to get out of your flow, so you continue signing the variety of sentences youâve learned, each one even dirtier than the last.
You knew you were doing a good job when a few snorts came from your right at certain words, Derek understanding what you were saying. Looking at Spencer confirmed it â his eyes stood wide open, red blotches of heat forming on his neck as his lips moved in a struggle to find the words.
Stop it. Right now. He eventually signed.
You grin, pride washing over you as you can understand him. This new method of communication truly opens up worlds.
But I mean it. You sign back.
He hides the small smile that forms on his face, tugging away a piece of hair before finding the courage to respond back to you.
What else would you like to do, then?
Penelope nudged Derek, looking puzzled. âWhat are they doing? Are theyâŚ? Oh my god, theyâre trying to get in each otherâs pants? Right in front of us?!â
Derek threw his head back laughing. âThatâs right. Theyâre not so innocent anymore, huh?â
âBut dirty talk is our thing!â Penelope protested.
Derek shakes his head. âI hate to break it to you, baby girl, but theyâre outdoing us.â