#alt! reader

Being an alternative woman in public is one thing, but being an alternative woman whose boyfriend is practically the complete opposite of you is a whole different issue. You're used to the comments that get thrown at you — after all, you've dealt with that for years, since you started dressing "unconventionally" in middle school. You've learned to ignore the sexualising comments from teenage boys and old men alike, and you can easily tune out the disapproving glares from middle aged women. However, what you aren't as okay with is when people bring your boyfriend into it.

You and Spencer are sitting together on the train home from a museum date, your knees touching as he holds your hand, fidgeting with your rings. You feel the gazes of a group of young boys — no more than fifteen — not far away from where you sit. You decide to ignore them, like you usually do, and you just hope that they don't decide to yell at you like you sometimes have had people do.

Your gaze traces over your boyfriend, and you find yourself unable to suppress a smile. As the days are getting colder, he's been wearing more layers, and it's just so cute. You love the way his scarf is wrapped around his neck and tucked into the dark brown jacket he's wearing. The soft waves of hair that frame his face are even more adorable when they're brushing over the rosiness of his cold cheeks.

Feeling you looking at him, Spencer looks away from your hands and up to your face. "What?" he asks with a smile of his own as he sees your grin.

"Nothing," you reply, nudging your knee against his. "You're just cute."

He smiles shyly, a pink tint creeping across his face. "No, I'm not," he responds. He's never been good at accepting compliments.

Raising a teasing eyebrow, you let a joking scold taint your voice as you say, "Don't argue with me, Dr Reid."

"Yes, ma'am," he chuckles breathily, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

Spencer's eyes fall to the floor, where your chunky platform boots rest beside his battered converse. He always loves it when you wear these boots, he thinks they're pretty with the silver studs you had glued onto them and the maroon laces you'd threaded through the eyelets. He's always admired how crafty you are, how you can make any basic item of clothing into something much more extravagant. Something else he loves about these boots is that they make you a little taller — still not as tall as him, but it makes it easier for him to kiss you.

Moving away from your boots, his gaze follows your legs, clad in two pairs of thermal tights beneath the long black skirt you're wearing. He'd watched you embroider the pattern of roses into the fabric a few weeks ago, practically in a trance. The way your eyebrows had been furrowed in concentration as your fingers swiftly worked was a beautiful thing to watch. He's convinced you could craft the galaxy with your bare hands if you wanted to.

Hazel eyes trace over your thighs and up your torso, flickering across the many layers you're wearing. He counts four — maybe five? — layers, which isn't surprising considering how prone to getting cold you are. The neckline of a lacy purple long-sleeve peeks out from beneath your Bauhaus T-shirt, which is partially hidden by a black zip-up that you had painted a pattern onto in bleach. Over the zip-up sits your baggy leather jacket, something you rarely leave the apartment without. A few necklaces decorate your neck, most of them ones that he had given you.

As his gaze finds yours again, he smiles. A cheesy, cute, I'm-so-in-love-with-you smile. When you smile back, his heart skips a beat. He loves the way the eyeliner cobwebs attached to the thick wing on your eyes shift with the movement of your pretty, black-painted lips.

"You're so pretty," Spencer tells you softly. He looks at you as if you'd just reached into the sky and handed him the moon.

Heat rises to your cheeks at his words — even after almost two years of dating, you still feel butterflies whenever he compliments you. You don't think that feeling will ever go away. You don't want it to. "So are you," you respond, giving his hand a squeeze.

As you say the words, the train slows to a halt at your stop. The both of you wait until it has fully stopped before standing and heading to the doors. As you do, the boys you'd caught staring at you earlier decide it would be amusing to yell at you.

"Emo bitch!" one of them shouts, his voice cracking embarrassingly. It almost makes you crack a smile.

Spencer squeezes your hand, a silent way to tell you it's okay and to not say anything back, but you're already glancing back at the laughing group with a cold glare. You part your lips to retaliate, but decide that your boyfriend is right. You stick to simply flipping them off as the two of you exit the train.

As you look back at Spencer, he gives you a pointed look. You shrug and say, "What? I didn't say anything." But you know you wouldn't have stayed silent if anything had been said about him instead.

You switch sides with him, slipping your hand into his as you adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder. The walk home is quiet and peaceful, thankfully void of any more cruel comments from strangers. Spencer's hand is somehow warm in yours, despite the frosty air and cold breeze that bites at your skin. Fallen leaves crunch beneath your shoes as the wind nudges them across the ground.

When you reach your shared apartment, Spencer quickly turns up the thermostat as you both step inside. As you both shrug off your jackets and hang them up, he presses a quick kiss to your forehead — likely trying to determine how cold you are.

"Do you want a drink?" he asks whilst tugging off his converse. "Tea?"

"No, I'm okay," you reply, plopping down onto the floor to take off your boots. Unzipping one, you let out a little grunt of effort as you tug it from your foot. "You know what I do want, though?"

"What?"

"I want..." You pause as you pull off the other boot, biting your lip. "I want to put make-up on you. My kind of make-up."

His eyes find yours as he tilts his head slightly. "You do?"

You hesitate, unsure if his response means that he is repulsed by the idea and would rather lick the floor of your building's elevator than let you do that. Looking away, your voice falls quieter as you reply, "I don't have to. It was just an idea. Sorry. It was stupid."

"Hey, silly girl." He sits in front of you on the floor, moving your boots out of the way as he shifts closer. "It's not stupid. Look at me," he says gently, tilting your chin up with his index and middle finger so that he can look into your eyes. "It's not a stupid idea. And you don't have to apologise. If that's something you want to do, I'd be more than happy to let you, okay?"

The slight pout on your lips is so adorable he feels like his heart might explode.

"Are you sure? You don't have to say yes," you mutter shyly. "It doesn't matter, really. You can say no, it's—"

"Baby," he cuts you off in a gentle voice, his tone one that makes your stomach flutter. The motherfucker always knows what to say and how to say it to shut you up. "I'm sure."

Your lips twitch into a nervous smile. He thinks it's so incredibly cute how you're so shy and sweet when most people would assume other things about you based on your appearance. He thinks it's silly how people make assumptions on others based on how they dress. He thinks a lot of things, but his mind goes blank when you lean in and kiss him.

Immediately kissing you back, he smiles against your lips and rests his hands on your waist to pull you just a bit closer. Knees knocking together, you break the kiss with a giggle and tuck his hair behind his ear.

"Do you want to do it now, or later?" he asks.

"Now. Is that okay?"

"Of course," Spencer says, smiling as he kisses you once more before standing up and pulling you to your feet.

So you head into the bathroom together, but you decide he's too tall for you to be able to do it properly when he's sat on the counter. He laughs when you tell him that, and disappears into the bedroom while you gather the rest of your make-up. Once you have everything, you follow after him into the bedroom.

"Sit on the bed," you instruct.

"Yes, ma'am," he replies with a laugh, sitting down with his back against the headboard.

Giggling softly, you walk over and set the various items in your arms on the nightstand. As you move to sit on the bed, straddling his lap, you shrug off the zip-up and drop it onto the other side of the bed. Even while you're doing something as simple as reaching over to grab a headband, Spencer still looks at you like you are the eighth wonder of the world.

You smile at him as you gently push the headband into his hair, keeping it back off his face. It's gotten so long recently — not that you're complaining. You love running your hands through the soft strands, curling them around your fingertips. "You're so cute," you mutter. "My pretty boy."

You can feel the heat of his skin beneath yours as you cup his face between your hands and press a sweet kiss to his lips. Lips parting, tongues teasing each other's, his hands running up and down your sides, pulling you closer by the small of your back.

You break the kiss with a giggle, a string of spit attached between you. "Okay, we need to get started," you say through laughter as he licks his lips.

"One more kiss," he murmurs, leaning in and pecking you gently.

Smiling, you stroke his cheek for a moment before straightening up and reaching over to grab your moisturiser from the nightstand. Spencer watches you intently as you flick open the cap and squeeze some out onto your fingertips.

"It's cold," you warn him before you swipe the moisturiser onto his cheeks and gently rub it into his skin.

He doesn't mind the coldness of the liquid, just focusing on the feeling of your hands on his skin. He is pretty sure that your touch could make anything better.

He isn't sure if he is supposed to have his eyes open or shut as you dab some more onto his face, but he keeps them open so that he can look at you. The look of concentration on your face is so pretty.

He also isn't sure what to do with his hands — should he be touching you, or would that be a distraction? He keeps them lightly resting atop your thighs, knowing you'd tell him if you wanted him to stop touching you.

As you finish moisturising his skin, letting it sit for a few moments, you wipe off your fingers on a tissue and say, "You have really nice skin."

"That sounds like something a serial killer would say," he comments teasingly, a smile on his face.

"Shut up!" you giggle. "It's just a fact. Your skin is nice."

Swapping the moisturiser for a bottle of primer, you fall quiet as you flick open the cap. Soft hums of concentration vibrating through your lips, you rub it into his skin so that the make-up will actually stick to his face. His fingertips lightly trace rub circles onto your thighs as he watches you with nothing but awe and love in his eyes.

As you're blending out the white foundation onto his face with a damp beauty blender — he thinks that's what it is called — he wonders if he will look silly when you're done. Of course, he has never thought that you look silly when your make-up is all done, but he isn't you. To him, you look beautiful whatever you wear, however you present yourself. He's just not sure if this will suit him. Although, even if it looks bad on him, he'd let you do it over and over again until the end of time if it would make you happy.

Now that there is foundation spread evenly across his face, his skin feels kind of weird, but not exactly in a bad way. It almost feels tight, like something is pulling on it. It is a strangely nice sensation.

Spencer tries to stay still as you pat in the concealer beneath his eyes, his eyelids twitching slightly.

"Stop moving," you scold playfully, pausing your actions for a moment.

"I'm trying," he replies, his voice a breathy chuckle.

"Try harder."

"You're so bossy."

"You know you love it."

He smiles, amused. You're right, he does love it. He loves anything and everything that you do. Since the moment he met you, he has been completely whipped. Obsessed. In love.

After finishing the grey-ish contour on his nose and beneath his cheekbones, you start on the eyeliner. You decide to do something simple, rather than the more elaborate designs you sometimes do on yourself. Beginning to draw a wing from the corner of his eye, you will your hand to not shake like it usually does; you don't want to end up getting overly frustrated and having to redraw it fifty times.

Somehow, it goes smoothly, and you finish both wings without a problem. You use a black eyeliner pencil on his waterlines and add a smidge of dark purple eyeshadow to his lids before curling his lashes. How come men always have such luxurious eyelashes? you think.

"Okay, I'm not gonna put on false lashes, I'll just do mascara," you tell him, leaning over to grab one of your unused mascaras from the nightstand.

As you do, you shift too much weight and almost fall off the bed. Quickly, Spencer leans forward steadies you with a hold on your waist. "Careful there, angel," he laughs in a teasing tone. "You're so clumsy sometimes."

"Well, says the one who spilt coffee on the counter twice in one day last week!" you reply, giggling.

"I never claimed to not be clumsy," he counters, patting your thigh. "JJ is right when she says that my coordination drops off when I'm thinking."

"A wise woman," you muse.

"Very."

You smile, kiss his forehead, and grab the mascara. As you twist it open and wipe off the excess, you say, "Okay, just blink when I say to, okay?"

"Okay."

So you apply mascara to his stupidly nice eyelashes, dab a tiny bit of highlighter onto the apples of his cheeks and the tip of his nose, and put a simple lip combo on his beautiful lips.

"Okay, there. I think it's done," you say. Quickly, you take it back. "Wait, I need to do your hair."

"Alright," he chuckles as you take the headband out of his hair, discarding it onto the nightstand.

You head off into the bathroom to grab your hairbrush, returning a moment later with it and a few hair ties. You manoeuvre him into the position you want — sitting more in the middle of the bed — and sit behind him on your knees.

"Your hair is so soft," you murmur as you gently run your fingers through it.

"You say that every single time you play with my hair," he points out, a smile in his voice.

"And it's true every single time," you reply as you start to brush his hair.

Spencer hums contentedly, his eyes falling shut as you brush his hair. He's always loved when you touch his hair, whether that is stroking it, twisting it around your fingers, or pulling it. He loves it all.

As you brush his hair, taking your time, you wonder if he will like it. You wonder if he's enjoying this. You wonder if he liked letting you put make-up on him.

"I would, maybe, dress you up in my clothes, but I don't think any of them would fit you."

He laughs softly. "Yeah, probably not."

"And my boots certainly wouldn't fit your gigantic feet," you tease.

"Maybe your feet are just tiny," Spencer counters jokingly.

When you're satisfied that his hair is thoroughly brushed, you part it down the middle, separating it into two even-ish sections. You braid each half, something you have always wanted to do with his hair but never asked out of fear of him saying no. But right now, he isn't protesting, which you take as a good sign.

"Okay, all done," you chime happily, letting the braids fall onto his shoulders.

"Done?"

"Mhm, done."

Hopping off the bed, you take his hands in yours and lead him into the bathroom. Before you step inside, you make him cover his eyes as you tell him, "Okay, you can't judge it because I'm not used to doing make-up on other people."

Spencer nods, practically itching to see his reflection. "I won't judge. I promise."

"Good. Okay, you— you can look now," you reply, standing beside him and looking at his reflection in the mirror as he moves his hands away from his face.

His reaction is hard to decipher, but at least he does not look repulsed. After a moment of studying his face, his lips twitch into a smile.

"It looks good."

"Really?" you ask, rocking back and forth on your feet as you fidget with your sleeves.

"Yeah. I— I mean, it's obviously not something I'm used to, but it's... cool," he says with a soft laugh, turning to face you.

You smile, biting your lip. "Good. Okay, good. I'm glad you don't... you know, hate it."

Smiling back at you, Spencer wraps his arms around you and kisses the top of your head. "I could never hate anything you do."