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Rocky who learns about human diseases and sickness on the computer.
Rocky who becomes obsessed with keeping Grace healthy. Rocky who yells at Grace to wash his hands before any task relating to food. Rocky who gets distressed when Grace touches his face without washing his hands first.
Rocky who understands that the ships air is sterile but still constantly builds new air filters just to take them apart and back together again repeatedly.
Rocky who counts exactly how many seconds Grace washes his hands for. Rocky who later yells at Grace to wash his hands before starting any task.
Rocky who studies human medicine obsessively when Grace sleeps.
Rocky who yells at grace to wash his hands longer. Rocky who tries to sterilise Grace's things by bringing them into his atmosphere. Rocky who obsesses over the idea of Grace getting sick. Rocky who counts and re-counts exactly how much soap is left on the Hail Mary. Rocky who orders Grace to re-wash his hands after he has finished washing them already. Rocky who feels compelled to tell him to do so even when Grace will not do it again.
Rocky who tries to build his own Armando. Rocky who yells at Grace to synthesise soap so that Grace will never run out. Rocky who insists on being next to Grace whenever he washes his hands. Rocky who can never stop monitoring Grace because he can always hear him.
Grace's hands that are cracked from washing them so much.
Oooooo I have a Spencer x germaphobe reader where everyone knows how Spencer is with germs, which isn’t that bad. But imagine everyone’s surprise when they find out he has a huge crush like I mean in love with their coworker who is an extreme germaphobe (think of Ms, Pillsbury from glee) so she’s extra clean but he doesn’t mind he only has eyes on her so he tries to help her while also helping himself and she already has a crush on him but thinks he sees her as a patient in a lab even when he doesn’t but their feelings come to surface and they get a lil dirty lol angst, smut, and fluff thank u❤️
Germaphobe, Too
Spencer Reid x Female Germaphobe Reader
WORD COUNT: 3600+ (yeah I got a little carried away)
Summary: You hate germs more than anything else in the world, and Spencer is so very much in love with you, so he's always trying to help you in any way he can — little does he know, that maybe you're feelings about the situation are a little bit different.
Content Warning: reader shows traits of obsessive compulsive disorder, germaphobia and germs, probably misinformation about germaphobia, NSFW content, reader is a freak, dry humping, reader bites Spencer a few times, miscommunication, Spencer likes boobs, groping, nipple play (sort of), unprotected vaginal sex (wrap it before you tap it), virginity loss on both ends, Spencer doesn't pull out, and I think that's it!
A/N I've never actually watched Glee so I went on a bit of a search-spree to try and find out how I would write this, so I hope I did it justice! Also, thank you so much for being the first person in my inbox, you have no idea how excited I was when this popped up, and I hope I did your idea justice!
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From the moment you joined the Behavioral Analysis Unit, everyone knew you were different — from the way you open doors with your sleeves rather than your bare hands, to how you scrub your hands raw after touching something that's not even really that dirty.
And it's not necessarily a bad thing that you're so conscious of these things, it can just be a little... difficult to navigate sometimes.
Take that one time for example, when you were helping out on a case! Morgan had no writing utensils on him, so without thinking, plucked a pen from the breast pocket of your blouse. To anyone else, it might not have seemed like such a big deal, but you were close to tears.
To put it plainly, you are a germaphobe. You're like a female version of their very own Doctor Spencer Reid, but on steroids, and somehow still a whole lot more sociable despite this fact!
Seriously. It's not to say they don't still see you as the strange new girl doing 'strange-new-girl' things, nor is it to say they don't frequently talk about you when you're not around, but they think you might just be the sweetest human being to ever grace the BAU.
Which is why it really shouldn't have seemed like such a secret, shouldn't have shocked everyone as much as it did, that Spencer was absolutely and irreversibly smitten with you.
At first, it was just little things like watching you from across the room with this strange look on his face — he was just watching the strange new girl doing 'strange-new-girl' things!
When he started spending more time around you than anybody else at work, and when it became apparent that he preferred your quiet company, it was just because you showed some similar traits to him, right? Nobody thought anything different, because come on, this is Spencer we're talking about here.
But in truth, Spencer is beyond mesmerized by you, the most beautiful woman he's ever met, and so kind to everyone even though they clearly treat you different to your other coworkers.
The poor man doesn't think he could ever admit this to you, though, considering he's a blabbering mess of hot skin and stutters every time he talks to you. So instead of further embarrassing himself (and giving Morgan ammunition to tease him for the rest of eternity), he shows his affection towards you in other ways.
Spencer himself is not a big fan of germs, so he can understand, to an extent, how you must feel most of the time. You've explained it to him before, while he was standing beside you at your desk, watching as you wiped the surface down with an antibacterial wipe.
"I know it probably seems like I overreact, but it's not something I can just turn off," you'd said to him in a whisper once. "I don't do this because I want to annoy people or make life harder. It's just... if I don't, I feel like I'll unravel."
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Sometimes it feels like the world is too loud. A stranger is screaming in your ear, you can't see them or touch them, but they're there; there's a bee buzzing in front of your face, but you can't swat it away.
How are you supposed to get rid of something you can't see?
You can't — it's as simple as that, but you can try you're very best.
As if sensing that your thoughts are headed somewhere unsavory, Spencer appears beside you on a rolling chair, as he does most days.
Out of all your coworkers, he's the only one that doesn't poke fun at you behind your back. That's how it's been your whole life, people testing your boundaries and teasing you for something you have no control over, so it's... a nice change of pace.
"Good morning, Spencer," you say softly, offering him a warm smile before turning back to your work. "How are you today?"
"Good—um, good morning," he responds awkwardly, smiling even though you're not looking at him anymore. You see it out of the corner of your eye, his little smile and his firetruck-red face, smiling faintly to yourself as you type away on your laptop.
You ignore how he completely dismisses your question, knowing he'd probably just say the same thing as always — 'Yeah, I'm doing great, thank you. As—as long as you're doing alright.'
He always gets so strange around you, and while you try your best to ignore it most of the time, it still irks you.
No, he doesn't join the teasing with Morgan and Jareau when they think you can't hear them, but he still treats you differently.
"I got you something," he says in a quiet voice, reaching into his bag and pulling out a book. You eye him nervously as he carefully places it onto your desk, using one finger to push it towards you. A tiny smile pulls at your cheeks when you see it's encased in a protective plastic film, but it quickly drops when you see what the actual book is.
'Overcoming Obsessive Compulsive Disorder: A Journey to Recovery' by David Veale and Rob Willson.
You peel the plastic away, tossing it into the little trash can under your desk and sanitizing your hands before picking up the bright yellow book, opening the front cover with a blank expression.
It's not like you aren't grateful he's trying to help, of course you're happy he cares so much. But a book isn't going to fix your problems, despite what he may think at times. And right now he doesn't feel like a friend, he feels like a doctor, and you feel like a patient laying on a lab table, vulnerable and stripped bare for the world to see.
For once, you just want to have a normal conversation without it turning into some kind of therapy session.
"Thank you, Spencer — um..." You voice shakes ever-so-slightly as you put the eyesore book in your bag. "I will be reading that tonight, that was very kind of you."
You know you'll probably put that book in a box and never look at it again. He doesn't seem to pick up on your unease, smile widening at your apparent acceptance of his gift.
"Actually," you continue softly, in a voice so quiet it's almost silent, head bowed forward, "I'm actually not feeling too well right now, think I might head home for the day."
The smile on his face falters slightly as you push away from your desk and stand up, packing your things away into your backpack. "Is everything — would you like me to drive you home?"
It's not unusual for your mind to trick you into thinking you actually are sick, but on the off chance that you really are feeling something, he doesn't think it's a good idea for you to drive yourself home.
"You know, about twenty-one percent of fatal car crashes involve tired or impaired drivers."
"I'll be fine," you reply blandly, though those statistics do alarm you mildly, stepping around him and walking in the direction of Hotch's office. "Thank you, though, Spencer."
As you disappear into the Unit Chief's office, Morgan give him this curious look from across the room, eyebrow cocked in question, but all Spencer can do is shrug, his own face twisted with confusion.
Usually when you get like this, there's some kind of trigger that sets you off, like a chain reaction of sorts, but right now, he can't for the life of him come up with something that might've set you off.
You're only in the office for thirty-seven seconds (Spencer was counting) before you reemerge, your head still bowed as you rush out of the bullpen, like there's something chasing you away.
"What'd you do to get Miss Sunshine all blue and teary-eyed?" Morgan asks mockingly when you're out of earshot. "She looks like you just kicked a fluffy little kitten in front of her!"
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Spencer's never been to your apartment before — nobody on the team has, the only reason he's standing here now is because your address is on your information.
It feels a bit like an invasion of your privacy being here when he's not even supposed to know where you live, but Morgan was right. You did look like Spencer smushed a kitten under his shoe as you were leaving, and he couldn't in good conscience not check on you.
He reaches a tentative hand up, hesitating for a (very) brief moment before knocking thrice.
There's some muffled shuffling behind the door before it opens, revealing you, wearing a cream colored cardigan with delicately embroidered flowers on it. And while you're still neatly put together, there's a more casual air about you now, like you're more relaxed.
"Oh — Spencer, what're you doing here?"
Your voice rasps slightly, and when he takes a closer look at your face, Spencer finds that your eyes are a little red.
"I was just..." He pauses, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You seemed upset when you were leaving work."
You purse your lips and give him as once-over, then shift out of the doorway — inviting him inside? You close the door behind him once he's inside, guiding him towards the living room with a gentle hand on his back.
It's shocking, to say the least, that you're actually touching him right now, but he doesn't say a word.
"Would you — um — like some tea, or something?" you ask awkwardly, pushing him to sit on the sofa. "Or — or some water?"
"No, but thank you for offering."
You leave the room for a few minutes, presumably to make yourself something to drink, but come back with two steaming mugs, placing one in front of Spencer regardless of what he said.
Another couple of minutes pass where neither of you say anything, sipping on tea and glancing at each other every now and again. He's pleasantly surprised to find that you've used lavender tea.
Your apartment is very clean, looking more like a set you'd find at a department store than anything, but it's still so warm and inviting. You have a couple of candles lit around the place, and Spencer's fighting the urge to warn you about candle safety.
"I don't want you to try and fix me."
Spencer turns his head away from the tall bookshelf across the room to look at you, eyebrows furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
Fix you. What do you mean, he's trying to fix you?
"The book," you reply meekly, "I don't want you to try and fix me."
That catches his attention, the emphasis on that one little word — it's not that you don't want anyone to help, you just don't want him to help.
You must see the flash of hurt cross his expression, because you're rushing to elaborate, stumbling over your words.
"It's just that — um — I really like you, Spencer, and — uh — when you're giving me stuff like this..." You gesture to the coffee table, where the yellow book he'd given you is sitting. "I don't know, you kind of make me feel like I'm a patient in a lab. Something to be studied and prodded at and — and fixed."
"There's nothing about you that needs to be fixed," he murmurs, trying his best to ignore what you said — 'I really like you, Spencer.'
You place your half-empty mug of tea onto the coffee table and pull your feet up onto the couch, wrapping your arms around them.
"I wasn't trying to fix you — everything about you is perfect," he says, quiet and without thinking. "You just seemed so uncomfortable at work all the time, and I wanted to help you out."
"Why, though?" you ask sadly, a faint heat rising to your cheeks. "Why not just join in on all the teasing and mockery? It would be easier than dealing with me all the time."
"Because..." You raise an eyebrow at his entire face quite literally turns the same shade as a tomato. "Because I really like you, too. I didn't think about how it might come off, and I'm so, so sorry for—"
You hold up a hand to shut him up, leaning a little further towards him than he would have thought you'd like.
"Spencer, it's alright," you assure him, placing your hand on his knee, much to his surprise (and embarrassment). "You didn't need to worry, though — you're really the only person at work I spend much time around, and I'm not uncomfortable around you."
"You're... not?"
A soft smile graces your lips. "Not even a little bit. Not even at all."
Spencer deflates into himself, every inch of his his skin uncomfortably hot — this is news to him.
"That's a relief."
Your voice takes on a teasing lilt. "Why? Because you really like me?"
And just like that, his face gets infinitely hotter, but he gives you the tiniest nod, knowing that if he said anything, he would fumble.
"I don't understand why you're embarrassed," you whisper fondly, "I am the one who said it first, after all. You should be teasing me."
He might be the only one you'll accept it from, just like how he's the only person you'd ever accept physical contact with, the only person you'll ever trust enough to put your mouth near him, like right now."
Spencer has to restrain himself from physically recoiling in shock when you press the softest of kisses to his blazing cheek.
Your instincts are screaming on the inside, but if you're being honest, you couldn't care less.
This isn't a stranger, you assure yourself, this is Spencer, and he could never make you sick.
Spencer could never make you sick.
"Is this alright?" you ask as you press another slightly firmer kiss to the skin under his jaw, your voice dripping with something unfamiliar.
Unable to form a single word, Spencer nods, reaching to place a hand on the back of your neck, gasping when your teeth nipped at the sensitive skin.
It's a complete one-eighty from the shy, germ-conscious girl you usually are, but he can't find it in him to complain.
The girl of his dreams, the one who can't even bring herself to touch his hand at work, currently has her mouth on him, she's biting him, and his mind is in a frenzy.
"I'm not gonna freak out if you touch me, Spence," you tease lightly, lips fluttering over the space just beside his mouth. As if to prove your point, smirking against his skin, you take his hand in yours and settle it on the space just below your breasts — under your clothes.
Where you're not wearing a bra.
His mind reels and melts into goo at the feel of your bare skin against his hand, so soft and warm.
An embarrassingly loud whine escapes his mouth as you bite down on his neck again, sucking the skin into your mouth. His hand drifts slightly upwards, brushing against the supple skin of your breast and gently grabbing onto it.
Your breath hitches as he gropes at your chest, lips pulling off his neck with a little pop and head resting against his shoulder.
"Can I take your shirt off?"
Your question leaves him speechless, but he nods nonetheless, reluctantly letting go of you to help you get his shirt over his head.
The sigh of his bare chest has your mouth watering, and you want nothing more than to leave a trail of hickeys down his stomach, but first, you press your lips to his, hands threading through his hair.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs into your mouth, hands resting on your hips as you grind down onto him. "Absolutely breathtaking."
You tuck your head into the crook of his neck, whimpering as your hips wildly buck down on him. You've never been like this, desperate for the touch of another person, let alone a touch so intimate.
Spencer's grip on you tightens some, and he uses this new leverage to guide your hips, carefully pressing you clothed heat against the hardness straining against his pants.
"P-please," you choke out, arms wrapping around his shoulders, gripping him for dear life as he moves you.
"Hm?" he hums quietly, shifting the angle so he's rubbing right up against your covered clit.
"Please," you breathe out again, clenching around nothing. "Please, Spencer."
You're not even sure what you're begging for, only that you want — no, need more of this stimulation.
He seems to understand what you need better than you do, gathering your body to him and laying you on your back.
Your thighs automatically fall open for him, allowing his body to fit between them, one hand holding himself up. He presses himself against you again, drawing a desperate moan from the back of your throat as he works on undoing the buttons of your cardigan, letting the fabric slide off your body and pool at your sides.
The hand he's not using to support himself reaches for you, thumb brushing against your hardened nipple. The corner of Spencer's mouth twitches upward as you arch up against him, eyes screwed shut.
"You like that?" he asks genuinely, doing it again. You nod frantically, mouth dropping open, but no sound coming out of it.
"Yes," you pant, bottom lip catching between your teeth. "Yes, I like that — please."
"Please what?" His mouth descends upon your neck, fingers continuing their attack on your sensitive nipple, clothed cock still rubbing up against you oh-so wonderfully.
"Please... please touch me," you beg, unable to stop your hips from bucking up against him. "I need you to touch me, Spencer."
Such vulgar words coming out of your mouth. It shocks the man, but he complies, shifting his body backwards so he can pull your skirt and underwear down your legs.
The sight between them is magical — your folds glistening in the soft light of the room, you writhing in anticipation in front of him — and something he has, admittedly, thought about once or twice.
"Have you ever done this before?" he asks, running his middle finger through your slick and pressing down gently on your clit. You shake your head lazily, face screwed up in pleasure, a sight Spencer will cherish forever.
A strangled moan rips out of you as Spencer presses a finger against your hole, thumb rubbing soft circles on your sensitive bud, and enters you with little resistance.
"Neither have I," he admits sheepishly, pumping his finger in and out of you rhythmically, curling it until he finds that spongey spot within you that has you crying out his name and spilling over his hand.
"Two virgin germaphobes," you mumble jokingly, trying to wiggle closer to him again. You fumble with his belt, somehow managing to pull it through the loops, and toss it on the ground carelessly.
He helps you to push his pants down, just enough for his cock to slip out.
"Two virgin germaphobes," he agrees quietly, adjusting your bodies so you're both in a more comfortable position, sliding his heavy tip through your slick folds. "Are you sure—"
"I'm sure, Spence," you abruptly cut him off, running your fingers through his hair, subconsciously pulling him towards you. "Please just — just fuck me."
Spencer doesn't need to be told twice, slowly pushing into you, gasping as your warm walls suck him in, gripping his cock like a vice. He holds his breath, trying not to immediately blow his load.
You're writhing, gasping, clawing at his back, whispering his name out into the air, and it only works to make him more hungry for you. But he stills one he's fully sheathed inside you, giving you time to adjust.
"Does it — uh — does it hurt at all?" he asks in a whisper, directly into your ear.
"N-no," you gasp back, the small pain slowly morphing into one of pleasure. "It doesn't hurt, you can — fuck — you can move, when you're ready."
He doesn't think he'll ever be ready, with how tightly you're gripping him, but he still finds himself pulling out until only his tip is nestled in you, and slowly pushing back in all the way. You hum shakily, trying to press yourself closer to him as he repeats the action, then again.
Already so sensitive from your first orgasm, you know you're not going to last long with his slow movements, thighs clenching around his. Pressure grows in your abdomen as he thrusts back in, slightly harder this time, grunting into your neck.
"God, I'm already so close," you choke out, head thrown back, sounds you didn't even know you could make raking out of you. Spencer can't get enough of them, leaning down and catching one of your nipples in his mouth, gently sucking on the sensitive nub.
Without warning, you're spasming around him, drool dribbling out of your open mouth as you come, body going slack against the couch.
"W-where do you want me to—"
"Inside," you mumble incoherently, biting your lip hard enough to leave marks, tears building on your waterline. "Please, Spence, I want you to come inside me."
Your words alone are enough to have him spilling inside you, thrusts sloppy and unrhythmic. Your hum in content, clinging to him like a koala as he gently pulls his softened cock from inside you, rubbing soft circles onto the skin over your breastbone. It's comfortably quiet.
And then...
"Hey," you whisper in a tired voice, "you wanna go on a date with me?"
He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your hip. "I would love to," he whispers back fondly before standing up from the couch, "but first, we need to get you cleaned up and rested.
Not a specific request, but little doodles I did projecting my contamination ocd and germaphobia onto Spencer. I’ve never felt more seen by a fictional character lol
my biggest fantasy in life is to fall asleep while cuddling with someone in bed platonically but realistically my germophobia would never allow me to so
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
god i hate the depiction of contamination ocd in most media about it. i have contamination ocd. my room is super messy. actually, my ocd acts up when i clean, because i worry i'll get sick from touching something dirty, and i have to wash my hands every time they get "contaminated", which includes just touching something like a wrapper that fell on the floor.
you know what they never show?
the shit that doesn't make sense to people without it. they always show characters just cleaning a lot, sometimes wearing gloves. but i don't decontaminate in a way that makes sense to people. i wipe everything that goes outside (my phone, glasses, etc) that i then take into my "clean space" down with clorox wipes. i can't touch anything that's been "contaminated" that i haven't wiped without washing my hands after. i can't wear "contaminated" clothing in bed. i shower if i've been "contaminated", which used to be every time i went outside, and is now just when i go in some public spaces i consider particularly contaminated, like a bus or school. my hands are scarred from how much i wash them, and i used to wash them until they bled. i have to wait two weeks to touch anything i've bought from outside, like books, without washing my hands, because two weeks is how long norovirus can survive on most surfaces. i can't visit a sick person in case i catch it.
they also never show the compulsions that don't link up with contamination. the thing with compulsions is that sometimes they have no link to the intrusive thought, beyond what the mind assigns it. for instance, ever since i was a child, i've had to count the stairs as i go up and make sure the second step i take at the top is a multiple or factor of 12, or else i'll get sick. that makes no sense. that's part of the disorder: disordered thinking.
they never depict the thoughts either. i get anxious and have even had panic attacks whenever someone near me is sick, to the point i once had to move in with my grandparents for weeks because my mom got the stomach flu. ocd distorts reality, obsessing over things until they warp into something unrecognizable. my thoughts make no sense, because they're disordered. i know every fact there is to know about the transmission and symptoms of norovirus, but that doesn't stop my mind from forming link after link after link, taking fact and transforming it into fiction. norovirus can't be spread by contact alone, but my brain still insists it will absorb into my skin.
ocd is always the butt of the joke. it's a funny character quirk that they obsessively clean, something for the others to joke about. it's funny that a speck of dirt drives them crazy.
i wish it was funny. i wish it was just being a bit of a neat freak. i wish my mind could be eased by wiping down a table. ocd doesn't rest, except for the momentary relief given for completing a compulsion before the tide crashes back in. i can't laugh when it steals my breath in a panic over something that doesn't exist, when it destroys my body, when it means i can't trust my own mind.
ocd is anything but simple. media that depicts us as nothing but neat freaks fundamentally misunderstands the disorder. it's not a character quirk, it's a disorder that has taken lives.
Not snz, but something about a partner who goes out of their way to make their germaphobic partner comfortable is so awesome to me. Like they don’t think it’s unfair that they have to wash their hands upon returning home, they don’t sneeze into their hands, they wash their hands after blowing their nose. They don’t complain or make their partner feel like they’re broken just because they’re germ-conscious. Idk I just don’t get why it’s so hard for people to have basic hygiene. Like if you really can’t stand washing your hands, then break up with that person. But don’t make them feel like there is something wrong with them just because they have contamination anxiety.
#the amazing digital circus
#lana del rey
#artfight
#photography
#love and deepspace
