Does anybody else have this thing in their writing where they start to favor a specific location on accident... I keep ending up in an apartment. WHAT is so appealing about the apartment to me, I don't know. This genuinely haunts me. I can't escape the apartment.
Other Words for Domesticity.
Spencer Reid x Reader
You cut Spencer's hair.
<1,000 words
cw: none, fluff
an: a veryyyy short fic! I honestly just wanted to force myself to post something, as I've been writing lots but giving nothing. So sorry for disapearing, I promise I'll have some interesting stuff at some point!
Spencer’s hair is getting long, to say the very least.
It’s not as if you don’t like it, no, you very much like it, actually. It’s just the fact that he keeps having to tie it out of his face while he’s doing things like reading and cooking. And while it’s certainly a look, he’s gotten rather tired of your relentless teasing.
Usually, when he gets up early to leave for a case, you get up with him. It’s routine, at this point. And while he always insists that you sleep and just ignore him, you do it anyway. You pad into the kitchen, and smile.
“Ponytail today, huh? My bet was on a cute braid.”
He groans, and you simply relish in it. Of course, he’d never worn a braid a day in his life, but God have you tried to convince him to. Just for one photo, you’d insist. To which he’d look at you, consider if fighting you was worth it, and simply sigh. You never actually pushed, though he would probably cave quicker than he’d like to admit.
“I’m taking it out before I leave. It was just bothering me.” He grumbles. He’s wearing a navy sweater, which you’ve voiced your particular appreciation for before. You both pretend that he doesn’t wear it all the time for that specific reason, though.
You sit down on one of the counter stools, head resting in the palm of your hand.
“It is getting very long, huh?”
He nods, a shorter piece of hair falling forward into his face, which he instinctively brushes away. “It feels a bit ridiculous. I should probably just get a haircut.” He murmurs, removing a tea bag from his mug. Earl Grey.
When you don't respond, he looks up, sees the absolute widest grin, and is met with–
“Well… I could cut it for you, if you’d like?”
~
“Please don’t cut it too short.”
“I’m not gonna cut it too short, don’t worry.” You reply, holding scissors rather artfully against his soft curls. He sits on a chair in front of your bathroom mirror, hair falling like feathers to the floor. You run your hands through his hair a bit, trying to get out any stray loose hairs. “I think I’ll make it a bit longer in the front, if that’s okay?” He says yes.
Soft light from the window dances across his features, and lays carefully against his eyelashes. The small bathroom fan kicks on, a soft whir in the background; Usually the kind of thing Spencer’s mind automatically blocks out. The air carefully moves small, lone curls. Just barely, not nearly enough to inconvenience you.
Sometimes, when you focus, Spencer notices that you like to hum. It’s a simple thing, quiet songs that are barely audible unless he focuses. He worries that if he mentions it you’ll get flustered and stop, which is the opposite of what he wants. You do it again now, and the soft sound encapsulates him the same way the warm light of the bedside lamp does. That’s how his heart must sound, after all these years, he thinks.
You forget just how much hair he really has when you’ve finished, and the floor is practically covered in it. It’s only been about twenty minutes, and you might still have time to wash it if you’re quick. So you do, applying a little bit of product so his curls stay just a bit better.
“Okay, I’m done. What do you think?”
“I love it, thank you.” He says wholeheartedly as he stands up, hands gently ghosting over your waist as he places a kiss to your forehead. Soft and saccharine.
You smile. Doing these kinds of things for Spencer without thinking is easy. Spencer would say something about it having to do with hormones, but you think that it’s really just him that makes it so.
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