Her question rang through the damp spring air as she anxiously awaited an answer.
The vibrant flowers swayed, and everything seemed to be in slow motion.
The response came not in the form of words, but a quick flick of his chin towards the car waiting for them.
She eagerly jogged towards him, her wide smile never faltering.
His heart pounded hard against his chest as he opened the sleek, black car door and watched as she crawled inside.
As he closed the door, he realized he would do just about anything in the world for that smile.
hi friends!!! it’s been a while. thanks for reading this little blurb i wrote as an introduction to a longer, chapter story i am thinking about!
i loved xo kitty and minho and kitty’s relationship so i wanted to explore that and this big summer tour they’re going on further!
if anyone has anything they’d like to see in this story (i’m thinking about having it include imagines within the larger story, if that makes sense), comment or let me know!
I have a request for a Spencer Reid one shot where Reid’s girlfriend (the reader) has break-in anxiety, due to past experiences growing up.
She’s home alone and hears a noise causing her anxiety to spike, and Reid is the only one who knows how to calm her down.
(And his colleagues don’t know he has said girlfriend)
I'm Here Now | S.R.
TW: previous abuse mentioned
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-----
It was Friday night, and Spencer was forced to work late along with the rest of the team. Their case had taken longer than expected, and there were piles of paperwork and case files that needed to be completed.
All Spencer wanted to do was go home and be with you, his partner of two years. He couldn’t tell the team that, though, because no one knew about you.
You and Spencer had decided to keep your relationship a secret very early on. All Spencer wanted to do was keep you safe from his job, and this seemed like the best way to protect you.
You didn’t mind all too much. You had grown up in a very unstable household and were plagued with anxiety and PTSD as a result.
Your father was an alcoholic and before your parents finally separated when you were a preteen, he was abusive, physically and verbally. Even after your parents separated and he moved out, the nightmare continued.
Your father had tried to take you, kidnap you, on multiple occasions. He never got very far, but you still remember the sound of him twisting the door handle, breaking the glass of the back door, and the sight of his shoes through at the base of your closet door where you were hiding.
Due to the trauma, you were left with extreme “break-in” anxiety, even now being in your twenties.
Spencer knew about your worries, and he did his best to make you feel safe. Most of the time, his mere presence was enough to calm you down. The knowledge of your boyfriend being an FBI agent, especially one who had a gun in a safe in the bedroom, allowed you to breathe a sigh of relief.
However, tonight was proving to be extremely challenging for you and your mental health. It was nearing ten o’clock at night, and Spencer was still at the office.
You hated it. You hated seeing the darkness through the windows and the knowledge that you were completely alone in the apartment. Each little noise caused a jolt and a spreading of tingling fear throughout your body.
You were attempting to soothe yourself by watching old reruns on television. You pulled the blanket up under your chin, and let out a long sign.
You’re okay, you told yourself. You’re safe.
At the same time that your eyes flashed open, a pounding noise came from the hallway. It sounded like something heavy was dropped.
What was that?
Your eyes widened, and your heart rate picked up. You looked between the door and the window frantically, making sure both entrances were watched. It was hard days like this that you wished you didn’t live on the first floor of your apartment complex.
All of a sudden, another pounding noise came from the hallway, but this time it reverberated through your living room. The pounding noise was against your front door, and you saw it shutter with the weight of something thrown against it.
Your breathing became sporadic, and your eyes were wide with fear. You threw the blanket off of your shaking form, and bolted to the bedroom, falling to the floor of the closet and slamming it shut.
Another pounding noise came from the front door.
You let out a sob, and fumbled with the phone in your back pocket.
Spencer picked up on the second dial tone.
“Hey, we’re almost done here,” he spoke gently, knowing that you were waiting for him.
“Spencer!”
Your voice was a whispered croak, and you were becoming lightheaded from the lack of oxygen your body was able to take in.
Spencer immediately knew something was wrong by your tone. Sometimes he struggled with emotions, but he knew you like the back of his hand.
He knew your struggles, and he knew your traumas. He knew this morning that today would be a bad day. You had been quiet, pensive, and he hated the fact that he had to work late knowing this.
“What is it, darling?”
Although Spencer had gone to the corner of the room and was talking softly, the team looked up.
Darling? Emily mouthed to JJ, her brow raised.
JJ only shrugged in response, her blond hair bouncing with the movement.
They smiled at each other knowingly, and made a mental note to tease Spencer about this later.
“Y/N? Hon, answer me.”
Spencer was beginning to panic; all he heard on the other end of the phone was your labored breathing and light cries.
“There’s,” you started, choking, “someone at the door. I heard pounding. Help.”
Spencer’s heart twinged at the last word you spoke, his protective instincts taking over. Logically, he knew that the chances someone was actually attempting to break in were slim, especially since he had installed security software due to your anxiety. That didn’t stop the fear in his chest from spreading and his desire to protect you from taking over.
“I’ll be there soon, hon. Everything’s okay.”
Spencer scrambled back to his desk, collecting his things.
Hotch approached Spencer’s desk, his thick brow raising at the young man’s franticness.
“I have to go,” Spencer started, biting his lip. “Personal matters.”
Hotch only nodded at the man, knowing that Spencer wouldn’t leave unless it was important. He peered at the other agents and matched their confused expressions.
Spencer wordlessly jogged towards the exit, throwing the glass doors open before hopping in the elevator and tapping the close button frantically.
“C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, growing frustrated at the slow elevator.
He just needed to get to you; that was all that mattered to him. Even if no one was actually breaking in, which was likely the case, the thought of you suffering alone made him feel physically ill.
Spencer blew through red lights and rolled through stop signs before finally arriving at the apartment complex. He scaled the stairs, lightly jogging towards your front door.
He took in the open door across the hall, and multiple people moving a large dresser.
Spencer couldn’t help himself.
“It’s a little late to be moving heavy things around!”
Spencer ignored the startled looks from the couple across the hallway and entered your shared unit with ease.
“Y/N?” Spencer called out, but he already knew where you were.
He beelined to your bedroom and slowly peeled back the closet door.
His heart wrenched at the sight of your shaking form, your face contorted in raw emotion.
“Honey,” he cooed, reaching out to you. “I’m here now.”
Your eyes met his, and you let out another sob before launching yourself into his arms. He held you, pulling you into his lap protectively.
“Th-there was someone,” you managed to garble out. "I heard something."
"I know, love, they're moving furniture across the hall,” he states, perturbed. “God only knows why they decided to do that at half past ten at night."
Spencer's jaw tensed at the thought, frustrated with his neighbors and protective over you.
"Oh."
You buried yourself in his chest, your sobs slowly subsiding with the knowledge that everything was okay.
Spencer’s grip on you was firm, yet gentle, as his long fingers traced shapes on your back. He continued the soothing motion until your crying morphed to hiccups.
You pulled away slightly, enough that you could comfortably look into his eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, your voice wet. “I’m sorry you have to deal with me, with this.”
You gestured to your crouched forms inside the closet of your bedroom. You laughed bitterly, embarrassed.
“Y/N, look at me.”
Your eyes met his, taken aback by the firmness dripping from his voice.
Spencer’s eyes held a whirlwind of emotions. Protectiveness, urgency, and above all, love.
"Never apologize for needing someone, okay?"
Your wet lashes blinked, another salty tear sliding down your cheek. You offered a soft smile and a tearful nod his way before sliding your arms around his torso.
Summary: reader gets emotional and angry during their first case and spencer is there for her
Warnings: punching a wall, blood
Word Count: 1k
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The summer air of California was so humid it seemed to press against your flesh firmly, suffocating you. You and the team were on a case, your first case, you might add, and the tension in your body was high.
You had just started at the Behavioral Analysis Unit, after finishing your training at the academy. You started dating Spencer Reid shortly after you accepted the job, and the team still didn't know about it.
You felt guilty not telling them, especially since you and Spencer had initially met while you were still completing your training. There just never seemed to be a good enough time to bring it up.
Your hands shook slightly as you flipped through the file containing your case notes. Your first case was going to be a really difficult one. It involved missing children, and you were dreading attending the crime scene and the morgue.
Spencer had warned you about these cases; he told you to keep a level head and process them in your own time. Nothing could've prepared you for the crime scene; a little boy's bedroom caked in blood. A stuffed animal, a bear, lay on the floor disheveled and dirty.
You felt tears rise in your eyes, and your cheeks started to grow red. Most people respond to traumatic situations with crying, but it was different for you. You got angry.
You had done a decent job so far of controlling the rage that was bubbling in your core, but it all seemed to fly out the window when you got to the morgue.
A young boy, no older than 5 lay on the cold metal. You thought to yourself how he should be cuddled up with that stuffed bear. The sight of the stab wounds that trailed up his torso caused bile to creep up your throat, threatening to erupt.
"Excuse me," you croaked out.
Time seemed to move in slow motion as you carried yourself towards the back exit. You could hear Spencer faintly calling your name, but you continued. You threw the door open so hard that it crashed against the concrete wall with enough force to cause vibrations.
You bent over then, heaving. Nothing came out, but tears stung your eyes from the pressure.
You felt heat travel from your stomach up to your head.
How could someone do this to a child? How can any of these killers do this to anyone?
Your eyes dried up then, and you succumbed to the rage that seemed to consume every cell in your body.
You yelled, a strangled sound, and kicked the trash can that sat innocently in the back alleyway. It flew, smashing against the wall opposite to it.
"Y/N!" Spencer's voice began getting closer as he was approaching the exit.
Your head felt so hot you thought it might explode. You wailed again, and against your better judgement, your fist collided with the concrete wall.
You realized then that you felt no pain. So you did it again, pretending the wall was the sick bastard that had done this to a five year old.
"Y/N, stop! Stop it!"
Large hands wrapped around you, yanking you away from the wall and into a warm embrace.
"No! Stop!" You screamed, although you could hardly hear yourself over the pounding in your head and the ringing in your ears.
"It's okay, it's okay," Spencer's voice cooed. "I need you to take deep breaths."
You struggled against him, arms and legs flailing. Your surroundings were blurred; all you saw was red.
"Y/N, please, I need you to stop."
Spencer's hand stroked the hair away from your face. The continuous motion began to calm you down, but your hands still shook rapidly. He guided you to slowly sit on the ground, you between his legs.
"That's it, just breathe."
Your body slumped against his, and the throbbing sensation from your knuckles finally caught up to you.
"Ow," you muttered, peering at your blood covered knuckles.
"Jesus Christ, Y/N. You scared the shit out of me."
"I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me, I," you trailed off.
"This is a really hard case, love. Especially for your first one. I'm so sorry."
Tears pricked your eyes at his remark, the feeling of validation spreading in your chest.
Spencer noticed, and held you closer to him, planting a small kiss atop your head.
He grabbed your hand then, inspecting your knuckles. He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and began dabbing at your damaged hands.
"Please don't ever do this again," Spencer spoke, his eyes filled with anguish and defeat. "I hate seeing you hurt."
You nodded, leaning into him.
"I already worry about you enough now being on the team. I don't need you hurting yourself, too."
Spencer's words had a hint of humor to them, and you smiled into his chest.
"I know," you affirmed, sniffling.
You were interrupted by another voice chiming in.
"Uhm," Derek Morgan spoke. "Is everything okay out here?"
Morgan took in the information in front of him. Spencer cradling your shaking form, his hands working his handkerchief against your bloody knuckles.
You expected Spencer to flinch away from you, the threat of the team finding out about your relationship hanging in the air. But he didn't. Spencer merely continued to delicately dab at your knuckles with the soft cotton cloth.
"Everything's okay," Spencer spoke quickly.
"Sorry Morgan, I just had," you paused, thinking, "a bit of a breakdown."
Morgan chuckled, squatting down next to the both of you.
"It happens to the best of us. It shows you care. That, and you've got a mean punch."
You smiled at him, and he shot a wink at Spencer before leaving the two of you alone once again. You were sure Morgan would go tell the rest of the team what he had seen, but you didn't really care anymore.
“He’s right,” Spencer remarked.
You looked at him, a look of confusion on your face.
“You do have a mean punch.”
-----
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CM Taglist: @cynbx @random000000 @lockwoods-coat-and-reids-vests @miralgr @xoyouronlyamorrxo
Request: A meet cute where the reader owns a flower shop and Spencer comes in to get flowers for his mom. He finds reasons to continue coming back until one of them gets the courage to ask the other one out. [Requested by @teddy-the-teddybear ]
Warnings: none
Word Count: 1.5k
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On the day that you met Spencer Reid, the trees were a swirling mix of red and orange and the October air was crisp and cool. You pulled your burnt orange cardigan tighter around yourself and placed a bundle of roses in a vase. You eyed them, adjusting the sunflowers that surrounded them.
A chime sounded at the front of the flower shop you worked at. You looked up at the noise, and a tall, lanky man walked in. His long strands of brown hair fell onto his face, despite his efforts to continue pushing them back.
“Hello, welcome to Abstract Florals! Can I help you find anything today?” Your voice said, reciting your typical customer service spiel.
Spencer’s gaze went to yours as he approached, and you were taken aback by eyes that shone a beautiful swirl of brown and amber. His gaze met yours and held onto it slightly longer than what may be considered normal.
"H-Hi there," Spencer started, his voice wavering in nervousness at the sight of you.
You smiled softly, and waited a moment for him to continue.
"I'm looking for a bouquet for my mother. I haven't seen her in a while. Uhm, she loves the color purple, if that helps."
You grinned at him. He is beautiful, you thought to yourself.
"I can absolutely help you with that." You hurriedly grabbed a few vases of purple flowers from the shelf and brought them back to the desk.
"Let's see, we have violets, hydrangeas, and," you trailed off, staring at another set of beautiful purple flowers in front of you. Shoot, what are these called again?
Spencer sensed the look of confusion on your face and his lips tilted up in a small smile.
"Rhododendrons."
Your gaze shot up to his, your eyes wide in astonishment.
"Yes, rhododendrons," you spoke. "Thank you."
If any other man had walked into the flower shop and corrected you, you would be annoyed. But something told you that the slim man in front of you meant absolutely no harm.
You shook your head, embarrassed, and felt heat rise to your cheeks.
"I'll take them," he spoke, pulling out his wallet.
"Perfect. Let's see," you hummed. "That'll be ten dollars."
He slid you his credit card, and you were quick to notice the raised writing at the bottom. Spencer W Reid.
-----
After that day, you took notice of Spencer Reid around your shop much more. You couldn't figure out why he needed flowers nearly every week, but you weren't complaining. He brought you good business, anyway.
"Good morning, Y/N," Spencer spoke. His voice held a gentleness that you realized you could get used to hearing.
Spencer had used your name for the first time a few weeks ago. It was the second or third time he had come into the shop, and you were taken aback when you had heard your name come out of his mouth. You recalled Spencer's gaze traveling down when you acted surprised, and you felt your face grow hot at the realization that you were wearing your name tag.
"Hi Spencer," you said, looking up from the front desk.
Spencer was clad in gray slacks, a button down shirt, and a green sweater vest. You couldn't help but think that he looked absolutely adorable in the combination. Your chest fluttered at the realization.
"What are thinking of getting today?"
He stopped at the front counter, eyes scanning the wide array of flowers behind you. His thumb grazed the bottom of his chin in concentration, and your heart tugged at the sight.
"There are lots of good options," Spencer smiled softly and turned his attention to you. "What would you recommend?"
You turned, looking at the wide array of florals behind you. The wall of flowers was beautiful. The bright purples and reds and yellows were a stark contrast from the browning greenery outside.
"I'd say the chrysanthemums are looking particularly ravishing today."
You turned to him, a wide grin on your face. He returned the smile, and grabbed for his wallet.
"I'll take them."
-----
The next time Spencer went to the flower shop, he didn't see you right away. His eyes scanned the shop, and he turned corners around the displays in search of you. He attempted to be subtle about his frantic searching, but it was difficult for him to hold it in when the only reason he was here was to see you. He didn't really care about the flowers.
Rounding another corner, he finally spotted you crouched below the front desk, rummaging through the cabinets. Your hair was disheveled, and your brows were furrowed in concentration.
"Y/N?" Spencer called out.
You jumped, yelping as you bonked the top of your head against the desk.
"Oh god, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to scare you," Spencer offered, rushing closer to the counter.
"Oh, Spencer, hey," you croaked, your voice gravelly.
You had woken up to an unpleasant pounding in your head and pain in your throat. You felt terrible, but the flower shop was understaffed. You had to go in to work; it was a Saturday and you knew it would be busy, but the shop couldn't afford to miss out on the business.
Spencer's eyes widened as he took in the sound of your voice and your unkempt appearance. He felt something tug in his chest, and the urge to care for you was overwhelming.
"Are you alright? You sound," Spencer trailed off; for once he was at a loss for words.
"Like I smoke six packs a day? I know," you joked, smirking.
Spencer didn't reciprocate your joking tone.
"Why are you here? You should be resting."
You couldn't tell if the heat rising in your body was from a high temperature or the feeling of Spencer being so concerned with your wellbeing.
You let out a sigh, leaning your weight on the desk.
"I didn't really have a choice," you stopped, coughing into the crease of your arm. "We're so understaffed here, and it's one of our busy days."
Spencer's face was contorted into an expression of worry, frustration, and something else that you couldn't quite place.
"Let me help, then."
Your gaze jumped up to meet his, confusion dancing across your features like freckles.
"No, no, I couldn't ask you to do that."
"You're not asking, I'm offering. Insisting, actually." Spencer's gaze was hard, his eyes staring directly into yours. You felt like melting into a puddle on the floor.
"Okay," you started, stretching the word. "Thank you, Spencer."
He nodded as a chime sounded from the front of the store. Spencer slipped behind the counter next to you as a middle aged woman approached the counter.
You cleared your throat, preparing your voice in order to welcome her, but someone beat you to it.
"Hello, welcome in! What can we help you with?"
You looked up at Spencer, a smile grazing his lips as he stared expectantly at the woman. You turned your gaze downward, smiling to yourself.
-----
Spencer continued to help you that day, nearly for your entire shift. Whenever there was a job that required a lot of moving around, he would offer himself up to do it, insisting that you stay seated. Although you felt guilty that Spencer was doing your work for you, unpaid you might add, you were thankful to be able to sit due to the constant pounding in your head.
The workday was nearing its end, and Spencer approached you, carrying a bundle of roses.
"How are you feeling?" He prompted, setting the flowers on the countertop.
"A little better," you muttered, resting your head in your palm. "Thank you for everything you did today."
"Of course," Spencer mumbled, giving you a soft smile. He shifted, his brows creasing together in apprehension before he continued.
"It was, uhm, nice to see you for more than the few minutes it takes for me to buy something."
You giggled. "Yeah, it was. I like spending time with you."
Spencer's face grew pink at your words, a small smile directed towards the ground. His gaze met yours, and he opened and closed his mouth nervously.
"I, uhm," he started, his hands fidgeting. "Would you want to go to dinner sometime?"
You could have sworn you felt your heart skip a beat. Did Spencer Reid just ask me out?
Spencer took your moment of silence as something it wasn't and he continued speaking.
"I'm sorry, maybe that was overstepping. I, we, uhm, just never mind, I--"
"Spencer!" You interjected with as much force as you could, but the hoarseness of your voice resulted in it being more of a whisper.
But it caught Spencer's attention. His wide eyes met yours.
"I would love nothing more than to go to dinner with you."
You could see Spencer's form settle in relief, and he let out a shaky breath.
"Good, that's good," he said, letting out a chuckle.
"Just," you started, catching Spencer's attention, "maybe let's wait until I'm less contagious."
Spencer laughed, and you thought to yourself about what a beautiful sound it was.
"How about Friday?" He asked, his hands now relaxed in his pockets.
"Friday sounds perfect," you smiled. "It's a date."
-----
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CM Taglist: @cynbx @random000000 @lockwoods-coat-and-reids-vests @miralgr @xoyouronlyamorrxo
summary: steve harrington is down horrendous for you, his best friend since he was a scrawny pre-teen. turns out, his love is not as unrequited as he thinks.
contains: best friends to lovers, mutual pining (but mostly steve pining), steve’s pov, fluff galore, idiots in love, reader is good with the kids, reader is a skater like max, reader hurts her wrist and steve is a worried lovesick idiot. cw! descriptions of wounds/blood, mentions of hospital, reader wears steve’s clothes. she/her pronouns used.
a/n: first long fic yay!! I am extremely proud of this so pls love it 🤍
fem!reader 5.3k words
gif by @barneswayne
Steve Harrington is totally, most definitely, not in love with you. Just friends, he thinks, best friends. Best friends who hold hands and sit far too close together.
Speaking of, you push further into Steve’s side, your scent washing over him. Your hand squeezes Steve’s, and he thinks, never mind. Maybe he is in love with you. So in love with you it fucking hurts.
A chorus of shouts erupts around him. You and Steve are watching Eddie, Robin and the kids play beer bong, only without the beer. It’s soda. Dustin starts doing a stupid victory dance while half of his peers laugh and the others cringe. Steve cringes. You laugh. All high and lilting and adorable. Steve has to remind himself to breathe.
He brings your joint hands to rest on his knee. Your rings push into his skin, almost like harsh reminders that he can’t hold you like he wants to. He frowns.
“Steve?” Your voice brings Steve out of his thoughts like it always does. You give his hand a shake. “You okay?”
Steve looks up and prays you can’t see the hopeless devotion in his eyes. You’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, with your messy hair and your eyes lined with glitter. Rosy cheeks, glossy pink lips that he stares a beat too long at. He’s known you for years, and yet he’s never gonna get used to how gorgeous you are. He swallows, forces his eyes up to yours.
“I’m okay,” he says, though he’s really not. He never is, because you never won’t look like that. “Are you?”
There’s another explosion of noise from the soda-pong players, but you don’t seem to notice. You frown like you don’t believe him. He’s being too obvious, he knows.
“Yeah, I’m good. Are you sure, Steve?” You stretch your free hand across your torso to touch his face. Steve heats like an oven under your hand as you press your palm to his forehead. “You’re not feeling sick, are you? You feel sort of hot.”
Steve grabs your wrist, harder than he means to. He loosens his grip guiltily when you give him an alarmed look.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, lowering your hand gently. He can feel your pulse, only just, underneath his fingers. It’s damn sure slower than his. “I— uh, no. I’m not feeling unwell. It is pretty hot in here though.”
A total lie. The only reason he’s burning up is you.
Your frown deepens, a push of your bottom lip that makes Steve want to kiss you. It’s such an overwhelming feeling that he has to blink multiple times to make it go away.
“Oh,” you say. You look around the room and then back at Steve. “Do you want to go outside?”
Steve has a bit of a dilemma. If he says yes, he’ll be alone with you. He can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing. If he says no, he’ll have to stay in this stuffy room with yelling teenagers and ping pong balls flying at him every five seconds. He decides on the first option.
“Sure,” he says as nonchalantly as he can. Then, to make you laugh, “Smells like boy in here anyway.”
You giggle. Steve feels like copying Dustin’s lame victory dance.
“You’re a boy, Stevie,” you say teasingly.
He wrinkles his nose at you. “No, I know, but it’s like … adolescent boy.”
You laugh loud, your mouth pulled up in a staggering smile. “Oh, okay,” you say, as if anything he just said made any sense.
Steve is starstruck for a second before you’re pulling him up from his seat, your hand in his a familiar, heart-aching weight.
Steve finds himself sitting side by side with you on the hood of his car. He can’t exactly remember how he got here — on the way, all he could think about was your hand in his and the fact that your thumb kept brushing over his knuckles in very distinct lines. Whether you’d meant to or not, he doesn’t know. He hopes you did.
“Any better?” You ask quietly, stretching your pinky across the small gap between your hands to tap his.
Steve feels something like an electric shock where your skin touches his. It baffles him, how such a tiny touch can cause such a big reaction throughout his body. He stares at your hand when he answers.
“Much,” he says honestly. He looks up at you. “You didn’t have to come with me, you know. You can go back in if you want.”
Secretly he hopes you’ll stay here with him forever. But that would be selfish, and if Steve is anything when he’s with you, it’s not selfish.
“Eurgh, no.” You pull a disgusted sort of face that makes Steve grin. “I could barely stand it when you were there. Without you, I think I’d die from the smell alone.”
Steve laughs. Really laughs. The words without you, I think I’d die, float around his brain like fish in a fish tank. When he’s done laughing he catches your smile, all pretty and wide, and his heart does one of those funny backflips that he’s never gonna get used to.
Steve watches as you brace your hands on the edge of the car and push yourself up the hood, pulling your shoes up to rest on the metal. Your skirt is short enough that Steve can see half of your thighs, more when you shift yourself like that. He stares for two seconds too long and then feels so guilty he almost apologises.
Instead, he says, “Aren’t you cold?” He points at your skirt but doesn’t look.
You shrug. “No, not really.”
With a sigh you let yourself fall back against the hood of the car. Your skirt rises even more and a half inch more of your skin is exposed — Steve feels like the universe is out to get him. His only escape is to fall back next to you, his right shoulder brushing your left one. You smile when he does, head rolling to the side to look at him. Face to face now, Steve can feel every small breath coming from your parted lips.
“See any stars?” He blurts, because your face is much too close and he’s scared if you look at him like that any longer, he’ll kiss you stupid.
You look up at the dark, empty sky and wrinkle your nose. “No.”
“Wait, look, there’s one.” Steve lifts his arm to point at what he thinks is a star.
You squint in its direction. “That’s a plane.”
“What? No it’s— oh.” He trails off when he realises the ‘star’ is moving. It disappears behind a cloud a second later.
You laugh, breathless and pretty, and drop your head onto Steve’s shoulder. Your perfume fills the air around Steve and he has to stop himself from leaning closer. You bring a hand up to fiddle with your necklace, a cheap, plastic ‘S’ charm that sits directly on your sternum. The fake diamonds are falling off, half of them gone already, but you’ve refused to take it off after all these years. Steve has one of your initial, too. You got them from a dollar store when you were twelve and pinky promised to be best friends forever.
You slip your necklace safely beneath your top and then stifle a yawn behind your hand.
Steve gives your elbow a nudge. “Tired?”
You shrug one shoulder and then droop further into Steve’s side. Every point of contact between you burns.
“You’re tired,” Steve says matter-of-factly.
You make a noise that’s probably meant to be a sound of protest but comes out more like a tired moan. Steve chuckles lightly, reaches over and rubs your arm.
“Alright, sweet girl. Let’s go home.”
‘Home’ really means Steve’s house, because you’ve left your car there and because you’re over so much it’s become your second home. By the time Steve is pulling up the driveway, you’re so dead beat he doesn’t even consider letting you drive yourself home. You practically hang off his waist as he walks you both inside.
“M’tired,” you mumble as you pass the living room.
Steve has to bite back a laugh. “Uh-huh, I can tell.”
You look up at him and squint like you know he’s laughing at you. Then you say, “Can I sleep in your bed?”
Steve’s heart skips. Sure, you’ve slept in his bed before, but every time you have Steve lay awake for at least half the night. He’s not above admitting that he’s watched you sleep more than once. He’s seconds away from telling you to take the guest bedroom when you pout dramatically.
“Please? You’re so warm.” You push into his side, your arm tightening around his waist like you don’t ever want to let go.
Steve hates himself for nodding, but he can’t help it. “Yeah, okay.”
He drags you up the stairs and into his room. Your makeup and stray jewellery is strewn across his dresser — you’d gotten ready at Steve’s before the party. If you could even call it that, Steve thinks. He plants you on his bed and you fall back immediately, eyes shut tight as your hair splays across the sheets.
“You’re like a zombie,” Steve says amusedly, his gaze all fond and mushy as he looks down at you. “From like, Day of the Dead or something.”
You pull a face, faux offended but your big grin gives you away. “Ew. I’m not that ugly, am I?”
Steve hums long and high like he’s thinking about it. This makes you gasp and throw a hand to your chest like he’s wounded you. Before Steve can get half a laugh out a pillow is hitting him straight across the face.
“Hey!” He exclaims, glaring at you. You’re still lying down, eyes screwed tight like you’re pretending you didn’t just brutally attack Steve. He laughs because you’re fucking adorable. “Zombies don’t throw pillows, Y/N.”
Your words are plagued by a yawn as you say, “This one does.”
Steve sighs at your antics, picks up your murder weapon (his pillow) and replaces it on the bed.
“Oh no,” you groan suddenly, like you’ve remembered something awful, hands flying to your face in despair. “My makeup, Stevie. M’too tired to take it off.”
Your words stick to each other like taffy in your tired state. Steve remembers the last time he let you sleep in your makeup. He didn’t hear the end of it for days. He’d rather avoid your wrath this time round.
Steve sighs, knowing full well he’s about to put his foot in it. “Well, will you let me do it?”
You open one eye blearily and look at him. “Would you?”
Steve shrugs, though the thought of being that close to you makes him feel nauseous. Luckily, you’ve closed both eyes again so he can blush all he wants. Plus, he’d do anything for you. Even endure the overwhelming urge to kiss you breathless.
“Sure thing, babe. I’ll get the stuff.”
Steve ends up sitting on his bed with you across from him, crossed legs pressing up against his. You’re sitting so close you’re almost in his lap. He ignores this for the sake of his dignity.
You’ve got your eyes shut and your hair up in a clip. A lock of hair has tumbled out of its knot and Steve pushes it away from your face, fingers hooking behind your ear and lingering. He keeps his hand on your jaw as he raises his other hand, a wet cloth ready to clean your sparkly makeup off.
“You sure about this?” He asks hesitantly. He’s dead terrified he’ll do something wrong, like get glitter in your eye.
You smile softly, your eyes staying firmly shut. “Yes, Steve, it’s fine.” Your tone is half reassuring and half exasperated.
Steve bites the bullet and goes right in, pressing the wet cloth to your cheekbones first. You’ve got blush and glitter there, sprinkled on your cheeks like fairy dust. He smooths the cloth along your skin and it comes away sparkly and pink.
“Okay?” He asks, pausing worriedly.
You nod slowly, your head starting to droop in his hand. “Yeah, Steve.”
Steve grins fondly at your face, screwed up in exhaustion. He tightens his grip on your jaw to keep your head steady, thumb hooked under your chin. Carefully, he begins to dab at your eyelids, also painted with silvery glittery eyeshadow.
Your face dewy and makeup-free, Steve thinks you’ve never looked prettier. So pretty it drives him mad. He stares, really stares, for far too long but he’s worried if he opens his mouth, breaks the silence, he’ll never get to see you like this again. Your hair all messy pretty, your eyes shut and eyelashes kissing, your pink lips turned in a half smile.
He’s not surprised when your soft voice drifts into his thoughts.
“You done?” You open your eyes, eyelids heavy and head heavier.
Steve snaps out of it. He lets go of your face quickly, slides off the bed even quicker.
“All done,” he says, almost tripping over his own feet.
You smile, seemingly oblivious to his clumsiness. Or maybe, it’s just happened so often that you’re not surprised. Either way, your smile is sickeningly sweet. Steve is torn between the desire to kiss you or run as far away as possible from you.
Your voice matches your honey-smile when you say, “Thank you, Stevie.”
You reach out to touch his forearm, your hand a heavy weight on his skin as you wrap your fingers around his arm and squeeze.
He grins lopsidedly, and he’s sure he looks like a lovesick idiot but he can’t find it in himself to care. “You’re welcome.”
You drop your hand and Steve’s arm suddenly feels cold as ice. He wants to touch you again but knows he shouldn’t. He strides to his bedroom door and pauses to turn and look at you.
“I’m gonna get you a glass of water,” he says. Your eyelids are drooping again. He laughs fondly. “Get in bed while I’m gone, zombie-girl.”
Your giggle follows him all the way to the kitchen.
When Steve gets back, a glass of water in each hand, you’re still as a statue on your self-appointed side of the bed. You’ve swapped your outfit for a grey t-shirt that you totally stole from him but deny every time he asks about it, and the shortest shorts known to mankind.
He switches off the light and shuts the door with his heel. Pointedly avoiding looking at your bare legs, he rounds the bed and sets the water down, then bends over you.
“Y/N?” He whispers.
You hum softly, though Steve can’t tell if it’s a hum of acknowledgement or just a sound you’ve made in your sleep. He leans closer, listening to your breathing. You’re awake, only just.
He brushes his hand over your upper arm, touch as light as a feather. He thinks he feels goosebumps on your skin but doesn’t have time to wonder why. You’re lifting your chin slightly, lips parted.
“Goodnight, Stevie,” you whisper, so quiet he barely hears you. Steve’s heart swells. “Thanks for … everything.”
A few moments later you fall silent and your breathing grows steady, and Steve wonders how the hell you always fall asleep so fast.
He rubs your arm, kisses your forehead because he knows you won’t remember this part. His lips buzz as he pulls away. “Goodnight, sweet thing.”
-
You’re outside Family Video. Steve emerges from the back room and spots you so fast it’s like he’s got a third eye. He’s both shocked and pleased — he hadn’t expected to see you until after his shift.
You’ve got the kids with you. You and Max are zooming around the carpark on your skateboards while Dustin and Lucas are poised on the hood of your car, poring over comics.
He watches you skate with Max. Like some lame rom-com cliche, your hair is blowing in the wind and Steve swears you’ve moving in slow motion. You’re laughing and joking with Max and Steve stares and stares. Stares until Robin sidles up next to him.
“What’re you— oh.” Steve can hear the smirk in her voice even though he refuses to look at her. “What’re they doing here?”
Steve shrugs and makes an ‘I don’t know’ sound, moving to the counter to put down the box of videos he’s carrying. Robin follows.
“You’re not gonna go say hi to Y/N?” Robin asks slyly. Steve can hear in her voice what’s coming. “You’ve been staring long enough.”
Steve blushes furiously despite himself. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Oh, sure.” Robin hoists herself onto the counter, peers into the box of videos and picks one out at random. “Just like you weren’t holding her hand on Tuesday night?”
Steve can’t exactly get himself out of that one. He snatches the video from Robin with an annoyed tsk, slotting it back into the box. Her laugh is devilish.
“You are hopeless, Steven,” she says, whacking Steve over the head as she hops off the counter.
Steve rubs his head and glares at Robin. If looks could kill she’d be dead meat. “That’s not my name.”
Robin gets this look on her face that Steve knows all too well. He wants to pummel her before she’s even said anything.
“Oh, sorry,” she says, all sarcasm. “What is it, then? Stevie?”
Steve’s blood boils. Only you’re allowed to call him that.
“Y’know what, Robin?” He says loudly. He turns on his coworker, seething. She’s totally nonchalant, a stupid smirk on her lips. “Why don’t you just leave me—?”
“Steve!”
A shout of his name from the door. He turns and finds Lucas standing there, looking panicked.
Steve’s brow furrows. Then he notices you and Max are no longer whizzing around the carpark. “What—“
“Y/N fell,” Lucas says, out of breath. “We think she hurt her wrist.”
Steve’s heart drops. “Shit.”
He goes flying out the door and into the parking lot. You’re sitting on the concrete, one knee pulled up to your chest, your skateboard dormant next to you. Max is kneeling over you, and Dustin has graciously abandoned his comics for your sake.
“Y/N!” He damn near shouts. He runs over to you and Max and gets on his knees. He’s probably just ruined his jeans on the concrete — he doesn’t give a single fuck.
“Y/N,” he says frantically, a tentative hand landing on your shoulder. Both your knees are scraped something awful and a nasty gash blooms on the outside of your wrist. Steve’s worry is loud and his heartbeat twice as much. “Y/N, are you okay? What happened? What’s—“
You look up. Your eyes are shining but you’ve got a dopey smile on your lips.
“Steve,” you say breathlessly. You blink and a tear falls from your eye and over the bump of your cheek. “Hi. Good to see you.”
Steve stares at you in horror. How can you be making jokes at a time like this? You laugh wetly and Steve looks at Max, totally alarmed.
“What happened?” He demands.
Max is much calmer than he is. “She went over a bump or something,” she says. She’s rubbing your back and Steve feels a rush of gratitude for the younger girl. “Fell on her left arm. Her wrist might be sprained or broken, but—“
“Broken?” Steve repeats. He’s pretty sure his soul just left his body.
“I said might,” Max says through her teeth.
“Y/N?” Steve slides his arm around your shoulder, carefully avoiding your left wrist, which you're cradling in your uninjured hand. “Y/N, baby, can you get up?”
You make a noise like a scoff but it’s muffled by your sniffly nose. “‘Course I can.”
Steve helps you anyway, Max on your other side keeping a firm hold on your jacket. You hiss as you straighten your legs, knee-wounds sprouting fresh blood. Steve bites down on his lips so hard he almost bleeds himself.
“Are you gonna take her to the hospital?” Max asks. There’s genuine worry in her eyes that Steve barely sees. Dustin, Lucas and Robin appear, looking equally worried.
Steve puts on a brave face. “Think so. What do you think?” He asks Max. “You’re the skateboard expert.”
She grins so quick Steve almost misses it. It disappears when she looks at you in your bloody and bruised state. “Yeah. Just in case.”
Steve walks you over to your car, half dragging you. Not that you need him to, he just can’t bear for you to hurt any more than you already are. He deposits you in the passenger seat, ducks his head in to pull your seatbelt across your torso. He’s seconds from ducking back out when you stop him, your uninjured hand on his chest, right over his racing heart.
“It hurts,” you say, quiet enough that only Steve can hear. Your eyes are welling up again. Steve feels like crying himself.
“I know,” he says, nodding vigorously like it will make a difference. “I know, sweet girl. It’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna be okay.”
At this point he’s talking to himself as well as you. You nod in an exhausted sort of way and Steve presses a kiss to your cheek. Slow and soft and as close to your lips as he’s ever kissed. He has to take a few seconds to compose himself before straightening up and turning to the others.
“I gotta take her,” he says, sending an apologetic grimace in Robin’s direction.
Robin nods once and surprisingly, doesn’t say a word. She looks about as sympathetic as Steve has ever seen her. He turns to the kids.
“Help Robin,” he says. He’s trying desperately to make his voice sound normal but falling short of the mark. Everyone notices but nobody comments. “Don’t mess up the store.”
He gives a grateful smile to Max and then rounds the car, hopping in and starting the engine.
-
You’re half asleep on Steve’s couch, your head in his lap. You’re wearing his yellow sweater — the one he bought only because you’d said he’d look good in yellow. You’ve just woken up from a post-hospital nap and Steve’s hand is in your hair, brushing slow strokes over the side of your head.
He’s feeling a lot of things. Relieved, for starters. The doctor had said it was only a sprain, they’d bandaged up your wrist and you’d left the hospital in far better conditions. Steve was in far better conditions, too.
Steve looks down at you, at your bandaged wrist and the huge bandaids on your knees and thinks, fuck. He thinks his heart is about to claw its way out of his chest. He doesn’t think he can take this love thing any longer.
You stir and take a long breath, turning your head in Steve’s lap to look up at him. Your eyes are tired but you’re smiling.
“You okay?” Steve asks softly. He doesn’t want to break the silence. It feels good, to sit in silence and comfort with you. He runs his fingers through your hair again.
You nod. “Mhm. I’m good.”
“Hurting?”
You shift in his lap. “No, not right now.”
You fall silent and Steve doesn’t know what to say. He wants to tell you how worried he was about you, but you could probably tell. Anyone with a pair of eyes could tell he was nauseous-level worried. Then he thinks about telling you he loves you. It’s a stupid reason, really, but it was all because a nurse had asked if he was your boyfriend. He’d wished he could say yes.
“Steve?”
Steve hums and meets your eyes. You move to sit up and Steve helps you, knowing you won’t let him stop you. A firm hand between your shoulder blades, his palm sliding down your back as you straighten yourself. You shift so you’re facing him, your legs crossed beneath you and your injured wrist resting in your lap. Steve is careful to avoid your wounded knees.
“What is it, babe?” Steve asks quietly. He brings his hand up to caress your cheek, dragging his thumb over a spot where your tears had smudged your mascara earlier.
You melt into his hand, eyes falling shut as a long, deep sigh falls from your lips. You raise your good hand to cover his, holding it to your face. Your hand burns stars onto the back of his.
“Is it your wrist?” Steve asks. You’re acting strange. He puts it down to your injured state. “Your knees? Do you want more ice? New band-aids?”
He’s being a total worrywart, he knows, but who can blame him?
You shake your head, eyes open but cast down. “No.”
“Just feeling bad?” He asks through a frown. In a strange parallel to a couple of days ago, he lifts his free hand to press his palm to your forehead. You feel warm but not hot.
“It’s …” you start, then trail off. Both yours and Steve’s hands fall to your lap.
Steve’s concern spikes. You’ve never been one to hide anything from him. “Yeah?”
“Um, it’s … it’s silly but—“ You take a deep breath and let your eyes raise to Steve’s. You get a look on your face Steve doesn’t quite understand, but it makes his heart leap to his throat anyway. “You know today, when that nurse asked us if you were my boyfriend?”
Steve laughs embarrassedly, too loud and too sudden. So you’d been thinking about that, too. He pulls his hand away from your lap and rubs the back of his neck.
“Yeah, that was kinda weird, wasn’t it?” He says, though it wasn’t really. Almost every new person he meets thinks you’re dating him. “I was—”
“I wanted to say yes, Stevie.”
Steve stops talking abruptly, his mouth slamming shut. He hadn’t really known what he was about to say, anyway. He searches for words but all he comes up with is a garbled, “What?”
You laugh, all soft and slow and distorted by fatigue. You raise your hand to rub your neck, a mirror of Steve only a moment ago.
“I wanted to say yes,” you repeat, like it’s obvious. Even the second time, Steve doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. His chest feels like it’s on fire, worse when you say, “I want you to be my boyfriend.”
For once in his life, Steve has nothing to say. He gazes at you like you’re some sort of angel on earth. Maybe he’s dreaming. Maybe he’s in some cruel dream and he’s about to wake up with his chest aching.
“I …” Steve‘s voice catches on the words. His throat burns so he mustn’t be dreaming. He tries again. “Y-You … you do?”
He’s not even embarrassed by the stuttering. Just when he didn’t think he could be any more in love with you, you giggle. He was dead wrong. His heart grows about three sizes too big for his chest.
“Yeah, Steve,” you say, fondness smothering your fake exasperation. “Do you … do you want me to be your girlfriend?”
What Steve wants is to kiss you. He wants to kiss you til you can’t breathe and then some more after that. Silently, he takes your injured wrist in his hand and gently shifts it so it’s out of the way, resting on the couch cushions. Then he grabs your face, fingers splayed over your jaw and neck. He can feel your pulse. It’s almost as quick as his. He leans so close he can hear every breath you’re taking.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he whispers, his lips ghosting over yours. “That okay?”
You laugh a giddy, breathless laugh, surprised at his suddenness. “Please do.”
He slams his eyes shut, darts forward to kiss you and fucking misses. Your noses bump. A surprised giggle bubbles from you and Steve goes red.
“Wait, I’m sorry—“ He tries again, tilting your head to one side and angling his head to the other. This time it works perfectly, and your giggling is swallowed up by Steve’s mouth, lips fitting together like they were made for each other.
You sigh and go all melty and Steve’s heart skyrockets. It feels like everything in the world is falling into place. It’s years of longing, eternities of lingering touches and offhand compliments and longing glances all rolled into one life changing kiss. Your good hand has jumped to Steve’s chest, first bunched in the material of his t-shirt and then spreading over it, palm atop his wild heart. He thinks he might die on the spot. Or like, catch on fire or something.
Steve is losing breath but he won’t stop just yet. He drops his hands to your shoulders and pulls away a hair’s breadth. Then he dives back in for one, two, three kisses that you respond to with all the eagerness in the world. Your kisses are so lovely they make him light-headed.
When Steve pulls away (for oxygen, nothing less) you chase his lips with yours. He laughs, all fondness. He’s dizzy with love.
“Woah, hold your horses, cowboy,” he says through a woozy laugh. He’s finding it hard to speak. He barely hears himself. For all he knows, he’s talking in an alien language.
“Sorry,” you whisper, not sounding very sorry at all. “So … was that a yes?”
Steve has to laugh. He can’t help it. “Are you kidding? Yes, Y/N. That was a yes. I—“
He’s rudely interrupted by someone banging on the door. He thinks he knows who it is. Only one person he knows knocks that hard.
He sighs morosely but he can’t keep the grin off his face for very long. “I’ll get it.”
He heaves himself off the couch and makes for the front door. You stop him before he gets very far, a hand in his bicep.
“Wait, Steve.”
Steve turns, puzzled. “Yeah?”
You’re lifting your chin up, lips parted. Steve knows exactly what you want.
His grin grows impossibly wider as he bends at the waist to kiss you once, chaste and slow and just as perfect as the kisses shared moments ago. When he pulls away you’re smiling so big he’s worried you’ll get stuck like that forever. He wouldn’t mind.
Another round of banging from the door. Steve sighs, squeezes your good shoulder once and then marches to the front door, just about ready to kick the intruder off his front porch. He opens the door and finds his suspicions were correct. It’s Dustin.
He’s holding a handful of flowers that look suspiciously similar to the ones that grow in Steve’s mom’s garden.
“Those for me?” Steve asks. He shoots his arm out to stop Dustin from barging in, hand gripping the door frame.
Dustin pulls a face. “Ew. No, they’re for Y/N.” He steps aside and more kids appear, plus Robin and Eddie. Eddie’s van has been parked haphazardly in Steve’s driveway. “Can we come in or are you gonna stand there and guard the door like that all night?”
“She’s tired.”
“But we bought chocolates.”
“Well—“
“Dustin?” You call from the living room. Oh, great. Now Steve’s gonna have to let them in. “S’that you?”
Dustin beams and gives Steve an expectant look. Steve drops his arm with a defeated sigh and Dustin goes marching in like he owns the place. Max, Lucas and even Mike follow. Mike, who never shows up to anything. Though Steve shouldn’t be surprised. You’re Mike’s favourite, out of the older ones.
Eddie comes next, then Robin, who stops to give Steve a grimace.
“Sorry,” she says wryly. “They really wanted to see her.”
Steve shrugs good-naturedly. He’s on cloud nine and much too happy to care all that much. He follows Robin into the living room and finds everyone crowded around you, Max on your side and Dustin getting down on one knee to present you the probably-stolen flowers like you’re the Queen of England. You look the same as Steve feels — kiss bitten and with your head in another world. But you’re pleased by the company, he can tell.
Dustin moves to give you one of his bone-crushing hugs and Steve goes all panic mode.
“Please be careful with her!” He says urgently, his panic obvious under the usual demanding tone he takes with the kids.
But you’re laughing under Dustin’s hug, and Steve can’t stay mad when you look like that. You meet his eyes over a mop of curly hair and your gaze goes all mushy and sweet. Steve’s legs feel like jelly. If he keeled over dead right now, he wouldn’t be surprised.
He’s sure someone will see but he doesn’t really care. Grinning from ear to ear, he mouths, “Love you.”
He’s said it before, of course he has, you’re his best friend in the whole entire world. This time though, it’s all the more different. It’s better. You flush, oblivious to the noisy chatter around you.
“Love you too,” you mouth back.
Steve can’t stop smiling for the rest of the night.
thank you for reading! feedback is appreciated!! reblog this and I’ll kiss you on the mouth mwah
Summary: in which someone tries to make a pass at reader and steve defends them.
Warnings: sexual assault, fighting
Word Count: 1.5k
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Ever since you started dating Steve Harrington, the two of you stopped going to parties. It wasn't a conscious decision, necessarily; it sort of happened naturally. Not only was there always something going on, but it just wasn't your scene anymore. Once upon a time you would indulge in parties every weekend, but you've since realized that life has a tendency to get in the way.
Fortunately for you and Steve, the Upside Down and other mysteries of Hawkins, Indiana had seemingly decided to take the weekend off. The two of you were looking for something to do, but the last thing you had expected was a party.
You laughed it off when Steve had suggested the idea, and watched as his face fell into a joking expression and his head tilted at you.
"C'mon, it'll be fun," Steve expressed, resting a hand on your elbow.
The two of you stood outside of Family Video, as Steve had just completed his shift. He was still clad in his uniform, a green vest that displayed the store's name.
"Something tells me it won't," you spoke sternly.
Although partying used to be a constant for you, you had grown accustomed to life without it. The thought of returning to another humid basement filled with sweaty, hormonal teenagers was enough to send a shiver down your spine.
"Please?" Steve whined, and you giggled under your breath at his childishness. "If you hate it after, let's say twenty minutes, then we'll go home and watch a movie."
You let Steve's words dangle in the humid, Indiana air for a few moments, despite having made up your mind. You realized then that you would probably do anything that Steve asked you to do; you simply wanted to make him happy.
"Fine, but I'm picking the movie."
-----
Flashing lights and silhouettes came from the windows of the house, as you and Steve made your descent. The party was being held by a college student a year older than Steve; someone he knew from high school. You weren't sure what to expect, or if you would know anyone.
Your suspicions were eased when Nancy and Jonathan met you at the front door. You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding before smiling at them.
"Hey, you two!" Nancy beamed.
Steve and Jonathan fell into a polite conversation, and you and Nancy continued chatting with one another.
"I'm so glad you guys could make it. We deserve some sense of normalcy," Nancy smiled at you.
"Thanks, Nance. It feels so weird to be here," you muttered, a nervous smile on your face.
"Trust me, once you get a drink in you, you'll feel better. Here," Nancy handed you a red solo cup and gestured towards the kitchen to the right.
Your gaze wandered to where Steve was, only to see that he had begun talking with a group of guys. You presumed they were old friends from high school.
Your gaze returned to Nancy, nodding at her advice, before making your way to the kitchen.
Finding the keg, you pumped it and released a steady flow of beer into your cup. You sipped, wincing at the bitter taste and sticking your tongue out. It's really been a while, huh? you thought to yourself, surveying the kitchen.
There was a couple manhandling each other in the corner, a guy who looked like he was either about to pass out or throw up, and another guy standing near the refrigerator. Blood pulsated in your head upon the realization that the guy by the fridge was looking at you. His gaze traveled up and down your form, not very subtly.
He licked his lips slightly before approaching you, leaning his weight on the counter beside you.
"Hey there. How are you?"
Your brows furrowed at his determination, before taking another sip of your beer.
"I am fine," you spoke, punctuating each word.
"Oh, I know you're fine, baby, but how's your night goin'?"
You scoffed at his poor attempt at a pick up line, before making a move to exit the kitchen.
"Hey, where ya goin'?" The guy grabbed your arm then, and you yanked it away before looking at him angrily.
"Do not touch me."
He put his hands up in feign defense before grinning at you. You blanched, disgusted by his cool attitude.
"You don't have to be like that, I'm just trying to get to know you."
"What makes you think I want to get to know you?"
You knew you were inching towards irate, but you couldn't help it. This seemed to happen at every single party when you were a frequent flier. You wondered now how you managed to continue attending them.
The man's vision turned darker then, his mouth dropping it's grin and forming a straight line. He grabbed for your arm, and pulled you into him. You let out a grunt at the impact before struggling against him.
"Why do you have to be such a bitch, huh?!" He yelled at you, his hand groping you. You whimpered in response, unable to move.
"Excuse me, what the fuck did you just say? Let go of her, asshole!"
Steve. Thank god.
Steve's strength worked to his advantage as he managed to maneuver himself between you and the drunk man. He pulled the man's collar up, and threw him against the refrigerator.
"Hey, ease up man! I didn't do anything!" The drunk guy protested, and you scoffed, straightening your dress.
"Like hell you didn't do anything! I come in here and see your hand on my girlfriend's ass!" Steve pushed him against the refrigerator once again at the memory.
You could tell Steve was becoming increasingly angry, and you realized you did not want to spend your evening bandaging bloody knuckles.
"Steve," you hollered, placing a hand on his bicep. "It's not worth it."
Steve looked at you, his eyes wide and exasperated. You knew that if it was up to him, he would land more than a few punches on the face of any guy who dared to touch you inappropriately.
"Yeah, listen to your little bitch!"
Goddamnit. If there was any whisper of a chance of getting Steve to release the man so the two of you could just leave, it was gone now.
You watched in slow motion as Steve's fist drew backwards before slamming into the guy's cheekbone. A second punch drew blood from the man's nose and lip. Steve didn't get a chance to throw a third punch.
"Steve!" You yelled, grabbing his arm midair.
He looked at you; his eyes seemed to be engulfed with an emotion you'd never seen, and it scared you.
Steve seemed to sense your fear, and his resolve crumbled at the thought. He looked between his fist and the bloody man on the floor, before realizing that he'd done enough damage.
Steve stood, another flash of anger traveling across his features before directing his voice to the bloody mess on the floor.
"Don't you ever touch her again."
He turned to you then, his palms holding either side of your face. He scanned your features, attempting to locate any sign of harm.
"Are you okay?"
You nodded, tears filling your eyes and threatening to spill over onto your flushed and freckled cheeks. Now that the situation had calmed down, the guise that concealed your frightened self began to collapse.
Steve's heart wrenched at the sight, and he pulled you into him in one swift motion. His hand cradled the back of you head and he placed a kiss atop it.
If people hadn't already formed a crowd around you, they certainly were now, at the sight of the bloody boy on the floor. Steve took notice and held a hand around your waist.
"Let's get out you out of here."
Once the two of you were outside, Steve turned to you and rubbed his calloused thumbs under your eyes, capturing your salty tears.
"I'm so sorry I made you come to this. You were right."
You shook your head, laughing grimly through the thickness of your tears.
"You couldn't have known that a disgusting guy would grope me. Although I should've known, it’s happened before.”
You saw Steve's jaw visibly tense at your remark, before shaking his head and resting his forehead against yours.
"Don't even think any of that was your fault, because it wasn't."
You merely gave Steve a watery smile, nuzzling further into him.
"Do you want to go home now?" He asked you, looking into your eyes, your foreheads still connected.
Despite the tears that ran down your face, you smirked at him.
"As long as we can watch the cheesiest rom-com in existence."
Steve's mouth lifted into a small smirk, before he let out a chuckle. He pulled away from you, nodding.
Summary: the reader has cynophobia, the fear of dogs, and spencer is there for her.
Warnings: fears?
Word Count: 0.9k
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"What's your biggest fear?"
You recalled asking Spencer the question several months ago, while the two of you were curled up on his couch. The two of you had enjoyed a typical weekday night; the dishes from dinner were running in the dishwasher and the show you were binging played softly in the background.
Spencer hummed, brows furrowed as he considered your question.
"I know it sounds silly, but probably losing something or someone I love," he said, a small smile playing at his lips. "I guess my biggest fear is losing you."
You smiled at him, and rubbed your hand along the stubble on his jawline. You reached up and placed a soft kiss where your hand had been.
"You're so cheesy."
"What's yours?" Spencer asked, peering down at you through hooded eyelids, his long lashes on display.
"You'll laugh at me."
Spencer's brow furrowed, his mouth opening before lifting up slightly.
"I won't laugh at you."
"I'm afraid of dogs," you admitted, shying away from him in embarrassment.
"I had to get stitches as a kid because I got bit by our neighbor's rottweiler. Ever since then," you trailed off, shivering at the memory.
Spencer's brow furrowed at the idea, and he rubbed your goosebump-covered arms.
"Cynophobia," Spencer stated, and despite your reddening cheeks, he only looked at you with adoration.
-----
It was an average, summer day in Virginia, and the team had just been assigned a case. It was a hostage situation; the unsub had several people trapped inside of a bank. Fortunately, his only weapon was a knife. In theory, it should be easier to get him into custody without the possession of an automatic weapon.
You, along with Spencer and Emily, were driving in one of the BAU's black vans. Spencer drove, with you in the passenger's seat, and Emily in the back reading through the case files.
"His name is Edward Fisher," Emily stated, her eyes skimming the paper. "He's twenty-seven, no priors, but it looks like he was recently divorced."
"I'm sure that's the stressor," Spencer offered, his eyes squinting as he drove.
Upon your arrival at the bank, you were met by the rest of the team standing alongside some local officers. You and the others were beginning to craft your plan of action, when another van pulled up.
Another group of local police exited the van, and what followed them shook you significantly. Three large dogs exited the van with the K-9 officers, two German Shepherds and, much to your dismay, a large rottweiler.
You would have been able to compose yourself if it wasn't for the fact that one of the dogs got loose and began running towards the team. Of course, the dog was trained, so it merely sniffed around on the ground, but you immediately backed up in fear.
You backed up straight into the strong chest of your boyfriend. Your eyes were wide, frantic, and your breathing began to pick up rapidly. You felt hands grip your shoulders - Spencer - as he pushed you behind him.
As observant as he was, Spencer had immediately noticed the dog that was set loose. He remembered your fear despite talking about it months ago and protectively stepped in front of you, hollering towards the officers, who were approaching in order to retrieve their dog.
"Hey! I thought these dogs were supposed to be trained, keep a hold on them, would you?!"
The officer nearest to you mumbled an apology, giving Spencer an odd look, and pulled the dog back towards their group of K-9 officers. You let out a large breath that you hadn't realized you were holding, and relaxed against Spencer.
He turned to you then, his eyes wide in concern and anger.
"Are you okay?" He asked you, and his thumb wiped under your eyes. No tears had actually fallen, but Spencer noticed the wetness that began to pool, both from fear and relief.
"Yes, thank you," you spoke and let out another shaky breath.
"You're really scared of dogs, pretty girl?" Morgan chimed in, smirking at you.
You could feel the arms that were wrapped around you tense.
"Morgan," Spencer gave him a stern glare, warning him not to continue with his jokes. Derek's hands went up in joking surrender, despite Spencer's seriousness.
"Y/L/N, go back to the van. Reid, you go with her. Catch your breath," Hotch ordered, and nodded towards the vehicle near you.
Spencer wrapped his arm around your shoulders and guided you to lean against the door of the van. He leaned next to you, wrapping his hand in yours.
"So you remembered," you started, a hint of embarrassment in your tone.
"Of course I did," Spencer joked, hinting towards his eidetic memory. "Don't be embarrassed, love."
"I can't help it! I'm an adult woman who just cried at the sight of a dog."
Spencer's face appeared in front of you then, his brown eyes trained on yours. He leaned his forehead against yours and planted a sweet kiss on the tip of your nose.
"It's okay to have fears," he cooed, and leaned in to place a chaste kiss on your lips, which were pouting.
"The whole team saw that, Spence. It was mortifying."
"If they say anything about it, they'll have to deal with me."
You smirked at him, admiring your tall, lanky boyfriend. You knew he couldn't hurt a fly, unless he absolutely had to, which made his statement all the more amusing.
"Don't give me that look, I'm serious," Spencer gawked at you, incredulous.
"Sure, sure,” you waved your hand at him, giggling. You gave him a peck on the lips before continuing.
“Whatever you say.”
-----
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CM Taglist: @cynbx @random000000 @lockwoods-coat-and-reids-vests @miralgr @xoyouronlyamorrxo
Summary: Willow Brooks is a kind-hearted, but spitfire red head who treats each case with the upmost compassion and care. But when an unsub is targeting women who look just like her, she’s faced with the dilemma of acting as bait for the unsub. Spencer Reid, her boyfriend, is absolutely not keen on the idea.
Warnings: violence, knife, guns
Word Count: 1k
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Look at you, little birdie...
Now you're at my mercy.
-----
Luckily, Willow wasn't knocked out from the impact and she was able to lift herself up from the dirty concrete below her.
"Who are you?" Thomas' voice boomed, as he kicked her harshly in the stomach. "Did my magpie send you?"
My magpie? Willow thought, but she couldn't think straight from the pain erupting from her core.
"Answer me!" Thomas roared, and he pulled her to her feet before punching her harshly in the face.
Willow saw stars from the impact, and was completely unable to fight back at this point. She hoped to god that Spencer and the rest of the team were on their way and would arrive shortly. She felt hot, sticky liquid start to run down from her nostrils.
With what little strength she had, she tried to engage Thomas with what she knew so far.
"Thomas," she said, using his first name, attempting to personalize the situation. "It's me, your magpie. Please don't hurt me."
Confusion clouded Thomas' face at the remark, his brows furrowed, yet still angry.
"You're not Magdalene."
Magdalene... so the magpie is a woman named Magdalene?
"It is me, Thomas," Willow spoke, coughing up a small amount of blood. "Please."
She pleaded, and his grip on her loosened slightly. It was short lived.
"FBI, hands up!"
Thomas spasmed, pulling Willow's back into his front and branding a knife against her throat.
Where the hell did the knife come from? Willow thought to herself.
Spencer stood at the other end of the alleyway, his gun trained at Thomas. Although he stood confidently, Willow could see the slight shake of his hands at the sight of her being covered in blood and held against her will. The rest of the team stood guard behind him, their guns also pointed towards Thomas.
"Thomas," Spencer started, his voice containing a hint of fear. "Don't do this to Magdalene. She loves you, Thomas."
Thomas adjusted his hold on Willow, confused once again. He thought about it for a moment, considering, before pulling the knife closer to her throat once again.
"You're lying to me."
"No, Thomas, I'm not. We know that Magdalene left you, but she's back now."
"I don't believe you!" Thomas screamed, the knife starting to impress into Willow's skin. "She left me, with our son! She flew away, my magpie flew away."
Spencer considered Thomas' words, and continued in his efforts to save Willow.
"Thomas, she's back now. She has your son, and you don't want to hurt her before you get to see him."
Thomas' grip loosened slightly and he looked at Willow.
"Is this true?"
"Yes," she croaked, starting to wilt against him.
"Thomas, drop the knife. Drop the knife and we will take you to your son." Spencer attempted to coerce the man, who's grip on Willow stayed the same.
"No, no, no," Thomas rambled, his eyes wide. "You're lying, I don't believe it!"
In his frenzy, Thomas pushed the knife further against Willow's neck.
"No!"
She could hear Spencer's voice bellow before she heard a gunshot. Willow collapsed onto the hard ground, her vision dancing with black spots.
"Baby," Spencer's voice cooed, and she felt his hands wrapping around her, pulling her into him.
Willow merely groaned in response, and opened her eyes slightly. She could feel Spencer's quickened heart rate against her ear, and it was calming.
"Spence," she gasped, and winced in pain at the effort.
"Oh, honey," Spencer muttered, his eyes filling with tears. "I'm so sorry. God, I should've protested against this more than I did. This is my fault, I'm so, so sorry."
"Not your fault," she managed to say; her voice was guttural.
Spencer let out a sob then, and rested his forehead against hers. Willow could feel a few of his tears land on her face.
"We need to get you cleaned up," he spoke, shaking his emotions off and lifting her into his arms bridal style. Willow allowed herself to wrap her arms around his neck as tightly as she could.
He carried her to the ambulance that had arrived on the scene, and laid her gently onto the gurney. He climbed in after her and stroked a long hand against her badly beaten face.
Her eyes fluttered, and Spencer tried to get her to stay awake.
"You can't fall asleep, honey. You probably have a concussion. I know you're tired, but let me see those eyes."
Willow groaned in response, wanting to succumb to the sweet darkness of sleep lurking behind her.
"Reid, how is she?" Hotch's voice suddenly filled her ears; he was standing at the entrance of the ambulance.
"She'll be okay, no thanks to you."
Spencer's words were harsh, and through Willow's blurry vision she could see him stand, his fists clenched at his sides.
"I'm sorry for what happened to Agent Brooks, Reid, but I don't regret my decision. We caught Thomas, and people were saved because of it."
"Oh, but it's okay that my girlfriend got beaten to a pulp and is in the back of an ambulance barely hanging onto consciousness?!"
The silence after Spencer's outburst was palpable, and Willow could hear Hotch sigh loudly.
"Reid, just take care of her. We'll talk later."
Willow could hear Hotch's steps dissipate into nothingness, before Spencer's presence returned to her. He stroked the blood-soaked hair from her face, his eyes glossy.
"Spence, he's our boss," Willow croaked out, attempting to plant a small smirk on her face before wincing at the movement.
"Shh," Spencer cooed, rubbing her face softly to try and get her to relax. "I know he is, but I told him this was a bad idea. I told everyone this was a bad idea."
Spencer's lips were taut in a tight line and his eyes held a mixture of determination, and some semblance of guilt. Despite her state, Willow picked up on the gears turning rapidly in Spencer's mind and quietly attempted to comfort him.
Summary: in which reader has severe anxiety and Steve is the only one who can calm them down.
Warnings: anxiety, panic attack
Word Count: 0.9k
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You’ve suffered with anxiety and panic attacks for as long as you can remember. As a child, you were so anxious during school that you would hold all your emotions in until you got home, much to your parents’ dismay. Once middle school came around, you were able to recognize that what you were experiencing was anxiety, and it was debilitating.
Your struggles improved slightly as you aged, but you still struggled quite a bit. When you started dating Steve, he helped you significantly. If nothing else, his presence calmed you, but it helped that he seemed to be a natural at comforting you from anxiety and panic attacks.
You had been struggling again recently; the aftermath of everything that had happened finally catching up with you.
After the adrenaline fades away into nothingness, you’re only left with fear.
God, and did it seem that you feared everything these days. Steve was patient with you, despite the frustration you had with yourself for putting him through this. You felt like you couldn’t do anything normal anymore.
That’s why, when your group suggested a casual movie night, you wanted to try. You wanted to at least try to be normal, if just for one night.
“You ready?” Steve’s voice chimed, his face coming into view.
His large hands cupped either side of your face as you nodded up at him. He beamed at you, and leaned in to place a chaste kiss on your forehead before leading you to his car.
The movie night started out fine, with Mike and El cuddling lovingly to your right, and Steve on your left. On the other side of him was Dustin, Lucas, Max, and Erica.
You hadn’t realized just how many people would be attending the get-together. You attempted to choke down the tight feeling in your throat as the movie started.
Steve’s hand on your thigh brought you back to reality slightly, but the dull ache of panic still sat dormant at the bottom of your stomach.
“You alright?” His concerned eyes met yours, and you nodded.
“Yeah,” you spoke, an edge of uneasiness in your statement. Steve noticed, but merely rubbed your leg in response.
At about halfway through the movie, the feeling of anxiety still bubbled up every once in a while. It increased significantly when Steve stood up.
“I’m getting more popcorn. Anyone want anything?”
Everyone shook their head, too focused on the movie. Steve would be the one to get more food in the middle of a movie and risk missing the the most integral point of the plot.
Upon his descent towards the kitchen, your throat constricted at the lack of his warmth next to you. You attempted to cough, trying anything to get the feeling to go away. Unfortunately for you, it came out as more of a strangled noise.
Dustin turned to you, brows furrowed in confusion.
“You okay, Y/N?”
You nodded, attempting to focus on the movie. I swear to god, you thought. If I have a damn panic attack in front of all these people…
Despite your mental protests, all of a sudden the air left your lungs. You gasped, the attention of your friends all snapping from the movie to you.
“Y/N?” A voice spoke, you thought maybe it was Max, but you couldn’t quite tell.
“She’s hyperventilating, she’s going to pass out if she doesn’t stop!” Another voice. Lucas?
“St—” you croaked.
“Steve? You want Steve?” The voice was Dustin’s.
“Steve!”
“What? I’m almost done with the popcorn, hold your horses,” Steve’s joking voice chimes in from the kitchen.
“Steve, it’s Y/N! Get in here!”
Steve bolted from the kitchen, abandoning his popcorn. He was at your side in mere seconds, his hands rushing to your face.
“Baby,” he spoke, frantically. “Look at me. Look at me.”
Your eyes were clenched shut tightly, but you managed to pry them open slightly in order to peer at your boyfriend.
“That’s it, good,” he cooed. “Now follow my breathing.”
You tried, you really tried to follow his breathing, but the panic was encompassing every fiber of your being.
“Baby, you gotta breathe or you’re going to pass out. C’mon, it’s okay, I’m right here.”
His thumb rubbed under your eye, and he exaggerated each of his breaths to demonstrate.
Slowly, your breathing began to return to some semblance of normal. Steve sighed in relief, and rested his forehead against yours.
“What the hell just happened?”
Dustin and the others stared at the both of you, incredulous. Steve could feel your body tense, and he rubbed your arms up and down to comfort you.
“Shut up, Henderson. C’mon, let’s get you home.”
Steve helped you up to a standing position before guiding you towards the door. He instructed you to put your shoes and coat on before making his way back to the others.
“Thanks for yelling for me earlier, guys. Please don’t bring this up around her, okay? She’s going through a lot,” Steve pleaded with the group, and they all nodded through wide eyes.
Upon seeing you two leave, the rest of the group merely looked at one another in incredulity, surprised by Steve’s ability to calm you down so effectively. The two of you left to return to Steve’s place, to which he ran you a nice bath and you cuddled the rest of the night, him whispering soothing words in your ear.
Summary: Reader doesn't drink enough water and Spencer is concerned, blurb.
Warnings: nothing
Word Count: 0.3k
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You groaned, resting your pounding head against Spencer's firm, Caltech sweatshirt-clad chest.
"What's the matter?"
You two were sat on your couch, Spencer's arm wrapped around you as he completed a crossword with his other hand. He could complete a crossword in mere minutes, and you wondered how it didn't lose it's entertainment to him.
"My head is killing me," you spoke, groaning once again.
Spencer frowned, the arm wrapped around you reached up to rub the back of your head.
"Have you had enough water today?"
You looked at him, skeptically, before considering the question. Had you had enough water? Wait a minute, had you had any water today? It was nearly eight at night already.
"I'm not sure," you spoke softly, not wanting to admit your mistake.
"Do you remember when the last time you drank water was?"
"I," you paused, looking at him. His brows were furrowed and he looked at you with the upmost concern. "Don't be mad, but I don't think I've had any today, actually."
Spencer's eyes widened in response to your admission.
"You haven't had any?!"
You merely grinned sheepishly, before Spencer frantically handed you the water bottle that he often carried around throughout the day.
"Drink."
You couldn't help but feel heat erupt throughout your body in response to Spencer's determined expression.
"Okay," you giggled, and seductively took a sip from his water bottle. Spencer was flustered, the color in his cheeks reddening, but he pushed it down.
"This is serious, Y/N," Spencer said, looking at her. "The human body is made of 60% water and it regulates everything including the transport of nutrients to your organs, cushioning joins, and more."
"I love it when you talk nerdy to me."
"Just," Spencer stuttered, smiling to himself, "just drink the water."
Summary: Willow Brooks is a kind-hearted, but spitfire red head who treats each case with the upmost compassion and care. But when an unsub is targeting women who look just like her, she’s faced with the dilemma of acting as bait for the unsub. Spencer Reid, her boyfriend, is absolutely not keen on the idea.
Warnings: creepy remarks
Word Count: 0.9k
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Now, who is this, with hair like strawberry?
Now dear, I promise I am not scary...
The lovely magpie, so small and frail,
Oh, how I'd love to hear you wail.
-----
"Why, hello there."
Willow froze at the deep voice behind her, a shiver dancing down her spine. It was as if merely the man's presence whispered, I'm dangerous.
She composed herself, wiping her hands on her dress before spinning around. She forced a playful smirk onto her red-painted lips and turned to him. Her jaw clenched slightly.
He was attractive. He had dark, curly hair and a defined jaw line, painted with a light coat of stubble. If it wasn't for the fact that he was eyeing her up and down, practically undressing her with his eyes, then maybe she would have blushed.
She could hear rustling in her earpiece, and the faint sound of Spencer's voice in the background. Willow composed herself, and widened her smile.
"Hi," she spoke, as innocently as she could muster, although it sickened her.
The man moved closer, his hand ghosting against her own.
"You're absolutely ravishing, do you know that?"
She giggled as flirtatiously as she could and closed the distance between their hands. If she was going to catch this unsub, then she had to sell it.
"What's your name, little one?"
She nearly blanched at the remark, any semblance of innocent attraction gone. She corrected herself, and continued with the mission.
"My name is Adelaide," she lied, using the fake name she often chose while in the field and unable to use her real name.
The man grinned, and although his teeth were white and perfect, she felt disgusted. Upon asking for his name, he replied that it was Thomas. They continued talking with one another for a few minutes, and Willow attempted to keep his interest engaged in her.
The team, including Spencer, made remarks in her ear about what to say or do next.
"Reach out and touch his arm," Morgan had spoken, suggesting that physical touch may bring out a useful behavior from the unsub.
"Why the hell would you suggest that? Willow, don't do that," Spencer had exclaimed, a hint of anger directed at Derek.
Willow touched the man's arm anyway, despite Spencer's protests over the small bluetooth in her ear.
"So, Mag--I mean Addie, what do you do for a living?"
A slipup. Thomas said Mag... what name was he trying to say? Maggie? Willow thought to herself, attempting to profile him. The team did the same, beginning to brain storm what that could mean, or if it was a name at all.
Willow lied, telling him that she worked at a law firm, a myth she made up on the spot. Upon her asking what he did for work, he replied that he works in business. Go figure, she thought.
"How do you feel about getting out of here, maybe getting a bite to eat somewhere a little more," he paused, "quiet?"
The hairs on the back of her neck stood erect, and the team's voice in her ear told her not to leave the club. What else was she supposed to do, then? Tell him no? That probably wouldn't go over well. Willow attempted to think quick on her feet.
"I'm waiting for my friends," she cooed, "but I'd love for you to keep me company."
Thomas' jaw tensed, clearly upset by the roadblock, but he corrected himself and shot her a sly smile that turned her stomach upside down.
"I'd love to, baby," he remarked, and his hand traveled down to her waist.
Willow couldn't help it, no matter how hard she tried. She flinched and pulled back slightly at his touch. Damnit, she thought. He probably isn't used to being rejected.
His eyes changed then, to skepticism, and then to anger. His jaw clenched, and his grip on her waist tightened.
"Who are you really, Adelaide?"
He gritted through his teeth, his grip tightening further and Willow couldn't help but let out a small whimper. She could hear Spencer's frantic voice come in through the speaker in her ear.
"Willow!" His voice was garbled, but she could hear the fear in it. "I'm going in."
"Reid, calm down. Let her work this out," Hotch's calming voice chimed in.
Hotch's remark gave her the little bit of encouragement she needed to carry on. Against the wishes of her logical brain, she pushed herself closer to Thomas.
"I'm sorry," she cooed flirtatiously. "I just got nervous. Handsome men don't talk to me very often."
Thomas seemed to soften slightly at her remark, and his hand relaxed. To Willow's, and Spencer's dismay, his hand still rested on her waist. It slowly began lowering.
"That's okay, little bird."
His hand squeezed her behind, and she yelped but played it off with the most playful giggle that she could muster. Unfortunately, Thomas saw through her ploy and his eyes narrowed.
"Come with me," he growled and pulled on her arm so hard she worried it came out of its socket. He yanked her towards the back exit and since they were already close to it, no bystanders saw. Shit, she thought.
Willow could faintly hear Spencer's voice above the chaos, assuring her that they were on their way.
Thomas pulled her into the alleyway and harshly threw her against the concrete wall, her body falling to the floor in a crumpled ball.
Summary: Willow Brooks is a kind-hearted, but spitfire red head who treats each case with the upmost compassion and care. But when an unsub is targeting women who look just like her, she’s faced with the dilemma of acting as bait for the unsub. Spencer Reid, her boyfriend, is absolutely not keen on the idea.
Warnings: kissing
Word Count: 0.9k
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Oh magpie, so beautiful, what a sight…
I wonder, who will take your place tonight?
With hair so vibrant orange and red,
What a shame, if you were dead.
—
Spencer kissed the top of Willow's head, his left hand gripping the hair gently. Her forehead rested against his chest, and her hands wrapped around his torso, fisting the material of his sweater. Spencer's right hand pulled her closer, his large hand rubbing in a soothing motion on the small of her back.
After their heartfelt conversation, Willow and Spencer returned to the rest of the team, who had already delivered the profile to the department. Upon returned to the roundtable room, they began to discuss the master plan, much to Spencer's dismay.
"Willow," Aaron addressed, nodding slightly at her.
"Yes, sir."
"After talking with the victim's loved ones, it seems this unsub selects his victims from nightclubs specifically. There's a local one where several of the victims were present at. We'd like you to go undercover there. We will discuss the details more upon arrival."
Willow nodded in agreement, anxiety bubbling up in her core. Am I really doing this? she thought to herself. It seemed crazy, but she would much rather put herself at risk than another innocent woman.
The team stood up, grabbing their things and preparing to get a move on. Willow had been given an outfit to wear, a classy red dress with a slit in the side. She went to the restroom to change into it and admired herself in the mirror. She looked beautiful, but she couldn't help from realizing she didn't would only ever want Spencer to see her in any sort of revealing garment.
Upon exiting the Rochester police department, she climbed into the back of one of the dark SUV's. Spencer sat beside her, and his jaw was locked in place upon seeing her in the beautiful costume.
Fuck, Spencer thought to himself. It was going to be grueling allowing the unsub anywhere near her tonight. Instead of making a scene, however, Spencer reached for Willow's hand and gave it a squeeze. She squeezed it back, but she could sense his anger and fear through the light shaking radiating through his body.
-----
Upon arriving at the local nightclub, a small earpiece was placed inside Willow's ear, deep enough that no one could see it. It contained a small microphone so that the team could hear their conversation.
Willow adjusted her dress upon standing, flattening it against her curves. Her scarlet hair was pulled into a half updo, a few strands of hair falling into her face. Spencer felt that the stragglers were just asking to be pushed behind her ears, which were flushed pink with anticipation.
The plan was, for the most part, simple. Willow was to enter the dance club alone, maybe go purchase a drink from the bar, and scope the scene. The team would be watching from inside the large white van outside. Everyone would be working together to profile who the unsub might be, and when they determined who it was, she would make her move. She would talk to him, flirt, and extract the most information that she could.
"Agent, how are you feeling?" Hotch asked her. She appreciated him checking in on her before she was catapulted straight into the field.
She sighed deeply, letting out an exhale that she didn't know she was holding.
"I'm ready."
"Wonderful. Remember, stay calm, use your training. If you notice anything, notify us. We will be watching and will come in if anything gets out of hand."
Willow nodded shakily, grabbing the small black hand purse she had been given to go along with the outfit. Spencer approached her, his hand resting on her arm.
"Be careful," he spoke gravely, "please."
"I will, Spence, don't worry."
He leaned down and kissed her then, their lips dancing in synchronization. Her face turned red, the embarrassment of kissing Spencer in front of her coworkers and boss dawning on her. Her hand, which was resting on Spencer's neck reached up to rub her thumb on his cheek. He whispered something to her then.
"If you need me, just say my name. I swear to god, I will come running."
Her heart fluttered from the tenacity and grit he showed in response to her going into the line of fire. She wished that she could kiss him again, but in private this time.
Willow walked about a block from where the van was parked before arriving at the nightclub. She let out a breath, shaking out her hands before entering the small, dingy building.
"Here goes nothing," she whispered to herself, momentarily forgetting that the entire team could probably hear her. She cursed herself, telling herself that she sounded ridiculous.
The club's size was deceiving from the outside, of which looked so small that she had assumed she'd find the unsub in no time. It was larger on the inside, and deeper; it went further back than she had expected.
She cleared her throat again, before confidently making her way over to the bar. She ordered a drink, not entirely caring what it was, and merely ordered first one that came to mind.
She waited for her drink order to be completed, but then heard a voice. She hadn't even had time to taken in her surroundings.
"Why, hello there."
-----
A/N: Thanks for making it this far! I've tweaked a couple things in the previous chapters, I hope everyone likes them. I'm really liking how this is turning out; I hope everyone reading is enjoying it as well.
Summary: The reader has postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, or POTS, and suffers from fainting spells.
Warnings: POTS, fainting
Word Count: 2.1k
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Growing up, you always had awful menstrual cycles. They were heavy, you were emotional, and black dots danced in your vision each time you stood up. When you became a teenager and started the birth control pill, your cycles became better, more consistent. But that was also when the fainting started.
In your teenage years and into young adulthood, you fainted multiple times a week, sometimes more. At first, the doctors had no idea what was wrong and they thought the worst. It was a scary time for you and your family, not knowing what was causing these debilitating fainting spells.
Finally, a couple months after your twenty-first birthday, you went to a new doctor. You soon learned that your extreme menstrual cycles and your fainting spells were connected. You were diagnosed with POTS.
You recalled the memory, your brows furrowing in confusion as your mother’s hand held yours.
“Postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome,” the doctor furthered. “Your fainting is caused by an extreme change in heart rate, particularly when changing from a seated to standing position.”
“Fainting isn’t always a common symptom,” the doctor continued, looking at you with kind eyes. “But it can happen more than people realize. There’s nothing wrong with you, Y/N. We will get you on a medicine to manage this.”
You liked to think that miracle doctor saved your life that day. If it weren’t for him, you may still have these debilitating fainting spells. If it weren’t for him, you would have never found a medicine that reduced your fainting to once in a blue moon. If it weren’t for him, you would’ve never joined the FBI and met the love of your life, Spencer Reid.
You and Spencer have been dating for several months, but he has yet to learn about your diagnosis. With how managed it is now, it merely feels like an afterthought for you.
However, that doesn’t mean Spencer hasn’t picked up on a few things over the course of your relationship. He noticed how awful your periods messed with you; the cramps and the depression. He noticed the way you gripped the side of the table until your knuckles turned white upon standing up from your desk.
Spencer knew that there were a multitude of reasons for these behaviors. Maybe she has low iron levels? Could it be orthostatic hypotension? Unfortunately for Spencer, there was never a way to fully diagnose your symptoms. He was forced to sit and witness, and take care of you, with your struggles. Spencer probably would’ve figured out your diagnosis, if it weren’t for the fact that you’d never fainted around him, yet.
That fateful day came on a Wednesday in the middle of October. The trees were transforming, swirling colors of red and orange and yellow. You walked into the bullpen, preparing yourself for the mountains of case files you knew you had to complete.
You had woken up feeling the symptoms. The pounding in your chest, the dizziness. You could often tell when it was going to be a bad day in terms of your diagnosis, but today you brushed it off. It had been months since you fainted, and you were beginning to hope that you never would again. You realized that was likely wishful thinking, but you continued your morning as normal.
Well, somewhat normal. Upon sitting at your desk, you realized you probably shouldn’t have coffee today. You probably shouldn’t have tea, either, but you needed something. The caffeine from the drinks spiked your heart rate, making fainting inevitable on a day like today. Your thoughts were interrupted by the kind voice of your boyfriend.
“Good morning, I picked this up on my way in.”
A tea bag was draped over the side of the cafe take out cup, and you grinned. Somehow, Spencer always knew what you needed, despite you having yet telling him about your POTS.
“It’s a green tea with a splash of black, with lemon and honey.” Spencer smiled goofily, his mouth straight, but outstretched and downturned. You always thought he looked reminiscent of an amphibian, in the cutest possible way of course.
“You are literally the best thing to ever happen to me,” you spoke, a hint of playfulness in your tone.
Even though you were joking, a part of you really meant it. Sometimes it felt like Spencer read your mind when it came to the things you needed, especially when dealing with your symptoms. Of course, there were many other things that Spencer was a bit clueless about. When it came to your symptoms, though, he somehow just knew.
Spencer occasionally brought you coffee, too, but he had noticed your behavior being off yesterday and last night. He noticed your white knuckles gripping the desk almost every time you stood up yesterday. Last night, he noticed your exhaustion. You two had been sat on your couch, watching a movie. Your head had rested on his shoulder, but you fell asleep nearly twenty minutes into the movie.
Spencer had a hunch, but he wasn’t sure. He was starting to wonder if there was something wrong with your heart rate. If he was correct, coffee was the worst possible thing you could be drinking. In all seriousness, you should only be drinking water, but he knew you needed something to be able to function. So, he decided on your favorite tea order.
Several hours ticked by, the pile of files on your desk slowly but surely decreasing. Your tea was long gone, but your eyes kept fluttering closed. You needed more caffeine or you were going to fall asleep at this desk and probably get written up. The thought of getting in trouble stirred you to a straightened sitting position.
You stood, your head pounding along with your quickened heart rate. Your hands gripped the desk for a few moments, enough time for your vision to clear from the black veil. You continued towards the kitchenette to find something to keep you awake.
Spencer had witnessed the entire ordeal, and he quickly stood and followed you to the kitchenette. If his hunch was correct, any more caffeine would surely make you feel much, much worse.
“Y/N,” he spoke, and you whipped around to look at him. “What’re you doing?”
Your brows furrowed in confusion at your boyfriend’s concerned face.
“I am looking for more tea?” You said, a questioning tone lacing your words.
“I don’t think you should have any more.”
“Excuse me?” You asked incredulously. Spencer had never made any sort of remark about what you should or should not be eating or drinking. Luckily, he typically knew better than that.
“I noticed that you get dizzy when you stand up. If my hunch is correct, any more caffeine may make you more dizzy and potentially lose consciousness.”
You gaped at him, wondering how he had merely hypothesized a diagnosis that had taken years for you and your doctor’s to figure out. He is a doctor, you thought, but not that kind of doctor.
“I don’t see how what I drink is any of your business.” You muttered, more harshly than you intended to.
The continuous pounding in your head paired with the frustration of not having more caffeine just pissed you off. You grabbed a water bottle and stormed back to your desk.
Spencer wasn’t upset at your anger towards him, especially when he saw that you chose a water instead of more tea. He was just glad that you were taking care of yourself. In addition, he knew you’d most likely feel bad about your outburst in a few minutes and everything would be fine. Even if you didn’t, he didn’t care all too much.
You stormed back to your desk, the tips of your ears red with anger and embarrassment. You felt bad for lashing out at Spencer, but frankly, you wanted your damn tea. Now you had to resort to the classic way of waking yourself up, cold water and the stinging on your arms. You pulled a hair band that rested on your wrist above the flesh before letting it ricochet back to your skin, leaving a red mark. It hurt, but it did the trick.
Another hour or so passed, and you had to go to the restroom. Once again, upon standing your vision blackened and you waited a few moments before continuing out of the bullpen.
Of course, in typical Spencer fashion, he noticed it all, but there was something different this time. Not only did the time it took you to regain yourself take much longer, but your eyes were squinted as you left the bullpen. It wasn’t that bright in here. He wondered if you had a headache, or if there was still blackness clouding your vision.
He didn’t have time to decide before he hopped up and followed you. Upon seeing you, he was extremely glad that he did. You were leaned against the hallway wall, starting to sag.
“Y/N!”
He rushed to you then, either hands gripping your waist to hold you steady.
You mumbled something incoherently, your vision almost completely masked by unconsciousness. You felt hands on your waist and it was the permission your body seemed to need in order to let go.
Spencer felt your body go limp, and he pulled you into him before lowering you to the floor.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered frantically, as his hands hovered above you, unsure of what to do.
He reminded himself that most fainting victims will wake up within the minute. He knew he had to be patient, but that was fucking impossible at the sight of his girlfriend unconscious and crumpled on the floor.
He was about to get up and call for help when he heard you groan.
“Love,” he cooed, falling to his knees, his hand softly grazing your flushed cheek.
“Spence?”
“Yeah, beautiful, it’s me. I’m right here.”
“Did I faint?” Your eyes were still closed, presumably to shield yourself from the harsh light of the hallway.
“Yeah, love, you did.”
You slowly nodded and started to sit up. Spencer started to protest, but he decided to help you lean against the wall instead.
“I’m sorry, Spencer, it’s my fault. I should’ve been more careful like you said.”
His brows crumpled. He felt guilty for making you feel as if this was your fault.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He kissed your temple, his heart fluttering with thankfulness that you were alright.
“Spence, I have to tell you something.”
His heart fluttered in anticipation, worried of what you might say. He nodded, encouraging you to continue.
“I have POTS, it’s,”
“Postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome,” Spencer finished for you, a guilty smile playing his lips when he realized he interrupted you.
“Yeah,” you smiled at him, thankful that you wouldn’t have to go through the spiel of explanation. Of course, not that you expected you’d have to with Spencer, the resident genius.
“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he started, rubbing your cheek again. “It seems like you have a bad case of it.”
She paled at the memory of what she had gone through growing up.
“It used to be worse, if you can believe it.”
Spencer’s jaw tightened, bothered that you’d had to go through any of this. The fact that it used to be worse pulled on the strings of his heart.
“What can I do?”
You smiled at him, thankful for his understanding and willingness to help.
“If I’m being honest, I should probably go home, but all those files,” you paused, groaning at the thought of your continuous mountain of case files.
“No, we’re going home. I’ll bring your case files and work on them.” Spencer stated matter-of-factly.
You didn’t protest; you knew how fast his reading skills were, and you were at the point where you’d appreciate any help.
“Will you tell Hotch? I’ll grab my stuff," you spoke and started to sit up, but Spencer softly held your shoulders down.
“No, you stay here. I’ll grab your stuff and be right back. I don’t want you fainting again.”
“Spence,” you began to protest, but he was already gone.
You smiled lovingly, sipping at the water from the bottle that he had brought with him when he followed you. You felt so thankful to be with a man like Spencer, someone who looked after you and knew what you needed when you needed it. You loved Spencer Reid, you realized, and you would tell him as soon as he came back.
-----
Part II (?)
A/N: Wow, this was the longest single-shot fic I've written! It sort of was just at the tips of my fingers and wrote itself. I really love it and I hope you do, too! Please let me know if you'd like a part 2!
Story Summary: Willow Brooks is a kind-hearted, but spitfire red head who treats each case with the upmost compassion and care. But when an unsub is targeting women who look just like her, she’s faced with the dilemma of acting as bait for the unsub. Spencer Reid, her boyfriend, is absolutely not keen on the idea.
Warnings: mentions of the murder case
Word Count: 0.9k
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Duct tape and rope and scissors, all for my crime...
I'm doing this for you, magpie. Please fly back to me.
Please, my dearest, think of how happy I'll be.
-----
The ride on the jet was mostly silent and uneventful, except for Spencer’s hand on Willow’s leg. Spencer seemed to be doing alright, but she knew better. He had been on the same page of his book now for nearly five minutes. He would have normally read at least ten pages in that time. Willow chose not to say anything about it. She rose and made her way to the small kitchenette area on the jet.
“You okay?”
Emily Prentiss’ voice was an angelic break in the silence that had encompassed the atmosphere for nearly an hour. Willow smiled at her.
“Yes, I’m fine. Spencer on the other hand, I’m not quite sure.”
Emily frowned slightly, and nodded in understanding.
“He’ll be alright, he’s just scared. I think he’s mostly processed everything with Maeve and with, well me, but that trauma response is still there. He just needs time to process.”
Willow nodded. Emily Prentiss was wise beyond her years, and Willow appreciated the clarity and the advice.
“Thanks, Emily,” she spoke, and flashed her a solemn smile.
“Anytime.” Emily smiled softly at her before taking her coffee and taking her seat.
Willow prepared her own coffee consisting of cream and two sugars before making her way back to her designated seat beside Spencer. He looked up from his book, of which he had finally made it to the next page, and smiled at her. She could see fear and sadness behind his eyes, and it broke her heart.
"Hi sweetheart," Spencer cooed, using his pet name for her. He often did not use pet names when they were in public, and Willow picked up on this, noting it.
Willow smiled, and curled up next to him. Spencer placed his book down, and enveloped her in his sweater-clad arms. He craned his neck and reached down to place a soft kiss atop her head.
"I love you," Spencer cooed. "So much."
-----
The jet landed safely in Rochester, and everyone piled into the SUVs to drive to the local police department. Upon arriving, the team got set up in a large roundtable room, to which they began setting up the materials. Hotch began reviewing the information that they had gathered thus far.
"What we know is that this unsub cuts off a strand of the victim's red hair in the same location; behind the ear. We also know that so far, they have dumped the bodies in alleyways."
"The sentimental value of the hair could suggest a woman, but the harshness of leaving them in alleyways, especially near dumpsters, is inconsistent with that of a female unsub," Spencer chimed in, his brows furrowed in thought.
Agent Hotchner nodded in agreement before continuing.
"We can only assume that he finds his victims in a social setting, like a bar or nightclub. That's where we'll start." Hotch looked at Willow then, nodding curtly. She nodded back, acknowledging her involvement in the developing plan.
She could see Spencer's jaw tense and pulsate from across the table. As soon as Hotch motioned for everyone to be dismissed, he spoke up.
"Hotch, can I please talk to you?" Spencer's voice was poisonous, and Willow feared what he was going to say to their boss, but she exited the roundtable nonetheless.
"Yes?" Hotch spoke, fully expecting what Spencer was about to say to him.
Spencer merely looked at him, pleadingly, at first. His fists resting at either side clenching and unclenching in frustration.
"How can you do this?"
Aaron Hotchner sighed in exasperation. He had expected this. Aaron resonated with Spencer's wanting to protect Willow. Spencer didn't have a lot of people in his life aside from the team, and Hotch knew how precious she was to him.
"Reid, you know this isn't personal. As your unit chief, I have to do whatever it takes to catch this unsub, and this plan is not an unreasonable one."
Hotchner's brows furrowed in a thick line and he did not break eye contact with Spencer. The young genius maintained his scowl, his jaw tensing, before he stormed out of the roundtable room, slamming the door in his fury.
"Spence!"
Willow exclaimed, surprised by her boyfriend's harsh outburst when he stormed into the center of the police department. Spencer continued straight past her and out the main doors.
Willow followed suit, having to pick up a light jog due to her boyfriend's long legs carrying him much quicker than her.
"Spencer, please!"
He stopped then, hearing the anguish in her voice. Willow suffered from extreme, sometimes debilitating, anxiety and Spencer tried his best to never be the cause for it. He was disappointed to think he had failed today.
He turned then, seeing light tears prick her eyes, from both the anxiousness and frustration.
"Spence," she cooed, and reached out to place her palm on the side of his face. Her eyes searched his frantically, trying desperately to find the source of his outburst. She had an idea, of course, but she was didn't know what him and their unit chief had talked about.
"I'm sorry," Spencer mumbled, looking into her eyes. "This all just pisses me off."
"I know it does, and I'm sorry."
Willow and Spencer stood there, in the hallway of the Rochester police department, and enveloped one another in a tight hug.
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