100 Follower Celebration Request: "🤨 + 'You’re braver than you think and more beautiful than you know.' "
Premise: You've been keeping a secret from your boyfriend. At the most inopportune time, it thrusts itself into the light. He doesn't have the reaction you feared.
Warnings: mentions of Criminal Minds--typical violence, mentions of nausea, discussions of chronic illness, mentions of poor self-esteem
Word count: approx. 3,000
When the unsub impaled you with the knife, you gasped awake.
You blinked open your eyes to pitch black darkness, a pulse of 200 beats per minute, a stomach frothing with queasiness, and cold skin sticky with sweat.
Something velvety constricted your body like cling wrap. The suffocation was akin to being buried six feet under. Fortunately, the feather pillow cushioning your head and the soft foam squashed beneath your fingertips broke through your sleep-addled mind.
It was only a nightmare. You were still laying in bed next to Aaron Hotcher.
Your breath caught, and you went rigor mortis still. Once A’s soft snoring reached you, you relaxed.
Tiredly, you smiled at a ceiling you couldn’t see. You didn’t wake him. The last thing A needed after a horrifying case was to not only be woken before dawn but also be woken by his girlfriend gasping in terror.
Your boyfriend of six months, Aaron, was an FBI supervisory special agent. As a civilian, there was plenty of work information to which you were not privy, especially if a case went south. Often, Aaron didn’t tell you where he flew for work. All you knew was, he’d be away for days. However, sometimes you’d know where Aaron was flying back from once the case was handled. Either, he could tell you once the target was apprehended or you found out via news report.
Based on the news reports from New Mexico that featured the BAU's media liaison, Jennifer Jareau, a cult leader ended his sadistic campaign with an AR-15 shootout and a murder-suicide that caught the state police completely off guard. The FBI caught the scent of his plan, but by the time they sniffed it out, they were 5 steps too far behind. Thankfully, Aaron nor any of his unit members died.
Aaron returned to his DC brownstone to ceramic pans full of your best dishes— all piping hot— on his kitchen counter. You made sure to prepare enough food to last him a couple weeks; emotionally trying work events and tons of paperwork were the perfect recipe for Aaron to not eat enough, and you weren’t going to make it easy for him. The past work weeks had been a whirlwind for you as well; you’d billed 15 plus hours every day for the past week to resuscitate a major merger on its deathbed. You set the last dirtied spoon on A’s drying rack two seconds before he unlocked his front door.
Aaron left the details of his past case vague. He kept the details of his emotional state even vaguer. But you could tell in the extra tight grip of his hello hug that he was in need of grounding. You anchored him with a constant, comforting grip, on his calloused hands. You fed him your best mac and cheese; you even cut back on your beloved pepperjack for his spice sensitive taste buds. Later that evening, you took a soothing shower together and collapsed into bed. You broke your typical bedtime routine: instead of discussing the latest novel you’ve read or life realizations, you watched a so-bad-it's-good corporate soap and ripped it a part for its inaccuracies. That’s when Aaron laughed for the first time since he came home.
You were relieved you didn’t wake him. Even though food comas were “scientifically disproven,” a factoid Aaron passed on to you from his team's young genius, Doctor Spencer Reid, you hoped the welcome home dinner you made him helped sustain his deep sleep.
Your adrenal glands calmed. You closed your eyes, but, not a second later, you were rudely interrupted by a sharp pain three inches below your belly button--- right where the unsub stabbed you.
It was just a dream. With a quiet huff, you rolled onto your side and curled against Aaron’s back.
That’s when you felt it— a tacky liquid sticking your satin pj pants to your thighs. A swell of nausea overtook you, and you feared it was not a byproduct of anxiety alone.
Gingerly, you slid out of bed. With the nausea sliding up your esophagus and the sensation of the room spinning, it wouldn’t take Holmes to confirm the cause, but you refused to panic without irrefutable evidence.
Gently, you folded the covers back. Not daring to turn on your phone flashlight, you tapped your home screen and raised the brightness.
When you hovered the light over the bed sheet, deep red splotches of smeared period blood screamed against Aaron’s stark white sheets.
Something deep and cold coiled in the pit of your stomach. You clicked your phone off. Carefully, you took a few steps back from the bed.
Your stomach whirled. A shiver crawled up your spine. You hurriedly tiptoed across the carpet to Aaron’s ensuite. Even in your haste, you quietly shut the door behind you. As soon as the door was in its oak frame, you turned the lock.
You pulled the roots of your hair with an iron grip. Shit. Shit.
You collapsed onto the edge of Aaron’s bathtub. There was blood all over your pj bottoms. You stood in a panic. You looked back and, of course, in a matter of three seconds, you stained the white acrylic.
You went to his faucet and patted ice cold water on your cheeks. Get a grip. Stress would only make the inevitable worse. Why it was possible for your body to malfunction this severely, you’ll never understand.
If you’d only been blessed with a normal body, one that menstruated on a timely schedule and didn’t come with a laundry list of ugly, graphic symptoms, tonight would be nothing more than a minor embarrassment.
The guilt for waking Aaron on tonight of all nights would be strong, but all you would have to do is tap him awake, apologize, and attack your blood splotches with a hydrogen peroxide–soaked cotton ball and the night would revert back to a typical night with your boyfriend.
You wished you were well enough to clean his sheets. Unfortunately, for you, it wasn't possible. You’d get even more nauseated. Or too lightheaded. You already felt sick when you woke up, which meant you were menstruating for a few hours.
How did you not catch this? Your body at least has the decency of shooting some warning flares, and the new medication your OB/GYN prescribed three months ago was far from 100 percent effective at calming your PMS symptoms.
You ran a hand over your face and through your hair. You were two weeks early after billing unbelievable hours for that merger dispute. This was stress induced.
You forced a deep breath. You needed to find a way out of this.
Suddenly, your vision swam. With no other option, you sat on the stained portion of Aaron’s bathtub. You gripped your stomach as the pain twisted deeper into your abdomen. You hunched over yourself.
Tonight could not become Aaron’s baptism by fire into your PCOS. He was exhausted physically and emotionally. He shouldn’t have to deal with all the baggage that comes when you experience the most natural thing in the world for a woman.
The nausea crawled up your throat, and you forcefully swallowed it back with a groan.
You put your head in your hands. You didn’t bring enough pads. Or tampons. You didn’t have any anti-emetics. What if you got a migraine? What if you fainted and A woke to what appeared to be your corpse lying on his bathroom tile?
Your spiral was interrupted by the man in question. “Honey?” Aaron called, voice strung.
Before you could respond, he yelled. “Honey?!”
You stood, and Aaron’s bathroom tilted on an axis. You barely managed to stumble to the doorway.
Fumbling, you unlocked the door just as Aaron reached the it.
His brown eyes were wide blown and wild. You'd never seen that expression on him before. “Are you okay?” He held your forearms as if he were afraid you’d crumple with too harsh a touch.
“I saw the blood and I…” He swallowed. He scanned you from head to toe repeatedly. “I thought the worst.” He whispered. Your heart fell through the pit of your stomach to the soles of your feet.
He cupped your cheeks. “Baby, you’re really off color. I need you to talk to me. Where are you hurt?” The blood stains on the back of your pants were out of his view.
“I’m not hurt, A.” You said.
His eyebrows furrowed. “Your side of the bed is blood stained.” He said, his voice taking a sterner edge.
“I’m on my monthly.”
“Oh.” He released your arms. His cheeks dusted pink. “Sorry, honey, I…” He ran his hands over his bedhead. “I should’ve…I jumped to conclusions.” He sounded shocked with himself.
“You’ve had a long day.” You whispered. “Give me a minute. I’ll clean.”
Suddenly, everything went blurry. Your muscles slacked, and your forehead dropped onto Aaron’s pectoral.
A hand was back on your forearm, this time with a tighter grip. A calloused hand tapped your cheek. “Hey. Hey. Baby. Stay with me.”
Carefully, he walked you away from the door. “Sit.” Fully supporting your back, he sat you on the floor and leaned you against the bathtub.
As soon as your back was fully supported, his ensuite regained color. You could take a deep breath again.
Aaron knelt in front of you. “Honey,” Aaron said, his stare piercing through yours. He stroked your hair out of your face. “I need you to be honest with me. What’s wrong?”
“I told you.” More accurately, you began to tell him.
You shivered. He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead and stroked down your cheekbone.
“I don’t have a fever.” You insisted. “It’s just my monthly.”
He pecked your forehead. He didn’t believe you. “Is it always this bad?” He asked with a mix of concern and skepticism.
“Yes.” You sighed. “I have polycystic ovarian syndrome.”
“PCOS?” He asked.
You were shocked. “You know what that is?”
He nodded. “I’ve heard of it.”
“It can make my time of the month super severe.” Stubborn tears leaked from your eyes. You wiped your cheeks with the cuff of your pajama shirt.
You were supposed to be the woman who kicked ass in the boy’s club of corporate law by day and kicked ass as the perfect girlfriend by night.
He was not supposed to see you trembling before him, huddled in pain. He was not supposed to see you on the verge of throwing up from period cramps when he almost died in a hail of bullets less than twelve hours ago. He was never supposed to see how weak you truly were.
He took over wiping your tears with his thumbs. “Scale of 1 to 10—how bad is the pain?”
“Maybe an 8?” You said. It was a 9. If you could’ve managed without your head aching, you would’ve rolled your eyes at yourself. The one thing about dating a profiler is they always know when you’re fibbing.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked.
You sniffled. “About my condition or that I’m in pain?”
“I think those are a package deal.” He said gently.
You sighed. Your instinct was to lie, but you stopped yourself. Aaron could see right through you. He was one of the best behavioral analysts in the entire world. For the first leg of your relationship, you’d managed to avoid this confrontation which was a blessing in itself.
“I didn’t want you to see how sick I get. How sick I am.” You toyed with the ends of your hair. “I didn’t want you to know how weak I am.” You whispered.
His eyes softened. “Honey, you’re not weak because you have PCOS."
“There are months where I can’t even stand up.” You said, voice taught with tears.
“And that’s why I need to know." He smoothed your hair. "Have you been going through this every month by yourself?”
“Since I moved out of my mother’s place for undergrad, yeah.” You sniffled with a watery smirk.
He wrapped an arm around your back, then hesitated. “Can I hug you?”
“Please.” You whispered
He pulled you into a hug. His hold was looser than normal, but his embrace still filled you with warmth from head to toe.
“Darling, I love you so much.” Aaron said. “I would never look down on you for this.”
“It’s just…I’m not used to….”
“Being this vulnerable.” Aaron finished sympathetically.
You nod. “It’s just…I get so sick. It makes me so ugly.”
He shook his head. “Hey.” He made sure you were looking him in the eye. “You’re never ugly.”
You chuckled. “You’ll revisit that answer when you see me dry heaving at 3 in the morning.” You said, unpleasant nights resurfacing.
His lips don’t do so much as quirk upwards. Rather, he looked shattered. He squeezed your hands. “I won’t.”
“What can I do to help?” He pivoted.
“You can change the sheets.” You looked to the top corner of the ensuite door frame as more tears welled. “And go back to bed.”
“I won't ever leave you on the bathroom floor in pain, alone.”
“But you should.” You said. He cupped your cheeks with his homey hands. He gently pulled your chin back to level your gaze, but you resisted.
“Why should I?” He asked.
“Because you’re tired. And I’m sick. And I’m broken. And there’s nothing you can do.” You make eye contact and immediately are wracked with full body sobs.
Suddenly, every second of you’d spent building up your self-esteem went out the window as your deepest insecurities broke through. You were never supposed to be a burden to him.
He pulled you into chest and wrapped you in his arms..“Helping you when you’re sick is never a burden. I love you so much.”
“What if you get tired of me?” What if this made him stop loving you?
“I won’t.” He promised.
He pressed another kiss to your forehead. “We’ll return to this conversation when you’re feeling better.” He stroked your cheekbone with his thumb. “What helps? Do you have medication?”
“I have daily medication. I’m still working with my doctor to get a regime that works.” You wiped your eyes. “Heat helps. I drink this peppermint tea to help my stomach when I’m at home.” You rambled.
“The one by that British brand?” He asked.
“Yeah.”
“When I saw their tea in your apartment, I bought some to keep here. I might have some peppermint. I’ll be back, honey.” He left ytou with a kiss on the cheek.
The tailoring he did to his world to accommodate you would never cease to flutter your heart.
The pleasant moment was quickly halted by your stomach bubbling.
As Hotch’s slippers padded down the stairs, you crawled across the tile floor over to the toilet. You forced your head between your knees.
About ten minutes later, you heard the clack of his slippers against the bathroom floor. “Nauseous?” He asked.
You nodded.
He sat the mug close to you. “Your tea to your left within arm's reach. I’m going to grab some blankets and pillows. I’ll be right back. Shout if you need something.”
You learned by “some blankets and pillows” Aaron meant an entire blanket set.
As you leaned your head back against the wall, Aaron began prepping your makeshift bed. In your peripheral vision, you laid pillows as floor cushioning.
“I won’t judge you if you go to sleep in bed. This gets ugly.”
“Baby, I’m an FBI agent for the BAU. Even if you threw up on me, it wouldn’t make the list of the top fifty gross things I’ve experienced by miles.”
You scooched onto a pillow. Aaron slipped the blankets around you.
Your head found the soft crook of his neck. He pressed his head onto yours, and the pressure instantly relaxed you. Unfortunately, your your uterine muscles corkscrewed. You squirmed in pain.
Aaron shushed you. “You need to breathe. This will pass, just breathe.”
You clasped his hand like a lifeline. What feels like hours later, when the pain begins to ebb away, you pant, “It’s alright if you need to go to sleep.” Aaron already relayed his plans to go into the office on Saturday morning to attack some dense paperwork.
He placed his free hand overtop of yours. “You will always be a priority for me. I hope I’ve shown you by now that I will always take care of you.”
You smiled into his shoulder.
“Also, the heating pad is charging in the bedroom, and, before you ask about the sheets, they’re already in the wash.”
You sighed in happiness. “I could kiss you right now.”
“What’s stopping you?” Gently, he pressed his lips to the top of your forehead.
You smiled again. You could count on your hand the number of times you’d smiled when you’re like this: on the bathroom floor, nauseous and dizzy.
You squeezed his knee with your free hand. “You promise you’ll stay with me?”
“Of course I’ll stay with you. I love you. And, just for the record…this may be tough, but you're not ugly and you're not weak. You're braver than you think and more beautiful than you know. I'm grateful to be the one holding you through this."
In the coming days, you’re certain you’ll have a laundry list of next steps from your boyfriend: call your doctor, check in with a dietitian, monitor stress, anything he could think of to lessen these symptoms. He’ll probably want to talk more about why you didn’t tell him sooner.
But, for now, you're both satisfied with sitting on the bathroom floor and riding this out. And in a moment where the pain could split you in pieces, you somehow felt whole.
Author's Note: I'm happy to say the 100 follower celebration fics are finally going live!
I hope you're having a good day or night! Thanks for taking the time to read my work! And, to anyone struggling with a condition similar to the reader's: you, too, are braver than you think and more beautiful than you know!
What about a lil fic of the first time bombshell reader gets mad at Spencer? Like it can be while they r dating or before and May be r is giving Spencer quiet treatment?
ty for requesting! ♡ fem, 1.3k
Spencer waits for Morgan to get up for a coffee before he gets up himself, tailing his teasing teammate to the microwave. He's hoping Morgan's in a sympathetic mood today, because Spencer is in dire need of some sympathy.
"Loverboy," Morgan says, his voice steeped in suspicion. "Can I help you with something?"
"Do you know why Y/N's upset?"
"You don't? You're the expert."
Spencer rubs at his nose, the beginning of another migraine brewing between his eyes. The gesture draws a little more empathy than his misguided question.
"You're gonna have to ask her yourself. I don't want her angry at me too, she's gonna fix my computer before Garcia finds out I fell for her phishing email test."
"I've been asking her. It's making it worse. She won't answer my questions anymore. She just hums."
"Silent treatment. Yikes." Morgan sips his tea through a grimace. "I mean, you must've done something bad. She's usually so–"
"Lovely?"
"–in love with you." Morgan laughs as he wanders off in the direction of the stairs up to Hotch's office. "Same thing."
Spencer decides to make a cup of bribery tea for you. He microwaves a mug of hot water and plunks a bag of your favourite blend in without ceremony, bobbing it up and down as he watches you from over his shoulder. You've moved desks upon request to sit with the rest of the team and opposite Spencer (against Hotch's self-proclaimed better judgement), your things set carefully in contrast to his books, a library's worth teeming on every spare inch. Some have even made their way onto your desk, pristinely stacked in wait of his perusal. It's one small gesture among the hundreds of kind things you do for him.
"Here," he says, setting the mug down next to your mouse carefully.
Your anger strikes him. Eyes frosted with an uneasiness he's not partial to, lips, so perfectly painted, screwed into a frown. It's not nice seeing someone he cares about upset with him, worse when he has no idea what it is he's done.
"You're annoyed at me," he says. You wait for him to continue. "I don't know what I did."
"That makes it worse." You frown at him. After a few seconds of this—your frowning, his looking sorry and confused— you sigh wretchedly (as in, he's never heard you sound that sad, ever, and he hates it). "Spencer, you stood me up."
Everything in him goes cold. "No I didn't."
Your sad frown melds again to anger. "Yes you did! I– I got my hair done at a salon, I bought a new dress, I bragged to all of my friends that my cute coworker was gonna be my date, and none of that mattered because you didn't text me back so I was worried sick all night that you were," —your voice drops to a private whisper— "in trouble somewhere, and then you come into work like nothing happened? Not even a hint of an apology? I thought you wanted to come."
Your voice burns with embarrassment. Spencer can feel it in his throat, that plucky ache of someone letting you down.
"That was last night?" he asks quietly. A friend asked you to their charity ball, not as ridiculously fancy as it sounds but an occasion of esteem and important to you nonetheless. "Y/N, I thought that was– I have it in my phone as next month. As November. I'm so sorry."
"Why didn't you answer my texts?"
He winces. "I had a migraine… Screens make it worse, and I haven't charged the battery yet because I was coming to work anyways I'm sorry, Y/N, really. I mixed it up. I should've asked you."
You seem less disheartened at his admission. You cross your arms over your abdomen and lean back a touch in your chair, as if deciding whether he's being truthful. Spencer isn't in the habit of lying to you and anybody could tell you that, so after a few seconds you look away. "I asked you if you were excited yesterday morning. I told you my dress came."
"I know." He can't believe he's gotten it wrong like this. Anyone can make a mistake, but he imagines you in your new dress with your hair done waiting for him in the cold weather that descended on Virginia last night and his guts twist into a knot. "I didn't piece it together. I didn't… I didn't…"
Spencer can't remember the last time he let someone he loves down like this. His migraine spikes again like a needle in the eye, fiery agony that has him closing his eyes to cope.
"Spencer," you say, softly admonishing. "Hey, it's okay." Your chair creaks.
"I'm so sorry," he says through his teeth.
"I thought you were being a jerk, but I guess I should've known you wouldn't do something like that." You stand up and take his elbow into a very gentle hand. "I'm sorry for giving you the cold shoulder. It was childish. I was just hurt thinking you did it on purpose."
"Sorry," he says again. "Migraine."
Your hand rises to his cheek. "Yeah? Sit down, Spence. Take a breather."
The doctors say that Spencer's migraines are psychosomatic. He doesn't get how something so odious can start from nothing.
You seem twice as upset but in a different light, ushering him down into your chair. "Don't worry," you say softly, your hand falling into his hair, "I took a great picture. You can still see me in my nice dress."
You're kidding but he's genuinely glad. Then the pain takes over and he can't see the other side of it for years.
It only feels like years.
When he can open his eyes, you've knelt by his chair. He hates to see you getting your pants dirty like that, hates worse that your eyebrows have pinched and the soft plane of your forehead has etched deep with concern.
"You can still be mad at me," he says under his breath.
"I'm a little upset," you confess, putting an uncharacteristically tentative hand on his knee. "It sucked, but not as much as this seems to suck for you." You're like an angel, all pretty and wide-eyed at his feet, your hand beginning a short path up his leg, a soft back and forth. "I'm sorry Spencer. I was punishing you for something that wasn't your fault."
"You didn't know. How could you, I–" He winces as another wave of pain flares behind his eye, blurring your small smile. "I should've charged my phone."
"Maybe. I can't imagine you had the capacity, Spence. Not if you're like this."
"Don't just forgive me because I'm in pain."
"I'm not, I'm forgiving you because even though it really hurt my feelings turning up alone, I'm not cruel enough to blame you now." You squeeze his knee. It's an instant balm, the chronic ache behind his eyes easing ever so slightly. Your forgiveness makes the rest bearable. "Can you forgive me for being so heartless?" you ask lightly.
Your lips curve demurely around each word. Spencer scrambles to cover your hand with both of his, his neck craned forward. "Of course I forgive you."
"Thank you." Spencer could collapse. "Drink some of this tea, okay? Maybe drinking something will help."
Nothing ever helps, but he does it because it's your hands bringing the cup to his lips.
"I know you looked beautiful," he says between sips.
"I would've looked better on your arm. Too bad you're getting grievously attacked by your own brain. This is what happens when it gets too big, babe, it's trying to come out of your ears." He's a little sorry to have won you back this way, but mostly so, so relieved. "Anymore of this'll and you'll start messing up the months. Oh, wait!" You laugh as he laughs but soon scramble to apologise when the sound makes his head hurt. "Sorry, I'm sorry! Drink some more tea, sweetheart."
Things hadn't been going too well lately with the mood of the team and you had agreed to get together every Friday to have a good time, when work and your personal lives allowed it. That night Emily was the hostess and when she suggested playing UNO you didn't think things would take the turn they did, just as you didn't think you guys would finally discover the Achilles heel of the group's card game expert.
"This isn't even a legal thing, the rules specifically say that wild cards aren’t cumulative."
"Reid, shut up and take the twenty cards!" laughed Emily, pointing accusingly at your friend as everyone present laughed. She had seen to it that the man had a good stack of cards in his hands, for she wasn’t going to waste the opportunity to for the first time in life make him suffer in a board game.
Only you, who were on the other side of him, smiled ruefully instead of laughing.
"Maybe you'll do better in the next round."
"This game is silly" he whispered close to you, forming an unconscious pout on his lips and in response you gave him a gentle pat on the knee, prompting him to accept his cruel fate.
"You're good at finding patterns and you have a lot of cards, just try to remember which color the others don't have and use that to your advantage."
"Hey, you two! Don't conspire with each other" Rossi complained, analyzing his cards carefully for the next move.
Spencer seemed to reflect on your advice and took a second to configure in his head the next strategy. Over the next few rounds the team began to suffer your friend's revenge and, oddly enough, he was trying to lay cards that favored your game, almost as if he could read your mind. Soon the cards of both of you diminished, which caused Spencer to smirk proudly at himself for having managed to use his brain.
Suddenly, in one of those rounds, something in Emily's smile let you know that she had a plan to get back at him and when she placed one of the jokers you knew she had doomed both of you.
Kiss the player on your right or quit the game.
"You've got to be kidding me" he complained, while the rest burst out laughing "That-that's not even a real card!"
"It's a customizable UNO, that's how you play" she defended herself. Spencer looked at you for a second, not even contemplating serving the card punishment as a possibility, then let out a resigned sigh.
"Drop dead" he snorted, laying the cards on the table and ready to leave.
He almost made it, had it not been for your hand stopping him by the arm.
"You're about to win, you're not leaving," you said with determination. He opened his eyes wide and suddenly the laughter stopped and he looked at you carefully, trying to decipher whether you meant it or not.
You put him back in his place and Spencer looked at you in astonishment, just before you reached up to his ear to whisper a few words that no one else could make out. The rest saw your friend smile slightly, whatever you had said to him, as his cheeks flushed red and then you broke apart to share a knowing look.
"Good, good. Then I'm going to kiss you."
The man's hand came tentatively up to your cheek to cradle your face and begin to bring it up to his, under the curious gazes of the entire group. Neither of you two looked uncomfortable and the team would almost swear they saw mischievous smiles on your faces. As your lips were about to brush, barely a breath away from joining, you turned just enough for your friend's kiss to be exaggeratedly stamped on your cheek.
"Oh, come on!"
"You asked for a kiss, you got a kiss" you muttered amidst a laugh, satisfied that you had found a creative alternative to meet the challenge and, in the process, received a happy kiss on the cheek.
"That's not legal!"
"I thought we didn't follow conventional rules" he chuckled and then drew you into a sideways hug, feeling as playfully energetic as you.
In the end, contrary to initial predictions, Spencer did win on game night and you agreed to cross UNO off the list of allowed activities for the weekly meetings.
i lowkey need to see stripper!reader and spencer again
for you gorgeous ♡ fem
cw adult themes
Hotch and Spencer draw attention at the strip club for the same reason but in varied fonts. They're both reminiscent of your regulars, Hotch the picture of a businessman with a wife to forget and steam to blow, and Spencer the silent sweetheart, pretty but too shy to talk to normal girls.
He doesn't need a normal girl when he has you.
You're glad for your cover up clothes as you lean against the dressing room door. One of the bouncers peers at you from the corner of his eye.
"Trouble?" he asks.
"Not sure. Probably not." You wave until Agent Hotchner notices you. To your delight, he raises his hand politely.
You step around the bouncer and bypass the stage to the lighter area of the club where they stand in wait. "Hello. I could've met you outside."
"Would you?" Agent Hotchner asks.
You don't need him to explain. It's not the most professional thing, loitering in a club like this. You follow them out of the club and onto the street, cold even in your sweatpants as the wind rails. Spencer lets you squeeze his fingers in greeting, but that's all.
"It's nice to see you again, Agent Hotchner," you say honestly, giving him a smile.
He doesn't return the pleasantry, but Spencer swears he's softer than he looks so you choose to run with it as Agent Hotchner says, "We need information on one of your patrons."
"Tennis Lawley," Spencer adds.
"Tennis," you repeat. "I thought my pseudonym was bad."
Spencer gives you a quick look. I'd laugh if I weren't at work, it says. "We think he's involved in a string of killings in Washington DC. What do you know about him?"
It's not an exaggeration to say you've played therapist for Tennis and a ton of guys just like him. Being a stripper, an exotic dancer, whatever anyone wants to call it (though Spencer usually just calls it your work) has pros and cons. You've felt it to be heavier on the con side, but this is a big plus, being able to assist someone you care about with something important. It makes you feel useful for once, like you're more than the froth of the city. "Ask me anything," you say, hiding your cheek from the cold with a deft hand.
Spencer and Agent Hotchner ask you all sorts of questions, personal to their suspect and less so, and for the most part you're able to answer them. You can tell from the look on Hotchner's face that he's both surprised and extremely satisfied by your knowing, and he emphasises his thankfulness with a touch to your upper arm before he says goodbye. "Your help is invaluable, Y/N, thank you."
Spencer, your sweetheart, stays for a more thorough farewell.
"Have you eaten yet today?" he asks, the hand you'd squeezed earlier leaping for yours. "You look tired."
"It's getting close to midnight, Spence. I'm alright. You and Agent Hotchner should head home and rest yourselves…" You bring your hand to his cheek but think better of yourself, pushing your arm over his shoulder instead for a hug. His own arms contract around you immediately. "I miss you lately, where have you been?"
"Everywhere. I miss you too," he says. Despite the months of knowing one another, and the many states he's seen you in, you know without looking that Spencer is blushing profusely.
You kiss his cheek as your heels return to safe ground. "Come and see me again soon, okay? And bring your rich friends. The older one, Rossi, is he really a millionaire? A divorced one?"
"Yes, he is," Spencer says with a laugh, his voice climbing higher, "but I don't think he's looking for another wife right now, sorry."
"Maybe Agent Hotchner–"
"Stop calling him that."
You look Spencer straight in the eye, nearly caught off guard by how sweet and soft they meld at your touch where your hands linger in his.
You often think that you and Spencer aren't meant to be. Your life, whether willing or unwilling, by choice or design, is entirely focused around your body, and Spencer's world revolves around his mind. You know that what you do for work isn't anything to be ashamed of, but you have the same doubts as anyone else. You know what people think of you. You wouldn't blame Spencer for thinking the same things. And you wouldn't expect him to want to be with you in any aspect that wasn't physical.
But when he holds your hands in his like this, as though they're made of something delicate, something he wants to map every detail or by fingertip alone, you wish things were different.
You clear your throat. "I really do miss you when you're away," you confess.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Your hands miss his the millisecond you pull them away. "I guess I shouldn't keep you. Your boss will be wondering where you are."
"Are you okay?"
You can't even pretend it's a strange question; you're acting strange. "I'm fine, Dr. Reid. My nice new boss knows I know the feds, and all the girls are jealous of me when you guys come to visit. They think I'm on your payroll."
Spencer quirks a puzzled frown, brows pulled together tightly. "You're harder to read than most people. Have I ever told you that?"
"I guess it's 'cos I spend so much time pretending I'm a different person," you say, smiling to prompt him into smiling back.
"Maybe." He pulls his bag from where it rests against his hip and opens it, rummaging through the contents with a confused murmur until he pulls out the shape he'd been looking for. "Here. Don't go to bed hungry, okay?"
Spencer puts a protein bar in your hand.
He steals a quick hug and leaves not long after that, crossing the dark parking lot to the mass of the dark SUV he arrives in. With one hand, you clutch the protein bar until it takes a new shape, and with the other you blow two sweet kisses, a cheesy, gaudy gesture that never fails to make your favourite special Agent blush.
content — fluff. humour. fem!bau!reader. established relationship. suggestive comment.
in which you and your boyfriend are both terrified of the dark.
“don’t panic!”
“when has saying ‘don’t panic’ ever helped someone not panic?”
your reply to spencer’s command was more of a hiss as you tugged on the door desperately. he mumbled that it wasn’t going to open, but you completely ignored him. you fumbled for your torch blindly, but knew in your heart you’d left it in the car. right next to spencer’s.
his arm brushed yours, and you all but screamed as you jumped away from the contact. he reached for you, so you didn’t get lost in the void. his fear was quieter than yours, but you felt it in the tremble of his hand and bit back the curse you were about to unleash. you moved closer to him, winding your arm around his waist.
“how long do you think it’ll be until the power comes back on?” his words were hurried, as if too much noise would alert the monsters to your location.
you shrugged, offering no further comment, while resisting the urge to burrow into his side. he was just as scared.
after a beat more of silence, you asked, “can we leave both lamps on tonight?”
the kiss he pressed to your forehead was saccharine, albeit messy from his lack of vision, “yes, please.”
the room surrounding you wasn’t massive, but big enough that a few steps away from each other would have you lost. no windows, no emergency lights, and a door that could only be unlocked electronically.
the pair of you jolted out of your skins at the loud knock that suddenly resounded throughout the room, the top of your skull knocking spencer’s chin, making you both suck in pained breaths.
“reid? you still in there?” it was morgan, “do you know where the others are?”
spencer called back that it was the two of you inside, and he didn’t know where anyone else was.
morgan chuckled, “hang tight, i’ll keep looking. and keep it clean, the power will be back on soon.”
as he walked away, you dissolved into laughter. you couldn’t see your hands in front of your face, but you knew he’d be frowning at you anyhow. it was hilarious to you that derek assumed you’d take the moment of solitude and the cover of darkness to get handsy, while instead you were stood shaking like leaves.
“i mean, it’d be something to do.” you teased.
again, you didn’t need to see him to know his face resembled that of a tomato.
Bombshell reader is my queen. What would happen if she like got hold hostage or something? She’s usually so confident, I’m sure going thru that would rough her up. Would Spencer take up the more ‘active’ role and take care of her
tysm for requesting ♡ fem, 1k
Spencer doesn't know if you're aiming for him when you come out but he grabs you as soon as he can get his hands on you. You were running hard enough to wind him, breathless yourself as you gasp into his shoulder. He can't feel you right wearing the FBI vest, desperate to take it off.
You won't let him go.
It must've been bad inside to panic you like this. "Are you okay?" he asks, forcing you away to check you over. "Do you need medical?" He's mildly hysterical.
"No," you say, eyes closed, shaking your head until he lets you back into his arms. "I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine–"
"Spencer, I'm fine."
Spencer can't remember the last time you called him Spencer. He's used to Spence, babe, baby, handsome. He's even used to your hand on his elbow to say hello without speaking. So no matter what you say, he knows you're not fine.
Spencer leads you over to the back of an ambulance, where you glare at him. You've definitely never done that before.
"I don't need medical–"
"You have to get checked out." He's definitely never spoken to you like that. Terse, his hands on your arms to stop you from getting up. "Non-negotiable."
Your eyes shine with betrayal while the EMTs check your vitals. You have a bruise like whiplash against your neck that's tender to the touch, wincing as they prod it with their white gloved fingers. You're acting peculiarly but not outside of the realm of reasonable.
A car backfires somewhere in the street and you flinch. "Spence," you say, looking up at him through your lashes, "can we go?"
He waits for a nod. "Yeah, we can go."
The issue is that you can't stand. You push up, you blink, and you sit down hard again, making a small pained sound from the back of your throat that Spencer cant abide by. "What's wrong with her?" he asks.
"Adrenaline." The EMT squeezes your shoulder affectionately. "You're alright, hun. You can sit here until you feel ready."
She and her partner take a break in the front of the ambulance and tell you to shout if you need help. Spencer hesitates for a few seconds, looking down at you with a quick assessment of behaviour. He finds the things that are wrong with you —shaking hands, painful contusion against your throat, obvious emotional distress, weak legs— and he runs through options on how he's going to help you.
Spencer takes your hands into his, just a little smaller, less skinny, and way softer. He doesn't know whether he can truly smell your hand cream or if he knows the scent from the hundreds of times watching your routine. You take it from the pocket in your purse, squeeze the smallest bit from the tub, and rub it in slow circles around your palms. It calms you in your rare wounded moments, and Spencer imitates that now. He draws gentle circles into your skin, the tremble ever so slightly quelled.
"Is it bad?" he asks you, transferring both of your hands into one. Freed, he trails the knuckles of his left hand parallel to your wicked bruise.
"It hurts." Your eyes are glassy, your lips in a downturn that turns his heart. "Hurt my ego."
"He got a cheap shot," Spencer says sympathetically, dipping forward to kiss your jaw just above the bruise. You go still. He worries it was the wrong thing to do, but you crane your head forward into his chest.
Your tired sigh is like a rake.
"It's okay. It's okay." He takes your hand again. "We'll ice it at the hotel. With arnica, it'll be gone in a week."
"I was really scared," you murmur.
Sitting as you are in the back of the ambulance, he doesn't have to bend much to press your joined hands to his chest. Eyes shut, that close to one another, Spencer swears he can hear your rapid heart.
"But you made it out. You're always going to make it out, because we have a great team and you're good at what you do. You're strong. Smart. And you're brave, because you got scared and you kept going anyway. You saved someone just now."
You push him away without malice, your perfect eyebrows pinched up at the starts. "I thought maybe this time I wouldn't make it out. Not like me, huh?"
Spencer sits next to you in the ambulance, sliding his fingers into yours with more confidence than he feels. "That's easily explainable. Do you know what working memory is?"
Your stress melds fond. "No."
"Working memory is one of the brain's systems necessary for thought and function. It's important for everything. And when you're under immense pressure, the strength of your working memory depletes– being in a high stakes situation like that, it's natural to choke. It doesn't mean you underperformed. It doesn't mean you let anyone down."
"I never said I let someone down."
"I worried you were thinking about it."
"I was." Your glassy eyes have clarified. Spencer lets out a breath of relief as you raise your hand to his cheek, stroking it briefly with the back of your fingers. "I'm glad you think that, but I doubt Hotch will say the same thing."
"Hotch will tell you well done and make you take mandatory leave for a week. We should regroup with the others." Spencer nudges you in the arm. "I'll write your paperwork if you tell me what to say."
You drop your face into his shoulder. "I'm recovering from a traumatic event. Can't you do the muscle work?"
"Y/N!" Hotch calls, a phone glued to his ear. "Well done. Nothing else tonight." You smile. "You can do the paperwork when you get back next week."
"Ugh."
"Told you. Well done, mandatory leave," Spencer says.
"Excessive," you mutter into his arm. It takes you a few seconds to warm up, and when you do it's like groundhog day, sunshine filtering through the chill, "Thanks, handsome. For everything."
after a bad argument and a long night of drinking, aaron gently takes care of you although you drunkly insist you don't need his help, making up along the way.
cw; reader is intoxicated, mentions of alcohol/drinking, reader almost vomits but doesn't, gn! but reader wears makeup, angst, hurt to comfort, established relationship, flashback to an argument, soft sweet aaron <3 wc; 1.8k
-
a very blurry aaron greeted you at the door, causing a swirl of emotions within you. well, it was either him, or the tequila.
“i think,” jj playfully said as she helped you into the apartment, while you tripped over your own two feet. as you tumbled, aaron reached out, catching you and grasping onto your waist to steady you. “this belongs to you.”
you barely heard aaron's thank you for your safe return home, or their exchange of goodbyes. the door closing was what caught your attention, the abrupt sound comparable to how your argument with aaron felt, in a way. leaving a dull, emptiness right in the middle of your chest.
luckily you had previously made plans and were already going out with the girls; giving the both of you a period of time to cool off. the drinks flowed freely and easily, especially as you recalled your tense disagreement with aaron to jj, emily and penelope.
you recognized the apology in aaron's eyes immediately. the guilt was prominent in his face, and you could feel yourself wanting to break. honestly, you forgave him the second you walked out earlier, but you held up the front, your intoxication taking reign over your emotions.
"how was your night?"
"fine." you mumbled in response, pulling out of his embrace and sitting on the carpet - more so, stumbling as you lowered yourself - to tackle the laces on your shoes.
aaron silently watched you, your fingers getting tangled and the strings knotting together. he crouched besides you, resting his elbows on his knees, "do you need my help?"
"i can take care of myself perfectly fine." you spat, more harsh than you intended, and even causing aaron to recoil. in addition, the sudden rush of air from your lungs prompted a hiccup.
aaron sighed but surrendered, straightening up. he waited quietly, while you took way too long to remove your shoes, messily tossing them aside once you managed to pull them off your feet. you got up, very shakily, and almost fell right back down. aaron reached out to catch you again but you ignored him, swiftly moving out of his reach and away.
but he followed you down the hall to your shared bedroom, gingerly keeping back; maintaining his space just in case.
"you're following me." hiccup.
"i'm making sure you don't topple over, honey." his tone was earnest, concerned.
you ignored him again, entering the room and beelining straight to your drawer to begin getting ready for bed.
aaron continued to keep some distance, leant up against the doorframe. after a moment, though, his voice entered your ears. "that's my drawer."
"i know." you hissed, but paused your ruffle through the tshirts, recognizing none as your own - no you didn't. you could only murmur in not-very-convincing defense, "i wanted one of yours."
with a small hum, he casually crossed his arms, while you struggled to pull your shirt over your head. your frustration was only heightening, and you whimpered in retaliation. tears pinched at your eyes, for more reasons than one.
"here, let me." aaron moved forward. at your side, his eyebrows were raised - asking for your permission to remove your clothes. once unenthusiastically received, he maneuvered your arms, untangling yourself from yourself and pulling off your shirt with ease. he reached into his drawer, grabbing your favorite old shirt of his, and then into yours. he slipped his shirt onto you gently, before guiding you to the end of the bed, sitting you down to remove your pants and slip on your sleep shorts.
"aaron?"
"yes?" he raised your shorts up your legs, not meeting your eyes.
"i don't like being mad at you."
at your words, especially at the inebriated sorrow in them, did his eyes lift. he let out a sigh, one of his hands rubbing your calve comfortably. "i don't like it either. but you have full reason to be, i'm really sorry for earlier."
earlier. you mind floated back to the afternoon, the second aaron walked through the door upon his arrival home. you had been eagerly waiting, anticipation and excitement bubbling within you. at work, you had been granted some paid-time off, and your first immediate thought was to get out of town with aaron. there was an endless list of places you could vacation to, and it's been a while since your last getaway together. and so, you only suggested, that aaron take the same week off as well.
in all honesty, you've missed him. lately, it's been case after case, late night after late night, and you haven't been seeing him more than you have been seeing him. you've been going to bed alone, waking up alone, the only thing accompanying you in the morning being a sticky note on aaron's pillow, wishing you a good day and that he loved you.
however, your own excitement was unmatched. aaron had been stuck in an unexpected meeting all day, with very unpleasant bureaucrats, which had ultimately prevented him from getting things done. his already extensive workload had lengthened, and so did the stress on his shoulders. any other day, he would be enamored with the idea of taking a break from reality, escaping it with you.
speaking solely from frustration, aaron had shot down your suggestion, immediately, saying he had 'other, more important things to do.'
the two of you had gone at it, and in anger you had said something along the lines of aaron putting his job above you, that he didn't care, that he should try harder - the specifics were so hazy now, your intoxication to blame.
aaron had argued back you weren't being understanding, that he 'just can't take time off, you already know that'. and soon enough, you had left in a huff, tears and with a slammed door behind you.
even throughout the night, you didn't bat an eye at the few texts aaron had sent, and declined his one call when it illuminated on your screen. rather, you downed drinks in silent response.
"c'mere." he sat up on his knees to pull you into his arms, your head resting against his chest. his heart beat in time with your now pounding headache, a wave of nausea overwhelming you at the stillness of his embrace.
aaron noticed your small waver, and pulled back cautiously. with a hand moving to the small of your back, he was at the ready if anything in your stomach were to make an appearance, "sweetheart?"
"'m fine." you waved it off, taking a deep breath and resisting the gag deep in your throat. "jus' fine."
"okay..." his brown eyes had that gentle look in them, familiar even though you couldn't see him too properly. "here, let's get you cleaned up a bit, and into bed. sound good?"
with you sat on the toilet, aaron grabbed onto your package of makeup wipes, gently cleaning any remnants off your face. it wasn't your full skincare routine, but he figured it was better than nothing, and would prevent your pillowcase from staining.
"we can talk more in the morning." when you're sober. aaron finished wiping your left cheek, balling the wipe and tossing it into the trash. "but i was thinking, and i may have a compromise."
your nose scrunched slightly in confusion.
he took a moment to speak, nervously shifting through the objects on the bathroom counter, buying minor time as he was unsure of how you would receive his accommodation. "as much as i want to, and believe me, i do," his sweet eyes found yours, "but it may be hard for me to take a week off. i'll try and work it out, i promise, but if not, i can most likely take a thursday and a friday. then we'll also have the following weekend, just you and me?"
while the room was vaguely spinning, a sense of balance filled the air; alleviating any lingering tension or anger your drunken state tried to hold onto you. he dampened a cool washcloth, quickly cleansing your face, and easing your pulsating head. "i know it's not what you-"
"no, it's perfect." you shook your head, and aaron pulled the washcloth away a few inches, due to the unexpected movement. "i'll take as much as i can get. really. i just, miss you. a lot." your voice lowered dismally, your waterline pooling with tears.
his eyes saddened, reaching up to wipe a tear that had trickled down. "i know, i'm sorry." another sigh escaped him, reapplying the cloth to your face, "we haven't had much time for ourselves lately, at all. so, thank you."
"thank you...?"
"for suggesting this. for understanding. for putting up with me." he kissed your forehead, a solemness to his face. "what i said earlier, i didn't mean it."
"i know you didn't."
he shook his head, guilt lining his face. his next comment left him in a breath, "still not an excuse."
"i'm sorry too." you grabbed his chin, keeping his face still to press your lips to his. his eyes fluttered shut, a soft exhale escaping him as he relaxed in your touch. "we're us, we'll be okay."
he nodded, kissing you once more before getting to his feet, "again, we can discuss it all in the morning. i just didn't want you going to sleep upset, and i feel awful knowing you drank more recklessly tonight as result of me."
"no, not 'cause of you, 'cause our argument. that's two very different things y'know." your words slurred together as you squinted, the bathroom seemingly brighter now than it was a minute ago.
another kiss was pressed to your lips. "in the morning, sweetheart." he stood up to grab your toothbrush, preparing it for you as you definitely could not on your own, and supported your waist as you brushed your teeth. again, it was rushed and lazy, you probably barely scratched the surface, but better than not doing so at all.
although you were half out of it, and wicked hangover was in your future, you felt better than you had all evening. fighting with aaron wasn't common, and so it always felt oddly foreign. it just, wasn't like the two of you. you hated any tension that made itself known. but likewise, that also meant the two of you could solve anything, together.
aaron filled a glass of water, and grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen to put at your bedside for for the morning. "bed?"
you nodded, practically asleep on your toes and more than ready to be curled into his side. "bed."
I would love to see more of badass reader x Spencer, but maybe reader gets hurt on a case (like a concussion or something) and only wants Spencer and we get to see more of reader’s soft spot for Spencer. Idk if that made sense or if that’s anything you’d be interested in writing. Love reading whatever you write!💕
thank you for your request and for reading babe!! —your singular soft spot for spencer rises to the surface when you get hurt in the field. fem!reader, 1.1k
Emily's foot tap tap taps hospital linoleum. The nurses are getting worried about you —your CAT scans are fine, but you're lethargic. Mildly concussed with moderate symptoms, you winced at the lights, told Emily to turn them off, and haven't said much since.
She frowns. It's not nice to see someone who's usually so closed-off openly pained. "You okay?" she asks.
"I wanna see Spence," you murmur.
Emily nods slowly. She's had this conversation with you already. You have a spot of amnesia, nothing to worry about, decidedly temporary.
"Why hasn't he come to see me?" you ask. Your voice trips and tumbles, your eyes glowing with a glassy sheen. "I thought he'd come to… make sure I was okay. But he doesn't want to see me."
"Spencer's on the way here. He was an hour away with Hotch, remember? They're on their way."
You twitch like a displeased cat under your sheets and turn away from her, sniffling weakly. Your shoulders heave with slow tears. Emily gets up to rub your back but thinks better of it when you stiffen. She doesn't understand how you function, doesn't know what it is about Spencer alone that you can be vulnerable with him and not the others, but she won't judge you for it. She just wishes there was more she could do.
It's an untold amount of time between your tears and Spencer's awaited arrival. You're worse than lethargic, depressed, hand lax behind your back and unresponsive to the sound of the door.
"She's asleep?" he mouths. His hair is limp either side of his face, flattened by anxious hands.
"Upset," she mouths back through a frown, drawing a tear down her cheek with her pinky finger.
He doesn't give Emily a second glance after that.
"Hey," he says softly, rounding your hospital bed, touching the tips of his fingers to your hip and drawing a gentle line up your side. His head dips down, bending at the waist to see you better in the dim lighting. "Hey, what's wrong?"
You make a small keening sound from the back of your throat. It's so cleaving that Emily wants to leave, so painful that she wants to stay. You're her friend too. Emily cares about you, even when it hurts to do so.
"I don't feel like me," you say.
Spencer doesn't shy away either. His expression is open, reassuring as he pops into a semi squat that can't be comfortable. His hand closes around your arm, thumb feeling the naked skin there sweetly. "It's normal to feel confused after a head injury. I promise it won't last."
"I don't feel well," you say, small, like a scared kid.
"I know."
You reach for him. Emily knows Derek would never believe it, your hands stretched out almost desperately, the pleading noise yanked from between teeth normally gritted. Spencer wraps long arms around you with the ease of someone who's done it before, maybe exactly like this.
"It's okay," he says. He's speaking with pep he doesn't feel. Emily can see he's stressed in the high pinch of his shoulders, but he's putting on a show for you. "You don't have to be scared. It's okay."
The perpetual line carved between Hotch's brows seems deeper as he enters the room. Neither of you look up, your back loosening under the lazy back and forth of Spencer's hand.
"Concerning, right?" Emily asks.
Hotch ignores her, but not for lack of agreement. "What do her observations say?"
"Mild to moderate head injury, post-concussion amnesia, fractured index and middle finger on her left hand."
"Where are her clothes?" he asks.
"They can't check her out until she gets her fingers cast and all she brought in her go bag where slacks."
"I'll get her some pyjamas," Hotch says.
Emily's not sure what's funnier, the idea of you in pyjamas, the image of Hotch choosing a pair, or the word pyjamas in his stoic murmur. He lingers to make sure you're okay, his eyes tracking the tremble of your arms as Spencer talks too low to hear in your ear, having sat down on the bed and curled himself around you protectively.
You moan something sad and Spencer laughs, your hospital gown crinkling as he massages the top of your shoulder. "Why would you say that?" he asks lightly. "You think you know better than me? Really?"
"Of course not," you say. If it were anyone else, you'd have knocked them off the bed already.
"I don't remember you having an eidetic memory," he furthers.
You actually manage to laugh for the first time since your initial injury. "I don't remember anything right now," you say.
Emily leans over to Hotch. "You know, when we first came in, I suggested to the nurse that she might have amnesia because she kept asking me where she was, and she looked me dead in the eye and said, well, good thing you're not a nurse."
Hotch scoffs a laugh. "It's a little surprising even now. Seeing them together, you'd never think it."
"Think what?" Emily asks, fond rather than judgemental. "That she's as emotional as a China teacup?"
"I'll remember for both of us," Spencer murmurs, stroking your face. "Okay? So calm down."
Derek once told you to calm down and felt the cold of your icy attitude for a ragged week. Spencer says it and you take a visible deep breath, your head laying back in your pillows, his hand quick to cup the side of your neck. "Okay," you say quietly.
"It's not just that," Hotch says, failing to explain further.
He doesn't have to. Emily knows what he means. You can be snippy, aloof, unfriendly. But it's not just your softening that's surprising, it's Spencer's growing confidence. The ease with which he handles you, hands unabashed in their comforting.
"Want me to find you something to wear?" Spencer asks.
"We got it," Hotch interrupts. "Take it easy, Y/N. Rest."
You nod obediently. He and Emily leave, hearing a last snippet of conversation as the heavy door closes behind them.
"You wanna sign my cast, when they do it?" you ask hopefully.
"Are you kidding? I'd love to. I've always wanted to sign someone's cast, and it's good for your morale."
"Will they be in a cast long, do you think?"
"They should be healed in about six to eight weeks, but you may not regain full strength for another two months afterward. There have actually been studies…"
no because who needs a heating pad when you have him 😣 cw; period talk
you rouse in the middle of the night, first unsure of what has awaken you - a noise, movement, jack - but as you regain from consciousness from sleep and come more to, you notice a dull pang in your lower half, causing you to internally groan.
and it's dull for now, as the subtle pain just announced the arrival of your period. but give it not even an hour, twenty minutes tops, and the pain will be all consuming.
you're prepared; you always have a bottle of ibuprofen in your side drawer - for cramps, or for easy access if needed for any reason throughout the night. your nightly glass of water that aaron prepares, condensation coating the outside of the cup due to the now melted ice. but, your heating pad is currently in aaron's home office; he pulled a muscle in the field and has been using it to relieve the stiffness in his shoulders, soothing the tension as he rifles through file after file with a downturned head for who knows how long.
with your pain already intensifying, and having absolutely no energy to get up to retrieve it, your solution is convenient and easy. the preferred method, if anything.
aaron's already spooning you from behind, so it's more than easy to grab ahold of his hand, slip it under your shirt, and rest his palm right on your abdomen.
aaron's large hand spans the entirety of your abdomen, and unconsciously in sleep, his fingers span out, covering even more of your skin's surface. the warmth from his hand radiates immediately, your protesting parts relaxing at the touch. they relax especially at the soft lull of his thumb brushing your skin, as if he's even silently asking your insides to ease up on you.
even with the lingering ache, you slip back into sleep comfortably; the relaxing warmth, of aaron's hand and body, he's always been a furnace. the repeated stroke of his thumb, and the feeling of his breath warmly fanning onto your shoulder.
Id love to take care of Aaron because we know he does not take care of himself 😭 id be all honey remember to apply your sunscreen 🫵🏻 daily reminders to take his vitamins and suplementos bc we know he needs them lol or sit down we are having a propper meal with vegetables and all and come here we are gonna meditate for 10 mins ... Etc
Hahah the dreammmm!
sunscreen
you're so so right and that's 😭 adorable i had to write a lil thing <3 cw; established relationship
as you stepped out of the suv, a thick wall of humid air smacked you right in the face, the bright sun instantly causing your eyes to water even behind sunglasses.
to say it was brutal was an understatement, and in the florida sun, you could never be too careful.
"wait," you said suddenly, causing aaron to stop in his tracks. he had already walked around the front of the car, so he already was within arm's reach. "c'mere."
applying spf was a standard part of your daily skincare routine, but of course not aaron's, who barely had one to begin with. you turned back to the car, grabbing the small bottle of sunscreen you had tossed in the glove compartment earlier. after shutting the door with the side of your hip, you popped the cap open, squeezing a bit into the palm of your hand.
stepping up onto your tiptoes for a moment, you first adjusted aaron's sunglasses, moving and resting them on the top of his head.
next, you sparingly dotted some lotion across the surface of his face, before putting the latter on the bridge of his nose. with the pads of your fingers, you rubbed the sunscreen into his nose gently, before smearing any remnants to his cheeks. your hands were working parallel together, evenly spreading the sunscreen into his fair skin. you worked quickly as a crime scene was waiting in the distance, but yet still efficiently.
and aaron, didn't complain or utter a word as you worked, even when you turned him around to get the back of his neck. he watched you with a fond glint in his eyes, until you were thoroughly satisfied with the coverage.
"there." you snapped the lotion shut, a pleased expression on your face and shoving the bottle into your front pocket for any future use, "and now angry UV rays have nothing on you."
"and what would i do without you?" the corner's of aaron's lips lifted in a soft, subtle smile, grabbing your hand and giving it a tight squeeze.
his preferred way of a thank you would've been giving you a kiss, but the current setting prohibited such, the crime scene unit just arriving as well as the rest of the team.
speaking of, aaron tossed a glare over at morgan, who had been watching in full amusement, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
"y'know, y/n's right hotch. that last thing we all also need in this heat is you bitchin' about a sunburn."
kaledo-art
stormborns
tangentwithtanner
kianamaiart
baratheonpilled
origamiaround
pixelskylines
