⤑ contains: hypothetical violence, cursing, protective/possesive chris, and more..
⤑ in which .. your husband casually threatens violence on national media in defense of your children
This isn't the first time chris has gone viral before, but it’s the first time it’s made your chest burn like this.
You’re in the laundry room folding tiny sweatpants when your phone buzzes with a dozen messages at once. The group chat is blowing up. Tilly’s kindergarten mom friends, your sister, even Matt sent you a TikTok link with just:
“your man. again.”
You sigh and tap it open, already bracing yourself for whatever chaos he caused this time.
It’s a clip from some podcast. The boys are seated across from a host, laughing, joking, mugs of water on the table. Chris looks good—white tee, that silver bracelet you bought him last Father’s Day, curls tucked under a backwards cap. You’d recognize the curve of his jaw with your eyes closed.
Then the host leans in and grins: “Would you kill for your kids?”
It’s meant to be playful. Light and funny. But Chris—your sweet, goofy, patient husband who reads Llama Llama Red Pajama and The Very Hungry Caterpillar in a different voice every night—does not laugh. Instead, his jaw tightens and smile fades.
“I would skin a man alive and leave him to bleed dry if he ever laid a hand on my fucking children.”
The room goes dead silent. Nick coughs. Matt chokes on a sip of water. The host blinks like he’s not sure if he should be afraid or impressed. Chris just shrugs.
“You asked,” he adds, voice low. “Don’t mess with my family. That’s it.”
Your heart doesn’t just skip—it climbs out of your body. You drop the baby sock in your hand. Just stand there frozen in the middle of the laundry, the tumble dryer humming beside you while the weight of his words crack you open.
Because he meant it. Every word.
That’s not performative. That’s not for show. That’s Chris—the man who lets your daughter paint his nails with glitter polish and holds your newborn against his bare chest just to regulate her temperature better. The same Chris who once stepped between you and a speeding car with zero hesitation. The man who looked at you in a hospital bed and whispered, “You’re incredible. You’re everything. I’ve got you—always.”
You watch the clip again.. and again. Then text him.
So when you say “skin a man alive”… like how fast are we talking? Because I got full-body chills and I think I’m in love with you all over again?
He doesn’t reply right away. But when he gets home—arms full of groceries, Junie strapped to his chest in the baby carrier—he gives you that look.
The you saw it, didn’t you look. You nod silently, eyes already glassy.
Chris sets everything down. Unbuckles Junie gently and hands her to you with soft kisses to her curls. Then he straightens, closes the gap between you, and says, just under his breath: “I meant it.”
You don’t need to ask what. You just nod, holding your daughter tighter.
“I know,” you whisper. “God, I know.”
His arms wrap around you both, warm and steady, like a wall. Like a shield.. like a promise carved into his bones.
“No one touches what’s mine,” he murmurs at your temple. “Not you. Not Tilly. Not Junie. Not any baby we have next. I’ll ruin someone for even trying.”
You smile, teary and overwhelmed and very, very much in love. “You realize that clip’s gonna haunt you forever, right?”
He just smirks. “Good. Let it.”
Later that night, after the girls are asleep and the monitor is quiet, you climb onto his lap with your fingers tangled in his curls.
“You still thinking about it?” he murmurs against your throat.
You nod. “Still kind of want you to skin someone. Just for me.”
He laughs, low and warm. “I’ll start with your enemies list. Alphabetical?”
And when he kisses you, slow, deep, reverent—you don’t doubt for a second that he’d burn the whole world down to keep you safe.
immaqulate's notes ✎ᝰ.ᐟ.. ty anon for requesting!! i always love writing for domestic dad! chris or matt :) my requests for this trope or anything else are always open!
── tell me how to connect to you.. help me understand, how you speak your love language
Chris doesn’t always know how to explain how he feels. He feels everything in a way thats big, loud, and fast. But when it comes time to put it into words, they trip over each other, get stuck in his throat, come out wrong.
So instead, he reaches, for your hand. your waist. The sleeve of your hoodie when you’re walking a little too far ahead.
Sometimes you catch him doing it without realizing.. fingers tracing absentminded patterns on your arm while he talks, thumb brushing your knee when you’re sitting side by side, pulling you into his chest like gravity made the decision for him.
You used to think it was just how he was. Affectionate. Touchy. Chris being Chris. Until one night, when you’re quiet longer than usual.
You’re curled up on his bed, knees to your chest, thoughts tangled, and he notices immediately. Which he always does. He scoots closer, presses his forehead to yours, waiting.
“You okay?” he asks softly. You hesitate then, honest in a way that scares you a little. “I just… sometimes I need you to talk to me. To tell me what you’re feeling.”
Chris nods, but you can tell he’s struggling—eyes flicking away, jaw tightening. Words aren’t his safe place.
So instead, he reaches out, slow and deliberate. He takes your hands and places them over his own racing heart.
“This,” he says quietly. “This is me talking.” He pulls you closer, wraps his arms around you until your cheek fits perfectly against his shoulder, until your breathing syncs with his. He presses a kiss to your hair, your temple, then your forehead.
Like they're punctuations and reassurance. “I don’t always know how to say it right,” he admits, voice low, almost shy. “But I need you. And I feel better when you’re here. When I can touch you. When I know you’re real.”
Your chest aches—in the good way. You finally understand: Chris speaks love through closeness and warmth. Through a connection you can’t fake.
And as he holds you firm, like he’s anchoring himself to you—you realize he’s been communicating all along.
You just had to listen with your body instead of your ears.
⇢ taglist ⇢ main masterlist ⇢ gif cred @hotelstares
In which - you and Chris got into a fight while you were away on a cabin trip. The fight leads to a week of silence until you both slowly reintroduce yourselves to one another…
Experimenting more w fluff lolllllll and tried to write a longer one bc I haven’t been active in so long. So I hope you enjoy! Stay safe I love you lots.
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It had felt like years that the two of them had been trapped in the cabin. A stupid, unresolved argument ensued about a week ago. The tension building for so long it felt engraved in the walls around the house, as if the creaky floorboards were echoes of the yelling. She sighs, looking out the window at the snowy points in the distance, standing upon the blanket of thick fog just below them. The only light in her room was a lantern and some candles, illuminating her pages of work, reams of unfinished sentences and paragraphs that had no foreseeable conclusions - writing was never normally this hard for her, when Chris and her were on good terms, the words would flow like they were meant to come from her and only her but now, the pen weighs a tonne and her notebooks fight against any attempt at writing anything.
She had changed her routing entirely to avoid spotting Chris around the house . The awkward brushing past eachother in the kitchen, the silence of the argument still hovering, thick between the two. 4 weeks in this cabin and neither can stomach a conversation. This is pathetic, we aren’t normally like this. Ever since the triplets’ channel blew up, there were so many rumours floating around that morphed into distance between them - afraid that if they showed too much and celebrated, someone online would find out, notice them together - and that petrified the both of them. Being seen by those who only know her through Chris, who are protective of him - they would hate her, of course they would. Chris could never understand the fear that trembled up her spine everytime she ran to hide in his room to avoid being caught on camera. But even away from Boston, in this space where everything was supposed to be private and peaceful, she still felt so exposed. She had tried to be vulnerable with Chris one night, tell him how frightened she was about this whole thing. But he didnt understand. And why would he? People loved him - that was the problem. She felt misunderstood by Chris - the guy who was usually the one that actually did understand her. The sudden shift in Chris to anger when she tried to explain how petrified she was only ignited more fear in her, she wanted Chris to be on her side, like she always was to him. How could their relationship progress or ever go public if he wasn’t even on her side?
Thoughts raced through her head. The only sound in her room was the faint ticking over of the clock behind her desk as day turned to night. The sun slumped behind the curve of the skyline and the moon began to shimmer across the room. There hadn’t been a peep from Chris’ room the entire day. He woke around 12pm and slept closer to 1am. She stayed awake all night, only stirring in the early hours of the morning when she was sure Chris wouldn’t spot her.
9pm - a time they were usually both awake. A cautious time for the both of them, not wanting to see each other in the shared halls. Scared to even be heard by one another - afraid of what could happen if either one of them heard each other.
She watched birds parade in the sky, carefree and loose, the water so still on the lakes as the cold air froze a layer on the top. A shuffling noise picked up just behind her door. She didn’t turn to face the door, eyes still locked on the glass panes infront of her. The shuffling ceased and finally she plucked up the courage to turn towards the door. A piece of ragged paper had been slid through the gap under her door. All it said, ‘A sign of life? Please?’
Chris’ messily scrawled handwriting on the paper. The paper stamped with the logo of the mountain hike they had gone on a couple days before the fight. He had bought himself a notebook at the souvenir shop. She could recall the day of the hike. She had laughed at him buying the notebook ‘Since when do you write in a notebook?’
‘It’s not to keep as a diary. There might be a time I feel like writing someone else a letter’ his words were soft, like he was embarrassed to want to write. She stopped laughing and earnestly confessed, ‘Writing things down is a really good habit, get things off my mind sometimes.’ She hoped to encourage Chris to start writing his feelings down, now suddenly ashamed she had laughed at his attempt to find an outlet.
Get things off my mind sometimes.
She stared at the writing on the paper, brushing the ink with her thumb. Despite his messy handwriting she still wanted to trace the imperfections of his craft, delicately, like if she touched it for too long it would disappear and she would lose a piece of him. The paper had indented marks on it. He had been writing in the notebook. He was using the notebook. And maybe he used it the whole time or maybe, she hoped, he started writing after the fight. There was a small, selfish part of her that wanted Chris to be writing about her. About this whole situation. About how stupid it was. Just as she had been doing.
She contemplated how to respond to Chris, the air in her room now felt murky, heavy. It was true, they hadn’t seen each other for 5 days. To him, it seemed as though she hadn’t even left her room. She wandered back to her desk to draft a note to him. How stupid she felt to play into the “note-game”, she just wanted to talk to him. She knows he’s right there, cooped up in his room all day. They share the same spaces everyday. Her feet brush the marks where his once stood. But she feels so far from him that she resorts to writing notes?
She write a response down, ‘Im alive.’ It was a shitty response. She had really wanted to write about how much she missed him, how stupid she felt for avoiding him. How sorry she was that she let the space between you feel like hatred. How scared she was of losing him if she couldn’t talk to him properly. But instead, ‘Im alive’. - it was all she could get out.
She grabbed a lantern and walked towards her door.
Chris.
He was stood in the hallway, staring at her door, a small candle in his hand, flickering light upon his face. Had he moved since he dropped the note off? She instinctively backed away from him slightly, he didn’t move, just scanned his eyes up and down her figure in the doorway.
“You’re alive” his voice was gentle, almost croaky like he hadnt used it in a while.
She looked down at the note in your hand. I guess it wasn’t that bad of a response. She unfolded it and turned the note to face Chris, ‘Im alive.’ His eyes soften slightly as if about to creep into a smile before he stopped himself and went back to looking down at her. She felt his eyes on her as she nervously shuffled one foot on top of the other.
‘Um- i was just w-worried about you. It looked like you hadn’t touched much of the food in the fridge so i was just checking you were e-eating.’ Chris rubbed his arm up and down. A white long sleeve under a black “Metallica” T-shirt, black jeans with his winter boots on, a sliver of his fluffy socks peeking through. His face appeared in her vision. He had bent down slightly to break the focus she had on his shirt. He lifted an eyebrow at her.
‘Yeah. No. Yeah i-im eating’ she stuttered to get the words out. Their conversations usually so easy, now felt staggered and lost.
‘Are you cold?’ She hadnt noticed, but she was shivering. Despite all the layer she had on, the cabin was old and her room wasn’t designed well enough to withstand the winter temperatures. ‘No. Im fine’ she responded. She was freezing, her fingers going slightly numb as she gripped onto that stupid note. ‘You’re not fine’ Chris demanded. You’re right, im not, im freezing and i miss you. ‘It’s fine under my covers.’
‘Don’t do this. Please. Just stay in my room tonight, you’ll freeze.’ Chris’ voice was soft and sad. Every word she said pierced Chris’ chest. He still cared for her. He wanted her to know that he would do whatever was needed to make he feel better he was just afraid that the only thing that would make her feel better was him not being with her.
‘Chris. Im fine. Im eating. And im not cold.’ Her words were stern. Chris wish he hadnt pushed her to speak. She trembled in the doorway under Chris, mittens on, two layers of socks, a massive hoodie that he could only imagine contained multiple shirts underneath, long trousers and yet - she shivered. Chris could feel the breeze of the room on his face, her room was so much colder than the rest of the house. Her words were cold too.
She looked at the floor, he looked at her. She couldn’t even look me in the eyes? He walked away, leaving the candle on the stand by her door, hoping she would use it to warm her room at night. She kept her head bowed as she listened to him walk off. He didn’t fight for me to be with him tonight? She glanced at the candle he left. She didn’t want to display his avoidance that night. She blew the candle out and walked back into her room, locking the door behind her. He lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling above him, listening to the fire crackle in his room. He didnt know how long it would be until the next time the two of them spoke. He wished it was every second of everyday, he wanted to listen to her talk and laugh, god he missed that laugh. But she was so cold all of a sudden, her words felt like tiny stabs in his chest, like she was pulling away from him all because of something online she was scared of. He wasn’t scared of some online bullshit, all he was scared of right now was not being able to look at her, talk with her, laugh with her, hold her ever again.
She rustled under her covers, bubbling with anger for Chris. He seemed so disinterested in her. He only asked if I had eaten? She thought about Chris - if he had noticed her absence, if he cared that they weren’t speaking, if he was even worried about their future. As she tossed and turned under the sheets she’s realised maybe Chris was right, her room was cold. A crack in her window let cold air sneak in, prickling at her cheeks and nose throughout the night, occasionally waking her. Was it better to suffer in the cold of her own room or face the frozen space between herself and Chris?
She rolled her eyes subtly as she knocked on Chris’ door. ‘Hello?’
‘Chris.’ He swung the door open for her. She stood at his door, blankets in hand, teeth still quietly chattering. ‘Come, quick.’ He closed the door behind her. Laying her down on the spare mattress next to him, gently wrapping her with blankets and tucking her under the sheets. There was a panic in the way Chris ran around his room trying to find something, anything to heat her up. She watched him find things in his room to make her feel more comfortable and welcome. His room was just how she remembered it. Stereotypically manly. Very Chris-like. Fake fur coat rugs, shades of brown and black. Dark oak crowding the room, a dim chandelier made of more wood and wired bulbs, a fireplace and a small stack of firewood, his clothes in shades of navy, mossy-green, and black sprawled over animal print chairs, his bathroom lit by a lantern with only toothpaste and a toothbrush on his sink. The fire crackled at her feet as she dozed into sleep.
She hadnt said anything more to Chris that night. She wasnt sure what to say to him.
He wished she had spoken to him, did she only come here for one night to stay warm? He wanted this to be sign that she missed him, that she wanted to talk to him too. Instead, he listened to her breathing slow as she fell asleep next to him. He reached into his bedside table for his notebook and started to scrawl on the page, lines of his thoughts, all the sentences he should’ve said to her when she first walked in, what he should’ve said as he tucked blankets up to her neck.
Morning broke, the sun broke through a gap in the blinds. Chris rolled onto his side, glancing down at the spare mattress. She was gone. She had left? Chris jumped up from the bed, looking around for any trace of her. Pacing through the house he tried to remain calm as his heart beat faster looking at every corner of every room where she could’ve been - but wasn’t.
She sat outside on a tree stump covered in thick snow, watching the plants in the lake sway even below a layer of ice. She listened to the birds chat to eachother in the trees - the birds talking replaced some of the time that her and Chris hadn’t spoken.
Chris looked out the window in the kitchen. There she is. Her brown hair tucked into her hood, her little hair clips brushing the brown locks off her face, her nose turning pink with cold, her lashed blinking into the river’s reflection. He smiled. For a moment it felt like when she would wake up early to go on walks and come home to tell him the stories of the animals that ran across her path, and the leaves that caressed her face as she walked the trails. And he used to listen, jealous of the plants that got to brush past her cheeks, furious at the deer she would talk to on her walks. Relishing in the time she spent talking and laughing with him, savouring everytime he got to touch her cheek and hold the side of her face. But he knows he wont get that version of her for a while, despite how much he misses her, he cannot wish that version of her to come back until she wants to. He makes himself some breakfast, eggs, toast, bacon. He makes her some too, he didnt care whether she ate it or not, he just wanted to feel, for a second, like it was all normal and she would come bouncing in and sit with him at the breakfast table. He ate his food, still standing and watching her from outside the window until he gave up waiting, never gave up hoping, but couldn’t watch her all day.
She finally had enough of the cold and made her way inside. Breakfast on the counter. Coffee already made. And next to the plate that same, stupid hiking logo, another note. ‘It’s all yours if you want.’ She wanted more than just breakfast for herself. She wanted Chris. She wished that he was there with a stupid notebook page stuck to him saying he was hers if she wanted. She wanted that more than anything. She sipped the coffee, of course he remembered how she liked her fucking coffee. And her food was delicious, like usual, he was good at this shit and he knew it. She thought maybe him making her breakfast was a sign of something more. Like maybe an invitation to talk. But then again, all he had ever asked was about whether she was eating or freezing to death. Maybe he just wanted to be polite and check she was taking care of herself. So then maybe this is nothing at all.
Night fell again, since last night the both of them had tried to match the other’s routine. Chris attempting to sleep earlier and wake earlier and she tried to stay up and sleep in a bit longer. They still hadn’t spoken all day. The sun of the day meant she could finally stand being in her room without freezing and he could spend the days outside. Usually they would walk together and then she would come home and write and paint while he would go to the gym. They had a routine and they both loved the routine, the co-existing used to be nice. Now the house felt like hell. She was afraid to go back to his room, incase the invite was only becasue she was cold that night. He was afraid to go and speak to her because she had avoided him all day and so maybe that meant she didnt want to talk to him.
The cold nipped at her feet and fingers again. She was afraid of intruding in his space, in case it was unwanted, so she dared to leave her room.
He stood by his own window and opened it, letting the cold air rush against his fingers, this is how cold is must be for her right now, she can’t survive living in these conditions, shes insane.
‘Hello?’ She opens the door, greeted by Chris’ face.
‘What are you doing? Come to my room, I told you it’s freezing.’ This time she doesn’t fight it, she doesn’t insist on it “not being cold” she just grabs extra clothes and shuffles back to the door. ‘Here’ Chris goes into her room, picks up one of her handbags off the floor and fills it with books, toiletries, clothes, makeup, notebooks, and stationary. ‘I just- I don’t think you should stay in here when it’s this cold. Come back to my room, please?’ She had only left because of the fight they had nearly a week ago now. It made sense for her to come back in, even if it was slow at first. So she nodded gently at Chris’ suggestion and trailed behind him as they walked towards his room. They brushed their teeth in the bathroom together, the steam from when both of the showered heating the room up. She glanced at Chris in the mirror of the bathroom. He glanced back. For a second, neither of them moved their eyes until he finally moved his head to spit into the sink and walk towards the bed. The trail of his scent fading as he left her in the room alone. She followed suite only a moment later and lay her head on her pillow, her back to Chris’ bed. He watched her body rise and fall as she breathed. ‘Get up here.’
‘Hm?’ She turned to face Chris. What did he say? She wasn’t sure if she heard that right, if he meant to say that aloud. ‘I feel bad, you’re lying on a mattress on the floor and I’m in the bed with the bed frame. Swap with me’. ‘I dont mind the mattress.’ She already felt like an imposition, like Chris forced her to stay in here because of how wimpy she was being in the other room. ‘I mind you being on the mattress though’ Chris propped himself up on an elbow and started to climb out the bed. She sat up in her own bed, watching him walk around the bed frame and stand at the bottom of her mattress. He jerked his head towards his bed, raising an eyebrow at her to move up. She tucked her knees into her chest watching his facial expressions. She finally, belligerently, accepted his offer and scooted up and into his bed. It was so much warmer in his bed, the fireplace directed towards the bed and the floor under her mattress was cold but this, this was comfy and warm and the sheets smelled like Chris. ‘Fuck’ Chris muttered from the mattress. She peered her head towards Chris. He lay on his back, holding himself up with his elbows, smiling down at his body attempting to not touch the mattress, ‘Sorry. I didnt mean to wake you. This mattress is freezing though, why didn’t you say something?’ The way Chris casually laughed at himself getting spooked of the cold reminded her of the times when they weren’t fighting and they would giggle with each other all the time. It was nice seeing Chris like this again. ‘It wasnt that bad’ she lay on her stomach looking at Chris. He looked up at her, the only sliver of light in the room highlighting her eyes. Like all the light wanted to do was look into her eyes, and Chris thanked god in that moment because he did too. She thought carefully about Chris wincing at the cold before she rolled to the side and pulled the duvet down, lightly tapping the space next to her in bed. Chris hesitated slightly before crawling in beside her.
He was tentative, he didnt want to make her uncomfortable so he kept his distance. Despite wishing he could hold her all night he refrained, letting the gap between the two of them in the bed remain unmarked territory.
She wanted Chris to reach out to her, to hold her, cuddle her. She thought after making her breakfast, moving her into his room, letting her have the nicer bed, and then getting into the bed with her that maybe those were signs he wanted to go back to normal. But now, when he had the chance, he left a gap between her and him. Like all of today meant nothing. Like again, he was just being polite and not sending her any type of sign.
‘M- still cold’ Chris’ grumble was low and quiet, his groggy voice breaking the deafening silence in the room between the two of them. He cant help but pull her into him by her hoodie, trying to play with her sleeves to warm his fingers up. As his skin brushed her hand she shivered slightly. He rested his hands in between their bodies, facing one another with their arms entangled in the ever decreasing space now. She could feel his breathes gently on her face as her eyes still fluttered awake. Chris was dozing into sleep, twitching every now and again. She felt his arms sprawl closer towards her, like a magnetic pull towards her that he couldn’t control. She didnt move away, she kind of liked his subconscious need for her. It felt like he wanted her to be a source of comfort and heat, she liked feeling needed by Chris. The past couple of days, he had been allowing her to be in his room, share his space and finally, she was needed.
His space wouldn’t be the same without her.
Chris entangled his fingers in hers. It felt weird to finally touch him again after all this time, it felt weird that he was asleep and they couldn’t talk about the innocent touches they shared. She let him wrap his fingers around hers, his rings leaving cold pulses on her hands while the rest of his skin was soft and radiating heat.
She crawled out of his warm bed early in the morning. It felt almost painful to leave the space they had just shared that night. It wasn’t an act of defiance. It was an act of desperation. She spent the morning trying to recreate Chris’ breakfast, she knew that he was better at cooking that she could ever be yet, a part of her still wanted to try for him.
When she got back into the bedroom, Chris was awake, standing at the window, craning his head to the right. ‘Chris.’
‘Hmm. Oh, yes’ he turned to face her. I thought I might see my girl out the window. But there she was, hair tangled in a bun that had fallen in her sleep, her slipper boots ruffling the fabric of her sweatpants, her hoodie practically swallowing her. The hoodie he gave her the first time she stayed at his house. She never gave it back. She would talk about it like it was hers, like she had forgotten Chris let her borrow it. She had been convinced it was hers for three years. And to Chris, if she was convinced it was hers, then it was. He didnt want it back if it meant that she wore it everyday instead. She looked better in it than him.
‘You made breakfast.’ He let a curved smile out.
‘I tried. I cant promise its better than yours.’
‘It wont be. Thank you.’ He lets out a giggle as he takes the plate from her hand, she lightly stamps her foot and defeatedly laughs along with him.
They perch on the bed next to eachother, sharing a breakfast, her knee lightly touches his. He doesnt move, he likes the small touch she was allowing him. She hadnt been like this in a while and, even if it was accidental and meant nothing, he dared to mention it incase she moved.
‘We should probably talk.’ She broke the short silence between the two. The silences becoming shorter was good, words were finally beginning to leave their mouths and enter the air between them.
‘Yeah we should.’ Chris was encouraging, his voice was soft. It sounded like he was scared to say anything incase it came out wrong. He wasnt the best with articulation, but he knew exactly what he wanted her to hear.
‘I dont like how we haven’t really talked.’ she played with the fork on her plate, pushing her food around, too sick to eat.
‘Me neither. I missed you.’ Her heart begins to thump and she feels her cheeks begin to flush with fever. He missed me too. She stays focused looking at her plate despite noticing Chris had finished his food and put his plate down to shift to face her.
‘The argument.’ she spoke, trying to redirect her admiration for Chris into the one serious topic they really needed to cover.
‘I was an idiot. I didn’t get why you were upset. I didn’t see it from your perspective. I do now. I get it. And im sorry I didn’t get it sooner, I wish I had because then… well, then I wouldn’t have had to miss you for longer than I’ve spoken to you this trip.’ He spoke with his hands, his brows furrowed as the words came out. It felt like he had planned the words. He leaned over to the bedside table, opening the draw to grab - the fucking hiking logo.
The notebook was full, even more pieces of paper had been slipped into the pages. Chris opened the notebook. She finally looked up from her food, moving the plate over to meet Chris’ eyes. He flicked through the pages until he found the right entry. Handing it over to her lap the pages read, ‘her brain’ - following the title was all the points she had brought up to him that night, they were close to verbatim. He remembered them all and wrote them down.
‘I called Nick. I didn’t know what to do after the fight. He told me to think about the situation like I was you. So I did. And you told me you write to get things off your chest sometimes so I used that. I pretended to be you. Y’know, getting things off your chest and thats what I came up with. You can keep reading but the next entries are from me. All the things I should’ve said when you spoke to me. And there’s a couple attempts of apology letters in there too. I didnt know whether you wanted me to try and talk things out or whether you wanted me to leave you. Either way, I haven’t stopped thinking about you this whole trip. I mean, it’s shit without you. Wherever we are, I believe everything is more fun with you. I didn’t like not being able to talk to you. So yeah, read it if you want, or don’t. Im okay with whatever you think.’
She takes a moment to pause, her hands caressing each page lightly. She’s not skim-reading. She takes in every word. Chris has never been more articulate than in this diary. His words were apologetic, almost desperate. He pleads multiple times to have her back. How he misses even things that usually tick him off. “Nobody’s accidentally given themselves hiccups from drinking juice too fast in the past 48 hours. I haven’t had to try and get rid of her stupid hiccups. Ive never wished to hear those hiccups more now than ever.” She laughs as her eyes sting with prickly tears. “Everytime I go brush my teeth I miss seeing her little pink toothbrush next to mine. How she would make fun of how I ruin all the bristles of my toothbrush.” He did ruin them. “I miss the way she would underestimate the heat of every pan we would cook with, she would burn her fingers everytime and I would have to help run them under cold water”. “Nobody’s told me to stop sagging. She used to come up behind me and pull them up herself. I miss her little protective attitude. Where is my pretty girl? When will I get to speak to her again?”
She closed the notebook, not letting it leave her lap before leaving the room. Chris’ shoulders slumped as she left. Maybe that was an even bigger fuck-up. Maybe he shouldn’t have shown her that. Fuck.
She bounced back into the room holding an A3 sketchbook. She sat back down on the bed next to him and opened the pages. Sketches of him from pictures she had taken all over the paper. She dated and named every one of them. “June 11th 2023 - C took me to watch the sunrise. He complained about being hungry the whole morning”, “August 14th 2023 - camping. C got stung by stinging nettles trying to take a piss”, “January 7th 2023 - C in front of the sunset”, “March 22nd 2024 - C walking w his dog outside my park”, “November 30th 2023 - 1 year anniversary. C looked pretty in this picture with Peanut” he was sprawled in bed, shirtless, with a chain dangling across his collarbone, his long waves messily in his eyes, her dog, Peanut, crawled up next to him.
Neither of them said anything, Chris’ notebook lay open on the bed next to them. They flicked through her sketchbook of Chris. He looked up at her, her eyes had always been glued to his face, trying to study his reaction to the drawings.
‘They’re amazing.’
‘They were quick sketches. I made them when we weren’t talking and I didn’t see you everyday. I missed you’
‘You know my face well.’ He ran his fingers over the sketches, barely putting pressure on the page like he would somehow rip them.
‘It’s a good face. My favourite one actually. Im always looking at it so it’s easy to remember.’ Chris’ hand brushes hers as he continues to tentatively explore the page. He doesn’t move his hand after they touch, he lets his hand rest over hers, letting his finger slip in between hers. Just like last night. Maybe he wasnt asleep. Maybe he remembers. Maybe he wanted it too.
Chris takes her hand, holding it now, purposefully. ‘I’m so sorry for everything.’
‘I read the book Chris. You understand me, you understood me even when we weren’t talking. That’s all I wanted. Im sorry too’
She moves the sketchbook off their laps and Chris immediately stands between her legs to bend down and embrace her. His nose brushes her neck, she can smell the shampoo in his hair. The traces of her perfume comfort Chris, he rubs her back lightly, the fabric of his - now her - hoodie is soft on his hands, her skin smelt of the coconut lotion she always used. He knelt on the floor before her. ‘Can we go back to normal? I dont like not seeing you and talking to you.’ She nods in response. As she stands from the bed, Chris joins her from the floor except her towers above her. She pulls him in by his hoodie for another hug. This ones tighter, she needs it more. The shared innocent touch reminds him of when they first started dating, he felt so scared to mess something up.
She remembered their first hug, it was an innocent hug when they first met, a simple greeting but her heart still sped up now the way it did the first time. Like she had never had Chris wholly and fully before, like it was new territory once again.
Chris’ nose brushed hers. His bottom lip grazing the top of her. Scared to go too far in case she wanted less. He was delicate, like she was a fragile girl - Chris knew better, he knew her - that attitude could never be easily broken but he felt nervous again, like at the beginning. She let her hands travel up his back towards the back of his neck. His hand moved from her back down to her waist, wrapping her tight. She tilted her head towards Chris and let their lips lightly meet each other. A gentle kiss, barely moving their lips, just allowing their skin to touch after so long of being apart. The kiss broke apart and Chris let his forehead rest against hers, both of them catching their breath. ‘God I missed you so much.’ Chris whispered against her lips. ‘Me too Chris, me too.’ she pulled him back in by his neck, her hands now tangling in his hair, he pulled her body in closer by the waist, one hand travelling to the side of her face, his ring brushing against hers jaw as he held her face tight, afraid to loose this touch.
A groan leaves her mouth. She’s surprised that such a small touch from Chris causes a shiver up her spine. He deepens to kiss, responding to her noises. She lets her mouth explore his further, breathing him in heavily, not wanting to loose this feeling ever again. A tingly feeling shoots into her face, her legs weaken under his touch. Chris once again expertly responds to her noises and lifts her up quickly, scooping her legs around his waist, his arm acts as a seat under her. It only took one of his arms to hold her, Chris was strong enough to lift her with ease. She let a hand play at his jaw and another in his hair. Grunts escaped from both of their lips, finally neither of them let a noise or word stay in, they both relish in allowing one another to be close again. Chris places her gently on the bed, his hand situated beside her head for support as he rests in between her legs, holding his face above hers. Both of them pant as the kiss breaks again, neither speak this time, just study each others’ faces. Chris traces his thumb across her bottom lip and into her hair, pushing pieces away from her face. She smiled at the touch of his skin against her.
‘Do you remember our first kiss?’ she bites her bottom lip to stifle a laugh. ‘I remember every second I spend with you.’ his response was earnest, his voice just louder than a whisper, like he was confessing a secret to her. He plays with her hair as he continues, ‘It was summer, I had wanted to kiss you for hours but I was too distracted listening to your story. I didnt want to interrupt the story but all I could think about was how good it would feel to be kissed by you.’
‘That story wasnt even a long one. I kept adding details because I was so nervous around you. I only stopped in case I was boring you’
‘I could never get bored of you.’ Chris reattaches his lips to hers. A deep, hungry kiss, his hand on her face, grasping at her skin, deep breathing as he explores her touch. She lets both hands trail his hair and face, pulling him close. Despite their lips being glued on one another’s, she still wanted to be closer to him. Both their moans stifled by the sound of their lips against one another, their bodies touching now. Both enveloped in the smell and touch of each other. All the silences from the past week made up for by the sounds of them aching for one another.
You don’t even make it halfway down the apartment hallway before the tears start again
“Hey—hey, don’t cry,” Nick mutters, shifting your weight higher in his arms. He’s basically carrying you bridal-style because you refused to let neighbors see you limping. “Heels were a stupid idea,” he adds, but gently, because your lip is already wobbling.
Madison trails behind the two of you, keys jingling as she locks her car. “I told you to wear the boots, babe.”
“And look where we are now,” Nick says, nudging the apartment door open with his foot. “Me being your Uber. Again.”
You sniff loudly into his shoulder. “They hurt so bad. It feels like my toes are—like—shattered.”
“Oh my god,” Madison laughs softly, stepping inside behind you. “Drama queen.”
But then she sees your face—your watery eyes, your trembling bottom lip—and her voice softens instantly. “Okay, nope. She’s not being dramatic. That’s real crying.”
Nick finally gets you over the threshold. “Chris!” he calls out, adjusting you so he doesn’t drop you. “Your girl’s dying.”
“I’m not dying—” you begin, but it comes out broken, your voice thick with pain.
And then Chris appears from the hallway, hair messy from a shower, wearing sweats and one of those tank tops he only wears at home. His eyes drop instantly to you in Nick’s arms, and everything in him goes sharp.
“What happened?” he asks, short, clipped.
Nick doesn’t even try to explain—he just deposits you carefully onto the couch. “Her feet. It’s bad. I think she’s gonna lose a toe.”
Madison smacks him. “Nick. Shut up.”
But Chris is already kneeling in front of you, big warm hands sliding under your ankles—and the second he touches you, more tears spill out.
“Baby,” he murmurs, voice low, “why didn’t you say anything I could’ve brought you other shoes?”
“You were busy,” you whisper. “And I didn’t want you to—like—think I can’t handle a concert.”
“You wore heels,” he says, brushing your hair back with a thumb. “Concerts don’t count.”
Madison squeezes your shoulder. “I’m gonna head out. Text me if you need anything.” She kisses your head and waves at Chris. “She’ll be okay. Just hurts.”
Nick looks at Chris. “Good luck, big bro. She’s in full meltdown mode.” Then he pats your knee. “Feel better, princess.”
The door shuts behind Madison as Nick walks her out.
And Chris’s entire focus narrows to you.
You sniff again and push his hands away weakly. “No, don’t touch them. It hurts. Don’t, Chris, I’m serious.”
He just gives you that look—the soft one, the stubborn one, the I’m taking care of you whether you want me to or not one.
“Baby,” he says quietly, “You’re in pain, and I know how to fix it. Let me.”
You shake your head, tears running. “It hurts too much.”
“I know,” he says, lifting your foot again, slow as if you’re made of glass. “But I’ll be gentle. I promise.”
“No,” you whisper one last time, but your voice is so small, so tired, your head already starting to lean back into the couch.
Chris just kisses your knee. “I’m doing it anyway.”
And he starts.
He cradles your foot in his hand, thumb stroking soothing circles into your arch. You tense, whimpering—then slowly, unbelievably, the pain eases under his warm, steady touch. Chris works through every knot from the ball of your foot to your sore calves, slow and deliberate, checking your face every few seconds.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”
Your crying fades into quiet sniffles.
“Why are you so good at this…?” you mumble, half-embarrassed, half-delirious with relief.
Chris laughs softly. “Because you always wear shoes that hurt you.”
You hiss as he presses a tight spot on your heel. “Ow!”
“Yeah,” he says gently, massaging around it, “I know. Just a few more seconds.”
You watch him—concentrated, careful, eyebrows drawn together like what he’s doing is the most important thing in the world. His thumbs are firm but careful, his chest rising and falling slowly, grounding you.
Finally, he lifts your foot and kisses the top of it.
The tenderness is almost enough to start you crying again.
“Better?” he asks, eyes soft and warm with worry he’s been trying to hide.
You nod, wiping your face. “A little. You… you really didn’t have to do all that.”
“Yes, I did.” He sits beside you and pulls you into his chest so your head rests against him. “You’re mine. Taking care of you is part of the deal.”
You curl closer, exhausted, feet finally—finally—not screaming.
“Next time,” Chris murmurs into your hair, “you wear regular shoes. I don’t care who’s performing.”
You let out a tired laugh. “Deal.”
He kisses your temple, arms tight around you.
“You scared me,” he admits quietly. “Come home crying like that again and Nick’s never allowed to take you anywhere.”
“Chris…”
“I’m serious.” Another kiss. “You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”
And with your feet in his lap and his hands still gently rubbing circles into your skin, you believe him.
﹙ ੭꣒ ﹚ dealer!chris && bambi ◌ ˖ in which dealer!chris can’t help but give in to whatever bambi wants... even if it means leaving the party early, just because she said so ❜ ⊹ ˙
You find Chris down a dim hallway washed in flickering violet light and the dying glow of a joint burning low. He’s hunched into the corner of someone’s worn-out couch, hoodie drawn over his curls, cigarette balanced loosely between his fingers. He hasn’t seen you yet. He’s murmuring something to the guy across from him, voice low and edged, counting folded bills like prayers, eyes sharp and distant. Smoke coils in lazy ribbons above his head. He looks untouchable.
You stop a few steps away, heart trembling against your ribs. Everything behind you is chaos—bass shaking the floorboards, girls shrieking in laughter, boys tugging at your wrist to ask who you came with. It’s too much noise, too much everything. You just want him. Your boy. The one who always smells like safety and sin. The one who looks like danger but holds you like you’re made of glass.
So you cross the room and crawl straight into his lap without a word. He tenses for half a heartbeat, then melts the second your arms loop around his neck. His hoodie smells like smoke and you—like the one you stole and never gave back. The tiny bunny keychain clipped to your bag bumps softly against his thigh. The dealer in front of him falters, eyes darting between you two. Chris just lifts a brow, voice rough with quiet surprise.
❝Bambi,❞ he says, cigarette dangling from his fingers. ❝What are you doing, baby?❞
You nuzzle into his shoulder, voice small and sugar-sweet. ❝I hate it here.❞ The words come out muffled and shaky. Like maybe you didn’t mean to say them out loud. But you did, and it’s enough. You tuck your face deeper into his hoodie like you’re burrowing home. He can feel the tiny tremor of your breath, the soft drag of your gloss against his skin. You’re trembling, overwhelmed, a little drunk maybe—but you came to him. You always do.
❝I want to go home,❞ you whisper.
He sighs, long and heavy, but his hands are already moving—palms flattening over your waist, thumbs tracing lazy circles on your hip. You can feel the choice form in him before he speaks it: the soft thump of his heart outweighing every dollar in his pocket. You glance up at him through your lashes, eyes glossy and unsure, and he’s done for.
❝You want me to say, 'Fuck the money,' and carry you out of here like a spoilt little princess?❞ he murmurs, lips curving just enough to tease. You nod, solemn. ❝Please.❞ There’s a pause. Then a smirk, soft and resigned. ❝You’re lucky I like you, Ma.❞
And just like that, he’s up—one arm beneath your thighs, the other around your back, lifting you as if you’re weightless. You cling to him instinctively, your legs around his waist, your face pressed against his throat. The world tilts, spinning with bass and light and bodies, but none of it touches you. Chris walks through that house like it’s his kingdom and you’re the crown he’d kill for. The crowd parts for him without a word. You don’t even look back. You don’t need to.
Outside, the air is cool and quiet. You hum against his skin. ❝I want to go get food.❞
He snorts. ❝You trying to bleed me dry, huh?❞
❝Just a little snack,❞ you mumble, smiling uncontrollably into his hoodie.
❝Only ’cause you’re cute when you cry.❞ He presses a kiss to your temple—slow, gentle, a little possessive—and holds you tighter. ❝You’re safe now, alright? We’re going home.❞
Your lashes stick together, your heels dangle from his hand and your lip gloss is gone. But he carries you like you’re gold. Like you’re sacred. Like the whole night built itself around this moment: his heartbeat steady against your cheek, your quiet breath melting into the soft dark.
Because that’s the thing about Chris: he can act mean. Act hard. But when it comes to you, he folds every time. He’d burn the whole city down just to feed you noodles at midnight. And you know it.
⊹ 𓈒 in which sweetheart gets a little too drunk, so when chris takes her home and watches her sleep, his chest caves in with love for the girl who’s too gone to even know he’s taking care of her ﹙ ʬʬ ﹚ theme inspo from @/sturnsflirt <3
The music is still thumping through the cracked walls, syrupy and blurred, when someone nudges Chris, laughing. ❝Your tutor’s drunk, dude. asking for you.❞
He doesn’t answer, just moves. fast.
His chest feels tight as he pushes through the crowd, lights strobing off his chain, heartbeat pounding in his ears. It smells like beer and sweat and bad decisions, but all he can think about is you. the way your laugh sounds when you’re teasing him. the way your nose crinkles when you’re concentrating. the way you always try to see the good in people—even him.
And then he finds you. near the keg, heels too high, eyes glossy and unfocused, lip trembling like you’re trying not to cry. His stomach drops.
❝Hey, hey, genius,❞ he murmurs, voice gentler than he knew it could be, already tugging his hoodie over your shoulders. You mumble his name, small and slurred, swaying forward—and he catches you. no hesitation. One arm around your back, the other under your knees, holding you like you’re something breakable.
❝Shhh, sweetheart,❞ he breathes, his voice shaking despite himself. ❝I got you. You’re okay. just me.❞ Your fingers curl in his shirt, head resting against his shoulder. He feels your breath warm against his neck, and something inside him hurts in the best way. He walks past the chaos—dart games, shouting, laughter—and out into the cool night. You shiver, so he pulls you closer, wrapping you tighter in his hoodie. Your hand stays fisted in his shirt like it means something. like it always has.
He used to brag. used to laugh about girls he couldn’t even name. used to wear that carelessness like armour. But right now, he just wants to be the kind of guy who makes you feel safe. the kind who brings you home, not the one who ruins everything good.
Chris is a boy who’s always laughed too loud, who used to brag in voices made for crowds:
❝She was wild, bro. Didn’t even know her name till sunrise.❞
❝Didn’t sleep, not even a little. She kept begging me to—❞
He used to throw girls over his shoulder like a joke. Like a punchline. But this—this isn’t funny. You’re warm against his chest and limp with trust, and he thinks he might die from how careful he wants to be.
At your door, your sorority sisters blink at him. Eyebrows raised, judgement soft but sharp. He just clears his throat. ❝She’s fine. just uh.. tired. I’ll put her to bed.❞ And he does—tucks you in like he’s never done for anyone before, pulling the blanket up to your chin, brushing the hair from your forehead with the back of his knuckles. You mumble his name again, a sound so soft it almost breaks him.
He should leave.
but he doesn’t.
He ends up sitting on your couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the slow, steady rise and fall of your breathing. it’s the quietest he’s ever been. He thinks about every joke he ever made to hide what he felt. Every time, he told himself he didn’t care.
And then, somehow, it’s morning. Sunlight spills across your blanket, gold and gentle. He blinks awake, neck stiff, hoodie half off, one shoe still on. ❝Chris?❞ Your voice is rough and sleepy. His head jerks up. ❝I—just wanted to make sure you were okay,❞ he says, rubbing the back of his neck, pretending not to care even as his heart beats too fast. But he stayed because he couldn’t leave. because he didn’t want to.
You blink at him, swimming in his hoodie, eyes still soft from sleep. And suddenly, he doesn’t remember how to breathe. Because it’s you—the girl who made him want to try, who makes everything else feel dull in comparison.
He used to chase the rush. the story. the next thing. But now? Now, bragging feels hollow. Hookups feel cold. Because what he really wants is this—you, safe, close, his hoodie still warm on your shoulders, sunlight making you look unreal.
And for once, Chris doesn’t feel scared of it. He just feels certain.
CONTENT: chris and sunny have to pretend theres nothing between them at a party - sunny drunk love confesses.
WARNINGS: ANGSTY FLUFF - mentions of overdose, intoxication, kissing, references to suicide attempt and chris' (accidental) hand in it ,, (set after this fic and this fic but context is explained so this can be read seperately) ,, drug dealing, fears of lack of safety, secret "relationship", slight arguing, sunny gets drunk, chris is kind of a cornball at the end.
*includes text messages at the start
— inspo from this request :>
WC: 2.8k
─── AU MASTERLIST // ALL AUS // TAGLIST
“Do I look okay?”
“Dont ask dumb questions.”
Chris was the most tense Sunny had ever seen him. He wanted to do this. A part of him was even looking forward to it. But there were so many cycles of negative thoughts spirally inside his head, which he was desperately trying not to let leave his lips in case it upset Sunny.
He lit his cigarette as a cure for his nerves, taking a prolonged drag of it as he zoned out.
“Thats not really an answer.” she mumbled under her breath, wrapping her arms closely to her torso in the passenger seat.
He sighed deeply, leaning back in the chair and turning his head towards Sunny, face relaxed sending nerves up her spine.
“What?” her voice was calmer than the heat rushing through her.
Chris leaned his head over, hand gripping her chin to deeply kiss her, finally finding peace that day even if he knew it was only temporary. He pulled away reluctantly, pressing his forehead to hers.
“You okay?” she questioned, feeling the weight of his mind, as if the touch made them telepathically connected.
“I don't want them to hurt you.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“What if you're not?”
“I will be.” she hurriedly rushed to place a peck to his lips, earning a smile from him which she mirrored. “Let’s go!” She excitedly giggled, ignoring the nerves in her stomach.
“You’re going in first, sunny.”
“WHAT?”
“I’m not leaving you, in the dark, in a car, where I can't see you. Get going.”
“But- I can't go on my own!”
“Sunny.”
She groaned childishly and dramatically, grabbing her bag and hurrying out the vehicle, slamming the door a little harder than necessary.
The door’s creak was silenced by the roaring music. The sea of bodies swam across the house, making every inch feel overwhelming and unsafe.
Maybe she could just pretend she had any idea what she was doing. A full night of this felt like a farfetched idea. Chris said 3 hours, her heart said two seconds was plenty and she should turn around and run away from it all.
Sunny was also a little curious. She’d grown less fond of the ‘hiding thing’, the idea of someone genuinely using her as a way to hurt Chris just felt an entire universe away.
She felt safe with him. Locking themselves in her room all the time felt like maybe they were more unsafe than either of them wanted to admit. If this night could provide Chris enough comfort, maybe he wouldn't hide her anymore.
Not that she’d mentioned any of this to him.
Maybe she wanted to push him, make him realise he can't keep pretending that they're nothing to do with each other. Sunny wasn't entirely sure how to achieve that though.
She headed for the drinks table, ignoring confused glances from the people that recognised her - recognised her as the loser at the back of the class that wouldn't even consider touching alcohol; recognised her as the girl who last time she came to a party, tried desperately to make sure she never did another thing at all ever again.
Everyone had kind of figured it out that Chris' pills were how she overdosed. Not that they cared about her wellbeing, they just kept a close eye on whenever they were in each other’s environment.
She didn't understand why they assumed she would hate him. She asked for the pills. If anything Chris would hate her, leaving him with the debate on whether he knew Sunny's intentions and if that made him a murderer or not. Sunny thought the whole topic was dramatic. It wasn't their business in the first place.
Sunny drank it down as fast as she could, ignoring the burning sensation in her throat. She decided to slowly swim her way to the edge of the room as was her safe place.
After accidentally turning around a little too sharply, she crashed into a body behind her, mouth agape in shock as the rest of her drink spilled over his shirt.
“Oh my god.” she clasped her hand over her mouth in embarrassment.
“Shit. it's okay, don't worry.” he laughed it off, clearly a little embarrassed himself.
When she processed who it was, she wanted to turn to the invisible camera and tilt her head in a ‘really?’ mocking manner. It was cliche and made her want to run to Chris in front of everyone and beg him to take her room to hide from it all.
“Matt?
“Yep. I know you?” he inquired, mind working fast in an attempt to understand his recognition of her. “Oh! I guess you know my brother- shit- sorry, i shouldn't have said-”
“Dont worry, I don't mind. I'm sorry about your shirt.” She formed a deep frown in apology, looking at the mess she’d made of him.
“Chris might have a spare shirt, sorry to bring him up again.” he mumbled the end of his sentence, scratching the back of his neck as he felt heat rising from humiliation.
Aside from the awkward interaction, Sunny felt a lot more at ease. A request came to her mind but she wasn't sure if it was too much to ask.
“Hey um, can I ask you something?” her eyes darted in every direction except his as she spoke.
“Yeah?”
“Um, I kind of don't have anyone here to like be around, like i dont know anyone and i was wondering-”
“Yeah, sure! Come meet Nick too, he likes meeting new people. He’s a fucking yapper but hes nice.” Their short laughs overlapped together, her body relaxed a lot more knowing she wasn't just gonna hide vaguely in Chris' eyeshot for the whole night. “Just let me find Chris, c’mon.”
she felt like she was collecting triplet brothers interactions like pokemon at this rate.
He gestured to her to follow him, walking through the crowd made her mind spiral a little more.
She didn't know what Chris' reaction would be. He had mentioned for her to avoid talking to people, but surely his own brothers didn't count. As long as she was safe, right?
Sunny began to think they really hadn't thought this through at all. If she hadn't found Matt, it would've been a miserable three hours, even if she would’ve spent it trying to hide her puppy dog eyes as she watched Chris deal. She'd never seen it before but was thoroughly curious.
Obviously she'd heard all about his seriousness, but she’d never experienced it first hand - lucky enough to always see his soft side. She kind of just assumed everyone had dramaticised his nature for their own entertainment, regardless, it made her want to find out.
“Chris! Keys?” Matt held his hand out expectantly, clearly not wanting to interrupt his brother’s conversation.
Without really looking in his direction, Chris threw them for Matt to catch quite easily despite the awkward angle. He double took when he recognised sunny hiding slightly behind him. Only then did he ask questions.
“What are you doing?” his tone was slightly harsh, caught off guard with the slight of his brother and sunny close as if they were friends.
“Need a shirt. You got a hoodie in the back?”
Chris just nodded simply, not wanting to have another outburst. He’d find out what the fuck that was later. At the very least, Matt was safe and sunny was with him. It eased his mind a little.
They sat uncomfortably close to Chris, the other end of the long couch.
Sunny was purposefully trying to catch his eye, recognition of her existence from someone she trusted on a deep level was enough to make the night a lot more tolerable. He only let it happen a few times, but when he did his eyes were soft, gentle like he knew exactly why she needed it.
Nick and Matt have their own group of people, making it a little more intimidating as Sunny didn't even vaguely recognise them. She would go up a little too regularly to refill her drink. Thankfully Nick would come with her, not to refill his own but to continue his stories.
She realised drinking had been a bad idea when her stupid laugh had started to come out in response to people’s jokes.
She had a reserved, calm laugh - one that didn't feel a little embarrassing. Then there was her real laugh, usually chris worked his hardest to achieve it and now it was just falling out her mouth every 2 seconds.
At the three hour mark, Chris had started to organise himself and prepare to leave which nick and matts group subconsciously followed for whatever reason.
Sunny wasn't remotely steady on her feet anymore, Matt found it amusing but took action in holding her waist to keep her steady. Nick held her on her other side and they began walking her out the house.
Nick tried to ask her where they should take her, which had no sensical response. As they approached Matt's car, they talked of possibly taking her to their home so she could crash on their couch.
Watching Matt grip onto her waist, no matter the necessity of it, sent a burning up Chris' throat.
“Matt.” he called out, finally catching up to his brothers.
They turned around to face him, sunny tried to reach her arms out for him as she giggled stupidly, matt and nick held her more stable thinking she was falling.
“I’ll take her.” he stated calmly, as if it wasn't the most confusing sentence his brothers had heard the whole night.
She reached out again, Chris joined the gesture and pulled her to his body for support instead. She wrapped her arms around his torso and could finally breathe fully again.
“What are you talking about?” Nick spat out, thoroughly confused at the sight in front of him.
Chris ignored the questions, pulling out his car keys and handing them to Sunny.
“Gonna go get in my car?”
She nodded at first, before realising her feet still felt non existent. “I can't walk.” she giggled, holding Chris' forearm to keep steady.
“That's okay, c’mon we gotta be quick.”
He took his usual place in nudging the small of her back to get her walking.
“Chris??” Nick yelled again, forcing Chris to hold Sunny close to him to stop her wandering and falling over while he wasn't looking.
“I know her house. I'm taking her home.”
The brothers knew there was something going on that they were unaware of, but Sunny's comfortability around Chris was enough to make assumptions - including ones that she was safe. They didn't push further for answers.
Sunny hummed along to the radio on the drive home, fiddling with Chris' hand as he held her thigh and completely missing his guilty glances to check up on her.
He carried her bridal style up to her door as per her request, setting her down gently only to open up.
Chris was met with a reluctant door when it didn't open. His entire body was exhausted, sad and drained from having to watch the girl he loves enjoy his brother's company instead of his. It wasn't anyone's fault but his own but it wasn't enjoyable regardless. With the door locked, the night still wasn't ending.
Sunny rested her head on Chris' shoulder as he rubbed his face with the palm of his hand and sighed deeply. She was quieter than usual, would've made a joke calling Chris an idiot one way or another by now. He wasn't sure she even knew why they hadn't walked into her house yet.
“Guess we’re going to my house.”
This time she didn't want to be carried, but she wanted to hold his hand. Chris didn't refuse. He was already forced to explain to his brothers what was going on after the car situation, this wasn't exactly going to confuse them any more.
He craved a closeness to Sunny. Too much being near her but unable to fully acknowledge or touch her had been a new level of psychological torture he never wanted to experience again.
The front porch light had been left on which was enough to find their way up the steps. He directed sunny inside, though she refused to step away too far and held her grip intertwined with Chris tightly.
Matt and Nick were still awake, sitting upright in the dim light which was enough to give Chris a minor heart attack when he realised they were there.
“Thought you were taking her home?” Matt broke the silence.
“House was locked.” he mumbled awkwardly, becoming increasingly aware of his hand locked with Sunny's and his brothers’ eyes on it.
Sunny lightly gasped and headed in the direction of Chris' small black cat in the hallway. He watched her scurry away, heart a little warmer watching them interact.
She settled on the floor, letting the cat use her knee to get closer to her and have more fusses. Chris settled on the couch next to his brothers.
“She your girlfriend?” Matt asked, the only person wanting to have the conversation apparently.
“Not exactly.” Chris refused to take his eyes off Sunny, who overheard the question and watched Chris answer. She let out a small laugh, finding it amusing somehow.
She scooped up the cat, walking over and standing in front of the couch. Processing the lack of space, she sat herself on Chris, only a new thing for his brothers to be witnessing.
The cat purred softly, now having both sunny and Chris fussing over him.
“Name?” she spoke up, limiting herself to small amounts of words knowing she would mess up if she said too many.
“Tino.”
Chris pulled sunny closer, enough the burning feeling of his brother's eyes on him. He didn't care anymore. He was comfortable, Sunny was too - and most importantly she was safe.
His brothers seemingly took the hint, leaving the room giving Chris a vague nod of acknowledgement. He let out a deep sigh, going back to watch his beloved activity of looking at Sunny.
“Chris?”
“Mm?”
She giggled to herself for the millionth time, leaning forward to place a kiss to his lips. She pulled away, laughing at the jokes in her own head.
“Tino-beans”
“Youre an idiot.” he laughed with her, giving her support when he giggles made her sway almost off his lap.
She reached to cradle Chris' face. “You’re cute.”
“Nah i think you got that title.”
She let out a quick chuckle, “no - youre cute, im gonna marry you.”
“Yeah? That a promise?”
She nodded eagerly.
“Wow, you're drunker than I thought.”
“No, I mean it!”
“Why? Don't you want someone, I don't know, nicer?”
“You are nice.”
“Or someone that doesn't sell drugs-”
“Well, y-you wont do that forever-”
“Someone who isnt the reason you almost fucking died-” he wiped at his face again, apparently his new stress relieving habit.
“I don't care about that.” she mumbled, feeling a lot smaller now.
“‘M sorry.”
“Chris?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Do you not want me?” she sniffled, focusing solely on comforting tino in an attempt to sooth herself.
“What? Of course I do.” he cradled her face, upset at not being able to see her eyes. “But it's not about what I want, it's about what you deserve.”
“Dont i deserve you?”
“You deserve so much more than me.”
“But I want you.”
He sighed deeply. This conversation had too much weight to continue when he knew she wasn't going to remember it.
“I want you to be my stupid boyfriend.” she mumbled.
“Stupid boyfriend? You should have a smart boyfriend surely-”
“Chris!” he laughed at her frustration, now taking the opportunity to encourage her angry expression he found adorable. “Youre not even serious, you're not taking it serious.”
“Sunny.”
She rolled her eyes, refusing to entertain him further.
“Look at me.” she finally looked up, seemingly forgetting what she was angry about and giggled at his serious expression.
“Yeah?”
“If you want me to be your stupid boyfriend, then I'm just gonna have to do my best to be the boyfriend you deserve aren't I? And don't quote me on that, especially not to Matt, I don't want him telling me I'm soft or something.”
She laughed again, “you are.”
“Alright, alright, it's not headline worthy news. Give me a kiss then we’re getting your ass to sleep.”
﹙﹠﹚ 𓈒ㅤׂ ⊹ bsf!chris looking over your photos and thinking you're the prettiest thing in the whole world
He finds your disposable camera again, this time wedged between the seats of his car, the same pink one with the peeling heart stickers and a tiny scratch near the lens that you always complain about. He holds it for a second too long, thumb running over the plastic, and it smells faintly like your lotion—something floral and warm and dizzying. You had left it there weeks ago after a late-night drive, when the two of you stopped by that overlook, sharing a milkshake, and your favourite song played quietly from his phone. He remembers how you leaned across the console to take a picture of him, saying something like, "You look kinda pretty in this lighting, Christopher" He had laughed, cheeks going pink, pretending to hate the way your eyes lingered.
He doesn’t mean to develop it. He just does. curiosity, or maybe longing, or something that burns a little in his chest every time he thinks about you. When the photos come back, he spreads them out on his desk, each one a tiny universe—your lip gloss smudged, your bracelets clinking, your laugh frozen in sunlight. Half the roll is him. blurry, shy, always with that same soft, nervous smile. He looks at himself through your eyes, and for the first time, he thinks maybe he doesn’t look as stupid as he always thought. Maybe he even looks... wanted.
There’s one photo you took of him when he wasn’t ready, half-turned, biting his lip and trying not to laugh, sunlight making his hair look gold instead of brown. He stares at that one the longest, tracing the edges until his vision goes blurry. He wonders what you were thinking when you took it. if you liked him then. if you do now. He doesn’t tell you about any of it.
That night, he sits in bed, the stack of photos beside him. That night, he sits in bed, the stack of photos beside him, flipping through them again and again. You at the beach in a tiny white bikini, hair tangled from the wind, sun catching your laugh like it belongs to summer itself. Your smile is so bright it hurts, a little too perfect, a little too wild. He whispers your name once, just to hear it in the dark, and doesn’t notice he’s grinning until his cheeks ache. You look like sunlight and laughter and everything he wishes he could say aloud, but he's not brave enough.
His phone buzzes then, the screen lighting up with your name, and his heart stumbles over itself. christopherrrr, did you steal my camera again <3 and he laughs softly, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He types out, Nah, haven’t seen it, and deletes it, then tries again, Maybe check your bag?? and sends it quickly before he can change his mind.
He sets the phone down beside the photos, exhales slowly, and takes one of them—the one where you’re doubled over laughing, sun behind you, eyes squeezed shut. He presses a thumb over your smile, feeling something warm and unbearably gentle curl in his chest. He thinks he could love you. No, he knows he already does. He tucks the photo under his pillow, like a secret, like a prayer, and turns off the light, still smiling in the dark, the scent of your lotion and the sound of your laugh stitched into the quiet.
This is so niche… but can you do a real quick blurb of influencer Y/N recording a video opening up a blind box with Harry? I keep thinking about what his reaction would be.
I laughed out loud when I read this request actually because I am addicted to watching people open them… I think you’re in my brain. I love writing mundane little things like this, it’s a break for my mind so thank you for the strange but fun request!
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Warnings- gambling??? Lmao
“S’like gambling, if you really think about it.”
His hands fumbled with the colorful box, brows furrowed as he looked at the options. There were a lot, actually. More than he’d anticipated.
Y/N choked slightly on her coffee (the iced shaken espresso with two pumps brown sugar and two pumps vanilla, light ice and extra dairy free cold foam, thank you very much) as she turned to look at him. Someone was going to clip that, but she couldn’t really focus on that right now. “What?”
“It’s like gambling. You’re buying the box not knowing what you’re going t’get. You could hate it, really, and you’d be shit out of luck because you can’t go and return it.” There was a pause before he turned to look at her. “Right? That’s a shit move.”
“Actually… I’m not sure.”
Y/N hadn’t even thought about that. She had occasionally done videos unboxing them once the fear of missing out had hit her but she tried not to be excessive- excessive consumerism wasn’t exactly the thing she was going for- but the idea of a return had never came to her. This was a requested thing for them to do. “I have never looked up the return policy but I’m sure you can’t.”
“Well, m’positive there are plenty of people unhappy with their purchases but I’m also assuming that they do it for the luck of the draw.” Harry squinted at the options again. “This is why I don’t gamble.”
Y/N snorted, putting her coffee into the cupholder before lifting up her own box. They’d gotten these little keychain ones, cats with weirdly human faces that looked like they were crying.
“And why are they crying?” Harry asked, turning to Y/N like she had the answer.
“I don’t know. You’re making me question things.” Her laugh was light as she studied the options on the side along with him. They each had their own. “You’ve got to say which one you want and which one you absolutely don’t want.”
“Why? That feels like M’just jinxing myself.”
“Because it builds anticipation! You’re full of questions today.” Y/N rolled her eyes lightheartedly, watching his lips pout out a little bit.
If she did PDA on her channel, she would leave the kiss she left on them in. But she didn’t, so they’d have to wonder.
“Fine, I’ll say first.” She sighed, watching him wipe a little of her lip gloss from the corner of his lips. “I want… the purple one is cute. So is the brown and white… or the pink.” To be honest she’d probably be okay with any of them. They were all cute. “I don’t really want the plain white one, the blue, or the camo.”
Harry nodded, looking a bit too serious at her preferences. She should have known he would take it very seriously because that’s just the way he was, but it was still stupidly endearing to watch.
“Okay. I think we work quite well as a couple, Y’know, because the ones y’don’t want, those are my choices.” He found that to be satisfying, apparently.
“Hm. That’ll work if we both get something we don’t want. But if you get the pink one, you’re gonna hand it over.” She was mostly joking but also, not really. What Harry was going to do with a giant fuzzy key chain of a cat with a human cartoon face, she wasn’t sure. Surely not on his keys.
“We will see.” He mumbled cryptically. “Who first?”
“You. You’re very weirdly into this and I didn’t expect it, so we’ll pop your cherry here.”
“Ironic considering I popped yours.” He mumbled under his breath, making her gasp.
“You shithead! M’gonna have to edit that out.” She squeaked, glaring momentarily before Harry let out a snicker.
“Fine, fine. Let me do this.” He sighed, shaking the box like he could predict which one was in there. “How do I do this again?”
Y/N showed him the strip of cardboard meant for easier opening, letting him take a deep breath before he slowly pulled it open. “Don’t look! They put a card in there and you’ll be able to see. Just take the bag out.”
Harry pulled the plastic bag out and let the box tumble to the floor, feeling around for a moment before he found the indent to open it. “Alright. Do I do it now?”
“Yes, close your eyes and open it towards the camera you dork.” The giggle was hard to stop as she watched him dramatically face it towards her lens, slowly ripping the bag open. She kept her sounds to herself as she saw fuzzy purple fur appear on the screen.
“Okay, I open now?”
“Yes, Harry. You can open your eyes.”
It was hilarious, actually, watching his face turn from intrigued to irritated. A groan left his mouth as he pulled the thing out of the bag, a scowl on his face as he held the keychain like it had personally wronged him.
“You’ve got t’be kidding me.”
“It’s cute!” Y/N giggled, watching him spin it around to look it in the face. His slight wince had her laughing louder before he placed it gently in her lap, crossing his arms.
“This is why I don’t got to casinos anymore.” He grumbled, leaning back against the seat
“You don’t go to casinos because you lost a large sum of money betting on red.”
“You’re rubbing salt in the wound, my love. Very mean. This is meant to be serious. I’ve just lost!”
“You didn’t lose, Harry.” Y/N felt her face flush from the giggles escaping her. “It’s a keychain. I promise, it isn’t serious.” Her hand rubbed his bicep, though she did find it very entertaining as his glare returned to the purple keychain sat on her thigh.
“Do yours now, please. At least you already have the purple one, so you’ve got one you wanted.”
“It’s okay baby.” She saw his lips curl up in a smile he attempted to hold back. While he wasn’t huge on being on camera, he did it for her anyways and played it up so she could get what she needed. He wasn’t faking at all, but turning it up a notch.
“Go on then, cruel woman. Let’s see what you get.”
Y/N followed the same steps he did, closing her eyes as she let the box fall onto the other side of her lap and faced the bag towards the camera as she ripped it open, only to peek an eye open before Harry opened his eyes again (why he closed them, she didn’t know, but she learned not to ask questions.)
It was the camo one.
“Guess it’s yours. Or maybe I get two, because I’m such cruel woman.”
“You know I didn’t mean that, my darling.” He cooed, gently plucking it from her hands. “Thank you. These aren’t too bad, I think. But the real question now… is where do I put this thing?”
warnings : nsfw! sexual explicit content, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, canon-level ANGST, profiling, crying after sex, daddy issues, spencer is a bit of an asshole
summary : spencer profiles reader to impress the new recruits, but takes it too far. after messy apologies and sharp words, he finally knows how to make it up to the one person he shouldn’t have let go.
a/n : ignoring my responsibilities to focus on spencer reid!
It was supposed to be a simple demonstration. A harmless example of profiling, to impress the new recruits and remind everyone why Quantico produced the best of the best.
More specifically, why boy genius Spencer Reid was always the smartest in the room.
You and Spencer joined the BAU almost at the same time - just a few months apart - and immediately clicked together.
He was awkward, spilling facts about anything and everything. Never in a way that made you feel small. If anything, he went out of his way to include you in conversations, like he remembered what it felt like to be on the outside looking.
In those early months, you were inseparable. Late night cases turned into quiet conversations in hotel hallways. You read next to each other on the jet. He brought you hot chocolate after a case particularly hit too close to home. You laughed. You listened.
But then he was arrested. He was in prison, gone from you in the blink of an eye.
You wrote to him, left voicemails. Checked in with Garcia more than you should. You remember asking more than once if you could see him. You missed him, so much.
You never got an answer from him.
But someone did.
It was Emily, or JJ. Someone close enough to him to get through the walls he built. Someone you trusted, until they came back from a visit and quietly pulled you aside.
It was Luke who’d told you. News travel fast don’t they? You’d said back.
“He said he doesn’t want you to come”
You remembered freezing. Blinking hard as if it was a joke. Luke had tried to soften it, saying that it’s better if you don’t see him like that - reassuring you that it was out of protection or shame. All you heard was that he didn’t want you.
So you stopped asking.
And when he came back? You didn’t run into his arms. You didn’t wait by his desk with coffee and a shaky smile. You gave space.
He called you once or twice throughout the day, till he stopped. Mostly because you ignored him.
It killed you to do it, but the space between you was so wide, so hollow - you could fall into it.
You told yourself you were over it. You could survive working with him 24/7 in the same space? Right? Losing your best friend shouldn’t be that bad. Or pretending that the memory of his voice in your voicemail inbox didn’t still echo sometimes.
But then came the morning when Emily paired you two up for a consult. Something low-stakes. Easy. Just the two of you and a briefing room that felt too quiet.
You could barely look at him. That’s what made him crack.
“Are you ever going to talk to me again?” he asked, trying to sound gentle.
You glanced up from your folder, brows raised as if he didn’t have the right to talk to you like that. “You said you didn’t want me, remember? I’m better off here”
Spencer looked like you’d slapped him. “That’s not-“
“Thats exactly what it was, Spencer” You cut in. “You didn’t want me to see you like that, so you shut me out. You didn’t even give me a chance”
His mouth opened, but you cut him off.
“I begged to see you. I begged, and I hoped and couldn’t sleep at night because I wanted- God, I needed to prove that you were innocent” You snapped. “And you told them that I wasn’t- I wasn’t welcome to see you”
The room went quiet. The only sound was the humming of the fluorescent lights above, sharp and cold - buzzing between you.
You were still clutching the case file like it would crawl out of your hands. If you let go, the floodgates would open.
Spencer stepped closer - approaching you like a wounded child.
“I thought I was protecting you” he whispered.
“Well” You said, breath hitching. “You didn’t”
Whatever words you exchanged that day were minimum. You avoided him like the plague.
But he searched for your eyes like a desperate man, trying to make everything alright. He wished he could change your mind - stop you from resenting him so much. This wasn’t his best friend he left before prison. You were slowly becoming a rival at work.
Fast forward to today - when the tension came to a head. You hadn’t expected him to choose you.
It was supposed to be something light, just to make the newbies get used to what was going on with the BAU.
You watched Spencer step forward, that familiar flicker of nerves in his hands. But he hid it well, launching into facts, psychology and how profiling is a science of empathy, not judgement.
His profiling methods on you were purely ill-mannered.
You blinked at him, your lips curving into the smallest of smiles. He didn’t smile back though.
His eyes flickered over you, scanning. You felt your shoulders tense, your body instinctively retreating.
“She dresses in soft tones. Usually blue or lavender. Non-threatening, comforting. Her jewellery looks inherited, not bought. Subtle, sentimental. She doesn’t like attention, but wants to be noticed”
The recruits chuckled, someone muttering a small “accurate”. You didn’t move.
“She bites her nails. Twitches the single scrunchie in her arm. Not out of nervousness, but out of guilt. Regret, maybe. Or shame”
Your heart almost gave out. The air grew tighter.
“She overcompensates with warmth. With kindness. Because if she keeps giving and not taking, no one will notice how afraid she is to ask for anything back”
You tried to look nonchalant. The faint sound of a few pens scribbling brought you back. Someone whispered “damn”. You felt as if he was stripping you bare - and not the good kind.
Emily motioned for him to stop, muttering a small “Too far.”
But he ignored it. He kept going.
“She has abandonment issues. Abandonment trauma, actually. Parental - maybe paternal. Textbook daddy issues. She’s used to being left behind, so she build bridges she knows people will burn”
Silence. Even the recruits were silent now.
Your breath hitched.
And then he said softer,
“She’s also grieving. Grieving a version of someone she lost a long time ago. Someone who let her down. Someone she let in and tore those walls down.”
It wasn’t a profile anymore. It was a confession.
You couldn’t take it anymore. Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood abruptly. “Excuse me”
You walked before anyone could stop you, before anyone put a half pitying half comforting hand on your shoulder and reassured you that it was okay. Because it wasn’t.
And outside, down the hall- behind the safety of the women’s restroom, you cried. Not because he was wrong.
Because he was right.
He used it anyway. Knowing what this meant to you.
He used your bruises to prove a point. That wasn’t the Spencer you remembered.
You splashed cold water on your face, trying to get rid of any evidence that his words touched you. As if that would erase what happened. As if that would help you forget the way he looked at you while he did it. Not entirely with cruelty - but with understanding.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Y/N…?” Tara’s voice.
You hesitated, torn between hiding in silence or letting someone in. The door creaked open.
“I’m not here to make you talk” she continued gently. “Just wanted to let you know that what Spencer did out there, it wasn’t okay. You don’t have to pretend it was”
The tears came again, quieter this time - smaller, but somehow heavier. Because even though you were humiliated, you weren’t alone.
“He’s- He’s an asshole” You whimpered out, hand flying to your mouth. “I trusted him w-with these- these things, Tara” You sobbed, gesturing helplessly like it could make her understand the depth of what he’d used against you.
Tara let you cry it out, a warm hand on your shoulder to keep you grounded. She didn’t offer platitudes. She didn’t tell you to breathe or calm down. She just stayed.
Sometimes, that was enough.
When your sobs had died down and softened into quiet sniffles, Tara pulled you in for a hug.
“I thought he knew me” You murmured in her shoulder, voice shaking. “I thought- I thought if anyone did it, it would be him”
She sighed softly, rubbing your back. “He does. He does know you, Y/N. That’s why it hurts”
Eventually, you managed to pull yourself together. You dabbed your eyes with tissue, forced a weak smile when Tara squeezed your shoulder again, and promised her you were okay. Or at least, that you would be.
Back at your apartment, the air felt cold. Maybe it was just you. Or maybe it was the silence, pressing down on your chest the way Spencer’s words had hours ago. You tossed your bag down, hung your coat on a nearby chair, kicked off your shoes and stood in the middle of the room like you didn’t know what to do with yourself.
You didn’t bother with dinner. The tears had stopped, but the ache hadn’t. You curled up on the couch, a blanket thrown haphazardly over your lap, replaying everything. The sound of Spencer’s voice. The look in his eyes. The way he’d said things only he was supposed to know.
You hated that you still wanted to hear him apologise. Make up for everything that’s been said and done since the minute he was incarcerated.
And then you did. There was a knock on the door. A hesitant knock, as if the person on the other side shouldn’t be here.
It was Spencer. You knew it was him.
The knock came again. Firmer this time.
You hesitated. Maybe if you didn’t move- maybe if you stayed frozen he’d go away. Maybe he already knew you weren’t ready to face this.
But your feet had other plans. They carried you to the door before your brain caught up.
You opened it.
Spencer stood there, soaked from the rain that had just started minutes ago. His hair was a little messy, eyes desperate and uncertain.
“Can I come in?”
You didn’t answer. Just stepped aside and let him in.
He walked in slowly, taking in the space as if it were unfamiliar - like he didn’t know you always kept the small lights instead of the big ones, or that your favourite mug was on the cabinet above the sink, or that you always read cartoon illustrated romance books when you were feeling down. Like he hadn’t once known you like the back of his hand.
He took a tentative step forward, “Y/N…”
“You held me” you said, words slipping out like they’d been waiting all day. “You held me, when I was shaking. When- When I opened up to you about my “paternal issues’” You mimicked him, only this time your voice broke. “You held me and you told me I was safe.”
Spencer froze.
“You remember that?” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “After Gideon left. After everything with my dad. I told you what it felt like. And you- you said I wasn’t broken.”
You laughed, bitter and wet. “And now, you’re standing in front of a classroom, dissecting me like I’m just some example. ‘Textbook daddy issues’ right?”
Tears spilled again. Your chest heaved.
“I would’ve let you say anything.” You paused, noticing how his eyebrows quirked up. “If you were saying it to me. If we were alone”
You couldn’t take it anymore. You started crying in earnest now, breath hitching, and shoulders trembling. Spencer finally moved, not to explain it. Not to fix it.
To hold you just like he did - hoping he could fix this.
Only this time, you weren’t sure this would be fixed.
You didn’t mean to let it happen, not again at least. Maybe it was the way he stepped forward, touching your elbow to gather you in his arms. Nevertheless, your body betrayed you.
“Shh, sweetheart” He whispered, like he’d said it a thousand times before. Like the word never left his mouth during all those times apart.
You shook your head, trying to get away from his grip. “You don’t- You don’t get to call me that”
Before you could push him away, he had already pulled you in his arms.
Not tight, not desperate - just steady.
You let him. You let him put his hand on your head and rub your back soothingly. When your knees buckled, and you almost fell - Spencer caught you. He carried you to the couch, pulling you into his lap.
It wasn’t romantic. Not yet. It wasn’t seductive. But it felt safe.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry” He whispered, pressing kisses to your temple every now and then.
Your hands clutched at his shirt. You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. But he didn’t ask you to. He just held you like he did before. Like he still remembered how.
After some time, your tears had slowed down. His hands stayed on your back, tracing soft patterns as you gradually relaxed.
For a moment, you let yourself believe that he was really sorry. That you two could get back from this.
His forehead dropped to yours, barely touching. His breath fanned against your lips, shaky and warm.
What if I just kissed him? you thought to yourself. Against your better judgement, you still felt this- this shift between you.
“Y/N” he whispered, like your name was the only thing keeping him grounded.
You didn’t think. Didn’t move away this time.
Your lips crashed into his, messy, desperate and needy whines coming from you. Your kisses were full of pain, apology and everything else you both hadn’t said.
His hand cupped your face, pulling you closer like a starved man. He tried to make up for all the times he hadn’t held you this close.
And you clung to him like a lifeline. You pulled at his shirt, carded your fingers through his curls- mouth parting against his with a whimper that shattered whatever was left of his resolve.
He had pulled back, just a little- his lips were red, breath heavy and he was looking at you like he could hung up your face in a gallery.
His eyes searched for your own, thumb wiping a few leftover tears on your cheeks.
“You don’t have to forgive me tonight” He whispered. “but I need you to know- how much I’ve missed you”
You kissed him again. Slower this time, more sure. Your hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, grounding yourself in the feel of him, in the way his chest rose and fell beneath your palms.
“Let me show you, sweetheart” he murmured. “Please”
You nodded, breath catching in your throat.
He guided you to lie back down gently, your legs parting as you lay on the couch. He placed open mouthed kisses on your jaw, neck - slipping the straps of your dress just a little so he could bite your breasts. He pushed your dress up, hands careful and warm as if you were made of porcelain.
“Spence-“ You whispered, the nickname rolling off your lips like the old times.
Spencer could drown hearing that sound.
“Tell me to stop, honey and I will”
But you didn’t want him to stop. God no.
“Please- Spence”
That was all it took. He kissed you again, slower now - drinking you in, needing to taste your forgiveness on your tongue.
“Lie back for me, baby” He whispered, placing one last kiss on your lips before helping you back down.
Your dress was already bunched around your waist, thighs open and parted for him. His fingers trailed down your legs, touch featherlight as he dipped his hand inside your underwear, finding your clit.
“That’s it” he murmured, his voice nothing but more than a breath against your skin. “Just like that”
You gasped, hips twitching. He looked up - eyes dark but tender. “So sensitive, sweetheart” he said, like he couldn’t believe he was finally doing this. “Been thinking about this for so long”
You choked back a whimper, heart hammering in your chest.
Within seconds, your panties were off and Spencer was now kneeling between your legs, spreading them wide enough so he could press a kiss on your mound.
His mouth met you like he’d done this a hundred times, a soft lick first, then deeper. Harder.
Your back arched off the couch, a moan slipping from your lips as his tongue circled your clit. He groaned softly at the sound, holding your hips down with both hands, mouth relentless and warm.
“You’re so beautiful” He murmured, pressing another kiss to your clit. “I missed you so much, sweetheart. So, so much”
“God- Spence…” You gasped, one hand flying to his hair, the other gripping the cushion.
He didn’t stop. His tongue moved with precision, like he knew your body. Like he remembered what made you shake. And when he slipped two fingers inside you, curling them just right - you nearly came undone.
You were a mess beneath him, trembling, whispering his name between curses and half sobs. It wasn’t just pleasure. It was grief, guilt, years of ache melting into want.
When you came, it hit you hard. Your hips bucked, head thrown back, whispering his name like a broken mantra. He didn’t stop until you were pulling at his hair, whimpering from the overstimulation.
He kissed his way back up your body, hand still cupping you gently, like he was afraid you might break.
“Okay?” He asked, voice hoarse.
You nodded, eyes glassy. “Yes- God- Yes, I need you”
He kissed you again, deeper this time, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. Then he fumbled with his belt, urgency returning to his hands. You helped him, both of you clumsy and breathless as he finally shed the last layer between you.
He lined himself up, looking at you like he wasn’t sure this was real.
“Tell me you still want me” He commanded, lining himself up - looking at you like he wasn’t sure this was real.
“You never- You never gave me the chance to stop”
His breath stuttered. One hand cradled your cheek, the other steadying himself at your hip.
When he slid inside, slow and deep - you both gasped at the feeling. Your eyes fluttered shut, mouth still agape.
He stilled inside you, forehead resting against yours.
“You’re doing so good for me, so good”
He moved then - slow thrusts, deep and aching. Each roll of his hips was apology, every moan from your lips was forgiveness. It wasn’t fast, it wasn’t filthy. It was desperate. Raw. Like coming home after too long away.
You clung to him—legs around his waist, arms around his shoulders, lips at his ear. “I missed you so much,” you breathed.
“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I missed you too. I never stopped.”
He came with a quiet groan into your neck, his fingers tangled in your hair. He held you afterward, still inside you, hands smoothing over your skin like you were something sacred.
You stayed there for a long time. Silent. Holding onto each other like it meant something.
Because it did.
Afterwards, you were curled up into his chest, legs still trembling. He reached for a blanket, wrapping it around the both of you. Spencer’s lips found your forehead again, and that’s when it happened.
A single tear had rolled down your cheek. Then another.
“Sweetheart…”
You didn’t mean to cry. But after it was over, after all the tension snapped and the two of you were tangled up in each others arms, it came without warning. The tears were silent at first, sliding down your cheeks while you buried your face into the crook of his neck.
“Hey, hey sweetheart” he whispered, already cupping your jaw gently. “You’re okay. I got you”
You didn’t know what to say. All you could do was hold him tighter, chest shaking as the weight of everything : the weeks of distance, the pain, the softness of his touch collapsed over you.
“I’m sorry,” you choked, but he was already shaking his head.
“No. No, don’t do that. Don’t apologise,” he murmured, kissing the crown of your head. “You’re safe. You’re so good. You’re perfect. You hear me?”
His hands ran down your back slowly, grounding you. One on your spine, the other cradling your head.
“You did so well for me,” he whispered. “You were incredible.”
You sniffled, curling closer.
“I didn’t think this would… us” you whispered, voice barely there, gesturing to the small space between you.
“I’m the one who burned us down” He said, pressing a wet kiss on your lips.
“It’s not what I meant, angel. I don’t want- I don’t want to lose this with you” He croaked out, his own voice breaking.
You swallowed, fingers curling into his chest like an anchor.
“I don’t wanna do this without you, Spence”
He held you tighter. No promises. Just breath and skin and the quiet hum of two hearts finally beating in time.
📚 Warnings: Angst. Fluff. Mentions of miscarriage. Everything all at once.
📚 Context: Spencer and BAU!Reader have been married for years. Loosely based on the Truth or Dare Episode.
📚 Author's Note: No JJ hate here please! She's one of my favourite characters (even though that episode was sort of questionable). I know that she could've lied but she was also just trying to live.
The red and blue lights pulsed, reflecting off the wet pavement, their rhythm almost mocking the stillness that had settled over the crime scene. The sirens blared faintly in the background, the faint hum of them buzzing through your bones.
You stood there with the team, the air thick with tension and the unspoken weight of it all. You had done this so many times, seen so many cases, but this one felt different. Spencer was inside that store, with JJ. Held hostage by an unsub, playing a twisted game of Truth or Dare.
And even now, with Casey down, dead, the relief you’d been waiting for didn’t settle into your chest. Not really. It felt like the moment was suspended, like something was wrong and you couldn't place it.
You should have been relieved. You were relieved. But the feeling didn't reach the parts of you that mattered.
Spencer, your husband, was still in there. The man you loved.
And JJ—she was in there too, her life, her family hanging in the balance. Her boys. Will. Everything. The gravity of it pressed down on you, crushing, because it wasn’t just about strangers anymore. It was about families, about real, breathing lives on the line, about futures that had barely begun to take shape.
And it reminded you, too sharply, of the life you’d begun to build with Spencer.
You had known, from the first time you walked through the door at the BAU, that danger was a constant. That risk was built into the very fabric of your life. You had accepted that somewhere deep down—that there was always the chance you might not come home. That you could kiss Spencer goodbye, step out that door in your home, and never walk back through it again. It was a fear you could never shake.
The day you made the promises. The day you stood before him, your heart beating louder than anything else in the room, and spoke vows that meant everything. The vows weren’t just words—they were everything. They were the soft, unspoken promise to build a life together, to never let go of what you were both creating.
And somewhere in that promise, somewhere in those quiet words, your life shifted. No longer was it just about surviving the next case, the next danger. It was about the future—the future you both had dreamed of, the one you didn’t even know you had wanted until you both stood there in front of him, pledging forever.
When you and Spencer promised each other everything, it was more than just a ceremony. More than a ring on your finger. It was the promise to build a home—your home. A place with laughter echoing through its walls, with shared dreams and memories tucked into every corner. The promise of a house, not just as a place to live, but a home—where the floorboards creaked under the weight of your growing family, where your future children would run and play.
It was the promise of raising them—those little hands reaching up for yours, those sleepy nights spent rocking them to sleep, teaching them to walk, to speak, to love. The promise of becoming the parents you had always wanted to be.
And somewhere between the wedding vows and the stolen glances you’d shared in the years before, those quiet moments that once seemed insignificant had turned into eternal promises. Each gaze between you, each whispered word, had woven a future together, stitched it into the very fabric of your being. You weren’t just two agents anymore, running headlong into danger. You were two people who had everything to lose. You were family, and that was the kind of love that could make everything feel both precious and perilous.
You hadn’t known what it meant to really fear until now. Not until you stood there in front of him, making that promise, holding that future in your hands. It was a fear that came with loving so completely, with knowing that your heart was no longer just your own. It was tied to him. It was tied to the life you would one day build together—the house, the kids, the shared mornings, the shared everything.
It was a fear so heavy it felt like it could crush you if mishandled.
And that was the same fear Hotch had felt. The fear that had driven him away from the team, away from the job he had given his life to, to protect his everything. His son, Jack. Because when it came down to it, the job didn’t matter. The cases didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the promise he’d made. The promise to come home. To protect his family.
And you felt it now, too—the weight of that promise, the depth of that fear. You were people, holding your lives in your hands, knowing how fragile it all could be. And somehow, that made everything feel like it was always on the verge of breaking.
You both had everything to lose now.
But standing there, outside, with nothing but a radio and your own thoughts, the anxiety curled in the pit of your stomach.
Then, you heard the shot.
Your heart stopped, and every cell in your body felt like it shut down for a split second. A gunshot. Not one of the standard shots you’d heard before—no, this one was sharp. Different. Final.
You braced yourself, waiting for someone to call it. A report. But it wasn’t long before the words Casey dead came through the radio.
They were alive. Spencer. JJ. They were alive.
Relief flooded through you, but it felt like you were floating, as if you weren’t really here, not fully present. And yet, despite the fact that they had made it out, you could still feel something nagging at you, pulling at the edges of your thoughts. Spencer’s face, his eyes—there was something wrong.
You spotted him before anyone else, his silhouette just visible against the flashing lights, standing stiffly next to the police car. The paramedic was wrapping his hand, probably from the glass he’d been holding onto during the hostage situation. You knew that he was alive, but you didn’t know if that was enough anymore.
His hair was a little longer now, more messy than before. But you’d never really noticed it.
It was strange, how these small changes crept up on you. The slow, quiet erosion of things you once thought were permanent. Spencer's hair was the least of it, though. The thing that caught your breath wasn’t the mess of his curls or the way his shirt had ridden up on his sleeves. It was the distance in his eyes—the subtle shift that you didn’t quite understand, but felt all the same.
It was a change you hadn’t noticed until now, when you stood face-to-face with him, after everything.
You thought back to that night in the NYC courthouse, years ago—before Gideon had passed, before anyone knew. Just the three of you in the stillness of the court, hidden away from the world. The wind howled outside, but inside, there was only silence. The kind of silence you could only find in moments that mattered. The kind of silence that held your promises, quiet but unbreakable.
You and Spencer had come to him that day, just the two of you—already married in your hearts, already bound by something deeper than a piece of paper, but still wanting to make it real. You had tracked him down on your own, the two of you still new to this idea of forever, eager to share that secret moment with him.
It hadn’t been a traditional wedding. No church bells, no bouquets. Just the quiet hum of the courthouse, the officiator’s voice low and steady. Only the three of you—Spencer, you, and Gideon. His presence had been the grounding force, the one witness who’d seen the two of you in your most raw, unguarded moment. He was the only one who knew the depth of the promises you’d made to each other.
It had been the best secret, the one thing you could keep just between the two of you. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust the team. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to share it. It was simply that in this world of chaos and uncertainty, this quiet little secret was the only thing you could hold onto, the only thing you could protect. You couldn’t afford to let anything slip through the cracks—not when your lives were so intertwined with danger.
A wedding certificate that no one would ever see, buried deep within your personnel records. You had shared it only with each other, locked away in your hearts.
Your steps quickened, though your heart had already started to beat faster. You fought to steady yourself, to push down the anxiety rising in your chest, but it felt impossible. It felt like you were sinking into something, into a space too dark to escape. And if it weren’t for the active case still unfolding around you, you might have just let yourself drown in the panic.
Focus, focus, focus.
“Spence!” You barely recognized your own voice as it came out, louder than you intended.
His eyes found you instantly, but they were distant in a way you hadn’t seen before. Not just because he was a victim, not just because he’d been through hell, but because something was different. His gaze lingered on you for a second too long, flickering, like he was unsure of what to do with you.
He pushed himself off the car slowly, his body stiff as if he’d forgotten how to move like he used to. The hesitance was there, obvious, and your stomach twisted as you tried to convince yourself it was just the shock, just the trauma of what had happened. But you couldn’t shake it. The feeling that something had been broken. You just didn’t know how to fix it yet.
He lifted his hand, and for a moment, you thought he was going to touch your face like he used to. But the touch felt more like an apology, or worse—a question. His fingers brushed your cheek with a gentleness that almost stung. He was trying so hard to be okay, to act like everything was fine.
You let him pull you in, just for a second, just enough to feel his heartbeat against yours. But the kiss was wrong. It was slow, tentative—like neither of you knew how to begin anymore. Normally, a kiss after a case like this was a reflex. But not this time.
You pulled back, just enough to see his face, searching it for some sign that he was still him. But when you looked up at him, you saw only a shadow of the man you had married. That flicker of guilt was still there.
“Thank god you’re okay,” you said, but the words barely left your lips before your chest tightened again. You almost felt like you couldn’t breathe, like the air was suddenly too thick, too hot. It felt like panic was crawling up your throat, suffocating you from the inside out.
But you had to keep it together. You had to.
He whispered into your hair, his voice too soft, too shaky. “I love you.”
You didn’t reply right away, though your heart was pounding, every beat a drum against your chest. You heard it, and you knew he meant it, but there was something off about it. Something in the way he said it, as if it were a confession more than a declaration.
It took a beat longer than usual for the words to leave your mouth. And when they did, they felt heavier than they ever had.
“I love you too.”
There. You said it. You had to say it, even if you didn’t fully understand the words. Even if it was starting to feel like you were just saying words to fill the silence, to fill the space between you.
He pulled you closer, his arm wrapping tightly around your shoulders, like he was trying to hold everything together. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his breath hitched just slightly, as if he were terrified to let you go, terrified to let the connection slip any further.
The paramedic finished with his hand and started to pull away, but neither of you moved. You just stayed there, standing in that fragile moment, still holding on to each other, pretending that nothing had changed. Pretending that it was all okay.
But you knew. The words, the unspoken ones—JJ’s confession—it was hanging between you two, pressing down on you both. He knew. But you weren’t sure if he knew that you knew. He hadn’t said anything about it. You hadn’t said anything about it.
And you couldn’t. Not yet.
You just stood there, and for a moment, it was enough. But only for a moment.
You squeezed your eyes shut, focusing on your breath, trying to steady yourself before the panic could fully take over. But it was already there, crawling under your skin, itching at the edge of your consciousness. If you weren’t in the middle of an active case, you would’ve collapsed right then and there.
And so, he stood there holding you tighter, as if overcompensating for everything that was about to happen – everything that already happened.
But the weight of everything between you both was starting to break through, piece by piece, until neither of you knew how to fix it.
It had been a week.
Seven days since Spencer walked out of that jewelry store alive.
Seven days since JJ said it.
And in the silence that followed, everything between you and Spencer had started to bend. Quietly. Painfully.
The bandages on his hands were gone now—just raw pink skin left behind. But you knew better. Some wounds didn’t close. Some sat inside your chest and festered, no matter how hard you tried to forget they were there.
Dinner had been quiet. Too quiet. He kept glancing at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice, like he was bracing for an explosion.
Now you were at the sink. You washed. He dried. A rhythm you’d done a thousand times before. It used to mean comfort. Love.
Tonight it felt like going through the motions.
You reached for another dish. Your hand trembled—barely, but enough. The plate clinked sharply against the sink. Not enough to break. But close. Too close.
Spencer turned his head slightly. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m fine. Just tired.” Too quick. Too flat.
He dried a bowl that didn’t need drying anymore. “You’ve been saying that a lot.”
You shrugged. “It’s been a long week.”
He was quiet for a moment, but you could feel it—the shift in the air. His gaze getting heavier, more pointed.
Then came the break in his voice. “Why are you mad at me?”
Your hands stilled under the water. The faucet ran, hot and loud.
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” he said, more firmly this time. “You’ve been cold. And I’m doing everything I can to keep things... normal. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, and I’m trying, but—”
You turned, slow and tired. “It’s not about you doing something wrong.”
“Then what is it?” he asked, exasperated. “Because I feel like I’m losing you in our own home.”
You hated that your breath caught. That your heart gave away how close to the edge you were. “We’ve been through worse, Spencer.”
“So then talk to me. You’re my wife—”
“Don’t do that,” you snapped, the words sharper than you intended.
His brow furrowed. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t throw our titles at me like they’re shields.” Your voice cracked, and your hands were still wet with soap and water and something deeper—something angry.
Spencer stepped closer. “I’m not— I’m trying to remind you that this—” he gestured helplessly between you, “—this was built on trust. On honesty. We promised each other everything.”
“And maybe that’s why it hurts so much!” you cried, stepping back. “Because I gave you everything, Spencer! I stood outside that damn jewelry store thinking you were going to die, and all I could do was hold it together so I could bring you home. And then she—” you choked on it looking out the window onto the dark streets of D.C., “—she says that to you, and it’s like suddenly I’m not enough.”
His expression twisted, like the words had physically struck him. “What? You’re more than enough, you know that. That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” you said bitterly. “She told you she loved you. And you didn’t say a thing. You didn’t tell her no. You just... stood there.”
“I was in shock!” he said, louder now. “JJ and I—never even happened, you know that, come on—”
“But it meant something,” you interrupted. “It meant enough for her to say it when she thought she was going to die. And don’t tell me you didn’t feel anything when she said it. Because I saw your face after. I know you.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, jaw clenched. His voice, when it came, was low and trembling. “And I know you. I know when you’re hurt. But this guilt you’re holding over me? It’s not mine to carry.”
You let out the breath you were holding, taking another step away from him. “Maybe not. But I’m the one left carrying the image of you standing there, silent, like she cracked open something in you I’ve never been allowed to touch.”
“That’s not true.”
“Really?” you said, tears spilling freely now. “Because we can talk all day about how she was scared and how you were caught off guard, but none of it erases how it felt. And how it still feels.”
He stared at you, hands shaking now, like he was grasping for something that wouldn’t come. “So what do you want me to say? That I hate her? That I regret going in there? That I should’ve died instead?”
“Don’t you dare,” you hissed, voice raw. “Don’t you ever say that.”
The silence that followed was frustration.
You turned away, wiping at your cheeks, your breath uneven.
You walked out the kitchen, towards the bedroom you both shared. You closed the door behind you, crying hot tears, unsure of how to fix anything.
That night, he slept on the couch.
At Work
Yesterday night’s outburst quietly seeped into the workday like a slow, unspoken bruise.
You didn’t mention it. Neither did he. But everything about the way you moved around each other said enough.
You didn’t sit beside him during the morning briefing. You didn’t touch the coffee he poured for you out of habit. You didn’t make a face when he misspoke mid-profile, didn’t gently correct him under your breath like you used to. And in the kitchen—where laughter and late-night case notes once lived—you simply never crossed paths. Not by accident. Not anymore.
You talked to Emily. To Tara. You stood beside Luke during takedown strategy. And when Penelope came by with pastries, you offered her your last smile of the day.
Spencer didn’t push. But you felt his eyes.
It wasn’t until hours later—after a long, limping day and a half-hearted debrief—that you found yourselves back in his car. Or maybe it was still your car. You didn’t know anymore.
The drive home was quiet. No music. No usual podcast playing softly from his phone. Just the rumble of the engine and the tired hush of two people who used to be everything to each other, now barely breathing in sync.
He cleared his throat once. Lightly.
“Do you think Rossi’s gonna move?” he asked, tentative.
You stared ahead for a second, then muttered, “No.”
Another stretch of silence. Trees blurred past the window.
“What do you want for dinner?” he asked gently, like maybe if he said it soft enough, it wouldn’t land with a thud.
You turned your head toward the passenger side window. “I’m not that hungry.”
That was the one that broke him.
He stopped talking after that.
His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. He didn’t say a word the rest of the way home.
You both got out of the car like strangers who just happened to live under the same roof.
That night, he moved back into your shared bedroom.
No words about it. No conversation.
Maybe a part of you had been waiting—for the ache to settle, for the silence to feel less like punishment and more like space to grieve. The grief of something shifting. This wasn’t about JJ anymore.
You got into bed first. No goodnight kiss. No shared book resting on both your laps. Just you, pulling the covers up, turning your back to him, your body curled at the very edge of the mattress.
This was the bed that held years.
The one that knew your whispered I love yous, the quiet laughter after cases that nearly broke you, the soft murmurs in the middle of the night when nightmares pulled one of you from sleep, and the sleepless nights.
Now it held the absence of touch. The distance between bodies that used to fit without trying.
He climbed in slowly, like the weight of everything still clung to his shoulders. You could feel the mattress dip beside you, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. You stared at the wall like it might offer you answers.
Spencer exhaled, shaky.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said, voice small, careful.
You didn’t reply. Because if you did, you might start crying again. And if you started crying, you weren’t sure you’d ever stop.
It was probably 2 a.m. when you woke up again. The room was dark, moonlight barely slipping through the cracks in the curtains. Somehow, sometime during the night, Spencer had pulled you closer—his arm wrapped tightly around your torso like his subconscious couldn't bear to let you go.
You stayed still for a moment, listening to the way his breath hitched just slightly in his sleep. Like even unconscious, he was holding something back. Like maybe he was breaking too.
Quietly, gently, you peeled his arm away from your waist and slipped out of bed. Your feet hit the cold floor with a small thud. You didn’t look back.
The kitchen light hummed softly as you flicked it on. D.C. was sleeping beyond the window—its usual chaos muted in the hush of the early morning. The kettle sat on the stove, waiting. You filled it with water and turned the burner on. Steam began to rise.
You stood there, gripping the counter like it was the only thing holding you up.
When the kettle started to sing, you reached to turn it off—but before you could, arms slid around your waist from behind. Spencer’s body curved gently into yours, his head coming to rest on your shoulder like it belonged there.
“Can’t sleep?” he murmured, voice raw with exhaustion.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Instead, you stepped forward, out of his embrace, reaching for the hot water bag on the counter.
Spencer didn’t push. He just took the kettle from your hands without a word. “Let me,” he said quietly.
And you let him. A small gesture. But he noticed. He always noticed.
He handed you the filled water bottle, then leaned against the counter, arms folded loosely across his chest. Watching you. Waiting.
“Can we talk about it?” he asked, tentative. “Please?”
You sank onto the stool by the kitchen island, staring at the warm bag in your lap. Then nodded. “Yeah. Sure, Spence.”
“Walk me through it,” he said. “I want to understand.”
You exhaled slowly. The truth had lived in your chest for days now, suffocating. It came out shaky at first, like your lungs weren’t used to forming the words.
“You were in that shop,” you whispered. “You could’ve died. I was standing outside thinking the next time I saw you, you’d be gone. And when she said it… when she said she loved you—” your voice broke, and you looked away, blinking hard. “I thought, maybe she knew something I didn’t. Like she had some right to say goodbye to you that I didn’t.”
Spencer opened his mouth, but you stopped him with a small shake of your head.
“I tried to understand,” you said, quieter now. “I tried to believe you when you said it didn’t mean anything. But Spence… it felt like she was mourning something that wasn’t hers. And I hated her for it. I hated myself for hating her.”
He looked like the air had left his lungs. His voice cracked when he finally spoke. “You don’t have to protect her feelings, or mine. You’re allowed to be angry.”
You nodded, slowly, tears beginning to slide down your cheeks. “I was angry. But not just at her. At everything. At the timing. At the universe. Because…”
You clutched the hot water bottle tighter.
“Because I- I was pregnant.”
The silence was immediate, deafening. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“Was?” he echoed, the word almost breaking in his throat.
You nodded, barely. “It was early. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to make it real until I was sure. I took a test and... it was faint. I thought maybe it was a mistake so I went to the doctor to confirm it. I didn’t want to tell you and then lose it. But I think I always knew. I knew that it was over before it could even start.”
Spencer moved toward you then, slowly, like you were made of glass. He knelt beside you, resting his hand on your knee. “When?”
You bit your lip so hard it shook. “Before we went down to the jewelry store. I was spotting. Cramping. I thought I was just tired. I went to the doctor the next day, and she said... it was an early miscarriage, just a little over 8-9 weeks.”
Spencer’s eyes filled, overflowing before he could even blink them away. “You went through that alone?”
You nodded. “I didn’t know how to tell you. And then everything with JJ happened, and I didn’t know how to breathe, let alone grieve.”
He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you down into his lap on the kitchen floor, holding you like his world had caved in and he was clinging to the only thing left standing.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, over and over, into your hair. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” you sobbed. “But I didn’t want you to look at me like I failed, like I couldn’t keep it together, keep myself together, for our unborn child’s life.”
“I would never,” he breathed. “Never, never, never.”
You cried into him, your body shuddering as the grief finally poured out of you. And he held you through it all. His own tears soaked into your skin. “We lost something,” he whispered, voice shaking. “But I didn’t lose you. We’re still here. You and me.”
You nodded against his chest. “We’re still here.”
Eventually, your tears slowed. The silence between you felt softer now—less like distance, more like the air needed to begin again.
He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the wetness from your cheeks.
“We’ll try again someday,” he said. “When you’re ready. When we’re ready. And if it takes time... if it takes forever, we’ll still be here.”
You pressed your forehead to his. “For better or for worse, right?”
He smiled through the ache. “In sickness and in health.”
You kissed him then, slow and full of sorrow, but also full of love.
And in the dim light of your kitchen, with grief tangled between your bodies and hope stitched into your fingertips, you held each other. Everything slowly fell back into place.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader
Summary: Going to prison changes relationships, but you were determined to withstand it until Spencer broke up with you in a letter. His return changes things.
Themes & Warnings: Prison!Reid, i am addicted to writing angst with happy ending
You were happy. You were so, so incredibly happy.
You met Spencer at the university where you taught forensic psychology. He was consulting on a case involving a former student, and his presence was magnetic. His voice -- soft, precise, laced with more knowledge than most tenured professors -- filled the lecture hall with calm authority. He quoted studies off the top of his head, spoke of human behavior like it was poetry, and didn’t so much walk as glide through conversation.
You’d never met anyone smarter. Honestly, you doubted anyone smarter existed. His genius IQ, his eidetic memory, and his multiple phD's made it evident.
He was awkward and sweet and a little too fast with his facts, but he never talked down to you. In fact, he always looked awed by you -- by your wit, your lectures, your stubbornness. He remembered your favorite tea after one conversation and quoted your syllabus back to you a week later.
It didn’t take long to fall for him. It was easy.
Within months, you practically lived at Spencer’s apartment. You had a routine, a quiet rhythm that made the chaos of the outside world feel far away. He came home from work, jacket half-shrugged off, his tie loosened. And you’d be there waiting. You always sat and talked first. Not because you had to. Because he needed to. His head was always full -- of cases, of trauma, of things he didn’t know how to say -- and you were the only person who ever made it all quiet enough to sort through.
While he showered, you made dinner. Simple meals he always claimed were better than anything in Quantico. You'd plate it for him just the way he liked -- never too much, everything not touching. You knew his quirks. You loved his quirks.
Afterward, you'd curl up on the couch, some old noir or classic foreign film playing, and he’d play with your hair absentmindedly while reciting the film’s trivia under his breath.
Then, you'd crawl into bed. Sometimes you'd talk until 2am, whispering nonsense between kisses and laughter. Sometimes you'd fall asleep immediately, tangled in each other, warm and safe and whole.
It didn't matter if he was on the brink of sleep or wide awake. Before you drifted off, Spencer always said, "I love you, darling." Never failed. Like clockwork.
You went to bed happy. Giggling. Overjoyed at yet another day of loving each other.
Sometimes, it was hard. Sometimes, Spencer was gone for a long time. And now, he'd been gone a while. But you stayed at his apartment, keeping it clean and tidy and warm with your presence for when he came back. He needed your presence right now. His mother was getting sicker by the day, cases were getting more brutal, and the only thing that made it better was that you were always there waiting for him.
You didn’t believe it at first.
The call came early in the morning -- a colleague, hushed and panicked, asking if you’d seen the news. You turned on the TV, bleary-eyed, your heart already tightening with dread before you even found the right channel.
Dr. Spencer Reid.
FBI profiler.
Arrested for drug possession and murder in Mexico.
You stared at the screen like it was playing a joke. Like any moment, Spencer himself would walk through the door, rambling about how the media misrepresents facts and how probability makes false accusations more likely in cross-border cases.
But he didn’t come home.
And it wasn’t a joke.
Spencer had been arrested in Mexico, alone, without authorization, without backup, trying to obtain medication for his mother. It didn’t matter that it was compassionate. It didn’t matter that it was Spencer. He was caught with narcotics and implicated in the death of a doctor who had tried to help him. A setup. Clearly. But it didn’t stop the trial. It didn’t stop the sentence.
And it didn’t stop him from being sent to prison.
The man who recited Baudelaire in the kitchen and alphabetized your spice rack for fun was now behind bars -- bruised, cornered, alone. The letters started coming then, short at first. Then longer. Then emotional. You read each one a hundred times, your fingers brushing over the creases like you could smooth away his pain.
You cried for him. His friends and colleagues comforted you. Penelope had been by with one too many casseroles and cupcakes decorated in pink glitter. JJ tried getting you out of the apartment, even just to sit on a park bench and talk in the fresh air.
Finally, you were taken by David Rossi to visit him. They said you wouldn't want to see him. Said he looked rough. But you never stopped asking until they gave in.
You remembered every step through that prison like a dream you couldn't wake from. The clink of doors. The sterile, suffocating scent of bleach and old paper. The fluorescent lights that made everything feel too sharp.
Rossi kept a steady hand on your back, guiding you gently. He didn’t say much. Just, “Brace yourself.”
And you did. Until the moment Spencer walked in.
He looked nothing like the man you knew. His curls were wild, uneven, untamed. There was a cut on his cheek, a bruise blooming beneath one eye. His frame -- already lean -- seemed thinner. Clothes hung awkwardly on his bones. But it was his eyes that gutted you. Still the brown eyes you loved. But cold. Wounded.
They didn't light up when he saw you, like usual. But they did soften.
They softened until he got angry.
A fiery glare was directed at Rossi, one you'd never seen Spencer wield.
“I told you not to bring her here,” Spencer snapped, his voice low and ragged but edged in fury. “It's not safe for her here, these men are like animals, and I didn't want her to--”
Rossi didn’t flinch. “She asked. Repeatedly. You think I enjoy watching the two of you suffer?”
Spencer shoved back from the table slightly, the chair legs scraping loudly against the concrete. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn't have listened. I needed her to be safe, away from this. Away from me.”
You stepped forward before Rossi could respond, your voice softer than either of theirs -- but stronger, too. “You don’t get to make that choice for me, Spencer.”
His gaze snapped to you. Raw. Defensive. Cracked open. You glanced at Rossi, a look that told him it was finally okay to step out.
Spencer’s jaw tensed as he looked at you. “You don’t understand,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “You shouldn’t be here. You don’t want to be here.”
You moved closer anyway, heart aching. “I do. And I am. And I’m not leaving.”
His mouth opened like he wanted to argue -- like he had a hundred reasons why you should walk away and never look back, but nothing came out. His eyes dropped to the table between you, his hands curled into fists.
“You don’t know what this place does to people,” he finally whispered. “I'm not the same.”
You sat across from him, hands folding in front of you. “Then let me get to know this version of you, too. All of them. I’m not here because I want the perfect version of you, Spencer. I’m here because I love you.”
His breath hitched.
“You think I haven’t imagined this?” you asked. “What it would look like? Seeing you like this? I have. And it still doesn’t scare me off.”
Spencer’s eyes were red-rimmed now, and his voice cracked when he finally said, “I don’t deserve you.”
You exhaled, eyes softening at the tears developing in his.
“Spence..”
You thought the visit had gone well. You thought he was finally letting you in.
He'd squeezed your hands in his before you left, his eyelids squeezed shut as a tear dropped from his eye. Like he'd forgotten what it felt like to touch you. To talk to you and have you close to him.
When you went home, a few days passed before you received a letter from Spencer. You opened it eagerly, expecting to see how he'd changed his mind and he was happy you came. How he'd missed you and wanted to see you again. How he "loved you, darling," as he'd said to you for years.
But that wasn’t what the letter said.
Not even close.
I need you to understand something very clearly: I’m not the man you think I am anymore. This place changes people and not for the better. I don’t want you anywhere near it, or me. You deserve better than the husk I’ve become.
What we had was a mistake, a foolish hope in a situation that’s already lost. Holding on to me will only drag you down into a life of misery and pain. You’re stronger than that, and you don’t need me poisoning your future.
Don’t come looking for me. Don’t send letters. Don’t wait. Forget me, because I’m gone. The man you loved died the day I walked through those gates. This is the last time you’ll hear from me.
-- Spencer
You read it once.
Then again.
And again.
Each word like a hammer blow to your ribs.
Tears blurred your vision, and your fingers curled around the paper, threatening to crush it -- but you didn’t. You couldn’t. It was still his.
This wasn’t a breakup. It was a severing.
A mercy killing of the most sacred thing you’d ever had.
He hadn’t signed it love, Spencer.
Just Spencer.
And that alone shattered you.
You let the letter fall from your trembling hands, your knees buckling beneath you. The world blurred as tears spilled freely, raw and endless. Your chest heaved with sobs that clawed at your throat until your voice was stripped away, until your body convulsed with silent agony.
You curled in on yourself, the sharp sting of heartbreak twisting deep inside, and when your body could take no more, your pain spilled over, leaving you empty and broken on the cold floor.
You went through phases.
Awful depression was the first. All you did was sleep -- sometimes sleeping days away without eating. You'd lost a considerable amount of weight, but the sleep didn't help. All you did was dream of Spencer.
Your friends were concerned. Your mom was concerned. She began staying over at your apartment, forcing meals down your throat and waking you up every morning. She even held you while you cried, wiping your eyes and the snot from your face.
Next, you were angry.
Not just irritated -- furious. Blindingly, bitterly angry. At Spencer, at yourself, at the system that swallowed him whole and spit him back out as someone you barely recognized. You smashed a coffee mug when you re-read the letter. You ripped one of his old shirts out of the laundry basket and tore it in half with shaking hands. The quiet, aching grief hardened into something sharper, something that boiled behind your ribs like acid.
How dare he? How dare he shut you out, cut you off like you were nothing? Like what you had meant less than the pain of keeping you?
You’d stood by him. You’d waited. You’d believed in him when the world didn’t.
And he still left you bleeding with nothing but a letter. Just Spencer.
You didn’t cry that week. You paced. You snapped at people. You dug your nails into your palms just to feel something other than the sting of abandonment. Anger, at least, gave you control -- and control was the only thing you had left.
The anger stayed with you, burying the anguish. Until Spencer got out.
You saw it on the news first -- a quiet headline, a fleeting mention: Dr. Spencer Reid released after wrongful imprisonment. No fanfare. No apologies. Just a footnote in a week of chaos.
You stared at the screen, heart pounding, coffee forgotten in your hand.
He was free.
And he didn’t tell you.
Of course he didn’t.
That night, your rage came back in full force, but it was quieter now. Sharper. More refined. It didn’t explode -- it simmered. You cleaned your apartment top to bottom, tossing the last remnants of him into a trash bag. That scarf he always wore when you visited bookstores. The annotated copy of Lolita he left on your nightstand. A pair of mismatched socks. The tea he used to brew just right.
You didn’t cry. Not this time.
You just whispered to the empty room, “Don’t come back.”
And he didn't.
For weeks, you didn't see him. You didn't hear his name when you went shopping with Penelope, as if she knew you wouldn't want to. It was like your life before this evaporated into smoke. No mention, no sign of Spencer at all.
A month later, it was Luke's birthday. There was a party for him coming up, a little get together at his house. He begged you to come, and Penelope, and JJ, and Prentiss, until you finally caved. You could do it, right? You could withstand it, whether Spencer was there or not. You didn't care. It was in the past.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just a gathering. Just old friends. That you’d walk in, make polite conversation, maybe even laugh once or twice. You’d wear something nice, something that made you feel like you — not like the hollow ghost you’d been when Spencer vanished from your life.
Luke greeted you with a hug that lasted a beat too long, like he was bracing you. JJ’s smile faltered for just a second before she pulled you into her arms. Penelope beamed at you, glittery and brave, but her eyes scanned the room anxiously -- almost like she was trying to prepare you for something she couldn't say out loud.
"I'm so glad you're here." Luke smiled, trying to disarm the tension. "Wouldn't be a birthday without you."
“Yeah, well. I owed you a drink and an awkward hug, so here I am.”
Luke laughed softly, squeezing your shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think, you know.”
You rolled your eyes, giving him the first genuine grin you'd had in months.
"Don't bullshit me."
It was almost familiar. Almost comfortable and warm. A party with old friends who loved you.
And then you saw him.
Spencer.
Standing in the kitchen, hair trimmed now but still wild, wearing a soft gray sweater you hadn’t seen before. He was thinner still, but no longer fragile. He was composed. Collected. Familiar in all the worst ways.
And when his eyes met yours, they didn’t just soften -- they broke.
He looked like he’d stopped breathing. Like seeing you had hit him harder than any prison wall ever had.
You stood frozen in the doorway, one hand curled tightly around the strap of your purse.
You hadn’t prepared for this. Not for the way your stomach twisted. Not for the way your heart stuttered at the sight of him. Not for the way every inch of you remembered -- vividly -- how it felt to be loved by him. And left by him.
You blinked once. Slowly.
Then, you turned away and headed straight for the liquor table.
Prentiss followed.
Shakily, you poured yourself a glass of whiskey, lifting it to your lips in a hurry. You hoped the liquor burning down your throat would arm you, hardening around you like a shell and making you impossible to break.
Prentiss didn’t say anything at first. Just stood beside you, watching you pour and drink like it was survival -- like this party was a battlefield and the whiskey was armor.
“You okay?” she finally asked, voice low.
You gave a humorless smile. “Peachy.”
Prentiss leaned a hip against the table. “You don’t have to talk to him.”
“I know.” You stared down into your glass.
“Ease into being around him. There's no rush.”
You nodded slowly, swallowing the next sip with a wince. “Yeah..”
Prentiss was quiet for a moment. Then, “Do you want me to stick around? Watch your six?”
You smirked faintly, heart pounding. “I think I can handle one skinny genius.”
She gave a soft snort. “Alright. But if you need backup…”
“I know,” you said, finally meeting her eyes. “Thanks, Emily.”
She squeezed your arm gently, then stepped away, giving you space.
You drank there silently for a while. It wasn't helping like you thought it would.
The burn in your throat faded too fast. The warmth in your chest settled into nothingness. You were still too aware of the room -- the quiet laughter, the conversation, the way people kept glancing toward the hallway like they were tracking someone.
Like they were tracking him.
You gripped the edge of the table until your knuckles ached, breathing slow through your nose. It wasn’t working. The whiskey wasn’t a shield. It wasn’t dulling the pain or the memory of his letter. Just Spencer. The cruelty of it. The cowardice.
And yet… you still felt him. Like gravity. Pulling at you even across the room.
You turned your head just slightly, and that’s when you saw him.
He was standing half-hidden near the archway to the kitchen, hands in his pockets, looking smaller than you remembered. His eyes were already on you. Not moving. Not blinking.
Like he’d been watching the entire time.
You almost looked away.
Almost.
But you didn’t.
You needed some air. You quickly walked towards the door, muttering apologies and promising to come back, before you reached the front porch. You sat on the porch chair, threading your hands through your hair and inhaling deeply.
You thought you could do this. Hell, you even thought it would be easy. But you just couldn't.
The dreaded tears came to your eyes before you noticed them, dripping down. You sniffled, looking up at the stars.
The stars blurred above you, gentle pinpricks of light in a sky that didn’t care how much your chest ached. You wiped at your face roughly, as if that could erase the entire last year: the prison, the silence, the letter. Him.
You’d told yourself you were over it. Over him.
But here you were, falling apart on someone else’s porch like the wound had never closed. Maybe it never had. Maybe it never would.
The screen door creaked behind you.
You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to.
You knew it was him.
There was a long pause. Then footsteps, soft and hesitant, and the subtle rustle of fabric as Spencer slowly sat on the step beside your chair, not too close, not touching. Just there.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence wasn’t comfortable. It was sharp, cutting, full of all the things that should have been said months ago.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said finally, his voice low, almost broken.
You laughed bitterly through your tears. “I shouldn't have.”
Another silence.
“I'm glad you did. I didn't even know if I'd talk to you.. I just wanted to look at you again.”
Spencer’s voice cracked on the last word, and when you glanced sideways at him, his profile was haloed in porchlight. Soft, tired, and somehow still beautiful in the way that only he ever was to you. His hands were folded tightly in his lap like he was afraid they’d shake if he let them move.
“I used to dream about this,” he admitted quietly. “Just… being near you again. Seeing your face. Hearing your voice.”
Another wave of tears washed over you. You just listened to his voice. Part of you hated him. Part of you missed his voice.
“I counted the minutes I was in there. One-hundred and thirty-nine thousand and six-hundred eighty minutes," He continued, looking across the lawn at the cars that occasionally passed on the street. “With every minute that passed, it got more probable that I wouldn't leave. After all, the statistics for false imprisonment are..”
He stopped himself with a tight, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Sorry. I’m doing it again -- hiding behind numbers.”
You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Your throat was too tight with grief and memory and the ache of loving someone who had broken you in the name of protection.
Spencer glanced over at you, his expression open and fragile. “But I did count the minutes. I counted them because I was scared that you'd waste a good life waiting for me.”
“It wasn't your choice.” You hissed quietly, refusing to look at him. “But you made it your choice with that damn letter. Cruel.”
Spencer didn’t respond right away. You could feel him flinch beside you, like your words had physically hit him, maybe harder than anything he’d taken inside those prison walls.
“I know,” he said eventually, the words barely more than breath. “I read it back a thousand times after I sent it. And every time, I thought: I hope she hates me enough to forget me. I kept a copy. To remind myself not to reach out. Not to pull you back to me.”
You laughed, bitter and wet. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. I hated you, but I couldn’t forget you. You don’t just forget the person you built a life around, Spencer.”
Finally, you looked at him. He was already staring at you, devastated, like he was watching something crumble that he could never put back together.
“I wrote that letter like I was dying,” he admitted. “Because I thought I was. Not physically. Just… everything that made me who I was, it was getting chipped away. I thought if I died to you then, at least I wouldn’t take you down with me.”
“It wasn't fair. What happened to you wasn't. But it wasn't fair of you to shove me away,” your voice began to wobble, tears coming down your face again. “I loved you, Spencer. Wasn't it enough?”
Spencer’s face crumpled -- not all at once, but in small, controlled fractures, like he was trying desperately to hold himself together for your sake, even now. Even after everything.
“It was,” he whispered. “God, it was more than enough. It was everything. That’s why I let it go.”
You shook your head, the ache blooming sharp again. “That’s not how love works. You don’t just… take someone’s heart and decide for them what’s best. You don’t destroy them to save them.”
“I know,” he choked out. “I know that now.”
You let out a trembling breath, wiping your face with the sleeve of your jacket. “I would’ve waited. I was waiting.”
“I know, baby,” he said softly, his voice watery with tears he was trying to force back. The pet name slipped -- he hadn't even noticed he'd used it. It was too natural for him. “But I didn't know if I was coming back. And I didn't know who I'd come back as.”
You exhaled, but your lungs felt punctured.
“God, I hate you, Spencer. I hate that I still..”
Spencer froze, his eyes wide and glistening. He didn’t speak, he couldn’t. Your confession seemed to punch the air from his lungs the same way it had yours.
You shook your head quickly, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, ashamed of how raw you sounded. “I hate that even after everything, the silence, the letter, the fucking goodbye, I still see you and my chest hurts in a way that feels like home.”
Spencer’s lips parted, but nothing came. Just another tear trailing down.
“I used to think if you ever came back, I’d slam the door in your face,” you said, laughing bitterly through your tears. “But I didn’t. I let you sit here. I let you look at me.”
“I don’t deserve it,” he murmured. “I don’t deserve you. But I love you more than anything in the world. All I did was pray to a God I don't believe in for you to heal.”
“Then how could you walk away? Like I was nothing?”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles whitened.
“Because I was nothing in there,” he said hoarsely. “I was a number. A threat. A punching bag. Every day, I woke up wondering who I’d have to fight to stay alive. What part of myself I’d have to let die just to make it to the next hour. And the one thing that kept me going was you. The memory of you.”
You whimpered like the words had stabbed you.
“The only things I had in my cell were photos of you. That's all I wanted,” he said, his voice cracking with a fresh wave of tears. “When I felt human enough to read, I only read your favorite literature and poems.”
“Spencer--”
“I started with Jane Eyre. Because you said it was the first book that made you cry. I wanted to cry with you, even if you weren’t there.”
Your breath caught.
His voice was shaking, but steady enough to recite what he’d clearly read over and over, committing it to memory like a prayer.
“I have for the first time found what I can truly love --
I have found you. You are my sympathy -- my better self -- my good angel;
I am bound to you with a strong attachment.”
He looked at you, his voice barely above a whisper now.
“I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you.”
Tears streamed down your face freely now. You remembered reading that line to him once, years ago, curled together in bed.
“I used to repeat that in my head just to fall asleep,” he admitted. “I read the book hundreds of times. It was your voice.”
You covered your mouth, shoulders trembling.
“I thought I could bury it. Bury you. But I couldn’t. I can’t. And if I never get to hold you again,” he said, crying entirely, “I needed you to know… you were never nothing. You were the only thing that made me anything at all.”
“Spencer, I'm begging you not--”
“Let me finish,” he pleaded, hands reaching out for you but not quite touching you. “If there's any chance at all, any chance you'd let me come home, I'd make it my mission to love you for the rest of our days on this doomed Earth.” He said, his words rushing out as if he couldn't control them.
You were silent. Shocked. Your jaw dropped, but lips still quivered.
“I'll go right now and buy a ring if that's what you want. I'll recite your favorite poetry every single night. I'll scratch your back without asking for it in return. I'll listen to your favorite song in the car on a loop every damn time we go anywhere even though I hate it.”
He was breaking open in front of you, pouring himself out in fragments: hopeful, desperate, all the pieces you never thought you'd get back.
“I’ll memorize every meal you’ve ever loved and learn how to cook it perfectly. I’ll fix the leaky sink. I’ll reorganize your bookshelf a hundred times until it makes sense to you again.” His voice wavered desperately, rising into something raw and aching. “Just -- please. Please give me the chance to make it right.”
You stared at him, stunned. That flood of emotion -- grief, fury, heartbreak, love -- came crashing down at once. Your body shook from it. You had waited for this moment for so long. You had dreamed of it. But now that it was here, you didn’t know if you could move.
Spencer inched forward on the porch step, slowly, as if afraid to scare you off. His hands trembled between you, still waiting for yours.
“I don’t want anyone else. I can’t want anyone else. You were it for me before prison. You were it every day in there. And you're it now. No matter what you say.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
“What if you leave again if things get difficult?”
His breath hitched.
“I won’t,” he said, instantly but then gentler, more broken, “I can’t.”
You opened your eyes. He was looking at you like the question had gutted him, like he’d been waiting for it.
“I left because I thought it was the only way to protect you,” he continued, voice low and shaking. “But I see now -- God, I know now -- that hurting you to keep you safe wasn’t protection. It was fear. And I let it win.”
He leaned forward just enough for you to see how wrecked he was, eyes glassy and wide. “But I’ve lived through the worst thing imaginable. And it wasn’t prison. It wasn't Tobias Hankel. It wasn't Dilaudid, it wasn't those damn headaches, and it wasn't losing Maeve. It was the thought of you moving on, thinking I didn’t love you. It was living with the idea that I’d made you feel abandoned.”
His hand finally touched yours, featherlight. “So no. I won’t leave again. Not when things get difficult. Not when I’m scared. Not when I’m hurting. Because I’d rather face every nightmare in the world than ever look into your eyes again and see pain that I've caused.”
A pause.
“Please,” he whispered, “let me stay this time.”
You didn’t say anything at first. The silence was heavy, aching, filled with all the memories of the man he used to be and the one breaking before you now. His fingers were still barely touching yours, like he didn’t believe he deserved to hold your hand, only to beg for the chance.
Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. You had imagined this moment a hundred times. In the best versions, he came home with flowers, apologies, promises. In the worst, he never came at all.
But this raw, desperate truth from him was something else entirely.
“I don’t know if I can,” you whispered. “I want to. But I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”
Spencer closed his eyes, nodding like the words bruised but didn’t surprise him. “Then I’ll stay outside your door every day if I have to. I’ll write you letters I sign with love this time. I’ll sign my soul away to you if that's what it takes. It's yours now anyways.”
You looked at him, really looked, and saw him again. Not the hollow shell who’d walked out. Not the angry, scared man from prison. But the Spencer you’d loved. A little more broken. A little more changed. But still him. Still yours.
Your hand turned, slowly, fingers curling around his. He gasped quietly at the touch, like it shocked him.
“Don’t make me regret this,” you said softly.
His eyes met yours, glassy with hope. “Never again.”
And suddenly, you were yanked forward. A watery giggle, half laughing and half crying, escaped you as you were pulled into Spencer's chest, your cheek coming into contact with the gray threads of his sweater.
His arms wrapped around you like they were made for it: tight, trembling, like he couldn’t believe you were real. His face tucked into your neck, breath shuddering against your skin, and for a long moment, neither of you said a word.
You just held each other.
The night around you was quiet, broken only by the occasional hum of a passing car, the soft rustle of leaves, and the ragged breathing of two people who had survived too much.
“I missed you so much,” Spencer whispered into your shoulder, voice cracking. “More than I knew a person could miss someone.”
He smelled like memories. Like all the nights you'd spent cuddling on the couch watching old Russian romances that you didn't understand, but he translated for you in his soft, lovely voice. Like kissing in the rain, but being scolded for “common cold inducing behavior.” Like a long hug after an especially drawn out and difficult case.
CW: Alcohol consumption, public intoxication, suggestive sexual behavior in public, light dominance/submission dynamics, clingy Y/N.
Synopsis: A night in rome with a very drunk clingy Y/N.
You were wearing a white lace dress, with your hair tied loosely back, a few strands slipping free to frame your flushed face. The streets hummed around you, but you weren’t really paying attention to anything except Harry, well, Harry and the icy drink in your hand.
The cobblestone streets of Rome glistened under soft amber lights. It had rained briefly earlier that evening, just enough to coat the city in a sheen that made every step feel cinematic.
You were tipsy. Gloriously, gigglingly tipsy.
Harry leaned back against the wall of the trattoria you’d all just left, the collar of his blue shirt slightly undone, the hem of his trousers brushing his ankles. He was sipping slowly, his other hand tucked into his pocket, eyes watching you with that amused, adoring little smile.
Alessandro Michele was standing nearby with an arm lazily draped around his partner. He was telling some story to the group gathered around, all talking over one another.
But you were entirely fixated on your boyfriend.
You took a sip of your cocktail, lips pursing. “Why is this so good?” you said, stumbling a little as you reached Harry. You clung to his side, wrapping your free arm around his waist like you needed him to stay upright.
Harry chuckled, low and patient. “Because it’s your fourth one, bunny.”
You smiled dreamily. “It’s not my fourth.”
“It is.” He slid your glass gently from your hand. “And that’s enough, lovie.”
You blinked up at him, swaying just slightly on your feet. “You’re mean.”
“I know.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek. “But you’ll thank me in the morning.”
You wrapped your arms tighter around him, hands gliding over the silk of his shirt, and buried your face in his neck. “You smell so good,” you whispered, then nuzzled in deeper and left a slow, open-mouthed kiss just beneath his jaw.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away or tell you to behave. Just let you nuzzle and nip at the soft skin beneath his ear, your lips brushing just beneath his jaw as if you were trying to memorize the shape of him with your mouth. You were delicate at first, barely-there kisses, your breath warm and sweet against his skin, but then your teeth grazed him, playful and a little greedy, and he made a low sound that barely passed as a laugh.
Still, he didn’t stop you.
His arm wrapped more securely around your waist, hand warm and steady against the small of your back, his thumb drawing slow, grounding circles. He was still listening to Alessandro and laughing softly with the others, nodding along, but every now and then, his hand would slide just a little lower, soothing, steadying, as your lips trailed along his neck with lazy devotion.
You kept going, half-draped over him, mouthing at the skin above his collarbone, barely noticing how your lip gloss had smudged just a little. You pressed another kiss to the side of his neck, then did it again, just because you could.
Harry tilted his head to the side slightly, offering you more space, still not saying anything. He didn’t need to. His body was so relaxed, like this was just second nature, letting his tipsy girl crawl all over him in the middle of a Roman alley while he chatted with old friends.
Every now and then, his fingers would tighten at your waist, squeezing gently when you got a bit too close to his collar or a little too sharp with your teeth. But he didn’t move you away. He just kept talking.
At one point, Giovanni, Alessandro’s partner, caught Harry’s eye and raised a brow with a knowing smirk.
“She’s had fun tonight,” Harry said smoothly, not missing a beat. He kissed the top of your head without even looking. “Haven’t you, bun?”
You hummed in reply, completely blissed out against his neck, lips still grazing skin as if it was the only thing tethering you to the ground.
Then you said softly, right against his skin: “You taste good too.”
That was when Harry finally blinked and let out a quiet laugh.
You kissed him again, then again, sloppier this time, hot lips dragging across the column of his throat. “Can we go back home?” you murmured.
“Not yet, bun.”
“Wanna be alone with you.”
“I know you do.” His voice was still gentle, but there was a warning edge to it. You’d pushed past that edge.
Your hand slid down, tracing the front of his shirt, nails dragging lightly, until you reached the waistband of his trousers. You giggled, brushing the heel of your palm over the slight bulge in his pants.
His eyes widened. “Jesus,” he muttered, laughter bursting from him as he quickly grabbed your wrist and pushed your hand away. “You’re gonna get us arrested.”
“But it’s Rome,” you whispered with a giggle. “They’re romantic here.”
“Yeah, not that romantic,” he said, still laughing.
You pouted, leaning up to kiss him again. This time it was full-on, your mouth open, messy, hungry.
Your lips found his like it was the only thing in the world you could focus on. You tilted your head and opened wider, tongue brushing his, fingers tangling into the collar of his shirt as you pressed up on your toes to reach him fully.
Harry let you kiss him. Let you take and take, groaning softly into your mouth as one of his hands came up to cradle the back of your head, steadying you. His other arm stayed looped around your waist, keeping you anchored, flush to him. His fingers curled at your lower back again, a slow, reassuring stroke up and down, up and down.
Around you, no one paid much attention. The group had splintered into smaller conversations, Alessandro now theatrically reenacting something with wide hand gestures, everyone too caught up in their own tipsy laughter and stories to care that you were practically devouring your boyfriend in the street.
You whimpered softly into his mouth, angling yourself closer, knee slipping between his, and Harry chuckled again, deep in his chest.
“You’re a menace tonight,” he murmured against your lips.
But he still didn’t stop you.
You were about to say something, something about how warm he was, or how you wanted to crawl into his shirt and live there, when a sudden arm slung casually around your shoulders from the side, pulling you back slightly with affectionate force.
“Alright, bambini,” Alessandro grinned, standing between you and Harry now like a human barrier, one arm still draped across your shoulders, the other flung around Harry’s. “Save some of that passion for behind closed doors, hmm?”
Harry threw his head back and laughed.
You blinked up at Alessandro, dazed and pouty, but didn’t resist his grip. You stood there for a moment, swaying a little under the weight of his arm, then slipped out from under it with a tiny huff and wandered toward the table nearby, sinking into one of the wrought iron chairs with a sigh.
Your cheek smushed against your hand, elbow propped on the table. You kicked your feet slightly under the chair and started humming to yourself, some soft, dreamy tune you couldn’t quite remember the name of. Probably something Harry had played for you once, or something Alessandro had blasted through his villa speakers.
Your dress caught the light every time you shifted, your flushed face dreamy and content as the night swirled on around you. People talked and sipped and smoked and laughed, and you just hummed and watched Harry from your little spot, like he was the center of your universe.
Because he was.
You kept humming, now swaying slightly in your seat, arms folded on the table in front of you. The streets had grown quieter now, just the low hum of traffic in the distance, a few passing voices, the clinking of ice in glasses.
You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the breeze slip past and cool your flushed skin. You imagined Harry’s hand instead, those warm fingers tracing down your back, over your thighs, up the inside of your—
“Bun,” came his voice suddenly, close.
Your eyes fluttered open to find him crouching beside you, glass of water in one hand and that soft, bossy smile on his face.
“Drink this,” he said, nudging it toward your lips.
You wrinkled your nose. “I don’t want water.”
“I know,” he said gently, tilting the glass anyway. “Be a good girl, yeah? Just a little.”
You let out the tiniest whine, dramatic and pouty, but opened your mouth. He helped you sip, watching you the whole time, free hand rubbing your thigh slowly under the table. You finished a little less than half before turning your head dramatically into his shoulder.
“There,” you murmured. “I’m healthy.”
Harry laughed, soft and warm. “You’re getting healthy. One more sip, bunny.”
“This is so entertaining,” Alessandro said suddenly, perched across from you both with a smirk on his face, chin in hand, elbow propped on the table, as you glared at him.
Harry smiled down at you, ignoring them entirely, lifting the glass once more.
“You gonna finish this for me?” he asked sweetly.
You stared at him. “If i get a kissy after.”
He smirked. “Deal.”
You took another sip, then immediately threw yourself at him. His arms came around you instinctively, laughing into your shoulder as you tried to kiss his cheek, his jaw, his mouth.
“Christ,” he muttered, letting you do whatever you wanted, still smiling as he glanced back toward Alessandro. “She’s relentless tonight.”
“Let her be,” Alessandro said.
“C’mon, time to go.” Harry said after a while.
You blinked. “Already?”
“It’s nearly two,” he said gently, crouching slightly so you were eye level. “I thought you wanted to go home?”
You pouted again. “No, I like it here.”
“I know, lovie,” he said, brushing his knuckles against your cheek, “We’re gonna come again tomorrow, right now you need sleep.”
You giggled and let him pull you to your feet.
Your legs wobbled a bit, and Harry steadied you immediately with both hands around your waist, then leaned in to kiss the tip of your nose.
“I want pizza,” you said dreamily as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and guided you back to the group.
Alessandro gasped. “Finally, someone says what we’re all thinking!”
Within minutes, the group was making their way down the winding street toward a place Alessandro swore had the best late-night margherita in the entire city. You walked with Harry, arm wrapped tightly around his middle, your body practically glued to his side.
You kept kissing his shoulder as you walked. His arm never left your back.
“You know how much I love you?” you asked, not quietly.
Harry glanced down at you with a soft laugh. “How much, bun?”
You stopped suddenly in the middle of the street. “This much,” you declared, stretching your arms wide, nearly twirling in your spot.
He caught you before you could wobble too far and kissed your forehead, tucking you safely back under his arm. “That’s a lot.”
“You’re my favorite person,” you whispered into his chest.
He squeezed you closer. “You’re mine, too.”
Eventually, the group stumbled into the tiny pizza shop Alessandro had spoken of, and you curled up beside Harry in the booth, half-asleep on his shoulder by the time your slices arrived. He fed you bites between sips of water and whispered something against your hair that made you giggle again.
And when you finally left, the cobblestone streets still warm beneath your sandals, Harry wrapped his jacket around your shoulders, held your hand tightly, and guided you all the way back home.
summary → On the way home from yet another case on the jet, you and your boyfriend Spencer take advantage that your coworkers are all peacefully sleeping to have a little bit of sweet and innocent alone time, taking chances and talking about both of you getting hurt during the case.
warnings → early seasons!spencer, shy!reader, bau!reader, established relationship but it’s all very new still, they’re just little anxious beans, just pure tooth-rotting fluff, they’re so adorable your honor, minor injuries, no descriptions or pronouns used for the reader, no y/n used
author’s note → This whole thing was inspired by this post from @multifandomangel. I started writing this story immediately after I saw the post but it took me a while to come back around to it and finish it. But now it’s done and I’m very happy with how cute and fluffy it turned out :3 Let me know what you think about it <3 (If you saw this fic before just ignore it, tumblr just likes to put a content label on it only on the android app and it drives me crazy! Hopfully this post doesn't get flagged AGAIN.)
word count → 3.2k
masterlist(s)
You sit next to Spencer on what the team has dubbed “his” couch on the BAU’s jet, currently on the way home to the FBI’s headquarters after having solved yet another case on the other side of the country, absentmindedly staring at the book in your hands you act like you’re reading.
The words on the page you haven’t turned in over five minutes stare back at you unblinkingly, but you pay them no mind, instead peeking over the edge of your book to inconspicuously observe the rest of your teammates relaxing in their seats. Hotch is at the front of the jet in a single seat with his arms crossed over his chest and eyes closed while Morgan, Emily and JJ sit around the table across from you. JJ’s head rests on Emily’s shoulder who in turn has her cheek squished to the top of the blonde’s hair, soft breaths leaving her parted lips. Morgan on the other hand rests against a pillow pressed to the wall of the jet, his headphones still on and Rossi, who sits behind him, has his legs stretched out over two seats with his eyes closed as well.
It's perfectly quiet on the jet except for the subtle hum of the aircraft’s engines paired with what little you can hear of Morgan’s music and the occasional soft snore coming from one or another person sitting around you.
With bated breath you wait for another minute or two to be absolutely certain about what you’re eagerly hoping for—
They’re all fast asleep.
A smile tugs at your lips and you slowly close your book and let it glide to the floor soundlessly before gently nudging Spencer’s leg with your foot.
The lanky genius next to you stirs and you immediately feel bad for rousing him from his slumber so rudely, but the feeling abruptly dissipates and is replaced by a flutter of butterfly wings in your belly when he gives you a sleepy smile, one hand coming up to rub his tired eyes.
“Hi,” he greets you quietly, his voice a little deeper than it normally is and it embarrassingly takes you a second to answer him.
“Hi yourself,” you manage, matching his soft tone to not disturb the quiet of the jet as it takes you closer to your home through the night sky.
You smile at each other shyly, starting a new round of your regular game of Who will break eye contact first? that you both lose at the same time. An amused huff escapes you at your own antics and you look back to Spencer who is already grinning at you, his cheeks glowing with an adorable blush even in the dimmed lights of the cabin.
He’s so beautiful, you think, and you want to tell him as much, but the words get stuck in your throat like you already knew they would.
Instead you ask him, “How’s your head?”
Your eyes dart to the white butterfly stitch on his temple that a paramedic has competently placed there only a few hours before because of the scuffle your recent unsub had caused before his eventual arrest.
Spencer shrugs but the smile on his lips gets a little brighter, his fingers shy of touching his wound before lowering his hand and placing it on the down on the couch, right next to where your own hand is resting on the cushion.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he tells you, his hand inching closer to yours. “It’s just a small wound, don’t worry.”
“That's good. I’m glad.”
You watch his pinky reaching out for yours and with your heart beating excitedly in your chest you meet him halfway, your fingers sweetly wrapping around each other. Your cheeks burn from the innocent touch while Spencer quietly clears his throat, trying to hide the lovestruck grin on his lips but failing adorably at it—much like yourself, you imagine.
“What about your finger?” he wants to know then and you look down to your other hand resting in your lap, one finger taped to the one beside to keep it still and in a natural position while healing, also a courtesy of the unsub’s messy arrest.
“All good,” you tell him truthfully, after carefully testing your hand’s remaining mobility. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. And luckily, it’s not even my dominant hand.”
Spencer, of course, already knows this but nods in understanding anyway.
“I’m glad,” he repeats back at you and the look in his brown eyes is nothing short of adoring. You have the urge to hide from his gaze, it’s that overwhelming, and eventually you need to avert your eyes to regain even a semblance of composure before you can face him again.
He gives your pinky a quick squeeze when you do and you feel the smile on your face grow even bigger. You let yourself sink further into the comfortable cushions of the couch then, enjoying the quiet and content atmosphere of the jet, the rare opportunity of being close to Spencer like this, openly showing affection like this, as small as it may seem, when the two of you are at work, all thanks to your softly snoring colleagues.
But you can’t fully relax, even though the exhaustion of the case is rapidly catching up with you, making your limbs feel heavy and your movements slow and sluggish. Right underneath your tiredness is an undercurrent feeling of nervousness and excitement that you can’t ignore, that keeps reminding you that you woke Spencer up for something more than a few whispered words between the two of you and pinkie-holding.
Slowly, you straighten up again, squaring your shoulders and ready to seize this opportunity the rest of the BAU agents have so graciously presented you with. Your heart instantly picks up speed and you pause for a moment, mentally hyping yourself up to just ask your literal boyfriend this simple question, but the tiny bit of confidence you could scrape together instantly evaporates the moment your eyes meet his.
“Do you maybe—want to lie down, Spence?” you ask quietly, your heart in your throat making it difficult to form the words around. “It’s probably more—more comfortable than sitting the whole flight...”
Your voice trails off at the end and you mentally scold yourself for it, having gone over your words a hundred times in your head before you even woke Spencer up but still you couldn’t get it right when it mattered. Spencer just looks at you for a moment before shaking his head, his eyes showing nothing but kindness and you try your hardest not to let your disappointment show at his easy rejection, your ears burning in embarrassment.
“I’m comfortable like this, don’t worry.” He gives your pinky another squeeze that you can’t quite appreciate at the moment, but nod to show that you’re listening. You’re always listening to him. “I like being next to you like this and anyway, we will land in about an hour and eight minutes. So you really don’t have to get up from the couch for my sake.”
When you don’t answer him after his words hung in the space between you for a few moments too long, his shoulders tense and his face falls just enough for you to notice, a tight-lipped smile replacing the soft and relaxed one from just seconds ago.
“That’s okay… right?”
He sounds heartbreakingly unsure of himself now, afraid to have somehow said the wrong thing and ruin this moment between the two of you and you pull yourself together to quickly reassure him, your heart rate spiking in alarm.
“Of course that’s okay Spence! Absolutely okay! I like being next to you like this as well.”
Your voice is a little too loud and too shrill in your need to rectify your words so you force yourself to take a deep breath, not wanting to wake up your peacefully sleeping colleagues by any means.
“It’s just not what I meant,” you continue, your voice softening. You give him an encouraging smile and don’t shy away from the intense eye contact when Spencer cautiously searches your face, honest and unguarded. He finds the reassurance he’s looking for there and after a few short moments he relaxes again, a hesitant smile pulling at his lips.
“What did you mean then?”
Your gaze falls to the worn sneakers on your feet at his question and your thumb begins to absentmindedly fiddle with medical tape on your injured hand, fighting against an overwhelming wave of anxiety that crashes into you but after a few calming deep breaths you force your way through it.
“Because the others are all asleep, I thought—I meant that you could lie down, with your head… on my lap, if you want to.”
Now that the words are out in the open your idea doesn’t sound as brilliant and cute as it was in your head—actually, it sounds absolutely stupid, and oh no, why would you say something like that?!
You fight the urge to just jump up and run for the plane’s toilet to hide in there until you have landed safely at Quantico and instead risk a glance at Spencer out of the corner of your eye, your heart jackhammering away in your chest.
Spencer stares at you with such an adorably befuddled expression that would have soothed your anxiety all at once any other time, but now it just makes you curl into yourself even more, almost missing how the blush on his cheeks gets deeper in real time, spreading to his ears and even his neck.
“Or don’t!” you immediately backpedal, mortified and panicking, mentally screaming at yourself for ever thinking this would be a good idea. “You absolutely don’t have to! I just thought—”
“No, I’d like to!” Spencer suddenly squeaks, effectively cutting you off. The two of you stare at each other for a few seconds following his words, neither of you knowing what to do now that your little misunderstanding is resolved.
“Okay. Good,” you eventually say just to have something to fill the stubborn silence that settled between the two of you. “That’s—yeah.”
You clear your throat and press your lips together as your brain is apparently having difficulties providing your mouth with something resembling full sentences and give Spencer a tight smile before reluctantly letting go of his pinkie. You move closer to the armrest by your side to give him enough room to lie down at least somewhat comfortably, and after it’s clear that you are both at a loss for what to do again, you awkwardly pat your thighs, hoping that it’s enough encouragement for Spencer.
He looks at you with comical deer-caught-in-the-headlights eyes but after taking a deep and seemingly calming breath he starts to lie down hesitantly. It takes the two of you a few uncoordinated and clumsy moments to sort yourselves out on the small couch, but eventually, between whispered apologies and pointedly avoiding each other’s eyes, you manage.
Now you stiffly sit on the jet’s couch with Spencer’s head resting lightly on your thighs like he is afraid of putting too much of his weight on you, while he is taking up the rest of the space, his back facing the cabin and your still slumbering teammates. He is also far from relaxed, you can feel how tense his whole body is and you notice that his eyes are shut tightly too when you glance down at him.
Despite dating for a few months already and being best friends before that the awkwardness and tentativeness between you and Spencer persists stubbornly. Unfortunately—sometimes frustratingly—that’s neither surprising nor unusual. Both you and Spencer are naturally shy and introverted, anxious even, and not at all confident in your social skills and interpersonal relationships. The fact that neither of you was in a serious relationship before and is more than a little inexperienced when it comes to intimacy doesn’t really help either. You can easily count on your own ten fingers how often you actually held Spencer’s hand, much less cuddled with him or kissed him. You want to be closer to him, at least in the privacy of your home or away from prying eyes (most likely belonging to nosy but well-meaning coworkers), want to create and share special memories and him, and you know that Spencer feels the same way. The two of you just need more time to get comfortable and confident with this new chapter of your relationship. But that’s okay, you know that. Eventually, you will get there, at a pace you both are comfortable with.
But until then you’ll have to deal with your heart almost beating out of your chest while Spencer is trying to relax on your lap, a dizzying mix of happiness and anxiety and every emotion in between swirling in your chest. It makes your hands shake and hard to focus on anything else than the euphoric but frightening feeling of having your boyfriend—somewhat comfortably—cuddling up to you. You still feel a little silly about how clumsy you asked him for this but you were rewarded for your uncharacteristic bravery by the comforting weight of Spencer leaning against you, his warmth seeping into your skin, a pleasant and blissful shiver running down your spine.
You love Spencer, it’s the only thing on your mind when you look down to him lying on your lap, and surprisingly the thought doesn’t terrify you. It’s the easiest truth you ever accepted and the sense of calmness that follows has everything to do with the fact that you’re in a relationship with someone as kind and considerate as Spencer.
But you won’t be able to admit this to him anytime soon, you know that, so instead you say something easier, something lighter, but equally as true.
“I don’t like seeing you hurt, Spence. I’m so happy you’re okay.”
He blinks up at you when your whispered words register in his mind, his brown eyes impossible soft, impossible adoring. You let the gentle caress of butterfly wings fluttering in your chest and belly wash over you, your world narrowing down to this moment between Spencer and you. Everything else vanished into the background, the jet, the team, even your anxious and overthinking mind quieting enough for you to be completely present in this precious moment with your favorite person in the world.
As if moving on its own your hand finds its way into Spencer’s hair, fingers carefully, experimentally carding through his silky curls that you’re delighted to find are exactly as soft as you always thought they were.
Spencer jumps at the unexpected touch but not even a second later he’s completely relaxed against you, looking like an extremely content and comically overgrown cat, happily purring in your lap.
With a sigh, his eyes fall closed in pure bliss, murmuring into the comfortable and peaceful quietness between you, “This feels nice.”
“I’m glad,” you answer in a whisper, dutifully continuing with your ministrations, burning this moment into your mind, forever.
Without opening his eyes Spencer goes on, your name on his lips, “I was really scared for a moment during the arrest. When the unsub lashed out at you, I think my heart almost stopped in my chest.”
With a sympathetic smile and nod that Spencer can’t see you bring your hand to his face, caressing his warm and soft cheek with one only slightly shaking finger.
“I know what you mean. I felt the same when you came to help me and the unsub hit you,” you admit, the shameful guilt welling up inside you leaving a bitter taste on your tongue all of a sudden. Because that’s how Spencer got hurt, rushing to your side to assist you.
But before you can even begin to spiral, Spencer’s eyes fly open, his gaze fierce when you lock downcast eyes with him.
“It wasn’t your fault, please don’t think that. I’m always going to look out for you, you know that, right? You’re important to me.”
His voice is firm, insistent, leaving no room for arguments, no room for doubts or guilt. A shaky exhale pushes past your lips and you give him a grateful smile, having no choice but to believe his words. Not when he’s looking at you with complete and utter conviction, not letting your mind torment you for even a second because of what happened during the arrest.
“Of course I know that, Spence,” you assure him, cupping his jaw. “And I hope you know that I’ll always come to your rescue too.”
His face softens immediately, subconsciously nuzzling into your hand, his lips unintentionally brushing against your palm when he says, “I do.”
Your breathing hitches noticeably at the faint touch and Spencer himself turns to stone on top of you, his large, panicked eyes darting over your face. He’s just about to launch into a distressed apology that is really not necessary when you lean down to stop him by pressing a featherlight kiss to his temple, just shy of his wound.
You surprise yourself with your action and now can do nothing but stare helplessly down at your boyfriend who only mirrors your expression back at you, his cheeks turning cherry red in an instant. But before you can now stumble your way through an apology, Spencer takes your injured hand in his without meeting your eyes and brings it to his lips, softly kissing the tips of your fingers.
He quickly hides his face in your stomach after letting go of your hand, leaving you perplexed and speechless, the tips of your ears and the apples of your cheeks burning. And just like that neither of you is able to speak up or look at the other again, both of you left to battle with their own bashfulness for the rest of the flight.
It’s probably for the best that in your painfully adorable awkwardness, you and Spencer fail to notice how your supposedly sleeping teammates are in fact very much not asleep at the moment, shamelessly enjoying their favorite workplace romance unfolding before them live and in color, their reactions to it varying from person to person.
JJ hides her tickled grin in the crook of Emily’s neck who in turn has to fight hard for her composure as to not reveal all of their sneaky nosiness, her whole body shaking with the effort of it. Morgan groans fondly, the noise muffled by his pillow, wondering if his eardrums will survive Garcia’s screeching when he tells her about how sickly adorable Spencer and you acted on the flight back to Quantico. Rossi on the other hand rolls his eyes hard enough to see the back of his own skull but the smile on his lips betrays him, muttering an amused “amore giovane” under his breath.
And even Hotch has an almost noticeable proud smile on his face—but Spencer and you still won’t get around the little talk your supervisor has planned for you about your relationship next thing tomorrow morning.
But all of this is lost on you and Spencer, tucked away in your own little world of adorably awkward puppy love which is for the best. Because neither of you would be able to handle the embarrassment from the realization that you weren’t as unobserved as you thought you were.
Thank you so much for reading <3 Likes, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!
