#spencer x reader

[nerdfilms]

— Imagine being a university student and you’re lucky to find out that Spencer Reid himself is a guest lecturer, imagine his surprise when he takes a particular interest in you..

[dottedpearl]

Apparently I don’t know how to queue things correctly because ‘In His Absence, You’ Pt 2 Wasn’t supposed to come out till six pm today. 🙈

Whoopsies.

[dottedpearl]

In his absence, you.

Summary: after your father, Jason Gideon passes away, Spencer steps in to see if you needed anything, but the two of you slowly grow to become more.

Tags: slow burn, strangers to friends to lovers, incorrect characterization of Gideon, drunken text trope (kinda), Spencer Reid x Gideon!reader, coffee dates as friends.

Word count: 1.4k

——————————————————————————-

You were a Gideon, sure you didn’t feel like one. You never fully lived up to your father’s expectations. But he was a good man. Even if he wasn’t there for most of your childhood, he was good to you when you were there.

When your father was killed, you had such mixed feelings. Sure, he was your father, you loved him! But you loved and missed a man you truly didn’t ever know. It was like grieving something that didn’t even really exist.

That’s why you were so conflicted going out to coffee with his colleague, Spencer.

He was a good person, smart, really smart actually. Maybe that’s why your father liked him so much. He wasn’t you.

You weren’t dumb of course! You were very gifted, but that didn’t change how your father saw you.

You decided that maybe.. it wouldn’t be too bad. You were getting free coffee out of it after all.

—

He had sat down across from you, your latte in his hand before sliding it across from you.

He was awkward, but sweet. He clearly cared, but this seemed harder for him than it was for you.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” He started, giving you a sympathetic look.

“It’s.. it’s ok. Thank you.” You said with a small nod.

You hadn’t gotten used to hearing that. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ didn’t sound right. How could someone be sorry for you when you barely knew the man?

It didn’t feel right to you.

“How are you holding up?” He asked softly, then brought his coffee to his lips.

“I’m uh— I’m doing ok.” You nodded, “I’m doing ok.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He looked down. “I’m sorry to ask this— but when’s the funeral service?”

You paused, you really weren’t sure. Your brother was handling it, so you had not a clue. “My brother is handling it.. I’m not very sure.” You admitted.

He nodded, that was understandable right?

“That’s fair.. I’m sure it’s not easy.” He agreed. “If you ever need to talk to someone—“

“I’m fine.” You cut him off, sounding almost too defensive.

“I’m— I’m sorry I didn’t mean to offend you..” he said quickly, becoming more and more flustered.

You felt bad, it wasn’t fair you were making him feel that way. This was a hard loss for him too.

“No.. I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said it that way.” You said quietly.

Quietly, you paid him back for your coffee, though he was hesitant to accept, he did with a small nod. Thinking it was the least he could do after upsetting you.

—

You went to the funeral that Sunday. You didn’t feel right giving that eulogy, accepting those ‘I’m sorry for your loss’, and the sympathetic looks you received.

You didn’t cry, but you felt like you wanted to.

Spencer and the rest of the BAU was in the back, keeping quiet as to not bother you and your family, even thought they were more family then you ever were.

—

You didn’t feel.. empty, coming home. You felt weird though, like you didn’t know how to feel.

But you were even more confused on how to feel when you got a text from a random number, the same random number that asked you to coffee.

“Hi.” It said simply.

“Hello?” You sent back.

He went silent for a moment, how did he proceed? What did he want to say? He hadn’t planned this far ahead.. he actually didn’t expect you to reply!

“Do you want your father’s chessboard?” He asked suddenly.

God, you didn’t want any more of your father’s stuff, you already had gone through far too much of his stuff.

Not like you kept any of it anyways.. way too much bird stuff. Creeped you out.

“No thank you, I think my brother would like it more than I would.” You sent back.

“I already asked him, he didn’t want it either.” He responded quickly, almost like he was expecting it.

“You can get rid of it then.” You sent it, giving a small sigh.

“Can I keep it?”

You practically heard the patheticness through the screen.

“Sure, go ahead.” You sent with a small thumbs up.

Spencer wanted to continue the conversation, ask you why you didn’t want it, but it wasn’t his place. Right? I mean, it’s not like you two are close friends.

You left it at that, deciding it was best.

—

You tried to keep your distance from Spencer and the rest of his team, but there was something about him that made you wonder about him.

It was late, you had few too many glasses of wine after telling yourself you had deserved it after the week you had. you were lonely, had no one else to text, so you made what you now consider a bad decision.

“I wanna get cofee with u agaan.”

“u were so sweef.”

“U acully cared how I qwas feeling.”

“Please.”

Four messages, four messages at 11pm to a random man that you barely knew.

But he responded. You don’t know why. You don’t know why he looked at those horribly written messages, and thought to himself ‘yeah, I’ll take her to coffee!’

Maybe it was because you were pathetic, and it felt cruel to say no to you at this moment.

But, that’s how you ended up at a coffee shop closer to Qauntico, sitting awkwardly across from Spencer again, coffees in hand, your order perfect. You didn’t know how he got it perfect, but you didn’t care to ask right now.

“Thank you.. for agreeing to this.” You said looking down, your leg bouncing up and down.

“Yeah— I mean why wouldn’t I?” He said with a small awkward laugh, shrinking into himself.

“Because I was mean to you.” You said shutting your eyes in embarrassment.

“You weren’t mean.” He sat up straighter, looking at you with a confused face.

“What?— no I was so rude to you.” You tilted your head.

“..I don’t think so.. but I also think.. that how you reacted was valid.” He said looking back down at the table, the profiler coming out of him.

“Why?..” you asked in a whisper, confused as to why he would think that. “Sure my father.. passed.. but I mean that’s not your fault. And it’s not any reason to treat you like that.” You sounded incredulous, shaking your head.

“..It was a heavy loss.. even if you weren’t really close.” His hands rested on his lap.

Your mind ran a thousand miles a minute, how did he know that you weren’t close?

“How’d—“

“Gideon never really mentioned you, or didn’t really speak about you when brought up. It was easy to assume—“

Your face said a billion things at once..

And somehow, in all his awkwardness, his hand rested on yours, a small action of comfort and kindness.

You stared at him for a long moment. Your chest began to swirl with something you couldn’t identify in that moment.

“..How.. did you remember my coffee order?” You asked suddenly.

“You’re an easy person to remember things for.” He pulled his hand away quickly realizing what he was doing. “I’m sorry that sounds so incredibly weird—“ he said quickly, head shaking, getting all flustered.

“Thank you again Spencer.” You said handing him a five for your coffee. “The coffee was great.”

You felt embarrassed, you don’t know why, and maybe it wasn’t embarrassment, maybe it was something else.

You turned to leave, but then stopped.

“Can we do this again. Next week?” You asked as your hands tightened around your purse.

Spencer looked surprised, but nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

—

That became your weekly routine. Coffee, for 45 minutes, every Thursday. You didn’t always talk too much, but slowly you began to open up. Plus the company was nice.

Spencer also began to enjoy it. He didn’t have many (or any) friends outside of work, so having this weekly ritual with someone he would consider a friend was nice, even if he wasn’t sure if you also considered him a friend.

You had begun to lie awake at night when you should have been sleeping, thinking about Spencer. He had begun to plague your thoughts recently. He was nice, handsome, a genius, and a gentleman. You almost began to look forward to these weekly meetings, and so did Spencer.

——————————————————————————

A/N: ahh I love this, I’m already working on part two!! I got so much inspo from spencereidluver’s series! Like I mentioned in my last post, pleasseeee go give them so love, their work is so good.

[qlossytbh]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ gloss and golden light - spencer reid x bombshell! reader

⟢ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 the case gives you an excuse to sit across from spencer over coffee. the way he looks at you reminds you he never really needed one.

⟢ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 fluff, fluff, LOADS of fluff (about damn time), mutual pining, two idiots in love, spencer reid is down bad, reader is also down bad but she acts like she isn’t. SO MUCH flirting i stg they just keep going at it. spencer gets fairly distracted. case discussion.

⟢ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 2.5k

⟢ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 finally my baby’s get to be happy FOR ONCEEEE, it’ll go uphill from now on! (for now) ALSOOOOO guys feel absolutely FREE to ask anything about these two in my ask inbox or request to see a specific fanfic! gif by @reidgif

𝐛𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

the limbo you and spencer had fallen into was quiet, careful, and strangely wonderful.

it had been a little over a week since the morning in your apartment

since the shattered mug, the bandaged hand, the conversation that cracked both of you open just enough to finally admit what had been sitting between you for months— years even.

nothing had been labeled. god no. neither of you seemed ready for that yet.

there were no dramatic declarations. no sudden shift into something effortless and fearless.

if anything, the two of you moved around each other even more carefully now, like people learning the shape of a bruise— gentle, tentative, checking constantly to make sure the other wasn’t hurting.

but you were trying.

really trying.

the instinct to run still lived under your skin. it still flared sometimes when spencer looked at you too softly or said something that made your chest feel too full.

but now, instead of bolting the second you felt exposed, you stayed. even if it was only for a few extra seconds at a time.

and Spencer noticed every single one.

he noticed when you started texting him things that had nothing to do with work. random articles at two in the morning. pictures of your morning coffee made in different mugs in your collection cus it was far too big for your own good. a blurry photo of a bookstore window because this feels like something you’d like.

be oticed when you lingered after debriefs instead of disappearing immediately afterward. when you started sitting closer to him on the jet again. when your shoulder brushed his and you no longer jerked away like you’d touched a live wire.

small things.

tiny things, probably insignificant to anyone else.

but to him, they felt enormous.

because every one of them was you choosing not to run.

it was terrifying, letting someone see even these small pieces of you. everything felt like handing over a little more control, but you were doing it anyway.

the rest of the team was out chasing leads, leaving you and spencer tucked into the corner of a small café a few blocks from the precinct.

imterviews had wrapped earlier than expected, and hotch had sent the two of you to organize notes while the others followed up on a witness statement.

sunlight poured through the tall front windows, warm and golden against the scratched wooden tables. the café was quiet enough that the soft hiss of the espresso machine and the occasional turning of a page somewhere behind you blended into the background.

case files were spread across the table between you, highlighted maps and victim timelines scattered beneath half-finished coffees.

you were talking through the profile, pen tapping absently against the paper as you traced a route across the map.

“so i think the profile is holding pretty well,” you said, tapping your pen against the geographic map. “the unsub is clearly organized, but the victim selection still feels personal. all these women are high-functioning, independent— but he strikes when they’re most isolated.”

you glanced up, expecting input.

spencer was looking at you, not the files.

he had barely read a single line in the last ten minutes.

which made sense. spencer found it increasingly difficult to focus on anything else lately. he was supposed to be contributing, but his brain had other plans.

he loved listening to you talk. there was something about the way your mind worked— sharp, fast and brilliant that left him completely and stupidly captivated.

his gaze was soft, almost absent, tracing the way the sunlight caught in your hair, the small furrow between your brows, the unconscious rhythm of your pen tapping against the table.

“earth to dr. reid?”

nothing.

“spencer.” you nudged his foot just enough beneath the table to cause him to snap back into himself.

he blinked, like he’d only just remembered where he was. “hm?”

“i was talking about the profile.”

a faint flush climbed into his ears.

“right.” he cleared his throat, dragging his eyes back to the map with visible effort. “sorry. uh— yeah, i think you’re right. the resentment fits. especially if he perceives independence as rejection.”

you watched him for another second. you nodded, but your eyes narrowed slightly, playful suspicion creeping in.

the minutes slipped by in that easy, familiar rhythm the two of you had fallen into lately. you were both leaning over the small corner table, highlighters in hand, voices low as you continued to piece together the unsub’s pattern.

at one point, between the concentration towards one section of the map, you absentmindedly set your highlighter down as you pulled out a small lipliner, a gloss, and a tiny compact mirror from your bag with the casual grace of someone who’d done this routine a thousand times.

“…actually,” you murmured, still looking over the map as you uncapped the liner, “i think we’ve been looking at the timeline backwards.”

he looked up, utterly transfixed,

you angled the compact toward yourself and began carefully tracing the shape of your lips.

god, he didn’t think he’d ever get used to how beautiful you were.

and it wasn’t just the usual magnetic pull he felt around you. it was now quieter, deeper.

he found himself cataloging every detail like it was precious evidence: the elegant slope of your nose, the way your lashes cast soft shadows on your cheeks when you concentrated, the tiny freckle just above the corner of your mouth that you usually covered with makeup.

“if victim three is the emotional catalyst instead of the escalation…” you frowned slightly, concentrating more on the profile than your reflection. “…then the cooling-off period between murders suddenly makes a lot more sense.”

you finished with the liner and twisted open the gloss you carried everywhere in your purse

“and if that’s true…” you continued absentmindedly, carefully smoothing it across your bottom lip, “…he probably isn’t choosing locations based on opportunity. he’s choosing whichever one reminds him the most of whatever happened.”

spencer didn’t answer— mostly because he couldn’t.

his gaze had dropped to your lips— plush, shiny, the color making them look even more inviting.

and god forbid, his mind wandered, unbidden, to what it would feel like to kiss you right now. not the frantic, desperate kind from the hotel room, but something slower.

something sweeter.

the kind where he could taste the gloss on your lips and feel you smile against him. the kind where he could take his time learning exactly how you liked to be kissed— gentle at first, then deeper, until you made that soft little sound he was already addicted to—

“—don’t you think?”

“hmm?”

“okay,” your eyes narrowed at him. “what?”

spencer blinked, caught like a deer in headlights, though the soft flush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “what, what?”

“you’re doing the thing again,” you said, tilting your head as you studied him.

“what thing?” he asked, feigning innocence even as his gaze flickered once again down to your lips before darting guiltily back up to your eyes.

“the staring.”

“i wasn’t staring.”

“you are staring,” you countered, leaning forward just a fraction, your voice dropping into that teasing lilt you knew he secretly loved.

he opened his mouth. closed it again. then, with absolutely no talent whatsoever for lying and that adorably earnest expression that always made your chest feel too warm he said.

“okay— maybe a little.”

you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your mouth, slow and genuine, the kind that started in your eyes before it reached your lips. “a little?”

“a— noticeable amount,” he admitted, the words tumbling out soft and almost shy, like he couldn’t quite help himself.

his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his napkin, but his eyes kept drifting back, lingering on the curve of your smile like it was something precious and new.

you laughed quietly, shaking your head as warmth bloomed across your cheeks. “reid.”

he looked almost sheepish now, rubbing the back of his neck in that endearingly awkward way of his, but the fondness in his gaze never wavered. “i know.”

you rolled your eyes playfully. a quiet beat passed between you before you looked back down at the files, clearing your throat.

“anyway…”

you reached for your pen again, tapping the map.

“if we’re right about the emotional attachment, we should probably have rossi ask about anniversaries. birthdays, dates that would’ve meant something to him.”

spencer nodded immediately, grateful for the lifeline even if part of him wanted to stay exactly where the conversation had been.

“i’ll make a note of it.”

“and maybe expand the geographic radius another ten miles.” you leaned over the map again. “he isn’t choosing convenience. he’s choosing familiarity.”

“i agree.” he scribbled it down, glancing at you every few seconds when he thought you weren’t looking.

you were pretending not to notice. “then we can probably rule out the opportunistic offenders garcia flagged this morning.”

“already mentally ruled them out.”

“show-off.”

“you asked.”

a tiny laugh escaped you.

together, you spent another few quiet minutes refining the profile— crossing out theories, circling new ones, adding little notes in the margins.

the conversation slipped effortlessly back into the familiar cadence the two of you had always shared, the flirting settling beneath it like an undercurrent instead of replacing it.

only when you were satisfied that there wasn’t much else to add did you set your pen down again. spencer continued scribbling, gaze sharply focused on

you picked up the compact one last time, studying your reflection.

“…can i ask you something?”

spencer looked up immediately. “anything.”

you hesitated for half a second before gesturing vaguely toward your mouth.

“does this look weird?”

the question came out much smaller than you’d intended, your usual confident tone softening at the edges.

you gestured vaguely toward your mouth, feeling the familiar pull of vulnerability you tried so hard to keep hidden behind sharp wit and perfect makeup.

for a moment spencer looked genuinely confused, head tilting just a fraction as he processed the words. “weird?”

“the liner.”

you gestured again, a little more helplessly this time. “i kind of overlined the top lip and now i can’t tell if i fixed it or made it worse.”

he studied you with an almost unfair amount of concentration— not scrutinizing like some people did, picking apart every flaw, but simply looking.

and he didn’t look away. he was still getting used to the idea that he didn’t have to anymore

his eyes traced over your face with that quiet, thoughtful intensity he brought to everything important, lingering for a heartbeat on your lips before meeting your gaze again.

“no,” he said softly.

“no?”

a tiny, sincere smile appeared, the kind that reached his eyes and made the rest of the room feel a little farther away. “i actually think you look really pretty.”

the words were so simple.

nothing elaborate. just the truth, delivered in that quiet, earnest way only he could manage.

“oh,” your heart completely betrayed you, a warm flutter blooming in your chest that you tried (and failed) to ignore.

you looked down at the table far too quickly, fingers tracing the edge of your napkin as your cheeks burned. “…that’s annoyingly nice of you.”

you reached for your iced coffee, ice crinkling in its to go cup and mostly because you needed to give your hands something to do

you brought the straw to your mouth, taking a sip. but the moment stretched, and you couldn’t help glancing back at him. he was still watching you, that soft, steady gaze making your pulse stumble.

damn him.

“you’ve been doing this a lot lately,” you mumbled, setting the cup down.

“what?”

“loooking at me like…” you gestured vaguely between the two of you, a little helplessly. “…like that.”

you were trying to seem composed and you were almost certain it was going horribly for you.

spencer smiled to himself, small and shy, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way that always made your stomach flutter. “i know.”

“yeah well it’s distracting.”

“yeah, i’ve noticed.”

you finally looked back up again, meeting his eyes across the small table. the cafe noise faded even further into the background.

“so what’s your excuse doctor?” you jutted your chin at him, grabbing your coffee in one hand and crossing the other as you leaned back in your chair.

he held your gaze for a long second, the air between you growing thicker with everything unsaid.

his fingers played with the edge of a napkin absentmindedly, a small tell of the quiet nervousness he carried too.

“i spent a long time convincing myself i wasn’t allowed to.” his voice stayed quiet, sincere in that devastatingly way that was all him. “and now i am.”

the words settled somewhere deep in your chest, warm and terrifying all at once.

he keeps swiping the rug from underneath your feet these past weeks and no matter how many times you keep getting up, he keeps finding ways for the weight of his words to press gently against the walls you’d spent so long keeping intact.

“well,” you set your coffee down again despite how red your face had gotten, and mostly because you suddenly needed something to do with your hands. “i think that’s horribly unfair.”

he laughed softly, the sound low and fond, his shoulders relaxing as he leaned closer over the table. “why?”

“because i don’t know what to do when you’re this honest.”

“you don’t have to do anything.” he smiled, that gentle, reassuring curve of his lips that always made you feel seen in a way no one else ever had. “i just thought you should know.”

the simplicity of it—of him—hit you all over again.

there was never any pressure, no grand expectations.

just spencer, choosing to be honest in the quiet spaces between you, letting the moment breathe. you held his gaze a little longer this time, the delicate newness of whatever this was settling warmly in your chest like something you didn’t want to let go of just yet.

you slid your heel closer under the table, the movement slow and deliberate, until the side of your heel brushed gently against his leg.

you watched, satisfied, as spencer visibly tensed— his shoulders tightening just a fraction, his breath catching for the briefest second.

at least he still didn’t have the upper hand as much as you sometimes felt he did.

he responded almost immediately, resting his foot lightly against yours in return. a tiny, hidden point of contact beneath the table that was meant just for the two of you.

enough to make your pulse stumble once again

“you know, i liked you better when you were awkward,” you murmured, the words slipping out teasing and warm as you lifted your straw to your lips.

“i am awkward,” he replied, voice low, that familiar self-deprecating note threading through it even as the corner of his mouth lifted.

“no.” You huffed a laugh. “now you’re like— smooth.”

his laugh escaped before he could stop it— soft, surprised, and utterly genuine, the sound sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. “i promise you that’s not intentional.”

“no?”

“no.”

he looked at you with that same unbearably soft expression, eyes warm and steady in the gentle restaurant light, like he was seeing every small detail you tried to hide behind sarcasm and perfect lipstick. “it’s just significantly easier to tell you what i’m thinking now.”

the air between you felt charged, electric, like the smallest spark could set everything alight. “well that’s a dangerous development.”

“for who?”

“for me.”

[remnantiris]

thinking about writing spencer x reader fics 🤔🤔 what yall think??

[qlossytbh]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ how to hold porcelain - spencer reid x bombshell!reader

⟢ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 after one drunken phone call and a night spent trying to outrun the inevitable, spencer reid shows up at your apartment with breakfast in one hand and every conversation you’ve been avoiding in the other.

⟢ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 hurt/comfort, spencer reid is too good for this world, avoidant attachment, hurt/comfort, very brief panic attack, injuries, honest conversations (fucking finally), emotional catharsis, self worth issues, fear of abandonment, spencer is a sweetheart, reassurance.

⟢ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 4.8k

⟢ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 war is finally over!!! i couldn’t take it anymore i had to make them stop suffering

𝐛𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

you wake up feeling like your skull’s been split open with a crowbar.

thank god for ibuprofen.

light slices through the curtains like an attack that feels somewhat personal. your mouth tastes like stale tequila and all the bad decisions you had taken, and the second consciousness fully settles in, so does the memory.

everything floods back in sharp, humiliating flashes: calling spencer drunk, rambling on the phone like an idiot, almost crying in front of him, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left in your world.

“fuck,” you groan into your pillow.

humiliation crashes over you in hot, sickening waves. you drag both hands over your face hard enough to hurt, like maybe you can scrub the memory out of your brain before it settles permanently.

you force yourself out of bed anyway, limbs heavy and sluggish, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. your apartment is too quiet. your skin feels too tight. every thought in your head sounds louder than it should.

you toss on an oversized hoodie and slip on some sweatpants, skin itching from the fabric of the clothes you had worn to go out.

your body begs for a cup of coffee, so you head to the kitchen immediately. the familiar routine steadies you a little— the hiss of the espresso machine, the cold carton of milk against your palm, the measured repetition of motions you could probably do half-dead.

see? this you can handle.

this is manageable. this is mechanical. this doesn’t ask anything from you emotionally.

your hand reaches automatically into the cabinet for your favorite mug.

white porcelain. watercolor carnations painted around the rim, tiny red hearts hidden between the petals.

it’s the one he gave you that you’ve probably used every single morning since he left it on your desk because it’s stupidly pretty and it makes you feel a little less alone.

you don’t let yourself think about the irony. you pour the milk into the coffee shot, ice cubes clinking slightly and mind carefully replaying anything but what happened last night, when a soft knock sounds at your door.

your stomach drops straight through the floor because you already know exactly who’s behind it. you stare at the door for a long second like maybe if you wait long enough he’ll disappear.

and then you hear another knock, softer this time.

and because you apparently haven't learned anything, you open it despite yourself.

spencer stands there in a gray cardigan and dark pants, paper bag in one hand, concern written all over his face before he even says a word. his eyes scan your face once and you feel exposed down to the bone.

“morning,” he says carefully. “i brought breakfast, figured you might need it.”

you force a tight smile, the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes. “you didn’t have to do that.”

you let him step inside before you can close the door in his face— because apparently you’re still weak when it comes to him.

you move back toward the kitchen immediately because distance feels safer. spencer follows quietly behind you.

“how bad is the hangover?” he asks gently.

“biblical.”

that earns the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. you lean against the counter and pick up your coffee, taking a sip of it, mostly to avoid looking at him.

“the bagel should help.” he gave you a sympathetic smile, pushing the paper bad towards you as he leaned his hip against your counter top as well. “do you need a plate?”

“uhm—“ you say, voice already edged with defensiveness as you faced your iced coffee. “you can just… leave it there.”

he blinks at you and you still try to avoid his gaze no matter the cost. “thanks for last night— really. but you don’t have to keep hovering.”

“i’m not hovering.”

“spencer.”

“i wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“i am okay.”

he doesn’t move. he just looks at you like he’s trying to dig something out of you despite you not making it easy. his eyes flick to the carnation mug beside you, then back to your face.

“you seriously don't think i believe that, right?”

you laugh once, sharp around the edges. “please don’t start psychoanalyzing me before i’ve had actual food.”

“i’m not psychoanalyzing you.”

“really? because the concerned staring is usually the first step.”

“you called me last night—“

“yeah yeah– i remember,” your cheeks burned. “I was drunk–”

“and you were upset.”

“same difference.”

“no, it’s not.”

your shoulders tense instantly.

because there’s that goddamn tone.

the tone that always makes you feel cornered because he never raises his voice first. he just keeps calmly peeling layers back until suddenly you’re standing there emotionally naked and furious about it. you set your mug down harder than necessary.

“okay, well, congratulations. i survived. you can stop worrying now.”

he studies you for a long moment.

“you’re pushing me out again,”

“i’m not pushing you out,” you scoff, body jumping straight into defensiveness, not missing how your words started to develop a bite.

“yes, you are.” you froze momentarily at his confrontation, very different from how he has been acting these past few days, letting you push him out.

much like you, he’s reacting to his limits.

“dont be ridiculous,” you said. “i don’t need a babysitter.”

“that’s not what this is.”

“then what is it?” the question cracks louder than you intended.

spencer steps a little closer, expression tightening now too.

“you tell me,” he says. “because three weeks ago you kissed me like it meant something and then spent every day pretending i imagined the entire thing.”

you immediately look away. “i told you i panicked.”

“and i understood that.” his voice stays calm, but barely now. “what i don’t understand is why you keep acting like caring about me is some kind of catastrophic mistake.”

“because maybe it is.” the words slip out before you can stop them.

spencer stills completely. you hate the hurt that flashes across his face.

you keep hurting him.

“see?” you snap. “this is exactly why i didn’t want to do this.”

“do what? have an honest conversation?”

“you keep trying to drag things out of me like if i just admit the right thing everything magically fixes itself!”

“because you keep saying things you don’t mean!” his voice finally rises. you freeze and spencer runs a hand through his hair hard, pacing back a step before turning back toward you. “i saw your drawer.”

your freeze and look at him, panic clawing at you relentlessly. “i saw all the pictures and the notes and everything else.

he looks exhausted and angry and frustrated suddenly.

worn down.

“you tell me to stay away,” he says tightly, “and then you call me crying because you miss me. you say the kiss didn’t mean anything, but you look at me like you’re waiting for me to stay every time i walk into a room.”

you open your mouth immediately. “that’s not—”

“and i’m tired.” his voice cracks unexpectedly around the word. “i’m tired of feeling like every time you care about me, you punish yourself for it and consequently– you punish me.”

you look away first. spencer takes one slow breath, quieter now, but somehow more intense.

“you told me after the kiss in new york that you only saw me as a friend and wanted to go back to how things were before.”

“yes,” you said, glaring at him. “whats your point?”

“i don’t believe you,” he took a step forward.

“excuse me?” you searched his eyes, too stunned to tell if he was actually being serious. your insides clawed at you, feeling uncomfortable and ugly and sickening and all you wanted was to pull away. so you scoffed, looking away.

“look at me,” he says.

you don’t. your fingers tighten around the mug.

“look at me and tell me you felt nothing in that hotel room.”

your pulse spikes immediately. “no.”

“no what?”

“no, i’m not doing this.”

“why?”

“because i don’t want to.”

“that’s not an answer.”

“spencer—”

“just tell me the truth for once.” something inside you snaps violently.

“you want the truth?” you laugh harshly, finally looking at him dead in the eye. “fine. the truth is that this— whatever this is— is a terrible fucking idea.”

pain flashes across his face again but he keeps going anyway. “why?”

“because eventually i ruin shit!” the words explode out of you. your breathing turns uneven instantly.

spencer stares at you. and for the first time since he walked in, you genuinely look furious instead of defensive

furious at him. and at yourself.

furious that he keeps pushing directly against every crack you’ve spent years trying to seal shut.

“you don’t get it,” you say, voice shaking now from sheer frustration more than emotion. “you keep acting like if i just admit i care about you, everything’s magically fine. but it’s not fine, spencer.”

your hand moves helplessly as you talk, sharp and frantic. “because people leave. or they change their minds. or i panic and ruin it first and then everyone acts surprised when it blows up anyway—”

your voice reaches its peak when suddenly your elbow catches the mug— the beautiful, stupid, perfect mug he gave you, and it tips over the counter and shatters on the tile with a loud, violent crash.

coffee splashes across the floor. white ceramic explodes into pieces around your feet, tiny painted carnations split clean down the middle.

you freeze, staring at the mess, frozen in place as a pit prevents your from breathing correctly.

this was one of the few things you let yourself keep. one of the only reminders that someone saw you, really saw you, and still chose to be gentle.

it was your favourite reminder of him. of the two of you.

and now it’s gone.

because of you, the voice in your head reminds you cruelly

something inside you snaps.

“no—“ you drop to the floor instantly, hands shaking as you try to gather the pieces like you can somehow put it back together.

“hey—”

“i can fix it.”

your voice sounds strange— thin, frantic and close to breaking

you reach for another shard too quickly and you let out a small yelp as one of the bigger shards slices across your palm. “shit—”

your breath starts coming too fast and before you can even control it, tears burn hot behind your eyes. you can feel yourself spiraling, the same way you always do when things get like this.

spencer ducks down with you, catching your wrist instantly. “hey, stop.”

you yank against him automatically. “i said i can fix it—”

you don’t listen. you keep grabbing at the shards, vision blurring, convincing yourself that if you let a piece slip away you’ll never fully get it back.

“you’re bleeding.” he continues to try to grip your wrist but you still pull away before he gets the chance to.

“i don’t care!”

you don’t care what happens to you as long as you can stop everything else from breaking first.

“hey,” he whispers softly, searching your face but he’s never seen you like this.

he’s never seen you so close to the verge of crumbling.

“but, i need to fix this—“ your voice is so small it breaks his heart to hear you like that.

spencer’s grip softens immediately, devastatingly gentle. he carefully pulls the shard from your fingers and sets it aside.

“look at me,” he says again, quieter this time.

you finally do.

your eyes glossed over with tears and gaze entirely empty. you look furious and exhausted and completely cornered by your own feelings, like you’ve spent years holding a door shut with your bare hands and you’re finally too tired to keep bracing it closed.

your chest rises sharply. once. twice.

“i hate this,” you whisper.

spencer’s brows pull together. “hate what?”

“this.” your injured hand gestures helplessly between the two of you. “you always know exactly where to press.”

“you keep standing there asking me to say things i’ve spent my whole life trying not to say.”

spencer stares at you like the air’s been knocked out of him. and suddenly you’re laughing, not happily but something more wrecked than that.

“god, you wanna know the worst part?” you say, shaking your head hard. “i can’t even lie to you anymore.”

spencer’s face softens instantly, but you push forward before he can speak.

“i can’t tell you the kiss meant nothing because it didn’t.” your breathing turns uneven again. “it meant too much. that’s the whole problem.”

you look down at the shattered mug scattered around your knees. “everything i touch turns into this eventually.”

you spit the truth out like it burns you, like admitting it out loud hurts you in more ways than one— and spencer can only feel his heart tug at the sound of it.

he stays right there with you, holding your injured hand carefully in both of his, thumb stroking your wrist like he’s trying to keep you tethered to the earth.

“hey,” he says softly, firmly. “look at me.”

you do.

“you are not ruining me.”

your jaw tightens immediately because some instinct in you still wants to fight him on it— but you’re so tired.

spencer brushes his thumb carefully beneath your knuckles. he looks at you silently, heart thundering heavily beneath his chest as he looks at you with nothing but concern. “can we please talk about this?”

your eyes close briefly and for the first time in your life, surrender feels less terrifying than running and you finally nod.

—

“ow—” you hiss sharply, yanking your hand away from spencer as the sting radiates up your arm, but it’s nothing compared to the hot wave of frustration and embarrassment flooding your chest. “I told you that hurts.”

spencer huffs, a heavy, slightly frustrated sound, as he holds the peroxide-soaked cotton ball like it’s a peace offering he’s pretty sure you won't accept. “well, if you keep yanking your hand away, it’s not going to hurt any less.”

you glare at him, cheeks burning. pain and shame twist together into something ugly and familiar, sharpening your tongue before you can stop it. “how about you try being gentle for once?”

spencer’s face softens instantly, the frustration melting into something quieter.

“okay,” he says gently. “i’ll be more gentle.”

the bathroom is quiet except for the tap dripping somewhere behind you. you sit perched on the counter swinging one leg restlessly because if you stay too still you think you might actually crawl out of your own skin.

you keep your injured hand curled against your chest and continue glaring at him, but the fight is already draining out of you.

spencer watches you from where he’s standing between your knees, patient and careful in that way that always makes you feel too seen.

he says your name, soft and steady.

“can you please give me your hand back?” he asks. “it can get infected if we don’t clean it properly.”

“let it get infected then,” you mutter stubbornly.

spencer deadpans at you, but there’s no real anger in it, only quiet concern and something that looks a lot like sympathy.

“i promise i’ll be gentle,” he says, ducking his head a little to catch your glare, trying to meet your eyes. “please?”

you hold out for a few more stubborn seconds, jaw tight, heart racing. then you let out a long, defeated groan and finally extend your hand toward him, palm up.

“thank you,” he murmurs, voice warm with quiet relief.

he keeps cleaning the cut with slow, careful movements, eyes fixed on your hand like it requires his full concentration. the peroxide stings, but his touch is so tender it almost makes the pain worse— because it reminds you how carefully he always handles you, even when you’re being difficult, even when you don’t deserve it.

“so,” he says carefully.

you immediately tense. “that’s never a good way to start a sentence.”

his eyes flick up to yours. “you know what i mean.”

“unfortunately,”

you can feel him trying to approach the conversation gently, which somehow makes you more anxious than if he’d just come in angry. “you don’t have to make a joke every time something gets uncomfortable,”

“that’s objectively false. it’s actually one of my best qualities.”

there’s no amusement there, only quiet resolve and something deeper— something that looks a lot like hurt he’s trying not to show.

“you scared me today,” spencer knows perfectly well how to swerve around the thousands of deflections you've put up, it's always been something you hated about him, how well he could slip through your defenses

“i’m sorry,” your chest tightens.

he finishes wrapping the gauze around your palm, smoothing the tape down with frustrating gentleness before finally looking up at you fully.

“why did it effect you so much?”

you let out a sharp breath through your nose. “because clearly I’m dramatic.”

“you’re not,” spencer leans back slightly, still standing between your knees. close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off him.

there’s a second where all your doing is picking at a small thread off your sweatpants.

“i think,” he says slowly, choosing every word with painful care. “you spend a lot of time trying to convince people you don’t care about things.”

your throat tightens immediately. you bite down on your jaw and sink further into yourself.

“and i think,” he continues before you can interrupt, “that by the time you do let yourself care about something, you’re already terrified of losing it.”

the room suddenly feels too small.

you laugh softly, but it comes out thin. “you know, you’re better at your job then i thought you were.”

that finally gets a tiny huff of laughter out of him. but only for a second. then he continues to look at you again with that awful, steady sincerity and you feel yourself start wanting to run all over again.

“i’m not trying to psychoanalyze you,” he says. “i just… i need to understand what happened.”

“right to the point i guess,”

he says your name in a way that isn’t aggressive, but sounds like he’s asking you to take the conversation a little more seriously than you clearly are.

you feel the words land like a stone in your chest. your instinct is to lash out, to throw up another wall of sarcasm, but you look up and the look on his face stops you.

he’s scared too— scared that if he pushes too hard you’ll disappear again, but more scared of never knowing the truth.

you somehow fail to understand that you're not the only one who loses in this situation, and that frustrates you because it would make this a hell lot easier.

“i don’t know.”

“yes, you do.”

he says it gently and you grow frustrated all over again. he genuinely believes you’re capable of telling the truth if someone waits long enough and he's right. you want to fall into him, you want to tell him the full truth and if he’s patient enough you know you will.

but no one has even been patient enough— so feeling close to leaning on him is terrifying. you swallow hard.

“when things start feeling important,” you say slowly, “my brain kind of… turns against me.”

“it stops feeling good.” your fingers curl unconsciously around the edge of the counter. “it starts feeling dangerous and threatening.”

“because?”

you laugh again, quieter this time. “god, you really don’t let people dodge questions.”

“no,” he says simply. “not when they matter.”

“because people leave,” you finally admit, your hands turn fidgety and words a little frantic. “or they change their minds or i ruin things without meaning to.”

he doesn’t interrupt. he just listens, eyes steady on yours, giving you the space to keep going even when your voice cracks.

but your voice gets rougher the longer you speak. “and the second i realize someone could actually hurt me, i start wanting out before they get the chance to.”

spencer absorbs that silently. “you think that’s what would happen with me?”

you don’t answer immediately.

because yes. of course it would. not because you think he’s cruel. almost worse than that— it's because he’s good.

spencer is steady and patient and loving in this terrifyingly deliberate way. he’s perfect and any logical person would know that spencer isn't going to hurt you, at least not intentionally. he’s the type of person the unafraid version of yourself craves— the afraid version does as well.

he’s all you've never been and people like him don’t stay once they realize how much work you are. the though causes your eyes to sting unexpectedly.

“you make me feel very…” you stop, frustrated already. “i don’t know.”

his voice softens, noticing your frustration. “you can take your time.”

you shake your head immediately. “no, because if i think about it too hard i’m gonna start sounding insane.”

“you already called me drunk. i think we passed ‘normal’ awhile ago.”

you bark out a startled laugh despite yourself, immediately covering your face with your uninjured hand. a tiny smile finally appears on his mouth. “there she is.”

your heart squeezes as your search is eyes for what, you're not sure. but you continue to look for something.

finally, you huff and look down at your thighs. you speak up quietly after a while. “you wanna know what the worst part is?”

spencer nods once.

“i knew kissing you was a bad idea because i knew it was gonna matter too much to me.” your throat tightens. “and then it did.”

the confession settles softly between you. spencer looks at you, even though you are deliberately avoiding eye contact time after time.

“you really think,” he says carefully, “that you’re the only person this mattered to?”

you shake your head immediately, because you know that's not true. “no, i know it mattered to you. that’s the problem.”

something flickers across his face. “you keep talking about caring about you like it’s some awful thing that happened to me.”

“spencer—”

“no, seriously,” his voice stays calm, but there’s emotion underneath it now because he doesn't understand how you could possibly think that when he is only capable of thinking the complete opposite. “every time we get close, you talk like i’m making some horrible mistake.”

“and i know you think you’re protecting me,” he says more softly, “but you don’t get to decide for me what’s worth it.”

you feel it somewhere deep behind your ribs. spencer steps a little closer instinctively, hands settling lightly on either side of your thighs.

“i’m not asking you to suddenly stop being scared,” he says. “i just need you to stop acting like caring about you is something i should recover from.”

“because it’s not.” he emphasizes. “it never has been.”

caring for you has been one of the easiest things he has ever done— easier than memorizing statistics, easier than slipping into patterns and profiles and facts that live permanently inside his head.

caring about you had never felt complicated to him, never felt heavy in the way you keep insisting it must be. it wasn’t a burden he carried with gritted teeth, it wasn’t something that exhausted him or hollowed him out.

it was instinct.

he didn't know how not to reach for you or to worry about you. to notice when your smile faltered half a second too late for anyone else to catch it. to remember the smallest things about you without trying.

to stay.

“i don’t know how to be this important to someone,” you whisper.

“you already are,” he says gently. “you have been for a long time.”

your eyes drift down to where his hands rest against your legs. long fingers, careful even at rest.

the same hands that steadied your shaking wrists on the kitchen floor and the ones that held your hands like they were something worth protecting while you sat there surrounded by broken porcelain and every ugly thing you believed about yourself.

you cover one of them with your good hand before you can second-guess yourself.

“i’m trying,” you admit quietly. “i know it doesn’t always look like it, but i am.”

something in his face softens immediately. not relief exactly but something deeper than that. “i know.”

“and i’m probably gonna freak out again,” you warn weakly.

“i know.”

“and say the wrong thing.”

a tiny smile touches his mouth. “statistically very likely, yes.”

you let out a breathy laugh and spencer’s eyes linger on your face like he’s quietly amazed he managed to pull that sound out of you at all.

then he lifts his hand slowly, giving you more than enough time to pull away but you don’t. his fingers brush along your jaw, warm and featherlight, before settling there completely. his thumb traces once beneath your cheekbone, and the tenderness of it almost undoes you all over again.

“we can figure it out scared,” he says quietly.

you swallow hard. “i don’t really know what i’m doing,”

his expression turns impossibly soft. “neither do i.”

“that’s a lie. you definitely know more than me.”

a quiet huff of laughter leaves him. “in theory? maybe.”

you open your mouth to protest and he’s already interrupting you. “kidding,”

you roll your eyes and he smiles— really smiles this time, warm and fond and so ridiculously pretty it makes your stomach twist.

“but in practice?” he tilts his head a little. “i’m kind of improvising here too.”

you smile despite yourself, shaky around the edges.

the room feels strangely intimate now. morning light spilling weakly through the bathroom window. your fingers tighten around his hand unconsciously, and his eyes flick down to the movement before lifting to yours again.

“so what happens now?” you ask quietly. his thumb strokes once against your jaw.

“now?” he says. “we go slow, at whatever pace your comfortable with,”

your chest gives a painful little pull. “and if i mess it up?”

“i’ll probably mess things up too,” he adds softly. “that’s generally how relationships work.”

the word makes your pulse trip over itself and his eyes catch it immediately. he ducks forward slightly and catches your gaze.

“we don’t have to label anything right now,” he says gently, voice lowering and reassuring. “i’m not asking for that,”

“but i am asking you to let me stay,” he murmurs. “even when it gets difficult. even when your first instinct is to run.”

you stare at him for a long moment and he’s looking at you like you’re something precious even when you feel impossible to hold onto.

and for the first time in a very long time, leaning toward him feels a million times less terrifying than being alone.

your lip trembles once before you press it tight between your teeth. your fingers tighten around his wrist and you feel that overwhelming need to just be close to him.

“can you come here?” the question barely leaves your mouth before something in his expression breaks open completely.

“yeah,” he says immediately, soft like he can’t believe you’re asking. “yeah, of course.”

he steps back just a little bit, hands still hovering for half a second like he’s still checking if this is okay.

you answer for him.

your good hand catches weakly the sleeve of his cardigan and tugs lightly towards yourself because all you can think about right now is him and being close to him. spencer steps into you instantly, and the second his arms wrap around your waist, something inside you gives out completely.

weeks of holding yourself rigid suddenly melting all at once.

you fold into him with a shaky exhale, arms sliding around his middle as your forehead presses hard against his chest. he’s warm everywhere— solid and steady and devastatingly safe. you feel his chin rest gently against the top of your head a second later, his arms tightening around you like he’s been wanting to hold you for a very long time.

and maybe he has.

his hand slides slowly up your back, soothing and unhurried. you feel him breathe you in and for some reason you cant afford to dig into with the emotional state you were in your eyes begin to sting again.

however this time you don’t fight it so hard.

“i’m sorry about the mug,” you mumble against his sweater after a long silence, somehow not being able to resist the urge of apologizing.

you feel the quiet laugh rumble through his chest. “that’s what you’re worried about right now?”

“it was a really nice mug.”

“it was,” he agrees solemnly.

you tighten your arms around him a little. “i really liked that mug.”

spencer pulls back just enough to look down at you, his hands still resting warm against your back, and chest squeezing tightly at the slight sine of tears in your eyes

“i can buy another mug.” he promises. his hand reaches up, cradling your face and letting his thumb brush softly beneath your eye before he pulls you back against him again without another word.

[qlossytbh]

okay so hypothetically speaking, what would happen if i posted another bombshell!reader fic tonight…. asking for a friend….

[teamfreewill-savingpeople]

Ok ok ok so I have a complete SpencerxReader fic but I need to get my butt on a desktop to format and post and ughhh demand avoidance hurts