If you feel up to it and have ideas for if, can we get some secret!reader?? Or if not then maybe disabled!reader??? Or feel free to use this as a freebie if neither of those hit the brain right :) no pressure!! :D hope you're doing okay
"What the fuck?" you mutter and Bruce looks up from his menu, quirking an eyebrow.
"Problem, sweetheart?" he hummed.
"Just wondering why reception decided to send an interview to your office when you're not there," you huff, 'I'll be right back."
Bruce watches you go, torn between amusement and annoyance. He dragged you here specifically to get you to eat a meal- for the last four days you'd been pulling strings and all-nighters to get ahead of the drama his latest escapades had caused- an unfortunate side effect of needing a diversion. But, it seemed he'd be ordering for you.
He debated briefly and decided you needed protein. You liked the chicken here. So he'd order that and a salad. Possibly a dessert if he could get you to sit and actually eat it.
Maybe if he sent his entree back and you had to sit- but. Before he could finish plotting his phone rang.
Unknown number.
Frowning he answered, "Hello-"
"Mr. Wayne," a voice said, somehow rasping and smooth. "We have something you might want back."
Fuck.
"Is that- did you find my watch? Thank you I've-"
"Not a watch," he laughed, "But a very pretty piece anyway. Do you know if she's had her shots? She bit me-"
"I do have good health coverage," he said, "But I'd appreciate her not needing it."
"So do what we say. No cops. Or you'll be headhunting a new girl before you can blink."
On the other end, he heard a gun cock. A 9mm. And a little feminine noise of distress. A soft cry as metal impacted flesh before the line went dead.
all this time i’ve been reading these forger!reader drabbles and i thought it meant ironsmith-forger,,, blacksmith!reader,,,, reader with a forging hammer,,,, the alternative is cool too
My bad, lol
Alfred blinked and tried to stifle the slight shock he knew HAD to have flashed on his face when you bounded into the room.
Heels, a short tight dress, and your hair unbound- obviously you'd been previously engaged this evening when you'd been called.
"I had a date," you explain.
"Lucky fellow," Alfred said, coughing slightly to hide his amusement at Bruce's face. Surely he didn't know- or he did and had decided that that was unacceptable.
"Wish he saw it that way. I swear if he tried to explain the 'real price' of art to me, I was going to scream. Or kick him. Like, yeah, that's it baby, talk all condescendingly to me that's a real panty dropper." You huff and extricate a hair tie from your bag to get your hair out of your face, "What am I doing?"
Bruce stared at you for a second and you wave your hand in front of his face, "Hello? Mr. Wayne? You called me?"
"Right," he started and tore his eyes away from your lips, "I uh- the presentation tomorrow we need to go over it-"
Another annoyed huff and you give him a look, eyes narrowed, "You're super lucky it was a bad date."
"Oh?" he said, "What if it wasn't?"
"I probably would have just stared at my phone and watched it ring. You gave me the night off, remember?"
Bruce tried to give you his most charming smile but it faltered when he noticed you taking a seat opposite his desk. And the fascinating thing your dress was doing when you bent forward to get your laptop from your bag.
"Which parts do we need to go over?" you ask, logging in. "If I'm here, we may as well-"
"Alfred-"
"Yes, Master Bruce?" he cut in, trying to keep the mirth out of his tone. Bruce hadn't been this far on the back foot with a woman since he was in middle school, and he wasn't sure why- but he enjoyed it.
"I think we're going to need coffee-"
"And maybe a snack?" you ask, giving Alfred your best puppy dog eyes, "The food was horrific. Almost worse than the company."
"I think I can accommodate," he acquiesced, winking at you. "I seem to have gotten the perfect bread for toasted cheese-"
"You're a saint," you tell him, blowing a kiss at him, "Thank you!"
"I can't have the one person holding Mr. Wayne's social and professional lives together wasting away," he said. "How ever would I survive having to do it again?"
"Hey!" Bruce protested, "It's not that-"
"Mr. Wayne, I had to send flowers to two different supermodels because you triple booked yourself this week." You don't look up from your laptop.
"It was an accident," he muttered, sitting behind his desk, "Jst show me what we have so far."
| headcanons of meeting and dating older!Bruce Wayne .✦ ݁˖
cw:: age gap.
𝜗ৎ older!Bruce had given up on finding love for a long time ago. When he was still young all the relationships were ruined by his obsession with making the damned city into a better place. And who would want him anymore? With graying hair and moustaches
𝜗ৎ Older!Bruce met you in a random Gotham cafe. He decided to offer to pay for your order, it’s not like he has any problem with money. but you’re still young and need to save up, he thinks. After he got you a warm drink and the cafe’s best pastry the two of you end sitting together, talking and talking. The time passes so that the neither of you don’t even notice it
𝜗ৎ your friendship and in the future a relationship with older!bruce builds up slowly, patiently, with time. The two of you end up meeting again soon after the cafe, Bruce ends up taking you to a fancy dinner. The dinner he takes you so fancy that the menu doesn’t even have the prices, and you can’t help but to look at the book in your hand with nothing but nervousness. Bruce is quick to tell you to order whatever you want and he’ll pay, and that he won’t hear any arguments about it. You end up having great time with him, and so the two of you meet again
𝜗ৎ older!bruce starts to slowly develop feelings for you, they surprise himself as well. He realises them when all he can think about is you, thoughts running through his mind if you’re okay, what are you up to, if your day has went well. And when he catches himself smiling at the thought of getting to see you again. Bruce doesn’t do anything with his feelings though, he’s sure you don’t feel the same way and why would you even want someone like him. Which leaves you to be the one to make the final move
𝜗ৎ older!bruce wants to put his whole focus on you. He has made the mistake of letting his relationships be ruined by not putting enough focus and care into it way too many times, and he won’t let it happen again. Absolutely never forgets any of the dates, always arrives early to pick you up. Never misses anything the two of you have set up or if you ask him to accompany you somewhere
𝜗ৎ older!bruce listens. If you mention wanting to go to a new cafe by the beach that you heard someone mention, he’s already planning to take you there the upcoming weekend. If you mention seeing a dress that you thought was beautiful the other day he’s already handing you his card and telling you to get it. He also notices. He notice it when you scrunch your nose at something, hinting that it made you uncomfortable, he’ll make sure it’ll never happen again
𝜗ৎ older!Bruce never mentions the age gap. Absolutely never pulls the I’m older and I know better card, he doesn’t even think about it. He respects and love you, and he won’t ever make you feel like your words, opinions or feelings mean less
𝜗ৎ older!Bruce is much calmer than what he was before. When he was younger he’d lash out and say things he doesn’t mean during arguments, neither did he knew how to apologise. Now he doesn’t yell or say words he’ll regret, but rather he listens calmly, making you feel heard and neither does he struggle saying “I’m sorry”
𝜗ৎ older!bruce has decided to spend most of his time traveling. Most of this time before was just spend in Gotham so he decided it’s finally time for him to get out of the city more often. And of course he’s taking you with him. He lets you choose the location always, but his favourite will always be some tropical holiday where two of you can just lazy around.
𝜗ৎ he’ll get the most expensive hotel room, with a window view to the ocean. Bruce would just love to do some silly activities together through out the day. And by the end of the night he’ll slowly remove the new expensive lingerie he got you
Tags: @userhotd @littlelovebiird @vlarrtrgryn {feel free to comment, message or send me an ask if you’d like to be tagged in my future posts!}
he's just lying there, mouth open, eyes so wide they look glassy. not moving. not breathing right. his hands hover over your hips like he's scared to touch you.
you're the hottest thing he's ever seen and he's afraid he would burn if he touch you.
you roll your hips down slow, and the only sound in the room is his shaky little exhale and your voice. he's so quiet. no dirty talk, no growling. just these soft, punched out moans every time you sink onto him.
"you—ahh—okay baby?" you ask.
he nods all dumb, lips parted, eyes locked on where your bodies meet, then back up to your tits and face. his mouth moves but nothing comes out. then you clench around him, just a little, and his whole body jerks. his eyes roll back and he's cumming with this broken, high pitched whimper.
you're just too beautiful and he's too in love to hold it.
"ughh fuck—" he gasps, face red, hands finally gripping your waist. "pretty—y-you're so pretty—so p-pretty"
he's trying. he really is.
so just smile down at him and run your fingers through his hair. tell him he did good. he'll blink up at you all teary, still hard somehow, and whisper that he loves you.
Writing is an art. Writing hurts you. Writing makes you cry and keeps you up at night and makes you grit your teeth in frustration at not finding the right words. It makes you take mental note of words you’ve never seen before in order to use them someday in your own stories. Writing is a passion that when a story takes you somewhere, that’s all you wanna do, that the characters are the only people you wanna spend time with. Writing is hard. And people need to learn to appreciate that.
I feel too often Loki is written as a suave, dashing, charming, and alluringly dark love interest.
As a very very long time Loki apologist and Loki fangirl... I saw with all the love in my heart but...
Loki is a fucking loser LMAO.
Yes, he can be charming and talk his way into or out of any situation. But he's also selfish and childish and spoiled. He's a prince for norn's sake!
I like when Loki fics let that petulant and ridiculous side of him shine through. Let him be a whiny bitch who doesn't take reader's feelings into consideration, and then regrets it later. Let him get jealous and start a petty ass argument for no reason. Let him make mistakes or say rude things he doesn't mean.
LET LOKI BE A SHIT.
He is the OG shit. I love when he's difficult and petty and just plain pathetic. It's part of his charm!
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bruce wayne x fem!reader / batfam x batmom
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: jean lavigne, hermès’ creative director, reveals the story behind the wayne, the $50,000 handbag born from his fascination with mrs. wayne. when her children accidentally damage the limited-edition bag, they finally discover just how influential their mother is in the fashion world, forcing them to realise how much more there is to her
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 1.6k words (the interview portion is very short, 366 words approx.), cass being an icon
<𝟑: part of the mrs wayne in media series. tags at the end :) also, if you'd like to be tagged for this series please do it through the inbox thing! (and ty to the anon who made me lock in!!)
THE WOMAN BEHIND THE WAYNE (an excerpt)
Jean Lavigne on Mrs. Wayne, his muse, and the $50,000 Hermès bag
INTERVIEWER: Why Mrs. Wayne?
JEAN LAVIGNE: I had heard about her for years before I met her. Everyone in fashion had, it's hard not to. Then I saw her in person. She was not the person I had constructed in my head.
She was much more interesting.
INTERVIEWER: What was it about her?
JEAN: Her magnetism. A beautiful woman is not necessarily inspiring. Beauty is everywhere. What is rare is a woman who makes you want to create something simply because you've been in the same room with her. She has a… gravity to her. You want to be closer to her, and when you do, you don’t want to leave her side.
I wasn't interested in putting her name on a handbag. I wanted to make something that belonged to her. Something that, even without her name attached to it, would make you think, That feels like her.
INTERVIEWER: What is The Wayne supposed to capture?
JEAN: Her contradictions. It's structured, but not cold. Luxurious, but not ostentatious. Feminine without being delicate. It took us many, many prototypes to get it right.
INTERVIEWER: What does Bruce Wayne think of the bag?
JEAN: You would have to ask him.
INTERVIEWER: You've met him.
JEAN: Of course.
INTERVIEWER: What does he think of his wife?
Jean smiled.
JEAN: I have never seen him enter a room and fail to look at her first.
INTERVIEWER: That's rather romantic.
JEAN: It is also simply true.
INTERVIEWER: And now The Wayne retails for approximately fifty thousand dollars.
JEAN: Yes.
INTERVIEWER: What makes it worth that?
JEAN: Craftsmanship, materials, time, scarcity. But those things alone don't make a bag important.
INTERVIEWER: What does?
JEAN: Meaning.
The Birkin is not simply a handbag because Jane Birkin carried it. The Kelly is not simply a handbag because Grace Kelly carried it.
And The Wayne won't be important because it costs fifty thousand dollars. It will be important because it belongs to her.
INTERVIEWER: Will Mrs. Wayne receive the first one?
JEAN: She already has it.
NTERVIEWER: How involved was she in the design process?
JEAN: Very.
INTERVIEWER: More than people might expect?
JEAN: Much more.
She has an extraordinary eye. She notices proportion immediately, she understands how something sits near the body. She knows when a single detail makes it excessive.
And she isn't afraid to tell you when something is wrong.
INTERVIEWER: One last question. Describe Mrs. Wayne in one word.
JEAN: Impossible.
INTERVIEWER: That seems contradictory. Could you elaborate?
JEAN: I can’t. You have to know her to understand.
If that’s her designer speaking, imagine how her husband must think about her!
Somehow they had ended here, with their mother’s favourite bag severely stained.
Dick was trying to wipe a suspicious black splotch with some substance Alfred used for their suits, Tim was searching how to take off all of the stains, while Damian and Jason stood several feet away looking very guilty.
“Stop rubbing it,” Tim said.
“I’m not rubbing it.”
“You are absolutely rubbing it.”
“I’m trying to clean it.”
Dick scrubbed once more.
Tim's head snapped up. “You're making it worse.”
Dick slowly stopped.
They all looked down. The black splotch had, in fact, become considerably larger.
Dick stared at it. Then at the cloth in his hand. Then back at the bag. “Okay,” he said slowly. “That's fixable.”
“It is not fixable.”
Tim finally shut off his phone. Dick's stomach dropped. If Tim had stopped searching, it meant he hadn't found a solution online. They were positively screwed.
Jason folded his arms across his chest. “It's a bag.”
Four heads turned toward him.
“What?” he said.
“It's her bag,” Dick said.
“No shit.”
“No, I mean—” Dick crouched slightly, examining the white leather as though getting closer might somehow make the stain disappear. “Her favourite bag. Where she carries apple slices, gauzes, lipstick, treats for all of Damian’s pets–”
Jason crossed his arms. “We get it.”
Then Cass entered the kitchen carrying an empty mug. She stopped. Her eyes moved from the bag to Dick's guilty grip on the cloth, then to Tim's abandoned phone, then to Jason and Damian.
She took in the entire scene in silence. “You're all stupid.” She then placed her mug on the counter, and promptly walked out.
Jason watched her disappear down the hall. “Helpful.”
“She isn't wrong,” Tim muttered.
Jason ignored him. “Let's buy another one with Bruce's credit card.”
Dick's head whipped around. “How much does it cost?”
Tim was already typing, his fingers moved rapidly across the screen. Then stopped. His eyebrows rose. “Fifty thousand dollars.”
Silence.
Dick's jaw dropped. “Fifty thousand dollars?”
Jason blinked. “For a bag?”
Tim turned the screen toward them. There it was: THE WAYNE by HERMÈS. Limited Edition — $50,000
Dick looked from the screen to the ruined bag that now looked nothing like the picture online. Then back to the screen.
“She carries around a fifty-thousand-dollar bag? In Gotham?” Dick's hands flew outward. “Is she asking to get mugged?”
Damian shrugged. “She owns more expensive items. Like the vase Todd broke.”
Jason pointed accusingly at him. “We all agreed I didn't break it!”
“You threw a batarang at it.”
“It was already falling!”
“You accelerated its fall.”
“That's not the same thing.”
“Sure,” Damian said dryly.
Tim was barely listening. He was scrolling quickly. His eyes narrowed. Then stopped. “Guys.”
Nobody answered.
“Guys.”
Dick leaned over his shoulder. “What?”
Tim didn't move. At the top of the page was a photograph of Jean Lavigne, Hermès' creative director, seated behind an immaculate white desk in a pure white office.
Beneath it was the headline: THE WOMAN BEHIND THE WAYNE.
Dick read it aloud, then frowned. “Mrs. Wayne?”
Jason leaned over Tim's shoulder. “That's mom.”
“I know that's mom.”
“No, I mean—” Dick pointed at the screen. “Mrs. Wayne.”
“That's literally her name.”
“No. Look.”
Tim scrolled. The first paragraph appeared: I had heard about her for years before I met her. Everyone in fashion had.
Jason's eyebrows drew together. “Who is everyone?”
Tim continued: Then I saw her in person. She was not the person I had constructed in my head. She was much more interesting.
Dick slowly sat down on one of the stools. “Okay.”
Jason looked suspiciously at the article. “Why does this sound like mom has a secret identity?”
Tim kept reading: She has presence. Not the kind that comes from entering a room expecting people to look at you. She doesn't seem to notice when people are looking at her.
Jason glanced toward the hallway. “She does do that.”
Damian's arms folded tighter across his chest. “She has always had excellent posture.”
"That's not what he means.”
“I know.” He snapped.
Tim continued: A beautiful woman is not necessarily inspiring. Beauty is everywhere. What is rare is a woman who makes you want to create something simply because you've been in the same room with her.
Dick's mouth fell open. “Jean Lavigne thinks mom is inspiring?”
Jason looked offended on their mother's behalf. “Of course she is.”
Tim gave him a look. “You've called her terrifying.”
“She can be terrifying and inspiring.”
“Fair.”
Tim kept reading: I knew I had to create something for her.
Jason's eyebrows climbed. “He pursued her?”
“Apparently.”
“Like, repeatedly?”
Tim scrolled. “Apparently she said no.”
Dick laughed. “Mom told the creative director of Hermès no?”
“She rejected him.”
“Three times,” Tim said.
Damian looked smug. “Our mother is difficult to impress.”
“That's not the part I'm stuck on.” Tim scrolled again. “She rejected the first three prototypes. The first was too severe. The second too decorative. The third was beautiful, but she said she didn't think she'd actually carry it.” Tim kept reading. “She has a way of making a room feel slightly different when she enters it.
Dick's expression softened. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “She does.”
And suddenly the article didn't feel quite so ridiculous. They had spent their entire lives thinking of their mother as… mom. The person who stole food off their plates, and then immediately put more because they need a good, healthy meal. She was always there; patching them up, helping them where she could– even when they didn’t want her to, their confidant, always attentive and loving. She was the person who kissed scraped knuckles and remembered everyone's coffee order and yelled from another room when they were being too loud.
The person who could spend an entire Sunday morning in sweatpants and no makeup, hair tied messily back, drinking coffee while Alfred complained that she'd left her laptop in the library.
She was not supposed to be— Jason squinted at the screen. “A muse.”
Tim nodded. “To Hermès.”
“A fashion icon.”
Dick looked at him. “Mom can't be a fashion icon.”
Tim raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“She wears sweatpants and Bruce's shirts.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “It's called having nuance.”
“She wore said sweatpants yesterday.”
“She can be fashionable and comfortable.”
“She wore a Wonder Woman shirt.”
“Guys,” Dick interrupted, gesturing toward the bag. “We still have a problem.”
They all looked down. Several suspicious stains, of different colours and sizes, stared back at them.
“A very expensive problem,” Dick clarified.
Damian crossed his arms. “Call this Lavigne man and tell him to send us a new one.”
Tim stared at him. “It's limited edition.”
“So?”
“So there isn't another one.”
Damian's brow furrowed. “Then he can make another. He's the creative director of Hermès.”
“So?”
“He's not going to make another fifty-thousand-dollar handbag because four idiots destroyed one.”
Jason frowned. “How do you know?”
“Because that's literally the point of a limited edition.”
Damian huffed. “Then we shall simply tell Mother it was stolen.”
Dick's eyes widened. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because then we'll have to explain how this robbery happened. She always knows when we're lying."
Jason nodded. “And she'd kill us.”
“She wouldn't kill us.”
Jason looked at him. “Okay. She'd be disappointed.”
Everyone visibly shuddered. That was way worse.
Tim suddenly scrolled back. “Wait.”
“What now?”
“There's more.” He read. “What does Bruce Wayne think of his wife?”
Dick leaned closer, Jason's head tilted, Damian's eyes narrowed.
Tim read the answer. I have never seen him enter a room and fail to find her.
They all nodded. Their parents being romantic was always a revolting sight.
Jason took the phone from Tim and scrolled down. There were more suggestions, all articles about Mrs Wayne in the fashion world. Fashion week this, Paris that, a full article just on her shoes, and another on her style for spring.
Tim looked at him. “What?”
“Our mother is cool.”
Tim blinked.
Jason held up the phone. “No. Our mother is really cool.”
Damian glanced at the ruined bag. “She has always been cool.” The word sounded a little foreign in his tongue.
“Yeah, but apparently the rest of the world knows it too.”
People who apparently considered her a muse.
Jason looked at the article again. “Do you think Bruce knew all this?”
Dick gave him a look. “Of course Bruce knew.”
“No, I mean—” Jason gestured helplessly at the screen. “Did he know this?”
Before anyone could answer, a voice floated down the hall. “Boys?”
All four of them straightened. Their heads turned toward the doorway.
“Have you seen my bag?”
Dick's eyes widened. His gaze shot to the counter; the bag with the ugly splotches. The article flashed through his mind. Without a word, he grabbed the handbag.
Tim's eyes widened. “Dick—”
Dick opened the nearest cabinet.
Jason stared at him. “You cannot be serious.”
Dick shoved the bag inside.
Damian looked horrified. “You have concealed it in a cupboard.”
“Shut up.”
“That's your plan?”
“I panicked!”
“You've made it worse.”
“Would you like to suggest something?”
“Yes. Honesty.”
“Not helpful!”
Footsteps approached.
All four boys froze: Dick slowly closed the cabinet door, Jason stared at it like it might explode, Tim grabbed his phone and shoved it into his pocket, and Damian straightened his jacket in an attempted to look innocent. Which, given the circumstances, was perhaps the least convincing thing anyone had ever seen.
Their mother appeared in the doorway, she was wearing her old grey sweatpants and an old Gotham Knights t-shirt.
She looked at the four of them. Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you all standing like that?”
Nobody answered.
Jason swallowed and whispered, “we're dead.”
@hdjsiosjnx, @cassini-among-the-stars, @zhonglibestie, @jdksjsalaka, @godwishiwasreal @sogayitsalmostscary, @bat2nsignia, @mruizsworld, @just-a-random-girl1, @boundlessgladiatorrook, @nalah-whimsy, @xaxamd, @thestupidgirlakira, @queengirl2345, @whitemelanin, @deerest-darling, @outpostsworld, @gglouise23, @marliyndreams, @siennatk an extra big smooch for @llovelygood for helping me (yet again!)
Aquamarine, Moonlit Swimming Pool (spencer reid x reader)
1st part ; previous part ; masterlist
summary: [p3 of Slut! series] At a dinner party at Rossi's place, you find yourself taking up Spencer's offer from the jet. Through the evening, you realize that, maybe the BAU is going to be different, after all?
wc: 5.3k (holy yapper)
warnings: mentions of rumors, accusations of 'sleeping together' [past]
SPENCER REID IS NOT QUITE SURE why you’re actually here.
Ok, technically, he does know ‘why’, but the fact that you're actually at Rossi's casual house party still surprises him. While everyone’s laughing and sitting in the living room, indulging in Rossi’s snacks, he sits there trying to figure it out, turning the situation around in his mind. In all your months in the BAU, he’s never seen you go out with the team outside of work; never at the clubs or the girls’ hangouts. Even with him, other than weekday mornings in the cafe near the office and the accidental meeting in the bookstore months ago, he’s never been with you outside of the office.
Spencer’s eyes catch on you, staring as you laugh at Morgan’s joke, giving him some kind of teasing response that elicits a giggle out of Emily.
Despite the “no profiling each other” rule, Spencer finds himself contemplating your behavior over the months. Your stiffness in the beginning, the refusal to speak about anything unprofessional. The way your whole body tensed when Morgan called you “pretty girl” for the first time, and how you’d gone quiet after that. Derek never called you that again, and Spencer recalls the quiet discussion that occurred that evening after you left the office, the way Garcia, Prentiss, Morgan, and JJ wondered why you seemed so freaked out by Morgan’s joke. Spencer remembers how Hotch had quieted everyone with a solemn glare, firmly insisting that everyone behaved professionally with you until you demonstrated any preference otherwise. Derek made sure all his jokes around you never crossed any professional boundaries, and everyone let you sit quietly in your solitude on plane rides back.
But after you’d participated in Poker on one of the flights back, Spencer noticed that you’d begun to relax around the team. After you’d bumped into him at the Sunrise Boulevard bookstore, you’d started smiling a little more, and—maybe he was letting his hopes cloud his judgment a bit, but he really was sure about it—you’d begun to open up around Spencer. From that day, he noticed how you shared more jokes with the team, shared stories of your time at the NYPD, and genuinely listened to his ramblings on whatever random subject caught his mind.
Most notably, he realized the depth of your comfort around the BAU a few cases ago, after the flight back home. You’d fallen asleep on his shoulder accidentally, and Spencer still recalls the way your eyebrows relaxed and your lips loosened out of their normal pursed expression. The warmth of your shoulder flooded into him through the layers of clothing between you. He feels his fingers flex against the couch’s armrest at the memory. During your nap that night, it seemed you’d finally lowered the guard you always had up.
From that day, something major had shifted. You’d actually given Morgan back his mock-flirting, and when he called you 'pretty girl' you didn’t freeze like the first time; you’d smiled and joked about how “unoriginal” it was to have you nicknamed 'pretty girl' after Spencer was reserved as 'pretty boy'. It was almost as though you’d realized something… maybe overcoming some social fear? Or maybe—
Someone nudges his shoulder, pulling him out of his profiling spiral. Shame burns his cheeks as he realizes how rude it is to try to profile you like that.
“Jeez, man,” Morgan grins down at where Spencer’s folded against the armrest of the couch, “when a guy likes a girl, they usually go talk to her instead of staring at her.”
An indignant scoff escapes his throat as Spencer finally drags his gaze away from where you’re seated next to Emily, and towards Derek. “I was not staring—”
“Sure you weren’t,” Morgan leans against him, grinning. “Just had your eyes glued to her head, huh?”
Spencer pointedly avoids responding to that, making a quick getaway as he claims a sudden need for water, practically leaping past Morgan to the kitchen. He ignores the laughter that follows him.
A few moments pass as he rifles through Rossi’s kitchen cabinets, careful not to take any of his specific wine glasses (last time he’d grabbed a champagne flute for water, Rossi had gone on such a tangent—one that rivaled Spencer’s rambles—that the entire team memorized specific alcoholic glasses then onwards).
“Hey, could you pass a glass?”
Spencer startles as you appear behind him. “Oh, yeah, of course.”
He passes a glass over to you, and the two of you drink in silence. For a second, he admires your profile while you stare at your empty glass. You’re lost in your thoughts, swirling the remaining water around in your cup.
"I'm surprised you made it," Spencer says. The minute the words leave his lips, he knows it's a stupid question; he just wanted to talk to you about something, anything. Clearly he isn't hiding it well based on his supposed ‘staring’, but lately, he's enjoyed being around you a little too much. And yet, he still can’t get the right words out.
But you don't take any offense, shrugging as you reply. "Yeah, pretty obvious that I avoided going out, huh?
“I mean, you’ve cancelled 84.7% of the plans that the girls invite you to with some variation of ‘feeling fatigued’ and the other 15.3%—” abruptly cutting off, he frowns. Is it rude to agree with you about this?
You just laugh. “By this point I need to stop being surprised that you’ve kept track.” For a second, you pause, teeth gnawing at your bottom lip as you consider your next words. “I just… do you remember the plane ride?”
“I have an eidetic memory,” Teasing you with a smug smile, he adds, “better question is, which ride do you want me to remember?”
“The one where I kinda had a nightmare and you asked me about it?”
His smile fades away. The way your eyebrows scrunched in pain mid-nap, lips pulled together and trembling; he remembers. “Yeah, and I said that you don’t have to tell me if you’re not comfortable yet.”
You nod, and your teeth sink further into your bottom lip as you gather the words.
Oh, god. Spencer instinctively places his hand against your shoulder, anxiety gnawing at his throat. He’s really hoping you didn’t feel pressured by his words, he just wanted you to know that the offer was there, whether you take it or not. The words rush out of him, fumbling and jumbled together, “You know it’s still true, right? You don’t—if you don’t want to, you don’t need to talk about it.”
“I know,” the words slip through immediately, and you stare at him earnestly as though you’re trying to communicate something to him through facial expression alone. “But, you said the offer was open and I—I want to tell you. I don’t want you to think I avoid you all because I don’t like you guys.”
“You don’t have to worry about that at all!” Spencer exclaims before the words have barely passed your lips.
You raise an eyebrow, and though he sees a little gratitude from the uptick of your lips, there’s mostly disbelief. “I…” you sigh, and Spencer can see the gears shifting as your mind chooses the right words, watching your fingers wring themselves. “In my previous job, there were, well, a lot of rumors. About me.”
Oh. Of the many things Spencer Reid experienced in high school, rumors were certainly upre. He knows what you’re saying—understands the hurt that comes with hearing the people you thought you knew believe horrible thongs about you—yet, doesn’t quite know how to voice it. Instead, he just nods, his fingers drifting closer to hers on the counter.
“And when I got promoted, the rumors kind of,” you gesture vaguely in front of yourself, “spiraled. It was the classic ‘oh you must’ve slept with the boss to get promoted’, you know? Some of the guys I worked with, they acted like the rumors gave them some kind of liberty to be jackasses.”
Spencer glances at you, and there’s an uncomfortable tightness pulling at his chest as he understands what you’re saying. His fingers are gripping the countertop so hard his nails hurt. It’s disgusting that could cops behave like that. “Nearly 44% of women experience harassment in workplaces,” he says, hoping you don’t feel isolated in your experience (though as an FBI agent he’s sure you know the prevalence of it).
You sigh, tossing him a slight smile. “I know it’s nothing to be ashamed of. And, I know that the BAU isn’t like them, but I…”
Oh god. He feels horrible; no wonder you seemed so stricken when Morgan called you pretty girl. Even though Derek hadn’t said it in an untoward manner at all, it makes sense why your mind had immediately taken it so badly. Burnt once, and anyone would be likely to avoid fire again, no matter how different the situation may be. Spencer nods earnestly, trying to empathize with what you’re saying. “Human psychology tends to create associations between stimuli and experiences. It’s easy to say that we rationally know things aren’t connected, but our brain forges these connections subconsciously.”
You raise an eyebrow, shoulder nudging his gently. Teasingly, you reply, “You do realize I’ve studied that, too, right?”
Whoops. His cheeks warm at the thought that he was “mansplaining” (a term Penelope taught him, recently); he rephrases with what he means to say, “I mean, the team would understand if you chose to tell them. Avoiding them after what happened, it’s a natural human response.”
He glances over at you, trying to gauge your response. You just nod, eyes glued to the ground as you internalize his words. Knowing this now, he understands your behavior over the months. He wants to say something, anything, to show you that he understands, that he doesn’t think you have anything to feel guilty about at all regarding your coldness from the team, but the only thing running through his mind are statistics upon statistics, texts from various psychological textbooks he’s read over the years. Yes, you’d understand his intent if he’d quote something from his studies, but he wants to give you comfort the way he’s seen JJ or Emily or even Morgan give to others; through actual qualitative words rather than empirical evidence.
“Kids,” Rossi peeks his head into the kitchen, sarcastic drawl heavy as his eyes flit between Spencer and you. Spencer notes the almost imperceptible tug at Rossi’s lips. “Dinner’s ready. You two can have your private conversations afterward.”
You and Spencer immediately start sputtering indignantly, words fumbling as you both deny any ‘private’ conversations, while Rossi just shrugs.
“Ah-tat-tat! We don’t care, the adults are hungry so dinner is all we care about.”
As the two of you walk in, Spencer’s gaze catches yours. You burst into giggles, your fist gently hitting his shoulder as you both head to dinner.
During dinner, once you’ve gotten your first taste of Rossi’s authentic Italian, you’re effusive in your praise, promising Rossi that you’ll do all the physical work on cases for him as long as he makes lunch for you in return. The conversation drifts from there, the whole team alternating between teasing and laughing.
Spencer can’t help but catch your eye as Morgan makes some joke about you and Spencer’s ‘puppy-like relationship’, but your face, pink from embarrassment, he assumes, is angled down at your food. There's a twinge in his heart as he recalls what you said about the rumors of your previous job, and Spencer immediately decides to divert the conversation by bringing up statistics about inter-colleague fraternization, and how many companies tend to restrict those relationships, including most divisions of the FBI (though that last part feels like someone’s placed a weight on his chest).
For once, the BAU is free to enjoy their Friday evening drinking and laughing without getting any work-related phone calls about serial killers. Penelope’s created some terrifying concoction from a scandalous mix of drinks from Rossi's wine cellar and had gotten Emily, Morgan, and JJ ridiculously drunk. Spencer can’t quite tell if it’s the effect of the alcohol or just Morgan being Morgan, that enables him to challenge JJ and Emily to a new Just Dance song that Spencer has never heard of. While Emily tries to convince you to join, you immediately refuse, using Spencer as your defense.
"Woah, I am not dancing," you exclaim, both palms up. "Besides, I've gotta give Spence some non-dancer company, don't I?"
Spencer feels something twist pleasantly in his stomach. You've only called him 'Spence' once before, right after you woke up from that nightmare on the jet. Usually it's 'Reid' or just 'Spencer', but something about the casual way you call him leaves his stomach flipping. It's only when you and Emily turn towards him, and he realizes that Emily is about to ask him to dance, that Spencer blurts out, "Nearly 8,000 dance-related injuries happen every year in the US. I think we're better off not dancing."
Emily smiles at the two of you, then shrugs and walks towards Morgan and the others, tossing Spencer a wink over her shoulder. There's some subtext there; he's sure of it. But what it could be is honestly lost on him.
So he sits with you on the couch, listening to you continue to explain to him why the Eleventh Doctor is the one to have captured your heart most out of all the Doctor Whos. He can't help as his eyes capture the little details of your face. The way your smile quirks up, one side higher than the other, and the animated gestures as you vehemently defend the 11th Doctor have his heart skipping a beat. Ok, he's 94.8% certain he's not actually having heart palpitations or any kind of arrhythmia, but it sure feels like his heart's acting irregularly every time you smile right at him.
And now you're tilting your head at him, eyebrows raised in concern as you nudge his shoulder expectantly.
"Spence?"
Oh. Shit, what did you say? He mentally rewinds the conversation, and after a second of you staring at him with increasing concern, finally realizes what your question was. "Oh, yeah, yeah." Yikes. You look more confused after his sudden response.
"Did you even hear what I said?"
He frowns, pulling his best mock-offense look he can in an attempt to make it look like he’s been paying proper attention to what you’ve been saying instead of just, well, you. “Of course. You said ‘Rossi’s garden looks insanely pretty; do you think he romanced his ex-wives by showing off his mansion and backyard?’”
Your eyes narrow suspiciously, but there's a tilt in your lips. Spencer finds himself mirroring your smile without thought.
Once you realize he's not going to admit he wasn't paying attention, you huff, but there's a lilt of laughter to it.
The silence that falls upon you both is peaceful. Spencer watches Morgan crash into Penelope, while JJ and Emily shriek in laughter. The elder men are sitting in the kitchen, watching the chaos with muted smiles, murmuring to one another. Spencer follows your eyes drift to the garden outside, to the flowers clustering around the pavement that encircles Rossi's pool.
"Do you want to walk around the garden?"
You visibly light up, back straightening and smile widening. “Yeah, I’d love to.”
The two of you leave your drunken friends to their dancing (though, at this point it looks more like a brawl from the way everyone keeps crashing into each other) while carefully treading over Morgan’s discarded jacket and Penelope’s forgotten scarf.
At this time in the evening, the night air is crisp and cool, gently nipping at Spencer’s skin. Twinkling gently, the stars above form beautiful constellations. He can already spot a few; Cassiopeia, Draco, and, if he’s not mistaken, Hercules as well. He glances over at where you’re crouched against the flower bed. Your eyes trace over the bright hues of flowers, fingers reaching out to tilt a bluebell closer to your view.
With the way you’re squatted near the flowers, your pink skirt pools around your ankles, fluttering prettily in the night breeze. Spencer’s eyes track the hair drifting around your face.
You look beautiful.
His mouth suddenly feels dry. Of all the things he should be thinking, he knows this is the last. But when you turn to him, bright eyed as you gesture to the flowers, his thoughts—for once—go silent.
“Aren’t these gorgeous?” You turn back to the snapdragon and peonies, examining them curiously.
“Yeah.” His eyes haven’t moved from your figure, and even as he responds, his voice sounds a few octaves higher than normal. Sounds foreign, as though he’s not in control of his body. Swallowing thickly, he tries to gain control over himself. He’s tipsy. The wine he had has slowed his prefrontal cortex, which is why his thoughts are running wild. Even as he tells himself that, it feels like a desperate plea rather than the truth behind his thoughts.
“Hey,” you crane your neck towards him, smile calling the edges of your eyes, “do you know what flowers these are?”
Spender immediately crouches next to you, knees bumping against the little grate surrounding the flowers before pointing at the snapdragon. “This one’s called Antirrhinum, though they’re commonly known as dragon flowers or snapdragons.” You turn to him, humming curiously as you listen, and Spencer’s heart feels like it’s somehow slowing down and speeding up all at once because of how carefully you watch him. He clears his throat as he adds, “the Victorians actually believed that, because of the flower’s resemblance to ‘snapping jaws’, it was a symbol of deception and secretiveness.”
“Huh.” You nod slowly, silent for a moment as though you’re categorizing the information in your mental shelves. “And these?” You gesture towards the white peonies. “What do they symbolize?”
For a moment, Spencer pauses as his mind shuffles through information, before finalizing on a story his mom once told him. “Well, usually they symbolize shyness, but white ones also symbolize rebirth.”
“Rebirth, huh?” There’s an odd note to your voice. Spencer watches the way your fingers ghost the petals, tracing the shape of the flower. He wants to ask what’s on your mind. After the way you opened up today he has a feeling it has something to do with that.
“Mhmm. You know, there’s actually a nice story about it, There’s a story that during a heavy winter snowfall, Empress Wu Zetian, who was thought to be particularly cruel, commanded that all the flowers had to bloom in the winter. The flower fairies freaked out because it was out of the natural order, but due to her reputation, they complied; the only one who didn’t was the peony, who followed nature’s rules. The empress was furious and moved it to another city, Luoyang, and when the peonies bloomed there, she burned the flowers. But,” he grins, jazz-hands emphasizing his words, “peonies bloomed again next year!”
You giggle, poking his arm. “I didn’t realize you got dorkier when you’re tipsy.”
“Hey!” But he’s laughing, aiming at your arm, but you dodge, leaping on onto your feet to avoid him, leaving his momentum no where to go except back at him—thump! Spencer Reid falls straight on his ass.
His 187 IQ dropped to nothing when it came to his motor skills.
And maybe he really is tipsy from his half-glass of wine, because the minute you burst into laughter, completely folding in half with your hands pressed against your knees, he joins in, his drunken mind completely ignoring the billions of microbes on the grass.
When your laughter finally cools, you stretch your hand out. He takes your hand, pulls himself up, and just. Smiles. Takes it in: the crinkle of your eyes and nose as you smile, the hazy sheen of your lips from some lip gloss, the way the wind seems to be specifically designed by Zephyrus for the sole purpose of drawing attention to your hair, flowing in the breeze, gorgeously.
Gorgeous is exactly what you are.
After a while, you two drift from the garden to the edge of the pool, careful to sit on the dry areas. You hike your skirt up enough to let your feet ghost the edge of the water, occasionally allowing it to dip beneath its moonlit surface. Spencer feels like he’s using double his normal will power to prevent himself from saying something stupid about his feelings; after your admission tonight of what you’d gone through, even hinting so much as how his heart beats a little faster every time you’re around, feels like a major taboo. How uncomfortable would you feel, hearing another coworker make romantic insinuations about you?
Instead, he treasures each moment of sitting by you, pointing out every constellation he sees and the myths behind them. It’s a pleasant night, he thinks to himself; what with the aquamarine water gently lapping against your legs, the sound grounding Spencer’s words to a lulling tempo. The way the moonlight shines against the planes of your face as you listen, enraptured. You share your own stories from childhood, mentioning the time you’d dressed up as Elizabeth Bennet in regency style clothing with your best friend as Jane.
When the two of you finally go in after hearing a heavy thump, Spencer feels a touch sad to leave the peace of moment. The garden and moonlight had almost felt like a bubble, where the two of you could talk without judgement; a moment where he could indulge in his feelings a little longer, before he knew he’d have to squash them tomorrow morning. Knowing what happened, he can scarcely imagine how upset you’d feel if you found out that a coworker you’d trusted as a friend turned out to be harboring feelings. (Would he remind you of your previous colleagues? That thought frightens him the most.)
Turns out the ‘thump’ was one Penelope Garcia slamming into the couch, far too drunk to function, and napping with her head lolled against the back of the sofa. JJ had to leave early, something about Henry needing her home. Morgan volunteers to drop Garcia home, but, considering the state of Morgan, Hotch begrudgingly takes responsibility for dropping them both home. Rossi refuses to drop anyone home, saying something along the lines of “old age” and "early sleep".
Huffing as the realization sets in, you, As the only other person to not have even a sip of alcohol, have the glorious task of dropping a drunken Emily—half asleep against Garcia as she scrolls through something on her phone—home.
“Pretty boy,” Morgan calls out as he and Hotch half-guide, half-drag Penelope into Hotch’s car, “how’re you getting home?”
Once you’ve securely settled Emily into the backseat of your car, you turn to look at Reid.
He frowns at Morgan from the bottom of Rossi’s entrance steps. “The same way I always do? Metro.”
Hotch, already in the driver’s seat of his car, pokes his head out. “Nearest metro’s quite far from here, Reid.” After a beat, he calls your name. “Do you think you’ll be able to drop Reid off?”
Spencer misses the way Morgan grins, more focused on your response.
For a moment, you freeze, hand stuck on the half-closed car door in front of Emily. Minutely, so small he might’ve missed it if his eyes hadn’t already been trained on you, you shake your head as though throwing a thought out of your mind, quickly saying, “Don’t mind at all. Come on, Spence.”
And so, Spencer finds himself in the shotgun of your car, listening to the low hum of your radio, punctuated by Emily’s snores. He doesn’t say a word the whole time, mind stuck on your reaction when Hotch asked you to drop him off.
When you arrive at Emily’s apartment, you gently rouse her and wait until she’s safe inside before starting the ride to his place. At first, the two of you stay silent, neither willing to break the comforting silence that has fallen upon you. The soft notes from the radio soothe Spencer's mind, and for once, he finds that his head isn't full of racing thoughts. It's also certainly the effect of the wine he drank earlier, but his thoughts are sluggish as he watches you drive. You're a cautious driver, he notes, pausing before every stop sign even when the roads are empty. He realizes how taut your muscles are, the whitening knuckles from your tight grip on the wheel. Is that why you hesitated to drop him off?
"Do you not like driving?" Spencer asks suddenly, turning towards you. He wants—needs— to know that he's not the reason you're uncomfortable right now.
You smile lopsidedly, and as you take the right, he's sure you're not even conscious of how you've leaned forward, almost uncomfortably compressing yourself against the wheel. "I'm not the biggest fan of it. I barely manage to drop myself to work in one piece." You turn, raising an eyebrow. "Is this your way of critiquing my driving skills?"
"No!" Spencer exclaims. "In the US, women are typically involved in only 28% to 30% of accidents. Men are usually more aggressive and impulsive than female drivers."
"Huh. Pretty unfair for the stereotype to be that women are bad drivers, then."
He nods. After a beat, he asks quietly, "Did you enjoy?"
You don't need him to elaborate. A moment passes as you consider his question before you nod. Adding, "It was pretty chill. It reminded me a lot of some birthday parties from middle school."
That takes him by surprise. As someone with no social life in childhood (not that he has much of a social life now, either), he's not quite sure what to make of that. "Is that a good thing?"
You laugh. "Yeah. Whenever my friends had a birthday, we'd go over to their house and just kind of relax, I guess? Like, we'd swim or just watch a movie. Sometimes we'd each be doing our own thing, but it was still enjoyable because we were all together, you know?"
Yeah, he gets that. He's not sure if he should broach the topic, but maybe the half-glass of wine has somehow managed to eliminate any inhibitions in his prefrontal cortex, because he just asks (rather bluntly, if he admits it), "Do you feel comfortable around m-us? Like, the BAU?"
At that, you pause. You stall, making a show of looking at the street signs that hardly have much to read. After a second, you sigh. "Yeah." Your voice is so low that he struggles to hear it, even over the low tunes on the radio.
Seeing the way Spencer's leaning towards you, you clear your throat, stabilizing your voice. "When Morgan suggested dropping you off, I, I guess I couldn't help but wonder if they were being mean, you know? This would be the kind of thing they used to do; if I ever even spoke to a guy, they'd make some casual joke, but then the whole time it'd be a bunch of crude taunts, really. But then I saw how Morgan was talking to Hotch as they drove off, and they seemed so... different. They were talking about something else, and they didn't say anything weird. Dropping you and Emily off, too," you add, voice quieting again, "it was just like dropping some friends off. There's no weird undercurrent of some secret, malicious thing that everyone thinks about me, like I used to feel back there."
He nods, and a beat of silence passes. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."
"No, I'm just, I guess, unnecessarily hung up on it." You shrug, suddenly feeling stupid for lamenting so much. "Just part of that 40% of women who've experienced the same thing, right?"
Spencer frowns, staring at you incredulously. "You're not unnecessarily hung up. It shouldn't have happened at all. It probably feels worse, considering you said you thought they were your friends. It's nothing to dismiss."
You look at him, really look at him for a second. It's clear that something's drifting through your mind, but you just nod, refusing to add any more. The rest of the ride passes silently, your brain whirring with thoughts you don't share.
He wonders whether he's made it worse by bringing up a subject he had no right to, if he's crossed some invisible social boundary that he's always been bad at reading. But hearing you diminish what happened, he'd have felt worse if you had continued to downplay what you'd gone through. Eventually, you slow to a stop in front of his apartment, but neither of you makes any move to get out of the car.
"Thanks, Spencer." The way you're smiling isn't your usual one, lips lopsided cheekily and eyes crinkled with amusement. No, this one's softer, lips just barely pulled up. There's a different glint in your eyes; not humorous, but something gentler.
"For what?" He unbuckles his seatbelt, eyes on you as his hands gently guide the buckle to prevent any harsh recoil.
You shrug, mouth opening but no words coming out. Rolling your eyes, you grin now, humor returning to your features. "Don't make me say it."
"I'm serious!" He's laughing too, but it's more out of confusion. "What am I supposed to accept your thanks for?"
"Hmph." You stare at the wheel, suddenly enraptured by an invisible speck of dust. "I... appreciate what you said."
Oh. He smiles back, suddenly feeling embarrassed. He hadn't said it to get a thank-you. Scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, all he can think to say is, "It's just the truth."
There's nothing you need to say, as you nod. You avoid his gaze, smiling at his forehead as you murmur, "Good night."
He whispers it back as he pushes the door open, finally forcing himself to walk into his apartment building. Though he won't admit it tomorrow morning, he'll probably spend the rest of the night tossing and turning, thinking about every detail of tonight. About your millions of microexpressions; the way your perfume, a lovely lavender scent, wrapped around his head the entire car ride home; and the scene of you, shoes neatly placed a few feet from you and ankles in the pool, leaning back with the moon illuminating your hair, turning you into an angel of the night.
“Spencer!”
He’s hardly walked 5 feet from your car when he pauses, turning around to see why you’re calling him.
You’re walking around the car, moving towards him, something dangling in your hand. You wave your arm up, showing him—
His phone!
He jogs towards you, meeting you midway, profusely apologizing the whole time. (Secretly, he’s glad to have an excuse to steal a few extra moments with you.)
“It’s ok, Spence, even geniuses forget things sometimes,” You grin and Spencer rolls his eyes, smile tugging at his lips.
“Thank you,” he says as you pass his phone.
Your fingers brush his, warm and soft against his. He feels a stray scar against his finger, small enough to be a paper cut.
While you pull your hand away once he takes his phone, Spencer finds himself standing there, heart racing and fingertips tingling.
“Good night, Spence.” You smile once, and he’s sure his eyes deceive him as your gaze drags over him one last time before you walk back to your car.
It’s only when he sees you sit, readjusting the seat and look back at him does he realize he never said good night back. You tilt your head, hand up as you wave at him, and drive off as he waves back dumbly. It’s like he’s lost the ability to think!
Once your car disappears from view, he walks into his building, mind barely aware of his surroundings as he waits for the elevator. Fingers still feeling electrocuted, he flexes them, missing the soft touch of your hand.
He really needs to get a grip on himself.
a/n: sorry this took me so long 😭 writers block hit me bad. also i have no clue if Rossi's house even canonically has a garden or pool? let's all pretend he does 😭😭 if you enjoyed this, comment, like, and reblog ❤️
summary - after shooting and killing Philip Dowd, Spencer struggles with the numbness he feels when he comes home to you. based on this request.
word count - 1.1k
content warnings - after the events of L.D.S.K, established relationship, mentions of spencer killing Dowd.
The apartment smelled faintly of cold tea and old paper, a comforting combination that usually anchored Spencer the moment he stepped through the door. Tonight, though, the quiet inside felt almost oppressive compared to the chaotic, ringing echo in his head. He stood in the doorway for a beat too long, key still clasped tight in his fingers, before he let the heavy wooden door click shut.
You came around the corner from the kitchen, wiping your hands on a dishtowel. The tension in your shoulders dropped the second you saw him intact, alive, and home. "Spencer," you breathed, stepping forward to wrap your arms around his middle, burying your face against the crook of his neck. He stayed still for a fraction of a second before his hands found the small of your back. His grip was tighter than usual, almost desperate, though his posture remained strangely stiff. The scent of rain, stale coffee, and gunshot residue clung to his wool coat.
"Hey," he whispered. His voice was raspy, stripped raw.
You pulled back just enough to look up at his face. His eyes were wide, dark, and distant, fixed on a spot somewhere past your shoulder.
"I heard," you said gently, reaching up to frame his jaw with your hand. His skin was pale and cold. "JJ called me from the plane. She couldn't give me details, but she said... she said everyone made it out, and that you saved Hotch."
Spencer blinked, the words washing over him without quite landing. He unbuttoned his coat slowly, methodically, hanging it on the hook by the door as if following a script. "Yeah. I... I had to shoot him."
"Come sit down," you said softly, taking his hand. His fingers were trembling, not the quick, restless movement of his usual fidgeting, but a fine, uncontrollable tremor.
You led him to the sofa. He sat rigidly on the very edge of the cushion, elbows resting on his knees, staring down at his hands. You sat on the coffee table in front of him, wrapping both of your hands around his, rubbing your thumb across his knuckles to warm him up.
"It was Philip Dowd," Spencer said quietly, his voice dry and flat. "He had us trapped in the hospital room. He took away my gun earlier, mocked me for failing my firearm qualification... he called me a kid. He thought I was harmless."
You didn't interrupt. You just listened, keeping your steady weight anchored across from him.
"Hotch... Hotch started kicking me," Spencer continued, the words coming faster now, driven by that familiar, rapid cadence, yet entirely devoid of emotion. "He was playing along with Dowd's hero-complex narrative, pretending to vent his frustration at me so Dowd would drop his guard. He was giving me an opening. He was telling me where his backup gun was strapped to his ankle." He looked down at his hand, the hand you were holding, and flexed his fingers slowly. "I took the ankle holster. I aimed for his head. I shot him. Point blank."
The silence in the living room stretched, heavy and thick. You waited, giving him space to process, knowing how his mind worked in hyper-drive, analysing every micro-second of the event.
"Spencer," you gently prompted. "How are you feeling?"
He finally lifted his head to look at you. His dark brown eyes were wide, searching your face with a harrowing kind of panic, not because he was overwhelmed by emotion, but because of the absolute absence of it. "That's the thing," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "I'm not. I don't feel anything."
Your heart ached for him, but you kept your touch steady. "What do you mean?"
"When Gideon talked to me after... he asked if I was okay. People always talk about the guilt, or the trauma, or the weight of taking a human life. They talk about the horror of the moment," Spencer explained, his speech speeding up as his rational brain tried to solve an unsolvable equation. "Adrenaline spikes, the body triggers an acute stress response, often followed by remorse or psychological distress. But I watched the light leave his eyes, and I... I felt relieved. I felt calm. I killed a man today, and I don't feel guilty at all."
He pulled his hand out of yours and covered his face, breathing heavily. "What does that mean? Am I breaking down? Am I becoming desensitised? I'm supposed to understand human behavior, I'm supposed to have empathy, but right now I feel like an absolute blank."
You reached out, gently pulling his hands away from his face and holding them back down in his lap. "Spencer, look at me," you demanded softly.
He hesitated, then lowered his gaze to meet yours.
"You didn't execute someone in cold blood," you told him, every word deliberate and firm. "You were trapped in a room with a man who was actively murdering people, who was about to kill Hotch, and who would have killed you next. You didn't kill him out of malice or anger. You stopped a monster from taking more lives."
"I know the logic," he said, frustration bleeding into his tone. "I know the justification. But the emotional disconnect-"
"-is your brain protecting you," you finished softly, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair away from his forehead. "You've been through a high-stress trauma. Your body spent hours in a state of hyper-vigilance, and then you had to make a split-second decision to save your friend's life. Your mind isn't feeling guilty because you didn't do anything wrong. You feel numb because you're exhausted."
Spencer stared at you, the frantic light in his eyes dimming just a fraction, replaced by a vulnerability he only ever showed behind closed doors with you.
"You aren't a bad person, Spencer," you whispered, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss against his forehead. "You aren't cold, and you aren't broken. You're just human, and you brought everyone home alive today."
A long, shuddering breath escaped his chest. The tension holding his spine rigid finally snapped, and he leaned into you, resting his heavy head against your shoulder. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his lap as if anchoring himself to the only thing in the world that felt real right then.
"Stay with me?" he asked against your neck, his voice small, stripped of all academic shields and profile logic.
"I'm not going anywhere," you said, running your fingers gently through his hair as the quiet of the apartment settled around you both. "I've got you."
The first time Spencer Reid holds your hand, it’s for the case.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself.
The resort is crowded, which makes it the perfect place for someone to disappear. Couples everywhere. Families. Honeymooners. People who look like they don’t have a single thing in the world to worry about.
You and Spencer are supposed to blend in.
A young couple on vacation.
Three years together.
Celebrating your anniversary.
You almost laugh when you see the wedding rings in the evidence envelope.
“Do we really have to wear these?” you ask.
Spencer adjusts his glasses.
“Couples who have been together for three years are statistically more likely to wear matching jewelry.”
You stare at him.
“Did you just research what couples do?”
“I researched what couples typically do.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
He smiles.
Just barely.
Then he reaches for your hand.
You look down.
His fingers settle between yours.
“Ready?”
You nod.
“Ready.”
⋆｡°✩ ───────── ✩°｡⋆
The first night, Spencer insists you take the bed.
“I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You’re not sleeping on that.”
He looks at the tiny loveseat.
“I’ve slept in smaller places.”
“You’re six foot two.”
“Six foot one.”
“You’re arguing about your height right now?”
“I don’t like inaccuracies.”
You laugh.
He smiles.
And you notice that he keeps looking at you.
Not staring.
Just little glances.
When you’re unpacking.
When you’re brushing your hair.
When you’re sitting on the edge of the bed scrolling through your phone.
Every time you look up, he’s already looking away.
You don’t think much of it.
Spencer is observant.
That’s what he does.
⋆｡°✩ ───────── ✩°｡⋆
On the second day, you discover he remembers your coffee order.
You don’t even remember telling him.
You walk into the little café downstairs, still half asleep, and Spencer hands you a cup.
“Vanilla latte. Oat milk.”
You blink.
“You remembered?”
“I remember things.”
“Apparently.”
He smiles.
Then, after a second, he adds,
“You always order it when you’re tired.”
You look at him.
He looks down at his own coffee.
“It’s useful information.”
“Right.”
“Behavioral patterns.”
“Right.”
“Not weird.”
“I didn’t say it was weird.”
“You were thinking it.”
You laugh.
He smiles into his coffee.
And you don’t notice the tiny smile that stays there after you turn away.
⋆｡°✩ ───────── ✩°｡⋆
On the third day, someone at the pool starts flirting with you.
Spencer is sitting beside you, reading.
At least, that’s what he’s doing.
You can tell he’s stopped reading because he hasn’t turned the page in seven minutes.
The man approaches.
“Hey.”
You look up.
“Hi.”
“Are you here alone?”
Before you can answer, Spencer closes his book.
“No.”
The man looks at him.
Spencer looks back.
There’s something different in his expression.
Something almost cold.
The man glances at your matching rings.
“Oh.”
Spencer’s hand finds yours.
It’s casual.
Natural.
Except his thumb starts rubbing slowly over your knuckles.
The man leaves.
You turn toward Spencer.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You looked annoyed.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was observing.”
“You slammed your book shut.”
“I finished the page.”
“You were halfway through it.”
He adjusts his glasses.
“I read quickly.”
You laugh.
He’s still looking at the direction the man walked.
You squeeze his hand.
He looks down.
Then at you.
And his expression softens immediately.
⋆｡°✩ ───────── ✩°｡⋆
On the fourth day, you wake up with your head on his shoulder.
You don’t remember falling asleep there.
Spencer is awake.
Very awake.
His arm is resting carefully around you.
You lift your head.
“Sorry.”
He immediately shakes his head.
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“I fell asleep on you.”
“I know.”
“You could’ve moved.”
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
You stare at him.
He looks away.
Then you notice something.
His hand is still resting lightly against your arm.
He hasn’t moved it.
Neither have you.
“Spencer?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“It’s warm.”
“We’re inside.”
“Temperature can fluctuate indoors.”
You grin.
He looks at you.
And for half a second, there’s something in his eyes that makes your smile disappear.
Something soft.
Something nervous.
Something that looks suspiciously like affection.
Then he clears his throat.
“We should get breakfast.”
“Yeah.”
He stands.
And offers you his hand.
⋆｡°✩ ───────── ✩°｡⋆
On the fifth day, you start noticing.
Noticing the way Spencer always walks on the side closest to the road.
The way he checks whether you’ve eaten.
The way he remembers which foods you don’t like.
The way he keeps an extra hair tie around his wrist because you complained yours broke.
You stare at it.
“Why do you have that?”
He looks down.
“What?”
“The hair tie.”
“Oh.”
He shrugs.
“You needed one.”
“Three days ago.”
“You might need another.”
You smile.
“You’re weird.”
“I’ve been told.”
You take it from him.
Your fingers brush.
He goes quiet.
Then you realize
He’s looking at your hands.
Not your face.
Your hands.
Where the fake wedding ring sits.
You look at him.
“Spencer?”
He looks up quickly.
“Yeah?”
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You sure?”
He nods.
“Yeah.”
But his eyes drop to your ring again.
⋆｡°✩ ───────── ✩°｡⋆
On the sixth night, there’s a storm.
The power flickers.
You hate storms.
Spencer knows this.
He doesn’t say anything.
He just sits beside you.
Closer than usual.
When thunder shakes the windows, your hand finds his.
He looks down.
Then back at you.
“You okay?”
You nod.
“Yeah.”
His fingers close around yours.
“You can sleep.”
“I know.”
“I’ll stay awake.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
You look at him.
“Why?”
He hesitates.
Then quietly
“Because I like taking care of you.”
Your heart skips.
He seems to realize what he said.
His cheeks turn pink.
“I mean..”
You smile.
“I know what you mean.”
He smiles too.
But he doesn’t let go of your hand.
⋆｡°✩ ───────── ✩°｡⋆
By the seventh day, the case is almost solved.
The killer is getting desperate.
You’re getting closer.
And Spencer is getting worse at pretending.
You’re sitting at breakfast when you notice a piece of hair has fallen across your face.
Before you can move it, Spencer reaches over.
He gently tucks it behind your ear.
His fingers linger for half a second.
You both freeze.
His hand drops.
“Sorry.”
You stare at him.
“You don’t have to apologize.”
He swallows.
“I know.”
There’s a pause.
Then you smile.
“You really like me, don’t you?”
Spencer goes completely still.
For once, the genius of the BAU has absolutely nothing to say.
“I-”
You wait.
He looks down at the table.
Then back at you.
“Is it that obvious?”
You laugh softly.
“Only if someone is paying attention.”
He smiles.
“I guess you’re pretty observant.”
“Maybe I learned from you.”
His smile grows.
And underneath the table, his hand finds yours.
This time, there isn’t a case.
There isn’t a cover.
There isn’t an excuse.
Just Spencer Reid holding your hand because he wants to.
And when he looks at you, there’s no pretending left.
A/N: was listening to like i do - ariana grande while writing this. xx
The steps of the Gotham Museum are crowded with reporters, donors, politicians, socialites, and civilians who have come to support the museum’s newest charity initiative, and you stand beside Bruce beneath the glow of the glass entrance, your hand tucked around his arm while he gives the cameras the practiced smile they expect from Gotham’s most eligible philanthropist.
You are wearing something elegant, a dress Bruce had insisted looked beautiful on you despite your teasing about him finding everything beautiful on you, and for a little while, everything feels normal.
Bruce leans closer when the reporters move away, his fingertips brushing lightly against your waist, and you smile up at him. Then you hear it: the crack of a gunshot, followed by another, and another, somewhere several blocks away. The crowd begins murmuring almost immediately, and the security guards exchange tense looks.
Bruce’s expression changes so subtly that nobody else seems to notice, but you do. His jaw tightens, his eyes sharpen, and every bit of the relaxed Bruce Wayne persona disappears beneath the surface. He looks toward the street, listening to something only he seems capable of hearing, and you know before he says anything that Batman is needed.
“Stay with the security team.”
You frown. “Bruce-”
“I mean it. Something is happening a few blocks from here. You. Stay. Safe.”
“You’re going out there though?”
His eyes meet yours, and for one second the mask slips completely. “I need to make sure everyone gets out safely.”
You know that is not the whole truth, but you also know there is no point arguing when he uses that voice. He presses a kiss to your forehead before stepping away, disappearing into the crowd as security begins directing people toward the museum entrance. You remain where you are for several minutes, watching the guards attempt to maintain order while the distant sounds of sirens grow louder and louder each second passing.
Then a shadow moves across a rooftop opposite the museum, followed by a silhouette of a black cape dropping into the alley below. Your heart sinks. Batman is here. Bruce is here. Your Husband has already changed into his suit, and is on his way to take care of the problem.
And somehow, despite knowing exactly what you should do, your feet carry you toward the side street instead of toward safety.
You find him less than a minute later. The fight has spilled into the open, several armed men attempting to flee after some kind of robbery while your husband moves between them with accurate efficiency.
One man is knocked against the side of a parked vehicle, another is disarmed before he can raise his weapon, and the third is running directly toward the museum grounds.
You stop behind a barrier, realizing with a jolt that Bruce has not seen you yet. You should turn around, let the police handle this. You should do exactly what Bruce told you to do.
Instead, you see Batman take down one attacker and immediately turn toward another, and you notice something he doesn’t.
A fourth man is standing several yards behind him, partially hidden in the darkness, raising a handgun with both hands. Your heart slams against your ribs.
You don’t think. You don’t hesitate.
You simply run.
“Hey!”
Batman turns at the sound of your voice, and his expression changes instantly.
“Get back!” but you keep running. “What are you doing? Get down!”
But there is not enough time, and this man fires his gun. You reach Bruce at the exact same moment the bullet leaves the weapon, and your body moves between them before either of you can stop it. The impact tears a gasp from your lungs and sends a violent shock through your abdomen.
For one second, you remain standing purely because your body hasn’t yet realized what has happened. Then your knees buckle, and all you can feel now is how Bruce catches you.
“No.” his voice is different now. Not Batman’s voice. Not Bruce Wayne’s public voice. It is simply your husband’s voice, raw and terrified. “No, no, no. Hey baby, look at me.”
You try to breathe, but your breath catches painfully, and Bruce lowers you carefully to the pavement while immediately pressing his gloved hand against the wound. Blood is already spreading beneath his fingers.
And a part of you hates that he has to witness this. Bruce had to witness the death of his parents, and witnessing yours just feels like a slap to the face from the Universe. But another part of you doesn’t regret it. Because who saves Bruce if not you?
“I’m okay, fuck.” you manage, though your voice sounds weak even to yourself.
“You are not okay.” he presses harder, his other arm supporting your shoulders. “Stay with me. Please. Stay with me.”
“Are you hurt?” your fingers curl around his wrist. Wouldn’t it be smarter to focus on you rather than your husband, who is literally Batman.
Bruce stares at you in disbelief. “You just took a bullet for me and you’re asking if I’m hurt?”
“You’re okay, though?”
“Yes,” his voice cracks. “I’m okay because you got shot.”
The sirens arrive almost immediately, and the paramedics rush toward you while police officers secure the scene. Bruce initially refuses to move, continuing to hold pressure against the wound until a paramedic kneels beside him. But then he remembers that he is still in his Batman suit. But then again, he could care less. His wife needs him more now.
“Sir, I need you to let me take over.” a paramedic tells him.
“She was shot in the abdomen.”
“We can see that. I need you to move your hand.”
“She needs surgery.”
“We don’t know that yet.”
Bruce looks furious at the answer, but the paramedic remains calm. Can’t he see the blood escaping your body? The same blood that is supposed to be inside your body, not out on the cold concrete.
“We need to assess her first. We’re going to control the bleeding as much as possible, establish IV access, monitor her vital signs, and get her to the trauma center. If she has internal bleeding, the hospital will deal with that.”
Bruce finally moves his hand, allowing the paramedic to replace it with a trauma dressing while another medic places monitoring equipment on you. Your blood pressure is low enough to concern them, and the team immediately treats you as a potentially unstable penetrating abdominal trauma.
They establish two large-bore IVs, draw blood for laboratory testing and crossmatching, give oxygen, and begin cautious fluid resuscitation while preparing for the possibility that you will need blood products.
Nobody promises Bruce that you will be fine. Nobody gives him the comforting lie he desperately wants. Instead, they work quickly and with a lot of focus, because the most important thing is getting you to definitive care.
“Can I come with her?”
“No, sir.”
“She took a bullet for me. So I think I should be there in case she wakes up so I can thank her.” lie. Lielielie. He’s your husband, and he feels like if he lets you go, you will disappear. It almost feels like his heart will explode because it beats really fast, and his brain starts screaming at him for letting this happen in the first place.
Why do people he loves the most always get hurt?
“I understand, but we need room to work.”
Bruce leans over you as the paramedics prepare to lift the stretcher.
“I’m right behind you.”
Your eyelids flutter. “You promise?”
“I promise. Always.”
The ambulance doors close, leaving Bruce standing in the street with blood on his hands.
He gets to the hospital before the ambulance does. Even though he had to change out of his Batman Suit. But don’t ask him how many traffic rules he broke.
One moment he is outside the museum, and the next he is forcing his way through the emergency department doors with the same desperate focus he uses when the city is falling apart around him.
The trauma team brings you directly into a resuscitation bay, cutting away the damaged clothing around the wound while nurses attach monitors and establish additional access. Bruce follows until a nurse steps directly in front of him.
“You have to stay outside sir.”
“I’m going in.” Bruce tries to enter, but the nurse blocks his way.
“You can’t.”
“That’s my wife. My wife is currently fighting for her life, and you expect me to stay outside?”
“I know but-” he cuts the nurse off immediately. God, he can’t believe she’s not letting him see you??
“She was shot.”
“I know.”
“You need to let me stay with her.”
The nurse’s expression softens, but she doesn’t move. “Sir, I need you to understand that there are multiple people working on her right now. You being inside will not help us treat her. It might cause more harm than good.”
Bruce looks through the doorway. And the last sentence is when he breaks down. He is already the reason why you got shot, so he will not be the reason why they fail to save you.
A female physician is performing a focused ultrasound examination. Someone is drawing blood. Another nurse is preparing transfusion equipment. You are surrounded by people, your face pale beneath the harsh emergency-room lights.
Then the physician says something that makes Bruce’s blood run cold.
“Free fluid in the abdomen.”
The room changes. Fuck, not good.
The trauma surgeon is called.
Your blood pressure remains unstable despite initial resuscitation, and the team makes the decision quickly.
Because you have penetrating abdominal trauma, evidence of internal bleeding, and hemodynamic instability, waiting for an extensive imaging workup could delay definitive treatment. The surgeon explains that you need emergency exploratory laparotomy to identify and control the source of the hemorrhage.
Bruce hears the word surgery. Everything inside him goes cold, and for a second it feels like the world has gone quiet. “I’m going with her.”
The nurse blocks him again. “You cannot enter the operating room.”
“I need to be there.”
“You cannot. I’m sorry.”
“She’ll be scared. She- ugh- no, please let me hold her hand.”
The nurse looks directly at him “She won’t be alone. We will be there.”
Bruce’s jaw tightens. They’re still not him.
“She’ll wake up and wonder where I am.”
“We’ll tell her you’re waiting.”
He looks through the doors one last time. “Tell her I didn’t leave. Not even for a single second. ”
“We will.”
The operating room doors close which leaves Bruce alone. For the first time in his life, there is nothing he can punch, chase, investigate, threaten, or solve. Nothing he can solve with money. Nothing Batman can solve. This is entirely in fate's hand, not his.
He sits in the corridor with his elbows resting against his knees, staring at the floor while the blood on his wrist slowly dries. Thankfully nobody questions him.
He cannot stop replaying the moment in his head. The gun rising. Your voice shouting for him. Your body moving in front of him. The sound of the shot. The weight of you collapsing into his arms.
It should have been him.
It should always have been him.
He has spent his entire life building himself into someone who can take a hit meant for another person. He has trained until his body has become armor, built technology capable of surviving explosions, learned how to anticipate weapons before they are fired, and spent years convincing himself that if he was careful enough, fast enough, smart enough, he could keep the people he loved out of harm’s way.
And tonight, the person he loves most has nearly died because she was trying to protect him. Why didn’t he see the other person, hiding in the shadows when he is the shadows.
When the surgeon eventually comes through the doors, Bruce stands so quickly that the chair scrapes against the floor.
“She made it through surgery.” Bruce doesn’t breathe. “We found significant internal bleeding and repaired the injuries caused by the bullet. She required blood transfusions, but we were able to control the hemorrhage. She’s stable at the moment.”
Bruce’s eyes close. “Is she going to wake up?”
“She should, but she’s going to be closely monitored. She’s had major abdominal surgery, so there are still risks of infection, bleeding, and other complications, and recovery will take time.”
“Can I see my wife?”
The surgeon nods. “Once she’s settled in recovery.”
Bruce doesn’t wait another second. When he finally enters the recovery room, he almost doesn’t recognize you.
You don’t look like your usual self beneath the hospital blankets, pale and exhausted, with IV lines running into your arm and monitors quietly tracking your heart rate and oxygen saturation. There is a dressing over your abdomen, and your breathing is slow and steady as the medications keep you comfortable. Bruce approaches the bed as though the slightest sudden movement might break you.
He takes your hand. Even if it feels forbidden for him to touch you, he still does. Because he needs proof that you’re actually here.
Then he sits, and he waits.
Hours pass and eventually, your eyes flutter open.
Bruce immediately lifts his head. “Hey my love.”
“Hey.” your voice is barely audible.
“You’re awake.” He laughs once, but it sounds more like a breath breaking apart.
“Apparently.”
He carefully leans forward and kisses your forehead. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“You looked really scared.”
“I was terrified.”
You study his face for several seconds. He looks exhausted. Exhausted in a way he never has never looked before. There are shadows beneath his eyes, his hair is messy, and there is still a faint trace of dried blood on his cuff.
“You stayed here the whole time.”
“I promised.” You squeeze his hand weakly. “Good.”
“I should have known there was another shooter.”
“Bruce.”
“I should have gotten you away from there. I should have taken the bullet for you.”
“Bruce.” He finally looks at you, and he sees your tired but gentle expression.
“Youre blaming yourself for something you couldn’t control.”
His jaw tightens. “You got shot because of me.”
“I got shot because I love you.”
“You shouldn’t have had to.”
“I know. But Bruce please understand this… You protect Gotham on a daily basis, but who protects you? I, as your wife, promised I’d protect you too. And I didn’t mean only mentally, but also physically.”
You shift slightly, wincing when your abdomen pulls, and Bruce immediately reaches toward you. He doesn’t know how to respond, because what do you mean someone loves him enough to sacrifice themselves. “Don’t move.”
You smile faintly.
“Okay hubby.”
“Hubby?” he lets out a soft and tired laugh.
“My overprotective husband who I love very much.”
Despite himself, Bruce almost smiles. “I’d marry you again if I could.”
You laugh softly, and Bruce immediately smiles because hearing that sound is the first thing that has made his chest loosen all night. He carefully climbs into the chair beside your bed, resting his forehead against your hand while you gently run your fingers through his hair. He stays there until your eyes begin to grow heavy again, and when you finally drift back to sleep, his hand remains wrapped around yours.
This time, he lets himself breathe. Because you’re still here.
He immediately shifts into caretaker mode; the moment everything settles, his first instinct is making sure you're comfortable, warm, and okay.
Refuses to let go - he keeps you close… One arm stays securely around you while his thumb absentmindedly traces little circles against your back. Sometimes he wants you too close, to the point where he won’t even pull out and you’ll have to nudge him off with whatever strength you have left.
He'd bring you water without being asked, he'd insist you drink some since you’re covered in sweat and your body obviously begging for water…then quietly make sure he has some himself.
He’d open up a window to let out the steam he accidentally released from his body when he came(/cums), he swears he has no control over it and uses the argument that you felt too good to care about anything else. He’ll set the place on fire one night…soon, surely
His voice gets incredibly soft. The dominating rough tone he uses during sex disappears completely. It’s like regaining his senses and immediately going gentle and almost shy.
He'd check your face constantly. Not in an overbearing way - just little glances to make sure you're genuinely comfortable and happy. (…although he was forcing eye contact moments ago)
He'd clean you up, immediately asking maids to prepare a warm bath and a new set of ropes. Despite being the FireLord, he wouldn't expect you to do anything afterward. He'd quietly take care of whatever needs doing and does so himself.
He loves to lay beside you and just continue kissing you. Feeling each other’s heartbeat pumping, going onto forehead kisses afterward. There's something about the quiet intimacy of lingering a kiss to your lips while holding you that makes him feel incredibly close to you.
He’d sometimes gently place you on top of his chest to play with your hair. Slowly running his fingers through it while you rest against his chest - starting a small conversation with you (honestly could be about anything, but at times he’d be cheeky and ask what was your favourite part), it’s one of his favourite forms of affection.
He knows you get shy of the maids and guards who stand outside your chambers, so every now and then he’d tease you about them. “Oh no my dear, they’ve heard you screaming my name all night!”
He'd stay awake longer than you. Even when you're drifting off, Zuko remains beside you, watching you sleep peacefully and making sure you're comfortable.
The next morning, he's still attentive. He'll remember how you were feeling the night before and quietly check on you. If he had been rough or overstimulated you - he’d let you sleep in. Ask everyone to not disturb you and prepare meals to your chambers; especially if he has places to attend leaving your side. 
Most importantly, he never treats aftercare like an obligation. To Zuko, taking care of the person he loves afterward is simply another way of saying I love you.
-–—•
A/N - to those beautiful people that use the “request” button to anonymously tell me they enjoy my writing…I love you all SO much! They genuinely make my heart melt and are so wholesome, thank you all for being so respectful and kind to me and my writing. I’m so happy that you’re happy to be here!
"it's not gonna fit." he mutters, more to himself than to you. he presses his lips to a thin line, watching your leaking cunt after he made you cum a couple of times with his fingers and tongue. his veiny and huge cock is spring free against his stomach as he watches down at you, biting your lip.
"it kinda has to fit, bruce, it'd be so awkward if it didn't." you tease, pushing jokingly his hip with your feet. "c'mon, babe, i can handle feeling you for a couple of days."
he doesn't say anything, but his eyes darken just enough to make you shiver. he yanks you closer by the knee, pressing a kiss to your inner leg before hooking in under his shoulder for better access.
his free hand strokes his massive length, thick as your wrist, veined and throbbing, easily nine inches of pure intimidation. precum beads at the tip, and he drags it teasingly along your slick folds, coating you, making you whimper.
"careful what you wish for, sweetheart." he notches the blunt head at your entrance, pressing just enough to stretch you wide—fuck, it burns so good already.
you bite your lip harder, thighs quivering as he sinks in an inch, then two, your walls clenching greedily around him. "breathe for me. that's it... good girl."
he rocks his hips slow, splitting you open inch by agonizing inch until you're gasping, nails digging into his biceps. halfway in, and you're already stuffed full, his girth bullying your cervix like he owns it.
"mmh, fits just fine," he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, voice wrecked. "you can take the rest, yeah? you said you could."
It’s not on purpose, but absolute!bruce fucks you like he’s breeding you.
He’s not, god forbid, not in his Gotham - but his cock is too damn big for it to feel like he’s doing anything anything else. He’s 400lbs, near 6’9, full of double the amount of sperm as any other man you’ve been with, AND his dick’s big as a rail………..even if you can take it, that’s about all you can do.
(You’re lucky he’s so patient, half the time spent with his face between your legs just to open you up enough to get his tip in, the other half just waiting for you to adjust once he finally does. He gets it, he really does.)
But that’s why he’s gotta hoist your hips up into mating press just to get it feeling right — if he’s not in all the way, there’s chafing, or he’s sliding out, or there’s too much of a. Gap between your bodies which neither of you can stand (Bruce especially. He never half-asses anything).
Or why he’s gotta put you in prone from doggy and press your chest into the sheets just to get you to stop shaking. Spends his time massaging your ass cheeks, sinking into you nice and slow and deep until you’re feeling like a shaken can of coke, and can feel literally him every time you inhale. Bruce leaves his mark on your guts from the second he leaves until the following Tuesday. It’s so bad.
(And god forbid you’re ovulating — got your pussy pulsing at just the thought of him. Good lord!)
he literally cannot help it. the second you push your tits together and trap his dick in that soft, warm squeeze his breathing is already ragged and he's looking down at you with his big, watery eyes. and you’re just looking up at him so pretty. lips parted, lashes fluttering, the tip of him poking through your cleavage. and you're smirking.
it makes him feel tingly.
he whimpers. he always whimpers first. grabs onto your shoulders or your hair and starts babbling, “wait wait wait, slow down, you’re so—” but you just squeeze tighter and it’s over.
his hips twitch, stutter, and then he’s cumming in hot, desperate spurts all over your chest, your collarbones, a drop catching your chin. the noise he makes is almost painful.
and then comes the aftermath where he can’t even open his eyes, face burning red, mumbling, “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, you just looked too good, i couldn’t stop, fuck—”
and you just gather a little bit off your skin with your thumb and suck it clean while he peeks through his fingers and whines. dick twisting.
tell him it’s cute. tell him you wanna do it again. he’ll bury his face in your neck, mumble that you’re gonna kill him, but he’s already grinding soft against your thigh.
he’s just so pathetically in love with you it makes him pop like a teenager. that’s all.
۶ৎ Bruce Wayne who absolutely spoils you rotten, he has the resources for it, so why shouldn’t he? Even if he doesn’t let it on, part of the reason why he gives you anything you want or desire is as a silent apologies for all the late nights that he shows up covered in bruises and bleeding. Maybe if he creates you a comforting and luxurious life you won’t leave him
۶ৎ You will wake up with diamond necklace on a pillow beside you on a random Thursday morning. If you ask Bruce what is it for, all he says to that
“it’s a thank you for you being you”
“That doesn’t make any sense”
۶ৎ Absolutely never says “no” to you. Well beside if you’d ever ask him to stop trying to save the damned city. If you want to buy something new? He agrees before you even tell him what it is. For the matter of the fact, when the two of you shop and he catches you even glancing towards something, he’ll say you should get it
۶ৎ Bruce makes sure you use his bank card and not your own. He gets upsets if he notices you’ve used your own money instead of his, he thinks you should save your money for things he won’t be around for. Bruce puts his card in your phone, as well as slips his bankcard into your pocket before leaving for a shopping spree
His only two rules during shopping being: 1. You use his card 2. He gets to see you try on different clothes
۶ৎ Takes you to the finest restaurants in the city, hell he would rent out the place just for the two of you for a night. Candle light dinner, where his focus is only on you, as you try to get him to dance, in the end he agrees, of course he does
۶ৎ Gets Alfred to prepare your fav breakfasts every weekend, as well as each morning after an argument. His secret identity tends to spark up arguments between the two of you, and apologies don’t come easy to Bruce, so he tries to show that he’s sorry differently. For example with getting you, your favourite breakfast accompanied by coffee, exactly the way you like it
Tags: @userhotd @littlelovebiird @vlarrtrgryn {feel free to comment, message or send me an ask if you’d like to be tagged in my future posts!}
Bruce stood in front of the door to your apartment and checked his watch. He hadn't been to bed yet. And you had two hours and thirty-seven minutes until you had to be at the office.
Were you awake? Was it going to be too... weird if he was here? Offered you a ride to work. You commuting made him feel weird. Almost as weird as he felt when he knocked on your door, ears tuned for any movement.
What he didn't expect was the door to open and show him- you.
Not polished for work. Hair slept in. Sleep shorts and a tank top. Rubbing sleep from your eyes and looking up at him, confused. "Wha-"
"I was in the area," he said, giving you his most charming smile, "thought I could give you a ride."
"I'm not-I-" You break off and shake your head, "Have you been to sleep yet?"
"Nope," he said, popping the 'P" as you stepped back to let him in, too groggy to do anything else.
"Gimme a minute," you yawn. "I'll make coffee."
"Thank you, sweetheart," he hummed, taking a second to look around. An easel set up and a painting half finished. A smallish TV. Futon. Small collection of books. Rag rug on the wood floor. It smelled like cedar and oil paint. "I think your whole apartment could fit in my closet," he mused.
"Probably," you answer, yawning again as you throw coffee grounds into a filter and flip the coffee maker on. "Mugs are above the stove," you mumble as you pass him. "I need to-"
"Take your time," he said, "D'you have cream?"
Whatever your answer is, is garbled by the yawn you couldn't fight and Bruce smiles softly. Cute. It's cute. Apallingly cute- and he thought you were ridiculous before when you trotted into the office with the remnants of last night's glitter still sparkling on your cheeks and in your hair when you had a night off- pretending you hadn't spent the night before clubbing.
He made two mugs of coffee and stood leaning on the counter as he sipped his, wincing. This was not good coffee. It was functional coffee. Clearly, he didn't pay you enough.
