wntersfire

[wntersfire]

prologue, the burning sky — star wars.

series masterlist | writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: prologue; the burning sky. some tragedies will always happen, like a story you've always been unable to rewrite. but you still try.

─── warnings: star wars au, canon divergent. character death, vehicle accidents, blood & injury (nondescriptive), child loss, grieving.

─── notes: this is the prologue to a series i'll be posting following my ocs. this is a whole rewrite of the star wars sequel trilogy featuring ocs and focusing largely on family, grief, what you would do / how far you would go for family, haunting the narrative. the whole point of this story is family. are there love interests?? yes. but the core of it is 'what would you for / because of family?' you don't have to like this, but if i receive any rude feedback i'll just block you because the star wars fandom already fuckin terrifies me, let me just post my sad shit.

─── word count: 2.5k.

━━  the beginning.

     The sun rises, as it always does, a burning orb cresting over the horizon, painting streaks of pink across the silvery sky. Dawn leaks in through the windows of a newly-broken home, reaching across the room with long yellow fingers to raise a house full of heartache.

     Dory wakes with itchy, saltwater eyes.

     For a moment, she wonders why the skin around her eyes feels tight and sore, her nostrils stinging. She winces as the sunlight bleeds through the blinds, casting the room in a happy yellow glow. Her stomach twists violently as she remembers what happened the night before, each painful memory crashing back into her mind; bile burns the back of her throat, and she has to choke it back down.

     A sob racks her shoulders, sudden and vicious. She presses a hand to her mouth, trying to keep it in as tears rise in her eyes again, blurring her bedroom into one sun-drenched mess.

     Something heavy lays curled at the foot of her bed. Blinking her tears away, she peers over the edge of the covers, finding her younger cousin Marya sleeping there. She must've crept in in the middle of the night.

     Gently, she nudges Mare, and the younger girl stirs. Dory pulls back the covers and pats the space beside her. Blonde hair stuck to her face, mascara smudged beneath her eyes, Mare pushes herself up onto her elbows and crawls into bed beside her cousin. Dory pulls the blankets back up over their heads, and wraps her arms around Mare, pulling her cousin as close as she can.

     "My room was too quiet," Mare whispers into the fabric of Dory's shirt, fingers curled and clinging tightly to it. "I wanted to stay up to hear any news, but I couldn't stay in there."

     "That's alright." Dory's voice comes out cracked; she runs her fingers through the tangled strands of her cousin's hair, trying not to wince as Mare hugs her, pressing into the bruises that are spread across Dory's torso like a gruesome abstract painting.

     She has never been the most affectionate person, not even to her own sister  ━  but things can change in the blink of an eye, and people get lost when you thought they would live forever, and things bleed when they aren't supposed to, and Dory just wants to hold onto Mare for as long as she can before she has to let go again, no matter the pain it causes.

     "Mum hasn't slept, has she, Mare?" asks Dory.

     Mare shakes her head a little. "Not since I last checked. She was sitting in the kitchen when I left my room earlier... my mum was sitting with her. Uncle Luke went to be with mama in case something happened with Rion, and I don't think they've come back yet..."

     Dory swallows at the mention of her other cousin.

     When she stumbled in last night, stained with blood and reeking of smoke, with Mare hanging onto her arm, her father had folded them both into his arms. He'd sat with her as she screamed and raged for hours, held her when she sobbed until there were no tears left, and never said a word.

     No one else had been there waiting for them; her mother had gone straight to the medical centre with Aunt Ashka and Aunt Leia when she heard what happened, and only returned in the early hours of the morning, pale as a ghost and clinging to Ashka as if she were the only thing keeping her standing.

     Dory had never seen her parents like that before. Yve Cybele was the strongest woman in the galaxy, and Han Solo was always smiling, laughing as if everything were easy.

     Last night, though, Dory watched her mother shatter into a million pieces, and her father had no way of pressing them back together again.

     Last night, her sister died.

     When Dory closes her eyes against the sunlight, it all comes back to her in sharp, jarring flashes.

     She recalls the events leading up to the accident with perfect clarity; she, her parents and her little sister, Clarya, had come to visit their family for a month, as they had done every year for as long as Dory could remember. The visit, at least, had gone reasonably smoothly  ━  she always worried about growing apart from her cousins, when they spent so much of the year on separate ends of the galaxy. She and Rion, especially; Rion had been absent their last few visits, training at their uncle's re-established Jedi temple, and this was the first she and Clarya had seen him in such a long time.

     But it had been fine. Clarya and Marya, both fourteen, had stuck together like glue from the moment they arrived. Dory and Rion, too, had gotten over their initial awkwardness and bonded once more. Rion, one year younger than Dory at seventeen, had delighted in showing off all the things he'd learned at the temple. Clarya had laughed and wished she was Force-sensitive, and Rion had lifted her in the air, saying that flying was far better than being a Jedi, anyways.

     Last night, Clarya had wanted to go racing. Rion had a landspeeder he'd hardly had the opportunity to use since getting back from the temple, and Clarya desperately wanted to try it. She was their father's daughter entirely  ━  with the wind in her hair, she could do anything, be anything.

     And nobody had ever been able to say no to Clarya.

     Memories of the accident are more fractured, flashes of blinding light and sickening noise. Dory and Mare had gone along with their siblings, not wanting them to get into any trouble. Rion had been driving... too fast, Dory had thought, but she'd never been a thrill-seeker like her little sister, so she hadn't been too concerned.

     Until Rion lost control of the speeder.

     Dory woke up on the ground. Mare was screaming, covered in blood that didn't belong to her, clutching Rion to her chest. He'd been unconscious, too, the jagged cut across his head leaking crimson into his hair. The air crackled around them, heat from the speeder rolling over them in waves from where it lay burning nearby.

     Clarya had been lying next to Rion. Her eyes, wide and blue as the dusk sky above them, stared blankly at nothing at all. She'd been impossibly pale, her leg bent at a strange angle, her hair stained pink. Dory had dragged herself over there, an unbearable pain digging claws into her chest, and only after a moment had she realised that her sister was dead.

     Mare holds tighter to her now. It is too warm beneath the blankets, and her lungs ache for fresh air, but salty tears flow silently down her cheeks and Dory cannot bear to face a world without her sister in it.

     "Where's dad?" she asks, careful to hold her voice steady, so she doesn't upset Mare anymore than she has to. Last night, Dory had been a howling beast, pounding fists against her father's chest, a cataclysmic explosion barely-contained within a fragile teenage girl.

     But Mare's brother, her closest and dearest friend, is still unconscious in the medical centre. The doctors fear he may never wake up. While the cruellest, most spiteful parts of Dory pray he never does  ━  he took her sister with his recklessness, and Dory has always seen the world in -black-and-white, and eye for an eye, his life for her sister's  ━  she knows it would destroy her aunts the same way it has destroyed her parents, left them a burnt-out wreck the same as the speeder that crashed.

     It would destroy Mare like it has destroyed her.

     Gently, Mare shrugs, sniffling. "He wasn't with Aunt Yve and mum. I think he left... Maybe to check on mama and Uncle Luke? I hope he comes back with news..."

     Dory has to fight to bite her tongue.

     Later, when the sun is higher in the sky and Dory is done being angry with it  ━  how dare you rise on such a dark day? she wants to spit at it, bloody fingernails grasping for the sky in a bid to tear it down  ━  she peels herself from her bed, showering away all the blood and smoke from the night before, though the pain remains.

     She passes the guest room her aunts had made up for Clarya during their stay. The door is cracked open a little, and peeking inside, she sees the room is exactly the way Clarya left it. Clothes strewn across the floor, a pile of her favourite books on her bedside table, the ones she brought just for this trip, in case Aunt Ashka and Aunt Leia didn't have any she wanted to read.

     Reaching out, she pulls the door closed sharply, as if she can trap her sister's ghost in there forever.

     Her mother and Aunt Ashka aren't in the kitchen, but the living area. Yve looks as if hell descended on her in the night, and left her nothing but a living corpse; her blonde hair, patches of silver creeping in at the roots, is a tangled mess, her eyes bloodshot. Ashka looks little better, her own blonde hair kept in a long braid thrown over her shoulder. She smiles at Dory as she enters the room.

     "Mare is sleeping in my room," says Dory quietly.

     Her aunt nods, hands folded carefully before her, every inch a politician. "I don't think she slept a wink all night, worrying about her brother."

     "I don't think any of us slept, really," Yve says. Dory's eyes dart to her mother, who pats her knee. Soundlessly, Dory pads across the room and curls up in her mother's lap, in a way she hasn't done since she was a little girl. Her mother wraps thin, strong arms around her, stroking her hair back and rocking her like she is a baby again, and Dory doesn't mind.

     Quiet sobs wrack her body as the tears flow once more. Her sister is dead. Sweet Clarya, her little sunshine sister, born in the summertime. She used to weave flowers in her hair and dance on the balcony when she could, and their father would let her stand on his toes even when she grew too old for it, just so he could hear his little girl laugh.

     Her sister wasn't an angel. Clarya could be a brat when she wanted to be, when she didn't get her way, but she was the brightest flame of them all, and in the end, she was only a flickering candle, snuffed out far too easily when she should have been a star, burning forever.

     Her mother is crying, too. Her tears flow into Dory's hair, making it damp, but she doesn't mind at all. There is enough ache here to drown the whole room, if they truly wanted to. Dory wants to open her veins and let it all spill out, let her ocean of hurt drown the world. She wants to take everyone down with her into this agony. She wants everyone is the galaxy to feel as awful as this.

     It was her fault.

     She should've tried harder to stop them going. Clarya wanted to go, and Rion wanted to show off for his cousins and sister, but Dory had known it was a bad idea and she'd let them do it anyway. She was the oldest. She should've stopped them. She should've known better. She should've told Rion to slow down, to stop...

     It's Rion's fault, too.

     "Have we heard anything?" she wonders aloud, her raw throat burning.

     There are a million other questions she'd rather ask. Like why did this happen, or how did this happen, or where has dad gone? All of them feel like ticking bombs, each designed to inflict maximum damage, so she sews them into the lining of her tongue and keeps quiet.

     Asking about Rion is normal, and safe, even if she doesn't care at all.

     Her mother's arms stiffen around her. Aunt Ashka frowns, the gentle lines of her face deepening slightly. When Dory looks properly, she sees her aunt's eyes are bloodshot, too, and there are dry tear tracks staining her cheeks. Her too-thin fingers weave together.

     "We didn't want to wake you," she says quietly, her gaze falling to the ground. Her shoulders droop slightly. "Leia called and told us about an hour ago... Rion woke up in the night."

     Dory swallows her bitterness like poison. It festers in her gut. She wanted him to die instead. If she could trade her life for her sister's, then she would, but she would trade Rion's first. Her cousin is lovely and good, and she hates him still for what he did. For what she let him do.

     It's his fault, and your fault, too.

     "Is he alright?"

     Ashka picks at a loose bit of skin on her thumb. She seems so unlike herself that Dory has to blink, in case she is dreaming. Her politician aunt, a former princess, married to another politician and former princess, has always been the smiling kind. Even so, Dory has always been able to pick out the similarities between Ashka and Yve, aside from their shared blonde hair and shining blue eyes.

     She sees the similarities in the harsh edge to their smiles, the mischievous glint in their eyes, the sadness that settled into their bones over thirty years ago which hasn't ever gone away. Ashka may be a politician, but she has always been easy-going in equal measure, determined to balance her stoic facade with something happier.

     Today, Dory isn't seeing Aunt Ashka. She is seeing Ashka Cybele, the politician, sharp-angled and cool, channelling her emotions into being someone else, to control the situation.

     "He's alive." Ashka offers a small, slightly-relieved smile, but Dory doesn't take the bait.

     "And?" There's something else. Dory can tell.

     Ashka hesitates for a moment, and then sighs. "He doesn't remember what happened. The accident. Or..." Her lower lip trembles. Something inside her breaks free, and a single tear rolls from her eyes and drips from her chin. She doesn't bother swatting it away.

     "Or anything at all."

     For Dory, her fragile world, held up with cracked pillars and broken columns, comes crashing down in that moment. Her damned cousin, Rion, who caused the accident and killed her sister, gets to blissfully forget about what he did. Her lovely cousin, Rion, whom she still loves because that's how awful the world is, gets to forget.

     And she has to remember.     If, in that moment, Dory had known what would come for them all  ━  what the memory of Clarya would make them become, how they would fill the void she left, how they would take the ache and learn to make it feel like home  ━  she would wish to forget, too.

#poe dameron oc #THIS IS LITERALLY SO HOOKING AND INTERESTING AND LIKE NOTHING IVE EVER SEEN BEFORE I LOVE READING WITH OC’s IT MAKES THE WORLD SO DENSE. #I LOVE HER STORY ALREADY #I CANT WAIT TO SEE WHERE THIS GOES ;-;

[wntersfire]

fic edits ━━ Beautiful Ghosts  ━  Star Wars: Poe Dameron & Dory Solo-Cybele.

“Hard on the outside, soft and mushy on the inside, huh princess?”

“If I ask Chewie to shit in your bed, Dameron, he’ll do it no questions asked.”

[wntersfire]

in the dead of night

in which spencer wakes up in the middle of the night with an overwhelming desire to feel you

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: fem!reader, soft dom!spence (certified nereidprinc3ss classic), sub reader, fingering, piv sex, praise, overstimulation, cr**mp*e (god pls we need a new term) a/n: this is probably THEE most self-indulgent thing i've ever written. but.... lowkey favorite smut i've posted thus far..... i'm such a sucker for disgustingly sleepy needy sex. just.... read it and u will see.... and as usual i love you!!! PLEASE tell me what you think!! MWAH

When Spencer got home around one in the morning, he’d been too dead on his feet to do anything more than get undressed, fall into bed, pull you close, and pass out. Now he’s slightly disoriented as he stirs, pinned between sleep and wakefulness as he realizes how you’ve curled into his side—your face is buried in his shoulder to the point where he’s concerned about your access to air—but each warm puff against his neck assures him you’re breathing alright. One arm is slung haphazardly over his shoulder and your top leg is wound around his. Without thinking, his hand cups the back of your thigh, stroking the bare skin where it presses against his hip. You’re never so soft as you are in sleep; plush, easy, gentle. Spencer realizes with some degree of frustration that he has to fuck you. That’s why he’s awake, and he condemned himself to the fate of it as soon as he touched you. 

Sometimes the impracticality of sex becomes so apparent he resents his own mammalian, biological drive to reproduce. It was never like this before he met you. You reduce him to nothing more than a primate doomed to follow its basest instincts. You make him feel stupid. 

God, he loves you. 

It’s with this in mind he drops his head to kiss your shoulder—a gentle sort of wake up call, as his hand snakes further around to your inner thigh and he presses his lips to your ear. 

“Baby?” he murmurs, kneading the smooth warmth of your leg. It doesn’t take much to wake you up. He thought after you’d been staying at his apartment on a semi-regular basis you’d begin to sleep through him getting up and coming home at odd hours, but if anything, you became more sensitive to the floor creaking or the mattress dipping. 

“Hm?” 

His fingers brush the fabric of your underwear. Your hips twitch. 

“Is this okay?”

You inhale deeply, readjusting your arms around him and nodding into his chest. 

“I need yes or no, angel.”

“Yes, please.”

The words aren’t desperate. They’re sleepy, mumbled, maybe even a little annoyed that he’s making you jump through hoops. The corner of his mouth twists in amusement at your perfunctory politeness and the way it poorly disguises your habitual impatience. 

“Thank you,” he says, rewarding you with his fingers pushing between your folds through the fabric. You say nothing more as he unhurriedly rubs your clothed clit, but he feels the way your breath catches for a moment—before pouring out in one deep tide. He presses slightly harder, transitioning from passes to slow, tight circles that elicit the tiniest, sleepiest moans. This goes on for a while until your hips begin grinding in isolated circles, chasing his hand. 

“Touch it,” you beg quietly. He can feel how damp you are through the fabric and realizes he was probably torturing you for several minutes, but sometimes he just gets so lost in touching you it becomes almost meditative. He pulls his hand away and snakes it between your bodies, sliding beneath your underwear and dragging his fingers over your puffy clit. You whimper but he quickly gets distracted when he realizes just how wet you actually are. Spencer sinks his fingers into you and moans lowly at the sound, rubbing at a spot deep inside you and rutting his palm against your clit rather than pumping his fingers. 

“Breathe,” he reminds you when he realizes how still and silent you’ve gone. A small amount of air escapes in a tremulous little cry as your hips roll gently against his hand—whether to escape the sensation or get closer is unclear. “You’re all wet, baby. Were you touching yourself before I got home?”

“Mhm,” you hum weakly against him. “Couldn’t come.”

Spencer feels like he could finish at the thought alone—the nightly phone calls while he’s away occasionally devolve into desperate phone sex and he’s gotten off to the image of you playing with yourself in his bed on more than one occasion. 

“We’ll make you come,” he promises, dragging his fingers from your soaked heat with bated breath. 

He pushes your underwear down first, until you can kick it off your feet (you’ll have to search for it between tangled sheets tomorrow) and then his own, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth as his cock brushes your tummy. Spencer hoists your bent leg further up his body, exposing your cunt a little more and reaching underneath your thigh until he can guide himself between them. 

The head of his cock pushes between your folds momentarily before he’s teasing your swollen clit, slipping the underside of his tip over it in lazy, noisy circles until you whine. 

“Stop it,” you beg, voice still strained with sleep, “need it inside.”

“You’re right, baby, I’m sorry,” he croons, pressing his lips to your hair as he notches his cock at your dripping entrance and slowly begins to push in. “You’re being very patient—”

He cuts himself off as the two of you moan in filthy harmony. You’re so worked up for him, so defenseless in your half-unconscious state that he slips in with far less resistance than usual. 

“Fuck, me,” he groans under his breath, hissing and bucking his hips when you tighten around him and cry out. He shuts his eyes and thinks of the Goncharov conjecture in an attempt to control himself; the i-th cohomology of the complex is isomorphic to the motivic cohomology group—and then he’s fine. He’s at least learned to stop rattling off mathematical paradoxes out loud during sex. “You okay?”

The only answer you have for him is an indecipherable whine that makes his chest ache. He rubs your thigh in sweet, soothing passes. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” A thought occurs—he chuckles breathily, seeing stars as you throb around him. “You never let me in that easily.”

“Mm,” you squeak, gripping his shoulder hard enough that it aches and he truly couldn’t care less, “you feel good.”

He exhales shakily, pulling out slightly before grinding his hips even deeper into yours. 

“Yeah? So do you, sweet girl.”

“Fuck,” you whimper, and he takes it as a sign that you’re ready to be fucked. Spencer’s not thinking about a whole lot as he withdraws all the way and you clench around him desperately—but somewhere in the back of his mind he’s realizing how much he loves your dirty mouth. When he was younger and dumber, he thought he’d prefer a girl who was soft-spoken and rarely (if ever) cursed. Now that he’s had you, he realizes how compelling and endearing the contrast of your soft voice is when you’re swearing like a marine. 

“God, I missed you,” he breathes into your hair as he leisurely finds the right pace and you melt against him. “I missed how soft and wet you get for me,” Spencer admits gently, eyes screwed shut as he rambles from a place of profound affection and not at all thinking clearly, “and I missed how you cry when you need it so bad it hurts, and I missed how sweet you are when you let me fuck you right after I get home and you’re so tired, just like this. You’re always so good, honey, I don’t know what I did to deserve you—” You whine and clench so hard around him it becomes an effort to push back in, and he groans as he realizes you’re already coming. “Good girl, baby. Holy fuck.”

That last part is more so whispered to himself, but he can’t help it as he feels you painting his cock with your release. You’ve never come this quickly before, and he slips his arm beneath the crook of your knee, pulling up and granting himself more access to fuck you harder and faster. You moan brokenly, sinking your nails into his back. 

“‘m sorry. That was—I didn’t mean to.”

“No,” he quickly assures you, breathing hard, “that was so good, baby. It was perfect. Don’t apologize.”

It seems the brief window between climax and over-stimulation has passed, and a gasp falls from your dropped jaw, arching into him as your body unconsciously tries to find relief from the sensation. 

“Oh, god, Spencer, I—”

“You can take it, we’re getting close,” he promises. Not a demand, but meant as encouragement. “Do you think you can come for me one more time?”

“I don’t know,” you slur, the words rising to squeak. 

“I think you can. Come on, show me how you were touching yourself earlier.”

You whimper, but slide your hand from his shoulder and push it between your bodies. A gasp accompanies the jolt of your muscles as you make contact with your clit, probably demanding too much of it. Soon, however, the conflicted mewls melt into a rhythmic string of delicate, short moans, so pretty it’s like a practiced song. Spencer’s brain, usually overflowing with words, is nothing but a void of swirling fog—each of your perfect sounds, a little burst of light. Soon he’s making noises of his own, which you obviously adore if the way you tense around him is any clue. Usually he sublimates them into words, but he’s too tired, and you feel too good. Your combined moans, along with the sound of him fucking you and the sheets moving over skin make for a truly dirty soundscape. 

“Will you come inside me?” you beg breathlessly, and he can feel the movement of your hand speeding up as you get desperate. He sucks in a breath through his teeth at your plaintive request—the words bring him that much closer to finishing. 

“Yeah, baby. I’m—fuck, I’m not going to last.”

“Spencer—” and somehow, when you say his name like that, he knows exactly what you want. He bows his head and finds your lips, mostly blind in the dark, kissing you messily until that split second where his grip on reality becomes tenuous before the building pressure finally bursts. Multicolored fireworks explode behind his eyes as he moans against your lips and continues fucking you through his orgasm in strong thrusts for as long as he can. Thankfully you finish again just as he’s running out of steam. He rubs the spasming muscles of your thigh deeply as you writhe against him in your typical push-pull style—you don’t know what you want and it’s his job to hold you still and make you take it. After a moment you quiet down, stilling in his arms except for the continued expansion and contraction of your lungs. “Oh my god,” you breathe. “I can’t believe I did that. That’s so embarrassing.” Spencer chuckles breathily—kisses your forehead with his eyes still shut and slips a hand under your shirt to rub your back. 

“Why is it embarrassing? I liked it.”

“I have never—it’s never been so fast! It’s not supposed to be!”

“Why not?”

You huff.

“You’re the man. Men come too quickly. Not me.”

“I’m sorry you had to have two orgasms instead of one. Next time we’ll make sure you don’t come so we can even it out.”

You bury your face in his shoulder once more, immediately softening. 

“No! I take it back.”

“I thought you might.” His hand slides down your back, squeezing your ass affectionately. “Let's rally. We need to clean you up, angel.”

The pillow muffles your voice as you say, “I can’t. I’m asleep.”

“Can I record you saying that for playback in the morning when you ask me why I let you go to sleep with my come inside of you?”

“Spencer, I am seriously not moving. You woke me up. This is not a me problem.”

That makes him laugh, and he presses his lips to yours softly. After a long moment of his mouth moving slowly against yours, a needy little whine rushes from your nose, and it becomes evident he’s successfully kissed the attitude from you.

“You were so good, honey,” he murmurs against your lips. Another (shorter) kiss. “Did so well. I’m proud of you, baby.”

A second soft whimper from you as you chase his lips and he gives in once, briefly—knowing he can’t make you get up after this. How could he do that to such a sweet girl when she’s obviously completely exhausted? Jesus, you have him whipped. He recognizes that. And he made peace with it a long time ago. 

“Go back to sleep. I’ll clean you up.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, already slipping back into unconsciousness like you knew you’d get your way. Knowing your boyfriend, you probably did. “I love you.”

“I love you. Even though you’re a princess.”

You laugh. 

Ten-ish minutes later, once he’s done the best he can cleaning you up and is throwing the covers back over both of you, you startle him slightly by speaking. He thought you’d been asleep. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you sigh dreamily, snaking your arms around him once more. Spencer’s cheeks heat up at the memory of the praise he’d shamelessly lavished upon you not long ago. He’s glad you’re barely awake, because he’s too flustered to think of a response. 

He loves it when you do that. 

[wntersfire]

this is so sweet and soft he’s so dreamy 🥹🥹🥹🥹 I love these little blurbs you write him so perfectly!! 💗

hi! could i request track one with spencer reid where reader gets drunk and needy for spencer 😭 but he denies (cuz yk shes drunk) and just takes care of him please? thank you!

off my face — spencer reid

summary: “i’m off my face in love with you.” in which reader gets drunk and spencer has to nurse her back to health. pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: established relationship, fluff warnings: rated 16+ for allusions to smut, reader gets drunk, reader wears lipstick and a dress, mentions of throwing up [not in detail], spencer being sickeningly perfect, lots of pet names, inspired by that one video of matthew. you know which one i’m talking about. a/n: i er… got carried away because i love this trope 😔 i am in fact obsessed wc: 1.23k

It’s too loud. Granted, it’s a club; it’s supposed to be loud. Spencer cringes a little as the music somehow manages to get even louder and he sips at his coke. He has your purse in his lap and he’s also manning your drink like a guard dog; moving himself to the furthest seat in the booth that is away from the crowd. Your inevitable return is a lot sooner than he expected, and he watches with amusement as you slide into the booth and curl into his side, reaching for your drink. 

“Have fun?” Spencer asks with a soft laugh, one arm wrapping around your shoulders as he presses a kiss to the top of you head. 

“Mm,” you hum in affirmation, eagerly sipping at the sugary concoction in front of you. “Would’ve been funner with you, baby.”

He laughs louder at that, rolling his eyes teasingly and squeezing at the flesh of your waist. “You know it wouldn’t have been.”

“Bet you’d be real sexy with all that sweat dripping off you,” you coo, your voice sickeningly sweet as your fingers move to toy with the buttons of his shirt. 

Your fingers are wet with the condensation from the chilled glass of your cocktail and they brush against the sensitive skin of his collarbone. A shudder runs down his spine at the contact, and his cheeks grow hot. His hand finds your wrist and he holds it firmly, but not enough to hurt. 

“Don’t,” he says, half jokingly half seriously as he moves his head to track your gaze. “How much have you had to drink, angel?”

You ignore the question, moving your fingers upward to brush against a blooming purple mark near his collar. A pout rests on your lips as you gesture to it, a frown forming on your face. “Who gave this to you?”

He bristles, moving the flap of his collar to cover the bruise. “You did. This morning.”

“Oh yeah!” The smile returns to your face awfully fast and a giggle bubbles up from your throat. “You love me.”

“I do,” he agrees, kissing your head again. 

Your expression is all too gleeful as you move your head just at the right time so that he lips would meet yours. He pulls away after a brief moment, about to say something else, when you effectively cut him off by pressing a wet kiss to his cheek. 

“Angel– sweetheart, you’re very drunk,” he says gently, prying your needy fingers away and holding them firmly in his hand. 

“Nuh uh,” you deny, leaning forward again and kissing his neck right where you left a mark earlier that morning. 

He jolts at the contact, pulling away as pink rises to his cheeks. “We’re not doing this while you’re drunk, honey.”

You blatantly ignore him, maneuvering yourself so that you’s practically half on his lap with your arms wrapped loosely around his neck. He doesn’t mind the attention, per se. He just feels incredibly guilty about enjoying it when you’re loopy from all the cocktails you have had. You’re pressing kisses against his cheeks while your hands play with the collar of his shirt, tugging at the purple tie you chose earlier that day and there are lipstick stains all over his skin. He’s well aware of it; bright red with a sticky residue and he will forever not understand how you can wear it all the time. 

His tie has come undone entirely and you pull at his shirt to kiss dangerously close to his collarbone. 

“Okay–” he’s flushing scarlet and he doesn’t dare meet the eyes of anyone in the team. “Okay, baby, that’s enough. Let’s get you home.”

“Ooh,” you giggle, wiggling your eyebrows with insinuation.

“You need sleep.” He says it sternly, although you don’t seem to grasp the concept. 

“What kind of sleep?” You ask, winking. 

He shakes his head, amused and exasperated, as he rebuttons his shirt and reties his tie. “The REM kind. Come on, angel. Say good night to your friends.”

You giggle tiredly, waving goodbye to your friends. Penelope looks absolutely hammered, wiggling her eyebrows at you with an expression full of insinuation. Emily is smirking in your direction, swirling her martini around before taking a sip. JJ looks equally elated, snickering softly as she holds onto Will’s arm. 

Spencer ushers you gently into his car, leaning over the console to open the glove box on your side and brandishing a packet of micellar water wipes. He takes out two for himself before passing the rest of them to you.

“For your makeup,” he explains, wiping the lipstick marks off his cheeks. “I’ll help you with your skincare when we get home, alright?”

You’re in love. It isn’t long before he’s helping you up the stairs of his apartment and sitting you gently on the couch. Your eyes are droopy and it seems like the sugar high from your cocktails is wearing off. Spencer runs his fingers through your hair gently while he holds a glass of cold water to your lips, urging you to drink. You only do it to appease him and once he’s satisfied with your water intake, he’s reaching for the zip of your dress.

“Someone’s needy,” you coo, giggling as he pulls it down to just below your ribcage. “Gonna rough me up?”

“No.” He answers it swiftly, and had you been sober your heart would have split in two. He continues, “I’m going to put you in something more comfortable and then you’re going to sleep.”

“Boring.”

“No, it’s not– it’s not boring,” he flounders, his cheeks growing hotter at your words. He can’t believe he’s arguing with a drunk person. “It’s not boring, baby, it’s safe. Alcohol is a neuro inhibitor. There’s a reason why you can’t drink and drive and it’s because the brain’s neural activity patterns are suppressed or blocked. That’s also the reason why you can’t ask a drunk person for consent; they don’t know or understand what’s going on around them.”

You’ve half fallen asleep at his explanation, the sleeves of your dress falling down your arms and a shiver runs down your spine. “So we’re not going to be partaking in passionate steamy love making?”

“No, we’re not,” he confirms, pulling your favourite pair of cotton pyjamas over your head. It’s a pale pink set with little bows prints all over it and a lacy collar. “Lift your hips for me, angel, I need to get the shorts on you.”

You comply, kicking the dress off into some forbidden corner of the room and Spencer takes this chance to slip the matching shorts onto your legs and up your thighs. The rest of the night is smooth sailing from there– he has successfully applied your skincare in such a way that you would be singing his praises. He has also managed to get you to drink another cup of water, and even though you’re going to wake up complaining about the fact you need to pee. He’d rather you complain about that instead of some raging headache. 

Spencer climbs under the covers next to you, pulling you into his chest and kissing your shoulder. A soft snore leaves your lips and he can’t help but chuckle. Passed out, as expected. 

“Good night, angel,” he murmurs into your ear, holding you tight. “See you in the morning.”

reblogs are always appreciated !!

event page

[wntersfire]

dream job is to be that one rotted hand that bursts out of the grave to snatch some stupid idiot by the ankles and pull them under the earth

[wntersfire]

2k follower celebrations!

in honour of nearly hitting two thousand followers (which in itself has blown my mind) I'm opening my requests back up, this time with a little twist.

SEND ME ANY REQUEST VIA ASK FOR A 1K WORD BLURB

or

SEND ME A SONG AND A CHARACTER AND I WILL WRITE A MINI SONGFIC FOR THEM

these can include smut (!!) however as I am extremely new to writing it please be patient with me an I may change them slightly to be something I feel more comfortable writing if necessary.

Characters include any that have been tagged below!

and thank you so much for anyone who has seen, liked, reblogged, commented or followed me the past few years. I do this all for you! <3<3<3 GET SENDING! pics will be posted in the following weeks!

[wntersfire]

oh... you love me | spencer reid

spencer x fem!bau!reader summary: four times spencer realizes you love him + one time he realizes he loves you back (platonically, of course). genre: fluff! idiots in love! sloow burn with friends to (closer) lovers! warnings: none? i think. a/n: AAA, ngl, i am a little excited abt this one. i really (really really) hope you like it! i am not patient enough to wait until midnight, so here it is! happy valentine's, gorgeous! word count: 3.1k ish series masterlist

i. (1st) friday.

You had only been on the team for a couple of weeks, but you had treated him with more kindness than he had ever received in his twenty-three years of life. Spencer doesn’t understand you, and he understands almost everything. He doesn’t understand why when your eyes meet, your first instinct is to narrow your gaze at him until both breaks in a smile. He doesn’t understand why you’re willing to listen to him talk about his interests. He doesn’t understand why you don’t shut him up when he goes off on tangents in the profiles. And, above all, he doesn’t understand why your gaze keeps such a warm space for him as if it was reserved.

But, for the first time in his life, he decides that it’s okay to not understand something. It doesn’t really matter. Not when being around you is so easy. His entire existence has felt like a knot too tight. But at your side, it is as if he was made of the softest silk in the world that slides in the elixir of the universe. He looks for you and his heart beats comfortably when he finds you in front of him, as always. Your brow is furrowed as you look through a folder. He decides to go help you.

“Hi,” he breathes, sitting on the edge of your desk. He puts his hands in his pockets so they don't stay hanging.

“Spencer,” you grin at him.

“You need help?” he asks, nodding towards the manila folder in your hands.

“Oh, no, don’t worry about it,” you quickly assure. “Besides, I don’t want Hotch to call you out again for helping me.”

Spencer just shakes his head. He doesn’t mind Hotch. No, if it means he can help you. “It was nothing,” he says, shrugging. He wavers, getting back on his feet. “Uhm- alright, I’ll let you work, then.”

“Wait!” you say, looking for something inside your bag. You take out two rectangular papers. “One for you and one for whoever you want. I won this, uh, giveaway for a Russian science fiction festival, but uhm, I didn’t realize the movies weren’t going to be subtitled.” You smile, cheeks hot with embarrassment. “But then I remembered I work with a genius who happens to love sci-fi and knows russian.”

Spencer stares at the tickets in your hand. This, without a doubt, takes the prize for things he doesn’t understand about you. Did you think about him? You not only pay attention to him, but you keep him in mind. Enough to thread his interests with him. Oh. Is he having a panic attack? Or why is his heart making so much noise? Norepinephrine. Dopamine. Serotonin. Cortisol. Oh. The chemicals of love. Is that it? You love... him? (And he loves you back?)

As friends, of course, he thinks a second too late.

“Spencer?” you call him, worry outlining your expression. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable- Sorry. I just- thought you’d wanted to go? It was silly, sorr-“

“No,” he says, perhaps too strong, high-pitched voice. He clears his throat. “No. Sorry. It’s… yeah. I’d love to go. Thank you. But uh…”

You look up at him. Nothing else holds your attention. He can’t take it. He clears his throat again.

“One ticket is enough,” he says. “You- you can use the other one, if you want.” There’s a pause. Your eyes are cautious, like you don’t want to misunderstand him. “I- I can whisper the translations of the movies for you. If you want.”

Oh, God. Why’d he say that. He’s going to ruin this friendship before it can properly start-

“I’d love to, Spencer,” you beam.

He lets out a shy smile, before finally taking the ticket out of your hand, which is now resting on your lap. He doesn’t think it too much and leans in to reach it. He reads the day: Friday, eight pm.

“Reid,” Hotch says, behind him. Spencer stiffens. “Why aren’t you on your desk?”

ii. chopsticks.

“Ey, ey, ey,” Morgan calls you out. “Not cheating, pretty girl.”

Spencer watches you smile softly as you shrug and he takes the fork you pass him under the table. His fingers brush yours for a few seconds and he is now filled with nervous laughter fighting to get out.

“What do you mean?” you ask Morgan, with trained innocence. “I just went to the bathroom.”

Spencer stares at his plate full of Thai food to avoid the stares of the rest of the team. He doesn't want to face them with blushing cheeks. He replaces his chopsticks with the fork that you just most likely asked for in the kitchen when you “went to the bathroom.” His lungs stutter with emotion every time you make small gestures like these. His big brain doesn't process the efforts you make for him.

“The rubber trick didn’t work out this time?” JJ asks him, her blue eyes catching the soft glam of the lamps in the restaurant.

“Uh, no. It didn’t work last time either,” he shrugs, rolling the noodles up and savoring his first bite of the night.

JJ nods, without saying more. He didn’t mean to, well, be mean. But what if he was? Should he apologize now? Or would that make things worse? He looks at you, searching for comfort, but you avoid his eyes. Oh. How can he managed to make things worse without saying anything? It has to be a special talent being this awkward socially.

When the team’s conversation flows back to normal course, away from his lack of skill with chopsticks, Spencer searches your gaze again. You’re not participating much in the general conversation. And it’s not that you ever talk too much, actually, but you are always engaged-on and laugh at the jokes they make. Spencer ventures out and fumbles for your hand under the table. He finds your knee and he’s mortified that it can make you uncomfortable, so he lets go of it immediately. But then you look at him and offer him a slight smile. Your hand meets his halfway his retreat and you intertwine your fingers with his. The feeling of your palm against his, far from scaring him, reassures him into reality. It makes him self-aware in a nice way. As if he was grateful to be alive for the first time.

“You okay?” Spencer mouths without making a sound.

You nod right away. “Yeah,” you whisper back. “Is your food not good?”

“No, it’s great,” he assures you giving a gentle squeeze to your hand. “Thank you.”

“Well, how can it be a dinner if you don’t eat anything?” you smile, the spark of the joke shining in your eyes.

He softly laughs and nods, bashful. He wants to soak in your affection, even if he doesn’t truly know how to do that.

“Where are your hands, pretty ones?” Morgan then says, with a knowing glance and a smirk blossoming on his face.

iii. hand sanitizer.

You have been called by one of the states with the lowest police budget. The air is warm and dust settles on Spencer’s tongue. The AC smells stale. And the space you’ve been given to work is as small as a single cubicle back in the bullpen. These are difficult conditions for a germaphobe like Spencer. But he is trying to cope.

When Prentiss and Morgan arrive with the takeout, the tiny room immediately fills with burger-flavored steam. Spencer is going to throw up. He slips into the hallway in search of the bathroom. He tries not to think about how little they have to clean it when he sees the tartar accumulated at the base of the sink. He turns the rusty knob, but the water never comes. What. This is it. How they expect him to eat with dirty hands.

He sighs resignedly. His stomach growls, but he ignores it as he walks past the assigned little room. He leaves the precinct and breathes in clean air. He can always eat at the hotel, where there is water. And functional AC. And the atmosphere doesn’t stink of grease and sweat. The door sounds behind him and he turns, ready to explain to Hotch that he’ll be back in a second. But he finds you holding two bags of hamburgers in one hand and two ice cold sodas in the other. He rushes to help you.

“No, wait,” you stop him. You stick out your hip a little. “Beside my badge,” you tell him, “there’s hand sanitizer.”

The relief that runs through him is like a splash of cold water in the middle of this boiling pot of germs. He lifts the hem of your shirt slightly. The cotton feels soft between his fingers. Once the small plastic vase is in sight, he carefully removes it from the buckles of your jeans. Colorless, odorless, and alcohol-free. Spencer might cry. In fact, is he about to do it? His throat closes with emotion. Your affection wraps around him like a damp cloth: refreshing and clean. It’s hard for him to believe that someone could care so much about him.

Your love always takes him by surprise, no matter how long you’ve been friends. He can’t get used to you. Every time he enters the bullpen, it’s like he’s seeing you for the first time (even though you’re the first thing his eyes look for). He doesn’t know how to explain it. He doesn’t know how to explain you. You are that scent that reminds him of home but that he could never describe. You’re that ethereal to him. But you are also kindness materialized. You are gestures full of palpable consideration. Like the gel that he’s consciously sliding between each line of his palms.

“Thank you,” he says, although it’s such a short and meaningless phrase for what he actually wants to say.

“It’s nothing,” you brush off, passing him his burger and soda. “It is pretty crazy to eat with dirty hands, after all. You are just more sane than any of us,” you smile.

He shakes his head, laughing. That’s a first. Him being called more normal because of his phobia of germs, and not a total freak like he’s used to.

“You want to sit down?” Spencer asks you, looking at the edge of the sidewalk with some displeasure. But he can handle it if you prefer to eat sitting down.

“I’m fine,” you assure him, unwrapping your own meal.

“Wait!” he says. He opens the hand sanitizer again. “Your hands, please.”

You smile, amused. “Oh?” you joke. “Are you asking for my hand, Spencer?”

He knows you well enough by now. But he blushes anyway while laughing. “Hands. In plural, angel.”

iv. chocolate donuts.

Spencer has been frowning at the same spot for solid ten minutes.

“Pretty boy,” Morgan calls him. “She’s still not there.”

Spencer snaps back to reality and reluctantly tears his gaze away from your empty desk. “I’m gonna check Garcia’s office.”

“She’s not there either,” Morgan tells him, leaning back in his chair.

“Wh- How do you know that?” Spencer’s expression is near to pouting.

“Babygirl told me. I’ve already asked her,” Morgan shruggs. He’s enjoying this a bit.

“Well,” Spencer sighs in frustration. “Then where is she?”

“Why? Missing her already?” Morgan teases.

Spencer mumbles a shut up under his breath and buries himself in the remaining cases he has to review. Since he woke up, the day has felt against him. He missed his usual train. He doesn’t like the socks he picked out today. His tie is more crooked than normal. His cardigan feels rough. His coffee isn’t sweet enough. And now, you’re not here. He went to the bathroom for a second to splash cold water on his face, and when he came back you were no longer at your desk. Not that he was going to tell you anything important, but seeing you is always a kind of comfort.

He’s about to ignore Morgan and check Garcia’s office anyway when he sees you through the glass doors. He almost jumps from his seat to go meet you, but Morgan’s gaze is insistent enough to save him the guaranteed humiliation. He clears his throat and pretends his desk isn’t right next to Morgan’s.

“Oh, hi,” Spencer casually greets you when you stop by his desk.

Morgan huffs, biting a laugh back.

“Hey,” you answer back, sliding a brown paper bag across his desk.

“Are those…?” he asks, looking at you with stars in his eyes.

“Mhm. Fresh batch and all,” you grin at him.

A few blocks down from the Bureau, there is a bakery that sells the best chocolate donuts. Sometimes you two stretch your lunch time as long as you can and go for a treat. Most of the time it’s just you and him. But other times Penelope comes along. Or JJ. Prentiss, even, if she’s feeling it. But Spencer’s favourite times, he must admit, are when you two are alone.

He opens the bag and immediately the smell of chocolate melts his bad mood. But is that really what disintegrates his heart into a sugary puddle? Or is your detail the responsible? Or are you the reason?

Morgan leans over the cubicle divider and peels a piece of paper from the bag. The color leaves Spencer’s face and he looks at you in panic. You laugh and try to take it from Morgan, taking advantage of your position of standing.

“Uh-oh,” Morgan stands up as well, holding the paper out of your reach. “You guys are passing notes like high-school lovers?”

“High-school lovers?” Prentiss asks, pocking her head out of her cubicle with amusing curiosity.

Spencer is going to die.

“Morgan,” you laugh, shaking your head. “That’s just the receipt.” 

Morgan then looks properly at the piece of paper in his hand. You’re right. He laughs as well.

“But you should have seen the look on Reid’s face,” he jokes, nudging Spencer’s side.

“Here,” you cut him off, giving to him the other brown paper bag. “Take it to Penelope.”

“Alright, alright, mamma,” he rolls his eyes, smiling. “I don’t promise these are gonna make it to her, tho.”

Prentiss is behind him as they come out of the bullpen. “I don’t promise either.”

“You better leave some donuts for Penelope!” you warn, before turning to Spencer with a smile bright as the moon. He smiles back, unable to do anything else.

“Thanks for the donuts. You didn’t have to,” he tells you.

“Of course I had to,” you answer decisively. You take a post-it note out of your pocket. “This one isn’t a receipt.”

Spencer takes the note carefully in his hands. You know Morgan’s right when he calls you pretty boy, don’t you? ;). He laughs and folds the note neatly, so he can keep it forever in his wallet. He looks at you and finally understands that you love him. No, he still doesn’t know how to explain it. But he doesn’t need to. Instead, he takes your hand and tugs it, pulling you towards him. You let out a little sound of surprise. Spencer knows he’s never this affectionate. But maybe he should start being more so. He presses his cheek against your tummy, hugging you around the waist. It takes you a second to get over your surprise, but when you do, you run your fingers through his hair. The hug doesn’t last more than a moment, but the sensation stays with Spencer for the rest of the day. His socks look better, his cardigan is soft again, his coffee is just fine and now he has chocolate donuts. And you’re back at your desk. Today turned out well for him, after all.

+ physics magic!

It’s a slow day at the office. Spencer has finished all the paperwork he had remaining. You are about to do it. The clock hands are closer at midnight than at 10 pm. In reality, a few hours ago Spencer already finished what he had to do. But leaving without you feels wrong. Besides, he’s not going to let you take the train alone this late, that would be definitely wrong.

But he’s… bored. He already read all the books he has on his desk. In fact, he makes a mental note to bring new ones tomorrow so he has something to do. But right now? He doesn’t know how to kill time. Seeing you is always interesting, but he doesn’t think it’s too professional to watch you intently for the remaining time. Then it occurs to him that he can distract you for a couple of minutes. After all, breaks are important and allow the brain to be more productive if they are properly stimulated.

He digs into his satchel and checks that he has what he needs. A half-finished bottle of water. An aspirin. And a small tube. It’s perfect. He stands up excitedly, almost tripping on his way to your desk. You take your tired gaze off the folder you are reviewing and smile confused at the strange image of Spencer about to make little jumps.

“What is it?” you laugh, discarding the folder in your desk.

“You want to see something cool?” Spencer is confident about this one. Confident enough to use unusual words on his tongue.

You shoot your brows up but nod eagerly. “Of course.”

“Alright. Watch. I am gonna show you my magic’s secrets.”

Spencer clears a small space on your desk. He breaks the aspirin in two and drops the powder into the tube. He doesn't have a syringe, but he can manage. With extreme care, he pours a couple of water drops. He covers the small container and shakes it, then leaves it upside down. He looks at you with a huge smile. You give him back half of a one.

“Uhm, that was great?” you try.

“It’s not done yet,” he laughs. “Watch.”

You nod again and focus your attention on the experiment. You don’t do it reluctantly. Not even with boredome. There is no hint of mockery in your expression. And that’s when Spencer realizes how much you mean to him. How much you’ve done for his self-confidence just by being nice to him. How much he hopes to be able to return the favor sometime. At the table, the foam begins to bubble in anticipation at the base of the tube, and then it happens. The tube shoots out. The realization lands on his chest. Spencer realizes how much he loves you. You look at him amazed.

“That was great!” you beam at him.

Physically, he knows it's not possible. But Spencer feels like the stars themselves shine just on you. “Yeah, it’s great,” he smiles at you.

would you guys be interested if i open requests? not only for this reader, but for any other you have in mind. idk. let me know. I'll think abt it bc i don't know if would be able to deliver :( also, keep in mind i am not willing to write for smut. thanks for reading! means a lot <3taglist: @mirdnightmass @monstrosityinside @nervousmumbling @sunflowersndpeaches s0urmarvelwispystarss405rryavis-writeshqsyrrupwishyoudaskmehaileycannotcometothephonernlololololooolook69redros3y@stargirlsturniololoveriamburdenedpleasantwitchgarden queermaxwooo becauseimamirrorball13 smashleywow cultish-corner zeida lou-the-confused-bisexual chaosemia l4venderia jupiteroftheuniverse keenstudentsuitcasegarden nomajdetective bohemianrhapsody86 sabage101 nugget1234567 @minaxre @anidiotwhoreads @classyunknownlover @stcrrjoon

@lomzy5 @stargirlls-world @sevikasblackgf @logicalhorror @bluepuppethidinginafilingcabinet @splatteredpurplepaint @nickfurys-supersecretboyband @dreamsarebig @00arlala @always-reading @hpstuff244444 @wispystarss @crazycat-ladys-blog @coldheartedmar @waywardhunter95 @sucker-4-angst @ferrjulie @mdanon027 @moonys0chocolate maskayoo aforaceisthename valriri guacam011y gain0-0shi navs-bhat julesandro m-seh lolilkkk popbangcrash

[wntersfire]

[waking up] oh god, again?

[wntersfire]

*tears streaming down my face as i desperately grab at the fabric of your shirt* am i at least cringe and annoying in a fuckable way

[wntersfire]

star wars is so dumb you can't even write things like "beelined" or "shell shocked" without questioning yourself cause they don't have bees or bullets

[wntersfire]

Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

[wntersfire]

07 — wildest dreams

summary: “he’s so tall, and handsome as hell”/”his hands are in my hair, his clothes are in my room.” pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, slow burn warnings: rated 16+ for lots of kissing hehehe, reader wears a dress + makeup, a final ‘eff u!!’ to jeid LOL wc: 3.3k a/n: we have finally reached the end! thank you all so much for your support during this little project 😚💕 massive thank you to @astrophileous for beta-reading this entire project! congratulations again for finishing your thesis!! SERIES MASTERLIST // MAIN MASTERLIST

Spencer yawns softly as he steps out of bed, running his fingers through his unruly hair. He finally got it cut a few days ago and, even though it’s a lot shorter than what he is used to, he really likes it. After putting on his shirt that has fallen haphazardly to the floor the previous night, he walks into the kitchen to fix himself a cup of tea. 

He stirs the sugar with a spoon tiredly, his vision blurry from both the lack of sleep and the lack of glasses. The muscles of his thighs quiver with each step and he grimaces. Maybe he should start working out with Morgan. He dismisses the thought immediately. He still wants to live. 

He’s about to go back into the room when a pair of arms wrap tightly around his middle, and he lets out a breathless laugh. “Hey, angel.”

You grunt out a noncommittal greeting, your forehead resting between his shoulderblades as you continue to hug him. “Why’d you go?”

“I was thirsty,” he responds, turning around to hug you back. You’re wearing one of his t-shirts that you stole and he glows with pride, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. “What’re you doing up, darling?”

“You left,” you respond groggily, leaning into his touch. “Got cold.”

Spencer, as you have learned, is essentially a human furnace. He exudes so much warmth both figuratively and literally that you have saved probably hundreds of dollars in electricity bills. He is so unbelievably warm and he always gives the best hugs, wrapping his arms around your frame and tracing circles into your skin. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, kissing the side of your face. “Go back to bed, angel. I’ll be there in a second, okay?”

You merely nod in response, reaching up and planting a firm kiss to his chin before padding back into your room, burying yourself under the covers. He arrives soon after, shuffling closer to you and pulling you in so that your nose is against his sternum. His fingers find the knots in your hair, skillfully and carefully untangling them. He feels you yawn as he continues his ministrations, and he presses yet another kiss to your head.

“You should move in,” you mumble against his chest, creeping a hand up under his shirt and brushing your nails against his spine.

He shudders at the contact, a quiet groan leaving his lips. “Yeah? You think I should move in?”

It is within moments like these where it becomes glaringly obvious that Spencer is no longer the naive ‘kid’ he was when he began working at the BAU. He’s grown into himself now, filling out his dress shirts better and wearing an easy smile on his face. Spencer has always been attractive, all of the girls who loved him before are a testament to that (no matter how bitter you are when coming to this realisation), but he’s now a lot more comfortable with it. He likes to say that you are a big part of that journey. You would simply tell him that the growth was his to make.

“You basically already live here,” you tell him. “It’s close to the train station and there’s that good Thai place across the road.”

“I’d love to move in with you,” he says softly, stroking your cheeks. He’s had an affinity for your cheeks since he first met you, poking at them teasingly and you would do the same in retaliation. Now, he can let his touches linger. “Really. I can get the rest of my things here by the end of the week.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

He smiles. “Exactly.”

You yawn again, your eyes squeezing closed so tightly that an unnecessary tear slips past the corner of your eye. Spencer wipes it away with his thumb before kissing your nose, relishing in the way you let out a breathless laugh. 

“I love you,” he whispers, his lips brushing against yours.

You beam at him, kissing him softly. “I love you.”

*** 

“And it’s like, if you don’t want to get yelled at, don’t come late to every single shift that you have, y’know?” You complain from your bedroom, pushing your lashes upwards with the side of your finger. You’re leaning over your new white vanity, forgoing the chair, as you try to keep your lashes up. “I mean, I get that this is her first time doing work experience, but come on she isn’t nine. And get this, babe, she doesn’t even have a phone. She’s seventeen years old doing work experience and she doesn’t have a phone. I have to remind her of her shifts through her mother. Do you know how awkward that is?”

Spencer hums as he does up his tie, coming up from behind you and and glancing at you for a moment. “She doesn’t sound like someone who wants to be doing work experience, angel.”

“I swear she’s only doing this because it’s compulsory at her high school,” you lament, turning around to face him. “And she is so rude. You should have heard what she said to Veronica, Walter, it was insane. Like, she swore in front of a client. In front of a child.”

His nose scrunches up at your words, resting his hands on your waist and stroking up and down with his thumbs, feeling your curves through the pretty dress you picked out. “You should fire her.”

“Legally I cannot,” you say with a huff. “But I’m pretty sure she’s going to quit or something. ‘Ronica will let me know, and honestly, good riddance.”

He laughs as he kisses your forehead. “I don’t doubt it, angel.”

You smile at him, no longer disgruntled from your frustrating coworker. “You look really good,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw. 

“You look exquisite,” is his quick response, continuing to stroke up and down along your sides. He kisses you slowly, one hand moving to cup your neck and holding you there. “Is this a new dress?”

“Got it for forty bucks,” you say with a grin. “This boutique was having a sale downtown. Guess how much this used to be.”

He laughs at your enthusiasm, kissing you again. “How much?”

“One hundred and twenty,” you say giddily as you straighten his tie. “That’s a steal, right? So I bought two more dresses the same price. That’s like, two free dresses, y’know? Girl maths.”

Spencer can’t help but smile as you tell him all about your shopping spree, his pointer finger dragging up and down your jaw. He doesn’t have the heart to correct you about the inaccuracies of whatever ‘girl maths’ is, instead choosing to nod along. “Yeah?”

You nod with a silly smile. “Yeah! And I figured that I might as well get JJ and Will’s wedding gift while I was out and I got these super cute wine glasses and–”

He cuts you off with a kiss, his fingers delving into your once neat updo, and his mouth pressing firmly against yours. In seconds he has you sat on the seat of your vanity and he leans down to kiss you harder. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs against your lips, “so pretty.”

“You messed up my hair,” you scold half-heartedly, your fingers grazing against the collar of his shirt. “We’re gonna be late to the wedding.”

“It’s not our wedding,” he breathes, kissing you again and murmuring between them, “they’ll understand.”

You pull away, cheeks hot and lips swollen. “They’ll know.”

“Good.”

“Spencer!”

You arrive at Rossi’s mansion with five minutes to spare, guests already filing through the doors. From the corner of your eye, you spot Aaron and Emily speaking in one of the living rooms while JJ follows an older lady up the stairs holding a white dress in her arms. After placing the wedding gift on the table, you venture out into the garden where the tables are decorated with white lace tablecloths and the chairs have big satin ribbons on the backs of them. Cream and white roses are arranged elegantly on top of the tables and the fairy lights provide an even bigger sense of magic to the scene. 

“The place looks amazing, David,” you praise, beaming at the older man. “Truly, it’s like something out of a fairytale.”

He chuckles as he holds a flute of champagne, gesturing to where Derek stands with Penelope. “I had some help. You’re taking care of yourself?”

“Of course,” you respond, waving to Derek who looks all too pleased to see you again. “It has been a really good couple of years.”

“You and Spencer have been together for, what, two and a half years?” He asks as he looks over to where Spencer is showing magic tricks to Henry. 

“Sounds like a long time, huh?” You ask through a breathless laugh. “It’s been good.”

David smiles proudly at you, patting you on the shoulder. “I’m happy for the two of you. You’re like a daughter to me, you know that.”

“I know,” you respond, grinning. “Thank you.”

“Let me know when the big day happens,” he says with a wink. “It’ll save you from renting a venue.”

You only laugh and shake your head as you move to where Spencer is, ruffling his hair as Henry giggles loudly. Spencer lets out a shout in protest, swatting your hands away lightly before holding them in his own, bringing his lips to the back of it.

“Having fun?” You ask them, grinning at Henry who nods excitedly. 

“Uncle Spencer showed me a magic trick!” He exclaims, clapping his hands together.

“Oh is that right?”

Spencer offers you a sheepish smile, twirling a penny around his fingers. “Do you want to see?”

He doesn’t give you much room to accept or deny the offer, holding the penny in his hands and showing it to both you and Henry. 

“Behold,” he announces, “a normal penny. But this penny can travel through the astrological planes and dimensions. Watch closely.”

He holds the penny up to your face before snapping his fingers and, lo and behold, the penny was out of sight. He shows both his hands, front and back, a boyish smile on his face. Henry claps at the display, squealing and brushing his long hair away from his face. 

“Where’d it go?” Henry asks, pouting. 

Spencer beams at the enthusiasm and holds his hands out again. “Ah, now that is the tricky part. For that, I need an assistant… angel, do you mind?”

He holds you by the waist with left hand, kissing your cheeks before holding his right hand in front of your face. Henry shrieks at the display of affection, covering his eyes exaggeratedly. You laugh out of embarrassment, swatting at Spencer’s arms and rolling your eyes. 

“Stop torturing the poor child,” you scold lightly, wiping away his sloppy kisses. 

“Couldn’t help myself,” he dismisses, before waggling his fingers. “Now, to find that penny…”

He reaches up behind your ear, pinching at something, before revealing the penny in his pinched fingers. He watches as your eyes widen with surprise, his cheeks pinkening in delight. 

“How did you do that?” You ask, grabbing the penny from his hand and turning it over in your fingers. 

“He’s magic,” Henry provides helpfully, clapping his hands. “Just like Auntie Penelope! When I tell her about something, it magically shows up at my house in a big brown box!”

You laugh, not having the heart to inform him that Penelope is not magic; simply very good at spoiling the people she cares about. She has taken you on more than a few shopping sprees in hopes of spoiling her little godson, ooh-ing and aah-ing at the cute clothes and toys in the department stores. Recently, she’s been scouting out jewellery stores, going on and on about how difficult it is to find gifts for people. You had offered a few recommendations of your own, gesturing to the pretty rings and necklaces out on display, but she only dismissed your suggestions. 

“Auntie Penelope is basically a fairy godmother,” you tell Henry in explanation, chuckling. “Like in Cinderella.”

“I love Cinderella,” Henry says, his eyes lighting up. “Uncle Spencer read it to me! He said that the original story is about Ash-poo-tell.”

“Ashputtel,” Spencer explains to you, “the original story.”

“Ah,” you nod in remembrance, recalling the grim details of the story. You ruffle Henry’s hair. “You can hear that story when you’re older.”

The rest of the wedding goes without a hitch. Drinks are handed out by the ushers Rossi hired, along with cute little hors d'oeuvres. The ceremony in itself is perfection; JJ and Will sharing a kiss after saying their vows, and Henry being the ring bearer. Spencer holds your hand the entirety of the celebrations, brushing his thumb up and down the back of your left palm, carefully tracing each knuckle. 

As JJ and Will take to the dance floor, more and more couples join in. Derek and a very drunk Penelope join in with loud giggles, and Beth drags Hotch into the circle by the wrists. Spencer rests his hands on your waist as the two of you stand at the sidelines, watching with amused grins as Penelope trips over her own feet. 

“Hey,” Spencer murmurs into your ear, pulling you closer. “What do you say we get away from the crowd?”

You jump on the opportunity, already picking up your purse. “Who are you and what have you done to Spencer Walter Reid?”

He rolls his eyes at you, shooting a quick message to the team’s group chat to let them know that you were making an early leave. “Very funny.”

“No, no, I’m serious! Do you need to see a doctor? Like, a medical one?” You ask with jest as he opens up the car door for you. 

“Do you want me to change my mind?” He asks, laughing, before getting into the driver’s seat of the car. “I just thought that we could go somewhere. It’s not too late and if we hurry, I think we could catch the sunset.”

You smile innocently as he puts the car into drive, heading off to who knows where. “Have I ever told you that I love you?”

“Tell me again,” he prompts, resting his hand on the inside of your thigh as he keeps his eyes on the road. 

“I love you.”

“I love you,” comes his immediate response, squeezing at the flesh of your thighs through your dress. A street sign passes overhead as he drives, reading the word ‘Anacostia’. 

“We’re going to the Bridge Park?” You ask curiously, peering out the window. 

He hums in affirmation. “I heard it’s pretty this time of day. I wanted to take you out somewhere nice, but I don’t know when we’ll have a case next so I figured that this would be the perfect time.”

After parking the car and locking it, Spencer takes your hand as you walk through the park. It’s a very popular area in Anacostia, the entire neighbourhood holding old historic buildings that have been refurbished. 

You relish the feeling of the breeze in your hair, your cheeks turning rosy as the temperature begins to drop. You made it just in time for the sunset as it paints the park in oranges and a soft lavender haze, your skin flushing gold from the lighting. You commit the image to memory as you stare at the view, your dress fluttering around your legs from the wind. 

In your distraction, you miss the way Spencer’s hand drops from yours, and you search through your purse for your phone. You click open the photo app, putting it onto the selfie setting as you turn to him.

“Walter, let’s take a–” 

The words die at your tongue upon the sight before you. Spencer, in his once neat suit and tie and all his germaphobic tendencies kneeling on the cold concrete, holding a velvet ring box in his hand. The box looks comically small in his palms as he looks up at you, his eyes glossed over and a tearful smile on his face. 

“Hi, angel,” he says softly, his voice cracking at the last syllable. 

“What’re you doing?” You ask, even though you know exactly what is going on. Blood rushes to your ears and you sniffle. “Spencer, your pants–”

“I love you,” he says firmly, the box in his hands quivering as his hands shake. His palms are sweaty and he swallows the nerves down his throat. “I love you. I’m not– I’m not good with words or with expressing how I feel but I know one thing for certain: I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

He chokes out a quiet laugh as you take a step closer to him, wiping the tears away from his eyes. “I had a speech prepared and everything,” he says, embracing the feel of your warm hands on his cheeks. “I can’t even remember what I was going to say.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur, crouching down so that you are eye level with him. “It’s okay, Walter.”

“No, I–” he swallows the lump in his throat and wets his bottom lip. “Love in the English dictionary covers a multitude of feelings. You can love doing something, or love a specific food, or love an object. In other languages, there are different words for different types of love and I think… I think that they got it right. There are a million untranslatable words that all mean love but I think the one that expresses how I feel about you would be the Chinese phrase ‘yuan fen’. It means that two people were… predestined to be together and I think– I know that we were meant to be.”

He sucks in a breath after his rant, smiling up at you. “Will you marry me?”

Tears slip from your eyes as you nod, pulling him up from the cold musty ground. “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Spencer exhales, his arms looping around your waist. His nose burrows into the side of your neck and you can feel the hot tears against your skin.

“Thank God,” he breathes, moving his head to kiss your cheeks. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you respond, hugging him tight. “Was there ever any doubt?”

He laughs a little, shaking his head as he fumbles with the velvet box, slipping the ring onto your left ring finger. “No. Never.”

Spencer brushes a strand of your hair away from your face before kissing you slowly, the light from the sun finally going down. As you pull away, the speakers overhead come to life with the announcer clearing his throat.

“Unfortunately, due to the predicted rain that will be coming shortly, the fireworks show will be rescheduled. We apologise for this inconvenience.”

You peer up at Spencer curiously who looked more than disappointed. “Fireworks show?”

“That was the plan,” he says with a small frown. “I’m sorry, angel.”

There’s a crash of thunder and before you know it, small droplets of water begin to fall from the sky. Spencer immediately covers your head with his jacket, pulling you over to the car. 

“Wait, wait–” you laugh, resisting his efforts. “Walter, wait!”

“I’m not letting you get sick,” he scolds lightly, his curls sticking to his forehead from the rain. 

You laugh again, stepping closer to him and wrapping your arms around his neck. “Well, we don’t have a pool but… rain works too, right?”

“You’re insane,” he says, his forehead pressed against yours. “You’re crazy.”

A teasing grin makes its way onto your face as you waggle your fingers in front of him. “Yeah, well, you’re marrying crazy.”

“No regrets,” he responds, before pressing his lips to yours. 

In that moment, as he kisses you on the sidewalk in the pouring rain, you could have sworn that you felt sparks fly.

← previous part || series masterlist →

Thank you everyone once again for your support through this project! I have had so much fun writing it and I am so grateful for all the traction and love that it has received! With the help of this project, we have reached 2.1k followers! To celebrate, I have opened requests and you can find the event page here <3 thank you all once again and until next time !!

reblogs are always appreciated!

[wntersfire]

lets just say that they would *not* get along

[wntersfire]

I need to bring this gif back oh my goddd

[wntersfire]

being autistic is just sitting weird and fighting demons.

[wntersfire]

Looking at my files and found I have only crumbs of Steven art that's colored. :(

And one of them's this meme that made me sadder the longer I thought about it.

[wntersfire]

tumblr should have a lil "mark as seen" button for posts. so they get saved somewhere like ur likes and then they don't show up in ur searches again so you can see newer content.

where did i get this genius idea, you ask? my fingers are tired of scrolling through spencer reid fluff and hurt/comfort that i've already seen bc BABY I JUST WANNA READ MORE NEW FICS