pogueit

[pogueit]

C.B: 1 New Voicemail

Paring: Carmy Berzatto x Reader

Summary: You decided to leave the fresh coast to pursue your art in NYC. However, you fail to mention it your best friend… Carmy Berzatto.

Warnings: some anxiety symptoms?? If there’s anything else let me know!!

WC: 2.3k

A/N: Yay!! I’m writing again!! Albeit veryyyyy slowly but I’m currently working on stuff for the other characters from The Bear and Criminal Minds!! Also, there was a semi prequel to this (its to do with Family and Friends night) but I scrapped it (not entirely) but if you guys want that let me know!!

📞☎️📞☎️📞☎️📞☎️📞☎️📞☎️📞☎️📞☎️

He couldn’t sleep. He’s finally got everything he has ever wanted and he still couldn’t sleep. His phone hums lightly against the hard wood of the night stand and his hand instinctively reaches for it. The warm tone radiating off the screen helped his eyes adjust to the sudden light almost immediately. However, it took a second for his brain to process the words on the screen.

Y/N Missed Call

1 New Voicemail

His face instantly morphs into confusion. You never left voicemails. You always just kept calling and calling until he picked up, which always drove him nuts, however, now seeing the voicemail notification on his phone only unsettles him. Carmen sat up from his supine position, carefully so as to not wake the peacefully sleeping Claire. He swings his legs off the mattress and props himself up by placing his elbows on his knees with his head hanging low, peering at the screen. He debates whether or not to listen to the recording or wait until morning, which he would admit was stupid to consider as even he knows deep down he can never stall anything involving you. His thumb was quick to click on the notification before he could consider anything else. “C-Bass!” The sheer volume of your voice made him wince and rush to turn it down. A comforting warmth spread throughout his chest hearing the stupid nickname you gave him in middle school. “I’m assuming that you’re listening to this in the morning, but with your shit sleeping habits I know you’re listening to this right now. I just wanted to say that I’m leaving for New York—“ Carmy’s relaxed body immediately became rigid and he began searching for his shoes in the dark. There’s so many things he wants to tell you and to finally get off his chest, but you continue.“Like I’m at the airport right now—“ He halts his movements “So don’t try to run over here” you let out a breathy laugh and he can feel his heart seize up at the sound that never ceases to amaze him. You’ve had that effect on him since you’ve become friends but he has become unbearably aware of it in recent days. “I, uh, just wanted to start by saying that I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but it’s just been so hard— and now with the restaurant it felt even worse—“ You had to take a second to breathe and regain your composure and he wanted to do nothing more than to ease you through it and calm you down. “It— I got an offer from MoMA— Well, I submitted some pieces to them and Robbie vouched for me, but I got the offer last week.” you didn’t sound as proud as you should be, but that didn’t matter. Carmy was ready to take over for you and he gladly let the emotion rattle through him. He didn’t understand much of the complexities that go into your art just like you don’t understand the complexities of the culinary world, but that never stopped him from being proud of you even if it wasn’t something monumental. No one has been as proud of you as Carmy has and he will gladly continue to hold that title. “They need me over there for the installation and other artsy fartsy things, that I won’t bore you with.” You laugh, but it wasn’t as genuine as he hoped it would be and you let out a sigh.

He’s getting antsy. Carmy couldn’t stop his left leg from subconsciously bouncing, so he opts to stand up instead. Your voice continues as he quietly makes his way to the living room and takes a seat on the couch. “I just need to get out of here, C, and this was my chance like I finally have a reason to leave— maybe semi-permanently.” All your explicit and unexplicit reasons were always good enough to Carmen and he’s surprised you even stayed here this long. There was a piece inside of him that wished you agreed to go to New York with him and maybe things would have played out differently. He feels like a righteous asshole just thinking about it with Claire sleeping soundly in the next room. You draw in another breath, clearly dwelling on certain emotions that you’re uncertain of baring to him, which pains him that you even had to think about telling him anything. “I told my ma and pa and all them about me leaving and they took it well, actually, maybe too well— This is stupid, but— I stayed for them and they just wanted me gone. Everything I did and everything I sacrificed is dust. I don’t know, man, maybe I was looking or, uh, hoping for a different reaction, I don’t know.” You let out a deep sigh and he can picture you slumped down on one of those awful O’Hare lounge chairs with your spare hand rubbing the long day away from your face. “I should’ve kept calling you so I could hear your voice. You always make everything better, Carmen. I hate that I couldn’t tell you—“ Your voice was barely above a whisper like it was meant only for yourself. Your name is heavy on his tongue and he can feel his right hand twitched slightly as if to reach out to you. As if you weren’t solely an image in his head and the closest you’ll ever be to him in months. He stands up again to pace around the living room so he could have something else to focus on. “But— I just knew that if I did I wouldn’t be at the airport right now. You make me do crazy things Berzatto…” Your voice trails off slightly at the end and he knows you’re listening to the voice that’s coming from the overhead speakers, but he swears the phone grows cold without your cheek pressed against it. “Anyways—“ You regain your composure and continue with the warmth returned to the cellular device, “Bizarre-o tangent over, the Bear is going to be great and everyone is going to love it. You have nothing to worry about and you have an amazing thing going with Claire and I just want to let you know how proud I am of you and everyone who made this crazy ass thing work! God, this is nuts but— Alright, alright, I actually have to get going or the stewards are going to have my head on a pike, see ya soon you crazy bastard”.

The line went dead and the warmth that you graciously provided was gone as the metallic cool of the robotic voice took over. He finally sits down again and lets himself become shrouded in unpleasant darkness. The whirlwind of emotions that plagued him earlier were now absent which made him feel somehow worse. Nothing to keep him company except the gloating sun, who is attempting to make its appearance just beyond the horizon. As he watches the amber light pool into the room, there is an onslaught feeling of a fifty pound weight tucked into his stomach.

Carmen feels sick.

The heaviness in abdomen is awash with acid and he feels like he is going to vomit, yet he can’t do anything but sit there with itchy hands. The bile at the base of his throat finally flips a switch in his brain. The last fibers of control dissipate as memories swiftly flood his senses. They crash and collide. Violently dissolving like sea foam on sand only for them to recede into waves and surge forward again and again. It’s a blurry mess, but his hands find it easy to call you. It’s all he needs to reach his calm. He needs it just as much as you need him. The initial ring echoes through his head and the pause lasts for an eternity. His face is running hot and he’s thinking too much. It’s something he already knows, but once he starts it’s hard for him to stop. All the different possible scenarios are playing rapidly in his brain and he can’t keep up. The phone buzzes again, still trying to connect him to you. His hand is swimming through his hair impatiently as he starts pacing the living room for the uptenth time. The phone hums steadily another time. All of his emotions are caught in his throat and his stomach is in a perpetual knot. His breathing is shallow leaving his lungs aching for more and it’s almost as if there was no more air left in the atmosphere.

Then it clicks.

“Hello, sunshine” Relief crashes over him eagerly when the sound of your voice reaches his ears. He can tell that you're smiling and he can even see it briefly when he closes his eyes. Carmy is finally able to stop pacing and takes a second to sit down on the cool tiles of the kitchen floor.

“C-bass” You elongate the notes in a singsong way to reel him in. Your voice sounds off. It was hard for him to pinpoint at first but now it was easy to hear it was the nerves eating you up. “Yeah, yeah, I’m here” he sighs, the heel of his hand rubbing his left eye, “I, uh, thought you weren’t going to pick up.” He can feel the exhaustion settling in as he slouches against a cabinet. You fight with your carry-on as you move through the quiet terminal. It’s a maze of sleeping bodies and you try your best not to wake them. Once you reach your designated gate and find a semi-secluded spot, you continue ”Sorry about that, they changed the gate and delayed the damn thing.”

”I’m glad” Carmy mumbles without a second thought as he reveles in your long distance presence. ”You’re glad I’m stuck here?” You try to act all serious but he can hear the lightness in your voice and he can’t help but crack a smile. ”No, no, it’s just— uh, I’m glad that I can hear your voice” the cadence in his words forces you to bite down on your bottom lip to stop the stupid grin from spreading. It’s the Carmy effect. Idiotic smiles are plenty when the two of you are together.

”Fuck, me too” Your voice contradicts the violent affection that rattles your insides. It’s shy, almost as if you were embarrassed to admit it. There was a beat of silence, but Carmy beat you to speaking first. ”So, uh, how long is your plane delayed?” His now steady hand ghosts over the grooves in the tile. You were still battling the nerves from earlier, but thought it was an opportune time to actually apologize to Carmy ”Only like an hour. It took me over half of that to walk to the other side of the airport— Hey, listen, I just— I wanted to tell you I’m sorry—“

”No, no, I get it. I would have done the same—“ Carmy waves you off as if you could see him. ”I still feel bad“ you groan and lean your head into your hand in an almost facepalm fashion. You hate that you feel bad but you always do and you always will. It’s unavoidable. “Don’t, I didn’t when I left” he shakes his head to get rid of the memory of that day. He was trying to hold on to this tranquility the best he could and not derail again. ”Really?” You pause for a moment before asking, “Did you miss me?” Your subconscious emotions getting the better of you. ”Fuck, yeah like a lot. I wish you didn’t ditch me.” He was sincere like always and you can feel the guilt boiling in your stomach, ”Me too”.

“I think—,” Carmy pinches the bridge of his nose in thought, “Wait, uh, I know that it would’ve been better with you there”, he sighs and lets his hand fall back into his lap. ”Fuck, Carm, I miss you so much already and I haven’t even left the city yet” you try to make yourself laugh to get away from the regret that soared through your body, but you couldn’t. “I’ll come up there as soon as I can and help you unpack—“

” And, I’ll give you an apartment tour and show you my art displayed all fancy at the museum” You were already getting giddy at the prospect of the two of you being reunited. “I would love that, actually”, Carmy smiles into the phone as he imagines taking you on a personal tour of NYC.

”Great, because you still owe me a hot dog”

“You still won’t let that go, huh?”

“It was like the most perfect hot dog and you made me drop it, asshole!”

“Sorry, sorry, okay?” he laughs along with you, “I’ll get you another one. There’s this place in Hell’s Kitchen—“

”Fuck, Carm can you give me a sec?” You hate to interrupt him especially when he was in the middle of his excited prospect, but the airport attendants were making announcements and soon enough they will be calling up groups. You struggle to hear the muffled voice over the speaker and Carmy can hear you shuffle around to get a closer listen. After a few moments, you are able to piece together that the plane is on schedule and that Group A has been called to front.

“Fuck, sorry, Carm, I gotta go”

”No, I get it. Call me when you get to your new place”

”No, yeah, I will and Carmen—“ you interrupt yourself and flounder for a second. The words are heavy on your tongue. “I love you” the words roll off your tongue differently this time. They’ve always carried a hearty weight to them, but this time it felt like a confession. It sears his soul unlike anything he has ever felt before and you pay no mind to the flames raging in your ribcage.

“I love you too” it falls from his lips automatically without hesitation. He swears that his words are tinged with something else. The edges of the words flickering for something more. It holds a familiarity but he can't quite grasp it in the moment. “Carmen, get some sleep ok?” and your line goes dead.

Fuck.

#carmy berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto fanfic #carmen berzatto fic #carmen berzatto x reader #the bear imagine #the bear fanfiction #carmy x you #pogueit

[pogueit]

convenient pt. 2 | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,,

pt. 1 (you cannot read part 2 with no context).

summary - he totally just cares if you pass your exams, nothing else. there is no other reason he keeps coming back to your convenience store.

genre - fluff, fem!college!reader x early season!spencer

warnings - school work, incorrect science stuff bc i’m just a girl

a/n - thank you all for the love on the first part!!! it was so surprising, especially since it was the first fic i’ve uploaded on this blog, i love y’all so much 🫶 thank you to those who suggested to make this a series, i would’ve totally made this a oneshot if not for y’all.

“you got any plans tonight spencer?”, morgan asked, taking his jacket off the back of his chair, passing spencer’s clean desk.

“uh, yeah actually.”

“really?” morgan stopped beside him, looking over his shoulder, a smirk crawling up, “with who?”

“moby dick.” spencer lied, morgan rolled his eyes.

“you’re no fun man.”

the doorbell rang, but after not seeing a certain skinny man for two nights, you’re mind starting to reset into the ‘studying grind mode’ it had been on before meeting spencer. stop thinking about spencer, keep studying.

three ladies dressed in short skirts, a white man with dreads (yikes), and a boy around 8 years old checked out with various items before a 3 minute cannelloni, bag of coffee, and an apple landed in front of you. before you could look up he spoke,

“how did your assignment go?” you jumped in your seat, nearly punching the man in the face before you placed a hand over your heart and sighed,

“good lord, you need to learn how to walk louder.”

spencer grinned. you scanned the cannelloni, he glanced at your hand still over your heart.

“rubatosis.”

“bless you?”

“the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat.” you glanced up and saw him looking at your hand with a thin lipped awkward smile. you quickly put your hand down and continued scanning, pushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“we all know words. like… vellichor.” you spoke, packing his things in the same plastic bag he brought just little of a week ago. he tilted his head,

“the love of used bookstores?”

“i saw old books in your car.”

“you were looking in my car?” he put his hands in his pockets, as he looked out the window to his parked vehicle, not planning to pick up his bag of ‘groceries’ anytime soon. only then did you notice his tie was askew, his hair a little disheveled, his eyes a little sunken. the doorbell rung, a middle-aged balding man walking in behind spencer.

“i’m observant. $12.98.” he whipped out a slim wallet from his back pocket, flicking through some notes to pull out a $20. you ruffled through the register for his change as he remarked,

“you didn’t even look at the register.”

“don’t need to, you’re predictable.” you reply with a sneaky smile, causing spencer to copy reluctantly.

there was an awkward cough from behind him, the middle-aged man. spencer turned back to you after realising that he was in fact in a convenience store, and you were in fact the only worker there. “sorry sir, um. bye.” he took his bag, the thin lipped smile becoming nearly as predictable as his late-night groceries.

“bye.”

the tall, awkward, superbly smart man who smelt like wood didn’t show up for 5 nights. you thought there were only three possibilities at his absence: sickness, death, or he’s learnt how to cook.

you thought the next time you saw him you would ask more about him. in between studying, classes, and working, there wasn’t much time for a social life in your day to day. or maybe you wouldn’t. maybe he wasn’t showing up because he wasn’t really a regular, just a guy who needed quick meals, coffee, and apples on those specific nights. that’s insane, you are insane, get back to studying.

you almost didn’t recognise him the next night. same clothes, same height, same cologne, different face. dark circles under his eyes, permanent lines between his eyebrows, and a purple bruise on his left cheek. it was silent, he was the only customer at 11:30pm. you both made eye contact while you scanned his items, (same things plus a travel first aid kit) silently observing his expectant expression before you broke the silence.

“i’m not going to ask.”

“i got hit with the butt of a gun.” he said matter of factly.

you halted, coffee bag in hand, and stared at him, squinting. “…okay. actually i am gonna ask. who would hit a librarian with the butt of a gun?”

he scrunched his eyebrows and tilted his head, blinking, “i’m not a librarian. why do you think i’m a librarian?”

you packed his things, “smart, dressed posh, just general mysterious good looking librarian vibe,” he handed you a $20, “you remind me of a pipe cleaner with eyes.”

he raised an eyebrow, breaking eye contact, “not the first time i’ve heard that.”

you laughed, thinking it was a joke. his shoulders relaxed, the lines between his eyebrows softening. he grabbed his things, “bye, y/n.”

“bye, spencer.”

you were so close to finding out more about him. how the hell does a man that looks like that get into so much trouble?

you finish your shift, packing your textbooks and now flat laptop, locking everything up and turning the lights off. it was 1am. and, spencer was asleep in his car.

you looked around and put your jacket around your shoulders before jogging up to his driver’s window. his head was lulled to one side, mouth closed, chest rising softly. you knocked, and suddenly he was wide-eyed and searching for something.

“spencer? what are you still doing here?” you speak just loud enough for him to hear behind the window, which he promptly put down. you had a split second realisation how crazy this was. checking in on a regular, watching a regular sleep, feeling safe enough to approach a man’s car just because he buys the same thing every night he comes to the convenience store.

“sorry, i didn’t mean to fall asleep. i- uh,” he wiped his face, “sorry.”

you look at him with concern, “it’s okay, just.. try not to look like you were waiting for me to finish my shift to kidnap me next time, okay?”

he sighed and nodded. waving goodbye, you started down the street, your apartment only being a block away. over the music now playing in your ears, you heard a car drive away, mixing with your confused thoughts about who this regular really is and what he does for a living. and how does he look that good.

he was back the next night, same black slacks, with a purple sweater a shade darker than your own.

“hey spencer, before i scan your 3 minute bolognese, coffee and bag of apples-“

“how did you get that perfectly-“

“i’m going to ask this and you’re going to answer, okay?”

you know nothing about this man, but talking to him like a good friend felt natural now. though, you still tried to avoid over stepping it.

“-though you don’t actually have to answer it. you are a customer and i can’t force customers to do anything but- seeing as though you know i’m a college student and that i work at this convenience store and that i sort of suck at biology- sorry i’m rambling,” you take a breath, “where do you work?” you finish, spencer smiling slightly. you were surprised he didn’t cut you off to stop you, like everyone else did. he didn’t answer at first, the squeak of your shoe against the floor displayed your anxious tell.

“i can’t tell you.”

you sighed, rolling your eyes and packing his stuff, he already had a $20 ready in his hand. you took it, fingers brushing slightly against his. “you suck, and your so suspicious. i should just call security.”

he looked around, fiddling his fingers together, “you don’t have security.”

you pointed to a dead cockroach outside underneath the warm street light. “yes we do. why do you think he’s twitching? he’s insane, he’ll hurt you.”

he chuckled, the sound bringing a shade of pink to your cheeks. “you don’t work on weekends.”

you squinted, eyebrows furrowed in confusion and maybe a bit of fear. “what.”

“i came in on a weekend and a man was here.” he explained as you nodded.

“yeah, no i don’t. why?”

spencer gulped, taking his bag, and smiling awkwardly, “nothing, bye!”

you waved, confused. also stressed, you hadn’t worked on your psychology assignment while waiting for him to show up.

taglist- @jeffswh0re @hypotheticallyspeakingwitch @wannabewolf @evysian @trashmonstersara

#cuteness 😭😭😭 #I can’t wait for more!! #criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader

[pogueit]

convenient | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,,

summary - studying while working at a convenience store is easier that thought when a regular happens to be a genius.

genre - fluff, fem!college!reader x earlyseasons!spencer

warnings - school work, that always scares me. they’re the same age!!! early 20s. mention of condoms.

edit - bc this is getting so much love, i’m opening a taglist for part 2!!! just comment or put in a req to join the ‘convenient’ taglist 🫶

the chime of the door didn’t phase you, the creaks and squeaks of the store slowly becoming one with you. flipping onto the next page of your biology textbook, something that was unnecessarily expensive, you shake your hand to get rid of the cramp you slowly became aware of.

it was only when a wave of man’s cologne and a plastic bag stood in front of you that you ripped your eyes off of your books.

he was tall, skinny, had long(ish) hair and looked amazing. there wasn’t really anything else to say, other than that the thin smile he displayed toward you made you smile back.

“just these for today?” you ask, fixing your posture and pushing some loose strands back to their place behind your ears.

“yes, thank you.” he says, voice as timid as his appearance. it was a bag of apples, a 2 minute bolognese container, and a bag of coffee. you scan them, weigh the apples, and watch him as his long fingers slip through his wallet to find a debit card. “have a good night.”

your eyes return to your textbook as you go to erase an answer you had previous written, obviously wrong.

“the heads of the phospholipid bilayer are hydrophilic, not phobic.” he says. it surprised you, making you return to his gaze slowly before realising you should probably reply instead of staring at the man.

“oh- yeah, thanks. i caught that it’s just, i guess i’ve been staring at the same words for so long i can’t differentiate them.” you give a small fake laugh as he nods, giving you a long look before coughing and leaving promptly. he leaves with his bag, and his hands fiddling with each other.

you can barely focus after that. customers come and go, and although you’ve only been doing the late shift for a week, this encounter with the unknown man couldn’t leave your mind. the way he dressed, his smell, his voice and how he corrected you (which would totally annoy you usually). you hoped he would return.

and he did. three days later, this time even later than the last.

you were stuck in a dark purple sweater, the aircon in the store blasting cold air that you were too lazy to fix. and although the air flipped pages of notes and questions, you were still stuck in a trance.

the blasting aircon blew a wind of mens cologne this time, it smelt like wood. your eyes glanced up from your books and trailed the familiar man, noticing how he was reusing the plastic bag from days before.

he returned to the checkout with apples, a 3 minute cannelloni, and a bag of coffee. he was now the one trailing you, “where did Latrice go?” you look up, chuckling a bit,

“Latrice is getting paid by her daughter-in-law to babysit the twins,” you reply, surprised you were willing to tell him so much information. he could be a stalker for all you know. or just a regular, obviously that’s way more likely. “trust me, i miss her as much as you do. $14.98.”

he nodded with a small smile and sliced his card down the side of the card reader.

you searched for him now, only after two encounters you were already craving some sort of human interaction at work. usually you avoided it since the only other ‘regulars’ were old men and mean teenagers. you had switched to writing a biology report on your computer, the sound of the keyboard almost covering the sound of the door bell.

a bag of apples, a 2 minute lasagne, a bag of coffee, and a banana muffin.

“big night?”

“uh- what?”

“you got a banana muffin. i thought you were starting to become predictable.” you bagged his things as he chuckled, looking over you and your laptop. you noticed only because you were also looking at him, “biology report. wanna read it?” you joked, but he didn’t catch that part.

now he was behind the register, sat on your wheelie stool reading and editing your report while walking you through everything he was changing. you didn’t understand most, but you were just happy to stay around him. you weren’t even scared of Old Alan, the guy who only buys cucumbers and condoms. nobodies ever asked him, don’t think anyone wants to know.

“what’s your word limit?”

“3500.”

“only 3500?” he gave you a raised eyebrow, voice getting slightly higher. he coughed, “sorry, that’s nearly impossible.”

you sigh, “i know… i’m y/n by the way. thought you should know who your helping cheat.”

“i’m not helping you cheat, i’m just… editing,” he hit backspace a few times with a lowered bottom lip, “my names spencer.”

you smiled and crossed your arms as you leaned against the counter. spencer. yeah, that sounded nerdy enough.

pt. 2

#so adorbs 😭😭😭 #I wish Spence would help me with my hw 😫😫 #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff

[pogueit]

hi!!! i have a request for roommate!spencer where he's injured during a case and reader show up at the hospital because she's his emergency contact but the team is really confused wondering who's this stranger fussing over spencer. hope you like it, love you!

thank you for requesting honey!! love you<3 fem!reader

“Close your eyes,” you command, voice all blown up and grand, already smiling. “Close your eyes, Spencer.” 

“No.” He squints groggily. “What are you doing?” 

“Close your eyes.” 

“No, Y/N, what are you doing?” he asks. 

You shake your spray bottle at him. He sighs a long-suffering sigh and finally admits defeat, his tired eyes shuttering closed all too easily. You rest your knee on the side of his bed and hear the metal squeaking at your added weight, your hand gentle as you cover his forehead. “You have greasy hair,” you say sympathetically. “This is gonna feel much nicer.” 

You blast him with dry shampoo, his brown hair turning white with powder. You drop the can in his lap and set about rubbing the powder into his hair until the grease is soaked up, and his hair feels less miserably lank. 

“When are they gonna let you shower again?” you ask quietly. 

You’re still touching his hair. More for him than you, you hope he feels comforted, but mostly you just wanna affirm to yourself that he’s all in one bruised piece. Your heart still aches as much as it did when you got the phone call in the first place —Spencer Reid’s next of kin? 

You suppose that’s you. 

“I don’t know.” 

You take his hair back into his current parting. “Well, let’s hope it’s soon. How are you liking the sponge baths? Are they awful?” 

“Humiliating.” 

Just outside of Spencer’s hospital room, Hotch and JJ stand together with a bag of essentials. They’d drawn to a sudden stop when they realised Spencer had company. “Who is that?” she asks. 

Hotch, used to knowing everything, frowns very deeply. He doesn’t know who you are, but from the way you’re touching Spencer’s hair and face, he should. 

JJ sounds a little put out. “She doesn’t work here.” 

“No, I don’t think so,” Hotch says. His frown lightens as you laugh and scratch Spencer’s hair back behind his ears. 

“Is it unkind of me to think he didn’t have any friends?” JJ asks. 

Hotch knows Spencer has friends. He’s summoned Spencer from chess games and fan clubs, picking him up occasionally on the way to the office on cafe sidewalks as he waved goodbye to a glasses-wearing bibliophile, often in coats too big for them or with hair in need of a trim. Spencer attracts the unconventional because he, as anybody in this line of work tends to be, is inordinary. So JJ probably is being unkind, but Hotch knows what she means. 

You look completely regular. You settle on one thigh on his bed while the other keeps you up and put your hand on his chest, chatting breezy words they can’t hear through the glass.

Spencer curls into you slowly. 

“You’ll be home soon,” you say, rubbing his shoulder, “don’t worry.” 

Hotch’s eyebrows rise of their own accord. He and JJ excuse themselves for coffee before they’re spotted, and when they return, you’re gone. “Spence, who was that girl?” JJ asks. Hotch notes the slightest line of jealousy tugging under her curiosity. 

He sounds as though he could use some more pain medication, and a good night's sleep, but he’s proud as he says, “That’s my roommate. I told you about her.” 

“Ah, your roommate,” Hotch says. 

“What’s that mean?” Spencer asks. 

“Nothing, Spencer,” Hotch says, using the young man’s first name in a rare show of affection. “That’s just an irregular word for it. I haven’t heard it in a while.” 

JJ laughs. Spencer hides his face with both hands, a smudge of lip balm on his hand shining under the stark hospital fluorescents. “I’m too tired,” he complains. 

Hotch hadn’t seen you kiss him, but he can imagine how it might have happened, how you’d leaned in for a kiss on the cheek goodbye and Spencer overwhelmed himself thinking about it. Or maybe it’s just an innocuous smudge. Maybe it’s nothing at all. 

“We live together,” Spencer mumbles. “I couldn’t afford to live by myself at first, it’s D.C.” 

“And now?” Hotch asks. He knows Spencer is on good enough money to afford an apartment by himself these days, a big one. He has no dependents. 

“Didn’t seem fair… She’s nice. She’s, like, my best friend.” 

“Don’t let Morgan hear you say that,” JJ laughs. 

Hotch isn’t sure she gets it, but he does. “Well, you can ask her to come back. We have work to do.” 

Spencer pretends he’s hesitant to pick up the phone. Your reply is an immediate beep. Hotch knows a good friend when he sees one. 

#omg im withering away this is so cute 😫😫😫 #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader

[pogueit]

“how did you get into writing” girl nobody gets into writing. writing shows up one day at your door and gets into you

[pogueit]

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

#I’m in the floor screaming crying and throwing upppp #they’re so precious 😭😭😭 #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fluff

[pogueit]

Strawberry Gazpacho - Carmen Berzatto

A/N: Some people asked for a part 2 of Blueberry BBQ, so I decided to stay on the fruit trend!

Summary: Reader and Carmy continue to bond over food.

The Bear Masterlist

✰ ✰ ✰ ✰

"What is this?" You asked, staring down at the bowl Carmy had placed on top of your papers. You were in the back office, trying to work on the week's payroll when he'd come in, told you that you needed a lunch break, and placed a plate down in front of you. 

"Try it," he urged, wringing his hands in his apron and looking like an eager little kid. 

"Carm-"

"Try it," he repeated and you obliged. Regardless of what it was you knew you would like it. Carmy made it, which immediately meant it couldn't be bad, but also, Carmy made it. For you, more specifically. You took the proffered spoon and dipped it into the bowl, surprised when you pressed it to your lips and found that it was, in fact, cold.

"Gazpacho?" You asked, after a second bite.

You had told him last night, while watching TV and letting him finish the tupperware of tofu feta that's you'd made the day before, that you hated gazpacho. You loved soup and tomato was your favorite; a nice, roasted red-pepper tomato, heavy on the garlic, that you'd perfected over the years. But no gazpacho. You couldn't get used to the fact that it was cold. 

"You like it?" He asked in a way that suggested he might genuinely be worried that you would tell him it was horrible.

"I mean, it's the best gazpacho I've ever had," you took another bite as proof, "it's spicy."

"But?"

You weren't sure if he was fishing for a compliment or trying to convert you onto a food you held in disdain but you assumed that if he wanted someone to tell him that he was a skilled chef he would've gone to Syd or Marcus with his cold soup.

"It's cold soup Carmy, I just can't fuck with cold soup." You replied, "it's good though."

He reached for the spoon in your hand and dipped it into the bowl, trying some of the gazpacho that he had made. He nodded his head, as if to confirm that it was good, as if he didn't already know it would be.

"Should I like, fall over at your feet and tell you that you've converted me to gazpacho and it's the only thing I'll ever order for the rest of my life?" You teased, leaning an elbow on the desk. It felt completely natural to be this relaxed with him and yet, just weeks earlier, you'd been fretting over the idea of having him come over for Sunday dinner. 

He handed the spoon back and you took another experimental taste.

"I mean, you're still eating it," he pointed out, grinning. 

In no world would Carmy say that he was 'good with people'. If he wasn't saying the wrong thing then he was saying nothing at all (and that was also wrong). He wanted to spend more time with you, the most time he could afford outside of The Beef but the only way he really knew how to spend time with anyone was cooking. So he kept cooking for you, things you liked, things you hated but liked when he made them. He kept trying to find the perfect thing to say and the perfect recipe to go along with it, as if that would remedy his inability to tell you that he wanted more from whatever this situation currently was. You weren't dating but he wanted to be dating but he wasn't exactly the dating type (as far as having an actual open schedule went). 

"Touche," you replied, taking another bite. "I can't decide if I'll regret telling you this or not but my mom has a recipe for strawberry gazpacho that apparently my grandma used to make every summer."

"Strawberry?"

"I can already see the gears turning in your head Carmy," you laughed. 

He looked down at you, piercing blue eyes taking your measure, "can you get me the recipe?"

"Are you gonna make me eat it?" You practically pouted. 

He nodded, "yes."

You groaned and leaned back in the office chair, "god, the things I do for you Carmy." You sighed. "I'll text my mom for the recipe...I can pick stuff up on my way home, if you want. Or if you're all gazpacho'ed out-"

"No, tonight works." He agreed.

Before you could say anything else Marcus was calling Carmy back to the kitchen. He wiped his hands on his apron once more and push himself off the desk. Before he could pick up the bowl you put your hand over his, "I might try another bite." 

There were other things that Carmy could probably be doing with his evening. Catching up on sleep, working on the recipes that he and Syd had been spitballing for the updated menu, mending whatever semblance of a relationship he still had with Sugar. Instead he was looking forward to going to your apartment (which was leagues nicer than his shitty place) and cooking. He'd lived so long on white bread and peanut butter and chips and soft drinks and anything quick that he'd forgotten what it was like to cook just because he enjoyed cooking. Hell, he'd forgotten that he enjoyed it. The only thing, lately, that really felt like it brought that enjoyment back was standing in your kitchen.

"Rigoletto has taken up residence on the island and he refuses to move so...we're down some counter space," you said as soon as you opened the door to Carmy, moving aside to let him into your apartment. 

He stopped at the island, leaning over to pet Rigoletto, who half-heartedly rolled onto his side to give Carmy better access to his stomach. "Hey chef," he teased. He turned to look at you, still stroking the cat as he did, "strawberry gazpacho?" 

"I would just like to disclaimer that I don't think strawberries are going to improve my deep-seated hatred of gazpacho but-"

"I mean, you did eat most of the one I made earlier," Carmy pointed out as your mouth fell open in surprise. 

"Angel! What a snitch!" You laughed, "I can't believe he told you."

"Hey, it's my kitchen, I've gotta know what's going on." He followed you around the other side of the island, grabbing the notebook you had sitting on the counter and scanning over the recipe. You'd called your mom on the way home and asked for a copy of the recipe, which she'd gladly texted ("does this have something to do with that cute chef where you work?"). You'd picked up whatever ingredients you didn't already have at your house and set everything out for Carmy before he'd even gotten there. You felt a little silly, being so excited just to have him come over and cook with you (for you) when there was no real definition to what your relationship was. 

"Did you cook growing up? Like with your mom and stuff?" You asked, stealing a strawberry out of the plastic container. 

"No," Carmy shook his head, then amended his answer, "not really. My ma always told us to help but if we did she yelled at us for doing something the wrong way...it was better to just stay outta her way when she was in the kitchen. You?"

"Oh yeah, my mom's not like...the best chef in the world or anything but she loved trying new stuff. Anything we wanted we could ask for and she'd try to make it. And then as we got older we would have like, nights where one of us got to cook." You replied, "I like it but...I don't think I'm good at it."

"You are...I mean....not like, you've got potential." Carmy explained, blue eyes glancing up to meet you across the island and you smiled. 

"Thank you chef."

You left Carmy to the strawberry gazpacho and the chicken he'd brought over to make some dish you'd never heard of before while you got Rigoletto's dinner out. The cat had finally moved off the island and you sprayed it down with cleaner to at least give yourself a better chance of not picking white cat hair off your dinner plate. 

Carmy fit right into your kitchen, probably the whole apartment for that matter. It was something both of you had thought, more than once, but neither of you said anything about. He felt like he was waiting for something bad to come from all the good you had been supplying in his life recently. Bad news always felt like it was lurking around the corner for him, especially these days, and he didn't want to put everything in one basket. But being in your kitchen, in your space, felt good. It felt like he was supposed to be there. 

"Did you know," you were saying as you came back into the kitchen, leaning near him to look at the chicken he was searing on the stovetop, "that I didn't know what mortadella was before I started working at the Beef?" 

Carmy turned his head to watch you fish a piece of garlic out of the skillet and eat it whole, "Did you just?"

"It was cooked."

"It was a whole clove of garlic."

"I love garlic," you shrugged, dropping the fork in the sink, "but seriously, I had to google it cause I didn't know what Richie was talking about when he was trying to explain it."

"It's very Italian." Carmy replied. 

"You're very Italian." You grinned and he rolled his eyes.

"I am, yeah." And then, "I still can't believe you ate that."

"You act like you've never eaten garlic before."

"Not just shoved a whole clove in my mouth." He replied. 

"It tasted good." You shrugged, "I always use too much garlic. Like if a recipe says three cloves I use six."

"Yeah that's why I said you had potential." 

"Well now I just feel like that's your 'I don't wanna hurt your feelings' way of saying I'm actually shit at cooking." You replied. 

"Nah, if you were shit I'd tell you."

"Yeah but then who'd balance the books for you?" You teased, searching in the cabinet under the island for wine, "red or white?"

"Uh...white for this." Carmy replied.

You pushed the bottle of red you were holding back into the cabinet and went to the fridge, pulling out the Chardonnay you'd bought last week. You grabbed two glasses from the cabinet, handing him one once it was poured. 

"Is this the 'only white you'll drink' wine?" He asked, taking a sip. 

The last time he had come over to cook with you (for you) there had been a long discussion about different wines in which you'd explained that there was only one type of white that you liked. More accurately, one brand that made a chardonnay you didn't completely hate. 

"Yeah...they finally restocked!" You exclaimed, leaning against the counter, "the woman at the Wine and Spirits definitely thinks I'm an alcoholic though...I bought like, four bottles." 

Carmy shook his head, reaching a hand out for the bottle and splashing a little into the pan when you handed it to him. Kitchens were crowded and Carmy was more than used to working in an environment where people were constantly at each other's side or back or space but something about having you leaning there against the counter beside him was both extremely nerve-wracking and extremely comforting. 

He didn't say anything about it though, at least not until after you'd eaten dinner and were sitting on the couch avoiding the dishes. Then he blurted it out while you watched reruns of Murder, She Wrote with Rigoletto. "I always thought I would do stuff like this when I was younger."

"Watch 80's tv shows on a Tuesday night?" You asked.

"No," he laughed, "Just like...I don't know....you know, make dinner with someone. Or, I guess, not feel like my entire life was in a restaurant all the time."

"Well I'll always be happy to make dinner with you...or at least supply the wine while you make dinner." You replied, grinning at him.

"Yeah," he nodded his head slowly, as if convincing himself that what you were saying was true. 

"Yeah," you agreed.

#screaming crying and throwing up at workkkk 😭😭😭 #this is so darn cuteeeee omgggg I love that they cook together!!! #collecting stories imagine #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto fluff #carmy berzatto imagine #the bear imagine

[pogueit]

Blueberry BBQ - Carmen Berzatto

Request: no.

Summary: reader works at The Bear balancing their books and has a major crush on Carmy but they never talk aside from business. A dinner party brings them closer together.

A/N: Just some nonsensical drabble cause I love Carmy.

The Bear Masterlist

✳︎ ✳︎ ✳︎ ✳︎

“Are you making that bbq sauce for the burgers this time?” Marcus asked, turning away from his chocolate cake for a split second to look at you.  

Mikey had hired you a week before he died to help balance the books at the Beef. After he was gone Richie stuck you on the counter, waiting on customers like you didn’t have a bachelors in finance, and telling you not to go in the back office. Now that Carmy was around, and attempting to make the Beef float, you were back were you belonged, in the office and away from the hustle and bustle of the kitchen.  

You were no chef…you’d hesitate to even really call yourself a proper cook…but you knew what you liked and you knew how to make it taste good. “I don’t know…last time Angel complained.”  

“That’s because Angel puts ketchup on everything like a five year old,” Tina called from her station, the distinct chop of onions echoing after her comment.  

“What are you making?” Syd asked, adding a quick, “behind” as she passed Tina to grab a pot.  

“It’s Sunday night dinner,” Marcus replied, ignoring the headshake Tina gave him. No real offence to Sydney but you knew she’d tell Carmy and whether or not he actually would come, you kind of didn’t want the pressure of thinking he might show up. Even with your job at The Beef you were far from understanding the “food world” but you’d tried Carmy’s cooking a few times and it was leagues better than anything you attempted on a good day. There was no way you wanted him even thinking you set foot in a kitchen, let alone trying something you made.  

“Sunday night dinner?” Syd echoed.  

And then the cursed, “what’s Sunday night dinner?” Carmy’s voice. He’d come in from a smoke break and you took three large steps back to the office, as if you hadn’t set foot in the kitchen to begin with. Marcus looked at his boss and then at you (wide eyed and trying not to visibly shake your head at him) and then back to Carmy.  

“It’s uh,”  

“Nothing.” Tina cut in. “It’s nothing. Get back to work eh, Jeff?”  

“Yeah,” Carmy looked like he wanted to say something else but instead just nodded, blue eyes a little glazed, “yeah.”  

In the comfort of the office, you get back to work on payroll for the week, slipping your airpods in to drown out the sounds of the kitchen. Just over the softer lull of Evermore you could hear Carmy yell at Richie, his brother’s best friend shouting right back. It wasn’t always (or ever) the best environment for working but you liked it. You liked it when Mike was working there and you somehow managed to like it a little more now that Carmy was running the show, though that could just be that you liked Carmy. Outside of work, you didn’t have too many conversations but he was pretty to look at and you liked the brief interactions the two of you had, even if it was just asking about accounts and other boring stuff he didn’t have the patience for on his own.  

The whole incident (that might be an over exaggeration of the event though you’d honestly be tempted to call it a debacle and it probably wasn’t that either) had been mostly forgotten by the time the dinner rush was rolling around and you were clocking out. More than thrilled to both be home before dark and to continue your mostly Carmy-free shift. He was so busy out in the kitchen and fighting with Richie that you hadn’t seen him. Though by now you were positive he had forgotten the mention of Sunday night dinner.  

You waved to Syd, promised to text Marcus, and slipped out the back door into the alley. If you went out the front Richie would stop you and then you’d be listening to his bullshit for another hour (at least).  

“Sneaking out?” Carmy’s tone was teasing and you spun around to find him sitting on a milk crate, smoking what was probably his sixth or seventh cigarette of the day.  

“Didn’t wanna hear about Richie’s date,” you shrugged, the strap of your backpack digging at your collar momentarily when your shoulder went up and then dropped back into place.  

“It was a bust.” 

You nodded, “kinda feel bad for him,” you mused. You didn’t hate Richie, in fact you found him kind of funny. Even when he’d kicked you out of the office and relegated you to the counter you’d liked him too much to complain.  

“You wanna date him?” Carmy asked, raising a brow as if he was issuing some kind of challenge.  

“Oh, I don’t feel that bad.” You laughed.  

Carmy smiled and you were ready to say goodnight when he opened his mouth again. Maybe you should have gone the front way. “So what’s this Sunday night dinner?”  

You shook your head as if the whole ordeal wasn’t that major to begin with. Maybe if it sounded lame, if you sounded like you weren’t that bothered with it, Carmy wouldn’t want to go. Not that you thought he wanted to spend his time off the clock hanging out with you. “Oh it’s nothing, I’m just…making dinner for like, Marcus and Tina and everybody.” 

He frowned. An actual, eyebrows scrunched, hooded eyes drooped, frown. “You cook?”  

“Not, no, not like…I mean…it’s probably cardboard compared to you.” You laugh, “not that I’m, ya know…comparing myself to you or anything.” You replied, stumbling slightly over your words.  

“Must be pretty good…everybody’s going.”  

“Well, anyone’s invited…I mean, if you wanted to come you could. I think Marcus is bringing some dessert and Tina and Ebraheim usually bring something too.” You shrugged again, an impulsive movement as you tried to make yourself sound cool and collected. It was just Carmy…the guy looked like he was homeless, he shouldn’t be as intimidating as he was.  

“What are you making?”  

“It’s just burgers.” You replied, downplaying the fact that you’d specifically overpaid for waygu beef because Marcus claimed it tasted better. Who were you to know. 

“I’ll bring something.” The offer sounded more like a sure statement. Not only would he be there but he would bring something.  

“Okay…” you trailed off, “well, see you tomorrow.” 

You were pretty sure you’d never left The Beef so quickly in your entire life. Sunday was supposed to be a relaxing day off and an attempt to actually be somewhat sociable because god knows quarantine was rough, even with a steady job.  

But now Sunday was just anxiety bubbling in your stomach while you made the plum bbq glaze that Marcus liked so much. You’d imagined nothing more than calling up your mom to complain about how often you put your foot in your mouth but as you reached for the telephone you realized the only one around to listen to you talk about this weird crush you had on Carmy was your cat. The monster in question was a long haired black cat that the lady on the top floor had adopted before covid. She’d named him Rigoletto after the Italian opera and then decided she didn’t want him anymore.  

“That place down the street is hiring…although I’m not so sure I wanna work at an H&R Block.” You mused, scratching under Rigoletto’s chin before leaving him on the arm of the couch to finish the bbq sauce. “And I do really like the Beef…but what if Carmy hates this? And he fires me or something…is that crazy?”  

The cat didn’t have the chance to answer because the buzzer by your door went off. It was a little too early for anybody who usually showed up to arrive though you suspected it could be Syd (she’d been invited now too, along with Richie who had to decline because it was his Sunday with his daughter).  

You hit the button to unlock the front door without confirming who was there. Not a great habit but you were technically expecting someone and you tended to get a little lax with security every now and then. You propped the door to your apartment so that whoever you’d buzzed (Syd surely, maybe Ebraheim) would be able to just come right in.  

But as luck would have it, it wasn’t Syd that came through the door to your apartment. It was Carmen, holding two foil trays cause he promised he’d bring something (and okay, sure, maybe he over did himself for just a hang out in your apartment but so sue him if he wasn’t trying to impress you).  

“Hey uh…your cat looks like it’s gonna climb me.” He half greeted, half warned, staring down at the cat that had jumped off the couch and come over to greet him. Yellow eyes stared up at his blue ones, back hunched like it was ready to pounce and Carmy briefly imagined the cat jumping right into the trays in his hands.  

Before any worst case scenarios could happen you scooped the cat up in your arms, apologizing and telling Carmy he could lay the trays on the small island in your kitchen. “He’s super friendly,” you promised though you left him in your room and closed the door, “he’s a big fan of Chester.” 

“Marcus’ roommate?” Carmy almost laughed.  

“Yeah he uh, what are you doing?” You speedwalked the short distance back to the kitchen when you realized that Carmy had moved over to inspect the sauce you were making, spooning a tiny bit out and taking a bite.  

“It’s good, maybe a little maple syrup?” He offered, as if this was The Beef’s test kitchen. Without waiting for your okay he went to the fridge, opening it and pulling out a bottle of maple syrup. You wondered briefly if he had some sort of psychic sense that let him know you had maple syrup on hand or if Carmy just expected all the ingredients he needed to be right where he needed them at all times. “What’s this?”  

“It’s salad dressing,” you supplied, shifting awkwardly as he shook the bottle of salad dressing he’d plucked off the shelf. 

You watched him pop the lid and stick a clean butter knife in the jar, pulling it out and taste testing the dressing. This was objectively worse than you imagined inviting Carmy to your house would be. “Shit, that’s fire.”  

You could feel your face heat up at the compliment, though that was immediately out of your mind as Carmy continued his inspection of your fridge. When he started eyeing a tupperware of soup from last night, you reached over and closed the door on him, “okay; let’s be finished going through my fridge?”  

“Sorry,” he held his hands up in surrender, the bottle of dressing still in one hand. “I didn’t know you cooked.” It was the same thing he’d said to you earlier though it didn’t hold the same genuine surprise as it had earlier. Instead, he looked almost contemplative, as if finding something out about you that he hadn’t known before meant something you weren’t aware of.  

“Nothing serious,” you promised, going back to check on the burgers and looking back at Carmy, “would you…check these. I know it sounds dumb but, cooking meat gives me anxiety.”  

“It gives you anxiety?” He said it like he was trying not to laugh, a smile threatening his features as he set the dressing back in the fridge and came over to stand a little too close to you.  

“If you don’t cook it enough you could kill someone and if you cook it too much it’s gross,” you replied, glancing half over your shoulder at him as he leaned in to check the state of the burgers.  

“Alright…if you let me try the soup.”  

You caved, “fine.” Passing the wooden spatula and stepping to the side. “If Marcus asks, I totally cooked them myself.”  

Carmy nodded, grinning, “yeah alright.”  

Cooking with him, without the imminent pressure of a working kitchen, was more fun than you imagined it would be. When you’d wandered into the kitchen area of the Beef back when Mike was still around, he was always joking and talking shit with Richie. Carmy didn’t necessarily run a tighter ship but he was more serious about food and cooking and there was less time for bullshitting. You assumed the quiet intensity was how he always was but you realized that was an unfair judgement. He was relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen him be, that confidence in his food coming through with quiet remarks about this meal or that, shitty food he’d eaten while he was working in New York and stories about the CIA.  

- 

By the time everyone had finished eating and gone home, leaving you with a mess of plates and cutlery, you were a little tipsy but genuinely happy. It hadn’t been as stressful as you were making it out to be in your mind and Carmy relaxed on a Sunday night was completely different from Carmy in the kitchen at work.  

“You have a system or?” His voice broke your train of thought as you wiped the last crumbs off the table and realized that he was standing at your sink, kitchen towel over his shoulder.  

“You don’t have to help me clean up,” you tossed the crumbs and came over to the sink, “I mean you fixed the burgers.”  

“I didn’t ‘fix’ them,” he almost looked like he was gonna laugh. “I just helped them along.”  

“Well either way, you shouldn’t have to clean up too.”  

“I don’t mind.” He promised, “now, you got a system?”  

“Not really,” you shook your head, “but I don’t have a dishwasher so everything’s by hand.”  

“I got time.” Carmy promised and you couldn’t help feeling like your heart was going to thud right out of your chest, “besides you promised me some of that soup.”  

“You just ate like a whole meal Carm, you’re not seriously gonna have soup at midnight are you?” You asked though honestly you didn’t think you would be surprised if the answer was that yes, he would have soup at midnight.  

“Yeah if it’s good,” he joked.  

You shook your head, not answering and instead focusing your attention on drying dishes too large to fit in the rack beside your sink. The frying pan went back on the stove with the pot beside it. While Carmy finished the very last of the dishes you let Rigoletto out of your bedroom, the cat stretching languidly as he appraised the room.  

“My mom had a cat once,” he mentioned, eyeing Rigoletto as he approached the kitchen area, “ended up giving it to the neighbor cause it jumped on the counters all the time. Nothing like cat hair in your chicken picante.”  

“Rigoletto’s too fat to make it to the counter.” You replied, “if he did I’d be too impressed to be upset with him.”  

“What are you doing?” Carmy watched you curiously as you got a bowl out of the cabinet and grabbed a bag of granola.  

“Homemade granola,” you shook the bag, “it’s for the top of the soup.” When he didn’t say anything you added, “just trust me.” 

“It’s your recipe.”  

“I feel like that wasn’t as confident sounding as I wanted it to be,” you laughed, passing the heated up bowl across the counter to him, granola sprinkled over the top, “it’s apple and brie soup.”  

“Apple?” 

“Okay, like you’ve made some weird fucking shit before Carm. Don’t act like this is the craziest thing you’ve ever heard of.”  

He raised his hands in surrender, spoon teetering between his fingers briefly before he was leaning forward to take a bite. “To be fair, I rarely see you even near the kitchen at work.”  

“Well I’m not as good as anyone there, I just like trying different stuff on my own time.”  

“This is really good,” he mentioned, taking another spoonful, “you have a recipe?” 

“Yeah, I have a notebook somewhere.” You weren’t a hundred percent sure where you’d placed your notebook though you knew it was floating around somewhere in the apartment.  

“Show me?” He asked, then, “not right now…just whenever.” The request was vague and you knew that ultimately you could just take it to mean showing him the actual handwritten recipe that you used to make the soup that he was almost finished eating but it could also mean actually cooking with him. Something that, 24 hours ago would have definitely scared the shit out of you. Cooking with someone like Carmy? That was out of the question.  

“When do you ever have free time?” You kept the question light, a joke more than an observation of his life, “I was surprised you came tonight.”  

“I thought about not coming,” he shrugged, “figured if you wanted me to you woulda asked yourself but…” the sentence teetered off and you took a few seconds silence to really weigh how your relationship with Carmen looked from his end.  

“Sorry, it’s not that you aren’t invited or anything…just that you’re kinda intimidating and if you were coming over than I’d wanna impress you and if I didn’t at least make edible food I’d be embarrassed.”  

“It could use a little fine-tuning but it’s not bad by any stretch.”  

“Okay,” you almost laughed at the bluntness of his statement. Ask him anything else and he clammed up but ask him about food and he was direct.  

“Sorry I-” 

“Don’t be sorry,” you shook your head quickly, wanting him to understand that you weren’t at all bothered by the comment. Maybe if you were in an actual professional in a kitchen...you’d heard him and Syd go at it before over a dish and you knew that Carmy could be mean when he was in ‘kitchen-mode’. “I mean, aside from you, the only people who eat what I cook are like...my parents. And what are they gonna say?” 

Carmy didn’t say anything, taking the empty bowl and placing it in the sink. He looked like he wanted to say more but instead he reached for his coat, “thanks for letting me invite myself.”  

“Hey, anytime you wanna come over...” You admitted. Tonight hadn’t been as scary as you thought it was and, in all honesty, you kind of liked having Carmy here. Getting to see him more relaxed was nice and cooking with him was somehow better. “Besides, I promised to show you the soup.” 

“Yeah,” he nodded. Trying to fix the Beef, pay off Jimmy, and generally just exist didn’t leave a whole lot of free time but he didn’t think he would mind making some just so he could stand around in your kitchen with you again. It felt almost the way he used to feel when Mike was still alive and everything still had a layer of candy-coating on it. That sort of simple, ‘if I don’t leave this moment nothing can go wrong’ feeling that tightened his chest and made him feel warm.  

“I’ll see you at work tomorrow?” You phrased it like a question but it was a fact.  

“Tomorrow.” He agreed.  The possibility of it already making him eager for the morning.

#amazing like always!!! #carmen berzatto fic #carmen berzatto x reader

[pogueit]

Peaches & Cream - Carmen Berzatto

Summary: Carmy talks the reader into making family and their relationship takes a turn.

A/N: I don't know if I like this installment as much as the other two but I'm running with it. Also, the actual dessert made is from Carolina Gelen and it's fucking delicious!

The Bear Masterlist

✰✰✰✰

You shook your head slowly back and forth, with what you were almost completely positive was a look of abject horror plastered across your face as your eyes met Carmy's blue ones. If there was one thing, anything, that you absolutely did not under any circumstances want to do it was cook in The Beef's kitchen. 

"No."

"It's not like you haven't cooked for everyone out there before," Carmy replied, leaning against the door and crossing his arms over his chest. 

"Yeah, but like...at my place...not like, seriously," you mirrored his image, leaning back in the office chair and crossing your arms. 

Carmy smiled, "family isn't serious." He said it in that way that suggested he'd caught you out. Like you were trying to pull one over on him but he found a loophole at the last second. He looked too triumphant for his own good. 

"Cars..." You groaned, there was no way you wanted to do family. When Syd did family it looked like some fucking five star gourmet meal. Even Ebra cooked up some really wonderful food for family. You had cooked at home, sure, but not in Carmy's kitchen. "Fine...but when it's shit-"

"It won't be," he replied and you practically felt the air knocked out of you. As if those three simple words had the power to truly dictate what sort of cook, chef, you were. And maybe they did because you felt ridiculously confident after he said it. 

You abandoned the paperwork to the office and followed Carmy into the kitchen. His attention didn't last long, immediately pulled to something else as Tina called him over to taste the potatoes she was working on. Your unexpected entrance into the kitchen didn't go unnoticed by Marcus or Syd or Tina, all three of whom followed you with their eyes as you went to the family shelf. You were positive you looked a little more than unsure of yourself as you pulled ingredients off the shelf, trying to think of a recipe that you could accomplish, that would taste good, and that might impress Carmy. 

-

"What?" 

"What?"

"People don't usually make that face after someone kisses them...unless like, I read the room wrong and I wasn't, or you didn't want me to kiss you," you stammered, eyebrow quirking as you stared at Carmy. Ever since the first Sunday Night Dinner you'd been thinking about what it would be like to kiss him. Probably ever since he first walked in The Beef and introduced himself to you. And maybe he hadn't been thinking about kissing you for that long but you thought maybe he was thinking about kissing you lately. Or not and you were atrocious at reading what vibe other people were projecting. 

"No, no...I mean, I, no, I wanted you to...I wanted to kiss you. I liked it. Ah..." Carmy inhaled, held his breath for a second and then exhaled. "I uh, you taste like peaches. It's like, really fucking wild, just like straight up peaches...like, not like chapstick shit or something but like actual fucking peaches." 

"Oh," you stopped yourself from laughing, "I uh, I ate like frozen peaches before you came over." You tried to explain. It was the most bizarre semi-compliment anyone had ever offered after a kiss. Probably in the history of the world. 

"Yeah?"

"I was trying this recipe-"

"What was it?" He looked over the back of the couch toward the kitchen as if a plate would be waiting there on the island for him to sample. 

"It's nothing fancy," you promised, a regular disclaimer whenever you made something new and let Carmy try it. You got up from the couch as you explained the recipe you'd seen online and had attempted to recreate in your own kitchen before Carmy had come over. Aside from the peach, which was frozen in your freezer, everything else was assembled. 

Whipped cream went in the bowl first, then the peach shavings, scrapped off a whole frozen peach like you were zesting a lemon, and then brown sugar syrup that you'd made earlier. In the short time it took you to assemble the dessert, Carmy came over to the island, leaning against the counter and watching you walk. 

"Here," you slid the bowl over and handed him a spoon from the utensil holder that sat in the middle of the island. He took it from you, his focus already zeroed in on the dessert sitting before him. The assembly was no five-star NOMA dish but you thought it tasted pretty good earlier and hoped you'd made it just as nicely the second time. 

The first time Carmy tried anything you made him your whole body had felt like it was on fire. Burning with nervous anxiety eating at your stomach. Now, you thought you should probably still be nervous but you weren't. Somehow you didn't have any of those nerves anymore. Or at least, they weren't turning over your stomach anymore. Instead it was just excitement, watching him taste the food that you prepared for him. 

"Well?"

With little actual warning, Carmy laid his spoon on the counter and leaned forward, kissing you this time instead of the other way around. You kissed him back, your hand moving to hold his face, fingers brushing the curls at the back of his neck. You'd be lying if you said you weren't a little dazed as he pulled away from the kiss, blue eyes shining with amusement as he smiled. Like really smiled, you noted. 

"Yeah, that's the peach I was tasting." He finally said, taking another bite of the dessert, "fire, by the way."

"Awesome," you stumbled over the word, not entirely sure it was the correct one to encapsulate the moment. 

-

You knew Marcus was hovering over you without needing to turn around, but you did anyway, twisting away from the focaccia bread that you were kneading onto the sheet pan to look up at him. "What?" You asked, unable to stop yourself from smiling when you caught the amused look on his face, "what?"

"You're doing family?" 

"Yeah, why...you have a problem with that?" You asked, trying to sound confident. 

"No...this looks good," Marcus replied, checking on the focaccia once more before stepping away from you. "What're you making?"

"Chicken parm sandwiches?" You replied, more as a question than a statement. As you slid the pan into the oven Marcus took a once over of the other ingredients on the counter. 

"You making your own mozzarella too?" He asked, sounding impressed that you were going to tackle something that complicated. 

"I am," you said, pulling a 'can you believe it' face, "Carmy showed me how to a couple weeks ago-"

"Carmy showed you how to?" He replied, the tone of the question teasing. 

"Don't you have like...something to do?" You asked, looking back at his station. 

You might've spent most of your shift in the back office but you knew that everyone in the kitchen was talking. It started with Richie, way before you and Carmy had kissed. He'd come into the office when you and Carmy were sitting in there and however you both were acting Richie had interpreted it as flirting (which was impressive considering how awkward you and Carmy flirting was). Richie being Richie, spread the news to Tina and Ebra and Sweeps, then Marcus heard about it and Sydney. Even Fak got filled in on the apparent 'romance' that was happening. You suffered through embarrassing comments every time you were remotely close to Carmy in the kitchen until finally everyone pretty much got used to the fact that you were pinning and probably never going to make a move. 

Or at least, you hadn't expected to ever make a move. He just looked so good sitting there on your couch and you'd been thinking about him for a long time and you were positive (at least 99% so) that recently he'd been thinking about you the same way. It was a long shot probably, cause Carmy was almost impossible to read unless he was yelling about food, but it worked out. 

"Are you doing family?" Syd asked. She was doing checks, purposely saving Marcus for last so she could see what you were up to. She'd seen you come out of the office with Carmy and go over to the family shelf, surprised since you never seemed eager to be anywhere near the kitchen during work hours. (Syd had come back for her headphones once and seen you and Carmy in the kitchen together, generally being cute...which she pointed out to you later on). 

"Yeah?" You felt even more unsure of yourself when she asked than you had when Marcus had asked before. 

She nodded, looking over the ingredients you had out. "Dope."

"Thanks," you laughed. 

You weren't surprised, considering how hectic you knew the kitchen could get, that you didn't actually see Carmy again (aside from glimpses as he moved back and forth from the kitchen to the counter and back) until family. And technically, once you'd plated family and called everyone out to eat, he was nowhere to be found. Richie told you he was having a cigarette around a mouthful of chicken parm sandwich so you plated some for him and carried it outside into the back alley. 

Carmy was sitting against the back wall, a plastic container of water in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He had his head tilted back and his eyes closed like he was maybe trying to catch a few seconds of rest before dinner rush. 

"Hey," you tapped his shoulder and Carmy started, opening his eyes and looking up at you. 

"Hey," he replied, laying down his container of water and taking the plate from you. He balanced it on his knees and picked up the sandwich to look it over. "What've we got?"

"Chicken parm sandwich on pistachio focaccia bread." You replied, "Richie said I was 'going all out'."

Carmy took a bite and you watched as his face change from neutral to slightly pleased. The look you knew meant that he liked something. "This is good, this is really good." He replied earnestly, taking another bite. "Did you make the mozzarella?"

"Does it taste bad?"

"No," he shook his head, looking away from the sandwich and up to you, "you could've kneaded it one more time, it's a little soft."

"I wasn't sure," you admitted, "you'll have to make me mozzarella and tomatoes again and show me how to make it." 

He'd shown you last week, when you were at his apartment for a change. He was in the middle of making dinner when he realized he didn't have mozzarella so he decided to make it, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to do. Or at least the most normal thing in Carmy's. 

"You heading back inside?" He asked as you reached for the door handle. 

"Back to the office, where I belong." You replied. 

He waved you back over, tilting his head back to look up at you when you were standing in front of him again. You took the silent invitation and leaned down to kiss him. "I won't taste like peaches this time." 

"It's not a stipulation," he joked and you smiled into the kiss. 

Eventually, sooner rather than later, you knew everyone in the kitchen would find out that you were dating. Probably everyone outside of the kitchen too, once Fak knew that you were together it was only a matter of time before everyone Carmy had ever met found out that he had someone in his life. 

"Okay," you sighed, reluctant to pull away but knowing there was a stack of invoices you needed to look through, "eat your too shitty sandwich and get back to work chef."

"You bossing me around now?" He laughed, stubbing out his cigarette and following you back through the door into the kitchen. 

Everyone else had finished eating and were back to their stations. Tina looked over first when the two of you came in and you smiled, "Carmy said it was awful and I'm never allowed in the kitchen again."

"I didn't say it was awful-"

"The mozz was a little soft but the focaccia was insane," Syd pipped up in your defense.

"I didn't say it was awful," Carmy repeated, nudging you with his elbow when you smiled at him.

"He didn't say it was awful," you admitted, "he did say the mozzarella was soft." 

"Why you being a fucking hardass about some cheese?" Richie called from the counter, coming over and throwing an arm over your shoulders, "I'm fucking shocked as it is you got this one to go out with you, now you're gonna be insulting?"

Carmy flushed red, whether because of Richie or because of the whistle Sweeps gave at the previously unconfirmed news that the two of you might be something, "can we get back to work chefs?" He finally said, moving away from you and over to one of the stations, grabbing his knife to start prep. 

"Guess that's my cue to get back to the office," you joked, slipping out from Richie's arm.

#bro 😭😭😭😭 #you got me giggling and kicking my feet n shit 😭😭😭 #you write all the characters SO WELL OMG!!! #collecting stories imagine #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto fanfic #the bear imagine #the bear fanfiction

[pogueit]

spencer reid + contamination ocd

[pogueit]

baby reid is everything to me you don't get it. you can't take him from me. i wont let you. he's mine and he's in my pocket rn. i take him out at bedtime and tuck him in all nice and warm and smooch him on the forehead and spoon him. he's mine. back off.

[pogueit]

(𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞) 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

Steve hears you wrong, thinks he’s your boyfriend, and begins to act accordingly. You try your best to go along with it until you can’t anymore. 3k, fem. requested here ♡ 

cw shy(ish)!reader, misunderstandings, steve being a huge sweetheart, fluff, hurt/comfort, bonus fluff scene 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The arcade is loud and brisk this evening, doors thrown open to allow for the constant ebb and flow of younglings, the machine music turned up to account for so many voices. You’re lost in a sea of rainbow flashing lights and the ticklish smell of sugar. Without Steve’s hand behind your shoulder, you’re pretty sure you would’ve gotten lost and trampled half an hour ago. 

A candy necklace pinwheels past your heads like a torpedo, forcing you closer together, your shoulders tight with a flinch. 

“We can leave,” Steve says immediately. He’s weirdly thoughtful. Before he asked you out you had no idea he thought so much about other people, but he’s always thinking about other people. You could argue he thinks a little too much, like you. 

“I wanna see Max.” 

“She has to be here somewhere.” 

That theory proves less and less likely. Steve’s hand falls away from you, tugging through his hair in a marker of stress as you circle the Palace Arcade for the tenth time. “Maybe she quit?” you suggest. 

Steve’s eyebrows pinch together as he gives the arcade another sweep. Max’s rough patch freaked him out, as it freaked you out, because ‘rough patch’ is a kind way to describe it. She could’ve got a whole lot worse; she was suffering, capital S. It’s nice to see her returning to society, but not if she isn’t actually settling in. That’s the whole reason you’re here. 

Steve frowns at you worriedly. 

“Who died?” asks a new voice.

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Max!” Steve cheers. 

“That’s me,” Max says, looking at you both sceptically. Her ginger hair is pulled into two tight braids either side of her face, her cheeks flushed red. Mascara paints her usually pale lashes a darker brown, and a rosy tinted chapstick shines on her lips. 

“Hey, the uniform looks good on you,” he says affectionately. “You look like a valued member of society.”

“A society in need of better labour laws. I’m pretty sure this is child abuse.” She rolls her eyes. 

“Is it awful?” you ask. 

“It’s fine. Better when your stupid friends aren’t here making themselves sick on candy like they’re nine years old,” she says pointedly to Steve. “Are you going to throw up too? You look–” she grimaces in place of insult. 

“Who’s throwing up?” you ask. 

“Dustin. He’s outside.” 

Steve sighs and gives your shoulder a kind squeeze. “I’ll be right back,” he says, squaring his expression. “Goddamn kids.” 

He sounds like an old man, you think to yourself with a small smile. Disgruntled, he still goes to make sure everyone’s alright. He’s nice, even when that nice is begrudging and tiresome and plain gross sometimes. 

“Why are you smiling at him like that?” Max asks.

You school your impression. “Like what?” 

“Like you like him.” 

You shake your head. “Tell me about work, Max. What’s it like here? Are they giving you your breaks?” 

She drags you over to the counter to sit in the seat waiting behind. She glares at any kid who approaches, but besides that she seems in good spirits. The job isn’t hard, it’s just a job. She’d much rather be at home reading, but wouldn’t everyone? “And I get this sweet uniform,” she says, pointing at the embroidered icon on her shirt pocket. “What’s with you and Steve?” 

“Nothing,” you say, though it’s something. You’re mortified to have been caught having feelings. 

“Looks like something. Are you dating?” 

“I mean, this is a date,” you say, almost whispering as heat floods your face. “But we’re not together.” 

“He was touching you a lot.” 

“Max, he’s really nice. He’s a really nice guy,” you say gently, “and we’re not together, but if he does ask me out eventually, maybe I’ll say yes.” You realise what you’re saying and attempt to backtrack —you do like Steve, but Max doesn’t need to know that. “It’s not like he’s my boyfriend,” you say strangely. 

“Ew,” Max says with a laugh. 

“Not ew,” you correct. You hadn’t meant it in a bad way, it’s— 

“Not ew,” Steve says from behind you, his arm a heavy weight across your shoulder. 

You look wide-eyed up at his face, surprised by his huge beaming smile, an intense loveliness about him as he gives you a half hug. 

“What’s ew about that?” he asks you softly. 

Oh, boy, you think. 

As it turns out, being Steve’s girlfriend is kind of nice, but you aren’t ready.

From that afternoon at the Palace Arcade onward, he treats you like you’re made of gold. And it’s great, he’s so kind, he brings you flowers and takes you out for breakfast, where he pays the tab without any flourishes and talks to you as casually as always. You almost hope he hasn’t got it wrong at all, and that his soft tone a few days ago had been down to a brief overwhelming fondness. You’d get that. You have your moments with him, you’re falling for him, and it’s only a matter of time before you’re desperately in love, you’re sure, but then the waitress asks if you need anything else and he says, “Just a water for my girl,” and you realise you’re not getting off easy. 

Dating is sort of like being good friends; you’d planned to spend the day together anyways. You enjoy his company. It’s clear he’s eager, optioning off the day’s agenda as you return to the car, the bottom of your face hidden in your bouquet. 

“We could go to the movies,” he says, opening the passenger door, his smile seemingly permanent as you climb inside. “No science fiction, I promise.” 

“I kind of like sci-fi.” Petals press fragrant to your top lip.

“Well, we don’t have to go to the Hawk. We could go into the city. I bet they’re playing any movie you wanna see.” He checks that your leg is properly inside the car before he closes the door, jogging around to the driver’s side and practically throwing himself inside. He’s giggling like a kid. “Shit, I’ll see anything you want to.” 

“Steve.” 

“Or we can go do nothing? Until dinner.” 

“Steve,” you say again, thinking you’ll tell him. Nothing good ever comes from dishonesty. 

“What?” he asks. 

His eyes are so brown. Billions of people with brown eyes and you swear you’ve never seen anything like it before, their centres like hot honey, the sweetheart shape to them when he smiles 

You sigh. His smile is contagious, even while your stomach hurts. “Nothing. Let’s go see a movie.” 

“Are you okay?” 

“What?” 

“What do you mean, what? You sounded weird.” 

“I sounded weird?” 

“No!” He winces. “I mean, yeah, you sounded weird for you, like you… I don’t know. Sorry.” 

You feel bad, then. His apology is earnest, his hand resting open on the console for you to take if you could manage the flustering heat of it. 

“I wanna go to the movies,” you say, ‘cos you really do. 

“Alright, good. It’s just, I think my last relationship, I– I didn’t pay enough attention, and I want to do that better this time around. So yeah. Sorry.” 

Oh, Steve, you think. How are you supposed to tell him now? You’re gonna have to pretend to be ready for a relationship with him until you really are, it seems. He doesn’t deserve to have his heart played with twice. 

“Don’t be sorry,” you say gently. “Let’s go watch a movie, okay? I want to go, with you, we’ll watch a shitty daytime flick and then get dinner after. It’ll be fun.” 

You aren’t lying to him about what you want. It’s clear to everybody, Steve and his friends and especially you, that you like him, that you want to be around him and make him laugh. Maybe being his girlfriend won’t even be that different to being his something. 

After all, what’s romantic about seeing a movie? 

“You good?” he asks, half an hour later, your agony prolonged. 

You’re at the back of the movies where the seats have the most leg room, more popcorn and candy than you could ever eat at your feet and a litre cup stuffed into the armrest between you. Steve is tucking his shirt back into his jeans, his head parting the light of the projector and leaving a silhouette in the previews. 

“Steve,” you advise, gesturing for him to lean down out of the way. 

He leans down, further and further, face to face with you with his hands on his hips. A flirtatious teasing makes its way onto his lips. “What?” he asks, amused. 

“You were in the way of the light.” 

“That what it was?”

“Seriously!” you whisper-shout, laughing despite yourself. 

“You’re so cute,” he whispers back. “Want to take your jacket off?” 

Your lips part at his good suggestion. You hold your arm out and start to peel from your jacket, but he takes your sleeve and helps you out of it before folding it and sitting in the seat next to you, your jacket on his thigh. “How’s that, babe?” he asks. 

“It’s good.” 

“Okay, perfect.” He beams at you. He’s always smiling when he’s with you, like you’re the best thing since sliced bread. Like he loves you. “Tell me if you need something, yeah? I know you’re kinda shy.” 

He settles back in his seat with your jacket still in his lap and no indication that he might want to move it. Your knees touch as he relaxes, your knuckles as he puts his arm on the rest between you, a picture of contentedness as the movie begins and the opening credits play. “That’s us,” he says without looking at you. 

Two people walk down the street holding hands as the title of the movie blazes in yellow font with thick red outlines. A Day In Paradise! 

You bite down on a slither of the inside of your lip until it stings. You try to fight it off but the longer you sit there, the more your eyes burn, thinking about Steve and what he deserves and how unfortunate this whole thing is, and yeah, you’re overwhelmed, too. You aren’t ready for so much sweetness all at once. You don’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve this. 

You force the tears away. The movie goes on and on, the lights low, the chatter of moviegoers and the occasional popcorn crush not nearly loud enough to cover the sound of Steve’s breathing. 

He pushes his hair out of his face. Somebody on screen makes a joke, his hand brushes against yours, and then takes it gently as he laughs. 

You pull your hand away and tip your head down, a frantic tear flicking from your lashes. 

“You okay?” he whispers. 

You try to answer. You whimper instead, a terrible, sorry sound stuck to your throat —you can’t hold it in anymore. It’s too much. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble tearily, looking up, a tear rolling fast down the bump of your cheek. 

Steve sits still in moderate horror. “Why are you crying?” he whispers.

The thing about Steve that people tend to forget is that, while he takes care of people the best that he can, he’s really young. He doesn’t always know what to do. He stares at you now like you’re a foreign object, hand tucked back into his abdomen. 

A tear drips onto your lip. It tastes salty. “Sorry,” you say. 

“Why?” he asks, dumbfounded.

“I really like you, Steve.” 

He stares at you. “…But?”

“But I–” His frown hurts your heart. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all of this, I never– never had someone like me like this, I don’t know why I’m crying.” You say that last part to yourself rather than him, scrubbing your cheeks with your hands roughly before hiding your face completely. “It’s not you.” 

“I thought…” And of course he did. 

“I know,” you say. “I’m sorry, Steve. I thought it wouldn’t matter but everything’s going so fast.” 

He touches your arm gently. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought you wanted this. You– you said I was your boyfriend, to Max? I thought you liked me.” 

“I do like you,” you insist, meeting his eyes. 

“Can I wipe your tears away? They’re everywhere,” he says. You struggle to read his expression, but there’s no resentment or anger there for you. He looks quite serious. 

“Yeah.” 

Steve bends in his seat to wipe your tears off of your face gently. They really are everywhere, on your cheeks, your top lip, your chin, even down the arc of your neck. “I don’t understand,” he says, going back to your cheek for a missed streak, “but you don’t have to be upset. Please. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, I promise.” 

“Steve, when I was talking to Max, I said,” —you wince— “that it’s not like you’re my boyfriend. She was asking me about you, and I got all panicky because I like you, but I’m too weird about this stuff, I’m panicking now–”

“Don’t.” His hand lingers on your face, before a sorry flash of dejection passes over him, and he drops your face altogether. 

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please believe me.” 

“Of course I believe you.” He grimaces at you, and the heartbreak turns to something more manageable, like he’s brushing himself off. “I’m sorry. For getting the wrong idea.” 

“I like you,” you whisper. Your voice is nearly lost to the rustle of popcorn and drinks. 

“I like you too!” he says loudly. 

A few seats down, somebody turns, an angry whirl of hair and clicky nails. “Can you guys shut up?” 

You and Steve leave your mountain of snacks behind to stand in the theatre hallway, where the winter air is cool on your flushed skin, and the silence is stifling. You lean against a wood feature wall and try to calm down, because he’s the one who should be upset (or maybe he’s not that fussed about you). He stands a half foot away with his arms crossed, looking down at his shoes, though occasionally he glances at you for a split-second and looks away again. 

“You okay?” he asks tightly. 

“I’m sorry.”

He pokes his cheek with his tongue. “So you don’t want to be together?” 

You don’t know. He deserves the truth, even if you barely understand it yourself, and it stings to say. “I do, I like you, but I… I want to take things slowly.” 

He stands there without talking for a while. When he does talk again, he’s laughing, that achy awful sadness he’d worn a far off memory. “You’re this upset because you want us to take things slow?” 

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” 

“You haven’t,” he promises. “That would never hurt my feelings. I knew when I heard it that it was too good to be true.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I guess I gotta earn the title like everybody else does. Is that… cool?” 

You nod vehemently. 

Steve blows a relieved breath of air up his face, his hair ruffling off of his forehead. “I thought I was gonna lose you completely,” he says, smiling. “This is fine. I can work with slow. Slow’s my middle name.”

—♡—

The sun is a blistering heat today. “Can’t believe it’s only spring,” you murmur, eyes covered by the back of your arm. 

A weight sits down on the blanket beside you, the sound of dry grass crushed underfoot. He brings the fresh scent of lemon slices with him, the zest sticking to his hands.

“I think I might melt.” 

“I’d never let that happen,” Steve says, laying down beside you. 

“You can be my parasol.” 

“Your what?” 

“It’s a sun umbrella.” 

“Like this?” he asks, gently laying himself across your front, his face on the slip of your stomach that’s bare, his arms sneaking behind your thighs to hug them as you bring them up. 

You reach down to stroke his hair, taking your fingers through the silky lengths of it, fingernails scratching ever so slightly at his scalp. “Thanks,” you say.

He kisses your naked leg. “You’re welcome, honey.” 

If he’d done that at the beginning of your relationship, you’d have frozen up; not because he would’ve done it differently, not because he wasn't always your handsome sweetheart, but because being comfortable with someone this intimately takes time, and that’s okay. 

“Your face is digging into my hip,” you murmur. 

He shifts back, his ear above your belly button. “Is that better?” 

“That’s perfect.” 

“Are you falling asleep?” he asks softly. 

“No… I’m thinking.” 

“Nothing good ever comes of that.” 

“I have something I want to talk to you about.”

“I love talking to you,” he says. He sounds as though he might fall asleep himself, his tongue heavy in his mouth. 

You stroke his hair away from his face by touch alone. Long, warm minutes pass without conversation. You aren’t scared to tell him how you’re feeling. He’s proved to you over time that he’s someone you’ll always be able to trust, and that whatever you have to say will hold weight. 

“It’s a question.” 

He turns in your hold to face you. You raise your arm, greeted by the image of him sun-kissed and lazing, laid out across you without a care in the world. 

“Don’t tell me then,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, you’re terrifying.” 

“Would you wanna be my boyfriend?”

He narrows his eyes at you. A myriad of emotions pass between you both, until he’s smiling, and you know he’s sitting up for a kiss seconds before he actually does. He presses his lips to yours carefully. “Baby,” he says as he pulls away, voice as mild as his soft kiss, “I think we’ve passed that point.” 

“I realised I’d never asked you, is all.” 

His hair falls down into his eyes. You tuck it behind his ear. It’s pretty clear now you’re together, even after such a bumpy start. 

“Can I get it in writing this time?” he asks, rubbing the tip of his nose against yours, your eyes fluttering closed in tandem. 

“Give you anything you want if you kiss me,” you murmur. 

His laugh fans over your lips. He cups your cheek, your heart a hummingbird drilling at your ribs as Steve moves in to kiss you properly. Your lips part under the pressure, your head tilting a touch to one side to accommodate him as he searches down for you, melty hot pleasure and nerves that never seem to fade arising as his thumb moves up your cheek, a semi-circle of touch. It promises undulating care whenever you want it. 

You tip your head aside to catch your breath.

“Better late than never,” you joke. 

Steve talks into the soft skin beside your mouth. “You weren’t late, babe. I was early, and I didn’t mind waiting.” 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank u for reading!! pretty please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed cos it means so much to me and inspires me to write even more!!! but either way i hope u enjoyed❤️❤️❤️

#this is so sweet omgggg my heart 😭😭😭 #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fic

[pogueit]

sooo mei I was reading through your matt murdock ml and stumbled across the mafia one and pleaseee that is so cute, would you ever expand on that au? like maybe r’s flat is broken into and before she can even go to the cops there’s a bunch of matt’s guys there like don’t worry we’ve got it handled and she’s just ???

mafia!matt is the last thing i thought i'd be writing in the year 2024 but i can work with what you gave me <3

--

You're not sure whether you'd consider yourself lucky for escaping the bank unscathed, or unlucky for having been in the bank during an active shooting in the first place. Either way, the entire ordeal leaves you unsettled for weeks. You're bordering on agoraphobic, but food is a must, so you set out to brave the streets of Hell's Kitchen in search of something quick and dirty.

Upon your return, you know you're unlucky. You'd locked the door when you'd left, but evidently that doesn't stop someone who's desperate enough to break into a place that's barely up to code. You stare into the gaping, dark recess of your burgled apartment, noting that several electronics and appliances are out of place, but none of them appear to be missing. Your television is cracked, but you suppose your computer will be a suitable replacement until you can manage to afford a new screen.

You back away from the door just in case there's still someone inside; you're not stupid enough to investigate for yourself. However, the moment you step back, you ram into someone behind you, and your mottled nerves make you nearly shoot out of your skin.

All you can manage is a muffled, 'mmf!' when a hand clamps itself over your mouth, but the voice accompanying the hand is quick to assure you, "Easy, tuts, we're not gonna make it worse. We're with- uh, the cops. Okay? We got a call from the neighbors, 'said they heard someone breakin' in. We've got it handled, alright? Just relax. You can head back inside, that creep is long gone. We'll have someone stand guard outside, got it?"

You're only let go of when your captor deems you calm, but your heart is still racing in your chest when you turn to face him. He doesn't look anything like a police officer, but he does look menacing. He shows you a badge and I.D, and they look authentic enough for your arrythmia to settle.

"Go on," He ushers you towards the door, "Get in there, we'll take care of it from here."

You adjust your grip on your plastic bag of frozen meals, passing a couple other men that are now posted at the front door of your apartment. Each attempts a kind smile at you, and you're glad to shut the door on them once you get inside.

There's a man on your couch.

You don't notice until you flick the light switch on, but he's sitting there, clad in a suit and sunglasses. You shriek, and briefly consider whether or not your frozen ravioli could be used as a suitable projectile.

"Relax," The man stands, an easy smile on his face, one that drips with sympathy, "I'm Matt. I'm here to stand guard."

"Why were you sitting in the dark?!" You demand, now doubting the validity of the police badge you'd seen earlier, regretting the decision to trust these less-than-official men.

"It doesn't matter to me whether it's light or dark," He chuckles, and your face flushes momentarily when you realize what his sunglasses are for.

"Oh. Well- well you're not doing a very good job of making me relax, Matt. I feel like I'm more in danger of you than I am of someone else breaking into my house."

The man's smile is gentle, but not weak, "Sorry. Just go about your business, okay Y/N? We'll replace your damaged property and be out of your hair as soon as we can eliminate the threat.”

"Eliminate...?" You echo cautiously, "How long does that take?"

"Depends. A day. A week. Months, maybe. But this is all for your precaution, Y/N," He stands, making his way over to you and carefully feeling out the broken glass on the floor with the toe of his shoe. He places a hand on your shoulder, "Just trust me, I'm here to help. None of this will ever happen to you again- not on my watch."

#mafia!matt my beloved #the way i screamed when i saw this was ungodly lmaooo #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock imagine

[pogueit]

if you're sexualizing that old man in your mind.. and i'm sexualizing that old man in my mind.. THEN WHO'S FLYING THE PLANE?!?!?!

[pogueit]

hold you | spencer reid

spencer x fem!bau!reader summary: you're not having your best day- truth be told, you are having a break down in the bureau's bathroom. lucky for you, spencer is there to hold you. genre: angst (?), kinda hurt/comfort. and slow(est) burn with best friends to (eventually) lovers! warnings: uhm. reader is pretty hard on herself. also, it wasn't really my intention but there's a harassment situation. (a non consensual kiss). i think... that's it? if not, let me know! a/n: hi! this is very very self-indulgent. but hey!, at least we have a little comfort with spencer, right? also! while i was writing this a friend texted me out of nowhere to say me that i'm enough. AND- i wanted to tell you guys the same. if you are a little too much like this reader then- know that you are more than enough. know that you are capable. know that you are loved. word count: 1.9k previous | next

You are always wondering if you are enough. The volume of the question has changed over the years, but it has never been just muted. And today your head is going to explode from how loud insecurity screams. There is no way to reconcile with yourself. Not today, at least. You’ve avoided any remotely reflective surface, because the moment you look into your eyes, you know you are going to break. So your computer’s brightness is at maximum. It burns your eyes and somehow you hope it does. So you never have to see you again.

You don’t know whether to be grateful that today is paperwork day or not. Yes. It’s probably better. You wouldn’t want to risk the life of a victim in this overwhelmed state. The only thing at risk here is Hotch’s patience when he finds out that you haven’t made as much progress as you should. But, oh well. Maybe you should consider quitting. This would also save Hotch some headaches. And you know you’re being dramatic and thinking about world’s endings, but what else can you do when you want to rip your heart out to see what’s wrong with it. Does it work like all other hearts? Do you work like all the others? Are you embraced by the general sadness that eats a little of the souls every day? Are you your neighbor’s dark circles and his baby’s screams? Or are you a self-inflicted punishment for never being the version of yourself you imagined when you were five?

The glass that covers your desk catches your gaze. And you don’t see any further. Suddenly the lines of the real world blur and you’re doing your best to make it to the bathroom before the floor disappears. You hear your name in a worried hush, but maybe it’s you trying to save yourself from your thoughts.

You’d like to hold Penelope responsible for this, but you know she’s not to blame for anything other than being her sweet self. Instead, you are guilty of being you. Sometimes you would like to stop carrying yourself, but where are you going to leave you? Who would carry yourself for you? Clearly not the guy from yesterday.

You lower the toilet seat and press your palms against your eyes until they hurt. But surely it also hurts rivers to be squeezed by compresses. You are drowning. And Penelope just wanted to help you. Between the two of you (and Morgan) it’s no secret how you feel about Spencer. And according to her sixth sense, he feels that way too. Only he doesn’t know. Because being a genius doesn’t ensure you’re not stupid, apparently. So Penelope encouraged you to tell him how you feel. Clearly, you didn’t accept. Why would you jeopardize the best friendship you have. So, Penelope cheered you to date someone. “You shouldn’t be lonely, my sweet girl,” she told you

“I am not,” was your reply. Because you aren’t. You think.

“Mhm,” Penelope said. “So, when you are not here or with Reid, what do you do? Who do you hang with?”

“Well- with you. We hang out, right?” Your smile wasn’t that convincing. Penelope just rolled her eyes. “Hey! We do hang out. And with this job there isn’t really spare time, so.”

Okay. You know Penelope attends- no, she organizes a support group. That she also has a crochet club. That she plays online with friends. That she occasionally trains with Derek. That she is learning to play the violin. Yes. Her life is as full of colors as her office. And yours in comparison... it does look a little personal? But you wouldn’t say lonely.

“Listen, I’m not saying you start dating this guy, just talk to him,” Penelope smile was nothing but gentle. You couldn’t say no to her. So, when you sighed, she knew she had won.

At eight o’clock last night, then, you were sitting in a park with a boy Penelope had talked to in her violin classes. He seemed decent enough to her in the ten minutes of conversation they had. The right amount to present it to you, it seems. But you were nervous. You’re not good around new people. You are your most awkward version. You never know how to sit without feeling uncomfortable. Or how to speak without sounding foreign. Every action is thought twice before doing it. But his gesture looked kind, so you smiled at him. And he smiled at you. And he let you talk and talk and he barely looked at his phone. You wouldn’t say he was paying attention to you, but hey, who really wants to hear about how time is affected by gravity?

You should probably have shut up. You should definitely have shut up. But Spencer’s watchful gaze watched you from the back of your mind and you knew he would listen. And, most certainly, he would gently correct you on any incorrect thing you may have said. And then he would recommend books to you. Or he would read them to you himself. Or he would offer you to watch a documentary and go get chocolate donuts. And- why was the guy kissing you?

You’ve never kissed quickly. You’ve never kissed much, either. Only a couple of times and it was not a feeling you would be eager to repeat. So you pulled away. “Uh, I'm so sorry- but I don't really-” his lips on yours again. This time you stood up from the bench. “No.”

“C’mon. I’ve been hearing you for what? An hour now? We can at least kiss,” he also stood up.

You took a step back. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but-“

And in that moment you saw how his expression turned into a smug one. And you don’t know how you didn’t see it before. His next words didn’t take you by surprise. “Whatever. You are not that pretty, anyway.” But they hurt you anyway. Because suddenly you weren’t an FBI agent, just you. And you were a teenager again, without your badge on your hip to make you feel grounded. You turned around and staggered in misery for the rest of the night.

Sitting in the Bureau’s bathroom, with tears stuck in your throat, you know it’s not about the guy. Something must be wrong with you if your pain is deeper than your indignation. You know several ways to disable an UnSub, but when a guy tells you that you’re not pretty you stay still. Correction, that you’re not that pretty... That pretty to what? To be heard? To be treated like a human being? To be respected when you say no? That you’re not that... what? That you are not, simply.

The first sob sounds far away. You wonder if there’s anyone else in the bathroom. If someone else is suffering. Should you stand up and go help her? Your hand stops on the door latch. You find it curious that it’s shaking. And then your whole body is shaking. It is you who breaks down in tears. You become an uncontainable liquid. Who is going to empty you back into your body? Will there be a body left?

You see his Converse peeking beneath the doorframe before hearing him. “Hey,” Spencer softly calls you through the door.

You stop breathing to hush your cry.

“Please,” Spencer says. “Please, open the door.”

Please, Spencer, go away. Please, please.

You hear him sigh. “I’ll stay here until you are ready.”

Another sob escapes you. And Spencer thinks he feels his heart break. As soon as he hears the door latch, he yanks it open and the next thing he knows, you’re in his arms. Spencer drops both of your satchels before tightening his arms around you. He doesn’t know how to start comforting you, but he figures holding you is a first step. He settles his head on top of yours and traces patterns on your back with his open palm. He receives each wave of your sadness with the firmness of the coast. Your salty foam makes a hole in his heart and he wishes he could drink it so you never have to feel it again.

“I don’t want to go out like this,” you murmur into his cardigan.

“You don’t have to. We can walk like we are,” he whispers back.

You let out a muffled chuckle. And he takes that sound into his heart. “No, we can’t. We would trip over.”

“And I’d catch you.”

You stand there for a couple more minutes, without saying much more. When he feels you slowly peel away from him, he immediately searches for your eyes. They’re red and swollen, but they still look like the prettiest he’s ever seen.

“Here,” he says, taking off his glasses to put them on you. “To hide it a little. Maybe it’s only until the elevator that you have to wear them.”

You look at him confused. Spencer bends down to pick up your satchels and hangs them up again on his shoulder.

“We have the day off. I already talked to Hotch. That’s, uh, why it took me so long to come for you”. He brushes a stray hair behind your ear. “Let’s take you home.”

Your eyes look bigger through his glasses. He smiles at you. And you hug him again. Without thinking too much, Spencer kisses the top of your head. “C’mon,” he says. He hooks his arm with yours all the way to the elevator, shielding you as much as he can from being seen by anyone. Spencer regrets not driving to work, because then he can’t take you faster. But when your head finds its home on his shoulder and your breathing is heard rhythmically in the middle of the crowded wagon- he discovers that he can let out the air he’s been holding. He doesn’t know what happened. He doesn’t know what made you so unhappy. He doesn’t have to know now. But as long as he can be here, with you, it’s okay. As long as he can hold you, it’s okay.

bonus!

It’s not until several hours later, when you’re almost asleep on his chest, that you tell him what happened yesterday. You don’t tell it as an explanation for your moment today. That has years of accumulation. But you tell him like something you would because, well, he’s your best friend. And when you tell him, nothing changes in the room. His arm is still around your waist, holding you close to him. The murmur of the television remains. The lamp light is still on. But everything feels different. Spencer’s breathing is controlled instead of natural. You adjust yourself to see him directly in the face.

“Hey,” you call him.

“Y’know, he did harass you. And it’s most likely you are not the first girl that he has harassed. We could open a file on him,” his using his trained calm tone.

“Spencer.”

“What? You should file a complaint, also. We can go right now if you want,” he says as you feel him move to stand up.

“Spencer, wait-“

"No. I don’t want to wait.” He looks desperate. “Who does he think he is? Treating you like this- kissing you without your permission! More than once! I don’t want to- And tell you that you’re not that pretty! As if you weren’t the prettiest girl ever. I want to- I want to, find him.”

Spencer only sees red. And the glasses aren’t exactly the problem. He is scared of the damage he imagines doing. He doesn’t want to think what would have happened if-

“Spencer.” You put a hand on his shoulder to bring him back. “Tomorrow we are going to ask Garcia to digg into him, okay?”

Spencer just nods. You shouldn’t be calming him down. It is not fair for you. He forces himself to lie down on his couch again and both of you settle into your previous position. “Tomorrow,” he repeats. He can wait one night. “Until then, tell me about gravity.”

You snuggle. “You already know everything there is to know.”

“Please?”

You sigh, feeling a warm hand hug your heart. “Alright. The speed of light is always the same, but the distance is curved by gravity...”

taglist: @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 (hi! i am so so grateful that you like this thing enough to want to get tagged :c makes my heart warm. i hope you like this little piece as well! and i really hope i am not forgetting anyone).

#bro 😭😭😭 #criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader

[pogueit]

the key to not fanonizing your faves is to simply become academia-brained about it. never make a statement about a character you can’t back up with at least three references to the source material

[pogueit]

So you know how I’m an absolute liar??? Well I am currently working on some stuff!! The name change will happen whenever I remember my password!!

#I’m currently working on a multi chapter Rafe fic that I really want to finish cuz of how fleshed out everything is #I do have battinson stuff idk when I’ll get to that tho #and I also have some criminal minds stuff in the works as well!!! #not a huge fan of stranger things anymore bc of literally everything that has happened 😬😬 but I have some Eddie fics in the works #but I probably won’t see the new season but I’ll finish up all the ideas I currently have bc I do love that freak #but I’ll try to get the short ones out before the multi chapter ones!! #pogueit #elios lies