spencereidluver

[spencereidluver]

P is for Possibility

March 12, 2010

summary: You’ve felt off for a few days. Nothing serious — just little things. Fatigue. Forgetfulness. A weird aversion to Garcia’s usual coffee. But when Spencer quietly starts connecting the dots himself, you’re forced to consider the one possibility neither of you had truly prepared for.

word count: 

warnings: pregnancy,  protective Spencer, gentle fluff, the BRIEFEST mention of a miscarriage (the word isn’t even finished)

It started small.

You hadn’t really noticed until Garcia waved a cinnamon latte under your nose and you had to excuse yourself from the room.

It wasn’t that the smell was bad, it was fine. just… overwhelming. Too much. Too sweet. Like syrup poured over nerves.

You splashed cold water on your face in the bathroom and told yourself it was nothing. You’d barely slept the night before. You’d skipped lunch. You were fine.

Except you weren’t sleeping well. And you weren’t eating much. And the last time Spencer kissed your neck in that particular way, you didn’t melt into him, you flinched, lightheaded. You sat on the edge of the sink counter and tried to count back. Days. Weeks.

Your last period…

You froze.

Then shook your head. No. No, it’s probably just stress. Travel. Jet lag. A long case cycle. This wasn’t unheard of for you. Rare, yes, especially now that you’ve gotten used to the jet rides and long cases, but not impossible.

But the thought didn’t leave you.

And when you got back to the bullpen, Spencer was already looking at you like he knew.

When you got home from work that night. he didn’t say anything at first.mJust… watched.

When you pulled your sweatshirt tight around yourself and curled up on the couch with tea instead of wine, he raised an eyebrow.

When you fell asleep halfway through an old sci-fi movie you’d both seen ten times, he shifted a little closer.

And when you winced while brushing your teeth that night, sensitive gums, he finally spoke.

“Are you okay?”

You met his eyes in the mirror.

“Just tired.”

“Is this the kind of tired that comes from long days,” he said gently, “or the kind that comes from… something else?”

You set the toothbrush down, heart thudding a little harder.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I haven’t really been keeping track.”

He stepped behind you and rested his hands on your hips. His touch was feather-light. Careful.

“I have.”

You turned slowly.

His eyes were steady. Not panicked. Just… searching. Waiting.

“I didn’t want to say anything,” he continued, “in case you’d already ruled it out. But… the timing lines up.”

Your breath hitched.

“And I’ve been reading,” he added, almost sheepishly. “The taste changes. Nausea. The fatigue. Even the weird touch sensitivity.”

“Spencer…”

“I’m not saying you are.” His voice dropped. “I’m just saying… maybe we should check.”

You didn’t answer. Instead you leaned into him and he caught you. Arms around your back, chin on your shoulder, heartbeat steady against yours.

It wasn’t confirmation. Not yet. But it was something.

And it was enough for tonight.

You didn’t sleep much. Neither did Spencer.

Not from nerves exactly, but from that kind of shared anticipation that settles low in your stomach. The quiet knowing that something’s shifting, even if you haven’t said it out loud yet.

He’d held you all night. No questions, no pressure. One hand on your waist. The other curled between your fingers like he was counting your pulse with his thumb. 

When you finally rose just after seven, you padded around the apartment in the same sleep shirt you’d worn the night before. Spencer was already at the table, fully dressed in khaki pants and a soft navy sweater, reading on his phone.

You didn’t need to ask what he was reading. You knew.

He looked up at you, eyes soft, searching.

“Do you want to go with me?” He asked.

You tilted your head. “Where?”

“To the store.” he said, no further elaboration. It wasn’t needed.

“Yeah.”

_____

You didn’t know drugstores could feel sacred.

But walking down the feminine health aisle with Spencer by your side, his hand resting just near the small of your back, made you feel like the whole world had gone quiet.

He scanned the rows like he was at a crime scene. Eyes narrowing behind his glasses, voice quiet but certain.

“So the First Response Early Result test has a lower threshold for detecting hCG than most over-the-counter brands, around 6.5 mIU/mL. That means it’s more sensitive and accurate earlier on.”

You blinked at him, half in awe. “Did you… study for this?”

He didn’t even look sheepish. “I’ve had the tab open since Sunday.”

You reached for his hand and squeezed. “Of course you have.”

He picked up a three-pack and turned it over in his hands. “This one’s good. Gives you a digital readout and a backup line test. Just in case.”

He carried it to the checkout for you. And he paid for it. 

____

Spencer sat on the edge of the tub, hands resting between his knees. You stood barefoot on the tile, holding the small plastic test in one hand, the instruction paper in the other, even though you both already knew how it worked.

He looked up at you. “You don’t have to take it now if you’re not ready.”

“I think I’ll just be more anxious later.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

You inhaled slowly, deeply. Then:

“Turn around.”

Spencer smiled, a small one, barely there. “Yes, ma’am.”

He stood and faced the shower curtain like a student waiting for a pop quiz. You unwrapped the test, sat down, and did what needed to be done. When you stood again, test capped and balanced on the edge of the sink, Spencer turned around immediately.

“Timer?”

“Already set.” He lifted his phone to show you. “Three minutes.”

You leaned back against the counter. He stood in front of you.

Neither of you touched the test. You didn’t need to.

“Are you scared?” you asked softly.

He thought for a second. Then: “No.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I’m nervous,” he admitted. “But not scared.”

“Why not?”

He reached for your hand. “Because whatever it says, I’m looking at you. And you’re still mine.”

You exhaled.

The timer ticked down in his pocket.

2:381:591:140:430:12

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

You stared at the test. Then at him. Then at the test. Then back up at him.

He nodded, once. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Your fingers touched the plastic first. Then turned it over.

PREGNANT.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

The letters were simple. Small. Cold. Too quiet for what they meant. And yet they roared in your ears.

Your fingers trembled. Spencer didn’t say anything, not right away. He just stood there, steady, barely breathing, eyes fixed on the same plastic window your whole future was now living in.

You looked up at him, barely able to focus. “It…it says…”

“I see it,” he whispered.

But saying it, speaking it out loud, made it real. Too real.

Your heartbeat started to pick up. Fast. Wild. Like your body was trying to outrun the realization building in your throat.

“I can’t. Spencer, I can’t–”

His hands came up instinctively, reaching for your arms. “Hey. Hey- look at me.”

But you were already backing away.

“Spence, we can't. We’re not… this isn’t…” You sucked in a breath, chest heaving. Your voice cracked in that awful, thin way it only did when panic edged too close. “I can’t be pregnant, Spencer. Our job, our life… this isn't- this is dangerous!”

You stared at him, wide-eyed.

“I can’t be out there, running profiles, chasing killers, carrying a gun and a baby. What if something happens? What if I get someone else killed because I’m not fast enough or strong enough or-”

You broke off. Spencer had closed the space between you. But he didn’t speak. So you kept going.

“We’re supposed to fly to Denver next week and spend 48 hours in a field office crawling with agents and files and guns, and I’m supposed to do that knowing there’s a baby inside me? What if we’re ambushed? What if I get shot? What if I mis-?”

“Stop.” Spencer said suddenly. Firmly. His voice cracked like a whip in the bathroom’s small echo.

You froze.

“I’m not going to let that happen,” he said again, softer and quieter now. “We won’t let that happen.”

“You think we control that?”

“No,” he admitted, stepping in, hands landing gently at your waist. “But I know what we can control. And we will.”

You looked up at him.

He held your gaze, unwavering. “If that means one of us leaves the field, we leave. If that means we both walk away, we walk. If that means you want a desk job and I stay in the field, or vice versa, or we move to Virginia Beach and you work cases remote and I learn to cook every weird pregnancy craving you have…we’ll figure it out.”

Tears filled your eyes. Not from panic this time. From the sudden, gut-deep realization that he meant it.

Every word.

But your body still shook.

“Spencer, I just… I don’t want this to ruin me,” you said. “I don’t want to become someone who can’t do the job anymore. I love our job. I love our team. And I don’t want to be forced to hide behind a desk just because I’m a woman and now I’m…” You looked down, voice breaking. “...a mom.”

Spencer's hands slid to your face.

Your breath came faster. “Don’t tell anyone yet. Please.”

He blinked. “What?”

You took his hands in yours. “Not yet. I want time. I want… space to figure it out before I have to explain myself to Hotch or Rossi or Morgan or anyone.”

Spencer’s face darkened. “You want to keep working?”

“Yes,” you said, quickly. “For now. Until I have to stop. I’ll be careful. I’ll stay out of the field if it gets too intense. You’ll watch my back, like always.”

His jaw clenched. “You’re pregnant. I can’t just watch your back anymore. I have to protect you.”

“And you will,” you promised. “But please don’t ask me to lie down and disappear just because I’m scared. I want normal for just a little longer.”

He closed his eyes. You felt the fight in him. The urge to lock the door and call Hotch and refuse to let you leave the apartment again until the baby was born.

But he breathed in. And out.

Then opened his eyes.

“Okay.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

“For now,” he added, voice rough. “But I want weekly updates. From you. From your doctor once you pick one. And the second something feels wrong, anything, you call me. Or you call Hotch. I don’t care if we’re mid-case, you stop.”

“I will.”

He looked at you. Really looked.

And then, quieter: “You promise?”

“I promise.”

He paused.

“We’re having a baby,” he said again, softer this time.

You pressed your forehead to his and let the words settle.

“I know.”

And for the first time since the test turned over, you let yourself cry.Not because you were afraid. Because you finally believed it. And because somehow… You knew you were going to be okay.

_____

next chapter: *link*

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

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[spencereidluver]

O is for Over and Over

February 14, 2010

summary: You and Spencer celebrate your second Valentine’s Day with no prior plans, just each other.

word count: 1.5k

warnings: unprotected sex, multiple rounds, creampie, praise, overstimulation

You hadn’t made reservations. You hadn’t picked out something red or glittery. You hadn’t even remembered it was Valentine’s Day until your case briefing ended and Hotch dismissed the team with a rare smirk and a, “Go enjoy your lives. That’s an order.”

So you went home. With Spencer. And that was enough.

The city light slanted through the living room window in soft golden bars. The radiator hissed faintly beneath the sill. Outside, snow melted in patches, leaving the sidewalks slick and dark. Inside, the apartment smelled like clean laundry and tea.

Spencer had cooked. Not extravagantly, just his version of comfort food. Pasta. Roasted vegetables. Garlic bread that nearly set off the smoke alarm. And now, he was leaning against the kitchen island in a loose gray T-shirt and navy plaid pajama pants, barefoot, glasses on, curls still slightly damp from a shower.

You emerged from the bedroom, having just finished your post-work shower. He was watching you with the kind of gaze that made your lungs stutter. Warm. Sure. Quietly wanting. You closed the space between you slowly. He tilted his head.

“You wore my favorite,” he said softly, fingers toying with the hem of your tank top.

“I always do,” you whispered. “Especially when I want something.”

His eyes flicked to yours. “What do you want?”

You leaned in close, brushing your lips against his jaw. “You.”

His breath caught.

And then he was kissing you,deep and slow. The kind of kiss that filled your whole chest with pressure. His hands slid under your shirt and dragged it over your head. You raised your arms to make it easier for him.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured, dragging his fingers down your ribs. “I never get used to how soft you are.”

You stepped back and let your sleep shorts fall to the floor. No underwear. Spencer’s breath visibly shuddered.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he said.

You grinned. “Just testing your memory.”

He stepped closer, pressing his chest to yours, hands trailing down your back.

“I remember everything about you,” he whispered, voice low and reverent. “Every inch. Every sound. Everything.” You hummed softly, seductively, pushing your hips into his.

“Bedroom,” he said. You didn’t walk. You ran.

You fell into the sheets tangled together, his mouth hot and open on your skin, his hands roaming like he couldn’t choose which part of you he needed more.

He knelt between your thighs and looked down at you like you were art. Like he couldn’t believe he got to keep you.

“Open your legs,” he said.

You obeyed.

“Wider.”

You obeyed.

His hands slid up your thighs, thumbs brushing just shy of where you wanted him.

“Spencer, please,” you begged.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere.”

He leaned down and licked slowly up your center.

You gasped, back arching up toward him.

“You taste so good,” he murmured against your skin. He pressed a few small kissed on your inner thighs before delving in.

He didn’t tease.He devoured.

His tongue worked in perfect circles, two fingers sliding inside you, curling against your spot like he’d mapped it. You clutched the sheets, screaming his name, back arched, thighs shaking.

“Spence– I’m gonna-”

He lifted his head just enough to whisper, “Finish for me, baby. Let me taste it.”

Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave, full-body, tearing you open at the seams. He kept licking, moaning into your skin like he needed it. When you finally collapsed, breathless and shaking, he climbed up your body, kissing your stomach, your breasts, your throat.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he said. He slid his pants off with a surprising gracefulness and pulled himself back from you at the chest. 

He hooked one of your legs around his hip, pressing his tip against your entrance. 

“Please, Spence,” you begged. 

He pushed in slow. So slow.

You whimpered, clenching around him, the stretch already overwhelming.

“Shh,” he whispered. “You’re doing so good.”

He bottomed out with a groan, forehead pressed to yours. You locked your ankles around his back, a signal for him to begin moving.

And he did.

Thrust after thrust. Deep, hard, unrelenting.

The bed rocked beneath you, hitting the wall. You briefly worried about the neighbors, but it quickly went away as he hit the spot inside you repeatedly.

You clawed at his back, moaning into his shoulder.

He brought a hand up to your chin, tilting your heat back up toward him. He kissed your mouth over and over, whispering your name between kisses. His hips began to stutter, a feeling you’ve come to know well.

He wouldn’t cum, not until you told him to. He would wait until you’ve finished. His face was becoming red, like he wouldn’t make it much longer.

“Cum inside me, Spencer. Now,” You said, making intense eye contact with him.

He followed your order before you even finished your sentence. He locked his lips to yours, letting his soft whimpers and gasps be muffled into your mouth. You felt him pulsing inside you intensely as he filled you, his thrusts becoming smaller and smaller each time.

You both stayed like that for a long moment, bodies trembling, mouths pressed together, sweat sticking your chests together..

“Again,” you whispered.

His eyes flared.

“You sure?”

You nodded. “If you can. I want it, Spencer.”

That was all he needed. The signal to please you. 

He kissed you again,a little more desperate this time, a little less careful, and you could feel it in the way his hips instinctively pressed forward, he twitched inside you, still half hard, like he was already remembering how good you felt.

He rolled his hips once, slow and deep, and you gasped into his mouth.

“I can feel it,” he whispered, lips brushing against your cheek up toward your nose. “It feels.. so good.”

You moaned softly, clutching at his arms. 

He leaned back just enough to watch your face, then began to thrust again. Not hard,  deliberate. Controlled. Like he was testing the rhythm again, easing his body back into yours.

You could feel every inch. Still stretched, still oversensitive, but wanting him so badly you couldn’t stop your hips from moving with his.

“God, you feel—” he broke off, panting. “It’s like you’re made for me.”

“You say that every time,” you whispered, smiling through the heat.

He kissed your smile. “Because it’s always true.”

His strokes grew a little deeper. The angle changed. You gasped when he hit that spot again, the one that made your thighs twitch and your breath stutter.

Spencer’s hand slid between your bodies, fingers brushing your clit, soft at first. You jolted, whining from the sudden overload.

“I know,” he soothed, “I know you’re sensitive. But you can take it. Can’t you?”

“Yes,” you choked out, head falling back into the pillow. “Yes, please.”

“Can you cum again?” His voice was low and rough, and his words felt more like a command than a question. 

You nodded helplessly, purposefully clenching around him

“You’re gonna get it. love. I’ve got you.”

You didn’t stand a chance. Between the way he pressed so deep inside you, angling just right, and the way his fingers rubbed your clit in that perfect, tight circle,you shattered again. A softer orgasm this time, but deeper, your body locking down around him in waves.

Spencer cursed, hips stuttering.

“You feel so good when you come,” he groaned. “So warm. So fucking tight—”

You felt his thrusts pick up speed, a little ragged, a little wild now. He was chasing it. 

“Spencer, inside. Again. P-please.”

That was all it took. He dropped his forehead to yours, giving only 7 more quick and deep thrusts. He groaned loudly in your ear as he filled you for a second time. Each pulse of his cock was accompanied by a thrust so hard it probably would’ve hurt had you not still been riding out your third orgasm.

After he stayed buried deep, barely moving, shaking from the intensity. You reached up and cradled his face, letting him breathe heavily into the curve of your neck.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

His arms were tight around you. Your legs were still curled around his waist. His hips gave one last, lazy roll, and you gasped, still tender.

“Spence…”

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I just didn’t want to leave you yet.”

“You don’t have to.”

He smiled against your skin. “I’m not sure I can.”

You both laughed ,quietly, breathlessly,and kissed again, this time without urgency. Just love.

“I love you,” he said.

You smiled against his skin.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

_____

next chapter: p is for Possibility

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

_____

BUY ME A COFFEE

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Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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[spencereidluver]

N is for New York

February 1, 2010

summary: The city never sleeps, and neither do you, not when a high-profile case pulls the team into a whirlwind of brutal murders, scattered evidence, and media pressure, and then, after it’s all said and done, you get to go home to Spencer, not SSA Dr. Reid.

word count: 1.4k

warnings: Canon-typical case content (non-graphic), references to stalking and asphyxiation, made up case by me, this is not a real episode

There was always a hum beneath New York. Not just the sound of traffic or voices or subway brakes screeching from underground, but something deeper. A pulse. A living thing.

You felt it in the soles of your feet as you stepped out of the black SUV and onto 57th Street. Steam rose from a manhole cover like the city was exhaling through its lungs. The cold bit at your jaw, sharp and wet with February sleet, and your, (well, Spencer’s) scarf barely did enough to keep it out. 

Spencer stood beside you, adjusting his coat collar with gloved hands, his eyes scanning the scene in front of the Plaza Hotel.

A woman’s body, staged with precise care, lay at the base of the fountain. Red cocktail dress. No shoes. Arms folded over her chest, fingers laced. She could’ve been asleep if not for the bruising around her throat.

You stepped closer, pulling latex gloves over your fingers, nodding to the NYPD detective who was speaking with Hotch. The officer looked frazzled, cheeks pink from windburn, eyes hollow from too many cups of stale coffee.

“She was found around four-thirty this morning,” the detective said, flipping through a pocket notebook. “Doorman saw her when he came out to salt the walkway. There’s no sign she was dragged, footprints stop about fifteen feet back. He either carried her or had her walk most of the way.”

“She was arranged,” you said softly, crouching down beside the body. “This wasn’t panic. It was reverence.”

Spencer stood beside you, eyes narrowed. “He wants her seen.”

“He dressed her again,” you murmured. “Or bought her this dress.”

“No dirt on the hem,” he agreed. “Nothing under the nails. She didn’t struggle. Didn’t even try.”

“Because he never gave her a chance.”

Rossi joined you from the curb. “All of them die the same way?”

Spencer nodded. “Manual strangulation. Likely from behind. No ligature marks, but consistent bruising on both sides of the trachea. She wouldn’t have lost consciousness right away.”

You swallowed.

“He wanted her aware,” you said. “But compliant.”

You could feel the rest of the team gathering, the weight of silence between them. You looked at the woman again, her face pale under the orange streetlight. Four women in total. All killed in the last twelve days. All found outside. All dressed like they were going somewhere important.

But they never made it.

The NYPD’s temporary task force headquarters had been set up in a precinct building off 10th Avenue: an old brick, cracked linoleum, buzzing fluorescent lights.

It was chaos.

Detectives shouted over each other in half-open cubicles, radios squawked, a box of half-frozen bagels sat untouched on a break room table, and Garcia’s voice came through a tiny speakerphone in short bursts of static and sass.

You settled into a desk beside Spencer, who had already spread three crime scene files across the table, his eyes darting from photo to photo like he could see something the rest of you missed.

You leaned in, nodding to the current case folder. “You okay?”

He didn't look up. “It’s the staging that bothers me.”

“What about it?”

“She’s not just dressed up. She’s… elevated. Posed with care. Like a gallery piece.”

You looked at the photos again. The soft makeup, the newly styled hair, the relaxed fingers.

“He wanted her to look beautiful.”

“No,” Spencer murmured. “He wanted her to look grateful.”

That made your stomach twist.

Morgan pulled up a chair behind you, tossing a folder onto the desk. “No shared workplace, no overlapping circles,” he said. “Garcia’s running phone records, but so far the victims didn’t even live in the same boroughs.”

Emily walked in carrying two coffees, handing one to you.

“But they all went out alone,” Morgan continued. “All were seen leaving bars without friends.”

Spencer’s lips pressed into a thin line. “So he’s watching for women who think they don’t need protection.”

You spoke without meaning to: “That’s not targeting. That’s punishing.”

The team went quiet. Hotch stepped into the doorway.

“Conference room. Now.”

Inside the makeshift briefing room a dry-erase board and a projector was rigged up on an old cart. Less of a luxury than the BAU, however it worked good enough to see the profile. You and Spencer stood together near the far wall, backlit by city light.

“White male, mid-thirties to forties,” Hotch began. “Organized, intelligent. Likely mobile. Each victim was killed within a few hours of being last seen, but they were disposed of hours after that.”

You nodded. “That suggests he has somewhere to keep them. A garage, storage unit, or apartment with privacy.”

Emily tapped a marker against the board. “The redressing means he’s watching them even after death.”

“Creating a tableau,” Spencer said quietly. “It’s not sexual. It’s thematic.”

Morgan leaned against the wall. “Then what’s the message?”

Spencer looked at you. You answered.

“That women who move through the world confidently… shouldn’t.”

Hotch’s expression didn’t shift. “We need to find his anchor. The thing he’s trying to erase.”

Hours passed.

You did interviews. You reviewed footage. You fielded media questions. The NYPD ran point on the press, but the headlines were everywhere.

THE PARK AVENUE STRANGLER.KILLER’S CANVAS: WOMEN AS ART.FIFTH BODY FOUND IN MIDTOWN.

By the time the sun dipped behind the skyline, the precinct felt heavier, like it had been running too long without a break. You sat beside Spencer again, typing notes into your laptop. Your eyes burned. Your back ached.

The break came the next morning.

Garcia found a digital connection: all five women had RSVP’d to a women’s empowerment event run by a local podcast host named Ethan Kessler. He had no direct contact with them, but his tone-deaf, ego-driven content and rabid online following lined up with the unsub’s ideology.

Spencer and Morgan tracked him to a studio in Brooklyn. You rode along.

The sidewalk outside the building was wet from rain, streetlights casting blurred reflections in puddles. Spencer stood beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

“I don’t like this,” you murmured. “It’s too quiet.”

“He knows we’re coming.”

When Kessler opened the door, he didn’t look surprised.

He was tall, thin, and well dressed. Too well dressed. Like someone playing a version of what he thought masculinity should look like. You hated him instantly.

Spencer’s voice was ice. “Ethan Kessler, you’re under arrest.”

The man smiled. “Took you long enough.” You watched Spencer cuff him.

That night, back in your hotel room, the city was quiet.

Not outside. Outside, the horns still honked, and sirens still whined, and people still moved. But here, in this little box on the 20th floor, lit only by a lamp and the TV glowing faint blue, it was finally quiet.

Spencer sat beside you on the bed, still in slacks and an undershirt, a book open in his lap. You had your head on his shoulder.

“Do you think it’s bad?” he asked softly.

You looked up. “What?”

“That I don’t feel bad for him.”

You shook your head. “He was a dick.”

He closed the book. “Sometimes it scares me.”

“What?”

“That I can’t always see the good in this like you.”

You slid your arms around his middle, pressing your face into his side.

“That’s part of what makes a team, Spence. We can’t all be softies”

He kissed the top of your head. “But it’s what I admire most about you. We knew Eth- Kessler didn’t have a good childhood, but when I put him in cuffs… I almost felt like he deserved the bad childhood.”

“Spencer…” you sighed. “It’s hard. On both sides. Seeing the good, and not being able to see it.” You kissed his shoulder. “You do a great job just the way you are. Leave the sympathy to me and Garcia.”

He leaned forward, forehead to yours, breath warm between you.

“I love you,” he said, quietly but firmly. “I don’t know what I’d do if this job ever made me lose sight of that.”

“You won’t,” you promised. “You’ll burn out before you get cold.”

A small laugh broke through his lips. “That sounds unhealthy.”

“Maybe. But you’ve got me.”

“And I’ve got you,” he said.

He set the book aside, finally, and pulled you down into the blankets with him, arms wound around your waist, noses brushing as you settled into the tangle of hotel pillows.

Outside, the city thrummed. Inside, Spencer breathed you in like a remedy.

And for once, in the middle of New York’s chaos, you both slept.

_____

next chapter: o is for Over and Over

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

_____

BUY ME A COFFEE

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Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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[spencereidluver]

M is for Motive

January 29, 2010

summary: The unsub’s profile hits a little too close to home for Spencer, and you challenge that, and it causes a rift between you.

word count: 1.1k

warnings: Canon-typical case violence (non-graphic), mentions of bullying and social rejection, team tension, general angst

There were always clues in the way a family died.

This one had died quietly. Two bodies: man and woman, early 30s, found seated in the living room. The TV was still playing. Wine glasses on the coffee table. Both of them executed.

“Third couple in three weeks,” JJ said as she stepped inside, zipping her coat tighter. “No signs of forced entry. No evidence of a sexual component. Same signature, clean knife wound to the man’s carotid, multiple stab wounds to the woman’s chest and abdomen.”

You crouched next to the husband, eyes scanning the unnatural stillness of his body.

“He’s ritualizing,” you said softly. “Same setup as last time. No struggle, no panic. He waits. He makes sure they see what’s coming.”

Spencer stood at the threshold of the room, arms folded, eyes scanning the walls like they held hidden meanings. “The woman always dies second. And she always has more wounds.”

You looked up at him. “Rage?”

He shook his head slowly. “Not exactly. It’s not random. Each wound is intentional. Almost… clinical.”

You frowned. “You think he’s experimenting?”

Spencer didn’t answer right away.

Hotch and Rossi stepped inside from the back hallway.

“Guys,” Hotch said. “Walk us through it.”

Spencer cleared his throat, stepping closer to the body.

“This isn’t about passion. Or money. Or revenge. He’s making a point. Every element of the scene is deliberate. From the disarmed alarm system to the silent kills. He’s watching the life leave them, and he’s doing it on his terms.”

“Meaning what?” Rossi asked.

Spencer’s brow furrowed. “He’s recreating something. A moment. A betrayal. Something that stripped him of power. And now, he’s building it back. Kill by kill.”

You stepped in, arms crossed. “That still sounds like control to me. He’s choosing couples who represent something to him. He isolates them, stages them, then inflicts maximum trauma. That’s about power.”

Spencer’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “Maybe. But… I don’t think this is just about control. I think it’s about shame.”

You glanced at him.

“He’s not picking any couples,” Spencer said. “All three were attractive. High-achieving. Outgoing. They fit a social archetype, the kind of people who ignore outliers. The kind who exclude.”

You realized what he was implying. “You think he was bullied.”

“I think he was dismissed,” Spencer said. “Belittled. Probably gifted. Misunderstood. He’s not trying to feel powerful. He’s trying to prove that he’s not pathetic.”

Rossi raised an eyebrow. “So this is retribution?”

Spencer nodded once. “Yes. But not just for rejection. For humiliation.”

You hesitated. “That’s a bold assumption.”

Spencer turned sharply. “It’s not an assumption.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Spence–”

“I know what this is.”

Hotch stepped forward. “What do you mean?”

Spencer paused. His jaw clenched.

“He’s not trying to scare them. He’s trying to teach them. He wants them to see what they missed. What they laughed at. And now they’ll never forget him.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

You spoke carefully. “That’s still about dominance.”

Spencer shook his head. “It’s not about power. It’s about being seen.”

You pushed more firmly this time. “He’s torturing people, Spence. He’s not seeking validation. He’s seeking vengeance. That makes him dangerous, not sympathetic.”

His voice rose, sharp and sudden. “You think I don’t know that?”

Everyone turned.

You blinked. “What?”

“You think I don’t know the difference?” he snapped, eyes suddenly shining with something too close to pain. “He’s not me.”

You stared at him.

“No one said he was.”

Morgan stepped in. “Hey, let’s take a sec—”

Spencer turned to Hotch. “I’m going back to the precinct. I need… I need a minute.”

And just like that, he was gone.

The silence stretched long after he left. You stood frozen in place.

Morgan looked between you and the empty door. “What the hell just happened?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because you knew exactly what happened. He did see himself in the unsub. And it terrified him.

The drive back to the precinct was worse than the crime scene. You rode back with Morgan, as you’d rode here with Spencer, who was long gone.

Morgan was silent for the first ten minutes. You stared out the window, jaw tight, heart racing, trying to make sense of how quickly things had cracked.

When he finally spoke, it wasn’t gentle.

“You knew, didn’t you?”

You turned to him, frowning. “What?”

“You knew he was identifying with the unsub.”

You swallowed. “He didn’t say it outright–”

“But you saw it. And you kept pushing.”

Your voice cracked. “Because I had to. We can’t ignore the profile just because he’s uncomfortable.”

“He wasn’t ignoring it.”

“He was getting emotional.”

“And you weren’t?”

“I was just– He shouldn’t see himself in this unsub, Morgan.”

“Yeah, I agree with you on that, but you know better than anbody else why he does.”

You both sat in silence the rest of the way.

You found Spencer in the break room. He was standing at the counter with his back to you, his hands wrapped around a paper cup of coffee he hadn’t touched.

“Hey,” you said softly through the doorway. He didn’t turn around. You stepped inside. “Can we talk?”

Still nothing. So you moved to stand beside him. He looked wrecked. Tired. Small.

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel like the unsub,” you said.

“I know,” he said flatly.

“I was doing my job.”

“I know.”

“But I could’ve said it differently.”

He looked down. “You were right.”

“No,” you said quietly. “Not completely.”

He finally met your eyes.

“I didn’t mean to humiliate you,” you said.

“I didn’t mean to snap.”

You reached for his hand. He let you take it.

“You’re not like him,” you said. “But I understand why it felt like you were.”

He swallowed hard.

“I just hated how familiar it was,” he admitted. “That feeling. Of being the one no one listens to. The weird one. The outsider. The one everyone… laughs at behind his back.”

“You’re not that kid anymore.”

“I know. But sometimes…” His voice cracked. “It still feels like I am.”

You squeezed his hand. “And you thought I saw that too.”

He nodded.

“I don’t,” you said.

He blinked.

“I see you now. All of you. The man you’ve become. The partner. The profiler. The person who can stand in front of a team and break a case wide open because no one else could’ve seen what you did.”

His eyes filled with tears.

“I love that man,” you whispered. “Not just the brilliant parts. All of it. Even when it’s hard.”

He pulled you into his arms, holding you tight, face buried in your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“So am I.”

_____

next chapter: n is for New York

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

_____

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[spencereidluver]

L is for Longing

January 13, 2010

summary: Spencer is finally back to himself. His leg has healed, his confidence is returning, and with it comes a slow-burning desire for something deeper.

word count: 1.3k

warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, creampie, dom!Spencer, light restraint (tie around wrists), praise kink, soft control themes, deep emotional intimacy, aftercare

It was a quiet night. Not tense. Not heavy. Just… still.

The kind of stillness that feels earned. Spencer got cleared from his cane today. He can go back into the field, full movement. 

You were freshly showered, your hair damp, wearing one of Spencer’s button-downs and nothing else. It hung off your shoulders, brushing the tops of your thighs as you walked barefoot through the apartment. Your apartment.

Spencer was finishing dishes in the kitchen. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, a towel thrown over his shoulder, curls damp from his own shower. His long fingers moved with absent precision, rinsing a plate and placing it gently on the rack.

“You don’t have to do that tonight,” you said, leaning against the counter.

“I like to,” he replied simply. “It helps me think.”

You smiled softly. “About what?”

He paused. Then looked up at you.

“About how good it feels to be normal again.”

You crossed the space between you and slid your arms around his waist. He leaned into you without hesitation.

“I like being normal with you,” you whispered.

He kissed your temple. “So do I… I’ve been thinking,” he murmured against your ear, “about something I want to try.”

You looked up at him. “What kind of something?”

He took the dish towel off his shoulder and hung it on the hook beside the sink. Then he turned, wiped his hands on his pants, and held out his hand to you.

“Come with me.”

You followed him down the hall in silence, the apartment dimly lit by the warm glow of bedside lamps and the faint spill of city lights through the blinds.

In the bedroom, he didn’t let go of your hand. He stood in front of you for a moment, eyes soft but unreadable.

“Take off your shirt.”

Your breath caught. Not at the request, but the tone. It wasn’t rushed. Or uncertain.

It was quiet. Steady. Confident.

You obeyed slowly, sliding the oversized button-down from your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor.

You were completely bare beneath it.

Spencer’s eyes swept over you, not with hunger, but reverence.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “Every time I look at you, I forget what I was saying.”

You smiled, feeling your cheeks warm. “Good thing you don’t forget the important stuff.”

“I don’t forget this,” he said, stepping closer. “What it feels like to have you. To be trusted by you.”

He reached into the drawer of the nightstand and pulled out one of his silk ties.

“I want to try something,” he said again, voice still low, calm. “But only if you want it too.”

You nodded. “Tell me.”

He stepped behind you and gently guided your arms forward, wrapping the tie loosely around your wrists, not binding, just resting. His fingers moved delicately, knotting the silk in a way that made you feel held, not trapped.

“I don’t want to restrict you,” he murmured. “I want to remind you how much I can take care of you.” 

You looked over your shoulder. “And what do you want me to do?”

His lips brushed your shoulder. “Just let me.”

He guided you gently backward until your knees hit the mattress. You sat, hands resting in your lap, wrists draped in silk.

Spencer stepped back and just looked at you.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he said softly. “The way you look when you’re undone. The way you trust me enough to be undone.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but he knelt in front of you first. His hands sliding up your thighs, spreading them slowly apart.

“Stay like that,” he said. “Let me look at you.”

You whimpered, already aching under the weight of his voice.

He kissed the inside of one thigh. Then the other. Then dragged his mouth, open and slow, up toward your center.

And then he licked. Slow. Deliberate. Expert.

You cried out, hips bucking forward, but he pressed your thighs down with firm hands.

“No,” he said. “Let me have you.”

You melted into it, his tongue tracing lazy circles over your clit, dipping lower, stroking upward again until your whole body was trembling.

You writhed under his mouth, your hands clenched in silk, gasping his name.

“Spencer– please,” you begged.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “Good girl.”

And then he sucked harder. You came with a cry, your whole body arching off the bed, his name on your tongue like a prayer. But he didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, slow and soft now, coaxing every last wave out of you, until your thighs shook and you collapsed back onto the bed.

He climbed up after you, kissing your jaw, your neck, your temple.

“You still okay?” he asked.

You nodded breathlessly. “Perfect.”

He kissed your lips, deep and messy. You could taste yourself on his tongue.

“I want to feel you,” he said, voice rough. “All of you.”

He lined himself up against your entrance and paused, forehead pressed to yours.

He pushed in, slow, steady, unrelenting, until he was fully buried inside you.

You gasped at the stretch, the heat, the weight of it.

Spencer moaned, deep in his throat. “Oh god, y/n…”

You rolled your hips experimentally. He groaned again.

“Don’t move. Let me.”

You obeyed, watching as he began to thrust, slow at first, then faster, deeper. Each one pushed you further up the mattress, your hands still wrapped loosely in silk.

His hand slid under your knee, lifting it to wrap around his waist. The angle made you whimper.

“You’re so tight,” he gritted. “So perfect for me.”

You arched your back, letting him in deeper.

“You feelso good, Spence. Fuck–”

He kissed you, hard, swallowing your gasp.

“You’re mine,” he growled. “You understand?”

“Yes. Yes. Please.”

He didn’t let up, just kept thrusting, deeper and harder, until you were shaking under him, your head thrown back, mouth open in a silent cry.

“Can you cum for me?” he whispered. “Can you give me another one, baby?”

You fell apart with a sob, clenching around him, body convulsing in pleasure.

You gasped his name, breathless and desperate, as your body spasmed around his length.

But Spencer didn’t slow. He groaned, low and guttural. He quickly loosened his tie from your wrists, never once losing his rhythm. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them gently above your head.

“You’re so fucking tight when you cum,” he rasped. “You think I can last when you do that to me?”

You whined under him, overstimulated, but wanting more.

He pulled his hips back slowly, dragging out of you with maddening precision, then thrust back in hard. You choked out a moan.

“You’re gonna take it,” he murmured. “All of me. Every last bit.”

He leaned down, kissed your jaw, your neck, your shoulder, a contrast to how hard he was fucking you now.

You felt the tremble in his arms, the way his rhythm started to stutter.

You licked your lips and whispered, “Cum inside me, Spencer. I want it.”

That did it.

He groaned, deep and raw, and buried himself one final time, holding you tight as he spilled into you.Heat, fullness, surrender.

His body collapsed against yours, chest heaving. He didn’t pull out right away. Just held you. His chest against yours. His breath in your hair.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “That was…”

You nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah.”

He kissed you softly, slower now, no urgency.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly.

“No,” you said, cupping his cheek. “You made me feel safe.”

He exhaled. “That’s all I wanted.”

You pulled the blanket over your tangled bodies, wrapping your arms around him, both of you still glowing from it all.

The stars from his ceiling projector glimmered faintly above. And you felt more in love with him than you ever have.

_____

next chapter: m is for Motive

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

_____

BUY ME A COFFEE

_____

Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

_____

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[spencereidluver]

K is for Keys

December 29, 2009

summary: After asking you to move in with him, Spencer enlists help from the only people he trusts to lift priceless books and a mattress: the BAU. 

word count: 1.3k

warnings: Fluff, found family vibes, light sexual references, heavy teasing, team shenanigans, domestic content

Spencer was trying not to panic.

His pulse was steady. He’d re-checked his list. The diagram of his living room was folded in his back pocket. The moving schedule was printed and laminated in two colors.

He had this.

Still, he couldn’t help the flutter in his stomach as he stood in the bullpen, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“So… I, um, I was wondering if anyone might be free next weekend to, uh—”

“Spencer,” Emily cut in, looking up from her desk, “are you trying to ask us to help you move?”

“Well, not me, exactly. Y/N’s moving into my apartment and I just… thought it might be faster if I had help.”

Derek looked up slowly. “Hold up. She’s moving in?”

Spencer nodded.

The bullpen went silent for one long second.

“Damn,” Morgan said. “Reid finally went domestic.”

Spencer opened his mouth to argue, then paused. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

JJ leaned across the aisle, grinning. “I’m proud of you. Huge leap forward in emotional vulnerability.”

Penelope popped up behind Morgan’s shoulder. “Baby genius, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to see you play house.”

“I made spreadsheets,” Spencer offered. “Of where things go. And a zone plan for optimal unpacking flow.”

Rossi strolled by with his coffee. “Did you label the zones alphabetically?”

Spencer blinked. “What other way would there be?” There’s a packing list, a transport list, a drop zone plan for my apartment, and an alphabetical inventory of Y/N’s bookshelf so we can match them to mine with minimal redundancy.”

Emily blinked. “A drop zone plan? Is this a move or a classified military operation?”

“Both,” Penelope chirped as she joined them. “He’s trying to relocate the literal love of his life. That requires strategic logistics.”

Spencer flushed. “She’s not just the love of my life…”

“Baby,” Penelope cut in gently, hand on her heart. “You sweet, nervous brain genius. We are so helping you move. But you’re gonna have to let go of the clipboard.”

Spencer looked around, eyes wide. “Really? You’ll help?”

Morgan grinned. “You’re lucky we love both of you. I carried Rossi’s fainting goat up four flights of stairs once. I can definitely lift a bookshelf.”

“You did that one time,” Emily muttered. “And you’ve brought it up every day since.”

“I dislocated my shoulder!” Morgan shouted

“Just one thing,” Derek added as he leaned in, eyes glinting. “She’s comfortable sleeping with a nightlight every night?”

Spencer froze.

“I don’t use it every night,” he muttered.

JJ raised a brow. “Spence…”

He sighed. “Fine. Most nights. It’s not even a real nightlight, it’s a projection of the northern hemisphere’s star map.”

“So it glows,” Emily said.

“It’s educational,” Spencer replied, flushed..

Hotch, appearing from his office like a ghost, looked over the rail. “If I come down there, is this a tactical meeting or a bake sale?”

Emily grinned up at him. “Neither. We’re moving Y/N into Spencer’s apartment.”

Hotch blinked. Slowly. “You’re… what?”

Spencer cleared his throat. “It was my idea. She’s moving in with me. I thought I’d ask the team to help. I can pay everyone in pizza and rare academic gossip.”

A silence fell.

Then Hotch nodded once.

“I’ll carry the mattress.”

Saturday:

You opened the door to a scene of absolute moving day chaos.

Emily had already taken command of the hallway traffic. “One person in, one person out. Garcia, you’re float support. Morgan, you’re designated hauler.”

“Why am I always hauler?” Morgan shouted from inside.

“Because we’ve seen your arms, Derek!” Penelope yelled back. “Now lift something and stop complaining.”

You leaned on the doorframe, laughing. “Remind me again why we thought letting THEM move my life was a good idea?” Spencer appeared behind you with a clipboard. You snorted. “You labeled my bedroom boxes with color-coded tags.”

“I didn’t want my bed covered in kitchen utensils,” he said seriously. “This is a logical system.”

You turned to the group. “No one tell him I packed a whisk in my sock drawer.”

“I knew it!” he said.

“Spence,” you whispered as you pulled him aside. “You realize you just turned our move into a covert BAU team-building day?”

“I made a spreadsheet and everything,” he murmured, waving the clipboard. “Plus, I factored in a break for sugar crashes and potential emotional crises.”

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “God, I love you.”

He flushed bright pink.

“Hey, lovebirds,” Emily called. “Which box has your matching coffee mugs with the literary puns? Because I swear I’m taking the ‘Brewlio and Espressoette’ ones.”

You groaned. “They’re in the ‘kitchen - delicate’ box.”

Rossi strolled in carrying a tray of cappuccinos. “I was told this mission required fuel.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered. “They really came.”

“They really came,” Spencer said, looking like he might cry.

As you stepped inside, you saw Morgan hauling a box labeled “bedroom – soft / personal.” He stopped mid-step, arched a brow, and said, “So… which drawer should I toss this box in? Top, middle, or the one you keep your lace stuff in?”

Spencer audibly squeaked.

“I’m just sayin’,” he grinned, “if we’re gonna be moving lingerie around, there should be hazard pay.”

Emily leaned in behind him. “At least bubble wrap it first. Protect the national treasures.”

Later at Spencer’s, you were digging through a “miscellaneous” box when he spotted something in the bottom of the box.

“What’s that?” he asked, walking over.

You held up a ridiculous, worn-out stuffed rat in a tiny vest. “Oh! meet Chairman Meow. He’s been with me since high school.”

Spencer blinked. “That’s a rat.”

“In a corduroy vest.”

“…Named Chairman Meow?”

You grinned. “It was a pun at the time. I’ve grown attached.”

He held it gently by the arm. “He’s got a little monocle stitched on.”

“I added that during college. And before you ask, yes, he sleeps in the bed.”

Spencer blinked. “With… us?”

You raised a brow. “With me. It’s a package deal, genius.”

He smiled down at the stuffed rat. “I guess I’ve made room for stranger things.”

You gently tossed Chairman Meow into the “move to nightstand” pile.

Emily found your high school yearbook.

You groaned. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on,” he teased, flipping it open. “Wait, your senior quote was from The Princess Bride?”

You reached for it. “Give it back.!

Boxes were stacked neatly along the walls, thanks to Rossi’s uncanny spatial reasoning skills and Spencer’s insane level of preparation. A few photos were already on display, including one Penelope snuck in of the entire team eating ice cream after a case in Savannah.

You stood in the middle of the apartment, cheeks flushed from the cold and the effort, as Spencer locked the door behind the last of the team.

“Well,” he said, dropping the clipboard onto the counter. “We did it.”

You looked around the room.

Your books next to his. Your throw blanket on his couch. Your coffee in the freezer for the next morning.

Your toothbrush in the holder next to his.

“I really live here now,” you said softly. “It’s real.”

He nodded, stepping close, arms wrapping around your waist. “And it’s perfect.”

You rested your head against his chest. “You sure you’re ready for me full time?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” he whispered.

You pulled back, grinning. “Even if I keep stealing the blankets?”

“I run hot.”

“Even if I have three different shampoos in the shower?”

“You deserve options.”

“Even with Chairman Meow watching us sleep?”

“…I’ll get used to it”

You laughed, pressing your lips to his. And you were home.

_____

next chapter: l is for Longing

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

_____

BUY ME A COFFEE

_____

Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

_____

taglist:

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[spencereidluver]

J is for Just Stay Forever

December 18, 2009

summary: A quiet evening in Spencer’s bed turns into something heavier. Something real. As you both navigate grief, fear, and the emotional fallout of Haley’s death, Spencer has a realization.

word count: 1k

warnings: Mentions of canon character death (Haley Hotchner), emotional vulnerability, post-trauma reactions, soft domesticity, heavy fluff, mentions of sex (non-explicit), safe space themes

The heat in Spencer’s apartment rattled gently through the vents as snow tapped against the windows. Outside, Quantico was covered in a soft hush, the kind that comes after a snowfall just heavy enough to quiet the city but not enough to shut it down.

You were tucked under Spencer’s comforter, wrapped in one of his t-shirts and a pair of your sleep shorts. He lay beside you, shirtless, glasses perched on the edge of his nose as he flipped through a medical journal with one hand and toyed with your fingers using the other.

You’d spent the day working a case, and ended it curled in his bed after a shower and lazy post-sex giggles. Now, you were both just drifting in that sleepy, soft kind of intimacy you only get after months of knowing someone’s skin and soul.

He turned the page with his pinky and gave a tiny hmm.

“Something good?” you asked.

“Just a study on neural elasticity after long-term trauma. Apparently, patients with high emotional intelligence actually recover faster from acute stress disorders.”

You blinked. “Did you just call me emotionally intelligent?”

He laughed quietly and glanced down at you. “I said patients. But… yeah. I guess I did.”

You smiled. “I’m putting that in my file. Verbal confirmation from Dr. Spencer Reid: I’m emotionally intelligent.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t stop smiling.

Your fingers traced lazy circles on his bare chest. “You know, I always feel smarter just being in the same room as you.”

“That’s because you are smart,” he said instantly. “You don’t need me to prove that.”

You tilted your head toward him. “Still. I like that we can talk like this. About cases, trauma… brain elasticity.”

He closed the journal and set it on the nightstand, then turned fully onto his side to face you. “It makes everything feel less heavy.”

You nodded. “It’s been a really tough few months.”

The shift in the air was immediate. He looked at you, quiet and still.

“Haley,” you said softly. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

Spencer sighed through his nose. “Neither have I.”

You reached up and brushed his curls back from his forehead. “I can’t imagine what it’s been like for Hotch.”

He nodded slowly, eyes distant. “It’s like I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since. Every sound, every late call, every team text that comes in when we’re off duty… I just assume someone else is dead.”

You swallowed hard. “You thought it might be me.”

He hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah.”

You scooted closer, arms wrapping around his waist. “I hate that we live in a world where that’s a valid fear. But I get it.”

He pressed his nose into your hair. “Hotch said something to me the other day. He said the worst part wasn’t watching her die. It was that he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t even say goodbye.”

You didn’t speak. You just held him tighter.

“I keep thinking,” he continued, voice raw, “what if that were you? What if I never got to say goodbye to you?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

“You won’t have to,” you said. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you could,” he whispered. “That’s the thing. We both could. Just as easily as each other. As.. as Haley…”

You reached for his face, palms cupping his jaw. “Spencer. Look at me.”

He did. Wide, glassy eyes.

“I know what we do is dangerous. I know what happened to Haley changed everything. But I’m not going to disappear.”

There was a long pause.

“Please, Y/N,” he said, his voice breaking on the words. “Just stay forever.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I mean it,” he said, his hands sliding to your hips. “Move in with me.”

Your heart skipped.

You knew this wasn’t impulsive. It wasn’t just panic or grief talking. It was clarity. It was Spencer being vulnerable in the way only he could, by telling you his deepest fear and then trusting you to hold it.

“Are you sure?” you whispered.

He nodded once. “I want to wake up with you every day. I want to come home and find your shoes by the door and your coffee cup in the sink. I want to know you’re not just here tonight. You’re here forever.”

You felt your throat tighten. “Okay,” you whispered. “Yes.”

His arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely breathe, but you didn’t care.

“You really want me here all the time?” you teased against his shoulder.

He laughed into your neck. “Y/N, I’ve wanted you here since the first night you stayed over and made me watch Amélie with Spanish subtitles and microwave popcorn.”

You grinned. “You mean the night you fell asleep drooling on my chest?”

“I was exhausted!”

You kissed his temple. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He sighed again, this time with something like peace.

“You don’t have to move in all at once,” he said quietly. “Just… start staying. More and more. Until it just feels like home.”

You nodded against his skin. “It already does.”

He reached for the blanket and pulled it tighter around you both.

“I think this might be the safest I’ve felt in weeks,” he said.

You smiled into his chest. “Me too.”

And just like that, the fear began to settle. Not gone. Not forgotten. But softened by the promise of something lasting forever.

_____

next chapter: k is for Keys

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

_____

BUY ME A COFFEE

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Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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[spencereidluver]

I is for Intimate

December 3, 2009

summary: After the chaos of Foyet and the grief that rippled through the team, everything’s been quieter but not necessarily easier. Spencer hasn’t let himself feel anything deeply, until tonight. 

word count: 1.4k

warnings: Smut, emotional vulnerability, soft!dom Reader, sub!Spencer, praise kink, gentle oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, heavy emotional themes.

The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and the kettle sputtering on the stove.

Spencer hadn’t said much since you left the office. He wasn’t being distant, exactly, just… heavy. The kind of quiet that wraps around someone’s shoulders like a weighted blanket. You’d seen it creeping in since Foyet. Since Haley. Since Jack stopped by the bullpen one morning, wide-eyed and quiet while Hotch signed a custody form with fingers that trembled just barely.

Spencer didn’t talk about it. Not directly. But you saw it in how he moved. The slow, careful way he typed reports. The way he’d start chewing on his pen caps again. The way he hadn’t shaved in almost a week.

Now, he sat on your couch, hunched in his favorite hoodie, the one he always stole from your laundry basket. He looked small, somehow, despite his height. Legs folded up beneath him, hands wrapped around the mug of tea you made him. He hadn’t touched it.

You came over, still in your BAU sweats, and dropped onto the couch beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

“Spence,” you said softly. “You’re here, but you’re not really here.”

His eyes flicked toward you, wide and weary. “I know,” he whispered. “I just… I haven’t figured out how to come back yet.”

You reached for his hand. He let you hold it. Cold fingers threaded through yours.

“You don’t have to say anything smart,” you told him. “Or even feel okay. But I don’t want you to shut me out.”

He nodded slowly. “I’m trying not to.”

There was a pause. You could feel his heart beating through his palm. Too fast.

“I keep thinking,” he said, voice barely audible, “if it had been me instead of Hotch… no wife, no son, no one depending on me… I don’t think I’d have fought back. I think I would’ve just let him.”

His voice cracked in the middle of it, and you sat up straight.

“Spencer,” you whispered, reaching for his face. “Don’t say that.”

He looked at you with wet, desperate eyes. “I’m sorry. I just… everything feels so fragile. You could go to work tomorrow and not come home. I could. And I’m tired of pretending like we have forever.”

Your heart twisted. “So don’t pretend.”

You leaned in slowly, giving him time to pull away. He didn’t. Your lips met softly. Tentatively. His mouth tasted like slightly too strong tea.

His hand rose to your face, shaky fingers cupping your cheek. You kissed him deeper. Warmer. Letting him feel how much you needed him. Not in the hungry, breathless kind of way. In the way you wanted to wrap yourself around every thread holding him together and keep him from unraveling.

You climbed into his lap, straddling him slowly. He gasped into your mouth.

“Can I touch you?” you asked softly, lips brushing his.

He nodded. “Please.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, your hands drifting under the hem of his hoodie. You felt the sharp plane of his hips, the heat of his skin. He sighed, like the first exhale after holding his breath all month.

Your fingers found the hem of his shirt, lifting it gently. He sat up enough to help you pull it over his head. Pale skin and freckles. A few scattered bruises from the last case. You kissed each one. Reverent.

“God,” you murmured, “you’re beautiful.”

Spencer flushed all the way down his chest. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

You kissed him again, slower, deeper. His hands rested on your thighs, gripping gently.

“You okay?” you asked, pulling back just enough to see him.

He nodded. “It’s just… I missed you.”

“I’m right here.”

You pushed his hoodie off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind the couch. Then you took his hands and brought them to the hem of your shirt.

“Can I?” he asked.

“Please.”

He pulled it over your head carefully, like it was something fragile. Like you were. His eyes traveled over you, slow and wide.

“You’re so… I don’t even have the words.”

You leaned close. “Good thing I do.”

You kissed his throat, his collarbone, the soft spot under his jaw that made him whimper. Then you took one of his hands and slid it under your bra, guiding it to your breast.

His breath caught. “Oh…”

“You can touch me,” you whispered. “I want you to.”

He groaned softly, thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasped, grinding down just slightly. You could feel how hard he already was, straining through his sweatpants.

You kissed him again, this time with teeth. You wanted him to feel wanted.

Your hands slid down to his waistband. “Can I take these off?”

He nodded quickly. “Yes. Yes, please.”

You stood and tugged his pants and boxers down in one motion, revealing all of him. You dropped to your knees, letting your fingers trace up his thighs.

Spencer watched you with wide, awe-struck eyes. “You don’t have to–”

“I want to,” you said firmly. “I want to take care of you.”

He whimpered, resting his hands on your shoulders. You kissed the inside of his thigh, then the base of his cock, then up the shaft, slow, gentle kisses until he was trembling.

When you finally took him into your mouth, he moaned so loud it echoed in the room.

“God, Y/N…”

You sucked slowly, easing him deeper, letting him hit the back of your throat before pulling back with a pop. His legs shook.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that,” he gasped.

You grinned and climbed back into his lap. “That’s okay. We’ve got all night.” You kissed him again, deeper this time.  “You ready?” you asked softly, lining him up with your entrance.

He nodded. “Please. I need to feel you.”

You sank down slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried deep inside you. You both gasped at the stretch.

“Oh my god,” Spencer whispered. “You feel…”

“Perfect?” you teased, rocking your hips.

“Yeah,” he moaned. “So perfect.”

You moved slowly, riding him with long, deep strokes. His hands gripped your hips like they were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“Spence,” you whispered, “look at me.”

He did. Eyes glossy, lips parted, curls sticking to his forehead.

“You’re not alone,” you told him. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His eyes welled with tears. “I love you.”

You stilled, just for a moment. You leaned in, kissed the tears from his lashes. “I love you too.”

“Y-Y/N,” he moaned. You rode him harder as he spoke, enjoying the stutter you were causing him “Can I- FUCK!”

“Can you what, baby?” you said, planting a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Can I cum i-inside you?” He hid his face in your shoulder as the words passed his mouth.

“If that’s what you want, of course you can.” You said. You didn’t have to police Spencer on the chances of pregnancy or anything. You knew he knew.

It didn’t take long. He cried out as he came, arms wrapped around you, face buried in your neck.

You followed just after, hips stuttering, a gasp torn from your lips as you clenched around him, shaking with the force of it.

You collapsed against him, both of you still trembling. He kissed your shoulder, your jaw, your forehead.

“You okay?” you whispered after a while, the two of you still stuck together in a soggy pool of what leaked out of you. Something that would totally gross Spencer out if it wasn’t the love of his life on top of him.

He nodded against your skin. “Better than I’ve been in months.”

You lifted your head and smiled at him.

“Then let’s go to bed. I want to fall asleep next to you.”

He helped you clean up, and you both climbed into your bed, tangled in blankets and each other. His head on your chest, your fingers stroking his curls.

Before sleep took him, he whispered, “Thank you. For giving me something good again.”

You pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Always.”

_____

next chapter: J is for Just Stay Forever

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

_____ BUY ME A COFFEE _____

a/n: i uh really like this chapter ahahahaha

_____

Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @ada--44 @moongirl27 @hopelesssheaven @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @hizzielover @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @cynbx

[spencereidluver]

H is for Haley

November 25, 2009

summary: Haley Hotchner is killed.

word count: 307

warnings: spoilers for season 5, death, loss of a parental figure

100 05x09

Foyet lay on the floor, pierced by bullets, but Haley... she was pale, bleeding, her life slipping away.

Hotch stood over her, hands shaking, his expression broken.

Your knees nearly gave out, but Spencer was there, arms steady around you, holding you up even as his own eyes shimmered with tears he refused to shed.

Jack was hidden in the chest, trembling, clutching his small hands to his chest. Hotch knelt before him, whispering words of comfort that barely masked his own anguish.

JJ gently took Jack by the hand, leading him away.

You stayed behind with Spencer and Hotch, the weight of loss crushing down on all of you.

Later, in the calm of Quantico, Jack sat between Garcia and Emily, clutching a juice box and chattering about his recent ‘vacation.’ You watched him carefully, heart breaking for the child who had just lost his mother.

Hotch entered the room and Jack’s face lit up with a fragile smile.

“Daddy!” he called, running to him.

Hotch caught him easily, tears streaming down his face. You could see the lines of exhaustion and heartbreak etched deeply into Hotch’s features.

Spencer looked at Jack and then back at Hotch, fear clouding his usually sharp mind, a silent prayer that he’d never have to endure this kind of pain.

The days that followed were a haze of funeral preparations and quiet moments. The white casket was cold beneath your fingertips as you stepped forward to carry it in Spencer’s place. 

Spencer stood beside you, hands trembling as he wrapped one arm around you in a desperate embrace.

In the quiet moments after, as the team sat around the conference table with empty coffee cups and heavy hearts, you reached for Spencer’s hand. Together, you held tight, grounding one another in a world that had suddenly shifted beneath your feet.

_____

next chapter: I is for Intimate

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

_____ BUY ME A COFFEE _____

a/n: The writing style for this part is more experimental. I’m not a huge fan of it for more fluffy and lighthearted stories, however I think it fits this part nicely. I tried to keep a lot of the details out, just in case some people haven’t watched 100 for whatever reason. 

_____

Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @ada--44 @moongirl27 @hopelesssheaven @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @hizzielover @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @cynbx

[spencereidluver]

G is for Game Night

November 3, 2009

summary: The team is overdue for some much-needed relaxation, and Rossi's pasta night is the perfect excuse. With full plates, plenty of wine, and even more laughter, you and Spencer settle in for a competitive (and chaotic) game night with your chosen family.

word count: 1k

warnings: nothing, just fluff and playful teasing

The moment you stepped into Rossi's house, you were hit with the warm, mouthwatering aroma of garlic, basil, and homemade marinara. The smell of a man who took pasta seriously. Really seriously.

“Finally,” Penelope said, throwing her arms in the air when she saw you and Spencer walk through the door. “The power couple is fashionably late, as always.”

Spencer rolled his eyes, but you just grinned, walking in with a covered dish in your hands. “It’s just garlic knots,” you said, holding up the foil-wrapped container.

“Goddess,” Penelope whispered, taking it from you like it was an offering to the divine. “You complete me.”

Kevin, standing just behind her, raised a brow. “I made a cheesecake.”

Penelope shot him a look. “And I love you too, darling, but you didn’t bring carbs.”

Dinner was loud. Between the clinking of forks and the nonstop banter, it was everything you needed after weeks of high-stress cases. You were seated next to Spencer, who, to no one’s surprise, had a serious weakness for Rossi’s fettuccine.

“You get this starry-eyed look every time you eat this,” you whispered, leaning in.

“Serotonin,” he said, nodding seriously. “It’s chemically impossible to be sad while eating this.”

Across the table, Morgan called out, “Hey, Pretty Boy, is that pasta or your girlfriend making you blush?”

You reached for your drink, hiding your grin behind the glass. Spencer shot Morgan a look that was more flustered than threatening.

“Let him have his moment,” Rossi added, smirking. “First time he’s looked truly at peace in a month.”

“He gets this look when I make boxed mac and cheese too,” you said flatly, which made everyone laugh. 

After dinner, game night began.

Rossi cleared the dishes while you, Penelope, Emily, and JJ started setting up in the living room. Kevin attempted to help, but was quickly dismissed when he couldn’t find the Pictionary cards and instead brought Monopoly.

“Absolutely not,” you and Emily said in perfect sync.

“That game has ended friendships,” Penelope added.

Spencer, ever the problem solver, brought over a stack of board games and trivia decks. “Charades, trivia, and Pictionary. Rotation style?”

“Look at this man,” Penelope swooned. “Brains and organization. Y/N, you’re blessed.”

Emily elbowed you. “Bet he alphabetizes his socks.”

“He does,” you replied.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, like it was a sacred revelation.

The teams were quickly decided: Girls vs. Boys.

“Are you sure that’s fair?” Kevin asked nervously.

“We’re about to find out,” you said with a wink.

Round One: Charades

Emily was up first for your team. The second she started flapping her arms and dramatically gasping, Penelope yelled, “Titanic! Rose! Flying scene!”

“Correct!”

Morgan leaned into Spencer. “We’re doomed.”

JJ acted out “The Lion King” next, crawling on all fours before holding up an imaginary Simba. You, Emily, and Penelope all shrieked the answer at the same time.

When it was Spencer’s turn, he drew “Twilight.”

You couldn’t breathe from laughter watching him mime brooding, glittering, and biting his own arm.

“Vampire!” you yelled. “No wait…Twilight! Edward Cullen!”

“Yes!” he said, breathless. “I have never read that, by the way.”

“Sure you haven’t,” Morgan said.

Kevin’s attempt at acting out “Forrest Gump” was a painful stretch. “Is he running? Or convulsing?” Penelope asked, hiding her face behind a throw pillow.

Round Two: Trivia

Rossi asked the questions like a true game show host.

“What is the only food that doesn’t spoil?”

“Honey!” Spencer and JJ said in unison.

“Show-off,” Penelope muttered.

“How many bones are there in the adult human body?” Rossi asked.

“206,” Spencer answered immediately.

“Show-off times two,” Penelope added, while you high-fived your boyfriend.

“Which planet spins the fastest?”

“Jupiter,” you said before Spencer could. He looked at you with genuine awe.

“You trained me well,” you whispered.

“How many colors are in a rainbow?”

“Seven,” you replied quickly. “Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.”

Kevin looked like he wanted to crawl under the couch.

“Babe, it’s okay,” Penelope said, patting his knee. “You bring the vibes.”

Final Round: Pictionary

You were up against Spencer. You had a whiteboard, he had a whiteboard. You looked at him with narrowed eyes. He looked at you with a fond smile that was just this side of smug.

Your word: Ferris wheel.

You drew something that looked like a bicycle committing a war crime.

“Clock? Spider? The apocalypse?” Penelope guessed.

Spencer drew his word: Loch Ness Monster.

It was impeccable. Curved neck, waves, the whole thing. Emily gasped. “You missed your calling as a cryptid artist.”

“I was inspired,” he said, glancing at you.

Morgan tried to draw a firetruck and ended up with something that looked like a rectangle with legs.

“That’s clearly a centipede going through a divorce,” Emily said.

Kevin drew what was supposed to be Elvis Presley. No one guessed it. Not even close.

“Is it Abraham Lincoln?” Penelope guessed.

“It’s literally labeled 'King of Rock and Roll' at the top,” Kevin groaned.

Your team still won. 

By the time dessert came out, everyone was relaxed and full of laughter.

You curled up next to Spencer on Rossi’s leather couch, watching JJ cradle a sleepy Henry. Penelope was teasing Kevin about his poor guessing skills while Emily read some of the leftover trivia questions aloud to stump Morgan.

“Hey,” Spencer said quietly.

You turned your head toward him. “Yeah?”

He leaned in, voice low. “Just confirming… I'm still your go-to partner for game night, right?”

You grinned. “Always. Even if you're a total drama queen during charades.”

“That was performance art,” he whispered.

You were surrounded by your team, your family. And you had Spencer beside you, warm and real, as game night carried on into the perfect evening.

_____

next chapter: H is for Haley

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

_____ BUY ME A COFFEE _____

a/n: becoming a real slut for team interactions.

_____

Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

_____

taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @ada--44 @moongirl27 @hopelesssheaven @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @hizzielover @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @cynbx

[spencereidluver]

F is for Furious

October 20, 2009

summary: Hotch catches Spencer lying and forces him to stay back on a case in Quantico with Garcia. Spencer is angry, and the case is hard on you without him, but you survive by quick texts and a facetime on the jet back.

word count: 1k

warnings: Nothing major, just Spencer being frustrated by being separated from the team due to his injury.

Reckoner 05x03

Spencer Reid was furious.

Not the shouting kind, never that. His fury was quiet. Restless. It simmered beneath the surface, disguised by the careful way he arranged his notes on the desk and the sharp precision in how he flipped through case files. But it was there.

You could see it in his eyes. Hear it in the tightness of his voice. Every time he shifted in his chair and winced, when his hand subconsciously brushed the brace wrapped around his thigh, his frustration doubled.

Hotch had called him out that morning. Quietly. Firmly. No room for debate.

Spencer had argued. Of course he had. But lying to Aaron Hotchner was like trying to bluff a chess master with your cards turned face-up.

You’d watched the moment play out from the other side of the conference room glass. Spencer’s wounded pride bristling against Hotch’s inflexible concern. The final blow came when Hotch didn’t just bench him, but paired him with Garcia.

That, more than anything, made it feel like punishment.

You found him in the tech room ten minutes later, perched stiffly at Garcia’s desk with his injured leg stretched out and his fingers clacking too fast on the keyboard. His eyes were glued to the monitor, but you could tell he wasn’t really processing what he was seeing.

You stepped inside quietly. He didn’t look up.

“Hey,” you said gently.

“I can still do this,” he said, like you’d challenged him.

“I know.”

“Hotch doesn’t think so.”

You came around the side of the desk, leaning your hip against the edge. Garcia was conspicuously absent, probably giving him, or more likely, you space.

“He’s just worried about you.”

“I don’t need to be coddled,” Spencer snapped, sharper than he meant to. Then, softer: “I’m not useless.”

You sat in the chair beside him, turning your body to face his. “No one thinks that.”

He finally looked at you then. Really looked at you. His expression was raw. Frustration mixed with shame, a familiar cocktail for someone who had spent his whole life being underestimated. 

“I hate this,” he whispered.

You reached out, brushing your fingers gently over his wrist. “I know.”

“I hate watching everyone leave. I hate being stuck here. I hate that Hotch is right.”

You squeezed his hand. “It won’t be forever.”

“I don’t want to be the weak link.”

“You never have been.”

His throat bobbed. “I just want to be useful.”

“You are.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “To Garcia.”

“She thinks you’re brilliant,” you said. “She told me she’s never seen anyone go through old phone records faster than you.”

“She also said if you keep trying to reorganize her files alphabetically, she’s going to unplug your internet.” Garcia briefly chimed in, making light of the situation.

A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.

“I know this feels like a setback,” you said gently. “But it’s recovery. You are helping the team. And once your leg is better, you’ll be back out there. We all know it.”

He looked down at his lap, his fingers tracing the seam of his pants. “I just wish it didn’t feel like I’m watching everyone from behind glass.”

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his. “It won’t always feel like that.”

“I miss you when you’re gone.”

“I miss you too,” you whispered. “But you’re never alone. Not really.”

His breath shook, but he nodded. “Can I walk you to the elevator?”

_____

The case was brutal. Emotionally, not physically. Small-town politics. Buried secrets. Men who wore guilt like skin. You missed Spencer's voice at the round table. His tendency to drop a ten-minute historical sidebar and somehow still land on exactly the right lead.

You texted him during lulls, sending short updates.

Morgan tackled someone again, you would’ve hated it. 

Garcia says she has a new nickname for you but won’t tell me what it is yet. 

I found a pie place. Bringing you back a slice.

His replies were short but sweet. 

Miss you. 

Stay safe. 

Don’t let Morgan boss you around. 

Save me a fork.

It helped.

So did Garcia. She kept you informed. “Your boyfriend is in peak dramatic mode,” she’d said over the phone. “I caught him muttering Shakespeare under his breath while cross-referencing DMV records.”

“He does that,” you said fondly.

“I swear to God, if he rearranges my filing system one more time, I’m turning off the coffee machine.”

“Please don’t. That’s the only thing keeping him out of existential despair.”

_____

On the flight back, the case finally closed, you kicked your shoes off and slouched into one of the jet seats, phone in hand.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Garcia chirped as the FaceTime connected.

The screen split between her and Spencer, his curls wild, his head on her shoulder, both of them eating what looked like an entire pint of ice cream straight from the tub.

“Is that my chocolate brownie swirl?” you asked.

Spencer grinned, mouth full. “Garcia made me.”

“You’re a liar,” she said, elbowing him gently. “He begged for it. He gave me those stupid puppy eyes.”

You raised an eyebrow. “The ones he used to get out of physical therapy last week?”

“They work,” he said.

“You’re enabling him.”

Garcia grinned. “It’s in my job description.”

You stayed on the line for a while, long after the jokes faded into quiet conversation, long after Garcia wandered off-camera to fetch something. Spencer stayed.

“I really missed you,” he said softly.

“I know,” you whispered. “I missed you too.”

You rested your head against the jet window, the hum of the engine soothing behind you.

“Almost home,” you added.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m saving you the last spoonful of ice cream.”

Your heart flipped.

“I’ll bring the pie,” you promised.

And for the first time all week, Spencer laughed like nothing hurt.

_____

next chapter: G is for Game Night

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

_____

BUY ME A COFFEE

_____

Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @ada--44 @moongirl27 @hopelesssheaven @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @hizzielover @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @cynbx

[spencereidluver]

E is for Eighth

October 12, 2009

summary: It's Spencer's 28th birthday. He's planned to spend it quietly alone, recovering from being shot, but a surprise shows up at his door.

word count: 1.5k

warnings: Post-injury recovery (gunshot wound), light medical care (bandage changing, leg bracing), soft smut (gentle sex with accommodation for injury), domestic fluff

It started with a knock. Not the polite, barely-there tap of a stranger, but the impatient, familiar rhythm of someone who’d already been there a dozen times before.

Spencer blinked blearily from the couch, the fleece blanket tangled around his legs. He shifted and winced. His thigh still ached if he moved too fast, though he’d stopped mentioning it out loud.

He called out, “Door’s unlocked,” and braced himself for Garcia.

It wasn’t either.

It was you.

You stepped in carrying two paper bags, a cardboard drink tray balanced carefully in one hand, and a soft smile tucked into the corners of your face. You wore a knit sweater and your hair looked windswept, like you'd rushed here, like you couldn’t wait.

Spencer’s mouth fell open. “You’re supposed to be on a case.”

“I swapped out with Garcia,” you said, toeing off your boots and walking toward him like it was the most natural thing in the world. “She’s staying glued to the mainframe today and I’m staying glued to you. Happy birthday, Spencer.”

His heart tripped in his chest.

“I- you didn’t have to-”

“Spencer,” you interrupted, already setting the drink tray down and starting to unpack the bags, “do you really think I’d let your first birthday after getting shot go by with a phone call and a half-hearted card?”

His face flushed, but he smiled. “I would’ve settled for a quiet day.”

“You’re still getting that,” you said. “But with waffles.”

That shut him up. His eyes followed the carton you pulled from the bag, waffles, clearly homemade, stacked with fresh fruit and a tiny container of warm syrup. You handed him a fork and nudged his hand until he took it.

You flopped down beside him, pressing your shoulder lightly against his. He looked at you like you’d hung the stars.

There were candles too, not birthday candles, but the eucalyptus-scented kind he liked. The ones he once admitted helped with migraines and stress but never bought for himself. You lit one and placed it on the coffee table, then picked up one of the drinks and passed it to him.

“Lavender chai,” you said. “The weird fancy one you pretend isn’t your favorite.”

“You remembered.”

“Eat your waffles before they get cold, birthday boy.”

He did, in slow, thoughtful bites. You shared from the same plate, knees tucked up beside his, the scent of eucalyptus curling through the quiet apartment. A record played softly in the background, one of his old jazz albums, slightly scratchy, just enough to feel like warmth.

After breakfast, you settled him against the pillows and gently propped his leg up again. He rolled his eyes when you fussed over him but didn’t protest. You reached into your bag one last time and pulled out a small, wrapped box.

“I already got waffles,” he said.

“This is the real gift.”

He unwrapped it carefully, long fingers trembling slightly. Inside was a leather-bound journal, navy blue, with gold embossed stars on the front. Inside the cover was a handwritten note.

For every thought you can’t say out loud. Happy 28th!

He traced the writing with his fingertip. “You think I have trouble saying things out loud?”

“Only when it matters,” you said gently. “But when you write, Spence, it’s like watching your heart unfold.”

He didn’t speak, just leaned into you, head resting against your shoulder. You felt the weight of him there, solid and safe, and you let the silence stretch.

Eventually, he murmured, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For this. For you. For… coming.”

You tilted your head until your cheek rested against his hair. “ Always.”

His fingers found yours and laced them together.

The rest of the day was spent exactly like that. Wrapped in blankets, slow sips of tea, the occasional forehead kiss. The kind of softness that heals invisible wounds. Spencer’s laugh came easier. His hands shook less. And when the sun dipped low behind the windows, casting the room in golden haze, he fell asleep with your hand still in his and your bracelet glinting on your wrist.

_____

Evening settled over the apartment like a blanket. The golden light had faded into soft indigo, streetlamps casting a quiet glow through the windows. Jazz still played on low volume, something instrumental and slow. The kind of music that made you breathe a little deeper just listening to it.

Spencer had stirred from his nap not long ago, blinking slowly as he adjusted to the dimness. You were still curled beside him, legs tangled beneath the blanket, your hand resting gently on his chest.

“You feeling okay?” you whispered.

He nodded. “Better than I’ve felt in weeks.”

You smiled and leaned in to press a kiss to his temple. “Good.”

His hand came up slowly, tracing the side of your face. “I missed you.”

“You had me all day.”

“No,” he said softly. “I mean before that. When I was in the hospital. When I wasn’t sure what was going to happen. I missed this. You.”

Your breath caught. His eyes were open, vulnerable, full of something aching and tender.

You kissed him slowly, carefully, letting him feel it. No urgency, no hunger—just depth. Just intention. Spencer’s hands curled into your waist, his thumbs pressing lightly into your sides as he exhaled a shaky breath against your mouth.

“I want you,” he said, breathless. “Please.”

You slipped your hand beneath his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin. He was soft and a little shaky under your touch, but his body arched toward you like he’d been craving this.

“Okay,” you said. “We’ll go slow.”

You helped him sit up, careful with his leg. He hissed slightly when it shifted, and your hands were there immediately, steadying him, checking the brace, kissing his knee through the fabric of his sweatpants.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” you said.

“I will.”

You straddled his good leg and kissed him again, deeper this time. His fingers gripped your thighs like he didn’t want to let go. You tugged his shirt up and off, letting your mouth trace along the freckles and faint bruises across his chest.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered. “Every part of you.”

His breath caught as you rolled your hips down against him. He was already hard, and when you reached between you and cupped him through the fabric, he whimpered softly.

“I missed this too,” you murmured. “The way you react. The way you need me.”

“I always need you,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

You helped him out of his sweatpants carefully, mindful of the brace. His leg stayed bent slightly at the knee, the only position that didn’t hurt. You kissed down his thigh just above the injury, then leaned back up and said, “I want you to be comfortable.”

“I am,” he said.

You smiled, then slid your own shirt over your head, watching the way his eyes went glassy. His hands reached for you, tentative at first, then more certain as you guided them to your waist, your hips, your chest.

You removed your remaining clothes slowly, letting him see you, letting him feel like this was his gift as much as yours.

Then, when he was ready, breath uneven, lips parted, hands gripping your thighs, you lined yourself up and sank down onto him slowly.

Spencer gasped, his head tipping back against the pillow.

“Easy,” you whispered. “Just breathe.”

You didn’t move right away. You stayed still, letting him fill you completely, feeling every inch of him pulsing inside you. His hands gripped your hips, grounding himself in the sensation.

You started to move slowly, rocking your hips gently, mindful not to jar his leg. One of your hands braced against his chest, the other resting on his uninjured thigh for leverage. Every roll of your body was deliberate, every touch soft.

“You feel so good,” he gasped.

“You do too, baby. So good.”

He groaned, his voice breaking. “Don’t stop.”

Your movements stayed slow, sensual. The only urgency was in the way he held you, the way he looked at you like he needed to memorize every second.

You bent forward, pressing your forehead to his, and whispered, “Cum for me.”

He let out a soft sob, and you kissed the tears that gathered in his lashes.

When he came, it was with your name on his lips and both hands trembling around your waist. You rode it out with him, holding him close, shushing him softly as his body arched and fell apart beneath you.

After, you stayed there, forehead pressed to his, hearts pounding in sync, your bodies warm and tangled in the glow of the candle still burning on the nightstand.

You shifted carefully, helping him clean up and guiding him back beneath the blankets, wrapping his leg just the way the doctor showed you, careful not to let him do a thing.

Spencer looked up at you with sleepy eyes, half-lidded and full of something raw. “You didn’t finish.”

You kissed his chest, right over his heart. “That’s okay, love. I wanted to make you feel good.”

You settled beside him, pulling the blanket up around both of you. His arm draped loosely across your waist, his injured leg resting on a second pillow just below yours.

Outside, the world moved on.

Inside, everything stood still.

_____

next chapter: F is for Furious

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

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[spencereidluver]

D is for Dr. Barton

September 23, 2009

Summary: Spencer is shot. Hotch is stabbed. Two floors separate them in the same hospital. 

word count: 2k

warnings: Criminal Minds Stuff: gun violence, character injury, blood, hospitals, emotional distress, mentions of stabbing, angst, protective behavior, Reaper subplot (George Foyet), mild medical descriptions.

Faceless Nameless 05x01

The first gunshot rang out while you were on the phone with Spencer.

You had just stepped into the kitchenette at Quantico, hand wrapped around a half-full mug of reheated coffee, when his voice went sharp. You’d been mid-laugh, something about Garcia and the ridiculous streamers she insisted on hanging in the bullpen for every minor holiday. Then the laugh caught in your throat as Spencer said, “Wait…hang on—”

There was a sound, distant at first. A muffled crack. You froze.

“Spencer?” Your voice dropped to a whisper.

There was no answer. Then you heard it: the unmistakable thud of the phone hitting something, a scramble, someone yelling, then a second gunshot, sharper this time. Closer.

And then nothing.

The line went dead.

The silence that followed was deafening. Every beat of your heart thudded against your ribs like it might burst through your chest.

“Spencer,” you whispered, the name falling from your lips before your brain had even caught up.

You bolted.

No clearance, no instructions, you didn’t wait. You grabbed your badge and your gun and ran. You didn’t remember the drive. You barely remembered stopping at red lights. Every second that passed without hearing his voice felt like someone was wringing your lungs out like a rag.

You reached the neighborhood just as the flashing lights came into view. Police were already on scene. Two ambulances. Yellow tape. Officers directing traffic. You shoved your badge toward the first person in uniform who got in your way.

“FBI. Spencer Reid, where is he?” you demanded.

The officer opened his mouth to speak, but you were already pushing past him. You ducked under the tape, legs shaking, feet barely hitting the ground. You heard your name, someone called it, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t care if you got written up later. Protocol could go to hell.

You saw him before you felt your heartbeat again.

Spencer was sitting on the grass, just outside the Barton house, his pant leg soaked in blood, a paramedic crouched beside him. His shirt was streaked with red from another body: Dr. Barton’s, you realized, and his hands were trembling as he pressed gauze to the wound in his thigh.

Your knees buckled before you reached him.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, dropping beside him, not caring that you fell straight into damp grass and mud. “Spencer, Jesus, what happened?”

He looked up at you with those wide, glassy eyes. “I’m fine,” he said instantly, automatically. “I’m okay. I– just the leg. It’s just the leg.”

“You’re bleeding,” you said, voice cracking. “You’re bleeding and you weren’t answering your phone, I thought–”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, but this time it broke. His voice cracked on the second syllable. “I’m fine, I promise. Go. Dr. Barton’s son–”

“I’m not leaving you,” you snapped, grabbing his hand. “Don’t you dare ask me to leave you right now.”

Spencer squeezed your hand back. “I’m okay. I– he shot me, but he missed the artery. I already checked.”

You pressed your forehead to his shoulder and let yourself breathe. Just for a second.

Paramedics pushed past you, lifting Dr. Barton into a stretcher. Spencer turned to watch. “He’ll be okay, right?” he asked the EMT.

“He’s stable,” the woman answered. “We’ve got him.”

You felt him slump a little as Dr. Barton’s stretcher disappeared toward the ambulance. You stayed kneeling next to him, gripping his hand tightly, unwilling to let go until someone forced you to.

Then another voice cut through the chaos.

“Reid!”

Morgan came jogging toward you both, his expression tight. “You okay?”

Spencer gave the same answer. “Yeah. Fine.”

Morgan looked down at the blood and mud streaked all over him and raised an eyebrow. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

“We’re getting you to a hospital.”

Spencer shifted, wincing. “You need to find Emily.”

That was when your stomach sank. Again.

“Where is she?” Morgan asked immediately.

Spencer’s voice was thin. “Something’s happened to Hotch.”

Your eyes flew to Morgan, whose jaw clenched. “I’ll find her. I’ll call JJ and Rossi. You stay with him,” he told you.

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” you said.

As Morgan ran off, Spencer tried to sit up straighter and hissed in pain.

“Stop,” you said firmly. “Don’t move.”

“I’m fine.”

“Stop saying that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re bleeding, and your hands are shaking, and I swear to God if you try to act like this is normal…”

Spencer looked up at you, and the fight left his body. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

_____

A few hours later, you sat beside Spencer’s hospital bed. He was propped up, his leg bandaged and braced, but thankfully intact. He was on pain meds now, eyelids heavy, but still awake.

The hospital was quiet, but it felt like it was buzzing under your skin. JJ and Morgan had come in earlier, quietly updating Spencer while you stood near the window, arms crossed. Emily had found Hotch. Or what was left of him.

Eight stab wounds. Blood loss. Almost no chance of survival.

But he lived.

Spencer’s voice pulled you back. “They said he dropped Hotch off at the ER.”

You turned around. “George Foyet.”

Spencer nodded. “Like some twisted message.”

You moved toward him and sat carefully on the edge of the bed. “We’ll catch him.”

Spencer looked at you. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” you said, threading your fingers through his. “Because if we don’t, none of us will sleep again. And Hotch deserves better than that.”

Spencer swallowed. “I should’ve seen it coming. All those weeks we didn’t know where Foyet was…”

“Stop.”

He blinked.

“This wasn’t your fault,” you said. “You’ve done everything. You jumped in front of Dr. Barton. You saved people today, Spencer.”

“I didn’t save Hotch.”

“You’re not omnipresent,” you said, voice cracking. “You’re not a machine. You’re allowed to miss things.”

Spencer turned his face away, hiding behind the curtain of his hair.

You cupped his jaw gently, coaxing him to look at you. “You are the bravest person I’ve ever known. And if you’d died today…”

“I didn’t,” he whispered.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his. “You didn’t.”

You sat like that for a while, in silence.

Eventually, he whispered, “I’m going to be on crutches for a few weeks.”

You exhaled a shaky laugh. “Kicking down doors is Morgan’s job anyway.”

Spencer smiled, faint but real.

JJ called him about twenty minutes later, checking in. She asked for updates, and he gave them, calmly, clinically, like always. You sat beside him, still holding his hand.

When the call ended, he looked at you. “You should go home. Get some sleep.”

“Not happening.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re hurt,” you interrupted softly. “And that’s okay. I’m staying.”

He didn’t argue again.

You pulled the blanket higher around his waist, adjusted the pillows, then tucked yourself into the chair beside him. Not touching, but close enough to reach for him if you needed to.

You stared out the window at the inky black sky and wondered how many more times you’d have to watch the people you love bleed.

And how many more times you’d survive it.

But right now, Spencer was breathing. Hotch was alive. And you were here.

_____

The hospital was still.

Not quiet. There were beeping monitors and distant footsteps, the occasional whisper of nurses exchanging notes at the station, but still. That aching kind of stillness that came only in the hours between 3 and 5 a.m., when even the world outside seemed unsure whether to keep dreaming or begin again.

Spencer had dozed off around 2:30, finally worn down by the medication and the long day. You hadn’t slept. You couldn’t. Not when the bandage on his thigh was still fresh. Not when Hotch was just two floors above you, still fighting for his life.

Spencer stirred against the stiff hospital pillows. You sat up straighter, hand already reaching for his.

He blinked a few times before finding you. “You're still here,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep and pain meds.

You smiled, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Where else would I be?”

Spencer turned his face toward you on the pillow, the way a plant seeks sunlight. “I thought maybe you’d gone to see Hotch.”

“I will,” you said. “I just… couldn’t leave you yet.”

His eyes softened. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I know.”

“I should’ve told you I was going to the front door with Barton.”

You shook your head. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize for doing your job. Just… maybe next time, give me more than a phone call and a gunshot before you disappear for hours.”

His face crumpled slightly, but he gave you a weak smile. “Deal.”

You hesitated, fingers tracing the back of his hand. “Does it hurt?”

Spencer’s eyes flicked to the thick padding around his thigh. “Less than I thought it would.”

“That’s probably the morphine talking.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, then sobered. “It’s going to slow me down.”

You gave him a look. “You got shot less than twelve hours ago, and you’re already worried about slowing down?”

“I just…when something happens, I want to be useful.”

“You are useful. Even if you’re sitting in a chair with your leg propped up eating Jell-O, you’re useful. And brilliant. And needed. You don’t have to run into danger every time to prove that.”

His throat bobbed with a swallow, eyes glassy. “You’re not going to get rid of me just because I’m limping?”

You leaned over, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Spencer Reid, I would carry you on my back through Quantico if I had to. You’re not going anywhere.”

His hand found your wrist, clinging to it for a second longer. “You’ll come back?”

“After I see Hotch, yeah. I’ll be back before breakfast.”

He nodded slowly, then let your hand go.

You stood, stretched, and made your way up two floors and to the nurses station. 

“Hotchner,” you said. “Can I see him?”

The nurse hesitated, but eventually nodded. “He’s awake. Still heavily sedated, but… you can go in.”

You nodded and made your way down the hall, the weight of the day pressing back into your shoulders with each step.

Hotch’s room was quiet, dim. The lights had been softened, and the machine beeping at his side was rhythmic, stable. He lay still in the bed, bandages visible beneath the loose gown, bruises blooming across his arms and neck like storm clouds.

You hesitated at the door, unsure if you were ready to see him like this.

But then his eyes opened. Slowly, barely, and he turned his head toward you.

You stepped inside. “Hey,” you said softly, approaching the bed. “Don’t worry about trying to talk.”

Hotch’s mouth twitched. A ghost of a smile. His throat worked, but no words came out. You pulled the chair close and sat beside him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” you whispered. “I was with Spencer.”

That got a reaction. His brow lifted just slightly.

“Has anyone told you?” You asked.

He slowly shook his head. Only slightly, but it was clear he hasn’t heard.

“He’s okay. Shot in the leg. But… okay.”

Hotch blinked once, slow. Then again.

“I know what you’re going to ask. Yes, Morgan and JJ are with Hayley and Jack. They’re safe. Witness protection.”

Hotch exhaled. Ragged and shaky, but it almost sounded like relief.

Your hand hovered over his for a moment, then settled gently on top of it. “I don’t know what he took from you this time,” you said, voice barely audible. “But I know what he left behind. Fear. Anger. Questions. All of it.”

His eyes closed briefly, then opened again.

“But you’re alive,” you said. “You’re still here. And I swear to you, we’re going to make that mean something.”

His grip tightened, faint but deliberate.

“I’ll take care of them,” you added. “The team. Spencer. We’ll hold it together.”

Hotch’s lips parted, voice rasping out on barely a whisper. “Promise?”

You nodded, your throat burning. “Promise.”

You sat with him a while longer, letting the beeping and the hum of machines fill the silence. Eventually, his eyes slipped shut, his chest rising in slow, steady rhythm.

When you stood to leave, you glanced back at him once more. At the man who had led you, challenged you, believed in you, and bled for you.

He was broken, yes, but not defeated.

_____

next chapter: E is for Eight

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

_____ BUY ME A COFFEE _____

a/n: I hope you guys enjoy the parts based on episodes, because honestly, they’re becoming my favorite to write.

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Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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[spencereidluver]

C is for Celebration

September 16, 2009

summary: You and Spencer celebrate your one year anniversary.

word count: 1.1k

warnings: smut

The smell of old books and coffee lingered in Spencer’s apartment, like it always did, but today it was mixed with something softer. Jasmine, maybe, or vanilla. It was the candle you liked to light whenever you stayed over. Spencer had already lit it before you arrived, which meant he’d remembered. Of course he had.

You stood in the doorway, holding a brown paper bag with dessert and a small wrapped box tucked inside, your smile warm and easy. Spencer stepped toward you, looking like he’d just barely stopped pacing.

“Hi,” you said, voice quiet.

“Hi,” he echoed, his smile immediate and boyish. “Happy anniversary.”

A year. One whole year since that rainy night when you'd both realized you couldn’t keep pretending your partnership was just professional. A year since whispered confessions over case files and after-hours Chinese food. A year since the best thing in your life began.

Spencer reached for the bag, but you sidestepped him and set it on the coffee table first, wrapping your arms around his waist instead. He let out a surprised breath and immediately hugged you back, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder.

“I’ve been thinking about this day all week,” he murmured.

You smiled into his neck. “Me too.”

When you pulled back, he kissed you, slow, unrushed, with the kind of gentleness that came from someone who had memorized your every reaction. His hands lingered on your waist as he led you toward the couch. A small bouquet of wildflowers sat in a mason jar on the table beside it. His gift.

“I know it’s not extravagant,” he said, catching your glance.

“It’s perfect.” You leaned down to smell them. “Did you pick these?”

He flushed, just slightly. “There’s a little park near the metro. I went early this morning.”

You grinned and kissed his cheek. “Spencer Reid, you are romantic.”

He ducked his head. “You haven’t even opened your gift yet.”

You handed him yours first, a neatly wrapped book he’d mentioned in passing months ago but hadn’t bought for himself. A rare first edition, tracked down by you and shipped from across the country. He held it like it was sacred, his eyes wide.

“I– how did you find this?”

“Librarians talk,” you said with a wink.

Spencer pulled you into a kiss again, this one firmer, his gratitude pouring out in touch more than words.

Then it was your turn. He handed you a small box, wrapped in dark green paper. Inside was a slim gold bracelet engraved on the underside in his neat handwriting:

I Love You Y/N –Spence

Your throat tightened.

“I wanted you to have something simple,” he said. “Something you could wear even at work. But… still ours.”

You didn’t speak. You just leaned forward and kissed him again, pushing him back gently until his back met the cushions and your knees straddled his lap.

He let out a breathy laugh. “So dessert later?”

“Much later,” you murmured against his jaw, already slipping your fingers under the hem of his cardigan. “Right now, I want to thank you.”

His breath hitched as you kissed along his neck, slow and deliberate. Spencer was always quick to be shy when you were the one taking control. But he melted under praise, unraveled under intention. And tonight, that’s exactly what you wanted: to take your time, to let him feel everything.

You pulled his shirt up and off, letting your hands run along the warm skin of his chest. He was still so lean, so beautiful, and yet so unaware of it.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” you whispered, brushing your thumbs across his ribs.

He blushed deep, his hands gripping your hips. “I– thank you,” he said softly, his voice already breathy.

“Lie back,” you instructed, gently pushing on his chest. He obeyed instantly, laying against the couch cushions, his curls spreading like a halo around his head.

You kissed down his chest, down his stomach, undoing his belt slowly. He watched you with parted lips, one hand already curling against the throw pillow like he needed to hold onto something.

“You’ve been so good to me, Spence,” you said as you unzipped his pants. “So patient. So giving. Let me take care of you.”

His response was a quiet, desperate sound in his throat as you slid his pants and boxers down together, revealing him, already hard, already aching.

You leaned down and kissed the inside of his thigh, then again, closer, until he gasped.

“Please,” he whispered.

You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly, keeping your eyes locked on his face. “That’s it, baby. Just like that. Let me hear you.”

He whimpered, his hips lifting just slightly. You kept it slow, methodical, each stroke matched with praises of how good he looked, how soft he sounded, how perfectly he reacted to every touch.

When he got close, you pulled away, shushing his soft whine with a kiss. “Not yet. I want more.”

You stripped quickly, straddling him again.

“You okay?” you asked, pausing.

He nodded quickly. “Yes. Please. I want to feel you.”

You sank down onto him slowly, and he groaned, his head tipping back.

“Fuck, you feel… God, you feel amazing.”

You rocked your hips gently with one hand resting over his heart. It was pounding. Alive and wild and so very real.

“I love you,” you said.

He opened his eyes, looking straight at you. “I love you too.”

Your pace stayed slow, deep, steady movements that let you both feel every inch. Spencer’s hands clutched your thighs, then your waist, then your hips, like he couldn’t decide where he needed you most.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” you praised, voice warm. 

His moans got louder. More desperate. You could feel how close he was and how much he was holding back.

“Come for me, Spence,” you whispered. “You’ve earned it. Be as loud as you want.”

That did it. His eyes shut, his body tensed, and he cried out as he came, burying his face in your shoulder, arms wrapping tight around you as he filled you.

You stroked his hair and kissed his temple, letting him ride it out.

When he was quiet again, when his body relaxed beneath you, you stayed there, still joined, your fingers tracing lazy circles along his chest.

“That was…” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you agreed, smiling.

After a few minutes, you cleaned up together, and he pulled you back into bed with him. You curled into his side, bracelet still warm on your wrist, and let your fingers rest over his chest where his heart was still thumping quietly.

“Happy anniversary,” he said again.

_____

next chapter: D is for Dr. Barton

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

_____ BUY ME A COFFEE _____

a/n: hihihihihihihi

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Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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taglist:

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[spencereidluver]

B is for Bare

August 14, 2009

summary: You visit Spencer at his apartment soon after he got discharged from the hospital.

word count: 1.38k

warnings: smut, soft!dom reader, praise kink

Spencer’s apartment was warmer than you remembered. Probably from the sun that had poured in through the windows all afternoon, or maybe from the way your heart hadn’t stopped pounding since he answered the door.

It had only been a few days since he was discharged. The dark circles under his eyes were still there, but fainter now. His movements were slower, deliberate, like his body was catching up to the fact that it had survived. That he had survived.

You hadn’t stopped thinking about that. Not once.

He opened the door wearing one of his soft cardigans and a plain gray shirt underneath. His curls were still slightly damp from a recent shower, and he looked tired, but when he saw you standing there with takeout and that hesitant look in your eyes, he smiled.

“I’m not supposed to eat anything heavy,” he said, looking at the food.

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s soup. And you’re going to eat all of it.”

He stepped aside, letting you in. “Bossy,” he murmured, but he sounded pleased about it.

Inside, the apartment was dimly lit; curtains half-drawn, soft light from a single lamp in the corner. The usual clutter of books, notes, and loose papers was still there, but something about the space felt quieter than normal. Like it, too, was still recovering from what had almost happened.

Spencer didn’t say much as you set the containers on the coffee table and started pouring soup into two bowls. He sat on the couch, legs curled under him, watching you like he didn’t want to blink too long in case you disappeared.

“Are you okay?” you asked after a few minutes of eating in silence.

He didn’t answer right away.

“I think so,” he said softly. “I don’t feel sick anymore. Just tired.”

“That’s normal,” you said. “Your body’s still healing.”

He nodded slowly, then looked down into his bowl. “It’s not just that.”

You set your spoon down and turned toward him fully. “What is it?”

He was quiet again. You let the silence stretch between you, knowing he’d speak when he was ready.

“I keep thinking about how close I was,” he said finally. “To not coming home. To not… seeing you again.”

Your throat tightened. You scooted closer and took his hand in yours. “But you did. You’re here.”

“I know. And I’m so glad I am.” He squeezed your fingers, but his voice dropped to a whisper. “I just haven’t really let myself feel it until now.”

Your thumb brushed over his knuckles. “Spence… I was terrified. Watching you in that lab…hearing your voice break over the phone…it killed me.”

His eyes flicked up to yours. “Then why are you being so calm?”

“Because you need me to be,” you said gently. “Because I’m not going to let fear take away this moment. You’re okay. I’m here. And if you’ll let me, I want to help you feel that.”

His breath caught. “How?”

“By reminding you you’re alive.”

Spencer swallowed hard, his gaze locked to yours. You didn’t look away.

“I want to take care of you,” you said, your voice steady but soft. “Completely. No rushing, no expectations. Just you and me. And I want you to let me.”

He nodded before he could even process the words.

You leaned forward and kissed him gently. His lips were warm, a little dry, but eager. You let him press into you, his hand lifting to your jaw like he needed to feel your pulse, to confirm you were real.

“Come with me,” you whispered against his mouth.

He followed you to the bedroom in silence. The overhead light was too harsh, so you clicked on the bedside lamp instead, bathing the room in soft gold.

Spencer stood near the foot of the bed, watching you. His hands fidgeted at his sides. You stepped closer and rested your hands on his chest.

“Breathe with me,” you said.

He did. In and out. Slow. Controlled.

You kissed his jaw, then the corner of his mouth, and felt his body tremble just slightly.

“I’m going to undress you,” you murmured. “Is that okay?”

He nodded, but you waited until he whispered, “Yes.”

You slipped the cardigan from his shoulders first, then gently pulled his shirt up over his head. You kissed along the edge of the faint bruise on his ribs, the spot where the hazmat suit had pressed into his skin. His hands found your hips, tentatively.

“Let me take care of you,” you said again, your voice firmer now. “You don’t have to do anything.”

He nodded, more certain this time.

You took your time. Each piece of clothing removed was met with a kiss, a brush of fingers, a soft word.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered as you kissed his collarbone. “So strong,” as your lips moved down his chest. “So good for me,” when you slid his pants down and helped him step out.

Spencer was already half-hard, the skin flushed and sensitive, and you smiled up at him when you saw how he shivered under your touch.

“Lie down.”

He obeyed without hesitation, stretching out across the mattress. You climbed in beside him, still fully clothed, and leaned over to kiss him again. He arched up into you, desperate and needy, but still uncertain.

“You’re doing so well,” you praised, stroking his hair. “Let me see you.”

You slipped your shirt off slowly, then your bra, watching as Spencer’s eyes followed your every movement. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out but didn’t want to overstep.

“Touch me,” you said. 

He groaned softly and brought his hands to your waist, tracing up your sides. You leaned into his touch, letting him explore for a moment before guiding one of his hands between your thighs. Spencer let out a shaky breath, his fingers pressing into the heat of you over your underwear. You kissed him again, deeper this time, while guiding his hand, showing him just how to touch you.

When he whimpered, you smiled against his mouth. “You like making me feel good?”

“Yes,” he gasped.

“You’re amazing at it,” you said, rocking gently into his hand. “But I want to take care of you.”

You pulled back, stripped the rest of your clothes, and straddled his hips, your knees on either side of his thighs.

You stroked him once, just to hear the way he choked on a moan, then sank down slowly, inch by inch, watching his jaw go slack.

“God,” he whispered. “Oh my God.”

You were warm and snug around him, and you gave yourself a moment to breathe, to adjust, to feel him fully.

You moved, slow, deep rolls of your hips, each one deliberate. Spencer’s hands found your thighs, holding on, not to guide or push, but to anchor himself.

“You’re doing so good,” you whispered. “You feel so good, Spence”

Spencer’s eyes closed, his chest heaving.

“Look at me,” you said gently. “I want to see you.”

He obeyed, eyes shining, lips parted.

“You’re alive,” you told him between kisses. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

“I love you,” he gasped, voice cracking.

You smiled, tears burning your eyes. “I love you too.”

Your pace picked up slightly, and Spencer met every movement with a quiet moan. He was unraveling beneath you, overwhelmed, full of feeling.

“You can let go,” you whispered. “You’re allowed to feel good. You deserve this.”

“Please,” he whimpered. “Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t. I’ve got you. You’re perfect.”

It didn’t take long, his body had been aching for this, desperate for closeness, for release, for proof that he was still wanted, still needed.

He came with a low cry, trembling under you, his hands gripping your hips like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth. You slowed, let him ride it out, kissed him through it all.

When his breathing settled, you lay down beside him and pulled him close, wrapping your arms around his body like a promise.

Spencer tucked his face against your neck, his lips brushing your skin.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For not leaving. For everything.”

You held him tighter. “You never have to thank me for loving you.”

You stayed that way for a long time. Bare, safe, whole.

Alive.

_____

next chapter: C is for Celebration

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

_____ BUY ME A COFFEE _____

a/n: I really like this part, I also plan on making this fic follow the timeline for the actual show, so, spoiler alert, but if you're up to date, Spencer also gets shot soon :)

_____

Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @ada--44 @moongirl27 @hopelesssheaven @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @hizzielover @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @cynbx

[spencereidluver]

A is for Anthrax

August 1, 2009

summary: When the BAU is called to investigate a suspected bioterrorist who releases a deadly anthrax strain Spencer is exposed while working the case. You are forced to confront your worst fears.

word count: 4.8k

warnings: general criminal minds events,

Amplification 04x24

“Have you read this one yet?” You held up a mass market paperback of ‘The Illustrated Man.’

Spencer’s eyes lit up. “Of course I have, it’s a classic!” His voice is high and peppy, so ecstatic for you to be showing the slightest amount of interest in his books.

It was a very early morning. Spencer had woken up around 5:30, unable to sleep. It was normal for you to fall asleep next to Spencer and he be gone when you woke up. Often he wasn’t far; sometimes in the living room reading a book, sometimes in the kitchen brewing a pot of coffee, and it was not rare to find him in the office playing a solo chess game. He was always quiet though. Spencer never woke you from your slumber. He would ramble about how important REM sleep is, and how “being awoken can cause stress.”

That’s exactly what he told you this morning when he accidentally dropped a tub full of books from the top shelf of his closet, causing a loud thud and a very startled awakening from you. He was apologetic, feeling awful for causing you stress. After the initial shock subsided, you were ready to get out of bed with him though, his apologies becoming redundant.

“I’ll make coffee,” he offered as a way for him to feel as if his apology had been accepted. After leaving his bedroom to start the coffee pot, you arose from the bed and to the tote of books spilled on the floor. 

There were probably over 100 mass market paperbacks scattered across the carpet. All were noticeably worn down. You wondered if they were bought new. It was quite possible all the wear and tear came from Spencer. While he was the gentlest boyfriend, you knew he could really do some harm to a paperback book. Not on purpose of course, but at the velocity he flipped those pages, the aggressive pressing of his fingers as he quickly read each word, he did a number on the weak lumbar. 

Spencer returned to find you sitting criss-crossed on the ground, engulfed in the literature. “Coffee’s brewing,” he said, joining you on the carpet. “I guess this is my sign to go through all these books.”

You smile at him, picking up a book. “Let me help?” 

“If you want.” He began sorting the books into two separate piles, one much larger than the other. 

“Of course,” you say, leaning over to search for any rhythm of the stacks. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorting them into stacks that I’ve read and haven’t read. The ones I haven’t read I’m going to move to the shelf in the living room. You know some of the books I’ve read, you can add those to the stack, ‘mkay sweetie?”

You melted a bit at the pet name. It wasn’t often Spencer would use them, as they just felt unnatural to him, but when he did it never failed to make your heart skip. He knew this too. He loved being called pet names by you, so he made it a mission for him to learn to use them more naturally for you. 

You began adding to his pile of books he’d read, and making your own pile of ones you weren’t sure of. You’d occasionally hold up a book to ask the status of it, almost always being read. He’d give you the shortest synopsis of the book, never sparing a fun fact though. His enthusiasm was infectious, and you loved seeing him so animated.

At one point, you noticed Spencer had stopped mid-sentence, his gaze fixed on you. "What?" you asked, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks.

"Nothing," he said softly, a small smile playing on his lips. "I just like seeing you happy."

You leaned over and kissed him, a sweet and gentle moment that made your heart swell. It was these quiet and domestic mornings that you cherished the most, the moments where the world seemed to stand still, and it was just the two of you.

_____

You had just settled back with your coffee, ready to dive into more organization, when Spencer's phone rang, breaking the tranquility of the morning.

The call from JJ had been unexpected, a sharp reminder of the unpredictable nature of your work. But as you prepared to head out into the field, you couldn't help but feel grateful for the time you had spent together. It was those peaceful moments that made the chaos of your jobs bearable. 

"Hey, JJ," he answered, his tone shifting from relaxed to attentive. You watched as his expression changed, concern knitting his brows together.

"Hey, is Y/N with you?" JJ's voice was urgent, making you sit up a bit straighter.

Spencer nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "Yes, she's here."

"I need you guys at the office ASAP," JJ continued. "Don't bother bringing a go bag, but hurry."

Spencer's eyes met yours, and you could see the shift in his demeanor. The evening of quiet reading was officially over. He ended the call with a quick, "We'll be right there," and jumped to his feet.

He moved quickly, heading to his bedroom to change into his work attire. You followed, watching as he swapped his casual clothes for a crisp purple button-up shirt and a black tie, his fingers deftly working the buttons with practiced speed. He grabbed his satchel from the hook by the door, and you hurriedly changed clothes and collected your things, slipping them into the bag alongside his essentials.

"Are you ready?" he asked, turning to you with an apologetic smile. You could see the mix of urgency and regret in his eyes.

"Yeah, let's go," you replied, giving him a reassuring nod. "We'll have to finish our book discussion later."

Spencer chuckled softly, a brief respite from the intensity of the moment. "I promise we will."

You both rushed out of the apartment, the familiar adrenaline of an unexpected case settling in. As you made your way to the car, Spencer reached out and gave your hand a quick squeeze, a silent thank you for your understanding.

The drive to the office was filled with a mix of hurried conversation and quiet contemplation. Spencer's mind was already working through possible scenarios, and you could see the gears turning as he stared out the window.

_____

You found yourself in the elevator with Derek, Emily, and Spencer of course. The elevator ride was tense, the urgency of JJ's call still hanging in the air. Spencer, ever the analyst, was already piecing together what little information they had.

"The case must be local," Spencer said, his hand resting on his satchel. "JJ said not to bring a go bag."

Just as he finished speaking, the elevator doors opened. Your eyes widened as you took in the sight before you. The entire FBI headquarters was filled with men in army uniforms. It was a scene straight out of a movie, one you hadn't anticipated this early in the morning.

Derek was the first to step out, his eyes scanning the sea of uniforms. "What's the army doing here?" he muttered, his usual confidence giving way to confusion.

Emily followed closely behind, her expression mirroring Derek's bewilderment. "What the hell is going on?" she asked, her voice edged with concern.

As the four of you made your way through the bustling hallways, phones were ringing incessantly, adding to the chaotic atmosphere. Spencer and you broke off from the group, heading directly to the round table room as JJ had instructed. You glanced back, seeing Emily and Derek linger a bit longer, their curiosity driving them to gather more information.

The rest of the team is already in the round table room when you enter, along with a woman whom JJ is quick to introduce.

"Guys, this is Dr. Linda Kimura, Chief of Special Pathogens at the CDC," JJ said.

"Hello, I'm sorry to meet you under these circumstances," Dr. Kimura said, her tone serious but polite.

Spencer, always direct, asked what everyone else was thinking: "What circumstances?"

Hotch stepped in. "We need to get started."

Everyone looked around the round table room, meeting each other's eyes. The confusion was palpable. JJ took a deep breath and began.

"Last night, 25 people checked into emergency rooms in and around Annapolis. They were all at the same park after 2 PM yesterday. Within 10 hours, the first victim died. It's now just past 7 AM the next day. We have 12 dead."

Everyone immediately began looking through the case files laid out before them. Morgan was the first to speak up. "Lung failure and black lesions. Anthrax?" He looked at Spencer for confirmation, knowing he’d know.

Spencer shook his head. "Anthrax doesn't kill this fast."

Dr. Kimura interjected, "This strain does."

Spencer looked up at her, mouth agape in fear. The gravity of the situation was hitting him.

_____

You can’t blame Morgan when you get the call, but boy, do you want to. You know how stubborn Spencer can be when he doesn’t know something, but putting his life at risk is incredibly irresponsible and you just want to take it out on someone.

Hotch can tell you are not taking this well. How could you be? Your boyfriend was locked in a room filled with poison and refusing to leave. 

“Y/l/n stay in the car,” Hotch commands, looking at you in the rearview mirror. 

“No, you have to let me go,” you argue. 

“I can’t let you do that.” his voice is stern.

You don’t want to anger him, but you are not staying in that car. “I’m part of this team too, damn it.” You’re getting a bit heated, not what you wanted, but you can’t help it.

General Whitworth is uncomfortable in the passenger seat. He’s almost certainly oblivious to your relationship with Spencer, and probably extremely confused about the origins of the current tension in the car. 

Now was not the time for backstories though.

“Fine,” Hotch says as he puts the SUV in park, grabbing the handle. “But any unprofessionalism and there will be consequences.” He hurriedly jumps out of the car, you and the general following behind. “How’s Reid?” He asks as he approaches Morgan.

Morgan sighs. “There’s white powder in the room and the air was blasting. I should’ve been right there with him.”

Your eyes begin to well with tears. “Yeah, you really should’ve been.”

Hotch looks at you sternly. “There’s no time for second guessing, either of you. What do we know?”

Morgan begins explaining the information that he and Reid had gathered up to that point.

Riiiiing

“Reid,” Hotch says as he picks up his phone.

There’s a terror in Hotch’s voice. “Hotch, I really messed up this time.”

“Reid,” Hotch addresses, “we need to get you out and to the hospital.”

“I’m staying right here,” your boyfriend said over the phone.

Morgan sighed. “No, you’re not, Reid.”

“My best chance is to stay here, see if there’s a cure, and try to figure out who killed Dr. Nichols,” Spencer told.

You felt yourself getting antsy. “Spencer, please,” you begged.

“Come on Hotch, say something to him,” Morgan said.

Hotch looks at you, a sternness, yet sorrow in his eyes. “He’s right. His best chance is inside.”

“What?” You practically screamed, unable to believe what was happening right in front of you,

“We will get a suit and mask into him right away, y/l/n,” Hotch tried assuring you.

Spencer’s voice sounded over the phone. “Don’t bother, it’s not going to do me any good. I’m already infected.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing, what Spencer was doing, and most of all, that Hotch was just letting him.

Reid began telling what he saw over the phone, giving as much information as he possibly could. He stuttered for a moment, before spitting out, “H-he has a partner. Go back to the BAU, try to figure out who it is.”

Morgan looks at you. “Hotch, why don’t you go, Y/L/N and I will stay here.”

Hotch joins Morgan in looking at you. “Funnel all the information you get to me,” he says before turning and making his way to the SUV.

“You keep looking kid, call me with any information you get.” Morgan says before holding the phone out to you.

“Spencer, hey, I know I can’t stop you,” you say, trying your best to be strong. “I love you, and I’m proud of you.” 

“I love you too, Y/N,” he says before hanging up the phone.

You stared at the phone in Morgan’s hand long after the call had ended, his final words echoing in your ears like a cruel taunt.

The edges of your vision blurred. Your breath came in short, uneven gasps, and the pounding of your heart was a deafening drum in your ears. You took a stumbling step backward, the world suddenly tilting beneath your feet like the pavement had turned to quicksand.

“Whoa, hey,” Morgan’s voice was distant, muffled. “Y/N?”

You didn’t respond, you couldn’t. Your stomach churned violently, a wave of nausea rising up so fast you were sure you’d be sick right there on the asphalt. You stumbled again and barely managed to reach the curb before your legs gave out completely. You sat down hard, elbows on your knees, head in your hands, trying to breathe.

Morgan was beside you in an instant, crouching down next to you, one hand on your back, the other steadying your shoulder. “Hey, hey, breathe. Just breathe, alright?”

You shook your head weakly. “He’s infected, Derek.” Your voice cracked, hoarse with panic. “He’s in that room and he’s already infected—”

“I know,” he said softly, rubbing small circles into your back. “I know, but you’re gonna make yourself sick. You gotta breathe, okay? Right now, for him, you need to keep it together.”

You tried. You really did. But a dry heave wracked your body, and you had to brace yourself on the pavement to keep from collapsing entirely. Morgan didn’t flinch. He stayed right beside you, unmoving, unwavering, that solid presence you had always admired.

“I should’ve stopped him,” you choked out. “I should’ve been there, but I was stuck with Hotch and–”

“Don’t,” Morgan said, gently but firmly. “Don’t do that. You think I don’t feel the same way? I pushed him to go in. I didn’t know it was gonna be aerosolized. I didn’t know he’d get locked in. None of us did. But you know Reid. If he wasn’t in that room, he’d be breaking down doors trying to get in.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the spinning in your head, the image of Spencer’s face behind a layer of glass, trapped, already contaminated. “He always wants to be the hero,” you murmured.

Morgan gave a soft chuckle without humor. “He doesn’t even see it like that. To him, it’s logic. Rationality. If he can solve the problem, save more lives, he’ll do it. Even if it kills him.”

You swallowed hard, the bitterness of bile burning the back of your throat. “I can’t lose him, Derek.”

“I know,” he said again, this time quieter. “But you’re not gonna. Reid’s smart. He’s so damn smart. And stubborn as hell. You think he’s just gonna give up?”

You managed a small shake of your head.

“He’s gonna find something. An angle. A clue. He’s got you to fight for now, Y/N. That’s not nothing.”

You opened your eyes, blinking against the sunlight, and looked at Morgan for the first time since sitting down. His eyes were sincere. Grounding.

“Hotch said they’re working on suits,” you whispered. “And he said… he said there might be a cure, right?”

“There might be,” Morgan nodded. “And that’s more than we had twenty minutes ago. Kimura and the CDC are on it. And you know Garcia’s already neck-deep in every piece of data on this guy. Hotch will find the partner, and Reid, he’ll keep doing what he does best.”

You nodded, your hands trembling as you wiped at your face. “I just feel so helpless.”

“You’re not,” Morgan said firmly. “You’re here. You’re ready. And the second we get something actionable, we move. Together. That’s not how this team works.”

You took a deep breath, the first that didn’t rattle in your chest. Your stomach still felt like it had been turned inside out, but the spinning had started to ease. “He’s gonna be okay,” you whispered, trying to make yourself believe it.

Morgan rested his forearm across his knee, glancing back at the quarantined building. “Yeah. He’s gonna be okay. He’s Reid. If anyone can get out of this, it’s him.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, just for a moment, your eyes slipping shut. For now, there was nothing you could do but wait. But you weren’t alone. 

And that had to be enough.

Morgan picks up his phone and calls Reid.

Spencer coughs as he answers with a broken “hello.”

“How’s it going in there, kid?” “I’ve seen better days.”

Morgan sighs. “Well, you’ve got me, Y/L/N, and Garcia.

Garcia’s voice breaks through the phone, she sounds sorrowful. “Hey, Reid.”

Spencer coughs. 

You tap Morgan’s shoulder, “I can’t listen to this,” you whisper.

Morgan pulls the speaker away from his mouth. “You’re fine sweetheart. Go sit,”

You walk away, hearing Morgan begin to talk to Spencer again.

_____

The sounds around you were muffled. Sirens, shouting, the hum of equipment, but your entire focus was on the man standing just beyond the plastic sheeting, covered in protective gear, his expression tight despite the sweat and exhaustion on his face.

The second he stepped out of the contaminated building, your feet had moved of their own accord. You hadn’t hesitated. You hadn’t cared about protocol. You just had to be near him.

A team of CDC agents had swarmed in quickly, guiding him toward the decon zone, their voices clipped and clinical. But you stayed close, just on the other side of the barrier, and thankfully, no one had forced you back yet.

You watched as Morgan approached Spencer, tension visible in every line of his body.

“Yeah, they’re hosing him down now. All right,” Morgan said into his phone, then turned back to Spencer. “They’re checking out Brown’s house.”

Spencer gave a slight nod, blinking against the water streaming down his face. “Go help Hotch.”

“Hotch has plenty of people helping him,” Morgan said, arms folded tightly across his chest.

“He needs you more than I do,” Spencer insisted, his voice steady but quieter now. Tired.

Morgan frowned, reluctant. “Reid, I’m gonna see you off to the hospital.”

You could see the faint twitch of Spencer’s mouth. The smallest flicker of amusement. “I’m about to get naked so they can scrub me down. Is that something you really want to see?”

Despite everything, a choked laugh escaped you.

Morgan snorted, clearly trying not to smile. “I’ll check on you later.” His expression softened as he turned toward the CDC techs. “Take good care of him, please.”

“I’m staying,” you said, finally stepping forward, your eyes locking with Morgan’s. 

“Y/N…” Morgan hesitated.

“I have to, Derek. Please.”

Morgan looked like he wanted to argue, but he read your face the same way he read rooms: expertly. He nodded, once, then turned and headed toward the SUVs in the distance.

You stayed behind the translucent curtain as Spencer began peeling off his clothes, his movements careful, mechanical. His hands were shaking.

Dr. Kimura moved efficiently, barking orders to the team before stopping in front of Spencer with a sealed evidence bag. “Get this to the lab. I hope you’re right about this,” she said to him.

“So do I,” Spencer replied, his voice raw.

You could see it. He was fading fast. His adrenaline was wearing off, and the reality was settling into his bones like cold water.

Kimura turned back to him, eyes narrowing. “Dr. Reid, did you cut yourself?”

You flinched. Your heart stopped.

Spencer glanced down at his forearm, where a thin red line trickled beneath the layers of dust and sweat. He hadn’t even noticed it. “I…uh…I think I grazed the edge of the table when I fell.”

“God,” you breathed, stepping fully into the zone before anyone could stop you. “Spence…”

Kimura raised a hand, but you were already gloving up, donning the surgical mask they’d handed you earlier. You couldn’t touch him, not directly, but you couldn’t stay away either.

“I’ll clean it,” Kimura said quickly, motioning to one of her assistants. “We’ll need to monitor him for signs of infection: heightened fever, difficulty breathing, anything out of the ordinary.”

You hovered just to the side, trying not to panic. The wound was shallow, but it was still a wound. And anthrax didn’t need much.

“I feel fine,” Spencer said quietly, but even you could hear the fatigue behind it.

“You’re not fine,” you said, finally meeting his eyes. “You’re trying to be, but you’re not. And that’s okay.”

He looked down, his mouth twitching faintly. “Are you going to watch them scrub me down?”

“I’m going to be right here when you’re done,” you said softly, stepping just a little closer. “And then I’m going to follow the ambulance to the hospital. And I’m going to sit in your room and drink bad coffee until they tell me you’re in the clear.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do, Spencer.”

He didn’t argue after that. Just nodded, once. He turned his head toward the CDC techs who were waiting with the decon solution, took a shaky breath, and whispered to you, “Just… don’t leave.”

“Never,” you promised.

Dr. Kimura looked between you and Spencer, and after a moment, gave a small nod. “We’ll get him cleaned up and isolated for observation. He’s not out of the woods yet, but he did the right thing going in there. We’ll do everything we can to make sure that sacrifice doesn’t cost him.”

You nodded, swallowing thickly, and stepped back, letting them begin the process. Even with all the chaos still unfolding around you, agents shouting updates, CDC techs processing evidence, ambulances pulling away,  you didn’t hear any of it.

_____

The hospital room was too quiet. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only thing reminding you that he was still here. Still breathing. Still fighting. You hadn’t moved from the chair in hours. Maybe longer. Time had blurred ever since Spencer was dragged out of that lab, unconscious and gasping for air inside a hazmat suit.

You’d never been more terrified in my life.

He looked so small now, tucked under white sheets, an IV in his arm and his skin pale against the hospital lighting. His curls were damp with sweat, and his lips were chapped. Every few minutes, a nurse would come in to check his vitals, but they barely glanced at you. You weren’t family on paper, but no one had dared to ask you to leave. They could see it on your face—if they tried, you’d make a scene.

Then, a flicker.

His eyes moved beneath his eyelids, just once. You shot up straighter in the chair, leaning forward with bated breath. Please. Please let him open them.

And then he did.

Spencer’s eyes fluttered open slowly, his pupils adjusting to the harsh light. He blinked a few times, disoriented, and then he squinted across the room.

“You’re eating Jell-O?” he rasped.

You let out the first real breath you'd taken in hours.

Across the room, Morgan laughed, scooping another spoonful from the small plastic cup he’d snagged from the hospital cafeteria. “Mmm. Hey, kid.”

He turned his head slightly toward you, his grip faint but responsive. You hadn’t let go of his hand since the nurse first let you sit beside him. You weren’t about to now.

At the door, Dr. Kimura stepped inside, clipboard in hand. Morgan grinned and gestured toward the bed. “Hey, doc. Look who’s back.”

Spencer looked around slowly, processing everyone’s presence. “Is there any more Jell-O?” he asked weakly, his voice still hoarse.

Kimura stepped forward quickly, waving a hand. “Hey. Not so fast,” she said gently, as Spencer made an effort to push himself up.

“What happened?” he asked, eyes flickering between the three of you.

Morgan stood and leaned on the bed railing. “You’re gonna be all right, kid. And we got Brown. It’s over.”

Spencer turned his tired gaze toward Dr. Kimura, brows furrowed with concern. “How’s Abby?”

“She’s on the mend,” Dr. Kimura answered. “So are the three others. You were right about where to look for his cure.”

You didn’t say anything. Your throat was too tight. You gave him a soft smile and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was warm now. Not burning. Not deathly cold. Just… warm.

Spencer blinked slowly. “Why was Dr. Nichols making anthrax in the first place?”

Morgan sighed. “He was a brain scientist downgraded to working on the flu. Brown comes along asking for help on his thesis…”

Spencer nodded faintly. “Would have been more than happy to share his knowledge.”

“There was no indication that Nichols had any idea what Brown was planning,” Morgan added.

Kimura folded her arms. “His strain and its cure are getting locked up in containment at Fort Detrick. With all the other bio-agents people don’t know about.”

Morgan quirked an eyebrow. “Really. What else do they have locked up in there?”

They chuckled, and for a moment, things almost felt normal.

But it wasn’t normal.

Not for you.

Because while they exchanged light banter, you were still sitting there holding the hand of the man you loved. The man you’d nearly lost just hours ago. And none of it felt real yet.

One by one, the team started to trickle out. Kimura gave you a gentle nod before stepping out. Morgan lingered a little longer, his gaze flicking from youto Spencer with quiet understanding. “You good?” he asked you.

You nodded. “I am now.”

He smiled. “We’ll give you two some time.”

And then the door clicked shut, and you and Spencer were alone.

Spencer’s eyes were heavier now, exhaustion settling in again, but he didn’t let go of your hand. “You stayed,” he said softly, voice rough with fatigue.

You gave a breathy laugh, though it cracked on the way out. “Of course I stayed, Spencer. Where else would I be?”

“I didn’t know if I’d see you again.” His voice was quiet, like he was afraid to say it too loud.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his temple. “I didn’t know if I’d get to talk to you again,” you whispered. “Do you have any idea how scared I was?”

His hand tightened in yours. You could feel the heat of his tears on his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“You didn’t put me through anything you wouldn’t have done for someone else. You did the right thing.” Your throat felt thick. “But watching you collapse in that lab and not knowing if you were going to make it? That was…”

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “I couldn’t say anything at the time. Not to Morgan. Not to Hotch. But I was losing my mind. You can’t do that to me again.”

His expression crumbled at those words. “You still love me? After this?”

“There’s no version of the world where I don’t love you. Even when you’re reckless and too selfless for your own good.”

He smiled through his tears. “That sounds like something I would statistically analyze.”

You quietly laughed and climbed carefully into the bed beside him, curling into his side without disturbing the wires and IVs. His arm wrapped around you clumsily.

“I think I dreamed about you,” he murmured as you laid your head on his chest.

“Oh yeah?”

He nodded slowly. “You were yelling at me for being reckless. But then you kissed me and told me to do it again because you love heroic gestures.”

You smiled. “Only if you promise to come back to me every time.”

His voice was barely a whisper now. “Always.”

You pressed a kiss to his collarbone. “You can sleep, Spence. I’ll stay right here.”

As his breathing slowed and his arm tightened ever so slightly around you, You finally let the last tears fall, quietly and freely. He was alive. He was here. And no matter what came next, you weren’t going to let another day pass without reminding him just how much he meant to you.Because this job took too much from too many good people. a/n: hi :3

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next chapter: b is for Bare

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

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a/n: hi guys!!! you have no idea how happy I am to be back to releasing parts!!! I have HUGE plans for A-Z2 and I hope you guys all stick with me!

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Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @ada--44 @moongirl27 @hopelesssheaven @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @hizzielover @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @cynbx

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Some Updates :)

Hi guys!

I've been absolutely grinding out part 2 of my A-Z Spencer Reid Series and I am so excited to announce my plan to begin releasing parts sometime within the next week!

On top of that, I've gone through and completely updated my taglist, so starting on the first release of A-Z2 it will be complete. If you are interested in joining the taglist, feel free to leave a comment on this post or any future series post!

I also opened a Buy Me A Coffee page, there is absolutely zero pressure to donate to me, however if you are in a good place and choose to do so, it is greatly appreciated. I am a full time college student and I work two jobs, I spend almost all my free time that I am not with my partner on this series.

Thank you everyone who has read or interacted with this series, no matter how big or small. I love that people enjoy my writing!

HAVE AN AMAZING DAY GUYS!!!