icarryitin

[icarryitin]

missing the canyouniverse babies 🥺 hope you’re doing well!

yeah me too babe🧡 things are a bit tough for me rn so i’ve let it take a back seat for the time being - still writing, just not when i don’t feel up to it

love you though x

[icarryitin]

have not abandoned this blog (again)!! just temp-parenting another child i didn’t birth!!!

[icarryitin]

same anon here and dsjhfdj I love how sweet their relationship is and honestly their lives are so hectic and them being each other’s like safe space is so SO cute it’s just that evil and twisted urge in my brain that needs angst but those nerds love each other soooo much so obviously fluffy sweetness >>>>

oh no no i fully understand i have been an angst peddler my entire life i respect the angst goblin……..i suspect u may be pleased with the next instalment👀👀

[icarryitin]

they're so cute and sweet and perfect i need them to get into an argument WHO SAID THAT

it’s the way i’ve just read through my whole plan and realised there is not a SINGLE ARGUMENT😮😮😮

this feels illegal….perhaps it should be rectified…

[icarryitin]

Episode 7: Breakfast of Champions

okay okay lou’s comeback part 2 let’s try again🥴🥴

series masterlist

word count: 1.3k // warnings: like maybe 2 swear words, spencer has controversial breakfast opinions, that’s literally it

summary: a tradition is born on a dark winter morning.

“Are you home?”

“I -“ There’s a pause, a moment where you genuinely wonder if you imagined the voice on the other end, before its owner comes back, however unsure, “Yes.”

“Well, can you buzz me in? I’m freezing my ass off out here.” It’s not a lie, your words swirl in a foggy cloud in front of your face where you’re leaning into the building’s intercom. There’s another pause, longer this time, and you genuinely think he’s going to tell you to fuck off. Until the lock on the door disengages.

Turning up out of the blue is decidedly not your style. You like an invite, at least a week in advance, so that everyone has time to be prepared. So you can come up with a plan, arrive with a gift, nobody gets caught with their pants down. Literally or figuratively. But you’ve not been able to get the look on his face out of your head, and had a restless night’s sleep because of it. He hadn’t wanted to speak to anyone on the flight back, or once you’d landed - and you’ve been worried. Some cases are tougher than others, it’s clear that this one has hit him harder than most. So, naturally, you’ve ambushed him at the first available opportunity.

“Sure, come in.” Spencer’s still standing by his front door, gesturing you inside with a melodramatic sweep of his arm after you’ve already bustled your way in. You suspect it’s the longest sentence to come out of his mouth since yesterday.

You’ve been in his apartment before - swinging by to pick up files, or drop off baked goods from Penelope. The man himself makes a mean cupcake, so you’re pretty sure any delivery duties are mostly just one of her cunning plans to get you two together already. Her scheming is yet to pay off. But you’re struck, suddenly, by the image of him picking out the paint colour in the store. By the idea of him wobbling on the top rung of a step ladder to reach the high ceiling with a paintbrush. You have to shake off the sudden fondness of the idea before you can look at him, the ghost of a smile on your lips might be enough to clue him in. That, you can’t risk.

“Did you know you live near the cutest little diner in the city?” You ask, bone-cold hands shoved in the pockets of your coat to disguise the trembling.

Of course Spencer knows about the diner, he’s been there once a week since he moved in. But he lets you waffle on about coffee and pastries and pancakes. You look a little windburned, jacket done up to the top, scarf wrapped securely underneath - it’s cute. Not that he hasn’t already noticed exactly how cute you are. There’s just something about you all buttoned up that wakes up the butterflies lying dormant in him. You’re trying to hide your shivering, unsuccessfully, as you tell him it’s not far. He knows you didn’t just happen to be in the neighbourhood, at this time on a Sunday morning. He knows this is about the case.

It’s not the first time he’s been able to relate to an Unsub, as strange as it sounds, but anyone could argue that Spencer has the makings of one himself. Family history of mental illness, abandoned by his father, perpetually out of place even as an adult - check, check, double check. But where every Unsub has had nobody, Spencer has had the team. He’s had Hotch, and Morgan, and Gideon to guide him every step of the way. He’s had JJ and Penelope. He’s had you. There are still days where he doubts himself, doubts his own mind as he gets older, but there’s always somebody to pull him back from the ledge. That’s why the Unsub from the last case affected him so profoundly - they could have just as easily have been him. In another life.

You’re still talking, about the menu now. Unable to stop, just blurting out the breakfast list almost verbatim from the flyer that had been posted through your door. But you can’t leave without knowing he’ll be alright, you can’t. Whatever complicated feelings you have for him aside, he’s your friend. You want him to be okay. You don’t even notice him reaching for his coat where it hangs by the door.

“Sure, I could eat.” He interrupts you, thankfully.

“What?”

“Breakfast, let’s go.” Spencer says your name and brings you back to earth, the way only he can. His keys are snagged off of the side table as you sweep back past him and into the hallway. Would you call that a success? It’s close enough - didn’t tell you to go away, out of the house. You’re still not one hundred percent sure what it was that you were trying to achieve, but this’ll do.

You’re still trying to work out how to articulate yourself, even after you’ve ordered. Pancakes, of course. Spencer goes for french toast, smothered in so much maple syrup it threatens to turn your stomach - he claims the correct way to breakfast is to consume a week’s worth of sugar in one fell swoop, though just looking at his plate makes your teeth hurt. It’s easy to pretend nothing’s bothering either of you, over the gentle teasing and background noise as the rest of the city begins to wake, at least for a little while. Eventually, the contents of your plates dwindle and, even though the lull in conversation is comfortable, you have to break the silence.

Because you know, you know that maybe he doesn’t feel as close to you as he does the others. He’s known them longer, it makes sense if he’d rather talk to Derek, or JJ, or Penelope, or Emily.

“You started before Emily.” He interrupts you.

“By, like, a week,” You fix him with a frustrated look that has him suppressing a smile, “You’re missing the point.”

He’s not, you both know that. You’re trying to tell him that he can open up to you, if that’s what he wants - about anything, not just the cases that hit him square in the chest. It’s not true anyway, the idea that he’d value any other member of the team above you, but he doesn’t tell you that part. He lets you ramble on for however long you need to, the shoe on the other foot this time. Until you screech to a halt mid sentence.

It’s the way he’s looking at you across the table, like he knows something you don’t, that stops you in your tracks faster than an interruption ever could.

“What?”

He can’t tell you exactly what. That you look cute in the fluorescent lights, wide eyed and earnest, mid-monologue. That he’s never been quite on the same wavelength as anyone the way he is with you. That it feels like his heart grows ten sizes any time you so much as glance his way. No, he definitely can’t tell you that. He settles for something in the middle, comfortable enough for two people who spend far too much time together to be anything but very close friends, if not mildly complicated.

“You are not less to me than anyone, I need you to know that.” It’s about as close to the truth as he can get without vomiting up his feelings all over the table. There’ll be a time and a place for that - and it’s not nine in the morning at his favourite coffee spot. You don’t say anything for a moment, but he watches you employ your profiling skills to search for the lie in his face. He just keeps on looking at you until you’re satisfied in your investigation.

“I believe you.”

And, just like that, you pretend as if he hasn’t set your insides on fire and go back to your pancakes.

i’m starting to have very bizarre dreams i think i need to stop watching this damn show right before i go to bed😬

TAGLIST🧡

@evvy96 @theseerbetweenus

[icarryitin]

Rereading canyouniverse!Spencer and reader’s breakfast date entry and crying because THEY ARE SO IN LOVE 😭😭😭 I am so glad that you gave us something full of secret yearning yet still sort of fluffy since the next entry sounds angsty as hell 😣 Anyway, I adore your work and hope that you have a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful day 🤍

i’m actually obsessed with writing these chapters out of order because i can jump between the sweet/awkward early days secret crush moments such as those and the later chapters where they’re almost a decade older and it sHOWS

thank u so much for coming along for the ride my love🧡 you are absolutely correct that i WILL be flexing my angst muscles in the next part😘

[icarryitin]

hey hey!!! Just read through the can you universe and I want you to know what my soul is crushed in the best way possible!!! Utterly obsessed with everything about this, my chest is all warm and fuzzy!! 🫶🏼

dude i am not lying when i tell you i think about this universe all the time,,,she haunts me

but i’m very glad to be the one crushing ur soul, it’s an honour my friend🧡

[icarryitin]

Episode 7: Breakfast of Champions

okay okay lou’s comeback part 2 let’s try again🥴🥴

series masterlist

word count: 1.3k // warnings: like maybe 2 swear words, spencer has controversial breakfast opinions, that’s literally it

summary: a tradition is born on a dark winter morning.

“Are you home?”

“I -“ There’s a pause, a moment where you genuinely wonder if you imagined the voice on the other end, before its owner comes back, however unsure, “Yes.”

“Well, can you buzz me in? I’m freezing my ass off out here.” It’s not a lie, your words swirl in a foggy cloud in front of your face where you’re leaning into the building’s intercom. There’s another pause, longer this time, and you genuinely think he’s going to tell you to fuck off. Until the lock on the door disengages.

Turning up out of the blue is decidedly not your style. You like an invite, at least a week in advance, so that everyone has time to be prepared. So you can come up with a plan, arrive with a gift, nobody gets caught with their pants down. Literally or figuratively. But you’ve not been able to get the look on his face out of your head, and had a restless night’s sleep because of it. He hadn’t wanted to speak to anyone on the flight back, or once you’d landed - and you’ve been worried. Some cases are tougher than others, it’s clear that this one has hit him harder than most. So, naturally, you’ve ambushed him at the first available opportunity.

“Sure, come in.” Spencer’s still standing by his front door, gesturing you inside with a melodramatic sweep of his arm after you’ve already bustled your way in. You suspect it’s the longest sentence to come out of his mouth since yesterday.

You’ve been in his apartment before - swinging by to pick up files, or drop off baked goods from Penelope. The man himself makes a mean cupcake, so you’re pretty sure any delivery duties are mostly just one of her cunning plans to get you two together already. Her scheming is yet to pay off. But you’re struck, suddenly, by the image of him picking out the paint colour in the store. By the idea of him wobbling on the top rung of a step ladder to reach the high ceiling with a paintbrush. You have to shake off the sudden fondness of the idea before you can look at him, the ghost of a smile on your lips might be enough to clue him in. That, you can’t risk.

“Did you know you live near the cutest little diner in the city?” You ask, bone-cold hands shoved in the pockets of your coat to disguise the trembling.

Of course Spencer knows about the diner, he’s been there once a week since he moved in. But he lets you waffle on about coffee and pastries and pancakes. You look a little windburned, jacket done up to the top, scarf wrapped securely underneath - it’s cute. Not that he hasn’t already noticed exactly how cute you are. There’s just something about you all buttoned up that wakes up the butterflies lying dormant in him. You’re trying to hide your shivering, unsuccessfully, as you tell him it’s not far. He knows you didn’t just happen to be in the neighbourhood, at this time on a Sunday morning. He knows this is about the case.

It’s not the first time he’s been able to relate to an Unsub, as strange as it sounds, but anyone could argue that Spencer has the makings of one himself. Family history of mental illness, abandoned by his father, perpetually out of place even as an adult - check, check, double check. But where every Unsub has had nobody, Spencer has had the team. He’s had Hotch, and Morgan, and Gideon to guide him every step of the way. He’s had JJ and Penelope. He’s had you. There are still days where he doubts himself, doubts his own mind as he gets older, but there’s always somebody to pull him back from the ledge. That’s why the Unsub from the last case affected him so profoundly - they could have just as easily have been him. In another life.

You’re still talking, about the menu now. Unable to stop, just blurting out the breakfast list almost verbatim from the flyer that had been posted through your door. But you can’t leave without knowing he’ll be alright, you can’t. Whatever complicated feelings you have for him aside, he’s your friend. You want him to be okay. You don’t even notice him reaching for his coat where it hangs by the door.

“Sure, I could eat.” He interrupts you, thankfully.

“What?”

“Breakfast, let’s go.” Spencer says your name and brings you back to earth, the way only he can. His keys are snagged off of the side table as you sweep back past him and into the hallway. Would you call that a success? It’s close enough - didn’t tell you to go away, out of the house. You’re still not one hundred percent sure what it was that you were trying to achieve, but this’ll do.

You’re still trying to work out how to articulate yourself, even after you’ve ordered. Pancakes, of course. Spencer goes for french toast, smothered in so much maple syrup it threatens to turn your stomach - he claims the correct way to breakfast is to consume a week’s worth of sugar in one fell swoop, though just looking at his plate makes your teeth hurt. It’s easy to pretend nothing’s bothering either of you, over the gentle teasing and background noise as the rest of the city begins to wake, at least for a little while. Eventually, the contents of your plates dwindle and, even though the lull in conversation is comfortable, you have to break the silence.

Because you know, you know that maybe he doesn’t feel as close to you as he does the others. He’s known them longer, it makes sense if he’d rather talk to Derek, or JJ, or Penelope, or Emily.

“You started before Emily.” He interrupts you.

“By, like, a week,” You fix him with a frustrated look that has him suppressing a smile, “You’re missing the point.”

He’s not, you both know that. You’re trying to tell him that he can open up to you, if that’s what he wants - about anything, not just the cases that hit him square in the chest. It’s not true anyway, the idea that he’d value any other member of the team above you, but he doesn’t tell you that part. He lets you ramble on for however long you need to, the shoe on the other foot this time. Until you screech to a halt mid sentence.

It’s the way he’s looking at you across the table, like he knows something you don’t, that stops you in your tracks faster than an interruption ever could.

“What?”

He can’t tell you exactly what. That you look cute in the fluorescent lights, wide eyed and earnest, mid-monologue. That he’s never been quite on the same wavelength as anyone the way he is with you. That it feels like his heart grows ten sizes any time you so much as glance his way. No, he definitely can’t tell you that. He settles for something in the middle, comfortable enough for two people who spend far too much time together to be anything but very close friends, if not mildly complicated.

“You are not less to me than anyone, I need you to know that.” It’s about as close to the truth as he can get without vomiting up his feelings all over the table. There’ll be a time and a place for that - and it’s not nine in the morning at his favourite coffee spot. You don’t say anything for a moment, but he watches you employ your profiling skills to search for the lie in his face. He just keeps on looking at you until you’re satisfied in your investigation.

“I believe you.”

And, just like that, you pretend as if he hasn’t set your insides on fire and go back to your pancakes.

i’m starting to have very bizarre dreams i think i need to stop watching this damn show right before i go to bed😬

TAGLIST🧡

@evvy96 @theseerbetweenus

[icarryitin]

new chapter incoming bc i love u

i haven’t forgotten about you🧡

[icarryitin]

i haven’t forgotten about you🧡

[icarryitin]

OMG YES I LIKE MAEVE TOO I ONLY ASKED BECAUSE I AM A SUCKER FOR THE “TRYING TO MOVE ON WITH SOMEONE ELSE BECAUSE YOU THINK THAT THE ONE YOU LOVE DOES NOT RECIPROCATE THE FEELINGS” ANGST AND I CAN’T WAIT FOR IT 🤭

my take on this within the canyouniverse is sliiiiiiiiiiiiightly different than that but i hope you’ll like it anyhow🧡🧡

[icarryitin]

DOES MAEVE EXIST IN THE CANYOUNIVERSE? (IF YOU ARE WILLING TO ANSWER THIS OFC)

okay i want to preface this by saying this is a maeve stan blog and any slander of this angel will not be tolerated

but oF COURSE SHE EXISTS

i was rly in two minds about including her but ultimately i had to bc:

1. i love her

2. the entire maeve arc is so integral to spencer’s character and i firmly believe that he would have turned out so differently without her that there was no way shape or form i could write this and leave her out, as sad as it is it’s ultimately the loving and losing of her that is fundamental to his character development

threading the canyouniverse through this particular arc has been interesting but i think it works, it won’t be toooooooo much longer before we get into it (although we’re starting from the end😘)

[icarryitin]

is it disturbing that i immediately clocked that do not disturb was the part that got removed because i have the list memorised 😭

i’m actually honoured that you WOULD have the list memorised like…..you like my silly words that much???🥹🥹🥹

i genuinely do love the concept i had for do not disturb but it just would not fit into this universe no matter how hard i tried, she is however now on my list of oneshot ideas so she’ll see the light of day at some stage🧡🧡

[icarryitin]

Cross the Line

spencer reid/gn afab!reader

reader is still more or less a blank slate but i wrote this w my fellow thick girlies in mind, love you🧡 have fun defiling a sofa you whores🫡

(this is NOT a part of Can You…? but there is a new part coming next week so !!!)

masterlist

word count: 4.3k // warnings: 18+ pls this is straight up porn, afab reader bc work with what you’ve got, unprotected PIV and all the trimmings including fingering and a sneaky blowjob, too many feelings for something i meant to just be sexy

summary: Your friendship with Spencer reaches breaking point, and there’s no going back after this.

“This is a really bad idea.”

Oh, don’t you know it. But Spencer isn’t pulling back from you – still very much in your space for a man claiming that he shouldn’t be there in the first place.

Although he’s not touching you, not yet, the tension in the room is stretched so thin that you’re worried it’ll snap. There’s no going back after that. It’s all so fragile, this delicate thing between you, and you’re afraid that one wrong move will shatter it all beyond repair. The heavy rain of the summer thunderstorm pounding against your living room window does nothing to relieve the stifling pressure in the room. You want to tell him that you agree, it’s a very bad idea. You want to tell him goodnight, you’ll see him on Monday, you want to wave him towards the stairs of your apartment building and shut the door on him. Except no sound comes out when you open your mouth. Because you’re wound so tight, only by his proximity, by the warmth that leeches over you from having him so fucking close.

You close your mouth again, clear your throat, and frown at the tiniest twitch of his lips. Smug bastard isn’t a side of him you see often. It suits him, annoyingly.

It takes a gargantuan effort to peel your gaze from his mouth, to lock your eyes on his with an intensity he doesn’t expect. To his credit, he doesn’t falter all that noticeably, the catch of his breath only detectable by the barest shudder of his shoulders – but it’s nice to know you hold the same level of power over him as he does you. Maybe not nice, maybe a little bit dangerous, maybe a little bit like standing too close to the edge of a cliff. Adrenaline thundering through your veins, nerve endings on fire, daring one of you to take the leap. Spencer caves first, the slightest skim of his fingers against yours, and it’s game over.

You have no choice but to kiss that stupid little smile right off his face.

He’s taken by surprise when you surge forward to close the gap between your faces, stumbling a little with the force of it, but he catches you. Of course he does, just like always. This moment has been months in the making – eleven months, nine days, and six hours to be exact. Which he always is. From the second you waltzed into the bullpen with your smile and your eyes and your shiny new badge, and him? He has three PHDs to his name, thinking about a fourth, and yet even just the smell of your laundry detergent can render his mind completely blank of anything but you. He should hate it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pushes forward, pressing his lips to yours with fervour. All he can wonder is why it’s taken so long.

Kissing Spencer Reid is everything. You could do it forever. You probably won’t be that lucky, but you would if he let you. And, while his aversion to touch has never really seemed to apply to you, it’s as though he’s abandoned it completely – the thing about kissing Spencer Reid, you find, is that he’s all hands.

On your cheeks, your jaw, the back of your neck. Sliding down to grip at your upper arms, your elbows. He tugs you in even closer by them until there’s not a breath of air between your bodies. Until he can wind his arms around you completely. Your hands have trailed up to rest on his chest, fairly content to bask in the heat of him and the stuttering of his heartbeat under your fingertips. But it’s like he can’t decide where he wants to hold you. Just that he wants to leave no stone unturned, meticulously cataloguing every inch of your body by touch alone. He probably is, knowing him, committing you to memory. The thought makes you burn, as he grasps at your waist like his life depends on it. He’s not close enough – will never be close enough, you think. His lips part for a moment, just to catch his breath before he dives back in, and you seize the opportunity to lick along the reddened line of them. No, you can’t climb into his body and live there, but sticking your tongue in his mouth is a close second. You’ll just have to live with that.

Spencer’s gasp in response to the intrusion almost makes you draw back, almost. But you can’t go anywhere because he’s on you again, more enthusiastic than he ever was before, backing you up into your apartment. One hand abandons its post on your hip to turn the lock and slide the security chain into place on the front door – safety first, the action is hotter than you’d like to admit – and then it’s back with a vengeance until you’re sure he’s leaving bruises. You can’t find it in yourself to care.

Feet shuffle, hands fumble, you almost take the both of you down when the floorboards are interrupted by the lip of the living room rug. But the stumble isn’t worth pulling your face off of Spencer’s, not even for a second. Not until you have to manoeuvre around the coffee table to find the couch anyway.

You mumble a quiet ouch against his lips when the wooden corner of it digs into the back of your knee, and the chuckle you get in response makes your heart grow so big you’re worried it’ll burst your ribcage at the seams. Noses knocking into one another, you turn your face to scowl at the offending item of furniture, but a gentle touch to your jaw coaxes your eyes back to his. And you get it.

This is what everyone means when they say that he looks at you.

Spencer’s eyes are a shade darker in the low light, focused solely on your face. Your lips, your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, he’s studying you like there’s nothing else in the world worth looking at so closely. As if he doesn’t spend most of his working day looking at your face. As if it’s not enough. Even if you weren’t a profiler, the reverence he seems to regard you in would give him away. It’s not the heady pressure of the rolling thunder that’s making you sweat - it’s that look. Because it’s the one you get all the time, reserved just for you. Okay, maybe you had noticed, but you’ve always put it down to wishful thinking. Always had an excuse. It feels more intimate than sticking your tongue in his mouth, looking at him like this. So open, so vulnerable.

He lets you back him up, this time, taking the careful step or two backwards without breaking the eye contact until he can feel the fabric of your couch against his legs. Soft, even through the fabric of his trousers. Spencer expects you’ll feel much the same. There’s no struggle for the upper hand in the quiet of the room. Just the two of you, tentatively taking a step out into the unknown side by side. He lowers himself to sit, couch cushions giving way to his body exactly as softly as he expected, lacing his fingers through yours to take you with him. He doesn’t pull, but you follow him all the same. You let him guide you, settling a thigh either side of his own, balanced carefully on his lap. He won’t let you fall.

“Hi.” His throat is dry - his voice lower, more gravelly than he’s expecting, and he doesn’t have the wherewithal to catch his eyebrows before they can jerk up in surprise.

Your laugh is mesmerising, music to his ears. It washes over him as you raise your hands to cup his cheeks, smoothing his eyebrows with your thumbs.

“Hi,” Your own shaky tone betrays you, just a little, “You okay?”

He’s nodding even as he leans in to kiss you, to inhale you, to drown in you again.

Long fingers dig into the meat of your thighs and the shuddering groan that escapes your lips is absolutely involuntary, but Spencer swallows it without a second thought. Your hands are tight in his hair as his grip wanders to your hips and squeezes – you can’t help but grind down into his lap, feel the hardness of him beneath you. And suddenly, making out like horny teenagers isn’t enough. You have to pull back, however reluctantly, though you don’t stray far.

“Spencer,” You’re breathless, eyes still closed, lips still brushing his with every syllable, “I need you.”

The streetlight shining through the raindrops on the window casts a glow behind your head, Spencer’s heavy lidded eyes fanning it out like a lens flare in a film – like a halo. He’s always thought you had one.

“You have me, you’ve always had me. Are you sure?” He wants to cringe at the question, sure that it’ll send you flying out of his lap, but he has to be certain. He has to know that this isn’t stress relief after the case, that it’s not because he’s right in front of you, that your insides churn every time you look at him the way his tie themselves into knots over you. Your responding smile is fond, one hand sliding down from his hair to swipe your index finger down the length of his nose and he can’t help the upturn of his own lips. In spite of it all, his anxiety dissolves completely, withering and dying under your sincere gaze.

“I’m sure.”

That’s all he needs to hear.

The absence of his hold on you is startling, goosebumps raising on your hips the moment his warm hands move to the buttons of your shirt. To be fair, you’re not much better yourself, already tugging at the knot of his tie until you can slip it over his head. Somewhere in the midst of scrambling fingers and wriggling stiff fabric out of waistbands, you end up buttoning your shirt to his, getting tangled in the both of them when you start wrestling the thing off of his shoulders.

It breaks the tension in the room; the stakes don’t seem quite as high when you’re both wrapped up in your shirts, giggling. Spencer’s dexterous fingers find the culprit, one of your buttons caught in the fastening of one of his, and release it. White and burgundy cotton falling away to reveal you to each other. Dishevelled, grinning, absolutely at ease with one another’s closeness. He looks like he wants to say something else but, whatever it is, he holds it back. You don’t know if things will go beyond tonight, but it’d be worth the mountain of HR paperwork to see him this free even just once more. With anyone else, you might be embarrassed - but this is Spencer.

Spencer, who knows you.

Spencer, who has seen you laugh and cry and scream. You’ve celebrated together, fretted together, grieved together. He’s seen you on your absolute best days, your absolute worst. There’s nothing you’d want to hide from him, so you don’t shy away when he leans forward to latch his lips onto your neck. When he skims his fingers across the skin of your collarbone and leaves a trail of heat and goosebumps behind all at the same time. In much the same way that he preens at your touch, he seems to lean into your hands as you swipe them along his shoulders and down the planes of his chest. Something both known and unknown slots into place. You know what it is, you’re fairly confident he knows what it is, but neither of you will voice it. You don’t think it needs to be. You both know, and that’s enough for now.

At least you don’t get tangled up in anything else, although your jeans fight to the last as they get tugged over your bent knees. You haven’t got the patience to shimmy your underwear off, mostly because he’s already got his hands on you, fingers trailing between your skin and the elastic at your hips. So he’s a tease, now that makes sense.

Lightning fractures the night outside of your darkened window at the same moment Spencer slips his hand down below the elastic of your underwear. His fingers are cold against you, squashed between your weight and his lap, but he manages to swipe them through your folds decisively enough for you to shudder. You’ve already soaked through the cotton, the anticipation had begun the moment he offered to walk you home with that look. Every step since then has only added to your arousal, and it takes no effort at all for him to begin circling your clit with his fingertip. Delicate, deliberate. He’s making you squirm on purpose, wallowing in every whine that escapes your lips and every one you hold back. Your forehead drops to his shoulder as he presses a little more firmly, beginning to alternate between slow circles and dipping his fingers down to tease at your entrance.

You’re so turned on, you think you might die. Genuinely. You’re half convinced that you’re winding closer and closer to a heart attack with every swipe of the good doctor’s fingers against you, that you’ll seize up and go into cardiac arrest at any moment. You need him to do something. You’re teetering on the brink of no return, you need him to push you.

“Spencer.” You breathe as he finally, finally, slides his fingers home inside of you. His thumb takes its place over your clit, digits working gently but relentlessly in tandem with one another.

“I know,” He replies softly, “Just let me make you feel good, okay?”

You can only push your face into his neck, whining in harmony with another crash of thunder from the heavens - you know how they feel. Only your crescendo is still being held at arm's length by the man underneath you. It’s rude, actually. Or hot, knowing he’s so focused on you and your pleasure that everything else has stopped existing to him. You’re not sure which option you’d lean towards. Tears start to sting at your lash line, of frustration, of overstimulation, of pleasure. You’re not sure. At least he notices when one solitary drop escapes to slide over his sternum, trailing down his naked chest. And then he doubles down, you’re not ready for it.

He plays you like a violin until you’re writhing, squirming, panting, until you can’t keep still for even a second. Just to show you that he could have done, this whole time. There’s no warning, no siren, no flashing lights or emergency broadcast - you’re cresting the wave before you even really know what’s happening. Nails digging into his shoulders, hips grinding down of their own accord, beads of sweat breaking out in your hairline. It’s downright cruel that it’s taken so long for you to gather the courage for making a move. Distantly, somewhere in your hazy mind, you hope you haven’t hurt him. At least you had the presence of mind to clamp your mouth shut rather than sinking your teeth into his neck. Another time, maybe.

Your faculties come back to you, slowly but surely, although you don’t find yourself any less insatiable than you were before your jeans found a home on the floor. Spencer catches your lips in a gentle kiss, all too innocent considering he’s pulling a very wet hand out of your underwear at the same time. You can’t pull your eyes away when he pulls back to hold it between your faces, just to watch the glisten of them in the dull light, and runs his tongue up the length of his middle finger. It’s hypnotising. You chase him, knocking his hand out of the way to pull his face to yours again. There’s no air between you, skin on skin, as you kiss him for all he’s worth in the darkness of your living room. The taste of you lingers in his mouth, you don’t mind it. Not if it means you can inhale his every breath. And then, there’s the other thing. It won’t be ignored any further, although you’re sure Spencer would be more than happy to forego his own pleasure, if the blissed out look in his eye is anything to go by.

Still, selfishly, you want to see.

One careful press of your hips into his has his eyes rolling back, head following to rest on the back of the couch. You don’t have the time to mourn his lips against yours, next mission already on track as you let your fingers wander beneath the elastic of his own under. He inhales sharply at the touch, head shooting back up, and locks eyes with you. There’s a challenge in there, somewhere under the apprehension of your next move. You pull your fingers away from him, elastic snapping against his hips, and rake his hair back from his face. Your relationship with Spencer has long since evolved past the need for words, so he knows what you mean when you look at him so carefully - it’s his choice. Another beat, another breath, and he smiles. He nods softly. His face scrunches when you lean forward to press a light kiss on the tip of his nose. It’s all far too innocent considering your hands are skimming back down to breach the band of his underwear, sliding underneath just enough to pull him out and - oh.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were into me.” The joke escapes you before you have a chance to stop it. He’s so hard it must be painful. The tip is flushed pink, giving way to smooth skin and ridged veins - you want him in your mouth. But there’s a nagging throb between your legs, less a want and more a need.

“I’d like to be.”

Your bark of laughter lights up the whole room, the city, the world. Maybe it’s a bit soon, but he wants to hear you laugh like that every day for the rest of his life. He wants to be the reason for it. God, he loves you. That’s what it is, ultimately. He wonders if you can see it in his face, the way he’s watching you, as your laughter dies but your easy smile remains. He isn’t nervous anymore. He doesn’t know why he ever was in the first place, he wants this - wants you, desperately. The decision is made when he grips at your hips again, pulling you up ever so gently onto your knees to hover above him. You pull the crotch of your underwear to the side, the chilled air that hits your slick makes you shudder involuntarily, as your other hand grips him gently to guide him. Spencer lowers you onto him slowly, eyes steady on your face.

It’s moments like this that he’s grateful for the willpower he’s cultivated over the years - because, the moment his cock hits your heat? When the head of him slips into you, when you hold yourself there for a moment, and when you steadily start to work yourself up and down? He’s done for, absolutely gone, already teetering on the edge of oblivion. You take a little more of him every time you sink down again, breathing quickening, until you can seat yourself flush in his lap. A sharp gasp escapes you, punching out of your lungs at the intrusion and he seizes the opportunity to surge forward. He kisses you deeply, a newfound fire burning in the pit of his stomach, and his grip on you turns bruising when you return the passion. Slowly, deeply, he starts to grind you down onto him, swallowing every moan and groan and whimper you let slip.

Though your movements stay steady, he’s hurtling towards his end far sooner than he wants to. Your fingers tangle in his hair, lips on his - not kissing anymore, just panting into each other’s mouths. A sheen of sweat is starting to develop along both of your bodies. Slick skin sliding together, and it feels so good. You feel so good. Hot and wet and tight around him, your scent in his nose, it’s all so overstimulating and nowhere near enough all at the same time. And he starts mumbling it all, tongue loosened by the pleasure, he doesn’t even know what he’s saying. Soft praises, whines, utter gibberish about how good you feel. He can’t stop, even when you giggle and press butterfly kisses to the words as they leave his lips. He wants to help you let go again, he wants to feel you squeeze around his cock the same way you did around his fingers, but he hasn’t got the presence of mind to do it. Not while he’s hanging over the edge the way he is.

A much more rational part of his mind, somewhere in the back, reminds him that he’s forgone the one cardinal rule of high school sex ed classes. In the spontaneous haste of it all, neither of you thought about a condom. He’s clean, obviously. He trusts you to be clean, obviously. But there’s still the question of where. Because he’s dangerously close and there’s going to come a point where it’s too late to ask. He doesn’t even realise he’s asked the question, in the middle of his mumbled monologue, until you’re answering him with your own question.

“Can I choose?” You interrupt his rambling with a wicked glint in your eye. In all honesty, you’re sure you could ask him anything in this moment, and his answer would be yes. Though, it turns out he’s only got the capacity to nod an affirmative.

“Oh my God…”

That’s all you get when you pull off of him suddenly, sinking to your knees on the carpet in front of him. Whatever it was that might have followed is cut off abruptly by your tongue swirling around the head of his cock.

He’s right on the edge, that much is obvious, it won’t take much - and there’s nothing more you want right now than to thoroughly unravel this man. Usually so put together, buttoned up, absolutely falling to pieces under your touch. While he’s a comfortable thickness, you’re not up to trying to swallow the length of him. Frankly, neither of you have the patience to torture him with the preparation it would take, not today at least. So you settle for wrapping your lips around the head, eyes locked on his furrowed brow as he watches you, and suck. Every swipe of your tongue over him drags another groan, gasp, whine of your name. It’s dangerous information, knowing how he sounds when he’s like this. You’re not sure you’ll be able to think of anything else for the rest of your life. Looking him in the eye over the next round table is going to be interesting, to say the least. It only takes one more swirl of your tongue over him to open the floodgates.

You swallow down every last drop he gives you, warm and tangy but not unpleasant, as his spine curves towards you. Another breathless chuckle, and he strokes a finger down the side of your face when you pull off of him with a satisfying pop. Your tongue pokes out automatically, just to prove to him that you did in fact take the lot - just to watch his eyes roll back in his head again.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” Spencer’s talking to himself more than he is you, as he hauls you back up and into his lap. Dick softening slowly between you, he doesn’t hesitate to kiss you again, to swipe his tongue through the remnants of himself on your lips.

“I’ve been around a while, thanks for noticing.” You’re joking, nipping at his jaw, shifting as the sticky mess between your legs begs you for a quick shower before bed. The amusement on your tongue dies when you open your eyes, to see him watching you again.

“Trust me,” He’s looking at you so earnestly, you’re worried you might cry, “I noticed you a long time ago.”

It’s early when you wake - when the world is bathed in that shade of blue that only seems to exist just before the sun rises. You’re warm. Tethered to the earth by the set of arms wrapped snugly around your middle, by the steady heartbeat beneath the chest where you rest your head. Spencer isn’t awake, not really, not yet. But he shifts as you snuffle in closer under the duvet and tighten your grip in the old Academy t-shirt he’d swiped from your closet. A soft press of lips against your forehead and you sigh contentedly, more than happy to let the morning waste away. Everything else can wait.

Or at least, you want to let it wait - the blaring ringtone of your work phone in the living room puts a relative damper on that particular plan.

“Let it ring.” Comes a tired voice from somewhere above your head. Craning your neck, you spot him blinking and bleary eyed in the morning light, and take a moment to savour it. Him. He turns his gaze to you, tired as it is, and smiles softer than you’ve ever seen. It’s unspoken, a silent agreement made just before sunrise in your bed. Whatever this is, you’re in it together. So you tug the neckline of the t-shirt down, just far enough to plant a kiss in the hollow of his throat before dragging yourself from his warmth to hunt down your screeching phone.

You’re twisting your key in the front door when he plucks up the courage to ask the looming question.

“Are we telling them, or not yet?” Watching fingers tighten around the strap of his messenger bag has your mind hurtling back to the night before, and exactly what those fingers were doing. You shrug, reaching over to untangle his anxious grip and loop his hands through yours. A smile, bright as the rising sun, breaks out on Spencer’s face. You can’t help but mirror it when you answer him.

“That depends on who you want to win the betting pool.”

“There’s a pool?”

fun fact the inspiration for this was i wanted to sit in spencer reid’s lap so now we all get to sit in spencer reid’s lap you’re welcome🧡

[icarryitin]

Episode 38: Feels Like Fire

spencer reid/gn!reader

you didn’t think i was going to put spencer through all the canon awfulness and not stick reader in the hospital at least once did you???

series masterlist

word count: 1.6k // warnings: reader gets shot, hospital scenes, blood, Anxiety™️ from just about everyone but mostly Reid, an awful lot of inner monologuing that i refuse to apologise for, does the L bomb count if nobody says it out loud?

summary: Spencer’s worst fear comes to life, and he can’t do anything but watch.

Nobody expects a crime scene, taped off and crawling with cops, to be a hostile situation. The latest dump site is only about an hour old, its crowd of onlookers only growing. Even so, he’s not looking at you when it happens - Spencer doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not. He tells himself it is, that he’s graciously been spared the visual of your body hitting the ground. That’s the first lie.

Because, if he had been watching, he’d have been able to pinpoint exactly where the bullet came from.

The sound, though - that unmistakable crack through the air, flesh tearing, the thud of skin on concrete. Your gargling, gasps for breath against the blood filling your lungs will haunt his nightmares.

He isn’t the first to get to you, it’s Tara who’s on her knees in the street beside you with her hands pressing down on your ribcage to staunch the bleeding. Tara, who has known you just inside of one week, holds your life in her hands whilst Spencer can only stand by the hood of the SUV - reeling.

Is this how you’ve felt, every time it’s been him on the wrong end of a bullet?

No, he knows that’s not true. Every time he’s been the one to go down, you’ve jumped into action. Or gotten mad at him, one of the two. And yet, for all the complicated feelings he has for you, he’s paralysed. Because it’s you. Unshakeable, indestructible, you. This isn’t supposed to happen. It’s an EMT bustling past him that finally kicks his brain into gear, medpack knocking into his shoulder.

Oh god, this must be terrifying for you.

It’s only now that he remembers your fear of medical procedures, or even anything adjacent. Hell, you’ve made Spencer go to the dentist with you for moral support more than once. A request he’s happy to fulfill. Dentist, doctor, everything. But right now, EMTs are sticking you with needles and he’s not there. All the times you’ve swallowed that fear to be beside him on his worst days, and he’s not beside you on yours. That’s what gets his feet moving, what wakes up his legs and carries him over to kneel by your head as an oxygen mask is pulled over your face.

Your blood soaks into the knees of his trousers, but he barely notices the sudden warmth of it.

“You’ll be okay, you have to let them do their job. You have to let them save you. You won’t be alone,” He hopes he sounds more confident than he feels, as your eyes search his face from behind the mask - you’re looking for something, he isn’t sure what it is, so he gives you the only thing he can think of, “I promise.”

You seem satisfied enough, for a moment. And then your eyes roll back into your head, and he hears the word crashing, and a pair of hands shove him away from where you’re convulsing on the ground. One of the paramedics straddles you, his compressions so aggressive that Spencer is sure your ribs are breaking. Another, gentler, set of hands finds his shoulders, helps him up. It’s JJ. She’s saying something, something reassuring probably, but he can’t hear her for the blood rushing through his eardrums. Stuck in panic mode in this dump site turned crime scene - someone could shoot him right now and he isn’t sure he’d notice.

You’re back, for now, CPR paused long enough to slide the neon orange backboard beneath you and move you onto the gurney. You might be having the worst day of your life, but you still have a heartbeat. Though, they’re not slowing down. The chances of this day becoming your last are still sky high, surgery is the only thing that can save you now. He can only hope you stay out of it long enough for them to get you there - lest they have to drag you, kicking and screaming, into the OR.

“Reid,” Hotch’s voice pulls his attention from the paramedics bundling you into the back of the ambulance, pulls him back to planet earth, “Can you work?”

“Yes.”

There it is, the second lie.

No, no he cannot work. Oh, there’s a part of him that wants to. But, then again, there’s a part of him that was loaded into an ambulance on blue lights and sirens. He barely makes it an hour before somebody has to speak up.

“Spencer, no offence, but you’re useless right now. Why don’t you go to the hospital, keep us updated?”

It’s true, but it hurts his pride a little to know that he’s not as subtle as he thinks. The supportive hand that Dave settles on his shoulder is enough to have his eyes stinging - Spencer wiggles out of the fatherly grip. He’ll go, it makes sense to have a presence when one of their own is down. That’s what he says. Everybody knows what he means.

“I should be listed as the emergency contact, Doctor Spencer Reid?” He’s muttering as he pulls out his wallet, dumping every form of identification he has on the desk. Driving license, credit card, FBI credentials, his goddamn library card. The receptionist picks out his driving license with a sympathetic little smile, it’s clear she’s trying to calm at least some of his anxiety with her even tone as she confirms someone will be through to speak to him soon. It doesn’t help.

You looked dead, lying on the wet concrete, blood turning the puddle beside you a murky brown. Somebody would have told him if that were true. No, you must be alive. The reason nobody’s out here to speak to him means that they’re still all in the OR saving your life. Right? Hoping is dangerous, but hope he does.

Spencer has been shot, more than once. He understands the pain - the sudden ripping, tearing, excruciating sensation that sweeps over you. It doesn’t matter where the bullet hits, your whole body gets consumed by fire. He could have lived his whole life without you knowing what it feels like.

But for now, he just exists in this horrible limbo - a place where you are both alive and dead and he feels like he’s the one bleeding out on the cold concrete. He hates it, hates it. And it doesn’t matter, ultimately, that he knows you’re more than likely not making it off the table; because until somebody tells him as much, that flickering glimmer of hope that you’ll be okay will simply not go out.

There was just so much blood.

Spencer doesn’t often pray. He understands the need some might feel, the idea of faith in a higher power and a bigger plan to avoid going completely insane in an unbound universe. But he has never really felt the need. A man of science and infallible knowledge, he knows that things will work out however they please and that neither he nor anyone else - deity or otherwise - can do anything to change it. But he prays now. The same request, over and over again, in his mind. Shaky elbows resting on shaky knees, shaky hands clasped together.

Please be okay.

Please be okay.

I love you. I’m so afraid of it.

Please be okay.

He doesn’t stop praying for hours. Not when the surgeons come out to speak with him. Not when he calls Morgan to update the team, not when he stumbles blindly after a nurse down the hallways. Not when he slumps in the chair beside your bed, and not when he grasps your cold hand in both of his.

“Lousy shot.” Your voice is hoarse, but it’s there. You’re there.

“What was that?” Spencer heard you, he always does, but the anxiety still coursing through his veins needs to hear you speak again - if only to make sure he isn’t hallucinating.

“I said he was a lousy shot,” You repeat, clearing your throat as you crack your eyes open against the bright white of the hospital room, “If you’re gonna kill me, kill me, don’t half ass it.”

You argue with him when the nurse comes in, the request to withdraw all narcotic medication raises every set of eyebrows in the room - except yours. You’re adamant about keeping a promise to a friend, you know it’ll hurt, you’re ready. And the look you give Spencer, when he suggests that your friend might let this one slide, could turn anybody to stone. Stubborn as a mule. It’s one of his favourite things about you. Well, it is when you’re not wincing with every breath you take.

“Don’t get shot again.” It’s been quiet for a little while, his hands still cradling yours. He squeezes your fingers as much as he dares with his whispered words.

“Can’t promise that, sweetheart, bit of an occupational hazard.”

It’s the first smile to crack his lips since the drive out to the dump site this morning. Or maybe it was yesterday morning now; he’s not sure. A callback to a dumb joke he once made, the first time he was the one laid up in a hospital bed with a bullet wound.

There’s a moment, where there’s something else to say. You both know what it is, but neither of you can let it break containment. So you let it hang there in the air between you. The way it has for years, maybe the way it always will. Until one of you, at least, gets brave enough.

And then Penelope appears in the doorway, misty eyed and flanked by the others in a swarm of Get Well balloons, and it’s gone. Floated out of the window on a cool breeze. Not forever, just until you’re both ready. But you know, and he knows, and so does everybody else.

every time i have to change my work password i just use the long form date that i changed it and now i have to write the day my fav f1 driver got sacked every morning for the next 6 months this is so much fun

[icarryitin]

Episode 24: Trade Deal

spencer reid/gn!reader

i started this bc i was ill and feeling sorry for myself and it turned into a very not to me not if it’s you kind of vibe, mostly bc i frankensteined a couple of my favourite translations of That Scene so they could have their own version🥰🥰

series masterlist

word count: 1.5k // warnings: reader has a cold and all the grossness that comes with it, spencer is so Cute™️ it causes me physical pain

summary: In which Spencer Reid, known germaphobe, pretends he doesn’t know exactly how many pathogens have made their home in your sinuses.

It starts with a scratchy throat on a Tuesday morning.

You don’t think much of it, blame it on seasonal allergies, knock back a multivitamin - you’re not about to be bested by a cough of all things. That is, until it gets to Friday afternoon. You’re trying, you really are. Your immune system has other plans.

“You stay right there, Patient Zero.”

Rossi’s comment would be funny if you didn’t think that laughing might trigger a coughing fit that could very well be the end of you, right there in the doorway of Hotch’s office. That’d be one hell of an epitaph - too stubborn to take a sick day, choked to death in boss’s office. Hotch, at least, already seems to know why you’re hovering.

“I’m-“

“Going home, I hope.” He interrupts you with all the fondness of a concerned father. You don’t have the energy to argue, or to hold up an unaffected front. The men standing by the window soften a little as they watch you visibly deflate. Dave promises to send you his Nonna’s minestrone recipe, there’s nothing it can’t cure; right now, though, you’re only thinking about your bed.

The well wishes follow you through the bullpen, old wives tales and family cures that have never failed. JJ tells you to sweeten your tea with honey, Derek swears that a hot water bottle on your back will work magic. Even Emily pipes up from behind her germ shield, the folder held across her face so you can only see her eyes, and tells you to take a hot shower first thing in the morning - the steam will clear you out for the day. There’s a chorus of agreement, or disagreement you’re not sure. It’s a struggle to hear much over the cotton wool in your ears.

“We’ll see, with any luck I’ll die in my sleep. Love you!” You sniffle as you back out of the office, feeling all kinds of sorry for yourself, and determined to make it as far as you can without touching anything. Lest you actually start the next plague.

Spencer watches you go, shuffling backwards out of the office and turning towards the elevators. He’d elected not to add his own suggestions to the plethora of options supplied by the rest of the team. Unable to focus on much beyond just how tired you look. You’ve been fighting this thing all week, he’d passed over his own supply of hand sanitiser only that morning when you ran out. Ultimately, you put up a good fight, but there’s no cure for a virus. It just has to run its course. Just like his own feelings.

Okay, maybe he shouldn’t be comparing a virus to whatever it is he feels for you. Has felt, will feel - if there’s an end to this tunnel, he can’t see it yet.

“What about you, Spence?”

JJ’s voice pulls him from his thoughts before he can start spiralling down that particular hole. It takes him a moment to recall what they’d been chattering about before your long overdue exit - drinks, right. Yeah, that’s not happening.

“I’m busy, actually.” He shrugs, content to miss out on one night in favour of the plan currently coming to fruition in his mind. They won’t miss him too much.

“Busy? You weren’t busy when we talked about it last week.” Emily makes no effort to conceal her surprise. To be fair to them, it’s not like him to blow them off. There’s just something that’s come up, something decidedly you shaped, that’s far more important.

“Yeah, I forgot. Sorry.”

Spencer doesn’t miss the look that JJ and Emily share, he doesn’t miss the eyebrow that Derek raises in his direction. He simply chooses to ignore them.

At least the walk to your apartment is short, there’s still heat leeching from the plastic bag around Spencer’s wrist as he fumbles with his keys. You’d given him a bright pink key cap, so he’d know which one was yours, as if he wouldn’t know anyway. Eidetic or not, that’s one he would have committed to memory. The excuse had been because he was helping you out whilst you were down an arm, takedown gone wrong, you’d dislocated your shoulder. And then you’d insisted he keep it, because someone should have your spare key, and he’s the least likely of the lot of you to lose it.

He thinks you might be asleep at first, open plan living area lit only by a salt lamp and a set of fairy lights draped over your kitchen window, it’s cosy. And then you appear in the bedroom doorway, wrapped in a jewel toned blanket. The low light is forgiving, but Spencer would be able to spot the bags under your eyes from a mile away. Without his glasses.

“I brought noodles.” He says as he turns back to set the steaming bag on your kitchen counter.

“I’m so gross right now.” As if to demonstrate your point, another cough racks your body. You just about manage to catch it under the swathes of blanket clutched in your fingers, but at least he can’t claim you’re not truly disgusting in this moment.

“I don’t mind.”

You’re so set on denying him entry that you don’t even really register what he said - Spencer Reid doesn’t mind that you’re ill. He doesn’t mind. A younger, healthier version of you would swoon. You might anyway, although that’s probably the vertigo talking.

“You’ll get sick.” Your rebuttal is weak, resolve crumbling. Warm noodles do sound pretty good right now.

“Will you let me help you, please?” It’s the firmest he’s ever been with you. No room for argument, doctor’s orders. So you have to relent. Not that you have much of a choice, he’s already pottering about in your kitchen in search of bowls. As if he doesn’t remember where they are.

“Did you get me a number three?” Your voice is brighter than he’s heard it all week.

“With extra toppings, of course.”

And those extra toppings go down a treat, of course they do.

Spencer watches you carefully as you eat - usually he’d be a little more subtle about it, but there’s not a lot that could pull your attention away from the bowl in your hands. You’re cross legged on the couch, blanket bunched around your middle, happy as a clam. Something his mother would say. He wonders what else she might say, what she might think about the abandonment of his germaphobia. Convenient, probably. Diana would say it with a raised eyebrow and a sly smile, the one that’s just for him. She has always liked you.

He promises he’ll be back tomorrow, once dishes are washed and leftovers are tucked neatly in your fridge, to make sure you get that hot shower Emily mentioned. The steam will definitely help, he’s read about it. Arguing with him would be pointless. You don’t have the energy, he’d only show up anyway, and it’s kind of nice to feel looked after. Spencer’s never failed to make you feel like that. You’re far too delirious to start thinking about that, not while he’s still standing in front of you at least. So you let him tuck you into bed, let him leave a glass of water on the table, let him dote. Pretending is a comfort when you feel as awful as you do. You’re already drifting off before he’s even ready to leave, content enough in your bed with the sound of him in the other room. Just, tinkering.

The sound of your front door opening rouses you the next morning, just about. Just enough to raise your head from your pillow and witness the sorry sight in your bedroom doorway.

Spencer’s trying - key word, trying - to suppress his sniffles, but the red rimmed eyes and tissue clutched in his fist give him away. It’s impossible to keep the sad little smile off of your face.

“Oh no.” You reach out a tired arm to pat the space beside you. There’s enough room for the two of you in amongst the blankets, and Spencer’s so far gone that he doesn’t even argue. His shoes and bag find a home at the foot of your bed as he lets himself collapse into the nest you’ve built. Tension leeches out of his body the moment he hits the mattress.

You have to lean across him to get your phone, right arm outstretched over his back - you can feel the heat rising off of him through his sweater and yours. Fever, that’s day two. Which means he spent yesterday evening taking care of you whilst he began to feel worse and worse. Softie.

“Egg or no egg?”

There’s an affirmative grunt from where his face is buried in your blankets. Egg it is, then. You dial the number mostly from memory, elbow still resting on his shoulder blade when you put the phone to your ear. You feel a little better than you did, but dragging yourself to the front door is still probably all you’ll be capable of today. At least you won’t be suffering alone. The line rings for a moment, then clicks, and a grainy hello sounds from the other side.

“Hi, can I place a breakfast order for delivery, please?”

i’m stuck on which chapter to work on next, do we want angst or yearning or fun flirty activities????🧡

[icarryitin]

Episode 22: Comeback Kid

spencer reid/gn!reader

and if i’ve also come back from the dead (purely out of guilt for missing last week)??? what then??

series masterlist

word count: 1.2k // warnings: a few swear words i think, grief, discussions re emily’s ‘death’, it’s not specifically referenced but you could read reader’s reaction as a panic attack

summary - Turns out the dead do walk amongst the living, not that anyone thought to tell you.

You’re pretty sure you’re going to be sick. Which would be a shame, because these are new shoes. And they’re cute, even if they still pinch your toes a little, that and you’d rather not vomit in front of everyone else. Though, they all look just as green as you feel.

Emily Prentiss is dead.

You know this.

Because you collapsed when you saw them carrying her out of the warehouse, the fresh scars on your knees where they split open on the concrete prove it. Because she never came out of the hospital. Because you went to her funeral, to her wake. Because you barely held back your tears as you shook her mother’s hand, and stammered through an apology for her loss. Because the person you trust most in this world retreated so far into himself, so far away from you, that you spent weeks worrying he’d never come back. You’ve only just stopped having nightmares. Of warehouses, red and blue lights, Morgan’s bloodied hands. You’re still getting back into the swing of things - Spencer cracked his first smile in months only last week.

You know this. And yet, there she is. Standing in front of you as if no time has passed, as if you’re supposed to just forget all of that. Your eyes peel themselves away from Emily in the doorway to find Hotch, to search for any indication of how you’re supposed to react. Except he’s not shocked, he’s apprehensive. He knew - he fucking knew. There’s a rational part of your brain that isn’t surprised, there’s very little that happens on this earth that Aaron Hotchner isn’t privy to. But you don’t expect JJ to have the same nervous look on her face. JJ, the one who told you all that Emily hadn’t made it. Who looked her own team, her own family, in the face and lied to you. They both did; for safety, for security. Sure. It still hurts like hell.

Spencer’s hand tenses in the corner of your eye, knuckles white where he grips the back of the chair he stands behind. You’re afraid to look closer. To see him pull back again, from everyone this time, maybe for good. Your own hands shake where they wring themselves in front of you - that’s where you choose to focus your gaze. You don’t want to watch Penelope cry in Emily’s arms, you don’t want to see everybody else forgive and forget. You don’t want to look at her just yet.

You’re not ready.

But then there are warm hands around yours, and you can’t delay it any more. God, you want to stay mad. You want to be aloof and cold and stubborn - but she’s back, and isn’t that what you’ve wanted for the last however many months?

Emily’s grip on your clasped hands is so gentle it threatens to break your resolve. You’re holding strong, averting your eyes to the ceiling to keep the tears at bay.

“Breathe.”

That’s what gets you.

It’s not the first time Emily Prentiss has held your hands in hers and reminded you to take a breath - it drags you right back into a younger version of yourself, just as distraught, just as tense. Her calm, even tone shatters you the same way it did back then. She catches you the same way too, squeezes you so tightly it hurts. You’re not any lighter in your grip around her shoulders. The familiarity of it is painful, almost as painful as it is to watch Spencer take half a step back when she pulls away from you to approach him. Her disappointment at his rejection is clear on her face, although it disappears as quickly as it came - schooled into a tight-eyed smile instead. She’s not angry at him, you don’t think, she understands the hesitation.

It’s like an itch you can’t reach from the word go. Hyper-aware of every movement you make, every twitch from your teammates, every breath. The hammer will fall eventually, and the longer it takes the more mess it’ll make. It’s fairly easy, given the stakes, to skirt around Emily’s return for the time being - although it looms like a thundercloud. And then Ian Doyle is dead, and there’s no avoiding it anymore.

Spencer is the first one to leave the office, unsurprisingly. You’re next, only a minute later, the churning in your stomach far too strong to ignore. Now that there’s no case to distract you? Your anger is starting to build, it wouldn’t be fair to let everyone get swept up in the shockwave of it. The rational part of your brain knows that it was a necessary evil - that Hotch and JJ keeping this from you was for the safety of Emily and the team. The less rational part wants to throw a tantrum like a toddler. And if you don’t take the time to get yourself together, the toddler will win.

You’re sure Spencer had the same idea, when you exit the building to find him kicking stray pebbles back into the gravel surrounding the paving stones. So you don’t say anything as you pass, you leave him to his stewing. He doesn’t extend you the same courtesy.

“Where do you land on this?” His eyes are wide, earnest, he’s genuinely curious. He’s not looking for an argument or an excuse to rant about it all, he’s unsure.

“I feel sick,” You can’t be anything but honest, “I know why they did it, but I don’t have to like it.”

Spencer says nothing, just looks back at the pebbles on the ground.

“Neither do you.” You double down - he gives reassurance so freely, but so rarely asks for it himself. He’s allowed to feel whichever way he wants for however long he wants to feel it, you’re sure Emily would say the same. Though he only shrugs when you tell him so.

There’s not a lot anyone could say to dig him out of the hole he’s sinking back into, but you’re stubborn when it comes to your friends. Spencer, a little more so maybe than the others. He’d do it for you. The offer of pizza, via the library that stays open late, is enough to raise his head from the pebbles by his shoes.

A book, dinner, and absolutely no expectation of conversation. You’re not all that up to talking things over either, parallel dissociation in a public space might just be exactly what the doctor ordered. Pun half-intended. It doesn’t quite tug a smile out of him, though you’re not expecting it to. His careful footsteps on the pavement, just behind yours, are a comfort. He’s not pulling away like before.

Whether or not Spencer will ever address that is a different question - those weeks where he barely existed to himself, let alone anybody else. Much less you, who would have unraveled his careful shield of apathy with one look. It had been better, safer, to pull back entirely. He’d put it all on JJ, and she’d known the whole time. There’s a wave of fresh anger that crests in his chest when he remembers. The fury dulls the further you lead him away from the building, further into town, towards the safety of bookshelves and cheap Italian food. He wants to apologise for it all, but words fail him. They do more often than not when it comes to you, a superpower you seem to use for evil whether you know it or not. But tonight, he’ll take it. The silence. Because it’ll all be there in the morning, all the complicated feelings and confusion, he doesn’t have to say a single thing for the rest of the night if he doesn’t want to.

For now, he can rest with you.

i didn’t know how to wrap this one up and it SHOWS wow😬😬 i may or may not come back to revisit this…