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˚₊‧꒰ა ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ about me masterlist tiktok

#aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotch fanfiction #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #aaron hotch #aaron hotchner #reader #wattpad #fadee #fadee writes

guys im coming back this week. finishing ALL my fics PLUS a new banger

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #fadee #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst

h0lym01y

have you ever tried this one?

chapter two : human nature

series masterlist ao3 notification blog

pairing : virgin!spencer reid x maneater!reader

summary : conversations are happening over breakfast, and then dinner.

wc : 9k

tags/warning : enemies to enemies with benefits, pornwithplot (but no porn yet next chapter i promise lol), coworkers, fast burn?, virgin!spencer, experienced!reader, male masturbation, coming in pantssss, pervy!spencer, spit 🤤, lots and lots and lots of talking about sex, lowkey a moment of sweetness between them

a/n : this fic is shooting itself out of my brain at break neck speeds, i have no control over spencers actions at this point he has become his own person doing whatever he pleases

angelstatistic

ITS HERE PEOPLE ITS HERE

l0vinghimwasreid

cross your heart, won't tell no other

spencer reid x f!reader (she/her pronouns used for reader-insert) fluff/angst/hopeful ending wc: 7.7k a summer camp au

Week 1

Spencer doesn’t want to be here. He’s only been at Camp Starshine for a few days and still has the rest of the month to go. His mom made him come, and he’s not eighteen yet, so there was nothing he could really do about it. And he’s not one to defy or upset his mother, anyway.

Diana said he deserved one last good and normal summer before he graduates next year. She seemed to forget that he’s graduating from college next year, not from high school.

She comes to this camp every summer. She doesn’t play sports or ask her parents for any money during the school year, so they can afford to ship her off for the whole month of July. She’s intimately familiar with the grounds – knows every hidden path and secret spot like the back of her hand. Camp Starshine is her haven, her oasis.

She’s never seen him here before. It’s not odd for the camp to have a handful of newcomers each year, but what is odd is that she never sees him participating in any of the activities. She first saw him sitting at the base of her favorite tree with a book in his lap and a stack of more beside him. Does he know this isn’t a nerd camp?

i js read the most increadivle amazing ao3 piece it was immaculate.

#criminal minds #aaron hotch fanfiction

lov3lyl3tters

The Long Run

summary: You and Spencer can't stand each other... until a case forces you undercover as a newly engaged couple about to elope, the perfect bait for an unsub who hunts couples in love.

warning: Violence/canon-typical case content (kidnapping attempt, gun used, injury), description of a physical assault and resulting injury (sprained ankle, some blood/pain), brief mention of a serial killer's MO (couples found posed/murdered not graphic), hospital setting, mild language, fluff/hurt-comfort with a sweet ending, fake relationship.

word count: 4.1k

Authors note: guys I finally overcame the writer's block! This sorta came to me on a whim after a long time from not writing so it might not be my best work so please bear with me.

If you had to name the single most irritating person at the Behavioral Analysis Unit, you would not have hesitated. You wouldn't have even needed the full three seconds typically allotted for "thinking it over." The answer was, and had been since your first week, Dr. Spencer Reid.

It wasn't that he was unkind. It wasn't even that he was rude, not really — Spencer Reid didn't seem to possess a rude bone in his body, not on purpose, anyway. It was that he had an answer for everything, a statistic for everything, a gentle but relentless correction for everything, and somehow he managed to make being right feel like a personality flaw directed specifically at you.

"Actually, the average response time for—"

"I know, Reid."

"I was just going to say—"

"I know what you were going to say. You were going to say it's statistically four minutes longer in rural counties, and I was going to say thank you, I had already accounted for that, and then you were going to look at me like I'd personally offended Bayes' theorem."

Across the conference table, Morgan didn't even bother hiding his grin behind his coffee cup anymore. JJ had stopped trying to referee weeks ago. Even Hotch, usually a brick wall of patience, had developed a particular tell — a slow exhale through his nose — whenever the two of you were in a room together for longer than ninety seconds.

You didn't actually dislike Reid because he was wrong. That would've been easy. You disliked him because he was almost always right, and he had this maddening habit of being right at you, like it was a competitive sport and you were perpetually one point behind.

For his part, Spencer would have told you — calmly, and probably with a footnote — that he didn't dislike you either. He just found you needlessly combative. You challenged things he said not because you disagreed with the content, he'd pointed out once, but because he was the one saying it, which he found "an inefficient way to conduct a professional relationship."

You'd told him where he could put his efficiency.

So when Hotch stood at the head of the conference table that February morning and said the words "undercover" and "the two of you" in the same sentence, the silence that followed was not, by any measure, a comfortable one.

The case was ugly in the particular, quiet way the worst ones often were.

Three couples in a month, all in the D.C. metro area, all killed during the last week of January and the first week of February. All of them had been out at a bar — different bars, different neighborhoods — before they disappeared. All of them had been found together, posed with a strange, almost reverent care, in remote locations days later.

"He's not killing for anger," Reid said, pacing in front of the screen, hands gesturing the way they did when his brain was outrunning his mouth. "Or not only anger. Look at the positioning — hands intertwined, faces angled toward each other. He's curating something. He believes he's preserving them."

"Preserving what?" Morgan asked.

"Love," Reid said simply. "Real love. Whatever he thinks that is. Two of the three couples had been dating less than a month. The third had been engaged for two weeks. I think he's looking for couples at the beginning of something — before it can go wrong. Before it can become whatever made him angry enough to do this in the first place."

"A relationship that fell apart on him," Prentiss said. "Recently. Maybe permanently."

"February," JJ said quietly. "Valentine's season. He's punishing the holiday by recreating it the only way he can control."

Garcia had pulled surveillance footage from all three bars, and Hotch had spent an hour with a map and three colored pins before he found the pattern — a fourth bar, upscale, candlelit, the kind of place that did a brisk business in proposals and anniversaries, sitting almost exactly equidistant from the first three scenes. February 14th was six days away.

"We need eyes inside," Hotch said. "A couple. New relationship — recently engaged would fit his pattern best, and it gives us a built-in reason for the two of you to be alone together later in the evening, away from the rest of the team."

He didn't look at anyone in particular when he said the two of you. He didn't have to.

You felt Reid go very still beside you.

"Sir," you started.

"I'm aware," Hotch said, in a tone that made it clear the conversation was, as far as he was concerned, already over. "Garcia's pulling backstories. You'll start prep this afternoon."

Prep did not go well.

It did not go well on day one, when the team's profiler-slash-acting-coach — a former undercover agent named Diane with the patience of a saint and the eyebrows of someone rapidly losing it — tried to get the two of you to simply hold hands across a table, and you both reached at the same time, fumbled, and ended up in some kind of half-handshake that made Morgan actually put his head down on his desk.

It did not go well on day two, when Diane had you run through the cover story — Spencer proposed three weeks ago, you're eloping in five days, you haven't told your families yet — and Reid recited the entire backstory Garcia had built, verbatim, including the exact date and carat weight of the (fake) ring, in the flat, bloodless cadence of a man reading a phone book.

"Spencer," Diane said, very slowly, like she was talking to a man on a ledge, "people don't propose like they're presenting a thesis defense."

"I'm aware of the standard romantic conventions," Reid said, a little stiffly. "I just don't have a frame of reference for—" he gestured vaguely between the two of you "—this."

"This being me," you said.

"This being anyone," he said, which, you noted, was somehow worse.

Day three was the argument about the ring.

It was a small thing. It shouldn't have mattered. But when Diane slid the prop ring across the table for you to put on, Reid reached for your hand to do it himself — "for verisimilitude," he said, already going faintly pink — and you pulled back on instinct, hard enough that you nearly knocked your coffee into his lap, and said something about personal space that came out sharper than you meant it to.

"I was trying to help," he said.

"You don't get to just grab my hand, Reid."

"It's a fake engagement."

"It's still my hand!"

"I'm aware it's your hand, I wasn't suggesting it was someone else's hand, I was simply attempting to—"

"Oh my God—"

"ENOUGH."

Hotch's voice cut through the bullpen like a blade. He'd come down from his office at some point during the shouting — neither of you had noticed — and he was standing at the edge of the room with his arms crossed and an expression that made even Morgan sit up straighter.

"Three days," Hotch said, low and even, which was somehow more frightening than if he'd yelled. "Three days, and you two have managed to turn a counter-surveillance briefing into a daytime talk show. There are two more couples this man is going to find before he finds anyone else, if we're lucky, and the only thing standing between him and a fourth crime scene is whether the two of you can manage to act like adults for four hours."

The room had gone very quiet.

"I don't care if you like each other," Hotch went on. "I don't care if you've never liked each other. I care that three days from now, a man who has killed six people is going to be in a room with the two of you, and he is very, very good at recognizing what's real and what isn't. If he sees through this — if he sees anything — he disappears, and someone else dies in his place. So either find a way to make this work, or I will pull both of you off this case and put Morgan in the suit, and I promise you, neither of you wants that outcome."

He didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked back up the stairs, and the bullpen stayed silent for a long, long moment.

You looked at Reid. Reid looked at you.

"He's right," Reid said quietly. It was the first time in three days either of you had said something the other didn't immediately want to argue with.

"Yeah," you said. "He is."

Something shifted, after that. Not all at once — you didn't suddenly like each other, not exactly — but something about the shape of the antagonism changed. It got quieter. More careful.

You started running lines in an empty conference room after hours, just the two of you, without Diane hovering. Reid stopped reciting the backstory like a deposition and started, slowly, to actually tell it — the version where he'd taken you to the little Italian place you'd gone on your first date (a real detail, lifted from your actual file, which had made you laugh the first time he said it, surprised that he'd noticed), the version where he'd been so nervous he'd nearly dropped the ring into his pasta.

"That's actually not bad," you admitted, the third night.

"I have a good memory," he said, which you both already knew, but it landed differently this time — less like a brag, more like an offering.

You worked on the small things. The way he was supposed to look at you — not staring, Diane had said, soft, like you were something he still couldn't quite believe he got to keep. The way you were supposed to lean into him, not performatively, just naturally, the way people who'd spent a thousand quiet evenings together did. He learned your real laugh, the one that came out before you could stop it, and started, without meaning to, trying to provoke it on purpose. You learned that his hands moved when he talked even when he was trying to hold them still, and that if you put your hand over his, just lightly, just for a second, it grounded him.

By the fourth night, when Diane ran you through the scenario one last time — bar, drinks, the easy physical familiarity of two people who'd been a unit for years — you got through the entire thing without a single argument.

"Better," Hotch said, watching from the doorway. It was the closest thing to a compliment either of you had gotten from him all week, and for some reason it made your chest feel strange and warm.

Reid caught your eye across the table, and — for the first time since you'd known him — he smiled at you like it was easy.

The bar was warm and golden and exactly the kind of place that smelled like candle wax and good whiskey, low lights and lower music, the kind of place where every table held a couple leaning in close. You wore a dress you'd never have chosen for yourself and the prop ring, which Reid had, this time, slid onto your finger without either of you flinching — his hands had been steady, and warm, and he'd looked up at you afterward like he was checking that it was okay, and something about that had settled low and warm in your chest in a way you didn't examine too closely.

The earpieces were nearly invisible. Morgan and Prentiss were two tables over, pretending to argue about a bachelor party. JJ was at the bar. Hotch and Rossi were outside, in a sedan across the street, watching the door.

And Spencer—

Spencer was good at this. Better than you'd expected, better than four days of stilted rehearsal had suggested he could be. He laughed at something you said — actually laughed, head tipping back slightly, and you felt the warmth of his hand find yours on the table, thumb tracing absent careful circles over your knuckles, and for one disorienting moment you forgot it was a performance at all.

"You're staring," you murmured, leaning in like you were sharing something private.

"Occupational hazard," he murmured back, and the look on his face — soft, a little crooked, eyes crinkling at the corners — was so convincing that your stomach did something complicated and unfamiliar.

"Tone it down, Romeo," came Morgan's voice through the comm, dry as dust. "Some of us are trying to eat."

You bit back a laugh. Spencer's thumb moved over your knuckles again, and you let yourself lean into his shoulder, and it was — easy. Comfortable, even. You'd spent three years bracing against this man like he was a personal weather system, and now his arm was warm around you and his voice was low in your ear telling you about the chemical composition of the whiskey you were both pretending to drink, and you found, with some alarm, that you didn't want him to stop.

An hour in, your phone buzzed against the table. A real call — your sister, the screen said, bad timing, she didn't know about any of this.

"I should take this," you murmured, already standing, playing it for the room: I'm so sorry, work, you know how it is."Two minutes."

Spencer caught your hand before you fully pulled away — quick, light, just a press of his fingers against yours. "I'll be right here," he said, and it was soft, and real, in a way that had nothing to do with the case, and you felt it all the way down to your toes as you stepped outside into the cold.

The alley beside the bar was dark, the kind of dark that swallowed streetlight, and you'd barely gotten three words into the call — hey, can I call you back, I'm at— — when a hand closed around your arm from behind and yanked, hard, and the phone clattered out of your grip.

He was big. Bigger than you'd expected from the file photos, all of it muscle and momentum, and he had you off balance before you'd even processed what was happening. You twisted, drove your elbow back into something solid, heard him grunt — but he recovered fast, slammed you sideways into the brick wall of the alley with enough force that your vision went white at the edges and your ankle rolled hard underneath you, pain shooting up your leg in a way that made your knees buckle.

You fought anyway. Years of training kicked in even through the pain — you got a hand free, clawed for his face, twisted against his grip — but your leg wouldn't hold your weight, and every time you tried to get leverage it folded under you, and he was so much bigger, and for one cold, lucid second you thought, this is how it happens, this is exactly how he does it—

"FBI! Let her go!"

Spencer's voice cut through the alley like a gunshot, and the unsub froze for half a second — just long enough for you to see Spencer in the mouth of the alley, weapon drawn, both hands steady despite the way his chest was heaving like he'd run the whole way. "Get on the ground! Now!"

The man didn't get on the ground.

Instead he hauled you in front of him, one arm locking brutal and tight across your throat, and you felt cold metal — hisgun, pressed hard against your temple — and everything in the alley went very, very still.

"Drop it," the unsub said. "Drop it or she's done."

"Okay." Spencer's voice didn't shake. You'd remember that later — how steady it was, how his eyes never left yours, not the gun, you, like he was trying to tell you something with just a look. "Okay, I'm not going to drop it. But I need you to think about this. You don't actually want to do this. This isn't what you've been doing — you've been careful. You've been gentle. This—" his eyes flicked, just once, to the gun at your head, "—this isn't gentle. This isn't what you do."

"Shut up—"

"You're not angry at her," Spencer said, and his voice cracked slightly, just slightly, and you felt the arm at your throat tense. "You're angry at her — the one who left. The one who made you believe none of it was real. But she's not — I'mnot—" his breath caught, "—please. Please don't do this."

For one impossible second, the arm at your throat loosened — just a fraction, just enough —

Spencer fired.

The shot caught the unsub in the shoulder, and the impact spun him backward, his grip on you breaking entirely as he stumbled and went down hard against the dumpster, gun skittering across the asphalt. Your leg gave out the moment the pressure released and you went down too, hard, onto the cold ground, the pain in your ankle white-hot and sudden.

"Shots fired, shots fired, we need EMS to the east alley, NOW—" Morgan's voice, distant, through the comm still clipped to your jacket, and then there was noise everywhere — footsteps, shouting, Spencer's voice closer than anything—

He had the unsub's weapon kicked away and cuffed before you'd even gotten your breath back, and then he was on his knees beside you, hands hovering like he didn't know where it was safe to touch, his face white.

"Hey — hey, look at me, look at me," he said, and his hands found your face, gentle, careful, tilting your chin up. "Can you tell me your name? Do you know what day it is? I need you to follow my finger—"

"Spencer," you managed, half a laugh, half a wince, "I don't have a concussion, I just—" you gestured weakly at your ankle, which had already started to swell against your shoe, "—I think I broke something."

"Okay," he breathed, and some of the white drained out of his face, replaced by something raw and overwhelmed. "Okay. That's — okay. EMS is two minutes out. Don't move your foot, don't try to stand, I've got you—"

He didn't let go of your hand. Not when Morgan and Prentiss came pounding around the corner, not when JJ crouched beside you with her jacket to put under your head, not when the paramedics arrived and started checking your ankle and your pupils and your pulse. He stayed crouched beside you in the cold, your hand in both of his, and every time you looked at him he was already looking at you.

"You're okay," he said, like he was the one who needed convincing. "You're okay. You're okay."

The hospital was bright and too quiet after the alley. They'd confirmed a sprain — bad, but not broken, which the doctor delivered like good news and which you received with the kind of relief that made your eyes sting unexpectedly. They gave you something for the pain that made the edges of the room go soft and slow, and at some point between the X-ray and the brace, you'd fallen asleep.

You woke slowly, vaguely, aware of low voices somewhere nearby and the particular antiseptic hush of a hospital room at night. Your ankle was elevated and wrapped, dull and aching but bearable. The lights had been dimmed.

And there was a hand around yours.

You didn't open your eyes right away. You recognized the hand before you even fully registered it — the long fingers, the careful way they were holding yours, like you were something that might bruise if he held on too tight.

"—and statistically, response times like that, in an alley, in those conditions—" Spencer's voice, low, talking to no one, the words coming faster the longer he went, the way they did when his thoughts were running ahead of him and he couldn't quite catch up. "I should have been faster. I was faster, the data says I was faster than ninety-six percent of agents in comparable scenarios, but it didn't feel — it didn't feel fast enough, it felt like — "

He stopped. You heard him exhale, shaky.

"I keep thinking about what would've happened if I'd been thirty seconds later. I do the math and I keep getting answers I don't want." A pause. "I don't — I don't really know how to say this, and you're asleep, so I suppose this doesn't really count, which is — which is probably why I can say it at all." Another breath, unsteady. "I think I've spent three years arguing with you because it was easier than admitting I think about you more than I think about almost anything else. And tonight, when he had that gun on you, the only thing I could think — the only thing — was that I hadn't told you. That I might not get the chance to. And I just — I love you. I think I have for a long time. I just didn't — I didn't know how to—"

Your fingers tightened around his.

He went absolutely still.

"I love you too," you said, quiet, your voice rough with sleep, eyes still closed, because some part of you wasn't ready to see his face yet — wasn't sure you could handle whatever was on it. "For the record. In case that — in case that helps the math."

There was a long, stunned silence.

"You're — you're awake," he said, faintly.

"Mm. Was. For most of that, actually."

"Most of it—"

"Spencer."

"Yes?"

You opened your eyes. He was so close — he'd pulled his chair right up to the bed at some point — and he looked exhausted and rumpled and so achingly hopeful that something in your chest just... gave, all at once, like a held breath finally let go.

"I meant it," you said softly. "I really do. I—"

The door swung open.

"—okay, the doctor said we could come in for five minutes, and I swear if you've fallen asleep again I'm taking a picture for blackmail purposes, Garcia's been dying for—"

Morgan stopped dead in the doorway. Behind him, Prentiss, JJ, Rossi, and Hotch all piled to a halt in various states of crowding, and all six of you — well, all of them — went very, very quiet, staring at the bed.

At your hand. In Spencer's. Both of you frozen, both of you very obviously caught in the middle of something.

"...I'm gonna need everyone to back up," Morgan said, very slowly, a grin spreading across his face like sunrise, "and somebody needs to call Garcia, because she is not going to believe this—"

"Oh my God," you said, dropping your free hand over your face, even as Spencer, beside you, made a small strangled noise that was somehow both mortified and — you peeked through your fingers — absolutely, helplessly delighted.

"It's about time," Prentiss said, and JJ was already grinning, and even Rossi looked like Christmas had come early, and Hotch — Hotch, standing slightly behind the rest of them, arms crossed — allowed himself the smallest, driest almost-smile.

"I believe," he said, "I told you to find a way to make this work."

The teasing went on, gleeful and merciless, for a solid hour — Morgan re-enacting the hand-holding from the doorway no less than four times, Prentiss extracting a promise that she got to be the one to tell Garcia in person, JJ threatening, fondly, to frame the betting pool slip with both your names on it. Through all of it, Spencer didn't let go of your hand once, and every time you glanced at him he was a little pink, a little dazed, and smiling like he couldn't quite stop.

Eventually — mercifully — Hotch herded them all back out, with strict instructions that you needed rest, and the door clicked shut behind the last of them, and the room went quiet again.

Spencer turned back to you. The teasing-flush hadn't quite faded, but underneath it was something steadier — something that had been there, you realized now, for a long time, just waiting for either of you to stop being too stubborn to see it.

"So," he said softly. "Just to be clear. The part where you said you loved me — that wasn't the pain medication talking?"

"Spencer."

"I'm just confirming the variables—"

"Spencer."

He laughed — that real laugh, the one that crinkled his eyes — and leaned in, slow enough that you had every chance to stop him, which you didn't. His hand came up to brush gently against your cheek, and then he kissed you — soft, careful, like he still couldn't quite believe he was allowed to — and you felt that warm, settled feeling from the bar rush back tenfold, and you kissed him back, and somewhere in the back of your mind you thought, distantly, that you owed Hotch's irritation a great debt.

When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far — just rested his forehead against yours, breathing slow.

"For the record," he murmured, "I've wanted to do that for a lot longer than four days."

"Yeah," you said, smiling, eyes already drifting shut again, his hand still warm in yours. "Took you long enough, Reid."

aperrywilliams

Coming Home (Spencer Reid x Gn!Reader)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Gn!Reader.

Summary: A case finished, a rainy trip on the road, and a secret Spencer has kept from the team.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: Not really. Domestic fluff, food, wine, and coffee.

A/N: This was a request from a lovely anon. I hope you like it.

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mercurymk

A Shameless Distraction

You're evaluating and you want your boyfriend's attention... even if you know he's gonna lose control and be merciless :)

Read it on AO3 | Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Tags: Sm*t, Rough S*x, Orgasm Edging, Teasing, Orgasm Denial, Praise/Degradation, S*xual Overstimulation, Vaginal S*x, Oral S*x, Vaginal Fingering, Marking/Biting, Mild Blood, Dom/Top Spencer Reid, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple S*x Positions, Dry Humping/Thigh Riding, Aftercare, Spencer Reid is a menace, No thoughts just Spencer Reid losing his mind, The author had no mercy and neither did Spencer

Word count: 9.3k

Masterlist

Tag list: @maxsaturdayhatesnarwhals @hiddentattooodyssey

Mdni | If you wanna be added to the list just ask💓

Spencer is a man of logic, order and meticulous focus until you decide to push him too far. When you sabotage his paperwork and taunt him from just out of reach, you think you’ve won a petty game of attention... you haven't. You’ve just unleashed a ruthless possessive hunger that doesn't care about rules, boundaries or being gentle.

He is determined to strip away every shred of your stubborn pride, replacing your smug smiles with ragged screams and desperate begs, proving that the only thing more dangerous than provoking a monster is realizing how much you love being ruined by him.

spencereidluver

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 9)

Previous Parts: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8]

Routine

summary: You and Spencer settle into a new normal: 5:30am phone calls, coffee before work, and spending far more time together than either of you planned. Then the BAU gets called away for a week, and you're forced to confront the uncomfortable truth that you miss him. A lot. Meanwhile, Spencer discovers that borrowing a book from you is easy. Convincing his coworkers it was "just lunch" is significantly harder.

word count: 3.2k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise

deerfawnn

your hands are cold — spencer reid

summary: after his release from prison, spencer returns to a life that no longer feels like his own. haunted by what he’s endured, he doesn’t expect kindness, least of all from you. yet, little by little, spencer learns how to trust again… and it all starts with you.

pairing: spencer reid x sweetheart!reader content warnings: small age gap, maeve arc doesn't exist / never existed (sorry !!), spencer's trauma from prison is constantly mentioned a/n: hai lovelies !! i'm so sorry for this long ( unplanned ) hiatus, but i'm back with a series and i really hope you like it !! <3 i'm going to try my best to update it weekly, but no promises can be made as most chapters still need to be edited.

part one: blossoming chestnut trees

part two: a restless night

part three: because of me

part four: everything is new

part five : hope against hope

part six: one door closes

part seven: a dream upon waking

part eight: the secret in the wall

part nine: passage of time

part ten: stars and butterflies

part eleven: on top of the world

⁠₊˚⊹ᰔ series is complete!

spencereidluver

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 8)

Previous Parts: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7]

Parks, Planners, and Purple

summary: You and Spencer finally hang out just the two of you. On purpose. You meet at a park after a test, and you remember to bring your planner.

word count: 3.6k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise

violetrainbow412-blog

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐝

Spencer Reid x fem!reader

wc: 1.8k

summary: your boyfriend doesn't like seeing you work so late and tries to get you into bed at all costs.

masterlist

Spencer knew that with you, five more minutes never meant anything exact.

There were mornings when you asked to stay in bed for five more minutes and, when the alarm went off again, you convinced him to remain by your side with insistent kisses and arms wrapped around his waist. There were afternoons when you read together on the couch and begged him to continue the story for just five more minutes, even though you both knew you would end up reading an entire chapter.

But there were also those occasions when you had somewhere to be and assured him you would be ready in five minutes. Then you would surprise him by appearing at the door barely two minutes later, completely prepared.

However, there was one version of those five minutes that Spencer hated.

h0lym01y

HEADLOCK : ch. 3

chapter three : too late to stop

my ao3!

pairing : spencer reid x fem!reader

summary : You're on the hunt for an unsub who's forcing his victims to perform carnal acts or die. What you don't know is that he's set his sights on you and your colleague, Dr. Spencer Reid.

wc : 11k

tags/warnings : no use of y/n, dead dove do not eat, fuck or die, noncon/dubcon, nonconsensual filming, kidnapping, voyeurism, interrogation, mentions of vomit (nothing too graphic), blood, burns, torture, dental based horror, spanking (hand+belt), self mutilation, spencer and our heroine are lowkey starting to lose it.

authors note : CHECK THE TAGS ON THIS CHAPTER FOR WARNINGS

spencereidluver

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 7)

Previous Parts: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

Pumpkin Spice

summary: after ten days of solitude, you get a call. and a plan. and then you go behind your uncles back again. not because you don't love him, but because you think he was out of line.

word count: 3.3k

spencereidluver

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 6)

Previous Parts: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

Sticky Situation

summary: You’re uncle Rossi has figured out that you’ve been sneaking around with Spencer Reid for the past few weeks. And he is not happy.

word count: 3.3k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap in mind (i'm imagining 26 year old (s3) spencer and 18 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise, angst between reader and rossi, also angst between rossi in spencer in the second segment where it switches to his pov

benevolentbones

met you first | spencer reid x fem!reader

warning: slight angst, spencer feeling sad, awkward cute spencer

word count: 1.8k

summary: spencer tells the bau girls about a girl he met, morgan introduces his new girlfriend.

a/n: wrote this in one sitting at work, enjoy the angst. reblogs, comments and requests appreciated <3 comment to be added to my taglist!

the team was gathered at rossi’s mansion for his bi-monthly dinner party he liked to host. rossi was standing by the stove, tossing a pan of incredible smelling tomato sauce.

hotch was to his left, analysing every ingredient the older man added to the dish, trying to memorise it so he could recreate it for jack.

spencereidluver

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 4)

Previous Parts: [1] [2] [3]

Spencer's Birthday

summary: you, penelope, and spencer reid go out for his birthday.

word count: 5.4k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise, mutual pining, some angst between reader and rossi

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