⋆⭒˚.⋆ needle and thread - spencer reid x bombshell!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 after a near-fatal encounter on the field, you wake to find spencer at your bedside— shaken, unguarded, and revealing a side of himself you never expected. between confessions, defenses, and a nickname spoken too softly, the line between armor and intimacy begins to blur.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 cm typical violence, reader is attacked/drugged on the field, angsty stuff, spencer freaks out subtly, hospitals, very brief mentions of spencer past addiction, mutual pining, nicknames,
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 i felt that reader having this encounter worked really well with spencers past and it was a great opportunity to like lower both their defenses yay
𝐛𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
the case had felt wrong from the start. the kind of wrong that crawled under your skin, quiet and patient, waiting.
three overdoses in as many weeks, all staged to look like accidents— pills scattered across bathroom floors, needles abandoned in living rooms— but the toxicology never matched.
the case had taken you here, to a rotting warehouse on the river’s edge. and now, boxed in by a profile and the fbi, he had nowhere left to run.
the squad split at the entrance, their voices low but sharp in your earpiece.
“east wing’s clear,” emily murmured.
“second floor stairwell clear,” jj added.
“he’s cornered,” hotch’s voice cut through, calm and certain. “stay sharp. he’s escalating.”
you moved in deeper, feet crunching against loose gravel and broken glass. the air reeked of mildew and something wildly unpleasant.
metal beams groaned under the weight of the building, every creak echoing too loud in the dark. your weapon was steady in your hands, but your chest thrummed with adrenaline.
“he’s here,” spencer’s voice crackled softly in your ear. you pictured him in another hallway, long fingers wrapped tight around his gun, mind cataloguing every sound—
then morgan: “copy. keep your heads up. guy’s desperate.”
you swallowed against the dryness in your throat. desperate was the worst kind of cornered.
desperate men didn’t negotiate; they lunged.
you cut down one of the side aisles, rows of rusted machinery looming and the chatter in your earpiece dimmed as distance grew, until it was just your breath and the faint drip of water in the rafters.
your instincts screamed at the silence.
things were too still. too staged.
you swept your flashlight across the floor— discarded tools, then a scuff mark, fresh. a boot print dragging.
“west corner,” you whispered into your mic. “i’ve got sign.”
the air seemed to thicken, pressing in on your lungs. your fingers tightened around the grip of your gun, pulse tripping fast. you rolled your shoulders once, grounding yourself, then edged forward, each step a warning drumbeat in your head.
“come on,” you muttered under your breath, a prayer and a dare all at once. “just step out.”
your eyes caught a flicker of movement to the right, a blur in the shadows.
the unsub lunged before you could reset your stance, a blur of fury and raw strength. the impact knocked the gun clean out of your hand, clattering uselessly across the dock.
instinct roared louder than fear— you braced, meeting his momentum head-on, both hands locking around his wrists as he shoved against you. his strength dwarfed yours, the kind of brute force that made your muscles scream with effort.
a guttural sound tore from your throat as you fought to hold him back. his face was twisted, wild, and you knew deep in your gut, just by the look on his face— he wasn’t just trying to escape, he wanted to hurt you.
adrenaline surged hot through your chest. you drove a knee upward, hard, just enough to stagger him back. you spun, angling for distance— just long enough to regroup—
—but he was faster. you barely registered the movement before the syringe was in his hand, the glint of it enough to make your body fold in on itself. fear hit sharp and sudden, stealing the air from your lungs.
distance. distance. distance.
his grip closed around the back of your neck, firm, unyielding. a quick flick of his wrist, a flash of metal and before you could even register, the sting, sudden and precise, driving into your arm before you could pull away.
you hissed on instinct. the pain hit first, sharp, white-hot and then the realization as you glanced down catching a glimpse of the syringe sticking out your arm.
liquid fire spread under your skin, radiating outward in pulses that felt wrong.
his grip clamped down like iron, but instinct cut through the haze. you twisted hard, slammed your elbow into his ribs with everything you had left, just enough to loosen his grip and break free.
the needle still jutted from your arm. your hand hovered, trembling, before you yanked it out in one shaky motion. your vision blurred for half a second, your heart pounding too fast and uneven.
“fuck—“ you muttered to no one but yourself, looking at the small indent in your arm.
where the hell is everyone?
and then— boots thundered behind you, heavy, certain. morgan’s tackle sent the unsub crashing to the ground, concrete scraping, cuffs snapping shut in an echo that should have been final.
but your body wasn’t following the script.
your arm ached, the burn spreading wider, hotter, like the drug was rushing to stake its claim over your bloodstream.
your breath came too fast, chest rising unevenly.
keep it together. steady your breathing. don’t give them a reason to panic.
but the thought kept repeating, louder each time— you knew that if you had to remind yourself not to fall apart, it was because you already were.
morgan held the unsub down against the floor, cuffs shuffling with satisfying clicks before he turned, eyes scanning you.
your hand pressed hard over the puncture, like pressure alone could erase what just happened. you forced your voice even, swallowing past the thick, metallic taste in your mouth.
and then spencer was there, suddenly filling your periphery. he was already assessing, already unraveling you with his eyes.
“nothing, i—“ you cleared your throat, suddenly feeling as if you were swallowing rocks.
the stutter of your breath, the tremor in your fingers, the way your pupils seemed too slow to adjust under the warehouse lights. he recognized it all too well
“what was it?” his voice came low, urgent. “what did he inject you with? did you see the vial—?”
your body jolted at the sound, at the closeness. you flinched when his hand brushed your arm, though you weren’t sure if the shiver racing down your spine was the drug or the way spencer touched you like glass.
why was he looking at you like that?
“i don’t know. didn’t exactly ask him for the label.” your laugh came laced with familiar sarcasm. still, you fished the vial out of your pocket, extending it with a hand that betrayed you— shaking too violently.
“hey…” his brow creased deeper, gaze flicking from the vial to your hand. “you’re shaking—”
you shook your head, covering it with a small huff of a smile.
and suddenly the last thing he cared about was the vile.
the buzz in your head made you extend your free hand, keeping him back by a weak hand on his chest as you’re gaze fell to the ground “i’m okay.”
but okay was a lie. the ground tipped and swayed beneath you, gravity not where you left it. you breathed in and out heavily.
and he saw it— of course he did.
his stare pressed in, sharp and unyielding, and something in your chest caved under the weight of it.
you tried to twist your lips upward, make it look lighter than it felt. “i’ve got this.”
you wanted to believe it. you wanted him to believe it.
you felt his hand wrap around your wrist, gentle and cautious, but the edges of the world were already softening, bleeding together like water over ink. your legs turned to water, every step threatened to fold you in half.
just stand. just breathe.
breathe. breathe. breathe.
you blinked hard, trying to fix your vision on anything solid, and in a mild panic, you gaze landed on his face.
his eyes wide, pupils blown, terror written in every line.
his other hand hovered midair, trembling like he was fighting himself— like some muscle memory told him to grab you, hold you, keep you steady, but fear kept him frozen.
why does he look like that?
“i can’t—” the words stuck thick on your tongue, each syllable too heavy to drag out. the vial fell from your hand and your knees gave first, buckling beneath you, body folding sideways like the strings holding you up had been cut.
suddenly gravity was different—everything in you felt weighted, your arms, your chest, even your eyelids.
“damn it!—” spencer’s voice cracked, hands already there, catching you before the concrete could. his arms wrapped around you, one hand bracing your shoulder as he lowered you against him. “morgan! she’s going down!”
morgan’s answer thundered from somewhere far away, muffled under the roar in your ears. your pulse slammed in ragged bursts, then slowed, dragged, like your body couldn’t decide whether to fight or surrender.
spencer’s voice tore through the haze, a lifeline pulling at the edges of your slipping awareness. “emily, narcan, now! her pulse is— damn it— it’s crashing!”
your head lolled into the crook of his shoulder. your body refused to listen, limp and heavy, too tired to even flinch.
the light overhead stabbed into your eyes, so you turned instinctively, tucking into the shadow of his neck, hiding from the glare without meaning to.
the dark pressed in, soft but sudden, like drowning under a velvet tide. just a nap, your mind whispered, weak, but the thought shattered as voices crashed around you.
“she’s going out!” jj’s shout cracked sharp as a gunshot, crouching down beside spencer, her hand hovering helplessly near yours.
spencer’s palm pressed hard against your throat, searching, desperate. “her heart rate’s plummeting—we need reversal, now!” the last word broke off raw, almost a plea.
your chest stuttered, the rise and fall shallow, fragile. each breath dragged like glass.
“narcan’s coming!” emily’s voice rang out, fierce and fast, her boots hammering back from the SUV.
“keep her airway clear,” hotch snapped, clipped and steady in the way only he could be— an anchor against the panic seizing everyone else.
but spencer— spencer wasn’t steady.
his hands shook where they held you, his breath stuttered as he placed his plam against your head, holding you to him and watching every flicker of your chest, every twitch of your lips.
he wasn’t calm and he definitely wasn’t collected. not when it was you. not when he could feel the life bleeding slow and fragile against his fingertips.
you weren’t just another victim, not just another case file.
you were important in ways he couldn’t say out loud because he couldn’t even understand it. important in ways that broke him open now as you slipped further from him with every second.
“damn it, stay with me,” he muttered, half-command, half-prayer. his grip on your hand was white-knuckled, like he could force your pulse back just by holding on tighter.
his hands never left you— steady even when he wasn’t.
“i’ve got it!” emily’s voice cut sharp through the blur, the sound of plastic tearing and metal clattering against concrete.
spencer didn’t hesitate— his hands were already on you, steadying your jaw, tilting your head back just enough. “hold her still.”
emily was already moving, already jamming the injector into the side of your thigh.
a hiss. a burn. a split second of silence.
air tore back into your lungs all at once— your chest heaving like you’d been underwater for minutes. you coughed violently, a wet, tearing sound, body bowing against spencer’s hold.
“that’s it—come on, come on—” his voice was frantic, almost breaking, one hand cupping the back of your head to keep you upright as the other pressed flat against your sternum, feeling the stutter of your heart.
the world came back wrong. the warehouse lights stabbed into your skull, every sound echoing inside your head. your stomach lurched, bile sour at the back of your throat.
you choked on a gasp, hands clawing weakly at the air until spencer caught them, folding your trembling fingers into his. “it’s okay, i’ve got you—just breathe with me—”
your chest rattled, shudders tearing through you, as if your body couldn’t decide between fighting or collapsing again. the taste of metal coated your tongue, every nerve screaming awake too fast.
“easy, that’s it. you’re here. you’re safe.” spencer’s words were low, urgent, whispered against your hair like a mantra for himself as much as for you.
“pulse is climbing,” emily called, crouched low beside you both, relief tempered by the tension in her jaw. “narcan’s working.”
but spencer couldn’t look away from you—couldn’t stop holding on, couldn’t stop counting each ragged breath that clawed out of your chest. your face was pale, lips tinted with blue.
but you were here. you were alive
“i feel like shit,” you groaned, grimacing with every movement your body could make. spencer let out a wet chuckle.
and though your throat burned, though your voice was shredded, though you wanted to tease him, saying you had no choice in the matter, all you managed was a whisper, hoarse but steady enough to make his eyes snap back to yours.
“wasn’t planning on it doc,”
the world came back in fragments— first sound, then light, then the weight of your own body.
voices filtered through, muffled, indistinct, like they were on the other side of water. the sharp sting of antiseptic clung to the air, burning the back of your throat. you swallowed, but your mouth was desert-dry.
you tried shifting, though every muscle felt weighted, like gravity had doubled just for you. your eyelids dragged open halfway, thick and reluctant.
“hey.” a voice cut through— low, fragile, and closer than all the rest. “don’t move too fast.”
you blinked hard, forcing your eyes to focus. the curtain blurred into sterile white and then, finally, his face came into view.
he sat at your bedside, his knees angled awkwardly under the chair. his hands were knotted in his lap, gripping each other tight like if he loosened them, everything would fall apart.
“look at you,” you rasped, voice ragged and foreign in your throat. a crooked smirk tugged at your lips despite the ache in your chest. “still here. i'm starting to think you’re obsessed.”
normally, that line would’ve earned at least a twitch of amusement— some hint of that reluctant, awkward smile he always tried to hide when you teased him.
his expression didn’t shift; his eyes just stayed on you, sharp and restless, scanning your features like he was running diagnostics, like every flutter of your lashes or stumble in your breath was data he couldn’t afford to miss.
and it unnerved you more than the needle had.
because spencer reid wasn’t just watching. he was unraveling.
and you, broken voice and unsteady pulse, weren’t sure what scared you more: that you’d been taken down by a syringe in the dark or that you mattered enough to put that look in his eyes.
“like i got hit by a truck,”
he huffed a sudden laugh and although weak and nearly existent, you took it as a win. you smiled mumbling softly, “there you are,”
a silence stretched between the two of you, showing spencer struggle to find words or anything to ease your growing panic.
“you lost consciousness,” he said flatly, like stating it out loud would keep the memory anchored. “your pulse dropped. you stopped responding. do you—”
he cut himself off, jaw locking, throat working.
you blinked at him, the weight of his panic pressing heavier than any drug still dragging your body had.
“reid,” you whispered, softer now. “it was just a harmless nap.”
“don’t joke about that.” his voice snapped sharp before breaking low again. “don’t.”
for once, you didn’t have a quip ready. your smile fell as quick as it had appeared. you swallowed, gaze slipping to the ceiling.
“fine,” you murmured. “no jokes"
you swore to god if you had to sit through another second of silence you were going to start wishing that syringe killed you off.
“how long have you been here?” you asked, because said silence pressed too heavy on your chest.
it wasn’t curiosity so much as desperation— you needed noise, needed anything to fill the stillness between you.
“i—” he started, then stopped. his eyes didn’t lift to yours; they tracked the folds of the hospital blanket instead. “since you were out. three hours. maybe more..? i dont know— i lost track.”
you nodded slowly, your fingers working at the skin along your knuckles, little cracks that had started to sting. it gave you something to do, something to keep your hands from trembling.
spencer shifted, leaning forward, his palm pressed against his mouth as if holding himself together physically.
the silence stretched once again, taut as wire.
and then, almost too softly, he broke it. “i brought your makeup bag.”
your eyes flicked to him, startled enough that for a second you wondered if you’d misheard. “…what?”
“your makeup bag,” he repeated, a little clearer this time. “you usually keep it in your work purse. i thought you’d want it here— so when you woke up, you could…”
he trailed off, fumbling at the edges of his words like he was embarrassed to have said them out loud.
your heart gave a strange little lurch, something sharp and disobedient, as if your body understood more than your mind was willing to admit.
“way to charm a girl, reid.” you managed a smirk, your voice curling into its usual armor. “is this your way of saying that i look like crap?”
his eyes flickered, just for a second, down your face—your smudged mascara, the dark tint of your lips that was due more to the cold and remaining lipstick than anything else, the way your hair clung stubbornly at odd angles.
you braced for the usual stammer, for him to retreat. but instead, he shook his head, quiet but steady.
“no. i brought it because i know it makes you feel more like yourself,” he said, his words careful, deliberate.
then, after a beat that stretched too long to be casual “though, for the record you don’t need it.”
the sentence landed like a drop of ink in water, spreading slow and impossible to ignore. “there should also be some makeup wipes there too.”
there it was again— that raw, startling side of him you weren’t prepared for. the side that remembered, noticed, cared in ways you couldn’t dismiss with a joke.
the side that slipped past all your defenses before you even realized the gates were open.
and damn him for meaning it.
you leaned back against the pillows, letting the sterile sheets cradle you, but your gaze never left him. your lips curved, softer this time, no armor in sight. just a smile that felt almost shy.
he wasn’t sure if you were thanking him for the bag, for the words, or for simply sitting there like a guard at your bedside.
maybe it was all of it at once. maybe it didn’t matter.
the nickname, though— spence.
it slipped from your mouth so naturally, so unguarded, that it sent a current down his spine.
it wasn’t clinical, wasn’t the careful “reid” or “doc” he was used to from you, the name you wielded like a tease.
he nodded faintly, trying to keep his expression neutral, but inside his head was spinning and reeling in ways that couldn’t possibly be healthy.
“it’s, uhm—” spencer’s voice caught, quieter than the beeping down the hall. he adjusted his grip on his knee, fingers flexing restlessly. “i know it’s what i would’ve wanted when..”
you remained quiet. “when i realized that he had stuck the needle in you, it—” he stopped, jaw tightening, eyes flicking anywhere but you.
“it brought back… things. times when—” another cut-off, sharper this time, like the word itself burned.
he shifted, exhaling through his nose, trying again.
“there was a case. years ago. i know what it feels like when… when you don’t have control of what’s inside your own body.” his voice dipped lower, rawer. “i couldn’t stand someone else endure what i—“
he stopped himself, visibly locking the words behind his teeth.
something inside you twisted.
this was spencer—careful, awkward, brilliant spencer—sitting here confessing something jagged and heavy and completely unknown to you, showing you a corner of himself no one ever really showed.
you should have been terrified. not of him—never him—but of what it meant.
attachment meant danger. vulnerability meant loss.
yet, somehow, you didn’t want to run. you wanted to reach across that tiny, sterile space and peel back the rest of his words, see all the shadows he was hiding. you wanted to know.
that terrified you more than anything.
because you weren’t built for this. not the way he was. not with his wide-open honesty bleeding through the cracks, his devotion stitched into every syllable. you didn’t know how to hold something so real without fumbling it, breaking it.
this was getting out of hand.
you did what you always did.
“you don’t exactly make it easy to keep my edge, you know that?” you said, soft but tilted into teasing, your lips curling faintly.
“maybe that’s the point,” he smiled, this time truthfully.
“good luck with that,” you pursed your lips. “it’s gonna take more than some morphine and heartfelt talks to make me break.”
and though you hated yourself for it, you watched the heavy fog in his eyes lift just a fraction, retreating behind something safer. something lighter. something you knew how to deal with.
your chest throbbed, both with relief and regret.
“yeah?” you sank deeper into the pillows.
“thank you for telling me,”
baratheonpilled
jbbartram-illu
izzy806
dededos
