Spencer Reid x OFC (Hotchner Sister)
- Beautiful Things (Pt. 1) Complete!
- Couldn't Make It Any Harder (Pt. 2) Complete!
- Fast Times (Pt. 3) Complete!
- Make You Feel My Love (Pt. 4) In Progress!
- Just Give Me A Reason (Pt. 5) Coming Soon!
Spencer Reid x OFC (Gideon Daughter)
- Begin Again In Progress!
Character Study
- A Gender Analysis of Dr. Spencer Reid
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summary: It's been a week since Uncle Rossi's dinner party, and somehow Dr. Spencer Reid has become the most distracting person you've ever met. You can't focus on class, you can't stop thinking about him, and the sticky note with his phone number is quickly becoming your greatest enemy. Just when you've convinced yourself to stop being weird about a man you've met exactly once, you get a call. But it’s not from him…
word count: 1.8k
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
You wake up before your alarm on Monday. For a second, you’re brain is completely empty. Calm and relaxed. Static.
Then it isn’t.
Because Spencer Reid exists.
You groan immediately and roll over, shoving your face into your pillow.
“This is ridiculous.” You think to yourself.
You met him one time. ONCE. It was one dinner party. One conversation. A ‘Three and A Half, Definitely Not Four Hour Long’ conversation that solidified inside your mind that this was something worth obsessing over.
You stare at your ceiling.
Do you like him?
The question rolls through your head over and over again. It sounds so simple. Except every time you try to answer it, a follow-up question appears.
Like him how?
Like him? or… Like LIKE him?
Because there was a major difference. And you weren’t sure which question your brain was asking you. And it wasn’t clearing things up.
You liked Garcia.
You liked Emily.
You liked Morgan and JJ and Hotch.
You liked talking to all of them. You’d spent hours talking to Garcia, she was amazing.
So why was Spencer so different?
You groan again, rolling out of bed to shower.
_____
“I don’t even know anything about him.” you think as you run your brush through your hair.
Well, that’s not entirely true. You know a lot about him
You know he can identify Doctor Who merchandise from fifteen feet away.
And that he owns at least three different editions of DUNE.
You know he likes Issac Asimov.
And Arthur C. Clarke.
You know he can somehow make the history of science fiction publishing sound interesting.
And that he laughs quietly and smiles before he realizes he’s smiling.
And you know he talks faster when he’s passionate about something.
And that the pushes his glasses up when he’s excited.
You know all of that.
And yet somehow, you know nothing.
And you have to admit to yourself, Uncle Dave had a good point.
You don’t even know how old he is.
He looks young. But he’s old enough to be a Supervisory Special Agent in the FBI, and you know he was there since before your uncle returned. So you’re confused.
And you don’t even know if he’s single.
Not that it mattered of course.
Of course it didn’t matter.
_____
You’ve replayed the same fifteen minutes of your lecture video four times. You couldn’t tell someone what the professor said if your life depended on it.
Your brain keeps wandering.
Back to the dinner…back to your room…back to Spencer sitting cross-legged on your floor for three and a half, not four, hours…back to the way Spencer’s face lit up when you understood one of his references without needing any further explainations…back to the way he–SPENCER would look at you surprised that you’d want to keep listening to him talk.
You close your laptop. Because clearly nothing productive is happening today.
____
Dinner with your uncle went great. He’d made a quick meal after work, just a normal spaghetti dish, nothing too special about it, but David Rossi made it, so it was still delicious.
That was something that you’ve always loved about living with your uncle. His cooking, no matter how much prep time he put into it, was always delicious.
You sit at your desk, laptop still closed. You’re debating whether or not to try to start watching the lecture video again. Falling behind in class sounds like a bad idea.
The sticky note stares at you from the top left quadrant of your desk. Exactly where you;d left it. Spencer Reid’s handwriting stares back at you.
‘Call if you want to continue the Asimov debate’
Followed by eight numbers.
You brush your fingers over it. You could call. Right now. If you wanted to. Nobody would stop you.
The worst thing that could happen is he wouldn’t answer.
Or maybe he’d think it was weird. Or maybe he’d answer immediately.
Somehow the ladder feels significantly worse.
You stare at the number.
No.
If he wants to call, he can call. He has your number too.
That thought should make you feel better. Instead it makes you feel infinitely worse.
_____
You’re trying to fall asleep now. You’ve checked your phone seventeen times today.
Not because you’re expecting anything, obviously. That would be ridiculous.
He has your number. And you have his. And if he wanted to call he would.
“But what if he’s waiting on me?”
No.
You barely know him.
People don’t just call strangers.
Except you aren’t exactly strangers.
Except you kind of are.
But not really…
_____
A week goes by.
You spend every morning convincing yourself you’re going to stop thinking about Spencer Reid.
And you spend every night realizing you’ve failed.
Monday becomes Tuesday. Tuesday Becomes Wednesday. Then Thursday. And now it’s Friday morning. And it’s been 6 days since the dinner party. And your situation hasn’t improved at all.
You don’t call him. He doesn’t call you. The sticky note remains exactly where it has been.
Mocking you.
You tell yourself to be normal about this.
Then you immediately catch yourself wondering what he does when he isn’t working.
You wonder if he still wears his glasses at home.
You wonder how old he actually is.
And if he talks to everyone the way he talked to you.
You wonder if he remembers your conversations.
Or if he even thinks about you at all.
And that thought annoys you more than the others. Because there is absolutely no reason you should care.
You consider throwing the sticky note away. Not because you want to. But because you’re tired of looking at it.
You don’t throw it away. Obviously. But you think about it. And you don’t know if that is progress or pathetic.
Or both.
You wander down to the kitchen and start making coffee. Your uncle has long since left for work, and you’re alone for the day.
You’re staring at the dripping pot blankly when your phone rings in your pocket.
Your heart immediately leaps into your throat. Which is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. Because it could be anybody.
Your uncle. Your brother. A classmate. A telemarketer. Literally anybody.
Yet somehow your brain has already decided who it wants it to be.
You pull your phone out.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
Your stomach drops. Because of course it isn’t him.
You stare at the screen. The call rings once. Twice. Three times. You almost ignore it. Four times. Five times.
The last ring starts. You sigh and answer.
“Hello?” you say, disappointment painfully obvious in your voice.
The response is immediate. “Oh thank God, Hello gorgeous.”
You blink, confused. The voice is vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough for you to put a name to.
“Who is this?” You ask, voice more normal than disappointed now.
There’s a dramatic gasp on the other end of the phone. “Excuse me!?” The caller says, cartoonishly defensive.
“Should I know who this is?” You ask, beginning to wonder if this is just a prank call.
“Should you know–” They start to repeat what you say then cut themself off. “Honey I spent three and a half hours in your bedroom surrounded by tiny alien action figures and approximately seventeen thousand dollars of nerd memorabilia.”
Your eyes widen. “Garcia?” You say, excitedly.
It wasn’t Spencer, but it was the closest thing you knew to him.
“PENELOPE Garcia, yes,” she says dramatically. “The one and only. Queen of computers and glitter. And wearer of fabulous shoes.”
You laugh. “Sorry I didn’t recognize your voice.”
“That’s alright sweetness, I’m more recognizable visually anyways.”
You can hear typing in the background.
“How did you get my number?” you ask, not upset, just genuine curiosity.
“Crime.” Penelope says immediately.
“Aren’t you supposed to solve that at the FBI?”
She laughs. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding… Mostly.”
“Penelope?” you question.
She sighs dramatically. “Fine, your uncle has emergency contact information and I did some snooping.”
“That’s horrifying.” you say.
“I prefer impressive but take it as you will.” She laughs again.
You smile before you can think any further into how insane this is. It’s weird, you barely know her. But talking to Penelope feels like being swept into a tornado.
“So,” she says, slightly serious.
The word immediately puts you on edge. Because it sounds suspicious.
“...So?” you repeat.
“So,” she says again.
“No.”
“What do you mean ‘no’?”
“I know that tone.”
She makes a noise like a playful annoyed groan.
“So, Y/N,” she says.
“So, Penelope,” you say.
“How often have you thought about Spencer Reid today?”
You choke on your coffee.
“WHAT?”
“You heard me.”
“Did you go digging into my uncle’s file for my number just to ask me about Spencer?”
“No, I went digging into your uncle’s file for your number because I was thinking about my favorite Rossi and then after saying hi I started thinking about Boy Genius.”
You groan. She laughs.
“Come on,” she laughs.
“No.”
“How’s the Asimov debate going?”
You stare at your mug and sigh. “Poorly.”
“Why?”
“Because there hasn’t been an Asimov debate.”
She goes silent. The typing stops. You immediately know what’s coming.
“What,” you say, nervous about her taking so long to answer.
“You haven’t called him?” She says, a little too loud.
“No.”
“Not once? Have you texted him?”
“No.”
“Email? Fax? Carrier Pigeon?”
“None of that.”
“Has he called you?”
You hesitate, slightly embarrassed.
“No,” you say, voice quieter than before.
“I can’t believe him,” she says. “I should go scold him right this second.”
“Don’t!”
“You need to call him.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“That’s not a reason.”
Her voice softens a bit. It’s not quiet, but she’s never quiet.
“Y/N,” she says, “he talked about you for three days after dinner.”
Your stomach flips.
“...what?”
“Three entire days, Honey.” your heart is doing something annoying. “He kept bringing up the thing you’d talk about. Even though I was part of the conversation too.”
“Penelope,” you start.
“I think it’d be good for him.”
You pause.
“What would?” you ask her.
“A friend,” she says, all traces of her teasing tone are completely gone. “He doesn’t really have anybody outside of the team.”
That surprises you a little. You thought Spencer was funny. And smart. And kind. And… well… you stop that thought before it comes to fruition.
“I’ll think about it,” you say.
“That’s not a yes.”
“It’s not a no.”
“One more thing” Penelope says before the conversation can fully die.
“What’s that?” you ask.
“Spencer’s birthday.”
You blink. “What?”
“It’s his birthday.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t mention it being so soon.”
Penelope laughs. “Honey, his idea of a birthday celebration is staying home reading and pretending it isn’t his birthday.”
“Nobody is doing anything?” you ask, a little sad.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
You think for a second. Then another.
“No,” you say.
“No?” Penelope repeats.
“No.”
“I think I like that no.”
“He deserves a birthday.”
“And birthday’s require celebrating.”
“And if he won’t celebrate on his own…”
“We force him!”
“Woah, I don’t know about FORCE,” you laugh.
Penelope pauses. Then you can almost hear her smile.
“Are you free tonight?” she asks, mischeviously.
_____
Read Part 4 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: so I fear I am absolutely in love with writing this and I may or may not have about 15 parts in the beginning stages of an outline in my google docs rn... I literally cannot be normal about anything. But I hope you guys continue to like this (because I love it) and I hope you guys are ready for the ultimate slow burn of your life.
_____
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summary: you wake half-convinced that yesterday was a dream, but spencer reid and his shiny new wedding ring are quick to reassure you that it was all real—and forever has never looked so good.
genre: fluff | word count: 1.2k
tags: fem!reader, husband!spencer, newlyweds, just straight fluff, spencer is a wife guy, he's so in love it's disgusting, cuddling, title from a noah kahan song (duh), not proofread
notes: i don't usually write wedding/marriage fics, but i make an exception for spencer reid. he'd be such a whimsical little wife guy oh my god i hate him.
"And the edges of your soul, I haven't seen yet. Now I'm glad I get forever to see where you end." — Noah Kahan, Forever
For a moment, you aren’t sure where you are.
A bed, obviously. You can feel the plush of the mattress hugging your hip. The covers, freshly washed, covering your sleep-leaden limbs. Something’s thumping, steady, under your head. A heartbeat murmuring sweet nothings in your ear. A pair of strong lungs. Inhaling, exhaling. An arm around your waist. A hand on your shoulder.
Your eyelids fight against the last dregs of sleep, and you squint in the unwelcome face of the sun. It spills into the room through the sheer curtains, soaking you in its warmth and blinding you with its light. You shift, stiff joints groaning in protest, and press your face into his chest.
Bells. You remember bells. Confetti; the environmentally friendly kind. A bouquet of purple flowers, frozen mid-air in a hazy memory, landing in the reluctant hands of Emily Prentiss in another.
Something moves. His fingers are in your hair now, brushing through the strands with such painful gentleness it doesn’t even feel real. This is just another later of a dream, more warm and fuzzy scenarios created by your unconscious. It has to be, because nothing that is real could possibly feel so…sacred. It’s too perfect. You feel as though you’re floating, lighter than air.
Until the ache sets in. It’s in your head, dull and heavy, dragging you back down to earth, clouding your mind with a fog that extends beyond simple drowsiness. And with it comes a sore throat. A dry mouth. Can you be hungover in a dream? Surely not, that would just be cruel.
You groan. The sound reverberates in his chest, rattles his tender heart. You hear him chuckle.
“Ugh…time?” you mumble, voice hoarse.
“Ten thirty-two— no, thirty-three,” he says in a whisper, keeping his words soft, inoffensive, like he knows your condition without you needing to complain about it. He sounds awake, and he’s smiling—you can hear it.
With great effort, you raise your head, wincing as the light hits your face. His hand reaches out, casts a shadow over your eyes.
He isn’t smiling. He’s grinning.
“…hey.”
“Hey.” He tucks some of your hair behind your ear, brown eyes turned to gold in the sunlight; honey, like his voice. “How are you feeling?”
You lean into his touch, expression melting into a lazy smile. With a gentle sigh, you let your head sink back against his chest as you murmur, “’m good.”
Spencer’s arms wrap around you, holding you tight as he presses his nose to your hair. “Just good?”
“Great,” you correct, shaking your head. “Happy. The happiest.”
“That’s better.” He kisses the top of your head. “I’d feel like a failure if my wife weren’t the happiest the morning after the ceremony.”
His wife. You swear you feel the world tilt.
“I’d have to find a way to fix that,” he adds, letting his fingers trail down your spine.
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah,” he says. He’s trying to sound serious, and he isn’t doing a very good job. “That’s what Morgan kept telling me yesterday: happy wife, happy life.”
You huff out a short, breathy laugh. “And you’d take advice from Morgan?”
“Is it not true?”
“Oh, it’s true. Just…right message, wrong messenger, I guess.” You lift your head, meeting his gaze with a smile. “But I’m plenty happy. You’ve nothing to worry about there.”
“Good.” He fixes your hair again, smoothing any flyaways as he studies you with this look of intense focus, almost frowning, like he’s struggling to believe what he’s seeing, committing your every feature to memory in case you disappear. “And Morgan’s had some successful relationships.”
You hum. “Define successful for me, hon.”
“Having a favourable or desired outcome,” he says, not missing a beat. “Success is subjective, my love.”
“Mhm.” You nod slowly. “And Morgan’s idea of success is…”
“Intense, short-term relationships.”
“Right, of course. So, naturally, he’s the guy you’d go to for marriage advice.”
“I never said I sought him out,” he says, frowning. “I actually told him I wasn’t interested in any advice, or…pep talks. But he kept badgering me as I was getting ready.”
“That’s what the best man is for,” you muse with a solemn smile, “spewing unsolicited advice as he mops the sweat from your forehead.”
Spencer scoffs. “I wasn’t sweating.”
“You so were.”
“It was hot.”
“You were shitting yourself,” you say, brows raised. “Don’t lie to me, Doctor Reid.”
“Fine, Mrs Reid,” he concedes with a huff. “I may have been…shitting myself. A little bit. Figuratively.”
Mrs Reid. He’s trying to kill you.
You bite your lip, roll your eyes at the sight of his smug little smirk before trailing your fingers down his chest. Your wedding ring glimmers in the light as you draw lazy patterns along his skin. “I was shitting myself, too. Figuratively.”
“I didn’t notice,” he says. When you frown, he quickly adds, “I’m serious.”
“You’re a profiler,” you say.
“And you’re beautiful.”
He says it like it’s a fact. Concrete. Unchangeable.
You laugh. You have to; you might cry if you don’t. “And beauty is enough to render your years of profiling experience useless?”
“Only yours.”
Yup, definitely trying to kill you.
“You…” you shake your head, feeling your smile falter. It shifts into something raw, something fragile.
Spencer cups your cheek, holds you steady. Murmurs “I love you” in this agonisingly tender tone that only breaks you further.
You lean into him, closing your eyes as you admit in this small, quiet voice, “I thought it was a dream.”
“The wedding?”
“Mhm.”
“The whole thing?” he asks, amusement seeping into his tone. “Even the staff threatening to kick Morgan and Garcia out for indecency?”
“I have a…vivid imagination,” you say. You fall silent for a moment, pursing your lips, before adding, “But…I doubt I’d have been able to come up with those, um, vows of yours. You’d have made a fucking incredible renaissance poet. Proper…dramatic.”
He’s grinning again, pride swelling in his chest. “You wanna hear them again?”
“Do you want to make your wife cry?” you ask.
“Only if they’re happy wife tears.”
“Sadist.”
“I said happy tears. Come here.” He grabs your waist, shifts you so you’re lying on top of him, chest to chest. “Let me recite my vows, please.”
You glare at him, barely able to contain your smile. “You just want to show off.”
“Pshh, no.” He shakes his head adamantly. “I just want to make sure that you know just how grateful I am…that I get to be the one to spend forever with you. It’s an honour.”
The way his voice softens with each word has you closing your eyes, fighting back the stupid tears that threaten to spill if you keep looking at him. He brushes his thumb against your cheek, touch so light it feels almost reverent.
“And I want to show off, just a little.”
He laughs as you swat his hand away, hisses like you’ve hurt him. You shake your head, try to speak but your voice comes out all wobbly, so you hide your face in the crook of his neck, and you sniffle when he hugs you.
summary: You met Spencer Reid less than 24 hours ago, but it feels like everyone is aware of your feelings for each other except for you and him. Oh, and you’ve convinced your Uncle Rossi of it being nothing as well.
word count: 1.1k
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, kinda friendzoning, rossi getting upset at reader (but because he’s an overprotective father figure)
You wake up around 9:30am. The early October light bleeds through the window, a warm tint from the reflection of the trees turning their fall colors. You shuffle downstairs, wearing a pair of fuzzy socks and an oversized t-shirt,
The smell of coffee fills your nose as soon as you hit the landing of the stairs. Your uncle is already awake, sitting at the kitchen island with a newspaper, a coffee mug, and an unlit cigar in his mouth.
“Morning,” he says, voice muffled from the useless cigar.
“Morning,” you repeat, heading straight for the coffee maker. You find a little less than one mug full left in the pot, so you take it. You make yourself a bowl of yogurt, taking notice to the fact that your uncle hasn’t said another word, which is unlike him in the mornings. He usually tends to read the joke section of the daily newspaper aloud to you, and you usually fake laugh at the dry humor that only old people could possibly find funny.
He takes an unnecessarily loud sip of his coffee, clearly trying to draw your attention.
You look at him with one eyebrow raised. “Can I help you?” you ask.
He removes the cigar from his mouth. “How old is Spencer?”
You blink. “What?”
“Spencer,” he waves his cigar, “how old is he?”
You stare at him. “What kind of question is that?
“A simple one,” he says sternly.
“I don’t know.” You weren’t lying.
“You don’t know?” he repeats.
“No. I do not know how old Spencer is.” You sigh and take a bite of your yogurt.
“You spent four hours talking to him last night.”
“It was NOT four hours.”
It may have been four hours, you actually weren’t sure.
“It was absolutely four hours, Y/N.”
“It was maybe two.”
It was definitely longer than two, you knew that. But you also knew what your uncle was accusing you of. And you didn’t like it.
“Three and a half.” He says, argumentatively.
You roll your eyes. “Why are we talking about this?” You knew why.
Your uncle shrugs, though it looks forced. “Just making conversation.”
“No you’re not,” you say. Now it’s your turn to accuse him of something. “You’re interrogating me.”
“I am not,” he defends.
“You are too, what do you really want to ask me, Dave?” You say, more brash than you mean to be.
He stares at you for a moment, likely trying to gather his words. He sighs. “You seemed to enjoy talking to him.”
You groan. “There it is.”
“What?”
“That,” you point your spoon at him. “You don’t care that I spent the same amount of time talking with Penelope.”
He pauses, searching for his words. “Garcia wasn’t in your room until midnight.”
“Neither was Spencer,” you say.
That wasn’t quite a lie. Garcia left your room at 11:03pm to go talk to Morgan and Emily on the patio. Spencer was in your room until 11:57pm sitting cross legged on your bedroom floor with you debating whether Isaac Asimov or Arthur C. Clarke had the bigger impact on modern Sci-fi.
Your uncle gives you a look.
You point your spoon at him again. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what,” he asks.
“Don’t do the profiler face.”
“I’m not doing the profiler face.”
“You absolutely are.”
“Well, tell me then, Y/N,” he says, treating this way more like an interrogation that you feel he should. “Why am I doing the profiler face?”
You stare at him. “Because you think I have a crush on Spencer.”
The words hang in the air. He doesn’t deny it. Which tells you everything you need to know.
“Oh my god,” you say.
“What?” he asks.
“Are you serious?”
“You spent a lot of time with him.”
“So?”
“So yo–”
You throw your hands up, anger building from being accused of something that he has no idea about. “There is no ‘so’!” you exclaim.
“There usually is…”
You groan. “I met him yesterday.”
“You talked for three and a half hours.”
“I also talked to Garcia for three and half hours, you still don’t seem to have a problem with that.”
He ignores your statement. “What exactly did you talk about for three and a half hours?”
You stare at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m asking.”
“You’re collecting evidence.”
His mouth twitches; not quite the reaction you’d expect of an innocent man. But you know your uncle. And you know he won’t let you leave the island until you speak.
“We talked about Doctor Who.”
He nods, “I know.”
“Science fiction books.”
Another nod, another “I know.”
“You weren’t even there.”
“I was sometimes. And this house isn’t exactly soundproof.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “We talked about old movies, books, TV shows,” you set your spoon down. “And do you know what we didn’t talk about?”
You can tell by his face he knows where this is going, but you’re going to make him sit there and take it.
“What’s that,” he says.
You smile. “Dating.” he blinks. “Relationships, anything romantic in the slightest.” You lean back in your chair. “He was just nice.”
“Nice?” Rossi echoes.
“Yes. Nice.”
“He stayed until midnight.”
“Because we were in the middle of a conversation.”
He eyes you.
“About Isaac Asimov.”
He blinks. “Isaac Asimov?”
“Yes.”
“You stayed up until midnight talking about Isaac Asimov?”
“And Arthur C. Clarke.”
“You sound exactly like Reid.”
You smile. “I don’t know about that, I just think we’d be good friends.”
For a moment your uncle just stares at you. He studies you, saying nothing. Looking for a hint of anything to show. But it doesn’t. Slowly, the suspicion leaves his face. “Friends?” he says, assuring you meant it.
“Friends.” you answer immediately. And that seems to be exactly what he needed to hear.
He nods at you, and picks his newspaper back up, burying his face in it.
“That’s it?” you say, mostly making sure it was okay to leave the island now.
“That’s it,” he smiles, turning off his attention from you for good.
You eye him suspiciously because that felt way too easy. But as far as your uncle is concerned, the crisis has passed. You and Spencer are friends. Nerdy friends. Like Spencer and Garcia. And it’s a harmless friendship with no ulterior motives on either end.
And its fortunate he believes that. Because you need to prepare yourself for the day he finds the sticky note with Spencer Reid’s phone number on your desk, exactly where he left it the night before.
But that’s a problem for another day.
_____
Read Part 3 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: guys i fear i fell in love with the original prompt and now i’m stuck on writing rossi!reader. i wish i could be normal and just write a one shot but i get so attached :( anyways this might be a lil substory for a while i really like it, i always forget how much i love writing family dynamics and i always feel like i can’t really do much of that in the a-z bc i try to keep that as self-insertive as possible. i hope at least some of yall fw rossi!reader bc its here to stay for a bit i think.
_____
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Hello! I am not an anime person, but the kids at my school are requesting Hatsune Miku books for summer camp! The kids in this class are 6-12 years old, which leads me to ask, are these books appropriate for these kids? If so, do you have specific recommendations?
Any alternatives to get them reading would be great too!!!!
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Okay, so, you know when Henry was born, Spencer offered (probably jokingly) to get him into an amazing school when he was old enough, even said that he could get him into Caltech with one phone call.
Now that Henry is old enough, I wonder if Spencer will actually hold up on that offer, if he will call up a college and give an amazing recommendation.
If the CM creators remember this offer thing I honestly will be so excited, since they're already getting JJ talking about him getting ready for college eventually in the fall, I wouldn't be too surprised if they did this yk.
summary: Your Uncle Rossi didn’t tell you there was going to be a handsome genius with an unending amount of facts about everything at the dinner he was hosting for his coworkers. And you really wish he would have, because you probably would’ve chosen to wear something more…appealing.
word count: 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 (≈ 5 years) in mind (see about section below) but nothing too crazy and its not a kink thing i promise.
about: my idea is that this takes place sometime around season 3, as my headcannon for reader is to be fairly young, probably 18 or 19, so in my head i feel most comfortable with a 24/25 year old spencer. i also had glasses reid in mind while watching this because he’s just so cute and i know 18/19 year old me couldn’t get enough of him lol
You moved in with your rich uncle David Rossi a few months after turning 15. It was a strange thing, as you abruptly lost your parents, and you moved states away to live with your rich godfather who the last time you saw was five years ago at your older brother’s graduation. You barely knew the guy, you knew nothing of Virginia, and honestly, it was weird.
It was strange being in a four bedroom mansion with a man you barely knew, albeit are related to, in a new state with people you didn’t know. For the first few years he was home all day every day, but last year, your Uncle Dave returned to the FBI in the unit he founded: the Behavioral Analysis Unit.
He was much busier now. Sometimes you wouldn’t see him for weeks on end. But you were older now, out of high school and working on a journalism degree at an online university. You warmed up to your uncle over the years, after all, he’s been all you’ve known as a parental figure for the last five years. And as much as you thought you wouldn’t in the beginning, you’ve come to love him.
_____
You got back home at around 8:00pm. You had a test that had to be taken with a proctor today, and ended up meeting some friends for dinner afterwards. You were a bit intimidated to walk into the house. Your Uncle Dave had warned you that he was hosting a dinner party for his team tonight at 7:00, so you knew there was a dining room full of professional FBI agents waiting for you to walk through in your flannel pajama pants and super old grey Doctor Who hoodie with paint stains on it.
But you had to go inside, surely FBI agents weren’t judgemental, and if they were, well, whoops. You take a deep breath before opening the front door, a loud suction sound echoing as you closed it from the weight of the giant door that leads into the giant house. You hear the banter of the team quiet as you enter. It was almost silent, but there was one voice that continued on.
You heard a voice deeper and more sharp speak over the other, the words “Reid.” filling the dining room, hushing the other voice.
Your uncle had mentioned Reid multiple times over the last year since he returned to the FBI. He described him as a genius, but you weren’t so sure. I mean, of course he was probably incredibly smart to be in the FBI, but you were sure your uncle and the rest of the team were just as smart as him, people were likely just impressed by him because he’s the youngest on the team.
You hear your uncle’s voice echo from the dining room. “Y/N? Is that you?”
You blink, almost wishing he didn’t acknowledge you. “Yeah,” you respond.
“Why don’t you come in here, I want to introduce you to the team,” he says.
You knew he wasn’t going to let you leave the corridor without stopping by. You take your hair out of the bun you have it in. At least if you’re going to be introduced to FBI agents your hair could look good.
You walk into the dining room. At the long table you see a tall man in a black suit and tie with dark hair. His face looks serious, but his eyes greet you. “Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief,” Rossi introduces him as.
“Hotch is fine,” the man echoes, giving a polite nod.
“Derek Morgan,” your attention shifts as your uncle continues around the table. The man sitting beside Hotch is tall as well, muscular, and bald. But he pulls it off well. He leans back comfortably in his chair, one arm draped over the back of it. Unlike Hotch's stern professionalism, he looks completely at ease. His sleeves are rolled up slightly, his tie loosened just enough to suggest that dinner parties aren't something he takes particularly seriously.
“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he says, smiling.
"You too,” you say, smiling back.
There's something immediately easy about him, the kind of person who could probably hold a conversation with anyone.
"Derek thinks he's charming," a woman across the table says.
Morgan points at her.
"Ya think?"
Your uncle shakes his head. “That’s Emily Prentiss,” he says, the woman who spoke smiles. She has dark hair that looks like it always does what she wants it to do. She looks effortlessly put together.
“Hi,” she says. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”
You blink. "My name's come up?"
Emily glances toward Rossi. "Occasionally."
Your uncle looks mildly offended. "I don't talk about her that much."
"No," Morgan agrees. "Mostly just things like, 'My niece is using all my expensive paint supplies,' or 'My niece left seventeen coffee mugs in the living room.'"
"It was like four,” you say.
"Jennifer Jareau, JJ," your uncle continues.
The blonde woman beside Emily offers a warm smile. She seems kind immediately. Not fake nice. Actually nice.
"It's good to meet you," she smiles.
"You too."
Then your uncle gestures farther down the table. "Penelope Garcia."
The woman lights up."At last!" You blink. Garcia points at you dramatically. "The mysterious niece."
"There is nothing mysterious about me,” you giggle.
"Honey, that’s exactly what a mysterious person would say," she says.
You laugh.
Garcia beams like she's accomplished something. She looks exactly like the kind of person who fills every room she walks into. Bright colors. Bright smile. Bright personality. Everything about her feels larger than life.
"It's nice to meet you," she says.
"You too."
"Also, I love the pajama pants," she says, her voice so genuine, almost like she’s envious of them.
You glance down.
"You're the only one."
"Nonsense. Confidence is sexy."
“Watch it,” your uncle says. He’s been very overprotective of you since you moved in. A little too overprotective in your opinion, but he didn’t want to hear it.
He gestures to the last person at the table. “And of course, Dr. Spencer Reid.”
Your attention drifts toward the youngest man at the table. Spencer Reid. The genius. The rambler. The one your uncle complains about, albeit affectionately.
He's quieter now that the attention is on him. A little awkward. A little more than a little awkward when she gives a small wave.
His eyes flick toward you before quickly looking away again.
Then back.
Then away.
And that's when you notice him looking at your hoodie.
Not your face.
Your hoodie.
Specifically the faded blue police box printed across the front.
His eyes widen. "...Is that a first edition Bad Wolf Tour hoodie?"
You blink. There is absolutely no chance anyone should know that.
"What?" you say, shocked.
"The stitching," he points. "The original merchandise run had different lettering than the later reproductions."
The entire room goes silent. You stare at him. Spencer stares at you.
"You know that?" you finally ask him.
Spencer looks confused. "Of course."
You immediately turn toward your uncle. "Why have you never told me the FBI hired cool people?"
Morgan nearly chokes on his drink. The thought of someone referring to Spencer Reid as cool was asinine.
Spencer visibly brightens. "You watch Doctor Who?"
You laugh. "Watch it? I own a sonic screwdriver."
Garcia gasps. "No."
"Yes," you say, smiling.
"No," she says in the same tone.
"Yes."
Spencer pushes his glasses up. "You own which one?"
You pause, then smile. "The Fourth Doctor's."
Spencer immediately points. "Best one."
"Exactly,” you say
"Exactly."
Garcia slams a hand onto the table. "OH MY GOD."
Emily starts laughing. "There's three of them."
Morgan looks horrified.
"There are three of them," JJ agrees.
Rossi looks deeply exhausted, like he regrets inviting you, but of course, in a humorous way. Rossi takes a seat next to Hotch, leaving an open seat between him and Spencer, and across from Garcia.
“Please can she stay,” Garcia says, facing your uncle and motioning to the chair in front of her.
He blinks and looks at you. “It’s up to you,” he says.
Garcie looks at you, putting her hands together in a fist and doing a begging motion.
You smile, and pull out the chair. “For a little while,” you say.
Maybe twenty minutes later Spencer is explaining the history of Gallifreyan language structures while you and Garcia are actively participating. Not pretending to participate, actually participating.
Which is apparently a completely new experience for Spencer. Most people tune him out after about three minutes. You ask follow-up questions. He answers them. Then you answer one of his. Then Garcia’s.
Then suddenly you're discussing science fiction literature, paradoxes, alternate timelines, and whether the Weeping Angels or the Silence are more terrifying.
The rest of the table slowly stops paying you guys any attention altogether.
Eventually Morgan stands. "I'm going outside."
"Same," Emily follows.
Then Rossi and Hotch.
JJ lasts another five minutes before quietly escaping too.
Nobody ele announces it. They just leave one by one. Until only you, Spencer, and Garcia remain.
"So wait,” Garcia looks at you. "You actually collect stuff?"
You grin, "Want to see?"
Garcia is already standing.
You lead them around the house and upstairs to your room. You linger on the doorknob before opening it, turning to face them. “Now, when Uncle Dave told me he was inviting you guys over I specifically asked for him to leave my room out if he did a tour. So you two should feel extra special.”
You open the door, and you watch as Spencer’s eyes widen and Garcia’s face all but explodes.
A shelf spans one wall: books, action figures, collectibles, replica props, years worth of obsessive collecting fills the shelves.
Spencer walks closer. His eyes land on a rare figure. Then another. Then another. "You have the discontinued Face of Boe set," he states.
"Still in the box," you brag.
"They only made twelve thousand," he says.
You smirk. “I know.”
"You know,” he says, in awe. Spencer looks genuinely impressed. Which somehow feels better than it should.
“Can I touch?” Penelope asks, looking at you wide-eyed.
“As long as you don’t break,” you smile.
Garcia is already holding a collectible and taking pictures. "You are officially my favorite Rossi."
“Yeah, well Dave is kind of a loser,” you joke.
_____
Downstairs, the rest of the team is sitting on the patio chatting and listening to faint excited yelling coming from the second floor.
Morgan glances up. "Should we be worried?"
Rossi takes a long sip of wine, "No."
"Really?" Morgan says?
"About what?" Rossi asks.
There’s a pause.
"...Maybe Reid?" Morgan says sternly.
Emily nearly chokes on her drink. "What?"
Rossi looks up.
Morgan is staring toward the second floor. "You heard me."
"You think Reid is a threat?" JJ asks, sounding amused.
Morgan shrugs. "Normally? No."
A loud burst of laughter echoes faintly from upstairs. Garcia's unmistakable voice follows. Then Spencer's. Then yours.
Morgan points upward. "Tonight? Maybe."
Rossi's eyes narrow slightly. The sound of Spencer laughing isn't unusual. The sound of Spencer laughing repeatedly is. Emily notices the expression immediately.
"Oh no," JJ says looking at Rossi.
"What?" Rossi asks.
"You just profiled something."
"I didn't profile anything."
"You absolutely profiled something," Emily says, staring at Rossi.
Hotch quietly takes a sip of his drink. "He's profiling it right now," he says.
"I am sitting on my patio," Rossi states.
"You've got the look," Hotch says
"What look?" Dave is starting to get annoyed.
"The look you get when you're about to tell us something nobody wants to hear,” JJ says.
Rossi looks toward the second floor again. The house falls quiet for a moment. Then another round of excited voices drifts downstairs. Spencer's voice, Your voice. Spencer's again. A pause. Your laugh. Rossi’s stomach drops.
Morgan grins. Rossi slowly turns toward him. “No,” he says.”
“No?” Morgan repeats.
Emily is trying not to smile. “You know,” she says, “now that I think about it…”
“Don’t,” Hotch says, trying to let the situation dissolve.
"She did sit next to him."
"Emily." Hotch says with a warning tone.
"And she's the only person I've ever met who voluntarily asked follow-up questions during one of Reid's monologues," Emily continues.
"Emily." Hotch scolds her this time.
"Several follow-up questions," Morgan adds.
"She was looking at him a lot,” JJ joins in.
"You think so too?" Rossi asks.
"I'm just making observations,” she says.
"You're all making observations with no proof to back them up.” Rossi says, trying to lie to himself.
Upstairs another burst of laughter rings through the house.
Emily winces. "Yeah, that's not helping."
"No," Morgan agrees. "It's really not."
Rossi's jaw tightens. It isn't that Spencer is a bad guy. If anything, that's the problem. Spencer is brilliant, kind, a little awkward, and completely incapable of manipulating anyone. If Rossi had to pick someone on the team to trust with his life, Spencer would make the list.
That doesn't mean he wants him anywhere near his niece.
Those are entirely different things.
"You guys are overthinking this," Hotch says.
"They're just talking,” Rossi says, siding with Hotch.
"They've been talking for almost an hour,” JJ adds.
"They have a shared interest. And Garcia is there"
Morgan snorts. "A shared interest."That's how it starts."
"Unfortunately, he's right,” Emily says, siding with Morgan.
Rossi looks horrified. "You're all insane."
"Maybe," Emily says. "But if I walked upstairs right now and asked Garcia who Y/N has spent the entire night talking to, who do you think she'd say?"
Rossi doesn't answer. Because he already knows the answer. And he hates it. A lot.
Hotch finally sets down his glass. "I don't think you have anything to worry about."
Rossi relaxes slightly.
Then Hotch continues. "Yet…"
The relaxation immediately disappears. Rossi stands. The entire team watches him.
"Where are you going?" JJ asks.
"Checking on them." Rossi says.
Emily grins. "Checking on them,” she mocks.
"Yes."
"See? He hates it." Morgan laughs
"I do not hate it."
"You absolutely hate it."
Rossi pauses. "I have to believe it to hate it. And I don’t believe it."
That only makes everyone laugh harder as he heads back into the house, already preparing himself for whatever he's about to walk into upstairs.
_____
"Yeah, well Dave is kind of a loser," you joke.
The sound of someone in the doorway clearing their throat fills the room.
All three of you jump. Your uncle stands there with a glass of wine in one hand. "You invite people into your room and immediately start slandering me?" He says, a joking tone.
"You walked into my room uninvited,” you say.
"It's my house,” he states.
"It's my room,” you argue.
"It's my house."
"It's my room."
Garcia points between the two of you. "This is exactly how I imagined your relationship."
"You imagined our relationship?" you ask.
"Frequently,” she says.
Spencer laughs quietly. You immediately glance toward him. His hand flies up to cover his mouth like he hadn't meant to laugh out loud.
Which somehow makes it even cuter.
Not that you're thinking that.
At all.
Definitely not.
Your uncle notices. Because of course he does. He's a profiler. And unfortunately a good profiler. His eyes narrow slightly.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing,” he says.
"That wasn't a nothing face."
"It was a nothing face."
"It was absolutely not."
Rossi points toward Spencer. "You."
Spencer freezes. "What?"
"Stop encouraging her."
Spencer looks genuinely confused. "I haven't done anything."
"Exactly."
Emily appears behind Rossi. One look into the room and she immediately starts laughing. Morgan's head appears over Emily's shoulder.
Somehow your entire room has become a spectator sport.
Garcia immediately points. "Everybody out."
"You don't have authority here," Morgan says.
"I have passion."
"That's not the same thing."
"It should be."
While the argument continues, Spencer wanders toward your bookshelf. His attention lands on a worn hardcover sticking out from the shelf. His expression changes immediately.
"You have this?" He says in awe.
You glance over. "Oh, yeah I do."
The book. A first-edition collection of Isaac Asimov stories. You'd spent nearly a year hunting it down online.
"It took forever to find."
Spencer carefully pulls it from the shelf like he's handling a museum artifact. He holds it in front of him and looks toward you with puppy dog eyes.
Your heart does an annoying little thing.
"You've read it?” He asks, voice so delicate.
You snort. "I own it."
"That doesn't answer the question."
"Of course I've read it."
His eyes light up. And suddenly the rest of the room disappears again.
You spend the next ten minutes debating science fiction authors. Garcia contributes enthusiastically despite admitting she's only read half of them. Emily eventually drags Morgan back downstairs.
Until only Rossi remains leaning against the doorway.
Watching.
Spencer doesn't notice. He's too busy explaining why certain science fiction writers accidentally predicted modern technology. You don't notice either. You're too busy listening.
Actually listening.
Not politely waiting for him to finish. Not pretending to understand.
Listening. Asking questions. Arguing back Engaging.
Rossi watches the interaction for another minute. Then quietly smiles to himself. Because in the year he's worked with Spencer Reid, he's seen people react to him in one of three ways.
Confusion. Intimidation. Or boredom.
He's never seen someone look at Spencer like he's the most interesting person in the room. And judging by the way Spencer keeps glancing at you when he talks, he's never seen Spencer look at someone like that either.
Rossi takes a sip of wine. Then immediately decides this is absolutely not becoming his problem tonight. Unfortunately, he knows it's already too late. But maybe, in the morning, he can decide to forbid you from ever seeing the boy genius again.
Or he can at least try…
_____
Read Part 2 Here! 🕰️ (releasing 06/04/2026)
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: to any of my fans (joking tone, but on a real note i know most of you guys follow me for the Spencer Reid A-Z Series) i promise i will be posting more parts to that soon. but i also have a ton (over 100) recommendations in my inbox, and some of them i would really like to try to do, so i will be posting some one shots as well for a while. my inbox has some pretty old recommendations (as early as 2023) and i am aware that people often tend to fall in and out of being into fanfics and stuff, so i will likely not write from any specific requests from anything more than a year ago (2025). but please feel free to send me requests, either for my A-Z series or just for one shots and i will try my hardest to be much more timely about them for at least the next few months while i’m on summer break!
_____
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So for my birthday this year I would like Spencer Reid yep that's what I want. idc how you get that man but I'm going to need our marriage certificate before the clock turns 12.
Also this is how I feel rn after crushing on him but he's just doing his job and rambling like omg tell me more 👇
