Cynbx

Loves Criminal Minds (especially MGG) and reading books. Just started playing Arcana and I am hooked. I am almost middle age. Damn it, I am old.

[milla984]

Criminal Minds screencaps S13E02 To a Better Place

@matthew-gray-gubler-lover @cynbx @reidsbookclub

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[cynbx]

I meant to say pink shirt.

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 2)

Previous Parts: [1]

The Morning After

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.

_____

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

_____

View my One Shots Masterlist

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_____

taglist:

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

[cynbx]

Fantastic chapter. 🤣🤣🤣

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 1)

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party

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!

_____

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

_____

View my One Shots Masterlist

Check This Out!: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version!

_____

taglist:

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

[cynbx]

Fantastic chapter. I wish Rossi luck. 🤣🤣🤣

[spencereidluver]

Z is for Zero Doubt

July 28, 2010

summary: You can’t sleep, Spencer has just the thing to help with that.

word count: 1k

warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, pregnancy sex, pregnant reader

The storm rolled in around midnight, soft and lazy, rain tapping the windows in a rhythm that matched the quiet pulse of the apartment. You were already awake, curled on your side with one hand splayed protectively over your belly, watching the ceiling fan spin shadows across the nursery doorway.

Spencer stirred beside you, warm and long and sleepy, his hand automatically reaching for your waist before he was even fully conscious.

"You okay?" he murmured, voice heavy with sleep.

You nodded. "Just... can't get comfortable. She's kicking like she's trying to rearrange my organs."

He shifted onto his side, propped up on one elbow, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "Do you want more pillows?"

"No," you said quietly, leaning into him. "I think I just... want you."

There was a beat, a flicker of surprise in his sleepy eyes, and then something much deeper replaced it. Understanding. Hunger. Tenderness that pulsed like gravity.

"Yeah?" he asked, thumb brushing the hem of your tank top.

You turned to face him, hand sliding up his bare torso. "Yeah. I miss you."

His brow furrowed. “You have me.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But I miss the way you touch me when you’re not scared of hurting me.”

Spencer cupped your cheek and kissed you, slow and careful, reverent. “I have to be.”

“I just want you.”

His hands were warm on your hips as he pulled your tanktop over your head, scattering kisses down the line of your throat, over your collarbone, and across the soft swell of your breasts. They were heavier now, more sensitive, and he took his time with them, palming them carefully, peppering kisses across the curve of one before taking the other into his mouth with a soft groan.

You arched beneath him with a whisper of his name, fingers threading through his curls.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured against your skin. “I didn’t know it was possible to want someone more after watching them grow a life.”

Your breath hitched. “You say things like that and expect me not to cry.”

“I mean it,” he said, kissing the underside of your breast, then lower, brushing the curve of your belly reverently. “You’ve never looked more attractive.”

You rolled your hips gently into his touch, needing more, needing him.

“Spencer,” you whispered, voice breaking, “please.”

He moved slower than usual, not out of hesitation, but because every second felt sacred. He took your underwear off, his fingers trailed the inside of your thigh with reverence. When he settled between your legs, he looked up at you like he was asking for your soul.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice soft. “I need to know it’s okay. I don’t want to…”

You pulled him into a kiss that answered for you. “I’ve never wanted you more."

He slid into you inch by inch, one hand gripping your hip, the other braced against the mattress beside your head. The stretch was different now, fuller, slower, but you welcomed it.

“Okay?” he asked, barely breathing.

“Yes,” you whispered. “God, yes.”

He moved like he was reading every breath you took, his hips rocking into you slow and deep, his body angled carefully to avoid putting weight on your belly. Every few thrusts he’d pause just long enough to kiss your forehead, your nose, the corner of your lips.

“I love you,” he whispered against your jaw.

“I love you too.”

“You feel like…like everything.”

You cupped his face, dragging your thumb across his cheek. “You can go a little faster. I promise I’m okay.”

He groaned and buried his face in your neck, adjusting just slightly. His rhythm quickened, still careful, still smooth, but with that rising urgency you’d been aching for. You tightened around him, breath catching, body humming with the need that had been building for days.

“That’s it,” he whispered, mouth hot against your throat. “You’re doing so good. You feel so good, sweetheart. I’ve missed this. Missed you.”

You whimpered and rocked your hips up to meet his, loving the feel of his stomach brushing just barely against yours, loving how grounded he made you feel even while you were unraveling in his hands.

“I’m close,” you gasped.

“Me too,” he said, cupping your face, kissing your mouth, your cheek, your temple. “Cum with me. Please. Please—”

Your orgasm rippled through you, slow and deep, like a wave crashing against sand. Spencer came with a choked moan, hips stuttering, breath caught in his throat as he buried himself inside you one last time.

He stayed there for a long moment, nose pressed to your cheek, both of you trembling in the afterglow. When he finally pulled back, it was only enough to cup your stomach gently and kiss the stretch of skin just above your bellybutton.

“I didn’t hurt you?” he asked, eyes searching yours.

You shook your head, smiling. “You made me feel so good.”

He pulled you into his arms, tangling your legs as much as he could around the curve of your body. 

“I needed that,” he whispered into your hair. “Not just the sex. You. I needed to feel close.”

“You’re always close,” you murmured. “Even when I’m yelling at the fridge because I dropped a pickle.”

He chuckled. “I’m really glad I get to do this with you.”

“Me too,” you said, resting your head over his heartbeat. “I think she is, too. She stopped kicking.”

Spencer blinked, looked down at your belly, and kissed it again like a thank you.

“You’re safe, baby girl,” he said softly. “You’ve got her. And you’ve got me.”

_____

next chapter: *link*

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

_____ BUY ME A COFFEE _____

a/n: I've had this post in my drafts for about a year now and am finally posting it. I'm going to do my best to post more, I am going to start posting a mix of my A-Z series and one shots from requests in my inbox. So here's this for now, and tomorrow you can expect a one shot request :)

also guys please feel free to send some requests, either for one shots or a-z! i have qutie a few right now, but many of them are from years ago so i'm not very keen on using them. i'd love some more, i love your guys' ideas! feel free to be as detailed as you can, i love trying to do things like this!

_____

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

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taglist:

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

[cynbx]

Fantastic story. 🥰🥰🥰

[milla984]

MGG as Spencer Reid Criminal Minds S03E19

@matthew-gray-gubler-lover @cynbx @reidsbookclub

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[yesiamagenius7]

Just opened Pinterest and these popped up 😂

[cynbx]

Cool

[farewellang]

i wanna share an apartment, a room and a bed ☆ spencer reid series

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ see chapter 4   |    see the series ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+  

5 the grudge 

☆ summary: when spencer comes home on a rainy day he gets to listen (overhear) to her most recently written song. cécile finally decides to talk openly about her past, allowing herself to vent to her roommate, while spencer has to deal once again with his oppressing guilt feeling.

☆ tags: fluff, little bit of angst if you squint, mentions of panic attacks, depression and suicide (like one singular mention), mentions of revenge porn, crying

☆ author's note: hiiiiiii im back! this chapter took so long to write also because my math final was killing me BUT we finally have it. ill admit im not so satisfied of it but i hope you'll like it anyway. a big thank you to miss olivia rodrigo for writing the song "the grudge" that - as you will notice - inspired cécile's past, this chapter and the ones to come!! as always, like and reblog if you enjoyed reading!!!

☆ word count: 2.6k

Spencer's black Converse stuck to the hallway floor, wet with rain. He shook his umbrella outside and set it in the holder. 

Suddenly, almost with the same rhythm as the little drops of rain that fell from the umbrella’s folds to the floor, he heard soft notes from a piano. Then a voice singing through the thin walls.

“I have nightmares each week about that Friday in May 

One phone call from you and my entire world was changed”

He had already listened to her sing, and it had always been beautiful, but it had never been so serious, so deep, so… sad. There was a kind of crack in every high note, like she was crying.

“Trust that you betrayed, confusion that still lingers 

Took everything I loved and crushed it in between your fingers”

Trying to make as little sound as possible, Spencer opened the door and left his bag at the entrance, as always. He took off his shoes silently and walked barefoot closer to Cécile’s open door. 

“And I doubt you ever think about the damage that you did

But I hold onto every detail like my life depends on it”

Spencer looked at her fingers dancing on the keyboard she had laid on her bed. He remembered her face when, some days before, she came home with that massive box and a massive smile on her face; she had just stated, “I felt inspired, and then my first paycheck arrived.” He couldn't help but chuckle at that. 

“My undying love, now I hold it like a grudge

And I hear your voice every time that I think I'm not enough

And I try to be tough, but I wanna scream

How could anybody do the things you did so easily?”

Oh, Spencer knew what this was about. He knew and wasn't supposed to know. James Peterson. 

“And I say I don't care, I say that I'm fine

But you know I can't let it go

I've tried, I've tried, I've tried for so long

It takes strength to forgive, but I don't feel strong”

Cécile fell silent and took a deep breath, while Spencer held his, still magnetically attracted to her singing. He didn't want her to notice him standing there before the end of the song. 

“The arguments that I have won against you in my head

In the shower, in the car and in the mirror before bed

Yeah, I'm so tough when I'm alone and I make you feel so guilty

And I fantasize about a time you're a little fuckin' sorry

And I try to understand why you would do this all to me

You must be insecure, you must be so unhappy

And I know in my heart hurt people hurt people

And we both drew blood, but, man, those cuts were never equal

And I try to be tough, but I wanna scream

How could anybody do the things you did so easily?

And I say I don't care, I say that I'm fine

But you know I can't let it go

I've tried, I've tried, I've tried for so long

It takes strength to forgive, but I don't feel strong”

A sob seemed to be on the verge of escaping from her lips, but they just trembled, and her eyes became glossy before she started singing again, this time in a higher pitch and a sadder tone. 

“Ooh, do you think I deserved it all?

Ooh, your flowers filled with vitriol

You built me up to watch me fall

You have everything and you still want more

I try to be tough, I try to be mean

But even after all this, you're still everything to me

And I know you don't care, I guess that that's fine

But you know I can't let it go

I've tried, I've tried, I've tried for so long

It takes strength to forgive, but I'm not quite sure I'm there yet

It takes strength to forgive, but…”

The last note lingered in the room for moments that felt like hours, then the girl straightened her back and looked up from the keys, only to see Spencer's usual flat smile and head tilted a little to the right. He looked like a puppy that had just destroyed a designer shoe: conscious of his action, but too aware of his immunity to actually care. 

“Spencer, you scared me!” 

“It's a great song, y’know? Did you write it?” he asked, ignoring her remark. 

She softly nodded and hid her ears under her hair, like she always did when she was embarrassed. Spencer had noticed it the first day, after his long ramble about her “profile”, and asked himself if she knew that it was totally pointless since the redness also radiated to her cheeks and chin. 

There was a moment of silence. Cécile looked at Spencer with her head tilted, uncertain in front of this sudden loss of words. 

“C’mon. Ask me.” 

“What?” 

“You know what. You want to ask me what the song is about.”

“Is it about that ex-boyfriend that you mentioned?” 

The girl laughed and rolled her eyes, “Yeah, right, I forgot about your genius, I-remember-everything-you-have-ever-said thing.” 

But he was not distracted by her witty remark, he still wanted to hear her answer, even if he knew perfectly what it was.

“You haven't exactly said a lot.” he said, biting his bottom lip, uncertain. 

“Touché”

“I'm sorry, I - I just… It was just a joke, Morgan always says they don't land.” 

“No, no, you're right. Really, it's just that -” her voice broke when she looked at him, at his brown eyes, like the ones of a doe, looking right back at her. She had to look down to her crossed legs on her bed to stop the tears. 

When she felt her eyes less watery, Cécile looked up and found Spencer still looking at her with his oh-so-gracious expression, with his brows in a worried frown, but with the look of a man that could wait forever. 

“It's just that, you know, I really, really thought that coming here I could pretend that nothing happened. I thought that Washington was far enough. But he's back! He's back and not just in my mind and I don't know what to do. Now I feel like I should pack and leave again!”

“Who is back, Cécile?” What a liar, he accused himself. Of course he knew, but he needed her to say that name so that he could feel that weight off his chest. 

“Him! My ex-boyfriend, his name is James, James Peterson.” 

There it was. Cécile didn't notice, her vision blurred by the tears, but Spencer let out a sad but relieved sigh. 

“What do you mean when you say he's back?” he asked, pretending once again. 

“I know that you've noticed, Spencer.” the girl said, recomposing herself and tucking her hair behind her ears, overwhelmed, “He texts me and calls me at least once a week and I go to the bathroom to cry. Doesn't take a profiler to notice.” 

Spencer felt guilty all of a sudden. He had always thought that it would be better to mind his own business and not ask, but now that Cécile was talking about it, he started to wonder if maybe he should’ve stepped up and asked. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” the boy asked, after a long, reflective silence. 

Cécile hesitated: she wanted to, really. But wouldn't Spencer start to see her differently, like the rest of the people that knew about this? Wasn't the aim of her move to have nobody know about what happened to her? The logical thinking she had put against every emotion to try and deal (unsuccessfully) with all her past was telling her that, no, she should respond with a dry “No” and send Spencer away, but… she was already crying and he was the only person that she trusted in the whole city right now. Her heart, pounding in her chest, started to tell her that Spencer was her friend and she deserved to let out some emotion sometimes. 

Now sitting on the couch, the two roommates seemed like patient and therapist: Spencer was sitting straight and composed, listening to every word, like he was taking mental notes in his mind (he was), and Cécile, finally vulnerable, was scrunched up against the armrest, a pile of tissues in her lap, talking non-stop, crying but finally happy to let those secrets out. 

“We were together for a little more than a year before I broke up with him.” she said, running out of breath. “He was perfect, you know? He was all that I ever dreamed of, when he wasn't angry, or jealous, or just completely absent because of his stupid football games. But I kept telling myself that those were just moments and I had my moments too, and that apart from our moments we loved each other so much: I was completely in love, like desperately.” 

Spencer nodded, those images from James’ Facebook appearing so vividly in his mind: his roommate, now sitting in front of him on the couch, kissing that black-haired boy in the campus park, in a slightly blurry selfie; their photos at Christmas; them hugging on the football field after a match, James tired and Cécile proud. They definitely looked like they were in love. 

“With time it became obvious: those moments weren't moments, they were James being James. The moments started to be all of our relationship, with some little sparks of romance, that made me cling to him like a child.” Her voice broke and Spencer scrunched his mouth in a sad and empathetic expression. “The funny thing is that I studied those things, I studied the psychology behind misogyny and toxic masculinity and manipulation and all those things, but still: when I had his behaviour in front of me all I could do was find excuses.” 

“One day, we were fighting - like our third fight that week - and it just became too much for me. I didn't even plan it and I regretted it the moment I said it but I just screamed <<Maybe we should just break up! You don't even love me!>>, and he got so mad I was scared he could hurt me that time: he started accusing me of cheating on him and that I was the one who didn't love him. But unfortunately I did, and I think I still do. - Oh God, this is so embarrassing!” 

The blonde girl let out a sarcastic laugh and said “Anyway, he really thought that I didn't love him and that I cheated on him since he decided to get his revenge.” 

Cécile started to talk more slowly, getting to the part she was ashamed of. Spencer tried to swallow the pit in his throat, before saying “What revenge?” and feeling like a big, fat liar. 

“The next day, a photo of mine - y’know what kind of photo: the kind that you send to people that you trust, the only people who should see it and who you know would never send it to anyone -” She was red in the face and she tried to cover it with her hair once again. Spencer tilted his head to the side in a slight frown, trying to look surprised. “anyway, that intimate photo was on every single student’s computer and cell phone. It started to go around so much that even professors started seeing it: the people who should have done something! The people who should have punished him! I could feel their eyes on me constantly, their judgment during lectures, in the hallways, in the library, during exams, even when I was alone, when nobody could see me, it was like I was being watched constantly.” 

All of a sudden the tears started flowing again; but this time, they were tears of rage and fear. 

And as much as he didn't want to think about it, the rage in those eyes resembled so much the one in Elle Greenaway’s eyes the last night he had seen her. 

Spencer didn't know what to do: he looked at her clumsy fingers drying her tears like the ones of a child that doesn't know how to express what they're feeling; in Cécile’s microexpressions there were so many emotions that even a great profiler like Spencer was having trouble. With a slow movement, he dried his slightly sweaty hand on his pants and placed it shyly on her leg, in sign of silent comfort. 

Cécile smiled forcefully and continued. “It got too much too quickly. I couldn't go to lectures, I couldn't take my exams, I couldn't leave the house: everywhere I went I felt naked, watched, examined. My friends turned their back on me when I stopped talking to them, but I am not going to blame them for that, I was impossible to deal with. I don't know how to explain not feeling safe even in the one place where you should always be safe, your own home. So, after two months of never leaving the house, panic attacks every day and losing all my friends, I decided it was time to leave. My family tried to stop me, but I could stay one more day in Chicago, or I think I would’ve ended up killing myself. I thought about it one time.” 

Spencer breathed heavily from his nostrils, sadness creeping in. 

“I am so sorry, Cécile. You're safe now.” He said, controlled, dry, like he did a million times to the victims that he encountered on his cases, but this time he didn't say it out of protocol, he did because he didn't know what to do. He said that because the only thing that crossed his mind was to start to cry and hug her and confess that he had searched her past because he couldn't mind his business. 

But protocol didn't seem to work either. 

“No! I'm not, Spencer!” She responded, yelling. “I thought I could be, but he decided to text me and call me and I'm so fucking scared that I don't even have the courage to block him!”

“It's okay.”

“No, it's not! I'm scared and I hate myself because I keep finding excuses!” she continued screaming. 

Maybe protocol wouldn't work this time. So he tried the second option. With slow, almost unnoticeable movements, he got closer on the couch and hugged Cécile shyly, hands trembling and scanning for a reaction. 

For once, Spencer didn't think about the chemical reactions occurring or germs passed during embraces; he only cared about her sobs and screaming stopping. Breathing heavily into Spencer's sweater, Cécile slowly stopped trembling and noticed that her tears had stopped: for the first time in months she felt grounded, understood, finally safe. 

Spencer didn't know what to say, so he bit his bottom lip, holding back his tongue, scared to say the wrong thing again. Then, he just repeated, “I'm sorry.” 

Cécile lifted her head from Spencer's shoulder - disappointed to abandon that comforting smell of wool and coffee - to look him in the eyes. They weren't those grounding and sure eyes anymore that had looked at her before, when she was in her bedroom; these eyes were worried and sorry, really sorry. She stared at him so long she started to notice her own reflection in his glasses lenses. 

This time she was the one that could find the words.

“Thank you, Spencer.” 

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

@hiddentattooodyssey @the-anarchist-public @cynbx @grassisalwaysgreener

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ see next chapter ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ (link will be added) 

[cynbx]

Fantastic chapter.

[milla984]

Criminal Minds screencaps S04E07 Memoriam

@matthew-gray-gubler-lover @cynbx @reidsbookclub

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[cynbx]

Great scene between father and son.

[milla984]

Band of Robbers screencaps MGG as Joe Harper

@matthew-gray-gubler-lover @reidsbookclub @cynbx

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[milla984]

Criminal Minds screencaps S01E06 L.D.S.K.

@hotchs-big-hands @dontemilyyyyme @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @cynbx @reidsbookclub @rousethemouse

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[threadbare-sweater]

"you're too old for fanfiction" does your mommy know what you're using your screen time for?

[buckysdecaflove]

mind you, my 60-year-old mom reads fanfictions. so?

[cynbx]

I am 52 years old and I love to read fanfics.

[milla984]

Criminal Minds screencaps S03E14 Damaged

@matthew-gray-gubler-lover @cynbx @reidsbookclub

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[milla984]

MGG as Spencer Reid Criminal Minds S05E20

@matthew-gray-gubler-lover @cynbx @reidsbookclub

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[thefantasywench]

GOD this episode is SO important to me FUCK he looks way too good here

[cynbx]

That he does.

[wonderlanderings]

Qualitative Over Quantitative

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: spencer reid x fem!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.7k 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: early seasons spencer, a lot of data that might or might not be true, spencer rambling, talk about sex but honestly just pure fluff 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: In which Derek Morgan's teasing backfires spectacularly, and Spencer Reid accidentally reveals he's been keeping a very important secret.

: ̗̀➛ [𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧] [𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭] [𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱]

𝐚/𝐧: I've been rewatching criminal minds and i can't stop thinking about him

The bullpen is winding down for the evening. The usual frantic hum of phones and keyboards has faded into a low, comfortable murmur—the sound of exhaustion finally winning the long war against urgency. Desk lamps cast small pools of amber light across scattered case files, illuminating coffee rings and margin scrawls in warm, fleeting gold. Somewhere across the floor, the ancient breakroom coffee maker hisses its last, bitter brew of the night, a sound almost like a sigh.

Derek Morgan leans back in his chair, the old springs groaning in protest. He tosses a pen idly between his fingers, a familiar, teasing smirk curving his mouth. “You know, Reid,” he says, loud enough for half the unit to hear, “for a genius, you really don’t know how to prioritize. All those encyclopaedic facts rattling around in your head, and you still haven’t figured out that Saturday nights are for living. Not for whatever obscure Russian novel you’re dissecting this week.”

Across the bullpen, Emily Prentiss looks up with the patient expression of someone who has witnessed this exact argument forty-seven times before. She doesn’t intervene. She’s learned.

Reid doesn’t look up from his case file, though his pen pauses for just a fraction of a second—a tell so small only someone watching closely would catch it. “Dostoevsky is hardly obscure,” he says, tone perfectly even. “And for the record, my Saturday nights are perfectly fulfilling, thank you.”

“Uh-huh.” Morgan chuckles, swivelling toward JJ and Prentiss like a talk show host inviting audience participation. “Tell me I’m wrong. Between the two of us—genius boy and yours truly—who do you think gets lucky more often?”

But before anyone can answer, Reid clears his throat.

“That's an entirely misleading metric,” he says.

Morgan's grin widens. “Oh, is it?”

“Yes, actually.” Reid sets his pen down with a soft click, and the team recognizes the signs immediately: the slight straightening of his spine, the way his fingers begin to tap a staccato rhythm against the table, the subtle tilt of his head as he shifts into lecture mode. He's about to do the math out loud.

“First of all,” Reid begins, holding up a finger, “‘getting lucky’ is a subjective, self-reported measure, which introduces significant recall bias and social desirability bias. People overestimate. Significantly. By as much as forty percent in some studies.” Another finger goes up. “Secondly, you're comparing two data points—you and me—without controlling for variables like opportunity, environment, or personal standards. You have a tendency to equate quantity with quality, which is statistically unsound.”

Morgan groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Here we go.”

Reid ignores him entirely, already mid-stride into the argument. His voice picks up speed—not quite rambling, but close, the way it does when he's genuinely enjoying himself. “Let's say, hypothetically, you sleep with a different woman every week. Generous, but possible. However—” He holds up a finger, ticking off points like a professor during office hours. “—you've also mentioned, on multiple occasions, that you don't ‘mix work with play’ and that you need at least one night to decompress. That leaves Friday and Saturday as your only viable windows. So let's assume sexual encounters occur on Friday or Saturday night. That's roughly two opportunities per week—but even then, not every weekend yields a new partner. You have off weeks. You get sick. Sometimes,” he adds, with the faintest hint of smugness, “women say no.”

Morgan's smirk twitches. “Okay, first of all—”

Reid tilts his head, gaze going distant as he does the numbers behind his eyes. His fingers twitch like he's physically calculating in the air. You've seen him do this a hundred times—map a geographic profile, run a probability tree, recite the entire history of some obscure piece of trivia. 

“Accounting for statistical probability of rejection, scheduling conflicts, and the inherent inefficiencies of the modern casual dating landscape—which, by the way, is heavily skewed by algorithmic dating app fatigue—your actual frequency likely drops to one new partner every ten to fourteen days. Optimistically.”

JJ is already grinning, resting her chin on her hand like she's watching her favourite courtroom drama. “I feel like I should stop you both,” she says, “but I really want to hear where he's going with this.”

Prentiss leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “Oh, he's going somewhere. You can always tell when he does the head-tilt.”

Morgan points a finger at Reid, though his voice has lost its edge—there's genuine affection underneath the exasperation. “Alright, fine. Let's say I'm one every two weeks. What's your number, pretty boy? Hm? When's the last time you even—”

“That's not the point,” Reid interrupts, a little too quickly.

He presses on, gaining momentum now. His voice picks up that familiar, rapid-fire cadence—the one that makes unsubs' heads spin and makes the rest of the team feel like they're sitting in on a TED Talk they didn't buy tickets for. His fingers have resumed their tapping, faster now, keeping time with the race of his thoughts.

"Now, consider a person in a committed, cohabitating relationship. Let's establish a baseline: the average frequency of sexual activity for couples in the early stages of domestic partnership—say, the first two years—ranges from three to five times per week, depending on variables like work stress, health, and general compatibility. Let's take the conservative estimate: every other day."

Morgan opens his mouth—to argue, to deflect, you're not sure—but Reid holds up a finger without looking, and Morgan closes it again.

"Now," Reid continues, "multiply that over a four-week month. The partnered individual is engaging in sexual activity approximately twelve to sixteen times per month. The single person cycling through weekly encounters—assuming one new partner per week, which we've already established is an overestimate—is averaging four times per month."

Morgan crosses his arms, jaw tight. He's not offended—they all know him well enough to recognize the difference—but he's definitely recalibrating. "So you're saying—"

He delivers the final blow with clinical precision, but there's something softer lurking underneath. 

"And you're not even accounting for quality of experience, emotional investment, or—most importantly—long-term satisfaction metrics," Reid continues, his voice quieter now, less performative. "A single meaningful connection, maintained over time, statistically outperforms high-frequency, low-retention encounters in nearly every category of reported happiness. The Harvard Grant Study—one of the longest longitudinal studies on human development—found that the single strongest predictor of life satisfaction wasn't career success or financial security. It was the warmth and consistency of close relationships."

He pauses. Swallows. 

"So, really, the question isn't who ‘get’s lucky’ more." His voice drops, barely above a murmur now. Intimate, almost. Like he's forgotten anyone else is in the room. "It's who ‘get’s lucky’ enough."

For a beat, no one speaks.

Then Prentiss raises her coffee cup in a slow, deliberate toast. "I believe you just got murdered by math, Morgan."

The tension breaks—but not entirely. JJ snickers. Morgan rubs the back of his neck, shaking his head, but there's no heat in it. "Man, I just asked a simple question."

"You asked a misleading question," Reid corrects, but his voice has lost its sharpness. He's retreating back into himself, the way his shoulders curl inward slightly, the way his gaze drops to the case file again. Like he's said too much. 

Morgan blinks, his smirk frozen mid-spread. He holds up a hand like he's stopping traffic. "Hold on. Hold on." His eyes narrow, processing, replaying something in his head. "You're talking about you."

Reid's mouth opens, then closes. A faint flush creeps up his neck—not the blotchy, embarrassed red of someone caught in a lie, but something softer. Pinker. The colour of someone who hadn't meant to say as much as he just did. His hand drifts to the back of his neck, a self-soothing gesture he doesn't even realize he has.

Prentiss leans forward, delighted, her elbows on her desk like she's settling in for a season finale. "Reid. Are you telling us you're in a serious, every-other-day relationship?"

"That's… not what I said." He adjusts his satchel strap, suddenly very interested in the grain of his desk. His fingers find the edge of a case file and straighten it unnecessarily. Then straighten it again. The file doesn't need straightening. Everyone knows it. No one says anything. "I was speaking hypothetically. Broad statistical trends. Aggregate data."

"Uh-huh." Morgan plants both hands on his desk and pushes up slightly. His grin is slow, dangerous, and utterly delighted. "You just compared yourself to me. Which means you're the one having sex every other day. With a girlfriend." He drags the word out like he's tasting it for the first time. 

JJ crosses her arms, mock-offended, though her eyes are warm. "Spencer Reid, how long has this been going on?"

Reid swallows. Hard. His gaze flickers to the window—not looking for an escape route, but for a moment of stillness. A place to land. When he looks back at the team, they see something they don't often get from him: not deflection, not a lecture, not a rapid-fire recitation of unrelated facts to change the subject.

Genuine, quiet vulnerability.

"Several months," he admits, low enough that they have to lean in to hear.

The word lands like a stone in still water. Ripples spreading outward. Morgan's smirk softens at the edges. JJ's arms uncross. Prentiss sits back slightly, her teasing expression fading into something more careful. More respectful.

No one pushes. Not yet.

But they're all looking at him differently now. Like they're seeing a new version of Spencer Reid—one who exists outside the bullpen, outside the case files, outside the lonely apartment they'd all quietly assumed he went home to every night.

"Kid." Morgan shakes his head, and there's something different in his voice now—not teasing, not needling. Something almost admiring. "I take it back. Every single thing. Every joke, every 'maybe try a bar sometime,' every time I said you'd die alone surrounded by books." He squeezes Reid's shoulder, a brief, grounding pressure. "You've been holding out on us."

Reid ducks his head, but the smallest smile tugs at his lips—shy, yes, but unmistakably real. It's not his knowing smirk or his closed-off court testimony expression. It's something softer. Something private, accidentally spilled. Like he's been keeping a secret so long that the act of letting it see daylight feels physically strange—but not unwelcome.

"You asked about frequency," he says, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug that's almost bashful. "I just answered the question."

"You really did," Prentiss says, grinning wide enough to crinkle her eyes. "In excruciating detail."

JJ tilts her head, studying him like a case file she's only just realized she misread completely. Her gaze is warm but probing—that particular JJ look that says I see you, and I'm not letting you off the hook that easily. "And for the record," she says, her voice gentle but pointed, "I'm going to need to meet this person. Several months and you never even mentioned her name? That's practically classified information. I'm officially offended."

Reid opens his mouth—maybe to deflect, maybe to recite something about privacy and healthy relationship boundaries, maybe to quote a study on the importance of keeping certain parts of one's life separate from one's workplace—but then he catches something over Morgan's shoulder.

His words die in his throat.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft, mechanical chime—the kind of sound so familiar it usually doesn't register anymore. But tonight, it cuts through the bullpen like a bell.

And there you are.

Standing by the elevator bank, keys looped loosely around your fingers, a worn file folder tucked under your arm. You've clearly just come up from the archives—there's a faint smudge of dust on your sleeve, pale grey against the fabric, and your hair is slightly askew from leaning over old case boxes, a few strands escaping to frame your face. The overhead light catches the curve of your jaw, the concentration in your brow.

You're not looking at them yet.

Your attention is still on the files in your hands—a thick stack, dog-eared and labeled in fading marker. You're flipping through them absently, lips moving just slightly as you read, your thumb holding your place in whatever document has captured your focus. 

Reid forgets how to breathe.

It's not dramatic—not in the way movies make it seem. There's no swelling music, no slow-motion montage. Just the sudden, startling realization that he has been holding himself together all evening, and now, seeing you, every carefully constructed wall is coming down.

You look tired.

He notices it first because he always notices it first—the slight droop of your shoulders, the way you're blinking a little too slowly at the pages in your hand. You've been in the archives for hours. Probably forgot to eat. Definitely forgot to drink water.

But you're also smiling. Just a little. A small, absent curve of your lips as you read whatever case file has captured your attention. It's the smile you get when you've found something good—a lead, a connection, a piece of the puzzle that was missing.

He loves that smile.

He loves the dust on your sleeve and the mess of your hair and the way you bite your lower lip when you're concentrating. He loves that you exist in the same building as him, the same world, the same moment.

He loves you.

And now everyone is about to know it.

Reid's flush, which had been fading to a manageable pink, returns with interest—creeping up his neck, flooding his cheeks, brushing the tips of his ears. But here's the thing that makes Morgan's eyebrows climb: Reid doesn't look away. He doesn't duck his head or pretend to read something.

Instead, that small, proud smile stays.

Grows, even.

Morgan is the first to put it together. Of course he is. He watches Reid's face change—watches the shyness give way to something steadier, something almost protective—and then he follows Reid's gaze across the bullpen.

His eyes land on you.

His smirk doesn't just return. It blooms.

"No," he breathes, barely above a whisper. Then, louder, disbelieving: "No."

Prentiss notices Morgan's reaction before she notices you. She glances at him, then at Reid, then follows the sightline like a guided missile. When she finds you—dust-smeared, distracted, muttering to yourself over a case file—her eyebrows climb.

She doesn't say anything. She just tilts her head, watching, cataloging, filing away every micro-expression on Reid's face for later analysis.

But her silence is louder than words.

The bullpen feels suspended. Held breath and half-finished sentences. Even the ancient coffee maker seems to have stopped hissing, as if it, too, is waiting.

Morgan turns back to Reid, slow and deliberate, like a man approaching a wild animal he's just realized is actually a house cat. His expression cycles through about six different emotions in the span of two seconds—confusion, disbelief, dawning recognition, and finally, something dangerously close to pride.

"You told us you were 'helping her with research.'" He makes air quotes, fingers curving with theatrical emphasis. "That's what you said. 'The archives are extensive, Morgan, and she's new, and it's purely professional, Morgan, stop reading into things, Morgan.'"

Reid's flush deepens—creeping up from his collar, brushing the tips of his ears, painting his cheekbones in soft, tell-tale pink—but he doesn't deny it. He doesn't deflect. He doesn't launch into a rapid-fire lecture about privacy or workplace relationships or the statistical unlikelihood of his personal life being anyone's business.

"I was helping with research," Reid says quietly. "That's how it started."

"And then?" Prentiss prompts, leaning forward like she's watching the season finale she didn't know she needed. Her coffee cup is still frozen in her hand, forgotten. She doesn't blink.

Reid's eyes don't leave yours.

The bullpen falls away. The desks, the case files, the amber glow of the lamps—all of it fades into background noise. There's only him. Only the way he's looking at you like you've rearranged his entire understanding of the universe.

"And then," he says, and his voice catches slightly—just a breath, just a fracture, but you hear it. You always hear it. "I realized I didn't want to stop."

[cynbx]

Fantastic story. 🤣🥰🤣🥰

[girllblogging777]

𝜗𝜚 "how's your head ?" reader x "i've been told it's pretty good" spencer reid

his head was pounding.

thump, thump of his heart beating behing his ribcage and blood rushing in his veins. he couldn't bear it anymore, not when the minutes had turned into hours that had turned into days, and spencer's brain had now forgotten what it felt like to live without a headache.

small and fragile under your touch, he'd refused your affection at first. a dark room was all he needed, paired with silence that contrasted with the loud throb reverbating inside his mind.

"i really think you should get an MRI scan," you expressed worriedly with your hands framing his face. the coldness of your touch offering a feeling of relief.

it wasn't enough, he needed to get inside his head and physically extract the ache that had infested him. or to detach from his own body perhaps,a feeling you were usually good at giving him.

"i think," he grumbles dryly "you shouldn't matronize me. i'm used to it, i'll be fine."

"and i think, you wouldn't do this to your mother" reverberated against his lips when you leaned down to give him a soft kiss.

he met you halfway, chasing you too eagerly for someone in such suffering. hand on your waist, yours in his hair tugging at the curls on the nape of his neck, his lips parted as a signal to deepen the kiss and you could only oblige.

the pain he felt was still there, incessantly nagging him. there is no love, no love for people like you. no rest, no peace.

when you pulled away to take a breath, giggling agaisnt him, he could feel your breath mingling with his. "are you sure you're okay, i thought the migraine was bad."

groaning against you, he kissed you again.

relief, relief. you sounded like calm music, felt like a warm embrace. you would solve the intricate puzzle he was, accept the inaccessible parts of his dark, dark mind.

you pulled back when his grip got too tight. "spence... i'm serious. how's your head ?"

"i've been told it's pretty good"

surely the migraine made him delirious.

you tilted your head in curiosity, the heat of the moment lingering in the air. from the lack of sleep, blood vessels had bursted in his eyes and still, the hazel shade mesmerized you.

"mean. and gross, reid" you declared with a threatening finger pointed towards him. he could only look up, puppy gaze silently asking for a remedy until you tought.

"also, i think i should be the judge of that."

another look, more intentional this time. a kiss, tongues colliding, and a headache long forgotten, replaced by another ache between your thighs.

[cynbx]

Fantastic story.

[milla984]

MGG as Spencer Reid Criminal Minds S05E20

@matthew-gray-gubler-lover @cynbx @reidsbookclub

»»»— read pinned post for taglist info —«««

»— Masterlists links in bio —«

[farewellang]

i wanna share an apartment, a room and a bed ☆ spencer reid series

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ see chapter 3    |    see the series ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

4 the team

☆ summary: it's friday night and the bau is invited to dinner at spencer's, where they meet his new roommate: it ends up being a night of revelations and new friendships (basically: cécile meets the team)

☆ tags: fluff, mentions of alcohol, morcia baiting

☆ author's note: short short chapter but i think its cute. i'm really sorry that you had to wait so long for a chapter so short but i promise that the next one will be worth it. tell me what you think and don't forget to like and reblog if you enjoyed reading !!

☆ word count: 1.6k

“Aren’t you excited to meet her?”

Penelope was adjusting her lipstick in Derek's car’s rearview mirror while he was looking at the road, pretending to be mad at her for making him wait when - more than an hour and a half ago - he had gone to pick her up.

“I just hope there's something left to eat when we get there,” Morgan answered, committing to the bit but not managing to keep a straight face.

“Oh, come on! I was getting all pretty for you.”

Morgan let out a deep laugh and turned the music volume up, still listening to Penelope's rambling about how exciting this dinner was going to be.

When they arrived, they were welcomed by the face of a pretty nervous Spencer, who gave a quick hug to both of them and disappeared into the kitchen. The whole team was already there: Gideon, Hotch, and Haley were standing by the window talking, glasses of wine in hand. Emily and JJ were in the kitchen, where they were talking with Cécile, trying not to distract her too much while she was cooking.

The kitchen table was set: Spencer had laid his newest light-blue tablecloth, and Cécile had taken care of the rest, setting all the plates and cutlery and even making little placeholders for every guest. While doing so, she had asked “Is this too much?” exactly 7 times - Spencer had counted - and he had always responded “Not at all, don't worry.”

The whole house, actually, was decorated with Cécile’s creative touch: candles on the bookshelf, fairy lights on the balcony, and flowers on the coffee table. A record was playing in the background: jazz, Cécile’s choice - of course - from Spencer's limited collection.

After leaving their light jackets on the hanger at the entrance, Morgan and Garcia joined the team. Penelope didn't waste any time before assaulting Cécile, while Morgan commented on the view from the living room with Gideon, Hotch, and Haley. Seeing the two blonde girls talking, both with their colorful tops and contagious laughter, was like seeing the same person in a slightly different version.

“Hi! I am so happy to meet you! Spencer has talked so much about you, I started thinking that I lived with you, too.” Garcia said, joining the girls in the kitchen. “I'm Penelope.”

“I heard a lot about you all too, actually! I was really looking forward to this dinner. I’m Cécile.” Cécile held out her hand to shake, but Garcia went immediately in for a hug. The girl was surprised fir just a second, but then welcomed the hug, smiling at this blonde girl she felt like she already knew.

The four girls talked quickly and continuously about Cécile, her studies, her time in the city, and what it was like to live with Doctor Spencer Reid, only stopping to laugh and sometimes give a stir to whatever was in the pot on the stove.

Cécile was the last one to sit at the table, right after Spencer.

She was going up and down the kitchen, picking up food and beverages that everyone thought were going to break the table in half with their weight. When she finally sat, she looked proud and exhausted, but she looked at Spencer with happy eyes and said, “Bon appétit” in her perfect accent.

“Oh, God, this is awesome.”

“How did you do that?”

“Honey, this pie is amazing; I need the recipe.”

The dinner seemed to be a great success. Cécile was laughing at all those compliments while covering her red ears with her long blonde hair, trying to hide her embarrassment from a room full of profilers. Spencer looked at her in amusement, his nervousness finally gone, happy to see the people he loved most at the same table with a person he cared for a little bit more every day that went by.

And he was too in the moment, for once, to notice it, but his team was really proud of him, too: Emily kept eyeing Hotch, smiling, when Spencer made a funny remark with Cécile, or when he got into one of his rambles and the blonde girl next to him responded with ease. They were all so happy to see him finally be himself.

“So, Cécile, Reid said we're celebrating something.” Hotch said, interrupting a moment of silence, his hand intertwined with Haley's on the tablecloth.

“He’s surely celebrating: I got a job, which means I can actually start to pay rent every month.” Cécile responded

Everyone let out a soft chuckle, and Morgan nudged Spencer, laughing.

“Well, that's exciting, where-” Penelope was interrupted by a mobile ringing on the kitchen counter.

“Oh, that's mine, sorry, sorry.”

Cécile quickly got up, leaving her napkin on the chair. Spencer’s eyes followed her, like always when he sensed something was wrong: he had like a tingle for problems.

The screen on her dark blue BlackBerry read “Do Not Respond!!”. And Cécile knew you should always listen to your past self, especially when you're at dinner and your ex calls and you suddenly feel like you're going to throw up. She immediately turned the phone off, cursing under her breath, and returned slowly to her seat, trying not to show that her legs weren't holding her up.

“Is everything alright?” Spencer asked, his body totally turned to Cécile

“Yeah, yes, just my mom; I can call her later,” she answered breathlessly. “What were you saying, Penelope?” she then said, a smile on her face and her hand filling her glass with wine.

One glass became two, and then three.

The call was a distant memory, as distant as the kitchen counter that looked miles away from the table. And she could feel the sadness and anxiety growing more and more distant as Spencer picked up the dessert from the fridge and as Penelope went on with her story: Cécile wasn't following well, but all she knew was that it was funny and it was about Spencer.

“Poor Spencer was so afraid of the dark that when I called him, I could hear him trembling. He's so cute!” Garcia said, giving him a kiss on the cheek as he lowered the cake Haley and Hotch had brought onto the table.

“FBI super-extra-agent-doctor Reid is afraid of the dark?” Cécile asked her, choking on her own words because of her laughter.

“There's no need for you to laugh like that: 3 out of 10 people - around 29 percent - in the whole world are scared of the dark. It’s clinically known as nyctophobia or achluophobia.”

“Yeah, yeah, I bet that's the reason why I had to find you this cutie, to make sure that there are no monsters under your bed.” Garcia said, winking and pointing at Cécile with her thumb.

“What?”

“Spencer didn't tell you? He is a genius and all, but give him a computer and he goes crazy! I was the one to manage the advertisement on the forum and to respond to your message for the house.”

“That's why it looked like you totally forgot how to text! You were so sweet on the forum, and then it looked like I was receiving a telegram!” Cécile accused Spencer, “A night of revelations, this one.” she then added, smiling to her new friend.

Towards the end of the night, the house was almost empty again: Hotch and Haley had gone home - the babysitter was waiting for them -, Gideon had gone too, saying he wanted to get up early the next day; JJ and Emily stayed a bit later, but, a little after eleven, they had said goodbye, yawning and dragging their heels on Spencer's floor.

At midnight, Cécile and Penelope, already best friends, decided they wanted some more dessert, and they were very concentrated, to say the least, on the delicious cake and gossiping.

On the balcony, Derek and Spencer enjoyed the chilly spring air and talked quietly.

“So, you two are really becoming friends, I see.”

“Yeah, she's- she's great, yes.”

“Yes, she is. I like her, y’know.” Morgan affirmed, looking through the window to look at the two women sitting on the sofa and talking like they had known each other for ages.

“I like her, too”

“I know you do”

“Morgan, I don't really see where you're going.” Spencer said, following Derek's eyes towards the girl.

“Oh, yes, yes, you do, Genius. Don't worry, you just have a little drool here.”

“That's not true, stop it!”

“Whatever you say, Pretty Boy.”

But Spencer knew that maybe, maybe in a small part of him, there was that feeling Morgan was talking about. He knew, as he watched Cécile drunkenly laughing and rambling with Garcia, he knew as he watched her hugging her and Morgan when they said goodbye, he knew as he watched her dragging her feet, tired, all around the kitchen while clearing the table.

In those moments it came to him that Morgan was a great profiler.

Around 1AM, finally in the car, Derek let out a sigh and looked at Garcia, who was still waiting for his opinion on the night, but, most importantly, on Cécile.

“Well, she's cool. I like her.”

“Spencer definitely does.” Penelope responded, a smirk on her face.

“It’s like sharing a brain, you and me. I always knew you were made for me, baby girl.” Derek answered, looking in her eyes, before they both burst out laughing thinking about poor Spencer’s crush on his roommate.

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

@hiddentattooodyssey @the-anarchist-public @cynbx @grassisalwaysgreener

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ see next chapter ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ (link will be added)

[cynbx]

Fantastic chapter. It sounds like the team had a great time with Cecile. 💖💖💖