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bobawitch · 11 months

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Love Story // Spencer Reid x French!Reader

Summary: french reader meets Reid and they become friends though both feel a strong pull towards the other. This is heavily based on the song Love Story by Indila.

A/N: OMG another oneshot, ik, i legit said i'm not the oneshot type and here i am. i really appreciate the kind words on my last one shot and I hope people like this one too!! This is around end of season 9 reid.

warnings: none!

word count: 948

You had moved to the states around a year ago, gotten yourself a sturdy job at a cafe/bookstore. You frequented any other bookstores along with the flower shops that reminded you of the quaint streets of Bezier. Your first home, nothing had driven you out in a rush but you always wanted to see the world. You had just bought a new book and were now looking at the flower shop nearby. That’s where he saw you, you were holding a rose and had the book in your free hand. You caught his attention immediately but it would be a few more weeks before he ever spoke to you.

L'âme en peine

Il vit mais parle à peine

Il attend devant cette photo d'antan

Derek had been teasing the guy endlessly for weeks now, Blake always telling the older man to leave Spence alone but honestly Reid didn’t mind it that much. He knew he was being irrational but something about you encapsulated the man. He greatly enjoyed when he’d go in for coffee and you’d be reading a book he liked. He couldn’t get you out of his mind but he was still so nervous. He was nervous to feel things towards someone again. It had been around a year since Maeve was killed in front of him and yet he hadn’t tried to speak to another woman. But today he decided he would speak to you, no matter how it went. He finally upped his courage to ask you about the book you were reading. You smiled, shutting it briefly to talk about the book in your hand. Spencer had recognized it as Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre though he wasn’t expecting it to be in French. You spoke of his profound outlooks about how human nature is our own sickening curse. Spence gave that nerdy chuckle he always did and agreed with you though disagreeing with it being a fully bad curse. But this was just the beginning of the two of you.

Il, il n'est pas fou

Il y croit, c'est tout

Il la voit partout

Il l'attend debout

Une rose à la main

À part elle il n'attend rien

Nearly two months later you two had basically started your own small book club, and when I say small I mean there were two members. You and Spence would talk for hours about different books and he always enjoyed listening to the sound of your silky french accent. Though Spencer couldn’t speak French he understood the language, having studied it in his spare time at college. He would try to say certain phrases and though most were pronounced correctly he messed up on occasion and you wouldn’t end the teasing. With each book club meeting you would grow closer and Spence’s feelings would get stronger, though you were oblivious to that. You had always found Spencer nice to look at and his brain was prettier than the stars on a clear night sky. You just assumed you two would only ever be friends since Prentiss told you about Maeve.

Rien autour n'a de sens

Et l'air est lourd

Le regard absent

Il est seul et lui parle souvent

Il, il n'est pas fou

Il l'aime c'est tout

You could only keep a rational head about the boy genius for so long. Only 3 months after meeting you began to feel it. It was this sinking feeling that made you smile more when he was around. You found yourself imagining him whenever you listened to music or read a book. But rationality eventually came back and you would banish the idea from your mind. Which is why when he came to your house one rainy night you were evidently shocked.

“Spence?” You looked at his dripping curly hair and how his shirt stuck to his chest tightly from the water.

He looked at you with those big doe eyes of his and swallowed hard. It looked like he had been crying but you couldn’t say for sure. He didn’t reply to you which worried you further, causing you to pull him inside rather quickly. You grabbed him a towel and put on some tea, making him his favorite, earl grey. You got back with the tea, tucking a leg under yourself as you sat by him. He took the tea from you and held it, not looking at you for a while. Eventually you needed to know he was ok and set your tea down. Your fingers gently touched his cheek, leading him to look at you. “Spence, what’s wrong?” You spoke with genuine concern, your brows laced together with worry.

Though he didn’t respond, he just looked at you. He refused to break eye contact but out of your peripheral you saw him set his cup down. Then he began to scoot closer, your hand still rested on his cheek as you began to ask again.

“Spencer, really whats-” But you were harshly cut off by the feeling of his lips pressed against your own. Your eyes widened but within a few moments you melted into the softness of his lips. His arms quickly snaked around your waist as he pulled you closer. Your other hand came to his other cheek, holding his face close to yours. Soon enough the two of you had to pull apart. “Y/N…” He started.

You shook your head, “I know, me too.” He smiled at your words before leaning in and kissing you again, though that wasn’t the last kiss of that night.

Il la voit partout

Il l'attend debout

Debout une rose à la main

Non, non plus rien ne le retient

Dans sa love story

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid season 9 #dr spencer reid #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x y/n #love story indila

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alovesongtheywrote · 6 months

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Nightmare Academia | Spencer Reid x Reader

♥ Summary: Have you ever seen the tiktok where that guy brings a typewriter to his class because his prof doesn't allow laptops? Yeah, it's that, but you are the source of the typewriters. In other words, you're Reid's worst nightmare. [Prof!Spencer Reid x GN-Prof!Reader]

♥ Warnings: Descriptions of emotional vulnerability from a student to a professor, reminders that the world sucks and Gen-Z is fucked when it comes to housing. The reader is. Kind of Mean to Spencer, but I won't say he doesn't deserve it. Enemies to Lovers, but they're just Enemies right now.

♥ A/N: a couple things about this fic. 1) i have no clue when this takes place in the criminal minds timeline???? i just know reid took a some kind of leave from the bau, and this is what he's doing with it 2) reid isn't actually in this one that much. my bad. 3) i've got no clue what university these two teach at. i researched typewriters extensively for this, but i didn't bother googling universities.

♥ Word count: 2371

Series Masterlist

♥♥♥

“Alright, my little chilli babies, that’s about it for today. If you have any questions, office hours start now, and please remember there’s an exam next week. It makes me sad when you forget. Got it? Got it. Cool.”

Your students immediately began to stand and file out of the room. They left in groups. Some of them chatted amongst themselves softly, and some called out a farewell to you, but most of them were silent. One or two lingered behind to ask about the administration process of the PCL-R, but that was about it.

Except for this one girl.

You were pretty sure her name was Opal. She sat near the back of the room in the second to last row. She got good grades and performed well on tests and projects- although she was a touch shy during the one presentation project you assigned during the semester.

Usually, Opal was one of the first to leave, practically running from the room, but today she just sat there, staring straight ahead. You watched her for a second, vaguely assuming that she had a question or something. She didn’t get up to ask, though. She just sat still, staring at her laptop. You paid her no mind. Sometimes your students just needed a second, and that was usually nothing to worry about.

You were just about to pack up your own things and head for your office when you heard a sob. You looked up again to see Opal just sobbing into her computer. You winced. A pang of sympathy hit you dead in the chest. University was just like that sometimes- and she wasn’t the first or last student to cry on campus.

Shit, you cried on campus. Like, all the time. As a professor. The previous Tuesday you thought about the two-headed calf poem too hard and you ended up sobbing in your office.

You headed for the back of the room, leaning a hip against the back of the seat beside her. She didn’t seem to notice your presence. Her laptop screen was covered with detailed notes- it was honestly an impressive collection.

You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow, “Everything okay over here?”

Opal gasped, looking up at you with wide eyes, “I-I’m- I-” she sobbed again, “I’m so sorrrrrry.”

“Sorry? What do you have to be sorry for?”

“I’m crying in your classroom, and I’m so overwhelmed, and my next assignment is going to be late, and I’m so sorrrrry.”

The poor thing put her face in her hands and hunched over in her seat. You pulled out the chair next to her and sat down.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. University is stressful. It’s easy to get overwhelmed and crying can provide a cathartic release from that.”

“I- I know. It’s just so- so embarrassing.”

“Again, don’t worry about it. I literally cried in here last week.”

“R-really?”

“Mhmm. Now, if it helps, I can provide an extension on that assignment. Your feedback might be a little less in-depth, but that’s really nothing to worry about. Your work has always met a high standard.”

Her eyes somehow got even wider, “Are you- are you sure, professor?”

“Absolutely. It’s not a big deal- it might not fix your whole problem though,” you pulled your legs up onto the chair, sitting criss-cross facing your student, “If you’re feeling overwhelmed, the school provides free counselling services. They can help you feel less… whelmed.”

Opal nodded, wiping her eyes, “It’s really just- just this one class I’m in. Our professor doesn’t allow laptops so I have to take notes by hand. But my- my writing is really messy, so then I have to figure out what I wrote, and-”

She was working herself back into a frenzy. You had to intervene.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Which prof is it, maybe we can ask about getting an accommodation made?”

“It’s-” she sobbed, “It’s Professor Reid.”

You froze. Opal continued to sob as a dark, heavy storm cloud rolled into your brain.

“That fucking bastard,” you hissed, effectively shocking Opal out of her stupor.

“Wh-what?”

“This isn’t the first time he’s- okay, come on, follow me, we’re going to my office.”

Wordlessly, Opal put her things in her bag. You ran to your desk to do the same, snatching your keys and water bottle before heading out into the hallway. Opal followed diligently, but she struggled to keep up with your purposeful strides. Her face was still tear-stained, but now, instead of sorrow, her expression was the ultimate picture of confusion. When you reached your office, you swung the door open wide and ushered the girl inside.

In all honesty, you were quite proud of the space you had created. It was warmly lit, a necessary contrast from the harsh white lights of the hallway (you fucking hated those lights). The walls were decorated with your doctorates and neat little art pieces you found in various places. It was colourful and pleasant, and now was not the time to focus on your choice of decor because you were on a mission.

Opal remained near the door, watching as you rounded your desk and reached for something below it. With a slight groan of effort, you quickly emerged with your prize.

A vintage typewriter.

A heavy vintage typewriter.

You placed the thing down on your desk as delicately as you could. Opal stared at you in confusion as you beamed at the fine piece of machinery.

“Which room is his class in, I’ll have someone bring this to you.”

“Professor-?”

“You use it for one class, just one, and I guarantee he’ll let you use your laptop. Damn, technophobe.”

“I don’t know how to use a typewriter.”

You placed your hands on the desk, leaning forward on it, “Okay, come here then, I’ll show you.”

Opal timidly made her way towards you. You made sure to leave her lots of space as you ran through the tech tutorial. She picked up on it quickly, being the good student that she was. When you were done, you collapsed back in your chair, another bright smile on your face. Opal looked significantly less distraught, but still vaguely confused.

“Can I ask why you’re doing this for me? You- you didn’t even have to give me an extension. Why are you-?”

“Because you aren’t the first student to have this problem.”

It was true. This was the seventh sobbing-student-style complaint you’d had about him in as many months- and Reid had only been there for seven months. You’d received emails, phone calls, and office hour meetings where desperate and devastated students would explain to you that they were falling behind. It broke your heart a little bit- and it pissed you right off.

It was ironic that Doctor Reid had come straight here from the FBI- his technophobic nature was slowly but surely murdering your students, and now, you were going to murder him.

“Now about that extension, does five days sound good?”

Opal handed in the assignment two days into her extension. You smiled as you looked over her incredible paper. Your little scheme had worked. You hoped that Reid was pissed.

–

He was! Kind of. Not really. It was a bit of a disappointment to be honest.

You had only known Doctor Spencer Reid for the seven months he’d been teaching alongside you, and boy howdy were you starting to hate his fucking guts. At first, everything was fine. He’d seemed sweet, and polite, and you were willing to overlook the whole FBI profiler thing to maintain the peace.

Then one of your students passed out during class.

Thanks to his high expectations and fear of computers, there was a lot of shit for his students to cope with. The worst part was, you agreed with some of his policies- of course, you didn’t agree with the tech thing, that was stupid- but there was other stuff that you liked. He taught your students things that could help them improve- but at what cost.

Your formerly dim-eyed and sleepy students (let’s be real, they were never going to be bright-eyed nor bushy-tailed, they’re fucking college students) were now going through life in a state of anxiety that was not good for their long-term health. That was enough to make you hate Spencer Reid.

And then one night, over a very full glass of wine you looked up his FBI career. You learned that the BAU used a private jet.

A private. Fucking. Jet.

They didn’t need to use the private jet. They could’ve used trains and it would’ve done the same thing. Shit, they didn’t even have to leave Quantico. They could’ve done their job from their main office. Most profilers do their job from their main office. Instead, Reid’s team had dumped fucking jet fuel into the damn atmosphere because they fucking felt like it. Not to mention just. FBI. Ew.

So, yeah. Fuck Reid’s three PhD’s, and fuck his ability to teach. You didn’t give a shit about any of that. You hated the man. You wanted to eat his heart in the main atrium, and given your way, you would.

Taking all that into consideration, it was only natural for the expression on your face to morph into one of absolute joy when Reid came to your office with the typewriter in his arms, and his tail between his legs.

“Doctor Reid,” your smile was a plastic thing, a false beauty with venom hiding beneath it, “What can I help you with.”

“Please stop sending that typewriter to my class.”

You opened your eyes a little wider, playing dumb just to fuck with him, “Typewriter? Whatever do you mean? I can’t imagine anyone in this century would even own a little antique typewriter like that thing there.”

“Little? That thing has to be over a hundred pounds- and it’s not antique, it’s-”

“It is literally thirty-three pounds.”

“Oh, okay,” he nodded. It was very clearly a ruse, “But how would you know that unless you own the typewriter?”

“I do a lot of research. That’s a 1960s Vintage Royal Empress Typewriter measuring about twelve inches in width and weighing thirty-three pounds and eight ounces. Y’know, now that you mention it, I’ve actually been in the market for a vintage typewriter.”

You put your elbows together on the desk and placed your face in your hands, “You wouldn’t know where I could get one would you?”

“Dr. (L/N), this is your typewriter. Please stop sending it to my classes.”

“Hm, I guess it doesn’t pay tuition, that’s not fair to the other students,” you opened your laptop, “What class do you teach again? I’ll sign it up and pay the price in full.”

Doctor Reid let out the most exasperated sigh you had ever heard in your life- and that was impressive. You taught college kids.

“Why are you like this?” he mumbled.

“Pardon?”

“I said-” he at least had the decency to look embarrassed, “I said, ‘Why are you like this?’”

Your smile split your face from ear to ear. You emerged from behind your desk slowly, carefully, like a predator eyeing up its prey.

“Why am I like this, Dr. Reid? I’m like this because in the past seven months, I have had to deal with seven emotionally wrecked students, and what did they all have in common? Was it personal tragedies? The pure state of the world and everything in it? The knowledge that very few of the students at this school will be able to afford houses once they enter the working world? No, Dr. Reid. The thing they had in common was you.”

“What are you implying?”

“Implying- what are you implying, he asks me,” you muttered, “I’m saying that your fear of computers is fucking over your students.”

“Studies have shown that handwritten notes-”

“No, no, stop. You don’t get to talk. I’m talking now. Handwritten notes might be better for long-term memory retention, but not everyone writes as fast as you talk. Most of these kids don’t have time to switch their notes to a digital format! And that doesn’t account for shit getting lost, or students who get sick and miss class. Look, I get that computers might be scary for you, but in a climate where most of your students are full-time students, who take a mind-numbing amount of courses that cover incredibly difficult material, go home and struggle with the steaming pile of shit that is reality, and then head out for their part-time jobs- or, in some cases, their full-time jobs- you might want to have a degree of sympathy.”

Reid stared at you. He seemed unaffected. You wondered if that was because you were like, an entire foot shorter than him. You pulled up a chair and stood on it.

“Let your students use their laptops, or I swear to god, I will never stop sending the typewriter to class. You will hear the incessant sound of keys clicking in your nightmares, got it?”

He paused, his eyes darting across your face from your lips to your eyes and back.

“How old are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re standing on a chair like a child. How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven. Now get out of my office.”

He did as you asked. You could see a small smirk on his lips as he shut the door behind him. The sight of it made your blood boil, and there and then, you decided you were gonna keep sending the typewriter anyway because fuck that guy.

Still, over the next few months, you never heard another complaint about Spencer Reid and his technophobic habits. Your students went from extreme emotional agony to regular, day-to-day emotional agony. He’d stopped making them take notes by hand.

You were still gonna kill him just… maybe a little bit less.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x gn!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #x reader #holy shit two fics in two days that's fucking crazy #btw if you have an idea of when this should take place #let me know #im thinking it's around or just after season 9 #i might be biased since im like. halfway through season 10 #but if you've got ideas PLEASE SHARE THEM #anyway

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