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behindyourbarrette · 2 years

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YEEEEEEEESSSSS NEW NONEE FIC 💘💓💞💕😍💖💗😍💝 this has literally everything i adore in spencer fics. chef’s kiss. so honored to have beta read 😌🤩🤩

every little thing

pairing: Dr. Spencer Reid / fem!reader

genre: light angst with a happy ending

WC: 3.7k

content warning: vague mentions of food, reader uses she/her pronouns (in accordance with the song)

notes: this has been a wip for so freaking long and i'm so glad to finally put it to rest lol. and ALL the thanks to my incredibly kind and talented beta reader @behindyourbarrette!!

the fic is set to Every Little Thing She Does is Magic by The Police, so I recommend taking a listen before/while you read! (and if you like that, here is a version by Jacob Collier that's also fantastic.) thank you all so much for reading, feedback is always appreciated ♡

Though I've tried before to tell her

Of the feelings I have for her in my heart

Every time that I come near her

I just lose my nerve as I've done from the start

Spencer has been told by his teammates, a million and a half times, that he should “just do it.” Just tell her how you feel, the worst that could happen is that she says she’s not interested. But that’s not the worst that could happen. Spencer could tell you how he feels and then immediately pass out from the social and emotional energy it took, forcing you to help him, possibly touching him in the process. And he doesn’t want you to do that if you hate him, which you very well might after he reveals his affections. Furthermore, if you hate him, he can’t ever hang out with you anymore, even just as friends. That would be his worst-case scenario. So pretty much every time Derek talks him into approaching you, he gets halfway to your desk before remembering that possibility and countless others, and veers off to talk to someone else or go to the break room instead.

On one such occasion, he finds himself bumping directly into Garcia; he must have been on the way to her batcave.

“Oh, Boy Genius! I saw that cowardice on the bullpen cameras! Come with me, my foolish love.” And she grips his wrist forcefully as she tugs him back the way she had come from a moment prior.

Upon arriving in her tech lair, Spencer rushes to defend himself before he can get chewed out. “You know I want to, Garcia! Of course I do! I just don’t want to mess things up.”

At the glum and guilty look on his face, Garcia softens. “And you know I love you and want you to succeed too. It’s so obvious that she feels the same way about you, and it would make both of you so happy to be together. You know how badly I want you to be happy, angelfish!”

Spencer gives her a hug, because he does know.

The singular time he does manage to get close for confession purposes is the next day, and it doesn’t go well for him then, either. You spot him before he can launch into his memorized speech, and greet him obliviously.

“Hey, Reid! How are you doing today? Didn’t stay up too late researching nuances in diagnosis and classification of personality disorders, I hope,” you tease.

Spencer is thrown off entirely. How is he supposed to respond to this, smoothly enough that you want to continue the conversation, and then somehow bring it around to a spot where he can say what he came here to say? He doesn’t know. He can’t do it.

“No! No, I-I slept, I promise. Did you? Sleep, y/n?” He’s so stupid, so socially inept. Why are those the words that came out of his mouth? Out of all of the words it could have been? You giggle and take a breath to respond, but luckily, just at that moment, JJ comes by waving case files.

“There’s-a-case-and-we’ve-got-to-go,” he spills out, relieved. He should’ve known he wouldn’t be able to do it.

Every little thing she does is magic

Everything she do just turns me on

Even though my life before was tragic

Now I know my love for her goes on

Spencer can’t help but notice countless aspects of your personality, your habits, little tidbits that make you who you are. And he especially can’t help but love them all. He loves the way you merely exist, laugh, smile when the weather gets dreary. He loves the rainbow of post-it note pads you have arranged in order across your desk, and the way you alternate colors when you need to use them. He loves the way you curl your feet underneath you when you get the chance to sit on the couch of the jet. He loves the way you try to hold in when you find something truly funny, because he can see through it anyways. He even loves the way you walk to the beat of whatever song is playing in your headphones, which isn’t something anybody else would realize, he knows, but it makes your steps so purposeful (and who would just naturally step in 6/8 time?) Spencer hopes it isn’t creepy that he’s picked up on that, and all of these things, but you’re truly entrancing. He can’t help but analyze your every footstep, because he loves each one of them so much. And his memory means that he keeps them forever—he just can’t get you out of his head.

Sometimes, Spencer imagines. He thinks about what it would be like to be a seamless part of your little routines and customs, how it would change his own life to be intertwined with yours. What it would be like to have those brilliant smiles directed at him, to be the cause of your laughter. For your bright sticky notes to appear on his own desk, with little notes detailing your love (not, of course, that he can imagine what exactly they might say; but he knows he’d cherish them forever). He’d let you—invite you, even—to curl your body into his on the jet, and probably near about faint if you fell asleep on his shoulder. To see you look up and meet his eyes when you’re trying not to burst out laughing, because you know he’ll understand. To dance in an apartment that you share to the same songs you always have playing into your ears, and go on dates where your steps match each other’s as you stroll around the Smithsonian National Zoological Park.

Just when he thinks you can’t get any more intoxicating, he thinks about what his life would be like with more of you in it, and Spencer nearly explodes from the serotonin and dopamine that floods his brain. He hopes you don’t notice, but thinks it might be unlikely. You’re a profiler, and there’s no chance you miss the lovesick looks he gives you when you do, well—everything. Everything he stands the chance to gain if he finally tells you how he feels, and everything he stands to lose if you’re uncomfortable around him afterwards.

So, no, Spencer can’t find it in him to confess. Not when there’s a possibility of never being around you and all the little things that bring him so much happiness. No, he can never tell you at all.

Do I have to tell the story

Of a thousand rainy days since we first met?

It's a big enough umbrella

But it's always me that ends up getting wet

Spencer knows the old adage that if you truly love someone, you’re always happy to see them happy. Which he is! You seem happy to him, at least. But at the same time, pining after you has given every single day a melancholy tinge. You love looking out the windows of the jet at the summer storm, and Spencer loves looking at you looking, and wishes you would look at him like that. He loves being your friend, don’t get him wrong, but it makes him a little sadder with each day that passes that he doesn’t get to hold you close and tell you exactly how precious you are to him: how beautiful he thinks you are, how comforting when the world is just too much. How all of your insecurities are completely unfounded; you are perfection itself, and nobody else could ever compare.

So when you call later that evening, breathless and sounding like you’re about to break down, how can Spencer do anything else but beg you to come over and let him take care of you?

It hurts him that you think little of yourself, and he’s forced to keep all of those things he wants to say inside. It’s terribly difficult for him to make his soothing words platonic-sounding, and he can tell that they usually fall flat. Despite how honored he is that you seek comfort and understanding in his home, in his arms, he loathes himself for not being better for you when the downpour in your mind becomes too much. For not knowing what exactly to say to make you feel better without giving himself away.

“Spencer,” you say breathlessly when you arrive, “thank you so much.”

He wordlessly hands you his softest towels, warm from the dryer, to blot at the rain you love to look at, but can’t stand the feel of in your clothes. It’s you who speaks again, “I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you’re so willing, always, to comfort me on nights like-nights like these.”

The wetness on your face isn’t from outside anymore. Spencer gathers you into his arms, murmuring how what happened on the case wasn’t your fault, you aren’t responsible for the people who died. You’re a good agent, a kind person, a wonderful friend.

By the time your sobs have subsided and you’re merely hiccuping into his chest, Spencer is left feeling like your sadness and insecurity have only transferred onto him. How could he ever be worthy of you? You who are so empathetic and caring? You who smell so good as he holds you close, and offer to call and pay for takeout to thank him? He doesn’t know. He’s sure he never will be.

Even on other days, when the mood is light, he can’t help but feel gloomy. Every time the two of you are hanging out and you look so content, like there’s nothing you could possibly want to add to your friendship, his heart breaks a fraction more. Just friends. You’re happy, and in a way, so is he, but he’s also going to let a few tears slip out as soon as the door shuts behind you.

Every little thing she does is magic

Everything she do just turns me on

Even though my life before was tragic

Now I know my love for her goes on

Sometimes Spencer feels ashamed of the fact that he has virtually no personal life. He works, of course, and oftentimes he guest-lectures at the academy, and when he’s available he speaks at chemistry or math conferences (most engineering conferences tend to be filled with technology types, and Spencer has enough experience with the ultimate tech type, Penelope, to be very wary of them). And his hobbies, while numerous—for example, reading, knitting, and chess—are largely solitary activities. So he wouldn’t say that he’s very social, outside of work. And some of the other team members gently rib him about it, which only makes him feel worse.

But, miraculously, this has been different ever since you joined the team. Suddenly there’s someone he feels comfortable inviting for movie marathons, asking for help with cooking, making joint work clothes shopping trips because he hates trying on clothes so much. Spencer feels okay doing this, because for a while, you were the one asking him to hang out every time. You asked him to teach you how to make geographic profiles so quickly one day after work, and then took him to dinner at your favorite cafe. You wanted book recommendations from him, you wanted to show him the block a few streets away from headquarters with no fewer than three used bookstores. You even invited him to spend a Thanksgiving with you when you found out that neither of you had a place to go, that first year after you were hired. So at a point, Spencer decided that you wouldn’t laugh at him for asking you to spend time with him, and you immediately become a valued, cherished part of his brand-new personal life.

And there are a million other things you do to make him happy; things that he isn’t sure whether you even think about, but mean the entire world to Spencer. The other members of the team are fine with his infodumps until they devolve into details that are irrelevant to the case, and then come the eye-rolls, the dramatic sighs, the reminders to stay on task. But you, you’ve never done that to him. Whether you’re alone or with others in the room, you nod and smile as he rambles on, even asking questions when there’s an appropriate break. You never make Spencer feel like you don’t have time for him, ever. You care about what he has to say.

When he gets headaches, it seems second nature for you to reach into your desk or your purse and pull out a travel-sized ibuprofen. Spencer isn’t even sure how you always know that he’s in pain, but somehow, some way, it only takes one look, and then you’re handing him a water bottle and medication to give him as much relief as you’re able to provide.

And, in what is perhaps not such a little thing that makes his life better, but a rather big thing, you’ve now become Spencer’s designated Vegas travel buddy. The first time it was because his mother had been having more bad days than good and you were worried about him going alone and just sitting up in a hotel room the whole time dwelling on her situation. But now it’s habit–he thinks you might even be offended now if he booked one ticket instead of two. He can’t begin to tell you how much of a relief it is to have someone by his side on the plane and at Bennington. Because when you’re next to him, no words are needed. Although your support of him is silent, it radiates off of you at all times–and Spencer always understands.

I resolve to call her up

A thousand times a day

And ask her if she'll marry me

Some old-fashioned way

Spencer decides that it’ll be easier if he tells you on the phone. He won’t have to deal with the expression on your face, or try his best not to constantly read your reactions. On second thought, though, maybe that added social pressure is a good, necessary thing. Maybe if he isn’t as nervous, doesn’t have the same in-person repercussions, he’ll lose it entirely and just propose to you right there over the line. He goes back and forth on whether or not expressing his affections over the phone is a good idea, and regularly finds himself holding his ancient flip phone in one hand, your number showing on the display, his thumb hovering over the call button. But the more he thinks about doing it, the more concerned he becomes that he’ll go overboard if he ever does get up the courage.

He can picture it now.

“Spencer!” You’ll say when you pick up, surprised. “Is everything okay? What can I help you with?”

And the words will come out before he has the chance to stop them. He has these thoughts so often that he won’t be able to contain them. “I love you, and I have for a long time. There is no doubt in my mind that we were predestined to be together, we’re-we’re soul mates.” In your shocked silence, he’ll remember the proper order of things. “Would you like to go on a date with me sometime?”

This will never do, never. So Spencer never actually follows through with the idea of telling you on the phone. Not like it would make you more likely to reciprocate, anyways. (Spencer has thought those probabilities through very carefully.)

But my silent fears have gripped me

Long before I reach the phone

Long before my tongue has tripped me

Must I always be alone

Spencer feels, when he’s with you, that he is completely made of anxiety. His prevailing emotion is always fear, and this is what makes, as Emily so bluntly put it, his IQ drop from 187 to 60. You’re just so gorgeous, you’re just so clever, and next to you Spencer just feels so inadequate. He stutters, he forgets what he was going to say, he spouts vocabulary lessons instead of socially appropriate responses to the things that you say. Spencer bothers you, he’s sure of it. He knows that nobody, least of all you, could ever want him in the way he wishes you could.

The first time he thought he found love was with Ethan. Ethan was smart, exactly like Spencer; he was ambitious and talented and didn’t mind hanging around with a prodigy because he was near being one also. Together they shared so many first experiences: kisses, intimacy, the struggle of being young and figuring out who they were when all of the other PhD students had families and lives of their own. But then Ethan dropped out of the academy his first day at Quantico, and now he almost never writes Spencer anymore. Ethan had no more need of Spencer—he left him alone.

The second time he thought he found love was with Lila. He could hardly believe it–a gorgeous, famous Hollywood actress, interested in him? But she insisted that she was, and she kissed him, over and over in her pool on the Los Feliz hillside. He got to be her hero for the night, and even her obsessed stalker believed they were in love. Spencer tried telling Lila that it was transference, but her protests and sweet parting moment convinced him that it wasn’t. And then she never returned his call. Lila wanted someone better than Spencer—she left him alone.

It was very similar with Austin. Looking back, Spencer doesn’t know why he didn’t learn his lesson from before. But she liked him before he was directly involved in saving her; she expressed interest in him when she only knew him as a gangly, awkward FBI agent looking for a witness in her bar; she noticed him when he was next to Morgan. Austin asked if she could call Spencer even if she didn’t have any information: she wanted to see him again. Then he was the one to realize she was in trouble, he was the one to carry her away from the danger. She even called him afterwards! She sent him her card with a lipstick kiss on the back, of all things! And then she decided they lived too far away from each other for a real relationship, for the thing both of them were looking for. Austin didn’t feel Spencer was worth the distance—she left him alone.

But at this point, Spencer knows what’s going on. He sees the truth now. He simply isn’t destined to be anyone’s great love, despite how badly he wants to be. He’s too awkward, too messy, too traumatized, too stuck in his own head to ever be the object of someone’s affection and desire. And if he sees all this in himself, he’s sure you’re able to see it too. You’ll find someone more deserving of you than Spencer—you too will leave him alone.

On and on and on and

Every little thing, every little thing

Every little, every little, every little

Every little thing she does

Thing she does is magic

Every little thing, every little thing

Every little thing she do is magic, magic, magic

Spencer did not sleep last night. He’s never been terribly good at regulating his emotions, and they were just driving him too crazy to let him fully relax and drift off. The thoughts of you won’t leave him alone for even a few hours. So now, on top of everything he’s still feeling, he’s running on a severe lack of sleep (even more than usual, which is saying a lot for him). The edges of his desk are so sharp—have they always been this way? And Garcia’s outfit is just so colorful as she presents the newest case, and the fluorescent lights of the bullpen are emitting the most maddening hum in the entire world that Spencer just can’t seem to ignore, not even from inside the conference room where the wattage itself is a little more forgiving.

He’s shifting his weight from side to side in his chair, determinedly looking at everything else in the room except you (and, more noticeably to Hotch, his case file), and offers absolutely nothing to the team’s usual preliminary spitballing session. No relevant facts that turn into rambles, no slightly related side information, not even a reference to the serial killers of yore. Spencer is off his game—he’s not even on the right field, and everyone can see it.

Too far inside his head to think about anything except the way your perfume smells and how very exhausted and overstimulated he is, Spencer hardly takes notice when he feels a hand guide him out of the conference room after the rest of the team. Assuming it’s only Garcia, he allows himself to be led, but it’s a thorough shock to his system when he realizes why his heart is beating as fast as it is—it’s you with your hand on his elbow, you steering him into an empty office and sitting him down in the comfortable desk chair, you with a concerned look in your eyes and a water bottle that you’re setting in front of him.

“Spencer,” you coo. “Honey, is everything okay?”

It’s too much. The “honey” is what does it, it’s too much and Spencer’s brain is not working and all he can do is say the one thought he’s really sure of, possibly the only thought he’s been sure of his entire life.

“I love you.” The words slip out before he fully realizes what he’s saying, and then, terrified mouth still hanging open, he’s left with the silence hanging in the air between the two of you. He’s really done it now, Spencer thinks. He’s finally messed up the best thing in his life, just as he always knew he would.

But instead of widening in shock, your eyes soften. “I know. I love you too. Come here, it’s alright,” you say, pulling him to his feet. And your arms wrapped around him, the scent of your shampoo in his nose, your gentle exhalences drifting across his elbow, it’s all magic. It’s magic.

taglist: @reidyoulikeabook @emilyprsntiss @therealchickenjoe @muffin-cup @spookydrreid @ellesgreenaway @thosecriminalminds @averyhotchner @reidingmelodies

if you'd like to be added, you can fill out this form! thank you so much:)

#spencer reid x reader #rory recs #nonee my beloved

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behindyourbarrette · 2 years

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my new year’s resolutions (tagged by my beloved @everyonesfavoritepipecleaner i will come on here just for you 😌)

1. read more! i read 39 books in 2021 and want to read another 40 in 2022

2. bake and share more often, i love sharing food w people it’s a love language

3. journal a little every day

4. take a multivitamin! i am so bad at eating my fruits and veggies lol

5. take more pictures of the happy moments! i would love to have more documentation of joy

6. don’t do homework on sundays. i don’t want to be in pain anymore lmao

tagging @candlesandsoftrain 😘 (no pressure!)

#rory rambles (for old times sake)

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behindyourbarrette · 2 years

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Your writing is magical and you have have such an amazing way with words!!!

thank youuuu this is so sweet!!!

#anons #kind messages

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behindyourbarrette · 2 years

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hiii I just found temporarily indefinitely forever and I was wondering if there was an epilogue for it? I absolutely adored all 6 parts it’s amazing ❤️❤️💛

hellooooo anon—glad you asked! there most definitely is :) i hope you enjoy the end to their story :D

#anon #rory’s inbox #kind messages

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behindyourbarrette · 2 years

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😌

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behindyourbarrette · 2 years

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yall i restarted cm today. it is autumn i have plenty of time to procrastinate and methinks it is time for my revival

#watch me say this then dip #but with red tv coming out ill have so much writing inspo music #and i've had ideas brewin!!

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behindyourbarrette · 2 years

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Find a Penny, Pick it Up

Summary: reader finds a good luck charm

Pairing: Spencer Reid x FemBAU!Reader

Word Count: 2740

Genre: fluff, as per usual <3

Content Warning: brief descriptions of case-related violence (gunshots, injury while in pursuit), kissing

A/N: this fic is a long time coming! i got super hung up with editing and ended up re-writing certain parts like... fifteen times over the course of a couple months. also avoided working on it by making my first header collage. anyway! i'm finally happy with it and hope you all enjoy it too :)

A glint of copper stopped you in your tracks and you bent down to pick up the penny without a second thought. It’s funny how things change. Growing up you never understood good luck charms, couldn’t see why people would choose to believe in an invisible, immeasurable force over their own agency and abilities.

But if people are a tapestry of those we surround ourselves with—if the traits of our friends and family start to weave into the complex fabric of our own personalities—then you suppose you have your best friend from college to thank for the new outlook. Whenever she found a penny, she’d drag you to the nearest gas station to buy a scratch-off lottery ticket, using the coin to reveal the hidden symbols. She never won anything more than ten dollars or another free ticket that turned out to be a bust, but she’d look at you with a gleam in her eye and remark how lucky she was regardless. You’d give a good natured laugh, at the very least appreciative for the brief adventure, for the small moment of anticipation that her superstition created.

So when you spotted the penny face-up on the sidewalk on your way to the final round of interviews for your dream job, you picked it up and slipped it into your pocket. While you know you ended up becoming the newest member of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit purely of your own merit, you couldn’t help but give the coin a bit of credit.

Because that was also the day you met Spencer Reid.

Today, you wake to a dreary, dismal sky. It’s the kind of day that makes you want to pull the covers over your head and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist for a while. You do the next best thing—hit snooze on your alarm until you’re running late. You shoot off an apology text to Hotch and curse at yourself under your breath as you rummage around in your go bag for your umbrella. You’re never late (well, hardly ever, you concede) so you’re less concerned with his response and more preoccupied with the fact that this means you won’t have time to stop for a decent cup of coffee before heading to the station.

As you step out of the SUV onto the rain-soaked pavement, a familiar metallic flash catches your eye, and you walk into the local precinct with an uncharacteristically broad grin on your face.

“Woah, what’s with you, little miss sunshine? It usually takes until at least your fourth cup of coffee for you to crack a smile like that when the weather’s this bad,” Derek observes.

“Found a penny, looks like I’m in for a lucky day,” you quip as you shrug off your jacket, hearing the faintest jingle of the new penny mingling with the one from the day of your interview. You still carry it with you everywhere, the copper starting to patina from how often you run your thumb over its reassuringly cool surface.

You find it hard to believe it’s only been three years since you joined this team. Barely any time in the grand scheme of things, and it astonishes you how quickly they became like a second family. Sometimes you’re tempted to think it’s just the nature of the job—that you have to be close since you trust each other with your lives each day. But you can have that sort of trust without intimacy, have respect without devotion.

You think back to that final interview with the BAU, the firm handshake Hotch gave you in congratulations, welcoming you to the unit. How in your excitement and urgency to text the good news to your family you didn’t look where you were going and ran smack into one of your new coworkers, inciting a scene of flying limbs and scattered files. As you scrambled to help clean up the mess, the apologies spewing from your lips stopped short when you found yourself staring into Spencer’s warm hazel eyes for the first time. In the midst of the nervous laughter, you felt drawn to him in some inexplicable way. And, despite the awkward introduction, the two of you became fast friends.

Eventually that initial connection you felt grew into something more. You can’t even pinpoint the exact moment it happened, you just know that you revel in your every interaction. Your simplest conversations leave you glowing for the rest of the day. You love existing in his world—a world of kindness, intelligence, patience. You love him, though you’ve resigned to never admitting it, too afraid of risking the friendship that means so much to you.

Emily pokes her head up from behind a mountain of file boxes, interrupting your reverie, “Do you really believe that old superstition?”

You give a noncommittal hum, “I don’t put a lot of stock in it, but in a way, yes. I think it comes down to the thrill of possibility. The brief instance where you think that you might have the best day of your life simply because you found a penny. If picking it up helps you prolong that mindset, it makes sense that good things will follow—because you’re open to them.”

“That’s absolutely right!” Spencer spins around from the map where he’s working on the geographical profile to face you, nodding intently. “Studies have shown that lucky charms create an illusion of control for the person who believes in them, which boosts confidence, ultimately contributing to their own success. There’s no tangible thing for what we call ‘luck,’ but we can create one by transferring the concept to an object.”

You try your hardest to pay full attention to what he’s saying. You’d think that by now you’d have learned to focus solely on his words instead of getting lost in the way he gestures with his hands when he gets excited, how his whole face lights up when he shares something from his infinite vault of facts and anecdotes. You love listening to him when he gets like this, brain running at full speed and his mouth just trying to keep up. God, you’d listen to him talk forever if it would make him happy.

“And the origins of pennies being viewed as good luck are fascinating. According to one theory, the thought stemmed from religious beliefs. Folklore from ancient civilizations said that metals—like copper—were gifts from the gods intended to protect people from evil. And this fueled other superstitions like charm bracelets and metal horseshoes,” he finishes, slightly out of breath from the infodump.

That is interesting, Spence,” you reply. You don’t always know what to say in response to his tangents, but you hope that your tone conveys how much you genuinely enjoy hearing them.

The beaming smile he gives you lets you know that it does, and you feel that familiar heat rise to your cheeks. It’s the way you always feel under his gaze, a reminder that your feelings for him were inevitable.

Smiling back, you allow yourself to get lost in the possibility of a life where Spencer Reid knows how hopelessly in love you are with him, if only for a moment. You’re too busy staring at each other to notice the knowing smirk that Emily and Derek exchange, the moment only broken when Derek clears his throat to suggest it’s time to get back to work.

“I’m gonna grab coffee, anyone else need some?” You ask before settling in.

“Oh!” Spencer interjects, “Here—I got you a latte when we stopped on our way in. I know how tough days like this can be for you, thought you could use the extra pick-me-up.”

Your fingers brush as he hands you the cup, leaving you unsure if the warmth you feel spreading through your body is from the first sip of the coffee or his touch. When you murmur a heartfelt thank you and give his forearm a light squeeze, you catch Derek nudge Emily with his elbow and her failed attempt to turn her chuckle into a cough. You shrug it off and think that maybe you’re in for a lucky day after all.

By mid-afternoon the torrential rain has let up, replaced by a light mist that clings persistently to your windbreakers as the team piles into the SUVs. After poring over the evidence and with the help of the one and only Penelope Garcia, you’ve got a name and address for the unsub and are en route to his apartment.

When you arrive, Hotch directs you, Morgan, and Reid to cover the back in case he tries to make a run for it. You’ve barely gotten into position when you hear commotion on the fire escape, followed by a figure leaping from the second story and taking off down the alley. Your heartbeat hammers in your ears as you sprint after in hot pursuit when he suddenly stops and whips around, gun aimed straight for your chest.

A shot rings out.

Everything seems to come to a halt as the bullet hits its mark, blinding pain exploding through your body. You’re knocked off balance, head slamming against the concrete as you fall to the ground. Your vision blurs and you feel yourself teetering on the edge of consciousness as you struggle to breathe.

Through the haze you hear Spencer yelling into his com, “Agent down! We need medical–now!” before you feel his hands on you, frantically scanning your body for injuries.

“Y/N, hey. Hey. Can you hear me?” He asks, panic evident in his voice.

You cough and sputter out a gasp, still trying to catch your breath from the impact, “Vest caught it. Go.”

“Morgan’s on it, and JJ isn’t far behind. I’m staying with you. You know they’re more useful than me in a chase, anyway,” he tries to joke, but the unsteadiness in his voice breaks through.

“Don’t–don’t worry about me. Told you, my vest caught it.” you pant, hearing the faint sound of sirens in the distance.

“Bulletproof vests aren’t actually bulletproof, though. They just rapidly dissipate the energy from the bullet. You could have cracked ribs, or a concussion depending how hard you hit the ground, or a myriad of other internal injuries,” he lists off as he wraps his arms around you, gently helping you sit up.

“Reid. I’m fine,” you stifle a wince, only drawing further concern from him.

You offer a strained smile in a feeble attempt at reassurance, met by an unreadable expression. His eyes are wider than normal, cheeks pink and brows slightly furrowed. You notice how his hand shakes as he brings it up to gingerly touch the back of your head.

“Y/N, I—you need to know something...”

You look at him curiously and wait for him to continue. His eyes dart to yours for a fleeting moment before dropping to the ground, but you note how they burn with a sense of urgency.

“What is it?” you ask softly, taking his hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“I just—I can’t go another day without telling you how much I care about you,” he starts. When he looks back up and locks eyes with you, you find yourself lost in his gaze, basking in its warmth and adoration. He doesn’t continue talking, but he doesn’t need to. Because that look is one that you’ve found yourself wearing more often than not when in the presence of Spencer Reid. It’s a look that sets off somersaults in your chest, knowing that he’s just as hopelessly in love with you as you are with him.

You’re not sure who closes the distance first, but suddenly you're pulling each other into a deep kiss and all other thoughts have melted away. The feelings for him that have been clawing at your chest for the better part of three years have finally been released, and you find yourself wondering how you ever kept them contained in the first place. You’d imagined this moment so many times, but the real thing far exceeds those wistful daydreams.

When you finally pull away for air you can’t control the smile that breaks across your face, a similar one spread on his. He leans away from you and takes a deep breath, “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about doing that. Well, actually I could—eidetic memory and all—but I won’t because I know that’s weird and I don’t want to freak you out and–”

Your hands find their way to his face and you cut him off with a firm kiss. It’s one of the few times you’ve interrupted his ramblings, but will definitely be your favorite way from now on.

When you break apart again he’s looking at you like you’re the night sky, continually searching for a wonder he hasn’t yet seen.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” you tease.

His eyes remain focused on yours, “I’m still kind of trying to convince myself this is real. I can’t believe I kissed you. And you’re kissing me back,” he breathes, nothing short of awestruck.

Your heart swells in your chest as you beam at him. Your next words come tumbling from your mouth without a second thought. They’re the words you’ve been holding back for so long, and finally saying them extinguishes the fire they’ve been burning in your throat, “And I can’t believe how in love with you I am.”

“Spence, from the moment we met I knew you were special. I’ve searched for the words to describe it but I keep coming up empty. You’re just so... you. You have the biggest heart of anyone I know, not to mention the most brilliant mind. I could listen to you talk about the latest philosophy book you read for hours, I love the way you purse your lips and scrunch up your nose right before you make a breakthrough on a case, I-“

“Monday, April Twenty-Sixth. Eight-fourteen AM,” he interrupts.

You blink back at him, confused, “What?”

“The moment we met. I was making my way to Hotch’s office when the door flew open and I was knocked to the ground by the most intimidatingly beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”

“Spencer...“ you flush at the memory, but he continues, his own thoughts he’d pushed down long ago finally rushing to the surface.

“When our eyes met, you smiled that perfect smile of yours and that’s when I knew... there was no stopping me from feeling this way. And those feelings have only grown the longer I’ve known you. I never believed in the notion of ‘love at first sight.’ I mean, by the very definition, love is an intense feeling of deep affection—and how can you have affection for someone without knowing them at all? Oftentimes what most people experience is lust at first sight and they call it love because they don’t understand simple emotions and their chemical responses. But,” he pauses to collect his thoughts, “the first time I laid eyes on you, you defied all my understanding of love, of lust, of any sort of logic or fact or definition. You made me realize that not everything can be explained.”

He envelops you this time in a slow, gentle kiss, your lips dancing delicately together, communicating the depths of your feelings without words. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of kissing him.

You smile as you pull away, “See, I told you I was going to have a lucky day.”

“Are you serious? Y/N, you just got shot! You could–you could have died!” Spencer screeches.

“I could have, but I didn’t—good luck,” you deadpan, biting the inside of your cheek to stifle your laugh.

The look of utter disbelief he gives you lets you know he’s about to reprimand you for being so cavalier about the incident, so you put him out of his misery.

“Spencer, I’m kidding!” you exclaim, landing a soft hit to his chest with the back of your hand. “But I did get to kiss you, which I think more than makes up for the attempt on my life.”

He lets out an incredulous laugh, shaking his head with that smile of his. You know as long as you can keep making him smile like that everything will be okay, and you feel pretty damn lucky to call him yours.

i appreciate each and every one of you for reading!! feel free to let me know what you think, or just come say hello <3

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taglist: @alexlovescriminalminds @reidsbookclub @notanotherreidgirl @behindyourbarrette @unmitigatedsuperiority @nomajdetective @measure-in-pain

#AHHHHH #omg omg omg #abi #this is everything i’ve ever NEEDED #the beginning about the penny was So well written it was BEAUTIFULLLL #and the spencer longing requited unrequited love #MY FAV #some angst and then YAH #i love when his memory comes into play #so so cute #rory recs

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behindyourbarrette · 2 years

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turns out two of my irl friends are cm stans and they were like “haha wouldn’t it be funny if u had a tumblr?” somehow it feels like they know so hi v and j if you’re here i’m sorry if you’ve read anything here you know how deeply i crave intimacy lol

#awko taco #they’re cool though!!!

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behindyourbarrette · 2 years

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forgot to mention that if u like a) me or b) my words i am decently active on @icedchailover these days so mosey on over lol

i am still on hiatus clearly!!! but have no fear i am still itching to write and i will be back eventually :)

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behindyourbarrette · 2 years

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i am still on hiatus clearly!!! but have no fear i am still itching to write and i will be back eventually :)

#semester is going well and I have learned that procrastinating by writing fic is fun

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behindyourbarrette · 3 years

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Equilibrium

Pairing: Spencer Reid x GenderNeutral!Reader

Word Count: 695 - she's a shorty

Genre: hurt/comfort/just me rambling

A/N: Haven't posted a fic in a whileeee so here's a little blurb/excerpt from a series I started that I can't figure out how to wrap up, slightly edited so it can stand alone. Spencer's last line of dialogue is a quote from People We Meet on Vacation by Emily Henry!! It's an absolute gem of a book if you love the friends to lovers trope like I do 🥰

There are three different types of tears: reflex tears; continuous tears; and emotional tears. Reflex tears help clear debris—like smoke and dust—from your eyes. Continuous tears lubricate our eyes and help protect them from infection. Emotional tears are what you've been crying ever since you got home from your latest case.

You read once that crying is a way to restore emotional equilibrium. Whereas continuous tears contain 98 percent water, emotional tears contain stress hormones and other toxins. Basically, our bodies get so overwhelmed that we have to let that emotion out somehow, and crying acts as our bodies’ way of recovering from experiencing such strong emotion.

So you can’t help but wonder why after almost two hours of this, your emotions still haven’t reached equilibrium. Why instead the wet, bitter sobs have simply morphed into you tearlessly gasping for breath. You bet Spencer would have an explanation.

Spencer.

It’s like his name flips a switch that puts your body on autopilot. You grab your keys from the kitchen counter and pull on your jacket. If there’s any part of your brain telling you that people who are “just friends” don’t show up on each other’s doorsteps unannounced after 2 AM, you're well past the point of being able to listen to it.

Your frantic knocks are what finally draw you out of your haze. Just as your brain catches up to your body and you realize where you are, the door cracks open mid-knock, revealing a sliver of a sleepy and utterly confused Spencer Reid.

“Y/N?” He questions before opening the door fully, taking in your red-rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks, unsure if you're really there or something out of a dream. Or more likely, you figure, a nightmare with the way you look right now.

“Do you remember when you told me that if this job ever got to be too much, I could always talk to you?” you ask, the words unsteady. He nods and steps aside, gesturing for you to come in and shutting the door softly behind you. When he turns to face you, he gives you a look of such deep compassion and understanding that you feel the walls you've built fracture under its weight. “It’s too much,” you confess as your voice breaks and the tears begin to fall again.

“Hey, hey, come here,” he pulls you into a tight hug and wraps his arms around you, the simple gift of his company soothing your aching soul. It’s the only time you've felt right the past few days. You find that it’s easier to breathe when he’s around, the panic in your chest dulls a little knowing he’s here. Things don’t seem as scary in his presence.

And through your broken sobs and his hand tracing comfortingly down your back, you hear yourself think, “I’m in love with you.”

There’s no fireworks, no fanfare. Just the quiet realization that you've never felt more at home than you do when you're in his arms. You think you've been in love with him for a long time—so long that you can’t pinpoint the exact moment it started.

It’s a thought that terrifies you as much as it thrills you, because when you open yourself up to love, you open yourself up to hurt. You pull away from his embrace and start to wipe your tears away with the back of you hand.

“Spencer, I–“ you feel the telltale warmth of I love you dancing on your tongue, about to slip past your lips. But you force the words back down, throat burning on their descent. You couldn’t stand to lose him, to jeopardize how happy you are with your friendship by saying those three little words if he doesn’t feel the same way.

You feel his honeyed gaze, waiting for you to finish, so you tell him the truth—the palatable part, anyway. “I can’t imagine my life without you.”

A contented smile graces his face. “Can I tell you something?” You nod in response and he continues, “I used to be lonely a lot. But I’ve never really felt alone since I met you. I don’t think I’ll ever feel truly alone in this world again as long as you’re in it.”

Your heart catches in your throat, and you bury your face back in his chest to breathe in his familiar scent. Someday the weight of your feelings may become too much to bear. But for now, this is enough.

Taglist: @alexlovescriminalminds @reidsbookclub @notanotherreidgirl @unmitigatedsuperiority

fill this out to be tagged in my future writing!

#HOLD THE PHONE!!!#hiatus schmiatus #I will always be a CM blog for abi #this was so cute??? i’m #i had a good Equilibrium sob this morning so very much felt #but i didn’t have a spencer to hug lol #I LOVE THAT HE TOLD US TO TELL HIM?? IF IT EVER GOT TO BE TOO MUCH??#bc he understaaaaaands #the hug #The unrequited of it all #But so sweeeeeet #ALSO EMILY HENRY QUOTE?? are U Trying to kill me???#love this and you abi

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behindyourbarrette · 3 years

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temporarily, indefinitely, forever - epilogue

spencer reid x reader

masterlist

a/n: love u bye LOL im kidding but check my pinned and know that this series was my fav thing ive ever done

---

New Year’s Eve, 11:51 p.m

“Are you sure you don’t want to watch the ball drop?”

Spencer’s voice is hesitant, hushed against the din of the party happening beneath your feet. His hands, though, are confident, sure, holding your waist with a certain resolve. A feeling of truth to it.

You shrug, a little cold, and take a step closer to him, reaching to drape your arms around his neck.

“It’s a dumb tradition anyways.” You catch the spark of defiance in his eyes before you even finish your sentence, and to your delight, he springs to life.

“It’s loosely based on nautical time balls,” He says, smiling as his eyes drift across the skyline. “A way for sailors to set their chronometers at the same time every day, no matter where you were at sea.”

“Okay, maybe it’s a cool tradition,” You concede, just to see him smile, unrestrained and triumphant over something so small, so simple.

“I don’t like being glued to the TV, though.” You add, feeling the fabric of his collar between your fingertips. He considers it, for a moment, playing up the scrunch of his eyebrows and the downturn of his lips for effect.

“Fair. It’s nicer up here.”

It’s cold, and it looks like it might rain. The party’s inside, where Morgan probably has a fire going and something warm in the oven. But he’s right. It’s nice up on the roof of an apartment complex, where you aren’t supposed to be. Where you feel at home.

“What were your resolutions? Last year?” You ask, after the silence settles and thickens into more than just a pause. By now, someone’s turned the music up a floor below and you can feel the pulse in your feet. To your delight, Spencer’s going along with the sway you’ve begun to embrace, stepping in time.

“I can’t remember.” He quips, pursing his lips in pride after he gets the joke out.

“You’re a terrible liar, Dr. Reid,” you laugh, and your hands move from his collar up to his cheeks, to hold him. “You don’t take me for a fool, do you?”

“Never.”

“So what did you hope for?”

His eyes flick towards the door to the staircase, making sure you’re alone. You watch him ponder it for a moment, hair windswept and unruly, cheeks chapped pink.

“A good year. I always do.” He says, so sincere that you resist the urge to groan, to tell him that he’s being cheesy. He looks as if he’s about to go on, so you let him.

“I was hopeful for my mom. Her health,” his eyes flick upwards, towards the cloudy sky. “And for the team. I wanted to read often. To start ordering decaf. I don’t think they mean much, resolutions. They go largely unfulfilled. Statistically.”

“Statistically.” You confirm with a nod of your head, a grin breaking across your cheeks. It won’t be long now, you think. Time passes more quickly, with him, when you have nowhere to be and nobody to please.

“How about you?”

You’ve told yourself you won’t cry. It’s hard not to, though. In the mornings, when the sunlight cuts across the room and warms his skin. The afternoons, when you read in your living room, hands intertwined, the couch too small for both of you but defying the odds so he can trace circles between your thumb and your index finger as you flick through pages. The evenings, when he holds you, and talks about dead philosophers and the cases you’ve just closed and his mother and ethically sourced coffee beans because he knows that you’re listening. To experience this—you know now that it’s love, that’s what it’s called—is to feel with the dial turned all the way up. It’s Technicolor.

“I probably said that I wanted to eat less takeout. Go on more second dates.” A surprised laugh escapes him, light and unfiltered, and you smile.

“I’m very picky, you know. Penelope set me up with half of Quantico.”

“I guess that makes me lucky.” He grins, presses a kiss to your cheek.

“Statistically, yeah. You are.”

You’re running out of time, but you know that it’s imaginary, that nothing will change when the ball drops just a few hours north from here. He will still be here, flush against you, smiling and yours.

“How about this year?” He asks, and you have to think about it.

You can hear the team below begin to chant. Ten. He’s all you can wish for, really. The rest falls into place. Nine. A job you love. Eight. An apartment full of books and his clothes. Seven. Maybe a cat, but Spencer will need convincing. Six. That one corner desk in the bullpen. Five.

“I’d like to kiss the person I hope to keep kissing,” you say, once you can hear Auld Lang Syne blasting through open windows and a greater commotion. And with that, Spencer smiles, and the rooftop fades. It’s bitterly cold, and you have a long year ahead of you, but everything is so bright. It’s Technicolor.

March, Spencer’s Apartment

The sun has barely set, but you’re sleepy.

This type of calm is unique, you think. True security is a luxury you haven’t afforded yourself in a long time. You’ve spent your years with the Bureau looking over your shoulder, always half-fearful that your work will catch up to you. That there’s something lurking when you aren’t working, when you let yourself relax. But ever since January, you’ve been able to sleep.

“You’ll wake up with a crick in your neck if you keep that up.” Spencer nudges you with his socked foot, and you snap out of a microsleep. The book you’re reading—his annotated Tolstoy, which is probably older than you both—falls to the ground and closes with a decisive snap.

“Oh, come on. Let me ruin my body in peace.”

“Orthopedics are no joke. The neck is a delicate mechanism, all the joints and ligaments—”

“You aren’t that kind of doctor.” You say, voice garbled through the filter of a yawn. He smiles, and grabs hold of one of your arms. In two quick motions, you’ve moved from your respective corners of the couch to an embrace, holding each other. His legs hang off the couch as you become the little spoon, but apparently it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make. Face to face, you watch him take a deep inhale, his muscles relaxing as you wind yourself around him.

“I’m exhausted.” You mutter, head tucked into his chest.

“We probably have to work tomorrow.”

“Can’t we skip?” You counter. After the day you’ve had, it’s tempting to feign a bad hangover or hayfever. Anything to preserve this feeling, the warmth of it.

He glances up, probably calculating a figure or statistic, but abandons it in favor of gazing at you.

“Did you have a good birthday?”

You hold onto him a little tighter as you nod, hoping he feels that you’re grateful. He did everything right—ran out for coffee and a chocolate croissant before you woke up, recruited Penelope and Rossi to bake you a perfect cake, and planned a small dinner party, over before the clock struck nine. But the timing had been off. Your birthday came in the wake of a brutal case, one that had really and truly rattled you. The day was lost the moment you took that assignment on. It was worth it. People were saved, justice was brought, but it had soured the next few days. Bad luck that it happened to be your birthday.

“I did.” You say, lifting your hand to brush your thumb across his cheek, in a beat of two. He nods, smiling sadly, and you kiss the expression away.

“I wish it could’ve been better. That there was something I could do.”

“But there was, and you did it. Today was perfect.”

“Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”

“Spencer.” You hate to chastise, but it’s more than surprising to see him this way. A hand travels to his chest, trying to ground him.

“You love your birthday. I hate to see this job take it from you. Even when we win, it takes.” He settles back into the sofa, and you squeeze him in a half-hug.

“It didn’t take anything from me. I had a wonderful day. And I’m with you. We have a great life. Together. That’s worth celebrating.”

“You’re right.” He sighs, conceding defeat, and a genuine smile sparks across your face. The sleepy expression on his features offers you a rare chance at a joke, and you race to take it.

“Do you want to read, or sleep?”

“Both. In that order.”

And the night trickles away, on that couch, clumsily arranged so that you’re touching as much as possible, voices slurred and thick with fatigue, arms and legs pinned and needled, books crumpled after you both drop them in the brave act of falling.

August

Summers are different, now.

They’re spent maximizing the in between. You refuse to let this job eat the two of you alive, not when you actually have lives to live, now. So you spend your weekends with your phones off and hands holding each other’s.

It’s nice, in D.C. A stone’s throw from home, but fun to walk with someone who knows literally everything there is to know about U.S History. Spencer talks your ear off as you make your way down the cobblestone streets, pointing out landmarks and little corners of the city that you wouldn’t have noticed, had he not been there.

It gets hot around noon, though, with the sun high overhead and the humidity almost as bad as it is a little further south. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, and you stifle a flustered laugh in an attempt to play it cool. No amount of time will change how incredibly disarming Dr. Spencer Reid can be, in all his glory.

“I can’t wait for Halloween.” He mutters, and you take a step in from the sidewalk to bask in the shade of an overhang. Pulling a bottle of water from your purse, you offer it to him.

“You always look forward to Halloween, though. I think you just want it to be cold.” You tease, watching him take a tentative sip. Sharing drinks with you is a relatively new level of intimacy, but after you remind him that you share more than the rim of a glass, he warms up to the idea.

“What are we going to be this year?” He asks, a little breathless. Excitement leaps into your chest at the idea of another party, another costume. You flex your fingers, feeling the spot where the skin by your scar refuses to follow along. That’s the pleasure of time—it heals. You can look forward to parties again. Your hand only hurts you when it rains, which you’re pretty sure is a placebo, as explained to you by a very intelligent doctor. The iron grip that last year’s autumn had on you has faded into little more than a scar and a story that nobody believes when you tell it.

“Whatever you want. We can be anything.”

“Yeah.” He agrees, and he looks past you towards something that makes his eyes light up. “We can be anything.”

“Is that a bookstore?” He asks, pointing towards a sign across the street. It advertises used books, and an idea lights itself like a match. You turn back to him, grinning.

“It totally is, and I am totally going inside to do top-secret shopping. You can have your turn after I’m done.”

He smirks, probably at the idea that there’s little you can hide from him, which above all else is true. You’ve given up on concealing much of anything anymore. It’s too difficult to keep from grinning, these days.

“I’ll be here.” He gestures to the sidewalk, a delightfully aloof smile on his face.

“Love you.” You press a kiss to the edge of his mouth, because you know it’ll make him laugh. He presses you close to him in a rare public hug, and buries his face into your hair. It is of absolutely no importance, how ridiculous you two look.

“Love you too. Just don’t buy me Dickens.”

You laugh, unrestrained and loud in the middle of the street. Spencer blushes, and watches you make your way into the tiny bookshop. A bell sounds as you enter, and immediately you know that it’s the perfect place to buy Spencer’s birthday gift. The shelves are covered from wall to wall with yellowed classics. There’s almost too much to choose from—but you manage to trail around, enraptured by the display of signed copies in the back.

October isn’t so far away, you’ve learned. Fall, and everything that comes with it, will be here before you know it. It’s easy, then, to busy yourself with poking through the shelves in search of something that he’ll love. Something to show that you do, too.

While you’re waiting in line to check out, a small stack of vintage first editions in your arms, you hear a siren. It’s not quite rational—Spencer would tell you that human memory is little more than a guessing game, that there’s no easy explanation for whatever reaction triggers a memory—but your mind tugs you back to that urgent care waiting room, the drive over, Spencer’s hand pressing into yours, the bloom of blood on the makeshift bandage. The skin on your palm is still puckered, the line white with age. The cashier catches sight of it as you hand her a novel, her eyes lingering on the tight line of the scar. You pass her your card in an attempt to redirect her focus, and she takes it with a slight tilt of her head.

“Ouch. Looks like that one hurt.” She says, offhandedly, and you know that she will not remember you by the end of today. You shrug, and let her hand you your copy of Cannery Row, the receipt tucked into the first page. The door opens, and a short bell sounds. You offer her a small smile, in honor of everything she does not know.

“It was a long time ago,” you say. Pain is pain, though, regardless of which side of it you are on. If anything, she understands, eyes meeting yours with a soft smile. You turn on your heel, towards who you know is waiting for you, and leave the past behind.

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@everyonesfavoritepipecleaner @spencersjello @raybutcool @just_arandomwriter @averyhotchner @happymangospot @sadsonglistener @rebeccasoutlook @reidmyspencer @i-love-spencer @obsessivelysearching @stardustspence @jenny885108-blog @deakyjoe @lovesdarkness @theteapotmoth @wifeyprentiss @kuolonsyoja @multi-worlds @me-a-hopeless-romantic @drayshadow @measure-in-pain @allybatch @reidonfilm @luredwithpretzels @rexorangecouny @thatonezesty13 @rare-breed-of-human @ceridwen-02 @the-chaotic-cow @thedancingnerdmermaid @just-another-persona123 @forever-not-gonna-sink @hi-there-x @infinite-tides @uptowngotmedown @bakugouswh0r3 @onyourfingertips @coldlilheart

#no tags this time #just 4 y'all #who have been here for me :)#rory writes

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