Should I Just Start Writing Oneshots And Make This A Fic Account

Blackbird, what does that mean? It's JJ.

i’m bad at reality

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Oh, and by the way, that Supreme Court ruling is where that Harry Potter money goes.

reid once super glued a high school bully’s chin to a pull up bar. He was 9 at the time. #topsecretreidfact

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pocketful of sunshine, s. reid

`✦ ִֶˑ ִֶ𓂃⊹જ⁀➴

in which, spencer valiantly defends your honor. as best as he can, at least. it's cute, i promise.

`✦ ִֶˑ ִֶ𓂃⊹જ⁀➴

trope: whimsy!reader x spencer, coworkers/friends

warnings: no smut, fluff, comfort, honorable mention of spencer's hands, defensive spencer, asshole cop wc: 2.34k

summary: The BAU cases are always dark, but you're like a little pocket of wonder in the chaos — always carrying odd little trinkets for good luck, quoting poetry at random, and doodling stars in the margins of case files. Spencer tries to act unaffected, but he starts picking up the habits too: absentmindedly quoting literature back, carrying a lucky coin you gave him, and smiling when he sees your sketches. Of course, being a glowing pillar of light in most rooms has its downs.

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You like the concept of tarot cards. It gives you a good sense of control, of stability in a job that tends to try and make things tumble out of their place, a way to have hopes for destiny. If you believe in that sort of sentiment. It stops the books from flying off the shelf. The awakening engine of the jet snaps you out of your thoughts as you raise your attention from the tarot cards sitting untouched in your palm. It's only a bit jarring, as always; planes startle you a bit. Emily sits across from you, book in hand, although you can tell she's not reading it. She's already falling asleep, the absent hum in the background serving as white noise for her napping. You flip through the tarot cards, brow furrowed in concentration as you turn three of the top ones over. The Lovers, the Fool, and The Hermit. The Fool's upside down. Hopefully that's not a bad thing. You slip the cards back into their respective places in the deck and pop up to get a coffee, careful not to bump Emily as you shuffle down the aisle. It's getting humid outside--condensation creeping up on the windows and clinging for dear life--you don't doubt it'll start raining soon.You're just about to pour your steaming hot black coffee when Spencer materializes behind you, and you almost spill all of it on yourself. "Crap! Spencer, what're you doing?"

He smiles apologetically, sheepishly. "Sorry, I--um, I was just wondering if we had any sugar." He holds up his own coffee mug, a black one with a cat on the front.

You sigh, handing him the mini sugar packet. "Don't apologise, some people just tread lightly. Scarily so, apparently." You smile back reassuringly. He nods, not moving away as you stir your coffee. You can feel his eyes on the back of your head. "So..." Oh, no, I've said the dreaded conversation opener. Don't panic, your charm will save you. If I even have any. He watches you intently, taking a sip from his coffee. He looks just about as if he'll hang onto your every word. It's making you nervous, and maybe it's making your face hot too, but you hope the lights are dim enough for it to be unnoticeable.

"What're the details of the case?" You finish up the coffee combo, turning so you're leaned against the back of the wooden counter.

He jumps into action, the awkwardness easing up as he shares details. "Looks like a 30-year old female victim, 27 year old male, about 23 stab wounds to the chest, arms and abdomen."

"Wow. That sounds...angry. Rage induced, I mean." You correct yourself, wincing mentally at the wording. You're smart, really smart, you just tend to forget technological terms in front of him.

"It looks like it." He hums as you both head back to the seats, sinking down across from one another in the leather. "The MO wasn't vehemently consistent, except for one thing." He pauses for dramatic effect. You nod, prompting him to go on as you cup your coffee mug in your hands.

"Crows."

You blink, tilting your head inquisitively. "...crows?" He nods rapidly. "Yeah, crows, carved in by the stabbing. As far as I've deduced, it matches up with an old poem about the meanings of amounts of crows. One for sorrow, one for birth, and so on.""Huh." Shuffling the tarot cards, you cross your legs. "So our unsub's intelligent. Maybe he thinks of himself like a poet?"

Spencer's shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. "It's too early to tell. It's a message, that's for sure." That sentence catches you a little off guard. Usually Spencer's determined to figure things out, determined to do everything he can to work out a puzzle as baffling as this one. But for some reason, he's quieter. More sullen, in a way.

You're not one for frowning, but one crosses your features anyways. "You okay?" He looks as if he's been caught, raising his brows and making a soft, dismissive noise. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I just haven't slept too much."

Of course he'd say that. You're still worried, but nonetheless exhausted from the day. It's always a good idea to catch a nap on the jet.

"You should just sleep through the flight. We both should, catch some Z's."

That wording just about makes you pinch yourself in frustration. You keep saying stupid things around him, and you're still not sure why to this day. All you know is that it annoys you severely. As you both drift off into a half-awake half-asleep state, you're too delirious to note the almost frivolous, unnoticeable detail of Spencer holding your lucky coin between his fingers as you fall asleep.

`✦ ִֶˑ ִֶ𓂃⊹જ⁀➴ When the jet hits Georgia, it apparently wants to hit you too. You're woken from the peaceful slumber by the turbulence, disoriented and bleary as you peek out the window. God, it's sunny. Too sunny for sensitive morning eyes. Nonetheless, a sense of your usual hope fills you as you peek out the window, think of a short sacrament to the sun and let her continue her slow burning of the Earth.

Spencer wakes up across from you as well, his expression adorably confused as he blinks. You observe. Wonder how his under eyes always stay the same hue of dark grey, then you go back to pedantically staring out the window. Apparently you two (with the exception of Hotch--does he ever sleep?) are early birds. The team's still dozing. Your eyes wander back over to him eventually, spotting the coin in his hand. "Hey, you kept it." He tucks his hair back behind his ear then smiles, just a little. "Oh. Yeah, I did. I don't usually believe in luck, but it's kept me safe so far." The words make something grossly warm and sticky build up in your chest and you snort, putting on your best 'newsperson' voice. "Rare sighting. A man of science carries a lucky coin." Spencer laughs. God, that's a pleasant sound. It's about just as sweet as he takes his coffee. There's a comfortable silence for a little period of time, just the two of you sitting there. Unsure of what to do or say. As you sit there, you end up watching the movement of his fingers around the coin. Flip. Flip again. You've always been somewhat aware of his dexterity, but just silently watching him now brings heat to your face. Nimble fingers, neat fingernails and ridges between his knuckles that you just want to trace with your own touch. Of course, said silence is eventually broken by Garcia's chirping tone. "Good morning, good morning, my loves, I am souped up on five coffees and feeling amazing." There's a collective groan between JJ and Morgan. Derek rubs his forehead, sitting up from the visually uncomfortable-looking position he'd taken on the couch as they start to land. "Babygirl, there are better ways to wake us up than singing in our ears." "Derek Morgan, if we were alone right now, I can assure you I'd be waking you up differently." Garcia jokes in her usual sultry tone, their casual friendly flirting making both you and Spencer roll your eyes. It's another three minutes before the others come to, and another five before they've drunk enough coffee for them to be able to profile efficiently. The little TV lights up with Garcia's face again, and she smiles. "I return, bearing less of a zapped, coffee-fuelled mind. Let's get into it." After you all go over the details of the case, discussing patterns in the signature and the whole crow thing Spencer mentioned before, you get off the jet with your go-bags. "It's bright." Is the first thing you can muster, cupping your hand above your eyes to avoid the harsh glare of the sun.

"Really bright." Reid adds on, frowns on both your faces. You get a little pouch out of your bag, picking out the gem of the day. Alexandrite. Brings balance, and luck. Also, it's pretty. The greeny-purple hues glimmer a bit in the sunlight as you turn it over.

"Let's get moving." Hotch says firmly, the rest of the team tagging behind albeit in a fatigued manner. It's going to be a long drive. `✦ ִֶˑ ִֶ𓂃⊹જ⁀➴ The station is quiet, it's the first thing you notice. Except for the papers rustling about, the typing, and scattered talking, it's not as busy as you'd expect it to be in a place that's currently rampant with serial killings. Spencer looks mildly horrified at the state of some of the officer's desks. "Do they not sanitize? There are at least over 10 million bacteria on a standard office desk." "Spence, I don't even think they sanitize their hands." You comment, noting the intern in the corner eating his takeout and typing. The expression on the genius' face after seeing it is comical. You almost want to laugh, but you're reminded it genuinely disturbs him, so you're just left giving him a brief, reassuring shoulder pat.

Ah, yes, the shoulder pat. The one form of human bodily communication cue your hand just itches to choose in pretty much any conversation. It's a problem, frankly. He doesn't seem to mind too much, anyways. Your hand drops from the fabric of his cardigan as you enter the tiny briefing room they have set up. It's a little more accommodating; a nicer table. "Okay, what do we know?" Hotch crosses his arms, letting the team file things away in their heads. You squint and focus on every aspect of the photos propped up on the board, your mind sharpening. Crows. Your thoughts fall down that rabbit-hole again, the interest peaking a bit. On this particular body, there are six. Six for gold. You can't understand the sentiments of the act at the moment, or at least, not the connections that the unsub was thinking of when he carved specifically six. If that was the intention, that is. "The MO isn't consistent with that of an organized killer but he's still careful enough not to leave behind DNA or anything obvious. Just obvious things on the bodies." Spencer pipes up, explaining his crow theory to the group a little excitedly. It's cute to watch from a different perspective.

A burly man--who you assume is the higher-up here--approaches Hotch with a firm handshake and a nod. A very, very quick moment passes between the two. A silent sharing of thoughts, if you will, and you just notice it before it's gone as if it was never there at all. Then introductions, and when Hotchner gets to you, the old man looks a bit...baffled? Maybe the better term is nonplussed. Flummoxed. Either way, he's looking at you like you're a different species. Your way of dressing, the trinkets and odd bits n' bobs pinned to your pants. It's not like you're unused to this sort of reaction. He's just sort of...pushing it. Making a hyperbole out of something that's not even a sentence at all. Then again, he seems like the type of guy to get annoyed with someone for licking an envelope wrong, so you just give him a blank stare back. "You're a bit...unorthodox." The officer raises a brow. You squint, unsure of how to reply. You're usually loquacious, but when it comes to backhanded insults you sort of just...shut up. The team seems stumped as well, but not pleased either way. "She's a valuable asset to the team." Hotch says stoically, tone flat. You just stand there. You're sick of this. Not the comments, but the wasting time. What if someone else is being murdered right now? And this station is what, sitting around eating Thai food and waiting for a saint to show up and fix their problems? It doesn't work like that, not in your head. The officer seems to like talking. "Well, I know, she probably is, but does the FBI really let its agents dress like that?" He makes a gesture to you with his hand. You eventually take a brief look over at Spencer, and it puts you into a state of momentary shock when you see he's bristling, jaw wound tight and frown creasing his brow. "She's good at her job, how she dresses isn't relevant, I think you'll find." The usually socially aversive doctor doesn't hesitate to shut down the chief's observations, brushing past him so he can get to the pin board. "I think we should review the crime scene instead of talking about things that aren't important at all." You raise both eyebrows. Okay, this is weird. Spencer's still going over the board, but it's obvious enough that he's not pleased. His mind is racing about two million miles a second as he tries to take his mind off that idiot who thought it'd be okay to try put you down, even mildly. Eventually when things have calmed down a bit, you sidle up next to him, peeking up at the board and pointing out a few small things. He lets out a huff of air, relaxing a bit at your presence. More pointing, then two or three infodumps later, he turns to you. "Are you alright?" He peers into your eyes with his own brown ones. They're like actual melted chocolate, so inviting and addicting. Like little chestnut pools of dopamine. You snap out of it so you can answer his question. "Oh, right. I'm fine. Little peeved, but fine." His brow furrows further as he observes, analysing your micro-expressions to judge whether you're actually okay or not. "You're sure?" You nod gently, leaning against the round wooden table propped in the middle of the room. "I'm sure, I'm fine." His hand hesitantly, very, very, hesitantly touches yours, another smile on his face, this one more embarrassed and trying to gauge your reaction so he'd doesn't mess up. "I need just one more confirmation to be sure. Think of it like a three-step verification, in a way." You sigh, little, pleasant pins and needles flickering up your arm in the form of goosebumps when he touches you. "I'm fine. There's number three." You take his lucky coin out of his pocket and hold it in front of him, your fingers intertwining with his in your free hand. "And, this can count as a number four." You're not sure what you mean or whether it makes sense, but Spencer can take that up with the universe later. "Sounds good to me." `✦ ִֶˑ ִֶ𓂃⊹જ⁀➴ a/n: PLEASE DONT HARRASS ME I WROTE THIS AT 1AM ON MY PERIOD WITH NO RELIEF I KNOW IT MIGHT NOT BE GOOD

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writing? oh, i’m definitely writing. in my head. during the most inconvenient times. like in the shower or when i’m about to fall asleep. actual typing? no, no, we don’t do that here.

THE WOKE BAU:

GAYvid rossi

aaron WHOREchner

spencer SHEid

THEYTHEY

emily prentiss

peneLGBTQ garcia

THEY’REk morgan

LATINX alvez

tara lewis

alex BLake

matt WOMENS

look at the screen. that’s ur man? 🤨 that’s my man 🙂‍↕️

just the weasley twins

random thought I don't know if someone's already thought of this; they may have but like

when george looks in the mirror does he see his reflection or fred's, staring right back at him? does he even look in the mirror anymore?

how does he feel about seeing fred's reflection rather than his own?

southern hospitality, s. reid !

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in which spencer's a show cowboy, you're a southern belle, and you cross paths at a rodeo.

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trope: cowboy!reid x southern belle!reader

warnings: a little bit flirty, fem!reader, reader has a brother, reid talks rodeo stats, adorbs, sorta valley gal, southern accents, flirty reader, and the ridiculously stupid, adorable photo of mgg in a cowboy outfit that i put up.

wc: 1.445k

summary: you're a southie, he's...just sort of unusual, but admittedly damn good at calf roping. you cross paths at a rodeo; immediately charmed, spencer attempts to get your number in between his stumbling over words.

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"You comin'?" Your brother, Rhys, raises a brow as he catches you ogling the corn dog cart. "Come on, you always do that." He huffs, practically yanking your arm out of it's socket to drag you along. It's sunny in Austin, the clouds cleared from the sky as the heat sears your skin. Damn, shoulda worn sunscreen. It's obvious that everyone at the rodeo is cooking like a chicken in an oven, people stripping down to their tanks to try outrun the scorching feeling. The gravel rolls under your boots as you walk down the driveway to the rodeo, walking under the arch and through the carpark. Music is playing from some buskers standing on the grass. To your left is the bronc riding, to the right is the mini farm for the kids. You spot the cattle roping competition first. Rhys notices your interest and groans, his expression fed up. "Every time we come here. Every single time." You ignore his incessant complaining, wandering through to the hay seats and plopping yourself down close to the gate. Cattle roping is relatively tame. It's difficult as hell, sure, but it's not likely you'll be gettin' bucked off a bull's back anytime soon. You unwrap a lollipop that's been sitting around in your pocket and pop it in your mouth. First cowboy comes out strong, good stance on his horse and an easy leeway around the barrels as the cattle's hooves flutter around. You cross your legs, the edge of your boot tapping the hay in a subconscious, focused beat. You spot it first. The cowboy, that is. His footing slips out of his stirrup, putting his horse off and causing a minor chain reaction which leads to him losing the round. Bummer. You think to yourself, disinterested. It goes through the same inadvertent cycle, more riders coming through, losing their cattle or not even being able to tie a hooey around the legs of the calf properly. You're just starting to become bored when finally, the last roper comes out. And oh, God, is that a tall glass of iced tea. Really, really good iced tea. The sort with damn good genetics. You choke on your lollipop and spit it out. In short, your jaw slackens and you almost forget to analyse the performance of this one because he's just so gorgeous. You have to remind yourself that while yes, there are going to be attractive ropers here, you need to focus on your main objective. Observation. You sigh, sharpening your mind again so you can see his technique, not his pretty brown eyes. His stirrups aren't too long, like the first rider. Everything saddle-wise and horse wise seems fine. His technique is a little off, you can tell he's nervous. The calf speeds around the end barrel and he flicks his wrist, throwing the lariat over it's neck, careful with not tugging his lasso too hard so as not to harm the calf. When it seems like all is looking good, he dismounts his horse and runs over to the calf, kneeling down and tying the knot around three of it's legs like it's muscle memory to him. The judges look impressed. Heck, you look impressed. Once his round is over, you peek around the bounds to see where he's headed, and it looks like it's back to the stables, for the pretty cowboy. You didn't even notice your brother had disappeared until he returns, holding a beer. Rhys spots the expression on your face and almost immediately, he looks unimpressed. "Please don't tell me you're about to go wanderin'." "I'm going wanderin'." You parrot back, just to be annoying as you stand and haul yourself over the gate to follow the handsome cowboy. Eventually, you spot him up ahead, brushing his horse down; probably for the next round. It's then that it hits you. You have no idea what to say to him. Introduce yourself? Flirt? Tell him you think he's cute? None of those? All of the above? Too many questions. You huff, a subconscious noise, and it seems to draw his attention away from the chestnut mare. The cowboy jumps, his shoulders jolting when he spots you just standing there. "Uhm—hello?"

His voice is nice too, you file that away in your head for later. American accent, just the smallest Southern bite to it but it's clear he isn't from around here. You stand in silence for a few more moments before you realise you're being creepy and clear your throat. "Ah, sorry." Sheepish tone. This first impression may not end well. It's progressively getting a little less awkward as you both introduce yourselves, the only thing informing him that you're not a creep being the smile on your face and the fact that you don't seem to have multiple firearms strapped to your jeans. But come on, it's Texas. If anything, it's shocking you don't. You learn his name is Spencer, Spencer Reid, and he's from Vegas (sin city itself, you've thought about going there a few times). Must be good at cards, you assume. Currently, you're watching Spencer groom his horse with a relaxed expression on your features, your back leaned against the opposite horse stall. "So, you do rodeo a lot?" "Not frequently. It helps make good money, though." He brushes his hands on his jeans, tapping the heel of his boot down on the bottom of the stable floor to get a piece of gravel out. "That makes sense." You yawn, tapping your fingers against the railing gently. The horse, whose name appears to be Frida, seems to enjoy the adept attention she's receiving from Spencer. Honestly? You don't blame her. He checks the mare's hooves, still talking to you. "Do you rodeo here?" "Oh, no, I just come to watch when it's on. My brother drags me along. He's not a fan of the cattle roping, he's very into bronc bucking." "A hardcore guy." Spencer jokes, letting the hind leg go as he wrings out a cloth with his hands. Nice hands. Nice voice, nice face. Awkward rodeo nerd from Vegas. It's perfect. Unrealistically so. There's a little silence as he opens the stall door, exiting and going to wash his hands. Then there's another silence when he comes back, and you both stand idle for a short period of time before he blurts out, "Bull riding is actually more dangerous than bronc, it accounts for 19.4% to 58.4% of all rodeo injuries." You blink, processing that sentence for a moment. It was so out of pocket, but if that's to be expected when talking with him, then you really don't mind all that much. You could probably listen to him all day. "Huh." He looks sheepish now, embarrassed he'd infodumped within 15 minutes flat of meeting you. It's not that bad in your eyes, but for him, he looks as if he just watched his entire family collectively decide to execute him. He backtracks. "I meant—" You cut him off, shaking your head to reassure him. "Don't worry about it. I appreciate your factual insight." Your eyes look him over as you speak, making little mental Post-It notes in your brain about him. He's thin, lanky; doesn't seem like a rodeo cowboy at first glance, but he's got good dexterity. That probably contributes to the lasso talent. And the nice hands. He's a nerd. You like that. Spencer glances at you as if silently asking 'really?' Like a puppy asking for approval. God, if you talk to him any more you fear you might evaporate. You nod, a smile crossing your face as you pop on your 'flirting' cap. Metaphorical cap. Not an actual cap that says 'flirting' on it. That'd be weird. "So, cowboy, will I be seeing you around these parts often?" You lean over one side of his horse stall, careful not to move too fast. You'd hate it if you spooked his horse.

He doesn't seem to catch on to your tone, an adorably clueless face with big brown eyes that flicker up to yours. "I, uh, I'm not sure. Maybe every few months." Even if he didn't understand the social cue, his currently pink-hued cheeks are just oh so very tempting. A little disappointment rings through you at that. You'd like to see him more often than that. "Months?" You try not to be petulant. It's hard. He catches on to that tone, a breathless laugh leaving his lips. "I can come a little more often, if you'd like to, um, stay and watch." Your disappointment is replaced with pleasure at your bargaining skills (you don't have any, he's just taken a nervous, new liking to your face. And your attitude. And your jeans). "I'd like that." He smiles back at you, albeit a little hesitantly. There's silence again and you're just about to come up with a good pickup line, before he blurts out, "You look really—uh, I mean, not in a creepy way—good. Not good like in an objectifying way. Just... presentable. No. Um. I'm going to stop talking." It's like he grabbed a needle and shot endorphins directly into your head. It's like watching a small animal walk for the first time. Nope, that's a weird analogy. Absofuckinglutely the cutest shit you've ever seen. You tilt your head. "Are you flirtin' with me, cowboy?" He splutters, his pretty face making a 'deer in headlights' expression. "I—yes?" His fingers curl over one another, fidgety and restless, so he goes back to brushing his horse. "Not very well though, I don't think." The wind gusts through the stables as you sit down on one of the wood stools. "I think you're doing okay. In a presentable fashion, of course." You tease. "Right." His face flushes again. "I'm just not used to...compliments. Or complimenting people." "Well, maybe you could practice on me." You grin. You can tell he's slowly getting a little more confident with himself. Spencer rubs the back of his neck, letting his scrupulous brushing cease as he looks back at you. "I wouldn't mind that." Score! One point granted to the flirt. "Okay, hit me." You offer, resting your chin on your forearm as you watch him. He blinks. "Hit—oh, right. Um. You have a really nice smile. It's symmetrical. Like, mathematically pleasing." You dramatically suck in a breath, even though behind your hair the tips of your ears are a little hot from the compliment. "I'll take it, but we could probably do a bit better." Spencer huffs, looking playfully frustrated as he raises a brow at you. "I read that dilated pupils are a sign of attraction, and yours...well, actually they might just be that way because of the lighting. Or you need an eye exam." "Are you flirting with me or diagnosing me?" "....both?" "It's working." You offer, nodding like a pleased judge. He laughs again. "Thanks, I guess?" You talk with him for a while, flirting back and forth but also just sharing stuff about yourselves for background context. It's getting late outside, and you didn't seem to pay attention to the hue of the sky until Rhys comes in, his expression only mildly angry. "You've been gone for three hours—who is this?" He spots Spencer, frowning. Spencer just raises a hand in a nervous wave. "Sorry for keeping her. We were talking and um, lost track of time." "That's real cute and all, Sparky, but my sister needs to come home now." He scoffs, grabbing your arm. You give Spencer an apologetic expression, saying bye and walking beside your brother as he walks you home. Of course, you're thinking about the cowboy all night. You're also thinking about the fact you didn't get his number. Oh well. There's always the next rodeo.

-ˋˏ ༻℧༺ ˎˊ- a/n: this was not proofread. cowboy reid supremacy

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