#Library rules

[whisperedmeg]

LIBRARY RULES ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: you went to the library to escape the solitude of your apartment. but the last thing you were expecting was to spend the afternoon flirting over Foucault with a sweater vest-clad FBI agent who talks philosophy like it’s a love language.

genre: fluff | w/c: 1.2k

tags/warnings: none really! some light academic jargon and mentions of philosophical theory but you don’t need background on them for the story to make sense

a/n: went to the library and got inspired to write a quick little fluffy fic over the weekend 🤓 I chose the philosophy angle because I recently rewatched s4e8 ‘masterpiece’ where spencer mentions working on a philosophy BA. I dove into my old university notes while writing this, but my brain is a bit fuzzy on this stuff so pls excuse any inaccuracies lol. also specifically had season 2 glasses reid in mind (yet again). if glasses reid has no fans, I’m dead.

You only came to the library because your apartment is too loud. Or too quiet. One of those paradoxes you could never quite define — either way, you can’t focus, and you need to. So you packed up your laptop and headed for the only place where you could guarantee the atmosphere would match your mood: hushed, academic, and ever-so-slightly tense.

You love libraries. Especially the older buildings — all worn paper, polished floors, and endless mazes of shelves. There’s something sacred about it. But what you didn’t expect was for someone else to reach for the same book at the same time as you.

“Sorry—”

“I’m sorry—”

You freeze. So does he.

Your eyes meet.

He’s tall. Messy-haired. Wearing a sweater vest over a button-down and a pair of browline glasses that make him look like he walked straight out of a graduate seminar. His hand is still suspended halfway toward the spine of the book you’d both reached for — Foucault’s Discipline and Punish, of all things — and his mouth was already parting to apologize again when he seemed to realize you’re both staring at each other.

“You go ahead,” he says quickly, dropping his hand.

“No, really, you can take it,” you say. “Are you also writing an unhinged think piece on carceral theory and state surveillance?”

His mouth quirks at the corner. “Not currently. But now I’m intrigued.”

You tilt your head, feeling a little emboldened. “Do you think Foucault actually believed total surveillance was inevitable?”

He blinks, surprised. “I think he meant it more literally than people like to admit.”

“So, panopticism as a warning?”

“Or a prophecy. Depends on how generous you’re feeling.”

You laugh. “Are you always this philosophical in the library?”

He looks faintly bashful, like maybe he isn’t used to playful interrogation. “It’s, uh, kind of my default setting.”

You laugh again and glance at the book still between you. “So, are we sharing this, or arm-wrestling for it?”

“Actually,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I was just hoping to reread the section on disciplinary power, but it’s not urgent. I can find something else if you—”

“We could share,” you offer, surprising yourself. “There’s a reading table over there. Neutral ground.”

He looks at you for a moment, something curious in his expression. Then he nods. “Alright. Neutral ground.”

You walk side by side to a tucked-away wooden table nestled between shelves, sit down next to each other, and open the book.

The silence is companionable at first. You each pull out notebooks. You reach for your fountain pen. He’d brought a mechanical pencil — you find that endearing.

He turns the book toward you and taps a paragraph. “This part always gets overlooked.”

You read it silently. Nod. Scribble something down.

Then pass it back.

He makes a soft noise of agreement and flips a few pages, skimming with an intensity and speed that makes you wonder how many times he’d read it before and just how many words per minute he could possibly absorb.

You lean over slightly. “That part, where Foucault describes power as diffused rather than centralized. That’s where the whole thing turns, don’t you think?”

He glances at you across the book’s spine. “Yes. That’s where it stops being about prisons.”

You smile. “And starts being about everything.”

He passes the book back and nods towards your padfolio. “You take good notes.”

“Thanks,” you say, warmth blooming behind your ribs.

For the next twenty minutes, you trade the book like it’s a conversation — passing it back and forth with soft commentary and under-the-breath questions. You don’t speak constantly, but there’s no awkwardness. Just the quiet rhythm of two people paying attention to the same thing at the same time.

You aren’t sure when your knee started brushing his under the table. Or when your hands began to linger slightly too long during each pass. You tell yourself it’s incidental. The table’s small, and the book is large. But still, you notice.

When your fingers brush his again — knuckles, this time — you hear his breath catch and look up to catch his eyes.

You could look away. Instead, you opt for a conversational angle.

“So what’s your background? You don’t seem like the political theory type.”

He tilts his head. “No?”

“You read too fast. And your notes are in shorthand.” You lean in, smiling. “You’re either a court reporter, an academic, or some sort of federal agent.”

His eyes sparkle with something between amusement and alarm. “I’d argue there are more possibilities than that.”

“You’d probably argue anything,” you say, grinning. “Which is why I’m betting on academic.”

He ducks his head. “I’ve spent a lot of time in academia, but nope. I’m with the FBI.”

You struggle to hide your shock, then study him a little closer. “You? No way.”

“Dr. Spencer Reid,” he says, offering a wave instead of a handshake. “Profiler with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

“Wait. I’ve heard of you.”

Spencer blinks. “You have?”

You smile. “It’s hard not to, if you work anywhere near federal law enforcement. You’re the one with, like, a million PhDs and a tendency to quote Enlightenment theorists in case briefings, right?”

His ears flush pink. “My reputation precedes me, I guess. But, uh, just three PhDs. Not a million.”

You laugh softly at his awkwardness and introduce yourself in return. “I work in federal program management. Mostly DOJ-funded prison reform initiatives. Sometimes I write about the surveillance state.”

His brow lifts. “Then you probably know more about this than I do.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” you chuckle.

He ducks his head. “Well, I’ve never done it professionally. I just read a lot.”

You study him for another moment — soft-spoken, serious, a tad awkward, earnest to a fault — and feel something warm pool in your chest.

“I like your brain,” you say casually.

That makes him choke on air.

You grin. “Too forward?”

“No, I just… don’t hear that often.”

You tilt your head, feigning surprise. “That seems criminal.”

He looks at you like he’s mentally thumbing through an index card catalog for the appropriate response. When he doesn’t find one, he does what you imagine he always does: he reaches for something safer. Facts.

“Foucault argued the panopticon wasn’t just architectural,” he says suddenly, voice steadier than his posture. “It was a metaphor for disciplinary power throughout society. He thought it turned surveillance into a subtle form of control.”

You gasp. “Oh no. Now you’re flirting with post-structuralist theory?”

He flushes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. That’s my love language.”

For a moment, the air between you shimmers — not quite silent, not quite static. You watch his fingers tap against the pages. He watches your smile soften.

You stand, closing your notebook. “I gotta head out. But would you want to do this again? Same time next week?”

His gaze lifts. “Same book?”

“Same table,” you say, shaking your head as you sling your bag over your shoulder. “Different philosopher. I want to see what you have to say about Nietzsche. I bet you have many opinions on eternal recurrence.”

Spencer huffs a quiet laugh, eyes still on you. “You have no idea.”

As you turn, notebook tucked under your arm, the air in the library seems to shift. The hush of pages and footsteps resumes around you, but it sounds different now. Warmer, maybe. Or maybe it’s just you.

At the end of the row, you glance back.

Spencer’s still watching, lopsided grin on his face. He pushes his glasses up his nose and looks away like a little kid caught peeping at his gifts on Christmas Eve.

You turn the corner smiling.

Library rules: always return what you borrow. But this time, maybe — just maybe — you’re hoping to keep what you’d found.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[questionableadvice]

~ Rules for the Hyde Institute library, Somerset, England, 1930

[popcorn-plots]

Guys. I have this new AU called Master Stark where Tony Stark ends up at Kamar-Taj and becomes a Master and uh, I need some weird rules that Wong only put into place because of Tony.

These are the rules so far:

No licking the books

Time travel is forbidden in the library

No one is allowed to read while standing up and/or walking in the library

the use of technology is forbidden in the library

anything to add?

[ayyy-imma-ninja]

*Child comes into the library with a bag of Doritos, and starts eating them while reading... getting Dorito dust all over the books*

Sun would politely, albeit fiercely, refer to the library rules. One of which being:

No noisy or messy foods allowed inside.

Which would include dorito chips.

So now, depending on how severe the stains are, the parent will likely have to pay for the ruined copies of books.

[vixen525]

I use to work in a library and agree this is pretty on brand. We were tolerant of a lot of things. I have so many stories of things you would not expect in a library.

Big rules: Don't damage our books, if you do on accident please pay to replace it or bring in a replacement for the same book. Be considerate of noise levels so others can enjoy the place; we don't require silence, just reasonable consideration. And when you use a book put it in the appropriate reshelving place so we can keep our numbers up.

Also keep food away from the keyboards those are a bitch to clean. Please.

[sleepy-bebby]

[smbearce]

The LIBRARY MONSTERS are Here!!

Teaching Library rules was never more fun. Check out the new book by Jean Ransome and Stephanie Bearce

[biboocat]

Sounds reasonable to me, but I’d give small pox top billing.

[c-is-for-circinate]

My god the utter decadence of realizing that I can access my entire library's ebook catalog, at any hour of any day, directly from my phone. I can be lying in bed at 1 AM and suddenly I have a new book as easily as clicking on a fanfic. If I don't like it I can backspace out as easily as backspacing out of a fanfic. There's zero investment cost. It's just right there. Who else is doing it like her.

[shouyuus]

❝ a dessert community where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead while everyone pretends to sleep... ❞

❝ WELCOME TO NIGHTVALE.ᐟ ❞

... i am your host cecil palmer rain (yuu/yui), in my third century decade of time on this earth, and i am definitely not an angel living in old woman josie's attic...

feel free to visit the nightvale public library (the librarians have prophesized of your coming), or stop by the dog park where dogs are definitely not allowed... just remember not to acknowledge the lights above the arbys, even though everyone agrees they aren't that impressive anyway...

and now a look at the community calendar:

⤷ brat - multi-fandom, nsfw, brat tamer drabble collection ⤷ aphrodite made me!! - lads nsfw mini series

© 2024 shouyuus any plagiarism and/or feeding of my work to ai is strictly prohibited by the hooded figures that prowl in the dark.

❝ there's a special place in hell. it's really hip. very exclusive. ❞

❝ GOODNIGHT LISTENERS,

GOODNIGHT...❞

[reallyunluckyrunaway]

[reblogandlikes]

Never understood how the IC was additionally mad at Nesta "whoring" herself and using sex as a coping mechanism as a bad thing yet say nothing when she's pursued and does the very same thing with Cassian despite her emotional state being exactly the same in both settings.

They already forcefully stopped her movements. Stopped her drinking. And fuck, even stopped her damn sugar intake. Why not go a step further and stop her sexual endeavours too, seeming everything she does is so destructive and uncontrollable?

Wait, what? It's fine if the person she fucks is a male that has no respect for her boundaries, they approve of and also cares for HIS feelings more because of some stupid mating bond, yet they never push Elain to explore hers because they don't give af about Lucien? Of course, right. How silly of me to think the force proximity trope in this sense was anything but predatory behaviour on someone forced into a world she wanted no part in and gain further trauma from. Made worse when by the end of the book, Nesta still feels unworthy of love, but figured complying to the IC was a better option than the alternative - made into an actual enemy they'd feel justified in opposing because she's such a "danger".

[fictionadventurer]

Fun Catholic Lord of the Rings trivia for you:

Tolkien had a devotion to St. John the Evangelist (which should not have been surprising, given his name).

Traditionally, the symbol of St. John the Evangelist is an eagle.

There's no indication it's intentional allegory, but it does add a very cool layer to those scenes.

[e-b-reads]

I'm struggling a little with getting into this book and unfortunately I think it's because the writing is bad. Like for example:

"The closer I came, I realized it was the butler" - I don't think this is how sentence structure works, sorry! Try "As I came closer, I realized" maybe?

I am by no means a historian but I feel like the dialogue in this isn't trying well (or consistently) to be of the time - not as relevant in this passage, but would a butler really tell a titled lady to "Drink up"? Even if he did catch her snooping earlier.

(Speaking of things on which I am not an expert: the story is set in 1806, and I could be wrong, but I feel like two years is like a minimum to age Madeira.)

Finally, the tense switches: "That was an hour away. The service and then burial will be very late." I had already thought the author was struggling with tense a little; this was the most egregious example so far.

[aphelionatseven]

papaya rules : a landoscar poem

[This isn’t regret or guilt. This is betrayal in its sharpest form. You don’t get to wish you weren’t tossing him into the fire they burn.]

[briabooknerd]