#Derek is distinctly

[nereidprinc3ss]

strange perfections

in which spencer reid and fem!reader meet by accident at a coffee shop. and then they keep meeting there. they've really got to stop meeting like this. (no, seriously. hotch is pissed.) / do you believe me now? bonus chapter!

series masterlist

fluff! warnings/tags: meet cute:) some dark humor, romantically inexperienced reader, spencer reid graduated from caltech, mit, and the derek morgan school of rizz a/n: this can absolutely be read as a standalone BUT it was written as a prologue for my series do you believe me now? to explain how spencer and r met! completely optional, if you're only here for the smut no worries! reading this bonus chapter might make the next chapter better though as it contains discussions of how they met:) anyway, I LOVE YOU!! let me know if you like this silly little random thing! kisses

The café door opens again. A blustery wind raises goosebumps on your arms and makes your bones ache again. You look up at the latest intruder—a hobbling elderly man in a newsboy cap and a knit red scarf. 

Stupid scarf, you think. 

Stupid door. 

Stupid wind. 

Your mug is empty, and the table you’re sitting at is sort of sticky and rickety, and there are so many papers in front of you that you wonder why the hell you thought it’d be a good idea to print the PDF out and annotate it that way instead of just doing it on your laptop like a normal person in the 21st century. Nothing is going right today. It’s the third café you’ve tried in the past few weeks as you attempt to find some place that feels homey, lucky, but this one just feels… inconvenient. 

You look at the stack of papers and sigh. 

Stupid Lord Byron. 

Stupid cafe. 

Usually, cafés are relatively quiet and peaceful—a refuge for the overworked to bask in the luxury of quiet jazz and the smell of dark roast as they continue to overwork themselves. This particular establishment, however, today hosts a group of teenagers—presumably playing hooky—who have commandeered a big booth in the back and keep walking right past your table because apparently they couldn’t have just ordered their drinks at once and they all have to do it separately and loudly. 

One of them has an incredibly irritating, gratingly pubescent laugh, and they think everything is hilarious. This whole situation is unbearable. 

Just as you’re gearing up to go, of course the fucking door opens again. This time, it’s accompanied by a particularly strong gust. 

Strong enough that Lord Byron doesn’t stand a chance. 

Your printed copy of his works blows off the table, at first page by painstakingly annotated page and then before you can even process it, all at once. 

Yeah. This is definitely not your lucky café. 

As you curse and go to stand up, you run into one of those dumb kids. His huge ceramic mug goes flying, careening against the edge of your table and completely splattering you and all your stuff in 16 liquid ounces of scalding espresso and milk. 

It’s silent for a second, save for a few drips from the puddle on your table to the floor, before the kid is apologizing profusely and turning red as a tomato. You can’t even respond—you look down at your ruined favorite sweater, and then around at the pages of Byron littered with color-coded sticky notes, overflowing with angry and purposeful red ink that you spent so much time on, scattered all over the floor. 

Eventually the boy catches on that you’re not going to forgive him and he skitters away, back to his friends, who whisper and giggle profusely. Only a few of them get up to start gathering the fallen pages with you. Several other patrons end up helping as well, so the sheets of paper are gathered and returned into your sticky hands fairly quickly. You thank each person without looking up as they hand you their respective stack. All you want is to get out of here. 

“Here—I’m really sorry about this,” someone says—a tenor-ish male voice, distinctly sympathetic as he holds out a rather larger stack of papers than anyone else had bothered to pick up. 

“I’ll live,” you sigh, straightening up. “But thank… you.”

The man standing in front of you is the kind of man who makes you want to untuck your hair from its usual spot behind your ears, and to stand up straighter, and to try and not stare even though you want his attention. He’s gloriously beautiful in a way that repels and attracts you. He’s the type of man who wouldn’t have given you the time of day in high school and probably wouldn’t now. Instantly you feel both insecure and reduced to a former version of you who would simper and fawn over boys who wanted nothing to do with her. You feel like going to the other side of the café and sitting in the best light and staring out the window poetically and hoping he’s looking at you. 

“On the one hand, I feel bad for being the person who opened the door and let the wind in. On the other… I feel compelled to say at least they’re not covered in coffee like the rest of your table is?”

You laugh vacantly, a second too late, positively coveting the awkward smile on his angular face. Then you make eye contact, and his eyes are so the opposite of angular—they’re huge and inviting and the warmest golden-brown you’ve ever seen, and they’re looking right back at you—and you have to look down. Fuck. You hate when you do that. 

Think of something normal to say!

“Yeah, true. Now I just have to reorder 264 pages. That… that don’t have page numbers.”

You shuffle through the papers. They are hopelessly scrambled. Your heart sinks just a bit.

“Um… I might actually be able to help with that, if you want?”

You frown, glancing up. What kind of sex trafficking ploy is this?

“That’s okay. Might be easier with just one person.”

He laughs—it’s similarly awkward, similarly endearing. 

“Do you mind letting me just… try? It’ll only take a minute.”

Only take a minute? Is this beautiful man deranged?��Why are the hot ones always crazy?

But, perhaps because you’re a pushover who can’t stand up to people, much less beautiful people, much less beautiful men who are paying you undue attention, you find yourself giving in. You hold the stack out. 

“Sure. Give it your best shot. I’ll be impressed if you can even figure out what page one is.”

He’s already flipping through the papers with a drawn brow, walking away with them, and barely looking over his shoulder as he mutters, “I have Byron memorized. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

You follow him, because hello, he has all your annotations. He’s definitely insane, you think, as he sits down at a table and starts rapidly sorting the sheets into separate piles. 

All you can do is stand awkwardly behind him as he stacks papers seemingly at random, barely glancing at them before deciding where they go. 

Maybe a minute, maybe a few go by, each of which have you progressively more flabbergasted, before he’s tapping the edges of a stack of paper on the table and standing, handing them to you with his lips pressed into a thin pleasant line. There’s almost a glow about him—like he couldn’t be more in his comfort zone. 

“There you go. Should be in order now.” You sport a frown bordering on a grimace as you take the stack and flip through it a bit. Sure enough, it seems that everything is in order. You keep looking between the man in front of you and the papers, incredulous as you wait for something to be in the wrong spot. 

“How did you do that?” 

His cheeks turn slightly pink. 

“I know Byron really well. I know how each passage ends and begins so I put them together like puzzle pieces.”

“How did you read that fast?”

“Uh. I’m a speed-reader?”

You scoff, taking another look through the stack. 

“I think that may be underselling it.” A thought occurs to you as you’re grazing over one of your longer annotations—full of expletives and strong opinions. “Oh, god. You didn’t… you didn’t read my notes?”

The man’s eyebrows raise as if he was waiting for you to mention that and he smiles like he doesn’t quite know how to break it to you gently. 

“Maybe a few,” he eventually decides, laughing under his breath. “I appreciated the commentary on his relationship with Augusta. It was… colorful.”

Heat rises in your cheeks as you mumble. 

“Yeah, I had a hard time appreciating the romantic poems. They’re less cute when there’s like a fifty percent chance he’s writing about his sister.”

“Half sister,” he corrects. You give him a look. 

“Does that make it better?”

“… no,” he realizes. “Not even a little bit.”

You laugh, relieved that his face looks as warm as yours feels. 

“Well… thank you, for the help,” you say after a silent second. 

“Of course. Sorry, again. I, um—I hope your day gets better?”

“Yeah, well. I feel like statistically it has to, right? It’s kind of a low bar.”

He smiles, a perfect, perfect smile, and gives you a little wave as he leaves. Without coffee. Checking the clock on the wall, you realize it’s approaching one in the afternoon. If he’d been here on his lunch break, he sacrificed it to organize your stupid Byron texts. You smile to yourself. 

He was totally in love with me. 

And he can’t prove me wrong because I’ll probably never see him again. 

All things considered—this coffee shop does seem pretty lucky. Maybe you’ll stick with it for a while. 

The next time you see the mysterious sexy speed reader is four days later—though you’ve been here every day since. He catches your eye right as he walks in, and his brows jump in pleasant recognition. You smile. He smiles back, before going up to the counter and ordering a coffee with a ludicrous amount of sugar in it. 

I should take note for when I make him his coffee in the mornings, you think to yourself, and then you snort at your own delusions, shaking your head at your book. Obviously you’re not that divorced from reality, but you’ll entertain the fantasy forever until one of you stops showing up to this café. 

What you’re absolutely not expecting is for him to walk up to your table with his to-go cup. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“Hi!”

Jesus. Tone it down, girl scout. 

He gestures to your stack of papers: now secured in a three ring binder. The cup says Spencer. 

Spencer. Spencer. 

It feels important. 

“I see you’ve upgraded.”

“Yes! Yes, I did,” you laugh self-consciously, still struggling to meet his eyes. “Thank you for the help the other day. I would still be sorting through all of this if it weren’t for that, so… yeah. Thanks.”

“Of course! I’m glad I could be of use.”

“Spence!” Someone calls from the cafe door. You both look up to see a stunning blonde beckoning him away. 

Ah. Naturally. The girlfriend who is one trillion times prettier than you. 

Spence. 

Reality sets in. 

“Coming!” He replies, with all the eager compliance of a child, before turning back to you. “Um… well… I’ll see you?”

It’s an awkward way to say goodbye to a stranger, but you suddenly don’t care enough to dwell. Instead you nod once, less enthusiastic now that you know he has a 10 waiting for him on the sidewalk. 

“I am a creature of habit.”

Another wave as he walks away. 

The two disappear from the doorway, but the perpetual breeze seems to carry a snatched bit of conversation your way. 

“Who was that?” 

“Uh… I don’t actually know.”

Yeah. Reality definitely sets in. 

Over the next few days, you break your café streak. Life is busy. There’s not always time to artfully ponder Romantic poetry and drink a six dollar coffee while waiting around for certain people to show up. 

Okay, so… maybe it has more to do with him than you’re letting on. But you’re not going to do that thing you do again, where you become limerently obsessed with a man you don’t know and who is way out of your league just because you can’t form an actual attachment to anyone to save your life. Besides, you remind yourself; we probably wouldn’t be compatible anyway. He’s probably a huge loser. Or secretly a douche. Or chews with his mouth open. Obviously nobody that attractive can also have a good personality. 

Not to mention he has a girlfriend. That should put you off, too.

But you hadn’t been lying when you’d proclaimed to be a creature of habit—you return to the café once you feel sufficiently detached from this Spencer character. 

He’s there. Of course he’s there. Why had you been expecting for him to not be there? It’s not like he was a figment of your imagination. 

This time he’s accompanied by a different blonde woman—a bespectacled blonde with a big floral headband and a patterned dress and a red cardigan and tights and heels that look self-injurious. She’s quite eye-catching; you want to keep looking at her, but you seem to draw her attention, too. Her big eyes widen minutely and briefly you wonder if you’re supposed to know her, but certainly you’d remember meeting a person like that. She doesn’t seem easily forgettable. Both of you look to Spencer at the same time, who’s looking between you with an almost panicked expression. 

“Oh! Th—” the woman whispers, cutting herself off when she realizes how loud she’s being in the otherwise silent establishment. “Ah! Okay, right. Never mind.”

 Spencer sighs. You want to laugh, but you’re baffled by the whole thing. So you go back to reading. 

Ten minutes later, they draw your attention once more. 

“Go, go ahead! It’s more problematic for you to be late than me. I’ll be like, thirty seconds tops.”

You don’t look up as Spencer leaves the café—but are you supposed to gather that these two eccentric individuals are coworkers? And what of the first blonde woman, who you’d presumed to be his girlfriend? Where is she?

While you’re wondering all of this, the new blonde teeters her way over to your table. 

“Hi!” She says pleasantly, waving a purple-tipped hand and wearing the biggest grin. 

“Uh… hi?”

“I’m Penelope. You’ve met my friend Spencer. He just left.”

“Oh—sort of,” you smile weakly, closing your book. “Not formally. I didn’t know his name.”

That’s a lie, but maybe feigning non-chalance will make it real. 

“Well, I just wanted to come over and say I love your bag. And your jewelry and your coat. I love your whole look. I bet you’re a really cool person.”

“Um—thank you!” You perk up, smiling genuinely now. The compliment warms you—you didn’t think your look was all that interesting today. “You too. I love your outfit.”

“Great! You’re—you’re great. This is good information. Um… just out of, like, sheer curiosity, could I get your name, age, and occupation? Oh—and your zodiac sign?”

What kind of convoluted sex trafficking ploy—

“Garcia!”

Spencer is at the doorway again, looking adorably miffed. 

Adorable? Get a grip. 

“Wh—I’m just making a new friend! Is friendship illegal, now?”

“This is the kind of friend-making that gets you a restraining order,” he urges. 

You look up at Penelope Garcia, enamored by their whole dynamic. They clearly care for each other, despite the squabbling. What kind of job do they have where they talk to each other like this?

“It’s fine,” you smile, introducing yourself to her.

“That is such a good name!” She says, and you’re getting the sense she’s kind of always this enthusiastic. “So now we know each other’s names—we should probably definitely be friends, right?”

“Yeah! Um, definitely!”

“Yes? Oh my god! I love this! Okay, um—we work at Quantico, so, we’re like, 10 minutes away—but this is better than the coffee shop that’s closest to the building, so we come here all the time. Usually it’s just us and five grouchy old men, which makes this is really exciting.”

“Quantico… that’s the FBI academy, right?”

“Other stuff, too,” she nods, still smiley. 

Oh! Cool. So they’re FBI agents. 

So that’s cool. 

You’re cool with that. 

Her phone starts ringing—she locks eyes with Spencer. 

“Hotch?”

“Ooh, we are in trouble,” Penelope sing-songs, leaning down to write her number on your notebook without asking. Not that you mind, of course. She adds a little heart and a smiley face next to her name before capping your pen and toddling away. “Bye, new friend!” She calls over her shoulder, waving goodbye with just her fingers. 

“Bye,” you manage, though it’s probably too quiet. 

Spencer flattens his mouth into an approximation of a smile and waves again. 

You accidentally find yourself mirroring his goodbye, facial expression and all. Fuck. You hope he doesn’t notice. You hope he doesn’t read into it. 

Nah. Boys are dumb. 

You text Penelope later that afternoon—a simple greeting so that she can save your number—and then you forget about it. 

It’s not until five days go by without sign of any of them—the two blondes, Spencer, this mysterious and foreboding Hotch figure—that you start to seriously question your sanity. Did they drop off the face of the planet, or what?

But of course, just as you’re sitting at your usual table, Spencer walks in. Alone. 

He sees you immediately, but instead of the wave you’d come to expect, he immediately flushes, looks down at his shoes and hurries into the small lunch-rush line. 

Weird.

You corner him at the coffee bar, where he’s adding more sugar to his coffee. How are his teeth so nice if he does this to himself every single day?

“Hey,” you say, affecting casual confidence as you bus your empty mug. “… Spencer, right?”

It’s comical how you’re pretending you haven’t turned that name over and looked at it from every angle hundreds of times since the first time you heard it. 

He nods, only glancing up at you as he stirs. To your surprise, he knows your name, too. When you give him an odd look, he smiles almost apologetically, finally looking at your face for longer than half a second. 

“I heard you introducing yourself to Penelope. Sorry if that’s…”

“No, no! Is she around, today? I texted her last week, but she never responded...”

“Today is operating system update day, so I don’t even really have a way of knowing if she’s alive in her office.” It’s funny to him, but you just smile, baffled. He notices your silence and catches on, scrambling to explain himself. “She’s our tech analyst. There are 243 computers in our building and she has to update them all remotely, which requires getting every agent to agree to not touch their computer at the same time for an hour or so.”

“Oh… does the FBI not have, like… an IT guy, or something?”

He laughs again—the way his eyes crinkle when he does it makes you a little breathless. 

“You should say that to her. I think you would become her favorite person.”

It’s hard not to smile when he’s smiling because of you—however indirectly that may be. Quickly you realize you’ve both been standing in front of the coffee bar for too long. 

“Alright, well… tell her good luck, for me?”

“I would, but I’ve been kicked out for an hour while she does the updates.”

Your brow furrows and you laugh. 

“From the whole building? You just can’t keep your hands off your computer for an hour?”

“Not if I want to do my job, no. And I am kind of obsessive about my job. I’ve been the reason she had to start the whole process over again before and I’d rather not be that person again.”

You say it before you can think too hard. 

“Well, if you have an hour to kill… there’s an open seat at my table? No pressure, obviously.”

And that was the first of thousands of hours you would come to spend with Spencer Reid. 

After that, it sort of becomes a regular thing. He comes almost every day—except for occasional week or so long stretches, which you have discovered are a part of his absolutely fucking insane job—and sits with you, sometimes with Penelope, once with the other blonde, JJ, who you’ve since deduced is not his girlfriend, most often alone. Usually he can’t spare more than ten minutes, but he begins pushing it, little by little, until thirty minutes go by and you think surely his boss (the great and all-powerful Hotchner) must be beginning to notice. 

One day, during your usual lunchtime rendezvous, his phone rings. He talks right on through it, like it’s not happening.

It ceases. And then it starts again. 

Your head drops to your shoulder, something like pity or regret softening your features. He catches your eye and melts slightly, mid-sentence—like he knows you’re about to tell him to be responsible. 

“Do you think you should…”

His hands drop from where they’d been enthusiastically positioned mid-air. 

“They’ll be fine if I’m late from lunch one time. I’m usually more punctual than any of them.”

You roll your lip between your teeth—it’s not that you want to tell him to go; in fact, those delusions you’ve been harboring about your future life together are only getting worse with each inexplicable minute he entertains your company. 

But his job is important. 

“What if you have a case?”

“Then I would have gotten more calls from more people by now.”

Your head tips back as you laugh lightly at his unwavering insistence.   

“I’m flattered that you so enjoy my company that much. But I can’t with good conscience keep taking up your work hours like this.”

As the laughter fades, he just… watches you, lips slightly parted, eyes intense but not entirely present. 

“You’re probably right,” he finally breathes. “Maybe… you should start taking up my other hours, instead?”

Spencer Reid, you unexpected charmer. 

You balk.

“Like… we would hang out? At a different time of day? Not here?”

“Those are the basic premises, yes,” he chuckles, nodding affably. “I’ve never actually seen you anywhere else. For all I know you could be a ghost eternally tethered to this building.”

“Where would this hanging out take place?”

Fuck, you’re totally being weird. His brow knits. 

“I don’t know. Where else do people hang out?”

He’s not genuinely asking you, he’s gently turning you in the right direction. You charge forward blindly. 

“Restaurants.”

There’s that pretty smile of his again, the one that makes all the thoughts drain from your head like cold bathwater. Though, there’s a sort of mischievous edge to it now that you haven't seen before.

“That’s certainly an option. If I asked you to hang out with me at a restaurant... would you say yes?”

You look down. God, your face feels warm. 

“Would you be asking me out on a date? In this hypothetical scenario that we’ve constructed, I mean.”

Spencer seems to think about it for a moment, which fills you with unexpected panic. When you look back up anxiously, he has the same smile on his face, but his eyes are a little softer now. 

“I would.” 

More panic sets in—just a bit. But you don’t let what is undoubtedly a tidal wave of anxiety break through the emotional guard-dam. Keep it together. This is a good thing. This is what you wanted. 

Unfortunately, you are perhaps more transparent than you’d realized. Spencer begins to look slightly worried, leaning forward in his chair. 

“You don’t have to say yes. I know we don’t know each other very well, I just—”

“No!” You find yourself assuring him, though you curse yourself because you kind of want to know what he was going to say. “I would say yes. I’ve just, um—god,” you laugh gustily, self-consciously. “Sorry I’m being so weird. I’m out of my depth. Nobody’s asked me on a date before. I don’t really know the etiquette.”

Spencer chuckles. 

“You’re doing great. Don’t worry about it.”

Not, what?

Not, you’ve never been on a date before?

Not, that’s crazy, or that’s weird, or how have you gone your whole life without being asked out?

With the implication being, you’re odd. Different. Maybe not in a good way. 

He says none of that. 

“But I should probably actually ask you, huh?” His cheeks turn pink as his laughter is redirected inwards. 

“Sounds like a good first step.”

Spencer is still smiling as he says your name and it sounds so good from his mouth. It makes you sound so real. 

“Will you go on a date with me?”

Butterflies in your stomach doesn't begin to brush what you're experiencing—your entire abdominal cavity is like a Monarch sanctuary.

“I’d love to.”

He seems genuinely relieved as he beams, slumping back in his chair. 

“Oh, thank god. I was so nervous you’d say no. I never do that. Thank you for not saying no. Not that you couldn’t have said no—it would have been completely fine and obviously within your rights to—”

His phone rings again. Both of you are relieved that he was interrupted—but admittedly you thought his rambling was super cute. 

“I should—”

“You definitely need to go.”

“Yeah,” he agrees with a still-breathless smile. “Um—what’s your number?”

You look around fruitlessly for pen and paper. 

“I don’t—”

“Just tell me. I’ll remember.”

He’s so weird. 

A breeze hits your skin as he opens the door. You’re already writing your wedding vows in the back of your mind as you watch him go. 

-

part four

[benevolentbones]

Saw you're taking Reid requests👀 I could use some Spencer x Reader who is new at the BAU and is super clumsy and they just fall head over heels over each other and he gets protective over her and it's all super cutesy.

thank you sm for the request! i hope you enjoy! really tempted to do a part 2 to this !! requests still open<3 i’m working through them

clumsy | spencer reid x reader

part 2

warnings: mentions of injury, general clumsiness, cursing, gn!reader

word count: 1.3k ish

summary: you’re new to the bau and are just super clumsy.

you were damn good at your job. you were a great profiler. you were great on the field. and you were quick to complete your paperwork.

the only issue you had was, you were incredibly clumsy. and not in the cute ‘oops i dropped my pen’ kind of way, more so in the ‘injure yourself on the field’ sort of way.

take your first ever case for instance, you and your previous team had busted into an unsub’s apartment, and after catching the guy, on your way back out you tripped over his collection of cds causing you to take his whole bookshelf down with you. you ended up breaking your arm and couldn’t use your gun for twelve weeks.

but now, you had just started a new job at the bau, and you were hoping to put the clumsiness behind you.

“agent l/n, this is agent morgan.” hotch went around the bullpen, introducing you to the team.

you had met in his office earlier, he had given you a rundown on what to expect and as there was no new case as of present, he was introducing you to the team and then going to set you up with some paperwork to fill in.

“great to meet you agent l/n, i hope to talk more with you soon.” derek shot you a flirtatious smile as hotch brought you over to the last member of the team.

dr. spencer reid. the tall man was currently leaning gingerly against one of the counters by the kitchenette section of the bullpen, a mug of coffee in one hand and a case file in the other. he wore a blue button up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, along with a navy blue waistcoat and trousers.

“reid” hotch began, striding up to the younger male, with you at his heels.

“this is agent l/n, they just transferred here.”

spencer’s eyes shot up from the pages he was studying, now flickering over the person who stood next to hotch.

you, alike him, had the sleeves of your black shirt rolled up, notably more messy than his neatly folded cuffs. you had your hands stuffed into the pockets of your black suit trousers, with a smile plastered on your face.

“agent l/n, like y/n l/n?” reid’s interest was piqued.

you gave the taller man a small nod “yeah that’s me.” you chewed on your cheek, rocking lightly back n forth on your feet.

“i’ve read about your work, you’re- excellent on the field. i look forward to working with you.” he shot you a closed mouth smile which you returned.

“hey hotch, can you come look at this?” penelope called out from across the bullpen.

the older male, inhaled before turning on his feet, leaving you and spencer alone in the kitchenette.

“didn’t you accidentally shoot yourself during your last case?” spencer quizzed, sipping his coffee. he distinctly remembered reading an article about your last case before you took some time off, you had caught the unsub and while trying to put your gun back in the holster, it went off.

you felt your face flush.

“um- yeah, that may have happened. but don’t tell anyone. i’m a little clumsy” you giggled out, lifting the right side of your shirt to show a gunshot scar just above your hip.

spencer inhaled sharply, not expecting you to show off the scar.

“ouch.” he hissed, imagining how it must have felt. “i’ll try and keep you from hurting yourself on the field next time.” his eyes met yours and he gave you a genuine smile.

~

you had been working with the bau team for a few weeks, and have grown close to everyone, especially spencer.

you had developed quite strong feelings for the brunette over the time you spent at work and out with the team, he was always so considerate of you. always checking in to make sure you were doing okay, making sure you felt comfortable with everyone. and unbeknownst to you, he felt the same.

at first he thought your mention of being clumsy was a cute quirk, maybe you would accidentally injure yourself once in a blue moon and blame it on that. but as he grew to know, and care for you, he found out it was a daily occurrence.

on your fourth or fifth day in the office, spencer had brought a cup of coffee to you, placing it down on your desk which was conveniently across from his.

you thanked him with a warm smile, picking up the ceramic cup and taking a sip. he settled down into his seat, and began reading his case files until.

“fuck!” you yelled out, causing a few glances to be thrown your way.

spencer stood up abruptly, scanning you to see what had happened.

along with dropping the mug onto the floor, which shattered, you had managed to fully drench yourself in the hot coffee spencer had just made for you.

he quickly ran over, grabbing some paper towels to help clean up the mess. you shot him a sad look, followed by a string of apologies.

“i didn’t mean to- i just knocked it off of the desk and-“

“it’s okay, y/n.” he smiled sweetly up at you, patting your leg with the paper towel.

the next day, spencer had gifted you a resilient travel mug with a closing top.

~

the day came where you had an out of state case, the team all sat around the table for the briefing. spencer at your side in one of the desk chairs.

you had a habit of fidgeting during long meetings, you simply couldn’t help it, which spencer had noticed the first time you all had a lengthy briefing.

you were playing with your fingers, scratching at your nail beds until a warm hand gripped yours.

you glanced over to see spencer’s arm outstretched, his lightly callused hand now gripping yours gently. his focus didn’t stray from hotch, who was explaining the case, but you could notice a light pink hue to his cheeks.

you smiled to yourself, resting back into your chair. spencer interlocked his fingers with yours, gently pulling your desk chair closer to his, and for the rest of the briefing you both remained in each others grasp.

“wheels up in 10.” hotch announced, causing everyone to jolt out of their respective slumped positions.

the team made their way out to the jet, you and spencer in tow. you slung your to go back over your shoulder, spencer a few steps behind you.

everyone else had boarded at this point, and they were just waiting on the two youngest members of the team.

“y’know i’ve never been to colorado- i heard its really cold this time of year.” you hummed out, starting to climb the steps up to the jet.

spencer was listening to you intently, he liked when you rambled about things it made his heart swoon when you talked about how excited you were.

“hey just- be careful okay?” he mumbled, watching your careless steps.

“yeah yeah i’ll be fine spence.”

you adjusted the strap on your bag, looking over your shoulder to make another comment about the trip. bad idea.

as you went to place your foot onto the next step, you completely missed it, causing you to topple backwards.

spencer, who was behind you, was mentally preparing for this the whole time. he immediately stretched his arms out, gripping onto your falling form. he wrapped one arm around your waist, using his other hand to grab onto the railing to balance you both.

you locked eyes with him, faces practically inches apart.

“t-thanks, that would’ve been close.” you could feel your face burning.

a smug smile graced reid’s features, his grip on your waist not faltering.

“falling for me already, l/n?” he chuckled, eyeing your features. you grew more embarrassed, the tips of your ears burning.

he just wanted to lean in and kiss you, and he would have but you were interrupted.

“reid, l/n- we are taking off now come on.” hotch yelled out from inside the jet.

[luveline]

Hi there! I hope your day’s been going well :)

Could you maybe write something with Spencer where Reader faints? Feel free to ignore this if you’re not up for it!!

thank u for ur request! fem!reader, 1.6k

"It's so hot," you say, startled. The lobby of the hotel had been blissfully air-conditioned. The difference hits you immediately. 

"Don't worry about blazers or professional attire," Hotch says, though he quickly amends, "within reason."

You take off your jacket and follow the herd of the BAU into the black SUVs. The SUVs are even hotter than the outdoors, blistering ovens of heat that have you feeling nauseous instantaneously. Spencer rubs your arm with the back of his hand swiftly —it's a friendly touch to say he's here, but it's quick to prevent any unnecessary added heat. 

It's August in Texas, 107 degrees Fahrenheit. Emily smells distinctly of sunscreen from the front passenger seat. Derek, behind the wheel, looks hot around the collar. Spencer looks as though he wishes he'd had a haircut before he came, chin length curls tucked tight behind his ears. 

Despite this, none of them complain beyond the general whine every now and then. You try very hard to shut up and focus on the case with them, but as the day goes on, bumping you from hot car to hot crime scene (with all inclusive smells of gore!), you feel wobbly on your feet. 

"Spence?" you ask, sitting in a hard-backed chair in the police precinct. 

"Yeah?" He doesn't look away from the geographical profile he's building. You're supposed to be helping, but your notes are half-hearted, likely useless. "What?" 

"Do you have any water?" 

He pushes a pin into the left of the map and grabs a ruler. "No, sorry. There's a staff room by the bullpen, the secretary said to help ourselves. Actually, she said to 'go ham.'"

"Okay. I'll be right back. And I'll be more helpful." 

"You're plenty helpful," he murmurs, leaning down to follow the line of his rules with a pencil. 

You don't feel helpful, you feel awful. Head heavy, eyes aching, every step sends a jolt through your teeth and jaw, your skull like a mashed potato. You know you're a poor sight with sweat wetting your hair and a crawling sensation between your legs and the fabric of your pants. 

Letting yourself into the staff room, you're unsurprised to find a bone dry water cooler and a crate of water bottles with only one remaining. Spencer needs a drink too, and he has a thing about germs. You frown at the water bottle as though that might duplicate it, but when it doesn't, you're forced to take it and put it under your arm. You look around for a mug to at least have some tap water no matter how ill-advised that may be. They're all dirtied in the sink and on tables. Fuck. 

Spencer is super, super lovely to you. You wonder sometimes if he might ask you out, or at least want to, but most of the time you're sure it's just a little extra friendliness because he knows how it feels to be the youngest on the team, how patronised or lonely it gets. And the weight of trying to prove yourself every mission, it's almost as heavy as your head. 

"Hey," Spencer says as you open the conference room door. "I think I've worked something out. Could you call Garcia for me? I've got dry-erase marker on my hands." 

"Got this for you," you say, offering him the bottle. He takes it without looking. 

"Thanks. Are you feeling any better? I know you can be sensitive to the heat." 

"Maybe we can get portable fans on the FBI budget next year," you say wistfully, pushing a chair in at the table. You lean on it to grab the phone in the middle of a sea of papers and cases and jackets, black spots popping up in your vision. "My head's rushing." 

"Hey, guys," Emily says, sounding strangely chipper as she and Hotch trudge in. Her hair is in a tight ponytail away from her face. 

You try to greet them and end up hanging your head. 

"Y/N," Spencer chokes, alarmed.

You slump forward over the chair, desperate to keep your footing and failing. Your shin knocks into the chair and your hands grasp at the top of it, but you can't hold yourself up any longer, knocking your face into the chair as you collapse. A cheap tent in a strong breeze, you fall with little more than a weak sigh. 

You're hurting a lot when you come to, blinking like your lashes have been brushed with glue. The lights have been turned off, and a blissful chill soaks your hairline. Someone presses a water bottle to your lips and lifts your head. You drink half the contents in three gulps and get laid down again with the utmost care. 

"She's coming around," Hotch says. 

Your neck aches propped over a leg. Two deft hands hold your head still. 

"Don't move too much," Spencer says, his voice odd. You blink as his face moves into view upside down. "An EMT is on the way, okay? You passed out." 

You can't find your voice. Spencer strokes your cheek with his thumb, says, "Hey, can you hear me? Let's hear your voice. Talk to me." 

"You don't sound like yourself," you say hoarsely, each word tenuous. You wince at the bruising heat that radiates from your nose with each word. 

"I'm worried about you," Spencer admits. "It makes it hard to stay objective." 

"No, you sound funny." 

"I'm worried," he repeats. His smile is strained. 

"She's okay," Hotch says. 

You realise Emily's got your hand in hers when she squeezes it. "Have you had anything to drink today?" she asks you, fondly incredulous. 

"No, she hasn't, and I didn't say anything about it. I'm an idiot. I'm so sorry, Y/N," Spencer says. 

"Y/N's responsible for her own preservation, Reid. And it's been a tough case, with the heat. Let's not blame anyone for anything." You press your chin to your chest to see Hotch's anxious frown. "We will be having a discussion about this later." 

You turn your face into Spencer's thigh. "Oh." 

"Don't close your eyes," Hotch says. He employs a firm, boss-like tone that has you rushing to follow orders. "You hit your head." 

"I don't feel well," you complain, wanting to close your eyes.

"Considering your behaviour," Spencer says, one of his hands trailing down your face, neck, and collar, where he rests it genially, "you likely have a mild to moderate concussion. And you're dehydrated, so you'll be feeling the effects more severely."

"Why haven't you been drinking?" Emily asks. 

"I just…" You blink sluggishly. "I don't know… We don't take anything that isn't coffee with us places and…" You lean your cheek into Spencer's hand, not quite connecting that it's his hand, or that you're laying on the precinct floor. "They only had one bottle in the staff room." 

"Why didn't you drink it?" Spencer asks softly. 

"I knew you hadn't had anything to drink, either." 

"We could've shared," he says, sounding genuinely confused. 

"You don't like sharing stuff like that. Germs." 

Spencer's voice is barely above a whisper, "I wouldn't care about your germs, Y/N. They're your germs." 

You don't have time to ask him what he means, but you've ample time to think about it on loop when the EMT arrives. He props you up, checking you over thoroughly, shining a light in your eyes and deeming you concussed.

"You don't have to see a doctor," the EMT advises. "But we're happy to take you to the hospital if that's what you want." 

"Yes," Spencer says, as you say, "No." 

Spencer puts a hand on your shoulder blade. It is an extremely forward move on his part, so unlike him that you recognise how odd it is despite your foggy mind. "She should go." 

"She fainted, Spencer," Emily says. 

"Exactly! So she should go to the hospital and–"

"I didn't break anything," you say, waving a shaky hand at the small but concerned crowd of people you've attracted. 

"Luckily," the EMT says. "Drink plenty of water and take it easy. Don't be afraid to call again if you feel worse." 

Hotch walks the EMT out, needing to take a phone call. Emily goes with him, promising to return with a dry shirt for you to wear now that yours has been soaked at the collar by the water they'd been cooling you down with while you were unconscious. 

Spencer settles practically knee to knee with you in two of the uncomfortable chairs, his assessing gaze frankly perturbing. 

"You'd share germs with me?" you ask. 

Spencer's hand leaps across the gap to yours where it rests on your knee. His eyes, brown and sweet, have all the light of a blinding smile as his lips quirk into something more sheepish. "If it stopped you from fainting, yeah. And even if it didn't, I'd be stupid to care about germs when I…" 

You breathe out slowly. "When you what?" 

"Well," he says, looking down at your hands. "I guess I just wouldn't mind your germs, that's all." 

If he's saying what you think he's saying, he's doing it in the most Spencer Reid way possible. Concussed, your charisma fails you. You've no wit to tease him with. 

You fold your hand around his. "Thanks for catching me," you say gently. 

He squeezes your fingers clumsily. "You're welcome. But it was actually mostly Emily." 

[1arkspur-aconitum]

THE BLIND LEADING THE BLIND (s.r.)

IN WHICH: Spencer shows up late to work wearing glasses for the first time…

PAIRING: Season 3!Spencer Reid/Fem!BAU!OC

CATEGORY: fluff

CONTENT: pining, oblivious idiots in love, swearing, Emily being a little meddler

WORD COUNT: 3.7 (this was meant to be only 1k…whoops…)

PUBLISHED: 03/10/24

‘OH MY GOD.’

It’s the best I can do. It is the only thing I can think as Spencer Reid steps through the glass doors into the bullpen.

It’s one of those rare days where Spencer arrives later than me—later than the rest of the team, in fact—and I’m already sitting at my desk when he walks in. A cup of coffee from the Paper Cup (arguably the best coffee in Virginia, bite me Derek Morgan) steams away beside a half-eaten blueberry muffin, the crumbs of which litter the crossword before me. It’s partially completed, but I have yet to finish this specific paper’s puzzle without the genius’ help—I swear it’s almost as if they designed it for him. I’ve even marked little stars next to the ones I’m intending to ask Spencer.

Or, at least, the questions I was intending to ask Spencer. I may not ever get the opportunity to because I think he has decided to kill me this morning.

Spencer Reid steps into the bullpen dressed in brown slacks (as usual) and a striped shirt tucked into said slacks (also normal), but that’s where the familiarity ends.

He’s not wearing a tie which is very bizarre. In fact, the top buttons of his shirt are undone as if he’s rushed out of the door. From this distance I can see the contours of his throat.

We once had a surprisingly in-depth conversation about why ties are more commonly associated with men (due to the inherent power and authority we attach to them) and Spencer said that he tried to always wear one because it made people take him more seriously. I distinctly remember it because it made me kind of sad. The idea that people didn’t take him seriously bothered me more than I’d care to admit.

It’s not the tardiness, nor the lack of a tie, that wipes every thought from my brain, though. It’s not even the way he has pushed his hair away from his face like he’s some kind of Disney prince—though that on any other day would have done something similar to hitting the delete key on a computer.

No, it’s the damn glasses.

Spencer Reid has the audacity to be wearing a pair of horn rimmed glasses.

They’re perched on his nose as if they belong there, which—judging by the way they make his face distort when he turns to greet Derek—they do. I don’t know what it is specifically, but seeing him in glasses makes my stomach drop out of my feet, through several floors of the Quantico building, and deep into the ground.

Obviously Spencer is smart. Anyone who has the luxury of meeting him can tell you as such. It’s not as if he hides it, mister three PhDs and counting. But…but the glasses just do something extra, highlight that aspect of him, and I’ve always been a sucker for intelligence.

I genuinely didn’t think he could get prettier.

‘Shut your mouth, you’ll start drooling.’ Emily sidles up to my desk, thankfully keeping her voice low. I jump embarrassingly and manage to drag my eyes away from where Spencer is deep in discussion with Derek about something Derek doesn’t appear to want to talk about. Astrophysics? The flight path of bumblebees? If I was in Derek’s place, I would be hanging off of Spencer’s every word. ‘Honestly, could you be any more transparent?’

‘I…I’m not transparent!’ I say, but it does take me a second to work out what she’s saying. I take a distracting sip of my coffee, trying to ignore how the light slicks off of the frames as Spencer nods vigorously. A small strand of hair falls into his face and he brushes it away carelessly. ‘Maybe—maybe I was just…admiring the make, or something.’

‘I’m not stupid.’ Emily scoffs, knocking me with the back of her hand. She seems as if she is enjoying this way too much. There’s a sardonic gleam in her eye as she raises an eyebrow. I glower up at her over the rim of my coffee, imagining how it would feel to toss it in her face—anything to get that smug look off of it. ‘You can barely form a sentence.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I turn my nose up at her haughtily. I feel very much the petulant child denying having broken into the biscuit jar even when their mouth is covered in crumbs. ‘See? A perfect sentence.’

‘You’re not fooling anyone.’ Emily feels the need to tell me, eyes flickering between me and Spencer. I make a conscious effort not to look at him. It’s harder than I thought it would be. I wedge my foot underneath one of the spokes of my chair, forcing it to stay directed towards Emily. She grins as if she can sense my inner discord. ‘Y’know, for a profiler, you’re not very good at being discreet.’

‘I’m always discreet.’ The lie tastes bitter in my mouth and I follow it up with a sip of coffee. I don’t know where to look, what to do with myself, so I decide to focus on Emily. She’s wearing a new pair of trousers that have an embellishment up the side, a few beads shining in the sunlight streaming into the office. I wonder if she’ll let me borrow them…

‘I beg to differ.’ Emily perches herself on Spencer’s desk, crossing her legs. The tiny beads glitter like a mirrorball. This is fun for her. She likes making me squirm, and my respect for Emily is declining with every moment she holds me under this particular microscope. Part of me wonders if Emily truly is a sadist. ‘Come on, just admit it.’

‘I refer you to my previous statement,’ I swing my chair around even more to face her, firmly putting my back to where I assume Spencer and Derek are still talking. God, please don’t overhear this. What would I even say if he did? ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Sure.’ She laughs brightly, not believing me for a second—to be fair to her, I don’t even believe myself. I really should get better at lying to my coworkers. It’s frustrating that, to be a profiler, you have to be inherently astute. I’ve always been a relatively open book, which makes this whole situation worse. I have no doubt that my every thought is plastered there for her to dissect. ‘I can’t blame you, you know. I mean, it is very…different. If you’re into that kinda thing, which I think you are—’

‘Please stop.’ I say. My fingers tangle into my hair as I lean forwards, the points of my elbows bruising the soft flesh above my knee.

I hate this feeling. Being so exposed, so vulnerable, being seen like this has never been something I’ve enjoyed. Maybe it is something to do with my childhood, but I never like to think about that too hard. What it comes down to is that I can tease people incessantly, but when the tables have flipped? I hate it. I wonder what that says about me..

‘Just ask him out.’ Emily’s voice is softer now, less ribbed with merciless humour. I look up at her with a disgusted expression–as if that would ever happen. Spencer is my colleague, my friend. There’s no way I’m putting myself out there like that, and she should know that already. She sighs. ‘Seriously. What’s the worst that could happen?’

Uh, everything? He could say no. I could seriously embarrass myself–a habit I have a tendency to do. I could vomit on his new shoes. In fact, Spencer probably doesn’t even like me in that way–thinking about it, I have no idea if Spencer’s even attracted to anyone. He’s never spoken about dates like Derek does, nor mentioned exes. When we talk about our first kisses, he stays silent. Whenever the topic deviates towards something unsuitable for work, Spencer noticeably stays out of it. Maybe he’s just not into anything like that.

That thought hollows out the pit of my stomach for a second.

‘If I answer that, then you’ll just think that I know what you’re talking about.’ I sense her words for the trap that they are. What a sneaky bitch. I narrow my eyes at her and Emily’s eyebrow twitches imperceptibly. A tell. Ever since we met, Emily has had a thing about trying to trick me into confessing my secrets at any opportunity she can get. I think she thinks it’s more fun if she doesn’t ask the question straight up. ‘So no. I’m not going to deign that with a response.’

‘You’re impossible.’ Emily groans. She tries to kick my chair with a free foot, but misses by a mile. Sucker. Like the child I am, I stick my tongue out at her. ‘Come on, you have no idea how painful it is to watch you pining–’

‘You think watching me pine is painful?’ I retort, propping my chin up on my elbow. It’s only when the words are out of my mouth that I realise I may have given a little bit too much away. Emily’s eyes light up with a familiar glee. My cheeks heat and I scowl. ‘Besides, I was merely observing.’

‘Whatever helps you sleep at night, honey.’ Emily practically purrs, a mischievous glint in her eye that I decidedly do not like. She pushes off of Spencer’s desk, her fingers trailing along the edge as she meanders to her own. As she does so, her lips curve into a knowing smirk. She mutters something under her breath that is just loud enough for me to catch the hint of amusement.

‘Care to share?’ The words are out of my mouth before I realise that I probably won’t want to hear what she has to say. Yet another one of Emily’s verbal pitfalls—I can’t be expected to spot all of them after-all. Sometimes I think talking to Emily is like navigating a field of bear traps.

‘Oh, nothing—just that you two are more similar than you realise.’ Her voice drips with feigned innocence. She chuckles as she sits herself down, opening a stack of files on her desk with a flourish, effectively ending the conversation and leaving me in a whirlwind of my own thoughts.

More similar than I realise? What on Earth does she mean by that? I know we’re both considered smart—we’re both doctors, we work in the same field, we’re around the same age. Admittedly, I’m not as smart as he is, but everyone can say that. There’s always been something different about Spencer.. He has always been a cut above the rest, a standard no one else can possibly hope to achieve. How could I ever compare myself to that?

I turn my seat around and allow myself a brief glance over to where Spencer and Derek are still standing. Spencer is still talking animatedly, hands gesturing in the space between them. Don’t even get me started on his hands because we could be here for literal hours. A doctoral thesis is 60,000–80,000 words. I reckon I could write that much purely on his hands.

Derek is currently looking at him with a fond, if slightly exasperated expression, having succumbed to his fate of listening to whatever it is Spencer is rambling about. They’re a strange pair but there’s no doubting the love they share between them. It’s honestly so endearing.

My gaze drifts from the pair of them to Spencer. With the glasses, it’s different somehow. The lenses magnify his eyes, making them larger, more expressive. I can see the rapid movement as he processes whatever Derek is saying in response to his rambling, I can watch the slight furrow of his brow as he formulates a response. The more I inspect him, the harder it is for me to work out why I like them so much. Perhaps it’s because he seems…softer, somehow. Less intimidating and more approachable.

More human.

Then it hits me.

The glasses are a vulnerability. They’re an admission that the perfect Spencer Reid is anything but, that, as much as his mind is as sharp as a blade, his eyesight is not. For some reason, that makes him even more attractive to me. Though, to be fair, there’s not much that would make him less attractive to me.

I tear my eyes away, a familiar heat rippling up the back of my neck. I can’t believe I’m having thoughts like this about my coworker. It’s unprofessional, impolite, and definitely dangerous. But I can’t seem to stop myself.

Every time I see him in those glasses, the more I think about what it would be like to kiss him with them on. Would he take them off, or would I? Or, maybe, he leaves them on as I wrap my hands around the back of his neck, pulling him down towards me. They wouldn’t get in the way if we were careful…

For God’s sake.

I try to focus on my crossword but the words swim before my eyes. All I can see is Spencer’s face with those damn glasses, and the annoyingly infuriating way that they make his eyes sparkle. Perhaps Emily is right–perhaps I am as transparent as a window. This whole thing is stupid. I shouldn’t be having these thoughts, but it’s not like I can defenestrate them very easily.

Just as I am contemplating burying myself under several feet of damp earth, effectively giving up on the day entirely, Spencer and Derek seem as if they finish their conversation. Derek claps Spencer on the shoulder as the pair of them start to make their way towards us. I do my best to look busy, scribbling down a word on my puzzle that I am 99% sure isn’t correct. My heart hammers in my chest.

Jesus Christ, get your shit together, girl. It’s just an awkward, tall, lanky man. He’s not Hugh Grant. Or James Marsters. He’s just Spencer.

I don’t know if that sentiment makes it better or worse.

‘Morning, June.’ Spencer’s gentle, warm voice drags me out of my shame spiral. When I look up, he’s standing next to his desk, hands clasped in front of him as he peers down at me through those fucking glasses.

I plaster as much of a genuine smile on my face as possible. ‘Morning, Spencer. You’re looking very dashing today.’

Dashing? What the hell was that? Who says that? If I could make a time machine and return back to a few seconds earlier, I would. But, alas, I simply have to wait and see how Spencer responds.

His lips quirk upwards in a shy smile. ‘Really? Thank you. You, uh, you look rather…rather lovely yourself.’

‘Oh, uh, thanks, Spence.’ I mentally kick myself for sounding so flustered, looking anywhere but directly at him. I don’t think I look ‘rather lovely’ today–I’m wearing brown denim flares and a shirt, nothing too fancy. I try to regain some composure. This is so unlike me that it scares me. ‘So, new glasses?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ he says, pushing them up the bridge of his nose with the back of his hand. My eyes trace a vein that vanishes under the cuff. ‘I ran out of contacts and didn’t have time to go to the opticians. I don’t really like them, though, they kind of get in the way.’

‘Really?’ I try not to sound too surprised and/or offended, but I don’t think it worked very well. The next words I say are pumped with honesty. ‘I think they look good on you. Actually, they really suit you.’

‘Do you genuinely think so?’ He sounds as if he doesn’t believe me, but the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. I nod, mouth suddenly very dry. Spencer sits on the edge of his desk where Emily had been moments before, crossing his long legs at the ankle. The odd socks (pink on the left, neon green on the right) make me smile. ‘I always think they make me look…well, nerdy. Derek agrees.’

I can’t not laugh a little at that, taking a sip of my coffee as I work out how to say what I want to without seriously offending him.

‘Spencer, sweetheart, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you are the epitome of nerdy without the glasses. And–and that’s not a bad thing in the slightest. It’s part of what I like about you.’

‘Oh.’ Spencer turns a furious shade of red, eyes dropping like a stone to stare intently at the floor. I immediately regret the words, but have to play it off as if I don’t. Sweetheart is a new term of endearment and one I didn’t intend to use, but it slipped out. I lean back in my seat, angle my head…do I backtrack? Do I apologise? I’m about to do as such when I see it. A tiny smile. Spencer’s next words are just loud enough for me to hear. ‘Well, thank you.’

‘That’s okay.’ I grin, crossing my arms over my chest and trying to put on a picture of nonchalance. If Emily is to be believed, he can see right through it, but it makes me feel better. I need to say something–anything–else before the silence gets too loud. ‘I actually didn’t know you wore contacts, let alone glasses.’

‘Yeah, I just find contacts easier–did you know that Leonardo da Vinci was the one who was first credited with coming up with the idea of contact lenses in 1508? It wasn’t created in his time, of course, but he was the one who first posited the idea of altering corneal power.’ Spencer’s hands gesture in the space between us as he endearingly rambles on about the creation of contact lenses. It’s sweet, and I let him talk for a while, using this opportunity to watch him. He’s just so pretty that it’s hard to focus. ‘And modern day lenses, the silicone ones, weren’t made until 1998.’

‘Wow, that’s kinda cool.’ I hum, taking a sip of my now almost-cold coffee. ‘I don’t know, I had you pegged as the kind of guy who doesn’t like putting his finger in his eye.’

‘What?’ Spencer chuckles, raising an eyebrow. He pushes his glasses up again and my heart stammers. ‘How could you possibly know that about someone?’

‘Spencer, you’re a known germaphobe. You don’t even shake hands.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t want someone else to put my lenses in,’ Spencer physically shudders at this idea. ‘But if I do it, it’s just my germs.’

‘I suppose that makes sense. If you had a twin, though, would you let them do it? Or someone with super clean hands? What about if you broke your hands and your glasses, and needed someone else to put them in for you?’ I rattle off question after question, knowing I really should stop talking, but it’s as if there’s a torrent of words I cannot control. ‘I mean, there are plenty of, of situations where you may need someone to…to put your contacts in…’

What the fuck am I on about? Oh God, this isn’t happening to me…I never thought I would be so swayed by a pretty face.

‘You’re a strange one.’ Spencer says, after a beat, and his voice is playful. He leans backwards and braces himself on the desk. ‘I don’t know, it depends. I mean, I wouldn’t let Derek do it, but…’

‘I wouldn’t let Derek do it for me, and I don’t even wear contacts.’ I laugh, tilting my head to the side and giving him a cheeky grin. He returns it, and for a moment, we just look at each other. The world narrows, as it always does, to just me and him. There’s a familiar warmth in my stomach that has always been intoxicating.

‘I’d let you put my contacts in.’ Spencer says the words as if they had been building up behind his lips. Pink stains the tops of his cheekbones. It might be a trick of the light, but I’m pretty sure that his gaze flickers down to my mouth for a fraction of a second before returning back to my eyes. My breath hitches and I have to look away.

‘Really? I don’t know if I should be flattered or kind of grossed out.’ Another sentence I regret saying, but what does one say to something like that?

Spencer laughs, but it sounds kind of forced. ‘Well, let us hope that it will never come to that. But, if it does, don’t let any of the others do it. Lord knows where their hands have been.’

I laugh too, but before I can say anything more, Hotch’s voice booms across the bullpen. He’s calling Spencer to his office, and the tranquil spell between us is shattered.

Spencer jumps, startled, and clears his throat. He pushes his glasses further up his nose and stands up. He offers me a muttered ‘sorry’ as he walks away, speeding out of the bullpen of desks and heading towards Hotch. I watch him go reluctantly, only looking away when he vanishes inside and the door closes behind him.

The groan I let out is loud enough to make Derek look up, but I bury my head in my hands before any of them can jump on me whilst I’m vulnerable. What the fuck was that? I’m not usually one to get flustered when faced with a pretty man, and usually I’m pretty confident around Spencer. Evidently there’s something about the glasses that turns me into a blathering school girl. It’s so stupid that I have no choice but to get a grip.

When I look up from my hands, determined to not let Spencer’s new eyewear affect me, Emily is watching me with a bemused expression. She must have heard the entire interaction.

‘Smooth, June. Real smooth.’ She says from over her coffee mug, the steam coiling around her like she’s some demon. The devious grin on her face doesn’t help that mental image.

I simply flip her off and return to my crossword.

Nosy bitch.

THANK YOU FOR READING! I CAN’T DECIDE IF I LIKE THIS OR NOT BUT FIGURED WHY NOT? MORE SPENCER REID FICS ON THE WAY!

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

Hello! I’m looking for a Sterek fic and haven’t been able to find it.

From what I remember it involves Sheriff Stilinski dying, then Stiles runs away from Beacon Hills and lives as a fox for a long time. Eventually Derek finds him and brings him to his pack’s house where he lives with Peter and several OCs. Eventually Stiles turns back to a human. I also remember there being a background Melissa/Peter romance and a confrontation with Scott as he had shunned Stiles after the nogitsune. I also distinctly remember a scene involving snow and making candy out of maple syrup if that helps!

I haven’t seen this fic in your fox!Stiles tag (although it has been a while since I checked). If you or any of your followers know where to find this fic I would be very grateful!

Hey @itsyourgirlemile! @iwannahibernate says it's part of a series.

Still He Didn't Cry by Artymys

(1/1 I 9,402 I Not Rated I Sterek)

After the Nogitsune, everything went down hill. Scott shunned Stiles; kicked him out of the pack and ordered the pack to not interact with him ever again. The death of his father and the threat of losing everything pushes Stiles to his breaking point.

[girl-next-door-writes]

Here's The Way I Feel

Characters: Spencer Reid x reader

Summary: Spencer has been harboring a crush on his workmate for quite a while now, but after a case where he has to take her on multiple dates, and with the help of Derek Morgan, he can’t help but spill his secret.

Word Count: 2088 words

Prompt: Fluff. Fake dating. Falling asleep on them. Drunk confession.

A/N: @intense-socks (who has an excellent name btw) requested this little bit of fluffy Spencer for my latest follower milestone celebration, so, I hope you enjoy this one. If you do, then please reblog it.

There were definitely worse ways to spend an evening than sitting in a restaurant with your favourite co-worker. True, you were technically working, but aside from the occasional voice in your earpiece, you could easily forget that was the case. This was the third restaurant you had been to in as many days, and Hotch had certainly kept the best for last. The plush surroundings, the fancy menu with far too many fancy words to be understood by a mere mortal, the soft candlelight that created a distinctly romantic air, definitely the perfect hunting ground for your latest unsub.

Spencer was focusing on the menu, his fingers tapping lightly on the table as his right leg bounced beneath it. He tried to curtail his nervous energy, but being in this situation with you was such sweet torture. The past few days he had got to play out his daydreams of what it might be like if the two of you were actually together. He got to hold your hand, make you laugh, share stories and hold you close in ways he knew he shouldn’t want to. Each date had felt like a first. He agonized over what to wear, what to order, how far to compliment you. The complicated algebra of attraction was constantly running through his mind, trying, and failing, to prevent himself from falling for you more than he already had.

“Hey, Spence, you okay?” Your fingers grazed his and he had to suppress a shiver at your touch.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. I was just wondering if it will be tonight.” He reached for his glass of wine with his other hand, not wanting to break contact with you if he could help it.

“Well, if you’re a very good boy, I’d say there is more than a chance tonight will be the night.” You smirked as he almost choked on his drink, eliciting laughter from you.

“Ooooh, pretty boy’s on a promise.” Morgan chuckled through the comms.

“Settle down.” Hotch’s voice sounded tired and it reminded you both why you were there. You were bait.

“How about you don’t focus on what may or may not happen later, just stay here in this moment with me? It’ll be more convincing.” You turned your hand, interlacing your fingers with his.

Convincing. That was the real problem here. It was easy for Spencer to convince people he was hopelessly in love with you, because it was true. The sticking point was that you were also incredibly convincing, and he knew it was an act. The soft smiles, the way your eyes lingered on his lips as he spoke, the light touch of your fingertips gliding over his skin, it was all a calculated act to make the unsub believe the two of you were a happy couple. An unsub who hated happy couples and had been torturing and killing them for the past few weeks.

Spencer pushed the unsub to the back of his mind, instead concentrating on each and every detail of you, committing it to his brilliant memory. The slight tilt of your head, the gentle curve of your lips, the melodic tone of your voice, the warmth of your hand in his. If he really concentrated, really stayed in this moment, he could almost fool himself into believing this was real.

Evidently, Spencer wasn’t the only one, because not two hours later you were arresting the unsub after he had abducted the two of you, leaving you both with a few cuts and bruises.

Back on the jet, and Spencer was lost in his thoughts. It wasn’t fair. He had now had a taste of how things could have been, how you could have looked at him if he was the type of guy who you would want.

“Mind if I sit here? They are just a little loud over there and I need a bit of peace.” You gave him a nervous smile, and Spencer moved his bag from the seat next to him so you could sit. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He gave you a soft smile then forced himself to stare at the open book in his hand, trying to ignore the way his whole body tingled whenever you accidentally brushed your arm or leg against his. Spencer was so deep in sculpting his denial that he failed to realise your head was resting against his shoulder. It wasn’t until he caught a soft snuffling snore that he looked over to find you fast asleep, curled up against him as if that was exactly where you belonged.

This was the first time you had ever fallen asleep on him, and he couldn’t help wonder if it was due to exhaustion or if this case had maybe bonded you more than he realised. Any one of the team could have looked over at the two of you and seen the total adoration in Spencer’s gaze as he watched you sleep, taking care with his movements to ensure he didn’t wake you. He had no idea if this moment would ever be repeated, so he soaked it in, desperately hoping it wouldn’t be, yet not brave enough to ask you for more.

It had been a long case, and it was very obvious after the flight that Spencer needed a little cheering up, after all, his little fantasy relationship had come to an end, so Derek suggested a beer. One beer turned into quite a few, along with whiskey chasers and then some shots which were colours that Spencer felt no drink should ever be. Although Spencer was not the most tolerant of alcohol, Morgan was also the wrong side of merry, which meant the blind was leading the blind as they ordered another round.

“You should tell her, man.” Morgan said for the millionth time that night, his hand coming to rest on Spencer’s shoulder a little heavier than he intended.

“Oh, yeah, that is a terrible idea. I should definitely not do that.” Spencer shook his head emphatically, almost knocking over his drink.

“You should. You should call right now and tell her. Then, if she laughs, which I know for a fact she won’t, you can just say you were very drunk.” The fact that Morgan was slurring his words right now should have alerted Reid as to how floored that logic was, but with both of them in a drunken haze it appeared to be a sound argument.

“Right now? I should call right now? It’s like… I don’t even know what time it is. What time is it?” He asked rather loudly, only to get a chorus of varying times around the 2am mark.

“Go on Pretty Boy! Call the girl.” Morgan took Reid’s phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his contacts until he found yours, smirking when he saw the little love hearts after your name. The poor boy had it bad. “It’s ringing.” He stated, handing over the phone to a clearly flustered Spencer.

“Voicemail.” Spencer frowned, closing his eyes and basking in your voice until a harsh tone indicated it was his turn to speak. And speak he did.

When you woke, the light on your answer machine was flashing and you pressed play as you made your way to the kitchen to grab a drink. It was unusual that you hadn’t been woken by the phone ringing, you must have been in a really deep sleep. As soon as Spencer’s slightly slurred voice rang out through your apartment, you raced back to the machine, now wide awake.

“Hi. It’s me. It’s Spencer. Spencer Reid. Doctor Spencer Reid. I’m leaving you a message on your voicemail because you haven’t picked up. Your message is funny though, and you sound really pretty. You always sound pretty. Anyway, that wasn’t what I wanted to say. I have something to say, and so I am going to say it, because it needs to be said. I like you. Even when I try not to, I can’t help it, I just like you. Not that I have tried actively not liking you at all, just not like liking you. The truth of it is, I just like you. I feel like I’ve said like too many times now and I am not being clear. You just make me smile and happy and warm and nervous and, well, most of the time, I like you. I like being with you and I like listening to you and I like holding your hand and I like you. No. Like isn’t the word. I love you. I worship you. I am enamored with you. I am infatuated with you. You make me want to recite poetry but when you’re right there I get stupid and the words, the words they, they aren’t in my brain so they won’t come out right and I, I just needed to say that you are all the good words and, oh shit…”

The message cut off and you just stood blinking at the machine, not quite sure what the hell had just happened. It was entirely possible that the man you had been crushing on for the past year had just confessed he felt the same, or it might have been the ramblings of a drunk. There was only one way to find out.

Walking into the bullpen, it was incredibly obvious that Reid and Morgan were a little worse for wear.

“I can’t believe you didn’t invite me!” Penelope was pouting at Morgan, who was wearing sunglasses and clutching a large coffee.

“Baby girl, I’m gonna need you to take the volume down a little.” He mumbled, the scene causing you to smirk as you tossed your bag down by your desk.

“Boys night out? You know, you really should take Rossi with you on those, he’d keep you out of trouble.”

“Do you even know Rossi? He would get us into more trouble, then he would casually walk away and leave us there to deal with it.” Morgan groaned into his mug.

“Since when were you such a lightweight? I thought that was Reid.” You chuckled, moving to lean against Spencer’s desk.

“There were shots.” Spence croaked, his eyes still shut.

“Do you not like shots? I thought you might like them. I mean, you know, not like them like them, but just kinda like?” The furrow of Spencer’s brow caused your smile to grow as you saw him trying to figure out what you had just said. With his face scrunched, he opened his eyes and looked up at you.

“I have decided that I do not like shots.”

“Oh, so you’re not enamored with them? You aren’t infatuated with them?” You asked innocently, nudging the cup of coffee on his desk closer to Spencer’s hand. Your words had caught Morgan’s attention, and something sparked in his memory.

“Oh, shit. Pretty boy, voicemail.” A mixture of amusement and concern played on Morgans face as he tried to read the situation through the haze of his hangover.

“Voicemail?” Spencer was thoroughly lost in this conversation and, as usually the smartest person in the room, he really did not like it.

“You called someone last night, before you fell off the bar stool-“

“That’s why it cut off so suddenly! I was wondering about that.”

“I called you?” Spencer got to his feet so quickly his chair span as fast as the room was spinning in his head.

“Woah there.” You placed your hands on his biceps to steady him, wondering if you needed to grab the trashcan for him to throw up.

“I called you?” He asked again, panicked mortification in his tone and written all over his face.

“You did. It was actually a really nice thing to wake up to. I do have some questions though.”

“Questions?” Spencer was mentally kicking himself for not being able to form complete sentences, but the hangover combined with you still touching him, had drained his IQ immeasurably.

“Maybe you need to listen to the message, then you can answer. How about you come round to mine after work and we can grab something to eat, maybe have a Doctor Who marathon? Only if you feel up to it though.”

“Yes!” Spencer said far quicker and louder than he intended, wincing a little with embarrassment.

“Good. We’ll talk more about how you worship me then.” You winked and headed off to make a drink, chuckling to yourself as you heard Morgan teasing Spencer playfully.

[dontcallpanic]

WIP Whenever

I was tagged by a few people at this point - I'm so sorry I lost track of it all... I know @patolemus and @gege-wondering-around tagged me and I think @seaweed-water did too, once upon a time. Thank you so, so much - I am sorry literal seasons have changed while you've been waiting!

So... here y'are - Even this tiny snippet has taken so feckin long to write it's unreal!! Why is Derek's voice so hard to nail down!? I've written about 5 different drafts at this point! Dammit Sourwolf!

Anyway, This is the start to Manifesting Murder, wildly edited and then unedited, then edited again. All mistakes belong to me and my dyslexia - Mwynhau!

Stiles' fingers shake as he methodically wipes the blood off them, one by one. There's a detached calmness that's settled over him – he's in shock – and he knows what he needs to do next but he can't get his damn fingers to stop shaking. He almost drops his phone when he digs it out of his pocket. He's never been more grateful for speed dial, he thinks before holding the phone to his ear. It sounds far too loud in the oppressive silence. One. Two. Three. “Stiles?” He lets out a breath. Everything's going to be okay. "Yeah sorry to call you on your day off but I could use your help with something. Do you think you can get here anytime soon?" There's a long silence on the end of the line. "I'll be there in ten."

_______

Derek stares down at the motionless body at the foot of the stairs, a long list of expletives running through his head. One glance is all he needs to ascertain that the man is dead. Very dead. The head is cracked at an alarming angle and there’s a steadily growing pool of blood creeping across the uneven floorboards. It's an awful lot of blood for a broken neck but there are some things in the world that can walk away that. He should know, he's one of them. But this man… this man smells distinctly fucking human. Derek lifts his eyes back to Stiles who has been fidgeting restlessly the whole time, and rises one silent eyebrow. Stiles nods jerkily, grimacing as he twists a bloody cloth through his long, clever fingers. “Yeahhh… So. I – I er… need your help,” he says somewhat redundantly, gesturing towards the body. Derek's other eyebrow joins his first. Stiles waves him off, almost flinging the damn cloth with the movement. He fumbles at the last moment, hands flying out to catch hold of it before squeezes it tight between his fists. “Heh. Yeah. I know – understatement!” he laughs flatly before glancing up, eyes wild and slightly glassy. “Can you, er… help me get rid of him?” Stiles makes a shooing gesture, inadvertently wafting the scent of fear and death directly at Derek. He raises his eyebrows further and resists the urge to sneeze. He's actually somewhat relieved. He shouldn't be, he knows that. He should be calling it in. Giving forensics the heads up and letting the detectives do the rest. He should be taking pictures for evidence. He should be fucking arresting Stiles on suspicion of murder. Fuck his fucking life. Instead of doing any of this, he looks away first, using the moment to reflect on how perpetually screwed he is. He scans the body with a trained detachedness, eyebrows drawing into a frown as he takes in the height of the sweeping wooden staircase, the blood splattered on the nosing, the way it’s smeared across the treads. “He's definitely dead then,” Derek says, automatic and unguarded sarcasm falling flat even to his own ears as he leans back on old habits during these trying times. Stiles, unfortunately, thinks he is serious. “Are your eyes broken?” he yelps incredulously, flailing towards the body and sending another cocktail of scents directly up Derek’s nose. “Do you see the angle of his head?” Stiles makes an abortive motion before he shakes his head and strides up to Derek's side and gestures emphatically at the corpse. “Yes he's fucking dead! - Do you want to check for a pulse? Or do you think I need to call for a second opinion from Beacon Hills finest?” “Do you want my help or not?” Derek growls back, turning to meet Stiles' challenge as he slips into Derek's personal space. Derek bares his teeth, standing his ground and refusing to give way as he slowly folds his arms across his chest. Relief sparks in Stiles' amber eyes and Derek watches Stiles fight back a grin, tongue darting out to tease his bottom lip and he can't look away. “So you'll do it? You'll help me?” Of course Derek's going to fucking help him – is if that was ever in question. Derek is a sucker for anything that Stiles would ask of him and he fucking knows it. His features remain blank and impassive as he holds Stiles' gaze for a beat longer than is necessary, as if considering his options before he turns away and sighs loudly though his nose. “You got a plastic sheet or something?” he asks, teeth itching as the scent of blood and Stiles twists around him. He definitely shouldn’t like it as much as he does. Stiles lets out an intense sigh of relief that sounds a lot like a groan and Derek has to close his eyes for a beat. Fuck his fucking life.

_______________________

Okay... no pressure WHATSOEVER tags to the usual suspects @hellameyers @jadezdominion @gege-wondering-around @patolemus @seaweed-water

And the new suspects @teencopandthesourwolf @violetfairydust

And @oldefashioned and @cantchangemypast in case you wanted to read.

[talgamjak]

Looking for a Sterek fic [FOUND]

I know this is a long shot but I'll put everything I remember about the fic:

Royal!AU

Prince!Derek is stuck as a wolf

Stiles, son of the Sheriff who I think is a kings guard or something?

First thing they tell Stiles is to not look at any of the wolves in the eye - like the people are afraid of Hale family

And Stiles immediately breaks that rule

Distinctly remember Talia asking Stiles if they scare him and he's like "no you are all beautiful"

Derek's wolf reacts to Stiles and he hops down from the throne and sniffs him - Stiles pets him because, he's Stiles

After this Stiles gets taken in as a "servant" but really he only is around Derek

He begins to dream of Human!Derek and it takes him a while to put the two together

There's a scene where Derek jumps into Stiles' bed cuz he's scared of lightning

There's a scene where Derek chases Stiles around the castle and when he catches him Stiles go "You've got me, Derek you have me" and shortly after the curse that kept him a wolf is broken.

If anyone knows what I'm talking about please let me know!!! Thank you

[spacebugarts]

Just rembered that Stiles' grandfather is canonically named Elias and I'm just... why would they name Derek's son Eli? Why make him so sarcastic and similar to Stiles, distinctly mention him PASSING OUT at the sight if his fangs, give him that strangely close relationship with the Sheriff, and even go as far as to have Stilinski PERSONALLY GIVE HIM THE JEEP???

At what point does it no longer count as subtext?

[7thleveldown]

Star Wars?

So.... I wrote a thing....

It is neither good, nor really properly finished to my satisfaction, but... I dunno, I don't have a good excuse.....

“That little bastard. I’m going to kill him!”

Stiles yelling was not an unknown occurrence in the Stilinski household, but for him to be heard before Noah walked in the door was, in his opinion, unnecessary.

“Scott, do I even want to know?”

“Stiles can't find something. He blames-”

“Isaac. I heard. So did most of the street. Any particular reason for him taking the blame?”

“Nope.” The monosyllabic answer from Derek made Noah think of earlier times, when there was distinctly more glaring. Although, the look on his face right now…

“Scott, do you want to tell me what is actually going on?” Noah leaned on the back of the sofa Derek was sitting on, not breaking eye contact with Scott.

“I don’t know what you mean… sir….”

“Scott.” Noah felt the need to rub his forehead against the headache that was beginning to build. “Scott you haven’t called me sir, I think… ever. What have you done?”

“Nothing! Nothing…bad?” Scott was wincing, but before he could continue, another voice was being heard, as its owner stomped down the stairs.

“..and why does anyone have to be that fucking tall? It’s unacceptable. Thinking he can come in here and mess with my stuff, he is going to be so sorry, him and his precious scarves - oh, Dad, hey…”

“Everything okay, son?”

“No, unsurprisingly, no it’s not. I need to report a theft. We’ve been burgled. And I know who the culprit is, so if you can go arrest him, I would be grateful. Teach him to steal my stuff, little miscreant…”

“Do we have any actual, you know, proof?”

“Well, no, but I know it was him, it always is, and he knows what this means to me, and he knew about tonight, and… He’s done it on purpose!”

“Stiles can’t find his Star Wars DVD’s. Scott had finally agreed to watch them. It is apparently Isaac's fault.” Derek’s monotone got an aggrieved look from Stiles, which only resulted in an eye roll from Derek.

“He took them!”

“Well, evidence is kind of important. Do you have any? Besides just knowing?” Noah couldn’t keep the slight tone of amusement out of his voice, leading to receiving a very flat look from Stiles.

“No. I don’t. But it is just the kind of thing he would do. I hate him, I hate him so much!”

“Okay, so… How about we go and have another look upstairs, and if not we can always watch something else and save this for another night, especially as you wanna do a whole marathon….” Scott’s voice faded out as he ushered a slightly placated Stiles upstairs.

Noah sighed, sitting down on the sofa beside Derek. “Where did he hide them this time?”

“What?” Derek turned to look at Noah.

“Where did Scott hide them this time, he is crap at hiding stuff in this house, which means I have to get inventive.” Noah explained, resignation in his voice.

“It was actually reasonable this time. They’re in the Jeep.” Derek shook his head before continuing, “You know, Scott thinks you don’t know it’s him?”

“Scott is a good kid. But a criminal mastermind he is not. That is what he has Stiles for.”

Also on AO3!

[beatlesgrl]

Take My Breath Away

I saw this prompt “You’re possessed by a demon. You quickly realize he’s never done this before.” on my Facebook and I can’t get this out of my head so here. Also like. It’s clearly not finished and I’m pretty sure I won’t get a chance to so here for my fellow Sterek lovers.

Derek Hale knew his luck was low, but waking up to an extra voice in his head that was definitely not his, he knew that it must be practically non-existent.

“Hello?” He murmured, still fighting the urge to fall back asleep. 

The voice stopped talking to itself, and in his head he felt it freaking out. 

Hard to imagine why it was freaking out when it was in Derek’s mind but whatever he just wanted to know what was going on. 

“Ummm...” The voice said, “I’m here to...take...your...soul?” 

The voice sounded distinctly male, and unsure. The threat of taking Derek’s soul didn’t stop him from saying back, “You sound pretty confident there.”

“...Are you sassing a demon right now?” The voice said back, clear aghast in its voice, “Most people who I possess are scared at the very least, at the very most terrified and crying by this point.” 

Derek rolled his eyes and turned to his side, “As long as you don’t wake me back up I don’t care.”

He fell asleep before he could hear a response. 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

So here’s why Derek’s luck was so...well bad. 

His first girlfriend, Paige, was killed after she was bitten by an Alpha, and Derek had to help her die so she wouldn’t be in pain. 

His second girlfriend, Kate, tricked him into loving her, only to burn his house down and killing his family.

His third girlfriend, Jennifer, used her magic to blind him by love to kill the remainder of his family, Cora and Laura, and was starting on his pack before they all got wise and killed her instead. 

And his pack that he had built after becoming Alpha...well they didn’t notice that he wasn’t doing ok. 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

 The demon in Derek’s head was clearly new to this possession thing. It almost made Derek feel bad for it. 

He was making bacon, and he felt it try to take over Derek’s limbs, claiming that Derek was burning the bacon and it wasn’t fair that he couldn’t even cook it properly. The problem was, Derek was able to fight it every time it even tried. 

That made it furious. 

“God damnit, Derek, I have a name, I’ve told you to call me Stiles.”

And he refused to call hi-it by its name. It was a demon, it didn’t need his sympathy.

And he burnt the bacon just to spite this thing in his brain. 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

“Hey Derek, turn the channel, I fucking hate Gordon Ramsey.”

Derek didn’t really like him either, but he turned up the volume anyways.

The voice scoffed in his head, “C’mon dude, cut me some slack, I can’t change it myself.” As if to prove it, it picked up Derek’s arm, only for Derek to push it down with his other hand.

He still wasn’t that great at controlling him. 

“You could just leave then you wouldn’t have to watch this show.” Derek said back.

He felt it roll its eyes somehow, “I told you, I’m here for your soul. Work with me here, can’t go back without it.”

“And I told you,” Derek said back, “You will be here for a while if you have that attitude.” 

The voice sighed, “Look, I know my methods are...unorthodox...but I’m ne-pretty sure its effective so-”

Derek laughed, “Pretty sure it isn’t considering you can’t even fully possess my body.” 

The voice murmured under its breath, the words “alpha” and “jackass” prominent words in his complaints.

Derek bit back a smile and changed the channel. Not even spite could keep him watching Ramsey. 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Soon, though, Derek had to admit it was...kinda nice to have someone to always talk to. 

His pack was always gone, doing who knows what. He knew that Erica and Boyd worked at the local drive-in, and it helped that they had heightened senses so they could sense the troublemakers and get them out of there quickly. Isaac worked with Deaton at the vet clinic, and was trailing after Scott most of the time. And Scott...the beta that got away. He currently had a psudo-pack with the Argents (which no.) and Kira, his current girlfriend. Isaac kept acting like he was going to join which...Derek wasn’t going to think about.

The constant voice in his head made him feel better.

“Sooooooooo...” The voice in his head said one day as Derek was reading a book, “Where is your pack anyways?” 

Derek turned the page, ignoring him. 

“Cause I’m not gonna lie,” it continued, “I thought as an Alpha wolf, you’d see your pack more often.”

Derek kept reading. He promised himself if he finished that chapter before dinner he would reward himself with Indian takeout rather than Chinese takeout, which is what he normally got. 

He felt it poke Derek. How he wasn’t sure, he couldn’t feel an actual poke, but he felt it with his brain, “Hey I’m talking to you sourwolf, least you can do is respond.” 

“You’re the one in my brain,” Derek replied, about to turn the page, “Can’t you access those memories by yourself?” 

There was a pause, and Derek felt the worst headache suddenly explode right behind his eyes. His vision went white, and he felt himself start to growl and his claws piercing his book. 

“Stiles!” He found himself shouting. He dropped his book and grabbed the sides of his head, “Stiles stop!” 

As soon as it came, it left, and he felt guilty vibes coming from...Stiles. 

“I’m so sorry!” Stiles exclaimed, “I didn’t realize it would cause that much pain!” 

Derek brought his hands down, but he could tell he was definitely still wolfie, “No shit, what the fuck.” He saw blood on his hands, and he could tell that his face had claw marks because he could feel the skin stitching itself together. Like he was trying to claw out his own brain. 

More guilt poured out of Stiles, and now he even felt sadness, “I’m so sorry.” 

Derek growled and picked up his book to examine the damage. Clawed completely though, and Derek couldn’t even open the book without hearing ripping and tears. He resigned himself to not knowing the ending until he can get a new book.

He felt Stiles pouting, and then his presence was gone. Like he decided to hide. 

Derek sighed and went to go take a shower.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Later that day, as Derek was ordering his Indian food (hey the book got ruined that means he finished his chapter. Plus he was traumatized, sue him), when he heard the doorbell ring.

Now Stiles wasn’t lying when he was talking about his pack and not seeing them. They almost never came over to his house. He bought it a couple years ago when his sisters were still alive, and there was plenty of room for all of them to move in and then some. Back when he had hope he wouldn’t be a fuck up and have a strong pack. It backed up into the preserve, he had no neighbors, and it was filled with natural light.

And they’ve only been there twice since he moved in, one of those times was when he was unconscious after fighting a wendingo. 

So to hear his doorbell out out here made him suspicious, but as he went to answer, he grew more suspicious when he saw a delivery guy holding out something for him. It looked like a rectangular shaped item wrapped in brown paper.

“Hello?” Derek asked, but the delivery guy just shook his head and shoved the package into Derek’s hands before walking away. 

He looked down at the package and shrugged. Using his claws, he sliced open the paper. What it uncovered was the book he had ruined earlier. He examined the book to try to find a clue as to where it came from, and he found it on a hastily written note on the inside cover. 

‘Hey, sorry about the book. Hopefully this helps. Stiles’ 

Derek had noticed that Stiles was still quiet, but he didn’t think much of it before. Now, though, it made him feel kind of lonely. 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Stiles was back, though, the next morning, when Derek woke up. He felt the hesitation, like Stiles didn’t feel invited. 

Because Derek doesn’t do well with feelings, he just grunted and fell back asleep. 

Stiles must’ve gotten the message, though, because when Derek got up later that day, Stiles was back to his ramble-y self. 

Derek hid his relieved smile.

[christinesficrecs]

There’s a fic that is pretty similar to one of the deleted recs that were your favorite. (Unchained by exclaimation)

From what u remember Derek was a slave and stiles might have brought him home. He at least ‘owned’ Derek and one of the argents was a previous owner.

I distinctly remember a storyline of Kate/another argent stealing a glove of stiles at a grocery story or somewhere public to be able to scent Derek.

GIANT maybe: deaton having a sanctuary for wolves somewhere up north and stiles can’t know the location because it’s safer but something goes wrong with the escape trip.

Might be mixing some fics together, so sorry!

I found it!! Definitely took me a minute! 🤦🏻‍♀️

Pack Up; Don’t Stray by the_deep_magic | 55.2K | Explicit

Werewolves are an enslaved underclass, collared and tagged by human masters. Detective Stilinski’s on duty the night they bring in an untagged stray.

[pastanest]

if you’re wondering why I’m having to repost this, or why you were perhaps previously following me but no longer are, please refer to this post. I was able to retrieve this thanks to @rosieathena - thanks so much!! ♡

Spencer Reid x she/her!reader

Familiar Face

“What about you, kid, did you have a crush in school?” Derek asks Spencer, a natural progression considering everyone on the team had already discussed their school crushes. Even Penelope joined in from the computer screen. It‘s a long flight, they have time.

The image of you enters Spencer’s mind as soon as the question is asked.

“No, I didnt.” He answers, the picture of you seeming to grow until it envelopes all of his thoughts.

Emily raises an eyebrow. “I think someone is telling a lie!”

This peaks the entire team’s interest, all of them leaning forward in their seats, profiling him expertly in terrifying silence.

“Alright, alright! There was a girl I had feelings for!” Spencer admits defeat under the deadly gaze of his friends, who all smile in joint victory.

“Come on kid, you’ve gotta tell us more!” Derek says, already prepared to tease the genius to no end.

Spencer sighs. “She was my best friend. My only friend, actually. Nobody could really...stand to be around me, nobody my own age, back then. The only reason I wasnt mercilessly bullied was because of her, she so fiercely defended me all the time.” He laughs fondly, losing himself to thoughts of you. “She was always much smaller than me, but she was fearless. We used to play imaginary games where we were both police officers chasing bad guys; it was her who inspired me to want to pursue a career like this. Before her, the bad guys scared me. My mom loved her, and she loved my mom, they were always laughing together whenever she came over. I can distinctly remember my heart stopping when our imaginary police games got particularly dramatic and she’d grab my hand, for just a few seconds I was allowed to believe I had a chance with her.” Spencer shakes his head, pulling himself out of his thoughts and clearing his throat. “But that was a long time ago, she has most likely forgotten all about me.”

He looks down at the case file in his hands and pretends to read it while the team exchange glances. He did his best to reveal as little personal information possible about you, so that they have no way of finding you and forcing you to see him again, but he couldnt help still feeling worried.

It had been a while since Spencer had thought of you. His mind drifted to you every so often, but he only ever let himself very shallowly recall memories of you, he wouldnt dare relive them properly. But after talking about you aloud for the first time in so many years, the dam was broken, and his mind was flooded.

Not only does he recall how his heart stopped when you held his hand, he remembers the way you’d grin every time you saw him, even if you’d only spent an hour without him. Spencer recites the countless facts he remembered specifically to tell you. He remembers every word you ever told him, from the day you met when the two of you were five years old, until the day he graduated high school at 12 and had to leave for college.

That day in kindergarten, you left the other kids you were playing with so that you could go and sit with little Spencer, who was reading a book by himself. You introduced yourself and asked him to read to you, which became an ongoing tradition in your friendship, up until the day you cried into each other before he had to leave for college. You told him you adored him, that you’d do everything in your power to stay in touch with him, and then you kissed him. Neither him nor you had ever addressed any feelings outside of friendship, and even then, neither of you said anything. It was your shared first kiss.

Spencer remembers every detail of every incident when you physically jumped in front of him to protect him from school bullies. He counted six times that you got called to the principal’s office for punching, kicking and biting people that were mean to him. It would always be Spencer who pulled you away from a fight and held you back, you werent scared at all. He remembers when you got a black eye in a particular incident protecting him, he felt so guilty that he threw up and tried to avoid you, because he thought you’d be safer and happier without him. But you found him, you always did, and you told him you’d break every bone in your body if it meant he would be safe. That was one of the moments, one of many, that made him fall so hard for you.

A week passed, a week of Spencer daydreaming of you in the same way he did all those years ago. None of the team had brought you up again, which gave him just as much relief as it did stress; he couldnt tell if they were planning something or if they’d simply moved on. Regardless, the team’s focus is presently on a case of a missing child. This case is only a short drive away, no flight necessary, which was the only pleasantry of this case.

“We contacted a CARD team investigator to assist us on this case.” Aaron briefs the team as they enter the station, and everyone nods.

The CARD team, Child Abduction Response Deployment, works to recover victims as quickly as possible and helps apprehend those responsible for taking them. There are only 60 or so agents who make up the CARD team, stationed at field offices and assigned to one of five regional teams. They are seasoned veterans of crimes against children, especially child abductions, and have received extensive training. While some local law enforcement agencies may only work one or two child abduction cases a year, CARD team agents work these kinds of cases all the time, keeping their unique skill set honed.

An officer approaches Aaron. “Agent (Y/L/N) has already started interrogating the first person on the local sex offenders list.”

Hotch nods. “Rossi, you and Prentiss speak to the first victim’s family. JJ and Derek, go and speak to Addie’s parents.” He instructs, referring to the child currently missing. “Reid and I will assist Agent (Y/L/N) with interrogations.”

Spencer feels his mouth dry up, Agent (Y/L/N)? It couldnt be, could it? The probability of that coincidence is far too low, it isnt logical, only hopeful.

The team splits up, with Spencer and Aaron heading to the interrogation room. The CARD investigator has her back to the window, sitting opposite a particularly seedy looking middle aged man.

“How many times are you and I going to meet in these circumstances, Mr. Williams?” She says, a hint of sass mixed into her authoritative tone.

“As many times as you jump to suspect me the second a kid goes missing!” Mr. Wiliams snaps back, raising his voice.

Although Spencer cant see her face, he can practically hear her raise an eyebrow sarcastically as she laughs. “Oh, you overestimate yourself, Mr. Williams. You are simply the first name on the list, there are plenty of other creeps far more capable of such a professionally executed crime. As far as Im concerned, you’re an amateur.”

Spencer smiles slightly. Hotch looks at him.

“She’s good, isnt she?”

Spencer nods. “She’ll break him in no time.”

He cant help recognising her voice as somewhat familiar, but he discards it as his mind playing tricks on him.

“Garcia said she’s quoted as the best CARD investigator in her regional team, if not the best of them all. In every case she’s worked, she’s found every child, and found them alive.”

Spencer frowns slightly, looking to Hotch. “Why did Garcia do a background check on a CARD investigator?”

There’s a flicker of panic in Aaron’s eyes, but he immediately regains composure. “She’d heard of Agent (Y/L/N) prior to this, in various articles Garcia likes to read about children who were reunited with their parents after being kidnapped. She hoped to join us on this case so that she could befriend the investigator.”

Spencer nods, that does sound like Penelope. But he couldnt shake the feeling that something was off. Penelope had never mentioned an Agent (Y/L/N) before.

“You’re obsessed with me!” Mr. Williams scoffs. “Even though Im in therapy for my inappropriate attractions, I’d rather have my dick cut off with a butter knife than sleep with you!”

The CARD investigator laughs at that, she really laughs, dramatically wiping tears from her eyes.

“Oh, now you’ve dug yourself a hole!” She says as she rises from her seat, placing her palms flat on the interrogation table and leaning over to him. “I’ve got a game for you. Why dont you go ahead and give me a list of women who would sleep with a man who can only get it up for little kids? Oh, wait, sorry, Im getting you confused with pedophiles who can get it up in the first place. You missed that train, didnt you? I also think you’re forgetting who was at your court case, and who saw the naked pictures of you that were passed around the court.” She chuckles, shaking her head dismissively as she walks around the table and leans over him from the side, her hair shielding her face from Spencer’s view.

“Sweetheart, my pinky finger would give me more satisfaction!” Agent (Y/L/N) cheers.

Mr. Williams tugs at his handcuffs, and she laughs harder.

“You’re really gonna try that with me? Do you WANT to go back in a cell? From what I remember, the other inmates dont take kindly to people like you, but Im sure you know that from your own experience, right?” She leans closer to him, Mr. Williams shrinking away from her. “Where were you at 3pm on Tuesday the 13th?” She tucks her hair behind her ear, and Spencer’s blood runs cold.

It’s you.

He knew it, the moment he heard your name, heard your voice, your laugh, he just didnt want to admit it!

“How did you find her?” Spencer asks, his voice stern.

“Garcia.” Hotch replies, neither of the men looking at each other.

Spencer nods and speed walks away, feeling his entire body heating up until he steps outside the building. He feels lightheaded, dizzy, like he’s dreaming. Before he knows it, his phone is pressed to his ear.

“You’ve reached the desk of the one and only sex goddess-“

Spencer cuts Penelope off. “How did you find her?”

He hears her swallow nervously. “W-Well, you graduated early, so I knew there was no point looking in yearbooks, but there were school pictures from before then...she was always stood next to you.”

Spencer sighs, Penelope doesnt say anything else, and he knows why. She’s worried that he’s angry with her, but he could never be. He knows that the team put her up to it for that exact reason: Garcia is the only person on the team he cant hold a grudge against, because her intentions are always nothing but kind. Without her needing to say it, Spencer knows she found you because she saw how happy he was just talking about you, she wanted to reunite the two of you. Set him up with someone that he already knew, or did, many years ago. And for that, he cant be upset with her.

“I havent seen her since I was 12, what do I say?” Spencer asks, truly lost in a situation he had not prepared himself for.

He can hear the relief in Penelope’s voice at his response. “Just be yourself! That worked when you were kids, so it’ll work now!”

Spencer looks over the door of the police station. “How can you know that?”

The smile on Penelope’s face is obvious. “You both ended up catching the bad guys.”

Spencer cant help but smile, too. It’s a strange bit of reassurance, and he appreciates it more than he can say. “Thank you.”

Penelope squeals. “Go get her!”

Then she hangs up, causing Spencer to laugh as he tucks his phone back in his pocket. He takes a few deep breaths as he stares at the door, hyping himself up before he nods to himself and walks back inside. Determination fills him as he makes his way back to the interrogation room, but the determination melts when he sees you talking with Hotch in the entrance hall. He had anticipated he’d have a few more seconds to mentally prepare, but that was gone, and so was his confidence. Spencer stops dead in his tracks, frozen to the spot.

You and Hotch smile as you talk, your eyes distracted from him by something you couldnt figure out, until they glanced at the door. Your expression fell into one of utter disbelief. Wide eyes approach Spencer at a pace that could slow time itself. Once you’re close enough, you lift your hand at the same snail speed, gently touching his cheek with your fingertips.

“Is it really you?” You whisper, such a quiet contrast to the confidence in the interrogation room.

Spencer nods, parting his mouth to speak, but then your face begins to change. A smile forms, blooming into a grin until he recognises it as the same smile you’d always give him, and quite suddenly all words lose their meaning. No amount of syllables or sentences could come close to a justified description of your beauty.

“Well, let me start by saying with complete confidence that my childhood crush on you has transcended its previous laws.” You say, blushing slightly at your own confession.

“How so?” Spencer asks with a small smile.

“Childhood crushes are supposed to end when childhood does, but here I am!” You declare, playfully mad at him.

He laughs. “Last time I saw you, you very unfairly put me in a state of shock that made me mute for an entire day.��

Your eyes widen with concern. “I did? Why!?! How!?!”

Spencer sighs. “You kissed me, and as soon as you did I couldnt function.”

“And why is that unfair?” You ask teasingly, grinning again.

“You rendered me physically incapable of responding appropriately!” Spencer states in joking accusation.

You raise an eyebrow, processing the sentiment behind his words. You take a step closer to him, standing on your tiptoes to wrap your arms around his neck. “Well, what’s a 20 year break in a conversation? I’d gladly continue it! A little less sadly this time around though, if possible.”

Spencer leans in. “Oh, that’s definitely possible.” He mumbles quietly, half a second before your lips meet his.

Spencer’s hands go to your waist, then to the small of your back, then your hips, while yours run through his hair and hold him to you, not that he’d ever try to escape. Your lips collide in the most gorgeous way, dancing together wordlessly, perfectly detailling the extent of your yearning for each other. You pull away, panting, and Spencer feels himself swell with pride noticing how impressed you are. Maybe waiting 20 years to kiss you back was good, since he got some practise in before the final test. Seeing you still recovering from his kiss, he finds confidence he never would’ve found without you.

“So, dinner tonight?”

[whimsicalmeerkat]

First & Last Lines

I did this a million years ago. I just got reminded of it and thought it would be fun to do again. Basically, post the first and last lines of the last 10 fics you posted. WIPs are welcome. Not going with any sort of strict rules, because that’s just not how I roll. Anyway, here goes!

1. hope for the future, teen wolf, derek hale/peter hale

First: As Derek flew back from his uncle's punch, he wondered just how he hadn't realized sooner that Peter was the alpha—that he was his alpha.

Last: He couldn't say he'd ever be be content with the past or that he was happy in the present, but for the first time in years he had hope for the future, and maybe that would be enough.

2. 3 Sentence Ficathon 2024: Teen Wolf, multiple pairings

First: Derek leans his head back so he can stare at the star-studded tree canopy overhead and thinks, not for the first time, that he will never get tired of seeing Stiles’ magic.

Last: “Easy for you and Derek to say—you were both born like this and you took away my chance to get out of this life,” Scott rages back, the arrows hitting Stiles in his soft parts just like they have every time he’s hurled them over the years since Stiles got him turned into a werewolf.

3. 3 Sentence Ficathon 2024: Chosen One, macy blake’s chosen one universe, multiple pairings

First: “I just feels it lacks a certain gravitas,” Eduard says, tugging at the hem of the denim jacket he considers so ugly he wonders if some of his mates are pulling a prank on him until he turns around and sees all eight of them staring at him in a distinctly horny fashion.

Last: “Fucking lions—you’re lucky I love you.”

4. with lightning in his hands, teen wolf, derek hale/peter hale/stiles stilinski

First: Stiles stares at the ruins of the Hale house and reflects that he perhaps should have taken Deaton more seriously when he told him starting to practice magic would change how he saw the world.

Last: All they have to do is wait for him to come.

5. time travel, teen wolf, derek hale/laura hale

First: Derek bursts through the door of his little apartment in New York City, yelling for his sister.

Last: "It all started in seven days from now for you and five years ago for me."

6. telepathy, black jewels, daemon sadi/lucivar yaslana

First: She’s not trustworthy.

Last: They exited the room without opposition, knowing their point was made and would not be forgotten.

7. dusk, the witcher, emhry var emreis/geralt of rivia

First: Geralt stands on the balcony outside of Emhyr’s rooms and watches the day fade into dusk

Last: Geralt could get used to having a family.

8. Trading Up, teen wolf, derek hale/stiles stilinski

First: Stiles and his (maybe?) girlfriend are walking down Main Street after dinner, holding hands and looking in the shop windows

Last: “Damnit, I need to see if I have to do actual work. While I’m checking my email, you should try to guess why Lydia didn’t turn into a werewolf. You’ll never get it, but it will entertain you while you wait,” Stiles tells Derek, then turns his attention to his laptop.

9. candy, macy blake’s chosen one universe, victor eastaughffe/orsen riggs & gus

First: “Bear!” Gus shrieks from his seat at the table.

Last: “You may have gummy bears after dinner, Gus.”

10. drift, perilous courts by tavia lark, julien sandry/whisper

First: Julien watches Whisper in the sunlight.

Last: “We’ll make sure we win.”

Tags: @dear-massacre @jammerific @shadow-wasser @thotpuppy @lavender-lotion @mrs-steve-harrington @bad-at-names-and-faces @definitively-different-drivel

[loganwritesprobably]

Teen Wolf WIP

I've just gone back to working on this and the first few paragraphs punched me in the throat, so enjoy them while I workshop and finish the entire fic

It felt distinctly like a full circle moment.

Peter stood atop the stump with Scott at his side, the two of them wrestling the revived Nogitsune to keep it in place. Scott was stronger, but Peter had the sheer determination to keep his family safe on his side. Stiles was on his way, Peter knew that, nobody had wanted to call him in for this, but Peter had known that he deserved to see the fallout, and to know what was coming before he got that dreaded call. It felt like everyone around them was watching with breath held, not daring to so much as whisper in case they disturbed the balance they barely had, lest they lose this fight again.

Parrish joined them, helping to hold the Nogitsune in place, and their final plan was falling into place. The Nogitsune would perish from the hellfire, but Jordan wouldn't be able to hold him alone - not for long enough to actually burn the abomination fully. Scott was an Alpha, a True Alpha, and Peter.. well he's always been a bit of a masochist. He took a deep breath, and briefly met his daughter's eyes. He smiled and gave a small nod to her, and he knew that she understood. He didn't even look at Scott as he kicked out to make the Alpha's knees buckle, and Chris ran out to grab him. Chris and Melissa wrapped their arms around him, keeping him close and preventing him from interfering any further. "Don't let Eli look." Peter managed, despite his teeth being clenched from the force he needed to use to keep the Nogitsune in place. "No more traumatised Hales." Derek laughed, a wet thing, and he pulled Eli into his chest so his son couldn't see, gripping him perhaps a little tighter than was necessary, both of them grounding each other.

"Look after them Scott." His last words, directed to his only Beta, a True Alpha. That felt right. Bookends to his story.

[regnismemorias]

"Nah, don't gimme that shit, Petra," He opposed, a lazy grin crawling to his lips. "'Cause I distinctly remember you blowing me off to get drinks with your- who was it? Editor? Publisher?" Tavion tapped his chin, feigning thought. "What was his name? Derek? Daniel?"

@survivingxutxfspite - continued from here