spencersmopbucket

[spencersmopbucket]

Infidelity | Fred Weasley

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader Summary: How did you ever expect to get over Fred? Themes & Warnings: toxic exes, possessive!Fred, jealous!Fred, swearing, smut, situationship, cheating, angst kinda, reconciliation!!!

Your bed was cold. Unpleasant. The sheets didn't feel right, the pillows felt too lumpy, the air felt flat and dead. The man beside you had curled up on the other side, not facing you, not sparing any attention at all. Cormac had been able to get you to be his girlfriend, and after that, he stopped trying. Stopped paying attention.

You huffed, bunching the blankets up around your face, trying to keep warm.

Your mind immediately flicked to him. Just like it always did. Just like it had for years and years. Fred. He was an uttered secret in your mind, something you kept deep below the surface. Things hadn't ended kindly -- you didn't want people to know he was a constant thought.

You didn't want people to know that the two of you had slipped a couple times. Slept together, fell asleep in the same bed, then scrambled out of it the next morning pretending to hate each other. But the temptation was just too great. You loved Fred, you feared you always would. Your soul, your body, they were so thirsty for him that sometimes it made moving on seem absolutely impossible.

Sighing, your eyes flicked over to Cormac again before you slowly climbed out of the bed. Your feet hit the cold floor and you hissed quietly, biting your lip to keep from making any noise. If Cormac woke up, he’d ask where you were going. And you’d have to lie. Again. Not that he’d care much. He just hated being embarrassed. Hated the idea of you being anywhere else but here, in his bed, his room, his girlfriend. Even if he barely touched you anymore.

You pulled your jumper on over your thin sleep shirt, fingers trembling as you fumbled with the sleeves. The Gryffindor crest caught your eye in the dark -- a gift from Fred, once. You swallowed hard.

You shouldn’t.

You really, really shouldn’t.

But you were already turning, already creeping to the door and easing it open with practiced silence. The corridor was empty. Quiet. You knew every step, every stair to take without creaking. How many times had you made this exact walk before?

A warm hand on your wrist made you help. A second hand quickly covered your mouth, swallowing the small noise, before familiar body heat and the scent of cologne enveloped you.

“We had the same idea then, love?” His husky voice said amusedly, voice low and borderline a whisper.

You froze for a breathless second, heart thudding in your chest so hard you thought it might give you away completely. His grip was firm but careful, like he didn’t want to hurt you -- just keep you quiet.

Fred.

Of course it was Fred.

He always seemed to know. Always seemed to be there, lurking in your shadows like some devil you couldn’t shake.

He pulled his hand slowly away from your mouth, fingers brushing your lips like he couldn’t help himself. You sucked in a sharp breath, dizzy from his closeness, from the heat radiating off him in the cold corridor.

“I nearly screamed,” you hissed, swatting at his arm half-heartedly.

Fred only smirked, not the least bit apologetic. “And wake McLaggen? Bit rude when you’re sneaking off to see another man.”

You glared at him, but the effect was lost given how your cheeks were already burning. “Shut up, Fred.”

He hummed, leaning closer, nose brushing your temple. His voice dropped even lower, raspy and intimate, the kind of sound that lived in your dreams.

“Make me.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse stuttering. You could feel the way he was looking at you -- even in the dark, his gaze felt heavy. Possessive. Like you were something he had every right to want.

“Fred…”

He reached down, fingers curling around your wrist again, thumb sweeping over your pulse point.

“Can’t sleep without you,” he admitted softly, voice losing some of that teasing edge. It was rawer now. Honest.

You exhaled shakily, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment. That was the worst part about all of this. That was the reason you always came back.

Because he meant it.

And you did too.

You cracked your eyes open, finding his waiting for you, dark and glinting in the corridor’s shadows.

“Yours or mine?” you asked, voice small.

Fred’s mouth curved slowly into something dangerously pleased.

“Ours tonight.”

He tugged you gently, and you went willingly.

Because you always did.

The walk to his dorm was familiar. The whispering, his strong arms lifting you over creaky parts of the stairs because he knew you were too clumsy to get over them. Finally, he opened his door and nudged you inside, shutting it behind him. The door clicked shut, muffling the castle’s nighttime hush. Your heart beat loud in your ears as Fred’s shadow loomed behind you, tall and certain in the dim glow of the dying fireplace.

You took one step in and stopped, suddenly hyperaware of the space, the silence, the truth of what you were doing.

Of what you always did.

Fred’s hands found your hips from behind, warm and sure. He didn’t rush you. Didn’t speak. Just held you there for a second, thumbs sweeping slow circles through your clothes. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell behind you, steady and calm, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

And for you both, it kind of was.

He leaned down, nose brushing the side of your neck, breath fanning hot across your skin. You shivered.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured, voice half-rough, half-gentle.

You swallowed, words catching in your throat.

“I know.”

Fred let out a quiet hum of disapproval. His fingers tightened on your hips for a heartbeat before he pulled back just enough to tug you around to face him.

You didn’t fight him. You never did.

His gaze flicked over your face in the low light, taking you in with that intensity that made your knees feel weak. Like you were the only thing he saw.

“Gonna fix that for you,” he said simply.

And that was it. No question. No plea. Just a promise.

He tugged you closer until you were flush against him, and you pressed your face into his chest, inhaling the scent of his skin and cologne -- smoke, cinnamon, and something that was unmistakably Fred.

His arms wrapped around you so tight it almost hurt, but you melted anyway. You always did.

One hand threaded into your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp. The other slid beneath your jumper, fingertips brushing the skin of your lower back. You flinched at the cold contrast, then relaxed when the heat of him chased it away.

“Fuckin' McLaggen. Letting you freeze,” he whispered, his voice getting lower just a little at the edges.

Your breath hitched.

“Fred…”

“Don’t go back there.” His voice was firmer now, that possessive tenseness creeping in. “Don’t let him touch you. Don’t even think about him when you’re in my bed.”

Your chest constricted painfully.

You nodded. Barely. But you did.

Fred let out a shuddering breath, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Atta girl,” he whispered, voice low and raw. “My girl.”

Your heart broke and healed all at once.

Because you always were.

“What about Angelina?” You asked, trying to keep the jealousy from your voice.

Angelina was Fred's new girlfriend, similar to how Cormac was for you.

Fred tensed. Not all at once, just the kind of slow, creeping tension that stiffened the arm around your waist, made his breathing stutter for a second against your hair.

You pulled back slightly, enough to look up at him. Enough to see the way his jaw flexed.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

You searched his face. “I’m just--”

“Don’t say her name here.” His voice wasn’t angry. It was something worse: tired.

You blinked, caught off guard. “But she’s your girlfriend, Fred.”

He exhaled through his nose, stepping away from you just a little, just enough to scrub a hand through his hair in frustration. He looked like someone who was being held together by threads -- threads that you, unknowingly, just tugged on.

“Yeah,” he muttered, gaze flicking to the fire. “And McLaggen’s your boyfriend, right?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

It wasn’t the same and you both knew it.

Fred turned back to you, eyes a little shinier now, though he masked it well. “We do this every time, Y/N. You ask about her, I ask about him. Then we go quiet, pretend this didn’t happen, and crawl back to them.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight.

“I didn’t come here to talk about Angelina,” he said, voice gentler now, broken in a different way. “I came here because I can’t sleep unless you’re next to me. I came here because I want to hold you until the sun comes up and pretend like we’re not fucking everything up.”

His voice cracked. “Because for a few hours, you’re mine again. And I’m yours. And it’s the only time I ever feel like I’m doing something right.”

You stared at him, heart aching, eyes burning.

“Do you love her?” you asked quietly.

Fred looked at you for a long, excruciating beat. Then:

“No. You know I don't.”

You didn't respond. Fred stepped closer again, hands framing your face, forcing you to look up into his eyes. He searched yours, looking for answers to questions that you didn't quite know.

“But you love that ridiculous git. Even though he treats you like rubbish.”

Your breath stuttered, caught somewhere between a sob and a scoff. “Don’t talk about him.”

Fred’s thumbs brushed your cheeks, rough but gentle. He tilted your face, refusing to let you look away.

“Someone has to,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “He doesn’t see you. He doesn’t hear you. I do.”

Your lip trembled. “Fred--”

His voice cracked again, rawer than before. “I always do. He doesn't even try.”

Silence fell like a heavy blanket. His forehead pressed against yours, and you both stood there, breathing hard, your tears mixing with his breath.

Your hands fisted in his shirt without thinking, clutching him like he was the only solid thing left.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I hate that I can’t hate you for this. I hate that you keep going back. I hate him for getting to hold you in the mornings when you’re warm and sleepy. I hate him so fuckin' much. The bastard has everything I want and everything I couldn't keep.”

“Fred, please…”

“Just tell me.” His voice dropped to a desperate whisper. “Tell me to be done. Or tell me to fight for you. Just fucking tell me what you want.”

He shook slightly. Your nose bumped his.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Because you didn’t know.

Fred let out a pained, broken laugh. “That’s what I thought.”

Your eyes lifted to meet his watery ones. He was gorgeous in this light -- red hair illuminated by the moon, eyes staring at you intensely, yearning on every inch of his face. Pink lips, flushed cheeks.

You couldn't help it. You did this every single time.

You kissed him.

Your lips crashed into his so suddenly it knocked the breath from both of you. For a heartbeat Fred didn’t move, stunned by the raw desperation of it. Then he groaned, low and guttural, and kissed you back like a man starved.

His hands fisted in your hair, dragging you closer until your chest pressed tight to his. Your fingers scrambled at his shirt, pulling it up and over his head with shaking urgency. He barely broke the kiss to help, mouth returning to yours hungrily, teeth clashing, tongues tangling in a heated, messy battle.

Fred pulled back just enough to gasp, voice wrecked. “Bed. Now.”

You let out something between a whimper and a laugh as he all but hauled you backward, half-lifting, half-dragging you to his mattress. You fell onto it in a tangled heap of limbs, giggling breathlessly until he followed you down, weight pinning you deliciously.

He kissed you again, slower for a moment, savoring, like he needed to memorize your taste. Then his mouth moved, jaw, neck, collarbone, biting, sucking, soothing with hot, open-mouthed kisses that left marks he didn’t even try to hide.

“Fred--” you gasped, arching as his teeth scraped your pulse point.

He smirked against your throat. “That’s it, love. Say my name. Scream it if you want. He won’t hear.”

You shoved at his chest playfully, but he caught your wrists and pinned them above your head with one strong hand. The other trailed down, slow and deliberate, over your ribs, your waist, your hips -- making you shiver.

“Prettiest girl. I don't deserve you.. But McLaggen does even less.” He sneered, voice low and filthy.

He kissed you again, harder, teeth tugging at your lip before soothing it with his tongue. His free hand slid under your shirt, pushing it up until you had to help him get it off. His eyes devoured you, hands mapping every inch like he couldn’t believe you were real.

He didn’t bother being gentle now -- he didn’t have it in him. You didn’t want gentle. You wanted him.

His fingers dipped into your waistband, tugging your bottoms down with a smirk. He cursed when he saw you, eyes darkening further.

“Look at you,” he rasped, voice reverent and wrecked all at once. “So fucking perfect.”

You squirmed under his gaze, biting your lip, whining when he didn’t touch you right away.

“Fred,” you breathed, needy and ruined.

That did it.

He slid his hand between your thighs, fingers teasing before finally pressing where you needed him most. You cried out, hips bucking, and he grinned, lips red and swollen from kissing you raw.

“I know, love,” he murmured, watching you intently as his fingers worked you open. “That’s my girl.”

Fred’s thumb brushed maddening circles over your clit while two fingers curled inside you, slow at first, exploring. Your hips bucked, a strangled sound leaving you, but he just pinned you harder with his free arm, refusing to let you shy away.

“Easy,” he murmured against your neck, voice dark, low. “Let me feel you. Just relax.”

You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. He shuddered at the bite of pain.

“God, Fred, please.”

He pressed in deeper, fingers crooking deliberately to find that spot inside you that made your legs shake. Your mouth fell open on a sharp cry.

“There it is,” he rasped, lips dragging hot and wet along your collarbone. His teeth grazed your skin. “Fuck -- look at you. Look how you fall apart. Got my name all over ya.”

You writhed against him, shame and want and relief mixing into something molten. He watched your face the entire time, eyes so dark they were nearly black, blown with lust and something deeper, something greedy.

“You gonna cum for me, love?” he asked, breathless, tone that perfect blend of cruel and desperate. “Right on my fingers? Gonna soak me like a good girl?”

You whimpered, biting your lip hard enough to sting. He didn’t like that -- he brought his thumb up to tug your lip free, smearing your spit.

“None of that,” he scolded. “Let me hear you.”

You let go of the broken moan you’d been swallowing, back arching. He rewarded you with faster thrusts, fingers driving in and out of you, thumb working your clit in tight, filthy circles.

“Fred, I--fuck--I’m--”

“Cum,” he cooed, voice cracking with how badly he needed you to. “I got you. Let me have it.”

You broke with a sob, body seizing as pleasure tore through you. Your walls clamped down on his fingers so tight he swore, forehead dropping to yours. He watched you come undone like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

“That’s it,” he groaned, breath fanning your lips. “Good fucking girl. That’s my girl.”

He didn’t stop right away. He kept fingering you through it, gentle but relentless, dragging every last tremor out of you until you were boneless, whimpering, clutching at him for mercy.

Finally he slowed, pressing his soaked fingers against your clit one last time, making you twitch. He grinned, eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Sensitive?” he mocked softly. He pulled his hand back and studied his fingers glistening with you.

He sucked them clean, staring you dead in the eyes the whole time.

“Taste better than I remembered,” he said hoarsely. “And I remembered everything.”

You let out a choked laugh, half mortified, half ruined with desire.

Fred kissed you slow, deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue before pulling back just enough to breathe:

“Not done with you yet, love. Not even close.”

Fred pulled back just enough to look at you, hair falling over his forehead, cheeks flushed. His breath was ragged as he studied you, like he was barely holding it together.

“On your knees,” he rasped. It wasn’t a question.

Your stomach flipped, heat surging at the command. He waited, eyes locked on yours, giving you the barest nod of permission. You slid off the bed, settling between his legs on the floor. The cold stone bit into your knees, but you barely felt it. Your whole body thrummed with the need to please him, to have him.

Fred let out a shaky breath, leaning back a little to give you room. His voice dropped, rough as gravel:

“Fuck, look at you. Prettiest thing I ever seen. Always were.”

He palmed himself through his boxers, already hard as a rock, the thick outline straining the fabric. Your mouth watered at the sight.

“Go on,” he urged, voice teeming with want. “Get me out, love.”

Your fingers trembled as you hooked them in the waistband, tugging them down. His cock sprang free, flushed dark, already leaking.

Fred hissed when the cold air hit him, then moaned outright when your hand wrapped around the base.

“Jesus -- yeah. Just like that.”

You stroked him slow at first, savoring the weight, the heat, the way he twitched in your grip. Fred watched you with hooded eyes, his chest rising and falling fast.

“Open that pretty mouth,” he ordered, voice lower than you’d ever heard it.

You obeyed, lips parting, eyes locked on his. His jaw flexed.

“Good,” he praised.

You flattened your tongue against the tip, tasting him, licking away the salty pre-cum. Fred swore, one hand shooting out to tangle in your hair.

“Don’t tease. Take it.”

You slid down further, mouth stretching to accommodate him, your tongue slick against the underside. Fred’s breath hitched, fingers tightening in your hair hard enough to make your scalp sting.

“Fuck -- just like that. Mhm.”

Your cheeks hollowed as you sucked harder, bobbing your head, feeling him hit the back of your throat. He let out a strangled moan, hips bucking up.

“Ah,shit. Easy, love. Or we're gonna have a mess on our hands, yeah?”

You only sucked harder, moaning around him just to feel the way he jerked in your mouth. His head fell back, a vein standing out in his throat as he tried to hold on.

Your hands came up to his thighs, nails biting in, pulling him closer. Fred looked down at you then, eyes wild, voice broken.

“Look at you,” he choked. “On your knees for me. Wish that nasty git could see you.”

He thrust shallowly into your mouth, controlling the pace, panting. His thumb brushed your cheek as if to soothe you even while he used you.

Before you knew it, he pulled out of your mouth with a wet pop.

Fred didn’t give you time to question why he’d stopped. He hauled you up by your arms so fast you nearly stumbled. Before you could catch your breath, he was handling you and shoving you forward onto the mattress.

Your cheek pressed against the cool sheets, heart hammering. You felt him behind you, the hot, heavy weight of his cock dragging between your thighs as he kicked your legs farther apart.

“Look at you,” he hummed, voice low and wrecked. “Dripping for it.”

You gasped when he dragged the swollen head through your folds, smearing wetness all over you. A rough palm landed on your ass, squeezing hard.

“Bet you’ve been thinking about this every time he fucked you,” Fred sneered, lining himself up. “Bet you wished it was me stuffing this pretty cunt instead.”

You barely managed a whimper before he pushed in, slow but unrelenting. Inch by thick inch, stretching you so wide you saw stars.

“Oh--fuck--” you choked out, fingers fisting the blanket.

Fred just groaned, sinking to the hilt. He didn’t give you time to adjust, he drew back almost all the way and snapped his hips forward, making you yelp.

“Listen to you,” he panted, leaning over your back so his chest pressed to your spine. His hand fisted in your hair, wrenching your head to the side so he could nip at your neck. “Making all these little sounds. He never made you this loud, did he?”

He pulled out again and slammed back in, harder this time. The force made the bed frame creak.

“Tell me,” he demanded, punctuating each word with a thrust that made your knees tremble. “Tell me how he can't do this. How disappointing McLaggen is.”

You tried to answer, but all that came out was a ragged moan.

“Yeah,” Fred breathed, teeth scraping your earlobe. “That’s what I thought. Can’t even form a fucking sentence. 'S alright,” he chuckled, raspy with effort. “I know my girl. I can take care of her. He can't.” He whispered roughly.

One hand slipped between your thighs, finding your clit and circling it just enough to make your whole body jerk. You were so close it was humiliating.

“Already about to come? Christ. Missed me, then.”

His hips snapped into yours again and again, deep, punishing strokes that hit every sensitive spot inside you. His fingers worked your clit mercilessly, the slick sounds obscene in the quiet room.

“Take it,” he ordered, voice gone hoarse. “Take every fucking inch. 'S all yours anyways.”

You cried out when he bottomed out again, the angle so deep it stole your breath.

“Merlin, you feel good,” Fred groaned against your shoulder, rutting into you faster now, the rhythm filthy and relentless. “Missed you so bad.”

Your thighs started to shake, pleasure winding tight and electric. You knew you weren’t going to last.

“Go on,” he rasped, feeling you clamp around him. “Make a mess of yourself. Gonna send you back to your boyfriend with it all over you.”

Your orgasm ripped through you so hard you saw white, your whole body clenching around him as you wailed into the sheets.

Fred cursed under his breath, hips stuttering. He pulled out just enough to see his cock shining with your release before slamming back in, chasing his own end.

“Fuck -- gonna fill you up,” he snarled, voice almost sounding punishing. “Gonna watch it drip out of you when I’m done.”

A few more rough thrusts and he was coming, grinding deep as he spilled inside you, breathing ragged in your ear.

Neither of you moved for a moment, the only sound your mingled gasps. Fred’s hand smoothed over your spine as he finally pulled out, a hot, wet ache spreading between your thighs.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “You’ll be the death of me.”

Fred stayed pressed against you for a long moment, his breath still uneven against your skin. Then, with a groan, he rolled onto his back, dragging you with him until you were sprawled half on top of him. His fingers traced lazy circles over your spine, his other hand pushing sweat-damp hair from your forehead.

“Christ,” he muttered, voice still rough but slipping back into that familiar, teasing lilt. “McLaggen could never.”

You snorted, though the sound was muffled against his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right,” he corrected, squeezing your hip. “Bet the tosser doesn’t even know where the clit is.”

“Fred!” You swatted his arm, but he only grinned, unrepentant.

“What? Just stating facts, love.” His thumb brushed your lower lip, his smirk softening into something warmer. “And since we’re being honest, you’re far too brilliant to waste on someone who probably still pisses the bed.”

You rolled your eyes, but he caught your chin, tilting your face up to his. His expression was suddenly serious, the playful glint in his eyes giving way to something deeper.

“Come back,” he said quietly. “Properly.”

Your breath hitched. He didn’t need to elaborate -- you knew what he meant.

Fred’s mouth curved, just a little. “I’ll even share my Chocolate Frogs.”

“Now that’s true love,” you deadpanned.

He barked a laugh, pulling you tighter against him. “Damn right it is.”

You snuggled into his chest, the thought of getting back together flickering through your head. The questions, the doubts, the possibilities. You and Fred had been in this weird situationship and cheating on your relationships with others for months, but you'd never actually come close to reconciling. Before now.

“... What about Ang--”

Fred cut you off, an honest look on his face.

"Over," he said simply, fingers tightening ever so slightly on your hip.

“But she--”

Fred rolled his eyes.

“I don't care. I'll break up with her tomorrow. Merlin's sake, I'll knock on her dorm door tonight if it means you'll come back to me, love.”

Your breath caught. That was the thing about Fred -- when he was serious, really serious, there was no mistaking it. No jokes, no deflection. Just this, his hands on your skin, his gaze locked onto yours like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at.

A beat. Then, quieter:

“Stay.”

It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even a plea. It was a promise, one he’d been waiting months to make.

You swallowed. “What if we’re just… bad for each other?”

Fred barked a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Lovey, we’re terrible for each other. But I’d rather set myself on fire than watch you pretend to be happy with someone else.”

“That’s--”

“Dramatic? Probably.” He shrugged, unrepentant. “Also true.”

You stared at him. He stared back, unflinching.

“I love you, Name. I don't even care to keep pretending that Angelina means bollocks to me.”

Your breath hitched. Fred never said it first. Never this plainly. Not since before everything went wrong.

His fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. The usual mischief in his brown eyes had burned away, leaving something terrifyingly vulnerable.

"Say something," he murmured. "Preferably that you're dumping McLaggen's sorry arse tomorrow."

A hysterical laugh bubbled in your throat. "You're unbelievable."

"And yet," his thumb brushed your lower lip, "you're still here. In my bed. Again."

The unspoken question hung between you.

“You're the only thing that's ever been real for me. Real, serious, and not a joke,” Fred said, his voice only slightly higher than a whisper. “I fucked it all up, I did. But I'll be different. I'll be better, yeah?”

The words hung between you, fragile as spun glass. You could count on one hand the times Fred Weasley had admitted to being wrong - and never like this. Never with his hands shaking against your skin.

Your throat tightened. "You don't have to be better. Just... be here."

Fred's breath left him in a rush, his forehead dropping to yours. "Christ, you can't just say things like that," he muttered, but his arms were already pulling you closer, his lips pressing desperate kisses along your jaw. "Makes it bloody impossible to pretend I'm not completely gone for you."

You carded your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. "When have you ever pretended?"

"Point," he conceded with a shaky laugh. Then, softer: "Stay?"

It wasn't the first time he'd asked. But it was the first time you let yourself believe it.

"Yeah," you whispered. "Yeah, I'm staying."

Fred's smile could've lit up the whole of Hogwarts.

He pulled you tighter, wanting you closer in his arms, as if making sure this moment was real and not a dream. He peppered kisses along the crown of your head, lips still stretched into a grin.

"Gonna be insufferable about this, you know," he murmured against your hair. "Properly obnoxious. Flowers at breakfast. Notes in your textbooks. Might even start attending Charms on time just to stare at you."

You snorted, pressing your smile into his chest. "Now I'm reconsidering."

Fred's arms locked around you like iron. "Too late, love. You're stuck with me." A beat. Then, with a wicked chuckle: "Though if you wanted to get unstuck and then stuck again--"

“Fred.” Your tone was warning.

The silence again. Comfortable silence. His body was warm, so much warmer than the lonely shared bed with Cormac. He was like walking sunshine, always had been, and still lit your world up even at night. He held you gently, like fragile treasure, but tightly, as if you'd slip away.

The silence only lasted another five minutes before he broke it again.

"So," he said, fingers drumming excitedly against your hip. "This means I can finally crack McLaggen in his big, dumb lug of a head then?"

You groaned into his chest. "Merlin, give it rest."

"I will!" Fred protested, rolling to pin you beneath him, his grin wild in the moonlight. "Right after I--"

"No."

"--just one little hex--"

"Fred."

"--maybe just a Bat-Bogey to start--"

You silenced him the only way that ever worked, kissing the smirk right off his face. Fred melted into it with a happy sigh, his hands sliding up to cradle your face like you were something precious.

"Fine," he murmured when you broke apart. "I'll only maim him slightly."

You thumped his shoulder, but you were laughing. And when he gathered you back against him, his laughter vibrating through your chest, you realized with startling clarity:

You'd missed this. Missed him.

The thought should have terrified you.

Instead, you only burrowed closer.

And just like that, it was settled. No more hiding. No more McLaggen.

(Thank fuck for that.)

Fred did get him though. Detention for two weeks and bruised knuckles.

[spencersmopbucket]

Sleight of Hand | Jasper Hale

Pairing: Jasper Hale x Reader Summary: Jasper is a southern gentleman. He hates showing any sort of aggression around you, flashing teeth or using his strength. But you're human and you're fragile -- and not everyone acknowledges it. Some people (or wolves), he just has to correct. Themes & Warnings: fluff, protective!Jasper, Eclipse era, slight violence, Jasper is such a sweetheart i love him <3

When you said you had the sweetest, most trusting husband in the world, it wasn't just a lie like other women told. You were serious. Jasper Hale was seriously the softest, cuddliest, most gentlemanly killing machine on earth.

Being the most protected woman in Washington or even in the world was a wonderful feeling. You never had any doubts in your husband, despite the horrible things you'd been through with him and his family. He treasured you, respected you, catered to all of your needs, and really was a perfect Southern gentleman, just like he'd told you he was the day you met him.

You'd just been married after being together for years. In fact, the plan was to turn you as soon as a solid window of time allowed. But, of course, danger and turbulence with Bella had disturbed your plans. You were still human and still fragile. You would've thought he was going to hover over you at all times, like Edward did Bella. But it was different. It helped that he could feel when you were scared or uncomfortable, but Jazz was comfortable at a distance, trusting you in your ability to identify a dangerous situation and be smart about needing help. And when you did need him, he eliminated the threat swiftly and effectively, reminding you and everyone else just how deadly he was.

The current threat was the newborn army. Most definitely organized by Victoria, it held a certain amount of weight, a palpable danger. Jasper had been tense lately -- he could feel the unease of everyone around him. And you, his human mate, were directly in danger, at risk of bloodthirsty newborns every time you were alone.

He'd recently decided that now, while things were so risky, you'd be by his side under constant protection. Knowing the threat and knowing Jasper's story, his experience with newborns, you didn't complain. You just followed your Major's orders.

Today, you were in the clearing, listening to your husband teach the family and the Pack about how to defense and offense. You couldn't lie, Jazz was dangerously hot like this.

Jasper Hale was never louder than necessary. He didn’t bark orders or boast about his skills. He simply moved and spoke with such controlled confidence that the entire clearing naturally stilled around him.

He stood at the center of the field, broad shoulders squared, golden eyes scanning everyone like a quiet commander taking stock. The tension in his jaw only made him look more dangerous. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, exposing pale, scar-marked skin that shimmered faintly in the weak light -- reminders that he'd lived through so much violence and survived.

His hair was windswept, messy from combat demos, strands falling over his forehead. Somehow, that only made him hotter.

When he moved, he was all precision: a blur of muscle and reflex, striking with the speed of someone who didn’t hesitate. He never wasted energy. Every movement was elegant, efficient.

There was something deeply attractive about the way he balanced that lethal force with his gentlemanly calm. He wasn’t showing off, he was teaching. Guiding. Protecting.

“Newborns don’t think. They react. You use that. Wait for them to lunge -- then redirect their momentum.”

“Don’t aim for the head first. You want the arms, the legs. Disable them. Then finish it.”

“Stay low, keep your center of gravity under control. Don’t rely on brute force if you don’t have to.”

“Speed isn't enough. You gotta predict. Anticipate. That’s how you outlast ‘em.”

“Rosalie, you’re telegraphing. I could see that from a mile off.” (a soft smirk, drawing a glare from Rosalie)

“Don’t swing wide, Emmett. This isn’t a bar fight. That move would’ve gotten you killed a hundred years ago.”

He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t need to. That Southern drawl carried low and smooth, just loud enough to demand attention. You could tell he was holding back, like every part of him was wired to snap, but he was too controlled, too good, to let it show.

Watching Jasper fight was like watching a storm gather in the distance: quiet, beautiful, and inevitable.

Could be anyone. Wolf or vampire. They were quickly and strategically disarmed, usually with one move. It was like Jasper could tell exactly what they were going to do before they did it -- because likely, he could. He could feel whether they were cool headed, overconfident, agitated, restless. He was truly formidable. It was incredibly sexy to you.

Every once in a while, Jasper could feel your stares. He could feel your feelings of.. affection.. too. He tried to stay focused, his eyes locked onto whoever he was speaking to or whoever was swinging at him, but you could tell he knew. A crooked lift of his lip in a slight smirk would expose him.

Now, he stood facing off with Paul.

You'd never liked Paul. He was temperamental, cocky, arrogant and out of line any time you'd talked to him or been around him. But he was part of the pack and needed to be trained, so he was here.

Jasper could immediately feel your discomfort. His golden eyes met yours knowingly, reassuringly, in an attempt to soothe you. You felt yourself calm down considerably before you leaned back against the log, sighing.

He turned back. Paul was already snarling, fur prickling up in confidence and aggression. He hated vampires, whether they were fighting for the same cause or not. He wouldn't take it easy on Jasper, not that it mattered. Jasper never needed anyone to be careful, never needed to take it easily. He was almost sure that if Paul could, he'd go for the kill.

You swooned at Jazz. His face was still calm, staring down at the beast with anticipating eyes. Relaxed stance. He nodded, curving a hand to show Paul that it was time.

“Give it your best.” He said, one final statement, before Paul growled.

Paul lunged, massive wolf body coiled with muscle and teeth.

Jasper shifted just enough to the side, one pale hand shooting out to catch Paul by the ruff of his neck. He used the wolf’s own momentum to slam him to the ground, pinning him with one knee between his shoulders.

His voice was low, unbothered: “Far too predictable. A newborn would've snapped your neck,” he said. “You need to think it through before making an attempt. You have to be better than them -- more patient, more measured.”

Paul snarled and bucked under him, forcing Jasper to release him. The wolf twisted, hackles raised, and launched again with a furious roar.

Jasper didn’t flinch. He waited, eyes cool, then sidestepped at the last second, hand flashing out to catch Paul’s foreleg mid-swipe. With a sharp jerk and a twist of his hips, he threw the massive wolf onto his back, sending him sliding into the treeline.

Jasper leaned in slightly, voice calm but firm.

“Again. But try learning this time.”

With a furious roar, Paul gave it one more shot.

He jumped into the air, not taking Jasper's advice, not thinking, but heading for the southern man full force. With an audible and disappointed "tsk," Jazz landed another blow, a final push, intended for teaching. The blow made contact, once again sending Paul towards the trees. He barreled into them, knocking two over.

Jasper turned around to the group, using it as a teaching example.

“That's why you have to think. Control yourself,” he explained, gesturing towards the direction he'd flung Paul. “They're stronger than you and far more excited to fight. Even more excited to kill. You can't be sloppy.”

While Jasper was explaining, Paul got angrier and angrier.

He hated being beaten. Hated being embarrassed. Hated being talked back to. And hated vampires.

You sat across the clearing, watching him get up from the trees. His teeth dripped with spit, a permanent snarl etched onto his glaring face. His paws were heavy in the dirt.

And the direction he stalked? It wasn't towards Jasper.

It was towards you.

He was angry, embarrassed, and wanted to teach Jasper a lesson by terrifying you. Of course, by pack law, he wasn't allowed to touch you. But scaring a vampire's mate seemed to be equal punishment for the embarrassment.

Your eyes widened as you straightened off the log. Paul got closer and closer, drool dribbling off his teeth and lips, looking positively murderous. He was now within five feet of you, paws crossing the grass in enormous strides.

Jasper’s voice faltered for half a second as he felt the shift in you -- the jolt of fear, sharp and cold.

His golden eyes flicked immediately to you, then the aggressive, snarling wolf right in front of your face. Less than five feet now, pushing you back, making you cower against the wood log.

Jacob spoke from behind Jasper first.

“Paul! Stop!”

It was too late. The damage had already been done. Jasper was angry now.

Jasper didn’t explode.

He didn’t shout, didn’t bare his teeth or make a scene.

He simply went silent.

So silent that even the wind seemed to still in the trees.

And in that breathless, deathly quiet, he moved.

One blink and he was no longer in front of the pack or your family. He was between you and Paul, standing nose-to-snout with the enormous wolf, whose growling abruptly cut short at the sudden presence of something far, far more dangerous.

Jasper’s hand shot out, not to strike, but to press, flat and firm, against Paul’s fur covered shoulder, holding him back like he weighed nothing at all. His voice came low and dark, quieter than anyone had ever heard it.

“Foolish dog.”

Paul snarled, tried to shove forward -- instinct, fury, shame. He didn’t make it an inch.

With one hand still on Paul’s shoulder, Jasper’s other came up in a blur -- grabbing the wolf by the scruff of the neck and slamming him into the earth with a crack of force that shook the ground.

Gasps, footsteps, and whining from the pack echoed behind you.

Jasper didn't look at anyone else.

“I gave you every chance,” he said, voice thick with venom now, words curling with Southern fire. “I trained you. I warned you.”

He leaned into the wolf's snarling face again, letting him snap and growl at him, unfazed. His eyes were deadly, but his face was relatively relaxed.

“You won't make it on the field if this is how you present yourself,” he hummed, squeezing tighter onto Paul's body. “I cared at first. But now?”

Paul growled and twisted. Jasper slammed him down.

“I'm almost certain this world could use one less insolent mutt.”

The threat in his words wasn’t shouted. It was drawled, cold and certain, landing heavier than any yell could have. Paul let out a strangled, furious snarl, thrashing harder beneath Jasper’s unyielding grip. Dirt and grass tore up under his claws.

Jasper didn’t even blink. His golden eyes stayed locked on the wolf’s, steady and unflinching.

“You think you’re ready to fight newborns?” he asked, tone dipping almost to pity -- almost. His fingers tightened just enough to make Paul yelp. “You can’t even manage your temper.”

He waited for the next lunge. When Paul tried to twist again, Jasper slammed him down harder, making the ground quake.

“You’re sloppy. Predictable. And worst of all?” Jasper dropped his voice to a harsh whisper.

“You’re willing to threaten something of mine to save your own pride.”

Paul went still beneath him at that. Breathing hard. Growling, but with a tremor that wasn’t all rage.

Behind them, the clearing had gone silent. The pack frozen. Cullens unmoving. Even the wind felt like it held its breath.

Jasper’s lip curled faintly, not quite a smile.

“Consider this your only warning.”

He held Paul down one second longer, driving the point home. Then he stood smoothly, brushing the dirt from his hands like he hadn’t just manhandled a half-ton predator into submission.

“If you ever step foot near her again,” he drawled, Southern lilt dark as pitch, “I’ll put you down myself.”

He let that promise hang in the frozen air.

Then he turned, utterly calm, and walked back toward you without another glance at the wolf.

His cold hands met your skin immediately, gently nudging you into a standing position and smoothing your clothes out. He searched you silently for injuries -- you prayed he didn't find a single scratch. Even if Paul hadn't done it, he'd still pay the price for it.

Jasper’s touch was careful, almost reverent, as though he feared he might hurt you just by being too rough. His cold fingers brushed along your arms, checking for any sign of bruising. He smoothed your hair back from your face, golden eyes scanning you with laser focus.

“Hold still for me, darlin',” he murmured, voice lower now -- gentler, but still taut with restrained fury.

You swallowed hard, letting him fuss over you. His thumb grazed your jaw, tilting your face toward the light to check for any marks.

Nothing. Not a scratch.

He exhaled, slow and shaky despite the careful control on his face.

“Good,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

His hands lingered at your waist, gripping you just enough to anchor himself. He didn’t look back at the pack, didn’t even acknowledge the others. For Jasper, in that moment, there was no one else but you.

As he felt you relax against him, Jasper’s hold softened even more. His thumbs brushed soothing circles at your waist, the cold of his skin forgotten in the warm hush between you.

“That’s it,” he murmured, southern lilt a low rumble only for your ears. “Easy now, sugar. I’ve got you.”

He dipped his head just low enough to press his lips gently to your forehead, leaving his lips there for a few seconds and letting his eyes flutter shut. Grounding himself. The tension bled out of him by slow degrees, like smothered coals on a fire being put out.

One of his hands drifted up to cup your cheek, wiping the startled tears from under your eyes.

“No more cryin’, sweet angel. He’s never gonna come near you again.”

Once you were sufficiently comforted, Jasper returned to the training session, but decided that he wasn’t going to do any demonstrations. For the rest of the day, you’d be by his side where he could focus on you.

However, Jasper was a practical and respectful man. A warning always came before he broke loose.

Jasper didn’t raise his voice or even turn fully away from you. He just lifted his head enough to look past you, eyes finding the pack’s leader with that glint of cold command still in them.

“Sam,” he called evenly.

Sam’s ears flicked forward in wolf form, body tense, watching every move. No one had much to say, just stared. Emmett and Edward watched cautiously, awaiting a fight to break out.

Jasper’s jaw flexed once before he spoke, his tone unyielding.

“You’ll be down a pup if you ever let one of yours so much as growl at her again,” he asserted, tone cutting through the air like a knife. “She’s human. If you’ve forgotten your rules, if you’ve forgotten the treaty, I can be your reminder.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Didn’t need one.

His gaze lingered on Sam another beat, making sure the threat was received in full, before he lowered his eyes back to you, all that deadly fire softening in an instant.

[spencersmopbucket]

Soul Ache | Draco Malfoy

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader Summary: You simply can't stay an ex when you're the only one Draco has every truly loved. Plus.. You just don't look as good with a Gryffindor. Themes & Warnings: jealous!Draco, possessive!Draco, yearning, fluff, oh my god so much tension, swearing, SMUT (EATING, fingering, messy stuff, p in v), angst KIND OF with resolution.

It was a dream at first.

So many had been trying to get a chance at Draco for years. He was everything a girl could want. Handsome, rich, respected, talented. But he never looked at the ones that fell at his feet. Oddly, for someone who life came so easily to, he was looking for a challenge. S conquest. Something to achieve and be proud of.

You were it, of course. Your feistiness, your drive, your refusal to flop before a man and beg him to be the one that puts a ring on your finger. You respected yourself, which was one of the key differences between you and the other girls and what made you so appealing to Draco. One would think, looking at Draco Malfoy, that he wouldn't want someone capable of standing up for themself, someone who was stubborn.. But falling for you was so quick. It was effortless.

It was just getting you to fall back that was the hard part.

After months of distanced courting, you finally allowed Draco to hold your hand in the hallways, to scare off whoever bothered you, and to drape his scarves and cloaks over your shoulders when you were stared at a little too hard. You ran your hands through his icy blonde hair in the shimmering moonlight at the Astronomy Tower, lips urgently crashing against his in an attempt to understand how in love you were.

Draco was so much deeper than what others saw. He was capable of love, love so deep that you almost drowned.

You were the one thing Draco Malfoy had ever fought for. But he didn't know how to keep you.

It wasn't cheating, not really. Not in the physical sense. But there were letters, there were promises made to people who could help his family, whispered arrangements you stumbled upon because Draco didn't bother to lock his desk one day.

A favor here, a compromise there, all of it threaded through with flirtation. Not love -- he was firm on that. It was never love. But you didn’t care about the technicalities.

You cared that while you were fighting for him, he was negotiating with other girls like you were an inconvenience.

It ended in his dorm. You were standing by his desk with the crumpled parchment in your hand, breathing hard.

“So this is how you do it, huh?” you spat, voice shaking. “You secure your family’s precious alliances by whoring out your attention to anyone who’ll help you?”

He went pale, grey eyes sharp with something that wasn’t guilt yet, just fear of being caught.

“It isn’t like that, love. You know it isn’t. Don’t be fucking dramatic--”

“Don’t you dare tell me how to feel about this, Draco.”

He reached for you and you stepped back, the paper crumpling tighter in your fist.

“It’s strategy,” he hissed. “My father expects--”

“I don’t give a fuck about your father!”

Your voice broke on the last word. He flinched like you’d slapped him.

“You knew what they were asking me to do,” he said, quieter. Almost desperate. “You knew. And you--you were supposed to understand. I need this. For us. For my family.”

“I was supposed to understand you humiliating me? You promising things to other girls while you’re with me? No.”

Silence filled the space between you like poison.

“Then leave,” he whispered.

“I’m already gone.”

You tossed the letter at him. He didn’t even try to catch it.

You left before you could see if he broke.

The feeling of your absence hit Draco like a ton of bricks to the stomach. In every silence, in everyday's classes, in the nights at the Astronomy Tower that he spent alone when you'd normally be there next to him, keeping his cold skin warm.

He didn’t eat much. Didn’t speak unless spoken to. Even Pansy stopped trying after a while, realizing he wasn’t moody -- he was wrecked.

He cried, but only where no one could hear him. Silent, hoarse sobs with a fist pressed to his mouth to muffle the sound. His voice started to vanish -- raw and strained from nights spent whispering your name into the dark, pleading with a version of you that would never answer.

He still carried your favorite quill in his satchel. Still flinched every time he saw someone wearing a scarf like yours. Still instinctively turned his head when he heard your laugh, only to remember it wasn’t his anymore.

The worst part wasn’t losing you. It was knowing he’d done it to himself. It was knowing that he'd lost a planned future with the only girl he'd ever loved because he couldn't prioritize loyalty.

And you?

You were strong. Just like he knew you'd be. You definitely weren't joyful without him, but you never cried or complained. You sat with a straight face, entire body set in stone, refusing to acknowledge his existence.

You just stopped speaking his name.

You sat in class with your head high and your eyes blank. When the professor called on you, your voice was steady, cold. Even as your heart clenched at the thought of him across the room, trying not to look at you but always failing.

You didn’t cry. Not where anyone could see. Not even when you were alone. It felt like crying would make it real, and you refused to give him that.

You sat in the Great Hall with your friends, ignoring the way he watched you from the other end of the table, silver eyes glassy and furious. You ate meals you could barely swallow.

Your posture was perfect. Your uniform immaculate. You made yourself untouchable. A fortress he could never breach again.

You were like this, never laughing, never expressing an ounce of joy.. Until Oliver Wood sauntered up to you.

The Great Hall's attention was immediately commanded. Whispers spread. Eyes focused onto you and the approaching Gryffindor boy.

“What's the bloody idiot doing?”

“Oh, shite. He's off to speak to Y/N!”

“I pity that poor bloke.”

Draco’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. He didn’t even blink. Just stared, silver eyes sharpening to knives.

You felt it too, the shift. The sudden heat of so many eyes on you. You kept your spine straight, fingers curling around your goblet, refusing to give them a show.

But Oliver didn’t seem to care about the audience. He grinned at you, easy and genuine.

He cracked a fucking joke.

And you burst into laughter. For the first time in months.

Not polite, tight-lipped laughter, but real, unstoppable laughter that shook your shoulders and made you cover your mouth too late to hide it.

The entire Hall went dead silent for a beat.

Draco’s fork fell from his fingers and clattered onto his plate.

He didn’t pick it up. Didn’t move. Just watched you, frozen, the look in his eyes murderous and wrecked all at once.

And for the first time since you’d left him, you didn’t care.

The following weeks were fantastic, but grueling for Draco. You went to Oliver's games, despite being talked about for “dating” a Gryffindor. You went to Hogsmeade, ignoring Draco and his friends in favor of sipping butterbeer and people watching with Oliver.

Every time Draco saw the two of you, he wound tighter and tighter. The jealousy, the anguish, the rage, it mixed together inside of him, creating a storm. Draco normally felt things strongly, but this? This was something different. He knew it was his fault. But the anger blinded him. It refused to let him rationalize. After years of you being his, he was forced to see you prance around with some stupid fucking Gryffindor jock.

Today, you stood in the hall with Oliver and his friends, giggling. The afternoon sun streamed through the castle windows, catching in your hair, making you look infuriatingly radiant to the boy sulking far down the corridor, fists in his pockets, eyes fixed on you like a curse.

But you didn’t notice Draco right now. Or if you did, you didn’t care.

Oliver’s arm was draped lazily across your shoulders, not possessive but comfortable, like you’d known each other forever. His friends were chuckling about some disastrous practice session.

Oliver turned his head to you, eyes bright with mischief.

“Come on, back me up here, Y/N,” he urged, lips curling. “I told them it wasn’t my fault the Bludger nearly took my head off. Clearly it was Bletchley’s shite aim.”

You snorted. Loudly enough that a couple of younger students turned to look.

“Mhm. Right. Because you’re so good at dodging,” you teased, nudging his side with your elbow.

He gave a wounded gasp, clutching at his chest with over-the-top dramatics.

“You wound me,” he declared. “I ask for backup and I get betrayal. Traitor.”

You just grinned wider.

“I’m not your lawyer, Wood. I only deal in facts.”

Oliver’s friends burst out laughing. One of them clapped you on the shoulder, saying, “She’s got you there, mate.”

Oliver shook his head in mock exasperation, but he was beaming at you. Really looking at you, like you were a person and not a prize.

“Fine. Fine,” he relented, squeezing your shoulders lightly. “But you’re still coming to the next match, yeah? Can’t have my lucky charm backing out now.”

Your lips twitched, warmer now, the fortress cracking just a little.

“I’ll be there,” you said softly, holding his gaze.

He grinned. The whole group cheered and jostled you both, making you laugh even harder.

And down the corridor, Draco Malfoy watched it all.

Eyes black with jealousy.

Teeth grinding.

Heart breaking in slow, unstoppable motion.

Draco stormed into the Slytherin common room, robes billowing behind him like some furious bat. He dropped his bag with a thud and didn’t sit, just prowled in front of the fire, breathing hard.

Crabbe and Goyle exchanged a wary glance. Blaise Zabini lounged in an armchair, one brow raised in silent judgment. Pansy sat cross-legged on the green velvet sofa, pretending to read.

“She was laughing,” Draco snapped, voice clipped and tight. “With him. That fucking git.”

Pansy didn’t even glance up.

“Yes, Draco, we all saw. Whole sodding corridor did.”

Draco’s eyes flashed.

“She’s doing it on purpose, Pans. Parading him around. Acting like she’s over it.”

“Maybe she is,” Blaise drawled lazily, studying his nails. “Who can blame her?”

Draco rounded on him.

“Don’t start, Zabini.”

Blaise smirked, infuriatingly calm.

“Mate, you humiliated her. You expect her to mope forever? She’s got Wood now. Big, dumb Gryffindor with a shiny Quidditch badge. She’s moved on.”

Draco’s jaw worked furiously.

“That’s not what happened, you bloody prick. Watch your mouth before I--”

Pansy snapped her book shut with a crack.

“You wrote letters to other girls. Promises, Draco. She found them. What did you think she’d do?”

Goyle grunted in agreement.

“Yeah, s’not great, mate.”

Draco’s glare could have melted glass.

“He had his arm around her today.”

The words dripped poison.

Silence fell. Even Blaise stopped smirking.

“Like she was his,” Draco spat, voice cracking despite his best efforts. “Like she belonged to him. She's mine. Always has been.”

Crabbe shifted uncomfortably.

“We could... y’know. Sort him out.”

Draco barked a humourless laugh.

“Yeah? Brilliant plan, that. Hexing Wood so she can really hate me. Genius.”

Pansy exhaled in frustration.

“So what are you going to do?”

He didn’t answer straight away. Just stared into the fire, shoulders tense, breath coming short. Then, without another word, he left again, grey eyes hardened and focused.

He knew where he'd find you. Right at the Quidditch field, under the lights, watching that idiotic git and his dumb friends practice Quidditch 24/7. You were going to talk to him. He was done being ignored, done stewing in his own misery. He didn't care if he had to drag you off the field.

The grass could have fried below his feet. Draco was fuming.

He crossed the grounds at a furious pace, cloak snapping in the night wind. The chill didn’t even touch him, he was burning from the inside out.

As the pitch came into view, he could already hear them: shouts, laughter, Wood’s barking orders like he owned the place. He spotted the glint of red and gold circling overhead, Bludgers cracking against bats.

And there you were.

Exactly where he’d known you’d be.

Perched on the stands, arms resting on your knees, chin propped in your hand. Watching them. Watching him.

You laughed at something Oliver yelled from the air. It wasn’t even a good joke. Draco could tell from here. He could feel his blood boil at the sound, your laugh, something he hadn’t heard in weeks except for that humiliating first time in the Hall.

He slowed only once, boots crunching on the grass. Took a deep breath that didn’t help at all.

Then he climbed the stands two at a time.

“Oi! Malfoy!”

A couple of Gryffindor Beaters noticed him first, scowling, voices carrying across the pitch.

Draco ignored them completely. His eyes were locked on you.

“Y/N.”

Your name came out like a snarl, low and tight, all his careful composure finally snapping.

You turned slowly, brows lifting in cool, deliberate surprise.

“What do you want, Malfoy?”

The use of his surname sliced at him worse than any hex.

He didn’t answer immediately. Just stared at you, really looked at you. The curve of your mouth still turned from that stupid laugh, your hair mussed by the wind, the Gryffindor scarf someone had given you wrapped around your neck.

His fists clenched at his sides.

“Get down.”

You blinked once.

“I’m sorry?”

His voice was colder, but it trembled.

“I said get the fuck down here. Now.”

That got the whole team’s attention. Oliver was already landing, broom braced against his shoulder, face thunderous.

“Oi, Malfoy, back off. Get your arse off my pitch.”

Draco didn’t even look at him.

“This isn’t about you, Wood. Piss off.”

He only had eyes for you.

“We’re talking. Now. I don’t give a shit if I have to drag you.”

Your friends shifted beside you, uncertain, glancing between the furious Slytherin and the Gryffindor captain who looked one word away from lunging.

But Draco didn’t move toward Oliver.

He just waited.

Jaw locked.

Chest heaving.

Grey eyes shining with rage, hurt, and something that looked terrifyingly close to begging.

“Draco..” You said, your eyes fighting the urge to soften. You glanced at Oliver, who's fists squeezed together in readiness. “This really isn't the time or place.”

His teeth gritted.

“I don't care.”

Draco’s voice was raw, stripped of all its usual arrogance.

“Five minutes,” he bit out. “That’s all I’m asking.”

You hesitated, glancing at Oliver, who was already stepping forward, his grip tightening on his broom.

“Y/N, you don’t have to--”

“It’s fine,” you said quietly, standing.

Oliver’s jaw tensed. “Like hell it is, lass.”

You shot him a look, let me handle this, and he exhaled sharply but didn’t stop you as you descended the stands.

Draco didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, until you were right in front of him.

Then he grabbed your wrist and yanked you toward the edge of the pitch, away from prying eyes.

You stumbled, hissing, “Draco--stop--”

He didn’t. Not until you were hidden behind the stands, the shadows swallowing you both. Then he whirled on you, his grip on your wrist unrelenting.

His eyes could've set off a grenade.

Cold fingers gripped at the scarf around your neck, immediately unraveling it.

“Get this ugly thing off from you. Christ. Can't even fucking talk while I'm looking at it.” He said, managing to rip the Gryffindor scarf off from you, grimacing in pure disgust. “One could seriously wonder if you were a house traitor.”

Draco’s voice was a low snarl as he tossed the scarlet-and-gold scarf aside like it was cursed.

“There,” he bit out, his fingers flexing at his sides as if resisting the urge to touch you again. “Now you look like yourself again.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths.

“You don’t get to decide what I wear,” you snapped.

Draco stepped closer, his body caging you against the wooden beams of the stands. The scent of him, crisp apples and winter air, flooded your senses, familiar and infuriating. His grey eyes searched yours desperately, looking for a single trace of affection.

“I meant nothing to you then? The years spent with me meant nothing?” He spat.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding painfully in your chest. The ache of his words cut deeper than you expected.

“I never said that,” you breathed, voice barely steady. “You don’t get to claim my past like that. You--”

His jaw tightened, eyes darkening with frustration and pain.

“Don’t twist my words, Y/N.”

You met his gaze, fierce despite the trembling inside.

“You meant everything. Every-fucking-thing,” you hissed, biting back tears that you'd done so well to fight for months. “But there was nothing left when you decided that family matters were more important.”

Draco flinched like you’d slapped him. His nostrils flared, breath coming in ragged, furious bursts.

“That’s not fair,” he ground out, voice cracking despite the venom. “You think I wanted any of that? You think I liked doing it?”

Your eyes flashed, hot tears finally spilling over, but you didn’t back down an inch.

“You did it anyway.”

His mouth opened, then shut, words failing him. His hands hovered at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like he was fighting not to grab you and shake you.

“I had no choice,” he growled, voice low and shaking. “You don’t understand what it’s like, what my father,”

You cut him off with a bitter laugh that sounded half-sob.

“Don’t you dare make this about him. Don’t you dare act like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to me.”

He pressed closer, so close you could feel the heat of his chest against yours, his eyes boring into you like he could carve the truth out of you by force.

“I was trying to keep us safe,” he hissed, voice breaking, something ragged and awful in it. “I was doing it for you.”

Your breath hitched at that, but you shook your head violently, hair whipping across your face.

“I never asked you to sacrifice us for your family’s goddamn pride. You were going behind my back, Draco. A little bit of honesty would've fixed everything!”

Silence fell between you, thick and choking.

Draco’s jaw trembled. For the first time, the fury in his eyes wavered, replaced by something hollow and wounded.

He swallowed hard, voice dropping to a raw whisper.

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

You shut your eyes, tears spilling freely now. Your voice was quiet, broken.

“Then you should’ve just loved me.”

He exhaled like he’d been stabbed.

“I did,” he hissed out, eyebrows furrowed. “I do. Every day I do. More than I love myself. More than I love the stupid fucking family matters.” His voice was like venom, angry, burning velvet.

Your breath hitched at his words, at the way they poured out of him like a confession he’d been dying to make but never dared.

His hands finally lifted, hovering uncertainly near your arms before curling into fists, like he couldn’t bear the thought of touching you if you’d only pull away.

“Then why didn’t you say it?” you whispered, voice cracking under the weight of all the months you’d held yourself together. “Why didn’t you tell me before you ruined us? Tell me what you had to do.”

His eyes were wild, shimmering with unshed tears he refused to let fall.

“Because I’m a fucking coward,” he spat, voice rough. “Because I didn’t want you to know how weak I was. How much I needed you and how I'm just a bloody puppet.”

You shook your head, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand, breath hiccupping with grief and fury.

“You didn’t have to be strong, Draco. I would’ve taken you exactly as you were.”

He shook his head.

“Doesn't matter. You have Wood now, yeah?” He laughed bitterly. “Brave and honest, just like a Gryffindor. Sickening.” He commented, like it was the most vile thing in the world. “I’ll beat that filthy blood-traitor within an inch of his fucking life.”

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms.

"Don't you dare threaten him," you hissed. "Oliver's honest with me. He's different."

Draco flinched like you'd struck him, his silver eyes flashing with something wounded and feral.

"Is that what you want?" he snarled. "Some golden-hearted hero who'll never disappoint you? Who'll never have to make the hard choices?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Tell me, does he know you? The way I do? Does he know how you bite your lip when you're trying not to cry? How you hum under your breath when you're brewing? How you whimper when--"

"Stop it." You shoved him back, your breath coming in sharp gasps. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to remember me like that and then -- then throw me away when it's convenient!"

Draco's face twisted. For a second, he looked like he might crumble. Then his mask slammed back into place, colder than ever. A hand came up, finger tips ghosting the sides of your throat.

“Watch your mouth. You are by far the best thing that has ever happened to me, love. I'm sick every day thinking that you don't believe it,” he whispered, his fingers squeezing a bit harder. “Please.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Not from fear, never fear, but from the weight of his words, the pressure of his fingers, the look in his eyes like he was already drowning in everything he couldn't say out loud.

“Let go,” you breathed, voice shaking, not from weakness, but from the storm surging inside you.

But he didn’t. Not right away.

Draco’s grip wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t meant to hurt. But it was desperate, like if he let go of you now, you’d disappear for good. His eyes burned into yours, silver lightning in a dark sky.

“I remember everything,” he said, softer now, his voice breaking at the edges. “Every bloody second with you. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I close my eyes and it’s you.”

His hand finally dropped, but his body didn’t move.

“I know I ruined it. I know. But I never stopped loving you. I never stopped. And you standing here... acting like he could ever replace what we had--”

“He didn’t replace it,” you interrupted, voice trembling, but sure. “He respected it. He respected me. Something you forgot how to do.”

Draco flinched like the words knocked the air from his lungs. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“You don’t get to demand closeness,” you said, the anger behind your tears rising like a tidal wave. “You lost that."

His chest was rising and falling fast now, panic threading through the rage.

“Y/N…” he whispered. “Don’t walk away. Please. Not again.”

You looked at him -- really looked at him. Pale, furious, unraveling at the seams.

You saw something you'd never seen. Vulnerability. Bare honesty. Desperation. All of the ugly emotions that he kept from you, just like his father had taught. And you broke. For once, you couldn't be strong. You couldn't be honorable. You broke. All of the feelings rushed in. The heartbreak, the love, the yearning for your home back. All of the hurt from what you lacked. And what you lacked was Draco, even if you didn't trust him.

Walking back in three large steps, you grabbed his face and brought it down to your own tear soaked one, your lips colliding in a harsh kiss.

Draco froze for half a second, shocked by the force of you -- by the taste of salt on your lips and the shaking of your breath. Then he broke with you.

His hands flew up, burying themselves in your hair, clutching like he could anchor himself there forever. He kissed you back with something that wasn’t gentle at all, wasn’t sweet. It was frantic. Bruising. A clash of teeth and tongues and desperate sobs you both tried to swallow.

Your fingers dug into his jaw, dragging him closer, needing him to feel everything you’d buried.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he choked between kisses, voice shredded. “I’m so fucking sorry. I’m so--”

“Shut up,” you whispered hoarsely, pressing your mouth back to his before you could start sobbing in earnest.

You didn’t want words anymore. Words had betrayed you both.

He staggered forward, forcing you back against the wooden beams of the stands, but this time you didn’t push him away. Your arms locked around his neck, grounding yourself in the smell of him, the feel of him. The stupid warmth you hated yourself for missing so badly.

“Don’t leave me,” he gasped against your lips, voice cracking in a way you’d never heard before.

You shuddered, tears spilling freely onto his skin.

“I hate you,” you whispered brokenly. “I hate you so much.”

But you kissed him harder.

And he let out something like a sob, clutching you tighter, forehead pressing desperately to yours between rushed, clumsy kisses.

“I know,” he breathed. “I know. But I love you. Merlin, I love you.”

He kissed you again, gentler now but no less desperate, hands trembling as they cupped your face. Like he was terrified you’d vanish if he let go.

Then, from the pitch, he heard Wood's voice. Talking casually with a friend in his too loud tone. He wasn't approaching the two of you -- he was respecting your wishes. However, it was enough to piss Draco off. Enough to remind Draco of who was trying to replace him.

His eyes narrowed into a glare again.

With one hand, he tilted your face, looking into it. He grabbed your hand with the other.

“Come with me.” He said, tugging you off the field.

You didn't argue. You knew this look. The jealousy, the inability to contain himself. You knew what would happen if you kept him too close to who was afflicting him. So, you followed. His steps were fast, legs long and body tall, dragging you behind him with a tight grip.

When you reached the dorm, you immediately hit the wall.

“Bloody waste of space should never have laid a finger on this.” He hissed, his mouth planting sloppy, wet kisses onto your neck. You exhaled, gripping his robes tightly.

“Draco--”

“Enough talk. Gonna show you how much I missed you, then I'm gonna show you everything that Gryffindor half-breed can't do for you.”

“Draco, I--” you tried again, voice cracking with emotion, but he growled low in his throat, cutting you off.

“I said enough.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His silver eyes were dark, swirling with that familiar storm of jealousy, anger, and raw need. But beneath it all, you saw the thing that undid you every time: fear.

Fear of losing you.

His hand squeezed yours, painfully tight but grounding, refusing to let you go.

“Look at me,” he demanded, voice low and shaking. “Look at me.”

You did. Chest heaving. Eyes wet.

He dragged his thumb across your cheekbone, smearing away the remnants of tears, before cupping your jaw and forcing your head back against the wall.

“He doesn’t know you,” he spat, his mouth brushing yours with every word. “Not like this. Not like I do.”

You shuddered, fingers curling into his robes, pulling him closer even as you hated yourself for it.

“He can’t make you sound like this,” Draco continued, voice dropping to a husky rasp, his lips trailing down your throat. “Can’t make you feel like this.”

Your breath hitched, a broken moan escaping despite your best efforts.

“Draco, please—”

“Please what, love?” he taunted, kissing you so harshly you thought your lips would bruise. His free hand skimmed your waist, gripping possessively. “Tell me. Beg me.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, teeth sinking into your lip to keep from whimpering, but he wouldn’t allow it. His fingers dug into your hip, dragging you against him so you could feel exactly what he wanted.

“Say it.”

You exhaled shakily, voice cracking under the weight of everything between you.

“I missed you,” you whispered. “Fuck, I missed you.”

That broke him.

He crashed his mouth onto yours with something between a sob and a growl, devouring you, kissing you like he wanted to consume every last memory of Oliver fucking Wood from your mouth.

His grip on you tightened, fingers digging into your hair, your waist, desperate to claim every part of you.

“Mine,” he breathed against your lips. “Always. Say it.”

You couldn’t lie. Not to him. Not to yourself.

“Yours,” you gasped. “Always yours.”

And the last piece of him that had been holding back shattered completely.

“Good. There's my girl. Haven’t really lost you, have I, love?” He chuckled cockily, reaching down to your shirt, tucked into your skirt carefully. He tore it off without a second thought, looking down at your skin.

The cool air made you whimper, squirming.

To placate you, he rubbed a hand along your side, still admiring quietly.

“Stunning. Nothing I’m sharing with Wood, that fucking reject.” He snarled.

Then, he quickly redirected you, pushing you back onto his bed demandingly. You gasped in surprise as he slid a finger under the waistband of your skirt, pulling it off in one swift motion. You were left in just your bra and underwear, the cold air biting at you, making you ache. Draco stared down at you with hot grey eyes.

“Dray.. Please.”

“Please what?”

“Want you.”

Draco smirked, wickedly and snidely, leaning down a bit.

“Me? You’re sure the Gryffindor superstar couldn’t do it better? The lad was--”

You groaned, rubbing your thighs together. They were beginning to get sticky, catching the moisture from the heat between your legs.

“No! Please.”

Without another word, he leant down the rest of the way, running a finger down the front of your soaked panties. Humming at your reaction, the arch of your back and soft moan, he looked at his finger. The dampness glistened.

With another brush, conveniently right in the most sensitive area, he pressed a gentle kiss to your clothed peak. You hissed, threading your fingers through his messy blonde hair. He grinned.

“Patience, patience. I’ll get to it.”

Finally, he pulled your sticky underwear down, and his smile widened.

“Gorgeous. Prettiest pussy in the world, love.”

He kissed it, eliciting a moan from you, the heat of his mouth and his bare skin finally touching where you wanted it. Thickening the spit over his tongue, he gave you one broad lick, your thighs fighting to close around his head and arms.

He tsked against your wet heat, letting his hands fall to pin your legs down. He licked deeper, splitting you completely, hitting every spot that mattered. You moaned, your back leaving the bed, arms coming up to grasp whatever you could reach. His ministrations were lewd, wet and sloppy, like he was taking his time to taste you.

Draco groaned against you, the vibrations making your toes curl.

"Fuck," he muttered, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening with you. "Taste even better than I remember."

You whimpered, hips lifting off the bed, chasing his mouth.

He smirked, dragging his tongue up your slit slowly, teasingly, watching your face twist with frustration.

"Draco--"

"Say it again," he demanded, nipping at your inner thigh. "Say you're mine."

You gasped as his fingers replaced his tongue, two slipping inside you with ease, curling just so.

"Yours," you choked out, back arching. "Only yours--fuck--"

His free hand gripped your hip, holding you down as his fingers worked you ruthlessly, his mouth sealing over your clit again, sucking hard.

You came with a broken cry, thighs shaking around his head, fingers tearing at the sheets.

Draco didn’t let up, licking you through it, drinking down every last shudder, every gasp. Only when you were squirming from oversensitivity did he finally pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark with satisfaction.

"Good girl," he murmured, crawling up your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, your ribs, the swell of your breasts. "Now let's make sure you never forget who you belong to."

He stood, practiced hands shrugging his cloak off and quickly doing away with his belt buckle.

"Look at me."

Draco's voice was rough, commanding, as he loomed over you, his belt clattering to the floor, his trousers pushed low on his hips. His cock strained against the fabric of his briefs, already leaking for you.

You were dazed, still trembling from your first orgasm, but your eyes locked onto his.

He palmed himself through the fabric, watching the way your breath hitched.

"You're never to let that pathetic blood-traitor touch you again," he said coldly, finally freeing himself, stroking his length slowly. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," you gasped, thighs pressing together. "Draco--"

He didn't make you wait.

In one smooth motion, he dragged your hips to the edge of the bed and filled you, burying himself to the hilt with a satisfied groan.

You cried out, nails raking down his back, legs locking around his waist.

"Fuck-- so tight," he gritted out, hips snapping forward, setting a brutal pace. "You think Wood could fuck you like this? Could ruin you like this?"

You shook your head desperately, pleasure coiling tight again.

"No -- no -- only you--"

Draco’s lips curled into a vicious smirk, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise.

"Open your mouth," he demanded, thrusts turning punishing, each snap of his hips driving the breath from your lungs.

You responded, your brain foggy from the ruthless pace, the smell of him, the overstimulation. As soon as your lips opened wide enough, Draco spat into your mouth, grabbing your jaw to make you swallow it.

His name broke on your lips as he hit that spot inside you, the one only he knew, the one that made you see stars.

Draco groaned, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath ragged. "That’s it. This is all you needed, hm? A reminder?"

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles just the way you liked.

"Give it to me," he ordered, voice rough with need. "Let me feel it."

You shattered.

Your back arched off the bed, a broken whine tearing from your throat as pleasure ripped through you, wave after wave, Draco’s name a prayer on your lips.

He fucked you through it, his own release barreling toward him, his rhythm faltering.

"Fuck--fuck--" His hips stuttered, his grip on you ironclad as he spilled inside you with a groan, his entire body shuddering.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths, the heat of his skin against yours.

Then Draco pulled back just enough to look at you, his silver eyes dark, possessive.

He dragged his thumb over your swollen lips, his voice dangerously soft.

"Next time I see Wood's hands anywhere near you?"

A pause.

A promise.

"I’ll kill him. I know the words." He warned, a finger tracing your jaw. You nodded, leaning into his touch. Draco hummed, pulling you up into his lap. “Resorting to filthy Gryffindors like you don’t know that your place is right beside me.”

You rolled your eyes, pulling yourself tighter to his body. The silence fell upon you easily - and since you’d confronted your issues, for once in the past few months, it was comfortable. His scent wrapped around you like a blanket.

He broke the silence quietly, his voice calm, kind and measured.

“I hope you know how truly sorry I am. And how long I plan to make it up to you for, love.”

You softened, your eyes glistening.

“How long?” You responded.

“Forever. Even that isn’t enough.”

A smile curled onto your lip. You leaned forward to press a soft kiss to his jaw.

“Forever then. It’s settled.” You told him softly, pulling the sheets up around you to settle against his chest. Your eyes were getting heavier by the second - and it had never felt so easy to fall asleep.

After all, you were home. Finally.

“I love you.” Draco quietly admitted. It wasn’t often that he actually said it. He was a man of actions, not words, so he never felt the need to tell you many times. But you treasured the times it did leave his lips.

“I love you too.”

He made it up to you forever. And for Draco, even that wasn’t enough, just as he’d said.

[spencersmopbucket]

If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.

[spencersmopbucket]

Beach | Finnick Odair

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Summary: A hot evening on the beach with your husband, Finnick. Themes & Warnings: fluff, sweet husband!Finnick, gets kind of spicy at some point, smut implications

If you could say one word about your day today, you'd say hot.

District Four's heat wave had come upon you, drawing sweat, sunburns, and exposed skin. You worked as a medicine woman -- your little shack got extra hot on days like this, trapping heat in the corners and the upstairs, making you sticky with sweat and eager to relieve yourself in the crashing waves. On these days, you always wore a bathing suit under your clothes. You knew where you'd be when you were done.

Finnick worked down on the dock -- a fisherman. No boats were being sent out today. Today was maintenance day. The men worked to make sure the docks and ships remained in good shape, brandishing wrenches and nets. He got out earlier than you, shockingly.

You worked until 5 o'clock. Finnick finished at three on maintenance days.

You were grinding up herbs at the counter, pushing your sticky hair from your eyes and grumbling at the mixture. It stuck to the sides, making your job that much harder. You hadn't even noticed the time on the clock -- 5:03. You also hadn't noticed the door to your hut open, pushing more hot air inside.

You didn't notice until you felt familiar hands on you, grabbing your waist from behind and turning you towards him. You, though irritated, immediately had a curve to your lip. A little smile. You couldn't resist joy when Finnick appeared.

“It's past five, silly,” he hummed, tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear. “It's too hot to even consider staying after.”

Your smile grew as his fingers brushed your cheek, his skin warm from the sun and smelling faintly of saltwater and citrus soap.

“I was almost done,” you mumbled, but even you didn’t believe it. Not with the way the heat clung to your back and the sweat dripped down your spine. You leaned into his touch without thinking.

Finnick grinned, that boyish tilt of his mouth that always, always made your knees a little weak. “Almost done? That’s what you said last time. Then I came back an hour later and found you passed out on the floor with rosemary stuck to your forehead.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “That happened once.”

“Once is enough, sweetheart,” he leaned in and kissed your temple, the gesture so soft it made your stomach flip. “Come on.” He murmured. “Let’s go cool off. I’ve been waiting for hours.”

You sighed dramatically, setting the mortar and pestle down. “Fine. But if I sunburn again, I’m blaming you.”

“I’ll rub aloe on you personally.” He winked, already tugging you toward the door.

“You'd like to!” You giggled, rolling your eyes. “That's not even a fair punishment.”

Finnick’s grin widened as he pulled you out into the golden, sweltering air. “Sweetheart,” he said, wrapping an arm around your waist as you walked down the sandy path toward the shore, “you say punishment like it’s not my favorite word.”

You bumped your hip into his, your laughter light and effortless. “Don’t tempt me, sailor.”

“Oh, I live to tempt you,” he shot back, tugging you closer. “It’s literally my full-time job when I’m not hauling nets or fixing boats.”

The sun blazed above, and the salt-kissed breeze was a poor match for the rising temperature -- but his presence alone made it easier to breathe. Somehow, he always did. Even when things were too loud, too heavy, or too hot, Finnick made it feel like less of a burden.

You reached your beach spot, tucked away behind dunes and wild grasses, a cove hidden from view. The kind of place you’d found together, years ago, and had quietly claimed as your own. Here, there were no Capitol whispers, no ghosts, no responsibilities. Just wind and waves.

Finnick dropped your hand just long enough to peel his shirt off and you swore the sun lingered on his skin longer than it did on anything else. He was a god. Tan skin, rippling muscles, messy hair and bright sea glass eyes. The most gorgeous thing you'd seen in your life.

“I hate how attractive you are,” you muttered, shielding your eyes as he pulled you into the surf. The water provided immediate relief, though the sun still beat down on your skin.

“You’ve said that before,” he replied, wading deeper into the water with a playful glint in his eye. “Usually right before you kiss me.”

“Oh, is that what you’re after?” You raised a brow, splashing him as you approached. “I thought you brought me here to cool off.”

“I brought you here to undress you with less guilt,” he quipped, winking.

You rolled your eyes, then lunged -- arms wrapping around his neck as you half-jumped into the water and half-onto him. He caught you easily, laughing, leaning his forehead down to yours as he traced your curves -- sunlight and water making them that much more tempting. His lips found yours before you could tease him again, warm, confident, familiar. The kind of kiss that made your toes curl in the sand and your body forget the heat entirely.

His lips tasted like salt and the pina colada chapstick he was so fond of. You were kind of fond of it too when he was kissing you. You ran your fingers through the hair just above his neck, tugging slightly.

He groaned, pulling your body closer to him. It still wasn't enough for Finnick -- it never was. So, he lifted you up, wrapping your legs around his waist and forcing your torsos together. The movement sent a rush of heat through your spine, the good kind, the kind that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the man holding you like he never wanted to let go.

Your breath hitched, your forehead pressing to his again as his arms wrapped snugly around you beneath the water, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs. He was solid beneath you, warm despite the ocean, every inch of him flush against your slick, sun-kissed skin.

“This what you meant by cooling off?” you murmured against his lips, a teasing lilt in your voice even as your pulse thundered in your ears. Finnick grinned -- that slow, crooked grin that always came before he said something completely inappropriate.

“I meant cooling off, but I didn’t say I’d behave while we did it.”

You giggled, nose brushing his. “You never behave.”

“Never claimed to,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours again, feather-soft and patient. “Not with you.”

Another string of kisses -- more urgent. It was almost as if he aimed to devour you, to permanently have the taste of you in his mouth. His tongue traced your lips, looking for entry, and you opened up. He tasted how he usually did. Minty, because Finnick always chewed gum at work. One broad hand held you at his hip -- the other came to your waist, toying with the tied-up string of your bikini bottoms. His hands were warm, but you could feel the nature of them change.

His lips lifted from yours, a string of spit tying you together. Then, he ducked his head again. You gasped as he started a sloppy line of kisses -- neck to collarbone, collarbone to shoulder.

Your gasp turned into a breathless moan, swallowed by the sound of waves breaking gently behind you. Finnick’s lips were everywhere, messy and hot against your sun-warmed skin, his teeth grazing lightly as he found the sensitive spot just beneath your collarbone. You shivered -- not from the breeze, not from the water, but from him.

“Finnick…” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the lap of the tide and the pulse in your ears.

“Mmm?” he hummed against your skin, the vibration sending a jolt straight through your spine.

His hand dipped lower, fingertips brushing the curve of your hip beneath the knot of your bikini, slow and teasing. He was still holding you up in the water, your legs locked tight around him, your back arching just slightly as he pressed you closer.

“Anyone could see us,” you breathed, though your voice lacked any true protest.

“Then let them,” he murmured back, biting softly at your shoulder. “Let them see how much I love my wife.”

Your fingers twisted in his damp hair, tugging again, a silent, needy response, and he groaned low in his throat, the sound dark and full of want.

But he slowed, just slightly, pulling back to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, but his expression softened with something deeper, something that made your heart ache a little in the best way.

“I’ll stop if you want me to,” he said quietly, earnestly. “Just say it.”

You didn’t say a word.

You leaned in, brushing your lips over his, slow, sure, reverent.

“Let me take you home,” he murmured. “Put you in bed. Make you forget how hot the sun was.”

You smiled, cheeks flushed, heart full. “Home first. Then aloe. Then maybe…”

“Then definitely,” he promised, voice dark with affection. “I’m not letting you out of my arms tonight. Not for anything.”

And true to his word, when he carried you from the water, fingers laced with yours, sun setting at your backs, you knew you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

[spencersmopbucket]

Au Revoir | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: Going to prison changes relationships, but you were determined to withstand it until Spencer broke up with you in a letter. His return changes things. Themes & Warnings: Prison!Reid, i am addicted to writing angst with happy ending

You were happy. You were so, so incredibly happy.

You met Spencer at the university where you taught forensic psychology. He was consulting on a case involving a former student, and his presence was magnetic. His voice -- soft, precise, laced with more knowledge than most tenured professors -- filled the lecture hall with calm authority. He quoted studies off the top of his head, spoke of human behavior like it was poetry, and didn’t so much walk as glide through conversation.

You’d never met anyone smarter. Honestly, you doubted anyone smarter existed. His genius IQ, his eidetic memory, and his multiple phD's made it evident.

He was awkward and sweet and a little too fast with his facts, but he never talked down to you. In fact, he always looked awed by you -- by your wit, your lectures, your stubbornness. He remembered your favorite tea after one conversation and quoted your syllabus back to you a week later.

It didn’t take long to fall for him. It was easy.

Within months, you practically lived at Spencer’s apartment. You had a routine, a quiet rhythm that made the chaos of the outside world feel far away. He came home from work, jacket half-shrugged off, his tie loosened. And you’d be there waiting. You always sat and talked first. Not because you had to. Because he needed to. His head was always full -- of cases, of trauma, of things he didn’t know how to say -- and you were the only person who ever made it all quiet enough to sort through.

While he showered, you made dinner. Simple meals he always claimed were better than anything in Quantico. You'd plate it for him just the way he liked -- never too much, everything not touching. You knew his quirks. You loved his quirks.

Afterward, you'd curl up on the couch, some old noir or classic foreign film playing, and he’d play with your hair absentmindedly while reciting the film’s trivia under his breath.

Then, you'd crawl into bed. Sometimes you'd talk until 2am, whispering nonsense between kisses and laughter. Sometimes you'd fall asleep immediately, tangled in each other, warm and safe and whole.

It didn't matter if he was on the brink of sleep or wide awake. Before you drifted off, Spencer always said, "I love you, darling." Never failed. Like clockwork.

You went to bed happy. Giggling. Overjoyed at yet another day of loving each other.

Sometimes, it was hard. Sometimes, Spencer was gone for a long time. And now, he'd been gone a while. But you stayed at his apartment, keeping it clean and tidy and warm with your presence for when he came back. He needed your presence right now. His mother was getting sicker by the day, cases were getting more brutal, and the only thing that made it better was that you were always there waiting for him.

You didn’t believe it at first.

The call came early in the morning -- a colleague, hushed and panicked, asking if you’d seen the news. You turned on the TV, bleary-eyed, your heart already tightening with dread before you even found the right channel.

Dr. Spencer Reid. FBI profiler. Arrested for drug possession and murder in Mexico.

You stared at the screen like it was playing a joke. Like any moment, Spencer himself would walk through the door, rambling about how the media misrepresents facts and how probability makes false accusations more likely in cross-border cases.

But he didn’t come home.

And it wasn’t a joke.

Spencer had been arrested in Mexico, alone, without authorization, without backup, trying to obtain medication for his mother. It didn’t matter that it was compassionate. It didn’t matter that it was Spencer. He was caught with narcotics and implicated in the death of a doctor who had tried to help him. A setup. Clearly. But it didn’t stop the trial. It didn’t stop the sentence.

And it didn’t stop him from being sent to prison.

The man who recited Baudelaire in the kitchen and alphabetized your spice rack for fun was now behind bars -- bruised, cornered, alone. The letters started coming then, short at first. Then longer. Then emotional. You read each one a hundred times, your fingers brushing over the creases like you could smooth away his pain.

You cried for him. His friends and colleagues comforted you. Penelope had been by with one too many casseroles and cupcakes decorated in pink glitter. JJ tried getting you out of the apartment, even just to sit on a park bench and talk in the fresh air.

Finally, you were taken by David Rossi to visit him. They said you wouldn't want to see him. Said he looked rough. But you never stopped asking until they gave in.

You remembered every step through that prison like a dream you couldn't wake from. The clink of doors. The sterile, suffocating scent of bleach and old paper. The fluorescent lights that made everything feel too sharp.

Rossi kept a steady hand on your back, guiding you gently. He didn’t say much. Just, “Brace yourself.”

And you did. Until the moment Spencer walked in.

He looked nothing like the man you knew. His curls were wild, uneven, untamed. There was a cut on his cheek, a bruise blooming beneath one eye. His frame -- already lean -- seemed thinner. Clothes hung awkwardly on his bones. But it was his eyes that gutted you. Still the brown eyes you loved. But cold. Wounded.

They didn't light up when he saw you, like usual. But they did soften.

They softened until he got angry.

A fiery glare was directed at Rossi, one you'd never seen Spencer wield.

“I told you not to bring her here,” Spencer snapped, his voice low and ragged but edged in fury. “It's not safe for her here, these men are like animals, and I didn't want her to--”

Rossi didn’t flinch. “She asked. Repeatedly. You think I enjoy watching the two of you suffer?”

Spencer shoved back from the table slightly, the chair legs scraping loudly against the concrete. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn't have listened. I needed her to be safe, away from this. Away from me.”

You stepped forward before Rossi could respond, your voice softer than either of theirs -- but stronger, too. “You don’t get to make that choice for me, Spencer.”

His gaze snapped to you. Raw. Defensive. Cracked open. You glanced at Rossi, a look that told him it was finally okay to step out.

Spencer’s jaw tensed as he looked at you. “You don’t understand,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “You shouldn’t be here. You don’t want to be here.”

You moved closer anyway, heart aching. “I do. And I am. And I’m not leaving.”

His mouth opened like he wanted to argue -- like he had a hundred reasons why you should walk away and never look back, but nothing came out. His eyes dropped to the table between you, his hands curled into fists.

“You don’t know what this place does to people,” he finally whispered. “I'm not the same.”

You sat across from him, hands folding in front of you. “Then let me get to know this version of you, too. All of them. I’m not here because I want the perfect version of you, Spencer. I’m here because I love you.”

His breath hitched.

“You think I haven’t imagined this?” you asked. “What it would look like? Seeing you like this? I have. And it still doesn’t scare me off.”

Spencer’s eyes were red-rimmed now, and his voice cracked when he finally said, “I don’t deserve you.”

You exhaled, eyes softening at the tears developing in his.

“Spence..”

You thought the visit had gone well. You thought he was finally letting you in.

He'd squeezed your hands in his before you left, his eyelids squeezed shut as a tear dropped from his eye. Like he'd forgotten what it felt like to touch you. To talk to you and have you close to him.

When you went home, a few days passed before you received a letter from Spencer. You opened it eagerly, expecting to see how he'd changed his mind and he was happy you came. How he'd missed you and wanted to see you again. How he "loved you, darling," as he'd said to you for years.

But that wasn’t what the letter said. Not even close.

I need you to understand something very clearly: I’m not the man you think I am anymore. This place changes people and not for the better. I don’t want you anywhere near it, or me. You deserve better than the husk I’ve become. What we had was a mistake, a foolish hope in a situation that’s already lost. Holding on to me will only drag you down into a life of misery and pain. You’re stronger than that, and you don’t need me poisoning your future. Don’t come looking for me. Don’t send letters. Don’t wait. Forget me, because I’m gone. The man you loved died the day I walked through those gates. This is the last time you’ll hear from me. -- Spencer

You read it once. Then again. And again.

Each word like a hammer blow to your ribs.

Tears blurred your vision, and your fingers curled around the paper, threatening to crush it -- but you didn’t. You couldn’t. It was still his.

This wasn’t a breakup. It was a severing. A mercy killing of the most sacred thing you’d ever had.

He hadn’t signed it love, Spencer. Just Spencer.

And that alone shattered you.

You let the letter fall from your trembling hands, your knees buckling beneath you. The world blurred as tears spilled freely, raw and endless. Your chest heaved with sobs that clawed at your throat until your voice was stripped away, until your body convulsed with silent agony.

You curled in on yourself, the sharp sting of heartbreak twisting deep inside, and when your body could take no more, your pain spilled over, leaving you empty and broken on the cold floor.

You went through phases.

Awful depression was the first. All you did was sleep -- sometimes sleeping days away without eating. You'd lost a considerable amount of weight, but the sleep didn't help. All you did was dream of Spencer.

Your friends were concerned. Your mom was concerned. She began staying over at your apartment, forcing meals down your throat and waking you up every morning. She even held you while you cried, wiping your eyes and the snot from your face.

Next, you were angry.

Not just irritated -- furious. Blindingly, bitterly angry. At Spencer, at yourself, at the system that swallowed him whole and spit him back out as someone you barely recognized. You smashed a coffee mug when you re-read the letter. You ripped one of his old shirts out of the laundry basket and tore it in half with shaking hands. The quiet, aching grief hardened into something sharper, something that boiled behind your ribs like acid.

How dare he? How dare he shut you out, cut you off like you were nothing? Like what you had meant less than the pain of keeping you?

You’d stood by him. You’d waited. You’d believed in him when the world didn’t.

And he still left you bleeding with nothing but a letter. Just Spencer.

You didn’t cry that week. You paced. You snapped at people. You dug your nails into your palms just to feel something other than the sting of abandonment. Anger, at least, gave you control -- and control was the only thing you had left.

The anger stayed with you, burying the anguish. Until Spencer got out.

You saw it on the news first -- a quiet headline, a fleeting mention: Dr. Spencer Reid released after wrongful imprisonment. No fanfare. No apologies. Just a footnote in a week of chaos.

You stared at the screen, heart pounding, coffee forgotten in your hand.

He was free.

And he didn’t tell you.

Of course he didn’t.

That night, your rage came back in full force, but it was quieter now. Sharper. More refined. It didn’t explode -- it simmered. You cleaned your apartment top to bottom, tossing the last remnants of him into a trash bag. That scarf he always wore when you visited bookstores. The annotated copy of Lolita he left on your nightstand. A pair of mismatched socks. The tea he used to brew just right.

You didn’t cry. Not this time.

You just whispered to the empty room, “Don’t come back.”

And he didn't.

For weeks, you didn't see him. You didn't hear his name when you went shopping with Penelope, as if she knew you wouldn't want to. It was like your life before this evaporated into smoke. No mention, no sign of Spencer at all.

A month later, it was Luke's birthday. There was a party for him coming up, a little get together at his house. He begged you to come, and Penelope, and JJ, and Prentiss, until you finally caved. You could do it, right? You could withstand it, whether Spencer was there or not. You didn't care. It was in the past.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just a gathering. Just old friends. That you’d walk in, make polite conversation, maybe even laugh once or twice. You’d wear something nice, something that made you feel like you — not like the hollow ghost you’d been when Spencer vanished from your life.

Luke greeted you with a hug that lasted a beat too long, like he was bracing you. JJ’s smile faltered for just a second before she pulled you into her arms. Penelope beamed at you, glittery and brave, but her eyes scanned the room anxiously -- almost like she was trying to prepare you for something she couldn't say out loud.

"I'm so glad you're here." Luke smiled, trying to disarm the tension. "Wouldn't be a birthday without you."

“Yeah, well. I owed you a drink and an awkward hug, so here I am.”

Luke laughed softly, squeezing your shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think, you know.”

You rolled your eyes, giving him the first genuine grin you'd had in months.

"Don't bullshit me."

It was almost familiar. Almost comfortable and warm. A party with old friends who loved you.

And then you saw him.

Spencer.

Standing in the kitchen, hair trimmed now but still wild, wearing a soft gray sweater you hadn’t seen before. He was thinner still, but no longer fragile. He was composed. Collected. Familiar in all the worst ways.

And when his eyes met yours, they didn’t just soften -- they broke.

He looked like he’d stopped breathing. Like seeing you had hit him harder than any prison wall ever had.

You stood frozen in the doorway, one hand curled tightly around the strap of your purse.

You hadn’t prepared for this. Not for the way your stomach twisted. Not for the way your heart stuttered at the sight of him. Not for the way every inch of you remembered -- vividly -- how it felt to be loved by him. And left by him.

You blinked once. Slowly.

Then, you turned away and headed straight for the liquor table.

Prentiss followed.

Shakily, you poured yourself a glass of whiskey, lifting it to your lips in a hurry. You hoped the liquor burning down your throat would arm you, hardening around you like a shell and making you impossible to break.

Prentiss didn’t say anything at first. Just stood beside you, watching you pour and drink like it was survival -- like this party was a battlefield and the whiskey was armor.

“You okay?” she finally asked, voice low.

You gave a humorless smile. “Peachy.”

Prentiss leaned a hip against the table. “You don’t have to talk to him.”

“I know.” You stared down into your glass.

“Ease into being around him. There's no rush.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing the next sip with a wince. “Yeah..”

Prentiss was quiet for a moment. Then, “Do you want me to stick around? Watch your six?”

You smirked faintly, heart pounding. “I think I can handle one skinny genius.”

She gave a soft snort. “Alright. But if you need backup…”

“I know,” you said, finally meeting her eyes. “Thanks, Emily.”

She squeezed your arm gently, then stepped away, giving you space.

You drank there silently for a while. It wasn't helping like you thought it would.

The burn in your throat faded too fast. The warmth in your chest settled into nothingness. You were still too aware of the room -- the quiet laughter, the conversation, the way people kept glancing toward the hallway like they were tracking someone.

Like they were tracking him.

You gripped the edge of the table until your knuckles ached, breathing slow through your nose. It wasn’t working. The whiskey wasn’t a shield. It wasn’t dulling the pain or the memory of his letter. Just Spencer. The cruelty of it. The cowardice.

And yet… you still felt him. Like gravity. Pulling at you even across the room.

You turned your head just slightly, and that’s when you saw him.

He was standing half-hidden near the archway to the kitchen, hands in his pockets, looking smaller than you remembered. His eyes were already on you. Not moving. Not blinking.

Like he’d been watching the entire time.

You almost looked away.

Almost.

But you didn’t.

You needed some air. You quickly walked towards the door, muttering apologies and promising to come back, before you reached the front porch. You sat on the porch chair, threading your hands through your hair and inhaling deeply.

You thought you could do this. Hell, you even thought it would be easy. But you just couldn't.

The dreaded tears came to your eyes before you noticed them, dripping down. You sniffled, looking up at the stars.

The stars blurred above you, gentle pinpricks of light in a sky that didn’t care how much your chest ached. You wiped at your face roughly, as if that could erase the entire last year: the prison, the silence, the letter. Him.

You’d told yourself you were over it. Over him.

But here you were, falling apart on someone else’s porch like the wound had never closed. Maybe it never had. Maybe it never would.

The screen door creaked behind you.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to.

You knew it was him.

There was a long pause. Then footsteps, soft and hesitant, and the subtle rustle of fabric as Spencer slowly sat on the step beside your chair, not too close, not touching. Just there.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence wasn’t comfortable. It was sharp, cutting, full of all the things that should have been said months ago.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said finally, his voice low, almost broken.

You laughed bitterly through your tears. “I shouldn't have.”

Another silence.

“I'm glad you did. I didn't even know if I'd talk to you.. I just wanted to look at you again.”

Spencer’s voice cracked on the last word, and when you glanced sideways at him, his profile was haloed in porchlight. Soft, tired, and somehow still beautiful in the way that only he ever was to you. His hands were folded tightly in his lap like he was afraid they’d shake if he let them move.

“I used to dream about this,” he admitted quietly. “Just… being near you again. Seeing your face. Hearing your voice.”

Another wave of tears washed over you. You just listened to his voice. Part of you hated him. Part of you missed his voice.

“I counted the minutes I was in there. One-hundred and thirty-nine thousand and six-hundred eighty minutes," He continued, looking across the lawn at the cars that occasionally passed on the street. “With every minute that passed, it got more probable that I wouldn't leave. After all, the statistics for false imprisonment are..”

He stopped himself with a tight, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Sorry. I’m doing it again -- hiding behind numbers.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Your throat was too tight with grief and memory and the ache of loving someone who had broken you in the name of protection.

Spencer glanced over at you, his expression open and fragile. “But I did count the minutes. I counted them because I was scared that you'd waste a good life waiting for me.”

“It wasn't your choice.” You hissed quietly, refusing to look at him. “But you made it your choice with that damn letter. Cruel.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away. You could feel him flinch beside you, like your words had physically hit him, maybe harder than anything he’d taken inside those prison walls.

“I know,” he said eventually, the words barely more than breath. “I read it back a thousand times after I sent it. And every time, I thought: I hope she hates me enough to forget me. I kept a copy. To remind myself not to reach out. Not to pull you back to me.”

You laughed, bitter and wet. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. I hated you, but I couldn’t forget you. You don’t just forget the person you built a life around, Spencer.”

Finally, you looked at him. He was already staring at you, devastated, like he was watching something crumble that he could never put back together.

“I wrote that letter like I was dying,” he admitted. “Because I thought I was. Not physically. Just… everything that made me who I was, it was getting chipped away. I thought if I died to you then, at least I wouldn’t take you down with me.”

“It wasn't fair. What happened to you wasn't. But it wasn't fair of you to shove me away,” your voice began to wobble, tears coming down your face again. “I loved you, Spencer. Wasn't it enough?”

Spencer’s face crumpled -- not all at once, but in small, controlled fractures, like he was trying desperately to hold himself together for your sake, even now. Even after everything.

“It was,” he whispered. “God, it was more than enough. It was everything. That’s why I let it go.”

You shook your head, the ache blooming sharp again. “That’s not how love works. You don’t just… take someone’s heart and decide for them what’s best. You don’t destroy them to save them.”

“I know,” he choked out. “I know that now.”

You let out a trembling breath, wiping your face with the sleeve of your jacket. “I would’ve waited. I was waiting.”

“I know, baby,” he said softly, his voice watery with tears he was trying to force back. The pet name slipped -- he hadn't even noticed he'd used it. It was too natural for him. “But I didn't know if I was coming back. And I didn't know who I'd come back as.”

You exhaled, but your lungs felt punctured.

“God, I hate you, Spencer. I hate that I still..”

Spencer froze, his eyes wide and glistening. He didn’t speak, he couldn’t. Your confession seemed to punch the air from his lungs the same way it had yours.

You shook your head quickly, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, ashamed of how raw you sounded. “I hate that even after everything, the silence, the letter, the fucking goodbye, I still see you and my chest hurts in a way that feels like home.”

Spencer’s lips parted, but nothing came. Just another tear trailing down.

“I used to think if you ever came back, I’d slam the door in your face,” you said, laughing bitterly through your tears. “But I didn’t. I let you sit here. I let you look at me.”

“I don’t deserve it,” he murmured. “I don’t deserve you. But I love you more than anything in the world. All I did was pray to a God I don't believe in for you to heal.”

“Then how could you walk away? Like I was nothing?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles whitened.

“Because I was nothing in there,” he said hoarsely. “I was a number. A threat. A punching bag. Every day, I woke up wondering who I’d have to fight to stay alive. What part of myself I’d have to let die just to make it to the next hour. And the one thing that kept me going was you. The memory of you.”

You whimpered like the words had stabbed you.

“The only things I had in my cell were photos of you. That's all I wanted,” he said, his voice cracking with a fresh wave of tears. “When I felt human enough to read, I only read your favorite literature and poems.”

“Spencer--”

“I started with Jane Eyre. Because you said it was the first book that made you cry. I wanted to cry with you, even if you weren’t there.”

Your breath caught.

His voice was shaking, but steady enough to recite what he’d clearly read over and over, committing it to memory like a prayer.

“I have for the first time found what I can truly love -- I have found you. You are my sympathy -- my better self -- my good angel; I am bound to you with a strong attachment.”

He looked at you, his voice barely above a whisper now.

“I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you.”

Tears streamed down your face freely now. You remembered reading that line to him once, years ago, curled together in bed.

“I used to repeat that in my head just to fall asleep,” he admitted. “I read the book hundreds of times. It was your voice.”

You covered your mouth, shoulders trembling.

“I thought I could bury it. Bury you. But I couldn’t. I can’t. And if I never get to hold you again,” he said, crying entirely, “I needed you to know… you were never nothing. You were the only thing that made me anything at all.”

“Spencer, I'm begging you not--”

“Let me finish,” he pleaded, hands reaching out for you but not quite touching you. “If there's any chance at all, any chance you'd let me come home, I'd make it my mission to love you for the rest of our days on this doomed Earth.” He said, his words rushing out as if he couldn't control them.

You were silent. Shocked. Your jaw dropped, but lips still quivered.

“I'll go right now and buy a ring if that's what you want. I'll recite your favorite poetry every single night. I'll scratch your back without asking for it in return. I'll listen to your favorite song in the car on a loop every damn time we go anywhere even though I hate it.”

He was breaking open in front of you, pouring himself out in fragments: hopeful, desperate, all the pieces you never thought you'd get back.

“I’ll memorize every meal you’ve ever loved and learn how to cook it perfectly. I’ll fix the leaky sink. I’ll reorganize your bookshelf a hundred times until it makes sense to you again.” His voice wavered desperately, rising into something raw and aching. “Just -- please. Please give me the chance to make it right.”

You stared at him, stunned. That flood of emotion -- grief, fury, heartbreak, love -- came crashing down at once. Your body shook from it. You had waited for this moment for so long. You had dreamed of it. But now that it was here, you didn’t know if you could move.

Spencer inched forward on the porch step, slowly, as if afraid to scare you off. His hands trembled between you, still waiting for yours.

“I don’t want anyone else. I can’t want anyone else. You were it for me before prison. You were it every day in there. And you're it now. No matter what you say.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“What if you leave again if things get difficult?”

His breath hitched.

“I won’t,” he said, instantly but then gentler, more broken, “I can’t.”

You opened your eyes. He was looking at you like the question had gutted him, like he’d been waiting for it.

“I left because I thought it was the only way to protect you,” he continued, voice low and shaking. “But I see now -- God, I know now -- that hurting you to keep you safe wasn’t protection. It was fear. And I let it win.”

He leaned forward just enough for you to see how wrecked he was, eyes glassy and wide. “But I’ve lived through the worst thing imaginable. And it wasn’t prison. It wasn't Tobias Hankel. It wasn't Dilaudid, it wasn't those damn headaches, and it wasn't losing Maeve. It was the thought of you moving on, thinking I didn’t love you. It was living with the idea that I’d made you feel abandoned.”

His hand finally touched yours, featherlight. “So no. I won’t leave again. Not when things get difficult. Not when I’m scared. Not when I’m hurting. Because I’d rather face every nightmare in the world than ever look into your eyes again and see pain that I've caused.”

A pause.

“Please,” he whispered, “let me stay this time.”

You didn’t say anything at first. The silence was heavy, aching, filled with all the memories of the man he used to be and the one breaking before you now. His fingers were still barely touching yours, like he didn’t believe he deserved to hold your hand, only to beg for the chance.

Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. You had imagined this moment a hundred times. In the best versions, he came home with flowers, apologies, promises. In the worst, he never came at all.

But this raw, desperate truth from him was something else entirely.

“I don’t know if I can,” you whispered. “I want to. But I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Spencer closed his eyes, nodding like the words bruised but didn’t surprise him. “Then I’ll stay outside your door every day if I have to. I’ll write you letters I sign with love this time. I’ll sign my soul away to you if that's what it takes. It's yours now anyways.”

You looked at him, really looked, and saw him again. Not the hollow shell who’d walked out. Not the angry, scared man from prison. But the Spencer you’d loved. A little more broken. A little more changed. But still him. Still yours.

Your hand turned, slowly, fingers curling around his. He gasped quietly at the touch, like it shocked him.

“Don’t make me regret this,” you said softly.

His eyes met yours, glassy with hope. “Never again.”

And suddenly, you were yanked forward. A watery giggle, half laughing and half crying, escaped you as you were pulled into Spencer's chest, your cheek coming into contact with the gray threads of his sweater.

His arms wrapped around you like they were made for it: tight, trembling, like he couldn’t believe you were real. His face tucked into your neck, breath shuddering against your skin, and for a long moment, neither of you said a word.

You just held each other.

The night around you was quiet, broken only by the occasional hum of a passing car, the soft rustle of leaves, and the ragged breathing of two people who had survived too much.

“I missed you so much,” Spencer whispered into your shoulder, voice cracking. “More than I knew a person could miss someone.”

He smelled like memories. Like all the nights you'd spent cuddling on the couch watching old Russian romances that you didn't understand, but he translated for you in his soft, lovely voice. Like kissing in the rain, but being scolded for “common cold inducing behavior.” Like a long hug after an especially drawn out and difficult case.

He smelled like home. Your home.

You were so happy to be home.

[spencersmopbucket]

No Papers Served | Finnick Odair

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Summary: A few years back, you and Finnick separated in your marriage. When you reunite in preparation of the Quarter Quell, you're hit with a quick reminder that it wasn't legally bound. Warnings & Themes: violence KINDA, yearning, mostly light hearted, tension, kind of angst with resolution

He saw you before you saw him. He always did.

The Tribute Parade was always an affair designed to dazzle and distract. Smoke curled from the torches lining the avenue, wafting upward into the Capitol sky as cheers thundered from the balconies above. The light of hundreds of flashbulbs flickered like heat lightning across the square. Gold and crimson banners fluttered from windows. Music throbbed like a heartbeat beneath the surface of it all.

And you stood still at the center of it.

Glitter shimmered across your bare shoulders and collarbone, catching in your lashes as your chariot rolled forward. The stylists had outdone themselves. You were dressed to intimidate, wrapped in sleek fabric the color of ink and dark forests. It hugged your form like a second skin, whispering of elegance and violence in equal measure.

You could feel his eyes. After years of him admiring you, you knew exactly what it felt like when his eyes heated up your skin. You refused to look back.

The crowd loved it.

They always did.

Because your persona, the one you crafted from survival and smoke, was made for this moment. Silent. Cold. Deadly. A mystery dressed in deadly grace. You didn’t wave. You didn’t smile. You didn’t need to.

You just stared ahead, chin lifted, eyes like cut glass and the Capitol roared for it.

Your district partner stood beside you in the chariot, stiff and sweating under the lights, trying to look like they belonged there. You didn’t offer them comfort. Not because you were cruel, but because comfort made things worse. You knew that firsthand.

Up ahead, the circle of the Avenue of the Tributes widened. Firelight danced across the giant Capitol seal. You passed by chariots from the other districts -- flickers of silk, armor, feathers, fire. Every pair a tragic story, rewrapped in glitter and spectacle.

It was a horrific event, at least in your eyes. This was when it became real. Your name being called on the stage to ride back into war hadn't hit as hard as you being served up to President Snow on a silver platter, wearing your finest clothes.

Every step of the horses pulling your chariot forward echoed in your bones. Every cheer from the crowd reminded you that they didn’t want to save you -- they wanted to remember you.

And that was the Capitol’s favorite illusion: that this wasn’t a massacre. That it was theater. Entertainment. That it could be gilded enough to hide the blood.

Your spine was straight. Your gaze unflinching. But inside, your stomach churned with every passing second.

And somewhere, in another chariot, under the same false lights and fire, was the man you hadn’t touched in months, the man whose name still twisted something sharp and unspoken in your chest.

Finnick Odair.

You didn’t look for him. Not yet. Simply because you could feel him looking at you.

You'd married him. You'd spent years in love, years preparing for a future that neither of you knew would never happen. As things heated up in the Capitol with Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, it became harder to see each other. Your expectations and loyalties to the Capitol became more demanding. Snow didn't care about your union, though of course he'd televised it and made it a huge deal -- the union of two districts.

But it was just that. You were from Seven and he was from Four. Two different districts with two different expectations from the same overlord.

Snow didn't love you as much as he did Finnick. Finnick was more useful.

He started coming home less and less until it was months in between. And finally, the last time he came home, you weren't there.

You were tired.

Tired of waiting in empty rooms. Tired of seeing your love turned into propaganda. Tired of waking up to a world that always wanted more than it gave back.

So you went home. Back to Seven. Back to the trees. Back to something real.

No papers were served. No separation announced. Snow wouldn’t allow it -- the Capitol didn’t like broken fairytales.

But the silence was enough. The absence was enough. It was unspoken, but the citizens knew. It was a tragic love story of two Victors broken up.

And now… now, you were both here again. Painted and packaged and paraded through the streets like gods on a pyre.

You didn’t look for him.

Because you didn’t need to.

Your partner's voice interrupted your thoughts.

Blight smirked beside you, casual in the way only someone long used to horror could be. His arms were folded over his chest, eyes scanning the crowd like he was counting exits instead of cheers.

“You’re doing well,” he drawled, leaning just slightly toward you. “Lover boy? Not so much.”

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t look at Finnick either. Not yet.

But something flickered in your chest. That name. Lover boy. Like it wasn’t more than that. Like it didn’t still sting. Like the burn didn’t still linger in the softest parts of you.

“Is that so?” you murmured, keeping your face placid, your smile frozen in place for the Capitol cameras. “Shame. He always did love a good performance.”

Blight chuckled low. “Well, he looked like he’d seen a ghost when he caught sight of you. Or maybe a dream. Hard to say.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Because Blight knew you well enough to read the smallest shift in your jaw, the flicker of tension behind your eyes.

“He’s not gonna be your problem,” he added, more gently now. “Not unless you let him be.”

Nodding, you glanced up at the Capitol citizens. “I know he's not. He's smart. He wouldn't put us in any compromising positions. Drawing extra attention.”

Blight raised an eyebrow.

“Name. He looks about ready to jump into this carriage and make himself noticeable.”

“Ignore it,” you said under your breath, adjusting the fall of your costume. “We need them to believe it’s all dead and gone. Love stories don’t win wars. They win sponsors, which I've never even needed.”

Blight chuckled quietly, the sound lost beneath the cheering crowd. “No,” he said, “you haven't.”

You exhaled slowly, staring straight ahead as the chariots rolled forward. You wouldn’t give them a show. Not yet.

Not until it mattered.

Days passed. Training ensued.

It was what people wanted to see. The training room was where you revealed your skill, your tact. You were always the most interesting to watch. Your coldness, your ferocity when sparring, your wordlessness. This gained you sponsors. It also gained the Gamemakers' support.

You zipped your training suit up, tucking your braid into a bun. Then, you pushed through the doors of the facility.

It was less intimidating than it was the first time.

The training facility was large. Cold. Echoey. It was full to the brim with deadly weapons and survival scenarios, making it the ideal place to train a killer.

You already were one. But it always helped to brush up.

You'd learned quickly, through the experience you'd had and watching other tributes for years, that you couldn't rely on weapons. They were hard to find if you were looking for the special ones, the ones with the true advantage.

So, you trained in hand-to-hand and wielding knives.

It was muscle memory, by now. The way your fingers curled around the hilt of a blade. The way your feet shifted just slightly before a strike. You moved like someone who had nothing left to lose but everything to protect.

The rubber mat was cold beneath your boots as you stepped into the sparring circle. A boy from District 2 was already waiting -- broad-shouldered, cocky, and clearly amused by the sight of you. That amusement lasted about ten seconds.

The second the bell rang, you struck.

Fast, clean, efficient. You dodged the first swing and landed a quick blow to his ribs that knocked the air from his lungs. When he staggered, you hooked your leg behind his and sent him crashing to the floor. Then you knelt, knife at his throat, not even breathing hard.

You held it there just long enough to make your point, then dropped the blade beside him and walked off. Cold. Quiet. Controlled.

You were sweating. You sat on a mat on the floor, opening your water bottle and taking large sips. Heaving, you put it down and looked around, thinking. Strategizing.

You hadn't even seen him coming until he settled beside you.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat down beside you like no time had passed. Like you hadn’t spent years apart. Like you hadn’t almost died thinking you might never see him again.

Finnick Odair.

Still golden, still carved from the sea and salt and charm that made the Capitol swoon. But there was something different now. Tired beneath the tan. Hollow under the easy smile he offered as he nudged your water bottle gently with two fingers.

“You always push too hard on the first day.”

You didn’t respond. Not at first. Your throat was tight, pulse thudding too loud in your ears to form words.

So he kept going.

“I saw the fight. That move at the end? Brutal. Clean.” A pause. “You’re even better than I remember.”

You turned your head slightly, eyeing him. “I had to be.”

He analyzed your face like he didn't want to forget it. Like you'd walk away and disappear for months again. His eyes were just like you remembered -- easy to fall in love with, easy to stare at. Like seaglass. Aquamarine.

“I was surprised you called to explain yourself. You know,” He said quietly. “After you left.”

Your breath caught -- not at his words, but at how gently he said them. Like he wasn’t accusing you. Just remembering.

“I owed you that,” you said after a beat, staring ahead. “You came home and I was gone. I didn’t want you to think I vanished without a reason.”

Finnick’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t interrupt. He just listened. But you didn't continue. You avoided the conversation like the plague every time it was brought up by anybody. Finnick had noticed that, like he noticed every single other thing about you.

In interviews, you declined to comment on your separation. In your televised interview with President Snow, you simply told the man it was a "mutual decision." Bullshit.

“Bullshit,” Finnick echoed under his breath, like he couldn’t help himself -- like the word had been sitting in his chest for years, and now it had finally clawed its way out. He hadn't meant for his thoughts to leave where they originated.

You glanced at him. Surprised. Not angry. Tired.

“What?”

Now that it was out, he couldn't go back on it.

“What you told Snow last month. It was bullshit.”

You stared at him, stunned into silence for a moment.

The fluorescent lights above hummed. Somewhere in the distance, someone grunted as a blade hit a target. But here, beside him, it was quiet. Still. The space between your bodies felt tight -- not in proximity, but in weight. In memory.

Your voice was thin when you finally answered. “You think I didn’t know that?”

Finnick shook his head, eyes still fixed on the floor. “I think you knew. I just don’t think you cared that I had to hear it like everyone else. That I had to sit in some Capitol suite, with Snow watching me watch you, and pretend it didn’t fucking hurt.”

The words hit hard. Not loud -- he wasn’t yelling. But they were worse that way. Softer. Realer.

Your jaw clenched.

“Finnick--”

“You haven't even divorced me. You're too much of a coward to make it official, but you're telling people on TV that it was a mutual, peaceful decision,” he continued. Letting it all out. Finally. “Why'd you lie, huh?”

His eyes were full of frustration now. Anger.

You met his gaze, feeling it like a knife pressed to your throat -- not fatal, but sharp enough to make breathing hard.

“I didn’t want them to know they broke us,” you said quietly. “I didn’t want to give them that. If I told the truth, it would’ve been a spectacle. They would’ve twisted it into a new love story, or a tragedy they could sell. Something shiny. Not something real.”

Finnick scoffed, shaking his head. “So instead you made me the villain? The distant husband. The Capitol’s whore who left you behind.”

Your eyes flared. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you didn’t disappear, Finnick.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” he snapped. “You think I wanted to be passed around like a prize? You think I liked being pulled from you every week to satisfy the Capitol’s idea of loyalty? I did what I had to, just like you did.”

You looked away. Your throat ached. “That’s exactly why I couldn’t talk about it.”

He was quiet for a second. Then, softer: “So you didn’t divorce me because you still loved me. But you lied because you were ashamed of how we ended.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

“I needed to know if it meant anything to you,” he continued. “All those nights you stayed gone. All those months you didn’t call. But it's clear to me that I didn't mean a thing.” He hissed.

Something snapped in you. Glaring, you grabbed his hand in a tight grip, yanking him behind you. Out of the training facility. Out of the corridor. Into a lounge room, slamming the door and locking it.

Finnick barely had time to register what was happening before he was backed against the wall, your chest heaving, eyes alight with fury.

“Don’t you dare say you meant nothing to me,” you growled, your grip still firm around his wrist. “You think I went back to District Seven and lived some perfect life without you? You think I slept at night without waking up to the ghost of you in my bed? I burned for you, Finnick. Every damn day.”

His breath hitched, sea-glass eyes searching yours -- but you weren’t finished.

“You stopped writing. You stopped fighting. You let them rip us apart piece by piece, and I kept my mouth shut so they wouldn’t do worse. So they wouldn’t put a fucking target on your back. I lied because it was the only way I could protect what was left of us.”

Finnick was silent for a beat, lips parted, his chest rising and falling fast. His eyes narrowed.

“So you're blaming me? You're blaming me for you leaving when things got hard?” He hissed.

You faltered.

He stepped forward, looking down at you with a heated gaze.

“You're just as frustrating as you have been forever. And just as stubborn.” He huffed, grabbing you by your waist. He quickly switched your positions, backing you into the wall instead, pressing you closely.

You gasped, your back hitting the wall with a soft thud, his chest flush against yours. The air between you sparked like flint to steel, searing and volatile.

“I fought for us,” Finnick growled, voice low and shaking. “I fought every way I knew how. But there’s only so much fighting a man can do when the woman he loves won’t even let him in.”

Your heart was pounding, fury and grief and longing all crashing together inside your chest. But you didn’t push him away. Couldn’t. Not when his hands were gripping your waist like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth. He was so close -- he smelled the same as he had when he was yours. His signature cologne, the faint smell of sea salt, and clean linen.

“Finnick--”

“No. It's your turn to listen. You're still my wife, you never sent me a damn thing saying otherwise. I never asked you to protect me. I never asked for you to save our reputations. All I asked for was you.” He said steadily, his nose almost touching yours.

Your breath hitched, the heat of his words igniting every nerve ending. You swallowed hard, caught between the ache of truth and the desperate want swirling in his eyes. He lifted a hand to grip your jaw, to force you to look into his eyes, to see how much he meant it.

His wedding ring glinted. He was still wearing it.

Your fingers trembled as they brushed lightly over the ring, tracing the smooth metal like it was a lifeline back to a past neither of you wanted to let go of -- but neither had dared fully hold onto either.

“You still..” You trailed off.

He nodded, his hot gaze still resting on your face.

“Of course I do. I'll wear it until the bitter end.”

Frustrated tears started to meet your eyes. You threw your head back, huffing.

“Why can't you just hate me like a normal person would, Finnick?”

“Because I don't want to. Because I can't. Because you belong with me,” he hummed. “And I won't pretend that you don't.”

His voice was velvet-wrapped steel -- soft, but unyielding. It rooted you in place. Unraveled you. Broke through every defense you’d rebuilt since the day you walked away.

You stared up at him, throat tight, lip trembling. “Finnick…”

But he didn’t give you space to run. Not this time.

His forehead pressed against yours, breath mingling with yours, as intimate as any kiss. “We were never done, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Your fear just tried to convince us we were.”

You closed your eyes, a tear slipping down your cheek. He caught it with his thumb.

“We’re in the Games again,” you murmured. “We could die.”

“Then I’ll die wearing your ring and loving you. And if we live,” he said, voice low and firm, “we fix it. For real this time.”

You opened your eyes. And he was right there waiting. Always had been. While your fear of abandonment consumed you, while you hurt him repeatedly, while you ran from him, he'd always been there. Waiting.

Instead of speaking, you leaned forward, giving into your desires. You kissed him.

It was like coming home after a long trip. It was like sinking into warm sheets after a sleepless night, like exhaling after years of holding your breath. His mouth met yours with the same ache, the same urgency -- not rushed, but hungry. Like he’d been starving for you.

Finnick’s hands gripped your waist tighter, pulling you flush against him, like if he didn’t hold you close enough, he might lose you again. Your fingers found his jaw, your hand scraping softly against his stubble as your lips moved in tandem.

You broke the kiss only when air became necessary, both of you panting, foreheads pressed together, your hands still clutching each other like lifelines.

You weren’t done. You’d never been.

[spencersmopbucket]

Polar Opposites | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: When you joined the team, it was very evident to the others that you and Spencer may not get along the best. You were water and he was oil — but when working on a team, the repelling can be dangerous. Themes & Warnings: Ummm violence, hurt/comfort with Reid!, enemies to lovers

You were raised in New York. Alone. No siblings or mother.

Learning independence was quick for you. By the time you were eight, you were walking yourself to school, a keychain with the apartment key and a bottle of pepper spray dangling from it. You were tough, bull-headed, but not completely absent of warmth.

Your father was a good man. A strong one. He was on the NYPD, a conductor of justice, yet a fair one. You idolized him, even when he came home with blood on his knuckles and exhaustion in his bones. You learned early that justice wasn't always clean, and rarely kind.

You quickly learned from him.

When you were old enough, he put you into self defense classes. It wasn't much of a surprise to him that you immediately excelled.

He watched proudly as you took down grown men twice your size in the ring, never once hesitating. “You fight like your mother,” he told you once. You didn’t remember her, not really, but something about the way he said it made your chest swell.

You lived by his rules. Protect others. Never back down. Trust your gut, even when it got you in trouble.

By the time you were a teenager, you were patrolling with a police scanner on in the background of your homework, studying both algebra and 10-codes. While other girls wore lip gloss and whispered about boys, you were memorizing the NY penal code and learning how to hold a Glock.

As soon as you could, you joined your father on the force. Not quite where he was. He was pretty far up. But you made him proud, which is all you wanted.

Every commendation, every collar, every time you kept your cool when things went sideways — he’d clap a firm hand on your shoulder and say, “That’s my girl.” And that was enough. It had always been enough.

Until it wasn’t.

The night he didn’t come home changed everything.

You were the one who got the call. Not the captain. Not some rookie liaison. You. Because you were his emergency contact. Because they knew you’d want to hear it straight, from the mouth of someone who cared.

Officer down. Ambush. Three men. Two with priors, one on a vendetta. He died fighting, they said. Died protecting his partner.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t speak for almost twenty-four hours.

Instead, you scrubbed his blood out of his badge chain, boxed up his medals, and sat for hours in his worn recliner with your service pistol in your lap, staring into nothing.

The grief didn’t crush you. It carved you.

By the time you left the NYPD, you weren’t the same person. And maybe that was the point. You needed something new. Somewhere that didn’t hold his shadow in every alley, every precinct, every call sign on the radio.

The BAU wasn’t your first choice. Behavioral analysis wasn’t your strength. You didn’t have three PhDs or a mind built for chess moves and statistics. But they recruited you anyway. Hotch said your field instincts were unmatched, that you had a gut that couldn't be taught.

You were strong. Your suffering had hardened you into a diamond. But you did have a flaw. Sometimes, you rushed into things without strategy, relying on strength and impulse. You were more physically lead than others on the team, opting for the take-down rather than the talk-down.

This was what made you so different from the team's boy genius, Spencer Reid.

He wasn't the softest anymore himself. He was hardened by his abduction by Tobias Hankel, his drug addiction, his prison time, the loss of his first lover. But he didn't let it change him completely. He was still warm, like he'd been before. Still sweet. And he still did his job the same; in the same calculating, analyzing Reid way. He was more logic based than aggression based.

And that’s where you clashed.

Where you were storm and instinct, Spencer was method and measure. He needed answers before action. You needed action before the body count climbed. He quoted psychological journals; you trusted a gut that had never failed you. It was oil and water from the very beginning.

The team noticed it immediately — the sharp way you challenged his statistics, the way his mouth drew tight every time you went off-book, the way both of you refused to yield. Rossi called it "professional tension." Morgan called it "foreplay." Hotch just warned you both not to let it interfere in the field.

Of course, it did anyway.

It had been a difficult case.

A serial killer, targeting women, as was typical. It was a sensitive situation, requiring delicate action and careful steps.

The investigation went fine — smooth actually. It was easy enough to profile and find the man, but the hostage situation needed to be handled much softer.

He was holding a young woman in a cage, down below his house in a bunker. You, Reid, Prentiss, and Morgan were sent to do the confrontation.

The four of you approached the property quietly. The woods surrounding the cabin were thick and silent, the late afternoon sun bleeding orange through the trees. Reid had his tablet out, blueprints of the house and rough sketches of the underground bunker on display. You barely glanced at it.

“We can’t spook him,” Prentiss said, voice low. “If he thinks he’s cornered—”

“He might kill her,” Reid finished grimly. “He’s already escalated twice. He’s unpredictable under pressure.”

That was Spencer’s way — anticipate the worst, measure every variable. Your jaw clenched.

“Then we don’t give him time to react,” you said, cocking your weapon. “He’s not expecting a full team yet. We move fast, controlled. Get in, get her out.”

Spencer’s head shot up. “No. We stick to the protocol. We make contact, distract him, and—”

“There is no protocol for a man holding a girl in a fucking cage, Reid.”

Your voice was sharper than it needed to be, but you didn’t care. The thought of that girl locked up like an animal made your skin crawl. Every second wasted was another scar, another trauma she’d carry forever.

“Exactly. Which is why we don’t risk charging in blind,” he snapped back, stepping in front of you. “You go in there guns blazing and he could slit her throat before you even get your second step down that ladder.”

Morgan’s hand landed on your shoulder, a warning. “Both of you — not the time.”

But you weren’t done.

“Then what? We just talk to him? Offer him therapy? Hope he suddenly sees the light?”

Reid’s eyes blazed. “No. But we don’t rush in and make it worse. You want to save her? Then don’t be the reason she dies.”

It hit harder than you expected. Maybe because deep down, you knew he was right. Maybe because you hated being wrong in front of him.

The plan went Spencer’s way. At first.

You reached them. The man was sweaty, eyes wild. The girl moaned quietly in front of him, wrestling around in the heavy chains she was bound by.

Reid and Prentiss attempted a talk-down.

The unsub paced behind the girl like a panicked animal, holding a long hunting knife inches from her throat. His eyes flicked between Prentiss and Reid, twitchy and erratic, the delusion already thick in the air.

“I didn’t hurt her!” he barked. “I fed her, didn’t I?! She’s mine now — I chose her!”

You could practically feel the tension radiating off Spencer. He stood just a step in front of Prentiss, hands raised, calm as ever — but you knew him well enough to see the strain in his jaw, the slight tremble in his fingers.

“You’re not in trouble,” Spencer said gently, voice even. “You’ve been through a lot. No one wants to hurt you, we just want to help her. Let her go. We can talk, just you and me.”

The unsub twitched. “She loves me,” he muttered, jabbing the blade toward the girl’s collarbone. She whimpered again, and your own hand inched toward your holster.

“Reid,” you said quietly. A warning.

But he held up one hand. Not yet.

“You’re right,” he said to the unsub. “You did choose her. You saw something in her. That’s important. That means you care about her, right?”

The man’s breathing hitched — confused. Hopeful.

Then it happened.

She whimpered again — too loud. Too broken. Something in her tone must have snapped the illusion in his head. Because suddenly he screamed, pulled her tighter, and raised the knife.

You moved before anyone else could.

Gun drawn, aim steady, you crossed the space in two steps and tackled him. Your shoulder collided with his ribs, knocking him clean off the girl. You wrestled the knife from his hand and had him on the ground in seconds, arm wrenched behind his back.

You barely heard the girl sobbing as Prentiss rushed to her side. Barely heard Morgan’s footsteps pounding down the stairs. All you could hear was the pounding of your own pulse.

“God damn it,” Reid muttered from behind you. Not angry. Not even frustrated.

Worried.

The rest was a blur.

Back at the precinct, the girl had been taken to the hospital. The unsub was in custody. Everyone was safe.

But Spencer didn’t say a word to you until you were alone.

The motel hallway was dim and quiet, carpet patterned with decades of wear. You turned when you heard his door click shut behind him.

“You weren’t supposed to go in,” he said. Quiet. Low.

You crossed your arms. “And if I hadn’t, she might be dead.”

“She might be,” he agreed. “Or you might be. We all might've been. You can’t keep putting yourself in the line like that without thinking. You don’t get to be the only one who carries the risk. Not to mention what risk it puts on the other teammates.”

You blinked. Something about the way he said it — like you'd selfishly put everyone in danger.

Your eyes narrowed.

"How come you're always shitting on my busts, Reid? You ever think that one of these times, you might wait too long and get someone killed?"

He swallowed, his face tightening.

"Don't turn this around on me. You continuously stray from protocol like you're above the rest of us. If you just followed directions, I wouldn't have to complain."

You felt the flare of heat in your chest — insult, frustration, maybe even guilt. But underneath all of it, something deeper: hurt.

"Above the rest of you?" you repeated, voice low. Dangerous. "Is that really what you think of me?"

Reid held your stare, but there was a flicker of regret in his eyes now. He hadn’t meant to cut that deep. Or maybe he had. Maybe it had built up between you for so long, he hadn’t realized the blade was that sharp.

“I think you act like you don’t need us,” he said. “Like you don’t trust anyone but yourself. And in this job, that’s not just frustrating, it’s fatal.”

You laughed once, dryly. “Well, maybe I don’t trust anyone else. Maybe I learned a long time ago that trust doesn’t keep you alive.”

That landed. His expression cracked. Because if there was one thing Spencer Reid understood, it was the cost of trusting the wrong people. Or worse, not trusting the right ones until it was too late.

"You need to ease up. Trusting someone besides yourself might keep you alive one day," He hissed, leaning into your face. "You act like a stubborn, impulsive fool."

You scoffed, a snide smirk curling onto your face.

"That's better than constant fear and anxiety. I'd rather be too quick than too slow, Reid," your cold voice biting into him. "You're so busy tucking back into your turtle shell that you don't realize how much time you waste being afraid."

His eyes darkened, a flicker of something fierce igniting behind the calm intellect you knew so well.

“Being cautious doesn’t mean I’m afraid,” he snapped back, voice low but sharp. “It means I’m trying to think. Something you never do until after the damage is done.”

You stepped closer, your breath mingling with his in the tight hallway. “Yeah, well maybe it’s better to act first and think later than to be paralyzed by what-ifs. At least I move.”

You stood face to face, a silent snarl shared between the two of you. Spencer took another breath to snap back, but you were interrupted.

"Guys. Enough. The jet is about to take off." Prentiss said, placing a hand on your shoulder. You shrugged her off, slinging your bag over it instead.

"It's cool. I was done being questioned about my successful take-down anyways." You muttered, walking away.

Spencer watched you go, the frustration still simmering beneath his calm exterior. His jaw clenched as he ran a hand through his hair, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on him. He wanted to say more; to tell you that beneath his caution was a desperate hope you’d be safe, that he cared more than he knew how to show.

But for now, he let the silence stretch, knowing this was just one battle in a longer war between you. And maybe, just maybe, there was a way to bridge the gap, if only you’d both lower your guards.

The jet ride was tense. You didn't even look at Spencer, opting to pretend he wasn't there. He couldn't help but glance at you, the brooding look always on your face no different than usual. He sighed, returning to his book.

Back at the office, you shoved your go-bag back into your locker. The photo of your father glinted at you, stuck to the back of the door. You knew what he would've said.

You traced the edges of the photo with a tired finger, the worn image of your father — a man who’d always been your anchor in chaos — reminding you of the rules he drilled into you:

"Protect others."

"Never back down."

"Trust your gut."

"I'm so proud of you, kid."

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat, the weight of those words settling deep inside you. You’d carried his lessons like armor all these years — tough, unyielding, sometimes too sharp to wield without cutting yourself.

You stared at his image for a few more seconds, before turning away.

You jumped. Morgan, standing behind you.

"Jesus." You said, taking a deep breath. "Don't sneak up on me like that, dude."

Morgan chuckled, his usual easy grin softening the tension in the room. “Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta keep you on your toes.”

He glanced at the photo taped inside your locker. “Your old man sounds like a hell of a guy.”

You nodded, voice quieter now. “He was. Still is… in a way.”

Morgan leaned against the lockers, folding his arms. “You know, you don’t always have to carry all that weight alone. Not here. Not with us.”

You met his eyes, the sincerity there catching you off guard. For a moment, the walls you’d built felt a little less necessary.

"... Thank you."

Morgan nodded, leaning against the lockers.

"I heard you and Reid had a little spat in the hotel earlier."

You rolled your eyes, grumbling. Of course, Prentiss would've squealed.

Morgan’s grin widened, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “Yeah, I heard. Something about Spencer getting a little too in your space?”

You sighed, crossing your arms. “He’s got a knack for pushing buttons. Doesn’t know when to quit.”

Morgan shook his head, chuckling low. “That guy’s all brain and nerves. Sometimes he forgets there’s a person behind all that genius.”

You glanced away, feeling a mix of irritation and something softer beneath it. “I get it, but I’m not exactly easy to handle either.”

He leaned against the locker beside yours, eyes steady. “Look, I get it. You did what you had to do back there. You saved that girl.”

Your jaw tightened. “You think I don’t know that?”

Morgan shook his head. “No, I’m saying I see it. You’re a damn good agent. One of the best. But sometimes being the best means knowing when to slow down.”

You scoffed, bitterness creeping into your voice. “Slowing down gets people killed.”

Morgan didn’t flinch. “It’s not about slowing down all the time. It’s about picking your moments. You got guts, no doubt. But guts without control? That’s a problem.”

You finally met his gaze, raw and honest. “So what am I supposed to do, Morgan? Wait around for the bad guy to slit her throat? Let the clock run out?”

He studied you for a beat, then responded slowly. “No. But you gotta trust the team. Not just yourself. We got your six. We all do. Even Reid. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

You swallowed hard. The weight of his words settled in your chest. It was easier said than done. You were used to standing on your own — had been for as long as you could remember.

Morgan clapped a hand on your shoulder, solid and reassuring. “Your dad taught you to protect others, right?”

Your eyes flickered to the photo taped inside your locker, the man who was everything steady in your world.

Morgan smiled softly. “Yeah. And that means sometimes you gotta step back, watch the angles, think a few moves ahead. That’s how you protect the team and yourself.”

The tension between you seemed to ease, just a little. You weren’t used to advice that didn’t come with judgment, but this was different. It was real.

Morgan gave you a wink. “You’re a hell of a cop. Don’t forget, sometimes the smartest move is patience. Not just power.”

You nodded, the edges of your defenses softening just enough for a flicker of respect. “Thanks, Morgan. I’ll try.”

“Try?” He grinned. “No try. You’ll do it.”

You smirked back. “Yeah? You confident in me?��

“Hell yeah. Just gotta let the team catch up sometimes. And don't forget,” he said, nudging your shoulder. "We could all learn some things from you too. Even Reid, when he decides to get his head out of his ass."

You snickered, rolling your eyes and turning back to your locker, shutting it.

“Thanks for the reality check.”

“Anytime,” he said, before turning and walking away, leaving you with something you didn’t realize you needed — a little hope.

The next case came quickly. You almost weren't ready for it.

Your headphones blared into your ears as you trained in the sparring room, sweating as you bounced around a punching bag. Your gloves squeaked with every moment you made, punching into the bag with preciseness and toughness.

Your phone rang.

You yanked a glove off with your teeth and fumbled for your phone, the sweat on your fingers making it harder to swipe. The name on the screen — Hotch — made your stomach tighten. You were still riding the edge of your last conversation with Morgan, and now, here came another case.

“Yeah?” you answered, a little breathless.

Hotch’s voice was calm, clipped. “Briefing room. Twenty minutes.”

You wiped your brow with the back of your forearm. “Copy that.”

He hung up without another word.

You stood there for a beat, the bass of your music still thumping in one ear. The punching bag rocked gently beside you, evidence of your focused aggression. But the tension in your shoulders hadn’t eased. If anything, it pulled tighter.

Another case. Another town. Another family ruined. You loved this job but sometimes, it felt like it never let you breathe.

With a grunt, you unwrapped your gloves, tossing them in your gym bag. As you pulled your hoodie over your damp sports bra and headed for the showers, Morgan’s words echoed back in your head:

“Sometimes the smartest move is patience. Not just power.”

You smirked faintly to yourself, voice muttering under your breath, “Yeah, well... I hope patience works on serial killers too.”

You had no idea what you were walking into, but you knew this much: you'd face it head-on.

Just like always.

You pulled your work clothes on quickly and headed for the bullpen, tossing your hair into a ponytail.

The rest of the team was already there, relieved to see you walk in.

"Sorry. I was training." You said quietly, joining them at the table.

Hotch gave you a nod — his version of “no problem.” Reid glanced up from the file in his hands, his eyes catching yours for a moment before flicking back down. You weren’t sure what that look meant, but you didn’t have time to dwell on it.

“Victim number three was found this morning,” Hotch began, passing a photo across the table. “Female, early thirties. Same MO. Ligature marks, posed postmortem, and a red ribbon tied around the wrist.”

You leaned forward, studying the image. “Same as the others. No signs of forced entry?”

JJ shook her head. “Nothing. It’s like they let the killer in willingly.”

You crossed your arms, thoughts already sharpening like blades. “So he’s charming, disarming. Makes them feel safe… until he doesn’t.”

Morgan pointed at the map. “All victims lived alone, all in a five-mile radius. He’s hunting in a comfort zone.”

Spencer cleared his throat, hesitant but determined. “Geographical profiling supports that. He’s probably familiar with the area -- might even live or work nearby.”

You glanced at him again, this time holding the look for a second longer. “Then we start knocking on doors.”

Prentiss gave a wry smile. “I like it when you get fired up.”

You shrugged, grabbing a file. “Better than sitting on our hands.”

Hotch raised a brow. “Let’s keep it focused. Morgan, you and (Y/N) check in with local businesses. Reid, JJ, and Prentiss, canvass the neighborhood. I’ll coordinate with local PD.”

You nodded.

"I know that PD pretty well. My dad and I worked with them for a couple of years. I'll pitch in with the communications."

Hotch gave a curt nod, clearly appreciating the initiative. “Good. Familiarity could speed things up. Just make sure they loop everything back to me.”

You gave him a short, respectful salute. “You got it, boss.”

Morgan shot you a quick grin as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “You sure you’re not trying to take Hotch’s job?”

You smirked. “Please. I’d make a terrible brooding authority figure.”

Hotch didn’t even look up from the map he was marking. “I’m standing right here.”

You and Morgan exchanged a glance, both biting back laughter.

As the team filed out, Reid hesitated at the edge of the room. He glanced at you, like he wanted to say something, but then just gave a slight nod and walked away with JJ and Prentiss.

Your eyes lingered on his back for a second before you turned and fell into step beside Morgan.

“So,” he said as you headed for the SUV, “you and local PD go way back?”

You nodded. “Yeah. My dad and I used to consult on cases when I was younger. He was training me even before I joined the Bureau. Some of those officers were practically family for a while.”

Morgan nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth tugging up in a thoughtful smile. “That explains a lot.”

“What does?”

“You move like someone who’s been doing this their whole life. It’s in your blood.”

You paused at the passenger door, his words landing heavier than he probably intended.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “It is.”

Morgan didn’t push. He just clapped a hand on your shoulder. “Then let’s go show ‘em how it’s done.”

You gave him a small smile. “Hell yeah.”

You slid into the seat, heart steadier than it had been in days. Maybe the next few hours would be hell. Maybe this case would crack something raw in you. But with Morgan’s support at your side and your father’s instincts still pulsing through your veins, you weren’t going in blind.

You were ready to hunt.

No sooner had you and Morgan hit the pavement than the scent of tension in the air thickened, like something dark had just passed through and left its mark. The PD station felt different now than it did when you were younger. Familiar faces looked more worn, more guarded.

“Agent (L/N),” one of the lieutenants greeted you with a surprised smile. “Heard you were coming in. Damn, you look more and more like your old man every time I see you.”

You gave him a short nod, your voice quiet. “Thanks, Lieutenant. Wish it were under better circumstances.”

Morgan stood back slightly, letting you take the lead. He watched as you moved through the room with purpose; calm, steady, authoritative in your own way. You weren’t trying to be your father, but his legacy lingered around you like armor.

“We’ve already pulled security cam footage from nearby businesses,” the lieutenant explained. “We can have it queued up for you in five.”

“Perfect. Let’s get started.”

Morgan leaned over to you as they set things up in the back room. “You’ve got them listening to you like you’re already in charge.”

You gave a tired shrug. “My dad never tolerated anyone doing half a job. I guess that stuck.”

He studied your face for a moment — sharp, focused, a little worn around the eyes. Then he said, “You know, you don’t always have to be the one holding it all together.”

You glanced at him, surprised.

“You said that already,” you reminded him.

He shrugged. “You didn’t listen the first time.”

You laughed under your breath, but your eyes softened. “I’m listening now.”

Before either of you could say more, an officer called you over. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

The footage was grainy but clear enough: a figure pacing outside a bakery at midnight. Twitchy. Darting glances. Then dragging something — someone — down an alley.

Morgan muttered under his breath. “Looks like our guy.”

Your expression shifted instantly. Calm became alert. You pointed to the timestamp. “That’s two hours before the last body was found. He was still escalating.”

The lieutenant nodded grimly. “He’s getting bolder.”

Morgan stepped beside you, already scanning the angle, escape routes, signage. “What do you want to do?”

You took a breath, already forming a plan.

“We start there,” you said, pointing to the alley. “We follow the trail. And this time, we end it before he escalates again.”

Morgan gave a sharp nod. “Now that’s the kind of leadership I can get behind.”

You smirked faintly. “Don’t get used to it.”

He grinned back. “Too late.”

You quickly phoned the rest of the team, getting them in on it. It was decided.

You'd be bait — the youngest on the team. The prettiest, Prentiss had claimed. But it would take something you weren't exactly versed in.

Patience. Calculation. Thought before decision.

You, of course, had too look like less than an agent. That night, you had to get prepared, dressing down from your usual slacks and dress shirt and opting for a more.. casual.. look.

Garcia, JJ, and Prentiss just couldn't wait to get their hands on you. It was a once in a life time opportunity.

You barely made it into the hotel room before the ambush.

“There she is!” Prentiss announced, arms crossed with a smug grin. JJ was already holding up two hangers, each with an outfit. Garcia was seated cross-legged on the bed with a massive makeup bag splayed open in front of her like a battlefield.

You blinked. “Did you guys.. Were you waiting for me?”

JJ smirked. “Garcia brought supplies.”

Garcia didn’t even look up. “Sweet cheeks, I have been dreaming of this day since you joined the team. And now… finally…” She lifted a compact like a weapon forged in heaven. “The day has come.”

“This isn’t a makeover montage,” you muttered.

“Oh, but it is,” Prentiss said, grabbing your wrist and tugging you into the middle of the room. “You’re going undercover as vulnerable, off-duty eye candy. We’re making sure you sell it.”

“Guys,” you sighed. “This isn’t Clueless. I’m bait for a serial killer, not a Tinder date.”

“Exactly,” JJ said, tossing a pair of stockings onto the bed. “So you need to look like someone who doesn’t know she’s being watched. Not like someone who could break someone’s nose with two fingers.”

The scene was a bar. Wasting some time inside of it, sipping on a few prop drinks all alone, before stumbling out into the alley where he'd most likely take his chances on you.

You had to look the part. The mysterious, lonely temptress who would go quietly if grabbed.

You were forced into a short, red dress, one that hugged your curves and showed off the length of your smooth legs. Your hair was curled, natural makeup on your already pretty face.

You were gorgeous. Not that you weren't usually. But this was much different than your slick-back ponytail and business only outfit, a gun hanging from your holster.

Garcia let out a dramatic gasp when you stepped out of the bathroom.

“Oh. My. God.” she breathed, eyes widening. “You’re not just bait, you're irresistible temptation. Marry me.”

Prentiss gave a low whistle. “Remind me to never stand next to you in public again.”

JJ smirked. “He won’t stand a chance. Poor bastard.”

You tugged at the hem of the red dress, fidgeting. It was shorter than anything you usually wore. Hell, it was shorter than anything Garcia usually wore. “I feel like a walking target.”

“That’s the point,” Prentiss said, coming up behind you to fix a loose curl. “But don’t forget. You’re still the most dangerous one in the room.”

Garcia handed you a tiny clutch with your wire and phone inside. “And just in case he gets any ideas before the alley, Reid and Morgan will be watching from the bar. Hotch and I are set up in the surveillance van. You’re never alone.”

You looked at yourself in the mirror again. It was surreal, like staring at a version of yourself that only existed in smoke and mirrors. A version soft enough to lure in a killer. A version smart enough to trap him.

You took a breath. Deep. Steady.

“I can do this,” you muttered.

“You will do this,” JJ corrected firmly, her voice resolute. “And when you bring this guy down, I want my red dress back.”

You laughed softly, the nerves settling into something colder, more useful. “You got it.”

As the three women saw you off, Prentiss stopped you with a hand on your arm. “Hey. You’re more than bait. You’re the one drawing him out. That makes you the one in control.”

You stepped outside, meeting Morgan and Reid at the undercover vehicle, a sleek black SUV. They stood talking by the passenger's door, only noticing you approaching when you got close.

Morgan was the first to look up; and his reaction was immediate.

His brows rose, a low whistle slipping out as he took in your appearance. “Damn. Remind me what we’re trying to catch again? Because I think you just stunned me.”

Reid, less composed, blinked rapidly. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Y-You, uh, wow. You look…” His brain clearly short-circuited.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Careful, boys. I’m armed.”

Morgan laughed, clapping Reid on the back as if to snap him out of his stupor. “You good, pretty boy? Need a second to reboot?”

Reid cleared his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets and very intentionally looking at the SUV instead of you. “I’m fine. Let's move out.”

Without another word, Reid hopped into the car, leaving you and Derek in silence. You rolled your eyes as Derek opened the door to let you get in.

Morgan held the door open with a crooked grin. “You know, I’ve seen you break a man’s nose with the butt of your Glock… but somehow, this might be the most dangerous I’ve ever seen you.”

You scoffed, climbing into the SUV. “Save it for Garcia.”

In a few short minutes, you were at your destination. You got out, securing the wire into a hidden place as Reid and Morgan looked around. You tossed your curls behind your shoulder and cleared your throat.

"Alright. In the bar for fifteen minutes, twenty at most. If he approaches you, play coy. If he doesn't, we still have a chance to lure him in the back alley," Morgan explained, securing his own wire and tucking his gun. "We're more likely to see him out there. He's struck in that area quite a few times."

You nodded.

"Don't be afraid. We'll be right there with you, just at a distance. If you're ever too uncomfortable to stand it, call for us."

You made a gesture of agreement to Morgan before finally glancing at Reid, who cleared his throat.

"Just.. Don't jump the gun." He said. He somewhat failed to keep the entitlement in his voice. You wondered what was plaguing him, but nonetheless, you ignored it, rolling your eyes.

"I got it, Reid. Don't worry. Your teachings will be on my psyche the whole time."

Reid’s jaw ticked slightly, clearly unsatisfied with your response but unwilling to push further — at least not in front of Morgan.

Morgan, on the other hand, was watching the two of you like he was sitting court-side. “Alright, kids,” he said, breaking the tension with a raised brow. “Let’s not make this a pissing contest. We’ve got a predator to catch, not egos to babysit.”

You smirked, giving Morgan a thumbs up as you reached for the bar door. But before you could step out, Reid finally spoke again, softer this time, less sharp.

“Just… be careful. Please.”

You paused, turning slightly to look at him. There it was. Underneath all the attitude and irritation — the worry. The fear. The unspoken something that had been simmering between you both since that stupid hotel argument.

You gave a nod. “I will.”

And then you stepped out, heels clicking against the pavement, shoulders square, mask slipping into place.

You weren’t the agent now. You were the bait.

For a while, it was dead.

You sat at the bar, sipping on a "vodka soda," looking around. You tried your best to keep your emotions off from your face, opting for a more bored look. Your legs were crossed. People filtered in, people filtered out. The music changed. Drinks were poured, people surrounded you. A few approached, but not the one you needed.

You checked the time subtly, tilting your wrist just enough to catch the glint of the watch Garcia had modified for comms. Seventeen minutes. A little longer than planned, but not enough to call it yet. You could feel their eyes on you, Morgan’s and Reid’s from their respective vantage points, watching every shift of your posture like hawks.

The bartop was sticky, the lighting dim, casting sultry shadows that you knew looked calculated from afar. You took another slow sip, letting your eyes drift across the room again. A man at the end of the bar caught your gaze, held it for a beat too long.

But he turned away. Not him.

Your fingers tapped lightly against your glass, nails clicking in a slow rhythm.

Patience. Not just power.

You breathed out through your nose, subtle and quiet. You could play this game.

Just when your boredom began to feel a little too real, movement in your periphery made your eyes flick. A man near the jukebox — tall, late 30s, scruffy beard, not quite drunk but deliberately slow in his movements. Alone. Observing. Not playing music.

He looked at you.

You tilted your head slightly, uncrossing and recrossing your legs. Deliberate. Casual. Vulnerable.

He didn’t move.

But now you knew.

That was him.

And he was watching.

You cleared your throat, turning away and looking disinterested, until you felt his presence get closer and closer. Then, he was right beside you.

"Out here all alone?"

You didn’t look at him right away. You let the question hang for a beat, took a slow sip of your drink, kept your eyes ahead like someone unsure whether to entertain the voice or pretend they hadn’t heard it.

Then you turned, just a little. Just enough for your lashes to lift slowly, eyes finding his. Soft. Unassuming.

You gave a half-smile. “Depends who’s asking.”

He chuckled lowly, like he’d practiced it. Like he wanted it to sound charming but didn’t quite have the tone right. “Just someone who hates to see a pretty girl looking so bored.”

You glanced around the room lazily, then back at him. “Well. Not exactly a thrilling place to be alone.”

His eyes scanned you too thoroughly. It made your skin crawl, but you didn’t flinch.

He leaned on the bar beside you. “Maybe I could change that.”

You shifted, letting your knee graze his thigh — accidentally, on purpose. “Maybe you could.”

From the comms in your ear, you could barely catch Morgan’s low voice: “He’s on her. Stay ready.”

You gave the stranger one last smile before looking down into your glass. “Buy me a refill?”

He motioned to the bartender. “Vodka soda, right?”

You nodded. “Good memory.”

He grinned, and that time it reached his eyes. Just a flash. Something darker.

Bingo.

Your heart kicked up. But your face never betrayed it. You leaned in, just slightly, pretending to laugh at something he hadn’t said.

You held a conversation easily, as if you'd been doing this forever. You barely nursed your drink, immersing yourself into fooling him more than anything else. You crossed your fingers.

And soon, it came. The question you needed.

"You wanna get out of here?" He asked gruffly, a hand coming up to stroke your exposed collar bone. You wanted to throw up. You wanted to snap his arm, slam him to the floor and cuff him immediately.

But you thought about what Spencer had said.

Contemplation. Patience. The art of being cautious. It was just as useful as the fire you usually lit onto anyone you apprehended.

You took a slow breath through your nose, keeping your smile soft, a little shy. You let your eyes flick down, like you were considering it. Like you hadn’t just felt bile rise in your throat at the weight of his hand.

This was the moment. The danger curled just beneath your skin, thrumming like a second pulse.

“Yeah,” you said, voice a little breathier, like nerves. “I could use some air.”

He smiled — victory, hunger, maybe both — and slid off his stool, his hand brushing down your arm as if he had the right.

Morgan’s voice was calm but firm in your earpiece. “She’s moving. Everyone hold position. Reid, keep visual.”

You followed him toward the door, a little slower than necessary, stumbling just enough to play into it. “Sorry,” you muttered with a nervous laugh. “Maybe I had one too many.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured, holding the door open. “I’ll take care of you.”

The night hit you like a slap of reality — cold, quiet, real. Your heels clicked against pavement as he guided you down the sidewalk, toward the alley behind the bar.

Your breath hitched. Not from fear. From instinct. The part of you that was still an agent. Still ready to fight, to break him, to stop this before he could touch another woman.

But you stayed in character. You stayed the part.

“Reid,” Morgan’s voice came again. “Do you have eyes?”

There was a long beat before Spencer replied, voice low, strained. “Yes. He’s guiding her down the alley. Don’t move yet.”

You felt it in his voice. You'd felt it since your argument. The tension. The fear. The anticipation. There was something different about the way Reid talked to you, talked about you, ever since your moment in the hotel.

You turned to the man, letting yourself wobble just enough, brushing against him like you needed balance. His hand found your waist too easily.

“You okay?” he asked.

You gave him a soft laugh. “Yeah. Just… a little dizzy.”

“Don’t worry.” His grip tightened. “I’ve got you.”

And then, just like that, he started to lead you into the dark.

Any second now.

Then, moments later, his grip on you became stronger. More direct. Less friendly.

"What are you—"

Without another word, you were slammed up against the brick, his dirty hands all over you. Frantically searching for something. Pain echoed through your body as he continued ruffling your clothes, pulling at your hair.

You frowned, struggling.

"Please, don't—"

"Shut up, bitch! I know you're a cop." He snapped, jerking you slightly.

Your jaw dropped. You felt as though you had cold water thrown over you, dripping down your spine into your heels.

"But I'm not." You attempted meekly.

Cautious. Don't fight yet. Contemplate your choices.

He snickered snidely.

"Officer L/n. I know your father, sweetheart. Or knew him," He said, his clammy breath fanning into your face. "He got my friends put away for life. And then there you were, following right in his footsteps."

He dragged you away from the brick wall, grabbing you by your face. A knife glinted in his other hand.

The cold edge of the blade caught the faint glow of the alley light, flickering like a warning. Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands were still raised — not in surrender, but in precision. Timing.

"Where's the fuckin' wire? Tell me or I'm slitting your throat and dropping you right here."

You swallowed hard, keeping your voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. “I don’t have a wire on me.”

His eyes flashed with suspicion, narrowing dangerously. “Bullshit.”

"Please.." You muttered.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

"Where. Is. The. Wire?!" He snapped, pressing the knife into you.

You froze for a heartbeat as the knife pressed sharper against your skin, a searing line of cold fire that threatened to break through your calm. Your breath hitched but you forced it back down, steady and slow, every nerve screaming for you to act.

“Wait,” you whispered, eyes locking with his — steady, unflinching. “You want the wire? I'll give it to you. I'm begging you not to do this.”

His grip tightened, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, just a flash. Then, the knife pressed harder, enough to nick you, enough to cause a drop of blood to drizzle down. You hissed, tears collecting in your eyes.

Before the knife could press deeper, Reid sprang forward in a sudden burst of strength and precision — the kind of controlled force you usually wielded yourself.

He grabbed the man’s wrist, wrenching the knife away in one smooth motion. The blade clattered to the ground.

Without hesitation, Reid twisted the man’s arm behind his back and slammed him face-first against the brick wall with a sharp grunt.

The attacker struggled, but Reid’s grip was ironclad. He never did take-downs. He never felt like it was time. He valued a talk-down, a chance for the Unsub to see the light without an altercation. But something had snapped.

Reid’s breathing was heavier, eyes sharp and fierce — something you’d never seen in him before. The usual hesitation and quiet intellect gave way to raw, unyielding force. It was like watching a different side of him come alive, the side you’d been expecting all along but had never truly witnessed until now. The others had claimed to see it since he'd come home from prison, but it had never been revealed to you.

He hissed quietly, “Don’t move.”

You slumped against the wall, breathing heavily with a hand clutched to your neck. Blood flowed steadily, but not at a dangerous rate. Just enough to need a med team, but not enough to be scared. You stared up at the sky, frowning.

Morgan and Hotch came after, taking the Unsub from Reid, who was pressing him harder and harder against the wall every second as if he'd personally offended him with his existence.

Hotch immediately stepped in, his voice calm but authoritative. “Easy, Reid. Let him breathe.”

Morgan was already pulling out a medical kit, kneeling beside you quickly. “You good? That cut’s nasty, we can’t patch it up on-site.”

You gave a stiff nod, biting back the sting. “I’m fine. Just… keep him away.”

Reid’s jaw clenched, but he finally loosened his grip, stepping back reluctantly as the cuffs clicked shut around the Unsub’s wrists.

Your eyes met his, a quiet understanding passing between you both— raw tension still lingering, but also something deeper. You’d both taken a page from each other’s book tonight: your strength and resolve, his patience and calculated caution.

Morgan glanced at the three of you, breaking the moment with a grin. “Alright, bait and backup — that’s how we bring down monsters."

You rolled your eyes as you pressed the gauze to the side of your neck. "All in a day's work."

Morgan hummed.

"You need a hospital. I can drive—"

"I can do it." Reid interrupted quietly, looking at you more than he was Morgan.

You cleared your throat, nodding.

Reid’s eyes softened just a fraction as he reached out, carefully taking your hand to steady you. “Let’s get you patched up properly.”

Morgan gave you both a teasing smirk, but wisely kept his distance as Reid helped you into the SUV.

The ride was silent. The quick treatment in the hospital was silent, too. You allowed them to clean and stitch you up, flinching every few moments, before your eyes met Reid's again.

There was something different. There was no irritation or arrogance in his brown eyes like what he normally directed towards you. It was only softness. Just simply watching you, like it was a normal habit of his that he could do all day. Thick with tension. Words unsaid.

You couldn't lie. It made you blush. You looked away.

The conversation didn't ensue until the ride back to the hotel.

The engine hummed low as the SUV slipped down the dark road, headlights casting long, sweeping shadows across the pavement. Reid drove slower than usual: cautious, thoughtful. His fingers gripped the wheel with a quiet intensity, knuckles pale.

You sat beside him, your body angled slightly toward the window, but your eyes drifted, again and again, to his face. To the way his jaw tensed and relaxed like he was chewing on words. Like he couldn’t hold them in much longer.

He broke the silence.

"You did perfectly." He said quietly.

Your eyes flicked to him, surprised by the softness in his tone.

“Didn’t feel perfect,” you muttered, fingers brushing the gauze at your neck. “I let him get too close.”

“That was the point,” Reid said, glancing at you before returning his gaze to the road. “You had him completely. You waited. You didn’t react too soon. That’s what saved your life.”

You gave a small, dry laugh. “I thought I’d be the one snapping his wrist and pressing his face into the wall. Guess we traded roles.”

Reid’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, something more fragile. “You’ve always been better at brute force. I just never thought I’d actually need to use it.”

You leaned back in your seat, watching him. “So what changed?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept driving, eyes steady, lips parted slightly like the words were there, just hesitant to form.

Finally, he spoke, voice barely audible. “The second I saw him touch you, I didn’t think. I didn’t weigh the risk or the outcomes. I just… moved.”

Your throat tightened. “Why?”

He inhaled slowly. “Because if something had happened to you, if I had waited even a second longer, I wouldn’t have forgiven myself. It's hard enough to accept that you were hurt at all.”

You looked down at your lap, quiet for a beat. “I didn’t think you liked me that much.”

Reid frowned, squeezing the wheel.

"Name.. I don't dislike you." He said hoarsely. "I admire you, to be truthful. You're brave. Strong. Everything I want to be and have struggled to be my whole life," his voice was just above a whisper as he stole a glance your way.

"But I worry. All the time. I worry that something will go wrong and I'll lose another person. Another member of the team. And someone that I.." He trailed off.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest.

“Someone that you…?” you echoed gently, coaxing the rest out of him.

Reid’s jaw clenched. He exhaled shakily through his nose, like the truth physically hurt to say aloud.

“Someone that I like. Someone I care about,” he said at last, voice quiet but unwavering. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t want it to. You make me insane, half the time. You drive me completely up the wall.”

You smiled faintly, despite the tension thick in the car.

“But then I watch you work. Or I hear you laugh. Or you look at me like I’m not broken, like I’m not damaged goods. And I—I can’t unfeel it.”

Silence blanketed the car once more, but this time it was full of unsaid things that didn’t need words. It buzzed with the gravity of what had finally cracked open between you.

He pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, putting the car in park. His eyes slid over to yours again.

You reached out slowly, resting your fingers gently over his. He looked down at your hand, then up into your eyes, as if trying to make sure this was real.

You gave a soft, knowing smile. “Took you long enough to admit it.”

Reid huffed a breath, almost a laugh, though his eyes were still glassy with everything he hadn’t said before tonight. “I thought you hated me.”

“I thought you were too good for me.”

His gaze flicked to your neck, then back to your eyes. “No one’s too good for you.”

"You are." You snorted. "I'm mean. Closed off. I don't listen."

Reid shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re protective,” he corrected gently. “You carry the weight for everyone else so they don’t have to. And you listen more than you think — not always to words, but to people. To their actions, their patterns. That’s why you’re good at this.”

You looked away, swallowing hard, your throat tight. “Still. You’re… kind. And soft. And patient. You make people feel safe just by being in the room. I make people flinch.”

Reid’s hand turned beneath yours, his fingers slipping between yours with quiet certainty. “I don't flinch.”

Your eyes snapped back to his, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in his voice. There was no teasing, no hesitation, no irritation in his tone — just truth. Solid and unwavering.

You stared at him for a beat, breath shallow. “No,” you whispered. “You don’t.”

Reid tilted his head slightly, his gaze dipping to your lips for just a second before returning to your eyes. “I see you. All of you. And I don’t flinch.”

The weight of his words settled in your chest like an anchor: grounding, calming, terrifying in the best way. No one had ever looked at you like this. Not with fear. Not with judgment. But with… something gentler. Something that threatened to undo every wall you’d ever built.

“You’re not scared of me,” you said quietly, like you were still trying to convince yourself.

“I’m scared for you, every time you throw yourself into harms' way,” he admitted, voice barely above a breath. “But never of you.”

There was a pause. Heavy. Electric.

And then, in the dark hush of the SUV, with the sounds of the city and the glow of the streetlights casting soft shadows across his face, you leaned in.

"Reid?"

"Call me Spencer."

You snorted softly, rolling your eyes.

"Spencer?"

His name lingered on your tongue, warm and unfamiliar in that intimate kind of way, like a secret finally spoken aloud.

He gave the faintest nod, eyes flicking down to your lips again, and this time he didn’t look away.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice rough around the edges, like he already knew what you were going to say but needed to hear it anyway.

Your breath caught, lips parting slightly. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

He blinked. “What?”

You tilted your head, your smile barely there. “The staring. The tension. The way you act like I’m a walking risk assessment.”

Spencer’s lips tugged up, sheepish but unrepentant. “I didn’t want to cross a line.”

“You didn’t.” Your voice softened, fingers still tangled with his. “You didn’t cross anything.”

He leaned in a little closer, enough for his breath to ghost across your cheek.

“Then can I?” he whispered.

Your heart thudded once, hard, before you nodded.

“Yes. Please.”

And then, he kissed you.

Slow. Intentional. Like he’d waited a lifetime for permission.

And you, well, for once, you didn’t think. You didn’t fight.

You just let yourself feel.

You knew your father would've liked him.

[spencersmopbucket]

A Daddy's Girl | Stack Moore

Pairing: Elias 'Stack' Moore x Reader Summary: You're just Stack's type — feisty, strong willed, and damn pretty. Only thing is.. You won't give Stack the time of day on account of your daddy.

Your upbringing was a lil' different than girls your age. It was 1932 — you were nineteen, having grown up on your daddy's ranch. Instead of white cotton dresses, neatly combed hair, and puppies, you were raised wearing stained skirts, your hair wild and curly, riding horses and rejecting every boy that dared come near you.

Mama died when you were real young — too young to remember her face without staring at a photograph. Daddy did his best, though. He didn’t much care for you doing "girl’s work" when there were fence posts to mend and cattle to brand. So he raised you like he would’ve raised a son: rough around the edges, stubborn as a mule, and twice as fast with a rifle. By thirteen, you were driving the wagon solo into town. By sixteen, you could outshoot most men at the fair. And by nineteen, most folks knew better than to speak to you sideways.

Still, no matter how tough you acted, there was something that always drew in men. It was a competition almost. Any time you walked home from the schoolhouse at age 16, you heard them talkin'. The boys. Betting on who could secure a kiss first, maybe a date.

"First one to kiss the farmer’s daughter gets braggin’ rights for life," one of ‘em would say, real cocky. Like you were a trophy instead of a person.

But you weren’t some daisy to be picked. You were wild thistle — sharp, stubborn, and grown in hard soil.

None of those boys ever made it past your front gate. One tried and ended up limping back home with a busted lip and a bruised ego. After that, they mostly kept their distance. Called you a spitfire. A man’s girl. Trouble wrapped in curls and sunburn.

And maybe they were right.

You didn’t care much for dresses, or dancing, or sitting pretty at socials. You cared about the land, about your daddy, about making it through the droughts and the hard winters. You were proud of the calluses on your hands and the dirt under your nails. You knew how to clean a gun, break a horse, and break a man’s nose if need be. You didn’t need anyone — and that scared the hell out of every suitor that came sniffin’.

Until Stack Moore.

He was the opposite of his brother, though they were both law breakers. They'd come back into town like a storm, claiming it back again when they got sick of being men of war or taking over Chicago. They brought money, they brought booze, and they regained the enemies they'd always had before.

Your daddy knew exactly what type the Smokestack twins were. That's why he was so put out the day Stack spoke to you.

It was hotter than hell that afternoon, the kind of heat that made the air shimmer off the dirt road. You were hitchin’ the mule to the wagon outside the general store, sweat rollin’ down your spine, dust clingin’ to your boots. Stack leaned against a post with a matchstick between his teeth, lookin’ like the devil dressed in Sunday black — suspenders off his shoulders, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make your throat go dry.

"Need a hand, sweetheart?" he drawled.

You didn’t answer him. Just wiped your brow and kept workin’, jaw tight, heart louder than it oughta been. You felt his eyes on you like heat from a fire. That was the first time he spoke to you.

You grunted, finally getting it hitched, before glancing up at Stack with irritated (and curious, though you wouldn't admit it) eyes.

"I got it. Somethin' I can help you with, Stack?" You responded coldly. In a moment, your daddy would be coming out of the store. He wouldn't take kindly to Stack chatting you up.

Stack smirked, slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world and not a care who saw him spending it on you. That matchstick rolled between his teeth as he looked you over, not lewd, not disrespectful — but bold. Real bold.

"Nah, darlin’. Just figured I’d say howdy," he said, voice molasses-smooth with that slick edge he and his brother hadn’t lost, even after years in the city. "Hard not to, when you’re standin’ there lookin’ like trouble in a skirt."

You narrowed your eyes. "Keep talkin’ like that, and you’ll find yourself wearin’ that matchstick in your eye."

He laughed — a warm, low sound that made something flutter deep in your belly, though you kept your scowl firm. He liked that. You could tell. The way his head tilted slightly, his eyes sharpened like he was memorizing the way your mouth twitched when you were pissed.

"I like a woman who bites," he said.

You opened your mouth to fire back, but the screen door of the store slapped shut behind you. Daddy stepped out with his purchase — a sack of flour and a bottle of tonic. His boots hit the porch with that heavy rhythm that always said someone was about to get corrected.

Stack’s smirk didn’t fade, but he straightened up. He tipped his hat slow and easy, like he wasn’t worried one bit about the man standing between him and a shallow grave.

"Afternoon, Mr. L/N," Stack said, polite as a preacher.

Your daddy didn’t respond. Just stared Stack down, eyes like steel under the brim of his weather-beaten hat. You could feel the tension crackling in the air, thick and dangerous.

"You got business here?" your daddy asked, voice flat.

"Just admirin’ the view," Stack replied, not looking away from him — but the weight of his words sat heavy between you and your daddy. Like a line drawn in the dust.

You cleared your throat, loud enough to break the moment. "We done here, Daddy?"

Your father gave Stack one more look — the kind that could kill a lesser man — before nodding to you. "Yeah. Let’s get home. Storm’s comin’."

You climbed into the wagon without another word, trying not to think about how your skin still tingled from Stack’s gaze. As the mule started off, you glanced back once, just once — and saw him watching you, arms crossed, eyes lit up like he’d just spotted a gold vein in a rock.

It was the first time Stack Moore spoke to you. And the last time you knew peace for a long while.

When you got home, Daddy cleared his throat awkwardly, cleaning his gun in the common room of the house.

"Y/N." He called to you from where you stood in the kitchen.

You paused, hands deep in the dish basin, the soapy water stinging a nick on your finger you hadn’t noticed ‘til now. His voice was gruff, but there was something under it — something tight. Wary. Protective in that way only a father could be when he knew his daughter had just caught the eye of a wildfire in a man’s body.

"Yes, sir?" you called back, wiping your hands on a dish rag as you stepped through the archway into the common room.

He didn’t look up right away. Just kept running the cloth over the barrel of his Winchester with a quiet, deliberate focus. You could tell he was turning something over in his head, chewing on it like a dog with a bone.

"Stack Moore," he finally said, like the name tasted bad. "You stay away from him."

You blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness.

"Didn’t plan on inviting him for supper," you muttered, crossing your arms.

Daddy looked up then — sharp and dead serious. "I ain’t jokin’, girl. That boy’s got blood on his hands and more comin’. His kind don’t leave nothin’ but ruin behind."

You didn’t say anything. Mostly ‘cause you weren’t sure what you wanted to say. It was the first time a man had looked at you like you were a woman and not just the farmer’s wild daughter in scuffed boots. And maybe that was dangerous. Maybe Daddy was right. But maybe you didn’t give a damn.

"I know you think you’re grown,” he went on, his voice softening a bit, “but there’s men out there who take one look at a girl like you and see a challenge. Not a future. Stack Moore’s one of ‘em."

You swallowed, throat dry. "I’m not stupid."

"I didn’t say you were. I said he’s trouble. And I’ll be damned if I let him put you in harm’s way."

Silence hung between you. Thick as molasses. You could hear the wind picking up outside, dust scratching against the shutters. Storm was comin’, alright. But it wasn’t just in the sky.

You finally nodded. "I hear you."

He held your eyes for a long moment.

"You're better off with that Boone. If you really hafta marry. He's a nice boy and ain't gonna put you out when he has his fill."

Boone was a ranch hand your daddy had hired. He wasn't unattractive, no. He was tall, strong, worked with a smile and never complained. His parents were respectful and they were fans of how your daddy did business. Boone was who you should've been with, if you gave any man a chance.

He'd been pining after you since the two of you were sixteen.

You rolled your eyes, smirking in amusement.

"You like Boone so much, why ain't you marryin' him?"

Daddy’s face went dark, like you'd just knocked over a beehive.

"I’m your father. I make the calls ‘round here."

I folded my arms and leaned against the table, matching his glare. "Ain’t no law says I gotta marry the man you pick."

He set the gun down with a heavy thud. "It ain’t about law, girl. It’s about keepin’ you safe. Boone’s steady. He don’t bring trouble like those Moore boys."

You groaned.

"I ain’t sayin’ I’m takin’ up with Stack. But don’t reckon I’m gonna be Boone’s bride just ‘cause you want it."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You’re stubborn as a mule, just like your mama."

You knew that was the final word.

But that night, long after the lights were out and the crickets had taken over the silence, you found yourself sittin’ on the edge of your bed, fingers twitchin’, heart restless. Because even though you’d said you understood, and even though you knew what kind of man Stack Moore was…

You also knew you weren’t the kind of girl who turned her head away from fire.

Your friend Lizzie had to beg you to go out.

"I swear, Y/N, one night won’t kill you," she said, tugging at your arm as you rolled your eyes. "You need to dance. Laugh. Hell, even just drink something that ain’t water or dust."

You weren’t exactly the type for blues clubs or lipstick-stained whiskey glasses, but Lizzie had that kind of persistence that wore you down like river water over stone. So by the time the sun dipped low and the sky bled pink, you were dressed — not dolled up like the city girls, but enough to turn a few heads in town: a dark skirt that hugged your hips, boots polished cleaner than usual, and your wild curls pinned just enough to look like you tried.

Club Juke was loud, smoky, and packed to the rafters. Lights glowed like sin on velvet, blues players' moaned from the corner stage, and the air buzzed with liquor and secrets. You followed Lizzie in, your fingers hooked into the belt loop of her dress, and tried not to flinch when a man brushed too close or looked too long.

You made it to the bar and ordered something you didn’t even hear over the noise — some whiskey drink served in a chipped glass. Lizzie had already pulled a fella onto the dance floor, leaving you with a half-sip of burn down your throat and the sudden awareness that someone was watching you.

You didn’t have to look far.

There he was. Stack.

Sitting in a corner booth like he owned the place (because he did), sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned, smoke from a lit cigar curling around his jaw. His eyes were on you, unmoving. He didn’t smile. Didn’t wave. Just looked like he’d found exactly what he came here for.

Your pulse jumped. Damn it all.

You turned back to the bar, heart thudding. Maybe if you ignored him, he’d —

A warm voice slid in behind your ear like a sin on Sunday morning.

"Well now," Stack drawled, low and slow, "ain’t you a sight. Didn’t expect to see you in a place like this."

You didn’t turn around. Just took another sip of your drink, ignoring the heat rolling off him in waves.

"Didn’t come for you," you said coolly.

He chuckled. "Maybe not. But I figure fate don’t give a damn."

He moved beside you, close enough that your elbows brushed. You could smell leather, smoke, and something sharper — danger, maybe. He rested his forearms on the bar and nodded to the bartender.

"Two of whatever she’s drinkin’."

You shot him a glare. "What’re you doin’, Stack?"

He looked at you then — really looked — and for a moment, the noise of the club faded under his steady gaze.

"Tryin’ to figure out why a girl raised to fear me keeps lookin’ like she’s itchin’ to find out what makes me so damn interesting."

You swallowed.

Then, you fixed the usual glare back onto your face.

"Well, what the hell makes me so interesting? Everyone with a dick in this town can't look away."

Stack barked a quiet laugh, low and raspy, like he wasn’t expecting you to come back that sharp — but damn if he didn’t like it. He leaned in just a hair closer, eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes and back again, that grin of his growing just a little wider, a little darker.

"What makes you interesting?" he echoed, voice like smoke. "You walk into a room like you own the land under everyone’s feet. You don’t smile unless you mean it, and you don’t flinch at a man like me." He tilted his head, still watching you. "That kinda thing makes folks look. Makes ‘em wonder."

You crossed your arms, hip cocked, not letting him get the upper hand. "You mean it makes ‘em bet. Run their mouths. Act like they got a chance."

Stack shrugged. "Let ‘em. Boys bet. Men watch. I’m just here enjoyin’ the view."

You scoffed. "You’re all the same."

His expression shifted then — just a flicker of something deeper beneath the charm. He leaned in again, but this time his voice dropped lower, real low, just for you.

"No, darlin’. If I were like them, I’d already be braggin’ about what I could do to you. Not sittin’ here waitin’ to see what you’ll let me do."

That shut you up for a second. Long enough for the air between you to grow thick and heavy.

Before you could fire back, the music kicked into a new number — a slow, sultry blues rhythm that rolled across the club like honey.

Stack held out a hand. "Dance with me."

You looked at his hand like it might bite you.

"I don’t dance."

He smirked. "Then just stand close and sway. I promise I bite softer than I look."

You stared at him, heart thudding somewhere stupid.

And then, without knowing why, you placed your hand in his.

His palm was warm. His grip was gentle. And your daddy’s voice was nowhere in your head when Stack pulled you onto the floor like he’d been waitin’ his whole damn life for this.

The floor didn’t feel real under your boots.

Stack's hand rested firm against the small of your back, pulling you close — but not too close. Just enough to feel the heat rollin' off him in waves, enough to smell the faint scent of whiskey and smoke on his collar. Your fingers hovered just barely on his shoulder, stiff at first, like you were afraid of giving in.

"You’re stiff as a fence post," he murmured against your temple, voice rough and warm. "Ain’t nobody lookin’ to bite."

"You just told me you were," you shot back, eyes narrowing even as you swayed to the rhythm.

That earned a quiet chuckle from him — one that rumbled in his chest and traveled straight through you.

The music curled around the two of you like a fog, blues guitar crooning through the haze of cigar smoke and perfume. Other dancers swayed nearby, but none quite like you and Stack. You moved like magnets pulling in, fighting it, pulling in again. A war with no guns — just glances, breath, and the occasional accidental brush of leg against leg.

His thumb stroked a small, deliberate circle at the back of your waist. You stiffened — just slightly — and he caught it.

"You alright, spitfire?" he asked, voice a low purr. "Ain’t used to men touchin’ you, or just not used to likin’ it?"

You glared up at him, lips parting to throw fire — but the words got stuck somewhere between your pride and the warmth blooming beneath your ribs.

"…You think just ‘cause you talk smooth, I’m gonna fall at your feet?" you finally snapped.

Stack leaned in, close enough that his breath kissed the edge of your jaw.

"No," he said. "I think you’ll fight me every inch of the way. And I like a fight."

The tension snapped taut between you, so tight it hummed. His hand slid just a breath lower on your back. Your fingers curled tighter into his shirt. You weren’t smiling, but you weren’t pulling away, either.

"I ain’t your conquest," you muttered.

"No," Stack said, eyes locked to yours like a vow. "You’re the kind of woman a man earns. Or dies tryin’."

The music slowed to a crawl. The last long note of a saxophone kissed the silence.

Neither of you moved.

You didn’t know who leaned in first — but suddenly your face was inches from his. Lips barely apart. Breath tangled.

"Lord.. If you ain't the devil."

His mouth curved just slightly — not a smile, not quite — something darker. Hungrier.

"Then what’s that make you, sweetheart?" he murmured, breath brushing your lips. "The lamb wanderin’ into the fire… or the flame that keeps draggin’ me back to hell?"

You blinked up at him, your heart thudding so loud you swore the whole club could hear it.

Everything inside you screamed to pull away — to do what you’d always done when boys got too close, when their hands wandered and their eyes lingered too long. But Stack wasn’t like those boys. He didn’t leer. He didn’t plead.

He waited.

Like a man sure of the storm and patient enough to let it come to him.

Your voice came low. Dangerous.

"I ain’t no lamb. And I sure as hell ain’t chasin’ you."

He laughed — a quiet, genuine sound that rolled through his chest.

"No," he said again, like he was committing it to memory. "I'm chasin' you, baby."

Then his hand slid up — not low, not greedy — just firm and reverent, fingers skimming the side of your jaw like he was feeling the edges of something sacred.

"And I’m tellin’ you now," he added, voice dropping like molasses in your ear. "You keep lookin’ at me like that… I will find out what you taste like when you stop pretending you hate me."

Before you could bite back, before you could even think, the club doors burst open again —

And Boone’s voice came, loud and panicked: "Y/N! What the hell are you doin’?!"

The spell shattered.

You jerked back like burned, your spine stiffening, eyes snapping toward the entrance.

Boone’s chest heaved, face red and soaked in sweat. Eyes darted from you to Stack, and the rage built fast — like a match tossed in dry brush.

Stack turned lazily toward him, jaw twitching. The charming smirk faded into something else. Something sharp.

"You know," he said, stepping just slightly in front of you, “if he was any kinda gentleman, he wouldn't swear at a lady."

Boone didn’t flinch. Just pointed a finger, shaking with fury. "Your daddy’s gonna hear ‘bout this. And when he does, he’ll bury that bastard himself."

Your breath caught.

"Boone, it's—"

"Oh hell no. This ends now."

You stiffened, pulling away from Stack slightly. A glare rose to your face.

"You think you control anything I do? You're daddy's ranch hand, you ain't his informant, and you definitely ain't my husband, so I don't reckon you should be telling me what ends now."

Boone's jaw dropped.

"You know this is against his damn wishes. He wants you with me, not with Stack Moore."

Stack smiled, his gold grill glinting in the light of the juke.

"She don't want you, Boone Jones. Hell," he snorted, stepping forward. "She don't even really want me. I suggest you get to movin' before my brother and I toss you out this juke."

Boone’s eyes flashed, muscles tightening like coiled steel. "You got a real mouth on you, Stack. But don’t think for a second I’m scared of you or your brother."

He stepped forward, the heat between them crackling like a storm about to break.

You swallowed hard, heart pounding. The tension was thick enough to slice through, and neither man was backing down.

Stack’s grin twisted, teeth flashing like daggers. "Well then, looks like we got ourselves a showdown. You ready to back that up, Boone?"

Boone faltered for a moment. He spotted the gun on Stack's hip, glinting under his jacket. He was torn. But eventually, he turned away from the two of you.

"Get home, Y/N. I'm warnin' you. Your daddy'll be out lookin' for you soon as I tell him this shit."

With that, Boone spat on the floor and walked out.

The jukebox sputtered a slow country tune as Boone’s heavy footsteps faded into the night. Stack turned to you, smirking like he’d just won a war without firing a shot.

"Well, looks like the ranch hand knows when to fold ‘em."

You stood frozen, the weight of Boone’s warning settling deep in your chest.

Stack’s voice softened, almost mockingly gentle. "Now, tell me… what’re you gonna do with all this heat you’re sittin’ on?"

Your eyes burned with quiet defiance, but inside, a storm was brewing — one that wouldn’t be settled so easily.

Without another word, the defiance and want burning in your chest boiled over. You pulled Elias Moore into a crushing kiss, ruffling his suit jacket.

Stack’s smirk faltered for just a heartbeat, a flicker of surprise flashing behind his gold teeth. His hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing the side of your jaw with a teasing, deliberate lightness that sent a shiver down your spine. His voice dropped, low and dangerous, like a velvet promise edged with steel.

"Careful, baby. You’re playin’ with fire."

But you didn’t pull away. Instead, your breath hitched, and your heartbeat thundered in your ears like a wild stallion breaking free. The air between you thickened, charged with a heat that wasn’t just from the summer night or the sticky tension in the jukebox’s flickering neon glow. It was raw, electric, and impossible to ignore.

Your fingers curled into the lapel of his jacket, tugging him closer, hungry for the heat that radiated off his body. The scent of leather, musk, and something uniquely Stack invaded your senses. Your lips pressed harder against his, demanding more, needing more. His hands found your waist, strong and possessive, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left — only the desperate dance of two bodies claiming their own wild territory.

His mouth moved over yours with fierce intention, teasing and tasting, trailing a path of fire down your neck. You arched against him, breath mingling, every nerve alight. The weight of Boone’s warning dissolved somewhere in the back of your mind, drowned out by the thunderous storm between you and Stack.

Stack’s voice, rough and low, was a whisper against your skin. "You gonna be my woman. One way or another."

His hands slid lower, fingers digging into the curve of your hips, grounding you even as your pulse raced with reckless abandon. You tugged at the buttons of his shirt, exposing the warm skin beneath, your nails grazing, marking. Every touch was a challenge, every breath a promise.

Your lips parted in a silent plea, and Stack answered, his tongue tracing the line of your jaw, down to the swell of your collarbone. The heat in your chest ignited into a blaze, scorching and sweet. It wasn’t just passion — it was war, desire, defiance, and something dangerously close to surrender.

The air thickened, charged and heavy with all the words neither of you dared say. His fingers tightened on your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, as if he wanted to press you into him and make sure you couldn’t slip away. Your hands trembled slightly, caught between the urge to push him away and the desperate craving to keep this fire alive.

Stack’s breath hitched as his mouth dipped lower, kissing the hollow at your throat, leaving a trail of heat that seared through your skin. Your fingers tangled in the coarse fabric of his shirt, dragging it open just enough to feel the steady thump of his heart beneath your touch. Every beat was a promise, wild and relentless.

That night, you thought you'd be in wicked trouble with your daddy.

You got home and he was sitting in his chair, rifle by his side. There was no glare. No anger. No fight. Just disappointment.

His eyes met yours — quiet, heavy, like the weight of every unspoken word between you.

"Boone stopped by. Said you was almost kissin' Stack in the back of his juke joint. That the truth?"

You froze in the doorway, the screen creaking shut behind you. Your boots felt heavy against the floorboards.

"Is that the truth? I won't ask again." he asked again, voice like gravel and smoke, worn down from years of silence that meant more than shouting ever could.

You swallowed, but your throat was dry. "Yes, sir."

Your daddy looked away then, toward the window. The moonlight spilled across the hardwood like spilled milk, cold and pale. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even shift in his chair.

“Didn’t raise you to chase heat just ‘cause it burns bright.”

You stepped further inside, your heart thudding in your chest. “It ain’t just heat.”

He turned back to you, slow and steady, the way storms roll in without hurry. "That boy’s trouble, Y/N. His people bring it like flies bring rot. You think Stack Moore gives a damn about you come winter? When the crops are dry and the nights are long?"

“I ain’t askin’ for your blessing,” you said, quietly. “But I ain’t askin’ for forgiveness, either.”

His jaw worked, clenched and tight. The rifle stayed at his side, but his hands curled on the armrests like he was gripping the weight of every fear a father could carry.

"You know I’d ride to hell for you, girl." "I know."

A beat. A breath. The porch creaked under the weight of the wind.

"Then don’t make me bury you for someone who wouldn’t ride back. If you think Stack Moore is worth it, I can't stop ya," he asserted wisely. "But he better be. Because if a single tear drops to this floor and he's responsible for it, I'm buryin' him. And his brother."

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t let it show.

He wasn’t threatening. He was promising.

That old chair creaked as he leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, eyes pinning you like a hawk pins its prey.

"You understand me, girl?" His voice was low, but there was thunder in it — a quiet kind of rage built on love and fear and the kind of heartbreak only a father can carry.

You nodded, chin up even though your chest was tight. "I understand."

He let out a long breath through his nose, like he’d been holding it for years.

"Then go on to bed. And think real hard ‘bout the kind of man you’re givin’ your name to. 'Cause once you do… you don't get to take it back."

You stood there for a moment longer — the screen door groaning open behind you again, the wind pushing against your back like even the night was trying to warn you.

But you didn’t look back.

The next day, Stack stopped by the ranch, as if he was askin' for a gun to go off towards his head. You were out back, tending to the horses, brushing your favorite tenderly.

The horse, Annie was her name, blew air out of her nose, as if she knew trouble was approaching. You cooed at her.

"Settle down, pretty girl. Ain't nothin' comin' to get you."

But even as you said it, your eyes flicked toward the dust trail creeping down the long dirt drive — slow and deliberate. A dark car. Stack’s.

Annie shifted under your hand, hooves stamping once against the earth. You didn’t blame her. You felt the same tight pull in your chest. That mix of anger and ache, nerves and want, all tangled together like barbed wire.

Stack stepped out like he owned the goddamn world. Boots still dirty from whatever hellhole he'd walked through last, and that cocky tilt to his mouth like he'd slept just fine while the storm he stirred brewed all night long.

He spotted you in the paddock, and his smirk deepened like he’d expected a bullet and got a welcome mat instead.

You didn’t wave. Didn’t call out.

Just kept brushing Annie’s side like you weren’t burning from the inside out.

Stack leaned on the fence, one arm slung over the top rail, eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing that ever moved slow in his world.

"You didn’t call," he said, voice low and teasing. "Thought maybe Boone talked you outta me."

You looked up then, slow and measured.

"No one talks me outta anything, Stack. Least of all a man who runs when daddy’s rifle’s on the porch."

That knocked the smirk clean off his face for a second. Then he chuckled — slow, deep.

"Figured I’d come back ‘round today. Let your old man know I ain’t runnin’. I’m standin’."

You shook your head, a bitter little smile tugging at your lips.

"He already knows. Question is… do you?"

Stack’s jaw twitched. His eyes dropped to your hands on the horse — the way they moved, firm but gentle. Like you could break things and fix them all the same.

He straightened off the fence.

"I ain’t scared of your daddy," he said. "And I ain't here for a quick trip to the sheets. You're the typa woman worth marryin'."

You froze.

Annie huffed beside you, but you barely heard her over the rush of blood in your ears. Stack’s words hit you like a hammer to the ribs — not because you didn’t believe him, but because deep down… maybe you did.

Still, you kept your hands busy, brushing through Annie’s mane like she was the only thing keeping you grounded.

"You don’t even know what marryin’ me means, Stack Moore," you said quietly. "It ain’t just Sunday dresses and kissin’ under porch lights. It’s long winters and hard land and family that don’t forget where you came from."

He stepped into the paddock without asking, boots crunching over the straw and dirt. That alone told you something — Stack had never waited for an invitation in his life.

"I know it won’t be easy," he said, stopping just a few feet from you. "I know your daddy don’t think I’m good enough. Hell, maybe I ain’t. But I know this — I’d rather fight every damn day for your heart than spend a single one without it."

Your hand paused on Annie’s shoulder. For the first time, you looked at him — really looked.

There was no grin now. No sharp teeth. Just a man, standing there with his scars and swagger stripped down to something real.

"You’re serious," you said, more to yourself than him.

"I’ve been in fights I ain’t walked away from. I’ve stared down the barrel more times than I can count. But you?" He stepped closer, voice low and steady. "You’re the first thing that’s ever made me scared to lose."

Your chest tightened.

Goddamn him.

Because you wanted to believe it. Wanted to throw your arms around him, take him in the barn, and kiss the past right off his mouth. But you’d learned too young that want didn’t make a man stay. Promises were easy when the sun was out — it was the nights that told the truth.

So you swallowed hard and said the only thing you could.

"Then don’t say you want me, Stack. Show me."

His eyes flickered, something fierce and warm lighting in them.

"I intend to, darlin’," he said. "Every damn day. Starting now."

And when he reached for your hand, you let him take it. Just for a moment.

Just long enough to remember how it felt.

He raised it to his mouth. Kissed it gently, if Stack Moore was even capable of being gentle.

"Now.. Take me inside to see your daddy. I'm sure we can find somethin' to agree on. Gotta get along before I ask for the blessin'."

You snorted, tying Annie up and kicking his boot with your own.

"It ain't that easy. You've got to court me before you marry me, and even then, you gotta impress daddy."

Stack chuckled low in his chest, the sound rich like molasses and twice as thick with trouble.

"Darlin’, I didn’t think anything about you would be easy," he said, falling in step beside you as you started toward the house. "Hell, if you were, I wouldn’t be out here riskin’ a shotgun sermon and a boot up my ass."

You cut him a sideways glance, amused despite yourself. "You’ll get more than a boot if you don’t stop runnin’ that mouth."

He grinned, flashing that infamous gold tooth like a warning sign. "That mouth’s gonna be the reason you marry me, just you wait."

You stopped at the bottom of the steps, boots crunching in the dirt. Stack did too, waiting for your lead. Waiting, you realized, for your say-so — and that was rare.

"You serious about this?" you asked, voice lower now. No teasing. No fire. Just the honest question of a woman who knew how easily hearts cracked under pressure.

He nodded once. No swagger this time. Just steel and heat.

"I want a wife. I want babies. I wanna hang my guns up until I need 'em. And I want you. So, little lady, let's go."

You held in a tear, the only tear that had ever developed in your cold e/c eyes since mama died. Then, you willingly threaded your fingers into Stack's and tugged him towards the house.

[spencersmopbucket]

With the Devil | Remmick

Pairing: Remmick x Reader Summary: Mama and Daddy had always taught you not to let evil into your mind — but they'd never taught you how not to fall in love with the devil.

Themes & Warnings: corruption, smut, oral (fem receiving), mentions of religion, vampire:))))))

IDC REMMICK IS SO HOT

You were perfect. That's what Mama always told you — you'd had it ingrained into your mind since you were just a baby. You were beautiful, you were kind, you were faithful.

Your Mama was a medicine woman. Your daddy was the town preacher. And you, their little girl, were the most eligible bachelorette in the town of Clarksdale. Your wild, curly hair was always pinned back, nails always painted, lips always glossed. You dressed cleanly and modestly. Your dark, unmarred skin was luminous and moisturized, allowing you a glow that was incomparable to any other girl your age.

You were never late to school. You never spent too much time talking to the boys. You prayed every night, stocking-clad knees on the wood floor, whispering softly.

You always imagined, with the help of your parents, a husband. Firm and kind, with a straight white smile and clean hands. A businessman, maybe. A man that frequented church. Nothing like them dogs every other woman raved about.

The thought of them made you scoff.

When you thought of marriage, you thought of what your Mama and Daddy had coached you.

Until you met him.

Your undoing. Your downfall. Your sin.

You saw him first on a Thursday. The air was heavy with summer and sin — one of those Mississippi nights that made the cotton stick to your skin and the devil’s whisper easier to hear. The juke was loud, pulsing with laughter and music you weren’t allowed to dance to. But you stood just outside it, waiting for your older friend to finish flirting with the barkeep, your Bible clutched to your chest like armor.

That’s when you felt it. Not saw — felt. A presence. Ancient. Unholy. Beautiful. Dangerous, above all else.

He was leaning against the fence, dressed like a man who had nowhere to be and no one to answer to. A shirt too fine for the Delta heat. Eyes that glowed red beneath the brim of a black hat. And a grin — slow and sharp — like he knew exactly how you’d taste when you broke.

He didn’t belong in Clarksdale — not with the dust of this town on his boots, not with the way his eyes burned like coals under moonlight. And yet, he leaned there like he’d been born of the very land, like the shadows curled around his boots to rest.

His gaze slid to you. Slow. Deliberate.

“Evenin’, dove,” he said, his voice warm and rough, touched by that unmistakable lilt — like poetry slurred in whiskey. “Bit far from the chapel, aren’t ya?”

You clutched your Bible tighter, the leather cover slick against your palms. You were taught to fear the devil. No one told you he’d look at you like that. Like you were temptation.

“I’m waiting on someone,” you managed, your voice barely audible.

He smiled at that — not kindly. No. It was indulgent. Knowing.

“Oh, I can see that,” he said, pushing off the fence with the kind of lazy grace that made the air tighten. “Tell me, do all the good girls carry scripture like a shield?”

Your throat went dry. You opened your mouth — to quote something, maybe, to say something about God’s protection, or how you weren’t interested — but the words stuck. Because he was close now, and the scent of him was thick with smoke and cedar and something sweet beneath it all. Not perfume. Not cologne. Something unnatural. Something wrong.

“Relax,” he murmured, eyes trailing across your face like a caress. “Ain’t come to hurt you.”

You didn’t believe him. But you wanted to.

“Who are you?” you asked, breathless.

He touched the brim of his hat, the red in his eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

“Remmick.”

The name hit the air like a curse.

Your stomach sank. You’d heard it before. Old wives whispered it over boiling pots and under their breath in the graveyard. They said Remmick had danced with witches and kissed the mouths of holy women. Said he’d killed everyone in the Smokestack juke joint in 1932 and made an army of the dead. You'd always thought he was just a scary story, just a wives tale. He didn't exist. He couldn't.

Vampires weren't real.

Your mama once told you never to say his name aloud. That if you said it, he’d know. But you hadn’t said it. He had. And still — he looked at you like he’d known you your whole life.

Like he’d been waiting.

His smirk curled around his lips, like a snake up a vine.

"We'll see each other again, lovely dove. I swear it. Get home safe now." He said, his Irish brogue evident.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your feet were rooted to the ground like the Magnolia trees your mama prayed under. The juke's laughter turned to static in your ears, the cicadas buzzed too loud, and the warm wind brushed past your dress like a warning.

Remmick tipped his hat a little lower, and just like that — he was gone.

Not walked away. Not turned and faded. Gone.

The air rushed back into your lungs, sharp and stinging, like it had been waiting too long to fill you. You looked around — no sign of him. Just the night, heavy and wet with the scent of honeysuckle and trouble.

Your older friend reappeared a few minutes later, giggling and smelling like bourbon, none the wiser. “You alright, sugar?” she asked, fanning herself. “You look like you seen a ghost.”

You shook your head. “N-no. I’m fine.” But you weren’t.

Because you walked home clutching that Bible like it could still save you — but your fingers trembled, and your mind reeled, and somewhere deep in your chest, your heart had started to ache.

And worse than that… A part of you hoped he really would come back.

You knew you were done for, just like you'd heard in all of the wives tales. Once Remmick chose you, it crept in like a secret, hushed words in the back of your mind. He slowly ate you alive until all that was left was sin.

The nights after that first meeting grew darker, heavier. You tried to hold onto what Mama and Daddy taught you — faith, purity, the promise of salvation — but every shadow seemed to whisper his name. Every breeze carried the ghost of his voice, low and honeyed, calling you closer.

You found yourself drawn to places you never would’ve dared before: the cracked sidewalks under flickering streetlamps, the edges of the cotton fields where the cicadas sang their mournful song. And always, there was that ache — a hunger that wasn’t just physical, but something deeper, darker.

Remmick’s presence slithered through your thoughts like a poison and a balm all at once. You were afraid, but you were enthralled. His sin was infectious, but it felt like home.

You didn’t want to admit it. But you were already his.

And with every secret moment stolen beneath the moon’s watchful gaze, the old you slipped away, unraveling like a thread in a worn quilt.

Mama’s prayers echoed in your mind, fragile and fading, as you whispered into the night:

“Lord, save me…” But even as the words left your lips, you knew.

You were lost. And loving every breath of it.

The next time you saw Remmick, you were lying in bed. This night was worse than the others — you couldn't sleep. It evaded you. You sweat into your sheets, twisted around your legs as you tossed and turned.

You could feel him. Inside of you. In your chest, in your head, calling out to you.

Your heart hammered like a drumbeat in the quiet dark, matching the rhythm of the whisper curling through your thoughts. You dared not speak his name aloud — Mama’s warning still burned in your memory— but the pull was undeniable, a silent siren song that rooted you to the bed, torn between fear and craving.

Then, as if summoned by your unspoken plea, a shadow slipped through the cracked window, sliding across your room like liquid smoke. Remmick.

His eyes, red embers glowing softly in the moonlight, fixed on you with a hunger that was both fierce and gentle, like he was seeing through to the very soul you fought to protect.

“Restless, dove?” He smirked in amusement. You straightened, your muscles tense under his gaze. You were scared, yes. But you couldn’t ignore the creeping satisfaction under your skin.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

He stepped closer to the bed, ancient hands running along your cotton sheets. You watched, biting your lip.

“Strugglin’ so hard to sleep. Because of me. Yet you won’t so much as whisper my name.” He said, his voice honey soaked. He was designed to be alluring. It’s how he caught his prey, how he claimed all those lives decades ago.

He leaned in closer, his frame casting a long shadow over your bed, his fingers ghosting over the sheets like he was memorizing the shape of your restlessness. The scent of him —earthy, metallic, something older than blood and fire — curled in your nose and made your breath hitch.

“You’re afraid that sayin’ it will make this real,” he murmured, voice low enough to pass for a dream. “But you know better, dove. This was real the moment I saw you. The moment you looked back.”

Your throat was dry, your heart pounding like a trapped bird inside your chest. You could still feel the weight of your Mama’s cross necklace at your collarbone, tucked beneath the lace of your nightdress. But even that holy pressure couldn’t stop the heat curling in your belly at his nearness.

Remmick’s lips quirked higher at your silence, his gaze dark with something ancient, possessive. “You keep prayin’,” he said, brushing the edge of your pillow, “but deep down, you don’t want to be saved.”

You flinched at the truth of it.

He laughed, soft and slow, like he’d just caught a fish on the line.

“There it is,” he whispered, kneeling beside your bed, his face inches from yours now. “That feeling in your guts… That’s not fear, is it?”

Your squeezed your eyes closed, laying back.

“Leave, devil.” You whispered back, holding onto the last few bits of restraint you had.

Remmick didn’t move.

He hovered there beside your bed, his breath brushing your cheek like the breeze before a storm, thick with static and promise.

“Now why would I do that,” he said softly, voice curling around the edges of your will, “when you called me here?”

Your eyes flew open.

“I didn’t—”

“Oh, but you did,” he interrupted, with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Every night you twist in those sheets, whispering into the dark. Every time you dream of fire and teeth and touch. That’s a prayer too. Just not the kind your mama taught you.”

You turned your face away, jaw clenched, but your body betrayed you — heat rising, breath catching.

He leaned in closer, his voice a sinful hymn against your ear.

“Say my name,” he coaxed. “Just once. Let it taste your tongue. You’ll feel better. I promise.”

The devil’s hand rested just beside your head, not quite touching you — but you swore you could feel the chill of it down to your bones.

And God help you…

You wanted to.

His voice was velvet-drenched sin, a low murmur that made the air around you hum.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered again, and this time, there was something darker in it — not just coaxing, but claiming. His fingers finally brushed your cheek, light as a ghost, burning like a brand. “Let me in. Say my name, hm?”

You should’ve screamed. You should’ve prayed.

Instead, you turned your head back toward him, lips parted, breath trembling. Your soul stood on the edge of something vast and terrible — but it didn’t want to step back.

“Remmick,” you breathed, soft as a confession.

The effect was immediate.

His smile deepened into something hungry, almost reverent. Like he’d waited a century just to hear your voice say it.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured, dragging the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip. “Took you long enough.”

And with that, the last of your restraint crumbled — and the devil stepped through the door you’d just opened.

Before you could second-guess yourself, his lips crashed against yours.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate, searing, like a man starved of something he’d been craving for far too long. His hand slid into your hair, fingers curling tight as he pulled you closer, devouring every soft sound that left your throat. His mouth tasted like smoke and blood and something impossibly sweet. Something addictive.

Your body arched before you even realized it, your hands clinging to the front of his shirt, as if you could tether yourself to the storm he brought with him.

He groaned into the kiss, a low, guttural sound that rumbled from his chest, and the bed creaked beneath his weight as he pushed closer. His other hand found your waist, dragging you against him like he had every right to.

“Good, good girl,” he rasped, voice thick with satisfaction as his thumb brushed the corner of your kiss-swollen mouth. His eyes burned like embers in the dark. “Mine now.”

His grip on your waist tightened, possessive, unyielding — not cruel, but claiming. Worshipful in a way that felt far more dangerous than hate ever could.

“No god can take you back.”

The words slithered into your soul, final and eternal. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pray. You didn’t run.

Because in that moment — half-wrapped in cotton sheets and sin, heart thudding in time with the devil’s touch — you knew he was right.

You belonged to him.

And you didn’t want to be saved.

His hand quickly found your nightgown, and before you knew it:

Riiiip.

You wore nothing underneath. Your body was exposed to him completely, glistening with the sweat of a sleepless night, the slight fear he induced, the anticipation. His eyes traced your body predatorily, his tongue swiping his lip.

He hovered above you, gaze searing as it drank in every inch of bare skin, your breath shallow beneath him. The heat between you was suffocating — not just from the summer air, but from the charged silence, the pull of something ancient and forbidden threading itself through every heartbeat.

“Look at you,” Remmick murmured, voice low and reverent, almost mocking in its tenderness. “Waitin’ for me. Not a prayer in that pretty little head. What would Mama and Daddy think? Hm?”

He grinned as he said it, knowing the answer didn’t matter. His fingers ghosted over your collarbone, then lower, savoring the way you trembled — not just from fear, but from surrender.

“You were their pride,” he went on, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Now look at you… Writhin’ in sin for the devil himself.”

Your breath hitched, shame and desire tangling somewhere deep in your chest. His name nearly slipped from your lips again, and he heard it — felt it — in the way your body arched, in the pulse pounding at your throat.

Remmick chuckled darkly. “Good girl.”

His voice was velvet, soaked in smoke.

“‘S alright. I’m gonna make it all better now,” Remmick purred, his accent curling around the words like smoke.

His hand slid behind your neck, tilting your head gently, like you were something delicate — precious, even. His touch was warm, reverent, wicked. Everything about him was temptation draped in silk and shadow.

His mouth was hot — too hot — like the kiss of summer lightning right before a storm breaks. Wet, slow, deliberate. He mouthed at the base of your throat, then dragged his lips to your pulse, leaving kisses that were more like claims than affection. Another. Then another. Each one messier, hungrier, until your skin buzzed beneath the heat of him, your breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.

“What a pretty noise, baby. Keep ’em comin’,” Remmick murmured, his voice curling around your ear like smoke, smug and sinful.

His mouth never left your skin and he chased every sound you made like it was his favorite hymn, each whimper and gasp a confession. His fingers gripped your hips with just enough pressure to remind you who was in control, and his teeth scraped lightly at your throat, not biting — not yet — just warning.

“Don’t hold back on me now,” he rasped, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I want all of it. Every sound you’ve been too good to make. Every little song you swallowed when it was just you and your fingers at night.”

Your breath hitched, caught between the need to resist and the desperate want to surrender. His words wrapped around you like a dark lullaby, drawing out every hidden desire you thought you’d buried deep.

“Remmick..” you moaned.

His smile deepened, sharp and possessive. “That’s it, baby. Say my name like you mean it.”

His fingers traveled towards where you burned the brightest, where his attention was most needed. You whimpered, your hips bucking involuntarily, exposing all the sinful thoughts that hid themselves so far back in your mind.

His thumb traced the wet folds. You gasped.

“There, there. I’ve gotcha.”

You could’ve cried as he sunk down on the bed, pulling your sticky thighs apart. He licked his lips, looking at the glistening scene between your legs.

“Gonna ruin you. And yer gonna thank me, sweet girl.”

You shivered under his touch, every nerve in your body accepting its fate. You no longer wanted to resist. There wasn’t an inkling of it. The devil had claimed you.

And you were already his willing captive.

His tongue met your pussy, licking a warm, wet stripe onto the center. You mewled, your legs involuntarily closing, but he forced them back open with a dark, warning look.

He leaned back in again, wrapping his lips around your needy bud, lapping it with his tongue and then sucking. You moaned, your hand on autopilot, coming down to wrap each finger into his thick, messy hair.

“Remmick!”

You felt him literally grin into your cunt, releasing a lewd sound as he slurped another firm suck, making you twitch.

His tongue worked wonders, exploring every fold, tracing every contour. Your eyes rolled back into your head as he worked, lewd, wet sounds filling your room.

He came back off, his mouth glistening.

“Where’s your God now? This pretty pussy has never belonged to anyone but Remmick. It always has.”

With that, he gathered spit into his mouth, dropping it onto your drenched cunt. Using his tongue, he spread the warm substance around, painting your pussy with saliva.

Then, he delivered the crushing blow.

One more suck on your clit, giving you just enough pressure.

Your back arched, stars filled your vision, and you let out a languid moan. He chuckled into your cunt, letting you ride his face all the way through your orgasm.

When he was done, he pulled away. A string of spit and cum pulled away with him. He wiped it with his hand, sucking it from his fingers in a sinful show.

You laid, exhausted, chest heaving. You’d never experienced something like that before. You’d cum, yes, the only thing about your life you’d hidden from your parents. But it was never like that. Never that electric. And for once, you didn’t even feel guilty.

Remmick was growing on you.

Sensing your exhaustion, he hummed. “I haven’t much time ‘til sunrise, dove. But I’ll let ya get a peaceful sleep for a moment.”

He laid down next to you. You froze at first, confusion written on your face. But as if he had calming powers, you eased almost immediately, his scent filling your nose and his presence melting your fear away. This wasn’t normal. This was adjustment to sin. Adjustment to the devil. But you couldn’t much care right now.

Remmick shifted closer, his hand sliding beneath the sheets to rest just above your hip, possessive and protective all at once. You shouldn’t have felt safe — not in the arms of something whispered about in church warnings and graveyard stories — but you did. Terrifyingly so.

His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, and you let yourself match it. He wasn’t human. He wasn’t righteous. He wasn’t even good.

But he was yours now.

His words dripped like warm molasses in your ear, thick and saccharine, laced with something darker.

“Waited for ya for ages. Decades,” Remmick whispered, curling around you like smoke, his fingers tracing invisible promises along your spine. “A beautiful bride, you’ll make.”

You shivered, not from fear — not anymore — but from something ancient stirring in your bones. Something that recognized him. Something that belonged to him.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

But you didn’t pull away.

“Sleep. I won’t be here when ya wake, but.. when night falls, you can always call my name.”

[spencersmopbucket]

"If you use em dash in your works, it makes them look AI generated. No real human uses em dash."

Imaging thinking actual human writers are Not Real because they use... professional writing in their works.

Imagine thinking millions of people who have been using em dash way before AI becomes a thing are all robots.

REBLOG IF YOU'RE A HUMAN AND YOU USE EM DASH

[spencersmopbucket]

Jabberjay Calls | Finnick Odair

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Summary: You black out in the Quarter Quell — when you awaken, you believe you've killed your husband. The jabberjays don't help.

The next thing you knew, you were sprinting.

Your chest heaved with full, panicked breaths, each less relieving than the last. You ducked tree limbs, jumped over rocks, did anything you could to just keep running. You were confused. You were terrified.

A scent caught your nose. Metallic, one you'd smelled before. One you hadn't smelled since your Games. Since you'd last slit a throat.

Glancing down, you let out a gasp, almost loosing your footing.

Your hands were covered in a thick sheen of blood, shining in the light of dusk.

You stumbled to a halt, chest rising and falling as the world tilted beneath your feet. The blood was warm, sticky, too real. And it wasn’t yours.

“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling as the trees around you pressed in too close. “No, no, no—”

What the hell had you done? What had you done that was so bad you couldn't remember it?

Your legs gave out beneath you, knees slamming into the mossy forest floor as you stared at your stained hands. You didn’t remember what happened — and that was the worst part. Because in the arena, if you couldn’t remember, it meant you lost control. And losing control meant someone else had died.

A sob left your lips. Your breaths became more frantic, shorter, and not relieving at all. You felt like you couldn't get a single molecule of oxygen into your lungs.

“Finnick,” you choked, your voice breaking on his name.

The jabberjays heard it.

They swarmed.

Suddenly, the trees were echoing with his voice — agonized, screaming in pain. Your name on his lips. Begging. Crying. Screaming like his soul was being ripped out.

Your hands flew to your ears. “No! Stop it! It’s not real!”

But it was real, wasn’t it? You’d blacked out. You’d been covered in blood. You’d heard nothing from him since you'd come back to. You'd heard nothing from the one that was usually always by your side.

You curled up, sobs wracking from your body, until you felt it. The acidic feeling in your stomach, crawling up your throat. Leaning over, vomit sprayed from your lips. You choked and coughed as the jabberjays continued to wail, your husband screaming in despair.

Blood smeared onto your clothes and onto the ground as you tried to brace yourself. The smell of the blood unearthed another wave of vomit.

You collapsed forward on your hands, shaking so violently it felt like your bones might crack under the weight of your grief. The jabberjays were merciless. They repeated his voice like a broken record —twisting it, warping it. "Please! Don’t — Name — please don’t leave me!" His cry pierced the air like a knife through flesh. "It’s me! I love you!"

And you believed it. You believed every damn word.

Because why else would the blood be there? Why else would you be alone?

Your mind was spiraling, slipping into that abyss you hadn’t touched since your own Games. Since you’d thought survival meant severing yourself from humanity. But Finnick had stitched something soft into your heart again. Something real.

Now it was tearing apart.

You retched again — dry this time, your throat raw and lips trembling. You didn’t know how long you stayed like that. Minutes? Hours?

You looked up to the sky, a scream tearing through your throat. Hot tears flowed down your face.

You didn't even register the strong arms wrapping around your frame. The familiar scent. The quieting of the jabberjays as you were hauled off somewhere else.

You didn’t fight the arms pulling you in — maybe because part of you thought you were finally dying, and it was death cradling you. Maybe because it didn’t matter anymore.

But then — a voice. Not the high-pitched mimicry of the jabberjays. Not a hallucination.

A real voice.

“Hey. Hey, hey — breathe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Finnick.

You blinked, your vision swimming, unable to believe it until his thumb brushed under your eye, wiping away tears and blood and dirt like he was afraid you’d shatter.

"I hurt you—" You sobbed frantically, looking down at your hands. "Blood, there's blood—"

“Honey, no, no, hey — look at me.” Finnick cupped your face in both hands, gently but firmly pulling your gaze back to his. His eyes —those sea glass eyes — were wide, desperate, but whole. “You didn’t hurt me. Not a scratch, okay? This isn’t my blood.”

You shook your head, breath hitching, but he didn’t let you slip away again.

“I swear it,” he said, his voice trembling now, cracking like a wave against rocks. “You blacked out for maybe two minutes. You bolted into the trees. I ran after you. I never stopped.”

Your hands hovered uselessly between your bodies, stained and trembling. “Then whose blood is it?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “There were mutts in the area. Could be one of them. Could be one of the other tributes who didn’t make it out in time. But it’s not yours, and it’s not mine.”

“I thought I killed you,” you whispered, eyes welling again. “And the birds — they used your voice. They knew what it would do to me.”

Finnick’s expression crumpled for a brief, unbearable moment before he pulled you in, arms wrapping tight like he could protect you from everything if he just held hard enough.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I should’ve gotten to you sooner.”

Your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt, still trembling, still unsure if any of this was real. But he was solid. He was warm. His heartbeat thrummed steadily against your ear, proof of life.

“I couldn’t hear you,” you whispered, voice wrecked and thin. “I kept calling, but I couldn’t find you. I thought — God, Finnick, I thought—”

“I know,” he said, breaking a little with every word. “I know. I was calling for you too.”

You felt his hand slide up your back, anchoring you, grounding you. He didn’t try to rush you or pull away. He just held you, like he was trying to hold your broken pieces together.

The jabberjays were gone now. The screams had faded. All that was left was the humid quiet of the jungle and your ragged breathing as you clung to him.

You began to cry again. To sob. You didn't know why. Fear. Relief. You clutched the material of Finnick's suit.

"Shh, baby. I've got you." He cooed, pulling you impossibly closer.

He rocked you gently, as if you were something fragile — and maybe you were. Maybe the Games had finally cracked you down the center, and only Finnick’s arms were keeping you from breaking apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he whispered into your hair, over and over. “You’re okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You wept into his shoulder until your throat burned and your fingers ached from how tightly you were holding on. It was primal, wordless. A grief too big for language, a terror too deep for sense. But Finnick never let go.

Eventually, the sobs quieted into hiccups, then shaky breaths. You were still trembling, your whole body aching with exhaustion, but the panic had dulled — replaced now by the awful throb of aftermath.

Finnick pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering. “Let’s get out of here, alright? Let me clean you up.”

You nodded against him, too tired to speak.

He helped you to your feet like you weighed nothing, like he’d carry you if you asked. You didn’t have the strength to argue.

And as he guided you through the trees, his hand in yours, you realized something that terrified and comforted you all at once:

You would do anything to keep him alive. Even if it meant breaking yourself open all over again.

The walk was quiet.

Finnick kept his hand clasped with yours the entire way, thumb stroking the back of your fingers like he needed to remind himself you were still here. Occasionally, he’d glance over, watching you like you might vanish again — like if he looked away for too long, the jungle might swallow you whole.

Eventually, the trees broke into a clearing, revealing a small stream winding through mossy rocks. The water sparkled in the early evening light, soft and cold-looking, untouched by blood or nightmares.

“Here,” Finnick murmured. “Sit.”

You obeyed, letting him guide you to a flat stone by the edge of the water. Your hands were still shaking, your body humming with fatigue, but Finnick was steady. Solid.

He knelt beside you, pulling a small packet from his belt — standard Games-issued medical gear. But in his hands, even something as impersonal as gauze looked like an act of love.

“Let me see,” he said softly, and you gave him your hands.

He dipped a cloth in the cold stream and began gently wiping the blood from your skin. He didn’t flinch at the stains, didn’t comment on the cuts or bruises blooming along your arms from your frantic run through the trees. He just worked in silence, careful and slow, like he was afraid of hurting you further.

The cold made you hiss a little, and Finnick looked up instantly, his brows pulling together. “Sorry. I’ll be quick.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “Doesn’t hurt as much now.”

He smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I scared myself,” you admitted, voice barely audible.

Once your hands were clean, he dried them gently and started wrapping a few fingers with gauze, where the skin had torn. His hands were warm, sure. So careful.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmured, brushing your knuckles. “Want to sit back? I’ll do your face next.”

You let him maneuver you like a doll, leaning against a mossy boulder while he soaked another cloth. This time, when he touched your face, you didn’t flinch — not even when the water traced over scrapes or when his fingers ghosted beneath your jaw.

“Better?” he asked when he was done, voice low.

You nodded, watching him with wide, wet eyes.

He reached out, brushing a thumb beneath your lower lip, wiping away the last streak of blood you hadn’t noticed.

Finnick didn’t speak. He just leaned in.

His kiss was soft — impossibly soft for someone who’d seen so much war and horror. His mouth tasted like saltwater and something sweeter, like a promise. He kissed you like he was trying to stitch all your broken pieces together again. Like if he loved you hard enough, the Games couldn’t touch you anymore.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

"You're so beautiful. So strong, yeah? The strongest woman I know." He said softly, a gentle smile on his face.

Your breath caught, tears stinging your eyes again — but not from fear this time. From the sheer weight of his tenderness.

You shook your head slowly, voice cracking. “I don’t feel strong.”

Finnick leaned in, brushing his nose lightly against yours. “That’s the thing about strength,” he whispered. “It’s not about never breaking. It’s about surviving even when you do.”

You blinked at him, lips parted slightly, as if trying to memorize the shape of every word. Every look.

“And you,” he continued, pressing his forehead to yours again, “you survive. Even when the world tries to rip you apart.”

His hand found yours again, fingers threading through like it was second nature.

"I love you." You said, a tear slipping down your face. Through the blurry layer of your tears, you spotted the glint of Finnick's wedding ring. You gently stroked it with a finger.

Finnick looked down as your finger traced the silver band around his finger, the symbol of a promise made long before this nightmare began. His lips trembled with something that looked like awe, like reverence, like he couldn’t believe someone as shattered and beautiful as you had ever chosen him.

He brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles, slow and tender.

“I wear this because you’re my home, you're the best choice I've ever made,” he murmured against your skin. “Even in here. Especially in here. I love you more than words could ever tell you.”

You let out a soft, broken sound — not quite a sob, not quite a laugh — and leaned forward until your forehead was tucked beneath his chin, letting the steady beat of his heart calm the shaking inside you.

“I thought I’d lost you,” you whispered. “I thought the Capitol had finally taken everything.”

Finnick wrapped his arms around you again, holding you like a man clinging to the last piece of light in the world.

“They can’t have you,” he said, voice fierce and low in your ear. “They’ll never take you from me.”

You stayed there for a long time — just the two of you, curled together by the water as the sun dipped lower and the jungle quieted around you. For now, you were safe. For now, the blood had dried, the voices had gone silent, and you had each other.

And somehow, that was enough.

[spencersmopbucket]

(Un)Reciprocated | Cedric Diggory

Pairing: Cedric Diggory x Reader Summary: You and Cedric were childhood best friends – growing up side by side, close as can be. When 5th year came around and Cedric began dating, you watched but never picked up the same habits, preferring a more independent life. When you begin developing feelings for your best and closest friend, after he goes back on an important promise, its nothing short of complicated.

Your childhood was amazing.

It was full of candy, toys, love and affection. It was full of luck, good marks in class, and playing tag until you were utterly breathless. And mostly, it was full of Cedric.

You did everything together – you had the same classes, the same goals, played the same sports, even had the same bloody wand when you got into Hogwarts. You were inseparable. You were never seen without the other, and every sentence where one was mentioned, the other was too.

"Yeah, Ced and Y/N.."

"Well, Y/N and Cedric were.."

You were certain it would last forever. You were certain that the two of you would never separate, even into adulthood.

When you got into your 5th year, you accepted peacefully that your thoughts were simply based on comfort, not reality. Cedric began to take a different path – girls, parties, popularity. You were very different, though you never resented him.

You were quiet, kept to yourself, and stuck to Quidditch and your studies. You had no use for the company of boys or the consumption of Firewhisky. You preferred a quiet life, wrapped up in a blanket by the Hufflepuff hearth and reading a book.

The first time you noticed the shift, it was a Tuesday.

Cedric had always been the type to linger after Quidditch practice —helping to stow brooms, chatting with teammates, tossing an arm around your shoulders as you both trudged back to the castle, still buzzing with adrenaline. But that evening, he’d disappeared before you could even unbuckle your knee pads.

You found him in the courtyard, surrounded by a gaggle of giggling fourth-years, his head thrown back in laughter at something you hadn’t heard. His hair was still damp from the showers, curling slightly at the nape of his neck, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold. He looked happy.

You turned on your heel and left before he could spot you.

Not because you were bothered by it, but because you had no interest in interrupting.. whatever that was. You blew your hair out of your face, walking to your dorm.

The common room was quiet when you arrived, the fire crackling low in the hearth. A few first-years huddled near the warmth, whispering over a game of Exploding Snap, but they paid you no mind as you trudged up the stairs to your dorm.

You told yourself you weren’t bothered.

So what if Cedric had ditched you after practice? So what if he’d rather entertain a flock of admirers than walk back with you like he always had? It didn’t matter. You weren’t the clingy type. You had better things to do than stand around waiting for him to remember you existed.

(Except you had waited. Just for a minute. Just long enough to realize he wasn’t coming back.)

You shoved open the door to your room harder than necessary, startling your roommate, who glanced up from her Potions essay.

“Rough practice?” she asked, eyeing the dirt smudged on your knees.

“The usual,” you muttered, tossing your gear onto your trunk.

You could still hear the echo of his laughter in your head — bright, carefree, so different from the way he laughed with you. With you, it was softer, quieter, like he was letting you in on a secret.

The jealousy you felt (you were very emotionally aware) confused you. So what if Cedric was entertaining girls? You didn't have to be into the same exact things anymore. It wasn't your scene. Doesn't mean it wasn't Cedric's, you rationalized.

Biting your lip, you gathered your toiletries and clothes and went to shower. The hot water ran over your sore muscles, but you couldn't even acknowledge the pleasurable feeling.

You couldn't ignore the burning feeling in your chest.

Groaning, you just washed up and got out.

—

Dinner in the Great Hall was a subdued affair.

You sat at the Hufflepuff table, picking at your shepherd’s pie, half-listening to the chatter around you. The seat beside you — his seat — remained conspicuously empty.

“Diggory’s late,” someone remarked.

You didn’t look up. “Not my problem.”

But then the doors swung open, and there he was, striding in with that effortless confidence that made half the Hall turn to look. His hair was still slightly damp, his cheeks pink from the cold, and he was grinning at something one of his teammates had said.

You tried to keep it down, you really did. You knew it wasn't right to be irritated. You didn't even know why you bloody felt this way.

He spotted you almost immediately, his smile flickering for just a second before he made his way over.

“Hey,” he said, sliding into the seat beside you like nothing had happened.

You didn’t answer.

He nudged your shoulder. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” you said flatly.

A beat of silence. Then, quieter: “You left before I could find you after practice.”

You finally turned to look at him, arching a brow. “Oh? I figured you were busy. I wasn't going to sit there and look stupid while you giggled to your posse.”

His expression faltered. “It wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“Relax, Ced,” you said, forcing a smirk. “I’m not your keeper. Do what you want.”

His jaw tightened, but before he could respond, a group of fourth-years called his name from further down the table, waving him over.

He hesitated, glancing at you.

“Go on,” you said, shoveling a bite of pie into your mouth. “Wouldn’t want to keep your fans waiting.”

For a second, you thought he might argue. But then he sighed, pushing back from the table.

“We’ll talk later,” he murmured.

You didn’t watch him walk away.

Your fork clattered against your plate, the sound sharp in the hum of the Great Hall. You stood abruptly, ignoring the curious glances from nearby Hufflepuffs as you carried your half-eaten dinner toward the enchanted trash bins at the end of the table.

You knew you were being ugly.

The thought gnawed at you as you dumped your food, the remnants of your shepherd’s pie vanishing with a soft poof. That wasn’t you —snapping at Cedric, tossing out petty jabs like you were trying to wound him. You weren’t the jealous type. You weren’t.

(So why did it feel like your chest was full of broken glass every time he laughed with someone else?)

You exhaled sharply through your nose, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you muttered to yourself.

With that, you left the Great Hall and headed straight for your dorm. Without a word to anyone, you changed your clothes and headed straight to bed, throwing the covers over your head frustratedly.

Maybe some sleep would curve whatever the hell was wrong with you. Jealousy? Over Cedric?

You scoffed to yourself under the covers.

It wasn't like you loved him or something. Well, you did, but not like that.

Did you?

A pang of anxiety hit your stomach.

You rolled over and forced yourself to sleep before you could throw up.

—

You woke to the sound of hushed whispers and the rustling of robes. Sunlight streamed through the windows, far too cheerful for the storm brewing in your head.

Your roommate peeked over at you as you sat up, her eyebrows raised.

“You look like hell,” she said bluntly.

You groaned, rubbing your face. “Feel like it too.”

She tossed a piece of toast at you, which you caught on reflex. “Eat something. You’ll feel better.”

You doubted it.

The Great Hall was already buzzing when you arrived, students clustered together in excited chatter. You hesitated in the doorway, scanning the Hufflepuff table for a familiar head of tousled dark hair—

No.

You weren’t doing this. You weren’t looking for him.

You squared your shoulders and marched to the opposite end of the table, as far from Cedric’s usual spot as possible.

“Have you heard?”

A third-year leaned across the table, eyes wide with gossip. “They’re announcing the Triwizard Tournament today!”

You blinked. “What?”

“It’s true!” another student chimed in. “Dumbledore’s making the announcement after breakfast. They’re bringing back the tournament!”

A murmur of excitement rippled through the Hall. You barely registered it.

Your gaze flickered, against your will, toward the other end of the table — where Cedric sat, surrounded by friends, his face alight with the same eager curiosity as everyone else.

Of course he’d want to compete.

Your stomach twisted.

The entire school had gathered, students packed shoulder-to-shoulder as Dumbledore stood at the top of the marble staircase, his arms raised for silence.

“This year,” he began, his voice carrying effortlessly through the crowd, “Hogwarts will play host to a event not seen in over a century…”

You barely heard the rest.

Your attention was fixed on the back of Cedric’s head, just a few rows ahead of you. He stood tall, his posture straight with anticipation, his fingers tapping absently against his thigh.

You knew that tell. He was already planning his entry.

“—the Triwizard Tournament!”

The crowd erupted into cheers. Cedric turned slightly, scanning the sea of faces behind him — searching.

Your breath caught.

Then his eyes found yours.

For a heartbeat, the noise around you faded.

He grinned — bright, boyish, yours — and your traitorous heart stuttered in response.

You looked away first.

After the festivities, you almost floated out of the castle, moving too quick for anyone to notice. Or so you thought.

You needed air.

The pitch was empty, the stands silent, the only sound the wind whistling through the goalposts. You sat on the grass, your knees pulled to your chest, watching the clouds drift lazily across the sky.

“Knew I’d find you here.”

You didn’t turn. “Go away, Cedric.”

He ignored you, dropping onto the grass beside you with a huff. “Not until you tell me what’s going on with you.”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Bullshit.” He plucked a blade of grass, twirling it between his fingers. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks. And don’t say you haven’t,” he added when you opened your mouth to argue. “I know you too well.”

You swallowed.

Tell him.

Just say it.

But the words stuck in your throat.

Instead, you nodded toward the castle. “You’re going to enter, aren’t you? The tournament.”

He hesitated, then sighed. “Yeah. I think so.”

Of course.

The tournament was unsafe. In some cases, it could be fatal. You and Cedric had both agreed that if you were presented the chance, you wouldn't enter. You'd stay safe, side by side.

You forced a smile. “You’ll win.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you said softly. “Because you’re you.”

Cedric studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly: “Would you hate me if I did?”

The question caught you off guard.

“What?”

“If I entered.” His voice was careful, like he was treading on thin ice. “Would you hate me?”

Never, you wanted to say. I could never hate you.

But what came out was: “I don’t know.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then Cedric stood, brushing the grass from his robes.

“Right,” he said stiffly. “Guess I’ll find out.”

And just like that, he walked away.

You wanted to slap yourself. Why were you being such an asshole? You didn't know.

Yes you did.

You loved Cedric. The thought made you want to jump into the black lagoon and be eaten by mermaids. Or admit it right away to Cedric, like one of the secrets you'd never been able to keep from him. Or hide it forever and live in misery.

You chose to hide it.

The days blurred together after that.

You threw yourself into classes, into Quidditch, into anything that would keep your mind off the growing chasm between you and Cedric. It was easier this way—safer. If you didn’t think about him, you wouldn’t have to face the truth.

(But you always thought about him.)

The night of the selection came quickly.

The Great Hall was packed, buzzing with anticipation as the Goblet of Fire flickered in the center of the room. You sat with your housemates, your fingers drumming restlessly against the table, your gaze fixed stubbornly on your lap.

You hadn’t spoken to Cedric since the pitch.

“Champions will be chosen momentarily,” Dumbledore announced, his voice echoing through the hall. “Once selected, please proceed to the adjoining chamber for further instructions.”

A hush fell over the crowd.

The Goblet’s flames flared—once, twice—then spat out the first name.

“The Durmstrang champion is Viktor Krum!”

Applause erupted as Krum stood, his expression unreadable, and disappeared through the side door.

Another burst of fire.

“The Beauxbatons champion is Fleur Delacour!”

More cheers. Fleur rose gracefully, her silver-blonde hair shimmering under the candlelight as she followed Krum out.

Then — silence.

The Goblet flickered, the flames licking higher, twisting violently as if struggling with its final decision.

Your chest tightened.

Not him. Please, not him.

The fire roared, and a third slip of parchment shot into Dumbledore’s waiting hand.

“The Hogwarts champion…”

A beat.

“Cedric Diggory!”

The Hufflepuff table exploded. Whistles, shouts, the thunder of hands pounding against wood — all of it faded into white noise as you watched Cedric stand, his face a mix of shock and dawning pride.

He didn’t look at you as he passed.

You weren’t sure why you’d expected him to.

The rest of the day was a blur, until the party.

The party had been going all afternoon, but later into the night, it became alcoholic.

Only 16 and older were allowed — you came with your roommate. You don't know why you allowed her to convince you. Maybe you wanted to torture yourself with seeing Cedric. Maybe you just wanted to drink the pain away. Both probably.

When you got there, uncharacteristically of you, you immediately dove into a shot of Firewhisky.

"Damn! L/N is finally loosening up?" One of your classmates whooped. You managed a halfhearted smirk as cheers erupted.

Another shot. Another. After another. You were encouraged, cheered on by your roommate and your friends. They'd never seen you like this — but they couldn't detect the inner turmoil. Only Ced could. And he was nowhere to be found.

You were probably just too drunk to see him, to be honest.

The world had taken on a hazy, golden glow — the kind that made everything feel slightly unreal, like you were floating outside your own body. The firewhisky burned its way down your throat, settling warm and heavy in your stomach, but it did nothing to dull the ache in your chest.

“Another!” your roommate crowed, slamming a fresh shot in front of you.

The crowd around you erupted in cheers as you threw it back without hesitation. The taste was sharp, bitter, but you welcomed it. Maybe if you drank enough, you could forget the way Cedric’s face had looked when he walked away from you at the lake. Maybe you could forget the way your heart had splintered when he didn’t even glance at you after being named champion.

Pathetic.

You reached for another shot, but someone snatched it away before your fingers could close around the glass.

“I think you’ve had enough.”

The voice was low, familiar, and it sent a jolt through you despite the alcohol clouding your senses.

You turned your head — slowly, too slowly — and there he was.

Cedric.

His grey eyes were dark in the flickering candlelight, his jaw set in a hard line. He looked unfairly good, even now — his hair slightly mussed, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the faintest flush high on his cheeks from whatever he’d been drinking.

You scowled. “Since when do you care?”

His expression tightened. “Since you’re about two seconds away from passing out.”

“I’m fine,” you slurred, waving a hand dismissively. “Go back to your adoring fans, Champion. And give me my fucking shot back.”

The word came out sharper than you’d intended, laced with a bitterness you hadn’t meant to let slip.

Cedric’s gaze flickered over your face, searching for something. Whatever he saw made his shoulders tense.

“We need to talk,” he said quietly.

“No, we don’t.” You pushed yourself up from the table, swaying slightly as the room tilted around you. “I’m going to bed.”

You didn’t make it two steps before his hand closed around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

“Y/N.” His voice was rough, urgent. “Please.”

Something in his tone made your breath catch.

You turned.

For a long moment, you just stared at each other — the noise of the party fading into the background, the world narrowing to just the two of you.

Then, without a word, Cedric tugged you toward the door.

The cold night air hit you like a slap, sobering you just enough to realize what a terrible idea this was.

You yanked your arm free. “What the hell, Cedric?”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re ruining my buzz.”

“Because you won’t talk to me!” His voice cracked, raw with frustration. “Merlin’s beard, Y/N, what do you want from me? You’ve been pushing me away for weeks, and I don’t even know why!”

The words hung between you, heavy and suffocating.

You opened your mouth — to snap, to deflect, to lie — but the alcohol had stripped away your defenses, leaving nothing but the truth.

"Something's changed. With me, with you, I don't fucking know." You cracked, eyes welling up with frustrated tears. You fought the slur in your words. "I can't stop being an asshole."

Cedric stared at you, stunned into silence.

The kind of silence that wasn’t angry or judgmental — just broken. Hurt.

“You think I care about that?” he finally said, voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “You think I haven’t noticed something’s been eating you alive? You think I’d ever walk away from you just because you’ve been… distant, or angry, or—”

“Cold?” you cut in bitterly. “Sharp-tongued? Emotionally stunted?”

“Human,” he said firmly. “And scared.”

You laughed — a bitter, ugly sound. “Don’t flatter me.”

“I’m not.” He took a step closer, voice cracking just slightly. “You’ve been different, yeah. But I stuck around because I know you. And I care about you. And it’s driving me mad that you won’t just tell me what’s wrong.”

You could feel it bubbling up — all the confusion and pain and fear — the thing you hadn’t dared to admit even to yourself.

"Look," you said, squeezing and loosening your fists, "I'm drunk. I'm tired. I'm going back to the dorm."

With that, you tried to march away.

But you didn’t get far.

Cedric caught your wrist again — not hard, not forceful, just enough to stop you, just enough to make your breath catch.

"Please. Don't walk away from me. Not again. You're my best friend and you're treating me like a stranger."

You froze.

The words hit harder than they should have — best friend — and yet, they cracked something deep inside you. Not because they were untrue, but because they used to be everything. Because somewhere along the way, being his best friend had stopped being enough, and you’d hated yourself for it.

You didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. Not yet.

"Maybe that's the problem." You almost sobbed out, looking up at the sky. "I don't want to be your best friend, Cedric. Not anymore. I fucking love you, okay?!"

The confession tore out of you like a storm — raw, unfiltered, soaked in every ache you’d tried to drink away.

Silence fell.

The kind of silence that made your ears ring, that made the world feel like it had stopped turning.

A tear fell from your eye. You sniffled.

"I'm so stupid. And so drunk. Goodnight, Cedric."

You marched away. You didn't hear him ask you back. You didn't hear a response at all. Just pure, blank silence.

When your reached the dorm, you cried yourself to sleep.

The weeks that followed were hollow.

You avoided him at all costs — skipping meals if he was in the Great Hall, changing routes between classes, ducking into alcoves or behind statues just to avoid seeing his face.

And the worst part?

He let you.

Not once did Cedric chase after you. Not once did he corner you in the hallway or try to pull you aside after class. No notes. No explanations. No apologies.

It was like you’d ceased to exist.

Your friends didn’t understand. Hell, you didn’t understand. You’d confessed your feelings, humiliated yourself — handed your heart to him — and he hadn’t even had the decency to break it properly. Just silence. A gaping, agonizing silence.

You buried yourself in schoolwork, tried to find distractions, but nothing stuck. Nothing made the ache fade. You’d never felt so invisible.

Not even Firewhisky could touch it now.

You'd even tried. You were drunk at every party, desperately trying to forget how embarrassed you felt and how much you missed Cedric.

And then came the day of the final task. The Maze.

The air was electric, thick with nerves and anticipation. Everyone buzzed about Cedric and Harry, Fleur and Krum — four champions entering the unknown. You stood on the edge of the crowd with your arms crossed, shoulders tight with dread. You hadn’t spoken to Cedric in weeks, hadn’t even looked at him if you could help it… but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t terrified.

He might not care about you anymore — if he ever did — but that didn’t stop you from caring about him.

The Maze loomed like a breathing thing, its hedges impossibly tall, its rustling leaves whispering secrets. You watched him walk toward it, flanked by cheers and camera flashes, and for a moment, just a moment, he looked back over his shoulder.

At you.

Your breath caught.

Then he was gone.

The chaos came later.

Screams. Shouting. Rumors flying like hexes. Harry was back, clutching the Triwizard Cup and Cedric’s arm — but something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

Cedric wasn’t moving.

You pushed through the crowd, frantic, not caring who you elbowed or stepped on. Harry was screaming something about Voldemort, about portkeys, about Death Eaters — and all you could see was Cedric lying in the grass like a discarded doll.

But then — then — he moved.

A shallow breath. A twitch of his hand. A groan.

You fell to your knees beside him as Madam Pomfrey and the professors swarmed, your shaking fingers brushing over his cold one before they ushered you back.

He lived.

Barely, but he lived.

You didn’t sleep for two nights.

You hovered outside the Hospital Wing, waited for word, snapped at anyone who told you to rest. You weren’t sure why — he hadn’t spoken to you in weeks — but some part of you needed to know he was okay. Even if you’d never speak again.

It was late when Madam Pomfrey finally relented and let you in.

He looked pale, drawn, but awake. Eyes open, hazy with potions and pain, but still that same warm, stormy gray.

You stood in the doorway, frozen.

He blinked. “Y/N?”

You hated that his voice still made something deep in your chest crack.

“I… shouldn’t be here,” you said. “I just wanted to see if you were—if you—” You turned, heart hammering, already retreating.

“Don’t,” he rasped. “Please. Don’t go.” His voice cracked. Tears glossed his eyes over — not quite gathering, but still there.

You hesitated, back still to him.

"I'm begging you. I just want to hold your hand. To touch you. Just for a second, yeah? Please, Y/N."

The rawness in his voice undid you.

Not the words — those you could have ignored. But the way he said them. Cracked and trembling, like a boy clinging to a ledge by his fingertips. Like saying your name was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

You turned, slowly.

Cedric looked so unlike himself it hurt — his golden skin washed out, the sharp cut of his cheekbone shadowed and sunken, that usual quiet confidence gone. But those eyes…

They were still his. Still stormy. Still yours.

You came back slowly. His pale hand outstretched — you placed yours into it, like he'd asked. The entire room flooded with the aura of relief. Cedric squeezed his eyes shut, an exhale leaving him.

He didn’t say anything right away.

He just held your hand like it anchored him. Like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment, to the world, to you. His fingers were cold — not deathly, just lacking the usual heat you remembered so well. But they wrapped around yours with the same gentleness you’d missed more than you could bear.

When he opened his eyes again, they shimmered.

“I thought I’d dreamed you,” he said, voice low, rough. “That night. After the maze. I thought… maybe I’d imagined the sound of your voice.”

Your throat tightened. “I was there.”

“I know that now,” he said, giving your hand a light tug, just enough to pull you closer to the bed. “You were always there. Even when you weren’t.”

You were silent again. Then you spoke.

"What the hell happened?"

Cedric’s jaw tensed. For a moment, he didn’t speak. His thumb kept brushing over your knuckles — a grounding motion, or maybe just something to do with his hands so he wouldn’t fall apart.

“I don’t remember all of it,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not clearly. The maze — it was dark, and twisted. Everything felt wrong. Like it was watching me.”

You moved closer without thinking, perching on the edge of the bed now, still clutching his hand.

He swallowed hard, gaze distant. “There were enchantments, creatures, traps… things meant to disorient us. I was doing okay. Then—” He paused, breath catching. “Then the Portkey. I didn’t know what it was, just that it wasn’t part of the maze.”

You nodded slowly. “We were all watching. Then you vanished.”

“I landed in a graveyard.” His voice went flat. “I wasn’t alone.”

You felt your heart stutter in your chest.

Cedric looked at you now. Not through you. Not around you. At you. “There was someone there. Someone powerful. Masked. I—I couldn’t fight him. He cursed me. Said it was a warning, not a killing. Said I was just the ‘first stone in the avalanche.’ Then he left. Just like that. Like I was… insignificant.”

Your breath shook. “Cedric…”

He gave a small, humorless laugh. “I wasn’t brave. I just got lucky.”

You touched his cheek before you could stop yourself. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Downplay what you survived. You weren’t lucky, you were strong. You’re here, aren’t you? You made it back.”

“Barely,” he murmured.

“But you did.” Your voice cracked now. “And I’m so—so glad. I was terrified. Every day you didn’t wake up, I thought…” You blinked rapidly, unable to finish.

His hand covered yours now, anchoring it to his cheek. He leaned into your touch.

“I’m sorry you went through that,” he whispered. “Alone.”

“You’re not alone now.”

He nodded. “Neither are you.”

You sat in that fragile stillness for a long time. No longer strangers to the silence, but companions to it. Letting it speak where words couldn’t.

Finally, Cedric shifted slightly. “Stay?”

You looked at him — pale, trembling, but alive — and nodded. “Of course.”

You curled into the chair beside his bed, still holding his hand.

He didn’t let go.

Hours later, Madam Pomfrey returned. Surprisingly, she went into a soft smile when she saw you sleeping silently in the chair — arm still outstretched to Cedric, who was sleeping soundly finally — his hand clutching yours tightly.

She didn’t wake you.

Madam Pomfrey, for all her grumbles and strict rules, had been at Hogwarts long enough to recognize the kind of sleep born from exhaustion and heartbreak. The kind of sleep that stitched two fractured souls back together, thread by trembling thread.

With a gentle flick of her wand, she dimmed the lights and conjured a blanket, draping it over your shoulders. She didn’t touch Cedric — just checked the potions levels, made a quiet note on her chart, and slipped out of the room.

When you stirred hours later, it was still quiet. The world hadn’t ended, though it had come close. You blinked slowly, adjusting to the gray morning light streaming through the hospital wing’s tall windows.

You were still holding his hand.

More importantly — he was still holding yours.

You turned your head, just slightly, and saw Cedric watching you. His eyes were clearer now. Tired, yes — but calm. Solid. Real.

“Morning,” he whispered.

Your voice came out hoarse. “Hey.”

“Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“I said I would be,” you replied quietly. “You really think I’d leave again?”

“No,” he said, his thumb brushing over your hand again. “But part of me’s still scared I’ll wake up and this will be gone.”

You sat up straighter, brushing the sleep from your eyes. “It’s not.”

A long pause.

“I thought about you,” Cedric said. “When I was stuck in that maze. When I was hurt. When I woke up alone in here. I kept thinking—‘I didn’t tell her.’ Not really.”

“Didn’t tell me what?” you asked gently.

“That I love you.”

Your breath caught.

“I love you,” he repeated, firmer this time. “And I’m sorry it took almost dying to say it. I should’ve said it that night. When you did. But I panicked. I—I couldn’t believe you’d actually—”

“I did,” you whispered. “I do.”

Cedric’s expression broke into something fragile and luminous, something that made you feel like you could finally breathe after weeks underwater.

He squeezed your hand again.

“I think we’ve wasted enough time, don’t you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

Soft sunlight broke through the clouds beyond the windows, casting a pale gold glow across the room. And as Cedric smiled up at you, tired but whole, you realized this wasn’t the end of your story.

"You said you'd never date. Now look at you.. Loser." Cedric snorted weakly.

It was true. You'd said that at the beginning of 5th year.

Rolling your eyes, you smirked.

"I wouldn't call it dating. I'd call it unlabeled, pure devotion."

Cedric laughed, a low, broken sound that still somehow managed to sound like music. His thumb brushed yours as he held your hand a little tighter.

“Oh, that’s what we’re calling it?” he murmured, smile lazy, eyes gleaming just a bit. “Unlabeled, pure devotion?”

You shrugged, that smirk playing on your lips again. “It’s more romantic that way. Tragic. Poetic.”

“Right,” he said with mock-seriousness. “So when people ask, I’ll just say I’m in a deeply emotional, undefined entanglement with a sarcastic cynic who pretends she doesn’t love me stupid.”

You shot him a glare, but your heart fluttered.

“And I’ll say I’m spiritually tethered to a bleeding-heart Hufflepuff who almost died just to make me realize I’m in love with him.”

Cedric’s eyes locked with yours then — no teasing now, just a quiet, overwhelming sort of tenderness. Like everything had shifted and finally, finally landed right where it was meant to.

“Then I guess we deserve each other,” he whispered.

You nodded. “Unfortunately for you.”

He thought for a moment.

"C'mere." He muttered, opening his arms.

You raised an eyebrow. "But Madam Pomf—"

"She'll be fine. She loves me."

You huffed a laugh, trying to hide the fact that your chest had just caved in a little.

“She loves everyone,” you said, but you were already rising from the chair.

Cedric gave a weak but triumphant grin as you carefully slipped into the narrow hospital bed beside him, minding the bandages and bruises. His arms wrapped around you the second you were close enough — warm, shaky, and maybe a little too tight, like he still didn’t quite believe this was real.

You melted into him anyway.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t comfortable. The mattress was stiff, your knees bumped, and his shoulder was still sore — but somehow, it was perfect.

“You smell like antiseptic,” you muttered into his collarbone.

“You smell like regret and firewhisky,” he murmured back.

You snorted. “Fair.”

For a while, you both just lay there, tangled in silence. His hand moved slowly across your back, your cheek pressed against the beat of his heart. There were a hundred conversations left to have — about the maze, about what came next, about the weeks of silence and the confession you still weren’t sure he’d heard properly.

But for now, this was enough.

Safe. Warm. Alive.

“I’m not letting you go again,” Cedric whispered suddenly, so quietly you almost missed it.

You lifted your head. “Then don’t.”

He looked at you like you’d just given him the answer to every riddle he’d ever been asked.

It happened without fanfare.

No dramatic music. No roaring winds or trembling ground.

Just the two of you, breathing in the same space, your foreheads touching as the late-afternoon sun traced gold across the white sheets and Cedric’s bruised knuckles.

He looked at you like he had all the time in the world — like he was memorizing every curve of your face, every flicker of doubt behind your eyes. His hand came up, fingers brushing your cheek, reverent. Almost disbelieving.

“I'd like to seal our 'unlabeled, pure devotion'' with a kiss, yeah?” he murmured.

You swallowed, heart thudding. “Then do it.”

His lips found yours gently — not rushed, not hungry, just soft. Certain. A question and an answer, all in one breath.

It was warm and a little shaky, a kiss you could feel in your ribs, in your fingertips, in every inch of skin that remembered what it meant to be close to him.

When he pulled back, barely an inch, his eyes were still closed.

“I'm an absolute fool for you,” he whispered, voice a little hoarse. “But it was definitely worth almost dying for.”

You laughed, and then you kissed him again.

[spencersmopbucket]

Another Man's Treasure | Fred Weasley

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader Summary: You're Cormac McLaggen's girlfriend — but Cormac pays more attention to Quidditch than you. Shame, shame.. Fred just can't let you go to waste.

Warnings & Themes: fluff, NSFW (oral!fem receiving), cheating on partner

When you'd begun dating Cormac, it was different.

He was attentive, sweet, mindful. But now? The man was a complete git. Most days, you sat on the bleachers of the pitch, feeling absolutely bloody dejected and watching him fly around on a broom for hours practicing for a team he was only a reserve on.

It was pathetic, truly. You and him. You sat waiting for a guy who couldn't show less interest in you if he tried — and he absolutely sucked at Quidditch yet continued to ignore a gorgeous girl for it.

It didn’t help that Cormac never introduced you to anyone either. You weren’t “his girl” at Gryffindor parties — just some girl hanging around him until someone asked who you were. You weren’t on his arm, weren’t in his conversations, and apparently weren’t important enough to even walk with to Hogsmeade.

You were Cormac McLaggen’s girlfriend in the way someone might say they “have a cat” and never feed it.

So, yeah, sitting in the stands while he zoomed around like a headless Hippogriff? It was just your Tuesday.

Sighing, you opened a book, frowning at the pages in front of you. You might as well get comfortable. It would be a while.

Below you, Fred and George Weasley stood, getting gear on to begin practicing. It was a gorgeous day and some of the Quidditch players actually had a solid reason to get out and practice.

Because again, only some had a productive spot on the team.

You felt eyes on you. Glancing down, you saw Fred. You rolled your eyes as he waved at you, wiggling his fingers in a flirtatious fashion.

You knew Fred and George. Everyone did. Every girl especially — they were tall, muscular, Quidditch stars, and incredibly easy on the eyes. You felt a warmth spread across your cheeks at his wave, despite how much you tried to ignore it.

You also tried to ignore the girlish excitement you felt. You were spoken for after all. What would you look like entertaining another man? A right slag, that's what. Waving back nonchalantly, you turned back to your book.

Fred sighed, clipping his helmet onto his head.

“Shame,” he addressed George. "That is a right shame. A crime, really."

George cocked a ginger eyebrow as he adjusted his gloves. “What is?”

Fred nodded subtly toward the stands. “Her. All alone. Looking like that. For him.”

George followed his brother’s gaze, lips tugging into a smirk once he spotted you. “McLaggen’s girlfriend?”

Fred glanced back up at you. You were back absorbed into your book, e/c hair blowing in the soft wind. Every once in a while, you glanced gloomily at your boyfriend, who once again didn't spare you a single ounce of his attention.

"She's the fittest girl at Hogwarts. Easily. Why is she with McLaggen?"

George scoffed under his breath. “Because looks clearly aren’t everything. Or maybe she’s got a savior complex.”

Fred frowned.

"He's not even good at Quidditch! He's bloody awful. Look at him," He gestured to the pitch, where Cormac was wobbling about on his broom. "Doesn't even look like he's playing. Looks like he's doing an interpretive broom dance."

George burst out laughing, nearly dropping his bat. “Merlin’s beard, you're not wrong. That’s not flying — that’s flailing with purpose.”

Fred rolled his eyes. “And somehow that is the bloke she waits around for every damn day like he’s the bloody star player.”

George snorted. “You’ve been keeping tabs, then?”

Fred gave him a look. “You telling me you wouldn’t notice her? Sitting there every day, looking like a dream and getting treated like a backup broomstick?”

“She’s not our problem, mate.”

Fred didn’t answer right away. His jaw ticked slightly as he watched you glance up at Cormac again, a flicker of hope in your eyes — one that died almost immediately when he didn’t so much as wave.

“She could be someone’s world,” Fred said quietly. “Instead she’s waiting for scraps.”

George eyed his brother, something more serious settling between them. “You’ve got it bad.”

Fred didn’t deny it. Instead, he said, “I’m just saying… if it were me, she wouldn’t be sitting up there alone. She’d be on the broom with me. Or on my shoulders. Or—hell, anywhere but forgotten.”

George paused, then smirked again. “So what’s the plan, Casanova?”

Fred grinned, a familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “Easy. Show her the difference between being looked at and being wanted.”

He kicked off the ground again, but this time with a different kind of determination.

He was set to embarrass the shit out of McLaggen. One, for being ungrateful. And two.. He was kind of hoping you'd get the ick.

George cackled as Fred shot into the air, weaving expertly through the sky while McLaggen hovered below like a confused Bludger.

“Oi, McLaggen!” Fred called loud enough for half the pitch to hear, voice full of feigned cheer. “You practicing for the ballet? Thought Quidditch involved a Snitch, not pirouettes.”

A few laughs echoed from the other players. Even George barked a laugh, tossing a Bludger up with a wicked grin.

Cormac scowled from midair, wobbling slightly as he turned toward Fred. “Bugger off, Weasley!”

Fred cupped a hand around his ear. “Sorry — couldn’t hear you over the sound of mediocrity!”

You peeked over the top of your book, startled by the sudden exchange. You tried to hide your amusement, but Fred caught the slight twitch of your lips. His chest swelled with triumph.

Phase One: Humiliate the knob. Phase Two: Make her smile. Phase Three: …Well, he hadn’t figured that bit out yet. But he would.

Fred flew another circle around Cormac, performing an exaggerated, showy dive that ended with a perfect landing — just below the bleachers where you sat.

He pulled off his helmet, glancing up at you with that telltale grin.

“Hope you’re taking notes,” he called, slightly breathless. “In case your boyfriend ever wants to learn how to actually fly.”

Your mouth parted slightly, a laugh escaping before you could catch it. “Are you always this cocky, or is today special?”

Fred’s eyes gleamed. “Only on Tuesdays. And when a pretty girl’s watching.”

He winked, then turned and jogged back onto the field — leaving you flustered, smiling despite yourself, and just a little less devoted to the prat in the air.

You didn’t know it yet, but Fred Weasley had just started rewriting your entire love story.

Of course, Cormac had opted to go over plays in the locker room after the incident at the pitch instead of walking back to the dorms with you. Typical.

You walked back alone, carrying your book and pulling your jacket tighter — the wind had started to get chilly as the day went on. You hummed to yourself as you got closer to the castle.

“Oi! Bookworm!”

You turned, startled, and there he was — Fred Weasley, jogging up beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hair was windblown, his cheeks still pink from the chill, and his smile was… well, unfair, really.

“Didn’t think it was nice to let you walk alone,” he said, matching your pace. “Seems your rogue Bludger of a boyfriend forgot where the castle was.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were already smiling. “He’s not my Bludger. He’s just... my boyfriend.”

Fred made a face. “You say that like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, choosing not to respond right away. The path toward the castle was quiet, apart from your footsteps on the gravel and the low whistle of the wind. It felt weirdly intimate — the kind of silence that made you feel seen.

Fred didn’t push. Just walked with you, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“You know,” he said after a moment, glancing sideways at you, “I wasn’t joking earlier.”

“About what?”

“About you being the prettiest girl at Hogwarts.”

Your heart skipped embarrassingly. “That so?”

“Swear on George’s life,” he said solemnly. “And I only say that when I really mean it. He’s very dear to me.”

You laughed again, surprised at how warm it made you feel — not just the compliment, but the effort. The way he noticed you, even in a moment as small as this.

“I’m not used to people saying things like that to me,” you admitted quietly.

Fred slowed his pace slightly, studying you. “Well, get used to it.”

You looked at him, brow raised. “Why?”

He smirked. “Because I’m not done saying them.”

And as the two of you crossed through the castle doors, brushing shoulders, warmth blooming where he accidentally touched your arm — you realized something:

You hadn’t thought of Cormac once since Fred showed up.

"I have a boyfriend, Weasley," you snorted. "I doubt he'd take kindly to you doing this."

Fred just grinned, undeterred. That infuriating, charming grin of his — the kind that made your stomach twist in a way Cormac's never had.

“Doing what?” he asked innocently, all wide eyes and mock-surprise. “Walking you back? Complimenting you? Being decent? Merlin forbid.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You know what I mean.”

Fred leaned in a little, voice lowering — not teasing now, but sincere, softer. “I know. And I know you’re with him. But that doesn’t mean I don’t see what he doesn’t.”

You blinked, startled by the seriousness that slipped into his tone.

“He takes you for granted,” Fred continued, holding your gaze. “Doesn’t mean I have to.”

The hallway was suddenly too quiet. Too warm. You opened your mouth, but you weren’t even sure what you were going to say — luckily, Fred filled the silence with a familiar crooked smile, stepping back and releasing the tension.

“But hey,” he added, casual again, “if he ever stops being the luckiest git alive... I hope I’m first in line.”

Then he winked — not flirty this time, not entirely — and turned toward the Gryffindor staircase like he hadn’t just lobbed a Confundus charm straight into your chest.

And Merlin help you...

You kind of wished he already was first in line.

—

The first Common Room party of the year always hit immediately after the first Gryffindor quidditch win.

Only 6th and 7th years were invited, of course — there was Firewhiskey and other alcholic beverages involved. If the younger students were invited, the festivities may get out to the professors. If that happened, everyone was being hexed by McGonagall and buried in a hole on the quidditch field.

You got ready with Hermione and Ginny Weasley (who you'd just met the same night). Hermione was your closest friend. After you'd confided in her about having a slight crush on Fred, she'd immediately introduced you to the ginger girl.

Hermione curled your hair gently as you giggled, listening to a story about Ron bubble from Ginny's lips.

“…and then Ron actually tried to hex Malfoy with a mouth full of treacle tart,” Ginny said, laughing as she swept some glitter onto her cheekbones. “Honestly, I’ve never seen treacle shoot that far.”

You snorted, barely managing to stay still as Hermione tugged the curling wand through another section of your hair. “Did it even work?”

“Of course not,” Hermione huffed from behind you. “He said ‘slug’ instead of ‘slugulus.’ All he managed to do was make a very sticky mess.”

You grinned into the mirror, cheeks already sore from smiling. There was a lightness in your chest tonight — the kind that hadn’t been there in weeks. You knew why.

Fred.

Even the name fluttered through your chest like a secret. It often switched between feelings of excitement and feelings of guilt.

You glanced down at your outfit — Hermione had loaned you one of her sleeker cardigans and Ginny insisted you wear her black mini skirt (“You’ve got legs, use them”), and your own boots tied it all together. You had to admit… you looked good.

No. You looked better than good. You looked like someone who was not dating Cormac McLaggen anymore — which wasn't true, but you looked it. You knew Cormac wouldn't approve of your outfit. You also knew he might not even pay enough attention to you to care.

Hermione raised a brow at you through the mirror. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m always smiling.”

“Not like that you’re not,” she smirked, handing you a tube of lip gloss. “You’ve got the look of a girl who’s about to fall.”

Ginny tilted her head. “For Fred?”

You rolled your eyes.

"Gals! I have a boyfriend."

Ginny raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, and he’s busy playing Quidditch, while Fred is right here, right in front of you, actually noticing you.”

Hermione shot her a look. “We’re not encouraging this, Ginny.”

You blinked, glancing at your reflection in the mirror again. The truth hit you like a ton of bricks: Fred had been noticing you for days. And you'd been noticing him right back. You'd even caught yourself imagining what it would be like to kiss him, to have someone actually see you instead of just waiting around for scraps.

Your fingers tightened around the lip gloss Hermione handed you, unsure of how to respond. The guilt felt like a heavy cloak you couldn’t quite shake off.

“I have a boyfriend,” you muttered, voice quieter this time. "But—"

“You're not blind," Ginny finished for you, that smirk still in place.

Hermione shot her friend a glance, looking more thoughtful than mischievous. “It’s just... if you’re not happy in a relationship, it’s okay to rethink things. Just don’t rush into anything.”

You met her eyes in the mirror, her voice striking a chord. You weren’t happy. You hadn’t been for a while.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” you said, the words feeling heavier than you intended. “But I also don't want to keep pretending everything’s fine.”

Ginny reached out, squeezing your shoulder lightly. “You don’t have to pretend. And besides, if Fred’s interested, you should at least see where it goes.” She raised her glass of pumpkin juice. “No harm in that, right?”

You forced a smile, feeling a weight lift from your chest. “Yeah, I guess. No harm.”

Hermione let out a sigh, but there was no disapproval in her tone. "Just don't make any decisions you aren't ready for. But do what makes you happy, alright?"

"Alright," you nodded, feeling strangely reassured.

As you stepped into the common room, you tried to shake off the heavy thoughts clouding your mind, but they followed you like shadows. Cormac hadn't even noticed you when you walked in, his focus entirely on the latest Quidditch match stats he was bantering about with Seamus. You approached him with your arms crossed, smiling kindly when he finally glanced down at you.

"Hi, love."

He smiled back briefly, leaning down to peck your cheek.

"Hello, darling."

The brief kiss on your cheek didn’t feel like it used to. It was routine now, nothing more than a formality. You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced a smile, trying to ignore the empty feeling settling in your chest.

“How was the match?” you asked, hoping for some kind of real connection.

Cormac shrugged, already turning his attention back to Seamus, clearly eager to get back to the conversation. “Ah, you know, same old, same old. Quidditch, mate. Nothing to worry about. I’m already focused on the next game.”

You wanted to be nasty. You wanted to be rude.

How would he even know how the match was? The git didn't even play in it. He sat on the bench.

You bit your lip to stop the words from spilling out, but they hovered at the tip of your tongue, demanding to be said. The frustration you’d been holding back for weeks was threatening to pour out like a flood. How could he be so blind? How could he be so wrapped up in his own world that he didn’t even notice how much you were trying?

Instead of lashing out, you forced a tight smile, biting down on your irritation.

“Right,” you said, your voice slightly sharper than you intended. “You’re focused on the next game. Of course.”

He didn’t catch the sarcasm, of course. He was too busy regaling Seamus with more stats, as if that was the most important thing in the world.

You stood there, arms crossed, and felt yourself growing smaller in his shadow. The longer you stayed in his orbit, the more you realized just how little you mattered to him anymore. It wasn’t even about Quidditch anymore — it was about how he couldn’t be bothered to even acknowledge you, let alone make any effort.

You shifted on your feet, suddenly feeling like you couldn’t stand there another second. You could practically hear Fred’s voice in your head — You deserve better than this — and for the first time, it actually felt true.

With a last glance at Cormac, who hadn’t even realized you were still standing there, you walked off, a burst of energy propelling you away from the dullness of him. You didn’t know where you were going, but anywhere felt better than standing there like an afterthought.

And then you spotted Fred.

Of course, he was watching. He always seemed to be watching.

His lips quirked up when he saw you, and the glint in his eyes was almost enough to make you forget how awful everything had just been. Almost.

“Looks like that went well,” Fred remarked, crossing his arms as you stopped in front of him, feeling the weight of everything on your shoulders.

You almost didn’t know how to respond, but somehow, Fred’s presence made it easier. “Well, he’s still talking about Quidditch,” you said, your tone almost too calm for how you were feeling inside.

Fred laughed, glancing over at your boyfriend.

"Quidditch, yeah? The same Quidditch game I played and won today?" He asked playfully. "That's funny. I don't remember seeing a Cormac McLaggen on the pitch."

You couldn't help but laugh at the way Fred's tone had an edge of mockery, and the way he made Cormac sound so utterly irrelevant. You glanced at your boyfriend again, who was still in his own little world, bragging about his Quidditch expertise. It was honestly pathetic.

"Exactly," you replied, rolling your eyes. "I don't think Cormac would know how to hold a broomstick properly if it bit him."

Fred's grin widened, clearly pleased with your response. "Well, at least one of us appreciates Quidditch the way it was meant to be." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice, "And just so you know, I don't mind playing for two."

You met his gaze, a teasing smile curling on your lips. "Two?"

"Yeah, for you." Fred said it with such casual confidence, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, but the way his eyes lingered on yours made your chest tighten in a good way.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, trying not to let your thoughts run away with you. Cormac was still your boyfriend — kind of. But standing there, in Fred's orbit, you couldn’t ignore the growing pull between you two, a magnetic force you hadn’t expected.

"I don't think Cormac would appreciate you sharing the spotlight," you teased, but even you could hear the lack of real conviction in your words.

Fred chuckled, his voice lowering in that way that made it feel like there was no one else around. "Who says I’m sharing? You’ve got a lot more going for you than just his attention."

For a moment, the space between you seemed to shrink, and everything else — Cormac, the party, the chatter — disappeared. It was just you and Fred, and the undeniable chemistry that had been building since the first time he’d shown up at the pitch.

“Maybe you’re right,” you said softly, unable to pull your eyes away from his.

The party went on. You didn't even waste your time glancing at Cormac anymore. Instead, you took shots with your friends and cast every spare glance at Fred.

As you got drunker, your feelings got stronger. They always did. You sat with Hermione and Ginny, singing a song loudly and giggling. Before you knew it, Fred was back again, smirking.

Fred leaned casually against the table, his smirk never faltering as he watched you and your friends. He crossed his arms, but his eyes were all on you, gleaming with mischief and something else — something that made your pulse race just a little faster.

"Still here?" you teased, a playful challenge in your voice as you looked up at him from where you sat.

"Wouldn’t miss it," he replied smoothly, his tone low, yet dripping with that signature charm. "Besides, I don’t think you’d want to be stuck with Cormac for much longer."

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips was undeniable. “I’m fine without him,” you said, feeling the heat of alcohol start to cloud your thoughts, but only in the best way possible. "And maybe I’ve got better company right here.”

Fred raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling into a half-smirk. "Better company, huh? What a coincidence. I was thinking the same thing."

The tension between you both was electric, palpable. It hung in the air, thick and unspoken, but you could feel it in the way Fred’s gaze never wavered from you.

Ginny, always the observant one, caught the subtle shift in the atmosphere and grinned. "Alright, you two," she said with a knowing look. "You both should just kiss already."

Your heart skipped, and for a split second, Fred’s eyes flickered to yours, his smirk turning into something more sincere, something almost... hungry.

You nearly choked on your drink, laughing in an attempt to mask the sudden heat on your face. "Ginny!" you protested, though it came out breathlessly. "You’re drunk."

Fred chuckled, his voice barely audible above the noise of the party. “I’ll take that as a compliment, then.”

The moment was interrupted. Cormac cleared his throat, a glare on his face. His friends stood behind him.

The air in the room instantly thickened, the playful energy dissipating as Cormac’s presence loomed over you like a storm cloud. He didn’t even glance at Fred; his eyes were fixed on you, his expression harsh, almost accusing.

“Everything alright here?” Cormac’s voice was low, the kind of tone that suggested he already knew the answer but wanted to make sure you felt the weight of his disapproval.

You shrugged.

"You seemed fine in your corner of the room."

Cormac’s jaw tightened at your response, and his friends shifted uncomfortably behind him, sensing the brewing tension. He wasn’t used to being spoken to like this, and you could feel the heat radiating off him.

“You’re drunk,” he muttered, his gaze flicking to the drink in your hand as though it was some kind of proof of your irresponsibility. “And you’re with him.” His eyes shot a pointed glare at Fred, who simply raised an eyebrow and leaned back casually.

“I’m allowed to talk to whoever I want,” you replied, keeping your tone steady, even though your heart was pounding. You could feel the eyes of the entire room on you, but this time, it didn’t bother you as much as it usually did. You were done hiding in Cormac’s shadow.

Fred smirked and took a step back, hands in his pockets as if to give you space, but still within reach should you need him. "Looks like someone needs to get a grip," he said lightly, his voice teasing, but there was an edge to it.

Cormac’s nostrils flared, and he took a step closer, his face reddening. "You think this is funny, Weasley?" His voice was low, threatening. "Stay out of this."

Fred’s grin never wavered. “I think it’s hilarious, actually. But hey, if you want to keep playing the jealous boyfriend role, go ahead.”

You could see Cormac’s hands twitch. He stepped forward. Fred raised an eyebrow, standing from his seat. He was easily a head taller than Cormac, maybe more.

"Stay away from my girlfriend, git. I hear all the whispers around this school. Fred Weasley flirting with my girlfriend. You're flirtin' with a right ass kicking next."

Fred’s eyes darkened slightly, but his smirk remained, though now it was colder, sharper. He stood tall, his posture effortlessly confident, an undeniable contrast to Cormac’s flustered and aggressive stance.

"An arse kicking?" Fred snorted, actually having the guff to laugh in Cormac's face. "Oi, Georgie! Did you hear that right? McLaggen wants to deliver me a 'right arse kicking'."

George, who had been leaning casually against the wall, looked up with a grin that matched Fred’s. He crossed his arms and took a step forward, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “An arse kicking, bloke?” he echoed, his tone full of sarcasm. “Oh, I do hope you’ve got more than just the threat of bad breath and an overinflated ego, McLaggen.”

The laughter between the twins only served to make Cormac’s face redden further, and you could almost feel the heat radiating off of him. It was clear that the situation was getting increasingly uncomfortable for him, and yet, Fred and George didn’t seem to care in the slightest.

“Yeah, mate,” Fred continued, his voice dripping with amusement. “Not sure you’ve got the goods for that kind of threat. How about you take that bad attitude and go sulk somewhere else before you really embarrass yourself?”

There was a palpable tension in the room as Fred’s eyes locked onto Cormac’s, but despite the threat of violence, Fred seemed completely unfazed. He just stood there, his smirk wide and his posture so relaxed it was as though he was daring Cormac to take the first swing.

Cormac got closer, him and Fred almost nose to nose.

"Stay. Away. From Y/N."

Fred’s smirk didn’t falter, though there was a noticeable shift in the air. His posture didn’t tense, but there was a quiet intensity in his eyes now. He leaned forward just slightly, closing the gap between him and Cormac with a confidence that almost made it seem like he had all the time in the world.

“Make me,” Fred said softly, his voice low and almost casual, like the entire confrontation was a minor inconvenience. The challenge in his tone was unmistakable, daring Cormac to try something — anything.

Cormac’s face was mere inches from Fred’s, his breath hot and heavy in the silence that had enveloped them. For a moment, it seemed like neither of them would budge, like the tension was going to snap in a violent clash. But then Cormac’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, frustration evident in the sharpness of his jaw. He was seething, but Fred wasn’t backing down, wasn’t giving him an inch.

Finally, the dam broke.

Cormac lunged at Fred, but his friends were too quick, grabbing ahold of him. Your eyes widened.

Fred burst into laughter, his eyebrows raised.

"Oh, my! The froggy did jump. Let him go, boys. Let's see what he can do, yeah?"

The tension in the room reached a fever pitch as Fred's challenge hung in the air. Cormac’s friends, clearly unsure, hesitated for a second before releasing him, but there was no mistaking the fury in his eyes. He was seething, ready to lash out, but Fred didn’t flinch.

Fred’s laughter rang out, loud and carefree, like he was genuinely enjoying this absurd situation. He stepped back a little, hands in the air as if to say, “Come on then.”

“Go on then, McLaggen,” Fred taunted, his tone light, as though he were merely encouraging a schoolyard squabble. “Show me what you’ve got. But don’t go crying to your mates when it doesn’t work out.”

You could feel the eyes of everyone around you, the whispers and the stares. Some of the students were backing away, not wanting to get caught in the middle of this. Fred’s confidence was unmatched, but you could also see the moment Cormac’s resolve started to crack.

Fred’s posture was still relaxed, his smirk in place, but there was something more now — the challenge had shifted. The onlookers were waiting to see if Cormac would actually follow through.

For a split second, Cormac looked like he was going to make a move. His hand twitched, as if contemplating it, but then he stopped. His chest heaved with anger, but his eyes were calculating now, as if trying to figure out if it was worth throwing the first punch.

Fred raised an eyebrow, mocking him. “What’s wrong, mate? Too scared to even throw a proper punch?”

Cormac’s face was a mask of fury, his pride clearly wounded. He looked like he was about to explode, but after a tense pause, he began to walk away.

"I want you back in the dorm by one, Y/N." He hissed. Then, he left.

The moment Cormac’s voice cut through the tension, it was like a cold splash of water. You were still frozen in place, your heart pounding in your chest. His words echoed in your mind — the command, the possessiveness. You felt your stomach twist, the anger bubbling up once more.

But Fred, as always, didn’t seem fazed. He leaned against the table casually, his arms crossed over his chest, looking after Cormac with a raised brow. “Is that right?” he muttered under his breath, an amused smirk tugging at his lips.

The air was thick with the aftermath, the party resuming its usual hum of conversation, but the dynamic had changed. Everyone could feel it.

Fred turned his gaze back to you, his eyes softening, though the sharpness of the encounter still lingered in the air. “You don’t have to listen to him, you know.”

His words hung there, simple but loaded. You knew it wasn’t just about Cormac anymore. It was about what you wanted, what you were going to do next.

You met Fred’s eyes, trying to steady your racing heart. “I know.”

But even as you said it, part of you felt a strange pull, a sense of responsibility to Cormac’s words. You could feel the control he tried to exert over you, like a tight grip on your very being. It wasn’t right, but the thought of confrontation still made your stomach churn.

Fred didn’t push. He didn’t need to. He stood there, waiting, giving you the space to process.

After a long pause, you finally spoke, your voice quieter now. “I don’t want to go back to the dorm tonight.” It came out almost like a confession, and you immediately regretted it. But Fred’s gaze softened in understanding.

“Then don’t,” he said simply, a warmth creeping into his tone. “You’re not his to command, Y/N.”

His words were a reminder — not just that you were free, but that you deserved more. You deserved to make your own choices, to not be controlled by anyone.

You couldn’t help but feel the weight of that. Fred’s presence had shifted from playful to something deeper, something more protective and genuine.

Without a word, he reached out, offering his hand to you. His gaze didn’t leave yours as he waited, his smirk gone, replaced with something that spoke volumes.

“You’ve got options. You can stay in my dorm, or we can go somewhere else. Your call.”

The offer was simple, yet it felt like the world was in your hands. Cormac’s control, his possessiveness — it felt a lot smaller in comparison to the choice Fred was giving you now.

Ultimately, you decided to go to Fred's upon the promise that he'd sleep on the floor and you could have the bed.

When it was time, you crept up the stairs sneakily, knowing you weren't supposed to be there. Before you'd left, Hermione and Ginny winked at you, mouthing 'use protection'. As usual, you'd used the lame quote you always did.

"I have a boyfriend!"

You stepped into Fred’s dorm with a mix of nerves and curiosity fluttering in your chest. The room had the unmistakable scent of boy — a mix of broom polish, something vaguely like cinnamon, and just a hint of mischief. Quidditch posters were slightly crooked on the walls, a pair of socks hung from the corner of his bedpost, and a few Zonko’s wrappers were scattered on the floor like confetti after a prank well done.

Fred closed the door behind you with a quiet click, then turned, watching your expression closely. “Alright, I know it’s not exactly five-star,” he said, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish grin, “but I promise the bed’s clean-ish. And I’m told the floor builds character.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but the corners of your lips twitched up. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor, you know.”

Fred raised a brow. “You’re not about to suggest we share, are you? Because that might make your boyfriend — sorry, our resident caveman — a bit twitchy.”

You laughed, the sound soft and surprising even to your own ears. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Fred said, flopping down on the bed for the moment and tossing a pillow to the floor like it was a throne, “you’re here.”

You stood there for a second longer than necessary, watching him. For all the jokes and smirks, there was something undeniably warm about him — like you were safe in a place you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

“I’m only here to avoid a fight,” you said, not really believing it yourself.

Fred looked at you, unbothered. “Then I hope it was worth sneaking past McGonagall and the protection squad.” He mimicked Ginny and Hermione’s voices with a dramatic flair: “‘Use protection!’ — honestly, I feel like they’re rooting for me.”

You groaned, pulling a pillow over your face. “I hate that I keep using that same excuse. I have a boyfriend… it sounds weaker every time I say it.”

Fred’s voice was quieter now. “Then stop saying it.”

The room fell into a soft silence.

You lifted the pillow just enough to peek at him. “That’s not fair.”

He met your gaze with something softer than a smirk. “Neither is the way he treats you.”

There was nothing flirty in his voice this time — no edge, no teasing. Just truth.

You could feel how close you were. His thighs were resting next to yours, only an inch from touching. You were sad you couldn't share the bed without it being wrong.

Fred must’ve felt it too — the closeness, the tension that wasn’t born from a fight or an argument, but from restraint. The unspoken something that had been hanging between you two for weeks now. Maybe months. Maybe longer.

You could feel the heat radiating from him, his presence like a magnetic pull, and it wasn’t fair. Not because of the situation, or the rumors, or even the rules — but because being near him made you feel calm. Real. Understood. Something you didn’t even realize you’d been starving for.

“I hate this,” you whispered, not even sure if you meant the situation, your relationship with Cormac, or the fact that you couldn’t just... let yourself fall into this moment.

Fred didn’t move, but his voice came low. “What part?”

You hesitated. “The part where I have to keep pretending I don’t want more than this.”

He looked at you then — really looked. All the mischief and bravado faded in a blink. There was something in his eyes that made your breath catch, something heavy with meaning, but gentle too.

“You don’t have to pretend with me. I won't squeal.”

Your eyes softened. You felt yourself almost melting.

Fred leaned forward, almost testing how far you'd let him go.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t pull away.

His hand found the edge of the bed, steadying himself, his knuckles brushing lightly against your knee. It wasn’t bold or pushy — it was cautious, careful, like he was giving you every opportunity to stop him. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

His eyes never left yours, and in them, you didn’t see a boy looking for a joke or a cheap thrill. You saw someone who meant it. Someone who knew exactly what you were risking and was willing to meet you there anyway — with patience, with warmth, with that steady, maddening confidence he always wore so well.

“You sure?” he asked, voice a whisper now, nearly swallowed by the hush of the room. “Because once I know you want this too… I don’t think I can go back to pretending either.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached out, fingers barely ghosting over his wrist — and that was all he needed.

Fred closed the space between you, slow and certain, his forehead gently resting against yours. No kiss. Not yet. Just that shared breath, that promise suspended in the air.

"I don't think I've ever felt this way in my life."

Fred let out the softest breath, like the weight of your words had struck something deep inside him — something real. His fingers brushed your knee again, this time more firmly, grounding himself as he searched your eyes.

“Me either,” he admitted, his voice barely audible, like speaking too loud might break the moment.

His thumb skimmed your wrist, tracing slow, reverent circles as he kept his forehead against yours. “It’s not just a crush. Not some passing thing. I feel it — here.” He moved your hand gently, placing it flat over his chest where his heart thudded steadily beneath your palm. “Every time I see you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full. Full of every glance, every smirk, every quiet moment you’d shared that hadn’t made sense until now.

Fred leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes again, searching for the final piece of permission. His voice cracked just slightly when he whispered, “Can I kiss you?”

Fuck it.

"Please?" You asked, your voice a quiet whimper.

That was all it took.

Fred closed the distance without hesitation, one hand coming up to cradle your cheek with such care it made your heart ache. His lips met yours gently at first, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, the feeling of finally having you this close. It wasn’t rushed — it was reverent. A kiss years in the making, built from tension, longing, and all the moments you’d spent denying it.

But once it started, there was no going back.

The second kiss was deeper, slower but more desperate — his fingers slipping into your hair, your hands clinging to his shirt. It was like something had finally broken free between you, and now that it had, neither of you could stop. The need in the room shifted from hesitant to hungry in an instant.

Fred pulled back only slightly, his forehead pressed against yours again, lips brushing as he spoke. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that — instead I got to watch moments like this wasted on some talentless git."

He kissed you again before you could respond — soft, then firm, like he couldn’t get enough. His voice came in a breathless whisper against your lips: “Say the word and I’ll stop, yeah?”

You didn’t say a word.

Instead, you pulled him back in with a grip that left no room for doubt. Your fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck as you kissed him harder, need surging like a flood. Fred groaned softly into your mouth — a low, desperate sound that seemed to vibrate right through you — before his hands found your waist, tugging you into his lap like you belonged there.

You did.

The warmth of his body pressed against yours, his touch suddenly more urgent, more claiming. His mouth moved along your jaw, down to the edge of your throat, where he lingered with soft, open-mouthed kisses that made your breath hitch. “You have no idea,” he murmured against your skin, “how mad you make me, every time you call that idiot your boyfriend.”

His hands ran under the hem of your shirt now, slow and reverent even in the heat of it all, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you this way.

Fred's hands paused just beneath the fabric, fingertips brushing your bare skin like he was memorizing the feel of you. His breath was hot against your neck, the restraint in his movements contrasting the intensity of the moment. He didn’t rush. He didn’t push.

“You shouldn’t have to settle for someone who only wants to own you,” he whispered, lips brushing your collarbone. “You deserve to be worshipped.”

Your heart pounded at his words — not because of the heat, but the sincerity behind them. Fred didn’t just want you. He saw you. All of you. Every piece you’d tucked away, every part Cormac had ignored or tried to control — Fred was holding you like none of that scared him.

He pulled back enough to meet your gaze again, thumbs still stroking lazy circles into your hips. “I meant what I said. You call the shots. We stop whenever you say.”

His voice was still low, husky with want — but his eyes held nothing but respect, waiting for your permission, like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

You felt yourself squirm under his touch, the heat between your legs almost becoming uncomfortable. You weren’t even sure if you’d feel guilty for doing this anymore. Fred was the most exquisite thing you’d ever tasted, a forbidden fruit.

Fred noticed the way you moved against him, the quiet, involuntary squirm, and his hands tightened slightly at your hips — not to restrain, but to ground. His lips parted like he was about to say something, but he didn’t. Instead, he just looked at you, his gaze dark and reverent, as if he could already feel the shift in you, the slow unraveling of hesitation.

“I want to take care of you. Will you let me, love?” He asked, his brown eyes darker than ever.

Your breath caught at the tenderness in his voice — the contrast between his raw need and the reverence in his words made your heart ache. There was no arrogance in the way Fred looked at you now, no teasing or bravado. Just a quiet, aching sincerity. Like this had never been about just desire — it had always been about you.

You nodded, barely able to speak. “Yes,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Please.”

Fred smirked, the hands on your hips lifting only to slide under the waistband of your skirt. “That’s my girl.”

You shuddered as his rough, Quidditch conditioned hands met the skin below your belly button, your e/c eyes glued onto him. The brisk air flooded your hips, thighs, and legs as he pulled the skirt off.

He tossed it to the floor quickly, his eyes raking over your body in awe.

“You’re gorgeous. Absolutely bloody perfect.”

His thick fingers trailed along the waistband of your underwear, toying with the thin fabric. He eyed the wet patch on the front, an amused smile on his lips.

“Betcha Cormac McLaggen never caused this mess, hm?”

You rolled your eyes, attempting to close your legs. He pushed them back open, chuckling.

Quickly, he tugged your panties down your legs too, his eyes darkening even further at the sight of you. Your pussy was perfect, glistening in the dim light of the moon. He ran a finger down the length of it, watching your essence collect onto it.

You exhaled, the cold breath hitting Fred.

“Pretty. So, so pretty.”

Before you knew it, Fred was repositioning himself, his body sliding down the rest of the bed. He positions himself between your thighs, pushing them further apart. His eyes look eagerly up at you, a smirk on his lips.

“Gonna take care of you, yeah? Show you an unselfish bloke, since you’ve never seen one.”

You could’ve cried.

With a firm squeeze on your thigh, he dives in.

He licks a thick stripe up the middle of your heat, eliciting a moan from your lips immediately. You could’ve sworn you heard him chuckle against you — you definitely felt the vibration of it.

He laps at you eagerly, like a dog that just found water in the desert. Your clit gets most of the attention, but he occasionally goes where your essence has collected most, cleaning you up as he works.

“Oh my Merlin—” you gasp, a quiet whimper leaving your lips as your hand trails down to him, threading through his hair without even thinking.

This only pushes him further. He focuses on the most sensitive part of you, the cute little bundle of nerves, until you feel like you could pass out.

All it takes it one more push. He sucks at you, a loud sluuuurp, just enough pressure.

You come undone immediately, a lewd moan leaving your lips. You’d almost be embarrassed at how quick it was if you could even think.

“Fred!”

He doesn’t stop, leading you through your release. Your hips buck as you attempt to push him off, but his broad hand forces your hips down.

All that’s left now is to clean you up. He can’t let you go to waste.

Licking up every drop of cum you’d let slip, he came up off from you. The lower part of his face glistens sinfully.

Your jaw is still wide open in both bliss and disbelief as you look at him, a loud exhale exiting your mouth.

Quickly, as if it was perfectly normal, a typical part of his evening, he wiped your release from his face and sucked it from his fingers, humming gratefully.

He looked down at you with a lazy, satisfied grin, eyes soft but gleaming with something deeper. “See?” he murmured, brushing your hair from your face with the gentlest touch. “That’s what you deserve, love. Not the bloody Quidditch mascot.”

You laughed, breathless and flushed, your brain fuzzy.

“I have a boyfriend.”

Fred let out a dramatic groan and threw his head back against the pillow. “Merlin’s bloody beard, not again.”

You giggled, half buried in his chest, still breathless and dazed. “It’s a reflex at this point.”

He turned his head to look at you, one brow raised and a teasing smirk forming on his lips. “Yeah? Well, reflex or not, love, you really need to update your status. Because your boyfriend didn’t make you sound like that.” His fingers traced lazy circles over your spine. “I did.”

You roll your eyes, pushing yourself closer to him. He wraps his arms around you tightly, curling you into his chest.

“Goodnight, Weasley. You’ve turned me into a sinner.”

Fred chuckled, the sound low and warm against your ear as he buried his face in your hair. “Then I’ll happily be the reason you fall from grace,” he murmured, voice laced with something both teasing and devastatingly sincere.

His arms tightened around you as he pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “Sleep. I’ve got you.”

The warmth of his embrace, the steady beat of his heart, and the fading ache of the night’s confessions lulled you into a peace you hadn’t felt in ages. And for once, you didn’t care about tomorrow — not about guilt, not about consequences.

The next morning, you still felt the same. No guilt. No shame. That’s how you knew for sure that your relationship with Cormac had run its course and that you needed to end it — ASAP.

And after his brutish behavior the other night, what better way was there to break it to him but through the very Weasley that had shown you the greener grass on the other side?

You entered the Great Hall, Fred’s arm thrown around your shoulder.

You didn’t even try to hide the smug satisfaction bubbling beneath your skin.

Fred was relaxed, smirking like he knew exactly the kind of storm you were about to unleash. His arm hung heavy around your shoulders, protective and possessive in a way that was unmistakably deliberate. You leaned into it — not for the drama, but because it felt good. Right.

The hum of morning chatter in the Great Hall dulled the second you walked in. Heads turned. Students smiled, cheered even. And at the Gryffindor table, Cormac McLaggen froze mid-bite, eyes narrowing as they locked onto the two of you.

You gave him a look that was cool, almost bored. “McLaggen,” you said lightly, as though you were passing a stranger on the street.

Fred didn’t stop walking, guiding you toward your usual spot like nothing was amiss. But as you slid onto the bench beside him, his arm stayed firmly in place, and his hand brushed your shoulder with just enough intimacy to make the message clear.

Cormac was already on his feet. “What the hell is this?”

Fred looked up at him with a smile that was too calm to be kind. “This?” He gestured lazily between you. “This is her making a better choice.”

Cormac’s jaw clenched. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” you cut in, voice steady, unfazed. “We’re over, Cormac. As of last night, officially. Your behavior lately? That was the last straw.”

He looked between you and Fred, fuming. “So you’re just gonna — what? Run off with him?”

You didn’t blink. “No, I walked away from you. And he was already standing there.”

Fred leaned back, hands behind his head now, relaxed as ever. “She simply decided she preferred gingers. And blokes that don’t pretend to be good at Quidditch. And blokes that brush their teeth.”

The Gryffindor table burst into scattered laughter, a few muffled snorts and gasps echoing down the line. Even George, two seats away, choked on his pumpkin juice, coughing into his sleeve with a wide-eyed, delighted grin.

Cormac’s face flushed a deep, angry red, his fists clenched at his sides. “You think this is funny?” he snapped, eyes locked on Fred. “You think you can just take her from me and humiliate me in front of everyone?”

Fred didn’t move, his tone still maddeningly casual. “Mate, I didn’t take anything. You lost her all on your own. I just happened to be the better option when the dust settled.”

You saw it — the twitch in Cormac’s jaw, the way his shoulders squared as if ready to swing. But this time, Fred’s eyes sharpened, just a little.

“Don’t,” he warned, his smile fading just enough to let the tension creep in again. “I’d hate to embarrass you twice in one week.”

Cormac turned, glaring.

“Whatever. I deserve better than some stupid slag, anyway.”

Fred was on his feet before anyone else could react.

There was no teasing in his expression now — no witty retorts, no lopsided smirk. Just pure, cold fury. The kind that silenced the whole hall in an instant.

“What are you—”

Fred’s fist connected with Cormac’s jaw before the insult could fully leave his mouth.

The sound was sickening — a sharp crack that echoed through the Great Hall like a thunderclap. Heads turned. Conversations halted mid-sentence. Even the enchanted ceiling seemed to flicker for a moment, as if the castle itself recoiled from the blow.

Cormac stumbled back, dazed, clutching his face with wide eyes and bleeding pride. He didn’t fall — not quite — but the damage was clear: his lip was split, and his ego shattered.

Fred didn’t follow it up. He stood over Cormac, shoulders heaving, eyes burning. “Long overdue, you absolute waste of space prat,” he growled. “Try that shit again and see what you get next, mate.”

McGonagall’s voice suddenly rang through the hall like a whip. “Mr. Weasley!”

Fred didn’t flinch. He only turned slightly, shielding you behind him again with a hand at your hip. “Sorry, Professor,” he said, still glaring at Cormac. “Slipped.”

—

The tension from the Great Hall carried all the way into detention, where Fred now sat slumped at a desk in an empty classroom, idly tossing a quill from one hand to the other. He looked more annoyed than remorseful — not at the punishment, but at the hour wasted inside instead of with you.

The door creaked open.

He glanced up — and there you were.

McGonagall had given you permission. She was an advocator for women, and you’d explained the entire situation to her. She was slightly reluctant, but ended up letting you enter with a ‘just this once’ slipping from her lips.

“You’re not in trouble,” he said, brow lifting in amused confusion as you shut the door behind you.

“No,” you teased, strolling toward him. “Figured if you’re gonna sit here sulking, I might as well brighten the place up a bit.”

Fred grinned, eyes following your every step as you hopped up to sit on the desk in front of him, legs swinging playfully. He reached towards your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“I can’t believe I can call you my girlfriend now. Never thought I’d see the day you gave up on the bench warmer.”

You smirked, gently nudging Fred with your knee as he leaned forward, resting his chin on your thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Gave up on him the moment I realized I was already in love with the guy who actually showed up for me,” you said, fingers sliding through his hair.

Fred beamed, practically glowing. “So you’re saying I’m your hero? Finally getting the credit I deserve?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the fond smile tugging at your lips. “More like my very chaotic, very ginger hero who got detention for punching my ex.”

Fred looked far too pleased with that title.

“Don’t forget, love. I also devoured his girlfriend in my bed two doors down from him.”

You raised your eyebrows, laughing as you lightly smacked his shoulder. “Fred!”

He grinned shamelessly, that familiar mischievous glint lighting up his eyes. “What? Just making sure history remembers me properly.”

You shook your head, but the smile on your face wouldn’t budge. “You’re unbelievable.”

Fred leaned in, brushing his nose against yours, voice dipping to something softer. “And yet… you still chose me.”

You exhaled, heart full. “Yeah. I did.”

And as he kissed you — slow, certain, and impossibly warm — you realized that, for the first time in a long time, you didn’t regret a single thing.

[spencersmopbucket]

I LOVEEE THE WAY U WRITE OLIVERR ITS JUST ARGHH SOO GOOD 💗💗😛😛 UR A GREAT WRITER!! AMD SPEAKING ABOUT UR AWESOME OLIVER WORK PLSS MOREE THXX! 💗✨✨

Aww thank you so much!! 🤍

Comments like these are so encouraging:)

[spencersmopbucket]

Behind the Ribcage | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: You're Spencer's best friend & his case partner — but things get weirdly distant after you begin dating a local cop. Themes & Warnings: jealous!Spence, violence, angst with happy ending really. This is very self indulgent tbh, theres a reference to Toby Cavanaugh from PLL bc he's my favorite hot cop

When you'd joined the BAU, you'd taken the place by storm. You were a new agent — smart, strong, calculating, charismatic, feisty — everything that the ideal agent had. You were immediately wrapped into the crazy world that was profiling, fitting in like the missing puzzle piece.

Despite being a lot different than him, you clicked almost instantly with the BAU's Spencer Reid, boy genius.

You were fire, and he was water — fast mouth and fast fists when needed, where he was all statistics and careful dissection. But somehow, it worked. You’d been paired together almost from the start, assigned as partners on cases, and over the months it became second nature. If he moved, you moved. If you spoke, he listened. And you always had his six.

Hotch had done it perfectly, just as he'd figured. When he paired you together, he'd created an unstoppable duo. Someone to ground Spencer, to make him stronger, and someone to rationalize you and introduce you more to critical thinking and less to impulse.

Spencer would never admit to how much he’d grown dependent on that rhythm — on you. On knowing you’d be at his side in every hotel, briefing, and takedown. On the way you’d toss him a protein bar when he forgot to eat or let your fingers linger on his wrist a little too long after passing him a file.

And you would never acknowledge how right Aaron Hotchner had been. Spencer taught you not to always rush in, not to fight fire with fire. Sometimes it took calculation, plotting, manipulation. He was also just a comforting presence, someone to run cold water over a wound or to have your back when talking down an unsub. He was your constant. Consistently there for you. You never had to guess if you'd have Spencer.

When you met Cavanaugh, it was almost as if the feelings of comfort amplified. But they weren't about just Spencer anymore.

Toby Cavanaugh was a local cop the team had partnered with during a particularly brutal serial assault case in Pennsylvania. Handsome in a carved-from-stone kind of way, quiet but not shy, with this protective edge that felt so familiar to you — like an echo of everything you thought you wanted.

He was solid. Calm. Confident in a way that didn’t feel arrogant. He treated you like an equal, didn’t flinch when you challenged him in a briefing, and didn’t blink when you barked orders during a takedown. You respected him immediately — and, more dangerously, you liked him too. You liked him so much.

He had these blue eyes that could read right through you. He was broad and muscular. Any woman had to admit that Detective Cavanaugh was easy on the eyes.

You liked the way his hand always brushed your lower back when he walked past. The way he called you “agent” like it was some sort of nickname. You liked that he offered to drive you to the hotel when the case wrapped, and you liked the way his voice dropped when he asked, “Can I see you again?”

And you didn’t think twice about saying yes.

From there on out, Toby, not Cavanaugh, was showing up everywhere for you. On the job, he protected you ruthlessly, shoving back any threat that came within 10 feet. Outside of the job, he picked you up from work if he wasn't on shift. He cooked you dinner and ran you baths to relax you. He held you while you slept, warding off nightmares about awful cases you'd seen.

It was good. Maybe too good. The universe probably sensed that you were too happy and too content.

Because slowly — almost imperceptibly — the patterns began to change.

Spencer changed.

At first, it was small things. He stopped joining you at the coffee machine in the mornings, where you'd usually trade quiet smiles and inside jokes while everyone else wiped sleep from their eyes. He stopped waiting for you after briefings, letting you catch up instead of walking with you in perfect sync like he always had.

Then it got worse.

He started volunteering for assignments without you — walking into Hotch’s office before you had a chance to speak. He’d take files from JJ without passing them to you first. On one occasion, he even snapped at you during a suspect interview, interrupting mid-question to redirect.

You blinked at him across the table, stunned.

He didn’t even look at you after.

That night, you got home late. Your body ached, your brain burned, and as you stepped into the familiar warmth of your apartment, you saw Toby in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, plating pasta and pouring wine like he was some domestic god.

He took one look at your face and said, “Rough day?”

You wanted to say Spencer.

Instead, you said, “Yeah. Long.”

But Spencer was the undercurrent of it all. The constant ringing tension in your ribs.

You weren’t blind. You’d seen the way his jaw clenched when you answered your phone and smiled at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice. You noticed the way he walked away now instead of waiting for you to finish calls. You noticed the way he didn’t laugh anymore — not when you teased him, not when Morgan did. He was quiet. Sharp-edged.

And cold.

Cold in a way you never thought he could be — not with you.

Toby hummed, walking around the island in the kitchen to press a soft kiss to your cheek.

"Wanna talk about it? I'm no stranger to long days, you know."

You knew you could be honest with Toby. You always could. So you did.

You let out a long breath and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed tightly over your chest like it would hold the frustration in. Toby stepped closer, waiting — patient and steady, like always.

“It’s Spencer,” you said finally, the name heavy on your tongue.

Toby raised his brows slightly, but didn’t interrupt.

“He’s been… off. Ever since we got together. It’s like he’s trying to distance himself. I mean, we’ve always been a team, Toby. He’s my partner, my best friend. But now? He won’t even look at me. Won’t talk unless it’s strictly case-related.”

Toby nodded slowly, processing. “You think it’s about me?”

“I don’t want it to be,” you admitted. “But yeah. I think it is.”

You expected a flicker of jealousy, maybe defensiveness. But Toby just tilted his head, giving you a knowing look.

“Sometimes guys don’t realize what they have until they think they’re losing it,” he said, gently. “And it sounds like, for Spencer, you’ve always been… his partner. Maybe in more ways than what you realize.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the kindness in his tone.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” he added. “You don’t deserve to be iced out because someone else can’t deal with their feelings.”

You nodded, and for a moment, the silence was thick with unspoken things. Guilt. Confusion. Hurt.

Toby reached for your hand.

“You want me to talk to him?”

Your eyes widened slightly. “No. God, no. That’d make it worse.”

He chuckled lightly. “Fair enough.”

And you appreciated that — how he didn’t press, didn’t push. Just stood beside you, solid as ever.

But even as you sat across from him at dinner and tried to focus on the warmth of his hand over yours and the smell of garlic and basil, your mind wandered.

To Spencer.

To the way he used to look at you when he thought you weren’t watching. To how he always sat beside you on the plane, even when the seat was cramped. To how his fingers would brush yours when you passed him notes during briefings. How his voice would soften when he said your name.

You chewed slowly, heart too full and too confused.

Because it was good with Toby. Safe. Easy. Healthy.

But Spencer Reid was a different kind of ache. A different kind of want.

And the way he was pulling away was starting to feel like losing a part of yourself.

The next case was local. Joint operation. Which meant — of course — local cops. Which meant Toby.

You hadn’t seen Spencer’s jaw lock that hard since the last time he got shot.

It started subtly. Spencer barely acknowledged Toby’s greeting at the precinct, opting instead for a clipped nod and a murmured “Detective.” No handshake. No eye contact. No warmth.

Toby had noticed.

So had Morgan.

“You wanna tell me what’s got pretty boy wound so tight?” Morgan murmured as you prepped in the conference room.

You only shrugged, feeling the storm brewing before the first thunder cracked.

Things really started to spiral when the team and local PD were combing through suspect profiles — a list of men matching a violent pattern across multiple counties. Spencer sat at one end of the table, you next to him, and Toby leaned over your other side, reading over your shoulder. His hand lightly rested on the back of your chair.

“Your unsub’s MO escalated recently,” Toby said. “Blunt force trauma now, not strangulation. Means he’s getting sloppy, impulsive.”

Spencer scoffed — an uncharacteristic, biting sound.

“Or it means he’s adapting,” he cut in, not looking up. “You’re assuming he’s losing control when there’s nothing to suggest that yet. Impulsivity is a subjective label when you don’t understand the baseline pattern.”

The air in the room shifted.

Toby raised a brow. “Pretty sure I’m allowed to draw from experience here, Doctor.”

“I’m sure you are,” Spencer said coolly, flipping a page in the file. “Though we tend to prefer evidence-based analysis over gut feelings.”

You blinked between them. “Okay, let’s just—”

“Right. Because feelings aren’t useful in profiling?” Toby asked, standing straighter. “That’s rich coming from someone who clearly can’t separate his own from the job.”

Silence.

A beat.

Then Morgan muttered under his breath, “Damn.”

“Toby,” you warned quietly, heart lurching.

But Spencer didn’t back down. His tone dropped a note colder.

“I’m not the one who started dating a federal agent while assisting on a case.”

That hit.

You stood so fast your chair screeched back. “Enough. Both of you.”

Spencer finally looked at you, and it was the worst part — his eyes were hard, yes, but underneath? They looked hurt. Like he hated everything he’d just said but didn’t know how to stop himself.

You excused yourself quickly and walked out into the hallway, needing space to breathe. Toby followed first, hand brushing your arm.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag it out like that. He just — he gets under my skin.”

You turned to him. “He’s always under your skin, Toby. And you’re always in his. And I’m stuck in the middle of it.”

He frowned. “You’re not stuck.”

You hesitated. “Aren’t I?”

Toby stepped closer. “Are you telling me you’d rather be on his side?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. The answer came slower than you expected.

“No, Toby, but—”

The door opened behind you both. Spencer walked past without a word, his shoulder brushing yours like static.

He didn’t look back.

And suddenly, for the first time since meeting Toby Cavanaugh, your heart wasn’t where it used to be.

The rest of the case went slowly. You slowly got closer to leads, but the tension between Spencer and Toby made everything feel ten times heavier.

Every time they were in the same room, it was a minefield. Spencer was clinical, detached — he didn't so much as glance at you unless it was absolutely necessary. Toby, on the other hand, stayed close. Too close. Like he was trying to claim territory Spencer had already been silently living in.

You and Toby laid side by side in a hotel room the night before confronting the unsub. The bed was cold, different than normal. The tension had escalated from just between Spencer and Toby.

Now, it affected Toby and you.

You heard him sigh, shifting slightly. He had turned towards you, his blue eyes analyzing you. You couldn't bare to look at them.

"I know what you're thinking. And I'm not mad at you, Name." He said, a hand coming over to rest comfortingly on your knee.

You didn’t respond right away. You stared at the ceiling, the cheap fan clicking above you like a metronome, keeping time with the awkward silence stretching between you.

“I’m not mad,” Toby repeated, softer this time. “But I know you’re thinking about him.”

Your stomach twisted.

You turned your head slowly to meet his eyes — those same gentle, ocean-colored eyes that had once made you feel calm and sure. But now, all they did was make you feel guilty.

“I’m trying not to,” you admitted. Your voice was quiet, honest and shaky. “But it’s like I don’t even know how to not think about him. He’s just... always there.”

Toby gave you a sad smile, thumb brushing gently over your knee. “That’s what makes it harder. He was there first.”

Your throat tightened. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“I know,” he said. “I didn’t plan on falling for you either. But I did. And maybe I’m just now realizing that I’ve been fighting a losing battle since day one.”

You sat up then, wrapping your arms around your legs. “Toby…”

“I love you,” he said, steady and sure. “But I’m not going to ask you to choose between us. Because that's not fair.. And I think that your heart chose before your head did.”

Your eyes began to well up with tears, lip wobbling.

"I love you too. So much."

"I know you do. But you love him too."

"I don't know--"

Toby smiled sadly, shushing you.

"You do know, baby. You just aren't ready to admit it."

He kissed your forehead softly, like he was sealing a memory more than showing affection. “You’re going to be okay,” he said gently. “Even if it’s not with me. It's a choice you need to make. I'm here if you want me — and if its not me you want, that's okay too.”

You closed your eyes at his words, tears slipping down your cheeks. The finality in his voice wasn’t cruel — it was kind, too kind, and it made it hurt worse.

Toby didn’t leave. He just laid back down beside you, quiet, respectful of your silence. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, like he was trying to convince you that he was the right decision. He stayed — like someone waiting for the scenes that come on after the credits roll.

The next morning, you didn’t speak much. Toby offered you coffee with a soft “Here,” but nothing more. When you entered the precinct for the takedown briefing, the air between you and Spencer was as taut as a wire. He glanced at you — not coldly this time, but cautiously, like he didn’t trust himself to look too long.

When Garcia patched in the last lead, you split up into the new normal pairs: you with Toby, Spencer with Morgan.

The tension never left. Not during the briefing. Not during the gear-up. Not even when you were sliding into the passenger seat of the SUV beside Toby, your eyes catching Spencer’s just once across the lot.

And then the operation started.

The unsub had gone mobile — a panicked attempt to flee the pressure closing in. Garcia’s last location ping had led your team to an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the city. Cold. Echoing. Smelling of rust and dust and adrenaline.

You and Toby cleared the left wing. Morgan and Spencer swept right. Everyone moved with precision — voices low, steps practiced, hearts pounding just beneath Kevlar and clipped radios.

The unsub came out of nowhere.

One moment you were rounding the corner with your weapon raised, the next you were on the ground, a white-hot pain ripping through your side as the knife wedged between your ribcage and your heart. You choked, panicked, your fingers immediately reaching for where you felt pain. You pulled them back, thick crimson covering them.

Toby was screaming your name. You couldn’t answer.

Your hand pressed instinctively to your side again, feeling the sticky warmth bloom beneath your fingers. You tried to stay upright, to aim, to breathe, but your body folded against the concrete floor.

Everything was muffled after that — shouts, more gunfire, boots pounding, someone yelling “SUSPECT DOWN!”

And then —

“Name!” Spencer’s voice, panicked. Raw.

He was kneeling beside you before you could process it, gloved hands replacing yours on your wound. Blood soaked through them anyway.

“Stay with me,” he said, voice cracking. “Come on, stay with me, look at me.”

Your vision blurred. You blinked slowly, heavy, dazed. “Spence…?”

“I’ve got you. Okay? Just — just don’t close your eyes. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine.” He kept pressure on your side, his hands trembling as he did it. “Why weren’t you behind cover — god, I should’ve—” He shook his head. “I should've been there.”

Toby dropped to your other side, face pale and stricken. “She’s losing too much—Spencer, we need an ambulance now.”

“I already called it!” Spencer snapped. Not at Toby — not really — just at the situation, at the horror of watching someone you love bleed out in front of you. “She’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay, do you hear me?”

You wanted to nod. Instead, your eyes fluttered.

Spencer leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours, voice breaking. “Don’t you dare give up. Not now. Stay awake.” He begged, breath hitching. “You can't leave me alone. Not when I haven't—” he cut himself off, tears welling up in his eyes.

Your blood was warm against his hands, soaking through the sleeves of his FBI jacket. Spencer barely noticed. His world had narrowed to you — your paling face, your shallow breaths, your barely-there grip on consciousness.

Toby hovered just as close, voice cracking. “Come on, baby. Just hold on, okay? The ambulance is close. You just gotta hold on a little longer.”

Your lips moved. No sound came at first — then, the faintest whisper: “I’m… I’m trying.”

Spencer broke. A sob escaped him as he leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. “That’s it. Just keep fighting. For me. For us. Please.”

Red and blue lights strobed faintly from outside the warehouse windows. Sirens howled in the distance, drawing closer.

Toby reached out and gripped Spencer’s forearm tightly, grounding them both. “We’ve got her. We’ve got her.”

Spencer nodded shakily, eyes locked to yours, never once looking away. “I’m right here,” he promised. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And when the EMTs burst in moments later, rushing toward you, it took two agents to pull Spencer away. He didn’t stop talking to you the entire time — even as they lifted you onto the stretcher, even as your eyes finally slid shut from the blood loss.

In the waiting room, there was pacing, crying, panicked phone calls. Toby sat in a chair with his head in his hands. Spencer paced back and forth. Garcia and Morgan sat side by side, Garcia's manicured hand held tightly by Derek.

The hospital’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, far too bright for the weight of what hung in the air. Spencer’s footsteps echoed through the near-empty waiting room — back and forth, back and forth, like if he stopped moving, the fear would crush him.

Toby hadn’t moved in nearly fifteen minutes. He sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, his hands tangled in his hair. His shoulders trembled every so often, silently, like the grief and helplessness were leaking out in waves too heavy to contain.

Garcia whispered something to Morgan, who just shook his head, his grip on her hand tightening. This was a pain even he couldn’t fix.

Finally, Spencer stopped moving.

He stared at Toby, chest heaving with the force of his unshed emotion. “She didn’t have to be out there. She wasn’t supposed to be in that position.”

Toby looked up slowly. His face was blotchy, raw, but his voice was steady when he said, “Don’t you think I know that?”

“She was my partner,” Spencer snapped, not out of cruelty — just exhaustion and pain. “She was my partner before she was yours. I should’ve—” He cut himself off, fists clenching. “I should’ve been there.”

Toby stood, eyes flaring. “And what? You think I didn’t want to switch places with her the second I saw her go down? You think I haven’t been dying inside knowing I couldn’t stop it?”

Spencer stepped closer, voice sharp. “Then why the hell didn’t you keep her behind cover?”

Toby surged forward, their chests nearly brushing. “Because she’s not a goddamn pawn, Spencer! She made the call. And if you knew her like you think you do, you’d know she’d never let someone else go in alone.”

That hit too close. Spencer’s jaw flexed, his breathing uneven. “Don’t talk to me like I don’t know her.”

“Then maybe act like it,” Toby hissed. “This isn’t about who’s hurting more. It’s about her.”

Spencer’s voice broke. “Everything is about her.”

And just like that, the fight drained out of both of them. The fire turned to ash. Toby sank back into the chair, elbows on his knees again, but this time he looked up.

“I love her, man,” he said hoarsely. "She's the easiest woman in the world to love."

Spencer swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. She is.”

The two men sat in the quiet aftermath of their clash — the rawness between them not hatred, but shared devastation. The truth had stripped them both down to nothing but the ache they carried for the same person.

“She used to talk about you,” Spencer added after a moment, eyes distant. “Back when you first joined the team. I’d ask her how it was going, and she’d smile — that kind of smile that’s more in her eyes than her mouth — and say you were ‘solid.’ That’s what she called you. Solid.”

Toby let out a soft, broken laugh. “She said that to me once, too. I thought it meant she didn’t really like me. Turns out, it meant I mattered.”

Spencer nodded slowly. “She’s careful with her words. When she says something like that... it sticks.”

Toby let out a shaky breath, a few tears slipping from his bloodshot blue eyes.

"She loves me, yeah. I know she does. But she really, really loves you, Reid. And all I want is for her to be happy."

Spencer’s throat tightened at the words. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had said that about him — or rather, about them. Toby’s words weren’t laced with jealousy, but a raw truth that broke Spencer’s heart more than anything.

Spencer laughed humorlessly, his voice tinged with frustration.

"I might be the smartest man in the world, but with her, all I do is screw up. It's like trying to solve a Riemann Hypothesis without knowing the fundamental theorem of algebra — I keep missing the point, no matter how hard I try."

Toby raised an eyebrow, clearly lost. "A... Riemann Hypothesis?"

Spencer shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "Never mind," he muttered. "It’s just a math thing. The point is, I screwed up. I hate seeing her with you, no offense."

Toby's eyes softened, but his posture remained guarded. "None taken," he said quietly, his voice rough with understanding. He sat back in the chair, arms crossed, looking down at his hands for a moment before meeting Spencer's gaze. "I know who she's going to choose. And if she's happy, I'll gladly walk away knowing that the woman I love is being taken care of. Even if it isn't me taking care of her."

Spencer stared at his feet, going silent for a few moments before speaking.

"That's the most unselfish thing I've ever heard. Somehow it just makes me hate you more, Cavanaugh."

Toby chuckled softly, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. The tension between them remained, but there was something in his eyes — a softness, a recognition that this wasn’t just about rivalry or competition. It was about something bigger than both of them.

"You really know how to throw a compliment, don’t you?" Toby teased, the bitterness in his voice softened by a hint of humor.

"And you know how to make a man feel appreciated. You showed me up at my job, which is what I'm known for, and then stole the girl I love."

Toby’s grin faded into something more genuine, a tinge of sadness behind his eyes. He looked at Spencer for a moment, his fingers tapping absently on his knee.

"Sorry."

Spencer rolled his eyes, crossing his arms.

"You're not. But it's alright."

The nurse stepped into the quiet room, her crisp white uniform a stark contrast to the tension that still hung in the air between Spencer and Toby. She looked at them both with a professional yet empathetic expression, taking in their somber faces.

"Gentlemen," she said gently, "you can see her now. She's stable, but still unconscious. We're monitoring her closely, but... it's a good sign. One at a time, please."

Toby stands, wiping his hands on his knees.

"Reid.. You can go ahead. When she wakes up, tell her I was here. And tell her I love her. Please. I gotta go."

Spencer noted the look in Toby's eyes. Glazed with tears, with a tint of 'goodbye.' Toby was letting go.

Spencer stood frozen for a moment, taking in the sincerity in Toby's words, the weight of them settling in his chest. He had expected bitterness, resentment — anything but the quiet acceptance that hung in the air now. Toby wasn’t fighting anymore.

The silence between them stretched, thick with the unspoken understanding that neither man was going to win this. The tension had been replaced by something far heavier, a grief that mirrored the one in Spencer’s heart.

Toby’s shoulders sagged slightly, his eyes avoiding Spencer’s gaze. But before Spencer could respond, Toby turned and made his way toward the door, not looking back.

Spencer watched him go, a flicker of guilt catching in his chest, but he pushed it down. Toby’s selflessness had made it all the more complicated. He didn't know what was right, what he could offer you that would make things better. What if he wasn’t enough?

Shaking his head, Spencer exhaled sharply, trying to push the thoughts aside.

Taking a step forward, he walked into the room where you lay, the sterile hospital smell overwhelming as he approached your bedside. The sound of the heart monitor was steady, the beeping a reminder of the fragility of life.

You were still unconscious, pale, and bruised, the faintest of scrapes lining your skin, but at least you were breathing.

Spencer sat beside you, his hand hovering above yours before he finally reached out, gently resting it on top of your cold fingers.

His lips wobbled. A tear fell.

"Still beautiful, somehow."

Spencer's gaze lingered on your face, the familiar features now shadowed by the bruises and cuts, the signs of the struggle you’d endured. The world seemed so fragile in moments like this, everything around him holding its breath as he did. His heart ached with the weight of what had happened, with the fear that he'd lost you before he could ever make things right.

His fingers tightened gently around yours, grounding him in the present. It felt surreal, sitting there next to you, waiting for a sign that you would wake up, that you would open your eyes and return to him.

"I’m sorry," Spencer whispered hoarsely, his voice breaking slightly as the tears continued to fall, betraying the stoic facade he tried so hard to maintain. "I don’t know how I let it get this far... but I’ll fix this. I swear, I’ll fix it."

He plopped down in the chair beside you, leaning over the railing of the bed and hiding his head in his arms. He tried to fight it, he really did. But he wept. Sniffles filled the room, silent cries. His shoulders shook, but he made no sound, as if the tears were the only release he could allow himself.

He almost didn't notice the gentle weight on his head, fingers threading through his tousled hair.

Spencer tensed at the touch, unsure if it was real or if his mind was playing tricks on him in the haze of exhaustion and grief. But then, a soft, familiar voice broke through the fog, like a beacon pulling him back to reality.

"Spence..." Your voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and fragile, but it was enough to make his heart skip a beat. The warmth of your fingers in his hair was unmistakable. It was you. You were awake.

His head snapped up, eyes wide with disbelief, his breath caught in his throat. He looked down at your face, still marked by the violence you’d endured, but the flicker of recognition in your eyes made everything else fade into the background.

"You’re awake," Spencer stammered, his voice thick with emotion, barely able to grasp the reality of it. "I thought... Oh my god." His hand reached for yours again, holding it more firmly this time, like he never wanted to let go.

You blinked up at him, your gaze swimming in confusion, but there was something reassuring in your touch, something grounding.

"Of course I'm awake." you murmured weakly, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. "But... you’re really going to have to stop crying, Reid. You’ll ruin that genius face of yours. Make it all snotty."

Spencer’s breath caught in his throat, the lump in his chest threatening to choke him as he laughed softly, his smile breaking through the tension for the first time in what felt like forever.

"I’m... I’m just glad you're okay," he choked out, his voice trembling. "I don’t care about my face."

You squeezed his hand lightly, your thumb brushing over his knuckles in a gesture of comfort. It was almost like you were trying to reassure him, as if the roles had been reversed.

"I'm not going anywhere, Spence," you said softly, your voice steadying as you tried to sit up, but your strength failed you, and you collapsed back against the pillows.

Spencer was immediately at your side, his hand gently urging you to rest. "Take it easy. You’ve been through enough."

You nodded, eyes half-lidded, still recovering from the ordeal. The silence between you two felt different now, more comforting, like the storm had passed, at least for the moment.

"Not very nice to stick knives in people's ribs. Did we get him?" You asked weakly.

Spencer's expression darkened at the mention of the attack, but he quickly pushed it down, not wanting to bring more worry into the room. His thumb lightly stroked the back of your hand, offering comfort as you struggled to sit up.

"Yeah," he said quietly, his voice a little rough. "He's been dealt with. You don't need to worry about him anymore." He paused for a moment, the weight of the situation hitting him again. "You’re safe now."

You let out a soft sigh, relief flooding through you at his words. Despite how weak you felt, you managed to offer him a small, tired smile.

"I missed you. You're done being mean to me?"

Spencer’s chest tightened at your words, his heart ached, and for a moment, it felt like the world around him paused. He had been so caught up in the fear of losing you that he hadn't fully realized how much he missed you, how much he had missed this — being close to you, sharing moments like this without the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air.

His thumb continued to trace the back of your hand as he leaned in a little closer, his voice gentle yet full of sincerity.

"Never again. Never."

You smiled again.

Spencer remembered what he'd agreed to tell you.

"Toby was here. Until you got out of surgery and the nurse let us see you. He told me to tell you.. he loves you."

Your expression softened at Spencer's words, the mention of Toby a bittersweet reminder of everything that had unfolded. For a moment, you didn’t say anything, just took in a slow, steady breath, trying to process everything.

"I... I never meant for any of this to happen," you murmured, looking down at your hand in Spencer's, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. "I never wanted to hurt him."

Spencer squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing over your skin in a silent gesture of comfort. "You didn’t," he said softly, his voice unwavering. "You never meant for any of it. But what matters now is that you’re here. And Toby... well, as much as I hate his existence, he's completely unselfish. He's okay with whatever you do, as long as you're happy."

"Seems kind of like a brown-noser to me, but what would I know?" He muttered to himself.

A soft, tired laugh escaped your lips, the sound cracking slightly but genuine nonetheless. It was the first real laugh you'd let out in what felt like forever, and it made Spencer’s chest swell with something warm and fragile.

You gave his hand a weak squeeze. "Just because he's not the jealous type doesn't make him a brown-noser," you scold with a wry smile. "He’s a good guy. Just... not my guy."

Spencer’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, something unreadable in his gaze. Hope. Fear. Relief. All tangled into one.

"I’m not good at this," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I say the wrong things. I push people away. But I never stopped—" he stopped himself, cleared his throat. "I never stopped caring about you. Even when I was too proud or too angry to show it."

Your fingers found his again. "You're doing just fine, Spence."

He exhaled, slowly, like the weight of your forgiveness let him breathe again for the first time.

"You’re really not allowed to almost die again," he said, a small smile returning to his lips. "I don’t handle it well."

"Yeah?" you whispered, eyes fluttering closed. "Then I guess I’ll stick around."

He played with your fingers for a moment, gathering the courage to say what he wanted to say. To do what he wanted to do. He was tired of being a coward. Tired of never getting what he wanted because he couldn't speak up unless it was something venomous coming out of his mouth.

Spencer's gaze drifted to your joined hands, watching as his thumb traced absent circles on your skin. His mind was racing, heart pounding against his ribcage like it was trying to escape. You were here. You were alive. And for once, the world had given him a second chance.

He swallowed hard, then leaned in, his voice quiet but firm, like he didn’t want to lose the nerve halfway through.

"I don’t want to pretend anymore," he said, barely above a whisper. "I don’t want to act like I don’t care, or like it didn’t kill me to see you with someone else. I messed things up — God, I know I did — but if there’s even the smallest chance… that you still feel something for me, I want to try. For real. No more walls. No more pride."

Your eyes fluttered open, hazy but focused on him. He looked wrecked — eyes rimmed red, lips trembling, jaw clenched in restraint — but honest. So achingly honest.

"I love you," he added, the words rushing out before he could second-guess them. "I’ve been in love with you for longer than I want to admit. And if you’ll let me… I want to earn you back."

Your eyes softened impossibly, pupils blown wide.

You didn’t speak right away—how could you, when your heart was pounding louder than the monitor beside you? His words echoed in your chest, tearing down the last defenses you’d held up between you.

You blinked slowly, tears beginning to gather at the corners of your eyes, not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming relief of finally hearing the thing you’d needed most.

"Spence…" you breathed, your voice catching, raw. "You never lost me. I just didn’t think you wanted me anymore."

His face crumpled, that fractured look of disbelief giving way to something closer to joy — quiet, tentative, but real. He leaned forward, forehead resting gently against yours, so careful not to hurt you.

"I love you so much. I always have. You've been so close yet so far. And now," you took a shaky breath. "Now I'm ready to admit that it's you."

Spencer closed his eyes, and you felt the faintest shiver pass through him — not from cold, but from the overwhelming emotion that trembled in his chest.

He didn’t speak at first. He couldn’t. The words lodged somewhere in his throat, too swollen by the enormity of what you’d just said. Instead, he let the silence hold the moment, let the press of your foreheads be the vow neither of you had been brave enough to make before.

“You don’t know what that means to me,” he whispered. “To hear you say that. After everything.”

You cupped the side of his face with the little strength you had, your fingers brushing the tear that had fallen down his cheek.

“I do,” you said, soft but certain. “Because I mean it.”

Spencer kissed your hand. Once. Then again. Like he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m yours,” he said simply, earnestly. “If you’ll still have me.”

And even though you were bruised and broken, you smiled — wide, real, and with more love than words could carry.

“Always.”

[spencersmopbucket]

Pureblood Kissing | Draco Malfoy

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader Summary: After years of nagging from his parents, Draco finally finds the perfect girl for him. Warnings & Themes: Fluff, normalizing rude behavior kinda, the reader is a lot like Draco

There weren't many, if any girls, that met the standards of the pureblooded Draco Malfoy.

He had been taught from a young age the importance of family, lineage, and blood status. Those expectations had shaped every aspect of his life. He learned to be picky — no, meticulous — about everything, especially when it came to something as important as a future partner.

"She must be of clean blood and she absolutely must take her future seriously, Draco," his father had drilled into his ears, time and time again. It was a rule that had shaped his outlook on relationships, or lack thereof.

His mother had said a variation of the same thing.

"Self-respect, pureblood, and intelligence are non-negotiable, Draco," she would say, her voice laced with both pride and expectation. "You are not just a Malfoy by name. You represent a legacy, a family that has stood the test of time."

And so, growing up in the shadow of such expectations, Draco had been conditioned to see girls through a lens of perfection — perfect lineage, perfect demeanor, perfect future. It wasn’t that he didn’t notice other girls, but none of them ever quite fit the mold. They either came from questionable bloodlines or were more interested in the next party than their future prospects.

He'd been asked to balls, invited to Hogsmeade, told that he was fancied. But because of the way he was raised, because of how he was conditioned, he curled his lip with disgust and told every approaching girl to 'piss off, foul mudblood' or 'go brush up on your arithmetic first, love'.

It was easier that way, keeping people at arm’s length, not allowing anyone to slip past the carefully constructed walls he’d built around himself. His family had always made it clear: he didn’t need to worry about emotions, about connections. They were a distraction from what truly mattered — family, power, and blood status.

But then, you came along.

It was unexpected, really. Draco had been attending yet another extravagant dinner in the Great Hall, surrounded by the usual group of admirers and people vying for his attention. The same conversations about future plans and bloodlines swirled around him, but his mind was elsewhere, distracted by the sudden presence of someone who didn’t fit the mold at all.

You sat at the other end of the Slytherin table, surrounded by a group of girls Draco had never taken a moment to acknowledge. He had never even looked at you before, let alone your friends.

He wasn't quite sure how. You were exquisite.

Long, sleek and perfectly brushed h/c locks, falling down your back and pinned neatly by a headband. Clear skin, neat makeup, and a charming smile stretching your lips. You talked quietly and politely, sometimes letting a small giggle slip.

There was an effortless elegance about you, Draco couldn’t deny that. You weren’t loud or demanding attention like some of the other girls at the table. No, you simply existed in a way that was almost more captivating than any of the others. It wasn’t that you tried to fit the mold of what a Slytherin girl should be — you weren’t cold and calculating like Pansy, nor were you loud like Millicent. You had your own quiet grace, and for reasons Draco couldn’t explain, he found himself drawn to you.

His gaze lingered for longer than usual as you laughed softly at something one of your friends said, the sound light and airy, drawing attention in a way that wasn’t at all obnoxious. Your eyes twinkled with amusement, and he wondered what it would be like to hear that laugh up close, to be the one who caused that smile.

You were effortlessly beautiful, but it wasn’t just your looks that caught his attention. It was the way you carried yourself — with quiet confidence, like you weren’t trying to prove anything to anyone. It was as though you had already determined your worth, and didn’t need to shout it from the rooftops.

Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to force himself to look away, but something about you lingered in his thoughts. He had to admit, even to himself, that he had never noticed anyone quite like you before. No one had ever made him feel the way he did in that moment.

He quietly observed you for months, cursing himself for being too much of a coward to speak up. His throat itched with the urge to speak to you, even to say hello. It was an unknown feeling for Draco — especially when he was used to either being cruel or silent.

Christmas break came. He was relieved, eager for a break from the feeling. The tiny bit of urgency he felt in the back of his mind to approach you.

The usual party happened at the Malfoy Manor.

The grand hall of the Malfoy Manor was bathed in the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, casting warm light on the polished marble floors. The air smelled faintly of evergreen and the faint trace of expensive perfume. Snow fell silently outside, but within, the atmosphere was warm, decorated with garlands of greenery, holly, and red ribbons. It was the epitome of luxury, a celebration that embodied everything the Malfoy family stood for — old money, pure bloodlines, and traditions that spanned centuries.

Guests milled about, their voices low and refined, carrying the faint undercurrent of whispered conversations about blood status, alliances, and future marriages. The women were dressed in shimmering gowns, each one carefully chosen to emphasize their status, while the men sported impeccable suits and crisp, tailored robes. The atmosphere was both regal and suffocating, the weight of expectation hanging in the air like a thick fog.

Draco stood by the grand fireplace, his hands tucked into the pockets of his black dress robes, watching as his parents conversed with various guests. His mother, Narcissa, was the picture of composure, her blonde hair styled perfectly, a delicate glass of champagne resting elegantly in her hand as she discussed matters of family lineage with a woman Draco barely recognized.

"Draco," his father, Lucius, said from behind him, his voice smooth but commanding. "Make yourself useful. Go mingle. There's someone I want you to meet."

Draco sighed, rolling his eyes imperceptibly before turning to face his father. "I’m fine here, Father. Just enjoying the festivities."

Lucius shot him a look that brooked no argument. "It’s not about enjoyment. It’s about opportunity. You’ll do well to remember that."

Draco nodded stiffly, though his mind wasn’t in it. He didn’t care for the endless charades of these gatherings, nor the constant pressure to prove himself. He just wanted some peace, a few moments of solitude. But he had learned long ago that there were few things his father hated more than a son who appeared uninterested in furthering the family’s agenda.

"Very well," Draco muttered, forcing a smile as he walked toward a group of familiar faces near the center of the room. His gaze flickered over to his mother, who was speaking animatedly with the Rosier family.

“Ah, Draco,” his father’s voice interrupted his thoughts. "This is Mr. Travers. His family has a long history with ours, and I think you’d find his daughter a most suitable match for you."

Draco turned to face the older man who had approached, giving a polite but distant nod. Mr. Travers was tall, with graying hair and a face lined with age and experience. His sharp eyes gleamed with the same superiority that most purebloods wore like a second skin. But Draco wasn’t interested. Not in this match, not in these traditions. He was more concerned about the feeling in his chest — the one that came whenever he caught sight of you, even in the midst of his usual social mask.

Mr. Travers continued, oblivious to Draco’s distraction. "I hear you’ve made quite a name for yourself at Hogwarts, Draco. Quite the head-turner, eh?"

Draco forced a smile, nodding politely. "I do my best."

Across the room, Narcissa glanced at Draco, catching his gaze for a brief moment before returning to her conversation. Her expression was unreadable, but Draco knew exactly what she was thinking. This was all part of the plan. Mingle, make an impression, and begin securing alliances for the future. His future.

The door to the Manor opened, a slight whoosh of winter air spreading through the room. Another family walked in — one Draco had never seen here before.

A tall man in a dark suit, teeth glinting in a polite smile. He looked rich, important, and exactly like the type to attend one of these parties. His wife stood with her arm intertwined with his, hair curled perfectly and body fitted into a winter gown, fur at each sleeve and at the neckline. Her neck was decorated with glittering jewels.

Finally, you walked in behind them. Their daughter, he assumed. His jaw dropped.

The moment Draco laid eyes on you, his world seemed to slow. You walked into the room with a quiet grace, completely unaware of the way his gaze followed you like a magnetic pull. The air in the room shifted, and for a fleeting moment, Draco felt like he was standing on the edge of something unknown, something exciting — yet terrifying.

Your presence was like a breath of fresh air, an unexpected breeze that cut through the usual stale conversations about family and bloodlines. You were dressed in a simple yet stunning gown — deep blue silk that shimmered under the candlelight, contrasting beautifully with your hair. The slight curve of your smile as you entered the room seemed genuine, as if you were simply happy to be there, not weighed down by the heaviness of expectations like so many others.

You were radiant, effortlessly so. Draco blinked and looked away for a moment, trying to gather himself. He’d been conditioned his whole life to only notice the ‘right’ girls, the ones who fit the mold of purity and perfection. And the way you carried yourself was perfect.

You laughed softly at something your father said, the sound sweet and melodic, and Draco felt the strangest urge to move toward you. He watched as his mother hurried towards you all, a thrilled smile on her face.

"The L/N's! How lovely to have you all!"

Your parents smiled politely, returning Narcissa’s warm greeting. Your father offered a firm handshake while your mother leaned in for the kind of elegant cheek kiss that only pureblood society seemed to perfect.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” your mother beamed. “It’s been far too long.”

Draco stood stiffly beside his father, watching from a distance as his mother welcomed you all with the kind of rare warmth she reserved for guests she genuinely approved of. That in itself startled him. Narcissa Malfoy didn’t smile like that often, and certainly not at people she wasn’t absolutely enchanted by.

Then her gaze flickered toward him.

“Draco,” she called gently, beckoning him over. “Come greet our guests properly.”

His heart gave a traitorous little jump, but he smoothed down his blazer, lifted his chin, and walked over like nothing in the world was bothering him. Like he hadn’t been watching you since the moment you walked in. Like he hadn’t already memorized the shade of your lipstick.

You turned to face him, eyes wide and curious, lips parted in subtle surprise. And then, you smiled.

Not a coy smile. Not a forced one. A warm, genuine smile that knocked the breath right out of his lungs.

“This is our son, Draco,” Narcissa said, placing a gentle hand on his back. “Draco, this is Mr. and Mrs. L/N, and their daughter—”

“Y/N,” you said sweetly, offering your hand to him.

He took it carefully, noting the softness of your skin and the confidence of your grip. He forced his voice to remain steady. “Pleasure to meet you.”

You tilted your head slightly, still smiling, and said, “We’ve never spoken before. But I’ve seen you around Hogwarts.”

He swallowed hard, unsure how to read your tone — not flirty, not indifferent. Just honest. Kind. Direct. You weren’t trying to impress him. You weren’t trying to be anything other than yourself.

And it completely threw him off his axis.

Lucius spoke up next to him, ever the composed patriarch. “Your family’s reputation precedes you, Miss L/N. Your grades, too, if I recall correctly. A very promising future.”

Draco’s stomach twisted. Was this what his father had been waiting for? The perfect introduction? The subtle test of compatibility? He could already feel the weight of it — the expectation, the scrutiny, the legacy being silently passed like a torch between families.

But you didn’t seem burdened by any of it.

“I suppose I try to keep my priorities straight,” you replied, polite and poised, but there was a quiet edge of humor in your voice. You weren’t afraid to be honest — even in a room full of people pretending.

Draco found himself smiling. For real.

For the first time, he wasn’t thinking about bloodlines or arranged futures. He was thinking about you.

And the way snowflakes clung to your lashes from your walk inside.

"Let's leave the children to talk, hm? There are refreshments over here.." Narcissa silently lead your parents away. She probably read the situation immediately, noting the look on Draco's face.

His mother was always fantastic at reading people.

Draco barely registered his parents and yours drifting away, their voices fading into the background as though the entire Manor had gone quiet just for this moment. His eyes were on you — the way you glanced around the room with polite curiosity, the way you smoothed the fabric of your gown, unbothered by the pressure that would’ve made most people buckle.

He cleared his throat gently, stepping a bit closer to you.

“You look…” He paused. Compliments weren’t his strong suit. Especially not when they were sincere. “You look… nice.”

You raised an amused brow, lips twitching. “Nice?”

He winced slightly. “I meant… lovely. You look lovely.”

There was a beat of silence before you laughed — not mockingly, but genuinely. It was a soft, musical sound that made his chest tighten.

“Thank you, Draco,” you said, voice warm. “You clean up well too.”

He smirked faintly, the tension easing just enough for him to feel like himself again — or, at least, a version of himself he wasn’t used to showing. “I try.”

The room felt warmer than it should have for a winter night. Or maybe it was just the way you were looking at him — like you were trying to figure him out, like you weren’t afraid of what you might find.

After a few moments, you tilted your head toward the tall, frost-covered windows lining the ballroom. Snow was still falling gently outside, blanketing the gardens in silver. The moonlight made it all glitter like magic.

You returned your pretty eyes to Draco, again smiling.

"I'm surprised we had never talked before this. We have a lot in common."

Draco’s lips twitched again, not quite a smile — more like the ghost of one. “Are you implying you know enough about me to say that?”

You tilted your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “I know you’re clever, take things seriously, and you don’t suffer fools. And your family restricts you to only interact with purebloods.”

Draco’s expression flickered — not with offense, but with something far more fragile: surprise, maybe even admiration. You’d struck a chord, clean and sharp. Not many dared to speak plainly to him, let alone about the restrictions he lived under.

He let out a short, dry breath, his voice low. “You say that like you disapprove.”

You shrugged, your gaze never leaving his. “I say it like I understand.”

That stilled him.

For a moment, all the polished chatter and clinking crystal of the ballroom faded into nothing. All he could focus on was the way you looked at him — not like a Malfoy, not like a name, not like a symbol. Just him.

“You’re different,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

You smiled — a real one, soft and curious. “So are you.”

There was silence again, but this time it was comfortable. Outside, snowflakes kissed the glass like whispers, and behind you both, the party blurred into a distant hum.

“Have you ever been out in the gardens during a snowfall?” you asked suddenly.

Draco blinked. “Not when there’s a party going on.”

You shrugged slightly, a playful gleam in your eye. “Seems like the perfect time to sneak away, don’t you think?”

He hesitated for half a second — long enough for the weight of his name and expectations to press down on his shoulders. Then, without another word, he offered you his arm politely.

Your fingers slipped around his bicep with the kind of effortless trust that made his heart race.

Together, you slipped out through one of the French doors at the edge of the ballroom, stepping into the soft crunch of snow beneath your shoes. The cold nipped at your skin immediately, but it only made the moment feel sharper, more alive.

Snowflakes clung to your hair again. You were incredible.

That night, Draco tossed and turned, failing to sleep. He climbed out of bed, silently sneaking down the stairs to get a glass of water — he wasn't sure if it would help, but he just needed to try.

He wasn't sure how long it took someone to fall in love. He wasn't sure about anything. Besides the fact that you were perfect. You were exactly what he'd been looking for for years. Someone he could fall into while not disappointing his parents.

When he got to the kitchen, he reached into the cabinet for a glass, his fingers moving on autopilot. His mind wasn’t in the room — it was still outside, in the snow-dusted garden, with you. The way your cheeks had been flushed from the cold, the way you’d looked at him like he wasn’t a Malfoy at all, but just... Draco.

He filled the glass from the decanter and took a sip, leaning against the counter in the dark, trying to calm the flutter in his chest. It was maddening — this feeling. Foreign and far too fast. But not unwelcome.

A soft sound startled him.

He turned quickly.

His mother stood there, her hands on her hips. A knowing smile twitched at her lips.

She raised a delicate brow, gliding into the kitchen with her usual poise, robe trailing behind her like a queen in slippers. Her blonde hair was pinned back neatly, not a strand out of place despite the late hour.

“I figured I’d find you here,” she said smoothly, her voice low but tinged with amusement. “You always wander when something — or someone — unsettles you.”

Draco scoffed softly, setting his glass down with a small clink. “I’m not unsettled.”

Narcissa gave him a look that could wither even Lucius. “Please. You’ve been distracted all evening. I saw the way you looked at her.”

He didn’t respond.

She stepped closer, her tone gentler now. “Draco. You’ve always been cautious with your heart. Maybe too cautious. But I saw the girl. She's exactly the kind of woman I hoped you’d one day notice — and not just because of her bloodline.”

He met her eyes, surprised.

“She’s poised. Smart. Not swayed by status. And she looks at you like you hung the moon in the sky.”

Draco stared at the marble countertop, fighting the rare emotion bubbling in his chest. “You don’t think Father would…”

“Your father,” Narcissa interrupted, “approves greatly. He did this on purpose, most likely. And you, Draco —” she reached out, brushing his shoulder affectionately “— you’re stronger when you let yourself feel.”

That was enough for Draco. It was enough.

When you returned from break, he allowed himself to feel. Just as his mother recommended.

The castle was still dusted in snow, its towers capped in white like a postcard. Students were flooding the Great Hall again, reunited, buzzing about holiday gossip and new gifts from home. But Draco didn’t care for any of it.

He saw you almost instantly.

You were seated at the Slytherin table again, your hair brushed neatly and tucked behind your ear, fingers lightly wrapped around a warm mug of tea. You looked content, unaware of how utterly captivating you were to him. It steadied something inside him. And stirred something else.

This time, he didn’t look away.

He waited until the morning rush slowed and you stood, excusing yourself politely from your friends.

Then, with a deep breath and his shoulders squared, he approached — calm, composed, and very much his father's son.

“Good morning,” he said evenly, his tone polite but purposeful.

You looked at him, blinking in surprise, then smiling softly. “Morning, Malfoy.”

He offered a slight bow of his head. “Draco, if you don’t mind.”

Your friends' eyes widened, and they immediately began a hushed giggling.

There was a small pause. Then he continued, "I realize this may seem abrupt, but I was wondering if you might accompany me on a walk this evening — through the courtyard, if the snow doesn’t bother you. I find conversation is often more pleasant away from the noise of the castle.”

You raised a brow, your interest visibly piqued.

“Just a walk?” you asked, teasing.

He gave a faint, amused smile. “To start with, yes. I thought it only proper to ask respectfully, rather than loiter about in corridors hoping you’d notice me.”

Your lips curved, clearly impressed.

“I’d be delighted, Draco.”

He nodded once, solemn but clearly pleased. “Very well. I’ll meet you just after supper, near the eastern arch.”

He left it at that. No lingering glances, no crude flirtation — just the dignity of a boy raised to court with intent, not chase out of impulse.

It began that way. Draco was respectful, not pushing too hard or too fast, just simply giving you a steady presence and a wholesome reminder that he was interested. You were the same way — at arms length at first, but slowly opening up.

You'd been on multiple dates to Hogsmeade, multiple evening walks, multiple study dates. You'd worn his extra jersey and his scarf to his Quidditch games. You'd been gifted flowers, chocolate, jewelry — anything you could want. This was the Malfoy fashion, the pureblood fashion.

You'd been through all of this before Draco even dared kiss you.

Draco’s slow, careful courtship had worked wonders. There was something remarkably genuine about it — an old-fashioned charm that made your heart flutter with each new gesture. He wasn’t one to rush, to demand, or even to push for anything more than what felt right. He gave you space, allowed you to make decisions on your own, and that, in turn, made everything feel so much more intimate.

The first kiss came in the middle of a quiet evening, long after your study date had ended. You had been walking through the moonlit grounds near the Black Lake, the leaves crunching beneath your feet, both of you wrapped in your cloaks, a peaceful silence between you.

The world felt suspended in that moment. Draco’s eyes were locked on yours, his hand hovering near your own but never touching unless you made the first move. His presence was magnetic, but it was the way he made you feel safe — unhurried — that pulled you closer.

You inched your fingers towards his, warm skin grazing his cold skin. With a little encouragement, Draco interlaced his fingers with yours, blue eyes flicking over to meet yours.

"We never really touch. I crave it." You admitted to him, a sheepish smile on your face.

Draco’s breath hitched slightly at your words. The vulnerability in your confession was unexpected, and it stirred something deep within him. He had always been cautious with physical affection, especially with someone who held his attention as you did. But in that moment, hearing you say that you craved it made something shift between you, something gentle but undeniable.

His gaze softened, and he gave your hand a subtle, comforting squeeze. “I crave it too,” he murmured, his voice lower than usual, laden with sincerity.

He took a slow step closer, the tension between you growing, but still gentle, never hurried. His other hand reached up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his fingers grazing your cheek with the lightest touch.

You were holding your breath without even knowing it, your eyes studying his face.

Draco was gorgeous, to put it lightly.

You couldn’t help but let your gaze linger on his features — the sharpness of his jawline, the delicate curve of his lips, the way the moonlight caught the strands of his platinum hair. Everything about him was perfect, but it wasn’t just his looks that captivated you. It was the way he was with you, the way he made you feel as though time itself had paused just for this moment.

He seemed to sense your gaze on him, his blue eyes locking with yours as he took another step closer. There was an intensity in his stare, but it was soft, like he was allowing you to see a part of him that no one else had ever seen before.

"You're.. pretty." You allowed it to slip. You fought a facepalm.

Draco’s expression softened the moment the words left your mouth, and a flicker of something almost shy passed through his eyes. He took a small step closer, his voice steady but tinged with a slight surprise. “Pretty?” he repeated, as if testing the word on his lips. “I’ll have to admit, that’s not quite what I expected, but I’ll take it.”

You could feel the warmth creeping up your neck, realizing how awkward you must have sounded. “I didn’t mean—”

But Draco cut you off, his lips curling into a subtle, playful smile. “No need to explain. I find it refreshing, actually.”

You let your hand hesitantly come up, tracing his jawline. You couldn't help it. To see something so exquisite was wonderful, but to touch it?

Draco’s breath caught at the gentle touch of your fingers tracing his jawline. His eyes fluttered closed for just a moment, the weight of your soft touch sending a shiver down his spine. It was as if the world had narrowed down to just the space between you — the moonlight, the crisp air, and the undeniable pull that had been building between you both for so long.

When his eyes opened again, they were filled with a tenderness you hadn’t quite expected from him. He swallowed, as if gathering his thoughts, and his voice was quieter this time, almost reverent. “You’re not making this any easier, you know.” His words hung between you like a delicate promise.

The way your fingers lingered on his skin made his pulse race, yet there was no rush, no pressure. It was as if the moment itself was sacred, allowing you to savor each fleeting second.

He took a deep breath and moved slightly closer, his own hand coming to rest just beside yours, his fingers brushing against your wrist with a barely-there touch. "You're everything I could've hoped for. You make it hard not to fall straight in," he murmured, his voice low and sincere.

It wasn’t just the way he looked at you anymore — it was the way he spoke, the way he stood, like he was learning a new side of himself with every step. With you.

The air between you both seemed to thicken, charged with something deeper than mere attraction. The honesty in his words hung in the space around you, and for a moment, you felt weightless, suspended in the beauty of it all. Draco Malfoy — the boy who had always been so controlled, so poised — was unraveling in front of you, and you couldn’t help but let yourself fall into it.

"Can I kiss you?" He asked quietly, his cold breath fanning across your face.

Your breath caught at the question, the raw sincerity in his voice making your heart race. For a moment, you couldn’t find the words — only the steady rhythm of your pulse and the warmth of his gaze locking with yours.

The air felt charged, each passing second stretching out in the most exquisite way. His presence was all-consuming, but it wasn’t the kind of forceful pull you had anticipated from someone like Draco. No, this was different. This was careful.

You found yourself nodding, the small gesture enough to invite him in, to let him know you were ready. But your voice was soft when it came — almost as if you were sharing a secret.

“Yes,” you whispered, your heart fluttering at the simplicity of it, the way his sincerity matched your own.

Draco’s eyes flickered with something unspoken, a mix of relief and hope, and with a tenderness that completely surprised you, he closed the space between you. His lips, cool against the warmth of your skin, were gentle at first, as though testing the waters, waiting for you to meet him halfway.

You inched forward, increasing the contact, increasing the pressure. The kiss was electric, creating a current between the two of you. You were enveloped by his scent, his careful hands on either side of your face.

The kiss deepened, a slow and deliberate merging of two souls who had been circling around one another for so long. Draco’s hands cupped your face, his touch grounding yet tender, as though he was cherishing the moment — savoring it as much as you were. His lips moved against yours with a kind of reverence, a quiet understanding that this was more than just a kiss. It was a promise, an acknowledgment of everything that had led to this point.

The cold night air mingled with the warmth of your bodies, creating a delicate contrast. You could feel the heat of Draco’s breath against your skin, his heart racing beneath the fabric of his cloak. Every second felt timeless, the world outside, with its snow and moonlight, fading into the background. It was just you and him.

When the kiss finally broke, leaving you both breathless, you couldn’t help but smile, a soft, almost shy curve of your lips. Draco, too, seemed to be struggling to catch his breath, his eyes wide and unguarded in a way you’d never seen before.

He searched your eyes for a moment, as if waiting for some sign, some confirmation. "Was that... alright?" His voice was low, hesitant, as though he feared pushing too far, too fast.

You reached out, your hand resting gently on his chest. "More than alright," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Draco let out a small, relieved chuckle, and for the first time, he allowed himself to fully relax, the guarded walls he’d always kept up around himself momentarily slipping away. He was open, vulnerable, and it felt like you were both on the cusp of something beautiful.

The days that followed were absolutely blissful.

The kiss sealed the deal, officialized your relationship. You walked through the halls, your hand wrapped around Draco's bicep as he walked you to and from classes. You giggled at things he said, unearthing Draco's true smile.

As you and Draco made your way through the crowded corridors of Hogwarts, the usual mix of chatter and laughter surrounded you. You felt the warmth of Draco's presence beside you, his hand gently brushing against yours. It was becoming more natural, this — the way he would casually touch you, how you fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

But as you passed a group of Gryffindors, you overheard a snide remark.

"Look at them," a voice sneered from behind, barely concealed but sharp. "The perfect pureblood couple, too good for the rest of us. What’s next? A bloodline superiority contest?"

It was none other than Ron Weasley, his freckled face twisted with distaste. He was trying to make his voice loud enough for you to hear, his words dripping with sarcasm.

You felt your stomach tighten, the familiar sting of his words rising, but before you could say anything, Draco’s posture stiffened. His eyes flashed with the familiar Malfoy fire — directed entirely toward Weasley.

Draco turned slowly, his voice low but cold. “You’ve got something to say, Weasel?” His tone was biting, devoid of any warmth, the kind of tone that demanded respect — something Ron would never give him willingly. "Or are you just jealous of what you’ll never have? A girlfriend?"

Ron’s eyes widened in disbelief, his face turning redder by the second. He opened his mouth to retort, but Draco didn’t give him the chance.

“Really, Weasley,” Draco continued, his voice dripping with venom, “the only thing you’re good at is making a fool of yourself.” He took a step closer to Ron, his presence intimidating in a way only Draco Malfoy could manage. “Do you really think I’d let someone like you speak about her? Your opinion doesn’t matter. You wouldn't even know what to do with a girl like this.”

Ron’s fists clenched tighter, his knuckles white with frustration. “You’re a pompous prat, Malfoy. You really think you’re better than me?” he spat, taking a step forward, but the glint in Draco’s eyes made him hesitate.

You finally spoke up, a cool, calm expression on your face.

"You know, Ronald," you hummed, crossing your arms. "You embarrassed yourself by even opening your mouth. Do you really think your opinion on Draco or me holds any weight?"

Ron’s face reddened even further.

"Go back to stitching up your hand-me-downs. You could never measure up to Draco if you tried. You were right. We are too good for the likes of you or your meddling friends," you continued.

Draco stood silently by your side, watching with an almost surprised expression as you effortlessly tore into Ron’s pride. It was clear now — he wasn’t the only one with a sharp tongue. Yours, however, was just the type that only appeared when provoked.

“Every time something unfortunate happens at this school, it’s you and your posse behind it. It’s truly remarkable,” you finished, your voice filled with a calm, poised certainty that matched Draco's own demeanor.

Ron had no response, his mouth working without producing any words. The usual Weasley bravado was gone, replaced by a mixture of disbelief and humiliation.

"To make a long story short, shut your pathetic mouth before I hex it." You finished, glaring at him.

Draco finally lead you away.

Draco couldn't help but look at you with an expression that was a mix of pride and admiration. The way you'd handled Ron—completely dismantling him with ease—was both effortless and terrifying in the best way possible. You'd taken control of the situation without even breaking a sweat.

“Impressive,” Draco murmured under his breath, his eyes scanning your face as you walked side by side down the corridor, your steps in sync. There was something about the way you carried yourself, something that resonated with him more than anything had in a long time. You were a force, no doubt about it.

“I couldn't allow the disrespect. Especially towards you, Dray,” you said with a smirk.

Draco’s lips curled into a proud smile, his eyes gleaming with something deeper than usual. "I knew you had it in you," he said, his voice low and laced with admiration. "You handled that better than I could’ve imagined."

You glanced up at him, your smirk still lingering. "I learned from the best," you teased, nudging him playfully with your shoulder.

Draco raised an eyebrow, looking down at you in amusement. "Flattery will get you everywhere," he replied, his tone amused yet sincere. There was something undeniably magnetic between the two of you — a connection that everyone could sense but no one could truly understand.

As you continued walking, you noticed students quietly watching as you passed, whispers spreading like wildfire. The two of you were no longer just a couple; you were a force to be reckoned with. It was clear now that Draco’s reputation and yours had fused together, creating something that couldn’t be easily ignored.

"Careful," Draco said, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "Soon, they'll start thinking we run the place."

You gave him a mischievous smile. "Maybe we do."

He chuckled, his arm wrapped into yours, the tension from the earlier confrontation now replaced by a comfortable quiet. It was as if the world had shifted, and for the first time, you felt as though you truly belonged — not just by his side, but in your own skin, confident and unyielding.

"Shall we take this somewhere more private?" Draco murmured, a playful edge in his voice, though the heat in his gaze said there was more to the suggestion than just teasing. "Your show has me in a rather.. intriguing mood."

You raised an eyebrow, feeling a heat rising in your chest. "Lead the way, Draco."