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chososcutie · 7 days ago

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MAY THE ODDS BE EVER IN YOUR FAVOR .ᐟ .ᐟ ˎˊ˗

summary. it's the eighty-fourth annual hunger games, and surprise, your name has just been reaped. with increasingly slim chances of making it out alive, you find yourself entangled with a certain cocky career from district one, and in a shocking turn of events, his ally— allies that fuck, of course.

word count. 4.1k

content. mdni fem!reader, hunger games!gojo, alcohol consumption, violence, gore, character death, injuries, class difference, dystopian!au, petnames, smut (upcoming)

author's note. IN MY HUNGER GAMES ERA CURRENTLY

p.s this is going to be a series

ACT I: THE TRIBUTE.

today was reaping day.

the dreaded day where the capitol chose a male and female tribute from each district to fight to the death in an arena for “entertainment”.

the thought makes you sick as you get dressed for the grueling afternoon ahead, fitting yourself into a neatly starched dress and putting your hair up into a braided updo, making yourself perfectly presentable and curated for the capitol’s viewing, no matter how disgusted you feel by it all.

there truly was no hope for you— your name had been entered forty-seven times as a result of your poverty, your need for the meager helpings of tesserae you garnered in return almost outweighing the risk of getting your name drawn.

but, with the lingering hopeful thought of this being your last year of having your name reaped, being eighteen almost nineteen, you put on your nicest polished church shoes, and head out the door.

attendance was mandatory and you’d rather be in the square early than get dragged out of your own home by a peacekeeper for tardiness.

and as expected, the crowd gathering is big, slowly moving through the line to get fingerprints and blood drawn where peacekeepers jotted them down on sterile clipboards.

“next.” a woman calls out, gesturing toward you and you wince at the small prick she gives you before bringing your finger down on a sheet of listed names.

moving along to where the rest of district twelve stands gathered around the stage, you see a heavily powdered, jewelry-adorned woman from the capitol standing before a microphone. her face is stickily caked in makeup, and unusually spider-like lashes flutter as she waits for the rest of the district to steadily trickle in.

and as the last few people squeeze into the crowd, she taps the microphone twice for attention, all pairs of grim eyes turning to her.

"welcome, welcome!" she exclaims excitedly like this was an event she had been looking forward to for weeks. "to the eighty-fourth annual hunger games!"

her face creases as she flashes a toothy smile to the crowd. "now, before we begin, i have a special treat for all of you straight from the capitol!"

on cue, the yearly propaganda video starts, explaining why there was a need for the hunger games to keep the districts in line─ "war. terrible war.."

as the video continues playing, your gaze wanders and you find yourself watching the capitol lady mouthing the words to herself like a mantra, brightening as the video finishes up.

"well, i just love that!" she gushes. "and with it, the time has come to select a courageous young male and female to represent district twelve in the annual hunger games! as custom, ladies first."

her heels click across the stage as she makes her way over to the glass bowl containing countless slips of paper holding name upon name of young citizens, your breath catching in your throat as unusually sharp acrylics fish out a folded paper at the bottom, holding it up and clearing her throat for the anticipated announcement.

her lips part in an exhale, the name floating off her painted lips easily and echoing around the too-silent district, embedding itself into each of their ears soundly.

the name that belonged to you.

time seems to slow, your heart stopping in your chest entirely as everything around you blurs and distorts, all the heads turning toward you becoming unrecognizable.

“well, come on up!” the woman preens, slightly bending over awkwardly as she tries to usher you toward her, hand outstretched.

you glance around, swallowing hard as blank faces stare back at you.

no one would ever volunteer for you, the small, humble girl from a tiny rundown shack of a house, and so with slightly unsteady steps up the stairs, a thought stirred in the back of your mind, one that told yourself that the games were already over before they ever had a chance to begin.

as the rest of the ceremony drones on, faces swirl together, voices mere hums in the background, you watching faintly as a boy you had only briefly met before gets called up, no older than sixteen with chubby cheeks and a babyish face.

he stares straight ahead, barely acknowledging you save for a customary handshake, his palms sweaty and a bit shaky.

the rest of the day passes in a blur of peacekeepers escorting you through countless corridors, faces dipped in condolences, empty visiting rooms, and finally, the rough jostling of them pushing you into the futuristic train headed for its final destination— the capitol.

and as you board, with your nose pressed against the cold window and the gentle thrum of the train's engine reverberating through you, you can only watch as your familiar, coal-mining district fades into nothing, your eyes beginning to water.

your mentor— none other than toji zen'in, a man notoriously known for how he liked to drink his troubles away, was sat at the smooth table in the train’s bar car, already halfway into a bottle of whiskey, scarred lip curling as he looked you and your fellow tribute over when you both join him.

he clearly had no hope for you two, and you couldn't blame him, eyeing the boy you had come with, his chest heaving as tears streak down his face in rivulets.

“any advice for the games?” you say, trying to break the silent tension settling over all of you, much to toji’s displeasure, setting his glass bottle down with a loud clank!

“don’t die.” he sneers.

that settles it, and all of you lapse back into uncomfortable silence.

and just when you think you can't bear another second of being in this train, you catch sight of the shining capitol in all its glory outside the window.

colorful arched buildings rise high, adorned with domes and spiked centers, each impressively arrayed to show off glittering centers, the epitome of luxury.

sliding glass doors, magnetic monorails gliding past, and whizzing sleek sportscars all come into view, as well as strange-looking people of all kinds clapping as the train finally slows to a stop.

from their shaved eyebrows and colored hair to their big frilly outfits, they were something to be ogled at, your eyes scanning them all in wonder.

how were people living like this when your district was starving for even the tiniest morsel to spare?

they clap and cheer as you draw nearer to them, foreign mouths opening in delight at this year's tributes, likely already betting on their favorites.

"come on." toji grunts, hauling himself up to clap a large hand on both you and your fellow tribute's shoulder, walking you out of the train with a fake smile plastered onto his face, absolutely reeking of alcohol.

the next few hours seem to happen in a blur, with several stylists taking you to a dimly lit room, lying you flat and getting to work on your body, with hot wax and sharp tweezers and razors and polishes of all sorts.

they exfoliate, and brush, and put hot curlers in your hair, all while whispering amongst themselves indistinctly, sharpening various tools.

and then comes your stylist, the one who would be dressing you for the infamous tribute parade, wearing a simple yet elegant outfit with her hair up, dark bangs swept to the side.

"utahime." she greets you, gold bracelets jingling on her wrist as she tilts your chin up to give you a once-over.

she snaps some bubblegum, before rolling her eyes. "district twelve, right? coal?"

you nod once.

her lips quirk up. "well then, i suppose it's up to me to make you look the part."

the tribute parade was where the capitol got their first glimpse of each and every tribute in all their glory, riding carriages that represented each of their districts and costumes with extravagant headpieces and jewelry.

you had been clad in lavishly excessive silken robes that hung off your figure and left practically nothing to the imagination as they displayed the curve of your waist as well as your plush hips, dangling waistbeads cool against your flushed skin.

the idea was to mock that of coal, your outfit a rich black with studded gemstones and a glossy sheen that radiated off you.

but, it had a twist.

because in a blink of an eye, and change of perception, your pure black robes would transform into countless shards of glittering silver, effervescent and blinding.

a choice masterfully chosen by utahime that represented even coal could turn into diamonds under the right amount of pressure.

however, your thoughts are quickly interrupted by the rough jostling of a shoulder pushing past you, causing your whole body to spin out with its force, almost tripping over yourself in the process.

"hey!" you protest. "watch it!"

the one who had bumped into you, a white-haired hulking, broad-framed muscular wall of a man spins around, his hands up in mock surrender, pink sheened lips curved into a cruel smile. "oops. such a tiny thing like yourself has to be more careful, sweetheart. wouldn't want to get hurt before the games, yeah?"

the last part comes out as more of a threat than anything, and you watch as he turns around, firing daggers at him with your eyes.

just who was he, anyway?

toji, noticing your gaze, steps closer, the warm tickle of his breath fanning against your neck as he bends down closer to you.

"that's gojo. career, district one. best to stay away from, he's most likely been training for this moment since birth, if you couldn't tell by the rippling pectorals." he finishes the last part with an exaggerated sarcastic tone, waving his hand around in the air while eyeing critically gojo's costume of choice.

and oh, was it a choice.

being from district one, the luxury district, he was dressed in nothing but a glittering, bedazzled toga skirt that hung low at his waist, displaying his sculpted v-line and tantalizingly close to revealing a prominent bulge outlined against the fabric.

you risk another glance toward him, only for his frosty cerulean blue eyes to meet yours, his mouth curving up almost imperceptibly like he already knew you were going to take another look.

your eyes quickly dart away, as you let out a breath of air you hadn't realized you'd been holding.

but before you have time to dwell on what just happened, toji's got a large hand clamped around your wrist as he hauls you toward the carriage you were to ride in, your fellow tribute already in and looking nervously out at the crowd.

"parade's about to start, c'mon." he grunts.

the next day is training, where all twenty-four of you are placed into a room full of various weaponry, swords, bows, daggers, weights, camouflage, and fire kindling areas where you could work on any and every skill you would end up needing in the arena.

you had started by wandering over to the edible plants station, examining all of the different-shaped leaves and what they meant about a berry's fatality, while most of the other tributes had forgone the basic survival necessities for swords, which they thrusted into the target dummies relentlessly, growling and making a show of themselves— gojo, included.

he was dressed in a tight suit, his biceps bulging out from underneath, with the thin material unable to hide his washboard abs and muscular physique.

his azure-colored eyes glint at you as his head turns, as if sensing your gaze.

and with an overexaggerated cry of "hah-ah!", he puts all of his force into slicing a dummy clean in half, silver sword clutched in his hand firmly, chest heaving up and down in exertion.

he turns back to you to make sure you saw it, licking his lips as his mouth curves into a smirk.

you really weren't going to make it out of the arena.

and of course, a few days following training came evaluation.

evaluations were where each tribute got to truly show off any skill of their choice, and receive a score of one through twelve, with twelve being the highest.

you were going to demonstrate your ability to throw a dagger, with the only problem being that you had never thrown a dagger before in your entire life.

but, with a limited array of options laid out before you and all of the gamemakers, as well as capitol figures of authority sitting in the higher wing, watching you keenly, you were running out of options so quickly grabbing a small switchblade, you widen your stance before a target dummy, aiming toward the heart.

you take a deep breath, the cool silver of it in your palm doing little to ease your nerves.

and finally, with a flourish you rear your arm back before letting the sharpened edge of it fly through the air, only with one problem.

it was headed straight toward the gamemakers.

you gasp, covering your mouth as it completely misses the dummy in front of you, instead whizzing past it toward a tall, bearded capitol man.

shit.

you only manage to scream a, "look out!" before it firmly embeds itself into the wall behind the gamemaker audience, narrowly missing the man by a centimeter.

you can only stare, your heart pounding in your throat as they all slowly turn toward you, various eyes sweeping across your figure and mutters of disbelief ensuing.

and after what seems like years but was really only a few terse moments stretching between you and the gamemakers, they dismiss you with a, "next."

you walk away, your heartbeat thudding heavily and your breathing coming faster.

if you didn't think you were going to make it out of the arena before, you definitely weren't going to now.

quickly after your whole dagger fiasco, the scores of each tribute were to be broadcasted on live television for every possible sponsor to see, and as a result you were a nervous wreck, all over the place and begging toji to see if you could redo your evaluation.

"sorry darlin'.." he drawls, taking a long drag from a cigarette, legs manspread apart on the couch, unbothered as always. "what's done is done."

you run your fingers through your hair anxiously, but before you get the chance to reply, the sudden staticky blaring of the tv cuts through, along with the theme song signifying the capitol tv program was starting.

you quickly find a spot to settle on the rug, eyes nervously darting over the man filling up the screen with his larger-than-life persona, ready to begin announcing the scores for everyone watching.

"as you all know, the time has come to reveal which of this year's tributes are the strongest, and which are the weakest!"

the screen breaks away to a live, clapping and whistling audience, all unnatural hair colors and strange outfits, their smiles bright in anticipation for what's to come, only worsening the twinge of worry in your gut.

after the cheers die down, he begins again. "starting off with district one, we have satoru gojo, our male tribute with a score of.."

he pauses for effect.

hesitates as he looks down at the scoring sheet.

"oh? what's this?"

immediately, hushed murmurings of curiosity break out amidst the crowd, all craning their heads toward what he was about to say.

"ladies and gents, it seems we have a new record on our hands!"

the whispers in the audience grow stronger.

"satoru gojo with a score of a perfect twelve!"

the crowd bursts into a raucous, all bets being placed under his name, with sponsors scrambling to be the one who backed the infamous career, each one rallying in his honor.

you hear a small huff of annoyance next to you, looking over to see toji leaned back, idly flicking cigarette ash on the carpet much to the disapproval of utahime, sashaying over with a hand on her hip to reprimand him harshly.

but all that fades into background noise for you, your attention fixed on the screen, which had now turned to a live cam with gojo on the other end, looking as stupidly smug as ever, a slight curl in his lips and a twitch in his eye giving away just how excited he was about the achievement he had just accomplished.

"unbelievable! well folks, i really don't know how any of our other tributes are going to beat that, but there's always room for surprises! let's continue on to district.."

the next few minutes tick away while he lists out all the other scores, your foot anxiously tapping as you await your own.

"moving to district four.."

"..the female tribute in district seven.."

"district nine.."

and finally, "last but certainly not least, we have district twelve!"

your breath catches in your throat as he announces the score of your fellow district tribute, a solid seven which earns him a nod of approval and slap on the back from toji.

"and for our female tribute.." the man on the tv pauses, letting your picture fill up the screen, eyes flicking down to your score for only a moment before they widen in surprise.

your spine stiffens at his eyeing of your paper, body going completely rigid as chills race down your spine.

"a score of one."

"ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your host for the games, suguru geto!"

a man with long, raven-black hair that glinted in the light when he moved came out grinning, only to sit in a plush chair, his legs spread wide and a fanged smile on his face.

he was all piercings— with black gauges, angel fangs, tooth gems, and even a shiny barbell on his tongue, he immediately drew your eye even in the strange place that was known as the capitol.

"heh.. thank you, thank you!" he waved to the audience whose cheers only grew stronger, half the women in the crowd swooning.

tonight, he was wearing a glittering purple suit that matched the color of his monolidded, almond shaped eyes, alluring and swirling with all that was to come tonight.

"it is my honor to be here, meeting these brave tributes which you are about to see in all their glory! so, without further ado, let's bring them out!"

of course, as always, district one was first.

"you know him, you love him, please give a warm round of applause for satoru gojo, with his astounding score of twelve!"

and there he is, strutting out in a sluttily unbuttoned dress-shirt, tight in all the right places and outlining the hard slopes and ridges of his chest with an infuriatingly smug expression on his face as he goes to sit down in his assigned spot.

when the whistling and applause die down— after what seems like hours— geto begins questioning him, gojo’s icy azure eyes roving over the crowd before finally settling.

"now, with that kind of score, what did you perform as your skill? i mean, that can't have been an easy number to come by, did you, what, flash the judges?"

that earns a smattering of chuckles from the congregation of people watching, all leaning forward, desperate to hear gojo’s answer.

"nah, i'm extremely skilled in all forms of combat whether it be a bow, dagger, or sword. got good aim, and strength to match." with that, he looks over to geto, smirking. "you'd like that though, wouldn't ya?"

at everyone whistling in agreement in the crowd, geto looks around, indulging them with a charming smile. "i think we all would, yes."

slowly, one by one, all the tributes go up, speaking about their motivating factor or particular skill that sets them apart from their opponents, while the only thing you can think about is that irritable thorn in your side, gojo.

he was just so arrogant, how were you going to..

"miss, you're up." comes the polished voice of one of the backstage managers, guiding you gently toward the stage.

shit, you hadn't gotten a chance to practice your speech!

"w-wait i'm not..!" you try to protest, but with a quick shove, you're on stage, the blinding spotlight solely on you as geto turns toward you with a warm smile and a gesture that urges you closer.

when you do take your seat reluctantly, the cameras panning over your face and bright light in your eyes, geto immediately begins attacking you with questions you had been dreading.

"well hello! district twelve, huh? what's it like back home for you?"

and just as you’re about to plaster on a fake smile, and appeal to the capitol’s glamorized view of district life, you hesitate, taking in the throng of people watching eagerly for your answer.

you couldn’t lie. not with how much you had struggled to stay alive, and you couldn’t keep that to yourself like the other tributes.

it’s not like you had much to lose, anyway.

"it's.. hard." you finally say after a beat of silence too long. "i struggle to get by everyday, not knowing where my next meal will come from, which is why i put my name in so many times, hoping against hope it wasn't enough to get me here. and truly, i am nothing but a humble servant girl from district twelve. i have no skills, no motivation, no family, i don't even know how to hold a bow." your lip begins to quiver, but you hold strong, your honesty jarring even to you. "i don't really have a chance at winning this, and in all truth, i don't want to win. there’s nobody left for me to win for, anyway."

you stop, looking up as you realize you had spoken for too long with too little of a response, only to see geto looking at you with an intensity he hadn't given to any other tribute.

"wow." he finally starts, eyes never once leaving yours as he takes your smaller hand into his own. "that was very touching, and i think i speak for all of us when i say that you have us rooting for you."

you nod, and with a few more words, your time is up, and the interviews are over, the curtains coming to a close, and the tributes beginning to mill about, heading back to their mentors and rooms to prepare for the big day tomorrow, when the games officially begun.

just as you're about to slip away however, a large hand snakes around your waist pulling you, your back meeting the warmth of a toned, hard-lined chest with an "oof!"

"hey darlin'.." an all-too-familiar, sultry voice drawls into your ear, drawing an involuntary shiver down your spine.

gojo.

"quite a speech you made out there, huh? planning to win the sponsors over with sympathy for the poor girl from district twelve?"

you struggle in his grasp, finally managing to push him away with a slight growl in your voice. "well at least i'm not whoring myself out for their entertainment."

that seems to only amuse him, his eyes glowing brighter as he leers down from where he towers above you. "mhm, some of us use our attractiveness to our advantage, though i don't imagine you would know as you'd have to be hot in order for it to work."

you don't exactly know what comes over you next, something in gojo simply setting you alight with rage.

all you know is one minute you had your tight, form-fitting dress on, and the next you were reaching around for your zipper and pulling it down angrily to let your breasts spill out, nipples pebbled in the cool air and your eyes blazing.

"oh-ho, i can be hot." you reach down to push your tits up obscenely, letting your head tip back and tongue loll out like something out of a porno.

"look at me, look at me! i'm flaunting my body for the capitol's pleasure!"

you look up just in time to see gojo's normally teasing blue eyes alight with.. something else.

intense and heated, they rake up and down your body, his throat dipping in a swallow before he steps closer to you, his chest blocking your body from anyone watching, and the heat of his fingertips lightly brushing your skin as he reaches for your zipper.

when your dress is back up again, leaving you to watch him, still simmering with anger, he steps back, a hazy, half-lidded look in his eye like it was taking everything in him to walk away from you.

"if you wanted me to see you naked darling, you could've just said so." he says before turning away, and walking back over to his mentor, leaving you to curse furiously after him under your breath.

a/n. gojo was heavily inspired by cato, fun fact!!

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keferon · 7 months ago

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Eh okay so. My brain is absolutely cooked so you will probably just have to ignore the linguistic fuckups

Jazz and Prowl learning to communicate because language barrier is a thing >:D

Previous part

Jazz sometimes thinks that somewhere along his career path he lost the bar separating normal from...well...everything else.

After all he's seen, heard about, and done, he's not sure exactly how to measure what's weird and what's normal. He has..the general idea.

His own. And it's so convoluted and fucked up that he'd rather jump into a volcano than try to explain it to anyone else. Jazz thinks the little colorful aliens around him are weird as hell. He thinks they sound weird, he thinks they look weird, and he thinks he must be going crazy.

And then this big black and white robot catches his eye and Jazz's first thought is not "what the fuck??"

His first thought is

"Thank God! Someone's normal!"

Whoever this guy is, he sounds like he knows what he's doing. And most importantly, he looks just like Jazz. Well, not exactly. But close enough. After all, Jazz knows that his organization wasn't the only mech maker on the entire planet. Other countries were making Mechs too, and Jazz hadn't seen even half of them.

But he can recognize a giant robot when he sees one, okay?

The thought that another mech could be an alien doesn't even enter his mind.

So used to the constant presence of huge piloted robots around him, he looks at this one and clings to its appearance as something familiar and easily explainable. His brain says, we know how this works. There's a robot and inside the robot there's another person. It's the way it's always been. The sky is blue, the grass is green and the robots are human-piloted. It's that simple.

The guy takes him to the far corner of the room and says something. Jazz…doesn't understand..

The mech's face contorts in a surprisingly believable display of concentration. How...who built this robot? How could they make it frown?

He hears something else being said to him but again can't understand a word. Why won't this pilot get out of the mech to talk to him? Jazz doesn't have his communication frequency but surely they could at least shake hands. There must be some reason. Maybe something wrong with the air? Is it dangerous to be outside? This guy should know better, he's been here longer than Jazz, it seems.

(Damn it, whose idea was it to make a mech with a face, it's so distracting)

He rushes to activate the external speakers, because he and this guy obviously speak different languages, but it never hurts to try, right?

"So uh, I don't think you can understand English?"

Mech frowns again, trying to pick up on something familiar in a language that's apparently new to him. But finds nothing. Jazz lowers his horns sadly.

Oh well. Fuck. As if being stuck in an unknown place with unknown creatures wasn't enough, he can't even talk to anyone! How is he supposed to get out of here? Which way should he even go?

The mech waves his hand to get his attention and then pulls out a tablet and a stylus from..where ?

Jazz somehow manages to overlook the fact that the tablet is made to fit the mech's size. His head is still feels a bit…off..after that portal thingie.

"Charades it is then."

____________________

An hour and a half later, Jazz finds himself staring intensely at the screen in front of him with a surprisingly neatly drawn chart on it.

"So uh. Motion."

The other guy nods and starts drawing a walking mech. Then something that looks like a very unusual car. Then a submarine. Jazz gets a little lost looking at how skillful he is with the stylus.

Honestly, he's a good artist!

The guy points to the sketch of a walking mech and says

" Motion."

Then points to the drawing of a car driving and the columns of the chart.

"Motion-rotation" he points to the car again.

That must mean "driving" huh? Jazz nods understandingly.

Mech moves his finger to the submarine.

"Motion-Water."

Ah, it must mean swimming. Jazz nods once more, feeling like a wind-up dummy repeating the same motion a dozen times.

The mech makes a quiet humming noise and then points to the chart

"Motion. Sky."

And then gives Jazz the stylus?

Uh, what is he... Oh, he wants Jazz to figure out what it means.

"Motion" and "sky," right?

Jazz takes the stylus? Pencil? Thingie.. and very carefully draws out a crooked scribble of something only remotely resembling an airplane. The mech arches an eyebrow and looks like he wants to laugh.

Jazz shrugs awkwardly and tries to add windows to the airplane, but ends up making it look more like a severely fucked up caterpillar.

Mech snorts.

Jazz kicks him in the leg.

The airplane begs for a merciful death.

Jazz didn't really expect to get into a language class but he has to admit that whatever language he's learning now is a surprisingly easy one. It only took the other dude half an hour to show him the basic concept and from there it became a game of associations.

There were simple definitions. Like size, quantity, speed, emotion and so on.

There were signs that automatically turned the whole sentence into a question or a statement.

There were modifiers that Jazz defined in his head as positive and negative.

Positive speed - fast.

Positive size - large.

Positive direction - forward.

Positive time - future.

There were also basic words for senses, emotions and whatnot, also with modifiers.

Mouth-positive - to speak

Brain-positive - to think, but negative-brain-do-positive - to learn.

Huh.

And it's so neatly organized that Jazz wondered if this language was designed specifically to be easy to learn.

Let's see....

Mouth - positive, effort - negative.

"Easy to speak."

The guy nods contentedly and starts talking back, while pointing to the appropriate columns of the chart to make it easier for Jazz to understand.

"Creation-positive. Purpose. Person-negative-knowledge. memory-positive-effort-negative."

Jazz frowns, concentrating on his finger.

Oh. Created. For those who don't know it. Easy to learn.

He was right. The whole thing is waaaay too awkward to write poetry but learning it is a delight.

Jazz leans over the chart.

All right, well, let's see.

“Name. You. Question?”

The other guy smiles and pokes at the chart

"Me.Motion-sound-negative.Negative-eyes-positive-someone."

Walk quietly. searching?… Sneaking?

Oh, it's not "to sneak" it's "to prowl"

"Prowl" nods affirmatively. Jazz smiles at him and looks at the chart again. Okay. How to say “music”?..

“word-knowledge-negative.”

He stops to make a gesture with his hands, as if playing an invisible piano while humming a tune.

Prowl nods

“Sound-positive-positive-hearing.”

Jazz chuckles

“A whole two positives eh? Okay then. Uh. You don't look like you listen to jazz....so..”

“Me. Name. Sound-positive-positive-listening.”

Prowl raises his eyebrows. (Jazz is jealous, he wishes he had eyebrows too.)

“You're a musician?"

Jazz quickly shakes his head while simultaneously muting the outside speakers to a barely audible level and turning on one of the songs on his playlist.

Prowl twitches in surprise when he hears the melody.

Jazz waits for the intro to finish playing and then points to himself

“Creation-negative..uh..Sound-positive-positive-hearing. Jazz. This...”

He pats himself lightly on the chest.

"..is me. Jazz."

Prowl straightens up slightly

“Oh, you're not a musician, you're the music.”

Jazz nods cheerfully

“Yes yes!”

“Jaaz?”

“No no. Jazz.”

“Ah. Jazz?”

“That's right.”

Prowl draws a portal on the screen.

“You teleported here. What happened?”

Jazz hangs back, trying to construct an answer in his head. Good thing Prowl seems to have infinite patience

“So, I uh. What was 'fight'? Movement-pain-positive? I fought these things...”

He takes the tablet from Prowl and draws a crooked blot with a bunch of tentacles on it. Then thinks for a bit and adds big teeth and a lot of eyes. He's not really sure how to draw those eyes properly, so he just scatters them randomly around the monster area.

Prowl doesn't seem to be that amused by Jazz's drawings anymore, in fact, he suddenly becomes very somber.

“Quintessons.”

He pokes at the monster

“Name-Quintessons. Number-question.”

How many?

Jazz scratches the back of his head

“So uh...a lot?....number-positive-positive-positive-positive-positi...you get the idea.”

To be convincing, he dramatically spreads his arms out to the sides depicting something very large.

Prowl looks alarmed.

And unconvinced.

“How did you survive?”

Jazz laughs pretentiously

“Ask them how they survived.”

Prowl makes the “you can't be serious” face. Jazz isn't quite sure what exactly is confusing him. Mechs are designed to kill Quintessons, aren't they? Judging by his movements, this pilot must be damn good at controlling his mech, and that kind of guys usually fight on the front lines.

He decides to put that thought aside for later. There are more important things right now, like...oh shit, where is he even going??

Jazz leans over the chart again

“Uh. Right. Question-we-move-up-place” Man, how to specify... “Knowledge-negative?”

Prowl, linguistic gods bless him, understands him and starts gesturing over the chart in response

Okay. Ah. I-move-up. Planet-creation-positive.

'I'm heading home' or 'my home planet'.”

Jazz instantly perks up.

“Oh that's great, I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to go there too.”

Prowl is speaking in a language he's unfamiliar with, so he's definitely from another country, but hey, who cares as long as it's on Earth, right? He just needs to get there and he'll find his own way from there.

He watches the space debris flicker by outside the window. Even the stars are unfamiliar, Jazz can't find any constellations he knows.

One of the little purple creatures says something and Prowl steps aside to chat with them. Jazz leans back and settles into a more or less stable position. Then does the same thing, but with his real, human body. Hell, his head still feels really fucking weird after that teleportation.

He opens the comm channel and just listens to the static for a couple minutes in the faint hope that the engineering department will find a way to contact him.

Nothing.

He sighs.

“1061 on the com. In case there's any way you can hear me...ah shit. You guys won't believe what happened...”

___________

[Next]

#mecha pilot jazz au #listen #idk #I can barely speak english don’t judge me on the art of bullshiting a made up language into existence #jazz #prowl #jazzprowl #maccadam #mecha writing #mecha kef writing #mecha jp writing

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httpsdana · 3 months ago

Note

Hello ♡

I was wondering if I could request boyfriend headcanon for Pau?

~ 🌷

Boyfriend Headcanon~Pau Cubarsi

・❥・prompt list

・❥・masterlist -> part 2

・❥・who I write for

・❥・a/n: I still have requests for Jamal Pedri and Gavi headcanon hehehe. I'm probably writing them tomorrow.

❖ bf! Pau is a blushy baby. Pau blushes so easily. Like, if you call him “handsome” or “my boy,” his ears go pink instantly. You love teasing him just to see that reaction; a hand under his chin, a soft “you’re so pretty,” and he’s ducking his head with a shy little smile, mumbling, “Stop…” (but secretly he loves it).

❖ bf! Pau is a fan of gentle touches and always asking first. He’s incredibly respectful with physical affection. He’ll always ask, “Can I kiss you?” even months into the relationship.

❖ bf! Pau keeps every little gift you give him. The little letter you sent him when you were away visitng your parents? It’s folded neatly in his wallet. The bracelet you made him on a random Tuesday? He never takes it off.

❖ bf! Pau always whispers your name like it’s sacred. He says your name so tenderly. Like he savors it, so soft usually under his breath when you’re cuddled on the couch or falling asleep on his chest. Sometimes it’s just a whisper between kisses a gentle reminder of the love he has for you.

❖ bf! Pau gets nervous around your friends. Even though he’s so composed on the pitch, when he met your friends for the first time, he’s the shyest thing ever. He stood behind you a little, offering quiet smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. But he really tries, because he wants them to like him. He’ll even ask you afterward, “Did I do okay?”

❖ bf! Pau is secretly obsessed with you but plays it cool (he always fails). He’ll act chill in public, but one compliment from you and he’s absolutely melting. He tries to play it off like, “Yeah, I missed you too,” but the way his cheeks flush says otherwise.

❖ bf! Pau gets flustered when you wear his stuff. You in his hoodie? That’s it. Game over. He stares like you just walked out of a dream, then tries to act normal. But you catch him smiling into his water bottle or fiddling with his rings just to distract himself when he looks away from you.

❖ bf! Pau sends you song at night. He’ll randomly send you soft acoustic songs before bed with a simple “this reminded me of you.” He won’t explain more, just leaves you melting, while he lies in bed blushing and hoping you liked it.

❖ bf! Pau kisses your hands when words fail to express his adoration. Whenever he’s overwhelmed or struggling to say how much he loves you, he takes your hand and kisses your knuckles softly. It’s his quiet way of saying “thank you for being here,” or “I love you so much. I don’t know what to do with it.”

❖ bf! Pau never shuts up about you to his family. You haven’t even met all of them yet, but they already know everything, “She loves strawberry ice cream,” “She’s studying so hard for her finals, I’m bringing her dinner,” “She gets cold easily, I need to bring her a scarf.” His mom tells you later, laughing, “He doesn’t stop talking about you, cariño.”

❖ bf! Pau has eyes that can never hide how deeply in love he is, and still falling even more. Even after months. You catch him looking at you with that soft smile like he’s still stunned by how lucky he is. He gets that dazed look whenever you’re laughing or talking excitedly about something you love. He doesn’t interrupt, just watches, so in awe, heart full.

❖ bf! Pau is the biggest gentleman. He was raised to be one, and he won't do anything less for you. Opening the door for you, paying for your dinner, helping you clasp your necklace. He believes it's the only way to treat any woman, especially you. The one he's deeply in love with.

❖ bf! Pau is the most loyal person you can meet. You see his loyalty for Barça? He's even more loyal to you. The way he sees his whole future with Barça is the same way he sees your relationship in the future. Forever and always.

❖ bf! Pau adores sleepovers with you. You always have something new planned for him when he comes and sleeps at your parents' house. It's either baking together, playing new card games, or having a movie marathon. He just loves spending time with you doing whatever, as long as he sees your smile and hears your laugh.

my taglist: @barcapix @paucubarsisimp @spidybaby @mxryxmfooty @n0vazsq @joaosnovia @ilovebarcaaaa @f1lover55 @jajajhaahaha @universefcb @mariejuli (lmk if you want to be added!!)

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hoe4hotchner · 6 months ago

Note

can you dooooo, secret relationship with reader owning a 5 star restraunt??? the entire team goes there on rossi's dime and everyone finds out because the chef keeps coming to the table again and again and hotch was given a dessert he didnt order and all of his food was removed from the bill??

Étoile | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Chef fem!reader | WC: 1k | CW: Fluff, food, wine

A/N: I honestly just realized that I forgot the part about the bill.

The scent of roasted garlic, seared steak, and freshly baked bread filled the air as Hotch followed the rest of his team into Étoile. Everyone in the city seemed to rave about the five-star restaurant. The interior was a masterpiece of elegance — something that looked like it came straight out of a French Château — with its low lighting, polished wood and golden accents, and flickering candlelight casting a glow over the tables.

Rossi had insisted on treating the team to a celebratory dinner after their caseload lately, and he had, of course, spared no expense.

The team marveled as they were led to their table — a spot tucked into a private alcove that provided a perfect view of the open kitchen. Hotch felt a flicker of nerves as he glanced in that direction, and his eyes found you instantly, at the center of the busy kitchen, directing your staff with a calm yet authoritative nature to you — one that was rarely seen in the field.

You looked brilliant in your chef's coat, hair neatly tied back, your focus shifting seamlessly from one task to another. Hotch quickly looked away, feigning interest in the wine menu as the host seated them. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to notice how intently his gaze lingered on you.

But, of course, fate had other plans.

Just as the team settled into their seats, you stepped out of the kitchen, your confident stride drawing their attention immediately. A polite, professional smile curved your lips as you approached the table.

"Good evening, everyone," you greeted warmly, your voice carrying easily over the soft hum of the restaurant. "Welcome to Étoile. I’m the executive chef and owner, (Y/N). It’s a pleasure to have you dining with us tonight."

“Wow,” Garcia said, her eyes wide as she glanced around the dining room before settling on you. “This place is gorgeous! And you own it? That’s amazing!”

You offered her a genuine smile. “Thank you. I hope you’ll all enjoy tonight’s menu. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Your gaze flicked ever so briefly to Hotch, the corner of your mouth lifting in a barely perceptible smile. It was a fleeting glance, gone almost as quickly as it came, but Hotch caught it — and so did Rossi, though he said nothing.

The team, oblivious to the exchange, returned their attention to their menus, already discussing what they might order. Hotch, on the other hand, shifted in his seat, his nerves bubbling just beneath his exterior.

As the evening went on, the telltale signs of your connection to each other began to unfold.

You checked on their table personally — not once, but several times, despite the fact that the restaurant was fully booked. Each time, you lingered just a fraction longer than necessary, your smile a little softer when your eyes met Hotch’s.

When the entrees arrived, Hotch’s plate was different from what he’d ordered. It wasn’t a mistake; it was a refined, elegant dish not listed on the menu. The server placed it in front of him with a knowing smile.

“This is Chef’s special request,” the server explained.

Hotch blinked, his expression giving away nothing, though he was certain his team noticed the slight shift in his posture.

“Special request, huh?” Morgan said, leaning back in his chair and eyeing the plate. “Man, must be nice to get VIP treatment.”

Hotch only gave a tight smile, his response curt. “I’m sure it’s just part of the service.”

The night continued, the atmosphere lively as the team enjoyed their meal and laughed over Rossi’s insistence on ordering the most expensive wine. But the final nail in the coffin came with dessert.

The team had ordered a selection to share — an assortment of tarts, soufflés, and pastries. But when the desserts were brought out, the server placed an additional plate in front of Hotch — a chocolate soufflé adorned with a delicate swirl of raspberry coulis and a small chocolate garnish.

Hotch frowned. “I didn’t order this.”

The server smiled, unfazed. “Compliments of the chef.”

Morgan arched a brow, his curiosity piqued. “Compliments of the chef? Again? Alright, Hotch, what’s going on here?”

“Yeah,” JJ chimed in, grinning. “You’ve been getting the royal treatment all night.”

Hotch opened his mouth to deflect, but before he could respond, Rossi leaned forward, his tone teasing. “Don’t think we haven’t noticed, Aaron. The chef herself has been hovering over this table like a moth to a flame.”

Garcia’s eyes widened. “Oh my God. Wait a second — Hotch, do you know her? Like, know her know her?”

Before Hotch could say anything, you appeared at the table once more, a light laugh escaping your lips as you held up your hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, don’t be too hard on him. It’s true.”

The team turned to stare at you.

“Hotch and I…” You glanced at him with a soft smile. “We’ve been seeing each other for a while now.”

For a moment, there was a stunned silence over the group. Then Morgan let out a low whistle.

“Hotch,” he said, shaking his head in mock disbelief, “you’ve been holding out on us. A five-star chef? Man, you’re full of surprises.”

Garcia clapped her hands together. “This is amazing! I have so many questions. How did you meet? How long has this been going on? Oh, and please tell me he helps you in the kitchen sometimes because I’m picturing it, and it’s adorable!” The pictures played in her brain, mixing with the memory of cooking omelets with Hotch.

As the team bombarded you both with questions, Hotch met your gaze across the table, a faint blush shading his cheeks. Despite the exposure of your relationship, a warmth spread in his chest.

You reached out to squeeze his hand briefly before pulling away, your voice tinged with humor as you answered the team’s questions to the best of your abilities, making sure not to overstep Hotch's boundaries with the information you let pass.

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reidmarieprentiss · 10 months ago

Text

Short Shorts & Long Hair

Summary: Spencer does NOT want to go to physical therapy, but the pretty physical therapist might make it not so bad.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x PT fem!reader

Category: fluff, angst

Warnings/Includes: injury, suggestive content (16+), alcohol consumption, insecurities, rejection, use of Y/N

Word count: 11.6k

a/n: i went through pt with a huugggeeee crush on my physical therapist ,, wish they were single :(((

main masterlist part two

After Spencer Reid is shot in the thigh during a case, the last thing he wants is to endure the grueling process of physical therapy. The thought of being touched, poked, and prodded by a stranger, let alone being intensely monitored, fills him with dread. Convinced that he can handle the recovery on his own, Spencer drafts a fake doctor’s note claiming he’s fit to perform his own therapy. Unfortunately for him, neither Hotch nor his orthopedic surgeon finds the attempt amusing. Despite his protests, Spencer is left with no choice but to attend physical therapy sessions, which also means being grounded from fieldwork and unable to join his team on cases.

—

The atmosphere in the room was thick with a tension that only Spencer Reid seemed oblivious to as he sat at his desk, meticulously writing out what could have passed as an official-looking note. His expression was one of deep concentration, brow furrowed in that familiar way as he carefully crafted each word, determined to convince anyone who might read it that he, Dr. Spencer Reid, was fully capable of managing his own recovery.

"To whom it may concern, Dr. Spencer Reid is fully capable of performing his own physical therapy regimen. As a medical professional and an expert in several fields, he does not require the services of an external physical therapist. Please excuse him from any mandated sessions."

He read over the note once more, satisfied with his work, before folding it neatly and tucking it into an envelope. It was the perfect plan, he thought after all, who knew his body better than he did? He could research the most effective exercises, monitor his own progress, and avoid the discomfort of being intensely scrutinized by someone else. The thought of a stranger's hands on him, manipulating his body and injured leg, made his stomach turn. Spencer was resolute—he could handle this on his own.

But just as he was about to place the envelope on Hotch's desk, ready to hand it over with the casual nonchalance of a doctor delivering a prescription, the door to the office swung open. Aaron Hotchner stepped in, his usual stoic expression firmly in place. He caught sight of the envelope in Spencer's hand and the somewhat guilty look on the younger agent's face.

"Reid," Hotch said, his voice even but with a hint of curiosity, "what's that?"

Spencer hesitated for a moment, knowing full well that Hotch wouldn't be easily convinced by his little stunt. But he decided to try anyway. "It's, um, a note. From me. For me. You see, I don't think I need to go to physical therapy. I’ve written a statement explaining that I can handle my own recovery. It’s all very professional."

Hotch's brow arched slightly as he reached out, taking the envelope from Spencer's hand. He opened it and quickly scanned the contents, his expression unreadable. After a long moment, he looked up, meeting Spencer's eyes with a look that was both stern and almost amused.

"Spencer, you can't write your own doctor's notes. And even if you could, this isn’t a joke. Physical therapy is a necessary part of your recovery, and it’s not something you can just skip or handle on your own."

"But, Hotch—" Spencer began, his voice tinged with frustration. "I know what needs to be done. I don’t need someone else to tell me how to stretch or exercise. I can do the research, follow the protocols—"

"That’s not the point," Hotch interrupted, his tone firm. "Physical therapy isn’t just about the exercises. It’s about having a trained professional guide you through the process, ensure you’re doing it correctly, and adjust your treatment as needed. It’s about having someone to push you when you’re too tired or in too much pain to push yourself. You’re not invincible, Spencer."

Spencer opened his mouth to argue, but the look in Hotch’s eyes stopped him. There was no room for negotiation.

"And," Hotch continued, "I know your orthopedic surgeon would agree. I spoke with them earlier today. They were very clear that you need to attend every session if you want to make a full recovery. This isn’t optional."

Spencer felt the weight of Hotch’s words settling over him, heavy and unavoidable. He hated the idea of being in a clinical setting, of being vulnerable in front of someone else, of having to admit that he needed help. But he also knew that Hotch was right. Skipping therapy wasn’t just about avoiding discomfort—it was about jeopardizing his recovery and potentially his career.

"But if I go to therapy, I won’t be able to fly with the team," Spencer said, his voice quieter now, the frustration giving way to a sense of helplessness.

Hotch’s expression softened, just a little. "I know. And I know how hard that is for you. But your health comes first. You’ll still be a part of the team, but you need to take care of yourself. We can handle things in the field until you’re ready to come back."

Spencer nodded, though the idea of being left behind still gnawed at him. He could already imagine the isolation, the endless hours of exercises and stretches, the frustration of not being able to work cases with his team. But there was no getting around it. This was his reality now.

"Alright," Spencer finally said, his voice resigned. "I’ll go to the therapy sessions."

"Good," Hotch replied, placing a hand on Spencer’s shoulder in a rare gesture of support. "It’s the right decision. And remember, we’re all here for you, no matter what."

Spencer gave a small nod, appreciating the sentiment even as the prospect of therapy loomed over him like a dark cloud. He watched as Hotch left the office, the door clicking softly shut behind him. The room seemed quieter now, and Spencer sat there for a moment, the now-crumpled note still in his hand.

The first session was scheduled for tomorrow morning, and Spencer could already feel the knot of anxiety tightening in his chest. He wasn’t ready for this—not physically, not mentally. But it was happening, whether he liked it or not. And as much as he wished he could write himself out of it, this was one situation where even Spencer Reid had to admit that he couldn’t do it all on his own.

—

The morning sunlight streamed through the curtains as Spencer reluctantly eyed the outfit his surgeon recommended. Loose-fitting clothes were manageable, but the shorts—revealing his pale, scarred leg—were far from his usual style. They made him feel vulnerable, a stark contrast to the comfort of his usual slacks and cardigans. With a resigned sigh, he slipped into the shorts and a loose t-shirt, feeling exposed.

Crutching out of his apartment, every step reminded him of his injury, amplifying his discomfort. The short drive to the physical therapy center only heightened his anxiety; the building felt more like a fortress than a place of healing.

Once inside, the overly cheerful receptionist bombarded him with questions, each interaction grating on his nerves. Finally, he was led to a private room—a sterile, clinical space that made him feel even more on edge. As he gingerly lowered himself onto the padded table, his leg throbbing slightly, Spencer’s mind raced with thoughts of the upcoming session, dreading the inevitable discomfort and the loss of control. The door would open soon, and a stranger would take charge, leaving him with no escape.

At last, a small knock echoed through the room before the door creaked open, revealing a young woman who couldn’t have been older than her mid-20s. Spencer’s breath caught for a moment—she was gorgeous, even in her casual athletic wear, her presence both striking and unexpectedly comforting.

“Hello, Spencer Reid?” you asked with a warm smile that seemed to light up the room. “I’m Dr. Y/L, but you can call me Y/N.”

"Hi, yes, I'm Spencer. Nice to meet you," he said, his voice carrying that familiar mix of politeness and underlying nervousness.

"Nice to meet you too, Spencer," you replied with a warm smile as you settled in front of the computer, pulling up his chart. "Let's see... you got shot in the thigh, ouch. How did that happen, if you don't mind me asking?"

Spencer shifted slightly, the memory still fresh. "Uh, no, that's fine. I was chasing an unsub. I work for the FBI."

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. "Oh wow! That's cool... and painful. I'm sorry about that."

He gave a small shrug, trying to downplay the severity. "It comes with the job."

"I suppose it does," you said, nodding thoughtfully. "Anyway, let's get some basic info about how you're doing since surgery."

Together, you went through the routine baseline questions, Spencer answering each one with careful honesty. His responses were detailed, though you could sense a certain reluctance in his tone, as if he was holding back from fully engaging in the process.

"And finally, Spencer... what is your mobility like? Can you bend your knee?" you asked, glancing up from the computer to observe his reaction.

"Uh, a little," he replied, his discomfort becoming more evident as your attention shifted to his exposed leg.

"Can you show me, please?" you asked gently, trying to ease the tension.

Spencer hesitated for a moment, then slowly bent his knee, his movements tentative. Your eyes followed the motion, taking note of the stiffness and the clear effort it required.

"Okay, good… now, how far can you bend your other knee? In fact, do you mind if I measure? That way, we can compare later down the line to see the progress you're making," you explained, keeping your tone encouraging and professional.

"Mhm, fine," he murmured, giving a small nod of consent.

You moved closer with a measuring tool in hand, your focus entirely on ensuring accuracy. Spencer, on the other hand, felt his cheeks flush slightly under your scrutiny. The vulnerability of the situation, coupled with the physical closeness, made him acutely aware of every small movement.

"Alright," you said after taking the measurements, offering him a reassuring smile. "We'll track these numbers as we go, and you'll be able to see just how much progress you're making. It might not feel like it now, but you'll get there."

Spencer nodded again, his nerves calming slightly at your supportive demeanor. Despite his initial reluctance, he was starting to see that this process, uncomfortable as it was, might just be what he needed.

"Okay, for today, we don't have to push you too far," you began, your tone gentle yet encouraging. "We'll just start with some easy movements to get a baseline for where you're at. How does that sound?"

"That's fine," Spencer replied, his voice steady, though there was still a hint of tension beneath the surface.

Together, you guided him through a series of basic movements, carefully observing how his injured leg compared to his non-injured one. Spencer followed your instructions with quiet focus, doing his best to move as much as he could without aggravating the injury. As you made your way down the list, you noted the differences in flexibility and strength, mentally preparing a plan for his recovery.

When you reached the last item on your list, you looked up from your notes. "Alright, Spencer, I'd like you to try flexing your quad. This is important because you'll need to be able to engage those muscles when you're ready to start walking again."

"I know," Spencer said, his tone tinged with resignation and a touch of impatience, as if he was more than aware of what was expected of him but still not entirely comfortable with the process.

You nodded, acknowledging his understanding. "Oh, okay, yes, well..." you hesitated for a moment, wanting to ensure his comfort. "Can I put my hand on your leg, Spencer? It'll help me gauge the muscle engagement."

Spencer looked at you for a brief moment, the vulnerability in his eyes evident. But he gave a small nod, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yeah, that's fine."

You placed your hand gently on his leg, just above the injured area, making sure your touch was as light and non-intrusive as possible. "Alright, go ahead and flex for me."

Spencer did as you asked, and you could feel the slight tremor in the muscle as it tried to respond. It was clear that the road ahead would be challenging, but this was a crucial first step.

"Good job, Spencer," you said softly, your voice filled with genuine encouragement. "This is the start, and we'll take it one step at a time. You'll get there, I promise."

"Thanks," Spencer muttered, his tone clipped but not intentionally rude. He was struggling to keep his frustration in check—not with you, but with the entire process. The vulnerability, the slowness of his progress, it all grated on him. But he couldn’t help but notice how kind and patient you were, never once letting his mood affect your demeanor.

You offered him a gentle smile, recognizing the weariness in his voice. "Alright, what do you say we call it a day?"

"Sounds good," Spencer replied, a bit of relief seeping into his tone. The session had been necessary, he knew that, but it was exhausting in more ways than one.

You helped him settle back into a comfortable position, gathering your notes and preparing to leave. "You did well today, Spencer. It's not easy, but you're making progress, even if it doesn't feel like it right now."

He gave a small nod, appreciating your words even if he didn’t fully believe them yet. As he watched you head for the door, he couldn’t help but feel a small sense of gratitude.

—

The next day, as Spencer made his way into the office, he immediately spotted Aaron Hotchner across the bullpen. Hotch was engaged in a conversation with another agent, but the moment he noticed Spencer, a subtle, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Spencer felt a mild irritation bubble up within him; he could already sense what was coming.

As he approached his desk, Hotch walked over, his expression that infuriating blend of concern and amusement. "Morning, Reid," Hotch greeted, his voice carrying that signature calm authority. "How did your first physical therapy session go?"

Spencer’s eyes narrowed slightly, detecting the faint smugness in Hotch’s tone. "It was… fine," he replied, trying to keep his voice even, though his annoyance was evident. He could tell Hotch was fishing for details, and it was clear that Hotch knew exactly how uncomfortable the whole experience had been for him.

Hotch raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing just a bit. "Just fine? No major complaints?"

Spencer resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "No major complaints," he echoed, though the look on his face said otherwise.

Hotch nodded, clearly enjoying this a little too much. "Good. Just remember, Reid, it's important to follow through with these sessions. They'll make all the difference in your recovery."

"Yes, I’m aware," Spencer replied, his tone a touch sharper than he intended. He knew Hotch was right, but that didn’t make the process any less frustrating.

Hotch chuckled softly, not unkindly, and gave Spencer a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Hang in there, Spencer. You'll be back to chasing down unsubs in no time."

As Hotch walked away, Spencer let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head. He knew Hotch meant well, but that didn’t stop him from being mildly annoyed at the subtle smugness in his boss’s demeanor. It seemed that, for now, Spencer would just have to endure the teasing—along with everything else this recovery was throwing at him.

—

At his next physical therapy session, Spencer walked in with a bit less tension in his shoulders, though he was still undeniably on edge. The familiarity of the setting, coupled with the fact that he knew what to expect, made things slightly easier. But the apprehension hadn’t fully dissipated. There was still the uncomfortable vulnerability that came with each session, the persistent reminder of his injury.

However, without the overwhelming cloud of nerves and frustration that had dominated his first visit, Spencer found himself noticing something different. As you greeted him with that same warm smile, guiding him through the initial check-in process, he couldn’t help but take in just how pretty you were. The realization caught him off guard, stirring a new wave of anxiety that he hadn’t anticipated.

It wasn’t just your appearance—though that alone was enough to make his pulse quicken—but the way you carried yourself, the gentle confidence in your movements, and the patient way you spoke to him, even when he was less than cooperative. It was disarming, to say the least.

As the session progressed, and you asked him to move through the exercises, Spencer felt his heart rate increase—not just from the physical effort, but from the proximity, the way your hands occasionally brushed against his skin as you guided him. He tried to focus on the mechanics, on the steps you were instructing him through, but his mind kept drifting to the fact that you were so close, your attention entirely on him.

When you gently placed your hand on his leg to help him flex his quad, Spencer’s breath hitched slightly, the warmth of your touch sending a jolt through him. He knew it was purely professional, that you were just doing your job, but it didn’t stop the nervous flutter in his stomach.

“Doing okay, Spencer?” you asked, your voice soft as you glanced up at him, concern flickering in your eyes. You could sense the shift in his demeanor, though you weren’t sure what had caused it.

“Uh, yeah,” he stammered, his voice a little unsteady. “I’m fine.”

You smiled, giving his leg a light pat before continuing with the session. “You’re doing great.”

Spencer nodded, trying to steady his breathing. But the truth was, having your hands and eyes on him, especially now that he was fully aware of how attractive you were, was even more nerve-wracking than the physical exercises themselves. He couldn’t help but feel self-conscious, worried that his unease was obvious.

As the session came to a close, Spencer felt a mix of relief and lingering nerves. He knew he’d be back, but the thought of facing these sessions with you—someone who was not only skilled and kind but also strikingly beautiful—added a new layer of complexity to an already difficult process.

—

As the weeks passed, a sense of familiarity began to settle between you and Spencer. It was inevitable, really—spending an hour together every week, working through the same routines, sharing small talk to fill the silence. The initial awkwardness had started to fade, replaced by a growing ease in each other's company.

Spencer was still nervous around you, but it was a different kind of nervousness now. His crush had developed into something undeniable, and though it made his heart race whenever your hands brushed against him or you smiled in that particular way, he had learned to manage it. He even found himself engaging in playful conversation, something that had felt impossible during those first few sessions.

Today, as you guided him through another set of exercises, the conversation flowed naturally, the rapport between you evident.

“So, Spencer, any big plans this weekend?” you asked, your tone light and casual as you adjusted his leg for the next stretch.

Spencer, who had been concentrating on following your instructions, looked up with a faint smirk. “Yeah, I thought I might go skydiving,” he replied, deadpan, though his eyes twinkled with mischief.

You raised an eyebrow, clearly catching the playful tone. “Hmm, sounds thrilling—and very safe,” you responded, matching his sarcasm.

He chuckled softly, a sound that was becoming more frequent as he grew more comfortable with you. “Yeah, I figured, why not? Might as well add another injury to the list, right?”

“Perfect plan,” you teased, giving his leg a gentle pat as you moved to the next exercise. “Just make sure to tell your orthopedic surgeon first. I’m sure they’ll love the idea.”

Spencer laughed, the tension in his body easing further with each passing moment. “I’m sure they’ll have a lot to say about it. But really, I’ll probably just catch up on some reading. Nothing too exciting.”

“Well, that sounds more like the Spencer I’ve come to know,” you said with a smile. “Anything interesting you’re reading?”

He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should share, but your genuine curiosity encouraged him to open up. “Actually, I’ve been revisiting some classic science fiction—Isaac Asimov’s *Foundation* series. It’s been a while, and I forgot how much I enjoyed it.”

You nodded, impressed. “That’s a great choice. I’ve always admired Asimov’s ability to weave complex ideas into his stories. You’ll have to let me know what you think when you finish.”

“I will,” Spencer promised, feeling a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the physical exertion of the session. These moments of connection, however small, were becoming something he looked forward to—a bright spot in what had been a difficult and frustrating process.

As the session wrapped up, Spencer found himself lingering a little longer than usual, reluctant to leave the comfortable rhythm you had developed together.

—

During one of your sessions, as you guided Spencer through another set of stretches, the conversation drifted into more personal territory. Spencer, his curiosity getting the better of him, asked, "How old are you?"

You couldn’t help but tease him a little, raising an eyebrow playfully. "Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a lady her age?"

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, and he immediately started to apologize, stumbling over his words. "Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to— I just thought you looked so young."

You laughed, deciding to let him off the hook. "Why, thank you!" you said, exaggerating your response by pretending to flip your hair over your shoulder. "But I was just teasing, Spencer. I’m no lady," you added with a wink, enjoying the way it made him chuckle.

He relaxed a bit, his laughter easing the moment. "Well, now I’m even more curious."

"Alright, alright," you conceded with a grin. "I’m 26."

Spencer nodded, processing the information with a slight smile. "You’re younger than I thought… but somehow, that makes sense."

"Yeah? And how old did you think I was?" you asked, genuinely curious, your eyes fixed on him as you waited for his response.

Spencer shrugged, his expression thoughtful but with a hint of mischief. "I don’t know, maybe 50?"

You stared at him for a moment, deadpan, before replying with a sarcastic sweetness, "That’s so sweet of you, Spencer. Now tell me, am I supposed to push my thumb directly into your wound or just squeeze around it?"

His eyes widened in mock horror as he quickly backpedaled. "Neither! I’m sorry!" he laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. "You don’t look 50!"

"Yeah, well, you’re going to after I’m done with you," you shot back, a grin spreading across your face as you leaned in, pretending to consider where to apply pressure.

Spencer laughed, the tension melting away as the playful banter flowed between you.

—

During another session, you glanced over at Spencer, who was carefully stretching his leg. "Okay, Spencer," you began, your tone encouraging, "let’s see if we can get a little more range of motion in your knee today. How’s it feeling?"

Spencer shrugged slightly. "Stiff, but manageable," he replied. "I’m trying not to overthink it."

You nodded in approval, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Good strategy. Just remember, slow and steady wins the race."

He met your gaze, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "I’ll keep that in mind… though I’ve never been very good at pacing myself."

—

Today you greeted him with a warm smile. "How’s the leg holding up today? Ready for some more fun?" you asked, your tone light and encouraging.

Spencer met your gaze with a playful grin, the tension from previous sessions now mostly replaced with a sense of friendship. "If by ‘fun’ you mean more quad exercises, then I can hardly contain my excitement," he quipped, a hint of sarcasm lacing his words.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his response, enjoying the banter that had developed between the two of you. "Don’t worry, I’ll make it as enjoyable as possible," you teased back, a mischievous glint in your eye. "We can always spice it up with some trivia."

At that, Spencer’s expression brightened even more. "Trivia? Now you’re speaking my language," he replied, clearly intrigued. "Just don’t go easy on me."

You raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in your voice as you responded, "Wouldn’t dream of it. Get ready, Spencer. I hope you’ve been studying."

—

"Alright," you began, today there was a hint of mischief in your voice as you glanced at him . "Let’s see if we can get a little more flexibility out of that knee today. I know it’s your favorite part."

Spencer’s lips curled into a grin, his eyes lighting up with amusement. "You’re really starting to understand my love for torture," he quipped, his tone laced with sarcasm, though there was a softness in his expression that suggested he didn’t mind the challenge as much as he pretended to.

You couldn’t help but laugh, playing along with a mock-serious look. "Well, if it helps, I think I’m getting better at dishing it out. But seriously, you’re doing great," you added, your voice turning more sincere as you looked at him, hoping to convey how much progress he had truly made.

Spencer tilted his head, the teasing glint in his eyes growing stronger. "Flattery will get you everywhere," he remarked, clearly enjoying the banter.

With a playful wink, you replied, "I’ll keep that in mind."

—

“Okay, Spencer, this one’s going to be a bit tougher. Ready?” you asked, glancing at him with a hint of challenge in your eyes during this session.

Spencer raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smirk. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not really,” you replied, your smirk matching his. “But I promise, if you make it through this, I’ll buy you a coffee.”

Spencer’s other eyebrow joined the first, his interest piqued. “A bribe? How very professional of you.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and teasing. “Hey, whatever works. Besides, I know your weakness for good coffee.”

He chuckled softly, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than usual. “You’ve been paying attention. I might just have to hold you to that offer.”

“Deal,” you said with a playful wink, moving closer to guide him through the tougher exercises. “Now, let’s see what you’ve got, Dr. Reid.”

—

As Spencer walked into the therapy room for his session, he was greeted with a warm smile and a familiar, teasing tone. "How’s my favorite patient doing today?" you asked, your voice light and welcoming.

Spencer couldn’t help but return the smile, a playful glint in his eye as he replied, "Favorite? I’ll try not to let it go to my head."

You grinned, the banter between you both becoming second nature by now. "You’re lucky you’ve got that charm. Otherwise, I might make you do extra reps."

"I’ll remember that next time I’m tempted to be difficult," Spencer quipped, his tone just as playful, though there was a genuine warmth beneath it.

"Good plan," you said with a nod, before your expression softened slightly. "But seriously, you’re making great progress. Pretty soon, you’ll be back to chasing down unsubs."

Spencer’s smile grew a bit wider, the teasing still evident in his voice as he responded, "And I’ll be sure to tell them all about my excellent physical therapist."

A soft chuckle escaped you, and you met his gaze, your voice gentle as you said, "I’ll be waiting to hear that story."

—

While the team was out on a case, Spencer and Penelope found themselves working together in her Bat Cave, the hum of computers and the click of keys filling the otherwise quiet space. It was a rare moment of calm in their usually hectic lives, and Spencer appreciated the company, even if the work they were doing was still demanding.

“How’s Kevin?” Spencer asked, breaking the silence as he glanced over at Penelope.

Penelope paused for a moment, her fingers hesitating over the keyboard before she responded. “He’s… fine. We haven’t been on a date in a while.”

“Oh, why’s that?” Spencer inquired, his curiosity piqued.

“I’m not sure. We’re both busy, it’s not a big deal,” Penelope replied, her tone making it clear she didn’t want to delve too deeply into the subject. It was unlike her to brush off a topic so quickly, but Spencer respected her boundaries and decided not to press further.

Instead, Penelope shifted the focus, a mischievous glint in her eye as she asked, “How is your love life, Boy Wonder?”

Spencer snorted at the question, shaking his head. “Non-existent.”

Penelope’s eyes sparkled with a mix of sympathy and determination. “Do you want me to set you up with someone? I have single friends!”

“No, thank you, I’m okay,” Spencer replied quickly, his voice firm but kind. The last thing he needed was to be thrust into a blind date arranged by Penelope, well-meaning as she was.

Penelope pouted slightly but didn’t push the issue. “Okay… but think about it!” she added, her tone playful, though there was a hint of genuine concern behind it.

Spencer just smiled, appreciating her efforts but knowing that his mind was already occupied with someone else—someone who made him look forward to his weekly therapy sessions in a way he hadn’t expected. But that was something he wasn’t quite ready to share, not yet.

—

“Ow!” Spencer winced as a sharp pain shot through his leg, catching both of you off guard.

“Oh, shoot. I’m sorry, Spencer. I didn’t mean to push too far. Are you okay?” Your voice was filled with concern as you immediately eased the pressure, your hands hovering just above his leg, ready to help if needed.

Spencer forced a small, embarrassed smile, trying to downplay the discomfort. “Yeah, hah, I’m fine,” he said, though his flushed cheeks told a different story.

You offered him a reassuring smile, sensing his unease. “It’s okay if we need to take a break.”

“Okay… maybe a little one,” he admitted, feeling a bit sheepish but grateful for the pause.

“For sure,” you said with a nod, standing up. “I’ll go get you some water.”

“Thanks,” Spencer replied, watching as you left the room. He let out a slow breath, trying to shake off the lingering discomfort.

When you returned, Spencer couldn’t help but notice how stunning you looked today—though, in truth, he thought you looked gorgeous every day. But something about today caught his attention more than usual. Your pants were form-fitting, hugging your figure in a way that made it hard for him to focus on anything else. And your top… well, it clung to your body like a second skin, accentuating every curve, every roll, and, in this chilly room, every… bump. The air conditioning was doing its job a little too well.

Spencer quickly averted his gaze, feeling his face heat up, and hoped you hadn’t noticed the direction of his thoughts. He took the water you offered with a grateful nod, trying to distract himself from the sudden rush of awareness that had flooded his senses.

“Here you go,” you said, handing him the bottle with a warm smile. “Take your time, okay? We’ll go at your pace.”

“Thanks,” Spencer murmured, taking a sip of the cool water, though it did little to calm the warmth in his cheeks. He was still focused on recovering, but now there was an added layer of distraction—one that made the idea of these sessions both thrilling and terrifying.

“Hey, are you sure you’re okay, doctor?” you asked, noticing the bright flush on Spencer’s face. Your concern was evident, your eyes searching his for any sign of discomfort beyond what he’d already admitted.

“Yes, doctor,” Spencer teased back with a small, sheepish grin. “Why?”

“Your face is really red,” you pointed out gently. “You can tell me if we need to be done for the day.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I promise,” he insisted, though the blush on his cheeks only deepened as he realized you’d noticed. He quickly tried to redirect the conversation.

“Okay,” you said, still watching him carefully. “Let’s just rest for a bit. Can I sit?” You gestured to the patient bed where Spencer was currently resting.

“Yeah, of course,” he replied, starting to scoot over to make room, but you plopped yourself down on the opposite end anyway, your casual movement making him relax a bit.

“So, um, do you have any fun plans for the weekend?�� Spencer asked, eager to keep the conversation going and to steer it away from his embarrassment.

“Yeah, actually! I’m going to a new club with some friends,” you responded with a bright smile, clearly looking forward to it.

“Nice,” Spencer said, though internally, he had no idea what going to a club entailed. It wasn’t exactly his scene. Still, he was trying to be polite and keep the conversation light. “Will your boyfriend be going?”

Your brow furrowed slightly in confusion, but there was a playful glint in your eyes. “Who told you I have a boyfriend?”

Spencer felt his heart skip a beat, a pang of regret hitting him as he fumbled for words. “Uh, I just, um, assumed…”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Well, no, he’s not going. He’s not allowed in.”

“Oh,” Spencer said, confusion and curiosity in his voice. “Why?”

“They frown upon bringing dogs into clubs,” you replied with a grin, your eyes twinkling with amusement.

Spencer blinked, processing your words, before a wide smile spread across his face. “You had me there for a second.”

“Good,” you teased back, your laughter light and infectious. “I’m single, Spencer. Just me and my dog.”

Spencer’s heart, which had momentarily broken at the thought of you having a boyfriend, slowly pieced itself back together. The relief he felt was palpable, though he tried not to show it too much. “Well, your dog sounds like great company.”

“He is,” you agreed, still smiling as you settled more comfortably on the bed. “But it’s nice to have human company too.”

Spencer nodded, his own smile lingering as the tension between you two melted away, replaced by an easy, comfortable rapport that made him feel just a bit braver. “I’ll, um, have to think of something fun to do this weekend too.”

“Well,” you said, giving him a playful nudge with your foot, “if you need ideas, you know where to find me.”

—

Spencer had spent the weekend mentally preparing himself, trying to muster up the courage to take a step outside his comfort zone and maybe even visit the club you had mentioned. But as the days passed, the idea of loud music, crowded spaces, and unfamiliar social dynamics became more daunting than exciting. In the end, he stayed home, retreating to the familiar comfort of his books and routine.

However, something had shifted in him after your last conversation. The way you had laughed, the playful teasing about your “boyfriend,” and the easy, comfortable rapport between you—it all made Spencer feel like maybe, just maybe, his attraction to you wasn’t as one-sided as he had feared. That small spark of hope ignited something in him, and by the time his next session rolled around, he was determined to push the boundaries of your interactions, just a little.

As soon as he walked into the room, he could tell there was a different energy in the air. You greeted him with your usual warm smile, but there was something in your eyes, a glint that made his heart race just a bit faster.

“Hey, Spencer,” you said, your voice bright as you guided him to the usual spot. “How was your weekend? Did you end up finding something fun to do?”

Spencer hesitated for a split second, then decided to go for it. “Well, I thought about going to that club you mentioned,” he began, watching your reaction carefully.

“Oh really?” you asked, clearly intrigued. “What happened? Did you chicken out?”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “But I figured if I was going to do something that bold, I’d need a good reason. Maybe some company?”

Spencer's confidence had been steadily growing throughout the session, especially after the playful banter you shared earlier. But when you leaned in just a bit closer, your eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief, and said, “Company, huh? I’m sure you could find someone to go with you,” he felt a sudden drop in his stomach.

He tried to keep the conversation going, hoping he hadn’t misread the situation entirely. “Yeah? Do you know anyone?” he asked, forcing a smile to mask the uncertainty creeping in.

You tilted your head, a teasing grin on your lips as you replied, “I can’t say I do, but if I find someone who screams ‘Spencer Reid,’ I’ll send them your way.” You finished with a wink before turning your attention back to the session.

Spencer’s heart sank. Had he completely misjudged the situation? Maybe his earlier confidence had been misplaced, and the connection he thought was there was just friendly banter after all. As you continued guiding him through the exercises, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of defeat, the playful atmosphere from earlier now tinged with doubt.

Later in the session, you left the room to grab one of the measuring tools you needed, leaving Spencer alone with his thoughts. He leaned back on the patient bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to shake off the disappointment gnawing at him.

That’s when he heard voices in the hallway, one of them unmistakably yours. He wasn’t the type to eavesdrop, but curiosity—and maybe a bit of desperation—got the better of him. He strained to listen, his heart beating faster as he realized you were talking about him.

“You think he was going to ask you out?” said another female voice.

“I don’t know, it seemed like it,” you replied, your tone carrying a hint of uncertainty. Spencer’s heart skipped a beat. Had he been that obvious?

“Isn’t that good? I thought you said he was cute and funny,” the other voice continued, sounding encouraging.

There was a brief pause before you responded, your voice a bit softer. “He’s my patient, it doesn’t matter. That can’t happen.”

Spencer’s heart sank further. So that was it. The connection he felt was real, but there was an undeniable barrier between you two—one that you weren’t willing to cross.

“You’re right. Just be nice,” the other voice advised.

“I always am,” you replied, your tone resigned but still kind.

A moment later, the door to the room opened, and you reentered with the measuring tool in hand. Your expression was as warm and professional as ever, but Spencer couldn’t shake the feeling of disappointment that had settled in his chest. He forced a smile, trying to act as if he hadn’t overheard anything, though the knowledge weighed heavily on him.

The rest of the session continued, but the lightheartedness from earlier was replaced by a quieter, more subdued atmosphere. Spencer kept up the conversation as best he could, but there was a lingering sadness beneath his words. It wasn’t just about his injury anymore—it was about the realization that, no matter how much he might want it, there were some lines that simply couldn’t be crossed.

—

“Hey, Penelope?” Spencer’s voice carried a hint of hesitance as he approached her workstation, trying to muster up the courage for what he was about to ask.

Penelope swiveled her chair around, her bright eyes instantly lighting up at the sight of him. “Yes, my love?” she replied, her usual affectionate tone bringing a small smile to Spencer’s face.

“Do you still have a friend you could set me up with?” Spencer asked, his voice steady despite the nervous flutter in his chest. He wasn’t sure what had pushed him to ask, but after the recent disappointment, he figured it might be worth a shot.

Penelope’s reaction was immediate. Her eyes widened, and she leaned forward, her hands clasped together in excitement. “Are you serious? You’re being for real? You’re not just messing with me?”

Spencer couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head at her enthusiasm. “I’m being very serious.”

A squeal of delight escaped Penelope as she practically bounced in her seat. “Yes! I have the perfect friend for you! Oh em gee!!!” she exclaimed, her excitement palpable.

Spencer chuckled, feeling some of his earlier doubts melt away in the face of Penelope’s infectious energy. Maybe this wasn’t what he had originally hoped for, but seeing her so happy about helping him made him feel like he was making the right choice.

“Tell me everything!” Penelope demanded, her fingers already flying across her keyboard as she began to plan out every detail. “What are you looking for? What should I tell her about you? Oh, this is going to be so much fun!”

Spencer smiled, feeling a sense of relief wash over him. It wasn’t the path he had initially imagined, but maybe this new direction would lead to something just as fulfilling. “I trust your judgment, Penelope,” he said with a grin. “Just… make sure she’s okay with a guy who’s a little bit of a nerd, and on crutches.”

Penelope beamed, her heart bursting with joy at the prospect of playing matchmaker for her dear friend. “Spencer Reid, you’re in the best hands. She’s going to love you.”

—

The night of Spencer's blind date had arrived, and his nerves were running rampant. Despite trusting Penelope’s judgment, he couldn't shake the anxiety gnawing at him. She had insisted that he fully embrace the blind date experience, right down to not even knowing the woman’s name. All she had told him was that he should look for a woman in a red dress.

Sitting at the table in the cozy, dimly lit restaurant, Spencer tried to steady his breathing, his fingers drumming nervously against the tablecloth. The uncertainty was overwhelming, and he found himself glancing at the door every few seconds, half-expecting to make a quick exit if things went south.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly, and with every passing moment, his heart beat faster. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of deep red fabric. He turned, his breath hitching as he saw the back of a woman at the host's stand, her figure silhouetted perfectly in the elegant red dress. Even from behind, she looked stunning, and for a brief moment, Spencer felt a flicker of excitement, his nerves momentarily forgotten.

But as she turned to scan the room, her eyes searching for him, Spencer’s heart nearly stopped. It was you.

All the blood seemed to drain from his face as he sat there, frozen in place. His mind raced, trying to process what was happening. Of all the people in the world, Penelope had set him up with you—his physical therapist, the woman he had been crushing on for weeks.

You spotted him almost instantly, your eyes widening in surprise, and for a moment, you looked just as shocked as he felt. But then your expression softened, and a small, tentative smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

Spencer swallowed hard, his anxiety now mixing with a sense of disbelief. He hadn’t expected this at all. What were the chances? He could barely keep his thoughts straight as you walked toward him, your movements graceful and confident, though there was a hint of nervousness in your eyes that mirrored his own.

“Spencer?” you said softly as you reached the table, your voice laced with surprise and something else—something warm, perhaps even hopeful.

He managed to nod, still struggling to find his voice. “Y-Yes… it’s me,” he stammered, his heart pounding in his chest. “I didn’t… I had no idea…”

You chuckled softly, the sound doing wonders to ease the tension between you. “Neither did I,” you admitted, settling into the seat across from him. There was a playful glint in your eye as you added, “I guess you work in the BAU at the FBI, huh?”

Spencer nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile. “I do. How do you know Penelope?”

“We do wine and painting together every month,” you explained with a fond smile, recalling the origins of your friendship. “After a few classes, we started sitting together, and the rest is history.”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, and he let out a small laugh. “I can’t believe you’re my blind date.”

“And you’re mine,” you replied, matching his smile with one of your own.

Spencer hesitated for a moment before asking, “Is that okay? I know I’m your patient…”

You tilted your head slightly, considering his words before replying with a hint of teasing in your voice. “Well, technically, I’m not supposed to see my patients outside of PT… but I’ll make an exception for tonight.”

“Right, tonight,” Spencer echoed, relief and excitement coursing through him. He could hardly believe how the evening had unfolded, but there was something undeniably thrilling about it.

The two of you shared a moment of quiet understanding, the reality of the situation settling in. Despite the unexpected turn of events, the chemistry between you was undeniable, and the restrictions that had once seemed so daunting now felt less significant in the warm glow of the restaurant's soft lighting.

As the evening progressed and the initial surprise wore off, the conversation between you and Spencer flowed effortlessly. There was a natural rhythm to your interactions, a playfulness that neither of you could resist indulging in.

“So, Spencer,” you began, taking a sip of your wine and meeting his gaze over the candlelit table, “what’s it like being a genius? Do you just know everything, or do you still get surprised sometimes?”

Spencer chuckled, a light blush creeping onto his cheeks. “I wouldn’t say I know everything,” he replied, his tone modest but with a teasing glint in his eye. “I get surprised plenty—like tonight, for example.”

“Oh?” you tilted your head, a mischievous smile playing on your lips. “Surprised in a good way, I hope?”

“Very good,” Spencer admitted, his eyes flickering to yours, the warmth in his gaze making your heart skip a beat. “I mean, how often does someone get set up on a blind date with someone they already know—and like?”

Spencer’s blush deepened, the pink tint spreading across his cheeks as he looked at you with wide eyes. "Oh, you like me, do you?" you teased, your voice light and playful, but with a hint of something more beneath the surface.

"Was that not obvious?" Spencer stammered, his blush deepening further, and you couldn’t help but smile at how endearing he was.

"It was plenty obvious, Doctor. Don’t worry," you reassured him, leaning in just slightly to close the distance between you.

Spencer let out a small, relieved laugh. "Oh goodie! I was worried I wasn’t making a fool out of myself."

"You weren’t," you said softly, your smile growing as you watched him. There was something so genuine about Spencer, something that made it easy to be honest with him. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"Absolutely," Spencer replied, a playful glint in his eye as he leaned in closer, mimicking your earlier movement. "I might tell everyone I know, but you can still tell me."

You giggled at his response, the sound light and full of warmth. "Amazing," you said, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I don’t have to touch you as much as I do during our sessions... I just really like how your legs look in those shorts."

Spencer’s eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, he seemed completely caught off guard. His mouth opened as if to respond, but no words came out. Finally, he managed to stammer, "You… you what?"

"I like how your legs look," you repeated, your tone playful yet sincere. "And those shorts you wear? They make it hard to keep things strictly professional."

Spencer’s blush, which had just started to fade, flared up again in full force. He let out a nervous laugh, running a hand through his hair. "I had no idea… I mean, I didn’t think—"

"You’re cute when you’re flustered," you interrupted gently, reaching out to place a hand over his. The gesture was simple, but it sent a jolt of warmth through both of you. "And just so you know, you’re definitely not making a fool out of yourself. In fact, I’m really glad Penelope set this up."

Spencer looked down at your hand on his, then back up at you, his eyes filled with gratitude and affection. "Me too," he said softly, his voice carrying a sincerity that made your heart skip a beat. "More than you know."

—

As the waiter poured the wine, the atmosphere between you and Spencer lightened even more, the earlier nerves melting away with each sip. You couldn’t help but giggle as you watched Spencer take a tentative sip from his glass, his expression one of cautious appreciation.

"How’s the wine, Doctor?" you teased, raising your glass to him with a playful grin.

Spencer chuckled, swirling the wine in his glass like he was trying to remember some long-forgotten etiquette. "I think it’s good," he said, though his tone was more curious than certain. "I’m not exactly a connoisseur, but I think I could get used to this."

"Oh, I bet you could," you teased, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "And who knows, maybe by the end of the night, you’ll be an expert."

Spencer raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at his lips. "Are you planning on getting me drunk?"

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice as you replied, "Maybe just tipsy enough to loosen you up, Doctor. You’re pretty cute when you’re not overthinking everything."

He laughed, a sound that was becoming more frequent as the evening went on. "Is that so? Well, in that case, maybe I should order another bottle."

"Oh, I see how it is," you giggled, raising your glass to take another sip. "Trying to get me drunk so I’ll spill all my secrets?"

Spencer leaned in closer, his voice low and teasing. "I don’t need wine for that. You already admitted you like how my legs look in those shorts."

You laughed, the sound bubbly and warm, and you playfully nudged him with your foot under the table. "Guilty as charged. But don’t get too cocky, Doctor Reid. I’ve got plenty more secrets I haven’t shared yet."

Spencer’s eyes twinkled with intrigue, and he leaned back in his chair, giving you an appreciative once-over. "Now that’s something I’d like to hear more about," he said, his tone flirtatious but with a genuine interest that made your heart flutter.

You smirked, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Oh, you’ll have to earn those secrets, Spencer. I don’t just give them away."

"Challenge accepted," Spencer replied, his grin widening as he clinked his glass against yours. "But I warn you, I’m pretty good at uncovering secrets."

"Is that so?" you quipped, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe I’ll have to keep you on your toes, then."

"I think I’d like that," Spencer said, his voice softening as he held your gaze, the playful banter giving way to something a bit more serious, but no less exciting.

The wine continued to flow, and with it, the conversation grew flirtier, the two of you slipping into a comfortable rhythm that was as intoxicating as the wine itself. The night felt like a blur of laughter, teasing words, and shared glances, each one charged with a growing connection that neither of you could deny.

As the glasses emptied and the night wore on, Spencer couldn’t help but feel like this was the start of something new—something wonderful. And by the way you were looking at him, your smile bright and your eyes full of promise, he had a feeling you were thinking the same thing.

—

You held the door open for Spencer as you both exited the restaurant, then hailed a cab with practiced ease. Spencer couldn’t help but notice the way you held the door open for him once more, a small gesture that felt both kind and distant at the same time.

“One stop or two?” the cab driver asked, his voice breaking through the quiet night air.

“Two,” you responded, offering Spencer an apologetic smile that made his heart sink just a little.

As the cab pulled away from the curb, Spencer started to get the sense that this night—this connection—was slipping away, becoming nothing more than a fleeting exchange.

“This isn’t going to continue, is it?” Spencer asked, his voice tinged with the disappointment he was trying to keep at bay.

You sighed softly, placing your hand gently on his, your expression filled with genuine regret. “Spencer,” you began, your voice tender but firm, “I’m your physical therapist. You’re my patient.”

“But we like each other,” Spencer pressed, his heart pounding with the desperate hope that maybe, somehow, you could make this work.

“So much,” you agreed, your eyes softening as you met his gaze. “But I can’t cross that boundary.”

“We already did,” he argued, his tone filled with frustration and a touch of disbelief. “We’re more than just patient and therapist.”

You nodded, your expression pained. “We’re friends, and we had a meal together,” you said gently. “But I’m sorry, Spencer. I can’t let it go beyond that.”

As the cab pulled up outside Spencer’s building, he gave you a look that was filled with hurt, disappointment, and a sense of finality. “Maybe Penelope isn’t as good of a matchmaker as I thought,” he muttered, his voice heavy with emotion. Then, without waiting for a response, he slammed the door to the cab shut, the sound echoing in the night as he moved away.

You watched him go, a heavy weight settling in your chest. It wasn’t that you didn’t care for him—far from it. But the lines had been drawn, and you knew you couldn’t cross them, no matter how much you wished you could. As the cab pulled away, you couldn’t help but wonder what might have been, even as you tried to convince yourself that you had done the right thing.

—

“Spencer, baby!” Penelope’s voice rang out the moment he stepped into the office the next morning. She rushed over to him, her eyes wide with excitement and anticipation. “How was your date? Did you love her? I know you did!”

Spencer’s expression was flat, his usual warmth replaced by a cool detachment. “I did not,” he replied, his tone clipped and final.

Penelope’s face fell instantly, the excitement draining from her features as she looked at him in shock. “What?” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “But… what happened? I thought it was going to be perfect.”

Spencer sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to find the right words. “It wasn’t what I expected, Penelope. I… we had a nice time, but she made it clear that it couldn’t go anywhere.”

“But… but why?” Penelope stammered, clearly upset. “I thought she was perfect for you! I mean, I was so sure…”

“She was,” Spencer admitted, his voice softening. “She’s great, really. But she’s my physical therapist, and she didn’t want to cross that boundary.”

Penelope’s shoulders slumped, guilt and sadness flooding her eyes. “Oh, Spencer… I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I just thought… I just wanted you to be happy.”

Spencer gave her a small, sad smile, trying to ease the tension. “I know, Penelope. And I appreciate it. You were trying to help, and I’m grateful for that.”

Penelope nodded, tears welling up in her eyes as she reached out to hug him. “I’m really sorry, Spencer. I never wanted to make things harder for you.”

Spencer hugged her back, his voice gentle as he reassured her. “It’s okay. You didn’t know, and it’s not your fault. I’m glad you care enough to try.”

Penelope pulled back, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I just… I just want you to find someone who makes you happy.”

“I know,” Spencer said, giving her another small smile. “And I will. Just… not this time.”

Penelope nodded, her heart heavy with the weight of unintended consequences. She wanted so badly to make things right for him, but now she could only hope that time would help heal the disappointment she had inadvertently caused.

—

“Y/N, you have a new patient today,” your supervisor informed you as you glanced up from the paperwork on your desk.

“What about Spencer Reid?” you asked, trying to keep your voice casual, though the question carried more weight than you intended.

“He’s seeing a different therapist,” your supervisor replied, flipping through the schedule without much thought.

“Oh…” The single syllable lingered in the air, heavy with disappointment. You hesitated for a moment before asking, “Can I ask why?”

Your supervisor looked up, her expression indifferent as she explained, “Something about your schedule not fitting his anymore.”

You nodded slowly, trying to process the news. “Okay, that’s—” you paused, swallowing the lump in your throat, “that’s fine.”

But as you turned back to your paperwork, the reality of the situation sank in. It wasn’t just about schedules or convenience; this was the consequence of the boundary you had enforced, the one that was meant to protect both of you. Yet, knowing that Spencer was now in someone else’s care left a hollow ache in your chest that you hadn’t anticipated.

The rest of the day felt a little off-kilter, your thoughts drifting back to Spencer more often than you’d like to admit. You couldn’t help but wonder how he was doing, whether he was okay, and if he understood why things had to be this way. It was the right decision, you reminded yourself, even if it didn’t feel like it.

—

“Penny, he dropped me,” you said, your voice heavy with disappointment as you leaned against the doorframe of Penelope’s kitchen. “He’s not even my patient anymore.”

Penelope’s eyes widened in surprise, but then a grin spread across her face. “That’s great! You can date now!”

You sighed, shaking your head. “It’s not that simple, Penny. He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

Penelope’s expression softened, and she gave you a sympathetic look. “He’ll come around. He just feels rejected, that’s all. You could go explain yourself, you know.”

“I don’t even have his number,” you admitted, feeling a pang of helplessness. It wasn’t like you could just show up at his door and expect him to listen. The lines between patient and therapist had already been blurred, and now they were more complicated than ever.

“Uhh, don’t be silly, missy. I do,” Penelope said with a playful smirk, pulling out her phone and waving it in the air like it was the answer to all your problems.

You blinked, surprised by her quick solution. “You’d really give it to me?”

“Of course!” Penelope replied, her eyes twinkling with mischief and a hint of determination. “Spencer’s my friend, and so are you. If there’s a chance you two can work this out, I’m all for it.”

You hesitated for a moment, weighing the risks, but the thought of not reaching out to Spencer gnawed at you. Maybe Penelope was right; maybe you needed to explain yourself, to let him know how you really felt.

“Okay,” you said finally, your resolve strengthening. “Give me his number.”

Penelope’s grin widened as she quickly typed on her phone and handed it over to you. “Go get him, girl.”

You nodded, feeling a mixture of nerves and hope as you took the phone from her. “Thanks, Penny. I’ll try.”

—

Later that night, as you sat in the comfort of your apartment, the familiar hum of city life just outside your window, you finally mustered up the courage to dial the number Penelope had given you. Your heart pounded in your chest, each ring feeling like an eternity until you heard his voice on the other end.

“Spencer Reid, who is calling?”

“Hey… it’s Y/N. Your ex-therapist,” you said, your voice softer than you intended, trying to gauge his reaction.

There was a brief pause before he responded, “Oh.”

The single word carried a weight that made your stomach churn with anxiety. You took a deep breath, pushing forward despite the tension. “Yeah, I hope it’s okay I got your number from Penny.”

“Why?” Spencer’s voice was guarded, and you could tell he was still hurting.

“I wanted to talk to you. Can we meet up?” you asked, trying to keep your tone hopeful, though the uncertainty gnawed at you.

“When?” he asked, his voice giving nothing away.

“Tomorrow? You could come over?” you suggested, hoping the familiar, private setting might make things a bit easier.

“Fine. Send me your address,” Spencer replied, his tone clipped but not completely closed off.

“Okay, see you—” you started to say, but the line went dead before you could finish. You stared at your phone, a mixture of relief and nervous anticipation swirling in your chest.

He was coming over. You had a chance to explain, to make things right. But now that the call was over, the reality of what tomorrow might bring settled in. You just hoped that when the time came, you’d find the right words to say.

—

Spencer knocked with perfect punctuality, 6 pm sharp, just as you were adjusting the final details in your apartment. The soft sound of the knock sent a flutter through your chest, a mixture of nerves and anticipation.

You opened the door to find him standing there, his expression unreadable, but his eyes softened as he took you in. “Hi,” you breathed, a bit of your earlier confidence wavering under his gaze.

“Hi, Y/N,” he replied, his voice low and calm, though you could tell he was just as unsure as you were. Your beauty, as always, took him by surprise, rendering him momentarily speechless.

“Please, come in,” you said, stepping aside to let him enter.

Spencer stepped into your apartment, his eyes immediately scanning the space. The warm, inviting atmosphere of your home greeted him, filled with soft light from the setting sun filtering through the windows. The room was decorated with personal touches—lush green plants, carefully selected books lining the wooden shelves, and artwork that gave the space a cozy, lived-in feel. It was a reflection of you, and he couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret for how things had turned out.

“Can I pour you some wine? I found the one from the restaurant,” you offered, trying to break the tension and bring back a little of the familiarity you both shared that night.

“Sure, thank you,” Spencer replied, his tone polite but still holding a touch of reserve.

You moved to the kitchen area, retrieving the bottle of wine and two glasses. As you poured, you could feel Spencer’s eyes on you, but you didn’t dare look up just yet. There was so much unsaid between you, so much that needed to be addressed, and you weren’t sure where to start.

Handing him a glass, you finally met his gaze. “I’m really glad you came,” you said softly, your sincerity clear.

Spencer took the glass from you, his fingers brushing yours briefly, sending a jolt of electricity through both of you. “I wasn’t sure if I should,” he admitted, his eyes searching yours for some kind of reassurance.

“I know,” you replied, taking a small sip of your wine to steady yourself. “But I’m glad you did. We need to talk, Spencer. I need to explain.”

He nodded slowly, his expression softening just a bit. “Yeah… we do.”

You gestured toward the comfortable seating area, and the two of you moved to sit down, the warmth of the room offering a bit of comfort as you prepared to finally have the conversation that had been hanging over you both.

Spencer settled onto the couch, his posture stiff as he tried to maintain a semblance of calm. The warmth of your apartment contrasted with the tension between you, and he took a slow sip of his wine, waiting for you to speak.

You sat across from him, your heart pounding in your chest as you searched for the right words. After a moment of silence, you decided to just be honest. “I’m sorry I rejected you,” you began, your voice soft but steady. “That was wrong of me.”

Spencer’s gaze flickered with surprise, but he remained silent, letting you continue.

“There are things we could have done,” you went on, feeling a weight lift slightly as you spoke. “Ways we could have moved around the rules, ways to handle it more delicately. But instead, I stiffed you and hurt you. I didn’t give us a chance to figure it out. And for that, I’m truly sorry.”

Spencer’s grip tightened slightly around his glass, his expression a mixture of emotions—confusion, hurt, and perhaps a bit of understanding. “It wasn’t just about the rules, was it?” he asked quietly, his eyes searching yours.

You shook your head, feeling a lump form in your throat. “No, it wasn’t. I was scared, Spencer. Scared of crossing a line, of losing my job, of making a mistake that couldn’t be undone. But in trying to protect myself, I ended up hurting you… and that’s something I never wanted to do.”

He let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “I understand why you were scared,” he admitted, his voice softening. “But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

“I know,” you whispered, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “And I can’t take back what I did. But I want you to know that I care about you, Spencer. I really do. And if there’s any way we can move forward—whether that’s as friends or something more—I’m willing to try.”

Spencer looked down at his glass, his mind clearly racing as he processed your words. After what felt like an eternity, he finally looked back up at you, his expression gentler than before.

“I care about you too,” he said quietly. “And I want to move forward. But I need to know that we’re both on the same page, that this isn’t just something we’re doing because of… circumstances.”

You nodded, feeling a sense of relief that he was willing to talk about it. “I agree. I don’t want to force anything. But I also don’t want to walk away from something that could be real, just because it’s complicated.”

Spencer’s lips curved into a small, tentative smile. “I guess we’re both pretty good at making things complicated, huh?”

You chuckled softly, the tension between you easing just a bit. “Yeah, we are. But maybe… maybe we can figure it out together?”

Spencer took another sip of his wine, his smile growing a little more confident. “I’d like that,” he said, his voice warm and genuine.

And with those simple words, the gap that had formed between you began to close, replaced by the possibility of something new—a fresh start, built on honesty, understanding, and the connection you both knew was there all along.

Spencer’s tentative smile grew into something more playful as he leaned back slightly, the tension between you all but dissolved. “Does that mean free, private physical therapy sessions?” he teased, his tone light, though there was a spark of mischief in his eyes.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound easing the last remnants of anxiety you had been holding onto. Leaning forward, you matched his playful tone, raising an eyebrow as you replied, “Only if you don’t wear any shorts.”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, and then he laughed—a deep, genuine sound that filled the room with warmth. “I’ll have to consider that,” he quipped, the playful banter between you rekindling that familiar connection.

“Well, take your time,” you said with a grin, feeling the ease and comfort return between you. “But just so you know, I’m a lot stricter when it comes to private sessions.”

“Is that so?” Spencer leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, teasing whisper. “Maybe I’m up for the challenge.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, the flirtation now fully out in the open. “Well, Doctor Reid, I’ll be sure to make it worth your while,” you replied, your tone equally soft and playful.

For a moment, the two of you just looked at each other, the air between you charged with excitement and anticipation. The conversation had started with apologies and uncertainty, but now, sitting here together, it felt like the beginning of something new—something you were both more than ready to explore.

“Looks like we’ve got a lot to figure out,” Spencer said softly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Yeah,” you agreed, a warm smile spreading across your face. “But I think we’re off to a pretty good start.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

tag list <333 @spencerreidsreads @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @dirtytissuebox @yokaimoon @reggieswriter @loumouse @mentallyunwellsposts @time-himself @chaneladdicted @kathrynlakestone @furrybouquettrash @hearts4spensco @gilwm @khxna @charismatic-writer @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @noelliece @dreamsarebig

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the-winter-spider · 2 months ago

Text

I know it wont work | Part One

Bucky x reader AU

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings: Drinking, angst,

A/N: I KNOW i said i wasnt posting this till Yours, Always was done buuuuuuut before i keep writing it because it is FLOWING for this fic i had to see if anyone was even interested lol soooo lemmeee know if you want me to continue this after Yours, Always

Masterpost

------

Saturday mornings in the apartment are sacred. The quiet is different, not heavy, not tense. Just still. Like the world finally decided to give you all a break, especially before you all get a little chaotic again…tonight.

Sunlight pours through the dusty windows, catching in the floating particles of last night’s hangover haze. There’s an empty pizza box on the coffee table. Someone, probably Steve, folded a blanket and placed it neatly over the back of the couch like it makes the whole place less of a disaster.

Natasha’s curled in the armchair, black hoodie, hood up, headphones in. She hasn’t spoken to anyone since she woke up, but that’s not weird. That’s just Nat, communication through shrugs, smirks, and sideways glances. You’ve known her long enough to translate.

Steve’s in the kitchen, still making pancakes like they didn’t all come out slightly undercooked last week. He hums when he cooks. It used to annoy you, but now it’s like clockwork. Something solid.

Bucky hasn’t come out of his room yet. But you know he’s awake, the soft glow of his bedroom light slipped under the door before you even stepped into the hallway. You always notice these things when it comes to him. You wish you didn’t.

Most nights, you end up in each other’s beds not for sex, you've never taken anything that far, not even for anything romantic. Just comfort, a habit. A kind of wordless safety you’ve never really been able to explain.

But not last night.

You’re not even sure why. Maybe it had something to do with your father calling in the middle or your usual Friday night hangout. Maybe it was the way you stormed off after, slammed your bedroom door and locked it behind you. You didn’t mean to shut Bucky out, but you did.

He waited outside your door for hours. You found out this morning, Steve mentioned it casually, like it wasn’t a knife to the gut. Said Bucky kept checking the handle, said he looked wrecked.

You passed out before you could let him in.

Now, guilt settles in your chest like cement. But then you remind yourself, he has his own room. His own bed. You’re not together. You don’t owe him everything.

And still… you wish you’d opened the door.

You met Steve and Bucky first. Kids running around the same block with scraped knees and more heart than sense. Bucky was the wild one, fast, sharp, and full of charm even before he knew what to do with it. Steve was smaller back then, but you never saw him that way. He was stubborn as hell and kind to his core. You trusted him before you even knew what trust was.

Natasha came next, around eighth grade. She didn’t talk much at first, just kicked the shit out of a kid who said something about your clothes, and that was that. You were bonded. She didn’t let people in easily but she let you in and that’s never changed.

Sam came in during college. Met Steve in a politics class, argued with him for three weeks straight, and then showed up at your apartment one day with a six-pack and said, “I figured I might as well be friends with the guy who can’t shut up.” You liked him immediately. So did everyone else.

Wanda’s newer. A friend of Nat’s from her job. You’re still getting to know her, but she’s intuitive in a way that’s unsettling. Observant, soft-spoken but never passive. She watches the room like it’s a chessboard and she already knows how it ends.

You wonder what she sees when she looks at you.

You’re guessing it’s a mess.

The thing about your group is: nothing is simple, but somehow it still works.

Everyone’s got their stuff.

Steve can’t stop trying to fix things. He wants everyone to be okay so badly it physically hurts him when they’re not. He’s gotten better at boundaries, but only because Nat threatens him when he forgets to take care of himself.

Nat’s a vault. Loyal, razor-sharp, and terrifying when she’s angry. You love her like a sister. She loves you the same, even if she’ll never say it out loud.

Sam grounds everyone. He’s the calm in the storm, the first one to check in, the last one to judge. You don’t know how he does it, how he holds space for people without ever asking for anything in return. He just does.

And then there’s Bucky. Bucky, who always feels like he’s just on the edge of something. You’ve never known how to categorize him. Not really, he’s like glue, like the anchor holding the ship down.

You’ve tried to shove him into the “best friend” box more times than you can count, but it never quite fits. The way your heart lurches when he laughs, when he looks at you across a room, when he throws his arm across the back of the couch and your skin burns just from being near him, that’s not best friend energy.

But it’s never been the right time or maybe you’ve just never been the right person.

You’re not like him.

Bucky comes from warmth. A single mom who never let the world make him hard. A younger sister he still talks to every week. He knows what love is supposed to feel like.

You don’t, not really, not at all.

Your father was always two drinks too deep and one word too cruel. He didn’t raise you. He happened to you and you learned to flinch first, to run before you could get left behind.

That’s what you do. It’s what you’ve always done. And Bucky? Bucky stays. No matter how many times you’ve pushed him. No matter who else you or he has tried to date. No matter how many fights or false starts or awkward silences or almosts.

He stays and that scares the hell out of you. Because if he stays and you screw it up it’s not just losing a relationship. It’s losing him. Its hurt more because you know it's not a matter of if you lose him, it's a matter of when because you are self aware despite what people thing and that makes you selfish as fuck. And Bucky is good, he is so good.

You are not the glue of the group.

You’re not the leader. You’re not the peacekeeper. You’re not the one people orbit around. You’re the space in between, important, maybe, but not essential. Not the reason this whole thing holds together.

You don’t fit a role the way the others do. Not the way Steve leads, or Nat protects, or Sam balances, or Bucky anchors. You exist somewhere off to the side, shoulder pressed to the wall, watching it all and trying not to feel the slow creep of loneliness that settles in even when you’re surrounded.

That’s the worst part. You’re never really alone. But sometimes it feels like you are. You wonder if they see it. You doubt it. You’ve always been good at hiding things in plain sight.

Your pain’s not loud. It’s not breaking plates or screaming matches. It’s biting your tongue so hard it bleeds. It’s brushing things off with a laugh. It’s slipping out of the room when your chest gets too tight and coming back like nothing happened. It’s saying, “I’m fine,” in a way that sounds almost believable.

They don’t see it because you don’t let them, and you know that’s on you but maybe it’s just what you learned. Because if you say I’m not okay, people start leaving. or worse they stay, but differently, carefully. They stop being honest. They stop touching you the same. They stop looking at you like a person and start looking at you like a project.

Bucky never did that. Not once.

That’s the thing, he knows. Maybe not everything, but enough. Enough to see the cracks. Enough to feel the weight when you start to pull away. Enough to wait outside your door for hours even though you never opened it.

You can still see the way his shadow stayed under the crack. How he didn’t move. How you did.

You always do.

It’s not fair. To him, to anyone. But you don’t know how to stop. You don’t know how to stay without feeling like you’re holding your breath.

How you can be more like him, like Bucky he breathes like it’s easy. He exists like he’s meant to be here. Like love is just something you do. Something you give.

You love him more than you should. More than you can handle. More than you’re ready to admit and it’s not a soft, storybook love. It’s sharp. It’s cracked at the edges. It makes you cruel sometimes. Makes you scared. Makes you push him just to see if he’ll come back.

He always does and you hate yourself for needing that proof so badly. Because he’s good. So fucking good.

You don’t know if you’re capable of being loved like that. Not without ruining it. Not without ruining him. So you just don’t give it, not all the way, never all the way.

You get close. You offer pieces. Just enough to keep him there. Just enough to keep the line from snapping. But not enough to cross it.

You let him hold you when the nightmares come. Let him crawl into bed beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Let him brush the hair from your face when you’re half-asleep, fingers soft, reverent, like you’re something fragile.

But you never say the words. Not the real ones.

Not I love you.

Not I’m yours.

Not I’m scared shitless and you make me want to try anyway.

Because if you say it, really say it you don’t know what happens next. You don’t know how to be fully seen by someone and not flinch. Not run. You know Bucky deserves someone who doesn’t flinch.

He deserves someone who doesn’t carry years of silence under their skin. Someone who wasn’t raised in a house where love sounded like slammed doors and apologies that came too late. That felt like a burning red cheek and smelt like alcohol.

He deserves warmth, ease. A love that says you’re safe here without ever having to prove it. You want to be that person for him. You do.

But wanting and being are not the same thing. So you stay stuck in this middle place.

This half-space.

The almost.

The ache.

The thing that lives between best friends and something else, you tell yourself it’s enough. You tell yourself he’s fine with it too.

But some nights, like last night when he waits outside your locked door, and you can’t bring yourself to open it, you wonder how many times he’ll do that before he stops. Before he decides that you’re not a thing he wants to wait for anymore, you know, deep down, that if that day ever comes, you won’t stop him.

Because maybe that’s what you deserve.

Maybe that’s what love looks like when it’s given to someone who doesn’t know how to hold it without cutting their own hands.

Nat pulls her headphones down and speaks for the first time that morning. “You’re staring into space like you’re watching your own funeral.”

You blink. “I was just thinking.”

“Don’t,” she says, dry. “You’re terrible at it.”

You smirk. “Love you too.”

Steve leans over the counter. “Are we doing anything today or just sitting around wallowing in existential dread?”

Sam walks through the front door with bagels and answers, “Both.”

It's like clockwork again. The laughter, the comfort, the distractions. The quiet place you’ve all built together.

“We gotta get this place cleaned up for tonight,” Steve says as he flips a pancake.

Natasha groans, “Why do we have to drink both Friday and Saturday?”

Sam steals a piece of bacon from Steve’s cooked plate. “We drink tonight to recover from last night, and so Sunday’s brunch is euphoric.”

Steve sighs. “That’s not how hangovers work.”

“Let me have my process, Rogers.”

You don’t laugh, even though they do.

You’re standing by the counter, half-dressed in your sleep shirt and socks, hair pulled back in a lazy knot. You smear peanut butter across your bagel with practiced, robotic movements. The coffee in your cup has already gone lukewarm. You sip it anyway.

You can feel him before you see him.

Bucky steps out of his room, quiet as ever, and you don’t even have to look to know his eyes go straight to you. You can feel the weight of it, soft, searching, familiar.

You don’t look at him.

You just keep working on your bagel like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth. You sit at the island and eat in silence, chewing slowly while the others talk around you about party themes and drink lists and whether anyone remembered to restock the Advil.

He doesn’t say anything either. But he lingers. You don’t know what’s worse when he pretends nothing is wrong, or when he tries to fix it.

You head to your bathroom once your plate’s clean and your coffee cup is empty. You don’t slam the door this time. You don’t lock it either.

You don’t have the energy for drama today. You’re just tired.

You’re standing at the sink, brushing your teeth with a sluggish kind of motion, when you hear the door click open behind you, the one that connects to Bucky’s room.

You glance at him in the mirror.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You nod, not meeting his eyes. “Hey.”

He steps in, closes the door behind him like he’s careful not to scare you off.

“You okay?”

You rinse and spit. “Yeah.”

He leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely. “What’d your dad want last night?”

Your hands still for half a second as you reach for a towel.

“I didn’t answer,” you say. “It rang and I just… freaked. I was being dramatic.”

Bucky’s quiet.

You keep talking, mostly to fill the silence. “I was sore and tired and kind of drunk and definitely didn’t think things through. I just needed everything to stop for a minute.”

He lets out a small breath of a laugh. “Well, you were definitely intoxicated. That’s not up for debate.”

You smile a little, not much.

He steps closer, gentle. Always gentle with you. His hand lifts and brushes a piece of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering just a second too long against your skin.

“I don’t deserve you,” you say, and it comes out smaller than you meant it to.

He doesn’t blink. “Yes, you do.”

You shake your head. “You’re too good of a friend to me.”

Something shifts in his expression just barely. But you catch it, of course you do because you know what you said. The flicker of hurt that dances behind his eyes before he drops his gaze.

“That’s because I’m your best friend.”

It’s quiet, it’s honest and it fucking stings.

You want to say that’s not what I meant. You want to say that’s not all you are. But you don’t.

He steps closer and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a long, solid hug. His chin rests against the top of your head. Your cheek presses to his chest.

You let your eyes close and breathe him in, for a second, you let yourself imagine that this is enough.

That it could stay like this forever.

Even if you know it can’t.

----------

The music hasn’t started yet. The living room’s still half-lit. Nat’s burning incense in the corner to cover the smell of tequila and whatever Steve tried to cook earlier that went sideways. Everything’s in that perfect, golden-hour chaos, lipstick on the bathroom sink, shot glasses lined up on the kitchen counter, Steve yelling at Sam for not helping clean, and Nat refusing to wear anything other than combat boots with her dress.

It’s your favorite kind of storm.

You’re in your room, touching up your eyeliner, when Natasha leans against the doorframe.

She raises a brow. “You’re gonna cause problems in that.”

You glance down at yourself. Short black dress, off the shoulder. Hugs in all the right places.

You paired it with heels you’ll definitely take off halfway through the night, and your hair’s doing that I don’t care but I care thing that always makes you feel a little dangerous.

You smirk. “Good.”

Nat crosses her arms, smirking right back. “Hot and petty. My favorite version of you.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue. Because she’s right. You are feeling yourself tonight andd just maybe, that has something to do with the fact that Bucky hasn’t left his room since this morning’s bathroom hug.

The thing about Bucky is you’re addicted to him. To the way he looks at you like you hung the moon. To the way he never touches you without meaning it. To the way his voice softens when he says your name like he’s afraid it might break.

You’re addicted to the attention he gives you, even when you pretend not to be and you know, deep down, if you just let it happen, if you gave in, really gave in there wouldn’t be all this tiptoeing. No games, no passive-aggressive flirting. No lines that feel drawn in sand and rewritten every time you both breathe too hard.

If you opened the door, Bucky would walk through it without hesitation. But you’d probably lock it again the second he did.

Because that’s what you do. That’s what you’ve always done. You cross the line, then backpedal like hell, and he stays. Every time.

But tonight, maybe you’re tired of being scared. Maybe you want to cause a little trouble. Just enough to feel something crack.

Nat’s still watching you, arms crossed, that little knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Are we doing the pre-party shots?” she asks, already moving toward the kitchen.

You follow.

Ten minutes later, the four of you are gathered in the kitchen, like you always are before a party. One bottle, five shot glasses, its tradition.

“Just one?” Steve says.

Nat’s already pouring the second round. “Don’t be soft.”

Sam’s first to show up, he practically lives here already. “Oh, we’re starting early, huh?”

You grin. “Fashionably toxic. You know how it goes.”

Bucky finally steps out of his room. T-shirt clinging to his chest, jeans slung low, rings on his fingers. His hair’s pulled back, and he looks good. Too good.

Your heart does that annoying thing it always does when he walks into a room.

He takes his place beside you at the counter, close. Closer than he has to be. You reach for your shot glass. He reaches for his and just like always, you don’t break eye contact.

Not through the first shot.

Not through the second.

Not when Nat bumps Steve’s arm and whispers something about “Jesus, just kiss already.”

An hour in, the apartment is packed. There’s a playlist running, windows cracked open to let out the heat. People are spilling into the hallway, drinks in hand, sweat glistening on collarbones.

You’re laughing with someone you think his name is Ryan or Riley. One of those, you’re not sure. Doesn’t really matter.

He’s charming enough. He leans in too close, says something that’s probably supposed to be funny, and brushes his hand against your arm like he’s testing the waters.

You laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because you know exactly what you’re doing and because you can feel Bucky watching you.

You don’t turn, you don’t need to, you know. You always know and you hate yourself a little more.

Across the room, Bucky leans against the wall, nursing a half-warm beer he’s barely touched. His eyes haven’t left you since the second Riley-whatever walked up to you.

Steve’s next to him, trying to have a conversation, but Bucky’s checked out. Eyes narrowed, jaw tight.

“Earth to Buck,” Steve mutters, nudging his elbow.

Bucky doesn’t respond.

Sam walks up on his other side, clocking the look instantly. “Oh, come on,” he sighs. “You’re really gonna just stand here and watch her flirt with, what is that guy’s name?”

Steve answers. “Ryan, he goes to my gym, good guy.”

“Does it matter?” Bucky mutters, eyes still glued to you.

Steve snorts. “You’ve got that look, man.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re two seconds away from throwing the guy out the window.”

Bucky grunts, taking another sip of his beer. “If you two are trying to be helpful, you’re not.”

Sam raises a brow. “Helpful would be you walking over there and saying something that isn’t ‘you okay?’ or 'you need another drink?’”

Bucky doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile. He’s stuck in it now, in his head. Because the thing is, he’s not mad at you, he’s never been and never will be. He’s mad at himself. For waiting, for hoping. For standing here like he always does, watching you shine for someone else.

“It’s not that simple,” Bucky says, voice low.

Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s exactly that simple. You’re in love with her. She’s in love with you. End of math.”

Steve sighs. “We’ve been telling him for years.”

“No,” Bucky snaps, still not looking away from you. “You don’t get it.”

Sam raises his brow. “Then explain it.”

“She doesn’t trust it. Not the way I do.” He shifts his jaw. “If I say it out loud, it makes it real. That’s the part that’ll scare her.”

Steve softens. “Buck…”

“I’m not mad at her for that,” Bucky says, finally turning to them. “But I know her. If I push too hard, if I ask for all of her…she’ll run.”

Sam studies him for a long second. “And what? You’d rather live in the middle of this forever?”

Bucky looks back toward you. You’re laughing again, the guy leans in closer.

You don’t lean away.

“I’d rather have half of her than none at all.”

Steve exhales slowly, leans back against the wall. “There’s no pushing to do, Buck. You’ve been there since you were kids. Neither of you are going anywhere.”

That’s the problem, because maybe you should have gone somewhere by now. Maybe you both should’ve run when you had the chance.

But here you are still orbiting each other like you don’t know how to stop and he’s still standing there, with a full heart and empty hands, watching someone else reach for what he’s never been brave enough to ask for.

Bucky drains the rest of his beer, jaw clenched tight, then pushes off the wall and disappears into the crowd.

You don’t notice it right away. You’re too busy pretending you’re not watching for him. But eventually, your eyes drift…they always do.

You spot him in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter. He’s talking to some girl, dark curls, low-cut top, pretty in that effortless kind of way. She’s touching his arm, laughing then laughs, too.

Not the forced kind. The real kind, the one you always think is just for you, your stomach twists.

You smile too quickly at something Ryan (or Riley?) says, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You’re not even sure what he said. Doesn’t matter. None of it does, except Bucky.

It always comes back to him. So you play your part.

You lean in a little closer. Let your fingers graze Ryan’s forearm. Let your laugh ring just a little too loud. You toss your hair over your shoulder like you’re in a movie scene you don’t believe in.

You know what you’re doing.

You’re not the only one.

Across the room, Steve groans under his breath. “Here we go again.”

Sam glances up from his drink. “Already?”

Steve nods toward the kitchen. “He’s doing the flirt-and-deflect.”

Sam squints. “Which one’s she doing?”

Natasha, sliding in beside them with a drink in hand, answers before either of them can. “She’s doing the ‘fuck it, I can flirt too’ thing. It’ll escalate in five minutes. Ten tops.”

Wanda, beside her, blinks. “Is this a regular thing?”

Natasha smirks. “Every time.”

Steve nods, resigned. “They’ve been stuck in this cycle since highschool.”

Sam chuckles. “They invented the cycle.”

Wanda frowns. “So what happens next?”

Steve and Nat answer at the same time.

“Shots.”

Sure enough, twenty minutes later, you’ve ditched Ryan (or Riley, he never stood a chance) and you’re lined up in the kitchen with Sam, laughing as he holds a beer funnel above your head.

Bucky walks over, still warm from the attention he let himself soak in, but his eyes are already back on you. He sees you, head tilted back, mouth open in a wide grin, beer spilling down your wrist as you finish the pour and slam the cup on the counter.

You’re glowing and a little reckless. He hates how much he loves it.

“Jesus,” he mutters to Steve, who hands him another beer. “She’s gonna feel that tomorrow.”

Steve shrugs. “You always do.”

Sam throws an arm around your shoulder, both of you breathless from laughing.

Bucky’s jaw ticks. He walks over, leans on the counter beside you, too close for it to be casual.

“Didn’t know we were reliving college tonight,” he says, looking you over.

You raise your brows, voice syrupy sweet. “Didn’t know we were competing for who could flirt harder.”

His smile is razor-thin. “You winning?”

You take a slow sip of your drink. “Obviously.”

You’re both playing the same game and you’re both losing. But neither of you backs down.

You break eye contact first not because you want to, but because staying in it feels too much like telling the truth.

So you slip away.

Back into the crowd, into the noise and the blur and the bass pounding through your chest. You find someone else, some guy with warm hands and a beer in one of them and a smile that’s trying a little too hard.

You let him talk, let him flirt. Let him touch your leg under the table with fingers that don’t mean anything.

You laugh at something he says and feel his hand drift a little higher, and for a moment, it almost works, you almost forget. Until you glance up and see him.

Bucky’s across the room again. Back with the girl from earlier. Only this time, he’s not leaning. He’s close. His body tilted toward her, head bent low, voice soft. She’s laughing, smiling up at him like he’s hers.

And then he reaches out, slow and deliberate, and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear.

Like it’s nothing.

Like it’s not something he’s only ever done to you.

Your chest tightens.

Something sour blooms in your throat. It feels like bile or heartbreak. You can’t tell the difference anymore.

You stand abruptly, muttering something to the guy that even you don’t hear, and make your way toward the hallway.

You need to breathe.

You need to not cry.

You need to get out before it shows.

You slip into the bathroom, shut the door, and press your back against it. The silence hits you like a wave. You’re not even mad at him. That’s the worst part, you are not even allowed to be.

You started it. You always start it and now you’re here again, locking yourself in a room because the only person who knows how to get under your skin is the one you’re supposed to trust the most.

You stare at yourself in the mirror. Eyes too bright, chest rising too fast.

And before you can even try to pull it together, you hear the door on the other side creak open the one that connects to his room. You don’t even turn. “Seriously?” you say, flat, arms crossed.

Silence, then a sigh. “I could say the same to you.” He steps in, jaw set, closing the door behind him. “You don’t even know him.”

You throw your hands up. “Oh, I’m sorry, are you my keeper now?”

He steps closer. “You’re flirting with some asshole who only cares that you look good in that dress.”

You turn slowly, leaning back against the sink. “So now you care?”

His eyes flicker. “I’ve always cared.”

You laugh, sharp and bitter. “Yeah, until it’s convenient to touch someone else.”

His jaw tenses. “You were letting some guy run his hand up your leg in the middle of the living room.”

“So what?” You raise your brows, daring him. “You didn’t like that?”

“No, I fucking hated it.”

“Right,” you laugh, bitter. “But you? You get to flirt with every warm body in a five-foot radius and I’m supposed to just smile?”

He shakes his head. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to act like you give a damn only when someone else looks at me.”

You scoff. “You think I’m acting?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he adds, quieter, “I know why you did it.”

You go still.

“You wanted me to see.”

You scoff, look away. “You’re delusional.”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Don’t pretend like we’re not both playing the same goddamn game.”

“I wasn’t playing,” you say, voice hard.

His laugh is humorless. “Bullshit.”

You push off the sink, stepping closer. “And what about you, Bucky? You think you’re innocent in all this?”

“I never claimed to be.” He moves in too, closer, crowding the space. “But at least I own how I feel. You? You keep running, then blaming me for chasing you.”

“I never asked you to chase me.”

“You didn’t have to.” His voice drops. “I want to.”

You stare at him, breathing heavy. Your chest tight, eyes burning, it's quiet, the kind that means too much has been said or not enough.

His hands find your face before you can stop him, thumb brushing under your jaw, eyes searching yours, like gravity, like you’re not even deciding, you kiss him.

It’s messy, desperate. His hands on your waist, your fingers in his hair, his mouth on yours like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your pain.

Your back hits the bathroom wall. His hands are in your hair, your hands gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. He kisses like he’s angry, like he’s trying to prove a point like he’s been holding it back for years.

You bite his bottom lip, he groans against your mouth. His hands slide down, grip your waist like he needs something to hold onto or he’ll fall apart.

You press into him like you’re trying to crawl under his skin. He lets you.

His fingers skim the hem of your dress and you gasp into his mouth and then you both pull back. Breathing like you’ve just run a mile. He rests his forehead against yours. You both say nothing because that’s the rule.

You kiss him like you’re drowning, he kisses you like he doesn’t care if he drowns with you.

But then you hear it.

“Yo! Y/N, you doing another one?!” Sam’s voice, faint from down the hall.

You pull back, breathless, lips swollen, and avoid his eyes as you fix your shirt. Bucky’s chest rises and falls, his hands still half on you.

You force a laugh, one that sounds like it might crack in the middle. “Guess I’m up.”

Bucky grabs your wrist, gently. “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

You pause. “You’ve never been in my head, Buck.” You try to keep it light, say it like a joke but it lands heavy. “You don’t get to tell me when enough’s enough.”

His eyes soften with hurt. He doesn’t fight you on it.

You stare at Bucky, still breathless from the kiss you weren’t supposed to want but always do. Your lips are swollen, your body still humming.

He steps back, barely. He won’t meet your eyes. His voice is low, unreadable. “Go first.”

You frown. “What?”

He nods toward the door. “Go. So it’s not… obvious.”

You let out a breathy, humorless laugh. “It already is.”

He flinches, just slightly. “Still.”

You linger for a second, but he doesn’t look up. So you leave.

You unlock the bathroom door, step into the hallway, and just like that? You’re back in the noise and the lights and the warmth of the party. You exhale. Fix your hair in the hallway mirror. You’re good at this. Pretending.

When you re-enter the living room, you make a beeline for Sam, who’s standing on a chair holding a funnel like a trophy. “You ready?” he grins.

You smirk and take your place beside him. “Let’s go.”

Bucky stays in the bathroom, staring at the door you just walked through.

He presses the heel of his palm into his chest like that’ll do anything. Like he can stop the familiar ache that’s been there for years, the one with your name carved into it.

He breathes in deep, hands braced against the sink. You’re poison and home all at once and he’d let you break his heart over and over and over again….If it meant he could keep even the smallest piece of you.

This is the part that always gets him, the in-between. The silence after your lips leave his and before you’re laughing with someone else.

The space where he remembers that he’s not yours, not officially, not fully. Not ever. He stares at the door for a long time. You’d live in purgatory forever with him if he let you. If he stayed and he always stays.

When he comes back out, the party’s louder, looser. The guy you were flirting with earlier is now talking to the girl he was talking to earlier, and Bucky actually chuckles at that. Inevitable.

He heads toward the kitchen where Steve and Sam are talking by the drinks.

“You alive?” Sam asks, handing him a beer.

“Barely,” Bucky mutters, taking a swig.

Steve raises a brow. “You good?”

“Great,” Bucky lies.

“You two playing or what?” Sam nods toward the beer pong table.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Me and her.”

Beer pong. Teams: You and Bucky vs. Sam and Steve.

You’re two drinks deep, flushed and laughing, heels long since ditched. Bucky stands behind you, guiding your arms. His hands are at your waist. They don’t move, you sink a shot. Turn and grin.

“Nice,” he murmurs, low in your ear.

You spin and wrap your arms around his neck, and he catches you without thinking. When you remove your hands from his beck they slither around his waist, your hand slips just under his shirt, thumb brushing the warmth of his stomach. You don’t even realize it until he tenses slightly. You don’t pull away and he doesn’t want you to.

You’re always like this. All over each other by the end of the night, but never too far and never far enough.

Sam just shakes his head. “Disgusting.”

Across the room, Wanda and Natasha are watching. Wanda takes a slow sip of her drink. “This is… normal?”

“Since we were kids,” Nat replies dryly. “You should’ve seen them at twenty, when we first moved here. Like magnets, messy ones.”

Wanda tilts her head. “So what’s the deal?”

Nat smirks. “There’s a bet.”

Wanda perks up. “A bet?”

“Been running almost ten years.”

Wanda laughs. “Who’s in?”

“Me, Steve, Sam. We all have different takes.”

Wanda glances back at you wrapped around Bucky’s back, squealing with laughter while he spins you through the living room. He’s smiling so big it almost hurts to look at.

“You want in?” Nat asks.

Wanda hums. “What’s the buy-in?”

Nat lifts a brow. “Fifty bucks.”

Wanda watches you a second longer. “Ask me in the morning.”

Nat clinks her glass against hers. “Smart girl.”

--------

You and Bucky vanish from the party somewhere around 2AM.

You’re both giggling, tipsy, bumping into doorframes as you stumble down the hall. You don’t even say goodnight to the others anymore. Everyone knows the drill.

You’re in your room first, slipping out of your dress and into one of Bucky’s old shirts. He knocks once, then opens the door and closes it behind him.

You crawl into bed, he follows. You lay there, back to chest. His arm finds your waist like gravity. Neither of you speaks, until he does.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever felt more like home than you do.”

You don’t breathe, you don’t say anything. You just find his hand under the blanket and hold it a little tighter.

-----------

You wake up slow.

The kind of slow that feels like safety. Like warmth, like something you don’t get to keep, but you can hold onto for a few more minutes if you stay very, very still.

Bucky’s arm is still wrapped around you, his body curled along your back, his breath warm against the side of your neck. His chest rises and falls steady, grounding. You shift just slightly and his grip tightens instinctively.

You don’t move again. You just… take him in.

The weight of his arm. The shape of his hand resting at your waist. The way your legs are tangled under the blankets like they always end up this way.

You shouldn’t feel this way about your best friend, but you do.

You know you love him. Not the way you’re supposed to love your best friend. Not the safe kind, not the platonic kind. The kind that could gut you if it ever turned the wrong way.

And that’s the problem because love, for you, has never been clean. It’s always been a little cruel. It showed up in raised voices. Slammed doors. Silence used like a weapon. It made promises it never kept. It came with strings. With people who said, I’m doing my best as an excuse for not doing better.

So somewhere along the line, you learned not to trust the word at all.

You learned to leave before you could be left. To withhold before anyone could take too much. To build your walls higher than your expectations. To call it strength when really, it was fear.

Bucky makes all of that harder to hold onto.

Because he doesn’t demand anything. Doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t punish you for the days you go quiet, or shut down, or need more space than anyone else would understand.

He just stays and somehow that’s more terrifying than all the people who left. Because you can trust Bucky with your life, you already do.

But trusting him with your heart? That’s something else entirely. That’s the kind of trust you’ve never been brave enough to give. Not because he doesn’t deserve it.

But because deep down, you’re scared that if he ever really saw the mess of you, the parts you hide, the sharp edges, the soft places turned hard from too many years of being let down he’d walk too and that would wreck you in a way nothing else ever has.

Because he’s not just anyone.

He’s Bucky.

He’s home.

You don’t know how to let yourself have something that feels like that. You only know how to ruin it before it can leave on its own.

So instead, you stay here. Pretending you’re not already in it deep, and fully, and hopelessly in love with someone you’ve spent your whole life calling a friend.

You close your eyes.

You try not to want too much.

He shifts behind you, breath catching, arm tightening just a little.

You feel him wake before he says a word.

Your fingers lift on their own, tracing lightly down the line of his cheek. He stirs, blinks. Opens his eyes. His voice is soft. Rough. “Hi.”

You smile. “Hi.”

He tightens his arm around you, pulling you a fraction closer. His thumb rubs a lazy circle into your side.

You just… look at each other. A long, quiet moment. Then your stomach growls, loud.

His lips twitch. “Hungry?”

You close your eyes and laugh into the pillow. “Apparently.”

He grins, voice still low. “All right. Let’s go yell at everyone to get up. Get some brunch.”

You nod. “Okay.”

He repeats it back. “Okay.”

He shifts onto his back, pulling you with him so you’re suddenly straddling him, and his hands land on your hips like muscle memory. His eyes rake over your face, your messy hair, his own t-shirt hanging loose on you.

“What a sight,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t mean for it to come out loud.

You blink once. Then lean down and kiss his cheek. “Yeah. What a sight.”

You climb off of him and he lets you go, head falling back against the pillow with a soft groan as you head into the bathroom.

You’re in the shower when you hear him move around your room. Hear the door shut quietly behind him a few minutes later. You close your eyes and lean your head against the tile, let the water rinse last night off your skin, but not out of your mind.

When you emerge, he’s already dressed, running a towel through his hair. You pass him on the way to your room, trade a glance and a small smile like you’re not both still spinning from whatever the hell you are.

The house is awake now. Loud, chaotic, full of movement and coffee and half-shouted plans.

Sam’s standing in the living room holding a speaker. “I swear to God if someone plays that sad indie playlist again—”

Natasha sips her coffee without looking up. “It’s Bucky’s playlist.”

Steve enters with his phone out. “I found two good spots. One’s a walk, the other has bottomless mimosas.”

You grab a hoodie and slide it on. “Lead the way, Stevie.”

Steve groans, “I told you I’m too close to 30 for that nickname.”

You smirk. “Okay, yeah sure Stevie.”

He rolls his eyes.

Outside, the air is cool and bright.

The six of you fall into formation like you always do. You and Sam walking up front, shoulders bumping, laughing about something dumb. You’ve got your own rhythm, your own jokes, your own language. He sees you in ways the others don’t, and he doesn’t ask about the night before.

You love him for that.

Behind you, Bucky and Steve are deep in some low conversation probably about sports or politics or something overly philosophical because it’s them.

At the back, Wanda’s walking with Natasha, watching all of you like she’s watching a sitcom unfold in real time.

Wanda glances between you and Bucky, her brow creased in quiet disbelief. “So it's a regular thing?” she asks.

Natasha links arms with her. “You’ll get used to it, my friend.”

Wanda shakes her head, stunned. “They sleep in the same bed.”

Nat shrugs. “Mmhm.”

“They kiss.”

“Mmhm.”

“They act like a couple.”

“Exactly.”

Wanda frowns. “So… what are they?”

Natasha sighs. “Stupid.”

Wanda laughs.

Natasha goes on. “So the bet started ever since we all moved here when we were twenty. Steve thinks they’ll figure it out before thirty. I think they’re gonna marry other people first.”

Wanda blinks. “That’s… dark.”

“I’m not wrong.” Natasha shrugs. “Sam said before 25 but that's gone and past, so he had to buy in again but double the price to place a new bet, he now says before 32.”

Wanda hums. “I give it a year.”

Nat nearly chokes on her coffee. “Excuse me?”

“I give it a year.”

Nat raises an eyebrow. “You wanna bet?”

Wanda reaches into her pocket, pulls out a crumpled fifty, and slaps it into Nat’s hand.

Nat grins, holds it up like a flag. Steve and Sam are now walking together, glance back, see the money, and groan.

“Really?” Steve mutters.

Sam just laughs. “They’ll never know.”

But neither of you notice.

You’re too busy jumping on Bucky’s back, laughing in his ear, while he hoists you up with zero effort and carries you the rest of the way to brunch.

193 notes · View notes

immoral-stranger · 6 months ago

Text

𝐀𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞 (𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮) // 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟖. 🧣 “I wanna be alone. Alone with you, does that make sense?” – Billie Eilish, Hostage.

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x reader

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: General depression, anxiety, and sadness, nothing too specific. No she/her pronouns used so maybe afab or gn reader, but I mention them wearing a bra and putting their hair up. Non-sexual nudity.

A/N: Sometimes you need to let yourself be sad for things to become better. Dedicated to all my depressed homies, hope you're doing okay ♡

Oscar could sense it the second he stepped inside the flat and locked the door behind him. No music playing. No background noise from the TV airing your favourite show. The stillness felt like a vacuum, unsettling in its stark contrast to the usual atmosphere. If he didn’t know you so well, he might’ve thought you weren’t home. But the telltale signs of your presence were undeniable—your shoes neatly placed in the entryway, your coat on its designated hook, and your bag resting on the floor—all painting the domestic picture of two people sharing a home.

He usually loved coming home at the end of a long day. Even more so when he was away for weeks on end, racing around the world. The flat was modest and cosy, rather than the luxury Monaco seemed to be covered in. It was a testament to the both of you—to your love of vibrant patterns and Oscar’s preference for muted hues. Oscar had made places all around the world his place of living, but he had never felt as at home as he did in the place he now shared with you.

Yet, tonight it felt hollow. Oscar stood in the entryway for a long moment, adjusting to the surprising quietness. He dropped his keys into the ceramic dish by the door, the clink echoing unnaturally in the silence.

You were home. Oscar knew it. But your silence was deafening.

Oscar was the opposite of you in many ways—he spoke in measured tones, listened to music through headphones instead of speakers, and navigated social events with an easygoing detachment. He was content in the background.

You were loud, not in an obnoxious or annoying way, but in the sense that you could always be heard. It was one of the things Oscar had grown to love most about you. You would hum along to songs even if you didn’t know them. You’d laugh so loud and genuinely that tears would run down your cheeks and your stomach would cramp, making strangers turn their heads. You were the light of every party, for everyone to see and enjoy, and it didn’t even look like you were trying. The most bittersweet pain Oscar knew was how his jaw would hurt from smiling at you, whatever it was you were doing.

That was why your silence was deafening to him and quite telling. It wasn’t the absence of noise; it was the absence of you.

In the beginning, you had tried to hide it from him, saying that you had other plans when he asked to hang out or saying that you were sick and didn’t want him to catch it too, since his job was so important and you didn’t want that on your conscience.

But you never did have plans, and you weren’t sick. At least not in a contagious way.

Oscar sensed it even then, though he didn’t understand the full scope until you moved in together, when you no longer could hide or lie your way through it. You got sad. That was the simple explanation. You carried the world on your shoulders—of expectations, of ambition, of other people’s happiness—so when it inevitably spilled over, you got sad.

The kind of sadness that couldn’t be explained or easily understood by others. The kind that showed through your eyes and your actions, dulling your light and silencing your words. Your silence meant sadness, and Oscar hated the way it hollowed out the vibrant person he adored.

Kicking off his own shoes and throwing his belongings on the ground, Oscar then made his way to where he knew you would be, your shared bedroom. The door was ajar, and he paused briefly, his hand resting on the doorframe. Inside, the room was dim, the curtains drawn closed. He could just about make out the shape of you, curled up on the bed.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked, his voice gentle.

You didn’t answer. Silence, that was all that existed.

The sheets were a crumpled cocoon of fabric, but no warmth reached you, like a black hole swallowed any light that seeped through the curtains. You’d had one of those days when even breathing felt like a monumental task, each inhale a reminder of the weight pressing on your chest.

“Can I come in?”

You remained a dark blob of a body, tangled in the mess of wrinkled white bed sheets, red-eyed and weary. You didn’t have the energy to say yes, but you didn’t need to. He understood.

Quietly, he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, sealing out the rest of the world. He crossed the floor with deliberate care, as though afraid a sudden movement might shatter you entirely. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he let his presence speak where words couldn’t.

When you still didn’t react, Oscar did the only thing he could think of doing—he crawled into bed next to you, not saying another word. The mattress dipped under his weight, and the warmth of his body gradually reached through the layers of cold that clung to you.

The quiet felt less oppressive, softened by his steady breathing and the faint creak of the bed frame as he settled in. You didn’t move, but you showed no complaints when he wrapped his arms around you, letting you rest upon his chest, the steady sound of his heartbeat under your ear a constant rhythm.

After what felt like an eternity, you spoke. “I’m okay.”

Oscar tilted his head toward you, his brow furrowed but his expression still gentle. “No, you’re not. But that’s okay.”

You swallowed hard, the knot in your throat loosening just slightly. He always had a way of seeing right through the lies you told yourself. You let out a shaky breath, the calming kind to stop tears from falling.

“Rough day?” he asked.

“Rough life,” you mumbled. Your eyes stayed fixed on a spot somewhere in the distance, far beyond the four walls of the room. “I should just pull myself together, but I don’t know how. I just turn into such a fucking bother.”

Oscar shifted, tensing up as his hand reached out to lightly brush your hair back from your face. “Hey,” he said firmly, but not unkindly. “Don’t hide from me. You could never bother me. I want to help and care for you.””

“You shouldn’t have to.” Your voice cracked, and you closed your eyes tightly, a tear slipping out and disappearing into a wet spot on Oscar’s t-shirt. “I should be able to do it myself.”

Oscar let the silence stretch between you for a moment, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles on your shoulder. “Maybe,” he said at last. “Maybe one day you’ll feel like you can do it yourself. But right now, you don’t have to do it alone. Right now, I’m here for you.”

You didn’t answer. Not that you had to. It wasn’t the easiest of things to talk about, or accept the fact that people around you were kind enough to be supportive. Not all people, but Oscar at least. There was a shame connected to it—of how certain adults just kept on going without stopping and how you had never managed to belong to that group. You still felt like a teenager thrown into a life with responsibilities and expectations far beyond what was possible.

Accepting weakness, or showing the need for help, never came naturally, but almost always forcefully—when the leaking crack that was your life finally had overflowed the bucket that stood beneath it, catching droplets.

It was the kind of thing you could overthink into oblivion. What your own personal failures would cost the people around you. How it would affect them in ways you couldn’t directly see. And if this would change their opinion of you, that you really were such a fucking bother.

Oscar watched you zone out completely, like you’d gone somewhere else momentarily, so far lost in your own thoughts that you weren’t present in the room with him. He brought you out of it with a gentle caress of your cheek, wiping your tears with the pad of his thumb and cradling your jaw to make you look at him.

“I’m sorry that this ruins your plans,” you said slowly.

He had forgotten about his plans the moment he got home and could sense your silence. It was some opening of some exhibition that one of McLaren’s sponsors was putting on. It said quite a lot about his feelings about going in the first place—that you were the one to remind him of it and that he probably would’ve forgotten it otherwise. There was no way in hell that he would be going now, to a place where he would be bored out of his mind, when you were at home in this state.

Oscar lightly shook his head at the thought. “Don’t even think of that. You are my plans now.”

And while it should’ve made you feel chosen and cared for, it also showed the sacrifices he was making just to be with you when you weren’t strong enough to be on your own.

“Do you want to talk more about why you feel this way?” Oscar’s voice was soft, careful not to disrupt the fragile peace that seemed to linger in the room. He didn’t want to push too hard, but he couldn’t help wanting to reach the parts of you that felt unreachable. “We can talk now, or later, or… not at all if you don’t want to. I just want you to know I’m here to listen.”

You hesitated, your lips parting as though you wanted to speak, but the words didn’t come. Instead, you shifted slightly, curling closer into his chest. You shook your head slightly. “I just… wanna be alone,” you exhaled loudly. “Alone with you, does that make sense?”

“It does,” Oscar replied. “It makes perfect sense.”

He felt the same in many ways. Whilst your feeling of needing to be alone came from a point of exhaustion, his probably came from introversion. Whatever it stemmed from, it was necessary at times to just be in the place where you felt most comfortable and not question it further.

“You wanna take a nap and then order some food?” he asked, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, trying to bring a bit of normalcy to the moment.

“Mhm,” you nodded. “Can we watch a movie too?”

“Whatever you want,” he agreed, placing a light kiss on your forehead before he shifted, propping himself up slightly. “Come on, let’s get you changed.”

“Oscar…” you protested weakly.

He stood up from the bed, carefully when placing the comforter back down to not disturb you. With swift movements, like he’d done it times and times before, he picked out your favourite hoodie of his and a pair of pyjama pants that had probably belonged to him too at some point but were now mainly worn by you.

“I’ve seen you naked a million times before, and I know you can’t sleep in slacks and a button-up,” he explained with a small smile, standing by the side of the bed, a hand reached out for you to grab.

Reluctantly, you let him help you sit up. Business casual attire wasn’t meant for sleeping.

Oscar’s movements were gentle, each touch soft and unhurried. He reached for the first button of your shirt, his fingers brushing lightly against your stomach as he worked his way down. Once the shirt slipped off your shoulders, he set it aside carefully to not wrinkle it further.

“Arms up,” he murmured softly. You obeyed, letting his arms reach around your body to unclasp your bra, pulling it off your chest. His touch was respectful and tender—a way nudity never used to feel like. He then pulled the hoodie over your head, the soft fabric settling around you like a hug.

He reached for the zipper of your trousers, pausing to meet your eyes for permission. You gave him a small nod, and he eased them off, replacing them with the pajama pants he had set aside, tying the drawstring at your waist. The process was intimate in its simplicity.

When Oscar finished, he reached for a silk scrunchie from the bedside table. You kept them everywhere, to the point where he had one in his bedside drawer. “Let me,” he said softly, gathering your hair with careful hands. He smoothed it back, twisting it into a loose bun that kept it out of your face.

You felt the corners of your lips twitch into the faintest smile. “You’re good at this,” you murmured.

“Because I know you,” Oscar replied with a soft chuckle. “You’re all set now.”

You fell back on the bed somewhat dramatically, letting the covers puff up around you. Oscar got back in next to you, tucking the both of you in, in a cocoon of warmth. His arms cradled your body, his lips lingering briefly in a kiss against your clothed shoulder. “Now, we sleep.”

. . .

Later, the two of you lay on the couch, a blanket draped over you as the warm glow of the TV illuminated the room. Toy Story played softly in the background, its familiar characters offering a gentle distraction. It was a comfort film, something easy, something that didn’t demand too much from you.

Oscar held you close, his arms wrapped securely around your waist. One of his hands had found its way under the hoodie you were wearing, his fingertips drawing lazy, soothing circles against your back.

As Buzz Lightyear declared his mission to infinity and beyond, you turned your head slightly to glance at Oscar, your chin resting on his sternum. His face was relaxed, his attention split between the movie and you. It struck you then, how content he seemed just to be here, with you, even after the long day he must have had.

“I love you, no matter what. You know that, right?” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the hum of the TV.

Your heart clenched, but not in the way it had all day. This was different. It was from the sheer weight of feeling understood and accepted.

“I love you too,” you said, your voice soft. You scooted upward to kiss him gently, mumbling out words between touches. “To infinity and beyond.”

Oscar chuckled, a sound that warmed the coldest of places. “Cheesy,” he teased lightly, but his eyes told you he wouldn’t have it any other way.

You leaned into him, feeling lighter than you had all day. And as Buzz and Woody’s adventures continued to unfold on the screen, you felt okay. Not entirely, not permanently, but enough to hold onto for now. Enough to gather courage to work through these emotions bit by bit as time went on.

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think ♡

౨ৎ [ main masterlist . taglist . other love letters ]

Taglist: @koko-mei @anamiad00msday @floweringanna @lucyysthings @yelenam5 @firefirevampire @alexxavicry @emails-i-can-send @freyathehuntress

#love letters 💌#my writing 🪐#f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 imagine #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x reader #op81

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eclipseberrycake · 3 months ago

Text

Poly! MoonBerryCake x Reader Pt. 14

AN: THIS IS OUR 300 FOLLOWER SPECIAL WOOOOO

Anyway, I should've GUESSED this would've won but raceway put in a good fight. For those who voted for it, dw the finale is coming. Eventually. ( I don't even have a draft yet can't lie) How have we come this far you guys?

I also wanna talk about the requests rq (You're not in trouble don't worry).

HOW ARE YALL SO GOOD AT THIS? There are some MBC Requests in there in like omg??? And there's a boxten and Finn request? Like...Guys please...I can't simp for the entire cast but yall are EATINNGGG

Also whoever called me peg boy? Im coming for you. Im gonna touch you. /lh

Part One -> Part Two -> Part Three -> Part Four -> Part Five -> Part Six -> Part Six 1/2 -> Part Seven -> Part Eight -> Part Nine -> Part Nine 1/2 -> Part Ten -> Part Eleven -> Part Twelve -> Part Thirteen

Warning: :) Angst, verbal fighting, one-sided attraction

☁ The way I had to reread part 13 to see where I left off omgg.

☁ So, from what I've read (Like it's not my own universe), the team left off on a good spot! Which leaves me, as the write, in a not good spot, because how could i ruin them?

☁ Easily.

☁ Things were...tense, admittedly. It had been a few weeks since you went to the boys with your concerns about your own state of health. Slowly, there were improvements with their involvement, especially in regards to spotting Astro.

☁ In fact, you would say you were practically better then ever. Cosmo was an ever present reminder of your progress and how far you've come, always with a soft reminder to be gentle to yourself. Sprout has been more than forgiving when it comes to helping you with your stamina, explaining all the ways he upkeeps his own, giving you little treats to keep you going when it seems you're reaching a breaking point. Astro as well does his own part, at first making his presence noticeable and easily spotted, before slowly re-integrating his normal ways into the mix, re-training your instincts to spot him and recognize his magic signature. There's never a time when he's not encouraging you, or proving that there's nothing wrong with missing him every once in a while as he scares the other toons shitless.

☁ You, personally. thought that everything had gone stagnant, which was appreciated. After being turned, and then the upspike in the Teagan Terror Saga, as you and Cosmo have gone about calling it in between giggles and finally getting Bobette and Rudie back, things had been hectic and you were thankful for a few easy days.

☁ Or, you thought they'd be easy, but lately you aren't sure. Since you're moment a few weeks ago, you had begun to notice...more. Maybe it's since you were tired of being the center of attention- whether it be you were a twisted, freshly returned, or stumbling with your recovery- or because the quiet let you think, but you begun to notice.

☁ You knew Cosmo himself was observant. He knew and watched, and probably spotted things far before it even appeared on your radar, but there was one thing he struggled with. He could notice when an individual was struggling, but he sometimes failed to notice when the relationship between people begun to fray.

☁ Alternatively, that's where you thrived. You knew Rodger and Teagan was destructive from the beginning, and you knew Glisten and Rodger was little more than a fling from Rodger's end. Teagan and Shrimpo immediately made alarm bells ring in your head. Each and every relationship in Gardenview was neatly filed in your own little filing case of information, with new variable weighed in and monitored under your careful watch.

☁ You were sure this one was no different, however, it most likely took longer to spot due to the sheer personal stakes in it.

☁ You'd been on the internet, you've read to joking comments asking if "partners are voted off like in survival". Joking to them, yes, unfortunately, you had very little alternative should that be the case. Your relationships were fine. You and Sprout still shared early morning kisses in the light of the sunrise peaking through the kitchen windows. You and Astro still had your milk and cookies check in every couple of days, just talking and talking until fatigue made your eyelids drop. And you knew you and Cosmo were as solid as ever, introducing a new hobby to try just last week for you two to bond over.

☁ You knew Cosmo's were fine as well. He continuously talked to you about new developments or something either Sprout or Astro said that made him laugh, or in the very least he thought was clever. While you knew it had been a minute since you all had gotten together in a group setting outside of runs, neither you nor Cosmo really suspected a problem.

☁ Which may have been your initial mistake. Because it wasn't you, and it wasn't Cosmo that was struggling. No, it was Sprout and Astro. Something that started so small, you really wouldn't have picked up on it until you overheard a conversation between some of the other toons.

☁ You try not to make eavesdropping a habit, but sometimes you can't help yourself, moreso as you've been trying to make yourself, a familiar face, more available for Bobette and Rudie to find some form of comfort in, even if it's just surface level.

☁ And, it's not like Teagan and Vee were quiet. No, they always talked with a boisterous volume that was probably higher than it needed to be, echoing around the high ceilings of Gardenview.

☁ You knew that most of the female presenting/identifying toons had what they like to call a "girls night" every now and then, but you'd only been invited a few times as you quickly discovered that it was nothing more than gossip and petty backhanded compliments disguised as advice. You'd much rather spend the night with your boys than listening to Scraps hiss something at Tisha while painting your nails and pretending the dig, while not intended to hurt you, still stung.

☁ That being said, they're not quiet and they don't try to be. You hear the quiet little digs at those not there, the attempted mumbles of other theories or relationship hypothesis', but what stops you is the sudden mention of Astro's names.

☁ You know Astro missed Dandy, and you know they still talked every now and then. It wasn't your absolute favorite thing ever, admittedly, and sometimes you wished Astro would look at not only your perspective, but everyone else's as well. Constantly being in contact with the toon responsible for all of this was a choice, but before Dandy was the perpetrator, he was a friend. He had likes, dislikes, opinions further than anything capitalistic, and you knew he and Astro were close.

☁ And if it made the celestial happy, then that was what mattered to you. You'd bite your tongue and keep your spire at bay, snapping at anyone who had anything to say about it. Astro didn't have the most...titanium spine, but you had no problem stepping in and up for him.

☁ But when it came to Sprout? You hesitated. The group were discussing how you, Cosmo and Sprout must've felt about Astro's relationship with Dandy, giggling over the alleged tensions over it.

☁ You swallowed at this, rearing up to step in before it got out of hand before Rudie was waving you down and bashfully asking about where to find the kitchen.

☁ The most important thing was that it was on your radar now. Something you could spot and look for now. You even mentioned it to Cosmo as well, asking if he'd noticed anything. He hadn't, but you knew he'd be looking for it now as well.

☁ It's like a picture book where you're meant to find something in particular. At first glance, with no objective, you'd scan right over it. but now, as you analyze every single interaction happening before you, you spot so many things that you hadn't previously.

☁ You begin to wonder if any of you actually like each other, or put up with each other due to circumstances. The disgusting amount of boundary pushing is alarming and the way the others talk to each other makes your fur bristle now that you focus on it. Especially Astro.

☁ Most conversations center around his role as a celestial, but not what you'd expect. You nearly get into it with Boxten who refuses to elaborate on what he wishes to dream about, but still glares in Astro's general direction. Connie blatantly admits that she spies on the poor moon and Gigi has stolen from him. Predictably, Teagan's own words are accusatory and snotty, telling him he needs to make up his mind while Shrimpo screams at him to shut up. Those two you don't let slide, getting up in their faces and demanding the respect your partner deserves.

☁ Surprisingly, Vee is beside you as well and a good person to talk to. You ask her about previous interactions and realize there's a bit of a pattern as well.

☁ And then there's Sprout. You watch him and Vee talk, the latter doing it on behalf of you admittedly, and he immediately shuts the conversation down the second it turns to the relationship between Astro and Dandy.

☁ The entire situations takes up so much of your attention you very rarely focus on much else, even during runs. There's so much going through your head, that you move through the motions almost mindlessly, picking up supplies, distracting without much hassle. It gives your body something to do while your mind runs through the new information and files it away accordingly.

☁ So when Dandy's fingers suddenly wrap around your wrist as you reach for bandage, it's like you're doused in cold water and thrust back into the current situation. You blink, eyes darting to the pale fingers curled around you, gentle, but still demanding of your attention. He's watching you, eyes shining in the bright fluorescent lights. Your other hand is still wrapped around the tapes needed to pay for the med.

☁ Cosmo is behind you, stuffing his own newly acquired bandage into his apron pocket, eyes immediately locked onto where Dandy is holding you. He's tense, poised to intervene.

☁ Sprout is immediately moving to stand behind you, remind you he's there as support, but he's stopped by one of Astro's blue hands catching his shoulder. You just barely catch the flash of hurt in Sprout's face before he schools his features and levels his stance, angling so Astro's no longer touching him.

☁ This makes Astro himself frown further but he retracts his hand back into his cloak, watching you carefully. You can't see him fully, not from where you're too focused on Dandy in front of you.

☁ You can't bring yourself to look away, but you wordlessly pray one of them backs you up. You don't have the mindset needed to deal with him, and while you normally don't need any support, this time it would be greatly appreciated.

☁ Still, you would play the game. Swallowing tightly, your eyes met Dandy's, flexing the arms in your muscles. "Dandicus." You mutter, feeling the name slide of your tongue like wet cement.

☁ He hums at this, squinting just a bit. "So many thoughts in your pretty little head." He purrs, and it makes goosebump ride up your skin. Something rotten burns in your gut and this time, you dare a glance back at your boys. Sprout goes to step forward again, but Astro grabs the back of his sweater this time, eyes practically pleading with the berry to cool down. Sprout can't hide the anger in his face nearly as quick as he did last time.

☁ Cosmo is quick to step in instead, remaining a wordless support in the face of someone as unpredictable as Dandy.

☁ "...I don't know what you mean." Is what comes from your mouth, putting the tapes back and deciding to go without the bandage if it means getting you out of this conversation faster.

☁ "Nonsense. Come now, what's distracting my favorite distractor?" The hand tightens just a bit, and you bite your tongue to keep from wincing. "I'm your favorite? Don't go breaking Pebble's heart like that."

☁ Dandy laughs at this and the sound is reminiscent of your nightmares. "Oh, barring Pebble then." The grin he gives you makes you frown, stepping one of your feet back far enough it knocks against Cosmo's.

☁ The simple action makes Dandy's hand tighten further against your flesh, and now you know there will be a bruise. You give a testing tug back to retrieve your arm back, but the action seems to anger him and before anyone can stop him, Dandy is yanking you so close you can feel his breath on your cheeks, making your gut drop to your ass.

☁ His eyes flare red and you're reminded all too much of the day of the outbreak. "Don't make me do something I'd regret, darling," He sneers, his other hand trailing a claw along the underside of your jaw. "I'd hate to have to break you."

☁ You close your eyes before Dandy is suddenly stumbling back which stuns him into letting go of your arm. You immediately scramble back, tripping coincidentally over Cosmo's foot and landing on your ass as your chest heaves watching Dandy blink and catch the tapes. His eyes never stray from you though. They watch you the entire time even as his booth begins to sink and the sides fold over to lock him below.

☁ However, the elevator begins to rise and your thrust back into the moment all over again, eyes darting over to the lever to send the elevator back to the lobby. Sprout's hand is locked over it, sending it back, but you can't focus on the strain against his knuckles or the quiver in his wrist. No, you're watching his eyes lock onto where Dandy normally comes from, frantic and...nervous.

☁ Cosmo helps you up and you recognize the look on his face. It's the same one he had when you and Teagan got into it. He knows a fight is arising on the horizon, only there's an added layer of calculations there, wondering if he can act fast enough to defuse it. You're not even sure there is a way to defuse it.

☁ Astro refuses to look at any of you, looking alarmingly pale as he tightens the hold on his cloak, looking to the side instead.

☁ You feel nauseous as the elevator docks and Sprout immediately stalks out and towards the direction of your room, with the rest of you following. His leafy tail gives a whip behind him as he practically throws the door open, yanking his scarf off and tossing it to the side. He begins to pace, the way he normally does when he doesn't know what else to do, and you scurry to the bed. Cosmo follows, watching you grab Astro's pillow and hold it to your chest before burrowing into him.

☁ Astro is the last to come into the room, closing the door much more softly then it was opened. He doesn't stray far from it, leaning against it like it was his own version of a safe haven. The thought stings, but you're too busy watching Sprout and Astro to think further on it.

☁ "What was that." Is what Sprout settles on, stopping the furthest point away from Astro in his pacing track. One of his hands rub the area between his eyes as he sounds exhausted, but frustrated no less.

☁ Astro swallows at this, looking to the side before taking a breath. "I...Understand that-"

☁ "Do you? Do you understand?" Sprout whips around so fast his tail thwaps against the bed frame and you and Cosmo wince at the sound. "Because I don't think you do."

☁ "I do understand that what just happened was unacceptable-" Astro tries again, but Sprout seems to have either found his footing, or lost the fucks needed to care about holding his tongue as the berry is quick to cut in once more.

☁ "And yet, you excused it." Sprout snarled. "Not just excused it, but you stopped me from intervening. I'm sure if you were closer, you would've stopped Cosmo too!"

☁ Astro looks like he sucked something sour at the accusation, his lower arms falling from where he uses them keep his cloak shut. They're balled tightly in his cloak, knuckles turned white from the frustrations of it all. "We have no idea what Dandy is capable of. We can't act irrationally when it comes to him or else we put not just ourselves, but them at risk as well." He gestures to where you and Cosmo are seated, as if you two aren't privy to this very argument.

☁ "So letting Dandy manhandle them is better?!" Sprout scoffs like Astro just said the sky was polka-dotted. "I believe any reaction I deem worthy of that situation is far from irrational. If anything, what you pulled back there was irrational!"

☁ "I was being irrational?! Because I wouldn't let you go off again just for Y/N to pay the consequences?!" Astro's heated at this point, his normally calm demeanor melting away as he stomps a foot forward.

☁ You, like a rational, reasonable adult, hide in your pillow and Cosmo, heart hurting at the sight before you but not knowing where or how to step in.

☁ "Oh, is that the reason you're giving?! Because I have another thought as to why you stopped me." Sprout steps forward as well, pointing at Astro before continuing to close in on Astro. "I think you hated having to chose between Dandy and us at last. And I think I know who you chose."

☁ "I didn't chose anyone over another. There should be no question over who I'd chose-"

☁ "But there is! There is question, at least from me! Because you know what that just proved to me?!" Sprout's eyes are glossy now and you cling to Cosmo, who returns the hold. Even Astro looks like he's near tears, just barely holding it in against the accusations thrown his way. But Sprout's not finished. "It proved to me that even after everything, you'll still pick him. I can forgive the ichor operation, I can forgive the bleeding us dry for a chance to survive, I can forgive all of that to an extent, but Astro..." Sprout's words turn pleading at this point and the first tear drips down his cheek. "He had his hands on Y/N. He had one of us, and you still were willing to give him a chance. How many chances are you willing to give him before something irreparable happens? What if it happens to me, or Cosmo, or Y/N? Then what?"

☁ Astro swallows at this and his head bows for a second, shoulders heaving before he snaps his head up. "He doesn't have anyone else-"

☁ Sprout guffaws at this, like he both can't believe Astro actually said that and knew that's exactly what he was gonna say. "And why do you think that is?! Ichor be damned, Astro, do you know what the others think about this-!?"

☁ " I KNOW." The sudden sharp uprise in volume shocks you and Cosmo both as all three of you (Sprout included) immediately snap to look at Astro. His cloak is loosely hanging of his lower too arms with hands that are practically frantic in keeping it tethered to his form, his upper hands too busy yanking at his fur and hat. "I know what they all say. Do not mistake my silence for ignorance. That's an insult to my own intelligence and awareness. But I also am all too aware of the alternatives. Do you think I like pretending I don't notice it all? The ichor, the machines, the fucking twisteds?! Do you think I like hearing the whispers about me when they think I don't notice? Or seeing how they see me in their own unconscious?! Because I don't."

☁ There are tears streaming down his face and your heart absolutely shatters at the sight, but he's on a roll and refuses to give it up. "I see everyone's dreams, Sprout. Not limited to yours, or theirs, or even the others, but everyone's. Dandy included. I see what even the most polluted ichor cannot hide. Beneath all that he's still him. You may not have known him as long, but I did." Astro throws a hand up, and his hat nearly falls. "You don't blame Y/N for what Ciara did, do you?! Or Cosmo for what he did as a twisted?! I'm not excusing what Dandy did, believe me, if it were up to me I would've plucked him, petal by fucking petal right then and there, but I also how batshit fucking insane he can be. Look at Blu and Oakley, for heaven's sake, he switched our abilities."

☁ Astro takes a final breath before deflating. "I couldn't risk any of us, especially since we were trapped in that elevator with him. If we had acted to rashly, he would've snapped and that scares me more than anything. I never would've let him push further than the arm thing, which in hindsight, I agree, I shouldn't have stopped you, but I knew I could stop him discreetly. How do you think he fell?" One of his star shards whirs beside his head before it takes his cloak and sets it on the corner of the bed.

☁ "I'm sorry, Sprout. Regardless if I never intended for it be questioned who I would chose, that is what happened, and for that I apologize. I would chose you all, every single time. No question or hesitation." His eyes shine with a determination you've very rarely seen from the celestial, blinking when it turns to focus on you. "And I apologize to you, Y/N. I realize you must've felt unsafe and betrayed when I didn't let Sprout closer. I just..." He struggles to find his footing for a second. "I wished to mitigate the damage Dandy was capable of causing."

☁ You frown at the level of upset in his voice. "Oh, Astro, I knew you'd never let anything actually happen." You struggle for a second, suddenly thrust into the argument. "Astro, you know you don't have to take this burden alone though, right?"

☁ This makes the celestial blink in disbelief. "Unless you can suddenly enter dreams-"

☁ "No, no, that's not what they mean." Cosmo shakes his head. "It's more with...everyone else. It's not fair for you to hold this entire burden on what could happen. If this friendship you have is damaging, you don't need to keep it for our sake."

☁ You nod at this. "Exactly. I'm pretty tough believe it or not. I don't want you hurting yourself just to placate his temper tantrum." You pause, looking over at Sprout. He's wiping his eyes, all fire from earlier died out and smothered. You see it all for what he was. He was terrified of what just happened and didn't know how else to express it.

☁ "You guys always go on about me being more careful, but I think in return we all have to be a bit more...trusting of each other." You shrug. "We're thinking creatures, we make mistakes. What's important is that we learn from them and each other." You nod over at Sprout. "Even if some of us approach the issues less then gracefully."

☁ Sprout scoffs, but there's no venom. Just as he opens his mouth though, he squeaks as Astro wrapped all four arms around the berry, squeezing him tightly. Sprout squirms, but eventually relents. "You made me cry, you....dumb moon."

☁ "I'm sorry."

☁ "Next time we need a signal if you're going to use your freaky stars."

☁ "I-...We'll make one."

☁ Finally, after a moment, Sprout's own arms wrap around Astro and hold him tight. The image makes you smile, lowering Astro's pillow- which you had been clutching like a lifeline- and leaning onto Cosmo.

☁ Your heart thrums in content happiness at the feeling of everything slowly falling into place once more.

☁ Sitting up behind you, Cosmo stretches before rolling his shoulders. "Good, we all kiss and made up. How do you guys feel about a date night?"

☁ The suddenness of it all makes Astro guffaw before Sprout is laughing, shaking his head even if he remains wrapped in Astro's arms. "That...That sounds perfect honestly."

☁ For now, Dandy is another issue for another day.

AN: All interactions written about between the other toons and the MBC crew are based on their canon interactions. Like, they all lowkey seem like they hate each other? Is that just me? IDK if I'm looking too much into it, but just reading through Astro's made me sad, because Boxten's? Teagan's? Like my poor baby and he's always apologizing for everything :((( Someone give him a hug :((

#dandy's world x reader #dandys world x reader #astro dandys world #astro novalite #astro x reader #dandy's world cosmo #dandy's world astro novalite x reader #dandys world sprout #sprout seedly x reader #sprout seedly #sprout x reader #dandy's world cosmo x reader #cosmo x reader #cosmo doesn't have a last name #moonberrycake x reader #moonberrycake

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emeritusemeritus · 2 years ago

Text

Since never. [Fred Weasley x Reader]

Title: Since Never.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Gryffindor!Reader (background George Weasley x Angelina)

Timeline: GOF, McGonagall’s dance class.

Summary: George meddles and Fred finally finds the courage to ask you to the Ball, not liking the idea of anyone else taking you. Inspired by TikTok, based on movie canon.

Warnings: Friends to lovers, minor kissing, harmless pranks. A load of fluff. Fred has a crush.

I’m thinking of writing a part two to this, but it would most likely just be self indulgent fluff 🤍

"You know," George whispers into his twin's ear, trying to get Fred's attention whilst also trying to stay under McGonagall's radar as she addresses the Gryffindor students all huddled into one large classroom. The Triwizard Tournament and the associated Yule Ball had been announced the day before and as head of house, Mcgonagall had been tasked with teaching her students the traditional Waltz. The girls were seated on the left side of the room whilst the boys were seated on the right, kept separate for now as they listened to her explaining the ins and out of the tournament and the ball.

George leans forward to whisper once again to Fred who stands with his arms folded, watching in amusement as Filch hopelessly fiddles with an archaic megaphone, trying to get it to work. "Lee told me this morning that y/n's going to the ball with Cedric Diggory."

Fred's head immediately whips round with a face of utter horror as he turns to his brother, before briefly diverting his eyes over to you on the other side of the room and then returning his gaze to George.

"What, since when?"

"Since never," George smirks dangerously as he takes in Fred's rather apparent distaste to his words, his dismay and disappointment etched right across his face. "But your reaction just told me everything I needed to know."

Fred huffs and slinks back onto the windowsill where he'd been leaning feeling a little embarrassed at being caught out so easily by his twin. His crush on you was one of the only secrets he'd ever hidden from his twin, though apparently rather unsuccessfully, never wanting to be teased about it. You'd all been friends for so long that he never wanted to make things awkward by admitting his feelings and so he'd kept quiet for nearly two years of loving you secretly and silently.

"You should ask her," George says, leaning in once again. Fred doesn't reply, at least not verbally, but instead shoots his brother a fierce look that tells him to back off.

"Something may be about to burst out of Eloise Midgen, but I don't think it's a swan," Fred hears Ron mumble to his surrounding classmates, their eyes all sneakily turning to look at the girl in question, who shifts uncomfortably where she stands, unaware that half the boys of Gryffindor are looking at her. Fred's gaze doesn't linger long, instead finding you in the crowd, whispering with Angelica seated beside you as Hermione shoots you both a chastising look from the other side, clearly trying to listen intently to Mcgonagall.

Your hair is down now, not tied up in a high ponytail like it had been at breakfast. Your legs are neatly crossed in your seat, your school skirt revealing an appropriate but delicious amount of leg that Fred can hardly look away from. You're effortlessly beautiful, or at least you are to him, never looking better than when you are laughing and joking with your friends like right now. Sat surrounded by only the girls, Fred thinks it seems to to enhance your beauty, the prettiest face in a sea of girls.

"Mr Weasley."

Fred immediately looks up upon hearing his title called out as it so frequently is, though he's mightily relieved when it appears McGonagall was addressing his younger brother Ron, no doubt hearing him muttering.

"Will you join me please?" She asks, moving towards where he sits with an outstretched hand. The tone of her voice leaves no space for refusal as she tentatively reached out for his jumper and pulls him up of the chair, moving to stand in the middle of the room. The boys all make teasing noises as he stands, dragging his body over to Mcgonagall, feet hardly shuffling on the floor.

"Place your right hand on my waist," she says, opening her arms for him.

"Where?" He asks utterly horrified. Everyone looking on watches with sadistic amusement at his predicament. Fred can barely contain his delight at the scene before him, watching with utter glee, just like his twin beside him.

"My waist!" Mcgonagall replies, grabbing Ron by the sleeve and firmly placing his arm on her waist.

Fred heard a wolf whistle from the other side of the room and looks at you just in time to see your hand pull away from your mouth, clearly having been the perpetrator. The looking of delight on your face mirrors his own as you each catch each others gaze and he thinks just for a second that if he didn't love you already, it was firmly cemented now.

Ron turns and shoots you a look but you simply wink at him with a dung-eating grin before he is dragged back to focus on the professor.

"Mr Filch, if you please," Mcgonagall commands, prompting the caretaker to drop the needle on the record player, flinching only moments later as the speaker begins to crackle, before a signature waltz pours out.

"One two three, one two three," Mcgonagall starts counting as she leads Ron into a waltz, showing the steps that were specific to the champion's waltz.

Fred and George had been goofily dancing along with the music, hardly taking their eyes off of their embarrassed brother when Harry calls over to them.

"Oi!" Harry says, gesturing for Fred and George to come closer. They move in perfect unison and never take their eyes off Ron as they listen to Harry.

"You're never going to let him forget this are you?"

"Never," the twins say in synchronised perfection with identical smirks before leaning back slinking away to lean on the window as they had before.

"Everyone, come together!" Mcgonagall says from the centre of the room, finally pulling away from a bright red Ron to gesture everyone forward. The boys make no effort to move forward, clearly not wanting to participate whereas nearly all of the girls leap forward in excitement, waiting in a line to be picked.

Fred watches as Angelina drags you up, noticing that you had not leapt forward with the rest of the girls and he has to hide a snicker at seeing your disgruntled face, evidently not as keen to dance as your female classmates.

"Boys! On your feet!" Mcgonagall claps, getting the boys to also move forward. Neville stands first, followed by a few stragglers but no one moves forward until Fred steps out of line and whilst ignoring the looks from his twin and fellow Gryffindors, marches straight over to you.

"May I have this dance mi'lady?" He says dramatically with a bow of his head, extending his right hand to you.

"You may mi'lord," you laugh, placing your hand in his. He drags you over to the dance floor and places his hand on your waist just as he'd seen in the demonstration and with surprising precision, pulled you further away as he began spinning you. Your laugh echoed through the classroom even over the music as Fred span you around and around, completely ignoring the choreography until Mcgonagall shouted over and warned you both.

He seemed, for once, to heed the warning and pulled you closer into his chest then, placing his hand back onto your waist as he held you close, managing to quickly pick up the footwork that was needed for the waltz.

It was so intimate and romantic that you had to remind yourself frequently that this was Fred you were dancing with, knowing that he was out of bounds on account of your friendship with him and his siblings.You had to resist the urge to rest your head on his chest as you danced, enjoying the closeness as you half watched the rest of your house dancing around you.

"Do you have a date to the ball yet?" You hear Fred ask as he dances with you, hand resting on your lower back after lifting you in perfectly sync with the music.

"Not yet," you say, looking up to see him watching you with an intensity you couldn't place. "You?" You ask, temporarily breaking your eye contact as he clutched your waist, lifting you again and then taking your waist and your hand to spin you, just as the champions waltz demanded. He didn't verbally reply but instead shook his head with a frown before pulling you in closer and spinning you with more intensity which had you laughing again.

"Y/n," Fred says as he looks down at you, pausing his movements to speak but he's interrupted by Mcgonagall calling time on the dance class. She begins addressing the room of students on details of the ball and you all listen intently until she dismisses the class. When you turn back to Fred you notice he'd joined George and was already walking out the door, bag slung over his right shoulder. Angelina joined you, bringing you your bag as you said goodbye to Ginny and Hermione before walking to your next class together.

"You and Fred looked rather close," Angelina says as you place your bag onto your shoulder.

"He's my best friend Ange," you say, nudging her shoulder and rolling your eyes, pretending that you hadn't enjoyed it quite as much as you did.

"Has he asked you to the ball?" She says, not even flinching.

"No and I doubt he will," you say with a forced huff of a self-deprecating laugh.

"I hope George asks me," she says longingly as you turn the corner towards the charms classroom, instantly falling silent as you see the two brothers you'd been discussing already standing in the doorway to the classroom.

George looks over and smiles at you both, mainly Angelina as he beckons you over and you don't hesitate wiggling your eyebrows at her once he looked away, causing her to nudge you forcefully right back. You momentarily loose your balance from the unexpected nudge and as if on instinct, Fred's arms reach out to catch you.

"Falling for me princess?" He smirks, causing you to roll your eyes.

"You'd love that Weasley," you counter once you'd steadied yourself, seeing that George and Ange had already taken their seats.

"Ladies first," Fred says, opening his arms to gesture for you to go through the doorway first and you send him a sarcastic smile of gratitude before taking your seat next to Ang, in front of Fred.

Throughout the class you were desperately distracted, barely even listening or taking notes. thinking of your dance with Fred earlier and how he'd marched directly over to you ahead of all the other boys. You hoped that he was going to ask you to the ball, though you knew it would just be a pipe dream. Hopefully someone would ask you, even just as friends.

A piece of scrunched up parchment hits you square in the head, making you look round with a glare. Fred immediately smiles widely at you, if not a little sarcastically before he sends another note over to you with his wand, a little origami bird flying over your shoulder and onto the desk in front of you. Your eyebrows knit together in questioning as you look up at him again but he simply raises his eyebrows as if to say 'read it' and you turn and unfold the note delicately, shooting a quick look towards the professor to check that they weren't watching you.

'Black lake 7pm?"

You turned around, still looking confused but when you saw Fred watching you eagerly, you nodded with a little smile. He smiled back, winking at you before dropping his gaze back down to his work.

You secretly nudged Ang beside you and gestured with your eyes down to the little note, seeing her eyes bulge comically as she let out a little silent squeal of delight once she reads the note. She looks at you excitedly and wordlessly nods, as if thinking the same thing.

It's 6:50pm and you hadn't seen Fred or George at dinner which was unusual to say the least. Angelina and Harry had been there so it wasn't a Quidditch thing, which only confused you more. You made your way out of the castle utilising one of the secret passageways that you'd taken multiple times with the twins to avoid being seen, climbing around the statue of Gregory the smarmy and slipped down into the passage, walking the length of the little corridor until you could hear water rippling. You climbed up the little rocky steps and found yourself looking out at the Great Lake, beside the rocky cliffs that hid you from sight.

"Evening," you a voice called out from behind you, making you turn and frown. It was hard to see in just the moonlight with the shadows of the cliffs creating even more darkness, but you immediately sensed that something wasn't right. The person jumped down from where they had been perched on the rock and as they moved closer their long red hair and wooden jumper emblazoned with an 'F' came into focus.

"Hi, Fred," you said unconvincingly, looking at the bloke in front of you.

"Glad you could come gorgeous," he says, shifting to stand next to you. You couldn't help but observe him, looking at his features with subtle glances and questioning eyes.

"It's pretty out here tonight don't you think," he says with a shy smirk, though his eyes focus entirely on you as he speaks.

"Uh yeah, really pretty." He seems to briefly notice your lack of reply and casts a glance up at your eyes before looking away, focusing his attention on something to the right for just a moment.

"I've been thinking a lot about our dance earlier," he says shyly and you have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes now that it's all added up in your mind.

You gesture for him to move in closer, placing your hand on his shoulder as he leans down so that you could whisper in his ear.

"We didn't dance earlier," you say bluntly though with humour behind it, picking up a rock and trying to skim it on the water.

"Eh?" He asks, turning quickly to look up at your face in surprise, taken aback by his words.

"I danced with Fred earlier. Where is he anyway?" You ask quietly, raising your eyebrow at him, foiling his plan. He barks out a loud laugh at your discovery and you immediately see the performance drop from his body as he slinks down to his regular stance, once again being himself. He subtly nods his head to the right and your eyes light up in glee as you lean back over to him.

"Want to mess with him?" You ask with a suggestive wiggle of your eyebrows. George's eyes immediately light up as he nods, a smile tugging at his lips already.

"You know I've been thinking about our dance a lot too," you say flirtily and a little louder now, ensuring that whenever Fred was, he would hear you. You even lean over to touch George on the arm as you speak, your body language changing as you play heavily on the flirting.

"Oh really?" He says, playing along with a concealed smirk.

"Mmm," you hum, tracing your fingers up his arm with exaggerated movements so you knew that Fred would see them if he was watching. "I spent the whole dance really hoping you were going to kiss me," you said innocently and you immediately have to bite your lip as you and George share a little silent laugh.

"What a coincidence," he says, trying to sound like Fred, "I was thinking the same thing."

"Are you thinking about it now?" You ask, reaching to play with his collar, your voice seductive and airy as you pull out all the stops. "Maybe you could give me a demonstration of exactly what you were thinking about."

All of a sudden you hear a few loud shouts and a shuffle as another figure comes into view, quickly making their way down the rocky cliffs and running comically with waving arms, straight over to stand between you and George, who are both now in hysterics. Fred immediately notices the two of you laughing and freezes in confusion before realising that he'd been played.

"When did you figure it out?" He says, sounding aghast at you seeing through their little scheme.

"The second George said 'evening'," you chuckled, straightening back up and laughing again as Fred and George begin to squabble about who's fault it was.

"Anyway, have fun you two," George says with a wiggle of his eyebrows before walking down the steps to the concealed passage, leaving you and the real Fred alone.

"You know that doesn't work with me," you say, turning to him with a smirk on your face, seeing him already looking at you and shrugging with a playful grin. "Why did you swap?"

"Needed to know you could tell us apart," he says with a cheeky grin that makes you frown, silently questioning him. "Gonna need to know which one's your date to the ball aren't you. Can't have you dancing with the wrong bloke."

Your eyes immediately widen and a smile beams across your face as his words register with you. He chuckles, seeing your reaction before dramatically getting down on one knee as if he was proposing.

"Y/n, would you do me the honour of being my date to the Yule ball?" He asks seriously, holding out his hands as if he was presenting you with a ring. You giggle and let out a little squeal before lunging at him, knocking you both to the floor.

"I might be wrong but I think that was a yes," he chuckles.

"Yes! Yes you great oaf," you reply with a smile, feeling completely elated. His smile matches yours as he pulls you down onto him and suddenly there's a tension that falls between you both at the intimacy of the moment.

"Still thinking about that kiss?" He asks, a nervousness falling across his features that you had so rarely seen. You don't reply, at least not verbally and give a small, shy nod as you look at his lips in anticipation, thinking of nothing else.

Not a moment passes before he leans up, gently pulling you down until your lips meet, his soft lips pressing gently against yours. After just a few seconds, his hands hover over your waist before he seems to find the courage to hold you, placing his hands on your waist and hip as the kiss deepens, lips working completely in sync as you sink deeper and deeper into eachother.

You pull apart a little while later and both giggle shyly at what had just happened. Fred never takes his hands away from your waist, even as he gently manoeuvres you until you're lying down on him, head on his shoulder as you both look up at the star filled sky, a comfortable silence falling between you as you both replay the moment in your heads over and over again.

#emeritusemeritus #harry potter #emeritusemerituswrites #fred weasley #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley masterlist #yule ball #goblet of fire

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