partofmultifandoms

[partofmultifandoms]

bye this killed me in the softest way possible ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

Anything

pairing: Fred Weasley x Prefect!Reader

summary: Fred would do anything to see you, 'Hogwart's strictest Prefect', loosen up.

genre: fluff 'n stuff, and only slight angst, also borderline slowburn

warnings: swearing, bullying moments, implied that reader is in Slytherin, lots of teasing, flirting, kissing, Fred is completely and utterly whipped for reader, "your highness" nickname

a/n: not me in the middle of writing a neville fic and then having a shower thought of a fred x reader and writing this instead.

words: 6.9k

masterlist

»»————-　⌁　————-««

You can hear them. And you know it's them, because of the sniggering and that laugh.

By now, when you patrolled outside of class hours you'd find yourself actively seeking out these boys. Today happens to be good day to continue your spotless Prefect record.

With a hand sliding to your hip, you smoothly round the corner of the door to your Potions classroom and as you suspected, Fred and George Weasley are there, huddled over a particular cauldron. Something's clearly already been brewed and Fred is holding a cork screwed flask with the mysterious liquid.

It takes a minute until Fred happens to glance toward the door and sees you there, nose in the air and hands now clasped in front of you. He's trying not to laugh when he sees you, and elbows his brother.

The said Weasley is about to say something, but as he meets your gaze his lips press together in a slightly curved line.

Successful in catching their attention, one eyebrow and then one corner of your lips gently raise. "We've really got to stop bumping into each other like this."

"I think you wanted to bump into us," Fred says with a prominent smile. He looks innocent, just like always.

You neither confirm nor deny his remark and instead stride closer to them. You take your time, head turning in each direction, eyes scanning for any other suspicious looking activity. It feels good, because you can feel their stares and how they wait with bated breaths for your next move.

With a last step you settle on the opposite side of their table. You look at Fred, head tilted softly, studying his expression.

His smile only grows when you reach his eyes and it's finally time to address the elephant in the room.

In a newly straightened posture you say in a slow and sarcastic tone, "did you know... that I can take away points from your House? From each of you, in fact?"

"Oh, come on. Our favourite Prefect. Can't you pretend you never saw us, like last time?" George answers.

"Sorry what was that? You'd like 30 points taken away?"

"Hey, hey, hey!" Fred waves with a chuckle, "let's not get hasty. What about... a-a compromise?"

George nods desperately.

Your eyebrow raises again, and you lean back, crossing your arms. "A compromise, instead of taking away your precious points?"

"Yes, we'll do anything."

"Anything?"

"Anything." Fred glides a tongue over his bottom lip, speaking to you through his eyes.

For once he looks completely serious and it makes you smile in delight. An expression seldom found in your features. It's completely magical and Fred finds no regret to bargaining with you.

"There is something you can do for me," your eyes glaze over Fred's face and then you turn to George, leaning forward over the table on your elbows. "The next Quidditch Game."

"Yeah? Slytherin v Gryffindor. Need us to bug someone?" George grins.

You shake your head and smile again. You're frighteningly beautiful with that curve on your face as you continue. "I need you to make sure that Slytherin wins."

"What?"

Fred captures your attention, so you lean in closer to his side of the desk. "It shouldn't be too hard for you both, right?"

He squints, unable to hold back a smile of his own. In the previous times when you had caught the twins in the middle of scheming, you'd never been so coy with them. Ruffling your feathers a bit was always the boys' goal when getting caught by you, however now that you seem to be playing along, Fred can't get enough. "That's hardly something to wish for, your highness. You can have anything from us, really anything. Don't hold back."

You shrug, "well, that's what I choose."

"But if you think about it you cou—"

"I can take the points off now, if you like? It's really no problem."

"Fine. W-We'll do it." George huffs, and his brother follows with a playful bow.

"Your wish is our command."

"Please just don't take the points off. We'll be kicked out of Gryffindor if you snitch again."

"Me? Snitch?" Your voice drips in sarcastic innocence, and you push yourself off of the desk. Your feet turn to walk back outside first, but your eyes remain on Fred until it's physically impossible to stay focused on him. As you saunter to the door, you feel their gazes on you again and it's oh so satisfying to know that you get the last say. "You need to get better at not getting caught. Because, if I didn't know any better, it looks more like you want me to bump into you."

You turn around to face them again, and stare at the flask in between Fred's long fingers. By some miracle you'd never found yourself to be the butt of their schemes, unlike the other prefects. Even as a chaser of the twins' opposition in Quidditch, you've been the only lucky soul on your team to come out the other end. The question was why? Why spare you?

"Who in Salazar's name threw that?" Your captain shrieks, massaging the back of his head, small flakes of snow dropping to the skin of his neck.

How bothersome, you think, looking around at the rest of your teammates who're busy cooling down after Quidditch training.

"What?! A snowball just happens to gain sentience and hit me, huh? An owl maybe? Just come forward, admit you did it and I'll go easy on you—"

The spray of snow flies off of the captain's head again and you dodge the icy substance in time, some of it landing on your beater and chaser teammate. Everyone exclaims except you, you're too busy scanning over the field.

Suddenly, the burly boy of a captain huffs toward you, and you take a shove to the shoulder.

Stumbling back by a metre, you frown. Increasingly annoyed by your captain's baseless judgements. "What the hell is wrong with you? How many times do I have to tell you I'm a prefect?"

"I know a guilty person when I see one."

You're about to give him a piece of your mind until the idiot is hit again and you stifle a laugh at the noise he makes.

"Clever," he says through gritted teeth. Despite clearly looking at you just seconds before the snowball made contact with his thick skull, his pride is still hell-bent on accusing you. "I knew you were good at school, but I didn't think you'd stoop so low to use non-verball spells for something so stupid."

"Well, I knew you were delusional before, but now it's perfectly clear that you just don't have a brain."

As though your words were a signal, a tsunami of white ice balls appear in the sky and you don't hold back your smile as it pauses over your team. They each look up, faces with panicked expressions, and before they can even begin to escape, the snow crashes down over your peers. Figuring, it's the perfect moment to leave, you zoom out of the field on your broom and land to your feet once you can't see those angry faces anymore.

And that's when you hear him. That laugh, and he's looking at you and combing a hand through his ginger hair, all whilst adorning a satisfied ear-to-ear grin.

"Thanks." Is all you can say at first, then you realise his partner-in-crime George isn't right by his side. "Where's your brother?"

"On the other end of the field."

You nod. When you don't say anything more and turn to leave, you feel long fingers wrap around your wrist. He's warm against your icy skin, and your eyes shoot up, only to be greeted by a soft smirk.

"You're not going to snitch on us are you, your highness?"

"Me? Snitch?" You stop yourself from feeling so giddy about the previous event and instead focus on the fact that would you be doing your prefectoral duties correctly, you would have absolutely told a Professor about the twins. But the adrenaline rush feels too great and so you finally shake your head at the tall ginger. "You were just... watching us practice, right? I don't see anything suspicious about that."

His smirk twists into a genuine smile, and he allows your wrist to slide out of his grasp. A twinkle of mischievousness reaches your eyes, and then you're off, jogging into the distance. A few metres in, you take a chance to glance back to where you left Fred. And you don't know whether it was from training or the adrenaline, but you feel your neck and cheeks flare with heat at the sight of him lean against the frame of the entrance, steadily watching you run.

Clearing your throat, you push your recollection of the past away and take out your wand.

“You know you’re not allowed to use spells outside of class, your highness,” says Fred, his voice playful.

“That’s okay,” you shrug, “because I know you won’t tell on me.”

“Are you quite sure about that?” George chimes.

You nod immediately, the easiest question to answer. “I’m your favourite prefect, am I not?”

Fred’s expression is unreadable to you at first as he shakes his head slowly. He looks shocked, but at the same time pleased and a hint of something else that you can’t quite grasp.

Figuring you’ve stared at him long enough you send the twins’ a wink and the door shuts with a swipe of your wand.

»»————-　⌁　————-««

Your robe is floating behind you, a spitting image of Professor Snape, as you walk with purpose to your class, books cradled in your arms and head held high. You round a corner of the halls smoothly and find yourself at your Potions classroom. It's been a week since finding the Weasleys in there, and you still haven't found out what concoction they had created.

In any case, your class has already begun, and Snape's voice is barely audible with the door in front of you. You let your fingers clench around your books for a moment, taking in a breath. Then you push your way in, and each one of your classmates turn their attention to you.

"How lovely of you to join us, Miss L/N."

Having already predicted the Professor's sarcasm-filled reaction to your tardiness, you hand out a small slip of paper. "A note from Professor McGonagall."

He barely skims over the words and indicates for you to find a seat. Fingers clenching around your books again, you let yourself look over your peers. There's a seat next to Ginger Jorkins from Hufflepuff, but after noticing your stare she's quick to put her belongings where you could have sat. You hold off from sighing, because to your relief there is one more free seat, all the way at the back of the room. Right beside the vacant spot is a familiar head of red hair, and the pain from your tight grip subsides upon seeing him. That sigh you've been holding lets free once you sit down and the class continues.

"Welcome to the back of the class," Fred whispers with his signature grin. "You're with the cool kids now."

"Speaking of..." You glance behind him and frown. "Where's your brother?"

He makes a face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." And then it hits you. The Slytherin versus Gryffindor Quidditch Game. The compromise. The "make-sure-that-Slytherin-wins" game. The "George-has-been-completely-annihilated-by-a-bludger" and "won't-be-walking-around-anytime-soon" game.

"Oh... right."

Fred simply nods, finding the way you froze for a moment to be equally funny and endearing. The rest of your face doesn't show it, but he notices the panic in your pretty eyes and gives your arm a little nudge. "Hey. The git's okay. Says it was worth the pain because the girl he fancies paid him a visit."

You bite your lip and let yourself focus on Snape, who's mouth is moving, but you can't hear anything coming out. "It's still technically my fault. He looked awful."

Fred leans forward, his head turning to rest against his crossed arms. He studies your features as you attempt to listen into the class. When he speaks, his voice is a whisper again. "Come to Hogsmeade with me."

You give him a side glance. No one's ever invited you to come before and for all you know he could be making fun of you. It'd been hard in the beginning, though you eventually found comfort being in your own presence; drinking butterbeer while other people joked and laughed and shared stories and the gossip of the week. And talked about how they received a pointless detention after being told off from that know-it-all bitch.

"I-I don't..." You stumble upon your words, the crease between your brows growing deeper as you try to recollect your thoughts.

"Yeah, you're coming," he declares. And when you go to protest, he sits back up, sending you a wink.

"AND so..." Snape glares in your direction, "by the end of this class, I will be testing the quality of your potions by using a simple leaf. If it melts you've brewed successfully, and if not... you'll be in here on the weekend till you get it right."

To your surprise, Fred doesn't make a fuss, instead he beams at you with a clap of his hands. "Let's get started then, shall we Professor?"

The said man only grunts in response, so you all begin.

Forty minutes passes by in an instant, and no matter how well you follow the recipe, the liquid in your cauldron doesn't look like a liquid anymore and it smells differently to Fred's.

Wait. Fred's?

You frown down into his cauldron. His potion's immaculate.

You pull at the sleeve of his robe till his head comes down and his long hair tickles the tip of your nose. "How are you doing this?"

"I'm smart when I want to be," he chuckles.

"That's not an answer. I demand you give me an answer, or... I will take off points from Gryffindor."

He feigns an expression of shock which immediately gives way to a smirk, face just a few inches away from yours. "And what if I do tell you? You promise not to snitch?"

"Me? Snitch?"

That mischievousness is back into your dolomitic eyes, and Fred swears that the potion isn't required to melt the leaf.

"How about a compromise?" you whisper.

He shoots a glance toward the Professor and then hums when he feels it's all clear to keep talking. "I'm listening."

"I come with you to Hogsmeade, and I promise to do whatever you want to do. Deal?"

He doesn't need a moment, or even a second to reply. He's already nodding, slipping a hand into yours. "Deal."

You share a knowing look and shake your intwined hands. Compromise confirmed. "Now—"

Before you get to finish, he pulls out a very familiar cork-screwed flask, and in perfect fashion you keep from gasping or reacting at all, but Fred can see it in your eyes. He scans over the classroom, Snape's busy writing something on the board, and so he's clear to lower his head to you.

Your fingers graze as he passes you the concoction he had made with his brother. Electricity runs through the veins of your fingers till it hits your heart, skipping a beat.

"Someone might've tipped us off about this assignment," Fred murmurs. "So, naturally, we just wanted to be prepared. There was no way we were going to miss out on a Hogsmeade visit."

Not with George in the Hospital Wing, you think to yourself with guilt, pulling your robe sleeve down to hide the flask should your Professor stop by.

"Well... my beloved brother sadly will. I'll never forget his bravery." Fred makes a show out of a simple sigh and you feel like slapping his arm. He places his hand over his chest and sighs again, only it's a little louder this time and longer. "A girl we know threatened us to rig the Quidditch game so that Slytherin would win, if we didn't do as she asked she would've gotten us into trouble—"

"Fred." Images of the poor Weasley twin with a whole half of his body covered in the sickening colour of a bruise flood your brain.

"—and being the good man that he is, Georgie sacrificed himself, in order to satisfy the needs of this girl."

"Oi! I already feel horrible, okay?" You finally give his arm that well-earned smack, and when all he does is laugh, you huff with a pout.

He recollects himself, and makes sure Snape's still preoccupied. He bends down to your level again, and his breath fans over the strands of hair by your ear. "I would do the same for this girl."

There's that heat in your neck again and yet another electric feeling runs up your spine at his worlds. You don't meet his gaze and instead stare forward. To save yourself from embarrassment, you lift your chin and with one swift movement, the liquid from the flask falls into your cauldron.

Fred watches in delight as you stir until your previously horrible creation morphs and dissolves into that flawless fluid that you had just seen in the Weasley's cauldron. From such a result, you're unable to stop yourself as your lips curl into a smile, parting slowly to reveal your teeth.

You are the embodiment of this potion. Any person or creature of the magical world would completely disarm at the sight of your expression. And Fred's lucky enough to be your first victim.

"You seem very pleased, Miss L/N."

The black figure of Snape shadows yours and Fred's vision as he glides in front of your desk. He peers into your cauldron, nothing shows on his face and then he's examining Fred's, the same reaction of nothing.

The man then clicks his tongue and floats back to the front of the classroom, picking two leaves off of the plant on his desk. He returns swiftly, gesturing the rest of the class to join him by your table.

"Look closely." Snape says as his hand hovers over your creation, and then his fingers let go of the green object.

Hushed breaths watch as it hits the surface of the liquid with a ripple. There's no reaction at first and it fills you with dread. You even see Fred stiffen in the corner of your sight.

Then the leaf twitches with a change in colour, and soon it's no where to be seen, dissolved. Successful.

Someone mutters a 'wow', others share glances of contempt or roll their eyes. You on the other hand feel relieved and lean onto your hip, arm brushing against the tall boy beside you. He relaxes at your gentle touch.

"It seems you will have the fortune of freedom this weekend." Professor Snape mutters, and then with no time to waste, moves on to Fred. You barely have a chance to thank the man. His hand hovers, fingers open and a new leaf falls.

In a blink, the leaf has melted and you feel the Weasley straighten up in pride.

Snape however, isn't convinced and folds his arms. "How convenient that you should produce a successful potion - out of many failures - when seated beside Miss L/N."

Innocent until proven guilty, you think and look up at Fred, who's only smiling like a fool, his focused trained on Snape's. Your classmates murmur, and it isn't hard to place who they're talking about with their not-so subtle glares pointed in your direction.

"So I did a good job?" The boy's happy expression grows with innocence.

"Somehow. Five points... to each of you." The raven-haired man admits, his gaze lingers on the Weasley before he turns away, addressing you both and the rest of the class. "L/N and Weasley, seeing as you have completed the task, you may be dismissed. However, by next class I expect a 2,000 word written report of your method and findings. That'll be all. The rest of you... you have fifteen minutes."

Groans and curses hidden under breaths echo through the room, you and Fred, however, turn to each other with eyebrows raised and stupid grins plastered over your faces.

Adrenaline kicks in, and you both scramble to clear up the desk and snatch up your belongings. You sprint out the door not after sending the Professor a 'thank you', and then you're out the door and sprinting into the courtyard, crisp winter air nipping at your extremities.

You pause by the fountain, leaning against the tall structure and Fred follows suit, situating himself in front of you. "I can't believe I did that," you say in a breathless tone still grinning, books hugging into your chest.

He chuckles in between his own pants of breath. "Feels good doesn't it, your highness?"

"I hate to admit but... yes."

You watch as his gaze on you softens, as well as his grin subduing into contentment. "You make a good partner-in-crime. I think I might just replace George."

"Then he will surely kill me once he's recovered! That is... if he doesn't already."

Fred winks, "I'll make sure that won't happen. A princess such as yourself deserves a knight-in-shining armour."

"Oh yes." You give a curtsy and wave of your hand, your voice forming a posh accent. Well, no more posh than you already sound. "Then will you do the honour of escorting me to Hogsmeade tomorrow?"

With a fist to his chest, Fred bows. "For you, my dear, anything."

»»————-　⌁　————-««

It's irregular of you to be so fashionably late. Last night you'd found yourself restless, thoughts of sleep hidden behind scenes of you and Fred eating candy together, laughing, using magic outside of class to throw snowballs at your Quidditch Captain. Despite the chill of a winter night, being covered by your duvet and blankets was suffocatingly warm, especially when you kept seeing Fred pull you behind a tree, gloved hands drawing you into him by your hips, noses barely touching and lips parted with warm butterbeered breaths.

Your chocolate-brown screech owl whinnies by the foot of your bed and you flinch, adjusting your beanie for the hundredth time. "What do you think, Prim? Do I look tired? I look tired, don't I?"

The owl blinks and gives another whinny, a sound similar to that of a miniature pony. You check the clock on the wall of your dormitory and bite your lip, jostling through your belongings and retrieving a small purse of galleons to shove into your coat pocket.

One more look in the mirror, just one more. Your hair looks surprising lovely, strands of it squished against your thick scarf, and fortunately covering areas of your blemished face that couldn't be covered enough by your concealer. "It'll have to do!"

Prim purrs when you stroke her head and then you're off. You almost trip at the bottom of the stairs and as a result you pause, taking in a breath, calming the pounding in your chest. This Hogsmeade visit is just like any other. Just like any other. You’re just… not alone this time. That’s enough to get you smiling, as you saunter through the halls and finally out the gates, where you see a few groups of students still hanging around Hogwarts.

At the top of the steps you crane your neck in an attempts to find Fred amongst the small groups.

“I was beginning to think you stood me up.”

You spin on your heels at the sound of his voice, and are greeted with a growing grin. Teeth sparkling and everything. It takes a toll on you not to tackle him in a hug right then and there. The thick hoody he’s adorning, as well as the adorable beanie all look extra cuddly. Those gloved hands that you’ve been thinking about slide out of the pockets of his jeans and reach for your scarf, gently tightening the fabric around your face and neck.

On the outside you seem unbothered by his action, but he already sees what you’re really feeling through those dolomitic eyes of yours. “A deal’s a deal,” you finally say. “But it was rude of me to keep you waiting so long, so I’ll buy you a butterbeer.”

He shakes his head, fiddling with the hem of the scarf. “You turning up is enough for me.”

You shake your head back, dipping your chin into the material to hide your smile. “I’m buying you one. Argument over.”

“Alright then.” He chuckles and gives your scarf a gentle tug. “No more time to waste, your highness, let’s go.”

“Lead the way, Sir Weasley.”

You’re perfectly giddy as you trudge your way to the little village. Fred tells you about his plans for Christmas and you tell him yours, not very big and not very exciting, but he adores listening to you speak. He tells you about George and his recovery, and teases you when he sees guilt written over your face. Then despite your many differences, you both bond over your love for Quidditch, especially the Irish team. Occasionally, your shoulders and arms graze, and other times your fingers, as you stomp through the snow covered grounds. With every touch your chest grows warm, and your belly flips. You almost forget that you should be looking out for any bad behaviour. You almost forget that you still have a duty to uphold to the school.

Hogsmeade is bustling with life when you finally arrive. More so now that you could share it with someone.

“Come on, let’s warm up first.” Fred tugs your scarf again and successfully gains your full attention. He pulls you into the Three Broomsticks, greeted immediately by a wave of warmth. He’s still pulling on your scarf so you swiftly ask for two hot butterbeers and allow him to lead you to a table at the far end of the room.

“Am I your pet? Leading me around like that.” You sit down opposite him, motioning to his hand still holding onto the end of the long material.

He hums for a moment, and doesn't look to have any intention of letting go. “More like restraining you from going into ‘prefect’ mode.”

"Hey! Some people need disciplining," you pout.

"You sound like a Professor..." he narrows his eyes at you, lacking the skills to stop smiling so big. "You're not Professor Snape using Polyjuice potion, are you? Trying to figure out my secrets for passing your class, huh?"

Slowly, meticulously you straighten your back and fold your hands over the table, and void any emotion on your face. Your voice is low and slow and articulating every syllable as you speak. "What a ri-di-cu-lous suggestion. However... while we are on the topic, you didn't... copy off me, did you?"

Fred is so bad at suppressing his smirk. "Bloody Norah, you found me out! You're so smart, Profess— I mean... your highness."

The clink of glass hitting your table interrupts yours and Fred's thoughts. Madam Rosmerta's standing over you and when you meet her gaze she winks. "Good to see you with company this time around, Y/N."

Your face squishes into the fabric that Fred's still holding onto as you feel heat rise in your cheeks. Desperate to eliminate the fact that she basically just called you a loner in front of him, you fish into your pocket and pull out some coins, placing them onto the woman's open palm. "Thank you, Madam Rosmerta."

"Pleasure, dears. Enjoy.” Another wink is sent your way and she’s off to tend the rest of her pub.

As you bring the hot beverage to your mouth, you peek through your eyelashes. Fred has removed one glove and is now using that bare hand hold onto his drink, allowing the warmth to transfer into his already warm skin.

"Thank you," he says.

Your brows press together, "what for?"

"For paying."

"Well... thank you too."

He raises an eyebrow as he takes a good sip of the butterbeer, waiting for you to elaborate.

"For inviting me," you say shyly, fingers sliding across the surface of the mug.

"Awh, that's nothing," he chuckles, gently swaying your scarf.

"It's not 'nothing'. I didn't get a wink of sleep last night because I was so excited to come with you."

The ginger-haired boy presses his lips together tightly and then leans his face closer to you. "Wait, really?!"

How many times has it been now that you've felt your face heat up around Fred? You could play so coy and confident before, but now you felt like any other girl-with-a-crush in your year. "As a matter of fact, yes." You raise your chin and attempt to sit up straighter. "I know it may seem that I only agreed to come because of a compromise, but... I really did — do — appreciate you considering me."

"I don't think we'll need to stop by Honeydukes, your highness. You're so sweet, that my teeth already ache."

"You're so...!" You smack his arm.

But he's grinning like a fool, pulling at your scarf. "I'm so what?"

"I'm gonna take points off Gryffindor, just because you asked."

He guffaws, "what is this abuse of power?"

You take a swig of butterbeer and shrug, head high and smirk on display. "I like to call them perks."

"See?" You feel on your neck as he gives a tug-tug. "This is why you need to be kept on a lead."

Before you can retort, you notice he's pointing at his upper-lip and quietly chuckling. It sets off your heart.

"Brilliant moustache you got there," he says.

"Oh... thank you." How embarrassing. You really thought he was suggesting something else for a moment there. You glance around the room to make sure no one's watching before you slide a tongue over the sweet foam above your lip. "Is it gone?"

"Just..." at first there's a second of hesitation, but then he pulls you in over the table and meets you half-way, un-gloved hand coming up to cup your face. Why is he always so warm? Why is it that one of the most notorious rule-breakers of the school is taking your fancy? And so easily at that.

It feels like an hour passes when his thumb smooths over the left corner of your mouth and you hold in a breath, fingers clenched around your mug. You simply cannot help the urge to look at his own lips; pretty, pink and gently parted, calm breaths passing through.

His movements pause all of a sudden, so you glance at his eyes, but he's already looking at you. Completely under your spell, completely forgetting how to move, and completely forgetting that you're in public. You seem to have forgotten the same, still not pulling away from his touch. He catches your eyes dip to his lips again and he swallows thickly.

Then he's moving away and sitting back down, clearing his throat. "There, now you're good."

"Thanks," you wipe a finger over for extra measure and then look out the window, clearing your throat and straightening your back.

"You know how you mentioned that part of the deal was that we'd do anything I want to do?" He inquires, finishing his drink with a last swig.

"Yeah. A deal is a deal," you answer, finally turning back to him, surprised to see a confident smile carved into his features.

"Perfect. There's something I want to show you, but first I have a really good idea to help you unwind and forget about your prefect-ness."

"That doesn't sound good," you tease, chugging the last bit of your own butterbeer.

He's smirking now, "you won't be saying that when you see what we'll be doing."

»»————-　⌁　————-««

You're both crouched behind a boulder that oversees the Shrieking Shack in the distance. The perfect spot to spy on anyone who visits the lookout point. The perfect spot to snog outside of school walls. And it also happens to be the perfect spot to stock up on snowballs and wait for one particular person to fall into your trap.

"I hate to admit, but you were right, Sir Weasley. Again," you mutter, rubbing your gloved hands together.

"The more you hang out with me, the more you'll find out just how right I always am." He peeks over the boulder for a moment and then his hand shoots up in alarm, speaking in barely a whisper, "he's here."

He is. You can hear your Quidditch captain now and a few of his buddies, chatting and laughing. Someone puts on a voice, and it makes the group howl, but makes your stomach churn. The closer they get to the lookout, the clearer their words sound and the more you're looking forward to breaking the rules.

"—thinks she's all that, just 'cause she's a prefect. Like, bitch, I'm older than you!"

Their laughter is equal to that of nails on a chalkboard. Pelting them with some snowballs might not be fulfilling enough.

"Nah, it's 'cause she's got Snape behind her, hah. Thinks she can say and do whatever she wants."

Fred is hearing all of this. You feel like screaming, and perhaps hexing the hell out of all of them. They need a proper disciplining.

"Yeah, that's probably what's happening!" The group laugh again, and the next thing they say is the last straw. "She only got prefect because she's fucking him."

The bottom of your vision is blurry, but you tell Fred you're ready and he only nods. You both raise your wands, and he counts to three.

One snowball hits the back of the captain's head and to your satisfaction he lands on his face. You and Fred are enjoying the scene a little too much that it isn't until one of the idiots shout your name, do you realise you've blown your cover.

"Shoot!"

"Quick! We need to unleash all we've got!" Fred takes your free hand and guides you up to stand beside him. "One, two, THREE!"

Adrenaline shoots through your veins, as together you swish your wands and the rest of your snow pile is sent into the air. One more flick of the wands, and the balls fly with the speed of a snitch. Straight toward their faces. Exclamations, grunts, yells echo through the woods and open winter air. They swipe at their faces and eyes, blinded by your attack. The captain's still trying to recover from the first hit, from head to toe the entire front half of him is covered in white.

You let out a laugh, and suddenly Fred takes your hand again and you're sprinting away from the crime scene.

"HEY!" The Quidditch captain shouts after you, pure rage in his tone.

But you couldn't care less, because that grin on the Weasley's face is too contagious as you run by him, gloved hand in gloved hand.

He peeks over his shoulder to meet your gaze, only resulting in a skip of his heart and a flip of his stomach. Losing that Quidditch match was absolutely worth it, and Fred had to remind himself to thank George later for taking the blow.

You share breathless laughter as the shouts increase in amount, but decrease in volume. You're both much too fast for them and manage to get back to the village where you could hide within the crowds.

Your feet slow to a walk, and you both check if any of the idiots followed. Fred spots two pass by a tree and squeezes your hand to gain your attention.

"In here," he jerks his head, and pulls you into a small alley between two buildings.

Finally having a moment to catch your breath, you realise that it isn't really an alley, and more like a small gap. The space is so narrow in fact that your body is essentially pressed up against his. Back against wall. Heaving chest against heaving chest. Feet and legs side-by-side each other as though woven.

You don't care to look to your left where those jerks could be looking for you. You simply can't. You can't because all you can see are Fred's parted lips again, and he's looking down at yours. After which, your gazes meet and you don't think you've ever felt so hot in the middle of winter before.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes. No grin, no smirk, no teasing, just facts.

"And you're..." Your eyes dip again.

His hand slides out of yours, and then you feel weight by your hips and he's squeezing against the material of your pants and sweater.

You crane your neck, and he dips his head, as those gloved hands of his pull you into him.

Your own hunger has your fingers smooth over his chest and grip the collar of his hoody, desperately tugging for him to come closer and closer, tension in the air building with each breath.

"And I'm... what?" He purrs.

Something stirs in the bottom of your abdomen as the scent of butterbeer fills your senses, just millimetres away now. And then he captures your lips. And it's like heaven, because his hands can't help but slide up under your sweater and hold you by the skin of your waist.

At first the kiss is gentle, hesitant, but then you open your mouth a little wider and Fred takes this as a clear invitation. He smooths a tongue over yours, the taste of the sweet foamy drink still lingering on your lips.

His bold action elicits a hum from you, and his grip only tightens, craving more and more of you and your pretty sounds. You go until you can't breathe, mouths parting reluctantly but eyes still closed.

Fred presses his forehead against yours, your noses brushing in a feather-like touch. His thumbs caress your sides as he whispers, "you never answered my question."

"You wanna know what you are, right?” You murmur, hands sliding down over his collarbone and resting on his chest.

“Yeah. You’ve said it twice now and never finished your sentence.”

“Okay,” you lean in, lips feathering over his. “You’re…”

Good Godric you’re addicting. He pushes his head forward to meet you, but you pull back with the most attractive breathy laugh he's ever heard. Your lips stay brushing against his, but you won't give him any more than that and he loves it.

"You're..." you say again on his mouth, and he hangs on every single one of your words. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me at Hogwarts."

He watches your eyes for a moment, and leans into you once more, hands climbing up to lay flat against your back, your sweater pooling by his wrists. And you share the softest kiss ever, full of adoration, full of care, full of absolute affection.

"You saying that, you being here right now... feels like I've just won the Quidditch cup," he says when you part.

"I really mean it, Fred." You wrap your arms around his middle and squeeze him there, cheek squishing into his chest. "You've heard how people talk about me, but you don't seem to care about any of that stuff."

He returns your gesture, his own cheek landing on the top of your head. "You're right. I don't care about it, because I've seen how much you care for the school and care for keeping things in order. A little too much, but to each their own."

"Oi."

"I have to tease, I have to. Still, joking aside, if anyone says that kind of shit about you and you hear about it, find me and tell me. Me and Georgie have your back."

"Just don't get caught," you smirk.

"You won't take points away if you catch us, will you?"

You pull away from the cuddle and send him that beautifully, intimidating smile of yours. "Not if you promise to keep losing your Quidditch games."

"Low blow, your highness!" He laughs and then you're running away, giggling like a fool.

You manage to slip through the crowds and head toward the woods by the Shrieking Shack lookout, your giggles only getting louder and more frequent when you see Fred bounding closer and closer to you. Your cadence slows when the ground starts to feel icy under your boots, and sooner than you think, you feel arms wrap around your stomach and you squeal.

Fred's laugh vibrates against your back, and after a few pants of breath he speaks into your ear. "There's still something I wanted to show you."

"Oh?" You spin around in his hold. "That's right. What is it then?"

"Surprise. Follow me." He's hasty in his movements, as he takes your hand, running further into the woods. Then he rounds the corner of a large tree trunk, his fingers slip out of yours as he twists around to face you and then he's pulling you by your hips, grin on display.

Your heart flips when your back meets with the rough surface of the tree, bodies pressing into one another and then his mouth is hovering over yours. There's hunger in his eyes, yet he's waiting for your next move.

"Wow. 'I have something to show you'. That was so corny," you tease in a whisper.

He chuckles, feeling your lips just barely touch his, "but you loved it."

"I did. You're right again, Sir Weasley."

"Always am, your highness."

He squeezes your hips. You lift your chin and you kiss for a third time that day.

[partofmultifandoms]

[partofmultifandoms]

i want to be a sweet and friendly girl but there’s all this anxiety. and the horrors

[partofmultifandoms]

no you don’t understand. i NEED him 💔💔💔💔

for a spencer rq (bc i can't think too much of one for mvm) can you expand on the casual dominance topic with spencer please

he likes making you coffee

he knows exactly how you want it and he'll do it perfectly

he says its bc he doesn't want you burning yourself on the coffee maker but you know he just likes doing things for you

he loves bending down to tie your shoes if they come undone

like before you've even noticed they're untied he's crouching down and tying them up for you

if you let him, he'll pick out your outfits

he'll give you options every day, he'll put together like three (one is always exclusively his clothes) and you get to choose between them

he packs you little lunches every day and slips yummy snacks in there

if you're fbi as well he watches you from across the room opening them with a lil smile on his face

he probably writes you notes in there too

he'll order for you and get your food/drinks if it's a pickup at a counter

and he'll pull your chair out for you at a sit-down restaurant

he will sprint to open the door for you

if you're twenty steps ahead he runs to beat you there and hold it open

you beat him there once

he was pouting for 20 minutes

he always always always has a hand on your back

usually the small of your back, somewhere low

he just likes resting it there and when you walk he guides you around with it

he always walks on the street side of the sidewalk and keeps you where it's safer :')

big big big on giving you his sweaters/jackets to wear

[partofmultifandoms]

i need him. pls.

this is cheesy but when spencer and reader start getting more comfortable in their relationship and they exchange keys to each others places, reader starts going over while hes away. just to chill because she misses him or borrow something or get something she left. but then dhe notices his apartment is a little messy and he doesnt have a lot of food in the fridge.

the first time he comes home to a full fridge and clean apartment he's a little confused, but when he brings it up and she confesses hes just sooooo touched and appreciative.

the first time he comes home and shes asleep on the bed or couch or wherever he just MELTS. like an actual puddle on the floor kinda melting bc hes just so overwhelmed with love 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

Spencer Reid is, quite possibly, the smartest motherfucker in the FBI. As an esteemed profiler, he notices right away that you've been in his apartment, from the post-it note grocery list sitting on the top of what's in his trash can, and a lack of dust over his kitchen counter like there typically is after he's gone on a case for a few days.

He spots 'donuts' on the list, and when he pulls the fridge open, lo and behold, there's a bag of mini chocolate donuts on the top shelf. He smiles to himself, giddily so, more than elated that you'd remembered an offhanded comment he'd made about liking them so much, especially when they're chilled.

He remembers everything anyone tells him, but people rarely stop to listen to his own words. So often it can be cast aside as nerd babble, so knowing that you'd picked up on the small tidbits of personal information he'd given you makes his seldom-fluttering heart do just that.

He feels a little bad that you'd stocked his fridge and ran, but he doesn't have to for long, because when he heads to the living room to drop his messenger bag there, and restock it with a different book, you're snoozing in his chair.

It's a recliner, one he'd splurged on so that late-night reading would be more comfortable. You've popped the footrest up, but your feet barely touch it, because you're curled up closer to the seat. Your head rests on one of the arms and is dangerously close to slipping off, so he kneels by the armrest, joints cracking.

His face hovers millimeters away from your own, your breath hitting his cheek and vice versa. He smooths a stray wisp of hair away from your face, leaning in to kiss the skin it had been covering.

"Hi, angel," He croons, keeping his voice as soft as humanly possible. He doesn't want to ruin this, whatever heavenly moment that the seldom-kind universe has decided to grant him.

Your lashes flutter at the feel of his lips on your skin, and you turn your face to lean into the touch you don't yet know is there. He can't help but laugh at the way you arch like a cat to be closer to him, and the breathy huffs fan out against your forehead.

His slender hand comes up to hover beneath your head, because when you worm closer to him, it slips off of the armrest. He holds your head up but you're finally starting to stir from the movement, and you lift it to blink groggily up at him.

"Spence?" You ask, like you're verifying his identity and not asking why he's home.

"That's me," He smiles, dimples puncturing his cheeks. His hair is slightly sloppy, frizzed and out of place from the day's hectic activities. At his confirmation you hum sleepily, resuming your cat-like activities by shutting your eyes again, leading with your nose as you nudge your face into his own. From the angle you're at his lips can only pucker to hit an awkward spot between your cheek and your nose, but the skin there is warm and soft from a facial mask he knows you used last night.

"Morning," You grumble, and he won't inform you that it's 7 at night.

"Hi, sweetheart." He croons, unable to stand up straight before you decide you want a hug. It means his butt hits the floor when you lunge for him, and he laughs as he tries maintaining an upright position.

"Oh- ah!" He laughs, eyes scrunching in a gleeful smile-turned-laugh when you knock into him. He cradles the back of your head, feeling you settle into his embrace like he's your new reclining chair.

"'Missed you, Spence." You mumble against the fabric of his jacket that's covering his shoulder. He curls his fingers into your hair at your admission, stroking briefly through the strands.

"I missed you too," He agrees, "I saw you bought me donuts."

"Hm? Oh, yeah, I did." You recall, eyes already drooping again, "We can have some for- for dessert later."

"That sounds like a good plan," Spencer grins, but you can't see it where you're nestled into his shoulder. He's waiting for you to get up, not because he doesn't want to hug you anymore but because he wants to stand and move, but when you stay firmly in place he realizes you're sleeping again, and that there's no way he's getting off the floor in the meantime.

He could wake you, tell you it's time for a late dinner and ask you to work on the eggs so that he can chop up the add-ins for an omelet. He could corral you back into the chair and take the bed for himself, read for a bit after getting changed. He could do any number of things to make himself just a bit more comfortable, but instead he chooses to commit his butt to the floor, surely flattening it for all eternity. He scoots back carefully until his back is up against the couch, so that his less-than-perfect core strength isn't relied upon as much.

From there he rests, disinterested in using his phone and too far away from his bookshelf to read. But he finds just as much meaningful entertainment in counting the breaths that you release against his shoulder, as well as counting the different possessions of yours he can see scattered around his apartment.

Your shoes, one. Your water bottle, two. Your sweatshirt, three. Your snack, four. Your keys, perhaps the most meaningful possession of all, the spare that he'll never regret giving you, five.

[partofmultifandoms]

“do you want to be my plans?” I. AM. SCREAMING.

your writing is so good that i feel this deep ache in my chest and it’s so wonderful but reading this just made me realize how seriously touch deprived i am.

your writing is beautiful ❤️‍🩹

double vision in a rose blush -s.r.

a/n: first fic in like a year and my first spencer fic! please let me know what you think!

summary: she is the best part of his days, his life, these days, really. the only problem is she never touches him. s/o to @bitesizedgremlin for writing the most adorable touch starved spence fic that got me 🥰

wc: 1.6k

He loves looking at her. 

It feels hedonistic, like drinking a too-expensive wine. Looking at her brings a warmth that spreads all throughout him, like threaded gold embedded in her movements. It’s a lovely kind of ache, how she can bring the most open, the most raw parts of him to the surface. She is captivating, the way she laughs, the way she moves, the slightest intonation of affection she offers him in her tone. 

Tonight, she sits across from him at the team’s favorite bar. She’s wearing a deep emerald green top, the kind of thing that makes her look like something out of a dream. 

It’s not like it shows how much he likes her. He hopes it doesn’t. 

Sure, people tease them. She’s a consultant with their teams, one with a desk right next to his one. He initially thought he’d hate the company, but even on their first meeting, she was relentlessly kind. She had sat next to him, wearing a beautiful periwinkle sweater, and somehow he was talking for far too long about how the original blue pigments were sometimes made from toxic materials and how much modern effort it took to make a sweater that color.

He’d felt a familiar humiliation, the knowledge that a beautiful woman had sat down next to him and offered him kindness, and he’d met her with his own personal brand of anti-charisma.

But she hadn’t interrupted him. In fact, she granted him maybe the most welcoming, kind smile that he’s ever seen in his life.

And she’d asked more about the pigment. 

Spencer- he’d never known the kind of affection she offers so freely. It almost reminds him of Penelope- how open she is, how kind. Objectively, he knows she likes him at least a little bit. He’s a profiler, and he can tell at least that much. 

The hitch is, he’s the only one she doesn’t touch. 

Morgan gets shoulder brushes. Penelope hugs, and he even remembers her once giving Rossi a warm squeeze of her hand. But not him. Even now, she sits across from him after having held Morgan in a long hug of greeting. 

He looks up at her, her pretty fingers wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. She moves with such grace, no matter what the action. The way she tops her head back, how a lovely grin spreads across her face. He’d give anything not to be her exception. To be one of the people she touches. 

“What you thinking there, wonder kid?” She says, and somehow her voice carries across the crowded bar. He thinks he could pick her voice out anywhere.

“Nothing really,” he says back. He never likes the way his voice sounds around her. He wants to be confident, smooth, like Morgan. She leaves him too weak for it. “How are you feeling?”

“I am wondrous, Spencer.” She’s leaning into his space. Her tone is just a little shaky, influenced by the alcohol. He’s near enough to smell the lily-scented perfume she wears, and it’s everything in him not to bury his face in the crook of her neck. He’d gotten it for her for Christmas. 

He remembers her reaction to it, unwrapping the bow and wrapping he’d sent an hour trying to make perfect. It was one of the few times she touched him, however brief- a squeeze of his hand and that earnestly grateful look- the image kept him warm all year. She’d worn it to work more often than not. It brought him a shameful sense of satisfaction. 

She carries me with her. She has a piece of me with her wherever she goes. 

I want to be touched by you, he thinks, I want to be the one doing the touching. What is it about him? He knows his limbs are a little spindle-y, and he’s not exactly experienced in most forms of physical expression. But he could be, if he was given the chance. If it was with her. It’s not something he could say, though.

“You look lovely,” he says, unprompted. “I love that shirt on you.”

She flushes, and almost, almost, touches his knee in thanks. He preens at the praise, even though it’s not verbal. She’s just so beautiful. It’s always been about more than beauty for him, the mind behind the doe eyes and sweet smile. 

Still, it’s hard to deny how much of an effect she has on him- how she can glance at him with that honey sweet look, how the red on her lips has him wondering what it would taste like. If there could ever be anything better. Without thinking, he grabs one of her hands; it looks just so pretty in his own. He runs his thumb over her knuckles. It’s like electricity, passing through them. 

There has to be something he’s done. There has to be, if she touches everyone but him. He always notices, but tonight, with liquor and courage in his chest, he wants to ask. If he knows, if there’s something- maybe he can fix it. Maybe then she’ll put her pretty hands on him just like this. Touch him in any way she wants.

It wouldn’t be close to what he wants. But it would be something. 

“Hey,” his voice comes out uneven and shaky, but his eyes are locked on hers, “I-I’m sorry if I’ve done something.”

Her face blooms into an adorably confused expression. 

“I-,” His stutter jumps out but he’s still holding her hand, and it’s so soft and his stomach just won’t stop that flipping feeling and he just cannot let go, “I know you like to touch people. I don’t know if I-I’ve done something, but you- you never touch me.”

Suddenly, the bar feels a good bit quieter, and her eyes feel like they can see right through him. Her hands are the only thing tethering him here. 

“I don’t touch you?”

“Touch is actually one of the most well-regarded indicators of closeness and geniality in personal relationship.” 

“Spencer-“

“It stands to reason that if you touch everyone but me, there should be a reason and it’s like something that I would have done to offend you.”

“Hey-“

“I just want you to like me.”

Her face, the most beautiful face he’d ever seen- softens into a delicate expression of fondness. 

“Spence,” and god, doesn’t that sound lovely, “I thought you didn’t like touching.”

He pouts without thinking, and all thoughts leave his mind when her other hand reaches out to hold his face, her fingers on the junction of his chin and neck, stroking the side of his cheek.

The truth of it is he thinks of her hands on him in every way. Pictures hands laced together, her graceful fingers running through his hair as they lay on his couch. 

He’s imagined kissing her way too many times.

“Not with you. You’re different.”

He’s too honest. But it’s overwhelming. Her hand in his, the other brushing delicately over his face. He leans into it, a little too eager, but the sensation of it is just too much not to. 

“Remember the second day of me being with the team? You told Garcia she’s the only one allowed to touch you?”

“I think so?”

“Well, I like to repeat your boundaries.”

“I like you to touch me.”

She tips her head back, laughing, and she looks ethereal, the kind of smile gracing her face that’d have you believe everything you’ve every worried about in your god-forsaken life was worth it to witness this. 

“I’d like to touch you too, Reid.”

“You can call me Spencer,” he says, realizing how close they are. Lilies. He’s overplaying his hand. He’s a friend at work, he wants to remind himself. He’s the guy who bought her perfume and hands her files and gets her coffee and that does not mean the same thing as a partner. He’s not even the kind of person someone like her would want.

It’s just hard to remember that. 

“Spencer,” she says, more tender than anyone else had ever been with him., “I could be reading this wrong, but-“

It’s actually a small distance, kissing her. If she’d been more than a few inches from his face then he wouldn’t have done it. But she was so close, and she smiles into him, open and warm and his arms are around her waist, hers cradling his face, and it’s more touch than he knows what to do with, far less than anything he’d be willing to give up. 

It lasts a languid second and then ends too soon, her gorgeous eyes meeting his own, her basically in his lap. He knows that this is basically a bar-kiss between two coworkers, and that it is unlikely to be anything but that, but he kind of needs it to not be. Needs it to be more. 

“I don’t-I don’t know if you wanted to do that or if you want me to stop, but I really, really like you, and I know we work together and you might not like me back, I mean, probably not, right? But-“

“Spencer.” Her soft fingers are still brushing against his face, and he can’t help but be grateful for it. “I’m free tomorrow night.”

He’s not usually good at deciphering social cues that don’t relate to serial killers, but this one- it seems intentional. Her hands move from his cheek (and he winces, visibly) before wrapping both arms around his neck. It’s awfully romantic to be anything else. 

“Do you want to be my plans?” 

“Yes.”

[partofmultifandoms]

are you being serious rn hELLO?????? my heart was in my stomach until the very end i LOVE THIS.

in every other life- s.r.

a/n: my soul is in this mf fic. there's a lil sexual tension lol! this is a behemoth of pining. so much fucking pining. this guy needs you like air wtf!! ALSO the poem is from a book, the lover's dictionary by david levithan. summary: the love of spencer's life is also his best friend, and she goes on a few dates. he does not handle it well, internally. ft. metaphysics by our dear genius boy. wc: 3.3k (holy shit)

While he recognizes that no direct injustice has actually been done to him, he can’t help but feel that it’s so unfair. 

Because Spencer had never actually wanted much of anyone, actually. He was too much of a child through his entire education, and he’d found anyone that he’d even consider had almost instantly had dismissed him. He’d grown used to a life where companionship wasn’t a desire that crossed his mind. 

But he wanted her. 

His lovely friend, his coworker, who was the kind of lovely that it feels unfair you’d ever have to take your eyes off of. She’s the best person he’s ever met, the sort of wonderful you read about but never convince yourself you’ll ever see. He knows the shape of her, has her form memorized from watching, waiting for her to step into the office every day.  

It was only a matter of time until he wasn’t the only one with his eye on her. 

She’s actually absurdly easy to want. There’s nights where they watch something, often what he picked, Doctor Who or some other science fiction which would be great if he could focus on anything but her. Her warm disposition ruminating his too-small apartment with a kind of light that follows his every movement. He’d adore her even if she wasn’t, but it’s impossible to ignore how beautiful she is- the kind of pretty that you hardly expect to see in real life. 

“Hey you,” her so-sweet voice is what breaks him out of his daydreaming, and he looks up at her lovely face smiling down at him. Fondness seeps through her tone, and it’s everything he can do not to preen that her first thought at seeing him is one of pleasure. 

“Hey back,” he says, greeting her with a warm grin of his own. “How was your weekend?”

It’s a calculated question. 

She had canceled their weekly movie night. He’d tried not to look too disappointed, like the idea of her next to him on his couch, of her nimble fingers raking through his unkempt hair while something nice, but far less wonderful than his company played in the background wasn’t all that was keeping him going. These days, and he knows it’s likely delusion, that she sometimes seems to gaze back at him with a similar sort of desperation, hooded eyes and tenderness. 

It’s a liminal space, those nights. How can people be two things at once? You cannot be both in love and not. In the low-light of his place, under his blanket- it’s like Schrodinger’s experiment. She can’t love him like a friend and more at the same time- it resists the laws of physics. She is his best friend, a fact he knows as sure as gravity and the elements, and believing anymore than that- it’s asserting an impossibility. 

When they’re alone together, though. It seems like the impossible exists. 

But she’d canceled it, something she hadn’t done for the months they’d been engaging in their little tradition. So there had to be a reason. She sits next to him, her desk next to his. 

She looks a little disheveled, only in an adorable way- but a little like she’s been busy, like her flow is disrupted.

“It was good! I finally went out with that guy Penelope’s been begging me to let her set me up with.”

It’s all that he can do not to freeze up. 

Penelope has been trying to get her to go out with her friend Ben, which Spencer thinks is a stupid name, by the way, and secretly he’d been so, so pleased when she had brushed off the invite. It’s a dangerous thing, hope. He tries not to have too much of it, tries to savor the thought of her, of more for moments of particular vulnerability. It’s treacherous, to want her the way he does. He knows he can’t let himself feel it all the way. 

And logistically- romance is not a reason for a valid reason for him to be panicking the way he is, but all he can think about is the physics. Two opposite things cannot be true at the same time. 

“You know, studies suggest that even now, the majority of couples are meeting in person or through friends over any other medium.” 

It hurts to say. She’s part of a couple, one half a whole that he doesn’t complete. 

“Seriously? I’d have thought it’d changed by now. I guess it’s safer to date someone you know.”

She’d date someone she knew? Is that what she prefers? 

“How did it go?” He hears Emily ask, and this conversation is already the bane of his existence.

“Guys, it really wasn’t a big deal! We got dinner, it was just a little thing.”

Spencer isn’t experienced in dating, but he does know that dinner is a serious date. Coffee is a smaller thing, but dinner-

Dinner means she got pretty for him. Probably picked out a dress for the evening, spent time on a carefully manicured look. Spent hours of her precious, rare, time on him. 

It’s not fair how much he fucking hates this guy. 

“Dinner is not nothing!” Penelope squeals, and he would love to share in her excitement, except it kind of feels like a piece of his heart is being shredded. 

“Dinner means coming up to my place, have coffee, oh look who doesn’t have her hair done-“

Please kill me, he thinks. Please. 

“Oh, that definitely did not happen.”

Thank god. 

Except he can’t miss her flush, how her expression shifts- and he has the sickening feeling he’d be hearing that guy’s name again. 

When they all settle around the table, her doe eyes focused on gruesome images that were the exact antithesis of her spirit, he couldn’t help but feel that even if it hurt, there was finality. 

The cat was out of the box. Two things cannot be true at once, and so only one is- she does not love him, at least not the way he does. 

Ben, is not in fact, going away. 

If he had more willpower or self-preservation, Spencer would keep his distance from her, but the truth of it is that as much as he wants to be the person she turns to, her smile is most of why he can stand his job anymore. 

It’s a Tuesday, and everyone is grumbling about being pulled in early in the morning, but he’s just happy to have a reason to leave the house.

“Spence!” He hears her excited voice carry, the pretty sound picking his ears up at once. “I got you coffee. It’s hazelnut, and it’s like, 90% sugar. You’re gonna love it.”

She beams at him, and he takes it in his hands. Their hands brush, and he tries so hard not to notice how soft her hands are. Her name is on the cup, and an unconsenting fantasy of her name meaning that he’s hers creeps into his mind before he can bat it away.  

But her cup says Ben. 

“Thanks,” he says her name, tries to sound measured and friendly. “Coffee date?”

She preens, and god, if this guy doesn’t get how lucky he is it might be thing thing that actually sends him over the edge after all these years.

“Just a quick thing, we were just in the same place and he bought me a coffee, I’d already gotten yours.”

If there’s two roles he can fill and he doesn’t get to pick, if he’s stuck with friends, he’s gonna be great at it, and he’s gonna be grateful. Because knowing her is a grace in itself, the kind of thing you should could yourself so lucky to have. 

“He sounds like a great guy,” he hears himself say, “I’m glad you’re doing this.”

It’s the right thing to say. He’s sure of it. The thing he’s not sure of is why the smile she offers him doesn’t reach her eyes. 

The next time he notices the cracks in their relationship, it’s when they’re out. She’d suggested this bookstore-cafe kind of thing, and he’d jumped at the thought, all of his favorite things in one afternoon. He’d felt foolish spending so much time picking out his outfit out, wearing the blazer she’d once complimented-he’d actually stuttered so hard in thanks that Morgan laughed for a full minute when she left the room- but she always looked beautiful, and he knows he sometimes pales in comparison. 

“Oh, I love this one!” She thumbs over the spine of a thin book of poetry. She’s wearing a forest green sweater that hugs her frame, and a bracelet hangs on her delicate wrist. He loves looking at her, though he tries to conceal it. His goal of being a supportive friend includes trying not to make it that known how gone for her he is. 

“I don’t read too much poetry,” he admits, “But I’m sure you have excellent taste.” 

Her keen eyes skim through the pages intently, clearly seeking out a specific passage before stopping, gaze alight with recognition. 

Her tone is molasses-sweet when she begins reading, and his heart skips a beat.

“When I say be my lover,” her voice hitches, reverent of the quote and he is reverent of her, “ I don’t mean ‘let’s have an affair. I don’t mean Sleep with me. I don’t mean Be my secret. I want us to go back to that root. I want you to be the one who loves me. I want to be the one who loves you.”

It feels impossible to look away from her, doe eyes practically sparkling in the low light of the shop, and there it is. His heart’s in his throat. Of all the things you could have told Spencer he’d experience, hearing her lovely voice wrap around the words be my lover in hushed tone, in sacred sweetness, would never ever be one he’d guess. 

He’s not sure how he feels about the multiverse theory, but right now, he can feel all the versions of himself pressing right up against him. Can see into lives he doesn’t get to live, lifetimes where his love isn’t a buried, worn-out tattered thing to keep his ever-frigid chest warm. Versions of himself that in this very moment can smile back at her, warm and open and kind, and kiss her perfect smile. 

Because he would be her lover. He would come home to her, spend the rest of his life building a home that she could fit  into. It’d be easy, actually. She’s easy to imagine- nights of laughing in a shared kitchen, evenings where her company is a fine wine, sipped at leisure with the comfort of knowing it’s never going to slip from your grasp. 

“I like that,” he says, voice too vulnerable for his own good, eyes unable to tear from the eye contact. “I really like that.” 

In the root of it, he already is her lover. He is the one who loves her. She’s just not his. 

It comes to a head on a Friday. It’s a few weeks from he book shop, and the air feels heavier between them now. The last handful of Fridays he’s sat with the ghost of what used to be their plans, empty time lingering where in its’ place used to be her company. 

He doesn’t know if she’s been with Ben. He tries not to think about it. 

The sound of her voice lingers in his mind, sweet and bitter in his mind like old lemon candy, the kind his mother would save for special occasions. He’d spend any amount of money he had to hear her lovely voice say those words to him out of the context of a poem. 

At work, they seem almost normal. Like one of them wasn’t desperately in love with the other; like a genius and his lovely, incredibly empathetic, kind best friend. In the field, their actions flow together seamlessly. She is always the first to listen and to understand (and god, isn’t it intoxicating to have someone meet you in understanding) and there is nothing to suspect is off.

But there’s still a cloud lingering. The poem- the soft melody of her voice curling around the words, the request of it all, the way she had sounded so wanting- and then, there’s Ben. 

She doesn’t mention Ben to him, of course, but Penelope does. Penelope, all bows and bright colors and cheeriness keeps bringing the absolute worst news to Spencer with a smile on her face. 

He’s taking her out for drinks! Oh, he’s reading her favorite book, do you know what it is?

This anger isn’t an emotion that he’s familiar with. A roar of possessiveness, the bite of it not tempered at all by rationality. Has he touched her?

It seems almost a tradition at this point when she shakes him out of his jealous storm of thought.

“Spence?” she muses, “You alright?” They’re alone at his desk, everyone having fled for their own evening and weekend plans. This was one of the Fridays that she had agreed to spend with him, and he wonders if he’ll be able to handle the scent of her shampoo so close after such a lapse of the sensation. Will all of his judgement go where he can’t follow?

“Yeah,” he says, tucking his papers into his bag, “I’m excited for tonight.”

His place is actually a short walk from the office. He’d been embarrassed to show her the place at first. It’s all function over fashion, and a bit cramped, but she’d looked at as though it was made of something more, something good. She didn’t even tease him. It had actually been her idea, to start these movie nights. 

Ironic, really. 

The walk was pleasant, the weather a little frigid but still nice, and she looks beautiful under the setting sun. It’s incredible to him, how her lashes catch the light and make her irises look like polished stained glass. His favorite color. Through the looking glass of another life, he sees a version of himself that gathers her up in his arms. In this daydream, she grants him one of her smiles that seems to carry its’ own light, and leans into his body like it’s the only thing that keeps her steady. It’s so clear. On the other side of the veil, he kisses her reddening nose, and keeps her warm himself. 

In the here and now, Her coat is long, and hangs low by her ankles. It’s an elegant thing, like the woman who wears it, and Spencer would be grateful for a lifetime of just looking.They stop in front of his door, some invisible force stopping him from entering. 

She sheds the coat inside his home. It smells like the candle she got him for his birthday, a reminder of her grace. He’s saved a bottle of wine for them, a sweet thing for the sweetest thing he’s known. 

“I’m sorry,” she speaks the warmth of the beverage on her tongue, and it should feel abrupt but it doesn’t.

“What for?” He can’t imagine what she would have to apologize for. 

“I know things have been…off between us,” she says carefully, considering the phrasing of each word. He watches her with a reverence, his hazel eye brimming with affection with nowhere to go. “You’ve been so great through it.”

Her legs are thrown across his own, and she’s dangerously close to sitting in his lap, but not exactly. He’s missed having her this close, the last time she’d been in his orbit was before she’d had reason to be gone. She smells floral. He fights With limited filtering through his already treacherous mind he thinks, He can’t take this from me. I still get her like this. 

“I’m not entirely sure what it is.” 

She slowly shuts her eyes, go for a moment to somewhere he can’t follow. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold. 

“This whole Ben thing.”

“Oh.”

Logically, it always had to come back to this. Someone else had the good fortune to know her like this, to be the person she reads poetry to in deep meaning to. 

He’s been stealing moments from someone who’s not his to take them from. 

“I don’t even know how I wanted you to react.” she murmurs, staring at the rim of her glass. 

“I just want you to be happy” His voice is something low, grit in the sound of it. His hand rests on her thigh. There’s warmth blanketing the room and he wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss her all the time. 

She laughs, but it’s not her normal laugh. It’s tinny and a little bitter. He pushes his luck, and reaches out to brush the side of her face, moving the hair but still holding her face. Her breath smells like strawberry wine and temptation. 

It feels different tonight. Low light and tension that could be sliced with wire. Every part of her is in reach, and something in the air makes all of this talk of relativity, of physics, moot. 

Like maybe he’s not in the only world they don’t end up together. 

Her face is warm and soft under his touch and he loves the sight of her. He’s never touched her like this. Every point of contact feels electric, addicting. 

“What is it? The Ben thing?” He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to hear. What he wants, is for her to tell him that it doesn’t matter anymore, that she picks him-

“I only went out with him the once.��

“What?”

“I told Penelope I was still going because it made her happy and she said I couldn’t keep going to your apartment and reading you poetry and call that romance.”

Romance? 

Wasn’t it romance, though? 

Her eyes widen in something akin to horror. 

“Shit, Spence- I’m sorry, that is so fucked of me to say-“

“You,” he tries to say calmly, “aren’t going out with Ben.”

She blinks. 

“No?”

He has spent so much time living in other lives, existing in the minds of versions of himself he wasn’t lucky enough to be. Drinking coffee imagine a life colored in her presence, falling asleep yearning for the presence of something lighter than what he has to carry. 

He can’t exist in two places. That was the entire basis of the experiment. 

He moves his other hand to hold hers, and somehow she’s shifted to being on top of him, and he looks up at her with unwavering desire. 

Spencer isn’t good at wanting people, but it comes naturally with her. Less of an action and more an urge, a course of motion to which he is at the mercy of. This is what leads him to close the gap between them, and kiss her. It’s 

Her delicate fingers run through his hair, and she can’t be close enough, please, and he could spend the rest of his life kissing her, actually. He probably will spend the rest of his life thinking about the soft sigh he pulls out of her. 

“I want it to be me,” he manages to say through shallow breath, still so close that his lips brush hers every other word, “I want to be the one you pick. I want it to be me.” His hazel eyes seem to shift in the moment, swirling with emotion. 

She brushes a lock of his overgrown hair out of his face. He normally shaves when he sees her, but he’d been so busy that he’d forgotten, and felt embarrassed of it now. That is, until she runs her index finger along the edge of his jawline.

It’s then she leans down and kisses him again, pliant and good, his hands around her waist. He breathes a prayer into her mouth, one that hopes that she never ever comes to her senses about him. 

“Spence,” she says, her voice golden silk, a kindness.  “There was never anyone else to pick.” 

[partofmultifandoms]

hello pt 2. got me giggling and kicking my feet 🤭🤭🤭

Spencer Reid x gender neutral!reader

A/N: the end of this one is loosely inspired by Bridget Jones bc Im ovulating x

Gentleman

Since the day you joined the team, you have made it your mission to consistently go out of your way to show Spencer Reid just how much he means to you. The more you’ve come to know him, the more personal your gestures have become, the more sentiment you are capable of hand delivering. By nature, you are a thoughtful person, but the second you were introduced to Spencer, you could see how little regard he had for himself, for treating himself kindly, for any amount of mistreatment that continued to beat him down - and you decided that it was your job, above all else, to show him how wonderful he truly was, the kindness he deserved to receive. 

Whether it be memorizing and delivering his preferred coffee order every morning, surprising him with chocolate and sprinkle-covered donuts, always backing him up in every circumstance - no matter how unserious, always jumping to his defense, always checking in with him, consistently inviting him out for small events that you know he’d enjoy; the list only goes on. And in the wake of your endless list of sentimental gestures, to Doctor Spencer Reid, you are nothing short of an angel. His own, personal, blessing. 

For some time, Spencer has been debating asking you whether you would consider developing your relationship beyond the wonderful friendship you have established, whether you had ever pondered the idea of, perhaps, going on a date with him, sometime, wherever and whenever you wanted. The fear of rejection and the fear of ruining the bliss that is his bond with you, has forced Spencer to continually back out of confessing to you, but with every passing day, you show him just how good life can be and he has no choice but to fall for you even further.

Today is his mother’s birthday, so naturally he has booked it as a holiday from work to spend with her. Upon entering her room, he finds her cooing over a huge bouquet of orange tulips. Pausing in her doorway, Spencer takes a moment to ingrain the image in his mind, to treasure a few precious seconds of his mother smiling in a daze over her favorite flowers, before he steps inside. 

“Hey Mom, happy birthday.” He greets her quietly, hoping not to disturb her. 

She doesn’t say anything, just looks over her shoulder with the same smile on her face. 

Strolling over to stand beside her, he examines the bouquet. “Who gave you these, hmm? They’re beautiful.” He says softly, gently pulling apart a few of the stems to retrieve a small note that only has ‘Happy Birthday Diana x’ written on it.

There is no name signed on the note, but Spencer feels his heart skipping a beat as his eyes scan the little piece of paper, because he recognises the handwriting quicker than he would his own. Though the realization very nearly kills him where he stands, he has no choice but to push it to the back of his mind and prioritize spending the day with his mother, but he finds her glancing over at the bouquet almost as often as he does, sharing a fond smile; hers for the flowers themselves, him for their sender.

That evening, as the sun sets, he finds himself waiting on an all too familiar doorstep with a bouquet of someone else’s favorite flowers in his hands. He wonders if he has arrived a little too early, understanding better than most how late you could arrive home from work, but thanks to a text from Penelope, he knows the team haven’t left on a case today. 

Much to Spencer’s relief, he is only fidgeting idly and tapping his shoes against your doorstep for an hour before your car pulls into your driveway. From beyond the windscreen, he sees you light up at the sight of him, switching your engine off and gathering your things as quickly as possible to scramble out of the car. 

“Spencer! How are you? How is your mom? I hope you both had the most wonderful day!” You chime, speeding over to the door and instinctively opening your arms to pull him into a hug, but faltering when you see the flowers. “What’s this?”

Spencer takes a deep breath. “It’s a thank you, or the start of one.”

You frown, your arms falling to your sides. “Spencer, you never need to thank me, not for-”

He shakes his head, stopping you in your tracks. “Believe me, just one bouquet is not enough to thank you for everything you’ve done for me, for the person that you are, but I hope these are a start.” He holds the flowers out to you and with a soft smile, you take them from him.

“Thank you.” 

“Thank you!” Spencer corrects you. “For everything, every moment you’ve spent with me, every word you’ve ever said to me, every smile you’ve ever given me- Thank you for the flowers you sent my mom, I have never known anyone who would think to do something so incredibly kind. Most of all, I want to thank you for taking such good care of my heart ever since the day we met, when you stole it right out of my chest.” 

Tears sting your eyes at his words, his gratitude and the feelings that pour so freely from his lips after so long, the sentiments you have been desperate to hear from the moment you first saw him. 

“Spencer, you really, really don’t need to thank me for anything, but for the sake of agreeing to disagree, you are welcome. And, for the record, it is an honor to take care of your heart. Thank you for letting me borrow it.” You say, voice gentle, somewhat afraid of the potential desire he may have to create some distance between you, having realized how close the two of you actually are.

“Oh, I don’t want it back. Not ever, in fact. Not having a heart does have its drawbacks, though, so, if you are happy to keep ahold of mine, would you do me the honor of letting me take care of yours in return?” Spencer asks, a playful smile on his face that you are more than happy to return.

“My, my, I never thought the day would come when I would know something that the smartest man in the world doesn’t!” You grin at him, his own smile widening with yours, urging you to continue. “Spencer, my heart ran from me and straight to you the second I laid eyes on you.”

As your words sink in, his jaw drops slightly, as though genuinely in disbelief at how obvious your feelings for each other have been since the start. 

A blissful eternity of comfortable silence passes before the genius can find the words he wants to say. 

“Well, if I have had your heart all this time, in the same way you’ve had mine, I can’t really take care of your heart as thanks, as I’ve apparently been doing that already.” His voice is hoarse, still coming to terms with the fact that you really do reciprocate his feelings for you.

“So, where does that leave us?” You ask, a teasing tone lacing your words.

“I believe it leaves us here, on your porch, with me afraid to ask you a question.” He answers matter-of-factly.

You chuckle up at him. “Spencer, you don’t ever have to be afraid of asking me anything.” 

He swallows nervously, nodding at you before avoiding your eyes and clearing his throat. In his heart, Spencer knows you are right, you usually are, especially when it comes to him, but unfortunately that does little to build his confidence in asking you such a question. Still, he has come this far, he knows he will never be able to sleep again if he backs out this time. Taking a second to compose himself, he lifts his head to meet your patient smile again. 

“May I kiss you?” 

His question hangs in the air, asked so quietly he wonders if you even heard him, but in truth he knows that regardless of the volume, you would have read his lips and understood him immediately. He was, is and continues to be your favorite book to study.

You are smiling so hard your face hurts, but you don’t care at all. Quite frankly, nothing matters in this moment except for the question Spencer just asked you. And after the confidence he conjured to put that request to you, who are you to deny him?

“Of course you can, whenever and wherever you like.” You answer, just as quietly as he had posed his question. 

Spencer’s stomach somersaults as he takes the one step required to close the space between you, relishing every microsecond that it takes to lift his hands and cup your face, stare into your very soul closer than he ever has before. Closing his eyes, the image of you remains as clear as day, so ingrained in his mind that on the rare occasion something else is at the forefront of his thoughts, you are always in the background, like his favorite song that plays continually, serving as the soundtrack to his life. He leans in and is surprised when he meets your lips half a second earlier than anticipated. When Spencer concludes another half a second later that you have stood on your tiptoes to meet him in his descent to your lips, his heart flutters in his chest. He feels your hands holding his against your face, then lifting to run through his curls, tugging gently at them as his own hands lower to your waist, effortlessly guiding you back until you are against your front door. Butterflies and fireworks of every color swirl in and around the two of you, encapsulating you in your own isolated universe, safe and tucked away from anything and everything else, save for thoughts of each other and every unsaid word that can now be told in a language the two of you have never known before. As the kiss deepens, your passion for each other raising the stakes of the situation substantially and the tension making it difficult for either of you to breathe. 

Pulling away from Spencer just enough to see his face, you make a breathless observation. “Hold on a minute, gentlemen don’t kiss like that.”

Chuckling darkly, he rests his forehead against yours. “Speaking as a profiler as well as a gentleman, I can assure you that I am very much capable of reading your body language and kissing you in accordance with whatever your body asks of me.”

Managing to regain control of your breathing, you nod your head against his. “Speaking as a profiler as well as someone that knows you incredibly well, I don’t doubt that for a single second, Doctor Reid.”

Smirking, Spencer lowers his head to brush his lips against yours, breath fanning your face and raising goosebumps in his wake. 

“Good.”

[partofmultifandoms]

hello

“i’m going to ruin your life without breaking a single law.”

and

“you were his favorite study…”

are you kidding me rn. 🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

post-prison Spencer Reid x she/her!reader

WARNING: references to an abusive relationship but no graphic descriptions

If You Ask

For the months that Doctor Spencer Reid spent in prison, his guiding light was thoughts of you. It was a form of enlightenment, he concluded, that regardless of how dark his days and his mind got, surrounded by grey walls and people that truly hated him, one thought of you was the only anaesthetic he needed to help him sleep.

He understood the psychology of dreams, but it took him sometime to admit to himself what exactly his subconscious was trying to tell him when each and every night, he dreamt of seeing you walk into the office and greeting him with a smile, or sitting beside you on the jet, or standing beside you at the coffee machine. Spencer’s favourite dreams were memories stored in his subconscious of the kindest things you’d said to him, he would often wake up in his cell with tears on his face because the anguish of waking up and coming to terms with the same reality of not being able to see you was simply too much to bare.

The grey that surrounded him had been the worst thing to face every morning, because you filled his life with so much colour from the moment you met him.

Two days after Spencer’s 25th birthday, you had sped into the office particularly early, in quite the rush. Spencer had to do a double take when he saw you, not only because you were running at him, but also because you were wearing some brown corduroy dungarees with sunflowers embroidered on them and a white t-shirt underneath, a bright smile on your face despite the fact you had never seen Spencer before.

“Good morning!” You had said, breathless.

Spencer couldn’t withhold the smile that you brought to his face. “Good morning, I’m Doctor Spencer Reid…who are you?” He asked, trying to speak as gently as possible because he honestly feared the slightest harsh tone would dampen the sunshine you brought.

“Hello Doctor Reid! I’m (Y/N), I’m starting today but, uh, I hoped I’d be here before everybody else, just to get my bearings- not that it’s a bad thing that you’re here, of course! Sorry, it’s really nice to meet you!” You rambled sweetly, before holding your hand out to him.

Spencer gave you his usual nervous smile and wave. “The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering, it’s actually safer to kiss.” He recited, but as the weight of his words dawned him, his cheeks flushed pink, having not thought about how much he would like the sound of the latter.

He expected an awkward reaction from you, as that was what he usually received, but instead, you giggled, as you retracted your hand to dig through your handbag and retrieve some hand sanitiser. Once you had rubbed the cleansing fluid into your hands as thoroughly as you could, you smiled at Spencer, not a trace of sarcasm or malice in your eyes.

“Does that make you more comfortable with shaking my head, rather than kissing me? We have only just met, after all. If you still feel like kissing me when you actually know me, all you’ve got to do is ask.” You grinned at him, holding your hand out to him again, and with a bright smile, Spencer shook it. 

The team had spent years teasing Spencer about how obvious his feelings for you were, forever telling him that he should *just* ask you out, as though that was a casual request and not a terrifying, life-altering question. He had never felt more confronted by his own feelings than he did when he was stuck in a cell and could only focus on what he would say to you when he did get out. 

He thought about all the times you had complimented him so obviously and how he wished he had swept you off your feet in a kiss each and every time, how you had asked him every time you wanted to hug him whether he would be comfortable with it and how he should have just told you that you were always the exception to his usual discomfort towards physical contact, how you never failed to laugh at his jokes or back him up when the team tried to tease him for the things he knew that you only ever found to be fascinating. Spencer knew that he had always appreciated you, he had never pushed you away or been cruel to you, he had simply been too scared to ever progress your relationship in the way he had desperately wanted to.

Unfortunately, when Spencer *did* get out of prison, he immediately made a horrifying discovery. Spencer’s profiling instincts were screaming at him from the moment he returned to the office, seeing you in darker, longer clothes, instead of your usual bright and colourful ones that he was forever complimenting you on. To the man that knew you better than anyone, the bags under your eyes were only one of many signs that you were exhausted, emotionally and physically, and that something was very, very wrong.

He stood at the office entrance for a while, watching as you seemingly instinctively brought a coffee to his desk, which was absolutely covered in sticky notes. The top, sides and back, from what he could see, every square inch was covered, save for the space that you seemed to save to set his coffee down, despite not knowing the exact date he was due to be released, you always made him one, just in case. He watched as you wrote on a new sticky note and found a place on his desk to attach it, then disappeared to the staff bathroom with tears in your eyes.

Of course, you had still been overjoyed to see him standing at his desk and drinking the coffee you had made him, reading the dated sticky notes you had written him, telling him everyday that you were thinking of him, missing him, wishing he was here, sometimes referencing specific memories or inside-jokes between you that you had thought of that day. It was the most beautiful gesture he had ever seen. You had run into his arms, and the two of you had cried into each other with nothing to say, too overwhelmed by the simple feeling of being back together, but there was something in the way, an invisible barrier in front of you that had not been there before. 

Once he had calmed you down and wiped the last of your tears, Spencer had met with Emily Prentiss in her office with a stern frown.

“What happened?” He had asked bluntly, needing to know whether it was something that had happened on a case or something outside of work so that he could formulate a plan to lift that invisible barrier and remind you that he was here, he was back, for you above anything else.

Emily had sighed. “She’s been...lost. Since the day you left, she hasn’t been herself, but when she started seeing this guy, things got so much worse.”

That sentence alone was enough to shatter Spencer’s heart, but when Emily went into grave detail about the number of times you’d found a quiet place to cry while on cases or in the office, the way you had retreated into yourself and would no longer sit with anyone on the jet, just staring out of the window until you were back on the ground; Spencer felt every fragment of his heart sink lower than he thought possible. 

That evening, there was a knock at your front door. You rubbed your puffy eyes and wiped your tears as you opened the door, immediately appearing like a deer in headlights because Spencer Reid was on your doorstep. Images of him through the years you’ve known him with different haircuts and expressions, standing on that very doorstep, flashed in your mind, before you could settle on the present version of him standing there. The look on his face and the way your eyes darted down both sides of the street before you spoke to him, communicated very clearly to both of you that this was *not* to be like any night you’d spent watching movies together, cuddled up on your couch.

“Is he here?” Spencer asked bluntly. 

You blinked rapidly, though you shouldn’t have been surprised that he already knew. “N-No.”

He had never heard you speak to him so timidly. It was more painful than every injury he sustained in prison. “Is he going to be?” Spencer rephrased his question, and as soon as you nodded, Spencer gestured inside your home. “May I come in?”

Despite the fear that was clearly eating away at you, you trailed into your home and Spencer followed, closing and locking your front door before following you into your living room, where you had cowered in a corner of the very couch that was once a comforting place for the two of you to wordlessly express your love for each other.

Spencer grabbed a chair and slowly moved it to sit in front of you, not wanting to startle you in your fragile state. Your hands were bundled up in the long sleeves of your sweater, which swallowed most of you. Spencer held your gaze, a sincerity in his eyes that was so familiar to you, you didn’t have the strength to avoid it.

“If you don’t want to talk, you don’t have to, just give me one answer- and you don’t even have to say it, you can nod, shake your head, whatever is most comfortable for you, is that alright?” Spencer was speaking as gently as he could, wanting to remind you that you were always, always safe with him.

Clinging to his every word, you nodded, and Spencer nodded back at you.

“Do you want me to make sure he doesn’t come back?” 

The question was a weighted one and unclear in its exact implications, but as you stared into Spencer’s eyes, you knew he meant every syllable more than he had ever meant anything in his life. 

As you lifted your head to nod, there was a sound of your front door unlocking, and you froze. Tears stung your eyes as you frantically glanced from Spencer to the living room doorway and, having lost the ability to answer in the way you had intended, you rolled your long sleeve up to show Spencer the deep purple, fingerprint shaped bruises that gripped your forearm. 

Spencer gave you one, final nod, before he stood up in front of you and turned to the doorway. Your human shield.

Seconds later, some poor excuse for a man strolled into your living room, his own key dangling from his hands. His beady eyes locked onto you, then slowly travelled up the tall form that stood between you and him, a very visible barrier. 

“The hell’s this?” There was an edge to the creature’s voice as he spoke to you and Spencer immediately decided he would wipe this man off of the face of the earth for speaking to you like that. 

Though Spencer couldn’t see you, he could all but feel the way you trembled behind him, too afraid to answer. 

With his hands in his pockets, his steely gaze forced the creature to avoid his eyes. “Doctor Spencer Reid. Who are you?”

The sleaze scoffed, trying to peak around Spencer to look at you, but Spencer adjusted his stance to block him out again. If there had ever been someone undeserving to be allowed the privilege of looking at you, it was the only other man in your living room.

“This is Spencer?” He laughed. “Nowhere near as impressive as you made him out to be, (Y/N)!”

Spencer tilted his head to the side, deducing everything he could from that fool. “Do you truly believe that everyone you meet exists solely to impress you, or is your inflated ego damaging your understanding of other people and the lives they have that will never have anything to do with you?”

Finally, the creature seemed to address Spencer directly. “What did you say to me?”

Spencer stood up straight, crossing his arms over his chest. “My apologies, allow me to rephrase my understanding in a way that a brain as underdeveloped as yours can comprehend: The majority of the people on this planet don’t know or care about you or any of your opinions and the fact that you assume I do is very telling about the kind of person you are, along with your inability to look me in the eye making it incredibly obvious that the ego previously referenced entirely rests on tearing down those around you. Had you kept that problematic behaviour under wraps, perhaps you’d be lucky enough not to cross paths with me, but you just couldn’t resist harming the only person that makes the pain of being a good person, worth it to me. Now, I have no motivation to pity you or divulge the empathy that she inspires in me, so what happens next is entirely your own doing.” 

Not giving the idiot any time to respond, Spencer lifted his phone to his ear. “Garcia? Yeah, we were right, go ahead.” With that, he hung up and slipped his phone back in his pocket, frowning at the creature once again. “If it’s any consolation to your ego, the cop car that the team will be bringing with them when they arrive in 10 minutes will be here especially for you. We took the liberty of digging up your sealed records, Adam - I hope you don’t mind me using the name you failed to give me in person, but it’s important to acknowledge that the evidence we have on you has your name all over it - and you are going to be locked away for as long as I can make possible. When you get out, I’ll be watching you for the rest of your life to make certain that no job you ever get is capable of sustaining you in the long term and that every person you ever have more than one passing conversation with is sent a direct copy of your criminal history. I’ve also registered you to over 100 charities dedicated to helping survivors of abuse, totalling at least 50% of your total income, and if I were you, I’d never stop those donations, because our technical analyst is keeping tabs on those. For the pain you have caused (Y/N) during the time I’ve been away, I am going to ruin the rest of your life without breaking a single law.”

The rage contained between the two men was very different. Adam made his anger obvious to try and scare you and intimidate Spencer; at which, he failed miserably. Spencer, on the other hand, was as cold as ice, every sentence further salt to the wounds he had already inflicted. 

The idiot actually took a step towards Spencer, then, in an attempt to frighten him, but when Spencer took the two strides necessary to stand toe to toe with him and stare him down, Adam realized his mistake, only made clearer by Spencer’s next words.

“Please, give me a reason to break something other than a law. If you think I won't go back to prison, for her, you really are the most unintelligent excuse for a human being I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.” Spencer’s voice was hauntingly low. 

In the distance, sirens could be heard, and Spencer held a hand out behind him. “(Y/N), would you mind if I took the trash out?” 

He asked you, not lifting his steely gaze from Adam. Leaning forward, you took hold of Spencer’s hand and gave it a squeeze, bringing the first smile to Spencer’s face that he felt in his heart since he went to prison. 

He squeezed your hand back, so gently, then abruptly let go to grab the back of Adam’s collar and throw him down, using his grip to drag him out of your home and kick him onto the street.

“I will be right behind you, wherever you go, everyday for the rest of your life. If you ever so much as *think* of her again, after what you did to her, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.” Spencer threatened with an eerily calm voice, safe to do so because you were out of earshot. 

Adam sputtered from his place on the ground, where he belonged, and as the police car pulled up outside of your house, Spencer speed walked back through your front door and into your living room, finding you sobbing into your hands. That sight broke his heart more than anything else could ever hope to try.

Spencer crouched down in front of where you sat on the couch, his chest aching. “Sweetheart, please, look at me, I’m right here.” He told you, his voice so sincere it almost hurt you to hear. 

Slowly lowering your hands from your face, Spencer didn't hesitate to hold them in his own, rolling your sleeves up enough to hold your hands in his.

“I’m s-so sorry, Spencer, I never should have-” You began, but Spencer shook his head, not about to let you blame yourself for any of this.

“You have nothing to apologize for, (Y/N), I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help you sooner. I’m so sorry that I was gone for so long.” He apologized, knowing that he had gone to jail for the right reasons, but having never intended to hurt you by doing so.

The gravity of his absence and what he could have gone through in prison caused your bottom lip tremble and before Spencer could register what you were doing, you crawled from the couch to his lap, the two of you sitting on the floor and holding each other so tightly, shattering whatever invisible barrier had come between you.

“I thought about you all the time.” He sniffled into your shoulder as he held you, enveloped by the familiar scent of you, of his home. 

You cried harder at the thought of Spencer missing you so much, being so far away, while you were missing him just as much in a world that was truly dead in his absence. 

“I’m sure that you noticed, but your desk was exactly as you left it, save for the sticky notes. I…wouldn’t let any of the cleaners tidy it, I did it everyday, making sure that everything was left exactly as you’d last used it, so that it was like you were there only yesterday.” You chuckled bashfully through your tears, absentmindedly playing with Spencer’s hair to calm him. 

Spencer managed to laugh with you. “I did notice, yes, and that was ridiculously sweet of you, along with the notes.”

Pulling away from him slightly, you hold his face in your hands. “I think your absence may have created an unhealthy co-dependency, going forward.”

Spencer smiled at you. “I couldn’t agree more.”

You giggled at that, his absolute favourite sound since the day you met. “I don’t mind.”

Spencer couldn’t stop himself from grinning, the two of you having fallen right back into the bond you had before he went to prison, like nothing had ever separated you.

“Me neither.” He said, both of you all too aware of the fact you are going to be attached at the hip from now on.

You grinned at him then, and it was like the sunshine peeking through clouds that had filled his skies for far too long. “I’ve been waiting over a decade for you to ask me something, Doctor Reid, and I know your magical memory hasn’t forgotten.”

Immediately, he knew exactly what you were referring to, of course he did. His brain was finely tuned to you, always able to decipher every subtext to everything you said and did, you were his favourite study in the universe, after all.

His heart skipped a beat at your reference and he couldn’t believe it, but he gulped, like he was the boy he was on the day you met, blushing at the thought of getting to kiss you someday.

“Are you sure?” Spencer asked, not questioning whether you were sure he would remember, because you both knew he did, but whether you were certain you wanted him to ask. 

At that, you beamed at him. “Spencer, I’ve had over a decade to deliberate and my answer hasn’t changed since the day we met.”

And his heart soared at your words, it beat to life in a way that only you could make it, pounding against his chest.

“Then…” He cleared his throat, knowing it was now or never and he was not going to shy away from this, even if his face was flushed as he asked, “I do still feel like I would rather kiss you than shake your hand, so…may I?”

You didn’t give him a verbal answer. In fact, he had barely finished asking before you all but launched yourself at him, pulling Spencer’s lips to yours and kissing him like you really had been waiting your entire life to do it, because you absolutely had. Spencer’s hands found your hips and he kissed you back like a man starved, feeling the parts of him he never thought he would see again return to him, your kiss breathing life back into him and the look in your eyes as you pulled away from him telling him that when you looked at him, you could still see the boy he was on the day you met. He was still him, and always would be, to you.

It is safe to say, that was far from the only kiss you exchanged that night. Spencer had actually promised you that, despite it being scientifically improbable, he would kiss away every mark on your body left on you by a man that never deserved you, and he would only ever leave you with marks of love, if you asked very nicely.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine

[partofmultifandoms]

🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

Sonny Carisi:  Hold My Hand

Word Count:  2192

TW:  Fluff; pining; needle phobia.

To say that you intimidated Sonny Carisi was an understatement.  

You had worked together briefly in Brooklyn’s SVU (you had spent most of your career there, he had lasted almost a month) before you both – separately – transferred to Manhattan’s SVU.  Sonny only beat you by a week, so he was technically more senior, but no one bought that line – not even him.  

Keep reading

#sonny carisi #sonny carisi imagine #sonny carisi x reader #law and order svu #law and order svu fanfiction

[partofmultifandoms]

[partofmultifandoms]

[partofmultifandoms]

hello i hate roses so this whole thing was actually so me it was scary. 🤭❤️‍🩹

peonies

pairing: sonny carisi x fem!reader

word count: 1.5k

warnings: none

a/n: happy valentine’s day my friends!!! here is a cute lil Carisi fic that made me feel a lil less blah today. i love and appreciate you all so so much!

****

“Liv, I’m gonna bring these witness statements to Carisi before I head out. You need me to drop off anything else?”

“Nope, just those statements for him. And thank you for dropping them off, y/n. I can get home and spend some of the day with Noah.” You saw her put the chocolate heart in her bag, along with the dog stuffed animal she picked up from a vendor earlier today. 

Keep reading

[partofmultifandoms]

bye i’m crying. this was so comforting ❤️‍🩹

take a break

pairing: mike dodds x reader

word count: 1.1k

warnings: brief mentions of anxiety and coping mechanisms, pure mike dodds being supportive fluff

a/n: this is just some self indulgent, i guess hurt/comfort, but mostly just comfort. i spent 6 hours in front of a screen today doing homework and other work, so i needed to conjure something up with my brand. hope you all enjoy. also: i tagged some of my moots, and if you want to be tagged (or removed) for future svu boy fics, just let ya girl know. 

Keep reading

#mike dodds x reader #mike dodds fic #mike dodds #law and order svu #law and order svu fanfiction #mike dodds fanfiction

[partofmultifandoms]

(visibly shaking and covered in blood) yeah its just been kind of a long week haha

[partofmultifandoms]

i be like “i’m fine” then shake my leg 138mph

[partofmultifandoms]

i know it’s only december 1st but it’s also already december 1st and i didn’t find love in 2022 so i’m looking for the closest bridge 😐