After Rowley announces that his older (half-)sister, who lives quite far away and has never met the Heffleys, is going to visit him over the break Susan invites his family over for dinner. Her not being what Rodrick expects, he starts crushing, which results in him trying to impress her - failing horribly.
Math tutor (fem!Reader)
Rodrick is continuously unsuccessful in asking you out, so when he finds out that you are now tutoring his younger brother he decides to use this to his advantage. The only problem, Greg doesn't play along.
Sleepy kisses
You like giving your sleeping boyfriend kisses on the cheek. Your boyfriend likes receiving kisses on the cheek. But then Rodrick gets greedy.
Gareth Emerson x fem!Reader
Gareths totally real girlfriend
Gareth and you are in a long distance relationship, meeting for the first time since getting together. While he is excited, his friends doubt whether you are real or not.
Robin Buckley x fem!Reader
Maybe It's Enough
Robin thinks you don't like her back, so she encourages Steve to take you out on a date. You think Robin doesn't like you back, so you agree to let Steve take you out on a date.
Summary: When Steve's voice starts calling for help somewhere deep inside the Upside Down, your only instinct is to find him. That's exactly what Vecna is counting on.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, set around the events of season 4, psychological horror, canon-typical violence, anxiety, fear, fluff (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 8.3k
A/N: this one is HEAVILY inspired by a recent rewatch of hunger games: catching fire, specifically the scene with the jabberjays. this fic has been sat in my drafts, half-written, since, honestly, about march. i finally got round to finishing it this evening, and i feel incredibly proud of it. also probably not canon-accurate in any way, but we can all pretend. enjoy <3
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
The Upside Down is quieter than it has any right to be.
Not silent - never silent - but subdued in a way that feels almost expectant, as though the whole landscape is listening rather than breathing. Ash drifts lazily through the air, settling in your hair, your eyelashes, the shoulders of your jacket, while every now and then something groans somewhere overhead, the sound echoing through the skeletal remains of Hawkins before disappearing into the endless red-grey haze. Every shadow seems to linger a fraction longer than it should. Every abandoned house feels as though it's watching you back.
Nobody speaks unless they have to anymore. After everything that's happened over the past few years, you've all learnt that unnecessary noise rarely ends well in this place.
The six of you move carefully along what used to be a residential street, flashlights sweeping slowly across abandoned cars, collapsed fences and gardens swallowed whole by impossible roots. Your boots crunch through brittle leaves that never seem to decay, disturbing clouds of pale spores that drift lazily back towards the ground as though gravity itself behaves differently here. Somewhere nearby, something creaks - a long, drawn-out noise that could just as easily be an old house settling as something waking up - and without thinking, the entire group pauses for half a second before continuing on.
Nancy walks at the front, shotgun resting across one shoulder as she periodically unfolds the increasingly battered map tucked into her jacket pocket, comparing hastily scribbled landmarks against the warped streets around you. Robin stays close enough to mutter the occasional nervous observation whenever the silence starts pressing too heavily against her chest, her voice never quite loud enough to carry beyond the group. You fall into step just behind them, while Lucas and Max keep pace a few feet back and Mike brings up the rear, glancing over his shoulder often enough that it's obvious none of you are particularly comfortable being separated.
Splitting into two groups had been necessary.
Nobody had liked it.
Least of all, Steve.
Even now, you can still picture the expression he'd worn before you'd gone your separate ways, bat slung over one shoulder, jaw set so tightly you'd thought he might crack a tooth. Every instinct he possessed had been arguing against leaving you somewhere he couldn't immediately reach, and it had taken Nancy reminding him - twice - that covering more ground was the only way this plan stood a chance of working before he'd reluctantly given in.
"Yeah," he'd muttered, still unconvinced. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."
You'd smiled despite yourself, reaching across to squeeze his hand through the fingerless leather glove he refused to throw away, reminding him that if anyone in Hawkins knew how to survive the Upside Down by now, it was probably the woman standing in front of him.
That hadn't impressed him nearly as much as you'd hoped.
Instead, he'd simply sighed, stepped closer, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Dustin wasn't looking, and pressed a quick kiss against your forehead.
"Be careful."
"Always am."
"Liar."
You'd laughed, nudged his shoulder, and watched him disappear into the crimson mist with Dustin, Jonathan, Eddie, Will and Eleven until the trees had swallowed them completely.
That was maybe an hour ago. The memory still tugs at the corner of your mouth.
Until-
"...Hey."
The smile disappears instantly.
You stop so abruptly Robin almost walks straight into your back.
"What?" she asks, steadying herself with a hand against your shoulder.
You don't answer.
Your head turns slowly towards the trees to your left, every muscle in your body suddenly taut.
It isn't loud.
If anything, it's strangely distant, the sound drifting through the dead forest like smoke on the wind. For a heartbeat there's nothing else - only the soft hiss of spores falling through bare branches and the faint crackle of your flashlight.
Then it comes again.
"Hey!"
Closer this time.
Urgent.
"I'm over here!"
Your stomach drops so violently it almost hurts.
You would know that voice anywhere.
"Steve?"
The name leaves your mouth before you've consciously decided to say it.
Nancy's head snaps around immediately. "What?"
Before you can answer, the voice comes again.
"Honey."
The nickname punches the air from your lungs.
Nobody else calls you that.
Not Robin. Not Nancy. Not your parents.
Only Steve.
"Honey!"
There's something beneath it now that wasn't there before.
Fear.
Not the loud, frantic kind, but the tight, restrained panic of somebody desperately trying to keep themselves together. The kind of fear that makes your own pulse spike before you've even had time to think.
"I can't-"
The sentence breaks apart abruptly, swallowed by the trees.
Your heart lurches into your throat.
"Steve?!" you shout, already stepping forward. "Steve, where are you?!"
For a moment, the world answers with nothing.
Not even the ordinary silence of the Upside Down, but something heavier, stranger, as though the entire landscape has paused to listen.
Then, impossibly, the voice comes again.
Closer.
Close enough that you instinctively turn your head.
"Come find me..."
The words catch on a ragged breath before the final one arrives, quiet enough to almost disappear beneath the drifting ash.
"...Please."
Everything inside you seizes.
You've heard Steve angry before. Exhausted. Bleeding. Terrified enough to stand between monsters and children with nothing but a baseball bat clutched in white knuckles.
But you've almost never heard him sound helpless.
You don't think.
You run.
The forest surges towards you as your boots hammer across uneven ground, branches clawing at your sleeves while ash billows around your legs. Somewhere behind you, Nancy shouts your name, followed almost immediately by Robin yelling, "Wait!" but neither voice properly registers. Steve sounds hurt. Steve sounds alone. Steve needs you, and every instinct you possess drowns beneath that single overwhelming certainty.
"Steve!" you yell back, your voice tearing through the trees. "Steve, where are you?"
Nothing.
Then-
"Honey!"
Further ahead now.
You change direction immediately, scrambling over the twisted roots that split the road apart. He sounds closer this time. You can get to him. You just have to keep moving.
Behind you, Nancy's voice grows sharper.
"Wait!"
This time she's running too.
Robin isn't far behind, crashing through the undergrowth in your wake, and neither of them is trying to stop you anymore.
They're following. Because they'd heard him too.
Somewhere further back, confusion suddenly erupts.
"Wait - what's happening?" Mike calls.
"What are you doing?" Lucas shouts, his voice carrying faintly between the trees.
Max's follows a heartbeat later. "Guys?"
You never hear the answer.
The forest swallows their voices almost immediately, leaving only the pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears, your breathing growing harsher with every step, and somewhere ahead, drifting through the ash like a lifeline you can't bear to lose...
Steve.
Calling your name.
Nancy doesn't waste a second.
The moment you're swallowed by the trees, she snatches the walkie-talkie from her belt without breaking stride, thumbing the transmit button as she runs, branches whipping against her sleeves and catching in her hair while Robin struggles to keep pace beside her. Both of them are still searching desperately through the dead woodland for any glimpse of your torchlight, but you're already disappearing deeper into the crimson mist, moving far faster than either of them can hope to match.
"Dustin," Nancy says sharply, breathing hard between each word. "Dustin, come in."
For one agonising second, only static answers her, the familiar crackle hissing through the speaker loud enough to make her grip tighten instinctively around the radio. Robin glances sideways, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and fear, before Dustin's voice finally bursts through the interference.
"Nancy?" he says, sounding perfectly ordinary. "You guys okay?"
"No." Nancy doesn't even attempt to soften the answer. "Where's Steve?"
There's a pause.
"...What?"
"Dustin." Her voice is tighter now. "Where is Steve?"
Another beat passes before Dustin replies, and this time the confusion in his voice is unmistakable.
"...Uh..."
The radio crackles again.
"...He's here."
Nancy almost stumbles over an exposed root. "What?"
"I said he's here."
Robin's head snaps sharply towards her, eyes already widening as Nancy presses the walkie harder against her ear, convinced she'd simply misheard. "What do you mean he's there?"
"I mean..." Dustin sounds genuinely baffled now. "...he's standing right next to me."
There's the muffled sound of movement, someone taking the radio, and then Steve's voice comes through the speaker.
"Nance?"
The blood drains from Nancy's face.
"...What's going on?"
She stops so abruptly Robin nearly crashes into her shoulder before managing to catch herself, both of them standing motionless amongst the twisted trees as the impossible settles between them. For a long moment neither woman says anything, because the voice coming through the walkie is calm, confused, completely steady. It bears absolutely no resemblance to the terrified voice that had been echoing through the forest less than a minute ago.
"...Steve?" Nancy manages eventually.
"Yeah?"
"...Are you okay?"
"...Yeah."
"You sure?"
Steve lets out a small, bewildered laugh. "I mean... considering where we are? Sure enough."
Nancy looks at Robin. Robin looks back. Neither of them says it aloud, but they both reach the same impossible conclusion at exactly the same time.
Robin leans towards the radio first.
"...Steve." Her voice comes out far quieter than she'd intended. "...We just heard you."
Silence.
Nancy forces herself to continue. "You were yelling for help. You kept calling out and..." Her throat tightens painfully as she glances in the direction you'd disappeared. "...and she ran after you."
Another silence follows, longer this time, until Dustin finally breaks it.
"...What?"
Steve sounds equally lost. "...What yelling?"
Nancy can hear her own heartbeat now, loud enough that it almost drowns out the radio. "You were calling her name."
"I wasn't."
"You said-"
"I never said anything."
There's no hesitation in the reply. No uncertainty. No searching through his memory to make sure he hasn't forgotten. Steve says it with the absolute certainty of someone stating an indisputable fact.
"I never yelled."
The words settle over both groups like falling ash.
Nobody speaks.
Not Nancy. Not Robin. Not Dustin.
Even the radio seems to fall silent.
It is Robin who finally whispers the question none of them wants to ask.
"...Then who did we hear?"
Nobody has the chance to answer.
Very faintly, through the crackling speaker, another voice reaches the other group.
"Jonathan!"
Jonathan's head jerks upright on the other end of the radio. "Nancy?"
Again.
Closer this time.
"Jonathan!"
Jonathan is already moving before anyone can stop him.
"Nancy!" he shouts instinctively into the darkness. "Where are you?"
"No!" Nancy's voice tears through the walkie. "Jonathan, wait!"
He freezes mid-step.
"It's not me!"
The forest falls deathly quiet.
Jonathan lowers his flashlight by fractions, his eyes never leaving the darkness ahead, while beside him Steve has gone completely still, every muscle in his body suddenly taut.
Then the voice comes again.
"Jonathan..."
It sounds closer now.
More desperate.
"...Please."
Jonathan's face empties of colour.
"...That's..."
The sentence dies unfinished.
Chaos erupts almost immediately afterwards. Questions crash into one another from every direction, nobody waiting long enough for an answer before another voice cuts across it.
"What the hell is that?"
"How is it doing that?"
"It sounded exactly like-"
"Jonathan, don't move!"
"Steve, wait-"
Because Steve has already taken a step towards the sound.
Just one. Instinctive. Automatic. The sort of step you don't realise you've taken until somebody points it out.
Will's voice is so quiet at first that nobody hears him.
"...It's learning."
The panic rolls straight over the top of him. The radio continues crackling with overlapping voices while Steve stares into the trees, every instinct screaming at him to run after Jonathan before it's too late.
Will looks up.
"...Guys."
Still nobody listens.
Then, louder this time-
"It's learning!"
Everything stops.
Even Steve.
Will has gone frighteningly pale, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the trees as though he's finally recognised a pattern that's been sitting just beyond reach this whole time.
"It isn't just copying us."
Nobody interrupts him. Nobody even breathes.
"It's finding the voices we'll follow."
The words settle over the group with all the weight of a death sentence.
Steve feels something cold slide slowly down his spine as every conversation he's ever had in this place suddenly replays itself in his mind. Every frantic shout across a battlefield. Every nickname. Every desperate search through the dark. Every time someone had called Robin, Dustin, Nancy, Jonathan, Eddie, Max... every time somebody had shouted his own name, or called you Honey across a room without thinking.
The Upside Down had heard it all.
It had listened.
And somewhere, somehow, it had remembered.
Not simply the sounds of their voices, but the relationships behind them. The people those voices belonged to. The ones each of them would instinctively run towards without stopping to think.
It wasn't imitating them.
It was studying them.
The realisation lands with such force that Steve feels physically winded.
His head snaps towards the walkie.
"...Where is she?"
Nancy and Robin don't answer immediately. Instead they look at one another, horror spreading slowly across both their faces as they finally understand what had just happened. Robin is the one who finds her voice first, though it barely rises above a whisper.
"...She went after the voice."
Steve doesn't wait for another word.
He tears into the trees at a sprint, Dustin and Jonathan following without hesitation while Eddie, Will and Eleven race after them. Behind him, Nancy forces herself back into motion as well, raising the walkie while she runs.
"East," she says breathlessly. "She headed east, towards the old woods. She thought..." Her voice catches for the briefest moment before she forces the words out. "...she thought she was coming to you."
Steve doesn't answer.
He can't.
Because only one thought is repeating over and over in his head now, louder than his own footsteps, louder than the pounding of his heart, louder than the forest rushing past him.
It knew you'd come.
Steve is moving before Nancy has even finished giving the direction.
"...East-"
It's the only word he hears.
His boots are already pounding across broken tarmac before his mind has caught up with the decision, the walkie still crackling uselessly somewhere behind him as Eddie swears, Jonathan shouts something he doesn't quite catch, and somebody - maybe Dustin - is barking for everyone to stay together. It barely registers. As far as Steve is concerned, he is staying together. You're out there somewhere, alone in a place that has just learnt exactly how to separate people from the ones they love, and everything else falls away beneath that single, brutal certainty. The plan, the map Nancy had spent hours drawing, the routes they'd carefully agreed to follow, even Vecna himself - all of it is pushed aside by one overwhelming instinct. You are alone, and he has to get to you.
He tears through the dead woodland without slowing, branches whipping violently across his face and shoulders, leaving thin scratches he doesn't even feel as they catch against his jacket. Thick vines snake across the forest floor, looping around his boots often enough that he nearly loses his footing twice, while ash swirls through the beam of his flashlight so densely that the trees seem to dissolve into shifting silhouettes before reforming again.
Every movement in the corner of his vision demands a second glance he doesn't have time to give. Every twisted trunk looks like somebody standing just beyond the light until he gets close enough to realise it's only another dead tree.
"Honey!"
His voice tears through the forest, louder than he intends, echoing strangely through the endless stillness before disappearing into the red-grey haze.
Nothing.
He doesn't hesitate.
"Honey!"
Again, only silence answers him. Not true silence - the Upside Down is never truly silent - but the slow groan of old trees, the distant crackle of vines shifting somewhere beyond the flashlight beam, the soft hiss of ash drifting endlessly from a sky that has forgotten what daylight looks like.
Less than two minutes ago, something in this place had been shouting your name over and over again, loud enough to pull you halfway across the forest without a second thought.
Now...
Nothing.
The silence feels deliberate somehow, as though the Upside Down has already said everything it needed to say.
Steve runs harder.
He can hear the others crashing through the undergrowth somewhere behind him, Dustin already beginning to fall behind while Jonathan stubbornly refuses to let him disappear entirely from sight, but they're little more than background noise now.
His own heartbeat pounds so violently against his ribs that it drowns almost everything else out, each breath burning harder than the last as one thought repeats over and over with desperate, unbearable simplicity.
Please answer.
Please.
Please-
A scream tears through the forest.
Steve stops breathing.
It isn't his name.
It isn't even words.
It's one raw, involuntary cry, ripped straight from somebody's chest before cutting off so abruptly it feels as though the air itself has been stolen away mid-breath.
His stomach drops.
Not because he recognises the voice, though he does immediately.
Because he recognises the fear.
The voices that had lured you away had been almost unnervingly perfect. They'd sounded exactly like him, exactly like Nancy, every sentence carefully chosen, every plea just convincing enough to override reason. Looking back, they were almost too perfect, polished in a way real panic never is.
This...
This isn't like that.
This scream isn't performed.
It isn't trying to imitate terror.
It is terror.
"Hurry!" he shouts to the others behind him, though he barely realises the words have left his mouth.
He changes direction instantly, boots skidding across loose earth as he throws himself towards the sound with reckless desperation. Branches claw at his sleeves, vines wrap around his ankles, ash blinds him for a heartbeat at a time, but none of it is enough to slow him down. Every instinct in his body is screaming that he is running out of time, and he pushes harder, lungs burning, muscles protesting, the forest seeming to resist every step as though it doesn't want him reaching you.
Then, without warning, the trees fall away.
Steve bursts into the clearing so fast he almost loses his footing entirely, stopping so abruptly that Dustin crashes into his back a second later before Jonathan catches them both.
Nobody moves.
Nobody speaks.
Even the forest seems to hold its breath.
You're suspended several feet above the ground.
Your head is thrown back so far it looks painful, your eyes rolled white beneath half-closed lids, arms drifting slowly outwards as though invisible hands are pulling them wider inch by inch. Your feet hang limp beneath you, toes barely disturbing the ash swirling below, while your fingers twitch and curl into impossible, unnatural shapes that Steve has seen once before and prayed he'd never have to witness again.
His mind doesn't even need a second to make the connection.
Another girl.
Another impossible choice.
Another body floating helplessly beneath a blood-red sky.
Max.
"Oh, God..."
The words escape him before he realises he's spoken them.
Everything inside him turns to ice.
No.
No.
God, no.
He's too late.
By the time Nancy reaches the clearing, Robin is only a step behind her, the others close on their heels, all of them arriving breathless enough that the sight before them steals what little air they had left.
Dustin reaches for Steve's arm instinctively, fingers wrapping around his sleeve before he even seems to realise he's done it, while Robin says your name just once, so quietly it barely sounds like a word at all. It comes out as disbelief more than anything else, as though saying it aloud might somehow make what she's looking at impossible. Lucas swears under his breath, a sharp, horrified sound swallowed almost immediately by the dead forest, and Nancy doesn't waste a second. Panic has always made her practical. She's already scanning the clearing, already looking for an answer, already searching for something - anything - they can still do.
Everyone is talking at once.
"What do we do?"
"Get her down!"
"El-"
"Steve!"
"The music-"
The voices blur together into meaningless noise. Steve hears them, but they never quite become words. His entire world has narrowed to the impossible image hanging in front of him.
To you.
Your head is still thrown back unnaturally, your body suspended several feet above the ash-covered ground, but then he notices something that turns his blood to ice.
Your lips are moving.
Slowly.
Almost conversationally.
As though you're talking to somebody standing right in front of you.
No sound comes out.
For one terrible, endless moment, Steve feels completely useless.
He has always known what to do. Swing the bat. Get between the monster and the kids. Buy everybody enough time to run. Keep moving until the danger passes. Even when he was terrified, there had always been something practical to hold onto, some action that made fear feel manageable.
Now...
There is nothing.
He takes one step forward, instinctively positioning himself beneath you before stopping again, his hands lifting helplessly as though he might somehow be able to catch you despite the impossible distance between you. Every instinct tells him to reach for you, to pull you back, to fix this somehow, but he can't even touch you.
His gaze flicks desperately towards Eleven, searching her face for reassurance she doesn't have, and for the first time since this nightmare began, he realises he genuinely has no idea what he's supposed to do.
Then something clicks.
The backpack. His backpack.
Before anyone can even finish shouting over one another, Steve is already dropping to his knees, wrenching the zip open with shaking hands and throwing supplies blindly into the ash as he searches. Flashlights. Rope. Spare batteries. Bandages. Everything he'd packed because somebody might need it. Dustin starts to ask what he's doing, but Steve barely hears him.
His fingers close around cold plastic.
The Walkman.
Hidden beneath spare ammunition and first-aid supplies is the cassette he'd tucked away weeks ago without ever mentioning it to you, your favourite album carefully rewound and ready to play.
He'd packed it after Max. Quietly. Secretly. Not because he'd expected to use it, but because the idea of ever standing helplessly beside another person he loved without at least trying had become unbearable.
Of course he'd brought it.
Of course he had.
Somewhere else, somewhere that doesn't feel like a place so much as a memory that's forgotten how to end, you are running.
The world around you is wrong in ways your mind can't quite untangle. Streets fold into childhood bedrooms, school corridors open into empty forests, and every familiar place seems to shift the moment you look away from it, rearranging itself into something almost recognisable before slipping just beyond understanding again.
Faces appear in the distance - people you love, people you've known your whole life - but something about them feels subtly, nauseatingly off. Their smiles linger too long. Their eyes don't quite meet yours. Their voices sound as though they're being remembered by someone who has never actually spoken to them.
Ahead of you, Steve appears between two dead trees.
He smiles.
He lifts a hand.
"Come here."
Relief floods through you so suddenly your legs almost buckle.
You take one step-
The image tears apart like paper caught in a fire.
The smile vanishes.
The trees dissolve into darkness.
And from somewhere beyond the endless red horizon, something begins to move.
Vecna emerges slowly, impossibly tall against the crimson landscape, each measured step echoing through the empty expanse until the sound seems to come from every direction at once.
He doesn't hurry. He doesn't need to.
One grotesquely elongated hand stretches towards you, fingers unfurling with terrifying patience, while his voice settles around you like smoke.
"You've always been so willing to follow."
You stumble backwards.
He keeps coming.
"There was never any question."
His hand reaches your face.
Long fingers press gently against your temple.
Your vision whites out.
Back in the Upside Down, your body jerks violently.
Robin gasps.
Steve looks up just in time to see you rise higher, another few feet lifting you into the air until you're suspended almost twelve feet above the ground, your arms beginning to spread wider as though invisible vines are pulling every joint apart one careful inch at a time.
The cassette clicks into place.
Music erupts from the tiny portable speaker, far too small for a clearing this large, the sound fighting desperately against the endless groan of the Upside Down.
Nothing happens.
Steve turns the volume higher.
Still nothing.
It can't have been more than a minute.
It feels like hours.
He stares up at you, desperately searching for any sign that you've heard it - that your fingers twitched differently, that your breathing changed, that something, anything, reached you - but your expression never changes.
Around him, nobody says it aloud.
Nobody has to.
They're all thinking exactly the same thing.
They're losing you.
Inside the vision, everything begins to unravel.
Your memories spill around you in broken fragments, recognisable enough to hurt but twisted just enough to become unbearable.
Steve turns away from you without looking back.
Robin laughs as she walks past, pretending not to know your name.
Empty rooms stretch endlessly before you, years of your life collapsing into quiet apartments where nobody ever comes to visit, birthdays forgotten, phone calls unanswered, photographs fading one by one until every face disappears.
You try to run.
The world doesn't let you.
Invisible vines wrap themselves tighter around your ribs every time you struggle, stealing each breath before it can properly fill your lungs.
"I told you," Vecna's voice murmurs somewhere behind you, everywhere at once. "Nobody ever loved you."
The memory changes.
Steve smiles sadly.
"I just felt sorry for you."
Another.
You watch your own funeral.
Nobody cries.
"The others will barely notice you're gone."
"No..." you whisper.
"They'll move on."
"No!"
You fight harder now, twisting violently against restraints you still can't see, tears streaming freely down your face as panic overtakes reason.
Nothing works.
Every desperate movement only seems to tighten whatever is holding you in place, until your screams barely escape your throat at all.
This is it.
You're never getting out.
And somehow, impossibly, the worst part isn't even that you're about to die.
It's Steve.
You heard him.
He sounded terrified.
He needed you.
You never reached him.
As another tear slips down your cheek, all you can do is pray that wherever he is, whatever found him, he made it out.
Please let him be okay.
Please let him survive this.
Even if you don't.
Suddenly-
another voice.
So quiet at first you almost mistake it for another trick.
"...Hey."
Not Vecna.
Steve.
Real Steve.
It barely reaches you, no louder than a memory, but you'd know that voice anywhere.
Vecna's words continue, louder now, trying to drown it out, but Steve keeps speaking anyway, his voice weaving itself carefully through every lie.
"Remember Family Video?"
The darkness flickers.
"The day I asked you out? You spilt that whole thing of popcorn all over the floor, then looked me dead in the eye and tried to convince me it'd already been there before you got there. You were so serious about it, I almost believed you."
Another memory.
Your first date.
"Remember when I tried so hard to impress you that I spent twenty minutes pretending I knew what I was talking about, and then you asked one follow-up question and I had to admit I'd completely made it up? You laughed so hard you nearly fell off the bench. I thought I'd ruined the whole date. You told me afterwards it was the moment you actually started liking me."
The first time he'd kissed you.
"Do you remember our first kiss? I kept saying goodnight and then not leaving. I think I said it three times. You finally laughed and told me, 'Steve, either kiss me or go home.' So I kissed you… And then I still stood there for another five minutes because I didn't actually want to leave."
The first time he'd laughed so hard he'd fallen off the bonnet of his car.
"Remember when we stayed in the Family Video parking lot for almost two hours after my shift because we kept saying, 'Okay, one more story,' and then neither of us ever left? You got halfway through telling me about the weird dream you'd had where Robin somehow became President, and you were doing all the voices. I laughed so hard I actually fell straight off the bonnet of the car. You laughed because I was laughing, and neither of us could stop."
Every story arrives exactly as it happened, warm and ordinary and completely, stubbornly true.
Vecna's voice rises in fury.
Steve's doesn't.
It just keeps talking.
Keeps reminding you.
Keeps loving you loudly enough to be heard.
The vines around your wrists loosen.
Only slightly.
But enough.
You pull.
They give.
Suddenly you're falling forward onto solid ground instead of hanging helplessly in the endless red expanse, and for the first time since this nightmare began you can see it.
A tear in the darkness.
Beyond it-
the clearing.
Your own body suspended in the air.
Nancy.
Robin.
Max.
Everyone looking up at you in horror.
And directly beneath you...
Steve.
His face is streaked with ash and panic, his mouth still moving as he tells another story, another memory, another reason to come back.
You can hear him now.
Perfectly.
Each word grows louder as you begin to run towards him, the impossible distance between you shrinking with every desperate step across the crimson landscape. He's reaching for you, even though he can't possibly touch you from where he stands, and somehow you know exactly where the gap in this red hellscape leads.
You're almost there.
Close enough to see the tears in his eyes.
Close enough to hear him say your name.
Close enough that if you just keep running-
For one suspended, impossible heartbeat, nothing happens.
Then your body drops.
There isn't a graceful descent, no slow drifting back towards the earth. One moment you're hanging impossibly high above them, the next the invisible force holding you gives way entirely, and you plummet towards the ash-covered ground.
Steve is already moving.
He catches you before you can hit the forest floor, the force of your body slamming into his hard enough to send him stumbling backwards. His knees buckle beneath the impact, Dustin grabbing his shoulder just in time to stop both of you crashing into the roots behind him, but Steve barely notices. He's already wrapping both arms around you, pulling you instinctively against his chest as though he can somehow shield you from whatever has just happened simply by refusing to let go.
"Hey, hey, hey..." His voice is shaking so badly he barely recognises it as his own. "I've got you. I've got you."
He lowers you both gently to the ground, pulling you into the safety of his lap.
You don't answer.
Not immediately.
Your body is trembling violently in his arms, each breath catching somewhere high in your chest before dissolving into another sob, your eyes squeezed shut as though opening them might drag you straight back into whatever nightmare you've just escaped. Steve's heart lurches into his throat.
His other hand cups your jaw instead, carefully tilting your face towards him just enough to check your pupils, his thumb brushing absent-mindedly across the tears still clinging to your cheek.
"Hey."
Nothing.
"Honey."
His voice breaks completely on the nickname.
"Come on."
Your eyelashes flutter.
Then, slowly, your eyes open.
They don't focus immediately. They dart frantically around the clearing, pupils wide with panic, as though you're still trying to work out which world you're standing in. For a terrifying second, Steve isn't sure you recognise him at all.
Then your gaze catches his.
Relief floods across your face so suddenly it almost hurts to look at.
Your fingers seize handfuls of his jacket before he can say another word, clutching the fabric with desperate, shaking hands.
"Steve."
"I'm here."
"What..." Your voice catches painfully. "Why were you screaming?"
Steve freezes.
"I heard you." The words tumble out faster now, tripping over one another as tears continue spilling unchecked down your face. "You sounded scared. You kept calling me and I- I tried to find you, but..." You shake your head hard, still gripping him so tightly he can feel your hands trembling through the denim. "Are you hurt? What happened? Where were you? Steve..."
Every question lands like a punch to the ribs.
You still think you were trying to save him.
You have absolutely no idea what really happened.
Steve opens his mouth.
He almost tells you.
Almost explains the voices, the mimicry, the impossible horror of hearing himself call your name while standing half a mile away. He almost tells you how close he'd come to losing you, how he'd watched you floating beneath that ruined sky exactly the way Max had, how for one unbearable moment he'd genuinely believed this was the last time he'd ever hold you.
Then he really looks at you.
You're shaking so violently your teeth chatter between words. Every breath is too quick, too shallow, your chest rising and falling in uneven bursts that never quite seem to fill your lungs. Even now, even after everything, your hands are moving over him in frantic little checks, brushing across his shoulders, his face, his arms, searching desperately for injuries that aren't there.
You're still trying to make sure he's okay.
This isn't the moment for explanations.
What you need isn't the truth.
You need certainty.
Without saying another word, Steve slides one hand gently to the back of your head and pulls you against him, his other arm wrapping securely around your shoulders until there's barely any space left between you. He can feel your heartbeat hammering wildly against his chest, completely out of rhythm with his own, and so he simply holds you there, one hand stroking slowly through your hair as though reminding you, over and over again, that he's solid.
Real.
Alive.
"I'm here," he murmurs quietly, resting his forehead against yours. "You're okay."
You shake your head weakly.
"No, but-"
"I'm here."
"I thought-"
"I know."
"I couldn't get to you."
"You don't have to."
His voice is impossibly gentle now, every word spoken with the same quiet certainty.
"I'm here, baby. I'm not hurt. I promise."
Another sob catches somewhere deep inside your chest.
"I'll explain everything when we get out of here, okay?"
He waits until your eyes find his again before continuing.
"But right now..." His thumb brushes carefully beneath your eye, wiping away another tear before it has the chance to fall. "...I've got you."
Your breathing catches.
Then, slowly, almost without either of you noticing, it begins to change.
One shaky breath.
Then another.
Steve doesn't ask you to breathe with him. He simply breathes himself, slow and steady, holding you close enough that your body has something solid to follow. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the frantic rhythm of your breathing begins to match his own, each inhale a little deeper than the last until your shoulders stop shaking quite so violently.
Only then does Steve finally lift his head.
Over your shoulder, the rest of the group stand scattered around the clearing in complete silence.
Nobody speaks.
Robin's hands are still clasped tightly over her mouth. Dustin has gone unnaturally pale. Eddie stares fixedly at the place where you'd been hanging only moments before, while Nancy slowly lowers the shotgun she'd forgotten she was still holding. Even Eleven, exhausted as she is, looks quietly shaken.
None of them need to say what they're all thinking.
The Upside Down hadn't almost fooled them.
It had almost taken you.
And for one unbearable moment...
it very nearly succeeded.
By the time you all make it back to Hawkins, the adrenaline has long since burnt itself out, leaving behind only the kind of exhaustion that settles somewhere deeper than your bones.
Nobody feels much like talking.
The drive back is almost entirely silent, broken only by the occasional crackle of the radio somebody had forgotten to switch off and Robin quietly asking if anyone wants to stop for food before immediately deciding she isn't actually hungry after all.
You end up back at Steve's house.
Somebody makes tea. Somebody else disappears upstairs and comes back with blankets that don't quite match. Dustin spends five solid minutes insisting he isn't tired before promptly falling asleep in the armchair with his head tipped awkwardly against the cushions. Jonathan and Nancy sit shoulder to shoulder on the opposite sofa without saying much of anything, content simply to exist in the same room now that they're all accounted for.
Relief, it turns out, isn't loud. It doesn't arrive with celebration or triumphant laughter. It arrives softly, in mugs of tea gone cold before anyone remembers to drink them, in blankets tucked carefully around shaking shoulders, in the quiet reassurance of counting heads every few minutes and finding that everyone is still there.
You're lying along Steve's sofa, a blanket pulled loosely over you despite the warmth of the room, your eyes half-closed with exhaustion.
Every muscle aches. Your head feels heavy, your thoughts slower than usual, as though some part of you is still trying to find its way back from wherever Vecna had taken you.
Steve hasn't left your side once.
He's sitting on the floor beside the sofa, his shoulder resting lightly against the cushions, one hand absently cradling the back of your head where it hangs over the armrest, his thumb brushing slow, absent-minded circles through your hair every now and then as though reassuring himself that you're still solid beneath his fingertips.
He waits.
Not because he's unsure whether to ask, but because he's spent the last hour watching you slowly return to yourself, and he isn't willing to rush whatever fragile peace has finally settled over the room.
Eventually, when everyone else's conversations have faded into comfortable background noise, he speaks so quietly you're almost convinced you've imagined it.
"...Can I ask you something?"
You turn your head just enough to look at him and give the smallest nod.
He hesitates for a moment, eyes dropping to where his hand still rests against your hair before he quietly asks, "...What exactly did it sound like?"
You know immediately what he means.
"The voice?"
Steve nods once.
"It sounded like..." You swallow. "...You."
He smiles sadly, shaking his head almost before you've finished.
"No." His voice is gentle. "Not who it sounded like."
A beat passes.
"...What did it say?"
You frown.
At first, all you can remember is the panic. The fear. The overwhelming certainty that Steve was somewhere ahead of you, frightened and alone. The details blur together, slipping through your fingers every time you try to hold onto them.
Then, slowly, one sentence surfaces.
Your expression changes.
"...It said..." You stop, hearing it again exactly as you had in the forest.
"'Come find me.'"
The room falls quiet.
Steve doesn't answer straight away.
Instead, he looks down at the floor between you for a long moment, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly as something clicks into place.
You see it happen.
The same realisation finds you a heartbeat later.
"...You'd never say that."
Steve looks back up. "... No. I wouldn't."
You keep turning the memory over in your mind, examining it from every angle now that you know it wasn't real, and suddenly the whole thing feels obvious in a way it hadn't before.
"You'd tell me to stay where I was."
Another slow nod.
"Yeah."
Silence settles between you again.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he quietly adds, "...Or I'd come to you."
You stare at him.
Because he's right.
Of course he's right.
If it had been true - if Steve had genuinely been lost somewhere in the Upside Down, terrified and unable to reach you - he would never have asked you to run blindly towards him. He'd have told you to stay put. To hide. To wait. He'd have found a way to reach you himself, even if it meant walking straight back into danger.
The voice had been perfect.
Every inflexion. Every hesitation. Every tiny detail that made it unmistakably Steve.
But it had made one fatal mistake.
It had copied his voice.
Not his heart.
You let out a shaky breath, something between a laugh and a sob.
"It knew how you sounded," you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. "It just... didn't know you."
Steve's expression softens.
"No," he agrees quietly. "It didn't."
Because that's who Steve is.
The Upside Down had understood your fear. It had understood your memories, your instincts, the people whose voices would make you run without thinking. But it had failed to understand something much simpler, and much harder to imitate.
Steve Harrington has never asked the people he loves to walk into danger for him.
He goes first.
Always has.
Always will.
For a long while, nobody says anything.
The house settles into one of those rare silences that only follows genuine fear, where nobody quite trusts themselves to speak because doing so would mean acknowledging how close they'd all come to losing someone.
The mugs of tea on the coffee table have long since gone cold, and outside, somewhere beyond the curtains, a car passes along the quiet suburban street, blissfully unaware that the world has almost ended again.
You find yourself looking around the room instead.
At Robin, curled awkwardly into the corner of the sofa with her knees tucked beneath her chin.
At Nancy, staring absently into her untouched cup of tea.
At Jonathan, who hasn't taken his eyes off Nancy since they got back.
At Max, quieter than usual, her expression unreadable as she turns an empty cassette case over and over between her hands.
And at Steve, still sitting beside you on the floor, his shoulder resting lightly against the sofa, as though moving even a few feet further away from you somehow feels impossible after what happened.
It is Will who finally breaks the silence.
His voice is quiet enough that everyone has to look up to hear it.
"...We need a new rule."
No one answers immediately.
Not because anyone disagrees.
Because they all know he's right.
The old rules had kept them alive this long. Stay together. Keep the radios on. Don't make unnecessary noise. Don't split up unless you absolutely have to.
Now those rules weren't enough anymore.
Will draws a slow breath before continuing.
"If you hear somebody calling your name..."
He trails off, unable - or perhaps unwilling - to finish the sentence himself.
Steve does it for him.
"...Don't answer."
The words land heavily in the room.
Nobody argues.
Nobody even questions them.
Robin swallows hard, her eyes fixed somewhere on the carpet as she quietly adds, "...Even if it sounds exactly like us."
Another silence follows.
Longer this time.
Because that is the part none of them wants to say aloud.
Not just don't answer a stranger.
Don't answer Dustin.
Don't answer Nancy.
Don't answer Steve.
Don't answer the people you love most in the world.
The room feels colder somehow.
You glance at Steve beside you, and for the briefest moment you wonder whether, if you heard him calling for you again tomorrow, you could really ignore it.
The thought alone makes your chest tighten.
Dustin is the first to move.
Without a word, he reaches for the battered Hellfire emergency pack that's been dragged through almost every disaster the group has survived, unzips the front pocket and rummages around until he finds a thick black permanent marker.
He hesitates only briefly before uncapping it.
Then, kneeling on the living-room floor with the backpack balanced across his knees, he opens the inside flap where every previous rule has already been scribbled in increasingly cramped handwriting over the years.
He doesn't ask whether everyone agrees.
He already knows they do.
Slowly, deliberately, he writes beneath the others.
RULE #8
IF YOU HEAR SOMEONE YOU LOVE CALLING YOUR NAME...
DO NOT FOLLOW THE VOICE.
The ink is still wet when he snaps the cap back onto the marker.
Nobody comments on it.
Nobody laughs.
Nobody suggests a better wording.
Because you all understand something they hadn't understood that morning.
The Upside Down hadn't simply learnt your voices.
It had learnt your hearts. Your trusts. Who you love most.
And from now on, surviving would mean learning not to trust them.
The weeks that follow are, by all outward appearances, wonderfully ordinary.
School starts again. Family Video reopens. Robin complains about customers with renewed enthusiasm, the kids fill Steve's house almost every afternoon as though nothing has changed, and somebody inevitably starts an argument over whose turn it is to choose the film.
Life, stubbornly and almost offensively, continues.
Some days you're almost convinced you're beginning to forget.
Not what happened.
Just the feeling of it.
The constant certainty that something terrible is waiting just beyond the next corner gradually loosens its grip, replaced by familiar routines and evenings spent piled into living rooms with takeaway cartons balanced on your knees, laughing over things that would've seemed impossibly trivial only a few weeks earlier.
It gets easier.
Not better.
Just... easier.
Until one quiet evening.
Steve's house is unusually still, the late afternoon sunlight spilling lazily through the bedroom curtains in soft golden stripes that stretch across the duvet. You'd meant to stay awake. You'd only gone upstairs to lie down for half an hour while Steve started making dinner, but somewhere between closing your eyes and listening to the muffled sounds of cupboard doors opening downstairs, sleep had begun to pull gently at the edges of your thoughts.
You're hovering somewhere between dreaming and waking when you hear it.
Your name.
Quiet. Unhurried.
Floating up the staircase from somewhere below.
For one impossible moment, your body forgets where you are.
Your eyes snap open.
Every muscle locks.
Your heart lurches so violently it almost hurts, adrenaline crashing through you before your mind has had the chance to catch up.
You don't answer.
You don't move.
You simply stare at the bedroom door, every instinct warring with itself as the silence stretches on around you.
Because you know that voice.
You know it better than your own.
But you also know where that certainty almost led you.
The room remains perfectly still.
Downstairs, you hear nothing more than the faint clatter of something being set on the kitchen counter, followed by footsteps crossing the hallway.
A minute passes.
Maybe less.
It feels much longer.
Then the floorboards outside the bedroom creak softly, and a gentle knock sounds against the half-open door before Steve appears in the doorway, one hand still holding a tea towel he'd evidently forgotten to put down.
He smiles when he sees you're awake, though it fades almost immediately when he notices the way you're sitting rigid against the headboard, your breathing still just a little too fast.
"...Hey."
You don't answer straight away.
He tilts his head, confusion flickering briefly across his face.
"I called you."
A beat.
"...Why didn't you answer?"
Your throat tightens.
You look at him.
That's all you do.
You look at him, and in the space of a heartbeat you watch the question disappear from his expression.
Understanding arrives quietly.
Painfully.
His shoulders soften almost imperceptibly, and something in his eyes breaks - not dramatically, not with tears or visible grief, but with the quiet devastation of somebody realising that a wound they desperately hoped had healed is still there beneath the surface.
"Oh."
The word is barely louder than a breath.
Neither of you says anything else.
There isn't really anything to say.
Steve crosses the room without another question, sits carefully on the edge of the bed, and opens one arm in silent invitation.
You move before you've consciously decided to, the tension finally leaving your body as you fold into him, burying your face against his shoulder while he wraps both arms around you with the same steady certainty he always has. One hand settles instinctively at the back of your head, his fingers slipping gently through your hair, while the other rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades until your breathing begins, little by little, to settle again.
He doesn't apologise.
He doesn't tell you that it was only him.
He knows none of that would help.
Instead, he simply holds you, solid and warm and undeniably real, allowing his heartbeat to become the only sound worth listening to.
Outside, the world carries on exactly as it always has. Cars pass along the street. Somewhere, a dog barks. The neighbours laugh over dinner in their garden. Hawkins continues with the blissful normality it has always pretended to possess.
Inside the house, though, something has changed forever.
The tragedy isn't that you failed to answer when Steve called your name.
It's that, somewhere beneath a blood-red sky, the Upside Down had managed to reach into one of the most instinctive acts of love a person can know - the automatic certainty that the voice of someone you love means safety - and twist it into something to be feared.
You escaped.
You survived.
But some echoes don't stay behind when you leave.
And every now and then, on quiet evenings when someone calls your name from another room, you still have to remind yourself that not every voice asking you to follow is trying to lead you into the dark.
description: a cutie lil fic where eddie is just completely obsessed with you. who knew all he needed to bring you two together was jason carver beating his ass?
pairing: yearning!eddie x you (fem!reader)
tags: yearning!eddie, protective!reader, eddie x reader, no y/n, reader insert, slow (ish) burn, first kiss, happy ending, fluff the house down boots, high school romance, so much fucking yearning, eddie's head over heels
WC: 4.5k
TW: bullying, violence, some smoochies
A/N: requested by @midgardian-rogue hope you enjoy!! sorry for the wait! life is kicking my behind. i haven't forgotten about you all.
reblogs are always appreciated my loves<33
hope you all enjoy an ounce of some innocent fluff before final girl pt.2 bc......
People talked about love like it happened all at once. Like it was lightning. Like one look across a crowded room, and suddenly the rest of your life made sense.
Eddie Munson thought that was complete and utter bullshit.
Love wasn't lightning; it was erosion. The kind that wore you down one unnoticed glance at a time until one day you looked up and realized you'd built an entire religion around someone who didn't even know your favorite color.
Everyone knew you.
Not in the way they knew Jason Carver, Jason demanded attention. You never asked for it…it simply just followed you.
Teachers smiled a little wider when you answered questions. Freshmen gravitated toward you on the first day of school like frightened birds, somehow knowing you were safe.
It was infuriating. Not because Eddie disliked you. God, that would've made things so much easier, no. You were kind.
Genuinely, painfully, kind.
The kind of person who remembered birthdays without writing them down. The kind of beauty that had nothing to do with your face. Though...that certainly wasn't hurting anything.
You smiled with your whole body. Your shoulders, your eyes, even your laugh looked warm. Sometimes Eddie wondered if the sun waited for your permission before coming up. Which—
Jesus Christ.
See? This was exactly the problem. He couldn't even think about you without sounding like he'd swallowed a Hallmark card. He'd never even spoken to you. Well, not really.
Sure, there'd been little moments. A borrowed pencil sophomore year. A quiet "thank you" when he'd held a door open. Passing each other in the hallway enough times that nodding became an unspoken ritual.
But conversations? Actual conversations? Those belonged to people who lived on the same planet. You lived somewhere else entirely.
Some place made of honor roll certificates, volunteer hours, and Sunday mornings that probably smelled of pancakes instead of cigarette smoke.
Eddie had long since accepted that there were invisible lines running through Hawkins High. Athletes. Nerds. Burnouts. Band kids. Freaks. You somehow belonged to all of them, while he belonged to exactly one.
Hellfire. The trailer park. The people adults warned their children about.
Wayne always said Eddie had expensive taste. Not in clothes or cars, but people.
"You always go lookin' at things that ain't yours to carry," Wayne had muttered once while Eddie admired an old cherry-red Gibson through a pawn shop window.
At the time, Eddie thought he meant guitars. Now he wasn't so sure. Because every morning, without meaning to, he'd find himself searching the parking lot before first bell. Just to see if your car was there.
And every afternoon, he'd linger exactly thirty seconds too long outside English because he knew your classroom was across the hall. Not enough to be obvious, just enough to catch one glimpse.
Then he'd spend the rest of the day pretending that was somehow enough, though it never was.
The thing about memories was that they lied. Or maybe they just... polished themselves over time.
Eddie couldn't remember what he'd eaten yesterday. Couldn't remember what movie he'd watched with Wayne the week before. But he remembered that afternoon, every stupid, humiliating second of it.
It had been almost exactly a year ago.
The last bell had rung, sending Hawkins High spilling into the hallways in a tidal wave of backpacks and locker doors slamming shut. Eddie had lingered by his locker, stuffing loose campaign notes into a folder while Gareth argued with Jeff about whether dragons were technically reptiles.
He never heard Jason coming. The locker door slammed shut before Eddie could grab it, the metal rattling loud enough to make nearby students jump.
"Well, if it isn't the freak."
Eddie sighed. "Christ, Carver. Don't you ever get tired?"
Jason leaned against the neighboring locker with that smug grin Eddie had grown to hate. Andy and Chance flanked him like loyal guard dogs, each wearing the same self-satisfied expression.
"Nah."
Jason reached out, flicking Eddie's shoulder with unnecessary force.
"I actually look forward to these little chats."
"I don't."
"Funny."
Another shove. Not enough to knock him down, but just enough to remind him who had thirty pounds and varsity sports behind him.
"You know," Jason continued loudly, making sure the people walking by could hear, "I heard you recruited another freshman into your little Satan club."
Eddie rolled his eyes. "You guys are really obsessed with us."
"Just looking out for the town."
Same script, different day. Eddie had learned years ago that fighting back only made it worse.
So he leaned against the lockers and waited for them to get bored. He almost missed the footsteps approaching.
"What are you doing?" Your voice wasn't loud.
Jason turned first. "So, this doesn't concern—"
"It concerns me now."
You stepped between passing students without the slightest hesitation, your backpack still hanging off one shoulder.
"Move."
Jason laughed. "Excuse me?"
"I said move."
Andy scoffed. "You serious?"
Without another word, you planted a hand square against Andy's chest and shoved him back just enough to force him away from Eddie. Not hard, but just enough to make it clear whose space he'd invaded.
Jason stared at you, his jaw tightening. "What the hell is your problem?"
"My problem?" you echoed. "Three against one seems pretty pathetic to me."
"We're talking."
"No." You folded your arms. "You were cornering him."
Jason took one step closer. "I'd be careful if I were you."
Eddie's stomach dropped.
But you didn't move. Hell, you didn't even blink.
Instead, one eyebrow lifted. "What?"
Your voice stayed infuriatingly calm. "You gonna hit a girl?"
Jason's expression hardened. "I didn't say—"
"No?" You tilted your head. "I mean... you've already got one thing in common with your father."
You paused, eyeing him up and down.
"It'd be a shame if you decided to copy the rest of his behavior too."
Jason's face went red. Not from embarrassment, but pure fury. The kind of fury that made his nostrils flare.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"No?" You shrugged. "Then prove me wrong."
For a moment...Eddie genuinely thought Jason might do it. Might shove you. Might yell. Might finally snap.
Instead, Jason looked around. He couldn't touch you, not here. Not with everyone looking.
Jason just clicked his tongue. "Whatever."
He shot Eddie one last glare. "You're not worth it."
Then to you, "Careful who you stick up for."
You smiled. "I'll keep that in mind."
Jason scoffed before turning on his heel. "C'mon."
Andy and Chance followed without another word.
Eddie realized he'd been holding his breath. "...Thanks."
You turned toward him. For a second, he thought you might say something profound. Something unforgettable.
Instead, you smiled; that warm, easy smile he'd only ever seen from across classrooms.
"Don't mention it." You adjusted your backpack. "See you around, Eddie."
Eddie? Not ‘Munson’? He thought.
Then you just…walked away. Like standing up to Jason Carver was no bigger a deal than holding the door open for someone. Eddie watched until you disappeared around the corner.
He didn't realize Gareth had come back until someone elbowed his ribs. "Dude."
"Hm?"
"You okay?"
Eddie kept staring at the empty hallway. "...yeah."
A year later...Eddie could still tell you exactly where you'd been standing. Exactly what you were wearing. Exactly how your hand had looked when you shoved Andy away from him.
He'd spent three hundred and sixty-five days trying to convince himself it hadn't meant anything. That you would've done it for anybody. It was probably true. But God knows that didn’t help slow his crush on you down in the slightest.
There was a reason Eddie loved the Hawkins Fall Flea Market. Sure, half the vendors were selling ceramic geese in tiny bonnets or dusty kitchenware that should've been thrown out sometime during the Nixon administration.
But every now and then...Someone's grandfather died, and suddenly there'd be a box full of first-edition fantasy novels.
Or vintage dice. Or a stack of Dragon magazines someone didn't realize were worth something. Treasure hunting. That's what Wayne always called it.
"You never know what you're gonna find."
Eddie had been elbow-deep in a cardboard box labeled COMIC BOOKS - 25¢ for nearly twenty minutes before giving up his search for anything remotely Dungeons & Dragons related.
No dice…literally.
With a dramatic sigh, he wandered farther down the rows of tents, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket as he smiled to himself. It wasn't exactly exciting, but it was comfortable.
He almost walked right past the record stand.
It was tucked between a vendor selling antique fishing lures and another covered in old comic strips and movie posters. Milk crates overflowed with vinyl records while wire racks displayed cassettes in crooked little rows.
Naturally...Eddie wandered over. His fingers skimmed over faded album covers. Thin Lizzy. Rush. Van Halen. Not bad. Then—
"...No way."
He hadn't meant to say it out loud, but there you were. Standing on the opposite side of the rack, your brows pinched together in concentration as you thumbed through a crate marked HEAVY METAL.
You wore an oversized forest-green sweater with the sleeves pushed over your hands, faded jeans, and beat-up Converse he'd never seen you wear to school. Your hair was tucked behind one ear as you carefully flipped through albums like you actually knew what you were looking at.
There was no universe in which this made sense. You belonged in the classical section. Or maybe folk, something acoustic. Not Iron Maiden. Motörhead. Judas Priest.
He blinked hard, almost thinking he was staring at a mirage. Nope, still there.
You looked up and caught him staring again. A smile spread across your face almost instantly.
You smiled victoriously before turning back to the rack. After another moment of searching, your face brightened. "There it is."
You pulled out your own cassette. The Cure: Disintegration.
"See?" You held it up proudly. "I have range."
Eddie laughed. "I'll allow it."
"I appreciate your approval."
The older vendor wandered over. "You kids find everything?"
You nodded. "I think so."
As the man rang up your cassette, Eddie was still standing there holding the Mercyful Fate tape in both hands like you'd just gifted him the Holy Grail.
You paid, tucked the cassette into your canvas tote bag, and looked back at him. "I'll see you Monday?"
He swallowed. "...Yeah."
"Don't wait too long to listen to that." You pointed toward the cassette still in his hands. "I'd like to know what you think."
Before he could ask exactly how you planned to do that...you were already walking away.
You lifted a hand over your shoulder. "Bye, Eddie."
He watched until the crowd swallowed you whole. Only then did he glance back down at the cassette.
"You gonna buy it?"
The vendor's voice startled him. "Huh?"
"You've been holding it for five minutes."
"Oh."
Eddie looked down at the cracked plastic case, then toward the direction you'd disappeared. "...Yeah."
He smiled to himself. "I think I have to."
The cassette wasn't rare. He'd seen three copies of the same album over the last month. It wasn't even his favorite Mercyful Fate record. But this one? This one had your fingerprints on it.
By Wednesday, Eddie had listened to the Mercyful Fate cassette four times. Not because it had suddenly become his favorite album, it hadn't.
But every time King Diamond's voice crackled through the speakers of the van's cassette player, Eddie could picture your smile across that flea market record stand.
"I think you'd like this."
Wayne noticed by Tuesday night. "Ain't this the same tape you played yesterday?"
"...Maybe."
"You finally wear out your Sabbath tapes?"
"...No."
Wayne glanced over the rim of his newspaper. "...Girl?"
Eddie nearly combusted on the spot from how red his face was.
The cafeteria buzzed louder than usual as homecoming week had officially taken hold at Hawkins High. Construction paper streamers hung lopsided from the ceiling.
The student council had somehow convinced the administration to decorate every available surface in orange and green, making the cafeteria look like it had exploded.
Eddie hated it. He hated pep rallies, football, and he especially hated homecoming. And he especially especially hated listening to Jason Carver talk about the "spirit of Hawkins."
"So," Gareth said through a mouthful of fries, "we skipping the pep rally?"
"We're legally obligated to."
Jeff nodded solemnly. "It's in the Hellfire constitution."
Mike frowned. "We have a constitution?"
"We do now."
Laughter bounced around the table. Then Dustin elbowed Eddie. "Dude."
"What?"
"Twelve o'clock."
Eddie looked up. You moved from table to table carrying a thick envelope and a clipboard tucked against your chest. Homecoming tickets, of course.
You stopped at the basketball table first. Jason smiled, and you smiled back politely. Professional and nothing more. Then the band kids. Then the theater kids. Then—
Hellfire...and Eddie's heart immediately forgot how to function.
"Hi, guys."
You smiled at the whole table before your eyes landed on him.
"Hi, Eddie."
God. You always said his name like it belonged in your mouth.
"Uh... hey."
"So," you said, setting the envelope on the table. "I'm making my rounds."
You held up two small orange tickets. "Homecoming tickets. Five dollars."
Jeff snorted, Mike looked horrified, while Gareth dramatically searched his empty pockets.
"We're allergic."
"I figured."
Then you looked back at Eddie. "Oh."
Your smile softened. "Did you ever listen to the cassette?"
His brain completely abandoned him. "...Yeah."
"And?"
"It was..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "...Really good."
"'Really good?'" You looked mock offended. "I thought it'd at least earn a 'life-changing.'"
"I was trying not to sound insane."
"So you liked it?"
"I—" He smiled before he could stop himself. "...Yeah. A lot, actually."
"I knew you would."
Something warm settled in his chest. You knew. Not hoped, not guessed, knew.
Which is why, when he said, without thinking, "I'll take two."
Silence, which even made Eddie freeze. What?
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. "...Two?"
He stared at the tickets. Abort mission. Abort mission. FUCK! Too late.
"Uh..." His hand was already digging into his pocket. "Yeah."
He slapped a crumpled ten-dollar bill onto the table before his brain had the chance to intervene. "I'll take two."
You looked at him for a second longer than necessary, then the smallest smile tugged at your lips. Then, you handed him the two orange tickets.
"Our music committee isn't nearly as good as Mercyful Fate."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"I'll see you around?"
"...Yeah."
You gave the table one last smile. "Have a good lunch, guys."
Then, you disappeared toward the next group of students, and the second you were out of earshot...
Five heads slowly turned toward Eddie.
"...What the hell was that?" Dustin snaps.
"What?"
"You hate homecoming."
"I don't hate—"
"You called it," Gareth interrupted, "'capitalist propaganda with crepe paper.'"
"I stand by that."
Jeff leaned across the table. "So why," he asked carefully, "did you just buy..."
He held up two fingers. "...two tickets?"
Eddie blinked. "...Did I?"
"You were there." Mike snorted. "I'm pretty sure you even paid for them."
Eddie looked down at the tickets in his hand as though they'd magically appeared there.
"...Huh."
Gareth burst into laughter. "'Huh?'"
"'Huh?!'"
"You bought two!"
"I know!"
"Do you?!"
Dustin reached across the table and plucked one from Eddie's fingers.
"'Homecoming Admission.'"
He looked around dramatically. "Guys. I think Eddie the Banished has suffered a traumatic brain injury."
Jeff nodded. "Only explanation."
"You've spent three years talking about how dances are government mind control."
"They are."
"So, who are you taking?"
Eddie opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Because...he hadn't thought that far. He hadn't thought at all. He'd just wanted another excuse or another thirty seconds of hearing your voice.
"...Nobody."
Five skeptical expressions. "Nnnoooobody?" Gareth echoed.
"Nope."
"So you just bought two tickets..."
"Yep."
"...For fun?"
"...Sure."
Mike deadpanned, "That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."
Dustin slowly smiled. "Oh."
"Oh no," Eddie muttered.
"Oh, no."
Dustin pointed across the cafeteria, where you were still making your rounds. "You bought two tickets because you're gonna ask her."
Eddie nearly choked on his Coke. "I am absolutely not."
"You absolutely are."
"I absolutely am not."
Jeff grinned. "Dude."
"You've been listening to that cassette all week."
"You don't know that."
"Wayne told my mom."
Eddie's head whipped toward him. "...Wayne, what?"
"My mom was at the trailer dropping off your uncle's casserole dish."
Jeff shrugged innocently. "He said—and I quote—'Boy's been playing the same damn tape for three days. Must be love.'"
The entire table erupted while Dustin pointed triumphantly. "Called it."
Eddie dropped his forehead onto the cafeteria table with a groan.
By the time Hellfire finished packing up their campaign books in the theater room, basketball practice had just let out. Which meant letterman jackets, inflated egos, and Jason Carver. Perfect.
Eddie spotted them before they spotted him, or so he thought.
"You boys have another séance today?"
Gareth groaned.
"Just keep walking."
That had been the plan. Until Tommy H stuck his foot out, and Gareth caught it too late.
His books were scattered across the pavement, dice bouncing in every direction. One tiny d20 rolled nearly twenty feet before coming to rest beneath a parked truck.
"Oh, my bad," Tommy said without sounding sorry in the slightest.
Gareth muttered a curse beneath his breath as he knelt to gather his things.
Eddie was already moving. "The hell's your problem?"
Jason shrugged. "Gravity."
"You tripped him," Eddie says, pointing between Jason and Tommy.
"I don't know, Munson." Tommy grinned. "Looked pretty clumsy to me."
Jeff and Dustin immediately stepped toward Gareth, helping gather his books. Eddie stood between them and Jason.
"C’mon, man. At least pick on someone with a fighting chance."
Jason smiled as he chimed in. "I am."
The shove came so fast that Eddie barely had time to react, his shoulder slamming into the side of a parked car. The metal echoed.
"Jesus, fuck—" Eddie shoved him back, causing Jason's smile to disappear.
"Oh. There he is."
The first punch caught Eddie across the jaw, causing white to explode across his vision. He stumbled back, so Andy grabbed his jacket from behind. Then, Tommy landed one on his ribs. Someone else kicked the back of his knee.
Three against one, again. He heard Dustin yelling, Jeff trying to pull somebody off, and Gareth shouting Eddie's name.
"...Enough!"
Everything stopped as a familiar voice cut through the chaos like a knife.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Eddie blinked through blurry vision and saw you.
You were marching across the parking lot faster than he'd ever seen anyone move as your backpack swung wildly against your side.
Jason scoffed. "Stay out of it."
"No."
You shoved Andy away from Eddie so hard that he stumbled backward. "I said that’s enough."
Tommy laughed. "Oh, here comes Wonder Woman."
You ignored him completely. Instead, you crouched beside Eddie. "Are you okay?"
He tried to answer, but instead, blood dripped onto his shirt. Your face tightened as you looked back up to analyze the scene: three basketball players, one bleeding boy, and his friend's reactions somewhere between horror and panic.
"You should be proud of yourselves."
Jason rolled his eyes. "He was acting insane. He pushed me for Christ's sake."
"That's bullshit."
Jason took a step closer. "What do you care?"
"I care because you three are acting like a bunch of fucking neanderthals. And for what? What the hell did he ever do to you?"
He laughed. "You really gonna defend this freak?"
You stood slowly until you were eye level with him. "I'm defending someone who can't fight three people at once."
Jason clicked his tongue. "You're wasting your time."
"No." You shook your head.
"You know..." You looked Jason up and down. "For someone who talks so much about honor..."
Your eyes drifted toward the gym. "...you sure need a lot of teammates when you throw a punch."
Jason's jaw clenched. "You should go."
"You first."
You kept your gaze fixed on Jason, putting on the best ‘don’t fuck with me today’ face you could muster.
His eyes dart between you and Eddie, a small and almost sinister grin forming. Then, he scoffed.
"C'mon. This freak show isn’t worth our spots in Friday's game.”
The last of the basketball team disappeared across the parking lot. Jason threw one final glare over his shoulder before climbing into Tommy's truck.
"...Jesus Christ." Your voice was barely above a whisper. Eddie looked up just in time to see you drop to your knees again beside him.
Your eyes darted over his face: the split lip, the scrape across his cheek, the beginnings of a bruise blooming beneath his eye.
"Dustin!" you called over your shoulder. "Go to the nurse's office!"
Dustin looked between you and Eddie before immediately taking off toward the school. "I'll get an ice pack!"
You nodded once before turning your attention back to Eddie. "Can you sit up?"
He managed a small nod even though every rib protested. You slipped an arm beneath his shoulder, helping him lean back against the brick wall of the school.
"So much for keeping your pretty face."
Eddie let out a weak laugh. "...Didn't know I had one."
You rolled your eyes. "Shut up."
Your backpack slid into your lap, frowning as you rifled through its contents. "No..." You dug deeper. "No..."
"Ah! There."
You pulled out an old black T-shirt, faded nearly gray with age. Eddie recognized the logo immediately: Iron Maiden, The Number of the Beast tour.
He blinked. "You just carry band shirts around for fun?"
"My dad leaves them in my car." You shrugged, "Guess they make good makeshift paper towels."
You hesitated. "Can I?"
He nodded before he even knew what you were asking. You folded the shirt into a small square before gently dabbing at the blood on the corner of his mouth; your touch was impossibly careful.
With your face inches from his, he’s embarrassed about how many times he imagined being this close more times than he cares to admit.
"You know..." You sighed, "...That was really stupid."
"Hm?"
"What were you thinking?" You wiped another streak of blood from his cheek. "There were three of them."
"They were picking on Gareth."
"I know."
"So..."
"So you decided to get yourself killed?"
"I wasn't gonna let them jump him."
"I know." You say with an exaggerated sigh.
You make another careful swipe of the shirt across his lip, "You don't always have to be the one who saves everybody."
He watched you instead of answering. Your brows were pulled together, bottom lip tucked between your teeth in concentration.
"Eddie?"
He hadn't realized he'd been staring. "What?"
"You okay? You keep looking at me and, like, zoning out. Do you feel dizzy?"
"Oh." His voice came out embarrassingly quiet, "Uh, no. Sorry."
"Oh." You reply, a tiny smile tugging at your lips.
“Huh?” He swallowed.
His brain screamed at him to say literally anything else. Comment on the weather. Ask about homework.
"I think I really like you."
You froze mid-wipe of his cheek, eyes quickly meeting his.
Eddie groaned and closed his eyes. "Fuck—Forget I said that."
"Oh."
Fantastic. She sounds uncomfortable. Wonderful.
"I didn't mean—"
"No." Your hand gently caught his wrist before he could keep spiraling, "I just..."
He opened his eyes, and to his delight, you were smiling.
"I've been wondering how long that was going to take."
His eyebrows knit together. "...What?"
"I was starting to think you were never going to say it."
"...Say what?"
"That."
You laughed quietly. "I've liked you for over a year, Eddie."
His brain stopped. "No, you don't."
"I do."
"You can't."
"I can."
"You..." He searched your face for the joke, "You've liked me?"
"Since you helped that freshman find the theater room on the first day of school last year."
"...That's why?"
"You spent fifteen minutes walking him around the building."
"He looked lost."
"I know." You smiled, "That's kind of my point."
He stared, then laughed, a disbelieving and breathless laugh.
"I've spent an entire year convincing myself you were completely out of my league."
"I've spent an entire year waiting for you to realize I wasn't.”
His heart nearly flew out of his chest just then.
"But then..." You shrugged, looking almost sheepish. "You bought the second homecoming ticket, so I just assumed you found someone else to ask."
"...WHAT?"
The word exploded out of him so loudly that a flock of birds scattered from the nearby trees.
You blinked. "What?"
"No!" He sat up a little too fast before immediately grabbing his ribs. "Ow—Jesus Christ."
"Eddie! Jesus, would you calm d—"
"No, no, listen." He pointed emphatically toward the school. "I bought the second ticket because you were standing there."
"...I know."
"No, I mean—" He groaned. "I wasn't thinking."
"I've noticed."
"I just wanted an excuse to keep talking to you."
You stared.
"So my brain went..." He mimed throwing something across the parking lot. "'Buy two tickets.' But uh, I didn't have a plan after that."
A laugh bubbled out of you. "So..."
He continued, growing increasingly animated. "...then Gareth asks, 'Who're you taking?'"
"And?"
"And I realized..." He buried his face in his hands. "...I had absolutely no idea what I was doing."
Your shoulders started shaking. "Oh my God..."
"I panicked."
"I can tell."
"I said I bought them for fun."
"You told them..." you managed between laughs, "'for fun?'"
"I know!"
"That's the worst lie I've ever heard."
"I KNOW."
"They believed you?"
"They absolutely did not."
You laughed even harder, and he found himself laughing, too.
"I have spent," he said through a grin, "the last four days wondering who the hell I was supposed to ask because apparently I'd already committed."
Your laughter slowly faded into something softer.
"So..." You looked at him carefully. "...Who were you planning on asking?"
He gave you the most incredulous look. "You."
"Really?"
"You literally just admitted you thought I found somebody else."
"I know, but..." You smiled. "I wanted to hear you say it."
Eddie shook his head in disbelief. "You're evil."
"A little."
"You've been letting me suffer this whole time?"
"I thought it was kind of cute."
"Oh, that's cruel."
"It was a little cruel." You say, shrugging.
He smiles the biggest smile he can muster, considering the pain shooting through what feels like every inch of his body, and releases a deep sigh.
"So..."
"So?"
He reached into the pocket of his denim vest, wincing as his bruised ribs protested.
After a second of fumbling, he pulled out the slightly crumpled orange homecoming ticket, holding it out between two fingers.
"I know this isn't exactly the most romantic timing."
You looked down at the ticket, then back up at him.
"But..." His smile turned nervous, "...would you maybe wanna go to homecoming with me?"
You could’ve just verbally said yes, but fuck that.
You broke the final inches of distance between you, your lips meeting his. He kissed you back instinctively, one hand finding your waist, smiling into the kiss. You smiled too.
"Hss—" Eddie jerked back with a sharp wince, immediately bringing a hand to his mouth.
"Oh, my God!" Your eyes went wide. "Shit! I'm so sorry!"
"No, no—" He laughed despite himself, carefully pressing two fingers against his split lip. "I just forgot I got punched."
"You idiot."
"Yeah..." A grin spread across his face, "...Worth it."
You rolled your eyes, but he caught the smile tugging at your lips.
"This time," you murmured, leaning closer again, "try not to throw yourself into it like you're storming a castle."
"I make no promises."
"I know." You cupped his cheek, much gentler now. "So let me."
This kiss was much slower; you barely brushed your lips against his at first. He practically pulled you into his airspace, completely ignoring any stinging sensation because, hell, he’d thought about this at least a thousand times.
Afterward, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.
"I've wanted to do that," he admitted softly, "for... probably an embarrassing amount of time."
You laughed. "Me too."
He looked at you like he was trying to memorize your face. "So..."
"So?"
"Does this mean you'll go to homecoming with me?"
You pretended to think about it. "Hmm..."
"Don't do this to me."
"I suppose."
He let out the most dramatic sigh of relief. "Thank God."
Before you could tease him for it, he was kissing you again. His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your jaw as he smiled into it, and you smiled back.
Then you felt the subtle tension in his hand. The way his fingers tightened ever so slightly against your skin. The sharp inhale he tried, and failed, to hide.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. "You're hurting."
"I'm surviving."
"Eddie."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
He grinned, lopsided because of his split lip. "I've imagined kissing you about a thousand times."
You laughed softly.
"And not once did Jason Carver punch me beforehand."
You rolled your eyes, your thumb carefully brushing beneath the bruise blooming under his eye.
"You are unbelievable."
"I've been called worse."
"I'm sure you have."
His forehead rested against yours, his smile refusing to leave. "I don't think anything could ruin today."
"...Ahem."
The two of you froze and slowly turned your heads.
Dustin stood a few yards away, an ice pack dangling from one hand. He looked from Eddie to you, then to the fact that you were still sitting impossibly close together, practically entangled.
A slow, knowing grin spread across his face.
"...I guess you don't need that ice pack then?"
missed u guys sm:,) more coming soon, pinky promise <3
Jester!Eddie Munson doing everything in his power to flatter the princess without crossing the boundaries of your father, the king.
Jester!Eddie who wears his best motley in hopes to catch your eye every time he's called to the throne room.
Jester!Eddie who creates the perfect melodies to play on his lute for your family, hiding in little lyrics of his affection for you.
Jester!Eddie who almost lost his life under the power of your father because of a joke that didn't land the way he intended.
^ he was given a second chance if he was able to amuse you. He thought he was for sure a goner but when you laughed hysterically at his come-back, a little part of him thought- hoped it wasn't just because he was funny- but because you didn't want him to be executed.
Jester!Eddie practising his best material in his free time to make sure he's perfected every joke, song, story, even working on improvising and digs at the king he could use.
Jester!Eddie who notices small things about you, quirks, habits and the faces you make, thinking about how you are the most precious thing his cynical eyes have ever seen.
Jester!Eddie who watches from the window as you wander the gardens outside, taking note of the flowers you stop by the longest.
Jester!Eddie who doesn't notice your lingering stares.
Jester!Eddie whose attitude gets snappier when he overhears suitorships for you, wishing he was of a higher rank to even be considered.
Jester!Eddie who tells a story of how a beautiful princess falls in love for a lesser- a poverty man- a slave- an amuser- a fool, pouring his heart out in the tale, his heart crumbling apart when your entire family stumbles over laughing, curling over in their seats.
^ not even daring to look over at you- if he had, he would have found soft, almost confused- but compassionate eyes.
Jester!Eddie who falls apart when you risk touching his gloved hand, almost tenderly, whispering a compliment on his services, stuttering in response.
"I- i would do anything for you-r family...your highness"
You giggled softly, catching onto what he truly wanted to say.
Synopsis: Life as a rich, smart, popular kid in Hawkins, Indina is easy. As long as you do exatcly as you're supposed to do. When your strict parents forbid you to follow your dreams and interests, you have to find secret ways to get what you want. What happens when you're forced to go to Eddie "The Freak" Munson for help?
wc: 15k
Contents: Eddie Munson x Cheerleader!reader, friends to lovers, no physical description of reader, no use of y/n, fluff, nerdoutcast x populargirl trope, mike and dustin being mike and dustin
It had started with the car. The green car that was suddenly always there on Friday. Dustin knew it wasn't from anyone at Hellfire, nor from the teachers, and there wasn't another club running at the same time as them. It wasn't hard to figure out though, because you didn't bother changing parking spots. You parked your green Mustang at the same place every day, including Fridays. All it took was seeing who stepped in the morning. It was almost too easy.
Then, it became about the "why". Why where you there every Friday? That one could've been trickier if Eddie wasn't so damn obvious. He'd recently started to always stay behind after Hellfire, he went quiet every time you walked remotely by him, and he developed the annoying habit of going to his locker multiple times a day every day, for no apparent reason. Most of the time, he didn't even get anything, just opened it, looked inside and closed it back up. Like a freaking mailbox. On the occasions that he did linger, he always made sure to be super secretive about shoving something into his pocket.
So, Dustin had the who – you – and the why – talking to Eddie. What he didn't get was how. How in the world had that happened, and what exactly was that. By that point in time curiosity was getting the better of him, and so he decided to skip the detective work and go for something slightly more straight forward.
They were sitting at their usual Hellfire table. It was just him, Mike and Eddie, the others still in the long queue to get their lunch.
"So, Eddie. When were you going to tell us, you're dating a cheerleader?"
"What?" Mike asked confused and mildly uninterested, looking up from his book. Dustin was always coming up with the weirdest shit.
Eddie almost choked on his coke.
"When did I what now?" He asked trying and failing to play it cool.
"Start dating a cheerleader." Dustin enunciated.
"Are you out of your mind, Henderson? Wheeler, please control your friend."
The deflection peeked Mike's interest. Eddie wasn't one to shut things down so fast; there was always a joke or a stupid story with him. Being accused of dating a cheerleader was perfect ego fuel or at least fuel to fire up a new monologue about the class divisions of high school and whatever else. The fact that he just completely dismissed the insinuation was strange.
Dustin continued to stare daggers at the older boy, trying to will him to come clean on his own accord. But when Eddie kept pretending nothing was happening, the freshman changed strategies. He laid all his cards on the table. How he had seen your car multiple times, how Eddie always stayed behind after Hellfire, how strangely he'd been acting. And then, to really get Eddie, he threw in another thing he'd been noticing lately.
"And, she always fixes her hair when she sees you around."
Eddie, who was completely ready to start denying everything and bring his secret to the grave with him, suddenly forgot all about it.
"She does?"
"Oh, so now I'm not crazy anymore!"
"I... No, I... Goddammit, Henderson."
Eddie sighed defeated. He spared you a glance across the crowded cafeteria and silently begged the metal gods for mercy.
"You cannot tell anyone."
He proceeded to walk the boys through the last few months and if Dustin hadn't just confirmed that he'd seen it whit his own eyes, Eddie would've definitely wondered if he didn't just made it all up in his head. It still felt completely bizarre.
The freshman boys tried to convince him to let them at least tell Lucas, but they were firmly forbidden. Lucas was on the basketball team, which meant he and you ran in the same circle, he was too much of a liability. Eddie had already run his mouth to two too many people, he wouldn't risk that. They also had explicit orders to not comment on it again, or even look in her direction, just in case.
"If I don't look at her, how will we find out if she likes you?" Dustin asked like it was obvious.
"Ugh... We don't need to find out if she likes me, Henderson. We know she doesn't."
"We don't know that" Mike offered trying to cause as much mayhem as he could.
"Well, I don't like her like that, so..." Eddie concluded.
Dustin snorted.
"Yeah, right. You have been running around with a beautiful, rich, smart cheerleader who likes metal and Tolkien, but you just want to be friends. Sure, whatever, makes perfect sense to me."
Eddie glanced at the cafeteria line, the rest of the group still waiting in it. It was like time had decided to stop moving just when he desperately needed it to move at double the speed. Damned Henderson and his keen brain. Eddie pressed the palms of his hands to his head and groaned. This was stressing him out. His leg was bouncing uncontrollably under the table, and he could feel his hands getting sweatier by the minute. He had not prepared for this today. Not here, not now. They had gone months unnoticed, months. They had been careful, and so they had been free. Free from all pressures, and judgments and rules. And now it was ruined, tainted. He just wanted this conversation to end so he could pretend it hadn't happened.
Unfortunately, the past months had taught him that Henderson does not give up. It was probably better to try to bury the subject as soon as possible. The fastest they dropped this the fastest it could go back to being their secret arrangement. Just his and hers. Peacefully free once again. And if Eddie wanted them to give it up, he'd have to give them something first.
"She's not even allowed to speak to me in public, let alone like me in any capacity." He sighed backing down, hands running through his tangled hair.
"I mean she has to like you in some capacity if she keeps hanging out with you" Mike pointed out.
"Exactly, now we just have to..."
"We "have to" nothing, Henderson. If anybody finds out, it's over. Her parents will know. They'll lock her inside and homeschool her till she graduates. Just... let it be. I'm handling it."
"God, you're totally in love with her."
That was the last thing out of Dustin's mouth before Eddie was saved by Gareth approaching the table.
Synopsis: Life as a rich, smart, popular kid in Hawkins, Indina is easy. As long as you do exatcly as you're supposed to do. When your strict parents forbid you to follow your dreams and interests, you have to find secret ways to get what you want. What happens when you're forced to go to Eddie "The Freak" Munson for help?
wc: 15k
Contents: Eddie Munson x Cheerleader!reader, friends to lovers, no physical description of reader, no use of y/n, fluff, nerdoutcast x populargirl trope, mike and dustin being mike and dustin
Your parents had always been on the stricter side. They liked having people's approval, and in Hawkins that mostly meant being a God fearing, rule respecting, status quo following type of family. You went to church every Sunday, you had good grades, you were on the cheer squad and sat at the table with all the popular kids. You were vain, spoiled and sweet and stuck in a cage of their making.
It wasn't necessarily that you didn't care for all those things you participated in, you loved cheering and took pride in being top of your class. Pink suited you and you enjoyed experimenting with the styles from the magazines. It was simply that they weren't the only things that peaked your interest. So, you tried from time to time to explore the other stuff that did.
Your first battle with your parents was at 13 years old, trying to convince them to allow you to listen to pop music. Each album had to be approved by them or by one of their so-called friends. You came to realize, that if the other sweet girls were allowed, their own sweet girl was too, and if not, it was borderline criminal. You started to learn how to use that to your advantage, quietly manipulating your friends to buy an album you wanted to hear, or rent a movie they'd usually never go for. Unfortunately, after a while these tactics started to prove to be less efficient. Your peers began to question your suggestions, and you decided to cut your losses and play safe.
Over the years you learned new tricks, but the hardest part was keeping everything under wraps. Your friends' parents were friends with your parents. They went to the same church, the same parent teacher meetings, the same school games and assemblies, some of them even worked with your dad. That meant that Hawkins was full of spies. If anybody saw you do, or be somewhere you shouldn't, it was almost certain that it would reach their ears in no time. You had to keep everything extremely close to your chest and be as discrete as humanly possible.
Movies had proved to be a hard task. You couldn't rent them because Debbie's father owned the store, so watching them in the theater was your only option. More than once, you had gone with friends to see a parent approved movie, only to excuse yourself with some lame explanation and change rooms to watch something else. That meant most movies were a once in a lifetime experience, to be appreciated and lived in for 90 minutes and never to be seen again.
Music wasn't a walk in the park either, you'd manage to snag a few unapproved tapes at a garage sale on the other side of town once, but you could only listen to them in your car, and not too loud. If the wrong person heard you singing Madonna you'd lose TV privileges for a month.
Nobody could know that you spent hours in the library reading fantasy books pretending to be studying algebra, or that you had a secret hiding place in your car where you kept your secret tapes. And the worst part was that you could speak to nobody about any of it. It was exhausting and stressful, and it drove you crazy. Yet every time you were alone, engulfed so completely in something forbidden, something you loved outside your parents' bubble, it felt so thrilling, so all-consuming that it made everything worthwhile.
That is why you had been sitting in your car still parked in your usual spot for more than an hour waiting for the last person in Hawkins you were allowed to even be nearby. You had started the car many times, so close to convincing yourself to leave, but ultimately failing every time. It was getting dark outside, which you welcomed. The darker it was the more hidden you'd be, and being hidden was the key part of everything in your life. Your friends in the cheer squad and in church were able to open many doors for you in the past, but this one? This one was locked and barricaded. Suddenly, the school door busted open and out they came. The Hellfire Club.
He came out last, juggling books and boxes full of whatever they used to play... whatever it was they played in that club. You watched, transfixed, as he made his way to his van. All swagger and certainty. He moved like he didn't have a care in the world. He didn't give a toss about anything. Anything at all. And you envied him profoundly. Your friends had never had a kind word to say about Eddie Munson, but you'd always thought that he was the most honest person you'd ever met. That's why they were all scared of him, it wasn't just that he was different, it was that he wasn't afraid. Ironically, when you approached him, he was finishing putting his things in the back of the van and you almost startled him to death.
"Hi" You greeted, voice loud enough that he could hear you, but not so much that it could crack under your nervousness. You did your best to appear indifferent, like everything was fine, like approaching Eddie "The Feak" Munson, a drug dealer that kept failing his classes was totally normal.
The oh so feared delinquent almost had a heart attack. You had to force back a smile at the startled way he turned around with a jump, eyes wide open and hand flying to his chest to rest over his fast-beating heart. Always so dramatic. Once he realized he wasn't in any eminent danger, he finally took a good look at you. It took a lot of effort to keep his composure after the shock of coming face to face with the last person he'd expected to see. He did a better job than he gave himself credit for, for to you Eddie Munson never let on anything other than complete coolness.
"Jesus, sweetheart, are you trying to scare me to death?"
The way he was able to call you a pet name so easily when he didn't know anything about you, let alone never met you before, made something flutter in your stomach. How could someone be so confident all the time? He had all the reasons and more to think you despised him like everybody else, and still.
You had had plenty of time in the car to rehearse what you were going to say to him, but now, standing there, with him towering over you, smelling like weed, cheap cologne and bad decisions, your mind went completely blank. This had been a dumb idea.
"Uh...no."
"Well, that's a good start" He responded, eyebrows raised willing you to continue.
"I... I'm sorry if I scared you. I... you don't really know who I am but I, sort of, need a favor?"
Eddie had never been so confused. Firstly, because he definitely knew who you were. Which meant that you were either feigning humbleness (most likely with your kind) or you were extremely naïve. He knew exactly who almost everybody was, having been in that school for so long, but he knew especially who the popular kids were; they made themselves known. Cheerleaders don't go unnoticed; that's their whole deal.
Secondly because, what the actual fuck was a cheerleader doing talking to him? And not just a cheerleader, you. Others he could've expected, they approached him from time to time, for weed and other stuff for their parties, but of all the popular cheerleader gang people, you had always been the coyest one. You didn't make out in the hallways, you didn't speak obnoxiously loud or snicker when he and the other mere mortals passed by.
You didn't go unnoticed, it was impossible to be a cheerleader and not be under the spotlight, but you didn't try to be under it too much either. He guesses that might have made you go under the radar of some people. Not his tough. For someone who couldn't stand still for a minute and had been repeating the same classes for two years, Eddie had an exceptionally keen eye. He was observant and retained a lot of information about his surroundings without really meaning to.
So, he knew exactly who you were. And even if you weren't as loud, you were still one of them. A voice in the back of his mind pestering him about this being some sort of prank forced him to look around the parking lot discreetly. But, to his surprise, there was only your car there, nobody else in sight for miles. You'd outwaited even the teachers.
"You need to ask me for a favor?" He asked slowly, pointing his finger in his direction, eyebrows still stuck high on his face.
You only nodded your head.
Eddie seemed to contemplate his predicament for a second.
"Alright, I'm intrigued. Please, proceed."
"Ok, this is going to sound pretty stupid, so please bear with me."
The boy nodded and you kept going. You started off strong, pushing the words out of your mouth as fast as you could, but as you went on and realized how brutally idiotic it sounded out loud you started to lose steam. The words taking a lot more effort to be expelled from your lips.
"I parked next to you, and you were smoking inside the van. I was doing my make-up, but I had my window open. You had a song on that I liked, and I was just wondering if you could tell me what it was."
You decided to just evert your gaze and just wait for him to speak.
It's fine worst case scenario Eddie Munson thinks you're crazy. So what? He's not really in any place to judge.
"So, let me see if I got this straight. You waited in your car for like 2 hours on a Friday evening only so that you could aske me what song I was listening to... When exactly?
"Oh, this morning"
"This morning, right. Because you...liked the song?" The words felt foreign on his lips, as if they didn't have any real meaning.
"Pretty much, yeah." You responded. Every extra second this interaction took, every extra second you spent under his scrutinizing gaze, was only good to make you more uncomfortable.
"I feel like I hit my head. You're aware this makes absolutely no sense whatsoever?"
"Painfully aware, yes."
Why couldn't he just give it to you? It was a song title. Not even a song, you could survive with just the name of the band. You were starting to learn that nothing was ever simple with Munson, you should've seen that coming.
"Alright." He responded slowly, as if his brain was finally being able to accept the whole ordeal.
"So... Do you know what it was? The song?" You asked after he didn't move an inch.
You could tell a million questions still ran amok in his mind. He had a very expressive face.
"Uhm... I... let me check."
Eddie finally snapped out of his trance, opened the passage door and leaned in enough to eject the tape. He was wondering if maybe he had been listening to something different? Maybe Wayne put on one of his tapes and he didn't notice. But no, clear as day, Ride the Lightning by Metallica sat peacefully in his hand.
The only reason he was sure he wasn't dreaming was because this was way to random a dream to come up with, even for him. If you were asking for drugs? That he could understand and would make for a much more reasonable dream. But this? You, hair armed up to the heavens, denim skirt and rosy cheeks asking him for song recommendations? He would've had to be on mushrooms to come up with that.
Still sitting inside the van, Eddie posed another question.
"Are you sure it was even me?"
This time it was your turn to look confused, and slightly annoyed.
"It's pretty hard to confuse you with somebody else, Munson."
Eddie sighed and jumped out of his seat. He extended his hand to you, giving you the tape, defeated. You took it from his hand, a slight chill running up your arm when your fingers brushed his. You examined it closely, twirling it between your fingers. Eddie's eyes were fixated on the way your manicured hands tapped on the small piece of plastic, as you made a mental note of all the information it held. It felt wrong in your hands, out of place, he had half a mind to reach out and take it from you. You were only going to ruin it; you'd realize you didn't actually like it and turn it into a big joke that everybody would laugh at but himself.
This was his thing. Eddie "The Freak" Munson's thing. And he wasn't entirely comfortable with sharing it with somebody so... different. So completely outside of the bubble where it was supposed to exist.
"Thank you." You finally said with a polite smile, giving him the tape back.
"You're welcome, I guess."
You started to turn around to walk back to your car and Eddie made his way into the driver's seat. A few steps in, you stooped yourself and turned back to him.
"Eddie, could you not mention this to anyone, please?"
"Who would I even tell?"
All of this weird shit was starting to stress him out. He just wanted to get in his car, lit a joint and drive. Maybe blast an album that wasn't Metallica.
"Just... I can't have people knowing."
"That you spoke to me?"
"No! Well, my parents wouldn't be thrilled about that either, but I meant the music. They can't know about the music."
He held your gaze for one more second, brows back to being frowned. This was way too much to handle sober.
"Whatever you say, sweetheart." He dismissed before getting in the van and closing the door with a loud bang.
Warnings: UNEDITED, Bitchy!Reader, Mild Smut (handjob if you can even call it that, premature ejaculation, sub!kurt, dom!reader)
Summary: you have a weird dynamic with your lifelong annoyance, Kurt
A/N: Ok so. I wrote this, and was going to write more but I kind of wanted to gauge interest and see if people were interested in the dynamic/if you thought I characterized him right... so let me know and I might come back to this #later... but anyways enjoy this kind of set up to the dynamic
Kurt Kunkle had been a consistent annoyance in your life since you were kids. A gnat buzzing in your periphery, just clever enough to avoid getting squished.
Your mom talked a lot about how Kurt's mom was her best friend ever and they'd always wanted to raise their kids together, but you're pretty sure she didn't bet on her bestie marrying a total fucking loser and having loser progeny.
The problem with Kurt wasn't that he was offensive to the eyes. He had a cute face, when his mouth was closed, and you'd pantsed him at a pool party once so you knew he was stupidly hung.
The problem with Kurt was that loserdom ran through his veins the same way blood ran through everyone else's. Every word out of his mouth felt engineered to elicit pity laughs and uncomfortable silences. And what really floored you was that he either didn't notice that no one wanted to be around him, or that he genuinely didn't care.
You were fairly confident it was the former, which made it even more pathetic.
In middle school, Kurt tagged along with you and your friends to school dances and parties. This dorky, needy worm that wriggled his way into the spotlight without even caring that he was the butt of the joke.
He didn't have friends so he sat at your lunch table, playing Clash Royale on his phone more than he was eating. Sometimes he'd play his shitty soundcloud music for the table, or pester you with questions for vlogs. And that would've been bad enough, but then it was homecoming, then winter formal, then prom.
Well, Honey, Kurt doesn't have a date and you broke up with your boyfriend. I already promised Angela that you'd let him ride in the limo with you and take some pictures.
His hair was still wet when you took pictures in your living room. Posed in that stupid, stereotypical prom pose with your back against his chest. He didn't even have the guts to really touch you— he did stupid hover hands at your hips, so you could just feel the ghost of his body heat through your dress.
He sat in the passengers' seat of your Honda on the way to Katie's house for group pictures, eyes on you as you kept yours on the road.
"Your, uh, your dress is fire."
Your expression wrinkled as you slowed at a stoplight, and his gaze was so intense that you could feel it like a shiver on your spine. "No one says that."
He laughed, not sheepishly like someone else might, but like he was in on the joke instead of the punchline. It was deeply frustrating and only soured your mood further.
"Oh, right, yeah," he said, with a stupid smile and a clumsy rake of his fingers through his air-drying hair. "Did you, like, pick that dress because of an influencer, or—"
"No one does that, Kurt. I picked the dress because I tried it on and I thought I looked hot, just like everyone else does."
"Oh. Yeah, individuality is super big right now." He swallowed, and you thought he was going to shut up, but as you started to drive, he kept speaking. "I mean, like for me, with my account Kurtsworld96, I'm super authentic. I think people just want to see people being real, and I'm all about that."
"Cool," you deadpanned. There wasn't a single thing about Kurt Kunkle that felt real in any way. At least, nothing that you'd ever gotten to see, and you'd spent eighteen years of your life around him.
It made you a little sad to be around him, frankly. You didn't know what kind of home Angela raised him in, or what it was like when his loser dad skipped out on them, but something had to have happened for him to turn out so hollow.
Kurt's tie was lime green. Your corsage was a hideous aqua-dyed rose that totally clashed with your dress. And he was sweaty and nervous and got pretty much wasted just from a couple of vodka shooters that you all had on the limo.
He puked on your dress after dinner and his mom had to come and pick you both up. You didn't even make it to the first song, because Kurt ruined everything.
With distance, Kurt became an oddity you showed your friends. Look at this weird review he posted today. You have to watch his fourty five minute Taco Bell mukbang. He dropped a new song on SoundCloud, isn't it just horrible?
"Sounds like you're his biggest fan," your coworker said after months of hearing Kurtsworld96 updates like they were the morning news.
The accusation made you scoff. You weren't a fan of Kurt or his stupid social media presence. He was a curiosity to gawk at behind a thick plane of glass. A case study in why you should reduce your screen time. A real life example of a boy raised by the internet. "No, I give him views so he doesn't off himself. It's public service."
The next time you saw him in person was at your mom's birthday— a close-knit pool party in the heat of summer. It brought you from the comfort of your apartment into the heart of Azusa, and everything that came with that.
Kurt, glued to your side, streaming to an audience of six. All of the comments were about you in a bikini, which you knew from the way the text to voice read comments aloud.
Kurt just fuck her you virgin.
Smash or GTFO.
You couldn't handle the gorilla grip lmfao
You tried to ignore it, really. You didn't want to give whatever cretins watched his stuff the pleasure of your attention, but it really got to a point. With an eye roll, you stood and made your way into the house, hoping for five minutes of quiet before he found you again.
You got two. At least he had the decency to look ashamed when he found you in the kitchen. All of the cupcakes that you'd gotten for the party had begun to deflate in the heat, so you licked the frosting off of one so it didn't drip off with your first bite.
"I'm sorry about the chat, they're just joking around," he said. He swallowed hard, eyes flicking from your tongue to your bikini-clad body, then back to your mouth. Never actually managing to land on your eyes where they belonged. "They just think you're pretty. You know, you could have a huge following if you tried to grow your online presence."
"Not interested," you said. "I don't want pervy losers creeping on photos of me to jerk off to later."
He swallowed, brows knitting. "Well… why? Isn't that a compliment? Like… for people to think you're pretty and want to…"
He trailed off, and you could hear the rattle of his shaky exhale as you licked frosting from your fingers. Another swallow, and your eyes trailed down to his stupid minecraft swimtrunks. Swimtrunks that were filling out to accommodate an obvious boner. It sent a spark of something through you that you didn't want to face head on— a sick, perverted thrill knowing the effect you had on him without even trying.
"Were they right?" You asked, narrowing your eyes as you looked at him. His gaze tore away from your tits, and you nearly giggled at his desperation.
"Ab— about you being pretty?" He stammered. "I mean, y-yeah, you're so pretty. You're, um… you're uh… so… so pretty."
You shook your head, a cruel smile twitching at the corner of your lips. "No, I know that. I meant were they right about you being a virgin?"
Talk about a rhetorical question. Is the sky blue? Do fish swim? Is Kurt Kunkle a virgin?
Still, the effect was instantaneous. His cheeks went cherry red and his mouth opened to stammer out weak excuses. "No, that's— I'm not a virgin, I've had so much sex with tons of people. Girls. Tons of girls. And I'm really good at it."
All it took was a tiny scoff and he stood a little straighter, bottom lip jutting out in a pout that might have been adorable if you weren't viscerally annoyed by him. "Why are you hard right now?" You asked, cocking your head with amusement. "Is it the bikini, or that you're getting actual attention from a girl?"
"I— I don't know," he stammered, and you could swear his bottom lip trembled. "You're making me nervous. You always make me nervous."
But, notably, not nervous enough to keep from pimping you out to his loser audience, which was neither here nor there. There was something so empowering about making him squirm in front of you, especially after he'd spent the past decade wriggling his way into your proximity, poisoning your social life.
"Do you want me to touch it?" You questioned with a slow smile, easing closer. "Is that why you came in here to chase me down? You want me to fuck you so that you can brag to your loser followers?"
Kurt whined, but didn't say no. Your manicured hand moved along the cheap nylon of his swim trunks, grazing over his thigh just high enough that he had to fight the urge to buck into your palm.
He smelled kind of good, actually. Like one of those manly deodorant brands and clearance shelf cologne. It shouldn't have been so enticing, but it was… even if you'd never, ever tell him that.
"If you tell me you'll never put me on your stupid stream again, I'll touch you," you promised.
You met his gaze and watched the gears turn behind his eyes, the internal war between wanting to defend his social media presence to you and actually feeling the touch of something besides his own hand, or whatever he hid under his bed. "Yeah," he breathed, with a tiny nod. "Yeah, I won't put you on my stream anymore, I promise."
Who were you to go back on a deal? You tugged down his ugly swimtrunks and swallowed at the sight of his dick— thick and stupidly pretty. He'd been impressive soft, but this was something else entirely. It twitched under your attention, and you watched a sticky string of precum dripping from the tip.
You slid your hand up, just barely wrapping around the base before he came with a shaky groan, shooting rope after rope of cum onto your wrist and the tile floor. He feebly bucked into your grasp, whining with each spurt of his release, until he leaned onto your shoulder and just trembled.
"I'm sorry, I'm really sorry," he mumbled, over and over again. "You're just so pretty. I'm so sorry, I should've been better."
You let him stand there for a little, until you finally shrugged him off and rinsed your hand in the sink. You glanced down at the puddles of cum on the floor and your expression soured. "Gross, can you clean that up? My mom cooks in here. And don't lie and tell your loser followers that you got a handjob, because that wasn't a handjob. I touched you and you came."
He nodded weakly as he pulled his trunks back up. His cheeks were a ruddy pink, and his eyes had a pretty, hazy sheen to them, like he hadn't come back down to Earth yet. "Okay, uh… thank you."
He was so earnest that you felt your heart thaw just a bit.
Synopsis: Winning battles had always come naturally to Prince Aemond Targaryen. Winning back the woman he loved would demand something far greater: the willingness to become a man her world could accept.
Warnings: Miscommunication Trope, Fluff, Yearning, Slight Jealousy, Second Love Interest, Down Bad Aemond
Word count: 5.9k
Part: I, II, III, IV
Spring was nearing summer, and the coldness of winter had truly gone. Though fire ran through his veins, Prince Aemond had never once felt such heat until he spent the early days of summer in your homeland. He sat uncomfortably in his leather tunic and trousers, the Eastern sun blaring down upon him as he had his guide, Gerald, hovering over him as he tried to accustom himself to the traditions of your land.
It was the third day of the week, your grandsire's name day celebrations still in full swing as nobles and commonfolk alike continued to fill the streets with laughter and song. Though the festivities had yet to cease, Prince Aemond found himself far from the village square. Instead, he spent the better part of the morning trying to grasp steamed grains and wrapped ground pork with two slender sticks.
The ivory was growing warm and slippery in his hold, and he grunted in frustration as another morsel slipped from his grasp and fell unceremoniously back onto the porcelain plate. Gerald let out a patient sigh. "Relax your hand, my prince."
"It is relaxed." Prince Aemond gritted out, and in his frustration, he simply used one of the dining sticks to stab the steamed dumpling and raise it to his lips. He resisted the satisfied sigh that urged him to leave his lips.
The Red Keep’s cooks were celebrated throughout Westeros for their dishes, but the moment he had a taste of the delicately seasoned pork wrapped within the soft dough, he begrudgingly admitted that the East rivaled them. "My prince...You are not to spear the food." Gerald pinched the bridge of his nose.
Aemond swallowed before glancing at the dumpling impaled upon the ivory stick. "It reached my mouth, had it not?"
"That is hardly the point, your highness." Gerald sighed as he glanced out the window, witnessing as Prince Xianyu walked beside the lady the Western Prince wished to court. "It should be." Prince Aemond retorted and used the ivory utensil to shovel rice into his mouth. His action was barbaric and unacceptable to the other nobles, whose approval he must gain.
Gerald let out another weary sigh, one that had become all too familiar over the past two days. Ever since the prince had decided to see through his courtship with you, you had entrusted Gerald with his training. Prince Aemond was determined to win your hand. And in his determination, he had barely let his guide rest as he was insistent that Gerald should teach him all he must know.
"Should the lord see you dine in such a manner, he would believe you lacked refinement." Prince Aemond scoffed. "I have dueled seasoned knights since I was but a boy. I have studied beneath maesters and septons. I speak High Valyrian more fluently than the Common Tongue. I had tamed the largest dragon in the world." He placed the dining stick upon the table with a dull clack. "And all of that is cast aside because I stabbed a dumpling."
Gerald smiled knowingly. "No, my prince." He leaned forward, adjusting the prince's grip upon the ivory sticks. "It is cast aside because you are no longer trying to prove yourself to Westeros." Prince Aemond fell silent.
"You are trying to prove yourself to her grandfather, the lord of this land. A lord whose favour already lies upon the Emperor’s only son."
The prince's eye lingered upon the pair of dining sticks resting between his fingers. After a long pause, he released a quiet breath and picked them up once more. "Then show me again." He conceded and relaxed his fingers as best he could. It was rather difficult to do so, as he had been taught to hold on to everything he could grasp tightly.
Gerald watched as the prince awkwardly maneuvered the ivory sticks once more, his movements far too rigid to be of any success. "No." Prince Aemond paused, his lips in a tight line. "You are treating them as though they are weapons.” Gerald sighed once more.
"They are sticks." Prince Aemond countered as he heard sudden cheers from the open window. "They are an extension of your hand, not your sword," Gerald explained. Aemond glanced down at his fingers before reluctantly loosening them.
“Better,” His guide said as Prince Aemond was able to grip a piece of roasted duck. It still fell onto the wooden table after a few moments in the air, but it was still notable progress. “What if I simply do not eat? Surely I need not learn this nonsense if I am never to use it.” Prince Aemond grumbled as he tried to pick up the fallen piece of roasted duck.
“In YiTi, when a guest does not consume their host’s food, it is taken as an insult,” Gerald explained patiently as he retrieved the fallen piece of roasted duck and replaced it with another upon the prince's plate. “A refusal of their meal is a refusal of their hospitality.”
“I have already accepted their hospitality.” Prince Aemond gritted out, his patience overly thin. “You have.” Gerald nodded. “Now you must show them.” The prince glanced down at the porcelain dishes spread before him. Bowls of fragrant rice, braised vegetables, steamed fish adorned with ginger and scallions, and dumplings folded with impossible precision. Every dish had been prepared with painstaking care.
“Every meal shared beneath a roof is an extension of trust.” Gerald continued. “When the lord invites you to dine, he is not merely offering food. He is inviting you into his household.” Prince Aemond remained silent.
“And when you spear a dumpling...” Gerald looked pointedly at the unfortunate victim still impaled upon the ivory stick. “...you tell the household that you care little for the customs they have spent generations preserving.”
The prince sighed as he tried to capture a clump of rice. If he had loved you less, he would not have debase himself in this humiliation, but every lesson, every failure, every morsel that slipped from his grasp brought him one step closer to you.
“Might we go over the histories instead? I can retry this later on. I have lost my appetite.” The prince snapped, and Gerald sighed but agreed. Perhaps dining etiquette would be learned through experience and not constant practice.
“Very well,” Gerald murmured as he unfurled the parchment between them. “If you wish to court the lady, you must first understand the people who raised her.” Prince Aemond leaned forward without complaint. “Tell me.” He ordered.
“YiTi has stood for thousands of years. Dynasties have risen and fallen long before the Andals ever crossed the Narrow Sea. Their people place great stock in ancestry, tradition, and filial piety. Every action reflects not only upon oneself, but upon one's household.” Aemond listened intently.
“So when the lord judges you...” Gerald continued, “he does not merely judge Prince Aemond Targaryen, he judges House Targaryen… And Westeros. Gods, does the lord despise the West.” Gerald sighed.
The prince frowned. “Then why had he sent his kin to our land?” Prince Aemond questioned. His mind briefly replayed the moment you arrived at his home. A shy little girl who hid behind her father’s legs and tightly grasped her mother’s skirts.
“He had naught a choice. The Emperor had chosen his house to be diplomats in the West, seeing your lady’s house is famed for their even temper and level-headedness, and ability to settle disputes.” Gerald explained as he carefully rolled another parchment open beside the first.
“Their post in the West was only supposed to last five years. But as you had come to see, the five-year term became another. Eventually, a temporary post became their new home.” Prince Aemond nodded, his mind memorizing all that was said about your home and house. “What else?”
The older man smiled to himself. For all his impatience, the prince never tired of learning. “If you seek the lord’s blessing,” Gerald began, “you must understand that courtship in YiTi is seldom won through grand declarations. It is won through consistency.” Prince Aemond's brow furrowed. “Consistency?” He questioned. The word was almost foreign to his tongue.
“A single bold gesture may earn admiration.” Gerald looked toward the open window, where the sounds of celebration still echoed through the streets, and he witnessed as Prince Xianyu placed a flower upon your hair, breathing a relieved sigh that Prince Aemond did not witness such actions. “But it is a hundred quiet ones that earn trust.” Prince Aemond was rendered silent.
No wonder you were not impressed by extravagant gifts and his fleet of strengths. The moments he found progress in your courtships were the constant moments he found you in your silent spaces in the Red Keep. Where he would join you each morning to watch the sun rise and each evening to witness the sun setting.
Gerald watched the realization settle upon the prince's face and smiled faintly. "You understand then." Prince Aemond nodded slowly. “Before, I had tried to win her with extravagant gifts, but she never seemed impressed, even if I showered her with all the gold in the West.” Prince Aemond recalled.
“The lady was not raised to waver under riches,” Gerald replied with a small smile. “Gold may earn admiration, but it has never earned devotion. Besides, your lady has been constantly showered with crates of gifts by her grandsire, the moment she and her parents had sailed to King’s Landing– shinny trinkets would no longer impress her, your highness.”
Prince Aemond let out a grievous sigh once more and nodded, another surge of determination coursing within. He would do anything to win your favor. He would suffer through all these lessons if it meant he would have your heart by the end.
“Be kind, grandfather, he is trying.” You whispered softly as you sat by your grandsire’s side. You two were perched on a raised platform overlooking the village square, where musicians filled the warm afternoon with the melodies of flutes and strings.
Prince Aemond stood stiffly next to Prince Xianyu as the two had listed their names before the village elder tasked with overseeing the day's contests. Around them, commonfolk gathered in eager anticipation while nobles watched from shaded pavilions. It was a friendly competition held every year during your grandsire's name day—a display of wit, composure, and skill rather than brute strength.
The lord merely hummed. "I am being kind." He countered as he tapped his cane thrice on the wooden platform, the attention of the crowd quickly shifting toward the two of you. You hid your frown as you looked between the two princes, completely clueless about how the events of the day would turn.
You did not question Prince Aemond’s prowess in combat, but you knew his skill lay with the sword. You had no idea how he fared when it came to the quieter virtues so cherished in your homeland. "The first contest," the village elder announced with a smile, "shall be poetry." You nearly choked.
The crowd erupted into cheers and applause. "If he wishes to stand beside my granddaughter for the rest of his days, then he may begin by standing beside the man who currently courts her." Your grandfather hummed, and you sighed as you knew fully well that the prince had no care nor talent for poetry.
A part of you even wanted to leave. Not wanting to witness him struggle with the tasks and see him quit and change his mind about your courtship. However, whatever doubts you harbored faded with each moment Prince Aemond stayed.
Prince Aemond sighed deeply as he glanced at his competition. Prince Xianyu kneeled before the parchment with the ease of a man who had spent his entire life surrounded by scholars and poets. His brush glided effortlessly across the paper, each stroke deliberate and graceful.
Beside him, Prince Aemond stared at the brush as though it were a foreign weapon. You felt your stomach twist. "Grandfather..." You whispered once more. The old lord merely hummed. "Observe."
The village square had fallen into a peculiar silence. Even the musicians had softened their melodies, allowing only the gentle plucking of strings to accompany the scratching of a brush against parchment. Prince Aemond exhaled slowly. Then, to your surprise, he sat.
You waited rigidly in your seat and breathed in deep breaths. The crowd was on the edge of their seats, their eyes curiously looking upon the two princes who competed for your grandsire’s favour.
“Why not swordsmanship? It seems rather unfair to pit a prince of war against a prince of poetry.” You muttered beneath your breath, your eyes never leaving Prince Aemond's rigid form. Your grandsire's lips twitched.
"If the prince wishes to wed into our household, he must learn that life is not won solely through war." You frowned but said nothing more.
Below, Prince Xianyu had already begun writing. The crowd watched with eager anticipation as elegant strokes flowed effortlessly from his brush. Even from your seat, you could see the beauty of his calligraphy.
Prince Aemond, however, had yet to move. You waited in fear as the time began to trickle away. A moment passed, and you jolted from your seat as the sound of a gong echoed throughout the village square.
All watched in anticipation as a village elder moved to Prince Xianyu and inspected what he had written. A small pleased smile on the elder’s lips as his eyes traveled through the eligible strokes and flowery verses the Eastern Prince wrote. You held your breath as it was Prince Ameond's turn.
You studied each facial expression of the village elder’s face carefully. His lips were in a thin line as he read what the Western Prince had written. You crowded the edge of your seat as the village elder took the parchment and headed to your grandsire. You tried to peer over the parchment and read its contents, but the prince’s strokes were difficult to decipher from where you sat.
Prince Aemond stood under the warm Eastern sun and watched as elderly men began to swarm over the words he had written. He had no gifts for poetry. He found it superfluous and nonsensical. But if flowery verses paved the road that led to you, then he would write until his hand bled and his pride withered.
The silence stretched. One elder frowned, another hummed, a third adjusted his spectacles and reread the same line twice, and by the time a fourth elder ticked his tongue, your heart sank. Gods. You knew that look. It was the same look Grand Maester Orwyle wore whenever Prince Aegon submitted an essay. A look of disappointment and suppressed frustration.
You turned to your grandsire, hoping to glean some hint of mercy from his expression, but the old lord remained as inscrutable as ever. His fingers merely tapped against the jade head of his cane.
Prince Xianyu, meanwhile, stood with the quiet confidence of a man who had spent his youth composing verses beneath flowering trees and moonlit pavilions. Prince Aemond stood like a man awaiting execution.
Finally, one of the elders cleared his throat. "Prince Xianyu's poem," he began, "is beautifully written." The crowd erupted into applause, and you tightly closed your eyes and let out a sigh.
"His calligraphy is exquisite. His metaphors elegant. His understanding of classical form impeccable." Prince Xianyu bowed gracefully.
Then the elder lifted Prince Aemond's parchment. The applause died. "Prince Aemond's poem..." he began. "...is terrible. It is barely a poem at all."
Your heart pitted as the village square burst into laughter. You felt your face burn and your stomach twist. Even Prince Xianyu looked startled by the bluntness. Prince Aemond merely blinked. "The structure is poor. The brushwork is atrocious. The rhythm is nonexistent."
You dared to look at Prince Aemond. He stood unmoving. Proud and silent. Wearing the same expression he wore whenever he lost a duel as a child, and refused to show pain. Then an elder smiled. "However, there is honesty in it."
“The first time I saw her, she hid behind her father's cloak and refused to look at me.” Your breath caught in your throat as you met Prince Aemond's gaze. “The second time, she spoke to me because she pitied me.” A few chuckles rippled through the crowd, but you were deaf as you stared into his lilac eye. “The third time, she laughed.”
Prince Aemond let out a breath of relief and let his embarrassment fade with each moment he stared into your eyes. All that he had wished to say was now uttered by another’s tongue.
“I have spent years learning war, history, philosophy, and dragons. Yet the greatest lesson I have ever learned was that I wished to hear her laugh again.” The square fell silent, and you held your breath. “I know little of poetry. I know less of courtship. But I crossed half the world because, after two years apart, I discovered there are some silences a man cannot survive twice.”
“Words spoken with honey are often bitter underneath.” Your grandsire remarked as he caught you with a small smile that refused to leave your lips. He found you near a window in the inn’s parlour, your mind still floating with the words read aloud earlier in the day.
You had not seen the prince again as he was escorted to prepare for the next challenge, but your mind refused to forget what he had written. How he stood before you and your people, ready to face ridicule and humiliation for a chance to remain by your side.
With a deep breath, you turned to look upon your grandsire, who had his eyes upon the town square. “You had chosen the challenge, grandfather. And he had won it fairly.” You defended, but the old man simply sighed, shook his head, and sat beside the wooden bench you sat upon.
“One challenge won hardly proves that he is worthy of you.” He mused. “Do not forget what he had done, my child. Do not forget the tears you have shed, the meals you have missed, and the sleepless nights you have had.” You bit your tongue at his words, a dull, persistent ache in your heart. “You even decided to stay here, far from your parents’ care, because of the betrayal he had committed. Do not let your young mind be swayed so easily,” he added.
“We cannot let a mistake mar a lifetime of good.” You whispered softly, though the conviction behind your words wavered the moment they left your lips. Your grandsire turned to look at you. “A mistake?” He repeated. You lowered your eyes to your hands folded in your lap.
“What else should I call it?” You asked quietly. He did not answer immediately. Outside, the festivities continued. Laughter echoed through the streets below, accompanied by the distant melodies of flutes and strings. Yet within the inn's parlour, all seemed strangely still.
“A mistake is forgetting a name. Or speaking out of turn. Or arriving late to supper.” He leaned upon his cane and regarded you with an expression that was neither angry nor disappointed. Merely sad. "What Prince Aemond did was a choice.”
You feel your heart twist at the remembrance. “He had made his choice years before.” You admitted. “But he has also made his choice to rectify his mistakes now. He flew on dragonback here– he flew all the way to YiTi for me.” You said quietly, head bowed, as you could not bear to look upon your grandsire.
Your grandsire was silent for a long while. The old lord looked out the window toward the village square, where banners fluttered in the summer wind, and children chased one another through the crowd. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than before.
“My child.” He reached over and took your hand into his weathered one. “I do not doubt that the prince regrets what he has done. I do not doubt that he suffers. But what I do doubt is his intentions.”
You frowned at his words. “I do not understand. He has nothing to gain from this. I hold no title or riches. I am not even a noble of Westeros.” You explained, uncertain of what your grandsire meant. It would be a different discussion if you were the heir to a great house. If you held dragons or armies or lands to your name. But you held none of those things. Your grandsire smiled sadly. “Exactly.”
Your frown furthered. "I do not understand," you confessed, and he patted your hand. “You believe that because you hold no title, no wealth, and no political advantage, that no man could ever pursue you for the wrong reasons.” He sighed and turned his gaze back toward the village square. “That is because you have never understood what it is you possess.”
Your heart skipped a beat. A part of you had the answer at the tip of your tongue, but a greater part was simply clueless. “And what is that?” You asked, somewhat fearing the answer. Your grandfather smiled softly. “Peace.”
You blinked slowly, confounded by his answer. “Peace?” You echoed, and he slowly nodded.
“Your father was chosen to represent our people in the West because he wields it. Your mother cherishes him because he possesses it. And you, my child… had inherited a great deal of it.” You sat silently, unable to grasp what your grandfather meant.
“Have you never wondered why men seek your company?” He asked gently as confusion overtook your face. You softly shook your head. You had always believed it was your unique face that attracted the courtiers in Westeros. They did prize uniqueness after all.
“Why servants tell you their troubles? Why children follow you? Why even wounded animals allow you to approach?” Your grandfather questioned further, but all he received was another shake of your head. He sighed with a small smile on his lips.
You make people feel safe– at ease. You have this calmness– this serenity that others spend their entire lives seeking and never find.” Your grandsire said quietly. “And there is no rarer gift in this world.”
“He does not seek your hand because you are rich. He seeks your hand because in you, he found peace.” Your grandsire clarified. And you nodded meekly. “Is it because I am often quiet?” You asked, and his laughter soon followed. “No, my child. Peace and silence are not the same.”
You sighed and nodded your head. “But if Prince Aemond found peace with me, are we so cruel to deny him of that?” Your grandsire laughed once more, but this time, it was without humour.
“He may have found peace with you, but that is of little consequence to me. You forget, he is not my kin. You are my only grandchild– you are the one I am to protect. I cannot leave this earth without knowing if you will be properly cared for. That you would be with a man whose attention and devotion would not waver.” You pursed your lips at his words.
“A mere poetry challenge is not enough to convince me, my child. And it should not be nearly enough to convince you to spend your life with him.” You were rendered silent at his cutting words. When you spoke not a nother word, your grandsire stood. “Now come, there are much more challenges to preside over.”
“Did she truly look at me?” Prince Aemond could not help but ask his guide, Gerald, the question that had consumed his thoughts since the morning. The prince sat in a copper tub filled with steaming, scented water. He was being prepared for the afternoon’s events. A test of knowledge and memory.
Gerald resisted the smile that wished to inch his lips. “She did, my prince.” He confirmed as he readied the prince’s linens. Prince Aemond smiled to himself as he lowered himself into the water, his aching body and pitted heart renewed at just a simple confirmation.
“I would advise you to save your moment of triumph, my prince. There are still plenty of challenges before you.” Gerald informed, but quickly regretted speaking as he saw the sudden scowl on the Western prince’s face.
“What is the next challenge then?” the prince asked sharply, standing from the milky bath and waiting for Gerald to wrap the white linen around him. “A test of patience and history,” Gerald replied as the prince stepped out of the tub and reached for his leathers, only to be hindered.
“A tea ceremony, your highness.” Gerald continued. “And for such ceremonies, you are required to wear the traditional garb of this land,” he said cautiously.
Prince Aemond blinked. His lone eye glancing upon the traditional robe that hung upon a paper divider. Silk instead of leather. “There is no armor.” He frowned and said bitterly.
“It is a tea ceremony, my prince. Not a battlefield.” Gerald hummed as he took the fine robe into his hands. “I refuse to wear that. I would be vulnerable to attacks.” Prince Aemond gritted. “I understand your hesitancy, my prince, but rest assured, YiTi is not as uncivilized as the West. There would be no arrows piercing through the skies nor swords drawn tonight.”
Prince Aemond pursed his lips as he gazed upon the silk robe. His fingers instinctively reached for the familiar weight of the leather resting upon the dressing table. Worn and weathered from years of riding dragons and training yards, it had molded itself to the prince's frame long ago. Leather embraced him like a second skin. Every buckle sat where it belonged. Every strap served a purpose. It was heavy, protective, and reassuring.
The robe Gerald held was none of those things. It shimmered beneath the afternoon light, woven from pale silk embroidered with silver cranes whose wings seemed to drift whenever the fabric caught the breeze. It looked impossibly delicate. “I refuse to wear this.” He stubbornly dismissed and took hold of his tunic. “But my prince–”
“I am a prince of Westeros. I am in YiTi simply to regain the hand that had long been mine. I do not aim to conform to whatever ceremonies her grandsire so wished.” He gritted as he wore his trusted garments. Gerald sighed heavily but obliged.
“Very well, my prince. But I do warn you that your decision would not be taken well.” Prince Aemond simply scoffed and brushed off his words.
By the courtyard, you sat with your grandsire inside a hut that was perched by the edge, where servants moved with quiet efficiency beneath the shade of flowering trees. The tea pavilion stood upon a polished stone platform overlooking a tranquil pond, its waters broken only by drifting koi and the occasional ripple of a summer breeze.
You watched as Prince Xianyu approached first. He had exchanged his court robes for flowing silks the color of jade, his long sleeves embroidered with golden bamboo. His dark hair had been neatly gathered and fastened with a carved hairpin of white jade. Every step he took seemed effortless, every movement practiced from years of ceremony. Your grandsire gave a small nod of approval.
Moments later, another figure entered the courtyard. Every conversation ceased as Prince Aemond strode through the stone gates clad in black leather and fitted riding trousers, the afternoon sun glinting against the silver clasps upon his tunic. The heavy boots upon his feet echoed across the courtyard with each measured step, stark against the near-silent grace of the YiTish nobles.
You felt your heart sink. Beside you, your grandsire released a slow breath, his gaze turning to Gerald, who had approached first. An apologetic look upon his face. “I have tried to warn him, my lord.” He whispered and bowed.
Prince Aemond paid little mind to the stares that followed him. His shoulders remained squared, his chin held high. Had he entered the Red Keep dressed thus, none would have questioned it.
“Do our garments not suffice your taste, my prince?” Your grandfather questioned sharply. All eyes were upon him as you lowered your gaze. "They are finely made." The prince answered evenly. "But I saw no need to exchange my own garments."
Your grandsire hummed and shook his head. “How unfortunate.” He sighed. “You see, my prince, it is customary to wear such robes for a ceremony as sacred as this. Your refusal to do so means you are not eligible to join.” The lord announced, and you feel your heart skip a beat. You raised your gaze and saw the satisfied look upon Prince Xianyu’s face and the quiet rage upon Prince Aemond’s.
“Because of Prince Aemond’s refusal, this challenge is automatically won by Prince Xianyu!” Your grandsire declared, and a round of cheers and claps erupted upon the once quiet courtyard. “Well done, your highness.” Your grandsire smiled upon the Eastern Prince as you avoided the burning gaze of the Western one.
Prince Aemond's jaw clenched. His eye never left your grandsire. "I crossed half the world for this challenge."
"And you crossed the courtyard unwilling to honor it." Your grandsire replied evenly. The prince took a measured step forward. "I came to prove my devotion to your granddaughter." He proudly announced, head held high.
“Yet you cannot even respect the customs of her land.” Your grandsire replied evenly. “We have no need for another Westerner who believes his ways superior to our own.” A murmur of agreement swept through the gathered nobles, and Prince Aemond's jaw tightened. “I never claimed such a thing.”
“You did not have to.” The old lord gestured toward the prince's attire. “You announced it the moment you walked through those gates. A reminder, my prince. You are no longer in the West. Our people are not so easily impressed nor intimidated by silver hair. Nor do we appreciate the disregard for our culture.” Prince Aemond's fingers twitched at his sides. “Your said devotion for my granddaughter could not be seen when you cannot even be bothered to regard her own culture.”
Prince Aemond breathed in deeply as he reigned in his rage. "I crossed kingdoms and seas for her." He repeated, his voice measured. "Surely that speaks louder than a change of garments."
"It would," your grandsire agreed without hesitation. "Had the journey taught you anything." The prince frowned. "You speak as though crossing the sea were the greatest sacrifice made." The old lord slowly rose from his seat, leaning upon his cane. "My granddaughter crossed that same sea when she was but a child."
"She learned your language. She learned your customs. She dined as Westerosi dined. She greeted your nobles as Westerosi expected. She altered herself out of respect for the land that welcomed her." His hardened gaze remained fixed upon Prince Aemond. "She asked nothing in return."
"And now, when fortune asks you to wear silk instead of leather for but an afternoon..." Your grandsire sighed softly. "...you call it too great a burden." Prince Aemond's eye twitched as he glanced before you with your head bowed.
Your grandsire sighed and cast his eyes upon the courtyard. Countless attendees bearing witness to another Westerner refusing to accept a culture that was not their own. "You believe love is measured by the distance you have traveled. We measure it by the distance a man is willing to move from himself.”
The courtyard fell silent. Even the summer breeze seemed to still amongst the flowering branches. Prince Aemond looked upon you. You had yet to raise your eyes. For the first time since arriving in YiTi, he wondered if every lesson Gerald had drilled into him had not been about dining, history, or ceremony at all. They had all been about this. About learning that love did not ask a kingdom to bend around him. It asked him to bend first.
"You fear silk because it leaves you vulnerable," your grandsire continued quietly. "Yet you ask my granddaughter to entrust her life to a man who refuses even the smallest discomfort." The prince's jaw tightened. “Either you bend or break, my prince. The choice is yours.”
You flinched as the dinner gong sounded out through the great hall. The chatter of attendees grew quiet as servants began opening the carved cedar doors leading into the banquet hall. You did not even bother to raise your gaze as you knew the lone lilac eye you wished to see would not come.
After the ordeal in the courtyard, you had to watch the Prince stomp away. And moments later, your province had to hear the mighty roar of his dragon and witness the great beast fly away into the horizon. Prince Aemond left once more, and with him, he took his empty promises, as you witnessed firsthand that you were not enough.
Your shoulders slumped as you followed your grandsire into the banquet hall. Lanterns of painted silk hung overhead, casting warm amber light upon lacquered tables laden with steaming dishes. The scent of jasmine tea mingled with roasted duck, ginger, and freshly steamed rice, yet the feast felt hollow.
You quietly took your place beside your grandsire. The seat reserved for Prince Aemond remained empty. A dull ache settled within your chest. You hated yourself for hoping once more. That you had ignored all of your grandsire’s warnings as your heart sought a fair-haired stranger that had never truly been yours.
“Eat, my child.” Your grandfather said softly as you simply sat by his side, unmoving. The steamed rice and various dishes before you lay untouched and have grown cold from neglect. “You starving yourself will not make him return,” he added, and you sighed, yielding as you took hold of the ivory sticks, but before you could eat, the cedar doors opened.
You kept your gaze lowered even as the guests ceased their talk once more. You feel your grandfather still in his seat, yet you paid no mind. You sighed deeply as you tried to lift the first mouthful of rice to your lips.
The murmurs that filled the banquet hall gradually ceased. One by one. Until the only sounds that remained were the soft crackle of lantern flames and the distant song of cicadas beyond the paper screens.
You frowned. It was too quiet. Against your wishes, you slowly lifted your gaze, and your breath caught in your throat. Standing beneath the carved cedar doorway was Prince Aemond.
Gone were the weathered leathers that had become as familiar to you as the sapphire set within his eye. In their place flowed robes of pale silver silk embroidered with cranes whose wings seemed to glimmer beneath the lantern light. The long sleeves draped neatly over his hands, bound at the waist by a dark sash of woven silk. His silver hair, once loosely tied behind his head, had been gathered properly and secured with a carved jade clasp.
You could see it in the stiffness of his shoulders, the unfamiliar way he held his arms, and the subtle restraint in each measured step he took across the polished floor. Yet he did not falter. Gerald followed several paces behind, relief so evident upon the older man's face that you almost smiled. Prince Aemond did not spare the hall a glance. He walked directly toward your grandsire.
He stopped before the old lord. Then, without a single word, he lowered himself into a deep bow. So deep that the embroidered sleeves of his robe brushed against the polished wooden floor. “I refuse to break, my lord. I refuse to leave without my lady.”
You breathed in heavily as his eye landed upon you. Spring was changing into summer, and you witnessed not only the changing of the season but as well how the prince was willing to change for you.
Thank you so much for your support! And if you have not noticed yet, this story is heavily influenced by my learning from Postcolonial theory, and I can only hope I do it justice! <3
summary: Going to the library to find a book on the physics of beating Vecna turns into something completely different once Steve meets you.
cw: season 5 plot line, Steve and Dustin arguing, fluffff, meet cute, working at a library, nothing crazy :)
Agreeing to drive Dustin to the library might've been Steve's worst idea all day.
He was already a little out of the loop of things from being late due to needing gas and now he’s stuck with the person he can't stand. Just loud and wrong about everything lately and it’s not exactly a thing Steve can prioritize right now. Not because he doesn't care but he can't care if the world is ending.
That's why they are on the way to the library in the first place. Needing some chem or physics book, he didn't feel the need to actually pay attention when they were discussing it. Didn't even bother asking about it on the drive there. The drive was completely silent by the way, only the sound of the radio making the tense air breathable.
And when they did arrive Dustin made a note to slam his passenger side door. A little something he knew Steve would hate and get irritated by. Which he did, yelling after the kid who was 15 steps ahead but his words went through one ear and out the other. Even when the older boy did make it to the doors he watched the tall glass shut right in his face. No friend to hold it open or to apologize when he hears it shut behind him to then open a second after followed by a clear scoff.
So to say Steve parted ways with Dustin the second that he entered the cool AC building would be an understatement. While he saw curly hair make its way through the aisles to his left he went to his right. Slowly making his way through this building he’s never been in a day in his life, taking in what's around him.
Truthfully he’s bored here. Not even a minute in and he wants to head back, feeling like all they're doing is wasting time. He’d be more helpful doing something hands on, not walking around pretending to read the spines of books that sound incredibly boring.
But right when he was about to make a U-turn to go into the next aisle he saw you.
You were checking someone out; scanning a book, swiping some cards, having a basic chat. Steve thought to himself if he knew you. You’d look to be around his age and that would be you went to high school with him at some point. But he’s blanking because if he had seen you before he would've never forgotten you.
Still he makes another round to a new aisle, this section is fiction while the other was non-fiction. Reading these titles he even thinks they might be something he could get behind. Way better than the boring works the other bookcase had. The bright colors of these books pull him in as well, feeling brave enough to slip one out and read the back of it.
“Hi, would you like any help?” You ask, a professional smile glued to your face.
Now you coming up behind him was not something he expected. First off him being stuck in a book might be words that have never been said outloud, second he didn't hear you at all– which resulted in a slight jump of shock from him.
“Oh! Uh, no thanks I’m just looking around.”
“Okay, well if you need anything I’m around. Because, well um, you are in the high schoolers book section.” You point to the small sign above Steve's head that reads ‘fiction: 9-12’.
This is why Steve doesn't go to these types of places. It’s like they're made to embarrass him at any chance given. And he’s sure you can tell he’s embarrassed by how red he probably is. Quickly putting the book in his hands back to the shelf.
“I came in here with a friend, I'm just waiting around y’know.” It’s a weak excuse as you clearly saw him deeply reading that book but he is telling the truth.
His excuse is somewhat refreshing. More times than not guys like him come in looking for something to impress a girl. Nothing like a nice lie to start a relationship for a girl to think you’re something you're not. You’ve begun to get quite an opinion about it, so when you catch them you try to make it a fun game. But the boy in front of you seems to be a little different.
“I mean if you’re just wasting time we could try and find you a book you’d like?” Yes this is part of your job description, but truthfully he’s cute and you’re bored at the front. Who doesn't love a book recommendation?
“I’m really not that big of a reader, I couldn't even tell you what I like or don't like about a book.” His hand scratches the back of his neck, somehow even more humiliated that he isn't knowledgeable about this.
To Steve’s credit he knows a lot of things. Like everything about every sport, how to talk to people, work any bare minimum job, be a shoulder to cry on, even a little bit on how to fix a car. All of these things he can do with confidence, but talking to a girl who is obviously book smart isn't something he wants to be put up against. Honestly you’re catching him at a bad time. With all the stress he’s not at his best. Not flirting the best or catching onto jokes with sarcasm. It’s all kinda a mess in his head.
You can probably sense it on him with the beat he takes. “It’s totally okay, we don't have to if you’re not feeling it. But I always like to say there's a book for everyone.”
Your words are piquing his interest and your looks are sealing the deal. With a quick look through the spaces between the shelves Steve sees Dustin nose deep in a book. “Why not? Let's do it.”
“Great! For starters do you think you’d be more into fiction or non-fiction?”
“Fiction I think?” In his eyes non-fiction is just some book an old person wrote to write about their old life.
“And what type of movies do you like? That’ll help me get a gauge on the genres you're into.”
You’re leading him to a new aisle while asking him all of this. Looking and reading some titles to shake your brain and see if he’d like it based on the little info he’s said and the vibes he gives off. Steve can't remember the last time he was able to multitask like this. Fully in your space and ready to take a fight on possibly the worst customer you've had working here.
“Oh easy Animal House, Star wars– with the teddy bears obviously it’s the best one– uh what was the last one..”
“So maybe a sci-fi, possibly comedy.” You mutter more so to yourself but Steve hears it as if you spoke it to him.
“Fast times! That's the name, okay yeah those are my top three movies. Love ‘em.”
“Would you be into horror?”
Any other time in Steve's life he’d say yes. Right now when the world is on the line and a million scary things happen around him, horror isn't really what he wants to read late at night when he needs to wind down.
“Maybe let’s skip on that one.”
“Noted.” You try to fight a smile and he catches it as soon as it happens. Realizing that this grown man is turning down a horror book. Something that isn't real and can't hurt him.
But before he can back himself up you bend down, reading books on the lowest shelf. And yeah Steve's a man, a man with needs so do his eyes go to your ass? Of course they do. And the jeans you have on are doing the lord's work. It only gets worse when you kneel down giving into the low shelf to grab a book.
“Okay, this one is sci-fi but it’s on the shorter side and has a humorous charm to it.” You state, handing him the book. “Read the back and see if you’re into it.”
It’s hard for him to truly listen to your words because you’re kneeled in front of him with big eyes waiting for his reaction to the book. To say Steve hasn't had a dream or two about doing some stuff in a library would be a lie, and right now that’s where his brain is at. Not the book you spent your hard earned time to find or the way he should be rushing Dustin to get out.
What really seals the deal is Steve putting his hand out to help lift you back up on your feet. You’re quick to grab onto him, showing how small your hand is in his, and thanking him for offering it. From an outsider's perspective it could look kind, definitely gentlemanly– certainly not what Steve is thinking it means.
Still he finds it in himself to push through his perverted thoughts. Chalking it up to the lack of sex he’s gotten from all of this end of the world bullshit. So he reads through the description on the back of the book. Trying to look as interested as he can to make it look like you found a perfect book. Which maybe you did, however, he certainly won't know what a good book is till he’s read a few so for now he’ll take your word.
“This sounds really good.” He smiles at you.
“Yeah? I think you’ll like it. I read it a little while ago when I was tired of the stuff I was reading, it was a good palette cleanse.”
“Cool, hey listen I was wondering if I could-”
“STEVE?” Dustin yells out.
A sigh comes out past Steve's lips, head falling in defeat. Disappointed and extremely done with Dustin at this point. He gives the shyest whistle to get the kids attention which works, the curly headed boy makes his way to where the two of you stand.
“What are you doing? I’ve never been here and even I know you can't yell in a library.” Steve lectures, one hand on his hip while the other holding the book points at him.
“Wait, you've never been here? Do you not have a library card?” Honestly the library card is normally what stops people because of the monthly payment, if you’d known this you might've not gone through with searching so hard.
“A library card what?” His head turns back to you and now he’s feeling stupider and stupider. Paired with a kid who has zero manners in a public space.
“Relax dingus, I have a library card.” Dusitn replies before you give the rundown. Only then realizing why you’re with Steve and why there's a book in his hand. “Hey wait, are you reading your first book ever?”
His words rile Steve with ease, and before he knows it the book in his hand raises high to fall back down on the kid.
“Hey, you break it, you buy it.” Your hand goes straight to his bicep, somehow trying to stop him despite it being his other arm making the action. Still your touch is enough to stop him in his tracks, shocked by your movements and yearning for more all at the same time.
“Aren’t I already buying it?”
“Jesus fucking christ, you rent it!”
Almost as if on que both you and Steve simultaneously go after Dusitn together. “Language!”
“This is a library, not a playground. No yelling and no cursing.”
In a classic high schooler fashion the boy rolls his eyes and turns around. “I don't even have a playground.”
You and Steve follow him up to the front to check out. Walking a little past the guys to get behind the counter to get into the computer. The kid you now know to be named Dustin hands you his library card which you take a swipe, scanning their books next. The whole process takes less than two minutes and it reminds you how boring it’ll be once these two leave. Already missing the small bubble of chaos you were put into for 30 minutes, removing you from your slightly boring job.
“Oh hey weren't you about to ask me something earlier?” You turn to Steve, trying to remind him of his previous words. Hoping he says what you think he was planning on saying before you two got interrupted.
Although it seems like you’re still not quite alone because Dustin turns his head to see the older boy will say. Both of your eyes on him makes his cheeks heat up, not great being put on the spot. “Y’know I don't even remember what I was gonna say.”
The look of disappointment is hard to hide but you do your best. Because you did just meet him but within the short amount of time he’s been here you had the best time you've had all day. Already dreading when they leave and the quietness settles back down. When the only people who come up to you are kids or old people who have serious attitude.
“Well maybe by the time you return the book you’ll remember.” A shrug follows your words, trying not to come off as crazy for enjoying his company so much.
“Yeah, definitely. And I'll keep you updated on how the book goes.” He gestures holding the book up and you nod in agreement.
“Okay, I hope you enjoy it.” Your words are genuine and it makes his heart beat all the faster.
“Thanks, I’ll um, see you soon?”
Dustin has to stop himself from physically gagging at your interaction. Just completely going in circles with what you both want. The thought of just walking out and waiting for Steve popped up in his mind but he doubts the lovestruck boy would even catch him doing it, too enthralled with you to think or notice anything else.
Giving him another feverish nod, unable to hide how giddy he makes you, you say your goodbyes. Not exactly trusting the words to come out of your mouth. He copies your actions and backs up a bit, giving you a wave goodbye.
Similar to before Dustin gives another ‘Steve!’ but this time a hushed version so he doesn't get in trouble. The effect is all the same, getting the older boy away from you and out the door but only with another wave goodbye pointed towards you.
He might not have been able to ask you out this time but at least now he has a reason to come back.
Synopsis: Prince Aemond Targaryen crossed half the world to court the woman he loved, only to discover that in YiTi, love alone was never enough. Before he could win your heart, he would first have to prove himself worthy of the people who had held it long before he ever did.
Warnings: Miscommunication Trope, ¿Forbidden Romance? Fluff, Yearning, Slight Jealousy, Second Love Interest, Courtship, Down Bad Aemond
Word count: 3.8k
Part: I, II, III
The fire roared as grand celebrations took place. You sat tensely between two princes, one from the East, the other from the West. You dared not glance at either one, your eyes trained heavily on the dragon’s dance. Countless yards of silk and satin molded to look like dragons danced before you, talented men twisting and weaving beneath the fabric as the beast surged through the crowd. The steady thunder of drums echoed through the village square while cheers erupted from every corner.
You breathed in deeply as you felt your shoulders brush against the princes who sat silently at each of your sides, their eyes upon the performance dedicated to your grandsire. Your mind was still spinning from the events that unfolded. An hour had barely passed since you saw Prince Aemond once more, and yet everything had changed.
The prince had come. The realization still felt absurd. Almost impossible. You even doubted your mind; you feared he was a simple figment of your imagination, but no, he was here. The two of you were under the same moon, breathed in the same air. He was sitting next to you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his frame.
For two years, you had convinced yourself that he had forgotten. For two years, you had swallowed every disappointment and forced yourself to accept the silence he left behind. But now, the silence was deafening as neither of you had yet to speak with one another.
You blinked slowly as you felt eyes upon you, the villagers and other nobles curiously eyeing the princes by your side, but none of their stares burned as much as the steady gaze of your grandsire, who had his lips in a thin line.
As hospitable as he was, you could feel the disdain emitting from him the moment he realized that the Targaryen Prince had come uninvited. That Prince Aemond had the gall to suddenly come and disrupt the peace you had spent two years painstakingly building.
You breathe in heavily as the performance ended, a round of applause and cheers surrounding the town square, but your mind ran with what to say to the newly arrived prince. You mustered every ounce of courage you had as you partly turned your head at his direction, your lips already parted, ready to speak, but Prince Xianyu spoke first.
“You have traveled quite the distance, Prince Aemond.” He stated as he leaned forward to meet the eye of the Western prince. You stilled in your seat as Prince Aemond did the same. There was fire beneath his cold, lilac gaze as he looked upon the Eastern Prince.
“Aye,” Prince Aemond grunted, and you shifted in your seat at the rather curt and almost boorish response. However, you were thankful as Prince Xianyu did not seem to notice. Perhaps Prince Aemond’s coldness was lost in translation.
Aemond gritted his teeth as the man who dared to feed you sweets spoke to him. It took everything in him not to cause a scene as he saw the exchange unfold earlier.
The prince had crossed half the world. Flew over mountains, deserts, and seas. Only to arrive and find another prince hovering at your side, making you laugh, looking at you the way Aemond had always wished to. The realization made bile rise to his throat.
Yet the prince endured. For you and only for you.
You breathed in deeply once more, parting your lips to finally speak, but a sigh left your lips as Prince Xianyu spoke once again. “I imagine dragonback is not a comfortable means of travel.”
You nearly groaned.
“It is not.” Prince Aemond replied curtly. Prince Xianyu nodded thoughtfully. “Then your journey must have been difficult.”
Aemond resisted the urge to roll his eye. The prince had not crossed half the world to discuss travel conditions. “It was,” he agreed.
“Then might we inquire why you had journeyed perilously for?”
Prince Aemond swallowed thickly. His eye shifted from the Eastern Prince to you, who sat rigidly by his right. He waited for a moment. Waited for you to cast your gaze upon him. And when you finally did, he felt all the tiredness and toll from his journey dissipate.
“I came for my lady.” That is what he wished to say, but before the words left his lips, your grandsire appeared before the three of you.
The old lord stood tall despite his age. His jade-headed cane rested firmly against the ground. The conversations around the square gradually quieted as many noticed his approach. You immediately straightened in your seat.
“Grandfather.” You acknowledged with a small bow of your head. He simply hummed as his gaze drifted first toward you. Then toward Prince Xianyu. And finally, Prince Aemond. The warmth vanished from his features.
“What an unexpected surprise. I was not aware that the West would send one of their princes to attend my name day.” You licked your lips at the tone of indignation in his voice. “Had you known about this, my child?” He asked with a hum, and you immediately shook your head, the bejeweled hairpin that held your hair swaying with the rapid movement of your head.
“How curious,” He hummed, his once warm eyes turning cold as he placed it upon the silver-haired prince who dared ruin the acquaintance forming between his only granddaughter and the Emperor’s only son. “Have you come as an emissary then?”
Prince Aemond glanced towards you, who cast your eyes upon the cobblestoned ground, his hands forming fists as the Eastern Prince inched closer to your side, as he slyly tried to gain your attention.
“No, my lord. Pardon my intrusion, but I have come for your granddaughter,” he announced proudly, and you took in a sharp breath at his words.
Was it true? Did he truly come for you?
Your heart raced at the thought. An unsettling rush that you had not felt in almost two years quickly overcame you. Hope bloomed within. Dangerous, foolish hope. The kind you had spent countless nights trying to extinguish. The kind that refused to die.
Your gandsire hummed, tapping his cane upon the cobblestone thrice before resting his gaze upon you, who had color vivid on your cheeks. “Is that so?” Your grandfather questioned, and Prince Aemond nodded without doubt or hesitation. “Very well then, if that is your purpose, I apologize as you had come at a rather busy time. My granddaughter is currently being courted.”
You almost choked once more.
You dared to raise your gaze and saw a satisfied look upon your grandsire’s face. His eyes upon Prince Xianyu who straightened in his seat and nodded enthusiastically, his action only furthering the smile on your grandsire’s lips.
Prince Aemond felt his heart pit at your grandsire’s words. His gaze immediately flew towards the other prince, who held a rather smug look upon his serpent-like face. His eye then turned to you, the same shock in his eye mirroring yours.
“Now, if you would excuse us, I believe the first dance of the evening is saved for Prince Xianyu and his chosen partner.”
Before another word could be uttered, you were pulled by the hand by the Eastern Prince. Your confused gaze turned to Prince Aemond for the briefest of moments before your grandsire moved to stand between the two of you.
Aemond's jaw clenched. The prince had faced storms at sea, bloody battles, and dangerous dragons. Yet none of them tested his patience and composure as much as the sight before him. You, his lady, being led away by another man.
His fingers twitched at his side. The old instinct to reach for Dark Sister nearly overcame him. But he hindered himself with the reminder that he was in a foreign land. That he was in your home. That he did not wish to offend you, as he stirred chaos during your grandsire’s name day.
Instead, Prince Aemond had to bite his tongue and dig his nails into his palm as he had to watch you dance with the Eastern Prince.
“I knew you were well sought after, my lady, but I had not thought that I would compete with another of your suitors tonight.” You breathed heavily as you heard the prince whisper near your ear. You glanced behind Prince Xianyu to only see the seething gaze of Prince Aemond, his lilac gaze following each step the two of you took.
Your cheeks heated as you took a misstep, uncertain if your mistake was brought forth by your acquaintance with the traditional dance in your land or the prince’s heated, cold gaze. Your body almost collided with the ground, but with one swift movement, the prince caught you by your waist and used his frame to steady you on your feet before regaining a modest distance.
“In all honesty, I, too, did not know he would arrive. I have not heard from him for almost two years.”
Prince Xianyu hummed as he spun you around, his almond eyes glancing towards Prince Aemond, a sly smirk on his lips as he could practically feel the jealousy radiating from the Western prince. “He had neglected you for two years, then suddenly came? How queer. Is this a custom in the West our people are not privy to?” He questioned, and you feel your heart spike once more at his words.
“I’m certain he has his reason,” you replied, and a scoff left the prince’s lips. “You need not defend him, my lady. A pearl such as yourself should not spend her days explaining away another’s neglect.”
Your heart sank. There was an uncomfortable truth in his words. One you had spent two years attempting to ignore. Prince Xianyu's hold upon your hand remained respectful as he guided you through another turn. The lanterns above blurred into streaks of crimson and gold. But your eyes sought for lilac and silver.
“If one wavers in courtship, what more during marriage?”
Your lips parted at his words, but you had no time to reply as the dance had ended and you were left to stew in your thoughts.
Prince Aemond sat silently as he suffered through a banquet filled with chatter and laughter. His eye traveled upon the various yet unknown dishes before him.
Platters of roasted duck glazed with honey. Delicate dumplings folded into intricate shapes. Steamed fish adorned with herbs he could not name.
He had crossed half the world. Yet not a morsel appealed to him. Not when every few moments his gaze drifted toward you.
The prince sat before you now, Prince Xianyu still by your side, and the long table was the only thing separating you from him. You sat close enough that he could still see the way the lantern light danced against your features.
Gods. You had grown more beautiful, and the realization enraged him. Not because it was untrue. Because he had not been there to witness it. He had not seen the gradual changes. The subtle differences. The woman you had become during his absence was a woman he wished to know all about. Yet here he was, a stranger to you and your land.
He watched as you moved to take a piece of shell-looking morsel of food, but before you could reach it, Prince Xianyu reached forward and placed it upon your plate using an odd-looking utensil that resembled two slender sticks.
Aemond's eye twitched. The Eastern prince smiled as he explained something to you, and the sight only worsened the foul mood that had plagued him since his arrival.
You looked down at the sticks. Then at the food. Then to Prince Aemond, who sat with his plate empty.
There was a trinkle of pity that overcame you as you saw him unable to eat. You sighed and reached forward to take a piece of duck, three pieces of pork dumplings, as well as a steaming bun and placed them upon his plate. As much as you held contempt for his silence, you could not bear to watch him starve.
Prince Xianyu pursed his lips as you called upon a servant, requesting a set of Western cutlery that was rarely used in your land, only saved for emissaries that would come on diplomatic purposes.
Prince Aemond, on the other hand, felt his heart skip a beat at your actions. The gesture was small. Perhaps insignificant to anyone else. Yet to him, it felt monumental. Because despite everything—despite the years, the silence, and the hurt he had caused, a part of you still cared.
He could not help but let a ghost of a smile inch to his lips. You still had not met his eye clearly, nor had you spoken a word to him, but your actions were enough. It was enough to rekindle the burning fire of his love and devotion for you.
A new day broke, but sleep did not come to you. You tossed and turned on the canopy bed of the inn you resided in, the resting place for the esteemed guests for your grandsire’s name day celebrations. Throughout the night, you caught yourself staring blankly at the fine linen draped over your bed, mind running with the events that had transpired the night before.
By the other side of the inn, Prince Aemond stared at the wooden ceiling. Sleep did not come to him as his mind kept replaying the small gesture you had bestowed upon him during supper. A small smile upon his lips as he replayed the image of you reaching forward and placing pieces of food upon his plate. His mind was occupied the entire night with how he could repay your gesture. On how he could speak to you once more.
He did not plan to stay long in YiTi. He was certain the entire Red Keep was now abuzz with speculation as to where he went, but he could not leave without his lady. He needed to return home as soon as possible, but he was certain he could spend his lifetime in YiTi if it meant he could stay by your side.
When the eastern sun rose higher in the heavens, the once quiet town and inn began to stir with life. Merchants rolled open their stalls, the scent of steamed buns and sweet rice cakes drifting through the open lattice windows. The distant toll of temple bells mingled with the chatter of townsfolk preparing for another day of festivities, while servants hurried through the wooden corridors with basins of warm water and freshly brewed tea.
Prince Aemond rose before the rest of the guests. He had scarcely slept, and what little rest he found was plagued with dreams of you—of smiles he had nearly forgotten, and words left unsaid. He dressed quickly, fastening the leather belt at his waist before glancing toward the lacquered box that held the trinkets he had purchased the day before.
A carved wooden rabbit. A jade hair ornament shaped like a plum blossom. Silk ribbons, the same shade of the sea that separated your homes. His gaze lingered upon them. Gods. Even after two long years, he still had no idea how to court a lady.
He battled with himself for a moment before leaving his chambers without the gifts he procured for you. What use would they be? He had already learned that purchased presents were futile in winning your heart. The flowers he once brought you suddenly seemed childish. The carved figurines he had spent hours searching for no longer felt enough after two years of silence. He had crossed half the world with unwavering certainty, yet now that he stood only a few streets away from you, he found himself entirely lost.
Aemond sighed heavily as he reached for the door, but before he could place his hand upon the nob, it swung open, and a man dressed in traditional YiTish robes but with the appearance of a Westerner stood before him. The man paused. His blue eyes widened the moment they settled upon Prince Aemond's silver hair.
"Your Highness," he greeted instinctively before quickly correcting himself with an awkward bow. "My apologies... my prince." Aemond regarded the stranger with narrowed eyes. "You are Westerosi."
"Aye." The man smiled. "Though it has been nearly twenty years since I last called the West my home." The prince's brow lifted ever so slightly. Looking upon the stranger with great caution. “Why are you here?” The prince questioned, his hand already on the hilt of his sword.
“The lady had sent me as your guide.” The man bowed once more. His eyes warily glancing upon the hand of the prince that rested on his sword. “She feared Your Highness would lose your way in our town and customs.”
Aemond stilled. "...She?"
"Aye, my prince." The stranger reached into the sleeve of his robe before carefully producing a folded strip of crimson silk. "She instructed me to deliver this into your hands should you awaken before the rest of the guests."
Aemond's eye lingered upon the silk for a long moment before cautiously accepting it. His fingers unfolded it, almost desperately. Upon the delicate fabric were only a handful of carefully brushed characters. A single line written in the Common Tongue.
Meet me where the lotus blooms.
The prince's breath caught. "She wrote this?"
"She did." His guide confirmed. A smile, small and entirely involuntary, crept upon Aemond's lips. The first genuine smile he had worn since arriving in YiTi.
Aemond’s thumb traced the edge of the silk. You wished to see him. And he wasted no time before exiting his chambers and seeking you where the lotus bloomed.
“It’s in the other direction, my prince!” The guide called after him as Aemond had already taken several determined strides toward the western gate. The prince halted. He turned slowly, a hint of annoyance settling upon his features, but nonetheless went East to where you waited for him.
He made furious steps through the halls, and by the end, he found a clearing that led to a courtyard. Aemond felt his breath hitch as he saw you. You knelt before a pond, wearing a lavender silk robe with delicate peony embroidery. Half of your hair was styled in an elegant bun that you had always worn, a jade hairpin keeping the silky, raven strands together while the other strands swayed with the breeze, like branches of a dancing willow tree.
Prince Aemond paused for a moment, admiring the way the sun cast you blindingly aglow and how your fingertips danced on the edge of the water, large fishes with orange and silver scales kissing your skin and bringing a small smile upon your lips. Prince Aemond was content with simply standing near you, observing you, and memorizing each part of your face once again, but the idea of finally speaking with you tempted him.
He breathed in a deep breath and approached. The moment he stood by your side, he felt relief overcome him. It felt familiar, it felt safe, it felt like he belonged. You did not turn.
The ripples upon the pond betrayed his presence before his footsteps ever could. “You came,” You said softly, afraid any raised voices would wake the others. “Of course, you called.” Prince Aemond hummed in triumph as he finally heard your voice and the words meant for him.
Aemond moved crouch down as well, wanting to be near you as much as propriety would allow. He observed your face, a grievous look upon your enchanting eyes that made his heart drop.
“You cannot court me here.” You said solemnly, unable to meet the prince’s lone eye. The prince felt as if an arrow had struck his heart.
There was a beat of silence that wrapped around the two of you uncomfortably. You could not bear to turn in his direction, but you could clearly see his face through the reflection on the water. Devastation and perhaps even anger were overcoming his striking features.
“Is this a rejection?” He gritted out. Trying his best to let his voice waver. He watched you sigh once more. “Meet my eye.” He said quietly. You shook your head. “Please.”
There was something in his voice you had never heard before. No command. No pride. Only desperation.
Slowly, you turned. The moment your eyes met, his heart sank. There was no hatred in them. Only grief, perhaps even fear.
‘You cannot court me here.” You said once more. Voice steady as you looked upon his unique gaze. “Why?” Prince Aemond questioned. He had crossed the sea to be with you. Five simple words were not enough for him to leave.
You sighed and shook your head, song birds now replacing the silence between the two of you. “Courtship is different in YiTi.” You explained.
“We are not ruled by the standards in the West, you see. In King's Landing, our courtship was simply between us. The only favour you had to gain was mine.”
You lowered your gaze to the koi that lazily circled your fingertips.
"But here..." A heavy sigh escaped your lips. "A man does not simply court a lady." Prince Aemond remained silent, intently listening to each word you uttered. Gods. He missed your voice.
"He courts her household." You looked back toward him. "Her grandfather. Her family. Her people."
"Only when they have deemed him worthy may he seek the lady's heart." Aemond frowned.
"And if he has already won it?" The question caught you off guard. You feel your heart beating in your ears and feel heat spreading to your cheeks. Your lips parted, yet no words came. His lone eye searched yours.
"Does he begin again?" Your heart tightened. "...No." You said quietly. Voice barely a whisper.
"Then why tell me I cannot court you?" the prince questioned bitterly.
You swallowed thickly and shook your head. "Because you are courting the wrong person."
The prince's brows knitted together in severe confusion. "You need not win me."
Your voice had softened into scarcely more than a whisper. "You must win my grandfather."
Prince Ameond sighed as he lowered his head. His mind in great contemplation, and in his silence, you prepared yourself for another goodbye. “Very well.” He said decisively, and you caught yourself frowning at his words.
You raised your gaze and met his eye, which seemed to be consumed by flames of determination. “I shall court you and your grandsire if it is what is required. “Would that I must gain the favor of every soul in YiTi, then so be it.” He declared without a moment's hesitation.
You stared at him, your lips parting slightly. He truly meant it.
There was no trace of jest upon his face. No reluctance. No frustration. Only the same unwavering determination that had carried him across mountains and seas.
Part VI: Spring Into Summer (Coming soon)
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Thank you so much for your support! I had doubts about this story, especially since there aren't many YiTish Reader fics, but I'm so glad the story found you guys! <3
Synopsis: For two years, Prince Aemond Targaryen endured a punishment no battlefield could rival: life without you. When longing finally outweighed duty, the prince crossed mountains, seas, and kingdoms to find the lady who had never once left his heart.
Warnings: Miscommunication Trope, Fluff, Yearning, Slight Jealousy, Second Love Interest, Down Bad Aemond
Word count: 3.2k
Prince Aemond stood like a ghost in the rainy garden. His lone eye stared off into the countless ripples made on the lake that you had once frequented. He had been a foolish man, and now he lived as a hollow shell when, as the girl he courted, the girl who had consumed each of his waking thoughts, the girl he loved was gone.
It had been nearly two years since he last saw you, and each day, he foolishly thought it would grow easier to have you not by his side. However, the truth was that each day was a perilous punishment. He felt himself unable to eat, unable to sleep, unable to breathe in your absence.
He thought countless times of simply acquiescing and accepting the fact that you had left, but the simple thought of it made his skin crawl and made bile rise to his throat. Each day and night, he would spend hours underneath the willow tree, waiting for your return, but he was left spurned.
He would have thought that his already dwindling hope would finally break, but his stubborn heart, which he had tried his best to hide, still held on to the day when he would see you once more.
“You shall catch a chill with your actions, my prince.” Ser Criston Cole remarked as he caught the prince in the halls. He was sopping wet, and a trail of water was left on the stone he walked upon. “I am not so fragile.”
“Yet you still mourn over a lady who had clearly rejected your courtship.” Prince Aemond gritted his teeth. His once pin-straight hair growing unruly as it dried from the rain. “I was not rejected.” He defended. “Aye, you were not rejected. How can one be rejected when the other is all the way across the narrow sea?” The knight sighed as he had grown tired of seeing the prince pine over a lady.
The prince had grown distracted over the past moons, and the realm was beginning to take notice. It greatly concerned the knight along with the prince’s kin, who could no longer ignore the worsening attitude of the second-born prince. Nor could they stomach the rage and temper he showed day to day, which only worsened when he was reminded that his lady was gone.
“Find another and be done with all this bother, my prince.”
Prince Aemond stomped off, his eye twitching in rage. They need not say it, but he knew they disapproved of the connection he formed with you. They were riddled with jealousy that he, a prince they had all expected to yield to duty and form alliances for the sake of the crown, found a lady that he wished to be with, not because of duty but because he loved you. They could not stomach the fact that he found love while each of them were forced into marriages for the sake of power.
The prince was still as practical as he ought to be. His mind never strayed from the duty required of him; however, his distractions and frustrations lay in your absence. The only reason why he grew distracted was that his mind could not physically rest without knowing how you were. He was only restless because you were not by his side to provide him peace. The only reason why he was enraged was that you were not by his side– because you were not his.
He tossed and turned in his bed that night. The dull ache in his heart was unrelenting, and so were the thoughts in his head.
The image of when he saw you last flashed in his mind with each blink he took. His heart ached with the image of you standing on the ship during sunrise. The ocean air scattered your hair into the wind, a small smile on your lips as you waved goodbye to Aemond, who could only stand by the docks as the ship took you away.
Aemond sighed as he could still hear the last words you uttered to him. “Court me in YiTi, my prince.” If only it were that simple. If only he could leave his duty. At the thought of it, his heart skipped a beat. It was simple.
He was a second son– his brother already had his son. In truth, he had no grand duty to bear. The crown would not rest on his brow; why then was he making great sacrifices for the sake of it? Prince Aemond quickly stood, his lithe frame shuffling around his chambers as he searched for his riding leathers. Adrenaline coursing through his veins as one moment he was lying restlessly, then the next, he was atop his dragon riding to YiTi.
You sat alone in the great gardens of your home, a reflection pond that glimmered under the Eastern sun before you. You let out a heavy breath as songbirds were your lone companions for the morning. It had been nearly two years since you last set foot on Western soil, and it had been almost two years since you last saw the prince with a lone lilac eye and silver hair.
Days were spent trying earnestly to forget him. You had done your best to distract yourself from being reminded about the prince.
From attending your grandfather’s court and mingling with courtiers. To travel through the different lands of YiTi and acquaint yourself with others, just in the hopes that their company would replace the one you had lost.
You strayed away from dark, lonesome corners and desolate places because the moment you were surrounded by the silence and solitude you once relished in, you were quick to long for the presence that would find you wherever you hid.
“Still thinking about your prince?” your grandfather suddenly spoke as he approached the stone bench you sat upon. Your eyes widened at his words, a flash of heat coming to your cheeks before you quickly shook your head.
“He is not my prince, grandfather.” You said solemnly. The singing of the birds died the moment the prince, who never left your mind, was mentioned.
You hear him exhale a laugh and sit by your side, resting his cane with a delicate jade handle between the two of you. “Then if he is not yours, why then do you act as such?”
You bit your lip and lowered your head at his words. “You’ve been home for two years, and for two years, I’ve had to ward off suitors throughout YiTi and the free cities who beg for just a moment of your time.” Your grandfather sighed.
“You said the reason why you had stayed was to mend what the prince had broken… I refuse to let you sit there and let the broken pieces lie when there are others who can mend it.”
You breathed in deeply, the smell of dewed grass invading your senses. “Apologies, grandfather.” You said solemnly. “I do not wish for your apologies; I wish for you to live! To forget about the prince. To find amusement in your own home.” He clarified with a comforting smile on his aging lips.
You nodded meekly, a speck of hope in your heart that you could finally forget about the prince. It was useless in mourning a man who had made it clear that his interest in you had dwindled.
It was useless to force yourself upon a prince entirely different from you.
You were water, and he was fire. He was darkness, and you were light. He was a Targaryen Prince, and you were a lady of YiTi. You were in the East, and he was in the West.
The two of you were simply different, unmatched– not meant to be.
The western winds blew against your hair as a week filled with feasts and festivals commenced. It was your grandfather’s eightieth name day. A milestone rarely seen in Westeros, as you had seen the quick demise of many men who barely lived through the second half of a century. The winds were punishing as you readied yourself to travel to town, leaving your grandfather’s palace for the night as accommodations and attractions were waiting for you in the city.
“I fear it might rain.” You observed meekly, your eyes upon the sky as a dark shadow began to show itself and loomed over your grandfather’s land. “It is merely a cloud; it shall pass. Do not fret.” Your grandfather replied as he ushered you to enter the palanquin. You dip down near the ground as you board the small box that was to be carried by your grandfather’s men.
You sat alone in the confined space, peering towards the sky through the small slats, your frame jostling as you were lifted and transported to town. You bit your lip as you stared at the dark patch in the rather clear skies, your breath hitching in your throat as it drew closer at a hastened pace.
Muffled shouts were heard as you were not the only one who had noticed the odd dark cloud that loomed over the great Eastern skies. The once hurried steps of the men who carried you halted as a strong gust of wind came.
You breathed heavily as you pried open the wooden door of the palanquin, your eyes already cast upon the heavens just to see the belly of a great beast. You saw as your grandsire’s men grew mesmerized as a dragon flew in the skies. In the West, the Targaryens’ dragons signaled fear, but in the East, dragons were a sign of luck.
You breathed heavily as you heard your grandsire’s guards cheer, claiming that such a sighting on his name day only meant great fortune. You kept your eyes trained on the skies, unable to believe that the beast you saw was Prince Aemond’s mount.
Surely he would not come. His neglect and silence were enough to convince you. You felt foolish to even think of such a thing– to let your heart hope once more. A heavy sigh left your lips as you shook your head as if to shake away the stupid thought.
Prince Aemond would not come for you. Prince Aemond had forgotten about you. The thought left a bitter taste on your tongue, and all you could do was swallow the truth, however unpleasant it was.
As you reached town, you marveled at the preparations made for your grandsire’s name day. You had attended countless feasts in the West, but not a single party or ball could compare to the celebration before you now.
You marveled at the countless paper lanterns that had set the streets aglow. The warm hues of crimson, gold, and jade illuminated every corner of the village as though the stars themselves had descended from the heavens to celebrate your grandsire's name day.
The air was filled with music and gleeful chatter, and for a moment, a quick, peaceful moment, your mind drifted away from the Western Prince.
“My child, come, I wish to introduce you to our esteemed guests.” You hear your grandsire call as you still stood near the palaquin that delivered you to merriment. You glanced to your right and saw a group of nobles standing before your grandsire, and you took hastened steps to reach them.
You smiled politely as they were introduced. Three lords from different provinces, two ladies who held the same face, and the Emperor’s only son. You stilled as he moved to stand before you, giving a low bow that seemed to please your grandsire.
You bit your tongue and curtsied lowly, but heat quickly bloomed on your cheeks as you heard the lords and ladies let out a breath of a laugh that came along with whispers. “I see the Western influence has rooted itself in you, my lady,” the Prince Xianyu remarked with a small smile when he stood to his full height.
“She’ll be rid of it soon enough,” Your grandsire remarked with a fond smile. All you could do was sheepishly smile as well. It was an odd sensation to be a stranger in your own land. The customs taught in childhood were barely remembered now, for the customs of another land had taken their place.
“Apologies, my prince,” You say quietly, head lowered in embarrassment, but a small, kind laugh left his lips. You dared to raise your gaze and saw his almond eyes crinkle in slight amusement.
“No apologies needed, my lady. You’ve spent most of your life in the West– of course, we shall understand.” Relief washed over you at his words. You looked before his eyes, the color of oak, and resembled yours. It flew about the festivities and decorations that surrounded you.
“Though I am curious,” He suddenly remarked, and you glanced towards your grandsire, who began to speak with the other lords and ladies, leaving both of you to have a conversation of your own.
“Of what, my prince?” You questioned as you followed his gaze. “Of your life in the West. Do their celebrations rival the ones here?”
Your gaze wavered as the prince met your eyes. “I’m afraid they don’t. I’ve never seen such extravagance and merriment before.” You confessed, and another laugh left the prince. “Then, if I may, let me escort you through the festivities.” Heat immediately rushed to your cheeks once more.
Before you could respond, your grandsire's delighted laugh reached your ears. “I think that is a splendid idea.” He agreed completely before gently nudging you closer to the Eastern prince. You bit your tongue as you matched his steps that drifted farther away from the group.
The two of you walked silently as you passed countless stalls and attractions. The awkwardness that initially settled between you slowly faded the farther you ventured from your grandsire and the other nobles.
You paused before a merchant selling hand-carved ornaments. Tiny dragons fashioned from jade and ivory sat upon the table. The reminder of the carved wooden dragon left on your doorstep years before left another bitter taste on your tongue, but you could not help yourself as your fingers hovered over one.
“Dragons seem quite popular here.” You observed a tone of indignation staining your voice.
“It symbolizes luck, even if dragons no longer exist, what they represented never disappeared.” Prince Xianyu explained as he picked up one of the jade carvings.
“They do,” You whisper to yourself, but the prince still heard your remark. “Pardon, my lady?”
“Dragon still exists,” you said more clearly, and confusion overcame his face before a spark of realization overtook it. “Oh, of course. Your hosts in the West are famed for their great beasts.”
You nodded meekly, turning your back on the dragon carvings as you did not wish for another reminder of Prince Aemond. When Prince Xianyu felt a shift in your demeanour, he was quick to escort you to another stall.
You silently thanked him for it. The prince did not press. Did not pry. For that, you were grateful.
The two of you stopped before a merchant selling silk ribbons and painted fans. The stall was crowded with young ladies, all admiring the intricate embroidery sewn into the fabrics, before their attention shifted to the prince by your side.
He picked a paper fan and unfolded it effortlessly to show you the design. A willow tree delicately painted upon the creased paper. You feel your heart skip a beat once more. “Some artists here paint the same design over and over again in hopes they’d master “Some artists here paint the same design over and over again in hopes they’d master whatever subject they choose.” He explained, turning the fan over in his hand. “Willow trees, dragons, cranes. Eventually, their hands remember what their minds no longer need to think about.”
You stared at the painted branches. Long and drooping and overly familiar.
You gritted your teeth as you forced yourself to nod. “I quite like their ribbons better,” you said as you distracted yourself by taking a silk ribbon the color of a sapphire sea between your fingers. Prince Xianyu immediately set the fan down and hovered near where you stood as you admired the ribbons that as well reminded you of the gifts that the prince once gave you during the first days of your courtship.
Before Prince Xianyu could speak once more, you let go of the silk ribbon and turned to another stall. Any stall that would not remind you of a silver-haired prince. Your eyes settled on a stall that sold sweets. Your feet carried you swiftly, and you feel Prince Xianyu follow you with haste.
“Are you fond of sweet, my lady?” He questioned, but the sweets presented before you were different from the candies lemons and oranges you indulged in the West. Instead, the stall was filled with delicate pastries shaped like flowers, glistening fruits coated in hardened sugar, and sweet rice cakes molded into dragons and cranes.
You stared at them curiously. “They are beautiful. Too beautiful to eat, in fact,” you remarked, and the prince smiled fondly as he took a candy molded in the shape of a peony between his fingers and boldly raised it to your lips. You still, as your lips brushed against the sweet.
“As pretty as they are, they are still meant to be eaten, my lady,” the prince remarked as he brought the candy closer to you. You swallowed thickly at his expectant gaze, your jaw hesitantly and gently unhitching to accept the sweet. The candy melted almost immediately upon your tongue. Floral and delicate, and unlike anything you had tasted in the West.
You almost let yourself ease at the taste of the sweet, but as your eye caught the familiar gleam of silver hair against the light, you choked and broke into a coughing fit.
Prince Aemond froze. For a terrible moment, he feared he had imagined it. The silver-haired prince stood amongst the sea of strangers, his lone eye fixed entirely upon you. You and only you. But his eye hardened the moment he saw another in your company. Another who dared to feed you sweets with his own hand. Another that had taken his place.
“Are you well, my lady?” Prince Xianyu asked in grave concern as he stepped closer, but you shook your head and took a step back, uncertain if what you saw was true. Could it truly be him? Could it truly be Aemond?
You breathed heavily as Prince Xianyu stepped closer once more, his hand on your back as he ordered water to be brought to you. Soon, you took a porcelain flask into your hands and greedily consumed the water inside, hoping the burning in your chest would cease.
You blinked rapidly, your gaze upon the Eastern prince before flying to the Western prince who stood a few leagues behind him.
“I–” you tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat as you saw Prince Aemond fast approaching. What you had thought to be an apparition turned out to be true.
Prince Aemond marched furiously towards you. He wished for you to know that he was here– that he had come for his lady.
Part III: Would That I (Coming soon)
Tag List (based on prev comments): @missmontiopath, @sunset18rose, @lovelyric, @palomavz, @adorelights, @worksforthedevil, @er-0-os, @multiversejumper, @norwayxo, @lizz-blizt, @juninnyxriddle, @therealmreader, @kissyourdemons
Synopsis: For years, Prince Aemond Targaryen wrestled with a question no maester, knight, nor king could answer for him: how does one court a lady like you?
Warnings: Miscommunication Trope, Fluff, Courtship, Soft Aemond, Down Bad Aemond
Word count: 4.5k
He met you on the last day of spring. You were a shy little thing, hiding behind your father's legs and clutching onto your mother’s skirts as they tried to introduce you to the queen. Aemond had stood beside his mother then, his eyebrow raised as you slowly stepped away behind your parents and curtsied low before them. Your eyes were steady on the ground, and Aemond almost laughed when you quickly hid yourself from their gazes.
You were an odd one, he thought for a while. He did not mean to spy on you, yet he often found himself hiding behind a pillar or bush just to observe the odd and overly quiet girl from Essos. You were born in YiTi. A land so distant and different from them, and Aemond had believed that your oddness was because of your land’s customs. However, as days and moons passed, he learned that you were truly just different from the other ladies of the court.
Aemond was no stranger to the peculiar. He had seen eccentricity before, his family being a prime example. His sister was overly interested in bugs and murmuring to herself. His eldest brother had a strange fascination with women twice his age. Even his father, the king, was hyperfixated on the miniature models, spending most of his time on them instead of caring for his children. Aemond was not in a state to question nor critique your demeanour, he was simply curious.
He was curious why you hid yourself in the desolate corners of the gardens, the shade of a weeping willow tree near a pond being your favourite. He was intrigued by why you barely spoke, and if you did, you spoke so softly, as if you were whispering a secret that was only meant for certain ears to hear. But most of all, he was eager to learn why he was so interested in you.
Perhaps it was your appearance. Admittedly, there were not many YiTish in court– there were only three, you and your kin. Perhaps it was that. Aemond was fascinated by your fox-like eyes, heart-shaped lips, and your silky onyx hair. And as you two grew older, your already striking appearance only furthered. It was a shame you hated attention, as you were always the center of it. Aemond could not recall a day when not a single knight, lord, or even prince did not look back at you as you passed them in the halls. He noted how their pupils would always dilate ever so slightly, and some would even let their mouths hang in astonishment.
Maybe it was because of your insistence on not being noticed– maybe that is what fueled his intrigue. An ironic turn of events, for even if you try to hide yourself behind crowds and shadowy corners, he still found you. Once, you were invited to play the hiding game with other ladies of the court. Where the other ladies hid themselves behind pillars and cramped broom closets, you opted to hide in the wine cellars in hopes they would not find you and simply leave you be. Aemond found that particular memory quite amusing. Especially as it was the first time he saw your fox-like eyes turn doe-like as he caught you by surprise.
“What are you doing here?” Aemond questioned as he saw you tilt your head to read the marking on the large, oak barrels. A surprise yelp left your lips, and it was the loudest sound Aemond had ever heard you make. He bit back his smile as you rested a hand on your chest, your other hand fisted your skirts as if to ground yourself.
You were twelve now. You had spent the last three years in the Red Keep, but only now did Aemond decide to speak with you. He must admit that he had gotten used to simply following you about the castle, that speaking to you barely crossed his mind. It was thought that only came in the dead, silence of the night. Where, instead of sleeping, he would think of an opening phrase to utter if and when he approached.
“My prince,” You curtised quickly, your eyes still planted on the ground, and did not even dare to look at his. “I was playing a game of hide and seek with the other ladies,”
Aemond hummed as he cautiously took a step forward. “You are quite competitive then. Not a single one of them has even ventured near your hiding place. I suppose you could be declared the winner.”
You gave a wry smile, eyes still planted on the ground, where you could see each cautious step the prince took to inch closer to you. Aemond observed you closely, as this was the closest he had been to you since the first day you two met.
“You are gifted in hiding.” The prince remarked, and he felt his heart skip a beat as a small yet true smile came to your lips. “And you are gifted at seeking.” You remarked, but the smile on your lips dissipated, and a questioning frown took its place.
“How did you even know I was here, my prince?” You asked in great confusion. Not even the ladies who invited you to their game found your hiding place. How then did the prince find you?
Aemond never answered your question. Even after moons passed, he never once explained how he would always find you; he would only appear by your side, and he was fortunate enough that once he discovered a concealed corner, you were kind enough not to leave or excuse yourself from his presence.
The following year, a decision was made: Prince Aemond made known his intention to court you.
You could still vividly remember the confusion that overcame you when your father informed you of his conversation with the prince.
“He was quite eager for my approval if I were to be honest. He would not leave my side the entire afternoon. Well, at least not until I gave him my blessing.” Your father hummed as he poured himself a cup of wine. The moon was high, and so was your bewilderment. You never thought that a prince would court you. A statement not at all brought forth by modesty, but genuine confusion. When he discovered you in your hiding places, you assumed he was merely searching for somewhere to conceal himself as well. It never crossed your mind that he had been searching for you all along. “But why would he wish to court me?”
“I believe that is a question we should be asking you, my child.” Your mother hummed, a small, almost teasing smile on her lips as she did her nightly embroidery. She hummed and exchanged glances with your father, who hid a smirk behind the cup of wine he raised to his lips. “I wouldn’t even know what to answer. I, too, am just as confused as you.”
“Well then, perhaps it is best that you ask the prince the question on all our minds.” Your mother suggested, as you mindlessly nodded, standing and kissing their cheeks as you returned to your chambers. However, as you neared the door to your room, you froze in shock as you saw the prince already waiting for you in the shadowy halls.
He had a small flower pot in his hands— a rather odd image of a royal prince holding a potted orchid in his hands when you had gotten used to seeing him holding his sword.
Aemond felt out of breath as he stared at you through the light of the moon. You looked radiant— ethereal— nymph-like.
“This is for you,” he nervously said. Aemond was a brave man. He was courageous when he claimed his dragon. He was courageous when his eye was taken. And he was courageous when he asked for your father’s blessing to court you. However, he felt the courage he always relied on falter when he came face to face with you.
He watched as your ever stoic gaze finally met his. In the years he had known you, he had gotten used to your overly composed state. You were reserved, like he, however, you were more consistent in your reservation. The only moments when he actually witnessed your reactions were moments when you were startled or confused.
“Why?” You asked plainly, and Aemond felt his heartbeat in his ears. “Why? Because I’ve noticed you are fond of flowers— and I do believe that your favoured ones are orchids.” He explained and held out the pot closer to you. A confused frown overcame your face.
“No… why had you decided to court me, your highness?” You asked, not wanting to be vexed by the question the entire night. Unfortunately, your question was left unanswered once more as the prince simply reached for your hand and placed the small bundle of flowers in it. A smile on his lips as he bid you good night and left the halls.
How do you court a lady? Aemond could not help but think. He had hoped that he would find the answer long before he asked for your father’s blessing, yet here he was, kept up at night trying of ways on how to court you.
In hindsight, courtship should have come naturally to him. However, he was a prince– a pawn for the crown. The custom was to bind him to a lady who came from a family that could be great allies to the crown; however, Aemond had taken it upon himself to find a match made by himself, not his grandsire or mother. He had seen the effects of marriages borne out of duty, and as dutiful as he was, he’d rather not subject himself to a loveless marriage filled with misery.
Do you win a lady through gifts? Aemond thought. Ladies of the court seemed to easily give their agreements to the lords who courted them when they were given gifts. Who was Aemond to question such traditions? Especially when he was entirely clueless about what to do.
It started with little gifts left by your door. Each morning, you would be stirred awake with a light knock on your door and a gift left unattended. The first morning, it was a jade pendant from your home, YiTi. The light green stone was remarkable and unmistakable under the early morning sun.
Aemond hid himself behind a pillar and watched your knitted brows as you held the necklace to your eye, a small smile on his lips as he could already foresee the image of you wearing his little gift. However, Aemond’s enthusiasm was left dim when he found you in the gardens, bare-necked, and mentioned naught about the necklace you found.
The prince was disheartened, but not so much to easily relent. It was the first days of your courtship. Of course, he could not be so vain and arrogant to think that you would lay yourself on his feet after offering you a simple pendant. He at least thought a small blush would come to your face when you met him that day; however, he supposed he asked for much for his little effort.
The second day, he sent a pair of pearl earrings. Pearls harvested from the mighty seas of the Orient. On the third, he sent a set of gold rings mined deep within Casterly Rock.
When the fourth day came, he sent various rolls of fabric for your dresses. Light blue silk from Lys. Delicate white laces from Myr. A serene cream velvet from Braavos. Crimson brocades from Volantis. Fine threads of various colors from the Reach.
Aemond almost revealed his hiding place in great concern when you opened the door, and the rolls of fabric that he set upright came toppling down. Almost crushing you if you were not agile enough to step to the side. You did not use a single fabric nor thread for any of your fine dresses.
By the fifth day, the prince already had the inkling to quit. It was clear that you were not easily impressed– he was foolish to think you otherwise, for if you were, he certainly would not be this eager in your courtship. Nevertheless, the prince was no quitter.
By the fifth day, he veered away from the usual gifts given to the court ladies. Instead of shiny things, the prince left a small wooden dragon that he had carved in childhood. It was imperfect– it was left dusted in some corner of his chambers for years until the moment the prince decided to offer it to you.
When you opened your chamber doors after hearing a soft knock, you almost expected a chest of gold left by your doorstep. However, a small, yet true smile came to your lips when you saw a simple carved dragon made from oak waiting for you. Aemond almost hollered in triumph as he saw the corners of your lips curl upwards ever so slightly. Inspecting the carving with more interest than the shiny jewels he had left days before.
He watched as your fingers delicately traced the carvings he made, a sense of giddiness at the thought that your fingers caressed the wood that bore his touch. A new sense of hope coursing in his bloodstream.
Aemond had foolishly hoped that it was enough for you to return his affections, or at least announce your favour towards him, so the other line of suitors who paid you tribute would dissipate. However, the prince would be a fool to think that simple carving would have you swooning.
Word got around about how you set the little carving on your bedside table, near you, even in sleep. That was enough to inspire your other suitors to send you tens of pieces of woodwork, turning your chambers into a woodcarver’s shop.
Aemond knew he must take a different approach, which led him to question once more: How do you court a lady?
Could Aemond win you through feats of strength?
As all know, Aemond had no care for tourneys. He found it pointless– superfluous– pathetic for a man of his station. Yet, he rode out into the grounds, adorned in his armour, hoping to seek the favour of the lady he courted.
Aemond struggled to find where you sat through the slats of his helm. His mount circled the grounds as he searched for you through the jeering crowds, when he spotted the familiar outline of your parents without you by your mother’s side. He frowned severely as he realized that you would not attend, and he could not seek your favour.
He felt foolish as he charged his horse, his lance unadorned by a flower garland but stained by blood. He knew you well. You hid from crowds. What then led him to believe that you would willingly attend a tourney? Aemond felt no satisfaction the entire day, even if he was named the victor. The only speck of satisfaction he found was when he spotted you by a bench in the quiet gardens as a celebratory feast commenced. You said not a word when the prince sat next to you. Yet, that was enough for Aemond.
However, not enough for him to learn how to capture your favour. Especially as Aemond heard cruel whispers of you leaving Westeros.
“You are leaving?” The prince asked in dread as he found you in your usual place, hidden inside the weeping branches of a willow tree. It had been a year after he announced his intent to court you, and it had been a year filled with gifts, flowers, and attention that you not once asked for, but Aemond was enthusiastic to give.
He stood behind you as you sat on the cool, soft grass. His body tense, his stomach pitted, and his heart aching even if he denied it as such.
You turned your head to glance at the prince, his eye steely– almost seething, and his hands clenched tightly by his side. Aemond swallowed thickly as the afternoon sun cast you aglow and formed an angelic halo. How could you look so beautiful even as you threatened to leave him?
“Only for a year, my prince.” You explained and watched as Prince Aemond fervently shook his head and took his place next to you. “You are to leave for a year.” He gritted out, his fists clenching tightly around the damp grass.
“Well, a year and two moons. It takes a month of sailing and traveling to reach YiTi.” You clarified as you set your eyes on the pond's calm waters, which reflected the afternoon light. Aemond breathed heavily at the thought of you leaving him for more than a year. What shall happen then? Would you garner new admirers in your homeland? Should you be forced to take a groom who resembles your own culture and customs? What should become Aemond then? Would he be a man who lost the only lady who consumed his thoughts for the past five years?
“What of our courtship then?” He could not help but ask, his hand that gripped the grass, loosening as it inched closer to yours. “What of it, your highness?”
Aemond pursed his lips. His eye was intently studying every possible expression that may come to your ever-composed face. He stayed silent, and he heard a sigh leave your lips before you turned your head to meet his gaze.
“Do you wish to cease courting me?” You asked quietly, heartbeat erratic, and you tried your best not to let it show.
“No.” The prince quickly answered, and you bit back a smile as you stood, watching as the prince followed each single one of your movements. “Then court me in YiTi, my prince.”
“Another letter, my lady,” a maid called as she approached with a rather thick scroll that was wrapped tightly and bore the Targaryen seal. It had been three moons since you had left Westeros, and it had been three moons filled with consistent letters from the prince.
You sat upright on your bed, your eyes glancing and admiring the simple wooden carving of a dragon that the prince gave you years before, placing a small smile on your lips as your maid exited your chambers and left you in your own company.
How long must I live in agony, my lady?
You breathed out a laugh as you read the first line of the prince’s letter. You sighed dreamily as a blush came to your cheeks, and your fingers caressed the bold letters of what he wrote.
Sometimes, at night, you feared the prince would leave you spurned. You feared that you were not enough for him to keep interested. That your overly composed and some would even say, stoic demeanor would run him off, and he’d find a lady who did not struggle in showing their affections.
In truth, the reason why you were completely perplexed when he decided to court you was because you had been completely infatuated with him ever since you arrived in the Red Keep. As children, many feared him and his lack of one eye, but if you were being honest, you quite liked him that way.
It was a tragedy, of course, but the silver lining was that even if he had only one eye, never once did the unique lilac orbs leave your thoughts.
You bit your lip as you drafted your letter of reply. The prince had sent a dozen letters, yet the one you wrote would only be your fifth letter sent. You stared long and hard at the blank parchment, torn as to what to write. Fear was a powerful emotion that often left their captives paralyzed. And so, you took a deep breath and simply wrote.
Wrote anything and everything you could think of. No direction. No aim. Simply a letter written in hopes the prince would be reminded of your existence and would wait until your return.
I believe your dragon would enjoy the East. There is a vast valley near my grandsire’s keep that your great Vhagar would find agreeable.
I also believe that you shall enjoy the East. I recall that you are fond of combat, and here, there are customs in which fighters do not rely on weapons but simply their bodies. Men fight with open palms, swift and fluid like water, while others strike with such force that one would think their fists forged from steel. I suspect that you shall excel in such a kind of combat, my prince.
Aemond bit his lip as he reread your letter for the tenth time in an hour. Gods, he wanted to feel foolish. There he was, in his grandsire’s study, being forced to listen to business dealings, all the while his only thought was of you. His heart that beat for no other than you, swelled at the thought that not only did you write to him, but you as well knew of his fondness for combat and were thinking of his dragon too.
Lord Otto eyed his grandson in curiosity and concern. For the past hour, Aemond read a letter repeatedly, would let out a yearning sigh, and stare at the wall with an odd softness in his eye that he could not believe was capable. “Are you listening, Aemond?”
Aemond breathed out another sigh. His mind recalling what you had written, imagining your voice that uttered what you wrote echoing in his head. Gods, he missed you. He did not even think he’d miss you as intensely as he did. You were a quiet little thing, you prefer to go unnoticed, and the prince foolishly thought that he could manipulate his mind to think that you were simply hiding away in your corner, but he felt your absence deeply, and he could not concentrate on his duties.
“This is pathetic, my prince.” He heard his grandsire sigh from his desk. The lord hand’s gaze steady on a parchment containing business while his grandson reread a letter over and over.
“I did not ask for your opinion.” Aemond gritted out. The elation he felt just moments earlier quickly disappeared at his grandsire’s words. Otto Hightower sighed.
“You are a prince of the realm. You have hundreds of ladies at your disposal, yet you obsess over a lady who cannot even name you as her favoured suitor. A lady who you had let distract you from your duties. Had you acting and sighing like a damsel as well.”
“She had made you weak. Turned you into a simpleton.”
Prince Aemond frowned deeply, his fists clenching around air. No word of reply nor defense on his tongue as his grandsire plainly said the doubts and thoughts he fought hard to repress. Aemond had grown distracted as to who he truly was. He acted like a love-sick pup when he was meant to be a dragon prince.
Aemond did not respond to your letter. Nor did he respond to the other two that followed. He simply let the year of your absence pass. His grandsire’s word aimed true to his heart. All his life, the only thing the prince knew was that he did not like being seen as weak. He had been weak as a child, as he let his brother and nephews constantly belittle him. He knew it could not happen once more, even if you were the reason.
For the following moons, the prince made no move to contact you. He sent no bi-weekly letters. He sent no greetings or regards. He even hindered himself in sending you a bundle of gifts on your name day. He exercised a great feat of restraint and control for an entire year, simply lying in wait until the dawn of your return came.
Prince Aemond stood by the docks, his veins fueled with adrenaline and his heart aching to see you once more. He did not know how he had been able to resist you for a year, yet it did not matter, for now his long suffering was to come to an end.
However, as he watched your parents disembarked the ship, it was painfully obvious that you were left in YiTi.
***
Prince Aemond broke your heart. Your great fears of being left spurned– of being forgotten turned true as the prince seemed to forget your existence. He ignored your letters, even if you sent three scrolls consecutively. You had spent your days staring longingly out the windows, hoping that the ravens that flew would come with a letter from a prince, but none did.
You tried your best to hide the grief you felt at the prince’s action. You tried to act your usual detached and unemotional self. But each time you would sit alone in either the great gardens of your home or at banquets and feasts, you feel your heart pit as you had gotten used to the prince finding his way to you and accompanying you even through silence.
The days that led to your return to Kingslanding, you made the decision to stay in YiTi. You could not subject yourself to return to Westeros with a broken heart. You could not fathom the thought of facing Prince Aemond once more. And so, you stayed. You did not return after a year and two moons. You stayed in YiTi under your grandsire’s care and hoped that the ache in your heart would dissipate soon enough.
“The Westerns are simple-minded– especially the Targaryens. They act as if they are gods among men when in truth, they’re mere ferrets who only rose to power because of their dragons.” You hear your grandfather remark as you join him for supper.
Your parents had sent word that they were already in Kingslanding, and they also mentioned that the courtiers had to ask why you did not return. They mentioned naught of the prince, and you did not know whether to feel grateful or not.
“They reside on stolen land. They trample over the cultures and customs of those before them and punish those who disagree with their views. They appear to be almost the same as us, but not quite, for they trample over others they believe beneath them.” Your grandsire continued as you picked on your food.
“They were kind hosts,” You defended quietly, but heard as your grandfather clicked his tongue and watched him shake his head.
“It’s a lure, my child. Kindness to those men is given for their amusement– once they tire, they discard what no longer entertains them.” Your fingers tightened around the porcelain cup in your hands, holding it tightly so that you feared the warm tea might spill the moment you cracked the delicate clay. “It’s a lesson you must learn soon enough.”
Across the narrow sea, a prince stewed in rage, anger, fear, and sadness, trying his best to figure out how to get his girl back.
summary : two universes collide when spencer has to watch the team meet his workplace crush, called in from another branch for her decryption skills - and he doesn't really like sharing.
word count : 2.3k
pairings : spencer reid x FBI!reader (workplace romance)
notes : there is such thing as the intelligence branch !! spencer is very jealous and it shows, modern romance would say they're at that point in the talking stage where they still won't aknowledge eachother irl
working for the FBI had its perks.
mostly social, you had to admit. certain jobs, tough you weren't exactly sure why, carried prestige. the prestige you felt when over drinks on first dates or small talk with old friends, someone asked what you did for work.
you could've been a linguistic analyst anywhere else, the years of studies and countless research papers you'd worked on would've earned you nothing but eye rolls and judgemental stares.
curiously, with the acronym of FBI came instant gratification. federal bureau of investigation, the magic words that earned compliments and sometimes mocking gasps.
how does it feel to work for the government ?
you're part of the Intelligence Branch ? of course, you're so smart.
the best perk however, apart from the thrilling feeling pulsing through your veins that came with having a purpose, worked three floors above you at the behavioural analysis unit.
with his tall figure and soft cozy looks, spencer reid didn't look like he belonged in this world either. united by the feeling of standing out in the crowd, or rather feeling invisible between individuals with a stern appearance and a sterile heart, you two connected.
a workplace crush, that's all he was.
a really awfully good looking guy who had once blushed at your words when you rode the elevator with him and filled the silence by complimenting his thesis.
of course you knew who he was.
if he were to step a foot on in your department, you were pretty sure applause would echo off the walls. this guy had done more fore crime solving using linguistics than your entire team ever had, and his endless knowledge sort of terrified you.
and maybe since then, he'd started to use the east wing elevator abnormally often. and maybe you'd exchanged numbers. for the sole purpose of keeping eachother in the loop during important cases, of course.
and maybe you were tired today because you'd spent all night exchanging texts, and your brain was beginning to turn into mush from the hours of sleep it'd been denied in the previous weeks.
all because of the boy who stood on the other side of the room from you right now, with his arms crossed and brows knit together while he listened to something the unit chief was saying.
"the unsub we're looking for seems to be leaving hidden messages on the crime scenes," agent hotchner explains, not bothered in the least by the number of people hanging onto his every word.
then, he adds.
"the letters have been collected, and as of now they're our primary focus. we believe an in-depth analysis might help us with the profile."
all around the bullpen, the air was charged.
agents taking notes while the team just stood there, shoulders high and gazes unwavering, like a silent affirmation of their superiority.
you wouldn't have appreciated it, the condescendance lingering in the air, aiming to make you and your colleagues feel somewhat impressed.
not if it wasn't for spencer.
the boyish brunette who was leaning against a desk - his desk you presumed, based on the precise alignement of the books displayed - whose eyes on you could be felt from miles away.
prentiss spoke up next, arms crossed in authority.
"with this guy, danger is imminent. he's escalating, and that's why we called the IB. we need more experts on the case."
something the woman said didn't quite register in your mind, your attention focused on keeping your gaze away from spencer.
a blonde one you recognized as penelope led you to the conference room, and you simply followed like a stray puppy yearning to get his owner back.
no one needed to know.
not as the team gathered around the round table, specifically asking you to join the meeting in hopes of receiving your expertise. in the room of qualified profilers trained to spot miscalculated glances and fleeting touches, with eyes like lasers piercing through the illusion of lies, you had to pull yourself together.
spencer made it a difficult task.
“i was thinking i could quickly go through all the letters the unsub wrote to try to find a pattern. i'd just need access to the archive room to find old files, i've worked through a similar case before.”
quick words, evidently suggested like he’d invented the alphabet himself. you almost smiled when you remembered something he said two days ago, in that exact same nonchalant tone.
“studies prove key elements such as sharp angles, uneven pressure or stilted writing can reveal traits linked to psychopathy." he adds, apparently finding the watch around his wrist more interesting than you, sitting across from him.
hotch asserted himself once more.
"actually, the bureau wanted the input of a real language analyst for this task," he said, sharp jaw nodding in your direction. the focus in the room shifted on you as he said your name.
the smile you gave felt forced, pressured by the half a dozen pair of eyes on you. only one made your heart beat faster for all the wrong reasons, and they belonged to the one who knew you as more than a name on a badge, a piece of chess in the game.
"morgan, you'll help her with the profiling. everyone else, i need you on the field"
morgan ?
the man in question gave you a welcoming grin, and though you were hoping for someone else, you nodded in return. for some reason you swore you heard spencer swallow, adam's apple sticking out, and you felt your a slight pinch of something that almost tasted like disappointment.
you weren't a profiler.
you couldn't have known - and he was grateful for that - that the reason he kept his gaze down and hands to himself came from an irrational part of his brain he didn't know existed.
the one that was jealous.
so he gathered his files and abruptly got up, leaving you with morgan as the rest of the team headed back to work, without even looking back.
turns out the dark skinned man had more to himself than flirtarious smiles. you two worked side by side all morning and he helped you delve into the files.
and before you knew it, you'd managed to keep spencer in the back of your mind for hours.
at lunchtime, while snacking on a granola bar, you caught yourself rambling about the meaning of commas in the unsub's letters. your excitement was contagious.
"gee," derek laughed, cutting you off with a chuckle to remind you he couldn’t keep up.
"you're like a female version of reid or something."
you stopped chewing. looked up, alerted. attempted to wipe away some unwanted crumbs and dreamy grin that had appeared on your lips a little too naturally.
"i'll take that as a compliment."
"trust me, pretty girl" he said, giving you a reassuring wink that might've led you to think he knew more than he let on, "that's a compliment."
the door opened.
he stared. spencer.
files in his hands and mouth opened like he was about to say something but lost all ability to form proper words when he heard the exchange. you felt your hands tighten around the empty plastic wrapper.
morgan’s head turned towards you, then reid.
the tension was painfully obvious, he’d heard the last two sentences and that was already more than enough. a little too interested in the newbie to realise his friend was just being welcoming.
“i was just coming here to say we found a new body with another note displayed on the crime scene,” spencer spoke after what felt like ages. he still didn’t look at you.
“-but i guess you’ll do a great work without it, since you make such a great team.”
morgan whistled, attempting to ease the tension with yet another uneeded comment.
“woah, someone’s jealous.”
with a friendly pat on spencer’s very much tense arm, he left, leaving you and your male copycat in a very awkward situation.
suddenly, the conference room felt smaller.
the space, tight. tighter than the shirt sticking to your skin you suddenly felt trapped in. droplets of sweat clung to the back of your neck and you kept your chin down, eyes piercing through the documents laid out on the table.
he didn’t move, not until he cleared his throat and closed the door behind him. “i didn’t know your intention was to befriend the whole BAU," he snarked.
"i didn't know you had such a problem with me being in your life."
your sharpness made him flinch. daring words, toying with the feeling in his heart he was too much of a coward to properly name. nobody he'd ever met had acted this way towards him. with brutal honesty, confronting him with raw emotions he'd be tempted to conceal.
spencer's eyes were locked onto yours when you spoke. he looked vulnerable in this light, but the anger bubbling beneath his ribs didn't stop him from saying.
"i- that's not what i meant" he stuttered, looking both confused and indignated.
you'd pushed your chair out of the way to get up, almost reaching his height now. there was no escape from this conversation - and you'd very much rehearsed in your mind.
"i think you did,"
of course, in your head, it wouldn't have happened here. out of all places, you never liked to bring your feelings into your work… and now in the conference room was far, fat from the appropriate time.
"i think you're jealous" you affirmed with confidence, crosing your arms to prove your point, "jealous of the fact that i was assigned the task, and that derek had to supervise and not you."
gee, even hearing you call him by his first name made him boil.
"m’not jealous. i have three PhDs”
you laughed. indeed, even with academic degrees up his sleeves, he could still be very oblivious.
“not of the case, idiot.”
he knew what you meant.
and paused. swallowed again.
you bit your lip in waiting, almost facepalming yourself at the honesty of your words - you got that way when you were nervous. and you were really nervous now.
“i don’t think i’ve ever been jealous before.” he said, to himself more than you.
never had he encountered someone to be jealous of. he had the brains, the world seemed to like him. see something even he couldn’t sometimes. he was never jealous of the living because he spent most of his time in a world of his own.
and then he met you.
“there’s a first time for everything” you said with a reassuring smile, much softer now. time for trust, trusting someone and allowing them to see behind the illusion. for love, and letting someone in.
barely blinking, your mesmerising eyes are deeply focused on his now.
“i don’t think i liked it, though.”
“being jealous ?”
he nods, admitting. “you’re smart. and so good at what you do, i swear you made the room light up when you walked in.”
the distance between your bodies fades as he takes another step towards you. he nervously talks with his hands.
“and you could be a profiler !” he lets out, “i’ve never met anyone from another department who has enough talent to hypothetically join a higher rank and willingly refuses to even think about it.”
your lips part, a silent gasp.
“and it just hurts to see you here- here with everyone being so…”
the curious angle of your head makes him smile when you question. “so what ?”
“so perfect !”
it almost pains him to admit it. that the beauty you exude makes him ache, tugging at his sensitive heartstrings more often than he’d like to admit. when the elevator door close, or late at night while staring at his phone in hopes of engraving the pixels or your texts in his brain, he admires the closest to perfection the universe has ever created.
you.
"spencer," you let out in an amused giggle. "i'm not interested in your friends. or your job, for that matter."
he puffs some air into his cheeks, bashful. "i know. my brain just... likes to stop working when you're around, or something."
right, or something. with a playful nudge of the arm, you add.
"i am interested in you, though"
his eyes widen, pupils dilating. the little amount of oxygen left in the room is enough to make him slightly choke, which he covers by his hand. germ thing, sure.
"in me ?"
"yeah." someone has to say it, and you will if it means putting an end to the wrenching state of not knowing what you are. "-if you are, that is. unless i completely misunderstood the situation and you're actually jealous of my linguistics diploma-"
he calls your name, almost offended "i speak four languages !"
"i speak five. not that we're counting"
no bother mentionning you're also learning two. he's overwhelmingly close to you, and the smell of his cologne makes you melt little by little.
he utters quietly. "see ? perfect."
there's not exactly much he could do to make this conversation better. like, better than any debate you had over the phone, and yet he adds.
"i really am interested. and i'd like to see you sometimes... outside of work"
"and the elevator"
he laughs. a genuine sound you could get drunk on, and with a rush of adrenaline, reaches forwards to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
"just us. on a date. no work and no elevators involved, i promise"
jealousy looked good on him, earlier when he came in with clenched fists and a dark gaze. but nothing, no other expression could match the one he was wearing on his face. pools of hazel softened around the edges, spencer looked truly enamored.
and that ? that looked even better.
tag list, feel free to comment if you wanna be added/taken off !! @deerfawnn @xervoxs @kaz-03 @cynbx @sleepysleepnomore @emerkinsella89 @sweetheartspence @g4rvez-r3id @peanutalergy @keirareidss @eternlmoonshine @xbluereid @spencilweidblog @corollaim @mostofmeghan @siriuslyval03 @midn1ght-ra1n @rose-of-the-grave @copper-rose-strings @irisinlovee @thecrimsonfog @glossiercheek @littleredwolfnerd @babywinter @1-800-peakyblinders @reidslovegia @sreidahgirl @jjellecubed @sreidahgirl @miniswritinblog
(5 times Spencer accidentally touches reader, and the 1 time he does it on purpose)
spencer reid x fem!reader
(she/her pronouns used for reader)
fluff
wc: 1764
1: He’s fallen asleep while sitting next to her on the jet. His head is tilted back against the headrest, his book is open and face down in his lap, and his lips are slightly parted.
When Emily and Derek’s voices grew louder, she gestured toward his sleeping form, silently urging them to keep it down.
The plane jerks with slight turbulence, and she’s worried it’ll wake him up. She watches as his body shakes, and as his neck falls to the side, landing on her shoulder.
She can feel his hair tickling her neck and can hear the soft sound of him breathing. The quietest whimper escaped his lips as the plane shook.
She thinks that he always looks endearing and sweet, but the sight of him like this makes her heart skip a beat. His body is void of the usual stress and tension he usually carries under his skin.
She keeps as still as possible as to not disturb him and waves off the incredulous glances from the rest of their team members. Derek teasingly wiggles his eyebrows at her, and even Hotch’s eyes widen (ever so slightly) at the sight of them.
Once the plane begins its descent, he stirs awake. He shoots upward like he’s been shocked, immediately blushing a tomato red.
“I’m so sorry!” He squeaks out while scrambling to smooth his hair.
“It’s okay,” she reaffirms with a soft smile.
He ducks his head and hurriedly packs his belongings into his satchel.
Once the plane lands, he’s the first one to place his feet on the tarmac.
2: The whole team is eating at a restaurant that Rossi dragged them to, insisting they served the best Italian food on the West Coast.
Spencer is sitting across from her, and she can’t help but admire how the candlelight creates soft, flickering shadows on his face.
As they’re all eating their meals, she feels a soft pressure on the front of her shoe. She glances under the table and sees a sliver of a bright colored sock. Her eyes flicker back to him, and he’s invested in a conversation with Hotch about their recent case. She chooses not to say anything and continues indulging in her food – it is the best pasta she’s ever had.
Eventually, her foot involuntarily twitches while she’s laughing with Emily. Spencer looks under the table and sees what he’s done.
He jerks his foot backward before tucking his crossed ankles under his chair.
With flushed cheeks and wide eyes. “I’m so sorry, I thought I was touching the table.”
She’s just started chewing a bite of food and gestures that she needs a moment before she can reply.
“...With my shoe. I thought I had rested it on the table leg. I’m sorry.”
“Oh! No, you’re fine.” She replies sweetly.
He’s relatively quiet for the rest of the meal, only speaking when he’s directly addressed.
She misses the light weight of him against her; it felt strangely intimate.
3: He’s in an elevator with her and Derek – each of them are on either side of him. The elevator is rickety, decrepit, and antiquated. He would’ve just taken the stairs if the apartment they’re visiting wasn’t on the 14th floor.
After Derek pressed the button, they were lurched so violently that Spencer white-knuckled the handrail behind him.
His breathing is erratic with each floor they pass, his eyes glued to the display screen.
Derek laughs, “Remember that time we got stuck in that elevator?”
Spencer whines, “Don’t mention that right now.”
She giggles, “Wait, what?”
Derek continues, “One time, Pretty Boy and I got stuck in an elevator – it was a lot like this one, actually – and he squealed like a little girl-”
Spencer exclaims, “You were scared too!”
“Not as scared as-”
The elevator suddenly plunges, affecting everyone’s balance. She and Derek stagger into the side walls. Spencer stumbles into her side, hand lifting to support himself on the wall above her head.
His other hand lands on her waist.
For a moment, she’s cornered by his body. His warmth radiates through him, and onto her skin; she’s sure that’s why her face feels so hot.
Their faces are only a few inches apart. If she were a braver woman, (and if Derek wasn’t standing three feet away,) she’d lean in and kiss him.
His eyes are squeezed shut, and his minty breath fans over her face.
Derek whistles, “Damn, no concern for my safety?”
Spencer’s eyes blink open, and he jumps back from her like she burned him.
“Oh! Oh my- I’m so sorry.”
The elevator continues its ascent, and they all wait silently with their backs against the wall. Spencer purposefully avoids Derek’s pointed gaze.
4: Spencer enters the break room to make his umpteenth cup of coffee for the day. He finds her standing at the counter, stirring her cream and sugar into her own cup.
She looks up as he walks in, “Hey, I just brewed a fresh pot.”
He softly smiles, “Oh! Great, thank you.”
As he reaches up to the mug cabinet, she shifts to move slightly behind him to toss her coffee stirrer into the trash. Thinking she’s walked away, he steps to the side to grab his favorite mug that he keeps hidden on the top shelf.
His step brings him directly to her side, bumping their hips together. Her stance falters into a wobble. His hand instinctively reaches behind her to grab her elbow, steadying her.
“Whoa– Sorry!”
“Oh– You’re fine!”
Her body feels so warm and supple against his. She fits into his side like a puzzle piece. His hand remains on her arm for just a second too long, savoring the way she feels tucked against him.
He pulls his hand off of her and takes a small step away from her. After clearing his throat, he stutters, “I-I’m so sorry, I thought you had walked away.”
“No, it’s okay!” she replies quickly. “Thanks for not letting me fall.” She giggles and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, exposing her rosy cheeks.
“Of course, I’m sorry, though… again.”
“You don’t have to be sorry, it’s all good, Spence.” She’s looking at him with such intense sincerity that his breath falters.
He nods sharply, “Right! Okay! Good!”
There’s a moment of silence as she picks up her mug and walks toward the door. He turns around to face her.
“Sorr–” He blushes and looks down at his feet. “I mean, thanks for making the coffee.”
She amusedly breathes out and gives him a knowing smile, “No problem.”
5: The whole team has gathered around a conference room of a small-town precinct. Their only printer is down, so there’s a limited amount of files. Everyone is shoulder-to-shoulder, leaning over the documents. Everyone except her and Spencer. She doesn’t want to crowd him and make him uncomfortable, so she asks if she could see the report he’s holding after he’s done with it.
He begins to pass it over without hesitation; he already has the contents memorized, anyway. He looks away as he hands it over, sharing a niche statistic that's relevant to the case with the room.
Someone in the far corner has called her name, so she turns away from Spencer and toward the voice. Her hand is open, ready to take the file from him.
Then, the side of his hand, the one holding the papers, lands directly in the palm of hers.
He doesn’t jerk back immediately. Her palm is so soft and tepid that it brings him a moment of comfort. For once, he’s not thinking about the millions of bacteria that live on human hands.
Their eyelines meet at their (sort of) joined hands. Her fingers have reflexively curved to brush the back of his hand, expecting her grip to find papers.
Her expression falls a little as he pulls his hand away from hers. Although the movement is less abrupt than she thought it might be. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”
He hands the file to her properly, before crossing his hands in front of his body. Pink blooms on his cheeks as he turned his head away from her, seeking a distraction.
*** The team is in New York City investigating a scene in the middle of Times Square. The NYPD has blocked off the area, but there are hordes of people gathering at the edge of the tape lines.
The BAU parked their SUVs as close as they could and are walking the rest of the way to the scene, squeezing through groups of people and dodging elbows and rowdiness.
She’s walking next to him and keeps getting jostled into his side. As they approach a tighter gap between clusters of onlookers, Spencer places a hand on the small of her back to help guide her through.
He does it without even thinking.
He looks down at her to gauge her reaction to his touch, hoping he doesn’t see discomfort painted in her eyes. She looks up at him with a thankful smile, and they both blush before returning their gazes forward.
He keeps his hand on her for as long as he can. He rationalizes that he’s just being a helpful friend, but he can’t deny his enjoyment of the contact and her proximity.
The crowd gets thicker the closer they get to the scene. She instinctively shifts closer to his side, and he’s mentally reciting the periodic table in an effort to keep his heart rate under control. He presses his hand firmer against her back as they wave through the sea of people.
He’s disappointed to see the yellow crime scene tape getting closer and closer. Part of him has forgotten that they’re there for work. For a second, he could imagine that just the two of them were on a trip to the city together.
She looks up at him and thanks him just before they have to duck under the tape.
“Of course, it’s really crowded.” He nods affirmatively.
The small of her back feels cold after the removal of his hand. His hand feels empty as it now dangles at his side.
Once they’ve passed the tape and are talking to the NYPD about the case, they’re standing side-by-side as they listen to the details. She presses her shoulder against his, making him lose his train of thought. He has to force himself to focus on the men in front of him.
They separate as the team traverses the scene, but they glance at each other sporadically, hiding small smiles.
Summary: You came in to work every day with a fun fact, determined to catch the BAU's genius with one that he wouldn't know (friends to lovers, co-workers to lovers, mutual feelings, fluff, confession)
Note: my spencer reid debut fic <3 sorry if there are any inaccuracy, just started rewatching after 3 years
Word count: 10.9k (sorry)
“Small facts lead to great knowing” - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)
“I can’t believe anybody would do something like this,” you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your hands—your thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst.
You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.
The corner of the genius’s mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.
“I gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.” You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. “Actually, fun fact…” You noticed the way your words peeled Spencer’s attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence.
“The word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.” You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge.
“Yeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word ‘lunaticus,’ which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,” Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.
The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.
“Is there anything you don’t know, Spence?” you glowered jokingly.
“Well, it’s hard when you’re a child prodigy and genius.” You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencer’s cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencer’s brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.
“I’ll get you someday.”
Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.
“You don’t believe in me, Derek?” You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.
“Sweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.”
“But surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesn’t know about.” Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.
“We’re talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?” JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.
“Actually, there is no way of measuring Einstein’s IQ as he never took the test, so to say that—” Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.
“Come on, pretty boy. She’s backing you up.”
“Sounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,” Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. “$20 says she’ll do it within four months.”
“I think she can do it within three months.” Emily chimed up from her desk.
“I’m placing my bet on eight months,” Penelope added confidently.
“Alright, and if she can’t do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,” Derek announced before directing his next words to you, “Stakes are on, sweetheart.” He winked.
“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, “I’m gonna get you real soon, just wait.”
“You’re welcome to try.” The challenging glint in Spencer’s eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.
So, let the challenge begin.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know that Australia is wider than the moon?” you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. “Fun fact.”
“Yes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moon’s diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.” You sighed dramatically at Spencer’s reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.
“And day one status: unsuccessful,” you grunted to yourself, catching Spencer’s grin from your peripheral vision.
“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”
“You bet your ass it’s gonna be. There’s a betting pool and I’m unfortunately too competitive for my own good.” You caught the amusement dancing in Spencer’s gaze.
“Well then, good luck.”
“Won’t need it.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?” You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. “Fun fact.”
Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.
Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencer’s sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.
You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.
“Yeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the world’s largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.” Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.
“Hmm…” you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friend’s head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. “Beautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.”
Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.
Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting others’ clothing items—especially of the opposite gender—had been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item.
Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didn’t sit on his head perfectly.
“I still have time to get you,” you continued after a moment of silence.
“359 days left.”
“More than enough.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.
“Did you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.”
Both Emily’s and Derek’s watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.
“Around the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.”
Emily instantly groaned at Spencer’s reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.
“See? Not a single thing he doesn’t know,” Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.
You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.
Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him.
“I won.”
Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencer’s declaration.
“What?! No way. You must have cheated.”
“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,” Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.
“Are we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?” JJ countered, placing her phone down.
Your co-workers’ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.
You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.
“Sore loser.”
“Cheater.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.
Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.
The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.
“Did you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?” you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. “Fun fact.”
“Yeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.”
You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:
“Done!”
Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.
“Imagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.” You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.
Spencer’s gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as “eyes twinkling,” but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail.
Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.
From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?” you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.
“Well, hello to you too.” Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior.
He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your hand—a casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.
To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee.
He simply has always gotten it right.
It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybody’s coffee preferences.
“It actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to “toast” to good health.”
Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.
Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.
His eyes fell from you to your coffee—a particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.
Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.
“36 days down…” you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.
“Maybe tomorrow.” The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.
“Maybe.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Flies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?” you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAU’s jet.
“Yes, it’s a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, it’s because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.”
Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.
“I’ll get you tomorrow…” you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.
Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches.
Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.
Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencer’s known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed.
Why?
His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.
Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.
The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.
And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.
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“Cows have best friends, how great is that?”
Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement.
“Yes, cows do have a ‘best friend’ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.”
You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words.
In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.
“You know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as ‘accents.’ Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.” Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, “Fun fact.”
“Nuh uh, don’t go stealing my line. You’re not allowed to put me out of business.”
This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound.
If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.
Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work.
With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:
You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.
Both your phones started ringing at the same time.
“Penelope, is everything okay?” you answered quietly.
“Emily?” Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.
After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencer’s outfit before sighing.
“There’s not enough time to go home and change.” The devastation in your voice was imminent.
“I know.”
A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.
“Whoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?” Emily teased.
“We were at a convention, okay?” You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.
“And you two are dressed up as…?” Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.
The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.
“The fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,” Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.
Derek’s eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. “Blink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.” You laughed at his remark.
“Listen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? That’s why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.” You raised your hands in surrender.
“Oh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,” Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.
By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,” you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. “I was not ready.”
Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencer’s scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly.
Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.
Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze.
“Alright, I’m gonna go change now.” By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.
The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencer’s contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf.
The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind people’s attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have ‘important’ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.
Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:
“Can you send that to me, please? Thank you.”
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“Where is she?” Derek’s gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.
“Garcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?”
“Nothing.”
Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work.
Ah, the perks of being a profiler.
“Sure, pretty boy.”
“What was that loo—”
The sound of Spencer’s phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.
Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.
Immediately, his body stiffened.
“Are you okay?” He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress.
“My nose is blocked. Both sides. It’s horrendous,” then came a dramatic sigh, “I’m becoming a mouth breather, Spence.”
Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.
Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.
“Anyway, don’t think you can escape your daily fun fact just because I’m not physically in the office.” Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal.
“You’re sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?”
“In sickness and in health, as they say.”
Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.
Derek’s brows scrunched at that.
“Apparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?” Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.
“That’s quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,” his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end.
He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way he’d sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.
“You should sleep and rest,” he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.
Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.
Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open today’s case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you.
Spencer’s mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.
It’s familiarity—he tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance.
Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry.
For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.
His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.
Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms.
Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.
That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.
Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength.
The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.
After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together.
Spencer’s free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.
Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.
Spencer wanted to say that it didn’t matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him.
However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.
Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.
It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind.
So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.
His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed.
Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someone’s life.
Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.
A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.
With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task.
When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.
Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencer’s eyes. His heart—which Spencer’s brain has been having a harder time controlling lately—provided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.
Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.
“Fun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.” Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. “Happy Birthday, Spence.”
There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.
There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.
But maybe his probability was not entirely against him.
“I know I’m quite late, but trust me, there’s an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.”
You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.
“Also, since it’s your birthday, I’ll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, but…”
Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again.
“You’re my favorite October 12th.”
And right at that second, all of Spencer’s previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.
It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer.
And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.
Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.
God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.
One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.
Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.
“Thank you.”
Even if the significance behind those words didn’t reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness.
Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing.
And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.
“Come on, can you play for me? Please?” you urged, and it didn’t take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.
Saying “no” became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.
You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.
For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Or—
A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.
First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song.
It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano.
Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.
Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.
“I thought you only listened to classical?”
“I…did,” was all that came out of Spencer’s mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.
Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.
Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to ‘woo’ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures.
You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.
You moved on with a quiet murmur.
“You know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.” You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. “It’s accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.”
“Yeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.”
“Anddd another fun fact failure.” You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that.
“We should head up. It’s getting late.”
You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. “But it’s not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?”
An outstretched grin spread across Spencer’s face at your words.
“Never.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“No way.” You were speechless as you made way out of Spencer’s car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. “Don’t tell me…”
“Yeah, it’s for your favorite film,” Spencer confirmed your suspicion.
“So, it didn’t matter that I had lost, huh?”
Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress code—smart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.
The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.
This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.
An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.
Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an option—the best one, at that—and giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.
“God, this is the best thing ever.” Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.
Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event.
You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.
“Did you know that there’s a planet that is ⅓ made of diamonds?” you whispered.
“55 Cancri e, right?” he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.
“Yeah, that one,” you confirmed, turning your head back to him. “Go on, I know you have details on it.” You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.
“55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its star…”
You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust.
The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.
Spencer’s intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.
Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.
You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two.
“Even though it is widely said that the planet is ⅓ of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when they’re not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is like…suspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.”
Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.
That was kind of embarrassing.
The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.
It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crush’s jok—
Oh.
You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong.
Oh God.
But were you really surprised though?
A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.
You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.
And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.
Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.
Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Alright, what’s the fun fact of today?” you heard Spencer’s voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.
The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencer’s. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.
You gestured to Spencer’s usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.
“You know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.”
“Yeah, it’s known as the Shannon number—the number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10 to the power of 120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 10 to the power of 80, to 10 to the power of 82.”
He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.
“You don’t have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.”
“No, no. Give me a second, I’ll make my move.”
“You’re tired.”
You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.
You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.
For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.
Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. “Yeah.”
Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.
Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow.
Of course, he had noticed it—your lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.
But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose.
He wanted you to mean it.
You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering.
You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencer’s shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.
But the certainty on Spencer’s face left your rejection stuck in your throat.
Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.
One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.
“I’m gonna get you some day, Spence…” Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.
Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course.
Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏
The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both.
“Ready?” Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.
“Yeah…” you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. “More than ready.”
You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencer’s new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:
Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason.
Well, for no reason but you.
The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace.
You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually would—a habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.
Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.
Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.
“Spence?” Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone.
God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face.
“Fun fact…” You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different.
With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged today’s fun fact, your voice calm and stable.
“I like you.”
Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.
“I recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?” You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplace’s parking lot at 1am.
Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?
You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.
But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer.
Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reaction—was he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.
Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.
Oh…?
Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.
In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.
Spencer’s eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.
His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light.
You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these.
You pressed your lips harder against his.
Good lord, Spencer could do this forever.
He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.
Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencer’s throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch.
One hundred and sixty three days—Spencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.
In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently.
You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them.
You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.
Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.
Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.
“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” It was true. Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memory’s line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”
Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencer’s stare, you truly could see he meant every word.
“But…” The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.
“But?”
“I do have to admit that, uhm…” The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. “I kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.” Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.
“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. “But you looked shocked.”
“I was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think you’d do it today…or tomorrow…or maybe ever–” You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.
“I thought you’re like highly oblivious to romantic signals? I’ve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.”
“I think I wasn’t clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.” Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.
“When did you figure it out?”
“That you like me? At the orchestra.”
“How? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.”
“Yeah, I could tell.” Your huff drew a chuckle from him.
You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driver’s door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencer’s presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.
As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencer’s fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.
“I’m still gonna get you someday.”
Spencer’s gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.
“I’m counting on that.”
With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.
You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in today’s score.
Day 187 status: unsuccessful.
But it hardly matters when you think you’ve already won something a lot better.
link to: epilogue/bonus bit
・┈・┈・┈・┈・┈・
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summary: Your Uncle Rossi didn’t tell you there was going to be a handsome genius with an unending amount of facts about everything at the dinner he was hosting for his coworkers. And you really wish he would have, because you probably would’ve chosen to wear something more…appealing.
word count: 3k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (see about section below) but nothing too crazy and its not a kink thing i promise.
about: my idea is that this takes place sometime around season 3, as my headcannon for reader is to be fairly young, probably 18 or 19, so in my head i feel most comfortable with a 24/25 year old spencer. i also had glasses reid in mind while watching this because he’s just so cute and i know 18/19 year old me couldn’t get enough of him lol
You moved in with your rich uncle David Rossi a few months after turning 15. It was a strange thing, as you abruptly lost your parents, and you moved states away to live with your rich godfather who the last time you saw was five years ago at your older brother’s graduation. You barely knew the guy, you knew nothing of Virginia, and honestly, it was weird.
It was strange being in a four bedroom mansion with a man you barely knew, albeit are related to, in a new state with people you didn’t know. For the first few years he was home all day every day, but last year, your Uncle Dave returned to the FBI in the unit he founded: the Behavioral Analysis Unit.
He was much busier now. Sometimes you wouldn’t see him for weeks on end. But you were older now, out of high school and working on a journalism degree at an online university. You warmed up to your uncle over the years, after all, he’s been all you’ve known as a parental figure for the last five years. And as much as you thought you wouldn’t in the beginning, you’ve come to love him.
_____
You got back home at around 8:00pm. You had a test that had to be taken with a proctor today, and ended up meeting some friends for dinner afterwards. You were a bit intimidated to walk into the house. Your Uncle Dave had warned you that he was hosting a dinner party for his team tonight at 7:00, so you knew there was a dining room full of professional FBI agents waiting for you to walk through in your flannel pajama pants and super old grey Doctor Who hoodie with paint stains on it.
But you had to go inside, surely FBI agents weren’t judgemental, and if they were, well, whoops. You take a deep breath before opening the front door, a loud suction sound echoing as you closed it from the weight of the giant door that leads into the giant house. You hear the banter of the team quiet as you enter. It was almost silent, but there was one voice that continued on.
You heard a voice deeper and more sharp speak over the other, the words “Reid.” filling the dining room, hushing the other voice.
Your uncle had mentioned Reid multiple times over the last year since he returned to the FBI. He described him as a genius, but you weren’t so sure. I mean, of course he was probably incredibly smart to be in the FBI, but you were sure your uncle and the rest of the team were just as smart as him, people were likely just impressed by him because he’s the youngest on the team.
You hear your uncle’s voice echo from the dining room. “Y/N? Is that you?”
You blink, almost wishing he didn’t acknowledge you. “Yeah,” you respond.
“Why don’t you come in here, I want to introduce you to the team,” he says.
You knew he wasn’t going to let you leave the corridor without stopping by. You take your hair out of the bun you have it in. At least if you’re going to be introduced to FBI agents your hair could look good.
You walk into the dining room. At the long table you see a tall man in a black suit and tie with dark hair. His face looks serious, but his eyes greet you. “Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief,” Rossi introduces him as.
“Hotch is fine,” the man echoes, giving a polite nod.
“Derek Morgan,” your attention shifts as your uncle continues around the table. The man sitting beside Hotch is tall as well, muscular, and bald. But he pulls it off well. He leans back comfortably in his chair, one arm draped over the back of it. Unlike Hotch's stern professionalism, he looks completely at ease. His sleeves are rolled up slightly, his tie loosened just enough to suggest that dinner parties aren't something he takes particularly seriously.
“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he says, smiling.
"You too,” you say, smiling back.
There's something immediately easy about him, the kind of person who could probably hold a conversation with anyone.
"Derek thinks he's charming," a woman across the table says.
Morgan points at her.
"Ya think?"
Your uncle shakes his head. “That’s Emily Prentiss,” he says, the woman who spoke smiles. She has dark hair that looks like it always does what she wants it to do. She looks effortlessly put together.
“Hi,” she says. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”
You blink. "My name's come up?"
Emily glances toward Rossi. "Occasionally."
Your uncle looks mildly offended. "I don't talk about her that much."
"No," Morgan agrees. "Mostly just things like, 'My niece is using all my expensive paint supplies,' or 'My niece left seventeen coffee mugs in the living room.'"
"It was like four,” you say.
"Jennifer Jareau, JJ," your uncle continues.
The blonde woman beside Emily offers a warm smile. She seems kind immediately. Not fake nice. Actually nice.
"It's good to meet you," she smiles.
"You too."
Then your uncle gestures farther down the table. "Penelope Garcia."
The woman lights up."At last!" You blink. Garcia points at you dramatically. "The mysterious niece."
"There is nothing mysterious about me,” you giggle.
"Honey, that’s exactly what a mysterious person would say," she says.
You laugh.
Garcia beams like she's accomplished something. She looks exactly like the kind of person who fills every room she walks into. Bright colors. Bright smile. Bright personality. Everything about her feels larger than life.
"It's nice to meet you," she says.
"You too."
"Also, I love the pajama pants," she says, her voice so genuine, almost like she’s envious of them.
You glance down.
"You're the only one."
"Nonsense. Confidence is sexy."
“Watch it,” your uncle says. He’s been very overprotective of you since you moved in. A little too overprotective in your opinion, but he didn’t want to hear it.
He gestures to the last person at the table. “And of course, Dr. Spencer Reid.”
Your attention drifts toward the youngest man at the table. Spencer Reid. The genius. The rambler. The one your uncle complains about, albeit affectionately.
He's quieter now that the attention is on him. A little awkward. A little more than a little awkward when she gives a small wave.
His eyes flick toward you before quickly looking away again.
Then back.
Then away.
And that's when you notice him looking at your hoodie.
Not your face.
Your hoodie.
Specifically the faded blue police box printed across the front.
His eyes widen. "...Is that a first edition Bad Wolf Tour hoodie?"
You blink. There is absolutely no chance anyone should know that.
"What?" you say, shocked.
"The stitching," he points. "The original merchandise run had different lettering than the later reproductions."
The entire room goes silent. You stare at him. Spencer stares at you.
"You know that?" you finally ask him.
Spencer looks confused. "Of course."
You immediately turn toward your uncle. "Why have you never told me the FBI hired cool people?"
Morgan nearly chokes on his drink. The thought of someone referring to Spencer Reid as cool was asinine.
Spencer visibly brightens. "You watch Doctor Who?"
You laugh. "Watch it? I own a sonic screwdriver."
Garcia gasps. "No."
"Yes," you say, smiling.
"No," she says in the same tone.
"Yes."
Spencer pushes his glasses up. "You own which one?"
You pause, then smile. "The Fourth Doctor's."
Spencer immediately points. "Best one."
"Exactly,” you say
"Exactly."
Garcia slams a hand onto the table. "OH MY GOD."
Emily starts laughing. "There's three of them."
Morgan looks horrified.
"There are three of them," JJ agrees.
Rossi looks deeply exhausted, like he regrets inviting you, but of course, in a humorous way. Rossi takes a seat next to Hotch, leaving an open seat between him and Spencer, and across from Garcia.
“Please can she stay,” Garcia says, facing your uncle and motioning to the chair in front of her.
He blinks and looks at you. “It’s up to you,” he says.
Garcie looks at you, putting her hands together in a fist and doing a begging motion.
You smile, and pull out the chair. “For a little while,” you say.
Maybe twenty minutes later Spencer is explaining the history of Gallifreyan language structures while you and Garcia are actively participating. Not pretending to participate, actually participating.
Which is apparently a completely new experience for Spencer. Most people tune him out after about three minutes. You ask follow-up questions. He answers them. Then you answer one of his. Then Garcia’s.
Then suddenly you're discussing science fiction literature, paradoxes, alternate timelines, and whether the Weeping Angels or the Silence are more terrifying.
The rest of the table slowly stops paying you guys any attention altogether.
Eventually Morgan stands. "I'm going outside."
"Same," Emily follows.
Then Rossi and Hotch.
JJ lasts another five minutes before quietly escaping too.
Nobody ele announces it. They just leave one by one. Until only you, Spencer, and Garcia remain.
"So wait,” Garcia looks at you. "You actually collect stuff?"
You grin, "Want to see?"
Garcia is already standing.
You lead them around the house and upstairs to your room. You linger on the doorknob before opening it, turning to face them. “Now, when Uncle Dave told me he was inviting you guys over I specifically asked for him to leave my room out if he did a tour. So you two should feel extra special.”
You open the door, and you watch as Spencer’s eyes widen and Garcia’s face all but explodes.
A shelf spans one wall: books, action figures, collectibles, replica props, years worth of obsessive collecting fills the shelves.
Spencer walks closer. His eyes land on a rare figure. Then another. Then another. "You have the discontinued Face of Boe set," he states.
"Still in the box," you brag.
"They only made twelve thousand," he says.
You smirk. “I know.”
"You know,” he says, in awe. Spencer looks genuinely impressed. Which somehow feels better than it should.
“Can I touch?” Penelope asks, looking at you wide-eyed.
“As long as you don’t break,” you smile.
Garcia is already holding a collectible and taking pictures. "You are officially my favorite Rossi."
“Yeah, well Dave is kind of a loser,” you joke.
_____
Downstairs, the rest of the team is sitting on the patio chatting and listening to faint excited yelling coming from the second floor.
Morgan glances up. "Should we be worried?"
Rossi takes a long sip of wine, "No."
"Really?" Morgan says?
"About what?" Rossi asks.
There’s a pause.
"...Maybe Reid?" Morgan says sternly.
Emily nearly chokes on her drink. "What?"
Rossi looks up.
Morgan is staring toward the second floor. "You heard me."
"You think Reid is a threat?" JJ asks, sounding amused.
Morgan shrugs. "Normally? No."
A loud burst of laughter echoes faintly from upstairs. Garcia's unmistakable voice follows. Then Spencer's. Then yours.
Morgan points upward. "Tonight? Maybe."
Rossi's eyes narrow slightly. The sound of Spencer laughing isn't unusual. The sound of Spencer laughing repeatedly is. Emily notices the expression immediately.
"Oh no," JJ says looking at Rossi.
"What?" Rossi asks.
"You just profiled something."
"I didn't profile anything."
"You absolutely profiled something," Emily says, staring at Rossi.
Hotch quietly takes a sip of his drink. "He's profiling it right now," he says.
"I am sitting on my patio," Rossi states.
"You've got the look," Hotch says
"What look?" Dave is starting to get annoyed.
"The look you get when you're about to tell us something nobody wants to hear,” JJ says.
Rossi looks toward the second floor again. The house falls quiet for a moment. Then another round of excited voices drifts downstairs. Spencer's voice, Your voice. Spencer's again. A pause. Your laugh. Rossi’s stomach drops.
Morgan grins. Rossi slowly turns toward him. “No,” he says.”
“No?” Morgan repeats.
Emily is trying not to smile. “You know,” she says, “now that I think about it…”
“Don’t,” Hotch says, trying to let the situation dissolve.
"She did sit next to him."
"Emily." Hotch says with a warning tone.
"And she's the only person I've ever met who voluntarily asked follow-up questions during one of Reid's monologues," Emily continues.
"Emily." Hotch scolds her this time.
"Several follow-up questions," Morgan adds.
"She was looking at him a lot,” JJ joins in.
"You think so too?" Rossi asks.
"I'm just making observations,” she says.
"You're all making observations with no proof to back them up.” Rossi says, trying to lie to himself.
Upstairs another burst of laughter rings through the house.
Emily winces. "Yeah, that's not helping."
"No," Morgan agrees. "It's really not."
Rossi's jaw tightens. It isn't that Spencer is a bad guy. If anything, that's the problem. Spencer is brilliant, kind, a little awkward, and completely incapable of manipulating anyone. If Rossi had to pick someone on the team to trust with his life, Spencer would make the list.
That doesn't mean he wants him anywhere near his niece.
Those are entirely different things.
"You guys are overthinking this," Hotch says.
"They're just talking,” Rossi says, siding with Hotch.
"They've been talking for almost an hour,” JJ adds.
"They have a shared interest. And Garcia is there"
Morgan snorts. "A shared interest."That's how it starts."
"Unfortunately, he's right,” Emily says, siding with Morgan.
Rossi looks horrified. "You're all insane."
"Maybe," Emily says. "But if I walked upstairs right now and asked Garcia who Y/N has spent the entire night talking to, who do you think she'd say?"
Rossi doesn't answer. Because he already knows the answer. And he hates it. A lot.
Hotch finally sets down his glass. "I don't think you have anything to worry about."
Rossi relaxes slightly.
Then Hotch continues. "Yet…"
The relaxation immediately disappears. Rossi stands. The entire team watches him.
"Where are you going?" JJ asks.
"Checking on them." Rossi says.
Emily grins. "Checking on them,” she mocks.
"Yes."
"See? He hates it." Morgan laughs
"I do not hate it."
"You absolutely hate it."
Rossi pauses. "I have to believe it to hate it. And I don’t believe it."
That only makes everyone laugh harder as he heads back into the house, already preparing himself for whatever he's about to walk into upstairs.
_____
"Yeah, well Dave is kind of a loser," you joke.
The sound of someone in the doorway clearing their throat fills the room.
All three of you jump. Your uncle stands there with a glass of wine in one hand. "You invite people into your room and immediately start slandering me?" He says, a joking tone.
"You walked into my room uninvited,” you say.
"It's my house,” he states.
"It's my room,” you argue.
"It's my house."
"It's my room."
Garcia points between the two of you. "This is exactly how I imagined your relationship."
"You imagined our relationship?" you ask.
"Frequently,” she says.
Spencer laughs quietly. You immediately glance toward him. His hand flies up to cover his mouth like he hadn't meant to laugh out loud.
Which somehow makes it even cuter.
Not that you're thinking that.
At all.
Definitely not.
Your uncle notices. Because of course he does. He's a profiler. And unfortunately a good profiler. His eyes narrow slightly.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing,” he says.
"That wasn't a nothing face."
"It was a nothing face."
"It was absolutely not."
Rossi points toward Spencer. "You."
Spencer freezes. "What?"
"Stop encouraging her."
Spencer looks genuinely confused. "I haven't done anything."
"Exactly."
Emily appears behind Rossi. One look into the room and she immediately starts laughing. Morgan's head appears over Emily's shoulder.
Somehow your entire room has become a spectator sport.
Garcia immediately points. "Everybody out."
"You don't have authority here," Morgan says.
"I have passion."
"That's not the same thing."
"It should be."
While the argument continues, Spencer wanders toward your bookshelf. His attention lands on a worn hardcover sticking out from the shelf. His expression changes immediately.
"You have this?" He says in awe.
You glance over. "Oh, yeah I do."
The book. A first-edition collection of Isaac Asimov stories. You'd spent nearly a year hunting it down online.
"It took forever to find."
Spencer carefully pulls it from the shelf like he's handling a museum artifact. He holds it in front of him and looks toward you with puppy dog eyes.
Your heart does an annoying little thing.
"You've read it?” He asks, voice so delicate.
You snort. "I own it."
"That doesn't answer the question."
"Of course I've read it."
His eyes light up. And suddenly the rest of the room disappears again.
You spend the next ten minutes debating science fiction authors. Garcia contributes enthusiastically despite admitting she's only read half of them. Emily eventually drags Morgan back downstairs.
Until only Rossi remains leaning against the doorway.
Watching.
Spencer doesn't notice. He's too busy explaining why certain science fiction writers accidentally predicted modern technology. You don't notice either. You're too busy listening.
Actually listening.
Not politely waiting for him to finish. Not pretending to understand.
Listening. Asking questions. Arguing back Engaging.
Rossi watches the interaction for another minute. Then quietly smiles to himself. Because in the year he's worked with Spencer Reid, he's seen people react to him in one of three ways.
Confusion. Intimidation. Or boredom.
He's never seen someone look at Spencer like he's the most interesting person in the room. And judging by the way Spencer keeps glancing at you when he talks, he's never seen Spencer look at someone like that either.
Rossi takes a sip of wine. Then immediately decides this is absolutely not becoming his problem tonight. Unfortunately, he knows it's already too late. But maybe, in the morning, he can decide to forbid you from ever seeing the boy genius again.
Or he can at least try…
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Read Part 2 Here!
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BUY ME A COFFEE
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a/n: to any of my fans (joking tone, but on a real note i know most of you guys follow me for the Spencer Reid A-Z Series) i promise i will be posting more parts to that soon. but i also have a ton (over 100) recommendations in my inbox, and some of them i would really like to try to do, so i will be posting some one shots as well for a while. my inbox has some pretty old recommendations (as early as 2023) and i am aware that people often tend to fall in and out of being into fanfics and stuff, so i will likely not write from any specific requests from anything more than a year ago (2025). but please feel free to send me requests, either for my A-Z series or just for one shots and i will try my hardest to be much more timely about them for at least the next few months while i’m on summer break!
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Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!
i've never known (someone like you) ｡⋆✧˚ | spencer reid
୨ৎ masterlist. series masterlist.
୨ৎ summary: spencer reid is unlike any guy you've ever met, which might be why you find yourself falling for him a little bit every time you see him. he couldn't possibly feel that way about you though, right? or... part 2 of my spencer reid smau series!
୨ৎ pairing: spencer reid x film girl!reader
୨ৎ warnings/tags: smau, fluff, language, penelope (and derek) are chronically online bc I said so, jemily crumbs because canon said so,
୨ৎ a/n: this took crazy long to release MY BAD GANG <3 (school's nuts and I lwk got distracted with my peter parker series sorryyyy) this is also a TAD shorter than the other part just bc I finished this at like midnight on a crisp Tuesday night when I have school in the morning.
spence.reid
♫ This Night Has Opened My Eyes ➤ The Smiths
liked by: d_morgan, penelopee_garcia, j.jareau, emily_prentiss, lab.rat and 9 others
spence.reid: at the movies (again) :))
penelopee_garcia: SPENCER REID. WHO IS THAT NEXT TO YOU???
⤷ spence.reid: a new friend :)
⤷ penelopee_garcia: is it a GIRLfriend
⤷ spence.reid: no?? she's just a friend i go to the movies with
⤷ d_morgan: okay i see you pretty boy
⤷ spence.reid: ???
___________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐
lab.rat
♫ Calling After Me ➤ Wallows
liked by: kingofthe_lab, spence.reid, penelopee_garcia, and 6 others
lab.rat: long day at the lab but at least I have caffeine 😋
kingofthe_lab: I cannot believe ur little boyfriend walked all the way to our building to give you coffee
⤷ lab.rat: ok NOT my bf but someone's jealous they don't have an awesome friend who brings them coffee in the mornings :))
⤷ kingofthe_lab: he memorized ur coffee order and everything are we srs
⤷ lab.rat: he has an eidetic memory it doesn't take a lot of effort to memorize ANYTHING
spence.reid: was the coffee ok?
⤷ lab.rat: ugh yes it got me through my day thank you 🤞
⤷ penelopee_garcia: omg this is her??? she's so pretty spencer oh my god I can't believe this
⤷ spence.reid: GARCIA?? didn't hotch say not to stalk my personal life?
⤷ penelopee_garcia: yes but not the point YOU HAVE A PRETTY GF
⤷ lab.rat: aw shucks spencer you talk to ur coworkers abt me 🤭
⤷ spence.reid: wait not like that I promise
⤷ lab.rat: oh I was joking!
⤷ penelopee_garcia: so was he <33
spence.reid
♫ Calling After Me ➤ Wallows
liked by: lab.rat, d_morgan, penelopee_garcia, j.jareau, emily_prentiss, and 4 others
spence.reid: finally on the way home!!
lab.rat: yay!! are we still on for dinner later?
⤷ spence.reid: of course!
⤷ d.morgan: oh so this is why you're skipping drinks with us
⤷ spence.reid: I don't drink alcohol anyways?
⤷ d.morgan: no it's ok have fun with ur gf
⤷ spence.reid: I never said she was my girlfriend @ lab.rat pls believe me
⤷ lab.rat: ok I believe you :))
⤷ penelopee_garcia: HE LIES HE LIES
___________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐
lab.rat
♫ Glue Song ➤ beabadoobee
liked by: lab.rat, penelopee_garcia, kingofthe_lab, and 7 others
lab.rat: dinner and an adventure w/ @ spence.reid :))
spence.reid: I had a great time!!!
⤷ lab.rat: me toooo :) also you didn't have to get me flowers 😭
⤷ spence.reid: in the victorian era, flowers were actually used as a means of giving messages to the recipient! each flower symbolized a different emotion or meaning :)) also you mentioned liking sunflowers
⤷ lab.rat: you're actually kidding you remembered?
⤷ spence.reid: I remember a lot of things
⤷ lab.rat: fair but I also only mentioned it like once 😭
⤷ kingofthe_lab: I love when little weirdos are in love with each other
⤷ lab.rat: oh my GODDD
