ᯓ✦

21 take my half~

[sbnslver]

Masterlist

TOMORROW X TOGETHER

Soobin

Yeonjun

Beomgyu

-> Picture You

As you try and navigate long distance it all may just be come too much for you and Beomgyu.

Taehyun

-> Heaven

Who better to take care of you when your sick than your own boyfriend, well maybe if your boyfriend isn't Taehyun.

Huening Kai

-> I Know You

You've fallen in love with your best friend and you just can't stand it.

[romanczukowsky]

Some Things George Weasley Doesn’t Joke About

Pairing: George Weasley x Fem!reader

Summary: He was supposed to be just your friend. The funny one. The one who never took anything seriously.

Until you started sitting too close to Cedric Diggory.

Warnings: Slow Burn / Soft Jealousy Spiral / Friends to Lovers / Cedric Diggory as an Unintentional Rival / Sibling Chaos & Teasing

It started the way most bad decisions usually do.

With laughter.

With noise.

With Fred and George Weasley in the middle of it. And with you, right there beside them like you had always belonged there.

You weren’t the quiet type.

Never had been.

If anything, you were worse.

Loud when you shouldn’t be. Smiling when you were supposed to be serious. Saying things that made professors sigh and classmates laugh in the same breath.

Somehow, you had ended up orbiting the Weasley twins like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Fred liked to call it “a shared lack of survival instincts.”

George called it “friendship.”

And you just called it home.

You sat with them at meals when you could, snuck out with them when you shouldn’t, and got dragged into half of their ideas whether you agreed or not.

Which, most of the time, you did.

Right now, the three of you were sprawled somewhere just outside the corridor near the courtyard, half-hidden from professors and fully hidden from responsibility.

Fred was mid-story, hands moving as he spoke. George was laughing already, like he knew how it ended. And you were leaning back against the stone wall, trying not to choke on your own laughter.

“You did what to Ron’s wand?” you asked, breathless.

Fred looked far too pleased with himself. “I didn’t do anything,” he said innocently.

George snorted. “That’s the problem. He didn’t do anything. That’s when it’s worst.”

You shook your head, wiping your eyes. “You’re both going to be the reason Hogwarts burns down one day.”

Fred tilted his head at you. “And you’ll be right next to us cheering it on.”

You opened your mouth but didn’t get to answer, because footsteps cut through the moment.

Sharp.

Familiar enough to make all three of you pause at the same time.

You didn’t even have to turn around to know.

Professor McGonagall.

“Miss L/N,” McGonagall said crisply.

Not angry.

Worse.

Controlled.

You stood up slowly. “Professor.”

Her eyes moved between you and the twins. Then she spoke: “I’ve been informed that your academic performance this term is… concerning.”

Fred let out a quiet, almost invisible sound beside you—something between amusement and “oh this is going to be good.”

You shot him a warning look.

McGonagall continued. “If your grades do not improve, you will not pass this year.”

Silence.

Even Fred stopped smirking.

You swallowed.

“I’ll… fix it,” you said quickly.

“I hope so,” McGonagall replied. “Because repeating a year would be… embarrassing, for someone of your capability.”

That hit a little harder than you expected.

Then she added: “I will be arranging mandatory tutoring sessions for you. Mr Diggory has agreed to assist you.”

Fred blinked.

George’s eyebrows lifted.

You, on the other hand “…Cedric Diggory?” you repeated slowly.

“Yes.”

There was a pause where your brain tried to compute it.

Cedric Diggory.

Perfect grades.

Perfect posture.

Perfect smile.

Perfect everything you were not.

You exhaled.

“…Right.”

McGonagall gave you a look. “You will begin tomorrow.”

And just like that, she turned and walked away.

Leaving silence behind her.

Fred was the first to break it. “Well,” he said lightly, but his tone had shifted. “That’s your downfall sorted.”

“Shut up,” you groaned.

George didn’t laugh immediately, which was unusual. When you looked at him, he was watching you. Not teasing, not joking.

Just watching.

Then he smiled.

“Maybe he’s not that bad,” George said.

Fred looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

You blinked. “You’re joking.”

George shrugged. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”

Fred scoffed. “She won’t survive ten minutes of Diggory’s voice.”

You threw a pebble at him.

It missed.

Unfortunately.

Fred caught it anyway, grinning again like nothing had changed.

But something had.

Even if none of you said it out loud yet.

The first study session was a disaster. You were late on purpose. Not very late—just enough to make a point.

Cedric Diggory was already sitting at one of the long library tables when you arrived, books neatly stacked beside him, parchment organized in perfectly straight lines.

You stopped at the end of the table and stared.

“I just want it officially written down somewhere that McGonagall is ruining my life.” You dropped into the chair across from him dramatically.

Cedric slid a book toward you. “Open to page seventy-two.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “No greeting?”

“I said hello when you walked in.”

“That barely counted.”

Cedric leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you for a second. “You talk a lot when you don’t want to do something.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And you sound exactly like someone who color-codes his notes.”

“I do color-code my notes.”

“Of course you do.”

Somehow, impossibly, that made him laugh quietly and annoyingly it suited him.

You decided immediately that this was unacceptable.

The next hour was painful. Not because Cedric was mean.

That would’ve been easier.

No, Cedric was patient.

Calm.

Infuriatingly calm.

Every time you tried to derail the lesson, he just looked at you steadily until you eventually answered the question anyway.

By the time the session ended, your brain hurt.

“You survived,” Cedric observed as you packed your bag dramatically.

“Barely.”

“You answered everything correctly by the end.”

You froze slightly. “…I did?”

Cedric nodded once. “You’re not bad at this.”

The words hit strangely, because most professors sounded frustrated when they spoke to you.

Cedric just sounded certain like he hadn’t doubted it.

You looked away first. “That’s suspiciously encouraging.”

“I’m trying a new strategy.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Manipulation?”

A small smile appeared again. “Positive reinforcement.”

“Disgusting.”

Cedric laughed quietly under his breath as he stood.

And for some reason—

you smiled back.

The common room was loud when you returned later that evening.

Fred and George were exactly where you expected them to be: occupying far too much space on one sofa while Lee Jordan sat nearby looking like he was seconds away from regretting knowing either of them.

Fred noticed you first. “Well?” he asked immediately. “Did Diggory bore you to death?”

George looked up from where he’d been absentmindedly spinning a quill between his fingers.

You dropped onto the armchair across from them with a dramatic sigh.

“He organizes his notes by color.”

Fred made a horrified face.

George snorted softly.

“And he says things like ‘focus’ with a straight face.”

“That poor man,” Fred muttered. “He has no idea what he’s dealing with.”

You grinned slightly, but George noticed something before Fred did. The way your mouth twitched when you talked about Cedric.

The fact that you were still talking about him.

“You’re smiling,” George said suddenly.

You blinked. “No I’m not.”

“You are,” he replied calmly.

Fred pointed immediately. “Oh, she is.”

“I am not.”

“You fancy the prefect,” Fred gasped dramatically.

You threw a cushion at him.

He caught it easily.

“Shut up.”

George was still watching you though.

Quieter than Fred now.

More observant.

“What’s he actually like?” George asked.

You opened your mouth automatically with another insult ready but paused.

Cedric’s quiet laugh flashed unexpectedly through your head.

The way he’d looked at you across the table and said: You’re not bad at this.

Your stomach did something strange.

“…Annoying,” you answered finally.

Fred grinned. “There she is.”

But George noticed the hesitation.

And for the first time something small and unfamiliar twisted unpleasantly in his chest.

Over the next two weeks, something deeply irritating started happening. You stopped trying to skip the study sessions.

At first, Fred thought it was a joke. Then he thought maybe McGonagall had threatened you with public humiliation.

George just watched.

And noticed things.

Small things.

The way you fixed your hair before going to the library now. The fact that you actually brought the right books. The way you came back complaining about Cedric while smiling at absolutely nothing.

It was suspicious.

Very suspicious.

“You’re spending an unnatural amount of time with Diggory,” Fred announced one evening from upside down on the common room sofa.

You looked up from your parchment. “You spend an unnatural amount of time upside down.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s really not.”

George sat nearby pretending to read while listening to every word.

Fred pointed at you accusingly. “You laughed at something he said earlier.”

“It wasn’t that funny.”

“But you laughed.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Merlin, are you jealous?”

Fred looked scandalized. “Of Cedric Diggory? Absolutely not. He irons his shirts.”

“He probably irons his socks too,” Lee added.

George stayed quiet.

Because unlike Fred, George wasn’t joking anymore, and that was becoming a problem.

The next study session was somehow worse.

“You’re distracted again,” Cedric said calmly from across the table.

“I’m literally reading.”

“You’ve been staring at the same sentence for three minutes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds made up.”

Cedric leaned forward slightly, resting one arm on the table. “You know, you’re very different when your friends aren’t around.”

You blinked. “…Excuse me?”

“You act louder around the twins.”

“That’s because they’re loud.”

Cedric’s mouth twitched. His attention entirely on you in a way that made your stomach feel strange lately.

You looked down quickly.

“I still think you’re annoying.”

“I think,” Cedric said calmly, “you just like arguing with me.”

You opened your mouth immediately then stopped.

Cedric noticed the silence instantly.

And smiled.

George was already in the common room when you came in.

Alone.

That was the first thing that felt wrong.

Fred was usually there too. Half causing trouble, half laughing too loudly at something that wasn’t funny. But tonight it was just George, sitting on the sofa near the fire with a book open on his knee.

He looked up the moment you stepped in.

“You’re late,” he said.

It sounded like a joke.

It wasn’t.

“I had study sessions.”

“I noticed.”

That made you pause.

“Diggory again?” he said lightly, closing the book with one hand.

You sighed and dropped into the sofa across from him.

“I’ve got something for you.”

You squinted. “That sounds suspiciously like trouble.”

“It’s not. It’s Transfiguration.”

You stared at it.

“What is this?”

“Notes.”

That made you laugh once. “You don’t have notes.”

George raised an eyebrow. “I do now.”

You opened the first page and stopped laughing immediately, because it wasn’t just notes.

It was structured. Diagrams. Color-coded arrows. Tiny corrections in the margins. Underlined key spells. Even little sarcastic comments scribbled next to difficult sections like:

‘this part is evil, good luck’

and

‘McGonagall will absolutely ask this just to ruin your day’

You looked up slowly.

“…You did this?”

George shrugged. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“This is—” You flipped another page. “This is actually good.”

“I know.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Since when are you secretly good at Transfiguration?”

“Since you started spending all your time in the library,” he said lightly.

The room shifted.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just… quieter.

You looked at him properly now.

“George…”

He cut you off immediately, too fast. “It’s nothing. Just figured you needed help if you’re trying to avoid repeating a year.”

You frowned. “That’s not why I’m—”

“You’re always with him lately.”

Cedric.

The name wasn’t said out loud, but it didn’t need to be.

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

George leaned slightly closer, tapping one of the pages. “I went through your syllabus. Twice. Some of this stuff is actually useful if you don’t want to die in McGonagall’s exam.”

“You read it twice?” you asked quietly.

He shrugged again, but this time it wasn’t convincing.

There were faint ink stains on his fingers.

Like he’d been writing for hours.

Like he’d actually sat there and worked.

For you.

Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you said.

“I know.”

Silence.

Then softer, almost careless again:

“But I did it anyway.”

You looked down at the notes again.

Then at him.

Really looked.

The jokes were still there. The grin was still there. But underneath it—something quieter. Focused. Slightly tense, like he was waiting for your reaction more than he wanted to admit.

“You highlighted half of it,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“With different colours.”

“Helps with memory.”

“That is the most responsible thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

George snorted. “Don’t get used to it.”

You smiled.

And that was the problem.

Because George noticed that too.

His eyes softened just slightly.

“You know,” he said, voice lower now, “you’re actually listening to me for once.”

“I always listen to you.”

“No,” he said quietly. “Not like this.”

Something shifted again.

He reached out—slowly this time—and turned one of your pages so it faced you properly. His fingers brushed the edge of yours.

Didn’t move away.

Didn’t pretend it was accidental.

Just stayed there.

Close.

“Start here,” he said. “If you can master that section, McGonagall won’t have anything to complain about.”

You nodded faintly, but you weren’t reading anymore.

Not properly.

Because George was too close.

His shoulder leaned in slightly as he pointed something out.

“Here,” he added, tapping a line. “This is where everyone messes up.”

“I don’t think I mess up everything,” you muttered.

A small smile.

“You do when you panic.”

“I don’t panic.”

“You absolutely panic.”

You turned your head to argue—and found him already looking at you.

Not joking now.

Not teasing.

Just watching.

The air between you changed again.

Slower.

He stopped talking.

You stopped pretending you were reading.

“George…” you said, quieter this time.

He didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your mouth.

Then back up.

And something in his expression tightened like he’d made a decision he wasn’t fully ready for.

“You’ve been gone a lot lately,” he said.

“You know I’ve been studying.”

“With him.”

The words weren’t sharp.

But they landed like something heavier than anger.

You opened your mouth—

Nothing came out.

George exhaled slowly, like he was trying to keep himself steady.

Then he leaned back slightly, forcing space between you again, but not enough to erase what just happened.

“I don’t like it,” he admitted.

That made you freeze.

Because George didn’t say things like that.

Not seriously.

Not like this.

“…You don’t like Cedric or?” you asked carefully.

George huffed a short laugh. “No. I don’t like that you’ve started looking at everything like it’s somewhere else you need to be.”

Your throat went tight.

Then, almost like he regretted how honest that sounded, he reached for the notes again.

“Anyway,” he added quickly, “I could do this better than him.”

And this time there was no joke at all.

“For you.”

Your breath caught slightly.

That was the moment the distance between you stopped being safe.

He was close now.

Close enough that if you moved even slightly—

Your knees brushed his.

He leaned in just a fraction more.

His gaze flicked to your lips again—this time slower.

Intentional.

And for a second, it felt like everything had narrowed down to this one moment.

His hand slid to your cheek.

Warm.

Real.

And then he kissed you.

It was George in every possible way—soft at first, unsure for half a second like he still couldn’t believe you were there… and then something in him finally let go.

The kiss deepened.

Slow.

Careful.

Like he was afraid of ruining it if he moved too fast.

Your hand lifted without thinking, grabbing lightly at the front of his shirt, pulling him closer like you finally made a decision you’d been avoiding for too long.

George made a quiet sound against your mouth—something between relief and disbelief—and leaned in.

Like he’d been waiting for this without admitting it even to himself.

The world narrowed.

Fire crackling somewhere behind you.

Paper forgotten.

Everything else gone.

Just him.

Just warmth.

Just—

The door slammed open.

“—YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT LEE JUST—”

You both moved apart too fast.

Too obvious.

Fred froze in the doorway.

Looked at both of you.

Slow smile forming.

“…Oh,” he said.

Long pause.

Then brighter:

“Oh, this is bad.”

George leaned back in his chair immediately. “We were studying.”

Fred nodded slowly. “Sure.”

You grabbed the first random book on the table. “Transfiguration.”

Fred raised an eyebrow.

Then grinned wider.

“I leave you alone for ONE evening,” he said, delighted, “and you start… bonding academically.”

George sighed.

You stared at the ceiling.

Fred walked further in, shaking his head.

“This is going to be so entertaining.”

And George, under his breath, only for you to hear:

“…We’re dead.”

[marshallowpuff]

Always Second Choice

Pairing: George Weasley x hufflepuff!reader

Summary: You're just trying to help your best friend get the boy she likes, but George Weasley keeps looking at you instead. Turns out the only person who doesn't know she's the one worth looking at is, is looking at her.

Warnings: no use of y/n

Cw: angst, slowburn

Wc: 7k+

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 (finale)

Hannah had been planning this for longer than she admitted.

You could tell by how calm she was. While the rest of the dormitory was loud and chaotic — someone's dress had the wrong buttons, someone else had lost an earring between the floorboards, a third person was making a sound you could not legally describe as anything other than a wail. Hannah moved around you with the focused quiet of a person who had already thought about everything and was now simply executing the plan.

"Sit still," she said.

"I am sitting still."

"You keep pressing your hands together."

"That's just what my hands do."

"That's the nervous thing. Stop it."

"I'm not nervous." A pause. "I'm a little nervous."

"You're going to be fine." She separated another section of your hair, her fingers quick and certain. "More than fine. Trust me."

The dress was already on.

Dark purple underneath, so deep it was almost the colour of a night sky just before full dark. Over the top of it, black lace, delicate and intricate, the kind that looked like it had grown there rather than been added, like something that had always been part of the fabric and was only now becoming visible. The neckline connected behind your neck in a halter — two pieces of lace-covered fabric coming from the front and tying at the back of your neck — leaving your back completely bare from the nape of your neck to the base of your spine. The first time you had seen your own back in the mirror you had stood there for a full minute. It was graceful in a way you hadn't known you were capable of being. The dark purple gloves ran up past your wrists, smooth and fitted, and the whole thing together was more than you were used to being. More than you usually let yourself wear.

---

Hannah had been doing your hair for forty minutes.

Braids, pulled up and twisted, gathered into a loose bun at the back of your head that looked effortless in the way that only things with real effort behind them looked effortless. Curls came free at the sides, soft and deliberate, falling just past your jaw and framing your face in a way that made everything look softer. More open. Like you.

"Okay," Hannah said. She stepped back. Looked at you for a long moment with an expression that was trying to stay objective and not managing it. "Look."

You looked in the mirror.

And something happened in your chest that was very quiet and very significant.

The girl in the mirror had your face. Your eyes, your nose, the mouth you had never known what to do with. But she was wearing all of it differently. Like someone had taken every piece of you and arranged it with intention, with care, with the specific attention of someone who had been looking at you for a long time and knew what you looked like when you were all the way yourself.

The dark colours made your skin glow. The bare back was elegant. The curls were soft and real. The gloves were quietly dramatic in the way that made everything else make sense. You looked like you — not the version that stood slightly to the left, not the version that made herself small and useful and easy to look past.

The real version.

The one that was hidden underneath.

Your eyes went a little bright. Just slightly. You blinked it back.

"Hannah," you said, quietly.

"I know," she said. Her voice had gone soft too. She squeezed your shoulders from behind, meeting your eyes in the mirror. "That's you. That's just you. I didn't add anything that wasn't already there." She smiled — warm and genuine and something close to proud. "He's going to take one look at you and completely fall apart."

"Don't—"

"He is," she said. "And it's going to be the best thing you've ever seen. Come on."

---

George was mid-sentence when it happened.

He was standing at the top of the staircase with Fred and Lee Jordan, one hand in his pocket, saying something about Fred's terrible plan for the evening, completely relaxed, completely himself — easy the way he was always easy, like the world was a place that generally went along with whatever he wanted from it.

He had dressed carefully, though he would never have admitted that.

The black dress robes had been pressed. His hair had been attempted, which for George meant it looked slightly better than usual before gradually returning to its natural state over the course of an evening. And the tie — dark purple, exactly dark purple, the specific shade Hannah had described to him in a note that he had read three times to make sure he had it right. He had stood in front of the mirror in the Gryffindor dormitory for longer than he was ever going to tell anyone and checked the tie three times and then checked his reflection once more in a way that was not something George Weasley generally did and meant something specific.

Fred had watched the whole thing without saying a word.

Now they were at the top of the staircase and George was talking about something and the entrance hall was full of people, and the evening was about to start.

"Hey," Fred said.

"What," George said.

"Turn around."

"In a second, I'm in the middle of telling—"

"George." Something in Fred's voice. Not the joking tone. Not the theatrical one. Something quieter and more urgent. "Turn around right now."

George turned around.

---

And the world stopped.

Not slowed. Not paused. Stopped. Like someone had reached into the machinery of everything and pulled out the piece that made time work.

You were at the top of the staircase.

Coming down slowly. One hand trailing the railing. The dark purple dress moving with you, the black lace catching the candlelight from below and finding the deep colour underneath it, so that with every step you looked like something that existed slightly outside of ordinary things. Your hair was up — soft and slightly undone, curls falling free at the sides of your face, the bun at the back of your head loose and perfect and entirely, devastatingly you. The gloves. The bare back. The halter neckline connecting behind your neck in a way that made the whole line of you — shoulders, spine, the way you held yourself — into something that made it genuinely difficult to think in complete sentences.

George's heart did something it had never done before.

Not the fast nervous kind. Not the anxious kind. Something enormous and quiet and completely certain, like a clock finding its correct time after being wrong for years. Like something saying yes, that one, it has always been that one, how did you ever look anywhere else.

Every other person in the entrance hall blurred.

Not figuratively. Genuinely. The people in his peripheral vision became shapes, became noise, became background, became nothing. There was only the staircase and you coming down it and the candlelight finding you like it knew where to look.

He forgot what he had been saying.

He forgot Fred was standing beside him.

He forgot, for approximately three full seconds, how to form words in any language.

His throat moved as he swallowed.

You reached the bottom step.

You looked up.

Your eyes found his immediately, the way they always found each other, that specific pull that had existed between you for months and that neither of you had had a name for until recently. You looked at him and something in your expression shifted — a small careful thing, a trying not to show too much.

"Hi."

Just that. One word. Your voice.

And George opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Tried again.

"Hi," he managed, and it came out lower than he intended, rougher around the edges, like his voice had been sitting somewhere far away and had needed a moment to come back to where the rest of him was.

From beside him, Fred's voice, "Man." Loud. Clear. Addressed to the general universe. "You are so down bad."

George didn't look at Fred.

He didn't look at anything except you.

"Damn right I am," he mumbled to himself.

"Wait, what did you just say"

The small group around them went very still for a second.

Lee Jordan made a sound. Someone laughed. Fred covered his face with one hand and made a noise that suggested this was simultaneously the worst and best thing he had ever witnessed.

---

You went pink from your collarbone to your hairline.

The kind of pink that was visible even in candlelight. The kind that came from something landing somewhere you hadn't entirely fortified yet. You looked at the floor and then at the ceiling and then at his tie — the exactly-matching purple tie, which you were noticing properly for the first time.

"We matched."

"Hannah told me the colour," he said. Still looking at you. Still not looking anywhere else.

"She mentioned," you said. You looked at Hannah, who was standing slightly behind you with the expression of a woman who had pulled off the plan of her life and was very aware of it. "Of course she did."

"Are you annoyed?" George said.

You looked back at him. At the green robes and the matching tie and the face that was completely open and unashamed and looking at you like you were the reason he had bothered with any of it. "No," you admitted.

"Good." He held out his arm.

You looked at it. At him. At everything that had led to this exact moment. And then you put your hand in the crook of his elbow and he smiled — the real one, wide and warm and slightly overwhelmed — and you walked in together.

And the Great Hall opened up like something from inside a dream you had never let yourself finish.

---

The Great Hall was extraordinary.

The enchanted ceiling had shifted into deep winter — dark blue, stars close and bright, the kind that looked like you could reach up and move them. Floating candles drifted in warm gold clusters, their light landing differently on everything, making the stone walls look like something that had been built for exactly this evening. The enchanted snow fell between the candles — fine and slow and shimmering, catching the light as it drifted, filling the air with something that made the whole room feel like it existed just slightly outside of ordinary time. The music came from a stage at the far end, live and warm, filling the hall without crowding it.

You stood in the entrance and looked at all of it and felt the evening settle around you like something you had been waiting for without knowing you were waiting.

"Wow," you said softly.

"Yeah," George said beside you. He was looking at the hall too, but you caught him glancing at you while you took it in, watching your face rather than the room. "It's really something."

"It's really something," you agreed. You turned to look at him and caught him already looking. "Stop doing that."

"Doing what," he said, not even pretending.

"Looking at me."

"The hall is nice," he said. "You're better."

You made a sound. Not words. Just a sound. A slightly overwhelmed sound that you immediately tried to convert into a normal breath and did not fully succeed at.

His hand found yours. Easy and warm and completely natural, fingers wrapping around yours like they had been doing it for years, and you looked down at your joined hands and then up at the beautiful hall and thought — quietly, privately, in the part of yourself you were only recently learning to listen to — that this was what it felt like to be chosen. Not felt sorry for. Not used. Not stood slightly to the left of. Actually chosen. Actually here.

You held his hand back.

And walked in.

For a while it was everything you had quietly hoped it might be and more.

---

You found Hannah near the drinks table and stayed together for a while, laughing about nothing in particular, the kind of laughing that happened when you were happy enough that ordinary things became funny. The hall moved around you, beautiful and warm, and you let yourself be in it.

"You're actually enjoying yourself," Hannah said, like she was witnessing a rare natural phenomenon.

"Don't make it weird," you said.

"I'm just noting it for the record." She beamed at you. "You look happy. You look genuinely, properly happy and I want it documented."

"Hannah—"

"I'm going to remember this night forever," she announced.

"You're so dramatic."

George appeared at your shoulder with butterbeers, handing you one first before Hannah, and settled in beside you with the ease of someone who had decided this was where he lived now and the world could adjust.

"Fred is attempting to dance," he said.

"Surely he can—"

"He cannot," George said. "He really genuinely cannot. It's one of the most interesting things I've ever watched. I recommend it as a spectacle."

You laughed. He turned his head to look at you when you did. He always did that — turned toward you when you laughed like the sound was something worth orienting himself toward.

"What," you said, catching him.

"Nothing," he said.

"You're staring again."

"I'm looking," he said. "There's a difference." He tilted his head slightly. "You have this thing when you laugh. Your whole face does it. Not just your mouth." He said it simply. Like an observation. Like it was just a fact he had collected and was reporting accurately.

Your face went warm. You looked at your butterbeer. "That's a very strange thing to say."

"Is it weird?"

"It's a little weird."

He smiled. Slow and warm. And then he held out his hand. "Dance with me."

"I don't really—"

"It's just moving," he said. "That's all. I promise."

"You always say that like it's simple."

"Because it is simple." He kept his hand out. Patient. Waiting. "Come on."

You took his hand.

---

He led you to the floor and turned and one hand settled at your waist — steady and warm and sure, his palm against the fabric of the dress just at the curve of your side — and you put your hand on his shoulder and he started moving and you moved with him and it was easy. Genuinely easy. The kind of easy that came from him being confident enough to make it feel that way.

"See," he said.

"Hmm," you said.

"Just moving."

"I can hear the smugness."

"I'm not smug."

"You absolutely are."

"I'm a little smug," he agreed. "Just a reasonable amount." His hand shifted slightly at your waist, not moving, just — settling. More present. "Is it annoying?"

"Good annoying," you admitted.

Something in his eyes went warm. "Good annoying," he repeated, quiet, like he was keeping it somewhere.

You looked at his shoulder because looking at his face directly right now felt like looking at something too bright. You were aware of his hand at your waist and the warmth of it through the fabric and the way he moved, easy and unhurried, and the music wrapping around you both and the enchanted snow falling through the candlelight above.

---

"You look—" you stopped.

"Finish that sentence," he said immediately, grinning from ear to ear.

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"You absolutely were. You started a sentence."

"I stopped the sentence."

"The sentence was started," he said. "I heard the beginning of it. You look—" he prompted, tilting his head, the corner of his mouth going up.

You looked at him. At the green robes and the matching tie and the jaw and the eyes that were on you with that look, the full warm certain look that had been doing things to your internal organs for months. You thought about the astronomy tower. The runes. The four nights. The six attempts. You thought about him saying you're worth four nights like it was the simplest thing in the world.

"Disgustingly handsome," you said. Flat. Like you were reporting a mildly irritating fact. "Objectively. It's a problem."

George blinked.

For approximately one second he looked genuinely surprised. Like he had been expecting a deflection and you had not deflected and his system needed a moment to catch up.

Then his whole face went. The controlled expression, the waiting-to-see-what-you'd-do expression, all of it — gone. Replaced by something that was warm and pleased and slightly undone in a way that looked good on him, looked very good on him, which was the problem you had just identified out loud.

"Yeah?" he said. Low.

"Don't make it a whole thing," you said, looking away.

"I'm not making it anything," he said. But his hand tightened slightly at your waist. Just slightly. A small involuntary thing. You felt it and kept your eyes firmly on his shoulder.

"You're making it a thing," you said.

"I'm just dancing," he said. "Very normally. Very calm." His thumb moved once against your side. "Disgustingly handsome, she says."

"I will take it back."

"You can't take it back."

"Watch me—"

"It's already mine," he said. "I'm keeping it." He sounded insufferably pleased about it.

"You're pretty when you're annoyed," he said.

"Stop—"

"I said it once before and I meant it then and I mean it now," he said, completely unbothered. "It's just true. You get this look—"

"George."

"—where your chin goes up slightly and your eyes do the thing—"

"What thing—"

"The sharp thing," he said. "Like you're about to say something that will be ten words or less and will end the conversation." His eyes were bright. "I think about it more than is probably reasonable."

You stared at him.

Your face was so warm. The enchanted snow was drifting above you and the music was slow and the candles drifted and George Weasley was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing that had ever happened to him and saying things about the way your eyes looked when you were annoyed like it was just a normal sentence to say to a person.

"You're unbelievable," you said.

"You're beautiful," he said back. Simple. Immediate. Like it had been waiting just behind his teeth and your sentence had opened the door for it. "The whole night. Since the stairs. I've been looking at you and thinking about how—" he paused. Something worked through his expression. More honest than even he usually allowed. "How did anyone ever look anywhere else. That's what I keep thinking. How did anyone ever look anywhere else when you were in the room."

The music kept playing.

But you just stood looking at him.

---

George went to find Fred when the song changed, pressing a kiss to your temple so casually, so easily, like it was just the thing he did when he stepped away from you — warm and brief and leaving a specific point of heat on your skin that stayed after he was gone.

You stood at the edge of the dance floor for a moment with your fingers pressed lightly to your temple and your face doing something you were very glad no one was looking at.

Hannah appeared at your elbow. "Your face," she said.

"The kiss on the temple," she said, in the voice of someone who had witnessed a sacred event. "He did it so casually. He's so sweet with you"

"Okay," you said firmly. "We're going to get drinks and you're going to stop talking about me and George."

"I just want to—"

"Drinks," you said. "Now."

You went to the drinks table.

You picked up a goblet of something cold.

And turned around.

And Cecily was there.

She was beautiful the way she was always beautiful. Red dress, perfect hair, the specific precision of someone who had prepared for this. She was looking at you with an expression you recognised — not the public warm one, not the performed one. The one underneath it. The one she only showed when she had decided something needed to be handled.

"You look different," she said.

"Thank you," you said.

"I didn't mean it as a compliment." Her eyes moved over you slowly, taking inventory. "You're trying very hard tonight."

"I'm wearing a dress," you said.

"You're wearing his colours." She nodded at the purple of your dress, at George's matching tie visible across the hall. "Very deliberate."

"It was Hannah's idea."

"Mm." The smile was light. "You know this won't last, right? George gets interested in things and then he moves on. That's just who he is." She said it so gently. So kindly. The particular cruelty of a sharp thing wrapped in concern. "I'm not trying to be horrible. I just don't want you to embarrass yourself."

The old tightening arrived. Right on schedule.

"He spent all that time being interested in me first," she continued, "and then the setups happened and suddenly he was talking to you instead and honestly—" a perfectly placed pause "—I think he felt sorry for you. You know. The quiet friend thing. He's kind. He was being kind."

You said nothing. You were watching her face. The way she said it. The absolute certainty in it, like she had decided this was true and the deciding had made it so.

"The tower thing was sweet," she said. "Really. But that's George. Grand gestures. It doesn't mean what you think it means." She tilted her head. "You've always been a bit—" a pause, aimed precisely "—you know how you get when you start believing things."

You looked at her for a long moment.

---

At the red dress and the perfect hair and the girl you had stood behind for six years. At the face that was arranging itself into something caring while saying something that wasn't.

"What is wrong with you," you said.

Quiet. Clear. Just the question. Right at her.

Cecily blinked. "I'm just—"

"No." You took one step toward her. People nearby had noticed. You didn't care. "I want to actually know. What is wrong with you." Your voice stayed even. Completely level. "You know exactly what you're doing. You've always known. Every time." The words came without effort, without dramatics. Just true. "Six years of small things. Six years of being the pretty one while I was the useful one. Six years of knowing exactly where to aim." You looked at her. "And you stand here tonight, in this hall, when things are actually good, when something is actually mine, and you do this."

Her jaw was set.

"I helped you," you said. "For months. I wanted good things for you even when it cost me something I actually wanted. And you told me you didn't need me. That you would have figured it out anyway." The memory of it was still sharp. "You said that."

"I was upset—"

"You were honest." You breathed. "I don't know what I ever did to make you treat me like I don't matter. I genuinely don't know. But you have the most unkind heart I've ever known and I'm done trying to understand it."

She said something.

You were already turning. Moving through the people who had gone quiet around you, through the warm golden impossible hall, toward the door.

The doors closed behind you softly.

Like the castle hadn't noticed anything had broken.

---

The cold outside was immediate and complete.

And then the rain.

It was falling hard across the courtyard, heavy and committed, coming off the stone in sheets, silver under the amber glow of the castle windows, turning the whole outside world into something blurred and soft and loud. Thunder rolled somewhere low and distant, the sound of it moving through the ground.

You found the stone archway and stopped there.

Half in. Half out. The rain fell past your hand when you held it toward it. You were mostly dry. Mostly cold. You stood and watched the rain hit the courtyard stones and let your chest do what it needed to do in the private dark.

She always wins.

The thought settled in the way it always settled. Finding its shape. Sitting down. Making itself at home in the space between your ribs.

You pressed it back.

You knew it wasn't true. You knew that in the part of you that had been growing louder lately, the part that had looked in the mirror tonight and recognised itself. But knowing something and feeling something were two different rooms and right now you were standing in the second one and the walls were close.

---

The music from inside was a faint pulse through stone. The dance was starting. The one you had been—

Footsteps.

Fast. Uneven. Not careful. The kind of footsteps that came from someone who had stopped caring about how they looked and started caring only about where they were going.

They stopped.

Right behind you.

A breath. Caught. Someone who had been moving fast and had just stopped.

"Hey."

His voice was different. Quiet. Low. Feeling for something carefully, like he wasn't sure what the ground was like here and was stepping onto it slowly.

"What happened."

You kept your eyes on the rain.

"Nothing," you said.

Automatic. Worn smooth. The words that had kept you functional for years.

A silence. Then George exhaled — a sound that was almost a laugh and wasn't quite, something fond and frustrated and relieved all pressed together in one breath.

"You're under a storm arch," he said quietly. "In the middle of a Yule Ball you walked out of." A beat. "That's not nothing."

The rain kept falling.

"I was finding for you"

"Maybe I didn't want to be found," you said.

It came out tired. Not at him. Just — tired. The specific tiredness of someone who has been holding something in place for a long time.

George went still behind you.

Then he stepped closer. The warmth of him changed the air. Still not touching. Just — there. Present. Choosing to be in this with you.

"I figured," he said.

The rain.

"But I didn't really like that idea."

So simple. So plain. Said the way he said everything that mattered — without decoration, without performance. Just the truth of it, offered straight.

"I looked everywhere," he said. "Hannah didn't know where you'd gone. Fred went the wrong direction entirely. I went through four corridors." His voice dropped slightly. "I'll always find you. No matter what."

Something in your chest shifted. Moved. The warm ache of it moving through you like the feeling after crying, except you hadn't cried yet.

You didn't answer.

"Look at me," he said. Soft. Just a request. Waiting.

"No, my makeup is ruined"

“Then let it be ruined,” he whispered. “I’d rather see you crying than pretending you’re okay for everyone else.”

His hand stayed gentle against your face.

“You don’t have to hide from me.”

You hesitated.

Turned.

He was right there. Closer than you expected. His hair was damp, falling forward, darker with the rain he had been running through to get here. His dress robes had rain spots across the shoulders. His face — god, his face — was doing the thing. The completely open thing. Every layer of George Weasley pulled back and just him underneath it, looking at you with his eyes full of something he had stopped trying to hide.

He was slightly out of breath.

He had actually run.

"She said something," he said.

"She always says something," you said.

"What did she say."

You looked at the rain behind him. "She said you felt sorry for me. That it was kindness. That I shouldn't get too attached." You swallowed. "That you always move on."

George looked at you for a long moment. Something moved through his jaw.

"You know that's not true," he said.

"I know." Your voice came out quieter than you meant. "I know it isn't. And she said it anyway and it landed anyway and I hate—" it caught slightly "—I hate that she can still just get in. After everything."

"Come here," he said.

You looked at him.

"Come here," he said again. Softer.

You went.

---

His arms came around you and he pulled you in properly, one hand at your back and one at the back of your head, and you pressed your face against his shoulder and felt him exhale slowly above you like he'd been holding that breath since he'd started looking for you.

"She was wrong," he said. Low. Into your hair. "She has been wrong about you for years. And she knows it. That's why she keeps saying it." His arms tightened slightly. "People who are sure of something don't need to keep saying it out loud."

You breathed. In. Out. His shoulder was warm and solid and smelled like the green robes and something underneath that was just him.

"The dance already started," you said, after a while.

He was quiet for a second.

"I don't care about the dance," he said. "I just want to be here. With you."

You pulled back to look at him. He looked back. Rain behind him. Castle light blurring in the wet. His face right here, present and certain and looking at you like you were the whole point of the evening he had just left without hesitating.

---

Something shifted in his expression. The careful tender look changing into the other one. The lit up one. The one that came right before something unexpected.

He stood back. Held out his hand.

"Come on," he said.

You looked at his hand. At the rain. At his face. "Come on where. George it's pouring—"

"I know."

"My outfit—"

"Still beautiful."

"My hair—"

"Still perfect." He wiggled his fingers. The grin was starting. "Come on."

You got reminded of your parents.

---

You took his hand.

He pulled you out into the rain.

Cold hit everywhere at once — your shoulders, your hair, your bare back through the fabric — and you gasped, half-laughing, already protesting, and George turned back to you with rain running down his face and his hair completely flat and wrecked and a grin so wide and so real and so entirely, completely him that your heart just — gave up trying to defend itself. Completely. All at once.

He reached out.

Tapped your shoulder.

"Tag," he said. "You're it."

You stared at him.

The rain poured down between you.

"You're not serious," you said.

He raised his eyebrows. Took one deliberate step back.

And ran.

Something cracked open in your chest. Clean and complete and sudden. Not the sad kind. Not the tightening kind. The other kind — the kind where something heavy falls away all at once and your lungs fill all the way and your feet move before your brain catches up.

"Oh it's on," you said, and ran after him.

The courtyard opened up around you both. Wide and dark and slick with rain, the castle windows blurring on all sides into warm amber smears, the stone gleaming dark under your feet. You ran in your ball gown and your soaking gloves with your braids coming completely undone and your lace dress getting darker and heavier with the wet and you were laughing — genuinely, helplessly, the kind of laughing that came from somewhere below language, somewhere that didn't care about dresses or balls or things people had said inside.

George was fast. But he kept slowing. Glancing back with that grin every few seconds. Letting you almost have him. Close enough to hear him laughing too, the real laugh, the full one, the one that had been in your chest like a warm memory since the first time you had heard it in a library months ago.

You pushed harder. Reached—

Almost—

Your foot hit a slick patch of stone and went out completely.

You dropped fast, no time, eyes squeezing shut, bracing—

It never came.

Hands. Both of them. One solid at your waist and one catching your arm, pulling you upright before the ground got anywhere close. You opened your eyes.

George had you.

He had moved so fast and was right there — your waist in his hands, you standing and intact and close. So close. Closer than the catching required now that you were stable. Close enough to see the rain on his lashes. Close enough to see every detail of his face in the dark. The slight part of his lips. The way his chest was moving a little fast.

His hands didn't let go.

"Don't worry," he said.

Low. Just for you. The words landing somewhere specific in your chest.

"I'm here."

Everything else went quiet.

The rain was loud. But everything else — the castle, the ball, the music, all of it — went very far away. There was just the courtyard and the rain and his hands at your waist and his face right here and the way you were both very still and very close and neither of you moving.

Your hands had found his jacket.

Both of them. Fists in the wet green fabric, holding on, knuckles just touching his chest.

He looked at you.

The full look. The one with nothing behind it and everything in front. The one that had been building since a library and a book held upside down and eleven words counted carefully. His eyes moved over your face slowly like he was memorising it. Like he wanted to know exactly what this looked like so he could keep it.

And then his eyes dropped.

To your mouth.

Just for a second. Just long enough to be undeniable. And came back up. Met yours.

You had seen him do it. He knew you had seen him. And neither of you looked away.

The air between you was very small. Very charged. Like standing too close to something that was about to happen and choosing to stay anyway.

His thumb moved.

Against your waist. Slightly. That same small movement from every almost-moment before this one — the staircase, the Quidditch stands, the tower — except now there was no Cecily between you and no redirect and no practiced smile to arrange and no drawer to put things in.

---

You were so close.

His jaw was right there. The scar near his eyebrow. The rain on his face. The way he was looking at you like he had run four corridors and crossed a rainy courtyard and would do it again tomorrow without question.

You smirked.

You couldn't help it. Something about the perfection of it — the rain, the ball gown, the two of you soaked and breathless and right here — was so completely, specifically yours that the smirk came up before you could manage it.

You leaned in just slightly.

"Tag," you whispered. "You're it."

George stared at you.

For one second he looked completely betrayed. Like he could not believe you were doing this to him right now, in this moment, when he was standing here with his hands on your waist and his heart doing something significant.

Then the breath left him in a sound that was half laugh half something else entirely. He shook his head slowly. The expression on his face was so full it was almost unbearable to look at directly — fond and exasperated and helplessly, completely gone.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured.

But he was smiling. The full one. The real one. The best one.

---

He let go of your waist and gave you a headstart before he came running after you.

You shrieked — a real shriek, the kind that bounced off wet courtyard stone and rang up into the dark — and ran after him and the whole courtyard opened back up and it was just this. Just running and rain and the both of you laughing too hard to be fast about it. At some point you both slowed because the rain surged heavier and you couldn't see and couldn't breathe through the laughing anyway.

George stopped running.

Turned back.

And caught your hand from where it was swinging as you slowed — just caught it, easy and natural — and pulled you in.

And spun you.

One full turn. Your wet dress flying out in a dark arc. Your hair completely free now, loose and wild around your face. The rain hitting you full on when he spun you and you tipped your head back and let it, the way your mother must have, in a street somewhere years ago, with a boy who had stopped walking and held out his hand.

He spun you again.

And you smiled.

Not the practiced one. Not the small careful useful one you had been giving the world for years. The real one. Wide and open and coming from somewhere so deep it had no edges. The kind of smile that didn't know how to be anything other than completely itself.

He pulled you back from the spin and you came in close, the momentum of it bringing you together, and his hand was still holding yours and the rain was falling and you were face to face and close and neither of you were laughing anymore.

He was looking at you.

All the way. Every part of it.

"Doesn't this remind you of something," he said. Very quiet. Just noticing. Just following what he could see moving across your face.

You looked at him. At the rain on his face and his wrecked hair and his eyes that were simply, completely on you.

"Yes," you said. "Yes, it does."

He looked at you for a moment. The soft certain look. "I'm glad," he said quietly. "I hoped it would."

Something moved through your chest. Warm and permanent.

"I guess mission success then," he said.

You laughed. Small and real. "Mission success," you said. And without deciding to, without thinking about it, you stepped in and put your arm around his neck.

Slowly. Like you were checking whether this was real. Like you were making sure it would hold.

It held.

His hand settled at your waist and pulled you gently closer and the rain fell around you both and the courtyard was empty and dark and the castle glowed in every direction and none of it mattered except this. The specific this of his hand at your waist and your arm around his neck and the rain and the stars somewhere above the clouds and the whole long arc of everything that had started with a book held upside down in a library.

His thumb moved against your waist.

Slow. Careful. Like he was paying attention to it.

---

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

He swallowed.

"Can I kiss you," he said.

So quiet. So careful. Even now. After everything — the astronomy tower, the runes, four corridors, the rain — still asking. Still making sure. Like you were something worth being careful with and he intended to keep being careful with you.

You looked at him for one long moment.

At everything he was.

And you nodded.

He didn't rush.

He never rushed anything.

He closed the small space between you slowly, one hand moving up to rest against your jaw, warm and gentle and certain, and he kissed you.

Soft.

Warm.

Like coming in from somewhere cold. Like the lights in the tower that had taken six attempts and finally held. Like the runes in the stone that were permanent now and would be there long after both of you were gone.

Like something that had always been true and was only now being said.

You kissed him back and felt the rain on your shoulders and his hand warm against your face and the solid present certain realness of him and thought — in the small quiet part of yourself that was still capable of thoughts — that this was it. The feeling your mother had been describing all those years at the kitchen table with rain on the window.

Just this.

A rainy courtyard. A ruined dress. A boy who had counted your words and come back four nights and run through four corridors and pulled you into the rain because your mother's story deserved to happen again.

When you pulled back you were both breathless and his forehead came down to yours immediately, like gravity, like of course, and the rain was still falling and the world was very quiet and he was right here.

"Hi," he said. So soft.

"Hi," you said back.

His arms came around you properly. Both of them. Warm and solid. You pressed your face against the side of his neck and he rested his chin on top of your head and the rain fell and the castle glowed and the ball went on behind thick stone walls without either of you.

You had never been less bothered about anything.

---

"We should go back in," you said, after a while. Not moving.

"Probably," he said. Not moving.

"Hannah is going to completely lose it."

"Fred is going to be insufferable about this forever."

"You say that like it's a problem."

"It's not a problem," he agreed. "It's worth it." He pulled back just enough to look at you. At your soaked hair and ruined gloves and your face which was doing the smile, the real full one, in the rain at midnight. "You're worth it," he said. Simple. Plainly. "Just so you know."

Your throat did the tight warm thing.

You shook your head. He took your hand. And you walked back toward the castle through the rain together, not rushing, not minding the wet or the cold or the state of either of you, the music getting louder as you got closer, the castle lights getting warmer.

And then—quick, light—he pressed a kiss to your lips.

You froze.

"Hey!" you snapped immediately, eyes wide.

"What was that for?"

He pulled back slowly, completely unbothered, like he hadn’t just done something criminal. A small smile tugged at his mouth.

"You look so cute when you're blushing"

"What, no I'm not—stop looking at me," you said,

"You can't just—do that whenever you want!"

He raised a brow. "Can't I?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it again because you had no actual argument that didn’t sound like you were lying.

He leaned back slightly, clearly enjoying this way too much, then said, "You say that like you don’t secretly want me to keep doing it."

Your breath caught. And for once, you didn't have a quick answer.

Maybe that was actually how you wanted it to be.

A/n: I guess that's the end...It was so fun writing this story, if you want to be tagged on my next George Weasley rivals to lovers series, comment!!

Check out the spoiler for my next george weasley series!

Taglist: : @gabriellewood, @svnn132, @lulzs-world06, @vainful-vanity, @maybeisthemoon, @lilyyyyy08, @394pitterpatterpotter394, @animereadersstuff, @haru-reto, @circekinnie, @annis0k, @sawturna, @mysticspruce, @magnoliaautumnn, @iris2244, @unhingedromances, @kelhart, @billiesdildo69, @alwayslatetothefandoms, @moonlovefairy, @solism72, @lightprincess-world, @marzintears, @lilians17, @fanficreader9999, @rrhiaaqvss, @mafercita101, @nanamisandkakashiswife, @kath-is-tired, @call-me-mr-delulu, @mafercita101,@sawturna, @aunicornmademedoit, @luv-lucy, @redspacewriter, @buibeeboo, @danoooos, @superlegend216, @s4rangh0e, @kttyruby, @imbiodegrdeable, @mclovling, @llkea, @tinymarikit, @imskibiditoilet, @ameliweaslee, @velvetreading, @madlyamoosed, @frogtits1, @sara11reads, @julkkkka

[soobvns]

h. k ༯ super series !

smmry ༯ when you think your roommate is the superhero that saves the city, it makes you understandably feels insane — especially when said hero seems to follow you everywhere!

— spiderman! kai x roommate! reader

a/n: this is purely a random idea i had and i am larping being a superhero fan so forgive me if it makes no sense to the real lore

part one ༯ super secret!

part two ༯ super weird!

part three ༯ super sorry!

taglist: taglist: @jazzy-304 @not--christ @pages-and-peonies @waldenfield @fartzzn @caritaee @monosung @salalalalami @taekmyhalf @cinnamorollhyuka @hueningsgirl @pengningie @dksblessedvocalchords @soobpaws @sleepystar0304

[soobvns]

h. k ༯ super secret!

summary ༯ when your roommate disappears 24/7 and comes back with ripped clothes a little too often, it’s only normal for you to question what he’s doing

→ part one //smau, fluff, gn!reader

warnings: swearing, usual shenanigans, larping being a spider-man fan i just like the idea of kai being a superhero & dedicated to my best moot @aweinkai because wawi is the best!! features from katseye yoonchae, cortis’ james and other txt members

[soobvns]

h. k ༯ super weird!

smmry ༯ after weeks of coincidences, you can’t help but start to feel insane! it doesn’t help that kai keeps looking at you like you’ve gone insane - maybe it’ll take a simple task for the truth to come out.

→ part two //smau, fluff, gn!reader

a/n: dedicated to my wawi once again (@aweinkai) and an apology for going m.i.a for a day >< again i am a spiderman larp rn so forgive me if i get the lore or concept extremely wrong idek. there are multiple written parts !!!

WHEN spiderman bursts into the abandoned warehouse that you were kidnapped to, you feel less thankful than what you expected to be. In fact, the entire time the bag was thrown over your head and you were thrown into the back of a van, you could only think about how Spiderman would probably be here soon.

You spot him when you tip your head back after the bag on your head was removed by one of the crooks. They tried to intimidate you, make you cry for the random video but they were quickly scared by the onslaught of growing sirens in the distance. All you wanted to do was calm yourself down - ease the tidal waves of anxiety splashing in your stomach but the red mask above you feels like a damning ripple in the quaint, settled sea.

Just metres above you is a dangling superhero that you’re honestly not overly surprised to see. The familiar red face greets you, but he taps a finger over where his mouth should be to indirectly tell you to be quiet.

He drops softly from the ceiling and shuffles to where your legs are taped to the legs of the old chair. You glance at the busy bodies around you, thankful they’re occupied by the growing noise of police sirens to see the eyesore of colour crouched by your legs. You try not to hiss as he tugs the tape from your legs.

You can’t help but really stare at spiderman because something just feels sickly familiar. The outline of his strong jaw and pointed nose makes a bell in the back of your head start to ring, dinging louder with every interaction you have — with every inch he gets closer.

“Hey! Wait, is that fucking Spiderman!?” A voice yells and breaks you from your trance. You whip your head up to witness the group of men scatter, drawing knives and small guns from their pockets as they storm over to where the crouched hero is. Within seconds your arms are ripped from their ductape bindings and a pained yelp escapes you as the cool air licks are your stinging skin. The masked hero mumbles a faint apology before he’s whisking you from your chair and propelling both of your bodies into the air.

A bullet whizzes past your head which causes you to grasp onto the hero without thinking. Only then do you realise how strong his grip is on your waist and how your legs automatically tangled around his thin, toned waist. There’s no time to really think about anything when the wind is whipping your hair around wildly and you’re clinging onto the suited hero that seems to follow your every thought now.

Your arms cling around his shoulders, eyes wide and full of bewilderment. This in no way matches the time you were gently plucked from the main street and placed in an alleyway - not with the way he uses a strong left arm to crush your waist against his torso as he flies across the skies by a webbed rope.

He webs between buildings without an inkling of doubt, twisting and curling around corners that seem deathly impossible. Your words are caught in your throat as you blatantly stare at the hero.

“You found me, again.” You mumble, eyes dissecting the fabric thin covering his face. He turns his head towards you just by a slight angle and it’s like you can read his face.

I know.

YOU decide against messaging Kai because you know he’ll end up telling you to leave the dirty clothes for him to wash. It feels a bit unfair, despite the fact you selfishly enjoy that he does the washing and drying that he is doing it 99% of the time.

It can’t be that hard right? The beaten line of dirtied washing machines is vaguely more terrifying than what you realise but you fairly remember Kai mentioning that the second machine on the far left seems to be in the best shape.

“Please don’t eat my clothes.” You whisper a plea to the machine as you rip the flimsy door open. The familiar waft of soft clean linen and faint synthetic floral greets your senses as your eyes land on a pile of slightly damp clothes. You wince as you look between your pile of unwashed clothes and the damp, soggy pile.

Maybe if you put it in a dryer the owner won’t realise?

With a quick scan of the room around you and deciding it’s criminally empty, you swiftly begin to pull out the pile of clothes. The clothes slop against the floor with a wet plop, slowly creating a slippery puddle next to your feet.

“Oh.” You mumble as a familiar band tshirt peers at you from the centre of the drum. Even in its dark, dampened state you recognise the flakey scrawled letters and faded imagery on the chest of the shirt. It’s the same shirt Kai wears when he’s just chilling in the house, when he’s being lugged to the gym by Taehyun, when he stays up late to finish university work — the same shirt he wears when you both stay up late eating ramen together while you rant about what woes you have both faced in the last few weeks.

It’s the same shirt he wore when you cried in front of him for the first time and Kai showed you that he is actually a friend and not just a roommate who tolerates your existence.

It then makes you feel bad when you realise you’ve plopped his clothes against the dirty, washing room ground.

The pile of socks that you grab next, you avoid throwing them on the ground. Though, a pile of red that you don’t recognise perks your interest.

You can’t remember Kai wearing such bright colours as the man’s closet mostly contained muted colours and the odd pop of white or grey. You remember the day you cackled when Yeonjun showed you a photo of Kai when he was seemingly 16, dressed head to toe in purple like it was a normal outfit choice. You’ll never forget the sight of purple skinny jeans and how you almost peed yourself as you airily breathed out , “Who the fuck sells purple skinny jeans!?”

Maybe he’s stemmed into colour again? You hum as you tug the peaking fabric out of the pile of dark clothes.

“What the fuck.”

taglist: @jazzy-304 @not--christ @pages-and-peonies @waldenfield @fartzzn @caritaee @monosung @salalalalami @taekmyhalf @cinnamorollhyuka @hueningsgirl @pengningie @dksblessedvocalchords @soobpaws @sleepystar0304

[soobvns]

h. k ༯ super sorry !

smmry ༯ kai brainstorms the idea of really telling you who he is because he can’t stand how much it’s hurting you. a few bumps in the road come between that and the truth, though.

→ part three //smau, fluff, angst, gn!reader

a/n: @aweinkai this is for uuuu !!! thank u guys for the support, i think i have one more part for this to be honest… and it will include the iconic kiss tehe

taglist: @jazzy-304 @not--christ @pages-and-peonies @waldenfield @fartzzn @caritaee @monosung @salalalalami @taekmyhalf @cinnamorollhyuka @hueningsgirl @pengningie @dksblessedvocalchords @soobpaws @sleepystar0304

[jjundiary]

Only Pretend 𓂃˚₊⊹🍬 [1]

synopsis: [y/n] needs a fake partner to escape unwanted attention from her creepy ex-boyfriend, who won’t stop following her. She asks Huening Kai, her best friend, the one person she never expected to actually agree.

Warnings!: cussing, mentions of drinking/getting tipsy & drunk, Stalker, Men being weird, Kai sleeps over at [y/n's] house (on the couch)

Genre: fluff (a little), slow burn, fake dating

Pairing: bestfriend!HueningKai x Fem!reader

w/c : 1.1k ~ 1175

a/n: this is my first time writing so I don't even know if this is the right format on how to use this so please do cut me some slack :( I hope you enjoy!! (If you're coming from TikTok tysm I do appreciate the support :)) also it's kind of fast paced so ignore that. If this looks different it’s because I changed the formatting with new pictures about an hour after it was originally uploaded 😭

masterlist 𑣲.

[1] Stalker 𓂃˚₊⊹🍬

 You hear a rhythmic knock on your door, and you already know it’s Kai. First of all, he was on his way, second who else do you know knocks like that?

You shuffle over to the door, your slippers dragging across the floor. You look through the peephole just in case. Who knows, last time it was a DoorDash driver arriving at the wrong door.

 You’re relieved when you see a head of shaggy platinum blond hair, it’s Kai. You unlock both locks, the top one being more stubborn. (You should probably get that fixed sooner or later.) He barges right in, not even a hello. At least he took his shoes off like always. He knows your rules in the apartment and he respects them. And luckily for you, he brought snacks.

  He easily makes himself at home, throwing himself onto the couch, not yet grabbing a blanket but placing the remote on the coffee table in front of him. You didn't even invite him over to watch TV but that's probably where the night is going to end anyways.

“Hello! I’m doing good too.” you say mockingly because he didn’t even acknowledge you letting him in. Men. “Hi, sorry, what’s up this time?” He says in a softer tone than usual. Honestly, you find that adorable how he immediately jumps to ask what’s wrong. “Don’t even, I literally just texted you about this. Also why do you always think something’s wrong when you come over?” He lets out a soft laugh at that. You shoot him a look that immediately makes him apologize. “Sorry, I’m laughing because you’re acting like you actually gave me details.” He really called you out there. But does he really expect every detail if he's just going to come over anyway?

You find yourself a spot on the couch, making yourself comfy as well. You grab a blanket from the basket full of them beside you. You throw one at Kai, so he too can make himself comfortable. After he does, he looks at you, waiting for you to settle and start talking.

 “Okay so, with the thing about my ex,” you say in a tone that sounds bored. “Well, yes that’s the whole reason I’m here.” He interrupts. “Okay anyways…” you pause before starting your next sentence. “So, he keeps making those accounts on every social media platform imaginable and it’s getting creepy. He even tried stalking my Spotify account, who the fuck does that?” Kai giggles. “Really? Spotify?” You scoff. “Yes, Spotify. Anyways, I’ve also seen him around town, and I think he might be stalking me. Like literally stalking me. Following me stalking me. Maybe even watching us right now I don’t know.” Kai’s eyes widened. “He’s following you?” You sigh. “I’m pretty sure of it.” Kai looks like he’s in disbelief.

 “[y/n], this is serious. That’s illegal.” He looks very concerned, he’s usually never like this, always carefree, you’ve never seen him this way before. “I know that’s why I invited you over. I need to ask you something.” You take a deep breath. This might give you the ick to even say it. “What’s up?” He replies. He’s very focused on your talking. “This sounds kind of embarrassing to say or even admit that I thought of this…” you admit. “It’s okay you can talk to me [y/nnie].” You shiver at the nickname. It’s random, but weirdly comforting considering the situation you’re currently in.

 You hesitate before talking, really, what you're thinking is that you should probably have Kai as a fake boyfriend. The thought itself is foreign to you. You don't know how to feel about pretending to date your best friend. You really think about your decision now. It'll be really awkward if he says no, which you're sure he will. You try and shake the nerves off but can't help regretting your decision of inviting him over. “I was going to ask you if we could do something like a fake relationship to get me out of this situation so just maybe he would back off. This does sound really weird Kai, I do admit that, but I really trust you the most out of the rest of my friends, that’s why I asked you. Again, I know you’re probably going to say no because that’s weird but-” you say the words so fast it sounds like a foreign language you haven't yet learned.

“Yes.” He replies. You’re shocked for a second, you didn’t expect him to accept, especially this fast. You look at him confused. He stares back. “What?” He asked, looking even more confused than you, “was I not supposed to say yes, or….?” You laugh. “No, I just didn’t expect you to even accept it, let alone that fast.” He looks at you, but this time it’s a deeper look, like there’s a warm light in his eyes. “I’m saying yes because I care about your safety, [y/n].” You nod your head at that, thanking him for helping you out.

     After that, it’s a little awkward, you guys put on a movie as you usually do. You always let Kai pick. He feels bad picking and wants you to but when you actually pick a movie, he regrets it. You end up sitting through all his movie options whether they’re corny, funny, or boring, because, the movies he picks are always somehow cute. It really shows how much of a nerd he is.

After you finish the movie, you’re half asleep, almost like a zombie. Kai came over at 8, it’s 10:20 something now, and you’re both tired. Kai should get home but he had a little too much to drink, as you pulled out your 12 pack of beer earlier to keep you guys as tipsy as possible to keep your minds off the conversation you two had earlier. You’re still cringing thinking about the way you worded it. You don’t want him driving, it’ll be unsafe. He’s not scarily drunk, but he’s tipsy enough. You don’t let him go. He doesn’t necessarily mind, your couch does happen to be very comfy. Same with the temperature of your apartment, it’s nice and cool. He doesn’t have anywhere to be tomorrow, it’s Saturday anyway.

You drag yourself to your bed, leaving Kai in the living room. He’s also half asleep, making you feel assured that he won’t go through your snacks again. Once you get yourself relaxed in your bed, you realize that you feel quite safe with Kai around. It has been quite hard trying to fall asleep recently, thinking about your stalker. You don’t quite trust your apartment building or locks anymore. And after you’ve seen him for the first time when you went to a cafe alone about a week ago, you realized that all those followers you’ve been gaining was not a coincidence. Your thoughts slowly fade as you become drowsy and fall asleep almost instantly. You are not worried at all with Kai being in your living room.

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist :) again If this looks different it’s because I changed the formatting with new pictures about an hour after it was originally uploaded 😭

Taglist: @filmsforgyu @jennystuffsposts

[jjundiary]

txt au masterlist ₊˚ෆ only pretend

Summary: When your creepy ex boyfriend won’t stop stalking you, the only thing you can think of is to ask your best friend Huening Kai to help you get away from him by starting a fake relationship.

⤷ best friend! Huening Kai x fem! reader

files 🍬.✦ ݁˖ :

ch. 01 — only pretend

ch. 02 — unwanted encounter

ch. 03 — official

ch. 04 — drunk Kai activities

ch. 05 — dumb drunken decisions

ch. 06 — my place tonight

ch. 07 — expected explanation

ch. 08 — truth or dare

ch. 09 — late night drive

! Mini chapters :

M1 ~ sleepover

This master list is UNFINISHED!! Likes and reblogs are appreciated :) ask to be added to the Taglist!

Taglist : @filmsforgyu @jennystuffsposts @huekai67 @pengningie @soogyud

[soobinsoudesu]

OUR BELOVED SUMMER — TXT AU

In a town where summers seem to stretch endlessly beneath golden sunsets and festival lights, familiar streets become the backdrop for stories waiting to be told. Old memories linger in the warm air, bringing unexpected reunions, unspoken feelings, and chances that once slipped away. Between quiet moments and unforgettable nights, hearts will find their way back to one another, discovering that love often arrives when it is least expected—and leaves a mark long after summer has come to an end.

author's note: each fic has a different reader.

SUMMER OF 1999

ALL THE WAYS WE LOSE Genre: rivals to lovers, idiots in love, mutual pining, summer romance Word Count: 35.9k

Synopsis: For as long as Y/N can remember, summers in town have meant one thing: competing with Choi Yeonjun. Whether it's festival games, academic achievements, or something as ridiculous as who can finish their tteobokki first, neither is willing to back down. But as another summer begins, Y/N finds herself struggling to separate genuine frustration from something far more complicated.

choi yeonjun x fem! reader

SUMMER OF 2001

ONE SUMMER, OVERDUE Genre: city boy!soobin, small town romance, book rental shop, slow burn Word Count: 34.4k

Synopsis: When Choi Soobin is dragged to his grandparents' small hometown for the summer before his final year of university, he's prepared for two months of boredom. Instead, a trip to return his grandmother's books leads him to Y/N and her family's book rental shop, where one summer slowly becomes something neither of them expected.

choi soobin x fem! reader

SUMMER OF 2002

LIKE WE MEAN IT Genre: fake dating, wedding season, friends to lovers

Synopsis: Y/N's summer takes an unexpected turn when Kang Taehyun asks her for a favor: pretend to be his date for his cousin's wedding. It should be simple enough right? A  few family dinners, a few wedding events, and a convincing performance. After all, it's only temporary.

kang taehyun x fem! reader

SUMMER OF 2005

THE CURE Genre: yearning, mutual pining, i want you but I shouldn’t / starcrossed, angst

Synopsis: Everyone has already decided who Choi Beomgyu is. Y/N knows better—but after years apart, remembering the boy she once knew is much easier than facing the man he's become.

choi beomgyu x fem! reader

SUMMER OF 2007

THE THINGS WE LEFT BEHIND Genre: childhood friends to lovers, reunion, first love, right person wrong time

Synopsis: Eight years ago, Y/N left behind her hometown, her childhood memories, and Huening Kai. Returning for the summer feels like stepping back into a life she thought she'd outgrown—until old memories begin resurfacing, familiar feelings start looking different, and the boy she once called her best friend becomes impossible to see the same way again.

huening kai x fem! reader

permanent taglist @flytomyro0m @nanilis @fairfootedflekk @swangyu @frostymatcha @starlami @jellyybelly @bakudon @twinklefairyland @monosung @pageraf @bamgeutori taglist (send an ask or reply to be added ! )

— please do not reupload, copy, or translate any of my works!

[soobvns]

h. k ༯ super weird!

smmry ༯ after weeks of coincidences, you can’t help but start to feel insane! it doesn’t help that kai keeps looking at you like you’ve gone insane - maybe it’ll take a simple task for the truth to come out.

→ part two //smau, fluff, gn!reader

a/n: dedicated to my wawi once again (@aweinkai) and an apology for going m.i.a for a day >< again i am a spiderman larp rn so forgive me if i get the lore or concept extremely wrong idek. there are multiple written parts !!!

WHEN spiderman bursts into the abandoned warehouse that you were kidnapped to, you feel less thankful than what you expected to be. In fact, the entire time the bag was thrown over your head and you were thrown into the back of a van, you could only think about how Spiderman would probably be here soon.

You spot him when you tip your head back after the bag on your head was removed by one of the crooks. They tried to intimidate you, make you cry for the random video but they were quickly scared by the onslaught of growing sirens in the distance. All you wanted to do was calm yourself down - ease the tidal waves of anxiety splashing in your stomach but the red mask above you feels like a damning ripple in the quaint, settled sea.

Just metres above you is a dangling superhero that you’re honestly not overly surprised to see. The familiar red face greets you, but he taps a finger over where his mouth should be to indirectly tell you to be quiet.

He drops softly from the ceiling and shuffles to where your legs are taped to the legs of the old chair. You glance at the busy bodies around you, thankful they’re occupied by the growing noise of police sirens to see the eyesore of colour crouched by your legs. You try not to hiss as he tugs the tape from your legs.

You can’t help but really stare at spiderman because something just feels sickly familiar. The outline of his strong jaw and pointed nose makes a bell in the back of your head start to ring, dinging louder with every interaction you have — with every inch he gets closer.

“Hey! Wait, is that fucking Spiderman!?” A voice yells and breaks you from your trance. You whip your head up to witness the group of men scatter, drawing knives and small guns from their pockets as they storm over to where the crouched hero is. Within seconds your arms are ripped from their ductape bindings and a pained yelp escapes you as the cool air licks are your stinging skin. The masked hero mumbles a faint apology before he’s whisking you from your chair and propelling both of your bodies into the air.

A bullet whizzes past your head which causes you to grasp onto the hero without thinking. Only then do you realise how strong his grip is on your waist and how your legs automatically tangled around his thin, toned waist. There’s no time to really think about anything when the wind is whipping your hair around wildly and you’re clinging onto the suited hero that seems to follow your every thought now.

Your arms cling around his shoulders, eyes wide and full of bewilderment. This in no way matches the time you were gently plucked from the main street and placed in an alleyway - not with the way he uses a strong left arm to crush your waist against his torso as he flies across the skies by a webbed rope.

He webs between buildings without an inkling of doubt, twisting and curling around corners that seem deathly impossible. Your words are caught in your throat as you blatantly stare at the hero.

“You found me, again.” You mumble, eyes dissecting the fabric thin covering his face. He turns his head towards you just by a slight angle and it’s like you can read his face.

I know.

YOU decide against messaging Kai because you know he’ll end up telling you to leave the dirty clothes for him to wash. It feels a bit unfair, despite the fact you selfishly enjoy that he does the washing and drying that he is doing it 99% of the time.

It can’t be that hard right? The beaten line of dirtied washing machines is vaguely more terrifying than what you realise but you fairly remember Kai mentioning that the second machine on the far left seems to be in the best shape.

“Please don’t eat my clothes.” You whisper a plea to the machine as you rip the flimsy door open. The familiar waft of soft clean linen and faint synthetic floral greets your senses as your eyes land on a pile of slightly damp clothes. You wince as you look between your pile of unwashed clothes and the damp, soggy pile.

Maybe if you put it in a dryer the owner won’t realise?

With a quick scan of the room around you and deciding it’s criminally empty, you swiftly begin to pull out the pile of clothes. The clothes slop against the floor with a wet plop, slowly creating a slippery puddle next to your feet.

“Oh.” You mumble as a familiar band tshirt peers at you from the centre of the drum. Even in its dark, dampened state you recognise the flakey scrawled letters and faded imagery on the chest of the shirt. It’s the same shirt Kai wears when he’s just chilling in the house, when he’s being lugged to the gym by Taehyun, when he stays up late to finish university work — the same shirt he wears when you both stay up late eating ramen together while you rant about what woes you have both faced in the last few weeks.

It’s the same shirt he wore when you cried in front of him for the first time and Kai showed you that he is actually a friend and not just a roommate who tolerates your existence.

It then makes you feel bad when you realise you’ve plopped his clothes against the dirty, washing room ground.

The pile of socks that you grab next, you avoid throwing them on the ground. Though, a pile of red that you don’t recognise perks your interest.

You can’t remember Kai wearing such bright colours as the man’s closet mostly contained muted colours and the odd pop of white or grey. You remember the day you cackled when Yeonjun showed you a photo of Kai when he was seemingly 16, dressed head to toe in purple like it was a normal outfit choice. You’ll never forget the sight of purple skinny jeans and how you almost peed yourself as you airily breathed out , “Who the fuck sells purple skinny jeans!?”

Maybe he’s stemmed into colour again? You hum as you tug the peaking fabric out of the pile of dark clothes.

“What the fuck.”

taglist: @jazzy-304 @not--christ @pages-and-peonies @waldenfield @fartzzn @caritaee @monosung @salalalalami @taekmyhalf @cinnamorollhyuka @hueningsgirl @pengningie @dksblessedvocalchords @soobpaws @sleepystar0304

[soobvns]

h. k ༯ super series !

smmry ༯ when you think your roommate is the superhero that saves the city, it makes you understandably feels insane — especially when said hero seems to follow you everywhere!

— spiderman! kai x roommate! reader

a/n: this is purely a random idea i had and i am larping being a superhero fan so forgive me if it makes no sense to the real lore

part one ༯ super secret!

part two ༯ super weird!

part three ༯ tba

taglist: taglist: @jazzy-304 @not--christ @pages-and-peonies @waldenfield @fartzzn @caritaee @monosung @salalalalami @taekmyhalf @cinnamorollhyuka @hueningsgirl @pengningie @dksblessedvocalchords @soobpaws @sleepystar0304

[marshallowpuff]

Always Second Choice

Pairing: George Weasley x hufflepuff!reader

Summary: You're just trying to help your best friend get the boy she likes, but George Weasley keeps looking at you instead. Turns out the only person who doesn't know she's the one worth looking at is, is looking at her.

Warnings: no use of y/n

Cw: angst

Wc:3k+

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 (finale)

Everyone noticed Cecily first.

Always. Without fail. You had accepted this the same way you accepted that the staircases moved and the food appeared at dinner. Its just one of those things that was true and not worth questioning.

Cecily was your best friend and she was, by every measurable standard, beautiful. Not in a complicated way. In a very simple, immediately obvious way that made boys forget what they were saying mid-sentence.

And you were, you.

Quiet. Careful. The kind of person who stood slightly behind Cecily in every conversation without meaning to. The kind of person who got through five years at Hogwarts by being easy to overlook. You didn't mind being looked at so much as you had no idea what to do with it when it happened, so you made sure it happened as rarely as possible.

It was a good system.

It was working fine.

And then Cecily had to go and develop feelings for George Weasley.

---

"He smiled at me," Cecily announced, dropping into the seat beside you at breakfast, immediately stealing your toast.

"In Transfiguration. George Weasley smiled at me."

"He smiles at everyone," you said. "It's sort of his whole thing."

"Not like this." She pressed her hand to her cheek. "This was different. This was a specific smile."

"You're describing a smile like it has subcategories."

"It does." She turned to look at you very seriously. "There's the polite smile, the jokey smile, the — "

"Cecily."

"— and then there's the one where they're actually looking at you, like really looking, and it's — " She fanned herself. "It was that one."

You glanced across the Great Hall. George was at the Gryffindor table arguing with Fred about something, gesturing widely, nearly knocking over a goblet of pumpkin juice. He caught it without even looking. Just reached out and steadied it mid-sentence.

You looked back at your porridge.

"So talk to him," you said.

"I can't just talk to him." She looked at you like you'd suggested she walk into the Black Lake. "He's — you know what he's like. He'd say something funny and I'd laugh too hard and it would be embarrassing and I'd have to transfer schools."

"You're being dramatic."

"I'm being realistic."

"Those aren't the same thing."

She slumped against you. "Help me. Please. You're so good at this stuff, you're calm, you don't get flustered, nothing rattles you."

You thought about how your brain went completely offline whenever anyone addressed you directly and how you had once walked into a door because a prefect said good morning to you.

"Sure," you said. "I'll help."

The plan was simple. Clean. Required zero conversation on your part.

You knew George and Fred camped out at the back corner of the library every Wednesday afternoon to work on their joke products. You knew this because you were in the library every Wednesday too — had been since second year — because it was the one place people left you alone.

You told Cecily to come return a book at half past three. Told her exactly which aisle to walk through. Told her to wear the blue top.

Then you sat down with your Potions notes and minded your business.

---

You were doing brilliantly at minding your business until someone sat down across from you and said, "You planned that, didn't you."

You grabbed your inkwell before it tipped. Your heart had relocated to your throat.

Fred Weasley was sitting across from you, chin in his hands, looking deeply entertained.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said.

"The aisle your friend just walked through leads to exactly one place, and that place is our table." He picked up your quill. Examined it. Put it back. "Clever plan."

You gulped, you're heart racing.

"I suggested she return a book. That's all."

"Uh huh." He did not look convinced. He looked the opposite of convinced. "You know, we've been in the same year for five years."

"I know."

"Never spoken."

"I noticed."

"You're very — " he tilted his head " — compact. Conversation-wise."

"Thanks."

"That wasn't entirely a compliment."

"I know."

Fred laughed, surprised, like he hadn't expected that. He stood up, tucking the chair back in.

You sat very still. Then you turned back to your Potions notes and read the same sentence eight times.

---

Friday. The corridor outside Charms.

You had your head down, bag pulled close, moving fast because the Friday crowd made your skin feel wrong. You had a system — stay left, watch the gaps, don't make eye contact, be home free.

The system failed when someone fell into step beside you and just stayed there.

You looked up.

George Weasley. Hands in his pockets, walking like he had nowhere to be and all day to get there.

Your brain did something it did not have permission to do.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," you said, and immediately looked back at the floor.

"I'm George."

"I know who you are."

"Right." He sounded like that amused him. "You're in my Transfiguration class."

"Yes."

"You never talk in class."

"I talk when I have something to say."

"McGonagall called on you Tuesday. You answered in eleven words and then went completely silent again." A pause. "I counted."

You looked at him. "You counted my words."

"Fred talks too much," he said simply. "I started counting as a coping mechanism. Now I just do it."

You had no idea what to do with that information. You looked back at the corridor. The fork was coming up ahead — left for you, and then this conversation would be physically impossible to continue and you could go back to existing in peace.

"You were in the library on Wednesday," he said.

"I'm always there on Wednesdays."

"I know. You had your Potions book open." A beat. "Upside down."

The heat hit your face so fast it was almost impressive. "I was thinking."

"With the book upside down."

"It's a method."

"Is it a Potions method specifically or a general thinking method?"

"It's a — " You stopped. He was smiling. Not laughing at you, just — smiling, like he found you genuinely interesting, which was somehow worse. "Can you not."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're doing something."

He laughed — low and quiet, not Fred's big boom, something warmer and more contained and it landed right in the center of your chest and stayed there, which was absolutely not allowed.

You were at the fork. Left. Go left. Go left right now.

"You should talk to Cecily," you said. The words came out faster than you planned. "My friend. You know her — dark hair, always laughing? She's really fun, like actually fun, not just polite fun."

George blinked. "Okay —"

"She's your type," you continued, because apparently you had committed to this and there was no stopping now. "Like I genuinely think she's your type. She's funny, she laughs at everything, she'd actually keep up with you —"

"My type," he repeated slowly.

"Yes. And she loves Quidditch, she knows all the teams, you could talk about that for hours. And she's kind. Really kind. And she bakes, I don't know if that's relevant but she makes these incredible — anyway. The point is." You adjusted your bag strap. It did not need adjusting. "You should talk to her. Like, properly talk to her. I think you'd really like her."

George stared at you for a second.

"Did you just pitch your friend to me," he said, "like a business proposal."

"I was being helpful."

He pressed his lips together like he was physically trying not to smile and failing completely. "Right," he said. "Cecily. Got it."

"Right. So. You should — yeah." You pointed vaguely to the left. "I have to go."

"You're not late," he said. "We just got out of the same class."

"I have things. Other things."

"Things," he repeated slowly, like he was testing the word.

"Important things. Goodbye."

You turned left so fast you nearly walked into the wall. You recovered. You did not look back. You kept walking with your chin up and your face absolutely on fire and your heart making a lot of noise about something that was none of its business.

Behind you, George watched you go.

He was still smiling.

A/n: i just thought of the storyline an instantly wrote it cause ive been missing my pookie :3

Comment to be tagged on the next part!

Taglist: @gabriellewood, @svnn132, @lulzs-world06

[athenas-rose]

Catch Me If You Can ✧˖°.

Steve Harrington x shy!reader 1k words

warnings: fluff, crushing, teasing,

The three times you run away from Steve, the one time he manages to catch you

The first time Steve had flustered you, it had been completely by accident. You found yourself in the wheeler kitchen together, rinsing plates while trying not to look at him.

Steve shook his head, laughing. “Look at us, doing hard labor while everyone else is playing around the basement.” He said, drying a plate with a dish towel.

You laughed, passing him another bowl. “Poor us, slaving away as usual.”

“Our team work is incredible.” Steve declared dramatically.

You laughed again, shaking your head as you reached into the sink for another glass. Steve watched you for a second longer than he meant to, the way you smiled to yourself, how you tucked a loose strand behind your ear every time it got in the way, scrunching your nose slightly when you focused.

The thought escaped him before he could pause it. “You know, you’re really pretty.” He said quietly.

Your hand stopped halfway to the faucet, blinking up at him. “What?”

Oh no, had he offended you? He just wanted you to know how pretty you were, even in the least moments you expected.

“I just…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I said you’re really pretty.”

Your brain promptly stopped working, a heated blush rushed to your face that made your ears burn. “Oh,” you said breathlessly.

“Yeah.” Steve gave you a small smile.

The kitchen suddenly felt more cramped than it had a minute ago, you stared at each other in silence, your mouth parted.

You needed an escape, anything to ensure you wouldn’t make a fool of yourself right here in front of the pretty boy Steve Harrington. “I…” You took an unconscious step backwards.

“I think Nancy needs me.” You glanced back to the door, when she had in fact not called you at all.

“Oh, Nancy?” Steve raised a brow, but you only nodded rapidly.

Before Steve could question it further, you were already turning on your heel, and speed walking out of the kitchen.

He stared at the empty spot you had been standing in, with a look of utter confusion clouding his features. “…Huh,” he blinked.

The second time you ran away, was because Steve had made the mistake of holding your hand.

The annual Fourth of July Hawkins fair was, in your opinion, the worst place to have a crush. There were too many people crowding the area, which meant too many occurrences for you to accidentally bump into Steve.

He kept smiling at you in a way that made your stomach do flips, and unfortunately for your rapid beating heart, he hadn’t left your side all night.

“I’m pretty sure I could beat all those rigged carnival games, in the end it just comes down to probability.” Dustin announced through a mouthful of caramel apple.

Lucas snorted. “You have a better chance at finding a date than that.”

The group continued bricking as you wandered deeper into the fairgrounds, weaving between families and children darting from one side to the other.

The smell of kettle corn drifted through the warm summer air, music from the carousel echoed in the distance. Someone brushed past your shoulder, then another, leaving you having trouble to keep up.

“Guys, wait up!” Mike called from somewhere you couldn’t see ahead.

The rest of the party slipped through a gap in the crowd before it disappeared again. You hesitated for half a second, searching for a way through the sea of people, suddenly you felt warm fingers wrap gently around your hand.

“C’mon.” Steve called, glancing back at you with an easy smile. “Don’t wanna lose you.”

He gave your hand the tiniest tug, and you felt your heart completely stop. “Oh,” was all you could manage, but Steve didn’t seem to notice.

He simply lead you through the crowd, occasionally pausing to make sure you were still with him. The worst part, was how your hand fit perfectly in his, palm even softer than you’d imagined, his thumb brushing against yours as he adjusted his grip.

You were fairly certain you were dreaming. When the crowd finally thinned again, he still didn’t let go, your eyes darted down to your conjoined hands, then back up to him.

He was laughing at something Robin had said, not even realizing he was still touching you. The thought made your breathing slow, then quicken rapidly. You lasted less than thirty seconds before blurting. “I need a pretzel!”

Steve looked over, his brows furrowed. “I’ll—uh—meet you guys in a second!” He couldn’t even get a word out, and you were already gone.

“I wonder why she keeps running away?” He shook his head.

The third time you ran away was after your first kiss.

Steve had finally sucked up the courage to ask you, there wasn’t any pressure, or awkward expectations, only the two of you figuring things out.

He had taken you to a movie drive-in, where the two of you spent more time whispering to each other on the hood of car rather than watching the actual movie.

“I had fun tonight.” Steve muttered as he killed the engine, stopping in front of your house.

“So did I.” You couldn’t wipe the smile off your face, instead of reaching for the door, you two stayed exactly where you were.

You glanced down at your hands folded in your lap. “What?” You laughed nervously when you caught him staring.

“Nothing.” He shrugged, but it was all too clear it was something.

“What are you thinking about?” You pressed softly, the curiosity getting the better of you.

Steve’s brown eyes twinkled in the pale moonlight. “You.”

Your breath caught, becoming very alert to the way he was subtly leaning closer. Steve stopped just an inch before your face, taking the opportunity, you met him halfway.

His lips brushed yours like he was afraid of scaring you away, the kiss short and sweet.

He pulled back, searching your face. “Was that okay?” He whispered.

You stared at him, your first kiss. Your first actual kiss with the boy who made you terribly shy, with Steve.

Your mind short circuited. “Yep,” you nodded way too enthusiastically.

“Just yep?” Steve laughed, his hand cupping your jaw, sending you further into your demise.

“Uh huh.” Your chest pounded so loudly you were convinced he could hear it. “I should—go.”

You reached for the door handle, Steve smiled. “See you tomorrow?”

“Mhm,” your throat closed up, he watched you through the windshield as you desperately fumbled around with your keys, then immediately slammed the door shut behind you.

The front curtain twitched, and you had completely forgotten he was still outside. The second your eyes met through the window, you let out a tiny squeak and closed the curtain shut again.

“She’s adorable.” Steve laughed to himself.

The fourth time you tried to run away, was because Steve told you he loved you.

The two of you were curled up on opposite ends of the couch, sharing a blanket as you listened to the soft patters of the rain contentedly.

He looked down at your knees touching, then took a deep silent breath. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

You turned to face him. “What is it?”

His warm brown eyes met yours, already crinkling at the corners with affection. “I love you.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, that had been the last thing you expected to leave his mouth. Steve was always good with showing his feelings, and even better at catching you off guard.

He watched your eyes flicker towards the bathroom, a grin slowly spread across his face when he pinched down on your sides. “Oh no you don’t.”

“What?” You asked nervously.

“I know that look, it means you’re about to run away from me.” Steve caged you in.

“Steve…” you sighed, face aflame.

“You’re not running away from me this time.” He shook his head adamantly.

You groaned, hiding your face in his chest embarrassed he had finally caught you.

“I can’t help it—my brain just—”

“I know.” He wrapped his arms around you tightly and kissed the top of your head. “My little rabbit.” He whispered teasingly.

When you glanced up at him, you were shocked to not find a hint of annoyance on his face, only a wide smile. “I love you too.” You replied honestly. “And I’ll try not to run away anymore.”

Steve’s chest vibrated against your head as he shook with laughter. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[indecisivemuch]

peanut butter || fun fact (bonus/epilogue)

read the main story: fun fact

Pairing: Spencer Reid x reader

Summary: just because you and Spencer have gotten together, does not mean the fun fact challenge is over to you (fluff, established relationship)

Note: Thank you for all of the love on fun fact. You guys are the best xx. In honor of fun fact hitting 1K notes, here is a bonus bit that did not make it to the final draft bc of the big word count (I was so sure not many people would read an 11k long fic, but thank you for proving me wrong).

Word count: 1k

You walked into the office, shrugging off the purple cardigan that was slightly bigger than your usual size and draping it over your chair. As usual, you placed your bag under your desk and turned on your PC before settling down, ready to focus for the day. Though, the second you spotted Spencer approaching, you instantly announced your daily fun fact.

“Did you know that peanut butter can be turned into diamonds? Fun fact.” From the corner of your eyes, you saw Emily pause at your statement. Spencer, on the other hand, grinned at your words.

“Good morning.” Spencer placed his coffee cup down on his desk first before coming to your side, holding yours out for you. You carefully took the ceramic vessel from him, muttering gratitude at his kind action. His other hand lingered on your back before withdrawing out of respect for the fact that you were both clocked in at work. 

His eyes soon noticed the clothing item that hung on your chair. 

“Was wondering where that one went,” your boyfriend murmured.

Boyfriend. Even after three months and having grown used to calling Spencer by that title, you still feel giggly at such a term. In fact, your lips curled right then while thinking of the word again.

You took in Spencer’s attire, specifically, the way that his purple button-up (coincidentally) matched the purple cardigan you had stolen from him two weeks ago. For a split second, you considered coordinating outfits deliberately with him, but in subtle ways.

“Hold on a second, peanut butter can what?” Emily double checked.

“I know, right?” you breathed out before reaching under your desk and pulling out an information-packed tome, dropping the heavy object onto the furniture’s surface. 

It was Rossi’s courtesy. A month and a half ago, the old man decided to give you a fact book in hopes you could still win this bet before eight months were up. Unfortunately, his gift was unable to aid you much in your intellectual combat against Spencer, and thus, failed to prevent Rossi’s loss of his bet on a victory before the eight-month mark. 

You carefully opened to the page where you had seen the fact and held it up for Emily to see.

“Well, would you consider having a peanut butter diamond ring?” she joked, though Spencer quickly jumped in.

“Actually, I would advise against it. Oftentimes, the lab-manufactured results are small. So they’re unsuitable for proposal rings.” His words almost felt personal with the way Spencer’s eyes fell to your hand, and you smirked teasingly.

“Why? You think I should have a big diamond instead of a small rock?” Instantly, your boyfriend’s ears grew hot, and you almost laughed at the way he started stuttering. 

“Well, I just—on average, women tend to prefer a sizable diamond ring when proposed to. But also, like—well, I mean—you—”

“Me?”

“With your finger size—”

“How do you know my finger size?”

“Your ring was next to a couple of coins the other day—”

“Oh? And you decided to notice and remember this information, why?” You smirked, enjoying the way your relentless teasing was turning Spencer into a mess. But in all honesty, you were not that surprised. Spencer’s brain often stored information that most tend to overlook.

“Yeah, Spencer. Planning to drop down on one knee soon?” Emily’s added effort to poke at Spencer only made him more flustered, though the genius eventually was able to overcome it and continued speaking.

“With your finger size, the most suitable—preferences aside—would be a 1.0-1.5 carat diamond ring, and the peanut butter manufactured ones would be nowhere near that. Besides, diamonds made of peanut butter are often discolored largely due to impurities such as hydrogen and nitrogen, which are non-carbon components, getting trapped during diamond formation processes that involve high heat. Meanwhile, diamonds are mainly made of carbon atoms.”

“Would you like to know my diamond size preference, Spence?” was your only reply, and those words had Spencer’s face blooming bright red. Once again, he stammered to organise his words, yet a sentence could not be strung together.

Together, you and Emily burst out laughing at Spencer’s speechless state. Though the two of you began shifting to get back to work. Emily returned to her own desk, amusement lingering on her face. Meanwhile, you slowly spun your chair back to your PC, your laughter replaced by a full-on smile.

Yet, Spencer did not move from his spot. In fact, the sight of you smiling and your eyes crinkling had Spencer’s gaze softening.

Eighty seven days since he had told you that you were his favorite fun fact, a title Spencer continued to frequently refer to you as.

Prior to the prospect of you two, Spencer had made peace with a mundane dating-less life, living in a repetitive monotone manner. But now that he has you, that kind of life sounded dreadful. With you, mundane things became highlights of his day and the staples of his boyfriend-adjusted daily routine.

But above all, every day, he got to learn new things about you, like where you like to read in your apartment, how you like to separate your laundry, or your preferred side of the bed. Each and every new detail he discovered folded into the wrinkles of his brain like all along, the organ was made just to hold facts about you.

The genius bit back a smile.

That afternoon, Spencer walked you to your car like always. But instead of saying goodbye and heading off to the metro station by himself like before, the genius got into your passenger seat, and the two of you left the office together. As you were driving both of you back to his apartment, Spencer’s eyes darted to your hand again.

Calling you his forever favorite fun fact instead?

Spencer found himself really liking the sound of that.

The corner of his lips lifted before he looked away.

Maybe someday.

・┈・┈・┈・┈・┈・

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[indecisivemuch]

fun fact

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

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.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“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.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“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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[cassiopeiia24]

fun fact: this is a masterpiece. 😩

[honeybeekissed]

Catch!

Summary: Spencer Reid isn’t athletic, he falls while getting up from his chair and trips over thin air. But despite that, every time you happen to forget and throw something at him, he’ll always try to catch it. Your colleagues have a list of their favourite times it’s happened, but secretly, the best incident is the one they didn’t see Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU!Reader Word: 1.1k a/n: I just started watching Criminal Minds and I already have an entire Pinterest board for him, I’m down bad

The first occurrence was when you had first joined the team, still learning the dynamics, but comfortable with everyone. You and a few others, including Spencer, were poking around a crime scene. It was a little flat from a murdered traveling business woman who liked collecting things from places she had visited. 

You picked up one of the little figurines sitting on her mantle place above the fire. It was carved out of a dark heavyish wood, painted with an odd looking face on it. Turning around, you called out. “Hey, Reid! What’s this?” Tossing it to him as he turned around. 

His eyes widen and his hands fly out, but not quite fast enough for him to grab it properly. Instead, the statue hits his palm, causing him to bat it up. It happened several more times before the carving hit the carpet with a thud. 

You look down at the souvenir, then up at Spencer with a look as if he just personally offended your bloodline. “…What was that catch?” You ask, slightly confused. Part of your FBI mandated training and requirements are a 95 or higher on the official reflex tests. Plus, your 5-year-old nephew could catch better than that.

You smiled at him, “at least that big brain of yours makes up for those poor reaction times.”

Spencer’s face turns bright red with embarrassment. He hated when that happened, it’s why P.E was the only class he couldn’t dominate in. Quickly crouching down, he picks up the statue. “It’s, um- a Tiki. They’re part of ancient Polynesian Mythology. They represent the Native Hawaiian Deities such as Kū, Lono, Kāne, and Kanaloa. It was believed to protect sacred spaces.”

The Second time was more your fault. Everyone was sitting in the meeting room, running over piles on piles of paper files. Spencer, being the genius he naturally is, was already done with the tall stack he had sitting in front of him. There was one folder that he couldn’t grab before returning to his spot. 

He called over to you, standing up straighter. “Uh, hey, could you pass me that file?” Out of pure instinct and skill, without looking or frankly hesitation, you picked up the manila file and flung it at him frizz-by style. “Sure, heads up!”

The file hit him in the stomach so hard he fell over, folding in half and letting out a grunt of pain. Only after you let go of the object do you relies what a horrible idea that was going to be. Spencer speedily regains his composure and props himself up on his elbows. Only for his sights to be met with you, hand over your mouth, trying your hardest not to erupt in laughter.

“Stop that, it’s not funny!” He shouts at you, more annoyed than mad. But his whining only broke the dam, and now you’re the one bent in half. Quickly stiffing your laughs, you walk over and offer a helping hand. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s not that funny.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

He retorts, taking your hand and pulling himself up. Spencer pulled a bit too hard, and ended up far too close to your face. You two quickly stepped backwards, separating before it got any warmer between you.

The third time was different

This UnSub was crazy! Not in the usual ‘I kidnapped an FBI agent because that’s just a great idea!’ type of crazy. More like the, ‘I’m gonna run across building roofs’ type of crazy. But that didn’t stop you from jumping up on the vans roof and then on the buildings to follow him.

While the rest of the BAU weren’t impulsive enough to jump up and join you, they did follow you on foot. And for once in his life, Spencer was running up front. 

Your heart was practically beating out of your chest, lungs burning. Jumping to another roof again, you could see the guy start to slow down. Not enough for you to catch up, unfortunately. But you started to worry about a jump further on. It was a large jump, and the roof before it was still wet from last night's rain.

You both jump, while the UnSub was able to hold his ground and jump on the slippery tiles, you weren’t so lucky. Slipping and sliding down, you see Spencer had stopped chasing the guy and was waiting on the ground with a few others. You knew it probably wasn’t the best idea, but you didn’t really have many other choices.

“Spencer, Catch!” You pushed off of the roofing and up into the air. Spencer understood the plan before you even started to fall down. He rushed forward, arms stretched out and watching as you got closer.

You finally land in his arms, taking him down a little bit. You wrap your arms around his neck so you wouldn’t fall out of his grip. Both your hearts beat in sync, the same rapped ba bum ba bum ba bum in your too close chests. He could feel your warm breath on his neck, sending shivers up his spine.

He was looking right at you, his hazel eyes softer than you’d ever seen them, widening when you made eye contact. You remember something Spencer had once told the team one case.

“Pupils dilate when you look at someone you love primarily due to the activation of your autonomic nervous system. The intense emotional stimulation and romantic attraction trigger your brain to release a surge of neurotransmitters and hormones, such as oxytocin and dopamine.” 

Spencer shook his head, getting his mind out of the clouds. Clearing his throat, he gently put you back on your feet. But, his hands stayed on your waist. Reaching his hand up, he bends your head down and checks the back of your head. “Are you ok? Does anything hurt?”

“My ass kinda hurts, but there isn’t much you could do about that.” You say without thinking. Your head snaps up once you had realised what you’d said. Spenser's face was bright red, his brain buffering. 

Right at that moment, you hear Morgan’s voice from down the street. “Hey! Are you guys good?” Spencer leans his head back in the voice’s direction. “We’re fine!” You look down at your ankle, a massive bloody cut across it. “Um, actually Spence.” You gesture down at your injury. 

His body goes stiff at the sight of it. “Oh Jezz, we need to get you to medical.” Without really thinking, he scooped you up into a bridal carry and started walking over to a nearby police car.