#SLOWBURN

[oneforblu]

romance as a subplot is SOOOOO GOODDDDD because 98% of the time it's an intense slowburn that develops over several chapters. the story focuses on the plot or character development more but somehow it makes the romance SO MUCH BETTER!!! idk how to explain it it's just so good...like when an author's focus is more on characters and plot it gives you as the reader a deeper connection to the characters which makes the romantic/platonic aspect so much better

[sebystann]

Unmasked Hearts

Synopsis - Two reluctant partners. Sharp banter and shared battles. As Gotham’s darkness closes in, Red Hood and you go from enemies to something more—discovering that sometimes love is the most dangerous fight of all.

Tags? - banter, fluffy, just over all cute. Enemies to lovers.

Word Count - 7,600 (Got carried away!! I'm sorry!)

The night was a typical Gotham cocktail of fog, cold rain, and the distant wail of sirens. Rooftops loomed like dark teeth over alleys slick with oil. You crouched on the edge of one of those roofs, eyes narrowed behind your mask, tracking a van crawling along the street below. It was the same van you’d tailed for three nights, and tonight felt like it might finally lead you to the source of the latest shipment of high-grade weapons flooding the East End.

But then a shadow dropped from above—heavier, faster, almost soundless. You tensed, blade halfway drawn, as a figure clad in red and black armor landed beside you with a thud that vibrated through the rooftop. The Red Hood. Just your luck. He rose to full height, gaze flicking to you, and you stared each other down like two alley cats over the same scrap.

“You planning to keep playing dress-up or are you actually going to do something?” he said after a beat, voice low, edged with disdain.

You let out a soft snort. “You mean besides cleaning up your mess? Because I counted six of your spent casings littering the street two blocks back.”

His eyes narrowed behind his helmet’s lenses. The corner of your mouth quirked—maybe provoking the notorious Red Hood wasn’t wise, but you’d never been one to back down from a challenge. And there was something in his posture, the way he rolled his shoulders like he was already spoiling for a fight, that made your pulse quicken with the thrill of it.

You both turned back to the van. It slowed at a warehouse gate, two men hopping out to unlock the doors. Without a word, you rose as one and sprinted across the roofline, boots pounding wet concrete in a sync neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You reached the ledge first, diving into the shadows of a loading crane as the goons rolled the van inside. Red Hood landed beside you a split second later. You almost stabbed him when he brushed your shoulder.

“Do you mind?” you hissed, jerking your elbow away.

“Do you always get in the way?” he shot back, eyes never leaving the men below.

You almost laughed—if only because it was either that or lose your mind. “I’ve been on this case for days. You’re the one who showed up uninvited.”

He didn’t dignify that with an answer, but the tense silence that followed was loud enough to rattle your bones. Down below, the smugglers began unloading crates stamped with Russian letters. You raised your crossbow, lining up a shot at one of the lookouts.

But just as you released the bolt, Red Hood’s gloved hand shot out, pushing your aim an inch off. The bolt thunked harmlessly into a wooden crate. You whipped around, furious. “What the hell was that for?”

“You’d have blown our cover,” he snapped. “They would’ve called in reinforcements.”

You jabbed a finger into his chest plate. “Or I could’ve taken one out before they knew what hit them.”

He leaned in, close enough you could see the faint scratches on his red helmet. “Your way is sloppy.”

You sucked in a breath, bristling, before a sudden shout from below cut the argument short. One of the guards pointed up—he’d spotted you. Swearing under your breath, you vaulted the railing, dropping like a stone and rolling as you hit the ground. Bullets started flying immediately, muzzle flashes lighting up the dark. Red Hood dropped beside you, guns blazing. The two of you moved through the warehouse like twin storms: you weaving between crates with liquid speed, him following behind, his heavier frame unstoppable, brutal.

You slashed the thigh of a thug who tried to flank you, feeling the heat of a bullet whiz past your ear. Red Hood took down two more with precision headshots. Somewhere between ducking behind a forklift and covering each other’s backs, the chaos shifted—turned almost graceful. Each time you dodged right, he covered the left. When you leapt up to swing from a rusted chain and kick a gunman square in the chest, he was there when you landed, dragging you out of the line of fire.

You cleared the last of them with ragged breathing, blood splattered across the concrete. You looked at him, chest heaving, the electric thrill of battle still coursing through you. His helmet turned to you, silent. For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then the shriek of police sirens in the distance broke the spell. You gave him a wry smile. “You know, for a brooding vigilante with the social skills of a brick, you’re not the worst backup I’ve ever had.”

A grunt echoed in his helmet’s modulator—almost a laugh, if you were generous. “And you’re not as incompetent as you look.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Wow. Be still my heart.”

He stepped forward until you were nearly toe to toe. Rain sheeted down around you, pattering on metal and broken glass. His voice dropped, the rasp softened. “Stay out of my way next time.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Sure, Hood. But only if you promise not to shoot me.”

Your banter lingered even as you ducked into the shadows to avoid the approaching patrol cars. For all your snarls and barbs, it was impossible to ignore the unspoken understanding already forming between you. You might hate each other’s methods, but you both wanted the same thing: Gotham safer than it was yesterday.

You slipped into an alley, heart still pounding with adrenaline and something dangerously close to excitement. There was a wild energy in the way he moved, a ruthless determination that matched your own. You hated how it made your stomach flutter. Hated it almost as much as you already craved the next time your paths would cross.

Because whether you admitted it or not, the first sparks had already caught fire.

Two days later, you stormed into the Batcave with your mask still dripping from the evening rain, rage pulsing in your chest. You didn’t even get a word out before Batman’s voice, deep and tired, rolled across the cavernous space.

“You and Red Hood are working the same case. I’m making it official,” he said. His tone brokered no argument. “Effective immediately.”

You snapped your head up, eyes wide. “You’re forcing me to work with that walking trauma response?”

A dark chuckle echoed behind you. Red Hood stepped out of the shadows, his helmet gleaming under the Batcave lights. “Nice to see you too, princess.”

You rounded on him with your fists clenched. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then don’t make it so easy,” he shot back, voice laced with that infuriating smugness you already knew too well.

Batman’s cape shifted slightly as he looked between you. “You both want to take down the Jackal cartel. You both need the leads the other has. Figure it out.”

He turned and walked away, leaving you glowering at each other. The air crackled with unspoken threats. You hated how tall he was up close, how his presence filled the room and pressed against your fraying patience. He leaned down slightly, as if to get right in your face. “You got something to say?” he asked, voice low, dark amusement glinting in every syllable.

You arched a brow. “Yeah: I’ve seen friendlier rattlesnakes.”

That got a huff out of him—maybe a laugh, maybe a scoff. Hard to tell. Either way, it felt like a victory.

The first mission as partners was a disaster.

You tried to scale a fire escape outside a suspected weapons depot, but he beat you to the top, nearly knocking you off the ladder. When you reached the roof, he was already scanning the windows with a thermal scope. “You always this slow?” he asked without looking back.

You wanted to throw him off the roof.

The two of you bickered over every plan—whether to storm the building head-on or go in stealthy; whether to interrogate a thug or let him scurry back to his boss with false intel. Every conversation felt like a tug-of-war. Even worse, you both knew you were right, every single time.

By the time you dropped into the warehouse rafters together, you were vibrating with anger. A patrol strolled below, flashlights sweeping the shadows. You leaned into his ear, voice a harsh whisper. “Left or right?”

“Right,” he said.

You went left.

Moments later, you had to drag each other out of the path of a guard who nearly spotted you, tumbling across the catwalk in a tangle of limbs. You landed on your back with a grunt, his chest pressed against yours, breath harsh inside his helmet. Even through your armor, you felt the heat radiating off him, heard the low growl of his breath.

“Left?” he demanded, eyes blazing behind his lenses.

Your lips twisted into a grin despite the adrenaline. “I like to keep you on your toes.”

He let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “You’re going to get us both killed.”

You pushed him off you with a huff. “Not if you keep up.”

After barely escaping the warehouse with a stolen ledger in hand, you holed up together in a safehouse. It was the first time you had to share space without punching each other or dodging bullets. You patched a graze on his arm in tense silence, your hands trembling with adrenaline and frustration.

He broke the quiet first. “You don’t have to do that.”

You shot him a glare as you dabbed antiseptic on his wound. “Yeah, well, if you bleed out, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

His lips twitched under the edge of his helmet. “So you do care.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “I care about finishing this case, Hood. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

But the truth was harder to ignore when your hands brushed his bare skin, or when your eyes caught on the thick scar that snaked across his bicep. There was a story there, you realized. A story you suddenly wanted to know.

You forced yourself to look away.

The next night, you were ambushed in an alley by cartel enforcers. You moved together by instinct now: when you ducked, he stepped in front of you to block a blow; when he stumbled, you were there to hook your arm under his and haul him upright. The two of you tore through the attackers in a vicious dance, and when the last one fell, you both stood panting, adrenaline crackling in the narrow space.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded, trying to slow your heartbeat. Rain dripped down his helmet, catching in the faint glow of the streetlights. His eyes bored into yours, dark and unreadable.

The silence stretched. Then he huffed and stepped back, muttering, “Try not to die next time.”

You smirked, despite the chaos. “You first.”

Days passed. The tension between you shifted, changing from something jagged and hateful to something sharp but charged with heat. You still bickered—over tactics, over details, over who made worse coffee—but now there was a rhythm to it, almost a comfort.

One night, as you both sprawled in a safehouse living room, poring over maps, he looked up from his notes. “You’re… good at this,” he said gruffly.

You blinked. The compliment startled you more than any ambush. “What?”

He shifted uncomfortably, like the words tasted foreign. “This. The work. You’re… good.”

You couldn’t help the small, stupid smile that tugged at your lips. “Thanks, Hood.”

You threw a pillow at him to hide how warm his words made you feel. He caught it easily, tossed it back with a smirk that set your pulse racing.

You knew something had changed irrevocably when you were staking out a cartel meeting from a rooftop. He shifted his weight beside you, the leather of his jacket brushing yours. “You know,” he drawled, voice low, “your aim’s still terrible.”

You shot him a sideways glance. “And you still smell like cheap gun oil.”

For once, he laughed. A real, warm laugh that broke the brittle edge between you like shattering glass. The sound slipped into your chest, melted the ice there. He reached out, flicking your forehead with a gloved finger. “Keep talking like that, princess, and I might start to like you.”

You smacked his hand away, but your heart was pounding far too hard.

In that moment—under the stars, with his warm breath fogging in the cold night—you realized you were no longer two enemies forced together by circumstance. You were partners. Reluctant, stubborn, maybe even doomed—but partners all the same.

The city was quieter than usual the night you found yourselves perched on the roof of a crumbling apartment block, watching a suspected weapons deal unfold in the alley below. The moonlight glinted off puddles, and Gotham’s skyline loomed in grim silhouette. You shifted your weight, shoulder brushing Red Hood’s as you peered through binoculars.

He snorted softly. “You know you breathe loud enough to wake the dead, right?”

You lowered the binoculars just enough to shoot him a glare. “Says the guy who broods so hard I can practically hear your internal monologue.”

His helmet tilted slightly in your direction. “I don’t brood.”

You raised your eyebrows. “You literally have ‘brood’ as a hobby.”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him, muffled by his helmet. It wasn’t the first time you’d caught glimpses of something softer beneath all that rage and armor, but it made your pulse jump every time. He shifted closer, shoulders brushing again, and for a moment the world shrank to just the two of you, balanced on a ledge above a city that wanted you both dead.

A light flicked on in a nearby window, cutting across the rooftop. You both dropped into a crouch instantly, weapons drawn, eyes meeting in a silent exchange. That unspoken coordination had begun to feel instinctual—like breathing. You couldn’t pinpoint when it had changed, but the hateful sharpness between you had dulled into something edged with excitement, even trust.

Once the window went dark again, you eased back onto your heels. He was still watching you. The city noise seemed distant, blurred by the thundering of your heartbeat.

“Why do you do this?” he asked suddenly, voice lower, quieter than you’d ever heard it.

You frowned. “What, vigilante work?”

He nodded.

You hesitated. The truth felt dangerous to voice, like saying it out loud would expose something too raw. “Because someone has to,” you said eventually, voice tight. “Because Gotham chews people up and spits them out, and if I can stop even one person from getting swallowed whole…”

You trailed off, embarrassed by how earnest it sounded.

He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, it was almost a whisper. “That’s a good reason.”

You blinked. “What about you?”

He shifted his gaze back to the alley below, but his hand brushed yours, just for a second. “Because Gotham chewed me up,” he murmured. “And I want to make sure it regrets it.”

Your chest ached. You wanted to reach for him, to trace the lines of the scars you knew he carried. Instead, you settled for a smirk. “That’s very dramatic, Hood. Did you rehearse that line?”

His helmet turned back to you, lenses reflecting city lights. “You’d know if I rehearsed it. I’d have included more explosions.”

That startled a laugh out of you—bright and sharp, echoing across the rooftop. His helmet dipped, and you thought he might be smiling underneath.

The next night, you were patching him up after a job gone sideways. His armor was dented, his shirt soaked through with blood. You were careful as you cleaned the wound on his side, trying to ignore how warm his skin felt under your gloved hands.

He hissed as you pressed gauze against the gash. “I’ve had worse,” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not the flex you think it is.”

His gaze dropped to your face, intense and unguarded. “You always do this?” he asked quietly.

“Do what?”

“Stay,” he said. “When it gets bad.”

You swallowed hard. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I don’t run.”

His breath stuttered. He reached up, hesitated, then brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. The touch was fleeting, but it felt like a spark. You both looked away at the same time, silence thick and heavy with everything neither of you knew how to say.

After that night, things shifted again. The banter came easier, lighter. You found yourself joking about his helmet—how it probably had a setting for “maximum scowl”—and he teased you about your “baby crossbow” that you swore was better than his handguns.

One morning, as you both crashed in a safehouse after a long mission, you woke up sprawled across his chest on the couch. His helmet was off, dark hair mussed, eyes soft in the early light. You tensed, but his arm around your waist tightened, holding you there.

“Go back to sleep,” he rasped, voice husky with exhaustion.

Your heart flipped. “Bossy,” you mumbled, but you didn’t move.

It became a pattern: the missions, the fights, the banter, the moments of quiet. You caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. He started bringing your favorite takeout after long nights, wordlessly dropping it in your lap with a grunt. You found excuses to patch him up, even when his injuries were minor. The tension that had once been edged with hatred now crackled with something else entirely.

One night, as you both sat on a rooftop eating cold noodles from a shared carton, he nudged your shoulder. “You know,” he said casually, “I don’t hate working with you.”

You nearly choked on your noodles. “Is that… supposed to be a compliment?”

His lips curved into a smirk, visible in the low glow of the streetlights. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

You bumped your shoulder against his. “Too late.”

He rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered.

The real shift happened when you were ambushed in a parking garage. A sniper took a shot, and you would’ve been dead if he hadn’t tackled you to the ground. You landed hard, breath knocked out of you, his body pinning yours. Bullets sparked off concrete overhead.

“You okay?” he demanded, voice ragged.

You gasped out, “I’ve been better.”

“Stay down,” he barked, rolling off you to return fire. You watched him move—efficient, furious, every line of his body radiating desperation. He wasn’t fighting for Gotham. He was fighting for you.

When the final gunman fell, he dropped his guns and rushed back, hands skimming over your limbs. “Where are you hit?” he demanded, voice cracking.

You grabbed his wrists, breathless. “I’m fine. You got me out of the way.”

His eyes burned into yours, furious and relieved all at once. “Don’t ever do that again,” he snapped.

“What, get shot at?” you retorted.

“Don’t scare me like that.”

You stared at him, heartbeat thunderous in your chest. His mask was still on, but his voice betrayed him. It was the first time you heard fear in it—real, raw fear. And it wasn’t for himself.

Something inside you crumbled. You reached up, curled your fingers into his collar, pulled him down just enough so your foreheads touched. Rain pattered around you, but you barely felt it.

“You’re not rid of me that easily,” you whispered.

He let out a shaky breath. “Good.”

In that moment, you realized the banter wasn’t just banter anymore. It was a lifeline—something sharp and bright that bound you together in a city that wanted to tear you both apart. The cracks in his armor were there, and they matched the ones in yours perfectly.

For the first time since meeting him, you let yourself hope that maybe—just maybe—you weren’t alone anymore.

It started with intel on the Jackal cartel’s main shipment—your chance to end the case once and for all. You and Red Hood geared up in tense silence. He checked your harness twice, fingers lingering on the straps across your shoulders. You batted him away with a glare, but your heart thundered at the way his hand trembled just slightly when it brushed your collarbone.

The warehouse was on the river docks, rusted and sprawling. You infiltrated from the shadows, moving in near-perfect sync. He cleared the catwalks while you slipped between crates below, your comms crackling with hushed updates. It was the kind of mission that should’ve ended with victory.

Until it all went to hell.

A stray guard spotted you, raising the alarm. Floodlights snapped on, blinding white beams sweeping across crates and scaffolding. Gunfire erupted, bullets sparking off metal. You dove for cover behind a steel container as chaos swallowed the night.

You shouted into your comm. “I’m pinned on the lower level!”

“Stay there,” he growled back, voice taut with a fury you’d never heard from him before. “I’m coming.”

But you didn’t stay. You never did. You dashed across open ground, crossbow bolts taking down two men before they could flank you. Another rose behind a stack of barrels, rifle already leveled. You were too slow.

The shot rang out like a thunderclap. Pain exploded across your ribs. You staggered, breath knocked from your lungs, knees threatening to buckle. Blood seeped hot and sticky through your suit.

Time seemed to slow. You looked up in a haze just in time to see Red Hood vault the second-floor railing, landing in a crouch beside you. His guns roared, deafening in the enclosed space. Every shot found its mark, precise and deadly. He moved with a fury you’d never witnessed, tearing through the cartel enforcers with surgical brutality.

You blinked blearily, mind swimming with shock. He caught you before you could hit the ground, hauling you upright, arm braced tight around your waist. His breath rasped against your ear as he dragged you behind cover.

“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” he snarled, voice breaking.

You tried to laugh but coughed instead, pain flaring through your side. “Bossy… even now…”

His helmet clicked back and forth as he scanned you, gloved hands pressing against your wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. His grip was almost frantic. “Stay with me,” he barked again. “Stay awake.”

Through the fog of pain, you registered the tremor in his voice. It wasn’t anger—it was fear.

The cartel’s reinforcements poured into the warehouse. Hood rose above you like a dark storm, unloading clip after clip, cutting down everyone who dared approach. You could only watch, propped against a crate, as he fought like a man possessed. Every time an enemy got close, he put himself between you and the danger, taking hits to his armor that would’ve ended you.

The last of the gunmen fell with a strangled cry. The silence that followed was deafening. He staggered back to you, breathing ragged inside his helmet. His hands hovered uncertainly before he pressed them to your cheeks, forcing your gaze to lock with his.

“You’re okay,” he panted, voice raw. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“I told you,” you whispered, voice weak but steady, “I don’t run.”

His chest heaved, and then he was tearing his helmet off, tossing it aside with a clatter. His hair was sweat-soaked, eyes blazing bright blue in the warehouse lights. His face was a map of desperation—jaw clenched, eyes wide with terror. He cupped your face with shaking hands.

“Don’t do that to me again,” he said, voice cracking on every word. “Don’t you dare scare me like that.”

You reached up, resting your bloody hand over his. “I’m right here.”

His eyes flicked to your lips, back to your eyes, and something in him snapped. He kissed you—fierce, desperate, like he was trying to pour every unspoken word into you all at once. You gasped, pain forgotten as your fingers tangled in his hair. The kiss was messy and raw, but it felt like life itself.

He broke away only when you both needed air, resting his forehead against yours, breath mingling in shallow, ragged puffs. “I thought I lost you,” he whispered.

You swallowed hard. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

He let out a broken laugh, somewhere between relief and disbelief. His thumb traced your cheekbone, smearing your blood across his skin. “Good,” he said hoarsely, pressing another quick, desperate kiss to your forehead.

He carried you out of the warehouse, refusing to let you walk despite your protests. His arms were strong and warm, cradling you to his chest like you weighed nothing. You rested your head against him, listening to the furious hammer of his heart. It matched your own.

At the safehouse, he laid you on the couch with a gentleness that made tears prick your eyes. He worked quickly, stripping away your ruined armor, cleaning and bandaging your wound with efficient hands that trembled every time they touched your skin. His eyes never left your face.

“You’re going to be okay,” he murmured, over and over, like a prayer.

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” you croaked, managing a shaky smile.

“Both,” he admitted, voice ragged.

When you were stable, he collapsed on the floor beside you, one hand still gripping yours like a lifeline. He stayed awake all night, eyes red and hollow, watching over you.

In the days that followed, you caught him staring at you with a haunted look when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Every time you moved, his hand would dart out to steady you, as though afraid you’d vanish if he looked away for even a moment.

The banter returned, but it was softer now—less barbed, more playful.

“You’re the worst patient,” he grumbled one morning when he caught you trying to sneak out of bed.

“And you’re the worst nurse,” you shot back with a grin. “Do you even know how to make soup?”

He leaned down, brushing his lips across your forehead. “No. But I know how to shoot anyone who tries to hurt you.”

You laughed, heart aching in a way that was almost sweet. He kissed you again—gentler this time, lingering, like he wanted to memorize the feel of your mouth. You kissed him back with everything you had.

It wasn’t just banter anymore. It wasn’t even just trust. It was something deeper—something terrifying and wonderful all at once.

And for the first time, you both let yourselves feel it.

The days after the warehouse ambush blurred together, each one quieter than the last. It was strange, almost unsettling, how peaceful things became. The Jackal cartel scattered in the wake of your victory, and the city itself seemed to exhale, giving you both a rare sliver of calm.

You spent most of your time in his safehouse, a spartan apartment tucked above an abandoned movie theater. It smelled faintly of gun oil and old books. Dusty movie posters still lined the hallway downstairs, their faded colors hinting at a time when this place had been full of laughter instead of shadows.

One morning, you woke sprawled on his couch, tangled in a blanket far softer than you expected him to own. You could feel him before you saw him—warmth radiating from where he sat at the edge of the couch, armor gone, dark t-shirt rumpled, hair tousled. He was reading your case notes, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Morning,” you croaked, voice scratchy with sleep.

His head jerked up, eyes softening when they landed on you. “You should still be resting,” he said, but there was no bite in his tone.

You stretched, wincing slightly at the pull of your healing wound. “I’ve rested enough. You know I hate sitting still.”

A wry smile ghosted across his lips. “That’s obvious.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your hair back from your face with a gentleness that made your chest ache. You leaned into his touch without thinking, craving it, needing it. He hesitated only a moment before letting his hand linger, thumb stroking your cheek.

He started showing up at your side with little things you never asked for but always needed: a mug of coffee exactly how you liked it, fresh bandages before you ran out, takeout from the Thai place you’d once mentioned loving. The first time, he set a container of pad thai in your lap without a word, then sat across from you with his helmet off, hair damp from the rain. He acted like it was nothing, but you caught the faint flush in his cheeks when you thanked him.

“Didn’t peg you for someone who takes dinner orders,” you teased, poking at your noodles.

His eyes flicked up, lips quirking. “Didn’t peg you for someone who snores.”

Your jaw dropped. “I do not snore.”

He leaned back, smirk wide and smug. “You absolutely do.”

You launched a throw pillow at his head. He caught it easily, tossing it back without breaking eye contact. Laughter bubbled up in your chest, bright and sharp. It echoed around the safehouse, filling it with something warm and alive.

The banter became a constant soundtrack: teasing each other over burned eggs when you tried to cook; bickering about the best Gotham dive bars; arguing about which of you looked cooler scaling rooftops. Sometimes the words came out sharp, but the edges were soft, cushioned with affection neither of you dared name.

One evening, he came home late, armor scuffed, eyes hollow. You were curled up on his couch with a book, but the moment the door opened, you knew something was wrong. You stood quickly, reaching for him.

“What happened?” you demanded.

He shook his head, dropping his helmet with a clatter. His hands trembled as he unfastened his chest plate, breath ragged. You helped him peel it away, heart pounding at the new bruises blooming across his ribs.

“It was a setup,” he ground out, voice hoarse. “Someone tipped them off. It was supposed to be a quick bust—”

“You’re okay,” you cut in firmly, pressing your palms against his chest to steady him. “You’re here. You’re okay.”

He let out a shuddering breath. “I… I thought I’d be too late to see you again.”

Your own breath caught. His eyes, dark and open, reflected your own fear back at you. Without thinking, you pulled him down into a fierce, desperate kiss. He melted into you instantly, arms wrapping tight around your waist, holding you like you were the only thing tethering him to the world.

When you finally pulled back, both of you gasping, you rested your forehead against his. “You’re not allowed to die,” you whispered fiercely.

A soft huff of laughter warmed your cheek. “Same goes for you.”

Nights blurred together. Some were spent curled up together on the couch watching old movies with the volume too low to hear, but neither of you cared. Others passed with you sprawled across his chest, tracing the scars along his arms while he told you where each one came from, voice hushed and raw.

“I got this one the first time I tried to do things my own way,” he murmured one night, guiding your fingers over a long, puckered line on his shoulder.

You swallowed hard. “Does it still hurt?”

“Only when it rains,” he admitted, smirking faintly. Then his expression softened. “It doesn’t hurt right now.”

You kissed him then, slow and gentle, savoring the quiet peace of the moment. The world outside the safehouse felt distant, like it couldn’t reach you here.

Sometimes you cooked together—if it could be called cooking when he mostly leaned against the counter watching you, arms crossed, eyes soft as he pretended not to hover. You burned the pancakes once and tried to hide the evidence by scraping them into the trash, but he caught you, arms wrapping around your waist from behind.

“Trying to poison me, princess?” he rumbled into your ear, breath sending shivers down your spine.

“Trying to spare you,” you retorted, but you couldn’t keep the laughter out of your voice.

He spun you around, kissing you breathless against the counter. When you pulled away, you were both smiling so hard it hurt.

Every day, the safehouse grew more like a home: your gear on the same hooks as his, your boots next to his heavy combat boots, your coffee mugs side by side on the kitchen counter. It terrified you how quickly you adjusted to sharing a space with him—but it felt right, like breathing.

The banter was still there, silly and constant, but now it made your heart ache with how easy it felt. It was no longer about one-upping each other or hiding vulnerability; it was your way of saying you were there, that you’d catch each other if you fell.

One quiet night, you lay together on the couch, his hand tracing idle patterns on your hip. Rain pattered softly against the window. He pressed a kiss to your temple, voice low.

“You know,” he murmured, lips brushing your hair, “I think I’d go insane without you.”

Your heart stuttered. You tilted your head up, catching his eyes. “Lucky for you,” you whispered back, “I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time, it felt like you both truly believed it.

The peace couldn’t last forever. Gotham had a way of reminding you that hope was a fragile thing. It started with a tip about a new player moving into the Jackal cartel’s old territory, a ruthless mercenary who’d already left bodies in their wake. You and Red Hood spent days tracking them across the city, sleep-deprived and tense, falling back into the frantic rhythm of missions.

You’d just finished a stakeout when you found yourselves arguing in the safehouse kitchen, tempers frayed and voices sharp. You were exhausted, scraped raw by the endless nights, and every word felt like a spark in dry tinder.

“You should’ve waited for me,” he snapped, hands braced on the table between you, eyes blazing. “You nearly got yourself killed—again.”

“I had a shot!” you shot back, throwing your hands up. “I wasn’t going to let him get away because you were ten blocks over—”

“I told you to wait!” His voice cracked, loud enough to make the walls vibrate.

You froze, breathing hard. His face was flushed with anger, but underneath it you saw the terror—the same look he’d worn in the warehouse when you were bleeding out. The realization hit you like a punch.

“Why do you even care so much?” you demanded, voice softer but trembling. “Why does it matter to you if I get hurt?”

He slammed his hands on the table, leaning closer until you were nose to nose. “Because I—” He broke off, chest heaving. His eyes searched yours desperately, words choking in his throat.

Your heart thundered, the silence stretching tight and fragile between you. “Because you what?” you whispered, voice barely audible.

He reached out, cupping your face so suddenly and fiercely that your breath caught. “Because I can’t lose you,” he rasped, voice raw and shaking. “Because every time you run into danger, I feel like I’m dying. Because—” His thumb brushed your cheek, smearing a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “Because I love you.”

The words hit you harder than any blow you’d ever taken. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. The city outside fell away, the roar of rain on the window a distant whisper. All you could hear was your heartbeat and the ragged sound of his breath.

“You… you love me?” you choked out.

His hand trembled against your skin. “I tried not to. God, I tried. But you—” His voice cracked again. “You got under my skin, and I can’t imagine this… any of this… without you.”

You stared at him, your chest tight, your world tilting. You’d known, of course—known in every lingering touch, every desperate kiss, every time he’d pulled you from the jaws of death. But hearing it out loud shattered something inside you, something you’d been holding together with stubborn pride.

“I love you too,” you whispered, tears spilling freely now. “I love you so much it scares me.”

He let out a strangled noise, half-laugh, half-sob, before surging forward to kiss you. It was different this time—no longer desperate, but fierce with relief, with all the words you’d both left unspoken for too long. His hands threaded through your hair, yours fisting in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer.

When you finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, you were both gasping, eyes wet. He searched your face like he was memorizing every freckle, every scar, every crack in your armor.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered hoarsely.

You swallowed hard, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “You deserve everything, Hood. Especially this.”

His lips quirked faintly. “Call me Jason,” he murmured. “Please.”

The name fell from your mouth like a secret. “Jason.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like hearing it from you was a balm. When they opened again, they were softer than you’d ever seen them. “Say it again.”

“Jason,” you repeated, voice breaking on the word.

He kissed you again, slow and reverent, like he was savoring the taste of his own name on your lips. It was the kind of kiss that made promises without words — the kind that said you were his, and he was yours.

That night, you ended up curled together on his narrow bed, limbs tangled, your head tucked under his chin. Rain pattered softly outside, the city strangely quiet, as if it, too, was holding its breath.

“You know,” you murmured into the darkness, voice muffled by his shirt, “this doesn’t mean I’m going to start listening to you.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, warm and safe. “Wouldn’t have you any other way.”

His hand skimmed up and down your back, grounding you. You traced circles on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. It calmed you in a way nothing else ever had.

“You’re stuck with me now,” you whispered, half-teasing, half-terrified of how much you meant it.

“Good,” he replied softly, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Because I’m not letting you go.”

In the days that followed, everything felt different. Lighter, even in the darkness of Gotham. He still hovered protectively when you geared up for patrol, but now his touches lingered — a hand at the small of your back, a brush of his knuckles against your cheek. You found yourself watching him too, memorizing the rare curve of his smile, the way his eyes softened when they met yours.

The banter was still there, sharper than ever but now threaded with warmth.

“Try not to get yourself shot tonight,” he muttered as you checked your weapons.

You raised an eyebrow. “Only if you promise not to brood so hard you forget to duck.”

“Deal,” he said, smirking as he pulled you in for a quick, bruising kiss.

You both knew Gotham wouldn’t give you a fairy tale. But for the first time, you felt like you’d carved out something real in the cracks of the city — something worth fighting for.

And when you swung through the night together, side by side, you moved like two halves of the same whole: sharp, unstoppable, and utterly in love.

Gotham was a different place in the early hours before dawn. The streets were slick with rain, the neon signs still humming quietly. The city’s chaos seemed to hold its breath during those brief, hushed moments — and it was in those spaces you and Jason found your peace.

You sat together on a rooftop ledge high above the East End, legs dangling over the abyss, coffee cups steaming in your hands. The skyline stretched around you, jagged and dark, punctuated by the occasional flare of police sirens or distant gunfire. But it all felt far away now.

“You know,” you said softly, watching the first hint of sunrise burn the clouds orange, “this might be my favorite part of the day.”

Jason shifted beside you, his shoulder pressing warm against yours. “Because it’s quiet?”

“Because it’s ours,” you corrected, turning to catch his eyes. They reflected the dawn, pale blue and full of things you still couldn’t quite believe you were allowed to see.

A slow smile tugged at his lips. “Ours,” he echoed, like he was trying out the word for the first time.

You nudged him lightly with your shoulder. “What, surprised I can be sentimental?”

“I just thought you’d say your favorite part was blowing up a meth lab,” he teased, eyes glinting with mischief.

You huffed a laugh, rolling your eyes. “That’s a close second.”

In the weeks since your confession, you’d both learned how to exist in each other’s orbit without fighting every step of the way. The banter was still there, alive and well, but it had settled into something comforting instead of combative. Every word, every eye roll, every smirk felt like a reminder of how far you’d come.

You were still stubborn. He was still reckless. But now when you fought, it was followed by laughter, or a kiss, or the quiet comfort of lying together in the dark until the world made sense again.

You’d even started leaving things at his safehouse without realizing it: your spare grappling hook in the weapons rack, your toothbrush in the bathroom, your favorite sweatshirt draped over his couch. One night, you found a drawer in his dresser empty except for a note scrawled in his jagged handwriting: For your stuff. Stay.

You’d stared at the note so long you nearly missed him leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with a look so soft it took your breath away. “Told you you’re not getting rid of me,” you’d said.

“Wasn’t trying to,” he’d replied, pulling you into his chest.

One rainy night, you were ambushed again in an abandoned subway station. The two of you moved together like a single shadow: silent, deadly, unstoppable. But when one of the last attackers tried to flank you, Jason stepped in front of the blade meant for your throat, taking a shallow cut across his ribs.

You froze. The world shrank to the sight of his blood soaking into his suit.

“Jason!” you shouted, voice hoarse with terror.

“I’m fine,” he ground out, but his hand trembled as he held his side. You pressed yourself into him, scanning the darkness for more enemies, breathing hard.

“Stay behind me,” he snapped.

“Not happening,” you shot back, planting yourself at his side. “I’m not losing you either.”

The fight ended in seconds, but the fear lingered long after. Back in the safehouse, you patched him up in silence, your hands shaking. When you finished, you sat back on your heels, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Hey,” he murmured, reaching for you. His fingers brushed your jaw, his touch gentle. “I’m okay.”

“You can’t keep doing that,” you whispered, voice cracking. “You can’t keep throwing yourself in front of me.”

He pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your hair. “I will every time,” he whispered fiercely. “Because I love you more than I love breathing.”

You clutched him tighter, like you could fuse your hearts together if you just held on hard enough. “Then we protect each other,” you said fiercely. “Deal?”

He pulled back, eyes blazing even through the haze of pain. “Deal.”

That night, you fell asleep curled against his side, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only thing that kept your nightmares at bay. You woke to find him watching you, eyes soft, thumb stroking your cheek.

“Morning, princess,” he rasped, voice low and warm.

“Morning, Hood,” you teased, smiling sleepily.

He dipped his head, kissing you slow and deep. “Jason,” he corrected when he pulled back, eyes bright. “Call me Jason.”

“Jason,” you whispered, and the way his face lit up made your heart ache.

Weeks turned into months. You fell into a rhythm: nights spent on rooftops, days spent tangled in sheets or arguing over bad takeout. You still bickered — over who got the last egg roll, or whether you should go in quiet or loud — but it always ended in laughter, or kisses that left you both breathless.

One quiet morning, you stood side by side brushing your teeth, bumping elbows in the cramped bathroom. You caught each other’s eyes in the mirror and burst out laughing at the toothpaste foam on your lips. He leaned down, kissing you minty and sweet.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t perfect.

But it was yours.

A month later, you found yourselves on that same rooftop where you’d first realized you were more than reluctant partners. The skyline was darker now, storm clouds gathering on the horizon. But Jason’s hand found yours, his gloved fingers slotting perfectly with yours.

“Scared?” he asked softly, eyes never leaving the storm.

“Terrified,” you admitted honestly.

He looked at you then, eyes bright with everything you knew he couldn’t always say out loud. “Good,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your temple. “Means we’re still alive.”

You smiled, leaning into him. “Means we’re still us.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Together, you stepped into the storm — unbreakable, unstoppable, and finally whole.

[paraseleneg1rl]

Pet - Chapter 1

A Coriolanus Snow x reader fanfiction.

Summary: In a moment of weakness, Coriolanus finally gives in to temptation and decides to save you from Dr. Gaul's laboratory.

Chapter Summary: Your life takes a strange and unexpected new turn.

Warnings: Coriolanus Snow being Coriolanus Snow, Obsession, Obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, misogyny, captivity.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

A/N: This was not proofread so please excuse any mistakes lol and bare with my messing writing. Also, it's a bit of a slow burn, and I hope the story doesn't bore you. Let me know what you think, I appreciate all kinds of feedback!

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CHAPTER 1

"What an interesting turn of events. You've grown fond of your little pet."

Dr. Gaul appears to be all smiles after her apprentice's meager attempts at bargaining. A chuckle claws its way out, resonating from deep within the gut and all her vileness. At the grating sound of her mockery Coriolanus flushes red and clenches his jaw.

The silence in the laboratory begins to grow eery and suffocating. Now that the others have clocked out, he and Dr. Gaul are all that remain. Coriolanus had waited nervously for office hours to reach its end before approaching her with his frantic idea, hoping such measure would promise discretion.

"I assure you fondness has nothing to do with my request," murmurs Coriolanus, with half a mind to chuck the papers in his hands smack against her hideous, wrinkled face. It is with a great and most tiresome restraint that he manages to refrain at all. "And you know I don't usually do this but my circumstances leave me no choice."

"I may be an old woman, little boy. But don't mistake me for a fool."

How many times must he justify himself, he wonders, before she loses all enjoyment of witnessing him in this stiff display of frizzled nerves. It is despicable how easily she makes his skin crawl, how exposed and patronized he feels beneath her smug scrutiny.

"As I've said, Dr. Gaul, I'm only looking for a caretaker to look after my grandmother. From what i've read in her folder the girl has the right experience for this role."

It was the only excuse he could conjure at discovering the details of your past life, how you were a volunteer at an old folks home in 9 on your days off from the bakery.

"Why, I'll take your word for it then," another loud bark of a laugh from Dr. Gaul. A sly, sharp-edged kind that rouses suspicion on the validity of her statement. At this point Coriolanus desires nothing but to crawl back home, never to encounter her wretched grin again. "After all, I doubt you have the means to afford a Capitol nurse."

A sharp jab. The corners of his lips twitch with something of disdain as he begins to shrink into himself. It is no secret that the Plinths provide a generous allowance every now and then. Beyond those monthly stipends, however, there was little else in the way of sustenance.

His internship at the Citadel pays dust and Tigris continues making a pitiful wage slaving away for that miser Fabricia. With renovations well under way and bills stacked high, what little they have is already stretched thin.

"Right. So you are perfectly aware that I am asking for a reasonable favor." Coriolanus bites with a tightness in his jaw.

"And you are perfectly aware that I don't do favors, Mr. Snow."

"Deduct whatever she's worth from my allowance," says Coriolanus, his words accompanied by a quivering sigh he failed to confine. The gradual unravelling of composure. "Or I can work longer hours, whichever you wish. Surely we can reach an agreement one way or another."

Dr. Gaul responds with an amused look, one brow arched at the pathetic display in front of her, no doubt thoroughly enjoying the destruction of his facade. A fine porcelain now fractured and cracked. Why is it, Coriolanus muses, that she always happens to witness him in such disgraceful circumstances?

"Deduct your allowance," she mocked with an ugly chortle that felt derogatory to both the ears and the soul. "Do you have any idea, Mr. Snow, just how much my good friends are willing to pay out of their pockets for a new district mistress to warm their bed?"

"I..." Something akin to a ball sized lump lodges itself in his throat. He swallows it down with shame and an inaudible stammered reply. "Yes, well, I suppose—"

"Magnanimous amounts. Magnanimous. You could never outbid these men should you dare try."

Of course. What was he thinking anyway, coming up to Dr. Gaul with such naive fantasies? Was he out of his mind?

His throat expands and bile threatens to rise. A mighty weight burdens his head, pressing down on either sides with an agonizing pressure. For a miserable moment the room spins and turns.

"Lucky for you, young man," she continues, the delight in her guttural voice slathered thick over that fateful turn of phrase. "I am in a particularly curious mood. My, how fascinating. It would be our own little experiment."

"Experiment?" He fumbles for the right words, or more accurately a grasp on her dreadful riddle. Qualm and something akin to glee battle for dominance within the empty pit of his gut. "I'm sorry, I don't think I understand your meaning, Dr. Gaul."

"Of course you don't," she chuckles menacingly. With a wicked smile she pushes herself off her chair and turns to the corner of the lab.

In his puzzlement he finds himself hesitating, until the mad woman shoots him a quick glance at last without as much as a pause from her marching. He rushes over to her, realizing his mentor was heading right to the quarantine zone where you quietly lay asleep.

With Coriolanus at her heels, Dr. Gaul trails on lazily, only stopping once she reaches the thick glass of your enclosure. In his perplexity Coriolanus eyes the mad woman, apprehension brewing and curdling inside him at the sound of her baleful snigger. She peers through the glass, to which he follows suit.

How peaceful you look in your quiet slumber, with long lashes resting gently under the curved petal of your eyes. He can't help the electrical spark that jolts him awake when he looks at you.

It's the kind of stupidity only Lucy Gray had ever fueled. He chews nervously on the inside of his mouth, the emotions he had long harboured now entangled with one another.

His conflict drives him quiet. A part of him is certain that whatever he is doing is an obvious and marked deviation from his plans, so decidedly opposed to his good sense that Coriolanus is most certain he will blight himself for it later.

But another part, a small, self indulgent piece of him, continues to insist that this is the one and only way. That he can't and musn't surrender your fate to the hands of another man.

How should he sleep in the future with the memory of your gentle face branded onto the darkness behind his eyelids, all glass eyed and rosy cheeks, knowing fully well that you will then be at the hands of another. Your goodness forever soiled by their filth.

No, he won't have it. What would they know about handling a girl like you? Nothing. They would break you. Your kindness would crumble into obscurity under the weight of their evil. He isn't good himself, but he's known goodness in his life. And he won't let you be ruined the same way his Tigris had been.

"It is most peculiar to me how predictable men can be."

Ugh, that awful noise. Coriolanus snaps out of his daze, quick to find Dr. Gaul's amused stare.

He sighs. "If you aren't willing—"

"I'm not blind, Mr Snow. I could tell she had caught your eye from the very first day our peackeepers dumped her here with those other vermins."

"It's not like that." He retaliates with desperate haste, eyes fluttering to the stone floor, then back up to the glass doors — anything but the awful woman beside him, who's now evidently persistent on being a mindreader. "Really, I wish you wouldn't twist this into something it isn't, Dr. Gaul."

"Look at you," she cackles. "There is nothing to be ashamed of. It's only normal. Everybody knows people tend to grow somewhat...attached to their pets."

"She..." He clears his throat, hoping with all might that the warmth that had crept up his cheeks wouldn't manifest into bright color over the skin. And that term again...Pet. He isn't quite sure what to make of it. Curiously enough it doesn't elicit much of an awful feeling. No, not at all. "She will be working for me. For my grandma'am. That's all there is to it."

"I've seen you, Coriolanus Snow. You think you are above it all, above your own weaknesses. That nothing and no one can come in your way. Well, boy, you could fool your friends, and even your foe, but certainly not me. I for one have always known that you've never forgotten that poor songbird of yours. And your boyish fondness for helpless little damsels...That hasn't seem to have left your system either."

"If you're trying to intimidate me, Dr. Gaul, I have to tell you it's not working," his jaw clenches tight. They are still in the Citadel, for goodness sake. She has no business mentioning Lucy Gray, not after all that trouble they'd gone to together to wipe out every proof of her trivial existence. He swallows down his conflict and glances back to the glass, raging blue eyes now subdued as they land on you. Perhaps it was all a bad idea. At least he tried. "She's all yours. I should get going anyhow."

"Now, just a moment. Wipe that frown off your face," Dr. Gaul ejaculates in terrifying glee, her exclamation followed by a wretched burst of laughter, apparently entertained by his discomfort. "Don't you see, child? You are failing to rise above your desire! This, Coriolanus, is humanity undressed. All that animalistic need...I can see it clawing at you when you leer at your pretty fawn. Men like you pine for what they shouldn't have — Don't mistake my silence all this time for blindness to your turmoil. You and I both know you could devour her if only you were given the chance. Well, Mr. Snow, let me tell you, your head is surely losing that battle against your biology. You're a man and she a powerless thing. That would appeal to most anyone if only they allowed themselves to admit it. Human nature always wins after all."

"I am above it." Coriolanus snaps. "Above anything you think I'm not. She is district. And it's...You must excuse me Dr. Gaul but whatever you are implying, it is incredibly despicable. These accusations are filthy, they have nothing to do with me, and everything to do with your twisted ideas."

"Lets see if you still feel the same way once she's caged up in that house of yours," says Dr. Gaul. "Nowhere to go. Chained to your mercy. You could do anything you wanted to that girl of yours. Watch, then, how quickly your true nature overpowers all logic. All semblance of morality or humanity or social order you pretend to still have."

"This is absolute nonsense. I am not you, Dr. Gaul," Coriolanus sputters in anger. Or was it embarrassment? He could no longer tell. If it was any other situation Coriolanus would have punished himself for speaking against his mentor in such a way but this is turning to be much more different than her usual cheek. All this provocation was bringing his blood to a boil.

"Is it?" she retorts. "We are nothing but animals at the end of the day. Predator and prey. I know which one you are. You could trick yourself, and soothe that pitiful excuse of humanity you pretend you have left inside and drown in your self-indulgent delusions of being a savior. When I know for a fact, young man, that you have always been a starving wolf hunting for a little lamb. Nothing more, nothing less. Why is it, Mr. Snow, do you think those men are so desperately hungry for their district girls? You know as well as I do they like to consume and corrupt their prey. It makes them feel powerful, leaning into their natural instincts. And you are no different. The sooner that you accept that the easier for you it will be."

With every exhale his breaths come out ragged and harsh through his nostrils. How he despises the woman. What was she even rambling about, anyway?

Animal instincts and predator and prey and human nature. Nonsense, all of it. He's heard it before, and he could argue for it when it comes to the Games, but this? This has nothing to do with her awful ideas.

Sure he can admit he's a man with an attraction to a pretty girl but all that talk about corruption and consuming and prey is guff. Most of all it's stretching his patience thin.

And the gall to put him in the same league as those repulsive men...When in reality he is miles above them. Above them all, and their odious inclinations. What else were they besides idiots with a liking for foul district toys. Coriolanus swallows hard, his jaw tight. Dr. Gaul's been off her rocker a good while now, he reminds himself. This is her being true to her character and nothing else.

"What do you think made you pine for that little songbird of yours in the first place?" she continues, much to his vexation. "It made no sense in that mechanical head of yours, didn't it? Lucy Gray was a district chit. What good could she have brought you? Then of course you fooled yourself into believing it was... love. Ha! Delusions. I'll tell you what it was, Mr. Snow. It was precisely because she was district that you drove to such madness for her. Not love, whatever that silly word means. But she was beneath you, lesser than you in every way, powerless and impotent and helpess. Now that was the very source of all your affections. Oh, don't give me that look. It made you feel good, didn't it? She was in your palm, ready for you to crush. In the games, especially, Lucy Gray was at your mercy. Oh and how you loved it. To know in all confidence that she was yours, your songbird, your pet. Your possession...Well, until she flew away in the trees. But no matter. Now that you've found another pet you finally get to see your true colors again. How very predictable. Did I mention how predictable you men can be?"

Coriolanus grits his teeth at her mockery. He refuses to hear anymore of this. The nerve to speak of Lucy Gray! And to drive his name to the ground and cake it with mud and soot and filth like that...His nails dig painfully into the softness of both palms. Right as he turns to walk away, Dr. Gaul grabs him by the arm.

"We are no better than animals, Mr. Snow."

"If there's nothing else, i'm going home. I refuse to defend myself from such baseless accusations, and I won't beg you for a servant." He bites.

"Thankfully you won't need to!" she laughs with a bark. "The girl is all yours. We'll see, then, how long it takes for you to move past all those fine manners and all your faulty logic and at last accept that you are not in any way above your true nature. You'll thank me when you sink your claws in that poor little fawn of yours. And there's no reason to fret, in due time you'll forget the shame of it all. I for one, am most certainly looking forward to it. You can't let this bird go now, can you, Coriolanus?"

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You awake with something of a start, alarmed by the tugging sensation on your arm. The bright light flashing from above blinds you momentarily. Despite your foggy daze you manage to blink it away and find the person who had shaken you into consciousness, locking eyes with a familiar set of ocean blue. This is it, the thought comes to mind. This is finally it.

Those are the words chanted by the voice in back of your mind everytime you regain consciousness and wake from your restless dreams to him again. Him, the inscrutable boy with his white coat and white gloves and pearly white teeth. If he wasn't staring you down and jotting in his notes, he was stabbing a needle into your arm. And scarcely a word ever comes out of his mouth.

Snow. You've heard the other men and women in white beckon him by that name. That god-awful scientist lady with the crazy eyes and wild hair always did. That was Dr. Gaul, or so they called her.

With every liquid the two forced into your body you wondered if it would be the last. More often than not you were fairly convinced.

In the beginning it was petrifying to imagine that once you closed your eyes and drifted off into darkness you might never see the light again. It was easy to drown in that bone-chilling, violent sea of fear, as you sat all alone in confinement.

You remember trembling at just the sight of him, that boy of sharp edges and cold composure. After all, he was the reaper himself. Your life was in his hands.

But as time went on you couldn't help but pray that death would finally come to take you away. The wait was excruciating. The pain from all their sharp needles and colorful serums even more so.

Perhaps it is time that makes all things easier to navigate and the most painful truths more delicate pills to swallow, for as the days flew past, you began to slowly embrace the imminent end of your short life.

Out of every other choice it was the only merciful one. The idea of remaining in that glass coop and being that mad woman's lab rat for eternity seemed like torture. Just to imagine felt terrifying; it was despicable how these people proked and prodded your body as though you were nothing. Well, you suppose that was what you were to the Capitol anyway.

Death was the one light at the end of the tunnel. There was no escaping your fate.

Snow is looking down at you now, towering from your bedside with that bone chilling ice in his stare. Your dry lips parted mechanically to make way for a quivering breath.

It is difficult to ignore the perfect symmetry of his porcelain face, a clean canvas of sharp lines and high cheekbones, after all that time you spent in his company. Every feature that decorated his skin gave him a beauty so perfect, so void of any flaw, that it bordered on uncanny. You'd never seen a man quite as beautiful as him.

You take notice of his own thin lips, a curve of soft pink flesh unearthed from its usual tight line as they parted to speak, stirring inside you a boiling mess of anxiety and fear and curiosity alike. So seldom does he ever allow his voice out of its box that when he does it feels as heavenly as it does mortifying.

After all it is he who possesses the power. Should he command you to march the front steps of death's door nobody would stop him. Get up, you imagine him saying before taking you to another room. One where nobody thrown inside has ever come out of.

He purses his lips shut then separates them once more. The words seem to have dried on his tongue, clinging desperately to his silence, much too stubborn to leave. You're all too familiar with the feeling yourself. Barely a word has ever been spoken between the two of you. There was never a need for conversation.

"Get up." his words stumble out at last.

This is it.

The time has finally come.

Release. For so long you had spent much of your time imagining this particular moment, and now that it is here at last it feels both strange and unreal.

Would it be painful? Would a peacekeeper face you to the wall and plant a single bullet to the back of your head? You used to hope as much, it seemed the closest thingn to a merciful end, in comparison to the vast range of excruciating penalties they could very well subject you to.

And yet, at this very moment, as you slowly rise from the thin mattress of the bed, every limb on your body begins to tremble and grow weak. Just standing up feels laborious — had it not been for the firm grip on both your arms, clutched in place by the reaper himself, you would have fallen and melted onto the polished floor.

You pray your soul slips away as soon as the shot rings, that nothing more than a pinch will register when the metal burrows deep into your skull.

"Oh don't look so terrified," a familiar laugh bursts through. She's here, you can tell from that awful sound. You dare yourself to look up from the white coat in front of you and peek over his shoulder. His hands on your arms loosen their grip. "You're not in trouble, dear. He's not here to kill you. Not yet, at least."

Not yet.

"He is, however, here to take you with him. Now you'll be his darling little pet, no longer mine," she continues, baring her crooked teeth through a wide grin as she strolls through the room. "Though I doubt you ever were..."

You catch a glimpse of the man in front of you as he clenches his jaw, suddenly so quick to speak up. "What she means is that you will be working for me. Hurry now, I've wasted too much time here. Get dressed."

The demand comes with a brief flicker in those cerulean eyes. He chucks a folded piece of fabric onto the mattress and averts his gaze, wearing that same measured expression he often wore at every attempt of avoiding your naked form. He is a man after all, and you're no fool, no stranger to their stares even in clothes.

At unfolding the fabric on the bed you discover it's a dress. Pale blue linen, with short ruffled sleeves and loose white buttons running down the middle. It's a bit worn-out, evidently, but something to cover up with no less.

"Now, now, stop your shaking. Do try to be good for Mr. Snow," says Dr. Gaul with eerie delight. "Or he'll bite."

Her foreboding words leave you nauseous. Whatever she meant, you didn't like the sound of it. Mr. Snow himself seems no more pleased than you are. It is almost odd to see him in such a state, so bizzarely uncomposed and flustered, with that tension in his jaw and the shadow cast over his face.

"I...I don't understand," you manage to croak out a whisper, throat barren of any moisture from the cold and dry air.

"Patience. You will soon!" she chirps.

That sinister response only nettles your nerves. You slip nervously into the dress, feeling a little awkward doing so with an audience of two. Strangely enough it has grown easier to get undressed than to do the opposite.

"Go on," Dr. Gaul says with a sly leer, gesturing toward the door. "Leave the old coop for your shiny new one. How exciting for all of us...But don't walk too fast now, it'll make him nervous. He'll think you're fleeing!"

The last part conjures out of her core a paroxysm of wretched laughter. Your stomach coils uncomfortably, throat growing more and more parched with every word she speaks. Mr. Snow clears his own and storms out of the room, leaving you to drown alone in your confusion.

"Oh but before you leave, I must advise you this — don't be so foolish as to try and escape. I assure you little girl, Mr. Snow will catch you. That one has learnt from his mistakes."

[bitch-potatoes]

Completely forgot to post this when I updated this chapter but

CHAPTER 5 IS UP

and

WE OFFICIALLY HIT 500 HITS

Regulus spent the next day in bed, he did not appreciate how everything in life seemed to he tumbling infront of him. He had exams and assignments leering over his shoulder but all that filled his brain was his dying father and the fact his teacher had referred him to tutoring. Evan was in and out, delivering fresh water and taking stale food away, trying to get Regulus to talk. Every time Regulus would tell him to go and he would simply housekeep in silence after that.

There was an ugly crack on his phone screen from where it had met with the floor, several time now. Every time Regulus reread that stupid email he'd be filled with an impossible unshakeable feeling of failure. Every time his email pinged he prayed for a message saying it was all a mistake, it was a different student who needed extra help.

Instead the next email was from the perpetrator of the tutoring, it was short at least....

[abbotjack]

Booked for One

pairing : Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x fem!resident!reader

summary : A black-tie charity gala in Chicago. One bed. Months of tension. And a storm that forces both of you to stop pretending.

warnings/content : 18+ content, explicit sexual material (fingering, penetrative sex, condom use), strong language, emotionally repressed characters, unresolved sexual tension (resolved), jealousy, mutual pining, power dynamics (attending x resident), one bed trope, clothing sharing (his hoodie/boxers)

word count : 4,850

18+ ONLY MDNI, not beta read. Please read responsibly.

a/n : This is me projecting every inch of tension into one hotel room and letting it burn. Robby is so done pretending he doesn’t want her. She’s so done pretending it doesn’t wreck her. No further questions.

The Chicago skyline glittered beyond the ballroom windows like something out of a dream, but the room itself was thick with too much perfume and performative laughter to feel romantic. Somewhere between the crystal chandeliers and the overpriced floral centerpieces, you remembered: this was a charity gala, not a fairy tale. Not that you’d expected it to be one.

Your heels clicked confidently across the marble as you stepped into the crowd, the sound sharp and unapologetic. The red dress did exactly what it was meant to do—stop conversations mid-sentence. Backless, sculpted, slit high enough to make someone drop their champagne. Almost inappropriate. Almost. But cut with just enough class to keep mouths shut and eyes glued. You didn’t stumble into this look—you chose it. Every inch of it said exactly what you needed it to.

And beside you—silent, composed, unreadable—walked Dr. Michael Robinavitch.

Not behind. Not trailing. Beside. Step for step, shoulder to shoulder. Close enough that your perfume reached him, close enough that his silence pressed against your skin like static. The air between you practically hummed. No words were exchanged, but you felt his presence—intentional, sharp, heavy. Not accidental. Never accidental. He wore that tux like a threat and walked like he already regretted coming.

You didn’t blame him. He’d hated the idea of this from the moment the assignment hit both your inboxes. He spent most of the flight to Chicago muttering about schmoozing donors and dressing up for people who’d never seen what a ruptured spleen looked like in real life. Said if AGH wanted charm, they should’ve sent a PR team—not a trauma attending and a second-year resident.

But for all his complaining, he showed up anyway.

Beard neatly trimmed, jaw tight, suit tailored to the exact width of his frustration. He hadn’t bothered with a tie—left the top button undone and rolled his sleeves up in the car, like he couldn’t stand the performance of it all but still dared anyone to question whether he belonged.

Classic Robby.

All precision. All control. Except, maybe, for the way his eyes kept drifting back to you like he hadn’t meant to.

You’d felt it before you even got here.

The moment you stepped out of your hotel room earlier that evening, still adjusting the strap of your dress, you felt the air shift. His gaze had dragged down your spine like heat—slow, reluctant, and absolutely devastating. He hadn’t said a word. No compliment. Not even a grunt. Just stood there in the hallway, watching you like a problem he didn’t know how to solve.

Then you got into the car.

And now, here you were. Walking beside him like none of that tension had happened—like it wasn’t still buzzing under your skin.

He said nothing.

So, you flirted.

You’d barely handed off your coat when a man caught up to you. Mid-thirties, polished, expensive suit, and the kind of grin that usually came with a boarding group upgrade and a trust fund. His eyes dragged over you—slow, practiced—and landed on your badge.

“Emergency?” he asked, matching your stride.

You didn’t break pace. “That a problem?”

“No,” he said, trailing beside you now. “Just wasn’t expecting it. Not in that dress.”

“Guess I don’t dress for your expectations.”

He laughed under his breath, clearly intrigued. “Wasn’t trying to offend. You just... don’t look like you’ve pulled a chest tube.”

You glanced at him, expression unreadable. “You don’t look like someone who’s coded a patient without crying, but I’m not holding it against you.”

He blinked, thrown for half a second—then smiled, slower this time, like the game had just gotten interesting.

“Alright,” he said. “I deserved that.”

You gave a noncommittal shrug. “Probably.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Should I try again?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him—cool, steady, unreadable. Not interested, but not walking away either.

“If you want,” you said finally.

And then you turned, letting him follow you into the crowd. He kept close, too close, like he wasn’t used to being dismissed.

“I’m Lucas, by the way,” he said, offering it like a favor.

“Of course you are.”

He laughed under his breath, clearly not sure if it was a compliment. Robby was across the ballroom, watching it all.

You watched him back. The way his jaw clenched every time you touched Lucas’s arm, the way he barely blinked when Lucas leaned too close.

"You here alone?" Lucas asked.

"That depends," you said, voice light.

"On what?"

You looked past him. Past the buffet table. Past the sea of donors and old-money medicine. Straight into Robby’s eyes. And you smiled.

“On whether he comes over here or not.”

Lucas turned, confused. “Who?”

You just tipped your glass toward Robby.

Robby didn’t move. He just stared back—still, unreadable, drink untouched in his hand like he wanted to throw it at something.

You turned back to Lucas. “Nevermind.”

You ended up pressed against the gold-veined marble counter in the bathroom ten minutes later, Lucas’s mouth hot and insistent on yours, his hands already on your hips like he’d earned the right. The chill of the marble cut against the warmth pooling low in your body, but you didn’t stop him.

Outside, rain had started to streak across the windows—steady now, soft at first and building. You barely registered it. All you felt was Lucas’s palm dragging slowly up your thigh, slipping beneath the slit of your dress, fingers skimming skin like he expected you to beg for it.

He kissed like a man used to being told yes. Confident. Greedy. A little too practiced. His teeth grazed your lip, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a low hum as he pushed closer, like he couldn’t get enough of the way you tasted.

You let his hand slide higher. Let him mouth at your neck, at the soft line beneath your jaw. Let him tug the strap of your dress down far enough for the fabric to slide off your shoulder.

Your lipstick smeared between you. Your breath came faster than it should’ve. And all you could think about—even now—was how Robby hadn’t said a single goddamn thing about the dress.

Lucas tasted like champagne and ego. His hands were good. His mouth was eager. His knee pushed between yours and your back hit the mirror with a dull, aching thud.

“You’re unreal,” he muttered against your collarbone, breath hot, hand skimming the edge of your breast now. “Jesus.”

You tilted your head back and closed your eyes.

Pretending it was enough.

Pretending it didn’t burn.

Then, gently—too gently—you pressed your palm against his chest.

“I should go.”

Lucas blinked. “Seriously?”

You didn’t answer at first. You just looked at him, steady, breath catching, lips swollen from someone you didn’t want.

Then: “Yeah. Seriously.”

Not cold. Just done.

You slipped out before he could say anything else, smoothing your dress and swiping your thumb across your mouth.

Outside, rain ticked louder against the glass.

And just a few feet down the corridor, exactly where you didn’t want him to be—was Robby. Like he'd positioned himself there on purpose. Like he knew exactly where you’d be. His eyes tracked you the second you stepped back into the ballroom—sharp, steady, and unmistakably furious.

“Was that worth it?” Robby’s voice cut through the hum of the ballroom, low and sharp like a scalpel slipping beneath skin.

You froze mid-step, spine straightening. “What?”

He pushed off the column, slow and measured, like he’d been holding himself still for too long. “Lucas. From Hopkins, right? He’s been at a few of these things.” Robby’s voice was low, sharper than it had any right to be. “In the bathroom. That's how you planned to go about your night?”

You crossed your arms. “Careful. You’re starting to sound jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he said, stepping in closer. “I’m pissed.”

You lifted your chin. “Why? Because he touched me, or because I let him?”

His jaw flexed. “You really want me to answer that?”

“You’ve been watching me all night, Robby. If you had something to say, you could’ve said it before I walked away.”

“I didn’t think you’d let someone else touch you first.”

You laughed once, dry and humorless. “That’s on you.”

“Don’t twist this.”

You held his stare. “Don’t try to control something you keep pretending you don’t want.”

He stepped closer, voice rough. “You think I don’t want you?”

“I think you want me when it’s convenient. I think you want me more when someone else does.”

His eyes darkened. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it.”

He shook his head. “You walked out of that bathroom looking wrecked—and all I could think was, I should’ve been the one to ruin your lipstick.”

Your breath caught.

“I mean it,” he said, voice lower now, almost ragged. “I stood here like a fucking statue while he got to touch you. Got to taste you.”

“Then do something about it,” you snapped, the air between you flaring hot.

“I can’t,” he said, jaw tight. “Not here. Not when I’m still trying to be the version of me that’s good for you.”

Thunder rumbled outside, closer now. A gust of wind rattled the balcony doors, and someone across the room shut one with a sharp bang that turned a few heads. Staff began to move like shadows between tables, and the string quartet shifted into something slow.

“Why not?” you whispered.

“Because the second I touch you,” he said, “I won’t stop.”

A waiter brushed past with a tray, and the spell broke—the quiet clatter of silver on porcelain snapping the air between you.

You stepped back like it burned. “We should go.”

Neither of you said another word.

Minutes later, you sat stiff in the back seat of the Uber, arms crossed tight, trying not to look like your heart was still somewhere back in the ballroom. Robby stared straight ahead, one hand flexing on his knee, the other resting uselessly between you. The driver didn’t ask questions. Neither of you offered answers.

By the time you stepped back into the hotel, the lobby was chaos—umbrellas dripping onto the tile, soaked coats draped over chairs, luggage leaving wet trails across the marble.

You were halfway to the elevators when the concierge spotted you.

“Miss?” she called out gently. “Room 124?”

You turned, already bracing.

“There’s been a situation,” she said. “A pipe burst on the first floor. Maintenance was able to shut it off, but your room was affected.”

Your chest tightened. “Affected how?”

“Flooded,” she admitted. “We pulled what we could from your room and sent everything to the laundry department for evaluation.”

You blinked. “Evaluation?”

She hesitated. “Some items were soaked. Our team is assessing what’s salvageable.”

You didn’t need her to spell it out. You could picture it already.

Your suitcase—soaked through from the bottom up, clothes clinging to the lining like wet leaves. The silk sleep set you packed on a whim, twisted and ruined. Your toiletry bag overturned, mascara tubes and tampons and a busted travel-size mouthwash bobbing in shallow water. Your heels wrapped in white hotel towels like they’d been injured. Your charger? Fried. The paperback you'd half-finished on the plane? Warped and curling at the edges like a dried flower.

You didn’t want it assessed. You wanted it not to have happened.

“We’re also fully booked due to the weather,” she added, almost apologetic now. “We’ve had cancellations, stranded travelers, local walk-ins. There’s a waitlist, but we can’t guarantee anything for tonight.”

Of course not.

You stared past her, toward the barricaded hallway at the far end of the lobby. Caution tape. Industrial fans. A sign printed in sharpie: FLOOR CLOSED FOR CLEANUP—1st. You could hear the low, constant roar of air pushing moisture out of drywall.

“Fine,” you muttered, reaching for your phone. “I’ll find another hotel.”

You had barely tapped the screen when Robby spoke.

“She’s with me.”

You turned your head slowly. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“You don’t have a room,” he said, measured. “You don’t have clothes. You’re not getting another hotel this late.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“I’m not offering help.” He looked at you then—just once, jaw locked, eyes hard. “I’m not letting you walk around Chicago at midnight with a dead phone especially during a thunderstorm.”

That shut you up. Not because he was angry.

Because he was worried. And trying not to show it.

The concierge handed over a second keycard.

Robby took it before you could say anything.

Just like that.

Final. No discussion.

He didn’t even look at you as he turned toward the elevators.

You followed him.

The click of your heels echoed against the tile, sharp and precise. Rain streaked the windows behind the lobby seating area, lightning flashing faintly across the marble floor. Neither of you spoke.

“I don’t have anything to sleep in,” you said finally, your voice clipped.

“I’ve got boxers and a hoodie,” he answered without looking back.

You stopped. Right there in the middle of the lobby.

“Oh, perfect. I’ll just wear your hoodie like this is totally normal and not weird at all,” you said, tone sharp.

He turned—slow, deliberate. Shoulders tense, jaw tight.

“What’s your move, then? Wander around downtown at midnight in heels that are cutting off your circulation, soaked through, no phone, no plan?”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

His jaw ticked. “It’s a hoodie and boxers, not a wedding dress. Don’t flatter yourself.”

You blinked, slow. “Oh, I’m not. I just prefer not to sleep in something that smells like you’re still wearing it.”

He stepped in—closer than necessary. “You didn’t seem so bothered by that smell earlier. In the elevator. Or at the event.”

Your pulse jumped. You hated that it did.

You crossed your arms. “I’d rather not spend the night with someone who can’t stand to look at me.”

His eyes didn’t move from yours. “You’re not upset about me glaring.”

“Oh no?”

“No,” he said. “You’re upset because the wrong man undressed you with his eyes—and made a move before the one you wanted ever did.”

Your stomach dropped.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

He didn’t move. He didn’t smirk. He just let the words sit there between you, heavy and sharp and so goddamn true you wanted to slap him for it.

“Wow,” you breathed. “You’re a dick.”

“And you’re still standing here,” he said.

The elevator dinged.

You turned and walked in first.

He followed.

The doors slid shut behind you with a hush that felt like it should’ve echoed.

You stood a little too close to the mirrored wall. He stayed behind you, angled slightly off to the side. You watched him through the reflection. He wasn’t watching you, but he wasn’t relaxed either. His jaw was locked. His hands were in his pockets, knuckles tight enough to show through the fabric.

His chest rose slow. Measured. Controlled.

The air between you wasn’t just tense—it was alive. Like it had heard every word back in the lobby and didn’t believe either of you were done.

The elevator climbed.

At floor ten, your arms were crossed so tightly your shoulders ached.

At floor eleven, your pulse jumped just from the space between your hands and his body.

At floor twelve, he looked at you in the reflection—just a flick of his gaze—and your breath caught.

“We’re both adults,” he said.

Your voice barely made it out. “Barely.”

The elevator doors opened, and you stepped out before he could say anything.

His footsteps followed—steady, patient. The hall was quiet except for the distant hum of the rain hitting the windows at the end. The carpet muffled everything but your heartbeat.

He unlocked the door with one swipe of the keycard, then held it open. You didn’t look at him as you walked in.

You flicked the lights on.

And there it was.

One bed. Big. White. Obvious.

Robby walked in behind you, shutting the door with a soft click. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it neatly, like this was any other night.

You stared at the bed, then at him. Your voice was dry.

“Of course it’s one.”

He didn’t flinch. “Wasn’t expecting company when I booked it.”

You crossed your arms. “But when you offered to share—”

“I knew,” he cut in, voice smooth, unreadable. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t think to mention that part?”

He turned to face you fully, one brow lifting just slightly. “I had a single room. Why would it have two beds?”

You blinked at him, but he kept going, tone low and infuriatingly rational.

“Sorry, I forgot to ask the hotel for the ‘in case my coworker gets drenched and stranded’ package.”

You scoffed. “A heads-up would’ve been nice.”

He tilted his head, eyes skimming over you. “Right. And if I’d said, ‘It’s one bed,’ you’d have said what? ‘No thanks, I’ll sleep in a puddle’?”

You didn't answer.

He smirked. “Exactly.”

The silence stretched. Long enough to make the storm outside feel closer. You peeled your clutch from under your arm and set it on the dresser like it gave you something to do.

He crossed to his bag. Pulled out a hoodie and a pair of boxers, both folded with the kind of care you recognized in him—practical, precise. He set them down at the end of the bed.

“They’re clean,” he said. “Bathroom’s yours.”

You didn’t move yet. Just looked at the bed again. Then at him.

He hadn’t looked away once.

You took the clothes in one hand.

“So,” you said slowly. “We’re just gonna sleep next to each other like none of this ever happened?”

His voice didn’t waver. “Is that a problem?”

You raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. Can you keep your hands to yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Even if I wear this?” You lifted the hoodie an inch.

His gaze dropped for a single second. Just one. Then back up.

“Especially if you wear that.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t blink.

The moment hovered—thick and heavy with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then you turned toward the bathroom without responding.

The door clicked shut behind you, and you swore you could still hear the sound of him exhaling—low and rough, like he was trying not to want something he didn’t have permission to reach for.

The bathroom was quiet except for the faint hum of the fan and the thunder outside.

You reached behind you, fingers brushing the zipper. It slid down with a soft sigh, the dress loosening around your frame. The straps slipped off your shoulders, and the fabric followed, slow and heavy, like it didn’t want to let go.

It fell in a hush against the tile—crimson and careless at your feet.

You stepped out of it without hesitation.

His hoodie came next. It was oversized and warm. The sleeves hung past your hands, the hem grazing your thighs. You pulled on the boxers last. Loose, low, unfamiliar. You kept one hand on the waistband, like that might anchor you.

In the mirror, you didn’t look like the girl who’d worn that dress. You looked like someone else entirely—bare legs, messy mascara, lips still parted from things unsaid.

Like someone who’d made a choice.

Even if you hadn’t figured out what it meant yet.

When you opened the door, the lights in the room had dimmed. Only one lamp was still on, casting a warm glow over the bed and wall. The storm outside had deepened to a constant rhythm—rain tapping like fingers against glass, thunder slow and low in the distance.

Robby had moved. He was no longer standing.

Now he was sitting in the chair by the window, already in his pajamas. But the second you stepped out, he looked.

And stayed looking.

His gaze dragged from your legs to the oversized hoodie, to the hand resting at your hip like you didn’t quite trust the boxers not to fall. Then to your face.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

The air in the room changed. Tightened. Coiled.

You walked past him in silence, slid into the bed slowly—like you weren’t listening for the hitch in his breath, even though you were. The sheets were cold. Your skin prickled beneath the fabric, awareness spreading like a pulse.

You heard him stand.

Not right away. Not fast.

Just... eventually.

The creak of the chair. The soft thud of his steps against the carpet. The flicker of the switch. Then the dip of the mattress behind you.

He pulled the blanket up slowly. Settled on his back. Close, but not touching.

You stared at the ceiling. Felt the heat of him beside you—close, steady, impossible to ignore. Six inches of space. Maybe less.

And then you moved.

Not much. Just enough for the blanket to pull tighter across your hips, for the edge of your thigh to graze his under the sheets. It was barely contact.

But it felt like heat.

You knew he felt it too—because he stilled.

His breath caught, just slightly, like his lungs had registered something his mouth hadn’t been cleared to speak on. You could feel the way he was holding himself back. The way every inch of him had been still and disciplined until now, and now… now he wasn’t.

"Robby," you whispered.

He turned his head toward you.

Just a glance. But in it—everything. The tension. The ache. The silent plea for permission. Or for you to stop him before he crossed a line he couldn’t walk back from.

You didn’t.

Instead, you reached out—slow, careful—and let your hand find his forearm beneath the blanket. Warm skin. Solid muscle. He tensed at your touch, but didn’t move.

So you let your hand drift down, sliding along the inside of his wrist until your fingers brushed his.

He hesitated.

Then laced them through yours like he couldn’t help it.

That was all it took.

His fingers slipped free again, and his hand moved—up your arm, slow and deliberate. Not over the fabric. Under it. He pushed the hoodie up just enough to touch your bare skin, his palm dragging heat along the dip of your waist, the soft slope of your stomach. He moved closer, his leg brushing yours beneath the blanket, chest barely grazing your shoulder.

Your breath caught.

He heard it.

He hovered above you now, weight on one elbow, eyes locked on yours in the dark.

You reached up and found the side of his neck. Warm, tense, familiar.

That was enough.

He kissed you—deep, slow, but hungry. Not rushed. Just built-up control finally cracking. His hand slid higher beneath the hoodie, fingers spreading across your bare ribs, then rising to cup your breast—skin to skin. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and you gasped, the sound catching between your mouths.

He pulled back a breath’s distance, just enough to look down at you.

“You knew,” he said roughly.

Your lashes fluttered. “Knew what?”

His eyes dragged over your face. “That I wouldn’t stop if I touched you.”

You didn’t answer. You just arched into him, hips tilting, hand reaching for the hem of his shirt. Your fingers found the edge and pushed up, knuckles brushing his stomach.

He moved to help, lifting his arms, letting you tug the shirt over his head and toss it aside. Then he leaned back, one hand tugging the blanket down from both your bodies, eyes never leaving yours.

His chest rose and fell—slow, deliberate, barely in control. And he was still watching you like he hadn’t even started.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of the boxers.

You gasped—quiet, sharp—and he froze.

“Okay?” he asked, voice hoarse against your throat.

“Yes,” you said. “Don’t stop.”

He groaned—quiet, guttural—and kissed you again, his fingers sliding through you slowly, then sinking deep. One, then two.

The hoodie stayed on.

But everything underneath it was his now too.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“I think I do,” you said, breathless.

He kissed you again, but this time deeper—tongue sliding against yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like restraint finally breaking. His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, then your neck, slow and deliberate, as if he was testing how far you’d let him go.

You didn’t stop him.

You tipped your chin up and gave him more.

“You’re soaked,” he said, voice dark. “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I’ve been like that all night.”

His hand moved in slow circles over your clit. You arched into him.

“Robby—”

“Fuck, you feel—” He cut himself off with another kiss. His forehead rested against yours, breaths coming fast now. “Don’t rush me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re shaking.”

“You’re making me.”

He added another finger. Your hips jerked, and he caught them with his other hand, holding you still while he fucked you slow with his fingers—deep, steady, curling in all the right ways. You whimpered into his mouth.

“Look at me,” he said roughly.

You did.

His pupils were blown wide. His jaw tight. His fingers still moving, still coaxing, still building the ache that had started the second he offered you this bed.

“Tell me when.”

Your breath broke. “Almost—don’t stop.”

His thumb pressed against your clit, just enough pressure to push you over. You came with a gasp—hips trembling, body curling into his. He kissed you through it, slow and open-mouthed, like he was breathing you in.

When your body stopped trembling, you reached for his waistband and pulled it down. He was hard. Thick. Heavy in your hand.

You stroked him once, twice—slow, just to feel the way his body jerked under your touch. His eyes fluttered shut, jaw clenching hard as your thumb teased the underside of his cock.

“Condom?” you asked, voice low.

“Top drawer,” he said. “I checked earlier.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Hopeful?”

“Prepared.” he muttered.

You fished it out and handed it to him. He rolled it on with shaky hands, then settled between your legs again—his hips aligned with yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other curling under your thigh.

He paused. “Last chance.”

You locked your eyes on his. “Shut up and fuck me.”

He pushed in with one slow, smooth thrust—stretching you open inch by inch, until your back arched and your nails dug into his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he gritted out, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel like—”

“Move.”

He did.

Long, deep strokes that built slow—his body pressed against yours, breath hot against your cheek, the bed shifting beneath you. His hips rolled just right, his rhythm steady but desperate, each thrust dragging a sound out of your throat you couldn’t have silenced if you tried.

You wrapped your legs around him, ankles hooking behind his back, dragging him deeper. His hand slid under the hoodie, found your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until you cried out.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come again.”

He angled his hips and thrust again—harder now, rougher, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room. You moaned into his mouth, fingers clawing at his back as your body built again, tighter, hotter.

Then you broke.

Your climax hit fast—sharp, shattering. You buried your face in his neck and held on as he fucked you through it, thrusts stuttering, voice breaking on a groan.

“Fuck—I’m—”

He followed you over the edge with one last deep thrust, his body shaking above you, hips grinding into yours as he spilled into the condom with a low, guttural noise that sounded like surrender.

When it was over, he collapsed half on top of you, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat.

Neither of you spoke.

You lay there tangled in each other, his hoodie bunched around your waist, your breathing slowly syncing with his. His hand rested on your thigh—still, warm, unhurried. Gentle in a way that felt unfamiliar for both of you.

The storm outside had quieted to a hush, rain tapping a soft rhythm against the windows like it was trying not to interrupt.

Minutes passed.

Then, quietly—like it had been sitting on his tongue all night—he said, “You looked really beautiful in that dress.”

Your heart stuttered.

You turned your head just enough to look at him. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Didn’t think I should.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just watched him, his features softer now in the dim light, his usual armor cracked wide open.

After a moment, you whispered, “I waited for you to.”

His fingers flexed lightly on your thigh, like the weight of your words hit somewhere deep.

“I know,” he said again, barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t forgive him out loud. You didn’t need to.

You just shifted closer, let your leg hook over his, and finally let yourself exhale.

Not everything had to be said right now.

But for the first time in a long time, it felt like something had changed.

And neither of you reached to undo it.

[7-deadly-cats]

·.✿ killing me softly

M A S T E R L I S T // O N G O I N G S E R I E S

✿ G E N R E ✿ she fell first, he fell harder | slice of life | drama

!!! images are not depicting reader’s appearance. only capturing vibes !!!

✿ P A I R I N G ✿ s1!rafe cameron x overthinking!reader (f)

✿ G E N E R A L C W ✿ ➥ suggestive themes & light steam but smut-free main story ➥ explicit content (if any) in separate extras or will be marked as such

swearing, strong/suggestive/unfiltered language (dirty jokes & sometimes references to sex but honestly nothing explicit), suggestive themes, lots of overthinking/awkwardness from reader's side, hints at anxiety, tension, drama, attempt at canon!season1!rafe, reader and rafe are both 18

✿ S Y N O P S Y S ✿ your senior year of high school started, and you're just trying to make it through without completely falling apart. easy enough—until you're paired up with rafe cameron for a two-week project in art class. no big deal… except for the fact that you've been lowkey crushing on this guy since fifth grade, and saying hi without spiraling into a thousand worst-case scenarios? yeah, not exactly your style. so when caution and overthinking crash into impulsiveness and intensity, things are bound to get messy. he's pushy where you're hesitant, instinct-driven where you're always second-guessing, and somehow, the two of you drive each other crazy in ways that aren’t always for the better. but differences like that don’t always end in disaster—sometimes, they create the kind of chaos neither of you can walk away from unchanged. and while you're just trying to survive the two weeks without turning into a total awkward mess, rafe finds his patience tested, and every principle he's ever stood by starting to come undone.

✿ A B O U T R E A D E R ✿ ➥ meet killing me softly!reader NO description of her appearance except that she’s abled

✿ A / N ✿ i wanna try doing things organically aka developing their dynamic in a way that's not too rushed. this fic is a mix of everything. fluff, comedy, suggestive themes, jealousy, angst, drama. it’s an attempt at showing something real.

+ at some point there’ll probably be some mildly suggestive scenes (making out) and hints at intimacy but probably nothing too explicit (i’ll def put a cw and make it skippable if it does happen)

+ changed my posting rhythm; pls read this announcement for more information

+ this series will contain approx. 30 chapters

+ it's mostly written story with some smau elements (chats)

✿ A D D I T I O N A L S T U F F ✿ ➥ S U M M A R Y O F E V E R Y P A R T ➥ A S K S ➥ M E M E S

i highly recommend reading all extras for the whole experience + adds a lot of bg info to the main plot ☆ indicates explicit content // 18+ // mdni

✿ P A R T O N E

✿ P A R T T W O

✿ P A R T T H R E E

✿ P A R T F O U R

✿ P A R T F I V E

✿ P A R T S I X

✿ P A R T S E V E N

✿ P A R T E I G H T

✿ P A R T N I N E

✿ P A R T T E N

✿ P A R T E L E V E N

✿ P A R T T W E L V E

➥ E X T R A // rafe confronting topper about his ride offer

➥ E X T R A // wheezie teaching rafe reaction pics

✿ P A R T T H I R T E E N

✿ P A R T F O U R T E E N

✿ P A R T F I F T E E N

✿ P A R T S I X T E E N

✿ P A R T S E V E N T E E N

➥ E X T R A // rafe buying you a gift at the gas station

✿ P A R T E I G H T T E E N

✿ P A R T N I N E T E E N

✿ P A R T T W E N T Y

➥ E X T R A // rafe has a solo session thinking of you / ☆

✿ P A R T T W E N T Y - O N E

✿ P A R T T W E N T Y - T W O

✿ P A R T T W E N T Y - T H R E E (soon)

...

✿ F I N A L E

R. C. M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M

[stevie-petey]

GASOLINE (S.H.)

it starts out simple enough.

photograph the februarys in exchange for a cheap place to live. all you have to do is go to their gigs, take a few pictures, and hope that they like them.

it starts out simple enough.

until the bands frontman, steve harrington, begs for more.

CONTAINS: fem!reader, slow burn, roommates to friends to are they lovers ? (worse), messy feelings and situationship, sexual tension, alcohol dependency, unhealthy coping mechanisms, probably unrealistic depictions of band life in the 80s but idc the vibes are there.

playlist ‧₊˚.

track one: i wanna get off

a friend from college offers you a job and a place to live. its pretty hard to turn down. free concerts, you get to do what you love, and steve harrington will be your roommate. its a shame hes too pretty for his own good.

track two: but youre such a tease

now officially the februarys concert photographer, you hit the road with them on tour. how bad can three months be stuck inside a small tour bus with steves needy hands and songs reserved only for you ?

track three: you did me bad

with tour winding down and an album set to be released, tensions inside the tour bus grows. when the already blurred lines between you and steve get crossed, the fallout of your relationship nearly sends the band spiraling as well.

track four: but i wanna go faster

recording an album is hard enough when the person steve has written every song for cant look him in the eye. its even harder when said person is also his roommate. and it definitely doesnt help that the rest of the band thinks its steves fault. now hes stuck on yet another tour bus with you. and everyone else. for six months.

track five: gasoline, pretty please

screaming crowds and flashing lights with steves name on everyones lips. everyones lips but yours; the lips he cant forget. when you get offered a job that would force you to leave the februarys behind, steve only has one last chance to beg you for more.

LAST UPDATE: 6/23/25

MAIN MASTERLIST

if you’d like to buy me a coffee ☕︎

[downthe-f4ndom-rabbith0le]

Inevitable (Alex Summers x Reader)

Inevitable (Alex Summers x Reader) Reader Insert: she/her pronouns Word Count: 13,014 Warnings: violence, angst, fluff, death, injuries, mentions of unable to have children, sad ending, implied sexual actions Spoilers: I guess the plots of X-Men First Class, Days of Future Past, and Apocalypse but the films have been out for years so don't at me.

This is the story of Y/N L/N and Alex Summers - of Aura, the girl who could turn invisible and manipulate energy around her, and Havok, the boy who could generate and blast plasma from his body. A boy destined for destruction, and a girl who could prevent it.

Their story was always inevitable.

I'm going through an X-Men rewatch and I forgot how much of a chokehold some of these characters had me in, especially from the First Class era. As you can probably tell from my previous stories, I have an soft spot for the tragic ones, so here is my little story of Alex Summers who bloody deserved better.

1962 - C.I.A. Mutant Division

Y/N looked around at her surroundings as she followed Erik and Charles down corridor after corridor. She'd never met C.I.A agents before, let alone stepped inside one of their facilities. But Erik and Charles aren't C.I.A., she reminded herself as she took in the bland concrete walls and cold, harsh lighting above her. They were like her - mutants.

She hadn't believed them at first when they'd told her just a few hours ago inside the cafe she was closing up for the day. It had been a busy day and she hadn't had time for a drink of water let alone any reasonable break. She thought she was hallucinating when the two had entered the cafe, prattling on about how they knew who she was.

It was only when she demanded they prove it - that they were like her - and the taller one (Erik) had lifted every piece of dirty cutlery in the store and had them float into the foaming sink to be cleaned that she believed them.

That was almost seven hours ago, the drive from New York to Virginia giving the men more than enough time to bring her up to speed on what they were doing and why: they were gathering other mutants like her to stop another war from starting.

As she followed the two men through the facility, only now did she start to have doubts about their intentions. For all she knew, she was going to be experimented on and tortured, possibly killed.

'If we'd wanted you dead, we would've made sure of that back in New York,' Charles suddenly said without looking as he and Erick led the way.

'What? How did you-' Y/N started to ask, but cut herself off as she remembered what Charles' gift allowed him to do.

Y/N noticed her surroundings starting to change. Instead of a war bunker, the corridors started looking more home-like and the lights grew warmer. As they approached a big orange door, Y/N heard voices speaking and laughing in the room beyond. They sounded... happy.

Finally, Charles looked at her and spoke, but not with his mouth. I promise you, Y/N, he said into her mind, freaking her out a little bit, you don't have to be scared here. You don't have to hide who you are from the people beyond this door. Here, you can be free. Happy, even.

Y/N looked between Charles and the door for a moment, imagining whose faces belonged to which laugh, which voice. She imagined herself doing those same things, and that was what convinced her that she was in the right place.

'Are you ready to meet your new family?' Charles asked aloud this time, to which Y/N nodded and Erik opened the door.

Y/N was met with six people sitting around a coffee table chatting and laughing while having a few drinks. She took a moment to admire them all - a short girl with dark hair and visible tattoos all along her shoulders and arms; a red-head who seemed to be doing a lot of the talking in the group; a man with charcoal skin and broad shoulders in a tight grey vest-shirt; a boy with glasses who looked really shy next to a gorgeous blonde girl who could very well have been a super model; and a blond boy in a dark t-shirt and leather jacket who had the smoothest smile Y/N had ever seen.

They were the perfect picture - how could she possibly interrupt that? Y/N was about to leave when suddenly Charles called for everyone's attention and that smooth smile from the blond was now aimed at her. Her heart thudded in her chest, embarrassment at being caught flooding her cheeks and she just had the visceral response to hide, hide, hide.

'Everyone,' Charles started proudly as he motioned to Y/N, 'this is Y/N. She will be- Wait, where did she go?'

Y/N watched as everyone looked around the room even though she she hadn't moved. Both Charles and Erik looked at her, but they didn't seem to see her. That's when she looked down at her hands and found her entire body covered in a translucent light only she could see. And that could only mean one thing.

'Sorry, I'm right here.' Y/N concentrated hard on revealing herself and when she could no longer see the translucent light, she knew she could be seen again.

'Whoa,' the red-head said, his mouth gaping in shock.

'That... is wicked cool,' the broad-shouldered man exclaimed.

'As I was saying before,' Charles said, sounding sheepish at forgetting her ability, 'this is Y/N. She will be joining you all and her gift... Well, we will leave that to her to discuss that with you all. Erik?'

'Yes,' Erik replied, and then the two of them were gone, closing the door behind them and leaving Y/N standing all alone.

Y/N was usually a confident person - she had to be as a waitress - but having six pairs of eyes staring at her so intently had her wanting to hide again. The beautiful blonde stood up from her place on the white couch and sauntered over to her. Y/N found herself looking up at the woman, who seemed to have legs for days and the most beautiful smile as she approached.

'I'm Raven,' she said, holding a hand out in greeting. When Y/N shook her hand, she gestured to the couch. 'You've come at the best time. We were all just about to discuss our gifts with one another.'

Y/N was quickly dragged to the couch and plunged into an in-depth conversation with the six. After only a few minutes, Y/N felt as if she'd always been there, talking and laughing and joking around and becoming more confident. Although, she couldn't compete with the blond boy with the smooth smile from earlier, now known as Alex Summers.

In the short time she'd heard him speak, she'd deduced he was the cockiest man in every room ever. No wonder he was put into solitary confinement, she thought when he mentioned he was picked up by Charles and Erik at his army base. He's probably been the instigator of more than one fight.

'We should think of some code names,' Raven suggested enthusiastically. 'We're technically government agents now. We should have code names. I want to be called Mystique.'

'Damn, I wanted to be called Mystique,' Sean, the red-head, groaned in fake misery, causing everyone to laugh.

'Well, tough. I called it,' Raven said, then her voiced changed as she physically did, eliciting gasps from the group as she now sat as an exact replica of Sean. 'And I am way more mysterious than you.'

The group gave her a round of applause as she morphed back into the beautiful blonde, but now that she'd revealed her gift, Y/N wondered if what she showed everyone now was her true form or just another disguise.

One by one they went around the room, showing off their abilities and coming up with names for each other. The mood somewhat soured when Angel asked Hank who he wanted to be.

'How about Bigfoot?' Alex jested as he took another sip of his coke. His condescending laughter communicated that it wasn't a nice joke, and that didn't sit well with Y/N.

'Well you know what they say about guys with big feet,' Raven said, eyeing his own feet before she continued, 'and, um, yours are kind of small.'

Alex's smirk dropped instantaneously as the group laughed and oohed at Raven's burn. Except for Darwin, who rounded the group back to the topic at hand.

'Okay, okay, settle down now,' he said. 'What can you do, Alex. What is your gift?'

'How about being burnt by women?' Y/N murmured just loud enough for the group to hear, earning another round of laughs and a hard glare from Alex. Y/N held his gaze with a smirk in challenge, taking a sip of her own drink. He might've been top dog back in army bootcamp, but Y/N didn't like bullies, especially if they were meant to be teammates.

Alex eventually dropped his glare, his whole demeanour changing as he rubbed the back of his neck nervously. 'Um, it's just... It's just that... I can't do... I can't do it in here.'

'Can you do it out there?' Darwin asked, and when Alex hesitated to answer, the rest of the group started goading and pleading him to show his abilities. Y/N even found herself intrigued. What could Alex do that he needed open space for?

The group cheered victoriously as Alex gave in to peer pressure, put his drink down and climbed through the broken glass courtesy of Sean moments before. As Alex set up outside, Y/N joined the others who leaned out the broken window to watch him.

'Get down when I tell you,' Alex said as he lined up in front of the bronze statue that's head still smoked - courtesy of Angel's fireball during her demonstration.

'Get back,' Alex said, and Y/N leaned back with the rest of the group, but they all apparently were too intrigued and so they all leaned out from behind the wall to watch him.

Alex went to make a move until he realised the group hadn't listened to him. 'Get back!' he warned again, but when no one moved, he faced the statue again. 'Whatever.'

Y/N found herself gaping at Alex as he seemingly powered up, red rings of plasma rotating around him until he slung them out into the open space but uncontrolled. The last one hit the statue, slicing it on a diagonal that had its head and part of its torso falling to the grass in flames.

The group erupted in rounds of applause as Alex walked back to them. He appeared more confident now as his teammates applauded. Y/N figured he wasn't used to that. Perhaps that was why he'd been in solitary confinement as much as he had been.

'Well, I'm glad you did that out here,' Darwin said, looking at the wreckage slightly worried. 'You've caused... a bit of chaos.'

'I can't control it, unfortunately,' Alex said, looking at the damage he'd caused. 'I'm hoping that might change one day.'

'Don't be ashamed of your gift, Alex,' Raven said, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 'You're amazing.' She looked to the rest of the group. 'We all are.'

When Raven did that, Alex's attention fell onto Y/N again, a skeptical look on his face. 'So what about you? Do you do anything useful or do you just disappear when you get a little embarrassed?'

Y/N's cheeks heated with anger. Who the hell was he to judge her? He didn't even know her.

'At least I don't cause havoc with my gift,' she bit back, motioning to the flaming buildings and statue.

Where a normal person would look at the damage and wince with remorse, Alex had the audacity to look at his handiwork and laugh in amusement. 'Havoc. I like that. Maybe that should be my code name, except change the c to a k so it looks cooler written down.'

Y/N rolled her eyes while the others complimented how good a name it was. But she had to admit it was a fitting one, just a shame he turned her insult into a name for a hero.

Y/N released a sigh then held out a hand to the fires in the courtyard, concentrating on grasping the energy in the air. After a moment, small bubbles of white energy appeared and Y/N was vaguely aware that her new friends had gone quiet as she forced the bubbles to encapsulate the fires. With a flick of her fingers, the bubbles started shrinking, depriving the fires of oxygen and eventually extinguishing them.

When Y/N turned back to the group, she found them all gaping at her in wonder and shock.

'Well, that was cool,' Angel said, earning hums of agreement from the others.

'What exactly did you just do?' Hank asked.

'I don't really know what it is,' Y/n answered honestly. 'But, I think I can manipulate energy or something like that. I can create those force fields, and as you saw before...'

Y/N let the energy hide her, and she relished the shocked faces of her friends as they could no longer see her. Feeling cheeky, she ran at Alex then dropped and swiped his legs out from underneath him, sending him sprawling to the ground.

He landed with a resounding thud, his breath escaping him in a loud, 'Oof,' as he did. Only then did Y/N reveal herself, looking down at him with a smug smile.

'...I can turn invisible.'

The others clapped in appreciation of her demonstration while Alex looked up at her in annoyance. Y/N offered her hand to help him up and surprisingly he took it and together they pulled him to his feet.

'So what, you can control, like, the Force, or something?' he asked.

Y/N rolled her eyes. 'This isn't Star Wars, asshole. It's more like... I can feel the aura of the energy around me and I connect with it and then use it to my will.'

'That's it!' Angel exclaimed suddenly. 'That's your name!"

'What is?' Y/N asked, confused.

'Aura!'

'Aura.' Y/N tried it on her tongue. She had to admit, it had a nice ring to it.

'Aura, Havok, Banshee, Darwin, Angel...' Raven said each of their new code names as she looked at them, grabbing a drink for herself from the table. She looked to Hank. 'We'll find one for you soon, Hank,' she reassured, then pointed to herself. 'And Mystique.' She raised her drink high and everyone else did the same. 'Here's to our new life. Here's to being our true selves.'

'Here, here,' Sean said as they all clinked their drinks together in solidarity.

'So, what do you think?' Alex said just to Y/N as seperate conversations between the others started. Angel switched on some music and her and Raven jumped on the coffee table to start dancing.

'About what?' Y/N asked.

'Are you going to be your true self here? With us?' he asked, and there was a little challenge in his question, as if he really wanted to add Or are you going to hide away?

Y/N had so far lived her life in constant fear. But Erik and Charles said they needed her, that the world needed her. Perhaps it was time to stop hiding.

Y/N flashed Alex a small smile, reflecting his challenge in her own eyes. 'I don't think you could handle the true me, Havok.'

Alex's grin widened devilishly. 'Try me, Aura.'

1962 - X Mansion, pre-Cuba

It had been weeks since the C.I.A Mutant Division facility had been attacked by Shaw, that Angel had chosen his side, that Darwin had sacrificed himself in the effort to save them all, Angel included.

Egos bruised and hope extinguished, Charles had brought those who remained back to his mansion to train for the upcoming battle with Shaw. Which is what Y/N was doing with Raven when Charles entered the gym requesting her presence in the war bunker.

'You want me to what?' both Alex and Y/N exclaimed together in the bunker, gaping at Charles because he'd clearly lost his mind.

'You heard me,' Charles said nonchalantly, walking to stand in the middle of the room. 'I want you two to spar while you, Y/N, protect me. Expand your range of concentration so you can control different energies at once, manipulate numerous fields doing different things simultaneously. Alex now has the tools he needs to control his power so he won't be as volatile as he once was.'

'Hey now,' Alex said, clearly offended.

Charles offered a mediocre apologetic smile before readdressing Y/N. 'You have to push the limits you have set for yourself in order to become stronger. I can sense your full potential hasn't even been scraped at yet. How about we try today.'

Y/N looked between Charles and Alex, who also looked at Charles like he was crazy. But there was an air of truth to his demands. Shaw was no novelty mutant, and neither were Angel and the other mutants following him. If Y/N didn't do this, she would be their next victim, and what kind of teammate would she be if she died too early?

Y/N eventually nodded her agreement. 'Okay, let's do this.'

'You sure about this?' Alex asked her.

'Aw, is big old Alex Summers worried about hurting me?' Y/N taunted, though she didn't really know why. His concern was sort of sweet.

It disgusted her.

Alex's concern scrunched up in annoyance on his stupidly beautiful face. 'No. I just... Oh, screw this. Fine let's spar, L/N.'

Y/N went to stand at one end of the bunker and Alex at the opposite end. Charles planted himself right in the middle of the two, looking too casual for Y/N's liking. Did he really have that much faith in them?

'Whenever you two are ready,' Charles called out, rocking on the back of his heels in anticipation.

'Okay,' Alex said hesitantly as he fired himself up. His new chest plate helped him to control his plasma so he surely would hit the professor if Y/N didn't do something.

Just as Alex fired, Y/N placed a force field over Charles and the plasma blast bounced off it and straight back at Alex. Alex had to duck quickly as his own blast came hurtling back at him, and Charles let out a small laugh as the blast made a small dent in the wall behind Alex.

'Well this is going to be fun,' Charles said, and the fight truly begun.

Alex would sling shot after shot at Y/N and the professor, but Y/N deflected every shot and held the force field around the professor soundly. At one point, Y/N managed to to turn in visible while Alex was distracted and landed a few blows.

But Alex managed to knock her back, the blow forcing her to reveal herself. She had no time to worry about being exposed however, as Alex powered up for what seem to be one giant blast. Y/N managed to bring up a force field around her as the blast connected, but instead of bouncing up off it, the plasma seemed to sink into the force field.

Y/n looked around in confusion, feeling the energy flowing stronger through the force field and increasing with every second. She was vaguely aware of someone calling her name - it sounded like Charles - but the energy was becoming too much to hold up now.

Y/N let out a cry as she released the force field, and the shockwave it sent through the bunker sent both her and Alex flying to opposite ends of the bunker.

Y/N smacked into the solid brick hard, sending an intense throbbing through her head as she hit the ground. Her vision blurred and she felt drained of power like never before. Two blurry figures were in front of her, their mouthes moving but not saying a word. She thought they were saying her name.

After a few more seconds, her hearing came back to her as well as her vision, showing Alex and Charles kneeling beside her with worry on their faces.

'Y/N, can you hear me?' Charles asked, scanning over her body for any injuries.

'Are you okay? Can you hear us? Say something,' Alex said, eyes searching her face for any sign that she understood anything they were saying.

Y/N hummed in reassurance and his worry dissipated into relief. Alex quickly helped her into a sitting position as she gathered herself. 'Well,' she breathed out, giving Alex an amused smile, 'that was... fun.'

This elicited a laugh out of both men as they helped her to her feet. Y/N was very aware of Alex's hand holding her steady on the small of her back as they both listened to Charles.

'My! You two create quite the show,' he exclaimed with an enthusiasm that kind of scared Y/N. 'Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant work, you two. You have both grown in leaps and bounds these past few weeks. I daresay you will both be quite powerful when you fully master your gifts. Now, take the afternoon off, possibly head to Hank in the lab for some patching up and look overs. I will see you both first thing tomorrow.'

'He sounds like a professor talking to students,' Alex muttered after Charles had left.

Y/N shrugged. 'Well, we kind of are students, so I guess that would make him our professor.'

The two shared a small laugh and both their eyes slipped to his arm, which was attached to the hand that still pressed gently against her back. Alex quickly dropped his hand and Y/N took a decent step away from him. Well now it's awkward.

'G-Good fight,' Alex finally said after seconds of silence, unable to meet her eyes. He did the thing where he rubbed his neck and Y/N's stomach did a little flip at how cute the gesture was.

Quit that, she told herself, then realised she hadn't responded to him. 'Y-yeah. You too. Sorry... for sending you into the wall.'

'It's okay. I've been hit harder,' he said, and his cocky smirk was back. Something about his statement rubbed Y/N up the wrong way, like he was undermining her ability. That was a pretty decent fight they just had.

Y/N just huffed and stormed out of the bunker. 'Whatever,' she muttered as she left him behind.

'Hey,' Alex called out as he ran to catch up with her. 'What's wrong? You want me to apologise too? Okay, I'm sorry for sending you into the wall, too. There? Happy?'

'You know,' she started, stomping up the stairs that would take her to the first floor of the mansion, 'you can be such a jerk, Alex.'

'What are you talking about?' he asked, and he had the audacity to sound genuinely clueless.

At the top of the stairs Y/N finally stopped to let Alex catch up. She didn't care that he was taller than her, she looked up at him with annoyance in her eyes. 'You can never admit that someone could be better than you, let alone that they could be your equal.'

His face screwed up in confusion. 'What? That's not what I meant. Where did you get that impression from?'

'You think yourself superior to us all, and for what? We all have gifts, Alex. We are all special and useful and powerful. Yet you make fun of Hank, you belittle me. What is your problem?!'

Alex stepped towards Y/N, closing what little space there had been between until she felt his breath brushing her heated cheeks. 'You know, I was just about to pay you a compliment but forget it.'

'I wouldn't want a compliment from you, Alex. They're more like insults than anything,' Y/N said then stormed off.

'Princess!' Alex called out after her in a last ditch effort to have the last word.

'Jerk!' she answered over her shoulder.

'Coward!'

'Asshole!'

Y/N finally entered the lab and Hank was already looking at her crossed arms.

'You know, you two really need to take your fights outside,' he simply said, already reaching for his equipment to check her health.

Y/N raised a brow in a silent question, to which Hank responded, 'The walls and floors to this place aren't as thick as they appear.'

Downstairs where Y/N had left Alex smouldering, a certain telepath entered Alex's mind. Well that's an interesting flirting tactic.

'Oh, piss off,' Alex hissed aloud as he walked in the opposite direction towards his assigned bedroom. Y/N was the most aggravating person in existence. Flirting with her was the last thing on Alex's mind.

I don't know, I think you two would make a rather nice couple, Charles interjected again.

'I said piss off!'

1962 - Cuba Beach

Y/N was locked in a fight with Riptide when she saw Alex and Sean crash onto the beach, Angel having shot them down. As she went to attack, Alex shoved Sean out of range as he unleashed his uncontrolled plasma rings, his chest plate missing.

He caught her wings, slicing them in half and sending her flying to the ground, but as Alex helped Sean to his feet, Y/N spied Angel get to her feet, rage in her eyes and fire burning in her mouth.

Alex's back was turned. He would never see it coming.

Y/N, rejuvenated by the threat, turned back to Riptide and conjured up a large energy wave and sent it hurtling at Riptide. He tried bringing up a wall of wind to counteract it, but the wave was stronger and sent him into the side of the uprooted submarine. He fell to the sand with a hard thud and didn't move.

Y/N immediately ran for Alex and Sean, hands raised and conjuring up a force field around her friends just as Angel spat fireball after fireball at the two of them. The fireballs bounced right off the force field, angering Angel even more as she turned her attention to Y/N.

Before she could attack, Y/N trapped Angel in another force field, raised her off the beach, and sent her out over the ocean where she finally let the force field drop. It hurt her to hear her old friend's scream as she fell into the deep water, but Angel had done this to herself.

Y/N turned back to the boys. 'Are you two okay?' she asked, looking over them for any injuries. All she could find was Alex's bare chest and a hole in Sean's wing suit.

'We had it covered,' Alex said, his tone annoyed.

Y/N scoffed. She couldn't believe it. He was still being a self-righteous jerk in the middle of a battle?

'I just saved your life, asshole,' she said, stepping towards him in anger. 'Maybe you should be thanking me instead of complaining like a little boy.'

'Get down,' he said, his eyes on something over her shoulder, but she didn't care. He wasn't listening, but she would make him.

'Don't you tell me what to do you self-righteous jerk-'

'I said get down!'

Before she knew what was happening, Alex was pushing her behind him as he sent plasma rings at Riptide, who Y/N obviously hadn't knocked out entirely and was lining up to attack her from behind.

Riptide saved himself from being sliced like the statue back at the C.I.A. with a small tornado, but the impact from the plasma rings sent him flying over the submarine and out of sight.

'And I just saved yours,' Alex said as her tuned back to a shocked Y/N. He was panting heavily, obviously not used to exerting so much energy in such a short time frame. 'Now we're even.'

The way his words were haggard from his lack of breath made his voice raspy and Y/N hated how much the sound tingled up her spine pleasantly.

Y/N opened her mouth to retort at him - tell him how stupid and reckless and irresponsible and idiotic he was - but she couldn't find anything to say, and so snapped her gaping gob shut in indignation. The two just stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, eyes locked as so many unspoken emotions passed between each other.

Until Sean walked in between the two of them, shaking his head in disbelief. 'Damn, get a room, you two,' he said, his tone both disgusted and amused as he started walking back to Charles and Moira still on the crashed jet.

'We're not-' Y/N started.

'It's nothing like-' Alex interjected at the same time, but Sean was already out of earshot.

Y/N and Alex looked back at each other, both their cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

Alex was the one to finally break the silence. 'We should...' he trailed off as he gestured after Sean.

'Right,' Y/N immediately answered, grateful for the change in subject. They still had a fight to win, otherwise the whole world would fall into another war.

Y/N and Alex followed Sean swiftly, happy to leave the awkward interaction behind them. But even after the fight, Y/N didn't know about Alex, but maybe there was a little truth to what Sean's words implied. It wasn't that Alex was unattractive. He was just... infuriating.

But he had saved her life, put his body on the line protect her. That meant he cared for her in some capacity... right?

1967 - X Mansion

'You're what?!' Y/N exclaimed, standing up from her seat in the middle of Charles' office.

'I'm sorry, Y/N, but I have no choice,' Charles said, his voice sad and exhausted.

Y/N should've seen this coming. She'd seen the signs. How Charles had let his hair grow out, how the shadow of a beard grazed his jawline. How he lounged in his wheelchair instead of sitting with his usual perfect posture. And the hope and colour of his eyes had faded to loss and hopelessness.

'Yes, you do,' Y/N argued, slamming her hands on his desk. 'You can choose to keep fighting. You can choose to keep helping and teaching. You can choose hope, Charles.'

'There is no hope left, Y/N,' Charles replied, dejected as he looked anywhere but Y/N's eyes. 'Erik was right. The world is not meant for mutants. The world does not want mutants.'

Y/N walked around the desk to kneel before his wheelchair. 'You can't truly believe that, Charles,' she said trying to catch his gaze. 'After all you have done, after everything we've been through, you cannot believe that. Look at what you've achieved!'

She gestured to the room, but she meant the school as a whole, whose corridors buzzed with students who possessed unique powers. Admittedly the numbers had dwindled significantly because of the Vietnam War, with most of the teachers and the older students being drafted. Y/N had managed to not be drafted so far, and had dedicated every second she had to teaching. She was now in her late 20s and had learned all she could as a student. It was her turn to teach the next generation what it means to be a mutant.

But regardless of numbers, there were still children who needed help. They couldn't close. They just couldn't.

'Please, Charles,' she said, placing a gentle hand on his cheek to guide his eyes to meet hers. He looked in so much pain - a pain Y/N couldn't see but she could certainly try to understand. 'There is still hope. There is still good in the world. We just have to find it again.'

Charles didn't say anything at first, and Y/N took that as a sign that maybe she'd gotten through to him. Since beginning her teaching career, Charles had become like an older brother to her. He hadn't given up on her when she didn't believe in herself all those years ago, she wasn't going to give up on him now.

But Charles gently took her hand away from his face and turned his chair so he faced away from her. 'Hope is a human error. I've already made up my mind, Y/N. I suggest you forget about all of this and go live what life you have left. God knows society won't allow you a full one.'

Y/N remained crouching, too shocked to argue, too horrified to be angry. As Charles turned his back on her - busied himself with his bookshelf - Y/N left the room in a daze, still unsure what had just happened. That's how she felt for the rest of the day as she taught and supervised, students constantly asking her if she was okay as she usually wasn't as silent as she was.

Y/N easily deflected the questions, but she couldn't ignore the breaking of her heart every time she spoke with a student, saw them master an ability, ask a question. How would she break the news to them? A more accurate question would be how could she? They looked up to her, to Charles, to all of them. Some of them had no homes to go back to, no families that accepted them or no families at all.

By the time the last bell rang, Y/N was on the brink of breaking down.

It was now late at night, the children well and truly asleep. But Y/N remained awake, walking the mansion, dreading breaking the news tomorrow during the assembly. God knew Charles was in no condition to break the news himself even though he was the headmaster. And Hank hated public speaking despite being a teacher. No, she had to do it, but she'd be breaking hundreds of hearts in the process.

As she reached the front foyer, looking around and remembering her first few days there, remembering the first few days of the school opening and it being full of enthusiastic and excited children, tears welled up in her eyes.

They'd just started to slip when the front doors clanged open. Y/N immediately went into defensive mode, her hands lighting up as her mutation activated

Alex threw his hands up in faux surrender. 'Whoa! Easy Y/N, it's just me!'

Y/N breathed a long sigh of relief as she let her hands drop. 'Jesus, Alex. You mind knocking next time? What are you even doing here? It's two in the morning.'

Alex was also a teacher at the school, but he sometimes slept off campus as his family home was just a few suburbs away. He usually didn't slip back in until just before class though so this encounter was a little surprising.

'I needed to see the professor,' he said, then his face scrunched with worry as he looked over Y/N. 'Were you just crying?'

Y/N quickly turned her back to him to wipe away the tears that had escaped. 'I'm fine. It's nothing.'

'No it's not,' Alex said, and he took quick steps until he stood beside Y/N. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and managed to turn her to face him. He looked down at her with such concern Y/N felt more tears welling up.

He was a dick. From the day they'd met he'd solidified that for himself. But the past five years had seen him mature, grow, change in ways Y/N had no idea he was capable of. She saw how gentle he was with the children, how fiercely protective he'd become of them.

And while they still clashed and fought like cats and dogs, they'd found comfort in each other more than once. They would always laugh on the terrace late at night as they had a nightcap, downloading their days to one another; Y/N would occasionally bring Alex food when she knew he hadn't made it to lunch because he was so busy with work; and Y/N would wake up sometimes from nightmares to Alex comforting her.

Out of all the original X-Men group, those two had become the closest. With Charles busy running the school, Hank busy with his lab, Raven, Erik, and Angel off recruiting for their Brotherhood, and Sean deciding to go see the world, Alex and Y/N only had each other.

'What's wrong?' Alex asked so gently. 'What happened?'

Y/N couldn't get a word out, her heartbreak finally bubbling to the surface as tears and sibs wracked her body.

'Hey, hey, hey,' Alex said as he pulled her tight to his chest, arms wrapping securely around her, hands rubbing up and down her back soothingly. Y/N clung to him for dear life, the only part of her body she could control as she continued crying. 'It's all right. I've got you.'

They stayed like that for a few minutes before Y/N had no more tears to cry. When she finally pulled away, there was a dark patch of tears staining his white t-shirt that he wore under a plaid overskirt. 'Sorry about that.'

'Don't be. Ever,' he said, and Y/N had never seen him so serious before. 'Now, what's wrong?'

'Charles is closing down the school,' she said, voice dejected.

'What?' Alex looked up the stairs then back to Y/N, confusion and anger morphing his features. 'I'm gonna go talk to him.'

He made to run up the stairs and no doubt give Charles a piece of his mind, but Y/N quickly grasped his wrist and halted him. 'You can't,' Y/N said. 'He's already made his mind up.'

'Like hell he has,' Alex seethed, making to leave again but Y/N pulled him back.

'Alex,' she pleaded with him, 'believe me if I could change his mind I would be up there right now doing so. But... he has no hope anymore. The war has dwindled us thin. He doesn't see the good in the world anymore. That's not something we can give back to him. He has to find that again on his own.'

Alex looked ready to argue, jaw clenching as he looked between the stairs and Y/N. But Y/N slipped her hand into his and squeezed it gently and his features softened. He rubbed the back of his neck - as he always did - as he let out a defeated sigh. 'So I guess there isn't any point in informing him that I've been drafted for the war?'

Y/N's eyes bulged and her heart rate spiked with fear. 'You what?' she asked, but she'd heard him correctly.

His jaw clenched as if he didn't want to elaborate. 'Got the call this morning. I'm just surprised it's taken this long for them to find me again.'

That's right. Y/N sometimes forgot he had been in the army just before they met. 'When do you leave?' she asked.

'Two days from now,' he said regrettably.

Y/N never considered herself an emotional person, but tears welled up in her eyes again. 'It's just not fair,' she said, breathless as she tried to keep the tears back. 'You deserve to be free. You deserve to be happy, Alex.'

'Hey, hey,' he cooed, using both hands to cradle her head and neck, forcing her eyes to meet his. 'I'll come back. I promise. And who says I haven't been free and happy?'

He swallowed thickly as his eyes scanned over Y/N's face, hesitating on her lips before looking back at her eyes. Y/N felt then something change. In the air, between them, possibly both - she couldn't quite tell. But the way he was looking at her, how he held her so preciously, had her heart racing.

'The past five years here have been the most free and happy I've ever been,' Alex admitted. 'Training and teaching with Charles and Hank... and you. You have given me a home away from home, a new family. You've protected me when no one else would; you've laughed and cried and fought with me, for me...'

He leaned in closer now, as if there was a gravitational force pulling them together. 'I will come back, Y/N. To you.'

Alex Summers was a dick, but he was also a kind and loyal man. A man silently laying out his heart before her despite their previous disagreements.

'Promise?' she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

'Promise,' he said, and with that confirmation Y/N stood up on her toes to lock her lips with Alex's.

His hands cradled her face still as he held her to him, their lips melding harmoniously as they kissed. This had been building in Y/N since day one when he'd flashed her that smooth smile that sent her stomach into somersaults. Every fight (verbal or physical), every conversation, every drink they shared, every looked that passed between them, it had all been leading to this.

They finally pulled apart but pressed their foreheads together as they caught their breaths.

'I've been wanting to do that for a long time now,' Alex admitted, his words breathless.

'How long?' Y/N asked, curious.

'Since day one,' he answered, then let out a small chuckle. 'I didn't know it at the time, and when I finally did I never wanted to admit it. I think Charles and everyone else knew before I did.'

'It was the same for me,' Y/N assured him, and Alex smiled brightly before he pulled her in for another kiss.

The rest of the night was spent catching up on lost time. Y/N was thanking Charles that all teachers' rooms were at the other end of the mansion to the students' rooms. Y/N and Alex managed an hour of sleep before the rays of dawn warmed them awake.

'We probably shouldn't have done that,' Y/N said, tracing a finger along Alex's toned stomach.

'We were pretty quiet, I thought,' Alex said, stopping threading his fingers through Y/N's hair to press a kiss to the top of her head. 'Though, you did get a bit loud when I-'

'Shut up, asshole,' she said, giving him a slight shove that sent the both of them into a quiet giggling fit. Once they'd both calmed down, Y/N returned to tracing Alex's abs. 'I mean, we shouldn't have done that because you're leaving in two days.'

'Yeah, we certainly have great timing, huh?' Alex tried joking but when Y/N didn't laugh, he sat up in bed bringing her with him. 'Hey, I told you I will come back. Nothing's going to stop that.'

'You can't assure me that,' Y/N countered.

'What was that whole thing about having hope?' Alex questioned, and when Y/N couldn't find an answer. 'I believe in us, Y/N. I have hope. You taught me that. I will come back. I promise.'

Y/N still had her doubts but she allowed herself to play into the fantasy that it would all end up okay, and she leaned in for another mind-melting kiss.

'Okay, Alex,' she conceded. 'But just know you're still an asshole.'

'And you're still a princess. But you're my princess.'

As the two got ready for the day, Alex asked, 'So what are you going to do? When the school closes down.'

Y/N had been thinking about it since Charles told her and hadn't been sure if it was the right thing to do, but she had to try. 'I heard that Raven has broken off from Erik and is going about their cause on her own. I'm going to go find her and bring her home.'

'That's going to be dangerous,' Alex said, his tone worried.

'And going to war isn't?" she countered. 'Raven is like my sister. I've got to help her. There is good in her, she's just angry at the world. You're right. I have to keep hoping, even if everyone else has lost it. Because we are worth it.'

She walked up to Alex to cradle his face as he had done so many times the night just gone. 'We are worth it,' she whispered.

Alex placed a hand of his own over hers, pressing it closer to his face which had only gotten more handsome over the years. 'You're amazing, you know that right?'

Y/N just smiled before bringing him in for another kiss. When they broke apart she took a moment to contemplate his face then laughed.

'What is it?' he asked, an amused smile on his lips.

'We're just two idiots, aren't we?' she said, her tone bordering on sad. 'All that time wasted on arguing. All seems stupid now in the face of danger and death.'

'I disagree,' Alex said as he took her hand and headed for the bedroom door. 'I wouldn't change that time for the world. I am who I am because of that time, and you were always so cute when you were mad.'

'Hey!'

1973 - X Mansion

Y/N breathed a sigh of contentment as she stood out the front of the mansion, all tidied up and ready to reopen.

'I forgot what it used to look like without the overgrown weeds and dusty windows,' Charles admitted as he looked over the entrance too.

'Now whose fault would that be?' Hank asked with a smug smirk on his lips, but it quickly dropped with Charles' side eye.

Y/N smiled at the familiar banter. It had been a long six years full of struggle and pain and loss since Charles officially closed the school. But a man called Logan from the future had convinced Charles of something Y/N had been unable to, and while Y/N hadn't be able to bring Raven home, she'd been able to help their future and bring Charles back to life.

It had taken a few weeks to clean the mansion up with just the three of them. They had no one else to ask. Logan was missing, Raven too. Erik had gone into hiding, and Sean and Angel and most other mutants had been subjected to and killed by Trask's cruel Sentinel trials. None of them had a chance to say goodbye, and that very thought haunted Y/N even now.

And Alex... Last time Y/N checked, Raven had freed him and other mutants in the army who'd been locked up from the rest of the soldiers for some reason. No doubt for experiments. Y/N had been on base that day, but she'd gone to another bunker with other mutants. Her and Raven had stayed behind after that; Y/N never got even a glimpse of him, but Raven said he was okay and that he missed her.

'That doesn't matter now,' Y/N said. 'What matters is we're doing what we were meant to be doing all along. Speaking of which...' Y/N turned to the two men kind of sheepishly. '...I actually can't start teaching again just yet. I have to go.'

'What?' Hank asked. 'Why? We need you here.'

'I know, and I have every intention of coming back,' Y/N hastily reassured. 'I just... I need to go find someone.'

'Who?' Hank asked, but Charles was looking at her knowingly.

'It's Alex, isn't it,' he asked, but it wasn't really a question. Besides, he'd probably read her mind.

Y/N nodded. 'He used to call me from base every two weeks, send letters once a month. But then the calls stopped coming about a year ago, and so did the letters. I didn't even know if he was alive until Raven and I went to his air base. But I didn't see him, and now I need to find him to see if he did make it home after all.'

Charles looked at her and he smiled, the action caught somewhere between pride and sadness. 'You really love him, don't you?' he asked softly.

Y/N found the same smile stretching across her lips as she nodded. 'Very much so.'

Charles chuckled softly as he looked away, then somewhere over her shoulder. 'Very well then, off you go. But... something tells you'll find him closer to home than you think.'

Confused, Y/N turned to follow where he was looking over her shoulder and saw a black Cadillac pulling into the driveway. It wasn't until the driver pulled up in front of the building and stepped out that Y/N realised what Charles meant.

Alex Summers stood facing her from the driver's door, smiling smoothly at her as he pulled off his aviators. 'Hey, princess,' he said, his tone somewhere between his usual swagger and pure relief.

Y/N flew down the front steps and over to him. He held his arms out expecting a hug, but all Y/N saw was red as she lined up to slap him square across his face. The sound was crisp and cut through the air, silencing even the birds.

Alex was stunned as he turned back to her confused. 'What the heck was that for?'

'How long have you been home' Y/N asked, ignoring him.

'Um, like, a month? I don't really know-'

'And you didn't call me? Let me know you were okay?'

'I was kind of busy consoling my family since I've been gone for like six years,' he argued, rubbing his cheek. 'And you seemed to be busy too. You know, saving the world and all.'

Y/N couldn't argue with that, but she still wanted to be mad at him. He had her all worried for nothing. 'You still could've called me.'

'I'm here now, aren't I?' He reached a hand out to clasp hers and she allowed him to puller her closer with it. 'Trust me, there wasn't a day that I didn't think of you, wishing I was back here with you. I'm sorry if I made you worry.'

His genuine tone softened her anger until it was nothing but relief and joy at seeing him. She pressed her forehead against his own and smiled. 'Like you said: you're here now, right?'

With that, the two connected in a long awaited kiss that reflected all their longing and love for one another. They were so enthralled with one another that they didn't hear a word of Charles' and Hank's conversation happening just a few steps away.

'Wow,' Hank said, trying not look at his long-time friends making out in front of him. 'Alex and Y/N. Not going to lie, did not see that coming.'

'Oh, I did,' Charles said smugly, though his eyes reflected the happiness he had for his close friends. 'From the moment they met, I knew they were inevitable. You didn't need to be a psychic to see that coming.'

1978 - Alex and Y/N's house

Y/N sighed as she unlocked the front door to her and Alex's house. They'd moved in together about a year ago, hating constantly going between the school and Alex's old apartment. He hadn't returned as a teacher to the school after the army as she had, and so found a place of his own. But one night they'd both realised they didn't want to keep figuring out whose place they would spend the night at. They wanted a place for themselves, and the rest was history.

Y/N kicked off her sneakers, grateful for the relief she felt as she walked into the lounge room where her feet sunk into the carpet. Alex seemed to have had an early mark from his office with the U.S. Military, as he was in the kitchen cooking. His soldier days were thankfully over, but he'd been promoted to a desk job which didn't really suit him but it paid well and he could actually try and make a difference from there. For both humans and mutants enlisted into the army.

'Hey, princess,' he said, stirring up some sauce that had Y/N almost drooling for.

'Hey, baby,' she said tiredly as she came up behind him and cuddled him, breathing out a content sigh as she attempted to meld into his back.

'Wow,' he said with a chuckle, 'no asshole today? You've definitely had a bad day.'

'Don't push it,' Y/N warned, but it was an empty threat as she didn't move a muscle. Alex was always so warm, and now that it was winter she craved his presence even more. 'You didn't have to make dinner.'

'I know,' he said nonchalantly, continuing to stir the delicious smelling sauce. 'But I figured if you weren't home by five, you'd had a hard day.'

'Aw,' Y/N cooed, squeezing his torso slightly tighter. 'Alex Summers, you can be so thoughtful, you know that?'

'Besides,' he said, finally putting the sauce bowl down and turning in Y/N's arms to face her, a cheeky smile on his lips, 'you take forever to cook and I want to eat at some point tonight.'

Y/N's smile dropped. 'I take it back. You are a jerk.'

'That's nothing new,' he said as he pulled her in for a loving kiss. Y/N really enjoyed their more fervent kisses - the ones that left her breathless and hungry for more because she just couldn't get enough of him. But this - the gentleness, the care, the love transferred between their lips - calmed and grounded her. Reminded her she was at the best place in the world: home.

'Why don't you go have a shower, relax, and I'll have dinner ready by the time you come out?' Alex asked after they ended their kiss, rubbing his hands up and down her arms in comfort.

Y/N shook her head. 'While that does sound like a wonderful time, I'd rather help you cook the rest of dinner.'

'You sure? It's nothing special or hard. I can handle it-'

'Alex,' she interrupted, heading for the drawer with all their aprons, 'I have spent all day at a desk or in a classroom looking at paperwork and marking grades. I want to help. I want to spend time with you. It's treat enough that you're home before the sun sets.'

She tied her apron up, rolled up the sleeves of her dress shirt and reached into the pantry 'Now, let's get this pasta cooking.'

The rest of the night was relaxed, with Alex and Y/N chatting about anything and everything while they cooked. They continued chatting during dinner, and Y/N laughed at Alex spilling red pasta sauce all over his cream shirt. Before they knew it, bed time had fallen upon them.

Y/N was just brushing her teeth as she was explaining how her day was going to go tomorrow. 'Now remember, I'm going on an excursion with the kids tomorrow to the national history museum so I won't be home until six, I think.'

When Alex didn't answer, Y/N asked, 'Alex? Did you hear me?' He didn't answer again, and so Y/N spit out the toothpaste and hurried back into their bedroom.

'Alex? Why aren't you-'

Y/N's heart almost stopped as she was met with Alex Summers on one knee, holding a delicate but beautiful ring up to Y/N.

'Believe me when I say I had a different plan in mind for this,' he said, eyes hopeful and the twitches of a fearful smile pulling at his lips. 'I had it all planned out and was going to do it when we go on our trip next month. But those places don't mean anything to us: here does. In our home.'

To Y/N's surprise, Alex's eyes welled up with tears as he continued his speech. 'Tonight was perfect, and I realised... that I want to have a night like tonight every night. You are too good for me, Y/N. I can be a jerk and an asshole and self-centred and rash - but you take it all in stride and put me in my place and I thank you for that.

'I love you, Y/N. And I want to love you - fight with and for you, explore with you, live with you - for the rest of my life. So, Y/N L/N... will you marry me?'

Alex never cried, so seeing him get emotional opened the floodgates in Y/N's own tear ducts. Y/N clasped her mouth as both sobs and joyous laughter escaped her, leaving her a blubbering mess.

Y/N wiped away her tears and flashed Alex the most loving smile she could manage. 'What do you think? Of course I will marry you, Alex Summers.'

Alex breathed a sigh of relief and his tears of joy finally fell as he stood up and embraced Y/N. Y/N couldn't hold him any tighter it seemed, couldn't pull him close enough even when there was no space left to close between them. But finally they parted and Alex slipped the delicate ring onto Y/N's finger. It shimmered in the low lamp light coming from their bedside and Y/N couldn't imagine anything more fitting.

'It's beautiful, Alex,' Y/N said, still sniffling.

'Anything for my princess,' he muttered into her hair as he held her close.

Y/N laughed into his chest before craning her neck back to look up at him. 'You're locked in now, asshole. No take-backsies.'

Alex laughed. 'Don't you know?' he asked, leaning down to capture her lips in another loving kiss. '...I was always in it for the long run,' he said after breaking away, warm breath fanning across Y/N's cool skin.

1983 - X Mansion

Y/N was just leaving her classroom when four students came flying by.

'Hey!' Y/N called out, and the four students stopped.

'Sorry, Mrs. Summers,' Jubilee said, a bashful expression on her face.

Y/N eyed who else was with Jubilee. Jean Grey, and the two new students: Kurt Wagner and her brother-in-law Scott Summers.

Y/N placed her free hand on her hips as she looked at them skeptically. 'And where are the four of you off to in such a hurry at this time of day?' she asked, noting how it was the middle of the day.

'Uh...' Jean started, looking unsure.

'We were just off to the library,' Scott interjected, his voice confident and full of bravado. 'To study.'

Y/N narrowed her eyes on Scott. Scott was not the studious kind, and usually she could read Scott like a book. But since his mutation kicked in and he'd had to wear the ruby quartz glasses, it was hard to tell what he was truly thinking.

'That's right!' Kurt added over-enthusiastically, and the others nodded in agreement.

Based on their adamant responses, Y/N knew something was up. But she released a sigh and waved them off. 'Okay, but don't study too hard then.'

'Yes, Mrs. Summers,' Jean and Jubilee said together, then grabbed Kurt and headed around the corner and out of sight.

Scott was just about to do the same when Y/N called out to him. 'Hey, Scott.' He stopped and turned, his lips pulled down in a frown, possibly worried that he'd been caught out. But she just smiled and said, 'It's nice to see you've made some friends already.'

Relief and genuine appreciation split his lips into a smile. 'Yeah. Me too,' he said, then he took off after the others, their laughter bouncing off the walls of the old mansion.

It genuinely made Y/N happy to see Scott making friends. He was usually the reserved type, making small rebellions but certainly not as loud as his older brother. He used to be the kid that got picked on at school, so to see him actively engaging with other kids was promising.

It was the changing period between classes and so all the students were milling about the halls as Y/N made her way down the steps to the front foyer. She had a free period so she was in no hurry.

What she didn't expect to see, once the children had cleared, was Hank and Raven of all people standing together in the foyer.

'Raven?' Y/N said in disbelief, a baffled smile adorning her lips.

Raven and Hank seemed to have been engaged in a serious discussion, but she returned Y/N's smile and opened her arms for an embrace. 'Hey, Y/N.'

Y/N accepted the offer and embraced her long-time friend tightly. 'Oh, it is so good to see you, Raven. It has been too long.'

'Yeah, since seventy-three I believe.' The two women pulled apart but held hands. Raven ran her fingers over Y/N's hands and her fqace changed to shock and happy surprise. 'Oh my God, you got married?!' she exclaimed, bringing Y/N's left hand up to inspect the delicate diamond.

'Yeah. Alex and I just celebrated five years,' Y/N said, her words taking on a sad tone.

'Five years...' Raven dropped Y/N's hand, a sad expression on her face. It was then Y/N recognised that Raven was in the skin she'd worn for years to fit in with society, not her natural blue. There was slight betrayal and hurt on Raven's face too.

'We tried finding you, Raven,' Y/N said, grasping tight to her friend's hands. 'I wanted you there. Truly. You just... Well, since D.C. I imagine you've been busy.'

Raven's betrayal morphed into shame. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I would've loved to have been there. For you.'

Y/N knew she meant it, and so she flashed Raven a smile and said, 'It doesn't matter now, though. You're here now, and it is so good to see you. Speaking of which, why are you here?'

'I came to speak with Charles about Erik,' Raven admitted, the two women finally releasing each other's hands. 'I think he's in some trouble.'

'I was just telling her Charles and Alex were out,' Hank added.

'Well, they should be back in the next hour, I think,' Y/N said. 'Why don't we wait in Charles' office until then.'

As they all waited, Y/N and Raven decided to catch up. They discussed everything from the school to Raven's personal missions as a vigilante for mutants to Y/N and Alex's marriage.

'I must admit, I always knew you two would end up together,' Raven commented, a knowing and cheeky smile on her face.

'No you didn't,' Y/N argued. 'Did you even know Alex and I back then? We fought like cats and dogs!'

'Still do, depending on the day,' Hank muttered as he drank his tea.

Y/N flashed him a hard glare before turning back to Raven.

'Oh come on, it was practically inevitable you two would end up together,' Raven countered, laughter dancing on her words. 'But I'm happy to hear you two are happy. You're some of my oldest friends and you deserve happiness.'

'Thank you, Raven,' Y/N said softly.

'So, how many do you have?'

Y/N raised an eyebrow in confusion. 'How many what?'

'Kids. I can only assume you've got an army waiting for you at home...' Raven quietened as she noticed Y/N's demeanour change. Her smile dropped and she sunk back into the couch more. 'Did I say something wrong?'

Y/N shook her head and tried smiling for her friend, but tears welled in her eyes. 'No, you didn't. It's just... Alex and I found out we can't have children about a month ago.'

'Oh, Y/N.' Raven didn't know what to say or do. She just reached a hand out was a grateful that Y/N took it for support.

'We've been trying since we got married,' Y/N explained, wiping the tears away before they even fell. 'When nothing was happening, we decided to go see a specialist. But I guess even being a mutant doesn't make us immune to human genetic failure.'

She gestured to the closed doors that led from Charles' office to the school beyond 'Besides,' Y/N continued fondly, 'I have hundreds of kids already to deal with,. Children of my own would just complicate that probably.'

Raven just hummed in agreement, but said nothing more. No doubt she could sense or even see Y/N only meant half of what she said. Y/N truly loved each and every kid at the school, but it broke her heart to know she'd never have a daughter or son that had her eyes or Alex's smile, her wit or Alex's bravery.

Before they could dwell on the sad matter any further, the doors to the office opened and in came Charles, Alex, and someone Y/N thought she'd never see ever again.

'Moira?' Raven said as the three entered the room, standing to her feet in shock.

'Raven?' Charles asked.

'I'm sorry, have we met before?" Moira asked, cluelessly smiling at Raven, then Y/N and Hank.

Soon enough, Raven and Charles needed to converse privately and so Y/N, Alex, Hank, and Moira stood in the foyer awaiting their decision. Hank took one for the team and took Moira for a bit of a tour around the school while Y/N and Alex stayed in the foyer to talk.

'Never thought I'd see you step inside these halls during school hours again,' Y/N said cheekily.

'My brother and Charles are the exceptions,' he said, and when Y/N pouted he added quickly, 'and of course my beautiful wife.'

'Hmmm, sure asshole,' she said, before allowing him to kiss her briefly.

'You know you can be so mean sometimes,' he said as he pulled away.

'That's why you love me though, right?' she asked.

'Hmmm, sure princess,' he mirrored her earlier comment, earning a light slap to his shoulder as they devolved into laughter.

'So, how's Scott doing?' Alex asked, genuinely concerned for his little brother.

'Don't worry,' Y/N reassured him. 'He's fitting in just fine. Although he said he was going to study just before...'

'Oh, he's definitely doing something he shouldn't be then,' Alex said.

After a moment of silence, Y/N said, 'I was talking to Raven just before... about us not being able to have children.'

The topic always made Alex more protective, and so he placed his hands on her arms and started gently rubbing them up and down slowly. 'You okay?'

'Yeah I'm fine, but it did get me thinking... why don't we look at adopting?'

Alex looked halfway between shocked and happy when she said it. 'Are you sure?'

Y/N nodded. 'Why not? There are so many kids in this world that have no homes, no families. We could be that for them.'

Alex smiled brighter than he ever had as he embraced her so hard he lifted her off her feet with joy. 'I love you,' he said as he finally put her down, then looked at her as if she was the light of his life. 'We're gonna have a family.'

Y/N nodded then pulled him into a short kiss, just as Hank and Moira finally came back to the foyer and Charles' office doors opened. 'Y/N and Hank, you are dismissed from classes for the rest of the afternoon,' he said. 'We have to find Erik.'

~~~

It all happened so fast.

Someone hijacked Cerebro and controlled Charles momentarily, taking over the world for just a split second. Raven, Hank, and Y/N were finally able to wrench Charles free of the power and then Charles commanded Alex to destroy Cerebro.

The incident left the whole group, except for Moira, panting and drained as they exited the flaming room. Charles was unconscious in his chair, giving no signs that he was okay.

Y/N sensed a change in the area's energy force, and looked down the hallway to where a portal was opening. 'Uh, guys...'

The rest of the group followed her gaze to where five figures stepped out of the portal, one notably being an old friend.

'Erik,' Raven said softly, realisation dawning on her face too late. He was not here to be friendly.

Before anyone could react, Erik reached out to Charles' chair and brought him in to their portal which was firing up again.

'Charles!' Raven called out.

The winged figure protected Charles as the others stepped in front of him as barriers. Not that any of Y/N's group chased after them - wait, one person did.

'Alex, no!' Y/N said as her husband ran past her. When he didn't listen, she chased after him.

'Alex!' Hank called out behind them.

'Hey, asshole!' Alex called out to the blue man standing out the front of Erik's group.

The portal reopened around Erik, Charles and the other figures, the blue man stepping out in front to say, 'All will be revealed my child.' His voice was haunting, echoing all around them in a way that emanated power. He was not a standard level mutant.

But Alex still ran, and Y/n sensed he was charging up to fight.

'Alex, don't!' Y/N was almost there, could reach him in another few steps.

'Wait!' Hank called out, but Alex was lining up, red plasma already bursting from his chest. 'Stop!'

Y/N finally realised Hank's fear. While she was trying to stop Alex from chasing after mutant much stronger than all in the room, Hank was more concerned as to what was just beyond the doors Erik and Charles stood before.

Y/N's fingers just grazed Alex's shoulder when he let out a powerful plasma blast. But Erik and Charles disappeared into the portal before the blast could reach them, instead allowing it to burn through the metal doors that lead into the jet hangar.

Y/N pulled Alex behind her as the explosion happened. She threw up her hands and conjured a force field that surrounded the entire hangar just as the fire was about to reach her face. The strain was immediate as well as the heat, and Y/N almost crumbled as the explosion bounced and rolled around in the bubble.

'Y/N!' Raven called out, and Y/N felt hands on her arm and shoulder as Alex came into view.

'Baby?' he asked, eyes apologetic and frightened.

'I'm okay,' Y/N managed out, breathing deeply as the strain increased. 'Get everyone out. Now.'

'We can't just leave you here,' Hank argued.

'We won't,' Alex answered. 'I'll stay with her. Let me know when everyone is out.' When Raven and Hank didn't move, Alex said, 'Go!'

Once they'd gone, Y/N said, albeit with a strain, 'You should go, too.'

'I'm not leaving you,' he said, the weight of his hand on her back ever present. 'Hank and Raven can get the kids out themselves.'

'I'm not just talking about the kids.' Y/N managed to tear her gaze from the swirling explosion just beyond her force field to look Alex in the eyes. 'Go find Scott. Make sure he's okay.'

'I trust Hank and Raven,' Alex said.

Y/N's hands shook and so she turned her attention back to the force field. 'Alex, I don't know how much longer I can hold this. And I'd rather you not be here in case-'

'Don't say that.' Alex moved more into her vision so she didn't have to break her concentration. 'I put you in this mess, I will see you through it. You're the toughest person I know, Y/N. If anyone can hold this, it's you.'

Y/N saw on his face he truly meant it, but her hands shook harder now and the fire was pushing against the field more. Y/N swallowed a groan because as much as she didn't agree with Alex, she had to try.

Every second counted.

But every second was torture.

In reality, it was only five minutes before Hank notified Alex that the school had been cleared. But Y/N's vision was starting to spot black and her entire body now shook. Sweat rolled down her face and exhausted tears threatened to spill over.

Alex's phone buzzed and he answered the incoming call. 'The kids are all out,' Hank said, his crackling due to the horrible service of the lower levels. 'We're coming back for you.'

'Don't!' Y/N strangled out, groaning as the strain increased. She was aware of Alex's gaze on her so she turned slightly to look him in the eyes and saw something that she didn't want to see.

Hank kept talking. 'What? No, we're coming back down-'

'It's okay, Hank,' Alex said calmly, his eyes never leaving Y/N. 'Just... keep them safe.'

'Alex, wait what-'

Alex ended the call and Y/N could've screamed with frustration. 'No,' she whispered. 'You're not staying with me.'

'You never planned on getting out of this alive,' Alex stated. 'Did you?'

'I've made my peace,' Y/N explained. 'You need to be here for Scott.'

'You are my wife, Y/N!'

'And he is your brother!' Tears finally spilled as her powers began to wain. 'He is young and scared and he needs his brother so please Alex, go!'

Pain and indecision whirled in Alex's eyes as he looked from her to the doors that would save his life. Y/N couldn't hold on much longer, but she'd make sure he would get out. Tears spilled down his gorgeous face. Even after all this time he still looked as he had when him and Y/N first met, apart from the hair of course.

Resolve and love and apology was on his face as he finally looked back to Y/N, and he said, 'Scott will understand.'

He was really doing this. He was really going to die with her.

'I can't protect us once I let this field down,' she strangled to say, tears and pain and regret threatening to overwhelm her. 'I have nothing left, Alex.'

'You've done enough,' he said gently, then manouvered himself to stand between her arms so he was face to face with her. He cradled her face in his hands then pulled his lips to hers for one final kiss. 'I'm sorry,' he whispered, tears streaming down his face.

'I'm not,' Y/N replied, and despite their situation she smiled as brightly as she could. 'We had a pretty good run, didn't we?'

That finally brought a smile to his face. 'We sure did, princess.' He looked into her eyes, his gaze unwavering and the way he held her was heavenly. 'I love you.'

'I love you,' Y/N answered, then her energy emptied completely and she fell into Alex's arms.

They held each other as fire engulfed them and the mansion exploded, unable to be torn from each other even at Death's door.

1983 - X Mansion, post Apocalypse Battle

Scott Summers stood before two headstones with X's on them that had been put up in the school's courtyard. Both had his last name.

Alex Summers

Havok

1941-1983

Husband, Brother, Friend, Hero

Y/N Summers (neé L/N)

Aura

1942-1983

Wife, Teacher, Friend, Hero

Scott took his glasses off to wipe his tears. He hadn't been able to fully process his loss thanks to Apocalypse, but now that the school was rebuilt and he was back at school, he was more than aware of Alex and Y/N's absence.

He felt a hand slip into his, and he put his glasses back on to find Jean smiling sadly at him. 'I'm so sorry, Scott,' she said, and he didn't need to be a mind reader to know she truly meant it. 'I never met your brother, but Aura - Y/N, spoke often of him and their heroics at our age. He sounded amazing.'

'He was,' Scott said, looking back to his brother's and sister-in-law's graves. 'He was my hero.'

'They both were heroes.'

The two teens turned to find Hank, Raven, and Charles - now bald from the battle - strolling and wheeling into the courtyard respectively. Charles didn't speak again until the three of them reached the teenagers. 'Even as children, I knew they would be heroes. And in a society where mutants weren't trusted, even feared... They saw the best in the world. Always.'

'They gave everything they could to this school,' Hank added, eyes watering behind his glasses as he looked over his friends' graves. 'They were some of the best people I know, even now.' Hank allowed a tear to fall but he laughed. 'Even if your brother was a bit of a dick, sometimes.'

'Only sometimes?' Scott said, and the group laughed and the weight of grief on Scott's shoulders lifted slightly.

When it grew silent once more, Jean said, 'But is this to be our fate? Where we fight for a world that doesn't want us? Is a premature death only inevitable?'

'Death is always inevitable, Jean,' Raven said gently, and walked up to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder. 'But if Alex and Y/N proved anything to us all is that it doesn't matter what time we have on this earth; it's what we make of it. While we can, we will fight for a better future. For all of us.'

Jean nodded then turned back to the graves along with everyone else. Resentment and pain and loss roiled within Scott as he looked down at where his brother and sister-in-law rested. 'I wished he hadn't died,' he admitted, because that's all he truly wanted.

'Me too, Scott,' Charles said, wheeling up beside him. 'He loved you very much, though. Always spoke about you - about how you were to do great things with your life. I truly believe that, you know.'

'At least he died doing what he loved,' Scott said as he gestured to the rebuilt school. 'Protecting mutant kind.'

The group was silent for another few minutes, just reflecting on their times with the two people in the ground. Then Hank ushered the two teens back to class, and after sometime Raven left to go teach also.

Charles remained for a while longer, unable to leave his friends that he'd buried, that he'd gotten killed. Some small part of him wished he'd never sought them out to join the X-Men. They could've lived quieter lives, safer lives. But we wouldn't have been happy, Charles could practically hear Y/N say with that hopeful smile of hers, and Charles smiled at the thought.

And besides, if he hadn't recruited the two, Alex and Y/N wouldn't have met. And wouldn't that have been a true disservice to his students to never have witnessed such hope and love.

Or maybe they would have. After all, like he'd said, they'd been inevitable from the start.

And maybe Jean was right; possibly, a mutant's life was to inevitably end prematurely. But Raven was also right.

Charles touched Alex's headstone, then Y/N's, tears pouring down his face. 'Thank you, friends,' he whispered tearfully. 'Rest well. You've earned it.'

As the years went on, and the school took on more students and the gardens grew higher and wilder, Charles sought to personally keep his friends' graves clean and tidy. He told each student the tales of his fallen friends, the ones he was unable to bury as well. He made sure that the First Class of X-Men were not forgotten, and that their dream of a better future lived on in the next generation.

Sometimes, as he grew older, Charles saw a little bit of Alex and Y/N when he saw Scott and Jean. It broke his heart to know that Alex would never see his little brother become an excellent hero such as Alex, or that Alex and Y/N wouldn't grow old alongside him and Hank and Raven.

But their spirit lived on anyway, and maybe that was the inevitability of it all in the end.

[hanginginthevoid]

Curiosity Killed the Cat, but Satisfaction Brought it Back

pairing: bob reynolds x reader

summary: almost every customer you see is the same. when you finally meet someone that’s different, you can’t help but let your curiosity pique. you shouldn’t have though, new doesn't always mean good or better. sometimes new can ruin you.

a/n: HI!!! I love the idea of character x powerless!reader almost as much as i love the idea of reader who can take care of themselves. SLOWBURN!!!!! I also wrote like 10 pages straight of this before i slowed down and remember how much i HATE writing endings… 

warnings: reader gets screamed at, probably ooc bob, lmk if i missed anything!

wc: 8.2k

---

Your life would be considered mundane. You spend most of your time studying, if you weren’t studying you were at work. But to be honest, you were studying at work too. Sure you still go out with your friends, but you’re not paying thousands upon thousands of dollars to not get this degree. 

The bookshop that you work at is cute. The brick walls painted sage green, the bookshelves that lined the walls, along with the display tables, were a nice dark mahogany. Small bouquets of different flowers were painted around the shop, like easter eggs for customers to spot.

If the customers actually look at the design choices, you’d never know. Most of the customers that you saw were business or finance bro’s and ladies trying to assert themselves in their corporate jobs. 

They’d pick up some ‘life-changing’ book, and you’d never see them again. The first floor of the shop was entirely dedicated to non-fiction because of this. Gotta make it easily accessible for the clients.

You prefer fiction, and honestly, it’s a better vibe having to go upstairs to find some whimsy than just staying at the same level. Every once in a while you’ll see someone venturing up there, maybe just to take a few pictures, maybe to actually buy something. Not nearly as often as you’d like though.

Most of the time you keep your head down, busy jotting down notes or highlighting your textbook. You greet customers when they come in, help them find the book they’re looking for if need be, and give them a polite smile while asking about their day as you check them out. But their faces blur together, and none of their responses stick with you for more than a few minutes.

Today was different though.

Today two men walked into the shop. One with shaggy brown hair, deep blue eyes, and a wobbly smile like he’s worried about something, and the other with blonde hair, a beard, and eyes so icy blue you could mistake them for gray. 

The one with brown hair takes to the shelves after returning your greeting. He scans them for a little bit, checking around the displays as well before coming up to you at the checkout counter.

“Hi.. again.” You look up, but he’s avoiding eye contact, looking everywhere but you, “Do you guys have any books not based not on real stuff?”

You nod along with him, “Yeah, of course. All of our upstairs section is for fiction books.”

“O-oh. Thank you.” And he’s moving away, looking like he’s sizing up the stairs ahead of him.

You feel a little bad for the guy - the guy he’s with is just standing at the door, and he seems unsure about everything. 

Your better judgement fails, putting a tab in your textbook so you don’t lose your place, “Are you looking for anything specific?” 

“Ummm.. Not really? Just - anything fictional.” He’s starting up the stairs before he remembers something and continues his response, “And a series. Something with a lot of books.”

You smile at him, a general customer service smile but it’s softened by the want to be kind to this man, “The Maze Runner is pretty good. Five books in the series.”

With a final nod, he’s up the stairs and it’s just you and the blonde man. You think about asking if you could help him with anything, but any normal person would have already looked around if they wanted to.

They both look familiar. Not excessively, but similar to someone who you would see walking around campus but never had classes with. Like the friend of one of your friends, who only shows up once in a blue moon. 

You can’t place them before the brown haired man comes back with a book. 

He hands, not places down, hands, you a book. Upon glancing at it, you see he picked your recommendation. 

“I think you’ll like it, I was really into it when I read it for the first time.” You scan the book, placing it with the front cover down onto the simple brown packing paper you picked out this morning.

“I think so too. You would be the expert after all,” He huffs out a laugh at the end of his sentence, handing you a credit card to make his payment. 

You smile along with him, sealing the book with a ‘Thank you!’ sticker. After the card clears you hand it back to him, along with the book, and send him off with the hope that he enjoys the book.

As he turns around, he motions to his blonde counterpart, and they both head out the door. Before it shuts though, the man turns around one more time leaving you with a ‘Have a good day!’ and a warm feeling in your chest because there really are still good, kind people out there.

Unlike the normal clientele that you see, you think about this man for the rest of your shift. 

He was attractive, so you’d almost doubt that he didn’t have a girlfriend. Or maybe even a boyfriend, but there’s no way that was the blonde man. He seemed more like a bodyguard…?

He was also kind. He might not have been confident, but that didn’t take away from his other redeeming qualities. 

You think mostly about the fact that he took your recommendation. He didn’t ask for one, so it’s truly surprising that he took what you said into consideration. Paired with the fact that he spent a decent amount of time up there, seemingly pondering his options, just to come back with your recommendation still.

It’s a shame that you’ll probably never see him again. People usually don’t have the time to keep stopping by the same bookshop in this city. Assuming he’s the same as everyone else, he’ll just order the next one online and call it a day.

—

You’re almost immediately proven wrong. Just three days later, the same shaggy haired, blue eyed man walks back into the bookshop.

This time, he’s accompanied by a woman. They greet you, ask how your day is going, then venture upstairs.

You eye them more than you’d like to admit. Trying to figure out these two, the woman is clearly more invested in him than his blonde companion had been.

She's got black hair, green eyes, and an accent. Exotic. 

She stands with him as he browses, inputting her opinion, giving suggestions. Ventures off by herself for a minute before coming back with a book, you assume to recommend it.

Maybe this is the girlfriend. The one who gets to go home and call him her own. By your guesstimate, they’ve only been dating for a little while. Too many boundaries between them to be a really established, committed relationship.

Eventually, you go back to your textbook. Reducing its value every time you annotate, a highlight to show importance, and a note to explain why exactly it's important.

As you're figuring out how you want to color code this set of flashcards, someone gently clears their throat in front of you.

You look up to see the ocean eyed man. He’s smiling at you, soft like he doesn’t want to scare you off. 

“Hey, find everything alright?” You’re standing now, resting your folded arms across the counter.

He nods as he responds, “Yeah, yeah everything was findable.” 

His girlfriend wasn’t beside him anymore, instead she's perusing around the displays about ways to drastically improve your life.

When he hands you the book, you see it’s ‘The Scorch Trials’, the second book in the series you recommended. Guess they spent all that time up there just to flirt.

You scan it, placing it face down on the same brown packing paper as the last book, “Am I safe to assume that you enjoyed the first one?”

“Y-yeah, I didn’t think Alby would die like that. Y’know? He felt like the glue and then boom! He was gone.” 

It’s sweet. He’s not afraid to show his joy from the story. Accentuation his ‘boom’ with his hands, and, holding eye contact. 

“Me either. My favorite is Newt though, so I’m just happy he made it out of the maze.” You’ve sealed the book with a ‘Have a great day!’ sticker, and then you’re handing it back.

“I don’t have a favorite yet, but I’ll keep Newt in mind! He seems like a good guy.” And then his girlfriend is back at his side, ushering him out the door. He yells a ‘Have a good rest of your day!’ over his shoulder, and then they’re disappearing into the busy New York sidewalk.

You wonder if he’ll finish the second one as fast as the first one. Though, you hoped not. 

You wouldn’t be working that day and even if he had a girlfriend he was still a breath of fresh air that you wouldn’t want to miss the chance to inhale. 

Maybe you’d go find a dandelion to wish on after your shift. But then again, he’s just a man. You don’t even know his name for God’s sake. 

Yeah, no dandelion for you.

—

Sunday is the universal reset day. Least you’d think so. You bring your laundry down to your apartment building's laundry room, let it start to do its thing in the washer then head out. 

First grabbing a coffee at the cute coffee shop a couple of blocks down. You swear they make the best macchiatos. 

Then you’re on your way to the grocery store. Getting the most important things first; Greens and proteins. Then the things important to your heart like carbs and cheese, ice cream if it’s weather permitting. Then everything else, from snacks to garbage bags, to dryer sheets, to a new mascara, or maybe even some flowers. 

The trick was getting everything you needed, but not too much that it became difficult to haul home. Today was not one of the days that you got the ratio right.

Maybe you bought too many snacks, but you’ve got a hell of a lot of assignments due this week and that permits a hell of a lot of snacking.

Thankfully, you brought a nearly empty backpack with you, so you’re able to stash some groceries in there and not kill your wrists. It doesn’t help much though, by the time you make it to the elevator your fingers are throbbing and turning white from the lack of circulation.

You put away the refrigerated and frozen items before making your way down the stairs. Gotta burn your calories somehow.

After switching your laundry from the washer to the dryer, you head back upstairs. Starting in the living room you put away stray books, highlighters, pens, and papers. Straighten up the couch by fluffing the cushions, and folding the blankets before grabbing any cups or mugs that may have been left out and bringing them to the kitchen.

You go through the dishes fast, most of them being able to fit into the dishwasher. Then it's putting away the rest of the groceries, and wiping down the counters. 

The bathroom and bedroom are tidied up daily so besides changing the sheets, you forgo taking care of them. Instead vacuuming so that you can just put on a movie and fold your clothes before making dinner.

You can barely hear your phone going off from where it rests on your kitchen counter. It gets ignored though, probably just one of your parents checking in, worried because you’ve been swamped with school. You can just text them back before you start folding.

After the vacuum is shut down, and properly stored in your coat closet, you head back downstairs to retrieve your laundry. 

The basket goes between the couch and the coffee table, ensuring you have enough space to section out all your clothes. But you still have to pick a movie. Something you’ve seen before, so you won’t get distracted. Yet still something interesting, so you don’t give up on your laundry halfway through and leave it all around your apartment. 

By the time you remember your phone and the aforementioned text from your parents, you’re about thirty minutes into ‘Madagascar’. The thought of leaving it, and continuing with your progress passes through your mind. And you mull over the idea for a few minutes. But then you remember that not everyone has parents that care about them, and you push yourself off the couch to go get your phone.

When you turn it on while walking back to the couch, you notice that it wasn’t from your parents. Instead you're met with a message from Tasha, your coworker. Maybe the shop ran out of a popular book? Or a customer wanted to return a, clearly, read book again.

Opening the chat, you see that it’s neither of those. 

Tasha: Some guy came in today asking about you

What guy could come in asking about you? Would this be your chance to meet some millionaire who’d pay for your tuition. God you hoped so. At the very least please let him be hot. Well, hot is an overstatement, let him be not horrid to look at.

You’d never know if you didn’t ask though, so you type out a quick reply before sitting back on your couch, digging your hand back into the laundry basket.

Y/n: What guy?

The response is nearly instantaneous.

Tasha: GIRL

Tasha: YOU TOOK

Tasha: SO LONG

Y/n: mb, yk sunday is my reset

Y/n: left my phone on the counter while folding clothes so i didn’t lose my flow

Tasha: does NOT matter

Tasha: he was FINE

Tasha: TALL

Tasha: DARK HAIR

A tall, dark haired man was asking for you? That’s like - half the businessmen in New York. She’d need to be more specific.

Y/n: you gotta gimme sumn else

Y/n: thats like half the people who come in

Tasha: like long dark hair

Tasha: blue eyes

You start typing before you can really think about the implications. 

Y/n: did he get a maze runner book??

Tasha: yeah

Tasha: so who is he

It’s comical how Tasha thinks that he’s interested in you. It’d be nice if he was. You’d definitely accept a date with him if he ever offered. But you’re not a homewrecker. 

Y/n: just a nice dude who doesn’t treat staff like theyre garbage

Y/n: he’s got a girl tho, she came w him last time

It’s getting late, and you’ve fallen behind on your mental schedule. You’ll start dinner while you finish up your conversation, then after you eat you can finish your laundry and head to bed. 

Getting up you take out the ground beef you bought just a few hours ago. Splitting it into two portions you put one half in a ziploc bag and stuff it in your freezer before putting the other half into a pan to brown. As you’re opening a can of crushed tomatoes, your phone dings with a new message.

Tasha: idk 

Tasha: didnt seem like he did when he was describing you

You shake your head as you start adding seasonings to your beef. Also putting a pot of water to boil before wiping your hands to respond.

Y/n: hes just nice

Y/n: dont read into it

Y/n: see u tuesday girly

Then your phone ends up on do not disturb. You’ve got to finish these chores if you want to be able to properly focus on your studies. 

Unfortunately you think about Tasha’s texts until you crawl into bed. She was adamant that he was feeling you in at least one sense of the word. The idea makes your cheeks warm. Not much, since it would just be a delusion, but enough for you to recognize the familiar flush.

Next time you see him, you’ve got to block the messages out of your mind. Otherwise you’d make a fool out of yourself. He had a girlfriend, and you’d respect that.

Plus, he didn’t even know your name! How could he have any sort of feeling for you without knowing your name? You supposed it could be similar to how you’ve got a flutter in your chest when you see him, but that’d be dumb, men don’t think that way.

—

You’re hunched over your laptop, typing up a storm when you hear the bell jingle. It doesn’t stop you from typing, you’ve got a flow going and you wouldn’t stop it for the world. 

When your half-hearted greeting is replied to by a known voice you freeze. It’s brief, so you hope he doesn’t notice, but it still happens. Then you’re back to typing, throwing a ‘let me know if you need anything!’ in his general direction.

Truth be told, you were just typing mumbo-jumbo. Trying to manifest a proper thought that would never come. You wanted to look up. See if he had come by himself today, or if he had brought his girlfriend along. But curiosity killed the cat, and living in the fantasy that he could possibly like you, was far too nice to trade.

You switch from typing on your personal laptop, to typing on the shop’s pc. If you weren’t going to be productive with your essay, you could at least be productive by ordering some much needed stock. 

That’s the only reason you switched. Not because you wanted to take a look around the shop. Not because the flutter in your chest was still happening, minutes after just speaking to him. And most certainly not because you remembered, curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

You wanted it to be conspicuous. Nonchalant. Just a casual glance around the shop to make sure no one was stealing anything. 

However, a shout made you spring your head up. Staring directly at the man you're infatuated with, and his companion for the day. A tall man, with a graying beard.

He really has no shortage of friends. All different shapes and sizes too.

“Sorry!” He’s waving at you, an embarrassed look overtaking his features. 

Before you can tell him that there’s no need to apologize his friend is speaking, loudly, again “Why do you apologize? We do nothing wrong, nothing.”

“Because! It’s a bookshop, and it was quiet. Silent even! Before you shouted.” He’s whisper shouting, trying to make his point in the quietest way possible. 

Huffing out a laugh, you go back to your essay. Even with nobody else in the shop, this guy still has the manners to not want to mess up the vibe. Maybe he has a twin you could get with.

You barely hear from the two again until they're right up in front of you. Your ears pick up on ‘Alexi’ and ‘over there’, before you’re approached by ocean eyes himself. 

“Hi. Sorry again, about him.” It looks like he’s rocking on his feet a little bit, but you’re not tall enough to be sure. “ He - uh. He’s not the best in social settings.”

“Ah, I see. So. What’re you getting today?” Your hands are out, like a child waiting to accept a present.

He places ‘The Kill Order’ in your hands. “Newt died. You kinda gaslit me into believing he was a safe favorite character.” 

The way he says it is flat. It makes you worry a bit, and he’s looking at you straight faced like he’s really got a bone to pick. “My bad! He really was my favorite. Even though he kicked the bucket. I didn’t think you’d really pay more attention to him if I mentioned it.” 

You hope your apology is taken seriously. Your eyebrows are creased, eyes conveying your sincerness, at least you hope they are. But then he’s laughing. Why is he laughing?

“Sorry, I - I wasn’t serious. I did think he was a safe character to like but I thought it’d be funny to pull your leg a little.” Oh. Thank god he wasn’t really upset.

Then you’re laughing a little bit along with him, “You got me. I’ll give you that.” You scan the book, proceeding along with the same routine as always. This time you’re wrapping it in a deep burgundy packing paper, sticking it with a ‘Come again soon!’ sticker before handing it back. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” He raises his eyes to meet yours when you start speaking, “but you read a lot.” 

“I’ve got a lot of time on my hands. It’s nice to be immersed in a different world sometimes.”

“Gotcha. Well it was nice to see you again…” You trail off, hoping he takes the hint and gives you his name.

“Oh - Bob, I-I’m Bob. What’s your name?” He’s back to avoiding eye contact. But he hasn’t moved away from the counter yet, so he can’t be that uncomfortable.

You give him your name, and he repeats it. Trying it out on his tongue, figuring out the syllables and the way to say them that makes them sound best. Then he’s leaving, well, more like getting dragged out. 

His huge friend has an arm wrapped around his shoulders and he’s walking with a purpose that Bob can’t resist. 

As they start to make their way down the street, Bob spares you a grin and a wave through the window. 

You wonder when he’ll finish that book. When he’ll be back and you’ll get to look into his eyes again. When you’ll get to dream about how soft his hair is.

As long as you’re on shift you couldn’t care less though.

—

This goes on for a few months. Bob comes in, always with a companion, picks out a book from a series you’ve recommended. The two of you crack a couple of jokes, or Bob asks you about your studies. And then he’s gone for a few days. 

Sometimes he doesn’t show up at all. Usually just for a few days, which wouldn’t be bad but it's abnormal for him. Once in a blue moon it's for a or over a week, he never explains, just apologizes.

His companions are always one of 6 people. They fluctuate, sometimes the same person joining him two times in a row, sometimes they rotate like a wheel and you don’t see the same person for a few weeks.

Then they stop coming. Well not entirely. But they stop coming inside. At first they just stand outside the shop, lingering just outside the door. 

Eventually they start to ‘drop’ Bob off. Walk with him till they get to the shop, the two of them exchange a few words, then Bob walks in, and his companion walks off. 

They make sure to pick him up after. It’s always on their time though. Bob will come in, pick out his book, check out, and then talk to you the rest of the time.

It’s all basic conversation, favorite colors, what drew you to get your degree, why you chose NYU over something closer to home, favorite ice cream flavor, what Florida was like. 

It seems silly to assume that he likes you. But it seems even sillier to assume that he doesn’t. No way would he waste all this time just to not care at all. 

He still asks Tasha about you when you’re not there. She thinks you two are a match made in heaven. Well as close to one as she can get without really knowing him. But he’s attractive, attracted to you, you say he's kind, so what’s not to like.

You see Bob and his female blonde companion, Yelena you think her name is, talking outside the shop. You can’t hear them, but you can see Bob wringing his fingers together and Yelena putting her hands on his shoulders, giving him a decent shake. 

Then it’s like something in Bob shifts, and he gains confidence. Looking into her eyes he smiles a bit, not too much, but enough for it to be noticeable. And he's turning around, and opening the door to the shop. 

“Good morning, how’s it going?” He’s smiling, looking directly at you.

You can tell he’s really taking you in. How you did your hair, the sweater that you’re wearing, maybe he even notices the mascara you put on just on the hope that you’d see him today. 

“Good, how’s it going with you?” 

He’s not moving from the counter, still studying you. “It’s good. Hopefully it’ll be better in a minute.” The look on your face, warm, comforting, understanding, interested, encourages him to continue. “I was hoping you’d maybe…” Bob has to take a breath to steady himself, “W-would you get coffee with me sometime?”

It takes you a few seconds to process. Bob wants to get coffee with you? Like as in a date? You’ve been dreaming about this for months. When you’re done thinking it through, the giddiness gets to you.

Beaming at him, “Of course. I would love to get coffee with you Bob.” 

“Really?” His mouth is gaping a little, like he really thought you’d reject him.

“Really. I’m not working on Thursday if that works for you?” You really hope that there aren’t hearts in your eyes. The blush on your cheeks is prominent, you can feel it, and it would be embarrassing if Bob didn’t have a matching one.

“Thursdays gre-perfect. It’s perfect.” 

You’re discussing which cafe to go to before you shoo Bob away to go pick out his book. God forbid Yelena comes back and he still hasn’t checked out.

There’s a pleasant warmth in your chest when he leaves. And you’re light, like every stress has been lifted away. Maybe it’s adrenaline from your crush being reciprocated, or maybe it’s the bloom of puppy love, either way it's welcomed.

—

When Thursday rolls around, you’re more energized than ever. Practically bouncing around your apartment as you get ready. Using the same body wash, and lotion so the scent really sticks.

Putting on makeup, not too much, but enough so that it enhances your face and gives you some extra ‘shine’.

You also make sure to dress comfortable, cute, but comfortable. You’ve only seen Bob outside of his sweaters a handful of times, and you doubt that a coffee shop date would be the spot he decides to bring out all the stops.

Wait. What if he doesn’t see this as a date. Maybe he just wanted to become friends with you outside your job. Wanted to add onto his never ending revolving companions to accompany him around on his errands. 

No. That’s not right. Bob wouldn’t do that, anyone would have to know that would be leading you on and he doesn’t have the hate in him to do that. No way.

When you get there, Bob’s already sitting down at a table. He’s people watching, looking out the window at all the unsuspecting people passing by.

His hair looks like he styled it instead of letting it do it’s own thing, and he's got a comfy crew-neck on. The slopes of his nose and lips and the way that his lashes lightly brush his cheekbones when he blinks. He’s beautiful like this, unfortunate that you have to break up his peace. 

You slide into the chair across from him, “Hey.”

He’s smiling at you, one of the biggest you’ve seen, “How was the walk?”

“Not bad, a little chilly but that’s nothing new.” 

“Well, let me get you a drink to warm up, yeah?”

You give him your order, and then he’s gone. Up at the counter in a flash, and seemingly back in even less time. 

Like a proper gentleman he hands you yours first. His hand was a little too big on the mug, leaving you no choice but to brush your fingers against his as you go to grip it. Believe it or not, it’s the first time you’ve touched. 

Suddenly, the world is being painted black. It’s creeping up all around you, spreading from where you stand, up the walls, to the ceiling. For a split second it’s just you in this neverending black box.

Then you’re in the backseat of your first ever car. “How the hell?” You’re looking around, trying to figure out how you could have possibly gotten here. You were just with Bob, at a cafe, on your first date.

Then you start murmuring. Not you you, but the younger you, the one sitting in the front seat. She’s talking about how tiring it is being perfect, doing everything that everyone ever asks, always being the one that people know they can rely on, or at the very least fall back on to talk shit about others to. And before you can even finish your rant your fathers screaming back at you. How he owns the house, he lives in the house, he bought your car, he provides everything and asks for so little back. 

You feel the tears before you recognize that you're crying. But you hear her sobs. The way her chest shakes with every breath, the way it's painful to inhale. How the hell did you get here, and why can’t you just get out?

The screaming doesn’t stop, it keeps going, getting progressively worse. You’re clearly ungrateful, and you need to remember your place. When you get your own place, then you can have the thoughts and feelings that you’re currently having. Until then suck it up.

You try to leave, opening the door of the car, but you can’t, you have too much respect for your father. 

The adult you is staring. This was the whole reason you left home after all. All the talk about having a place of your own, the arguments over the way you kept your room, or didn’t clean a specific area of the house. 

It ends with the sound of you sobbing still. Worse than before. Your airways are already compromised with the snot blocking it, and the way you’re trying to suppress the sobs is only making it worse. 

And then it’s melting away. In the same way that it started, but in reverse. The scene fades to black, the ceiling gets its color back first. The rest of the scene coming into view, Bob staring at you is the last thing you register. 

“I-i-i’m so, so sorry. Are you okay?” He’s worried, the stutter proving your thoughts. But how does he know something is wrong? You didn’t see anyone else in there with you, just your own personal hell.

“Did.. Did you do that?” You’re trying to piece together this puzzle. No way that you slice or dice it does it look good. 

His eyes are frantic, you think that’s what tipped you off, “I. I did. I didn’t mean to though! I promise it was an accident.” 

Then you’re pushing past him. Not slowing down as he calls after you. When you make it to the sidewalk, you book it.

What the hell?

What was wrong with him?

What was wrong with you?

How did he even do that?

Did he bring you out on a date just to humiliate you?

Maybe that’s what you deserve, his girl friends probably told him to do it. Even if you don’t understand how it worked, it would make sense; embarrass you to the point where you’d never bother him again.

—

You take the next week off of work. Any shift you can, you give to Tasha. The shifts that you do work, because you need money to live, are the afternoons. Just a few hours, essentially in and out.

As long as no one sells you out, Bob would never know and would never come during that time. 

You told Tasha that the date went bad, but that was all you had disclosed. You hoped she’d be kind enough not to meddle.

She did inform you that he came in often, almost everyday, looking for you. He’d asked when you’d be working next, Tasha told him it was illegal for her to tell him.

He’d left notes with Tasha, and she passed them along. Just for you to toss them in the bin. The one at work, so you wouldn’t be tempted to dig through the trash and see what he wrote.

He asked what you liked, if there was a gift card or book he could get you to apologize. Tasha told him to kick rocks. 

She did let you know that he looked awful. His hair was messy, tousled beyond its normal amount; like he spends all day running his hands through it. 

His eyes had bags under them. They were extremely sunken in, and had a purplish hue to them. His eyes themselves were red, sometimes puffy, most times half-lidded, like opening them took too much energy.

He was almost always sniffling. His nose red from irritation. You told her this had to have been allergies, Tasha insisted it was from crying.

And lastly, his hands. Always fidgeting. Picking at his nail beds, wringing around each other, or cracking his knuckles.

Bob looked worn down. His body, mind and soul. But what did Tasha want you to do about it, it’s not your fault.

—

It’s another week later when a blonde walks into the shop. 

You take a glance at the clock on your computer before speaking, “Hey, just wanted to let you know that we close in a half-an-hour. Take your time though.”

“I’m actually here for you.” 

That sends a chill down your spine. This is New York so it wouldn’t be completely unheard of to be taken hostage. But you haven’t done anything and you have essentially no value, so why are they here for you?

For the first time, you really look at the person in front of you. You know her. Not entirely sure from where, but she’s familiar in a way. 

You take the non-threatening approach, donning a soft smile before you speak, “Yeah of course. What can I do for you?” 

She’s staring at you, and you swear she hasn’t blinked once. It’s like she’s staring through your soul. 

“Bob told me that he sent you to a shame room.” 

“What?” Breath catching in your throat. You remember her now, Yelena. Bob’s most frequent companion. Maybe if you can keep your cool, you’ll get off easy.

“On your date. At the place that does the uhhh, latte art?” Yelena’s still holding eye contact. 

You’re really trying not to sweat, “Oh. Yeah, what about it?”

“You’ve been ignoring him since.” 

You can’t deny it. You literally switched shifts just so you wouldn’t have to see him. So you nod, hoping that suffices.

“He didn’t mean to. He can’t control it.”

What is she even talking about, “Sorry? Can’t control what?” 

“The shame room. Where you went when he touched you?” You hum a bit in response before she continues, “He can’t control that. He’s been good for months, so he thought he could get through a date, with you, safely.”

You don’t understand though. Why can’t he control that? Why can he do that, period. It’s not normal but Bob’s definitely not a superhero that you’ve seen on your TV before.

“Why.. Why can he do that?” If she’s gonna corner you here, you’re at least gonna ask some questions too.

“It’s a long story, not mine to tell. But I’m sure Bob would tell you. If you let him.” Then she’s turning, heading straight for the door. 

That’s it? 

That’s all she had to say?

What, was she trying to scare you into talking to him?

Your heart ached. You thought he liked you, thought he had maybe cared for you like you cared for him. And it’s okay if he didn’t but why did he have to make it the most painful way possible?

—

You don’t get much sleep that night. Tossing and turning as you replay the past few months in your head. Bob was a lot of things, but he wasn’t the type to be malicious. Not the type to purposefully torture others. 

And you doubt he sent Yelena after you. She probably just saw him hurting and decided to step in. Completely understandable, and in its own way that hurt too.

It hurt because it meant that Bob was hurting. He missed you as much as you missed him. And he’s had much less context for why you’re avoiding him.

You decide you’ll go to the shop in the morning. Hang out with Tasha and maybe, if you’re lucky, run into Bob.

—

You manage to fall asleep, not for long but it's better than nothing. The anxiety you have is making you shake.

Whether it's your hands, your arms, or your legs, somethings been moving all morning.

To calm yourself, you take the long way. Make a stop at a cafe, getting Tasha a coffee as well since you’re an amazing coworker. 

When you come up on the bookshop, you can see Bob through the window. 

While you can’t see his face, you know he’s not 100%. 

His shoulders are slouching, caving in on himself it seems. He’s saying something to Tasha, trying to get her to accept another note by the looks of it. 

The jingle of the bell above the door makes both of them freeze. 

Tasha’s eyes widen, recognition that you’re finally facing the music flashing through them. And that must be what makes Bob turn around.

He turns slowly. Eyes slowly roaming over your body before finally landing on your face. His mouth falls open, not a lot, but enough to be noticeable.

Then his lower lip starts to wobble, tears gathering over his waterline making his eyes glassy, and he’s moving towards you.

Slow, unsure steps lead him to a few feet in front of you. His hands move over your shoulders, not daring to touch you, but hovering close enough for you to just barely feel their warmth. 

“I’m so,so,so, sorry. I’ve been working on it, and I just..” He swallows before continuing, not breaking eye contact, “I feel so calm. Like - like I’m at peace, when I’m around you, so I thought it wouldn’t happen. I thought I could break it to you slowly, a-after you accepted a second date.”

You’re just standing there. The damn coffee you got prevents you from wringing your hands, and it’s difficult to bounce your legs when standing. 

The urge to back away from him is strong. But you can tell he’s trying, you can tell that he wants you to believe him.

When Bob realizes you aren’t going to respond, he continues, “I thought it would be too heavy, you know? To tell you about all of this baggage that I have. Thought that if I told you, everything would change.” 

“A warning would have been nice.” You’re not looking at him anymore, instead staring at your shoes. It’s a shame you didn’t trip on your lace on the way here, then you wouldn’t have had to come.

“I know.” Bob sighs, “I know that now. And if I could go back, I would have told you. Warned you even if I ended up being the boy that cried wolf.”

You see his hands retract, no longer hovering over your shoulders. You don’t understand why he pulls his sleeves over his hands. But then he’s placing his, now covered, hands on your shoulders. The grip he has is strong, but not painful, “I need you to know. I didn’t do it on purpose. I’d never do anything to hurt you. Intentionally at least.” 

“So you’d do it unintentionally?” 

You’re being difficult. Intentionally. Mostly because he’s not making sense, what type of scumbag says he’d never hurt you intentionally. That’s like the bare minimum.

“There’s… A lot to explain. I’ll explain it all, if you’ll let me!” He’s leaning a bit now, bending at the knees to get a look into your eyes. 

When you do meet his eyes, you can see the sincerity. They haven’t stopped glistening, still shiny with unshed tears. But it looks like he wants you to look into his soul, to understand that from deep in his core he is apologetic. 

A scumbag wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t have covered their hands to prevent touching you. They wouldn’t have been trying so hard to get in contact with you. 

So you nod. 

You’ve agreed to meet him again. Not on a date, but for some answers. 

He wants to do it today.

You tell him that you need time. To process or prepare, you’re not sure. But you know you need time.

Your feelings about him haven’t had the proper time to dissipate, so a small part of you still hopes that everything could work out.

—

When you do come around and text Bob that you’re ready to talk. His response comes almost immediately.

You invite him to your apartment. It’s more intimate than you would like, however it would save you the embarrassment of how you would end up if he were to send you to a ‘shame room’ again.

When Bob gets there, he's nervous. Just a little twitchy, not too much but enough to be noticeable. 

He’s brought pastries. Something about his mother telling him to ‘never show up empty handed’ tumbles from his lips as he hands them to you.

You offer him a drink, like this is just going to be a fun catch up between pals. 

Not sure what to expect, you lead Bob to your dining room table. It’s a good space to have this conversation, not too comfortable like the couch, but not too formal like standing near the door.

“So -” You can barely get it out of your mouth before Bob starts spilling his life story to you.

He doesn’t go too deep into any one topic, but he makes sure that you can paint a clear picture in your mind.

He had a rough childhood, never close with either of his parents. That led him to drugs, which then ebbed into addiction. 

The addiction sent him all around the world, sometimes trying to get better, most times trying to find more, better, different drugs.

He ended up in Malaysia, they offered him a test run of some new drug. One that would make him ‘better’. 

Everyone could be better, him more than others. 

But then there's a blank slate in his memory. No recollection of what happened after they gave him the drug.

Until he ends up in some bunker with 3 of his 6 companions. They escaped together and have been working to make the world a ‘better place’.

“Wait. What do you mean you've been ‘working to make the world a better place’?” It’s the first time you’ve spoken since he went on his tangent, and Bob looks surprised that you had something to say.

“Well, they do. Not me, I focus on… Communications mostly. Because I don’t have a good enough grasp on my powers yet.” 

“And what exactly do they do?”

“It’s uh - Classified?” 

You scoff, “Classified..? What do you think you are? The Avengers?”

After you mutter your rhetorical question, Bob looks away.

“No way. You’re an Avenger?”

“Technically.” His heads down, leaving you to stare at his scalp instead of his eyes.

“And all the people you came into the shop with? They’re Avengers too?”

“Yeah. They’re more flashy. I’m kind of surprised you didn’t recognize them, to be honest.” He huffs out a laugh, seemingly glad that you’re actually taking part in the conversation now.

Your response is quiet, “It’s a psychological thing.”

Bob hums in response, urging you to continue.

“When you see someone, like a superhero, out of where your brain assumes they would be, most times you miss it. Some of your friends looked familiar, but I couldn’t place where I saw them, until now.”

“That’s… Wow, I never knew that.” Bob’s looking at you with a bit of awe in his eyes.

But then he’s straight back to business.

He tells you about how before, his bad days were bad and he’d black out. But now after the treatment, another, worse side of him has awakened. 

That’s how he transported you into one of your worst memories. 

“At least one person from the team stayed with me, all the time. That’s how it was when I first met you.” Bob’s tapping his fingers against the table, in a slow rhythmic pattern, “But then I wanted to take you out. And who goes on a date with a chaperone when we’re adults, right?”

“Yeah, right.” You’re laughing at him, or maybe with him.

“So, I started working on containing my powers more. Working on making them my own, so that I could be by myself. M-more like so I could be alone with you.”

“Just with me?” 

He’s nodding, “Just with you. And it went really good! To the point where I could go out on all sorts of different errands by myself.”

His cup has started to sweat. All the condensation building up on it from being untouched this whole time. Because you care about your well loved table, you reach across and lift his cup before placing it on a coaster. It slows him down for a second before he can continue.

“It was the nerves. O-or at least I think it was the nerves. I don’t know for sure what causes it; nobody does.”

“So, you being nervous about being on a date made you send me to my own personal hell?”

“Being on a date, with you specifically, yes.”

The way he’s opened up to you has greatly increased your trust in him.

If everything he’s saying was true, he had a bad deal in life and he’s doing the best with what he’s got. The Bob you knew did have some confidence problems, taking a while to open up to you originally so it wouldn't be surprising that he would be nervous.

It also wouldn’t be surprising that him being nervous would send his powers out of wack. There’s been articles about it before, how super powered individuals don’t realize the way their emotions are affecting their powers before it’s too late.

And if he’s lying. You’d have to give him a shot for just how damn good of a lie it was. No one could lie that good without a purpose.

So you reach across the table, towards Bob’s fidgeting hand. His eyes aren’t looking up so you only know that he sees you when his fingers stop tapping.

“I want to try.” You gulp and take a steadying breath, “I’d like to try with you if I didn’t put you off too much.”

You’re not touching him. Even though you would be the one suffering, it only felt right for him to make the first move. Not wanting to overstep by triggering his powers again.

After a couple of seconds he still hasn’t moved. Hasn’t looked up at you, hasn’t grasped your hand, hasn’t even twitched his fingers.

Then, softly, like if he speaks too loud the room would crack around him, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Yeah I’m sure.”

Slowly, his hand rises up to meet yours. When they connect nothing changes.

No black tendrils crawling up your walls, no darkness consuming you with no escape, no flashbacks to things you don’t want to remember.

The only thing you feel is the warmth from Bob’s hand. The calluses on his palm, small, but still present. You feel the tender way his thumb brushes over your knuckles. 

Once he realizes that nothing’s happening, he grips your hand tighter. It seems unconscious, the surprise from nothing bad happening overtaking him before he can stop it.

He’s beaming at you. A kiddish smile, one that allows all the joy to really shine through. 

You’re no better. Smiling so wide that if you didn’t stop, your cheeks would start to hurt.

Everyone has baggage, some of them more than others. But that doesn’t mean that anyone is undeserving. Doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t give someone a chance to prove that they can be more than their baggage. 

You wouldn’t deprive yourself of this opportunity. Wouldn’t be so unkind to deprive Bob of it either. So with the promise that he would be honest with you. That he would communicate to you, the good and the bad, no matter what. You and Bob start your relationship.

Moving over to the couch, finally able to be comfortable, instead of cordial. The two of you settle into a movie, sitting close. Close enough to touch, but not actually touching.

Until halfway through, when your head comes to rest on his shoulder, and the blanket that you have resting on the back of the couch comes to rest over your laps.

Your curiosity over Bob may have ‘killed’ you, sending you into a week-long depression for many different reasons. Leading to you shutting out the world, not willing to accept the fact that you were wrong about him.

But the way that you’re feeling right now. Feeling Bob lifting his arm to wrap around your shoulders, letting your head fall onto his chest instead of his shoulder. Hearing his heart thumping in his chest, almost lulling you to sleep. 

You know that this is satisfaction. It’s bloomed deep in your chest, taking a permanent residence there. Deeply rooted like it's attached to every neuron in you. And you know that it’s brought you back.

likes/comments/reblogs give me buffs to my character (greatly appreciated <3)

[dogpawsswapgod]

New chapter! A wild Viktor appears! Vi takes Powder's advice.

"Took You Long Enough"

A CaitVi soulmates AU inspired by and featuring @somewillwin

[mydearlybeloathed]

── 𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐍

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: without a major, eye catching skill, you attempt to make up for it by doing everything for everyone all at once--the crew only notices when it all comes crashing down.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: strawhats x sanjissister!reader, minor zoro x reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.6k

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: reader is sanji's sister, reader is bad at emotions (same), first fic of college! woo!, injuries, stitches, blood, angst and comfort, requested

𝐎𝐏 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐉𝐈'𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐀

Being the Strawhat Boatswain was no easy task, but you held it with determination and pride. Even when your crew made the job more than difficult.

You took in a deep breath and let it out slowly; Someone had messed with your inventory. 

Again.

You stood in the storage room, wondering who had the gall to come and move things around. The cannonballs were no longer in the crate by the window, but behind many other crates of lantern oil. The box once full of toothbrushes and toothpaste was down to its last bottle when it should still be half full. And to top it all off, the medical supplies shelf was out of order. The bandages were at the bottom and the disinfectant was next to the gauze!

It was enough to make your skin crawl.

Taking another deep breath, you shook out your shoulders, went through five stages of grief, and accepted the mess at hand, swiping a roll of bandages from the shelf and leaving the room to deal with some other day. 

Inventory was a job you liked. You took your role seriously, always on top of what was needed or wanted, ensuring it was acquired. Day in and day out you thought of everyone else, desperate to be useful.

You took this responsibility so seriously that your own self-care had gotten lost in the mix of Luffy’s food requests, Nami’s financial ledgers, and the weekly task of inventory. You’d lost sleep and skipped meals in the name of keeping order. 

Because if you didn’t, who would?

It didn’t matter anyway. You loved taking care of everyone. It made you feel useful. And as someone not as skilled with a sword or as knowledgeable with maps, that was worth a million hours of (much needed) sleep.

So you yawned and pushed open the door to your and Nami’s shared room, finding her hunched over her makeshift crate desk, squinting through the lamplight. Her forearm was still bleeding, splotches of red seeping through the first bandage. 

“I’ll handle this,” you startled her. “You fix that.”

Nami hadn’t seemed to notice the condition of her injury, chuckling dismissively as she worked at redressing the wound. “Thanks. My eyes needed a rest.”

Your own eyes longed to rest as she said it, straining under stress and overwork to finish doing the math of how many pounds of sugar, flour, and grain you’d need for the next stretch at sea. You picked up the sheet and made to your own desk, plopping down.

You underlined the last calculation as Nami tied off her bandage. Leaning back in your chair, you threw down your pencil and rested your eyes, knowing there was more work to be done despite the dark hour. As if on cue, the potter pattering of small hooves led up to your door, followed by a soft knocking. A smile spread on your face instantly. “Come in, Doc.”

The reindeer peeked his antlers and eyes in first, stepping inside when all was clear. “Is it a bad time?”

Nami swiveled to straddle the back of her desk chair. “Never. What’s up?”

His eyes blinked up at you first. “It’s time for your physical. Do you want to do it now?”

Immediate sirens went off in your head. “Physical?”

“We’ve all had one,” Nami piped in. “It’s just to make sure we’re all healthy. Your turn.”

“Good one,” you chuckled dryly. “I don’t do check ups, Doc. Sorry.”

Chopper’s little brows met instantly, his hooves falling to his sides. You shifted around to avoid his narrowed gaze. “Y/N, it’s important. I need to know where your health is so I can plan for the future.”

“My health is perfeclty fine and if anything changes,” you laughed, “I’ll let you know, Chop. I’m fine.”

But Nami wasn’t giving you a grin when you turned to her for support, her lips downturned. “I dunno. If Chopper thinks he should check you out then—”

“I said I’m good,” you snapped more sharply, going on in a concerningly peppy tone, “If I need help, I’ll ask for it.”

The way Chopper defleated nearly had you taking it all back, but you stood your ground, trying to make him feel better with a smile. His ears only drooped further until Nami said, “Can you help me, actually? I need to redo this bandage.”

She raised a brow over Chopper’s shoulder, silently asking a question you didn’t catch, so you grinned and shrugged it off. Standing, you caled over your shoulder, “I’m seeing if anyone needs anything.”

Chopper heaved a sigh as the door shut behind you. Nami pat his head gently, lips pursed. “She’ll warm up to it. Give ‘er time.”

“I know,” Chopper sighed. “I’m just… getting worried, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

Chopper thought back to the past few months he’d been on the crew. Overall, you didn’t exhibit any alarming behavior. You worked hard and cared deeply, that was all. But… Chopper couldn’t place it, but he wanted to make sure everything was really all right. “It’s nothing.”

Hopefully, you warmed up to check ups quickly, at least for his own sake.

જ ⁀ ➴

You'd been careless—that’s what you blamed it on, at least.

The opposing pirate crew hadn't exactly caught the Straw Hats off guard. Nami was on watch that early morning, and she had a great record of raising the alarm. So when the enemy ship sidled up to the going merry and the dozen or so pirates jumped aboard, most of the crew was ready.

But you hadn't been at your best for days, maybe even weeks if you really admitted it. Sleep was so far away and your hunger was on this odd anxiety–induced strike. You barely felt real anymore, simply wandering through the ship doing various tasks that presented themselves, but never really taking time to breathe. 

You weren't entirely surprised when a pirate caught you off guard, coming at you from behind and getting a nick at your side—not a nick, actually. His sword had marked a pretty deep gash at your waist, and even when you thought the flow of bleeding was done, you somehow had more to give.

In the aftermath of the fight, as much as you attempted to brush off the concerns of the others, your heaving breath and greenish complexion were giving away everything. Besides, Sanji had known something was up since the first time you'd told him you "weren't hungry enough for dinner."

So as the sun rose above the horizon and the cleaning of the Merry's deck was completed, there was no escaping your fate. The haze of night no longer concealed your wounds.

Usopp was the first to notice. His gaze caught your stuttering breaths and the very obvious grimace you gave when trying to haul a dead pirate over the railing. He took the weight of the body in seconds, tossing it over.

"You don't look too hot," he observed, to which you scoffed and flicked your hands in nonchalance.

"It's nothing I can't fix." But you hadn't realized just how much blood was soaking in the fabric of your shirt, and one turn of your body displayed the vast crimson to him. Usopp's sharp inhale caught your attention, and with a grunted snarl you griped, "What?"

By now, nami had walked past, her own eyes catching your shirt. You glanced down and cursed at the sight. "I'm fine, okay? It's not that bad—"

But Nami already called out, "Sanji!" 

You rolled your eyes, gut bubbling anxiously. "Relax, would you? It's just a scratch. Honestly, we should use supplies for worse wounds—"

The breathy gasp behind you was unmistakably your brother's, and you swiveled to find him staring at your abdomen. "Pip…”

"What?" you snapped, self-conscious as your crossed your arms.

Luffy and Zoro had joined the show as well, causing anxiety to burn a hole in your good sense.

Sanji couldn't move, couldn't say a word. As you fumed up at him, all he saw was his baby sister, her face growing paler by the second, the flutter of your eyes weak, the red staining your clothes growing larger—

And then it hit him: The battle had occurred several hours ago. His eyes snapped to meet yours. "How long have you been bleeding out?"

"Sanji—"

"Stop," he said, and you did, your jaw snapping back up. His eyes skimmed you over with a hundred different thoughts, before he broke the contact and gently approached you. “Let's get this cleaned up, yeah?"

He sounded so soft, so much like how he used to when you were just young enough to still get by not knowing how shit the world was. It made you flinch away from him, not at all fond of the warm feeling of vulnerability welling up inside. "Shove off, Sanji. You're shit at dressing wounds."

"I'll do it then," said Chopper, stepping forward. In the little reindeer’s eyes was far too much concern. It left your skin crawling.

"No." You backed away from them till your back hit the ship's side and tried to ignore how featherlight your head felt. "Don't waste good supplies on me. It's not worth it."

Sanji gaped. "... What?"

You sighed, frustrated, and made to storm back to your cabin to sulk away the pain seeping through your limbs, raising your head to snap at them again.

Immediately, you found Luffy's eyes locked on you, all your words falling flat. He had never been scary—he was Luffy—but right then, well, you were frightened by the look in his eyes; it was something like confusion mulled with frustration.

"Not worth it?" He echoed.

Glancing around for help and finding none, you shrugged.

Luffy blinked, and you felt like apologizing, but he spoke before you could. "It's not waste if it's used on you, Y/N."

"I..."

Sanji sighed like he was suddenly out of breath, catching your eye again. His eyes were shining, and not in the charming way. It was a heartbroken kind of look, and it ate away at your insides. "You didn't tell anyone... because you thought it wasn't worth it?"

"Well," you stammered. "I mean—it's not as bad as it looks."

You felt their stares—how each of them was looking at you with such pity it made you sick—and you cracked, sputtering. "Just back off! It's a little blood and I'll heal. Zoro did!"

The swordsman in question stiffened as you thrust a hand at him, his ever-deathly gaze boring into you. “Yeah, ‘cause I wasn't being a stubborn bitch about it."

You were in the middle of an eye roll when the headache started. Honestly, why did they care? It was you keeping up with their asses half the time. You didn't need the same treatment. You had your own shit handled.

You tried walking away, and you thought you'd had it handled, but then the world started spinning, and your side really did ache, and suddenly you were in sanji's arms as he gritted out your name.

You were tired, very tired, so you blinked up at him, and fell asleep.

As one can assume, the entire crew lost their shit.

જ ⁀ ➴

In the eight hours you were unconscious, nobody sat still. Someone was always pacing, arguing, tapping something—agitation just sat over the whole ship. 

Sanji would say those eight hours were the longest hours of his life. He would say it rivaled the eighty-five days on that damn rock. It rivaled everything, because it was you. His sister. 

He couldn’t bring himself to debrief all that you’d said and what it meant… but him mind brought him there anyway. Sanji beat himself up over and over. If only he’d noticed something was wrong—he should have noticed… which made him realize he hadn’t a clue what was wrong.

He was in the middle of cooking your favorite meal for when you woke up when the image of you fainting in a graceful arc crossed his mind, and how he’d lunged to catch you. Maybe it was just being in the kitchen, but it somewhat reminded him of when you were kids.

You, so much younger and frailer, were prancing atop the counteertops of the Baratie, playing the part of Red Leg Zeff with your boots covered in marinara. The real Zeff, not so Red Legged, battled you with a wooden spoon as he simultaneously fought of his growing fondness. You tripped over your own slimy boot laces and, ever the dramatic, used the opportunity to swan dive to the floor.

Yet you hadn’t made it to the floor, not even close. Sanji had you safe in his arms the second your foot slipped off the counter. When he scolded you for being reckless, you grinned and chirped, “I knew you’d catch me!”

Sanji had caught you again, but not fast enough this time. Lately, he was never fast enough to keep up with your ever-growing mind. Each day you got quicker on your feet, jumping to accomplish task after task after task—Sanji paused as he prepared the food. When was the last time he saw you take a break?

When you woke up, your head was anywhere but in your body, the sensations of the room around you slowly drifting back to you.

Groggy, you shuffled in the sheets, skin sticky with sweat. Your eyes adjusted to the brightness, fluttering open. You sat up groaning, blinking fully awake, only to pause. Sat on the stool across from your bed was Zoro, solemn as ever. He looked half asleep, but the sound of your rustling startled him awake, eyes lazily widening to take you in. 

He made to ask something, but you beat him to it, woozily wondering about the odd tick in his brow. "What's up with your face?"

His brows screwed together, but that look never left his eyes; you couldn't place what it was. "What d’you mean?"

"You look..." Your eyes flickered all over him, and you thought maybe, he looked relieved. "Nothing. Sorry. I feel weird."

“I’ll bet.” He leaned forward to glance you over, and you settled on yes, Zoro was definitely concerned. He'd never looked that way before, and the oddity had you leaning closer subconsciously. Zoro jerked back instantly, blinking quickly. "You feel better, though, right?”

You did a quick check of your body, sensing your limbs and tapping at the bandage covering your abdomen. “I think so.” 

Zoro nodded stiffly, eyes flickering all over the floor. “Want me to get Twirly? I mean—Sanji?"

Typically, you weren’t the transparent type, but your head wasn't where it should be, so all your thoughts suddenly came out as words. "Is he mad? He usually gets mad when I get hurt."

Zoro moved to kneel at your bedside when you started to prop yourself up, eyes glued to your lap. He watched you carefully. "I don't think he's mad at you."

"But I got hurt," you exasperated. "I wasn't watching my back and got—got skewered! He hates it when I get... skewered." You rubbed at your temples and let out a weak laugh, brain fog fading. "Am I making sense?"

You raised your gaze to find a hint of amusement on Zoro’s face, his lips tipped upward. "Barely, but I follow."

You felt at your side, wincing at the pricking pain of the wound and the bruise forming around it. Chopper had done a good job with the bandage, though it was about time to change it.

"Hey," he said, dragging your wandering attention back to him.

"Yeah?"

Zoro's face grew cold. "Don't ever pull that shit again. You get hurt, you tell someone. Even if you think it's a waste."

You averted your eyes. "Yeah. Cross my heart and shit."

He wasn't satisfied, but he leaned back and raked a hand through his hair, leaving it alone for now. That was when the door opened, and you felt his presence before you ever turned your face.

"Oh, God," Sanji gasped. He rushed to your side, falling to his knees and setting a hand on your shoulder, just staring at you like you weren't even real. He passed a hand over your hair and sighed like he had the weight of Atlas on him.

"You're okay," he said, not so much a question, more of a reassurance. Neither of you noticed when Zoro slipped out of the room, nor when he knocked into the doorframe as he went.

"I'm okay," you said.

Sanji's hugs had always been lethal, always too tight for comfort but too sweet to turn away—and this was no different. His arms were careful to avoid your side as he pulled you to him, your head finding a nook against his chest as his chin rested on your head, and he squeezed you tightly.

Silently, you let him hold you, remaining still against him. You felt his tears, but never heard them. You felt his grip on you like a brand, that same old discomfort crawling through your gut the longer the intimacy went on. But you withstood it, an odd kind of burn creeping up your throat.

You choked on a cough—no, you weren't coughing. You couldn't fool yourself into believing such a lie, not when your eyes slammed shut and forced streams of tears down your cheeks. Your hands clawed at his sleeves as a warbled cry claws its way from your lips. 

"You're worth everything," he whispered into your hair. "Oh, God. I really thought..."

"But I didn't." you calmed your ragged breaths. "I'm fine."

He nearly laughed. "Fine? Pipsqueak, you were out half the day!"

You pulled back with a grin. "Eh. Just a scratch."

Sanji shook his head, smiling, before it fell instantaneously. He held you by your shoulders, shaking you slightly. "Why would you... was it something I did? I would never—"

"No! No, it was nothing you did."

"Then why in hell would you try to walk off a wound that needed sixteen stitches!"

"I don't know!" you looked away. "I just... there was too much to do. Everyone would need things done after a battle like that. I wanted to be, I dunno, ready and able."

Sanji still didn't understand. "What things?"

"You know," you started. "Things." He gave you a look. You sighed. "Like... sometimes Zoro lets me polish his swords, and in exchange he'll clean the little nicks he claims won't give him infections. And I think Luffy's hat needed fixing. Usopp never organizes the canon balls right and it makes me nervous, so I always go back and redo it… And on top of all that someone went through my inventory."

He took you in for a moment, and you felt very, very transparent all of a sudden. "None of that is your responsibility alone."

"Yeah, but, who else is gonna do them? Everyone’s so busy doing their things. I don't have a thing, so I do everything, I guess."

Sanji tilted his head, brows knit. "You do too have a thing."

"I really don't, Sanji. I don't cook or kick people like you. I'm not amazing with swords or a slingshot. I can't navigate for shit or heal wounds... so I help. If I don't, I'm pretty much deadweight." In the following silence, you mumbled something you never thought you’d have the courage to say. “Face it. Luffy only invited me because I’m your sister.”

Perhaps you should go back to the Baratie, as much as the thought sickened you. Zeff would never turn you away, and he’d even be happy to have you back. 

“Not true.” You looked up, heart dropping at the sight of luffy in the doorway, the rest of the crew behind him. You shot Zoro an accusatory glare, wiping furiously at your face. Perfect. A waiting audience.

You rasped, “What?”

Luffy moved into the room, face sullen, his hat and curls shadowing his face. “I didn’t invite you because of Sanji.” Luffy ducked down to be eye level with you on the bed. “Honestly, I didn’t know you were related till a few days after you joined.”

“Oh.” Sniffling, you ducked your eyes. “Then why? I… I don’t contribute much of anything, and when I try I wind up passed out for half a day.”

Nami scoffed, “That wasn’t your fault.”

You scoffed right back. “I shouldn’t have left my back unguarded.”

“You shouldn’t have been skipping sleep,” Zoro rebuttled, eyes steely. “And meals.”

Swiping at your cheek again, “Screw you.” You picked at your nails and refused to look up at all costs. It was difficult with Luffy right in your face.

The captain had his brows screwed together. His eyes bore into you till he grew tired of your avoidance and lightly pushed at your shoulder. Your gaze flicked up to meet his, quick to glance at the wall over his shoulder. 

“Y/N,” he muttered, “We care about you. And you worried us.”

And just like that, all your work to keep the tears in crumbled; one rebellious tear escaped, leading a dangerous path down to your chin. “Yeah. I know.”

That got a whisper of a smile back on Luffy’s face, and his hand came to plop down on you shoulder. “You’re part of this crew because we need you.”

“For what?” you dared to scoff. Instantly, Luffy’s eyes narrowed further than you thought possible. 

He echoed your words back to you like they felt weird on his tongue, and gave no further reply, simply staring right through you. You had already shirvled into yourself by the time Sanji stepped in.

“I can never keep track of how much food we go through,” he said, nudging your shoulder, “but somehow you always know exactly what we need and how much. As a chef, you inventory is vital to me.”

“I’m convinced you’re a mind reader,” Usopp added on. “Still no clue how you knew I wanted marshmallows last week.”

You chuckled dryly, gaze still heavy, obviously hesitant to take them serious. Nami sighed deeply.

“Listen,” she started, moving to kneel in front of you. It was times like this Nami felt much older, when her eyes peered into yours and it felt like home (a home so distant you ached to remember it). “It doesn’t matter what you believe. You contribute so much to this crew, more than you need to most days.”

Chopper bobbed up beside her. “Yeah! You do everything and then you never let me look after you!” It was hard to focus on what he said when he was so cute, but somehow when he narrowed his eyes all angry like, he held your rapt attention. “Let me do my job, so you’re able to do yours!”

“On the topic,” Zoro grunted, “quit overworking yourself. When Usopp fucks up the canonballs let him fix it himself.”

“Hey!”

You barely withheld a smile. “But… there’s still so much I can’t do—”

Zoro rolled his eyes. “You wanna learn how to fight? I’ll teach you. Just—quit being stupid and sleep, dammit.” His cheeks dusted pink and his eyes darted to the wall, unable to catch your tentative expression.

Luffy squeezed your shoulder. “You’re our boatswain. Just like Nami is our navigator and Sanji is our cook. The only one questioning your position is you.”

You sniffled, looking right in his eyes, and something in what he said finally broke through. You couldn’t cook or fight or navigate—but you had a damn good memory, you kept the ship organized, you made sure no one ever wanted for anything. You were the Strawhat Boatswain. Surely that held some weight.

“Okay, yeah, I get it,” you muttered, palms pressing against your cheeks as you cleared your throat. Glancing around at them all, you shoved down the creeping feeling in your chest and grinned cheekily. “But whoever’s been screwing with the storage room better knock it off, or I’ll be up all night fixing their mess.”

Silence enveloped you as everyone glanced around for suspicion, when Chopper burst forth with watery eyes. “I’m sorry! Really sorry! I didn’t realize I messed it up, I—I—”

“Slow down,” you smiled. You caught Chopper’s hooves in your hands and squeezed them tight. “It’s okay. I’m not really upset.”

If it was anyone else, maybe the story would be different, but all you felt was warm affection staring down at Chopper. He nodded swiftly. “I’ll help you fix it! Don’t worry.”

“I’ll help too,” offered Nami, none too subtle as she jabbed her elbow in the crook of Luffy’s side. 

“Ow! What—Quit that!” Luffy nursed the sting in his side, brows screwed together. “Me too, I guess…”

“We all will,” Nami declared, eyes scanning the room in search of an objection. She found none, a pleased smile gracing her lips. “See? You don’t even need to ask. We want to help you. Remember that next time you feel like everything is on you.”

“All right,” you conceded warmly. That familiar affection tugged on your heartstrings. You slid your legs off the bed and made to stand when a hand clamped down on your shoulder and nearly knocked you down. “Sanji, let go.”

Your brother’s jaw was set and gaze resolved, scaring the stubbornness right out of you. “You need rest. We can fix the storage room tomorrow, Pipsqueak.”

“But—”

“You’re actively bleeding through your stitches,” he cut you off, grinning when you pouted. “Tomorrow. Your inventory isn’t going anywhere.”

You were left gaping at him, eyes scanning for someone on your side. Nami raised a brow. Zoro’s expression was blank. Usopp avoided your eye. Chopper looked so sure of himself that you didn’t even try. So instead, you puffed out a breath and readjusted yourself on the bed. 

“I expect everyone’s attendance tomorrow morning,” you grumbled.

Usopp gawked at you. “Morning?”

One glare was all it took and his jaw snapped back up. Your temples began to throb fiercely, the gradual increase in pressure suddenly erupting into a full ache. The base of your neck was sore too and your lash line weighed down in gentle flutters. Sanji’s hand on your shoulder kept you from floating away into the delirium, your gaze searching as it swept over all your friends.

That tight tendril of awkward affection curled around your heart, as it often did, and it felt as undesirable as always. But no one pressed for any outward expression of it; your friends simply stood in your midst, wearing there hearts on sleeves of various vulnerability, not a hint of expectation anywhere on their faces. 

Times like this, you thought maybe you could bare to ditch your fears. Then again, maybe not, but you dismissed the hope fondly. 

“All right,” Chopper grunted, cheeks puffed. “Everyone out. She needs lots of rest—starting now!”

You chuckled dryly as the little doctor shooed everyone away. Nami shot you a quick little wave and disapeared into the hall, Sanji squeezed your hand, and Usopp gave a brief thumbs up. Zoro was left holding the door, solemn as ever, and paused int he act of closing the door. He appeared between the door and the frame, not quite in yet not quite out either.

“I was serious,” he said lowly.

You tilted your head. “About overowkring myself?”

“Well, yeah, that,” he stammered. “I mean about learning to fight. I’ll teach you.”

You’re sure your eyes glimmered, heart thrumming unexpectedly. “Really?” He nodded, crossing his arms. “Sanji won’t like it.”

“He doesn’t like a lot of things.”

“Primarily you.”

A scant smirk, one born of mischief and misdeed, crept up his face. “Primarily me, yeah.”

You shook your head and fought back a smile. “I don’t have a sword.”

He paused long enough for you to notice. “I’ve got three.”

“I couldn’t,” you said instantly, jaw falling open. “Those’re important.”

Zoro rolled a shoulder and combed at his hair. “I trust you.”

He was gone before you’d finished gasping, eyes wide as the door swung shut in his wake, and unsure when a sudden heatwave had flooded the room.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @100520s @murnsondock @kryscent

[wrotebymii]

Til’ We Meet Again | SERIES MASTERLIST

Series Summary; Silco tells a new story to a curious Jinx.

Pairing; Young!Silco x Fem!Reader

Summary; Young, dumb, and mostly feral is how some would describe the new underground rebellion group within the shadows of the undercity. You were indifferent to the revolt— in favor of worrying about your own survival, but you morals have seen to shift when you rescue someone in fending off an Enforcer. Morals in support of the birth of Zaun.

Warnings; Angst, pre-canon, hurt/comfort, Zaunites, Piltians, revolution, violence, blood, gore, drinking, smoking, gambling, swearing, sex, brothels, drugs, slow burn, the reader is a coward at first, original character (Wynn), strangers to lovers, bittersweet, Old Silco being weirdly sentimental, Jinx being noisy, and major character death.

PROLOGUE - Reminiscing

CHAPTER I - Persistence

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

Special thanks to; my two friends for supporting me and helping with proofreading + character creation of Wynn. Love you guys.

[saintsir4n]

I WILL BE DELUSIONAL UNTIL THE END. Y’all see that Nic clocked Olandria’s body language and decided to friendzone which lead to a mutual friend zoning. Yet look how he was acting through the recoupling and how he reacted to the possibility of Olandria getting dumped. He wasn’t having it and was visibly annoyed. And when she joined him, he wasn’t looking at her like a friend…

[spoiledcarmen]

My Neglectful Lover

pair: tim drake x reader

tags: arranged marriage, angst, hurt/some comfort, SLOWburn, smut, OOC characters, dark topics.

summary: tim drake is forced to marry reader for the better of WE, and he doesn’t like it.

chapter: high, high, neglectful lover. (1/?)

PT.1 - PT.2 - PT.3

You don’t know how you got here, but you did. You’re sitting alone in a private room with windows that replace walls. ‘This restaurant is all just for show.’ You think to yourself, it’s where elites go just to show off. You’ve heard numerous stories about the food being cold or reservations being cancelled just so someone more important could take it, but who’s more important than Bruce Wayne’s adopted son, Tim Drake.

How did you get here? That question never seems to leave your mind. You want to, but it doesn't? You start to think about how you’re sitting alone, waiting for a man you’ve only heard of, whose name is only whispered of like a rumor.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You're sitting in your bed, scrolling through TikTok. What else was an unemployed twenty-one-year-old supposed to do? It was seven P.M. on a Friday; the house was quiet, like usual. Your father was probably out, God knows where, playing businessman, and your mother was in the living room watching trashy Gotham television. Your peace was soon disturbed by your father; he practically knocked down the door wide open.

“Get ready! Now! Do your hair in those stupid curls! Wear a nice dress,” he yells and yells. You sit up straight with furrowed eyebrows, trying to understand what in the world was going on. Your mother seemed as panicked as your father. “What’s happening?” You ask, “You’re getting married! That’s what’s happening!” She says as she throws a push-up bra at your face, she hurries into your closet to find you a dress.

“Married? I'm only twenty-one!” You yell aloud at your father, who seems to have left to change into yet another suit. You walk after him. “At twenty-one I was already married to your mother, and I had a job. Now look at you!” You roll your eyes; you don’t need to work! You never needed to work! He never even let you think about the thought of working. “Well, mind telling me what’s happening at least?” You mutter under your breath as you sit down on your parents bed.

“Bruce Wayne was in my office, asking for advice.” You snorted, Mr. Wayne, asking your father for advice? You didn’t believe it. He continued on, “He was looking to expand his company for his son. His son is twenty-three.” You shut your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose; you know where this is going. “Don’t be like that! Timothy is wonderful. He’s handsome, young, and fun! But anyway, I proposed the idea that…” He shrugged; this wasn’t good. for you at least.

“He could marry you and have half of our company…” He gave you a look that a man would give his wife after he just gambled all their savings away, one that says, ‘It isn't a big deal!’ “How’s that supposed to expand their fucking company!” You scream at him, clearly frustrated. “More money! They get the shares! Investors invest in us, and they invest in Wayne Enterprises too! Two in one! Now go get ready.” You resist the urge to absolutely obliterate him. You shut your eyes once again as you take a deep breath.

“I took the honor of putting your dress on your bed.” Your mother chimes in as he walks into the room to change herself. You roll your eyes as you leave their room to go to your own. “I can’t believe this!” He just threw this on you? And they’re coming over? Now? ugh…

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You're adding the finishing touches to your appearance, some fake beauty marks here and there, adding more hairspray. Your mother insisted on stuffing your push-up bra; God, it was uncomfortable. You stare at yourself in the vanity mirror; you look… mature for once. Maybe it was because you knew you were getting ready for a man that was going to be your husband, or it was the bell sleeves that just reminded you of your mother, but you were mature.

You kept staring at your dress. knee length, the patterns are so beautiful, the bell sleeves that made you look like a vampire in the night, the boob window that was so tantalizing. Your appreciation was cut when a maid knocked on your door; it was Elizabeth. “They're here, Miss January.” You nod before you fix your hair one more time and put on your black heels, so dark and so pure. Not a crease in sight.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You open the door and walk out of your room, closing the door and taking a deep breath. Your heels clicking and clacking were muffled against the carpeted hardwood stairs. You could smell the cologne. Was it Bruce’s or Timothy’s? Either way… it smelled amazing. “And here she comes. The princess.” Your father teases as he stands up, putting his right hand on your right forearm as you stand beside him, holding you in his grasp.

Your mother stands up, so does Mr.Wayne, and finally, he does. It felt weird to look at him so up close; it felt illegal. You were so used to seeing him on your phone, on advertisements, in magazines, and even in the newspaper. but not face-to-face. Bruce was the first to break the silence, extending his hand out to you; you take it. “It’s nice to meet you.” He says as he shakes it, he smiles at you before breaking the handshake and nodding to Timothy.

Drake takes your hand, not even waiting for you to extend yours. He forces a smile on his face; even you could tell it was fake—it wasn’t even reaching his eyes. “Pleasure to meet you.” “N-nice to meet you too.” You blurt out in shock, was he always this aggressive? Does he even know your name? Your father sat with your mother, Bruce was sitting with Timothy, and you were forced to sit alone. on display for all of them to scrutinize. You’ve never sat so awkwardly in your own home.

You swear you could see him stare at you from time to time, but it’s only natural, right? You're his wife; he can stare if he wants. You're just not sure if you want him staring straight at your cleavage. You catch him staring, and he just stares at you next. What a weird fella. You force yourself to look away, and somehow your eyes land on his bulge. You shut your eyes and stare at your father instead. You're so embarrassing… You're sure he caught you staring!

“Next Friday is alright?” Your father’s voice breaks you free out of your trance. ‘What’s next Friday?’ you think to yourself. “Alright, I’ll make the reservation for two at eight.” He laughs and smiles as he stands up to take Bruce’s hand. You and your mother stand up. Tim sighs a sigh of relief, happy he’s finally leaving. He doesn’t even shake your hand this time, just waves goodbye. You just hope Bruce doesn't yell at him for that.

“What’s next Friday?” you say as your father leads the two of them far away from the living room and out the front door. “You weren't listening?” Your mother exclaims in shock, “Why would I!” She sighs. “A little dinner for you two to get to know each other. you and him alone.” Alone. That word repeats a billion times in your head until next Friday.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

That’s how you got here. And you think he should’ve gotten here about an hour ago. Is he purposely late as a sign of rebellion? You shake your head and take a deep breath, but your breath hitches as the door opens. “I hope I’m not too late. Am I?” He says with a smirk on his face, Yep… definitely late on purpose. “No! No! It’s fine!” You smile and stand up for him. ‘What a suck-up,’ you think to yourself before extending your hand to him. He actually takes it this time.

He sits down across from you, he stares at your cleavage once again, at least you know what the man likes, your shoulders shrug in disappointment, yet you’ll never make the first move; he has to learn how to be a man. “So… you, uh... I mean, we’re getting married,” he states. He stares at you as if he expects you to say something back. “Yep! We are.” You reply back. nodding mindlessly, hoping he’d take the lead.

“So what do you like?” He tested the waters, crossing his arms and getting comfortable in his chair. “Like? Well... I think I like a little bit of everything? I like music, reading, and writing. You were about to go on and on before you cut yourself off, rudely, might you add. “No, like, what do you like?” he says with a suggestive look on his face. Your eyebrows furrow as you try to make sense, then when the gears in your mind finally click in place, your eyes widen. “Oh! I—I don't...” “Right... of course you don’t…” He shakes his head slowly as he pulls his gaze away from you.

You can clearly see him laughing to himself, and you have to pretend you’re not hurt. It’s not your fault you prefer to stay at home; you decide to pinch back and question him, “May I ask why you were late?” It was your turn to cross your arms against your chest. He takes his fingers up to his chin and pretends to think, “You... may not.” God, he’s insufferable. He tries too hard to be funny! You roll your eyes and press the question harder. “Why were you late?” “Because I don’t fucking like you.”

[jijournal]

PRANK WARS | F.W

malfoy!reader x fred weasley

"rudest white haired person ever"

Summary: You and Fred Weasley had been bickering since first year, locked in a never-ending war of (mostly) harmless pranks. Why is it that he's so obsessed with tormenting you? you’ll never know—but it’s equal parts annoying and entertaining, especially when you catch that furious look on his face as you walk away from your latest victory. The petty rivalry drags on for years, until your sixth year, when one of Fred’s pranks goes completely wrong… or maybe completely right.

Word Count: 6k+

A/N: This is definitely NOT my usual go-to posts, but I reallyyyyy loved this idea I had since like—forever. Soooo here you go!

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

It started on the train on the way to Hogwarts. It was your first time being completely away from your family. No more cold sharp gazes were present, instead the warm breeze was hugging you as the sound of your short heeled boots echoed through the hall.

You were walking along the corridor of the train, eager to find that old lady selling candies. That was until a red-headed boy around your age popped up in front of you, smiling like an idiot.

"Quick question! Frog spawn soap OR Snake spawn soap?!" he was practically shouting at you.

Instead of turning him away, you immediately answer. "Snake spawn soap, duh!"

“And why is that?” he asked, his face inching closer to yours, determined to know why you chose snakes over frogs.

"Snakes are far more dangerous," you reply smoothly, a glint of amusement in your eyes. "People might like frogs—some even keep them as pets. But snakes? They strike fear. If you want real panic, snakes will always get you the reaction you're looking for." A slow, knowing smirk curves your lips.

"Wow..." his mouth was now agape instead of that cheeky grin a few moments ago. "You are... wow... that was amazing. You are definitely getting added on my 'people I want to be friends with' list!"

You stare at him, brows furrowed as he rattles on about the people that are on his list.

"I'm Fred by the way!" he exclaimed, his hand extended in front of you, hoping you would shake it.

Your eyes darted away from him to the sound of a trolley just behind him. The colorful cart easily caught your attention more than this boy's hair. You can already smell the chocolate frogs and the sherbet lemon waiting for you to devour them.

'The old lady selling candies!' you thought.

You brushed right past Fred, ignoring his outstretched arm as you marched directly toward the reason you’d left your compartment in the first place.

You could practically feel his glare burning into the back of your head as you neared the trolley where the old witch stood. You didn’t turn around, but you were almost certain you caught the tail end of his muttered complaint:

“Rudest white-haired person ever.”

You rolled your eyes and pretended not to hear him, too focused on piling your arms with every sweet you’d been craving since the train left the station.

⸻

The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall was beautiful, showing a deep twilight sky where stars twinkled softly, matching the real weather outside. The loud whispers of older students bounced off the stone walls—talk of Quidditch, exams, and quiet gossip filled the room, blending with the familiar magic of the castle.

Unlike the other students in your year—their backs slouched, fingers nervously fidgeting—you stood tall, shoulders squared, head held high, and hands calmly poised before you, radiating the composed authority of a headmistress.

You were a Malfoy after all.

But unlike your younger brother—who was cold, dull, and uninterested in anything fun—you were full of life, sharp-witted, and always up for an adventure. Especially when it came to pranking.

Your Father never approved of your foolishness but you never minded him. Your father adored you.

Behind that mischievousness of yours, you understood the importance of blood purity. You swore to your father you would never marry a man that doesn't have clean blood. Your father was proud.

You grew up in a house where your mother would teach you proper etiquettes of a pure blooded woman before you could even read. You carried yourself with proper poise, grace and elegance.

So when you walked through the Great Hall, students' whispers grew rapidly.

"White hair?" "Is she a Malfoy?" "She must be!" "Look at the way she acts, it screams pure blood."

You could hear them talking about you. As they should.

You weren't a mean person. You just... like to boast.

You like to tell people the new things your father bought you. You love to show off. Show off every expensive dress, every polished pair of shoes, every glinting necklace that probably costs more than their family vacations.

It’s not your fault you have taste—and money.

You walk like the hallway is a runway and talk like everyone’s dying to hear what you'll say next. And they usually are. Eyes follow you when you pass, even if it’s just to roll them. Jealousy’s loud like that.

And whenever you prank your little brother and turn out successful, you would tease him for weeks with no end.

"You could never be like me Draco. Father actually smiled when I pranked you. Slightly, but anyway! He's going to buy me more prank stuff from Zonkos that I would use on you!"

Draco would roll his eyes and retreat into one of his classic sulks, convinced your father liked you more than him.

As you reached the front of the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall began calling students one by one to sit on the stool, gently placing the old, tattered Sorting Hat atop their heads.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” the hat bellowed as it touched the head of a boy named Cedric Diggory. Cheers exploded from the Hufflepuff table, the students in yellow welcoming him with proud claps and bright smiles as he made his way over.

Professor McGonagall looked back down on her parchment, "Y/N Malfoy!"

Your breath hitched as your name got called out. You walked up the steps and sat on the stool, the talking hat pressed on your head. It wasn't even a second when the pointed hat shouted "SLYTHERIN!"

You smiled in relief and started to walk towards the sea of students wearing green robes. That was when you locked eyes with a particular red head.

His brows was furrowed as you look him in the eye, a small smile plastered on your lips. He was staring at you with curiosity, his head slightly tilting as he watches you. His eyes looked away from yours as his name got called out.

"Fred Weasley!"

A Weasley, huh. The family your father had always told you to avoid at all costs. Even if they were pure-bloods, they were the biggest blood traitors alive.

Fred jogged up to the stool, his usual grin back in place as the Sorting Hat was placed on his head.

"GRYFFINDOR!" it shouted a second later.

He shot you a wink as he hopped off the stool and ran to join the cheering Gryffindors. You rolled your eyes and were about to look away—until you heard the next name.

"George Weasley!"

You blinked, your head tilting slightly. Another one?

Sure enough, an identical boy stepped forward, the same red hair, same build, same smug grin. Twins. Fantastic. He gave a playful nudge to Fred as he passed him, then sat down and was sorted just as quickly.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The two high-fived as George dropped into the seat beside his brother, both of them stealing a glance across the room toward you. Fred pointed discreetly, clearly whispering something to George, who looked at you, laughed, and nodded as if they were already plotting their next move.

You pressed your lips together, holding back a smile. Two of them. Double the trouble.

This year was going to be interesting.

⸻

Settling into Hogwarts was easier than you thought. Your Slytherin dorm under the Black Lake was cold but pretty, with green light dancing on the stone walls. You unpacked fast, hanging up your best robes and filling your shelves with sweets you bought from the trolley. For once, everything felt right. No strict parents watching you—just freedom and a castle full of chances.

You went to bed with a smug smile, already imagining how fun this year was going to be. And in the back of your mind, you kept replaying that brief encounter with Fred Weasley. The nerve of him… but also, the boldness. You almost admired it.

The next morning, after breakfast, you decided to get a head start on the day and wash up. The bathroom was surprisingly empty, the stone floors chilly beneath your feet as you stepped into one of the stalls. You grabbed the fancy soap you had brought from home—a pure white bar, scented with lavender—and started lathering it onto your hands.

That’s when you noticed it.

A thin, slick shape slithered down your wrist.

You froze.

Another one dropped from the bar of soap and landed with a soft plop on the wet floor. Then another. And another. Before you knew it, tiny snakes—green and black, hissing and coiling—were appearing one by one, wriggling free from the soap like it was some kind of cursed egg.

Your eyes went wide in shock as you dropped the soap, stumbling back against the wall.

“What the—” you muttered, heart racing.

The snakes kept coming, a writhing little pile now forming by the drain. None of them looked dangerous—they were too small to be deadly—but still, the sight was enough to make your skin crawl.

And yet, as the panic settled into irritation, only one name flashed through your mind.

Fred Weasley.

Of course.

You narrowed your eyes, lips twitching into an unwilling smile. That absolute prat must have enchanted your soap when you weren’t looking. You don't know how, but he for sure did!

You almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. He asked, you answered, and he delivered—exactly as promised.

“Well played, Weasley,” you muttered under your breath, staring down at the last of the tiny snakes slipping down the drain. “But if you think this means war, you’re absolutely right.”

Because if Fred Weasley wanted to play games… you were more than ready.

After Fred pranked you with those snakes, which he kept denying that it wasn't him—"I swear! It wasn't me!" he stammered, but a small smirk was forming on his lips—you got him back by making his toothpaste spurt out slugs.

"What in the Godric's beard was that Malfoy!" he scowled, storming toward you during breakfast.

"What do you think it was?" you smirked, crossing your arms. "It was payback for your pathetic Snake Spawn soap—the idea you stole from me!"

Fred Weasley didn’t let the slug-toothpaste prank slide—and from that moment on, you both knew it was war.

⸻

It was an ordinary Tuesday afternoon in the Hogwarts library. You sat at a far table, head bent over your parchment, scribbling notes on magical creatures. The air smelled faintly of old books and dust, and the only sounds were the gentle scratching of quills and the occasional creak of a chair. You didn’t even notice Fred Weasley slip in, his bright red hair barely visible behind the tall shelves.

You reached for your ink bottle, dipping your quill without looking. The second the quill touched the liquid, the bottle gave an odd hiss. Frowning, you leaned closer just as the bottle exploded—not with a bang, but a poof of thick, emerald-green smoke that enveloped you entirely. Coughing and spluttering, you waved your hands wildly to clear the cloud, but when it faded, the real horror set in. Your arms, your robes, even your face were stained neon green, glowing faintly under the dim library light.

“Fred Weasley!” you hissed, spinning around—but he was already gone. You stormed out into the corridor, cheeks burning, catching sight of his retreating back as he disappeared around a corner, laughter trailing behind him. You clenched your fists, seething.

The embarrassment was bad enough, but the fact that Fred had done it so effortlessly, so smoothly, infuriated you. Oh, he thought he was clever, did he? Thought you’d just let it go? Not a chance.

That night, lying in bed, you stared up at the canopy, plotting. You weren’t going to rush your revenge—no, you were going to wait, plan, and strike when Fred least expected it.

You replayed his routine in your head: how he swaggered into the Great Hall every morning, always late, always grinning, always taking the same seat beside George. Perfect. You smiled to yourself as you drifted off to sleep, your mind already working on the trap you’d set for the following week.

By the time Friday rolled around, you were ready. You watched from the Slytherin table as Fred sauntered into breakfast, completely unaware of what was coming. Just as he sat in his usual spot, the plate in front of him screamed, loud enough for the whole hall to hear:

“THE UNDERWEAR FRED WEASLEY IS WEARING RIGHT NOW HAS PINK CARTOON DRAGONS ON THEM!”

The Great Hall went silent for a beat—then exploded with laughter. Fred froze, his face turning bright red as he grabbed at the plate, trying to shut it up.

You nearly choked on your pumpkin juice, laughing so hard you had to wipe tears from your eyes. Across the room, you met his gaze with a sweet, innocent smile. “Enjoy your breakfast, Weasley?” you called. Fred’s eyes lit up with that gleam you knew too well.

The prank war had officially begun.

⸻

After your triumphant revenge in the Great Hall, you thought you’d earned at least a few days of peace. But you should have known better—Fred Weasley never let a challenge sit unanswered for long. Sure enough, by midweek, you caught him sneaking glances at you across the corridors, a glimmer of mischief dancing in his eyes. You tried not to let it rattle you, but something inside warned you: Fred was planning something, and he was planning it soon.

The real blow landed in Charms. You were sitting near the front, feeling unusually confident. Professor Flitwick had just posed a question, and your hand shot up without hesitation. “Yes, Miss Malfoy?” Flitwick called brightly. You opened your mouth, ready with the perfect, well-rehearsed answer—and instead of words, a loud quack echoed through the classroom.

You froze. Heat flooded your cheeks as the entire room burst into laughter. Eyes wide, you clamped your mouth shut, blinking furiously. Surely not—surely you hadn’t just—

“Quack,” you tried again, panicking. The sound was even louder this time, like an angry goose. Across the room, Fred was doubled over, shaking with silent laughter, his shoulders trembling as he bit his lip to keep from howling outright.

“Miss Malfoy?” Flitwick asked gently, though even he looked dangerously close to giggling. Mortified, you covered your mouth with both hands and sank low in your seat, glaring daggers at Fred the whole time.

He gave you a little wave and an infuriatingly innocent grin, as if he’d had nothing to do with it. You seethed in silence for the rest of the lesson, burning with embarrassment—but inside, your mind was already racing. Fred thought he’d won? He had no idea who he was messing with.

That night, you lay awake, arms folded behind your head, plotting your next move. You weren’t about to let him win this round. If Fred wanted a prank war, he was going to get one. You smiled darkly to yourself, already imagining the look on his face when you hit back—because this time, you were going to make sure everyone remembered your victory.

After the humiliating Charms class quacking incident, you knew you couldn’t let Fred get away with it. He’d crossed a line — and it was time to hit back, harder. You needed something clever, something unexpected, something that would rattle his pride without hurting a hair on his head… or maybe, you thought slyly, right on his head. That’s when the idea struck you late one night, as you watched Fred swagger past in the corridor, his famously messy red hair sticking up in every direction. Oh yes. His hair was the perfect target.

You spent two days perfecting the potion: harmless, temporary, but utterly impossible to ignore. It would activate on contact — the moment it touched Fred’s hair, it would transform it into a neon, bright pink masterpiece, styled into chaotic spikes that no charm could fix for at least a full day.

The hard part, of course, was slipping it into his shampoo bottle undetected, but you were determined. One well-placed distraction, one quick charm, and the bottle was yours. You switched the contents with a satisfied grin, and the trap was set.

The next morning, you sat casually at the Slytherin table, sipping your pumpkin juice and waiting. The Great Hall buzzed with chatter—until the doors swung open, and Fred Weasley strolled in. And then, slowly, the room fell silent.

One by one, heads turned, eyes widened, and whispers filled the air. Fred blinked, confused, looking around. He frowned as people snickered, nudged each other, pointed. Finally, his hand shot up to his head—and he froze.

His jaw dropped as he yanked a lock of his hair down in front of his eyes, only to stare in horror at the vivid, bright pink. He tugged at another piece, then another, pulling on the spiky strands as George burst into laughter beside him.

Across the hall, you raised your goblet in a smug, silent toast, locking eyes with Fred. His mouth opened in an outraged protest, but he couldn’t even form words. His hands flew up to his hair again, as if sheer willpower could tame the wild spikes.

That entire morning, Fred Weasley was the talk of Hogwarts. People stopped him in the corridors, poked at his hair, and grinned as he passed by, fuming.

You, meanwhile, glided through your day with a satisfied smile, feeling like you’d finally evened the score. But deep down, you knew this wouldn’t be the end. Fred wasn’t the type to back down — not when the game was just getting interesting.

⸻

By third year, the pranks had become legend.

By now, you understood each other’s pranking style well—Fred never struck back immediately. No, he waited, let you drop your guard, and then unleashed something that would leave you shrieking. You just didn’t know when or how.

The answer came one chilly morning when you woke up, stretched lazily in bed, and felt something… odd. There was movement, faint but undeniable, under your blanket.

Blinking blearily, you propped yourself up and slowly peeled back the covers. That was when dozen—no, hundreds—of tiny green frogs came leaping out, landing on your pillow, your nightstand, even right into your lap.

You let out a blood-curdling scream that echoed through the Slytherin dormitory. Your roommates bolted upright, shrieking alongside you as frogs bounced off beds, desks, and curtains, their little webbed feet slapping against the stone floor.

Chaos erupted as girls danced around, trying to dodge the tiny invaders, while you sat frozen in your bed, fury bubbling in your chest. You didn’t even have to think about who was behind this.

Fred found you later that day in the corridor, his grin stretching ear to ear. “Sleep well, Malfoy?” he drawled innocently as he strolled past. You whipped around, eyes blazing, but he was already gone, leaving only his laughter trailing behind him like a victory banner.

Oh, he was delighted with himself — and honestly, you had to admit, it had been a brilliant prank. But you weren’t about to let him have the last laugh.

That evening, as Fred and George made their way up to their dorm, they opened the door—and were immediately hit by a horrible stench. The entire room was overflowing with thick, slimy bubbles that weren’t just foam—they reeked of rotten eggs and old socks. Every surface was coated in sticky, smelly slime that clung to their clothes and hair, making a disgusting squelching sound with every step. The more they tried to wipe it off, the more it spread, leaving their skin itching and their eyes watering.

Fred stormed into the Gryffindor common room later, drenched in stinking goo, his hair matted down, his face twisted with fury. You passed by the open entrance just then, humming cheerfully, and couldn’t resist tossing over your shoulder: “Sweet dreams, Weasley.” You could practically feel his glare burning into your back—and you knew the prank war was only just beginning.

⸻

By the time the Slytherin vs. Hufflepuff Quidditch match rolled around, you were riding high on your latest victory. You’d nailed Fred and George’s dorm with the multiplying bubble charm, and you were sure they were still scrubbing soap out of their ears.

You strolled confidently to the pitch that Saturday morning, bundled in your house colors, ready to cheer on your team with the rest of Slytherin.

The stands were packed, banners waved, and the air was buzzing with energy. You couldn’t help glancing smugly toward the Gryffindor section—where Fred was undoubtedly plotting, but surely, surely not ready yet.

Oh, how wrong you were.

The first hint came when you felt a strange shimmer in the air around you—like the prickle of a spell. You frowned, looking down at your robes just as they poofed—transforming in an instant into a massive, fluffy pink tutu complete with glittering bows and frilly trim.

A horrified gasp escaped your lips as you spun in a circle, trying to make sense of what had happened. The crowd exploded into laughter, students pointing, hooting, clutching their sides as they doubled over. Even the Hufflepuff Beaters flying overhead paused to stare.

You whipped your head toward the Gryffindor stands, and sure enough, there was Fred, laughing so hard he was wiping tears from his eyes. He leaned against George for support, both of them howling with glee as they pointed directly at you.

Your face burned as you glared daggers at Fred, fists clenched at your sides. You yanked at the tutu helplessly, but it stayed stubbornly fixed, sparkling in the sunlight as if mocking you.

By the end of the match, you had sworn revenge. You stormed off the pitch with as much dignity as you could muster, but the laughter followed you all the way back to the castle. That night, as you lay awake in bed, you plotted carefully.

Fred had humiliated you in front of the whole school. This couldn’t be a small response—no, this needed to be legendary. You smiled darkly to yourself, already imagining the chaos you’d unleash at the next Gryffindor match. Let Fred laugh now. His time was coming.

⸻

You spent the entire week before the Gryffindor match planning your masterpiece. After the tutu incident, you knew Fred would be watching his back, so you had to be subtle — quiet, clever, and completely foolproof.

You studied his broomstick when he wasn’t looking, charmed it carefully, triple-checked your work, and then waited.

The pitch was packed on the day of the match, the crowd roaring with excitement as the Gryffindor team zoomed out onto the pitch. You sat calmly in the stands, heart racing, a small, satisfied smile curling on your lips.

Fred flew like he always did — fast, flashy, confident. He soared past the stands, weaving between players, pulling off little stunts just to rile up the crowd.

But then, slowly, the audience’s cheers shifted. The laughter began, rippling through the rows of students like a wave. Heads turned, fingers pointed, and a roar of amusement filled the air. Fred slowed slightly, frowning in confusion — and then glanced back.

Trailing behind his broomstick was a giant banner, magically tethered to the tail. And in enormous shimmering letters, it read:

“PROPERTY OF SLYTHERIN’S PRINCESS.”

Fred’s jaw dropped. His eyes darted up toward the stands—and there you were, lounging comfortably, chin in hand, flashing him a radiant, triumphant smile. You lifted your hand in a mock wave, watching as realization crashed across his face like a tidal wave.

Midair, Fred began twisting and spinning, yanking desperately at the banner, but no matter how he twisted or turned, it stayed firmly attached, fluttering proudly behind him like a royal flag.

The Gryffindor Beaters were doubled over on their brooms, howling with laughter; even the Slytherin players slowed down just to watch the spectacle unfold. The entire stadium roared with delight, students nearly falling out of their seats with laughter.

By the end of the match, Fred landed red-faced and panting, yanking the banner off and storming into the changing rooms. You stayed seated, basking in the victory, knowing full well that you’d just made history in the long-running prank war. B

But deep inside, you also knew Fred wouldn’t let this slide. His pride had taken a hit — and next time, he’d strike back harder. The game was far from over.

⸻

By fourth year, the prank war between you and Fred still hasn't stopped.

First-years whispered about it in the corridors; even the professors exchanged amused glances when your names came up together.

But after your spectacular broom-banner stunt the previous year, Fred had gone unusually quiet. For weeks, you waited, suspicious. Surely, he was planning something. Yet days turned into weeks, and… nothing. You began to relax—maybe he was finally calling a truce.

That was your mistake.

One afternoon in Potions, you were diligently working on your essay, head bent over your parchment, quill scratching away. You dipped your quill into the inkpot — only to have it float just out of reach, hovering playfully in the air.

You frowned, stretching a little farther, but it danced upward again, spinning tauntingly. A flicker of annoyance sparked in your chest.

You stood slightly, reaching — but the quill zipped even higher, twirling right above your head. Suddenly black ink spilled right over you.

He definitely charmed the ink pot because by the time the ink stopped dripping, you were covered from head to toe.

Around you, students began to snicker, and when you shot a sharp look across the room, there was Fred, lounging at his desk, arms folded behind his head, wearing that unmistakable smirk.

By the time class ended, you were fuming. But you didn’t rush to retaliate. No—you waited, planned, prepared.

You spent two days brewing a harmless little potion (with a bit of help from a very amused friend in Ravenclaw), and when the time was right, you slipped it discreetly into Fred’s morning pumpkin juice. The next day, the results were glorious.

Fred burst into the Great Hall, laughing and talking—but every word came out in a ridiculous, high-pitched, chipmunk-like squeak. His eyes widened in horror, and as he tried to speak louder, it only got worse.

The entire Gryffindor table collapsed in laughter, banging fists on the table, tears streaming down their faces. Even Professor McGonagall struggled to keep a straight face when Fred tried to answer her roll call.

You watched the scene unfold from the Slytherin table, coolly sipping your tea, giving Fred a calm little wave. His cheeks were scarlet as he glared at you, voice cracking absurdly as he hissed,

You smiled sweetly. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

⸻

By fifth year, things between you and Fred had reached new heights. The pranks were no longer casual skirmishes — they were full-out battles, planned with military precision.

You both had reputations now: you, the sly Slytherin strategist; Fred, the Gryffindor king of mischief. Neither of you could walk down a corridor without someone whispering, “What do you think they’ll do next?” You’d been planning your next move carefully—but Fred got to you first.

It happened on an ordinary morning, as you confidently strutted through the corridor, feeling untouchable. Suddenly, you felt the sharp tug of a spell.

Before you could even reach for your wand, you were yanked upward, shrieking as you dangled upside down in midair, robes flapping wildly around you.

Students gasped, then burst into laughter, pointing and clapping. You twisted frantically, trying to cover your face, heart hammering in humiliation.

And there was Fred—leaning casually against the wall below you, looking utterly pleased with himself. He grinned up at you, arms crossed, his brown eyes dancing with laughter. “New perspective, Malfoy?” he called, smirking as you fumed and flailed above him.

You shouted at him to put you down this instant, but Fred only chuckled, drawing out the moment until you were red-faced with fury. Finally, with a flick of his wand, he released the spell, and you crumpled ungracefully to the floor.

Oh, you were going to make him regret that.

The next Hogsmeade weekend, you struck back. You waited until Fred was seated comfortably at the Three Broomsticks, surrounded by friends, lifting a butterbeer to his lips — boom — the bottle exploded in his hands, sending sticky foam splashing all over him.

He yelped, startled, but laughed it off — until the second glass exploded. And the third. And the fourth. No matter what glass or bottle he picked up, no matter where he went, the moment butterbeer touched his lips — boom.

By the end of the day, Fred was soaked, hair dripping, robes sticking to his skin as he glowered at you from across the room. You hummed cheerfully as you passed by, offering him a bright, innocent smile.

The war was far from over—and both of you knew it.

⸻

And yet, no matter how ruthless the pranks became, there was always a secret thrill between you—a challenge, a spark. Fred would catch your eye across the room, mischief shining bright, and you’d lift your chin, daring him silently to try again.

Because with Fred Weasley, it was never just a prank war.

It was your thing. And neither of you was planning to stop any time soon.

By sixth year, things between you and Fred Weasley were… complicated. The pranks were still part of your lives, but there was something else now. Something you couldn’t name.

A fluttering in your chest when your eyes met across the Great Hall. A lingering glance after a shared joke. But neither of you said anything, hiding behind the comfort of your prank wars.

And then Fred went and ruined everything.

It all started when Fred and George Weasley decided it would be “fun” to sell love potions to unsuspecting students. The twins had always been known for their mischievous ideas, but this one took the cake.

They had somehow managed to make the potions look like ordinary sweets, luring in the girls of Hogwarts with promises of a little extra charm for their crushes.

But things got weird fast.

First was Seamus Finnigan, who’d never paid you much mind beyond the occasional “Oi, pass the vial.” Out of nowhere, he appeared at your side one morning, holding a crudely folded origami flower. “For you,” he’d said, practically shoving it into your hand. “You’ve got the nicest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

You stared at him, bewildered. “Thanks…?”

Then came Terry Boot, cornering you in the library with a shaky smile and a book of sonnets. “I wrote one. For you,” he blurted, cheeks blazing as he read, voice cracking horribly:

“Your hair is like a broomstick’s sweep, your eyes like—uh—cauldrons deep…”

You snatched the paper away before he could butcher any more.

By the third day, it was full-on chaos. Boys trailed after you like a parade, bringing you ridiculous gifts—fizzing whizzbees, hand-knit scarves, even a foot massage coupon from some over-eager third year.

Anthony Goldstein left enchanted bubbles floating around your head between classes, each one popping with a heart-shaped puff. And one morning, Dean Thomas literally serenaded you at breakfast with a shaky guitar and the most awkward grin you’d ever seen.

Everywhere you went, there they were—dozens of them—pushing, shoving, offering to carry your books or walk you to class. Some you barely even knew.

It was exhausting.

You were cornered by the Black Lake one afternoon when it finally clicked. A group of lovesick boys surrounded you, all chattering over each other.

That’s when you overheard one murmur, “It must’ve been that love potion… Fred said it’d work wonders…”

You froze, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Fred Weasley.

You found him at their little booth that night, selling potions with George, looking smug as ever.

“WEASLEY!” you snapped, storming up to him.

Fred grinned lazily, biting into a chocolate frog. “Evening, Princess. Enjoying all the attention?”

“You complete git!” you hissed. “You did this! Your stupid potions—why are they all in love with me?”

Fred shrugged, feigning innocence. “Funny thing… must’ve been a little cross-contamination. The potions got… mixed up.”

George snorted into his drink. “Mixed up, my arse. You spiked them, Fred.”

Fred elbowed him, eyes sparkling. “Purely accidental, of course.”

You glared at him, seething. “Well, fix it.”

But before Fred could answer, a bold Gryffindor stepped up behind you. “Hey—want to grab a butterbeer at Hogsmeade this weekend?” he asked, puffing out his chest. Before you could react, he reached out and roughly grabbed your face, eyes locked on yours in that same bewitched daze—and leaned in to kiss you.

You gasped, frozen—but Fred was faster.

With a sharp, “OI, BACK OFF!” Fred grabbed the guy by the collar and yanked him back so hard he nearly toppled over a chair.

“Not happening, mate,” Fred growled, stepping protectively in front of you, eyes blazing.

The room fell silent.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t think it would go this far,” Fred said, his voice serious now.

You stared at him for a moment before answering, your voice icy with frustration. “You went too far, Fred. This is beyond a joke now.”

For the first time, you saw Fred falter. He swallowed hard, then nodded, his usual cheeky grin nowhere to be found. "I know. And I’m going to make it right."

The next morning, you found a neatly folded note on your bedside table:

“I know I went too far. I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that chaos. – F.W.”

Beside it sat a small bag of your favorite sweets—the same ones you always got off the trolley on the Hogwarts Express. Your chest tightened as you stared at it, fingers brushing the paper.

You huffed, stuffing the note in your pocket. But later, in Potions, you caught Fred’s eye across the room—and your stomach did that stupid fluttering thing again. You scowled, focusing hard on your cauldron, but couldn’t stop thinking about the note.

The next day, another note appeared tucked into your Transfiguration book:

“I know you’re angry with me, but I can’t help myself. I miss the way we used to mess with each other. I miss the banter, the pranks. And maybe, just maybe, I miss you a little bit too much. – Fred”

Your heart fluttered unexpectedly. You were mad at him. Furious, even. But somehow, those words… they made your frustration feel like a tangled knot in your chest.

You missed him too. The teasing, the way he always knew how to get under your skin, the way he made everything feel exciting.

And the worst part? Every time you looked at him now, your chest felt tight and fluttery, your head full of memories you couldn’t shake.

Later that evening, you sat under the archway outside the Slytherin common room, arms crossed tightly as you watched the lake ripple through the glass wall. You hadn’t heard Draco approach, but suddenly he was there beside you, arms folded and expression sharp.

“You’ve been moody,” he observed.

You didn’t look at him. “Nice to see you too, Dray.”

He raised a brow, then sighed. “Let me guess. Weasley trouble?”

You stiffened. Draco caught that immediately and scoffed.

“Seriously?” he asked, disbelief creeping into his tone. “You’re letting Fred Weasley of all people get under your skin?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that,” he said, leaning against the wall beside you. “You’ve been weird for days. Distracted. Flushing like a third year every time someone says his name.”

You rubbed your temple, exasperated. “He’s… he’s just being Fred. Annoying. Charming. Infuriating.”

Draco snorted. “And yet you’re reading his little notes like they’re love poems from Merlin himself.”

“I’m not!” you shot back, but your face betrayed you instantly. Draco tilted his head, eyeing you with an amused smirk.

“He’s reckless,” Draco said, more serious now. “Immature. A walking explosion. You really think someone like that knows how to… I don’t know. Handle someone like you?”

You bit your lip, unsure of what to say. Draco wasn’t being cruel—he was being honest like a true brother could ever be.

“I think…” you began slowly, “I think he sees me in a way most people don’t. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

For once, Draco was quiet. Then, he sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Just don’t let him play you,” he muttered. “You’re more than a prank war.”

You turned your head slightly, studying him. “You almost sound like you care.”

“I do,” he said quietly, eyes on the lake. “I just know how easy it is to fall for someone who makes everything feel like fun—until it’s not.”

The third note came the following night, slipped under your pillow:

“Can’t stop thinking about that look you gave me when I saved you. Never want to see you scared like that again. – Fred”

You hugged your pillow, scowling at yourself, frustrated and flustered. Why did your heart betray you every time? Why did Fred Weasley, of all people, make you feel like this?

Days passed, the awkward tension between you easing little by little, especially with Fred’s persistent peace offerings. Slowly, your anger melted, leaving behind that familiar fondness and something… more.

So when Fred finally cornered you near the entrance of the Great Hall one evening and muttered, “Astronomy Tower. Tonight. Please,” you found yourself nodding—despite the voice in your head screaming danger.

“It better not be another prank, Weasley,” you warned, crossing your arms.

Fred smirked, eyes warm. “Promise. No tricks. Just… meet me.”

That night, you climbed the tower steps, heart thudding painfully. When you reached the top, Fred was there waiting, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking up at the stars.

“You made it,” he said, his grin soft.

“I’m still convinced you’re about to drop a bucket of slugs on me,” you shot back—but there was no venom in your voice now, only teasing.

Fred’s eyes twinkled. “Nah. Too easy.”

He lifted his wand—and the sky exploded.

But this wasn’t any ordinary fireworks display.

First came a soap and it started to spawn snakes. Next, a toothpaste that squirted out slugs.

Then, bubbles—huge, shimmering orbs that floated above the tower, popping into sparkly trails just like the time you’d enchanted Fred's dorm. Then a giant sparkly tutu spiraled through the night sky, glittering silver and pink—the very same tutu Fred had hexed you to wear in the middle of a quidditch match. You laughed despite yourself, eyes shining.

Next, sparkling green and silver snakes slithered across the stars, intertwining with floating butterbeer mugs that frothed and fizzed—exact replicas of the butterbeer you’d once hexed to explode all over him.

A shimmering banner unfurled in the sky, sparkling with the words: “PROPERTY OF SLYTHERIN PRINCESS”—the prank you did with his broom.

One by one, every prank, every memory, every laugh you’d shared burst into glowing shapes above you, dancing against the night sky. Your chest tightened painfully, your eyes misting up.

And finally, in huge, crackling gold letters:

“Let's end this war, but first... Fall for me at Hogsmeade?”

Fred turned, his expression surprisingly vulnerable despite his trademark grin. “No jokes this time. No potions. Just me… asking you the normal way.”

Your heart pounded as you stared at him, overwhelmed. “That’s… honestly the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard,” you whispered, voice shaking.

Fred’s grin widened, eyes locked on yours. “Yeah, but admit it—you love it.”

You shook your head, laughing softly despite the tears pricking your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

“So… is that a yes?”

Your breath hitched, chest aching with everything you’d been holding back for years.

“Yeah, Weasley. It’s a yes.”

And when Fred pulled you into the warmest, stupidest, most wonderful hug in the world—fireworks still echoing above you—you realized something terrifying and exhilarating all at once:

You’d fallen long before this firework show. You just hadn’t admitted it until now.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[kikyoupdates]

Girlfriend-For-Hire ⭑˚🦋⭑ 𝟶𝟷

yandere!ocs x f!reader

yandere, reverse harem, yandere reverse harem, original characters x fem!reader, slowburn, slowburn yandere

Hoping to try something new and earn a bit of money on the side, you join an app that lets people hire you for your dating services. The idea is pretty straightforward — you pose as the client's girlfriend for a brief period of time, and in turn, you receive payment. But you didn't foresee everyone getting so attached to you, and suddenly, they're no longer satisfied with a fabricated relationship.

story masterlist | next

“...you can do what now?”

“Hire someone to date you,” your friend, Ava, repeats. She chuckles and waves you off dismissively. “Come on, [Name]. It’s the modern age. People are always coming up with new things these days. I’m willing to bet there’s an app or website out there for practically anything.”

You blink in disbelief. Granted, there is all kinds of crazy shit going on in the world, and you’ve heard of companionship services before—like escorts or sugar baby arrangements—but to hear that something like this is trending nowadays is still undeniably a shock. 

“Here, look,” Ava gestures, pulling out her phone. “I was curious, so I downloaded the app the other day just to check out.” 

“Uh, don’t you already have a boyfriend?”

“He knows I was just browsing. I showed him too, and we scrolled through some stuff together. A lot of the profiles on here are wild,” she laughs. “It’s crazy what people advertise they’re willing to do. Get a load of this guy. He says he’s down to meet your family and make a total ass out of himself just so that he lowers your parents’ standards and the next real boyfriend you get will look way better by comparison.”

“Fucking hell,” you mutter. “I can’t tell if this is actually real, or just some new meme template.” 

“Of course it’s real! I think you’re underestimating how lonely people these days are. There’s definitely a lot of money to be made in this industry. Just look at how much people are willing to blow on their favorite streamer, even though they’ve never met them a day in their life. Dating’s gotten a lot more complicated lately, so I guess some people just want to skip past the troublesome parts and experience what it’s like to be with someone.” 

You furrow your brows. The whole thing sounds incredibly sad when you think of it that way. People would rather pay for a fabricated relationship than put in the time and effort towards building something real? Loneliness is starting to sound like an actual epidemic nowadays. 

“Well, I guess I shouldn’t judge people without understanding where they’re coming from,” you acknowledge. “It’s not like I know what they’ve been through. Times are changing and all. It sounds like this is actually starting to become pretty mainstream.” 

Ava nods chipperly. “Yep! I mean, I love my boyfriend, so I’m definitely not the target audience, but maybe it’s what some people need to gain a little boost of confidence and get back into the dating scene. I doubt everyone uses it in a romantic sense too. There are people out there that just want a bit of company every now and then. Isn’t it nice that they have someone to spend time with this way?” 

“Yeah… I guess that’s true.” 

Honestly, you’re still struggling to fully wrap your head around this. You understand the premise well enough, but you can’t really get past the part about accepting payment just to provide someone with a fabricated experience. Then again, you suppose that’s the case for most things nowadays. People are willing to spend the brunt of their earnings on in-game purchases for video games and other things that aren’t tangible in the real world, because even though they aren’t necessarily organic, it still provides them with some satisfaction. 

Long story short, it’s not up to you to decide what does or doesn’t make someone else happy, and you suppose as long as it’s executed in a professional manner, there’s nothing wrong with meeting new people this way. 

“Hey, I’ve got a great idea,” Ava suddenly perks up. “You should join this app! You’re super pretty, smart, and nice. I bet you’d have loads of guys lining up to hire you as their girlfriend!”

“Me?” You blink repeatedly, shuffling backwards the closer she leans in. “I mean, I just don’t think I’m the right person for the job. If it makes people happy, then I support it, but deep down, I worry I’d feel like I’m exploiting someone’s feelings just for a few extra bucks. Morally speaking, I’m not so sure I like the idea…” 

“It’s not exploitation,” she insists. “People know what they’re signing up for. At the end of the day, it’s a buyer-seller relationship. Someone pays for the service being advertised, and they receive it. As long as you’re not ambiguous about what you’re willing to do for the amount that you’re charging, people know what to expect. Of course, I’m sure there might be the occasional asshole here and there, but if they do anything inappropriate or violate the terms, you can report them through the app and they’ll be banned from using it.” 

You’re not quite sure how to respond to that. Some extra money would be nice. You’re a university student with all sorts of loans, so it’s not like you’ve got excess cash lying around. And it’s also true that you’ve been looking to apply for a new job lately, since your old manager was a total ass and you ended up quitting. 

Still. A girlfriend-for-hire? Someone like you? It’s just really difficult to imagine. 

“I actually think it’d be a good experience,” Ava goes on. “You’ve never really put yourself out there before. I know everyone dates at their own pace and stuff, but you shouldn’t have to be afraid. Who knows? Maybe you’ll meet some cool people and want to date them for real. And even if you don’t end up going for them, you still make some money, so either way, you’ve got nothing to lose.”

You chuckle weakly. “Yeah, I just don’t know. I feel like I’m better suited for traditional jobs. But thanks for the vote of confidence. I’m glad you think people would actually be willing to pay to date me.” 

“Girl, you seriously need to believe in yourself more,” Ava sighs. “I’m telling you, you’re a catch. But at the end of the day, it’s your call. You shouldn’t force yourself into anything if you feel uncomfortable.”

You smile and nod in agreement, and sensing your discomfort, Ava decides to change the topic.

But for some reason, you feel a twinge in your chest, and it’s hard to keep your mind from wandering.

Later that same day, you’re lounging on the couch, mouth agape, having just downloaded the app on your own phone. 

“What the hell am I doing…?” 

You tell yourself that it’s just simple curiosity. Yeah. That’s all it is. Ava piqued your interest earlier, and now you just want to scroll through in more detail to get a better sense of what kind of people use this platform. 

The app is called ‘Partner For Hire’. The name isn’t particularly inspired, you have to admit, but you suppose it communicates its point rather effectively and leaves no room for ambiguity. Ultimately, this is a transactional relationship, and it’s probably for the best that clients know what to expect. 

You can use the app as either a buyer or seller. Meaning that you can create your profile and advertise your services, or simply list yourself as a prospective client and what your hobbies and interests are. In that sense, it’s kind of similar to most dating apps, since you have to take a flattering photo to go along with whatever blurb you’re providing. Of course, just because you try to solicit someone’s services doesn’t mean there’s any guarantee they’ll accept. This is an app where you can run everything yourself, and of course the company takes a cut of your profits, rather than an agency that matches you with a client regardless of whether you want to accept the job or not. 

There’s definitely a lot of flexibility, and you can easily choose who you want to pretend to date. If someone is interested in hiring you, they submit a request to be able to contact you, and once you accept, you can message them directly and establish the terms of the dating contract, such as the length and what particular services will be provided. 

You scroll through the list of boyfriends/girlfriends being advertised on the app, and honestly, it seems like there’s a decent amount of money to be made. Of course, a lot of that comes with building a good reputation and improving your ratings and visibility so more people will want to hire you, but it actually seems like a decent amount of people are able to make a living off this sort of thing. 

You bite down on your lower lip. Should you really go ahead and just do it? Like Ava said, there’s probably not much to lose. All the transactions are managed on the app, so you can easily report people who try to skip out on paying. Clients have to link their banking and personal info, so they’d be taking on a big risk by trying to scam people. You’re sure it might happen from time to time, but based on the reviews you’ve read, the company is really good at enforcing their policies and making sure everyone gets paid.

The money seems good, and it would definitely help take some pressure off your student loans, but ultimately, the biggest thing you’re struggling with is your moral compass.

People are willing to spend money for this kind of thing, and that’s entirely their choice to make, so it’s not like you’re extorting them or anything. Still… you wonder if it’s actually okay to profit off of someone else’s loneliness. You’ve never worked the kind of job that requires you to cater directly to another person’s emotions, and it kind of freaks you out.

But maybe Ava is right. There are all sorts of people in this world. Maybe some of them are just curious to try the app out. Maybe others just want to get their families off their back by pretending like they’re dating someone for a little while. There’s no way to discern everyone’s motivations, so perhaps there’s really no point in thinking about it at all. 

Most importantly, this could be a good thing for you. Life has been stagnant recently, and it’s true that you usually hesitate to put yourself out there. You’ll never learn what you do or don’t like if you keep on avoiding everything. This could be a chance to learn a lot about other people, but also, to learn more about yourself. 

Yeah. It’s time to stop overthinking for a change and just try something new. 

Thus, feeling unusually determined, you spend the rest of the day setting up your profile (finding nice selfies was the longest part of the whole ordeal), and with a resolved huff, you post it and officially go live on the app. 

You’re not really sure what you were expecting, but needless to say, there isn’t any immediate feedback. It probably takes a while for people to stumble across your profile, and even then, there’s no guarantee they’ll want to go out with you. 

I guess I was getting worked up for no reason. Certain people might find success with this kind of thing, but it’s probably not as easy as it looks. 

You scratch your cheek, suddenly sheepish over how needlessly excited you got earlier. You’re not used to stepping out of your comfort zone, so you must have gotten a bit carried away. 

For the rest of the evening, you set your phone aside and come back to reality. You get some homework done, make dinner, and by the time you’re ready for bed, you’ve pretty much forgotten about the whole thing altogether. 

That is, until you check and see that you’ve missed a notification.

“Huh? Someone viewed my profile and wants to message me?”

You’re undeniably taken aback. Not just because it’s happening a lot sooner than you expected, but also because it means that contrary to what you first thought, people are interested in you. 

Having minimal experience when it comes to dating and romance in general, you have to admit, the thought of being viewed as desirable is immensely flattering. 

Curious to see who wants to hire your services, you click on the user’s profile.

His name is Isaac, and he’s twenty-one years old, set to complete his undergraduate studies at the end of the year. He goes to a different university than yours, thankfully, because you can’t help but feel like it would be incredibly awkward to bump into him on campus after pretending to be his girlfriend. He’s studying to become a doctor, which means he’s still got a lot of school ahead of him, but you’ve always had a lot of admiration for people who are willing to commit to their goals and work hard. 

Also, even though you don’t want to sound shallow or anything… he’s really, really attractive. 

You frown. Granted, there’s more to a person than their appearance, but based on how he comes across in his profile and what his future career is, he doesn’t strike you as the type of person who would struggle to date someone.

But again, you can never know what’s going on in a stranger’s life. And there’s no real way to find out why he decided to join the app.

Apart from speaking to him directly, of course. 

[𝐃𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬?]

>>[𝐘𝐄𝐒]

After a momentary delay, the screen loads into a messaging interface, allowing you to see what Isaac sent you and respond to him directly.  

You stare at the messages without blinking, just taking it all in. So, there really are people like him out there, who use these apps for reasons other than seeking companionship. It sounds like he’s not too interested in dating for real, but his parents are putting a lot of pressure on him, so he just wants an escape. Honestly, you can’t blame him for it. Your parents were overbearing for the better portion of your life—even now, as an adult—so you can understand just how suffocating it gets at times.

All of a sudden, you don’t feel too bad about accepting the job. It doesn’t feel like exploitation in the slightest. In fact, you’d be helping someone resolve a frustration situation, while getting paid in the process. It actually sounds like it could be rather fulfilling. 

More importantly, you decided to be more confident and try something new. You refuse to back out now. 

You stare at the messages without blinking, just taking it all in. So, there really are people like him out there, who use these apps for reasons other than seeking companionship. It sounds like he’s not too interested in dating for real, but his parents are putting a lot of pressure on him, so he just wants an escape. Honestly, you can’t blame him for it. Your parents were overbearing for the better portion of your life—even now, as an adult—so you can understand just how suffocating it gets at times. 

All of a sudden, you don’t feel too bad about accepting the job. It doesn’t feel like exploitation in the slightest. In fact, you’d be helping someone resolve a frustration situation, while getting paid in the process. It actually sounds like it could be rather fulfilling. 

More importantly, you decided to be more confident and try something new. You refuse to back out now. 

[𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞]:

You’re admittedly a bit nervous, especially since you want to do a good job and avoid letting him down, but mostly, you’re feeling excited. All of this is uncharted territory for you, after all. Never in a million years would you have imagined taking on a job like this. 

And you really shouldn’t have.

You don’t know it yet, but this will be the cause of many, many regrets. 

Shit. I’m starting to have second thoughts. 

Even now, you still can’t believe you’re really going through with this. After talking to Isaac and ironing out the finer details, you agreed to join him for a family gathering and pose as his girlfriend. You expected for him to have quite a few requests, but luckily, he seems pretty laid back about the whole thing. The better portion of your conversation was spent on getting your stories straight so as not to incur any suspicion, and since you’ve always been a good student and a hard worker, you promptly memorized everything there was to know. 

And now, it’s finally time to put this plan in motion. 

“Hey,” Isaac greets. “[Name], right?”

It’s the evening, since his parents are hosting a dinner party. The event is supposed to be pretty casual, but you still dressed up semi-formal in the hopes of making a good impression. He never explicitly mentioned how strict his parents are, but since they’ve been on his case about getting a girlfriend, it never hurts to go the extra mile. 

"Hi, Isaac,” you smile. “It’s so nice to meet you.” 

“You, too,” he nods. He’s considerably taller than you, and every bit as handsome as his picture suggested. Unless his personality is god-awful (which you probably would’ve picked up on after messaging him for so long), you’ve got a good feeling that most girls would be interested in him.

Still, everyone is different. He might have really high standards, or maybe he wants to focus on his studies, or perhaps it’s just a case of having never met the right person. Whatever the reason may be, his parents shouldn’t be pressuring him to date someone, and if you have the means to help him out, you’ll happily do it. 

“You look really nice,” Isaac says. He tilts his head to the side. “I hope you didn’t feel like you had to dress up to impress anyone. The most important part is that they believe I’m seeing someone so that they finally ease up a bit.” 

“Oh, I just did this for my own peace of mind,” you reassure. “I made sure to memorize everything you told me in advance, so I’m confident I can convince them that we’re the real deal. Even though this is technically my first day on the job… I promise not to let you down.” 

You blush, feeling rather flustered. The idea of being someone’s hired girlfriend is still a lot to wrap your head around, and you certainly don’t want to make empty promises, but you have every intention of giving it your best shot. Isaac is in a stressful situation, and you’re resolved to do whatever you can to fix it. 

“Can’t wait to get this over with,” Isaac sighs. He opens the passenger door and gestures for you to step inside the car. “Don’t worry. I know you might be feeling a bit uneasy, but I promise I’m not a serial killer or anything like that. I won’t hold it against you if you have 911 ready on speed dial until we get to my parents’ house.” 

“I trust you,” you insist. “I’ve heard good things about this app, and it sounds like they take safety seriously. They’ve got your information in their system, after all. Plus, I can tell that you’re a nice guy. It’s just a gut feeling.”

“I appreciate it,” he smiles. “Anyways… I guess I’ve stalled for long enough. You can probably tell that I really don’t feel like going. But the sooner I get them off my back, the better.” 

“I’ll be the best girlfriend you can ask for,” you beam. 

It’s a promise to him, but also to yourself. You are committed to taking this new job seriously, and for the rest of the evening, you will do whatever it takes to blend into the role that’s been thrust upon you. There’s no reason to get worked up. At the end of the day, all of this is pretend. It won’t be anywhere near as complicated as a real relationship.

Right?

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