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The music was far too loud. At least, that was what Thomas kept insisting.
You stayed close to the edge of the group, feeling tense as you watched the Gladers laugh and stumble through the rough celebration. You were not one of the original Gladers, but you had become part of their world after arriving in the Box three months earlier. Most saw you as just another runner, though you knew you were still something of an outsider compared to Thomas and the others. Frypan had somehow managed to scrounge up a feast of grilled beetle-blade legs and mashed tomatoes, with Newt passing out slivers of stale but precious chocolate to anyone who won a dance-off.
It was the first night after a successful run; everyone was out by the fire, celebrating making it through another week with no casualties. Winston had built a wonky lantern tower from spare machine parts, sending mismatched beams over the clearing, while someone else had put together a basic speaker system from old wires and metal plates. The music was loud, too loud, probably, and you watched as Gally challenged Chuck to a worm-eating contest, much to everyone’s disgusted amusement. All of it, the weird food, the shouting, the cobbled-together decorations, felt so perfectly Glade, and for a second, you were swept up in the feeling of being right where you belonged. The pounding music made your chest flutter, not just because it was noisy, but because it meant you were here, surrounded by friends and laughter, alive after another hard week. The sound pressed in on you, thrilling and overwhelming at once, and somehow the loud music made your heart skip a beat.
Thomas sat on a wooden crate nearby, arms crossed tightly, jaw set, and eyes scanning the crowd like he was looking for a way out. "You could at least try to look like you're having fun," you teased. "I am having fun." You raised an eyebrow. "Thomas, you look like you're preparing for battle." He frowned. "Maybe I am." A laugh escaped you.
The music shifted to something slower, and several people paired off in the centre of the clearing. Even your friend Minho, usually the life of the group, looked vaguely embarrassed as he got dragged into it.
You nudged Thomas with your shoulder. "Want to dance?"
"No." His answer was instant, cutting off your question.
"Thought so."
Thomas loosened up a bit, thinking you were done talking. Then you stepped forward and offered him your hand. His eyes dropped to it.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
“You know I don't dance." He looked away, jaw tightening again. Dancing always felt too public, like everyone was watching for him to mess up. As music drifted around him, Thomas remembered the old shuck banter in the Maze, the way the Gladers used to tease each other after every close escape, and how every movement or mistake out there carried weight. He remembered running through the shifting walls with nothing but the pounding of his heart and Minho's shouts for company, carrying responsibility that felt heavier than any bad dance in a gym. There had even been that night after their first escape from the Grievers, when the group tried to teach Newt a silly campfire jig to keep spirits high, everyone shouting out moves with wild laughter. Thomas had hung back then, too, pretending to check maps, but secretly wishing he could join in without messing it up. That was always the hardest part: letting down the guard he built in the Maze, even now, surrounded by friends.
Even now, the thought of being out in front of everyone made his skin prickle. But he caught the way you looked at him, steady and patient, not mocking or insisting, just waiting. It was different from before, the kind of quiet encouragement that made failing seem less scary. Here, under lantern light and surrounded by makeshift decorations, the old nerves felt both closer and somehow further away, tangled with memories of safety and fear. Maybe, for once, this was a moment he could let himself try.
"That's not what I asked."
A few seconds passed. Thomas sighed and stood, surprising you. "Fine."
Your eyes widened. "Wait. Really?"
"Don't make me regret this."
You took his hand before he could change his mind.
The centre of the group had cleared out; most people were swaying slowly under lanterns hanging from the trees. Thomas followed you, clearly not eager. His hand hovered for a moment before resting, a little shaky, at your waist. You couldn't help but grin, feeling your cheeks grow warm.
"Oh, my God."
"What?"
"I thought you hated dancing."
Thomas groaned. "I do."
"Then why are you here?"
He looked at you, searching your face for something, his eyes suddenly open and honest. For a brief moment, memories tangled between you: the night by the garden, when you both tried to cook over an open flame and nearly burned your hands, laughing so hard you forgot where you were. You remembered the time Thomas dared you to climb the old watchtower at midnight, the two of you whispering jokes and holding your breath whenever the boards creaked.
There was the time you both got caught sneaking late-night tomatoes from Frypan's stores, scrambling away from the kitchen still grinning. Sometimes, you knew, the others noticed these moments. Frypan would roll his eyes, but always save you an extra bite. Minho would catch your gaze after some shared mischief and shake his head, warning you to be sneakier, but with a knowing smirk that said he liked being in on the secret. Even Newt, who saw everything, would sometimes chime in with a dry comment just loud enough for only you two to hear, making both of you hide your grins. As the memories washed over you, you felt your chest tighten with a kind of aching happiness, the warmth of those moments threading through the nervousness and excitement of now. It made everything around you glow a little brighter, and your heart felt full and fragile all at once. All of it flickered between you, unspoken, and you wondered if he was thinking about it too.
For a moment, all the noise around you seemed distant. The laughter. The crackling fire. None of it mattered. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Because you asked."
A sudden flutter made your heart skip. "That's incredibly cheesy."
"Yeah, well." He shrugged. "Don't tell anyone." You laughed and rested your forehead against his shoulder. "No promises." Thomas rolled his eyes, but his arm tightened around you. "You know," he said quietly, "if anyone asks, you're forcing me to do this."
"Of course."
"And I'm miserable."
"Clearly."
Another song began. Neither of you moved away. Thomas hated dancing. But as he swayed with you under the lanterns, smiling when he thought you couldn't see, you started to think that wasn't completely true. In this small, borrowed moment, you realised Thomas was letting go of fears he rarely voiced and trusting you to see him as he was. There was something new in the way his fingers settled at your waist: a choice, a step forward, the sort of tiny bravery that fans would always remember about him. You felt it in yourself, too, that something had changed between you, quietly and profoundly. Maybe it was just one dance, but under the warmth of the lanterns and the music, it felt like a promise you both carried into whatever would come next. Later, you would look back on this night and realise it was a beginning, the sort of shift that made the future feel uncertain but wide open.
For the first time, you wondered what it might mean to be more than just friends, and if this was the night things quietly started to change. You found yourself wishing for another moment like this, a hope you tucked away beneath your ribs as the laughter faded into the night. Whatever tomorrow brought, you couldn't shake the sense that something important had started between you and Thomas, and that soon, both of you would have to face where it led.
I wanted to request an Edmund Pevensie request where he falls for the loud, sarcastic girl with no filter but has a lot of trouble deciphering whether she likes him back until she kisses him? Please and thank you!
'Caught Between Waves' - edmund pevensie x reader
masterlist
Edmund Pevensie still isn’t used to being a sailor.
The sea is not an unfamiliar part of his memories of Narnia. During his time as King, Edmund had his fair share of days spent at the seaside or traveling aboard a ship to reach distant lands. He had thought the shimmering waves of the Narnian oceans pleasant enough when sparkling from afar, and if you had asked him he probably would have said he’d make a decent seaman, all things considered. He’s decent with a sword and his balance isn’t half bad. By all means, it seemed like this sort of life would be right up Edmund’s alley.
It’s not terrible, to be sure. It’s just that, well, when Edmund had gazed fondly at the painting on Lucy’s wall and reminisced about the Narnian design on the hull, he’d really been thinking about the wood carvings back in Cair Paravel, or the emblems in the tapestries lining the halls he used to rule. Sure, a few pleasant memories of sunny days by the water had cropped up in his mind, but if Edmund were to pick any place for a Narnian return, he’d probably first choose dry land.
That’s not to say that he isn’t enjoying himself. Even the most perilous storm in Narnia makes Edmund feel twice as joyous as any day back in England. He feels alive here in a way he couldn’t ever manage in the modern day. So no, it isn’t that he’s unhappy to be out to sea, he’s just surprised by it, that’s all.
Not that he’d tell anyone that, of course. Edmund is happy to be back, and especially happy that he’s managed to come back with enough time to see his good friend Caspian, even if he had imagined their reunion in the fabled halls of Narnian castles rather than on the salt-soaked boards of the Dawn Treader. Besides, he has to keep a stiff upper lip so as to avoid comparison to their unfortunate younger cousin, Eustace, and most importantly of all, to avoid being teased by Y/N.
Y/N is Caspian’s first mate, and how she crossed the path of the heir to the Narnian throne, Edmund can’t imagine. Apparently, she was a bona fide pirate before joining the crew of the Dawn Treader. She still acts like it, too, a hair’s trigger away from crossing blades whenever she gets too bored. Edmund has seen her fly up the ship’s rigging the second anything interesting crosses the horizon. Half the time, he swears she’s not even climbing, just being pulled up on a string like a marionette. She’s blindingly fast on sea or land, both in body and in mind. She has a quick counter to anything that’s said to her. Edmund has no idea how she can pull one-liners out of the air that fast, but it leaves him in something like awe, and something like fear if he’s on the receiving end of one of her teasing remarks.
One time, he told her that with a sense that quick, she should have been a politician, and she nearly threw a knife at his head. He says ‘nearly,’ not because she stayed her hand, but because the knife hit a few paces away, not actually connecting with his skull, although it had certainly felt like it might at the moment. The first week Edmund spent in Y/N’s company, he was sure she would kill him in his sleep. He’d voiced this concern to Caspian, but the other man had merely laughed.
“Y/N’s a mad one, to be sure, but she means you no harm,” Caspian had said, grinning broadly. “There’s no one else in this realm I’d trust to have my back. She’s fiercely loyal, too. If I say you’re a friend, she’d die before she’d see you hurt.”
Edmund had tried to believe that, but the idea of a loyal pirate just couldn’t stay straight in his mind. Still, he supposes Caspian’s words have merit. A few of the times they’ve gone ashore to find trouble, Y/N’s first instinct has been to defend her captain, even when it places her directly in the path of danger. However, Edmund can’t quite determine if that’s because she’s intensely loyal, as Caspian claims, or if she just loves the taste of peril. Her raucous laughter during furious fights doesn’t really help him make up his mind, either.
Still, he supposes Y/N does have a quiet side, too. There had been that one morning, early, just as the sun was starting to rise, that he thinks about all the time now. Edmund had been unable to sleep, dreams keeping him awake, and he had given up on trying to get any rest and quietly shuffled out onto the deck to watch the delicate pinks of dawn trace their way against the brightening sky. He had assumed nobody else would be up except the poor soul on the tail end of the night watch, but to his surprise, someone slid into a seat next to him on the stairs leading up to the high point of the deck.
Turning to the side, Edmund didn’t see Lucy or Caspian, as expected, but Y/N. Her eyes were trained on the rising sun, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders to ward off the chill of early morning.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She had asked softly.
“Yes,” Edmund said a little too quickly.
He must have been staring too long, because she glanced curiously over at him. Edmund turned quickly back to the horizon, oddly embarrassed for a reason he couldn’t explain. In his peripheral vision, he saw her face the sun again as well.
“I missed sunrises like this,” Edmund said quietly. He’d meant that everything looked different in Narnia, looked better, like he was seeing the world through a spell that carried him away from ugly reality back in modern day, but Y/N had misunderstood him.
She’d let out a cold laugh. “What, it wasn’t as easy to watch the sun come up when you were cooped up in one of those palaces for the High Kings and Queens?”
Edmund had shaken his head. “No, they were pretty there, too. I just mean–”
“What?” Y/N had asked, a trace of bitterness now present in her tone. “You like being able to pick and choose, right? You can come play out in the wild with us when you want, then go back to a castle at the end of the day. Or, better yet, you can go off to that mystery world of yours and only make appearances in Narnia, where you’re hailed as a legend and treated better than royalty?”
“Why are you angry with me?” Edmund had hissed. “I’m not the one in control here, you know. Something makes me come here or leave, I don’t know what, and I’m not the one who built the damn castles.”
“So we’re all just an accident to you, is it?” Y/N had shot back. She had made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. “Some of us live our whole lives in your little play-pretend world. I’ve seen Caspian, you know. He’s been talking about your visit for years now, always with that same note of regret. Every time you and your family come back, you throw everything into chaos, then leave us to deal with the rest.”
She went to stand up and get away, but Edmund, moved by something stronger than his good sense, tugged at her blanket to make her sit down again. “I’m not trying to leave you,” he said back, looking her directly in the eyes. They both stared at each other, refusing to back down, and in a way it reminded Edmund of those old wild-West programs they used to show back home. “I never wanted to leave, you know. Every time I come here, I make up my mind to stay. If I had it my way, I would spend the rest of my life in Narnia. And not in a castle, necessarily, although you can’t tell me you wouldn’t do that if you had the choice.”
Y/N arched a dubious brow. “You’re telling me you’d go settle in a cottage in the middle of the smallest village if you were actually given the choice?”
“Yes,” Edmund said, and he was surprised by how fervently he meant it. “If it meant I could still see my friends, and practice my swordsmanship, yes, I would. I’d even live forever on one of these sailing ships and see the world. I don’t abandon you by choice. If you have a problem, take it up with your realm’s magic.”
He had turned back to the sunrise, annoyed with himself for turning a peaceful moment into a fight. There was silence for a beat or two, and then, out of nowhere, Y/N started to laugh. She was clearly trying to keep it in, but a laugh like that is genuine, and it spilled out of her like a cascade of gold coins.
“Of all the kings I’ve met,” she said with a grin, “You’re the strangest, Edmund Pevensie.”
“Of all the pirates I’ve met, you’re the most insane,” Edmund replied, not sure whether he should be pleased or upset.
“I’ve met many pirates,” Y/N had commented, “That’s a compliment.”
“Take it however you want,” he had shot back, but when she’d tilted her head to look over at him, still smiling broadly, he’d been unable to stop his lips from twitching upwards as well.
They’d passed the rest of that moment in silence. It hadn’t been awkward, far from it, and when the sounds of daily activity had started to rise up from the hold Edmund had found himself oddly annoyed that the rest of the ship’s crew had dared to interfere. Y/N had slipped away in a moment, and Edmund had left not long after. The deck, although by then warmed by the early sun, felt cold without her.
That morning had lingered long on Edmund’s mind even after the sun had fully risen and set that night, so much so that he found himself creeping up to the deck at daybreak the next day, and the next. Some mornings she was there, some not. Edmund can’t ever make up his mind if she’s fine with spending these quiet moments with him or if she wishes he’d let her have her mornings in peace, but she’s never said anything to dissuade him from coming, so he keeps showing up. She’s never said anything to keep him, either, but that’s beside the point.
He tries to understand her, of course, tries to peer through those rare chinks in the armor, but it’s as rare as a miracle around here. Midway through a sparring bout, trading blows of steel through an impromptu fencing match on the deck, Edmund searches for dropped guards or rare moments of opportunity, but he finds just about as much luck in the bout as out on those open mornings. Y/N easily matches him in swordsmanship, and the results are always quite close. It’s addicting, in a way, those narrow wins, those slight defeats. He’s always wanting another round, another test. Sometimes, she gives it to him, and sometimes she just laughs in his face and tells him that he won’t always get what he wants. Then he has to watch her boldly stride away, already counting down the minutes until he gets another chance to see her in the ring.
Edmund finds himself especially grateful for her skill with the sword when the Dawn Treader docks in a small coastal town only to find themselves set upon by raiders. They were only out on a supply run, but as the sun sinks below the hills, ranks of dark-clad warriors appear out of nowhere, blocking them off and demanding gold or blood. Caspian orders them back to the ship, and it’s a fight to get out. Edmund has to use every iota of his strength with the blade to fight off the raiders; they’re decently skilled, but there are so many of them that the numbers threaten to crush them.
At one point, he finds himself pinned between a rocky outcropping and three of the thieves. He’s certain he’s done for until someone hurls themselves at the raiders from behind, distracting them enough for Edmund to surge forward and turn the tide. He looks to his rescuer to thank them, only to find Y/N there by his side. She flashes him a quick grin, then looks behind him and shouts a warning. Edmund only just manages to whip around in time to fend off the blow coming towards him from behind. More raiders are coming their way, but Y/N has his back, and together they join the crew in sprinting for the ship. They only just manage to cast off before the raiders catch up, although several crew members sustain injuries in the process, and the ship is a bit worse for wear by the time they’re pulling out of the harbor and into safer waters.
Surprisingly enough, Edmund is actually in decent shape other than a few odd scratches, but that’s not the case for everyone. The sailors with the worst injuries are taken below decks to recover, and Edmund realizes with a sickening lurch to his stomach that Y/N is among their numbers. As soon as he can assure a panicked Lucy that he’s quite alright, Edmund hastens down to search through the wounded sailors for the one he most wants to see.
Y/N is tucked away in a quieter part of the ship’s makeshift infirmary, hidden by a curtain to most. Edmund pulls it away and sucks in a breath at the sight of her. The ship’s medic has done a good job patching her up, but there appear to be several deep cuts lacing her arms and chest.
“Y/N, you’re–”
He doesn’t make it far before Y/N cuts him off, one eyebrow raised. “Sliced to ribbons? I’m aware.”
An awful feeling of guilt swirls through him. “This is from that skirmish by the rocks, isn’t it? You saved my life, but they were too many for you too, weren’t they?”
Y/N shakes her head quickly. “No one’s too much for me, Edmund. I’m much too good for that.”
She tries for a laugh, but Edmund just feels horrible. “You should have left me there by the rocks. It wasn’t worth it to have you hurt like this.”
Y/N huffs out a sigh. “I don’t do it for no reason, you know. I’m not that terrible a person as to have left you there.”
Edmund feels the weight of her frustration again, though he can’t tell why. “I’ll tell Caspian that this loyalty of yours is no good when it gets you hurt. You don’t have to put your life on the line just because I got backed into a corner.”
“Edmund!” Y/N snaps. “I didn’t do it for Caspian.”
He stares at her dumbly. Slowly, carefully, she stands up, wobbling slightly on unsteady legs. Edmund’s hand darts out to wrap around her waist, steadying her. They’re closer than they’ve ever been below decks. Proximity has only ever been allowed under the private eye of the rising sun, but in the dull light of the ship’s lamps, Edmund somehow feels more obvious than he ever has been.
“Not for Caspian,” she repeats quietly, “I did it for you. Because I couldn’t stand to see you killed.”
Edmund is about to stammer out something stupid like really– for me– when Y/N leans forward and kisses him. It’s funny, Edmund had assumed that nothing he did could convince bold, fearless Y/N to like him as he did her. It had not occurred to him before now that she may have felt for him just as much, maybe even the whole time, maybe since the start. It isn’t until he kisses her back that he realizes just how badly he had hoped she had.
“Y/N,” he says, quietly, urgently, but she interrupts him.
“I know,” she tells him, and Edmund gets the feeling that she knows all of it. Quick-witted, he’s always thought of her. Quick to decide how she felt about him. Quick to figure out that it would be more fun to play with him and see how long it took Edmund to get over himself and tell her that he loved her. Smart enough to realize Edmund wasn’t going to get anywhere without a little help.
Anything he could tell her, Y/N has already figured out. So, Edmund decides to cut to the chase and kisses her again. Judging by her satisfied smile, this was the move she’d been wanting him to make. As it turns out, Edmund had quite wanted it too.
narnia tag list: @remussbitch, @faerieroyal, @goldfish4403
Hey friend, just thinking of you wanted to say hi and that I hope you’re doing well!!
Aww hiya!! You're so sweet 🥹💗 I've been having an absolutely rotten go of it lately and getting this message from you really helped lift my spirits, so thank you.
How are you doing? Anything exciting? Tell me something good please lol
I am so sorry you’re having a rough time, I hope things look up soon! Here, I’m just waiting for summer, it really wants to be fashionably late this year, and I’m working on writing, so that’s nice after such a long struggle with writer’s block, but other than that things are good here. Hopefully the summer will bring new, exciting, and uplifting things for you, you deserve it!
nance and jon are getting married! and it's jon's weekend to have his bucks party with the older crowd (nancy's was last weekend - they found it only fair to take turns)
and vegas, here we come!
but, shit, it's the next day and ... wait, where the fuck is jonathan??? holy shit we lost byers.
is that ... oh my god, half of eddie's head is shaved! and robin ... is that a shoulder tattoo?? hold on, no, it's a shoulder AND back tattoo
at least steve is ... is that a wedding ring steve? and why do you have a matching one to his ........
we have to find jonathan - nancy is going to lose her mind
And just IMAGINE ROBIN’S REACTION TO THE MATCHING RINGS! The soft smile and teasing “well, dingus, at least you two finally did something about it”
Steve runs a hand through his tousled hair. “Jesus, Robin, she only married me because she was drunk, it’s not real.”
She smirked at her best friend. “I’ve been watching you two pine over each other for months. Trust me, it’s real.” Her eyes shifted over his shoulder as her lips turned up in her triumphant smirk. “But if you don’t trust me, you can ask her.”
This is such a great idea, I can just picture the insanity!!! Thanks for sharing it!
nance and jon are getting married! and it's jon's weekend to have his bucks party with the older crowd (nancy's was last weekend - they found it only fair to take turns)
and vegas, here we come!
but, shit, it's the next day and ... wait, where the fuck is jonathan??? holy shit we lost byers.
is that ... oh my god, half of eddie's head is shaved! and robin ... is that a shoulder tattoo?? hold on, no, it's a shoulder AND back tattoo
at least steve is ... is that a wedding ring steve? and why do you have a matching one to his ........
we have to find jonathan - nancy is going to lose her mind
Description: After finally admitting their feelings, Y/N and Gar go on their first official date; an evening of abandoned plans, shared fries, nervous smiles, and the realisation that being together feels easier than either of them ever imagined.
Part 2 to About Time
You found out pretty quickly that dating Gar Logan meant everyone acted like it was headline news.
“Where are you taking her?” Dick asked. Gar looked up from tying his shoes. “It’s a date, not a military operation.”
“So you have a plan?”
"...I have some ideas for a plan."
Rachel groaned into her coffee. Across the room, Kory clasped her hands together excitedly. “Will there be flowers?” “Maybe?”
“Will there be dancing?” “I don’t know!”
“Will there be kissing?” Gar nearly tripped over his own feet. You walked into the common room just in time to see him struggling. “Morning.” Gar’s entire face lit up. And there it was. That silly, ridiculous smile that somehow made your stomach flip every time. “Hi.”
Dick immediately stood up. “Perfect timing. We’re interrogating him.”
“You absolutely are not,” Gar said. “You should hear his plan.”
“There is no plan.” “There should be a plan.”
You dropped onto the couch beside Gar. “Honestly? That sounds exactly like Gar.”
“Thank you.” “Not a compliment.” “Rude.” His shoulder bumped yours. You bumped him back.
Vic made a choking sound from across the room. Rachel looked like she was about to throw herself out the window. “You’re worse now,” she informed you both. “What?” you and Gar said simultaneously. Rachel pointed. “That.”
Neither of you understood. The rest of the team did. Rachel and Vic exchanged a look over the coffee table, smirking like they were already in on the punchline. Dick nudged Kory, who just grinned wider behind her mug. Someone whispered something you couldn’t quite catch, and laughter almost broke out before Rachel managed to look serious again.
By six o’clock that evening, Gar had changed shirts four times.
“You’re panicking,” Vic said. “I’m not panicking.”
“You just asked me if green was too much green.” Gar looked down at his green jacket. “…Fair.”
The truth was, he wasn’t nervous about spending time with you. He’d spent hours with you before, watching bad movies, talking about everything and nothing, letting the world drift away while you stole his fries or made fun of his superhero sneakers. But tonight, something was different. Tonight, he kept remembering the way you hugged him after that brutal mission last winter. The memory flashed: cold rain, smoke still curling in the air, both of you bruised and exhausted in the wrecked doorway as you grabbed his hands and whispered, "I don't think I would've made it back without you." You had looked right at him, fierce and shaken, trusting him with a whole piece of your heart for the first time. He’d never forgotten the tremble in your voice, or the way you clung to him just a moment longer than usual. He remembered thinking just then that maybe, one day, if he was lucky, he'd get to mean something more to you. Now, with the line between friends and more finally crossed, the stakes felt higher. He wasn’t just nervous, he was terrified in the best possible way, because tonight really mattered.
He was nervous because this was different now. Official. A date. His date. Every time he thought about it, his mind went completely blank.
There was a knock at his door. “Come in.” The door opened. And then Gar forgot how to speak. You looked incredible. Not because you were dressed up. Not because your hair was different. Not because of anything specific. You were just, You. And somehow that made it even harder. Or maybe better. Definitely better.
“Hi,” you said.
“Hi.”
There was an awkward pause. Gar fidgeted with his jacket. "Uh... are you ready?"
“Yep.” “You’re staring.”
“Oh.” Another pause.
“You look really pretty.” Your smile immediately softened. “Thank you.”
His heart did a weird thing. Again. It had been doing that a lot lately.
The original plan had been dinner. Then Gar accidentally got distracted by a street performer. This led to a small outdoor market, alive with string lights and bursts of colour from vendor tents. The air smelled like grilled vegetables and sweet cinnamon pastries. Somewhere, music floated above the crowd, the quick, bright beats from a nearby drum act mixing with laughter and the sizzle of cooking oil. You squeezed past tables stacked with glossy fruit and sampled something spicy that left your lips tingling, while Gar picked up everything that was green. By the time you headed toward the water, your hands were sticky with sugar and salt. Now you were both sitting on a bench by the water, sharing a tray of fries piled high with toppings.
“This is technically our fourth dinner,” you pointed out.
“We’re growing teenagers.” “We are absolutely not teenagers.”
“We’re growing adults.” You laughed. Gar immediately smiled. He still reacted to your laughter like it was the best sound he’d ever heard.
“You know,” you said, stealing another fry, “I kind of love that this date completely fell apart.” For some reason, the messy, unplanned parts made it better. You glanced at Gar, surprised by how easy everything felt now that the pressure was gone. There was something perfect about not having a schedule, wandering wherever you wanted, just being with him without worrying if you were doing it right. Maybe it was the way your laughter kept coming so easily, or how sharing a mountain of fries by the water felt more intimate than anything fancy ever could. Even as the night went off script, your nerves faded, and all you could think was: if this was what dating Gar was really like, you never wanted it to be anything else. The imperfect plan felt more like you both: comfortable, unpredictable, and surprisingly warm.
“It didn’t fall apart.” “We abandoned the plan after twelve minutes.”
“It evolved.” You rolled your eyes. “Right. Evolved.” Gar grinned.
The evening air was cool and smelled of saltwater, food trucks, and faint music. People passed by laughing and talking. For once, neither of you was rushing toward a mission. No emergency calls. No villains. No world-ending threats. Just this. Just each other. It felt special in a way you hadn’t expected.
“You know what’s funny?” you said quietly.
“What?”
“I was so scared to tell you.”
Gar blinked. “Really?”
You nodded. “I thought if things went wrong, I’d lose one of my best friends.” You hesitated, remembering how many times you almost said something before, like last month on the roof, when the words nearly slipped out, and you caught them just in time. All those almost-moments had just made the fear stronger.
His expression softened instantly. “Hey.”
You looked at him.
“You couldn’t get rid of me that easily.”
You laughed.
“I’m serious.” His voice was gentle.
“If you’d told me you didn’t feel the same, yeah, I would’ve been sad.”
“Sad?”
"I would’ve turned into a possum and hidden in the woods for three days."
You burst out laughing. “Three days?”
“Maybe four.”
“Very dramatic.”
“Thank you.”
You shook your head. Idiot. Your idiot. The thought came to you so naturally that it surprised you. Gar must have noticed something in your expression. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Nothing.”
“You smiled.”
“I did not.”
“You got that smile.”
“What smile?”
“The one where you’re secretly thinking something.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I hate how well you know me.”
His grin widened. “I know.”
The sun had long since disappeared by the time you started walking back toward the tower. The city lights reflected off the water. Your hands brushed. Then lingered. Neither of you said anything. Slowly, carefully, Gar slid his hand into yours. Like he was still checking if this was real. Your fingers immediately intertwined with his. The smile on his face was so bright it could have lit up half the city.
“There it is,” he said.
“What?”
“The hand-holding.”
You laughed. “What about it?”
“Vic owes Rachel twenty bucks.”
You stopped walking. “Oh, my God.”
Gar nodded solemnly. “There was a betting pool.”
“There was a betting pool?”
“There were charts.”
“Charts?”
“Rachel made spreadsheets.”
You stared at him. “Rachel?”
“I know.”
For a moment, you simply stood there in stunned silence. Then you both started laughing. The kind of laughter that makes your stomach hurt. The kind that leaves you gasping for breath, everything else forgotten except how good it feels to laugh together. The kind you just can’t stop.
By the time it faded, tears were gathering in the corners of your eyes. Gar was still holding your hand. Still smiling. Still looking at you like you were his favourite thing in the world. The laughter softened. The moment settled. And suddenly the space between you felt very small again. Very familiar. Very warm.
Gar glanced down at your joined hands. Then back at you. “Best first date ever?” he asked. You pretended to think about it. “Hmm.” His eyes narrowed. “Hmm?” You stepped closer. “Yeah.” His smile returned immediately. Bright. Beautiful. Yours. “Good,” he said softly.
Then he leaned in and kissed you under the city lights, your fingers still tangled together. Back at Titans Tower, the rest of the Titans waited for you both, not knowing they were about to lose a lot of money. And for the first time in a long time, everything felt easy.
Somewhere behind those tower windows, bets were probably still being whispered, and spreadsheets fussed over, while Dick tried, and failed, to act like he was not invested. If tonight was anything to go by, the team was in for plenty more headline moments. You had a sneaking suspicion that Rachel was already plotting the next round of wagers, while Vic would probably install secret cameras to monitor 'date progress.' Kory might just insist on giving you both style advice for your next outing, and Dick, well, he would pretend not to care but somehow end up in charge of another interrogation. You squeezed Gar’s hand, already wondering where your second date might lead, and feeling certain that whatever came next, you could not wait to find out.
Updating all the chapters each time I post a new one is getting to be a bit much, so I figured I would just compile them all here and just update this as necessary!
Description: Everyone in Titans Tower knows Gar and Y/N are in love with each other, except the two of them. After an exhausting mission and months of pining, Gar finally kisses her impulsively.
The common room in Titans Tower was unusually quiet. Well, quiet for Titans standards. Rachel sat on the couch, legs tucked under her, reading. Kory excitedly told Dick about some terrifying alien dessert. Vic acted like he wasn’t watching the basketball game, but he definitely was, just with the sound off. And as for Gar? He was staring at you, just like always.
“You’re burning holes into her skull,” Dick said without looking up from his tablet.
“I am not.”
“You literally sighed.”
“I did not sigh.”
Rachel slowly lowered her book. “You sighed twice.” Gar scowled. “Traitors. All of you.” You looked up from where you sat cross-legged on the floor, organising mission files. “What?”
“Nothing!” Gar squeaked. Dick snorted. You narrowed your eyes suspiciously before shrugging and going back to your papers. Gar’s gaze softened instantly. Honestly, he was embarrassingly obvious. Everyone knew. Including you.
You just didn’t know what to do about it. Part of you wanted to say something, to put an end to the guessing, but every time you even considered it, your heart raced. What if you were wrong and ruined the team’s fragile balance? What if he laughed, or worse, pulled away? You tried to convince yourself it was safer to stay quiet, to act as if nothing had changed, but it had, and you couldn’t pretend you didn’t notice.
Sometimes, the memories of past friendships gone awkward after confessions flashed through your mind, how the silences had stretched, how laughter had died off between people who used to be close. The risk of losing what you already had, the soft comfort of his presence, sometimes felt heavier than the hope for something more. You hated how every easy conversation now carried the jitter of what might be hiding underneath, and how a single misstep might mean losing the gentle warmth that had become a part of your daily life.
Gar was affectionate with everyone. He hugged people all the time, leaned on his friends, held hands just as friends, and gave out compliments like confetti. But with you, it felt different. Softer. Nervous. Intentional. It was like every touch meant something he was too scared to admit. And maybe you were guilty too. Apparently, normal teammates didn’t memorise the way someone laughed. Or notice how his freckles darkened in the sun. Or immediately look for him first after every mission. There was that time last month, when you both ended up stuck in the elevator during a power outage; Gar had found a packet of mints in his pocket, and the two of you spent nearly an hour trading increasingly ridiculous dares for each mint, giggling in the dark. You’d both laughed so loud that Rachel threatened to yank the doors open herself. Sometimes, whenever either of you said "elevator mint," he’d flash you a conspiratorial grin across the room, and you had to fight not to smile back like an idiot.
Rachel claimed the mutual pining was “psychologically nauseating.” Vic said it was “worse than a CW drama.” Kory thought it was “adorable” and had nearly asked if you two were mates. The point was, something was happening. And nothing was happening, and it was driving everyone insane. The team had started taking bets on who would crack first; Rachel muttering under her breath about resignation letters, Vic dramatically sighing every time you and Gar were in the same room, and Kory nearly pushing the two of you together with suspiciously calculated errands. It got so bad once that Dick threatened to lock you both in the storage closet "until you work out whatever this is," prompting protest from everyone (and smug grins from none). Including Gar.
It happened after a rough mission. Nothing catastrophic, just exhausting. The kind that left everyone bruised, irritable, and desperate for sleep.
You were in the kitchen at nearly two in the morning, trying to patch a cut on your arm one-handed. “Here.” You startled slightly as Gar appeared beside you, holding the first aid kit.
“You don’t sleep, huh?” you murmured.
“Could ask you the same thing.” He sat on the counter and grabbed the antiseptic before you could say anything.
“I can do it myself.”
“I know.” His voice was quiet. “Let me anyway.”
Your stomach flipped. God. This was the problem. Gar cleaned the cut, brow furrowed, fingers warm on your skin. “You should’ve let me cover your flank back there,” he muttered.
“You were busy getting thrown through a wall.”
“Still.”
You laughed softly. “You’re impossible.”
His eyes met yours. And something shifted. The kitchen suddenly felt very small. Very quiet. Very warm. Gar swallowed hard. You could see him arguing with himself:
Say something.
Don’t say something.
Definitely say something.
Oh God, don’t say something.
“You know,” he started weakly, “Dick says we have unresolved tension.”
You burst out laughing. “Dick would say that.”
“He’s not wrong.”
Your laughter faded. Gar’s fingers stilled around your wrist.
“Oh.”
“Oh,” he echoed.
Neither of you moved. Somewhere upstairs, something exploded, and Vic yelled, “I TOLD YOU NOT TO MICROWAVE METAL!” Neither of you even blinked. Gar looked terrified.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he rushed out. “I just- I like being around you. A lot. Like… a stupid amount, actually.” His voice wavered, and he looked down, twisting his fingers together. “You do this thing when you're concentrating, where you bite your lip and the world kind of goes quiet. I notice every time. It sounds so dumb, but… It's one of my favourite things.”
You smiled helplessly. “Gar-”
“I know you might not feel the same-”
“I do.”
He stopped breathing. “What?”
“I do,” you repeated softly.
Gar stared at you as you’d just handed him the secrets of the universe. “You… you do?”
“Were you genuinely unaware?”
“Listen, I’m emotionally fragile.”
You laughed again, quieter this time. And Gar looked completely wrecked by the sound. Then his eyes dropped to your mouth. Your breath caught. He leaned forward slightly. Paused. Hesitated. And then suddenly, he kissed you. Quick. Impulsive. Warm. The softest thing you’d ever felt.
Your brain completely stopped functioning. Gar pulled back just as fast, eyes widening in horror.
“Oh, my god.”
You blinked.
“I didn’t ask.”
“…What?”
“I didn’t ask if I could kiss you!” he panicked, standing so abruptly he nearly fell backwards off the stool. “I just did it, and that was so not okay, and I swear I normally have impulse control-”
“Gar-”
“No, because consent is important and I know that and I wasn’t thinking and-”
You grabbed the front of his shirt before he could spiral himself into another dimension. He froze.
“Gar.”
“…Yeah?”
“I have been waiting for you to do that for months.”
His brain visibly short-circuited. “…Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
“You’re not mad?”
“Gar, I was two seconds away from doing it myself.”
He stared at you. Then slowly: “Oh.” You rolled your eyes affectionately. “Idiot.” He suddenly grinned, bright and boyish, looking so relieved it almost hurt. “Can I kiss you again?” he asked immediately. You smiled. “Please.” This time, when he kissed you, there was no panic in it at all.
Somewhere upstairs, a door creaked open. You heard Vic's not-so-subtle whisper-"Pay up, Rachel!"-followed by muffled laughter and the faint sound of someone high-fiving. Gar grinned against your lips. You pulled back just long enough to roll your eyes. Of course, they were listening.
You could already imagine what was coming next: the teasing in the hallways, Kory sweeping the two of you into a hug and calling this "the most romantic victory," Rachel pretending to be disgusted but sneaking you a satisfied smile, and Vic coming up with a dozen new bets about how long you would last before holding hands in front of everyone. Maybe, for once, the peace in Titans Tower wouldn’t be so fragile. Now, it would be louder, warmer, and a little bit brighter.
“I didn’t ask if I could kiss you!” he panicked, standing so abruptly he nearly fell backwards off the stool. “I just did it, and that was so not okay, and I swear I normally have impulse control-
Sounded exactly how I pictured Gar freaking out. Great job!
The sea was calm for once. It wasn’t silent; ships are never truly quiet, but it was calm enough that the creaking wood and the slow flap of sails blended into something gentle. The air was thick with the briny tang of salt, carrying the faint, ever-present hint of tar and rope. The late afternoon sun poured gold across the deck of the Flying Dutchman, warming the ropes, the railings, and the hammock strung between two beams near the stern. Every so often, a gull cried in the distance, and somewhere below, the steady slap of water against the hull mingled with the lazy rustle of canvas. The breeze moved softly and coolly across the skin, tugging stray hairs and fluttering the pages of a forgotten book. Together, all these pieces wove a hush that was alive, immersive, and rare.
And you. Henry noticed you long before he realised he’d stopped walking. Something about the way sunlight caught the soft strands of your hair, the slow, even rise and fall of your chest as you dozed, held him there. He saw the faint crease at your brow relax in sleep, your mouth softened at the edges, none of the usual bravado or words, just quiet. For a moment, he was struck by how still you looked, how easily you trusted the hammock and the ship and, maybe, him. That was what had caught him first: the simple peace in your face, rare and bright amid the restless movement of the sea.
You’d claimed the hammock after lunch, insisting you were “just resting your eyes” while Henry worked through charts with his father. Officially, you were part of the crew, first brought aboard for your quick hands and your uncanny knack for knots, and lately trusted with standing night watch and mending torn sails. Life aboard the Dutchman kept you busy enough, but even the most reliable deckhand needed a moment's rest. Apparently, resting your eyes had turned into fully falling asleep with one arm dangling and your book half-slipped from your chest.
The hammock rocked gently with the movement of the ship. Henry smiled despite himself. “Thought I’d find you here.” No response. He stepped closer, boots quiet against the wood. Your breathing was slow, steady. Each time the breeze picked up, a strand of hair drifted across your face. He gently shook your shoulder and whispered to get your attention. “You fell asleep on the hammock.” Eventually, he reached down to brush it away before he could think better of it. “Now I don’t have the heart to wake you.”
You didn’t stir. Dangerous, he thought, pressing his palm briefly to the beam, as if bracing himself against a tide of feeling. That was what his father would call this sort of distraction. Henry preferred to call it impossible. His guard slipped so quickly, and he gave in completely to these moments with you.
He leaned against the mast beside you, arms folded loosely. He should wake you. Dinner would be ready soon. If the crew caught him standing around staring at you like some lovesick fool, he’d never hear the end of it. But then you shifted slightly, curling deeper into the hammock with a tired little sigh. And that was the end of that.
“Well,” he murmured quietly, “there goes my plan.”
A faint grin tugged at his mouth, hope and resignation tangled together, as he crouched beside the hammock instead. The truth was, you’d looked exhausted all week. It had only been a month since they’d helped break Will Turner’s curse, and the East India Company’s grip had finally loosened, but the Dutchman still roamed free on the open seas, caught between ancient legends and the uneasy peace of a new era. Endless days at sea had a way of wearing people down, especially after storms and sleepless nights and near-disasters that seemed to follow the Turners like a curse. Just four nights ago, they had spent hours bailing rainwater and patching a ripped sail as lightning cracked close enough to light the deck almost white. Henry had noticed the dark circles beneath your eyes, even if you insisted you were fine. So he stayed quiet. Stayed close.
The setting sun painted warm amber across your face, softening every line and every expression. You looked impossibly peaceful. Henry felt a strange ache as he watched you, protective and awed all at once. He wished he could keep you safe from every storm, every threat the sea might hold, and yet he feared how easily you trusted him, how much that trust tethered him, made him hope for things he could barely name. Was it foolish to feel hope here, aboard the Dutchman, where curses lingered just out of sight? Henry wondered if you knew what you did to him when you looked like that, unguarded and trusting enough to fall asleep in the middle of a pirate ship.
A laugh sounded from farther up the deck. Henry glanced over sharply to find Jack Sparrow watching with entirely too much amusement. “Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Jack called. “This is the most romantic thing I’ve seen all week.” Henry rolled his eyes immediately. “Go away.”
“Protective too,” Jack mused, delighted. “That’s adorable.”
“I’m serious.”
Jack raised both hands in surrender, grinning. “Far be it from me to interrupt true love.”
Before Henry could argue, you shifted again, blinking slowly awake. Your gaze unfocused at first before settling on Henry, crouched beside you. “…How long was I asleep?”
“Not long,” he lied smoothly.
Judging by the sky, at least an hour. You pushed yourself up slightly, looking embarrassed. “Why didn’t you wake me?” Henry opened his mouth with a practical answer, maybe something about letting you rest because the crew hadn’t needed you yet. Instead, what came out was quieter. “You fell asleep in the hammock,” he said, eyes softening, “and I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. Henry's heart pounded, wary of breaking the hush, the air charged with words he couldn't quite say. The ocean rolled gently beneath the ship. Jack made a dramatic gagging noise somewhere in the background. Henry ignored him completely.
Your expression warmed, eyes shining with affection, and Henry felt his heart stutter from the tenderness behind your small, teasing smile. A soft rush of salt air curled around them, and the scent of the sea mixed with the faint, sun-warmed smell of hemp from the hammock. The coarse weave was solid beneath his arm where he leaned in, grounding him as the ship rocked gently. “That was smooth.”
“I wasn’t trying to be smooth.”
“No?” you teased.
“No.” He smiled then, small and honest. “Just truthful.”
You looked at him for another lingering second before shifting over in the hammock, silently offering him space. Henry hesitated only briefly before climbing in beside you, careful not to tip either of you onto the deck. The hammock swayed dangerously. You laughed quietly as he grabbed the ropes. “Elegant.”
“Pirates aren’t known for grace.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” He settled beside you once the swinging slowed, shoulders brushing yours. Above you, the sky had begun turning shades of pink and orange. Streaks of the first hints of evening spread out overhead.
For once, there were no curses to break. No ghostly mariners rising from the deep, no ancient blades to seal or dark enchantments whispering from the shadows. Not like the night when Henry had fought to break his father’s curse, or the days spent outrunning the ravages of the Sea’s Vengeance that dogged their heels just weeks before. The deck felt lighter now, washed clean by those storms, if only for this moment. Henry let himself breathe, his whole body sinking into the rare quiet. He realised how tightly he had been holding on all this time, waiting for the next calamity, never daring to believe that peace like this was possible. Relief flooded him, bringing with it a strange weightlessness, as if the ship itself was floating not just on water, but on a promise of rest. But more than that, Henry was changed by this hush.
For the first time, he let go of his fear that hope was just a dangerous illusion. He allowed himself to want something gentler, a future with room for joy, not just survival. Sharing this stillness with you, he could feel his guard dropping, the scars of the past losing some of their hold. He wanted to remember this feeling, the way hope tasted after fear, and how your presence made even the haunted Dutchman feel like home. In that calm, Henry knew their bond had deepened: you trusted him without reservation, and now he finally trusted himself to be worthy of that trust. Something between you was shifting, growing stronger, and he felt ready at last to meet it.
No battles waiting on the horizon. Just the sea. The wind. And you beside him. Henry let out a slow breath. And when your head rested against his shoulder, warmth flooding his chest, Henry decided he could stay there forever, anchored in a rare and fragile peace.
The late afternoon sun poured through the Titans Tower windows in long golden stripes, warming the common room and making it feel almost peaceful. Almost.
You were trying not to stare at Gar, but your heart beat anxiously in your chest. It was ridiculous; after all this time, you'd think you would be used to him, but every time he was near, your thoughts scattered just as they did the very first day you realised your feelings might be something real. It wasn't just his smile, but the way he had slipped quietly into your life, making late-night movie marathons and training sessions mean something more.
Sometimes you still found yourself replaying that clumsy, unforgettable afternoon after patrol last month, when he'd patched up your scraped knee, and you both ended up laughing on the kitchen floor. Even now, what if he caught you looking? You could practically hear Rachel teasing you in your mind, just like last week when she caught you staring, and tried to look more interested in your drink than in Gar’s stupidly gorgeous smile. Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe? You tried to focus on anything else, but the flutter of nerves wouldn't let you ignore the way Gar's laughter from earlier still echoed in your head. Again.
He sprawled sideways on the couch, one leg hanging off the edge as he scrolled through his phone with a lazy confidence that felt unfair. Light caught in his messy green hair and highlighted the freckles on his cheeks. His effortless charm was deeply annoying. Honestly, someone should invent a law against being that smug without at least a warning label. He made attractive look effortless, like he was genetically engineered to be distracting and inconvenient.
You narrowed your eyes. It was distracting, almost painfully so, as you stood by the kitchen counter. Gar glanced up immediately. “Why are you looking at me like you’re plotting a murder?” You scoffed softly. “No reason.” “Mhm.” He grinned, already suspicious. “You only use that tone when there’s definitely a reason.”
You tried to focus on your drink rather than on him. It didn’t help. His skin looked warm and glowing, his smile unfairly soft, and the sunlight reflecting in his eyes made them look brighter than usual. Honestly, it was distracting. Before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out. Your mouth moved before your brain caught up, and annoyance mixed with reluctant admiration in your voice.
“You look unfairly good in sunlight. It’s honestly irritating.”
Silence. Then Gar slowly lowered his phone. A grin spread across his face so quickly it almost felt unfair. He pressed a hand to his chest, as if he was dramatically moved. “Was that a compliment?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“You called me good-looking.”
“I said the sunlight was doing most of the work.”
He gasped loudly. “And now she insults me. Cruel.” You rolled your eyes, but you could already feel yourself smiling. Gar sat up properly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “C’mere.”
“No.”
“C’mon.”
“You’re being smug about this already.”
“Because my incredibly attractive partner just admitted I’m hot.”
“I did not-”
“You literally did.”
“I said-”
“You’re flustered,” he interrupted with a grin.
“I’m leaving.”
The moment you turned, Gar was already moving. In seconds, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, nearly making you spill your drink. “Gar!”
“You’re warm,” he mumbled happily against your shoulder.
“You’re clingy.”
“And you love me.”
Unfortunately, he was correct. You hated how easy it was for him to say it and how much you actually liked hearing it. You could feel your face grow warm as the truth sat stubbornly in your chest. If only admitting it out loud wasn't so mortifying. Rachel would never let you live it down; just last week, she had teased you relentlessly for blushing every time Gar so much as looked your way. She had even promised she and the others would stage an intervention if things got any more obvious. Maybe you should worry about when Rachel would inevitably appear to catch you both in another embarrassing moment; she had a knack for showing up just when you least expected it. Maybe she was right about you after all, always claiming you were a hopeless case when it came to him.
You leaned back against him with a quiet sigh as his chin rested comfortably on your shoulder. The tower was quiet: no shouts, no explosions, just the distant city and the sun warming the room. Gar tilted his head slightly. “You know, you look pretty in sunlight, too.” You snorted. “Nice recovery.”
“I’m serious.”
You turned your head just enough to look at him. His expression had softened, and the playful teasing was gone, replaced by something quieter. Something honest. “You always look pretty,” he said simply. “Sunlight just makes it easier to see.” Your heart did an embarrassing little flip. “You’re such a flirt.”
And yet, he said smugly, tightening his arms around you, you stay. You smiled despite yourself, leaning back into him fully this time. Unfortunately. But you didn't move away, letting yourself rest against him just a moment longer, sunlight warm on your skin and Gar's steady heartbeat gentle against your back. Maybe it wasn't so unfortunate after all.
Outside, the sun dipped a little lower toward the horizon, throwing long shadows through the glass. The quiet felt fragile, as if any moment the next crisis or call for help might break through it, pulling you both back into the reality of the world beyond this peaceful room. Somewhere in the distance, a siren echoed faintly from the city. It was easy to ignore now, to pretend it was only background noise, but you both knew how quickly everything could change. For now, though, you let yourself hope these small moments would last, even if, deep down, you knew peace never lasted long in the Tower.
The fire crackled quietly in the center of the clearing, sending sparks up into the dark trees overhead. Crickets chirped somewhere deeper in the woods, and the cool night air carried the scent of pine, smoke, and sugar.
You sat on a fallen log with your knees pulled to your chest, turning your marshmallow carefully over the flames. Across from you, Derek sat very still, holding his roasting stick in both hands. He watched the marshmallow with the kind of focus he usually saved for serious situations.
You tried not to laugh. “Most people don’t look that serious making s’mores.”
“I’m making sure it doesn’t burn.”
“It’s a marshmallow, Derek. Not a hostage negotiation.”
His mouth twitched. That was almost a smile.
The rest of the pack had gone back to the cabin nearly an hour ago after someone brought up ghost stories. Usually, you would have followed them, laughing and nudging elbows on the way, but something made you linger by the fire tonight. It was strange for Derek to stay behind with you, especially since he rarely hung back after everyone else left. He never really explained himself anyway. Maybe he was remembering last summer, too, when you both got caught in the storm on a night hike, soaked to the bone, huddled together under one jacket, trying not to laugh as the others searched for you with flashlights. The silence wasn’t awkward. It never was anymore.
You handed him a graham cracker. “You’re on chocolate duty.” He took it with a grunt, firelight flickering across his broad shoulders as he leaned forward. His Henley sleeves were pushed up, showing strong forearms dusted with soot from stacking firewood, and his fingers were smudged as he broke the chocolate bar.
You tried not to stare. You failed a little. Derek noticed, of course. His werewolf senses were just unfair. “You’re burning it,” he said.
“Oh-shit.” You yanked the marshmallow away from the flame, but by the time you pulled it off the stick, the side facing the fire had burned completely black.
“You distracted me.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
“You’re literally sitting there looking like that.”
One dark eyebrow lifted. “Like what?”
You opened your mouth, then shut it again immediately. Derek’s smirk deepened, subtle but devastating.
“Oh, now you’re speechless.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
The warmth in his voice felt stronger than the fire. You looked down, pulling your eyes away from him as you peeled the burnt layer off your marshmallow, picking at the sticky shell. Your heart pounded so hard you could hear it.
Being with Derek meant every moment felt important. Every glance, every touch, and every rare smile he gave was just for you. Sometimes, when the rest of the pack was loud and bustling, you remembered the night last spring when Derek found you sitting alone on the porch after a long, heavy day. He had simply handed you a cup of tea, silent and warm beside you beneath the heavy stars, his knee pressed against yours. It was such a small kindness, but in that moment, you felt seen in a way that lingered for weeks. Even now, sitting across the fire from him, the memory curled in your chest, making you ache with a kind of hope you could barely admit aloud.
The truth was, Derek, terrified you a little, not because of who or what he was, but because of the way he made you feel. Sometimes the intensity of being really seen left you unsteady, almost exposed, like he knew things about you you could never say out loud. But it was also excitement, bright and sharp under your skin, the sense that what you felt for him was too big to fit neatly inside you. You wanted to reach out, to close the space between you, and sometimes you were afraid you would. What scared you most wasn’t rejection or what anyone else would think; what scared you was how easy it would be to fall for him completely, and how impossible it would be to ever stop.
He wasn’t good with words, but he was good with you. Sometimes that made things worse. When Derek showed affection, it always felt important, like he meant more than he said. That’s why your mind almost stopped working when, calm and steady, he reached across the fire pit, gently cupped your chin, and leaned in to press his lips softly to yours.
For a moment, all you could feel was the heat of his palm against your skin, the roughness of his thumb tracing along your jaw, and the sudden, breathtaking closeness. Your heart pounded so loud it nearly drowned out the crackle of the fire, your breath catching as his lips found yours; warm, gentle, and somehow grounding and electrifying at the same time. The night air seemed to vanish, leaving only the warmth blooming everywhere he touched you.
The kiss wasn’t rushed at all. Nor could it be described as hesitant. Just warm and steady and unmistakably Derek. The world narrowed to the roughness of his hand warming your jaw, the smoky scent lingering on his shirt, and the soft exhale he let out against your lips, as if he’d been holding back all night. Then he pulled away. He stayed calm as he set the stick back over the coals and started turning another marshmallow with steady hands. He acted as if nothing had happened. You stared at him. Derek calmly rotated his marshmallow over the flames.
Your mouth fell open. “You can’t just kiss me and then go back to roasting marshmallows as if nothing happened.” His eyes flicked up to yours, maddeningly composed. “I can.”
“No, actually, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”
“That dramatic, huh?”
“You kissed me like we were in a romance movie, and now you’re acting like we’re discussing the weather.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “The marshmallow still needs work.” You laughed, dragging your hands down your face. “Unbelievable.”
“I think I’m handling this pretty well.”
“You’re insane.”
A beat passed. Then Derek’s expression softened completely. The teasing left his eyes, replaced by something softer that always made your chest ache. “You want me to do it again?” he asked softly. Your brain stopped functioning for a full three seconds. “…Maybe.” One corner of his mouth lifted. This time, when he leaned over the fire toward you, there was no pretending afterwards. The marshmallow caught fire. Neither of you cared.
Later, as the last embers faded and you both walked back toward the cabin, you couldn’t help but wonder how anything would ever feel the same again. You knew the others would notice a shift, or maybe sense it in the way you and Derek looked at each other. Something in the air had changed. You had crossed a line, and though neither of you spoke it aloud, nothing about the pack, or about the two of you, would go back to the way it was.
The bonfire was dying down by the time you realised you were alone with Stiles. You weren’t completely alone. Distant voices from the pack still echoed through the woods, and sometimes laughter drifted between the trees. Still, everyone was far enough away that the quiet around you felt close. Maybe even a little dangerous.
You sat cross-legged on an old plaid blanket, turning a marshmallow slowly over the fire. The heat brushed against your face while smoke curled lazily into the cold night air. Across from you, Stiles was in the middle of passionately explaining why horror movies would improve dramatically if people just “stopped investigating creepy basements.”
“I’m serious,” he insisted, pointing his roasting stick at you. “Every problem starts with a basement. Ghost? Basement. Demon? Basement. Serial killer? Weirdly also basement-adjacent.”
You snorted. “That’s not true.”
“It is scientifically true.”
"You can't just say 'scientifically' and expect me to believe you."
“I absolutely can. I’m very convincing.”
“You’re barely coherent after two cups of cider.”
"Rude. Also, I'm always barely coherent.”
You laughed quietly, shaking your head.
God, you liked him. Sometimes it was impossible to believe no one else could see it, the way your whole body went light and shivery if he even brushed by you. The feeling lived in your chest, a constant flutter just under your ribs whenever he glanced your way, or when your knees happened to bump by accident. You still remember the ridiculous joy of the time he absentmindedly tossed his hoodie in your lap during a movie night, or that secret thrill on late walks home when his shoulder stayed pressed just a little too close to yours. It pulsed through every nervous laugh, blooming into warmth that crept to your cheeks and made your fingers fidget restlessly in your lap. Sometimes you imagined what it would be like if he reached for your hand on purpose. Or if, just once, he let a joke trail off and confessed something real. Still, beneath all that hope, a knot of fear always pulled you back. What if you confessed and he laughed, or worse, gently let you down? What if things changed and the easy comfort between you got swallowed up in awkwardness? Sometimes it felt like you couldn't bear to meet his eyes for too long, afraid he'd read every thought tumbling around your head: hope, doubt, want. You liked him so much it was ridiculous, so much it almost hurt, in that aching, electric way you couldn’t ignore.
Maybe much too much.
It had been months of this. Lingering looks, accidental touches that didn’t feel accidental, and late-night calls that somehow drifted from sarcasm into vulnerability before either of you noticed. Everyone else already knew what this was. Scott definitely knew. Lydia had given you a look earlier that practically screamed, "Finally." Even now, you could feel the possibility that someone might stumble back into the clearing and catch you both in the act. Just picturing the chaos made your stomach twist with nervous excitement: Scott would probably just grin, and Lydia might actually cheer. Derek would try (and fail) to pretend he was unbothered, rolling his eyes but keeping a close watch. Malia would shout something embarrassing at you both. Even quiet Kira might burst into delighted applause. The threat of being seen by the whole group only made the air between you and Stiles shimmer with anticipation.
But Stiles?
Stiles danced around feelings like they were landmines. Which was why your heart stuttered and your breath caught when he suddenly leaned forward. It completely short-circuited your brain. One moment, he rambled about basements; the next, he cupped your jaw, his mouth on yours. Warm. Soft. Certain.
Your breath caught like a trapped bird, everything else falling away as his lips met yours. The kiss tasted of sugar and smoke. It wasn’t rushed like you might have expected; instead, it was careful, almost hesitant beneath the surface confidence. Stiles kissed you as if he had always wanted to, but could hardly believe it was really happening.
Then, just as quickly, he pulled away. You stared at him. He blinked once. Then he calmly turned back toward the fire and rotated his marshmallow. “Okay,” he said casually, “I think this one’s done.” Your mouth fell open.
“What?”
“Hm?”
"You can't just kiss me, then roast marshmallows as if nothing happened!”
That finally got a reaction. Stiles nearly dropped the stick into the fire as he whipped back around, eyes wide. “Oh my God, okay, see, I had a plan in my head for how cool that was supposed to look-”
“A plan?”
“Yeah, and now you’re yelling, and the vibe is ruined.”
"The vibe? You kissed me out of nowhere!”
“You looked kissable!”
“That’s your defence?”
“It’s a good defence!”
You laughed despite yourself, the sound bright and shaky, because he looked genuinely distressed now, his cheeks pink from more than just the fire. Stiles groaned,covering his face. "Wait, let me redo that.”
“You want a redo?”
“Yes.” He pointed at you seriously. “Pretend none of that happened.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Please? I can recover from this.”
“You really can’t.”
“I hate that you’re right.”
He slumped dramatically, and your chest tightened with affection so sharp it almost hurt to sit still. “You’re unbelievable,” you murmured. His expression softened then, nervousness finally peeking through the sarcasm. “Yeah, well. You make me stupid.”
“You were already stupid.”
“Wow. Brutal. I’m being emotionally vulnerable right now.”
You smiled a little, looking down at your hands before meeting his eyes again. “So… was that real?” For once, Stiles didn’t joke. The fire crackled quietly between you as he nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Very real.” The teasing edge in his voice disappeared entirely, replaced with something honest enough to make your heartbeat stutter.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a while.” Your stomach swooped, warmth buzzing through your chest all at once. “You could’ve just said something.”
“I tried,” he argued weakly. “I gave you signals.”
“You called me a cryptid because I trip over air.”
“That was flirting.”
“That was bullying.”
“There’s a thin line.” You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too hard to mean it.
Stiles watched you carefully for a second, lips pressed together, his thumb nervously tapping against the side of his marshmallow stick. There was a flicker of something almost panicked in his eyes, like he was searching for the right move and coming up empty. You caught the way his jaw worked, as if holding back words that threatened to spill out. He glanced away briefly, running his tongue over his bottom lip, his gaze dropping to the dirt between you. In that brief silence, it was as if you could see the battle in him—wanting to play it cool, but for once not quite sure how. Then, as if gathering his courage, he looked back at you; eyes uncertain, a hopeful question hidden beneath the nervous tilt of his brows. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter.
“So… should I not do it again?”
Instead of answering, you leaned forward and kissed him first. He made a surprised noise against your mouth before immediately melting into it, one hand finding your waist while the other nearly lost grip on the marshmallow stick entirely.
When you finally parted, both breathless. Behind him, the marshmallow had fully caught fire. You pointed over his shoulder. “Uh.” Stiles glanced back. “Oh, come on-” The flaming marshmallow dropped directly into the fire pit. You burst into laughter while he stared at it in betrayal. “You know what?” he declared. “Worth it.”
As your laughter faded, you realised it didn't matter if the others saw, or if tomorrow everything shifted a little. For now, your heart felt steady and dazzlingly full, warmed by the fire and the soft certainty of the night. Maybe this wasn't the start of something new; it was simply the moment when hope became real. You let yourself savour it, already looking forward to whatever comes next.
The loft smelled like cedar and coffee. Rain tapped softly on the tall windows, turning the Beacon Hills skyline into streaks of gold and grey. It was late September, just a few months after graduation and not long since the last hunt for the Anuk-ite had left its scars behind. Even now, with most of the pack scattered after everything that happened last spring, the loft felt like a quiet centre of gravity. The old record player in the corner crackled with music, but neither of you paid much attention to it. Derek sat next to you on the couch, his arm resting over the back cushions and his socked feet on the coffee table, even though he always complained when Stiles did the same thing.
You glanced sideways at him over the rim of your mug. He was smiling. It wasn’t the small, reluctant twitch he usually gave when you teased him. It wasn’t just an amused exhale that hardly counted. This smile was different; warm, open, and easy. It transformed him.
“You know,” you said carefully, “I think this might be the first time I’ve ever seen you relax.”
Derek huffed a laugh. “I relax.”
“You growl at people in grocery stores.”
“They block the aisles.”
“You threatened a teenager over curly fries last week.”
“He deserved it.”
You laughed into your coffee, and Derek’s smile grew instead of fading. That alone made your chest ache a little.
Outside, thunder rolled low across the hills. Inside, everything felt soft. Derek’s Henley sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, showing the faded lines of old scars. Most of the time, he stayed tense even during quiet moments, as if he expected the world to fall apart again. But tonight, he leaned back into the couch cushions, close enough that your knees touched. Close enough that he didn’t pull away. You watched him for another moment before speaking.
“I’ve never seen you this happy before.”
Quietly, the words slipped out. Derek stilled. For a moment, you worried you’d said the wrong thing. His expression changed, not closed off but thoughtful. He looked vulnerable in that careful way he hated showing anyone. Your heart pounded, and for just a second, you wished you were as composed as you always imagined yourself.
Then his eyes flicked toward you.
“That obvious?”
“A little.”
For a long moment, his gaze lingered on you before drifting toward the rain-soaked windows again. “I didn’t think I could be,” he admitted. His honesty caught you off guard. It was sharp and unguarded. You set your mug down slowly. “Derek-”
"I mean it." He shrugged one shoulder. It lacked his usual indifference. "After everything… I got used to surviving. Looking for the next problem. The next thing to lose." His mouth twitched faintly. "Didn’t really leave room for much else."
A pang of fierce tenderness squeezed your heart. Derek rarely talked about the fire, the hunters, or the grief that was stitched into him so tightly it felt like part of his bones. Most days, he found it easier to hide behind sarcasm and silence. Tonight, the walls were lower.
Maybe it was the rain outside and the warmth inside. Maybe it was because nobody needed him right now. Or maybe it was because your hand had been resting against his leg for the last twenty minutes, and neither of you had mentioned it. Sometimes you still marvel at how quietly things had shifted between you, how every careful touch felt both new and inevitable.
Not so long ago, you remembered a time when even sitting this close felt impossible, a time when your conversations were sharp with worry and your touches were clumsy apologies for injuries neither of you wanted to show. That first uncertain late-night phone call, months ago, had changed things: the way Derek's voice had softened, the way he'd let you see how tired he was. Since then, things grew steadily, each small moment building into something real. There was still a hesitance, a sense of tiptoeing around the edges of something precious, but nights like this made it feel like you were finally settling into the comfort of being together. Or maybe Derek was finally starting to believe he didn’t have to carry everything alone.
His fingers brushed yours hesitantly. “But then you showed up,” he said softly. You blinked. “Me?” He looked at you, gaze so full of quiet love it stole your breath all at once. “You make things feel…” He paused, searching. “Safe.” Derek Hale saying that about someone felt monumental.
Your throat tightened. “You know you make me feel safe, too, right?” He looked genuinely startled by that. “You do,” you insisted gently. “Not because you’re scary or because you could throw someone through a wall.” You nudged his shoulder lightly. “Though very impressive, obviously.” A soft snort escaped him. But because you care," you continued. "You protect people. You try so hard, even when nobody notices."
Derek ducked his head, a pink flush climbing his cheeks. It was adorable. Dangerously adorable. Reaching over, you threaded your fingers through his properly this time. His hand closed around yours immediately, warm and rough and steady.
The record player crackled. Rain poured harder against the windows. And Derek, stoic, guarded, perpetually exhausted Derek, looked at you like you were something precious. “I think,” he said slowly, “you’re probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” You stared at him. Then burst out laughing.
His eyebrows shot up. “That wasn’t supposed to be funny.”
“No, no-” you wheezed, squeezing his hand tighter, “it’s just- wow. You really went for emotional devastation, huh?”
“I can take it back.”
“You absolutely cannot.”
A reluctant grin tugged at his mouth again, brighter this time. Freer. You wished you could keep him this unguarded and free. Without thinking, you shifted closer and curled against his side under the worn blanket on the couch. Derek wrapped his arm around you right away, pulling you to his chest. His natural gentleness always surprised you. His heartbeat thudded steadily beneath your ear.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The storm filled the silence for you. Eventually, Derek pressed his lips softly against the top of your head. “You know,” he murmured, voice low and warm, “Scott’s going to be unbearable when he realises I’m happy.”
You could already imagine it: Stiles would make a whole production out of it, probably declaring a new holiday and demanding photographic proof. Malia would just smirk and roll her eyes, pretending not to care while she secretly texted you congratulations with too many wolf emojis. Lydia, busy with her internship at MIT, would still find time to send a card that was both elegant and a little teasing. Liam was coaching at the local lacrosse camp and would probably hear about it from Mason before anyone else, both of them determined to keep the pack chat alive with memes and exaggerated updates. Somehow, picturing it all, the lives rolling forward, connections still holding, made the moment feel even more real.
You groaned dramatically. “Oh no. He’s going to start giving inspirational speeches.”
“He already does that.”
“Yeah, but now he’ll feel validated.”
Derek actually laughed then. It wasn’t quiet or restrained; this was real laughter. You tilted your head up just enough to see the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. His expression was bright. For the first time in years, he looked at ease. And you thought you’d do just about anything to keep seeing that look on his face.
Gar had been suspiciously quiet for the last ten minutes. That alone should’ve tipped you off. Across the pool deck, his gaze lingered on you, his expression unreadable. If you could have seen behind those steady green eyes, you might have glimpsed the swirl of thoughts keeping him silent. a careful search for the right moment, nerves tangling with affection, and the hope that you wouldn't notice how much he cared.
Usually, Gar Logan was full of energy. He talked nonstop, made terrible jokes, and shapeshifted into random animals just to make you laugh. But now, he was stretched out on a lounge chair by the Titans Tower pool, his green eyes locked on you with a focused look. The air shimmered with the heat of the afternoon, sunlight glinting off the turquoise water that lapped gently against the tile. Chlorine and the faint scent of sunscreen hung between you, and you could hear the distant gulls outside and the muted hum of city life far below. A lazy grin almost hid the intensity in his gaze.
At first, you tried to convince yourself he was just tired or lost in thought. Yet, the thought lingered in your mind of that night on the roof weeks ago, when laughter faded and Gar almost told you something important before brushing it off with a joke. Even now, you remembered the way he hesitated, eyes searching yours, and how a single moment of vulnerability vanished before you could reach for it. Part of you wondered whether he regretted holding back, or whether you'd missed a chance for something honest between you two.
Now, as the minutes dragged on, the silence felt heavier, wrapping around you like a secret. Your mind raced with possibilities, worrying you might have said something wrong or that he was upset, though you couldn't think of a reason. A strange tension curled beneath your skin, prickling with nerves and curiosity. The quiet, layered with all these summer sounds and scents, made your heart beat faster, every moment of his stillness making you wonder what he was really thinking.
You adjusted the oversized black hoodie hanging off your shoulders and glanced over your sunglasses. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
Gar blinked once, dramatically. “I’m being respectful.”
You snorted. “That’s never a good sign.”
“It’s true!” He sat up, hand over his heart. “Just appreciating my girlfriend.”
“Uh-huh.”
His gaze moved over you again, pausing where the hoodie hung loosely on your frame. The hem barely covered your swimsuit, and the sleeves gathered around your hands, showing the warmth of your skin. The zipper was half-open from the heat, making you feel even more exposed under his attention. It reminded you, absurdly, of the night he first lent you this same hoodie, insisting it was 'good luck' before that midnight stakeout on the roof. You remembered how he teased you for shivering in the wind, then draped it around your shoulders with a flourish, and you both tried to act like it was no big deal.
Now, wearing it again, that small history threaded between you, a strange mix of embarrassment and delight fluttered in your chest; you felt vulnerable, like he could see right through the borrowed hoodie to the secret thrill running under your skin. Part of you wanted to hide, but another part leaned into his attention, warmed by it in a way that had nothing to do with the sun. You tried to look casual, but you could not ignore the way your heart thudded at every trace of his gaze.
Gar groaned softly. You laughed. “What?”
“You’re wearing my hoodie over your swimsuit, and honestly,” he said. “It’s distracting.”
Heat crept into your cheeks, burning under the summer sun. Your heart fluttered, and you were all too aware of his attention. “Distracted from what?” you asked, trying to sound casual. “Everything. Weather. Existing. Motor functions.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet you’re still dating me.”
You tried to hide your smile by taking another sip of your drink, but Gar caught it immediately. “There it is,” he said triumphantly, pointing at you. “The smile. I win.”
“There wasn’t a competition.”
“There’s always a competition.”
Before you could respond, he pushed himself off the lounge chair and wandered over to where you sat at the pool’s edge. Water reflected across his skin in shimmering blue patterns as he crouched beside you. Up close, you noticed the subtle shift in Gar. The usual spark of mischief in his eyes gentled, replaced by something slower and more open. His posture relaxed, shoulders sinking a little as if he had forgotten about trying to be funny, and there was a hesitation in his smile like he wanted to say something serious but did not want to interrupt the spell between you.
Gar drew a steadying breath. "Sometimes I worry," he confessed quietly, just above the hush of the pool, "that if I say the wrong thing, I might mess up this good thing we have. I guess I just... hope you know I don't take any of this for granted."
Inside, Gar felt a jumble of nerves and warmth; he worried about saying too much, about ruining the lightness of the moment, but couldn’t help stealing glances at you and enjoying how the afternoon wrapped you both in gold. His mind raced with everything he wanted to tell you, how safe you made him feel, how much he liked sharing these quiet spaces together. The air seemed to grow warmer, as if your closeness had altered the afternoon's feel. With the teasing faded, affection settled in quietly, making both of you softer and more honest in its glow.
“You look cute,” he murmured. Your teasing grin faded into something gentler. “Cute?”
“Very cute.” He tugged lightly on the sleeve hanging over your hand. “You always steal my hoodies.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“They smell like me.”
You shrugged innocently. “Maybe I like that.”
Gar’s ears turned slightly pink beneath his green hair. “Okay, wow. That was unfairly smooth.” You laughed softly as he leaned closer, the weight of his head on your knee grounding you in the moment. The laughter faded into quiet contentment.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sun hung low in the late afternoon sky, casting golden light across the pool deck. City sounds drifted in the background, and the soft splash of the pool filled the silence. The pool area was completely empty; the other Titans had all disappeared on scheduled missions or locked themselves away in their rooms, a routine the team often fell into when things were calm in the city. Still, it felt rare to have the place all to yourselves, the unexpected stillness making your laughter echo louder and your voices seem more honest, as if privacy itself was a secret you were sharing just today. The warmth of the day lingered on your skin as a quiet, golden peace settled easily between you.
Then Gar sighed dramatically again. “You seriously have no idea what you do to me.”
“Oh, my god.”
“You’re sitting here in my hoodie looking all cosy and pretty, and I’m supposed to act normal?”
“You could try.”
“I can’t.” He looked genuinely distressed. “This is beyond my abilities.” You rolled your eyes affectionately. “Poor baby.”
“Exactly. Thank you for understanding my struggle.”
Before you could reply, Gar suddenly shifted into a small green cat and climbed directly into your lap. You burst out laughing. “Gar!” The cat purred loudly, curling against the oversized hoodie as if it belonged there. A second later, he shifted back; human again, arms wrapping around your waist before you could protest. He buried his face against your shoulder, voice muffled. “See? Now I can be distracted up close.” Your fingers slid automatically into his hair. “You’re clingy.” “And you love it.”
Unfortunately for your argument, your heart had already given in. He was completely right. After all this time, months filled with late-night movie marathons, inside jokes nobody else would understand, and quiet mornings just like this, you never really stood a chance against him. You thought of the time you both tried to bake cookies in the Tower kitchen at 2 a.m., the whole place lit only by the yellow glow under the cabinets and your laughter echoing off the tile. Flour dusted your noses and hair, sticky dough covering your hands, and soon you were both flinging handfuls of flour at each other, the air thick with white clouds and wild giggling. The scent of warm sugar clung to your skin for hours, and when Gar shifted into a green dog to chase you around the table, his paw prints tracked a powdery trail back to your rooms, still visible at sunrise.
Even days later, every time you caught the faint sweetness in the air or glimpsed a smudge on the counter, it tugged a smile from you. You still used "Operation Pancake Rescue" as code for sneaking breakfast into the medbay, grinning conspiratorially as you weaved past the others. Gar always knew exactly how to find the cracks in your composure, especially after all the history you'd built together.
Gar tilted his head up just enough to grin at you, sunlight catching in his eyes. “Also,” he added casually, “I’m never getting that hoodie back, am I?” You pulled the hood up over your head with a smug smile. “Probably not.”
I always always picture mayfield!reader being kind of rough around the edges like max at first around like s2 era but when she starts talking to steve she like does a complete 180
a damn teddy bear
fluff, mayfield!reader
wc: 843
“Haven’t you ever heard of an indicator, you fucking dickwad!” You yell out angrily out of your car window at the car in front of had just swerved into your lane without indicating. “Fucking people these days,” you mutter beneath your breath before you take a quick glance in your rear view mirror to see the faces of Lucas and Will looking at you from your backseat in slight fear. Max—sitting in the passenger seat—barely reacted, your sister too used to your road rage to care.
You didn’t stop scowling—even when you pulled into the sorry excuse for a parking lot that was a stone's throw away from Lover's Lake. It was a hot summers day and you were dropping your sister and her friends off for a day by the lake.
You spot the maroon BMW already parked instantly and something funny happened in your stomach the way it always did when Steve Harrington was concerned. You had thought after a few weeks of him being your boyfriend that the feeling would lessen, but it hadn't.
You pull into the space beside his car and try to resist the urge to look at Steve, who was leaning against his car wearing some denim shorts that showed off those delicious thighs of his and a shirt that was unbuttoned at the top, allowing you a peak at his chest hair that made your mouth feel uncomfortably dry.
"Careful," comes Max's amused voice. "You're gonna catch flies."
The sound of the other kids laughing pulls you out of your thoughts about your stupidly gorgeous boyfriend and you're quick to turn to Lucas and Will still sat in your backseat. "Get out," you tell them.
They stop laughing almost instantly and there's a slight scuffle in their haste to be the first to leave, both muttering a quiet 'thank you' before slipping out in the hot summer air.
Max rolls her eyes, her lips twitching in amusement before she follows her boyfriend and Will out of your car.
You have perhaps two seconds to yourself before your car door is opened for you.
"There she is," Steve greets you fondly, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek that causes your face to burn. "Lucas told me you cussed out another driver—again. Baby, you gotta learn to let these things go. You'll get yourself into a fight one day."
You look up at your boyfriend, your features softening slightly when you meet his big brown eyes that made you feel all fussy inside.
"Yeah and I'll win," you say, placing a hand on his chest to gently push him away so you could get out of your beat up Nova.
"I know you would but I'd rather my girlfriend not get into a road rage incident," Steve says, his large hands cupping your face between them so he could press a gentle kiss to your forehead. "For my sake, please?"
Your lips twitch into a near smile before you melt into him, all the tension you had felt from being cut off by another driver disappearing the moment you inhaled his cologne.
"I'll think about it," you murmur back.
Steve seemed satisfised with that, smiling against your skin before he pressed another kiss to your hairline. "Good girl."
"Did your sister just smile?" You hear Lucas ask Max in a not so subtle whisper. "I didn't know she could do that."
"Mind your business, Sinclair!" You snap back, pulling away from Steve to glare at Lucas. "Or you'll be walking home later."
Lucas didn't say a word after that and so you turned back to Steve who was smiling at you.
"What?" You ask him. "Gonna tell me off for yelling at him too?"
Steve shakes his head. "Nah," he says. "Just cute when you act all tough around everyone else but you're a damn teddy bear in front of me—"
"—I am not a teddy bear—"
"—face it, baby, you are," Steve says, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you in closer. "And I wouldn't have you any other way."
You wanted to roll your eyes but it was hard not to smile when Steve was looking at you like that.
"You're such a sap, Harrington," you tell him fondly before you add a quiet, "but I wouldn't have you any other way."
He smiles back at you and before you had a chance to tell him off for the public display of affection—Steve leans in and kisses you. And for a moment, as your lips glide along his, as your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt—you don't care if anyone sees the way you melt into him or the way you smile against his lips. You don't care about anything apart from the man holding you like he never wanted to let you go.
You didn’t care that you later learned that the kids had taken a polaroid of that moment. Because maybe Steve Harrington was right—maybe you were a damn teddy bear when it came to him.
I know it’s not the be-all and end-all, or maybe even the most accurate, but what do you think the Teen Wolf characters love languages are? Both giving and receiving?
I was supposed to be working on the second chapter of my fic, but I just read this, and now my brain is CHURNING and I cannot do anything else until I write down my ideas for this. So uh, here we go.
Also, the things I write down here may or may not be the 'official' love languages, but I don't care. I'm just yapping.
Stiles Stilinski - Gift Giving
This is literally evidenced in the show. That giant ass box that he brought to Lydia's birthday party, the fact that he literally bought her a bunch of different birthday gifts because he couldn't decide on which one would be the best one. He is a gift giving king.
Now, you could interpret this as something that he just did for Lydia because he knows that she's a bit more of a materialistic person and he wants to impress her, but I don't think that's the case, because I genuinely believe that he has difficulty expressing himself through words - like, he's awkward, he stumbles with his words, he gets nervous and doesn't know what to say. So he does a lot better when he has time to think about what kind of gift to give a person and can express himself that way.
He is the type of person to bring you a coffee and a pastry every single morning because he much prefers to show his affection through those kind of gestures (though that might be considered 'acts of service' and not gift giving, but idk) - either way, even if he doesn't always have the money to buy you expensive gifts, he is constantly giving you things because he likes to quantify his love through physical objects.
He is also the type of guy to make DYI gifts constantly. He makes you friendship bracelets, a scrapbook of your relationship, a decorated frame with a picture of the two of you in it. He doesn't always have a lot of money to spend, but he has time to look up a bunch of tutorials to make crafts - and while sometimes he is embarrassed to present his crafts, you always love them. So he keeps making them.
In terms of how he likes to receive love - quality time. He needs your presence around, he loves spending time with his partner. To him, there is nothing like quality time with someone, no matter what the two of you are doing.
Isaac Lahey - Physical Touch
I have said it before, through and through, this man is a fucking dog. He is a puppy, he is the most animal of all of them. So his animal instincts are always at play - and one of those instincts are to possess, to claim his territory. Even if it's completely subconscious. So he needs to be touching his partner all the time, even if it is in some small way - a hand on the back of your neck, holding hands, an arm around your shoulders, you being pressed into his side.
He can't get enough of your touch.
And even though he hates appearing clingy, unconsciously he loves you smelling like him, and he loves your warmth, so he can't stop himself from grabbing your hand or wrapping his body around you when he's in the same room as you. It's just instinct to him.
In terms of how he likes receiving love? He loves praise (or - would that be words of affirmation?) but he's always too embarrassed to ask for it. Because of the way that he grew up, he's had so few kind words spoken to him or about him, and whenever you naturally compliment him, it genuinely makes his brain short-circuit, and he thrives off it. So you either figure out on your own that he needs more kind, affirming words, or eventually, he learns to ask for it more - but he genuinely does thrive off of praise and kind words because you are one of the only people in life who has ever given it to him.
Derek Hale - Quality Time
I think it would be a tie between this and Physical Touch, because I think he would also really enjoy cuddling and scenting you, but I think he's also a person where some days he does not want to be touched at all, even by his partner, (like if he's having a bad day and he's in a bad mood) but even on those days, he doesn't want to be separated from you. He wants to be around you all the time.
And I feel like part of it would be due to paranoia - so much bad stuff has happened in his life, and he feels like if he's not constantly watching over you, the minute you are out of his sight, then you are going to die or be murdered. And obviously he has a healthy respect for your personal space, but he vastly prefers when the two of you are just existing in the same space, even if you're just each doing your own thing and you don't have to talk to each other, he loves having your presence there.
A few more quickfire ones with less explanation:
Scott McCall - Physical Touch - he's very affectionate, and again, loves it when you smell like him.
Lydia Martin - Gift Giving - she loves shopping and loves it when she finds something that is just so you, and loves seeing the look on your face when she can give you something that she thinks is so perfect for you.
Allison Argent - Word of Affirmation - she loves praising you and telling you how much she loves you, and hearing it in return, especially because she comes from a household that has so many secrets and is so uptight, she loves beautiful and open communication in your relationship.
Erica Reyes - Acts of Service - she's not so good with words, but she will beat someone up for you or bring you (stolen) flowers to show her love.
Vernon Boyd - Quality Time - he has spent most of his life being lonely, especially after his sister went missing, so spending time with you means everything to him.
Jackson Whittemore - Gift Giving - due to the way he was raised, money has always been the way he was shown affection and it's the only way he knows how to show affection, but he is very precise in how he picks out gifts, so you know it's always sincere and thoughtful coming from him (as thoughtful as he is capable of being).
