I got a lovely request from @christinaatyourservice92 for a Cal Kestis x reader story. So here we go :D
You are a shy cartographer with a love for art, having travelled with Cal and the Mantis crew for quite a while now. Your feelings for the red-haired Jedi are a secret you have kept tightly, just as the little collection of sketches you have of him. Well, time for some secrets to be revealed.
(If you also wanna send me requests and prompts, please do! I’m always happy to read them!)
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You all had different reasons for being part of the crew, but what brought you all together, made you a family almost, was the shared hope for a better future. You were all fighting an overly powerful enemy for a slither of a chance to live a normal life, each in your own way.
To be fair, Cal was doing most of the fighting. You weren’t a bad shot, but your talents lay elsewhere. You wanted to map out all the planets of the Outer-Rim, especially those the Empire had not completely overrun yet. Until then, you also put your talents to good use to forge maps for the rebel alliance, highlighting safe routes and the locations of enemy bases on the various planets the Mantis crew visited. A small job, some would argue, but nevertheless vital.
Four years had passed since you literally ran into Cal Kestis on Nar Shadaa, both of you trying to outrun some Stormtroopers, albeit for different offenses. Your knowledge of the intricate underground tunnels of the capital city had saved both your lives and the Jedi had offered you a place on the Mantis without hesitation in gratitude. Apparently, the ship’s doors were open to anyone willing to help.
After living and working alone for almost all your life, being part of a crew was difficult to get used to. Especially since you weren’t exactly an extrovert. Lucky for you, most of the crew wasn’t either. Cere always respected your privacy, almost as if sensing when you needed to retreat and Merrin herself seemed to prefer solitude a lot of times. Greeze was often trying to get you to loosen up with varying degrees of success, but even he never pushed too far.
And then there was Cal. Friendly, gentle and understanding Cal Kestis. He did his best to make you feel at home, testing the waters with each careful word and gesture. Especially at the beginning, he was fumbling with words as much as you were. But unlike you, he had grown more confident in the last few years. You were still a blushing mess when he spoke in that special low tone of his or placed a hand on your shoulder.
Not because you were still nervous… but because the Jedi had managed to work himself into your heart. You admired him for his optimism and drive, shared his hopes for a better future, and trusted him completely. And you were pining for him. Badly. So much so that even Merrin remarked on it one evening, asking why you didn’t say anything.
But you couldn’t. You knew little of the Jedi Order, having grown up in a very rural setting on a Mid-Rim planet, but you did know that love was forbidden for its members. Cal was still following the old lifestyle in many ways and you just assumed he would turn you down because of it.
So months went by and you soaked up every kind word and gesture, as if they were water in a desert, trying to convince yourself that it was enough. Eventually, you found another way to wrangle your emotions back into place: drawing.
Although your cartography skills were almost unmatched, you also had a talent for sketching. Landscapes, creatures and even people filled the pages of the small notebook that was constantly attached to your belt. Recently, however, your fingers automatically traced the features of only one person over and over again.
The new notebook you had started was full of Cal Kestis only. Pensive looking, determined, calm and smiling. You tried to catch every expression possible, burning it into your memory to then bring it back to life on the slightly yellow paper. It was your secret. Or at least had been… until now.
You had landed on a desert planet in the Outer-Rim to refuel and the crew had split up for provisions. Cere accompanied Greeze to find a spare part for the Mantis and replenish your food rations, while Merrin decided to explore the area. It left Cal and you alone on the ship with the task of cleaning up a bit.
“Why do we always get cleaning duty?”, the Jedi grumbled, as he collected the dishes from your last meal off the table, bringing them over to you at the sink.
“Maybe because we are good at it?”, you offered, unable to think of anything cleverer to say.
Cal raised an eyebrow at you, standing so close that your shoulders were touching. “I think you highly overestimate us.”, he replied with a tiny smile.
While you took care of the dishes, Cal busied himself with picking up the various items flying all over the living room area. At least five people shared this space and it showed. Somewhere in the back, you could hear BD-1 and Kip beeping merrily, making you wonder what the droids were up to.
“Y/N?”
The call of your name had you turn, ready to ask what was up, but when you saw Cal with your notebook – your OPEN notebook – you almost dropped the plate you had been holding. He was flicking through the pages, eyes wide in wonder.
Your entire face went hot, the color probably matching the red of his hair, as you watched in horror. Nobody was ever supposed to see these sketches. HE was never supposed to see them.
Stars, he was going to hate you. Or think you some sort of creep. Either way, things would never be the same between you.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to… I was cleaning the table and it fell down.”, he excused himself, obviously noticing your discomfort.
“N-no… I… it’s fine…”, you began to stutter. “I should be the one to say sorry…. Sorry.”
The Jedi raised an eyebrow at you again, coming closer, but still holding the notebook in his hands. “Why? These are good. Certainly better than the Wanted bulletins of me.”
His humor never failed to make you smile, even now, but still. There was a tight knot in your stomach and all you wanted was to grab the notebook and run. Silence fell, as you were unable to find anything to say.
Cal saw the clear discomfort in your eyes, the blush on your cheeks and the nervous fumbling of your hands. Usually, your shy demeanor was cute. Endearing even. But at this very moment, it made him feel guilty for having brought you into this situation.
“Here.”, he said, holding your sketchbook out to you. “Next time you draw a new one, can I see it?”
Your eyes snapped to his, taking in the intense green. How could he be so perfect? Didn’t he know how hard it was to stop falling for him more and more? Was it even possible to love him more than you already did?
“Y-yes… sure…”, you said slowly, reaching for the item, fingers brushing against Cal’s in the process.
“I am honored that you pick me as your model.”, he continued. “Though I am not sure how I deserve the privilege.”
“You’re fascinating.”, you blurt before you can stop yourself. Oh stars, what have you done? Cal’s asking you silently to elaborate, while your fumbling hands are turning your sketchbook round and round, as you try to hold the man’s gaze.
“Your face… it’s handsome… and it reflects so many emotions in different ways. Your jaw clenches when you are concentrating. And your lip twitches upwards ever so slightly when you have a good hand while playing cards. And…” As if a dam had broken, you kept going on and on, revealing more tiny details that nobody but you had probably noticed.
“I-I… I just wanted to memorize them all.”
Cal was overwhelmed, but not in a bad way. People usually saw the Jedi in him. The survivor. The traitor if you asked on the other side. But you… you saw him. Every detail of him, inside and out. He saw you too, even though you preferred to blend into the shadows. You were quiet, but your actions spoke volumes. You were shy, often fumbling with words and he saw much of his younger self in that. Most of all, you were warm. Not in the physical sense, but emotionally. Your presence settled around him like a blanket, offering comfort and calmness. No matter how hard a fight had been, with you close, Cal could always ground himself again.
“Thank you, Y/N.”
“For what?”, you asked, confused. This wasn’t the reaction you had anticipated after your awkward monologue.
“For being you. For seeing me…as me.” He had stepped even closer, barely leaving any distance between you now. Your hands suddenly stilled and you looked down to see why. He had grasped them in his, holding them gently, but firmly.
Slowly, your gaze wandered back to his face, being rewarded with an expression you had not seen before. His eyes were locked to you, as if searching for something. He looked both hesitant and determined and you noticed his lips parting and closing several times, as if he tried and failed to find the right thing to say.
“Listen, Y/N…”, he finally did begin, his grip around your hands tightening ever so slightly. “I have been thinking…” Again a pause, trying to sort himself. “The Order is gone… and while I respect Cere’s mission to rebuild it… I am not sure if I can be a part of it anymore…”
Where was he going with this? And why tell you?
“So much has happened… I don’t think I can call myself Jedi anymore.”
Your lips parted to protest, but you didn’t get a chance to even begin, as Cal continued.
“A lot of the Order’s rules don’t feel right anymore… I… I think I know what I want now.”
Slowly, one of his hands came up, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face. “I’ve been thinking a lot… about you.”
This confession sucked the air right out your lungs and you felt your heart clench in the best way possible. Was this really happening? Had you heard correctly? Or was this a dream and you’d find yourself waking up in the cabin you shared with Merrin?
No, the feeling of your hand in his and the soft brush of his fingers against your cheek was real.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d feel the same… But after seeing the sketchbook…”
“I love you.”, you blurted right between whatever kind of confession he was trying to get out. The words had tumbled out without your permission and instantly you lowered your head to hide the blush that had certainly intensified a thousandfold.
Seconds ticked by and you wondered if the admission of your feelings had been too much. Fingers under your chin turned your face upward again. You were hesitant to look at him, but he didn’t leave you the chance anyway. Instead, Cal leaned down, pressing his lips against yours.
Slowly, and gently at first. Again, testing the waters with you and going only as far as you were comfortable. It was the sweetest sensation you had ever felt. The sketchbook fell to the ground again, as your hands came to grasp his blue vest instead, while his arms pulled you closer against his form.
How long did you stand there, lips locking over and over again, finally giving way to the longing you had both felt?
“I love you too…”, Cal finally voiced what the kiss had already made perfectly clear. You would remember that look in his eyes forever. So full of love and happiness. The next moment you got, you’d have to immortalize it in your little sketchbook again.
“That’s… That’s not what I expected.”, you admitted shyly.
“I didn’t see it coming either… but life has a funny way of taking unexpected turns… And I am glad to follow this new path with you. If you will have me.”
Of course, you would have him! And to prove it you rose to your toes again for another kiss, absolutely ready for a new kind of territory to chart together with him.
An Unexpected Visit (Cal Kestis x Mechanic!Reader)
Summary: You find a little metal friend in your lonely workshop on Koboh and you have no idea where he came from. The answer to that question brings you more hope than you thought it would.
Warnings: Small blood mention.
Words: 3.8k
Note: Thought I'd post a little something while I work on the next few chapter of BoP! Pretty sure this is gender neutral, but if im wrong don't hesitate to point it out!!
Koboh was a hot planet to live on even on its coldest days. There was no such thing as frost here, and snow was out of the question. The native population of the planet was used to it, buildings designed to keep out the sweltering air and clothes made of the thinnest materials.
You, however, hated it.
You’d been warned the planet was warm, but no one had quite mentioned how high the temperature really was. You regretted trusting the Ihi Tib that had brought you here more than anything, but you’d used up all your credits on that trip and there was no way in hell to make that money again to leave, not while working here.
You longed for Habo, the little planet you’d decided against in favor of this one. No raiders, no empire soldiers, just nature and its shy inhabitants. No droids either, but there wasn’t any here either, so you didn’t care. Sometimes, you dreamt of reaching its lush forests and mountains and feeling cold drops of rain on your skin.
The metal roofing of your shop did you no good either, heat waves often visible above it. Its only room felt like a furnace even at the best of times, and you weren’t a stranger to the feeling of sweat-soaked clothes sticking to you uncomfortably anymore.
You tinkered with a metal detector that some prospector had brought to you, taking the opportunity of the night’s barely detectable coolness to work on a project. Apparently, it had stopped functioning properly after it’d been dropped into a chasm. By the looks of it, you were surprised it even was in one piece. Well, mostly in one piece. Maybe the revenue you’d make from this might be able to pay for new boot soles, yours having almost completely disintegrated because of the burning sand that covered the entire region.
The only sound in your workshop was the harsh grating of your screwdriver against the detector’s metal, as you tried to pry open its chassis. The thing just wouldn’t budge, and you considered whether the boots were even worth it.
A whistling sound startled you, the old screwdriver slipping and taking a chunk out of your palm. You swore and tugged a rare oil-free cloth from the toolbox beside you, hitting your head on your work lamp in the process and swearing again. You pressed the cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding and looked towards the open room to determine where the whistling had come from. The door to the shop was locked, you’d triple-checked it while closing. Was this one of the raider lackeys trying to draw you outside again? You’d fallen for it exactly once and promptly learned not to investigate strange noises you might hear outside, but this sounded like a mechanical whistle, not a breathing being.
The strange whistling sounded again, this time from behind you. You spun on your heels, tied the cloth around your hand, and reached for the rusty rebar you kept by your workstation. Nothing seemed amiss at first glance. Had you imagined the sound? Maybe the heat was getting to you, you hadn’t refilled your water canister since this morning. Dehydration hallucinations were rare for you, but you’d still had your fair share, especially when you’d just arrived to Koboh. Getting used to this planet had been a challenge.
Suddenly a flash of red and white crossed the room, hiding behind a wooden bin you used to store your own unfinished projects. The whistle came again, followed by a few beeps. A droid, you realized. He’d been speaking binary! You’d hardly recognized it, not having heard it since your arrival. Lots of droids, the Ihi Tib had assured you, the bastard.
“Hey little buddy, can I help you?” you called, slightly lowering the rebar but still holding it tightly with your free hand. A series of beeps followed in response. It was mostly unintelligible, but you could make out the meaning of some of it.
“Yeah, I’m the mechanic here, do you need something fixed?”
A scared whistle. You crouched, putting down the rebar at reaching distance from your hands.
“I’ve let go of the iron, I won’t hurt you as long as you don’t hurt me, deal?”
You received no response, but the droid tentatively stepped out from its hideout. It was a cute one, you thought, a little flat head and cubical body supported by its two lanky legs. You could see his eyes focusing and zooming on you, no doubt examining you for any sign of aggression. You raised your hands as a peace gesture, and he stepped closer. He emitted a green light from his position. You laughed at the sudden scan but didn’t move.
From up close, you could see the damage he carried. The side of his left leg was blackened as if burnt, and its small body had a gaping hole that revealed his inner components. No wonder he’d been scared, one more hit and he’d be fried. He looked mostly intact on the inside, but you’d need him in your hands to determine if that was the case. You went to speak but got cut off by the loud noise of your door slamming shut behind you.
“Beedee, I told you to wait while I left to find a spare-”
You squealed at the man’s voice, grabbing the piece of rebar again, wincing as it rubbed against your clothed palm, and jumped to your feet.
A man stood at the entrance of your shop, only a few feet from you. You shakily held up the rebar between the two of you as a threat, the droid incoherently beeping behind you and hitting you with his little leg. You ignored him, and the intruder raised his hands, showing you that they were empty. You could see a metal baton at his side and a pistol strapped to his thigh, but he wasn’t reaching for them despite the threat of your rebar.
“Whoa, easy,” he exclaimed rapidly, “I’m not here to attack you!”
“What do you want?” you called, “Shop’s closed at this hour.” It was fairly late in the night, and not many people were still up at this time apart from you. No one with good intentions, at least.
He took a less defensive stance, increasingly unimpressed at your choice of weapon, or your unsteady hold of it. “My name’s Cal, I’m just here for beedee.” He gestured to the droid. “Come on buddy, we’ve got to get back to Greez.”
The cantina’s owner?
“How do you know Greez?” you asked with narrowed eyes. You’d never seen this man, and he’d never been around here. News spread fast in a village this small, you would’ve heard about it in less than a day. The cantina sometimes welcomed suspicious or dangerous individuals, and you wondered if this new guy was one of them.
“It’s a… long story. I’m just visiting. Beedee, let’s go.”
You examined the man closer, as he was clearly only interested in the droid. Now that the adrenaline had mostly run its course, your mind pointed out how attractive the man was. Sure, his armor-looking leather garments looked like they had seen better days, but it was hard to ignore his soft-swept hair, scatter of freckles and sharp jawline that his stubble didn’t quite manage to hide, not to mention his lean yet muscled build.
The droid, beedee, didn’t make a move to leave. Instead, he pushed into your leg again and emitted a series of noises you couldn’t understand.
“Is he always this unclear or is my binary just rusty?” you asked the man hesitantly, keeping the rebar in hand and taking a few steps back to put space in between the two of you.
“He got shot in the middle of a fight, his vocabulator got damaged,” he said. Your grip on the metal tightened. A fight? “I was going to fly to a relay point to find him a new one, but this guy,” he shot a reproachful look at the droid, “Won’t stay put long enough for me to go.”
The droid continued his monologue. The only word you could make out was ‘Mechanic’.
“I’m a mechanic, beedee, is that why you came to see me?”
He near-violently nodded his head.
“I’m sorry he disturbed you, like I said, we need the new component to fix it.” Cal said, shrugging.
You crouched and took a closer look. You could view the injured piece now, its main area intact but its outer edge clearly burnt out. You shook your head. “You don’t need a new one, actually.”
Cal looked at you like you’d grown a third head. “Have you seen the chip? That thing is as good as dead.”
“Not if you reroute the circuit towards his internal commlink instead.”
He blinked. “You’ve worked on droids before?” he asked cautiously.
You nodded. “It’s what I trained for as a teen on my home planet, but I had the great luck of finding a dishonest pilot who promised me there were a lot of droids here.” You gestured to your near empty workshop, embarrassed. “As you can see, not quite the reality of the area. The only ones here are those the raiders keep, and I’ve made it quite clear to them on multiple occasions that they could shove it. Being on their bad side isn’t the greatest, but at least I’m not helping them loot and kill people. Used to work on ships too and loved that, but those are also lacking here.”
He looked at you as if evaluating your body language. You weren’t exactly hard to read; you wore your emotions quite visibly. “Why haven’t you left?” he asked.
“A droid mechanic on a droid-less planet doesn’t exactly have the revenue to jump on a hyperspace voyage. Maybe in a couple years, but at this rate the raiders will have found any stash of money I could keep. Anyways! what I’m trying to say is I can fix beedee if you want.” The droid beeped approvingly from where he stood, jumping up and down in triumph.
Cal seemed to weigh the risks. You didn’t blame him, some unknown mechanic on a near empty outer rim planet didn’t exactly inspire confidence, but you knew you could make the repairs easily.
“Alright,” he said defeatedly, “but if a single electrical filament is damaged, I’ll know, and you won’t get a cent.”
You shrugged, his threat not scaring you. The droid already had enough injuries as is, you weren’t planning on adding to them.
Beedee jumped up to the worktable you’d been working at earlier and you pushed aside the metal detector with a wince. The movement pulled on your palm painfully. The droid didn’t miss your reaction and pushed on your injured hand with a foot.
“Just a cut, little guy, nothing to worry about.” You said, perhaps unconvincingly. The screwdriver you’d used was a bit rusty, and you knew you should get a bacta patch to keep an infection from spreading, but you couldn’t afford one. You’d wash it out with water later and hope for the best.
The droid didn’t miss a beat at words and a little vial was suddenly flung up in the air. You didn’t manage to catch it, not having the reaction time you might have with more rest and water in you, but a calloused hand caught it before it could hit the ground. Cal stood next to you, offering the tube in an open hand
“A stim?” you exclaimed, picking it up and examining it, “I haven’t seen one of those in years, they cost a fortune.” You glanced towards Cal. “I’m not sure the cut warrants using one.” you added.
The man just folded his arms and leaned against the table. “If beedee says you need one, I wouldn’t argue, or else you’ll be arguing with him all night.” he said.
You mumbled a soft thank you as you injected the stim, your hands already feeling much better after only a few seconds. You took off the cloth and despite the dark red that coated your hand, the cut had all but disappeared, leaving only a thin pink line behind. You scrubbed the dry blood off as best you could and turned towards the droid again.
He sat in front of you, presenting his exposed wiring. You picked up your smallest welder and started working, self-conscious of your beat-up tools. You could feel Cal leaning in with each detailed movement you made, unquestionably watching the process to learn how to do it himself. You worked as diligently as you could despite your focus trailing occasionally to the man that held close to your side. The slight reprieve the night air provided seemed gone, his warmth seeping into your skin.
It wasn’t a complicated job, you just needed to reroute the processor to the commlink to translate the droid’s processes into clear binary code to then bypass the burnt translator located on the edge of the vocabulator. It was a trick that was specific to this type of vocabulator though, so it wasn’t a well-known process.
You finished with the rerouting, satisfied by the clear binary beedee could now emit as he properly introduced himself to you. And idea shot through you and you slipped out from Cal’s side to reach for your spare parts bin. You rummaged through it for a moment, the droid sending you a questioning whistle.
“Wait a minute! I know I’ve got it somewhere here…” you grumbled. “Ah-ah! Here it is.”
You held out a grey piece of thin durasteel as you sauntered back to the waiting duo, grabbing your heat gun along the way. “I think I can give you a temporary fix for your casing, let me just… There! It doesn’t match your colors, but it should do the trick.” You slid a newly shaped metal plate over the spot where the casing had melted away, grinning at its sturdiness. “This won’t fix it forever; I’d need a little more time to make an entirely new one and to make it the right color, but this should keep your components safe for a while!”
BD-1, as you now knew him, spun around in circles as he tried to check out his new part. You took out a small mirror from a drawer and held it up to him so he could see. He let out a string of excited beeps and whistles, repeatedly asking Cal to look at his ‘cool looking patch’. You glanced to the man on your side and discovered him watching you intently with a small smile. You felt your cheeks heating under his stare and scuttled back a few steps.
“Uhm, I hope this all works out until you’re able to find new parts, you guys! I could get started on a new custom permanent case too, so beedee doesn’t lose his usual flair.” BD-1 whistled in approval. “Shouldn’t take me more than a few days, maybe 5 at most, if you’re interested.”
Cal nodded, his intense gaze not faltering. “I think that’d be perfect. How much for today’s work?”
“Oh no, consider it as a repayment for that stim and for the opportunity to work on a droid again. Honestly, I had forgotten how much more interesting it is than working on the prospectors’ tools. As for the pickup, if I’m not here when you come back to get it, that means I’ve gone out to trade for parts. I’ll leave the finished casing in this drawer here,” you pointed to the right one, “and you seem to know how to get past the locks. Just close it back up when you leave!”
He laughed at the remark and thanked you for your work on BD-1. The droid gave you a sharp farewell whistle despite its clear disappointment at having to leave already. He climbed onto Cal’s back as the man moved toward your shop’s door.
“Hey,” you called, “if you come around this corner of the galaxy again after picking up beedee’s casing, don’t hesitate to swing by! It’s always nice seeing someone new.”
He turned on his feet, walking backwards for a few steps. “I have a feeling we’ll see each other again, don’t worry.” He winked at you, leaving you at a loss for words, and turned back to walk through the door.
After you calmed your elevated heartbeat, you locked up after him, deciding the two unexpected guests were enough for one night. You leaned back against the door and sighed. Maybe you should’ve accepted the money. Cal seemed like a nice guy, but Koboh was getting harder every day. Habo was still on your mind, but you’d settle for anything other than this damn planet. Kriff, you’d even be willing to join a crew of wandering space pirates if that meant you actually got to do something other than retrieve and fix the same old tools over and over again. Maybe one day luck would favor you, you thought, or maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.
-- 9 days later ---
The walk back from trading was always exhausting. The prospectors that held the best materials were currently residing on a high cliff that hid a cave’s opening. Getting up there was arduous, but if you left early enough it was manageable despite the climbing you had to do. By the time you made the trek back, however, there was no escaping the sun’s rays, and the only thing keeping your hands from the burning rocks as you scaled down the cliff was an almost ruined pair of leather gloves. They wouldn’t last another climb, you thought, and neither would your boots.
You’d have to find something to barter with the one villager who made most of the prospectors’ equipment. You didn’t even have money for food this week, but you’d make do, like you always did. Maybe you’d go back to the cantina tonight to offer maintenance on Greez’s bartender droid. His cantina was apparently bringing in more customers this week, so maybe you could find some other work there too.
You were also looking forward to hearing more of the village gossip. You’d heard rumors of a Jedi taking down raiders all over the region when you’d gone for a drink the night before but given that the source of that information was Turgle, you were far from convinced. A Jedi would be hunted down in a minute by the Empire, especially if they used their famed weapon and left witnesses. The fisherman you sometimes saw hanging around the streams, Skoova, had however confirmed that there was indeed a newcomer hunting down raiders for sport.
He hadn’t been very talkative, only describing him as a short-haired man of average height that fought in a poncho. You didn’t know how you felt about someone wearing a poncho on a desert planet, though you did find humor at the idea of the raiders getting their ass kicked by some new guy in a raincoat. Either way, if there was a chance that this not-a-Jedi-even-though-Turgle-says-he-is guy had arrived here by ship, you wanted to find out more no matter his unusual taste in clothing.
You entered your workshop after the long walk back from the prospectors, bracing for the intolerable heat of your metal cage. You stored what little you’d brought back in its rightful place and dragged your feet to your worktable, ready to start working on another tool a prospector had given you to fix. You remembered distantly that Cal still hadn’t swung by to pick up BD-1’s new case.
You peeked inside the drawer and found it empty of the custom case. There were a few credits in there, thankfully enough to cover the material you’d used for the case, plus a couple more. Despite the much-needed money, you couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Of course, the one day you left your workshop had to be the one when he decided to come here. You sighed and pushed the drawer away, rubbing your eyes with your palms, hoping (and doubting) that he would visit again. You didn’t even know what region of Koboh he was from, you didn’t recognize his accent at all.
A glimpse of white caught your eye before the drawer shut completely. You reached towards the unknown object and found a folded note that you were sure hadn’t been in therebefore you left. You opened it and didn’t immediately recognize the handwriting.
-
Thank you for the case, BD-1 is practically begging for a couple more designs (to match my ‘rizz’ - I have no idea what that means. He convinced me to wear an old grey poncho I had just so we matched and I fear giving in to the different colored cases will be the start of a slippery slope, but how could I say no to the little guy?)
I’ve gone off-track – What I mean to tell you is that if you still want to leave Koboh, there will be a ship (it’s mine) at the landing pad until 1500 tomorrow. Bring what you need, but I have all the essentials on board. Food and water I mean, and maybe I have a spare toothbrush somewhere too?
Anyway. We’ll figure it out.
I can drop you off somewhere if you want, but I wouldn’t mind a mechanic on board if you’re interested. Can’t guarantee regular hours or absolute safety but hey, still more interesting than metal detectors, right?
This might be my last visit to Koboh in a while.
P.S.: BD-1 wants you to know you’re the only one allowed to fix his leg, and that he ‘requires you on board’. His words, not mine. He shot an electric dart at the last person who tried to repair it (me).
Cal
-
You couldn’t help but let out a loud celebratory shout as you read. He had a ship, and you were finally getting out of here! No more prospectors whining at the time it took to fix their tools, no bedlam raiders trying to kick through your door in the middle of the night, no need to refill your water supply from the well that stood well over a mile away.
You’d happily make BD-1 a thousand little metal outfits to match Cal’s ponchos if he wanted-
Your mind screeched to a stop. Hadn't that been the outfit Skoova mentioned?
You remembered what Turgle said about the second newcomer, the one he had called a Jedi. You didn’t remember ever reading about that order using guns, but… Cal had been carrying another weapon. The metal handle, you now realized, that was hanging at his side.
Oh kriff.
Had the idea while building the BD-1 Lego set. I meant for this to be just a little 1k meet-cute oneshot, Of course, me being me, i wrote 5k. Edited it a little, and it's as short as I can tolerate lmao
My first time posting for Star Wars! Still not over Survivor despite having played it more than 100 hour in the first two weeks i got it, and having done reruns since. The double-bladed stance has me in a chokehold.
Tell me what you think, and check out my masterlist!
Imagine being surprised to learn that Poe was a spice runner…
And just like that, all of the mystery behind Poe’s quickly thinking and tricks were revealed.
“You were a spice runner?” Finn gawked.
“You were a stormtrooper?” Poe retaliated.
Rey’s eyes widened. “You were a spice runner.” She smiled.
“Were you a scavenger?”
You blinked at Poe. “A spice runner?”
Poe’s eyes snapped to you, “Were you a-“ he halted, eyeing your face. “I’ve got nothing. You’re too perfect. But you’re engaged to the best damn pilot in the Resistance.”
Zorii scoffed. “Engaged? You can’t expect me to believe that the infamous Poe Dameron is finally ready to settle.”
This time, Poe rounded on his former crew member. His shoulders were tense and you could tell that he was angry.
“Believe it, don’t believe it - I don’t care. I’m ready for a future with the one person in this whole universe who loves me and deserves to be loved twice as much.”
Zorii’s blaster lowered as Poe’s declaration sang into the air for all to hear. There was a small shuffle of feet as Finn leaned towards you. “If there wasn’t a war or blasters pointed at us, I’d tell you to marry him right now.”
Joaquin Torres x wife!reader and he’s showing off his suit and the wings in front of the reader
New Suit
Summary: Joaquin shows you his new Falcon suit
Warnings: lots of fluff, flirting, mentions of joaquin's accident
A/n: this one is very short
"Just keep your eyes shut okay?" You hear your husband shout from the bedroom.
"Okayyyy" you respond.
"No peaking!"
"I'm not! I'm literally covering my eyes." You giggle.
Joaquin has been talking non stop about getting his new suit from the Wakandans ever since the crash and his old suit got completely busted. Though the accident was terrifying for the both of you, he's made excellent progress and has been cleared to go out on the field again.
Sam just dropped off the suit after picking it up since Joaquin couldn't go at the time. As soon as the case was placed in his hands, he ran into the bedroom to try it on.
So now, here you are sat on the couch, eyes covered with an eager smile on your face. The movie the two of you were watching is paused and long forgotten at this point as well as the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table.
You hear the bedroom door open and footsteps walk out before stopping. "Wait how does this- woah! Ohhhh this is so cool!" You can't help but laugh at your husband's amazed tone. You hear him start walking again and stop right in front of you.
"Can I open my eyes now?" You ask, ready to lower your hands.
"Wait wait wait!" He frantically calls out. "Okay now!"
You wait a few beats before lowering your hands. Your eyes land on your husband who is decked out in his brand new falcon suit with his arms held out. Your eyes widen at the new look. "Woahhhh"
"It's nice right?!" He crosses his arms over his chest and angles his body side to side in a pose.
"Yeah, it's really nice!" You stand up and run your fingers along the armor. "Way nicer than your old one you fixed."
You bite back a smirk when his face drops and he looks at you insulted. "Oh! I'm sorryyyyy I don't have access to the most advanced technology in the world to have made it nicer Mrs. Torres!"
You giggle and cut him off before he goes off on a tangent. "I'm kidding! I'm kidding!" You place your hands on his arms to lower them. "Let's see those wings pretty boy." You step back and he does so as well.
"Go back a bit further. I'm not sure how big they are." You back away until you're practically on the opposite side of the room. He checks his surroundings to make sure he doesn't bump anything before opening the wings.
They look about the same as the old ones but the colors are much more vibrant. "Not bad. Not bad." You nod in approval. "How do they feel?"
"They feel much lighter than the other ones that's for sure. I don't feel like I'm about to topple over."
"Thats good." You run your fingers across one of the wings. "Sooo are you gonna test them out?"
He raises a brow and smirks, "why? You wanna go flying?" He places his hand on your waist, feeling the soft material of his airforce sweatshirt you're wearing, and pulls you closer.
You place your hands on his chest and shrug off his words as if that's not exactly what you want to do. "I meeeaaaan I wouldn't be opposed to that idea." He tilts his chin up, urging you to continue. "And it has been a few months since we last went so..." you trail off, looking at him knowingly.
"Alright alright." He closes the wings and reaches for your hand. "Let me test them out first. I don't want them to malfunction and then we both get hurt." You smile excitedly and eagerly take his hand so he can lead you outside.
Being best friends with Ginny Weasley was the easiest thing in the world. Or, at least, it had been at the start. The two of you had three simple rules.
#3. Always save each other a seat.
#2. Never lie to one another.
#1. Ginny’s brothers were off-limits.
It was rule #1 that you found yourself currently in contempt of. But how were you meant to know when you’d made that promise that a few years down the track everything would change?
———————————————————————
You had been best friends with Ginny Weasley for as long as you could remember.
It had started sometime in first year, when you found her crying in the girls’ bathroom after throwing a book at moaning Myrtle. You didn’t ask questions. You just sat next to her, pulled a Chocolate Frog from your bag, and said, “You don’t have to tell me. But if you want to, I’m here.” That was the moment it began. Since then, your friendship had become a constant in both of your lives. Like the hum of the Hogwarts Express, or the steady whistle of the wind through the trees by the Black Lake.
And there were rules. Unspoken at first, but eventually written down during a sleepover at the Burrow in a notebook charmed to sparkle and float around Ginny’s room. The most sacred of them all: “Don’t fall for one of my brothers. Ever.”
You remembered the moment it was written with almost photographic clarity. Ginny had been sitting cross-legged at the foot of her bed, face twisted with frustration as she doodled angry lightning bolts in the margins.
“Honestly, it’s like every girl who’s ever spoken to me suddenly wants to be my best mate the second they lay eyes on one of them,” Ginny muttered bitterly, tossing her quill down. “Lavender started cozying up to me last year and I thought maybe she actually wanted to be friends. But no. She just wanted to ask if Ron was ‘as tall in person as he looked from across the Great Hall.’ Gross.”
You laughed back then, genuinely amused and a little horrified. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I were,” Ginny huffed, brushing her hair back with a quick, irritated flick. “Then there was Marietta. She was practically joined at my hip during dinner and the whole time she was working up the courage to ask if I’d introduce her to George. George!”
“She didn’t even pretend to care about you, did she?”
“Not for a second,” Ginny snapped. Then her expression softened as she looked at you. “That’s why I like you. You’re not here for any of that rubbish.”
Back then you had smiled and laced your pinky through hers, swearing on it.
Now, whenever it was even remotely brought up - like when Angelina tried to hangout with the two of you to get a date with Fred - you had to force yourself to smile. Even as your heart twisted.
You hadn’t intended to fall for one of Ginny’s brothers, but sometime in the past four years, you had. Something about Fred’s clever jokes, his chaotic grin, and the way he always found time to check in on you had chipped away at your resolve. You had fallen slowly, helplessly, painfully. And you had said nothing. Because of the rule.
Because you loved Ginny.
You remembered her smile that night, soft and genuine.
“If I ever find out someone’s only here to get to one of them,” she said. “I’ll never forgive them. Promise me you’ll never do that.”
“Of course,” you had sworn.
You meant it, back then. You couldn’t have predicted you would genuinely fall for one of them. And you still meant it now, in your own twisted way. You had no intention of doing anything about your feelings. Loving Fred from a distance didn’t count. Did it?
But lately it had become harder to look away. He was noticing you. Not the way he noticed everyone else. Not with the performative charm or cheeky quips he tossed around like fireworks. No, he was watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. Catching your eye across the dinner table. Sitting closer than he used to, finding reasons to touch your arm when he laughed. Or maybe you were imagining it.
But you and Ginny had rules.
And you were already breaking rule #1.
———————————————————————
The Burrow was chaos, as usual.
The second you stepped through the crooked front door with Ginny, the scent of fresh bread and stewed onions wrapped around you like a warm blanket. The air was humid with the smell of summer earth and something sugary baking in the oven. A breeze drifted in from the open kitchen window, carrying laughter from the garden and the sounds of someone - probably Ron - grunting as he lugged trunks upstairs.
“Welcome home!” Molly was fussing as she grabbed each one of them by the face and planted a big kiss on their cheeks.
“Gross, mum!” The boys groaned and wiped their faces with their sleeves as they came into the house.
“My darling girls!” Molly greeted the two of you, pulling both you and Ginny into a tight hug.
“Hey, Mrs Weasley,” you greeted with a warm smile. You’d spend so much time here that the Burrow had come to feel like your second home, and the Weasleys like a second pair of parents.
“Oh, how you’ve grown up since the last time I saw you!” The stout woman patted your check affectionately, then stepped back to gesture to the already set table.
“Lunch, everyone! On the table, NOW!” Molly Weasley’s voice thundered through the house with such maternal command it could’ve made a mountain walk.
You hadn’t even had time to protest when Arthur took your trunk before you were swept up in the current of Weasley children charging into the kitchen like a herd of hippogriffs. Chairs scraped. Plates clattered. Elbows jabbed for better positioning. It was always a game of survival when it came to getting a good seat at the Burrow’s table.
Fred emerged from seemingly nowhere at your side, grinning like he’d just won something. “Well, well,” he said in that voice of his - low and amused, with just enough of a lilt to make your stomach flip. “Guess this seat’s mine, yeah?”
He reached for the chair to your left, the one you’d secretly been hoping he’d take, and yet, also dreading he would. It was instinct. Panic. Self-preservation.
You placed your hand firmly on the back of the chair before he could pull it out. “That one’s taken,” you blurted out a little too quickly.
Fred raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. “By who?”
And before your mouth could catch up with your thoughts - before you could invent some excuse or redirect him to the other side of the table - Ginny shoved past Fred, bumping him with her hip.
“By me, you great big git. Rule #3, remember? Now move!” she snapped cheerfully, shooting you a triumphant smile as she slid into the seat beside you.
Fred snorted, placing a dramatic hand over his heart like he’d been wounded. “Betrayed. By my own blood.”
He dragged himself to the far end of the table with a theatrical sigh, collapsing into a chair beside George. You watched him from the corner of your eye as he stole a bread roll before the basket had even hit the table, catching you looking just in time to shoot you a wink.
You felt heat rise to your cheeks.
Ginny leaned over, scooping potatoes onto your plate. “Honestly, you’d think they’d learn by now that we always sit next to each other. I think he did it on purpose just to mess with us.”
You forced a laugh, stabbing at a carrot with more force than necessary. “He’s insufferable,” you said weakly.
But your heart was thudding too loudly in your chest to believe it. You had wanted him to sit next to you. Just a little.
You could still feel the ghost of where his arm would’ve brushed against yours. How his knee might’ve bumped yours under the table. You could imagine it far too easily. Close enough to smell the spice and smoke of his cologne, to hear every stupid joke murmured just for you.
But then you looked at Ginny, happily chatting to her mum about the drive there, glowing with sun and freckles and trust. And the guilt returned with full force, crashing like a wave over your ribs.
You weren’t going to mess this up. Not this.
You promised yourself right then and there: You would stay away from Fred this summer. No matter how many times he winked at you. No matter how charming his smile was. No matter how much your hands itched to reach for his under the table.
He was Ginny’s brother. And you were Ginny’s best friend. And those two things could never, ever mix.
———————————————————————
Your first few days at the burrow passed without a problem. Ron kept to himself mostly, sending letters back and forth to Hermione and Harry in between practicing quidditch with the twins. When the twins weren’t out in the field zipping about on their broomsticks, they were locked in their room. No one quite knew what they were up to in there, except for the intermittent explosion that shook the house and earned a few lectures from Molly. Percy was off on some sort of internship at the Ministry of Magic. Which of course left you and Ginny to your own devices.
Your plan of avoiding Fred had been going splendidly. The only times you would see him were during meals, and with the buffer of the whole family present there were no issues that had arisen. He’d not tried again to steal Ginny’s chair by your side. You’d worked to memorise his and George’s schedule, knowing what times to avoid the bathroom or the kitchen for snack break. You’d even taken to using the bathroom at the latest possible time, once the house had gone uncharacteristically quiet and you knew everyone else was in bed.
Hence why you were there now. The bathroom mirror was fogged with steam from the shower someone had taken earlier - probably Ron, based on the trail of damp footprints leading down the hall to his bedroom. You stood at the sink in your pyjamas, brushing your teeth, the tap running low to mask the silence.
You leaned closer to the mirror and wiped a clean patch of glass to check your reflection. Your hair was a bit of a mess from a full day of hanging about the garden. Your skin a little tinged by the sun. The dim golden light from the hallway behind you spilled in from the half-cracked door, soft and flickering like candlelight.
The door creaked further open. You flinched, mid-brush. And then you nearly choked on your toothpaste.
Fred stood in the doorway, shirtless, rubbing a towel over his wild and wet hair, a pair of well-worn pyjama bottoms slung low on his hips. Water glistened on his shoulders. His freckles were more pronounced under the soft bathroom light, and his grin was…absolutely illegal.
You turned back to the sink immediately, hoping the toothpaste foam in your mouth would distract from the fact your pulse had just shot up like a firework.
“Evenin’,” he said casually, like this was completely normal.
You didn’t answer - mostly because you couldn’t speak with a mouth full of mint and panic.
Fred moved behind you, stepping inside without hesitation and reaching for a comb that sat on the bench. You could feel his presence, radiating a warmth that pulsed just inches away from your spine. The tension twisted tighter with each breath. You were practically vibrating.
“You always brush your teeth this dramatically?” he asked, his voice low and amused. “Looks intense.”
You spat your toothpaste into the sink and grabbed your cup to rinse. “Just thorough,” you muttered, praying your voice didn’t sound like it was shaking.
Fred leaned on the counter beside you, one arm braced as he turned his body toward you. “Right. Very serious business, dental hygiene. Sexy stuff.”
You gave a tight, nervous laugh and tried not to look at his collarbone, or his chest, or the single drip of water trailing down his sternum. You tried. But Merlin, you were failing.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” you asked, drying your hands quickly, your eyes fixed anywhere but on him.
“I was,” Fred said, tilting his head. “But then I remembered the bathroom gets much more interesting around midnight.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
He smiled, cocking a brow. “You’ve been sneaking in here late every night like you’re hiding something. Thought I’d investigate.”
“I’m brushing my teeth, Fred. Hardly a great mystery of the universe.”
He leaned a little closer, and your breath hitched before you could stop it. His voice dropped an octave, teasing but edged with something heavier. “Well, maybe I’m the one with secrets.”
You hated that your stomach flipped. That your legs felt suddenly unsteady. That this was exactly the kind of moment you’d dreamed about for years, and yet now it was the last thing you could afford.
You cleared your throat, stepping back. “You’re ridiculous, you know.”
“And yet here you are,” he said. “Cornered. In a bathroom. With me.”
He was still smiling. But his eyes - those hazel eyes - searched yours with something more than just mischief. There was a weight in them. A question. A hope.
“Oh for Merlin’s sake, Fred, put a bloody shirt on!” The moment shattered like glass.
Ginny appeared in the doorway, her eyes narrowing immediately as she took in the scene. Fred shirtless and grinning, you red-faced and stiff near the sink.
Fred didn’t move. He just glanced at Ginny over his shoulder, as if annoyed to be interrupted.
“What?” he asked, unbothered.
“You’re disgusting,” she snapped, elbowing past him. “You can’t just wander around half-naked like some trollop!”
Fred looked delighted by that. “Trollop? Really, Ginny? You wound me.”
She made a face. “Honestly, you’re like a feral cat.” Then, without hesitation, she wedged herself firmly between you and Fred, standing like a barrier. Completely oblivious to the electric tension that had just been vibrating in the room.
Fred smirked at you over her shoulder, lips twitching, like he knew exactly what he’d done.
Ginny turned to you, unaware. “Ready for bed?”
You nodded mutely. Behind her, Fred gave you a lazy wink and finally retreated, tossing his towel over his shoulder as he strolled out of the room like he hadn’t just flipped your entire emotional state upside down.
Ginny looked at you and scrunched her nose. “Honestly. He’s so weird sometimes. Sorry you had to see that.”
You managed a smile, small and tight. “It’s fine. I’ve seen worse.”
But as you followed her down the hall toward the room you were sharing, your heart was still racing. Your skin still buzzed from his nearness. Your mind - traitorous thing - kept replaying that moment when he’d leaned in, eyes soft, voice low.
And you knew then, with a certainty that made your stomach sink, that this summer was going to be really, really difficult.
———————————————————————-
It had been five days since The Bathroom Incident - a title you’d privately christened it with during your increasingly dramatic internal monologues.
And for five blissful, tormenting, nerve-fraying days, Fred had been…good.
No more shirtless intrusions. No surprise appearances when you were alone. No wandering conversations with too much eye contact and not enough space between your bodies.
Just casual, everyday Fred Weasley. Joking with his siblings, tinkering with George, throwing fruit across the kitchen, absolutely no more cornering you against a sink like he wanted to eat you alive.
You’d convinced yourself it was over. That he’d gotten bored of teasing you and moved on. That maybe you were in the clear.
Until this morning.
You’d just woken up, sunlight stretching warm fingers across your face through the open window, when you heard it.
“We’re going into town for the Sunday market!” George’s voice rang out through the hallway. “Come on, grab your shoes!”
You sat up, blinking sleep from your eyes as Ginny barged into the room already half-dressed, tying her hair up with a ribbon. “You’re coming too,” she declared, tossing your shoes toward the bed. “It’ll be us and the twins.”
Your stomach turned. Just the four of you. On a sunny day. Walking into town. All together. You, Ginny, George - and Fred.
Before you could argue, Ginny had already bolted back out of the room, mumbling something about losing her favourite jacket.
You took less than five minutes to pull on a cute outfit and brush your teeth before you waked into the hallway, trying not to look like you were internally screaming. At the bottom of the stairs, Fred was waiting.
He leaned lazily against the railing, arms crossed over his chest, dressed in a sweater rolled at the sleeves and worn jeans. Casual. Comfortable. Dangerous.
The second he saw you, a slow grin unfurled across his face like a cat who’d spotted a cornered mouse.
“Well, well,” he said, voice soft enough that it felt like it was just for you. “Didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to get you all day.”
You blinked. “What?”
He pushed off the railing and took a step closer. Close enough that you caught the familiar scent of spearmint and gunpowder. “I mean, I’ve barely seen you all summer. I was starting to worry I’d developed a contagious rash.”
You folded your arms. “Maybe you have. Have you checked?”
“Oh, thoroughly. I’m in top condition.” He winked, words dripping with innuendo.
You rolled your eyes, but your lips betrayed you with a small smile. He saw it - of course he saw it - and leaned in just a little more.
“You know,” he murmured, “I’d accuse you of hiding from me if I didn’t already know you were.”
Your heart thudded too loudly in your chest. Before you could deliver a scathing comeback - or worse, blush - Ginny’s footsteps thundered down the stairs.
Fred stepped away with impeccable timing, shoving his hands into his pockets and grinning innocently as Ginny reappeared with a cropped jacket and her hair now tied in a messy ponytail.
“All right,” she said, tossing her eyes toward Fred. “You better not make me carry everything again.”
“No promises,” he said, already leading the way out the door.
The walk into town was bright and breezy, the gravel path crunching beneath your shoes. Fields blurred gold and green beside you, and wildflowers nodded gently in the tall grass. Ginny was by your side for the most part, until she got into a long conversation with George about quidditch and the two walked ahead, occasionally darting into little bursts of sibling bickering. It left you and Fred side by side more than once, though you always kept just enough space to pretend it wasn’t wanted.
The Sunday market stretched along the village square in a mismatched quilt of tents and booths. The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread, honeycomb, spiced nuts, and something fried you didn’t dare question. Laughter floated above the hum of shoppers and merchants calling out their deals.
You kept close to Ginny, using her as a human shield against Fred’s increasingly amused glances. The two of you stopped at a table of handmade jewellery, and your fingers drifted toward a delicate pair of crystal earrings shaped like intricate flower clusters. They caught the sunlight just right. Clean, simple, quietly beautiful.
You picked one up, turned the tag over. Too much. Not outrageous, but more than you could justify. You set them down gently.
“Cute,” Ginny said, glancing over your shoulder. “But you’d probably lose them in, like, three days.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Ginny laughed and moved to the next booth, where a ridiculous plaid hat caught her eye. George followed, already pretending to model one for her.
And suddenly, it was just you and Fred again. You glanced up. He was already there, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on yours. He nodded toward the earrings. “Those were nice on you.”
You blinked. “I didn’t try them on.”
“I imagined them on you,” he said easily, his voice low and teasing. “I have an excellent imagination. In fact, I can picture anyone, anywhere in just about any position.”
You rolled your eyes. “You really never turn it off, do you?”
He stepped closer, the crowd bustling around you like a river splitting. “You’re one to talk. You’ve been flirting with me all morning.”
You snorted. “I have not.”
Fred tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Okay. Not flirting. Actively ignoring me. Which is basically the same thing, just in reverse. It has the same effect.”
You laughed despite yourself, cheeks warm. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet you’re still here talking to me.” He leaned in, voice dropping, “What does that say about you?”
You opened your mouth to retort, but then Ginny reappeared, holding up a hat so absurdly shaped it looked like a squashed owl. “Do I look insane or fabulous?”
“Both,” George said immediately.
“Perfect,” she grinned.
Fred stepped back again, and just like that, the moment dissolved.
The walk home was slower, the sun dipping lower in the sky. You carried a small paper bag of sweets Ginny had insisted on buying, and Fred whistled absently as he kicked pebbles down the lane. You didn’t speak again. Not really. But you felt his presence the entire way.
Back at the Burrow, the house had returned to its gentle, midday hum. You’d taken a shower first, and Ginny had waited until she heard the water stop before swapping places.
By the time you stepped out, dried off, and slipped back into your clothes, it was nearly time for afternoon tea.
You returned to Ginny’s room, searching for a brush to untangle your wet hair. And there, sitting neatly on Ginny’s bed, right where your pillow had been, was a small white box tied with a black ribbon.
Your heart stopped.
You looked around like someone might leap out from the closet yelling “Gotcha!”
But no one did.
You approached slowly, eyes wide, and lifted the box. Inside - tucked in soft tissue paper - were the earrings from the market. Delicate. Dazzling.
With them was a folded note in crooked handwriting: Couldn’t let them get away. Thought you might wear them next time you’re trying so desperately not to look at me. - F.
You clutched the box like it might combust in your hands. Footsteps creaked from the hallway. Ginny.
You moved fast - heart hammering - shoving the box into your trunk, the tissue and ribbon crumpled in your fist. You nearly tripped getting the top shut before the door opened.
Ginny strolled in, towel around her hair. “Whatever you do, don’t touch the blue shampoo bottle. I think one of the boys messed with it.”
As she unwound the towel, her usually ginger locks dropped around her shoulders in a curtain of green. You forced a smile, heart still galloping, hands still tingling.
“Oh Gin,” you said, covering your mouth, every nerve in your body on high alert. “Let’s get that fixed up. I’m sure your mum will have something to help.”
You took her by the shoulders and led her out of the room, mind still stuck on what you were leaving behind.
The earrings were hidden. The note, too. Your secret was safe. Though now, you were technically at risk of breaking another rule.
#2. Never lie to one another.
———————————————————————
The kitchen of the Burrow smelled like butter, thyme, and the kind of warmth only a Weasley home could conjure. The windows were fogged slightly from the heat of the cooking. You stood at the counter beside Ginny, a cutting board in front of you and a particularly potent batch of onions halfway sliced beneath your trembling hands. Your eyes stung fiercely.
“I swear, I think I’m going blind,” you sniffled, blinking rapidly as tears dripped down your cheeks.
Ginny laughed, pointing her wooden spoon at you. “Oh come on, don’t be dramatic. It’s just an onion!”
“I’m not being dramatic, my eyeballs are melting—” You let out a soft, strangled laugh, wiping at your face with your sleeve and slicing again.
The two of you had been helping Molly for the past hour, peeling vegetables, shelling peas, and listening to Celestina Warbeck crooning softly from the wireless. The afternoon sun cast long strips of light across the warped wooden table, and despite the heat and chaos of the kitchen, it was cozy. Familiar. Safe.
Or at least, it had been, until the back door suddenly burst open with a crash.
“—AND HE SCORES! WHAT A MOVE FROM THE LEGENDARY BEATER!”
“OH, SHUT IT, YOU OVERGROWN GNOME—”
Fred and George exploded into the kitchen like a pair of firecrackers, both sweaty and flushed, yelling in Quidditch commentator voices as they barrelled through the doorway. George had a quaffle tucked under one arm. Fred was lunging for it like a seeker gone mad.
Molly spun around from the stove. “Boys! Absolutely not! Not in my kitchen!”
But it was too late. Fred dodged Ginny, slipped on the corner rug, and stumbled directly into you. You barely had time to gasp before the impact jolted your arm. The knife in your hand slipped.
“OW! bloody hell!” You recoiled instinctively, dropping the knife and clutching your hand. Blood was already rising fast to the surface of your finger, running in a hot, red line down your palm and onto the floor.
“WHAT did I just say?!” Molly’s voice could’ve curdled milk.
“Fred!” Ginny shouted furiously. “You idiot!”
“Oh, shit, you’re crying!” Fred’s eyes widened as he saw your tear-streaked cheeks and the blood on your hand.
You glared at him, though your vision was blurry. “It’s the onions, you twat!”
But your voice trembled. From the pain. From the sheer overwhelming chaos of it all. And - fine - maybe from Fred being way too close again.
Fred looked properly horrified now. “Merlin, I didn’t mean to. I was just…George was…right, c’mere. I’ve got something that’ll help. C’mon.”
Before you could protest, he was already gently but insistently guiding you toward the stairs, his hand warm on your back. You wrapped a kitchen towel around your bleeding finger, trying to keep the pressure steady as you glanced back at Ginny.
“Go, go,” she called, exasperated. “Before you bleed into the mashed potatoes.”
George had dropped the quaffle and was already picking up the knife from the floor, apologizing to Molly in the most unconvincing tone possible.
You followed Fred up the stairs, your heart pounding harder with every creak of the steps. You told yourself it was just because of the injury. The adrenaline. The pain. Not because you were heading into Fred Weasley’s bedroom for the first time.
The door clicked open, and he stepped aside to let you in.
His room smelled faintly of parchment, broom polish, and something warm and boyish and entirely him. It was surprisingly neat for a Weasley. Trunks were stacked in a corner, shelves cluttered with joke prototypes, and Quidditch posters pinned crookedly across the walls. There was a pair of socks hanging off the end of his bedpost. A sweater crumpled on the floor. But it felt lived in, personal. Like stepping into a corner of his world you were never supposed to see.
You froze awkwardly in the doorway.
“You can sit,” Fred said, waving a hand at the bed. “I promise my mattress doesn’t bite.”
You managed a weak laugh and perched on the edge, careful to keep your hands to yourself.
He crouched in front of a trunk and rummaged around. “Right, here. We just finished a batch of this last week. Might sting, but it works miracles.” He pulled out a small tin with a garish orange and purple sticker slapped across it.
You squinted at the label. “WWW? What’s that stand for? ‘Weasley’s Weakest Work’?”
Fred grinned, tossing a towel over his shoulder. “Close. Thirty-three percent correct, actually. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. George and I, we’re starting a joke shop. After Hogwarts.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Wait, seriously?”
He nodded, pride sneaking into his voice. “We’ve been designing products for years. We’ve got a whole trunk full of prototypes. Salves, candies, decoy spell crap. You’d love it. You’re basically our ideal test subject - easily injured and highly opinionated.”
“Charming,” You snorted. “So is that what the hexed shampoo fiasco was all about? Ginny was furious. Her hair was green for days.”
“No, that one was just for fun,” Fred sat beside you now, close enough that you could feel the heat of his arm. He gently peeled the blood-soaked towel from your hand, and you hissed.
“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice suddenly soft. He dipped his fingers into the tin and dabbed the salve onto your cut.
It was cool and tingly and smelt like peppermint. Within seconds, the pain dulled, and you watched in shock as the raw skin knitted itself closed.
Your mouth fell open. “That’s…actually brilliant.”
“I know,” he said smugly, wrapping a thin bandage around your finger. “And, don’t worry. It won’t scar. Just reapply twice a day.”
“How are you not rolling in money already?”
He laughed and you smiled, until you realised you were still holding hands. Neither of you moved. And the silence that settled between you wasn’t casual anymore. It buzzed. Tense and breathless.
Fred’s eyes lifted to meet yours, his thumb unconsciously brushing over the inside of your wrist. “Why’ve you been avoiding me?”
You blinked. “I haven’t.”
He tilted his head. “You have. You’ve been dodging me like I’ve got dragon pox. Why?”
You tried to smile. To brush it off. “Maybe I just don’t like you, Fred.”
He leaned in, his voice low and serious now. “Or maybe it’s the opposite.”
Your breath hitched. He was so close you could see the golden flecks in his eyes. Count each of the freckles dusting the bridge of his nose
Before you could answer - before you even knew how to answer - the door burst open.
George stood there, eyebrows raised. “Alright, you two, break it up. Dinner’s ready. And Mum’s not in the mood to wait.”
You yanked your hand back, your face going hot.
Fred sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Cheers, George. Great timing.”
George grinned knowingly and stepped aside. You stood quickly, muttering a thanks under your breath and rushing out the door, heart hammering, head spinning.
This summer was going to ruin you. And you finding it a lot harder to mind at all.
———————————————————————
The attic smelled like dust and old wood, warmed faintly by the day’s leftover sun and lit only by a string of enchanted fairy lights that twinkled like stars overhead. The ghoul in the corner moaned softly to itself, chewing on what remained of Fred and George’s bribe - a sticky handful of Drooble’s gum and a crumpled chocolate frog box. For now, it was satisfied. Mostly.
When you climbed through the attic hatch behind Ginny, the stale air hit your face like a wave. Ron, Fred, and George were already sprawled across the mismatched rugs and floor cushions in a circle, a deck of enchanted cards floating lazily in the center.
“There you are,” Fred said as you and Ginny slid the hatch shut behind you. His eyes flicked to yours briefly and he smirked like he had been waiting specifically for you.
You tried not to react, though your stomach was already betraying you with its little flip. He looked far too smug for someone sitting crisscross in moth-eaten socks and a Quidditch tee.
“About time,” George chimed.
“Don’t push it,” Ginny said, elbowing her brother before tossing a pillow to the ground and flopping down.
You settled in beside her, your knees brushing the woven edge of the rug, directly across from Fred. Unfortunately, he was watching you. Still. And you knew he hadn’t stopped.
The bottle of firewhisky came out shortly after. Fred uncorked it with a flourish, holding it up like it was some ancient treasure.
“Compliments of the cabinet behind Dad’s broom collection,” he announced.
Ginny laughed. “Mum’s going to have your head if she finds out.”
“She won’t,” George assured her, “unless someone blabs.”
“Ron,” said everyone at once, and Ron flushed beet red.
The bottle made its way around the circle, and eventually it landed in your hands. You hesitated only a moment before lifting it to your lips. The whisky burned hot, sharp, and smoky as it slid down your throat. You exhaled, eyes watering slightly.
“Easy,” Fred said from across the circle. “Don’t want to fall asleep before the game starts.”
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, cheeks flushed, and passed the bottle back, straight to Fred. His hand brushed yours as he took the bottle from your grip. But instead of drinking right away, he rotated it slowly and deliberately in his hand, fingers lingering around the mouth of the bottle. Then he placed his mouth right over the spot your lips had touched and drank without breaking eye contact.
The burn in your throat came back tenfold, but for a completely different reason.
He licked a drop from his bottom lip and grinned. “Tastes better this way.”
Your breath caught. Ginny, completely oblivious, was already giggling at something George said. The cards were floating again, but your world had narrowed to that lazy, firewhisky-laced smirk and the way Fred’s eyes lingered just a beat too long.
Goosebumps erupted down your arms.
The moment passed too quickly. You tried to pretend it hadn’t affected you, that you weren’t wondering what it would feel like to close the distance between you, to feel that heat not through shared glass, but skin.
The shuffled deck split evenly amongst them and a chaotic, barely-rule-following game of Exploding Snap ensued. There were chips of lightning, minor burns, and raucous laughter as the ghoul muttered irritably in its corner. A slightly scorched card flew past Ginny’s head and she ducked with a cackle.
Eventually, the ghoul grew bored. With a loud metallic CLANG, it started knocking on the pipes behind it, clearly unhappy that its stash of goodies had run out.
“Right, time to clear out,” George said, already grabbing the cards and stuffing them into the pocket of his pajama bottoms.
“I’ll bring more sweets tomorrow,” Fred muttered toward the ghoul, who let out a pitiful moan in reply.
George and Ginny were the first down the hatch. You were about to follow when Ron knocked over an old crate, sending it crashing into a pile of dusty cauldrons.
“Shit,” Fred hissed. You all froze.
Footsteps echoed below. Heavy ones. Then the creak of a bedroom door.
“Mum,” George whispered, eyes wide. “And Dad.”
There was no time to think. There was only enough time for Ron to jump down before George scrambled to shut the attic hatch. Ginny looked back at you from below.
“We’ll come get you when it’s safe,” she whispered, and then, click. The hatch was sealed.
You and Fred were completely alone.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the soft flickers of the fairy lights and the distant, irritable tapping of the ghoul’s fingernails on wood.
Fred let out a breath. “Well, I guess we’re trapped.”
You tried to laugh, but it came out more like a nervous exhale. He held up the bottle of firewhisky. “Still got this. Want to play truth or dare while we wait?”
You tilted your head. “Really? That’s what we’re doing?”
“We’ve got time. And no escape.” He patted the floor beside him.
Despite your instincts yelling at you not to agree, you sat. Not too close, but close enough to catch the cinnamon-heat smell of him, firewhisky and warmth.
“Fine. But I go first,” you said. “Truth or dare?”
He leaned in, elbow resting on one knee, still holding the bottle between two fingers. “Dare,” he replied, too fast.
You rolled your eyes. “Predictable.”
Fred raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” you said, drawing your knees up, “you’re always the first to take risks. Always the showman. But when it comes to being genuine? You flinch.”
A beat of silence. Fred’s smile dropped an inch. Not gone, just softened. “You think I can’t be genuine?”
You shrugged, heart hammering. “Prove me wrong, then. Pick truth.”
“Fine,” he said. “Ask me a truth.”
You studied him. The freckles, the messy hair, the too-confident posture covering something far more careful underneath. “Why haven’t you told anyone about the joke shop?”
That made him pause. The flicker in his eyes changed, turning sharper. More focused.
Finally, Fred sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Because Mum thinks it’s a waste of time. Childish. She wants us to join the Ministry. Be ‘respectable’ like dad. But I don’t want that. George doesn’t either. This—” He held up the firewhisky like it was part of the dream. “—this is the only thing I’ve ever felt is really mine.”
Your chest swelled at the honesty. “I think it’s brilliant,” you said quietly.
He looked at you, something unreadable softening his features. Then he smirked again. “My turn. Truth or dare?”
You panicked. “Truth.”
“Do you like anyone?”
Your mouth went dry. “Yes.”
His eyes glittered. “Who?”
“That wasn’t your question,” you shot back quickly, hiding your fluster behind a smirk of your own.
Fred chuckled. “Alright. Touché.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Truth or dare.”
He yawned dramatically. “Truth. And see, I didn’t even flinch.”
“Are the rumors true about you and Angelina Johnson?” you asked, voice just slightly sharper than intended.
Fred let out a bark of laughter. “What? No. That wasn’t me.”
You raised a skeptical brow.
“It was George,” he said, dead serious. “They got caught snogging in the common room, and everyone assumed it was me since I took her to the Yule Ball.”
You blinked in surprise. “Wait, really?”
“Yep. She’s more into sensative gits than charming ones, apparently.” The air between them grew charged. Thicker. He sat up straighter. “Truth or dare?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then answered, “Truth.”
He leaned closer. “Who do you fancy?”
Your stomach twisted, pulse thudding loud in your ears. “I change my mind,” you blurted. “Dare.”
He grinned like he’d won. “Thought you might. In that case…I dare you to kiss me.”
The world stopped.
“I’ll take a drink instead.” You offered, reaching for the bottle.
Fred turned the firewhisky upside down and a single drop ran from the lip of the bottle.“We’re out.” He clicked his tongue in mock sympathy. “What a shame.”
You were frozen in place, mind trying to come up with a fourth option that didn’t seem to exist.
Then, slowly - so slowly - he leaned forward. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it easy for you.”
You couldn’t breathe. His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair gently behind your ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the edge of your earring - the ones he had bought you from the market. You watched him realise it, watched his lips twitch upward.
“These suit you,” he murmured.
You swallowed hard. He was so close now. Close enough that you could see the flecks of amber in his eyes, the faint red in his lashes, the faint smell of firewhisky and citrus and boyish heat.
Your cheeks burned. The world felt like it was tilting slightly sideways.
Fred said softly. “All you have to do is give in.”
You wanted to. Oh Merlin, you wanted to. Your lips parted. Your eyes flicked to his. But then the attic hatch creaked open.
“Oi,” George called, voice echoing. “Coast is clear.”
You jumped apart like lightning had struck. Your skin still buzzed where his hand had touched you.
Fred stood slowly, offering you a hand. You took it before you could think better of it.
Nothing had happened. But it had almost happened. And you didn’t think you’d ever stop thinking about that almost.
Neither of you said a word on the way down the ladder. But your ears were still ringing, and yu couldn’t shake the ghost of his voice murmuring, ‘All you have to do is give in.’
———————————————————————
You never usually woke up this early, but sleep had been impossible after last night.
The attic. The firewhisky. His voice, low and teasing, asking if you fancied someone. The way he dared you to kiss him, and the way your body had wanted to obey more than it ever had anyone. You’d never felt anything like that before. That tightrope between longing and fear, between want and wariness. Between what you craved and what you shouldn’t want.
You’d almost done it. Almost leaned in. Almost let yourself fall.
The early morning air was soft against your skin as you walked through the garden behind the Burrow. The grass was cool and damp with dew, the sky still tinted with pale grey and lavender. There was a hush to the world here, like it was holding its breath, just like you were.
You moved slowly between the rows of wildflowers and gnarled trees, trying to clear your head. But all you could think about was him - the fire in his eyes, the way his gaze flicked to your mouth, the smell of firewhisky.
You shook your head, willing the memory away, when a low voice broke through the quiet. “What are you thinking about?”
You nearly leapt out of your skin. “Bloody hell—” you gasped, spinning around. But before you could scream, a hand clamped over your mouth, warm and strong. His hand.
“Shhh! It’s just me,” Fred said, his voice low and urgent as he pulled you further into the field.
You struggled instinctively, swatting at his arm until you were both well out of view of the house. He released you the second you were far enough away, and you whipped around, shoving his chest hard.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” you hissed, your heart thundering in your chest.
He raised his hands in mock surrender, but there was tension under the smirk. “I needed to talk to you. Alone. And you’re a lot harder to pin down these days.”
You crossed your arms. “So you thought sneaking up on me and dragging me into a field was the best option?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
You glared, but the corner of your mouth twitches before you catch yourself. “What do you want, Fred?”
He exhaled, the teasing edge dropping as he takes a step closer. “Last night. Why didn’t you kiss me?”
Your throat went dry. “We’re not playing truth or dare anymore. I don’t have to answer that.”
“I’m not playing either,” he said. His voice was low now, and earnest. And he was closer. You could smell him again - cinnamon and something warm and boyish, still clinging to his skin.
He stepped forward again and gently took your arm, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. It sent a flicker of heat up your spine.
“I wanted you to kiss me,” he confessed. “So why didn’t you?”
You swallowed thickly, knowing this was a dangerous game. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“Maybe not. But I think I deserve one.”
You stayed silent, your heart in your throat, body humming like live wire. His fingers tightened ever so slightly on your wrist.
“You want to know what I think?” he asked, and you looked up at him, caught in that impossible gaze. “I think you’re just as interested in me as I am in you. Tell me if I’m wrong.”
You opened your mouth, but your voice barely came out. “You’re wrong.”
It was shaky. Unconvincing. Pathetic.
Fred lifted a brow, unimpressed. He leaned in until you could feel his breath brush your cheek. “No, I’m not.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. You couldn’t. Your whole body was screaming to close the distance, to surrender.
“Why won’t you just say it?” he whispered. “I’m standing right here, telling you that I…” His voice faltered for the first time, softens. Vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache.“I care about you. I want you. I have for a while now.”
It hit you like a punch to the ribs. The tenderness, the honesty in his voice. Your chest tightened. “I do too,” you admitted, your voice betraying you. “But I shouldn’t.”
Fred frowned, still not understanding what was holding you back. “Why not?”
“Because of Ginny,” you said, the words ripping from your mouth. “Because she’s my best friend. Because I made a promise. Rule number one. Her brothers are off-limits.”
Fred blinked, then let out a sharp breath and laughed under it, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you kidding? That’s what’s stopping you?”
“It matters.”
“Not to me,” he said, stepping closer, impossibly close now. “And Ginny doesn’t have to know.”
Your breath stilled. “Fred…”
“All you have to do,” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your face, his fingers grazing the earring he gave you, “is give in.”
You shivered as his thumb traced the shell of your ear. His touch was so soft, so gentle, it was almost unbearable. You should have pulled away. You knew that.
But you didn’t. Instead, you leaned in. Just the smallest tilt of your chin. Just enough. But that’s all he needed.
Fred cupped your face in both hands and kissed you. It was everything you imagined and more. It was hungry and hesitant all at once. Warm and desperate, like you’d both been waiting too long. His lips melded into yours like he’d somehow already memorised the shape, and you melted into him without thinking.
The world fell away. There was only the sun-drenched field, the soft birdsong in the trees, and his hands anchoring you like he never wanted to let go.
And for a single, breathless moment, you didn’t want him to.
———————————————————————
The grass was still wet with dew as you and Fred made your way back to the Burrow, your fingers entwined with his, warm and certain despite the slight chill in the air. The morning was quiet. Hushed and golden in a way that made it feel like the world had agreed to keep your secret, if only for a little while.
You couldn’t stop smiling. Neither could he.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” you murmured, voice still breathless from the high of it - of him.
Fred glanced sideways at you, that lopsided grin tugging at his lips, his eyes still lazy with affection. “I can,” he said simply. “Been a long time coming, don’t you think?”
Your heart fluttered helplessly. “Have you really felt like this for that long?”
Fred nodded, squeezing your hand. “Since you called me insufferable for making that potion explode in the common room. You had ink on your cheek and told me I was going to fail out of Hogwarts.”
You laughed, a quiet sound that felt like summer. “That was third year.”
“Exactly,” he said. “I didn’t stand a chance.”
You bit your lip, glancing down at the way your hands fit together so naturally, like they’d always belonged there. “I wish it didn’t feel so complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said gently.
You didn’t respond right away. You just walked with him, each step soft and heavy all at once, and the closer you got to the crooked silhouette of the Burrow, the heavier your chest became.
As the back door came into view, you felt Fred’s fingers twitch against yours. You both knew what had to happen. You dropped his hand, carefully, reluctantly. Like letting go of a lifeline.
You reached the back door first and stepped inside.
Ginny was at the kitchen table, flipping through the Prophet, but her eyes flicked up the moment she heard the creak of the floorboards. They landed on you. Then on Fred. Then back to you.
She looked suspicious. “Where were you two?” she asked, casual, but not really.
You didn’t miss the way her eyes lingered too long on the space between your hands. Your stomach twisted.
“I, uh…I couldn’t sleep,” you said quickly. “Went for a walk.” You shrugged as if it meant nothing. “Fred must’ve had the same idea.”
There was a beat of silence. The paper in Ginny’s hands crackled as she slowly turned the page. Her gaze didn’t waver.
“Uh huh,” she said, noncommittal. Then she looked back down at the paper.
You forced a laugh and stepped past her into the kitchen, your heart thudding wildly as Fred moved behind you without a word. You felt his eyes on you, heavy with unspoken questions. Ones you didn’t want to answer.
Because now it wasn’t just Rule #1 you’d broken. You’d lied to her face.
Rule #2. Never lie to one another.
You told yourself it was just a little white lie. A protective one. A harmless one. But it didn’t feel harmless. It felt like the beginning of something you couldn’t take back.
———————————————————————
You’d spent the whole day glued to Ginny’s side. It wasn’t like she noticed. She just thought you were in a good mood, maybe a little extra chatty, a little too agreeable. But every time she laughed, or looped her arm through yours, or offered you a bite of the plum she was eating on the porch swing, your stomach twisted tighter and tighter.
Because she didn’t know. She didn’t know what you’d done that morning. That you’d walked into the garden one person and come out another. That Fred had kissed you like he meant it. And worse, that you had kissed him back.
Worse still: you had liked it. You had wanted it.
And now, you couldn’t look Ginny in the eye without feeling like your whole skin was buzzing with guilt.
So you stuck close. You did the dishes with her. Helped her weed the vegetable patch. Laughed too hard when she told you that joke about Seamus Finnigan and the exploding butterbeer. You didn’t so much as glance in Fred’s direction during dinner, even though you could feel him looking.
It was late now. Everyone had gone to bed. You were brushing your teeth with heavy limbs and hollow thoughts, the kind that came from trying too hard to act normal. Your eyes were tired. Your mouth still ached faintly from the press of his.
You reached for the towel when suddenly a strong hand clamped over your mouth. You gasped, but before you could scream, you were pulled backwards, into the tiny shower room, the door snapping shut behind you with a soft click as it locked.
You shoved at the hand, heart racing, until it dropped away. You spun around, your back to the wall, and saw him.
Fred. He was slightly out of breath from the effort, hair mussed, eyes bright.
You glared at him, even as your pulse stuttered. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
He grinned like he’d been waiting all day to see you. “I missed you today,” he said simply.
And then he kissed you. There wasn’t any teasing this time. No playful smirk. Just heat. Sharp and overwhelming. His hands framed your face, and yours found his shirt and fisted there, like maybe you could anchor yourself to him and forget what you’d done.
You kissed him back like you hadn’t been thinking about anything else since sunrise. And for a moment, there was only him.
But then, your hand slid up and brushed against the chain around his neck and your chest cinched tight.
You broke the kiss, breathless. “Fred—”
He looked at you with dazed affection, lips parted. “What?”
“I can’t,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I feel so guilty about Ginny.”
His brows drew together slightly, but he didn’t let go of your waist. “I really don’t think she’d be upset.”
You shook your head. “You don’t know that.”
“I know she loves you,” he said. “And I know if she thought we made each other happy, she’d be glad for it. I think we should tell her.”
You felt the words land inside you like tiny, cruel promises. “No! We can’t tell her,” you said, voice firmer now. “We can’t tell anyone.”
Fred’s hands loosened. “No one?”
You nodded. “Promise me, Fred. Please. You can’t say anything.”
He looked reluctant. “Even George?”
You hesitated, because of course George already knew. He probably knew before either of you did. “Even him,” you said anyway. “If he knows anything already, then you need to make him promise not to say a word.”
Fred exhaled, then nodded. “Alright. I promise.”
You stared at him, heart thudding against your ribs. He reached up, brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, and smiled gently.
You kissed him one more time. Slow and lingering and filled with the quiet ache of knowing this wasn’t going to get any easier.
And so it began. The start of something you couldn’t name yet. A kiss in the garden. A locked door. A promise made in whispers. The beginning of a secret.
———————————————————————
You’d gotten so used to hiding it, you almost started believing you could keep it hidden forever.
It became a rhythm. A dance you and Fred had perfected over the past few weeks. A series of glances and touches and moments stolen between the cracks of your everyday life. You lived for the quiet thrill of it. The way your heart leapt when he leaned in just a little too close in the hallway, or the way your pulse skittered when he brushed your pinky with his under the table at dinner.
Sometimes, he’d manage to sit beside you, his thigh pressed against yours beneath the tablecloth, warm and steady like a secret only you were allowed to keep. His hand would rest casually on his knee until it inched over to yours, fingers tapping, tracing lines across your skin no one else could see.
And when he couldn’t sit beside you, he’d claim the seat directly across, his foot nudging yours under the table until it became a full-on game of footsie that had you biting your lip and looking anywhere but at him. Every time your eyes accidentally met, he’d grin like he was proud of himself. Like he was daring you to keep playing.
You were hopelessly smitten. And for the first time in a long time, really happy.
Fred made you laugh when things felt heavy. He kissed you like he meant it, even in the briefest snatched moments. He told you you were brilliant, and brave, and beautiful in all the ways no one ever had before. And you believed him.
It was dangerous, yes. But it was yours. Until the day it wasn’t.
It was late afternoon, the sky hanging heavy with sun and heat, and most of the Weasleys were outside flying or napping or doing chores. Ginny had been reading on the porch when you told her you needed to grab something you’d forgotten in the backyard.
That was a lie. Fred had told you to meet him in the broom shed.
You slipped away quietly, past the rose bushes and around the back of the house where the old wooden shed waited beneath the trees. The door creaked as you opened it and there he was, leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes lighting up the moment he saw you.
You didn’t even make it two steps before he pulled you in.
His kiss was warm, familiar, and tasted like the honey biscuits Molly had made for tea. You melted into it, hands sliding into his hair, your body fitting against his like it belonged there.
“I’ve been waiting to do this all day,” he murmured against your mouth.
You smiled into the kiss. “What if someone finds us?”
“They won’t.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw. “George is on Ginny duty. We’ve got time.”
You were about to respond - about to tell him you’d missed him too - when the shed door flew open.
You jolted back like you’d been burned. Ginny stood in the doorway, eyes blazing, lips parted in silent disbelief. Behind her, George winced and muttered, “Shite.”
“I knew it,” Ginny said, her voice low and trembling. “I bloody knew it.”
You stared at her, frozen. Every part of you was suddenly cold.
“Ginny—” Fred started, stepping forward.
She didn’t even look at him. Her eyes were locked on yours, betrayal carved into every inch of her expression. “How long?” she demanded. “How long has this been going on behind my back?”
You opened your mouth but nothing came out.
George stepped forward. “Sorry mate, I tried to stop her—”
“You knew?!” she rounded on George like a storm, her fists balled at her sides. “You knew and didn’t say a word?!”
“I only found out recently,” he said, holding up his hands. “And it’s not my business—”
“Not your business?!” she shouted. “She’s my best friend, Fred is my brother, and you’re my other brother! How is this not our business?!”
“Ginny, please,” you finally managed to say, your voice soft, cracking. “I wanted to tell you. I swear I did.”
“But you didn’t!” she shouted. “You lied to my face. Every single day. Do you think I’m stupid? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
“No, Gin, I never—” You stepped toward her but she stepped back.
Her face was red with fury, her eyes glassy with tears she refused to let fall. “I trusted you. I trusted you more than anyone.”
Fred reached for her, voice low. “She didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Don’t.” Her voice was sharp enough to cut. “Don’t defend her. Don’t pretend this was nothing.” She looked at you again, and it nearly broke you. “You broke our rules.”
And then she turned on her heel and stormed out of the shed. George gave Fred a grim look, then jogged after her.
And just like that…it was over.
The warmth, the secrecy, the giddy, fluttering joy that had filled you so completely. It all shattered in the space of ten seconds.
Fred turned to you, hands raking through his hair. “Bloody hell.”
You were shaking. “I didn’t know what to say. I froze.”
He pulled you into his arms, held you like it might fix things. “She just needs time.”
You nodded against his chest, but your heart wasn’t so sure. Because you hadn’t just broken the rules. You’d broken Ginny’s heart.
———————————————————————
You tried for days. Tried to talk to her, to explain, to say something, but every time you got close, Ginny slipped away like smoke.
You followed her into the garden the next morning, calling her name as she picked harshly at the overgrown mint leaves along the back fence. She didn’t turn around. When you got close enough to speak, she stood up and walked inside without a word.
Later, you found her in the kitchen, arms folded tight, back resting against the counter as Molly spoke to her in a low voice. You hovered in the doorway, unsure, heart thudding against your ribs. Ginny met your eyes for a second - just one second - and then looked away like it hurt.
You tried again on the stairs, whispering her name as she passed. She didn’t even glance at you.
You hated this. You hated how silent everything felt. How your chest ached with things unsaid.
By the time the sun dipped beneath the hills on the third day and the Burrow settled into its evening hush, you were exhausted from trying. And Ginny still hadn’t said a single word.
You crept up to your shared bedroom slowly, quietly, like maybe she’d be soft again if you just approached the right way. You reached for the doorknob, turned it gently.
Locked.
You knocked. “Ginny?”
Silence.
You knocked again, a little louder this time. “Ginny, please. Can we just…can we talk? Please?”
Nothing. Not even a shuffle from the other side. You pressed your forehead to the wood, eyes stinging.
After a long minute, you sighed and padded back down the stairs. The Burrow was quiet now. Most of the lights were off, save for the soft, golden glow from the living room. You curled up on the couch, wrapping yourself in one of the worn knitted blankets, tucking your knees to your chest. This was where you’d been spending your nights lately, not wanting to bother Molly or Arthur about other sleeping arrangements.
The silence felt louder than Ginny’s anger. It echoed. You must have sat there for almost half an hour before you heard soft steps on the stairs.
Fred. His hair was a mess, like he’d been lying in bed unable to sleep too, and his eyes found yours with immediate concern.
“You okay?” he asked gently, already knowing the answer.
“She locked me out again,” you murmured. “She won’t even look at me.”
Fred’s brow furrowed as he sat beside you, draping his arm over your shoulders and tugging you closer. “I’m sorry.”
You let your head fall onto his shoulder. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never seen her this mad. She’s not even yelling anymore. She just…won’t see me.”
Fred let out a breath, warm against your temple. “She’ll come around. Ginny’s stubborn, but she’s not heartless. She just needs space.”
You nodded, letting the quiet settle between you again. It wasn’t the happy silence from the shed, or the secretive warmth you were used to with him. It was heavier. But his presence still helped. Still steadied you.
He rubbed circles into your arm, resting his chin lightly against your hair. “We’ll figure this out.”
You closed your eyes. “I hope so.”
And then the bottom step squeaked. You both turned.
Ginny stood in at the bottom of the staircase, holding an empty glass. Her eyes landed on you curled beside Fred. You saw the moment it hit her. The twist of disgust, the flick of her lip curling as she scoffed softly.
She didn’t say anything. Just rolled her eyes, and turned on her heel.
You threw the blanket off and jumped up. “Ginny, wait!”
She was already halfway up the stairs, empty glass still in her hand.
“Please, can we talk?” you called, following her up.
She didn’t even pause.
“Ginny—”
She reached the bedroom door, yanked it open, stepped inside. You made it just in time to catch the door slamming in your face. The sound echoed through the Burrow like a curse.
You stood there for a moment, fingers resting on the closed door, throat tight, heart cracking a little more. You didn’t even knock this time. You just turned and walked back downstairs.
Fred was waiting. His expression softened as he saw your face. “She slammed it again?”
You nodded. You didn’t trust your voice not to break.
He opened his arms. You walked straight into them. And for the rest of the night, the two of you stayed curled up on the couch. Not saying much. Just holding on.
———————————————————————
The next morning was unbearable. You sat between Fred and George at the breakfast table, the tension thick enough to slice with a wand. Ginny was across from you, lips pressed into a thin line, her toast untouched. She didn’t look at you. Not once. She didn’t even speak. Not to Fred. Not to George. Not even to Molly when she asked if she wanted more pumpkin juice.
Fred’s knee bumped against yours under the table. You didn’t move. But you didn’t lean into him either. You were ashamed. It hurt, having Ginny’s silence weigh this heavy on your chest.
After breakfast, Ginny stood without a word and disappeared up the stairs, her braid swinging sharply behind her. The door to her room slammed moments later.
You didn’t follow this time. You knew better now.
Fred glanced at you, eyes soft. “Come on,” he said. “Walk with me.”
You let him lead you outside into the warm morning light, the sun stretching long and lazy over the Burrow’s messy backyard. The garden was overgrown in the loveliest way. Wildflowers sprawling into vegetable patches, vines curling along the fenceposts. Fred brushed his fingers against yours as you walked, and when he caught your eye, his smile was crooked and bright like he was trying to make things better without saying it out loud.
You stopped in front of Arthur’s old work shed.
Fred pushed the door open and gestured inside with a dramatic bow. “Milady.”
You rolled your eyes. “What exactly am I meant to be admiring in here? The rusted rake or the giant spider in the corner?”
He grinned. “Neither. Just trust me.”
You stepped inside cautiously, brushing past hanging tools and stacks of flower pots, turning just in time to see him still grinning at the threshold.
“Fred?”
“Sorry,” he said in a singsong voice, and with a swift flick and a slam, the door shut. The lock turned with a click.
“FRED!” You pounded your hand on the wood. “This is not funny!”
But footsteps were already retreating. You waited - furious - for him to open it again. But the minutes passed. The shed was warm and full of the smell of soil and sun-dried wood, and you were trying to decide whether you were more angry or confused when the door creaked again.
You stood quickly, hope flickering. “Finally.”
But it wasn’t Fred. It was Ginny. She stepped in with a suspicious scowl, looking over her shoulder. “What—?”
Before she could finish the thought, slam. Click.
You both lunged for the door.
“FRED!” Ginny shrieked. “GEORGE!”
“LET US OUT!” you yelled right behind her, slamming your fists against the wood.
But their voices were muffled and maddening on the other side.
Fred called, “Not until you talk!”
George chimed in, “Properly! No hexes, no storming off!”
“Absolutely mental,” Ginny muttered, crossing her arms as she turned her back to you and marched to the far end of the shed. She plopped down on an overturned bucket, staring hard at the dirt wall.
You stayed near the door, arms folded just as tightly, silence stretching between you like a curse.
It must’ve been hours.
The heat in the shed grew heavier, sun filtering through the tiny window above. Your legs began to ache from standing, but sitting felt too vulnerable.
And then, finally, Ginny broke it. “If you wanted to snog my brother that badly, you could’ve at least warned me,” she said coolly, not looking at you.
You bristled. “It’s not just snogging.”
“Oh, please.” She barked a laugh. “You’ve been sneaking around like a pair of teenagers and I found you in a bloody broom cupboard. What else is it supposed to be?”
“It’s real, Ginny.” You stepped closer. “We actually care about each other. It’s not some fling, this means something.”
She turned sharply, fire in her eyes. “And that’s supposed to make it better?”
You blinked. “What?”
“It’s worse,” she hissed. “It’s worse because you didn’t just hook up with him. You fell for him. And then you hid it from me. Lied to me. Every single time I asked where you were or what you were doing—”
“Okay, did lie,” you interrupted, chest tightening. “I did…and I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. I just didn’t know how.”
“You knew exactly what you were doing,” Ginny snapped. “You just didn’t want to deal with the fallout.”
“And I was right, wasn’t I?” your voice rose. “Look at how you’re reacting! You won’t even listen—”
“Because you went behind my back!” she shouted. “I told you everything. Every crush, every stupid thought I had about Harry or Michael, or whoever, and you were pining over my brother the whole time!”
You stared at her, stunned by how deep her voice cut.
“I just…I thought…” Her voice cracked. “I thought we were friends.”
That one hurt the most. “We are,” you said, stepping forward. “Ginny, I love you. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to lose that. I didn’t want to risk you thinking this was some betrayal. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“But you did.”
“I know,” you said quietly. “I know I did. I just…I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to fall for him. It just happened. And for years I kept it a secret because I refused to act on it so what was the point? And then it just got worse. And I hate that I made you feel like this. I never meant to. You mean too much to me.”
She looked at you for a long time. Then she sighed, sitting down heavily on a crate. “So…how long has it been happening?”
You hung your head low. “Since last week.”
She raised a brow. “Seriously? That’s…actually not as bad as I was expecting.”
You nodded. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, but he was so persistent, and…I gave in. And it’s been…honestly, it’s been amazing.”
Ginny pursed her lips. “And he’s serious?”
“Completely,” you said. “He treats me like I’m the most interesting, maddening person he’s ever met. He actually listens. And he makes me feel—” you paused, blushing a little, “—happy. Really happy.”
She let that hang in the air. Then she exhaled. “Okay.”
You blinked. “Okay?”
“I mean,” she shrugged, “I still think you’re an idiot. But I can live with it.”
You smiled, hesitantly at first, and then fully when Ginny rolled her eyes and opened her arms. You nearly knocked her over hugging her.
“I’m still mad,” she warned into your shoulder.
“I deserve that,” you admitted. “Completely.”
You stayed like that for a long moment. Then Fred’s voice piped up from outside, smug and singsong: “So! All good now?”
Ginny shouted, “If you ever lock me in a shed again, I swear I’ll turn your ears into flobberworms.”
George snorted. “We’ll take that as a yes.”
The door clicked open. You and Ginny stepped out, blinking in the afternoon light, shoulder to shoulder again.
Fred looked at you like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. You gave him a small smile and nodded.
All was not perfect, but it was healing. And that was enough for now.
———————————————————————
Dinner at the Burrow felt normal again.
The clinking of cutlery, the smell of roasted vegetables and gravy, the soft hum of conversation. It was like everything had fallen back into place. You sat beside Ginny again, your shoulders occasionally brushing. She’d even nudged your arm when you reached for the salt before her, and when you made a joke about Ron’s plate being stacked like a tower, she actually laughed.
It was subtle. Soft. But genuine.
From your other side, Fred was watching you with that familiar twinkle in his eye. His foot tapped yours beneath the table like it couldn’t stand not touching you, and when you glanced at him, he gave you a slow, knowing smile.
Molly glanced between you and Ginny, her eyebrows lifting ever so slightly as she set down a fresh loaf of bread. “Well,” she said, voice light, “I must say it’s nice to see you two getting along again.”
Arthur looked up from his stew and nodded. “Things were a bit frosty there for a while.”
Ginny gave a dramatic eye roll and stabbed a potato. “Yeah, well…I got over it,” she muttered, shooting you a sideways smirk.
Ron frowned and pointed his fork between the two of you. “Wait. What were you even fighting about in the first place? You’ve been whispering to each other all evening. Did I miss something?”
Fred, sitting beside you, let out a soft breath - part exasperation, part amusement. Then, without warning, he reached beneath the table and gently laced his fingers through yours. His palm was warm, calloused and familiar. It made your chest tighten, just a little.
And then, just as Ron took another bite of chicken, Fred lifted your joined hands into the air. Like some kind of victory signal.
Everyone froze. Ron choked. Ginny groaned. Molly gasped, then squealed so loudly that even the ghoul in the attic probably heard her.
“Oh! Oh, I knew it! I just knew it!” she cried, practically launching herself out of her seat. Her chair scraped back as she rushed around the table, arms outstretched like she might hug the both of you into oblivion. “You’re together?! You’re really…! Oh I’m just so happy!”
“Mum,” Fred muttered, ducking his head as you laughed and tried to brace yourself for impact. “Breathe, yeah?”
She didn’t listen. Her arms were around your shoulders in a second, pulling you into a tight, motherly hug that somehow managed to be both suffocating and comforting.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said to you, eyes misty as she cupped your cheek. “I always hoped it would be you.”
Your throat tightened. You hadn’t realized how badly you’d wanted her approval until that very moment.
Across the table, Ron raised his eyebrows at Fred and gave him a slow, impressed nod. “Well, you actually pulled it off,” he said, clearly trying not to smirk. “Didn’t think you had it in you, mate.”
“I aim to surprise,” Fred said, squeezing your hand gently under the table again.
You leaned into his side, heart fluttering. Ginny rolled her eyes again, but this time…she smiled.
“To make myself clear, rules two and three are still applicable,” She pointed between the two of you with a warning glare that held to real heat behind it.
“And rule number one?” You clarified.
“To hell with rule number one. It was stupid anyway,” she shrugged, and you beamed.
———————————————————————
Tag list: @vivianette @ellouisa17 @wisp1q @divineani @cattleray @billieeilishkisser @lupinsweater
SUMMARY: Joaquin, notoriously the most perfect boyfriend ever, takes you to a bookstore for a shopping spree. Fortunately for you, he can’t quite stop himself from making out with you in a quiet corner.
WARNINGS: Pure fluff, light make-out session in public, reader is a book nerd, light teasing, established relationship.
REQUESTED BY: Anonymous.
NAVIGATION | MCU MASTERLIST | KO-FI
You didn’t think he’d actually do it.
It started as a joke, something half-said on a Tuesday evening, your face pressed against Joaquin’s shoulder while you scrolled past a video of someone getting lost in a four-storey bookshop.
“I’d die in a place like that,” you’d mumbled. “Bury me under the poetry section. Let my ghost haunt the paperbacks.”
Joaquin had laughed. Kissed the top of your head and called you dramatic. But now here you are, standing outside a shop that smells like old stories and newer heartbreak, watching Joaquin try to pull the door open with too much confidence and nearly smacking himself in the face.
“Graceful,” you say, reaching for the handle instead. “Very smooth.”
“Chivalry is alive and well,” he mutters, rubbing his forehead.
You laugh. He’s trying so hard. It makes your ribs ache with something warm. The bell over the door chimes when you walk in. You immediately forget how to breathe.
It’s everything. Wood-panelled floors that creak in a way that feels like history, handwritten signs on strings above every aisle, an old cat asleep on a pile of unsold hardbacks near the back wall. The kind of shop that smells like warm vanilla and worn leather and magic.
You make a sound, low and giddy, and Joaquin turns toward you like he’s watching a sunrise. He’s already smiling.
“Alright, beautiful,” he says, taking your hand, “where do we start?”
You lose yourself fast.
Within twenty minutes, you’re carrying a stack that reaches from your waist to your chin. Joaquin tries to take them off you gently, like you’re handling crystal instead of over-loved secondhand novels. His arms are full within seconds.
“You’re actually doing this?” you ask, squinting at him from behind another copy of something you’ve already read twice.
He shifts the weight in his arms and nods. “Yep. You pick, I carry.”
“That was a joke.”
“Too bad.”
You watch him from the side as he balances the pile. He’s in his soft blue hoodie, dark curls slightly messy from the wind outside, eyes full of something fond.
Your chest does a small, dangerous thing.
“I like you,” you say, like it’s brand new.
He pauses. “That’s good,” he replies, face straight. You both snort, quietly. He leans in, lowers his voice to something almost shy. “I really like watching you like this.”
Your heart misfires. You push a book against his chest to cover the feeling. “Shut up and carry this one too.”
You get lost in the fiction aisle for a full hour.
There’s a very specific kind of high that comes from touching old spines, running your finger down familiar titles, falling in love again with characters you haven’t seen in years.
Joaquin follows like a satellite. Close enough to reach for your hand when it falls to your side. Not close enough to interrupt the way your eyes sparkle when you talk about worldbuilding or how paper smells different depending on the publisher.
You find a copy of something you didn’t think existed anymore. You make a noise so loud the cat on the hardback pile stirs.
Joaquin startles. “What? What happened? Is there—”
You’re grinning. Radiant. Holding up the book like treasure. “I read this when I was fourteen. I thought I imagined it. It has a sentient swamp and a girl who can talk to crows and the plot is just—” You stop, laughing, shaking your head. “It’s so dumb. I loved it so much.”
Joaquin stares. Not at the book. At you.
You’re glowing with it. Real happiness. The kind that steals out of you when you’re not paying attention. The kind that wraps around his ribs like a ribbon. He wants to kiss you then and there.
Not like he does at night, slow and sleepy, with his thumb pressed behind your ear. Not like when you’re on the sofa and he’s got one hand up your hoodie and the other tangled in your hair.
No, this is different. This is public. This is messy. This is I’m so in love with you it’s stupid.
You notice him staring. “What?”
He gestures with his chin. “Come with me.”
You raise a brow. “Where?”
He adjusts the books in his arms, awkward, precarious, and leads you down a crooked aisle with titles in French and a whole shelf labelled ‘Birds and Betrayal’. You follow, bemused, until he finds what he’s looking for, a little alcove near the back, half-hidden by a pillar of travel guides and a toppled row of cookbooks.
It’s quiet. Very quiet. A little dusty. Lit by one dying lamp above.
“Joaquin,” you murmur, cautious, “are you trying to seduce me between old maps and vegan recipes?”
Joaquin sets the books down, just to free his arms.
“I’m trying,” he says, already reaching for your waist, “to kiss you without knocking over forty dollars worth of magical realism.”
Your mouth opens. You’re about to make some comment about being respectable in public. Then he kisses you.
It’s not obscene. Just a little inappropriate.
He presses you gently into the corner, hands warm on your hips, mouth soft against yours. You feel his smile before you see it. He kisses like he knows it’ll undo you, like he’s watched it happen before and wants to see it again.
You curl your fingers into his hoodie and let him. When you part, his forehead rests against yours.
“You’re ridiculous,” you whisper.
“You love it.”
You do. You really, really do.
By the time you reach the checkout, you’ve collected fourteen books, two bookmarks, and a free tote bag given to you by the older woman behind the counter who clearly thinks Joaquin is your husband.
He doesn’t correct her. Just slides his card across the counter without flinching and then carries all your books out like some sort of romantic mule.
You protest. Of course you do. Joaquin waves you off. “I’m strong. I lift. I do pull-ups for this exact reason.”
“You are such a show-off.”
You follow him onto the street, bag swinging from your shoulder, smile so wide your face hurts. It’s starting to drizzle. He pulls up his hood, grinning as you walk.
“Next time,” he says, “we start with the kissing and then get the books.”
You reach for his hand, twining your fingers through his.
“Next time,” you reply, “you bring a backpack.”
He laughs. You laugh. The rain doesn’t matter. You’re holding half a library. He’s holding your hand. That’s enough.
Joaquin Torres x Reader (also has kind of platonic John Walker x Reader- just friends but just a warning going in)
You still love him and when you think he’s marrying someone else it rips your world apart
You were sitting at the breakfast table, rolling your energy drink between your palms and trying to ignore the throbbing behind your eyes. John walked into the kitchen, stopped and looked at you for a long second before letting out a breath “Redbull and ibuprofen isn’t breakfast”
You shrugged “So sue me Walker” he shook his head and walked over to the fridge, pulling out eggs, a couple packs of bacon and other breakfast items. You arched an eyebrow “Cooking for the team?” he shrugged “Considering I know for a fact that you, Ava and Yelena are all three nursing hangovers? Yeah, figured it was the least I could do”
With that he went to work, moving around the kitchen. Moments like this you enjoyed his company, he didn’t push and you didn’t have to talk. Everyone else would be waking up soon, the smell of the food luring them to the kitchen or like Bucky they would be finished with their other morning routines.
“John?” you called his name lightly and he looked over his shoulder “Yeah honey?” you stared down at the can in your hands “You know how up till recently our team has been at odds with Sam’s?” he nodded “Yeah, why?”
You shook your head “Nevermind, this is stupid” you started to stand up to leave but he was across the room before you could attempt it “No, if you started it, it’s not stupid. Now talk to me” you scrubbed a hand down your face “Joaquin proposed to her” you could feel the tears brimming in your eyes and didn’t try to stop them.
“Oh honey, are you sure?” you nodded “I saw her instagram post” he tugged you into a hug and that was when the dam broke, sobs wracking your body. “I still love him” you whispered and John nodded, his large hands rubbing soothing circles onto your back “I know sweetheart, I know”
“What do I do? How do I work with him?” you hiccuped and he shook his head “I don’t know but we’ll all be there, we’ll have your back” you nodded, letting yourself cry it out. When you pulled back you laughed at the wet spot on John’s shirt “Look” he shrugged “It’ll be fine. You feel better?” you nodded “Little bit”
He smiled “Good, now let me get you a plate. You’ll get first pick on breakfast this time sweetheart”
How do you go along with your day to day life knowing the love of it was marrying another woman? You throw yourself into training, you spend all your spare time with your teammates, you make sure by the time you collapse into bed that you’re so damn tired your body has no choice but to shut down for a few hours.
“I’m calling Sam” Bucky had called a team meeting once you’d retreated from movie night. No one knew how to help you, John was the only one that had dealt with anything similar and it wasn’t like he was the best at emotions or healthy coping mechanisms.
“And do what exactly? Tattle on Torres?” Ava asked. Bucky waved a hand towards the hallway where you’d disappeared half an hour before “We can’t let her keep on like this! You saw her on the last mission! She was worse than normal!”
Bob nodded “I think Bucky’s right. There needs to be something done, if nothing else get her some closure” Alexei spoke up “He should have been a man and called her instead of it being plastered on some site” Yelena waved a hand at her father “For once Alexei is right”
With it being decided Bucky made plans to call Sam the following morning, unfortunately it seemed like fate wanted to throw a wrench in things.
You rolled over at the sound of your phone going off, it was the alarm that blared when an emergency mission hit. You slapped at the nightstand until your hand wrapped around it and pulled it to your face Hostage situation. All Hands on deck
Leave it to Mel to make everything short and sweet. You rolled out of bed and headed for your closet to change into your tact gear.
________________________
When you walked into the hangar you froze. A second jet sat next to the one your team used. Sam stood in the center of the hangar talking to Bucky and fuck there was Kate. No no no no. You looked around in a panic and sure enough there was Joaquin, going over gear.
Your entire team minus Bucky stood off to the side, giving Joaquin a wide berth. You couldn’t do this right now. Fuck. You walked over to your team, slipping between Ava and Yelena “A word?” they all turned, John and Alexei making sure to block you from Joaquin’s view “Yeah?”
You waved towards the direction you knew Joaquin was in “I appreciate it. I love all of you for protecting me but we’re one group now. I want whoever is teamed with him to watch his back like you would mine. I still love him and I don’t want him getting killed” they all nodded slowly “Doesn’t mean you have to like it” you added and Yelena smirked “I can still talk trash all day at least” Ava winked at her “Of course”
Bucky whistled to get all of your attention and when everyone broke apart Joaquin’s eyes landed on you. Your heart leapt into your throat, the traitorous organ forgetting he didn’t want you anymore. “Hey” he greeted. You nodded at him “Hey”
All of you walked over to Bucky and Sam. They were the heads, they would be assigning teams then all of you would be flying out. Sam spoke up “Ok we have a hostage situation at the U.N. Every eye in the world will be on this. Move fast, move careful. Put down who you have to in the least messy way possible. Watch each other’s backs and get the hostages out safely. Understood”
Everyone gave a nod. Sam looked at you “You, Ava and Walker are going with me and Joaquin” you forced a smile “Aye aye Cap” he grinned slightly as Bucky looked at the rest of the group “Bishop, you’re coming with me, Yelena and Alexei” she grinned “sounds good to me”
Bucky nodded “Bob is coming to be on overwatch, he’ll be helping us with thermal camera footage so keep your comms on” with that everyone headed for the jets.
When the jets landed it surprised you when Sam took John with him. Ava not so much. She was the stealth needed to get in and calm the hostages once they were found. He looked to you and Joaquin “You two got the eastern wing?” you cut your eyes at Joaquin then nodded “We got it”
Sam, John and Ava disappeared in one direction so you and Joaquin headed in the other. He had his gear if need be for an extra advantage. You cleared the halls one by one, slowly. You were trying to just subdue and restrain each hostile you found. Sam said to keep it as clean as possible considering how many people were watching.
_______________________
Incoming you heard over the comms followed by your name and Joaquin’s right before you narrowly missed a knife getting thrown at your head and growled in frustration “Ok, we’re playing with knives now” you and Joaquin didn’t miss a beat, going back to back in the narrow hallway as you faced the blade wielding men. You would duck then return a slice and Joaquin would do the same. Like it or not the two of you knew each other well enough to move as one.
Within a few minutes that felt more like hours the men were down. That was impressive Bob’s voice came across the comms and you laughed breathlessly Thanks, now help someone else
You looked at Joaquin “You good?” he nodded, eyes flickering across you “Are you?” you did a self check, feeling a slight sting in your side but knowing it wasn’t deep enough to count “Good enough lets push on”
_____________________
All in all, no hostages were harmed and only seven of the hostiles were killed. You and Joaquin were responsible for four of those. Everyone stood together outside the U.N. while Sam and Bucky did the official talks. None of the rest of you really wanted to get into that half.
“That was pretty awesome” Yelena laughed, slinging one arm over your shoulders and the other over Kate’s. You winced slightly from what you knew was a knife wound on your side “Yeah” she raised an eyebrow “Are you ok?” you nodded “I’ll be fine. I need to be patched up once we’re on a jet but not here in public when we’re playing heroes. That’s why we wear black. Blood doesn’t show as easy”
Joaquin’s head flipped in your direction “Blood?” you shrugged “i got sliced in the hallway. I’m fine” he was at your side in a heartbeat “Where at Querida?” you shook your head “You don’t get to call me that anymore and I’ll get John or Ava to stitch me up”
His face fell when you walked away “What the hell?” you weren’t about to get into it here. You just shrugged “I know Joaquin” and continued walking, leaving him looking after you.
“You should’ve told someone sooner” you were laid across the seat in the jet while John worked to close the wound in your side. He was five stitches in. Ava was holding you steady to make sure you didn’t get jostled. “I was with my ex who just got engaged. Why would I do that”
John paused mid stitch “Fair enough” and continued what he was doing. You glanced up and saw Joaquin staring at you. His jaw clenched as John finished patching you up. “All good” Ava taped gauze over it and gave you a small smile “I’ll give you a sticker and a lolli when we get home”
You grinned at her “I’ll be waiting” her and John headed for the back of the jet to clean up and dispose of the bloodied supplies and Joaquin took the moment to walk over, crouching in front of you “You know what?”
You met his eyes “The damned ring Torres. I saw it on her instagram” his eyes widened then anger flickered across his face “That’s why you won’t talk to me? Won’t have anything to do with me? An instagram post?”
“I broke up with Matt because I knew I was still in love with you but knew you were with her so I didn’t say anything. I’ve tried to date Joaquin but seeing that? It snapped my fucking heart in two” you whispered, feeling tears spring to your eyes as you held a hand over the wound on your side. His eyes tracked your movement, worry etched over his face.
He scrubbed a hand down his face “Princesa, I wish you would’ve just talked to me. I broke things off with her weeks ago. I was honest and told her I’m still in love with you. She must have posted that shit while me and Sam were on that mission in Tibet where we had to stay off grid. I haven’t seen, we got back last night then got thrown into this”
“What?” you whispered. He nodded, patting himself down then stood and marched over to his duffle bag. He pulled his phone out and unlocked it then held it out “Click on the old messages”
You clicked the messages and dated two days before that instagram post were messages between her and him.
Joaquin: Look, I’m sorry but at least I was honest with you.
Ash: So you’re still in love with your ex? That was dating another man? Yeah she seems like a real winner
Joaquin:Don’t talk about her like that
Ash: What does she have that I don’t?
Joaquin: My heart in the palm of her hand. We had fun but I was trying to fill a void that it took me too long to realize there ain't no filling if I can’t have her. I wish you well Ash, really I do but don’t call or text me again
“You didn’t propose?” you asked, looking between him and the phone. He shook his head “Hell no. You got a ring on your finger? No? Then I ain’t proposed to anyone. I’ve been waiting to beg you for another chance. I didn’t want to ask right after we both had breakups”
He squatted back down in front of you, grabbing your hands “I love you, you’re the love of my life. When everything happened with Valentina forming her team, things got messed up. We got torn in different directions but my heart went with you. If you give me another chance I’ll never fuck it up again I promise you and if I do I’ll let Ava make good on her promise of phasing my heart out of my chest and gifting it to you”
You burst out laughing “When did she say that?” he shrugged “When you were talking to Belova and Bishop” you grinned “I promise I won’t let her phase your heart out” he grinned “That mean you gonna give this another try?” you nodded, tugging him forward. He slipped both arms around you, careful of your side before his lips found yours. The kiss was gentle, tentative even but full of emotion, everything that couldn’t quite be put into words.
You pulled back and laughed “But you’re making an instagram just to let the world know you love me and only me” he laughed “You know it” and pulled you back into his arms. Ava and John walked back up from the rear of the jet. John cleared his throat and you both looked up. He motioned between the two of you “So, does this mean we like him again?” you nodded and he shrugged “Fair enough” and steered Ava to the front of the jet.
Joaquin watched the two of them then looked back at you “Don’t know how I feel about this new friendship between you and Walker” you rolled your eyes “Oh hush” and pressed another kiss to his lips.
this is my new fave shinee story.... they talk a lot about how 2nd gen kpop was a lot of local outdoor festivals in rural areas for the farmers and the elderly but this is the funniest one.
key: back then people didn't have navigation on their phones so you had to buy it and install it in your car separately.
park myungsoo: i like it, very relatable
key: and we kept going deeper and deeper into the mountains in the pouring rain and had no idea where we were going, and suddenly two elk were running across the road
park myungsoo: that's very dangerous
key: and we finally got there and the audience was just 50 monks wearing rain ponchos sitting outside
park myungsoo: so it was a temple? you performed ring ding dong at a temple??
key: it was a temple, and we did, and we couldn't figure it out. what is this event, and why do they need shinee to be there?? why were we there??
pairing: joaquín torres x reader
summary: being long-distance best friends with joaquín isn’t easy now that you’re on different teams. the more you talk, tease, and lean on each other, the clearer it becomes that friendship might not be enough for you anymore.
tags: new avenger!reader, ex-widow!reader, friends to lovers, mutual pining, you and joaquín are children of the sambucky divorce
warning(s): cariño used as a pet name, suggestive content (no smut just a lil spicy), gender neutral reader (ex-widow but gender/sex is not mentioned or implied at all)
word count: 9.5k
note: WHEW this one has been a wip for a while and i finally finished it! title comes from the noah kahan song of the same name. also i’m not a native spanish speaker but my friend told me that cariño is an appropriate nickname for any gender, please correct me if i’m wrong 🩷
masterlist
Your phone buzzed with the kind of urgency that could only mean two things: either the world was ending again, or Joaquín had found another cursed meme he thought you needed to see at two in the morning.
QUINO 🪽: yo why are you on the news being announced as the new avengers lmao
You barely had time to process before the next messages dropped in.
QUINO 🪽: wait. hold on. is this for real???
QUINO 🪽: wtf???
Your stomach flipped. This was exactly the conversation you’d been putting off having with him. Because who doesn’t love a little light long-distance betrayal on a random Tuesday?
When his name lit up your screen with an incoming call, you hovered like a coward. It rang enough that you let it go to voicemail. When he called back, you decided you couldn’t avoid him forever.
“Heeeeeey, Quino,” you said, dragging out the greeting in the world’s least suspicious tone. “How’s it going?”
“How’s it—? What the hell is going on?” His voice crackled down the line, equal parts alarmed and offended. “Are you serious right now?”
You opened your mouth to answer, only for Alexei’s booming baritone to cut through the tower’s open-plan kitchen. “I was only trying to help!”
“Help?!” John snapped back, loud enough that you’d be getting noise complaints in a regular apartment complex. “You nearly set the oven on fire again!”
Ava’s dry voice chimed in. “Ten dollars says he’ll do it a third time by next week.”
“I’ll take that bet,” Yelena added, unbothered as ever. They shook on it.
Bob, poor soul, sat in the middle of it all on the sofa with a throw pillow hugged to his chest, swivelling his head back and forth like he was centre court at Wimbledon.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay, hang on, I can’t— one sec.”
“...Are you in the middle of a family reunion right now?” Joaquín asked, incredulous.
You snorted. Joaquín knew you didn’t know anything about your biological family; the Red Room made sure of that. “Something like that.”
You ducked down the hall and made the now-familiar trek to your room. You’d requested one on the same floor as the common spaces because the other floors felt too empty. When you made it to your bedroom, you shut the door behind you and sighed in relief.
Blessed, beautiful silence. Now that you lived at the Watchtower, it was rarer than you liked.
“Sorry,” you said, sitting on the edge of your bed with the phone pressed to your ear. “It’s been a crazy day. Or, you know, week.”
There was a beat of quiet on his end. Then, softer, “So it’s true? You’re one of them now?”
You sank back against your pillows, staring at the wall like it might have the script you’d forgotten to study. “Yeah,” you admitted, exhaling. “It’s… complicated.”
“Complicated how?” Joaquín exclaimed. “You were supposed to call me if anything major happened. I have to hear about it on CNN?” His voice cracked a little at the end, like he was trying to sound annoyed, but worry slipped through.
Guilt tugged at your ribs. “I know. I wanted to, but it all kind of snowballed,” you confessed. “One minute Bucky’s dragging me along as backup, and the next I’m knee-deep in whatever Valentina’s mess is. Then Yelena showed up, and you know our history. I couldn’t just leave her, and… it just spiralled.” When Joaquín stayed silent, you quietly added, “I didn’t plan any of this, Quino.”
Silence stretched, heavier this time, though not unfriendly. You could hear the faint rustle of Joaquín shifting on his end of the line. He probably had you on speaker while pacing his room, running a hand through his curls like he did whenever he was stressed.
You picked at a loose thread on your blanket. “The thing is, I don’t feel like I can leave. Not now. They’re…” You stopped, trying to find the words. “They’re ridiculous, obviously. You just heard the circus outside. But they’ve sort of wormed their way into my heart.” You smiled a little. “Alexei’s trying so hard to be everyone’s embarrassing dad. Yelena and Ava—I didn’t know I could have friends like that. And with Bucky, this is giving him something better to hold onto than that whole congressman crusade. I can’t walk away from that.”
On the other end, Joaquín made a thoughtful humming noise, then said lightly, “I could put on the Falcon suit and come take you away in a few hours. Just say the word.”
The laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it. “Don’t tempt me. You know we can’t.”
“I’m serious,” he teased. “No one would notice. I’d swoop in, whisk you out, and boom! You’re back where you belong. With people who actually own functioning smoke alarms.”
“Very funny,” you said, though your smile lingered. “But you know it’s not that simple. I love you, Quino. You and Sam are my family too. I’d never want to do anything to hurt you or make you feel like I’d betrayed you. But… I love them, too. The Thunderbolts.”
He went quiet. Long enough that you worried you’d overplayed your hand, or worse, confirmed some fear he hadn’t voiced yet. Then, “Who the hell are the Thunderbolts?”
There was a beat, and then both of you broke into helpless laughter. Yours came out wheezy, half-relieved, half-hysterical. Joaquín’s laugh rolled through the line warm and familiar, pulling you right back to every late-night hangout you’d ever had together.
When it finally ebbed into silence again, you were breathless, cheeks aching from smiling.
“You know you’re my best friend, right?” Joaquín said suddenly, earnest in a way that caught you off guard. “There’s nothing you could do that would change that. Not joining this team, not working with Bucky, not even— what did you call them? The Thundercats?” You knew he was teasing you.
“Thunderbolts,” you corrected him anyway, grinning into the phone.
“Sure, them,” Joaquín chuckled. “The point is, you’re stuck with me, cariño. No matter what headlines you end up in.”
The knot in your chest loosened. You pressed the heel of your hand to your eye, a little overwhelmed at how much lighter you felt just hearing him say it. “Thanks, Quino.”
“Don’t thank me. Just promise you’ll call me before you end up on the news next time,” he requested. “My heart can’t take that kind of shock.”
“I’ll put it on my to-do list, right under ‘stop Alexei from burning the tower down.’”
“Good,” Joaquín hummed. “Although, one of those sounds slightly more achievable than the other.”
You snorted. For the first time since the whole Void and New Avengers fiasco, the weight on your shoulders felt a little easier to carry. You stayed on the line a moment longer, reluctant to let the comfort of your friend go.
It still amazed you how all of this had started.
You hadn’t been looking for new friends when Bucky Barnes had turned up on your doorstep with that gruff, awkward apology lodged in his throat. He’d braced for guilt, for explanations, for the familiar dance of trying to make amends the way his therapist wanted him to. Instead, you were the one who surprised him.
You’d told him plainly that he didn’t need to answer for the Winter Soldier’s crimes; not to you, not to anyone. Somewhere in the middle of his therapy checklist, you’d adopted him instead. Bucky became your grumpy older brother, reluctant uncle, and occasionally an exasperated grandpa figure.
You met Sam soon after, and he introduced you to his protégé. Meeting Joaquín had been game-changing. It meant having someone closer to your age, someone who didn’t see you as a broken weapon or a case file. He helped you become a person who could laugh, tease, and stay up too late eating takeout on a worn sofa.
It shifted something you hadn’t realised was stuck. He was a golden retriever puppy in human form, entering your life with boundless energy that made it very, very hard to keep the walls up. Before you knew it, Joaquín had woven himself into your life until you couldn’t imagine a single day without him.
When you’d moved to D.C. to help Bucky with his campaign—also known as keeping him from shit-talking his way into political disaster—being in the same city as Joaquín was a happy side effect. Close enough for coffee runs, late-night movie marathons, and the easy friendship that had become your anchor.
Sitting in the Watchtower a couple of hundred miles away, with Joaquín’s voice crackling through a line that already felt too short, you realised just how much you missed it.
“It’s really good to hear your voice again,” you admitted quietly. “Things got scary for a second there. I didn’t know what I was doing, or if I was helping or making things worse.”
Joaquín’s concern was immediate, voice softer than before. “Hey. Don’t say that. You can call me, you know. Anytime. I don’t care what’s going on. You can call until you’re absolutely sick of me.”
That earned a real laugh out of you, brighter than the earlier ones. “That’ll never happen. But fine, I promise I will. I’ll drive you insane with constant phone calls. Brace yourself.”
“I look forward to it,” Joaquín said, with a warmth that wrapped around you even through the static. Reluctantly, he sighed. “I gotta go. Falcon duties and all that.”
“Right,” you replied, though you clung to the moment until the call ended. “Talk to you soon.”
The screen went dark. You lingered in the quiet, phone still pressed against your ear, before finally dragging yourself back to the door. When you opened it, the chaos was still alive and well: John red in the face, Alexei defensive, Yelena and Ava gleefully egging them on.
You couldn’t help smiling. Yeah. You were in deep with these idiots.
Adjusting to life with the so-called New Avengers was a little like moving into a shared house where the neighbours were constantly on the verge of calling the cops. Which is to say: chaotic, loud, and kind of wonderful.
Alexei had decided, without consulting anyone, that he was the team’s fun dad. Which meant unsolicited pep talks, terrible jokes, and constant attempts to prove he could still do fifty push-ups in a row. He could not.
Yelena endured this with the kind of long-suffering eye-rolls usually reserved for sitcom daughters whose fathers embarrass them in front of their friends. You, however, found it hilarious. Every time he started a story with, Back in my Red Guardian days, you could practically hear Yelena’s soul leaving her body.
Then there was John and Bucky. Together, they were like an odd-couple reboot no one had asked for. Two grumpy boomer figures trapped in a modern world they didn’t fully understand. John still called memes picture jokes. Bucky had once asked you in complete seriousness what yeet meant. You almost choked trying to explain it to him.
“Are you texting Joaquín about what I just said?” Bucky demanded one afternoon after you’d ducked into the corner, phone in hand.
You froze, glancing up and trying to look innocent. “...No,” you said, a little too quickly.
“Liar.”
“Fine, yes. But only because he needs to know that you actually said the words ‘thirst trap’ out loud.”
To his credit, Bucky only sighed and muttered something about kids these days being such little punks. You grinned even wider as you hit send. Joaquín’s reply came less than a minute later.
QUINO 🪽: lmao tell him he’s officially 106 going on 200
Meanwhile, Yelena and Ava were nothing short of revelations. Positive female friendships weren’t exactly in rich supply in your line of work. Having two women who just got it, who didn’t flinch at your past and still wanted to gossip about the others during stakeouts, made something inside you settle. Yelena wanted to, but Ava only tolerated it with minimal threats.
You hadn’t realised how badly you’d needed it until it was right there, easy as breathing.
It wasn’t all sunshine. Training was brutal. Missions were worse.
You still called Sam once a week, trading updates and making sure he wasn’t mad at you for joining a team that wasn’t his. He wasn’t, of course. Sam Wilson had more patience than saints. But it wasn’t the same as being back at the compound, where you could wander into the kitchen at midnight and find Joaquín raiding the fridge.
Still, there were good days. Great days, even.
Days when Alexei’s antics made you laugh so hard your sides hurt. Days when Yelena and Ava dragged you into an impromptu game night, complete with verbal fights and everyone ganging up on John. Days when John and Bucky somehow managed to work together without yelling for a whole half hour.
You started catching yourself smiling at nothing, storing up tiny snapshots of joy like you might run out if you weren’t careful.
And through it all, Joaquín was never far away. Every ridiculous tower moment got texted straight to him. The time Alexei tried to skateboard down the hallway and nearly took out a vase? Recorded, sent. Bucky falling asleep mid-mission briefing? Snapped and shared.
Even the quiet moments, nights you chatted with Yelena about your past while Bob read a book upside down on the sofa, went to Joaquín. It was your way of keeping him tethered to your day-to-day, even when he wasn’t physically there.
In return, Joaquín sent you snippets of his world. Sweaty post-workout selfies, breathless but grinning as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Attempts at TikTok trends that usually ended with Sam shaking his head in the background, muttering something about kids and their internet dances.
Joaquín always let you in on the more intimate parts of his life. A wide shot of the desert sunrise when his missions took him out west. A view from the cockpit, clouds stretching endlessly in every direction. His face when he turned the camera back around, softer somehow, like he knew you’d be saving it to watch later.
Sometimes, lying in bed after a long day of convincing Bob he should stop losing sleep over that time he went blonde, you let yourself wonder if you were leaning on Joaquín too much. But then your phone would buzz at one in the morning with a picture of his half-eaten pizza, and all the doubts would dissolve.
Once, though, you picked up your phone and it wasn’t Joaquín at all. It was Sam.
“So…” Sam’s drawl came down the line, already laced with that particular brand of mischief he reserved for teasing you. “You and my guy Joaquín are still glued at the hip, huh?”
You froze mid-step in the tower hallway, nearly colliding with Bucky, who was carrying five grocery bags in one arm and looked alarmed at your expression.
“I—what—no,” you spluttered, waving Bucky away. “We’re just friends.”
“Uh-huh.” You could practically hear Sam’s eyebrow raise. “Look, I’m not here to pry. I just wanted to check in. Make sure you’re okay out there.”
That disarmed you more than the teasing. “I’m… yeah. I’m okay. It’s a lot, but it’s good too.”
Sam hummed like he believed you, but not entirely. “You know you can call me if it ever isn’t good, right?”
Your chest squeezed a little at that. “I know. Thanks, Sam.”
“Good. Now go back to pretending you and Joaquín don’t FaceTime more than most married couples.”
You groaned loudly, especially when Bucky snickered, clearly overhearing.
Another tradition you loved was your TV nights with Joaquín. It started innocently enough: a “Hey, let’s watch something together like we used to,” that turned into a full-blown ritual. Now you and Joaquín were three seasons into his favourite show, a messy blend of soap opera drama and superhero action.
“Okay, okay, listen,” Joaquín’s voice crackled in your ear, bright and animated. “This is where it gets good. You’re not ready for this.”
Your stomach did a strange swoop at the sound of his excitement. You eyed the screen, unimpressed. “I bet you five bucks the dude with the bad haircut betrays them.”
“He’s not— what? No! He’s loyal. He’s literally their rock.”
“Uh-huh.”
Sure enough, three minutes later, Bad Haircut Man pulled out a knife and stabbed his supposed best friend in the back. Literally.
You sipped your tea like a smug cat while Joaquín groaned dramatically. “You ruin everything, you know that? I was so excited for you to see that twist!”
“Twist implies surprise,” you deadpanned. “I saw that coming from a mile away. His hair alone was a red flag.”
“You can’t keep calling him Bad Haircut Man.”
“Would you prefer Traitor Mullet?”
Joaquín made a strangled sound, half-outrage, half-laughter. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” you replied knowingly.
There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched just a little too long. Butterflies stirred in your chest before Joaquín rushed in with, “Okay, fine, maybe a little. But still! You’ve got to stop predicting everything. Just enjoy it.”
“I am enjoying it,” you said, shifting so you could lie back against your pillows. Your phone was set to speaker mode beside you. “I’m enjoying being right about everything, like always.”
He groaned again, but you could hear the smile in it. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet you keep calling me,” you sang.
“Because I’m a masochist, apparently,” Joaquín said brightly, though he stumbled on the last word like he was trying too hard to keep it light.
That earned him a snort, which only made him laugh harder. It was the kind of laugh that was so bright you could almost see the way his face crinkled up with it. You could picture his warm brown eyes shining, and the curve of his mouth, and the image made your stomach dip again.
For a while, the two of you went back and forth like that, barely watching the show. You’d throw out another prediction to see Joaquín protest, and he’d respond with increasingly desperate defences of the show.
“You don’t understand, this episode sets up the entire season four arc!”
“Mm-hm, sure. Whatever you say, Quino.”
“C’mon, cariño,” Joaquín complained. The way he said your nickname this time was softer, though, almost breathless, and you had to clutch your pillow tighter to steady yourself.
Eventually, the TV faded into background noise, both of you too caught up in your own rhythm. It felt like he was right there on your bed beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him if you just leaned a little further into the sound of his voice.
“You’re quiet,” Joaquín said softly after a stretch of companionable silence. He was lying down now, too, you could tell by the muffled sound of his pillow when he shifted.
“Just tired,” you said, though the truth caught in your throat. Tired, yes, but mostly of pretending you didn’t miss Joaquín everyday.
There was a pause, then his voice came through, gentler. “I miss you.”
The words landed like a hand pressed to your sternum, grounding you even as your pulse kicked up. Joaquín always said things like that so easily, like it wasn’t a risk at all. Meanwhile, you had to wrestle your own honesty into submission before it could escape.
“…Yeah,” you finally admitted, words quieter than you meant. “I miss you too.”
Your ceiling blurred into soft shapes as your eyes stung, not with tears, but with the weight that had been building for weeks. On the other end, you pictured Joaquín sprawled across his bed, phone in hand, grinning that too-wide grin.
“You know what I’d do right now if I were there?” he asked suddenly, his voice dipping lower, hesitant.
You paused to consider it, your heart jumping into your throat. “Eat all the snacks I hid from Alexei?”
Joaquín laughed, low and warm. It came out a little breathless, almost shy, and the sound tangled with the butterflies already taking up permanent residence in your stomach.
“No. Well, maybe. But also—” Joaquín hesitated, and the pause stretched long enough to make your pulse race. Then, he barrelled on, “I’d bug you until you agreed to watch the next episode. In person. With popcorn. And you’d make fun of me the whole time, but I wouldn’t even care because you’d be here. Actually here, you know?”
Your lips curved despite yourself. “Sounds annoying.”
“You love it.” He threw your words back at you, smug and playful, but you caught the tiny stumble after love, like he’d almost said too much.
“Maybe a little,” you echoed his earlier response. You rolled onto your side, hugging your pillow like it might stop your heart from thumping straight through your ribs.
“I mean it, though,” Joaquín said, voice stripped of all his usual bravado. “It’s not the same without you here.”
You closed your eyes, wishing you could bottle his voice just as it was in that moment. Hushed, intimate, a little frayed at the edges. You wished you could reach through the line and trace the shape of that smile you knew was lingering.
“Don’t go getting all sentimental on me, Quino,” you managed, trying for lightness even as your chest ached.
“Too late.”
The two words hovered between you, more dangerous than any plot twist on his ridiculous show. You laughed because it was easier than admitting how much his words mattered. Easier than confessing that this—Joaquín’s voice in your ear, the soft cadence of his breath as he got sleepy—felt a lot like falling.
The credits rolled in the background, the show entirely forgotten. The line crackled gently beside you as Joaquín shifted again, probably stretching out like the overgrown golden retriever he was, all long limbs and restless energy.
“You’re gonna keep guessing plot twists next time, aren’t you?” he asked finally.
“Obviously,” you said, overly smug. “Unless the writing suddenly gets less predictable.”
Joaquín groaned. “Why do I put myself through this?”
You grinned. “Because you’d miss me otherwise.”
And though he tried to play it off with a mock-suffering sigh, you could hear the smile in his voice when he said, “Yeah, I would.”
The conference room was supposed to be a place of serious business. Debrief, strategy, updates. Instead, it had become a comedy club where the punchline was you and Bucky.
Everyone was trying, and failing, not to laugh. Shoulders shook. Snorts slipped out. Yelena had her face buried in her hands like she was praying, but her muffled giggles gave her away. John kept letting out little bursts of air through his nose, like an angry bull who couldn’t quite keep it together. Ava had her arms crossed, but her mouth was twitching dangerously at the corners.
And there you were, standing up front with your arms crossed beside Bucky, who looked like a dad dragged to a parent-teacher conference against his will.
“Stop it,” he said finally, gruff and unamused. “This is not funny.”
That did it. The room collapsed. Yelena wheezed, clutching her stomach. Alexei slapped the table. Ava actually let out a laugh, sharp and bright, like she couldn’t contain it anymore. Bob seemed to be holding back best, lips just slightly curved into a smile.
Through her cackles, Yelena managed to get out, “I’m sorry, but it’s hilarious that the tabloids think the two of you are dating!”
That just set everyone off again.
“Oh come on,” Bucky grumbled, glaring at them all.
Ava raised a brow, deadly calm but still clearly amused. “She’s not wrong. You’re literally old enough to be her grandfather.”
“Technically—” John started, but Bucky shot him a withering look that silenced him.
“Even if you go by his biological age,” Ava continued, ignoring him, “you’re still way too old for her. Not impossible, but kind of cradle-robbing.”
You had your arms folded tight. But honestly? Your lips were twitching too. Because you could totally see it.
Valentina had orchestrated the whole thing, of course. She probably thought pairing you and Bucky up in the public eye would soften your reputations or distract from less flattering headlines. So she’d whispered in the right ears, and suddenly three different gossip magazines had sources swearing you’d been together for years.
The articles came complete with a glossy little photo essay. A greatest-hits montage of every vaguely affectionate moment you and Bucky had shared since the Flag Smashers fiasco.
There was one of you walking side by side, shoulders brushing, both of you frowning like you were about to go punch something. The tabloids captioned it as STEELY LOVERS ON A MISSION.
Another was you handing him a sandwich of coffee after a mission. Innocent enough, except the angle made it look like you were gazing at him all adoringly while he took it. LUNCH DATE WITH NEW AVENGERS COUPLE, one magazine cooed, like you were influencers instead of international fugitives-turned-sort-of-heroes.
And then there was the pièce de résistance. The one that had everyone in stitches right now.
A few weeks ago, you and Bucky had ducked into a little coffee shop in disguise. Baseball caps pulled low, heads bent together, doing your best not to draw attention. Somehow, a photographer still caught the exact moment Bucky said something so grouchy that you’d lost it.
He’d tipped his head back, laughing so hard it looked like joy had cracked him wide open. And you? You were doubled over, one hand braced against his chest, eyes squeezed shut as you giggled.
It was completely platonic. Just a rare, stupidly normal moment between the two of you. But freeze it in time, slap on a raunchy headline, and boom—suddenly you were the New Avengers’ It Couple.
Was it mortifying? Absolutely. Did you understand why the public ate it up? Unfortunately, yes.
“I mean,” Yelena wheezed, wiping her eyes, “you two do look cosy. Look at this one.” She held up her phone, flashing another coffee shop picture across the table like she was presenting evidence in court.
“Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.
You felt your own cheeks warm, though whether from second-hand embarrassment or the fact that the photo really was ridiculously convincing, you didn’t want to think about it too hard.
“It’s not like that,” you tried to say, but your voice came out too defensive, which only made everyone snicker harder.
Alexei tilted his head, shrugging. “We know this, but the public does not.”
This was what Valentina wanted. She wanted people to buy the story because a little romantic intrigue always sold better than the complicated reality that Sam was insistent the Avengers title didn’t belong to you.
You sighed, slumping in a chair at last. “I hate my life.”
“Tell that to your boyfriend,” Yelena teased, making kissy faces at Bucky.
Bucky groaned audibly this time, and the team dissolved into another round of helpless laughter.
Later that night, your phone buzzed just as Bob declared John’s collard greens were “life-changing” for the third time. John, who was on cooking duty and surprisingly knew what he was doing, was too busy shooing him away from the cornbread batter to notice your quick escape.
You slipped out of the kitchen, phone pressed to your ear before it could ring again. “Hi, Joaquín,” you said, leaning against the wall in the hallway.
“You didn’t tell me you were dating a grandfather,” he said without preamble. His voice was bright, teasing, but you could practically hear the grin through the line.
You groaned, rubbing your forehead with your free hand. “Not you too.”
“Am I supposed to act surprised? The whole internet thinks you’ve been sneaking around with Bucky.” You could hear the faux pout on his face when he said, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
“Do you want me to hang up right now?” you threatened. “Because I will. Don’t test me, pretty boy.”
Joaquín laughed, high and delighted, like he lived for winding you up. There was something about knowing he could pull a smile from you, even miles away, that made him feel closer to you. “Relax, cariño. He does have that rugged, silver fox thing going on.”
You sighed, dragging the sound out dramatically. “Joaquín.”
“What? It’s a compliment. If I had half that man’s jawline when I’m pushing a hundred, I’d be thrilled.”
Despite yourself, your lips twitched. “Technically he’s not a hundred. He was cryogenically frozen, remember?”
“Feels like it,” Joaquín teased. “Anyway, I’m proud of you. Bagging a war hero? Iconic.”
You let out an exasperated laugh, sliding your back down the wall to sit down. “You’re the worst.”
“And you love me for it,” he declared.
That was the problem. Joaquín said it so casually, like it was just another joke tossed between friends. But your chest tightened all the same.
The laughter faded. Joaquín’s voice lowered, gentler now. “Look, it doesn’t matter what people think. Anyone who actually knows you knows the truth. He’s basically your weird adopted uncle.”
Relief loosened your shoulders. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”
“Always,” he promised.
But there was a pause. Joaquín hadn’t meant for the joke to stick in his throat, but it did. Because sure, he knew the rumours were ridiculous. He knew Bucku was family to you, nothing more.
And yet when the tabloids plastered those photos everywhere, Joaquín couldn’t stop looking. He couldn’t stop picturing a world where they were true, except he was in the coffee shop with you, not Bucky. Joaquín laughing with his head tipped back, your hand pressed against his chest, the whole world catching on camera what he’d wanted for months: that you were his.
Instead, they thought you belonged to someone else.
He’d carried his phone from room to room that day, scrolling past those pictures even though he swore he wouldn’t. Each time his stomach twisted the same way, each time his chest burned with the same ache. He wanted to hack the internet just so he didn’t have to see you leaning toward someone else, even if he knew it wasn’t real.
Joaquín tried to shake it off because that wasn’t fair. You didn’t belong to anyone. But the image dug into him all the same. He hated that it made him jealous. Hated that the distance between you made it worse.
He hated that he couldn’t reach out and be there. That he couldn’t press his palm to the back of your hand where it curled around the phone, couldn’t feel you laugh against his shoulder instead of hearing it through tinny speaker static.
All Joaquín could do was call, tease, and make you laugh until you sighed and softened. But at the end of the day, you were still hundreds of miles away, and the world was still convinced you were in love with someone else.
“I really do miss you,” you admitted quietly. The words slipped out before you could second-guess them.
On the other end, Joaquín’s breath caught, just for a moment. God, how he wanted to tell you he missed you so much it hollowed him out. That on some nights, he stayed awake replaying every single conversation, every shared joke, every spark of your voice in his memory, because it was the only thing that made the silence bearable.
Then he rallied, light again. “Miss me? Please. You’re probably just jealous no one here makes tamales like I do.”
You laughed, a soft, warm sound. “You don’t even cook.”
“I’d learn. For you, I’d learn.” The words hung there, playful but weighted. You knew Joaquín meant them.
And on his end, lying back against a hotel pillow in a city that wasn’t home, Joaquín shut his eyes and let himself imagine it. A kitchen, your laugh at his side, a life where you were his. He wanted it so badly he could taste it, and the wanting was its own kind of torture.
He listened to you breathe. He should’ve said goodbye, but every second he didn’t hang up was another second where he could pretend you were close.
“Still there?” you asked, a little tentative.
“Yeah,” Joaquín said. “I just don’t want to hang up yet.”
Your chest pulled tight, something tender and dangerous blooming there. You should’ve teased Joaquín, but you didn’t. You just let it sit between you, honest and unassuming.
Footsteps interrupted the moment. You looked up to see Bucky leaning against the doorway. “Dinner’s ready,” he said, his voice gruff but softer than it usually was when it was just the two of you.
On the line, Joaquín went silent. He’d recognise that voice anywhere.
“Quino?” you prompted gently.
He cleared his throat, covering the hitch with a laugh. “Tell your boyfriend I said hi,” he teased, light and sing-song. Playful enough to pass as a joke. But underneath, you heard the thin crack in it.
You rolled your eyes, though your smile tugged wide. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” Joaquín said, but softer this time, like the word was wearing something heavier than humour. “Talk soon, cariño.”
And before you could answer, the line clicked as he hung up.
You were perfectly content that afternoon. Curled up on the sofa with Bob pressed up beside you, his latest book splayed open in his lap. He gasped every few pages as though he hadn’t spoiled half the plot for himself earlier by reading reviews.
You were scrolling aimlessly through your phone, not really absorbing anything, until the familiar script of Joaquín’s name lit up your screen. Your lips curved before you even tapped the notification.
The photo loaded, and you bit the inside of your cheek. Joaquín. Shirtless, sweaty, muscles catching the light. But instead of sultry intensity, he was grinning like an idiot, hair mussed from a workout, a dimple cutting into one cheek.
QUINO 🪽: bet I can still do more push-ups than sam. place your bets, cariño.
You laughed a little. Only Joaquín Torres could make a post-workout selfie funny and platonic. Except apparently you were wrong about that.
“What is this?” Yelena’s voice landed over your shoulder, dry as ever. She’d just come back from Oregon with John in tow, dirt coating her boots. “Why is Falcon sending you thirst traps?”
Your phone nearly flew out of your hand. “It’s not a thirst trap!”
Bucky, from his armchair across the room, gave a long-suffering sigh and stood. “Nope. Not doing this. I hear that phrase one more time, I’m gone.” True to his word, he disappeared down the hall muttering something about needing quiet.
“Yelena,” you began, but it was too late.
She was already plucking the phone from your grip with ninja reflexes. “Ohhh,” she drawled, scrolling with deliberate slowness. “Interesting. Very interesting.”
John leaned over. “Lemme see.”
You lunged, but he was faster, bracing one big hand on Yelena’s shoulder as they both peered at your screen like it was evidence in a criminal case.
“Oh my god,” John said, half laughing, half stunned. “He’s obsessed with you. Look at this one! Morning stubble, pillow hair, abs in the background. That’s not friendly, that’s a man playing dirty.”
Heat crept up your neck, pooling in your ears. “No, he’s just— he always looks like that,” you defended your best friend. “He’s… naturally photogenic?”
Yelena snorted. “Photogenic? He’s flexing.” She tapped the screen, enlarging one of the photos. “See? Bicep angle. Classic.”
You flailed. “He’s literally just holding his phone!”
John wagged a finger like a teacher making a point. “Nah. Guys don’t send selfies like this unless they’re flirting. Trust me.”
The words hit harder than you wanted to admit. Joaquín, flirting? With you? Your stomach swooped, butterflies you thought you’d outgrown years ago suddenly alive and thrashing. You tried to smother but your pulse betrayed you, drumming in your throat as image after image passed under Yelena’s ruthless examination.
You caught glimpses of them too. Joaquín, half-asleep. Joaquín pulling a face mid-training session, sweat-dark curls sticking to his forehead. He looked like he was on the cover of Men’s Health in every single picture.
Your mouth went dry. What if they were right?
Bob, who’d been suspiciously quiet, leaned over the sofa. His eyes went wide. “Oh yeah,” he declared without hesitation. “That’s a slutty Florida man who wants you bad.”
The room froze. You, Yelena, and John turned to gape at him.
Bob blinked, then flushed scarlet. “What? He does! Don’t act like I’m wrong.”
You burst out laughing, loud and incredulous, mostly to cover the way your heart had launched itself into your throat. Yelena cackled, clapping Bob on the shoulder while John doubled over, wheezing.
That night, sleep refused to cooperate. You were on your back in the dark. The ceiling was an indistinct blur above you, Joaquín’s selfies branded behind your eyelids like they’d been carved there.
Your teammates’ voices haunted you—especially sweet, unfiltered Bob’s.
You pressed your hands over your eyes, groaning into the darkness. What if they were right? What if those messy, unposed, grinning photos weren’t just Joaquín being Joaquín? What if you’d been too wrapped up in your own denial to notice that he’d been saying it all along without words?
Your stomach dropped just thinking about it, the kind of swoop that made you feel reckless and restless and half-sick with longing. Attraction, plain and simple, except you didn’t have the vocabulary to name it.
So when your phone buzzed across the nightstand, screen lighting up with his name, you didn’t even hesitate. “Quino,” you whispered, answering the phone.
“Cariño,” he answered, warm and teasing, mimicking your tone. “What? You weren’t asleep already, were you?”
“Obviously not. You know I never sleep before two.” You turned on your side and tucked your arm under your pillow. “What’s your excuse?”
“I was thinking about that mission briefing Sam gave earlier,” Joaquín said. “And then I started thinking about you, and— well, here we are.”
Your breath caught. Joaquín said it so casually, but now every word landed like a spark. After what Yelena and John had said, you couldn’t hear it any other way.
The conversation moved forward at its usual pace. Joaquín’s rundown of training drills, your sarcastic commentary about tower drama, but it all felt tilted. Each of his laughs sounded softer, more deliberate.
When Joaquín told you about racing Sam up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and losing spectacularly, you pictured the sweat on his chest from that selfie, the sun catching the edge of his grin. When he groaned about a bruised shoulder, you thought about how his biceps had looked, corded and flexed, and wondered how they’d feel if you traced the curve of muscle with your hand.
It was stupid. You knew it was stupid. And yet your chest ached with how much you wanted to believe it wasn’t.
“Are you smiling right now?” Joaquín asked suddenly, his voice suspicious and boyish.
You swallowed hard. “Maybe.”
“Good. I like when you smile.”
Your heart skittered. Joaquín had said things like that before, but never had they felt so heavy. Confirmation bias, you told yourself. Except your body didn’t care about logic. Your body was all butterflies and fire.
The two of you drifted into a softer silence. Joaquín must have been lying down too, because his voice was lower now, the edges fuzzy with sleep.
“You know,” he murmured, “DC isn’t really all that far from New York.”
Your eyes opened, darting toward the ceiling like it could anchor you. “You’re kidding.”
“No, seriously. An hour and a half by plane, less than a half hour by Falcon-wings. If I had a free weekend…” Joaquín trailed off, hopeful in a way that made your chest squeeze.
You pressed the heel of your hand over your heart, like that could steady the gallop. “Valentina would kill me,” you whispered. “Especially now that Bucky and I squashed the dating rumours without permission.”
“I’d take the risk,” Joaquín said easily, without hesitation. “I’m pretty sure I can take her.”
You closed your eyes. “Don’t tempt me. Because I really, really want to see you.”
For a beat, neither of you spoke. Then Joaquín let out a soft laugh, breathless, almost shy. “Careful, cariño,” he said. “I’ll hold you to that.”
And lying there, phone warm against your ear, you almost wished he would.
Some days just conspired against you. Today was one of them.
It started in the morning when Bob, in a burst of affectionate enthusiasm, high-fived you so hard you nearly somersaulted backwards. He looked horrified, apologising six times, but the bruise blooming on your arm didn’t care. You knew he was still getting used to his super-strength, and you weren’t badly hurt, so you didn’t hold it against him.
Then Alexei ate the last of your cereal. He didn’t even seem sorry about it. He just shrugged and said, “It is better fuel for Red Guardian,” as if that excused everything.
The tiny miseries stacked higher as the hours went on. You stubbed your toe on the sofa. Your phone slipped out of your hand and smacked you square in the face when you tried to read lying down. Yelena left a damp towel on your bed after using your shower since you had nicer-smelling shampoo. Even the vending machine betrayed you, spitting out a packet of chips that was so broken up it was basically dust.
By the time night rolled around, you were exhausted in a way that wasn’t physical. Just wrung out, fed up, convinced the universe was laughing at you. You sat hunched on your bed, scrolling through your phone with the distinct energy of someone hoping to be distracted.
QUINO 🪽: miss you today. there’s a package waiting for you in the quinjet hangar
You blinked at the words, frowning. A package? This late? And why had he written it like some secret spy dead drop? For a moment, you just stared at the message, heart ticking faster without permission.
Curiosity trumped exhaustion. With a sigh, you shoved your feet into slippers and pulled the sleeves of your sweater down over your wrists. The tower was quiet at this hour, the usual noise hushed down to a low hum as everyone relaxed in their rooms.
When you reached the far end of the bar area, you paused, drawn to the wall of glass overlooking the city. New York at night never failed to take your breath away. The whole city pulsed with restless life, and from up here, you could almost believe you were just an observer floating above them.
When you stepped out onto the hangar, the air was sharp and cool against your skin. But you hardly felt it, because there—standing with his wings tucked close, helmet off, green Falcon suit catching the floodlights—was Joaquín.
His head lifted the second you appeared, and his smile lit up brighter than the skyline behind him. Open, radiant, all warmth. Your heart squeezed so tightly you thought it might burst.
You didn’t think. You didn’t worry about who might be watching or what rules you were breaking. You just ran.
By the time you reached him, you were already laughing, already breathless. You launched yourself forward, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, arms locked behind his neck. His hands caught you without hesitation, steady and sure, like he’d been waiting his whole life for you to throw yourself at him.
“You’re here,” you breathed, words muffled into his shoulder. You didn’t even care that your voice shook. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Joaquín answered, laughing a little, but his arms tightened around you like he wasn’t planning on letting go. “God, I missed you, cariño.”
The admission hit you like a wave. You pressed your face closer, eyes stinging, and whispered back, “I missed you too, Quino.”
For a long moment, neither of you moved. You just held on, greedily soaking up Joaquín’s warmth, the faint smell of soap and jet fuel clinging to him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath his chestplate. Months of phone calls, teasing texts and pixelated video chats melted away.
Joaquín was here, actually here.
When you finally leaned back, you found his face only inches from yours. His eyes were wide, dark and searching, and you could see every ounce of what he felt written plain across them.
Neither of you spoke, but the tension thrummed between you like it had its own heartbeat. For months, you’d skirted the edge of this moment. Too careful, too uncertain, too far apart. But now, with Joaquín’s hands still firm at your waist and your fingers still curled into his hair, there was no more pretending.
You both leaned in at the same time. The kiss was everything and nothing all at once. Not dramatic, not cinematic, just inevitable. Joaquín’s lips were soft, insistent but devoted, like he’d thought about this a thousand times and still couldn’t quite believe it was real. You sighed into him, the sound swallowed up as he kissed you deeper.
“Took us long enough,” he murmured when you broke apart. Joaquín kept his forehead pressed against yours, breath shaky, grin unstoppable.
You laughed, nudging your nose against his. “Tell me about it.”
You reluctantly unwrapped your legs from around his waist, pressing a few delicate kisses to the corners of Joaquín’s mouth as if trying to memorise every curve.
He shivered slightly in the night air, but didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands found your hips again, steadying you, and he bent his head, burying his nose just beneath your ear. You felt his warm breath brush against your skin, and then a quick peck at the hollow of your neck made a soft sigh escape you.
You pulled back enough to look at Joaquín, brushing your fingertips lightly over the curve of his jaw, the stubble rough against your skin. His eyes flickered to yours, wide and bright, and for a heartbeat, all you could do was stare.
It was the kind of look that made you forget words entirely. You swallowed, heart thudding, and led Joaquín towards the Watchtower’s interior. The wind cut through the open hangar, tangling your hair and biting at exposed skin, and even through your sweater, you could feel the chills.
“Come on,” you murmured, tugging him gently along. “It’s freezing.”
Joaquín let himself be led, gawking as you walked through the communal bar and kitchen area. His eyes were wide, taking in the lights, the clutter of mugs and plates, the cosy chaos that was life here.
“Wow,” he breathed, “this place is… It’s like a spaceship apartment or something. I love it.”
You grinned, feeling that familiar swell of affection that always accompanied his awe. “Yeah. It’s still homey, somehow.”
You guided him down a couple of hallways, past the living room, and finally to your door. Inside, the air was warmer, the light softer.
Joaquín paused at the threshold, taking it all in. Shelves lined the walls, filled with novels, a small stack of notebooks splayed on your desk, and a few mementoes from missions and friends. It was you, exactly you, and it hit him visibly.
He stepped forward, eyes scanning your room until they landed on a framed photo. He picked it up gently, cradling it as if it were fragile. It was the two of you from almost a year ago. You’d taken him to one of his rehab sessions and stayed the entire time to offer him some support. The two of you were laughing in a rare, unguarded moment.
“I have this exact picture in my room,” Joaquín said softly, reverently. “It’s… it’s always there, you know? Every time I look at it, I feel like you’re right there with me.”
Your chest warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the heater.
He turned the photo in his hands, gaze lingering on your face before he met your eyes. “I like having a piece of you near me,” Joaquín murmured. “Even when I can’t actually be with you.”
Something fluttered low in your stomach, deep and insistent. You could feel your pulse in your throat, remembering the soft rise and fall of his chest against yours, the warmth of his body pressing against yours.
Joaquín stepped closer, just enough to close the distance. “I couldn’t wait to see you,” he said quietly. “I’ve been feeling so homesick, and I just had to see your face.”
You swallowed, nodding, letting yourself lean into him. Your forehead rested against his shoulder, and you could feel every small inhale, every micro-movement of his adjusting just to be closer. You pressed a quick, delicate kiss to his jawline, then his temple, and Joaquín hummed softly.
You both sank onto the edge of your bed. Joaquín’s grin was wide enough to make your heart ache.
“I still can’t believe you kissed me back,” he whispered, voice a mix of awe and disbelief. “I mean, you want me the way I want you?”
You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched into a smile. “You’re dramatic,” you teased softly, brushing a curl from Joaquín’s forehead. “Of course I feel the same way.”
He let out a breathy giggle, head tipping back slightly. It made your chest feel like it could explode. “Wow,” he murmured, voice low, “so I’m not imagining it? You actually, really want me?”
“Maybe,” you said, letting the word dangle teasingly in the air. “Depends on the night. And the lighting.”
Joaquín leaned closer, nudging his forehead against yours. “I’ll take what I can get.” His thumb brushed across your cheek, light and deliberate. “Because I’ve wanted this for months. You don’t even know.”
You swallowed, heart thudding. The truth was, you did know. Or at least, you had known in fragments, tiny flashes of realisation that kept you awake on nights like this one.
“I’ve wanted it too,” you admitted quietly, voice almost lost in the hush of the room. “Probably for just as long.”
Joaquín’s lips curved into a soft, contented smile, and he leaned in to press a quick kiss to your temple. “You’re a little terrifying,” he said, breath warm against your skin. “Independent, mysterious, and somehow perfect at winding me up and making me feel like I could fly.”
“I’m aware,” you murmured, letting a laugh slip out, low and soft. “You’re not exactly subtle either.”
He leaned back just slightly to look at you, eyes sparkling. “Subtle is boring. You, on the other hand, keep me guessing. It’s amazing.”
“So, do we… admit how badly we both want this?” you asked softly, teasing but earnest.
Joaquín chuckled, a warm, low sound that vibrated through you. “Maybe we should whisper it. Make it official. Even if the whole world can’t know just yet, I’ve been craving you.”
You let the words settle between you and whispered back, “Me too. Badly.”
He nudged your shoulder playfully. “So, now that we’ve officially confessed, does this mean I get to make you watch my TV shows forever?”
You smirked. “You can certainly try. But fair warning, I’ll be spoiling all the predictable plot twists.”
Joaquín leaned in closer. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His grin widened into a smirk. Joaquín leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. Your body reacted before your brain could even register it, arching instinctively into him as he hovered over you, fingers threading through the silky softness of his dark curls.
His hands braced himself on either side of you, sinking into your bed and positioning his knees between your parted legs. Your hands roamed over his shoulders, memorising the feel of him, the slight tension in his muscles from months of holding back the want you both now released.
Joaquín groaned softly, lips brushing against yours again and again, each one leaving fire in its wake. Your heart hammered in your chest, heat pooling low in your stomach as his tongue traced along your lower lip. The push and pull of it all felt at once new and achingly familiar.
Your hands drifted to his back, pressing him down against you. Joaquín’s careful weight was comforting, possessive, and thrilling. Your arms slid up and around his shoulders as your hips shifted, seeking more contact, more of the electric friction that had been building since the moment he’d arrived.
You broke the kiss only to gasp, shivering from the mix of cold air and heat radiating between you. Joaquín’s eyes were dark, glimmering with the same need that made your chest ache. He arched into you as you dragged your mouth across his face and to his neck, leaving gentle, needy kisses, nipping softly in a way that made his knees weaken.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Joaquín murmured, breath ragged. He tilted his head to give him more access. “You have no idea.”
“I think I do,” you replied, grinning as you kissed along his jaw. Your fingers dug into the hard shell of his Falcon suit, tugging him closer as if you could somehow bridge all the months of distance in that single motion.
Joaquín groaned, a low, rough sound that sent shivers straight down your spine. His hands slid from the bed to the small of your back, pressing you into him with an urgency that made your knees shake. You tilted your head back, letting him take the lead, lips and tongue moving against yours.
Every kiss, every press of lips, every soft brush of teeth carried the electric thrill of new territory. You could feel the rapid thrum of Joaquín’s heartbeat against your own, matching your own frantic pulse, and it made your stomach flutter. You tangled your hands in his hair, pulling him closer as his hands wandered over your back, brushing against your sides.
The taste of him, the faint tang of sweat from the day, only sharpened the sensation, making every inhale, every sigh, send sparks through your body.
Joaquín tilted his head, lips dragging down your jaw. You whispered his name, and he caught it in his mouth, murmuring yours back with a breathy groan. You tested boundaries you hadn’t dared before. Joaquín nipped your neck, and you responded in kind, teeth and lips and whispered moans overlapping in a rhythm all your own. It was messy and perfect.
“Cariño,” he groaned into your neck, voice rough. “I— fuck, I can’t believe this is happening”
“You better believe it,” you breathed back, pressing your lips against his shoulder, tracing the slope of his neck, memorising him again in every way you could.
The sound of the door swinging open didn’t give you time to react. “Hey, do you know why the security system keeps flagging something in the hangar—” Bucky froze at the sight of Joaquín on top of you, still wearing his Falcon suit.
The three of you stared at each other, eyes wide. After a moment, the surprise on Bucky’s face melted into something amused. He stood there, arms crossed, the sheer deadpan of his expression making your stomach flip between mortification and humour.
“I’m too old for this shit,” Bucky said flatly, voice cutting through the haze of heat and adrenaline like a guillotine. He blinked, clearly weighing his life choices.
John’s voice rang out from the hallway. “What’s going—” He gasped in a scandalised tone, opening your bedroom door wider and taking in the image before him. You were below Joaquín, your arms still tangled in his hair, while he had red marks littering his neck and jawline from your efforts.
Ava barreled past John, phone already raised. “Wait! Hold up!” She snapped a picture without a second thought, capturing Joaquín perched on top of you, grin wide, completely unfazed.
Bob shuffled in next. “Finally,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. You shot him an offended look that said you’re just as bad as the others, and he gave a little shrug.
Yelena followed, arms crossed, deadpan as ever. She looked at Joaquín and tilted her head, eyes scanning him like he was a puzzle she’d just solved. “Golden retriever,” she declared, nodding once. “Of course.” Her dry amusement made Joaquín grin sheepishly, and you groaned, covering your face with your hand.
Joaquín, however, didn’t flinch. Lips still swollen, jaw marked with your tender kisses, he stood up and waved at your team. “Hi! I’m Joaquín. Pleasure to finally meet you properly,” he greeted cheerfully, voice bright and undeterred. “I guess you already… uh… know of me?”
Bucky put his face in his palm. He gave a single, exasperated groan from the doorway. “I need a drink,” he muttered.
You sank further into the bed, using your blanket to cover your face as the rest of the team filed out, giggling. Joaquín leaned down slightly.
“Don’t mind them,” he murmured, pulling the blanket from your head and brushing his lips against yours. “They’ll get used to me eventually.”
“I don’t know if ‘get used to’ is the right phrase,” you whispered back. You peeked up at Joaquín, who was still grinning like a fool. “Well, I guess the secret’s out.”
He leaned in, voice low and teasing. “Just the way I like it.”
summary: lovergirl at heart, you've decided love isn't anything you're willing to risk pursuing again after your last boyfriend. and then comes clark kent who's a little too perfect at breaking down those walls. and isn't that terrifying?
word count: 10.8k...yeah <3
a/n: the word count getting longer when i edited oh i'm sure. this one was serious to me. like notes app outline, specific through-line playlist, pinterest board inspo serious. hope it's serious for you guys too hehe fem!reader, no spoilers, avoidant attachment tbh, bit angsty but happy ending! happy reading, let me know what you think <3
If there was anyone more cynical about love in Metropolis than you, you’d be delighted to know.
It’s not like you’re against love by any means. In fact, you really, well, love it. You love your friends and you love seeing them in love. You enjoy romance books and love songs and romantic comedies. You take pleasure in finding the ways in which love is around you each day.
You’ve just decided that romantically, it’s not for you. Not anymore, at least.
It’s been three years since you swore off of it and honestly? You’re doing great! So what if sometimes a viscous yearning creeps through your apartment on a Sunday night? That hardly means anything!
Relationships are one thing and you’ve had your fair share. Once in high school, a couple in college. They never ended well, not like how you would’ve wanted rather. Sometimes they faded like a bruise and other times you were left alone and behind in the rearview.
But none of that mattered to you anymore once you met Ben.
Six years ago, you fell in love. Ben was a dream and a half. The kind of guy you bring home to your parents and revel in the way they gush over him and the both of you together. The kind of guy someone writes songs about with a swooning guitar and lyrics that wax poetic. The kind of guy you marry. At the time, Ben was it for you.
Then, three years ago, Ben broke your heart. You hadn’t seen it coming. It felt completely out of left field. You believed you were everything each other wanted until he was walking out the door.
“I’m not..happy anymore. I don’t know how to make you happy.” He had said and you remember a nauseating confusion coursing through your veins. What did that mean? You were happy….weren’t you? And before he walked out the door, “I hope you find someone who does.”
He clearly had. Two months later he was engaged to another woman you’d had in your home at dinner parties and holidays and suddenly it all clicked. You’re only slightly embarrassed to admit how long you cried and the amount of sweets you ate to try and feel better.
While the wound was still fresh, the ache cutting so deep in your bones, you decided you never wanted to risk feeling like that again. It took you a while before you felt like you were yourself again.
Two years ago, you got a job as a columnist for the Daily Planet. A basic “how-to” column that you’ve come to love, even if you’d rather be writing something more substantial. There, you met Clark Kent.
He was everything Ben wasn’t from the second you were introduced. The second he’d fixed his striking blue eyes on yours and smiled at you, something inside you jolted. And you’ve been petrified ever since.
Because if there was anyone who could make you consider taking that risk again, it was Clark.
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆
It’s a busy day at the Daily Planet. Well, it’s always “busy” but it’s especially so today. The printers are working overtime and there’s people fluttering all about, checking edits and typing like there’s no tomorrow. An argument splits open near the coffee counter.
Deadlines will do that to you.
You’d arrived earlier than usual, earlier than you needed to considering you were basically done with your newest “how-to” for the next print. Still, the only time you can pin Perry White down to talk to him about writing for something other than your column is on his way from the coffee machine and back to his office.
“But Perry, I think I’ve really got something here! If you’d just look at it-” your footsteps are hurried as you keep pace with Perry. He stops suddenly and you nearly stumble over yourself, words getting cut off.
“Look kid, I appreciate your enthusiasm but right now I need you to stick to your how-to’s,” he fixes you a look and fits his cigar between his lips before resuming his trail to his office. You sigh, but you don’t want to give up that easily.
“But could you at least just-” you start to plead and then you’re cut off again. He holds up a finger this time and heaves a sigh.
“I’ve given you my answer, kid. We’ve got a deadline to meet.” The words form around the cigar in his mouth. You wither, footsteps faltering.
“Yes, Chief,” you sigh, to which he just shakes his head. Your shoulders sag, the entirety of your body drooping like a wilted rose. When Perry’s out of earshot you toss your head back with a frustrated groan.
This wasn’t exactly where you thought you’d be by now. Two years seemed like enough time to establish yourself at the Daily Planet. Your little column that’s shoved towards the back of the paper seemed like as good a stepping stone as any towards writing about something more.
It’s not like you dislike your column, in fact, you really enjoy it. You just feel like you have more to offer after two years if Perry would just give you the chance one of these days.
You’re admittedly, a little visibly pouty on your way to your desk. It feels a little childish, like you might as well cross your arms and stomp your foot with a hmph! You don’t, of course. Though maybe it’d provide some kind of emotional release. That’s why toddlers do it, right?
As you near your desk you notice there’s a new coffee cup waiting for you by your keyboard. The culprit, you notice next, is standing next to your desk with his bag still on his shoulder like he just got in. Which, he probably did.
It’s hard for you to stay grumpy at the sight of Clark. His tie is slightly askew and he’s holding his own cup of coffee, hot where yours is iced.
He’s far too nice to you, you think, but he’s a wonderful friend. And God knows you were in dire need of a good one after what happened. Sometimes though, when you start to feel a little lonely, you wonder if he’d be a wonderful boyfriend too, but you’re quick to shove that aside.
It’s better for you to just be friends. Less scary that way. Less of a risk that you end up absolutely demolished again, too.
“Was just dropping this off. Just how you like it,” he says when you’re within earshot, motioning towards the coffee that wasn’t there when you’d gone after Perry this morning. You can see the ring of condensation it leaves against the lacquered top of your desk. You smile at him.
“Thank you. You know you don’t have to.”
He matches your smile and shrugs.
“Yeah but I want to,” he says. There’s a faint pink that blushes his cheeks but you think it might just be the lighting. Still, you revel in the fact that he wants to do a nice thing for you. You try to quell it. The familiar fear of getting too close to someone again prickling your skin.
On paper, Clark is the perfect guy to be with after Ben. He’s charming and patient and kind, overwhelmingly so, to everything and everyone he encounters. He never fails to make you smile. Doesn’t hurt that he’s devastatingly handsome, too.
Truth is, Clark Kent scares you to death.
“How’d it go with Perry this morning?” he asks, breaking you from your thoughts. You deflate, frustrated all over again. A grimace pulls at his face at the look on yours and the huff that escapes you. “That bad?”
“He refused to read it! Appreciates my enthusiasm but wants me to,” you twist your voice into your best impression of your editor-in-chief, “stick to my how-tos.”
You relish in the chuckle your impression pulls out of Clark. He opens his mouth to say something and is cut off.
“Stop flirting and get to work, Kent. We’ve got a deadline,” Perry’s voice seems to boom as he strides past your bullpen on the floor. Clark flounders, cheeks warming into an embarrassed red. You’re all too aware of the amount of eyes on you and you feel yourself start to fold inwards.
The two of you look at each other and Clark flashes you a tight lipped, shy smile. He motions towards his desk across the way and you nod, wordlessly communicating with each other.
“Thanks again for the coffee,” you say before he can walk away.
“Anytime, really,” he says as he passes. There’s a fleeting press of his hand against your back. Your breath gets stuck in your throat, heat radiating out from where his touch lingered. You steel yourself for a beat before sitting down at your desk.
The ice in your coffee shifts as you log into your computer. You glance over to Clark though you can only see the back of his head from here. The side of your hand brushes against the cold drops of condensation on your coffee cup. Goosebumps skitter up your arm.
When you finally take the first sip, a pleased hum drifts out of you. It’s just how you like it, like he had said, but it’s also better somehow. Familiar, but different in the best way.
Just like Clark, you think.
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Despite it being sarcasm, you can’t get Perry’s insinuation that Clark was flirting with you out of your head. It’s been weeks and no matter how hard you try, it stays at the back of your mind constantly. And it’s starting to do a number to your nervous system.
Sure, maybe your interactions can be read as flirtatious but Clark’s also your closest friend. It’s just friendly banter and actions to show you care. Hardly anything romantic.
That’s what you keep telling yourself anyway.
It’s a Wednesday towards the end of summer when you start to notice something different.
The second the workday ends, you’re logging out with a swiftness. You’re not alone. Nearly everyone at the surrounding desks does the same.
There’s a shuffle of sound as everyone starts to pack up their things. The corner of your notebook bends as you shove it in your bag and you curse under your breath. You’re inspecting it, trying to bend it back into place but the crease is still there in the corner. Annoying.
“Heading out?”
The sound of Clark’s voice behind you makes you jump in surprise, your bag falling from your hands and to the ground. You’re pressing your hand to your chest, trying to calm your racing heart. He at least has the decency to look apologetic when you turn to face him.
Clark has a bad habit of sneaking up on you. You’re not sure how someone so…big can be so quiet. Or how he only seems to be able to sneak up on you, considering his occasional clumsiness tends to alert his presence. Too busy always trying to not occupy so much space that he almost seems to occupy even more.
“Sorry! Sorry.” He’s dropped to the ground to retrieve your bag and bent notebook for you. His lips press together in a sympathetic grimace as he hands them over. Your hand falls from your chest to take them.
“Jesus, you’re like a stealth agent or something, Clark. I’ll never understand it.” You shove the notebook into your bag and sling it over your shoulder. He shakes his head and is reaching to grab your water bottle for you before you even get a chance to turn around and get it yourself.
He holds it out to you and you smile your thanks. There’s a shock of something almost magnetic when your fingers brush his in the exchange. You try not to flinch away too noticeably.
“Do you have plans? Like, now?” he asks, almost a little nervous. It makes you nervous and you hesitate in your movements. The corners of your eyes crease as you narrow them quizzically at him. “Sorry, that was..really forward.”
“No…why?” You start to walk away, full trust that he’ll follow you. He does. You slide your water bottle into your bag as you walk, Clark keeping pace. “Do you?”
“Oh! No, no I–Well…maybe?” he stumbles over his words and you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His shoulders straighten just a tad. “There’s this new ice cream place that just opened downtown and I saw it and thought of you and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to check it out?”
You nearly trip over yourself, a pit dropping from your throat to your stomach. He thought of you. Is he asking you on a date? He thought of you. A mirage of emotions rushes through you and over your face. Clark starts to panic at your silence.
“Totally friendly!” You let out a soft breath. He thought of you. “Obviously! We don’t have to, unless you want to. And it doesn’t have to be tonight, sorry I didn’t–”
Clark’s a panic rambler you’ve come to notice. It’s rather endearing if you’re honest. The two of you pause outside the elevator. You nudge him with your shoulder which jostles you more than it does him.
“Tonight’s great, Clark,” you say, cutting off his rambling. He looks at you and breathes something like a sigh of relief at the sight of your smile. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. He lets you in first, mumbling under his breath.
“Great. Great, okay.”
Clark leads you around downtown Metropolis, his hand hovering just above the small of your back as a guide when needed. You fall into step and easy conversation the whole way, Clark making you laugh without even trying to be funny.
You mention the argument that you heard break out by the coffee this morning and he tells you it was Jimmy and Lois arguing–Jimmy annoyed that Lois has used up all the sugar. He mentions his Ma is planning to come visit him in the coming weeks and you swear you can feel your chest start to expand at the evident admiration for her in his voice.
“Here it is!” he announces a few minutes later as you turn a corner.
The first thing you notice is the red, yellow, and blue striped awning with scalloped edges. A sign above reads Super Scoops in bright letters and a bold font. The obvious hero homage makes you snort but the small line out the door leads you to believe it must be good.
“How’d you find this place?” you ask, relishing in the shade the awning gives while you wait in line.
“Just happened upon it on the way into work today,” he shrugs. He hopes you don’t realize his route to work from his apartment never crosses this section of downtown. If you do, he’s none the wiser.
“And the whole,” you wave a hand around, “Superman of it all isn’t at all why you wanted to try it?”
You’re teasing. Poking a jest at his superhero work connection. Clark scoffs a little though there’s no malice behind it, and briefly wonders if maybe you’ve figured him out. (You haven’t.)
“No!” his voice pitches up an inch. “I know you like ice cream and you just did that how-to bit about summer and I just thought you might like it s’all.”
There he goes again. Thinking of you and sending your heart ablaze. You need to get a grip.
The line moves quickly for which you’re thankful. When you get to the counter, you opt for a swirl of soft serve on a cone and Clark gets his in a cup. The price seems a little outrageous for what you’re getting and you accredit it to the theming.
You pull out your wallet and Clark gives you a piercing look, bumping your hand away though not unkindly. You go to protest but relent and put your wallet back in your bag when he swipes his card. He shoves his wallet back into the pocket of his slacks, stepping off to the side with you.
“I could’ve paid for that, you know,” you say, eyes locked onto the employee dispensing the swirl of chocolate and vanilla onto a cone. The uniforms here are rather silly. Blue t-shirts with little red capes attached, the parlor’s logo on the back.
“I know. I didn’t want you to,” he states simply, like he’s telling you the sky is blue. You probably should’ve expected it. Small town, farm boy chivalry and such.
Clark collects your ice creams from the teenager behind the counter who looks a little miserable. You accredit that to the uniform. He passes your cone off to you as he leads you out the door.
A comforting silence hangs around you as you linger in a little grassy patch next door. There’s kids running around and a dog chases them off leash. A hum of delight escapes you at your first taste of the soft serve. It’s exceptionally good.
Golden rays of the fading sun cast a radiant haze around the outline of your body. Ice cream is starting to melt around the rim of your cone. The surface tension breaks and a rivulet slips over your knuckles. You let out a soft gasp, more an exhale than anything and quickly lick it off.
Clark’s looking at you. Endearment glimmers in his irises, the sunlight reflecting off of it. You’re trying desperately to ignore the sticky feeling on your knuckles. You need to wash your hands. Or steal a generous glob of hand sanitizer even.
You catch his eye and feel pinned by his stare. You blink at him.
“What?” you ask. A thorn of self-consciousness pokes at you for a brief moment. Clark shakes his head.
You’ve got a smear of vanilla soft serve across your left cheek from when you tilted your hand to lick the ice cream off your knuckles. Your eyes are doe like. Backlit by the setting sun, the fleeting rays highlight the frizz in your hair, creating a halo around your head.
Clark thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.
“You’ve got a little..” he gestures towards his own face. You bristle with a light embarrassment. Before you can reach up to wipe away the ice cream from your face, Clark beats you to it.
He’s somehow procured a napkin and softly wipes the ice cream you smeared across your cheek away. You don’t remember seeing him grab them on your way out of the parlor.
Time seems to slow. The seconds drag by like the pouring of a thick stream of honey. The moment feels incredibly intimate for what it is. Your breath stills in your lungs.
“There we go,” he says. He turns and tosses the napkin into the trashcan. The spell breaks. Your fingertips reach up to graze against the spot he cleaned. You drop them before he can turn back around to catch you.
“Thank you,” your voice feels a little shaky. Clark smiles at you with a soft shake of his head, a silent don’t worry about it, and takes a bite of his ice cream.
“This is really good,” he says, swallowing it down. He looks so..boyish in this moment and it does something funny to your heart. Combined with him wiping your face clean, you’re a little afraid you could go into spontaneous cardiac arrest.
You’re staring at him, something sweet and awe-like in your eyes. Something in Clark brightens at your attention. His cheeks twinge pink and he smiles softly.
“Careful,” he points at your cone that’s starting to melt down to your fingers again. You blink away, embarrassed at your staring and hurriedly lick up the melted cream. What is going on with you?
Clark seems to have figured out a way to weasel himself inside and poke at your tender bits, making things in your chest twitch and move in a way they hadn’t in years. You weren’t sure when he had been able to step in so close to do so.
It feels all too familiar, yet different, just like that coffee he’d brought you a few weeks back. Your heart stutters, the beat spelling out an uh-oh.
You think you might be falling in love with him.
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Things steadily progress with Clark after your ice cream not-date.
You’ve crossed into hug territory. Simple side ones when you see him in the office in the mornings. Longer, more proper ones when you go your separate ways after a hang out. Each one starts to untie the rope that’d been knotted around your heart three years ago.
The risk grows more and more each day and now it feels even more ominous. Because now Clark’s more than just a potential romantic partner, he’s also one of your closest friends. And the thought of losing him in two ways instead of one scares you infinitely more.
You don’t mean to work so late on a Friday but it happens anyway and when you log out and pack up your things, the moon has risen completely in the sky. Clark has stayed late today too but you wonder if he was just waiting for you to finish so he can walk you home.
You’ve never asked and he’s never outright offered except for the very first time. Now it’s just become something unspoken. A given in your friendship. You appreciate it all the same.
He lingers outside your apartment with you tonight and you can tell something’s bothering him. Like he’s holding himself back, restraining from something. You go to ask if he’s okay or what’s wrong but you never get the chance.
Because Clark asks if you want to get dinner with him tomorrow night.
“Like a date. A nice, proper one with dinner and dessert.”
And despite the fear that shivers down your spine and the choking anxiety like a lump in your throat, you agree.
“Yes. Yeah, that sounds…nice.”
You hope your smile looks real and not as scared as you feel. He seems to buy it. He’s beaming with glee, trying to hide the intensity of it and failing. Quite adorably, you might add.
“Okay. I’ll pick you up at 7.” He states. No sense of a question, just a simple statement. Warmth rushes through you.
“Okay.” The word is pushed out with a breath. Clark smiles at you.
“It’s a date!”
His enthusiasm is comforting and you squeak out a confirming uh huh! which is all you can seem to muster. Words are failing you. He reaches out to squeeze your hand briefly instead of hugging you goodbye tonight.
You’re grateful for the change, certain he would’ve been able to feel your racing heart when your chest pressed against him. You watch him walk a few strides down the hall before you go inside.
You’re already nervous when you wake up on Saturday morning. You spend a lot of the day panicking, over both the mundane and existential. Should you wear a dress? What if this goes horribly sideways and the two of you never speak again?
The usual.
In the end, you decide on your nicest dress, or rather, the nicest date night dress you own. You feel good. So long as you don’t think too seriously about it all.
You’re trying to practice some age-old breathing exercise in the mirror to calm your nerves. Trying not to overthink too much about your shoes or your hair or how this is your first date in three years. You’re interrupted by a knock on your door.
A quick glance at the clock on your way to the door shows it’s seven on the dot. You’re a little surprised at Clark’s punctuality. Not because you didn’t think he wouldn’t be but because you’ve never experienced it before. A punctual date, that is.
You pause at the door for a beat. Then, you shake out your hands and swing it open.
Clark stands at your doorstep with a bouquet of fresh cut flowers. Peonies and delphiniums, chamomile sprinkled amongst blushing roses in a brown paper wrapping tied with string. He must’ve stopped by the florist for these, you think. It might be the prettiest arrangement anyone’s ever shown you, let alone given you.
Clark is staring at you, jaw a little slack. You feel yourself start to fluster under his gaze, shrinking slowly.
“Wow. You look..” his voice trails off, eyes dropping to what you’re wearing and back up to lock with yours. “You look great.”
Your smile is a little shy, bright around the edges. The heat beneath your skin makes you feel like you could burst into flames.
“Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself,” you say. He’s wearing clothes similar to what he wears to work, a charcoal pair of slacks and the usual white button down but he’s not wearing a tie and the sleeves are pushed up his forearms. It’s really doing something to you.
A blush rises on his cheeks and it’s his turn to offer you a shy smile. He clears his throat.
“These are for you,” he says, holding the flowers out for you to take. The paper crinkles as you take them from him. Your fingers brushing sends a pleasant zing! down your back. You can’t resist pressing your nose against the blossoms.
“They’re beautiful,” you say on an inhale. Clark could say the same about you ten times over. “Come in. I’ll put them in a vase and then we can go?”
You back up to let Clark inside and he closes the door behind him. He stands in the tiny entryway. It’s not very big, your apartment; it looks even smaller with him standing in it.
“You can come in further, you know?” your laugh carries through the air like a breeze. He lingers in the entry of your shoebox kitchen now. The bouquet lays gently on the little kitchen table tucked away in a nook off the kitchen.
You’re grateful for the boost of height the kitten heels you decided on give you, albeit small, as you reach up to grab your favorite vase. Clark’s eyes trail after you as you flit around the kitchen. Watching as you bring the vase to the kitchen sink to fill it with water and take it over to the table.
You untie the string and paper around the bouquet and place the flowers in the water with the utmost of care. It’s a perfect fit. You fluff it a little bit, arranging it so each blossom has space to shine. Then, you slide it to the center of your little homely kitchen table.
It’s picturesque. And so are you, standing with your hands clasped, admiring it. Clark wishes he had a camera. You turn and look at him, taken aback a bit at the sweet look in his eyes.
“Ready?” you ask. Clark blinks like he’s been shaken out of a stupor.
“Right. Yes! Let’s go.”
He follows close behind you as you grab your bag off the hook by the door and lock up. It’s your turn to follow him as soon as you leave your building. Ever the gentleman, he walks on the outside of the sidewalk and offers you his arm to hold.
Butterflies that have laid dormant inside you start to revive and flutter around your stomach. It’s a beautiful night in Metropolis, the sky clear and the air fresh. You think you’d be satisfied if you never made it to dinner and just walked around all night instead. Your feet might not thank you though.
He takes you to a nice restaurant a few blocks over. A place as nice as this was always reserved for anniversary dates in the past, never for a first. This specific one Clark leads you into, you’d never been to. The reservations always too hard to come by.
You’re a little awestruck when you walk in. Your eyes dance around, taking it all in as you get seated. Beautiful artwork decorating the walls. The tables covered in pristine white linens. The lights are low and there’s music playing softly in the background. Clark pulls your chair out for you and pushes it in.
“This place is so nice,” you say, as you sit. “How’d you even manage a reservation with so short notice?”
Clark looks a little sheepish, his shoulders hunching upwards towards his ears.
“Oh I, uh- This is going to sound presumptuous and I apologize. I got one a while ago. It’s just taken me so long to work myself up to asking you out.” He says it like a confession. Something in you preens at the idea of Clark liking you so much, he’d plan so far ahead for a first date with you.
Your nerves start to ease as the night progresses and maybe the bottle of red wine you share helps a bit too. It’s easy with Clark. As if you’ve always been doing this. It sends a thrill through you.
Slowly but surely, your defenses start to come down. The hesitancy and fear that normally holds you back starts to fade. Clark starts to see you really shine with each new thing he learns and each new laugh that escapes you.
Just like he said when he asked you out, you get dessert after dinner. A rich slice of the most decadent chocolate cake you’ve ever had in your life. Your eyes close when you take the first bite, a delighted hum escaping you louder than you’d like.
“Oh my god,” you open your eyes and the amused admiration in Clark’s eyes is clear as the moon in the sky. You get a little shy, your skin prickling under his gaze. “This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”
You gesture for him to try it. Clark’s reaction almost mimics yours.
“Golly,” is all he says and you laugh a little at his choice of word, both of you going in for another bite. The cake is gone almost embarrassingly fast but you’re both too stuffed to care. The waiter drops off the check as you take your final sip of wine, draining the glass.
He reaches for it without hesitation, doesn’t flinch at the total, just slides his card into the fold and sets it on the edge where it’s quickly retrieved. You fold your arms and rest them on the table, your hands holding on limply to the space above your elbows.
The edges of you feel fuzzy. Your head is tilted a little towards your shoulder, a serene smile on your face. To Clark, you look radiant even in the dim lighting. When the waiter brings back his card, you watch as he signs and puts his card back in his wallet.
He offers you his hand to help you out of your seat and neither of you let go as you walk out of the restaurant. In fact, you make the move to intertwine his fingers with yours and swing them a little between you. He pulls you into his side and you giggle, your shoulder bumping his bicep.
You feel giddy head to toe. Maybe it’s the lingering effects of the wine. Maybe it’s Clark’s fingers slotted between yours. Or the way he’s been looking at you all night.
All you know is you feel more happy than scared and it’s been so long since you’ve felt this way that you’ve forgotten how good it feels. And maybe it’s your lapse in memory or maybe it’s Clark but it feels even better this time around.
You’re laughing at something Clark says–he’s been making you do that a lot tonight–when there’s a call of your name. The laughter gets stuck in your throat and dies out quick, your steps faltering on the sidewalk. Clark’s eyes are swimming with concern when he looks at your face.
“Is that you?” Ben’s voice is just like you remember it. You turn towards it and your hand falls out of Clark’s grip when you catch sight of him. Because standing next to him is Jane. Beautiful, alluring Jane who drank your wine at your hosted parties and probably slept in your bed when you weren’t around.
You think you might be sick.
“Oh my god, how are you?” Ben gives you a hug, like you’re still friendly and things ended amicably. Like the last time you saw him he didn’t put your heart through a paper shredder. Your limbs feel wooden as you half-heartedly reciprocate. Ben steps back and wraps his arm around Jane’s waist. “You remember Jane?”
She lifts her left hand in a wave and the streetlight overhead catches on the ring on her finger, making it glint. At least she looks a little awkward at the whole situation. You nod, a pounding starting to form behind your brow.
“Yeah, I..I remember,” you reply. You take a deep breath, force yourself to smile and sound way more friendly than you feel. “Good to see you.”
The puzzle pieces start to click into place in Clark’s head. He’s not completely aware of your dating history but he’s easily figures out that’s what this is. And that you’re completely beside yourself. He’s quick to wrap an arm around your waist, steady and strong. You relax a bit without even realizing.
Ben catches the motion and his eyebrows raise a hair. He has to look up at Clark, not by a lot but enough that you notice it if you’re paying close attention. And you are. Then Ben looks at you, silently waiting for an introduction.
“Oh. Ben,” his name tastes like venom on your tongue. “This is-”
“Clark Kent.” He finishes for you, taking a step forward and extending his hand. You think you can see Ben wince from Clark’s grip but it’s gone as soon as it arrives. (And if Clark put more of a grip into the handshake than normal, well that’s nobody’s business but his own.)
There’s a beat of silence that passes. The four of you stand on the sidewalk, almost mirror images of each other. The same wave of nausea passes over you, the pressure in your head getting worse.
“Well, it’s good to see you. I’m glad you found someone who makes you happy,” Ben says, voice genuine. Something in you bristles at that, taking it more as one final nail in the coffin jab at you. Clark feels you stiffen in his hold. You’re not sure what to even say, lips parting but nothing coming out.
It doesn’t seem to matter. Ben nods at you and Jane gives you a tight smile as they pass. You blink at their retreating figures. You’ve long since gotten over the love you held for him but you didn’t expect the pain of it all to still linger.
You don’t want to let this one twisted encounter ruin the great night you’ve had with Clark but you can feel your reservations start to creep back in. It’s like Clark can see you start to slowly build those walls back up after he’d worked to pull them apart all night.
“Hey, you okay?”
You focus on the good. The softness of his voice. The care in his eyes. The steadfast grip of his arm around your waist. You inhale and on your exhale, flash him a shaky smile.
“Yeah. Yeah, that was just…” A plethora of words dance around your head. Weird. Unexpected. Awful. Horrifying. “Strange.”
Clark nods and glances over his shoulder in the direction they walked off in. He looks back at you, your eyes locked where his just were. He clears his throat softly and your gaze finds his.
“Sorry but, I couldn’t stand that guy.” A sudden laugh, loud and genuine bursts out of you. A sentence so unlike Clark and yet, you can tell he means it. His eyes crinkle at the corners at the glow that’s started to come back to your face. He almost hadn’t noticed how dim you’d become in that guy’s presence.
“Yeah,” you say, as your laughter dies down. Your smile softens. “Me too.”
Clark walks you home, conversation still full but maybe not as lively as it had been pre-Ben and Jane. You hate how they seem to haunt you like this. But you revel in how easy it was–and is–for Clark to make you laugh again.
He expects the night to end at your doorstep but you invite him inside for a little while longer. You’re a little surprised, mostly delighted when he agrees.
“Make yourself at home,” you say, kicking off your shoes and walking into your kitchen. Clark toes his shoes off and neatly arranges them next to yours. “Do you want anything to drink?”
Clark glances over and can see you grabbing two glasses down from a cupboard near your tiny stove. You set them on the counter and at his silence, look up to where he’s standing.
“Oh! Water’s fine.”
He takes interest in your photos hanging on the walls and the knick-knacks on your shelves. He particularly likes a corkboard you’ve got hung up with a bunch of mementos pinned: movie ticket stubs, fortunes from fortune cookies, postcards, one of your first how-to pieces from the Planet, a photobooth strip of you.
You bring your drinks in, and set them on the coffee table, water for him and another glass of wine for you. You sit, knees pulled up on the couch and your feet tucked beneath you, your body facing Clark. You like how he looks sitting in your space. Like he fits right in.
You talk for hours about anything and everything that seems to come to mind. You share the abridged version of Ben and Jane and your chest goes warm at how quick Clark notices your need for a subject change. He switches gears smoothly. You laugh so hard your stomach hurts.
The hours tick by without either of you paying much attention. Your drinks sit empty on the table and when the conversation lulls, you take them into the sink. Clark checks his watch when you leave the room.
“Oh gosh, it’s late,” he says. You come out of the kitchen to an apology. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you up. I hadn’t realized it was so late.”
“Clark, it’s okay,” you shake your head with a smile. His mouth is twisted into an apologetic frown.
“Still. I should let you get to bed.” Only then do you realize how tired you feel.
You walk him to your front door and watch him put his shoes back on. When he straightens up, you take a step closer to him.
“I had a really good time tonight.” You say softly. Your eyes shine in the dim lamplight.
“Me too.” Clark smiles. He swallows and shifts on his feet. “Would you..wanna do this again?”
“I’d like that.” You nod, smiling widely up at him. He nods.
Clark leans down to hug you goodnight, his arms wrapping tight around your waist. Yours reach up and over his shoulders. Your body sinks into his and you think you could stay right there forever. After a beat, he pulls back but you don’t let go right away.
With your arms around his neck and his around your waist, it leaves hardly any space between you both. Suddenly, the air feels similar to the moment before lightning strikes nearby in a storm. Your gazes both fall from eyes to lips and back.
Clark’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and you track the motion with your eyes. You swallow, lips parting only just. He starts to lean in and your eyelids start to flutter shut. Your hands are trembling from both anticipation and uncertainty. Not about him, but about the unknown. You send a quick plea outwards that he doesn’t notice.
There’s no telling what lies on the other side of letting Clark kiss you, a faint warning siren echoing in the back of your mind. You decide to ignore it the second his lips brush against yours. You’ll cross that bridge when it comes.
The siren fades into a silent static hum, your senses flooded with ClarkClarkClark. Of the gentle press of his lips to yours, pliant and willing. Of the press of his body against yours as you eagerly push up to reciprocate.
You wonder briefly why you hadn’t done this any sooner. There’s such an ease to it that you almost feel like you’re experiencing deja vu. Like there’s another version of you that wasn’t burned, that gets to kiss Clark like this all the time. You’re envious of her immediately.
His hands slide to your hips to pull you even closer to him and that dreaded siren breaks through the static in your brain. You pull back, your hands falling to his shoulders. Clark’s glasses are askew and have fogged up considerably but he doesn’t seem to care.
“Wait,” you say breathlessly. He’s quick to renew the gap of space between your bodies.
“Sorry-”
“No, no, it’s not- you’re okay,” you pause, chest heaving. You try to catch your breath, coming up short. Your arms fall from his shoulders as you take a step back. “I think I need a second.”
The wounded expression on Clark’s face makes you feel considerably worse. He resembles a confused, kicked puppy and you think you might be sick.
You turn on your heel and make a beeline for the bathroom. Clark catches your shaking hand wiping at your eyes and doesn’t think twice before following after you. To apologize, if anything. Convinced he’s done something wrong enough to make you cry.
The counter of your bathroom is cold against your palms. You take a couple deep breaths in and out. Mentally kicking yourself because why can’t you just be normal about this and cursing Ben (and his bloodline, too) under your breath for causing your aversion to love in the first place.
You turn the tap on, splashing cold water on your face in hopes that it’ll shock your system back to normal. Back to how it felt mere moments ago when you were kissing Clark.
A gentle knock on the door makes you jump.
“Honey, talk to me. What’s wrong?” Your heart pinches, a piece of it chipping away at how sad he sounds. You don’t say anything for a beat. “Did I…” a defeated sigh, “sorry, did I do something wrong?”
You turn the water off.
“Oh, Clark,” you sigh. He hears the lock click and then the door swings open. This time, his heart twists at the expression on your face. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just..”
You let out a sad laugh and then your eyes are pinching shut. You press your face into your hands.
“I’m just a mess.” Your words are muffled against your palms. Clark tsks in disagreement and takes a step towards you. His fingers circle around your wrists and he’s so soft with you, you think you might burst into tears all over again.
“Hey, hey, no. Look at me,” his voice is equally tender and you let him pull your hands away. The reveal of your eyes shiny with unshed tears chips away at his heart. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, nothing, I’m fine,” you sniffle, rapidly trying to blink away the tears. One slips past anyway and he quickly smooths it away.
“You’re most certainly not fine,” he says, voice still gentle but firm. Your shoulders slump. Clark sighs. “Let’s get you some water. That sound good?”
You nod, looking at the floor. He leads you over to your couch and sits you down before getting you a glass of water from the kitchen. He’s back faster than you expect and you whisper a quiet thank you when he hands you the water.
He doesn’t sit until you’ve drunk a considerable amount. You cradle the cup in your hands, looking anywhere but at Clark.
“I’m sorry,” you finally say. You spare a quick glance up at him. “It wasn’t anything you did, I promise. I just…I haven’t done this since..”
“Since Ben?” Clark fills in. You look at him with a small smile that’s equal parts embarrassed and sad.
“Yeah. I just spooked myself a bit,” you say. Clark nods in understanding.
“You don’t have to apologize for that,” he says, resting a hand on your knee. Your eyes focus on it.
“Okay. I just don’t want you to think it’s because of you,” you say, gaze lifting to his eyes. They’re looking at you like you’re made of porcelain. He scoots a little closer to you on the couch and lightly brushes a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His palm settles on your cheek.
“We can take it slow, yeah?” Clark offers. You perk up, a little surprised. After all this, he still likes you. He still wants to try with you. The realization makes you ache. You nod, anyway.
Slow is perfect.
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The air outside has started to go cold, summer finally fading away into a brisk autumn. You’ve five more dates with Clark now under your belt. It’s slowly getting easier, less scary though you can’t deny that your brain continues to do risk assessments over each new romantic gesture.
He brings you a new assortment of flowers each time. The newest, a golden arrangement featuring sunflowers and dahlias, sits in the usual spot on your kitchen table. The sun reflects off the petals through the window.
Clark’s at your apartment again in a handknit sweater his Ma made him, sat at the table and warming his hands with a cup of cocoa. Speaking of..
“My Ma is visiting this weekend,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“And she’d…like to meet you.”
The world seems to still, your body going with it. You blink at him, lips parting and closing.
“Oh!”
Clark rushes his words out, sensing the rising panic in your chest.
“You don’t have to, I know we’re taking it slow and this is definitely, probably not even remotely close to that. But I’ve talked about you so much she won’t stop asking about you, even before this started. It’s only if you want to.”
Your heart picks up at the image in your head of Clark including you in his updates to his Ma. It makes you burn from the inside, a sweetness pooling in your veins. He talks about you. The pendulum swings back and forth in your head as you consider it.
“Okay,” you say. Clark raises an eyebrow at you.
“You’re sure?” When you nod, he beams. He gets up from his seat and comes over to press a kiss against the top of your head. His excitement is sweet to witness. “I’ll call and let her know.”
On Sunday, you go over to Clark’s for dinner.
You shift nervously outside the door to his apartment. Your fingers are stiff from the brisk air outside and from the tight grip you have on the flowers you picked up on the way over. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, willing your body to still.
Then, you lift your fist and knock it against his door. You’re wiping your palm against the front of your pants when he answers the door. His smile is blinding.
“Hi,” he steps aside to let you in. The door closes behind you and he dips his head to kiss your cheek in greeting as you’re toeing off your shoes. “You look nice.”
“Hi,” You smile, nerves still going haywire beneath your skin. “Thanks.”
“Clark? Is she here?” You can hear her voice from the kitchen and you glance at Clark, grip tightening on the small bouquet in your hand. You’re a little nervous that it's not as nice as it could be. Clark presses a hand against the small of your back and you remember to breathe.
He leads you the short distance to the kitchen in lieu of a response. As soon as she sees you, her eyes light up. You smile nervously at her and give a small wave of your hand.
“Ma, this is-” Clark starts to say, but he’s quickly cut off.
“You must be, y/n!” Her accent is thick as honey and it warms your heart.
“Hi,” you hope your voice doesn’t sound as nervous as you feel. “These are for you, Mrs. Kent.”
You hold out the flowers to her and she takes them with a soft audible aw. Then she’s pulling you into a hug and saying, “call me Martha.”
It takes you a beat to huge her back. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been hugged like this. Different from how Clark hugs you, different from your own mother’s hugs. This one has a specific air of home to it that’s overwhelming.
You look at Clark over her shoulder who looks extra smiley. When she pulls back, she looks at the flowers again. Then she turns to Clark who already has a hand extended to take them and go put them in water.
“Clark has told me so much about you,” she says. A hand, weathered and gentle from age touches your cheek. “You’re even more beautiful than he described.”
“Ma,” Clark says, from the kitchen sink. You smile, loving that boyish part of him that still gets embarrassed when his mom shares something she probably shouldn’t. Martha tsks and angles herself slightly to look at him, her hand falling away.
“I’m serious, Clark.” She turns to you and lowers her voice a smidge. “He’s always talking about you, it's hard to get him to stop. I knew I had to meet the girl he’s so sweet on from the second he mentioned you.”
You can feel your skin start to flush. Your eyes catch onto Clark who’s arranging the flowers in the vase and setting them on his own kitchen table.
“You’re the only girl he’s ever been like this over,” she says almost conspiratorially. Your body softens, something distantly familiar coursing through your veins. Clark catches your eye and smiles at you and it leaves you a little dizzy.
When the food is ready, the two of them fall into a rhythm, bringing dishes to the table. Watching the two of them interact, you can tell where Clark gets it from. His mannerisms and certain words and phrases in his vernacular.
Clark pulls out both yours and Martha’s chairs when you sit to eat. The food is delicious and you make a note to ask Martha for recipes when the night ends.
It’s as easy to talk to her as it is Clark. She asks questions about you and your job and your family. And she also asks about you and Clark. How you met and when you started “going steady” as she puts it. You’re particularly fond of the stories she shares about Clark when he was little. Even more fond of the red blush that covers his cheeks at the more embarrassing ones.
In the back of your mind though you can’t get Martha’s words out of your head.
You’re the only girl he’s ever been like this over.
It unnerves you slightly. And at the same time, you wonder how you could even begin to describe how much it means to you to have his Ma treat you so kind and warm. Like you’re already part of the family. Your mind starts to analyze a risk assessment, a voice in the back of your mind poking and prodding and whispering that something this good has to come down.
Clark reaches for your hand at the table and gives it a quick squeeze, momentarily pulling you out of your spiral. You look at him with a soft smile, ever grateful and surprised that he can read you so well.
At the end of the night, Martha hugs you tight again and you soak it in.
“It was so good to meet you, dear,” she says, pulling back from the hug. Her hands hold onto your forearms.
“You too,” you smile and she gives your arms a squeeze. She looks at Clark, who’s holding your purse for you in his hand.
“You make sure she gets home safe, Clark.”
Clark lips twitch. “I know, Ma. I always do.”
He’s true to his words, walks you safely home and all the way to your door like he always does. You linger outside the door until you’re toeing the line of inviting him in. He kisses you goodnight, soft and sweet, his hand cradling your jaw and yours pressed against his chest.
It quiets your brain enough for you to get to bed but when you wake up the next morning, it’s racing immediately again. You’re distracted during the work day and no matter how much you try, you can’t get it to stop. A steady downward spiral.
Clark comes home with you after work. You’re unusually quiet on the walk to your apartment and through dinner–leftovers from the night before that Martha insisted you take home with you.
You clear the table of dishes and Clark helps you wash up. When the two of you go to sit on your couch, Clark sits first and holds out a hand.
“C’mere,” he says, all but pulling you to sit in his lap, though really you might as well be straddling him. For the first time all day, the chatter in your brain starts to dim. “What’s wrong? You’ve been unusually quiet all day.”
You look down at your hands in your lap and shrug. You’re not sure how to phrase it even if you tried.
“It’s..nothing. It’s silly,” you finally say, still refusing to look at him.
“Hey,” his voice is a soft caress against your skin, gentle like his fingers that tilt your cheek so you look at him. “It’s just me. You can tell me.”
Your gaze roves his face, stars in your eyes. Clark pushes a stray hair behind your ear, his fingertips grazing your cheek like a feather. His eyes haven’t once strayed from yours.
A shiver runs down your spine and you try not to squirm. It’s still new being seen like this. Like he’s looking right through you, straight into the messy walls of your subconscious. You swallow, your mouth dry and the words hang in a lump in your throat.
“Just..when I met your mom yesterday,” you can feel the sting of tears behind your eyes, feeling a little silly. Clark’s looking at you, so tenderly it squeezes your heart in your chest. “She hugged me. Like really hugged me.”
The corner of his mouth twitches and something shimmers in his eyes as he scans your face. One hand rubs against your arm and his thumb on the other spreads a tear across the apple of your cheek as he wipes it away.
“Honey, that’s a good thing. Yeah?”
“I-” You close your eyes and take a deep breath, nodding though your shoulders inch up towards your ears. “Yeah. Yes. I dunno, it just…”
Your shoulders drop on an exhale and your eyes flutter open and latch onto his. Clark looks at you with quiet reassurance. His fingertips trail against the skin of your arms featherlight while he waits for you to finish your thought.
“It felt like home,” your voice is so quiet it’s almost a whisper. Clark's eyes seem to soften even more than they already were. The corners of your mouth twitch into a small smile. You look away to wipe at your eyes, damp fingertips coming to rest along the side of his neck. “Been a while since I’ve had that.”
Your eyes lock back on his. Something familiar is swirling in his eyes, your breath getting stuck in your throat for the briefest of moments. Your heart starts to play a symphony against your ribcage. Clark’s hands have migrated to the small of your back.
“You’re starting to feel like home,” he says. Your fingers against his neck can feel the timbre of his voice. There’s a rush of warmth that covers you from head to toe. It’s dizzying enough to leave you a little nauseous, though there’s a fleeting thought that wonders if it’s because his words feel like a euphemism for the L word.
Despite the onslaught of emotion you feel, your lips start to curl into a giddy smile just as Clark leans in to kiss you. His lips slot against yours, slow and sure and it’s enough to steal the breath from your lungs. Your smile gets kissed away but the giddiness doesn’t fade.
His hands on your back pull you closer towards him and your thumbs press against his jawline. Your body feels like it’s starting to liquify in his arms as you melt against him. You pull back and Clark steals one more lingering kiss from you. It elicits another soft smile.
You don’t open your eyes right away, breathing in deep through your nose as you press your forehead against his. His thumbs rub circles against your back and his nose nudges yours. You blink your eyes open and lean back enough to look at him fully.
You run a hand through the mess of curls on his head, eyes as soft as the edges of your smile. Clark’s looking at you like you hung the moon. The simplest of thoughts pops into your head. A flash of fear shocks your body. You push the feeling down and away, locking it up deep in the gooey center of your heart.
But you can’t lock away the thought that races around your brain like a news headline.
You’re a thousand percent, without a doubt, in love with Clark Kent.
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It’s an almost difficult realization for you in the coming days. The familiar dip in your stomach, a pull on your heart, like passing by an old friend in the grocery store. Things are safe with Clark, you’re safe with Clark. But it doesn’t quell the stutter of fear in the beat of your heart that’s been opening itself back to love.
You can’t help it but you do the best thing you know how. You pull away even though it’s twisting your heart into knots. A part of you hopes that he’ll break things off if you push hard enough. Maybe it’ll hurt less that way.
Because what if you love him too much, too hard that he slips away? In your head, it’s better to withdraw now and first before he ever gets the chance to. Logically, you know it’s unlike Clark but you can’t help it. You’re not feeling very rational right now. Common sense has seemed to fly right out the window.
Clark feels utterly confused. You keep things about the same at work but the second you get home, he can feel you pulling away. You stop answering his calls. You don’t let him kiss you, barely let him hold your hand.
He goes into fix-it mode, trying to retrace his steps and figure out if maybe he did something but he comes up short. He tries talking to you about it but you shrug it off, insisting everything is fine when he can clearly tell it’s not.
He decides that maybe you just need a day or two to yourself and he acquiesces, giving you the space that he thinks you need. When he does, you think maybe he’s finally pulling away too and even though it makes you ache, you think it’s for the best.
But when space doesn’t work and you still won’t talk he knows something is really wrong. In his head, he makes a loose plan. He’ll get you to talk to him somehow, if anything to just get some kind of closure if you’ve decided this isn’t something you want to pursue with him anymore. The thought makes him ache but he has to know.
A couple weekends after dinner with his mom, you’re in your apartment staring at the wilted flowers on your kitchen table, wondering if you should maybe get rid of them. But that feels like getting rid of Clark somehow and you can’t bring yourself to do either of those things.
There’s a knock on your door and your heart knows it’s him before you do. You open the door and there he stands. His nose is pink from the cold and there’s a sadness so heavy in his eyes it stabs at the tender bits of your heart.
“We need to talk,” he says, and then at the last second, “please.”
You don’t say anything, just step aside to make room for him to come in. You close the door behind him with a click.
“What’s going on?” he asks as soon as you turn around. You fold your arms, hugging them to you like some kind of armor.
“What do you mean?” you try to play a little dumb and Clark huffs. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him anything close to angry.
“You know what I mean. It’s what I’ve been trying to get you to talk to me about for weeks.” he sounds the slightest bit exasperated. “You won’t talk to me outside of work anymore. You won’t let me close enough to do much of anything. You’ve stopped returning my calls. It’s like you’ve completely pulled away.”
He sounds hurt more than anything.
“Did I do something? What happened?”
You close your eyes and sigh. “No Clark, you didn’t do anything. Nothing…happened.”
“Then why. Why are you pulling away?”
“Maybe we’re just better as friends!” you burst out, arms falling to your sides. “We were moving too fast. Maybe it’s just…easier if we just go back to being friends. Nothing more.”
“Don’t do that,” he says and you blink at him. Your eyebrows furrow.
“What? I’m not-” you pinch the bridge of your nose. Your words have started leaving you both so fast your sentences almost overlap. “Clark-”
“You’re quitting before things get tough. You can’t do that.”
“What? I’m not..I’m not quitting. God, Clark I-” your voice starts to break. “I’m trying to protect myself. I’m terrified.”
Clark’s shoulders soften. “Terrified?”
“Yes,” you say and now the words won’t stop spilling out of you. “I’m scared to death of…of this. Of you! Of us! Of…of all of it! I’m scared.”
Clark looks like a kicked puppy again.
“Me? Us?” his voice sounds so small and your heart twists. “Why?”
“Because I..” you’re almost panting. “Because I love you, Clark. I love you and it scares me because I never wanted to fall in love again. I never wanted to risk the pain of losing someone again. I didn’t want to risk the possibility of things ending just like they did with Ben three years ago.
And then I met you and I just knew if anyone would change my mind it would be you. The thought of being loved by you scared me and at the same time I was scared by how much I wanted that. And I tried not to but falling in love with you was the easiest thing for me to do.”
You’re not sure when you started crying or when Clark got close enough to be able to wipe your tears away with his thumbs. He looks pained at the sight of your tears but beneath that is a joy so vibrant it almost glows.
“Hey, hey, hey,” his voice is a soft melody in your ears. “I love you, too.”
It doesn’t sound as scary to you when he says it outloud. You sniffle, unable to fight the smile that spreads across your face. It’s teary and you’ve got a sudden worry that your nose is running.
“You do? Even still?”
Clark lets out a soft laugh and nods, wiping away fresh tears that have fallen over your cheeks. “Yeah, honey, I do. Even still.”
“It’s an awful lot of work,” you say. Through a wet laugh, “I’m a mess, clearly.”
“No it’s not. Not for me. Not when it’s you.”
The look in his eyes is so intense and serious, you’ve no choice but to believe him. Your heart soars. You sniffle again, feeling like a weight has been lifted off of your shoulders. Your fingers curl themselves into the fabric of the sweatshirt he’s wearing.
“Are you gonna kiss me or not?” you tease and it pulls a smile out of Clark. He presses his lips to yours, so tender and soft, it leaves you melting like that ice cream cone he bought you what seems like a lifetime ago.
Love this go around feels familiar, but it’s different, better even in all the right ways. It’s like returning from a lifelong journey and sinking into a hug.
It feels like coming home.
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as usual, tagging some people who might be interested (if not u can ignore) & those who asked hehehe: @stevebabey @brettsgoldstein @almightyellie @katsu28 @sanguineterrain @anonymouse1807 @superemobitch @manicandobsessive @clonesdserveb3tter @lalameors @celestialend @claudiwithachanceof @pessimisticmoon @clarkstwin @cupid4prez
summary. clark kent doesn’t want you like a best friend; you only bought that dress so he could take it off.
alternatively, two idiots walk into the daily planet’s annual gala.
contains. so much fluff, best friends to lovers, not-so fake dating!au, roommates!au. mutual pining, idiots to idiots in love. alcohol consumption, profanity, etc.
word count. 5.0k
a/n. inspired by taylor swift’s dress. i have another clark kent longfic in the works but i wanted to finish this one up first. thanks for reading! xx
song rec. dress by taylor swift
It’s a nice dress, you think. Really nice.
Not the sort of thing you’d usually wear, with its silky fabric and neckline that dips a little lower than you’re used to, but there’s something about it—maybe the way the silk clings to your waist before falling in soft waves to your knees, or the way the light catches the tiny gold threading woven through the pattern like ivy curling along the hem. You turn a little in front of the mirror, half self-conscious, half curious.
The dressing room curtain shifts, and Clark clears his throat. “Can I… uh, may I see it? If you’re okay with that?”
You smile to yourself. Always so polite.
“Yeah, hang on,” you say, stepping out into the little hallway lined with mirrors. Clark’s leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled neatly to his elbows. His glasses sit low on his nose as he glances up.
He blinks.
“Oh,” he says.
You tilt your head. “Too much?”
“No,” he says quickly. “No, not at all. It’s—wow. It’s really nice.”
“You’re just saying that ‘cause I agreed to come shopping with you.”
He huffs a soft laugh, pushing off the wall. “I’m saying that ‘cause it’s true.”
You step back toward the mirror, smoothing your hands over the fabric, your reflection looking back at you like she belongs somewhere fancier than the local mall’s boutique lighting and faint hum of overhead music. Somewhere, like, say, the Daily Planet’s annual holiday party, an event you’d only heard about through Clark’s ramblings at your shared apartment.
“It’s just weird, you know?” You spin slowly in place, letting the fabric sway. “Thinking about going somewhere that requires a dress like this. I’d have to, like, shave my legs and everything.”
Clark coughs, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Well, I mean, that’s entirely up to you. No pressure.”
“Relax,” you laugh. “I’m teasing.”
“Right.” He rubs the back of his neck, glasses slipping a little further down. “I knew that.”
You look at him again and notice something—he’s watching you like he always does when he thinks you’re not paying attention, like you’re the centre of gravity in whatever room he’s standing in. You’ve seen that look before: when you made him laugh so hard he snorted noodles through his nose, when you looked after Krypto for him for three days and he came back home and found the puppy sleeping on your chest, when you won your office’s impromptu trivia night by naming all fifty states in alphabetical order and brought home the giant jar of salsa and nachos they gave you as a prize. But it always disappears as quickly as it comes, tucked away behind the warm smile and careful distance he maintains.
You turn back to the mirror and say, “So, why are we here, really?”
“I told you,” Clark says. “I need a suit.”
“You own four,” you point out.
“This is a fancier party than usual.”
You shoot him a look.
He sighs, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Okay. Maybe I also wanted your opinion. Is that so bad?”
“No. I’m flattered.” You slip back into the dressing room and start unzipping the dress, your voice carrying through the curtain. “Still, feels a little like you’re preparing for a wedding or something.”
“It’s not that formal,” he calls back, but there’s something evasive in the way he says it.
“You’ve been talking about this party all month.”
“I have not.”
“You absolutely have,” you insist. You tug the zipper the rest of the way down and begin carefully stepping out of the dress. “You brought it up when we were at that Thai place downtown. Then again when you were fixing the kitchen light. Oh, and three times last week when I caught you practicing small talk in the bathroom mirror.”
“That wasn’t for the party,” he protests.
“Clark, you were practicing how to introduce me.”
“Yeah, well. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”
You straighten up, fabric bunched in your hands. “Prepared for what?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “People ask questions, sometimes.”
You frown, slipping your jeans back on. “What kind of questions?”
“The usual. If I’m seeing someone. If I’m bringing someone. And I guess—sometimes I talk about you a lot. So people assume.”
“Assume what?” You tug the curtain open a crack and peer at him.
Clark’s eyes flick up to meet yours. They’re unfair, honestly, the kind of soft blue that you can’t look at for too long without feeling weak at the knees. He pushes his glasses up again, then lets his hands fall to his sides.
“Just. You know,” he says helplessly. “People are nosy, and Perry White and Jimmy think I don’t have it in me to bring a girl with me to the party.”
You snort, pushing the curtain fully open and stepping out with the dress draped carefully over your arm. “That’s what this is about? You’re trying to prove Perry and Jimmy wrong?”
“I mean… maybe not prove them wrong, exactly. Just—Jimmy was needling me. You know how he gets.”
You’re not dumb. You know what Clark meant when he said people assume things. Does that mean you won’t allow yourself to enjoy what is, arguably, the most hyped up social event you’ve ever attended? Of course not. You’re not dumb.
You’re just… a little hopeful.
Hopeful enough to let him zip up the back of your dress without flinching at the way his fingertips brushed the bare skin between your shoulder blades. Hopeful enough to ditz on the most expensive perfume you own, and to wear the necklace he complimented months ago even though it doesn’t match your clutch. Hopeful enough to feel something flutter in your chest when he smiled at you in the elevator, that small, earnest grin of his that always makes your stomach flip.
Now, you’re standing in the gilded foyer of the Metropolis Grand Hotel, on the kind of carpet that silences heels, surrounded by chandeliers that drip with crystals and laughter that spills like champagne. Everyone looks beautiful. Everyone looks like they belong.
But Clark—Clark looks like he was built for this.
It’s the suit, partly. Dark charcoal, perfectly cut, the kind that makes you realise just how broad his shoulders are and how unfair it is that he ever hides them beneath sweaters. But it’s more than that. It’s the way he stands beside you with the confidence of someone who could command a room, but doesn’t. Someone who could be the centre of attention, but always turns it gently towards someone else. Towards you.
He does, over and over again, with small touches and soft glances and little jokes whispered in your ear. You try not to think too hard about it.
The ballroom is warm with low lights and gold accents, the string quartet tucked into the corner playing something festive and rich. Clark guides you to the bar with a hand on your back, and when he leans in to ask if you want red or white, his breath skims the shell of your ear.
You’re not dumb, but you might be a little dizzy.
He disappears for a minute to find Perry, leaving you with a promise to get you a glass of wine and a view of the skyline through the tall, arched windows. You fold your arms over your chest, trying not to read into how often his hand finds the small of your back or the way he introduces you and just your name, like that’s explanation enough.
You catch your reflection in the mirrored column across the room and don’t recognise yourself for a moment. The girl standing there isn’t the one who steals his socks or leaves Post-Its on the fridge or snorts when she laughs. She’s elegant, someone who could be on Clark Kent’s arm and not look even a little out of place.
He returns, two glasses in hand, his tie a little looser than it was thirty minutes ago. He hands you one and you smile up at him. He smiles back.
“You having a good time?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say, nodding. “Surprisingly.”
He nudges your shoulder with his own. “Told you it wouldn’t be so bad.”
You hum in response, lifting your glass in a silent cheers before taking a sip. The wine is good—crisp, dry, a little sweet on the finish. Definitely not the kind of bottle you and Clark would ever spring for on your own. You glance back at him, watching the way he surveys the room with that same warm attentiveness he gives the world every day.
It’s comforting. Familiar. Easy to lean into, which is exactly what you do, tilting your head just enough to rest briefly on his shoulder. He stiffens for half a second, surprised, but you feel him ease. He shifts just slightly, just enough that you fit a little more comfortably against him.
“You get to tell me that you told me so,” you say. “It’s not bad.”
Clark chuckles. “You sound shocked.”
“I just thought it’d be stuffy,” you say, looking up at him through your lashes, teasing. “Or boring. Or full of people I wouldn’t know how to talk to.”
“And is it?”
“Still deciding,” you say, smiling.
“Do you want to dance?”
“What?”
Clark offers a hand. “Dance with me.”
And because it’s Clark, and because you’re not dumb, and because you’re maybe just hopeful enough to believe in moments like this, you take it.
He doesn’t lead you to the centre of the floor. He guides you instead to the edge, where the music is quieter and the chandeliers spill soft gold across the polished parquet. The band has moved on to something slower now, less jazzy, more swoon than swing. It wraps around you like velvet as Clark tucks your hand gently into his and rests the other at the curve of your waist. Your fingers settle against the smooth line of his lapel. He’s warm beneath the fabric. The rest of the room seems to fade in your periphery—just the blurred glitter of gowns and the murmur of conversation, the music, the breath between you.
You look up at him, trying not to read too much into the way his thumb traces idle, absent circles along your waist. “You looked like you were deep in conversation with Perry,” you say softly.
“Perry was just asking about the article I filed last week,” he replies. His eyes flick down to meet yours. “And Lois. And you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, I, uh, won the bet, I guess.”
“…Oh. Right.” You swallow hard and look away. “Was Perry proven sufficiently wrong?”
“Let’s just say he didn’t see it coming.”
Your gaze dips to where your hand rests in his. The warmth of his palm bleeds into your skin like something you’ll still feel hours from now. It makes you ache a little, in that soft, impossible way you’ve been trying not to name for months. He looks at you like there’s no one else here—like all the champagne laughter and shifting gowns and symphonic music is just background to this moment, to you.
He shifts, subtle, drawing you a little closer as the music swells. You let him. You let your body follow his like it knows the steps already. You want him. You want him so badly you think it might be stitched into your DNA at this point, threaded through your bones.
“Well, that’s good then,” you say, trying and failing to suppress the tiny, needle-like prick of disappointment that pokes your heart. “Were Lois and Jimmy convinced, too?”
“Lois thinks you’re too good for me,” he says, voice low, breath brushing against the shell of your ear. “Jimmy started taking bets again.”
You laugh, surprised. “Bets on what?”
“Nothing scandalous.”
You lean a little closer, playful now, emboldened by the press of his hand at your waist. “Clark Kent. Are you withholding journalistic information?”
“I’m practicing discretion,” he murmurs.
You don’t ask what the bets are. You don’t want to know, really, not when your pulse is already a warm thrum under your skin, not when his gaze keeps flicking down to your lips like he’s not sure he should, but can’t stop himself. You’re dangerously aware of how little space there is between you. How easy it would be to close it.
But the song ends.
It fades into the hum of another, and Clark lets out the smallest breath, as though the moment—whatever it was—is retreating, swallowed by the crowd again. His hand slips from your waist, and yours from his hand.
“Come on. Jimmy and Cat and the rest want to meet you.”
Clark doesn’t give you much time to think about it. About the dance, about the way your pulse is still doing this uneven, skittery thing like you’ve just stepped off a roller coaster. He offers you his hand again, not to dance this time but to lead you through the throng of glittering dresses and dark suits towards a cluster of people near the far side of the ballroom.
“They’re going to love you,” he says over his shoulder, warm and certain in that way he always is when it comes to you.
You don’t say anything because you’re too busy smoothing your hair with one hand and trying not to trip over your own heels. You feel like you’ve stumbled out of one dream—Clark’s hand on your waist, the music wrapped around you—and straight into another. You’re aware of everything: the swish of your dress against your legs, the faint citrus scent of his cologne when he moves close enough to open a path for you both.
Lois Lane is exactly what you expected, and somehow more. She’s stunning, with cheekbones that could cut glass and lipstick perfectly in place even after what must be hours of cocktails and conversation. She’s in the middle of telling Jimmy something when she sees you, and her eyes sharpen immediately with interest.
Jimmy’s grinning, camera hanging around his neck, and beside him, Cat Grant leans elegantly against the table, champagne flute in hand.
“Hey, guys,” Clark says.
Three pairs of eyes turn towards you. You resist the urge to fidget.
“This is—” Clark says your name, glancing at you briefly, and for some reason the sound of it in his voice feels… different here. “She writes for Metropolis Monthly.”
Lois’ mouth curves into a knowing little smile as she shakes your hand. “Ah. The famous one.”
“Famous?” you repeat, startled.
“Clark talks about you. A lot,” Jimmy chimes in.
You shoot a look at Clark, who suddenly finds the floor very interesting.
“Don’t let him fool you,” Lois says, delighted. “He doesn’t talk about anyone. Half the time we have to drag words out of him about himself, but you? We’ve heard about the coffee you make, the movie nights, the way you write circles around half the bloggers in this city—”
“Lois,” Clark says, almost warning, a faint colour rising in his cheeks.
Cat takes a slow sip of her champagne. “She’s even prettier than you said, Kent.”
Your face warms. Clark clears his throat. “Okay, and on that note—”
“No, no,” Jimmy cuts in. “Don’t stop on our account.”
Lois leans in, conspiratorial. “For what it’s worth,” she says to you, “we’ve been taking bets on when the two of you would finally show up to something together. Perry owes me twenty bucks.”
You laugh, startled and flustered all at once. “I’m not sure what to say to that.”
“Say,” Lois says, “that I was right.”
Clark sighs. “We came here to have a good time, remember?”
“We are having a good time,” Cat says, setting her glass down. Her gaze sweeps over you once, thoughtful, before she offers a small, sincere smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you. He’s picky about who he lets into his life.”
Clark isn’t looking at anyone now but you.
The group falls into easy conversation after that, talk of work and the ridiculous gala food (tiny crab cakes that vanish in two bites, champagne that tastes expensive enough to make up for it). Lois tells you about chasing a lead last week through half the city; Jimmy complains about his camera lens fogging in the winter; Cat rolls her eyes at both of them with long-suffering grace.
Clark stays close. When someone brushes by too near the table, his hand finds your elbow, steadying you. When Lois cracks a joke, he leans in slightly, like he wants to hear you laugh before anyone else. When he looks at you, you feel it like a warm current under your skin.
Jimmy drags Lois to the dance floor. Cat follows with a bemused shake of her head, and suddenly it’s just you and Clark again, standing at the edge of the room with half-empty glasses.
“What do you think of them?” he asks softly, watching your face.
“They’re… not what I expected.”
“Better or worse?”
“Better,” you say. “They like you a lot.”
His mouth tilts in a small, self-deprecating smile. “They like you, too.”
You think about Lois’ teasing, about Cat’s sharp little smile, about the way Jimmy had grinned like he knew something you didn’t. You think about Clark’s hand, steady and warm, guiding you here in the first place.
You think you might be in trouble.
“Cat was right, though, you know,” he says, ducking his head bashfully. “You do look—I mean, pretty isn’t the right word. You’re gorgeous.”
For a second, you forget how to breathe.
The noise of the gala doesn’t quite go away—it can’t, not with the quartet playing in the corner and the laughter bubbling from the dance floor—but it feels like someone’s turned the volume down just enough for the words to settle between you, soft and weighty all at once.
You glance up at him. He doesn’t quite meet your eyes when he says it; he’s looking somewhere past your shoulder, as though he can’t quite bring himself to watch your reaction.
“Clark,” you say, and your voice doesn’t come out the way you mean it to. It’s quieter.
He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, gaze finally dropping to meet yours. “Sorry. I just—” He exhales, as though the sentence got away from him before he could catch it. “You do. That’s all.”
Your stomach swoops. You’ve known him long enough to tell when he’s teasing, when his voice takes on that light, joking cadence he uses with friends and coworkers and anyone trying to get a rise out of him. This isn’t that.
You should say something back. Something witty, or graceful, or at least coherent. But your brain seems to have been replaced by static, so all you manage is a soft, “Oh.”
Clark laughs, shaking his head at himself like he’s the one being ridiculous here. He takes a sip from his glass, giving you a moment to gather the parts of yourself scattered like confetti across the floor. You fail spectacularly.
Across the room, Lois spins under Jimmy’s arm, her laugh ringing out above the music. Cat leans against the bar now, phone in one hand, champagne in the other. Perry White’s surrounded by boisterous councilmen, all laughing at some joke you can’t begin to make out. The chandeliers catch the movement on the dance floor in fractured golden light, everything sparkling like it’s been dipped in stars.
And you’re here, at the edge of it all, pulse rabbiting in your throat because Clark Kent just called you gorgeous like it was the simplest, truest thing in the world.
You clear your throat, finally finding your voice. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
“Thanks,” he says. His mouth tilts in that small half-smile he gets when he’s trying not to look too pleased.
“You don’t wear suits often.”
“Not unless I have to.” He looks down at his tie, loosening it a little more with one hand. The motion tugs his collar open just slightly, enough to show the faintest triangle of skin at his throat. “Do you like it?”
You blink. “The suit?”
“Yeah. On me, I mean.”
The words make heat creep up the back of your neck. “I… yeah. It looks good.”
Understatement of the century, you think.
Clark’s eyes crinkle a little at the corners, amusement threading through them, but he doesn’t press. He nods once, like he’ll tuck the answer away somewhere secret.
A waiter passes by with another tray of champagne, the glasses catching light as they go. Clark shifts slightly, resting his forearm on the high table beside you so he can lean just a fraction closer, voice dipping low enough that it barely carries over the music.
“You want to people-watch with me?”
“People-watch?”
Clark nods towards the dance floor, where Perry’s somehow gotten roped into dancing with someone from the city council. It looks… painful.
You can’t help laughing. “Oh, absolutely.”
Clark flashes you a grin, before he tilts his head towards the crowd. “Okay. See the guy by the bar in the blue suit? Third glass of wine, hasn’t stopped checking his phone all night. His wife is mad at him, I’m calling it now.”
“Ouch.”
“Couple by the window,” Clark says next. “Third dance in a row. Either married for twenty years or they just met tonight. No in between.”
“What’s your vote?” you say, grinning.
He considers, eyes following the couple as they turn lazily under the chandelier light. “Just met. He’s been smiling the whole time, like he can’t believe his luck.”
It’s impossible not to notice the warmth in Clark’s voice when he says it. Like he likes seeing people happy. Like he collects these little moments the way other people collect photographs.
Your chest does that annoying fluttery thing again.
“Okay,” you say, scanning the room for yourself this time. “The woman in the green dress. She’s here for business. Networking. She’s pretending to enjoy herself, but she hasn’t danced once.”
Clark follows your gaze, eyebrows lifting. “You’re good at this.”
“Observational skills,” you say, shrugging and trying not to look too pleased with yourself.
The music swells again, a slow, easy rhythm. Someone laughs nearby; someone else calls for more champagne. The whole room glitters, alive and bright, but somehow it feels like you and Clark are set just outside its orbit, in your own quieter little corner.
“You having a good time?” he asks again.
“Yeah,” you say. “The best.”
Clark smiles, small and pleased, like maybe that was the whole point of tonight.
You don’t mean to overhear the two girls by the bar.
It’s not like they said anything malicious, anyway. Something about Clark being “a total golden retriever” and how “guys like him don’t stay single for long.” It’s said with a fond little laigh, the kind reserved for someone universally adored, like the quarterback of a small-town football team or the boy who volunteers at soup kitchens on the weekends. Someone who’s good in a way that’s rare.
It shouldn’t sting, but it does.
Maybe it’s because they don’t know him like you do—the small, ridiculous details of Clark Kent: how he hums when he’s pouring coffee; how his ties are always a little crooked until you fix them; how he somehow believes he’s unremarkable, despite literally glowing with the kind of goodness people write novels about.
Or maybe it’s because part of you is terrified they’re right—that someone else will see all of that, see him, and you’ll be left watching from the sidelines like a fool.
Either way, the words burrow into your skin, and suddenly the gala feels too warm, too loud, too bright.
You murmur something to Lois about needing air and slip through the crowd before Clark can notice. The balcony doors are open, the night cool and velvet-soft against your skin when you step outside.
The city stretches out before you, glittering and endless. Wind whips gently at your hair as you grip the railing, trying to shake off the strange ache building in your chest. You’re not sure how long you stand there, staring out at Metropolis like it might give you answers.
“There you are!” His voice comes from behind you, warm and familiar.
You turn, just enough to see Clark step out onto the balcony, the light spilling over his shoulders before the door closes behind him. Out here, he looks different. Softer, maybe, without the warm glow of the chandeliers gilding every edge. The wind tugs at his hair, and he pushes his glasses up his nose the way he always does when he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
“You disappeared,” he says, moving to stand beside you. His presence fills the space easily, the way it always does. “Everything okay?”
You nod, too quickly. “Yeah. Just needed some air.”
Maybe it’s the champagne, or the music drifting faintly through the glass doors behind you, or the fact that he looks devastatingly good tonight and doesn’t seem to know it—but suddenly, the words tumble out before you can stop them.
“Do you ever think about… hypotheticals?”
“Hypotheticals?” Clark turns his head, brow furrowing.
“Like,” you say, fiddling with the end of your clutch, “what if you liked someone. Just—hypothetically.”
“Okay…”
“And maybe everyone else saw it before you did. Like it was obvious or something.” You keep your eyes fixed on the skyline because looking at him feels impossible right now. “But you weren’t sure if saying anything would ruin everything.”
Clark goes very still beside you.
You rush to fill the silence, words tangling. “Hypothetically, maybe you live with this person. Maybe they’re your best friend. And if you said something and they didn’t feel the same way, it would… I don’t know. Break something you can’t put back together.”
The wind catches your hair, sweeping it across your cheek. You tuck it behind our ear.
“So instead,” you continue, softer now, “you just keep it to yourself. And you wonder if they’ll ever figure it out, or if you’re supposed to—I don’t know. Still hypothetical, obviously.”
“Right,” Clark says slowly.
“Hypothetically,” you add quickly, “what would you do? If it were you.”
“I’d tell you.”
Your heart stutters. “What?”
Clark swallows hard. His eyes stay on the city, not you. “I’d tell you, because—hypothetically—I wouldn’t be able to keep it in anymore.”
“Clark…”
“Y’know, funny thing is,” he says, tilting his head just so, “I brought you here with me to have a good time. I don’t like stuff like this, you know that, and I—I really, really want to go home now, just so I can have you all to myself.”
Clark’s gaze stays fixed on the glittering sprawl of Metropolis below. The wind ruffles his hair again, pulls at the edges of his jacket, but he stands steady beside you like the whole world couldn’t move him if it tried.
You open your mouth. Close it. Try again.
“Hypothetically,” you say, “what would you do if we went him?”
His eyes catch the city lights when he turns to you, reflecting something warm, something that makes your stomach flip in a way that no amount of champagne could explain. His voice is low when he speaks; each word has to be chosen carefully before it leaves his mouth.
“First?” he says. “First, I think I’d finally get you out of those heels your hate.”
You almost laugh, because of course he noticed the way you’d shifted your weight a dozen times tonight, the faint wince every time someone made you cross half the ballroom.
“And then?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.
He exhales slowly, the sound mingling with the wind. “I’m trying really hard not to scare you off,” he admits.
“You’re not,” you manage.
“Good,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “Because all I’ve been thinking about, all night, is how badly I want to get you out of here.”
His hand finds the railing beside yours, close enough that your fingers twitch with the urge to reach for him.
“And then what?” you ask again, the words threading out like smoke.
“Then,” he says slowly, “I’d make you tea because you’ll complain about your hangover tomorrow morning otherwise. I’d listen to you tell me what you thought of tonight while you tried to pretend you weren’t exhausted. And then, I’d tell you all the things I should’ve told you before this gala, before the dance, before tonight ever even started.”
“Like what?”
“Like how many times I almost kissed you in the kitchen,” he says. “Or how hard it is to see you in my shirts on Sunday mornings and not tell you how beautiful you look. Or how every time you laugh at one of my stupid jokes, I—”
“Clark,” you whisper, because it’s the only thing you can think to say.
“Still hypothetical, of course,” he mumbles.
“Right,” you say, though your heart is doing somersaults.
“But,” he adds, “I really hope it’s not.”
You think you might finally understand what the girls at the bar meant. Only, they were wrong about one thing.
Clark Kent might be the kind of man everyone adores, but right now, his whole attention, his whole quiet, steady world, feels like it belongs to you.
“It’s not,” you breathe out, “but hypothetically, I really do want to kiss you right now.”
So Clark does.
“Tell me a secret,” Clark says, once he closes the door to your shared apartment behind him.
“Easy. I only bought this dress so you could take it off, Kent.”
Clark smiles against your mouth, fingers trailing up your spine and hooking into the zipper at the back of your dress.
Summary: (Original request form @darcypottah) The events of the summer between fourth and fifth year unfold and you find yourself at Malfoy Manor more than you expected.
A/n: Okay, so I might have said that these summer ones would be shorted, but that was before I started writing it… so yeah it’s like 10k words. But every one of them is so cute and ugh, I’m in love you guys. It’s got fluff, it’s got angst, it’s got magic, what more could you want? Let me know what you think!! Also see the end note for some thoughts from me and my posting schedule!! Love y’all so much
“Malfoy?” My mother asked. “You want to go to Malfoy Manor?” She was trying very hard not to yell at me and I could tell as I bit my lip and looked down.
“Draco invited me,” I argued weakly. “He… um.”
“He what? He’s tormented you for three years Y/n. And now you want to go to the lion’s den?” Her voice was raising as the invitation in her hand fluttered about with her spastic movements.
“It’s not like that mother,” I insisted. “He’s… you wouldn’t understand,” I shook my head, wrapping my arms around myself defensively. “No one understands.”
Who knows if she never showed up, what could have been
There goes the maddest woman this town has ever seen
She had a marvelous time ruinin' everything
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4
Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8
Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12
The Chapter That Never Happened Chapter 13
Chapter 14 Chapter 15
Summary: tying up some loose ends :)
A/n: *emerges from the void*
Everything has an ending. The best stories, and the worst ones. Looking back at my story, there was no better ending I could have asked the stars for. I lost people I loved but I also stood for what I believed in and led an army to victory. No one would forget what had happened in those days. The days of the Great War.
But what is life without tying up a few loose ends. You’ve come with me this far on this journey, and now as I look back, perhaps there are some things that you’d like to know. Some conversations you’d like to hear. Some people you’d like to meet or see again. So, here are those loose ends, tied together.
**********************************
I stepped onto the porch of my childhood home. It was in the efforts to try and find my mother, and try to find some peace and meaning after the past years. Draco came with me, at my side.
“She’s not here,” I sighed, knowing before we even stepped foot in the house that my mother wasn’t waiting for me. “And somehow that hurt’s more,”
“She’ll come in her own time love,” Draco soothed. Maybe he was right, or maybe I’d always be searching for her in the stars like I looked for my father.
Draco and I sat on the porch that night, watching the sun set and the fireflies come to life in the meadow that blanketed around us.
“You cast a patronus,” Draco said as I laid my head on his shoulder, watching the wildflowers dance in the wind.
“I know,” A smile touched my lips.
“It was a dragon,”
“Yeah,” I took his hand into mine, thinking back to the first night Draco cast his own patronus with my father’s wand. How things had changed since then. “My mother always told me that one day I’d find my patronus and it would watch over me like my father,”
He pressed a kiss to the top of my head.
“I don’t think you need anyones protection,” The humor in his voice gave way to the smile that I couldn’t see.
“It’s still nice to have someone beside me—to fight alongside me,”
He was quiet a moment before airing his doubts. “Do you think that maybe…” I knew where he was going with the thought, because it had been chipping at the back of my mind.
“Because they’re so different we’re not meant to be together?” I mused, finishing his worried thought.
“Yeah,” He sighed.
“No,” I sat up, facing him. “I think they’re just right for us. I’ve thought about it—more than I should. But in reality… if we think about it, your lion,”
“Aslan,” Draco’s fingers brushed over my locket. A smile crept to my lips and I nodded.
“And the first task,”
“The what?” I had caught him off guard, a beautiful sight to behold.
“Our fourth year, that first task of the tournament.” Realization struck him.
“Our patronus’ show the start of us—when we really first started to trust each other.” I took his hand back into mine. “They’re not so different after all,”
He laughed without fear and kissed me softly, before pulling me closer. “The start of us,” Draco mused, and maybe he could see them like I could: a younger me standing there, skeptically looking at a younger Draco. Before the war, before the long nights, secret kiss, tears, laughter, love and loss. Two kids who took a chance.
When the sun cleared the horizon and its final rays fading, Draco and I headed inside—to the empty house that still promised to protect me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was a knock on the door. In the week that we had been here, no one had disturbed out haven. No one knew we were here.
Draco looked up from his book. I dislodged myself from the couch and his arms, and went to answer the door, on guard. I stared at the one standing before me, not knowing how to quite process it.
“Hi, mum,” I whispered.
“Hello,”
Time stilled around us. Everything came rushing to the surface only to be stopped by my unparted lips. One thought escaped.
“I did it,” my voice was barely audible.
“I’m so proud of you,”
Tears stung my eyes. After all was said and done relief flooded through me more than anger did. Perhaps it was the peace that blanketed the Wizarding world that calmed my hurt.
“Mum,” My voice broke into tears. Amity wrapped around us as—after years—I got a hug from my mother.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” She whispered, stroking my hair. “I’m so sorry,”
I nodded into her shoulder, letting all of my bottled-up tears come out. All of the stresses from war and the nightmares that plagued me at night—my mother was still there to hold me tight. It didn’t matter that I was still hurting from wounds she inflicted, to know she was there, willing to hold me tight, and call me hers was enough.
“Y/n, are you—” Draco came out and paused. I pulled away from my mother and looked at him. He gave me a soft smile and nodded, heading back into the house.
“Is he upset with me?” My mother asked. I laughed hopelessly.
“I don’t know,” I said, wiping away my tears.
“Are you?” She asked.
“I don’t know,” My voice softened. “There’s so much right now… so much to sort through…”
“There is.” She didn’t deny it, and maybe it was comforting that someone outside of my peers acknowledged that I had been through a lot, and in turn that had caused a lot of heavy burdens on my heart and soul.
My gaze drifted back to hers.
“Do you wanna come in?” I asked.
She shook her head. “That’s not what you want, nor need,” Reaching our she placed per hand on my arm, soothing me before I could argue. “I’ll be around if you need me, but until then, the house is for you—it always has been. Build a life,” She smiled and looked through the window—probably at where Draco was inevitably spying on us. “You’ve found a good one,”
A smile touched my lips.
“Thanks mum,”
My mother inhaled sharply and nodded. “I’ll be off then,” Turning to go down the porch stairs, she paused. “He would be so proud of you,”
Tears burned my eyes again, as I wrapped my arms around her, needing her to hold me just once more before I could let her go. Because in her arms was also the love of my father that was taken from me too soon by this war. A war that I saw an end to. And maybe in that moment, the war within me ended too. I wasn’t the daughter of a Death Eater and a member of the Order of the Phoenix. I was the daughter of Walt and Elizabeth. And that was enough
“Goodbye my love,” My mother said softly. “I’ll always be around.”
“Bye mum,” I smiled as she wiped away my tears. “I love you,”
“I love you too sweetheart,”
I waved goodbye, and with a spell, she was gone. I turned to go inside. The door clicked softly behind me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Professor McGonagall?” My brows pulled together. “Not to be rude, but what are you doing here?”
“This is a summons for you,” She held out a parchment, the usual stern look on her face was replaced with pity.
I took the parchment and opened it, scanning the delicate print. My heart sank.
“This is… this—“ I gaped.
“I’m afraid so,” McGonagall sighed. “There was nothing I could do,”
“Draco?” I called into the house. He was beside me in a moment. I handed him the parchment. “This is serious?” She nodded again.
“I’m sorry my dear,”
“A court summons? They’re putting her in trial!?” Draco demanded.
“Kingsley is very set on it. And he is the new Minister,”
“I saved the school! I helped defeat the Dark Lord! I—really!?” Tears pricked my eyes.
“There’s got to be some mistake,” Draco insisted. “She’s not a Death Eater, she doesn’t even have the mark!”
“I’m sure that the ministry will see that, but I’m afraid that I cannot do anything about the summons,”
I scrubbed my face and sighed. “Thank you Professor. Can I invite you in for some tea?”
“That’s very kind dear, but I’m afraid I must be on my way,” She bowed slightly then disaperated from the porch.
I stood there a while, lost in my thoughts. Draco gave me a gentle squeeze and kissed the crown of my head before disappearing inside. My feet took me off the wood of the porch and into the softness of the grass. I sank to the ground beside a fence post. The sun began to set. My eyes watched the horizon. Millions of thoughts swirled around my mind with no discernible direction.
Was there even a case for me to be innocent? Is this what everything I had worked for come to? To be seen as a criminal for holding a crumbling cause together?
____________________
“Where is she?” Abby asked, helping Pansy through the fireplace.
“Out front, watching the sunset,” Draco sighed, opening the front door. “She’s been out there a while,”
“Can’t imagine why,” Pansy muttered. “They’re seriously putting her on trial?”
“Yep,” Draco sighed. “All this time I thought I’d be the one, and yet…”
“I’ll go talk to her,” Abby kissed Pansy’s cheek. “You guys get to work,”
“Thank you, both,” Relief flooded Draco’s voice.
Abby snagged an old afghan off the back of the armchair and went out through the small meadow. She draped the blanket around your shoulders and sat beside you in the grass. You laid your head on her shoulder. She could see the dried tear tracks on your cheeks.
“How—how could they do this?” Your weak voice held deep betrayal.
“I don’t know,” Abby answered honestly, taking your hand into hers. “But we’re not going to let them get away with it.”
“I don’t—I can’t defend myself in court—I,” You dissolved into tears. “Haven’t I done enough?”
“More than enough,” Abby affirmed. “Don’t worry, we’re gonna work it out—you’ll see,”
“How?” You asked.
“Well, you’ve gathered quite a few allies who owe you once or twice,” Abby pointed out. “And others who just love you anyway. Draco and Pansy are working on it now,”
“Wha—what?”
“We’re gonna build your case,” Abby promised. “And get you acquitted.”
“They’re…” A sad laugh left your lips. You laid back on the grass. Abby knew you were searching for the first stars in twilight.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” Abby smiled at you. “Just rest,”
The days past and my trial date approached like a storm on the horizon—but whether it was just rain or a hurricane, I couldn’t tell. Draco assured me that it would all be okay—he tried to tell me about everything done to build my case, but I wasn’t interested. Grateful, thoroughly, but I knew that if I learned anything about it, I would pick it up myself and try to fix it and my weary heart couldn’t handle that and keep beating like it was supposed to.
So, I dressed smartly and took Draco’s hand before we took the Floo to the Ministry. I kept my head low, and tears at bay.
Though Draco, Abby and Pansy accompanied me into the court room, I had to sit alone for the trial. The distance was drowning. I sat in the hard wooden chair, facing malice and prejudices. Kingsley looked almost predatory, as if he could pin the entire war on my shoulders, casting the blame on me.
I flinched as the charges were read against me. The list of dead was longer than I thought. I didn’t dwell on the days of the Battle of Hogwarts, nor the events that occurred. They haunted me in my dreams, make no mistake, but what was real and what was a nightmare I lost the ability to discern.
Was that much blood really on my hands?
My faith in myself began to waver. Maybe I did deserve to be locked up. A few years in Azkaban with dementors sucking my life force might make me forget what I had done.
Surprise flickered on my face as I saw Remus Lupin stand to my defense as an attorney. It was the first time that I had actually taken note of who was in the room. There had to be at least thirty people all gathered behind Draco and Pansy that I could see—more filed out the door in the back. All faces of those I loved, I had fought beside, I had grown up with.
The static in my ears tuned in and out of Lupin and Kingsley conversing. It wasn’t until their voices raised to shouting that the static was drowned out. My eyes flickered up from he thread in my hands.
“She cast unforgivables! She killed! She’s dangerous!”
“Death Eaters who were threatening our lives! The lives of wizard kind everywhere! She stopped a genocide!” Remus shouted back, obviously frustrated. “She showed remarkable strength and courage in a time of great darkness, and you will not diminish that.”
“They are unforgivables! We have laws for a reason!”
“If I may,” McGonagall stood and the entire room quieted. “That list of names that you read was a long list of Death Eaters who have either escaped from Azkaban, or are known Death Eaters and have killed before. Miss Y/n had very hard decisions to make. The ministry found itself incompetent for lack of a better word. She, along with her friends, engineered an army to face the Dark Lord. Over the years what she went through has turned her into who she is today. She fought along side the other heroes who stand before you. She will be counted among them. You would not punish an Auror for the same thing and you will not punish her.”
“But—” Kingsley was red in the face.
“If you put her in jail, you put the rest of the rebellion too,” The voice that piped up from the crowd surprised me. It was Harry. He stood and all eyes went to him. “Without her, I never would have been able to defeat Voldemort. Dozens more would be dead. You send her to Azkaban… then you’ll send me too,” A hushed gasp filled the room. A small one escaped my own lips.
“Mr. Potter,” Kingsley tried to regain control of the room.
“And me,” Abby spoke up.
“And me,” Neville stood.
Soon everyone around me was standing on my behalf. Pansy, Luna, Ginny, all of the Weasleys actually, Ernie, Hannah, Emme, Blaise, Draco, Harry, Hermione, Ron, Fleur, Tonks, Remus, McGonagall, Moody, Sprout, Flitwick, and others I couldn’t see in the vast room. Kingsley faltered at the large defense behind me.
“You send her then you send each one of us,” Harry spoke clearly. “I’m your stupid chosen one, even if she did something wrong, don’t I have clearance to pardon her or something?”
A smile crossed my face. Intense silence stretched on consuming time and space until it was suffocating me.
“Very well,” Kingsley sank back into his chair. “Y/n you have been cleared of all charges and sentencing. You are free to go,”
Relief flooded through me as the room erupted in cheers. I met Draco’s eyes and he was smiling with pride. I collapsed back into that wooden chair in tears. There was a swarm of people around me, all making sure that I was alright, but they all parted for Draco to reach me.
“Love?” He asked softly, kneeling before me. “I’m here,” He pulled me into his arms and we shared the embrace of lovers. As I exhaled, the weight of the world fell to the floor.
I was free.
I was acquitted.
Now, I just had to find my innocence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Draco?” It was a crisp autumn morning. He looked up from the newspaper. “I’ve been thinking,”
He smiled and set down the paper, giving me his full attention. I almost wished he didn’t.
“I… I know it’s been a long road here… and since we’ve met it’s kinda been hell.” A sad laugh left my lips. “There’s a whole world out there Draco,” My eyes flickered to the willow growing outside the kitchen window.
“Yeah?” He prompted softly.
“Don’t you want to go see it? Be young and reckless and not have to feel like—like you’re running an entire school?” I gestured.
“I do,” He confessed softly. “We are still young Y/n, we have a long life ahead of us,”
“…You still want it with me?” I felt as if the oxygen was being vacuumed from my lungs. “We were just kids when we met Draco. We went through a war together—and now it’s over. The war. You don’t have to stay here,” This house was just as haunted as I was.
“What—where is this coming from?” Draco stood, rounding the small breakfast table. “I want to be with you. I want to share my life with you,” He took my hands into his. “So, let’s go travel the world together—learn who we are outside of the war.”
Hope sparked in my chest. “Really?”
He laughed softly. “Oh my darling, you are one of my best friends, I’ll go anywhere with you,” His words lured me to melt into his warm embrace. We sat on the kitchen floor. He stroked my hair softly.
“Just for a while,” I mumbled. “There’s so much we haven’t seen,”
“I know,” The smile was evident in his voice. “And it’s going to be incredible—and we’re going to learn how to heal along the way,” I nodded into his shoulder.
“I was thinking about maybe even living muggle for a little bit,” The confession was a weight from my shoulders. “I need space.”
“Okay,” His soft agreeable caught me off guard. “I think it would be good for both of us actually. And maybe even fun,”
I laughed softly as tears formed in my eyes. Leaning against him I watched the morning sun move across the wooden floor.
“I love you,” I whispered softly. “And if you… if I’m not…”
“Hush,” it was a soft reprimand. “I think you’re right. We need time away from it all. To find who we are away from it all,”
I nodded and rested my head on his shoulder.
“We’ll come back,” I promised.
“I know we will,” Draco smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Knowing you, you’ll want to come back and help build a better system,”
My cheeks flushed red. I hadn’t told anyone about my ideas to make Hogwarts better—to make the Ministry better, hell to even make Azkaban better. It was time for things to change. I smiled to myself. Maybe I was more rebellious than I thought.
And yet, Draco knew—he knew all the little plans in my head that were hidden just for me. Being known felt like belonging—and I belonged with him.
**********************************
Traveling with Draco would always be saved in my memories until I died, and when it started to slip, it would be saved into a pensieve. I wouldn’t forget.
We bought a muggle car and drove it until it felt right to stop. It wasn’t the famous places where we found ourselves, rather it was the forgotten places where we felt most at home. Where I could stand on a cliff edge and just scream and laugh and no one was around to hear me. Where Draco and I would sit at the edge of a river and send down leaves that held our biggest regrets, our losses, and our fears, learning to let go. Where we would sit in cafes and draw what we saw around us and enjoy pastries and tea. Where we could dance in the middle of a crowded room with other couples who didn’t know us from Adam.
But that is a story for another time.
For now, I’m sure you have a burning question that you’ve been waiting for me to answer.
And yes.
Draco did take me to go and see Phantom of the Opera in Paris like he promised.
Oh, and we got married.
But, again, that is a story for another time.
There is one last person I want you to meet before I close.
**********************************
My heart caught in my throat.
“Draco?” I squeaked out, leaning against the bathroom counter. “Draco!”
“What? Are you alright? What’s wrong?” He was frantic, looking for danger.
“I’m… pregnant,” I whispered, looking at him in wonder. “Draco… I’m—“
“Holy harpies,”
Realization flickered across his face as it rose into an elated expression of joy. A victorious laugh as he scooped me up and twirled me around our lavish bathroom, in our muggle flat in the suburbs of London. His joy was contagious as I giggled in his arms, holding onto him. He set me down, stroking my face softly. Then he pressed a kiss to my forehead.
Draco must have seen some fear linger in my stare. Some uncertainty that was well justified.
“The war is over,” Draco reassured drawing me back into his arms. “They’ll be safe. We’ll make sure of it,”
I nodded, curling my fingers into his sweater, my smile returning.
“I’m gonna be a mum,” I laughed.
“And you’re going to be absolutely brilliant.” He pressed a kiss to my lips. “Absolutely brilliant.”
“And you’re gonna be a great dad,” Tears pricked my eyes. “God, I don’t know the first thing about being a parent,” A nervous giggle left my lips.
“We’ll learn and figure it out,” He stroked my cheek softly, stealing another kiss.
A thousand parenting books, a baby shower, and a few doctors appointments later, Draco and I were curled up on the couch in our flat as the fire crackled in the hearth.
We had yet to settle on a name—to be fair we narrowed it down a lot, but with every new suggestion came a new round of anxiety that it wouldn’t be just right. It left me up at all hours thinking of it; so much so that Draco had to find a pregnancy safe sleeping potion so I could get proper rest.
“Elizabeth?” Draco mused, after my mother. I pursed my lips. It had been a suggestion that circled around.
“I’d like it as a middle name,” I decided, the thought had been mulling over in my mind.
“Okay done,” He smiled, reaching over to stroke my stomach before resuming his massage of my sore feet.
“Still need a first name.” I pondered, leaning my head against the back of the couch. “Narcissa?”
Draco snorted. “I’m not calling our daughter by my mothers name,”
My heart fluttered when he said our daughter.
“Well we need something,”
“How about Lucy?” That was a new suggestion: one not voiced by either of us.
“If that’s some way to get me to name her after your father I swear to Merlin—“
Draco burst out laughing shaking his head.
“Godric, no. Ugh,” he chuckled. “No, love, Lucy as in the first one to find Narnia. Ya know, that book you read to me all those years ago. The current theme of our nursery?”
“Oh,” my eyes widened at the thought, my heart softening. “Lucy,” I looked down, caressing my stomach when I felt something odd. Frowning I pressed my palm over the area. Draco caught my confusion and grew very concerned.
“What? Is she alright? What wrong?”
“Nothing,” I grinned. “She’s kicking—I think she likes her name,” I reached out for his hand and placed it in the same spot where mine resided as I felt her kick again.
“Hello little Lucy,” Draco whispered softly. “I can’t wait to meet you,”
Tears pricked my eyes as I watched him talk to her softly. And like every night, Draco got up and made me my tea that had Sleeping Draught in it—which he brewed specifically for me. It reminded me of our school days when he would spend class time brewing me anti-anxiety potions. It warmed my heart that his habit didn’t wane even with the years past.
That night my eyes fluttered open. I woke in the night, barely awake and ready to fall asleep again when I heard a soft voice. At first I thought Draco was trying to speak to me but I quickly realized that he was talking to someone else.
“You’re going to be one of the greatest wizards to ever walk the earth,” he murmured softly. “You’ll be kind and smart like your mother. You’re going to love her so much. We already love you so much.”
I let my eyes drift closed as a smile touched my lips. I resisted the urge to reach out and take Draco’s hand, in fear that he might become bashful about the situation.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A small bundle of warmth rested on my chest, peacefully sleeping. My hand rose and cradled the small thing, tears pricking my eyes. My other hand was still clinging to Draco’s.
Lucy Elizabeth Malfoy.
There were tears in Draco’s eyes as he reached out and with the softest touch caressed her tiny head.
“She’s beautiful,” he murmured. “You did so well,”
Exhausted, I let my eyes close, knowing that all was right with the world. Lucy would grow up in a world free from the threat of Voldemort and Draco would be by my side to protect her. We had already bled and fought and now we would make this new world we fought for, right for her.
warnings: draco in love, fluff, some jealousy, soft draco, flirting, making out
summary: although you're a hufflepuff, draco can't seem to suppress his feelings for you and has been asking you out since third year
a/n: i don't think i'll ever get out of my draco phase atp, its been years
song: yellow - coldplay
You were walking through the castle halls with your best friend, Cedric Diggory, wearing a blue sundress with your hair down and a ribbon holding two stands behind your head.
There were no classes today, so you decided to put on some light makeup as well and were taking a walk to the kitchens with Cedric.
"One day in the summer you need come over to my cottage, I can teach you how to bake," you announce, looking up at him as he drapes his arm around your shoulders.
"Hmm, I don't know if that would end well," he paused as he glanced down at you. "The last time you tried to bake with the house elves, you set the kitchen on fire," he laughs as he recalls you begging the house elves not to tell anyone.
"Okay that's not fair and you know it. You helped-"
"Y/n!"
You and Cedric turn around to see a smiling Draco Malfoy walking towards you both. His smile turns into a scowl as he sees Cedric's arm around you.
He quickly covers the jealousy with a charming smile as he looks back at your eyes that he adores.
"What now, Malfoy," Cedric sighs, already knowing what was going to happen.
Draco Malfoy was seen as rude to most people. So it was quite a shock to everyone when he asked you, a half-blood hufflepuff, out to hogsmeade for the first time in third year. You politely declined his offer because of some past encounters with him.
Although he has never said anything offensive to you, he has to your friends.
Your rejection didn't stop Draco from asking again. If anything, it made him want you more.
Ever since then, he has asked you out almost every week. Each time you rejected him, but it still didn't stop him.
Two years later he found himself in love with you. He has tried to get over you, but he can't picture himself with anyone that isn't you. If you were to ask him what he loved most about you, it would take more than a day to list everything. He grew up without much love, except from his mother, so it was a rather odd feeling when he first started to fancy you.
The first time he had gotten some hope for the two of you was when you had agreed to go to the yule ball with him last year. He thanked Merlin and almost cried of happiness. It was most definitely the best night of his life. You two had ended up almost kissed but were interrupted by Snape.
Back to present time, he asked if he could speak to you in private. Cedric looked over at you to make sure it was okay, you nodded and told him you would join him in a few minutes.
Draco gently grabbed your hand and pulled you into an empty classroom.
“You look so beautiful, darling” he compliments as you feel yourself lightly blushing as you avoids his eyes.
You should be use to the compliments by now since he gives them several times a day, but that doesn’t stop your cheeks from turning a light pink shade each time. He finds it adorable and hopes to be the only one to have the affect on you.
“Thank you, what is it you wanted to talk about?”
“Look, you know how much I fancy you- the whole bloody school knows. I- I just want you to give me one chance, love. If you truly don’t feel the same way about me than I’ll accept that,” he starts, his voice growing quieter as he leans towards your face.
“Please, sweetheart,” he whispers, his eyes dropping to your beautiful rosy lips as you gently pull the bottom one in between your teeth in thought.
“Um... okay,” you whisper with a small nod and smile.
He froze, before the biggest smile makes its way to his face. His lips brush against yours as he asks if it’s okay for him to kiss you.
You respond by gently pressing your warm lips to his slightly cold ones. He warps his arm around your waist pulling you closer to him as the other hand is holding your cheek. You run your hands through his hair and gently tug, getting a light groan from him.
You slowly pull back as you look at him in awe. His hair messy, his tie loose around his neck, his cheeks tinted red, his stunning eyes bright, and his lips slightly swollen.
“You are very pretty, you know,” you blurt out, turning your head in slight embarrassment.
He gently grabs your face and tilts your head so you’re looking at him. “Thats all you, angel. My pretty girl,” he whispers to you.
You peck his lips before slowly kissing down his jaw, trailing your mouth down his neck. Your gentle butterfly kisses and your teeth grazing his skin get some more low groans from him.
“As much as I’m enjoying this, love, if you keep doing that, you’re not going to be leaving this room anytime soon,” he grins.
You trail your lips back up to his, giving a quick peck before taking two steps back. “You’re right, I have forgotten about how I was supposed to go back to Cedric, do I look okay?”
“You look perfect as always, darling,” he replies while watching you straighten your hair with your hands.
“I don’t know you what you see in Diggory anyways”
“Oh knock it off,” you laugh hitting his shoulder as you start walking to the door.
“I’ll see you at dinner, yeah?”
“Mhm, bye Draco,” you smile at the boy, giving him one last look over.
As Draco enters the common room, he finds his best friend, Blaise Zabini, doing some potions work on the couch.
He walks over and drops onto the couch next to him. Blaise glances up, back at his paper, and then whips his head to the boy when he takes in his state.
"I- what have you been doing"
"You'll never guess, mate," Draco sighs dreamily recalling your kiss.
"Does it happen to do with a certain cute hufflepuff that you happen to be obsessed with?"
"Maybe, and I am not obsessed with her"
"And I enjoy doing potions homework"
"You told me you did," Draco lies.
"No I didn't"
"Yes, you did"
"No, I didn't"
"Yes, you did"
"No, I didn't!"
"No, you didn't"
"Yes, I did!"
"Aha!" Draco grins in victory.
Blaise rolls his eyes, "did you two kiss?"
"Maybe we did, maybe we didn't," Draco shrugs.
"Good for you, it took long enough"
A few months later, you and Draco were a happy couple and were so close to one another. Since that day you first kissed, he somehow found a way to be with you almost all of the time.
You two were sitting on the grass outside, you both sneaked out, and Draco was showing you the constellation that he was named after.
He suddenly turned and tickled your stomach as you fell backwards laughing.
"D- Draco! St- op, I c- an't breathe! L- let me go-" You laugh as he gives you a few seconds to take some breaths.
"Never, sweetheart," he says rolling on top of you.
"Get off of me you oaf!" You giggle trying to push him off of you.
"Let me think about that, hmm... how about no," he says pecking your lips.
You then flip the both of you so you were now straddling him as your hair surrounding your faces. You lean down and kiss him softly. Pulling back slowly, his lips follow you and you lightly laugh. You look at him with such love and wonder how you got so lucky.
Draco happens to be thinking the same thing as he kisses to again and rests his forehead on yours.
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