Honestly… you knew that the second the words left your mouth.
Aang had been lying on his back in the temple room, one arm behind his head, relaxed for once—finally not the Avatar, not the world’s responsibility...just yours.
So naturally… you straddled him.
Grinning.
Hands braced on his chest.
“We need more Airbenders,” you said lightly. “You know… repopulate the Air Nomads.”
Aang laughed.
A soft, easy laugh, the kind you loved most.
“Yeah?” he teased, eyes warm. “That your grand plan?”
You nodded, leaning down just a little. “I’m very committed to the cause.”
That’s when it changed, it was subtle at first and then the laugh faded.
His hands resting casually at your hips tightened as his eyes darkened, not angry… but focused.
“You don’t joke about that,” he said quietly.
Your smile softened immediately.You leaned down further, your nose brushing his.
“I wasn’t joking.”
Aang moved.
Fast.
One second you were on top of him, the next you were on your back, breath catching as he rolled you beneath him in one smooth motion, his body pressing you into the mat on the ground.
“Aang—”
His hand came up to your cheek, gentle, grounding.
“Say it again,” he murmured, pleading.
Your heart stuttered.“What?”
“What you meant.” His voice wasn’t teasing anymore.
You swallowed, then lifted your hand to his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek softly.
“I want a future with you,” you said quietly. “Not just saving the world. Not just being the Avatar.”
Your fingers slid up his neck instantly, pulling him closer as his weight settled fully over you. His knee shifted between your thighs, spreading them apart as your bodies aligned.
You felt him then.
Hard.
Pressing against you through the thin layers between you.
Your breath hitched.
“Aang…”
He kissed your jaw, your throat, your collarbone as his lips trailed down like he needed to memorize you.
“I’ve wanted that too,” he admitted softly against your skin. “For so long.”
Your hands slid down his back, pulling at his robes.
“Then stop talking.”
Aang laughed under his breath. “Yes, ma’am.”
The sound barely faded before his mouth was on you again, kissing deeper, hungrier as his hands moved lifting your top, pushing it aside until your chest was bare beneath him.
His breath stuttered.
“Spirits…”
His hands were warm as they cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow circles that made your back arch into him.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, like it was something sacred.
You didn’t let him linger too long.Your hands tugged at his pants impatiently. “Aang—”
“I know,” he said quickly, a little breathless now.
He shifted just enough to free himself, his cock springing against his stomach, hard and ready.
You stared for half a second, then grinned. "Well, that’s promising.”
Aang flushed slightly. “You’re not helping.”
“I'm allowed to appreciate how good my husband looks .”
He huffed a quiet laugh, then lined himself up between your thighs, his hand sliding down to guide himself against your soaked pussy.
He froze.
“…you’re already wet.”
You smirked.
“Maybe I’ve been planning this longer than you thought.”
Aang groaned. "Okay!! okay, no more talking.”He pushed in slowly as both of you gasped.
Your hands flew to his shoulders, gripping tight as he stretched you open, inch by inch, his breath coming out uneven against your cheek.
“Relax,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
You nodded, breath shaky. “Keep going.”
He did.
Slowly.
Deep and oh so careful.
Until he was fully inside you, both of you completely still for a moment, just feeling it.
Aang pressed his forehead to yours.“Spirits… you feel—”
“Move,” you whispered.
Aang swallowed thickly as his hips rolled forward slowly, pulling a soft sound from your throat. Then again, deeper this time, more confident.
Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. “That’s it,” you breathed.
His rhythm built steady at first, then stronger as your body responded to him, your pussy tightening around his cock with every thrust.
“Aang—”
He kissed you again, swallowing the sound as his pace quickened, breath uneven now, control slipping. “I’m trying...” he gasped, “.....to go slow—”
“Don’t.”
His hips snapped forward harder, deeper, your body jolting beneath him as pleasure spiked sharp and fast.
“Oh—!”
Aang groaned into your neck, his hands gripping your thighs as he drove into you again and again, your bodies moving together in a rhythm that felt less like sex and more like something meant.
“Say it again,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Say you want this....with me—”
“I do!!” you gasped, “....I want you—”
Your nails dragged down his back as your orgasm hit suddenly, your pussy clenching tight around his cock.
Aang broke right after.
He buried himself deep inside you with a sharp groan, his entire body tensing as he came, holding you tightly as the wave hit him, his tattoo's glowing faintly.
For a long moment, neither of you moved, your breaths slowly returning to normal as Aang pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.
“…we’re really doing this,” he murmured.
You smiled, still catching your breath. “Yeah.”
He laughed quietly, nuzzling closer. “…we might need a lot more practice.”
You grinned. “Good thing I’m committed to the cause.”
Aang laughed again.
The air hadn’t quite settled after the last time.
You could still feel it, faint currents brushing your skin, like Aang’s power hadn’t fully let go of you yet.
He was trying.
Trying to breathe.
Trying to center himself.
Trying to go back to that calm, balanced state he lived in.
You weren’t helping.
You never did.
You shifted beneath him slightly, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the faint pulse where his tattoos had just stopped glowing.
Aang’s breath hitched. “…don’t.”
You tilted your head, smiling softly. “Don’t what?”
His hands tightened at your hips. “Don’t start again.”
You leaned up, lips brushing his jaw. "But I like you like this.”
That did something, you felt it immediately. The ground beneath you gave a faint, almost imperceptible shift.
Aang inhaled sharply. “…you need to stop.”
You didn’t. Instead, you dragged your fingers lightly down his chest, over the faint lines of his tattoos.
“They glow when you lose control,” you murmured. “I like it when your tattoos glow.”
His eyes snapped to yours.
“It’s hot.”
That was it.The stone floor beneath you moved.
Not violently.
Not dangerously.
But deliberately.
Earth rose slightly at your sides, forming a subtle hold, firm enough to keep your hips from shifting, to keep your body exactly where it was beneath him.
Your breath caught. “Oh—”
Aang’s expression had changed.
Still him.
Still gentle.
But something deeper now, something claiming.
“You don’t get to move,” he said quietly.
Your pulse spiked. “You’re using earthbending now?”
His voice dropped lower. “You keep pushing me.”
His hand slid between your thighs, spreading you open again.
“And I keep telling you to stop.”
His fingers brushed your pussy, still warm, still sensitive, still full and you gasped.
“Aang—”
“Too late.”
He shifted his hips, lining himself up again.You tried to move instinctively but the stone held you in place.
Your thighs stayed open.Exactly where he wanted you.Your breath stuttered. “You’re not letting me move—”
“I’m not letting you tease me and then pretend you don’t want this.”
He pushed inside you in one smooth, deep motion.
You cried out, hips raised. “Aang—!”
His hands locked onto your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he held you there, his cock buried deep inside your pussy.
The earth kept you open.
The air stirred again.
And Aang.....Aang lost control.
His hips moved immediately, thrusting into you with a rhythm that was stronger, deeper, less restrained than before.
“You like this,” he murmured, voice rough. “You like pushing me until I snap.”
You moaned, head falling back. “Yes—”
His tattoos flickered.
A faint glow.
His breath caught.
“Don’t say that—”
“Why?” you whispered, breathless. “It’s true.”
His thrusts grew harder.
The stone beneath you held firm, keeping your body exactly where he wanted it as he drove into you again and again.
“You’re mine,” he said, voice low, shaking slightly. “You don’t get to pretend you’re not.”
Your legs trembled against the stone’s hold. “I’m not pretending—”
His hand slid up your body, gripping your waist, pulling you into each thrust.
“Good.”
His forehead pressed to yours.
“Because I’m not stopping this time.”
Your nails dragged down his back as your body tightened around him again, pleasure building too fast, too strong. “Aang—!”
His tattoos glowed brighter. The air around you swirled, lifting your hair slightly as his control slipped further. “You did this,” he muttered. “You said you liked it—”
“I do—!”
That was all it took.
His hips slammed forward, deeper, harder.
Your orgasm hit, your body clenching tight around his cock as you cried out.
Aang followed immediately, groaning as he buried himself fully inside you, his entire body tensing as he came.
The stone released you.
The air stilled.
The glow faded.
Aang froze.
Breathing hard.
“…I didn't hurt you did I?.”
You laughed weakly beneath him. “No....you did not hurt me Aang.”
He looked down at you, still hovering close, still inside you, expression softening again.
“…good...good.”
You smiled.
"Still the sweet husband I married." Your hand cupped his cheek.
This has been on my mind since I started work like 9 hours ago. But imagine...
-----------
Dr. Jack Abbot, who has nurse/resident!reader on his night shift all the time. You started off on days, and he's never seen someone switch faster in his life. Normally, kids your age prefer the day shift because it can give them a semi-normal schedule in their day-to-day lives.
Nurse/Resident!reader, who is in pain like 24/7. It's never anything "serious." Sometimes your knee acts up, you claim it's been that way since 11th grade. It's on and off, clearly not that serious.
Nurse/Resident!reader, who is often shifting around because being still makes your pain worse.
Dr. Abbot, who notices. He always notices. It's a curse. He finds pleasure in being able to help his subordinates. Give them the support they need and push them to be better. Noticing the things around him helps with that.
Dr. Abbot, who can't not notice you.
Dr. Abbot, who sees you leaning on the counter, pressing the corner against where your uterus sits when you're on your period. His late wife used to do that when the pain got bad.
Dr. Abbot, who sees you press your fists into your lower back and sway back and forth when talking to a patient. You don't look like you're in pain, but he knows.
Dr. Jack Abbot, who call tell when the pain gets bad when he sees your hands begin to shake slightly. You're normally a very still person. Your hands have always been incredibly still. You never falter. You move smoothly around the ER. One of the med students said it looks like you hovered everywhere. He neither agreed nor disagreed.
Dr. Jack Abbot, who asks you about your pain one day and tries not to say anything when you look at him in shock and confusion.
Dr. Jack Abbot, who begins to keep track of how many pain medications you take and when. Keeps track of when it gets better or worsens... Just in case!
Dr. Jack Abbot, who makes you drink more water. You carry a giant 40oz bottle and keep it near Dana, but you always forget it's there.
Dr. Jack Abbot, who once walked past you and placed a hand on your shoulder because it had been a rough day on everyone.
Dr. Jack Abbot, who stops dead in his tracks when he feels how stiff and stressed you are. Your shoulder feels like a brick wall had sex with concrete. You tell him you've been that way since you can remember.
Nurse/Resident!reader, who was having a really painful cycle and taking a moment to themselves in the break room. The night had hit a small peaceful moment. No one is yelling for doctors or chest tubes or intubation. No traumas rushing in and demanding your attention.
Jack Abbot, who walks in to try and shove a granola bar in his mouth before heading back out. But he pauses when he sees you curled in on yourself, breathing a little heavy.
Jack Abbot, who walks over in concern and gently places his hand on your shoulder, and you straighten up. You try and reassure him that it was common and you just needed a second.
Jack Abbot, who sits in silence before asking you if you'd let him try something to maybe help with the pain. You nod and let him place his warm hand over your scrubs right where your uterus sat. He gently pressed down.
Jack Abbot, who pressed right where it hurt the most, as if he somehow knew. Pressure and warmth always helped you with your pains, so you melted into the touch.
Jack Abbot, who desperately tries not to think about the way you melt into his touch and shut your eyes as if this was the first relief you'd felt all week. (It is)
Jack Abbot, who now has to restrain his unruly hands from reaching towards you when you're in pain. Stupid things have a mind of their own. He's basically a walking HR violation.
Jack Abbot, who might be falling in love with his stubborn sarcastic resident, who really needs to stop taking so many pain medication before they fuck up their kidneys.
-------------
UGH THEY MAKE ME SICK!
Should I write this into an actual fanfic.... I just might 👀
I also can't decide if I reader being a nurse or resident would make more sense in this scenario 😞
Alpha!Ghost who gets migraines from heavy scents and beta!Reader whose muted scent is the only thing that doesn’t make him want to rip his own head off
no because imagine Ghost, who’s spent his whole adult life with a mask on and now the scents of the the world are too much. every cheap cologne, every burst of omega perfume, every new room full of strangers is an instant headache. he’s the only alpha who walks into an omega heat bunker and immediately goes “absolutely the fuck not” and locks himself in his room until his vision stops swimming.
everyone thinks he’s cold. untouchable. “Ghost doesn’t do scents,” Soap jokes, and Ghost just grunts and changes the subject. (it’s not a joke. he’ll get a three day migraine if someone walks past with a strong enough aftershave.)
and then you show up. beta, background, scent so low key he almost misses it the first few times. not flowers, not pheromones, just… clean skin. fresh laundry. the soft warmth of someone existing, not advertising.
he doesn’t realize at first why he keeps drifting into your orbit. why he stops sitting at the end of the table and starts pulling a chair next to you during briefings. why, when his rut hits and everyone else’s scents feels like sandpaper against his nerves, he’s following you, hands in your hair, nose tucked under your jaw, breathing easy for once in his life.
you’re the only person he can stand to be near when his senses are on fire. everyone else is too much, too sharp, too loud. you’re just… quiet. he can bury himself in your scent, soft and muted and not at all the migraine trigger he’s learned to dread.
you probably don’t even realize. you just find Ghost quietly appearing behind you more and more often. he’s not saying anything, but his hands are on your hips, his forehead pressed to your neck, breathing like a man who’s finally found fresh air.
i really love the idea of having to gently explain to jack abbot that you’re dating. he’s emotionally stunted and awkward and unsure as a widower, so he doubts himself constantly.
he spends every second of overlapping time possible with you. he brings you gifts like flowers and chocolates if he sees something and thinks of you, which is often. he calls you baby, honey, darling. once he even tentatively kissed you after walking you home and you’d kissed him back and he’d memorized the feeling of your lips.
so he’s more than a little heartbroken when he overhears you turning shen down for a date because you have a boyfriend. he spends the whole week convincing himself he’s been misreading things, trying to be more professional with you, cursing under his breath for how silly it was to think you’d be interested in him. he texts you less, doesn’t bring your favorite coffee order in the morning, doesn’t offer to drive you home.”
at the end of the week, you confront him at the end of your shared shift with tears in your eyes, catching him as he leaves the hospital on foot. you fall into stride next to him and ask, “did i do something wrong? i promise; you can talk to me. i want to fix it.”
he tilts his head to the side like a puppy, pace faltering for a moment. “what are you talking about?”
“you, jack!” he hates that there are tears in your eyes, but he’s confused. isn’t it good for him to respect your boundaries as a woman in a relationship? “you’ve been avoiding me all week, you’ve been thumbs-up reacting to my cute little texts and- and you didn’t even notice that i wore your favorite shade of lipstick yesterday and-”
“i noticed,” he mutters, sounding pathetic and defeated. “of course i noticed.”
“so what is it? why are you upset with me?”
“i’m not,” he replies quickly. “i just…i didn’t want to overstep. i didn’t know you had a boyfriend until you rejected shen. if i’d known i wouldn’t have-”
“jack. stop talking.” stopping at an interaction, you stare at him, incredulous, and place your hand on his arm. his hazel eyes are wide and innocent and honest. “you’re my boyfriend.”
he blinks a few times and stares down at your hand, affectionate and sweet and knowing. “me? i’m your boyfriend? you didn’t go out with shen because of me?”
you balk at him. “do you not think you’re my boyfriend? we get breakfast together three times a week. my name in your phone is ‘sweetheart.’ you bought me tampons; i called you to buy me tampons.”
his cheeks are bright pink as he stumbles over his words. “well, i just- you know, we never really-”
“you helped me build a dresser last saturday. you pay every time we get food together. you bought me a pair of diamond earrings for my birthday.” you shove him playfully on his chest, eyebrows furrowed, and ask, “are you…are you seeing someone else? or don’t want me to be-”
jack nearly seizes. “what? no! i’ve- i love spending time with you and-”
“dating me,” you correct, trying to stifle your laugh now. “jack, i have a big heart over our six month anniversary on my planner.” you slip off your backpack and take it out, flipping to the page a couple months out. “i kind of figured we were, y’know, getting serious.”
“but we’ve only kissed that one time. and, don’t get me wrong, it was a fantastic kiss, but we haven’t…”
“well, yeah, but i kinda just figured you have intimacy issues or you were old school and wanted to take things slow or-”
jack doesn’t start walking even when the light changes. he takes your hands and pulls you flush to his body. he gives you a darker, lustier look than he’s ever let himself before. “honey, if you’re my girlfriend, i definitely don’t want to take things slow.”
you lean up onto your toes and kiss him. soft, slow, not too much want because you’re still on a public street. when you pull away, your coy smirk does him in. “so…you’ll keep being my boyfriend?”
“if you can forgive me for being a blind idiot,” he sighs, finally laughing at himself – happy because he has you. you grin and take his hand, tugging him in the direction of your apartment instead of splitting off. he follows you with boyish delight and adds, “and if you tell me when our anniversary is so i can make it up to you.”
Summary: Sometimes your past comes back to haunt you in ways that give your coworkers and crush far too much comedy material. If only the ambulance would be kind enough to run you over.
Pairing: Fem!Reader x Jack Abbot
Tags: attending!reader, fluffy, the haunting of bad boyfriend choices, a little goofy.
Word Count: 5.5k
Author's Note: I wrote this to avoid fighting with my family over Christmas! Enjoy! Inspired by "I Dodged a Mullet" by the Chattahoochies, unfortunately this is when I come out as a country music fan. I can only apologize.
-- -- --
You prided yourself on never lying, so when Ellis asked if you were in love with Dr. Jack Abbot, you responded with,
“Of course. Who wouldn’t love a man with a crike kit in his pocket at all times?”
It wasn’t your business if Ellis read that as sarcastic.
And that’s how you managed to survive the first year of your junior attending position at PTMC—never lying, but never correcting the misconception that Jack Abbot had not thoroughly charmed you. The Pitt at night had its own rhythm: it was filled with bizarre injuries, sundowning patients, sharp but well-intentioned banter, and the constant rattle of gurneys being pushed to and fro. The air was always vaguely stale and the coffee machine never quite worked the way you wanted it to.
Jack hadn’t intended to charm you, that was clear. He had about as much game as an empty and abandoned Chuck-E-Cheese. Still, he was earnest, dry-humored, and ferocious when it came to patients. There was never a battle he was unwilling to wage or a line he couldn’t creatively fudge. It had been Jack, after all, who had shown you how to finagle ultrasounds in order to ensure the measurements were within the cutoff, standing just close enough at the machine that his shoulder brushed yours while he murmured, “Angle it like this,” as if it were a secret—in a way, it kind of was.
But a year in, the man was clearly hung up over his ex-wife, and no matter how much you’d worked on your self-esteem and confidence, you couldn’t compete with a ghost. Still, you found yourself enjoying the night shift because you were around Jack. He wasn’t laugh-out-loud fun like some of your friends, but he always had a sharp comment or knowing look that seemed to buoy you through lulls or rough moments. He lingered when you talked, leaned against counters instead of walking away, and somehow always ended up beside you during the slow stretches, even when there was no obvious reason for it.
“Tell me something,” he said, sliding his phone over to you across the cluttered workstation. The plastic surface was covered in old tape residue and a half-wiped coffee ring. “You’re young.”
You didn’t look at him, fingers still moving as you scrolled through a chart. “Tell that to the bartender who didn’t card me. I am not forty-five and I sure as hell don’t look it.”
“Hospital lighting is unflattering for everyone. I’m afraid I can’t comment,” he said balefully, pushing his glasses higher on his nose.
“Fuck off, Abbot. What can I and my Gen Alpha niece translate for you today?”
“The fuck is 6-7? My nephew texted it to me and I cannot for the life of me figure it out.”
“Not a clue. My niece is a little too old for that.”
“Damn. You’re the only person I’m willing to ask.”
“You could just Google it,” you suggested. He gave you a flat look over the tops of his glasses, unmoving.
“Remember what happened last time I Googled something you suggested?”
You snorted. “It is not my fault you kept asking me about omegaverse.”
“The patient kept saying I had ‘alpha’ energy. Ellis said it was something about omegaverse, not that I was going to ask her to clarify. Also, if anything, I’m an omega. I’m like catnip to strong and tough people.”
“This is an insane conversation. And I’m pretty certain we determined the patient meant it in an incel way, not a horny wolf-adjacent way,” you replied, trying to keep your eyes on your chart. The insurance company was not going to like this test. You mentally cycled through the billing department’s preferred phrasing, trying to find language that might convince the evil overlords of healthcare not to immediately deny everything.
“I think you’ll recall you brought it up.”
“It is not my fault you caught me after watching a two-hour YouTube video about how an omegaverse porn copyright case made it in front of a federal judge.”
“Your viewing habits are baffling.”
“Didn’t have a lot of TV time growing up. Gotta watch my weird shit now.”
“I thought everyone in your generation was raised on iPads,” he shot back.
“How old do you think I am?” You finally looked up.
He gave you a shit-eating grin, one corner of his mouth pulling higher than the other.
“I dunno. Twelve?”
“Damn. Must be the next Doogie Howser then,” you replied, backspacing your notes.
“Never mind. With that reference, you gotta be seventy-five,” he laughed, the sound surprising you with how nice it floated through your ears. There was always a little bit of pride when you got the normally serious man to laugh.
“You got that reference too, babe,” you laughed back.
It was a habit—calling people babe. It started with your sister, then your friends, and now your coworkers. Most of them found it amusing. Cassie loved it. Jesse got a cute little blush whenever it slipped out. Jack hadn’t been subjected to your HR-violation habit until now.
You hadn’t even realized you’d done it until the silence lasted far longer than you expected. The monitors beeped steadily behind you. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed too loudly.
“You good, Abbot?” you asked.
He was looking at you inscrutably, brows drawn together, mouth pressed into a thin line like he was thinking something through very carefully.
“You called me babe,” he said. There was something like surprise under the stoicism, quickly masked.
“Sorry. It’s a habit I adopted from my sister. It’s spiraled, clearly,” you replied, keeping your tone light even as your stomach tightened.
“Ah,” he said slowly. “So this isn’t indicative of some yearning crush on me?”
There was a mischievous tilt to his mouth now.
“You caught me,” you laughed. “I’ve been in love with you for years. I’m ready to propose any day now.”
That earned you a hearty chuckle, and it would be a lie to say you weren’t thrilled to be the one who got it. He laughed with his whole chest, head tipping back slightly, and when he looked at you again, his eyes lingered just a beat longer than necessary. You didn’t know if you’d say you were in love with Jack Abbot, but sometimes crush felt like too small a word for whatever this was.
“Incoming blunt force trauma,” Lena sighed from behind you. “Someone at the Steelers game took a fall from a great height, apparently. Frankly, I’m surprised they waited until nine p.m. to make bad decisions.”
You snorted and gestured at Jack. “Idiot sports fan is all you, babe.”
“How kind,” he snarked, already pivoting on his heel. He started barking orders to the night-shift residents and nurses, his voice snapping into that commanding cadence that made people move faster.
“Hey, another incoming,” Lena added, pointing at you. “Apparently our fall had a friend. Sounds like they were trying to scale something in the stadium.”
“Alas,” you sighed, pushing away from the workstation, “I suppose I’ll subject myself to fans of a bad football team.”
“You support the Dallas Cowboys,” she said skeptically.
“And like any good Cowboys fan, I’ll talk shit and complain but never root for anyone else. We suck, but it’s poor management—at least I think that’s the excuse we’re working with now,” you laughed. “Can you try and come up with language that would convince an insurance company to pay for South 10’s arthrocentesis?”
“Sure,” Lena didn’t sound confident.
You walked toward the ambulance bay as the truck pulled in, the cold night air briefly cutting through the stale warmth of the ER. As soon as you saw the patient, your stomach dropped.
“Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” you hissed. “Ellis, take point. I have to switch out with Abbot.”
“You good?” she asked.
“I know him,” you grumbled.
You pushed into Trauma One and found Jack directing Mel’s line placement and triage. First glance: internal bleeding, broken femur. Relief washed through you when you didn’t recognize the man. He was barrel chested, a bushy beard and slightly-too long hair. He was in ratty jeans, cowboy boots, and a navy blue sweatshirt that had been cut off.
“Abbot,” you sighed. There must have been something in your voice because his eyes snapped to you immediately. “We need to switch patients.”
Mel glanced up but didn’t comment. Jack stepped closer, concern flickering across his face.
“I’ll explain later. Can’t treat people you know,” you sighed.
“Are you good?”
“Let’s just say I’m more inclined to let him die than do anything risky to save him,” you muttered.
He studied you for a beat, then nodded without hesitation.
With ease, you slid into his spot. For the next thirty minutes, as Mel evaluated the patient, you forgot entirely about the too-familiar man in Trauma Two. It took four nurses, yourself, and the traction kit to set his femur fracture. Thankfully, it was closed—easier recovery, no surgery.
Throughout the triage, the full story of the injury came out. Apparently the two geniuses in your ED were in town for the Cowboys/Steelers game. In all their wisdom, the gentlemen with multiple broken ribs, internal bleeding, and at least one femur fracture thought scaling the stadium to be the best evidence of their Cowboys pride.
“It’s just been so long since we hit the playoffs,” the man complained.
You briefly met eye contact with Princess and Donnie across the body and said,
“Cowboys went to the playoffs in 2024, man.”
“You’re shitting me.”
If anything, you wanted to double check Mel’s concussion markers—surely he wasn’t surprised by that.
“This is not a commentary on your work Mel,” you said, swiping your pen light over his eyes again.
“Our patient here just said something real dumb, and I think doc is hoping there’s a medical explanation for it,” Donnie snickered.
“What was it?”
“Cowboys went to the playoffs, like, two seasons ago,” Princess said.
“Which is crazy, because we suck most of the time,” you added.
“Holy shit, you a cowboys fan too?”
“Not the time, sir,” you said, feeling for a contusion on his skull.
“EMTs said that he was in a football helmet when he fell,” Donnie said.
“Well we weren’t going to climb the concrete pillar thing without protecting our heads. My girl thinks I’m handsome—can’t change that,” he replied gleefully.
You weren’t surprised this man was friends with Bradley. They both seemed to have an overly simplistic and optimistic view of the world. The fact that you moved halfway across the country and still managed to find people from, presumably, your hometown was absolutely astounding.
A terrible realization about what a small world it was.
“You got this Mel?” You asked.
“Oh yeah, thanks,” she said cheerfully.
To Donnie and Princess you gestured to watch the patient by point at your eyes then the patient. If he was friends with Bradley, he wouldn’t hesitate to cop a feel and that was the last thing you wanted.
When you finally stepped out, Jack was leaving Trauma Two.
“The patient is okay,” he said. “Most of his ribs are broken and he probably bruised his pancreas, but he’s okay.”
Pinching the bridge of your nose, you pulled Jack into an alcove of the Pitt. A little storage nook that held the sandwich cart when not in use.
“I’m going to tell you something and if I find out that you said this to another soul, I will put capsaicin in your googles,” you said quietly.
“That’s evil,” he said proudly.
“The patient in trauma 2. He’s my ex-boyfriend,” you grumbled.
“No fucking way,” Jack said way too loudly. You poked him in his unfairly hard chest.
“Capsaicin, glasses,” you repeated.
“You can’t tell me you dated Dumber from Dumb and Dumber and not expect me to be shocked.”
“Look, my early twenties were a rough time. I lived in a trailer with my mom and worked at the local dive bar. I didn’t exactly think my life was going to leave bumfuck nowhere.”
“You dated him after you went to college?” Jack asked, shocked.
“No, I dated him in my early twenties. I didn’t go to college until I was twenty-five,” you said.
“I didn’t know that,” Jack replied.
“Look, I grew up poor as shit and somehow, by the skin of my teeth, made it out. Bought my mom a house, put my sister through school, too. And that motherfucker, I let him—very, very briefly—break my heart. But trust me when I say, I dodged a bullet.”
“You dodged a mullet,” Jack whispered, laughing with glee. “That man has an honest to god mullet, with a rat tail. I cannot believe that man ever convinced you he was good enough for you.”
“Surprisingly wholesome response,” you huffed. “Look, I’m going to steer clear of his room. The last thing I want is for him to recognize me and then his wife to find out.”
“He’s married?” Jack asked.
“Somehow,” you replied. “Last I heard they were in the same trailer park, except this time with three kids they can’t afford.”
“And you had sex with that man?” Jack asked suddenly.
“I’m not answering that,” you said, walking out of the alcove.
“Wait, sorry,” Jack laughed following you. “I’m just struggling to recognize the serious, put together attending in front of me with someone who would date that.”
“Weren’t you young and dumb, Abbot?”
“Not that dumb,” he grinned. “Married my wife.”
“You did join the army, though. And that doesn’t make up for how cute your high school sweetheart story is,” you replied, knocking him with your elbow. “Not all of us grew up somewhere with options—romantic or otherwise.”
“Do you have pictures?”
“Pictures of what?” Ellis asked. Looking at you, she added, “I cannot believe you abandoned me to that man. I think my IQ dropped. I think I forgot my second year of residency.”
You snorted. “Bradley is a fucking idiot.”
“Bradley?” She asked, with raised eyebrows. “Didn’t know you were on a first name basis with him.”
“We grew up in the same town. If anyone mentions my name to him while he’s here, I’ll make sure the next bowel impaction is theirs.”
“Shit doesn’t bother me,” laughed Ellis.
“Then I’ll give you the next cold,” you said. “Think about all the mucus and saliva.”
Ellis heaved a full body shudder, “Fine. Fine.”
Assuaged that no one would be blabbing about your connection to Bradley, especially to Bradley, you went back to your charting.
“Lena, any thoughts on the language?”
“Did you try, ‘I’m the doctor not you, I wouldn’t order anything unnecessary’?”
“I think they would charge double for that,” you sighed.
“Hmm, your problem then. Chat with billings.”
You groaned. Tonight was going to suck.
-- -- --
For the bulk of the night, you had been kept busy with a massive flu outbreak and three MVAs. At least one of the MVAs was a drunk driver, although the kicker was both drivers were drunk. A certain poetic justice existed in that situation. The ED felt permanently overfull, monitors chiming in uneven rhythms, the smell of antiseptic clinging to you no matter how many times you washed your hands. Your feet ached, and you knew you would feel it tomorrow, too
You had been so focused on the patients and subsequent charting, you hadn’t thought about Bradley and his dumbass friend for at least an hour. You were halfway through reconciling medication orders when Jack appeared at your side, close enough that you felt the warmth of him before you registered his presence.
“Cat’s out of the bag,” Jack told you, ushering you into the break room.
He didn’t touch you exactly, but his hand hovered at your elbow, steering rather than pushing, and he waited until you were fully inside before closing the door behind you. The break room was dimmer than the ED, a blessed quiet punctuated only by the hum of an ancient refrigerator.
“What?” you asked.
“Bradley mentioned to Donnie he was a Cowboys fan and Donnie let your name slip–you’re the only Cowboys fan he knows,” Jack said in a hushed tone.
He kept his voice low and was closer to you than normal. It almost felt like he was preparing for you to freak out. You weren’t exactly going to freak out, but something close to a light sense of dread came over you.
“No,” you whined, collapsing on one of the seats.
The chair creaked under you. Jack remained standing for a beat, watching you with a pinched expression before finally sitting down beside you, knees angled toward yours.
“You’re not going to have a good night,” Jack said hesitantly.
“God what is he saying?” you whined, hiding your face in your hands.
Jack leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs. When you didn’t immediately look up, he stayed there, patient.
“He told everyone the story of how you met,” Jack said. “It was romantic at first.”
“Until he got to the fact he’d stolen the truck and flowers? Yeah, I’m sure.”
Jack huffed quietly through his nose, the closest he came to laughing most of the time.
“He’s charming, I’ll give him that,” he grumbled quietly. His jaw tightened as he said it, like the admission annoyed him.
“He was a bad decision,” you hissed. “We dated for less than a year.”
“And yet somehow he broke up with you?” Jack inquired, sitting next to you.
The question came out sharper than curiosity alone would explain. He glanced at you sidelong, watching your reaction more than waiting for an answer.
How did you explain to the man who found the love of his life in algebra that at some point, especially in a small town, you didn’t think you’d find anyone better? Your town had less than 50,000 people in it and there was a period of time where Bradley was charming and romantic, if not very bright.
“There was a period of my life where I thought that the only thing in my future was kids I didn’t want and a double wide, if I was lucky,” you said carefully. “Our friends were friends and incredibly enough, he was once very sweet.”
Jack didn’t interrupt. He didn’t even nod. He just listened, eyes fixed on you in a way that made it hard to look towards him.
“And then?”
“And then he found weed and beer and dropped me on my ass for his dealer. I cried for a day before I realized how pathetic I felt. I enrolled in community college the next day and a year later I transferred to the local state university and eventually ended up in medical school.”
Jack’s eyebrows rose slightly, not in surprise so much as in something that looked suspiciously like admiration.
“Eventually? Sounds like a lot of hard work went into it,” he commented.
“It’s not polite to brag,” you said.
You meant it lightly, but his gaze didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened, like he was cataloguing something he just learned about you. Your therapist did that sometimes; it was unnerving.
“Also his wife is asking for you,” Jack said.
“Oh, I’m not going in there,” you scoffed.
“Why not?”
“She’s convinced I want him back—which, gross. Still, I’m kind of afraid she’ll kick my ass,” you said. “Hannah was the scariest girl in my high school class. The fuck are they doing in Pittsburgh anyways? I don’t think he’s left the state his entire life.”
“They always wanted to see the Cowboys play the Steelers,” Jack shrugged. “Is there a rivalry I don’t know about?”
He shrugged, but his hand curled briefly into a fist against his knee. He seemed to dislike Bradley more than you did, which is odd because he was your ex-boyfriend. Jack Abbot was a good colleague, maybe even a friend, but it was a little odd that he cared this much about such an unfortunate chapter in your past.
“No,” you scoffed. “One of the first home games Bradley went to with his dad was against the Steelers. Apparently they destroyed the Cowboys and he’s never forgiven them. I guess this is a life goal or something. Or maybe he’s an idiot, both are good options.”
Jack snorted and stood.
He didn’t immediately step away. Instead, he lingered, then squeezed your shoulder, his grip firm and grounding, before he spoke.
“You’ve done really well for yourself. You should be proud.”
There was no humor in it, just earnestly and the intensity of a man who never spoke in half measures. It made your skin tingle where he touched you. He really was not making this crush thing easier—he didn’t even know what he was doing.
“Hard to feel that way when the worst ex-boyfriend is in 20,” you grumbled. “Why couldn’t yall have met my hot bitchy ex-girlfriend or the boxer I dated?”
Jack froze for half a second before turning back toward you.
“You dated a boxer?” Jack asked.
“Yeah, for a few months earlier this year. I broke up with him because he disagreed with me when I told him his nose was broken,” you said.
You expected a laugh, but it never came. Instead Jack said in an odd voice, “Didn’t know you were dating.”
His posture shifted subtly, shoulders squaring. He seemed shocked and a little unnerved.
You shrugged. “Off and on. Not a fan of the apps, so I have to meet people the old fashion way and since I work sixty hour weeks—it’s rare.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Just didn’t realize you were dating,” he echoed. He stared at the floor, jaw working, like he was biting back a follow-up question.
“I know, you said that.”
“I have to go check on a patient.”
He moved quickly then—too quickly—already halfway to the door by the time he finished speaking.
An untrained observer might think Jack’s behavior was perfectly normal, but you couldn’t help but watch his sudden retreat puzzled. Normally, your stoic colleague was measured and unswayed by the currents of the ED. No sudden beep or alert made him move any speed other than measured and direct.
Before you could get up yourself, Ellis walked in and her eyes lit up when she spotted you.
“You dated that freak?”
“Fuck off,” you groaned, banging your head on the table.
“Can’t believe that’s the competition," Ellis laughed.
“Are you trying to tell me something, Ellis?” You asked.
She snorted. “No, my girlfriend doesn’t share. I am not in the competition.”
“Okay? So who is?”
“I’ve said too much,” she grinned.
“Oh you did that on purpose,” you grumbled.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about. Gossip is bad, boss.”
“Fuck off, Ellis.”
-- -- --
You managed to survive the shift without laying eyes on Bradley or his, apparently fuming, wife Hannah. Your escape was surreptitious and via the back entrance loading docks, slipping out with your badge already tucked away and car keys in hand. The loading dock was dim and echoing, concrete stained with old oil spills, the November air sharp enough to sting your lungs after hours inside. You rolled your shoulders, adjusting the strap of your bag, already mentally halfway home.
It was just your luck that Jack was waiting out back for you.
“Jesus Christ,” you nearly shrieked when he appeared from around the corner. “Make a fucking noise, oh my god.”
His hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, posture deceptively casual. He looked like he’d been there for a while, weight shifting from foot to foot, gaze flicking toward the doors every few seconds.
“I’ve been having trouble with something,” he said, ignoring your outburst, like he hadn’t just sent your heart rate tachycardic.
He took a step into your space. Despite your shock and annoyance at said shock, he didn’t step back, which you noticed immediately.
“Being fuck normal?” you asked.
“Never been that.”
“Clearly,” you grumbled. “What do you need Abbot? I’m going home and blocking everyone from my hometown on Facebook. With my luck there’s already been a post about this on the town Facebook page, probably from my mother.”
You started down the dock, boots scuffing against concrete, already pulling your phone out of your pocket.
“Do you still think that’s the kind of man you deserve?” Jack asked.
You stopped walking. He had caught up to you, again.
“What?” You were deeply confused now. “Are you talking about Bradley? That was like, fifteen years ago.”
“I just can’t get over how younger you thought that motherfucker should have been allowed to see you naked,” he said harshly.
The words landed boldly in the open air. It was not exactly the most appropriate comment for a coworker to make, but Jack seemed to be on a roll. His jaw was tight, his hands flexing once at his sides. With furrowed eyebrows, he was only a few centimeters from. You couldn’t help but feel a little shocked by the turn of events. Bradley seemed to have triggered Jack more than he had you. You were going to say something, but he kept talking.
“And now I’m worried you still date people like that.”
“I do not,” you scoffed. “I’m going home, Jack. I’m tired.”
You shrugged your bag up higher on your shoulder and jogged down the dock steps. Right before you rounded the corner toward the parking garage, Jack stuck his arm out to block you. His forearm braced against the concrete wall beside your head, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him. The garage lights cast harsh shadows across his face.
“You said the last guy you dated tried to argue with you about what a broken nose was,” Jack continued like you hadn’t walked a solid fifty feet and two minutes from the last thing he said.
“Yes?” You sighed.
“That’s loser behavior.”
“Thank you for that riveting critique of my dating life. I certainly don’t get enough comments from my mom or sister.”
“I’m serious. Why do you think you deserve losers?”
“Because losers are the only ones who tell they’re interested, I guess. You do realize I pay a therapist for this kind of conversation. Don’t hurt Cassie’s livelihood like this.”
You tried to laugh it off, but Jack didn’t. He didn’t move away either. His focus on you was almost unnerving now. It was a lame joke, an attempt to ease his intense focus on you so you could go home and collapse into your bed. In a back corner of your brain, you hated to hear his evaluations of your dating life.
“There are better options,” he continued.
“Like who? Robby?” You scoffed.
“Absolutely not,” Jack replied harshly.
The word came out fast, almost reflexive. He stepped closer to you, nearly backing you against the wall, close enough now that you could smell him.
“I’m telling him you said that,” you replied weakly.
“This whole time, I thought you were dating CEOs and hedge fund managers—”
“Why would you think so low of me?” You asked, almost offended.
“I thought you were dating impressive people. But you’re dating Joe Shmoe who’s an amateur boxer and thinks he knows more about medicine than you. I didn’t think…”
You sighed again. “Did you just corner me out here to insult my taste in men?”
“No.”
He didn’t continue.The silence stretched. A car passed by the loading dock, headlights briefly washing over both of you.
“Spell it out Jack. I’m exhausted. I want to go home.”
“I didn’t think I had a chance,” he said. “You are so impressive. You worked your ass off, managed top of your class in med school, was a resident at the Cleveland Clinic, fellowship too and then came out here and you’re one of the best teachers we’ve had.”
His voice softened with every word. He was somehow closer still. His eyes bored into you and his hand hovered near your hip, but didn’t quite make contact. You could hear the soft huffs of his breath as he leaned near you.
“That’s kind of you to say,” you said, you didn’t like how shaky your voice sounded. Your heart was pounding hard enough that you could feel it in your throat.
“And I watched how funny and affable you were and thought there was no way this incredible woman wants anything to do with me.”
“What are you saying?” You were terrified of his answer.
“I’m saying that I can’t stop thinking about you, and that I want to take you on a well planned, non-accessory burglary date.”
“Fucking with me like this is cruel,” you whispered.
“Not fucking with you,” Jack said. “Fell ass flat for you the moment you got in my face about my shit charting.”
“It’s important to beat insurance companies at their own game,” you said quietly.
“So you say,” he whispered.
His hand lifted slightly, hovering near your wrist, now.
“You’re so amazing. And I just want you to know that. I want to sweep you off your feet like you deserve.”
Your brain raced as it tried to make sense of everything that was happening, the cold air, the concrete wall at your back, the man in front of you looking more nervous than you’d ever seen him.
“You want to date? Me?”
“Yes.”
“And this isn’t a joke?”
“Do you think I would joke about this?”
“No.”
“Well, there’s your answer.”
You blinked and eventually said, “I thought you were still in love with your wife.”
“I’ll always love Sarah. But she never believed in soulmates or anything like that. Love is not finite.”
“I can’t compete with her,” you said.
“Not a competition,” he replied. “Not even a game. It’s just life…let someone romance you, okay?”
“And you’d be doing the romancing?”
The disbelieving tone was clearly evident.
“I don’t see anyone else out here on the loading dock,” he commented idly.
“I can’t believe this is happening.”
“I can’t believe you still haven’t given me an answer. You’re leaving me out to dry here,” he said. For the first time, his confidence cracked just enough to show nerves.
“I’ve never lied to you about my feelings, Jack,” you said.
“What do you—oh my god, are you kidding me?” He sounded annoyed. “You were clearly being sarcastic.”
“I always sound like that. Not my fault you chose to see that way. Mamma taught me not to lie.”
“So you’re in love with me?”
“Love is a strong word. You’re still annoying,” you said.
“Yeah, well, so are you,” he shot back. “Please tell me I can kiss you.”
“Yeah, you can kiss me,” you giggled. You hadn’t giggled since high school.
Jack didn’t rush it. He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek softly. It felt reverent, almost. When his lips touched yours, they were cold and chapped with the chilly Pittsburgh air. It was tentative, careful and restrained. When you kissed him back, his breath hitched audibly, his other hand settling at your waist, the warmth bleeding through your coat and scrubs.
He pulled away, looking almost as shocked as you felt. As much as you didn’t expect this happening, you doubted he had either. You were too befuddled by the turn of events to do anything more than lean in again, reveling in the feeling and satisfaction of knowing that the man who had captured your attention so intensely, somehow felt the same way.
The second kiss was deeper, less careful, all the held-back want finally slipping through long fought for control. He lingered there, forehead resting against yours when he finally pulled away, breathing a little heavier than before.
“You’re off tonight, right?” He asked.
“Yes?”
“I’m picking you up at 7pm and I’m going to take you on a real date. I’m going to wine and dine you and then I’m going to walk you to your front door and kiss you before going home,” he whispered. “And I’m going to show you exactly how not to fumble someone as phenomenal as you are. Sound good?”
What else could you say, other than, “Yeah, that sounds good.”
Jack Abbot loves you and fucks you like the older man he is.
Jack doesn’t play games. Which means he also will not tolerate you playing games with him. He’s generous. With affection, with money, with time. And he expects you to be open with him, to accept that as a way he shows his love.
He doesn’t like games in his relationship, including when it comes to sex. Sex is a way to express your love for eachother, it’s intimate time spent taking care of eachother. And yeah. It feels fucking great. So withholding out of spite isn’t going to end well with him. It’s one thing if you’re genuinely upset with eachother and not interested in that. When that’s the case you have way bigger fish to fry then sex- just a symptom of a bigger problem, you’ve got real problems to sort. But freezing him out to prove a point? That’s a great way to end the relationship. Talk about it like an adult or call it quits. Dont hold it over his head like a child.
He’s not pushy with sex. He’s not in a rush to get there when you start dating. 3 date rule 5 date rule whatever hookup culture new bullshit you’ve heard of isn’t even on his radar. He likes you. You’re going out. It’ll happen when it happens. And if there’s a reason it’s not happening after some time, you’ll talk about it.
And he charms you into bed. He isn’t pushy, or god forbid entitled. But if you want a beautiful woman to come home with you, you have to prove yourself as worthy of it, plain and simple. Nice diner, good wine, maybe even a show or a movie or some outing where his hand stays firmly on your back, his lips respectful when they kiss your hand or cheek. Sweet desert and playful smiles, and an offer to come back to his place that’s far from aggressive. Who could say no to that boyish smile and those warm hands?
Oh. And you’re not touching a bill. He might even get offended when you try. “Sweetheart, I’m a doctor.” “Who hurt you?” “Are you out of your mind give me that. What kind of man- I took you out. It’s on me. It’s always going to be on me, got it?”. No little boy 50/50 bullshit. No whining about you being ‘high maintenance’ or asking what you bring to the table. Baby, you are the table.
His preferences and desires aren’t shaped by porn. They’re just what he likes. Plain and simple. Doesn’t need anyone else’s validation. You do what you both like, period.
Jack is a charming guy. He’s funny, he’s sweet, he’s playful and teasing and boyish in the right ways. But that all changes in the bedroom. Intimacy is serious to him. It’s quiet and attentive and deep. It’s romantic and considerate.
He’s been fucking since before you were born. Something he chuckled and whispered in your ear once, as he felt you squeeze his fingers like a vice. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?”.
He teases. God he teases. He runs his mouth. But he’s not mean. He talks you through it. He can run his mouth till the cows come home. He can also be quiet and intimate if that’s what you need. And he takes good care of you no matter what.
He doesn’t give a flying fuck about hair, appreciates it even. (for fucks sake, this younger generations need to open themselves up to infection, abscess’ and the plain discomfort of razor bumps because porn has rotted young men’s brains grosses him out) you’re a grown ass woman, he’s a grown ass man. No shit you have hair. Back in his day that kind of thing was sexy, thank you.
He strives to make you feel good, and make sure you know no one is making you feel as good as he can.
Big proponent of putting a pillow under your hips. He wants it to feel as good as possible for you. He wants your toes curling and your brain empty. He wants your nails on his back, your eyes rolling back in your head.
He’s not above a little begging. A little patheticness for you. It always makes you laugh so pretty, yeah, he’ll indulge you. You know who’s the man of the house here, why not?
And he’d never say a fucking word about what happens in your bedroom outside of it. No if and or buts there.
Safety first safety second safety third with this guy. Comdoms are second nature to him. He’s not playing around, not unless there’s a very serious conversation very far down the road.
He’s good at buying flowers, and he does it regularly. Date night. Period. Bad day. Just because. The old ones start to die, there’s new ones. Period. They’re thoughtful too. He pays attention, he knows what you like.
Speaking of periods. He’s unfazed. Hot water bottle, Motrin, chocolate chips in his cabinet for you. Cuddles, sweet words, he’s got all the stops. He’s unfazed, he’s a doctor. It’s natural and a sign of a healthy body, he’s just sorry it hurts so bad. Hand on your belly rubbing circles, not even noticing the bloating, wishing he could make you feel better. And if you want him to help you with your cramps in another way? Baby. He’s a doctor. He’s been covered in blood many times. God knows he doesn’t care if it’s you.
He takes care of things. If he says he’ll get done, it gets done. Promptly. He fixes things, he orders things, he calls a guy, he makes it happen. You say the word, baby, he’ll handle it don’t worry about it. He’s so good with his hands in all ways.
Sometimes he hears some of the med students and residents and nurses discuss their, in his opinion self inflicted dating woes. And when it gets to painful to keep listening to the boys, he clicks his phone to his Lock Screen. “That’s my lady. Beautiful isn’t she? You want a woman like that, you’re gonna have to get your shit together because that bullshit is why us old guys are stealing all your girls.”
Um i have a request that can go either dr jack or dr robby, its up to you and the people🙌
Him figuring out you're pregnant before you even notice? Like he's so in tune with your body that when he's in you or when he feels you up he notices the subtlest change 👀 and when you wonder why your period is late its the final 1% for him 🤭 now he's 100% sure before you even suspect it
Absolutely, here’s the Jack Abbot version—grounded, intimate, and very Jack-coded.
LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3
content/warning : pregnancy symptoms, emotional overwhelm, soft marriage vibes, denial, reader in her "i’m fine" era, jack in his "no you're not" era, smut (married, emotionally grounded), pregnancy, food/scent aversion, mild mention of nausea
words : 3,144
You’ve been married to Jack Abbot for thirteen months and a week—but the two of you have been together for four years.
And somehow, you’re still learning him.
Still adjusting to the way he folds his t-shirts into perfect thirds. Still moving his boots away from the front door, even though he always leaves them there. Still catching the way he’ll wait until the lights are off, the blankets pulled up, and then remember one more thing he has to tell you.
You know his rhythms. His moods. The way he kisses you a little differently when he’s worried but won’t say it out loud.
What you sometimes forget is that Jack’s job never really ends—he never really clocks out.
He’s an ER doctor. Which means he’s always watching. Always reading. Always two steps ahead of a problem you haven’t realized is there.
MONDAY – The Morning Slips
The light’s already different when you open your eyes.
Softer. Higher.
You blink at the ceiling, then at the clock.
7:08.
Your breath catches. “Jack?”
You sit up in a rush—sweats and a worn old shirt clinging from sleep—and nearly trip getting out of bed. He’s not next to you. Your alarm isn’t ringing. Your phone is somehow still on Do Not Disturb.
“Jack?”
“Kitchen,” he calls back, voice calm.
You shuffle into the hallway, hair barely brushed, already calculating how fast you can get dressed and be out the door. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
Jack looks up from the coffee pot. He’s already dressed—scrubs on, ID clipped, stethoscope tucked in his jacket pocket.
“You didn’t even flinch when your alarm went off. I turned it off after the third round.”
You stare at him. “You let me oversleep?”
“You never sleep through your alarm,” he says, stepping toward you with a travel mug in one hand and a piece of toast in the other. “So I figured something was up.”
You groan. “I’ve got Q1 projections due today.”
“I emailed Rhonda. Told her you were running late.”
You blink. “You emailed my boss?”
“She sent back a thumbs up emoji.’”
Your laugh comes out surprised. “She would do that.”
“I made your coffee. It’s in the mug with the chip you like.” He hands it to you. “No cream. You’ve been skipping it lately.”
You frown. “Have I?”
Jack just nods. “You said it tasted too sweet last week.”
You take a sip. Still feels off—but you smile at him anyway.
“Thanks.”
He leans down and kisses your forehead. “Go shower. I laid out your dark gray sweater—the one you like for presentation days. Pants are on the chair.”
You freeze. “You picked out my clothes?”
“Only because I figured you’d be half-asleep and half-angry. I’m avoiding both.”
“You’re a menace,” you say, but it’s soft.
“You married me anyway.”
He brushes your hair back, fingers lingering a second too long at your temple.
“You okay?” you ask.
“Me? I’m great.”
“You’re looking at me weird.”
He shrugs. “I think I’m just impressed.”
“With what?”
“How well I know you.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re smug before 8 a.m.”
“I’ve earned it,” he says, nudging you toward the bedroom. “Go get ready. Your spreadsheet empire awaits.”
Thirty minutes later, as you’re rushing out the door with your laptop bag and still-wet hair, you find a granola bar tucked into your coat pocket.
The one you always forget you like until you’re starving at 10 a.m.
You don’t remember saying anything about needing one.
But Jack knows.
Of course he knows.
TUESDAY – Heels and Sore Feet
When you come through the door, Jack’s already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, dish towel slung over his shoulder like he’s been home a little while—but not long enough to fully settle.
You kick off your work shoes in the entryway, wincing slightly as you press your toes into the hardwood. “Remind me again why I thought real leather heels were a good investment.”
Jack leans back from the sink and tilts his head toward you. “Because they were on clearance and you were feeling powerful.”
“Right.” You flex your feet. “Power comes at a cost.”
“Come here.”
You shuffle toward him, dropping your tote bag by the counter. He doesn’t kiss you yet—just takes your hand and guides you to sit at one of the stools. Then he crouches, gently lifting your foot into his lap.
“Jack,” you laugh, “you do not need to—”
He starts massaging your arch with his thumb, firm and slow. “You’ve been on these all day. Let me.”
You lean back with a sigh. “This is how you trap me. You pretend to do the dishes, then you pamper me into silence.”
He smiles but doesn’t look up. “Worked yesterday.”
You wiggle your toes and close your eyes. “Feels so good it’s kind of criminal.”
“Good,” he murmurs.
He glances up just once—and clocks the light puffiness in your ankles.
He doesn’t say anything.
Just moves to your other foot.
After dinner—simple roasted veggies and couscous, eaten off the same two mismatched plates you’ve had since your first apartment—he walks behind you and wraps his arms around your waist while you’re rinsing your glass.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he says into your shoulder.
“Just thinking about that ridiculous Excel model I have to finish.”
He kisses your hair. “Take tomorrow slow if you can.”
You nod, but your hand rests gently over his where it sits across your middle.
You don’t notice it.
Jack does.
He says nothing.
WEDNESDAY – The Bloat Debate
You’re standing in front of the hallway mirror, poking at your stomach with the kind of exaggerated annoyance only someone married can safely get away with.
Jack walks by on his way to the bedroom, dressed down in sweatpants and a t-shirt, pausing when he sees your face in the reflection.
“You good?” he asks, leaning casually against the doorframe.
You sigh dramatically. “I look like I swallowed a beach ball.”
Jack walks up behind you, eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “A small one, maybe. Like a decorative beach ball.”
You shoot him a sharp look. “Jack.”
He holds up both hands. “Hey. You brought it up.”
“I said I feel bloated. I didn’t ask for live commentary.”
He smiles and wraps his arms loosely around your waist, hands resting over the area you were just inspecting. “You’re the one poking yourself like a Pillsbury commercial.”
You snort. “I’m serious. None of my pants fit right this week. I sat down today and my waistband tried to fight me.”
“You’ve been eating the same stuff. Drinking water?”
“Barely. Work’s been insane.”
He kisses your temple. “Could be stress. Could be timing. Or maybe your body’s still sorting through Monday night’s gourmet masterpiece.”
You squint at him. “What masterpiece?”
“The one where you ate dill pickles, white cheddar popcorn, and two spoonfuls of peanut butter. In that order.”
You pause. “…It hit the spot.”
Jack grins. “Sure it did. My stomach was scared just watching.”
“You didn’t stop me.”
“I was afraid to interfere.”
You smirk. “You should be.”
He grins. “Noted.”
You shake your head, laughing, then rest your hands over his. “You sure it doesn’t look like anything?”
Jack doesn’t answer right away.
Because it does.
Not in a dramatic way. But he knows your shape. Your weight. The way your body settles against his at night. And lately, something’s… shifted.
Still, he kisses your shoulder and says simply, “You’re still the best thing I’ve ever looked at.”
You roll your eyes, leaning back into him. “Suck-up.”
He hugs you tighter. “Only for you.”
THURSDAY – The Blanket Negotiation
You’re on the couch by the time Jack gets home—already in pajamas, legs tucked under you, remote in hand, a bag of sour candy opened beside a half-finished cup of tea.
He walks in, shrugs out of his coat, and takes in the scene like a man walking into a painting he’s seen every day for four years and still isn’t over.
“You started without me,” he says.
“You’re twenty minutes late. Statute of limitations has passed.”
Jack walks over, leans down to kiss you, and pauses.
He looks at the bag of sour candy. Then the tea. Then back at you.
“That combo feels… bold.”
You shrug. “It’s balance. My body wanted chaos and comfort.”
He slides onto the couch beside you. “Didn’t you say your grilled cheese was ‘too much’ at lunch?
You sigh. “It was aggressive. The cheese had opinions.”
Jack laughs softly. “And now you're chasing it with citrus acid and sleepytime tea.”
You offer him a sour gummy. “Don’t question the system. Just participate.”
He takes one. “Yes, ma’am.”
Jack tries to nudge the blanket to him. You hold your edge tighter. “I got cold first.”
“I just walked in from outside.”
“You’ve got more body heat.”
He squints. “You’re hoarding it.”
“You’re late and you didn’t text. I get blanket privileges and first pick on snacks.”
He laughs, raising his hands in surrender. “I can’t argue with that logic.”
You smirk and finally shift, letting him under the blanket.
Once settled, he rests his hand on your leg—his thumb absently drawing circles near your knee while your attention returns to the screen.
You’re focused on the show.
Jack’s focused on you.
The blanket drapes across your midsection, and he notices the slight pressure you’ve been keeping there all week—how your hand keeps resting just under your ribs like your body’s trying to say something your brain hasn’t caught yet.
He doesn’t bring it up.
Instead, he leans a little closer.
“You feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” you mumble. “Just tired. I’ve been tired all week.”
He nods. “You’ve been going hard.”
“I haven’t touched laundry all week. I’m down to mismatched socks and silent prayers.”
Jack smiles softly. “Want me to run a load?”
“You did the last one.”
“I’m on a streak.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “I married well.”
“You did.”
FRIDAY – The Way You Feel Tonight
It starts when you straddle his hips.
Jack’s back is against the headboard, pillows kicked aside, and you’re already skin-on-skin—his t-shirt discarded on the floor, yours halfway up your ribs. You’re in nothing but underwear, palms on his chest, nails dragging lightly across the sparse hair there.
He watches you like he’s trying to burn the image into memory.
“You sure you’re not too sore from the gym yesterday?” you tease, rolling your hips just enough to make his breath hitch.
“Positive,” he says. “Although if I die right now, I want it on record this was worth it.”
You grin. “Noted.”
His hands slide up your thighs slowly, thumbs pressing into the backs like he’s reading your muscles through the skin. Then his touch goes gentle. Palming. Bracing.
But when they move up to your waist, they stop.
His fingers settle across your lower belly, just under your navel. Familiar territory. But it doesn’t feel quite the same.
The curve is a little firmer. Rounder. Not bloated—different.
You keep moving over him, unaware. His eyes never leave your face.
“You okay?” you ask, cocking an eyebrow.
Jack refocuses. “Yeah. Just... distracted.”
“You can stare later,” you say, lifting your hips to tug your underwear down. “Hands now. Mouth soon.”
“God, I love you,” he mutters.
“Then prove it.”
He flips you onto your back, mouth already at your collarbone, breath warm, kisses slow. He trails one hand between your legs and groans when he finds you wet and ready, slicker than usual.
You pull him down with a hand behind his neck. “Come on.”
But he’s still slow.
Like he’s measuring.
Like he’s trying to feel every millimeter of you, confirm what he already suspects.
You’re tighter. Not tense. Just changed.
You gasp as he eases inside. “Jesus—”
It’s good. So good. His hips rock into you slow, steady, deep. One of your legs hooks over his back, heel pressed to his side, chasing friction.
Every time he hits just right, your hand fists in the sheets. Your moans are breathless, open-mouthed, involuntary.
Jack watches your face like it holds answers. His pace stays smooth, even as you start to beg.
“Jack,” you gasp, eyes fluttering. “Harder.”
He gives you what you want. A little more pressure. A little less space between his body and yours.
You feel full. Stretched. But not uncomfortable.
You feel held.
And when you come—hard, back arching, fingers digging into his shoulder—he follows seconds after, groaning your name into your skin like he’s never said anything truer.
He brushes your hair back, fingertips trailing your temple.
“You’ve been looking at me weird all night,” you murmur.
Jack smiles. “No, I haven’t.”
You lift an eyebrow. “You were studying me.”
“I was watching you.”
“Same thing.”
He doesn’t respond.
He just presses his hand to your stomach again—light, thoughtful, like he’s grounding himself more than anything.
You roll your eyes playfully. “Don’t get sappy on me now.”
Jack just smiles.
“I’m already in deep,” he says quietly.
You kiss him once, quick. “Weirdo.”
SATURDAY – The Vendor You Walked Away From
It’s just after noon when you stop by the market. Something normal. Familiar. Something you and Jack do when there’s nowhere else you need to be.
You loop through the vendors casually, fingers brushing the edge of a produce crate, checking for ripeness. Jack keeps pace beside you, a canvas tote slung over one shoulder. He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t have to. He’s just watching the way you move.
You’ve always been precise. Sharp, even in small motions.
But today, there’s hesitation.
You reach for a bunch of mint, fingers brushing the stems—then pause.
Jack notices before you say anything.
You pull your hand back, subtle, and move on to the next table without a word.
At the bakery stall, you order for both of you. Jack takes a bite of the rosemary bread. You don’t touch yours.
He watches you stare at it for a few seconds too long.
“I’ll eat it later,” you say finally, tucking the paper bag into the tote. “Not in the mood right now.”
He doesn’t press. Just nods, and walks with you.
Fifteen minutes later, you pass a vendor handing out samples of honey and cheese—something you’d normally stop for. Your eyes flick over the setup, then move away quickly. Not forced. But intentional.
You keep walking.
Jack stays silent until you’re halfway to the car.
“Did that smell bother you?”
You glance at him. “What?”
“The cheese. You looked at it like it turned your stomach.”
You shake your head. “No. I just didn’t want it.”
He nods once. Doesn’t push.
You unlock the car. He loads the bag in the backseat. You slide into the passenger side and adjust the seatbelt low.
He notices that too.
On the way home, the radio’s low. You’re watching traffic, thumb tapping absently against the console.
Jack glances at your profile once. Then again.
“You’ve been different this week,” he says.
You don’t look at him. “So have you.”
There’s no bite in it. Just quiet truth.
He exhales through his nose. “That’s fair.”
You turn your head finally. “Is there something you’re not saying?”
Jack watches the road. His hands stay steady on the wheel.
“No,” he says after a pause. “You’ll say it first.”
SUNDAY – Three Weeks Late
It’s just after 11. The laundry’s done. The dishwasher’s running. You’ve wiped down the counters twice.
You’re standing at the fridge, pinning up a receipt, when your eyes catch the calendar.
Your stomach dips.
You count the days with your finger—slowly, carefully, like you don’t quite trust yourself.
One. Two. Three—
Three weeks late.
Not five days. Not “I think I skipped one.” Three.
You turn your head toward the living room. Jack’s on the couch, half-sunken into the cushions, phone in hand, scrolling through the news without really reading it. His coffee sits untouched on the table. One leg stretched out, the other—his prosthetic—resting beside him like it always is when he’s home and grounded, the kind of settled comfort only the two of you know by feel.
You don’t mean to say it yet.
But it’s out before you can take it back.
“Jack?”
He looks up instantly. “Yeah?”
You stay by the fridge, fingertips grazing the door like it’s anchoring you.
“I’m... three weeks late.”
There’s a long pause.
Jack doesn’t move right away. Just watches you—quiet, focused, already reading every inch of your face.
Then, calmly, he leans forward.
His movements are familiar: practiced, unfussy. He shifts to the edge of the couch, pulls the prosthetic toward him, and straps it on like he’s done a thousand times—smooth, sure, muscle memory in every motion.
You don’t speak. Just watch him move through it with the same quiet purpose he’s carried through every hard season of your life together.
When he stands, it’s quiet—just the familiar click of the prosthetic locking in and the muted slide of his socked foot across the hardwood.
He crosses to you without hurry.
When he stops in front of you, his voice is low. Certain.
“Do you want to take a test?”
You nod.
“I don’t have one.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah, you do.”
You blink.
“Top drawer,” he says simply. “I bought one Monday.”
You stare at him. “You—what?”
Jack shrugs. “I figured you’d see it when you were ready.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re not even a little surprised?”
He steps closer, voice low, steady. “You’ve been different. Not in a bad way—just… off your rhythm. You’ve been switching between hoodies in the middle of the day like none of them fit right. You keep standing at the fridge and forgetting what you opened it for. And your leftover curry—the one you swore was better the second day? You didn’t even take a bite.”
You stare at him. “You kept track of all of that?”
“I love you. I notice you.”
You go quiet.
Then reach for his hand.
“Come with me?”
“Of course.”
You sit on the bathroom counter while the test processes. Jack stands beside you, leaning against the sink. Neither of you talk. There’s nothing left to say.
You both look down at the result at the same time.
Positive.
You exhale like it’s the first full breath you’ve taken all week.
Jack rests his hand gently on the counter behind you—not pushing, just there.
Your voice breaks the silence.
“We’re really doing this.”
Jack nods. “We already are.”
You smile—small, but it stays.
And Jack leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.
← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader + platonic! damian wayne ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You and Jason get ready to head to Gotham Academy to pretend to be Damian's parents after he gets into a fight at school.
word cnt. 5.3k
aka ›››› "Jason did you put us as married for tax benefits??" "..." "Hey!"
“Jason!” your voice slips out in a small, breathy squeal — the kind that starts as surprise but softens almost instantly into something warm and instinctive — as he trails slow, wandering kisses along the line of your jaw and down the curve of your neck, each kiss lingering just long enough to blur your thoughts at the edges and untie whatever tension had been sitting in your chest.
“Just ignore it,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips brushing the flutter of your pulse as though he’s trying to memorize it, while his hand tugs the blanket down from your waist with the kind of determined impatience that feels both ridiculous and ridiculously flattering.
“I can’t—” you try to protest, though the words crumble apart the second his mouth finds that sensitive place beneath your ear, the one he likes far too much for your own self-control, “hey—wait, what if it’s actually important?”
“Important my ass,” he groans, words melting into your neck, warm and half-muffled and sounding very much like a man personally offended by the concept of responsibilities, “what could possibly be more important than—”
But before he can finish that question — a question which, knowing how confident he is in bed with you, would have turned into something shameless — the phone call cuts out abruptly, the sound dropping away so suddenly that Jason collapses forward with a low, dramatic exhale of relief, muttering a soft, satisfied, “finally,” like the universe has done him a personal favor.
You giggle, the sound tumbling out before you can stop it, light and fond and maybe a little hopeless, and you let him resume his slow path of kisses, his calloused hands warm against your hips, his smile brushing against your skin like he can’t quite hold it in.
And then — just as the moment begins to settle into something warm and dreamy and perfect — your phone rings again, slicing cleanly through the atmosphere like a cold wind sneaking into a sunlit room.
Jason goes still.
Utterly still.
The kind of stillness usually reserved for wild animals hearing a hunter’s footsteps.
You turn just enough to see the way his brows drag together, his expression darkening as he stares at the vibrating phone like it has personally wronged him in a past life.
“Is this one of your side chicks?” he mutters, low and accusatory, and the seriousness on his face would be concerning if you didn’t already know he’s talking about one of your fully committed friends — or Stephanie, or Cassandra, or possibly both of them in some chaotic combined effort.
Before you can even sit up, Jason has already snatched the phone from the nightstand, answering it with the energy of a man who has been interrupted one too many times and is fully prepared to wage war.
“I swear to the gods, Stephanie, she is not going shopping with—”
But then a noise comes through the speaker — a deep cough, rumbling and unmistakably masculine — and the shock jolting through your body is immediate and full.
Jason’s expression freezes.
Yours dies entirely.
Your soul, without hesitation, leaves your body.
You sit up so quickly that the blankets slide down your hips in a soft, defeated tumble.
Your snatching the phone out of Jason’s hand before he can make whatever catastrophe he has already begun even worse, and Jason—god bless him—immediately shrinks behind you like a delinquent schoolboy caught with a lit firecracker, his whole posture folding inward in remorse, his eyes wide and apologetic as he rubs small, guilty circles into your hip as though that alone could undo whatever chaos he has unleashed.
“Hello? Sir?” you manage, your voice thin with rapidly escalating dread, every muscle in your body coiling tight because if—IF—this is your boss, the man who never calls but absolutely could choose tonight of all nights to break his lifelong habit of respecting boundaries, then the universe is not merely cruel but personally vindictive.
“Uh—are you Mrs. Wayne?” comes the voice on the other end, deep and nasal and vaguely congested, like the speaker is either sick, bored, or allergic to your peace.
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
A third time, harder.
“Uh—”
Slowly—painfully slowly—you drop the phone to your chest and turn your head toward Jason with the kind of expression you have when coming home from a eight hour shift to find Tim and Kon sleeping on your couch and eating your leftovers.
“Did you put us as married for tax benefits or something?” you whisper, each word elongated by disbelief. While he goes by Todd on almost everything, legally, on paper, Wayne could still work.
Jason stares back at you.
Not guilty.
Not defensive.
Just… blank.
Utterly blank.
Like a computer frozen on a loading screen.
You exhale sharply, a tired, disbelieving sound, and shove him off you; his big, ridiculous body falls sideways onto the mattress with an undignified thump, bouncing once like a discarded throw pillow that’s suddenly reconsidering its life choices. You're not strong enough to shove him on your own—your boyfriend did that willingly.
Then, with all the reluctant elegance of someone preparing to lie their way out of a federal investigation, you lift the phone back to your ear, clear your throat delicately, and say:
“Yes…? And this is…?” drawing the words out slowly, preparing—just in case—to pretend you misheard absolutely everything should this turn out to be the beginning of a financial or legal apocalypse.
“Ah, headmaster of Gotham Academy,” the man clarifies with a weary sort of formality, the kind that suggests he’s been rehearsing the same unfortunate script far too many times in the span of a single day, “you see, your son has had a scuffle with two other students in the courtyard, and the parents of the other children are intending to press charges unless they receive a formal apology, so I believe it would be in your family’s best interest if you arrive—with your husband—as soon as possible. The other parents will be here in about an hour.”
For several long, suspended seconds you simply sit there, the air thick around you as your brain clatters and whirs in an attempt to process the information that was just force-fed into it, and then, with a kind of slow-motion dread, you tilt your head toward Jason.
He stares back at you, wide-eyed and blinking, like a man who absolutely heard every single word but whose brain has refused, on strike, to begin handling it.
Okay.
Gotham Academy.
You can practically hear the gears inside your head grinding as you try to place which Wayne child that actually applies to, your gaze drifting around the room as if perhaps the walls might take pity on you and whisper the answer.
You mouth, very deliberately, 'Tim?'
Jason gives the quickest shake of his head, one short motion that at least rules out one catastrophe.
“Never went,” he whispers back. “Still isn’t.”
Your stomach sinks in a way that feels both immediate and inevitable.
Well. That leaves only—
Damian.
“Ma’am?” the headmaster’s voice cracks faintly through the phone, politely reminding you that you have, in fact, not spoken for far too long.
You inhale a steadying breath, the kind that fills your lungs more with resignation than air, and raise the phone again.
“One moment,” you say, injecting your voice with what you hope sounds like the composed patience of a woman who has any sort of control over her life, “I’m just speaking to my husband.”
If Jason had been a dog before, now he transforms into the canine equivalent of a champion show breed receiving a ribbon: his spine pulls straight, his shoulders shift backward as though pinned by invisible medals, and his eyes brighten with such earnest pride that you immediately regret using the word even if it was necessary.
You glare at him because it’s easier than admitting your heart stuttered a little at the way he reacted.
Then you drop your voice.
“Where is Bruce?”
“Mission,” Jason whispers back immediately, leaning closer so the headmaster won’t overhear. “India.”
You clench your jaw. “Dick?”
Jason throws a hand in the air, genuinely offended you think he might know.
“Why would I know?? Brooding in Mumbai maybe? Clinging to the Taj Mahal and being dramatic? I don’t have his itinerary!”
You stare at him.
He stares back.
For a moment, the two of you are united in the silent, mutual realization that neither of you—absolutely neither—should be the ones responsible for handling anything that begins with the phrase “your son” and ends with “pressing charges.”
But Damian is your problem right now.
And apparently, so are the furious parents headed to the Academy in under an hour.
“Would you like to speak to your son, ma’am?” the voice on the other end asks, the tone clipped but not unkind, like a man who has repeated this exact question far too many times tonight. “This will be a supervised call but—”
“Yes, put me on the phone with Damian,” you blurt, the words tumbling out in a rush that betrays just how quickly your instincts snap into place. You shift on the bed, planting yourself beside Jason, who immediately scoots as if pulled by invisible thread, lowering his head into your lap with a nonchalance so exaggerated he might as well have announced I’m definitely not eavesdropping, please ignore me.
Your fingers find his hair almost automatically, threading through the dark strands the way you always do when your nerves start buzzing under your skin. Jason melts instantly—he always does—closing his eyes like a very large, very dangerous dog settling into a warm patch of sunlight.
On the phone, there’s nothing but dead air. Long, tense dead air.
Then—
A small, sharp inhale. Rough-sounding. Like he tried to swallow a sniffle.
“…Hello? Dami, you there?” you whisper, your voice softening the way it always does around him, like your body reshapes itself into something gentler just at the thought of him.
“Yeah.”
It’s barely audible, scraped thin, as if speaking at all hurts.
Your heart twists so hard it knocks your breath sideways.
“…Should I call Mr. Wayne—”
“Mom.”
The single word lands heavier than anything you expected, clumsy on his tongue, like it’s too big, too odd, too fragile for him to know how to hold. Jason feels the way your whole body goes still beneath him, your hand freezing mid-stroke, and immediately he starts rubbing slowly, grounding circles into your thigh, his thumb warm and steady, silently telling you to breathe.
“Mom,” Damian says again, softer, like repeating it might help how foreign it feels on his tongue. “Can—can you be here in…”
He trails off, the sentence unraveling into nothing.
You share one look with Jason—wide-eyed, overwhelmed, a little wrecked—and answer for both of you, your voice steady even if your heart feels anything but.
“Forty five minutes,” you promise quietly. “Give us forty five minutes."
There’s a tiny rustle, like Damian shifting the phone closer.
Then, a whisper: “...Is he coming?”
You inhale to reassure him—yes, sweetheart, yes, of course he is—but before the words even form, Jason snatches the phone clean out of your hand, moving with the confidence of a man who absolutely should not have confidence.
“Hell yeah Daddy’s coming,” he says, his voice rich with a shameless grin you can hear, and you would smack him so hard his soul rattles if you didn’t know exactly what he was doing: trying to lift the crushing weight off Damian’s little shoulders, trying to lift it off yours too, turning a crisis into something softer, something survivable. Because to him, come on babe it's just a parent teacher meeting.
There’s a quiet exchange—Jason murmuring low reassurances, Damian answering with short snap backs that ‘I'm not crying it's the blood!’—and you sit there beside him, spiraling through every possible disaster, worry flaring and fading and flaring again like a heartbeat.
Then Jason ends the call with a single, unapologetic tap, tosses your phone onto the blanket like it’s an empty soda can, and looks up at you with a grin full of teeth and trouble—so bright, so wildly misplaced in the moment—that your heart practically short-circuits.
“Mommy,” he croons in a sing-song tone that feels like knives and affection all wrapped in one, “ready for a parent–teacher conference?”
You stare at him.
How is he this calm?
Your eye twitches. “You never got in trouble when you were in school, huh?”
“Fuck no,” Jason replies without a second of hesitation, before immediately collapsing forward and shoving his face into your stomach—like he’s burrowing there for warmth, comfort, absolution, or maybe just to hide the fact that he finds this entire situation hilarious.
His voice comes out muffled, warm, tinged with the kind of fond amusement that makes you want to both smack him and curl into him. “Hated that place, but I always kept my head down… good, he fought back. Kiddo is way better than I was.”
You let out a strangled noise, something halfway between a groan and a prayer, because your nerves are tightening like piano wires and your pulse is pounding like a drumline. “...We’re going to have to change you out of your leather jacket if we want to pass you as Mr. Wayne,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose as if you could physically massage the panic out of your bloodstream. “Gotham Academy is going to eat us alive if you walk in dressed like the ghost of juvenile delinquency.”
Jason, the absolute menace, smiles.
Not a small smile.
Not a reasonable smile.
A full, lazy, self-satisfied grin that spreads across his face as he lounges back onto your lap like he’s posing for a magazine instead of living through your shared impending doom.
“You just want to see how good I look in a suit,” he hums, voice dripping with that infuriatingly smooth smugness, clearly delighted at your spiraling because he genuinely, wholeheartedly believes everything is going to be fine.
You roll your eyes, shove him off your lap with both hands, and stand abruptly—your mind racing with worst-case scenarios, your breath hitching as you try not to imagine the cold marble halls of Gotham Academy swallowing Damian whole. Jason topples sideways with a theatrical grunt, limbs sprawling messily across the bed, looking both betrayed and ridiculously at ease.
The contrast between you is almost comical—your panic rising like a tidal wave, your hands trembling just enough to betray you, while Jason lounges there like this is a Saturday morning and not the beginning of a potential scandal involving Gotham’s elite, three lawyers, one unhinged headmaster, and a child with a sword collection.
Worst-case scenario?
Bruce comes home in a private jet, snarls at everyone, snaps a pen in half with two fingers, and throws a mountain of hush money at the issue until the entire school pretends it never happened.
But right now?
Right now none of that matters.
Right now your stomach is flipping and your throat is tight and your heart is pounding against your ribs like it desperately wants to escape this situation and leave your body behind to deal with the mess.
Because right now Damian is cornered.
Right now Damian sounded small on the phone.
Right now Damian asked for Mom.
And Jason—infuriating, steady Jason—is already pulling himself up, already planning, already stepping into a role he was never taught but somehow knows exactly how to fill, his calm a warm blanket draped over your panic.
Jason knows what that school is like.
Knows the coldness of its hallways, the sharpness of its expectations, the viciousness of people who think money gives them the right to be cruel.
Knows that being “Bruce Wayne’s kid” means nothing if Bruce Wayne isn’t physically looming over the crowd like a pissed-off bat.
And Jason Todd—your Jason—will walk into that school ready to burn it down for Damian, his calm not born of carelessness but of certainty, a certainty that everything will be fine, because if it all goes sideways, Bruce can always throw enough money at the problem to make it vanish like smoke in a lantern.
In fact—
He stretches out across the bed with an ease that feels almost storybook, propped up on his elbows, feet dangling over the edge, watching you with eyes full of warm, quiet pride that glows the way lanterns flicker in old films, a calm so steady it makes your own heart race in contrast.
And you—you are halfway to the bathroom, hands slightly trembling, stomach tight, mind racing a thousand steps ahead, imagining every possible way this could go wrong—when his voice drifts after you, soft as a breeze through an open window.
“He’s definitely getting hot chocolate after this.”
It’s said so simply, so utterly matter-of-factly, as though hot chocolate could heal the weight of the world, and as though Jason Todd—leather jacket, reckless grin, stubborn jawline, all of it—was born knowing exactly how to soothe a child’s storm.
You pause.
Just for a heartbeat, framed in the doorway, and your chest aches a little because the sight of him—this wild, chaotic man capable of soft, patient gentleness—hits you somewhere unguarded, a place that doesn’t even have words. It’s like watching a streetlamp flicker into a lighthouse, sudden and steady all at once.
You let out a slow, shaky breath, and a smile tugs at your lips despite the tension coiled in your shoulders. “Get up,” you murmur, voice small but warm, because if you don’t act, you’ll stay frozen here forever. “We’re dressing you up like a billionaire.”
And like a character in a musical who hears the first note of his cue, Jason springs upright, a bright, boyish light sparking in his eyes, something almost ridiculously heroic, as if he could stride into any world you pointed him toward and conquer it.
You point toward the closet with a glare that pretends to be stern but barely contains the frantic energy coiling through your limbs. “Move.”
You watch, arms crossed, chest tight, as he rummages deep into the shadows and produces a long-neglected suit bag, sighing with theatrical doom. He moved in all of his clothes from the manor here a few weeks ago, not wanting any more reasons to go anywhere besides your apartment and his run down one.
“You own a suit?” you demand, incredulous.
Jason snorts, rolling his eyes, voice lazy and teasing, deliberately calm. “Bruce forces one on every kid like it’s some sacred Wayne tradition. ‘For charity galas,’” he rumbles, giving an impression of Bruce so accurately it makes you blink. “Or funerals. Mostly funerals.”
The bag falls open, revealing a charcoal-gray suit cut so sharply it seems spun from moonlight and whispered promises, fabric catching the light in quiet, dangerous waves. Before he even slips it on, just seeing him knowing how to handle it, transforms him—your chaotic, foul-mouthed, impulsive partner—into someone who could stride into a boardroom and make every grown adult quake.
You blink. “That’s… actually gorgeous.”
Jason glares at it, clearly offended by your praise. “It looks stupid…think I can go without?”
“It looks perfect,” you correct, breathless and half panicked, because if you don’t make him move, you’ll never feel like your making progress on the situation. “Now put it on.”
And just like that, he’s yours again—rolling his eyes, muttering under his breath, but stepping into the role anyway, because you asked, because it matters, because family is a word he’s still learning to carry without flinching or wincing, the kind of word that feels heavier than his leather jacket but lighter when he lets it settle here, in the quiet space you both share.
He gives you a sly, sideways smile, slow and molten-warm, the kind that coils beneath your ribs and curls into the small, startled flutter of your heart that you swear he can feel if he wants.
“I’m not exactly fond of how into this new role-play you are,” he drawls, talking like a man who’s already caught you in something scandalous, the kind of careless ease that makes your pulse spike even as your brain insists you remain calm.
You roll your eyes because admitting the truth—how much this makes your heart stutter—would give him exactly the power he wants. Instead, you shove the suit jacket into his arms and steer him toward the bathroom with the kind of authority you only summon when panic threatens to spiral.
“Go,” you order, trying—and failing—to sound entirely unaffected.
He laughs—bright, unguarded, infuriatingly Jason—just before the door swings shut behind him, the sound echoing in the quiet like a warm promise that somehow calms you even as your stomach twists in knots.
You stand there, breathing shallow, realizing how absurd it is that he can remain so calm in a situation that should be utterly stressful and yet still collapse completely at three in the morning if you merely hold him a little too tight, whispering tiny, frantic worries about hurting you, about not deserving softness, about being terrified of failing, as if he isn’t already the one who melts into your arms like he’s meant to be there.
It’s barely ten minutes before the door swings open again, steam curling around him like a halo, and your brain short-circuits.
Oh.
Oh, damn.
Jason steps out, tugging at the cuffs of the crisp black dress shirt in that slow, lazy way that somehow makes every line of his body more dangerous, more exquisite, the charcoal vest cinching at his waist with sinful precision, the slacks hanging low enough on his hips to make the whole room blush while his damp hair falls in dark, rumpled waves across his forehead like fate personally sculpted him just to torment you.
He looks like trouble in a boardroom.
He looks like a scandal tabloids would gnash their teeth over.
He looks—unfairly, impossibly—like your husband in some alternate universe where penthouses and champagne were mundane, and yet somehow, impossibly, it works.
Jason catches your frozen gaze and spreads a slow, dangerous grin across his mouth, knowing full well how powerfully he owns your attention even while still flinching at his reflection on bad days.
He knows you—knows that strange, unshakable taste of yours—and somehow, against all odds, it always defines him.
“What?” he murmurs, stepping closer, voice low and amused, curling around you like smoke in a candlelit room. “Too much?”
“Not enough,” you breathe, before your rational mind can intervene.
And the wicked grin that spreads across his face in response could ruin reason, could melt stars, could make time itself pause to watch.
He shrugs the suit jacket on, battling with the sleeves as if they have some personal vendetta against him, before finally letting it settle over his broad shoulders, and then he turns to you with a tie dangling carelessly around his neck, arms opening just slightly in a gesture that is equal parts invitation and vulnerability, the kind he’d never admit to the world but offers to you without hesitation.
“Alright, boss,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing, eyes sparkling with mischief but carrying that deeper, careful glimmer beneath, “make me look like B.”
Standing there, chest tight, mind caught between panic and awe, you realize the mission of him looking like Bruce is already accomplished. Long before the tie touches his throat, Jason—crisp white shirt, perfectly tailored trousers, jacket molded to his frame—exudes a magnetism that feels both inevitable and breathtaking.
You step closer, closer than strictly necessary, letting the heat of your almost bare body brush against his, letting the gentle press of your chest against his arm remind you that you are still here, still breathing, still holding something sacred in your hands, and you lift the tie, settling it around the curve of his collar with fingers that linger just a heartbeat too long at the base of his throat, tracing pulse and warmth alike.
Jason inhales sharply, barely perceptible, just enough to betray the flawless, un-touchable facade he wears for the world, and you feel the subtle quickening beneath your fingertips, a reverent stillness that is all him, all attentive, all present.
He focuses on you in a way that steals the air from your lungs, and for a long, suspended moment, the world outside your apartment ceases to exist entirely; it is only you, only him, only the slow, deliberate looping of silk between your fingers as you tilt his chin upward, catching his gaze and holding it like a fragile flame in your own hands.
And there, in the soft curve of his eyes, a light softens, fragile and steady, like dawn spilling slowly across a quiet valley, gentle enough to make your chest ache in a way that is almost painful, almost holy.
Whatever teasing, rehearsed bravado he had intended quietly crumbles beneath your gaze, replaced with something soft, something almost sacred, as you tighten the knot and smooth it down the front of his chest, and he does not move, does not flinch, does not speak; he simply watches, entirely present, entirely yours, like he was meant to react to your reactions.
You are stressed.
Undoubtedly so. It is not as if you have ever walked those polished halls of Gotham Academy or navigated the unspoken currents of expectation and subtle cruelty that live there.
Jason remembers that feeling from his first day at a school too big and crowded, where everyone assumed he didn’t belong: nervous, out of place, yet oddly alive, energized by the thrill of surviving in a world that seemed set on testing him.
“Hey,” he murmurs, softer now, almost reverent, voice carrying across the taut, intimate space between you, “we’re gonna be okay. He’s gonna be okay. I'm serious babe, were going in and out and your going to laugh at how easy it was.”
You nod, letting your hand linger a moment longer than necessary against the broad, steady plane of his chest, feeling the heartbeat beneath your palm as a tether to something constant, something grounding. You know that logically, together you can hold this small boy, this tiny, fierce creature of Gotham who looks at the world with suspicion and hurt and bravery, and remind him that he is not alone either.
Damian is not alone.
And you are not alone.
You have Jason.
…And, should the night take a sharp turn for chaos, you have Bruce’s money.
“Train there?” you murmur softly as you step toward the bathroom, words barely more than a whisper, your mind still spinning through what awaits you.
“Yeah, train,” Jason responds, quietly, smoothly, following your gaze as he grabs one of the dresses you keep for important occasions, a hint of mischief in his voice, “I don’t think they’re taking Bruce Wayne seriously if he shows up on a motorcycle.”
“Business class!” you snap, half-command, half-laugh, turning on the water with a practiced hand.
Jason scoffs, settling himself on the edge of the bathroom counter, “Do I look like a billionaire to—”
You glance up, still tense, still nervous enough that your smile is small and wary, and your eyes drink him in: every line, every shadow of muscle, every calculated imperfection, and Jason pauses mid-scowl, mid-rebuttal, caught by the gentle gravity of your gaze.
“Oh. Oh, okay. Well played, babe,” he murmurs softly, tapping business on his outdated phone—one probably as old as Damian himself—grinning like he has just won the most important, absurdly personal game in the world.
․ ⸝⸝𓅨⸝⸝ ․
Damian is damn near losing his mind, perched rigidly on the edge of the chair they made him sit in, too nervous to even lift his feet from the floor, fearing that any sudden movement might provoke another round of scrutiny from the teachers who sit before him with pens poised and eyes sharp.
The other kids deserved to be here.
He doesn’t regret that.
God, he regrets calling you.
Regrets the fleeting moment of bravery that led him to give them your number—the number he had spent hours insisting he didn’t need to memorize—because now, every second stretches into an eternity of longing and anxiety.
If he had called his father, Bruce would have come—without question, without hesitation.
Dropped whatever urgent mission had claimed his attention and appeared at the school in a heartbeat, ready to wield authority and wealth like a shield. But Damian will be damned if he allows that. He won’t have Bruce stepping in; he wont give him that luxury.
Dick? Everyone knows what Dick looks like—tabloids, public appearances, magazine covers. If Richard Grayson had been here, he would arrive fully adorned in the heir’s mantle, flawless, untouchable, the favorite son paraded since the day he arrived. Damian would never hear the end of it. He doesn't care if it's from other students, who might poke fun carelessly, but from teachers whom he cannot fight back without consequence? The ones who sing praises about Dick Grayson like their lives depend on it? Fuck no. That kind of scrutiny would drive him absolutely insane.
If he had access to his mother’s phone, if she had even allowed herself to be reached, Damian would have given it in a heartbeat. Every call now is strictly monitored by his father, every word supervised, every moment watched. At first, Damian suspected Bruce thought they were conspiring against him—but now, as the hours stretched since the first call, he realizes his father misses her voice as much as Damian misses her voice.
His mother would have come. She would have stormed in, fierce and precise, correcting every injustice, tossing money at the other boys’ parents as if it were nothing, and whisking him out of the room by the arm, leaving nothing but her voice and her presence to reassure him. Later, she would whisper that he had done well, that every little instinct and reaction he had in defending himself was right, justified, admirable.
He would love her for that habit, always.
Now, however, he has only the two of you.
Jason rarely appears in tabloids except for the occasional official family photograph, often mistaken for Bruce anyway, his presence muted in the public eye. And you… well, your number is the one he remembered, the one he clings to, the one he hopes will save him.
Maybe—just maybe—he wanted you to appear, to lift him gently from the edge of his panic, to let the familiar weight of your hand settle on his shoulder like an anchor, to offer that look you give him when he’s hurt: soft enough to soothe, sharp enough to command respect, a look that quietly tells him, without words, that he is seen, that he matters, that he is utterly, unconditionally worth defending.
And maybe, just maybe, he wants a hug right now, arms around him, warm and steady, as he stares at the sketchbook you bought him, left on the headmaster’s table, soaking in mud, juice, and tiny footprints that map the chaos of the morning.
Damian Wayne wants to stab himself when he watches Jason Todd stroll into the headmasters office and say, "Daddy's here Damian!"
please please please let me know what you think it gives me so much motivation to write and you will be getting a new work sooner if you do ; (◞‸◟)
𝙘𝙬 ; gn!reader, down bad zanka god i love this man, fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff, angst if you squint (slight insecurity), thank you to @cursed-carmine for the lovely dividers!
zanka swears that it’s normal.
you know that it’s not.
sliding out and pushing in your chair for you at restaurants. small trinkets and gifts that just “made him think of you” when he’s away on a mission. instinctively interlacing your fingers whenever you stand next to each other. always sending you a smile, no matter how dire the situation.
he knows your favorite time to sleep, and he always makes sure to finish all of his tasks and training by then to make sure you sleep soundly next to him. he knows your favorite food, and he makes sure to make it for you or buy some for you at least once a week.
the way he sneaks up behind you and presses his lips against your cheek. the way he always keeps your hands warm. the way he just never, never stops thinking about you.
the cleaners already know you better than they know themselves. “oh, and today they said that i look good with these so i’m goin’ to wear this more often and oh—“
your smile is etched into his mind. your laugh constantly a bell in his ears. the feeling of your lips against his is heaven.
“you don’t have to sill do this, y’know.” you mutter as he brings your hand to his lips, his jacket wrapped around your shoulders.
“it’s nothin’ special,” he mumbles against your hand. “you deserve all that i have.”
Your roomate, simon, tends to come home really late at night.
After the first two mistaken-intruder incidents, he's developed a system to let you know he's home. Three simple knocks on the hallway wall.
He...forgot to let his coworkers know this essential step.
You freeze when you don't hear those three knocks, instead waking up to the sound of ghosts old-ass dresser opening. Drawers being repeatedly opened and closed, very unlike ghosts simple efficiency.
It's then, when you hear the small thump of items being tossed on the floor, that you grab your trusty metal bat.
"–I'm so sorry, sir! Seriously, I am! Holy shit–" you're rattling on in the driver's seat while a man you learned is John Price ten minutes ago groans in your passenger seat. Hand held at an extremely odd angle. In the back, a man named kyle laughs his ass off.
"It's fine, kid–" price replies tightly. In the same exact way simon does when he's in pain.
"–Si, this is serious!" The hospital waiting room is loud, but simons stuttering laugh is clear as day over kyles phone. "You could lose your job, or something! Simon, I swear–"
"It's fine, love," kyle interrupts, smiling in reassurance "honestly, cap might try to recruit you, with a swing like that. Nurses said he'd need proper surgery. You've chained him to a desk for the next month at least."
It's a joke, you know, but it only has you groaning in mortification and hiding your face in your hands "this is horrible. I fucking attacked simons boss."
"Eh, it's fine. I've shot him mutliple times before." Ghost replies with a huff through the mic.
synopsis: a villain's quirk transports you and katsuki's kid from the future to the present! except you're.. not even dating?
a request!
notes: this is a lil diff from my usual unofficialbf!katsuki bc that version ive been writing is like positive ur gonna get married meanwhile this one is like "whos ur mommy?" HO U SHOULD ALR KNOW. *pow pow* i dont usually do interesting rqs like this but i figured ill try it out
it starts with a pop.
a shimmer of light in the middle of the ua training field, a blink of time bending strangely, and suddenly there’s a kid standing there.
small. blond. scowling.
he’s maybe four or five, fists clenched at his sides, little combat boots planted firmly like he’s ready to fight anything that so much as looks at him wrong. it’s quiet for a second.
“who the hell are you people?! where's my mom and my dad?!”
the entire class freezes.
izuku opens his mouth, then closes it. the kid looks really familiar to him. ochako makes a small noise. katsuki, standing off to the side, scoffs like he’s already over it.
“the fuck kinda dumb training is this..”
the kid’s head whips toward him, (e/c) eyes wide.
“daddy?!”
katsuki chokes.
“..HAH?!”
the kid runs full-speed across the field and crashes into him. little arms wrap around katsuki’s legs like he’s safe. like he knows him. katsuki looks like he’s been struck by lightning.
the kid beams up at him. “you look.. younger than normal. but you still look cool!”
“the hell?!”
“bakugo!” aizawa barks. “watch your mouth. that’s clearly a child.”
"looks like he already knows how to swear anyways.." katsuki growls under his breath but says nothing more. he awkwardly pats the boy’s beaming head like he’s defusing a bomb.
they figure it out eventually. it was a villain's quirk. time displacement or something of the sort. temporary, but irreversible until the cooldown ends.
so now… there’s just a tiny version of his future kid hanging out in the dorms.
-
“where’s mommy?” he says, pouting.
katsuki stiffens. “..who's 'mommy?'”
“...mommy,” the kid answers like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
katsuki groans. "what do i call her?"
the kid ponders for a second. "sweets. and sweetheart. sometimes baby or mama, too."
katsuki's entire body flushes. "i do not!"
"you do!"
"i do not!"
"you do!"
katsuki growls at the kid, cheeks and ears on fire. "her name. do i never call her by name?"
and then you walk in. rubbing sleep out of your eyes, hoodie too big, hair messy, and katsuki doesn’t even notice how his gaze softens.
but the kid does.
his face lights up.
“mommy!!”
you blink. “what.”
before you can react, he’s launching into your arms like he’s done it a million times.
you catch him. hold him.
and… oh.
you melt, instantly. soft smiles, hands carding gently through his hair.
katsuki’s instantly realizes what this means.
his future kid's mom is you.. meaning his future wife is also you.
oh.
you look at him over the kid’s shoulder. “who's this? he looks just like you!"
“he’s doesn't.”
"he does! same hair and face and everything! different eye color, though."
the kid tilts his head. “you sleep in the same bed in the future.”
you choke on your own spit. katsuki goes red fast.
“no we don’t-”
“daddy gives her forehead kisses,” the kid adds helpfully.
you stare.
katsuki turns away, face burning.
you press a kiss to the kid’s head despite your beating heart, eyes a little soft, like your heart’s doing dangerous things.
-
over the next few days, katsuki is quiet.
he takes care of the kid without complaint. makes his lunch, lets him nap curled into his side, shields him with an arm anytime someone gets too close.
he watches the way you brush crumbs off the boy’s cheeks, how you tie his shoes, how you hold his hand like he’s something small and precious.
you’re a team already.
and katsuki wants that. more than he’s ever wanted anything.
the night before the quirk’s cooldown ends, the kid curls up in katsuki’s bed with you on one side and him on the other. he’s fast asleep.
you’re barely awake.
“you’re good at this,” you murmur, voice quiet in the dark. “you’d be a good dad.”
katsuki swallows.
“only if it was with you.”
you blink.
then smile. small. shy. warm like summer mornings.
he leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead, just like the kid said he would.
and maybe the future’s still far away, maybe nothing’s set in stone yet.
The chiming of Derek’s phone startles him, he pulls it from his pocket and sees Isaac’s name light up. "Sorry." He apologizes, turning from Stiles to lay on his back in order to type easier. "The pack…"
"If you need to make a call-"
"No. It’s fine. Just a text." He replies, unlocking the screen to respond and Stiles busies himself with carding his fingers through Eli’s hair, earning a happy sigh from the toddler. “It’s not very often they’re out alone on a full moon."
"You don’t have to apologize. Are they okay?" Derek nods.
"They’re fine. Just running an errand for me. All of them have mastered their shift so it’s not difficult for them.”
"Isaac, Boyd and Erica. Are those your betas? Eli called them all aunt and uncle."
"Yeah. Peter and Cora are his only blood relation but the betas have helped raise him since I brought him home.”
Stiles hums in response, looking back over at him when he lays the phone down on the nightstand.
"You aren’t… I mean, I assumed you were single then Eli said ‘Aunt Erica’ and I realized I never even asked before, you know, shamelessly flirting with you." Derek chuckles turning back to him.
"I’m single Stiles. I’ve only had one serious relationship since Kate and that ended disastrously as well."
"Don’t tell me it was another hunter?"
"Jennifer wasn’t a hunter." Derek says with a wince. "She was a druid, until she began using dark magic. She started attacking people, threatening to expose us, using spells on me and the betas…"
"Holy shit! What happened to her?"
"…I killed her." Derek admits quietly and he thinks this is it. This is when Stiles will stand up and explain it’s too much. All of this is too much. He expects it at any rate. Expects Stiles to at least look surprised but the human only nods.
"Good."
Good…
Good?
"How are you so calm about all this!?" Derek asks, stunned.
"You literally dealt with the most unhinged, sadistic woman I’ve ever heard of with more restraint and levelheadedness than I could ever imagine just to make sure your son was safe. If you tell me a different, creepy lady who could use dark magic needed to be put down I’m not even going to question it man. I’m a cop’s kid. I’m aware there are people you can’t save, I’m not judging you for it. Just… there’s no way you can be arrested for it can you?"
"She sort of… exploded into dark, magic dust after?” Stiles snorts in response, shaking his head in mild disbelief at how ridiculous it all seemed. He should be alarmed. Should at least be cautious of this… being laying 2 feet away. A werewolf that could easily snap his bones in half. He had seen the 3 inch fangs. Had watched in fascination at the eyes bleeding into red, heard the warning snarl of a predator protecting its young. Derek was the most fearsome thing he had ever seen and somehow he was strangely… comforted by that fact?
"Okay. We’ve established you’ve won the crazy ex game, should I still be mortified that I’ve been shamelessly flirting with you when they were all women?" Derek shakes his head, smiling.
"I’ve had male partners. None were really a crazy ex. It just never worked out. I guess I’m bisexual, though my kind don’t really have labels for it. We love who we love and gender has never been important. Even when it comes to the children all wolves in a pack will take part in raising the pups so none of us ever feel unfulfilled in that sense, even if we have a mate of the same sex."
"That’s actually really sweet." Stiles says, looking back down at Eli. “So, he’s really the pack’s kid?”
“Yes. Each one of the betas have parental instincts towards him. It’s to reassure the continuation and expansion of a pack. Even those who aren’t related will feel that connection just like actual wolves out in the wild.”
“New meaning to ‘It takes a village’ huh?” Derek grins.
“More like old meaning. It’s a relatively new concept, this modern, nuclear family. Traditionally large, extended families were ideal. More people meant better chances of survival. More members to hunt, protect, teach, build. Wolves follow that mentality. Safety in numbers. There’s less chance of falling when you have others to lean on.” Stiles looks contemplatively at him.
“And do you? Lean on the others?” Derek falls silent, avoiding his eyes as he lays his hand down on Eli’s arm.
“I’m trying to…”
---
"What about you?” Derek asks after a few moments have passed and neither make any attempt to move. Stiles seems more than content to watch Eli’s little chest rise and fall, his large brown eyes sweeping over the toddler clinically every now and again as if he’s waiting for him to startle awake. Derek’s voice draws his gaze once more, eyebrow raising curiously at the question. “Just because I win the crazy ex game doesn’t mean you weren’t playing. What happened with your last partner?"
Stiles frowns, looking away and the smell of shame that fills the air makes Derek wish he hadn’t asked at all.
"He was always verbally abusive to me I guess… super jealous, possessive. He started keeping me away from my friends, my dad. Deleting messages and voicemails from them, not telling me when they came by. He made me believe that they finally got sick of putting up with me and I started becoming really depressed. Once the panic attacks started again he kept telling me I was turning into my mom. That I was imaging things…
"It all blew up one day when we were fighting and he hit me. He had never touched me before but that day he smashed my head into the bathroom mirror and it finally snapped me into reality. I ended up in the ER and they had to restrain my dad. My ex had to be transferred counties to a different jail because I knew all the officers here at ours…" Stiles shrugs before meeting Derek’s eyes and his face softens.
"Der, breathe. I’m okay. That was almost two years ago." Stiles murmurs, laying his hand on Derek’s cheek and the alpha realizes he’s half shifted, the lithe fingers tracing over his shuttering face.
Derek nearly recoils at the touch. No one had ever been brave enough to get this close to his face during a shift. He had explained to Stiles that only alphas could offer the bite and he thought that at least would instill enough caution for the man to stay as far away from his fangs as possible but here he was. Brushing the tips of his fingers along his brow-line, dark amber eyes studiously following the twist and shifting of each quaking muscle. And still he didn’t show any signs of fear, nothing more than curiosity and awe and Derek wasn’t sure what to do with it…
"What was his name?" He demands instead, fighting back the urge to bolt up from the bed and track the man down.
"Why? You going to go Wolfie on him?" When Derek doesn’t argue Stiles face falls serious. "Derek no. He was arrested. He had to move. He’s out of my life. You’re not risking anything for that asshole."
"He hurt you."
"And I handled it." Stiles says firmly. "FBI. Remember? Just because he sent me to the ER doesn’t mean he didn’t get it just as bad. I broke his leg and busted his wrist enough that he had to get a plate. All I got was a scar that my hair covers up. I’m fine."
Derek growls lowly but Stiles' hand is slipping to his neck now, his thumb rubbing soothing circles right below his ear and then the alpha feels his fangs rescinding.
"Name?" Derek repeats even though he does think Stiles can take care of himself and he wouldn’t risk anything right now that Kate is still a thorn in his side but he still wants to know. Stiles sighs, shaking his head but figuring it was only fair.
"Theo. Theo Raeken." Derek growls again and is surprised when Stiles grins back in response. "You know that’s incredibly distracting when you do that."
"You’re impossible!”
"Look. I’ll stop being turned on by the hot alpha dad when the hot alpha dad stops doing things that are incredibly attractive." Derek sighs in exasperation but lifts his hand to take his, grasping the cool fingers tightly in his own.
"You wouldn’t even have to ask Stiles. I would…"
"I know." Stiles says seriously. "So would I, with Kate…" Derek’s chest tightens. "How old were you?"
"20, when I started dating her."
"You dated for more than a year then 9 months for the baby and he’s 3 now… you’re what? 25?"
"26 in December."
"December baby. Cute." Derek chuckles and Stiles spreads his hand until their fingers intertwine. "Tell me about the pack."
"What do you want to know?"
"Anything. Eli said his Uncle Peter isn’t here a lot. Where is he?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. He visits for a few weeks at a time before heading out again. It's always somewhere different. His wife, his mate was one of the ones in the fire and she was pregnant at the time. After he woke up from the coma and was able to heal he went a little…"
"Crazy?" Stiles offers, wincing at the word and Derek nods.
"We call it feral. When you’re unable to control your shift and nothing seems to bring you back from your animal instincts. Traditionally that’s when a hunter is called in and for the most part we understand there’s not much that can be done at that point. If they aren’t put down they’ll attack on sight, regardless of relationship with that person. It’s extremely hard to come back from being feral. Not impossible but nearly there.
"Peter lost his mate and it drove him insane. The only thing that kept him somewhat lucid was his instinct to find me, the only alpha around and his blood relation. When he broke me free I was able to force him to submit himself as my beta and while he was near me I could at least keep him from hurting others. It was Eli who actually tempered him though. Once I brought him home Peter’s paternal instincts anchored him and he was finally able to shift back to his human form… He’s still a little, unhinged? But his loyalty to the pack is unwavering."
Stiles frowns, not able to imagine the amount of pain Peter must have felt in loosing his wife and unborn child. And Derek… he has that look again, the awful, guilty look as he reminisces about his uncle.
"What about your sister?" Stiles asks gently, looking back at their hands, noting the way the sleeves of Derek’s shirt are a little too long for him and the extra material blankets over his knuckles.
"Cora decided to stay in South America. She was only 15 when the fire happened and the thought of returning here was too painful for her. Besides, i was in no position to care for her. Not while I was trying to heal and dealing with Peter and trying to figure out how to be an alpha. Then I got custody, so when she admitted she didn’t want to come back I encouraged her to stay. I still consider her my beta but she’s been courting another werewolf there and once she goes through the mating ritual she’ll officially join his pack."
Stiles smiles as Derek’s thumb slowly strokes across the back of his hand. A small, gentle movement that causes the butterflies in his stomach to dance around. “And the other three betas?”
"Peter and Cora are born wolves like me but the others, I turned. All for different reasons but I’m not sure their stories are mine to tell. I’ll let them be the ones to decide if they want to share that when you meet them."
"When?" Stiles asks in surprise.
"Of course. At least, I'd want you to meet them but if you rather not-"
"What if they hate me?" The sudden understanding hits Stiles like a truck. Derek had said they all shared parental roles for Eli and if any one of the members of the pack disliked him… would he still be allowed this? Be allowed to see the toddler?
Derek seems to understand the sharp spike of worry because he tightens his hold on his hand. The alpha’s smile warm and unbothered.
"If anything you should be more afraid of Isaac or Erica trying to rope you into the thrupple they have going on. I have a feeling you’re both their type and Boyd goes along with whatever they say." Stiles lets out a surprised laugh. "And yes, the pack gets a voice in what happens but Eli is my son and no one can tell me who is allowed to be a part of his life. Even my betas. They’ll love you, that I’m sure of but even if they didn’t, Eli needs you and none of them would jeopardize that."
Stiles smiles in relief and presses his face against Eli’s shoulder. The toddler shifts at the touch, his body moving closer to the line of warmth and subconsciously clutches at the collar of Derek’s borrowed shirt.
Derek watches the scene, a quiet, pleased growl leaving his lips as he looks over the human. Stiles looks tired, his pale skin contrasting dramatically with the deep red of the long sleeve Derek had leant him and his hand is cold in his own but he doesn’t give any indication of wanting to move. In fact he curls tighter around the toddler, gripping Derek’s hand a little more in response and Derek knows this is what it’s supposed to be. Having his mate in his bed, safe and happy with the scent of affection for his son blanketing the room. He’s overwhelmed with wanting to know everything about Stiles, wanting to hear him speak, to see every facial expression and listen to each breath. Focus on the steady heartbeat and drown in the smell of books and cinnamon until he’s dizzy with it.
"Tell me about your parents.” He says before he can stop himself, quickly adding, “I mean, if it’s not too hard. I can imagine talking about your mom…”
Stiles shakes his head fondly.
"My mom was sick with Frontotemporal Dementia. She started getting pretty forgetful when I was 7 but by my 9th birthday she couldn’t even remember who I was. For some reason it was specifically me. She remembered my dad, her parents, even some old friends but when she saw me it was like a switch went off. She was terrified of me, calling me a monster, claiming I was trying to kill her... I thought maybe it was something religious until one day when she called me Void. I've chalked it up to just another tangent of hers but now, finding out about dark magic and stuff… have you ever heard of a Void?"
Derek thinks through all the species he does know of and shakes his head. "I’m sorry."
"That’s okay. Was just thinking maybe she knew about this world and I was missing something.” Stiles shrugs before continuing. “Anyways, she passed just before I turned 10 and it’s been me and my dad ever since."
Derek sniffs the air, expecting to catch the pain pouring out of the human but Stiles doesn’t seem disturbed. Maybe a little sad and nostalgic but it’s clear that he doesn’t blame his mother for the words she spoke.
"You and your father are very close.” He says.
"We are now. Right after my mom… my dad took to drinking. For the first three years he was just lucid enough to go to work, come home, drink and pass out to do it all over again. He never said anything but I know that I look just like her and he couldn't stand it.
“There were times he’d be zoned out or had his back to me and then he’d meet my eyes and his face would just… crumble. That was harder somehow. Like, loosing my mom was rough but I had years to understand that she was sick. I didn't think I'd loose my dad right along with her... But I get it. If mates are a thing for you then soulmates are a thing for us and she was his.
"Even then I could see how devastating it was for him. He tried. I know he tried but there were so many nights of me trying to drag him to the couch or turning him so he didn't choke on his own vomit. My friend Scott, his mom started noticing and it took Melissa finally sitting him down and talking some sense into him. She made him throw out all the alcohol and go to therapy." Stiles frowns, looking up at Derek's concerned expression.
"I know I’m not painting him in the best light but he’s apologized and made up for it as much as he possibly could. It was a rough three years but if anything I think it brought us even closer together."
"I’m sorry-"
"No. It’s fine. I love my dad and I know he loves me and we’d do anything for each other. I know I make it sound like a joke Derek but he’d literally burn the police station to the ground for me."
"I have a feeling it’s a mutual sentiment." Derek jokes gently, causing Stiles to grins.
"So. You’re all caught up with La Vie de Stilinski."
"You're Bilingual?" Derek shouldn't be surprised. Nothing about this man should surprise him anymore but he can't help the way his eyes widen when Stiles responds.
"Quadrilingual when you count in English. I know Polish, Latin and Japanese."
"How did you even decide on those?"
"My mom’s Polish so that was pretty much the first language I knew and Latin I took because my crush in high school was taking it and I actually found out it came pretty natural to me. Japanese… I don’t really know. I’ve always been interested in it. It’s weird because sometimes I thought I was dyslexic, words would mush together on the page and almost seem backwards? I can read Japanese without any problem though. The way it's written from right to left, it's actually easier for me for some reason."
"Huh…" Derek muses.
"What about you? You said Cora was in South America so I'm assuming you know at least a little Spanish or Portuguese."
"Both. My lazy ass is only trilingual though." Derek teases and Stiles gives his hand a playful squeeze.
"What do you do for work?"
"Officially I own a nonprofit organization for families that have faced financial hardship. Unofficially we help other supernatural creatures who have been struggling with controlling their powers or have a hard time finding packs or equivalent."
"Of course you do!" Stiles whines, feeling the butterflies in his stomach again. "Of course. It’s not enough that you’re a gorgeous, rich, wonderful dad with the cutest fucking kid and heart of gold you have to run a nonprofit. Sure. Why not? What else? Have the Noble Peace Prize? Purple Heart?" Derek rolls his eyes.
"I’m half a wolf Stiles."
"So incredibly strong with biological instincts to provide and protect. Ooooh noooo. The horror!" Stiles gripes sarcastically. "How could I ever cope with the handsome, kindhearted dad who's impulse is to defend me while also making sure I sleep enough and eat enough? I bet you’d make me hydrate too you absolute fiend."
"Shut up." Derek says but his ears are red and his eyes are crinkled up in a silent laugh.
The two of them fall silent. Attention turning to Eli when the toddler makes a soft grumbling noise, nose twitching and leg kicking out until he’s wiggled his feet against Derek’s stomach to tuck under his side. Stiles watches fondly before he regards the alpha once more. "He'll need to go back to school Derek."
"Yeah. I figured I’d keep him home for a week then start him on half days until we’re sure he’s comfortable with it… if you’re willingly to watch him during class?"
"You don’t even have to ask. If you think I’m letting him out of my sight after any of this your shit out of luck." Stiles says before adding, “Will he be okay tomorrow? If I leave?"
If… Derek’s wolf purrs happily at that fact that it’s a question.
"He'll have to get used to it eventually, although if we had it our way you’d never leave." Stiles’ eyes widen in disbelief, his face flushing at the words.
"Mr Hale, you haven’t even asked me out on a date and now you’re asking me to move in with you?"
"That is what surprises you? Out of everything that’s happened tonight; The realization that there are supernatural creatures, the Stephen King trauma filled back story as well as the blind devotion and willingness to murder someone for one another… that is all completely normal but asking you to leave your run down apartment for my home with a perfectly working water heater, that is what makes this night unorthodox?"
Stiles turns his face into the mattress to quiet the laughter.
"I do mean it Stiles. You’re always welcome here. I want you here. You said you Stilinski’s have a problem with attachment, so do us wolves. We’re known for our loyalty and devotion to the pack. We also mate for life." Stiles suddenly falls serious, eyes sweeping over him sadly.
"Does…I mean, Kate? Was she your mate?"
"I thought so at the time. My mother used to insist that she wasn’t. That I would know in my heart when I found the right one . I didn’t listen to her of course but she was right. What i felt then doesn’t compare…"
Stiles blinks owlishly back. "Compare?"
"You. How it feels like when I’m with you."
If he’s startled by the revelation Stiles doesn’t show it. If anything the human lets out a sigh, shutting his eyes tightly.
"I’m dreaming. This is a dream. I already lost it and I’m actually staring at a padded cell at Eichen House." Stiles grumbles. "What kind of Underworld-Notebook mashup is this?" Derek chuckles.
"I didn’t mean to put you on the spot but I’m far too old to play the skirting game. I can pretend that whatever flirting we’ve been doing is normal but there’s nothing subtle about what I feel towards you. I never thought I’d feel this way for anyone, and after Kate I had given up the idea all together of finding my true mate. I want you. My wolf wants you. My son loves you. I’d like to try dating but if that’s not something you’d want or are ready for I understand. If I read the situation wrong I apologize. Whatever your answer is it doesn’t change anything. I’d still want you in Eli's life and I wouldn’t do anything to make you feel uncomfortable-"
"Ok Mr. Darcy! Stop talking before I actually swoon." Stiles demands, pulling his hand free to clamp it over Derek’s mouth. His face scarlet and Derek grins behind the lithe fingers. "Oh my god. Stop! You don’t realize how insane I am, okay? You don’t. You’re the one who’d be getting the short end of the stick in all this— What am I saying?! We haven’t even known each other for a day!"
Derek hums patiently. "I’m serious! I talk, all the time! I hyper fixate on the dumbest shit! I’ll start a project one second and leave a whirlwind of crap on the floor for weeks. I’m moody and sassy and snarky and I’ll make you watch Star Wars on repeat." Derek nods.
"I’ll stay up 32 hours straight when I fall into a rabbit hole of random topics. I don’t make the bed and I forget to eat. I never remember to change the oil in my car and I’ll never pick up the mail…" Stiles voice turns pleading when Derek’s smile stays in place.
"A-And I cry whenever those sad puppy commercials come on the tv. And I’ll beg you for a patio garden and then forget to water the plants and Eli will always be dressed in stupid, random superhero costumes." Derek stares steadily back at him until Stiles realizes his hand is still covering his mouth and he pulls away.
"I like Star Wars." Derek says and Stiles lets out a distressed whine.
"Stop being perfect!" Derek chuckles, taking his hand back and kissing his knuckles.
"Let me start with a date then. Can I take you out to dinner?" Derek asks, smelling the saccharine scent flaring up around them.
"I hate you." Stiles grumbles. It’s the first time Derek hears the stutter in his heartbeat, the words coming out flat and embarrassed and the alpha can’t help but grin before kissing his hand again.
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
Fred, George, and Lee have been avoiding you all day and you’ve had enough. When you blackmail your way into the Gryffindor common room to confront them, you don’t expect Fred to start bombarding you with strange compliments. You definitely don’t expect what comes next.
———————————————————————
It started at breakfast.
You were late. You’d overslept after a long night studying, your robes slightly askew, one sock barely matching the other. Your hair was still damp from a rushed spell, but you didn’t care, because you spotted them instantly.
Fred, George, and Lee. Your best friends since First year.
They were clustered near the middle of the Gryffindor table, heads bowed together in hushed laughter over something probably dangerous and definitely not approved by any adult with a brain. It was your favorite thing about them, really. The way chaos seemed to orbit around them like they were made of gravity and trouble. It made life interesting.
Your feet were already moving toward them before you realised.
Fred looked up just as you reached the bench, mid-laugh, his eyes bright. Something about that made your stomach flutter in that embarrassing way it always did when he looked at you like that. You’d harboured a very secret crush on the boy since Fourth year when he’d sent you a Dwarf-Valentine.
You’d been upset that no one had been interested in giving you one, so to cheer you up he’d gotten you one telling you what a great friend and excellent witch you were. The thoughtfulness and unexpected sweetness of the gesture had you falling head over heels in no time. You’d been a goner since then.
You smiled and slid onto the bench. “What’d I miss?”
Fred blinked, mouth opening like he had something to say - then he glanced to George. George’s eyebrows twitched once, a silent message passed between brothers in a blink.
“Actually,” George said, shooting upright and clapping his hands together, “we’ve got to go.”
“Go?” you echoed, laughing lightly. “Where?”
“Greenhouse,” Lee added, already pushing back from the bench.
“Heard something’s exploding,” George said quickly, grabbing a cold slice of toast like it was a getaway snack. “Don’t want to miss it!”
Before you could blink, they were out the doors, laughing again as they vanished. You sat there, alone on the bench, staring at their empty seats.
Weird.
You stabbed your spoon into your porridge with a little more force than necessary, but it wasn’t enough to set off alarm bells just yet. After all, the boys were always hurrying off to execute elaborate pranks.
Later that day, after double potions, was when you started to notice something might be amiss.
Snape had been especially vicious that day, stalking around the room like a bloodhound with something to prove. Fred had dropped a beaker. It had exploded. Snape’s robes were still faintly steaming. And then Fred had the gall to tell Snape his hair was looking particularly greasy today, which earned him a detention and a deduction of 10 points from Gryffindor.
Still, the class had ended. And you’d hoped - expected - you’d walk to Care of Magical Creatures with the boys like always. You’d been paired with a Hufflepuff this time in class, but you packed up fast and trotted after the trio as they left the dungeon.
You caught them in the hallway just beyond the staircase. “Oi! Wait up!” you called.
Lee turned, smile flickering across his face. “Hey! That was brutal, yeah?”
“Snape nearly swallowed his tongue when your beaker shattered,” you teased, nudging Fred.
The Weasley boy laughed, but it was tight. Shorter than usual. His hand scrubbed through his hair like he didn’t know what to do with his limbs.
“Actually,” George said suddenly, “we need to check on something.”
“In the greenhouse,” Lee said smoothly, already pulling Fred’s arm.
You frowned. “Didn’t you just go there? At breakfast?”
George nodded, too quickly. “Y-yeah, but, different thing. Something with the…mandrakes.”
“Mandrakes?” you echoed skeptically. “What could you possibly need with those? They scream bloody murder when you touch them.”
“Right,” George said. “So we have to touch them very carefully.”
Fred gave you a quick, apologetic look - eyes darting down, cheeks flushing a little - and then let himself be pulled away again.
You watched them disappear around the corner, your chest tightening, your breath catching on a question you couldn’t quite ask.
———————————————————————
You didn’t plan to stalk them.
You just happened to overhear Fred telling Angelina that he’d be in the library during free period doing ‘research’.
Fred Weasley? Research? As if.
It was obviously a lie. Or a cover. But part of you still clung to the hope that maybe it was all in your head and they weren’t avoiding you.
You brought a few books to make it look casual. Waited outside the doors, leaning against the wall, ear tilted toward the hushed shuffle of pages and whispers inside. You stared at the flickering torchlight against the stone and reminded yourself not to be weird. Not to be clingy.
They’d come out. You’d walk together. Like always.
Then, movement. You spotted them sneaking out a side entrance.
All three of them - Fred, George, and Lee - hunched over like they were avoiding Filch himself, looking side to side before scuttling toward the Charms corridor.
Your heart sank. They hadn’t seen you. And you didn’t call out.
You just stared as their silhouettes faded into the shadows, something cold settling in your throat. It was obvious they were up to something, which was not the usual part. The usual part was that the four of you were always up to something together. So why had hey left you out?
Your fingers clenched around your books so tightly the parchment covers creased.
Later that afternoon in Transfiguration was the worst one yet. That was when you finally admitted to yourself that they were actively avoiding you.
You were sat at your usual desk, which you normally shared with Fred. You were pretending to study while the classroom filled up, but you couldn’t focus on any of the words your eyes skimmed over.
You felt…off. Like you were waiting for something you couldn’t admit to wanting.
You heard the door swing open again and your head snapped up, too quickly.
Fred stepped in, scarf askew and hair wind-blown, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. His eyes landed on you - on the empty seat beside you waiting expectantly for him to occupy it - and he froze. The hope that had bubbled up in your chest fizzled out instantly.
He looked guilty. Not surprised. Not excited. Not even sheepish. Guilty.
“Hey!” you said, forcing cheer into your voice, trying not to sound too eager. “I’ve been looking for—”
“He forgot something!” George shouted from beside Fred, louder than necessary.
“What?” You frowned.
He turned to Fred, patting his arm. “Right? You forgot something important!”
Lee immediately stepped forward, grabbing the older twin’s. “Yes. Very urgent. Explosion-related.”
They turned and ran. Actually ran.
You sat there, your skin prickling with heat. Your face felt like it had been slapped. Not dramatically. Not cruelly. Just…dismissed. Like you didn’t matter.
You stood up slowly, your vision stinging. Anger pulsed beneath the surface - hot, fast, desperate. This wasn’t a coincidence anymore. This had to be on purpose. Something cracked inside you, and you’d already started scheming up a little plot of your own.
It took you less than five minutes after Transfiguration to find Neville Longbottom. The last person who’d made it into the Gryffindor common room had done so through him, so it only made sense for her to start there as well.
“AHHH!” Neville thrashed against her hold like he’d just been attacked by an acromantula.
She hushed him as she dragged him into the nearest broom closet, shutting the door behind them with a slam. “Shut up!”
Neville just kept screaming.
“Calm down, Longbottom. No one’s dying!” You soothed, though there was an edge of annoyance in your tone. “Well, maybe I am. Of frustration.”
Neville finally stopped yelling for help and blinked at you in confusion.
“I need access to the Gryffindor common room.” You explained.
“You’re not even in our house!”
“Technically no, but I’ve been in there loads of times.” You justified your intrusion.
“Then ask one of your friends to let you in,” Neville reasoned.
“No, they’re the reason I need to get in. They’ve been avoiding me, and I want to know why.” You explained, but that didn’t seem to even remotely set Neville’s mind at ease.
“I’ll get in trouble—!”
You leaned in close. “Let me put it this way. If you don’t help me, I will casually mention to Professor Sprout that you’ve been growing screaming fungi under your bed again. Oh yes, Lee told me all about that.”
Neville paled. “You wouldn’t.”
You smiled. “Try me.”
———————————————————————
The corridors of Hogwarts were never easy to navigate when one was flustered and humiliated. But you didn’t care about getting caught out after curfew anymore. Not tonight. Not when your pride had already taken enough of a beating.
Your legs carried you at an angry pace through the darkened castle, one hand gripping your wand and the other dragging poor, wide-eyed Neville Longbottom along behind you by the wrist.
“Honestly, I didn’t think you were this mean,” Neville whimpered.
“I’m not mean,” you snapped, hair wild and heart pounding. “I’m just…desperate.”
When you reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, you planted your feet and stared down the guardian with narrowed eyes. “Let us in.”
“She’s not a Gryffindor,” the portrait sniffed.
“She’s got more nerve than me, that’s for sure,” Neville muttered.
“Password?” she said curtly.
You looked to Neville and the boy muttered weakly, eyes cast downwards, “Treacle Tart.”
The portrait scowled, scandalized, but opened anyway with a disapproving glare.
You stormed into the common room, boots thudding against the carpet, heart hammering in your throat.
There they were. Fred, George, and Lee. All three lounged on the couches by the fire, laughing about something, heads tilted back like they didn’t have a care in the world.
Until they saw you.
George’s laughter died mid-cackle. Lee froze with a Bertie Bott’s bean halfway to his mouth. Fred’s eyes widened like a deer caught in the headlights.
“Oh, look,” you said, voice dripping with venom. “The Three Musketeers. How cozy.”
“…Oh no,” George muttered.
You crossed the room with purpose, arms crossed tightly over your chest, eyes blazing. Fred looked like he wanted to melt into the cushions. Lee glanced sideways, calculating escape routes. And George did that thing where he rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish and guilty and trying not to laugh at the same time.
“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve tried to hang out with you lot today?” you snapped, each word slicing through the thick tension like a well-aimed hex. “Every time I show up, you vanish. At breakfast? You suddenly need to tend to a greenhouse explosion. I try to sit with you at lunch? You’re nowhere to be seen. You even skipped out on Transfiguration! McGonagall was furious!”
Fred looked like he was being interrogated under magical duress. You didn’t realize how pale he’d gone until now.
“I thought maybe I was imagining it,” you went on, breath trembling. “That I was reading too much into it. But I’m not stupid. You’ve been avoiding me. All of you. So, what is it? Did I say something? Do something? Did I get too…what? Too annoying? Too clingy?”
Fred’s jaw flexed. George winced. Lee actually lowered his head like a puppy in trouble. None of them answered.
“I thought we were friends!” your voice cracked. “If I’m such a bloody problem, then just say it to my face! Be men and say it!”
Silence followed, punctured only by the crackling fire.
And then Fred opened his mouth, and what came out was the last thing you expected to hear. “You look so hot when you’re angry.”
You blinked. “What?”
Fred’s eyes widened in horror. “I said you look hot. When you yell. It’s doing something weird to me. Merlin’s beard, did I say that out loud? I did. Didn’t I?”
Lee groaned and covered his face. George let out a strangled “Oh, blimey.”
“I also think your hair looks like something out of an oil painting,” Fred continued, voice rising in panic. “And you’ve got this little frown line when you’re concentrating that makes me want to kiss you stupid.”
You stared, heart hammering in your chest, partially frozen in shock. “You’re joking,” you breathed. “You’re making fun of me.”
“I’m not! I wish I was!” Fred blurted, struggling now as Lee shoved a hand over his mouth.
You took a step back, face flushing now for an entirely different reason.
George raised his hands defensively. “Okay. Listen. We can explain.”
“I’d love for someone to start doing that!”
George winced. “We dared Fred to break into Snape’s private stores. You know, for fun.”
“Of course you did.”
“And…he nicked some Veritaserum.”
Your eyes narrowed. “You gave him Veritaserum?!”
“No!” Lee said, eyes wide as he struggled to keep Fred from licking his palm to escape. “Well, yes, but we all had some! It was for a game of truth or dare. We upped the anti. Thought we were only taking a micro dose. He had too much. Turns out it was like, a full dose and a half.”
You gaped. “So…he can’t lie?”
“More like he can’t stop telling the truth,” George said grimly. “It’s been hours. It’s…gotten worse.”
You could hardly believe what they were saying, because that meant everything else Fred had just blurted out was true. “Prove it.”
Lee looked at Fred, then smirked. “Oi, Fred. Remember that time you got stuck in the girls’ toilets in second year? Why were you in there?”
Lee removed his hand to allow Fred to speak, the boy confessed, “Because I wanted to find out if Angelina had a boyfriend!”
“OH MY GOD,” you muttered, horrified and delighted. You’d always suspected that he’d followed you and Angie in to eavesdrop but he’d never admitted it before.
Fred groaned, flopping backward into the couch and covering his eyes with both hands.
Your thoughts spun. If everything he said - about you, your hair, wanting to kiss you - was the truth. You swallowed thickly, feeling your stomach stir with emotion. “Oh.”
George raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
You turned to him. “Why were you hiding him from me, then? Specifically?”
The boys glanced at each other and Lee swiftly clamped his hand over Fred’s mouth once more. No one answered until Fred bit down on Lee’s hand. Lee yelped and it gave Fred enough wiggle room to jerk away and blurt out quickly, “Because I’m scared of what I might say to you!”
George lunged with a pillow and slammed it over Fred’s face. “Shut UP.”
Lee added a blanket for good measure. Fred’s muffled voice still came through,” You smell really good too, by the way! Like all the time. Makes me wanna—”
“OKAY THATS ENOUGH!” George attempted to talk over his brother, drowning out what Fred was trying to say
You stood there, cheeks flushed, utterly speechless. “…Right,” you muttered. You turned to Neville, who was still frozen in place like he’d witnessed a murder. “Neville. Sorry for the…attacking, and dragging, and threatening, and all.”
He nodded numbly. And without another word, you turned and walked out. As you disappeared out the portrait hole, Fred sat up again, pillow askew. “I said too much, didn’t I?”
George and Lee groaned in unison.
———————————————————————
The next morning, you seriously considered skipping breakfast.
You’d hardly slept a wink after last night’s emotional ambush. Your heart still hadn’t fully recovered from the fact that Fred Weasley - the same Fred you’d been crushing on for years - had not only complimented you in front of half the Gryffindor common room, but had apparently consumed so much Veritaserum that he couldn’t stop doing it.
You kept replaying it in your head, over and over:
“You look so hot when you’re angry.”
“You’ve got this little frown line when you’re concentrating that makes me want to kiss you stupid.”
“Because I’m scared of what I might say to you!”
Was that real? That happened, right? You didn’t hallucinate it? You gripped your bag a little tighter and stepped into the Great Hall.
The scent of warm bread and roasted tomatoes hit you immediately, but your eyes went straight to the Gryffindor table. There they were. Fred, George, and Lee. Almost exactly where they’d been yesterday.
Fred was talking animatedly - too animatedly, actually. George and Lee sat on either side of him like guards flanking a volatile prisoner. Every time Fred opened his mouth, they both twitched.
You hesitated. You could turn back. Pretend you forgot something. Sit with the Ravenclaws or maybe join Angelina and Alicia further down.
But then Fred looked up. And his eyes locked on yours like he’d been waiting for you. And he lit up.
That was the thing with Fred Weasley. When he smiled at you, it was like the whole bloody ceiling of floating candles turned a little warmer. Brighter.
He practically stood to wave you over. You swallowed hard and crossed the hall on slightly shaky legs, avoiding every other pair of eyes you felt watching you.
“Morning,” you said, managing something between polite and painfully awkward.
“Good morning,” Fred said, tone suspiciously sincere. “You look radiant. No, actually, radiant’s not enough. You look like if the sun and Aphrodite had a baby and raised it in a faerie grotto.”
Lee choked on his pumpkin juice. George’s head hit the table with a soft thunk.
You blinked. “What?”
Fred kept going. “Honestly, I don’t know how you manage to look that good this early in the morning.”
You sat slowly, stiff as a cursed statue as George shoved a croissant in Fred’s mouth.
“Eat,” he commanded.
Fred chewed obediently, eyes still on you like you’d hung the stars yourself.
You stared down at your plate. “I’m guessing the Verituserum is still in effect?”
“Yeah,” Lee said flatly. “We have no idea when it’ll wear off.”
“Is he…okay?”
“Other than an irresistible inclination to spilling whatever is running through his head, it seems so,” George shrugged.
“I’m absolutely mortified actually,” Fred said through the croissant. “Also, you smell incredible. Like vanilla and warm sugar and—ow!”
George had elbowed him.
“Umm,” you said cautiously, picking up your spoon, “how long does this usually last?”
“Veritaserum usually wears off in twenty-four to forty-eight hours,” Lee muttered, flipping his sausage over like it had offended him. “Unless, of course, you chug it like a lunatic.”
“How was I supposed to know it’d turn me into a sappy git!” Fred said indignantly.
“You were already a sappy git, now you’re just a sappy git with no filter!” George hissed.
You tried not to laugh, but it snuck out. A quiet, amused chuckle, followed by the tiniest smile you couldn’t hold back.
Fred’s eyes widened like he’d won the Triwizard Tournament. “She smiled,” he said, almost reverently.
Lee pointed his fork at Fred. “Don’t.”
“You know how I love it when she does that,” Fred added. “It’s beautiful. Makes my insides all warm and fuzzy.”
George groaned and shoved a spoonful of scrambled eggs in his brother’s mouth.
You looked at them - all three of them - and the knot in your chest began to loosen. There were still questions. Still nerves and embarrassment and chaos swirling in your chest like a stirred cauldron.
But Fred’s eyes - soft and unguarded and fixed entirely on you - held no joke. No teasing. He couldn’t lie even if he wanted to. You nudged your toast and tried not to overthink the blush crawling up your neck.
“So,” you said, eyes flicking to Fred’s. “What else are you dying to tell me that you haven’t yet?”
Lee immediately smacked his forehead. Fred swallowed the eggs and leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “That your laugh makes me feel like I’m not about to completely combust. Which is impressive, because I’m nearly always about to combust when I’m around you.”
George tackled him. Literally tackled him sideways onto the bench. Everyone in the vicinity turned to look. You burst out laughing.
Fred - flattened under his twin and with a piece of bacon in his hair - groaned at his own confession. “I hate this! Get me out of here!”
So Lee and George did. They hurried him out of the great hall like a fire was at their heels.
———————————————————————
You should’ve known better than to think Potions class would be anything less than a disaster today.
For starters, Snape already looked murderous before anyone had entered the dungeon. His robes flared like bat wings as he prowled between the desks, eyes narrowed, mouth twisted into his usual expression of ‘I hate all of you equally’.
The only good news was that he’d paired you with Fred again. The bad news was also that you were paired with Fred again.
Still under the effects of Veritaserum. Still unable to lie. Still completely incapable of shutting up. You’d barely opened your textbook before he leaned closer.
“You look like someone who should be immortalized in stained glass.”
You choked on air.
He was sitting next to you, casual as anything, chin in his palm, elbow on the desk, watching you like you were the most fascinating part of the room - which you were sure you weren’t. There were literally flames under cauldrons around you, and still Fred was looking at you like you were the only thing burning.
“Fred,” you hissed, glancing around. “Not now.”
“You smile with your whole face,” he whispered. “It’s devastating.”
“Oh my god.”
Snape swept past your table, his cloak snapping dramatically at his heels.
“Mr. Weasley,” he said, in the tone one might use for stepping in dung. “If you insist on breathing loudly, do it elsewhere.”
Fred snapped upright. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. You’re more intimidating than usual. Though still just as much of a git.”
The room froze. A Hufflepuff dropped their pestle and it clanged on the flagstones.
Snape turned very slowly. “Excuse me?”
You kicked Fred under the desk before he could say anything else but it wasn’t enough to stop him. He flinched. “I wish I could say I didn’t mean that. But, well, I did.” He clamped his mouth shut, face red.
Snape narrowed his eyes. “Ten points from Gryffindor.”
“But it could be a compliment!” Fred tried. “You’re very…committed to your aesthetic? Of course it wasn’t a compliment—”
You were going to die here. Your body would be found slumped over a cauldron and people would whisper, she died because Fred Weasley called Snape a git during Veritaserum detox.
You grabbed Fred by the wrist and hissed, “Shut. Up.”
“I’m trying! But you’re right here, and it’s really hard to be normal around you when you smell like dessert and…and you keep tucking your hair behind your ear like you don’t know what that does to me. But of course, I guess you don’t know what it does to me but I can tell you it does a lot.”
You dropped your ladle and it splashed green liquid across the desk.
“Ms. Y/l/n,” Snape drawled. “Would you like to join your partner in detention?”
“No, sir,” you said through clenched teeth. “Desperately not.”
Snape stalked off, muttering about incompetent teenagers.
Fred turned to you, very quiet for once. You risked a glance. He was biting his lip, face flushed, clearly fighting the urge to say anything else. He picked up the ingredients list and started grinding roots with unnecessary intensity.
You stared at the way his forearms flexed as he moved. You were losing your mind at the way his veins were defined by the tense muscles running all up his arm. You were suddenly very thankful that the boys had kept you out of their after hours truth or dare game. Otherwise you were entirely sure you’d be in a worse predicament than Fred.
You forced yourself to focus on the recipe before you and collected a handful of eels eyes. The crack of someone’s cauldron exploding across the room caused you to jump, the eyes scattering from your palm and across the floor. You swiftly hurried to collect them before Snape could notice. Only, the moment you bent down Fred let out a loud, barely contained groan.
“Merlin, you look good when you do that. Makes me wanna—”
Your spine instantly straighter, stomach clenching to meet Fred’s eyes. His face was screwed up in effort, teeth digging into his bottom lip to stop himself from completing his sentence. He looked like the restraint was killing him.
“Shit, shut up, shut up, shut up,” he murmured under his breath, turning his head and refusing to look at you as his fists clenched.
You forced yourself to clear your throat, ignoring him and going on with rushing the eel eyes to stop yourself from doing something impulsive. Like grabbing his tie and kissing him over a bubbling cauldron.
———————————————————————
It was late.
The corridors were nearly silent, the kind of quiet Hogwarts only ever managed in the deep belly of evening, where most students were tucked away in their dorms, and even Peeves seemed to be sleeping - or plotting.
You’d just left the library, arms full of books you weren’t really reading, head still spinning from a few days of emotional whiplash and truth bombs you hadn’t asked for.
Fred had been avoiding you again after the potions fiasco, but not in the way he had before.
Now it was more like he was dodging danger. Like he was terrified he’d open his mouth and say something truly nuclear. So every time you entered a room, George or Lee shoved him behind a curtain or distracted you with a stupid prank or practically dragged him into another hallway by the scruff of his neck.
And honestly? It was driving you insane.
You were tired of the avoidance. Of the interruptions.
So when you turned a corner and he was there - alone, just walking with his hands jammed into his pockets, looking like he’d been pacing - you jumped on the opportunity.
Fred looked up and instantly stopped walking. His face was pale, like he’d been holding his breath since the morning. His eyes went wide. “Oh no.”
“Hi,” you said slowly, lowering your stack of books. “What are you doing?”
“Trying not to have a breakdown.”
“Charming.”
Fred looked down at the floor, then back at you, and you saw the exact second he gave up trying to be subtle.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
You blinked. “Do what?”
“This. Not telling you. Or, I guess I have told you, I guess, in a very roundabout way. But that was all by accident and now it’s wearing off, and my brain keeps screaming at me to shut up and I can’t because I’ve already said too much and not enough, and…Merlin’s balls, you’re looking at me like that and it’s making it worse.”
You stared at him, stunned. “Like what?” you managed.
“Like you might kiss me if I say the right thing.”
“Well, try it and we’ll find out.”
Fred let out a weak laugh, raking both hands through his hair until it stood on end.
“You make me nervous,” he said, almost breathless. “That’s the problem. You always have. Not in the bad way. Like, the good kind of nervous. The butterflies-so-loud-I-can’t-think kind. The ‘don’t screw this up, Weasley’ kind. The kind where I’m terrified of saying the wrong thing because you’re the first person who makes me want to get it right. And I’m scared that as soon as this wears off, I won’t be able to say it anymore so I need to get it out now.”
You swallowed hard, heart thudding somewhere in your throat.
He stepped closer. “I’ve had a million chances to say this when it would’ve mattered more. When it would’ve been easier. But I blew it. Because I was afraid of saying too much. And now, thanks to that bloody potion and my own bloody stupidity, I’ve already let it go too far without finishing it, and I don’t know if I ruined it or not.”
His voice cracked. “I like you. So much I don’t know what to do with it. It’s not just a crush, or a joke, or something I can charm my way through. It’s real. And terrifying. And I’d rather get hexed by Snape than spend another day pretending it’s not killing me to keep this in.”
You didn’t realize you’d moved until you were in front of him.
So close you could see the pink flush across his cheeks, the frantic flick of his gaze between your eyes and your mouth, the tight tremble of his fists at his sides like he didn’t trust himself not to grab you.
“Say it again,” you whispered.
He blinked. “What?”
“Say it again. Plainly. No verbal gymnastics.”
Fred swallowed. “I like you.”
“Like I’ve never liked anyone before,” Fred cleared his throat. “I mean I’ve liked people before, but it’s never been like this. Like, ‘thinking about you before I fall asleep’ kind of like. Or ‘writing jokes in my head just to tell you later’ kind of like.”
You leaned in and his breath hitched.
“I like you so much it hurts,” he whispered. “You’re smart and sharp and you see through all my jokes and you call me out and you make me laugh when I don’t want to and I hate how much I love it.”
Your brain was short circuiting, and you could t hold yourself back anymore. You surged forward and kissed him.
He made a sound - half gasp, half relief - as your fingers curled into his jumper and his hands finally flew to your waist, tugging you impossibly closer.
It wasn’t perfect. It was frantic and messy and desperate in a way that only years of longing could create. But it was honest. Unfiltered. Completely, breathtakingly real.
When you pulled back, breathless, your forehead still resting against his, Fred whispered, “I like you too Fred, and I don’t need Veritaserum to admit it.”
Fred’s smile widened. “You do?”
You flushed. “I mean, you’re obnoxious and loud and constantly in detention, but yeah. I do.”
“Oh COME ON!” Came a loud yell in unison, and both you and Fred whirled to see George and Lee skidding around the corner, both panting.
“We’ve been hiding him from you for days,” George gasped. “We even hand fed him yesterday like a newborn owl!”
“And all of that was for nothing?” Lee groaned, tossing his hands in the air. “He told you anyway!”
Fred just grinned. Smug. Glowing. Like he’d just won the House Cup, the Quidditch Cup, and your heart all in one go. He reached down, laced his fingers through yours.
“Actually,” he said, eyes never leaving yours, “I’d say it was worth every damn second.”
request from @redeyesthicthighs : I was thinking about a fox animagus… maybe a slytherin reader, in England red foxes can be seen as more of a pest & reader using the pest title as a way to get away with shit in her animagus form. maybe the boys don’t know it’s an animagus they are seeing high tailing it out of rooms after some disaster has struck but it’s happened now one too many times to be a coincidence
poly!prongsfoot x animagus!reader who is totally one of them [1.2k words]
CW: implied fem!reader, feeding laxatives to birds (is not cool, do not do this)
“Well,” Lily announced with a sigh as she sat down heavily beside Remus at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, across from James and Sirius, “your little pet was at it again.”
“Now, that’s no way to talk about Pete, Evans.” Sirius chided, causing Peter to nearly choke on the bite he just took as he made to defend himself.
“Not him, you sod.” She grumbled, though Sirius could see the ghost of the smirk she was working hard to fight off. “That pesky little fox you guys love so much.”
At this, both Sirius and James froze, the latter letting his fork fall from mid-air and the former placing his cup of pumpkin juice rather forcefully beside his plate.
“She was back!?” They chorused, causing Remus to snort.
“She? How do you know it’s a she?”
“Just a hunch.” James offered with a shrug whilst Sirius grilled Lily.
“Where? When?”
“Here we go…” Remus muttered.
“The greenhouses. When I got to Herbology, Professor Sprout was chasing it-”
“-her-” James corrected.
“-her out of greenhouse three,” Lily continued, narrowing her eyes at the Head Boy to her Head Girl, “she’d eaten all the shrivelfig fruit, dug up all the knotgrass, and made herself a little nest out of the dittany! It took the whole class period just to help the Professor clean and repot everything.”
And though Sirius could tell Lily was quite perturbed by the whole thing, he couldn’t help the bark of laughter that escaped his lips. “Okay, that’s the fourth time this week alone.”
“Fourth time, what?” Peter asked then.
Sirius and James shared a smirk before turning back to their friends. “The fox is one of us.” James declared.
“One…of us?” Remus asked slowly, clearly not following.
“She’s a fellow prankster.” Sirius offered simply.
Lily snorted. “I hardly think a fox doing very fox-like things constitutes pranking, boys. They’re known to be pests.”
“You take that back!” James hollered rather suddenly, causing Lily to recoil slightly and Sirius to wrap a comforting arm around his waist in consolation.
“I think this fox is a little more mischievous than typical foxes.” Sirius clarified. “Earlier this week, she could be found in the library stealing nearly finished essays right out of the hands of Mulciber, Avery, and Snape before tossing the torn up parchment into the fire.”
“There’s no way that was accidental.” James stated solemnly. “And after Gilderoy Lockhart was heard bragging in the courtyard that he’d snogged nearly half of the school, the fox chased him in circles before she tripped him, causing him to land right in the fountain!”
“Oh, and you should have seen the look on Filch’s face when he found muddy paw prints all over the Trophy Room, right after he’d given some first year Hufflepuff’s detention for “snickering too loudly” - outside, mind you - and made them clean the entire room without magic.” Sirius continued, still rather indignant on the first years’ behalf.
“Well…ripping parchment, tracking mud, and running around are all typical fox behaviours.” Peter tried, but both Lily and Remus hummed thoughtfully.
“No, no…I think you’re right, James.” Remus offered, looking at James pointedly. “I think you’re absolutely right, she is ‘one of us’.”
Padfoot did his best to hold his breath when he heard movement in the greenhouses, recognizing that the noise wasn't coming from where he’d left James under the invisibility cloak.
Sure enough, after the sounds of snuffling and foliage rustling ceased, a small red fox popped out between two large bushes.
An excited yip left her mouth as she hopped up onto the workbenches, carefully tiptoeing - if foxes could even do such a thing - around everyone’s pots until she made it to McLaggen’s workbench, knocking the pots clean off before they fell with a shatter to the stone floor, terracotta splintering and soil spilling out of them as the fox looked over the edge to appreciate her handiwork.
Padfoot took that moment to step out from his hiding spot, making it almost right under the foxes nose before she happened to notice that she wasn’t alone. She arched her back not unlike a Halloween cat and made some sort of breathy spitting sound before she spun on the spot and made to launch herself off of the table in the opposite direction.
Unfortunately for her, James had been standing on the other side of the bench waiting for her to do just that, catching the fox in a throw blanket from their dorm and wrapping it tightly around her.
“Easy, easy. Oi! You’re fine!” James placated, wrestling with the fumbling ball of linen before arranging it so the foxes body remained snuggly in the blanket but her head poked out. “No biting.”
James flinched at a snap of her jaw, though Padfoot noticed she didn’t even try to reach for the hand that was currently holding the blanket shut which was well within her reach - she didn’t actually want to bite him.
Padfoot shifted back into Sirius and leaned his elbows against the workbench. “You’ve been giving us a run for our money with the mischief.” He commented, causing the fox’s head to whip towards him where her eyes narrowed comically. “I’d say I’m miffed but, I hate lying.”
If foxes could scoff, this one just did.
“The jig is up, L/N.” James whispered, causing the fox to return her attention back to James as she stared at him incredulously, Sirius’ lips twisting into a smirk. James had been hiding under the invisibility cloak with the map as they waited…he’d seen exactly who it was that was sneaking into the greenhouse.
“Don’t worry,” Sirius called over to gain your attention, “your secret is safe with us.” And to punctuate his point, he spun on the spot to turn back into Padfoot to prove that - Remus had been right - you were one of them.
You let out what had to be a sigh as you went no bones in James’ hold - clearly in capitulation - as he released you from your blanketed prison and placed you back onto the workbench.
You melted back into your human form, sitting prettily on the edge of the table with your legs crossed looking casual for all intents and purposes as you looked between James and what was now once again Sirius.
“Why foil my fun just to promise not to tell?” You asked sceptically.
“Oh, you misunderstand, gorgeous,” Sirius drawled, relishing in the way your burning gaze narrowed at his endearment (or for insinuating you’d been wrong about something, Sirius wasn’t sure), “we don’t want to foil your fun at all.”
“We want in.” James explained, a wicked glint in his eye (that never failed to turn Sirius on) as he smiled at you.
And that's how the following day, one could find a fox and large black dog near the Black Lake herding a flock of seagulls - that had just feasted on chips dusted with heavy amounts of fibre - towards a group of unsuspecting fifth years who had just destroyed some first years’ forts built out of branches for a laugh.
Well who’s laughing now?
(James, mostly, from his place at the bridge where he watched the chaos from a safe distance from the eliminating birds.)
