"the world is my oyster, and I'm the only girl"

She/Her | Remus Lupin and Percy Jackson <3 | requests = open

[remluvrr]

NAVIGATION

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ my name is Vi! ✧˚ · . Ravenclaw ✧˚ · . Child of Hecate ✧˚ · . INTP ✧˚ · . remus lupin luvr ✧˚ · . theo nott luvr ✧˚ · . percy jackson luvr ୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆

masterlist

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

[springtyme]

jack abbott x reader who adopted her nieces (toddler and older maybe six or eight?) after their parents died (sister and brother in law) and none of her coworkers knew until the older got injured and had to go to the ER w/ babysitter and little sister . everyone thinking she has a secret family and her having to clarify those are her nieces - jacks heart just getting all fuzzy seeing her being all soft with her nieces ?!

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫 ♡

This is such a cute (and kinda sad🥺) idea!!

Jack Abbot x resident!reader || Masterlist || Spotify

summary: The night takes a turn when Jack finds you in the ER hallway with two little girls who look unmistakably like you. He realizes there’s a whole part of your life he never knew about. But maybe, if you let him, he’d really like to understand it.

word count: 8.0k

warnings/tags: No use of y/n. Hurt/comfort. Angst and fluff. Canon typical medical traumas. May contain medical inaccuracies. I usually prefer not naming kid characters in my stories, but reader's nieces are named in this (I found it too difficult writing two unnamed child characters in the same scene, hehe)

Jack is looking at the board with a slight crease between his brows, eyes scanning the patient list like he’s expecting something to suddenly appear. It’s an unusually quiet night, which, in Jack’s experience, usually means something is about to go down.

He shifts his weight slightly, arms folded over his chest as he studies the list like it might suddenly rearrange itself if he watches long enough.

A couple of minor injuries. One patient waiting on labs. Someone in observation who probably should’ve been discharged an hour ago. He can’t remember the last time the board looked this manageable. 

“Don’t stare at it too hard,” a well-known voice says from behind him. “You might scare the calm away.”

Jack glances over his shoulder. 

You’re leaning against the counter. You look tired, yet you still have that small, sweet smile on your face, the one he’s noticed shows up most when the shift is at its worst, like you’re stubbornly refusing to let the place grind you down. 

It’s a smile he has begun to rely more on than he probably should. It’s subtle. Easy to miss if someone isn’t paying attention. But Jack always notices.

It’s steady, reassuring. And somewhere along the line, Jack realized he looks for it now. Which is a bit of a problem. You’re his resident, which means he probably shouldn’t be noticing things like that, but he just can’t help it. 

He shouldn’t be cataloguing the way your smile softens the hard edges of a shift, or how the tension in his shoulders eases a fraction when you walk into a room. He shouldn’t be aware of the way your voice sounds when you’re explaining something gently to a patient versus when you’re arguing with an elderly patient about why they really do need to stay for observation.

But he does. He notices all of it. 

“Calm’s a myth,” he says after a moment. “Just means the ambulance bay’s about to light up.”

You hum softly behind him. “Optimistic as always, Abbot.”

“Just speaking from experience.”

“Sure.” Your tone is light, teasing, but there’s something softer under it that Jack can’t quite place.

You have been a little different lately. Jack noticed it before he meant to. It’s just in glimpses, short moments where you linger a little longer than usual after a hard case. Your usual optimism is by no means gone, but it seems like you’re fighting a little more for it. The smile is still there. Still warm, still steady. But sometimes it takes a second longer to show up.

Sometimes he catches the moment just before it does. The quiet breath you take before turning back to a patient. The way your shoulders drop when you think no one’s looking. The way you stare at a chart a little too long after delivering bad news. Most people probably wouldn’t notice, but he does.

You push yourself off the counter and walk up beside him, leaning slightly so you can see the board better. Your shoulder brushes his arm for half a second before you settle next to him. Neither of you mention it.

“Got anything good for me?” you ask, leaning a little closer, eyes bright even though your body is clearly tired. 

“I got a dislocated collarbone in room twelve,” he offers. 

You’re studying the list, brow slightly furrowed now, that little smile still sitting at the corner of your mouth like it belongs there. It’s ridiculous, honestly, how much it steadies him. 

“Yeah, we better get that fixed,” you murmur, voice low, almost to yourself, but loud enough that Jack hears. 

He glances at you, smiling despite himself. “You know cherrypicking is against hospital policy, right?” 

“You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, eyes glinting. 

Jack snorts softly, shaking his head. “That’s called careful evaluation. Strategic thinking.” 

“Strategic, huh?” you tease, leaning just a little closer, it makes you brush your shoulder against his side again. It’s just the slightest touch, but it’s still enough for him to notice. “If you say so,” you murmur, voice low and teasing, “but I think we both know you just like standing here watching me pick the fun cases.”

Jack shakes his head, though a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You finish your notes on the chest pain in four?”

“Yep,” you say. “Negative trops, normal EKG, probably reflux. I set up discharge and told him to follow up with his PCP.”

Jack nods once, approving.

You glance sideways at him. “You already knew that, didn’t you?”

“Just checking.”

“You’re so reassuring,” you deadpan.

Jack’s mouth twitches faintly, like he’s trying not to smile and mostly failing. “Part of my job description.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head, but you don’t move away. If anything, you settle a little more comfortably beside him, shoulder still brushing his arm every now and then when one of you shifts. It’s easy like this, too easy.

“Yeah,” you murmur after a beat, voice softer now, “it’s… nice to have a good attending.”

Jack glances at you, caught slightly off guard by the softness in your voice. He opens his mouth to respond, he doesn’t even know what to say, but he is cut off when your phone suddenly rings. The sound slices clean through the quiet moment.

You blink, startled, and pull it from your pocket, glancing at the screen. Your expression changes immediately. The teasing ease disappears. Your shoulders stiffen just slightly. You frown, glancing at the screen. “Sorry, I really need to take this.” 

You turn and begin walking away with quick steps, your thumb swiping over the answer button almost instinctively. “Hello?” Your voice is calm, but there’s an undertone of alertness now, of attention fully focused.

Jack watches you as you disappear down the hall. He gives a soft shake of his head, almost like he’s trying to shake off the sudden shift from warm ease to professional focus. Then he turns back to the board, pushing his thoughts aside. 

But he barely has time to refocus before Lena appears at the board, her expression tense but professional. She doesn’t waste words. “We’ve got a trauma coming in. Motorcycle accident, one patient, multiple injuries. Five minutes away.” 

That’s all it takes for him to snap fully back. “Do we have vitals?”

“No.”

“Okay, room prep. Get trauma two cleared, full protocol, you know the drill,” he says, already moving. “Vitals on arrival,” he calls out as he reaches the bay. 

The patient is in rough shape upon arrival, but he pulls through and after working on him for half an hour he’s finally stable and on his way up to surgery. 

Jack peels off his gloves, the latex snapping softly as he drops them into the bin, and as he washes his hands the adrenaline finally begins to ebb. Warm water runs over his fingers as he scrubs methodically, gaze fixed somewhere on the tiled wall in front of him

The patient had made it. Stable enough for surgery, that counts as a win in the ER. He steps out of the trauma bay and stops short.

You’re in the hallway near triage. On your hip is a toddler, she can’t be more than two years old, sleepy, fighting a great fight to keep her eyes open, clutching a stuffed rabbit to her chest. In front of you, perched on a gurney with an ice pack pressed to her head, is a little girl who looks suspiciously like you. Same eyes, same shape to the mouth. Even the tilt of her head when she looks up at you feels familiar. She looks to be about five or six years old.  

For a second his brain just stalls, and then it does something unhelpful. Oh… she has kids. It’s absurd how hard that thought lands. Around him, whispers start immediately.

“Did you know she had kids?”

“Since when?”

“Wait, is she married?”

Jack hates how tight his chest feels. You never mentioned a partner. Never mentioned children. He’s spent so long memorizing all the little things about you, the way you take your coffee, the way you sigh after long shifts, the way you rub your temples when you’re overwhelmed, and somehow missed an entire family? 

He watches you press your forehead to the little girls on the gurney’s, murmuring reassurances. The toddler tiredly pats your cheek like she’s comforting you too. Jack feels something in his chest rearrange.

Ellis raises a brow at him. “Did you know?”

“No,” he mutters, unable to look away.  

Jack watches the scene like he’s accidentally stepped into someone else’s life. 

You’re standing there in the harsh fluorescent light of the ER hallway, still in your scrubs, just like he has seen you hundreds of times before, now you’re just holding a toddler like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your hand is rubbing slow circles on her back while you lean down toward the older girl on the gurney.

Jack stands there longer than he should. Long enough to feel vaguely like he’s intruding on something private. Because the version of you he knows exists in trauma bays and chart rooms and late-night coffee runs. The version of you who stubbornly smiles through brutal shifts and argues politely with patients who want to leave against medical advice

This version of you is… different. Soft in a way that makes something in his chest pull tight. But then he pulls himself together. Because standing there staring isn’t helping anyone. And the whispers behind him are getting louder.

“Did she ever mention kids to you?” someone murmurs.

“Nope.”

“Do we know who the dad is?”

Jack’s jaw tightens. He steps forward before he can think too hard about it. You turn your head in his direction as he approaches. For a moment your expression freezes, but you recover quickly, shifting the toddler a little higher on your hip as her little head droops against your shoulder. 

“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low and even. “What have we got her?”

You glance down at the little girl on the gurney before answering, your voice automatically shifting into the calm, clinical tone Jack is used to hearing during rounds.

“She fell out of bed and hit the corner of the nightstand,” you finish gently, brushing a stray piece of hair away from the little girl’s forehead. “She cried right away. No loss of consciousness, no vomiting. Babysitter said she seemed a little dizzy after, but she’s been alert the whole time.”

“I just had to pee,” the little girl insists, her lower lip wobbles a little.

You give her a soft smile immediately. “I know you did,” you murmur gently, brushing your thumb across her cheek where a tear had started to slip down. 

The toddler on your hip lifts her head a little at the sound of your voice, blinking slowly like she’s trying very hard to stay awake. Her tiny hand pats your shoulder once before she tucks her face back into your neck, rabbit still clutched tight.

Jack feels something strange twist in his chest.  

“Let’s get her to peds and have a look,” Jack says gently. 

You nod immediately. 

The next five minutes pass in a blur, the kind of blur that only comes from moving quickly but carefully, every motion practiced and precise. You walk beside the gurney, still cradling the toddler, while Jack guides the gurney towards the pediatric room.  

“I’m Dr. Abbot,” Jack begins, his voice calm but firm, as he closes the door behind them, shutting out the harsh fluorescent buzz of the main ER. He glances at you, taking in how naturally you balance the toddler on your hip while keeping an eye on the older girl. “Is it okay if I take a look at your head and ask a few questions?” he says gently as he pulls, first a chair for you to sit beside the gurney, before rolling a stool for himself to sit on the other side. 

You whisper a small thank you as you settle, carefully shifting the toddler from your hip to your lap, letting her slump a little as her eyelids droop. 

“Okay,” the little girl on the gurney whispers. 

You give her a soft nod, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “Dr. Abbot is just going to check your head and make sure everything’s okay, alright? He will be super gentle, I promise. He’s really, really good at this.”

Jack feels a strange mixture of awe and something heavier, something private, almost fragile, coil in his chest. He swallows hard, keeping his voice low and steady, though his chest feels just a little too tight. “Yeah, I’m gonna be super gentle, promise.”  

Jack wheels his stool a little closer to the gurney, keeping his movements slow and unthreatening the way you would with any nervous pediatric patient. The little girl watches him carefully, her small fingers gripping the edge of the blanket. 

“Alright,” he says softly, offering her a small, reassuring smile. “First things first, what’s your name?” 

“Sophia,” she says in a small voice.  

Jack nods gently, keeping his tone soft and warm. “Hi, Sophia,” he says, like they’re just meeting under normal circumstances and not in the middle of a late-night ER visit. “That’s a really good name. Means wisdom, right?”

“Mhm,” she nods seriously, like this is very important information.

Jack smiles faintly. Your thumb brushes gently over her ankle through the blanket. “Alright,” Jack continues gently, shifting a little closer on the stool. “I have this flashlight,” Jack says, pulling the small penlight from the pocket of his scrub top. He clicks it on, letting the beam shine briefly against the wall first so Sophia can see it. “I’m just going to use it to look at your eyes, okay?”

Sophia watches the light with cautious curiosity. “Okay…” she murmurs. 

“Perfect,” he says, offering her a small, reassuring smile. Jack keeps his movements slow and predictable, the way he would with any nervous kid. “Can you look right at my nose for me?” he asks gently.   

She is very cooperative, squinting a little as she focuses hard on the middle of his face.

“Perfect,” Jack murmurs. He lifts the penlight and shines it briefly into one eye, then the other, watching the pupils carefully as they react to the light. “Great job,” he murmurs. “You’re really good at this.”

That seems to make her proud. Her shoulders lift just a little, like she’s sitting a bit taller on the gurney. Jack notices and lets the moment sit for a second before continuing.

“Alright,” he says gently, clicking the penlight off and slipping it back into his pocket. “Now can you follow my finger with your eyes, not your head.”

Sophia nods solemnly, clearly taking the task very seriously. Jack lifts a finger in front of her face and begins to move it slowly from side to side. Sophia’s eyes track it carefully, her brow furrowing in concentration.

“Perfect,” he murmurs. “Now up here.” He moves his finger upward, then down, watching closely as her gaze follows smoothly. “Great job.”

Sophia’s shoulders relax a little at the praise.

“I heard you felt a bit dizzy after you fell,” Jack continues gently. “Does your head feel spinny right now? Or do you feel nauseous at all?” 

Sophia thinks about it very seriously, her brow scrunching as she considers the question.

“A little before,” she admits quietly. “But not now.”

Jack nods once, calm and reassuring. “Okay, that’s good.” 

But the little girl shuffles slightly on the gurney. “But I still have to pee…” she says quietly.

You sigh, closing your eyes a brief second, the sound carrying a mixture of exhaustion and guilt. “You never got to go to the bathroom, did you, sweetheart.” 

“No,” she says, her voice small.  

The sound of your voice wakes the toddler on your lap, her eyelids fluttering as she takes in her surroundings. Her eyes land on Jack wide and curious, a tiny frown tugging at the corner of her mouth. You shift slightly, holding her securely against your chest while keeping one hand free to guide Sophia.

The little girl in your lap lifts the stuffed rabbit in her hand and points it vaguely in Jack’s direction.

“Bun,” she informs him.

Jack nods very seriously. “That’s a great bunny.”

She seems satisfied with that. Her little frown turns into the sweetest, little tentative smile, and she wiggles slightly against your chest, the rabbit still clutched tight. 

“Let’s go find a toilet,” you murmur softly, shifting the toddler gently so she’s more comfortable against your hip, but her little feet kick lightly, a little whiny sound of disapproval leaving her mouth, like she isn’t willing to move so shortly after being woken up. “Sweetie, Sophia has to go to the bathroom,” you murmur gently, tilting your head so the toddler can see your face. Her little frown deepens, and she lets out another small whiny sound, hugging her bunny a little tighter.

“Here,” Jack says, reacting on instinct more than thought, holding his arms out gently toward the toddler. “Want to come to me for a sec?” 

Your eyes finds his, a tired, thankful look in your eyes as hand the little girl over her tiny body shifting hesitantly into Jack’s arms. He catches her with ease, one hand under her bottom, the other supporting her back, letting her hug her rabbit close against his chest. The toddler relaxes slightly, leaning into him as if she’s known him far longer than a few minutes.

Jack gives a soft, reassuring hum, careful not to startle her. “There we go,” he murmurs gently, adjusting her so she’s comfortable. 

“Okay, let’s find you a toilet,” you murmur to Sophia, gently squeezing her hand. “Are you okay to walk?” 

She nods and you help her down fram the gurney, your hands steadying her as she plants her small feet on the floor. “We will be back in a minute,” you say, looking at Jack.    

Jack gives a small nod, his arms still steady around the toddler. “I’ve got her,” he says softly, his voice low and calm, like he’s afraid any sudden sound might startle her. 

You glance at him, the weight of the night and the exhaustion in both of you hanging between you for a moment. “Thank you,” you murmur quietly, the tired gratitude threading through the simple phrase.

Jack meets your eyes for just a second, his expression softening in a way that makes your chest tighten slightly. “Of course,” he murmurs, his tone steady and gentle, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. “Anytime,” he says gently, shifting the toddler slightly so she’s snug against his chest. 

You make it to the door, Sophia’s hand in yours, your gaze lingers for a moment, grateful and weary, before you turn your attention back to Sophia and leave the room. The toddler shifts a little in his arms, pressing her cheek more firmly against his chest, and Jack instinctively rocks her just a fraction, careful and deliberate. 

Jack adjusts her tiny weight slightly, settling her more comfortably against him. Her small sigh of contentment is almost inaudible, but it’s enough to draw a faint, careful smile across his face. He rocks her gently, slow and steady, as if the motion itself could smooth out the rough edges of the night.

He glances down at her little hand clutching the stuffed bunny, the way she presses it to her chest like it’s a lifeline. Even in the chaos of the ER, this small, quiet connection feels grounding. His eyes flick up briefly toward where you’ve just disappeared with Sophia, and there’s a flicker of something unspoken in his chest, acknowledgment, relief, admiration.

For a few seconds, it’s just him and the toddler, the world outside the room fading to the soft rhythm of her breathing and the faint hum of hospital life beyond the walls. Jack rocks her just a little more, careful not to disturb the fragile bubble of calm, letting himself breathe into it, too.

He had no idea that you had children, but seeing you now, so effortlessly caring, so present even under the harsh glare of the ER lights, shifts something in him. 

The image of you juggling a little tired toddler on your hip while gently guiding Sophia, your voice soft and steady, imprints itself firmly in his mind. It’s not just admiration or curiosity, it’s a quiet, sinking awe that someone so capable, so brilliant, also carries this other life, these tiny, fragile humans who rely on you so completely. 

“I never got your name,” he murmurs, careful, low, his voice soft as if saying it too loud might shatter the fragile calm between him and the toddler. The little girl in his arms shifts slightly, nuzzling her cheek against his chest, and he instinctively rocks her just a fraction more. She is clearly too tired to answer, but he wasn’t expecting her to do so anyway. 

Her small hand twitches, brushing against the edge of the stuffed rabbit, and he tightens his hold just a little, letting her feel secure. The simplicity of it, her trust, her quiet presence, anchors him more than any adrenaline rush or successful trauma ever could.

For a few minutes it’s just him and her, the faint hum of the hospital, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the gentle sway of his arms. Jack exhales slowly, letting himself sink into the strange, grounding calm. 

When you come back the world shifts again, snapping into motion with the same gentle urgency that fills every corner of the ER. Sophia’s hand still clasped in yours, her steps small but determined. The little girl in Jack’s arms stirs slightly at the sound of your voice, lifting her head and blinking up at you with sleepy, trusting eyes.

Jack straightens just a fraction, still careful, still protective, as if even a slight motion might break the fragile bubble of calm. “We’re back,” you murmur, voice soft but steady, like a bridge between the chaos outside and the tiny universe he’s holding. “Did you fall asleep again, honey?” you murmur gently, tilting your head slightly so the toddler can see your face. 

The little girl in Jack’s arms lets out a tiny, sleepy yawn and snuggles closer, her grip on the rabbit tightening just a fraction. Jack shifts her slightly as he stands up, easing her into the curve of your shoulder as you step closer. “She’s been a really good girl,” he says quietly, his voice low and steady, careful not to startle her. “Just got herself a little nap.”

You smile softly down at the toddler, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I see that,” you murmur, pressing a light kiss to the top of her head before looking at him again. You smile softly, warmth threading through your tired eyes. “Thank you,” you murmur, voice gentle but carrying that quiet, exhausted gratitude that Jack can feel in his chest more than he can hear.

He meets your gaze, just for a moment, his expression softening in response, the small crease between his brows easing. “Anytime,” he murmurs, voice low and calm, a faint, careful smile tugging at his lips as he adjusts the toddler slightly so she’s snug against your shoulder again.

The little girl presses her face into your chest, and you can’t help but hum softly in response, rocking her gently. 

Jack feels that quiet, twisting mix of awe and something warmer, something protective, settle deeper in his chest. He has to look away as if to reset himself, to stop his thoughts from spiraling too far. The sight of you, so effortlessly present with the toddler and Sophia, so gentle and patient, so human, feels like it’s pulling at something inside him he wasn’t sure he still had room for. 

He turns his attention back to Sophia. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice soft and steady, “let’s see how your head’s feeling now.” 

Sophia nods, her weary seemingly fully gone, her weariness seemingly fully gone now, replaced with that careful, attentive focus that comes from trying to do exactly what she’s asked. Jack helps her up onto the gurney just enough so she’s sitting comfortably, his hands steadying her small frame. “Good job,” he murmurs, his voice calm, low, gentle. “Did you hit anything besides your head when you fell? Anywhere else it hurts?”

Sophia thinks seriously for a moment, brow furrowed. “No… just my head.”

Jack nods slowly, his voice still calm and gentle. “Okay, that’s good to know.” 

Jack’s eyes soften as he examines the small gash on Sophia’s forehead. It’s shallow, just enough to bleed a little, but nothing alarming. He keeps his tone calm, gentle, and steady, aware of how closely you’re watching.

“I’m gonna clean this up, okay?” Jack murmurs softly, leaning slightly closer so Sophia can see exactly what he’s doing.

“Okay,”she whispers, her small voice tentative but trusting.

“And then I’m gonna close the wound with a little bit of medical super glue,” Jack continues gently. Keeping his voice is calm, low and steady, the kind that makes scary things seem small.

Sophia’s eyes widen just slightly at the mention of glue, and she leans back a fraction. Jack notices immediately and gives a reassuring smile. “Super glue?” she whispers, her voice tiny and uncertain, brows furrowing.

Jack nods gently, keeping his tone soft and steady. “Yeah, but it’s not the kind you use at home. This is special hospital glue. It helps the skin stick together so it heals really fast. You won’t even feel it much, I promise.” 

“It’s true,” you murmur softly, brushing a stray curl from Sophia’s forehead, your voice gentle and reassuring. “And Jack is really good at this, and the glue helps your wound heal so it doesn’t leave so bad of a scar.” 

Sophia blinks up at you, confusion knitting her small brows together. “Who is Jack?” she asks, her voice small but genuinely curious.

“I mean Dr. Abbot,” you correct yourself, looking a little sheepish as you glance back at him.

For a moment Jack pauses, he can’t help but like the way his name sounded when you said it. It sounds easy coming from you, natural in a way that settles somewhere warm in his chest before he has time to think about it. The corner of his mouth lifting in quiet amusement. 

“Jack is fine,” he says gently, his voice warm as he crouches slightly so he’s more at Sophia’s eye level.

Sophia studies him very seriously, her small face thoughtful, for just about half a second before she then gives a small, decisive nod. “Okay.”

Jack’s smile softens at her approval. “Okay,” he echoes lightly. “Now let’s get that wound cleaned.” 

Sophia nods again, a little braver now that she knows what’s going to happen. It’s a quick, careful process. Jack works with practiced ease, dabbing gently at the small cut while keeping his movements slow enough that nothing startles her.

“There we go,” he murmurs softly. “This might sting a little.”

Sophia scrunches her nose a little at the cool antiseptic wipe but holds perfectly still, her small hands gripping the edge of the gurney.

“You’re doing amazing,” Jack adds quietly, genuine approval in his voice.

Beside the gurney, you shift the toddler slightly against your shoulder as she stirs, humming softly until she settles again, her cheek pressed into your chest and the stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin. The quiet rhythm of it fills the small space between the four of you.

Jack finishes cleaning the wound and straightens just a little, reaching for the small applicator of medical glue. “Alright,” he says gently. “Now for the tiny bit of glue we talked about. This part is really quick.”

Sophia nods solemnly, eyes fixed on him, trusting. It’s a quick fix, and he’s sure the scarring will be minimal. “And… done,” he says softly after a second, leaning back.

Sophia’s shoulders drop in visible relief. “All finished?” she asks hopefully.

Jack smiles. “All finished.”

A small proud smile spreads across her face, and she happily accepts his offer of a high five when he lifts his palm. Sophia beams, as her small hand connects with his in a perfect, confident high five. The sound echoes softly in the room, and Jack can’t help but mirror her grin, warmth threading through the exhaustion of the night, and when Jack glances at you, there’s that same quiet warmth in your eyes that makes his chest tighten in a way it probably shouldn’t, but he just can’t help it. 

That warmth in your eyes lingers for just a moment too long. Jack notices it immediately. He notices everything about you lately, which is exactly the problem.

Sophia is still smiling proudly, clearly thrilled that the entire ordeal ended with a high five instead of something scarier. The toddler in your arms has sunk back into that half-asleep state, her cheek pressed against your shoulder, rabbit tucked beneath her chin.

And it hits Jack all over again how strange it feels to see you like this. That he hasn’t known this part of you. Not in passing conversation between patients. Not in the quiet moments over stale coffee at two in the morning. Not in the long shifts where people start sharing pieces of their lives just to stay awake.

And yet here you are, like this has always existed just outside the edges of the world he knows. Sophia swings her legs a little where she sits on the gurney, clearly pleased with both the praise and the attention.

“See?” you murmur softly to her, brushing a curl back from her forehead. “Told you he was good.”

Jack pretends not to notice the way you said that, like it’s something you’ve known for a long time.

Sophia nods seriously. “Mhm.” 

Jack huffs a quiet laugh under his breath. “Well,” he says lightly, pushing himself up from the stool, “I had a very good patient.”

Sophia sits a little taller at that, visibly proud of herself. The little girl stirs faintly against your shoulder, her small fingers tightening in your scrubs as she shifts. You instinctively rock her a little, one hand coming up to steady the back of her head while the other rests against her back.

The movement is automatic, practiced. Jack notices that too, of course he does. 

You shift slightly, adjusting the toddler so she’s more comfortable against your hip, and murmur softly. “We should probably go find Lauren,” you say with a small smile to Sophia before you look at Jack to explain. “She’s their babysitter, she was panicking when they came in, so I told her to take a snack in the cafeteria.”   

Jack nods. “It’s never fun being the babysitter when accidents happen.”

“Yeah, it feels like a big responsibility to take care of other’s kids…” you mumble, your gaze turning briefly to the toddler in your arms. Jack follows your glance down at the little girl in your arms, who’s nuzzled comfortably against you, and his chest tightens just a fraction.  

Your gaze turns to Sophia. “Are you okay going home with Lauren now? I will be back for breakfast.”

“You don’t have to stay,” Jack interrupts softly, keeping his voice low so as not to startle the toddler in your arms.

“I would really like to follow up on my asthma patient,” you murmur quietly, voice low but firm, glancing at Jack. “Is that okay?” you ask, now turned to the girl on the gurney. 

Sophia nods solemnly. “Mhm,” she says, trusting, a faint smile tugging at her lips. 

He holds the door open for you as you leave the pediatrics room. You shift slightly, adjusting the toddler so she’s more comfortable against your hip, and pause just outside the door.

“Can you say goodbye to Dr. Abbot,” you murmur softly to Sophia, brushing a curl from her forehead. 

Sophia looks up at him and lifts her hand in a tiny wave. “Bye, Dr. Jack,” she says clearly, her voice proud and earnest.

Jack crouches slightly, meeting her gaze with a soft, warm smile. “Bye, Sophia. You were so brave tonight.”

Sophia beams at the praise, then lifts her hand for a high five. Jack feels a warm molten feeling rise in his chest as he raises his own hand to meet hers, holding it steady at her height. Her small palm smacks against his with a crisp confidence, and she grins like she’s just won something important.

“Alright,” he murmurs with a soft chuckle, lowering his hand again. “Perfect high five.”

The little girl’s grin only widens at that, clearly thrilled with herself. She rocks a little on her heels, still glowing with pride. 

Jack’s eyes meet yours as he straightens again, and for a moment the hallway feels quieter than it should, the distant noise of the ER fading into the background. There’s a softness in his expression he doesn’t quite try to hide.

You give him a small, tired smile in return, shifting the toddler slightly, the movement, and the chance from the quiet room to the hallway waking her. She blinks sleepily, brow knitting for a moment as she lifts her head, still clutching the stuffed rabbit beneath her chin. Her eyes drift around the hallway before settling on him. 

For a second she just stares at him, heavy-lidded and quiet, trying to place where she is. Her fingers tighten a little in the fabric of your scrubs, rabbit still tucked under her chin.

Jack’s expression softens even more at the sleepy focus of her gaze. “Hey there,” he murmurs gently, careful to keep his voice low. 

A small, sleepy smile tugs at the toddler’s lips at the sound of his voice, slow and uncertain but unmistakably there. She blinks at him once more and her smile widens, the kind that belongs entirely to half-awake toddlers who haven’t quite decided if they’re still dreaming.

She lets out a sleepy giggle, soft and warm, the kind that seems to fill the small space between you all. The soft giggle seems to catch him completely off guard, and his smile widens despite himself.

“Oh, you are a real charmer, aren’t you,” Jack murmurs quietly, voice warm as he watches her fight sleep. Jack tilts his head slightly, studying her for a second before glancing up at you.

“What’s her name?” he asks softly.

“Her name is Rosa, but we call her Rosie the most,” Sophia says quickly, clearly pleased to be the one answering. A small smile touching your lips as you glance down at the toddler. Sophia rocks a little beside you, clearly proud of the introduction she just delivered.

“Yeah, you’re our little flower, right?” you murmur softly, brushing your fingers lightly over Rosie’s cheek. 

Jack’s gaze lingers on the two of you, something warm and thoughtful settling in his expression.

Rosie lets out one more tiny, breathy giggle before she suddenly leans toward him, her tiny hand reaching out curiously. Without thinking, Jack steps closer and lets her grab one of his fingers. 

Jack stills for a second when her tiny hand closes around his finger. Her grip is warm and unexpectedly strong for someone so small and half-asleep. Rosie peers at their joined hands with slow, fascinated focus, like she’s just discovered something very important.

Jack watches her for a moment, careful not to move too quickly. “Well,” he murmurs softly, glancing up at you with a quiet, amused smile, “that’s… a pretty firm handshake.”

“Yeah, she’s tougher than she looks,” you say softly, a quiet hint of amusement in your voice, though there’s something else there too, something more subdued, almost melancholic. Jack notices it. “And so are you Phia,” you murmur quietly, shifting your gaze down to the older girl, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. 

It’s as he stands there, watching the three of you, with Rosie’s tiny fingers still curling lightly around his, that Lena comes walking down the hallway. Her steps are light but purposeful, an ipad tucked under one arm. 

“Dr. Abbot we need you in room four,” Lena calls softly as she approaches, her voice gentle but carrying that unmistakable urgency. She glances at the scene before her, Rosie still holding Jack’s finger, Sophia’s small hand in yours, and the quiet warmth between you all, and offers a small, understanding smile. 

Jack gives Rosie one last, careful squeeze of her tiny hand before letting go, to let her curl her fingers back around your scrubs. “Duty calls,” he murmurs softly, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips as he straightens.

Rosie blinks slowly when his finger slips from her grasp, her tiny hand hovering in the air for a moment as if she’s trying to understand where it went. Then her fingers curl again, to bunch into the fabric of your scrubs instead. She lets out a small, sleepy hum and presses her cheek back against your shoulder, rabbit still tucked beneath her chin.

Sophia watches the exchange with great seriousness before giving Jack another small wave. “Goodbye,” she says earnestly.

Jack’s smile softens. “Bye, Sophia,” he replies gently. “Take care of your sister, okay?”

Sophia nods like she’s just been entrusted with something very important. Jack’s gaze flicks back to you then, lingering for a quiet second. 

“I’ll be back on duty in sec,” you say quietly, almost apologetically, shifting Rosie a little higher on your hip so her head rests more comfortably against your shoulder. The words half directed to Lena, who pauses a step behind Jack, her expression softening with understanding.

She gives a small nod. “Take your time,” she says gently.

Jack’s eyes linger on you for another moment, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly as he watches you adjust Rosie against your shoulder, the toddler already drifting fully back into sleep.

For half a second he doesn’t moment, he doesn’t move. “See you back on the floor,” he says finally, his voice low but warm, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He gives the girls a last wave then he turns with Lena, the two of them heading down the hallway toward the ER rooms, already slipping back into the rhythm of the shift.

The shift hums around him again, he checks his watch briefly before slipping back into the flow of patients and charting. 

It’s not until the end of the shift that he gets a chance to speak with you again. It’s quiet now, the ER settling into the slower rhythm that comes in the early morning. You’re at the nurses station, finishing up the last of your charting while chewing lightly on your lower lip. He walks up to the station, settling his forearms on the counter, learning slightly toward you as he watches you work. 

He watches you for a quiet moment, the hum of the ER soft around the two of you. “You know lip chewing can lead to inflammation,” he says quietly, the teasing edge in his voice soft but present as his gaze lingers on you.

You glance up quickly. “Of course, I’m a doctor,” you say with a small, mock-offended smile, tilting your head slightly. “And I’m not chewing my lip,” you mumble, though the small twitch betrays you. “But I am finishing my charting,” you say, pushing the last key with a satisfying click. You push back slightly from the keyboard, letting your shoulders relax, and finally look up at him fully. 

He offers you a small, amused smile, the kind that lingers more in his eyes than on his lips. For a moment neither of you says anything. The quiet of the early morning hums around you, monitors beeping softly somewhere down the hall. 

The events of the night seem to hang quietly between you for a moment. Rosie’s sleepy giggle and Sophia’s bright smile, seems to linger in the air, like soft echoes. But that underlying melancholy he has noticed earlier still lingers faintly beneath it all.

His expression softens a little as he watches you, though the hint of amusement never fully leaves his eyes. “Been a long night,” he says quietly.

You nod once, letting out a small breath. “Yeah.”

For a second the two of you just stay there in the quiet hum of the ER. Then you glance toward the clock, push your chair back, and stand.

“Walk with me?” you ask casually, nodding toward the hallway that leads to the staff lockers. 

“Sure,” Jack replies easily, pushing himself away from the counter.

He falls into step beside you as you head down the quieter hallway toward the lockers. For a moment neither of you says anything. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel awkward, just tired after a long shift. 

“Thank you for being so gentle with them earlier,” you say after a few steps, your voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

Jack glances over at you, a little surprised by the sudden sincerity in your tone. “Of course,” he says softly, his voice low but steady. “And it wasn’t hard, they’re great kids.”

You glance at him briefly, catching the subtle warmth in his expression, and then look away, letting a small smile tug at your lips. “I just… appreciate it. They have had a hard time, and they don’t usually warm up so quickly to new people.”

Jack gives a small, easy shrug. “Guess I got lucky.” 

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, lucky for them… and for me.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks, the quiet of the hallway wrapping around you like a soft blanket after the chaos of the shift. Then you reach the lockers the two of you stop, letting the quiet stretch for a beat longer. 

“You never told us you have kids.” It comes out rougher than he means it to.

You blink up at him, your tired eyes catching his, those pretty, pretty eyes of yours. “It’s also relatively new… they’re my nieces,” you say quietly. “My sister and her husband...” Your throat tightens, and you swallow hard before continuing. “They were in a car accident five months ago.” The words settle heavy. “I adopted them.”

Jack swears the air gets knocked out of him. The resemblance clicks into place in a different way now, 

“I didn’t know.”

You shrug, offering him a sad smile.“I haven’t told anyone here.” 

Jack blinks, his expression softening as he processes your words.

“I guess, I needed to have a place, where things just were ,as they used to,” you continue quietly. “I didn’t know how to tell you guys without breaking down, and I can’t do that, I have to be there for the girls.”

Jack’s eyes soften even more, the air of playful teasing that often hangs between the too of you is gone completely now, replaced with steady, quiet understanding. He shifts slightly closer, careful not to crowd you, letting his presence speak more than words.

“You’re doing amazing,” he says softly. “I don’t think most people could handle what you’ve taken on… but you-you’re doing it. And you’re doing it so well.” 

You let out a small, shaky breath, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction. “I try,” you mumble, your voice barely above the quiet hum of the hallway. “But some days… it feels like I’m just holding everything together by a thread.”

Jack doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He simply shifts a little closer, his presence steady and grounding, the kind of calm that doesn’t demand anything from you. “I get that,” he says softly. “It’s a lot to carry, but you’re carrying it with so much care. And if you need anything,” he continues, his voice low and steady, “you can always ask. No judgments, no questions.” 

You blink up at him, the words settling around you like a warm, quiet reassurance. “I… thank you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, yet it carries the weight of genuine relief. “It means a lot… just knowing that.”

Jack gives a small, steady nod, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re never alone,” he says softly. “Even when it feels like it, you’ve got people who care. And I’ll always be one of them.”

For a moment, the hallway feels almost suspended in time, the soft hum of the ER fading into the background as the two of you simply stand there. You let out a small, shaky laugh, the kind that carries both exhaustion and a touch of gratitude. “I guess I’m pretty lucky then,” you say quietly.

“Maybe,” Jack replies, a hint of warmth tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But mostly… you’ve earned it.”

You glance at him, meeting that steady, unspoken understanding in his eyes, and for the first time in hours, it feels like you can finally exhale.

“I would ask you if you wanted to grab a quick coffee before heading out, but I promised someone I would be home for breakfast,” you trail off, a small, wry smile tugging at your lips. “But some other time, maybe?” you add softly, tilting your head toward him, voice casual but carrying a quiet hope and just a hint of your usual teasing edge.

Jack lets out a quiet, warm laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “Yeah, I would never say no to that,” he says, his voice low and easy, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Great,” you murmur, a small, relieved smile tugging at your lips. You finally unlock your locker, grabbing your bag and jacket.

“Get home safe, okay?” Jack says softly, his tone gentle but carrying that quiet weight of care.

You give a small nod, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I will.”

“Good. And I’ll look forward to that coffee,” he says, the faint teasing edge returning to his tone.

You glance at him, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Me too.”

For a second neither of you moves, but the quiet between you isn’t awkward, it’s warm, steady, like something gently settling into place.

Jack nods once, that small smile still resting at the corner of his mouth. “Good,” he says softly.

You pull your jacket on and adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder. The exhaustion of the shift is still there, the tired gaze still lingering in your eyes, but it doesn’t seem quite as suffocating as it did earlier.

As you step past him, he shifts slightly to give you space, but his hand briefly brushes your arm, light, almost absent-minded, the kind of touch that lingers for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You glance back at him.

“Seriously… you’re doing a great thing,” he adds, voice low but certain.

You give him a smile, the kind that’s tired but genuine, your eyes softening just a little. “I hope so,” you say quietly. “And thank you, Jack.”

“Of course,” he replies softly. For a moment he just looks at you, debating with himself if he should say something else but decides against it. Instead he gives you a small nod, the kind that carries quiet certainty. “And you’ve got this,” he adds simply.

You hold his gaze for a second longer, something warm and steady passing between you. Then you shift your bag a little higher on your shoulder.

“I’ll see you around,” you say, a faint smile touching your lips.

“Yeah.”

He leans back lightly against the lockers, watching as you start down the hallway toward the exit, the soft morning light already creeping in from the far glass doors.

“Get some sleep,” he calls after you gently.

You glance back over your shoulder with a tired smile. “I will, after breakfast duty.”

That earns a quiet laugh from him.

And as you disappear out the doors, Jack stays there a moment longer than necessary, hands in his pockets, the faintest smile still on his face, already looking forward to that coffee.

[mystiquevoid]

Saltwater Promises

pairing: percy jackson x reader

synopsis: the heat of the moment passes, and you are left with emotions considerably more terrifying than thrilling. while percy has come to accept his feelings, you’re still at a loss for how to go on normally from this point forward.

wc: 4.6k

warnings: possibly inaccurate description of archery, kind of mood swings, emotions being all over the place, making out and implications of sex, but no explicit description of the act

request: no

a/n: tysm for all the love on ‘angel eyes’ omg!! i wasn‘t even sure if anyone would read it, as it was my first ever post, so i‘m super grateful for every like, comment, and reblog!! also huge thanks to my very first couple of followers. i hope you guys enjoy reading this part two as well!

part one | part two

em‘s masterlist | percy jackson masterlist

Percy Jackson doesn’t do casual.

If there was one thing you had learned over the past week, it was precisely that. In fact, you were beginning to believe that he didn’t even know how.

The boy was practically the embodiment of devotion, and every poor excuse of an easy grin he shot your way—far too eager despite his best efforts—as well as every supposedly harmless brush of his fingers against yours, was confirming this fact to you. Percy wasn’t slick, and unfortunately for him, you weren’t stupid.

Since that night by the lake, the dynamic between you two had shifted, at least to some extent. Sure, you still taunted him, still called him names that would have left him seething, if it weren’t for the fact that it was you calling him them. But now, instead of avoiding your eyes and clenching his jaw in restraint, he met your gaze directly, simply rolling his eyes at your antics with a sharp smile. Regardless, his reactions didn‘t do much to deter you, nor did they deceive you.

For every time he reciprocated your teasing with cocky remarks of his own, there were twice as many times you had noticed his face light up upon spotting your approaching figure. Percy might have tried to act like he was smug, laid-back, and totally unfazed by what happened by the lake, but your keen eyes saw every little telltale sign of him caring, perhaps even too much.

You were painfully aware of it even now, as you felt his hesitant hand hover over your lower back. It was close enough to detect its presence, yet not quite enough to actually feel the pressure of his fingertips on you. He was mere inches from you, standing by your side on the archery range, while you were trying to focus on your target. You had noticed him coming minutes ago from the sound of his footsteps alone, but no words were exchanged when he reached your side, as Percy was reluctant to throw you off balance. Instead, he watched you being fully in your element with genuine interest.

Letting out a deep breath, your grip loosened on your drawn bow, before the arrow whizzed through the air and hit its target. The sharp arrowhead had found its home in the nine-ring, just slightly off the bullseye. “Not bad,” Percy finally broke the silence he had permitted you previously. You turned your head to look at him over your shoulder, and weren’t surprised to find both mischief and flimsily concealed hope etched on his face.

He was waiting for you to take the bait, to give him a chance to talk to you. You would have rolled your eyes at how obvious he was being, if you weren’t so amused by his behavior. After all, his conversation starter was weak at best, since you were known around Camp for your skill with the bow and arrow.

Lowering your bow and momentarily relaxing your arms, you replied with irony coating your words, “Thank you for the assessment, Jackson.” Turning your attention back on the target a couple of meters away, you nocked your next arrow and took on the correct stance. Just before you made your next shot, you added mockingly, “I wasn’t aware of your newfound expertise. Weren‘t you the guy who shot a stray arrow into Chiron‘s tail once?”

“That was so long ago!” his defensive voice cut through the air, just as your arrow did, this time hitting the bullseye perfectly. Out of your peripheral vision, you witnessed the embarrassment—if not even horror—dawn on his face, and you couldn’t hold back the boisterous laughter that escaped you in the face of it. Quickly, you gave up on your initial plan of seriously practicing archery, opting to play along with whatever Percy was trying to do here. More importantly, you decided to have fun watching him make a fool of himself, instead of just being up-front with you. Guys could be so stupid, you thought amusedly.

“Not long enough for me to have forgotten it, apparently. Or probably anyone else for that matter,” you mused aloud, after managing to somewhat stifle your laughter.

Upon regathering your arrows, you began walking towards the archery range storage to place your bow, as well as your quiver, back inside of it. Hearing Percy‘s footsteps behind you, you immediately knew that he was following you. With your back turned towards him, you allowed an entertained little smirk to play on your lips. When did you wrap this boy around your little finger? Without even meaning to as well. It was so ironic!

You cringed thinking back on it, but that not-so-little crush you had on him when you were younger? Yeah, well, that was the understatement of the century. At the tender age of thirteen, you were pining after Percy on a daily basis without ever approaching him even once.

If only you had known from the start that all it took to impress the son of Poseidon were a couple of challenging words, maybe you would have tried your luck back then. It would have spared your half-siblings from many evenings spent driving them near goddamn crazy with rants about how agonizingly heroic and cute he was. You could vividly remember their collective relief once you began getting over your puppy crush on him.

Who would have guessed that years later you would have Percy trailing after you like a lovesick puppy?

Younger you would be going into cardiac arrest right about now. These days, though, you were much more level-headed, and also not completely head over heels for the tall boy anymore. Still, you couldn’t deny the attraction you felt towards him. And if you were completely honest with yourself, you knew that you also weren’t as uncaring of what transpired between you and Percy as you might have seemed to be.

The feeling of his lips on yours that night paired with the sincerity in his eyes when he told you that he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you… it had all of those silly feelings from when you were barely a teen resurface.

It felt like the long-buried fantasy you had of being with the boy, who you hadn’t thought of like that in ages, was raised from the dead; a jarring awakening that hit you like a freight train the next morning, after all the residual adrenaline and impulsive magic of the evening had washed away. It startled you so much that you chose to ignore it entirely for the time being and redirect your focus on how helpless Percy was acting in the aftermath.

Sure, you weren‘t planning on feeling like this again, especially not for the same guy you had deemed as crossed off the list at the ripe age of fourteen, but clearly you were still more in control of it than Percy was.

After placing the archery equipment back, you started walking in the direction of the cabins, while decidedly ignoring Percy’s presence altogether. “Come on, Angel Eyes, slow down!” Percy called out to you playfully, gesticulating with his arms in exasperation. He was still a few paces behind you, but his words almost made you halt in your steps. You felt the blood rush up to your cheeks upon hearing him call you by that moniker.

How did two simple words suddenly hold such power over you? You wondered if this was your karma for comparing the boy to sea creatures once too often.

The last time he called you Angel Eyes, you had nearly lost yourself in the sweet embrace he held you captive in, nearly forgotten what it meant to pull away from the dizzying brush of his lips against yours. And when you finally found the willpower to do so, you were only able to leave him behind after stealing one last kiss from him. Percy had stood there by the canoe lake for two more minutes, his heart racing as he watched you walk away. Once he finally snapped out of it, he wandered back to the Poseidon cabin, stunned and yet exhilarated.

You did not slow down; in fact, you even went as far as slightly picking up the pace while shouting back, “Maybe you just need to walk faster, Fish Boy!” You heard hearty laughter from behind you, as your snark only proved to delight the boy who had come to accept the fact that he loved it when you sassed him. Percy jogged towards you leisurely. A moment later you felt his warm fingers wrap around your wrist. “Wait…”

With your heart in your throat now, you hated how nervous you suddenly felt. You chewed on your lower lip before turning to face him. “Yes?” You didn‘t mean for your voice to sound so breathy, so expectant, but it did. The smile on Percy‘s lips broadened, glee glinting in his eyes of celadon. They briefly swept over your lips, whose taste he yearned for desperately, before flying up to look into the depths of your own eyes. You felt more vulnerable in the face of his intense gaze boring into you than you ever did fighting mythical creatures far more dangerous. Percy tilted his head to the side, a subtle movement you wished you hadn’t detected, because, fuck, how could something as easy as that be so hot?

“You should really do something about that,” Percy spoke jokingly. You wondered what he was talking about. Your facial expression must have reflected the puzzlement you felt, since he continued to explain, “Your bad habit. Biting your lip, I mean.” Your eyebrows creased in perplexity. It didn’t take long for you to grow somewhat annoyed with the boy before you, if not even a little disappointed. “Is that all?” you snorted with a dry kind of humor, unable to stop your patience from running thinner by the second. “Whatever,” you rolled your eyes before spinning on your heel to leave him behind once more. This was becoming a recurring theme, one you were beginning to tire of, but gods, for some reason Percy was frustrating you beyond belief.

As if the return of your stupid, juvenile feelings wasn’t confusing enough, he wouldn’t stop beating around the bush. And yeah, maybe you were acting unreasonably, maybe you were projecting some of your own issues onto Percy, but could you really be blamed for it?

This was too sudden for you, too uncertain.

What could ever be scarier than that?

“Oh my gods, stop pouting already, Seaweed Brain.” Annabeth‘s tone was firm, almost scolding, as she took in her friend‘s hunched-over figure.

With summer nearing its end, Percy would soon return to the city and go back to school in the mortal world. He knew he would have to wait an entire year to be back here at Camp, where he’d be able to see you. To make matters worse, he hadn’t even managed to properly talk to you beforehand. He’d failed to clear the air between you two. Percy had absolutely no idea what exactly he might’ve even said or done to upset you, but whatever it was, it had him in remarkably low spirits, when he should have been making the most of the last days of summer.

Instead, Percy hadn’t stopped sulking since you left him in the dust the other day. Not a moment had gone by without him looking like a kicked puppy. This was the third consecutive day of Percy‘s mood being down in the dumps, and the blonde girl couldn’t stand to silently bear witness to this mess any longer. Crossing her arms over her chest, Annabeth glared down at the slouching boy, who had only raised his head unenthusiastically upon hearing her demand.

“Just talk to her,” she urged him, visibly annoyed. Right when Percy‘s lips parted to respond—most likely to pretend nothing was wrong, or perhaps to claim that surely you didn’t want to see him anyway—the strong-headed daughter of Athena shushed him quickly, unwilling to listen to him mope around. “She likes you, Percy. Trust me, I know.” Percy was taken aback by how certain she sounded, like maybe she knew, or noticed, something that he was oblivious to.

Grover glanced between his two friends, unsurely, not quite understanding the situation at hand, yet also being worried for Percy, who had been so unlike himself, lethargic and gloomy. Unconvinced, Percy shook his head before looking up at the vexed girl standing in front of him, impatiently tapping her fingers against her arm. “Doesn’t seem like it,” the dark-haired boy muttered skeptically, and Annabeth felt the need to grab him by the shoulders and shake him vehemently. How could he be so dense? “Percy,” she began slowly, exhaling for a moment, before continuing a beat later, “Have you ever considered that she might only be overwhelmed? Maybe she just doesn’t know how to deal with this… change.”

A pitiful sigh came from Percy, who was still hesitant, despite the well-meant reassurance. “I don‘t know—” Yeah, this was when Annabeth knew she was throwing Plan A out the window and enabling Plan B in its stead. Clearly, the time for gentle nudges in the right direction was well past over. If Percy needed to be shoved into his own happiness, to act like himself again, oh, that would be precisely what Annabeth Chase would guarantee.

Grabbing him by the arm, she pulled him up and off the log he was previously seated on. “Percy, if you don’t go talk to her right now, I swear I’ll make you wish you had listened to me the first time I said it.” Once Annabeth set her mind on something, saying no to her was never really an option, was it? Recognizing the look of defeat on Percy‘s face, her stormy gray eyes flashed with triumph.

That‘s how Percy found himself passing by his own cabin, and approaching the sandy shores by the Long Island Sound. According to some of your half-siblings, you were by there by the beach; something that took him by surprise. He pretty much lived right there, as the windows of the Poseidon cabin offered a vast view of the large body of water, and yet he wasn’t sure if he‘d seen you spend much time there before. Was this a new development? Or did he merely fail to acknowledge you before this summer, too preoccupied by prophecies, monsters, and the heavy burden of being a forbidden child of the Big Three? The thought had Percy’s stomach tied in knots, worsening the given nervousness he already felt while looking for you.

The damp sand beneath his shoes squelched with every step he took, while overlooking the rather lonesome space. It wasn’t unusual for campers to come here for relaxation or even training, but it seemed today wasn’t one of those days. It left the beach to only him and you, wherever you might have been. Sea-green eyes snagged on a silhouette in the distant waters colored beautifully by the slowly setting sun, and Percy felt his heart rate rise significantly.

Even from where he was standing now, Percy could see how gorgeous you looked surrounded by the gentle ripples of waves tinted yellow. There was something oddly intimate about seeing you in the water, in the element he held such a special connection to. Percy stared ahead for a few more seconds, attempting to burn this image into his mind forever, in case he wouldn’t be granted the chance to witness the sight of you like this again. He was mesmerized, entranced, enchanted. Looking for the right word to describe the state you put him in time and time again was impossible, he realized.

Oh, he was a fool for ever depriving himself of your presence, for abstaining from the beautiful sea-storm that was your fiery persona, no matter what might have been said or implied before. He didn’t care anymore. No, he was sure he would rather pine after you, and have you ditch him each and every time than not see you at all. The idea of passing on the opportunity to see your pretty face was blasphemy to him at this point. How could he?

He yearned for you like the ocean yearned for the sun.

Just as the ocean would welcome back the sun with open arms as the passing tides came and went, Percy would let you leave him behind, knowing you’d be back.

You hadn’t noticed him yet, as he stepped into the water. He hadn’t even bothered taking off his clothes, since they could stay dry thanks to his powers anyway. Percy walked the shallow expanse of the tidal estuary, before surging in to swim towards you. You weren’t too far from the shore, so it didn’t take long for you to become aware of something—or someone—in the water closing in on you. Wiping the water from your eyes with the back of your hand, you turned, and squinted to see the culprit interrupting the evening swim you had planned to clear your head. You weren’t sure what you had expected, but it hadn’t been Percy Jackson, rest assured.

“What— Percy?” Baffled by his sudden appearance, you didn’t even notice that you‘d called him by his first name for one of the first few times all summer. Coming up in front of you now, Percy was a sight to behold; glistening tan skin that begged to be kissed by more than just the sun, mussed hair that seemed to sit just right in spite of its disarray, and oh gods, that expression on his face. Why did he have to look at you like that? He hadn’t even spoken yet, and still, you could read his face like an open book already. Awe, apology, a smidgen of desperation—they all painted his handsome face oh so blue.

He said your name, hesitation evident in the way he did. Momentary silence spread between you two, and Percy struggled to find the right words to cut through the awkwardness. “I— I‘m sorry,” he began, though he didn’t know what he was apologizing for. “I really am. If I, um, upset you with my comments, I swear I didn’t mean to.” His remorseful words tugged at your heartstrings, as you were aware of him lacking any real reason to apologize.

The past three days had given you the time to cool off and think—like really think—and you saw now that you had been behaving preposterously. You realized that it wasn’t fair of you to be upset with Percy for the feelings he evoked in you, regardless of how big and scary they were. Still, you didn’t know how to handle the unresolved situation between you two, nor how to talk to him about any of it. How could you even approach him normally—no scathing commentary making light of the issue—when you hadn’t ever talked to him like that before? Before, when you held all the control, no feelings were involved on your part, and it was only Percy who was bothered by your attitude. Now, you were out of bounds, thrown into the confusing world of romantic sentiments you had sworn off not too long ago. Losing your position of advantage meant losing the unbothered, self-assured confidence Percy only knew from you. And tossed into the deep end like this, you were a proper mess.

“Oh, Percy…” This marked the second time you miraculously hadn’t addressed him as you usually would have, and Percy almost flinched hearing it this time. Were you that mad? Had he unknowingly fucked this up so badly that you refused to call him anything other than his actual name? Of course, you noticed his reaction, and, gods, it made you feel even more guilty. He looked so crestfallen that for once you were tongue-tied, lacking the wit you had consistently proven to possess. “It‘s not that— You didn‘t— Listen…” you started over multiple times, trying to figure out the way to adjust to the new nature of your relationship to one another, and most importantly open up to him. After letting out a sigh, you continued as evenly as you could, “I‘m sorry. You didn’t do anything, honestly. I was just… I don‘t know— This is just very new to me, okay? And I guess, um, I don‘t know how to… act around you now. I was just annoyed, because I didn’t want to feel— feel so out of control.”

It felt odd speaking from the heart when you had only ever been ironic and sarcastic with him. Somehow, though, Percy managed to make it less strange with his calming demeanor. Submerged in the water, he reached to hold your hand, and you swore he couldn’t have been more tooth-achingly sweet.

Relief wracked through Percy‘s body upon realizing the real reason for what‘s been going on. Hearing that he hadn’t done anything to hurt you put his mind at ease. His gaze softened as he took your words in. Your name left his lips quietly, as though he feared that this moment between you two might have been too fragile to be interrupted by loud noise. He didn’t want the bubble you shared to burst, reluctant to lose his shot at resolving this. “If you feel out of control, we don’t have to rush this,” Percy reassured you delicately. His thumb stroked your knuckles almost comfortingly beneath the surface, before he continued in earnest, “We can take things as slowly as you need. We don’t even have to label this yet. I don’t mind handing you the reins. I just— I didn‘t want to leave Camp without talking about it.”

He was willing to wait and adjust to your tempo, despite it not really being in his nature to be anything other than hopelessly devoted. Percy clearly liked you, and yet he left those words unspoken, not wanting to push you or to make you feel like you had to say it in return now. You groaned, feeling embarrassed and shy, since you were not used to being this sappy. “Ugh, Fish Boy, can you be any more perfect?” A grin broke out on Percy‘s face. His excitement was impossibly hard to miss, when he was practically beaming at you.

“You think I‘m perfect, Angel Eyes?” Words similar to ones you had spoken once were deliberately thrown back at you now, Percy smirking knowingly. Raucous laughter burst from the dark-haired boy when you pushed his shoulder, water splashing between your bodies thanks to the motion. “Shut up!” you called out, your pitch bordering on whiny. Before long you couldn’t contain your own giggles at the sheer absurdity of the situation either. Here you were having your first heart-to-heart with Percy Jackson, the boy you used to gush about constantly, all while kicking your feet to stay afloat in the waters of the Long Island Sound. Totally normal!

As your laughter dimmed down, Percy allowed himself to admire you. Distracting droplets of water glinted on your beautiful skin, your complexion naturally enhanced by the colors of the sky. When one of the beads slipped past your jaw and down to your collarbones, Percy gulped. Shit, you were a temptation he couldn‘t resist. Raising his unoccupied hand from the water, he brushed his thumb against your lower lip, eyes now transfixed on the soft pillows promising sweetness beyond compare.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked for your permission like a gentleman would, and your stomach did somersaults. It made you want to simply throw out all your inhibitions and pull him close the same way you had recklessly done only a couple of days ago. Consequences be damned. You could figure out these feelings later. You could use the time he would be away from Camp to get it sorted. What you couldn’t do, though, was say no to this, to him. So, you nodded softly, eyes flickering across his face.

Leaning forward slightly, Percy moved his hand to hold you by the nape, which he used to pull you closer to him. There was nothing gentlemanly about how he kissed you now, though—tongues and teeth clashing against each other in a game of exploration. You chased his mouth with yours eagerly, placing both your hands on his chest for stability, while deserting the hand that held yours previously. His lips tasted of peppermint bubblegum, and that sugary blue raspberry lemonade you knew he drank far too often.

With his now-free hand, he took ahold of your waist and tugged your body forward so that it would be pressed flush against his. The warmth of his body seeped into your skin despite the layers of fabric separating you two. You cursed his abilities, because fuck, you wished you weren’t the only one in swimwear right now. Craving the skin-to-skin contact, you let one of your hands venture down from his sternum to the hem of his unfairly dry shirt. You hadn’t parted from his lips once. If anything, you grew more insatiable by the minute. Hand slipping beneath the cotton material, you felt him up, wordlessly impressed by the firm abdominal muscles you found there. You felt his stomach tense up for a second when you grazed them with your nails. Percy smiled into the kiss at the surprising sensation.

Leaning back with a chuckle, he questioned teasingly, “Are you trying to mark me up?” You shook your head unbelievingly at the impish grin that had spread across Percy‘s face, before responding like the temptress he knew you were, “Trust me, you would know so if I were.” Even this short sliver of time wasted on anything but the steady pressure of his mouth against yours had you growing impatient irrationally quickly. “Now shut it and just kiss me, Fish Boy.” The bossy demand was followed by your head surging forward to capture his lips once more. Percy was quick to accommodate your wishes, losing himself in the taste of your lips happily. His kisses became more fierce and ravenous as time slipped away, and with it the daystar‘s final rays.

Reluctant withdrawal was followed by even more tepid words from you. “It‘s getting late… we should probably head back to our cabins.” The lingering stare Percy gave your lips only amplified your desire to do the exact opposite of what you had only now suggested. “Probably,” Percy agreed, but his low tone told a different story. The two of you swam back to the shore silently, and by the time you reached the gray stone walls of the Poseidon cabin—conveniently located right there by the beach—the atmosphere in the air was electric.

Standing on the porch of Cabin 3, Percy felt incapable of keeping himself from asking the question that was burning on the tip of his tongue. “Do you… want to come inside?” The question hung in the air heavily. Percy almost regretted asking it, but your reply came quicker than regret could have.

“Yeah,” you breathed out, a giddy smile blooming on your face—one you couldn’t suppress despite pulling on your bottom lip with your teeth to contain it. Glancing down at your mouth again—swollen from his fervent kisses—Percy knew he was a goner.

The next morning when the two of you arrived unusually late for breakfast—together at that—you only sat down at your respective tables in the dining pavilion after exchanging meaningful glances. Love bites were in plain sight on both of your necks. Other territorial marks were scattered across your bodies, though they were hidden in more intimate areas that other people would not be able to see quite as easily.

Annabeth caught Percy’s eye from across the space knowingly before mouthing to him, “I told you so.”

[lqveharrington]

Remus Lupin fanfic…

[ribb0ngirl]

creds: alli_xoxo4444

[supermenz]

WHERE IS MY HUSBAND!

summary: I would like a ring, I would like a ring! I would like a diamond ring on my wedding finger — I would like a big and shiny diamond that I can wave around and talk, and talk about it! (Or: Percy Jackson wonders every day about how he somehow managed to land you. He's got one chance, and he's not going to screw it up.)

pairing(s): percy jackson x daughter of aphrodite!reader

word count: 4.6k

warnings: based on the books and may contain spoilers for the pjo series and heroes of olympus but nothing major (i kept it all at bay to one character and one location), references to all that the demigods have to go through to survive, himbo percy, tooth rotting fluff, nothing else i think!! also, this is a christmas fic :)

author's note: if anyone doesn't know, evil eyes are supposed to protect you from fake compliments derived by envy, and if they break it means they served their purpose in protecting you from the bad things that happen thanks to fake pleasantries! it's important for the story :) i also know that i promised you guys a batsis x conner kent... but let me have this LMAO 😭 i've been a fan of pjo since i was like twelve, so seeing the fandom come back to life is actually refreshing... i might write a jason grace fic later on but we'll see. anyways, the conner fic is still getting written! but have this treat in the meantime :)

dividers from @uzmacchiato!

Now, it’s not that Percy is ugly. 

He’s all but that, really — and honestly, even if he was, he doesn’t think he’d have the time to care. He’s lived since he was twelve like he was in survival mode (which he was), and with all the monsters that came looking after him, he didn’t really have the time to worry about looks. So, safe to say, the first years after adjusting to being a demigod might’ve been a little… rough on his appearance. 

Puberty didn’t help at all — he doesn’t even want to remember that year where he had to juggle both acne and braces, all the while constantly looking out for any signs of malevolent activity behind his back. His hair persistently looked like a mess, because he always either forgot or postponed haircuts until his strands seemed more like a bird’s nest than anything else, and it’s not like he was the most stylish kid out there. 

So, it’s no wonder why every single one of your siblings made fun of you for getting with him. 

At fifteen, he was still in that awkward phase where he didn’t quite know what to do with himself and his body, and even if he tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal, it kinda was. He saw everyone around him start growing into their own people, start really caring about looks and noticing things he couldn’t even come up with — enter: you. A really, really gentle soul who took one good look at him and thought: I can work with this. 

He doesn’t even know how he managed to land you — he’s not really sure he wants to know, because maybe his potential is far greater than he could have ever imagined, and that kinda scares him. What he knows, however, is that he’s known about you ever since he got to Camp Half-Blood — well, duh. Nobody ever managed not to notice Aphrodite’s kids, but out of them all, besides Selena and a couple of others, you were the only one who was actually nice. Not in the fake Mean Girls way that Drew or your other siblings adopted just to please Selena, but in a real, actual-saint way. 

The first time he meets you he’s twelve. You patch him up after his first game of Capture the Flag, where he’s still too stunned from being recognised as Poseidon’s son to notice the really pretty girl tending to his bleeding arm — at least, that’s what he tells you later on. The truth is that for a moment he actually believes you’re a hallucination, because he’s never talked to a girl in his whole life, let alone have one this close to him, willingly at that. It’s only when you pat his wounded bicep and give him a tender smile that he suddenly realises you’re real, and when you say, “Be careful next time, okay?” there’s only one thought going through his mind: don’t screw this up. 

Obviously, he screws it up. “I– um– like– y– yeah, of course.” he’s sure he’s as red as a tomato can be, and even worse, not only you had to see that, but also the guy behind you did. 

(The guy behind you is William Solace. He’s your best friend. At his own expense, Percy will also find out that he’s the biggest gossip in all the Camp beside Drew, because inexplicably, at dinner, everyone’s talking about how newbie Jackson goofed it up with that one cutie from Cabin 10.) 

From then on, it’s not exactly a secret that Percy’s got the fattest crush on you. Grover’s never been great at hiding secrets, and even if he was, Percy could not act normal about it even if his life depended on it. He’s at your beck and call, suddenly springs to attention whenever you’re mentioned or your voice and laugh are heard, and looks like the definition of a loyal puppy whenever you’re around. Not that he actually ever manages to have a real conversation with you, anyways — he always needs two to three work days to process any and all interactions you two have, and once he does, it’s always too late to reply. 

That’s why — two years after that first encounter — he’s so stunned about how persistent you become with him. More demanding, always asking for his opinion, slowly bringing him out of the shell (pun not intended) that he had created for himself and used just for you, and there’s not nearly enough fuel in any of the speeches Annabeth gives him about it to convince him to confess. She likes you too, she insists, but he doesn’t really believe in what she says until you quite literally drag him by the collar down to your height to meet your lips after a particularly heated match of Capture the Flag. 

He’s never kissed anyone before, and he didn’t think it could actually feel this nice. Maybe it’s because it’s you, but he feels his legs all wobbly, and when you drag his hands to rest over your hips, he leans on you a little more than he’d like to admit. And again, maybe it’s because he’s not an expert at kissing and is just a little delusional, but the kiss feels like something you’ve waited a long time for, too. 

He hears the gasps of the other campers around him, but honestly, he’s too focused on your lips to care. And even when you do part, any embarrassment he might feel is immediately replaced by fuzzy warmth when you hug him tight, nuzzling your cheek in his chest happily. His face is burning and he’s pretty sure he’s close to puffing smoke from his ears, but he knows that it was worth it. 

Everyone teases him relentlessly — Grover even cries once Annabeth tells him what happened, rubbing snot all over Percy’s shirt while sobbing about how much he has grown in so little. He doesn’t really care about what the others think, because none of the snide remarks they say while passing him nor the constant whispering that follows him since the kiss will ever manage to make his heart flutter less when you take his hand in yours or kiss him. 

He’s never been one to mind about what others think of him, so when the other campers start to suddenly pat him on the back and talking about how lucky he is, he doesn’t think much about it — he just guesses that the jealousy’s faded, and they now feel bad about treating him like a war criminal, even if it is weird to have Clarisse out of all people compliment you about your girlfriend. 

You don’t think for a moment that it’s genuine, and your suspicions are revealed to be true when one day he falls and sprains his ankle — Percy Jackson, hero of many quests, slain by a step? Weird. 

The day after, you come up to him and swing a necklace with an evil eye over his head with a weird expression. “You keep this on, okay?”

Percy looks at the pendant, then at you, “Not that I’m complaining about the gift, but why?”

Sherman Yang comes up behind him and nearly makes him topple with how hard he slaps his shoulder, “Congratulations, Jackson,” he grits out, with the eyes of someone who wants to break both his legs. “Your luck continues to baffle me every day.” 

Your boyfriend, bless his heart, smiles at him. “Thanks, man.” 

Yang goes on about his life after that, and you deadpan at Percy’s completely clueless expression. “See? He was being nice.” 

You pat his cheek, “You’re too innocent for this world. Just keep the necklace on and maybe nothing bad will happen to you.” 

Pictures from that summer show clearly the eventual glow up he gets — all those weird face masks and skincare routines you made him do eventually worked, because when he gets back home and Sally sees him, she gasps in delight. “Did you finally start washing your face? It’s a real miracle what just soap and water can do when used correctly–” 

(And that’s the story of how you single-handedly saved his face card, but that’s not what this story is about.) 

By some miracle, your father lives in Manhattan, too. Apparently he made a lot of money with acting in his younger days, so when you came around, he was perfectly capable to start being a dad 24/7 — and being able to see through the Mist, that meant fighting off every teacher that feigned to be human and all the toddlers that turned out to be actual goblins. Now he mostly works as a personal trainer for his own enjoyment, as you’ve grown up too much to be under his constant care, but that’s not the point here. 

The point is: you and Percy actually manage to date. 

Sure, a few monsters crash your outings once in a while — who are we kidding? Usually about four monsters per date is the ordinary — but it’s the most normal Percy has felt in a long time. You don’t whine about having to basically constantly be on the run, and it helps him take his mind off of the impending prophecy that is still hanging over his head. 

He tries to remind himself that you’ve probably just taken pity on him — that he’s probably going to be dead by the time he reaches sixteen, so maybe that’s why you took his charity case into your hands — but every time you guys hang out, his doubts about your honesty get weaker and weaker. 

Sure, you’re way out of his league, and sure, he is a loser in pretty much anything but the eventual quests he gets sent on. But sometimes he thinks that the way you kiss him feels a little too real, and the way you hug him whenever he walks you home doesn’t exactly feel fake. He lives in doubt — basking in the dream until he can just in case his paranoias eventually become true — until, just before the summer starts, you ask him a question that changes everything. 

“Hey, my dad was wondering if you’re free this Friday evening,” you mumble, half-asleep on his chest as you lay on a blanket in Central Park. “He really wants to meet you before… y’know,” 

Before the world goes to shit. Before Kronos comes back to kill us all. Before you get whisked away on another quest and never come back. Percy knows that — but the thing that strikes him the most, funnily enough, is that you want him to meet your dad. Because — yes, he’s talked about you to his mother a thousand times by now, but he didn’t exactly think that you were talking to your father about him. It’s at that moment that it clicks in his brain — gods, you weren’t trying to make fun of him or trick him. You actually liked him. For. Real. 

Up until then, it just felt too good to be true — but, he guesses, even people like him get to have one single nice thing in their lives.

And that’s how, that Friday afternoon, Percy finds himself sitting stiffly at your dinner table in the best-looking casual clothes he has while your father happily chats with him, and you look at him with eyes that tell everything he needs to know — that you’re almost as smitten with him as he is with you. 

It’s the last moment of peace he has before everything blows back up — the missions, the quests, all the monsters he has to slay before the final battle. But later on that night, as you say goodbye to him with a simple peck over his lips on your porch, he looks at your eyes and makes himself a promise: he’s going to survive all of it, no matter what the gods may throw at him — if not for the sake of the world, just to have another simple and domestic dinner with you. 

And survive, he does. 

Years later, you’re twenty — older than you’d ever thought you would’ve lived up to — living in a little apartment in New Rome with Percy and simply thriving. 

Your boyfriend still wonders how exactly he’s managed to end up with you, but he’s not protesting. And seven broken evil eyes later, he’s learning that they actually serve their purpose quite decently. 

It’s weird to think that he’s setting up Christmas decorations with the same girl who basically bullied pimples away from his face when he was fifteen, but honestly, he’s not going to complain about his steak being too juicy — he ended up with, in his modest, humble opinion, the prettiest girl in the whole Camp, and he thanks the gods every day for giving you the strength to ignore your sibling’s jabs about how he had way too many pimples to be with you. 

(He doesn’t have pimples anymore, by the way, and his skincare routine is rock solid. You also torture him once a month to get all the blackheads he’s got out of his face, and even if he hates it, he knows it comes from a place of love.)

This year, you’ll be spending the holidays at your father’s house with Sally, Paul and little Estelle, and he’s a bit nervous about this whole thing. He’s met your dad and you’ve met his mom, but their meeting feels… official. The anxiety that feeling brings does absolutely nothing to deter him from constantly changing the hiding spot for the present he got you a while ago, and even if it’s in a small box, he swears it weighs a ton. He doesn’t know why he’s making such a big deal out of it — it’s just a ring — but as he watches you hang the ornaments you got from the dollar store downtown to your little Christmas tree, he gets it. 

It’s because he wants to spend the rest of his life with you — with the same girl that saw something in him that nobody had ever seen before — and he absolutely does not want to mess this up. And later on that night, as he's resting on your chest while you're scratching his scalp with your manicured nails, he thinks that this might just be the easiest decision he's ever had to make.

Three weeks later, on Christmas Eve, he’s sitting on your father’s couch in the living room while your parents and Paul happily chat in the kitchen, and you and Estelle play on the carpet. 

Percy’s little sister is turning three next year, and he cannot believe that she’s a toddler already. Sometimes he feels like an old man, and whenever people mistake him for her very young father, that feeling just grows. But as you play with her, and she giggles and shriekes at your attempts to tickle her, he wonders if you would ever want one of your own. 

He envisions a little girl with your smile and his eyes, or perhaps a small boy with your face and his dark hair. His chest gets fuller at the thought, and later that night, when the adults are still chatting — quite drunkenly at that — over how a Thanksgiving turkey should be properly cooked, and Estelle’s sleeping it away in your old room, Percy takes your hand and gestures to the door. “Want to take a walk?” 

The streets are crowded despite the late hour — it is, after all, half an hour before it’s officially Christmas, and everyone must be waiting for the fireworks. He hastily swats your hand away when you try to put it in his pocket like you always do, and when you glare at him, he feels his blood go cold. He instead takes your hand in his, kissing your frown away, “C’mon, baby, it’s Christmas– don’t be mad at me.” 

“What, are you hiding something from me?” you joke, and gasp when his face falls. “No way– you totally are!” 

His ears are pink, and his nose scrunches in the same way it does whenever he’s lying. “I am totally not.” 

You chuckle and decide to leave him to his secrets, snuggling into his side, “Whatever you say, Mr Jackson,” you muse, “just remember that if it's an ugly gift, your mom likes me more than you. She'll be on my side if we fight about it.” 

He gasps, befuddled, “You didn’t just say that!” 

“I actually just did.” you snicker, “And you’re getting mad just because you know I’m right.” 

The park’s a less crowded shortcut than the streets — which are getting emptier, too: everyone’s going to Times Square for the countdown for the 25th and the fireworks. You were heading there too, only that Percy stops in his tracks, and you don’t bother looking behind you until you’re a few steps in front of him, convinced that it’s just another one of his antics. “Awe, c’mon, Perce, don’t be mad that Sally prefers me over–”

Thud!

You blink, your cheek feeling suddenly cold, clusters of snow falling and melting over your lashes. Percy just stands there, his gloves still covered in tufts of snow, hands covering his mouth in shock like he isn’t the culprit to blame. “…Did you just throw a snowball in my face?”

“I’m sorry, babe, I swear!” you don’t understand if he’s actually feeling sorry or is about to burst out laughing, “I didn’t mean to, I swear! I was aiming at your back but then you turned arou–” he’s interrupted by his own shriek — one he makes after you throw a bigger snowball right at his face. “Ooh, your game’s on, Jackson!” 

Twenty minutes later, you’re lying in the snow, chests heaving and scarves and hair soaked, cheeks red and hearts feeling impossibly full. 

(You won the match, by the way; Percy never lets you lose when playing against him, even if he has to put his big bad ego away.)

“My hands are freezing,” you laugh, not really bothered by your nimble fingers. Your boyfriend doesn’t waste one second before taking off his own gloves and putting them over your hands, and even if they are a couple sizes too big for you, the gesture still makes you feel fuzzy inside. 

After giving him a quick, grateful peck, you check your watch, “We’re gonna miss the fireworks,” you tell him, not really too beaten up about it. You see them every year with your father, anyways, and even if you and Percy have never seen them together for one reason or another, there’s surely going to be another time. You guys aren’t at constant risk of dying as you were just three years ago — besides, you really had fun with that snowball match. 

But Percy suddenly springs up, total panic over his face. He drags you up to your feet with him, “C’mon– we’ve gotta run for it! We can’t miss them–”

Your laugh is serene, “Easy, Perce — they make them every year, we’ll just come back here next year and–”

“No! I wanted it to be this year–”

Boom! 

The fireworks have started. Percy stops in his tracks, his shoulders falling, and lets go of your hand like a kicked puppy. “…Nevermind.” he proceeds to slump back down in the snow, pout prominent on his face and eyebrows knit tightly. 

Frowning, you kneel down to his level, “Hey, I didn’t think that you cared so much about the fireworks,” you mumble gently, taking his face into your hands, “Besides, we can still see them from here– honestly, isn’t it better this way? We would’ve had to fight people to get a barely nice spot in an overcrowded area.”

He sniffles, his cheeks and nose red from the cold. “You… didn’t want to see the fireworks?”

You shrug, “Well, yeah, but I wanted to see them with you.” you plop down next to him, hugging his arm to your chest as a thousand colors explode in the sky, “And we are seeing them together, aren’t we?”

His throat bobs. He looks up to the sky, at the fireworks that he has waited for ever since he came up with the plan, and the only thing that comes to his mind is: improvise. This is Christmas, your favourite holiday, and he’s not going to ruin your surprise like a fool — the days where he was a blubbering mess are long gone, but this is heavy. He never thought he’d actually get to ask you something like this, but here he is, and by now he knows that every moment he gets with you is to be cherished. 

Percy says your name with such seriousness that it almost scares you. You look away from the night sky and to him, eyebrow raised in question as he takes his arm away from your hold and puts his hand in his pocket. “I, um… I wanted to give you your Christmas gift now. I wanted to watch the fireworks in Times Square because I knew how much it meant to you, but, uh, I guess that this will have to do.” 

Your frown softens. “Percy, I thought it was something serious.”

He pouts again, “It is serious,” we’re talking about almost-proposing in the Square your father took you to every Christmas, he wants to say, “I mean, it is to me.”

You chuckle, your cheeks a lovely pink, “Okay, okay, go on.” 

“Promise not to laugh at me,”

“Why would I? Come on, hun, I’ve seen you in that one Superman themed swimsuit and still accepted being seen with you– why would I laugh at you now?”

He shakes his head, trying to calm his nerves, but it’s all futile when he takes the little velvet box out of his pocket and you gasp. Heat creeps up his neck, and this time, it’s not because of the cold. “So, I– uh, um–” what happened to the whole speech he had planned? Come on, Percy, you’re better than this, surely–

He takes a deep breath. “I wanted this Christmas to be special, y’know? It’s the first one we actually spend together, and I love how we managed to decorate our little apartment for the holidays. Um, our parents seem to also get along great, so that’s perfect too–” is he spiraling? Oh, he totally is. 

He opens the box, letting you see the ring — a simple gold band with an aquamarine stone, with two little diamonds on the sides. “So, um, I know you usually wear silver but– I just wanted you to have something a bit nicer for once, right? And I’m not telling you that I don’t like your silver jewelry, it’s just that gold has a different value, and I wanted to finally give you something that–” 

“Percy,” your voice is teary as you put your hand over his, and your eyes are too. “It’s perfect.” 

He blinks, “Okay,” he manages to blurt out. “So, what I wanted to say, I guess, is… that I love you. Like, a lot. And I’m not proposing — I think we both know that it’s way too early for that — but I just wanted to get you this. As a promise, if you will, that when we’re a little older and maybe our apartment’s a little bigger we’ll figure things out and properly spend the rest of our lives — long or short as they might be — together." The silence that follows kills him a little. “…Only if you want that, of course.”

The silence continues as you stare at the ring, “Please say something,” he blurts out. Has he just ruined a five-year relationship? His brain explores every possibility, every outcome — until he notices that you’re crying. “Hey,” he mumbles softly, his free hand going to your cheek, “I… was it me? Did I say something wrong? Do you not like the ring?”

You shake your head, tears streaming down your face, “I just,” you sob, “I just never thought we would’ve ever gotten to this point.”

What are you talking about? Do you not want to marry him one day? What about the kids he dreamed about? He's already got the whole name list for them planned–

You take off your — his — gloves and take the ringbox in your hands, staring at it. “I’m so happy, Percy.” your voice breaks a little, “Every day I thank the sky that you survived everything you had to go through, because I’m not sure of what I would do without you.” 

Ooh. You didn't think the both of you would have survived this long. Well, that's even sadder.

You hold out the box and your left hand for him, “Would you like to be the one to put it on?”

A bit emotional, he takes the ring and slips it onto your ringfinger, pressing a small kiss — more like, a lot of them — onto your lips and hand after. “You know, you’ve always been my dream come true,” he mumbles, your hands intertwining as the fireworks slowly come to an end. 

You beam up at him, “Am I?” you mumble, your cheeks still a bit wet, “Because the first time I saw you, I thought you would’ve been real handsome once you grew out of the awkward teen phase.”

His eyebrows shoot up to his forehead, “Really?”

Amused, you nod, “I put in a real investment here, can’t you see?” 

When you finally reach Times Square — your left hand finally holding his in his pocket — the crowd you find there is actually no surprise. And despite it all — despite the thousands of people there — you still manage to find your parents in all the chaos. 

Estelle is in your father’s arms, still a bit sleepy from her nap and no doubt wondering who is the nice man holding her (you’re not really sure she understood who he was when he introduced himself to her), while Paul and Sally — still looking very tipsy from the wine they had earlier — trail behind him, hand in hand. “There you are!” your father exclaims, the little girl perched on his hip suddenly springing into attention at the sight of you and her brother. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere! I knew you wouldn’t have missed the fireworks for anything in the world,” 

You smile, looking at Percy, “Yeah,” you agree, inching just a little closer to him. “For nothing in the world.” 

Somewhere in Olympus, your parents are fighting. 

“The ring was way too small!” Aphrodite yells, “She deserved better! A whole rock!”

“Oh, yeah? Then we’ll have to talk about how your daughter ruined everything by crying!” Poseidon, definitely no better than her, screams back. 

“Are they still fighting over that proposal?” Athena asks Hera, who’s sitting in the same place as two hours ago, listening intently to the fight. She nods solemnly, “As they should.”

The goddess of wisdom looks between the two screaming gods, grimacing, “Are they forgetting that Jackson got someone way out of his league, and that this is the first time an Aphrodite’s daughter is happy in a stable relationship? I don't understand mortal relationships, but this seems like a win-win situation to me.”

Hera gasps, “Don’t tell them that!” she hisses, “It’ll ruin all the fun!”

no one:

the other demigods at camp halfblood once they get a word of percy and reader's relationship:

(they're trying to curse him with negative energy)

[notzoeysblog]

me when tumblr refreshes while i’m reading so now the fic is lost forever

[eiriss-deactivated20260327]

𓍼❝Can i taste you?❞

05.12.25

masterlist | Percy Jackson masterlist

Summary: In which you use flavored lip balm and Percy is addicted. pairing: Percy Jackson x reader word count: 1.9k requests

The whole thing starts by accident.

You’re sitting on the edge of the pier at Camp Half-Blood, swinging your legs over the water, when Percy drops down beside you with that grin that always means trouble. His hair is damp from training, little black waves clinging to his forehead, eyes bright like he’s carrying the ocean in them. You smile and tease him about looking like he lost a battle with a sprinkler system—

But before you can finish the joke, Percy’s hand slides to the back of your head and he pulls you in.

Not for a cute kiss nor a soft greeting, but a full, heated, breath-stealing kiss that knocks every thought out of your skull.

His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been holding himself back for weeks, even though he kissed you yesterday night. His other hand finds your waist, fingers curling in your shirt, tugging you closer until you’re practically in his lap. You gasp into him, startled, and he uses the sound shamelessly— deepening the kiss like he was waiting for an opening.

“Percy—” you manage, breathless.

He cuts you off by kissing you again, slower this time but somehow hotter, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he’s trying to trace the taste into memory.

“You taste…” he murmurs, voice low, confused, almost wrecked, “different today.”

“Different bad?” you whisper, because your pulse is crazy.

“No.” He kisses you once. “Different good.”

Another kiss follows. “Really good.”

Your brain melts. You can barely breathe, barely think, barely remember where you are and he only stops because a camper walks by and nearly drops an entire bucket of nectar watching Percy devour you on the pier.

You shove Percy’s shoulder, flustered out of your mind. “What has gotten into you?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, still slightly dazed. “You just— you taste—” He kisses you again. Once. Then twice. “Good.”

He keeps going until you’re laughing helplessly because every time you pull away even half an inch, he chases your mouth like he physically can’t help it.

It’s not a one-off; Percy kisses you like that all day.

After training. In the middle of conversations. In between sentences. Over absolutely nothing!!

He walks you to the armory? Kiss. You pass him on the path? He spins you, dips you, kisses you. You sit down at a table? He leans across and steals one, then another, then a third because “I wasn’t done.”

And he’s confused the whole time! Furrowing his brows every time he pulls back like something about you is haunting him.

“You taste different,” he keeps muttering. “Why do you taste like that today?”

You don’t think anything of it. Maybe you had juice. Maybe he’s imagining things. You shrug it off, and go on with your day.

You don’t realize you’d put on your new lip balm that morning and Percy definitely doesn’t realize he’s just become addicted.

A week passes and just then you start noticing things.

You think about how Percy’s kisses become strangely strategic. He sneaks them in like he’s on a quest; quick ones on the way to the lake, slow ones when you’re sitting near the fire, stolen ones when you’re passing each other like he suddenly remembered something important.

At first you just thought he’s just in a weirdly affectionate mood. Not that you mind. If anything, his habit of cupping your jaw and brushing his thumb across your cheekbone before he kisses you is becoming alarmingly effective at turning your brain to soup!

But after a couple of days, it grows suspicious.

Like the way he shows up at your cabin door one morning, eyes bright, leaning in for a kiss before you’ve even gotten both shoes on.

Like how he kisses you once, pauses, frowns, and goes, “Huh.”

You blink, sleep still over your eyes. “What?”

“Something’s missing,” he mutters, leaning in again. “Wait. No. You’re missing it.”

“What are you talking about?” He doesn’t answer. He just kisses you again and again, gentle but baffled, like he’s trying to solve a riddle with his mouth.

It takes another two days before you realize.

You’re in front of the bathroom mirror, rummaging through your stuff when your fingers brush the small tin of lip balm—the one with the little pink label that says Strawberry Sky. It hits you suddenly and embarrassingly late: you wore it for the whole week Percy started acting weird.

You put it on again just to test your theory.

And you don’t even get halfway across camp before Percy finds you—no, let me correct, tracks you down—like a shark sensing blood in the water.

His hands find your waist instantly. His eyes widen. “Yes,” he breathes, like he’s been searching for the holy grail. “There it is. I knew it.”

“You knew what?” you ask, though your stomach is already flipping.

“This,” he says, kissing you so enthusiastically you actually stumble. “Whatever you did, do it again every day forever.”

You snort. “Percy, it’s just lip balm.” You see him freeze mid-kiss.

“…It’s what?”

“Lip balm,” you repeat, holding up the tin. “You’ve been obsessed with my ChapStick.”

He stares like you just revealed the secrets of the universe. “Are you serious? I thought— I don’t know what I thought. I just knew you tasted really, really—” He kisses you again. “—really good.” He's in no time pressing his forehead to yours, smiling helplessly.

“Okay. Don’t laugh at me. But can you keep using it?”

You don’t laugh. Mostly because the way he’s looking at you is so earnest and boyish and stupidly adorable that your heart melts a little.

“Maybe,” you say coyly, pocketing the tin. “If you behave.”

He does not behave, like not even a little.

Over the next few weeks, you start experimenting, of course. At first because you’re curious, then because Percy’s reactions are becoming your new favorite form of entertainment.

You try mint next. You figure maybe he’ll like the cooling effect, something sharp and refreshing!

Oh, but he does not.

He kisses you, immediately pulls back, wrinkles his nose, and goes, “Why is your mouth cold?”

“It’s mint.”

“It feels like kissing a snow cone.”

“You love snow cones.”

“Not like this.” He frowns, kisses you again anyway because apparently even disappointing flavor kisses are still Percy’s favorite activity— then mutters, “Bring back the good one.”

Next you try coconut, thinking maybe something beachy will hit.

And it does!! Too well.

Percy kisses you and stops breathing for a moment, eyes softening, his shoulders relaxing in a way you only see when he gets you near the ocean.

“You taste like…” He kisses you again slowly, reverently. “home.” And that one hits you in the chest.

He becomes clingier with coconut— wrapping an arm around your waist, idly tucking you under his chin, sneaking seaside-soft kisses against your hairline. It’s sweet and comforting.

You save that one for days you want to be held for a long time.

But there’s something else you notice after 10 different lip balms.

Flavors Percy liked the most?They’re always the blue ones. Blueberry Burst makes him kiss you like he’s starving.

Blue Raspberry Tide makes him smile between kisses like he’s absolutely smitten. Like he’s dizzy on you.

Blue Splash makes him bury his face in your neck and whisper, “You can’t just walk around like that. It’s dangerous.”

And then there’s Ocean Berry— some ridiculous mix you find in a seaside gift shop when you’re off camp for the day. It smells faintly sweet, faintly fruity, faintly something you can’t name.

The first time you wear it, Percy doesn’t even make it a full sentence before kissing you.

“Hey, did you see Annab—” He stops. Sniffs the air. Stares at your mouth like it owes him money. “What is that?”

“Ocean Berry,” you say, pretending nonchalance. “Just trying something new.” He's kissing you in record time even for him and then he pulls back looking like he's about to fuck you right there.

Then he kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding to the back of your head like he’s gone completely boneless.

“Okay,” he whispers, breathless. “That one. That one forever. Don’t change it. Don’t ever—”

“It’s limited edition.” His soul visibly leaves his body and he's pulling you to his cabin for the night, he totally forgot he was meant to give Annabeth maps to plan the strategy for Capture the flag game.

Surprisingly, and without wanting to know how much money he has spent, he buys you 15 more.

Ocean Berry breaks something in him, really. It's that serious.

For the rest of the month, Percy acts like he’s under a spell he doesn’t even try to hide it. Every time you walk by, his eyes flick down to your mouth like he’s magnetized. He keeps losing track of conversations halfway through because he gets distracted by the way you wet your lips. At one point, he bumps into a tree.

A tree.

And for the fun of the game you don’t switch flavors again for a while. Also because Percy won’t let you leave his arms long enough to go dig through your bag.

He’s got one hand braced beside your head against the cabin wall, the other sliding around your waist. His breaths are uneven, warm against your mouth. He looks a little wrecked, a little dazed, as if he just got a sex-session.

“You can’t just taste like that,” he says quietly, like it’s a problem he’s genuinely thinking too much of.

You laugh under your breath. “I didn’t know it was going to—” He cuts you off with another kiss, softer this time, lingering. You feel the way he exhales into it, the way his shoulders drop like the world finally stopped spinning for him.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t step away. He just rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, trying to steady his breath.

“You know what’s weird?” he murmurs. “It’s not even the flavor. Not really.”

Your fingers toy with the edge of his shirt. “Then what is it?”

“I think,” He huffs a breath, half-laughing at himself. “I think I like having excuses to kiss you. And the flavors just took off the brakes I didn’t realize I had on.”

Slowly, you slide your hands into his hair. “You should know you don’t need excuses.” His eyes open—sea-green, clear, startled like he wasn’t expecting that and then he smiles.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I’m starting to figure that out.”

He kisses you again, slower, deeper, without so much urgency. This one has weight. Intention. Awareness. Like he’s choosing the moment instead of chasing it. When he pulls back, he steals the lip balm tin right out of your pocket.

You blink. “Hey—”

He tucks it behind him where you can’t reach. “No changing the flavor yet.”

“Why not?”

“I’m still trying to get used to this one.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “And I don’t want to miss anything.”

Your face warms. “Percy—”

“Later,” he whispers, leaning in again. “You can surprise me later.”

Perhaps it's not so bad not to change flavors when the boy is so desperate and needy. He leaves a kiss on your cheek, then another on your neck, and when his hands grab your pants and start pulling them down, you know where this is going.

“Now I want to taste other lips.”

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

the one with the runaway bride

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Reader

Word Count: 12.1k (damn)

Summary: Sometimes running away from a wedding leads you exactly where you're meant to be — preferably into the arms of a much better guy.

A/N: These fics just keep getting longer and longer. again lowkey kinda hate this and i feel like i made theo heavily ooc but it is what it is ig

Theo hated churches.

He wasn’t particularly religious—never cared much for the belief in some higher power watching over them all. After all, if someone like that did exist, his mother—a devout, gentle woman—wouldn’t have been ripped from the earth so soon. It should’ve been his father, not her. At least, that’s what he’d thought as a boy.

Still, despite his aversion to anything even remotely sacred, he found himself sitting alone in the pews of a quiet chapel. The sun streamed through stained glass, washing the room in warm, fractured color. He didn’t believe in prayer, but he came here anyway. This had been his mother’s favorite place before she died, and somehow, being here made him feel closer to her—like she might hear him, if only faintly.

“Mamma,” He murmured, voice low, “sometimes I truly wonder what my future was meant to look like.”

The war was over, but the silence it left behind was deafening. He spent a lot of time now, wondering about his place in the world. He and the rest of his mates—Berkshire, Riddle, Malfoy, and Zabini—had played a crucial role, working as double agents under Dumbledore’s orders. But because their involvement had remained classified, carefully buried under the Ministry’s politics, they were still seen as Slytherins first. As former sympathizers. As a threat. Pariahs.

It stung. He had done the right thing, when it mattered most. And yet, he wondered if this cold reception was all he’d ever receive.

A few years ago, he hadn't even expected to live this long. His younger self had been certain he’d never survive the war—that he’d be killed for his betrayal of Voldemort and reunited with his mother much sooner than expected. But he had survived. And now, once again, he was adrift.

That’s why he came back here—hoping for clarity, for a sign. But as always, the silence answered him back.

He sighed softly, rising to his feet and tucking his hands into his coat pockets, ready to leave. His shoes echoed against the marble floor as he turned toward the exit.

But before he could cross the threshold, the chapel doors burst open with a loud bang.

Theo blinked.

A vision in white stumbled inside.

Satin, lace, curls escaping from a veil. Breathless. Flushed. A wild gleam in her eye.

His heart paused mid-beat as he recognized the chaos incarnate now standing in the aisle, clutching the skirt of her wedding dress like she’d just escaped a dragon, veil askew, bouquet long gone, and cheeks flushed pink like she’d run from hell itself.

His mouth opened before he could stop it.

“(L/N)?” The name left his mouth before he could stop it, soft and shocked and just a little bit disbelieving.

You looked up, startled — like you hadn’t expected to see another soul inside — and your eyes widened in delight.

“Theodore Nott!” You beamed, chest still rising and falling in heavy breaths, curls frizzing at the edges, voice giddy and strange, “Fancy seeing you here! Gosh, I haven't seen you since Hogwarts! How are you? And the others—Riddle, Berkshire, and the lot? All good, I hope.”

Theo stared at you in complete bewilderment as you keeled over to catch your breath, tugging off your veil and fanning yourself with it like some kind of deranged society lady.

“Merlin’s sweaty balls,” You gasped, dramatic as ever, “It’s impossible to breathe in this damn corset.”

“They’re good,” Theo said slowly, brow furrowed, “I’m sorry, are you in a wedding dress?”

You nodded, breathless, laughing like the question itself was hilarious, “Unfortunately, yes. Bit of a pity I didn’t realize I didn’t want to marry the sorry bloke thirty minutes ago. Would’ve made my escape a lot easier if I wasn’t drowning in fifty pounds of satin.”

He blinked at you, still speechless, hands deep in his coat pockets.

“I mean—” You barreled on, eyes wide and shining, “there I was, standing at the altar, looking at my so-called fiancé, and it just hit me: I cannot wake up to his sorry mug for the rest of my life. To hell with my parents. And society. I don’t want to be a Bulstrode. That name sounds like the arse-end of a toad, don’t you think?”

You paused, eyes narrowing playfully, “(Y/N) (L/N) sounds so much nicer, doesn’t it?”

Theo arched an unimpressed brow, “You know you can get married without changing your last name, right?”

At that, you absolutely lost it—doubling over in wheezing laughter, slapping your knee like he’d just told the funniest joke in history.

“You always were such a crack-up, Theodore!” You gasped between giggles, “Where are my manners? What brings you here today? Certainly not for the wedding, I hope—because, well—” You gestured at yourself, still panting in the middle of the cathedral, “you can probably tell that’s not happening.”

Before Theodore could get a word in, the sound of heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway. Your eyes went comically wide as you pressed yourself flat against the stone wall, wedged just behind the chapel door as it swung open with a bang.

In marched your father—red-faced, sweaty, and breathing like a charging Hippogriff. His eyes locked onto Theodore like he was a bloodhound catching a scent.

“Have you seen a girl in a wedding dress?” He barked.

Theo quirked a brow, gaze sliding—slowly, deliberately—to the right, where you were doing your best impression of a human statue. From where he stood, he could see you mouthing frantic no’s, shaking your head so violently he was almost certain you’d give yourself whiplash. Your hands were flying in wild, desperate gestures, pleading silently.

He turned back to your father, the picture of calm.

“No, sir.”

Your father squinted, suspicious—but apparently not enough to question it. “Well, if you do,” He huffed, already half-turning, “you tell her to march her sorry behind back into that hall and marry the boy, or she’ll be sorry.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

You clutched your chest like you’d just survived a curse, eyes squeezed shut as you slid bonelessly to the floor in your crumpled wedding dress.

“That,” You breathed, “was nerve-wracking.”

You peeked up at him with a grateful look, “You’re a good liar, Nott. Thank you.”

Theo looked down at the breathless, sweaty heap you’d become, still sprawled on the stone floor like a very distressed meringue. With an amused smirk, he cleared his throat, “Well… good luck with everything, (L/N). Let me know if you actually go through with becoming a Bulstrode. I’ll send a wedding gift.”

You gaped up at him in horror as he began to sidestep the tangled mass of satin and lace that was your gown, clearly preparing to leave the chapel and abandon you to your doom. Without thinking, you grabbed his calf—your perfectly manicured nails digging into his trousers, the massive engagement ring catching the light like a cursed artifact.

“What?! You can’t go now! You have to get me out of here!”

Theo arched a skeptical brow, “And why, exactly, would I do that?”

You pointed at him in outrage, still clutching his leg like a deranged bride octopus, “You just lied to my father! That makes you an accomplice. A—A conspirator! You're already implicated!”

Theo looked thoroughly unimpressed, “I could just tell him you were hiding behind the door like a terrified possum.”

You gasped, “You wouldn’t.”

He tilted his head, “Try me.”

Panic glittered in your eyes before you straightened your spine and went full Slytherin, “Fine. You want to play that game? I’ll tell everyone you’re my secret paramour. That you seduced me, took my virtue in the belfry, and that’s why I fled the altar.”

Theo’s mouth dropped open, scandalized, “I beg your pardon?”

You clasped your hands together, expression softening into exaggerated, pleading sweetness, “Please, Theodore. I’m not asking for your soul. Just… apparate me out of here. One quick jump and I’ll be out of your life forever.”

He stared at you. Then sighed.

“Merlin help me,” He muttered, “You’re even more unhinged than I remember.”

“So that’s a yes?”

He offered you a hand, “Only if you swear not to mention the word ‘virtue’ ever again.”

You grinned, already taking his hand, “Deal, my paramour.”

He groaned. Loudly.

Theo stepped closer, one hand sliding around your waist, tugging you flush against him. You blinked up at him, stunned into silence by the proximity. Up close, you finally understood why half the girls in your year had harbored crushes on him. He had that kind of face—the infuriatingly beautiful kind that made your stomach swoop before your brain could catch up.

Then—with a sharp crack—the world twisted out from under your feet.

You landed hard against him, fingers fisting the lapels of his jacket like your life depended on it. Which, to be fair, it had.

Warm sunlight spilled over your face, the bustling sounds of the street around you cutting through the fading disorientation. You blinked. Then smiled.

You were free.

Theo watched you quietly as your eyes danced over every detail—the streetlamp, the baker’s cart, a child chasing a butterfly. Everything ordinary now seemed extraordinary through your gaze. You looked like someone seeing the world for the first time.

“Are you good, (L/N)?” He asked, low and cautious.

You didn’t take your eyes off the street. “A new world’s waiting for me,” You said softly, “It’s… terrifying.”

He didn’t say anything, but his grip around your waist didn’t loosen.

You stood there, trembling fingers still tangled in the fabric of his coat, heart pounding like it was trying to sprint back to the cathedral.

Theodore’s sharp gaze softened as he took in your messy lipstick, sweat-dampened curls, and the way you clung to him like the world had just tipped sideways. You looked like a woman on the edge of disaster—or greatness. Maybe both.

"Where were you planning to go?" He asked quietly.

You blinked up at him, dumbly, your glassy eyes beginning to sting as the reality of what you’d just done crashed over you like cold water.

Oh Merlin.

What had you done?

You didn’t have a house. You didn’t have a job. You didn’t have money of your own. Your entire life had been orchestrated by your father—who’d been all too eager to sell you off to your so-called fiancé—and you’d just thrown a wrench in his perfect little plan.

"I... I hadn’t thought that far." You admitted, voice barely a whisper as your bottom lip began to tremble.

Theo sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, “Bloody hell.”

You started to stammer, trying to save face, “Look—I’ll figure it out. I just needed to get away. You don’t have to—”

“Don’t be dense,” He muttered, “Come on.”

You furrowed your brows, confused, “Come on where?”

“My home,” He said bluntly, “You’re clearly overwhelmed, and you need to breathe somewhere that isn’t a chapel or the middle of a bloody street. You can crash in the guest room. I’ll pour a cup of tea. Or Firewhisky, if you’re feeling rebellious.”

You stared at him, stunned silent, “You’d really do that for me?”

In all honesty, Theodore had no idea why he was doing this for you.

Maybe it was the way your eyes looked—raw and frightened—that struck something in him. He remembered that look. Back when his mother died. Back when he was stuck between two worlds, pretending to be loyal to the Death Eaters while secretly fighting for the other side. When the war ended, and he had no bloody idea who he was without it.

He knew helplessness like an old friend. And though he’d never admit it aloud, he also knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight if he walked away now—knowing you were out there, wandering the streets in a bloody wedding dress or dragged back to marry someone you didn’t love.

“Yeah,” He said finally, “I would.”

You exhaled shakily, blinking back tears, “Okay.”

“Okay.” He echoed.

He held your arm carefully—like you were a glass about to crack—and apparated you both away.

By the time your feet touched down again, you were standing in a warmly lit corridor outside a tall, modern-looking door. Theodore slid a key out of his coat pocket and unlocked it with a click.

“My flat.” He said simply, stepping aside to let you in.

You blinked, glancing around as you followed him, “Wait. Don’t you have a whole family manor somewhere?”

He raised a brow as he tossed his coat onto a sleek brass hook, “Not fancy enough for you, darling? Would you rather go to the five-star resort your family booked for your honeymoon instead?”

You gaped, then closed your mouth, then opened it again—only to come up short, “Touché.”

He chuckled, pushing open the door, “I live in a flat because the manor’s too bloody big for just me. I might move back in when I’m older, but right now? No one needs twenty-three bedrooms unless they’re running a boarding school.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping inside after him, “Just say you’re rich and move on,” you muttered.

You were mid-sigh when your eyes took in the space—and almost instantly, the tension in your shoulders loosened. His flat wasn’t enormous, but it was stunning. Dark hardwood floors, rich emerald and charcoal accents, and floor-to-ceiling windows framed the London skyline like a painting. The air smelled faintly of pine, leather, and something warm—like spice and magic.

Books lined custom-built shelves along one wall, and a record player quietly spun something soft and jazzy in the corner. A massive velvet sofa sat in the center of the open-plan living area, flanked by brass sconces and a few well-kept plants.

Theo disappeared into a side room, leaving you standing awkwardly in your crumpled wedding dress in the middle of his living room. When he returned, he had a folded stack of clothes in his hands.

“I grabbed whatever looked closest to your size,” He said, handing them over with a half-shrug, “Might still be a bit big—but it’s cozy, at least.”

You unfolded the hoodie and held it up. It fell nearly to your knees.

“You’re joking.”

“Or you could stay in your wedding dress. Very sexy.”

You let out a laugh, “You got me again.”

You eyed the clothes, then glanced back up at him, “You sure none of your… lady friends left something behind? Something a bit more...appropriate?”

Theo smirked, unfazed, “I don’t keep a lost and found bin, sweetheart. But nice try.”

You grinned despite yourself, clutching the clothes to your chest.

“Go on,” He added, gesturing toward the hallway, “First door on the right—bathroom’s there. Take your time. Come out when you’re ready. I’ll sort dinner.”

“You cook?”

He looked at you, mock-offended, “I’m Italian.”

“That’s not a yes.”

Theo placed a hand over his heart, feigning injury, “Wow. So little faith.”

You laughed—a real one this time—as you padded off toward the bathroom, the ridiculous rustle of your wedding dress trailing behind you. Hoodie and sweats in hand, feet aching, heart still thudding from everything you’d run from.

But somehow, in the warmth of this space, with the sound of jazz humming in the background and Theo cooking up dinner—you started to feel something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Safe.

Maybe, just maybe… you were going to be okay.

When you finally emerged from the bathroom, the last remnants of your old life had gone swirling down the drain—hairspray, waterproof mascara, and everything else that once held you together. You felt… lighter. Your skin was clean, your hair damp, and the oversized hoodie you wore—Theo’s—smelled faintly of cedar and citrus. It hung down to your thighs like a dress, and the joggers were barely hanging onto your waist.

The scent hit you first—garlic, tomatoes, fresh herbs—and your stomach let out a traitorous growl.

Theo looked up from the stove, giving you a once-over before turning back to stir the pot. “Look at you,” He said with a lopsided smirk, “Didn’t think my clothes would suit you that well.”

You gave him a smirk and did a twirl to show off the outfit—just in time for the joggers to fall right to your ankles. You both burst into laughter.

“The elastic’s useless and the drawstring’s just for decoration.” You said, tossing the offending trousers over the back of a chair.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I charmed the pants off a woman.” Theo replied smoothly.

You snorted, shaking your head.

He slid a bowl across the island toward you—tagliatelle with a thick, rich Bolognese sauce, steam curling up like it had its own mind.

You took one bite, and your eyes fluttered shut. “Oh my god,” You groaned, “This is… this is unreal.”

He gave a small shrug, “I told you.”

You were already shoveling in another forkful, “I haven’t eaten something that didn’t taste like sadness in months.”

Theo leaned against the counter, watching with amusement, “Easy, love. You keep going at that pace, you’ll make those giant joggers fit.”

You swallowed and let out a dramatic sigh, “Wedding diet. I’ve been living off steamed vegetables and heartbreak.”

He laughed, deep and full, “Well, lucky you. There’s more where that came from. And gelato in the freezer.”

Your head snapped up, “You’re kidding.”

“‘Chi mangia bene, vive bene,’” He said with a smirk, “‘Those who eat well, live well.’ My mamma drilled that into me.”

You blinked, then smiled, “Incredibly smart woman.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, your smile didn’t feel like something you had to fake or force. You sat there, in someone else’s hoodie, with sauce on your cheek and your hair still damp, in a flat that smelled like warmth and comfort and garlic.

Theo reached across the table, brushing his thumb gently against the corner of your mouth, “You’ve got a bit of sauce—right there.”

You blinked, startled by the tenderness of the gesture. His hand lingered a second longer than necessary before he pulled back.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go home?” He asked, quieter now.

You gave him a half-smile, soft but guarded, “Sick of me already?”

His lips quirked, but his eyes stayed serious, “I just mean… are you sure you won’t regret this? People get cold feet. Panic at the altar. Happens all the time, or so I hear. And the longer you stay here—the more real this gets—the harder it’ll be to undo without fallout.”

You sat still for a moment, then set your fork down, appetite forgotten.

“It wasn’t cold feet,” You said, voice low, “I never wanted to get married.”

Theo didn’t interrupt. He just waited.

“My father did. Desperately. He’s been obsessed with bloodlines and alliances since before I could walk. Marrying into the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Like that still means anything in this world.” You let out a bitter laugh, “Somehow that old bastard managed to squirm his way out of Azkaban after the war. And now he’s back to doing what he does best—peddling blood purity and ruining my life.”

Theo’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing.

“I spent months shoving my feelings down, just trying to be the daughter he wanted. The obedient one. Because what choice did I have?” Your fingers curled around the fabric of his hoodie, “But when I was standing there—at the altar, staring down a future I didn’t choose—I realized something. Maybe I didn’t have choices before. But I could make one now.”

Silence stretched between you for a beat.

Then, softly, Theo said, “That was brave.”

You let out a watery laugh, swiping your sleeve beneath your eyes, “Please. Not like you, playing double agent for Dumbledore. Now that was brave.”

He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “That was reckless.”

“It was noble. Valiant,” You said, voice steadier now, “Really, the kind of madness only a true Slytherin could be ambitious enough to pull off.”

Theo arched a brow, “Flattery? From you?”

You gave him a crooked grin, “Don’t get used to it. Mine was just… selfish. Desperate.”

He looked at you, the warmth in his gaze soft but unwavering, “It’s good to be selfish sometimes.”

You held his gaze, breath catching slightly when his eyes didn’t waver. There was something weighty in the silence—something soft and unspoken stretching between you, tugging gently at the space that separated your bodies.

Theo’s fingers drummed once against the tabletop, then stilled. Neither of you moved.

Your pulse thrummed in your ears. He looked at you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your face, and for a second, just one second, you let yourself wonder what it would feel like to close the distance.

Then you blinked, cleared your throat, and reached for his plate. “Well. Since you think it’s good to be selfish,” You said, trying to sound casual, “I’m gonna eat the rest of your pasta.”

Theo let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh—or a sigh. Maybe both, “Oi—at least leave room for dessert.”

***

Loud, boisterous laughter was the first thing that dragged Theo out of a half-dream. He groaned, arm flinging over his eyes as the unmistakable sound of his front door swinging open—without ceremony—hit him like a freight train.

“What the—who the hell is making all that noise?” He muttered, voice hoarse as he blinked toward the ceiling.

The culprits were, predictably, already raiding his kitchen like starved hyenas: Draco, Lorenzo, Mattheo, and Blaise, helping themselves to his fresh bread and the groceries he’d actually gone out and picked himself—because unlike those degenerates, he cared about food quality.

He should’ve never given them spare keys.

“For emergencies,” He’d said. “Only if it’s important,” He’d said.

Idiotic. Clearly, their definition of ‘emergency’ included hungover brunches and unsolicited early morning gossip.

“Morning, sunshine,” Draco drawled with an infuriating smirk, already sprawled across Theo’s sofa, eating the hand-picked strawberries Theo had searched three markets to find, “You’re just in time for the morning news”

Theo groaned louder and face-planted into the cushions, “Could you shut up? Some of us are trying to sleep in our own damn flat.”

“Oh, come on,” Blaise said, smirking as he rifled through Theo’s cabinets, “You must’ve heard by now. (L/N). You remember her—Pansy's roommate. She left Bulstrode at the altar. Just ran right out.”

Lorenzo let out a low whistle, “Left Bulstrode standing there like an absolute mug. At the altar, mate. In front of everyone. Just turned and walked straight out mid-vows. I mean—iconic.”

Mattheo, chewing thoughtfully on a stolen slice of sourdough, shrugged, “Serves him right. No way Bulstrode was ever gonna bag a babe like (L/N). He’s got the charm of a wet napkin.”

“And get this,” Blaise said, lowering his voice into a tone of mock-conspiracy, eyes glinting, “Rumor is—she had a lover on the side. Secret romance, hidden rendezvous, the whole nine yards. Some bloke she’s apparently been in love with for ages. No one knows who, though.”

Theo, face still hidden by the couch cushions, flinched.

Blaise squinted at him, “You look... twitchy. Something you wanna share with the group?”

Before Theo could invent an excuse, a sound cut through the room—soft footsteps padding across the floorboards.

The guest bedroom door creaked open.

You stepped out, bleary-eyed, rubbing your face with the sleeve of Theo’s oversized hoodie—his hoodie that hung off your frame like it had been stitched for you. Your hair was tousled from sleep, legs bare, the joggers you’d worn the night before still draped over a chair in the corner, clearly forgotten.

Theo’s eyes flicked up to you for a moment—heart skipping a beat at the sight of your flushed cheeks and mussed hair—but he quickly masked the softness with a cool, unreadable glance.

Every sound in the room died on cue.

You blinked at the kitchen full of frozen Slytherins and offered a sheepish smile, “Um… morning?”

The silence that followed was nothing short of reverent.

Mattheo dropped his toast. Lorenzo’s jaw unhinged. Draco choked on a strawberry. Blaise turned—slowly, dramatically—to Theo with the grin of a man who had just unearthed a scandal.

And then—chaos.

“No bloody way,” Blaise said, pointing an accusatory finger, “You?! You’re the lover?!”

“No, no,” Theo said immediately, sitting up straighter, “She’s not—I mean, it’s not— It’s not like that.”

You nodded, “It’s really not what it looks like.”

“She’s not—” Theo added, standing abruptly.

“We’re not—” You said at the same time.

“Dating.” You both finished in unison.

The pause that followed was only broken by Blaise’s slow, disbelieving laugh, “You two seriously rehearsed that or something?”

Mattheo’s gaze flicked from you, to the hoodie, to Theo’s bedhead and thoroughly disheveled state, “You sly, secretive little bastard.”

“You’re blushing,” Lorenzo cackled, pointing at Theo.

“I’m not blushing.”

“You’re so red your freckles are blending in.”

“You lot need to leave,” Theo growled, yanking the mug out of Draco’s hand.

“Oh, we’ll leave,” Mattheo said, standing with an exaggerated sigh, “Just as soon as we finish processing the greatest plot twist since Dumbledore kicked it.”

“I don’t know,” Lorenzo mused, “This might top it. Runaway bride finds solace in former classmate’s bed—”

“Spare room!” You and Theo barked at once.

“Oh right,” Blaise said, lazily gesturing to you, “Because that totally explains the no-pants situation.”

You threw up your hands, “He doesn’t have any trousers that fit me!”

Mattheo let out a low whistle, “Stars above, I wish I had popcorn.”

Theo’s jaw clenched, “She needed a place to stay. I offered. That’s it.”

“And I accepted. Platonically.” You stressed.

“And Theodore isn’t some adulterous whore,” You added with a sigh, “He’s just an unfortunate bloke with terrible timing who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The way your voice softened at the end made something twist in Theo’s chest.

“Well, you did good,” Lorenzo said, grabbing another slice of bread, “Bulstrode’s an ugly git anyway.”

You shared a glance with Theo who gave you a soft, barely there smile that was meant to reassure you in a way that conveyed, 'See? What you did wasn't so bad.'

“So what’s the plan now?” Blaise asked, eyeing the two of you over his coffee, “You two just gonna keep playing house?”

“Oi, ease up,” Theo said, casting him a warning look, “Don’t overwhelm her.”

He glanced at you briefly, then added, “We talked last night.”

“Ooo, pillow talk.” Mattheo smirked—earning himself a slap to the back of the head.

Theo rolled his eyes, “We were talking, and I offered to let her stay here. As long as she needs.”

You caught Theo’s eye and saw a softness there that only came out when he looked at you. In that moment, the chaos of friends and gossip faded away, leaving just the quiet promise of safety and belonging between you two.

***

You sat cross-legged on the floor, the open suitcase in front of you spilling out clothes, books, and a few small trinkets you’d brought from your old life. The boxes stacked neatly nearby were still untouched—silent reminders that this was real, that you were here now.

Getting your things back from your home had been easier than expected. You’d slipped in while your father was at work, your heart racing as you moved quietly through the familiar halls. The moment your hand wrapped around your wand—left behind for safekeeping during the wedding—it felt like you could finally breathe again. You packed up your life swiftly, shrinking and sending each box to Theo’s flat before you could second-guess yourself.

“It feels weird seeing all my stuff here.” You murmured, running your fingers over your old Slytherin scarf. A soft smile tugged at your lips as memories from Hogsmeade weekends and late-night gossip sessions filled your head. Back in school, your dormmates used to call dibs on the boys in your year—Pansy obviously claimed Draco, Daphne was hell-bent on Mattheo (she had a thing for bad boys, she used to say). The others squabbled over Blaise and Lorenzo, leaving you with Theo by default. You’d taken it in stride, because Merlin forbid you end up with Crabbe or Goyle. If only sixth-year you knew you’d one day be living with Theo Nott after bolting from your own wedding.

“Like this is really happening.” You said softly.

Theo leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching you with a look you couldn’t quite place. You let your eyes rake over him—how he somehow made jeans and a simple black long-sleeved tee look sinfully good without even trying.

“Don’t you want to unpack?” He asked after a moment, voice casual, “Make it feel a bit more like yours?”

You shook your head, teeth tugging at your lower lip, “I don’t want to get too comfortable. I need to move out soon, find my own place. Can’t just settle in someone else’s flat.”

Your eyes drifted to the empty dresser and the bare walls, imagining them filled with your perfume bottles, your shoes lined up in the closet, your keepsakes resting in quiet corners of the room. It felt… indulgent. And dangerous.

Theo pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room with that quiet confidence that always made your stomach flip. He crouched beside you, fingers brushing yours as he gently pulled the scarf from your hands.

“Don’t be so pressured,” He said softly, “Take your time.”

Your breath caught at the tenderness in his voice, so at odds with the sarcasm he usually deflected with. His gaze held yours—warm, steady, unflinching.

“What kind of fake adulterous whore would I be,” he added, smirking just a little, “if I didn’t give you a comfortable place to stay while you figure things out?”

You let out a shaky laugh, swatting his arm as your cheeks flushed. The warmth in his eyes made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear. It felt... safe. For the first time in a long time.

He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering just a second too long. Your breath hitched. Your heart thudded. And before you could stop yourself, your gaze flicked to his mouth.

The moment hung there—suspended and fragile—until it broke like glass.

Theo cleared his throat and pulled back. You dropped your gaze and fanned your burning cheeks, pretending not to notice the way your entire body buzzed with unspoken tension.

He stood, casting a quick glance around the room before his eyes landed on a box labeled “Bathroom.” With a quiet smile, he bent to pick it up.

“I’ll go put this over there.” He said, voice gentler now even though you both were well aware he could've used his magic to charm the objects in its place.

You watched him go, heart fluttering wildly in your chest, feeling strangely steady for the first time in days.

Strangely at home.

***

Watching Theo get ready for work every morning had become your newest, most humbling routine. In the quiet hours before he left—hair perfectly styled, cufflinks glinting faintly in the sunlight—you were struck with the growing realization that your life was a blank page. And not in the hopeful, inspiring way. No, it felt like staring at an overdue assignment you had no idea how to finish.

When he was home, everything felt a little easier—light conversation over breakfast, quiet companionship in the evenings, his effortless presence filling the flat with a calm you hadn’t realized you craved. But once he was out the door, you were left with hours that stretched out like an endless, silent ache. And with that ache came the inevitable realization: you weren’t here to play house with Theodore Nott. You needed to get your life in order.

Which was why, this morning, you were dressed. Not just dressed—put together. A soft, Chanel-inspired ensemble hugged your form, elegant and mature, polished right down to the glossy sheen of your lips.

Across the table, Theo sat in his usual tailored suit and tie, sipping his coffee while reading the newspaper.

He was a dream roommate—unbothered, polite, attentive without being invasive. He cooked most mornings and evenings, and you handled lunch and dishes out of principle more than anything else. And yet, no matter how well you split the duties, you still felt like a freeloader in silk pajamas. He never asked you to contribute, never brought up rent or groceries or anything at all.

Which, ironically, only made the guilt settle heavier in your chest.

It was unbearable. So this newfound spark of motivation—this desire to prove you could stand on your own two feet again—burned fast and hot.

He was fixing his watch by the mirror beside the door, running gelled fingers through his hair, smoothing it back with that practiced grace. You stepped over, holding his coat in one hand and yours in the other, and offered it to him with a quiet, “Here.”

He murmured a small thanks as he slipped into it, but you didn’t step back.

Instead, you reached up to adjust his tie, fingers deft as you corrected the slight tilt in the knot. “I know you’re just going to mess it up the second you get to the office,” you said, smiling softly, “but it’s driving me crazy.”

You smoothed the tie down gently, fingertips brushing the lapels of his coat. When your eyes lifted, you caught him staring—not at your eyes, but your lips, still slick with gloss from your post-breakfast touch-up, and suddenly it felt like a mistake to stand this close, in this kind of silence, with him looking at you like that.

You met his gaze. Your heart stuttered.

Was he leaning in?

Or were you imagining it—some cruel trick your body played when it got too used to his scent, his proximity, the low hum of affection that vibrated just beneath the surface?

Before you could answer, he inhaled sharply and stepped back, the moment snapping like a taut string.

“Busy day today?” He asked, voice neutral, composed.

You cleared your throat, recovering quickly.

“Yeah,” You said, grabbing your purse and your coat, avoiding his eyes, “I’m visiting Slughorn at Hogwarts. I was always good at potions, and he used to favor me—mostly because I always showed up to those ridiculous Slug Club meetings.” You gave a faint chuckle.

“I heard he’s still teaching and struggling to keep up with his personal research. I was kind of his unofficial assistant in seventh year, so… I’m hoping he’ll consider taking me on. As an apprentice or something.”

You kept your tone light, casual, even though your pulse thudded in your throat. You avoided his eyes as you adjusted the strap of your purse.

Theo held the door open for you, and your heart flipped in your chest like it always did when he did things like that without thinking—like it was natural. Like you belonged here.

“Good luck, (Y/N).” He said simply, his voice low but earnest.

You turned your head slightly, offering him a small smile. The way he was looking at you made your steps falter for just a second.

“Thank you.” You said, voice barely above a whisper.

And then you walked on, heels clicking softly on the marble floor, heart fluttering like mad against your ribs.

***

You practically skipped down the stone steps of Hogwarts, the weight of your nervous anticipation completely lifted from your shoulders. The crisp air smelled of old parchment and damp moss, and for once, you didn’t mind. Your cheeks were flushed, your hands clutching the letter Slughorn had scrawled in excitement after your meeting: an official offer to join him as his private research assistant, with the intent of training you to become a certified Potions Master.

Your heart was hammering by the time you reached Theo’s flat, and you didn’t even knock—just flung the door open and stepped inside, calling his name like a storm announcing itself.

“Theo!”

He appeared from the hallway, towel slung over his shoulder, clearly mid-way through drying his hair, shirt sleeves rolled up, “What? Are you okay?”

You beamed so brightly you could’ve lit the whole room with just the force of it, “I got it—I got the position! I’m going to train with Slughorn! He’s taking me on!”

For a second, Theo just blinked at you, frozen in place. Then your words seemed to register fully and he opened his mouth to say something—but before he could, you launched yourself at him.

Your arms flung around his neck, and he caught you with a startled grunt, stumbling back half a step before wrapping his arms tightly around your waist, instinctively keeping you upright. You laughed, giddy and breathless against his shoulder, your legs kicking slightly off the ground.

“I knew you would.” He said against your temple, voice low and warm and slightly amused, though the hug he gave you was grounding, solid, and real.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes bright, “I’m going to be a Potions Master.”

Theo’s hands stayed on your waist, his lips twitching into a rare, open smile, “You’re going to be brilliant.”

You didn’t know what possessed you then—maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the way he was still holding you like you were something precious—but you leaned in without thinking and pressed a kiss to his cheek, quick and full of warmth.

Theo blinked, stunned.

You blinked, too, realizing what you just did.

He slowly set you down on your feet, clearing his throat, but the faintest shade of pink had crept up his neck.

"Thank you, Theo." You whispered, looking up at him like he hung the moon in the sky, "For everything."

***

You were halfway through folding the laundry while Theo showered when the door flew open with no warning, the sharp click of heels on hardwood echoing like the cue for a dramatic entrance.

“Surprise, darling!” Pansy announced grandly, stepping into the apartment with a flourish, a pastry box in one hand and designer sunglasses in the other, “I brought macarons from that place you liked in Paris—Theo, you better be decent!”

She strutted into the living room expecting to find her best friend brooding over black coffee, muttering about case files or the Ministry’s latest idiocy.

Instead, she found you.

Her heel halted mid-click. Her eyes went wide, lips parting in stunned recognition.

“(Y/N)?”

You blinked, holding a half-folded jumper, “Hi—?”

The pastry box slipped from her fingers, forgotten as she gasped.

“(Y/N)!”

Before you could react, she barreled across the room, arms wide, heels thudding across the floor. She crashed into you with a hug that nearly knocked you into the couch, her perfume wrapping around you like a familiar blanket as she squeezed you breathless.

You laughed, arms wrapping around her just as tightly, “Oh God, I’m so sorry I didn’t make it to the wedding! I couldn’t get a Portkey in time—I felt awful. I’ve missed you so much!”

Pansy pulled back to get a proper look at you, holding you at arm’s length like she needed to confirm you were real, “Oh, how’s newlywed life treating you? How’s your husband—” she started brightly, then trailed off.

Her eyes scanned your outfit—comfy shorts and an old Quidditch tee—and then flicked to the half-folded laundry scattered across the coffee table.

And that was precisely the moment Theo stepped out of the bathroom.

Shirtless. Damp. Joggers slung low on his hips. A towel around his neck, his hair still dripping.

Pansy blinked. You blinked. Theo froze like a deer in headlights.

Her eyes snapped between you and Theo. Once. Twice.

Her jaw dropped.

“No. Bloody. Way.”

You swallowed hard, “I, uh... I ran from the altar. I’ve been living here for a month. Surprise?”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“You absolute plonkers!” Pansy shouted, whirling around like a furious peacock as the front door opened again and the rest of the boys filtered in—Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, Enzo—all pausing mid-step at the scene.

Theo grimaced.

Pansy turned on Draco with fury, “You ranted to me for an hour last night about Potter’s work ethic, but you didn’t think to mention that one of my closest friends from school ran out of her own wedding and moved in with Theo?”

Draco’s eyes widened, “I thought you knew!”

“You lot are unbelievable.” She huffed, throwing her hands up.

Draco looked caught somewhere between amusement and panic. Blaise choked on a laugh. Mattheo raised his hands in mock innocence.

Pansy, eyes glittering with mischief, turned back to you with an exasperated scoff, “We’re getting drinks tonight. You and I are going to unpack every bloody bit of this madness. And if there’s any scandal you’re hiding from me, I swear to Merlin—”

You gave her a sheepish smile, heart fluttering with the kind of warmth that only old friendships could bring.

“I wish. But I can’t tonight. I’m working with Slughorn now—officially—and I’ve got my first full day tomorrow. Still need to study up a bit. I really don’t want to get fired before I even make it to lunch.”

Pansy’s features softened instantly. She stepped forward, cupping your cheeks with warm hands and smoothing your hair in a way that made your eyes sting.

“Slughorn?” She breathed, proud and a little misty, “You’re working with Slughorn? That’s incredible. I’m so proud of you.”

Your throat tightened, “Thanks, Pansy. God, I missed you. Let’s do a proper catch-up this weekend, yeah? I don’t want to keep you from your homecoming party—you should go have fun.”

She nodded and pulled you into one last tight hug. “This weekend,” she warned playfully, “or I swear I’ll come kidnap you from this flat myself.”

You laughed, hugging her back, “Deal.”

Just then, Theo reappeared in the living room, now fully dressed and slipping his watch onto his wrist. He reached for his coat, but you were already there, stepping behind him to help him shrug it on.

“Don’t you have to be up early tomorrow?” You asked gently, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve.

From behind you, Blaise gave a low whistle.

“Ooooh, listen to that,” Mattheo drawled with a teasing grin, “Wifey’s making sure the hubby gets to bed on time.”

Theo rolled his eyes, already used to these jokes and glanced down at you, a quiet smile pulling at his lips, “It’s just one drink.”

You sighed, half amused, half resigned, “Okay. Just… don’t come home completely smashed.”

“No promises.” He said with a wink, and the door shut behind them seconds later.

***

The bar buzzed with the low hum of chatter, clinking glasses, and a jazz cover of a Weird Sisters song playing over the speakers. The group had claimed a corner booth, drinks in hand, laughter spilling over every few minutes.

Theo nursed a firewhisky, sitting back with his usual composed expression which caught the attention of Mattheo, “Oh, don’t drink that too fast, Teddy boy. You don’t want to go back absolutely hammered to the missus.”

“You lot are ridiculous,” Theo muttered, though a hint of fondness softened his tone.

“Oh, come off it,” Blaise grinned, swirling his drink, “You like it. You’re practically glowing these days. It’s very unnerving.”

“Very domestic of you, Theo,” Enzo added, smirking, “Sharing a flat, cooking her breakfast, letting her steal your clothes—”

“She doesn’t steal my clothes.”

Mattheo grinned, “Mate, I saw her wearing your Chudley Cannons jumper yesterday.”

Theo looked away, clearly caught.

Pansy took a slow sip of her cocktail, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’m shocked you let her stay with you. You’re usually so…” She waved a perfectly manicured hand, “emotionally unavailable. Allergic to company, really.”

Blaise leaned in, eyes gleaming, “I mean hardly a surprise considering how badly gone he was for her back in school.”

Pansy froze mid-sip.

“Wait—what? Who was gone for who?!” she gasped, nearly slamming her glass on the table, voice sharp with disbelief.

The boys blinked in surprise.

“You didn’t know?” Draco asked, brows raised.

“You’re kidding,” Blaise said, laughing, “You always shoved them into group projects and made them sit together during dinners — we thought you were matchmaking!”

“I was!” Pansy snapped, whipping around to glare at Draco, “Because I wanted to go with you, and the other cows in our dorm had already called dibs on Enzo, Mattheo, and Blaise. Theo was just—left!”

She turned back to the table, eyes wide with the horror of missed opportunity, “Don’t you think if I’d known he fancied her, I would’ve shoved them into a broom cupboard and locked the door?”

Mattheo cackled, “That’s so on-brand for you.”

Pansy groaned, dramatically dropping her head onto Draco’s shoulder, “You absolute wankers. If one of you had opened your mouth years ago, that wedding she had a month ago? Could’ve been yours, Theo.”

Theo sipped his firewhisky quietly, hidden behind the rim of his glass. Flashes of you in a wedding dress and veil flickered behind his eyes, a soft blush spreading across his neck. None of them missed it.

Blaise nudged Mattheo, “He’s thinking about it now.”

“Oh, he’s been thinking about it.”

Theo threw his head back, downing the rest of his firewhiskey in one go, “I need another drink.”

***

The door flew open with a crash, nearly coming off its hinges.

“We have arrived!” Lorenzo declared, clearly drunk, arms wide, as if expecting applause.

Theo stumbled in between Blaise and Mattheo, arms slung over their shoulders like a war hero being carried off the battlefield. His shirt was half-untucked, hair a mess, and his eyes—when he managed to open them—were glassy and unfocused.

You poked your head out from the kitchen, arms crossed, “What happened to ‘just one drink’?”

“He drank.” Blaise said simply.

“Like a fish.” Mattheo added.

“Like a moron.” Draco corrected as he strolled in behind them, tossing Theo’s coat over a chair, “He’s your problem now.”

Theo blinked at the sound of your voice and perked up immediately. “Tesoro!” He slurred, trying to walk toward you but very nearly face-planting into the floor. You caught him under the arm just in time.

“Hi, Theo,” You said softly, “Oh gosh you smell like bad decisions.”

“You need to eat,” You added, “Something starchy. Or you’re going to feel like roadkill tomorrow.”

“He never eats when he’s like this,” Blaise said from where he was sprawled over a kitchen chair, “We’ve tried. It’s hopeless.”

“Chi mangia bene, vive bene, remember?” You said softly, probably butchering his mother's saying as you guided Theo toward the table.

That stopped him. His gaze sharpened just enough to find your eyes.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours with a quiet breath, “E chi ha te… ha tutto.”

Your heart skipped even though you hadn't a clue what he just said.

Mattheo made an exaggerated gagging noise, “Okay, Casanova, wrap it up.”

Draco, grinning, gave you a mock bow, “He’s all yours. Good luck with drunk Shakespeare.”

As the door shut behind them, Theo was still leaning on you, breathing you in like he needed your scent to stay upright.

“You smell like a distillery.” You said, amused.

“You smell like home.” He mumbled.

Your cheeks warmed, and you pushed the plate gently into his lap, “Eat your toast, Romeo.”

***

The bar was warm and golden, tucked away on a cobbled side street with velvet booths and enchanted candles flickering lazily overhead. You and Pansy had claimed a prime table by the window, cocktails already half-finished and a bowl of enchanted peanuts floating between you, occasionally popping like popcorn.

“I swear,” Pansy said, leaning in conspiratorially, “if Draco mentions his new wand polish one more time, I will hex him bald.”

You snorted into your drink, eyes gleaming, “You wouldn’t. You like running your hands through his hair too much.”

She grinned, “Touché. But I’d still threaten it. Keeps him humble.”

It was the first proper girls’ night out you’d had in what felt like forever, and Pansy — ever the scene-stealing, chaos-bringing goddess she was — made it feel like the war, the heartbreak, and everything in between had never happened.

“So,” She drawled, resting her chin on her palm with a wicked glint in her eye, “Tell me everything. Are you dating? Shagging? Secretly married? Come on, give me the details.”

You laughed, swirling the pink liquid in your glass — some fruity, glittering cocktail you hadn’t tasted since your Hogwarts days. It cooled your fingers while your cheeks burned hotter by the second.

You rolled your eyes, trying to bite back your smile, “It’s not like that, Pans. We’re just good friends. Honestly, I don’t think I’d have made it this far without him.”

“Oh darling,” She said with mock pity, “it’s always ‘not like that’ until you’re wearing his jumpers and catching feelings.”

You opened your mouth to object—but the words caught in your throat. You had worn his jumper. You were catching feelings.

Pansy’s eyes widened. She gasped, clutching her chest with dramatic flair, “No. No way. You like him.”

“I didn’t say that." You muttered.

“You didn’t have to!” She squealed, grabbing your hands across the table, “Oh, you poor lovesick thing. I knew it. I knew it!”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, “You are insufferable.”

“I’m right, though,” She sang smugly, taking another sip of her drink, “And I actually happen to know that our dear Teddy has been—”

“(Y/N).”

The voice cut through the air like a curse.

You froze.

Pansy’s glass paused halfway to her lips. Her smile vanished.

Your blood ran cold. You didn’t have to look to know who it was — that voice had once lived in your dreams. Now it only haunted your nightmares.

Slowly, you turned in your seat.

And saw your ex-fiancé standing at the edge of your table.

You stared up at him, heart thudding so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs. He looked mostly the same — slicked-back hair that tried too hard to look effortless, a coat more expensive than it was tasteful, and that same smirk he always wore like armor. His jaw was tighter now, clenched like he hadn’t unclenched it in months. His eyes were cold, sunken a little, and mean in a way they didn’t even bother to hide.

“I didn’t expect to find you here.” He said, voice low, razor-edged.

Pansy was on her feet before you could speak, stepping in front of you like a drawn wand. “And yet here you are,” She said, all sugar and venom, “Funny how you manage to show up where no one wants you.”

He didn’t even glance at her. His eyes stayed locked on you, “We need to talk.”

“No, we really don’t,” Pansy snapped, “Back off before I hex your bits so far inward you’ll need a St. Mungo’s specialist to find them.”

“Pansy,” you murmured, brushing your fingers against her sleeve. Your hand was shaking.

He took a step closer, “Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

You rose slowly, pushing your chair back, jaw tight, “Fine. Five minutes. Nothing more.”

“Absolutely not—” Pansy began, but you shook your head.

“I’m okay.”

You weren’t. Not even remotely. But you needed this to end. To really end.

The night air was sharp against your skin, the hum of the city muffled as you stepped into the alley behind the bar. You folded your arms, more out of defense than cold.

“So this is what it takes to find you now?” He said, voice curling with disdain, “Are you selling yourself like a whore on street corners now?”

You exhaled slowly, trying to keep your voice steady, “What do you want?”

He took a step forward, “I heard the rumors. People talk, you know. Especially when a bride vanishes in silk and ends up playing house with that filthy blood traitor Theodore Nott.”

Your lips parted in disbelief.

“I should’ve known,” he sneered, “You always acted so self-righteous. But look at you now — just another slag hopping into the next man’s bed. Must be nice not needing vows to spread your legs, yeah?”

The words hit like a slap, your stomach twisting with fury and disbelief.

“I’m done listening to this.”

You turned—and before you could even brace yourself, he yanked you sharply by the collar and slammed you hard against the brick wall. The air whooshed out of your lungs as your back hit the cold surface, the impact jarring your entire body.

His hands tightened suddenly around your throat, fingers digging into your skin in a cruel grip. You gasped for air, panic surging as darkness edged your vision.

“Don’t you dare think you can just walk away from me.” He hissed through clenched teeth, eyes wild and merciless.

You clawed at his hands, desperate to break free, but his strength was overwhelming, pressing down harder, choking the breath from you.

"Reducto!"

The spell hit him square in the chest, blasting him off you with bone-jarring force. He flew backward, crashing into the far wall of the alley with a sickening thud before collapsing in a heap, gasping and stunned.

Pansy didn’t hesitate.

She stormed toward him like a vengeful shadow, wand leveled between his eyes as he groaned and tried to sit up. Her voice was shaking—but only with rage.

“You filthy little coward,” she spat, every word laced with venom, “Touch her again, and I’ll break every bone in your body.”

He growled, trying to rise—Pansy kicked him flat in the chest, knocking him back to the ground with her heel, “Stay. Down.”

Your knees buckled, the sudden rush of oxygen burning your throat as you slid down the wall, coughing and trembling.

“Whoa—hey.” Pansy caught you, strong and certain, one arm steadying you as the other clutched her wand, “I’ve got you, love. You’re okay. We’re going home.”

And this time, you let her carry the weight.

***

The world spun sharply as Pansy apparated, the crack of displaced air still echoing in your ears. The warmth of her body vanished the moment your feet hit solid ground—wood floors, familiar scents. You were in Theo’s flat.

Laughter and chatter from the living room fell to a jarring halt.

Five pairs of eyes turned in unison: Theo, Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, and Enzo—all frozen mid-conversation, drinks in hand. The moment they saw you, everything dropped.

“(Y/N)?”

Your name left Theo like a punch to the gut.

You were trembling, arms wrapped tight around your middle as if they could hold your ribs together. Pansy still held onto you, as if she wasn’t entirely sure you wouldn’t collapse, and even she looked rattled under the scrutiny of the room.

“That fucker,” She said through gritted teeth, “Grabbed her outside the bar. Slammed her into a wall. Tried to—” her voice faltered, thick with fury, “She couldn’t breathe.”

Theo moved.

Fast.

He crossed the room in three strides, gently brushing Pansy aside like she was made of smoke. Then he was in front of you, hands hovering for a split second before he cupped your face, cradling you like you were something fragile and sacred.

His eyes roamed over your features—your split lip, your glassy eyes, the bruising fingerprints beginning to bloom like violets around your throat—and something in him shattered.

His jaw clenched, fury crashing through him like a tidal wave. He looked like he could tear the world apart.

“I’m fine.” You rasped, voice barely more than a whisper.

You tried to smile—a brittle, curling thing, “I know that probably doesn’t help my case, but… trust me, I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that,” Theo said softly, thumb brushing over your cheekbone, his voice hoarse and tight, “Don’t lie to me right now.”

Your breath hitched.

Draco hovered beside Pansy now, brushing her hair behind her ear as he muttered something only she could hear. She nodded once, giving her boyfriend a soft smile before turning her gaze back to you, eyes gleaming with steel.

Theo gently tugged you forward into his chest.

You didn’t resist.

You couldn’t.

Your limbs had surrendered somewhere between the alley and the flat, and he was warm, steady—home. Before you could stop it, a sob cracked loose from your chest, raw and shaking. Your hands fisted into his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to earth.

He held you tighter.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice trembling beneath the quiet, “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

The flat was eerily quiet now. One by one, the boys filtered out, their faces grim with the weight of what had just happened.

Mattheo lingered just long enough to press a firm, reassuring hand to your shoulder. His voice was low, steady, almost a promise, “You’re safe now. We’ll take care of everything from here.”

Blaise didn’t say a word. Instead, he gave a slow, deliberate nod to Theo, then to you, his expression taut with barely restrained anger and resolve.

Enzo’s jaw clenched as he glanced at you one last time. “He’s a dead man,” he muttered under his breath before turning away and joining the others.

You barely noticed them leaving. Your world had shrunk to the steady rhythm of Theo’s heartbeat humming against your ear, the comforting warmth of his hand pressing into your back, and the ache lodged deep in your chest — a raw, stubborn pain that refused to fade.

“I want him arrested. Tonight.” Pansy’s voice cut through the silence like ice, cold and deadly calm but laced with a fury that made the room vibrate, “Draco, I’m serious. He attacked her in public. Slammed her against a wall. Choked her until she could barely breathe.”

Draco’s tone was clipped, measured, but the sharp edge of anger was unmistakable, “You have a name?”

“Graham Bulstrode.” Pansy replied without hesitation, her voice razor-sharp and unyielding.

Draco’s jaw tightened, “Consider it done, my love.”

Every word settled into your foggy mind — distant but painfully clear. The tremble in your hands hadn’t stopped, but Theo’s arms wrapped around you only tightened, as if willing to keep the danger at bay. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, a quiet vow whispered without words.

When the door finally clicked shut behind the last of the others, the tension finally broke. The tears you had been holding back surged forward, hot and fierce, tumbling freely down your cheeks. You clung to him, the safety of his presence grounding you as the storm inside began to settle.

You buried your face in Theo’s chest, shoulders trembling as the sobs broke free, wracking your entire body with every breath. He held you through it, solid and steady, one hand gently combing through your hair like he could smooth away the terror still clinging to your skin.

“I’m so stupid,” You gasped, the words catching in your throat, “I’ve—I’ve thought about that moment for the past month. What I’d say. How I’d stand up for myself. I imagined throwing that stupid ring back in his smug face, saying something cutting, something final—but when it actually happened…”

Your voice cracked, guilt burning behind your ribs.

“I couldn’t even speak. I just froze. I have a wand but I couldn't cast a single spell. I let him say all that shit about me—about you—and I... I didn’t even defend you, Theo. I’m so sorry. I'm so useless.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He just held you tighter, like your apology hurt more than anything else that had happened. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet—gentle, but resolute.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

His words rumbled in his chest, warm against your cheek.

“I don’t give a damn about what you said or didn’t say to him. You don’t owe me a defense—not ever.”

You looked up at him, blinking through the tears. His eyes found yours, fierce and heartbreakingly soft, like you were something sacred—something he’d never let break.

“And you’re not stupid, (Y/N), or useless,” He said, voice thick with emotion, “You’re incredible. Brave. Stronger than you even realize. And I’m so fucking proud of you.”

His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead—gentle, grounding, safe.

“He’s not going to get away with this,” Theo whispered, “I promise you.”

You sighed, sinking deeper into him, like you could finally let go of everything you’d been holding in. His arms wrapped around you again, warm and sure.

“Come on,” he murmured, “Let’s treat that bruise. Get you something to eat.”

But you shook your head, face pressed tight against his chest.

“Don’t let me go.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore—it was tender, healing. You curled into him like you could disappear there, into the rhythm of his breathing and the thrum of his heart.

“I’m never going to let you go.”

And you believed him.

His heartbeat echoed beneath your ear, strong and unwavering. With every beat, the weight in your chest began to lift—slowly, steadily.

Safe. Loved. Finally, home.

***

A couple weeks later it was raining softly outside, the kind of slow, constant drizzle that blurred the windows and made the world feel far away. You and Theo were curled up on the couch, legs tangled, a blanket lazily thrown across your laps. A half-empty mug sat abandoned on the coffee table beside a crumpled takeout bag. The telly hummed faintly in the background, long forgotten.

“So then she goes, ‘I forgot to run the control,’” You said, exasperated, “and I swear to Merlin, I have never seen Slughorn that mad in his life.”

Theo snorted, one arm draped across your shoulders, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger, “Serves her right for always nicking your freshly ground moonstone.”

“Right? And of course, the one day I’m not there to supervise her, she completely tanks it. It’s not like I was goofing off—I was at the Ministry signing off the paperwork for Bulstrode's trial.” You sighed, “Slughorn knew, so I didn’t get in trouble, but I still have to repeat all her damn trials for the next few weeks. As if I don’t already have enough on my plate.”

“What’s keeping you so busy, Bella?” Theo asked, smiling as he gently unraveled the curl and let it spring back into place, “Maybe I can help.”

“Well, I’ve been needing to check out some apartments. Can’t really leave that to you, now can I?” You yawned, “But if you want, we could go together?”

Theo stilled.

He pulled back just slightly, brows furrowed as he studied your face, “Apartment hunting?”

You blinked, “Yeah… I’ve been looking at places closer to work. Just something small. I mean, I don’t make much yet.”

There was a beat of silence, then, “Wait—(Y/N), are you planning to move out?”

You nodded slowly, suddenly self-conscious, “I mean—I’ve been here for a while now and I love it, obviously, but I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I figured—”

“You think you’re overstaying?” His voice cut gently but sharply through your words.

You faltered, “Well, I just—”

“You’re not,” Theo said, a little breathless now, like the words had been sitting on the edge of his tongue for too long, “You’re not overstaying. I want you here.”

Your breath hitched.

“I want to come home to you. Every day. Not to an empty flat. Not to a world where you’re somewhere else.”

His hand found yours, threading your fingers together like a lifeline. His voice dropped lower, steadier.

“Stay. Please.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and sure, “I want to come home knowing the woman I love is safe. Here. With me.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, the world narrowing to his hand in yours, the soft thunder of rain against the windows, the warmth of his words blooming in your chest like magic.

“What do you mean, the woman you love?”

Theo let out a quiet laugh, a little stunned you hadn’t realized it already. His smile turned lopsided, eyes shining.

“Are you daft, (Y/N)?” He said, voice thick, “I’m in love with you. I’ve been taken with you since we were kids, and I’m still—” He broke off for a breath, like the truth was catching up to him all at once. “Still completely gone for you.”

Your heart did something unsteady in your chest.

“Say it again.” You whispered.

He cupped your cheek with one hand, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your heart stuttered. The words lingered in the air between you, delicate and heavy all at once—like the hush after a spell’s been cast.

You didn’t look away.

You couldn’t.

“I’ve loved you for a long time too, Theo,” You whispered, the confession trembling on your tongue, “I don’t even know when it started—when I began falling for you—but I did. And I fell hard. I mean, who wouldn’t?”

You smiled through the softness in your voice, “You’re the kindest, most patient man I’ve ever met… and I’m thanking my lucky stars that I met you on the day of my wedding.”

That pulled a laugh from him—warm, full, and brimming with disbelief. He tilted his head back slightly, grinning like you’d just handed him the entire sky.

You leaned in just a fraction, voice softer now, “I want to stay. Not just in the flat. In your life. With you.”

That did it.

Theo closed the distance, his hands cradling your face as his lips found yours in a kiss that felt like coming home. It was fierce and tender all at once—like a dam breaking, like every moment of yearning pouring out of him in one breathless, burning exhale.

You melted into him, arms winding around his neck, your body pressed close as the kiss deepened—hungry now, desperate. His fingers tangled in your hair, yours fisting in his shirt, both of you trying to memorize the moment, to feel every inch of it like it could make up for all the waiting.

Weeks—months—of unspoken words, of lingering touches and stolen glances, of intimate moments that always ended with breathless silences and aching restraint—crashed into a single breath.

Theo kissed you like you were his lifeline—like he’d been holding back a storm and had finally been given permission to let it break.

You gasped as his lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, your throat—reverent, hungry, like he was rediscovering you with every breath. “Tell me to stop,” He murmured, voice hoarse with restraint, “Say the word, and I will.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Instead, you tugged him closer, heart pounding under his palm as your fingers slid into his hair, voice trembling with a dangerous sort of affection, “If you stop, Theodore Nott, I’m sleeping at Pansy’s tonight.”

He let out a low, incredulous laugh—half-choked and fully wrecked—then kissed you again, deeper this time. Certain. Claiming. The rain tapped gently against the windows, forgotten behind the haze of fogged glass and the thrum of two hearts finally letting go.

And when he lifted you off the couch, carrying you down the hall with all the tenderness in the world and not an ounce of hesitation, the only thing either of you could think was:

About bloody time.

***

It was barely 9 a.m. when the front door to Theo’s flat creaked open—again, without so much as a knock.

Mattheo’s voice cut through the quiet, “I swear, if this idiot didn’t do the groceries and we hiked all the way here for his strawberries for nothing, I’m setting the place on fire.”

“I brought croissants.” Lorenzo offered brightly.

“You brought them from my kitchen,” Draco said flatly, “You literally stole them from my counter.”

Theo stumbled out of the bedroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “Do none of you understand the concept of boundaries?”

He was mid-scowl when Blaise’s voice drifted in from the hallway, “Don't you imbeciles think it's too early to—”

And then they all fell silent.

You had just stepped out of the bedroom—the master bedroom this time, not the guest room—bleary-eyed and yawning, wearing nothing but Theo’s hoodie. Again. Hair a little messy, legs bare, looking entirely at home.

Draco blinked, “Déjà vu.”

Mattheo let out a dramatic sigh, “Alright, but like… why is it always the hoodie and no pants? Not that I’m complaining—it’s just, you know what, never mind.”

Blaise leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed, “So what’s the excuse this time? Sleepwalking? Laundry explosion? Sudden amnesia about how trousers work?”

You didn’t even flinch.

“We’re dating,” You said flatly, tugging the sleeve of Theo’s hoodie over your hand as you rubbed your eye, “And I’m not wearing pants because I had sex with your friend. Good morning.”

Silence.

Four pairs of stunned eyes stared at you.

Lorenzo made a choked noise, “I—okay.”

Mattheo sputtered, hands flailing, “You can’t just say that without warning!”

“You asked.” You replied dryly.

Draco took a long sip of coffee, muttering behind the rim of his mug, “I owe Pansy ten Galleons.”

***

Bonus:

Your heart pounded as you stared at the closed doors, the soft strains of the wedding march beginning to drift through the wood. Your palms were sweaty around the bouquet you carried, nerves and excitement swirling in your chest.

Then, the doors swung open, revealing you in a stunning white dress, your smile bright and genuine as you began your walk down the aisle. The hush of the ceremony wrapped around you like a warm embrace, the aisle stretching ahead lined with friends and family.

A memory flickered through your mind—just a couple of years ago, you had run away from a different wedding down the hall, only to find refuge in this very chapel. It was here that you met your to-be husband, the love of your life.

Your eyes locked onto the man standing across the room, looking impossibly handsome in his tailored suit. His gaze locked onto you immediately, and for a moment, all the noise and bustle melted away. It was just you and him.

Only a few feet separated you now, but something in your heart couldn’t wait. Before you realized what you were doing, you broke into a gentle run—this time towards the groom.

Theo’s face broke into a gentle smile—the kind reserved only for you—as he reached for you. Before you could even think twice, his arms closed around you, catching you effortlessly. Your feet lifted from the floor as he spun you gently, twirling you in a slow, perfect circle.

The world blurred—lights, faces, music—all faded into a whirl of warmth and happiness.

He pressed his forehead to yours, a slow smile curling on his lips as he whispered, "You just can't wait to marry me, can you?"

You laughed softly, breath warm against his skin, "I couldn’t run away—tried it before. Too much work."

His eyes sparkled with amusement and love as he pulled you closer, the world around you fading into nothing but this perfect, shared moment.

***

EXTRA BONUS BECAUSE I CAN HEHEHE:

Hogwarts, Year 6:

You glanced across the potions table, scanning the clutter of ingredients before turning slightly toward the Slytherin bench.

“Theodore?” You said cautiously, holding your crushed lacewing flies with gloved fingers, “Could I borrow the asphodel? Just for a sec.”

He looked up from his cauldron like you’d just asked for his wand. There was a pause. Not rude, not angry—just... blank. Then, wordlessly, he slid the jar toward you across the table. His fingers brushed yours for the briefest moment when you took it. Cold skin. A little spark. His hand recoiled like he’d been burned.

“Oh. Um. Thanks.” You murmured, blinking.

He just gave a short nod, already turning away, jaw tight as he went back to slicing his valerian root like it had offended him personally.

You blinked again, confused, then padded back over to your side of the room where Pansy was lounging against the workbench like it was a chaise lounge in the Slytherin common room.

She quirked an eyebrow, “What was that?”

You shrugged, a slight pout forming on your lips, “I don’t know. I guess he just really doesn’t like me.”

Pansy snorted, “Please. If Theo really didn’t like you, you’d know.”

Meanwhile, across the room, Theo was absolutely not concentrating on his potion anymore. He was staring blankly into the cauldron, stirring too fast, ears tinged pink.

Your hands just touched.

***

Forever Taglist:

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[remluvrr]

this is quite literally one of the best fics i have EVER read.

like the characterizations of everyone was just perfect. everything was perfect.

girl - PLEASE NEVER STOP WRITING 😩😩😩

[govnder]

LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO — THEODORE NOTT.

synopsis: after a long, exhausting day at work, all theodore truly longed for was your presence—your warmth, your voice. but when he arrived home, he received far more than that.

author note: this is a request from this lovely anon. i honestly think this is very cute and had this idea a while ago, but i ended up forgetting 🥹 thank you for the ask, sweetheart.

cw: fluff, auror!theo, post-war, grief.

theodore stormed through the white door of your shared flat, his boots hitting the floor with a dull, angry thud, irritation radiating off him as though the day itself were chasing him. being an auror was challenging, even though theo thrived on the adrenaline. the idea of becoming one had been in his mind long before the second wizarding war, when he still believed in things like purpose, but after being forced to join the death eaters and committing war crimes, theodore chose this path mainly as a way to redeem himself in the eyes of the ministry. being in this profession had always demanded more than most men could give, but theo offered himself anyway, as if punishment and penance were a kind of absolution. a chance to rewrite his name. redemption.

shacklebolt had seen through him in the day he applied. the former auror, who knew that the ruthless mr. nott had forced a seventeen year old theodore to join the filthy supremacist cause through threats and cohersion, readily accepted him into the program. of course, the training was brutal, and theodore was subjected to painful trials to prove he truly wanted the gift of redemption, but in the end, it all worked out. theodore passed all of them, and four years after the war, he had proven his intentions and turned into one of the most efficient, brilliant and relentless aurors in the ministry of magic.

he had always been good at dueling, after all. he remembered the time he sent fred weasley flying backwards back at hogwarts. adrenaline was what kept him going, the same way gasoline powered a car.

however, not every day was successful—like today. theodore had failed once again to track down the location of a new group of blood supremacists forming somewhere in oceania, and it had stripped away every last trace of peace he had. failure gnawed at him with a vindictive persistence. this mission mattered, symbolically and personally. he wanted to eradicate every remnant of voldemort sympathizers, every echo of what had taken so many loved ones from him. that’s why he had volunteered to lead this mission, knowing it would be one of the most challenging in the last four years, but hoping—naively, perhaps—that his intelligence would be enough to track them quickly.

apparently not.

theodore locked the flat’s door, desperate to see you, to breathe in your scent, to hear your voice. desperate for your existence. he tossed his keys and belongings onto the small table by the door, hung his heavy, black coat on the freestanding rack, and scanned the apartment—but you weren’t there. the warm, low yellow lights of the apartment were on, the curtains drawn against the starry night and the waning moon illuminating central london, its light pooling faintly between the curtains. the evening news droned on because you hated silence—an old wound he understood all too well—but no one was watching the weather report warning of heavy rain in a few days. as his grey eyes scanned the organized, personality-filled space, he caught a scent.

pecorino romano—sharp, salty, familiar. freshly cracked black pepper. starch-rich steam rising from boiling pasta. home. childhood. memory.

you.

theodore crossed the apartment in quick, desperate strides, as if gravity was pulling him, eager to confirm his thoughts and to see you on this difficult day. when he reached the open kitchen door, the sight that greeted him felt enough to calm a battlefield.

with your back to him, you hadn’t noticed his presence yet, completely absorbed in your task. your hair was tied up in a bun, and you were wearing only his clothes—his old quidditch shirt, with your milky thighs exposed. focused, you kept looking down, and then theodore noticed the book.

his breath snagged.

a familiar brown-covered cookbook with pages yellowed by decades and written in the most precious handwriting theodore had ever known sat beside you on the counter, safely away from any splashes of water or food. he didn’t need to get closer to know it was his mother’s recipe book—a relic he would guard for the rest of his life. the book written by phoena’s own hand, filled with the handwriting that theodore would recognize with eyes closed—the one that no renowned library would ever have access to, one alexandria itself had never seen. but he had it. because only he had once had her. and that was a wealth no one could ever take from him—not like they had taken his mother.

theodore didn’t know how to react to seeing you, the person he loved most in the world, so engrossed in a recipe that had belonged to his mother. affection—violent, disarming, tender.

he found himself smiling.

“amore,” he murmured, announcing his presence so as not to startle you. you turned your head toward him, and theo noticed a bit of flour on your nose—a sign that, thank god, you had made the pasta from scratch and hadn’t bought it from the corner shop. your smile mirrored his own, breaking him open in the gentlest way. “what are you doing, dolce?” he asked, his italian accent coloring the words.

you didn’t stop what you were doing when his arms wrapped around you from behind, though that was exactly what you wanted. the urge to melt into theo the way the pasta would melt on your tongues was overwhelming, but you resisted. you couldn’t lose focus now. “hi,” you greeted, smiling gently as you stirred the pasta in the steaming pot. “cacio e pepe,” you answered with your broken italian, trying to remember the correct pronunciation of the syllables.

“cacio e pepe,” theo echoed gently, correcting you and smiling as he pressed his cold cheek against your warm one. his grey eyes shifted from the pot to your left, where his mother’s book lay. theodore couldn’t help but remember watching his mother write in that book when he was nothing more than her cheeky little boy—monello della mamma, as she used to call him. the memory hit him so suddenly he had to blink against it.

cazzo, he missed his mother. He could imagine how it would be if she were here, teaching you how to make this dish—so typical of his childhood, the one he ate every sunday. he remembered how his mother’s red hair would be tied up in a bun so similar to yours, and that brought a bigger smile to his sharp features. feeling the movement of his cheek against yours, your own smile widened. “what?” you asked, turning the stove knob to lower the flame.

“that book…” he whispered, his eyes glued to the artifact from over twenty years ago. the words seemed to die on theodore’s tongue, which was unusual for him.

“it’s your mother’s,” you finished for him, finally turning off the burner. you turned to face him, smiling softly, wrapping your arms around his back. “i found it a while ago while organizing our wardrobe.” you explained, "i know you’ve been stressed, and i thought… maybe cooking something she used to make would make you feel closer to her.”

you realized how that sounded. would theo think you were prying? that you were nosy, discovering something meant only for his eyes?

your heart raced with anxiety. “but i swear i wasn’t snooping. i just thought—if the taste is even halfway right—it might help. just a little.”

theodore smiled as he noticed you rambling—a habit you had when nervous. he didn’t let you finish, didn't let the anxiety consume you whole. his mouth collided gently with yours, a delicate way of telling you everything was okay, that you didn’t need to be nervous. when he pulled back, theodore cupped your cheek with his ringless hand, wiping the flour from your nose with his thumb before tapping a soft kiss on its tip. “it’s okay, bella,” he said, his blue-grey eyes locking with yours. “more than okay.”

in truth, he felt deeply moved by your care for him. he would have laughed if someone had told him years ago that someone would love him so much they’d go through the effort of translating recipes from his late mother’s book. emotion tightened his chest. gratitude, longing, something vast and fragile. you had done something no one had ever done for him—honored his mother not as a tragic memory, but as someone whose presence could still warm a room. “i love that you’re doing this,” he whispered, his voice lower than usual. “it means a lot that you’re trying to calm me down on these stressful days. especially like this…” he smiled, his eyes returning to the book. “god, i haven’t seen it in so long.”

you smiled. that was exactly the goal—to help theo remember phoena through something tangible. relief washed over you that he wasn’t upset or felt violated by your gesture, and your shoulders relaxed subtly. “i’m glad,” you replied, unsure what else to say. cooking wasn’t just something you loved; it was your love language, just as it was theo’s. he always cooked his mother’s recipes from memory for you, but you doubted anyone had ever done the same for him. so you thought using her book would be a perfect way to show your unconditional love for the italian-hearted boy with ice-colored eyes.

you both seemed lost in each other’s gaze: you, thinking you had finally found a way to help theo feel at peace, and theo, thinking how grateful he was to have you in his life. a glance at theo’s black clothes reminded you he had just gotten home and was exhausted, and you still had a dish to finish; so you slipped out of his hold with a laugh, grabbed a wooden spoon, and pointed it at him in mock command. “shower. now,” you ordered. “and be quick. dinner won’t take long.”

theodore wanted to protest, but you had already turned away. so bloody bossy.

his bossy little witch.

he loved it.

he left, but not before landing a sharp smack on your bum, covered by his shirt. your voice shouted a curse, and theodore’s deep, husky laugh echoed through the flat.

in the shower, theo kept thinking about the sight he had walked into. how thoughtful it was of you. how his mother would have adored someone exactly like you, and if she were still here, you two would have been best friends. she'd claim you were the daughter that she never had. you’d understand each other better than anyone; she would have loved you instantly. you might've even team up to pester him sometimes, theo imagined with a smile.

the steam blurred his vision, but it wasn’t the heat making his eyes sting. it was the image of you, flour-dusted and radiant, cooking from phoena’s book. tears, but not of sadness, because it had been a long time since theodore cried out of grief for his mother, ran down his cheeks in a hot path. they were tears of longing for his mother and gratitude for being blessed with a woman like you.

theo imagined phoena showing you baby photos of him, her eyes proud as he sulked, utterly embarrassed. he imagined you gossiping with her, cooking with her. he imagined her sitting in the front row at your wedding, her red hair in her favorite half-up, half-down style with one of her silver butterfly clips.

but that would be for another life.

he thought about how many of your mannerisms were so similar to phoena’s—your scolding voice, your gentleness, your warmth—and he could not ignore the feeling that maybe, just maybe, his mother had a hand in this.

and he was certain that wherever his mother was, she was watching over him. watching over you. and perhaps she was the one who had placed a soul as radiant as yours to mend his shadowed one. maybe she was the one who had woven your destinies together.

theo didn’t doubt it.

that was exactly something phoena nott would do.

[scorpionlafemme]

[misericordiia]

fun fact if your music is loud enough Thoughts Do Not Exist And You Are Calm. do not pay attention to your heart rate and do not accidentally hit pause

[xoxochb]

𓂃⟡ ݁ ꒰ trying to get over my writer’s block 🤕 I want to cry pls send help ꒱ ⸝⸝ .ᐟ .

“I think I’m going to miss this.”

percy looks up at you from where his head lays over your protruding belly, brows furrowed in question to your statement.

you clarify with a whisper, “pregnancy.”

“really?” he rests his cheek back down against your skin, feeling the baby’s kicks from within your womb.

“yes…” you nibble on your bottom lip. “despite the difficulties… I am very happy.”

you feel your husband’s smile against your tummy. “I’m happy too.”

your expression swiftly mirrors his and you set your novel atop the nightstand to focus entirely on percy and the currently-kicking baby.

you were beginning to believe that the child within your womb was nocturnal. while they would kick occasionally throughout the day— nothing truly compared to the persistent kicks that came with the night time.

such as now.

percy rests his cheek down on your bump, relishing in the sensation of his unborn daughter kicking at him. or kicking at your ribs, really.

but it was either that or taking a nap directly atop your bladder. you’re not sure which one has made you cry the most throughout this pregnancy.

“I wish she would let me sleep.” you sigh drowsily, sinking deeper into the cozy sheets.

“I wish she would let you sleep too. exhaustion has made you mean.”

“okay—” you stop yourself and resort to only an eye roll. then, you turn onto your side, leaving percy behind you.

he frowns, resting his chin on your upper arm. “I’m sorry, I won’t joke anymore.”

you have grown fond of his stupid jokes.

yet you remain quiet, allowing him only silent actions to redeem himself. his hand slips beneath your forearm to rest on your tummy, rubbing it in such a gentle way that has the baby calming.

percy and his magically soothing touch.

you sigh and roll over completely onto your previous side. your husband awaits with an eager grin.

“do you need something.”

“no, I just like looking at you.”

you let your eyes flutter closed, enjoying this moment while the baby isn’t moving. hopefully you’ll get at least four hours of sleep tonight. “okay, weirdo.”

percy frowns again. “well excuse me for loving my wife.”

“your wife loves you as well but not when she is eight months pregnant and on the cusp of sleep.”

“fair.” he reaches out and claims your mouth swiftly. “sleep. I’ll still love you when you wake up.”

you fight a smile. “promise?”

“on my life, sweetheart.”

and you knew he meant it for the remains of all eternity.

[leeny-leens]

Jason Grace is the kind of boyfriend who will block out date nights on your shared calender to let you know there's something planned without actually giving away the surprise btw

[dismalflo]

Could I request Reader who gets shaky hands when she’s anxious with Remus who notices and comforts her?

Thank you!

thank you for requesting!! <3

Remus Lupin x reader who is anxious ✩ 1.3k

“Do you want to, dove?”

You’ve missed almost all of what Remus said before that, a few words here and there stick but the rest have flown through one ear and out the other. The thing is, cutting carrots is really quite tricky but it’s hard to tell why.

“Uh, yeah,” you say, but it comes out on a shaky breath

He doesn’t say anything in response. You glance up from the cutting board, knife paused mid-slice.

He’s still standing at the hob, one hand loosely holding the wooden spoon he’s been using to stir something in the pot. He’s looking at you now with his brows drawn together, making a crease appear just between them. His mouth is soft but unreadable, and even though he looks so handsome like that, it tugs something unpleasant in your stomach.

Your heart knocks against your ribs. That wasn’t the right answer.

“No?” you try, smaller this time.

Remus turns down the heat with a quiet flick of his wrist, the soft click of the dial sounding too loud in the otherwise still kitchen. He stirs the pot once more without thinking and sets the spoon down with care, wiping his hand on a tea towel as he turns toward you.

He crosses the small kitchen slowly, like he’s giving you time to prepare for whatever’s about to come next, but there's no sternness in his eyes. A half-smile curves his mouth, soft and slow..

Without a word, he lifts both hands to your face, fingers gentle against your cheeks, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes. He tilts your head just slightly side to side like he’s checking to make sure you’re all there, and then gives your head the gentlest little shake.

“Have you heard a word I’ve said?” he murmurs, smiling now in full—dimple and all.

And like a reflex, you smile back. It’s impossible not to. Something about the warmth of his hands and the easy way he speaks and teases, lights you up.

“No,” you admit, and your voice trembles, but the smile lingers. “I haven’t. But tell me it all again and I’ll listen so well, handsome, I swear.”

His smile softens again at that—fond and maybe a little exasperated—but he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead anyway, lingering there just a second longer than usual. He’s the sweetest man in Britain, you think.

He starts to draw his hands away, but before he can fully let go, you reach up and wrap your fingers gently around his forearms. He stills.

Your grip isn’t tight, but it’s enough. Enough for him to feel the shake in your hands.

His brows knit again, barely noticeable unless you were already watching for it. His hands come back instantly, one sliding behind your neck, the other to your back, palm spreading wide across your spine like an anchor.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice lowered to something that doesn’t need to be heard outside the space between you. “What’s all this, then?”

You shake your head, which only makes his hand at your nape slip into your hair, gently threading through. He doesn’t press. Just waits.

“I think I’ve just been a bit… like this all day.”

Your voice dips quiet, almost embarrassed, and you hate the way it sounds. You blink too fast and your hands feel clumsy again, useless where they rest against his arms. You don’t know how to explain it, not really. Nothing happened. There was no grand disaster, no cruel words spoken, no breaking point. But a familiar jittery feeling has settled inside you anyway.

Remus doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t try to fix it. His thumb rubs a slow circle at the base of your neck.

“Alright,” he says, like that’s all he needs. “Alright.”

You think you might cry, just for how easy he makes it. How he doesn’t ask you to explain what you can’t, or make you feel foolish for the things you don’t understand. Just that one word, soft and certain: alright.

You let yourself lean into him then, forehead pressing into the space between his collarbone and jaw. He holds you without hesitation, arms winding around your back, firm and grounding. Like he’d keep holding you the world is right again.

“It’s stupid,” you mumble into the fabric of his jumper, your voice muffled by wool and worry.

“It’s not,” he replies immediately, voice low and gentle and sure. “You’re allowed to have days like this.”

You nod into his chest, the movement making your nose brush against his neck. He’s warm, always is, and you find yourself holding onto that more than anything else. 

Remus rocks you a little, barely more than a sway, but it helps. 

He speaks again, quieter now, like he’s letting you have this moment without pulling you out of it.

“I was just asking whether you wanted to try the sauce, but I think we’ll leave the carrots for now, yeah?”

That earns a soft laugh from you — shaky but real enough — and it vibrates against him.

“Stupid fucking carrots,” you murmur.

Remus huffs a warm sound against your temple. “You tell ‘em.”

Remus doesn’t move for a while, just keeps you close, his hands running slow and steady across your back like he’s smoothing the tension out of your body.

You feel a little more like a person again by the time you shift, cheek pressed still to his shoulder, voice a touch steadier than before.

“Do you think…” you begin, tentative. “Do you think a bath might help?”

Remus tilts his head, cheek brushing your hair. “Mm,” he hums thoughtfully, like he’s weighing the pros and cons even though you both know he’d run you a bath in a second if that’s what you wanted. “It might. Warm water, fancy bath salts, you—safely nowhere near a kitchen knife…”

You huff a soft laugh against his neck.

“…Sounds like a winning idea to me.”

“If you get in with me,” you say, quietly, but with a little lift of play in it. 

Then he leans just far enough to look at you, one brow arching faintly. “So demanding,” he says dryly, but his mouth twitches, not quite hiding the smile.

You nudge at him with your nose, lips curling. “You love it.”

“I do,” he says without missing a beat, and cups your cheek again, thumb brushing your skin so softly it almost tickles. “Of course I’ll get in with you, dove. You don’t have to ask me twice.”

The warmth that stirs in your chest then has nothing to do with the prospect of hot water. You let him hold your gaze a moment longer before ducking your head again, speaking into the soft stretch of his jumper.

“I’ll wash your hair for you.”

You feel him smile more than see it, the way his chest shifts with it, the quiet sound he makes in his throat.

“Shouldn’t it be you getting pampered?” he says, amused. “You’re the one we’re trying to look after, honey.”

“I get to decide what will calm me down, thank you very much,” you say, tipping your head back to look at him again, feigning offense but failing to keep the mischievous glint from your eye.

Remus laughs and leans in to kiss the corner of your mouth, warm and unhurried.

“Well,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours, “if having my hair washed by the love of my life is what it takes to settle your nerves, then I suppose I’ll just have to suffer through it.”

You smile — a real one this time, solid and full — and slide your arms around his waist, already picturing the scent of lavender and steam curling through the air, the way his eyes always go a bit soft when you run your fingers through his hair.

“Selfless, really,” you tease.

Remus hums. “I try.”

[xoxochb]

when charlie brown said “my anxieties have anxieties,” I felt that deep in my soul

[stillgotscars]

happy salt air and the rust on your door month to those who celebrate