Hello, lovelies!! I'm Rory, and I have an obsession with cake and Spiderman. I hope you enjoy the things I write. Say hi along the way! My username is the same on Wattpad (don’t shade me), and ao3 accept with an _, so it’s rory_cakes
Request Rules:
I’ll write for pretty much any character unless it’s yucky
nothing illegal
I know a lot of anime, book series, TV shows, and movies, so if you’re unsure, just ask!!
I don’t write smut because I’m uncomfortable with it; however, something a little spicy is fine!
requested ۶ৎ | keiji akaashi doesn’t like how popular you are.
you’re really popular at fukurōdani academy.
everyone in the school knows your name, and probably what you look like too.
but akaashi doesn’t like it.
sure he’s happy that everyone likes you, or at least almost everyone.
but he doesn’t like that you’re always swarmed by people the second you’re not in any of your classes.
you could step one foot out of your classroom, and there’d already be ten students around you, offering to carry your bag and offering you water.
it’s not because they happen to be at your classroom fast enough, it’s because they ditch the last ten minutes of class to be at your beck and call first.
or you’re at lunch, munching on an apple with people surrounding you, watching really intently how you eat an apple, like they’ve never seen a girl eat an apple before.
he doesn’t get it.
he doesn’t get why people have to be around you all the time, even if it’s just breating the same air as you.
yes you’ve got the whole package, you’re pretty, smart, unbelievably funny, and you’re so nice. you would barely hurt a fly.
but he’s a little blind sided considering he’s your boyfriend of three years. of course you’re the prettiest girl to him, you always have been.
and he knows how lucky he is to have you, considering almost every student at school would kill to date you.
your locker is always filled with love letters, with undying confessions in them that are a little too extra.
‘keiji, catch everything that’s about to fall out of my locker.’ you tell akaashi, taking a breath before opening your locker in a swift move.
you’d been sick at home for the past two days, so the regular amount of letters you get, have tripled.
there are a lot, of envelopes. and akaashi manages to catch most of them with the trash bag he’s holding, no other bag would fit this many letters.
and along with too many letters, there’s also a handful of plushies. ones that you will be keeping, a facemask, and a small pot with medicine in it.
that’s definitely one of the most random items you’ve gotten.
‘this would’ve been useful two days ago,’ you mumble, fetching the things you actually need out of your locker.
‘there’s still a letter in there,’ akaashi says, his hand brushing past yours as he grabs the letter in the corner of your locker.
‘oh, thanks.’ he hands you the letter, and your breath hitches at the handwriting on the envelope.
it’s akaashi’s hand writing.
your name is written in cursive, perfectly centered and neat.
‘a letter?’ your gaze flicks between him and the letter, turning it around to see the stamp being your initials, along with tiny hearts.
‘open it when you’re alone, call me after.’ he smiles softly, tying the trash bag and slinging it over his shoulder, quickly going to the trash bin to throw it out.
the only letters you should read are his, not from some stupid guy who’s only trying to get in your pants.
akaashi would rather you never get any other letters than the ones he writes you, but that’s out of the question.
a/n: i scrambled this together in 20 minutes with christmas music playing, also the end is a little half assed i’m sorry 😢
puru, puru, puru—anon's callin'! ─=≡Σ((( つ＞＜)つ (this was a requested fic!) fluffy fluff, no use of y/n, neutral reader, kisses, eustass kidd trynna flirt a little bit, that who framed roger rabbit scene is the whole plot of this fic lol, short n sweet
“seriously, what do you see in that guy?”
the question does little to surprise you. in fact, you were used to it by now. you’ve heard this question many times before— people had plenty of colorful opinions about your relationship with luffy. however, most didn't dare pry about it; they knew better than to earn themselves the ill will of an emperor of the sea. even if said emperor was nothing but an idiot.
a slow smiles pulls at your face, you turn your head up to glance at the man who’d asked—eustass kidd. now that you know that it’s coming from him, the bold question surprise you even less. you take your time to respond, languidly taking another sip of your drink.
you didn’t think you turned that many heads. so much so that one the infamous worst generation pirates was also left perplexed.
“i didn’t know you cared about this type of thing...jealous?” you tease, giggling against the rim of your cup.
kidd scoffs loudly “tch! don’t test me, princess. s’not like i care much.” he recovers quickly, from the little you know of him thanks to the alliances your groups have shared, you know he was quick to bounce back and never let others get the upper hand on him.
“you’re obviously out of his league. m’just wondering what a numbskull like him can do to pull someone,” he glances at you, eyes raking you up and down “like you.” a smirk plays at his lips.
unfazed, you look on ahead at your captain and his shenanigans. now that the skirmish is over the crews are having a blast—a noisy banquet, the smell of food wafting through the room and loud cheers, a mix of crew mates drunkenly singing a jumbled mess of lyrics and loud drunken conversations. or rather drunken arguments, you can't quite tell.
luffy, as always, is somehow in the centre of it all. or maybe he only is to you. he’s showing off some silly trick you’d shown him earlier that week with a spoon, but he keeps using brute force and bending it in half, to ussop’s confusion, zoro’s irritation and killer’s flabbergasted laughter. luffy laughs through it all, as usual.
then his eyes meet yours, he always manages to find you despite the chaos. like you were the centre of his world, too. his face brightens. he beams at you, you can even spot something stuck in between his teeth, but the brightness of his smile doesn’t seem to care for that.
you wave softly, smiling back, and he waves back excitedly with both arms. you giggle.
next to you, you hear the red haired captain scoffs “yeurgh,” he gags in disgust.
“well, it’s simple really,” you smile, looking up at the man.
“he makes me laugh.”
kidd looks down at you, perplexed and jaw dropping like he wants to argue.
luffy calls for you loudly before he can ask anymore, though.
you look away from him for half a second and he’s ended up in a conga line with some new pirate friends with chopsticks up his nose, stretching his face out ridiculously.
“HOME HANCE WIF EEEEEE!! (COME DANCE WITH ME!!)” he yells, practically incomprehensible, without waiting for a response his arm stretches out to wrap around your middle.
“sorry, but that’s my queue,” you giggle, smiling at the shocked pirate captain “see ya!”
luffy starts pulling and you don’t stop him, jogging a little to keep up with his pace. he’s mindful enough not to yank you towards him like he usually would because of the overwhelming crowd. of course that doesn’t stop him from snatching you up snug and tight when you’re close enough to him. idiotic as he is, he tries to get a kiss with the chopsticks still horrifically stretching his face out.
you snort, tugging them out. he yelps and shakes his head like a dog shaking off rain after a walk, and it makes you laugh again.
“hiya!” luffy grins, wrapping both arms tightly around you now, conga line forgotten for now. he leans in to press a wet kiss to your cheeks, your nose, your mouth.
“hi, luffy.” you respond, grabbing his ever moving face by the cheeks to press a small kiss to his nose. small, simple, sweet. and he breaks out into so much joy you’d think he’d found the one piece.
“c’mon, dancing !” he cheers pulling your still wrapped up frame along with him clumsily. and you follow, not like you have much of a choice, but still laughing as you stumble all the way.
summary: twelve years after remus saved you from being killed in the underground, you’ve built a life beside him, james, and sirius at the center of one of the most powerful mobs in the country. but during a high stakes event, everything shifts when you become a target, and suddenly the life you’ve fought to keep is put at risk. ( 7.5k words )
tags: mafia au, reader has she/her pronouns, established relationship, angst, violence, blood and injury, murder, gun violence, fight scenes, kidnapping, hostage situations, torture, drugging, childhood trauma, starving kids, poverty, slut shaming, mentions of scars, healer reader, creepy snape, panic, fear, morally gray characters, remus centric, happy ending
a/n: this was written months ago and i just rediscovered it buried in my docs. might turn it into a mini series because mafia poly marauders has no business being this hot masterlist
You met Remus way before anyone knew his name, before the respect he earned and the reputation that made people step aside without thinking about it.
Back then, he was just another kid surviving off whatever the underground world didn’t manage to take from him.
Too thin, clothes hanging loose like they belonged to someone else, eyes dulled by exhaustion but still alert in a way that didn’t match the rest of him; no family, no one waiting, nothing tying him to anything except the instinct to keep going.
He didn’t beg, didn’t waste words, didn’t draw attention unless he meant to, which was rare. Most people passed him without noticing. The ones who did never looked long.
The first time you approached him, it wasn’t out of kindness. You were a starving teenager, and he looked worse.
You’d found half a sandwich behind a closed diner, warm and edible, something you should have kept. You meant to. But he was there, slumped against a rusted pipe, fighting sleep like it might take more from him than rest ever could, and before you let yourself think twice, you stepped forward, pressed the food into his hands, and walked away.
Remus never forgot you after that.
The next time you saw him, it was your blood soaking into the ground.
A group of men had him cornered deep in the tunnels. Even then, he knew how to fight; quick, efficient, and already dangerous in a way that came from necessity rather than skill, but there were too many of them and numbers always tipped the scale.
You moved fast despite your weak form, grabbed the nearest man, sank your teeth into his forearm hard enough to feel skin break, kicked, clawed, made noise, anything that would pull them off him long enough to save Remus.
It worked for a moment. Until one of them turned and drove a knife into your shoulder, clean and deep.
After that, everything blurred. Movement, sound, the sharp pull of breath you couldn’t steady; by the time your eyes could focus again, the men were dead, two at Remus’ hands, the third barely managing to crawl before the blood loss killed him.
Your parents didn’t make it either, they were both killed by an underground gang.
You weren’t given the chance to grieve them properly—not with your arm throbbing and your body struggling to stay upright.
Remus didn’t speak. Aside from a scatter of bruises and shallow cuts, he’d come out of it mostly intact—steady enough to catch you before your knees gave out, his arm firm at your back as he pulled you upright and kept you moving.
You went with him because there was nothing left to stay for, your weight leaning into him more with every step, the pain in your shoulder turning sharp and distant all at once. He took you deeper into the underground, to a man no one trusted unless they had no other choice—unreliable, difficult, but capable enough to keep people alive when it mattered.
Remus stayed.
Through all of it. While the man worked, cutting into your shoulder to get the bullet out, stitching what he could, wrapping the rest, Remus didn’t step away, didn’t look elsewhere, didn’t leave you with it alone
The days blurred into each other after that.
You spoke less, kept your head down, learned quickly what not to react to; blood stopped meaning anything beyond whether it needed to be dealt with. Remus didn’t offer comfort, not out of cruelty, but because it wasn’t something he knew how to give, and you didn’t ask for it.
What he did know was survival.
How to move without being noticed, how to find warmth when the tunnels turned unforgiving, how to take what was needed without drawing the wrong kind of attention, how to end a fight before it had the chance to turn against him.
So he handled it, for both of you, without making it into something worth mentioning.
He considered teaching you, once or twice. You could see it in the way his attention lingered when you tried to handle anything, but it never went further than that. You were small, your strength unreliable, your hands unsteady even with something as simple as a rusted pipe, and he wasn’t careless enough to pretend otherwise.
The idea dropped, without discussion. Instead, he made sure you didn’t need to fight.
And in return, you learned how to keep him standing.
Every time he came back injured, you were there. Your hands weren’t steady at first, and you didn’t always know what you were doing, but you worked through it anyway; gathering scraps of cloth, heating water when you could, learning piece by piece until it became routine.
You never asked where his injuries came from.
Pain was something he understood, something he carried without complaint. You didn’t have that same tolerance for it. Those early years wore you down in ways he couldn’t ignore, even if he didn’t know how to fix them.
You got sick often—lungs too weak, body too fragile for the cold and the damp—and there were nights when the coughing didn’t stop, when it dragged on until breathing itself felt like work.
He never tried to soothe you with empty words. Instead, he stayed, sitting beside you in the dark, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead as if that alone could tell him what to do next. It never did, but he didn’t leave.
For a while, that was enough.
Things held together, barely, until they didn’t.
The fight came out of nowhere and everywhere at once, built from too many nights without food, too little sleep, too much pressure sitting unspoken between you.
You had given away part of your food, not much, just enough to quiet the whining of a stray dog that had been trailing you for days. You hadn’t thought of it as a decision that needed weighing. Remus had.
He had already been worn down by a horrible day full of fights, his patience stretched thin, and when he realized what you’d done, the reaction came horribly.
He told you that you couldn’t afford choices like that, that you were careless, that keeping you alive was costing him more than he could sustain, and even if the dog had been the trigger, it wasn’t the reason. You understood that much without him saying it.
You didn’t interrupt him. You didn’t argue, didn’t raise your voice to meet his, didn’t give him anything to work against.
You stood there and let him finish, quiet in a way that should have forced him to hear himself, to stop before he crossed the line he was already approaching. He didn’t stop. By the time he was worn out from his lash out, he turned away from you as if it had been nothing more than another conversation, laid down, and let sleep take him without a second thought.
By the time he woke up the next morning, you were gone.
Your clothes were still there, your blanket exactly where you’d left it, the tin box of stolen medicine untouched. Everything remained in place except you. There was no note, no sign that you had planned it beyond the fact that you had followed through. The absence said enough on its own.
He understood immediately what he had done and what it had cost without needing to search for another explanation.
The realization hit hard, and there was no way around it. This was on him. By the time he was on his feet, he wasn’t thinking about anything else except finding you.
He searched anyway.
Weeks of it, moving through every part of the tunnels he knew and plenty he didn’t, cutting sleep down to nothing, food to whatever he could grab without slowing himself. Every girl he passed made something in his chest tighten; every still body in a corner forced him to look twice, just in case.
Remus found you five months later, by accident more than anything else.
You were sitting slumped against a wall outside a supply depot near the edge of the underground, so thin you barely looked alive, clothes caked in dirt, head tipped forward like holding it up took more effort than you had left.
He almost didn’t recognize you. Almost kept walking. He looked again, properly this time, and the moment it clicked, everything in him went still.
He crossed the distance in a few quick steps, dropped into a crouch in front of you, said your name to try and pull you back. When he reached for you, there was no reaction at first. Then, slowly, your head lifted, your eyes found his, and recognition settled in with a kind of silence that hurt more than anything louder could have.
You looked away.
He didn’t give you the choice to leave again.
When he pulled you to your feet, you didn’t fight him. There wasn’t enough strength left for that, your weight giving easily as he steadied you, lifting without hesitation when it became clear you couldn’t manage it yourself.
He took you back without saying a word.
You didn’t speak for three days.
Most of the time you stayed where he left you, too exhausted to move unless you had to, your body giving out in short stretches of sleep that never lasted long. You avoided lying down, staying upright even when it hurt, as if the effort of lowering yourself was more than you could afford.
Remus handled what needed handling.
He cleaned the dirt from your skin, worked through the worst of it carefully, fed you what little he had, kept watch without scaring you away. He didn’t ask where you’d been or what had happened.
“I didn’t think you’d care if I left,” you croaked out a week after he rescued you.
Remus had just handed you a tin of soup. He froze.
“You told me it’d be easier without me,” you added, eyes fixed on the wall. “So I made it easier.”
He stared at you for a long time before answering. “If I say anything like that again,” he said quietly, “don’t listen. Just hit me, beat me up if you have to. Don’t walk away, don’t leave me again.”
That night, for the first time, he cried in front of you. Quiet, broken tears that traced the scars littering his arms and chest, each mark a story you’d never heard. He pressed his forehead to yours, voice trembling. “I might be a monster, but I cannot live without you. You can’t leave me again. Please, don’t ever leave me again.”
It wasn’t an apology, not in the way words usually are, but it was everything. That night, you promised him that you wouldn’t. And it was a promise you meant to keep.
After that, things changed.
He kept you close. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was different after losing you. Sharper, more alert and dangerous. He fought harder, stole more, built a name for himself in places where kids like him usually didn’t survive long enough to earn one.
And you stayed. You learned. Your hands stopped shaking when you cleaned wounds. You taught yourself pressure points, bone breaks, ways to stop bleeding when there was no thread.
You became someone people trusted when they had nowhere else to go. A healer in a place that didn’t believe in healing.
Almost exactly a year after Remus had pulled you from that alley, he returned with two new faces behind him.
The first was Sirius Black; lean, loud, reckless. His body was thin and covered in faded lash marks, evidence of a life spent running. He had cut ties with his family and spent the last two years with the wrong crowd, dealing drugs and learning violence the hard way.
The second was James Potter. He looked more put together but had clearly been through hell. Broad-shouldered, tanned, with dark curls falling over his forehead and striking brown eyes hidden behind glasses.
Despite their differences, the two of them stuck together almost like brothers (ironic now that you think about it, because they’re anything but brothers). They both needed shelter, both needed someone to keep them alive, and though you had no idea why Remus had saved them—he never trusted strangers—you knew one thing: if Remus trusted them, so did you.
And just like that, the four of you were no longer alone.
You had no idea, then, how much they would come to mean. But you knew, in your heart, that your life had changed the moment Remus found you.
And it was about to change all over again.
It is almost too easy now, twelve years later, to understand the extent of their protectiveness.
Years have passed, yet their vigilance has only deepened with time. You have come to know each of them in entirely different ways, loved them not in halves or fragments but in full, as they are, as they choose to be in the shadows of a world that demands more than loyalty. It demands blood.
Their devotion to you doesn’t come from anything gentle. It comes from the same place that taught them how to shoot, how to lie, how to kill with their hands and walk away without blinking.
So now, as you sit beneath a gilded chandelier in the grand ballroom of an estate that smells of wealth and corruption, it is easy to forget, just for a moment, what tonight really is.
On the surface, it appears to be a charity gala. People are laughing into fluted glasses, dressed in fabrics worth more than most make in a year. But beneath the satin and the small talk, tonight is a congregation of power. The five most dangerous syndicates in the region have gathered in this single room, each dressed in their finest.
And you are seated alone, at a table cloaked in cream linen, with your back to the far wall and your eyes on the men you came with.
You spot James first, standing near the eastern archway. He is speaking with a man you don’t recognize, a thickly built figure with twitching fingers and a smile that does not touch his eyes. James is smiling too, but it’s mostly a facade.
Remus stands a few feet behind him, arms crossed, eyes trained not on the conversation, but on you. He offers a small smile when your gaze meets his. You return it without thinking.
A sudden warmth at your side draws your attention.
Sirius appears beside you without warning, already close enough that you feel him before you properly see him. He slides into the chair next to yours in one easy motion, then pulls you into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, one arm settling firm around your waist, keeping you there.
His suit fits him too well, dark against the soft gold of the room, his hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck, eyes scanning the crowd before dropping back to you. He leans in and presses a brief kiss to your temple.
“There you are,” he murmurs, voice low against your skin. “Been looking for you. How’s my girl holding up?”
You let out a slow breath, fingers catching lightly on the edge of your dress. “Tense,” you admit, eyes still moving over the room. “I hate these things, Sirius. One wrong move and everything turns into a mess. There’s too many of them here tonight, too many people who don’t trust each other pretending they do. It’s unpredictable.”
He hums, his grip on you tightening just slightly, thumb brushing absent circles against your side. “Yeah, it is,” he replies. “But you know Remus. Strongest one in the room, and he’s watching everything. Place is locked down, including entrances, exits, security—we’ve got eyes on all of it. Nobody’s getting close without us knowing, love.”
You shift against him, a quiet, uneasy laugh slipping out. “I know. It just… doesn’t stop me thinking about it. I hate that you’re all targets half the time, even if I know you can handle it.”
Sirius tilts his head slightly, studying you, his hand coming up to rest more securely at your waist. “All I want is for you to sit, relax, look pretty, and enjoy yourself. Once we’re back home, I promise, we’re gonna make it worth your while.”
You glance toward James, scanning his posture across the room, and then back at Remus, whose calm presence seems to hold the room in balance. “How are they holding up?” you ask, a little edge of concern in your voice.
“James is fine,” Sirius says with a slow breath, almost smug. “He’s in his element. Man could sweet-talk a corpse back to life if he wanted. Remus, on the other hand, is playing the long game. He didn’t like the Russians showing up uninvited, or Malfoy bringing his own security.”
Your stomach tightens at the thought, a low thrum of nerves threading through your chest. “So what am I missing? What’s really going on?”
Sirius’s jaw tightens slightly, the playful edge fading into seriousness. “There’s a leak,” he says quietly. “Someone’s feeding intel to the other families. Names, operations, schedules. Remus thinks it’s someone close, someone he’s trusted. He’s been tracking it quietly, trying not to spook anyone.”
You shift slightly in his lap, glancing up at him. “And that’s why you came over here? To check on me?”
He lets out a quiet scoff, like the answer should be obvious, his grip on you tightening as he leans in, pressing a slow kiss to your shoulder. “You think I’m only here for that?” he murmurs against your skin, voice dipping back into something lighter.
You huff a small laugh, shoulders lifting as his lips brush over your shoulder blades, the tension easing despite yourself.
Sirius hums softly, pulling back just enough to look at you. “We’re not leaving you sitting here alone while half the room’s watching us,” he adds, tone still easy but edged with something firmer underneath. “Remus didn’t want you worrying before we knew for sure, but that doesn’t mean we’re not paying attention. You’re covered. Always.”
You nod, though it barely soothes the knot in your chest, your eyes drifting back over the crowd, catching Remus’s faint nod across the room. You let out a slow breath, trying to sink into it, even as the tension continues to hum beneath your skin.
And then, as Sirius gently squeezes your shoulder and mutters something about needing to get back, a man in a waiter’s uniform approaches.
He’s smiling politely as he sets down a champagne flute in front of you with a subtle bow. You take a slow sip, the cold rim brushing your lower lip with familiarity.
In a life this precarious, where every shadow might hold a loaded gun and every handshake could be your final one, you've long known the value of perfection.The kind drilled into your bones by men who love you too much to be soft with you.
Remus taught you that lesson first, years ago in the blood-soaked corridors of the underground when he pulled you out from hell with his bloodied hands.
Mistakes weren’t small back then, and they certainly aren’t now. One slip can cost not just a life, but all the lives tethered to it.
And you do not make mistakes.
But sometimes, it's not about what you do. It’s about what you don’t notice. What slips through the cracks. What you forget to question.
And as the sip slides down your throat, smooth as liquid gold, something cold settles in your gut before the poison even begins to work.
You never ordered a drink.
And that realization alone is enough to make your spine lock. Your eyes flicker down to the flute still in your hand, now far more weapon than refreshment.
You force your breath to steady, to remain as it was, because movement—any movement—before confirmation could draw the very eyes you need to avoid.
You twist sharply, eyes scanning the floor, the servers, the crowd, until your gaze lands on the back of the waiter. It’s not his face that gives him away. It’s the hair. Slicked close to the skull, but a single braided rat’s tail hangs just above his collar.
Your breath catches as something hot coils low in your spine and spreads too quickly to ignore.
Your hand trembles, fingers curling in on themselves before you can stop it, your muscles tightening, then loosening in a way that feels wrong. You’ve felt this before. You recognize it immediately, even as panic tries to push in.
Paralysis. Fast onset. Your throat tightens, chest burning, your body slipping out of your control piece by piece. You force yourself to stay focused, to think through it instead of giving in.
Tetrodotoxin.
You know it from case studies and forensic files Remus made you read when he was teaching you how to recognize a killer’s fingerprint. Extracted from the pufferfish, odorless, tasteless, and lethal in micrograms. You have maybe—if you’re lucky enough—two minutes before your diaphragm stops working.
You turn, slowly and painfully, to the only three people who matter in this room. James, still mid-conversation, nodding at some low-level syndicate boss as if he doesn’t already know more than the man’s own mother. Remus, watching the exchange, smiling faintly with Sirius.
You try to get up.
That’s when the hand lands on your arm.
It’s firm, a companionable touch, like a friend leaning in with a secret or a lover about to steal a kiss. You brace, pivoting toward the stranger, only for his voice to drop into your ear, rich with condescension and amusement.
“Don’t make a scene, darling.” the command is low, velvety, and utterly sure of itself.
“You can’t fight it. Not anymore. And you don’t want to get anyone’s attention, now do you?”
Your hands twitch, useless. All you can do is turn your eyes toward him, only to meet a face you’ve never seen before. Which is far more terrifying than a familiar one.
He smiles, soft and tight. “There it is,” he murmurs, not unkindly.
You try to speak. Try to scream, but your jaw is already locked.
“You’ve been such a good girl,” he says, almost sweetly, as his hand snakes under your arm and gently lifts you to your feet like a dance partner. To anyone watching, it looks like nothing. A tipsy beauty and her suitor. “Let’s not ruin that now. Come on, walk for me.”
You barely register the way his hand tightens around yours, guiding you out of the ballroom step by step.
Your knees buckle more with each stride, your vision wobbling like water over glass. You catch a final glimpse—three suits like shadows across the marble floor, three sets of eyes scanning, unknowing. And then—
The sound falls away first, the chandeliers blur, and just before the velvet curtains swallow you whole, the world blurs away.
The last thing you think, before everything goes dark, is that you’re about to break the promise you made to Remus twelve years ago; you weren’t supposed to leave him again.
*******
James tilts his glass to his lips without really tasting the whiskey. He’s still engaged in meaningless diplomacy, his tone all faux charm as he converses with a Russian arms dealer too rich and too drunk to be useful.
His glass is untouched in his hand, his eyes flicking instinctively across the ballroom in search of you—just a habit by now. You were standing near the orchestra moments ago. Laughing and smiling in Sirius’ lap.
But you’re not there.
His smile falters.
James’s body goes still, the easy grin on his face freezing just slightly. His hand twitches. "Remus."
"Remus," James mutters again under his breath, turning toward the other man without taking his eyes off the spot. "Where’s she gone?"
"What?"
"I asked where she is." There’s a steel edge to his voice now. “She was just by the pillar.”
Remus follows his line of sight, frowning as he glances past the crowd. A cold flicker passes over his features when he doesn’t find you either. "I saw her not two minutes ago—" His words cut off. His eyes are moving faster now.
James doesn’t wait. "Sirius."
Sirius’ eyes snap up, finding James first, then Remus, then the empty space where you should be.
In an instant, he crosses the room eyes scanning, chest tight, every step measured for speed and control.
James is on his heels a second later. "Where the fuck was she standing?!” he hisses, scanning the crowd for the flash of your dress, your hair, anything.
“She didn’t leave through the front,” Remus mutters behind them. He’s pulled his earpiece into place, one hand disappearing inside his suit jacket. “James. Sirius. We lock this place down, now.”
There’s a subtle click beneath the music as James draws his sidearm and tucks it to his hip beneath his coat. His other hand lifts to press a button on his comms. "Code black. I want every single exit fucking sealed. No one moves unless I say. Shut the gates. Clear the floor. Confirm visuals on her—last seen by the east arch, ten minutes max."
The line crackles.
Remus’s voice crackles into the comms again, louder now, sharper. "Sweep the perimeter. Search every hallway, every service corridor. If someone touches her, I want them in pieces. James, Sirius—stay close.”
*******
Your world returns in pain.
Your head is forced downward, plunged into a basin of cold water with such force your teeth slam together. The water floods your mouth, shoots up your nose. You can’t breathe. Your lungs flare in agony. Your mind screams for air.
You are yanked back just as abruptly, choking and sputtering, water gushing from your lips as you cough uncontrollably. The sensation of drowning clings to your skin, your ears ringing with pressure, your throat raw from the violent intake.
Your blindfold is ripped away.
Light, white and sterile, floods your eyes. You blink rapidly, gasping, vision swimming as you try to adjust. Shadows dance around you until one shape sharpens into a man—tall, angular, hair black as oil slicked back from a pale, skeletal face.
Severus Snape.
You recognize him instantly. The face from every intelligence file you have flipped through, the name whispered in your boyfriends' meeting rooms like a curse.
"Ah. Welcome back," Snape says, his voice cold and composed, as if greeting an old patient. He circles you slowly, hands clasped behind his back. "Forgive the method of revival. I don’t usually favor theatrics, but you were quite... unresponsive, and I needed you awake."
You glare at him, throat burning. "You sick fuck. Let me go!"
He tilts his head, eyes assessing, almost bored. "No. I don’t believe I will."
"You don’t know what you’ve done," you hiss, struggling against the ropes. "You have no idea what they’ll do to you."
"On the contrary," Snape replies, and now there’s a flicker of amusement in his tone. "I know exactly what they’ll do. That’s the entire point, little mouse. They won’t come to negotiate or discuss business. They only come when something is taken."
His gaze drags over you slowly, taking his time, like you’re something he owns already. “So I took you.”
“It isn’t personal,” he continues as he steps closer, close enough that you can feel his breath against your skin. “From what I’ve gathered, you’re valuable. A truly skilled doctor, too. Useful in ways most people down here never manage to be. That alone would have made you worth taking.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying you, then lets out a low, dry laugh. “A loyal—” he cuts himself off, the word turning into something ugly in his mouth. “No. No, that’s not right, is it?”
“Wouldn’t call you loyal when you’re spread between all three of them like a whore, would I?”
You try to spit at him, but it barely makes it past your lips, your body too weak to follow through.
“Lupin, playing leader like he’s holding everything together. Black, the poor little traitor who ran from his own family. And Potter…” His voice tightens on the name, real hatred slipping through this time. “Fucking Potter.”
There’s something off in the way he says James’ name, it makes you wonder why he might hate him so much.
“Tell me, do they take turns, or do you let them share?” His mouth twists faintly. “Or do you just not care who you crawl into bed with as long as they keep you safe?”
Your hands curl against the restraints, anger cutting through the weakness. “Go fuck yourself.”
He smiles at that, slow and thin. “There it is.”
You yank against the ropes, the fibers digging into your skin hard enough to sting. “You’re a coward.”
Snape doesn’t react the way you expect. If anything, he seems calmer, like he’s enjoying it. “I’m alive,” he says quietly. “That’s more than most people who cross them get to say.”
You twist again, fury rising, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Let me go, you fucking—”
He moves faster than you expect, the blade already there, resting flat against your pulse.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low and almost bored. “You strike me as smart. Don’t ruin that by acting stupid.”
The knife shifts just slightly, enough for you to feel the edge bite. "You speak again, and I will open your jugular so cleanly you’ll bleed out before you even scream. Don’t test me."
You freeze. The metal remains against your skin for several seconds, the threat humming louder than your own heartbeat. Then it lifts. He tucks it back inside his coat with maddening nonchalance.
You scan the room with your eyes now, desperate for anything; an exit, a weakness, something to exploit. But the room is concrete, windowless, reeking of mildew and damp. The only door is behind him.
He flips a small device in his pocket, eyes glinting as he tilts his head.
“Well, well, look who’s finally here,” he says slowly, savoring each word, letting the pause hang. “Your little fuckers, coming to save their precious whore.”
Your heart lurches. For a moment, hope flares like a match. Then his eyes meet yours again, and he laughs. A slow, cruel laugh.
“Oh, don’t look so relieved,” he says. “You think they’re heroes, don’t you? That they can just walk in here and snatch you back? They’re idiots. All of them.”
He crouches slightly, letting his eyes roam your face. “Lupin, the big-hearted fool. Black, the reckless little shit. And Potter… Potter, you little whore, I’ve never hated anyone like him. Tell me, mouse, do you even know why I hate him so much?”
Your throat tightens.
“You’ll see soon enough,” he continues, voice low, almost a hiss.“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to vanish into the walls. Your lovers are going to come storming in ith their guns, fists, whatever pathetic courage they have. They’ll think they’ve got you. They’ll think I can’t touch them. And you’ll sit there, pretty little bitch, tied up, watching and listening.”
He crouches to your level. Tilts his head. “But right as they let their guard down—right when they’re stupid enough to save you—I will paint the walls with their blood. And then, when they’re all dead, you’ll watch me slit your pretty throat.”
You scream and kick and thrash until the ropes cut into your skin. You scream again, hoping someone will hear, hoping your voice can reach through concrete and steel.
Snape sighs. "I don’t want you ruining my plans, little miss smarty-pants." He walks over, pulls out a strip of duct tape, and tears it slowly, the sound slicing through the air like a warning.
"You’ll sit still, you’ll stay quiet, and you’ll watch. That’s all you’re good for now."
He slaps the tape over your mouth with brutal finality, pressing it hard against your lips until your screams become useless muffled noise. You sob through it, chest heaving, vision blurring with tears.
And then he’s gone. Slipping into a hidden passage behind a shelf of crates. You’re left alone. Chair bound, gagged, and shaking with fear—not for yourself, but for your boyfriends.
You hear the door bang open a minute later, and for the first time, you don’t feel saved.
Remus is first through the door, gun raised, eyes scanning—walls, exits, angles of light, you. Then Sirius. His breathing is ragged, like he ran the entire way. Suit jacket open, shirt wrinkled, hair falling into his eyes. Then James.
All three freeze the moment they see you.
Remus lowers his gun just a fraction. His mouth moves, but no sound comes out. Sirius swears under his breath, rushing forward to tug the tape from your mouth, hands shaking, careful not to hurt you more.
James doesn’t move. He just stares, like his brain can’t process the sight of you bound, shaking, soaked in blood.
And in that moment, you realize something horrifying.
Snape was right.
You want to scream, to tell them to run, to leave you, to not play into whatever trap this is. But you’re still bound, still gagged before a word can escape.
The door slams so hard it nearly tears off its hinges. Gunshots echo. Another. And another.
Gunshots, gunshots, gunshots.
You jerk violently in the chair, chest heaving, throat burning behind the tape. Your eyes sting from tears and the harsh light, but all you can see is them.
James is the first to reach you, dropping to his knees so fast the floor cracks beneath him.
“Oh god, you’re okay—” His voice is breaking. His hands fly to the ropes, fumbling over the knots, muttering under his breath. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re alright. Fuck, baby, breathe—just breathe—”
You shake your head violently. The chair rattles with you. Your legs are trembling uncontrollably beneath the restraints, eyes wild, trying to scream past the suffocating gag.
“James!” Sirius’s voice cuts through from the other side of the room, sharp, gun cocked. “Is she okay? Is she—”
“She’s not hurt! No blood—she’s clean, just panicking. Fuck, her wrists are bruised—” James’s hands work faster, snapping one of the bindings with a hiss. “I’ve got you, baby, just—just keep looking at me—”
The last restraint comes loose. James reaches for the tape around your mouth and peels it back slowly, trying not to hurt you.
“Hey—hey, it’s okay. You’re safe now, we’re here, baby, just talk to me—”
Your breath starts hitching harder, your chest seizing with sobs so loud they echo off the stone walls. You’re gasping like you're drowning, eyes darting wildly behind them.
“No—n-no—no, y-you—Remus—Remus, pl-please—” Your voice is torn raw, barely recognizable.
“Sweetheart—” Remus is beside you now, crouched so close you can smell the blood on him. His hands hover, unsure where to touch. “Where does it hurt? Tell me where it hurts. Look at me, love, please—what did they do to you?”
“I—I—y-you h-have to l-leave—” You clutch his shirt, shaking like a leaf. “N-not safe, n-not s-safe—he’s—he’s still—Remus, h-he’s still here—he’s here—”
Remus freezes.
James looks back sharply. “What?”
You’re clawing now, sobbing harder, shaking your head. “P-please, you h-have to run, y-you have to go—you can’t be here—he said—”
“No. No.” Remus’s voice drops, low and cold. “We’re not leaving you. I’m not fucking leaving you.”
“Y-you don’t understand!” You scream, or try to, but your throat cracks halfway through. “He’s—h-he’s watching, he’s going to—he said he’ll kill you!”
“Where is he?” Sirius growls, eyes scanning the room. “Where the fuck is he?”
“H-he said—he said you’d think y-you saved me and then—then—” You choke on your breath. “Then he’d kill you. A-and then me—he said that!”
“She’s not making sense—” James starts, but Remus’s hand shoots up.
“She is,” he says, eyes narrowing. “It’s a trap.”
Remus’s hands cup your face now, gently, firmly, grounding.
“Where is he?”
You’re sobbing too hard to answer. Words collide in your throat, hopeless. Your gaze flicks to the far corner, to the shadows. Remus follows it instantly.
A slow click echoes.
“DOWN!”
The next moment erupts. A shot tears through the air, a scream splits the room, and a flash blinds you. Remus throws himself over you. James shoves the chair sideways to shield you. Sirius spins, firing three sharp rounds into the darkness, each shot precise.
Your ears ring, your body curls sideways, half-tied, half-broken, blinking through smoke and tears. And somewhere in the haze, a voice laughs.
“Touching,” Snape drawls, slow and deliberate. “Really. I almost cried.”
Gunfire tears across the room again, louder, relentless. James and Sirius react instantly, weapons raised, moving with practiced precision.
Snape steps out of the shadows, his crooked smile chilling, his hand lifted as if conducting an orchestra of violence. “You didn’t think I’d come alone, did you?”
Triggers click overhead. From the mezzanine and behind stacks of rusted machinery, a dozen men emerge, rifles trained on all of you. Every angle accounted for.
James clenches his jaw, scanning the upper levels. “Sirius, floor two, west side. At least eight.”
Sirius shifts smoothly, eyes sharp. “I see them. Left flank’s mine.”
Shots snap through the air. Steel and wood splinter under fire. One of Snape’s men screams and drops. You barely register it, trembling, pressed behind the crates where Remus left you.
Your hands shake so violently you can’t lift yourself upright, body rattling with leftover adrenaline. Then he’s there again, dropping to his knees behind you, chest pressed close, shielding you from debris.
“Look at me,” Remus says, voice low, tight, controlled. He cups your face, thumbs brushing your tears, grounding you. “Look at me, love.”
You cling to him without thinking, sobs shattering out in broken bursts.
“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing your cheeks. “No tears, not now. Don’t cry, dovey. You’re safe. We’ve got you. I’ve got you. Just hold on a little longer, alright?”
You shake your head hard. “N-no… Remus, you don’t… you don’t get it, he’s—he’s going to—”
“I know,” he cuts in gently, trying to soothe you, but you pull at his shirt harder, and your voice finally rips out in a scream, muffled by the roaring gunfire.
“You have to go! Please Remus—go! It’s not safe, he has more—he has more upstairs! Take Sirius and James—RUN!”
Remus flinches, his body jerking ever so slightly at your words, as though you’ve struck him with something sharper than any bullet. He goes still, staring at you, chest heaving, eyes dark with hurt, fear, and anger all tangled together.
“I’m not leaving you,” he finally says, there’s an edge that makes it clear your words wounded him. “Don’t say that. Don’t ask me that again.”
“But, you’ll die!” Your voice cracks, choking on fear. Your fingers dig into his blood-soaked shirt as though you can hold him in place. “Please—please—I can’t—I can’t lose you—I can’t—”
He grabs your face, pressing it closer until your foreheads touch, his eyes locked on yours, burning with certainty. “You’re not going to,” he growls, voice thick and fierce. “Hear me? You’re not. I’ll make it out. James will make it out. Sirius will make it out. And so will you. I will never let anything harm you or them. Ever.”
“You hear me?” he breathes, forehead pressing to yours tighter. “I’ll burn this whole fucking place to the ground before I let that happen.”
His hands tighten at your jaw, grounding you, keeping you here, alive. “You stay hidden behind these boxes. Don’t move and don’t peek. I need you safe while I make sure Sirius and James are okay, alright?”
You nod, your panic subsiding just enough as you watch him lift, ready to move, and the thought of him protecting your other two keeps the knot in your chest from tightening completely.
Your breath is hiccuping. He kisses you like he’s grounding himself in it, fast and firm, like there isn’t time to mean it properly.
Then the crates behind you shudder violently and Sirius stumbles around the corner, one hand clutching his shoulder, blood running down his arm, teeth gritted against the pain.
“Got tagged,” he mutters. “Upper right. Took five down but I think there’s more.”
Remus doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you tighter to his chest for one last second, then shoves you gently toward Sirius. “Take her. Get the fuck out. Go now.”
Sirius looks at him, reluctant to leave James alone there, but understands that he has to get you out. “We’ll meet you outside. You better make it out with James.”
“We always do.”
You’re lifted up before you can resist. Sirius drags you around the crates, one arm firmly around your waist. Outside the warehouse, backup has arrived. You can hear more engines now. You don’t dare look back. You just cling to Sirius, face buried in his neck, heart hammering.
And then you see the black SUV parked at the far end of the lot.
The door slams shut behind you and Sirius. He barely wastes a second before throwing himself into the front passenger seat to unlock the back door and drag you inside, arms looping around your waist with a trembling urgency.
You’re half-limp from exhaustion, adrenaline still flaring in bursts, barely even noticing the click of the seatbelt as he fastens it over your chest. The world outside feels like a blur of motion and noise. You can hear the shouting, the echo of gunfire, the rush of footsteps behind you.
Sirius is breathing hard. You can see it; the subtle shake in his shoulders, the way he stares out the tinted windshield toward the warehouse as if sheer willpower alone could summon James and Remus out from that inferno. His hands are clenched tight, white-knuckled, and for a moment you’re afraid he’s going to jump out and go back in.
“Sirius,” you whisper, voice hoarse and dry like ash in your throat.
His head whips around instantly, his eyes bloodshot and wide as he turns in his seat to look back at you. “Fuck. Baby.”
He’s already unbuckling. A second later, he’s in the backseat with you, one hand cradling your jaw, the other holding the side of your neck as if to steady himself more than you.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and the words are not casual. They carry fear, guilt, and desperation. “Are you hurt? Did they—fuck, did he do anything to you?”
“I’m okay,” you say, the words fragile and barely convincing, but they are all you can manage.
His thumb grazes your cheek. “Then why are you crying, huh? What’s all this, baby? Look at me.”
Your breath catches, and you struggle to put it into words. “I… I thought I was okay, I really did. But when everything happened—being trapped, Snape, the fire—I just… I panicked. I couldn’t stop thinking what might happen to you and… everyone.”
Sirius’s jaw tightens. His voice drops low, dangerous and raw. “You were gone. You disappeared, and I swear, I thought I was losing my mind. We didn’t know if you were alive. I couldn’t…” His tone softens suddenly, almost breaking.
You flinch at the intensity, and he notices immediately. He presses a hand gently against your cheek, grounding you. “No, no, no. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not mad. I just… Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”
“I… I didn’t know my drink was drugged,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I didn’t see it coming until it was too late.”
Sirius leans closer, pressing a reassuring shoulder to yours, wrapping an arm around you. “It’s okay, love. It’s okay. You’re here now, you’re safe, and that’s all that matters. Nothing else matters as long as you’re safe.”
Your eyes flick to the mirror, catching the orange flicker of the warehouse fire outside. A new surge of panic hits. “Remus… James…”
“They’re dealing with Snape,” Sirius says. “They’ll be fine. Most of our men went for backup, it’s more than enough to take down Snape. That piece of shit’s going to wish he never touched you.”
Sirius pulls you into his lap, one arm wrapped around your shoulders, pressing you close. Your ear rests against his chest, and the steady thump-thump of his heart slows the frantic rhythm of your own. His hand rubs small circles along your back as he speaks quietly into his phone, checking on the others.
You watch the fire fade in the distance, each pulse of his heart a quiet promise: they’re all alive, they’re all okay.
Minutes later, the doors slam open.
James throws himself into the driver’s seat, blood streaked across his shirt, breath coming fast. Remus climbs into the passenger beside him, eyes sharp. Both covered in ash and smoke. The warehouse burns behind them, glowing orange in the distance, and the SUV shudders with the weight of escape.
“What the fuck are you doing hunched in the backseat like a goddamn cryptid?” James snaps, spinning the wheel sharply as the tires scream against asphalt.
Sirius glances up, still crouched beside you. “I was making sure she’s okay!”
James looks into the rearview mirror, his gaze locking on you. “You alright, love?”
You nod, still breathless. “I am. Are you both okay?”
“Yeah,” James says, driving like a mad man. “We’re okay.”
Exhaustion hits you fully. You bury your face into Sirius’s chest, letting yourself feel safe for the first time in hours. He holds you close, his arms wrapping around you like a shield, steady and unyielding.
From the front seat, you hear the faint rasp of a lighter. Remus leans out the window, cigarette igniting, smoke curling into the night air. Behind it, the faint echo of James laughing, Sirius whining about wishing he’d been there to see Snape bleed out. The words are distant and unimportant.
All that matters is the warmth pressed into your body, the steady rhythm of Sirius’s heartbeat beneath your ear, and the eyes of Remus in the mirror, soft with love. You know now that despite the violence, the blood, and the scars each of them carries, there is enough love in the four of you to fill every corner of the world.
The last thing you see before you let your eyes close, finally for sleep, is Remus’ smile, gentle and full of adoration, as he exhales smoke from his cigarette.
❝we had our downs but we had way more ups,let's make love❞
pairing — firelord zuko! x fem!earthbender!reader
synopsis — who was surprised when you and zuko were the first in the gaang to get pregnant?
content — fem!reader, mature content (17+), suggestive themes, mention of sex, no actual plot really, indulgent fic, takes place seven years before the legend of aang (which takes placed 12 years after ATLA) so Zuko is 22 and Reader is 21, no use of yn, not proofread
author's note — I didn't watch the leaks yet just clips and if I do I'll still be watching the movie to support the animators
The Princess of the Fire Nation, though she often felt that, as the wife of the Fire Lord, she deserved a far grander title, sat before her vanity, studying her reflection. One by one, she had dismissed her maids, choosing instead to prepare for bed on her own. In truth, the new trending fragrance they all insisted on wearing had begun to make her nauseous.
Though, lately, everything seemed to make her sick.
“Aang sent a letter.”
She hadn’t even heard him enter.
Slowly, she turned to face her husband, a faint crease forming between her brows. “My love, you spend all day in council, and the first thing you do after not seeing me for hours is talk more about the council?” she teased lightly, though there was a hint of tiredness beneath it. She turned back to the mirror, picking up her hairbrush and dragging it gently through her hair.
“Well, love, this isn’t about the council. Technically,” he replied, stepping further into the room. “It’s about Aang. He needs our help.”
“Our help?” She turned again, confusion softening her features as she rose from the vanity. Her green satin nightgown draped elegantly over her figure, the gold stitching catching the candlelight with every movement. The most prominent change, however, was the gentle, undeniable curve of her stomach.
“You knocked me up, dummy,” she teased, a small smile tugging at her lips as she approached him. Her hands slid to his shoulders, then to the ties of his robes, beginning to loosen them with practiced ease. “Or did you forget already?”
He laughed softly, the sound low and fond, allowing her to help him out of his robes as the fabric slipped from his shoulders.
“How could I forget?” he murmured, turning toward her.
His gaze drifted over her slowly, appreciatively, before settling on the curve of her stomach. His hands followed, almost instinctively, coming to rest there, warm, steady, protective. His thumbs brushed gentle circles over the satin, as if he could feel something deeper beneath it.
“When you carry the future of the Fire Nation inside you?” he said quietly, his voice softening. “A little piece of me…”
His eyes lifted to meet hers, something tender and unguarded flickering there.
“And all of you.”
She hummed softly, rising onto her tiptoes as her arms slipped around his neck, drawing him down to her. Her lips met his in a gentle, fleeting kiss, soft, familiar, almost teasing.
But when she tried to pull away, he didn’t let her.
His hand tightened at her waist, the other still resting protectively against her stomach as he followed her retreat, capturing her lips again before the distance could grow. Even as her heels lowered back to the floor, he bent with her, closing the space she had tried to create.
This time the kiss deepened, slower, warmer, lingering in a way that stole the breath from her lungs. It wasn’t hurried, but it wasn’t soft either; it carried weight, intention, something unspoken between them.
His thumb brushed lightly against her side as he tilted his head, pressing closer, as if memorizing her. The world beyond them seemed to fade, the council, the letter, everything, leaving only the quiet crackle of candlelight and the steady rhythm of shared breath.
When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far, just enough for their foreheads to rest together, his lips still ghosting over hers, reluctant to let her go.
“I can’t get you pregnant again, can I? Double pregnant,” he teased, a grin tugging at his lips.
She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head at him. “Oh, you’ve certainly tried,” she replied, her voice laced with amusement. Her hand lingered briefly against his chest before she stepped back, just enough to create space between them. “But don’t try again, I need this thing out of me first.” "I don't know if I love you referring to our child as a thing."
She separated from him fully then, turning slightly as if to busy herself, though she didn’t miss the way his shoulders subtly slumped at the loss of contact. The warmth between them lingered in the space she left behind, unspoken but felt.
Her fingers adjusted the sleeve of her gown absentmindedly, her expression softening for just a moment before she glanced back at him over her shoulder. There was still a hint of her earlier smile there, though now tempered with curiosity.
“Now,” she said, more gently this time, “tell me what Aang wants.”
"That can wait for the morning." He mumbled, his eyes never leaving her lips as he pulled her back into another kiss.
“A village?”
Zuko sighed, steadying Appa’s harness as he helped his wife climb aboard. “Why would he possibly want us to go to a random village?” And why would he say pack a coat? We're going to a mountain aren't we?" she huffed, gripping the edge before finally pulling herself over with a bit more effort than she liked. "I hate mountains."
He lingered below for a moment, looking up at her, concern etched into his features. “Are you sure it’s a good idea for you to go? You can stay—I’ll be back in a couple days.”
She leaned over the edge slightly, brows knitting. “Aang needs the second-best earthbender with him, Zuko. I’m not disabled—”
She winced mid-sentence, her hand instinctively going to her stomach before she turned toward Toph. “Sorry.”
Toph shrugged easily. “Hey, I’m just glad you finally admitted I’m the better earthbender.”
“I give you your flowers when they’re due,” she shot back with a small smile.
Toph grinned, but it slowly faltered, her head tilting slightly as if listening to something no one else could hear. "Your heart must be beating really fast." "Is it?" The princess quirked her head confused. "Why else am I hearing two heartbeats coming from you?”
Katara gasped, her hands flying together in delight. “Oh my gosh, you’re pregnant! I thought your coat was just oddly bulky but you're pregnant! Oh my Gosh!" she exclaimed, immediately rushing forward to wrap the Fire Princess in a tight hug. “I thought they were just rumors, because surely you and Zuko would’ve told us!”
The princess blinked, caught off guard, before her gaze slid over to her husband, who was just now hauling himself rather ungracefully into Appa’s saddle.
“Zuko,” she said slowly, one brow arching, “I thought you told them.”
Zuko froze mid-step, staring back at her blankly. “I thought you did.”
There was a beat.
“Oh my gosh.”
“I mean, it was only a matter of time,” Katara chimed in, smiling knowingly. “You two have never exactly been subtle. And Zuko practically insisted on marrying you the moment he could.”
Toph snorted, crossing her arms. “Yeah, honestly? I’m surprised it took this long. Thought for sure you’d have a whole lineup of heirs by now if Zuko could keep his hands to himself for more than, what? two minutes?”
Zuko nearly choked, his face flushing a deep, unmistakable red. “That’s— I—” He cleared his throat, straightening awkwardly as he avoided everyone’s eyes. “That’s not— we’re not—”
The princess, however, looked entirely unbothered.
In fact, she looked amused.
“Well,” she said lightly, smoothing a hand over her stomach as she glanced at him, “he does have a bit of a… lack of restraint.”
Zuko snapped his head toward her. “You’re not helping.”
Katara laughed, covering her mouth. “I mean, you can’t blame them. You’ve both been—” she hesitated, searching for a polite word before giving up, “—like that since the beginning.”
Toph grinned wider. “Please. ‘Like that’ is putting it nicely.”
“Toph,” Katara warned, though she was still smiling.
“What?” Toph shrugged. “I’m just saying—half the time, I didn’t even need my feet to know when they were in the same room. The tension alone was loud enough.”
The princess let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re all incredibly annoying.”
Zuko groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Can we please focus on the actual reason we’re here?”
“Oh, no, no,” Toph continued, clearly enjoying herself. “You deserve this. All those nights you two kept everyone awake—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” the princess cut in quickly, though a smile tugged at her lips. She glanced at Zuko, amused. “He can’t get any redder. He’s about to turn into a tomato.”
Zuko let out a quiet, embarrassed huff, but didn’t argue, instead shifting closer and settling against her side, seeking some sense of refuge.
She softened slightly at that, her expression gentler as she let him.
“Let’s just go get Sokka,” he muttered, still avoiding everyone’s gaze.
The princess had shrugged off her coat minutes into the trip. They weren’t even close to Aang yet, and the extra weight had her uncomfortably warm, a light sheen of sweat clinging to her skin. The shifting air currents around Appa did little to help.
Katara, however, had not left her alone once.
The questions came one after another, gentle but relentless, curiosity shining in her eyes.
“How far along are you?”
“Five months,” she answered, offering a tired but polite smile.
“What’s the gender?”
“No clue.”
“Any baby names lined up?”
“We’re trying for something that blends earth and fire,” she said, glancing briefly at Zuko, “but nothing’s stuck yet.”
Katara brightened. “That’s so sweet—”
“Are you going to have more?”
The princess didn’t even hesitate. “Have you met my husband?”
Katara blinked, then laughed, covering her mouth.
Zuko, meanwhile, coughed into his fist, his ears burning all over again.
Through it all, his hand never left her, resting protectively over her stomach, thumb brushing slow, absent circles as if grounding himself in her presence. Every so often, his grip would tighten slightly whenever Appa shifted, like he could somehow steady both her and the child at once.
“Careful,” he murmured under his breath at one point, guiding her subtly as the saddle dipped.
“I’m fine,” she replied, though she didn’t pull away from him.
By the time the icy waters and familiar structures of the Southern Water Tribe came into view, the air had grown colder, sharper against their skin. Snow dusted the ground below, and the distant figures of Water Tribe members began to gather, pointing up at Appa’s descending form.
They didn’t have to search long.
Sokka was already striding across the snow toward them, boots crunching loudly with each step, his grin widening the second he took them in.
“Well, well,” he called, arms spreading like he was welcoming honored guests. “Look who finally decided to show up. Took you two long enough.”
His gaze flicked between them, lingering, calculating, before it dropped.
Then paused.
“…Whoa.”
Zuko stiffened immediately. “Don’t.”
But Sokka was already circling them, slow and deliberate, like he was inspecting something fascinating. “No way. No way. You’re serious?”
The princess raised a brow, unimpressed. “Very.”
Sokka let out a low whistle, dragging a hand down his face before pointing straight at Zuko. “I mean, I knew you two had issues with personal space, but I didn’t think you’d go and make it this… I don't even know the word for it. You two are freaks."
Zuko groaned, already regretting coming. “Sokka.”
“What?” Sokka shrugged, smirk growing. “You expect me to ignore this? This isn't even groundbreaking it's just expected from you both knowing you. This is, this is what happens when you two get even five minutes alone, isn’t it?”
Toph let out a quiet snort.
Sokka leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make it worse. “Actually, scratch that. Five minutes is probably generous.”
Zuko made a strangled noise. “Okay.”
Katara slapped a hand over her face. “Sokka—”
“No, no, I’m just connecting the dots,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself. “All those times you disappeared during meetings, all those ‘private discussions’ yeah, makes a lot more sense now.”
The princess tilted her head, completely unbothered. “You’re being very bold for someone standing this close to me.”
Sokka grinned. “I’m just impressed, honestly. You two had so much tension it was practically a natural disaster, and now—” he gestured vaguely toward her stomach, “—this is the aftermath. Surprised it took you this long."
Toph laughed outright at that.
Zuko looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.
Sokka wasn’t done.
“I mean seriously,” he added, folding his arms, “if this is what happens when the Fire Lord gets a little too… distracted, I’m shocked there’s not a second one already on the way.”
Zuko choked. “That’s enough.”
“Hey, I’m congratulating you!” Sokka shot back. “Just saying, next time, maybe let people know before you two go off and—”
“Sokka.”
“—expand the royal family.”
Katara shoved him lightly. “You’re unbelievable.”
“But not wrong,” he corrected smoothly.
The princess let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Unfortunately, he’s not entirely wrong.”
Zuko turned to her, betrayed. “You’re encouraging him.”
“We've been married for eleven months and I've been pregnant for five of them, you lack restraint Zuko” she stated bluntly, though her smile gave her away. He shook his head leaning close so only he could hear her. "Who suggested riding me in the throne ro-" "Okay hush now."
Sokka clapped his hands together once, satisfied. “Great. Now that we’ve established the Fire Lord has absolutely no self-control—”
“Sokka.”
“—can someone please tell me why Aang is dragging us to some random village?"
The teasing was warranted, deserved, even.
The Fire Nation had taken your father, your brother. Zuko’s redemption didn’t erase that. Not to you. He had hunted you, cornered you, forced you into survival more times than you could count. While the others learned to trust him, to laugh with him, to move on… you hadn’t. Not so easily.
So yeah, there had been tension.
A lot of it.
It just… hadn’t been resolved in a way anyone else approved of.
His lips brushed slowly along the inside of her thigh, unhurried, deliberate, testing, teasing. The touch alone was enough to pull a quiet, unwilling sound from her, her breath catching despite herself.
“Just do it already,” she muttered, more breath than voice, her fingers tightening against the sheets.
Zuko clicked his tongue softly, unfazed. Another kiss followed, closer this time, but still not quite where she wanted, where she needed.
“Not until you say please.”
Her head tipped back in frustration. “Why would I have to say please?” she shot back weakly. “You said you were atoning for everything your nation did. Consider this part of your apology.”
A quiet huff of amusement left him, warm against her skin. “I’ve been atoning for two months now,” he murmured, his voice low, almost thoughtful.
Another slow press of his lips, lingering.
“And yet,” he added, “every morning I wake up and you’ve already taken my portion of breakfast because, apparently, ‘murderers don’t deserve to eat.’”
She exhaled sharply, somewhere between a scoff and something softer. “Well, when the Fire Nation killed my family, I couldn’t afford breakfast—”
“I know.” His tone shifted immediately, the teasing giving way to something heavier, sincere. His hand stilled, grounding. “I know. And I’m sorry.”
There was a pause, the air between them tightening, thick with everything unsaid.
“I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it,” he continued quietly. “For what I did… for what I stood for.”
His placed a long kiss to her core, a soft moan (against her will) escaped her lips.
“Let me try,” he said, voice gentler now. “Even if it’s not enough.”
“I’m glad you all could make it, this village needs our help with—” Aang began, pulling back from Katara mid-sentence.
His eyes flicked across the group.
Paused.
Then widened.
“…Are—did—?”
He leaned toward Katara, lowering his voice into what he clearly thought was a whisper. “Am I allowed to ask people if they’ve gained weight?”
Katara’s eyes widened. “No, Aang. We’ve been over this.”
Aang nodded quickly. “Right, right. No asking.”
“…They’re pregnant,” she added quietly.
Aang blinked.
Then looked back at them.
Then back at Katara.
“…Zuko’s pregnant too?”
Toph snorted.
Sokka immediately burst out laughing. “Yeah, yeah, Fire Lord had a lot to do with it actually.”
Zuko’s face flushed instantly. “That’s not—”
“I’m pregnant, Aang,” the princess cut in, voice flat.
“Oh!” Aang straightened immediately, relief flooding his face. “Oh, that makes way more sense.”
There was a beat.
“…Congratulations!” he added, a little too late but entirely sincere.
Then his expression shifted, concern creeping in.
“Wait, are you sure you should be here?” he asked, glancing between her and Zuko. “I mean, with everything going on… I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Zuko immediately nodded. “Exactly.”
She sighed.
“I’m pregnant, not made of glass,” she said, crossing her arms lightly. “I can still help.”
Toph smirked. “Told you.”
Katara smiled gently. “We’ll keep an eye on you. Just in case.”
Sokka grinned. “Yeah, someone has to make sure Zuko doesn’t give himself an aneurysm trying to watch after the princess.”
Zuko shot him a glare.
Aang hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. I trust you. Just… be careful, alright?”
She gave a small, confident nod.
“Always.”
Aang clapped his hands together once, refocusing. “Right, so. The village has been dealing with a spirit. It’s been acting aggressively, and I think it’s tied to something in the mountain.”
The princess exhaled slowly. “…So you did drag us out here for a mountain.”
Aang winced. “Technically… yes.”
Zuko sighed. “Of course.”
Toph cracked her knuckles. “Good. I was getting bored.”
Sokka looked between them, grin already returning. “Alright, angry spirit, pregnant Fire-Earth Princess, and Zuko on edge. This should go great.”
She leaned slightly into Zuko’s side, her hand brushing his.
“Next time,” she murmured, “we ignore the letter and go to Ember Island."
He huffed softly. “…Agreed.”
love speaks! rushed and indulgent sorry i wish this was better but if i draft it it'll never get done. divider by @/cafekitsune
Humans are considered the "Eldritch Horrors" of the galaxy. We heal from grievous wounds rapidly, we consume toxic substances like capsaicin and ethanol for fun, and we require unconscious hallucinations (sleep) for 8 hours a day to function.
osamu realized that suna was down bad for you very early on in your relationship.
you see, suna was a bit of a fickle guy. an "i do whatever the hell i want" kind of guy. a lot of his actions had no rhyme or reason and he did them based purely on amusement or simply "why not?"
for example, he had a little game he liked to play that osamu had no idea how suna got the idea for. whenever he'd meet unimportant strangers like baristas, cashiers, people on the street, he would completely lie to their faces about everything about himself.
he was not suna rintaro and he did not play volleyball. he'd give them different identities each time with a completely straight face like this was completely normal.
he'd tell the barista that he was in college and currently pledging to a fraternity. he'd tell the sweet old lady in the park that he was a single father of two trying his best. he'd tell the cashier that he was an italian fashion designer in a really oddly perfect accent.
"why d'ya do that?" osamu had asked him once.
"just 'cos," suna had answered nonchalantly, "why not?"
that was the thing about suna. he was hard to pin down.
why did he do this? for fun.
why did he do that? he just felt like it.
he was like a gust of wind; a wave at your feet. he did as he pleased when he pleased.
none of suna's "identities" had a particular pattern. he gave the strangers completely randomized names and incredibly detailed life stories that he would literally come up with on the spot.
one day, his name was akane, and he was studying biology at fukuro uni. he was born in okinawa, hence his dialect.
another, he was hizashi, and he had three beautiful baby girls that he was mighty proud of. they were all young, so they were quite a handful, but his mom was helping out, and he couldn't be more grateful for his family!
the next, he was kaito, and he just moved from his family's rice farm in akita. his family also grew fruit, like pears and apples. he moved to the city to try and fulfill his dream of having an acting career!
seriously, there was no point trying to make sense of him. osamu began to wonder if suna was some sort of social experiment bot put out by the government.
however, at some point, right around when you and suna had started talking, osamu began to notice something. suna's actions usually had one pattern: that there was no pattern. however, he began to notice that one was actually forming.
his identities and stories were still random, but there seemed to be a constant:
you.
even as watari, the aspiring engineer, he had a new girlfriend who's not good with mornings.
even as miyano, the very young grandparent, he had a lovely wife who liked to surprise him with backhugs.
even as tooru, the nice young man who volunteers at the animal shelter, he had a girl he was talking to that had the cutest smile.
every identity, no matter what age, background, career, preference, whatever, included a girl who sounded exactly like you.
it was then that osamu realized.
it didn't matter what form, identity, timeline, or universe suna had randomly picked that day for his own amusement.
he would find you, choose you, and love you in every single one.
notes: i feel like i saw something similar like a few years back but it was BL not 'x reader' and that was what inspired this but i cant find it. i dont know if im crazy and thought that up on my own or if im just stupid but if you see the original or if you're the original, let me know and i will credit you!
Summary: Don't fall in love with your best friend unless you're ready to have your heart broken.
A/N: Happy Belated Valentine's my babiesss sorry it took so long to post i actually got pretty sick last weekend so i wasnt able to finish the fic on time but i hope you enjoy!
credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider
As a child, Harry had once stumbled across a series of books Dudley had received for his birthday—a gift he’d promptly discarded in a tantrum after declaring he’d wanted a new gaming system instead.
Harry hadn’t exactly known how to read at the time. He’d pieced words together slowly, sounding them out in whispers late at night beneath his cupboard blanket. But somehow, he’d managed to salvage one of the books from the rubbish bin, thankfully not too stained or torn.
That rescued copy had become one of his most prized possessions.
Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.
He’d read it over and over again until the spine cracked and the pages softened at the edges. He remembered thinking, even at ten years old, how impossibly oblivious Percy was. How could someone be so blind? Annabeth’s feelings were practically written in flashing neon letters. Surely anyone with half a brain—or at the very least, a pulse—could sense what was happening around them.
Harry had thought it ridiculous.
Fate, apparently, had thought it hilarious.
By the time he reached his sixth year at Hogwarts, it seemed the universe had turned around, smacked him square in the face with that old paperback, and laughed.
Because he had somehow managed to fall hopelessly, painfully, irrevocably in love with one of the most emotionally intelligent people he knew—
And you were completely, utterly oblivious.
The irony was cruel.
You, who had noticed Ron’s ears turning red every time Hermione spoke too passionately about something. You, who had quietly pulled Harry aside months before anyone else caught on and said, “Ron’s falling for her, isn’t he?”
You, who had called Seamus out for his embarrassingly obvious crush on Lavender Brown, comparing him to a child tugging at pigtails during playtime just to get a reaction.
You, who could tell Hermione was in a foul mood simply based on the way she tied her hair that morning.
You—who read people like open books.
Couldn’t tell that your best friend was madly in love with you.
And had been for two years.
At first, Harry had thought he was doing a decent job hiding it. He wasn’t exactly known for emotional finesse—Hermione had smacked him upside the head more than once for being clueless—but he figured he could at least manage subtlety.
Apparently not.
Hermione had fixed him with a long, unimpressed stare one afternoon in the common room and said, very slowly, “Harry. You follow every word she says like a lap dog. You are not fooling anyone.”
He’d nearly choked on his tea.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Ron had snorted. Hermione had rolled her eyes.
The worst part?
They were right.
Everyone had noticed.
Everyone—except you.
So Harry tried something different.
He stopped hiding.
He started calling group outings with Ron and Hermione “double dates,” saying it lightly, casually, as if it were a joke—but watching you carefully for any sign of understanding.
There was none.
He’d draped his arm around your shoulders whenever you sat beside him, heart hammering as you leaned into him without hesitation.
You’d only smiled and continued talking, completely unfazed.
Last Valentine’s Day, he’d even gathered the courage to give you a card.
Not anonymous. Not vague.
A proper Valentine.
You’d stared at it for a moment, eyes wide and soft, and then you’d hugged him tightly.
“That’s so sweet of you, Harry,” you’d said. “You didn’t want me to feel left out.”
He’d felt something in his chest cave in so suddenly he’d almost wondered if it would show on his face.
That was the day he’d given up.
You clearly weren’t interested. You clearly didn’t see him that way. Because surely—surely—no one could be that blind. Not you. Not the person who noticed everything.
And yet.
He still didn’t tell you.
He couldn’t.
Because losing you altogether was not an option.
He could survive loving you quietly.
He could survive pretending.
He could survive swallowing it down every time you curled into his side or stole his jumpers or whispered that he was your safe place.
But he could not survive you walking away.
That would undo him in ways even Voldemort never had.
So he chose silence.
He chose the quiet torture of it.
And he told himself that it was enough.
It had to be.
But Merlin—
You made it painfully, excruciatingly difficult.
It was one of those mornings where his uniform just didn’t want to listen. Harry had barely managed to get dressed. His shirt was wrinkled and stubbornly refusing to stay tucked into his pants, and his tie… well, his tie was acting like it had a mind of its own. No matter how many times he twisted and adjusted it, it refused to sit flat.
Part of him wanted to leave it in his dorm and run late, but he’d already lost two points for Gryffindor yesterday—leaving his robes behind because he was far too warm—and he’d be damned if he lost more, not when Slytherin was creeping up.
So instead, he kept undoing and redoing the insipid tie, the knot now looking like a wriggling little snake.
“Oh, this is driving me crazy.” You said, stepping up to him like you did any other day, batting his hands away from the tie.
Before he could respond, you were behind him, hands on his shoulders, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt. He froze.
“Stay still, Haz.” You reached around him, adjusting the knot with the precision of someone who had done it a hundred times before. Your fingers lingered at his throat, and Harry’s stomach decided to stop functioning altogether.
He watched your soft hands, then flicked his gaze to your face, keeping his breath shallow. He dared not move too much; one accidental graze of your hand on his chest and he was certain he would faint.
“There we go,” You said happily, smoothing down his shirt, “Now you won’t lose us points for being a slob.”
There was a moment of quiet after you stepped back. Harry adjusted his glasses nervously, feeling the faint ghost of where your fingers had been. He tried to focus on the tie, but all he could think about was how effortlessly close you’d been, how natural it had felt for you to reach around him, and how his heart was hammering in his chest for no reason he could explain.
Harry wanted to argue that he was not a slob—he was a fool. A fool for you. But all that came out was a breathless, “Thanks.”
You shrugged, smiling faintly. “Anytime.” And with that, you were gone, leaving Harry standing in the common room, sparks crawling down his body from where your hands had pressed against his shoulders.
It started with a bang.
Not a catastrophic one—not the sort that sent stone crumbling or Death Eaters Apparating—but the unmistakable crack of a spell gone wrong, followed by the shrill screech of something that definitely should not have been screeching at two in the morning.
Harry was upright in bed before he was fully conscious.
“What—?” Ron mumbled from across the dormitory, hair sticking up even worse than usual.
The corridor outside erupted into noise. Doors opening. Voices overlapping. Someone shouting, “Seamus, I swear—”
Harry shoved on a pair of joggers and grabbed his glasses just as the portrait hole burst open downstairs and Professor McGonagall’s voice rang up the staircase.
“All students are to gather in the common room immediately!”
Brilliant.
Within minutes, the tower was chaos—students stumbling down in mismatched pajamas, half-awake and grumbling. Ron looked like he might fall asleep standing up. Dean was laughing. Seamus looked guilty.
Harry was scanning the staircase.
Hermione clambered down, hair in messy braids, Crookshanks tucked into her arms.
And then you appeared.
Sleepy. Disoriented. Rubbing at your eyes.
And—
Wearing his Quidditch jersey.
It swallowed you whole.
The hem brushed dangerously high against your thighs, revealing a pair of barely-there shorts beneath. One shoulder of the jersey slipped lower than the other, the collar stretched from wear. Your hair was a mess, curling around your face, and you looked so soft and warm and real that for a second Harry forgot how to breathe.
You padded over to him barefoot, squinting blearily as you offered him a sleepy smile, and he felt butterflies slam their insistent wings against his diaphragm. No one should look this beautiful straight after waking up.
Heat crawled up his neck.
“I—” He cleared his throat, trying very hard not to look at your legs. Or the way the fabric clung to you, “I don’t remember giving you that.”
You blinked at him, still half-asleep.
“Oh. Yeah,” You said casually, glancing down at yourself as though you’d forgotten what you were wearing, “I think I stole it, like… a year ago or something. It’s my favourite sleep shirt.”
You yawned.
Actually yawned.
As if you hadn’t just detonated something inside his ribcage.
Harry wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
But you didn’t notice.
You shuffled closer without thinking—because you always did—and leaned lightly into his side, your head brushing his shoulder as you crossed your arms against the chill of the stone floor.
It was instinctive.
Unthinking.
Comfort.
His entire body went rigid for half a second before he forced himself to relax.
For one reckless, dangerous second, something warm and foolish bloomed in his chest.
You fit far too perfectly there.
It was hard to believe you weren’t meant to be.
His arm twitched at his side, resisting the urge to wrap around you. To make the picture complete.
Instead, he swallowed.
“You could’ve asked.” He muttered.
You smiled without opening your eyes.
“Like you would’ve said no.”
His gaze drifted down before he could stop himself—the oversized jersey, the way it brushed your thighs, the faint outline of his old Quidditch number pressed against your chest.
His.
And yet not.
You tugged absently at the hem, “Don’t worry. I’ll give it back one day.”
He forced a shrug, “Keep it.”
You hummed contentedly and leaned into him more fully, completely unaware of the war waging inside his skull.
McGonagall was still lecturing Seamus about reckless spellwork. Students whispered. The common room buzzed with irritation and half-suppressed laughter.
Eventually, detentions were handed out and it was declared safe to return to bed. One by one, people began climbing the stairs again.
You murmured a sleepy goodnight and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek before heading up.
Harry watched your retreating figure.
And the name stretched across your back.
Potter.
Something in his chest clenched painfully.
This—this was it.
As close as he would ever get.
The only way he would ever see you with his last name.
On the back of an old, worn jersey.
Harry had been wandering the castle corridors with a tray in his hands—two steaming mugs of tea and a small plate of treacle tart he’d grabbed from the kitchens—because honestly, you looked completely drained, buried under a mountain of books in the library, and he couldn’t just leave you like that.
“Here,” He said softly, setting the tray beside you, “Thought you might need… something.”
You looked up from your notes, hair tumbling across your face, eyes half-lidded with focus. “Haz,” You murmured, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips, “You’re a lifesaver.”
Harry felt his chest warm at the soft praise, giving a small, almost embarrassed shrug, “Well… someone had to. You’ve been at this for hours.”
You took a careful sip from your tea, and your eyes flickered up at him, almost surprised. “Exactly how I like it,” You murmured, setting the mug down with a satisfied hum. You leaned back, stretching languidly, hair falling messily over your shoulders, and reached for a tart, “Honestly, you’re amazing, you know that?”
Harry blinked, trying to keep his composure. “The flies are starting to gather here because they think you’re a corpse, you know.” He teased lightly, but the truth was harder to hide. Even like this—bare-faced, hair tousled from running your hands through it constantly, lips soft and slightly bitten—you looked gorgeous. Effortless. Bright. Dangerous in a way that made his chest tighten.
He tried to act casual, sitting on the edge of the table, but his mind refused to cooperate. Every movement you made, every tilt of your head, every lazy stretch—it all pulled his attention like gravity.
Then, as if the universe were deliberately cruel, you looked straight at him. Your eyes softened, warm and unguarded, and you spoke like you weren’t even thinking about the weight of your words.
“You know,” You said casually, almost absentmindedly, “anyone who ends up with you is going to be really lucky.”
Harry froze. His stomach dropped.
“Haz?” You blinked, tilting your head slightly, noticing his silence, “Are you even listening?”
“I… yeah.” He croaked. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to throw the treacle tart at the wall. He wanted—he wanted everything that was impossible.
You smiled softly, leaning back against the table, entirely casual, completely unaware of the storm you’d just unleashed. “You’re such a great friend, you know. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”
Friend.
Harry’s chest tightened painfully, his throat constricting, a lump rising that refused to go down. Of course. Of course that’s how you saw him. All this praise, all this warmth… and none of it was for him in the way he longed for.
You can’t possibly say all this if you don’t have an idea, he thought bitterly. You must know… and you’re saying it anyway.
He remembered all the little ways he had shown he cared—ways no one else would notice. When Hermione had nearly ended up in the hospital wing while cramming for her OWLs, he had stayed behind in the dorm with you, drilling you with flashcards, quizzing you until your eyes drooped. You should have known that this wasn’t ordinary. That this was special treatment.
He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Yeah. Of course. You’re… right.”
You hummed, picking up your tea again, completely oblivious, eyes returning to your notes, leaving Harry sitting there, trembling slightly, heart racing and shattering all at once.
As soon as February first hit, Valentine’s Day decorations began infecting the castle like a rash—pink banners strung across archways, enchanted cherubs flitting through corridors with tiny golden bows, heart-shaped confetti drifting lazily from the ceiling.
Harry had never thought he’d hate the color red.
But here he was, absolutely detesting the sight of the red paper hearts hanging from every doorframe in Gryffindor Tower.
He should’ve told that blasted Hat to sort him into Slytherin.
At least then the common room wouldn’t look like it had been violently attacked by romance.
He was sitting in an armchair, pretending to read, when Ron dropped heavily into the seat across from him. Seamus sprawled on the sofa, hands tucked behind his head.
“So,” Seamus began casually, like he was commenting on the weather, “Valentine’s Day coming up.”
Harry didn’t look up from his book, “Fascinating.”
Dean snorted, “You finally going to confess your undying love this year, or are we continuing the proud annual tradition of pining in silence?”
Harry’s head snapped up, “Sod off.”
Ron grinned wickedly, “Oh, come on, mate. We’ve got bets going.”
“You have bets?” Harry demanded.
“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding seriously, “Whether you’ll confess, or just stare at her like she’s the last slice of treacle tart on earth.”
Ron shrugged, “My money’s on the staring.”
Harry threw his book down, “I do not—”
“You absolutely do,” Seamus cut in, “Every time she laughs, you look like someone’s cast a Patronus straight into your ribcage.”
Harry opened his mouth to argue.
And then closed it again.
Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “So? You gonna tell her?”
Harry hesitated.
Just for a second.
Because part of him wanted to.
Merlin, he wanted to.
The thought had been clawing at him ever since that afternoon in the library.
He wanted to drop to his knees. To tell you he loved you and always would. That he would do whatever it took to make you feel like the most special girl in the entire world. That he would adore you until the end of time if you let him.
No one else would ever love you the way he was willing to.
With every single fiber of his being.
With a kind of devotion so limitless, so boundless, so unconditional that it scared even him to recognize it. The kind that made him feel like every cell in his body would willingly come apart if you asked him to.
And then—
Dean laughed lightly, “She probably wouldn’t even realize, to be honest.”
That one landed wrong.
A sharp, painful twinge in his chest that seemed to connect to his stomach, to the tips of his fingers, to his jaw.
Ron nodded, “Yeah. You could get down on one knee and she’d just go, ‘Haz, are you feeling alright?’”
The boys burst out laughing.
Harry didn’t.
Because that was the worst part.
They weren’t wrong.
His jaw tightened.
Ron tilted his head, studying him now instead of teasing, “You ever think maybe she doesn’t know because you let her not know?”
Harry’s stomach twisted.
“That doesn’t even make sense.” He muttered.
“It does,” Ron said, quieter now, “You do everything for her. You look at her like she hung the moon. But you never say it. So she doesn’t have to face it.”
Dean leaned back, voice softer than before, “Or maybe she does know. And she’s pretending.”
That one felt like a punch to the ribs.
So hard he felt his breakfast crawl up his throat.
Harry stood abruptly, “You’re all mental.”
“Just saying!” Seamus called as Harry headed toward the stairs, “Valentine’s Day’s a good excuse!”
“Yeah,” Ron added, “Worst she can say is no.”
Harry paused at the bottom step.
He didn’t turn around.
Worst she can say is no.
But that wasn’t what terrified him.
What terrified him was the moment you’d realize how deep his feelings actually ran.
Because you—kindhearted, careful, endlessly thoughtful you—would pull back.
You’d grow cautious.
You’d stop sitting so close. Stop stealing his scarves. Stop crawling into his bed when you couldn’t sleep.
You’d feel guilty for ever letting it look like he had a chance.
And he would lose you.
Not just the possibility of you.
You.
His best friend.
The girl he had loved quietly for longer than he dared admit.
And that—
That was a risk he wasn’t sure he could survive.
The knock on Harry’s dormitory door was soft.
Too soft for this hour.
He looked up from where he was sitting on his bed, glasses slipping halfway down his nose, “Yeah?”
The door creaked open, and you slipped inside, already in your sleep clothes, glancing at him to make sure he was awake. When your eyes met his, your shoulders relaxed, and you stepped fully into the room.
“Hi.” You said quietly.
Harry’s stomach dropped at once, “What happened?”
You sighed, shutting the door behind you. “Ron and Hermione had a row. It started over something stupid and turned into something not stupid. They’re both pacing like caged animals, and I figured…” You shrugged, “They might need space.”
Harry nodded slowly. That made sense.
“And?” He asked gently.
“So I was wondering if… if it’s okay if I sleep here tonight.” It sounded like courtesy more than a real question—you were already walking toward the bed, looking tired and small in a way that made it impossible to say no.
His heart skipped.
“Course,” He said instead, softer now, “You know you don’t have to ask.”
Your shoulders relaxed immediately. “Thanks, Haz.”
You climbed into his bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifting the blankets and sliding beneath them.
The air shifted.
This wasn’t new. You’d done it before—after nightmares, after late-night talks that blurred into sleep, after studying until your eyes burned.
It wasn’t new.
But something about tonight felt different.
Harry swallowed.
For the first time, the thought flickered through his mind before he could stop it—
Why not Ron’s bed?
Why here? Why were you so comfortable beside him that you didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even consider the empty bed across the room that would stay empty all night if history had anything to say about it?
The question burned at the back of his tongue.
But he bit it down, watching as you settled into his pillow, getting comfortable. He lay down more slowly, painfully aware of every inch of space between you, of the warmth your body gave off in the cool room.
The dormitory was quiet except for the distant whisper of wind against the windows.
You turned onto your side, facing him, “Night, Haz.”
“Good night.” He said quickly.
You hummed softly in response, already drifting off.
It took less than five minutes.
Your breathing evened out. Your body went slack with sleep. One of your hands shifted unconsciously, brushing his shirt before coming to rest there.
Like it belonged.
Harry stared up at the ceiling.
Wide awake.
Every nerve in his body felt lit. He could feel the warmth of you beside him, the steady rhythm of your breathing, the faint scent of your shampoo clinging to his pillow.
You were so close.
So close he could have counted your eyelashes if he’d turned his head.
And you slept.
Just like that.
No tension. No hesitation. No awareness of what this might mean.
Because to you, it didn’t mean anything.
That was what hurt.
You could fall asleep beside him without a second thought, while he lay rigid, afraid to breathe too deeply in case he woke you, afraid that if he didn’t move at all he’d never make it through the night.
He wanted to wrap an arm around you.
He wanted to pull you closer.
He wanted to know what it would feel like to hold you properly, to fit against you the way his body seemed to insist it was meant to. To bury his face in your hair. To memorize the shape of you by heart.
He wanted to ask why him.
Why always him.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he stayed perfectly still, staring into the dark, listening to the soft sound of your breathing.
That should have been enough.
But as the minutes dragged on and sleep refused to come, a cruel thought crept in—
If you knew.
If you knew how badly he wanted you…
Would you still sleep this easily?
Would you still crawl into his bed without thinking twice?
His throat tightened.
Beside him, you shifted closer in your sleep, your forehead brushing faintly against his shoulder.
And Harry finally closed his eyes.
Not because he was calm.
But because it was easier than letting himself cry.
Harry didn’t remember falling asleep.
If he had at all.
Grey morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and cold, painting soft lines across the dormitory ceiling. For a few seconds, he didn’t move.
Then he became aware of the weight against his chest.
You.
Your back was pressed to his front, your body curled slightly toward him as if you’d shifted in your sleep without thinking. Your hair brushed his chin with every breath. One of his arms was trapped beneath the pillow; the other had somehow slipped around the dip of your waist, pinning you to him.
He released you at once.
And your hips—Merlin help him—were pressed far too close.
He froze, blood rushing from his face and so far south he felt dizzy as his heart began to pound like he’d just finished a Quidditch match. He stared at the wall, terrified that if he moved even an inch, you’d wake up and realise how close you were.
But you didn’t.
You only shifted, nestling back into him, completely unconcerned.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut.
Of course you don’t notice, he thought bitterly.
Why would you?
A moment later, you stirred properly. You stretched, arms reaching forward, back arching slightly—still pressed against him.
“Mmm… morning.” You murmured.
Harry swallowed, “Morning.”
You didn’t jump away.
You didn’t gasp.
You didn’t even hesitate.
You just rolled onto your back and rubbed your eyes.
“Thanks for letting me sleep here.” You said easily.
He forced a laugh that didn’t sound right even to himself, “Yeah. No problem.”
You propped yourself up on one elbow, perfectly at ease, as though you hadn’t been curled into him moments ago.
It hit him then, sharp and humiliating.
You weren’t embarrassed because, to you, there was nothing to be embarrassed about.
You saw him as safe.
Familiar.
Harmless.
Not someone whose chest was still tight from the way you’d fit against him.
Not someone who’d lain awake for hours listening to you breathe.
Not someone who had imagined—stupidly, foolishly—that maybe this meant something more.
You slid out of bed and tugged on his jumper from where it lay across his trunk, “I’m starving. Want to go down to breakfast?”
“Yeah.” He said automatically.
There it was again.
That warm, affectionate smile.
And then you were gone.
The door clicked shut behind you.
Harry stayed where he was, staring at the empty space you’d left behind. The bed was still warm. Your pillow still indented.
He pressed his palm into the sheets where you’d been.
You could curl into him in the middle of the night and wake up tangled in his arms.
And it still didn’t mean what he wanted it to mean.
He fell back against the mattress and covered his eyes with his arm.
Valentine’s Day was a week away.
And he was running out of ways to survive this.
It started with the heat.
Not the warm kind he’d grown used to. Not the soft, almost pleasant flutter that came when you laughed too hard at something stupid he’d said. Not the quiet nerves that lit up under his skin when you linked your arm through his.
This was different.
This felt like something crawling up his spine and settling at the base of his skull.
You were walking beside him after Charms, talking animatedly about something Flitwick had said. Your hands moved when you spoke, brushing his sleeve, tapping lightly against his arm.
Usually he loved that. Usually he leaned into it.
Today, every touch felt like friction.
He nodded along, not really hearing you. The corridor felt too narrow. Too loud. Too bright.
You bumped his shoulder playfully, “Are you even listening?”
“Yeah.” He muttered.
He wasn’t.
He was watching the way your fingers lingered on his sleeve a second too long before dropping away. Watching the way you smiled up at him without hesitation, without thought.
You didn’t think about it.
You never thought about it.
By lunch, it had gotten worse.
The heat had spread — up his neck, across his cheeks. He could feel it burning there. He kept tugging at the collar of his shirt like he could air himself out.
Across the Great Hall, you were laughing with some boy from Hufflepuff. Leaning toward him. Head tilted.
Harry told himself it didn’t matter.
You laughed like that with everyone.
But something about today — something about the way the morning had felt, about the way you’d curled into him two nights ago and slept like you belonged there — made it twist wrong.
You sat across from him, smiling over your pumpkin juice, “You okay, Haz? You’re quiet.”
“I’m fine.” He said too quickly.
You tilted your head, “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
You didn’t push. You never did.
And that made it worse.
Because you trusted him to be honest. You trusted him to be steady. You trusted him to always be there without ever asking why he was there.
The frog in the pot, he thought bitterly. The water heating so slowly he hadn’t realized he was being boiled alive.
By the time you reached the staircase after classes, his nerves were shot raw.
You bumped his arm playfully, “You’re walking like you’re being marched to your execution.”
“Can you—” He started, then stopped himself, “Never mind.”
You blinked, “What?”
“Nothing.”
He took the stairs two at a time.
You followed.
“Harry.”
He didn’t answer.
“Harry, wait.”
He turned at the landing, irritation flashing in his eyes. “What?”
You stopped short. “What’s wrong with you today?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’ve barely looked at me all day.”
“Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”
Your face fell slightly. “Did I do something?”
That question hit him like a jab to the ribs.
“No,” he said, harsher than he meant. “It’s not about you.”
“Then what is it about?”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
He walked away.
But you didn’t let him.
You followed him up the staircase, your steps quickening to match his longer strides. He was climbing like something was chasing him — like if he didn’t put enough distance between the two of you, he might actually combust.
By the time he reached his dormitory, his chest was heaving — not from exertion, but from the pressure building behind his ribs. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
You followed.
Now it was just the two of you.
The room felt smaller than usual. The late afternoon light slanted through the windows, dust drifting lazily in the air, completely unaware that something catastrophic was about to happen.
You shut the door gently behind you.
“If there’s something you want to tell me,” You said, trying to steady your voice, “just go ahead and say it, Harry.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
He stared at everything else in the room but you.
At his trunk. At Ron’s unmade bed. At the crack in the stone wall. Anywhere but your face.
He wasn’t sure if he was avoiding your gaze because he couldn’t bear to see the hurt there — the kind that would extinguish the flames raging in his chest.
Or because looking at you would only pour oil over them.
You hesitated.
Then you reached for his hand.
The contact was gentle. Familiar.
It felt like static shock.
Like a spark struck from flint. Like something small and bright landing in a room full of gasoline fumes.
His entire body reacted before his mind did.
He jerked away.
“Just—stop it.”
Your hand froze midair.
“What?”
“Stop touching me like that,” He snapped, “Stop acting like everything’s normal.”
Your brows pulled together, “Harry, I don’t—”
“That’s the problem,” he said, abruptly, raking his hands through his already messy hair, “You don’t.”
You stood too, confused, hurt beginning to bleed into your expression, “Don’t what?”
“You don’t think. You don’t notice. You just… do things. You hold my hand, you take my jumpers, you sleep in my bed like it’s nothing—”
Your breath caught, “We’ve always—”
“Yes,” He said sharply, “Exactly. You’ve always done it. And I’ve always let you.”
“Why are you acting like it’s a bad thing?”
“Because you don’t see how it’s killing me!”
The words ripped out of him before he could stop them.
They echoed in the quiet room.
You stared at him.
“What are you talking about?” You whispered.
He let out a hollow laugh that didn’t hold even a trace of humor, “You really don’t know.”
“Know what?”
He dragged a hand through his hair again, pacing now, restless and unraveling. The heat in his chest felt unbearable — like something burning through muscle and bone.
“I thought I could handle it,” He said, “I thought I could just… be whatever you needed. Your safe place. Your spare bed. Your extra person.”
His voice wavered, but he pushed through.
“I thought I could ignore the heat. The nerves. The way my stomach drops every time you look at someone else. I thought I could handle wanting you when there’s no possible future where you want me back.”
His throat tightened.
“But I was wrong.”
You stepped toward him, instinctively, “Harry—”
“No,” He said softly, “Let me say it.”
And finally — finally — he looked at you.
Really looked at you.
“I love you.”
Silence swallowed the room.
“I’ve been in love with you for so long,” He continued, voice shaking now, “that I can’t remember a time I didn’t feel like this. When I’m around you, I can’t think straight. It’s like everything else blurs out. Like I’ve gone blind to the world except for you.”
His hands trembled at his sides.
“And for a while… that was okay. I didn’t want to see anything else. I was perfectly content only looking at you."
His laugh was brittle.
“But it’s not easy, (Y/N). It’s not easy just hoping. Just waiting. Yearning for every single touch like it’s a gift. Taking whatever scraps of affection you hand me and pretending it’s enough.”
His voice cracked.
“I feel like a stray dog sometimes. Grateful for any little piece of love you throw my way.”
Your eyes filled with something as your throat began to ache.
“And I can’t keep pretending it’s not killing me,” He said, quieter now, but more raw than before, “I can’t keep smiling through it. I can’t keep acting like I’m not falling apart every time you don’t see me the way I see you.”
His eyes locked onto yours.
“You’re my everything,” He whispered, “But I’m just one of your things.”
The words nearly undid him.
“And that’s all I’ll ever be to you.”
The room felt too still.
Too tight.
He stood there, stripped bare, like he’d finally set down something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t know how to stand without it.
The heat in his chest wasn’t a flutter anymore.
It was a burn.
And it hurt.
Harry didn’t raise his voice when he told you to leave.
That might have been easier to bear.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t say anything cruel.
He just looked at you with that exhausted, hollow expression — like he had finally emptied himself of something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t have the strength to hold anything else.
“I think you should go.” He said quietly.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Just… spent.
For a moment, you stayed where you were. Your body refused to move, as if waiting for him to soften. To sigh and rake a hand through his hair and say he didn’t mean it. To reach for you like he always did when things felt wrong.
He didn’t.
He stepped back instead.
And that — that was what made your chest crack open.
You left without another word.
The corridor outside his dormitory felt longer than usual. The torches along the walls flickered gently, unaware that the world inside you had tilted off its axis. Students passed you on the stairs, laughing, arguing, whispering about homework and Quidditch and weekend plans.
Everything sounded distant. Muffled.
You couldn’t quite feel your feet touching the stone as you walked.
By the time you reached your own dormitory, your hands were trembling.
The room was empty when you entered. The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, soft and golden, dust drifting lazily in the air.
You shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, staring at the opposite wall.
Your heart was still racing.
Harry’s words hadn’t simply echoed — they had embedded themselves somewhere deep inside you, reverberating in slow, relentless waves. Every time you tried to steady your breathing, to anchor yourself in something solid and familiar, his voice would surface again.
I’m in love with you.
The way it had cracked in the middle. The way it sounded less like a confession and more like a wound finally tearing open.
You could still see him — pacing like a caged animal, hands dragging through his hair, shoulders tight with years of something he’d never let himself say. You had memorized his mannerisms over time. The subtle twitch in his jaw when he was frustrated. The way his fingers flexed when he was holding something back. The restless energy that clung to him whenever he didn’t know what to do with his emotions.
You’d thought you knew him.
But tonight had been different.
Tonight he had looked raw.
You pushed yourself away from the door slowly, your back peeling from the cool wood. Your nose burned from the effort of not crying, and when you blinked, the tears spilled over anyway. You didn’t trust your legs to carry you very far, but somehow you made it to your bed before your composure gave way entirely. You sank down onto the mattress and bent forward, pressing your face into the nearest pillow as though you could smother the sound of your own thoughts.
The confession replayed again.
And again.
And then—
You inhaled.
And froze.
That wasn’t your pillow.
You lifted your head, blinking through the blur, and realized your fingers were fisted in black fabric.
Harry’s jumper.
Slightly oversized on you. Sleeves too long. The collar stretched just enough from where you’d tugged it absently while studying.
You hadn’t meant to keep it.
It had been one of those cold nights in the library when the wind rattled the windows and the castle felt more like stone than shelter. You’d shivered once — just once — and he’d noticed. Of course he had.
He’d shrugged it off his shoulders without hesitation, draping it over yours with that casual sort of gentleness that was so uniquely him.
Keep it as long as you want, he’d said.
You never gave it back.
Your throat tightened painfully.
Would you have to return it now?
The thought felt unbearable.
You sat up slowly, the jumper clutched to your chest, your gaze drifting around your dorm room as if you were seeing it for the first time.
Your eyes landed on your nightstand.
The half-open chocolate orange from Honeydukes — the one he’d brought back after noticing you’d been chewing your quill during exam week. He hadn’t made a big deal of it. Just dropped it beside you and muttered something about you needing proper sugar instead of ink.
Next to it, a folded scrap of parchment in his messy handwriting. Practice questions he’d written out to quiz you before Transfiguration. You’d teased him for highlighting almost every sentence.
A tiny golden snitch keychain rested beside your wand. He’d pressed it into your palm in Hogsmeade last winter, cheeks pink from the cold.
Reminded me of you, he’d said, eyes refusing to meet yours.
You’d laughed.
You hadn’t asked why.
It was everywhere.
He was everywhere.
Not in grand, sweeping gestures.
Not in dramatic declarations.
But in the quiet, steady way he had slipped into the empty spaces of your life and made himself at home there.
Your gaze lifted to the moving photographs above your bed.
There were dozens.
Most of them were group pictures—laughing, chaotic, alive. But your gaze snagged on the one from Christmas morning last year. You were mid-laugh, half-hidden by torn wrapping paper. Harry stood beside you, watching.
Not the gift.
You.
At the time, you had thought his smile was simple excitement, pride in having chosen well. Now, with the knowledge of his confession lodged painfully in your chest, you saw something else layered beneath it—something softer, something unguarded. A kind of careful devotion that made your eyes sting all over again.
Now you could see the way his expression softened at the edges. The way his eyes lingered, unguarded. Earnest.
Longing.
How many times had he looked at you like that while you were too busy looking somewhere else?
Your vision blurred again.
You slid off the bed and crouched by your trunk at the foot of it, fingers trembling as you rummaged through folded clothes and books until you reached the small wooden box at the bottom — the one you kept tucked away for things that felt too important to leave out in the open.
You brought it back to the bed and opened it slowly.
Inside were ticket stubs from Hogsmeade weekends. A pressed flower from the lake shore. A few scraps of parchment with inside jokes scribbled in ink.
And then—
You found it.
A modest piece of white cardstock, slightly bent at the corner.
Your favorite flowers charmed along the edges, frozen mid-bloom.
Be my Valentine?
The memory hit you all at once.
A sob broke free before you could stop it, the sound raw in the quiet room. You pressed your hand to your mouth, but it did little to steady you. You hadn’t meant to hurt him. You hadn’t even realized there was something fragile to protect.
But now that he had spoken the truth aloud, your memories rearranged themselves with startling clarity. The way his jaw would tighten when you laughed too brightly at someone else. The subtle shift in his expression whenever another boy lingered too long in conversation. The way his hugs always lasted a fraction of a second longer than necessary, as if he were memorizing the feeling.
You had seen the signs.
Some quiet part of you had always known.
It’s been like this for years.
Sneaking down to the kitchens together. Late-night study sessions that dissolve into whispered confessions about fears neither of you would tell anyone else. Sitting shoulder to shoulder at Quidditch matches, your knee pressed against his because neither of you ever moves away.
You always thought it was just that.
You and him. Best friends. A matched set.
Your chest tightens painfully.
The realization did not strike like lightning. It did not feel dramatic or explosive. Instead, it settled slowly into place, like something ancient and inevitable finally aligning inside you. You tried, for a moment, to imagine your life without him woven into it so seamlessly—the absence of his steady presence beside you in the Great Hall, the lack of his quiet warmth at your side during long nights, the empty space where his voice should be.
The thought hollowed you out in a way guilt never could.
This wasn’t simply remorse for hurting him.
It was grief at the idea of losing something you hadn’t realized you wanted.
You drew his jumper back into your arms and pressed it against your chest, breathing in the familiar scent as your tears slowed into something softer, more certain.
You loved him.
Somewhere along the way, your heart had chosen him quietly and without ceremony.
And now that you finally understood it, the only thing more terrifying than admitting it was the possibility that you had realized too late.
You hadn’t meant for it to stretch into days.
At first, it was only supposed to be a night. One evening to let the shock settle. To let his words stop echoing quite so violently in your chest. But the more you turned them over in your mind, the more you realized you couldn’t simply run back to him with something half-formed and call it love.
You needed to know.
You needed to be certain that what you were feeling wasn’t guilt twisting itself into something softer. That it wasn’t fear of losing him masquerading as devotion. That you weren’t just trying to patch the wound he’d opened with whatever words would make it stop bleeding.
So you kept your distance.
And it seemed Harry had no problem respecting that unspoken boundary.
He avoided you with a precision that would have been impressive if it hadn’t hurt so much.
He left the Great Hall early. Sat at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table, shoulders angled deliberately away from you. Took longer routes between classes, choosing staircases that added minutes to his walk if it meant not crossing yours. When you entered a room, he found a reason to leave it. When you tried to catch his eye, he found something intensely fascinating to study just over your shoulder.
It wasn’t cruel.
That was the worst part.
He wasn’t punishing you.
He was protecting himself.
Careful not to brush against you in passing. Careful not to linger too close in crowded corridors. Careful with his voice, as though speaking to you too long might crack something open again that he’d only just managed to stitch shut.
You caught him watching you once—only once—during Charms. Professor Flitwick had turned to the board, and for a fleeting second, Harry’s guard slipped. His gaze found you with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.
There was no bitterness there. It wasn’t resentment.
It was restraint.
And that made your chest ache in ways you hadn’t expected.
By the time Valentine’s Day arrived, the castle was absolutely drenched in pink and glitter from the highest spires to the stone floors below. The enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall shimmered a soft rose-gold, petals drifting lazily down from an illusion of endless sky. Pink ribbons curled around every banister. The air smelled overwhelmingly of roses and sugar and something sparklingly artificial.
Harry hated it.
He sat rigidly through breakfast, jaw tight as the owls descended in a flurry of wings and parchment. Bouquets, boxes of chocolates, glittering gift bags—packages thumped down across the tables in rapid succession. Laughter erupted every few seconds as someone unwrapped something elaborate or embarrassing.
It was almost comical that Valentine’s Day had fallen on a Hogsmeade weekend this year.
A miracle.
Or some divine joke at his expense—Harry hadn’t quite decided which.
Dean presented Ginny with her bouquet in person, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. Ron, flustered and pink-eared, kept checking his reflection in the back of a spoon before bolting off to meet Hermione. Even Seamus—Godric, even Seamus—had a date and left with an air of nervous triumph.
One by one, his roommates disappeared, pulled eagerly toward waiting hands and planned afternoons.
Harry remained behind.
He told himself he didn’t care.
He’d endured far worse than a holiday built on pink paper hearts and saccharine declarations.
But something about the exaggerated romance of it all scraped at him today. The floating hearts. The couples walking just a little closer than usual, fingers intertwined as if they were guarding something precious. It pressed against the hollow space in his chest and made it ache more sharply than he’d anticipated.
Stupid, really.
He was the one who had confessed. He was the one who had drawn the line. The one who had told you to leave.
And yet he hadn’t realized just how much it would hurt—not only to spend Valentine’s Day alone—but to spend it carrying the quiet understanding that whatever you had been before could never quite be the same again.
He pushed back from the table abruptly, appetite long gone, and made his way up to Gryffindor Tower. The corridors were noticeably quieter now, most students already filtering toward Hogsmeade or secluded corners of the castle.
The Fat Lady gave him a knowing smile as he muttered the password.
He didn’t return it.
By the time he reached his dormitory, exhaustion weighed heavy behind his eyes. He was fully prepared to throw his bag aside and collapse face-first into his mattress, to sleep the day away and wake up when the castle had returned to normal.
He pushed the door open.
And froze.
The room was dimmer than usual, bathed in the steady glow of candlelight. Flames flickered softly along the mantle and windowsills, casting warm gold across the stone walls. The usual clutter—Quidditch gear, discarded socks, scattered parchment—had been tidied away.
And there you were.
Hands clasped tightly around a small arrangement of flowers, as though you weren’t entirely sure what to do with them. Your shoulders were drawn back in visible determination, but your expression wavered somewhere between courage and terror.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Harry’s first instinct was disbelief.
His second was fear.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He said automatically, though the words lacked any real sharpness.
“I know,” You replied softly, “But I had something important I needed to ask you.”
His gaze flicked around the room again, as if confirming that this wasn’t some elaborate trick of exhaustion. The candles. The cleared space. The deliberate care in every detail.
“What is this?” He asked, his voice quieter now.
You swallowed, then stepped forward carefully—like you were approaching something skittish, something that might bolt at the wrong movement.
“You gave me a Valentine last year,” You said, the slightest tremor betraying you, “I thought I might return the favour.”
For a split second, something flickered in his eyes but it was swallowed almost immediately by something harder.
He let out a short, humorless breath, dragging a hand down his face, “Do you realize how cruel you’re being?”
The words hit you square in the chest.
“Harry, I—” You stopped yourself, forcing in a steadying breath, “I came to a couple of… epiphanies since we last spoke.”
He didn’t respond, but he didn’t interrupt you either.
You took another breath, slower this time, willing your thoughts to line up properly instead of scattering the way they had been all morning. Harry watched you closely, and you could tell he was fighting the instinct to step in, to calm you the way he always did when you spiraled. He knew the signs—the way your fingers twisted together, the way your gaze drifted when you were trying to find the right words.
He let you have the silence.
“I’m sorry.”
The words were small when they finally left you.
And he felt his stomach drop.
There it was, he thought. The careful tone. The softness. The prelude to rejection dressed up as kindness. He’d imagined this exact moment in the worst hours of the night—imagined you standing in front of him with pity in your eyes, explaining gently why you couldn’t give him what he wanted.
His shoulders went rigid without him meaning to. Something inside him began quietly folding in on itself.
“I’m sorry for taking so much time to think about this,” You continued, your voice trembling but determined, “And I’m sorry that you’ve felt this way for—God knows how long—and I was so blind to it. I’m sorry for keeping you at arm’s length and dangling something you wanted in front of you for so long. God, I can’t even imagine how that must have felt, because I’ve only just come to this realization a couple days ago and not being able to be around you has been killing me, and I’m such a terrible—”
“(Y/N), hold on.”
He stepped forward suddenly, closing the space between you before he could think better of it, his hands coming up to gently but firmly wrap around your wrists. Not restraining—just grounding. Anchoring you before you could spiral yourself into something cruel and untrue.
You stopped mid-breath.
Your chest was heaving slightly, eyes bright with unshed tears, and for a second neither of you moved. You had forgotten what it felt like for him to touch you. The warmth of his hands. The steadiness of his grip. A small, frightened part of you had begun to wonder if he ever would again.
Harry swallowed.
He hadn’t expected you to look like this—wrecked and earnest and terrified in equal measure.
You opened your mouth, and he nodded his head faintly, urging you to keep going.
“I—” You drew in a steadier breath this time, “You’re my first thought when something happens. You’re the person I look for in every room. When I’m tired, I want you next to me. When I’m overwhelmed, I look for you without even realizing it. And I kept telling myself that was just friendship. That it was normal.”
Your lips curved faintly, sadly, “But I realized that no matter what label I tried to place on it, what I feel for you, Harry, is not just friendship.”
His grip tightened—barely, but enough that you felt it.
Harry’s breathing had gone noticeably slower. Measured. Like he was forcing himself not to interrupt, not to hope too quickly.
“You’re not just some sort of placeholder,” You continued, your voice steadier now, “Or a spare bed. Or my extra person. Or my safe place because you were convenient.”
The room seemed to still entirely.
The candles crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a burst of cheers rose and fell again, distant and irrelevant to the world shrinking down to just the two of you.
Harry stared at you as though you’d begun speaking in a language he desperately wanted to understand but was afraid to mistranslate.
“If it’s not you,” You said, your voice breaking slightly despite your effort to keep it steady, “then I don’t want anyone else.”
His heart thudded once—hard enough it almost hurt.
“If that’s what love is,” You whispered, blinking away the dampness gathering in your lashes, “then I suppose I’ve been in love with you for a while now.”
For a moment, he didn’t react at all.
It was as though the words had struck him somewhere too deep to process immediately.
You watched it happen—the disbelief first. The instinct to protect himself from false hope. His eyes searched your face desperately for hesitation, for guilt, for anything that might suggest this was born of obligation.
He didn’t find it.
Something in his expression changed then. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But the tightness around his mouth eased. The guarded set of his shoulders softened. His hands, still wrapped around your wrists, shifted—sliding down until he was holding your hands properly now.
Reverently.
“Say that again.” He murmured, his voice rougher than before.
You let out a shaky breath, “I love you.”
The words didn’t tremble this time.
They landed between you solid and undeniable.
Harry’s eyes closed for half a second, like he needed that brief darkness to steady himself. When they opened again, they were shining in a way you’d rarely seen—unguarded, almost overwhelmed.
“You have no idea,” He said quietly, almost helplessly, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”
There was no accusation in it. No bitterness.
Just awe.
Blinking quickly to keep your tears from spilling over, you lifted the bouquet again with trembling hands. The gesture felt suddenly very small compared to what had just been said, but it mattered to you.
“Harry,” You asked softly, your voice braver than you felt, “will you be my Valentine?”
For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you.
Like he was memorizing this version of you—the one standing in front of him choosing him openly.
His hands left yours only long enough to take the bouquet, setting it carefully aside on the nearest surface as though it were something fragile and precious.
Then he stepped forward.
Hesitantly.
Cautiously.
As though he were afraid that one wrong movement might shatter the moment entirely.
He lifted his hands and cupped your face, thumbs brushing gently beneath your eyes where tears still clung to your lashes. His heart was pounding so hard he was certain you must feel it. He had imagined touching you like this more times than he could count, never truly believing he would be allowed to. Some part of him still waited for the illusion to break, for him to wake up from this dream all alone.
But you were real.
Warm beneath his palms. Trembling slightly where your bodies hovered just short of touching.
The way you looked at him—earnest, anxious and filled with anticipation—anchored him in the moment more surely than anything else could have. If this was a dream, then he decided he would stay in it. He would cling to it as long as it let him have you.
The restraint he had lived with for years finally gave way.
He pulled you into him, not roughly, but with a fierce, aching tenderness, arms wrapping around you as though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his hold. His forehead brushed yours, breath unsteady, and then he kissed you.
It was soft at first. Almost uncertain.
But when your lips moved against his, fitting together like divine puzzle pieces, the rest of the world seemed to dissolve. The candles, the room, the noise of the castle beyond the walls—none of it mattered.
All that existed was the warmth of his hands, the steady press of his chest against yours, and the quiet realization that you were no longer standing on opposite sides of something unspoken.
You pressed closer to him, and he held you as though he had been waiting his whole life to do exactly that.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
Summary: After figuring out that your boyfriend is Red Hood, you struggle to figure out a way to tell him you are aware of his “nightly activities.” When Jason finally introduces you to his family a week before Christmas, you are presented with the perfect opportunity to tell him
AKA: You give Jason Red Hood merch for a Secret Santa exchange, it goes about as well as you expect.
Word Count: 10.5k
Warnings/Tags: Pre-established relationship, Reader wears makeup and has a purse but I don’t go into much detail, Nosy reader lol, Crack fic treated seriously, Scenes jump around a lot, Fluff, Don’t think about canon when reading this, Probably ooc, Do not take this fic seriously, Convenient plot stuff had to occur for this story to work okay
A/N: Happy holidays guys! I actually can’t believe I finished this before Christmas (at least for me) enjoy this little fic. This will probably be my last fic before New Years :)
DC Masterlist , Fatson Todd Bonus Fic (Part 2)
—
Something was off about the Wayne family, and not in the way you might’ve expected from people as rich as they are.
What’s funny is that you had come to that conclusion in the most unconventional way. You didn’t mean to start investigating the Wayne family, but somehow you did. One might think that with a public imagine as widespread as their own, somebody would eventually slip up.
That was not the case here.
About half a year ago you had begun dating your boyfriend, Jason Todd. In your defense, you didn’t even think about that Jason Todd. While you knew some details about the Waynes, you didn't follow everything they did, and especially not back then. You were worlds apart. After all, who would assume that their boyfriend was the dead son of Bruce Wayne?
The idea had crossed your mind, but you didn’t give it any credibility. Many people have shared names and aren't related. In fact you had silently laughed at the coincidence. Oooh, what if your boyfriend was secretly hiding from the public because he was previously declared dead and can’t come back without making a fuss. Yeah, likely story.
Needless to say, it became a lot less funny when you started to actually figure out what was afoot.
—
You stared at Jason’s phone, the caller was just labeled “B” with no other explanation. Jason had been looking for his phone after misplacing it, and you had found it on top of your shared dresser.
“Uhh, somebody is calling you.” You carefully grabbed the device, careful not to answer it.
Jason’s footsteps grew louder as he approached the bedroom, the hollow floorboards echoing beneath his feet. “Who is it?” He asked casually, holding his hand out.
You shrugged, “I dunno, you just have then labeled ‘B.’” You placed the phone in his hand, and he froze. Immediately, he looked from the phone up to you.
“Did they say anything else? Texts?” He attempted to shield the phone from your view. A surge of curiosity washed over you, interested to know who he was talking to.
“Not that I saw? All I saw was the call.” You paused as the phone stopped ringing… before picking up again mere seconds later. “Anybody important? Boss or something?”
In hindsight, that was the funniest response you could’ve given. At the time you didn’t actually know what Jason did for work. When you asked, he’d just shrug, offhandedly respond “Security,” then quickly change the subject. Eventually, you let it go, realizing he was never going to go in depth about it with you. Which was understandable. Perhaps he wanted to separate his home life and work life.
However as time went on, you began to have more questions. His schedule was just too inconsistent.
There were days where he would just brush off his job, “I’m not the only one who works there, they can handle a night without me.” He would tell you. There were even times where he’d leave in the morning with no warning, just a couple messages on your phone telling you that "work called."
So you came to the conclusion: he must’ve been his own boss.
It made sense, he seems to get paid relatively well. His work schedule is evidently flexible. It’s a logical conclusion for a person to reach. After devising your theory, you didn’t think much of it, despite the nagging feeling in the back of your mind.
Well, you didn't think much of it… until a week later.
“Please, just cover for me this once. I’ll make it up to you.” You pause at the doorframe, breath hitching as you lean against the wall. You had woken up and noticed that Jason was not with you in bed. It’s not uncommon for him to leave in the middle of the night, but usually he left a note, message, just something to let you know that he would return. This time he didn’t, so you went to go look for him.
“I know…” Jason continued, a long moment of silence in between his answers. “Yes, I know, but please? I promised her that she’d have me this entire weekend.”
Your finger tapped absentmindedly against the wooden doorframe, and your other hand rubbed your eye, attempting to expel the sleepiness from your body. Okay, so he’s talking to somebody— definitely work related— about taking time off for you. Were you wrong about him being his own boss?
“I don’t care what Bruce thinks of it.” He scoffed, and you could imagine him rolling his eyes too. At his words, you lean closer to the living room entrance, all whilst ensuring you stayed hidden from his view. “He can think whatever he wants.” He paused before continuing, his tone more unsure than the fiery scorn he spoke with seconds ago. “You haven’t told the others, right?” His words were soft, hesitant. He sounded winded, as if merely speaking the words left him drained.
There was a long pause, and you held your breath in anticipation.
Jason sighed, and it’s somehow quieter than his previous words. “Thank you…” You could hear the cushions of the couch squeak slightly as Jason sat down. His words sounded dry, but you could hear the sincerity backing them. “Yeah, I know… I’ll…” He paused, a soft huff escaping him, “I’ll bring her to one of the dinners before the New Year.”
You sharply inhaled, immediately scurrying back to bed and throwing the blankets over yourself haphazardly. You compelled your breathing to slow, attempting to feign unconsciousness. It doesn’t work, but Jason wasn’t finished with his phone call; you can distantly hear his voice still on the phone if you strain your ears. You know you have at least a minute to get your act together before he returns. You force your eyes shut, and attempt to sleep.
Except, obviously, that does not work. All you could think about was the implications of what you just heard.
Everything you thought was wrong.
At first you were merely cataloging any important information he might’ve revealed: names, locations, anything that could clue you into what was going on. However, as you started listening, you came to a realization.
This isn’t him talking about his shifts.
“You haven’t told the others, right?”
This isn’t about work at all.
“I’ll bring her to one of the dinners before Christmas.”
This was about his family.
Now, you may have just woken up at two in the morning and eavesdropped on a conversation that you had no context of, but the message was abundantly clear. He’s planning to introduce you to his family. If the distress he displayed at the notion told you anything, it must be something he’s thought about for a while.
You didn’t know much about his family, he was always super vague about them. However he did tell you about his numerous siblings, and that he— along with the majority of them— are adopted.
At the time, your relationship was still new, and you didn’t want to pry into territory he was clearly uncomfortable with. You had expressed interest in meeting them, but assured him that if that’s something that makes him uncomfortable, then it can wait.
Now, usually you wouldn’t think too much about him being adopted, but there was one other thing that set off an immediate alarm in your head. The one name he mentioned, Bruce.
Now there’s probably millions of Bruce’s in America alone, but everybody in Gotham will immediately think of one man.
Bruce Wayne.
With literally any other person you know, you’d assume that they would be talking about a different Bruce. However, this was Jason. Jason took a while to share his last name with you, and you didn’t blame him. After all, when you found out his full name you had gone to search it up on your own soon after. You wanted to see if he has any social media posts, determine what kind of person he is online. Only, you didn’t find social media accounts.
You found articles.
Articles and articles filled talking about the death of “Jason Todd.” How he had died during a terrorist attack in Ethiopia in search of his mother. That Jason Todd had been adopted by— you guessed it— none other than Bruce Wayne.
Now, you were willing to chalk it up to an odd coincidence, after all that Jason Todd was dead. There was no way you were dating a dead guy when there are full on autopsies published detailing the horrific death of this child. It was an unfortunate coincidence. It makes sense why Jason wouldn’t want to share his last name if everyone immediately thought of a dead kid.
Now? You aren’t sure anymore. What are the chances that this “Bruce” is actually Bruce Wayne and Jason, your Jason, is actually the (previously?) dead Jason Todd.
With all that being said, you’ll be the first to say that you are no detective. Batman certainly won’t be finding competition with you…
However, this might be worth investigating.
At the time, you didn’t even think to truly consider the consequences if Jason found out about your snooping. However, in your defense, it was less of an “investigation” and more “attempting to notice details that may or may not prove that your insane theory is correct.”
You didn’t actively search the house for evidence that your Jason Todd was the Jason Todd (but really how many Jason Todd’s exist in Gotham, and are adopted, and know a Bruce?). However, to your surprise, you didn’t need to.
—
Narrowing your eyes, you widen your stride to evade the puddle of a mysterious viscous liquid on the ground, almost oil-like in nature. Your nose scrunches up at the smell, and you avoid making eye contact with anybody. Walking with purpose, you speed up your pace to avoid any confrontations.
You didn’t want to go through Crime Alley.
Jason had told you stories. He had made it clear that if you ever had reason to go there, you’d tell him, and he’d handle it. You weren’t about to argue since you never had a desire to go there.
You straighten your posture, walking with a confidence that you feel you currently lack. God, you absolutely hate the taxis in this city. All you asked was that he’d turn on the heater and close his window— it’s winter!
The driver absolutely lost it.
You had asked that he just stop right where you were, in the Upper East Side, but he didn’t. Instead, he drove north. It was only once you passed the Monarch Theater when you realized how screwed you were. The driver had yelled at you, threatening your life if you didn’t get out of the car.
So you got out of the car. Clutching your jacket and purse close to your chest as it speeds off, leaving you stranded in Crime Alley.
Stranded and terrified, you tried retracing the path the car had taken, attempting to leave. However, every alley, street, and crevice looked sketchy. While you had lived in Gotham for a long time, you’ve always avoided this part of town. So like it or not— the territory was unfamiliar, something that isn’t working in your favor.
Eventually, you find a small abandoned alleyway. While it was dirty and practically screaming “DANGER!” you noticed that it was completely abandoned. Ducking into the alleyway, you pull out your phone. Dead. What are the chances? Groaning, you lean against the graffitied wall, rubbing your temples.
Then you hear it. Footsteps. Slow, unhurried, sounds like heavy footwear.
Tensing up, you find an empty dumpster, using it as cover from the new figure. Fuck. You should’ve just kept moving. Now you’re just a sitting duck.
“You know I can still see you, right?” A heavily modulated male voice calls out, his voice echoes across the narrow backstreet. You press yourself further against the wall, knowing that it’s futile, but still desperately trying to stay hidden. You clutch your purse close to your chest. If you get out of here unscathed, Jason is going to kill you.
The newcomer is definitely not small. You aren’t able to see him, but just based off of his footsteps, you reckon that definitely somebody who could beat the shit out of you.
The footsteps get closer and closer, your heart pounds in your chest. Then, the sun vanishes. You look up to the looming figure above you. Red Hood.
It seems you both startle each other because both of you immediately jump back once you meet each other's eyes.
“What—” He calls out.
You hold your hands up in surrender. This guy only kills criminals, right? “I didn’t steal anything, I swear.”
It seems Red Hood is just as stunned by your presence as you are. He remains frozen, continuing to look down at you on the ground. You get up very slowly, making no sudden movements. The last thing you want is for him to think you have a gun.
“I…” His voice is quieter… Something about it is familiar. The tone. “I never said you did.”
You nod, slowly adjusting your clothes, “I didn’t kill anybody either…”
He nods slowly, “I would never assume you did.” He speaks slowly.
You blink taken aback. “Killers come in all shapes and sizes. Not saying I would— I would not. I’m just clearing my name.”
He releases a small huff of laughter, “…Fair enough.”
The two of you stare at each other for a long moment before you avert your gaze. You swallow, shifting uncomfortably. He is still looking at you.
“Do you—”
“How did—”
You both pause. Clearing your throat, you gesture at him, “You first.”
He shakes his head, “No, go ahead.” He mirrors your gesture, and you have to hold back a laugh at how ridiculous the situation is.
You pause before continuing, “Do you know how to get out of here? My phone's dead,” you hold up the device to show him, “I can’t really look up directions.”
Red Hood stares at you for a long moment, you’re curious what he’s thinking. “Of course.” He responds a lot softer than you thought he would. “I’ll guide you.”
You open your mouth to decline, but your brain tells you to accept the offer. Normally, you wouldn’t accept strange offers from men in Crime Alley.
However, it’s Red Hood.
While he’s technically a strange man from Crime Alley, Gotham’s vigilantes typically don’t harm innocents. So, against everything you’ve been taught since you were a child, you accept his offer. It seems that he is relieved at your acceptance, nodding before moving to your left. You blink at him as he holds his hand out expectantly.
“What?” You ask, looking from his hand, up to his mask, and back down to his gloved palm.
“I’ll hold your purse for you.” He says stoically.
You should get an Oscar for the poker face you gave him. Red Hood— feared vigilante— carrier of purses.
“Uh, it’s fine… I can carry it.” You purse your lips in order to refrain from laughing in his face. You don’t want to laugh at him for being kind. You’re reminded of the times where you asked Jason to hold your purse for you. Red Hood offers his services in a way that makes you wonder if he does this often.
The eyes of his helmet stare into your soul, “That’s your bad shoulder.”
Your smile falls, slowly turning to face him. “What?”
“You’re going to injure your shoulder.” He corrects.
You pause, feeling suspicion rise in your chest. That is not what he said the first time. He was telling you that your shoulder was injured. You had slept on it strangely all week, and you had complained to Jason about it. How could Red Hood know that?
A rush of adrenaline shoots through your system as you connect the dots of the situation. The tone of his voice. The casualness of how he offered his help to you. The shoulder comment. The odd work shifts…
You smile politely at Jason, “I suppose you make a good point.” You give him your purse.
—
Figuring it out hadn’t been the difficult part. Jason had been practically begging you to put the evidence together. Just by knowing his identity, you were able to piece the rest of the puzzle together.
His family? His work? The Bats? The Waynes? All of them were one in the same.
Now, while you figured it out, you still wanted him to tell you on his own. Perhaps you’d act a little surprised, and tease him about finding each other in Crime Alley. Then in a few years you’d tell him you figured him way before he told you.
Then one day, a week before Christmas, he asked you a question.
“Do you want to meet my family?”
You blink, looking away from the ads playing on the TV, “What?”
He shifts, tugging slightly at your shared penguin blanket. “They’re hosting dinner tonight.” He looks at you, “They’ve been wanting to meet you for a while.”
You nod in acknowledgment, “Do you want me to meet them?” It’s happening. This is what he was talking about on the phone.
Jason is silent for a moment, “I can’t hide you forever.”
You snort, “That’s not what I asked.” You reach for his hand, it’s warm.
He looks from your hand up to you, “Yeah,” he exhales, like it takes effort to admit.
You smile, “Then we’ll be there tonight.” You raise your hand to rub his shoulder. Normally, you’d be panicking over what to wear, especially to meet the Waynes, but you had already planned for this two weeks ago.
Jason’s anxiousness is evident throughout the day. You reassure him that you won’t be scared off. He laughs like he doesn’t believe you. Each time he brushes your reassurances off, you find yourself smiling. He doesn’t know that you know.
Tonight comes sooner than expected. You do your makeup nicely, taking your time with the familiar routine. Satisfied with your appearance, you meet Jason out in the living room. He’s glaring down at his phone.
“What’d it do to you?” You smirk, eying the object.
He turns it off, “Everything, and not enough.” He sighs, avoiding eye contact with you. “Hey, I should tell you about them…”
You blink, “You already gave me the rundown?”
“Yes— Well,” he releases a breathy chuckle, “a different rundown.” Sensing the seriousness of the situation, you drop your smile, nodding.
“Remember how I waited a long time to tell you my name— my full name?” He swallows, gauging your reaction. “You know the kid who has the same name as me?”
You nod slowly, “The one Bruce Wayne took in.” You feel your heart speed up, he’s really telling you.
“Yeah,” he huffs, “I know… I know it sounds crazy, and there are like dozens of articles saying that kid died…” He inhales, “But those rumors were exaggerated, and I don’t think it’s fair to drag you into this without telling you— Why… are you smiling?”
You chuckle softly, grabbing his hand. Before you even think about the consequences of revealing part of your knowledge, you begin speaking, “Jay, I’ve known that for a while.”
His hand stiffens in yours, “What?”
“I mean… You told me your name was Jason Todd.”
He furrows his eyebrows, “Both are common names.”
“Give me more credit than that.” You roll your eyes, the smile on your face growing. “It was hard not to notice after a certain point.”
Jason gapes at you, and you laugh at his shocked expression. Then he laughs softly, “This was supposed to be a big moment.” He sighs, “You aren’t… mad?”
“It is. I’m glad you trust me enough to tell me.” You lean to kiss him on his cheek, he relaxes under your touch. His shoulders droop as your hands reach to fix a few stray strands of hair. “I could never be mad. I understand that this is a big deal, and that trust isn't easy to come by.”
He returns the kiss, light, smiling through it. “God, I don’t deserve you. I was planning that speech for weeks, you know.”
You laugh at him, brushing a few stray strands of hair out of his face. “It was a very good speech.”
“Yeah?” He smirks at you.
“Yeah.” You reaffirm, grinning at him.
—
“Thank God you are here.” A young man— Duke, you recognize— throws the doors to the manor open before the doorbell is even rung. You don’t mask your surprise as he gestures for you two to get inside. “They’ve started making bets.”
Jason raises an eyebrow, “And you’re thankful for us being here why?”
“‘Cause I bet you’d show up with her!” He gestures between you two, before politely smiling at you. “Nice to meet you by the way, Duke Thomas.”
You shake his hand, introducing yourself as you remove your jacket. “Jason told me quite a bit about you guys.”
Duke laughs awkwardly before eying Jason, “Hopefully not too much.” He smiles.
You smirk, pretending you don’t understand the underlying message, “He said you were particularly tolerable.”
Duke shakes his head, a smile on his face, “The greatest of compliments.” He leads the two of you into the massive living room, probably one of many seeing as this manor is huge.
At your entrance, the room goes silent.
You scan the room, attempting to put names to the faces. Sitting on the maroon velvet couch you see Dick Grayson and Barbara Gordon. Standing behind them is Stephanie Brown with Damian Wayne and Cassandra Cain on her sides. Tim Drake is settled casually on the armrest of the couch.
The table in front of them is littered with pieces of paper, empty energy drinks, a couple Batman mugs filled hot cocoa, and a black top hat. You turn your attention to Bruce Wayne, seated in a singular armchair with a poised elegance only somebody raised with wealth could have. At his right, is an older gentleman— Alfred, Jason told you.
Each person in the room is staring directly at you with varying degrees of surprise. Stephanie and Dick look thrilled at your appearance. The former looks ready to hug you, and you have a feeling that they bet money that you’d show up. Tim looks at you incredulously, staring at you as if you’ll disappear at any moment. Damian looks you up and down with a touch of distaste, as if assessing your value. You feel yourself straighten your stance under his examination. Cassandra Cain similarly appraises you, but you feel as if her judgment is less harsh. Barbara looks amused at your arrival, casually sipping one of the mugs on the table.
What truly unsettles you is Bruce Wayne.
You’ve heard stories of Brucie Wayne, how could you not? Those stories portray him as a ditzy billionaire playboy. Well-meaning, but frivolous. The eyes that stare into you aren’t the eyes of such a character. His gaze pierces into your own, and you find yourself faltering as you attempt to match the intensity. This isn’t some foolish playboy.
This is Batman.
Who knows what he’d do if he figures out you know about their secret? Jason, as if sensing your distress, situates himself at your side. He clears his throat, “This is my girlfriend,” he introduces you, offering your name to them.
The silence is palpable, an uneasy fog that rests in the atmosphere of the room. In spite of that, you offer them your best smile. “I know who you all are.” You nod to each person in the room. “Jason has told me about you. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” Jason places a hand onto your shoulder, squeezing lightly.
For a moment, nobody says anything. Your eyes flicker between everyone, gauging their reactions. You take a gamble with your next comment, “I’m sorry for any cash lost at my appearance.” You smile softly, turning towards Tim and Damian. The two are staring at you as if you've personally wronged them.
Dick follows your lead, standing up from the couch to greet you. He mirrors your smile back at you as you shake hands, “I’m definitely not sorry. They could stand to get humbled every now and then.” He gestures his thumb back towards the couch.
You smirk, “Well, I’m glad to be of service then.” You release his hand, turning to Stephanie who approached you as you were greeting Dick.
“I’ve never been so happy to prove them wrong. Thank you for existing.” She shakes your hand gravely.
You can’t help the snort that escapes your mouth, “Of course, I will make sure I continue to do so.” She smiles at you, pulling you over to the couch to meet everyone. The tension dissipates as you begin to meet everyone. She brings you to meet Bruce first, after all it is his house.
You give his hand a firm shake, a small smile on your face masking your inner trepidation. He doesn’t offer much more than a polite smile and obligatory nicety, but Steph— she insisted you call her that name instead— reassures you that he’s just like that. She also introduces you to Alfred, who you match the politeness of. It seems that he approves of you. Soon after, she drags you over to the couch where the rest of the group resided.
“Does she know?”
Jason stares at you, laughing at something Cass says. Animatedly, you gesture as you speak, telling some story to the small group gathered near you. Steph laughs in response, grabbing Cass’ arm for support.
“Know what?” He asks. He doesn’t tear his gaze from you as you explain your story. For a brief moment the two of you make eye contact, and your eyes glint mischievously. You lean closer to his siblings positioned near you, whispering something to them. Jason can’t hear what you say, but whatever it is causes Tim to immediately perk up curiously. Steph matches your smirk, and even Cass and Damian lean closer to hear your words. Faintly, Jason can hear your soft whispers to them. In the middle of your storytelling, you look up at him. Your smile grows as you wink at him, he can’t help mirroring your expression.
Dick snorts, “So that’s a no.”
The smile falls from his face, Jason eyes Dick from the corner of his eye, “It’s harder than you think.” He swallows, watching as Steph covers her mouth at something you say. “Too much will change if I tell her.” He responds quietly.
Dick hums, crossing his arms, “Are you serious about her?”
Jason, affronted, spins to face Dick. “Yes.” He exhales slowly, nodding somberly.
Dick smiles gently, “Then tell her.”
Jason scoffs, “It’s not that easy.” His eyes veer to Bruce, who is pretending he is not listening to you from his chair.
Dick follows his gaze, “Since when did you care what he thinks?” He grins at Jason, glancing between him and Bruce.
Jason narrows his eyes at Dick, “I don’t. I just…” He huffs, his mouth set in a straight line. “I don’t want her getting involved.”
Dick’s gaze softens, a forlorn frown on his face. “It’s inevitable given what we do.”
Jason grunts, “I’m aware.”
Dick tentatively raises a hand, placing it on his shoulder. “I don’t say this to pressure you—”
“—Sure feels like it.” Jason interrupts, glaring down at Dick.
“But,” Dick continues as if interrupted, “I think you’ll find it to be a lot easier for you both if you do tell her.” They both look over to you. Jason watches as you raptly listen to something Tim explains. Jason sighs, shrugging Dick’s hand off his shoulder.
“Hm,” Jason hums, acknowledging his words, but not saying anything more.
“Okay, now that we’re all here.” Steph raises the top hat from the table, catching everybody’s attention. “It is time.”
Steph holds the top hat reverently, as if the object is sacred. “Secret Santa this year. Twenty dollar minimum. We will write our names down on these sheets of paper and draw them out from the hat. If you don’t like who you get, too bad. You can only redraw if you get yourself. Now, everybody fill these out, place your slip of paper into the hat, and we will begin to draw.”
“She seems really serious about this.” You whisper to Duke. He thanks Steph as she passes around a pack of purple sticky notes for everybody to take.
“You get used to it.” Duke takes a slip, handing you the pack. Slowly you take the purple note before passing it over to Cassandra on your right. Grabbing a pen, you scrawl your name down on the piece of paper. You feel your chest constrict with an uneasy weight.
Jason may have told you about his family, but you barely know anything about them. Favorite color? Food? Animal? He didn’t exactly divulge the details. You’ll probably have to ask his help on what to get, cause you’re essentially going in blind. He didn't warn you about Secret Santa.
You fold the sticky note, slipping it into the hat. You watch as the pen makes its way around the table, your foot bouncing as it finally approaches Bruce and Alfred. You watch as they silently write their name down, resigned. You have a feeling that they’ve been forced to do this for years.
As they place their names into the top hat, you consider the options of who you could get. A silent smile grows on your face as you think about it. Wouldn’t it be funny if you got Jason?
“Alright, I think that’s everybody.” Steph looks around the room. “Now to begin the drawing…” She lightly tosses the hat, jumbling the papers in it before turning to face you, smiling. “As the newest person here, you should go first.” She holds out the hat to you, and you are immediately aware of the eyes on you.
“Oh,” you look down at the folded papers, then back up at her, “sure…” You attempt to match her smile, slowly reaching in the hat without looking. You pick up one of the slips, taking it out. Everybody watches in anticipation as you unfold the sticky note, you attempt to school your face as you read the painfully familiar handwriting.
Jason
Holy shit.
You’ve used up all of your luck for the next five years. What are the chances you’d pull your boyfriend in a group this large? You were already planning on getting him gifts separately, but this was too perfect.
A stupid idea ran through your head. A really stupid, idiotic, foolish idea. Was it worth risking everything you’ve done not to incriminate yourself for this scheme?
You don’t even register the other people in the room drawing out names. You don’t even wonder who got you because all you can think of is the possibilities of what you could get Jason.
“Who’d you get?” The soft warmth of Jason’s breath brushes past your ear, sending shivers down your spine. He is resting his body against the back of the couch, leaning over it to invade your personal space. You attempt to hide your jolt by casually folding your paper, holding it out of his view.
“It hasn’t even been five minutes.” You smirk at him, pocketing the slip for later. You lower your voice, leaning closer to him. “Does this mean we’re returning for Christmas?” You can’t keep the excitement out of your voice.
He sighs, “I suppose.” He smiles at the way your eyes brighten up. If only he knew what fire he was fueling. “Now, who’d you get?” He asks, leaning to look over your shoulder. You shift so that your back is never facing him, placing a hand over your pockets to make sure he can’t grab the sticky note.
“I can’t tell you, it’s Secret Santa.” You furrow your eyebrows, frowning.
His eyes widen slightly, “Wait… You’re actually not gonna tell me? C’mon,” He huffs, leaning even closer, the two of you are practically face to face now. “I can keep a secret if it matters that much to you.”
You turn away from him, the smugness in your eyes never fading. “You’ll find out when we give the gifts.” You shrug, and you can feel eyes watching you both. Damian looks mildly disgusted by you two, and Duke is noticeably trying to avoid looking at you both. You clear your throat, looking up at Jason.
“Guess you’re gonna have to find out like everyone else.” You look away from him, propping your arm onto the armrest of the couch and leaning your face onto it.
Jason stares at you— you can feel it piercing the back of your skull. “You’ll need my help.”
You tilt your head to face him, “I actually have an idea what I’ll get my person.”
He narrows his eyes at you skeptically, “You… do?”
You smirk, “The perfect idea.”
“You know it’s not just joke gifts, it’s stuff they actually like, right?” He straightens up, crossing his arms as he looks down at you on the couch.
“Oh,” you bite your tongue to keep from smiling too wide, “they’ll like the gift.”
You both stare at each other for a long moment, he sighs. “Alright, if you say so.” He taps his arm thoughtfully. “If you need any help though…” He trails off.
“You’ll be the first person I call.” You nod, smiling. “You’ll always be the first person I call.”
His eyes soften, “I know.”
—
red hood merch
red hood keychain
red hood figure
You idly tap your finger on the keyboard of your laptop as you open up different tabs for each search. Surprisingly, there were actually quite a few results for Red Hood merch. You know he isn’t as popular as Batman or even Nightwing, but you are nothing if not determined.
You cycle through different websites, eventually landing onto Etsy. You snort as you see holographic stickers of Red Hood. You even find replicas of his helmet for sale. You smile, adding the latter to the cart. Continuing to scroll, you barely even notice the door to your apartment open. You chuckle as you see a cute Red Hood keychain. He’d hate this.
You add it to the cart.
“You’re still up?”
Freezing, you slowly shift your gaze from the screen to Jason. His hair is tousled, his skin has the sheen of sweat to it that tells you he was "exercising" (that's the excuse he always tells you, you know he's out patrolling). He tosses his jacket over a chair, running a hand through his hair. You subtly switch tabs, “Wanted to wait for you.” You half-lid the laptop.
He smiles, before moving to face plant onto your shared bed. You look down at him, frowning. “Have you taken a shower?”
“Nah,” his voice is muffled by the blankets.
You subtly nudge him with your knee, “I love you, but you’re sweaty. The bed is clean.” He groans, not budging at your gesture.
“Mmph,” he grunts, moving closer to you, crawling up the bed to where you’re seated underneath the covers. You yelp, moving away from him, slamming the laptop shut. Damn it, you wanted to order it before he came home. “I can’t spend time with my girlfriend?”
You snort, “You can spend time with me after you take a shower.” You lightly push his forehead, your hand brushing against his loose strands of hair. He leans into your touch, “Rough day?”
“Somethin’ like that.” He mumbles, slowly pulling away to stand up again.
You exhale, smiling softly. “I’m sure you’ll feel better after a shower.”
He snorts, “You’re just telling me I stink.”
You smirk, “Your words, not mine.”
He sighs, dragging himself to the bathroom. You can’t help the smile on your face. Once he is out of view, you slowly open your laptop again, navigating your browser back to your shopping cart. You go to the checkout, quickly paying. It’ll arrive a few days before Christmas.
You thought you'd stop there, but you end up going down a rabbit hole. Scrolling and scrolling endlessly.
Then you find it. It’s a collection of bootleg Red Hood merch— a package. You start cackling to yourself as you view the picture of the product. It’s a hoodie, blanket, water bottle, mug, wallet, and journal. The hoodie, water bottle, wallet, and journal have the red bat logo plastered on them. The blanket and mug have an actual photo of Red Hood on them. The quality of the image isn’t terrible, but it looks ridiculous nonetheless. Now, this would be a really stupid purchase. You’d be spending more money than you already have on merch.
You hum to yourself in contemplation, distantly noting that you can hear the water running from the bathroom. You tap your foot softly against the mattress of the bed, squinting at it. For a bundle with that many items, twenty dollars is not a bad deal, even if the images are laughable. You raise your hand up to your lip, rubbing your face.
Well, even if Jason hates it… You can still find some use out of the items. The blanket maybe? You doubt it’ll be a great blanket, but it could be a good backup. The mug and water bottle might also be usable. One of you can definitely use the journal… After all, twenty dollars is twenty dollars.
You buy it.
“You’re still working?” Jason emerges from the bathroom, changed into clean clothes, lightly rubbing a towel over his head.
Your eyes fall onto the receipt screen reading: “Order confirmed!” You nod, “Something like that.”
He gives you a puzzled expression, before plopping onto his side of the bed. The mattress cushioning his fall. “Are you almost done?” He lays down flat, tilting his head to look at you.
You smile, shutting the laptop. Mission accomplished. “Just finished actually.”
—
Neither of you mentioned Secret Santa. Honestly, you started to worry if he’d actually get a gift for his person. However, you didn’t bring it up out of fear of him asking about the gifts for your person. The remainder of the week progressed, the excitement of Christmas becoming more and more real each day. Either way, things are going smoothly. Each day you have to withhold yourself from telling Jason what you bought because you are dying to see his reaction. You hold yourself back, though. It’ll be so much better in front of his family.
It’s a few days before Christmas where panic struck your heart.
“Did you order something?” Jason asks, you hold your phone up to your ear as you walk to your car. You just got off of work, and were finally off for the holidays.
You swallow, “Perhaps, why?”
Jason hums, “Well, it’s here.” You feel your heart skip a beat for all the wrong reasons, “Do you want me to open—”
“No!” You cut him off, causing him to pause. You purse your lips, wincing, “Uh, no. It’s fine. It’s… personal.”
There’s a long pause of silence, “Personal…” He repeats, unconvinced.
“Yeah,” you nod, smacking your lips, “reallyyyy personal. I wouldn’t open it.”
He releases a huff of amusement, “Alright… You’re coming home right?”
“Yep, yep, on my way.” You walk faster down the sidewalk.
“Alright, don’t take too long.” He responds casually.
“Or what?” You smirk, using your shoulder to hold your phone up to your ear as you fish for your keys in your purse.
“Or I’ll open it.” He responds, matching the mirth in your tone.
You never drove home so fast.
Upon entering, you don’t even call out a greeting. Keys jingling, you frantically unlock the door. You twist the doorknob, pushing the door open with more force than necessary, causing you to stumble through the doorway.
You rip your shoes off your feet, throwing them haphazardly to the side as you toss your purse onto the couch. “Jason!” You call out. He’s likely in your bedroom. “Where is the package?” You speed over to your bedroom, yanking the door open.
Jason is laying down on his side, facing the door. His phone is held languidly in one of his hands. At your arrival, he doesn’t even flinch. “Hm?” He hums, still looking at the phone.
Your eyes narrow, “The package, Jay. Where is it?” You check behind the door as you begin your search— even checking under the bed.
“Oh, it’s over there.” He gestures absentmindedly to the top of your dresser. You blink, seeing the giant box there. How did you miss that?
“Oh,” you slowly reach from the box, checking to see if it was opened. “You didn’t open it right?” You turn back to face him; he still hasn’t moved.
Finally, he tilts his head to face you. “No?” He pauses, mischief crawling into his tone. “Should I have?” He sits up, putting the phone down and turning his entire body to face you.
“No.” You hold the box closer to you, glaring at him. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re not peeking.”
He smirks, “Oh…” In a much softer tone he continues “… Is it for me?”
You grin, “Perhaps.”
He smiles at you, tension leaving his body. His eyes crinkle in fondness as he stares at you, not moving from his spot in the bed. He chuckles quietly, grinning even wider.
You blink, his genuine joy is contagious, “What?” You chuckle.
“Nothing.” He is still smiling as he turns around in bed. You can tell he is still smiling even if he isn’t facing you.
You snort, “Alright, sure.” You nod at his head, exiting the room, his eyes trailing on the box as your arms as you leave.
It’s your first Christmas together with him, so you can imagine that he is curious to know what you’ve got for him. You almost feel bad for what you’re doing. He looked so happy to be receiving a gift from you.
Could this potentially backfire on you? Absolutely. You’d be a fool not to consider the consequences of essentially telling your vigilante boyfriend in front of his vigilante family that you’re aware of their identities. However, you can’t imagine that it’ll be that bad. It’s not like you disapprove of them, you just… want to have a little fun with it.
You had waited for a months for Jason to say something. After all, you wanted him to tell you out of his own accord— you still do. However, you've gotten antsy waiting around. Not that it's an excuse, but the added anxiety into your life hasn't exactly been a joy. Does he not trust you enough? Either way, you can’t bring yourself to be mad; it’s not exactly a tiny secret. Every time he pulled you aside, you wondered if this was it. It never was.
Perhaps he was too scared to tell you?
It was a perspective you hadn’t really thought of. You’d been so focused on the excitement of getting the gifts and just waiting for him to say something, that you didn’t even consider that it could be equally as anxiety inducing for him.
You open a drawer in the kitchen, grabbing the box cutter. You make sure Jason hasn’t decided to follow you out before you start to open it. The sounds of the tape being ripped apart echo across your otherwise silent apartment.
Grinning, you reach into the box, gently pulling out the Red Hood helmet replica that laid inside. Despite your worries, you can’t help the thrill of excitement that runs through your body.
—
“Jesus, did you get enough gifts for your person?” Jason furrows his eyebrows at you as you carry two large wrapped gifts in your arms. He watches as you wiggle your way into the passenger seat of his car. “You know it was only required to get one, right?” He stares at the gifts, specifically the wrapping paper. You had deliberately made sure he never saw them until absolutely necessary.
A couple days after you bought the gifts, you had stumbled onto a shop that was selling Batman themed wrapping paper.
So, like any good vigilante girlfriend would do, you picked up a few rolls.
You practically locked yourself into another room in your apartment to wrap them in fear that Jason would see, but it was worth it. The way he is staring at the gifts as if they slapped him in the face? Priceless.
You click your tongue, “Give me a break, I wanted to be nice. It’s my first time celebrating Christmas with your family anyway.” You reach over the center console, placing the gifts gently in the backseat.
He huffs, “It’s a bit excessive.”
You dramatically raise a hand to your chest, affronted. “You’re just jealous I didn’t get you.” You blatantly lie with such a confidence that even you begin to question if you got Jason (you’ve checked that paper dozens of times).
He raises an eyebrow, “If that’s what you want to believe.” He shrugs.
You purse your lips into a thin line, shaking your head at him. “I know it. Now, let’s go, we’re gonna be late.” You buckle in, shutting the door. Jason rolls his eyes, and you nudge him with your elbow. He starts the car, and you pull down the sun visor mirror. As he starts the car, you double check your makeup.
“You still aren’t gonna tell me who you got?” Jason asks.
You turn to face him, “You’ve lasted this long, you’ll find out in like an hour anyway.” Flipping the sun visor back up, you relax against the back of the seat. A smile grows on your face, he even turned on the seat heating for you. “For someone so eager for me to share, you haven’t said anything.”
“I asked you first.” He furrows his eyebrows, frowning.
“That’s fine,” you recline the seat slightly, your Christmas sweater absorbing the warmth of the seat. “Just don’t get upset at me if I don’t tell you who I got.”
He scoffs, “I’m not upset.” He slows to a stop as you reach an intersection, “Just curious.”
“Mhm,” you hum contently, turning to face Jason with a gleeful smile on your face.
He spares you a quick glance before turning his focus back to the road, “What’s with that face?”
You raise an eyebrow, “That’s just my face? Am I not allowed to smile at my boyfriend?”
An small amused smile manifests onto his face, he gives you a fondly exasperated look. “I suppose you may.”
“You suppose?” You chuckle, leaning your head against the cool glass of your window. You tilt your head so that you can look at him, “What? Do I need your permission?”
He chuckles, “Is that not what you were asking?”
“Obviously not.” You lightly tap him with your hand.
His lips twitch in amusement, “My mistake.”
You laugh softly, turning your attention back to the road. Despite the teasing atmosphere, you can’t help but worry how this will go down. Did you get ahead of yourself? Was this a mistake? Perhaps you should’ve bought a backup gift just in case you chickened out.
Each second the car approaches the Manor causes your heart to speed up. By the time you’ve reached it, you’re fanning yourself with your hands to keep from sweating too much. Jason had noticed your distress halfway through the ride, silently turning off the seat warmer, but (thankfully) not saying anything. You presume that he believes that you’re afraid Christmas won’t go well. He's not exactly wrong.
As you carry your gifts up the stairs to the entrance, you shake the doubts away. Rolling your shoulders back, you exhale slowly. This will go well. You can’t imagine anything bad will happen over you giving Jason some bootleg merch of himself. You're stressing over nothing. This will be funny.
“There you are! We were about to call you.” Dick greets you both, moving aside to let you in. Just as you step through he lets out a muffled snicker, conspicuously looking at the wrapping paper you chose. Smiling, he turns to Jason who gives him a pointed look as if saying “Don’t even.”
“Sorry, we were running a bit late.” You smile at Dick, and he waves you off.
“No worries, they can wait five more minutes.” He gestures for you two to follow. Both of you follow him into the same room you were in last time. Everybody is dressed festively— though some look more merry than others. “Alright, you all ready to get started?”
There is a cacophony of mixed responses, but everybody settles into the same positions they were in last time. You have to wonder if this is normal. Did you somehow choose your permanent spot in this living room without even knowing? Nonetheless, you don’t mind.
Thankfully you aren’t first again.
Contrary to your doubts earlier, you feel the anticipation plaster a smile on your face, something you attempt to keep hidden from the others. You had practiced this day. You may not be an actor, but you had already anticipated the reaction of his family. Your worry wasn’t that they’d find you suspicious. It's that they'd laugh.
You knew that the moment somebody started laughing, you’d be a goner. There’s no way you’d be able to look at Jason with a straight face if you heard somebody giggling in the corner of the room. If you were doing this, you were going to commit to the act. You’ll likely tell him after, but you couldn’t breakdown into laughter halfway through the bit.
You had to be strong.
When Damian calls your name, you feel yourself sit up in shock. Everybody watches in anticipation as he walks over to you, placing a small bag and a wrapped flat rectangular gift onto your lap. You thank him, a grin stretching onto your face. He nods resolutely, before moving back to his spot.
Deciding to open the small bag first, you pull out a small package of your favorite goodies— he was no doubt assisted by Jason, but they’re filled with every possible candy and chip you enjoy. You grin at Damian, offering your gratitude with a heartfelt thank you.
Then you open the wrapped gift, and immediately gasp.
It’s a canvas. You delicately rip off the last piece of wrapping paper obscuring the artwork, unveiling the piece. It’s a gorgeous realistic painting of your favorite animal in its natural environment. You’d think that the piece was made by a professional who's been in the field for decades, not a teenager. Not a single mistake is found. All the colors work harmoniously to create a gorgeous setting with your favorite animal being the focal point.
“Damian…” You cover your mouth, turning to him. “I— This is phenomenal. You’re incredibly skilled, I can’t believe you made this for me.” You withhold tears as you speak. You didn’t think Damian liked you when you met him. He was quiet, and didn’t shy away from bluntness. After you met him, you told Jason about your worries. Jason reassured you that for Damian, that was normal, and not to worry about what he thinks.
Damian’s face is unreadable, but he stands up straighter. “I’m glad you find it satisfactory.”
“Satisfactory? This is exceptional. I’m speechless.” You look back down at the painting, gently holding the canvas. “Thank you, Damian.” You give him the most grateful smile you can muster. You would go and hug him, but based on what you’ve observed, you doubt he’d appreciate the action. His nods, decidedly pleased at your reaction, but not saying anything else.
Then the weight of the situation finally hits you. It is time.
You stand up, feeling the irresistible urge to smile, and you allow yourself the pleasure of doing so. “The person I got…” you spin around the room, before landing on your boyfriend, “is Jason.” You grin at him, and his mouth parts in surprise.
You delicately place the presents onto his lap, “Open this one first.” You point at the gift containing the package deal you bought.
He narrows his eyes at you, instantly suspicious, “Alright,” He waits until you’ve returned to your seat before slowly ripping the paper off, revealing an inconspicuous white box.
Slowly, as if afraid something would jump out at him, he pulls the top off and freezes. You see both his and Dick’s eyes widen as they look down at its contents. You can see Dick shut his eyes in order to steel his reaction.
“You gotta show us what you got, it’s part of the rules.” Steph adds curiously. At the moment, the only people who can see the gift are Dick and Jason himself.
Staring through the box desolately, he slowly turns it around for you all to see. There’s a beat of silence before Steph starts cackling. From her left, Tim smacks her, but he uses his free hand to cover his face. You think you can actually see him turn red from masking his reaction.
“I noticed that you seemed to be a Red Hood fan.” You calmly comment. Your words seemingly spur the others to start laughing cause now Duke’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter.
“Oh, he’s a Red Hood fan alright!” Steph gives you a thumbs up with a blinding grin as if saying “You’ve done good!”
“Wh- Where did you even get it from?” Duke struggles to get the words out, smiling at you as he asks his question.
“Etsy,” you shrug, “they have a surprising amount of merch there for Red Hood. It made my job easy.” You smile at them before turning to Jason to gauge his reaction. He is still staring at the box blankly.
Slowly his eyes meet yours, “Is… Is this what all those deliveries were?” It is rare that you catch him off guard, and you can’t help but savor the moment, filing the image of his stunned expression into your brain.
“I wanted it to be a surprise.” You smile at him.
He laughs, the sound less out of amusement and more out of distress. “That’s… Yeah, I mean…” he swallows, “It’s a surprise.”
“You should open the other one.” You lean back into the couch.
Jason looks at the second gift with absolute horror in his expression. “Wait— Are all of the gifts Red Hood themed?”
You grin at him, not offering an answer.
He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he warily tears off the Batman wrapping paper. It’s another white box, and you can see the defeat in his eyes. You smile innocently at him, biting your lip so as to not laugh. You really hope somebody is recording his reaction.
He glares at Dick, who is curiously looking over his shoulder, before raising the box to his face to peek inside of it. Jason must immediately know what it is because he silently settles it to his side, covering his face with his hands. You almost feel bad.
Dick, eager to see what it is, takes the abandoned box and lifts the lid. He instantly breaks out into laughter as he looks down at the Red Hood helmet replica inside of it. He actually leans into the couch for support as he attempts to control his breathing.
The action garners even Damian’s curiosity. He silently leans over to the box, ignoring Jason’s crisis and Dick nearly hyperventilating on the couch. He raises the lid, and his eyes widen seeing the item inside. He looks up to you, and you smile at him. He narrows his eyes and the two of you silently stare at each other both coming to the same conclusion.
Yeah, you know.
Hesitantly, as if afraid of the uproar your gift would cause, Damian holds the helmet up. He holds it away from his face, almost as if it’s a bomb about to explode.
Everybody.
Loses.
Their.
Mind.
Steph and Tim are both immediately gone. They aren’t even attempting to mask their laughter. Duke is, similar to Dick, leaning against the couch’s armrest for support. Cass is covering her mouth, her eyes betraying her amusement. Barbara has fully taken off her glasses, covering her face with her hand as she quietly laughs into it.
Then you turn to Bruce.
The two of you make eye contact, and for a long moment you forget about the laughter that racks nearly every person in the room. You swallow, but don’t break eye contact. You knew it was a gamble, revealing that you are aware of Red Hood’s identity to Batman himself.
Neither of you blink as you pray that he concludes you have no ill intentions— after all you don’t.
A long pause ensues. You don’t shift your gaze from him— not even to look at Jason. You know that if you get Bruce on your side, then everything will be okay. Then, slowly, he nods at you. The action is minuscule, something you wouldn’t even see if you weren’t looking. His face does not even change, but you understand the weight the action carries. He understands, and he knows you aren’t a threat.
You smile at him, feeling the biggest wave of relief imaginable wash over you. You turn back to everybody else, feeling a renewed sense of joy.
“This… This is surprisingly accura- high quality!” Tim cuts himself off, clearing his throat as he corrects himself. Tim, Duke, Steph, Damian, and Dick are all gathered around the helmet, scrutinizing it. Cass has moved next to Barbara, and they are both whispering to one another. You can’t hear their words, but you are curious.
You get up, slowly making your way to Jason who looks absolutely distraught. You decide it’s your time to intervene. “…Don’t like the gift?”
Jason— as if your voice snaps him out of a trance— shifts his gaze to you blearily. At the disappointment in your tone, he frantically shakes his head, “No! It’s not that I don’t like them— I just—” He opens his mouth before closing it, struggling to find the words. “How… How’d you know I like Red Hood?”
You settle your hand onto his, gently rubbing your thumb over it. “Jay,” you begin softly, “I know.”
He sputters, looking down at the ground. His frustration is evident, as if the last piece of a puzzle doesn’t fit. “I’m aware you know I like him. I’m just confused how you figured it out. I don’t think I ever mentioned—”
“Jason,” you cut him off, and his eyes dart to your hands clasped in his, “I know.”
His hand tenses under your grip, and he sharply inhales, chest shuddering. “What?” He looks at your reassuring smile, the first gift he opened, then to the helmet. You can see him slowly piece it together.
You know he is Red Hood.
“You… You know.” He repeats, blinking at you as if you’ll suddenly vanish in between blinks.
You nod, “I know.” You repeat.
He opens his mouth, exhaling as he attempts to form sentences. “How?” He asks softly, “How long?”
“Since you saved me in the alley.” You smile sheepishly at him.
His eyes widen, “Are you serious? That long?” He openly gapes at you, and you scoot closer to him. “Are you not mad at me or anything? Why haven’t you said something?”
You frown, “Why would I be mad at you?” You shake your head at him, as if the idea is absurd.
He looks at you like you’ve lost it, “I lied to you, for months.”
You nod, “True, but I understand why. If I was a crime fighting vigilante I wouldn’t go around telling every single person I know my identity.”
Jason shakes his head, “You’re not ‘every single person,’ though. You’re my girlfriend.”
Your shoulders relax, fondness melting your heart. “Jason, you don’t have to justify yourself. I am not mad at you for not telling me. It hasn’t even been a full year since we met. If anything, I’m just mad that you’ve probably been hiding injuries from me since the start.”
You must’ve hit the mark with that comment because Jason winces, muttering a soft apology. “I didn’t do this to make you think I’m mad at you. I did this because I thought you’d feel better knowing I’m not mad at you.” You look at his eyes. “This doesn’t change anything.”
Jason stares at you, mouth agape before pulling you closer. He gently cradles your face as his lips meet your own. Instinctively, you begin to kiss him back, placing a hand onto his shoulder as you close your eyes, savoring the moment. Slowly, he breaks the kiss, slowly pulling away. “You bought all of this,” he grabs the Red Hood PNG mug from behind him, holding it up to your chest, “just to show me you know?”
You smirk, your arms still rested around his shoulders, “Okay… Maybe I thought it was funny. You should’ve seen me laughing as I ordered everything.”
He huffs, but smiles at you nonetheless, “I’m sure you did, didn’t you?”
You laugh as you slowly pull away from him, “I think I found our new favorite mug.” You reach to grab it out of his hand.
He laughs sharply, “‘Our?’”
You grin, “Are you kidding? I paid good money for this. You gotta use it.”
He shakes his head, “The helmet too?”
You snap your fingers, “Especially the helmet.”
“Jason, you gotta add this to your collection.” Dick moves around the couch to place the helmet onto Jason’s lap.
“No need for that. She knows.” Jason deadpans, and Dick, Tim, Steph, and Duke turn to you wide-eyed.
“I also know that the rest of you are vigilantes.” You chime in helpfully, Jason nods unsurprised.
The four of them stare at you, but everybody else in the room is unsurprised. It seems that Cass and Barbara figured it out soon after Bruce and Damian did.
“Wait, so you did all of this knowing we’d all panic?” Duke asks, pressing his palms together and pointing his hands at you.
You nod, “Yeah, pretty much. For the record, I won’t tell anybody your identities,” you nod to Bruce, “and your guys’ reaction was probably the second best gift I received all year.” You nod to Damian, after all, his gift deserved the top spot.
“Damn,” Dick whistles, “you didn’t know about this either?” He looks down at Jason on the couch.
“Nope.” Jason deadpans. Dick and Steph immediately start cackling, Tim and Duke quickly following suit. Both you and Jason watch with varying degrees of glee on your face. “I do not want to see this ever again.” Jason whispers to you, grabbing a small scrap of the Batman wrapping paper.
You chuckle, “Aw, I thought you’d like it? Is it not on theme?” You take the scrap from him, running your fingers over it.
He snorts, “No, I’m serious.” The amusement drops from his face, “Please get rid of it.”
Chuckling, you delicately place a kiss on Jason’s cheek, “Anything for you.” You lean your head onto his shoulder, a smile on your face. “Love you.”
He huffs, but you can see the hint of a smile peek through his face, “Love you too.”
-> Fatson Todd Bonus Fic
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A/N: I'd like to imagine you give the wrapping paper to Dick or something, and it’s used by EVERYBODY in the manor for the next 3 years (basically until it runs out). Jason is not happy when you all return for Christmas next year and EVERY SINGLE GIFT is covered in that Batman wrapping paper lmao.
Also guys, I’ve actually NEVER gotten second hand embarrassment from WRITING before (surprising, I know). During the scene where reader gives him the gift I had to cover my mouth with one hand as I continued to type.
Jokes aside, merry Christmas/Christmas Eve/happy holidays to you all! I hope you enjoyed this silly fic :). As always feel free to let me know about any mistakes! Have a wonderful day <3!
Requests are still open (rules here) ! Feel free to send them in :)!
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˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ the club scene if the woman ilya was dancing with was a lesbian who was very concerned with the lethal levels of yearning happening around her and incapable of minding her own business.
˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ lesbian!reader. ilya rozanov x shane hollander, reader x svetlana vetrova, reader x not minding her business. reader is NOT shipped with either ilya or shane. reader speaks russian.
˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ very short silly one-shot. headcanons at shane hollander the bottom. woah what happened there
“Get off me, dude.”
The guy behind you pulls back immediately, to his credit, and you relax again. You feel a little light-headed; you’ve been on the dance floor for the last half hour, navigating sticky limbs and wandering hands, and the last thing you need is some jackass who won’t take no for an answer.
“Ya dazhe devushku sebe nayti ne mogu. Chert, chto on so mnoy delayet? Eto prosto zhalko.” The guy mutters, and you can barely pick up the Russian in between the bass of the music.
I can’t even get a girl anymore. Fuck, what is he doing to me? This is pathetic.
You grin at the familiar language, then whirl around, suddenly interested. “Kakoy paren’?” What guy?
The man behind you is huge, towering easily over you, blonde curls matted slightly to his head with sweat. He’s wearing an absolutely atrocious leopard print shirt open about three buttons too far, his cheeks stained red and eyes hazy.
“Chto?” What?
The guy’s slightly swaying in place, and you guide him off the dance floor, concerned. He collapses back into one of the cracked vinyl booths shoved at the sides of the club with a light push, and you settle across from him.
“Ty v poryadke, chuvak?” You okay, dude?
The table’s sticky, the heat of the club almost oppressive. You’re more than a little concerned for the man.
He raises his head to meet your eyes, squinting at you in the low purple light. “Do you know who I am?” He asks in English, accent thick.
“Am I supposed to?” You shoot back. “V takoy rubashke vy tochno zapomnites' okruzhayushchim.” With that shirt, you’d certainly be memorable.
He grins at the gentle ribbing, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Eto podcherkivayet moi glaza, ne tak li?” Brings out my eyes, doesn’t it?
“Certainly distracts from everything else, sure.”
The guy’s clearly drunk, and when he reaches across the table to clasp your hands in his, you wince and squeeze his palms once, trying to be comforting, before withdrawing.
“Can you keep secret?” He asks, then repeats it in Russian, slurring the vowels.
“Konechno, da.” Sure, yeah. “Is this about the guy?”
He looks panicked, eyes cutting up to you. “Otkuda vy o nem znayete?” How do you know about him?
“You were doing some pretty heavy-duty yearning out there, dude. You talked about him.”
“Blyat.”
“Look, uh, if you want to talk, you can. I can put my two cents in.”
“Dva tsenta? Chto, chert voz'mi, eto znachit?” Two cents? What the fuck does that mean?
“Eto idioma.” It’s an idiom. You grope for the Russian equivalent. There are some words in your vocabulary you know only in a specific language; and, of course, most of the English idioms didn’t have a direct translation.
“Uh, like… lezt’ so svoimi sovetami.”
The guys nods in understanding. “Oke. I… uh…”
“We can speak in Russian, if you’d like.”
The guy opens his mouth, closes it. “You can keep secret, yes?”
You nod, once. The guy squeezes his eyes shut.
“Yest' odin paren'. I ya dumala, chto u nas chto-to poluchitsya, no on sbezhal, i u nego teper' yest' eta chertova ideal'naya devushka. I, konechno zhe, on povsyudu, kuda by ya ni povernulas'. Ya ne mogu ot nego izbavit'sya. Khotya ya i ne khochu ot nego izbavlyat'sya.”
There’s this guy. And I thought we were going somewhere, but he runs off, and now he has this stupid fucking perfect girlfriend. And, of course, he’s there wherever I turn. I cannot escape him. I don’t want to escape him.
“Mne ochen' zhal'. Eto neprosto. On zdes'? Pryamo seychas?” I'm sorry. That's difficult. He's here? Right now?
“Da,” the guy says, miserable, letting his head thunk back. “I cannot believe I tell you this.”
You let him have a moment. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Mm. No. Maybe I will dance.”
“Khochesh', ya pridu? Ty vyglyadish' sovsem rasteryannoy.” Do you want me to come? You're pretty out of it.
The guy pulls a face, but offers you a hand and pulls you up. “Vy govorite kak zhitel' yuzhnykh shtatov. Ya vas s trudom ponimayu.” You speak like a Southerner. I can barely understand you. “Speak up.”
“Oh, fuck you. I think that shirt’s loud enough for the both of us.”
The guy growls, shoving his face into your neck, and drags you back out onto the dance floor, laughing slightly. t.a.t.u’s All The Things She Said floods through the club, and you let the guy sway against your back.
I keep asking myself, wondering how / I keep closing my eyes but I can't block you out / Want to fly to a place where it's just you and me.
“I miss him,” he mutters in English, and you reach up a hand to pat comfortingly at his head. “Dumayu, ty vryad li soglasish'sya na seks iz zhalosti, verno?” I don't suppose you'd be up for a pity fuck?
“Nope. I don’t like guys. Nice try, though. Hey, what’s your name, anyway?”
He hesitates, but only for a beat. “Ilya.”
“Nice to meet you, Ilya. I’m Y/n.”
“Spasibo, Y/n.”
An easy silence falls over you, letting the low beat of the song guide your movement, before you feel Ilya suddenly go tense against your back, muscles locking. His face drops down into your hair.
And I'm all mixed up, feeling cornered and rushed / They say it's my fault but I want her so much.
“Blyat. On zdes'.” He’s here.
You flick your eyes up, glancing surreptitiously at a built guy in a plain white t-shirt staring at Ilya like a doe in headlights. He’s almost shaking. “Him?" You ask, incredulous. "And you're sure it's one-sided?”
Ilya’s hands drop to your waist, shaking slightly where they squeeze at your hipbones. “U nego yest' devushka.” He has a girlfriend.
“Then he shouldn’t be looking at you like that.”
Ilya’s shaking more now, and you let him press his face into the hollow of your throat.
“You okay?” You ask.
“Chert. Pochemu tak sil'no bolit?” Fuck. Why does it hurt so much?
The guy’s still staring at Ilya, drink in one hand. He looked like someone had just run him over with a fucking truck.
“Idi. Posmotri na nego. C’mon,” Go. Look at him. You encourage, trying to nudge Ilya subtly forward. He raises his head and makes eye contact with the man across the dance floor, but doesn’t move otherwise.
“On sdelal svoy vybor.” He made his choice.
Jesus Christ. Ilya drops his head to kiss lightly at your neck, eyes still locked with the man across the dance floor.
“Pozhaluysta. On ne dolzhen videt' menya v takom vide.” He murmurs against your skin, and you sigh before tilting your head back. Please. He cannot see me like this.
“This is a mistake,” You respond.
“He cannot know he affects me like this,” Ilya responds in rough English.
“This is why I don’t date men,” You mutter back. “Emotional range of a fucking teaspoon.”
“I am Russian. Cannot help it.”
“Shut the fuck up and dance, zasranets.”
The man in the white t-shirt vanishes into the crowd, and Ilya slumps like a puppet with it’s strings cut.
//
“A eto Svetlana.” And this is Svetlana.
As soon as the man in the white t-shirt had left, all of the fight had gone out of Ilya, and you’d been able to hail a cab and bundle him into the backseat.
Now, after managing to wrangle his address out of him, you were shoved into the back of a cab to make sure the Russian didn’t manage to get himself killed on the journey home. Ilya had done nothing but scroll morosely through his camera roll — which admittedly did lead to him offering to introduce you to his friend Svetlana, so there was a plus.
“I cannot believe you did not open with this. That was a major oversight on your part.” You slide the phone out of his hand to marvel at the beautiful woman on the screen. “I yey nravyatsya devushki?” And she likes girls?
“Too much, I think.” Ilya responds.
You pull a face. “No such thing.”
You feel a little guilty discussing your own romantic prospects while Ilya’s clearly having a meltdown, and reach out to drag a gentle hand through his curls. He’d crowded you on the left side of the cab, a solid line of warmth against your side.
“You want to talk about it?”
He clicks off his phone and shoves it back into your purse. His pants were basically painted on, the slut. You’d told him so affectionately earlier in the evening, when he’d shamelessly asked to deposit his things in your bag.
“Nyet.”
“Alright,” you shrug. “You want to hear about what I read in People this morning?”
“Skazhi mne.” Tell me.
“Well, you won’t believe this, but…”
//
ending headcanons:
you and ilya are papped leaving the club, and the internet explodes in dating conspiracy rumors. ilya posts a picture of himself on instagram in answer, face long-suffering, as you make out with svetlana in the background, draped across her lap. he captions it "i am not her type."
ilya, still feeling salty about when rose wore shane's jersey to his game, demands that you attend a boston match. you have literally never seen a game of hockey in your life, but get way too into it, screaming at the top of your lungs in russian, ilya's name on the back of your jersey. ilya fucking loves it but you are escorted from the box seats (oops).
ilya facetimes you in tampa from the bar right before he meets shane, worried that he looks silly in his red shirt. you tell him he looks fine. he still calls back twenty minutes later with the stupidest grin on his face to tell you that "hollander has his own personal stylist, so you will be mine, da?"
you and svetlana are instantly obsessed with each other. ilya will never know a moment of peace again.
when shane gets his bell rung, ilya calls you while he drives frantically to the hospital, so you can talk him down in quiet, slow russian while svetlana hooks her head over your shoulder and murmurs softly.
Description: Y/n tries to take herself on a mental health date but ends up saving a kitten.
Word Count: 1.05k
Disclaimer: typical violence of Bungo Stray Dogs, one mention of mattress actresses, mental health themes, and the narrator being snarky.
A/N: Guess who finally has found motivation to write...Also, I had to do some story restucturing so just check the masterlist lol. anyways enjoy!
What is one supposed to do when they see a poor, helpless kitten on the street? Well, most people will walk by, hoping someone else will help, but our protagonist happens to know this tiger kitten. And from the looks of it, this kitty was about to have a mental breakdown in the middle of a crosswalk. She couldn’t have that! From her intel, the poor kid had already gone through enough in his eighteen years of life.
With a hefty sigh, she accepts that her day of relaxation will have to be postponed.
Atsushi Nakajima doesn’t notice the car honking at him to get out of the way when, suddenly, with absolutely no warning, he is yanked back by his collar. Now, Atsushi will never admit this, but it took him a solid minute to process that his feet weren’t touching the ground. Not because the person holding was particularly tall, but because he instinctively curled up like a small lion cub–sorry, tiger cub.
Once Atsushi does come back to reality, he instantly tries to get out of the person’s hold. When he doesn’t move an inch, he shivers as he turns to look at his monstrous captor. It’s probably the mafia, considering the bounty on his head. Or maybe it–
Then, for the second time in five minutes, his brain short-circuits.
He knows he shouldn’t be fooled by looks, considering everything that has happened in the last week, but holy shit, this lady was beautiful. She then made it worse by opening her mouth.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. You were about run back into the busy streat and I didn’t want you to get hurt!” the angelic voice told him as she carefully placed him down.
“Uhhh-”, ah yes, Atsushi, that is a highly intelligent response.
“Are you alright? You looked like you’d seen a ghost,” she laughed gently.
Oh goodness, Atsushi, this is just getting embarrassing, speak child!
“Oh-h yeah, I ’m-I’m fine, well kind of… but nothing you need to worry about, I promise!” he’s frantic as words fall out like a waterfall. He slowly starts backing up.
“Thank you so much! I’ll be more careful in the futur-”
HONK!!!
...
“Thank you once again for saving me,” a dejected Atsushi states while bowing at the strangely strong woman before him.
“It’s no problem! Really!” she grins. “Say,” she pauses puting a finger to her temple, “why don’t you come over to my friend’s cafe with me? I have the day off, and you look like you need someone to talk to.”
A littleral angel.
“Oh, you really don’t have to do that! I wouldn’t want to burden you more than I already have!”
“Please, sweetheart, it would ease my mind if we chatted for a little bit.”
And once again, Atsushi Nakajima can’t say no to people.
You have got to be kidding me.
Out of all of the cafes in Yokohama prefecture, it had to be the one under the agency. The one he had been contemplating leaving for their own good.
God has truly abandoned me, hasn’t he?
“Actually, on second thought, maybe we could go somewhere else?” mumbles Atsushi as his eyes start darting around the building.
The bartender raises an eyebrow at the question, “Nonsense, sweetheart, this is the best cafe in Yokohama!”
They grab a booth, and Atsushi, trying not to have a panic attack, doesn’t seem to notice the waitress coming over.
“Hi Shimeko, how are you this evening?”
“Ah! Y/n, I’m doing just fine for the most part. You know, I have this one customer who is an absolute menace. He racks up his tab and then starts raving about how much he misses his wife!”
Y/n smirks, “oh really?”
“Yeah! Always calls her his sweet belladonna. And knowing him, I have no idea if he’s referring to the poison or,” the waitress leans to whisper, “the mattress actress.”
Y/n giggles, “I would the poison if he’s talking about his wife.”
“Why poison?”
“Because,” the woman tilts her head at the lady standing before her, “poison is subtle, powerful, and elegant if you think about it. I mean, just look at history.”
Shimeko shakes her head, “You and your documentaries. Anyways, what can I get for you?”
“Two chamomile teas, please.”
“Coming right up!”
As Shimeko walks away, Y/n finally turns back towards the spaced-out kitten.
“Sweetheart?” she taps the table.
Atsushi jumps, “WH-oh, sorry. Guess I spaced out there.”
“Don’t worry about it. I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered us some tea. I thought it might help.”
“Oh, thank you,” Atsushi bows his head slightly.
Y/n smiles at him, “No, problem. I also realized I never introduced myself. I’m Y/n Da-Lupin, and I own a bar. So, I have a bit of experience in hearing people’s woes.”
“Oh, right! I’m Atsuhi Nakajima, and right now I’m working for the armed detective agency. That’s kinda my issue, I have some people targeting me right now, and I don’t want my coworkers getting hurt because of me.”
“I see, I’ve heard of the agency before–oh really–and it’s really impressive that you’re part of it.”
“Not really, I don’t do much.” He sighs, “I’m honestly kinda useless.”
Y/n frowns, “Now now, Atsushi, you shouldn’t insult yourself like that. As a matter of fact, you would be insulting your co-workers by saying they hired someone incompetent!”
Ah, yes, the good old guilt trip to get someone to stop being self-deprecatory trick.
“Also, do you think your co-workers are strong and trustworthy?”
Atsushi straightens up, “Of course!”
“Then don’t count them out, for all you know, they want to protect you too.”
“Huh, maybe. But these guys are super dangero–”
BOOM, a huge explosion goes off.
Oh no! The agency! They’re in danger!!
“I’m so sorry, I have to go!” Atsushi yells as he runs off.
“Hey, Shimeko?”
“Yeah?”
“Make it one tea to go.”
Time to enjoy the rest of her day off.
After all of the chaos of the afternoon, it wasn't until he got home that he remembered the strange, beautiful woman.
Y/n… I never thanked her for the talk. I wonder if I’ll be able to see her soon?
Sooner than you might think, little tiger cub, much, much sooner.
