a-asterias

[a-asterias]

(not so) simple p1 - anthony bridgerton

pt2 pt3 pt4

summary: coercing lord bridgerton into pretending to court you to avoid the affections of a baron is very simple — that is, until it isn't.

a/n: she's finally here!! the long ass anthony fic that i've been talking about for like three months lmao. as much as i wanted to release this all as one fic it became way too long and oh my god i just wanted to post something for it after writing for months. but here u go the first part of a few i hope you enjoy

wc: 10k

warning(s): reader is a little insensitive, mentions of issues getting pregnant, unwanted advances/gross men, historical inaccuracies

“No.”

“Darling—”

“No!” you protested once more, turning away from the mirror to face her. “Mother, you cannot be serious—”

“My dear, can you at least try to see things my way?” Your mother took a step back from you to admire the fit of your dress before she looked back at you. “Lord Cardew is an excellent match; he has a beautiful estate, incredibly vast wealth — for goodness sake, he is a baron! And he is interested in you.”

“He is a complete lecher,” you snapped. “I’d sooner die than accept even the slightest nicety from him.”

This kind of conversation had been going on between you and your mother ever since your debut the past week — you were no diamond, but you were no disaster either; you were as you’d always been, perfectly content with being perfectly average. But despite your lackluster introduction, you’d somehow managed to earn the attention of Baron Jonathan Cardew. An illustrious man with more wealth than you had ever experienced, your mother nearly fainted when he approached you after your debut and requested a dance. 

It would have been a blessing of the highest order had he been fifteen years younger, capable of basic decency, and you wanted to be married in the first place. 

Unfortunately, none of those were true, and after spending a waltz with him where you were more occupied with denying his advances than truly dancing, you became aware of the reason he flaunted his money so often — it was the only way to cover up how awful he was. But your mother was more taken with him than you were, insisting you follow through on his interest. Therefore, you were stuck in quite the unfavorable situation. 

“That kind of mouth is why you can never keep a suitor,” she berated, turning you around to continue fussing with your hair. “Oh, I know it is disappointing to be unable to marry for love, but this is what you are meant for. You are the crown jewel of our family, my dear — do not throw it away on one of your many whims!”

“This is not a whim, mother!” You pulled away from her once again and stalked across the room in frustration, your arms crossed against your chest as you gazed out the window. “You have known for years that I have never wanted to marry.”

“And you have known for years that it is your duty!” she exclaimed. “Would you so readily allow our name to fall into ruin over something so simple?”

“Marriage is not at all simple!” you retorted, wholly exasperated. “I do not think I am at all unreasonable to reject a union with someone I despise.”

“You are unreasonable,” she insisted. “Your father and I have tried our best to raise you into the finest woman we could. My dear, you are beautiful, kind, creative; you are wonderful in so many ways, and perfectly eligible — if it wasn’t for your ridiculous notions, you would have suitors lining up outside our door!”

“It is not my fault that I am the only one here for you to marry off!” you shouted, aware that you were touching a nerve but too enraged to care. “I do not exist simply for you to dress me up and pass off to a man before society deems me unacceptable. You know who I am, and you should know that you cannot change me. If you wanted a daughter to give you heirs without complaint, you should’ve tried harder to secure your lineage than thrusting the responsibility onto me.”

You saw your mother’s jaw clench, and you felt the slightest pang of guilt. “Do not take that tone with me, young lady. We have tried more times than you know, and your father and I have worked harder than you could ever imagine building this life. The very least you can do is help us keep it.”

“You would rather I be miserable with a horrible man as long as your fortune and good name are ensured,” you accused, and you raised your skirt up as you crossed over to the door. You opened it with one hand and turned to her as you stood in the doorframe. “I will be back in time for Lady Danbury’s ball tonight, and I will participate in the social season to keep up appearances. But I will not seek out suitors, and I will not become any man’s wife — least of all Lord Cardew.”

Before your mother could protest any further, you shut the door behind you. You hurried through the halls of your estate as quickly as you could, armed with the intent of airing your grievances to the only other person in all of England who understood you. 

-

“Lord Cardew?” Eloise scoffed as she set down her book. “I will never understand the men of the ton, going after women that could be their daughters.”

“You as much as I,” you sighed as you settled onto the couch next to her. “I just wish my mother wasn’t so intent on forcing us together. She is so blinded by title that she cannot see how awful he is— how awful we would be together.”

“Daphne had to deal with the same thing during her debut, a man of the same awful sort named Lord Berbrooke.” Eloise grimaced but then looked at you innocently. “She dealt with him with some well-deserved violence. I suggest you try her methods.” 

“Eloise!” you gasped with mock horror at the suggestion. “You cannot say those things to me. You know I will go through with it if given the chance.” 

“As you very well should!” she responded with a laugh. “Have you thought about running away?” You had to stifle your laughter at the question and she rolled her eyes. “It is a serious question! The way you tell it, you would all but be disowned if you go against your mother’s wishes. Disappearing might just be a better plan.”

“I must admit that I have,” you responded, “but I could never follow through with it. As much as she frustrates me at times, I do love my mother. She truly wants what is best for me, it is just that she has no idea what that is.”

“Sometimes I wish I could just escape to the country,” Eloise said, looking at you with a smile. “I would take you with me, and we would not have to deal with society’s demands; no men, no marriages, and everything we’ve ever wanted that has been locked away from us by virtue.”

“That sounds lovely,” you mused, laying your head against the cushions. “Able to simply walk about instead of promenading with a suitor, able to hitch our skirts and run as far and long as we can, able to read every book we can get our hands on, to be more than just another lady — it all sounds so perfect.” You glanced at her out of the corner of your eye. “But I thought you wanted to go to university.”

“Oh, you know I do,” she sighed. “If my half-brained brother can attend Oxford then I believe I am fully capable of doing the same. But a miracle would have to occur for them to suddenly allow my enrollment.”

“If there is anyone in England who deserves the privilege, it is you.”

Eloise beamed at you and you offered a smile of your own, though the moment was interrupted by the door being pushed open along with a demanding voice you had grown accustomed to over the years.

“Eloise, have you seen my quill?”

You looked up at the appearance and bit back a smile at the sight of the viscount — you were familiar with Anthony, having been friends with Eloise for so long, but he never seemed to appreciate your presence. His annoyance simply made it all the more fun to tease him. 

“No, Anthony,” Eloise answered, “but have you tried your own desk? It seems far more likely to be there than in the drawing room the day I have a visitor. You are not as sly as you think, brother.”

It was then he seemed to notice you, whether by design or truth. “If it isn’t Miss Worthing,” Anthony said as he breezed across the room, offering nothing more than a passing glance at you. “I must ask, are you ever seen on your own estate, or have you decided to permanently establish yourself here?” 

“It is quite funny that you ask, Anthony,” you started with a smile. “I have started moving more and more of my possessions here with every visit to Eloise — I believe it will only be a month more until I am fully settled at the Bridgerton estate.” 

He hummed, wholly unamused as he rustled through the contents of the drawer across from the two of you. “I think it best for you to remain on your own grounds, lest you never leave again. I also think it best you refer to me as Lord Bridgerton — we are hardly close enough to warrant anything less.” 

“Brother,” Eloise sighed, rolling her eyes in apology as she glanced at you, “must you insult my closest friend? There is no need for formalities in our own time.” 

“It is not an insult, Eloise,” Anthony insisted. “Your closest friend has just debuted — it would do her some good to learn proper manners before the season gets too far along.” 

“Well, Lord Bridgerton,” you made sure to enunciate his title, which only served to earn you another unamused look, “I very much appreciate your concerns, but they are not needed. I do not intend to marry this season.” 

“My advice should not be taken lightly.” Anthony made a triumphant noise as he found what he was looking for, the aforementioned quill, then turned his attention back to you. “I have been the man of the house for longer than you know, Miss Worthing, and I guided my sister through an extremely successful season. I consider myself an expert on such affairs; it would do you well to listen to someone else for once in your life.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Do correct me if I am mistaken, but I believe that the man Daphne chose to marry was the one suitor you were intent on keeping her away from. Wasn’t it once you finally stepped back for a moment, she truly began to flourish as the diamond?” 

“You certainly have an interesting memory, Miss Worthing,” Anthony said, restraint clear in his voice. “I am sure that you attract many suitors acting like this.” 

“I don’t attract many,” you confirmed with a smile, “which is rather fortunate, seeing as I don’t plan to marry.” 

“As you’ve already said,” he noted. “An interesting plan, I admit. I cannot imagine your mother is too happy about it.”

“I cannot imagine why you would care so much about her prospects,” Eloise mused. “I would assume your hands are quite full with our family alone. You air your grievances enough just at the idea of my own debut.”  

“It is because she is a bad influence on you, Eloise. Your debut has already been delayed once, and if you continue to spend time around her it will surely happen again.” Anthony then turned to you and gave you a pointed look. “In fact, I believe it is time for you to go, Miss Worthing, if you wish to make it back to your estate in time for Lady Danbury’s ball.”

“How kind of you to remind me,” you said dryly as you stood up from the couch. Eloise stood as well and the two of you embraced, and she placed her hands on your shoulders when you separated.

“I’ll see you tonight?” she asked, and she glanced back at Anthony. “My dearest friend, who is in no way a bad influence?” 

You nodded with a laugh. “Of course. I wager I will need someone to accompany me as I find my true calling as a wallflower.”

“It would do you well to change your attitude,” Anthony interrupted, and you responded by rolling your eyes at Eloise as she stifled her own laugh. “You are hardly two and twenty, Miss Worthing. You should not want to throw away your potential so soon.”

“Once again, I appreciate your concerns, but your worries are unnecessary.” You raised an eyebrow. “If you are so intent on my becoming a true lady, perhaps you should take matters into your own hands and court me.”

“Ah, yes. My younger sister’s closest friend; the most desirable lady of the season.” Anthony gestured towards the door in lieu of explaining his sarcasm further. You just smiled. 

“I will see you tonight, Eloise,” you repeated as you started walking. “I look forward to your latest conversation.”

“I am sure my material is far more interesting than any suitor you may happen across,” Eloise reassured. “Including Lord Cardew.”

“You may be my savior yet,” you grinned. As you reached the door you bowed your head to Eloise, and then turned to Anthony and lifted your skirts up in a slight curtsy. “Lord Bridgerton.”

“Miss Worthing,” he responded in kind, offering the same tight-lipped smile as always. 

As Anthony closed the door behind you, Eloise fell back onto the sofa with an exasperated sigh. “Why do you treat her so, brother? Now that my dear Penelope has truly set off into society to find a match, she is the only one that shares my sentiments about our fates. I understand I might not be able to avoid it, but you should at least allow me this much.” 

“She is nothing but trouble,” Anthony responded as he crossed his arms behind his back. “It is in her best interest to find a husband as soon as possible, and yet she resists it with all her might. I should only imagine the kinds of things she is putting into your mind. Are you aware that she has been spotted in the heart of London attending rallies more boisterous than even you could handle?” 

“Truly?” she asked, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. “Oh, I must insist she bring me to her next one!”

“That is not my—” Anthony rubbed his forehead with a sigh. “You are just as impossible as her, are you aware?” 

Eloise grinned. “Now that is a compliment.” 

-

Lady Danbury’s ball was shaping up to be as dreadful as you had imagined. 

Your initial plans of blending in with the wallpaper as you watched from afar and enjoyed the music were foiled almost as soon as you had arrived — you faulted the gems embedded into your dress, insisted upon by your mother — for no sooner had you stepped foot into the main hall did the baron approach you.

“Lady Worthing, Miss Worthing,” he greeted with a slight bow, and he eyed you with a smile. “How wonderful to see the two of you here — especially you, my dear. May I say how ravishing you look in that gown?”

“You may not—” you began to say, but your mother cut you off with a very unladylike jab to your side, though masterfully disguised in her usual fashion.

“Thank you, Lord Cardew,” she said. “I apologize for my daughter; she is simply caught up in all the emotions she has been experiencing since her debut. She means no disrespect.” 

“I understand, my lady. Rest assured, I do not mind.” Lord Cardew extended a hand toward you, and your entire body stiffened. “Might I raise your spirits with a dance?” 

“I apologize, my lord,” you said emphatically. “My dance card is full.” 

Your mother forced out a bright laugh as she grasped your arm; it seemed you were already getting to her. “That certainly is funny, my dear! But of course, your card cannot be full as we have just arrived, and one does not refuse a baron in such a way.”

You opened your mouth to protest once more but she leaned into your side and muttered into your ear. “Just one dance with him. The sooner you do it, the sooner it will be over.”

The thought of your time spent within a yard of the baron being over as soon as possible was certainly an appealing notion, enough so that you plastered on a smile and took Lord Cardew’s hand. 

“I would be… honored to dance with you, my lord.” You had to force the words out, but he seemed none the wiser as his smile widened and he led you onto the floor. 

“I have had my eye on you for quite a long time, my lady,” he said as the two of you took your positions and seamlessly joined in with the flow of the other dancers. “You were a sure sight during your debut — truly, none of the other ladies hold even the slightest candle to you.”

“You flatter me, Lord Cardew.” You grimaced as his hand inched further down your waist and you glanced over at the orchestra, as if hoping the desperation in your eyes alone would be enough for them to cut the waltz short. Unfortunately, your silent plea achieved nothing. 

“I must admit, it is a surprise you have only just now entered society,” he said. You noticed your mother smiling at you in the group of many spectators, and you glared at her as best you could in the time the baron was looking away from you. The second his attention turned to you once more, that practiced smile was back in place. “Whyever did it take so long?” 

“I am afraid it is a private matter, my lord,” you said as politely as you could, but he shook his head. 

“You needn’t hold your tongue around me, dear,” he said as he spun you out and then took you back in, your entire body stiffening as he pulled you far closer than what was appropriate. “You do not extend the notion to any other member of the ton, so I do not see why it should apply to me.” 

“My mother simply decided to give me a few more years of respite,” you lied. “It is only this year that she decided she could not delay my debut any longer, so alas, I am here.” 

“And the season is made that much better by your presence, my lady.” Lord Cardew offered a smile and you were only able to manage one so thin it hardly qualified as a smile. But your invisible pleas must have done something because the waltz began to play to a close, and you had to hold back your breath of relief as you both bowed to each other.  

“Thank you for the dance and your… myriad of compliments, Lord Cardew,” you said as you straightened again. 

“It would do you good to get used to them,” he said with a smile, “for they will extend all throughout this courtship and our betrothal — you may have to work harder for them in marriage.” 

Your world stopped spinning on his axis as your entire body stiffened, frozen to the spot. 

“I am sorry?” you breathed, your eyes surely as wide as dinner plates as you attempted to process his words. 

“Compliments may be genuine, but they are also a ploy,” he said. “Without them, how does a man expect to claim a woman? Of course, after marriage a man does not have to fight for her affections anymore, so they—”

“I am not talking about your… views,” you interrupted sharply. “I was not aware of any engagement.” 

“Miss Worthing,” Lord Cardew sighed, his tone nothing less than patronizing, “it is obvious even to the most oblivious that your family is in need of whatever they can get — after our dance at the debutante ball, your father approached me and all but begged me to take your hand. Of course, I prefer to enjoy the process through a bit of courting, but rest assured, it will end in a proposal.” 

That was the shattering point. You had always known that your future hardly lay in your hands despite all your attempts to move it there, but you’d not expected your father to so easily yield— no, not yield, beg— to a man like the one that stood in front of you. 

You felt the rate of your heart speed up as your breathing fell shallow, and you knew you would not last another second in the middle of it all. 

“Excuse me, my lord.” You extracted your hand from his grasp, thankful for the barrier of your gloves however thin it may have been, and offered what you hoped was a convincing smile over the anxieties running rampant below the surface. “I find myself quite parched after our dance — I shall return soon after fetching a glass of lemonade.” 

Before the baron could protest you turned on your heel and set off towards the refreshment table. You poured the liquid from the pitcher into your glass with shaking hands, eyeing the baron out of your peripherals once you finished. The moment his attention moved away from you, you set your glass down and hurried off, easily dissolving into the crowd from years of practice. You glanced over your shoulder once more to ensure you were not being followed before you ducked around the corner. The second you were out of sight you picked up your skirts and ran, every step away from the main hall reducing the weight on your shoulders.

If this was to be the model for the rest of the season, you were sure that you would not survive it — you would not even survive another second in Lord Cardew’s presence. 

You nodded your thanks to the servants as they opened the outside doors to you, and you sucked in a large breath of fresh air once you reached the gardens. Thankfully, the nobles here numbered few — enough for you to remain proper being there on your own while still allowing yourself time to recover from what your parents wanted to be the start of the rest of your life. 

You leaned against the wall, the night breeze cooling your flushed cheeks. You hadn’t the slightest clue how you were supposed to get out of anything involved Lord Cardew, especially the inevitable proposal — no matter the number of your denials, it was just a nicety; the second he tired of your stubbornness, he would go over your head to your mother or father and trap you in a marriage you would spend the rest of your life resenting.

You cursed underneath your breath as you allowed yourself a moment to look out over the gardens. If only he were not a baron — then he would be any other common suitor, one that would be no closer to royalty than you and therefore requiring no special treatment. 

It was then that your gaze caught hold of a certain viscount, standing around idly amongst the small groups of people with a flute of champagne in his hand. 

It was no surprise to see Anthony away from the party — his infamy did not come from his eagerness to participate in the season — but you did smile a bit at it all. He was doing the exact same thing you were, running away from responsibility; he just had the added benefit of alcohol. Maybe the two of you shared more similarities than you thought. 

Your eyes suddenly widened. 

Perhaps there was a way to get out of your predicament. 

You hitched your skirt up yet again and all but ran over to the viscount, and his eyebrows rose as you approached. 

“Miss Worthing?” he greeted with a hint of confusion, though he didn’t get the chance to continue. 

“Anthony,” you breathed, coming to a stop in front of him as you loosened your grip on your skirt, “I am in dire need of your assistance.”

“Lord—“ he began to correct almost instinctively, but you shook your head.

“I’ve no time for a lecture,” you interrupted. “I need you to court me.”

He looked so utterly dumbfounded that if your social life wasn’t in the hanging you would have laughed. “Excuse me?” 

“I need you to court me,” you repeated. “Right now.” 

Anthony frowned. “My lady, are you feeling alright?”

“No,” you responded curtly, “no, I am not alright, seeing as the one man that my mother seems intent on me marrying is the single most despicable man in all the world. There is no possible way for me to get out of it alone, which is why I need your assistance.” 

He looked completely vexed, so many emotions warring on his face that you could hardly pick out one from the bunch. “I apologize for your predicament, but what could I possibly have to do with this?” 

“My mother is so intent on the union because he is a baron, and she is fully convinced that all of our problems will go away when I become a baroness alongside him. Because a man of such rank is interested in me, she will not be satisfied with anything less. But you—” you gestured towards him with your hand, a smile blooming on your face, “—you are a viscount. You are more, not less, and if I am thought to become a viscountess myself, then both my mother and every other suitor, especially Lord Cardew, will finally leave me be.” 

“Now I am even more convinced you have fallen ill,” Anthony muttered. “May I, if no one else has, inform you of how ill-advised a plan like this is?” He shook his head, that incredulous expression still on his face. “Even if it wasn’t, this is coming out of the blue — I do not want to marry you, my lady.” 

“Nor I you!” you exclaimed. “You’ve as little desire as I to be bound in a marriage; what better option than pretending to have eyes for each other to avoid a true commitment? At the end of the season, we will stage an argument after we’ve realized that we cannot continue into a union with each other, because I find you completely infuriating and you realize that I am simply far too good for you—”

“Excuse me?” 

You ignored him as you continued on your tirade. “You will no longer be courting me then — you will be free to delay your search for yet another season, and I will be free to live the life of a spinster.” 

Anthony frowned once more; you feared if he continued like this in your conversations, his brow would be permanently furrowed. “I was not aware that was a desirable status for a woman like yourself.”

“Well, perhaps not the title, but the life…” You sighed dreamily, allowing yourself to gaze off for a moment before looking back to Anthony. “An unmarried life would allow me the freedom I have always dreamed of. All I require is your fake courtship for one season, just one, and I will be able to find the rest of the way on my own.” 

Anthony was silent for a beat before he sighed. “I sympathize with your plight, Miss Worthing — it is one that Eloise finds herself in as well — but there is little I can do for you. This is not a matter I should be involved in; it is a conversation much better suited for your own family.”

“Do you believe that I have not tried?” you bemoaned, gesturing with exasperated motions. “The life that I want is one that you could have for yourself at any time. If you ever tire of society and decide you no longer want to be the man of the house, you could up and leave and no one would hear from Anthony Bridgerton again. You have seven siblings to leave in your wake, all there to pick up after you should you go. But for me — the sole daughter, the sole child of the Worthing family — I will never be able to have that life. Not without more sacrifice than I alone am able to give.” 

Anthony opened his mouth to respond, but all he did was stare at you with unwavering eyes, the silence in between the two of you weighing heavily in the air.

You screwed your eyes shut as you heard your name called in a familiarly unwanted voice, and with a shaky breath you opened them and looked at Anthony. The saccharine sweet smile you offered him was undercut by the pure desperation in your eyes as you lowered your voice to a whisper. “You’re out of time, my lord.” 

Just as the words left your mouth the man you’d been trying to avoid turned the corner, and you took in and let out a deep breath in preparation as you inched closer to Anthony. 

“Miss Worthing!” the baron exclaimed as he came to a stop in front of you, and you had to hold back a grimace at his bow. 

“Lord Cardew,” you greeted, latching onto Anthony’s arm as quickly as you could. Though Anthony stiffened at your touch, he allowed it. “I admit, I was not expecting you tonight.” 

“You have been a tricky one to find, my lady. You all but disappeared after our dance.” The lord’s smile quickly faded as Anthony cleared his throat next to you, and in a move that surprised you, pulled you closer to him. 

“Have you considered that it was by design?” he asked curtly, and you had to hold back your shock. “Miss Worthing is quite busy at the moment.” 

“Is that so?” Lord Cardew folded his arms behind his back, his expression unreadable. “Bridgerton, surely you are not suggesting—” 

“That he is courting me?” you interrupted with a slight smile. “It is more than a suggestion, my lord — it is the truth. I’m sorry to say that I am quite occupied; for the rest of the season, might I add.” 

The lord carefully controlled his surprise, the emotion only betrayed by the slightest raise of his brow as he looked at Anthony. “This is quite prominent news — such official courting, and so early on in the season? I had not heard even a word of it until just now.”  

“It is the truth, Cardew,” Anthony answered, “I assure you. It is high time I’ve found a wife, and I believe there could be none better than Miss Worthing.” 

“How interesting,” he noted tersely, his eyes set on you as he spoke. “It is a disappointment you lose your eligibility so soon, my lady. Though perhaps there is still time for your head to be turned for a more… suitable match.” 

“You dare to question Miss Worthing’s honor?” Anthony pressed, and he pulled you closer to him ever so slightly. “I will not have a man such as yourself setting his eyes upon my future wife and insulting her so.”

Lord Cardew set his jaw before he bowed his head reluctantly to both you and Anthony. “My sincerest apologies, Bridgerton—” 

“Lord Bridgerton,” Anthony interrupted, and once again you had to bite back your smile at the baron’s visible frustration. 

“...My sincerest apologies, Lord Bridgerton,” he corrected, but Anthony tutted. 

“I believe you owe an apology to the lady as well.” 

“Do not test me,” Lord Cardew snapped. “And do not think I will give up so easily on account of your ridiculous claim.” 

“Watch yourself, Cardew,” Anthony warned. “Should it come down to it, you do not want an enemy in me.” 

Lord Cardew glowered at Anthony for so long the tension could be felt in the air, until he finally released his anger in a huff and stormed off in a way unbecoming of a gentleman. With every step he took away from you, the more the weight on your shoulders dissolved.

“That is the man your mother wants you to marry?” Anthony marveled.

You nodded as you smoothed your dress down and let out a haggard breath. “It is a rather damning fate, is it not?” 

“Indeed,” he murmured, his own gaze fixed in the distance from where Lord Cardew left. “I suppose it is fortunate you have another suitor.” 

“It is,” you agreed. “Though I must admit, I did not expect you to go along with me.”

“It was just as much of a surprise to me,” Anthony admitted, and when you turned to him he still seemed slightly shocked. 

“Then I am all the more thankful for it. You have no idea how much you have just saved me.”

“I cannot believe what you have dragged me into,” Anthony lamented, and as he extracted his arm from your grasp you took a few steps away from him. 

“Do not worry,” you reassured. “I promise, it is nothing but a ruse — just to keep that awful man away from me until he finds a match in a lady that is not me.” 

“And how long will that take?

“I haven’t the slightest,” you offered with a tight smile, “but I pray it will be soon.”  

Anthony let out a loose sigh as he rubbed his forehead. “This is going to be a very long season.” 

“Indeed it will be.” You cleared your throat and took a moment to readjust the neckline of your dress before offering your hand to Anthony. “Now. Shall we indulge the ton with a dance to close out their night and give them something worthwhile to gossip about?” 

“I believe I am the one meant to offer you my hand,” he noted. 

You shrugged. “I suppose I am already preparing for my freedom outside of society.” 

Anthony stared at you for a moment before his lips quirked up. “You certainly waste no time.” 

“One must be efficient if they wish to get anything out of life.” You extended your hand further, your own smile blooming. 

“I agree.” Anthony took your hand and placed it on the crook of his elbow. “Shall we?” 

You nodded. “We shall.” 

— 

Lady Danbury’s ball had been the place of endless gossip after your first dance with Anthony — you now understood how he felt during the social season, for you were now, along with him, the talk of the ton, the center of attention from dozens of miffed mothers. To them, you were the childish, thankless, pathetic excuse for a lady that had taken away their daughter’s chance at viscountess. You had to admit, you did not at all enjoy the spotlight, and on your third dance you’d started to wonder if this truly was the best option — for both your sanity and your feet. 

After all you had committed yourself to in the night before, you had been looking forward to at least sleeping soundly once you retired for the evening. And though you had been granted the relief, it was taken away far too early.

The steps of your lady’s maid alerted you to her presence even before she threw the drapes open, sunlight immediately filtering into your room. 

“Julia,” you groaned as you covered your eyes from the fresh rays with your arm, “you know I adore you, but I do not know how much longer I can handle these early wakings.” 

“My sincerest apologies miss, but your mother insisted upon it.” 

That was the quickest way to get your attention. You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes and when you looked up, you were, true to Julia’s word, greeted with your mother. 

“What are you doing here so early?” you mumbled, turning onto your side and burying your head in your pillows to avoid the sun. “I don’t have any arrangements planned.”

“The newest edition of Whistledown came this morning,” she explained, walking over to sit down on the side of your bed. “And my dear, you must read it.”

You groaned once more, reluctantly turning over and sitting up as your mother offered you the pamphlet. 

Dearest Reader,

Is there anything as exciting as the beginning of a brand new season? The ton comes to life once more, with frantic mamas and earnest debutantes all finishing last minute preparations in the hopes that they will be crowned the season’s diamond. I certainly know it is a modiste’s favorite time of year. 

You raised an eyebrow at her. “This is truly thrilling news, mother.”

She hit your elbow lightly and pointed towards the end of the edition. “Skip here.”

I had not anticipated delivering this news so early on in the season, nor ever, if I am being truthful, but I do admit it excites me. It appears as though two of the most stubborn heads to set foot in London have found solace in each other, in a move that not even I expected. 

The rumors are indeed true: The Viscount Bridgerton has finally commenced his search for a wife after years of rakedom, and his choice in courtship is none other than Miss Y/N Worthing. Both are known for their outspoken views against marriage, but maybe it is the common dissatisfaction that has brought the pair together. Whatever the reason, they are sure to shake up England together. 

I am ever looking forward to how this courting will end, so fret not; every step of this unusual union will be uncovered. Oh, gentlest reader, I only hope you are just as intrigued as I.  

Yours Truly, 

Lady Whistledown. 

You hummed, unenthused as you handed the leaflet back to her. “I’m in Whistledown.”

“Unbelievable,” your mother said with a shake of her head, and you closed your eyes as you let your head fall back against the pillows. “This is huge, darling!” 

“Really, mother?” you sighed. “You pay no mind to any of my other accomplishments, but getting mentioned by Lady Whistledown is worth your attention. I do not understand it.” 

“It is not Lady Whistledown I am concerned with,” your mother admonished with a glance in your direction, “you know that. It is the fact that you are being courted by Anthony Bridgerton! My darling, you are to be a Bridgerton! Oh, I am so proud of you!” 

How ironic, you thought, that the one thing your mother is proud of you for is something that is not even real. It truly is just your luck. 

“Yes,” you responded idly, “it is quite exciting. But there is no guarantee that I will be a Bridgerton, mother. All the viscount did was request a dance, and all I did was indulge him. It can hardly even be considered courting.” 

She sighed, immensely exasperated. “One does not simply dance with an eligible lady as a bachelor if one does not intend on courtship. Have I not taught you anything?”

“On the contrary, I argue that you have taught me far too much.” You fixed her with a pointed look. “I should think there is no room left for anything of actual importance after all the meaningless dances and instruments you have forced me to learn.”

“I understand you are not a fan of quadrilles, but do not lie to me and say that you do not enjoy the violin.” Her lips quirked up in amusement, and you could see in her eyes she was going back to it. “That was a particularly interesting summer, when you decided to try your hand at as many instruments as you could find.”

You chuckled. “Well, if we couldn’t afford a teacher, I was going to try as many as possible to see what clicked. I just did not anticipate enjoying all of them so much.” 

Your mother smiled at you, and you were reminded of how fond you were of her company when marriage wasn’t on her mind. “You are certainly more gifted than me at the pianoforte — I was a complete wreck. My voice was my saving grace.” 

You laughed again with a knowing nod — your mother accompanied you more times than you could remember with her singing, steadfast through every single instrument you insisted on learning. But your thoughts were interrupted with a yawn, and you covered your mouth with the palm of your hand, giving your mother a soft smile once it passed. 

“As much as I am enjoying these memories, I must admit I am exhausted,” you said as you leaned back against your pillows. “And your early rising for the sake of Whistledown has not helped.”

“Darling,” your mother sighed. “Ladies start their day bright and early — now that you have debuted, you do not get to laze around all morning and read all day. You have duties you must attend to.” 

“I do not have any engagements today!” you protested. “If you so approve of the viscount courting me, I am in need of my rest to deal with him. He is quite a handful.” 

Before your mother could respond, another maid poked her head in through the open door. “Excuse me, misses — forgive me for the interruption, but Miss Worthing has a caller. He is waiting in the drawing room.” 

Your mother’s eyes widened with excitement as she stood up from your bed, satisfaction underneath her smile. “You do have an engagement, my dear, and I cannot wait to see who. Maybe it is the viscount himself!” She squeezed her hands together, her smile growing larger by the second. “Oh, how exciting!” 

Before she exited your room she looked at your lady’s maid. “Julia, will you assist her in getting ready? I do not trust her judgment on such an important matter.” 

“Of course, my lady,” she nodded, and you blew out a loose sigh as your mother closed the door behind her. 

If this truly was Anthony, you needed to ensure any future meetings were set at a much later hour. Elsewise, you would not survive this courtship either. 

—

“So,” Julia couldn’t help the smile on her lips as she laced up your corset, meeting your eyes in the mirror, “you must explain to me how you have gone from an avid hater of marriage to being courted by Anthony Bridgerton, of all men! I believe we have stood in this exact same position before, only with the topic of conversation being his latest outrageous act by word of Miss Eloise rather than his courtship of you.” 

You sighed, shivering slightly as her cold fingers brushed over your shoulder, and shook your head. “I do not even think I can give you an answer to that, Jules. It certainly is… something.”

She chuckled and began to help you into the dress she had selected, the light blue fabric embroidered with white thread designs hanging off of your build in a simple but flattering way. “Whatever the reason may be, I hope you know I am proud of you. I know it is not easy to embark on a journey like this, especially one you have been so firm in denying, but I have the utmost faith that you will succeed. You are doing a great service to your family.”

You opened your mouth to say something but she interrupted you with that slight smile again. “And before you claim the opposite, know that I have always been proud of you, not just in your social season. You have blossomed into a truly wonderful lady, and that will not change whether or not you gain the weight of a ring on your finger.” 

Your lips quirked up into a small smile of your own as Julia laid a locket around your neck, letting your hair go once she clasped the two ends together. “What would I do without you?” 

“Most likely find another much less willing servant to rant to,” she joked. “But you needn’t worry — I am not going anywhere.” 

“And for that, I am eternally thankful,” you said, “though I do not think I am granted the same fate.” 

Julia smiled and smoothed out the sleeves of your dress before she turned you around, that steadfast confidence in her eyes that you knew so well helping to calm your nerves. “You will do just fine, my lady. Anthony Bridgerton is only above you in title and nothing else — I have the utmost faith that you can handle him.”

You had no worries about handling him — your troubles lay more in the fact that your arrangement was nothing more than an illusion. Anthony was not particularly known for his patience, and though you had an agreement, your fears were anchored in the true reliability of your fake beau. It was not at all out of the realm of possibility for the viscount to reach his limit and ruin this entire thing for the both of you. 

Though you often aired your troubles to your lady’s maid, you could not do that now— not when your troubles were of such a sort. So instead you merely took a deep breath as you smoothed out your skirt and adjusted the neckline of your dress.

“Indeed. Now,” you turned to face her with a smile, “shall we?”

-

You trailed through the hallways of your estate with Julia by your side, trying not to show too much of your disdain. Anthony’s courtship of you did not mean you had to act the part of a doting lady, but it did mean your civility was required. 

Of course, a small part of you hoped that it was not Anthony who sat in your drawing room. The amiability required by his courtship was not necessary for a normal suitor — at least if another man was your caller, you needn’t hold your tongue.

Your hopes were dashed the moment you stepped inside the open doors of your drawing room, trying your best to keep a straight face at the sight of the viscount. He did not share your feelings, made obvious by the smile that bloomed on his lips as he stood up from the couch.

“Ah, Miss Worthing!” he greeted. “I was wondering when you would show.”

You responded with a tight smile of your own. “When one shows up unannounced, he should expect delays. In fact, he should consider himself lucky for even earning an audience.”

Your mother laughed uncomfortably as she stood up from her chair, guiding you over to Anthony with an arm on your shoulder. 

“Forgive my daughter, Viscount Bridgerton, please,” she said with the voice of an exasperated mother. “It is still early, and she has not yet broken her fast — she is slightly irritable.”

“It is of no worry, Lady Worthing,” he reassured, and Anthony sat down with you. “I hope I was not an imposition.”

“You—”

“—Are not at all!” Your mother interrupted once again before you could say he most certainly was. She settled in her chair and picked up her embroidery hoop once more, offering a pleasant smile to the two of you. “Please, feel free to converse as if I am not even here.”

You offered her a tight, mocking smile as you turned to Anthony, lowering your voice so as to keep your insults private.

“You are a cruel man,” you muttered, glancing at your mother out of the corner of your eye to ensure she could not hear your true words. “This was not how I hoped our partnership would begin.” 

“However so?” Anthony asked, tilting his head to the side slightly. He was clearly enjoying your pain, of which he was the cause. It was truly irritating. “If I recall correctly, this entire affair was your idea.”

“Showing up as an unannounced caller, and at this hour nonetheless?” You shook your head. “This arrangement is meant to be equally beneficial. I cannot benefit if I am forced to bear constant early wakings.”

“I am an early riser, my lady,” he said, and you could not figure out whether or not his austerity was genuine. “And I have long held the belief that the morning is the best time to achieve anything, when one’s mind is at its most alert.” 

“Your ‘alert mind’ is doing you no good if you are unable to see the effect this has on me,” you said, glaring very pointedly at him as you lowered your voice even more. “This is a fake courtship. None of this is necessary.”

“I see it very clearly. I figured putting up with my own sudden visits could be your payment in return for springing something like this on me at the last possible moment,” Anthony said. ”As you know, I am a man of honor, a gentleman at that— if you want anyone to believe this, you will have to deal with my actions.”

“You could have refused,” you pointed out. 

“I should hope you do not see me as horrid enough to allow that man to actually court you,” Anthony countered with a slight frown. 

“Daphne’s season spells out something entirely different.” 

“You are aware of how much longer this arrangement will seem if you insist on arguing your way through it,” he said dryly.

“It is in my nature,” you responded with a smile. “It is how I’ve managed to avoid suitors thus far.” 

He hummed. “Perhaps I should have been taking tips from you long before this season. No matter how often I expressed my intentions to stay unmarried, countless mothers continued to all but throw their daughters at me. It’s not enjoyable in the slightest.” 

“Imagine how the young ladies feel,” you mused. “Being forced to try their hand at you knowing you fully despise them.” 

Anthony raised an eyebrow. “Is that not what any suitor considering you must deal with?” 

Your nose crinkled at the idea. “I… suppose you are indeed correct.” 

“I often am,” he responded, his smugness not lost on you. 

Your gaze flitted away from him for a moment before an idea popped into your head. Thus far, it seemed that this fake courtship between you and Viscount Bridgerton would be a test of who could irritate the other the most without breaking the illusion you were creating. 

Two could certainly play at that game. 

“Why yes, my lord!” you exclaimed, purposefully raising your voice so that your conversation could now be heard. In your peripherals you saw your mother look up from her embroidery hoop as well as Anthony’s sudden frown, and you could hardly hold back your smile. “I would love to visit the marketplace with you. How kind of you to notice that I am in need of a new reticule.” 

Your scheme quickly dawned on him, but beyond the slightest crease of his eyebrows there was no sign of the distaste surely brewing underneath the surface. 

“The marketplace?” You turned as your mother spoke, a satisfied smile on her lips. “That sounds like a lovely idea, Lord Bridgerton. Thank you immensely for your kindness.”

“Of course,” he replied easily, and after he stood up himself he offered a hand to you. You stood up without it, causing only an amused expression to flit across Anthony’s face as he looked over at your mother. “Should you like to accompany us?”

“Oh, no.” She brushed it off with her hand as she beamed at you. “I do not want to intrude on the new lovers. Julia, would you please chaperone them?”

Your lady’s maid nodded with a smile. “Of course, my lady.”

Anthony offered his arm to you, and this time you took it, albeit very begrudgingly. “Do you hear that?” he muttered with obvious amusement, leaning to speak into your ear as the two of you walked out. “We are new lovers.”

“You could at least act as if you are not enjoying this,” you whispered back. 

“Oh, but I am,” he smiled. “And you should be as well! This was your idea, and yet you are already completely miserable. What were you thinking when you proposed this to me?”

You huffed. “I was thinking the man that has avoided marriage for his entire life would not be so insistent on conducting a real courtship.”

Anthony simply chuckled. “Then it appears you still have much to learn about me.” 

-

The fresh air of the London streets helped in clearing your mind as you strolled through the marketplace, despite the fact that you were arm in arm with Anthony Bridgerton. It did bring you some satisfaction to know that you had at least dealt yourself into the fold with this outing, but you had a feeling Anthony could play this game far better than you. 

After all, a man did not become the head of his household and prepare his myriad of siblings for their respective seasons without picking up some skills of his own, even if he has not yet chosen a wife — especially if he was without a wife, it seemed, as Anthony had all the charm and knowledge of how to seduce a lady and yet none of the results. You surmised that was just the way he liked it. 

If anything, this was just as much of a game to him as it was to you. Some way to make himself feel like even more of a gentleman while avoiding the ton and having a bit of fun all the same. 

“My lady, did you hear me?” 

You blinked a few times as you looked to Anthony, shaking your head. “Apologies. My thoughts are much more interesting than you.”

He chuckled. “You wound me so, Miss Worthing. However am I to cope knowing the woman I am courting does not see me the same way?” 

“Do you always act like this?” you questioned. “Because if that is the case, it is certainly no wonder you have not found a wife. You are far too irritating for any lady to possibly stand.” 

“Did you choose me for your task simply to ridicule me?” Anthony asked instead. “Although I admit I enjoy your company, Miss Worthing, I am not sure if I can handle an entire season of insults.”

“You have seven siblings,” you said. “You have handled fifteen years of insults.”  

“Ah, but they are all the more scathing coming from you.” You chuckled a bit at his words, and Anthony continued. “But truly, what was your reason for choosing me over any other man?”

“I chose you because of your title,” you said simply.

“There must be other viscounts or earls for you to rope into this scheme,” Anthony said, “other men that do not annoy you half as much as I.”

You smiled a bit. “Truth be told, you are the only one I am acquainted with that is of higher ranking than the baron. Even if I knew others, the plan only came to mind when I saw you out in the gardens last night, and you are the only one that I could think of that would even entertain my offer.” 

Anthony hummed in acknowledgment. “It is rather fortunate I was there, then— it will be a welcome reprieve for the season, not having to deal with mamas throwing their daughters at me left and right.”

“See?” you said. “It was purposeful on my part. Mutually beneficial, just as I told you.”

He chuckled, and you smiled. The two of you continued to walk idly through the marketplace, his attention lingering on each stall for a few seconds before passing to the next. The silence between the two of you was surprisingly comfortable, especially with the ambiance of the city you so enjoyed, which is why the question that came out surprised you just as much as him. 

“Why did you choose me?” 

Anthony gave you a curious look. “I’m afraid you have to be more specific, my lady.” 

“By agreeing to this ruse, you chose me, just as I chose you,” you said. “Why would you do such a thing when you are not yet officially looking for a wife?”  

“…I suppose your words struck me,” he responded. “Your position is not one of envy— the sole heir to a family in need, put on a pedestal to a horde of suitors that you don’t desire in the slightest. I am in a similar position, having to marry for the good of my family, but you are correct. The level of scrutiny I face is nowhere near the amount you must put up with, and the idea of you marrying…” Anthony grimaced, “that sorry excuse for a man? No one with good conscience could deny you.”

“So you accepted because of sympathy,” you said.

He chuckled. “Perhaps. Would you rather I outright denied you?”

You smiled yourself as you shrugged. “No. I just enjoy questioning everything you do.”

Anthony shook his head, though he was clearly amused. “Perhaps we should continue this courtship for real— you already bother me as much as a true wife.”

And at that, you laughed aloud. “And you irritate me as much as a true husband.” You glanced behind you to see your lady’s maid walking a distance behind you, pretending not to listen but very obviously eavesdropping.

Anthony glanced back as well and looked at you, catching onto it. “Will she be a problem?”

“Julia?” you asked, and when he nodded you laughed again. “Spare no mind — she has been one of my closest confidantes, and I hers, for as long as I can remember. Should she overhear anything, she will not repeat it.”

“You are close with your lady’s maid?” Anthony asked, and you frowned.

“Are you not acquainted with your manservants?”

“No,” he said, “they are simply servants. I’m friendly with them of course, but certainly not close. Not to the level of sharing secrets.”

“I cannot imagine that,” you sighed. “We employed her three years ago, and since then she has become one of my best friends. Julia knows some of my closest secrets— not having such a bond with the person who spends so much time with you is nearly impossible in my eyes.”

Anthony went silent, and when you looked over you saw him staring at you with an odd look in his eyes.

“What?” you asked, and he shook his head.

“Nothing,” he said, and then he stopped you in front of a market stall that was selling coin purses and reticules. “Should we complete the task we embarked on this journey for?”

You wanted to push him on the subject of his thoughts, but you decided not to as you gave him a smile instead. “So formal, my lord. But I suppose it cannot hurt.”

Anthony picked up a light blue reticule, the white embroidered floral pattern particularly catching your eye. “This one rather suits you, I think. It matches your gown.”

“You’ve got quite an eye!” you exclaimed, taking it from him and holding it up to your dress. You weren’t one to indulge in luxuries such as mindless shopping — you couldn’t quite afford it, to be truthful — but… it did compliment your outfit, and it was a lovely purse.

But you did not even have a chance to deliberate any further, as Anthony was already talking with the merchant. Before you knew it he was thanking her and handing over coin, and you raised your eyebrows at him.

“What?” he said, having the gall to not even look ashamed. “You did say you were in need of a new reticule.” 

You opened your mouth to protest, tell him that you could not afford to waste money on trivial things such as purses out of instinct, but you realized you did not have to. It was the Bridgerton’s coin, and they were far more affluent than your family— with seven children, they had to be. 

And if it was on the Bridgerton’s coin, did it really matter? Would you not be expected to accept gifts from the gentleman courting you? 

“...Thank you,” you finally said, and you beckoned Julia over. 

“What do you think?” you asked as she stopped next to you, holding it up in front of you to model it. “Does the viscount have a better eye for fashion than I thought?”

Julia grinned. “It is as lovely as you, my lady. The color compliments you perfectly.”

“You flatter me so,” you said with a smile. 

“I only tell the truth, Y/N,” she insisted, and you chuckled. “If I may, I’m in need of a few items— do you mind if I wander for a bit?”

“Of course,” you nodded. “Would you like us to wait for you?”

Julia shook her head. “I know the way by heart; I will be fine. Enjoy your time with the viscount.”

She winked at you as she walked past, and you couldn’t stifle your laugh as you rolled your eyes. She would be the death of you, you were certain.

“Shall we, then?” Anthony offered his arm to you, and you nodded as you took it. The two of you began to walk again, the conversation picking up once more.

“Your workers call you by your name?” he asked, and you raised your eyebrows. 

“Not all of us are viscounts of important families, Anthony,” you said. “I do not see the need for someone I regard as closely as a sister to call me by a title I’ve no use for. Many would certainly argue I am in no way a lady.” 

“If your family is viewed in such a way, then why not try to change their opinion? Why not marry a man of higher standing, bring the Worthing name up with you, and prove the ton wrong?”

“I’ve no need for you to impart your wisdom upon me, Lord Bridgerton,” you chuckled. “In terms of high society, yes, my family is wildly poor. But if we were to just exit the ton, live a normal life in middle class sections of the city, or even move to the country where we can have an even simpler existence, then all of our problems would be solved.” You sighed deeply. “But I do not think my parents will ever choose to do so. I’ve no idea why they are so set on us remaining in Mayfair.” 

“You used my title,” Anthony mused, the statement coming out of nowhere after a weighted moment of silence. “Was a walk together all it took for you to find it in yourself a modicum of respect?”

You let out a laugh and looked at him with mirth twinkling in your eyes. “If this walk somehow earned you my respect, then the clarification of it has certainly lost it. Besides; I thought it quite obvious I was merely joking.” 

“The more time I spend with you, the more I think that half the insults towards me in Eloise’s repertoire have in fact come from you.” Anthony gave you a pointed look. “Have you anything at all to say about turning my sister against me?” 

You shrugged. “I cannot be blamed for Eloise’s own creativity. However she chooses to express it is out of my control.” 

Anthony chuckled and glanced away for a moment, before a surprisingly soft gaze found its way to you. 

“You are much more than I expected.” He did not say it with disdain, rather an unexpected lightness. Maybe the viscount was not the way that you expected either, with walls surrounding his emotions impenetrable even by the queen’s army and a mind set only on business matters. Maybe it was possible that Anthony Bridgerton truly had a heart. 

But you could not tell him that you were already beginning to see him in a different light — no, that would mark you as the loser of this game you’d started. You were quite good at irritating others, Anthony included, as you’d realized after years of friendship with Eloise. It could not be too difficult to continue it under the guise of a courtship. 

So instead you shrugged, an amused smile on your lips. “Perhaps there is still much for you to learn of me.” 

And in that moment, looking into Anthony’s eyes, you would’ve given anything to hear his thoughts. But you could not, and so when he smiled back at you, it was merely a smile.

“Perhaps there is," he said.

-

perm tags: @dv0412 @siriuslyslyslytherin @maruchan77 @simonsbluee @kwyloz @masteroperator

bridgerton tags: @theonewithallthemilkshakes @milkiane

anthony bridgerton tags: @gwenebear @lurkymurker @likeballet @tommymcartney

#fic recs #bridgerton #anthony bridgerton

[a-asterias]

— I MISS YOU, I’M SORRY.

pairing: theodore nott x reader

summary: you haven’t seen theo seen he supposedly left you to join the other side. now that he’s back and has revealed his true intentions to you, you’re finding it hard to be forgiving.

warnings: swearing, kissing, tiniest bit of angst, very unedited. not much else other than a whole load of waffle… my bad

author’s note: this is a sort of fix-it fic… kinda. yes I am very much stealing the essence (you could say) from marauders fics because I prefer writing those and yes it’s basically this drabble recycled and yes grimmauld place is still the order headquarters well into the war just don’t question my timeline and you’ll be fine ok ty enjoy xoxo

12 Grimmauld place feels unsettling at the best of times, what with the portrait of Walburga Black hurling insults at you every time her curtain slips open and the row of shrunken house-elf heads mounted on the wall. The Order of the Phoenix holding hushed up meetings in the dining room while you and your friends are forced to stay upstairs isn’t anything new or surprising, but the last few days feel different.

Instead of Mrs Weasley telling members of the Order to whisper when you, her kids and Harry and Hermione are in the room, she flaps about ordering them to stop talking altogether. At first you think you’re imagining it when her eyes flick over to you every time, until you bring it up to Ginny and Hermione.

“You’re not imagining it,” Hermione mutters as she shuts the door of the bedroom and casts a quick Muffliato charm before settling cross legged on the bed opposite you and Ginny. “I overheard Mrs Weasley and Tonks in the kitchen this morning, talking about how the Order is arranging transport for some Death Eater spies to come back here.”

You gasp, pretending to be scandalised. “You mean you were evesdropping. That’s not very prefect-y of you.” Ginny snorts at Hermione’s indignant glare and you can’t help cracking a smile at the way her cheeks have slightly reddened. “Sorry, sorry, you know I’m kidding. But what’s that got to do with her looking at me like I’ve gone through a personal tragedy?”

“Your ex-boyfriend did leave you to go join the Death Eaters,” Ginny points out. Hermione gapes at her, but Ginny merely throws her hands up in exasperation. “Well, he did! No point beating around the bush!”

A lump rises in your throat at the mention of Theodore. Truth be told, you’ve tried not to think about what happened since the last time you spoke about him. ‘Spoke’ being a strong word since it was mostly crying and sniffling and blowing your nose into tissue after tissue in Ginny’s room at the Burrow. Mrs Weasley had made your favourite dinner that night and brought you up a hot chocolate to make you feel better. And it really had- so much so that you refused to speak about him since.

You’re more angry than you are sad now, which makes you nod at Ginny’s words. “You’re right. He’s an arsehole, there’s no point in tip-toeing around it for my sake.” Hermione frowns a little, worry clear as day on her face, but you don’t stop talking. “Besides, we’re on opposite sides and this is a war happening. Not some silly, childish break-up. He chose to be a Death Eater and if we have to fight him, so be it.”

Hermione and Ginny stay quiet for a few seconds and watch you breathe heavily. Thankfully, before either of them can speak, Harry and Ron come bursting into the room.

“They’ve only gone and brought Death Eaters into the bloody building!” Ron shakes his head.

Harry snorts at Ron’s dramatics. “Ex-Death Eaters. Apparently. Still a bit dodgy, in fairness.”

“I thought they were spies,” you say, unable to help your curiosity as you stand up. Ginny and Hermione follow you out of the room as you all peak over the bannister to try and get a glimpse of the action downstairs. Annoyingly, there only seem to be a couple of dishevelled looking Order members milling around.

“Maybe Mrs Weasley and Tonks got it mixed up, or maybe they aren’t privy to what’s going on…” Hermione frowns, deep in thought. “I don’t think anyone but Dumbledore knows what’s actually going on.”

Harry makes an irritated sound. “What’s new?”

“Oh, by the way, Mum sent us up to get you lot for dinner,” Ron says absentmindedly as he tries to get a good look over your shoulder at whatever is happening in the hall downstairs. “Mind you, that was before all the Death Eater business so she’ll probably send us right back up.”

The five of you quickly shuffle downstairs to get to the dining room and while your stomach is growling loud enough to forget any thoughts of Order business, Ron and Harry linger in the hall a little in an attempt to get some answers. You don’t doubt Harry will get some, being the Chosen One and all.

You nudge and elbow your way into the dining room where you’re happily surprised to see a messy-haired Tonks yawning over a bowl of soup. She smiles sleepily when she spots the three of you.

“Hi, girls,” she mumbles through a yawn. “Merlin, I’m exhausted. I keep falling asleep in my soup. Good thing it’s mushroom.” She points to her newly platinum blonde hair that matches the contents of her bowl.

“Why’re you so tired?” Hermione asks as she ladles some soup into bowls for you, Ginny and herself. Her voice is quiet as not to attract attention from Mrs Weasley with her questioning. “Is it to do with tonight’s, uh, Order business?”

“Yep.”

Tonks looks as though she’s about to drift off and Ginny seems to jump at the opportunity to gather information.

“So, what are their names?” She gets straight to the point, glaring at you when you choke on your soup a little, not expecting her to be so blunt.

You and Hermione stop eating and wait with bated breath for Tonks to refuse to answer. She merely yawns again, before talking. “You’ll meet them soon enough.”

“Meet them?” you ask, unable to help yourself. “Aren’t they… uh, you know… dangerous?”

“Dumbledore doesn’t seem to think so,” Tonks says, shrugging. You grow a little frustrated at this, since Dumbledore isn’t exactly known for having straightforward plans. While you know his intentions are good, someone he thinks is safe could very well be the opposite. While you ponder this, Tonks’ next words quickly turn your irritation into shock. “The others were understandably quite wary, what with one of them being You-Know-Who’s son and everything, but…”

You feel a ringing in your ear and every word coming from Tonks may as well be directed to her mushroom soup because you aren’t listening anymore. You-Know-Who’s son. You haven’t seen Mattheo since term ended, and even then it was only from a distance. You hadn’t spoken to him since Theo revealed his Dark Mark to you and you’d since avoided his entire friend group like the plague. If Mattheo is in the building, you can only hope and pray that Theodore isn’t with him.

Vaguely aware of someone shaking you by the shoulder, you snap out of your thoughts. “Who else is with Mattheo?” you ask Tonks, your voice sounding rough to your own ears. She blinks through her sleepiness, slightly startled awake by your unwavering eye contact. “Voldemort’s son. Who’s with him? What do they look like?”

You’re so focused on getting an answer from Tonks, and Hermione and Ginny are clearly on the same page as you now since they’re both silent and waiting for a response, that none of you notice Mrs Weasley entering the dining room.

“Tonks, is he blonde or-?”

“Enough!” Mrs Weasley interrupts you hastily, making everyone jump. She sounds panicked, but the look she throws Tonks is stern, like a warning to keep silent. When she turns back to you however, her eyes soften and her voice is gentle, albeit with a hint of annoyance. “I asked Dumbledore not to bring them here while everyone was awake. I didn’t want you all upset again, dear. Look, you can have your dinner upstairs, I’ll bring it up to you!”

You’re grateful for her concern, but it’s a little hard to feel anything other than the pit in your stomach since she’s just confirmed what you were dreading.

Ginny speaks up first, angry on your behalf. “Mum, she deserves to know if that awful git is in the same house as her! I say she ought to go and deck him in the face.”

“Ginny!” Hermione looks at her in exasperation as Mrs Weasley gasps, horrified. “That sort of attitude isn’t going to help anyone.”

“You’re right,” you mumble, getting up from your seat.

Hermione lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness.”

“I should go and deck him in the face.”

Hermione’s sputtering falls to deaf ears as you abruptly leave your seat to go out into the hall, the scraping of chairs behind you indicating that everyone is following closely.

Realistically, you have no plans to actually hit Theodore. In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever successfully landed a punch before in your life. This doesn’t stop you charging into the hallway and elbowing your way through the huddle of Order members to get to the door they seem to be crowded around.

Kingsley Shacklebolt is the last of them to stumble out of your way, clearly too surprised by your sudden presence to continue guarding the door. You raise a shaky hand to the doorknob and hesitate for a second, suddenly nervous. Kingsley takes this moment to snap out of his surprise and redirects his attentions to what you’re about to do next.

“My dear, I’m afraid I can’t allow you to-”

“Kingsley, do you have any idea why I’m standing here?” you say curtly, cutting him off.

He throws a quick glance at Mrs Weasley, almost as if it’s by reflex. Clearly she’s told more people than Dumbledore to keep word of Theodore far from you. “I, uhm, I may have heard a thing or two…”

“Right, so are you going to stop me entering this room, then?” you ask boldly. Your voice catches slightly on the end of your sentence and Kingsley falters a little.

“Well, really I should-“ he begins, eyes darting to your own slightly teary ones. He sighs. “No, I’m not. Just try not to hex the boy.”

He steps out of your way and you finally barge into room, the door swinging open as you stay lingering near the entrance. The room is just as dingy as the rest of the house, lit up by some candles dotted around the room

You first see Professor McGonagall getting up abruptly from her chair where she was previously sat next to a standing Dumbledore. He merely peers at you over his half moon spectacles and raises his eyebrows.

You suddenly feel a little silly, and rude for barging in like that. “Sorry, Professor Dumbledore, I-“

You stop talking when see movement on the other side of the room from the corner of your eye. Just as Tonks had said, Mattheo Riddle, son of Lord Voldemort is standing right there, flanked by Lorenzo Berkshire… and Theodore. Your mouth goes dry.

As soon as you catch his eye, he smiles broadly at you. You don’t return the gesture, taking his appearance in instead. He’s thinner than the last time you saw him. No visible injuries, but he’s definitely seen better days. His dirty blonde hair is overgrown and unruly as it falls into his eyes which, despite brightening up at your presence, are tired.

You keep your expression as impassive as you can, slightly angry with yourself at the twinge of concern you feel. It was all well and good interrupting whatever meeting was happening in here before you came in, but now that you’re here… you have no idea what to do or say.

Theo’s smile falters when you continue to stand there with clenched fists and a stony face and you’re tempted to just run out of the room when Dumbledore clears his throat.

“Well,” your Headmaster says pleasantly, as though you were all engaged in polite conversation rather than a strained silence. “This reunion was certainly a little earlier than anticipated, but I suppose that can’t be helped. I think we ought to give Mr Nott and Miss Y/L/N a moment alone.”

“Uh, can’t we stay in here too?” Lorenzo asks with a nervous chuckle, eyes darting to the watchful crowd standing right outside the door. You can’t blame him for wary, being an ex-Death Eater in a house full of Order members.

Mattheo nods, throwing an arm around Theodore’s shoulder, ignoring the glare he receives. “Yeah. These two won’t mind a bit of company. Right?” he asks you cheerfully. You blink at him.

“Relax, Berkshire,” Professor McGonagall says, rolling her eyes at the way Lorenzo has inched further into the room. She snaps her fingers to get them moving out the door. “Nobody is going to hex you, you silly boy.”

“Can’t say the same for Theo,” Mattheo mutters as he walks past you and follows everyone out, shutting the door.

You don’t really have any choice but to look at Theo now. He tries a smile again, despite the fact you’re not returning it and he takes a step towards you.

You immediately step back.

Theo flinches ever so slightly, his eyes unable to hide that he’s hurt.

Good, you think viciously.

Sighing, he looks at you imploringly like he wants to say something, but can’t find the words. “You’re angry with me,” he settles on muttering, his voice quiet in the dark room.

You let out a derisive laugh. “Angry? You worked that out, huh? Death-Eater’s didn’t completely addle your brain then, did they?”

“Darling, please let me explain,” Theo pleads, taking another few steps towards you.

Rather than stepping back, you whip out your wand and point it right at him. He doesn’t back away, merely raising his hands in surrender and arching an eyebrow as if to ask you if you’re serious. This angers you further.

“Do not call me darling,” you hiss, raising your wand further. Theo doesn’t react, as though he knows you’d never actually use magic to hurt him. Your hand trembles with the weight of the realisation that no, you wouldn’t hurt him. That you’ve actually been more worried that becoming a Death Eater would get him hurt than him betraying you. He left you with nothing but a cold goodbye and you still can’t help caring.

Feeling stupid, and a little bit pathetic, you drop your hand to your side and allow him to continue standing before you as he lowers his hands. You grit your teeth and cross your arms. “Explain.”

Theo lets out a relieved breath. “I never wanted to leave you,” he says, and you immediately roll your eyes. “I- no, look at me. I didn’t.”

“That doesn’t explain the fact that you did,” you deadpan, turning away to leave. Theo quickly reaches out to grasp both of your arms and gently turns you towards him.

You stiffen at the first physical contact you’ve had with him in months, your body betraying you and erupting goosebumps all over your arms in spite of your anger.

“I lied about it to protect you,” he whispers, peering at you through the strands of hair that are stubbornly falling into his eyes from weeks of neglect. Theo looks slightly pained and you recognise his expression to mean that he’s desperately trying to phrase his next words correctly. His eyes flick over to your right arm. No. To his left wrist, where you know his Dark Mark to be. “You can ask Dumbledore if you don’t believe me… Me and the others only ever took the Mark so we’d be able to spy on The D- on him.”

The relief hits you like a freight train and lightens your heavy chest all in one go. You hadn’t just felt betrayed by your boyfriend leaving you all those months ago. You had felt dread at the possibility of him joining a Pureblood supremacist’s cult. Dread at the idea that the views he’d shared with you were all lies and that he was a completely difference person to the one you loved.

Despite the relief, the sting of the breakup still lingers with you.

“That meant you had to be a prick when you left me?” you ask, voice shaking against your will. His eyes soften.

“Yes,” he says weakly. “How else could I have left you without worrying that… that he could use you against me if he found me out? I never wanted to take the Mark and it killed me when I saw the look on your face.”

Your scowl, trying your best to distract Theodore from the fact that your vision has gone blurry from the tears welling up in your eyes. By the look on his face, you doubt you’re doing a very good job. “Do you really think I would have cared about a fucking tattoo, if you had just told me the truth?”

“No, I know,” Theo sighs, absentmindedly drawing closer to you. “I’ll explain anything you want, but the work we did was too close to The Dark Lord to risk telling anyone about at the time. Dumbledore made me, Mattheo and Enzo swear not to say anything. It was safer that way.”

“Did you make an Unbreakable Vow?” you whisper, stiller than ever.

Theo furrows his brows. “No, but-”

You pull away from him abruptly and back away to the door, ignoring the way his hands reach out in an attempt to hold your arms again. “Then I hope the information you got for Dumbledore was worth it.”

You don’t look back at him, nor do you check to see if anyone is in the hallway as you run upstairs and into your room, slamming the door shut as you lean against it, breathing heavily. You stay there for a while, reeling from your anger and irritation at the fact you still have to stay in this bloody house while Theodore’s in it.

The next few days are confusing to say the least. Theo doesn’t seem to have any plans to avoid you, but he respects your space.

Sort of.

He isn’t badgering you every second of the day, but somehow whichever room you’re in, he finds himself in as well. Whenever you try and reach for something, even if it’s not on a particularly high shelf, or particularly far away, Theo beats you to it, ever the gentleman.

It’s starting to unnerve you a little.

One particular afternoon, you walk into the kitchen hoping to make a cup of tea in peace. At the table sits Theo, a cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. When he spots you, he sits up straighter and you dawdle stupidly at the entrance.

Before you can snap out of it and remember what you came in here for, Theo gets up and walks over to the mugs. “Tea?” he asks politely, and, you think, a little hopefully.

“Will you make it and let me drink it alone?” you ask bluntly.

“I’ll make it and sit with you in silence,” he offers, undeterred despite your coldness.

Narrowing your eyes, you glance at the clock and sigh. It’s too early in the morning to put off having your tea, so you allow it. “Fine. Milk and-”

“Two sugars,” he cuts you off with an annoyingly smug smile. “I remember.”

You poke your cheek with your tongue, but stay silent as he turns his attentions to the kettle. Theo’s face quickly falls when he realises he has no idea how to use it. Your impassive expression almost cracks and you have to bite back a laugh as he examines the thing. Walking over to the counter, you drag the kettle so that it’s closer to you. And so you don’t have to be as close to Theo, but that’s besides the point.

“It’s already filled with water, you just need to flip the switch so it starts boiling,” you explain, pointing to the little part. Theo places his cigarette in between his lips as he furrows his brows, clearly skeptical of the muggle contraption. You suppose you can’t blame him since you, Hermione and Harry have had to explain the kettle to countless members of the Order since it was introduced to the house a few months ago.

You still don’t know where the plug socket is and considering the fact that Grimmauld Place has never inhabited muggles, you aren’t going to bother asking.

When Theo flicks the switch and sees the light turn red, a satisfied smile graces his lips where the cigarette still hangs. You look away from his mouth very quickly and go to sit down. Unable to leave without making things awkward, you decide the only thing to do is watch Theo make two cups of tea. He doesn’t need instruction since he knows exactly how you like it, but something catches in your throat when he uses a green mug. Your favourite colour.

The only sound in the kitchen is the clink of the spoon swirling in the cups and Theo soon brings both cups over with an incredibly concentrated frown to make sure there’s no spillages as he sets one down on the table. The other he hands to you himself and you have to clench your jaw when you grab it, your own hands brushing against his, which he doesn’t seem to be in a rush to move away.

“Thanks,” you mutter, trying to use the burning heat of the mug against your skin to distract from the fact that you have tingles.

“S’alright,” he replies, a barely restrained grin on his face. You narrow your eyes at him over the rim of the mug as you sip your tea.

Damn, you think to yourself. Why is it always so good when he makes it?

The two of you settle into a surprisingly comfortable silence as you drink your tea and he smokes. The puffs are very carefully directed away from you, but you can’t help wrinkling your nose out of habit. Back when you were still together, you were always firm about him cutting down and now you have to restrain yourself from reaching over and plucking the cigarette out of his lips to throw it away like you used to do with ease. He never objected.

Theo notices your looks all the same, and it’s almost like he’s reading your thoughts. He raises a brow, almost daring you to remove the cigarette yourself. “You want me to stop?”

“I don’t care,” you say in an attempt to sound nonchalant. Shrugging, you try your hardest not to react to his obvious bait, but it’s like a bloody reflex. “It’s your lungs on the line, not mine. If you want to lose five years off your life, then by all means, go ahead. I really couldn’t care-”

“As you wish,” he interrupts you, grinning like an idiot again. The next thing you know, he’s putting out the cigarette, and sipping his tea instead. He doesn’t even like tea.

“I didn’t say you had to stop,” you grumble, slightly pleased nonetheless.

He merely hums, taking a gulp of his tea. You accidentally let out a snort of laughter when he grimaces at the taste. Theo’s lips quirk up in amusement when you laugh, unrestrained and it’s only when you catch him staring at you that you quickly stop.

The smug expression on his face quickly returns as though he knows you’re finding it hard to be fully angry at him.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you snap, drawing your knees up on your chair towards your chin. “You look stupid. And your hair is too long.”

Theo huffs out a surprised laugh. “My hair is too long?” he asks incredulously, reaching up to tug a piece down so it reaches the bottom of his nose. “Hm, you’re right. You cut it pretty good that one time. Would you do it again for me?”

“Mrs Weasley is better at it,” you say, chin jutting out stubbornly. “I’m sure she’d be delighted if you just ask.”

“The way she looks at me, I’d be lucky to get away with my head still attached to my body,” he drawls, wholly unimpressed by your suggestion. “Why can’t you do it?”

“Because I’m not done being angry with you yet,” you reply simply, draining the contents of your mug. “Trust me when I say you don’t want me anywhere near your head with a pair of scissors either.”

Theo nods slowly, a smile gracing his lips— strange, since you just threatened physical violence. “So, what I’m hearing is that you’re not going to be angry with me forever.”

“I- Well, I didn’t mean-” you stutter pointlessly, cutting yourself off with a sigh. “I don’t know yet. It’s too early for this, leave me alone.”

“That was the first cigarette I’ve had since before I left,” Theo says quietly, searching your face for a reaction, almost nervously.

You aren’t quite sure how to respond to this random piece of information and you find yourself floundering. “Uhm. Okay, good. That’s… Yeah, that’s great for you and your lungs, well done. Saves money too. They were actually, uh, saying on the news the other day that the average amount people spend on-”

“Darling, as much as I appreciate it, that’s not what I’m getting at,” he interrupts, the ghost of a smirk at his lips. You scowl at him for letting you go on for so long and motion for him to get to the bloody point. “Every time I brought a cigarette to my lips, I remembered you weren’t going to be there to nag me about it. It just feels pointless now.”

You stare at him. “Nice to know that my nagging was what you remembered me by.”

“That’s not-” Theo cuts himself off with a laugh that sounds halfway to a groan. “Merlin, you’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can get a word out, Harry walks in which you find odd considering it’s so early in the morning and him and Ron are usually only out of bed when Mrs Weasley yells them down for breakfast.

“Morning,” he says through a yawn. The greeting is directed at you, but he sends an expectant look at Theo right after. “Time to leave, Nott.

“Leave for where?” you ask before you can help yourself. You realise with a start that Harry and Theo are dressed and ready while you’re still in your pyjamas. “Where do you have to go?”

“Horcrux hunting,” Harry says flippantly, as though he’s just announced he’s going fishing. Hermione had filled you in on the information Theo and the others had ascertained from their time with Voldemort, but you didn’t even consider them or Harry would actually be going with the Order to find them. “Nott and the others know more than we do, so they’re coming with.”

You level a look at Theo, who seems to be pointedly avoiding eye contact with you. “Thanks for sharing that tiny tidbit of information, by the way,” you mutter sourly.

He winces, getting up slowly from his chair. “It, uh, didn’t seem that important. It’s only a quick little task anyway. We’ll be back before you know it.”

“I’m not stupid,” you scoff, standing up so you can attempt to look a little more dignified as you confront Theo. Harry, on the other hand, looks as though he regrets his decision to enter the kitchen in the first place. Despite this, you hadn’t missed the way he furrowed his brows when Theo spoke. “Even if Harry wasn’t looking at you like you were speaking gibberish, I would know that you’re lying. It’s a Horcrux you’re leaving to get. Not the weekly food shop.”

Harry snickers at this, though quickly turns it into a cough when Theo sends him a withering glare. Sighing, you decide to ignore him for the moment and turn to Harry instead

“Be safe,” you say, gentler than before. “And don’t be a hero, just try and get out of there safely.”

“Pfft,” Harry waves you off, a sarcastic tone entering his voice. “When have you known me to do that?”

You roll your eyes, cracking a smile as he walks away, supposedly to find the rest of the group.

“Don’t I get a ‘be safe’ as well?” Theo tries for a casual, joking voice. A hint of irritation seeps through it though. You shift on your feet a little awkwardly, slightly flustered at his obvious jealousy.

“Uhm, okay. Bye,” you say stiffly, fiddling with the loose string of your cardigan sleeve so you have something to do with your hands other than ball them up at your sides. Theo seems to be satisfied with the curt response, or more likely your lack of insults, and he nods, turning away to leave. As you watch him walk away, a familiar sense of anxiety bubbles up in your stomach and you blurt out the only thing you can think of. “Don’t die!”

He slowly turns around, very clearly holding back a grin. You think you might thump the boy. “Will you forgive me if I come back alive?”

“Well,” you huff, crossing your arms. As petty as it may be, you’ve always found it hard to loosen a grudge. You settle for a shrug instead. “Come back alive first and then I’ll see.”

Theo takes two steps forward and closes the short distance that was previously allowing you to keep a cool- well, cool-ish, head. He keeps both arms behind his back, however, as he dips his head down slightly.

“My sweet, stubborn girl,” Theo says in a low voice. His proximity flounders you for a moment and you don’t even protest that no, you’re not his anything. The way your breathing turns shallow would be contradicting that greatly though. “I’ll try my best. And if I don’t come back alive, I promise you can yell at my ghost.”

You scowl, and this time you actually do thump him on the arm. “You’re not funny, you idiot. Now, go. I can already hear Mattheo irritating the patience out of Harry.”

Theo gives you a little two-fingered salute and a wink before he walks away again, leaving you alone with a funny feeling in settling in your stomach.

You aren’t the only one who sits anxiously in the living room waiting for the group to return with the infamous Horcrux. Ron has eaten his way through three bowls of cereal and rapidly makes a start on his fourth while Hermione tries to distract herself with reading a book that she hasn’t noticed is upside down.

After another hour goes by, Ginny, who was previously pacing up and down the stairs, sighs and turns Hermione’s book the right way up which startles her, causing her to give up altogether.

You sit cross-legged and completely still, other than switching your legs every time one of them goes numb. Eventually, you get so sick of watching Mrs Weasley mop over the same spot on the floor for the fifth time that you jump up from your seat, causing her to start and knock over the bucket of dirty mop water all over the floor.

“Oh, dear,” she mutters, waving her wand and siphoning all the water up in a second.

“Sorry, Mrs Weasley,” you say, wincing. “I’m just a little stressed since it’s been ages already-”

You get cut off by Hermione gasping at the sound of the front door opening along with voices. She grips your arm tightly. “They’re back!”

Barely registering the pain of her nails digging into the skin of your arm, you waste no time in running into the hall with the others to greet everyone at the door. You can’t help the relieved smile on your face when you do a quick head count and find everyone present.

As you get closer, you see how exhausted they look. Not to mention the fact they’re dripping water all over the rug. Harry stands at the front of the group looking like he might collapse if he stands any longer and Hermione and Ron pick up on this as they rush over to help him inside.

As they stumble him across the hall, you stop craning your neck as Theo comes into view. The relief you previously felt leaves you faster than your body knows how to deal with and you have to force yourself to breathe when you take in the state of him.

At first glance he doesn’t look particularly worse than the rest. They all have a vaguely haunted look in their eyes along with a sickly pallor like they haven’t seen the sun in days.

But the way Mattheo and Lorenzo are holding him up brings attention to the fact that all of his weight is being put on one leg. The other, to your horror, has a deep, bloody gash trailing down his thigh and onto his calf. The sight of blood steadily dripping onto the floor below has you frozen, almost mesmerised in a terrible way, and it’s not until Dumbledore speaks that you snap out of it and to attention.

“Miss Y/L/N, if you could please fetch Madam Pomfrey for me,” Dumbledore asks, his voice a lot calmer than you feel. You nod, turning away quickly before Theo can see the panic which is probably clear as day on your face.

It takes a scary second to find Madam Pomfrey, but as soon as you do, she gets down to business preparing her supplies in the living room which is as far as Theo seems to be able to make it.

He lays on the sofa, breathing shallowly as Madam Pomfrey crouches down beside him to begin assessing the wound. Peering at it closely, she looks up at Dumbledore sharply. “Inferi?”

“I’m afraid so,” he replies solemnly and you let out a choked sort of whimper.

“Merlin,” Ron whispers, looking like he might be sick. Whether that’s because Madam Pomfrey is cleaning Theo’s leg, or because of the mention of Inferi, you aren’t sure. “What the hell were you guys doing?”

“All will be explained, Mr Weasley,” Dumbledore reassures him, looking over his spectacles. “However, I must insist that for now we allow dear Madam Pomfrey to tend to Mr Nott’s injuries.”

“Will you be able to heal him?” Mattheo asks, swallowing hard. The concern in his voice for his best friend has your heart clenching and you look to Madam Pomfrey just as earnestly for an answer.

“Yes, I dare say I can,” Madam Pomfrey says grimly, but she pulls out a couple little bottle of potions from her bag with a frown. “That doesn’t mean it won’t be extremely painful, unfortunately.”

“Can’t imagine what pain feels like,” Theo mumbles, shifting his position on the sofa slightly and wincing. His face goes whiter than before and he shuts his eyes tightly from the pain, but he still manages to talk, however hard it may be. “Not like I’ve just had Inferi mistaking my leg for their lunch.”

“No talking and no moving,” Madam Pomfrey instructs Theo, sending him a stern glare.

“Sorry-”

“Shhh!” you hiss, giving him a glare of your own. Theo’s eyes flutter open slightly and his lips quirk up when he sees you leaning over him as close as you can get without Madam Pomfrey shooing you away.

His smile quickly drops when Madam Pomfrey pours some purple liquid into the open wound, causing it to hiss and smoke. The groan that leaves Theo has you holding your breath and you fight the urge to shut your eyes and turn away.

“Merlin, I can’t watch,” Lorenzo gags, his skin turning even sicklier than before. Turning away, he holds onto Mattheo’s shoulder to steady himself, the latter looking more interested than anything as he peers at Theo’s sizzling cut. Lorenzo shakes his head and holds a hand over his mouth every time he can hear Madam Pomfrey pouring more of the potion. “Oh, God, that’s disgusting.”

“Mr Berkshire, if you are unable to watch, then don’t,” Madam Pomfrey snaps, screwing the bottle shut and grabbing another one. She waves her hand in an impatient shooing motion. “In fact, everyone out. Now! This isn’t a Quidditch match, for heaven’s sake!”

Dumbledore starts filing everyone out and you consider staying for a minute but Madam Pomfrey’s raised eyebrows have you hurtling out of the room with everyone else. Theo starts to say something, but a drop of something else makes him grit his teeth and the green smoke produced by the potion follows you out the door.

The next hour or so is filled with Harry, Mattheo and Lorenzo being fussed over by Mrs Weasley, who insists on them going up to bed once they’ve cleaned up and changed into dry clothing. Unfortunately for the rest of you, this means you won’t be getting an update any time soon. Dumbledore is, as always these days, nowhere to be seen.

“I wonder if they found the Horcrux,” you say under your breath to Hermione as she anxiously taps her foot against the kitchen floor.

“They did,” she says grimly, glancing impatiently at the clock. She has her thinking face on, brows furrowed and gaze distant. “It was in a cave in the middle of nowhere. Harry quickly told me before Mrs Weasley sent them off. I wonder when they’ll wake up though… They didn’t look too happy, and I have a feeling it wasn’t all to do with Nott.”

You nod slowly, a weight lifting off your chest despite the last part. If, after all this, they hadn’t retrieved the Horcrux, you think you’d probably have gone to the bloody cave yourself.

“Theodore’s resting now, anyway,” Hermione adds, giving you a quick glance as though she’s waiting for a reaction. You keep your face as impassive as you can, attempting a casual nod. “Madam Pomfrey says he’s healing nicely and his leg will be fine. It’ll just be a bit sore for a few days. I’m sure he’s awake if you want to go see him.”

“I might,” you mumble, shrugging. You try to sound flippant, but the urge to clamber out of your seat probably shows because Hermione rolls her eyes at you.

“Oh, why don’t you just put him out of his misery?” she asks, her words coming out at the speed of light, like she’s been wanting to say it for a while. You blink at her in shock. Sighing, she leans over the table and her tone becomes gentle. “I know he lied to you, and you should be angry with him for that! But… well, it’s been a really awkward few days with him asking us where you are every second of the day. And, technically, he was never really a Death Eater, he was helping our side!”

Hermione takes a deep breath and exhales, slumping back in her seat as she waits for your reaction. You try not to laugh. “How long have you been holding that one in?”

“Since the second he turned up here,” she says, sagely. “Now, don’t change the subject! Go and see him. Go on, off you go!”

You stand up, swiftly dodging Hermione’s flapping hands to try and rush you out the door. “Okay, I’m going. It’s probably about time anyway,” you grumble, a fond smile creeping up on you nonetheless.

Looking satisfied, Hermione stops trying to usher you out and you make your way over to the living room again. The door is open and you sigh with relief when you notice the room is empty, bar Theo who’s in the same position as he was the last time you saw him. His eyes are shut and you wonder if he’s sleeping until you step on a creaky floorboard and he cracks one eye open.

“Hey,” you say quietly, tip-toeing into the room to perch on the coffee table adjacent to the sofa. “Did I wake you?”

“Nah,” Theo replies, moving to sit up as much as he can. You suspect he’d have the same answer even if he was asleep. He looks a lot more awake than he did before and you feel your chest squeeze tightly when you realise how glad you are. Theo seems to notice this and he reaches over to hold one of your hands, detaching it from the way you grasp them both together. “I promised you I’d come back alive, didn’t I?”

You snort, shaking your head at his ability to be so chipper. “Alive and dripping blood all over the carpet. You know if Kreacher finds out it was you, he’ll murder you in your sleep, right?”

“It doesn’t count if I die now,” Theo protests, frowning as if you’re talking about a serious possibility and not joking. “Deal was you’d forgive me if I came back alive after finding the Horcrux, remember?”

“Hm,” you hum, pretending to think deeply about it as he rubs circles on the back of your hand with his thumb. It causes you to momentarily lose your focus. “What I remember saying is that I would think about it.”

Theo shakes his head, a look of mock concern overtaking his features. “I think the stress of my injury has gotten to your memory… What I remember is you vowing to forgive me the moment I stepped foot in this place.”

“I think Madam Pomfrey’s painkillers are getting to you,” you say drily, moving to kneel on the floor next to him.

“She didn’t use any,” Theo grumbles, looking mournfully at the bandages on his leg. “She’s really sadistic, I’m telling you.”

You laugh, ducking your head so you aren’t flustered by the way Theo’s eyes focus on your smile with a grin of his own.

“You know what she told me would help with the pain?” Theo asks quietly, his enviously long eyelashes fanning over his cheekbones as he looks down at you, almost nervously.

“Let me guess,” you say, sitting up so the distance between your faces is much shorter now. “A kiss to make it all better?”

“Healer’s orders,” he says, shrugging. His breathing quickens when you don’t move away and he swallows hard, eyes dropping lower to your mouth when you bite your lip to stop from cracking a smile. “I’m not saying you have to, but if you’re okay with going directly against her orders, then-”

You cut him off by pressing a lingering kiss to his lips and he inhales sharply, unmoving for a split second before parting his lips and deepening the kiss. Theo’s hands move to your waist where he uses his remaining strength to hoist you up onto the sofa next him, one of your legs thrown over his waist as you half-straddle him.

You gasp into his mouth when he nips at your bottom lip and the sound he makes in the back of his throat has your cheeks warming up and you kiss him harder. The fact it’s been so long since you’ve even been near him has you both kissing for what feels like hours and you only pull away when you need to breathe and you’re worried you’re leaning on Theo’s leg.

Pulling away, you scan Theo’s face and pause for a second to take in his beautiful features. His eyes are blown wide like he can’t believe he’s here with you, kissing you. A warm feeling starting in your stomach spreads all the way down to the tips of your fingers as he looks at you.

“Any other very important requests from the Healer?” you ask breathlessly, feeling a shiver run down your spine where Theo lightly skims his fingers. A dangerous smile overtakes his face and his lips, pink and swollen from kissing you, curve up, causing you to narrow your eyes at him.

“I think she mentioned something about a sponge bath?”

You whack his arm and he yelps, grabbing your wrist to stop you assaulting him further. “Hey, I’m an injured patient!”

“Your leg is injured, not your arm.”

“It is now,” he says, pouting as he rubs dramatically at his bicep where you lightly thumped him. He grumbles when you roll your eyes and press another kiss to his lips to get him to stop pouting. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Hm,” you hum, settling your face in his chest and sighing at the warmth of his arms, feeling him smile against your forehead where he kisses you.

© angelfic 2023.

#fic recs #theodore nott #hp

[a-asterias]

geyser

pairing: luke castellan x daughter of poseidon!reader

summary: percy learns about the first girl luke castellan ever loved.

a/n: this is a lil sad. sorry about that. but i really like it and it came out of nowhere in like 2 days so i hope you enjoy despite the sadness. title from the mitski song

wc: 6.5k

warning(s): major character death; not shown but hangs over the whole fic. angst made angstier by fluffy flashbacks. mostly told through percy’s pov but includes luke, annabeth, and reader povs

also if you saw this before on another account DONT WORRY... that account was also me. im just doing some stuff behind the scenes right now as i figure stuff out lol i promise no plagiarism is going on

Percy thought that his head might explode. 

He didn’t know how he was still walking, honestly. His mom died, he killed a— no, the— Minotaur, all the Greek myths were real and his dad was one of them, and now he had to deal with that freak accident with Clarisse and the toilets. 

At least he would be ready next time she tried to beat him up. Percy had been the new kid enough to know there would be a next time.

All he could do was stare at the Minotaur horn in his hands, the only sign that what happened outside the border was real. The horn in his hands and the hole in his heart. 

Percy swallowed the lump in his throat. He’d been thrown into the deep end, and the only thing on his mind was when he would start to drown. 

“Hey.” Percy looked up to see the counselor he’d met earlier with Annabeth—Luke. He tossed a ziploc bag at him and he caught it, taking a moment to look at what was in it. 

“I stole you some toiletries from the camp store,” he explained. “Thought it might make you feel more at home.” 

“…Thanks.” He didn’t know if Luke was joking, but the damage had already been done. And it was the nicest thing someone had done for him so far. He set it down next to his Minotaur shoebox. “Is this the best that it gets?” 

Luke’s lips quirked up in a slight smile. “For now. We’re a little crowded, if you couldn’t tell.” 

“Just a little bit.” Percy stood up from his sleeping bag and worked out the knot in his shoulder. “Where’s your bed? Assuming you have one.” 

“I couldn’t wrangle all these cats without some back support,” he said, and he pointed to a bed in the corner. It was the only one on its own without a bunk, and he had a fair amount of decorations. Counselor privileges, he figured. Percy walked over, Luke trailing behind him. 

“Nice place,” he said. Percy picked up the Yankee’s cap on his bedside table and nodded as he looked back at him. “Nice taste.” 

“It’s for Annabeth,” Luke said. “She wanted us to match.” 

Percy nodded again in approval. “Good taste for both of you.”

Luke had various other things around — an alarm clock knocked over next to the baseball cap, a huskie sticker on the wall half-scraped off, a poster for an album he didn’t recognize. 

But the thing that caught his eye was a polaroid hanging on the wall, surrounded by a smattering of others varying in size. 

The first one had to be an old picture—Luke didn’t have his scar, and the biggest smile stretched across his face. He had a girl close with an arm slung around her waist, and she might’ve been smiling even more than Luke. A bright energy emanated around her, something that must have transferred through the picture, because Percy found himself feeling a little better just looking at her. He wondered if she was a camper. 

His eyes flicked to the next picture, which was another one of Luke and that girl. They were both laughing as she tried to put a blue hat on Luke’s head, and he protested with a hand on her wrist. They were in the forefront of a baseball game, Percy noticed.

There were other pictures, too—Luke, a girl dressed all punk, and what looked like a young version of Annabeth, most notably—but a majority of them were either Luke and that girl, or the girl all on her own. In every single one, she beamed brighter than the sun. 

Percy pointed at the picture of Luke and the girl at the baseball game, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Who’s that?”

That seemed to catch Luke off-guard, his lips parting for a moment as if he wanted to say something. It barely took him any time to get back on track, but Percy found himself frowning. 

“That’s…” Luke cleared his throat, wet his lips, shook his head. “A friend. A very good friend.”

“Does she go here?” Percy asked. 

“She did.” 

He frowned. “Where is she, then?” 

“Percy—” Luke’s voice was strained, but he didn’t really notice as he went on. 

“I didn’t see her around,” he continued, “and you look pretty close.” 

Luke blinked a couple times, and Percy swore he could see the telltale glimmer of tears starting in his eyes. A muscle worked in his jaw, and suddenly Percy was worried that he’d said something horribly wrong. He had a talent for that, it seemed. 

Fortunately, he was saved by the bell—conch shell?—and something like relief flooded through Luke’s expression. Tension still coiled in his body. 

“Come on,” he said, that camp counselor smile coming back as he put his hand on Percy’s shoulder and guided him away from the enclave. “That means dinner’s about to start.”

Percy’s frown deepened as curiosity won out again. “Was she your—”

“You don’t wanna be late,” Luke continued, ignoring his attempt. “I assume you’re pretty hungry after two days spent out?”

Well, that only made him want to push harder. But Percy figured he wouldn’t get anything out of him—especially not now. 

“…Yeah,” Percy said. “Starving.”

An odd look flickered across his face, but again, it only lasted for a second before he was back to normal. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Eleven! Fall in!” 

Percy was at the back of the line by virtue of him being the new kid, and he found himself looking back at that picture of Luke and the girl. He didn’t know why, but something drew him to her. Before Percy could think about it more, the line was moving and his growling stomach drew his attention away. 

He would have plenty of time to ask Luke about it later. 

Or rather, ask him and piss off the only person who’d tried to be his friend so far. 

…Gods. 

Maybe he was going to drown sooner than he thought. 

-

“Luke—” 

“No!” 

“Luke, please!” 

“Annabeth will kill me if she knows—” 

“She won’t know!” 

“Alright, alright— stay still, you two!” 

Your mother laughed from behind the camera as you and Luke fought with each other, you trying your damnedest to get your Red Sox cap on his head as he tried his damnedest to stop you. The frantic laughter on both sides made it a little difficult for either of you to succeed in your quest, but eventually, you got the rock up the hill and the hat on his head. 

“Take the picture, Mom!” you exclaimed, pulling Luke even closer by his arms so he couldn’t get it off. “I need the proof!” 

“I knew this was a bad idea,” Luke groaned, staring at the camera as you wrapped your arm around his side and leaned into him. He could already imagine your victorious smile, brighter than the sun beating down on them in the stadium, and just the thought of it made one of his own flit across his lips. 

“Oh, shut up, Castellan,” you said. “You chose to come to this game. Everyone’s gonna know you’re a Red Sox fan now.”

“You said you wouldn’t tell her!” Luke defended, wrenching his arms free of your control to take the hat off his head. “I don’t even care about baseball!” 

“You care so much about it,” you said cloyingly, “and you’re ride or die for the Boston Red Sox.” 

“If you say a single word—” 

“Okay, kids!” Your mother pointed at the seats next to her. “The game’s about to start—you can keep arguing, but only if you sit down so I can see.” 

“Sorry, Mom.” You grinned at her as you pulled Luke over to your seats—they were a step up from nosebleeds, but they were the ones closest to the balcony so you could at least peer over the railing down to the diamond.

“It’s alright, sweetheart.” She glanced at Luke with a smile, and he could really see where you got it from. “We’ve gotta make him a fan somehow.” 

“I guess I can live with the brand.” Luke set the cap back on your head once you were seated, purposefully pulling the brim a little over your eyes, and he smiled at you. “Even though it looks better on you, anyways.” 

“You just don’t have what it takes to be a Red Sox fan in the heart of Yank territory,” you mused, pushing the hat back up so you could see. “It’s fine.” 

Luke rolled his eyes, but he could hardly bite back his smile. 

“I am glad you came, though,” you said, glancing back at him. “I’m glad you came with me in the first place. This is gonna be the best semester.”

“Thanks for having me,” Luke said. “It’s… it’s been a while since I’ve left camp.” 

“Fingers crossed for no monster attacks, eh?” You held up your hand. “At least, not during the game. I could live with it happening any other time.” 

“Don’t speak it into existence,” your mom said. “We’re going to have a monster-free school year.” 

To humor her, you made a claw over your heart and pushed out. She hummed in satisfaction, and you looked over at Luke. “It’s gonna be fine.” 

“Yeah,” he said. “Because two kids like us aren’t gonna draw any attention.” 

“Oh, I know we will,” you said. “But I know it’ll be fine.” 

Luke frowned. “How can you be so sure?” 

You shrugged with a smile. “I’ve got you.”

And in that moment, he was thankful for the freakish heat that honestly made no sense in the spring—at least it covered up any sign of what your words did to him. 

Luke thought you were joking when you asked him if he wanted to come back home with you for the school year. He didn’t know why you wanted to go back in the first place, being a Big Three kid that apparently had a death wish, but the thought of him leaving camp was almost inconceivable. 

Even after you assured him you weren’t joking, he still wasn’t sure. He was on the run with you for three years, then… 

Well, he couldn’t think about it for too long. But Luke had been on the outskirts of regular society for so long, doing nothing but fighting for his life, that he didn’t know if he could actually function at a normal school.

But it felt right for you two to get some normal time together after you were separated for so long. It took him a semester to decide, but one day during your usual Iris message conversations, he told you he’d love to spend the rest of the year in Boston with you. Luke still remembered the grin you wore, your disbelieving but victorious cheers, the apology you yelled back at your mother for your noise. 

Luke watched you as you talked with your mom, discussing Boston’s chances and player statistics and baseball jargon he didn’t think he’d ever understand, and he knew he would sit through a thousand Red Sox games if it meant he would get to keep seeing your smile.

You must have felt his eyes on you, because you glanced over at him. “Are you okay?” 

Luke smiled. Gods, he was so glad you were here. 

“Never better.” 

-

“That one nearly got me,” Luke said. 

Percy huffed as he picked up his sword from the ground—he was pretty sure he would officially lose his mind if Luke disarmed him with that stupid move one more time. One benefit to the Hermes cabin being too scared to associate with him after getting claimed was that he wasn’t making a fool out of himself in front of other people. 

“Maybe I can only beat you when I pour water on myself,” he said. 

Luke chuckled as he took a bottle from the cooler on the side and held it up. “Wanna try?” 

He shook his head. “I think my arms will fall off if I keep going with you.” 

He tipped his shoulder. “Fair.” 

Percy stared at the ground as Luke gathered himself, trying to put the free range thoughts roaming around his head in order. It didn’t help that he’d gained a million questions after Poseidon claimed him, and it didn’t help that there’s been a newest addition to his dream last night. 

He still felt strange asking Luke about it, but he had to know more about her. Percy didn’t know why it felt like his mission to find out who this mysterious girl was, or why he felt that strange connection to her. Maybe it was the way Luke acted whenever he brought her up, maybe it was that she’d popped up in his dream next to him at the very end, maybe it was just plain old curiosity. 

“I’m not supposed to be alive,” Percy said, breaking the silence. “I could die at any time in a bunch of different horrible ways. So will you tell me more about that girl on your wall?”  

Again, Luke seemed to be caught off guard by it. Percy heard the crunch of plastic as his hand clenched ever so slightly around the bottle, and he tried to cover it up with an arched eyebrow. “Why do you want to know so badly?” 

He shrugged. What was he supposed to say? 

“I’m curious,” he decided. 

Luke huffed a dry laugh before he took a sip of water, and he stared off into the distance for a while. He did a lot of staring whenever this girl was brought up. They looked like they were best friends in those pictures, but maybe whatever they had ended badly. And if she was a demigod too…

Well, it would make sense why he didn’t want to talk about her. 

“You know that phrase about curiosity?” Luke asked. 

“And how it killed the cat?” 

He nodded, drinking some more. “It goes double for demigods.” 

“Everything else wants to kill me,” Percy said. “So curiosity’s gonna have to get in line.” 

Luke’s laugh was a little more genuine this time, and he shook his head. “I guess I can tell you a little about her. You actually probably have a right to know.” 

“Is she a half-blood?” Percy asked immediately. 

He nodded. “Yeah.” 

“Who’s her parent?” 

Luke capped his water bottle and looked at Percy for a good, long moment. His face glowed in the warm afternoon sun, his scar cast in a softer light than usual. The scar used to unnerve him, but he’d gotten used to it after weeks staring at it during sword fighting. 

“She was a child of Poseidon, Percy,” he said. “Just like you.” 

Percy felt short of breath, like Luke had just knocked his sword out of his hand and shoved him to the ground. But he stood on his own two legs that somehow still worked, and Luke hadn’t moved. 

He had a sister? 

“I have a sister?” 

“…Had,” Luke corrected. “She… she died a few years back.” 

A vice latched onto Percy’s heart. He was still having a hard time breathing. No wonder Luke always used past tense when he was talking about her. 

He had a sister, he wasn’t alone, but he was because she was dead. And if Luke was one of her friends, that meant she died young. 

Gods. 

“What about their oath?” Percy asked, trying to ignore the aching in his chest. “I’m already on thin ice for my whole existing thing. How did Poseidon get away with two kids so close to each other?” 

Luke shrugged. “I’ve never known why gods do things. Her mother was a great woman, though—I could see what drew Poseidon to her against the oath.” 

One half of Percy wanted to ask every question that kept popping into his head. The other side of him wanted to break down and cry. 

“How did you meet her?” 

“We ran into each other when we were both young,” he said. “Both child runaways, both demigods, both New Englanders—we decided to rough it out on the road together. Couldn’t be any worse than doing it on our own.”

Percy tried to imagine it. A young Luke and a younger version of that girl—maybe Percy’s age—living together in the wilderness and fighting monsters. Surviving off of nothing but their wit and skill, facing death each day before they’d even reached middle school. 

“It… it didn’t happen then, did it?” he asked hesitantly. 

Luke shook his head. “Couple years later. All we did was watch each other’s backs out there.” 

Percy couldn’t help himself. “What happened to her?”  

“The same thing that happens to everyone,” Luke said flatly. “There’s a reason I’m the oldest one here.” 

“That doesn’t make it better,” Percy insisted. “It— it makes it worse, Luke. You see that, right?”  

Luke stared at his empty water bottle then tossed it back into the cooler. When his gaze met Percy’s, he was shocked by how… tired he looked. Beyond exhausted—bone-weary. Percy wanted to say more, but he didn’t get the chance. 

“This isn’t good conversation,” Luke said, “and it’s getting late. You should hit the showers before dinner.” 

The sun still beat down on them, bright and angry in the sky, but Percy provided no argument. He had a lot to think about. 

Before they went their separate ways, Percy stopped and looked back at him. “I’m sorry she’s gone, Luke.” 

Luke’s gaze went unfocused for a moment, his eyes growing glossy. “So am I.” 

-

Percy sat on the floor of the Hermes cabin in the corner that used to be his, staring at his meager belongings. He had to decide what to take on his quest, which was made easier by the fact that he hardly had anything to his name. Things could always be worse, though. At least he would have a change of clothes. 

He should’ve been doing this in his own cabin, but it felt too empty, too suffocating in its silence. Eleven was still more familiar. He heard the door open and saw Luke walk in, and his eyes lit up when he saw Percy. 

“Hey,” he said. “I wanted to see you before you left. How’re you feeling pre-quest?” 

“Like the world’s about to end,” he said. 

Luke’s lips twitched into a smile as he sat on the bed across from Percy. “Understandable. It kinda is.” 

“It’s just overwhelming.” Percy shoved the unfolded clothes into his backpack. “I have to clear mine and my dad’s names and get Zeus’s bolt back, or else war will start. No pressure at all.” 

“You were chosen for a reason,” Luke said. “You may not see it, Percy, but you’ve improved a lot since you got here. If anyone can do this, I think it’s you.” 

Percy looked up at him, and he was reminded of the way their last conversation went. He was asking before he could really stop himself. 

“I could die on this quest and never see you again,” Percy said. “So could you tell me more about my sister before I go?”  

Luke smiled wistfully and sighed. “You really won’t let this go, will you?” 

“It’s not really something you just let go,” he said. “Besides, I… I saw her in my dream last night.” 

Luke’s smile faded. “You did?”  

Percy nodded. “For a split second, but I know it was her. I felt the same way I did whenever I looked at her pictures. And… it’s the second time she’s shown up.” 

He let out a long sigh and shook his head, his gaze trailing off to the wall. He always looked so much older when he talked about this girl, like he was a war veteran reminiscing on his lost love. And from what he’d gathered, it might not have been too far off. 

“I told you we ran together when we were young,” he said, and Percy nodded. “We were both nine, and it should’ve been terrible, but she had a way of making everything better. Always found the bright side of things, was always able to make me laugh.” 

“She was from Massachusetts—right in the middle of Boston.” Luke chuckled as he looked at Percy. “Huge Red Sox fan.” 

Percy grimaced. “We all make mistakes.” 

Luke smiled, though it faded a bit. “We got separated for a while, but we found each other again when I got to camp. Things were more peaceful than they are now, so she’d been claimed at camp pretty quickly. I figure Poseidon wanted her to have the protection of him openly standing behind her after what happened.” 

He frowned. “What do you mean, ‘what happened’?” 

Luke shook his head. “That would be an awful story to send you off on.” 

Percy wanted to protest, but he didn’t. Luke was probably right—Percy didn’t want to make him relive it and then have to go on a death quest right after.

“A happier part, then,” he suggested.

“She ran away from home as a kid to protect her mom, but now that she had an idea of what she was doing, she started going back to school. She invited me to stay with her during the school year one year, and I accepted. That—” Luke’s throat bobbed, and the other hand clenched into a fist— “that was when she died.” 

In his stunned silence, Luke got up and went over to his alcove. He pulled the drawer open on his bedside table and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper. It must’ve been folded and crumpled a million other times in messier ways by all the creases he could see, but when Luke opened it, he could see handwriting all over the front. 

A letter. 

“We Iris messaged each other constantly while she was at school,” he said, “and we wrote back and forth when we couldn’t. This was the last letter she sent me.” 

Percy’s first instinct was to say he wouldn’t be able to read it, but he realized that he didn’t really care. These were words that his sister wrote—he would sit here the rest of the day forcing sentences to make sense if that was what it took. 

So he took the letter when Luke offered it. 

To the one and only Luke Castellan, 

My mom said yes! After a very long interrogation (she now knows basically everything about you) and a million promises that you would be as careful as possible and that you were good enough at sword fighting to take down anything that could come after us, she said you can spend the year here. We spent a couple hours every day making my mom’s study into a guest room, so you have a place to stay.

I’m an idiot that didn’t bring enough drachmas so that’s why I have to send this letter—hopefully it gets to you soon enough, because we’re gonna come get you a week before my winter break is over. Mom is letting me drive down because she says I have to get my permit soon. It makes sense that my first big test is getting to you. If we don’t make it, it’s because we died in a fiery crash. 

Just kidding. I’m a great driver. But tell me some of your favorite songs when you reply and I’ll burn a CD for the ride—I figured out how to use LimeWire. Oh, and throw in a couple drachmas with the envelope so I can Iris message you next time. I miss your face and your voice, and my hand is cramping up writing all of this. 

But this is so exciting! I can’t wait to introduce you to all my friends at school, and show you my favorite places in the city, and make you into a Red Sox fan. And you can come to my soccer games— I’m the greatest forward there is. 

Jokes aside, I’m going to make sure you have the best time. We’ll spend every second together, Luke. We’re gonna make up for the time we lost. 

I can’t wait to see you again.

Your hurricane.  

It took Percy a long time to get through it with the words swimming all over, and it didn’t help that his vision had grown blurry. 

Tears, he realized as he blinked, and he did it again to make sure they wouldn’t fall. He couldn’t cry in front of Luke, not over a girl he didn’t even know—even if she was his sister. But maybe he was grieving that—the fact that he would never get to know her. 

“God, man. I— I’m sorry.” Percy couldn’t think of anything else to say. “She sounds like she was great.” 

Luke couldn’t even manage a smile this time as he stared at the wall. Percy was surprised he could even talk to him about it. 

“She was,” he murmured. “You would’ve liked her. And gods,” this time, a bit of a smile broke through despite it all, “she would have loved a little brother.” 

“I’m gonna make her proud on this quest,” Percy vowed. “I’m gonna clear our dad’s name for her.”

Something in Luke’s gaze had changed—sadness, almost regret. “You’re a good kid, Percy. I hope your quest doesn’t change that.” 

I hope I come back alive, he wanted to say. But given the topic matter, he didn’t. Percy carefully folded the letter back up and handed it to Luke. 

“Thank you for telling me about her, man,” Percy said. “I… I know it can’t be easy.”

Luke let out a shuddering breath as he stared at the closed letter—Percy wondered how many times he must have sat in this same position, reading her words. “No better way to honor her memory than helping her brother.” He glanced at Percy. “I see a lot of her in you.” 

He’d been wondering if he had anything in common with her. Percy felt a sudden flare of anger shoot through him—it wasn’t fair that she was dead. Poseidon was a god, and she was a teenager. He should have saved her. 

Percy’s mouth was drier than a desert. A part of him wanted to curl up in a ball and sob over the sister he never got the chance to know, but the other part of him knew—from what little Luke had told him about her—that she wouldn’t want him to. 

“I should get going,” Percy said, standing up from the floor. “We have to leave for the quest soon, and Annabeth and Grover are probably wondering where I am, and…” 

Percy trailed off, and Luke nodded in understanding. He turned around and took one of the photos off the wall—one of you alone in the middle of a park, wearing a bucket hat and absolutely beaming. 

“You deserve to have a part of her with you,” he said. “For good luck.” 

He felt himself choking up, and he pushed it down as he accepted the photo. “Thanks, man. It means a lot.”

“Good luck, Percy,” Luke said. “You’ve got a lot of people rooting for you.”

Percy found himself studying the picture of you once he made it outside, trying to memorize your face. With your wide, infectious smile that emanated pure sunlight, he could have mistaken you for an Apollo kid. But when he looked at you, he got that same warmth that he felt every time he imagined his father. 

“I won’t let you down,” he murmured. “I promise.” 

-

After sleeping in his train seat for half the day, Percy vowed to never complain about his bed in Cabin Three again. He was gonna be going down to the Underworld with permanent cricks in his neck. 

Grover was still sound asleep—Percy envied him for how easily it came to him in the worst conditions—but thankfully, Annabeth wasn’t. Her gaze was focused on the view as their train chugged along. 

Percy cleared his throat in a flawless attempt at getting her attention, and it worked. 

“You’re awake,” she said. 

“Unfortunately.” Percy sighed. “How much longer do you think it’ll be?” 

“Another day, at least,” she said. “And we’ve got a layover in St. Louis.” 

“St. Louis,” he hummed. “Nice.” 

They sat in silence for a while—there wasn’t much to talk about when they were coming off of two— or was it three, now?—near-death experiences. But eventually, Annabeth cleared her throat, taking a page from his book, and it worked again. 

“There— there’s probably something you should know,” Annabeth said, and that worked even better than clearing her throat. “You’re not the only Big Three kid to come through Camp Half-blood lately.” 

“I know,” he said. “Grover and Luke explained it.” 

Her eyes widened slightly and she leaned forward in her seat. “Luke did?” 

“…Yeah. You all already told me about Thalia.” Percy glanced away, suddenly feeling a chill in the train car. “Luke told me about my sister.” 

Annabeth went silent. 

“It’s okay,” he said. “I kind of annoyed Luke until he told me. Doesn’t really seem like a subject people at camp like to talk about.” 

“I’m just surprised he did,” she murmured. “They were… they were close, Percy. Her death destroyed him—Thalia and your sister. All of it’s complicated.”  

“Yeah,” he sighed, “I got some of that.” 

“I only knew her for a year at camp, but everyone loved her,” she said. “She was nice. Popular. Always helped when she could, always had the biggest, most infectious smile on her face.” Annabeth looked down at her hands. “She didn’t deserve the fate she got.” 

Percy didn’t think he’d ever grieved so much for someone he never knew. “But her and Luke—were they…?” 

“Yeah,” Annabeth said, “they were a thing, later on.” 

That seemed to be all she wanted to say on the matter. Percy decided not to push. 

“How did you meet her?” he asked. 

Annabeth’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I met her on the day I thought I would die.”

-

For the first time in her life, Annabeth Chase couldn’t think. 

It had all happened so fast. One second she was running with Luke and Thalia and Grover, praying to her mother and any other gods that would listen to make the horde of monsters let up even a centimeter.

The next, she’d collapsed on the ground, never so grateful to have grass and dirt and dust in her face. But she could hear Luke yelling, barely able to make it out in her delirious state—she didn’t know when she’d last had a sip of water, and they’d been running for at least three miles—but he sounded hysterical. 

She remembered her last clear thought: they weren’t going to make it. 

But they had. They had, so why was Luke losing his mind? 

Annabeth pulled herself up from the ground—how long had she been bleeding out of those slashes on her arm?—and looked for the rest of her friends. Luke wasn’t yelling anymore, instead arguing with someone she didn’t recognize in a bright orange shirt. Grover’s furry legs trembled as he stared down the hill they’d just gotten up, completely silent, and Thalia— 

Where was Thalia? 

Annabeth tried to get up but her legs gave out almost immediately, and steady arms caught her before she could fall to the ground again. Kind eyes served to ease some of her panic—she was older than Annabeth, maybe around Luke or Thalia’s age. 

Thalia— 

“Hey, you’re okay,” the voice said, and Annabeth’s attention was drawn back to you. “I’ve got you.” 

“Where’s Thalia?” she blurted out, because now she couldn’t think of anything else. 

Your brows creased and you glanced back down the hill—Annabeth did too, and she saw Grover and Luke arguing with each other. Or rather, Luke was yelling at him as Grover anxiously hooked his hands through his hair. 

“I don’t know,” you said, “but right now, I need to make sure you’re okay. Are you hurt?” 

Annabeth absentmindedly held up her arm, but she was only focused on her friends. Why wasn’t Thalia with them? Why was Luke so upset?

You cursed under your breath in Ancient Greek as you cradled her arm, and you looked back down the hill. Annabeth could see at least half a dozen other kids. 

“We’ve got two half-bloods and a satyr, one injured!” you yelled back. “Get Molly and Brayden!” 

“Three,” Annabeth found herself saying. “There’s three half-bloods—” 

“Annabeth!” 

Her head shot up at the sound of Luke calling her name as he bounded over, and her eyes widened at the blood steadily spidering across the fabric of his shirt. 

“Luke, you’re hurt—” 

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “It’s fine.” 

“We have Apollo kids coming,” you said, looking up at him, still cradling Annabeth’s arm. “We’ll get y—” 

Your sentence stuck in your throat, and Annabeth could see tears welling in your eyes as your brows furrowed. She thought Luke’s eyes might burst out of his skull as he stared at you, his lips parted but nothing coming out. Neither of you were able to form words. 

When he finally did get something out, it was a single name. One Annabeth knew by heart, one that he’d mourned for years. 

“Luke?” you whispered. 

Before he had the chance to do anything, two teenagers got over the hill and called out your name, the same one Luke used. He always said you were dead, but you clearly weren’t dead, because you were here and you had her arm in your grasp and while your hands were cold, they weren’t cold enough to be dead— 

“Molly’s gonna take care of you,” you said, looking back at Annabeth and cutting off her inner dialogue. “She’ll get you to the infirmary and heal you up, okay?” 

“My friends—” 

“They’re gonna be okay too,” you said. “I promise.” 

Annabeth looked up at Luke, and he nodded. “We’ll be with you soon, Annabeth. We— we have to talk about some things.” 

So she went with Molly down the hill, and Annabeth put pressure on her bleeding wound when she told her to—it had started to sting like hell now that her adrenaline was fading. 

She looked back just in time to see you and Luke share the tightest hug ever. 

The hug of two people who realized they weren’t seeing ghosts, Annabeth thought. 

-

You bolted up in bed, eyes wide and your chest heaving as you rapidly sucked in air. Your fingers found purchase in your bedsheets, desperate for something familiar—it took a second for you to recognize your surroundings, that you weren’t in an endless void, but your childhood bedroom offered little comfort.  

You ran a hand over your forehead, damp with sweat, as you tried to calm down. Your breathing slowed, but you couldn’t shake that awful feeling that hung over you in your sleep. 

Your nightmares were getting worse, you knew that much. That raspy, demented voice used to be a rarity, and now it appeared every night. You could usually deal with your nightmares, but the sense of absolute dread that voice and the pit fostered in you was too much. You hadn’t managed to sleep through the night once since you came home for the school year.

You could deal with the monsters—to you, this was the worst part of your godly blood.

A knock rattled on the door out of nowhere, and you nearly jumped out of your skin. The only thing that calmed you down was the thought that monsters didn’t knock. 

“Come in,” you croaked, your throat drier than a desert. 

Thankfully, a monster hadn’t come to make your night even more miserable. Luke stood in the doorway, his eyebrows creased in concern, messy curls hanging just above his eyes. He wore the Red Sox t-shirt you’d bought for him at the game you dragged him to, and in your addled state, you didn’t even think to tease him about it. 

“Are you okay?” He should’ve been as disoriented as you, but his alerted eyes told a different story. 

You could only think of one thing. “How did you know?” 

Luke’s lips parted for a moment, as if he hadn’t even considered it. “I could just feel it.”

You managed a smile despite every atom in your body screaming at you. “I think that means you can come in.” 

He closed the door behind him, and you shifted over in your bed to make room for him. There wasn’t much in a twin, but you made it work. Luke’s weight pressed into the mattress, making you adjust your position, and it was more comforting than any amount of blankets. 

“You’re so cold,” he murmured, laying the back of his hand against your arm. “How do you live like that?” 

“Blame my dad,” you said. “I’ve got water in my blood.” 

“I think that’s probably a bad thing,” Luke said, and you knocked your shoulder into his with a huff. 

“You know what I mean.” 

Luke let his hand fall back in his lap, and as you brought your knees up to your chest, you pulled the covers with them. 

“So,” Luke said, glancing at you, “what’s got you awake at the witching hour?” 

“The usual,” you mumbled. 

“Nightmares that might be prophetic?” he asked. 

You made a lazy gesture with your hand. “Bingo.” 

“The worst sense of dread imaginable?” 

“Bullseye.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

You shrugged. “It’s nothing I can’t deal with.” 

“You don’t always have to put on a front, y’know,” Luke said. You felt his eyes on you. “You don’t always have to be strong.” 

“I’m naturally strong,” you said with mock austerity. “Comes with the god for a dad.” 

Luke chuckled and shook his head. “You know what I mean.” 

“Yeah,” you murmured. 

You leaned into his side, fitting your head into the crook of his neck. Luke wrapped his arm around you, pulling you closer, and you let out a contented sigh. 

That voice in your nightmares seemed so small when you had Luke. 

“Can you stay?” you asked softly. 

He didn’t hesitate. “Of course.” 

“Just like old times,” you whispered. 

“Just like old times,” he agreed. 

Luke ran hot, and you’d never been more thankful for it as you fully settled into his side. Icy blood ran through your veins, and you let out a shaky sigh. You could hear his steady breathing, feel his heartbeat through his chest, and the anxiety from earlier began to steadily fade. You never felt safer than when you were with Luke. 

There was something between you—you weren’t that stupid—but you hadn’t talked about it. With you and Luke, it was just… you and Luke. You didn’t have to put a label to it. 

How could you put a label to your relationship, when you’d spent your first few years together fighting for each day, and then the next few thinking the other was dead? 

Maybe someday, you would talk about it. But for now, this was more than enough. 

“Don’t worry,” Luke murmured in your ear as your eyes began to droop. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.” 

And by the gods, you believed him. 

#fic recs #luke castellan #pjo

[a-asterias]

one year with luke castellan

↳ january 14 with annabeth chase

series masterlist

pairing: luke castellan x daughter of apollo!reader

word count: 2.9k

summary: luke forces annabeth to go seek medical care from that one apollo kid he’s always fighting with

content: a little bit of a slow burn. luke makes like one dirty joke. unedited writing and banter

“Luke, you’re being—“ Annabeth cuts herself off with a wet cough. “—completely dramatic.”

The sight of them must look crazy to any of the early risers around camp. Because much like a cat handling her kittens, Luke has Annabeth by the scruff of her neck, dragging her in the direction of the Apollo cabin. With her tired and lethargic, he’s doing most of the heavy lifting.

“Kid, it’s been a week, and you’re still burning up. And the way you hack up phlegm is scaring the campers.”

“Yeah, so?” she groans, dragging her feet. “If they weren’t aware, that’s kind of how being sick works. That’s how the body reacts to—”

“Don’t get smart with me.”

She huffs, annoyed, but the congestion just makes it sound like a weird gargling noise. Luke snorts a laugh from in front of her, and she digs her heels into the ground harder. But he just continues walking with her in tow, undisturbed.

Annabeth doesn’t care how immature she’s sounding — she hates going to the camp healer. The bedside manner of those teenagers could use some work. The last time she’d landed herself in there, she was fighting the urge to put one of the healers in their own infirmary.

“And definitely don’t get smart with this healer I’m taking you to,” Luke adds, looking thoughtful. “‘Cause she won’t care how old you are. She’s evil.”

The Apollo cabin is only about fifty feet away now, and even though it’s dreary and cold out, the building still seems to be shimmering under the sun. Annabeth feels her stomach churn at Luke’s words, and she can’t tell if it’s one of her routine bouts of nausea or slight fear.

“Are you being serious?” she hisses, her voice dropping to a whisper as they grow nearer. “Why would you take me to her, then?”

“She’s apparently good at what she does,” he soothes. “She’s just mean. A monster in the form of a demigod, really.”

He releases her from his grasp just to knock on the door, and Annabeth sees the opportunity. But her exhaustion has dulled her reflexes, and the moment she’s bracing herself to run, Luke’s grabbing onto the orange fabric of her camp tee again.

Luke gives her a lopsided grin as the two of them hear footsteps on the other side of the door. “Plus, she’s really pretty.”

Annabeth rolls her eyes so hard it hurts. Her snarky response is cut off when the door opens.

Your eyes meet hers, and Annabeth is taken aback by the kindness in them — no apparent evilness like Luke had claimed. All kids of Apollo have that weird glow to them, and you’re no exception. Even though the door still isn’t fully open, just staring at your shiny smile gives the effect of having a flashlight shone directly into your eyes.

“Hi,” you say kindly, opening the door a little wider. She’s starting to get a closer look at your face, and she realizes Luke was right. You are pretty, and she remembers seeing you around before with Silena and Clarisse.

But she honestly hears about you more often than she actually sees you around camp.

Luke’s complaints of you always made their way to her ears eventually. Some days it was about how you were always trying to one up him, whether you were on his Capture the Flag team or not. Other days it was about how you would always go way too far during training and bruise his ribs, or nearly sprain his ankle.

With the amount of bodily harm you seemed to cause, Annabeth hadn’t even considered the idea of you being a healer.

You open the door wide enough for her to get a good look at you, and your easy demeanor is enough to put Annabeth at ease. If she were more awake, Luke’s mean words about you would’ve probably had her on edge, but it feels like you’re single handedly parting the clouds above you, so she relaxes easily.

“Can I help— Oh.”

Whatever it was about you that had Annabeth pacified in your presence is gone the moment you push the door open a little wider. Your smile flattens out into a line.

It’s like watching the sun disappear behind a cloud.

“Castellan,” you greet, expression unreadable. Annabeth doesn’t miss the way you look him up and down, cringing at the blood stain on the bottom of his shirt.

Luke grins, and Annabeth has half the mind to walk away before she has to hear the rest of this conversation. “Hey, sunshine.”

For a second, Annabeth wonders if Luke’s snark is going to end up with them having the door slammed in their faces. You give him an indecipherable look.

“You’re lucky your sister is here. I would’ve done your face in for that stupid nickname.”

Annabeth doesn’t doubt it. It had taken Luke a week to get over the black eye you had given him that one time.

“Sorry,” he says, but the amused look in his eyes says anything but. “Just excited to see my favorite girl, of course.”

Something changes in your eyes. You look smug when you say, “Oh, really? Well I don’t see—”

The amusement is wiped clean off his face. His teasing tone has long disappeared when he says, “Dude, fuck off.”

“Language,” you remind, giving a side glance to Annabeth. “But really, have you ever considered just—”

“I get it,” he says quickly, throwing Annabeth a weary look. He throws his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry.”

You look smug. Luke looks effectively humbled.

Annabeth’s head is spinning. The two of you go back and forth so quickly it’s hard for her to keep up.

“Anyway, is there anything I can do for you?” you ask Annabeth, turning away from him.

She glares at the boy. Plants her feet like the proverbial mule.

“No,” she says firmly. “I feel perfectly—”

”Annabeth’s sick. She’s had a fever for over a week now,” Luke offers, cutting off her lie. He seemed to have recovered from whatever conversation you two had just had. His tone is sweet again, his charm levels cranked back up to fifteen. He’s really laying it on thick.

You don’t seem to care much for the way he has that look on his face — the one he uses whenever he talks to pretty girls. Instead, you tilt your head at Annabeth curiously. She only shrugs, her mouth shut tight. There’s no use lying to you.

After looking her over, you reluctantly turn to face Luke. “It’s been over a week?”

“Almost two.”

You nod, the first remotely kind gesture aimed in his direction. After what Annabeth feels is a few awkward seconds of Luke staring expectantly at you while you assess her condition, you finally open the door for the both of them.

Luke tries to usher her in, and she nudges his hands away. Annabeth’s already resigned herself to her fate — she knows the drill. Still dragging her feet, she makes her way over to an empty bed at the edge of the room and slumps down, exhausted.

She’s pleasantly surprised to find the scratchy green sheets have been replaced with soft blue ones. And as she lets her head fall back against the cloud-like pillow at the head of the bed, she realizes a lot of the room has changed since she’d last been here. What had once been a dreary infirmary has been revived — posters that look like they should be in a pediatrician’s office cover the walls. A glance inside the storage closet shows organized shelves stocked to the brim.

Annabeth shuts her eyes so she doesn’t have to look at the photo of an owl wearing a stethoscope anymore, and listens to the sound of you flitting around at the other side of the room. There’s the quiet closing of cabinets and the sound of your sneakers on the wood as you gather what you need. She can hear whatever’s in the cabinets roll around as you shut the drawers of supplies quickly.

Annabeth sighs loudly. She just wants to take whatever medicine the camp bought from the local Walgreens and leave.

When Luke doesn’t say anything about her dramatics, Annabeth realizes belatedly that she can’t sense his presence at the end of the bed. She cracks open an eye in curiosity — and fights the urge to cringe.

He’s practically on your heels, watching as you do whatever healer-y stuff that it is you do. Annabeth knows for a fact that he has no idea what you’re doing, but he watches, a little too interested, as you take a knife and begin chopping something efficiently.

The reason why you’re using a common kitchen knife in an infirmary is beyond Annabeth’s knowledge. Maybe a new healing method? Or maybe it's a silent threat to get Luke to back away from you.

“You still sore?” Annabeth hears him ask, picking up a metal object off a desk and tossing it into the air.

Confusion paints your face as you set the knife aside. “What are you talking about?” You catch the object on his next throw, unamused, and hiss at him to stop touching things.

“You know, after last night.”

Annabeth watches your eye twitch. Luke smiles, like he knows he’s won something. “After we sparred?”

He just grins, picking up the object again while you blink at him, stunned. “‘Course. What else would I be talking about?”

Annabeth has a feeling that she’s missing out on a second, more unspoken conversation.

The point of the kitchen knife is tapped lightly against Luke’s chest, but he doesn’t break eye contact for a second. “You’re funny, Castellan.”

“I know.”

The two of you move around your table in silence, with the occasional murmurings of Luke as he opens his mouth and asks what sounds like a stupid question. At one point, you pretend you can’t hear what he’s saying over the sound of you crushing something with a mortar and pestle.

“Why haven’t you been resting?”

After a beat of silence, Annabeth blinks hard to clear her vision. It had taken a little too long for her to realize that you and Luke were at her side. You’re standing over her and Luke is sat in a chair by the bed, giving her a questioning look. Her face warms, adding heat to her already raised body temperature.

“Excuse me?”

“You were leading Capture the Flag last week,” you point out. “But Castellan says you’ve been sick for a while. Why haven’t you been resting?”

She bristles. What good demigod gets put out of commission for two weeks over a simple sickness? Any normal demigod, sure, but she was Annabeth Chase. She could overcome anything, especially the average flu.

“I’m not that sick. And I’ve had the flu before, it should go away any day now.”

You nod at Luke, and he helps prop Annabeth up on a pillow, much to her dismay. A swirling goblet is placed in her hands, the liquid inside purple and shimmery. It’s so dark in color she can’t see to the bottom.

“Something me and my dad made,” you explain, a tinge of pride in your voice. “It uses some medicinal herbs and less than a tablespoon of ambrosia. Just enough to kickstart your immune system, but not enough to heal any major wounds.”

Annabeth hides her surprise. You had developed this with Apollo? The gods visiting their children wasn’t unheard of, but it was obviously not an everyday thing. Even claiming their children seemed to be a load of work for them.

“You just have to drink the whole cup. After that, you should start feeling better in about twelve hours.“

After a weary glance, Annabeth nods, draining the glass sip by sip. It doesn’t quite taste like what she’s usually reminded of when she eats ambrosia, but there’s still that umami taste that warms her chest with the comfort of a long lost home cooked meal.

“You’re going to need to make that for me,” Luke says after a few minutes of silence. “You hit me so hard once, I lost hearing in my right ear.”

You snort. “I don’t think drinking it could save you from your atrocious form when we do hand-to-hand.”

Luke is fast enough to curl his foot around your ankle so you stumble when you take a step back. But he isn’t fast enough to block the metal appliance you throw at his face.

Annabeth works to drain the rest of the liquid so she doesn’t have to sit through another few minutes of you two arguing. She’s almost done with the goblet when you make a gesture at Luke for something. Half yawning, he haphazardly sticks out his arm in your direction.

Your responding gaze could rival Medusa’s.

“Couldn’t even bother to read the time for me? It’s a digital watch, you don’t even have to—”

“—Well, Sunshine, I just thought that since you obviously do everything better than me—“

“Don't start.”

Annabeth almost laughs at how Luke did the one thing he told her not to do — get smart with you. He retracts his arm, huffing. “It’s eight fifteen.”

You’re smiling when you face Annabeth. “Then you’ll get off of bedrest by dinner.”

“Bedrest?” she echoes in disbelief. “I’m supposed to sit here for twelve hours doing absolutely nothing?”

“No. I expect you’ll be asleep for a few of those hours. The treatment kind of acts like an antihistamine, so it could make you a little drowsy.”

Her head is spinning. She’s being taken out by a mortal sickness.

You take the empty goblet from her and hand it to Luke.

“If you’re going to annoy me while I work, you can at least wash this for me.”

“Don't you have a servant to do that for you? I’m sure that one Aphrodite kid would love to.”

You make the same face you made when you realized Luke was outside your cabin, so Annabeth assumes you don’t like the aforementioned Aphrodite kid very much either.

“At least leave the cup in the sink.”

Luke mumbles under his breath what is likely a mockery of your words, but you pay him no mind as he slinks away.

The cabin is quiet for a few moments, and Annabeth accepts the cool cloth you place on her forehead thankfully. Then, there’s the sound of running water, and she stares behind your head to see Luke using a sponge to scrub out the interior of the goblet.

You take his seat next to Annabeth and give her a heavy look. “Even the best of us have to rest, you know.”

“I know.”

“So it’s okay if you take off the rest of the day.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

She shrugs, turning the washcloth over. “Yes. I just don’t want to.”

You smile in the weird shiny way you do. “You’re exactly like Luke said you were.”

Annabeth doesn’t say anything about how you’re calling him by his first name now, but she perks up at your words. You and Luke were talking about her?

“Which is?”

Your icy gaze usually directed at Luke thaws a little when you turn back in the direction of the sink. The both of you watch as he dries the inside of the goblet, thoroughly wiping it down. “He said you’re smart. And an excellent counselor.”

Her spine straightens the slightest bit. It wasn’t often that Luke was willing to praise people to their faces, so she would take anything she could get.

“But he also said you can be stubborn. And prideful.”

Of course he did.

“And even though those can be flaws, I do admire that about you.”

You look pensive, so Annabeth waits for you to continue.

“I’m not going to force you onto bedrest.”

The one eighty from your previous decision is making Annabeth’s head spin. She thinks that’s what you wanted.

You give her a look that’s thick with wisdom and experience. For a second, she can picture you amongst her older siblings, with their steely gazes and sharp stares. “But if you keep at this, you’re going to face a fate a lot worse than twelve hours of bed rest.”

You don’t say anything else, letting her sit with your cryptic words. The conversation ends when Luke walks over with the newly shined goblet, and you take it from him to put everything back in their proper places. He sits down in the spot you vacated with a heavy sigh of his own.

Annabeth can’t tell if it’s the placebo effect, but she is beginning to feel a little exhausted. She sits in a comfortable silence as she joins Luke, who’s watching quietly as you saunter around the room, deep in work.

Her eyelids haven’t quite fluttered shut yet when Luke mumbles something from next to her.

“I hear your bedrest’s been lifted. You headed out soon?”

Annabeth hesitates. She thinks about her counselor duties. And she thinks about rotting in this cot doing nothing.

And then she thinks about you.

She doesn’t waver when she says, “I think I’m gonna rest for a while.”

Luke’s brows raise. “You are?”

Trust me, I’m surprised too, she wants to say.

“Your friend,” Annabeth says, hesitating over the word. She isn’t quite sure what the two of you classify as. “She’s not evil like you said. She’s really smart.”

What seems like a grin spreads across his face — Annabeth can’t tell with the way everything is unfocusing.

Luke’s voice is surprisingly light. “I guess you’re right.”

notes: they’ll get together in a year. trust

if i added you to the wrong taglist let me know and ill fix it!

1 year with luke: @marshymallo @ghostisstuff @tayswiftlovebot @dangelnleif @bipstargirl @fearlessmoony @lyssaluvss @badcoping @dorcas4meadowes @surftrips @inejwraiths @lizziesfirstwife @randomnpc456 @pleasingregulus @solecitoszn @supercutszns @superswaggycooch @kiyasoup @teatimedisaster @sgmianne @otchae @the-ghost-0f-t0m0 @mclando81 @softtina

general luke taglist: @chasebeth @silkenthusiasts @urmomsbananabread @sunny747 @randomgurl2326 @repostingmyfavs @au-ghosttype @mrsaluado @holy-macncheese-balls @catluvwr @katemlk @lukecastellandefender @wonuskie @kitkat-writes-stuff

#fic recs #luke castellan #pjo

[a-asterias]

le coup de foudre.

pairing: regulus black x reader.

song inspiration: my love mine all mine by mitski.

author's note: this was a result of me binging dune and call me by your name. whoever fancasted timothee chalamet as regulus deserves a forehead kith cause look at him. he's so boyfriend coded it makes me sick.

Regulus Black did not believe in love at first sight. 

It was a foolish notion. One that contradicted his pragmatic beliefs. At his core, Regulus was a realist. In his world, love was not a luxury one could afford. Regulus was raised with the expectation to marry according to class, wealth, and most importantly, blood status. The noble and most ancient house of Black only took the purest of the pure. 

After all, toujours pur, always pure, has been his family’s motto for centuries. There has never been any doubt in his mind that he’d marry another member of the sacred twenty eight. It wasn’t a matter of if, only a question of when. 

During his sixth year, his mother made her intentions very clear. Walburga Black was adamant that he begin his search for a suitable bride. Leave it to his mother to compose a list of ladies she deemed suitable to become the future Mrs. Black. Regulus was to adhere to the carefully curated roster. They were names that he’d seen a million times before. Greengrass, Prewett, Rosier. Girls he’d grown up with and inadvertently had absolutely no interest in. 

Still, his mother was insistent so Regulus complied. He took the girls out on dates. The formula was rather simple: dinner at the fanciest restaurant in town followed by a walk around the city square in which he offered to buy his date a dessert like the proper gentleman his mother raised him to be. Despite the fact that Regulus had the entire process down to a science, the dates were always unsatisfactory. 

He was polite, of course. Opened the door, pulled out their chair, asked the appropriate level of questions to get to know his counterpart, but by the time the appetizers arrived, Regulus was on the verge of stabbing himself with the butter knife just to rouse himself from boredom. 

Regulus placed no blame on the girls. They were only doing what their families had raised them to do. Sit pretty, chew gracefully, agree with his opinions. All while wearing breakneck heels and a smile to boot. It was all terribly fucked up, but this was the world they lived in. 

The more he went on these dates, the more he realized that he didn’t want some pretty, docile wife. What he truly needed was someone who was willing to challenge him, to call him out on his bullshit, to argue with him when his own stubbornness prevented him from seeing reason. Regulus came to the horrible, earth-shattering realization that he probably wouldn’t find a woman like that on his mother’s list. 

As he walked back from another mind numbing date, Regulus grappled with this newfound dilemma. He didn’t want to endure another one of these disastrous dates. He didn’t want to sit through an entire meal making small talk. He definitely didn’t want to disappoint another girl by not kissing them at the end of the night. 

It wasn’t like any of them liked him anyways. Though they loved the idea of Regulus Black, he was quite certain that they wouldn’t afford the same affections to Reggie—the real and true version of himself. The one that Sirius often said Regulus kept in a neatly locked cage.

He wished he could be more like his brother. Sirius had always been the brave one. It was that infamous Gryffindor boldness that prompted his older brother to rebel against his family’s expectations. Instead of heeding to their mother’s ridiculous list, Sirius chose to date Remus in open defiance to Walburga’s orders. It resulted in him getting kicked out of 12 Grimmauld Place and burned off the family portrait, but Sirius didn’t seem to mind one bit.  

In a lot of ways, Regulus envied his brother. Sirius had the guts to stand up for himself. He wasn’t burdened by the crippling pressure of pleasing their mother. In all honesty, Reggie wondered if such a thing was even achievable. As he brooded, Regulus found himself on the shores of the Black Lake. His body had taken him here on autopilot. It was his only place of refuge in the castle. 

Regulus paced the rickety wooden dock. His mind was working so fast, so many thoughts spinning in his head, that it felt like he might work himself up to a fit. This has always been his problem. Sirius often said that he lived in his head too much. He frowned, trying and failing to get ahold of himself. For once, he wished he could just shut his brain off entirely.

Just then, Regulus felt a drop of water hit his head. He looked up and found dark, gray clouds hovering over the horizon. The stormcloud broke open and unleashed torrential rain all around him. Fucking fantastic. The world truly couldn’t give him a bloody break, could it? 

With a sigh, Regulus began making his way back. The ground was sodden underneath his feet, his boots sinking into the sand and dragging behind his black coat. The waves lapped violently across the shore as the wind lashed against the murky waters. Regulus was almost at the edge of the beach when he spotted you. 

A flash of movement from the corner of his eye. Regulus stopped dead in his tracks. There, at the mouth of the Black Lake, in the middle of the pouring rain, stood a girl with the most breathtaking smile he had ever seen. 

Regulus was fairly certain that you had History of Magic together. He sat behind you in class, passed by you in the halls, even reached for the same book in the forbidden section of the library once, but Reggie had never once seen that smile. The gravity of it threatened to knock the very breath from his lungs. 

There was something carefree about you. The way you spread your arms, tilted your head back, and laughed in the midst of the rain and thunder. Almost like you were welcoming the storm. 

It was only when your eyes locked that Regulus realized he was staring. You cocked your head at him, trailing your gaze from the curls plastered against his cheek to the nice button down and freshly pressed trousers that were now soaked from the rain, down to the shiny leather boots that were now digging into the sand. You seemed amused at the sight of him.

Ever the perfect gentleman, Regulus snapped out of his daze and jogged over to you. Without hesitation, he raised his coat over your head to shield you from the rain even though you were already both drenched. 

“What are you doing out in the rain?” Regulus asked, his voice full of genuine concern. “You’ll catch a cold.” 

You stepped out of the refuge of his expensive looking coat and held your hand out, catching droplets in your palm. “I don’t mind. I just…I just needed to feel the rain on my skin, that’s all.”

You supposed it must’ve seemed strange to him, but the rain always made you feel better. Lately, life had been just a little too overwhelming. There was so much pressure to do well in classes, to hang out with friends while balancing your clubs and sports, as well as making time to write back to your parents. When it all became a bit too much, you tended to come to the Black Lake for some sort of refuge. The rain was just an added bonus. 

If Regulus found your behavior bizarre, he didn’t say. Instead, he just smiled softly. “Well, you got your wish. It’s soaked out here.” 

“I know,” you responded with an enthusiastic nod. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” 

“Standing out in the pouring rain? On a beach where lightning can strike me down at any second? Yes, it’s absolutely splendid.”

Your mouth quirked in amusement. “No one’s telling you to stay out here.” You nodded towards the castle. “You’re more than welcome to take your brooding inside where it’s warm and dry. Not to mention, free of the dangers of lightning strikes, which are extremely rare by the way.” 

“With my luck, I might be the poor one in a million git who gets torched while getting insulted by a pretty girl.” 

“Did I insult you?’ you quipped back. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“You accused me of brooding.” 

“I didn’t accuse, I stated. Even the Wizengamot would have to rule that you were, in fact, brooding.” 

Regulus raised a brow. “What happened to innocent before proven guilty?” 

“Unfortunately, the evidence is overwhelming and the verdict is set. You, Regulus Black, have been sentenced for glaring at the Black Lake so menacingly that even the giant squid refuses to come to shore. Off to Azkaban you go.” 

“Do you promise to write me letters? Update me of how the world’s progressed without my dazzling presence?” 

“It would be my genuine pleasure.” 

Regulus chuckled at your dry humor. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bantered like this with anyone, much less with a strange not-so-stranger. You sat down on the wet sand and patted the spot beside you with a grin.

“Why don’t you take a seat and tell me all about your troubles.” 

Beyond the bleak horizon, the spires of the castle peeked through the gray clouds. Regulus thought of the common room where his housemates would no doubt be gathered around the ornate fireplace for warmth. Knowing his friends, they’d probably be indulging in spiked hot chocolate and playing some childish drinking game. A few minutes ago, nothing appealed to him more, but now Regulus found himself choosing the violent rain and soggy sand. All because of you, his mystery girl.

You leaned back on your elbows and cocked your head at him. “What ails you, Mr. Black?” 

“That depends. How much do you bill per hour?” 

“Fortunately for you, I’m in a generous mood so I’ll throw in a free session. Consider it my pro-bono work.” 

“How kind of you,” Regulus said with a serious expression. “My brother’s been nagging me to see a mind healer for years. All that childhood trauma, you know.” 

A small smile tugged at your lips, revealing a set of dimples that he found rather charming. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.” 

“My brother is Sirius. I’m Regulus, remember?” 

You snorted in a very unladylike manner, which only made Regulus grin. There was something so unapologetically you in your laugh that was absolutely endearing to him. Regulus smiled and knocked his shoulder against yours. 

You mimicked the action and smiled back at him. “All sarcasm aside, I was being genuine. If you want to talk about it, I’m here to listen.” 

"Do you often offer therapy sessions to complete strangers?"

"Only to surly Slytherins with sad eyes and pretty curls," you quipped back. "And we're not strangers. I sit behind you in potions. We're practically best mates."

"You think my curls are pretty?"

"Like a little cherub's. Are you quite sure you haven't escaped from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? You look like one of Michelangelo's angels. Except with way more scowling." Regulus grinned. He got the feeling that you always said whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. It was refreshing. "There's a smile. See? Our session is already progressing."

"I think you might get more than you bargained for with me, I'm afraid."

You met the challenge in his words head on. "Try me."

“You were right. I’m definitely guilty of brooding.” 

“What happened?” 

Regulus hesitated for a moment. He had never been the type of person to be candid with his feelings, especially not with someone he barely knew. Usually, he just kept his thoughts to himself and ruminated on them in the privacy of his dorm until he drove himself mad by overthinking, but your presence brought him an unexplainable ease. For once in his life, Regulus chose not to question it. 

“I’ve had a long night,” he said, tucking his knees up to his chest. “I just got back from a date.” 

“It didn’t go well?” 

“It was…fine. It’s always fine. But it’s the same thing over and over again, just with a different girl.” 

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a playboy, Regulus Black.”

Regulus chuckled. “I’m not some unscrupulous rake, I assure you.” 

“Yes, that much is obvious from your use of the word unscrupulous.” You tucked your legs underneath you. “So why go on all of these dates if you find them so tedious?” 

“It’s my mother,” Regulus explained. “She has this list.” 

“A list?” 

“Yes, a list of girls that I’m to court. Noble, pureblooded, proper ladies of society that my mother has deemed worthy of marriage.” 

“You’re seventeen years old. Shouldn’t you be worrying about quidditch games and potions exams?” 

Regulus nodded. “Yes, one would think. But my family has always been different. Since my brother left, my parents have been obsessed with grooming me into becoming the perfect heir.” 

“How do you feel about that?” 

He sighed. “Stifled. Exhausted. Smothered. I can feel the weight of their expectations weighing me down every second of every day.” 

“I’m sorry, Regulus. That’s a terrible burden to carry.” 

Regulus shrugged. “Others have it worse.” 

“It doesn’t mean that your problem is any less heavy.” 

To Regulus, the acknowledgement felt oddly validating. Even though you knew nothing of his circumstance, there was wisdom in your words and you delivered it delicately, like you actually cared to hear his troubles. You were devoid of the judgment he'd grown accustomed to and he found that rather freeing.

“It’s just…sometimes I think that I’ll never be the perfect son. My brother, he’s always been the brave one. Classic Gryffindor,” he said with an eye roll. You chuckled, but stayed silent. It was obvious that Regulus had a myriad of thoughts to unpack tonight and you were more than happy to just listen. “Sirius has never cared what anyone thought about him, least of all our parents. I admire that about him, but I just don’t think I’m wired that way. I care too much.” 

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” you said softly. “Apathy is so common nowadays, finding someone who can admit that they care is refreshing. Though, I think it’s not without limits. You can’t please everyone. No matter what you do, someone is going to have something to complain about. You might as well be yourself.” 

“That’s exactly the problem,” Regulus pondered. “All of these girls on my mother's list, I think they like the idea of Regulus Black, but he’s an illusion. It isn’t the real me.” 

“Then who is the real you?” 

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I’m just Reggie. I like playing quidditch and reading depressing literature and memorizing obscure history facts. I hate messy rooms and orange juice and anything that crawls.”  

You smiled. “And what kind of girl does Reggie like?” 

“Someone witty. Someone funny. Someone who’ll argue with me. Someone who doesn’t just nod and agree with everything I say."

"So what you're saying is that you don't want a nice girl?"

Regulus shook his head. "No, I think I need someone who challenges me. Who sees me for who I am rather than what I represent. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure the girls on my mother’s list are lovely, but I don’t think they’d actually like me if they knew who I really am.” 

“I don’t know, Reggie seems like a great guy. That Regulus bloke, on the other hand…” you scrunched your nose in disapproval. 

“Hey!” Regulus chided, “I’m pouring my heart out to you. That took a lot of courage, you know.” 

“You’re very brave, Reggie,” you said with a grin. “But you know what would be even braver?” 

Regulus squinted in the rain as you stood to your feet. Lightning crackled over the horizon, illuminating you with an ethereal silver glow. You held out your hand to him. “Come dance with me.” 

“Deathly afraid of being struck by lightning, remember?” 

“Sorry, what?” You asked as you shimmied around him. It wasn’t graceful by any means. It was the goofiest thing he’d ever seen and yet he’d never been so enthralled. You danced without a care in the world and it made him genuinely laugh. “I can’t hear you over all the fun I’m having.” 

"This is ridiculous," he said over the roaring thunder.

You shrugged. "Perhaps. But everyone's allowed to be a little ridiculous sometimes. Besides, I was asking Reggie not Regulus."

“Are you really trying to peer pressure me into dancing with you?” 

“That depends,” you replied with a cheeky smile. “Is it working?” 

Regulus conceded with a sigh and leapt to his feet. The youngest Black brother bowed like a proper gentleman. “May I have this dance, my lady?"

“You may, good sir.” 

You grinned up at him as he took you by the waist and waltzed with you across the sand. Surprisingly, Regulus let you take the lead. He chuckled when you stepped on his toes and laughed even harder when you tried to twirl him. Towering a good foot over you, Regulus had to fully crouch for the maneuver to work. 

Finally, you gave up the formality and just spun around in dizzying circles. There was absolutely no rhyme or rhythm to it. Just two idiots dancing in the rain with the biggest smiles on their faces. 

Your coordination, or lack thereof, caused you to almost faceplant into the sand. Regulus yelped as you took him down with you. By the time you recovered from the laughing fit, the two of you were red-faced, out of breath, and laying side by side along the shore. He turned over to you and brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

“That was the most fun I’ve had in years.” 

“See? There’s more to life than just being moody and melancholic.” 

“So this mystery girl of mine keeps reminding me,” Regulus said with a smile. “You never told me your name, by the way.” 

“Wow, you don’t even know my name? I’m offended, Reggie. We’ve only been in classes together since fifth year.” 

“I—we’ve never been introduced—” 

You broke out into a smile and giggled. You thought it was cute that Reggie was so easily flustered. “I’m just kidding, Reggie.” 

He sighed in relief as you stuck out your hand. “Y/N. My name is Y/N.” 

Regulus slipped his hand into yours. He cocked his head, studying your eyes and your smile and those cute little dimples. 

Y/N. The last name on his mother’s list. The one he saved for last because he didn’t know who she was. 

The French had a saying—le coup de foudre. The infamous phrase translated to a bolt of lightning or love at first sight. Regulus had long dismissed it as flowery prose, but thanks to his mystery girl, he started to think that maybe the Parisians were onto something because meeting you tonight felt preordained. A date with fate. Like a bolt of lightning streaking through his dark, endless skies.

“It’s nice to meet you, Y/N.” 

You grinned. “It’s nice to meet you, Reggie.” 

Regulus smiled and laced your fingers together. He was frozen, it was raining, and he was fairly certain that you were both probably going to catch a cold, but he didn’t care. In that moment, as he stared up at the sky, blinking back the rain, and intertwining his fingers with yours, Regulus had never felt more content. 

So no, Regulus did not believe in love at first sight, but love at second, third, and even fourth glance? He smiled a little as he gazed back at you, letting his gaze linger as he drank in that infectious laugh and sunny grin. 

You made him think that maybe, just maybe, a girl like you could convert a skeptic like him into a devout believer.

#fic recs #regulus black #hp #marauders

[a-asterias]

Anything

pairing: Fred Weasley x Prefect!Reader

summary: Fred would do anything to see you, 'Hogwart's strictest Prefect', loosen up.

genre: fluff 'n stuff, and only slight angst, also borderline slowburn

warnings: swearing, bullying moments, implied that reader is in Slytherin, lots of teasing, flirting, kissing, Fred is completely and utterly whipped for reader, "your highness" nickname

a/n: not me in the middle of writing a neville fic and then having a shower thought of a fred x reader and writing this instead.

words: 6.9k

masterlist

»»————-　⌁　————-««

You can hear them. And you know it's them, because of the sniggering and that laugh.

By now, when you patrolled outside of class hours you'd find yourself actively seeking out these boys. Today happens to be good day to continue your spotless Prefect record.

With a hand sliding to your hip, you smoothly round the corner of the door to your Potions classroom and as you suspected, Fred and George Weasley are there, huddled over a particular cauldron. Something's clearly already been brewed and Fred is holding a cork screwed flask with the mysterious liquid.

It takes a minute until Fred happens to glance toward the door and sees you there, nose in the air and hands now clasped in front of you. He's trying not to laugh when he sees you, and elbows his brother.

The said Weasley is about to say something, but as he meets your gaze his lips press together in a slightly curved line.

Successful in catching their attention, one eyebrow and then one corner of your lips gently raise. "We've really got to stop bumping into each other like this."

"I think you wanted to bump into us," Fred says with a prominent smile. He looks innocent, just like always.

You neither confirm nor deny his remark and instead stride closer to them. You take your time, head turning in each direction, eyes scanning for any other suspicious looking activity. It feels good, because you can feel their stares and how they wait with bated breaths for your next move.

With a last step you settle on the opposite side of their table. You look at Fred, head tilted softly, studying his expression.

His smile only grows when you reach his eyes and it's finally time to address the elephant in the room.

In a newly straightened posture you say in a slow and sarcastic tone, "did you know... that I can take away points from your House? From each of you, in fact?"

"Oh, come on. Our favourite Prefect. Can't you pretend you never saw us, like last time?" George answers.

"Sorry what was that? You'd like 30 points taken away?"

"Hey, hey, hey!" Fred waves with a chuckle, "let's not get hasty. What about... a-a compromise?"

George nods desperately.

Your eyebrow raises again, and you lean back, crossing your arms. "A compromise, instead of taking away your precious points?"

"Yes, we'll do anything."

"Anything?"

"Anything." Fred glides a tongue over his bottom lip, speaking to you through his eyes.

For once he looks completely serious and it makes you smile in delight. An expression seldom found in your features. It's completely magical and Fred finds no regret to bargaining with you.

"There is something you can do for me," your eyes glaze over Fred's face and then you turn to George, leaning forward over the table on your elbows. "The next Quidditch Game."

"Yeah? Slytherin v Gryffindor. Need us to bug someone?" George grins.

You shake your head and smile again. You're frighteningly beautiful with that curve on your face as you continue. "I need you to make sure that Slytherin wins."

"What?"

Fred captures your attention, so you lean in closer to his side of the desk. "It shouldn't be too hard for you both, right?"

He squints, unable to hold back a smile of his own. In the previous times when you had caught the twins in the middle of scheming, you'd never been so coy with them. Ruffling your feathers a bit was always the boys' goal when getting caught by you, however now that you seem to be playing along, Fred can't get enough. "That's hardly something to wish for, your highness. You can have anything from us, really anything. Don't hold back."

You shrug, "well, that's what I choose."

"But if you think about it you cou—"

"I can take the points off now, if you like? It's really no problem."

"Fine. W-We'll do it." George huffs, and his brother follows with a playful bow.

"Your wish is our command."

"Please just don't take the points off. We'll be kicked out of Gryffindor if you snitch again."

"Me? Snitch?" Your voice drips in sarcastic innocence, and you push yourself off of the desk. Your feet turn to walk back outside first, but your eyes remain on Fred until it's physically impossible to stay focused on him. As you saunter to the door, you feel their gazes on you again and it's oh so satisfying to know that you get the last say. "You need to get better at not getting caught. Because, if I didn't know any better, it looks more like you want me to bump into you."

You turn around to face them again, and stare at the flask in between Fred's long fingers. By some miracle you'd never found yourself to be the butt of their schemes, unlike the other prefects. Even as a chaser of the twins' opposition in Quidditch, you've been the only lucky soul on your team to come out the other end. The question was why? Why spare you?

"Who in Salazar's name threw that?" Your captain shrieks, massaging the back of his head, small flakes of snow dropping to the skin of his neck.

How bothersome, you think, looking around at the rest of your teammates who're busy cooling down after Quidditch training.

"What?! A snowball just happens to gain sentience and hit me, huh? An owl maybe? Just come forward, admit you did it and I'll go easy on you—"

The spray of snow flies off of the captain's head again and you dodge the icy substance in time, some of it landing on your beater and chaser teammate. Everyone exclaims except you, you're too busy scanning over the field.

Suddenly, the burly boy of a captain huffs toward you, and you take a shove to the shoulder.

Stumbling back by a metre, you frown. Increasingly annoyed by your captain's baseless judgements. "What the hell is wrong with you? How many times do I have to tell you I'm a prefect?"

"I know a guilty person when I see one."

You're about to give him a piece of your mind until the idiot is hit again and you stifle a laugh at the noise he makes.

"Clever," he says through gritted teeth. Despite clearly looking at you just seconds before the snowball made contact with his thick skull, his pride is still hell-bent on accusing you. "I knew you were good at school, but I didn't think you'd stoop so low to use non-verball spells for something so stupid."

"Well, I knew you were delusional before, but now it's perfectly clear that you just don't have a brain."

As though your words were a signal, a tsunami of white ice balls appear in the sky and you don't hold back your smile as it pauses over your team. They each look up, faces with panicked expressions, and before they can even begin to escape, the snow crashes down over your peers. Figuring, it's the perfect moment to leave, you zoom out of the field on your broom and land to your feet once you can't see those angry faces anymore.

And that's when you hear him. That laugh, and he's looking at you and combing a hand through his ginger hair, all whilst adorning a satisfied ear-to-ear grin.

"Thanks." Is all you can say at first, then you realise his partner-in-crime George isn't right by his side. "Where's your brother?"

"On the other end of the field."

You nod. When you don't say anything more and turn to leave, you feel long fingers wrap around your wrist. He's warm against your icy skin, and your eyes shoot up, only to be greeted by a soft smirk.

"You're not going to snitch on us are you, your highness?"

"Me? Snitch?" You stop yourself from feeling so giddy about the previous event and instead focus on the fact that would you be doing your prefectoral duties correctly, you would have absolutely told a Professor about the twins. But the adrenaline rush feels too great and so you finally shake your head at the tall ginger. "You were just... watching us practice, right? I don't see anything suspicious about that."

His smirk twists into a genuine smile, and he allows your wrist to slide out of his grasp. A twinkle of mischievousness reaches your eyes, and then you're off, jogging into the distance. A few metres in, you take a chance to glance back to where you left Fred. And you don't know whether it was from training or the adrenaline, but you feel your neck and cheeks flare with heat at the sight of him lean against the frame of the entrance, steadily watching you run.

Clearing your throat, you push your recollection of the past away and take out your wand.

“You know you’re not allowed to use spells outside of class, your highness,” says Fred, his voice playful.

“That’s okay,” you shrug, “because I know you won’t tell on me.”

“Are you quite sure about that?” George chimes.

You nod immediately, the easiest question to answer. “I’m your favourite prefect, am I not?”

Fred’s expression is unreadable to you at first as he shakes his head slowly. He looks shocked, but at the same time pleased and a hint of something else that you can’t quite grasp.

Figuring you’ve stared at him long enough you send the twins’ a wink and the door shuts with a swipe of your wand.

»»————-　⌁　————-««

Your robe is floating behind you, a spitting image of Professor Snape, as you walk with purpose to your class, books cradled in your arms and head held high. You round a corner of the halls smoothly and find yourself at your Potions classroom. It's been a week since finding the Weasleys in there, and you still haven't found out what concoction they had created.

In any case, your class has already begun, and Snape's voice is barely audible with the door in front of you. You let your fingers clench around your books for a moment, taking in a breath. Then you push your way in, and each one of your classmates turn their attention to you.

"How lovely of you to join us, Miss L/N."

Having already predicted the Professor's sarcasm-filled reaction to your tardiness, you hand out a small slip of paper. "A note from Professor McGonagall."

He barely skims over the words and indicates for you to find a seat. Fingers clenching around your books again, you let yourself look over your peers. There's a seat next to Ginger Jorkins from Hufflepuff, but after noticing your stare she's quick to put her belongings where you could have sat. You hold off from sighing, because to your relief there is one more free seat, all the way at the back of the room. Right beside the vacant spot is a familiar head of red hair, and the pain from your tight grip subsides upon seeing him. That sigh you've been holding lets free once you sit down and the class continues.

"Welcome to the back of the class," Fred whispers with his signature grin. "You're with the cool kids now."

"Speaking of..." You glance behind him and frown. "Where's your brother?"

He makes a face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." And then it hits you. The Slytherin versus Gryffindor Quidditch Game. The compromise. The "make-sure-that-Slytherin-wins" game. The "George-has-been-completely-annihilated-by-a-bludger" and "won't-be-walking-around-anytime-soon" game.

"Oh... right."

Fred simply nods, finding the way you froze for a moment to be equally funny and endearing. The rest of your face doesn't show it, but he notices the panic in your pretty eyes and gives your arm a little nudge. "Hey. The git's okay. Says it was worth the pain because the girl he fancies paid him a visit."

You bite your lip and let yourself focus on Snape, who's mouth is moving, but you can't hear anything coming out. "It's still technically my fault. He looked awful."

Fred leans forward, his head turning to rest against his crossed arms. He studies your features as you attempt to listen into the class. When he speaks, his voice is a whisper again. "Come to Hogsmeade with me."

You give him a side glance. No one's ever invited you to come before and for all you know he could be making fun of you. It'd been hard in the beginning, though you eventually found comfort being in your own presence; drinking butterbeer while other people joked and laughed and shared stories and the gossip of the week. And talked about how they received a pointless detention after being told off from that know-it-all bitch.

"I-I don't..." You stumble upon your words, the crease between your brows growing deeper as you try to recollect your thoughts.

"Yeah, you're coming," he declares. And when you go to protest, he sits back up, sending you a wink.

"AND so..." Snape glares in your direction, "by the end of this class, I will be testing the quality of your potions by using a simple leaf. If it melts you've brewed successfully, and if not... you'll be in here on the weekend till you get it right."

To your surprise, Fred doesn't make a fuss, instead he beams at you with a clap of his hands. "Let's get started then, shall we Professor?"

The said man only grunts in response, so you all begin.

Forty minutes passes by in an instant, and no matter how well you follow the recipe, the liquid in your cauldron doesn't look like a liquid anymore and it smells differently to Fred's.

Wait. Fred's?

You frown down into his cauldron. His potion's immaculate.

You pull at the sleeve of his robe till his head comes down and his long hair tickles the tip of your nose. "How are you doing this?"

"I'm smart when I want to be," he chuckles.

"That's not an answer. I demand you give me an answer, or... I will take off points from Gryffindor."

He feigns an expression of shock which immediately gives way to a smirk, face just a few inches away from yours. "And what if I do tell you? You promise not to snitch?"

"Me? Snitch?"

That mischievousness is back into your dolomitic eyes, and Fred swears that the potion isn't required to melt the leaf.

"How about a compromise?" you whisper.

He shoots a glance toward the Professor and then hums when he feels it's all clear to keep talking. "I'm listening."

"I come with you to Hogsmeade, and I promise to do whatever you want to do. Deal?"

He doesn't need a moment, or even a second to reply. He's already nodding, slipping a hand into yours. "Deal."

You share a knowing look and shake your intwined hands. Compromise confirmed. "Now—"

Before you get to finish, he pulls out a very familiar cork-screwed flask, and in perfect fashion you keep from gasping or reacting at all, but Fred can see it in your eyes. He scans over the classroom, Snape's busy writing something on the board, and so he's clear to lower his head to you.

Your fingers graze as he passes you the concoction he had made with his brother. Electricity runs through the veins of your fingers till it hits your heart, skipping a beat.

"Someone might've tipped us off about this assignment," Fred murmurs. "So, naturally, we just wanted to be prepared. There was no way we were going to miss out on a Hogsmeade visit."

Not with George in the Hospital Wing, you think to yourself with guilt, pulling your robe sleeve down to hide the flask should your Professor stop by.

"Well... my beloved brother sadly will. I'll never forget his bravery." Fred makes a show out of a simple sigh and you feel like slapping his arm. He places his hand over his chest and sighs again, only it's a little louder this time and longer. "A girl we know threatened us to rig the Quidditch game so that Slytherin would win, if we didn't do as she asked she would've gotten us into trouble—"

"Fred." Images of the poor Weasley twin with a whole half of his body covered in the sickening colour of a bruise flood your brain.

"—and being the good man that he is, Georgie sacrificed himself, in order to satisfy the needs of this girl."

"Oi! I already feel horrible, okay?" You finally give his arm that well-earned smack, and when all he does is laugh, you huff with a pout.

He recollects himself, and makes sure Snape's still preoccupied. He bends down to your level again, and his breath fans over the strands of hair by your ear. "I would do the same for this girl."

There's that heat in your neck again and yet another electric feeling runs up your spine at his worlds. You don't meet his gaze and instead stare forward. To save yourself from embarrassment, you lift your chin and with one swift movement, the liquid from the flask falls into your cauldron.

Fred watches in delight as you stir until your previously horrible creation morphs and dissolves into that flawless fluid that you had just seen in the Weasley's cauldron. From such a result, you're unable to stop yourself as your lips curl into a smile, parting slowly to reveal your teeth.

You are the embodiment of this potion. Any person or creature of the magical world would completely disarm at the sight of your expression. And Fred's lucky enough to be your first victim.

"You seem very pleased, Miss L/N."

The black figure of Snape shadows yours and Fred's vision as he glides in front of your desk. He peers into your cauldron, nothing shows on his face and then he's examining Fred's, the same reaction of nothing.

The man then clicks his tongue and floats back to the front of the classroom, picking two leaves off of the plant on his desk. He returns swiftly, gesturing the rest of the class to join him by your table.

"Look closely." Snape says as his hand hovers over your creation, and then his fingers let go of the green object.

Hushed breaths watch as it hits the surface of the liquid with a ripple. There's no reaction at first and it fills you with dread. You even see Fred stiffen in the corner of your sight.

Then the leaf twitches with a change in colour, and soon it's no where to be seen, dissolved. Successful.

Someone mutters a 'wow', others share glances of contempt or roll their eyes. You on the other hand feel relieved and lean onto your hip, arm brushing against the tall boy beside you. He relaxes at your gentle touch.

"It seems you will have the fortune of freedom this weekend." Professor Snape mutters, and then with no time to waste, moves on to Fred. You barely have a chance to thank the man. His hand hovers, fingers open and a new leaf falls.

In a blink, the leaf has melted and you feel the Weasley straighten up in pride.

Snape however, isn't convinced and folds his arms. "How convenient that you should produce a successful potion - out of many failures - when seated beside Miss L/N."

Innocent until proven guilty, you think and look up at Fred, who's only smiling like a fool, his focused trained on Snape's. Your classmates murmur, and it isn't hard to place who they're talking about with their not-so subtle glares pointed in your direction.

"So I did a good job?" The boy's happy expression grows with innocence.

"Somehow. Five points... to each of you." The raven-haired man admits, his gaze lingers on the Weasley before he turns away, addressing you both and the rest of the class. "L/N and Weasley, seeing as you have completed the task, you may be dismissed. However, by next class I expect a 2,000 word written report of your method and findings. That'll be all. The rest of you... you have fifteen minutes."

Groans and curses hidden under breaths echo through the room, you and Fred, however, turn to each other with eyebrows raised and stupid grins plastered over your faces.

Adrenaline kicks in, and you both scramble to clear up the desk and snatch up your belongings. You sprint out the door not after sending the Professor a 'thank you', and then you're out the door and sprinting into the courtyard, crisp winter air nipping at your extremities.

You pause by the fountain, leaning against the tall structure and Fred follows suit, situating himself in front of you. "I can't believe I did that," you say in a breathless tone still grinning, books hugging into your chest.

He chuckles in between his own pants of breath. "Feels good doesn't it, your highness?"

"I hate to admit but... yes."

You watch as his gaze on you softens, as well as his grin subduing into contentment. "You make a good partner-in-crime. I think I might just replace George."

"Then he will surely kill me once he's recovered! That is... if he doesn't already."

Fred winks, "I'll make sure that won't happen. A princess such as yourself deserves a knight-in-shining armour."

"Oh yes." You give a curtsy and wave of your hand, your voice forming a posh accent. Well, no more posh than you already sound. "Then will you do the honour of escorting me to Hogsmeade tomorrow?"

With a fist to his chest, Fred bows. "For you, my dear, anything."

»»————-　⌁　————-««

It's irregular of you to be so fashionably late. Last night you'd found yourself restless, thoughts of sleep hidden behind scenes of you and Fred eating candy together, laughing, using magic outside of class to throw snowballs at your Quidditch Captain. Despite the chill of a winter night, being covered by your duvet and blankets was suffocatingly warm, especially when you kept seeing Fred pull you behind a tree, gloved hands drawing you into him by your hips, noses barely touching and lips parted with warm butterbeered breaths.

Your chocolate-brown screech owl whinnies by the foot of your bed and you flinch, adjusting your beanie for the hundredth time. "What do you think, Prim? Do I look tired? I look tired, don't I?"

The owl blinks and gives another whinny, a sound similar to that of a miniature pony. You check the clock on the wall of your dormitory and bite your lip, jostling through your belongings and retrieving a small purse of galleons to shove into your coat pocket.

One more look in the mirror, just one more. Your hair looks surprising lovely, strands of it squished against your thick scarf, and fortunately covering areas of your blemished face that couldn't be covered enough by your concealer. "It'll have to do!"

Prim purrs when you stroke her head and then you're off. You almost trip at the bottom of the stairs and as a result you pause, taking in a breath, calming the pounding in your chest. This Hogsmeade visit is just like any other. Just like any other. You’re just… not alone this time. That’s enough to get you smiling, as you saunter through the halls and finally out the gates, where you see a few groups of students still hanging around Hogwarts.

At the top of the steps you crane your neck in an attempts to find Fred amongst the small groups.

“I was beginning to think you stood me up.”

You spin on your heels at the sound of his voice, and are greeted with a growing grin. Teeth sparkling and everything. It takes a toll on you not to tackle him in a hug right then and there. The thick hoody he’s adorning, as well as the adorable beanie all look extra cuddly. Those gloved hands that you’ve been thinking about slide out of the pockets of his jeans and reach for your scarf, gently tightening the fabric around your face and neck.

On the outside you seem unbothered by his action, but he already sees what you’re really feeling through those dolomitic eyes of yours. “A deal’s a deal,” you finally say. “But it was rude of me to keep you waiting so long, so I’ll buy you a butterbeer.”

He shakes his head, fiddling with the hem of the scarf. “You turning up is enough for me.”

You shake your head back, dipping your chin into the material to hide your smile. “I’m buying you one. Argument over.”

“Alright then.” He chuckles and gives your scarf a gentle tug. “No more time to waste, your highness, let’s go.”

“Lead the way, Sir Weasley.”

You’re perfectly giddy as you trudge your way to the little village. Fred tells you about his plans for Christmas and you tell him yours, not very big and not very exciting, but he adores listening to you speak. He tells you about George and his recovery, and teases you when he sees guilt written over your face. Then despite your many differences, you both bond over your love for Quidditch, especially the Irish team. Occasionally, your shoulders and arms graze, and other times your fingers, as you stomp through the snow covered grounds. With every touch your chest grows warm, and your belly flips. You almost forget that you should be looking out for any bad behaviour. You almost forget that you still have a duty to uphold to the school.

Hogsmeade is bustling with life when you finally arrive. More so now that you could share it with someone.

“Come on, let’s warm up first.” Fred tugs your scarf again and successfully gains your full attention. He pulls you into the Three Broomsticks, greeted immediately by a wave of warmth. He’s still pulling on your scarf so you swiftly ask for two hot butterbeers and allow him to lead you to a table at the far end of the room.

“Am I your pet? Leading me around like that.” You sit down opposite him, motioning to his hand still holding onto the end of the long material.

He hums for a moment, and doesn't look to have any intention of letting go. “More like restraining you from going into ‘prefect’ mode.”

"Hey! Some people need disciplining," you pout.

"You sound like a Professor..." he narrows his eyes at you, lacking the skills to stop smiling so big. "You're not Professor Snape using Polyjuice potion, are you? Trying to figure out my secrets for passing your class, huh?"

Slowly, meticulously you straighten your back and fold your hands over the table, and void any emotion on your face. Your voice is low and slow and articulating every syllable as you speak. "What a ri-di-cu-lous suggestion. However... while we are on the topic, you didn't... copy off me, did you?"

Fred is so bad at suppressing his smirk. "Bloody Norah, you found me out! You're so smart, Profess— I mean... your highness."

The clink of glass hitting your table interrupts yours and Fred's thoughts. Madam Rosmerta's standing over you and when you meet her gaze she winks. "Good to see you with company this time around, Y/N."

Your face squishes into the fabric that Fred's still holding onto as you feel heat rise in your cheeks. Desperate to eliminate the fact that she basically just called you a loner in front of him, you fish into your pocket and pull out some coins, placing them onto the woman's open palm. "Thank you, Madam Rosmerta."

"Pleasure, dears. Enjoy.” Another wink is sent your way and she’s off to tend the rest of her pub.

As you bring the hot beverage to your mouth, you peek through your eyelashes. Fred has removed one glove and is now using that bare hand hold onto his drink, allowing the warmth to transfer into his already warm skin.

"Thank you," he says.

Your brows press together, "what for?"

"For paying."

"Well... thank you too."

He raises an eyebrow as he takes a good sip of the butterbeer, waiting for you to elaborate.

"For inviting me," you say shyly, fingers sliding across the surface of the mug.

"Awh, that's nothing," he chuckles, gently swaying your scarf.

"It's not 'nothing'. I didn't get a wink of sleep last night because I was so excited to come with you."

The ginger-haired boy presses his lips together tightly and then leans his face closer to you. "Wait, really?!"

How many times has it been now that you've felt your face heat up around Fred? You could play so coy and confident before, but now you felt like any other girl-with-a-crush in your year. "As a matter of fact, yes." You raise your chin and attempt to sit up straighter. "I know it may seem that I only agreed to come because of a compromise, but... I really did — do — appreciate you considering me."

"I don't think we'll need to stop by Honeydukes, your highness. You're so sweet, that my teeth already ache."

"You're so...!" You smack his arm.

But he's grinning like a fool, pulling at your scarf. "I'm so what?"

"I'm gonna take points off Gryffindor, just because you asked."

He guffaws, "what is this abuse of power?"

You take a swig of butterbeer and shrug, head high and smirk on display. "I like to call them perks."

"See?" You feel on your neck as he gives a tug-tug. "This is why you need to be kept on a lead."

Before you can retort, you notice he's pointing at his upper-lip and quietly chuckling. It sets off your heart.

"Brilliant moustache you got there," he says.

"Oh... thank you." How embarrassing. You really thought he was suggesting something else for a moment there. You glance around the room to make sure no one's watching before you slide a tongue over the sweet foam above your lip. "Is it gone?"

"Just..." at first there's a second of hesitation, but then he pulls you in over the table and meets you half-way, un-gloved hand coming up to cup your face. Why is he always so warm? Why is it that one of the most notorious rule-breakers of the school is taking your fancy? And so easily at that.

It feels like an hour passes when his thumb smooths over the left corner of your mouth and you hold in a breath, fingers clenched around your mug. You simply cannot help the urge to look at his own lips; pretty, pink and gently parted, calm breaths passing through.

His movements pause all of a sudden, so you glance at his eyes, but he's already looking at you. Completely under your spell, completely forgetting how to move, and completely forgetting that you're in public. You seem to have forgotten the same, still not pulling away from his touch. He catches your eyes dip to his lips again and he swallows thickly.

Then he's moving away and sitting back down, clearing his throat. "There, now you're good."

"Thanks," you wipe a finger over for extra measure and then look out the window, clearing your throat and straightening your back.

"You know how you mentioned that part of the deal was that we'd do anything I want to do?" He inquires, finishing his drink with a last swig.

"Yeah. A deal is a deal," you answer, finally turning back to him, surprised to see a confident smile carved into his features.

"Perfect. There's something I want to show you, but first I have a really good idea to help you unwind and forget about your prefect-ness."

"That doesn't sound good," you tease, chugging the last bit of your own butterbeer.

He's smirking now, "you won't be saying that when you see what we'll be doing."

»»————-　⌁　————-««

You're both crouched behind a boulder that oversees the Shrieking Shack in the distance. The perfect spot to spy on anyone who visits the lookout point. The perfect spot to snog outside of school walls. And it also happens to be the perfect spot to stock up on snowballs and wait for one particular person to fall into your trap.

"I hate to admit, but you were right, Sir Weasley. Again," you mutter, rubbing your gloved hands together.

"The more you hang out with me, the more you'll find out just how right I always am." He peeks over the boulder for a moment and then his hand shoots up in alarm, speaking in barely a whisper, "he's here."

He is. You can hear your Quidditch captain now and a few of his buddies, chatting and laughing. Someone puts on a voice, and it makes the group howl, but makes your stomach churn. The closer they get to the lookout, the clearer their words sound and the more you're looking forward to breaking the rules.

"—thinks she's all that, just 'cause she's a prefect. Like, bitch, I'm older than you!"

Their laughter is equal to that of nails on a chalkboard. Pelting them with some snowballs might not be fulfilling enough.

"Nah, it's 'cause she's got Snape behind her, hah. Thinks she can say and do whatever she wants."

Fred is hearing all of this. You feel like screaming, and perhaps hexing the hell out of all of them. They need a proper disciplining.

"Yeah, that's probably what's happening!" The group laugh again, and the next thing they say is the last straw. "She only got prefect because she's fucking him."

The bottom of your vision is blurry, but you tell Fred you're ready and he only nods. You both raise your wands, and he counts to three.

One snowball hits the back of the captain's head and to your satisfaction he lands on his face. You and Fred are enjoying the scene a little too much that it isn't until one of the idiots shout your name, do you realise you've blown your cover.

"Shoot!"

"Quick! We need to unleash all we've got!" Fred takes your free hand and guides you up to stand beside him. "One, two, THREE!"

Adrenaline shoots through your veins, as together you swish your wands and the rest of your snow pile is sent into the air. One more flick of the wands, and the balls fly with the speed of a snitch. Straight toward their faces. Exclamations, grunts, yells echo through the woods and open winter air. They swipe at their faces and eyes, blinded by your attack. The captain's still trying to recover from the first hit, from head to toe the entire front half of him is covered in white.

You let out a laugh, and suddenly Fred takes your hand again and you're sprinting away from the crime scene.

"HEY!" The Quidditch captain shouts after you, pure rage in his tone.

But you couldn't care less, because that grin on the Weasley's face is too contagious as you run by him, gloved hand in gloved hand.

He peeks over his shoulder to meet your gaze, only resulting in a skip of his heart and a flip of his stomach. Losing that Quidditch match was absolutely worth it, and Fred had to remind himself to thank George later for taking the blow.

You share breathless laughter as the shouts increase in amount, but decrease in volume. You're both much too fast for them and manage to get back to the village where you could hide within the crowds.

Your feet slow to a walk, and you both check if any of the idiots followed. Fred spots two pass by a tree and squeezes your hand to gain your attention.

"In here," he jerks his head, and pulls you into a small alley between two buildings.

Finally having a moment to catch your breath, you realise that it isn't really an alley, and more like a small gap. The space is so narrow in fact that your body is essentially pressed up against his. Back against wall. Heaving chest against heaving chest. Feet and legs side-by-side each other as though woven.

You don't care to look to your left where those jerks could be looking for you. You simply can't. You can't because all you can see are Fred's parted lips again, and he's looking down at yours. After which, your gazes meet and you don't think you've ever felt so hot in the middle of winter before.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes. No grin, no smirk, no teasing, just facts.

"And you're..." Your eyes dip again.

His hand slides out of yours, and then you feel weight by your hips and he's squeezing against the material of your pants and sweater.

You crane your neck, and he dips his head, as those gloved hands of his pull you into him.

Your own hunger has your fingers smooth over his chest and grip the collar of his hoody, desperately tugging for him to come closer and closer, tension in the air building with each breath.

"And I'm... what?" He purrs.

Something stirs in the bottom of your abdomen as the scent of butterbeer fills your senses, just millimetres away now. And then he captures your lips. And it's like heaven, because his hands can't help but slide up under your sweater and hold you by the skin of your waist.

At first the kiss is gentle, hesitant, but then you open your mouth a little wider and Fred takes this as a clear invitation. He smooths a tongue over yours, the taste of the sweet foamy drink still lingering on your lips.

His bold action elicits a hum from you, and his grip only tightens, craving more and more of you and your pretty sounds. You go until you can't breathe, mouths parting reluctantly but eyes still closed.

Fred presses his forehead against yours, your noses brushing in a feather-like touch. His thumbs caress your sides as he whispers, "you never answered my question."

"You wanna know what you are, right?” You murmur, hands sliding down over his collarbone and resting on his chest.

“Yeah. You’ve said it twice now and never finished your sentence.”

“Okay,” you lean in, lips feathering over his. “You’re…”

Good Godric you’re addicting. He pushes his head forward to meet you, but you pull back with the most attractive breathy laugh he's ever heard. Your lips stay brushing against his, but you won't give him any more than that and he loves it.

"You're..." you say again on his mouth, and he hangs on every single one of your words. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me at Hogwarts."

He watches your eyes for a moment, and leans into you once more, hands climbing up to lay flat against your back, your sweater pooling by his wrists. And you share the softest kiss ever, full of adoration, full of care, full of absolute affection.

"You saying that, you being here right now... feels like I've just won the Quidditch cup," he says when you part.

"I really mean it, Fred." You wrap your arms around his middle and squeeze him there, cheek squishing into his chest. "You've heard how people talk about me, but you don't seem to care about any of that stuff."

He returns your gesture, his own cheek landing on the top of your head. "You're right. I don't care about it, because I've seen how much you care for the school and care for keeping things in order. A little too much, but to each their own."

"Oi."

"I have to tease, I have to. Still, joking aside, if anyone says that kind of shit about you and you hear about it, find me and tell me. Me and Georgie have your back."

"Just don't get caught," you smirk.

"You won't take points away if you catch us, will you?"

You pull away from the cuddle and send him that beautifully, intimidating smile of yours. "Not if you promise to keep losing your Quidditch games."

"Low blow, your highness!" He laughs and then you're running away, giggling like a fool.

You manage to slip through the crowds and head toward the woods by the Shrieking Shack lookout, your giggles only getting louder and more frequent when you see Fred bounding closer and closer to you. Your cadence slows when the ground starts to feel icy under your boots, and sooner than you think, you feel arms wrap around your stomach and you squeal.

Fred's laugh vibrates against your back, and after a few pants of breath he speaks into your ear. "There's still something I wanted to show you."

"Oh?" You spin around in his hold. "That's right. What is it then?"

"Surprise. Follow me." He's hasty in his movements, as he takes your hand, running further into the woods. Then he rounds the corner of a large tree trunk, his fingers slip out of yours as he twists around to face you and then he's pulling you by your hips, grin on display.

Your heart flips when your back meets with the rough surface of the tree, bodies pressing into one another and then his mouth is hovering over yours. There's hunger in his eyes, yet he's waiting for your next move.

"Wow. 'I have something to show you'. That was so corny," you tease in a whisper.

He chuckles, feeling your lips just barely touch his, "but you loved it."

"I did. You're right again, Sir Weasley."

"Always am, your highness."

He squeezes your hips. You lift your chin and you kiss for a third time that day.

#fic recs #fred weasley #hp

[a-asterias]

daylight

luke castellan x daughter of ares reader

3.8k you and luke castellan via percy jackson

tags. the tangledinlove special (jealousy trope, best friends in love, denial of feelings etc.) and title from the tswift song

a/n. i havent written in sooo long please don’t make fun… also i kiss canon and characterization goodbye because i have not read the books since i was 7 years old

i. back and forth from new york (sneaking in your bed)

Percy Jackson has become a light sleeper.

He didn’t think it was even possible to be yanked from sleep so harshly, but finds himself jolting awake whenever the kid nexts to him so much as turns over in his sleep.

He chalks the nerves up to his new… situation. If finding out your father is Poseidon and watching your mother turn into dust Avengers: Infinity War style could be called that.

This is also the first time he’s slept around so many people, so he thinks he’s just on edge. It’s not like he was ever close enough with anyone to warrant a sleepover before.

He shuts his eyes, willing himself to go back to sleep.

Until he can’t.

There’s tossing and turning from across the room, and then a muffled noise.

Someone’s sleep talking.

Percy groans in frustration before realizing he’s being too loud. Thankfully, the kid next to him seems to be desensitized to random nighttime grumblings. Which is understandable, seeing as there’s an entire classroom of other children around them.

Percy takes his pillow that’s barely thicker than his forearm and clamps it firmly over his ears. He counts sheep. He imagines them jumping over fences when that doesn’t work. And then he imagines them as Chiron when that doesn’t work either.

The grumbling doesn’t stop. But as Percy peels the pillow from his ears, he realizes that the measly fabric was able to muffle something.

The crying.

Percy squints across the room, his eyes well adjusted to the darkness by now. He can see the Thrasher now, tossing in their sheets as quiet sobs leave their mouth.

Heard what happened to you on the hill. And I just…

He can make out a dark mop of hair.

Wanted to say I’m really sorry.

Tall limbs and a red cotton shirt.

I know what you’re going through, believe me. I’m—

Luke.

That’s Luke’s bed, Percy realizes. The heroic and brave and wise boy who introduced him to camp is crying thirty feet away from him, and he has no idea what to do.

A twig snaps from outside, and Percy jolts upright. Ah, of course, how could he have forgotten about the second reason he’s feeling so twitchy? Apparently all of those mythological monsters he’d learned about are real, too. Because someone out there is plotting against him.

The memory of rain soaked clothes and the feeling of a sharp horn under his hands has Percy fumbling for his pocket, sweaty fingers closing around Riptide.

Should he wake Luke? Surely he would know what to do. But the idea sounded ridiculous. The camp was safe, it had to be. Grover had said it himself. It wasn’t possible for anything to get past that old tree on the hill.

But rational thinking was beginning to look less rational since he was alone with whatever creature was outside. Something was definitely on the other side of the wooden walls, and it was just Percy and his stupid pen against whatever monster is making its way nearer.

Whatever it is is nearly silent, making its way around with soft footfalls and quiet steps. But the wood of the patio outside creaks under their weight, and Percy thumbs the cap of his pen nervously.

The doorknob twitches, and a cold chill goes down Percy’s spine when he realizes that the door isn’t locked. The door creaks open without protest.

It’s a person.

Much less scary than previously anticipated, but a potential threat nonetheless. Percy watches in awe as the hooded figure carefully steps over the floorboard that he nearly tripped over about thirty times already, dodging limbs hanging out of beds and sleeping bags. A perfectly trained ninja in the night.

Percy pushes himself up using a forearm, concealing Riptide in his sleeve.

“Who are you?” he croaks, voice choppy from disuse. “I have a weapon, so don’t try anything.”

He winces at the way it's much less intimidating than he hoped.

The figure whips around, their hood slipping down to reveal their features. Moonlight streaming in through a window illuminates your face.

Oh. It’s you.

Luke had introduced you to him earlier in the day, and he can’t remember much about you. But he remembers the easy way Luke had been around you, a closeness that Percy hadn’t seen before.

—

You were lingering around the forge, and had gotten a front row seat to Percy nearly setting someone on fire.

“Luke, why are you giving hot tools to twelve year olds?” you’d asked as Percy shed his goggles and gloves frustratedly.

The two boys turned around to find you standing right behind them.

Percy flinched away, and Luke laughed at the face he was making. “Percy, this is—”

“Luke’s best friend,” you had proclaimed, slotting yourself against his side. Percy was on the fence with what he thought about Ares kids, but the difference between you and Clarisse could not be more clear. You were all smiles as you reached down to ruffle Percy’s hair. “Don’t tell Chris, or he’ll get a little angry.”

“Sure, killer,” Luke had said, a smile lighting up his face. He turned away from Percy to face you completely, both of his hands coming to rest on your sides. “I’ll see you at lunch?”

You saluted him seriously, but the way your other hand curled around his arm was awfully casual. “Absolutely, sir.”

He squeezed you once, sending you leaning away from his grasp. Percy felt like he was intruding on something as he watched the two of you playfully fight in front of him.

With a pointed look, Percy’d said, “Uhh. Alright. Nice to meet you?”

You at least had the shame to look a little embarrassed as you released Luke from the headlock you’d put him in. “It was nice to meet you too, Percy.” You took extra care to whack the back of Luke’s head as you left. “I’ll leave you to it!”

Luke watched you leave, a fond smile on his face as he tried to straighten out his hair. “Sorry, where were we?”

—

“What are you doing up?” you ask from across the room, keeping your voice as quiet as possible. Red Converse hit the floor softly as you make yourself comfortable in a cabin that’s definitely not yours. “It’s late. Go to sleep.”

“I thought curfew was strictly enforced here.”

“It is,” you yank your tattered hoodie over your head, dropping it onto the foot of Luke’s bed. “So keep it down before you wake up Katie. She’s snitched on me twice already.”

Percy huffs. “I’m not even—”

“S-Sorry.”

You and Percy go silent.

“It won’t… I won’t—”

“Luke,” Percy thinks he hears you say. You crouch at his side, sweeping his hair away from his face. Without even a grimace, or a sign of disgust, you wipe what must be his sweat off on your flannel pajama pants. Your voice is softened with affection. “It’s just a nightmare.”

“I won’t fail again,” he hiccups instead.

Your shoulders sag. With practiced hands, you shift the boy over and settle onto the empty part of the mattress with him.

Percy knows he’s being nosy, but curiosity keeps his eyes glued to your movements. You seem to know exactly what to do, digging through a bag at your feet and pulling out a cool water bottle. Your hands go to Luke’s shoulders as you gently coax him upwards, placing the water in his grip.

Luke’s eyes are still shut when he says, “Hey, killer.”

“Hi, hero.”

“What’re you doin’ here?”

When you don’t answer, Luke tips his head back to drink before tossing the bottle somewhere on the floor. He shifts over, giving you more room to lay down. Percy freezes when you meet his gaze head on through the darkness.

“Go to sleep,” you whisper, and Percy knows you’re not just talking to Luke.

You disappear into the mattress as Luke pulls you into a hug. Percy hears quiet rumbling as you whisper something to him, and he can’t tell which one of you pulls his head into the crook of your neck.

Luke sleeps silently for the rest of the night.

ii. now that i thought of you (things will never be the same)

Capture the Flag scares Percy to no end.

A chill goes down his spine as the other team lets out their battle cries, and he begins to doubt what Chiron said about no maiming being allowed. Some of those kids look like they’re out for blood.

The nerves only get worse as Annabeth drags him off to someplace in the woods and promptly leaves him to his own devices. No plan, no help, no sense of direction. He’s honestly expecting a bear to come out of the woods and maul him half to death, but after what feels like an hour of silence, he lounges back on a bit of rocks and watches the clouds.

“Hey, Goldilocks.”

Fear launches Percy to his feet as he takes in his surroundings. Riptide slips out of his hands and clatters onto his shield, spinning around the curved piece of metal like a Beyblade.

It’s you. Again.

“Relax,” you say quickly, raising your hands to show him you mean no harm. Your sword is tucked away and you have a slight smile on your face. “I was just going to ask you what you’re doing all alone out here. Our flag’s in the other direction, if you didn’t know.”

“I know,” Percy huffs, picking up his own weapon. He rights his armor as he looks at you suspiciously. “This girl Annabeth dragged me out here.”

“Annabeth,” you say amusedly. You glance around the two of you like she’s going to jump out of a bush.

“She’s long gone. She dragged me out here just to ditch me,” he says bitterly. “You know her?”

You have a weird smile on your face. “She’s like my little sister.”

Luke had said the same thing to him, out by the archery fields yesterday. “So you and Luke, you’re like, siblings too, then?”

“Gods, no!” you protest, your face scrunching together in disgust. “He’s just… He’s like…”

Percy watches you fumble for your words, his brow raised. You seemed pretty disgusted at his suggestion.

“He’s just Luke,” you decide on, and Percy nods, even though he doesn’t really understand. For a brief second, you look horrified again. “Did he… Say that we’re like siblings?”

“No,” he says, and watches as you smile slowly, satisfied.

Ohh, Percy wants to say. It’s like that. But he knows that you could probably tear his head off if you wanted to, so he bites his tongue.

“How long have you guys known each other?” he asks instead.

Your smile grows fond as you think about him. “Our entire lives. We were friends before either of us even knew about all of this.” You gesture to the two of you and then to the woods around you.

“That’s a long time.”

“Yeah. I couldn’t imagine this place without him,” you say thoughtfully, your gaze growing far away. “Hermes is lucky to have a son like him. He’s great.”

You talk about him so kindly. For a second, he can see his Mom in your eyes, and the adoring way she would speak about his dad on the rare occasions she would bring him up. And Percy knows it’s not nice to assume, but… He’s assuming.

Percy doesn’t phrase it like a question when he says, “You like Luke.”

A twig snaps somewhere nearby.

You’re silent for a second. “I — What do you mean?”

Percy doubles down. “You have a crush on him.”

“Alright, Goldilocks,” you say, amused. “I don’t like Luke.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t!” you insist, looking awfully embarrassed for someone who ‘definitely doesn’t like Luke.’ “And even if I did, he would never like me back, so…”

You turn to face the woods, and Percy has no doubt that your face is on fire.

“I thought you guys liked each other.”

“Percy, stop talking.”

“Like when you snuck into the cabin, I thought—”

“Percy,” you snap, your voice low.

“—you were dating. Like Jim and Pam. Or like Rory and Dean.”

You whirl back around, curious. “You’ve seen Gilmore Girls?”

He realizes what he said too late. “My mom made me watch it.”

Your smile disappears under your helmet as you slip it back on. “Good for her. And I’m sorry to leave you here, but I have to go.”

He frowns. “What? Why?” Percy almost doesn’t want you to leave. You’re the first person he’s seen in an hour, and your company isn’t that bad.

“My sister is about fifty feet away, and I’m supposed to be defending my flag that’s halfway across the woods.”

Percy perks up at this. “Annabeth’s back?”

Finally. He isn’t sure what she’d wanted him to do, because he definitely hasn’t done it.

You shove his shield into his hands as you brush past him. “No. Clarisse is.”

The words take a second to register, but once they do, Percy whips around in your direction. He finds nothing but the rustle of the leaves as you make your quick exit.

“Percy Jackson!” a voice booms from the direction of the woods.

He’s screwed.

iii. i once believed love would be (burnin’ red)

Their team won Capture the Flag.

Percy hadn’t done much, other than get claimed by Poseidon and be used as Clarisse bait. Nonetheless, he was enjoying the celebration feast.

Everyone was in high spirits — especially Chris, who had helped lead the team to victory while Percy was being pummeled by three angry Ares kids.

(Yeah, he was trying to not be too bitter about that.)

A group of campers were cheering on Annabeth for her plan that lead them to the big win. (Definitely not still bitter.) The comradery amongst their team was high, and even those that lost didn’t seem too angry about it.

Except for Clarisse and her cronies, of course. They were sitting in a corner, sending him furious looks every once in a while.

Percy made a mental note to ask someone about putting a deadbolt on his cabin door.

The other Ares kids didn’t seem to mind though, wearing any new battle wounds with pride. Percy could see you across the dining pavilion, talking with one of the boys from another cabin.

Luke did not look too happy about that.

Percy had thought he would be soaking up every glorious moment of the dinner, as he was the one who secured the flag for their team. But he had done nothing much other than sulk and push his food around with his fork.

“Who’s that?” Percy asks, once he notices where his angry glare is directed.

Luke is distracted when he responds. “Oh, uh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “That’s Max. Cabin 9. Hephaestus kid.”

Chris laughs as he takes his seat next to Luke, finally hungry after all of his celebrating. “He’s been trying to ask her out for a while now.”

“And he needs to take a hint.” Luke scoffs. “She clearly doesn’t like him.”

The two of you are sharing an orange. Max breaks off pieces for you to have, and Percy watches as you laugh at something he says, covering your smile with the palm of your hand.

The three of them are silent.

Percy’s head tilts. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Luke says, his tone steely. “She’s my… She’s my best friend. If she liked Max, she would’ve told me.”

The three of them watch as the boy stands up and you follow suit. Max tosses the rest of the orange into the fire as an offering, and the two of you head away from the celebration.

Percy gives Luke a side glance. If he had eaten anything, it probably would’ve been emptied up onto the table right now.

Luke shakes the table with the force he uses to stand up. “I’ll be back.”

His plate is left abandoned, and Chris snorts at his speedy departure. Luke’s practically jogging across the pavilion to reach you before you get too far. That old goofy cartoon running sound effect plays in Percy’s head as he does.

The boy closes the distance in record timing, stopping you and Max before you can make your way up a small hill just outside of the pavilion.

Luke must be a great liar, or just really convincing, because after a few words from him and an extended hand, you’re back at his side. You say a few parting words to Max before the two of you turn your backs on him and head back in the direction of the feast.

Unfortunately, it seems like Max is significantly unhappy with that.

He looks a little more than angry when he says something that has you and Luke whipping your heads around.

Whatever he said must not have been nice, because the next second, Luke is advancing in his direction, and the other boy is meeting him in the middle.

The small argument is beginning to attract the attention of the campers on the outskirts of the feast, with a few mixed reactions. Some look like they’re ready to jump into a brawl if need be, and others watch the argument play out, unashamed.

Percy grimaces. “Are they… okay?”

Chris gets up wordlessly to head in the direction of his friend, and Percy trails after him with not much else to do. Other campers join them, forming a bit of a crowd around the three of you.

Your voice sounds biting as you say something to the both of them, and while it seems like Max isn’t angry at you, it looks like he still spits out a snarky comment directed at Luke, if the smirk on his face says anything.

And that’s all it takes. Luke rears his arm back and strikes Max right across the face.

Something that sounds like a mix between a gasp and an “Ooh!” ripples through the crowd as he stumbles back.

That’s gotta sting, Percy thinks as Max steadies himself on shaky legs. The boy looks completely dazed from the single blow. If that’s what Luke can do with a single punch… Percy hopes he never gets on his bad side.

You shove Luke’s shoulder and say something to him, starting another disagreement between the two of you. But now steady on his feet, Max seemingly takes advantage of him being distracted and takes his own shot at Luke’s face. Percy sucks in air through his teeth as he rubs his jaw.

Luke’s on him in a second, wrestling him to the ground as he moves to probably hit him again. But you and one of the older campers rush forward to drag him off of Max just as Chiron’s booming voice sounds from the other end of the clearing.

The crowd scatters like a flock of birds. Chris drags Percy by the back of his shirt collar away from the scene, leaving you, Luke, and Max alone.

Everyone disperses back to their cabins, whispering about the events all the way up until the lights go out.

Alone in the Poseidon cabin, Percy doesn’t see the way Luke enters his own a few hours later, his knuckles sore but his heart aching.

iv. but its golden

You don’t look in Luke’s direction during Percy’s selection ceremony.

Once he’s selected Annabeth and Grover, you give him a genuine smile and squeeze his shoulder before walking away as fast as you can.

Luke calls after you, but you ignore him. The other twenty demigods at the ceremony look away in what’s probably second hand embarrassment.

Percy doesn’t see you again until much later. After knocking on his cabin door, you put a wad of cash into his hands.

“What’s this for?”

“Emergency cash,” you explain as he rifles through it. The stack is heavy. “I know Chiron gave you two hundred, but you never know. Use it only for emergencies, alright?”

“This is nearly two hundred dollars,” Percy says, shocked. “Where’d you get this from?”

“Summer job.”

“I can’t—”

“Annabeth already refused to take it from me,” you protest. “I thought you were my best bet.”

“This is a lot of money.” Percy doesn’t think he’s even held this much cash before.

“I know,” you say, before closing his fist around the money again. “But I know I could’ve really used this money on my first quest. So I’m giving it to you for yours.”

Percy was getting the impression that you weren’t going to leave his cabin with this money in your hand.

“Thanks,” he acquiesces with a smile. “Only for emergencies.”

“Only for emergencies,” you confirm, squeezing his shoulder.

“Were you nervous for your first quest?” he asks, tucking the cash into the inner pocket of his jacket.

You shake your head without an ounce of hesitation. “No. But it’s normal to be nervous, if you are.”

Percy thinks about his Mom, all alone in the Underworld. He was doing all of this for her. He was a little more than nervous.

“How were you not worried? Like at all?”

You shrug, picking at a loose thread on your hoodie. “I was with Luke. I didn’t really have anything to be worried about.”

Percy thinks about Annabeth and Grover. Could he rely on them? The Oracle’s words weigh heavy on his shoulders. Percy wished that he had someone he could count on like the way you relied on Luke.

“Are you mad at him?”

“Who said I’m mad at Luke?” You tilt your head in question.

“You ignored him in front of everyone earlier. It was kinda hard to watch.”

You look away, smiling. “Well, he was kind of being stupid last night. I’m not mad, I just needed to cool down.”

There’s shuffling in the doorway, and you don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” you mumble under your breath. Luke’s holding an old box in his hands, staring straight at the back of your head.

You give Percy one last reassuring smile. “Good luck, Percy. And I know you and Annabeth aren’t all that close, but she’s a good kid. You can count on her.”

“She’s a good kid.” Luke repeats from behind you.

You turn to face him, your gaze assessing, and Luke’s eyes widen in what Percy thinks is slight fear. But it’s like his entire body relaxes when you move forward to flick his shoulder.

“Thank you for your great input, Luke Castellan,” you tease, leaving a quick kiss on the bruise on his lower jaw.

His eyes blow wide with surprise. “Yeah,” he stammers. “Yeah.”

“See you later, hero.”

The door swings shut behind you.

Luke stares blankly for a good ten seconds before Percy speaks.

“So…” he starts. “What’s in the box?”

“Yeah, uh,” Luke repeats, dazed. “It’s a, uh. A gift.”

Percy presses his lips together, slightly miffed.

It’s obvious to him how the two of you feel about each other. He just wonders if either of you will ever figure that out yourselves.

a/n. evil boys i love u. if i ever write more luke fic itll be through one of their povs so their interactions are less restrained!! lmk if u enjoyed theyre my sillies

#fic recs #luke castellan #pjo

[a-asterias]

wool ; coriolanus snow.

pairing ; young!coriolanus snow x capitol!reader (gender-neutral)

synopsis ; when you laughed, airy and light and reminiscent to that of wind chimes, coryo wished he could bottle up the sound and keep it as his, only his.

words ; 1.5k

themes ; mild fluff/angst, slightly suggestive

warnings / includes ; set before events of tbosas so no actual spoilers, making out, clemensia appearance, mentions of other characters, he's not exactly toxic yet but the seeds are very much planted, i tried to keep him in character as best i could, let's pretend the academy also serves dinner

a/n ; this man has consumed me body and soul. this fic was inspired by the song wool by flatland cavalry on the movie soundtrack! let me know if you guys would like a second part :)

main masterlist.

Coriolanus Snow was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He bore an aristocratic last name—yet you noticed that his dress shirt’s buttons seemed to be various different shades of black and slightly misshapen. His voice, so sweetly saccharine, charming, seductive—would whisper falsities like it was second nature. He would often claim that he wasn’t hungry, but you’d catch the longing glint in his eyes as he eyed the steaming bread rolls Sejanus slathered with generous helpings of butter. 

Control. That was all he needed. 

It crumbled, ever so slightly, when you nudged your slice of apple pie in his direction. His eye twitched, and you pursed your lips, pulling your plate back to you. You ate quietly, and Coryo stared at you all the while, as if he were mentally dissecting your mind—studying you. 

You knew. It was all too clear, even if he wouldn’t tell you. And if he wouldn’t tell his closest friend—or, the closest thing he had to a friend, the two of you certainly did things that friends wouldn’t do—he most definitely wouldn’t let it slip that he was financially strapped to anyone else.

That same day, he met you in the back of the library. The two of you were supposed to be studying history—Professor Demigloss was one of the nicer teachers at the academy, but that didn’t mean he was any less strict with grades. And neither you nor Coryo could afford slipping now. Not if you both wanted to get into university. Being on top meant that there was only greater distance to fall.

But there were… distractions.

Mainly, his foot knocking against yours under the table. Your hand over his jostling knee. His teeth digging into his bottom lip. When you shifted so that your thighs brushed against his, the books spread out over the table were entirely forgotten.

He pushed you against the bookshelves a mere second later, the wood digging into your back uncomfortably, and kissed you until you grew dizzy. You were a welcome distraction—he could taste the apples on your tongue. The way you snaked your arms around his neck, toying with his pale blonde curls, pulling him closer until his body slotted against yours just perfectly—clicking into place like a pair of magnets facing opposite directions. It was desperate and heavy and he could only barely pull away to inhale sharply before cradling the base of your head to tilt your jaw back and kiss you even harder. Coryo swallowed any muffled whimpers that slipped from you when his free hand traveled lower.

Lower, lower, dangerously low—

When Clemensia’s voice echoed through the library in search of her lab partner, the two of you sprang apart, gasping for air.

She rounded the bend, and her dark eyes landed on the two of you. Keen, observant, narrowed. Coriolanus was flushed, hair mussed, lips swollen, chest rising and falling erratically. You were looking anywhere but the two of them, smoothing out your clothes and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Oh! I guess I’ll just have to find another time to bother you, Coriolanus,” she tittered, sickly sweet. She tilted her head with a tempered smile. “What’re you guys studying?”

Snow rolled his eyes in exasperation. “History,” he said. Curt, simple.

“Right.” She eyed you curiously. When she spoke again, it was directed more to you than him, sounding uncharacteristically void of frigid scorn. “I’d be careful if I were you. You sure he’s not just sleeping with you because you’re the top of the class?”

You stiffened, and Coryo bristled. 

“I’ll be fine, Clem. See you tomorrow.” 

There was another beat of terse silence. Her eyes darted warily between the two of you, and she whisked away in a flutter of red and black.

You blew out a breath. Your mouth tingled with the phantom memory of his lips planted over yours, and your cheeks flushed with heat. The two of you sat back down, both quiet. You worked in fluid tandem with each other, as you always did. His hands kept to himself this time. 

“I’m not using you,” he whispered, eventually. “It’s not like that.”

“I know,” you replied hesitantly, testing the waters. “It’s not like you’d need to. Your grades are just fine as is.”

The two of you kept working until your fingers cramped with overuse and his head pulsed with the beginnings of a migraine. 

“Dinner?” you asked once the clock struck six, nudging him. “I think they’ll be serving mashed potatoes today.”

His stomach clenched at the thought of warm food. Control.

“Sure,” he replied coolly, flicking his books closed and gathering up all the papers to stuff into his bag. “I’m sick of mashed potatoes, though.”

You shot him an incredulous smile, brows quirking up. He was lying, but you didn’t know. “Not even when it’s seasoned with roasted garlic? A dash of the freshest of herbs?”

The blue of his eyes gleamed when they bore into yours. “Not even then.”

“You’re a strange man, Coriolanus Snow.” Your lips twisted downward, but it was more of a smile than a frown. When your eyes darted below to glance at his school uniform, you couldn’t help but notice the unironed creases in the carmine fabric. One of the buttons—the very top one—was oddly shaped and a different color from all the rest. It reminded you of his dress shirt. You quite liked that dress shirt. He looked handsome in it, but you chalked it up to his uncanny ability to look handsome in just about anything.

Your head tilted to the side, fixed on the button. You knew. He knew that you knew. Panic seized in his chest, an irrational clawing sensation searing within his lungs. Would you tell the rest of the class? What would you say to them? That he was living as filthily as a District boy? That he skipped meals because he couldn’t afford them? That his cousin mended his clothes for him?

But your frown-smile deepened. Fondness stained your expression, clear as day. Coriolanus found himself surprised, as he often did around you. 

“I love your buttons, by the way,” you mumbled, reaching out to trace it with a finger. He held his breath on instinct. “Is it a stylistic choice? Having them all irregular like this?”

Stylistic. Coriolanus almost laughed.

“Mhm. It’ll be in fashion one day. I’m just ahead of the trends,” he murmured charmingly. A bluff.

When you laughed, airy and light and reminiscent to that of wind chimes, Coryo wished he could bottle up the sound and keep it as his, only his. 

“Maybe I’ll start wearing mismatched buttons now, too. Rebel against uniformity.” You stood up from your chair as you spoke, not catching the way Coriolanus’ expression faltered momentarily with your last three words. It was a joke, he had to remind himself. Just a joke. “Come on. Let’s go have dinner. I’m starving.”

He jerkily stood up. Grabbed your hand just because he could, fingers folding over your wrist. He could feel your pulse, thumping quicker and quicker. You regarded him curiously. Snow’s remaining spindly hand cradled your face and he stepped closer, intuitive eyes roaming over your face, wondering just how much of you was real. How much of you was lying, just as he was?

His lips fell over yours again. This time, the kiss was sweeter. Slower, more languid. His nose brushed over your cheekbone, warm to the touch. You hummed pleasantly against him, before placing a hand flat over his chest—over the crooked button—and pulled away with a dazed smile. It felt dangerously good that you hadn’t tugged your hand out of his grasp yet. His grip tightened in a near possessive manner.

As the two of you began walking out of the library, Coriolanus couldn’t help but think back to your hyperbole—about how far from starving you truly were. You wouldn’t ever know, not when your family was the very epitome of Capitol wealth. But he was glad he wasn’t the only one lying, for once, even if your lie was merely an inflation of the truth. 

After dinner, Coryo worked off the top button of his uniform with repeated tugs to the threads, pulling apart Tigris’ handiwork. He slid it over the table to you, watching the way your countenance softened in endearment. He kissed you again in the dark hallways outside the cafeteria, finding it difficult to get your lips to melt away from your tightly-stretched grin.

He walked home with a mirroring smile and a missing button that night. One less piece of the wolf’s sheeply clothes.

#fic recs #coriolanus snow #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the hunger games

[a-asterias]

Smoke and Mirrors

Pairing: Steven Grant x f!Reader x Marc Spector

Summary: Harrow, ushabti, gun, pain... that's the last thing you remember. When you open your eyes again, you can't tell if the world you've awoken to is a plane of death, a nightmare or a reality you've tried to suppress.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: canon-typical violence, major character death (sort of... not really) bucket loads of angst, referencing mental illnesses and disorders (not specified), trypanophobia (fear of needles), Harrow is a condescending prick but what's new

a/n: ignoring the fact that the warning list is longer than my left arm I hope you guys enjoy this one :) Also btw for this fic, Khonshu hasn't been imprisoned in stone... yet. Other than that it's somewhat of an episode 4 rewrite but with a little twist 😏

Read part two here!

You could hear the sound of gunfire grow closer. You stood within the lost tomb of Alexander the Great, a stone carving that contained a genocidal god in your hand. And the man with the capability to give said god the tools to carry out her divine plan was inching closer with each passing second.

“Steven.” He was staring dead ahead, eyes wide. Your voice seemed to pull him back from whatever nightmarish scenario his brain had conjured up. You took hold of his wrist, placing the ushabti in his palm and closing his fingers around it. “Keep it safe. You and Layla go back the way she came. I'll hold them off.”

You turned your back but a hand clamping down on your arm prevented you from moving any further away. “No, no, what– Y/N, we're not– we're not going to leave you here...” Steven's voice dropped off. His eyes searched your expression as if he refused to believe the words you'd spoken to him.

“Steven, we don't have time for this.” Your words came out harsher than you meant them to, spurred on by urgency. Your expression softened with your voice. “If Harrow gets to it it's all over. You need to go. I'll follow behind– Steven, Steven...”

He'd started to shake his head. “No, we're not leaving you–”

“Steven.” Layla's hand came down harshly on his shoulder. “She's right, we've got to go.”

You could have sworn her eyes were glossy with... tears? You chose not to linger on it. She did her best to pull him towards the way out but his feet seemed to fuse to the ground, his eyes still set on you as if trying to commit each of your features to memory. When she finally managed to unearth him, she nodded toward you. It was a heavy, barely put together kind of nod; one that told you she would have hugged you had the situation allowed for it.

You nodded back.

She guided Steven further away, his feet fumbling over each other as he refused to turn his body away from you. Further, further, further, until his arm fell away from your touch.

It ached, letting him go. But as much as it hurt you didn't allow it to show through until the moment Steven and Layla disappeared from sight. Once Steven, with his darkened hair and eyes, vanished behind one of the tomb's columns you felt a pinch in your chest. His absence settled over you like a coolness you'd never be able to shake. You allowed the pain to linger a moment longer before swallowing it down.

Hurrying to the sarcophagus laid out behind you, you did your best to ignore the mummified corpse as you rummaged through the remains, praying for anything you might be able to use as a weapon. Your prayers were answered in the form of a golden axe.

You grasped its handle and took your stance, waiting for Harrow and his wolves to come. The tomb filled with armed men and your stance weakened under the aim of their guns. You tried to count them but your brain quickly gave up and settled on the far more reasonable conclusion that you were outnumbered. Your arm became heavy with realisation and you lowered your weapon.

Harrow stood among them, his face uncomfortably impartial. “Just you,” he smiled and if he hadn't meant to sound condescending he had failed miserably. “I remember a girl. Our mission to serve Ammit had brought us to Singapore and there she was, a girl so bright her radiance attracted nothing but thieves. You see–” Harrow stepped towards you and you felt a shiver ghost your spine at the shifting of broken glass. “Life had dealt her an unfair hand. She was surrounded by those who thought they knew better, who sought to control her every move, every choice.” He stopped a few feet short of you. “We freed her from those people. We offered her liberation. And once she grasped that liberation, well, she shone brighter than ever before. You remind me of her,” he smiled the kind of smile that hid bared teeth. “I can offer you the same liberation. You don't have to listen to what Marc tells you. You don't have to follow the command of a man so unwell he can't remember his own name!”

Your hand tightened around the axe at his words.

“You can make your own choices. But first, a very important decision has to be made. And I believe you'll make the right one.” Harrow tilted his head. “Where is the ushabti?”

You spared a glance around the tomb, weighing your odds. You refused to let your shoulders or head fall. You knew the joy Harrow derived from holding power over people and you refused to give him such gratification.

“Okay,” you nodded. “I'll give it to you.”

Harrow nodded and one of his men climbed the steps towards you, gun never once wavering from where it was aimed at your chest. You lowered your head enough that it wouldn't arouse suspicion and tilted it in the direction you knew Steven and Layla were watching from. You wanted to mouth something or spare a glance in their direction. But you wouldn't jeporadise their safety.

Instead, you waited as Harrow's crony drew closer. The moment his hand reached out to search your pockets you swung your arm towards him with everything you had, surprised by how easily the axe bit into his side. He gasped, then choked, then fell to the floor at your feet. You rose the axe again–

Bang!

Your next breath caught in your throat. You felt time slow down, the echo of the shot creating a vortex you felt you'd never escape from. Then the pain hit, it was hot and heavy and seemed to fill your lungs. You tried to gasp. Your fingers, weakened to the point you felt you could no longer command them, unfurled from around the axe.

Bang!

The second shot sounded the same moment the axe hit the ground. This time the pain was immediate. You stumbled backwards, the world seeming to move with you. Spinning and spinning and spinning– you lost your footing and... were you falling? You vaguely recognised the feel of water engulfing you soaking your clothes and making your body feel heavier than it already did.

Everything began to darken as your mind collapsed in on itself.

Layla had to clamp her hand over Steven's mouth to drown the sound of his shout when the first gunshot rang out. He watched with horror, not believing what his eyes were showing him if it weren't for the red blossoming on your chest. He felt sick, he felt broken. He felt like charging out and grasping hold of Harrow and–

Marc groaned as he forcibly took control. He feared that had Steven fronted any longer he would have rushed to your side then and there. And if physically restraining Steven was the only way to avoid him getting himself killed then so be it. But Steven was relentless and Marc couldn't recall ever seeing him so feral before. Keeping him from forcibly taking the body back was like a tug of war that Marc actually feared he could lose.

He shrugged Layla off and pushed himself harshly into the wall. He closed his eyes and sucked in deep breaths, trying to reason with the screaming voice inside his head.

“I know, I know, Steven but we can't alright. We can't.” His voice broke as he whispered the words. Trying to keep Steven contained was painful and horrid and Marc felt as though his insides were being torn apart. Steven's shouts had grown so loud Marc began to claw at his ears.

“Don't you dare! Don't you dare say I don't care about her.” His whisper was harsh and deathly.

Layla watched on, helpless. It wasn't any easier on her. The knowledge that you were meters away, bleeding out and in need of help was gut-wrenching. But if they acted now they'd only get themselves killed. And they certainly wouldn't be any help to you if they were dead.

The four minutes it took Harrow and his men to search and then filter out of the tomb were among the longest they'd ever experienced. Once the last remanence of echoed footfall had disappeared, Marc felt the levee break.

“Y/N!” Steven, taking control so suddenly he struggled to untangle himself from where Marc had pressed them into the tomb's wall, raced towards you. “Y/N, oh god, no–”

You lay in the shallows, arms spread at your sides. The water turned your hair to whisps, casting a halo around your head. If it weren't for the blood staining the water around you he swore you could have been mistaken for a depiction of a deity.

He fell to his knees, the water soaking through his pants as he pulled you to him. “Come on, love, wake up. Come back to me, come to us–” Steven's hands were shaking so violently he couldn't still them long enough to examine your wound. And there was so much blood– He felt himself freezing up as he glanced down at your still expression. He didn't know how to help you, he didn't know what to do, he didn't know–

“Khonshu!” Marc's voice was almost animalistic. The moment Steven's panic had escalated to the point it stood in the way of saving your life, he'd taken control. It had only taken a moment for him to realise that he couldn't save you either. “Khonshu!”

“She died protecting the ushabti.” The familiar grit-filled voice sounded from behind them. They turned to find the god perched against the sarcophagus. “She... surprised me.”

“Bring her back,” Marc's voice was quiet and level. Dangerous. “She died fulfilling your stupid mission, huh, so you bring her back.”

Khonshu tilted his skeletal head. “I may be a god but I too have my limitations.”

“Bullshit, I've seen you do it before.” Marc spat. “I've seen you do it before now bring her back!”

“To reverse death would be to invite the wrath of the gods,” Khonshu stated. His voice was dead, almost mistakable for casual. Marc didn't waver.

“Bring her back or find yourself a new avatar.”

The god seemed to react to that, though his set expression gave nothing away. He pushed away from the sarcophagus, beak tilting inquisitively to the side as he examined your body. Silence filled the tomb and Marc said nothing as the god thought.

“You should know, Marc Spector,” he said eventually. “Such drastic acts carry heavy tolls.”

You awoke to white walls.

In all honesty, you weren't entirely sure you were awake. The room you sat in felt... artificial. The colour was so blinding and pale you couldn't differentiate where the wall ended and the floor began.

Glancing down, you found the clothes you wore matched your surroundings. Plane and featureless. You felt your consciousness begin to return to you in greater fragments, the picture you were putting together with the pieces you already had becoming clearer and cleared until– you swallowed.

Steven, Marc, Layla–

“Hello, lovely.” A voice broke through your tirade of thoughts just as panic began to set in. “How are we feeling today, hm?”

The man that stood before you wore what appeared to be a beige nurse's uniform. A familiar mop of brown curls covered his head and fell in ringlets and coils against his temple. And his accent...

“Steven?”

He turned to face you, brown eyes bright and a comforting smile spread politely across his face. He placed what appeared to be a small glass filled with different coloured pills on the table before you. Your brows creased.

“Now, I know I'm not supposed to do this but I brought something I thought might cheer you up, given how much you liked the last one. Let's have a look, yeah?”

A book was placed before you.

‘Ancient Egypt; The gods of the Ennead.’

You shook your head. What was happening? Everything was still coming back to you in bits and pieces, shattered fragments of the same memory. All you knew for certain was that this wasn't right.

You felt a gentle hand on your knee as Steven knelt to be on your level. “Everything alright, love?”

Your gaze fell on the book. The cover was blurry as if your eyes were yet to adjust to the light of the room. You squinted and blinked until the image of a stone statue came into focus. The realisation hit you so suddenly that it must have flashed across your expression judging by Steven's reaction.

“The ushabti,” you said suddenly. “I– I gave you the ushabti.”

Steven's expression seemed to sadden. His eyes dimmed as he carefully took your hand in his. “Come on now, Y/N. We've talked about this.”

You shook your head, frustration and confusion whirling together.

“What are you talking about, Steven? Where's Marc? And Layla? We need to find Khonshu and tell him about Ammit before Harrow–” You tried to stand but an ankle restraint, as well as Steven's hands, prevented you from doing so. He listened empathetically as you spiralled, begging him to remember what you felt you'd experienced just minutes ago.

His calm and patient expression did not falter when two other nurses entered the room and nodded to him. They undid your restraint and dragged you to your feet. As they pulled you away, your feet failing to find purchase on the tiled floors, you desperately called after Steven. His reaction was dismal. He simply smiled empathetically, as if you were nothing more than another patient he'd grown used to treating.

The room you were dragged to was so large it made you physically shrink in on yourself. You felt small and insignificant and vulnerable. Like if you needed to run there was nowhere to hide. To sum it up in a single word, exposed.

The man sat at the transparent desk before you only succeeded in making you feel more uncomfortable. His very presence seemed to stir an instinctual flight or fight response in you that you couldn't explain.

“I know that you've been struggling lately.” His voice unsettled you. “Perhaps I'm somewhat responsible for your most recent episode. I thought that by allowing you to have access to some books, new cognitive stimulation, then it might improve your condition. But it has evidently just fueled the fire.”

“I– I don't...” The confusion was back, slamming into your chest and hindering your ability to string together a sentence. You remembered the tomb, and Steven, the ushabti. But how did you get here? Where was here?

“I know it can be confusing but it is not irregular for someone with your condition to struggle with differentiating between reality and fiction.” The man spoke again. The air suddenly felt very thin around you. He reached up and took the hinge of his glasses between his thumb and pointer before pulling them away from his face. A sense of familiarity filled you.

“Y/N, you seem to believe that you have some sort of... relationship with one of your nurses. Steven has shown you a great deal of kindness. It makes sense that you would transform him into a romanticised figure.”

No, no, no, no. You shook your head. The realisation of what was being implied, of where you were, caused an overwhelming sense of nausea to crash over you.

“You also believe that Steven possesses some sort of... alter ego. An alter you call Marc Spector?”

“No...” You hadn't made them up. Steven was real, Marc was real. You'd lived every moment of it; the first time you'd met them, your journey to Cairo and search for Ammit–

“I understand that you are under the impression that you, Steven and this ‘Marc’ share some sort of life together. That you are heroes in a sense, saving the day.” He smiled and you felt all the worse for it. “Y/N, you have created an alternate, fantastical world inside your mind inspired by things from your daily life. But it is vital to your recovery that you recognise that none of it is real.”

Your confusion peaked and you felt a tight bubble of panic begin to expand in your chest.

“No, you're lying...” The fear that what he was saying had some semblance of truth to it weakened the strength of your words. With a deep sigh and condescending look, he leaned closer, studying you as if you were some form of anomaly.

“Y/N, I can't help you if you don't help yourself.” His words echoed endlessly in your head.

Then, your blood ran cold as the final piece of the puzzle you'd been trying to solve since waking slotted into place. You remembered it all; you remembered the man sat before you and what he'd done.

“You shot me.”

You rose to your feet, standing with such force the chair fell back against the polished porcelain tiles. “You shot me.” You immediately turned towards the door. You could hear Harrow trying to placate you, reassuring you with words of comfort that tasted like nothing but poison to your senses. Your feet refused to cooperate when you tried to run. Your movements were sluggish and heavy. Had they sedated you?

“Truly, I understand how you're feeling. I too have suffered from mental illness.” The rhythmic ‘click!’ of a walking cane against the floor told you Harrow had stood and followed and you felt your panic flare. “And I know you can be healed.”

“Stay away from me!” You tried your best to sound fierce but your voice was frightened and meek. You reached the door and pulled at the handle with such vigour it was a miracle it didn't break and give way. When the handle proved no use you stepped back and began driving your foot into the wood. You had to get out–

“Y/N, please, you're only going to make things worse for yourself.”

The door suddenly gave way and for a moment you believed you had succeeded in kicking it in. However, the two nurses that quickly materialised and grabbed hold of you snuffed out any optimism you felt.

“All right. Be gentle with her,” Harrow ordered. Their hold on you was harsh and dug angrily into your skin. You screamed in frustration, trying to trash yourself free but their grip only tightened. “Don't hurt her.”

You saw the light catch on something the male nurse held in his hand and your heart sank into your stomach.

“No!”

The other nurse attempted to hold you still as the needle was drawn closer to your arm. In a moment of anxiety-fueled defiance, you landed a well-aimed kick to the nurse's groin. The syringe fell from his hand. You struggled against the nurse who still had a hold on you before resorting to the animalistic function of biting down on her hand.

She yelped with pain and the moment her hold on you loosened you turned and ran.

It took you a moment to gain control of your legs. You stumbled a few times, forced to use the walls for support but never once did you stop moving. Your heart was thundering in your ears. You didn't know where you were going or what your plan was, the only detail your brain cared to focus on was the need to get as far from Harrow as possible.

You turned a sharp corner and were immediately thrown off-kilter once again. The corridor before you appeared to shift from side to side, like the cabin of a ship at sea. You dismissed what you were seeing before your brain had the chance to process it and charged on.

You tried the multiple doors that lined the corridor, frantically pulling at the handles until one gave way and allowed you to seek sanctuary inside. You shut the door behind you and locked it for good measure. Your breath stilled as the shadows of your pursuers passed by.

Trying to tame your breathing felt like attempting to placate a wild animal. The adrenaline was still burning in your veins and your hands trembled at your sides. The four nightmarishly white walls of the room seemed to close in on you. You didn't know where to go from here or what to do. You felt alone, isolated, lost–

“Y/N.”

The sudden voice was too realistic to have come from inside your head. It was echoed and distant but you would have recognised the London accent anywhere and Steven's name fell quickly from your lips. You rose to your feet.

“Come on, love, wake up.”

This time his voice surrounded you completely, almost seeming to make up the air itself. You glanced around, not entirely sure that you weren't making it all up.

“Wake up, Y/N.” This time the voice belonged to Marc. “You gotta wake up.”

A thousand questions flooded your mind but before you could call out to Steven or Marc you were caught off guard by something that somehow wasn't the strangest thing you'd witnessed that day.

The tiles of the room's walls and floor began to shake erratically. They moved in such a way it mimicked the ruffling of a bird's feathers. The growing sound of the ceramics clattering together began to resemble the applause of a thunderous audience. Tiles began to break and shatter. The rest of the room seemed to follow suit, falling apart around you.

Then the gravel-like voice you'd grown to associate with the skull of an ancient godly bird spoke, “It's time to wake up, little one. Your time has not yet come.”

So.... part two anyone? 👀

Moon Knight tag: @bakerstreethound @linkpk88

#fic recs #moon knight #marvel #steven grant #marc spector #jake lockley

[a-asterias]

THE BALLAD OF SONGBIRDS AND SNAKES in theaters november 17, 2023 dir. Francis Lawrence

[a-asterias]

Welcome to Camp Half-Blood (x)

[a-asterias]

Feel like I’m so basic but Jason Todd with a crush and him having zero social skills and just being super clumsy despite being highly competent when he’s in the field. Crush is like real sweet and kind maybe a service worker ✨

anon u are so true and real for this bc jason is definitely an unsocialized cat when he has a crush 💓

jason todd x gn!reader. shyish/anxious jason with a big fat crush. baker reader. annoying customer. the duality of jason todd. 1.6k words.

also i fully believe that silently leaving huge tips as a way to flirt is like. a wayne trait. 100% that family does that bc of bruce.

prompt lists are here! i reblog all fics to @sanguinelibrary

****

Business has been slow.

It's not like you expect your cafe to be packed to the rafters all day long, but you've had a grand total of four customers today. One of them only came in to ask where Starbucks was.

Frankly, you're not sure the cafe can afford to stay afloat for much longer. Gotham isn't known to preserve small businesses, and the conglomerates (cough, Wayne Enterprises) are taking over the world anyway.

So today is a reading day. You might even close early.

You're at a table in the back, so absorbed in Poirot's sleuthing that you don't hear the door open. It isn't until you turn the page and look up that you see your resident lurker waiting quietly at the display case. You flinch so hard that you spill iced tea on your jeans.

"Shit," you murmur, grabbing a wad of napkins and patting yourself dry.

Jason (as is written on his coffee cup) looks up from the pastries, teal eyes wide. You smile briefly at him. For such a big guy, his footsteps are astonishingly soft.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, voice rough like he doesn't speak much.

"Yeah, fine. You just startled me—I didn't hear you come in. Were you waiting long? Sorry about that."

"Oh. No, I wasn't. Sorry." He shifts weight between his feet. "You seemed pretty engrossed in your book. I didn't, uh, want to disturb you."

"Oh, hey, don't worry about that! It's literally my job to be here," you say, though you can't help but melt over how freaking sweet that is.

Jason visits you a minimum of twice a week. He's been coming for a couple of weeks. You know a whole three things about him: he's a university student, he pretty much only dresses in red or black, and he's unfairly cute.

At first, you were reasonably wary of him because it's Gotham, and he's so damn quiet. It's a little scary. You thought maybe he was an undercover spy casing the joint. Now you know he's just awkward.

"Slow day?" he asks.

"Slow year, more like. How are you? How was your exam?"

He blinks. "Exam?"

"Didn't you have an American lit exam last week?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Wow. Yes, I did. It was okay. Got an A."

"That's great! I knew you'd ace it."

His cheeks turn pink. Okay, you actually know four things about him: he blushes a lot.

You go to start the coffee machine. "Do you think you'll—"

"I-I have to go."

You watch, stunned, as he hurries out the door. That's when you notice the fifty dollar bill in your tip jar.

You don't know if you should bring up yesterday. Jason's back; that probably means everything's fine, right? You're not sure if you said something wrong, though. You've gone over the interaction a hundred times since and you can't figure out why he's so skittish around you.

"Hi. Hibiscus tea, please," he says, stoic as always.

You prepare his order, yesterday's interaction still fresh in your head. You should say something, shouldn't you? Or...

"Sorry about yesterday," Jason blurts, so fast you almost miss it. "Running out, I mean. I was, uh—I forgot something."

Well. Looks like he's going to bring it up for you.

"Oh, you don't have to apologize! If I said something wrong..."

Jason shakes his head fervently. "No, God no. You're perfect."

Your eyebrows shoot up. He turns red this time.

"I mean—not perf—well, you're amazing, don't get me wrong! Except, like, what is perfect, y'know? My brother has gotten into the habit of calling everything perfection like some kind of sitcom character. Alfred will make pie, and Dick'll go, "Alfie, that was perfection." And I feel like it's such an exaggeration—"

Jason's mouth snaps closed. He rubs his forehead.

"Um, I actually have chronic foot-in-mouth disease. It gets really, stupidly bad. Sorry."

You're trying hard not to giggle. You want to smother him in frosting and take a bite.

"You're really sweet, you know that?" you say.

"I'm really not," he says with a sigh.

"Not true. Can you do me a favor?"

"Anything."

You go into the kitchen and return with your latest experiment: matcha cream puffs.

"Do you mind trying these for me? You're not allergic to anything, are you?"

Jason's shoulders hunch. "Are you sure you want my opinion?"

"Of course I'm sure," you say happily. "I trust you."

"You trust me," he repeats quietly.

"Yup!"

Jason takes a puff and bites. He starts to nod.

"It's really good. You're really—all your creations are—yeah. It's good."

You squint. "No notes? Really?"

"They're perfection, as my brother would say."

Fuck, you like him so much.

"Have another one," you say, pushing the tray towards him.

"I shouldn't—"

"Wait! I'll pack you some!" you interrupt, flitting back to the kitchen to get a Tupperware.

Jason helplessly accepts the container of puffs you shove into his hands.

"Let me pay-" he tries to say, but you shake your head.

"Nope! I won't accept payment for these. Not from my favorite customer."

"Your favorite?"

"My favorite," you confirm, grinning.

"Oh." His ears turn pink as he walks to the door, cream puffs in hand. "Uh, right. Thanks. See you tomorrow."

"Jason? Don't you want your tea?"

"Shit. Yeah." He returns to the counter and takes his drink. This he insists on paying for, so you let him, because you do have rent to pay, after all.

"So nice to see you!" you add, because the stiffness in his gait is kind of throwing you off.

He just nods, slipping out the door as quietly as he came.

Today, Jason's in a red workout tank. You have to make the conscious effort to not ogle his arms.

"Hey, Jason!" you say cheerily.

"Hi," he says softly.

"The usual?" you ask, and he looks up in surprise.

"You know my order?"

You gently roll your eyes. "Of course I know your order, silly. Favorite customer, remember?"

"Oh." He looks away, brow furrowed. Then he turns to you and his expression smooths over. "Yes, please. Thanks."

"Sure. Give me one second? I just have to finish decorating some sugar cookies."

"Take your time," Jason says, then goes to skulk by the window.

The door is suddenly swung harder than necessary, thumping the glass.

"Hey!"

You look up from the cookies. A man in a suit is waving his phone impatiently.

"I ordered a dozen muffins. Where are they, huh?" he demands.

"Oh, right! Well, you called ten minutes ago, so they won't be ready till six, sir. Can I get you something while you wait?"

He scoffs and stomps to the counter. You almost back down, but you don't; that's exactly what these bullies want.

"This is exactly why no one eats at dinky cafes like yours. You can't even do this!" he fumes, shoving a finger in your face.

"Sir, like I said, the muffins are baking..."

"I know the city's health inspector personally," the man spits viciously. "One call, and I can—"

"Say one more word."

You blink as Jason is suddenly between you and the customer, stood at his full height. He's all muscle and broad shoulders, looming over the guy. You peek around him.

"What the fuck, man?" the angry customer squawks. "Move!"

"No, you move," Jason says, tone lethal. "Sit quietly at a table and wait for your muffins to bake. Then you can thank the nice baker for waiting on your sorry ass and you're not gonna come back. They have far more patience for entitled fucks than I do."

"Fuck you," the man spits.

Jason calmly closes the distance between them and whispers in his ear, hand like a vice around the jerk's shoulder. You watch as he turns pale, eyes growing wider.

"Sound good?" Jason asks pleasantly, all teeth. The man gapes at him.

Wow. Yeah. This is really doing something for you.

The oven dings. You go to retrieve the muffins, packing them as quickly as possible. You give him the box and the man nods.

"Thanks," he mumbles, then scurries out of the store.

Jason turns to you, and it's like looking at a completely different person.

"You okay?" he asks, posture stiff like he's still prepared for a fight.

You nod, a little dazed.

"Yeah. Wow. Jason, I... you didn't have to do that. I mean, thank you for doing it, but..."

"Hey, that guy was a jackass. And if you have trouble with him or anyone else, call me, okay?"

This side of him stuns you. If you didn't know better, you'd think he had this exchange regularly.

"Call you?" you ask, smiling. "How will I call you if I don't have your number?"

He freezes, eyes wide. "Oh. Uh. Um..."

You lean over, elbows on your counter. He watches you. You cup your hand around your mouth, pretending to divulge a secret.

"This is where you, the cute guy who frequents my struggling cafe, gives me your number."

"You think I'm cute?" he asks.

"Devastatingly so," you say, grinning.

He's quiet for a long moment. Your smile starts to dim.

"Did I read this wrong?" you ask. "If I came off too strong..."

"No!" he says a little too loud. Jason winces. "Sorry. No. I... you're... fuck, I'm not good at this. I don't even really drink tea or coffee, to be honest. I just come in to see you."

"You do?"

Jason sighs. "Yeah. Shit. That's creepy, isn't it?"

You laugh and he visibly softens.

"No, Jason," you say warmly. "It's sweet."

"So can I still ask you on a proper date? Not coffee."

You grin. "That would be perfection."

#fic recs #jason todd #red hood #dc

[a-asterias]

𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮, 𝐊𝐢𝐝.

—boxer!bucky x reader

—summary: bucky hated his job just as much, if not more, than you did. but if you wanted to live the remainder of your lives together comfortably, you'd both have to stick it out. which included him having to fight your ex husband.

—word count: 7.2k

—tw: swearing, alcohol, violence, blood, guns, hospitals, abuse (not from Bucky), Br*ck R*mlow, grammar mistakes, unedited lol

—a/n: my first Bucky pic! Yay! this is kind of a heavy one, as all of my fics are, lol, so if any of the triggers bother you pls don't read any further! I wanna write more blurbs based on this so keep an eye out for those. also Steve and nat are married in this, and sam's wife is an OC named Sonya, I picture her as Kiki Layne but feel free to use imagination! enjoy!

It was never fucking easy.

He had promised. He had always promised that it would get easier. 

Of course, you’d believed him at first. When the love of your life whispers sweet promises into your ear with his hands grasped at your waist, your knees turn to jello and you believe him.

But as time went on, how could watching your fiance get his face smashed in repeatedly by his opponent wearing a red boxing glove ever get fucking easier?

“It’ll get easier, baby. Promise.”

Bullshit. 

The tremor in your fingers never eased, the clamminess of your hands never dried, the tunnel vision barring you from seeing or hearing anything that wasn’t Bucky in that goddamn ring never let up.

“What if it doesn’t?” You whispered.

If there was anything in this God forsaken universe that Bucky Barnes loved, it was you. And he hated himself for making that promise, because it never got easier for him either. The last thing he could ever want was to see his girl shaking in panic, a panic that he caused. But, this was all he knew. His father was a boxer, and he’d been training since he was a teenager. There was no other life for him now, he just needed her to hold on a little bit longer. Just a little bit longer until his contract is up and he can retire forever, having made enough money for the both of them to live comfortably for the rest of their lives and raise a family.

He hoped and prayed that it would get easier, that the pain both of them felt would subside until it was over. But of course, nothing ever seems to work out that way.

—

“Well if you aren’t as beautiful as the day I first met you!”

“That was only 5 years ago Tony. You gonna break my husband’s contract or what?”

Tony Stark, the loveable yet completely tiresome man who managed your fiance, along with multiple other well known boxers under SBA.

“You know that’s out of my control, gorgeous.”

You sighed. Of course you knew. Tony owned the company when you first started dating Bucky, but things changed, and Tony ran out of money. He was eventually bought out by Nick Fury, a good man who let Tony keep a high up enough job at the company, but he played by the rules. He refused to let Bucky end his contract and keep his money. 

“I know it.” You rolled your eyes and patted him on the back as you made your way into the gym.

“Visitors pass!” Tony called after you and you flipped him off, causing him to chuckle. You made your way to the far corner of the gym, knowing it was exactly where Bucky and his friends would be on a Thursday.

“Afternoon, boys! Your voice sang through the gym as you raised a hand in the air, catching the attention of the 3 more so men than boys huddled in a circle with their arms folded across their puffed up chests.

You scoffed. Men.

Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers, and Bucky Barnes. Or, “The Big Three” as most of their fans called them fondly. 

Steve and Bucky both trained under the infamous Sam Wilson, originally the heavyweight champion for the PBA before a debilitating head injury left him and his wife fearful for their future and the future of his newborn daughter. Sam was lucky enough to break his contract with PBA, with the help from his lawyer who found multiple legal loopholes, at the fault of the CEO, Alexander Pierce, who Sam describes as “an asshole on a stick”.

You always thought it was so funny, these 3 big men that just turned to absolute putty in the presence of their girls. Just 3 soft teddy bears that only a select few got to see the sweet, carefree and fun side of.

Just last weekend, you and Bucky hosted a dinner party for all your friends at your new penthouse in New York.

–

“Steve, for the love of all things good, feet off of the sofa!” You scolded from your seat at the bar where you were accompanied by Sam’s wife, Sonya, and Steve’s wife, Natasha, along with Tony’s assistant, Wanda. Sam’s youngest girl, Thalia, was on your lap, head rested on your chest and playing with your hair.

Steve groaned, yanking them off and planting them on the ground before hoisting himself up and making his way towards the bar for a drink for himself, but not before plucking Thalia from your grip.

You were extremely proud of yours and Bucky’s home, it was exactly like you’d always dreamed. A kitchen with the most gorgeous island and oak cabinets, a beautiful dining room with a sparkling vintage chandelier and a table big enough to fit your dysfunctional family, a full functioning bar in the living room and the most stunning view of New York a small town girl like you could never dream of. Bucky wanted to give you everything and more.

“She sent me the link to that sofa when she first ordered it, and for that price you better keep those nasty ass feet off of those cushions.” Natasha berated, pointing a finger in her husband’s face, who responded by playfully biting the end of it before kissing her nose, causing the woman to scrunch her face, and earning a giggle from Thalia.

“Ever so charming.” Sonya taunted, rolling her eyes before taking a sip from her martini, only to make a sour face. “Tony this is the worst martini that’s ever made its way past my lips!”

“I make men fight, Mrs. Wilson, not martinis, be thankful you got anything at all.”

You shook your head, though a smile still played upon your lips as you felt your fiance’s well built arms wrap around your waist, his lips grazing your shoulder.

“Well, hello handsome.” You greeted, turning your head so he could give you a kiss on the lips.

“Hi, my love.” He said ever so gently, pressing a kiss to your brow before letting his lips linger there.

“When are you two lovebirds finally gonna get married?” Sam asked, breaking the silence as he reached over Wanda to grab a piece of cheese from the assortment of snacks you’d set out before dinner. His comment earned a smack on the arm from Sonya.

“If you don’t wife her, Barnes, I might. Because this amaretto sour she made me is kind of to die for.” Wanda joked, sipping from her drink.

“And that sauce just smells heavenly.” Tony remarked, popping a grape into his mouth.

“And this decor…” Steve said, looking around the apartment, wrapping an arm around Natasha. “Honey, do we need a third?

“I think we might-”

“Alright, alright.” Bucky said, tightening his grip around your giggling frame. “Everyone back off of my girl before things get ugly.”

–

Bucky turned to you, his face lighting up as he saw his girl, beautiful as ever, walking through his gym with a cooler bag in hand, lunch for him, no doubt. He met you halfway, picking you up by your waist, spinning you around and dipping you before kissing you in front of all the men who liked to stare a bit too long as you walked past them in your tight jeans and small tank top.

“Bucky!” You squealed, “Don’t make me drop the food I slaved away making for you all this morning.”

Bucky froze, raising an eyebrow, “All?”

Steve and Sam’s ears perked up, “All?!”

You smiled, wiggling out of Bucky’s grip, but keeping one hand wrapped in his. “Thought it’d be a fun surprise!” You set down the cooler bag and let the 2 men rifle through what you had to offer. Salmon, rice, steamed vegetables, your special sauce that you refused to share the recipe to, and multiple bags of your boxer diet- friendly chocolate chip cookies that the boys went crazy over.

“Mrs. Barnes you are quite literally a saint.” Steve said, gripping your small head in his hands and planting a kiss right in the middle of your forehead.

You and Bucky weren’t married, he hadn’t even proposed yet. But you both had a habit of calling each other ‘husband’, ‘wife’, ‘fiance’, and everyone else’s favorite ‘Mrs. Barnes’.

You laughed and wiped the remnants of Steve’s kiss before turning to Bucky, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“How are you today, doll?” He asked, a serious tone on his face as well as settled in his eyes.

You grimaced. Bucky had a fight today, and you weren’t exactly ecstatic over it. Well, you were never exactly ecstatic when Bucky had to fight. But, that was the only way to bring in money, and the only way to end his contract faster.

“Quentin Beck, right?” You smiled while Bucky ran a hand along your spine. “Easy money.”

“I know that’s right!” Sam whooped, cookie crumbles falling from his mouth. “Gonna need all the practice you can get before you fight Rumlow!”

Brock Rumlow.

One of the meanest, most vicious fighters of the PBA, heavyweight champion the past two years. He gave Wilson the head injury that put him out. He nearly killed Steve 3 years ago.

Infamously known as “The Hydra”.

Cut off one head, two more grow back.

And much to your dismay, your ex husband.

You had married extremely young. After running away from your small town in Georgia at 18, you met Brock Rumlow at a fancy party you snuck your way into with some girls you met at your job. He promised security, safety, wealth, love.

You got maybe two of those things.

You met Sam through Brock, he helped you through all of the legalities of divorce after you showed up on him and Sonya’s doorstep in the rain, soaked, bruised, and shaking.

It’s how you met the love of your life.

“Bucky…”

He hadn’t told you he was fighting Rumlow.

Sam regretted his words as they barely even tumbled past his cookie stuffed mouth as Steve shook his head, pity evident on his features as he looked at you.

“Doll…” 

His voice was so achingly gentle, his eyes so painfully soft as he continued to hold you, letting you work through every emotion that seemed to be hitting you like a semi truck.

“Please say somethin’, honey. Anything.”

“Um- when, when is this happening?” You asked, trying your best to keep your cool amongst the many other men and women in the gym.

The three exchanged looks. Bucky had a world of time to tell you, but he was so damn afraid of the exact reaction painted across your face at that moment.

Everyone threatened to tell you multiple times, but Bucky insisted it needed to come from him, and he’d get around to it. Wanda even went so far as to dial your number one day. 

You had picked up with your signature cheery hello and Bucky made a pleading gesture with his hands, desperation evident on his face as he wordlessly begged Wanda to keep her mouth shut.

“Hello?”

‘Please’ Bucky had mouthed.

“Wanda?”

Wanda shook her head before answering you, “Hey girl! Just making sure we’re still on for drinks this weekend.”

Bucky wanted to cry as he held you in his arms, not that he’d think you would be angry with him. You just had been through so much, you didn’t deserve to go through this too.

“Two weeks.” Bucky choked the words out.

You were stoic, staring at Bucky as if you were just staring straight at the weight machine behind him.

The three men held their breaths, terrified for the reaction you might give.

“Okay.” You said. Your voice suspiciously even. “Let’s beat this motherfucker.”

–

You never liked the private rooms at the arena.

They were nice, perfectly clean with comfortable couches and working restrooms. The mini fridges were stocked with sodas and snacks, the good kinds like cheez-its and coca-cola. They even had air fresheners in the corner of each room, making all of them smell like fresh laundry and flowers.

But that wasn’t your qualm.

You hated the rooms because all they brought were anxiety and pain. 

The moments before a fight were filled with unshed tears you struggled to keep inside and Bucky’s arms around you, whispering the sweetest of words that seemed to drip like honey and stick to your ears.

The moments after were filled with panicked breaths that you tried so hard to conceal as you watched your husband's unrecognizable face get cleaned and bandaged by his medical team while he held your hands in his own, rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs and occasionally bringing them to his lips to press sweet kisses to your wrists.

Today was no different.

“Sweetheart, it’s okay to be nervous.” Bucky said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. 

His med team just finished checking him before the fight, so he was sat on a temporary medical stretcher, his large arms wrapped around your waist, you had your arms around his neck.

He tried to pull away to look at you but you just shook your head and held him closer, allowing a few stray tears to slip.

“Okay.” He whispered, running his hands up and down your back. “Okay, doll. I’m here. Right here, okay?”

There was a moment of complete quiet. Just you and Bucky, the only sound being the whirring of the air conditioner in the corner. You didn’t want to ruin it.

“Don’t fight him.”

Yet, you did.

Bucky furrowed his eyebrows. “Beck? Baby, that guy’s barely even-”

“Rumlow.”

“Doll, you know I wish I could…”

“Bucky, please.” You pulled away from him then, feeling the ache in your bones of no longer being in his hold.

Bucky’s heart severed at the look on your face, cheeks puffy and eyes swollen, fat tears rolling down your skin but ever so beautiful.

“He’s doing this to get back at me.” You were sobbing now, not even fully pronouncing your words.

Bucky wanted nothing more than to give in. To say ‘Okay’ and tell Tony he wasn’t doing the fight. Hell, he’d march straight into Fury’s office if he could.

Bucky held your face in his hands, firm, yet gentle enough for you to want to just melt into him. He pulled you closer, settling your legs in between his knees. 

“Tony did everything he could all these years to keep me from fighting him. We need this money, baby. We’re one step closer. We’re so close.”

You let yourself lean into Bucky’s touch, bringing your hands up to grip onto his wrists as you continued to cry. “I don’t want him to hurt you like he hurt me.”

Bucky hated thinking about what Rumlow did to you before you found the courage to leave. It took everything in him not to beat that sick son of a bitch every time their paths crossed. Which wasn’t often, but enough to get Bucky to think about it.

Luckily, Brock knew to steer clear of anybody from the Big Three. He wasn’t stupid. One wrong move and he could completely lose his contract. Though, it didn’t stop him from taunting Rogers or Wilson anytime he saw them, a disgusting grin splattered on his face, beaming with pride that he almost killed one of them and completely ruined the career of the other.

“I got this, babydoll. Then it’ll be one step closer to me and you.”

–

“Bucky ‘The Winter Soldier’ Barnes!”

The announcer’s voice pierced through the stadium, causing you to cringe. He hated that name, it was chosen for him by his father, whom Bucky resented throughout the entirety of the man’s life, until quite literally the day he died. He tried to change it, but everyone refused. He couldn’t change his brand this late in the game.

“And aren’t we lucky to have the infamous Big Three in the arena with us tonight!”  The other announcer exclaimed as Bucky walked up to the ring with Steve and Sam in tow, his walk up song blaring through the speakers.

“And all three wives in the stands, it’s a family affair!” The screens lit up with the view of you, Natasha and Sonya sitting side by side in the stands, all adorned in T-shirts with Bucky’s face on them, and you did what all 3 of you were trained to do. 

Smile and wave.

It was rare that all 6 of you were there at the same time. There was usually a straggler or two in the mix. Either someone had to stay home with the kids, a relative was in town, work came up, or you stayed backstage to sneak away from the fanfare.

“And don’t they all look stunning as ever!”

“Get this camera off of me so I can take a sip of my damn margarita.” Sonya mumbled, though continued to smile and point to her Bucky shirt.

You couldn’t help but cover your mouth as you laughed, trying to remain composed for the camera so nobody would speculate later. You could already see the fans on twitter spewing lies about Sonya having an attitude and being ungrateful.

The camera changed to Bucky, who seemed to be looking right at you so you turned, making eye contact with your man.

He broke into the most gorgeous smile you’d ever seen and your heart burst just before he blew you a kiss, causing the arena to erupt in cheers. You caught the kiss and pressed it to your cheek.

“What a sweet moment, but it’s time to move on.” The announcer’s voice rang in your ears once more.

“I love you.” You mouthed.

“I love you more.” Bucky mouthed back.

–

The fight with Beck went as everyone predicted. Bucky won, of course, but not without a fight from Beck. Which left him bruised and bleeding, but nothing nearly as bad as you some of the times you had seen him before, which was a thought you hated but it was a relief for now.

Bucky could feel the ache down to his bones. 

Not of pain, or exhaustion, or anger.

The ache of how much he loved and completely adored you as he looked down at you, your head in his lap, completely enthralled by the movie playing in front of you as if the two of you hadn’t seen it countless times. Bucky could recite it beginning to finish.

“Here’s looking at you, kid.”

Bucky spoke along with Humphrey Bogart on the screen and you smiled, slightly turning your head to look at your husband, and he was already looking at you.

“Sap.”

Bucky smirked and leaned down to place his lips on your temple, lingering there for a moment before sitting back up and letting his eyes return to the movie, his fingers mindlessly running up and down your torso.

You stayed that way for a while, positions switched, Bucky’s eyes glued to the TV, and yours glued to him.

The purples and blues on his face made you frown, and you could just cry at how beautiful he looked, face illuminated by the black and white of Casablanca, his perfect lips unconsciously mouthing the words.

You yearned for this life forever with him. Everyday he promised you were one step, a couple thousand dollars closer to living up to his contract and getting all of the money he was owed. He could be a trainer with Sam. Still bring home consistent money, but be safe,

Safe.

The word rang in your ears until you winced.

Safe. Safe. Safe. Safe.

Nothing about your life, except for Bucky, felt safe. 

It felt completely out of control, unpredictable, scary.

Bucky knew that and it broke his heart to know you went through everyday life being scared out of your mind. He’d break his contract now if he wasn’t completely certain, without a shadow of a doubt, that the two of you were going to come out the other side of this happier and more secure than ever.

“We’ll always have Paris.”

You’ll always have me.

–

Bucky had been at the gym for nearly 6 hours.

Sam put him on a strict “No visitors” rule, and “Yes, Mrs. Barnes that applies to you.”

And an “Especially, you!” From Tony.

Bucky didn’t have his phone on him, and you understood, he really did need to focus, the fight was in 5 days. Steve assured you that his phone would be on and close to him in case of emergencies, same went for Tony, Sam and Wanda.

So, you decided the best way to spend your time was with Sonya and Nat, using them as a distraction while the three of you holed up in your apartment, sipping seltzers and playing drinking games like you were teenagers again. Sonya left the girls with their Aunt for the day.

“Okay, if you could marry anyone in the big three, not including your own husband, who would it be?” Sonya asked, a smug look on her face before she added, “If you refuse to answer you take a shot.”

“Barnes. Without a doubt.” Nat said without hesitation and Sonya laughed at her transparency, covering her mouth with her hand.

“What?!” Natasha asked as you laughed as well, clutching your stomach.

“Have you seen where you live? Not only is it gorgeous but Bucky lets you decorate it however the fuck you want! And I’ve never once seen you have to ask him to do anything. He even cleans! Cleans!!!”

You and Sonya continued to cackle as Natasha continued to ramble, tears streaming down your cheeks while you clutched onto each other’s hands.

“Nat, baby, if you were so unhappy with Steve you shoulda said something!” Sonya joked, still holding back chuckles.

“I’m not unhappy with Steve! Wouldn’t trade him for the world! But, gun to his head, I had to trade him or else he’d die, I’d pick Bucky!”

You laughed, shrugging in agreement. You couldn’t blame her.

“You know what, I think I’d go with Mr. Barnes too. Y’all know I love Sam and I love our girls and don’t slap me for saying this either but he is entirely too easy on the eyes.”

The three of you burst out laughing again. You didn’t feel the slightest bit annoyed or jealous. These were your best friends, your sisters, who loved their husbands, and you, and each other’s husbands, and Bucky like family, and protected and fought for you like family. You thought it was kind of endearing actually, that they could see how yours and Bucky’s love was something special.

“You never said your answer, babe.” Nat said, gesturing to you with her can.

You pondered for a moment. Both men had been so good to you on so many different levels.

“Sam, but only because he was so good to me with the whole Brock thing, I don’t know if I could ever repay him. And you, Son.”

The vibe changed after that, your friends’ faces softened and the air felt heavy.

Sonya shook her head, exhaling through her nose, mumbling your name as if she were scolding you.

She wasn’t.

“Nothing can compare to that fear I felt. Nothing. It still keeps Sam up at night too.”

You frowned.

“But we’d do it again a million times if you needed us to. We would.”

She leaned forward, taking your hand, “Don’t ever, ever, insinuate that you owe us a damn thing. We fucking love you.”

You smiled, not realizing you were crying until the tears were wetting your lips. You were quick to wipe them.

Natasha had stayed silent for the most part, letting the two of you have your moment, she hadn’t been around then.

“And even though I wasn’t there I also fucking love you and would probably die for you.”

The moment was over almost as quickly as it began, the three of you going back to drinking and asking each other outlandish questions, until your phone rang.

“It’s m’ husbandd!” You sang, holding the phone up to your ear and smiling, your cheeks burning from intoxication.

“Hi, gorgeous. I’ve been tryin’ to open the door for ages. Did you lock the top?”

You gasped and slapped a hand to your mouth before hurriedly running to the front door, fumbling with the lock only for a moment before swinging it open to reveal a tired and amused Bucky, followed by Steve and Sam, lazy smiles pulling at their lips.

“Oh, my handsome boys! I locked you out! However, will you forgive me?!” You threw your arms around Bucky, falling into his embrace and he responded by peppering your face with kisses.

“Make me a double jack and coke and I might consider it.” Sam said, sauntering into the room and into the dining room, to sweep Sonya off of her feet no doubt. Steve did the same, before muttering, “I’ll show myself to the refrigerator.”

“Good man.” Bucky responded as he walked you into your home, shutting the door behind him with his foot.

“I missed you.” You mumbled against his lips while he kissed you again.

“Oh, my doll, my soul ached for you.”

“You watch too many 50’s movies, Barnes.”

“Are you complaining, darling?”

“Not at all.”

“Well then, here’s looking at you, kid.”

–

Bucky was stressed.

So incredibly stressed he felt like he might throw up.

He was fighting Brock Rumlow today.

He knew he could take him, that’s not what Bucky was worried about. He was worried about you. The thought of you in the private room, tears rolling down your face and shaky breaths filling the air, with him unable to hold you made him feel sick. He wanted you to stay home, in fact he practically begged you to stay home with Natasha and Sonya to keep you from turning on the TV but you completely refused. You’d be there, sporting a T-shirt with his name and face on it, and you’d look Rumlow dead in the eye while you celebrated victory with Bucky.

You would not hide.

And Bucky was so incredibly proud of you. His brave girl. But that didn’t change the fact that he was worried out of his mind.

“It isn’t too late to change your mind, doll.”

You were applying last minute makeup in the bathroom of your private room in the arena, Bucky behind you, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“I’m only leaving this arena when you do.”

“Okay.” He said softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

“Whatever you do, baby, block him out. Don’t listen to his taunting. He’s trying to get in your head.”

Bucky nodded, wrapping his arms around your waist and lightly squeezing.

“Any chance you wanna back out together?” You asked, a sad smile on your face, knowing the answer.

Bucky only sighed and kissed your cheek.

It wasn’t long before Steve and Sam came to collect Bucky, or maybe it was. You could’ve stayed in that bathroom forever if it meant Bucky wouldn’t get hurt.

You followed behind him as he exited the room, his large hand engulfing yours. You had to get to your seat and he had to get to his place to talk and warm up before his walk out.

You connected your forehead to his and looked into his eyes, giving him a nod and a kiss before you separated, going to find Tony and Wanda, who would take you to your seats with Nat and Sonya.

You weren’t as high up in the stands as you usually were, requesting to be right next to the ring for this fight.

Everyone questioned the decision but you put your foot down. You wanted to be in Bucky’s eyeline, wanted him to easily see you. 

You wanted to reach him easily if anything went south.

You didn’t pay attention as Tony patted your shoulder, or as Nat and Sonya squeezed your arms when Brock’s walk out song began, or the sympathetic glance Wanda shot your way when Brock looked at you with a nasty grin.

Bucky entered the ring and your heart stopped.

His eyes were glued to you.

You nodded.

He nodded.

“Lookin’ at you.” He mouthed.

“Always.” You mouthed back.

You don’t know where that became your thing in the past two weeks, or how it just now blossomed even though the two of you had been watching that movie for ages, but you adored it and thought it to be incredibly sweet.

The moment was short lived before Brock started mouthing off, but Bucky kept his cool, his hands clasped behind his back and his head held high.

You couldn’t hear what he was saying, though you were sure you didn’t want to.

Bucky was thanking God you couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“You take pride in the fact that you stole what was mine, Barnes?!”

Bucky said nothing.

“I wouldn’t think sloppy seconds were your style.”

Nothing.

“I see you’ve got your bitch sitting in the front row. Tight leash, huh?”

His blood was boiling but he didn’t flinch.

“Does she scream for you like she did for me?”

Bucky was just waiting for the ref to blow the whistle, he was itching to slam his face into the mat.

“She’s a good fuck, isn’t she Barnes?”

The whistle blew, and it was Bucky who was face down on the mat in seconds.

You wanted to gasp when Bucky went down but you held your composure, not only for him but also for the thousands of eyes on you, no doubt just waiting for a hysterical reaction.

But Bucky was quick, and regained himself quickly, taking his turn to pin Rumlow to the mat, holding his arm behind his back so he could not get back up.

It was brutal. The entire fight was vicious, blood and sweat ran down both men’s faces, drenching their necks and chests and you wanted to cry at the sight of Bucky’s already swelling bruises on his knees and face. His chest was heaving, and the look in his eyes was something you had never seen, even in all his years of fighting some of his toughest opponents in the ring. It was dark.

He was angry.

For Bucky, this was the best way for him to take out his anger on Rumlow for what that man had done to you. The years of nightmares and overthinking and tears and anguish.

“Damnit, I said no!” Bucky’s voice thundered across the kitchen, in perfect timing with his hand flying through the air to run through his hair and you flinched.

Your Bucky.

Your lovely Bucky who danced with you as the moonlight pooled into the room through your curtains on nights where you couldn’t sleep. 

Your gentle Bucky who wiped your tears and washed your hair when your days were just too much.

Your patient Bucky who sat with you and instructed you to breathe with him, your hand to his chest when he’d come home to you panicking.

Your Bucky.

And you fucking flinched.

“Bucky I- I’m sorry. I just-”

He shook his head, his angry demeanor had completely vanished, his pretty blue eyes soft and beginning to fill with tears.

“Sweetheart, please don’t apologize. God, please don’t.

And just like that you were in his arms, a complete weeping mess because of what that man had put you through.

What Brock Rumlow had put you through.

That sick son of a bitch that was in front of Bucky now, a disgusting smirk on his face, blood seeping from his gums and smearing onto his teeth.

Bucky was certain he could kill him if it wouldn’t land him in prison.

“Come on, Buck.” You muttered, your knee rapidly bouncing up and down. You hadn’t noticed, but you were gripping Nat and Sonya’s hands.

You were trying your best to pay attention. Really, you were. But you kept going in and out of focus and flashbacks. You were sure people had caught multiple photos and videos of you spacing out, but you couldn’t really bring yourself to care.

Wanda has asked you multiple times if you wanted to go back and sit in the room, take a breather and maybe drink some water but you refused. You’d be right here.

And when the fight was finally over, when Bucky finally stood victorious over Rumlow while the ref held his red glove covered hand in the air and the crowd cheered, you could breathe again.

He was drenched in blood and bruises but you couldn’t feel anything except relief.

Bucky looked at you and you couldn’t help the tears that began to gather in your eyes and spill down your cheeks as you smiled at him. Nat and Sonya were cheering and hollering, jostling your shoulders and jumping up and down, planting kisses on your cheeks and the side of your head and you could barely notice.

Because Bucky was looking at you.

The ref let go of his hand and he made a dash to get out of the ring and to you, shoving past Sam and Steve trying to congratulate him, completely ignoring the med team trying to lead him away to check his injuries.

You. You. You.

You met him halfway even though your knees felt like jello and your hands were shaking, you took his face into those shaky hands and pressed your forehead to his as his hands rested on your waist.

“You did it.”

“I did it.”

–

Luckily, Bucky didn’t have any major injuries. After some stitches and some compression wrap on his ribs and wrists, he was cleared to leave.

You just couldn’t believe it. One of his biggest fights to date and he was walking away almost unscathed.

It almost felt too good to be true.

Despite how tired everyone felt, this was cause for celebration. You all decided to retreat to your respective homes and get ready for a nice dinner, just the 8 of you.

“Bucky this place has a coconut blood orange margarita!” You said from the bedroom as Bucky continued to get ready in the ensuite bathroom. You were putting on your shoes while browsing the menu on Yelp. You could never visit a restaurant without checking the menu first.

“That sounds right up your alley, doll!”

“I know!” 

Bucky emerged from the bathroom, looking as handsome as ever in his white button down and black slacks.

“Have as many of those as you want, sweetheart. Long as I get to take this” Bucky’s fingers ran along the fabric of your black dress, just simple cotton with a long slit coming up to almost your hip, “Pretty thing off of you when we get home.”

“You can do whatever you want to me when we get home, Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky smiled, his large hands grabbing at your waist as his bottom lip made its way between his teeth.

“God, you are so beautiful, Mrs. Barnes.” He hummed.

“As are you, my love.”

“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”

“Always.”

–

Dinner was completely perfect. Nothing but laughter and jokes, bread being thrown across the table while the waiters weren’t looking and you and Wanda taking secret sips of Tony’s $200 champagne when he was in the bathroom or on a call.

Bucky was never not touching you. Whether it was a hand gripping your thigh or his arm around the back of your chair, his fingers gently tracing the length of your arm, or your hand in his.

And, God, was he radiant.

His smile was ear to ear. His top buttons on his shirt were undone, showing off his chest and you could absolutely just eat him up. It was like heaven hearing him laugh at some stupid joke Sam had made or when Steve would get flustered at Natasha’s flirting after she’d had a couple glasses of wine, or Sonya scolding Sam after an inappropriate joke. He even took a couple photos with fans who had just watched the fight, all of them ecstatic to take a photo with the Bucky Barnes with the scars from the fight still fresh on him.

You were both so happy even once you decided to get the check and wrap up dinner. You’d had 4 coconut blood orange margaritas, a celebratory shot of tequila and Tony had even been kind enough to let you have a glass of his fancy champagne.

“You deserve it after these past two weeks, gorgeous.”

Bucky had agreed. You stuck by him ferociously and put on the bravest face, even in the presence of Brock Rumlow, you stood tall. He was so proud of you.

You were trying not to trip over your own feet in your much too tall heels on the way out to the valet. You felt fuzzy and drunk but you still couldn’t shake the feeling of the valet watching you entirely too closely.

“Bucky that guy keeps staring.” You whispered and Bucky’s head whipped around, the valet turned his head immediately.

“You’re a diamond, sweetheart. People can’t take their eyes off of ya.”

You nodded and smiled, though you were still entirely too uneasy, and Bucky could tell.

“Car’s comin’ around soon, baby. I gotcha.” His grip tightened around your waist and he moved in front of you so his body was blocking yours, but you could still see him. He wasn’t looking at you, he was looking at Bucky.

Steve’s car had barely pulled up to the restaurant when it happened.

It was like everything happened in slow motion.

You saw the gun first, Bucky’s eyes were still on you.

“What were you thinking?” He sobbed.

But that’s just the thing, you weren’t thinking. There wasn’t one thought in your head besides Bucky as you ripped yourself from his arms and shielded his body with yours, and gave him not even a second to react before the sound of a gun rang.

The valet was tackled to the ground in seconds.

An angry fan of Rumlow’s, no doubt.

How Bucky’s security team didn’t catch on sooner was beyond you. He had security with him everywhere, though they stuck to the sidelines so as to not disturb. There were a lot of wild fans out there who got very angry very easily about the outcome of fights, and it just wasn’t safe to go out alone.

You were in shock, your hands clutched your stomach but you didn’t even register you had been shot as scarlet red liquid thick as syrup seeped through your black dress and into your fingers.

Bucky’s arms were around you in an instant as he lowered you to the ground. You could hear the commotion and panic of other restaurant patrons around you. 

Blood was seeping into his white shirt. Your blood was seeping into his white shirt. He didn’t care. He couldn’t fucking care, not when the life was trickling out of you right before his eyes.

“Baby. Oh my god, oh my god.” Bucky was shaking, his voice thick with tears as he held you as close to him as he could.

“Somebody call 911!” Sam.

“I’m on it!” Tony.

Bucky wiped the hair from your face as his tears began to splotch on your face, he couldn’t bother wiping them.

Not when this could be his last time holding you.

You tried to close your eyes but Bucky tapped your cheek firmly. “Ya gotta keep your eyes open, sweetheart. Gotta stay with me, come on.”

You nodded, your head lulling to rest comfortably on Bucky’s chest as his body shook with the most vicious cries that had ever ripped through him. You continued to look at him, those pretty eyes that he adored so much looking up at him, but there was barely anything there.

“Bucky-”

“Save your energy, doll. Please. Ya gotta stay with me, okay?”

Your hand felt like heavy stone as you brought it up to hold Bucky’s face, weakly wiping his tears. “I love you.”

“No, no, no. Keep looking at me, baby. Keep lookin’ at me. Please.”

“So much.”

Bucky planted a kiss on your forehead as he continued to sob.

“I love you, doll. I love you so goddamn much that’s why you gotta stay, alright?”

He pulled away. “Here’s looking at you, kid. Remember? You remember, doll? Always.” 

You didn’t respond.

Bucky screamed.

–

Hospitals are so fucking gross.

It was something you firmly believed in since you watched your great grandfather die in one when you were 14. 

Full of dead, sick and dying people. Full of weeping family members and friends. 

“Don’t let me fucking die in a hospital, Bucky, I swear to God.” You had said.

Bucky always laughed when you went on your rants about how much you hated hospitals. Talking loudly and waving your hands around in the air. 

“I’ll never let you die in a hospital, sweetheart. Promise.”

And now here you were, lying in a hospital bed after 12 hours of surgery, hooked up to a heart monitor and Bucky thought how do you still look so impossibly beautiful?

It was just you and Bucky in the room. Tony, Wanda, Steve, Natasha, Sam, Sonya and their girls were all squished together in the waiting room. None of them had it in them to sit even an inch apart.

Not when they could lose you.

Bucky hadn’t cried in an hour. His eyes dry but still red and heavy, a headache that he was waiting to go away after a nurse gave him Tylenol booming in his temples. His blood stained shirt was discarded as soon as they wheeled you in for surgery. Steve gave him an extra T shirt stashed in his car.

He threw up in the bathroom while he was changing.

“You gotta wake up so you don’t die in a hospital, honey. Can’t have ya kickin’ my ass when I get to heaven for lettin’ that happen.”

The thought made his lip quiver. The doctors were hopeful after the surgery, but things don’t always go as planned. And he was fucking terrified.

“I’m gonna kick your ass for even letting them bring me to this awful place.” You mumbled.

The sound that came from Bucky had to have been embarrassing. Somewhere between a laugh and a sob as he stood up and immediately started fawning over you and pressed the nurse button to alert them you were awake.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He cried, his hands cupping your face and placing kisses all over your cheeks.

“I’m okay, Buck.”

“What were you thinking?” He sobbed, his face buried into your hair and you broke, wrapping your arms around his neck. The pain in your stomach didn’t even register because you just needed him closer.

“I wasn’t. I wasn’t thinking. I just- I saw the gun and he was gonna kill you Bucky.” “Don’t ever do that doll, not for me. God, please not for me.”

“I was so scared, Bucky. I didn’t wanna scare you but, I had- I had to tell you I loved you. I couldn’t leave this earth without telling you I loved you.”

“I know, baby. Just please, I can’t lose you. I can’t fuckin’ lose you.”

His whole body was shaking as he continued to hug you when the nurse came in. He awkwardly separated himself from you, his large body pushing itself off of the tiny bed.

She checked you over and ran a couple tests, and afterwards promised to go and alert your friends and allow them to come in.

While you waited to be bombarded by the people you called your family, Bucky had situated himself next to you in the bed, his arm around you, allowing you to put your weight onto him, and careful not to disturb your wound.

“Hey.” You whispered, bringing your hand up to hold his.

He looked down at you to find you already looking at him fondly.

“Here’s looking at you, kid.”

Bucky smiled, the most beautiful, genuine, sincere and heartstopping smile. He kissed you.

“Always.”

#fic recs #bucky barnes #marvel #avengers

[a-asterias]

the pawn in every lover's game (part one)

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

When you’re ten, your father sends you to King's Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince.

A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.

crossposted on ao3

word count: 3.2k

Reader is a Lannister with she/her pronouns but she's not described. Her mother isn't described so I'm leaving her up to reader's choice for her appearance

On your tenth name day, a squire tells you that your father requests that you go to his solar after you break your fast in the morning. It’s an odd request - Jason Lannister, for all his friendly charm, was hardly made to be a father, especially to the gaggle of five girls that the Gods had blessed or cursed him with depending on who you asked. Your mother’s face seizes at the request, her eyes turning sharp, and your eldest sister, Cerelle, looks anxious.

You didn’t question it. You were, at the end of the day, only a girl, your father’s third daughter, and who were you to question things?

When you leave the dining room, your mother, Lady Johanna Lannister, follows behind and when you enter your father’s solar, she doesn’t leave your side to stand by her husband’s. She stands tall next to you, hands folded delicately in front of her, as she stares down the Lord of Casterly Rock.

Jason merely smiles, gesturing a hand out to you from behind his desk. “Come here, sweet girl,” he says and, after a moment of hesitation, you walk to stand next to him. His hand grasps yours, covering it completely.  “You’re ten now. That's a very big occasion.”

You nod, knowing that your father doesn’t really want a response.  His smile grows and he opens a drawer in his desk, pulling out a beautiful golden box. He hands it to you and you glance over at your mother in question. Her face reveals nothing and you open the box. 

A golden necklace glimmers back at you, a shining sapphire sparkling in the centerpiece. Your mouth drops open - you’re a Lannister, a daughter of the richest house in Westeros, but your father had never given you such an expensive gift before. You were only a girl, not even flowered yet. The time for such jewels would come later when it was time for you to secure a husband. 

Your mind suddenly catches up and your hands tighten on the box, feeling the weight of the necklace as if it was the size of Casterly Rock itself. 

Your father doesn’t notice, however, and his hand comes down heavy on your shoulder. “You’re nearly a woman now,” he teases, voice warm and teasing. “I imagine you’re growing tired of being here, underfoot Cerelle and Tyshara, and caring for your younger sisters. How would you like to go to stay with your uncle? See the capital and all it has to offer?” 

It’s phrased as a question but even at ten, you know better. Regardless of what you say, your father will get what he wants. You offer him a smile, your face feeling as if it’s frozen. “I would like nothing more.”

“Princess Helaena needs a friend. Would you like to be that friend, sweetling?” 

Another command framed like a question. 

You nod, feeling the walls closing in. Jason smiles and lets go of your shoulder, giving your cheek a pinch as he rises to his feet. “Tyland will be arriving by the end of the week to fetch you. You will leave soon after. The princess… she has brothers. Perhaps you could be a companion to them as well? I hear the oldest two are both near your age.”

There it is.

You glance over at your mother and she’s a second too slow to wipe the expression off her face. She looks vengeful as if she could reach and strike Jason down if she thought she could get away with it. You look back at your father and nod again, this time more slowly. 

Jason beams and you idly wonder if your father has ever looked quite so proud of you as he does at this moment. “You will bring honor and strength to House Lannister, my sweet girl.”

By being a dear friend to a princess or by snagging myself a prince? 

You smile at your father and he gives you an awkward pat on the head before he strides out of the room, no doubt heading somewhere where he was free to ignore his duties as Warden of the West. 

Johanna crosses the room to you, lowering herself to look directly into your eyes. “Speak the truth,” she says, her voice gentle even as her eyes are sharp and searching. “Do you want to go to King’s Landing? Do you want to be tied up in the royal family?”

Your immediate answer is no. You never want to leave Casterly Rock, never want to leave your shining castle by the Sunset Sea. This was your home. The thought of riding across the continent to live in a famously stinking city, away from your mother and sisters, and surrounded by liars and cheats fills you with dread. 

But then your father’s words repeat themselves in your mind. 

Honor and strength to House Lannister.

You were a third daughter. Cerelle was the grandest prize amongst the Lannister pride, the firstborn and the heir if your mother didn’t bear a son soon. She would have her pick of the lot and lords from the Westerlands and other kingdoms would sue for her hand. Tyshara was a great beauty and there was no doubt that your father’s bannermen would scramble to secure a marriage with her. There would be no such fight for you or your even younger sisters. 

Securing a prince would bring more than prestige to House Lannister. It would give you the power to protect your younger sisters, the power to make them matches worthy of them. You could throw the weight of the royal family behind them. Your house was strong but it could be stronger still and you could be the one to raise its standing. 

All it would take was claiming a prince as yours. 

You nod sharply. “I will go to King’s Landing, mother.”

She looks at you carefully, eyes scanning for a sign of weakness before she smiles slowly. Despite her looks and Westerling origins, Johanna Lannister has always been more of a lion than your father. “Remember, little one, you are a lioness of the Rock. You are the blood of kings. Not even two hundred years ago, princes would be fighting for your hand. We may have bent the knee to the dragon but you will never cower before them. What are our family words?”

“Hear us roar,” you reply, feeling your chest grow warm and suddenly, the sapphire necklace in your hands doesn’t feel as heavy as it use to.

Your mother’s smile grows. 

--------------------------------

Princess Helaena reminds you of your younger sister Jeyne. She’s quiet and reserved but, when you sit with her as she plays with her bugs, she practically lights up. She leans in close, never touching even if her hair falls into your face, and holds caterpillars and centipedes with the same care most girls show puppies and kittens. She tells you facts about them, rattling off information while keeping her eyes glued to whatever small creature she held. It’s so charming that you can ignore the fact that the objects of her affection slithered and squirmed in her pretty hands. 

“The praying mantis always kills her partner after mating,” Helaena whispers as if she’s telling you a salacious secret. The green bug crawls over her knuckles, making its way up her dress sleeve. “And a lioness will burn blood to protect her pride.”

You pause, hands stilling over your embroidery hoop. “What do you mean by that, my princess?”

Helaena blinks at you before smiling slowly. “Has your mother not explained mating to you? Or your septa?”

You stare at the princess but her face doesn’t shift from anything but her teasing smile. You let out a sigh. “Somewhat,” you confess absentmindedly, still thinking about her strange words as you continue to work on your stitched handkerchief. She did that often. Sometimes she would look at you as if she was looking straight through you, off into the distance. When she first met you, rather than her name, she had said “Claws of gold tearing through the sea, claws of green shattering delight.”. 

Even your uncle with all his wit had not been able to think up a response. 

Weeks of serving as her companion have taught you to ignore it when she has her moments but it still alarms you when it happens. Helaena can never explain herself after, either feigning or truly forgetting whatever strange thing she said. Sometimes, she would clam up entirely and no matter how long you sat with her and tried to coax out something, she would refuse to speak. 

Even still, Helaena is possibly the sweetest person you’ve ever met with even her oddities carrying charm.

“Your brothers are arriving back today, aren’t they?” You ask as you finish off the golden mane of your embroidered lion.

Helaena nods as she gently places her praying mantis back in its glass container. “Aegon and Aemond at least. Daeron will remain in Oldstown.”

You nod. “It’s nice that your brothers could accompany him to his wardship.”

“I was supposed to go too until… Well, I got to say goodbye to him here,” Helaena finishes lamely and you wince. 

Until you.

Your arrival hadn’t been a big deal by any means but apparently, the Queen Alicent had insisted on Helaena being there to personally receive you. The royal family, it would seem, was desperate to remain in House Lannister’s good graces, and leaving you, a daughter of Casterly Rock, unaccompanied would have been an insult to you and your house. 

It was yet another way that Helaena proved her sweetness. If you had been the one kept back from accompanying one of your sisters to their new home for a stranger, you certainly wouldn’t have had it in you to be kind and friendly. 

“Are you excited?” You hastily ask, trying to fill in the awkward silence before it had a chance to grow. 

Helaena nods, folding her hands in her lap. “Aegon can be mean sometimes but he does care. He brings me toys and other things he finds. Aemond likes to read with me when he has time. He’s always studying or training otherwise. I think you’d get along if you can drag him from his books.”

You tilt your head, thinking about what you had heard about the two. Prince Aegon was a notorious flirt, more known for chasing the skirts of the servant girls than anything else. You didn’t imagine you would be much interest to him. While your looks may be tempting to him, it was not as if he could get away with deflowering you as easily as he could with his preferred girls especially considering your age. He wouldn’t have any interest in you for a least a couple of years - at least, no interest that would help your plans. Prince Aemond could be easier - you liked to read though perhaps not as much as the prince himself.

All you really know about Aemond is his lack of a dragon - it was all most people talked about when King Viserys’s second son was brought up. When you had pressed Uncle Tyland for details, he had confessed that he didn’t know much more about the prince in question, just that the Queen adored him and he was quite the studious young boy.

Helpful information but not much.

You sigh, pushing your needle through your handkerchief. “I’m eager to meet them.”

Helaena grins, looking even more girlish than normal. “I’m sure.”

“And what do you mean by that, my princess?” You ask, shooting her a sideways look. 

She laughs. “I remember how badly you liked the song the singer was playing for us last night. The one about the prince and his lady wife.”

“The sad one where they both died and couldn’t be together?” You sourly ask, attacking your embroidery with a bit more vigor. “I cried over it, my princess. I didn’t love it.”

“Love and tragedy are bedfellows if you allow them to be,” Helaena replies, her tone flat and empty, and when you look up to question her, your needle slips from your fingers, punching straight into your finger.

You cry out in pain, leaping to your feet, and Helaena, alarmed, follows. Tears jump to your eyes and, scowling, you swallow thickly to force them down. Your wound isn’t too bad but it’s embarrassing to see the blood trickling doing your finger and it stings something awful. 

“Are you alright?” Helaena frets, wringing her hands anxiously, and you nod, sucking in air, as you reach for a spare piece of fabric to press against your wound. 

“It’s not bad, Helaena,” you reply, too caught up to remember your courtesies. “It’s just… I have to let it staunch itself.” You look up and Helaena looks paler than normal, nearly as white as snow, giving you pause. “Are… Are you okay?”

She waves her hand, looking away from you pointedly. “I just don’t… I don’t like blood.” She finishes quietly. 

You let out a sigh, feeling something clench in your heart at her tone. She really is like Jeyne. “Shall we head to the gardens instead? I’ll find that one book about Dorne and its beetles to read to you.”

Helaena nods, still looking rather peakish, and you send her off, giving the excuse that you need to find the book when the truth was that you needed to wrap your finger up better. You didn’t want her around to see the sight of your blood for much longer. 

With a sigh, you unwrap your finger and wince. It was slightly worse than you expected - the angle you had been holding your hoop meant that your needle had pierced through a chunk of skin to the other side, leaving a rather gnarly-looking wound. Not serious enough to warrant the maester but bad enough that you needed to actually clean it. 

Sighing, you look around the sitting room, spotting the jug of water some maids had left for the two of you across the room. You walk over and, lifting it up, prepare to soak a spare scrap.

At least, you would have if the door had not slammed open at that exact moment.

You squeak, surprised, and your hold on the jug loosens to the point you almost drop it entirely. You recover, awkwardly enough, but end up splashing water on yourself, soaking the front of your gown completely.

Wonderful. At least the damned jug didn’t break. 

“Are you alright?” A voice calls and you turn to them with a scowl, ready to curse whoever it was for frightening you in such an embarrassing way. 

Only to blink in shock. 

A boy who can only be a Targaryen stares back at you, amethyst eyes wide with shock. He’s dressed in a dark green tunic and pants, his features fine and pretty and framed by shining silver hair, looking exactly as you had imagined a son of Queen Alicent Hightower to look. 

He was one of the princes you were meant to secure in a marriage. 

And there you were; bloody finger, caught off guard, and soaking wet. 

It truly was a miracle he wasn’t begging your uncle for your hand in marriage already.

“Yes?” You say, the word coming out more like a question than anything else. You clear your throat, reigning in your fluster. “Yes. I’m fine. I just, uh, caught my finger while embroidering. My apologies, my prince,” you drop in a curtsey, cheeks flaming. 

He tells you to rise and a quick glance reveals that he’s just as caught off guard as you are. “I think I’m at a disadvantage. You know who I am but I don’t know who you are.”

You tell him your name. “I’m Lord Jason and Johanna Lannister’s daughter,” you clarify. “My uncle Tyland is your father’s master of ships. And… at the risk of sounding impertinent, my prince, I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

The boy blinks, obviously confused. “How am I mistaken?”

You smile. “Now you know who I am but I don’t know who you are. I know you’re a Targaryen prince, that much is easy to tell, but there are three of those. Are you Prince Aegon? Or perhaps Prince Aemond? You could even be Prince Daeron, having decided that Oldtown isn’t to his taste.”

He stares at you, scanning your face, until finally, he smiles, shy and hesitant. The sight of it stuns you entirely that you take a second to recover.  “I’m Prince Aemond. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

After a moment, you think you’ve gathered your wits enough to reply. “Small mercies then,” you laugh. “Your sister told me that you and I would get along.”

“She did?” He asks, completely baffled. “Me? And you? But you’re so…”

You nod, finally placing the pitcher back on the table, and pouring some water on your rag. You begin to clean your wound. “She said you liked to read? And study? I’m no great scholar but I like to read the histories of the Westerlands and the other kingdoms. It’s important to know our past to be best able to predict our future.” 

Aemond nods slowly, still looking out of his element as if he was waiting for you to reveal that you were lying about being excited that it was him. “You like histories?”

“Of course,” you say. You’re not lying. Maybe exaggerating but out of all of your studies, you did prefer history to anything else. You begin to rewrap your wound. “Perhaps you can share some of your favorite books with me? I’m about to go meet Princess Helaena in the gardens. You could join us?”

He stares at you, eyes wide with shock before he flushes slightly and ducks his head. “I would be honored, my lady.”

You beam happily as you finish tending to your cut. “I’ll meet you in the gardens then! Please allow me to get changed and could you inform Princess Helaena that I’ll be late?”

He stammers out “Of course” and you leave the room, heading towards the apartments you shared with your uncle and household. Your heart beats fast and heavy in your chest and you clasp your hands together, taking deep breaths. Your cheeks feel like they’re blazing and you wonder if you managed to come across as effortless as you had tried. 

When you enter your apartments, you find Uncle Tyland sitting in the main area, surrounded by piles of scrolls and paper. He blinks at your appearance but before he can manage to get a question out, you move to stand in front of him. 

“I’ve decided, Uncle Tyland,” you declare, meeting his eyes with as much intent as you can muster. “If I’m to have one of the princes, then I want Prince Aemond.”

Tyland raises a brow. “Not Prince Aegon? He is the firstborn son of King Viserys.” And the rightful heir is the quiet and treasonous additive that follows. 

You’d be his queen is the implied reason. 

You shake your head. Aside from the rumors swirling around him, Helaena didn’t have much to say about her eldest brother and the little she did say didn’t inspire much confidence in his potential as a husband. “I want Aemond.” And I’ll have him.

Tyland scans your face, looking for any sign of hesitancy or reluctance before he ruefully shakes his head, a small smile playing on his lips. Your uncle has always been more clever than your father. “Then I give you my permission to try and… court him, for lack of a better term, though I don’t think you came here asking for my permission.”

You smile. You hadn’t. 

#fic recs #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon

[a-asterias]

Are You Fucking Kidding Me? (Jason Todd x Reader)

What is a short Jason Todd fic? I don’t know her, so I broke this into two parts, again. Also, you can pry italics from my cold, dead hands. I had so much fun writing this, I really enjoy this debate. After this, I have a Harley Quinn!daughter request to write, so keep an eye out for that one. 

Summary: As an ER nurse, you deal with a lot of shit, but Red Hood is not one of those things. 

Warnings: Injuries are mentioned? It’s not very gory, this is very dialog heavy 

Word Count: 4,000

You’ve seen a lot of shit working as a nurse in the emergency room. Last week, an eight-year-old who still wore pulls ups came in, despite being physically and mentally capable of learning how to use a toilet at an earlier age. Three nights ago, you watched a mother hug her teenage son and sob with relief after the doctor stitched his wrists up after a suicide attempt.  Yesterday, you performed CPR on a three-week-old only for the infant to die. Some nights were better than others. 

Then the Red Hood shows up in Gotham. 

He’s fighting crime, you guess, but geez, is killing people really necessary? You might understand if it was someone like Joker or a serial killer or something, but this guy isn’t even going after the masked psychopaths that run around Gotham. He’s going after drug dealers. And not just throwing them in prison, no, he’s murdering them. 

Seriously? Gotham is practically a superheroes’ playground, but this guy, this Red Hood is running around murdering drug dealers? Yeah, you understand what they’re doing is illegal, but come on, rape is also illegal and you don’t see rapists showing up dead on the news. Instead, you see some dude who was selling crack on the corner, dead. 

And yeah, you might be slightly biased against using death to solve problems as someone who entered a field dedicated to saving lives, but this Red Hood dude? He’s kind of an idiot. 

… 

After a twelve-hour shift ending at 6 AM, you head to your apartment, hoping to relax, but that plan is promptly thrown out the door when you open your apartment door to see no one other than the Red Hood sitting on your couch, pointing a gun at you, and holding his side. 

Are you fucking kidding me? 

Keep reading

#fic recs #jason todd #red hood #dc

[a-asterias]

bad was the blood - episode zero

series masterlist

pairing: anthony lockwood x fem reader

word count: 10.9k

episode content: canon typical violence, lockwood gets on your nerves, arguing

episode summary: you finally turn your back on fittes. it’s a good thing george karim is there to help you glue your life back together

notes: i first posted about this rewrite in june… it is now september lol. thank you guys so much for the patience and waiting and support on this lol i hope u enjoy episode zero!

It takes two near death experiences for your life to finally start looking up.

The first time, it is side by side with your closest friend. There’s a ghost, obviously. But it is not your impressive rapier skills that save you — it is pure luck and chance. If you had arrived a minute earlier, you would have met the same fate as the rest of the unfortunate twelve-year-olds you knew.

You don’t stick around much longer after that one.

The city is exactly what you need. It’s the opposite of that small town where everyone knows everyone and everything. You’re faceless here.

(You were faceless together.)

Mistakes at Fittes give you a slap on the wrist. Errors are quickly forgotten among the countless other slip-ups made by the hundreds of other child agents. It’s different. It’s good.

The second time you almost die is side by side with your best friend, again. There are even more ghosts, because of course there are. But there is now the sickening feeling of overwhelming fear that you are starting to associate with the smug grins and blonde curly hair.

For the first time in your life, you found that you couldn’t stick around it for much longer. An hour later, you quit your job at Fittes Agency, cold turkey.

Probably not your smartest move, but definitely your best.

The ectoplasm stains were fresh on your uniform when you had turned it in, along with your key to your room.

“I’m quitting.” You dropped your personal items onto the desk, uncaring of the dirt. The key clanked loudly against the wood, but you weren’t thinking of anything other than leaving.

Your supervisor glanced at your soiled uniform that was no doubt dirtying her pristine desk.

“You’ll have to go through the proper channels,” she drawled, pulling out a stack of papers from her desk. She dropped them on the desk somewhere in your direction, like she was too busy to hand them to you herself. “File for your final three weeks, and then you can quit after that time is over.”

You shook your head adamantly. “I’m leaving now.”

She raised one of her weirdly drawn eyebrows at you. “You understand this is a breach of your contract, right?”

Of course you didn’t know that, you were thirteen and desperate when you signed that stupid paper. “I know.”

She gives you one last glance before shrugging. “Suit yourself.”

George Karim finds you at the Archives six hours later.

You are sitting at your usual table, a stack of books piled next to you. Each one of them is pointedly ghost-free and written pre-Problem.

You think you’ve had enough ghosts for one lifetime.

A stack of newspapers that might be even taller than your pile of books gets thrown down across from you. The table wobbles dangerously.

“Awfully funny seeing you here,” George says, as if you don’t see each other everyday at the same time.

You smile. “What a coincidence,” you joke, and it comes out flat.

Thankfully, you don’t think George picks up on it, because he continues to ramble on. “What are you researching today?”

“Nothing,” you answer truthfully. You wonder if it’s better to rip the bandage off and tell him now or wait until you’re both leaving. He’d have less time to intervene, that way. But George is tilting curiously, and you find that you can’t outright lie to him.

“Er— My schedule’s been cleared until further notice. No research for me.”

Probably the nicest roundabout way to tell your friend you quit your job.

George whistles. “Never thought I’d see the day where Fittes went easy on its agents.”

No one has, you want to say. But you instead smile passively and gesture to his pile.

“Enough about me, though. What are you working on?”

He begins sorting through the old papers as he explains. “Only some last minute stuff before our case tonight.” His expression sours as he thinks about it. “Lockwood says he’s confident that we’re capable of handling it with the information we have, but I can’t help but feel like there’s something missing.”

Ah, Lockwood.

You’ve never met George’s mysterious employer/boss/coworker/friend in person, but all utterances of his name tend to be in a slightly irritated tone. His name has begun to take on a negative connotation with you.

From what George has said, you've gathered that he’s a great leader, confident enough to inspire anyone to follow him into likely death. But he’s oddly secretive, and has a tendency to be head-strong and a little too brazen.

(The thought reminds you of crooked Fittes uniforms and slamming doors, and you quickly shut your brain off.)

You don’t think you’d like Anthony Lockwood very much.

Or, maybe you would, and that’s what annoys you.

“Too much research never hurt anyone,” you tell George, already taking one of his carefully divided piles. “I’ll help.”

He gives you a small smile, but you know it is appreciative. “Thanks.”

You guys speak aimlessly about whatever comes to mind. He accidentally found this good pizza place somewhere nearby when he fell asleep on the bus. You saw a Raw-bones for the first time on Wednesday and forgot to tell him about it.

Eventually, he gets to telling you about the job, about how Mr. Shelby on Carford Street insists on the presence of a Visitor. He hasn’t had much to say about it, just that at night time, ‘there's something in his backyard that’s definitely not alive.’ There’s no evil history connected to the house or the land itself, which makes it difficult to know what to expect.

“Lockwood thinks the obvious cause is a death on the property from years ago, long before Mr. Shelby’s neighbourhood even existed,” George explains, after two hours or so of going through the papers. “He says we can only do so much with the limited information Mr. Shelby gave us, and that going to the property is the only thing we can do.”

“And you don’t agree?” you ask, picking up a fresh set of papers from your pile.

You don’t voice it, but you’re starting to agree with Lockwood. It’s been hours of research with no breakthroughs, and the Archives are set to close soon due to curfew. As a non-agent, you have no business being out after dark, although George is free to return home whenever he’d like.

The thought looms over your head, a gloomy reminder of the decision you had made earlier today. But still, the familiar feeling of remorse does not make itself known.

You are content in your decision to leave Fittes. There is no regret.

“I don’t disagree, but… Entering any case completely unprepared isn’t easy.” George shrugs. “Let’s just say that Lockwood and I don’t share that unshakeable confidence about everything always being perfectly fine.”

The familiar warning bell sounds — thirty minutes until curfew. George sits back in his chair with a sigh, and you study your surroundings.

The Archives are basically emptied out at this point, and you count one stray person sitting at a table. He’s fast asleep, his face planted in a physics textbook.

George begins wrapping up, reluctancy slowing his movements. “I best be heading back. I promised Lockwood I’d be back by fifteen after.”

“So soon?” you ask, helping him collect the materials on the table.

“Unfortunately.”

You buy yourself some time by tapping the papers against the table, setting them into neat and even piles. You’re reluctant to leave too, but for a different reason. When George leaves, you know that it will mark the end of your day. Researching with him was a good enough excuse to ignore the more pressing issues you had, but he will soon be gone, and you will be on your own. When night falls and the Archives close, you will be out on the street, looking for accommodations. You have money — being an active Fittes agent doesn’t pay nothing, after all — but how long would those funds carry you?

(He’s back in those stifling rooms, probably too upset to wonder what you’re up to. The idea stings somewhere deep inside.)

The two of you talk more on the way down the steps, and you wish him luck on his case tonight. He tells you to enjoy your newfound free time, and you actually laugh at that. He really has no idea how free your time is, now that you’re unemployed.

You and George usually part ways outside the door, but he’s lingering today.

“I’ll walk you to your bus.” George tells you, smiling.

You startle.

“Oh, that’s…” Researching with George was fun enough that you forgot to bring up your situation again. “I’m not taking the bus back to Fittes, George.”

He snorts, looking smug. “You think I don’t know that? You’ve been acting weird about leaving this entire time. What happened?”

“What? I haven’t been acting weird,” you defend.

“You were dragging your feet so much you nearly tripped on the carpet.”

“There’s no way you could’ve seen that,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. You didn’t think it was possible for him to have eyes in the back of his head, but here you are. “You were literally walking in front of me.”

“But I heard you trip. And now I know it happened because you just told me.” You wish you had one of those thick books from the really high up shelves in the Archives to hit him with.

George doesn’t give up. “Why are you acting weird, and why aren’t you going back to Fittes?”

He adjusts his glasses innocently, before squinting at you in thought. The sight makes your palms grow sweaty. George is one of the smartest people you know, and it is only a matter of time before he guesses correctly.

“Was it your roommate again?” he asks, his brows furrowing. “Did she leave her laundry in your bin again?”

“George—”

A lightbulb goes off in his head, and you notice the second he realizes what’s wrong.

“Was it a bad case? Did Nic—”

“I quit,” you confess, before he can go any further. Very quickly, you add, “It wasn’t any of those things, I just quit.”

Your face is growing hot, and you cross your arms defensively. He doesn’t believe that shit explanation — you know he doesn’t, and it frustrates you to no end.

George is clearly about to ask something, but keeps his mouth shut. Instead, he smiles. “Welcome to the club, then.”

You laugh dryly, scuffing at an old stain on the pavement with your shoe. You had almost forgotten George had gotten fired from the place. “The Fittes Failures. Some club we are.”

He shrugs, a small smile on his face. “Well, we’re free from that prison, and they aren’t, so.”

You think of that ‘prison,’ the only source of stability you’ve ever known for the last few years of your life. You must have some sick version of Stockholm Syndrome, because you frown at his words. You can’t help but defend it even after the fact, a nasty habit.

“It wasn’t perfect. But I think we were just too big for that place,” you say, studying your shoes instead. The knot on your left shoe is about to come undone.

“Maybe,” he says lightly. He seems pleased to have gotten any bit of truth from you, even if it’s a half-truth. “What’re your plans now that you’re free?”

“Haven’t quite thought about that,” you say, another truth. It’s slightly embarrassing, considering the sun is already setting steadily behind the building to the west of you. You’d wasted an entire day moping in the Archives before George had shown up. Heaving a sigh, you start walking in the direction of the nearest bus stop, letting George fall into step next to you.

In your head, you run over the bus lines and which one might take you away from the heart of the city. The nice touristy hotels are all close to the busiest parts, and tend to be much more expensive.

“Maybe get a hotel for a few nights while I go job hunting,” you tell him after a few moments. “Could you see me as a barista, George?”

“A hotel?” he repeats, and you think he seems slightly disgusted by it.

You purse your lips, annoyed with his haughtiness. Who knew George Karim was so prim and proper he was afraid of staying in a hotel?

“Unless you can convince the Queen to let me room with her, then yes, I’ll be staying in a hotel.”

He gives you a smile, thinking your misfortune hilarious. “Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Last I checked, you aren’t the Queen of England.”

“No,” he says, laughing now. “I mean we’re friends. And friends can ask each other for favors.”

“You’ll put in a good word for me with your friend the Queen, then?” you ask, giving him your best sarcastic smile. You can’t tell why he’s joking about this. It may not be obvious, but you’re stressed.

From behind his form, you see a familiar red bus turning onto the street. You speed up in the direction of the stop, making him jog to keep up. “Stop taking the piss, George, it’s not funny.”

“I’m not,” he insists, tugging on your sleeve to pull you to a stop.

“Then stop being cryptic and say what you mean.” You gesture to the approaching bus. There is a sizable amount of people waiting for it to pull in, the night rush of adults and non-agents rushing home before curfew. “I’m going to miss the bus.”

“You don’t have to take the bus,” he says, exasperated. “I’m your friend, with a house, who’s asking if you’d want to stay with him.”

“You don’t actually mean that.” The bus whooshes past you, blasting you and George with cold air. A stray piece of litter tumbles past your foot. “You’re actually inviting me to stay with you?”

He nods, as if he had made it obvious from the start. “You’d be able to take time to find a job and not waste sixty pounds a night on some unsanitary hotel. And you’ll owe me a massive favor, of course.”

The bus screeches to a halt, and after a second, the doors swing open. The already full bus grows even more full as everyone piles in, standing room only. If you’re getting that hotel, you need to go now.

The warning bell rings again. Fifteen minutes until curfew.

“Your choice,” George tells you, not impatiently.

You cast another glance at the bus, the last of the crowd settling in. There’s still room for you if you go now, and you take a step closer.

Turning back to George, you see that he’s waiting ever so kindly. His rapier hangs at his side, weighing heavy on his belt. Your own rests at your hip similarly, the only physical souvenir you have from Fittes.

You already know you aren’t getting on that bus. Being an agent is your life, the thing you have been training for since as long as you can remember. It’s as big a part of your life as your name or your birthday. You could leave Fittes, but not this.

The bus doors swing shut and it speeds off into the night. You do not look back as it does.

George smiles knowingly. “I’ll lead the way, then.”

—

He briefed you quickly on your walk back to the house.

“And he won’t care?” you’d asked. “It's his house and his company, after all.”

“Lockwood’ll care. But if he wanted to invite one of his random friends over, I’d let him, and it’s likely he’d do the same for me.”

Likely.

It’s also likely that Lockwood would decide to turn around and kick you out on the street.

“That’s it on the corner.” He nods to the building on the far right.

It’s a part of a string of row houses, all of them nice and uniform. They all seem to have three floors and an attic, and you marvel at the size of it. The house George is leading you to has a gorgeous green door, and just above it, the house number shines on a piece of glass. Thirty-five.

“You didn’t tell me your friend was rich,” you say, slightly breathless. You had seen your fair share of London homes to know this one was obviously large. Your home before the Fittes houses wasn’t all that big either — you used to dream of living in a place like this.

“He’s still trying to figure that one out himself, I think.”

After a few seconds, George’s key finds the lock and he pushes the door open. You smile tensely as you step past him, letting him lock the door behind you. When you turn to the rest of the hallway, you can’t help but marvel.

There are tons of things adorning the walls, and the first thing you see is a collection of masks that cover the left wall. Next to it is an interesting purple tapestry, and below it is a small accent bench complete with pillows and an orange blanket. You give George a funny look when you notice the plant pot filled to the brim with spare rapiers and umbrellas.

He continues just past the archway, stopping opposite a big rectangular mirror.

“Lockwood, come here,” George calls up the stairs.

“Something wrong?” the boy responds, his voice quiet from how far away he is.

“Just come here,” George says more insistently.

You can’t help but look around some more. It’s not often you’re in an actual house for non-case reasons, and George seems undisturbed by your snooping.

The walls over here are just as full as the ones closer to the door, and you notice various papers and pictures are framed and hung about. To the right of the stairs is another door with frosted glass windows.

Finally, there is the tell tale sound of footsteps on the stairs. You shift uneasily, listening as the steps get louder and louder. It’s painstaking — it sounds like he’s taking his time.

“You can relax,” George murmurs. “It’ll be fine.”

You nod, a little embarrassed that he could see how nervous you were. “Do you think he’ll say no?”

George cracks a grin. “If he does, it’s two against one. We could always kick him out.”

You laugh, looking away to the floor. The tiles have just been cleaned, and the ones under your feet are tinted blue and green from the light hanging above your heads. When you lean against your right foot, you notice that your shoelaces are sitting undone on the shiny tiles. Just as you bend down to tie your shoes, the sound of the wooden steps creaking comes to a halt.

“Oh, there’s no need to kneel for me.”

Your neck cranes up, and up, and up — really how tall can one person be — and your eyes lock with his.

It’s a mistake, because you nearly choke on your spit.

Anthony Lockwood is a lot taller than you expected, and much nicer on the eyes. Even though you’re looking up at him from the floor, you can tell his features will somehow look even nicer from up close.

…

Up close as in when you’re standing, of course, not like— Yeah. Anyways.

You must’ve been staring for too long because his eyes brighten after a second. Then his lips begin pulling upward into a smug smile.

The sight is all too familiar. Your jaw tenses without you meaning it to.

You think you might end up hating Anthony Lockwood.

You can not push yourself up from the floor faster.

“I’m Anthony Lockwood.” He is still grinning, and your eye nearly twitches. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You give him your name, and force a smile back. You doubt it looks as squeaky clean as his.

His eyebrows lift by a fraction of an inch. He repeats your name, your full name, and anxiety forms in your chest.

“You were the Sensitive with Touch at the Emmerton House,” he says, impressed. “The reason your team survived. One of the best current Fittes agents. I’d kill for a sense of Touch like that.”

The fact that your team would’ve died at Emmerton House without you was very much real and true, and you ease up a bit at the flattery. And it’s also not the only time you’ve had people tell you that last part. Your Listening was always below average and your Sight was considered alright, but your sense of Touch was a different story.

It was like it had adjusted accordingly based on how weak your other senses were. To compensate for what they couldn’t pick up, your Touch had been magnified tenfold. Even the lightest of contact with objects could show you psychic echoes. Oftentimes, even objects very loosely related to a death gave you clues. It was no doubt helpful, but could make work absolutely unbearable. Something as mundane as a trash can could show you visions of someone’s last moments, and it made you wary of everything.

People, too, could set off your senses. It was bad with agents especially. That part of your Talent had developed over time — you found out when your roommate at Fittes got back from a case and gave you a pat on the back. You were walking together in the middle of the cafeteria one second, and were keeled over with sounds of gunfire in your ears the next.

She had just helped deal with a battlefield cluster case, where all of the Visitors were soldiers who had been gunned down in war. For some reason, your sense of Touch picked up on whatever ghostly residuals she had gotten from the case, and you were reliving those soldiers’ last moments in front of everyone you worked with.

It was safe to say you avoided coming into contact with other people after that.

You hadn’t mentioned this part to your team back at Fittes, but it could happen with non-agents, too. Even those not physically close with a death could give you a reaction. Emotions like grief and strong thoughts of the deceased often gave off their own echoes, although you couldn’t tell if those were real or not. You hadn’t met anyone else who experienced the same thing, and were a little convinced they were just tricks of the mind.

The strength of your Talent had effectively put you inside your own bubble.

“I’d kill for a sense of Touch like that.”

If only he knew.

“Didn’t know you did research on Fittes agents,” you say.

“And she’s an ex-Fittes agent now,” George cuts in, and you snap your gaze to him. “She quit.”

Suddenly, George is a big fan of getting straight to the point.

Lockwood’s face is colored with surprise and slight intrigue. “Really? Why?”

“No particular reason,” you say, but your answer may have come a little too quickly, because he tilts his head in interest. “I’m glad to be free of those ridiculous uniforms, though,” you add on, eager to talk about literally anything else. “For the most renowned agency in London, they need to choose better laundry detergent.”

George smiles at that. “They were so scratchy, weren’t they?”

Lockwood gives you a smile. “Then you’ll be pleased to know that Lockwood & Co. doesn’t mandate uniforms.”

“Oh. I’m not— I’m not looking for a job, or anything,” you say quickly.

No offense to Lockwood, but you could not imagine going from being one of the best agents at the most respected agency in Britain to the smallest agency in London.

“She needs a place to stay while she looks for another job, Lockwood,” George supplies helpfully. “We have more than enough spare space, so I don’t see why it’d be a problem.”

The easy expression flickers off of Lockwood’s face and you nearly wilt. You knew he wasn’t going to take this news lightly, and it’s further confirmed when his mouth begins pulling down into a frown.

Crossing his arms, he says, “George, I admire your charity. But this is a proper psychical investigation agency, not a hotel.”

You bristle. Charity? He’s making it seem like you’re someone George found under a bridge.

What an impertinent prick. It’s like you’re not even standing in front of him while he speaks.

“This isn’t an act of philanthropy,” you grit out, trying to keep your composure. He seemed to be filling the pretentious rich boy mold quite well. “I can be more than helpful, and I’d be happy doing anything asked of me—”

“I appreciate the effort.” He tells this part to you directly, like he has just now remembered you’re here. “But unless you became an operative under the company, there’s not much you could contribute.”

You want to knock one of those perfect teeth of his into the back of his throat. Of all ways you expected George’s friend to act, being unsympathetic and heartless to someone’s face had not been on the list.

You feel embarrassed and irritated and an array of other emotions all at the same time. You get where Lockwood’s coming from, but his word choice has your eye twitching. Smug operatives like him do not have a great track record with you, and he’s just making it worse. You straighten, puffing your shoulders out slightly.

“Well, you said it yourself.” The words are coming out before you can stop them, an endless stream of your thoughts spilling from your mouth. “I’m— I was one of Fittes’ best agents, and that hasn’t changed overnight. I can help you with cases in exchange for you letting me stay here.”

Now you’ve done it. Tied yourself to yet another cocky and callous agent in the same dangerous career. You’ve traded your old life for a new one that’s the exact same. You can’t help but think this is what you’re destined for, and this is the world’s cruel way of showing it.

Lockwood leans back against the railing of the staircase, deep in thought.

“We could use her help, Lockwood, whether you want to admit it or not.” You’re glad George is willing to fight in your favor. “We’ve been swamped ever since Robin… you know.” He glances sideways at you for a split second before continuing on. “Having her around could make our load lighter, even if it’s temporary.”

You aren’t sure how Lockwood doesn’t crack under the pressure of the looks you and George are giving him, as neither of you seem keen on leaving without him agreeing. He stares long and hard at you, and you stare right back, unblinkingly.

“Fine.” He caves, but the uncertainty is still there. “You have a rapier, I see, so you can join us on our case tonight.”

“I can?” This surprises you. “You don’t want to see what I can do first? Test me?”

Lockwood shakes his head, before pushing himself off the railing. “I’ve heard more than enough about you. I know what you can do.”

—

George had taken it upon himself to give you the tour of the house. Lockwood had offered, but you had declined as politely as you could through gritted teeth and strained smiles. You were still caught up on his weird comments and needed to cool off before being in his presence again.

You couldn’t quite tell which part of him ticked you off. His thinly veiled snobbishness left a bitter taste in your mouth, although his confidence in your abilities was nice to hear. It was weird how he seemed to know everything about you, but you didn’t have a clue about him. The unknowing irked you.

George showed you the library, which was just behind where the two of you had been standing. The shelves were piled high with just about any book you could imagine, and you understood why he enjoyed spending time in there so much. The kitchen was what was behind the door with the frosted glass window, and just up the steps were the bathroom and bedrooms.

Your temporary room was squished just between Lockwood and George’s. It was slightly smaller than the size of your housing back at Fittes, only this time, you had it all to yourself. You were once again reminded just how rich Lockwood was, as all three of the rooms on this floor seemed to be just as big.

The inside was furnished with a full sized bed, although it was covered with a plastic wrapping instead of sheets. It was clear that this was a guest room that was unused, as the dresser in the corner had collected a thick layer of dust over the top. You shut the door before you got too lost in thought. You wouldn’t let yourself entertain the idea of what it might look like if the room was actually yours.

He took you up to the attic, too, breezing past one of the doors completely. He didn’t mention it again on your way back down, and you assumed it was one of those things no one talked about. You didn’t press, although your fingertips itched to brush over the doorknob. Curiosity was always hard to ward away.

When George led you back to the front of the house, you finally saw Lockwood again, who was heaving the kit bags to the door.

“Ah, there you two are.” He tugged one of the bags over his shoulder, which was covered by his dark coat. “Enjoy your look at the house?”

You knew that it would be impossible to live with the boy if you weren’t amicable with him. After all, he was a total stranger who was doing you a huge favor by letting you stay in his massive house. And, it wasn’t even Lockwood’s fault cocky agents had a bad rep with you. You had to stop your scrutinizing, because whether you liked it or not, you would be living with him until another agency was kind enough to pick you up.

“It’s nice.” You try for a smile, and it’s not nearly as strained this time. “Thank you for letting me stay.”

Lockwood smiles back as he pulls the door open. “Thank you for offering your service.”

—

Mr. Shelby’s house is nice. The cab pulls into the development, and you notice that each house is a little different, but all are decently large with a big yard. The houses on Carford Street specifically, like Mr. Shelby’s, all open up to the woods. The neighbourhood is also far enough from the noises and pollution of the city that you’ll be able to see the stars when it’s dark.

A starry night is a sight you didn’t realize you missed so much. That’s one thing you miss most about your hometown — nature. Fittes was like a concrete forest. The closest you had to nature there were the potted plants on your window sill. You take in the sight of the clear sky. You can’t remember any of the constellation names, but you can tell some of the ones you used to see are going to be visible tonight.

“You alright?”

Lockwood is standing behind you, looming just over your right shoulder. Without meaning to, you stumble back a few steps, and he levels you with a curious look. He had been swaying his duffel bag back and forth as he watched you stare off into space.

“I’m fine.” You pull the second bag out of the boot of the car and shut it. The one you’re holding looks significantly heavier than the one Lockwood’s carrying. “Just thinking.”

George is already at the front door, reading off the paper from Mr. Shelby with instructions on how to get into the house. Apparently, he had declined when Lockwood had asked if he would be there to show them around the house. Ever since the first sensing of the ghost, he had taken his daughter and fled to his mother’s house, hence the minimal information available.

You hear George mumble a bit to himself as he reads the note aloud. Then, he moves a garden gnome out of the way, revealing a dirt covered key.

Lockwood checks his watch, not pleased with what he’s seeing. “It’s best not to delay. We’ll have to squeeze in tea at this rate.”

“It’s nearly dark out,” you protest, struggling to keep up with his long strides. He halts behind George as he works the door open. “I don’t think there’s any time for tea.”

Lockwood & Co. must take this aspect of their work very seriously, because even George frowns at this. “There’s always time for tea.”

Without an ounce of hesitation, he unlocks the door and steps inside. Lockwood follows behind him with you close behind, the three of you like a mother hen and her chicks.

The inside of the house is nice and homey, and thankfully much warmer than outside. The door opens up to a staircase straight ahead and a living room to the right, but George and Lockwood move straight past it, clearly in search of something. At the back of the line, you don’t get much say in your destination, but you realize after a second that the two boys are making a beeline for the kitchen.

Although it is nearly dark, Lockwood and George insist there is still enough time for tea and whatever dilly-dallying it seems that they want to. You place your bag onto the table at their insistence.

Your eyes take a few minutes to adjust to the unlit room, so you listen while the two boys shuffle around. After a few minutes, there is the click of the lantern, and the area around the table bursts into a muted light.

From his bag, Lockwood takes out three brown tea bags while George puts the kettle on, both of them working silently. You sit down awkwardly while Lockwood searches the cupboards for mugs. He doesn’t find any until the fourth one he checks, and scoops up three big cups in his right hand.

“Is this some ritual of yours?” You feel out of place watching them work, and feel oddly bad for not doing anything. If you had even suggested having tea during a case to your old team leader, he would’ve laughed at you. Honestly, you would’ve laughed at yourself.

“I don’t know how you Fittes agents don’t go mad.” Lockwood places a mug in front of you. It’s cute and handmade, the outside painted to look like a house. Off to the side are two blobs you think are meant to be people. You nearly coo over it, the cup clearly painted by a little kid. “I’d probably go crazy from all the waiting without any tea or biscuits.”

You think back to your old cases, and the painful silences as the group of you would wait quietly for nightfall. None of you were to speak unless necessary, and you can still remember the unease, the creeping fear before the actual creeping fear set in.

Interestingly enough, there is none of that here.

“You brought biscuits?”

From the same bag Lockwood took the tea out of, George brandishes a long tin. The familiar shape of a Minkell Sweets biscuit is printed along the side, much to your delight.

“Nice.”

“Would you mind setting up the rest of the lights?” Lockwood points to the same bag, and you move quickly, eager for something to do.

Inside, there is a box of candles and matches, an extra torch or two, and a small oil lantern. You place the various light sources about the kitchen while George begins to pour the boiling water into your cups.

The brown duffel must be a bottomless pit, because Lockwood manages to take out a small box of sugar packets as well. He pushes them in your direction. “Help yourself.”

You nod once, a quiet second before you find your voice again. “Thanks.”

It still feels weird speaking so freely in the house, knowing a Visitor could make its appearance very soon. But Lockwood and George relax easily into their chairs, adding their own respective mix-ins. You try your best to do the same, but still feel on edge. Although they seem reliable, you have no idea what Lockwood and George might do. Securing sources is generally pretty methodical, but it’s weird working with relative strangers. You’ve learned to always expect something to go wrong.

“Four minutes until the sun is officially down,” George remarks, glancing at his watch.

“I trust George updated you on what we know?” Lockwood asks you. His tea is almost finished.

“I thought we knew almost nothing.”

He smiles. “Then you’re all up to speed.”

“Does that not worry you?” you ask, stirring around the sugar at the bottom of your cup. “Doing this all blind?”

“My specialty is Sight, actually, so I do nothing blind.” He laughs lightly about his own joke, but clears his throat when you don’t join in. “But jokes aside, it doesn’t worry me. Unfortunately, there’s really nothing we could’ve done about the lack of information Mr. Shelby had and the lack of information we found ourselves.”

A bitter pill to swallow.

“I believe that wavering confidence does nothing but destroy your will,” Lockwood continues calmly, and you find your nerves relaxed a little. “Are you worried about the case?”

There’s a look on his face that you can’t place, and it has your response dying on the tip of your tongue. You have a feeling that your answer is very important.

“No,” you say carefully, and you find yourself meaning it. “I’m not worried.”

“Good.” He finishes off his cup, and you and George do the same. “Let’s go, then. This ghost isn’t going to catch itself.”

—

Although Mr. Shelby reported the presence in the backyard, Lockwood thought it best to search the rest of the house as well. You breezed through the upper floor, noting a lack of… anything. There was a complete and total absence of the usual phenomena that usually indicated a manifestation.

Lockwood’s Sight was picking up on nothing, and George couldn’t hear anything either. You had been intermittently brushing your hand against the wall, searching for anything, but to no avail. You let your fingers dance over objects that looked significant, but they gave off no more information.

This anticipation was honestly worse than the actual thing, and you found yourself wishing that a familiar chill, or fear, or anything at all would make itself known.

Mr. Shelby’s room was very messy, and measured 19 degrees. Flicking on your torch for a few moments, you could see that canvases were propped up against every wall, each of them covered in various paintings in different stages of completion. Most looked like they had the makings of a good picture, but were sadly unfinished. You could see where his child picked up their artistic skills from. Each of them were gorgeous.

The room across the hall was a guest room that measured 19 degrees as well. There was nothing but a queen sized mattress on the floor, and it gave off the same amount of signs that Mr. Shelby’s room did: zero.

The final bedroom is much smaller, as is the bed in the center. The walls are bright pink, and toys are scattered messily in the corner. This is clearly his daughter’s room, if the princess theme tells you anything. Flashing your light around shows you crayon drawings of castles and dragons on the wall. She must’ve been the little creator of your mug. Her room measures 18 degrees — a minute drop, but not large enough for concern.

“George,” you say, once you’re out in the hallway. He’s looking at a framed photo of the father and daughter. “Did Mr. Shelby tell you anything about his personal life?”

“A little.” You move to his side to see the picture in his hands. In the darkness, you can see a distant shape — Lockwood, who’s a few feet ahead, ready to head back downstairs. “He’s an artist and lives with his daughter Laurie and their dog. He adopted her a few years ago.

“All dogs are adopted, George,” Lockwood adds helpfully.

“I meant Laurie, not the dog.”

“Right.”

George turns back at you. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” you say. “That guest bedroom probably has seen better days. No one else lives here but them, I’m assuming?”

“Besides the Visitor, yes. It’s just the two of them.”

You move in the direction of Lockwood, and he begins leading the three of you in the direction of the patio. You aren’t sure how he so easily navigates the dark stairwell. The steps are so narrow you nearly miss a few and topple into George. Lockwood’s normal sight must be just as good as his spectral Sight, a fact you envy.

When you reach the bottom, he passes his bag over to you. It’s heavy with the weight of the chains and magnesium flares inside — they seem to have packed a lot of those, ready to lob them to their hearts’ content when you’re finally outside.

“Set up the chains a bit away from the back door,” Lockwood orders. “Me and George are going to do a quick sweep of the living room. Don’t go further than the patio until we get back.”

You really don’t think two people are needed to search the place where the Visitor was pointedly not sensed, but you bite your tongue and take the bag from him.

The back door is made entirely of glass and is covered by red curtains. You hadn’t noticed it earlier, but it’s inside of the kitchen, off to the side. When you push the drapes out of the way, you can feel the chill outside through the glass. It was already pretty cold when you had come in, so you don't think much of it. It could be chill from the Visitor or chill from the season, and it’s not likely you’ll be able to guess which one is the cause without heading outside.

Before you can hesitate, you push the glass doors open and step onto the patio.

It’s quiet, of course. The entire neighbourhood is inside their homes, getting ready for bed, probably. It’s just you and the crickets out here.

And whatever that is.

You can hear it loud and clear and coming from the side of the house, so it’s likely real and not at all related to your ghost. Whatever it is is growling, a violent and steady snarl.

Chancing a look at the wooded area that the Shelby’s backyard opens up to, you decide its best to draw your rapier. You aren’t an animal expert, but have a good idea of what sorts of animals can come from trees like those.

You wonder if it’d be possible to charge Mr. Shelby even more for this job. You’re a psychical field operative for crying out loud, not Animal Control.

You glance back into the house. You can’t see anything, not even a flicker of torchlight. Lockwood and George must be deeper into the first floor. You know that Lockwood said not to leave the patio, but he’ll be thanking you when ‘death by coyote’ isn’t carved onto his headstone.

As quietly as you can, you drop the bag of supplies by the glass doors and inch towards the side of the house. There’s no way it’s an animal larger than a wolf, but even small animals come with their own dangers. You adjust your grip on your rapier as you slowly round the corner, eyes darting quickly as you steady your ground.

You see it — a moving shape next to the bush. You don’t advance, letting it make the first move. Obviously, you don’t want to hurt an innocent animal. There’s always a chance it’ll be scared enough to run back into the woods, which is what you’re hoping for. The growling has stopped, oddly enough, and the sounds of the crickets seems unbearably louder.

Quicker than you anticipated, the animal darts out of the darkness and in your direction. You wince. You don’t want to hurt it, but your panic response has your rapier moving, ready to defend.

Now out of the shadows, the light of the moon illuminates the animal. Your entire body freezes up, your swing coming to an abrupt halt.

It’s not a wolf at all.

But there’s no time to process the brief flurry of golden fur before a force is pressing hard against your shoulders and you’re shoved onto your back.

It knocks the wind out of you, but you don’t cry out for help. It’s only the Shelbys’ golden retriever. Your good arm pulls back, getting momentum to push the dog off of you, but you can feel your limbs tingling as they lose sensation.

Ah.

Your eyes slide shut, and then your mind is dragged through a flicker of psychic echoes.

Usually, coming into contact with a related object will have small physical effects, like your heart skipping a beat. Sometimes it will make you freeze in place, but both are nothing more than a small shock to the system. You’ve grown to learn how to ignore it.

This one has your stomach rolling, but you push past the physical nausea to feel.

And feel you do.

The overwhelming emotion of irritation rolls over you. The kind that comes with bared teeth and possesses you, makes you angry enough you’re not like yourself. And there’s exhaustion, too, debilitating fatigue that warps your vision. Distantly, you can hear something. Low snarling, in the back of your head.

You choke on air, but you can’t tell if it’s real or fake. Then there’s a searing pain in your chest, one so real you know it’s nothing but an echo. After another second your chest is tearing open, the pain so blinding you can’t help but feel bad for the ghost. There’s another noise now, the sound of something flapping back and forth. It’s loud enough to be heard over the growling, and you wish you could clamp your hands over your ears.

Flip. Flap.

Loud and annoying, right in your ear.

There’s the feeling of wood underneath your fingertips, rough and coarse. But then there’s a bright flash of light, like somebody’s yanking a blanket off of your head.

Before you know it, oxygen is returning to your body as you sit up in shock.

The Shelby’s golden retriever topples off you, her tongue hanging out of her mouth. There’s drool covering the side of your face, and you wipe it away in a daze. This is the first time an animal has triggered your Talent, and you’re still reeling from her jump at you and the echoes you had witnessed. You had thought you were about to get mauled by a wolf.

She’s running in circles around you, eager to play, but you’re still coming back to yourself after your brief moments floating in Psychical Outer Space.

After mere seconds, she gets bored and bounds off somewhere behind you. You blink hard, feeling sluggish. You’re still seated on the grass, for some reason.

Get up, you tell yourself. But your limbs still aren’t working. You shake your head hard, as if it will get rid of the drowsiness. It never takes this long for you to come back to yourself after using your Talent. You feel heavy, like fifty pound weights are attached to your wrists and ankles.

Distantly, you think you can hear someone saying something, but you can’t understand it through the brain fog. A few taps to the side of your head does the trick like always, and you gain some sense of hearing back.

It’s just in time to hear the sound of a salt bomb exploding over your head.

It burns red hot, and you’re lucky you wore a thicker jacket today. Your arms are snapping free of whatever invisible forces were holding them back, and you shield your head from the burst. Instinct has your fingers tightening around your rapier, and you launch yourself forward, away from the direction of the blast. The burning salt lands around you like a flurry of snow.

Ghost-lock. It was ghost-lock that was stopping you from moving. And if someone hadn’t lobbed the salt bomb at you, you would’ve died. You hadn’t recognized the familiar sensation, thinking it still a side effect from your Talent. But you whirl back around in the direction of the ghost, and feel malaise set in. You’re steady on your feet now, your rapier at the ready.

The salt bomb might’ve deterred the ghost long enough for you to get away, but it was not strong enough to disippate it completely. The apparition is already reformed, the Visitor looking solid and real before your eyes. Your eyes lock with the ghostly figure across from you, and you pause, waiting to see if it’ll attack first. You take this time to study whatever your Sight allows you to see.

She’s taken the form of a girl. Her face is nothing more than a trick of the light to you, features fading in and out. Lockwood may be able to see her better, but it’s all a hit or miss for you. She’s clearly not of this time, her dress stylish but from years long past.

Where’s your Source? you want to ask. Show me.

It’s useless to try communicating with a ghost, of course. But it doesn’t stop you from searching your brain for any scrap of information the Shelby dog had given you. The flapping noise and the feeling of your chest erupting wasn’t exactly enough.

“O—er here!” one of the watery voices yells.

Your eyes dart over to the left. It’s Lockwood, waving in your direction. You shake your head at him, hoping he gives you a second. The ghost girl hasn’t made any sudden movements, just stood opposite of you with the solidity of any other Spectre.

“That’s an ugly dress you’ve got on there!” he yells again. George is kneeling down, making sure the chains are secured.

With a start, you realize Lockwood isn’t calling for you… he’s taunting the ghost.

How bright of him.

But it works. Her head turns in the direction of the two boys, and you shiver. Your thermometer vibrates slightly where it’s hung on your belt.

The weather outside has dropped to zero degrees.

“What are you doing, you idiot?” you mumble, your mind racing for ways to help them. The Spectre hadn’t seemed violent until Lockwood decided to insult her, and she’s beginning to float in their direction much quicker.

“Secure the Source,” George yells. “We’ll hold her off!”

He must be kidding.

You had gotten some echoes from the dog, sure, but enough to find the location of the Source? It could be two meters under your feet and you would have no idea.

The golden retriever, who had been play bowing at Lockwood’s feet, springs back up. She’s growling, now, you can hear it loud and clear. You aren’t sure whether animals can see ghosts, but the approaching presence has her retreating. She tears across the green grass, darting straight to a small building near the tree line.

The doggy door shuts loudly behind her as she disappears into a wooden shed. You can hear the now familiar flapping sound from across the yard.

Oh. You hadn’t even noticed that.

You sprint across the grass, the ground wet from a light drizzle earlier. The sound of a rapier slash cuts the air in two, and you can see Lockwood keeping her at bay with his sword. Your Listening is usually weak, but when she lets out a blood-curdling screech, even you can hear it.

You reach for the shed handle, and move to pull the door open. It doesn’t budge. The handle doesn’t turn, and you are effectively locked out of the Shelbys’ shed.

Well, shit.

There’s another burst of light, what must’ve been George’s salt bomb. You hear Lockwood’s voice again, probably another jeer at the ghost, and a familiar panic rises in your chest. You have to help them.

You hope Mr. Shelby doesn’t charge you for damages, because you’re about to break this door down. The wood is flimsy with age, so it shouldn’t be too hard. You throw your body weight against it once, and the door bends slightly. You try again, and the entire shed shakes.

Not enough.

You take a few steps back. A running start, you need a running start.

Pacing back, you try not to focus on Lockwood and George’s attempts at fighting off the Visitor. There’s not much they can do if you don’t secure the Source, so you need to work quickly.

Bracing yourself, you run forward and throw yourself at the door. The hinges protest the whole way, but the door gives under your weight and slams against the wall.

Holy shit. You hadn’t expected that to work like in the movies.

Your momentum carries you forward, and you trip a little, catching yourself on your forearms. The bruises are already starting to form, but you shake the pain away. You need the Source. You need to help them.

The inside of the shed is messy, and shelves used as storage take up most of the space. There’s a light switch by the door, but you decide to leave it off. If the Shelby dog won’t lead you to the Source herself, you’ll have to try sensing for it yourself. The light will only get in your way.

You whistle lowly, patting the tops of your thighs. “Hey, girl, where are you?”

There is instant movement, the sound of her feet against the wood. You make a beeline in her direction, the noise coming from the big workbench on the edge of the room. It’s pressed between the wall and a tall shelf, piled high with paint supplies and unlabeled cardboard boxes.

Something soft brushes against your leg, and you nearly sigh in relief.

“Hi, honey,” you say softly, crouching down. It’s dark in here, so you flick on your torch to the lowest setting and shine it around the bottom of the table. She’s curled up, resting her head on her front legs. “You have something for me?”

She rolls onto her stomach, and you give her a few belly rubs. “My coworkers are about to die, so I’m going to need you to show me where the Source is. Is it in one of these boxes?”

She must take your sign of affection as a sign that you want to play, because she grabs something into her mouth and darts away before you can process it all. The space she has just vacated is empty.

Or, almost empty.

Piled into a corner is a small mountain of random objects with all of the order of a lost and found bin. There’s a pink jelly sandal that looks gnawed on, and paintbrushes you’re sure she’s stolen from her owners. And there’s other things, too, like a massive stick and a teddy bear that’s ripped in half. You turn back to her, and realize she’s holding her prized possession in her teeth.

A bone.

“I’m not even getting paid for this,” you lament.

She bows down, clearly ready to play.

“Honey, give it to me, please.” You beckon her closer.

On fast legs, she dances around you, clearly used to navigating the mess of the shed. You’re seriously going to have to wrestle a human bone away from a dog to save your colleagues.

Alright.

She jumps around you, gets close before she pulls away, her tail wagging in excitement. The bone isn’t too long, and if you had to guess, probably from the ghost girl’s ribcage. You’ll wrap it in the net. It’s too big to be secured with anything else you carry on your person.

You let the dog do her little dance as you unravel the chainlink net. She’s excited to play, and you wait for her to get a little too close. After a couple seconds, she jumps close enough to touch your shoe, and you strike. You close a hand over a part of the bone her mouth isn’t covering, and jolt.

You know it’s the Source immediately. It’s ice cold to the touch, and you steel your mind, put up any internal defense you can against the incoming psychic echoes. There’s no time.

You tug.

The bone is slippery with slobber, and she has a good grip on it. You try not recoiling when you remember this bone had been in someone’s body once. You don’t even want to question how this dog came into possession of this.

She’s growling playfully, and you adjust your stance, getting ready to play tug-of-war with the bone. You yank as hard as you can, and her paws slip, losing traction against the floor. Her abrupt release has you falling backward, and you slam hard into the shelf behind you.

This injury in particular has you groaning in pain. Another bruise for the collection.

The Shelby dog rolls around on the ground in front of you, clearly happy.

“Thanks a lot,” you snap, your hands fumbling to wrap up the bone. The muffled noises you could hear outside go silent, and you know it’s over. “I hope you’re pleased.”

The quiet you had been oh-so-glad to hear is interrupted by the sound of a metallic screeching. You freeze, looking down at the Source. Was the net not strong enough? Did you need something else?

Panic is clouding your senses, and you don’t notice the open paint can that’s sliding off the shelf behind you. One moment, you are worrying over the human bone in your hands, and the next, you are drenched in red paint.

The metal can rolls away, now empty. Your head is soaked, and the red runs down your shoulders like a second coat of skin. You look and feel fresh from a blood bath, and you groan in discomfort.

You wipe away the red on your face, allowing yourself to open your eyes again. “I know you planned this,” you snap at the Shelby dog. She doesn’t understand, just continues to wag her tail at you.

The coloring stains the wood red beneath you, making the area look awfully like a crime scene. You mumble obscenities under your breath the entire way out of the shed, and if you nearly slip on a puddle of paint, it is between you and the dog.

The door is ruined, and you leave its broken pieces behind you. You’re stumbling almost blindly across the grass when you spot George and Lockwood. The former is wrapping up the chains while Lockwood chews thoughtfully on a biscuit it looks like he got from his front pocket. He’s scanning the yard, his gaze stopping when it lands on you.

“George,” you hear him say. “Is it possible we missed one?”

“I’m not a ghost, you pompous ass!”

George turns around, and when he spots you, he flinches.

You must look great.

“Woah,” he manages. “What happened to you?”

You get close enough to shove the Source into his hands. The net is stained red, too, and you know what it must look like to them. But you’re too exhaused to explain. You want to go back to the house and shower.

“You look like a giant moth attacked you,” you say, gesturing to his jacket. There are holes all throughout the sleeves, probably burned through by plasm.

“You look… red,” Lockwood says, for a lack of better description. He’s looking generally undisturbed by his confrontation with the ghost, and this pisses you off even more.

“No shit,” you snap. Without the presence of the ghost, it has no doubt gotten significantly warmer out, but it is still uncomfortably cold. “Can we just go?”

“Not so fast.” He drops a firm hand on your shoulder when you try to move back to the house. “We can get the rest of our things in a second. I need to talk to you about your performance today.”

“What about it?” you ask tersely. A shiver wracks your body. “I secured the Source. We’re all fine.”

“I told you not to leave the patio before we got out there, but when we got outside, you were sitting in the grass with the dog. You didn’t even notice when the Visitor had manifested.” He shakes his head, like he’s disappointed. “It was nearly about to touch you before I threw my salt-bomb at it.”

You roll your eyes before you can stop yourself. The adrenaline crash is making you snippish, it always does. “I don’t even know where to start with how wrong your accusations are,” you snap. George watches wide eyed as you step closer to Lockwood. You jab your finger into his chest. “First of all, I wasn’t just playing with the dog!” You say that last part in a mockery of his voice, and he scoffs. “I left the patio because I heard a noise, and went to check it out. And then the dog jumped at me, and it’s not my fault my Talent got triggered! And from what I remember, the information I got from that saved your asses, so.”

If you were less tired, you probably wouldn’t be speaking to him like this. You were supposed to be aiming for amicable, but you think you’re far past it now.

“Your sense of Touch worked on the dog?” George interjects. “A living thing?”

“Yes.” It’s clipped, and a strong gust of wind has your teeth chattering. “It’s not the first time. I get them from people, too, sometimes.”

George’s eyes widen. “That’s incredible. Would you be willing to—”

“As interesting as it is, that doesn’t change the facts,” comes Lockwood’s voice again. You groan involuntarily at the sound. “You still went against what I had asked of you, and it nearly got you killed. You would have gotten touched if me and George took a second longer! It may not be permanent, but we’re a team right now. Your behavior affects all of us, and you were being reckless.”

Reckless.

Of all words to describe you, he chooses reckless?

“At least I wasn’t off taunting the ghost!” You hope your voice is able to get across how ridiculous you think he’s sounding. “I get what you were trying to do, but putting a target on you and George was just about as ‘dangerous’ as what I did!”

He puts his hands on his hips, looking like the definition of an irritated teacher. “That’s not—”

“And are you not going to explain why you sent me outside, alone, in the direction we knew the ghost was going to be in?” There must be steam coming out of your ears right now. “While you and George were off cozy in the living room, I had to go fight off what I thought was a wild animal!”

“I was testing you!” he exclaims, voice raised. “And you failed, spectacularly. You immediately disobeyed the one and only set of orders I gave you. And no one told you to go and fight off a wild animal, you decided to do that all on your own. You’re lucky that I’m letting you still assist us on jobs after this—“

“I’m lucky?” You laugh loudly. “You sound insane! Who unknowingly tests someone in a real life or death situation? You’re lucky that I’m not skewering you with my rapier—”

��We get it!” George snaps. You don’t blame him. You’re actually surprised it had taken him this long to butt in. “You were both in the wrong and both in the right. Now can we please just save this conversation for an environment warmer than ten degrees? It’s almost eleven at night.”

You cross your arms, still heated over the argument. Lockwood doesn’t look happy about not getting the last word, but he nods. “Fine. We’ll just have to hope there’s a taxi willing to let Red here sit inside it.”

“Ha ha,” you say sarcastically, obviously unamused. How could one person be both extremely annoying and unfunny? “I wrestled with a literal dog for that Source, so I hope you’re happy.”

You push past him, heading back inside the warm house. The relief is instant, and the three of you pack up your things in tense silence. Lockwood washes out the mugs while you put the light sources away, and neither of you say anything about how harsh you’re being with the flashlights.

The cab ride is equally as quiet, and Lockwood gives you a smug grin when the driver gives you a weird look for your appearance.

George sits next to Lockwood (probably so he’ll notice if you try to strangle Lockwood while he’s asleep) and you sit across from them, trying not to let the undried paint get on everything. Lucky for the cab driver, the majority of it has frozen with the weather and sticks well to your hair and skin.

George falls asleep quickly, but Lockwood is still awake next to him, staring out the window. The case has left you exhausted and jittery, but your temper has now cooled down. Lockwood catches your eye briefly before he looks away, and your argument plays in your head again.

Should you have yelled at him? Probably not. But he had come for you first, and you were rightfully defensive. But you also know that your anger was disproportionate to Lockwood’s words. He had scolded you like a child, sure, but he’s your temporary boss, and was in every position to do so.

Deep down, you know what had sparked some of that anger. It was the recklessness, and the confidence, and the cocky grins. It was familiar. All too familiar for you, and you had lashed out at Lockwood as if you were lashing out at… Him.

Lockwood’s face starts turning in your direction and you snap your gaze away. You can feel him staring at you, and you wonder if he’s going to say something.

Instead, he stays quiet. You sigh, letting yourself relax against the vinyl.

When you fall asleep in your new bed an hour later, you know two things for sure.

You’re tired, and you do not like Anthony Lockwood.

notes: omg. its finally posted ! i hope u guys enjoyed despite how long it was LOL i am so excited to write the rest of this series :) lmk ur thoughts

lockwood: @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @a-candle-maker @2guysonascooter @amo-a-los-postres @cassiopeiia24

bwtb: @ourgoddessathena @bookflowersnerd @straykiss-hoo

just lmk if u want to be added/removed!

#fic recs #lockwood and co #anthony lockwood

[a-asterias]

get a little action in | miguel o'hara

Summary: Spider-Man doesn't like you. And for the record? You're not crazy about him either. But you kind of wish you could see his eyes when he swings you across the city. For curiosity's sake.

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x gn!reader (some Spanish language is female-gendered, but other than that, no gendered descriptions.)

Word count: 2.2k

Content desc: rivals, superhero!reader (kinda - they're trying their best). miguel's a bit of a jerk ngl but he's a SEXY jerk <3 very enemies to lovers coded. swapped insults, injuries, and a whole lot of charged flirting. (lyla thinks they're adorable.)

A/N: i actually think this fic is the closest i've gotten to miguel's canon personality compared to my previous (delusional) characterizations of him lol. hope you guys like this one! as always, i appreciate corrections to the Spanish if needed, but it's no one's responsibility to do so!

Translations: 

¡Chingada madre! - Motherfucker!

¡Pinche pendeja! - Fucking asshole!

¡No mames! Eres una idiota. - I don't believe this! You're an idiot.

¡Cállate, por Dios! - Shut up, oh my God!

¡Ay, coño! ¿Qué demonios haces? - Oh, fuck! What the hell are you doing?

¿Qué? ¿Qué quieres? - What? What do you want?

¿Estás loca? ¿De dónde sacas esas ideas? - Are you crazy? Where do you get these ideas?

No seas estúpida. - Don't be stupid.

Porque tu haces un desmadre. Eres un dolor en el culo. - Because you make a mess. You're a pain in the ass.

Ve. - Go.

follow @sanguine-marvel for all future miguel fic notifications!

“All units be advised: 10-33 on 10th and Palisade. Suspect is known as “Captain Darkness.” Approach with caution.”

You shove the police scanner into your bag and stash it in the alley by your apartment. You’re close to 10th and Palisade, and the cops have lost Nueva York’s newest supervillain, Captain Darkness, three times already. For all the mocking headlines the press write about him, he sure seems to be the one laughing every time.

You pull your mask over your face as you make your way to the abandoned factory on 10th and Palisade. It looks normal from the outside, but the code means there’s been an explosion. 

Probably best to enter through the back. 

It’s dark, because supervillains like to nail the atmosphere, and that means there’s no budget for lighting. The factory smells damp, moldy. You hope you don’t get sick. Vigilantism doesn’t come with health insurance.

You stay close to the wall, ears tuned for any sounds. Usually, a good villain would have clocked your entrance by now. The fact that Captain Darkness (a stupid-ass name for a stupid-ass villain) hasn’t—

BRIIIING! BRIIIING!

Alarms blare throughout the factory. Your ears ring from the volume. 

Okay. Maybe you’ve underestimated him.

You run; stealth doesn’t matter now, only speed. Captain Darkness is, predictably, at the center of the factory. He has all the typical workings of a mad scientist: electric ball thingy, giant lie detector-looking thingy, et cetera. You go up the stairs of his platform to get closer.

Except there’s something you’ve never seen before. It sort of resembles a portal. Fuck.

Captain Darkness spots you immediately. He has giant crab legs fused to the lower half of his body, which you’d think were sick if he wasn’t such a jagoff. 

“Well, hello,” he says, sneering down at you. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you one of the Spiderlings?”

“I’m offended by the suggestion,” you say, darting towards the electric ball first. 

It looks easy enough to shut off, except the Captain blocks your path immediately. He knocks you across the platform. You cough at the impact. The concrete bruises your right temple.

“Alright, that’s it.” You grunt, pushing yourself up. “Now I’m gonna kick your ass for real.”

The Captain laughs. “By all means, hit me with your best shot.”

So you do. You manage to knock him backwards, his clunky crab legs sliding on the platform. You take the opening and shut off one machine, which causes a crackle of electricity in the air. The hair on your arms rises.

But being a mad crab scientist apparently means you have a lot of time on your hands, and Captain Darkness whips out what looks like a ray gun. He blasts you and knocks you off the platform. You hit your ribs hard, and your vision blurs for a second.

The portal begins to whir, warming up. Captain Darkness towers over you, grinning maniacally.

“Your efforts are adorable, but I suggest you find another line of work. No one will stop me from opening a portal. Once I venture to other worlds, I’ll be unstoppable. This world will be mine! Finally, everyone who ever—”

“Oh my God,” you groan, clutching your ribs. “Please don’t start monologuing. Do you know how cliche you sound right now? Blah blah blah, your parents didn’t give you enough attention so you’re insecure and power-hungry. Do I look like Dr. Phil to you?”

His eyes flash and one crab leg grabs a nearby tool cart. 

“You’re no longer amusing me,” he says. "Goodbye." 

The tool cart is flung in your direction, and you roll, covering your head and bracing for the worst. But the crash never comes. You look to see several orange webs wrapped around the cart. The cart flies backwards and hits Captain Darkness right in his face.

Miguel O’Hara lands on the railing of the platform, perched gracefully. He doesn’t waste a second in going after the Captain.

“Oh, where did you even come from?” you shout, pushing yourself to stand. “I have it handled!”

“I’m not dignifying that with a response,” Miguel growls as he easily dodges the Captain’s grasp. 

He swings to the other side, aiming for the portal which has now fired up. 

Perfect. Damn it, it should be you that J. Jonah Jameson will scream about on the news tomorrow morning, not Spider-Dorito. 

You force yourself to get up so you can try to apprehend the Captain. But he has other plans; one of the machines sparks, and suddenly, hundreds of flying crab-shaped robots pour out of the mouth of the portal. Miguel shouts orders to Lyla. 

You’re only interested in one thing: taking down Captain frickin’ Darkness. So you go after him, leaving the factory. Unfortunately, the crab-bots take that as an invitation to leave too, zeroed in on your destruction. Your ribs are killing you, and whatever the Captain blasted you with left a nasty gash on your hip. 

Still, you limp and pant through the pain. You’re not letting this guy get away a fourth time. No way. Captain Darkness has been a thorn in Nueva York’s side for several weeks now and you’ve been tracking him for just as long. You need to get him.

“¡Chingada madre!”

You glance over your shoulder and see a flash of blue and red. Miguel is right behind you, fighting through the cluster of crab-bots. The sight makes your blood boil.

“Fuck off!” you wheeze out. “He’s mine, O’Hara!”

“If you hadn’t stumbled in and screwed everything up, we wouldn’t even be in this situation right now!” he snarls. “¡Pinche pendeja!”

Fucking Spider-Man. It’s because of him that Nueva York doesn’t even know who you are. Every time you get remotely close to taking down a criminal, Miguel swoops in and saves the day. Not without giving you grief, of course. You’re too weak, too disorganized, too slow—you’re too wrong, according to him. He’s told you multiple times to stay away, but hey, he should know by now you’re also too stubborn to listen.

You pull your hand away from your rib. It’s tacky with blood. You’re slowing down, too; you aren’t enhanced like a hero is supposed to be, and after going two rounds with Captain Crabcake, it seems you’re about to meet your untimely fate with killer crustacean robots. 

You really should’ve become a lawyer like your mother wanted.

“¡No mames! Eres una idiota.”

You feel Miguel’s breath on your neck before his arm curls around your waist. You cry indignantly but he doesn’t let go, heaving you into his grip and continuing to run.

“Let go of me!” you demand, wiggling in his grip.

“Shut up.”

“I don’t need you to save me,” you snap.

He looks down at you, red masked eyes burning into you.

“No? ‘Cause every time you screw up, I’m the one fixing your mess. How many times have I told you to go home?”

“I had it under control,” you say. 

Miguel doesn’t even look at you. Your injuries are jostled with every step and you have to fight to not whine in pain. But you don’t try to squirm away again. You’re no match for his strength, and, unfortunately, he’s a lot faster than you. If you want to live, Miguel’s your ride. 

“Lyla, find me a route.”

Lyla pops up on Miguel’s other shoulder. She leers at you, raising her eyebrows.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asks. 

“Lyla. Route, now.” 

“Alright, alright,” she says, sounding far too smug. “Might I suggest going airborne?”

Your fingers dig into Miguel’s giant shoulder as he flings a web string at a nearby fire escape. He shifts you to one arm. Your eyes pop out of your head.

“No, wait, I have a terrible fear of—”

He doesn’t wait, the asshole, and you scream as he pulls both of you up. Now you’re bleeding, clinging to the worst person in the world, and at least two hundred feet off the ground. Somehow, killer crab-bots would’ve been better. 

“¡Cállate, por Dios!” he shouts, jerking his head away from you. “Unless you want me to drop you.”

“I’m gonna kill you, O’Hara,” you say, closing your eyes. “I’m gonna—oh, God.” You swallow hard, feeling dizzy. “I think I’m gonna hurl.”

“Do not throw up on me.”

You peek over his shoulder, trying not to watch the buildings blur by. That’s when you spot the army of robots behind you. And they look mad.

“Shit, shit!” you hiss, jolted out of your nausea. 

You reach down Miguel’s broad back, feeling for the nifty little gadgets you know he keeps on him.

“¡Ay, coño! ¿Qué demonios haces?”

He swats at your wandering hands. You smack him back.

“I’m trying to save us, if you don’t mind!”

“Do not touch anything—” he starts.

A bot whizzes by, firing at you both. Miguel wobbles on the next swing, trying to fight off the bot. 

“Lyla, three o’clock!” you yell.

Tiny rockets fire from Miguel’s suit, taking out several bots. There’s too many, though; you need another plan.

“Lyla, run diagnostics on the bots,” you say, grunting as Miguel swings sharply around a corner.

“Lyla, don’t do anything I don’t tell you to,” Miguel says. “She’s not yours to—”

“Water,” Lyla interrupts, understanding where your brain is. “They malfunction in water.”

“Huh. That’s ironic.”

Ahead, the waterfront is quickly coming into view. You pinch Miguel’s shoulder. He hisses, his suit’s eyes narrowing at you. 

“¿Qué? ¿Qué quieres?”

“The Hudson,” you say. 

“I can’t just dive into the river, we’ll both—”

“Use me as bait,” you say. 

“¿Estás loca? ¿De dónde sacas esas ideas?”

“I pull them out of my butt,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“You couldn’t even destroy the portal,” he says scathingly. “I’m not throwing you into the river, tempting as that is.”

“You don’t have a better idea, smartass. And unless you want them tearing up Manhattan, you’ll do it.”

“No seas estúpida,” he says. 

“Can’t help it. It’s one of my superpowers.”

Miguel lands on a rooftop. He drops you none too carefully, and you land hard on your butt. You grunt, the movement squishing your injury. 

“Lyla,” Miguel says.

“Yup,” she says, popping up on your shoulder and scanning your body. “Bruised ribs, and a gash right on top. If you wrap it, they’ll be fine.”

Miguel takes out a bandage and tears the top off. You’ve seen them before; they’re of his own creation, and used widely by his Spider Society. Never on civilians, which is what you are, according to him.

He crouches and shoves your suit up, then wraps the bandage around your stomach. The wrapping begins to expand and you feel the sting of cold gel. He yanks your suit back down without a word.

“I’m sure my ribs are broken,” you say through a wheezy exhale.

“Nope! Just bruised. You really shouldn’t fall from those kinds of heights,” Lyla says cheerily.

“Yeah, you were definitely programmed by him,” you mutter.

You start to get up. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Miguel says. 

“Screw you.”

“You living here screws me enough.”

“I don’t need your help! Why can’t you stay in your own damn lane, O’Hara?”

“Porque tu haces un desmadre. Eres un dolor en el culo.”

“The feeling is mutual,” you say through gritted teeth. “And you can’t stop me from going after him.”

His suit’s eyes narrow. Quick as anything, he flings two webs over your wrists. You squawk, now glued to the pavement.

“This is illegal!” you screech, twisting your wrists. “Let me go!”

“Stay out of my way,” Miguel says. “I won’t save your ass next time.”

You glare up at him, still breathing hard. It only makes you angrier that Miguel hasn’t broken a sweat.

“I hope those bots tear up the Spider Society!” you say. “I hope—I hope your suit malfunctions and the whole city sees your ass.”

Miguel pauses, and turns around. 

“Uh, Miguel?” Lyla asks. “The murder robots? Kinda urgent.”

“Tell Jess to go downtown and cut them off there.”

“But—” 

“Ve.”

He stands over you. You fling your legs up, trying to get a kick in, but he quickly puts a stop to that, resting a heavy foot on both of your ankles. 

Miguel bends down. You burn with curiosity about how he looks under the mask. It’s twisted of you to wonder, considering what an arrogant jerk he is. You could fill several encyclopedias with Miguel O’Hara’s worst traits. 

Still, you wonder. You wonder what color his eyes are. If his hair is short or long. If he smiles at all. His expression when you get under his skin.

You’d learned his real name by accident. Whether he knows your identity or not, you don’t know. You wonder if he has to stop himself from saying your name.

“You’re lucky I don’t web that dirty mouth of yours,” Miguel says, his face inches from yours. “I’ve been considering it.”

You lift your chin.

“You think about my mouth a lot, O’Hara?”

He jerks back, like you’ve startled him. He stands, turning around.

“Don’t let me see you out here again,” he says.

“Wait!” you cry. “What about the webs?!”

Miguel shoots a web towards the street.

“What about them? You don’t need my help, remember?”

Then he’s gone. 

Fucking Spider-Man.

#fic recs #spiderman #marvel #miguel o'hara