andromedasreadingnook

[andromedasreadingnook]

|| uhh i forgot the mating bond is just kind of a feelings/vibe pathway rather than talking so just assume reader is Daemati or smthing idk i'm too lazy to fix it and it's part of the fic

|| warnings: enemies(ish?) To lovers, mating bond fic, angst, some pining, cursing, nsfw ㅡ oral (f & m receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, piv unprotected sex (make informed decisions, kids!), breeding kink

You'd always been a sucker for fairytales.

You'd grown up on a healthy dose of them, tales repeated over and over with the weary affection of your mother as you clamored for them again. 

And what young child wouldn't enjoy stories of knights and dragons and damsels in towers? Where the villain was always clear cut, good and bad measured in black and white.

Too bad the real world never dealt with such things. No, there was no prince to kiss you from a death-like slumber, no knight to rescue you from a tower.

But there is a Cauldron, the Mother ㅡ and whatever gods exist to laugh at the hand that they've dealt you.

That's the only reason you can think of as to why you, part of Rhysand's Inner Circle, can only stare in mute disbelief at Eris Vanserra as the mating bond, mocking you with the idea of shimmering gold, snaps into place. 

“Are you done moping yet?” 

“For the last time, Mor,” you huff as you turn the page of your book, “I'm not moping. I'm busy.” 

“Busy,” Mor mocks. “Looks like moping to me. You need to stop hanging out with Az so much.” 

She waits all of two minutes before she's moving towards you, knocking the book out of your hands to drape herself across you like a contented housecat. “Come on, you need to live a little.”

“I'm four hundred and fifty years old,” you counter, hating the way a smile twitches at the corners of your lips. “I think I've lived quite a lot so far.”

“Being a bore with books and training isn't living,” Mor protests with a huff. “You've been acting weird for the last two decades, don't deny it.” 

You freeze. “I have not.”

Honey brown eyes meet yours. “Have too. You've been acting weird ever since that run in withㅡ” 

You slap a hand over her mouth. “Don't,” you hiss, then recoil. “Did you just lick my hand?” 

Mor grins as you wipe your hand on the couch before she eyes you, brow furrowing.

“Seriously,” she says, her expression sobering. “Did he do something? Because you know Rhys would want to knowㅡ” 

“No, Mor.” You push her off of you and stand. “He didn't do anything.” 

Left, right, dodgeㅡ

“Somebody's in a mood,” Cassian pants as he narrowly avoids your fist to his jaw, his eyes gleaming as he studies you. “Normally I have to drag you out here to train.”

“You don't have to drag me anywhere,” you fire back, pushing hair out of your eyes. “Just felt like it was time for a tune up of hand to hand.”

“And I get to be the lucky punching bag? I'm honored.” Cassian straightens, and you hate the way he studies you ㅡ the way Mor did, equal parts concern and curiosity. “Are you okaㅡ”

“Cauldron boil me, I said I'm fine!” You know it isn't fair to snap at Cassian, but you've felt off kilter all morning ㅡ since Rhysand had told you of the impending arrival of Eris ㅡ presumably to discuss the ever shifting agreements in the tentative allyship with him. 

Just hearing his name had put you off of your breakfast ㅡ not out of indignant disgust, though you wished it were. Anything but the traitorous lurch of the bond you'd hoped would bury itself and remain forgotten. 

Mate, it whispers, an adder coiled in the back of your mind. Your mate. 

Only if it snapped in place for him too, you remind yourself viciously. Only if you accepted it. 

And you won't. Not now, not ever.

“There you are.”

You force yourself not to freeze, turning slowly to lock eyes with the one person you'd been doing your best to pretend wasn't staying in your home. 

Eris eyes you, and the lazy trace over your legs and back up makes you want to slug him and preen in equal measure, the latter only adding to your mounting irritation. “What do you want, Eris?” 

He huffs, eyes gleaming. “Now, is that any way to talk to a guest?”

Pretentious asshole. Your teeth clench hard enough you think something might pop as you exhale. “My apologies,” you grit out, “how can I help you?” 

Eris’ eyes gleam, and you get the distinct impression that he's laughing at you. Not just at you, but at the shimmering coil in your head that sings in his proximity. 

He approaches and you take one wary step back after the other until your back meets smooth wall ㅡ and Eris is in front of you. He's devastatingly handsome, staring at you with an intensity that makes you want to punch him.

It also makes you want to ㅡ no. No. 

“Back off,” you hiss. 

“Or what?” He's taunting you. “If i were a lesser male, I'd think you'd been avoiding me.” His eyes glitter as he leans in. To anyone who could stumble upon the scene, it'd look…intimate. “But that can't possibly be what you're doing, right?” 

You should hit him. Tell him to fuck off, to get away from you ㅡ to leave entirely. You hate how he eyes you, the simmering song that your veins respond with in kind.

“Come on, little rabbit,” he exhales, voice low and almost a purr. “Where are those teeth you showed me last time?” 

You snarl, hand fisting into his shirt ㅡ and you yank him to meet your lips. It's an aggressive kiss across the board, teeth and tongue as he shoves you further against the wall, and you hate how something in you purrs at the pressure. 

This, at the very least, is horribly familiar. His touch is not unknown on your body, the snake of warm fingers against your sides so eerily similar to the handful of rendezvous so many years ago, a lifetime ago, before ㅡ 

Mate. A bond untethered, unanswered ㅡ and icy water douses the ignition of flame in your lower belly, sours the warm lips against your neck. 

“Get off me,” you rasp, ripping yourself free. “The next time you touch me, I'll cut your hands off.” 

“I want to get drunk.” 

“Hello to you too,” Mor blinks up at you, studying the tension in your shoulders. “Any special occasion or…? I feel like I should intervene if this is going to be a bad idea.” 

“Since when have you turned down a reason to go to Rita's?” 

Mor only frowns at you, then gentles her tone as she sets a hand on your shoulder with a call of your name. “Tell me what's going on,” she murmurs. “You've got us all worried, babe. Talk to me.” 

You debate telling her to forget it, to take it out in the training ring or to simply take a good, long walk along the Sidra ㅡ and then Mor presses gently, “Is it Eris?” 

You tense further, and she looses a curse. “I knew it was a bad idea to have him stay here. If he put his hands on youㅡ” 

“Mor,” you cut in. “It's not…not like that. Not anymore.” One eyebrow raises at the anymore, curious as she watches you. You exhale slowly. “My mating bond snapped into place.” 

Her eyes widen, and you can't stand the sympathy in her eyes ㅡ the idea that you're a star-crossed lover, helplessly in love with someone you aren't Cauldron-bound to. If only ㅡ perhaps you could handle that a little better than being bound to the person you are in love with. 

Who's never shown a hint that the bond has snapped into place for him. Never wanted you for more than the intervals of hands and teeth, murmured filth and promises that'd made your toes curl ㅡ and been all too happy to pretend you didn't exist except for those moments. 

“Oh,” Mor says, and your chest aches. She, of all people, knows how Eris is ㅡ and the way she stares at you makes it worse. “Oh, honey.”

She doesn't coddle you, because there are no tears to shed ㅡ you buried those along with your end of the bond, thrown a shield around it, tried to forget. You had no Prince, no Knight. 

(You'd never been good at being a damsel, anyways.)

You don't know what Mor says to the others, but you don't really care when it lands you at Rita's, snug between Cassian and Azriel and all too happy to drown your woes in the sharp tang of alcohol. 

You don't need coddling or pampering ㅡ you know what you need, and it drives you from the safety of your brothers, joining Mor to chase the pounding thrum of music. 

You're not sure when you end up with an unfamiliar Fae male's hands on you, only that you simply grin and welcome the advance, the simmering promise in his eyes to give you what you need to forget the ache in your chest ㅡ at least for tonight. 

And maybe tomorrow. And perhaps the next ㅡ whatever and however long it took for Eris to leave, to let you bury that bond back down where it belongs. 

It's as his lips are brushing over your neck that he's wrenched away from you and you blink, admonishment on your lips ㅡ and it dies a quiet, quick death at the absolute fury blazing in Eris Vanserra's eyes. Not at you, no ㅡ at the male who'd been touching you.

“Get your rutting hands off of what isn't yours,” he all but snarls, and you watch as the male disappears back into the crowd before Eris is focusing on you. “And you. Come with me. Now.” 

Some of the drowsy edge of alcohol is beginning to wear off, and you blink before your eyes narrow. “No.” 

A muscle in Eris’ jaw jumps. “We need to talk.” 

Defiance ignites in your veins, fueled by alcohol, the ruined distraction (from the very male before you), and the irritation that he won't just leave you alone. 

But maybe this is what you need ㅡ that final nail in the coffin, the claws to finally dig the bond out by the roots and get rid of it once and for all. 

So you grit your teeth, shoving hard against the ache of your chest as you bite out a flat, “Fine.” 

The trip back to the House of Wind is silent, tension rolling off both of you in waves. Eris doesn't so much as look at you, but the set of his jaw says he's still pissed. About what, you don't know ㅡ he's the one who came to crash your little party, acting as though he has a right to you.

He doesn't. The only claim he can say he has is the times he's made you cum on his fingers. You refuse to look at him, to entertain whatever self-righteous game he thinks he deserves to play. 

This is your home, not his. Regardless of how tonight ends, you will not be the one leaving. 

Somehow, be it for better or worse, you end up in your room. Eris surveys it, taking in all the little pieces that make this yours, then turns towards you.

Arms crossed over your chest, you raise an eyebrow. “Well? Talk, or get out. I don't appreciate you ruining my night.”

Anger flares, smoldering as Eris offers a terse, “I don't appreciate you letting other males touch you like that.” 

You scoff. “You don't get to boss me around, Eris,” you hiss. Your voice is sharp. “You make it sound as if you're my mate.” 

Eris’ eyes blaze, the flicker of flame at his fingertips as he snaps back, “Because I am, damn it!” 

You freeze. 

Eris, so much like the wildfire he embodies, keeps going. “I'm trying not to act like some feral animal, but you make it so hard not to when you parade around like that, it makes me want toㅡ” He cuts himself off. 

The silence between you is brittle, cracking under the strain of things unsaid ㅡ and then you break the silence.

“Makes you want to do what, Eris?” A gentle, tentative tug at that bond ㅡ reeling at the presence on the other side, an answer after decades of silence. 

His eyes lock with yours as he steps towards you. This time, you don't take a step back. “It almost makes me want to apologize to everyone who's about to hear you scream my name.”

You don't respond, but you don't have to. The shiver ripples through the bond, the blown quality of Eris’ pupils before he pounces. 

His mouth is hot against yours, demanding in ways both familiar and not as you moan, fingers digging at your hip before you're backed against the wall next to your dresser. Something clatters to the floor, but you can't bring yourself to care about anything but the wedge of Eris’ leg between your own. 

He licks into your mouth, muffling the choked sound as he grinds his thigh up against your core. You shudder at the spark of pleasure that ignites, a reflexive jerk of your hips to chase it as Eris nips at your jaw. 

“Tell me how many others have seen you like this,” he murmurs darkly against your skin, “so I know how many times to make you come so you'll forget anyone but me.”

You want to answer, you truly do ㅡ but he takes your beat of silence as a prompt to tense his thigh, and it wipes your mind blissfully clear of anything but the molten warmth pooling between your legs. 

It should be embarrassing, rutting against his thigh like some desperate animal in heat, but Eris meets every tiny noise that leaves your lips with approving nips of teeth in your skin and the wander of his hands to pull at your clothing until he meets bare skin. 

His fingers work from your hips to your navel, then to your ribs ㅡ and then he's pinching at your nipples, turning them to achingly stiff peaks as you groan and rock your hips harder against his thigh. 

And then he's slipping it away, leaving you to tremble and pant as you watch him. He could leave you like this, desperate and aching ㅡ and his eyes darken in answer before he's backing you against the dresser. More things clatter to the floor, but Eris doesn't give you time to care with the way he lifts you onto the now empty surface.

His mouth is hot against your neck, drifting to your collarbone, then to your chest ㅡ nipping and sucking marks you're sure will bruise ㅡ and then your abdomen, your core clenching around nothing when you realize his intent.

Lacquered wood creaks in protest beneath the hard curl of your hands on the dresser, fighting the urge to dig your hand into Eris’ hair as he takes his sweet time sucking marks into your thighs. “Eris,” you huff, head spinning with heady arousal and the remnants of alcohol, “please.” 

That deceptively soft mouth pauses as he looks up at you, eyes wildfire-bright. “Oh,” he murmurs, “say that again.” 

You blink before there's the barest drag of his tongue against your folds, prompting a sharp gasp and a whine when he doesn't repeat it.

“Come on,” he coaxes, watching you in a way that makes you want to smack him. Your frustration must echo down the bond, because all he does is laugh. “Manners, darling. Manners.” 

You squirm as he nips just shy of where you want him, and you groan. “Please,” you exhale, and Eris smirks.

“Much better.” 

And then his tongue is on you before you can curse at him, lips parting around a moan as he begins to work at your aching core. Your hand finds his hair at the same time that he flicks his tongue over your clit, and the answering groan that you get makes your eyes roll. 

Despite never having had his mouth on you like this before (not for lack of want, truly), Eris seems to know how to get the loudest sounds from you. Your head thumps against the mirror behind you, fingers curled tight in his hair as he works you steadily towards orgasm. 

His eyes don't miss anything, locked on your face and the way it contorts in pleasure, lips parted as you writhe and pant. It feeds his own pleasure, the steady ache of his cock in his pants as he renews his efforts. 

Your orgasm builds like a storm cloud, the ever tightening knot in your lower belly that has you at the mercy of the male between your legs. Eris knows how close you are ㅡ how can he not, with the way your thighs tremble, the steady leak of arousal against his tongue ㅡ and there's no small amount of pride to have you this desperate with just his mouth. 

The knot snaps when Eris digs the tip of his tongue against your swollen bundle of nerves and you arch with a sharp cry. He follows the shudder and jerk of your hips as you come, tongue rolling over your hot, pulsing core to swallow everything you have to offer. 

You whine as he works you through your orgasm until you're pulling him away, panting as he presses damp kisses to your thigh. “I certainly hope I haven't worn you out already,” he murmurs, and your breath hitches as warmth simmers between your legs again. 

Part of you wants to tell him that this is nowhere near the kind of talking the two of you need to do, to discuss the bond, to decide if you accept it or not. But you're shoving at him, single minded intent in the way you back him against the wall and sink to your knees.

If Eris is surprised at the way you shove at him, he hides it well, dark eyes tracking as you as you thumb at his hip bones, popping the button of his pants and tugging ㅡ leaving him bare before you. And then your mouth is on him, and it's hard to think about anything at all. 

There's pride to be had in watching his face contort with pleasure as you lick precum from his tip, sliding your tongue against the underside and feeling him throb in answer before you take him into your mouth. 

Eris groans as you envelop him in the wet warmth of your mouth, the deliberate press of your tongue against the underside of his shaft as you suck. 

“Fuck,” Eris swears, voice rough and hips jerking with a hiss when you hum around him. You can feel him throbbing, the steady leak of precum that slides down your throat as you swallow. 

His hand finds your hair, an echo of your own just moments ago and you let him guide you along his length. His chest rises and falls unsteadily, the glisten of sweat at his neck and chest, the soft grunt that leaves his throat when you suck harder. 

You watch his head hit the wall with a muffled thump as you curl your tongue against his underside, hips jerking once, twice ㅡ and then he's spilling down your throat with a groan that borders on obscene. 

You swallow before you pull back, and Eris pants as you bring a hand up to wipe at your lips. He watches you, tracking the way you slide your finger into your mouth to clean it ㅡ and then he's yanking you up, pinning you against the wall once more to kiss you.

It's an all encompassing kiss, sounds muffled as he presses into you hard enough that you can feel the stir of his cock against the apex of your thigh.  

“Eris,” you gasp against his mouth. “Eris, stop.”

He pulls away, eyes on yours ㅡ and the flicker of genuine concern makes your chest ache. “We need to talk,” you say, as if you aren't both in varied states of undress ㅡ or your mouth wasn't around his cock just a moment ago. “Actually talk.” 

You almost expect him to ignore you, to press for this ㅡ but his expression sobers, and it almost hurts to watch that desire for you snuff out like candlelight. “Okay.” 

Part of you wonders if Mor and the others are home yet, or if they'd heard the two of you ㅡ and wisely decided to make themselves scarce, because the house is as quiet as it's ever been.

Eris still looks far more composed than you feel, and you take a steadying breath as you wrap your fingers around the comforting warmth of the mug of tea before you. “...How long have you known?” 

You don't have to clarify, the gentle tug on the bond that's answered in kind on the other. “A while,” Eris answers, and it hurts that he seems focused on anything but you as he exhales. “You have no idea how badly I wanted to ask you to stay last time you were in Autumn Court.” 

Something dangerously soft unfurls in your chest, renders you mute as you study the curl of steam from your mug. You could have.

Eris’ eyes flick to you, then away. We both know that isn't true.

He's right. You never would have, and he would never have asked ㅡ you love Velaris, you love your family too much to ever stray too far. Perhaps that was also why you'd spent so long shoving the mating bond down, pretending it didn't exist ㅡ so that if it did snap in place for Eris, you wouldn't have to confront what you are now.

All you can feel is the ache, echoed in tandem, the way you almost wish that it wasn't there at all ㅡ and you recoil from the hurt on his end. He exhales. “Do you really…”

You curl in on yourself. “No,” you mumble, “I just ㅡ I'm terrified, Eris. We both know what we won't give up, and I don't…I don't know how we're expecting this to work.”

Eris is silent for several long moments before he moves, and there's the press of warm fingers against your jaw, coaxing you to look up ㅡ and then he's kissing you.

It's sweet, gentle ㅡ and it only makes you hurt worse as he pulls away to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your forehead. “We'll figure it out.” 

ㅡ

When I said we'd figure it out, this is not what I thought we'd be doing. 

You can feel his annoyance, the flare of it at your answering amusement. It's what's working right now. 

So you say. He falls silent, and you resume tying your leathers. What exactly are you up to, anyways? 

Training. You finish, making sure that they're in place properly before you exit your room. 

Such a shame I'm not there to admire you. 

Your heart, the stupid thing, gives a soft flutter that you know Eris is undoubtedly aware of. More like distract me.

Would that be so bad? You roll your eyes, shaking your head. You're the one who's holding out on me, love. Don't think I've forgotten.

That you haven't technically accepted the bond, that you'd instead offered what the two of you have been doing for the last few weeks since Eris returned to Autumn Court. Which was, in truth, perhaps, a coward's way out. 

Because for all your jabs and steady ebb and flow through the bond, you're still terrified. That though the Cauldron had given you him, he could still be taken away. 

There's the distinct feeling of warm fingers against your mind, stroking ㅡ trying to settle you. I've waited this long for you, you know.

Sunlight warms your skin. I bet I have you beat in terms of waiting. 

We'll see about that.

“There you are,” Cassian calls as you approach. “Thought I was going to have to drag your lazy ass out of bed.”

“As if,” you snap back, but you're grinning as you stretch. Cassian smirks, eyes gleaming ㅡ relieved that you're back to normal, if not perhaps a little cheerier than you have been in a while. 

No doubt in large part to me, right? You almost drop your practice dagger, rolling your eyes as you square off in front of Cassian. 

Not everything has to involve you, you answer, knowing that the barb isn't anywhere near as vicious as it could be. 

But it could, Eris answers. As I said, such a shame I'm not there to admire you. He pauses. Shall I tell you? Or let you imagine on your own?

Your movement stutters for a second as you swing too wide, rolling backwards to avoid Cassian's own lunge at you. I'm busy. 

So you're not imagining my head between your legs again? He sounds all too pleased with himself, with the way you fall silent ㅡ abruptly thinking of that exact thing, much to his amusement. Because I am. You're so cruel, not allowing me the pleasure of fucking you with my tongue again.

You block a blow meant for your middle, swinging your leg out. Sweat drips down your temple, the familiar ache of your body that sparring always gives you ㅡ and more, the curl of warmth at Eris’ words. 

Or maybe I should have let you finish on my thigh first. You certainly were eager. Your breath stutters. Or perhaps my fingers next? I wonder how many you can take. Last time it was two, yes? Should we try for a third? He pauses, ever the satisfied fox for how your end of the bond goes silent still. Or perhaps you'd prefer my coㅡ 

Eris. He's laughing at you now, amusement echoing even as you throw up the barrier, blocking him out. 

Across from you, Cassian eyes you. He's aware of that far-away look, the snap to clarity once more before your eyes narrow on him. “Don't,” you intone in warning, and he grins.

“What? I didn't say anything.” He straightens, dusting off one of his bracers, the gleam of the siphons in mid-day sun before he approaches to clap you on the shoulder. “I'd pay to watch you shut him up in person, though.” 

“That,” you murmur, “could probably be arranged.”

ㅡ

To be fair, you don't bake a lot. And it'd taken an inordinate amount of courage to ask Elain to help you, the soft, knowing look she'd shot you that'd made your cheeks color. 

But she'd helped you knead dough, rolling it out and crimping it into place so that now you had a pie. 

A pie that mocks you with the simplicity of it, the last minute effort of adding coarse sugar to the top so that it glitters like the frozen crests of the mountains. Simple ㅡ perhaps too simple. 

Nothing like the elaborate things you've seen in windows of bakeries, in glossy magazines ㅡ you've never been good at that. Decent yes, but never so to recreate anything so elaborate.

You groan, pillowing your head into your arms ㅡ only to lift it a moment later at the crisp, Autumnal scent that invades your senses. As if you'd need even that ㅡ there's the familiar tug at the bond that has you watching as Eris strolls through the door. 

You don't leap into his arms. You don't even tackle him ㅡ but there is a swiftness to your gait that has you against him in a heartbeat, face tucked into his neck. 

“Well,” he murmurs, “was my presence missed that badly?”

“Shut up,” you huff, but there's no venom ㅡ not when the knotted tension in your chest is easing, made quicker for the arms that wind around you, tucking you tighter against him. 

“Here I thought you'd be so glad to have me back,” Eris sighs in mock-lament. “Your beloved mate had to find a believable enough excuse as to why I had to come here. Don't you think that deserves a kiss?”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly, even as the little bit of truth to your situation sinks home. Autumn Court is beautiful ㅡ but there's good reasons as to why Eris doesn't want you there more than absolutely necessary. Reasons that you forcefully shut out, instead studying his face ㅡ just as he spots the pie.

“What,” he murmurs, “is that?”

Your cheeks warm, even as you scoff. “A pie.” 

“Obviously,” Eris says, arm still slung around your waist. “But where did it come from?”

You study the wood paneling, the carefully detailed artwork from Feyre when she'd stayed here. The cabin isn't often used ㅡ and when you'd asked for usage of it, Rhysand had the audacity to smirk at you. Eris prompts you with a call of your name, and you almost contemplate winnowing and trying again later. 

“Me,” you answer finally. “I made it. For you.” 

Eris freezes against you. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you before there are warm fingers on your chin, coaxing you to look at him ㅡ the only warning that you get before he's kissing you. 

You can feel the grip he has at your waist as he backs you until you meet the counter, your noise of surprise muffled by his mouth. “Eris,” you manage when he pulls away for a moment, “I worked hard on that pieㅡ” 

“And I'll happily eat it,” he huffs against your neck, voice low and rough as he lifts you onto the counter, slotting himself between your legs. “I'm busy right now.” 

You want to protest, but his teeth are bruising over your pulse, making you shudder and lean away, giving him more room to work. It earns you a low growl of approval as he busies himself with sucking marks into the column of your throat. 

One hand curls against his shoulder as the other slides into his hair, earning a groan when your nails curl against his scalp. Warm fingers slide up beneath your shirt to yank it upwards, contact of his mouth broken long enough to toss your shirt somewhere else ㅡ and then he's mouthing at your chest, tongue sliding over one achingly stiff nipple and then the other.

“Eris,” you exhale, “godㅡ” 

He nips sharply at the underside of your breast. “There are no gods here, love. Only me, and I don't share.” 

It's spoken in the tone you know is that primal edge of the bond, the innate need to take you ㅡ that'll have him near feral for days if another male so much as looks at you. It thrums in your veins, feeding your need to answer in kind as he grinds down against you, hard pressure against your core making your eyes flutter. 

And then he's pulling away to tug at your pants, kissing his way down one leg and then the other ㅡ and then that sinful mouth is on your core, just as he'd promised. The roll of his tongue has you moaning, hand in his hair to keep him from pulling away ㅡ even though you know he won't. 

You have no doubts that you're absolutely soaking as he presses into you like a man starved, keeping your legs parted as he fucks you with his tongue. Your back arches as he sucks at your clit, the sharp, broken cry that makes him smirk against your aching core. 

Your orgasm is looming, brought ever closer by every curl and roll of Eris’ tongue as you pant and writhe, fingers of the hand not occupied in his hair scrabbles for purchase against the counter beneath you.

As he'd done weeks ago, Eris works you through your orgasm as it washes over you like a thunderclap, letting up only once your noises have been reduced to whimpers and you're tugging at his hair.

Warm, damp kisses trail up your abdomen to your chest before Eris kisses you, and you moan at both the taste of yourself on his tongue and the fingers that he slides into you. 

You're slick enough that the slip of them is easy, and Eris groans at the way you tighten around him as he works you open. The stretch of his fingers has you keening and arching into him as his thumb finds your clit. 

“I told you,” he murmurs, “how I intended to admire you. But you making all of these infernal noisesㅡ” He curls his fingers and you keen, hips jerking against his hand. “And it makes it hard to stay focused.” 

You wish you could answer, you really do ㅡ but the way he's working you towards a second orgasm has robbed you of any eloquence beyond shuddering gasps and hiccuped moans. 

“My pretty mate,” Eris groans into your neck. He can feel the way you tighten as your orgasm nears, the lewd sound of his fingers as they thrust in and out of you. His cock throbs in his pants, and it's self-control alone that keeps him from spilling into his pants as you soak his hand as you come for the second time, making such pretty noises that Eris swears it's all he wants to hear for the rest of his immortal life.

He finally has the courtesy to lift you off of the counter, a slick mess left behind that he entertains the idea of making you clean up later with a hand in your hair and his cock in you as he takes you from behind ㅡ and the answering flare of arousal from you almost makes him want to do it now. 

But it's the soft plush of a bed that meets your bare back, legs parted to welcome the settle of Eris between them ㅡ deliciously bare, erection just shy of where you want him.

And despite the two orgasms he's coaxed from you, you have no qualms in telling him as you rock your hips up, head tipping back against the bed. “Fuck me properly, Eris.”

He raises an eyebrow, a Cauldron-sent menace as he tongues at the marks he's left on you, strawberry blossoms he's made sure will get the point across. “Ask nicely, love.”

You huff, then knock your leg against his hip, rolling so that you're straddling him now, hands planted against his chest. “You need to put that mouth to better use than pissing me off.”

“I already did,” Eris answers, cocky gleam to his eyes that makes you roll your own before he's hissing as you take him into your hand, guiding him to your slick entrance before you sink down.

“Being my mate doesn't excuse you annoying me,” you say, tone shaky for the way pleasure spiderwebs at the stretch of him inside you, the golden whisper of finally, finally, finally.

Eris’ expression is also taut as you clench around him before he offers a rough, “Say it again.” 

You stare down at him, aware of the way his pupils have blown so far you can't tell the color of his eyes anymore, the steady throb of his cock inside you. You don't have to ask what he wants you to say.

 You stretch over him, the slow roll of your hips that has him gripping at you even as your lips meet the delicate arch of his ear and you offer a breathy sigh. “My mate.” 

Eris snaps. You can't even yelp as you're flipped back into the sheets, moan leaving your hips as he bucks into you. The pace is aggressive enough that the bed creaks in protest beneath you, but you can't bring yourself to care. 

Nothing matters beyond the hard thrust of him inside you, tip knocking against that spot inside you that has you making sounds that'd put a pleasure-hall to shame. Your fingers curl against his back, rewarded with a groan that makes you tighten around him further as his hips roll steadily against yours. 

“Mine,” Eris huffs against your hair, then your temple, then your neck, the graze of his teeth making you shudder and arch into him. “Mine.”

Yours,” you gasp, choked cry ripped from you at the sink of his teeth against your skin.

One hand anchors him over you as the other skims over your breasts and down your abdomen to rub tight circles into your swollen clit. The contact makes you keen, and Eris huffs a rough laugh as you clench around him.

“Gonna come already, love?” You offer something that might be words, garbled and incoherent for the way pleasure is overloading your brain. It amuses Eris further as he watches your expression contort, the part of those pretty, kiss-swollen lips of yours as you mewl and moan.

“Two orgasms and still so needy…” He offers a playful click of his tongue. “Insatiable.”

As if he's faring better given that he's opted to simply grind his pelvis against yours now, intent on staving off his own orgasm for as long as he can in order to continue tormenting you with the pleasurable sink of his cock inside you. 

“Want you to come in me,” you rasp, a moment of clarity that makes Eris freeze above you for all of ten seconds ㅡ and then he's moving again, groaning as he fucks into you with renewed vigor.

“My pretty mate wants me to fill her up, huh?” He goads, slick fingers pinching at your nipple and tugging until you're crying out. “Want me to fuck you full of my seed? Go ahead and put a baby in you so everyone knows who you belong to?”

You don't get to respond because you're cumming hard, clamped hard around him as he manages one, two, three unsteady thrusts before Eris is pushing as deep into you as he can and groaning your name into your neck as he spills into you. The warmth of it makes you almost squeal, arching into him before he's settling over you, sweat slick-skin and a heartbeat to match yours. 

The next several moments are silent save for heavy breathing and the soft noise Eris makes as you drift your hand up and down his back. 

“Worth the wait?” Eris asks at last, and you pretend to think long enough that Eris pinches at your side in protest. “If you don't answer me, I'll just have to keep outdoing myself until you say otherwise.” 

“Is that so bad?” You challenge, and you can feel the twitch of him inside you, the way he's stiffening as his eyes flash.

“No,” he growls, “not at all.”

[andromedasreadingnook]

anytime

javier peña x f!reader

summary: “Thank you for coming with me,” you whisper. Nodding, he feels you follow his path—dropping, scorching his face, tracing the place where the hair sits atop his lip. “Anytime, cariño.” “Anytime, really?”

wordcount: 3.1k. warnings: fluff. bestfriends to lovers. banter. reader wears a dress and has a gloss on lips. no physical description. javi calls reader solecito as a nickname only. likely warnings for spelling as i wrote this on my phone. an: huge thanks to @wildemaven for creating this moodboard (pls go show it some love), letting me make a banner from it, and then letting me write this for Javi instead of Frankie. bby, i hope you like this.

Javi had never been good at avoiding challenging situations.

For the longest time, he’s been finding himself in the centre of a whirlwind—whether in Bogotá, Cali or apparently even back home.

You, his friend, best friend—a well-kept secret, tucked away in his chest, not shared with a soul when he was away. You were a thing that he’d clutched close to his chest from the moment the two of you had first gotten close, through his failed engagement and even more so when he left for Colombia. You, in all your understanding, hugging him, telling him he’d be great, amazing, the very best.

Both of you were younger then, less worn down by life, its many obstacles and all the other things.

You best not become best friends with anyone over there, Peña. As if anyone could annoy me as much as you, solecito.

In the brief interim of his return, you hadn’t appeared all that different. You may have had a job, a house—drove a slightly better car than when the two of you were staying out at all hours—but you, at your core remained very much the fucking same.

Still just as understanding, as kind. A person who got him, without really needing to try.

For Javi, the best thing—outside of you being you and the monthly calls you made him promise to keep when he was drowning in murder, drugs and Escobar—is that you never ask him about it. Any of it.

You had always let him pretend, escape, listen to you fill him in on gossip—things such as disagreements over the size of rhubarb and whether someone was having an affair. A thing you did even when he came back. Even more grateful for it then, when he grew tired of the questions, the compliments, the everything.

Its why he didn’t tell you when he would land back in Laredo for good. Just waiting, standing outside your place, leaning against your car as you walk down the street—eyes brushing over him, pausing, before he gets to see that smile. That signature fucking smile.

When he’d left the first time, he remembers how you’d lingered near your car, unwilling to climb into your bright yellow death trap—the entire reason he called you solecito to begin with—wearing the beginnings of that smile even then.

The difference is now he knows that there was something under it. Hidden, held back, kept from him.

It’s why it meant so much to him when he saw it in all its glory, all alight, blooming and somehow healing.

He can’t explain it, but it repairs strands inside of him. Your presence alone continuing to do so when he meets you for lunches, coffees, and late-night drinks. In exchange, he makes you laugh, your head thrown back as he tells you about whatever he did on the ranch—all of it comical, apparently. Because the idea of him, Javier Peña doing ranch work brought tears to your eyes.

“You’re just jealous.”

“Jealous?” you splutter, taking a mouthful of your beer as you narrow your eyes.

Nodding, he leans back into the booth, arm stretched out, picking and picking—the label crumbling from the sweating bottle. “Yeah. Bet you’re upset you don’t get to see me herd cattle and mend fences.”

“Oh, yeah. One-hundred-percent.”

Shrugging, he grins—an easy task with you. A thing that has always been that way, even when he turned up at your door when he couldn’t get married; even when the two of you sat under the stars when he told you about possibly going to Colombia. You still made him grin—even when things weren’t fucking easy at all.

“I’ll add it to my to-do list—visit Peña on the ranch—it’s currently sat under finding a dress, a boyfriend and the will to fucking live.”

Snorting, he traces his bottom lip with his thumb.

Your face scrutinises him, before rolling your eyes. And he just waits—because you always spill eventually.

One. Two. Th—

Fine, you huff, before it unravels from you. How the wedding of your work colleague is close, closer than I thought and you’re tired of attending these things alone, circled like a fucking fish by single sharks.

And he’s listening, taking it in. Trying to not wince at how high-pitched you’ve got as you’ve ranted.

Mainly, Javi finds there’s more questions rising than answers provided.

One singular one rising to the top. A thing he’s wanted to ask for the last few weeks. Not in a rude way, or in the way it burns inside his chest when he talks to you on the phone and he has to bury it. But, it’s there, bubbling, wishing to escape and know. It's even louder when the two of you are like this, crammed in a space, laughing, smiling, sharing, wondering—

Why are you even single? How are you?

You’ve mentioned people—names, here and there when the two of you had been on the phone. Them fluttering out before you can pull them back, but then they’re forgotten. Javi, I get one call a month—let me tell you about the cattle war going off. And, in a way, he didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to know, so he never asked.

Now, it’s all he wants to ask.

Because you’re… you. You’re brilliant, beautiful—funny, clever, witty. And yet—

“—so, now it’s a week out, and I need to find a dress, a date and drive there to watch another person I know get married.”

He knows he should busy his mouth with the bottle—wrap his odd idea in beer. But, that part of him—the one which wants to help, solve issues, and be useful—rises up in him like a phoenix left from the ashes of Colombia.

“I’ll go with you.”

He expects the pause, even braces for the look of shock.

He doesn’t expect the smirk. Doesn’t expect the way it spreads out, to hit your eyes. How under the low-bar light over the table, it makes your eyes glimmer and fucking shimmer.

“You want to go to a wedding with me?”

Shrugging, he picks off the last part of the label—the mess of it all circling around where the glass meets the wood.

Mirroring him, you shrug. “Alright.”

“Alright.”

He should take his eyes off you, but he finds he can’t.

Javi hasn’t been able to since you stepped out of your place, a handful of your dress as you locked up—stepping down your steps to his car, letting it flutter down to your ankles.

You look like a fucking dream.

A thought he knows he shouldn’t have—but has all the same. His heart staggered, half-halting in its hammering as his hands paused in their drumming on the steering wheel; his glasses slid down his nose, his skin suddenly warm all over, even if his jacket was already splayed out across the backseat.

Close your mouth, Peña.

I’m chewing gum, solecito.

Yeah, that’s why your mouth is open.

It hadn’t passed his notice that you were good-looking before today. He’s known you were, had always known it—he had eyes, after all. But, he’d always felt there was a line. A line the two of you never delved too close to step over. The sign above both of your heads already illuminated in bright bulbs and flashing lights:

JUST FRIENDS.

Until this, anyway. This thing that can only be described as the longest one-hour drive he’s ever been on. And he used to do recon with Murphy.

Because you’re teasing, taunting him. All in that usual way that you do. And it’s so easy to flirt back, to let line after line roll, but he has begun to spot you squirming.

Doing so while matching his suit in a deep brown shade—chosen by him, ‘pick a colour suit, Javi’. Adding a tinge to some of your comments—things that if said by someone that wasn’t you, he’d ask them (flirtingly) if they were coming on to him.

But with you, it’s something he can never be sure. Never something that can be completely understood, known, cracked or figured out. In the same way, he can’t understand how your perfume keeps following him. How it embeds itself into the cabin of his truck when he picks you up, sews itself into his clothing when the two of you meet—and right now, is attempting to bury itself in his skin, muscles, and bones.

“You’ve been abnormally quiet.”

Smirking, he snorts. Fingers smoothing out his hair as he swings into a spot—the tyres crunching over the gravel. “Have I? Or have you just not shut up.”

“Rude.”

Laughing, he cuts the engine—hands resting on the top of his thighs, not missing the way your eyes follow his movements before clearing your throat. It shifts something in him, makes a little part of him surge, like the smallest of fireworks suddenly erupting in his chest.

Something he forces himself to shut down the moment you shove open your door, slipping out, as he grabs his jacket.

“Do I need to be worried about you crying today, solecito?”

Rearranging your dress, and slipping the strap of your bag over your shoulder, you squint as you stand tall, hand covering your brow as you meet his gaze.

And fuck, with this backdrop, even squinting, you look beautiful, radiant, stunning all over again. Somehow his brain having forgotten when you were next to him, when you were acting as if this was the most normal fucking thing they’ve ever done.

It isn’t.

Something he’s becoming more aware of as his throat goes dry, and his thoughts slow to nothing—

“No, you’re good. Your mouth is open again.”

You say it with a smirk, all teasing—making heat lick up his spine all over again. And, if you were anyone else, he’d have already pulled you close, tilted your chin up, and likely smothered your mouth with his.

But, you’re his friend—his best friend. The one solid thing he’s had in his life since he became a name, a poster, a hero.

“C’mon,” you say, turning on your heel as you head in the direction of the entrance, him following, jacket slipping on as he mutters mouth isn’t fucking open under his breath.

Even if he knows it was. Even if he’s desperately trying to stop his eyes from descending down to your hips, eyes fixated on the way you walk with ease to the wooden sign which greets all the guests.

He knows, due to his absence from home, there haven’t been many weddings he’s attended. Least of all like this. But even he thinks this is over the top, suddenly understanding why you hadn’t wanted to come alone. Because grand doesn’t quite cover it—not after the last one he’d attended.

This one has flickering candles lit in the day, waiters all set to hand glasses of bubbles and offer little mouthfuls of flavour on silver trays. Then, there’s the backdrop—the enormity of the building, only for you to tell him that it’s an outside wedding.

It’s more of a comfort as to why his hand drops to the small of your back than anything else. A need to be rooted, to feel calmer as he nods at passing people he doesn’t know (and hopes don’t know him), feeling you curl into him subconsciously, your bag swinging between the two of you both—affording a gap, forcing it, in fact.

The ceremony will start soon.

He overhears it, as he assumes you do, because your fingers wrap around his wrist—taking it from your back, before your palm meets his, and then you’re guiding, leading. Dragging him. All willingly to the back of the building where he sees it—the makeshift aisle. A wooden arch, and lots of deep orange-brown chairs all line up on either side of an orange aisle.

“Glad we chose brown now,” he murmurs.

“Does it make you think, y’know—being at a wedding?”

He swallows. Because it’s a loaded question.

One he assumes has been sitting all politely on the tip of your tongue since you sat beside him in his vehicle. It’s why his eyes watch you carefully as you grab the two of them a flute each from a passing waiter. Handing it to him, adding nothing—not rescuing him. Just waiting instead, doing that thing you do, where your eyes widen as you wait, trying to look all innocent even though it’s you who has just dropped a live grenade into the centre of the conversation.

Shaking his head, he snorts. “No. Not really. Knew… I knew deep down it wasn’t right. Her… and me.”

“You got any idea what’s right?”

You take a sip this time when the question lands, it again sparkling in glittered innocence, the softest of smiles pressed against the glass.

You he thinks. But he swallows that away and says ‘Not a fucking clue’ instead.

Throughout the day, he’s been desperate for a reason to stop looking at you.

So far, he’s found none.

Bits and pieces of things Murphy used to say, the words he’d drop into conversation when talking about his wife: how he knew, why she was the one, all coming back to him in drips and drops.

It dawns on him, the same as it had done since before he went to Cali, that you might mean a little more than a friend. A lot of what Murphy used to say, so easily applied to how Javi felt about you.

You make him feel calmer, create a space where he can relax, really unwind. It’s easy, uncomplicated, when he’s with you—from the conversation to the things he thinks. Complex balled thoughts stretch out until they’re in easy-to-decipher lines, able to process, able to understand.

He even told you about the boats.

A secret he’d have been prepared to take to the grave, if not for the fact you pointed out he wasn’t sleeping. Your eyes watching, pleading, don’t lie to me. And fuck, he couldn’t—not even if he wanted to.

That should have been the first sign.

He guesses he should be thankful today has been stuffed with more of them. One after the other. From the way you made sure to make him a plate of only his favourite things, to the way you knew when he needed a bit of space from the thousand questions as to how you both knew one another, and what he does.

Now, Javi is on the sidelines, admiring you in a way that makes his heart double in size.

Your dress skims around your calves as you dance—your arms rising above your head, glee stitched itself from cheek to cheek. On occasion, time halts when your eyes land on his—stealing whatever thought he had, only resuming normality when you close your eyes, belting out the lyrics to the song.

Mainly, the thought he finds which keeps returning is: I wanna do this with you again. any place. any time.

A hollowness scratches out in his chest as he lets himself acknowledge it. A thickness growing in his throat, a sorrowness weighs down on his shoulders as he nurses his glass—hand in his trouser pocket, telling himself he should be content he got to be on your arm, got to have you against him during a slow dance over an hour ago. That he gets to see you smile, hear your laugh—even know you.

“Hey, Peña.”

“Hey solecito.”

You grin—a little breathless, the music having changed, becoming slower, softer—wrenching the glass from his hand as you drain it.

“Fuck me. Y’thirsty?”

“Very. You’d know if you had any rhythm.”

He pinches you, lightly—teasingly. Your grin shifts into a laugh, tucking yourself in against him, arm around his back. And fuck, the way you’re looking up at him, he wants to warn you.

If you look at me like that, I’m going to kiss you.

Javi wonders what you’d do if you did. Whether you’d pull away, hissing the two of you are friends. Or whether you’d kiss him back.

“Want to get some fresh air?” you ask, your words against his ear—lips so close to ghosting his skin.

“Sure.”

It’s cooler when the two of you step out from under the marquee, the music getting quieter when your fingers loop in his, guiding, easing him around plant pots and tall trees, until the two of you are descending marble stairs and past iron fencing, to take him to the perimeter, to the view looking out over the city.

He watches as you step forward, fingers around the iron fencing, leaning, staring out as you let out a heavy sigh. One laced with things he wants to ask for, tug it from you, let you unload whatever is weighing on you—because that’s what you both do for one another.

You make it easy.

Make it all bearable.

But, whether you mean to, or not, you shiver. A light one, barely noticeable by most—but he isn’t most. His fingers are already at the button, undoing it, sliding his jacket down his arms before he places it over your shoulders, watching your head turn, meeting his gaze.

“You look really pretty.”

Flicking your eyes down, you smile. Sweetly. Unreadably. “Well, you’ve always been pretty.”

“Pretty?”

Laughing, your fingers tug his jacket closer, burying yourself in it. “The prettiest, Javier.”

Leaning beside you, he feels the metal from the railings, you’re both resting on, cut into his palms. He wonders if you feel the same, your dress billowing in the gentle breeze as the two of you stare off into the distance, spotting the flickering lights of a city, of homes tucking in for the night.

Then he turns his head, finding you already watching him, studying him in a similar way as you were before.

And, he lets his eyes drop to your mouth. A sign. A signal. It’s not the first time, usually, he does so when you’re not looking, letting himself trace the curve of your lips. Now, he stares at the way your gloss has long since gone, left behind on glasses and straws.

“Thank you for coming with me,” you whisper.

Nodding, he feels you follow his path—dropping, scorching his face, tracing where the hair sits atop his lip.

“Anytime, cariño.”

“Anytime, really?”

Nodding, he swallows. A thousand things he’s thought, and felt, all rushing to the surface—unwilling to bury itself, to descend under the usual guilt and feelings of inadequacies when it comes to you.

“I’d do anything for you.”

Smirking, you tilt your head. “Anything?”

Biting your lip, he feels it—something thrumming in him, being plucked.

“Will you kiss me?”

“I could…”

Your brows rise, a louder cheer coming from inside, but it doesn’t do anything to tear your eyes away from the other.

The whole world could slowly vanish from around the two of you, and all he’d want is just to stare at you.

“But?” you ask, delicately.

Almost so softly, it makes his chest ache.

Dipping his head, he lets his gaze wash over the place again—the rolling land, the trees, the houses in the distance.

“If I kiss you, I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

You slide closer, shoulder to shoulder, eyes scorching his jaw, his neck, the side profile he can feel you tracing with your gaze.

“Then don’t,” you say.

His neck almost cracks with the quickness of his movement, his eyes scanning, reading, a part of him wanting to step back, and protect you. Because he’s not sure about the parts of him you’d find easy to love—

“You don’t know what you’re—“

“Don’t care,” you interrupt, fingers twitching on the lapel of his jacket. “I know you—Javi, not Agent Peña. I know the boy who cloud-watched with me when my parents wouldn’t stop fighting; I know the man who told me to stop sending him postcards from the town shop—but also whispered that he liked them.”

Snorting, he smiles.

“So, if you want to, no pressure—but, I think you should kiss me.”

“Yeah?”

Nodding, you bite your cheek. “Think you’ve wasted a lot of time not kissing me already, honestly.”

Of course you do, he thinks. And then he kisses you, palms on your cheeks, slanting his mouth over yours.

And fuck, it’s the best fucking thing he’s ever done.

an: honestly, this made me so fucking happy to write.

[andromedasreadingnook]

Secret Smile | Javier Peña x f!reader

The fic header was made by the lovely @wildemaven

Pairing: Javier Peña x female reader

Summary: Before returning to Colombia to get things right this time, Javi’s childhood best friend asks him to to keep an eye out for his sister while they’re both stationed in the embassy. Only you don’t need Javier to keep an eye on you, your new role at the embassy is all about keeping an eye on him after all. Sparks fly, lines will be drawn then broken and there’s everything to lose.

Rating: 18+, Minors DNI

Series Warnings: slow burn, eventual explicit content, 90s typical sexism, language, anxiety, canon typical violence, narcos s3 plot and spoilers, sexual harassment,

Fic title is from Secret Smile by Semisonic

Chapter One: Prodigal Son - (2.3k) 21st Jun 23 Chapter Two: Lost Daughter - (3.5k) 29th Jun 23 Chapter Three: Checks and Balances -(3.4K) 5th July 23 Chapter Four: Tangled Webs - (2.7k) 13th July 23 Chapter Five: Unsteady- (3.5k) 26th July 23 Chapter Six: Fall to Pieces- (3.3k) 9th August ‘23 Chapter Seven: A Tale of Two Reunions (5.9k) 14th August ‘23 Chapter Eight: Futility (3.5k) 30th August '23 Chapter Nine: Giving In (3k) 6th September ‘23 Chapter Ten: Homecoming coming soon Chapter Eleven: coming soon Chapter Twelve: coming soon Chapter Thirteen: coming soon Chapter Fourteen: coming soon Chapter Fifteen: coming soon Epilogue: coming soon

If you would like to be added to to the fic taglist please let me know. As a reminder this blog is 18+ - minors do not interact.

[andromedasreadingnook]

first light

or, some early fall soft!joel drabble

so, I couldn't get this out of my head and I had to write it. it's all fluff. i've never written for joel before (even though he consumes most of my waking thoughts), so please be gentle with me.

we've got: sweet and domestic!joel/reader (no real physical descriptions besides having a body), no outbreak (because it's my comfort au), established relationship, early fall vibes, post-shower joel, little spoon joel, basically it's just really soft okay

happy fall, y'all.

You stir, eyes opening, sunlight streaming through the half-open blinds. A breeze from the open window flutters the sheer curtains. It’s cold. 

When you’d gone to bed, you'd complained of the heat, sprawling out naked on the bed. 

“Open the window then, darlin’” Joel had said, toweling off his hair as he crossed the threshold of the bedroom. 

“But I just laid down…” you whined, turning your head to look at him. Fresh-out-of-the-shower-Joel was one of your favorites, his hair a mop of wet, messy curls. Sometimes you held the comb out of his reach, just so you could have a few more moments to admire the way his hair stuck out every which way after he’d roughly dried it. The ends started to dry quickly, curling around his ears and against his neck. “Gimme that,” he’d say, and you would…or sometimes you’d reach up and comb his hair yourself. He secretly loved that. Well, it wasn’t really a secret, not with the way he would tilt his head back and close his eyes. 

“Well aren’t you helpless,” he’d chuckled after seeing your pouty lip. He walked over to the window and pulled it up, and your eyes were trained on his arms as he did it. He was naked as the day he was born, and you raked your eyes across his broad shoulders, down his back. You hoped none of the neighbors had looked up right then, or they’d have seen a lot of Joel. The part that was only for you. 

“Yeah,” you smiled, not taking your eyes off of him as he crossed the room back to the bathroom, quickly running the comb through his hair and hanging up his towel. He clicked off the bathroom light and walked back to the bed, bare feet padding on the soft carpet. He tapped your thigh. 

“‘Scooch.” 

You rolled over onto your tummy, giving him room to lay down. A warm breeze rolled through the open window.

“Want me to get the fan, baby?” He asked, rolling onto his side so he could place a soft kiss on your shoulder. 

“It’s okay, you just laid down,” you said, turning your head to the side to face him, laying your head over your folded arms. “It’s s’posed to cool down tonight anyway.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, rolling halfway back over to turn off the lamp on his side. “But they always say that. We didn’t get any rain, so I doubt it.”

He rolled back over, his warm chest against your elbow. He placed soft kisses on your arm, started tracing little shapes in the dip of your back. The moon was almost full, painting his face in soft, silvery light.

“You tired, sweetheart?” He asked as you fluttered your eyes closed.

“Not really…” you opened them back up, meeting his eyes. “Just feels good.”

This morning, the air in the room is crisp. The weather man had been right after all. The sheet had bunched up around your waist in the night, the quilt kicked off the bed. You shiver as you sit up and crawl to the baseboard, reaching down for the quilt and pulling it back up. You pull it and the sheet up around your shoulders as you lay back down, facing Joel’s back. He’s still softly snoring. 

You run your hand over his side, wiggling it under his folded arm. You nuzzle your face against the base of his neck, sighing as you nestle your hips against his ass. He’s so warm, even in the cool of the morning.

“Mmm…” he sighs in his sleep, subconsciously pulling your forearm up against his chest, locking you in. You place a couple soft kisses on his back. 

Maybe it is finally fall.

[andromedasreadingnook]

Broke more vases.

Ajgnthfhfhrlancuel I love this way too much

Speak Now

Draco Malfoy x Reader

Reader: she/her pronouns

Warnings: I didn’t proof read this. Let me know if there are any mistakes or if there are other warnings I should add.

Category: Post-Hogwarts, ex to lovers, wedding interruption, songfic, one-shot, angst?, fluff?

Summary: In which you rudely barge in on a white veil occasion.

No Sneak Peak 😋

Author’s Note: I’ve been feeling uninspired and unwell recently but I’m back 💞 This is my entry to week 2 of @hpcottagecorefest

Word Count: <2k

To The Library (Masterlist)

To The Kitchen (WIPs)

To More Draco Malfoy fics

To Speak Now Anthology

You are not the kind of girl who should be rudely barging in on a white veil occasion. Yet here you are dressed in formal attire, sitting at the seventh to the front bench of the great hall of the Malfoy manor. You had to come to see groom and Draco was not the kind of boy who should be marrying the wrong girl. You would be lying if you said you weren’t taken aback at the news of his engagement to one Astoria Greengrass a few months ago but it had pained you to hear it; especially through the mouth of an acquaintance.

He didn’t even have the nerve to say it to you. Then again why would he? You had been broken up for nearly year. But everybody knew you would get back together.

Well, everybody thought you would.

You always did. It was the norm for your relationship. Sure, this was the longest you’ve been apart but he somehow dated and proposed to Astoria within that 10 months.

You scoff at that thought. Must be their families doing. That’s probably why you didn’t get an invitation.

So you did what you had to in order to get into the event. You snuck in and see your friends and her snotty little family all dressed in pastel. There were different entrances to Malfoy Manor. You knew them like the back of your hand. Days and nights were spent here, running around playing hide and seek that lead to romantic encounters in nooks and crannies. No one truly checks who enters the servant quarters and those working this event, luckily, did not know who you were or were too busy to care.

You are sitting next to Blaise, who said he would say that he brought you as his plus one. If any one asked. Pansy said she truly would have brought you, if not for her being a bridesmaid. She had known the Greengrass sisters since she was born but was only told she was part of the entourage a week prior.

It’s not like you didn’t know the sisters yourself. You were close with Daphne during your school years and met Astoria when you visited Daphne’s home during the summer after first year and she was not as carefree as her older sister, even as a nine year old.

“She’s probably yelling at a bridesmaid somewhere.” You whisper to Blaise.

“Yeah, Pansy texted me earlier that Astoria’s gown is shaped like a pastry.” He snickers as he shows you the picture Pansy had sent him. You feign a laugh. Astoria looked gorgeous in the photo.

But this is surely not what Draco thought it would be. After the second wizarding war he vowed not to be caught up in his parent’s views and expectations ever again. It had nearly gotten him killed. You recall the nights you comforted him in your arms as he sobbed and scrubbed the mark on his forearm. How you missed wrapping your arms around him and being wrapped by his.

A cough snaps you out of your daydream. You look up and see Daphne with her furrowed eyebrows.

“You can’t be here.” She gestures for you to stand up. “My mom has seen you and told Astoria. So you have to-”

“She’s my date.” Blaise interrupts.

“And you know bloody well that this would happen.” Daphne ushers you and you follow her to the back of the hall.

“Look as much as I was rooting for you and Draco, I have to side with my sister. You need to go.” She hears her name being called and rushes to them.

Once Daphne is no longer in sight, you sneak back into the far back left side of the hall where long curtains drape. This was your last chance to stop this all. You couldn’t try to stop the engagement, but you can definitely try and prevent the union. It wasn’t a choice you made so lightly. Many sleepless nights nearer the date and you had made your mind up.

You couldn’t lose Draco. You had gone through so much together. There was so much love still there. No matter how many times you broke up and made up. You were meant to be. You know he knows it. So you hide behind the curtains.

The organ starts to play a song that sounds like a death march. In between the two curtains, you peak at the start of the ceremony. Out comes Gardenia Greengrass in mint green. She never did like you when you met. She and Narcissa had been close childhood friends who dreamt of their children being wed and uniting the families. However, when Draco mentioned that you were his girlfriend during fifth year, their hopes were shattered and they were not warm towards you.

You sneak out of the curtains and sit at the back bench. The hall is filled with familiar faces but luckily the person next to you was too watching the ceremony to notice you.

As the wedding processional order proceeds to the grandparents, fond gestures are exchanged.

Then he walks through the door.

They say time stops when you’re in love. They are right. The intense feeling you have as you see him in his white suit and mint pocket square, his platinum blond locks in low fade cut, and his ice grey eyes wandering the hall sent butterflies to your stomach.

But they are heavy. It’s all wrong. This isn’t how you imagined seeing him down an aisle. Your stomach drops at the weight of it all.

You and Draco often talked about how your wedding would be. Which colour palette to use, which flowers, which venue and you see nothing of his preferences in what is all around you.

Draco stands at the altar awaiting his bride.

The music changes.

Astoria floats down the aisle like a pageant queen. You look to Draco and back to his bride. The butterflies are dancing around in your stomach and you are feeling a little nauseous.

But you know he wishes it you.

Doesn’t he?

Draco fixes his tie and looks around the room. He squints as he pats down his blazer. You know all his tells. By the way he fidgets with his family ring. He’s nervous. He takes a sharp inhale when he realises that Astoria is in front of him. She takes his hands in hers. A part of you breaks when you see him smile as he looks into her eyes.

You pay no mind to the words until you hear the preacher say, “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

There’s a silence. There’s your last chance. You stand up with shaking hands.

All eyes on you.

Horrified looks from everyone in the room but you’re only looking at Draco.

He drops Astoria’s hands and faces you fully. You walk to aisle. Astoria’s mother stands up, but you start to speak.

“I’m sorry… Actually, I’m not sorry at all. Draco don't say a single vow. Don’t say yes.”

Your eyes are on his. Gasps from the people around you echoes in the hall.

“Let’s just run away now.” You continue. “I'll meet you when you're out of the Manor, at the back door.”

Your legs feel like they are going to give up on you when silence ensues. Draco is still standing at the altar. Hushed whispers follows. He opens his mouth as if to say something but he shuts it as quickly. He looks back and forth from you to Astoria. He looks back to you and says nothing.

That’s when you lose all the hopes you had. He really must be in this for love and not for his parents sake. You bite your lower lip and pick at the skin.

You don’t say another word and you walk out the manor. The metallic taste of blood seeps onto your tongue as you hold back the sobs that threaten to creep out. And as soon as you are out the grand entrance you drop to sit on the cold steps. All the what ifs crawl all over you as you wait on whether he will follow you out. You shiver.

Time is dragging. It feels like an eternity.

So you run. As fast as your shoes can take you. To the meadows nearby. It’s not the summer memories that flood your mind. No. Not the picnics amidst the flowers where you now sit. But the missed opportunities.

You should have told him you wanted him back sooner. You should have said something before they even got engaged. You should have never gone to this event. How stupid of you.

The scent of the pastel blue and baby pink flowers linger in the air. He used to pick them for you and placed them in your hair. The compliments he would shower you as you adorn them. Now they are tainted with the memories of them being in the decorations of their wedding. They must have been here together.

You grab a fist full of flowers in your hands and pluck them forcefully, chucking it with all the strength you can muster.

You hear your name being gently called. It didn’t register as a voice from someone near you. You’ve heard it so many times before. Draco did often visit you in dreams.

He places himself next to you.

“What? Come to tell me the good news in person? I must be so special.” You pick at the flowers once more. He doesn’t speak for the longest time. The breeze cooling down your heated cheeks. Shouldn’t he be at the reception?

“Remember when I first brought you here? You were so nervous about telling my parents about us.”

“Of course! Narcissa already hated me since you lot blamed me for breaking her favourite vase.” You remark.

The decision of sharing a bottle of fire whiskey stolen from the cabinets and pretending to be studying at the manor library seemed like a good idea then.

“It wasn’t my idea! Goyle just said it to protect me. Crabbe just went along-“

“Plus she was already furious when she heard that you dated girls that wasn’t a Greengrass. Bet she’s happy now.” You scoff.

“She actually loved you.” He confesses. “Every time I visited home without you she made me bring you your favourite dish.”

“That’s why we always had a bunch of them in the fridge when you got back.”

“Where did you think they came from?”

“I don’t know! I thought you bought it somewhere. You never mentioned they came from your mom!”

“I did! The first time when I went after New Years cause you had work.”

“I don’t remember that was ages ago!”

He laughs and offers you flower crown he had made.

“I’ve missed this.”

“What? Us bickering?”

“Yeah and just you in general.”

You frown at him and ask, “Why are you here? Should you be back at the party?”

He props down the offering in between you then looks to the horizon.

“I didn’t say my vows.” He pauses to see your reaction. However, when you didn’t respond he carries on.

“My father was the one who arranged all of this. After all these years and he still has an influence on me. Which is why I’m so glad you were around when they said, ‘Speak Now’. Ever since we broke up, I’ve been a mess.

“I keep going to my fireplace to floo to you and when I finally did you had moved out of our place. Figured you’d moved on. Broke more vases. It drove me crazy when you never came to any social events. I’ve missed you so much. You’re the one I love.”

He motions his open palm to you and says, “Shall we run away now?”

[andromedasreadingnook]

☆some more of my favorite fics ☆

a sheep in wolf's clothing by @jupiter-soups

My Brother's Keeper by @diversemediums

The Two of Us by @yourwinchesterbros

call me by @macfrog

i'll be needing stitches by @thetriumphantpanda

easy, plaid-shirt mornings by @morning-star-joy

Keeping up by @talaok

Tender by @brighttears

bath time by @luvrxbunny

an open invitation by @walkintotheriveranddisappear

Sweet spot by @javiscigarette

give in by @cupofjoel

clouds by @softlyspector

seasons by @loquaciousferret

speak now by @mendessi

stranded by @soullumii

whatever you want by @inkedells

in my hometown by @swiftispunk

in a feud with her neighbor by @proxima-writes

if the door wasn't shut by @heartpascal

I want your video by @tieronecrush

Friendly Neihgborhood Handyman by @juletheghoul

Float Like a Feather by @wheresarizona

Yellow by @ilovepedro

heat lightning by @millerscoffee

Falling into My SIns by @inthe-dark-tonight

anyone is welcome to send fic recs to my inbox!💌 i lovee reading them :))

[andromedasreadingnook]

a stranger's heart without a home masterlist

Pairing: rivals to friends with benefits slowburn Joel x F!Reader, Post-Outbreak

Fic Summary: Sleeping with Joel Miller was supposed to be a one time thing. When the older brother of your closest friend showed up in Jackson, you hadn't expected him to stay more than a day. You'd both given into a brief moment of passion before he left, and that was the end of that. It didn't matter, you were never going to see him again. Then Joel returns a few months later, and screws up everything about the comforting life you had established in Jackson.

Fic Tags: One Night Stands, Rivals into Friends with Benefits, Emotional Slow Burn (really slow), Eventual Romance, Mutual Pining Idiots, Angst & Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family (lots of Tommy & Reader and Dina & Reader friendships), Long Chapters

Fic Warnings: Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Alcohol Use, Age Difference (Reader around 30, Joel 56) Themes of Grief/PTSD/Depression with mentions of death (family members, both Reader and Joel) that can be heavy at times, Specific Warnings in each Chapter

Status: Complete

ao3 link

official art by @cynibuns

chapter 1: I am not the only traveler

chapter 2: the holidays linger like bad perfume

chapter 3: do I wanna know if this feeling flows both ways (18+ Smut)

chapter 4: there it is again, that funny feeling

chapter 5: break the silence; damn the dark, damn the light

chapter 6: and I'll never see you again if I can help it (18+ Smut)

chapter 7: look at us, you and I, back at it again (18+ Smut)

chapter 8: maybe I don't quite know what to say, but I'm here in your doorway

chapter 9: I thought that you’d be here by now (18+ Smut)

chapter 10: can the killer in me tame the fire in you?

chapter 11: this slope is treacherous, this path is reckless (18+ Smut)

chapter 12: you take what you get, and you turn it into honesty

chapter 13: burned out flames should never reignite, but I thought you might take me home (18+ Smut)

chapter 14: he built a fire just to keep me warm

chapter 15: speak to me until your history’s no mystery to me

chapter 16: and it feels good to be known so well (18+ Smut)

chapter 17: baby, it's Halloween, and we can be anything (18+ Smut)

chapter 18: yes, I'll admit that I'm a fool for you (18+ Smut)

chapter 19: either I'm careless or I wanna get caught (18+ Smut)

chapter 20: with your boots beneath my bed; forever is the sweetest con (18+ Smut)

epilogue

(listed in order of how they occur after the main fic)

morning after chapter 20

waking up to oral (18+ Smut)

painfully domestic (kisses to get their attention)

drunk kisses (18+ Smut)

lingerie & breeding kink (18+ Smut)

(epilogue takes place here)

not much I need (nonsexual intimacy)

kissing scars

would it be enough if I could never give you peace? (Reader's anxiety)

chapter 13 sneak peek (Jealous!Joel's POV Date Scene)

chapter 13 scene (Jealous!Joel Smut after Date 18+)

chapter 13 cut endings (Angst af)

chapter 14 sneak peek (Reflection Joel's POV)

chapter 15 sneak peek (Totally Casual Drinks Between Friends)

chapter 16 sneak peek (Dina and Ellie Plan)

chapter 17 sneak peek (The Dance)

chapter 18 sneak peek (Joel Pines for You)

chapter 18 secret scene (Tommy finally fucking figures it out)

chapter 19 sneak peek (Tommy and Reader)

fic playlist

MC playlist

Taylor-coded MC playlist (for my fellow Swifties!)

Joel POV playlist

[andromedasreadingnook]

you drew stars around my scars ❤️

Custom fanart created for @marauders-audio-project

[andromedasreadingnook]

‘Tis the damn season for blankets and hot coffee…..and reading

Here are some recommendations of mine:

@v1oletvenus aka the reason I started writing in the first place. Top tier work, the Sirius fics are heaven!

@leftperfectionmoon again, their Sirius works are 👩‍🍳💋

@talesofadragon her writing is really good and I absolutely love the way she portrays Draco in her stories!

@avalynlestrange SO MANY GOOD FICS INSPIRED BY TAYLOR SWIFT SONGS

@softlyspector in love love love with their writing, they can do no wrong

@patrophthia I can’t put into words how much I love their stories and writing.

@earthgirl616 again, a masterpiece of a writing blog

@liltangerineart , the way they write Javi is my absolute favorite ❤️

[andromedasreadingnook]

Simmer

welcome to hawkins’ number one diner! where the staff don’t wanna be there and the linecook is a grumpy metal head who likes to argue with his boss and ignore everyone else. but the new waitress can’t hack the rude customers and the regulars can be a little… much.

serving up indiana heatwaves, slow burns, walk in freezer breakdowns, late night talks, shared shakes and food as a love language. order extra spice for $4.

a linecook!au with eddie munson and shy fem!reader.

CH1. HOME STYLE

CH2. ICE BOX

CH3. SUNNY SIDE UP

CH4. 0800-AWKWARD

CH5. WAKE ‘N’ BAKE

CH6. SPILLED MILK

CH7. SPICE BOX

CH8. BOILING POINT

CH9. SIMMER

CH10. CHEQUE, PLEASE | TBC

THE KITCHEN MIX 📻 WWW.JIMSMIDNIGHTDINER.COM 💾

[andromedasreadingnook]

quote from alice notley // open water by caleb azumah nelson // georgia o'Keeffe's letter to russel vernon hunter //sara teasdale's poem, the crystal gazer // all too well - taylor swift // sylvia plath // a little life by hanya yanagihara //memory for forgetfulness by mahmoud darwish, translated by Ibrahim Muhawi

[andromedasreadingnook]

bloodshed, crimson clover

Pairing: Joel x Doctor F!Reader

Summary: You run a small practice in the Boston QZ, willing to treat anybody who needs it. After an encounter where you save the life of Joel Miller, you form an unlikely friendship with one of the most notorious, feared men in the QZ, a reputation you didn't realize existed until you come face to face with it yourself.

Warnings: Angst. Slow build. Mutual pining & tension (unresolved). Ambiguous ending. Game!Joel. Canon-typical violence. Reader captured with mentioned physical harm, Feral Joel with descriptions of torture/murder. Vague descriptions of injury treatments (bullet wound with cauterization, cleaning glass/debris from cuts, burn wound). Reader from California & Joel calls her Cali, Reader calls Joel Texas.

Wordcount: 12.1k

A/N: I've had this idea for a while, started it and it sat in drafts, and suddenly I was hit with inspiration again this past week. Also ty @cupofjoel for letting me scream about them to you and all your support, ily!!

In his own ways, Joel Miller was a complete gentleman.

A distinctly Southern one, with a show of selective manners from his upbringing before the world went to hell, paired with a charming ruggedness that pulled your attention to him from the very first time he stumbled through your little clinic’s doors.

You were one of the few legitimately licensed Pre-Outbreak medical professionals left in the QZ, and accepted each and every sick and injured person into your tiny practice. It took a long time and care to get a place out of the view of FEDRA’s ever-looming gaze, but even then you risked the possibility of having a target painted on your back if you treated the “wrong” person.

Somebody always owed somebody else within those tall steel walls surrounding the poor semblances of a society that, in your opinion, should have been left in the dust with the rest of the world. In not discerning who you patched up, you put yourself in danger of getting on the wrong side of someone distinctly more powerful, more violent than you.

But through your diligent work over the years, you’d gained enough of a clientele for your hidden practice to remain largely untouched. There were a few instances with graffiti, but even that wasn’t too terrible—immature Fireflies pissed off that you hadn’t accepted their offer to join them, most likely new recruits trying to earn their place in the rebel ranks.

So when the rickety old doors banged open hard enough to nearly tear them off the top hinge one night, you were up on your feet and running to assist the large body that almost fell to the floor with the momentum of how they had burst in.

There was not an ounce of anxiety in your body other than the familiar adrenaline of assess the damage, stop the bleeding, prevent infection and keep them alive as you wrapped your arms around their waist, using all your strength to pull them up and direct them to one of the two old clinic beds in the dingy old room that you sanitized as best you could between patients.

That was the first thing you noticed about Joel Miller, even though you didn’t know him by name or even face yet—he was heavy. Solid muscle underneath blood-stained fabric that you began to pull away from his torso, hardly paying attention to the low timbre of his pained grunts when the cloth stuck gruesomely to the gunshot wound you finally saw once you got the shirt off.

There were no questions in your mind other than how deep was it, was there an exit wound, did it hit anything vital, not caring how he had gotten it, who had given it to him, or why they had as you paced to your instruments, only taking a moment to make sure they were clean before pulling on a pair of gloves you were running dangerously low on, hoping that they wouldn’t get too blood-soaked in the process of keeping this man alive.

Yes, you would do all you could to save him—but you still knew in the back of your mind that two pairs of gloves spent on him would risk no gloves and losing somebody else further down the line.

It wasn’t a thought you wasted the time to entertain now as you quickly got to work. There was nothing to numb the pain of the man who laid back on the clinic bed, teeth gritted and half-delirious from blood loss, not even bothering to try and say anything to you while you saved his life.

You weren’t offended. In some odd way, it was a breath of fresh air.

Most, if not all patients you treated with this kind of wound, were usually tripping over fast anxiety-fueled words trying to explain to you how they had gotten into this situation. You supposed they were hoping you wouldn’t turn them in for whatever they most likely weren’t supposed to be doing, not knowing that the only thing you truly cared about anymore was keeping as many people as you could alive in this godforsaken dystopia.

This man though, he stayed silent. Not trying to assure you of his goodwill, whether he truly had any or not. He only stared up at the dilapidated ceiling, jaw practically wired shut, maybe to keep in the low grunts and groans that rumbled from his chest, exposed from where you had to remove his denim shirt to treat the wound on his torso.

Unfortunately, you did end up having to switch to a new pair of gloves, the bleeding slowing but stubbornly refusing to stop completely. You were reaching for more of your quickly dwindling supply of gauze to keep pressing against the wound when you heard his voice clearly for the first time.

“Cauterize it.”

You looked back at him with your hand outstretched halfway to the gauze, eyes widening at the simple command that fell from the man’s chapped lips in a low drawl that rasped with pain and dehydration.

Blinking, you looked from his face that was still directed towards the ceiling down towards the wound, a frown pulling onto your lips as you glanced back towards him and began to protest, “I don’t—”

“Cauterize. It.” He repeated firmly, jaw still clenched with the words hissed out through gritted teeth.

You stiffened, not particularly enjoying being ordered to make a medical choice in your own clinic, but then his eyes met yours, filled with an intense determination that had your hand pulling back slightly from its path towards a longer process that would've hopefully let the wound heal naturally.

Then there was a slight shift in the unfathomable depth of that gaze, a fracture in walls even more impenetrable than the ones that had surrounded you for almost half a decade, and his cracked lips parted, tongue darting out to wet them in a desperate attempt for hydration before he gave a quiet murmur of, “Please.”

There was the first hint of those selective manners, emphasized with an underlying sense of unspeakable eagerness, and your face set into your own determination, nodding as you set about preparing for a practice that wasn’t your favorite, but was sometimes necessary.

Maybe this man couldn’t afford the time it would take to stop the bleeding completely, sew it up and let the wound heal on its own. Maybe there was something out there, somebody out to get him.

Or somebody he had to protect, to get home to.

That last thought is what urged you not stop even when the man grabbed the edge of the bed in a large hand, fingers curling so tight around it that you marveled if the rickety old metal would actually break under the strength of that grip. It's what spurred you to keep going even through the sharp shouts of pain muffled around the clean, rolled up washcloth you had gotten him to bite down on through the procedure.

Once the wound was forcibly closed by the red-hot metal of your sterile knife the best you could manage, you found your eyes drawn back to the man’s face, tracing the strength of his features as they relaxed a fraction from relief once the onslaught of pain from the procedure finished.

When you began the process of disinfecting the closed wound, his face had grown so blank that you worried he was on the verge of passing out, but he surprised you by placing his palms flat against the bed, pushing himself up with a loud grunt the moment you were done treating him.

“Sir—”

Any protests towards his movements you were about to make were cut short as he swung his feet over the side of the bed, placing his boots on the ground, heavy-footed and nearly collapsing when he pushed himself up and strode forward anyway, powering through the weakness you would much prefer he would sit in before trying to leave.

“Sir, I really don’t think—”

But he was shaking his head towards your attempts to get him to rest, fingers fumbling with the buttons of where blood was beginning to dry on the faded denim of his shirt, managing to get it most the way fastened back up as he took increasingly more steady steps towards the door.

What flabbergasted you the most, though, was the way he turned his head back towards you, gaze meeting yours for the second time as he muttered a gruff, “Thank you.”

The second show of those bizarre Southern gentlemanly manners, and you still didn’t have a name for him yet.

And then he was gone.

Time passed, and you allowed the mysterious man with the dark gaze and deep drawl to fade into a memory.

Like with all your patients, you spared just enough thought in the days following his treatment to hope he was alive, even though you knew that any hope to ever get confirmation of survival was fruitless. There was no way to know how much longer somebody survived if you managed to save them.

Other than making that wish of wellbeing for yet another soul, you moved on with your life.

So when the door opened one afternoon weeks later, in much worse wear now than it ever had been from the time that patient had charged through it, you were surprised to see the very same man who was the cause of it standing in your doorway when you looked up.

When you saw him, you paused halfway in rising from your squeaky old rolling stool, remembering his face even from the way his head was turned to the side, observing how the top of the door was nearly coming off its rusty hinges before turning to find you.

With a nod, he stepped further into the room, surprising you with how carefully he shut the door behind him, a direct juxtaposition to his whirlwind entrance and exit when you had treated his gunshot wound.

“Doctor,” he greeted in that same low drawl—Southern, maybe Texas, you thought somewhere in the back of your mind—as you finally rose fully from your seat, returning his nod and automatically moving towards your sparse supplies.

“Take a seat,” you said more kindly than firmly over your shoulder, not in a haste to stop him from bleeding out on your floors this time as he seemed to be relatively fine.

“Sorry?”

You paused, glancing from one of the few pairs of gloves that remained back over your shoulder to see the man staring at you with a slight furrow in his brow, a pinch of confusion on an already severe face that pronounced deep lines of age.

He didn’t seem that old—in fact, you guessed he was perhaps around your age. But then, you supposed you were both old considering the world you had survived in, and even so, there was a haunted look to the man’s intensity that spoke of his longer years, one you weren’t even sure he knew that he exuded as his presence seemed to take up the entire room and all your attention.

“Your wound,” you answered simply, gesturing towards where you remembered the gunshot you had treated to be on his torso, and he followed your gaze to look down at himself, the deep lines on his forehead relaxing a bit when you clarified, “You’re here to have it checked on, no?”

“Uh—no,” he replied, giving a slight shake of his head, his head lifting so his eyes could meet yours again. “‘M healing just fine, ma’am.”

There were the manners you had recognized the first time, more distinct this time, and they drew you a step closer towards the man, your body turning away from your small tray of supplies to face him fully for the first time.

“Oh,” you said softly, head tilting as your own brows furrowed, confused as to what had brought him back to your clinic when he had seemed so desperate to get in, get treated as quickly as possible, and get out the last time. “What brings you back, then?”

There was another flicker of something across his face, some emotion you couldn’t name before he shifted the backpack you just now realized he was wearing off of one shoulder. It slipped to his side, where he balanced it on his hip, drawing your attention to how his broad chest and large arms narrowed down to his waist as he began to rifle through it, the quick flare of some feeling in your stomach shifting to trepidation at his actions.

Oddly enough, you didn’t get blaring warning signals of danger from this man. And besides, if he was trying to rob or kill you, he was going about it in a very odd way.

“Here.” His voice was gruff as he pulled something out of his pack, and you blinked rapidly, eyes widening at the same moment your jaw dropped at the sight of what he was holding out to you.

Supplies.

Medical supplies.

Gloves and bandages and—

“Jesus Christ, is that a stethoscope?” you gasped out, reaching forward to take the items before you could stop yourself, too thrilled by the notion of getting your hands on a crucial medical tool that had eluded you for years.

“That it would be,” the man replied, but you weren’t looking at him anymore, instead unrolling the worn leather pouch to see that there was, indeed, a stethoscope inside—one that had seen better days but, oh, the ways you were going to be able to properly diagnose more patients now because of this was—

You finally paused, back stiffening as you looked back up at the stranger who had so easily handed something this precious to you, a sense of unease finally curling uncomfortably in your gut as you took a step back.

“What do you want?” you asked quietly, uncertain as to the terms of whatever arrangement was happening, even as you were now holding the items close to your chest after rolling the stethoscope back up. Unwilling to give them back, even as you were suddenly daunted by the prospect of what he might want in exchange.

He watched you shift, eyes dropping to where you were nearly hugging the supplies to yourself now, and for a moment you worried he was about to try and take them back before his lips parted and he surprised you yet again by mumbling, “To thank you.”

You blinked, taken aback by the shockingly simple sentiment. The desire to repay kindness with more kindness, despite the kind of world you both lived in.

Despite the fact that just one glance at this man—with his hard muscles and intimidating presence, the grim set of his face and the way his muscles tensed not just with the anticipation of something going wrong at any moment, but almost an eagerness that it would happen, that there would be an outlet for that tension ready to snap—would give one the impression that there wasn’t an ounce of kindness in his body.

“That’s…it?” you ask slowly, still wary, hardly able to believe that there were no strings attached. You weren’t a pessimist, but being an optimist wasn’t exactly an option either, not anymore.

But he just nodded, shifting back on the balls of his feet, hands raising with palms turned out towards you, as if to show he had nothing to take, nothing else to give other than this.

“I repay my debts, ma’am,” he uttered with a deadly seriousness in that low drawl, and this time you definitely settled on Texas as being the origin of such a smooth accent.

“Oh,” you said softly, nodding at the explanation, because now this made more sense. Kindness was a rarity, nearly nonexistent, and it wasn’t what he was showing here.

All he wanted was to repay a debt, one that you weren’t even aware existed.

Though you certainly weren’t one to complain when this was the payment. 

Clutching the medical supplies tight to your chest, you reel at how saving this man from an untimely death may have just saved even more lives down the line.

You’re opening your mouth to thank him for his own thanks, but then he’s gone once again, leaving the same way he came in, with more tempered control and less chaotic storm than the first time.

You still don’t have a name.

You settle on calling him Texas.

Not that you say it to his face, or that you even see his face.

More time passes now than those few weeks in between your first two meetings with the Southern stranger. One month goes by, then two, and you once again resign him to the confines of your memories, even though the image of him is much more adamant on breaking out since the second visit.

Second and last, you reminded yourself as you disposed of a used pair of gloves after seeing off a patient, seeing his face flash in your mind’s eye as the cause of why you were able to save this life. Why you could save yet another life after this.

And it wasn’t just the gloves, but everything he had given you. There was still quite a bit of the stash left, as you were used to knowing how to make supplies last for as long as possible, dividing them and deducing who needed what the most as you saw to patients throughout your days.

You were thankful for him. Even if this was his way of settling a debt, washing his hands of you and moving on with his life, you still felt immense gratitude. 

You also felt unbearable curiosity.

Every now and then, you found yourself wondering how he had gotten the supplies, and that much at that. Surely by no legal means, and none of your business at all, but you still couldn't help but wonder.

And so with the gunshot wound he had first stumbled into your life with, you tried to paint a picture of Texas in your head.

When your hands were idle, you created stories in your mind of the life he’d led that brought him from home—or where you imagined his home to be, if you were even remotely correct in dubbing him Texas—to here. 

It was an embarrassing pastime, really, and you had no business entertaining anything more than a passing thought of gratitude about him. But still, you imagined.

Sometimes that imagination was of an exciting life for him, one of travel to far places that you never got to go, pretending that this was a man who had lived through better times and had many tales to tell of them. Tales to tell you, if you were being particularly delusional.

Other times, you pictured him with a life much more humble. Born and raised in the Lone Star State, probably proud to be. A family man who yelled at football, loved barbeques and beers with buddies, working a simple 9-5 until the world went to shit.

You liked that imaginary version of him. You liked thinking that Texas wasn’t too different from you, just trying to get by in the old world and the new.

So used to him staying inside of your mind, you were surprised the next time you actually saw him again.

In hindsight, you supposed you shouldn’t have been. With the scars you had seen just on his torso when you were treating his gunshot wound, you doubted this man lived an easy life now, no matter what it had been before.

It was late, well into curfew hours, but your tiny apartment was just a few streets away from your humble clinic, and you knew the best methods to get back and forth without being seen. You liked to stay as late as you could most nights, just in case somebody needed tending to at the odd hours when nobody else would be able to help.

Your eyes were growing heavy, a few persistent yawns you failed to fight off your body’s way of letting you know you were definitely pushing it, but you held on for a little longer.

And you’d be forever grateful you did, when he was the one needing tending to that night.

The loud, metallic creak of those loose hinges pulled your attention up from where you were staring absentmindedly at your small desk, and you were jumping from your stool the moment you saw him.

There was no stumbling this time, but you saw the streaks of red well, cuts across his face and arms, worn flannel shredded around the skin embedded with glass that glinted in the low, fluorescent light of your lamp that lit up the confined quarters.

“Sit,” you were saying before anything else, and you swore you heard a quiet chuckle under a pained breath as Texas moved to sink down onto a clinic bed.

“Good evening to you too,” he mumbled, and you glanced up at the unexpected humor, unsure if it was for your expense or benefit.

Nevertheless, your eyes narrowed slightly, and his mouth snapped shut then. He settled back as you pulled your tray with you, a neat array of the dwindling supplies from what he had given you waiting underneath your fingertips before you pulled on some gloves and began.

Much like the first time, the ruined shirt was removed so you could work, but the lack of the looming threat of immediate death and ample time to wonder about the man between his visits left you now with eyes that wanted to wander. 

You hoped Texas couldn’t see each time your gaze flickered across his broad chest in the low light of the lamp, observing the way it illuminated his scarred skin before quickly moving your careful attention back to picking glass and debris from the series of cuts across his body, doing your best to stop more scars from finding a home there.

“Gotta stop meeting me like this, Texas,” you find the words slipping from your lips as you focused on your work, your mind not even catching up to what you had said, too focused on your work until he spoke.

“Texas?”

You pause, feeling a surge of embarrassment at what you let slip, only used to him existing inside your thoughts and not in front of you, warm flesh beneath your hands, the heat of him radiating even through the latex gloves. 

Your fingers flexed from where you were bracing yourself against the center of his chest, swallowing thickly when you suddenly noticed the steady beat of his heart underneath your palm. You refocused your attention on picking another shard of broken glass from just below his collarbone, trying to gather your thoughts enough for a somewhat reasonable answer.

“I just—” You bit your cheek, struggling with what to say, a sigh held deep in your lungs before you exhaled it slowly and mumbled, “You are from Texas, aren’t you?”

Your gaze shifted up to his neck, gently cleaning the dirt from a scrape there, your new focus of attention leaving you with a perfect view of the twitch of his lips from the corner of your eye.

“Guilty.” You can feel the rumble of his voice in his chest as he mumbles the word, and you quickly lift your hand from it, not realizing that your touch had lingered there even when you had moved away from that area of his body. “Just surprised you picked up on it, s’all.”

A little smile turned up on your lips; part pleased that you had gotten it right, part embarrassed that you had even thought of it, thought of him, that much.

Quiet fell between you and Texas for a while, as you made sure the cuts on his neck were clean before finally moving up to his face.

Your eyes met with his for the first time since he had sat down that night, and it was also the first time you noticed their color.

All that time he had plagued your mind, and you realized you hadn’t even really seen the color of his eyes. You had settled on brown, but sitting closer now, you saw the green surrounding the warmer color, creating a stunning hazel that was all you could see for a moment before your gaze snapped away, the heat of embarrassment filling you again as you pulled your focus back to his cuts.

You hesitated then, one hand hovering in the air before gently gripping his chin between a thumb and forefinger, tilting his face to different angles as you treated it, a remarkably easy task when he hardly winced with each piece of glass removed, seemingly unbothered by the pain.

Once again, you were sucked into the familiarity of the focus that came with your work, and it was Texas that broke it this time, your brain taking a moment to register what he had said.

“California.”

You paused, tweezers hovering over his cheekbone, eyes meeting that hazel again to see he was watching you, and you wondered just how long he had been doing so—the whole time? Why did you hope he was?

“How’d you know?”

Texas shrugged one shoulder, and you once again forced your attention back to your work, trying to ignore the weight of his gaze on your face now that you knew it was there.

“Lucky guess,” he said in that low timbre, and you laughed softly, shaking your head as you pulled the last shard of glass from a cut above his eyebrow, eyes lingering on a scar near his temple before dropping the glass into your tin of medical waste, full of all the once painful remnants of whatever had brought him back to you tonight.

You felt like an awful person, being glad that it had brought him back to you.

Once all the cuts were properly taken care of, you leaned back with a sigh, snapping the gloves off your hands and dropping them into the rest of the medical waste. By some old habit, you patted Texas on the knee before standing, wheeling your tray away with you as you declared him free to go once again.

“It was the accent,” he says, and you pause, looking back over your shoulder as he pushes himself to his feet, and you’re reminded once again of how big the man is when he’s not sitting still while you treat him. “Your accent gave it away. Sure as hell don’t sound East Coast.”

Another laugh left your lips, curling up into a smile as you shake your head and look back towards your remaining medical supplies. Dangerously low again after tonight, but in this moment now, you found yourself not caring just yet.

“Guilty,” you repeated his own affirmation from earlier, and one glance back showed the corner of his lips turning up into a small smirk that had much larger consequences on your heart, racing now at the sight of amusement on his stoic face before you quickly looked away again.

“Long way from home, Cali,” he says slowly, and your heart skips a goddamn beat now at that drawled nickname, as if he wasn’t doing enough already. 

“Same as you, huh?” you try to sound casual as you kept your gaze focused on shifting through your supplies, reorganizing them just to keep your mind busy, even as it marveled at how he hadn’t left already,

“Not nearly as much as you.” 

At the continued conversation, you finally turn, seeing him bent over at the waist and rifling through the beat-up backpack full of duct-taped holes that he had brought in with him.

You see the gun tucked into the back of the waistband of his jeans then, a sight that wasn’t surprising given the injuries he’d come to you with, but your brows still furrow, mind continuing to create different stories to solve the mystery of him before he straightens up and turns back to you. 

He holds out a bundle of bandages and gloves to you, and you try to hold back your excitement at the offering as much as you can, as thrilled by the promise they offered for your work as you were by the idea that he’d already had the supplies ready this time.

The idea that he’d been holding onto them for you.

Delusional, an inner voice chides you, but you smile down at the supplies anyway, rubbing a thumb across the box of gloves and sighing quietly as your mind brings forth a time long gone where you never would have thought twice about the availability of what was once such a common thing.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” you say slowly, pondering how you had recognized his accent, attributed him to a long gone place, as he did you. “How even after all this time, we still remember those little things about a world that doesn’t exist anymore.”

He’s not looking at you anymore when you glance back up. The stoicism you had come to associate with him from just a few meetings was back, and you get the sense you had taken the rare offer of a conversation too far.

You thank him for the supplies, and he nods almost absentmindedly, seemingly half paying attention to you before he moves back towards the door, and you turn back to begin to organize your new supplies, eager to restock your workspace.

The only thing that stops you is—

“What’s your name, Cali?”

Your head lifts, body half-turning around to stare at him in shock. 

Nobody has asked for your name in years. 

It’s been so long since you’ve said it out loud that the syllables assigned to you at birth feel foreign in your mouth. It taunts you with a time long past, like a bad taste you have to spit out, and when you do, he repeats it back.

The way he says it is…different. He sounds it out just the same as you, but it sounds less wrong leaving his lips. He says it slowly, as if tasting each letter on his tongue, memorizing it before giving a nod and turning to leave.

“Wait.”

He does. 

For some reason, he stops when you tell him to, facing the door that he himself was the sole cause of its state hanging off its hinges, something he stares purposefully at when you ask for his own name.

Texas doesn’t look back as his voice wraps around the sounds of his own name, distaste similar to yours when you gave him your own dripping from his mouth as it curves around his syllables.

You start to say it back. The name, his name, Joel leaving your lips quietly, but he’s already back out the door before you can even sound out the M of his last name.

It leaves your lips anyway, his name echoing alone in your clinic, clutching the medical supplies tight to your chest.

Somewhere buried deep in your thoughts, you ponder over the idea that, just from the sheer intensity that radiated from the man the few times you had met him, Joel Miller memorizing somebody’s name feels like irrefutable danger, like you’re in for a very short life span. It’s a feeling you ignore, an instinct you try to forget about as you recall no hostility in his eyes, the hazel sharp as shrapnel you once cleaned from his body with none of the lethality when he repeated your name back to you.

Somewhere, buried even deeper, your heart races instead at the thought that he intends to say it again.

Joel leaves, but he always comes back. 

It’s never a social call. The world’s gone to shit; you don’t have the time, and you’re sure Joel doesn’t have the patience.

He shows up in your doorway when he’s injured, and leaves you with enough medical supplies to keep you going until the next time he comes along. At its core, it's a business transaction. He’s just continuing to repay a debt to you so he doesn’t owe you anything. There’s nothing fundamentally personal about it.

That doesn’t stop you from looking forward to those visits. You never know when Joel’s going to show up next, and it does more than keep you on your toes; it holds you in anticipation, keeping those daydreams in the forefront in your mind rather than the back whenever you have time to yourself now.

Because each time he comes through, he leaves you with another snapshot of himself. Another glimpse into the lives he lived once and lives now—usually the former rather than the latter, much to your surprise.

You hold every reveal of the aloof man close; purely off-hand, inconsequential things, like a love for going to the movies now rendered nonexistent, or the time he and his brother rode motorcycles cross country. Those things don’t matter anymore, but you like hearing about them. You like knowing those things about him, fitting the real pieces of him in with your imaginary ones to solve a puzzle that only existed inside your head. It fuels your imagination, spurs on your delusion.

You’re not actually sure if he realizes how much you know about him at this point, while simultaneously knowing nearly nothing about him at all. The important things, like why he keeps showing up with all those injuries, remain unknown.

Joel brings it up, just once, off-hand as you’re wrapping up his shoulder in a spot where you could tell a bullet had grazed him.

“You don’t ask.”

Your hands had paused, eyes lifting from your work to his face, glancing over his side profile before his head turned and he was looking down at you from inches away.

He was waiting for an answer, but your mind was having trouble keeping up with what he had even said, too startled by the swirling of brown and green in his eyes when they were right there. A color as warm and solid as the earth beneath your feet, grounding you to him, pulling you in with that same undeniable magnetism he had first stumbled into your life with.

His facial hair had gotten longer, dark whiskers of hair framing cracked lips, a split down the top one that you had carefully cleaned earlier. You hadn't even thought twice about it when dabbing it clean, but now you couldn’t see anything else, not until—

“Cali?”

You blinked, head snapping up as your back went ramrod straight, and you quickly turned back to where your hands had frozen mid-bandage.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“About what?” you forced the words from your lips, trying not to think about how they ached to have his own pressed to them, split lip and all molding firmly and then gently against yours—

Oh god, no, what were you thinking?

“About any of it,” Joel grumbled, waving a large hand towards his face with a vague gesture, seeming to think you had just been observing his injuries even with the way you’re now staring at thick fingers, long veins, prominent and begging to be traced—

No! Stop!

“You don’t have a policy of asking your patients questions?” he asked, arching a thick brow down at you, and you curse the way your stomach flips at the sight.

“Believe it or not, I actually have a strong one not to,” you finally answered with his shoulder now wrapped firmly, fingers grazing against the gauze before you pushed your stool away from him, gloves snapping off your hands and ignoring the ache to touch him without them. “You do what you have to in order to survive. My job is to make sure you keep surviving. Not to ask questions.”

Joel hummed, and you felt the weight of his gaze on you up until he handed you a new bundle of supplies and left again.

Sometimes, you wonder if he’s picked up anything about you in turn, the way you’ve locked away every small fragment you've learned of him. You wonder if he even cares to listen during those rare moments where you might let something about yourself, past or present, slip.

You dare to dream that he does.

Foolish. 

You can almost say with certainty that Joel doesn’t realize the things about himself that you’ve picked up on. Like the movies thing—it had been revealed through slurred words at your last-ditch effort to distract him by asking him questions through a particularly painful procedure, and he had rambled in delirium about popcorn and previews for no more than half a minute before promptly passing out beneath your moving hands.

It had caused bubbling panic in the moment, but when the moment had passed and he had awoken with embarrassment about not being able to tolerate the pain, it seemed all recollection of what he had shared had disappeared.

Or maybe he was just embarrassed about that too.

You would surely never admit that the thought of the large, intimidating man even experiencing an emotion as mundane as embarrassment only endeared you to him more.

And the motorcycle trip—well, that hadn’t even been Joel’s choice in revealing.

A few years into gaining your most returning patient—“we have to get your picture on the wall,” you had jested to him about simultaneously having the best (can somehow survive a plethora of injuries) and worst (has a penchant to keep getting them) luck at one point, much to his silent judgment at your attempted joke—he had entered the clinic the same way he did upon that first meeting, and you winced at the way the door banged against the wall in the same place it'd once left a dent during that first visit from him.

A sharp disapproval at treating your humble place of work like this was on the tip of your tongue, before you saw that Joel wasn’t alone, nor was he the one currently injured.

Any questions other than those pertinent for your new patient’s survival were rapidly dismissed from crowding your fast-moving mind, the same way as always. You helped Joel set the man down, hardly even realizing he was talking, that they were both talking, until after you had snapped on your gloves and assessed the burn wound on the back of the man's forearm.

“It worked out, didn’t it?”

“Hardly,” Joel bit back, voice rough with a harsh disapproval bordering on anger, the sound of which made the hairs raise on the back of your neck as you busied yourself getting cool compresses ready. “It was goddamn stupid, is what it was. Nearly got yourself killed.”

“But it worked.”

“Tommy—”

“Lighten up, big brother,” this Tommy said while you checked his pulse and lifted his arm above his chest, and now you understood the energy filling up the entire space of the room.

There was a blood bond between the bickering men, tested by the fraying of nerves and something deeper, some unnamable tension that came from something you didn’t know, maybe wouldn’t even understand. Some after effect of the transition into this world you now lived in, something that was none of your business.

Even then, the way Tommy’s body was constantly shifting and Joel hovering over your shoulder as they kept arguing while you tried to treat the burn is what made you finally snap.

“Hey!”

The clear echo of your voice layered over the argument, and instantly broke it, both men turning down to see your narrowed gaze shifting between the two of them.

“You need to sit still because I’m not fond of breaking burn blisters, and you won’t be either,” you ordered sternly, not wavering under the attention of the man finally focused on you for the first time since coming in, before you whipped around to Joel still hovering behind you. “And you!”

For a moment, you found a bit of humor in the utterly stupefied look on the man’s face that matched that of his brother’s, before you stood from your stool so you were chest to chest with Joel.

“You need to stop breathing down my goddamn neck and let me work,” you said firmly, pointing towards the far wall, the order clear in your eyes without even having to say it at this point.

You knew Joel saw it, and to his credit all you saw was his jaw ticking, a brief flare to his nostrils before he spun on his heel, marching towards the wall to lean against it heavily. His arms crossed across his broad chest while he watched you sit and go back to cooling Tommy’s burn.

Order was regained in your clinic, and you smiled a little to yourself at having established it, before Tommy shifted forward slightly towards you and muttered conspiratorially, but not at all quietly, “No wonder you got even this hardass to like you.”

A tremor briefly overtook your fingers with the shock of the unexpected words before you flexed them, willing your grip to steady before renewing your focus on his burn injury as Joel snarled from his spot you had assigned him against the wall, “Shut the fuck up, Tommy.”

Your gaze snaps up, making sure Joel hadn’t moved, eyes narrowing when you saw he had pushed off the wall just slightly. When he notices your look, he shifts backwards, back hitting the wall again as his glare shifts off to the side, towards the loose hinges on the door now in even worse condition thanks to both Miller brothers.

There’s a chuckle from Tommy, more bristling from Joel, and the illusive taunt of hope wound tight in your chest, but nobody says anything else until you’re sending them off with the rest of your low supply of lotion that would be adequate for burn treatment, along with instructions on how to take care of the now loosely bandaged burn.

Tommy nods, thanking you when Joel snaps at him to show some manners. The younger brother leaves with a pointed look towards your door and an offhand, not unkind comment on getting it fixed, followed up quickly by an offer of doing the work himself to pay back your kindness. 

Not a debt, but kindness, the exact verbiage he used himself in a Southern drawl a bit lighter, more intentionally charming than Joel’s rough allure.

Joel is still irritated, more than you’ve ever seen, but he still nods at you with a mumble of “thanks, Cali,” before following his brother as the younger man is saying “so that’s Cali!”

There's a hard smack to Tommy's shoulder to direct him away, Joel's reprimanding tone saying things you couldn’t hear before they disappear around a corner.

It was then that you decided you liked Tommy.

You like him even more when he stops by a couple weeks later to actually fix the door like he mentioned, filling your head with stories about his older brother you could have only ever dreamed of.

Because of Tommy you have reasons to giggle into your pillow that night at the thought of the two born and raised Texas boys racing across the country on motorcycles, smiling stupidly against the coarse fabric at the image of a younger Joel Miller with wind in his hair and a carefree smile on his face.

You’d only ever seen tiny twitches of those lips into halfway smirks, and so you dreamed of a time where they weren’t chapped from the smog of QZ air or split from punches to the face, but soft and pink and curling up into a real smile.

You dreamed of making him smile again.

Sometimes it takes a while for a visit from Joel.

Weeks turn into months in-between those short moments where you see his face for quick patch-ups and restocks of supplies.

Once there was about a year that passed without so much of a glimpse of him, and you had tried to settle yourself into the likely idea that he may have finally gotten himself hurt so bad he couldn’t even stumble into your clinic, when he proved your hidden, greatest fear wrong by turning up again.

He had limped through the door without a word, letting in a cold burst of snow laden air with him before it shut. A sigh of relief was exhaled from your lips, dry and chapped from the harsh winter months, and you hurried to him, slinging his arm over your shoulder as you helped him through the room to sit.

Peeling the blood caked jeans from his legs with a mumbled apology of the chill permeating your clinic this time of year, you barely got out one word out after of, “You—”

“Gotta stop meeting you like this, I know,” Joel sighed, avoiding your gaze as you settled on your stool with a familiar squeak of the old furniture, pulling on a pair of gloves you had set aside specifically for him months ago, ensuring that you’d have at least one left for him in the hopes that he could still make it back to you in one piece someday.

Even if that meant one less for someone down the line, potentially sacrificing a life for the uncertain possibility of saving somebody else.

It was unlike you.

Selfish, the inner voice of reason chides you again, as it always speaks in his presence.

And as always, you ignore it.

Your eyes flickered up from critically observing the stab wound haphazardly sewn above his knee—his own work, no doubt, and you were surprised at your frustration that he hadn’t come to you instead. You figured it must have not been an option, some reason having kept him from you, but you still fixed him with a hard look that the surly man actually shifted under, wary under the weight of your scrutiny, for whatever that was worth.

Shaking your head, you turned back to set about the process of thoroughly cleaning the wound, checking for any sign of infection and treating his body properly, because somebody had to do it if he wasn’t going to.

It wasn’t like he was reckless. Despite your visits with the man being few and far between—if they could even really be called visits in the first place—you had caught enough of a glimpse of who he was to know he was far from irrational. He wouldn’t have made it this far if he was.

Joel Miller could keep himself alive, of this you had no doubt.

But the repercussions that came with his survival, infection of the body or wounds that went deeper than that of flesh or blood, were things that you learned he merely shouldered as a consequence.

A burden you would lessen, even if all it meant was making sure one wound out of many wouldn’t fester, if he came to you with it.

It wasn’t until this one was treated and redressed, and he was pulling his pants back on while you stared down at the gloves on your hands—a pair that he had given you, that you had saved to save him, now speckled with his blood, a reminder that he was still alive but maybe just barely—and the words you had actually wanted to say when he came in, the ones that you had held back when he interrupted you, echoed through your mind again.

You scared me.

They aren’t spoken, not with words. Instead, your hand pats his knee again after his jeans are zipped up, fingers brushing against where his properly tended wound is now hidden beneath the heavy fabric.

The touch lingers, for just a second, before you’re up and moving away.

To your surprise, Joel follows.

He rifles through his backpack, and you notice a few new holes, more spots where there’s recently applied duct tape. You absentmindedly wonder why he sticks with this one. If he’s able to find and trade other sorts of goods, couldn’t he get a new backpack?

Thanks is given by reflex when he gives you the supplies, even though you know with this trade, you’re even once again. He doesn’t expect your gratitude, maybe doesn’t even want it, but there’s a sure cause for it this time as you shift through the pile to observe the weight of what you felt sitting unassuming at the bottom, but couldn't discern until you saw it.

Gloves.

Not thin latex, but heavy fabric, fitting in the palm of your freezing hand.

Not medical, but practical, even as the promise of warmth had now become a luxury.

Not for patients, but for you.

Joel had gotten this for you.

When you look back up at him, eyes wide with shock, he’s already explaining it away with a dismissive wave of his hand and gruff drawl, “Gotta keep those fingers in proper working condition, right?”

Your brow furrows then, more gratitude trapped inside your mouth as you notice something again that had lingered in your mind since he had shown up that night, something you couldn’t ignore anymore.

That this Joel in front of you now was different.

Joel had never been a beacon of warmth, but he’s never been colder.

He won’t meet your eye, doesn’t even seem bothered by his lack of ability to keep eye contact now. He’s rigid and tense, something pent-up deep inside of him, worse than ever before, and that’s when you know that whatever had happened since you saw him last had taken another piece of whatever he was. Another part of whoever you dreamed about once existing, gone.

“Hey,” you mumble, and he glances back at you, surely seeing the way your brows are knitted above eyes that put your concern on full display, just judging by the way he stiffened.

He waves another dismissive hand, looks away with arms crossed over his chest in a way that you’d seen before. It was like he was physically containing whatever emotions he was experiencing to his own body, holding them in with the flex of his muscles through his beat up winter jacket. A silent show of his strength, trying to protect himself with it, even if it couldn't stop whatever it was he was feeling.

You expect him to leave then, but his weather and time worn boots are glued to the ground, unmoving.

Eventually, he speaks, and the two words with the flat affect shake you to your core.

“Tommy’s gone.”

Fear blankets your body and sets every nerve on fire, pain flashing across your features as Joel sees it and quickly shakes his head, adding simply, nearly without emotion, “Left.”

The daunting grief at the possible death of the younger Miller brother fades, even as an emptiness remains when you softly say, “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Silence fills the space, and tension with it, setting you on edge with Joel in a way you’d never felt with him before.

“Fireflies,” he finally supplies, and you nod, looking down to the winter gloves you still held tight in your grasp, even as you set the rest of your new stock down.

So that was what had happened. The last thread holding the brothers together had snapped, and Tommy had left, taking a part of Joel with him. Maybe the last part of him, of who he had once been.

No wonder the man before you was even more hardened than you had ever seen him before.

“I see,” you whisper, and neither of you says anything more after that.

Not until you look back up at his face, refocus on the familiar features, noticing a few new lines of age in the year that had passed since last seeing him, some white whiskers in the edges of his beard, and—

Your hand is reaching out before you can stop to think, gripping his chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting his face down towards you in a way similar to when you’d treated him in the past.

Maybe by reflex from those moments, he lets you do it, even as the sharp clarity of his hazel eyes meet yours in confusion.

“What’s this?” you ask, fingers hovering over the new red line of scarring across the bridge of his nose, tracing the length of it without touch.

His eyes flash, not with anger, but with an emotion you don’t recognize. He tries to pull away, but your grip tightens, keeping him in place as you wait for an answer.

“Nothin’,” he mumbles, your eyes narrowing at the evasive answer, the way his gaze shifts away.

“Texas, this isn’t—”

Joel’s hand finds yours then, thick fingers wrapping around your smaller ones to pull them away from where you were still holding his chin, and the warmth of his skin seeping into yours hits you with a jolt as you only then realize this was touch.

Skin on skin, the very thing you had been aching for, dreaming of, for years. Those thoughts of him that kept you going on lonely days and cold nights, longing for something you could never have, an impossible reality now on the edge of your fingertips as he enveloped them in a rough palm, in his touch.

Touch.

Touch you had instigated, without the barrier of medical gloves between you. Without the clear lines that defined all you were to each other—doctor and patient, business transactions, a debt repaid again and again. Lines that now blurred when he didn’t drop your hand right away.

Blurring further, obscuring your vision in a rose-tinted blush when his grip tightened, and your breath caught in your throat at the feeling of him holding on to you.

“‘Ts fine,” Joel assures quietly, your fingers finally slipping from his, the clear hazel of those eyes you had spent a year waiting and hoping to see again, not meeting yours even once.

He hasn’t looked at you even once.

Just like that, you snap from a slow motion daze back to true reality. Your fantasies hit the ground hard, leaving you shattered with the empty aches of your heart forever unfulfilled in the dark crevices of your mind.

But even then, you can’t look away. 

Again, you hear the admission aching to be revealed, slipping from the back of your mind to the forefront on waves of anxiety and need that grew larger, more disastrous, crashing through all your thoughts as you watched him looking away, but not leaving.

You scared me.

The words fill your mouth, waiting to be spoken.

But they aren’t.

Even though you wanted to tell him how his absence had filled you with fear, terror that only abates whenever he’s with you until he inevitably leaves again, you don’t dare to say it. Not when he doesn’t even look at you, even though you can’t bring yourself to look away.

The only thing you do say is an assurance that you’d make it home safe when he tells you to before he’s finally gone again.

It’s the first time that you notice that each time he leaves you with a new piece of himself, he takes a piece of you with him.

“You’re scaring my patients, Texas.”

“Good.”

“Joel.”

It’s been like this since Tommy left.

Joel visits you now when he’s nothing less than the perfect picture of health.

At first, he brings you things—the usual, necessary items that keep your unsanctioned practice running. You thank him each time, albeit with puzzled looks when there’s no visible harm on his body, confusion that only furthers when he lingers.

Eventually, he drops by without anything at all. Nothing in hand, sometimes no backpack in tow, but always with that gun tucked into the back of his waistband.

For a while, you think nothing of it. You’re glad that he’s showing his face, that you’re not glancing up with baited breath each time your door creaks open, hoping for just a glimpse of the man to assure you that he was alright.

Joel lets you see often enough now that he’s still in one piece, and for a while, you’re foolish enough to think that it’s purely for the benefit of your peace of mind.

Then one day, when he’s walking out, a patient is walking in—a younger man you’ve seen more than once, treating wounds similar to those that Joel’s had, though not quite as severe.

What is severe is the look Joel instantly shoots at him as they pass by each other, your heart sinking when the injured man scurries towards the available clinic bed while the door shuts.

You try to push it out of your mind, try to ignore the way your patient keeps watching the closed door with baited breath, until he breathes out with certain trepidation, “That’s Joel Miller.”

Pausing in the middle of splinting his broken finger, your brow furrows, glancing up at the nervous scrunching of his face as you reply slowly, “Yes, it is.”

His gaze finally shifts from the door towards you, then back again quickly, like he’s afraid the mentioned man will burst through the moment he’s not looking.

“You—” A gulp, and then the shaky question of, “You know him, don’t you?”

You finish bandaging his injury, gently placing his hand back in his lap and replying honestly, even with your uncertainty lingering at his tone, “Of course I do.”

He doesn’t say anything more until he’s leaving, glancing back at you warily, seeming to struggle over what he wants to say before settling for, “He’s…he’s got a reputation, you know. Lots of folks are scared of that Joel Miller.”

With a nervous wringing of your hands behind your back, and a calm smile on your face, you assure him, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Of course, you don’t know that Joel’s been waiting.

There’s no way to be aware that he’s been in the alley next to the clinic the entire time you treated your patient, no way to know that he trails the man the moment he leaves the safety of your building.

You’ll never know that the man you treated isn’t so good either. Or that he’s not nearly as bad as Joel.

Somebody always owed somebody else, after all. You knew it well, knew that Joel paid you back for this very reason.

But you didn’t know what happened when you owed him.

Or what happened when he went to collect.

And Joel ensured you were never getting anywhere near it. 

A sentiment made clear with another broken finger for the lackey of a rival smuggler late on a payment that had sought you out for the last time that day, along with a painful promise made that he and his buddies would never step foot in your clinic again.

There was no way for you to know what happened that day, but you noticed the shift afterwards.

The way Joel takes up residence along the wall of your clinic and doesn’t leave when patients come in. How he watches them, the mere weight of his sole attention setting them on edge.

You tell them it’s fine, shoot him a glare that tells him to back off. And maybe it works for a little, but not for long.

You assure yourself that it’s fine. A reputation means nothing, and you know Joel Miller, don’t you? Or you know all that matters. And you know that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

Until there is.

You’re gone.

It’s the first time since meeting you that Joel stops by the clinic, and you’re not there.

Well into the morning, and you’re not sitting there at your little makeshift desk. At this time, you should be half-rising from your stool he’s been meaning to find a replacement for just at the sound of the door opening.

You're always ready to spring into action, to save a life or make one better. Like you’ve done for him, time and time again.

It’s also the first time since before Tommy left that the door is swinging off its hinges again, and that’s when Joel knows.

You’re gone.

He doesn’t need to see the ransacked clinic, but he looks anyway. Searches frantically through the overturned furniture, your well-organized stock of supplies now a mess, some missing because he knows how much you have of everything, he silently keeps track along with you so he knows what to pick up when he and Tess go on runs.

There’s a panic settling in his gut, a burning ache crawling its way up his throat, and his hands twitch with the need to do something, to make somebody hurt, make them pay, make them talk to bring you back.

Back to the work that is your pride and joy, the four walls that have been your safety for years, a safety you’ve only ever extended to others, one you offered to him.

Joel needs to bring you back to him.

No time is wasted when he gets back to Tess. She knows you by now, having visited the clinic herself with or without Joel, for injuries or for chats. He’s noticed his partner always smiling after, the two of you forming a kinship that warms what fragments remain of his heart like so little else can.

Tess is taking charge in a way that’s familiar, and Joel is grateful for that. He doesn’t know what he’d do if left to his own devices right now, uncertain who’d wind up dead in the streets if let loose to find you on his own terms.

But he takes solace in knowing that Tess will let him do what he does best when it's time.

And when it is time, when they’ve cornered the last person who’s had your name leave their lips, the bone of their arm shatters underneath a brutal stomp and twist of Joel’s heavy boot after a series of ruthless hits that have left them begging for mercy on the ground.

But it gets them what they need—a location, information on a deal gone south for a specific kind of medicine that these smugglers had a monopoly on, medicine you most likely needed to save one patient, and deemed it a risk worth taking just for that.

Smugglers that Joel had very specifically warned to stay the fuck away from you.

The whimpering man under his boot gets a bullet to the head for not heeding his warning, for taking you from him, and they’re on their way without another word.

Fear burns so hot that it singes his veins, making him move faster, hit harder when they get to the warehouse. Red is all he sees and it’s all he feels, running through his fingers as he pulls triggers and chokes windpipes before twisting, snapping. Blood, hot and metallic, staining his skin in splatters up to his forearms as he moves from one to the next.

Joel has lost too much to make it quick, and the thought of losing you too only adds to his rage, making his preemptive vengeance all the more deadly. He lays waste to them all, sparing not a soul of his brutality. 

His shiv sinks into a neck, and he leaves it there for too long before pulling it out, leaving a streak of evidence of another life he’s stolen across his face as he turns, more than ready for the next one.

Movement catches the corner of his eye, and he’s lifting his gun towards where he sees legs pushing against the ground, a body scuttling away into a corner out of his sight, cowering behind a tower of boxes.

Joel’s finger is already on the trigger before he sees the shoes peeking out behind the cardboard, the tips of well-worn sneakers that he knows well, having seen them turn and move quickly around one tiny room for years.

Relief doesn’t rush to him yet, not until he’s rounded the boxes, not until he really sees you.

There’s an angry purple bruise forming along your jaw, and fury burns hotter, seeping through the edges of sweet relief that you’re okay, although injured.

You whimper, and his heart breaks, reaching out a hand towards you to help you up, to bring you back to him.

At the movement, you press your back against the wall, cowering away even further as your eyes fix onto his face.

Joel’s brow furrows, anger and relief both ebbing away slowly, and he says your name, holding his palm out further for you to take.

You whimper again.

Eyes wide and clouded with fear, lip quivering as you shrink away from the hand that he had stained with blood again and again to find you, to bring you back.

Above where your back is pressed to the wall, there is a line of windows. They offer a view to the first floor of the warehouse, now littered with bodies he had left, a clear trail of evidence of his path of destruction from the moment he had entered the building.

And that’s when Joel realizes you’re afraid of him.

The worst part is, he’s not surprised, not even in the slightest.

On the contrary, he thinks some part of him had been waiting for this. Waiting for you to finally open your eyes and see him for what he is.

Someone like you, who has spent her whole life patching up the kind of wounds he inflicts, who saves lives and gives while all he does is takes and takes, by his own choice or some kind of curse—of course you’re afraid.

Joel’s bloodstained fingers twitch, remembering the softness of your own the one and only time he had held them that cold winter night. His hand hovers in the air halfway to you, yearning to comfort a hand that heals with one that only knows how to kill.

But then you flinch at the twitch of his fingers, having witnessed their deadliness, and he pulls back.

When Tess arrives a moment later, you turn to her, allowing the other woman to pull you to your feet. You lean heavily on her as she helps you leave, takes you back, but not to him.

Because Joel knows now with certainty that it's a distance that was never meant to be closed.

He knows it's for the better.

Weeks turn into months once again.

Joel doesn’t come back.

As time passes, you reflect on the man you’d known, and the one everybody else knew. You compare the image of those half-smirks that you always hoped would turn into a smile to the face splattered with blood as he ruthlessly murdered any man in his path.

You feel like a fool. For more reason than one, but mostly because you knew.

You had seen the signs of just who Joel Miller was from the first time you met him, signs that you had ignored every time they lit up right in front of your face, blaring signals that you replaced with the naïve images you had created in your mind’s eye. Fantasies of a man that may have existed once, long ago, but not anymore.

It wasn’t the killing that bothered you. You knew what people had to do to survive, and you had always known just from his injuries that this was an indisputable truth heavily ingrained in Joel’s life, no matter who you imagined him to be before.

No, it wasn’t the killing that scared you, but the slaughter. 

What you were afraid of was his lack of mercy. His lethality. His intent to make them suffer.

After days of being held at the whims of dangerous men, only to discover that the only man you had come to consider a safe space in years was just as, if not more dangerous than them…

It rattled you.

Changed you.

Left a scar that even you didn’t know how to heal.

In the days that followed, you were glad that Joel kept his distance. You needed time to recover, to process what you had gone through, what you’d seen.

After a few weeks passed, you found yourself staring at the door, waiting once again for him to come back. Waiting to talk to him for once, to say the words that had plagued your mind once again. Even if they had shifted, they still rang true.

You scared me.

Because he did.

Joel Miller himself scared you, and you didn’t want him to.

Because you knew, you knew, that he’d done it for you. He'd done it to save you.

He’d saved you the same way you saved him, in the only way that he knew how.

Maybe it was senseless. Maybe it was wrong, and horrible, and unforgivable.

But he had done it for you.

So you wait for Joel to come back.

Months fade into years; one, and then two, then five and still counting.

Joel Miller never comes back.

At some point, you hear that he’s gone. Left the QZ completely with Tess at his side and never looked back.

You hope that they made it, wherever they were going.

You hope that he doesn’t think of you the way that you think of him. The image of him plaguing your mind every night, broken memories of everything you had memorized about him constantly shifting through your mind, a lonely ache filling in your heart that you knew was your own fault.

He had bloodied his knuckles for you, and you had turned away.

God, you hated yourself for turning away.

You missed him, with every breath, with every moment the door of your clinic opened and you glanced up with the automatic reflex of hoping it was him, even though he was long gone.

You know it's for the better.

Joel is not supposed to be here.

Any form of radio communication is strictly forbidden. He knows this well, knows that if he’s found here, he could be risking everything, even if his brother is married to the woman who keeps Jackson up and running smoothly.

But he’s here anyway, hands trembling with the cold and something else, something that settles deeper into his bones as he holds the microphone in hand.

Waiting.

It’s his second time up here in a week, and though he’d been lucky enough to not be caught the first time, he wasn’t an optimist.

You’re a cynic, a voice echoes in the back of his head, and his eyes flutter shut with the image of you that never seemed to quite leave him, even with the years that have gone by.

But you’re not, his own voice, younger, replies to you in his memories.

I try not to be, you replied honestly, one of your first discussions when you had begun to settle into each other’s presence. Don’t think I could keep doing this if I was.

Joel’s gaze darts down to the small notepad he had brought with him, the pages where he had written one message only to cross it out, rewrite it, and torn pages of it to throw away in frustration.

In front of him was the one left uncrossed, his eyes scanning the words he could only hope had gotten relayed to you, the message he had left for the black market radio specialist in Boston earlier that week.

Found a nice place that could use a doctor, followed by a date and time for a conversation, not wanting to air Jackson’s location without hearing confirmation from you yourself.

Following that sentence, another one, the last thing he had said: they could use you.

And another, crossed out after, the last thing that he would never say: I could use you.

Joel’s head lifts when the static on the old machine clears, a click resounding through the speakers of the radio, and his heart races with the weight of the microphone in his hands.

It’s lifted halfway to his mouth before he hesitates. Your name hangs heavy in his mouth, syllables he had not sounded out in years, but when he finally says it, it feels…natural. Like not a day has passed since the letters of your name were hanging on his lips, the way he always longed for you to be.

There is a pause, long and heavy, and Joel feels his heart sink with every second that passes.

This was stupid. So incredibly stupid. 

The last time he had seen you, there was fear in your eyes. Fear of him, well-placed at that, and surely he had taken up no voluntary thoughts of yours ever since other than your worst nightmares.

Surely you were—

“...Hey there, Texas.”

When your voice crackles to life through the speaker, Joel sighs, a sound filled with relief and a rush of longing he thought his mind had forgotten, but his body—no, his soul—had not.

And then a whisper, softly in return, with a smile on his lips.

“Howdy, Cali.”

taglist: @darkroastjoel @thetriumphantpanda @dinsdjrn @cavillscurls @tightjeansjavi @dissentientss @harriedandharassed @ladyfiery47 (tag won't work!)

[andromedasreadingnook]

Home

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

word count: 2k

rating: e (minors dni)

song inspo: dancing in the dark cover by juanes

summary: Ten years and two kids later, Javier still finds himself falling harder for you.

warnings: some language, major fluff, domestic javi deserves it own warning, soft piv sex, nothing too spicy here

author’s note: fuck yeah domestic javi requested by anon! I’m still taking suggestions for short fics if you wanna send an ask my way 💕

“It’s your turn.”

You breathe the words against the crook of his neck. His arms wrap tighter around you, trying to cling to what little sleep he’s been able to get tonight.

“I took care of him last night,” Javi murmurs.

“And I took care of you earlier,” you counter, nibbling gently at his skin.

Damn. He can’t argue with that.

He groans low and long. Mostly because he’s trying to stay tangled with you for as long as possible. With a deep sigh, he reluctantly pulls away from your bare body. Barely opening his eyes as he flips his legs over the bed and grabs the sweatpants he tossed on the floor from “earlier”.

“I love you~,” you sing drowsily from the bed, where he sees you’ve already sprawled across his half.

“Mmhmm,” he hums as he stumbles out of the bedroom and into the hallway where the cries echo through the dark house.

You’d think after the first kid he’d be used to getting up in the middle of the night.

Walking down the darkened hallway, he passes all sorts of pictures and paintings that decorate the walls. He passes an old photo of him and his father together outside of the coral on the family ranch. Giving his father a couple taps over the glass as he always does for the past 3 years now.

Coming to the bedroom before the baby room, he hears a small tinkling sound coming from behind the door. As soon as he stops, so does the sound. Javier carefully cracks open the door to his daughter's room. The dim glow from the salt lamp on her bedside table illuminates the room enough for him to see her tucked away in her puffy green comforter. Snug and sweet and “sleeping”.

“I can hear that gameboy beneath your pillow, Paola,” he says from the entryway.

Throwing the comforter dramatically to the side, his little eight year old girl pops out from underneath. Just as suspected, she’s wide awake. Her hair tangled in a hot mess and her little purple gameboy in hand.

“It’s not my fault! Jairo woke me up and I couldn’t go back to sleep,” she wines at him.

As much as he complains about it, Javi can’t help but spoil his kids whenever he can. All the toys, books, gadgets, and posters around the room stand as evidence of every time his daughter flashed those puppy dog eyes at him. Her mother’s eyes, and the same eyes she gave him last week when she begged for that new emerald monster game or whatever the fuck it’s called.

“Pokémon, dad!” He remembers the day you corrected/scolded him at the store with your hands on your hips. “It’s called Pokémon!”

“That’s what I said.”

“Off. Now. Or I’m taking it for the rest of the day tomorrow,” he tells her firmly. And the little gasp of horror she makes almost makes him laugh.

“Five more minutes?”

“Paola…”

“Ok ok ok, I’m done,” she quickly says. Taking the gameboy and placing it in the drawer beside her. Javi comes to her side to tuck her back in with the comforter then leans in to land a series of kisses around her round face.

“Punk,” he calls her. Ruffling the top of her hair and making her giggle.

Paola. That was the name you chose for her, and what a perfect fit it was. He let you take full reign on picking out a name because you had been dreaming of this child your entire life. It was only fair to let you pick the name of your firstborn.

Closing the door to Paola’s bedroom, he finally makes his way into the baby room. Finding his five month old son, Jairo, fussing and kicking in his wooden crib. He rubs away the sleep in his eyes before reaching in and taking him.

“It’s ok, you’re ok,” he soothes. Patting him gently on his back. He lays him against his bare chest as he starts bouncing him back to sleep. He starts going through his mental checklist.

His diaper doesn’t smell, he’s already been fed, the thermostat is set to 74 degrees… what else could it be this time?

“¿Que paso, huh? ¿Que quieres? (What happened, huh? What do you want?),” he mumbles against the skin of his head before pressing a kiss.

The love in his voice is one he never expected to be directed to any child, let alone his own. But any doubts he had of his ability of being a good father melted away the second he held his firstborn and heard her cries. He knew then that his life no longer belonged to him. And he would be whatever his family needed him to be to keep them safe.

An equally terrifying and wonderful moment.

His life took a complete 180 turn when he met you almost a decade ago. The bachelor life he thought he craved so much crumbled to pieces the second his eyes first locked with yours. The memory is so clear in his mind.

Your hair was loose and messy, you wore a blue sundress that made his chest tight, and the afternoon sun gleamed in your eyes. You met at a party he tried to avoid and suppose that he had. He wouldn’t admit it until much later, but he was instantly love struck. And a year later, he found himself on the beach, on his knee in front of you and all your close and personals.

It was honestly the uncertainty that he would come back to you alive that prevented him from taking the Mexico City assignment and solidified his decision of staying in retirement. He came to the realization that the purpose he found in his career, that drove him for over a decade, would never be as fulfilling as being by your side.

There were as many trials and tribulations as there were blessings through the years. Lots of gray hairs and arguments as well as love and tenderness. He could never imagine a better life. And being able to hold the best parts of the two of you in his arms makes him feel luckier than any man he knows.

After about ten minutes of rocking back and forth, the baby’s cries turn into babbling then eventually hushed breathing. Jairos eyes flutter closed as he falls back to sleep, looking incredibly small and vulnerable in Javi’s arms. His rocking slows to a near stop as a voice comes from the door.

“You’re too good at that. I’m actually kind of jealous.” He looks over his shoulder to find you smiling at him at the entryway, draped in one of his t-shirts, leaning against the door frame.

“I told you I got him,” he says quietly. “You didn’t have to get up.”

“I know. But then I felt bad so I came just in case,” you tease. He breathes a little laugh through the nose at your concern.

Stepping over to the crib, he carefully lays his sleeping son back down on the little mattress. Taking another couple of seconds just to look at him, burning this image of his son into his memory.

“I guess he didn’t need anything,” Javi yawns as he walks over to you.

“Yes, he did,” you say lovingly as you take his hand in yours.

When you both make it back to your room, you both take off what little clothes you had on and plop unceremoniously back into bed. You lay an arm over his chest and his arm scoops around you. And despite how tired he feels, he can’t fall asleep.

“I’m wide awake now,” you murmur.

“Me too,” he sighs heavily.

“I know something that might help,” you whisper and he raises a brow at your insinuation.

“Is that right?”

You hum a yes as your leg comes over his own simultaneously with your hand tracing down his chest. He feels the warmth from your thigh against his, making live wires go off underneath his skin and he agrees. There won’t be any sleep until he gets it out of his system.

Taking your cheek in his palm, Javi pulls you into a deep, slow burning kiss. Goosebumps rise to your skin and you build the energy of the kiss by pressing your breasts against his chest. His cock starts to pulse between your bodies and the impatient little moans coming from you tell him that you need more.

Groaning at the delicious contact, he slowly pushes you on your back. His hips instantly connect with yours and you respond by lifting your knees to his sides. With a gentle brush of tongues, the kiss becomes more heated and he’s not stopping until you're both satisfied.

“Did you lock the door?”

“Mmhmm,” he mumbles as he rains wet kisses on your neck.

“Paola’s asleep?”

“If you can stay quiet,” he chuckles.

Fuck, he’s happy. It sure as hell was a rough road, but it was worth the trek to lead him here. With a family, with a wife patient and sweet enough to love an old man like him. Javier, a damn father at forty six. He still can’t quite believe it. Even ten years later, he still gets overwhelmed just thinking about how lucky he is.

Mine. All mine.

“I need you,” you breathe into his shoulder, unable to wait any longer.

He hovers above you, propping himself up with one hand beside your head as the other hand takes hold of your hip. And with one swift movement, he guides his stiff cock inside your heat. You both pant out of pure ecstasy and he presses his forehead to yours. Holding your gaze as he starts to rock himself deeper, completely free of consequences.

You both decided that two kids was definitely enough. There’s already a perfect balance. But rather than have you on birth control again or having a shitty piece of latex between you, he took that option out of your hands and into his own. Best $500 he’s ever spent.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he praises. “I can’t get enough of you.”

His free hand finds the mound of your breast and you whimper when he rolls the peak between his fingers. When your ankles lock at his lower back, he takes it as a sign to move faster and harder. Still keeping a loving pace.

When he looks down at you, he still sees that girl he met by accident that hot summer day. He’s kissed your lips countless times, loved your body a thousand different ways, and it still feels as amazing as it did the first time. It’s a familiarity that never grows tiresome.

Pressure builds in his lower belly and he knows you’re getting close just by how short your breathing becomes. Your hands glide and scratch all over his back and he breathes out curses against your lips.

“Javi… Javi… Javi…,” you pant, ready to come apart.

When you snap, he snaps with you. Watching you squirm and feeling you squeeze around him enough to set him over the edge. He drives himself deep inside you, filling you up in more ways than one as your name drips like sweet honey from his lips. Your hands caress the sides of his neck as you both ride out the bliss. Peppering his jaw with lazy kisses before throwing your head back into the pillow.

He takes the moment to just look at you and fall in love all over again. You’re so fucking beautiful. Flushed and raw and perfect.

“I love you,” you sigh in a content, satisfied breath. Your voice, brimming with emotion.

He comes down to take your lips in his again. Feeling like he’s come home after a long, tiring journey. Like he does every time he climbs in bed with you, holds you in his arms, or even looks at you. That’s what you’ve become for him.

Home.

“I love you so much it hurts, baby,” he mumbles against your temple before laying by your side, taking you in his arms and finally getting the rest he’s spent his entire life looking for.

•

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please reblog and add a comment if you’d like. It means so much to writers like me and helps us share our work on here 😘

[andromedasreadingnook]

Neon Moon | Joel Miller Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x singer!reader

Summary: Life in Jackson was proving difficult for Joel to adjust to, unable to find a piece of comfort in the place so many people called paradise. That was until you came along, unexpectedly weaving your way into his life through a language you both shared a love for: music.

Warnings: MDNI. Jackson era/one month post episode 9. Not everything is canon. AFAB reader. No use of Y/N. Use of pet names. Foul language. Mentions of violence, blood, death, trauma & suicide. Age gap (reader is 27, Joel is 56). Angst. Insecure Joel. Soft Joel. Eventual smut. More detailed warnings will be given for each respective chapter.

PART I.

When Joel reluctantly accepts his brothers invitation for Thursday night live music at the Tipsy Bison, he doesn’t expect to enjoy it as much as he does. And he certainly doesn’t expect to make acquaintance with you, the bands young, beautiful, and bright lead singer.

PART II.

Joel is not prepared for his accidental run in with you. You’re equally as unprepared to have noticed his eyes on you during this Thursday nights performance.

PART III. (coming soon).

song inspiration:

❝ Now if you lose your one and only,

there’s always room here for the lonely,

to watch your broken dreams dance

in and out of the beams

of the neon moon. ❞

[andromedasreadingnook]

javier peña [narcos]

↩ back to main masterlist

all works contain a female!reader. 18+ only. minors do not interact.

ONESHOTS.

▸ lunch break

▸ take me to yours injured!reader, feelings realisation

▸ a broken sight angst, comforting!javi

▸ arepas colleagues to friends to lovers, slow burn. 9.3k *personal fave*

▸ coming home post!season3 soft!javi 2k

— dancing in the kitchen (same universe as coming home)

▸ things you never asked deaf/hard of hearing!reader 3.1k

▸ a thing he almost never had

▸ a pile of cards *latest* through seasons 1 to 3, javi gives you a birthday card. (written for birthday bash)

FROM THE SAME UNIVERSE.

▸ invite me in | drabble

▸ the games we play ex-lovers to lovers. sharing a bed.

▸ the dreams we made javi's secrets come out, the fall out of season two.

SERIES.

⇶ nowhere to run [wip - 18+] narcos season three, canon-compliant. summary: with a new promotion, office and team, what he doesn’t expect is the pretty thing outside his office—or why they’re not allowed in the field.

⇶ late night texts [wip - 18+] text fic. post-season three. summary: It's the year 2000. Javi is minding his own business on the porch of his pop's ranch when a text from an unknown number vibrates his phone. The only problem is, no one knows he has a phone and no one has his number.

[andromedasreadingnook]

Different Stories Resonate with Different People

[andromedasreadingnook]

gorgeous

Sirius Black x fem!reader

warnings: cursing, underage drinking & smoking, !poorly proofread!

Sirius Black masterlist

you’re so cool it makes me hate you so much

Sirius Black didn’t hate many things.

He hated assignments and losing in quidditch; he hated his parents and the rest of his snobby relatives. He hated having to wear formal clothes and brushing his hair. And he hated you.

It wasn’t something he could explain. You weren’t an evil person and you didn’t do bad things. But something about you drove him completely mad. 

And the only reason he had to deal with you was that you were Lily’s best friend and he couldn’t get rid of you. 

Your best friends were dating and you had to tolerate eachother. 

Be civil James always begged him, but then he would see your face; all uptight and frowning and your hands crossed in front of you; in a manner that reminded him of his old piano teacher who would scold him for not practicing enough. 

You didn’t acknowledge him, and when your eyes did land on him your eyebrows would be raised and your mouth slightly turned downwards, as if his face was covered in dirt and he smelled like garbage. 

The first time he actually talked to you, and realized he liked it better when he didn’t, was when Lily and James first started going out together. Their first date was a friendly get-together with the four of you.

It was not a double date. Sirius made sure to let James know; all he would be doing was distracting you so Lily would be free to talk to James. He was outgoing and charismatic when he needed to be, and he loved James like a brother so being a third/fourth wheel for him wasn’t that big of a deal. Plus, he liked Lily so how bad could her friend be? The answer is terrible.

You wouldn’t look at him, and weren’t impressed by his jokes. He tried telling you about his pranks but all you did was frown and criticize them, “if you cared about school half as much as you care about these childish things, you’d have graduated by the age of 14.” 

He didn’t argue with you, though, even if he died to, because one look at Lily and James and how happy they were (giggling at the stupid things James was saying) couldn’t let him ruin this.

So you sat quietly, eating and drinking, and then drinking some more, until Lily and you left together. Leaving an annoyed Sirius with a blushing James. 

What annoyed him most, was how his friends absolutely adored you. You played chess with Peter; and Sirius always heard him gushing about how brilliant you were at it. You studied with Remus in the library and discussed books together. The way you would speak to his friend about your favorite stories, and the way your eyes always gleam drives him completely insane. And don't get him started on how one day you introduced James to the "the proper athlete lifestyle”,which resulted in Sirius losing his drinking and smoking partner because, our bodies are temples and we need to treat them as such.

So; you have stolen his friends, invaded his life and he can't do anything about it.

One rainy Saturday morning he found Remus, reading a muggle book by the fireplace, about -elves and rings?-.

“Moony.”, he said and earned a quiet “mhm” from his friend, who was still focused on his book.

“I wanted to ask you something.” He said and looked around to make sure no one would hear them.

“Lilys friend, you know, the one in your little book club.”

“Not a book club.”, Remus answered turning a page in his book

“Yeah, whatever. She hates me, I think.”, Sirius said and earned no reaction from his friend “Would you happen to know why?”, he finished and looked at his friend, who closed his book with a sigh.

“Have you ever said anything that would make her hate you?” Remus asked patiently

“No, why, did she tell you anything?”

“Have you done anything to her?”, his friend asked again

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Then she just doesn’t like you" he made a move to resume his reading but Sirius insisted.

“Why does it matter, you can’t be liked by everyone, you know that better than most”

“But I don’t get it, why would she hate me this much. She always looks at me with this f-”

Remus didn’t say anything, but gave his friend an amused look, softly smirking at his words.

“What.” Sirius said annoyed

“Well, instead of worrying about why she hates you, ask yourself why you care so much.”

“But I- I don’t care. In fact I hate her just as much.”

“Right.”

“Its true I don’t care!”

“Obsess then, better choice of words.”

“Sod off”, he said as he got up to walk away, leaving Remus laughing to himself and resuming his book.

As the year progressed , your interactions with Sirius remained the same, with the addition of an eyeroll here and there along with bickering that resulted in you being the first one to leave from gatherings.

“Good riddance” he always thought to himself, receiving a murderous look from you; as if you were able to read his thoughts.

December came and your friend group planned a Secret Santa gift exchange. It was a muggle thing, explained Lily, where the participants get gifts for eachother, without revealing their identity.

“Everyone, take a sit and pick a card from the bowl infront of you when it is your turn.”, instructed Lily “And remember, don’t let anyone know who you’ve picked, and you can’t switch cards with anyone!”

As he read Remus’s name on the card, he let out a breath of relief. He was worried, that with his luck, he would end up getting you a gift, and he really didn’t want that. Finding a good present for Moony would be a piece of cake, he told himself and then put off actually buying the gift for a couple of weeks.

He realized how big of an idiot he was, when Friday came, the last Friday before the gift exchange (that would be taking place on Sunday). Which meant he had exactly two days to buy something good for his friend.

He begged James for help, but he was too busy finishing up the last few details of his present; poor Peter had no taste and would be no help and Lily was caught up in Head Girl duties. Making you, the only person available, to advise him, which honestly wasn’t that bad of an outcome , since you and Remus were good friends. 

He found you alone, sitting on a couch with your homework on your lap and a cup of coffee in your hands.

“Goodmorning.”, he greeted 

Your eyes shot up and you looked around confused, before realizing he was talking to you, “Morning.”, you said calmly

“How is the Secret Santa shopping going?”, he asked trying to make smalltalk

“Um fine… And you?’

“It is good that you ask, because I actually need your help.”

“Mine? Why?”

“Well, you see, I delayed buying a gift, which means that if I get something that isn’t perfect now, I will be the the biggest idiot on Earth.”

“Because, you aren’t already?”

“I- ” he let out an annoyed laugh at that, not wanting to insult you now that he needed your help. “As I was saying, I need you to help me find a really really good gift. So, Hogsmeade, tomorrow morning? What do you say, love?”

“Ah- us two?”

“Yeah, well everyone else is kind of busy, so you are kind of my last hope.”

“Oh, oh, well, excuse me, but I have better things to do than spend my Saturday buying gifts for you, besides, you aren’t supposed to tell me who you have.”

“Remus.”, he quickly said

“Why would you tell me that?”, you screamed dramatically leaving him completely unbothered

“Now you kind of have to come, don’t you? You already know who it is and I am sure you have nothing better to do tomorrow.” “Ah, excuse you, but I am a busy person, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, ah, okay. Do you want me to beg? Please, just, do me this favor, this once. The holidays are coming soon and you won’t have to see me for two whole weeks, and after summer I will never bother you again. So please?”

You stared at him for a while, thinking over everything he said , he could swear your face turned red for a split second, before you answered “Fine, but we won’t spend the whole day there, I want to try and study before winter break.” “Great, thank you, we will finish early. So, after breakfast tomorrow? At 10:30?”

“9.”. You said

“Right, okay, bye.”, he said enthusiastically and went on his way to the quidditch field while you loudly said behind his back “Don’t be late!”

He was only ten minutes late, the next morning. But it wasn’t really his fault, practice had ended later than expected the previous night and he needed to avoid being caught by Remus on his way out of the common room. 

So he hurried down the stairs, skipped breakfast and coffee hoping he would have time to buy something when you reached the village, and found you, waiting for him impatiently with a frown on your face.

“You are late.”, you said

“Goodmorning to you too.”, Sirius replied with a sarcastic smile

Before he could say anything else, you held out your hands to give him a few cauldron cakes from the breakfast table “You can get coffee on the go, lets get moving.”, you said and passed him the food before heading towards the carriages.

“Ah, thank you.”, he said with his mouth stuffed, running after you.

The ride to Hogsmeade was…quiet at first. But not in the completely unpleasant and awkward way. You had also brought a notebook with you and made a list of all the shops you could visit, and all the presents you could buy for Remus. Sirius, could hardly keep up with you and mostly nodded while trying not to fall asleep.

“I was thinking,” you started saying as you reached your destination “There is this bookshop, that sells a few Muggle books, and Remus had been telling me about a signed copy he desperately wanted to get.”

“Let’s get it then. Lead the way.” 

“Yeah, but it might be too expensive and it might be sold by now, so just know that we need to have backups.”, you said anxiously 

He grabbed the notebook from your hands in a playful manner, tapping at the list you’d made on the way here. “Well, I think you’ve got that covered. Come on, lets go.”

Before walking inside the bookstore, you agreed to split up and look for the book “Don’t hesitate to hex anyone that tries to get it before us, alright?” 

“Oh of course, I will also stop brushing my hair and I’ll start shouting at people on the street. Perhaps by March I’ll have achieved the proper heathen look, and maybe if I try hard enough I’ll catch up to you.” You replied with a smile while batting your eyelashes at him.

“Ah hilarious, let’s go.”, he said dragging the words in irony

The bookstore was overflowed with books, old and new, and millions of maps, everywhere in the shelves. You were right, to be nervous, finding that one book would be a challenge. Thankfully it wasn’t busy this time of day and the only people inside were you two, an old lady organizing the bookcases and the shop owner who was currently feeding his owl by the window. 

You both spent at least thirty minutes searching, before Sirius heard you scream his name surprised “I found it!.”, you celebrate as if you’ve just caught the golden snitch. He ran to you then and without thinking he gave you a spin, causing you to let out a yelp. 

As he let you down, you looked at eachother awkwardly with a hint of warmth coating your cheeks. He took the book from your hands and quickly said, “Uh good job.” to which you replied “Thank you.” while playing with your sweater.

Walking up to the cashier register, the book owner asked “Is this a present?” ,as he wrapped the book, to which you both replied “Yes.” “Good thinking.” The man said, causing Sirius to ask “What do you mean?” with an awkward smile.

“I learned a little too late, that I should take my wife Christmas shopping with me, and make sure I get her something she actually likes.”, he said smiling 

That statement caused you and Sirius to cough and laugh awkwardly once you both realized what the man was implying.

“Oh no, no we aren’t-”

“We are just, friends.” You said red-faced

“Our best friends are together, and we starting hanging out because of that.”

“Yeah but not, not like that.”

The man observed the two of you in silence for a minute; stammering, with wide eyes and blushing cheeks before he let out a heartfelt laugh. “I see.”

“Well, either way, have a wonderful Christmas.”, he wished as you left.

You walked together in silence, for a while, not knowing what to do now that you had completed your task.

“Thank you for helping me today.”

“Remus will love it.”, you replied with a forced smile 

“Yes.”Neither of you said anything for a few seconds before Sirius interrupted the silence, “Hey, since we finished early, do you want to get some coffee or-”, he asked you, wanting to treat you for helping him with the gift.

“Oh I’d better get going, study now that I have more time. I’ll see you tomorrow for the exchange.”, you said and left him standing in the snow, outside of the Three Broomsticks, with the book in his arms and a stunned look on his face.

He was an idiot to think he misjudged you, of course you had helped him because Remus was your friend, and only that. But, would it honestly be that much of a torment for you to get a cup of coffee with him? Did he smell bad? Was there something on his face? Had he said something to you; to insult you without knowing it? Was it that old mans comment that bothered you that much? Was it that big of an insult; to be considered his girlfriend? He wasn’t thrilled about it either, but he obviously wasn’t that affected by it. He really couldn’t understand you. 

“Her loss.” He muttered as he went inside for some hot chocolate to treat himself.

Remus obviously loved his gift and the exchange went well. Sirius still remembers to this day singing and dancing in the common room and drinking a lot of mulled wine. He wanted to thank you, but he was met with the cold wall you had built around you and he really didn’t want to ruin his mood.

As April arrived, the days were starting to get warmer- as warm as Scotland could get-, and sunnier. And this year, being your last at Hogwarts the Marauders decided it would be a great idea to plan a Lake-picnic-swim-get together, with Lily of course and well you.

Sirius didn’t mind though, he would play in the water with his friends and avoid you, and if he was lucky he could manage splashing you a few times, without meaning to of course.

The boys arrived first, and Sirius took advantage of that and dragged James in the water so all of them could play a new game he invented which was a mix of quidditch and a muggle sport called water-polo.

It was the most fun he remembered having in a while, it brought him back to his early years, when the worries that come with graduation and adulthood had no place on his mind. 

Of course, fun doesn’t last forever, and you showed up. Your hair was loose and dancing gracefully as the soft wind blew at it. It was the first time he had ever seen you look so, free. You greeted everyone as you took off your clothes, staying in your bright blue swimming suit, causing; Peter to stammer like a Third Year, and then Sirius to splash him with water, to come back to his senses.

You placed your things underneath a tree, near the towel the boys had placed down, and then laid down to read your book as everyone swam.

“Let’s play chicken.”, James said childishly 

“That is a children’s game.”, protested Remus making Lily laugh

“Oh come on, just this once! Lets have fun, one last time.” He pleaded dramatically eventually convincing everyone.

“I am teaming with Moony.” Said Peter making Remus look at him sternly “What? You are the tallest, and I like winning.”

“Whatever.” He said and sank down, for Peter to climb on his shoulder.

Lily swam to James and kissed him, before looking around and asking “What about Sirius?”

It was a sensible question Sirius had also thought about, and he knew the only way to solve this problem would be asking you to team up with him, but he had some dignity saved and wouldn’t bring himself to do that.

James however shouted your name and asked you if you would play with them, since his friend was left alone.

“Um no.” you said apologetically, closing your book.

“What did you say?”, screamed Lily, causing you to get closer to the lake for them to hear you better.

“I said n-” you started but were cut off by Lily, who grabbed your hand while smiling and pushed you in the Lake, causing everyone, especially Sirius, to laugh.

“Well you are in now, so you might as well play.” She winked at you and you threw water at her face in reply

“Can we speed this up? Peter is going to drown us both.”, complained Remus whose head was trying to stay out of the water.

“So, what do I need to do?”, you asked 

“You push the other players off, darling, it isn’t that hard.”, replied Sirius with a sarcastic tone, driving you to give him a side eye.

“Just climb on his back and try to stay there.”, said Peter; pointing Sirius to you

Your face turned red as you swam to his side “Alright, okay.”

“I will count to three, I will sink down and you will sit on my shoulders, yeah?”, he asked

“Okay.”

“1, 2-”, he said calmly with his hands raised in front of you two, counting 

“Wait”, you stopped him and held his hands; preventing him from going anywhere “What if I drown you?”

“You won’t”

“What if I drown you and we both die?”

“We won’t”

“What if you slip and then I choke you with my legs.”

His face turned red at that “I- you won’t”

“What if-”

“Alright, 3.”, he said loudly and sank down, gently guiding you on him; coming up for air after making sure you were fully seated.

“There we go, not that bad, was it?”, he joked

“Nno.”, you said, while trying to maintain your balance, without breaking his neck or ripping his hair off.

He held your thighs with his hands, making sure you’d stay up, and then moved towards the others.

Peter was the first one to go down; both because you and Lily teamed up against him and because Remus had began to grow very tired of holding him.

Then it was yours and Lily’s turn to try and throw eachoter in the water; and you were determined to win to get back at her for forcing you into this game in the first place. Which you eventually did.

“Yes!”, you screamed with a laugh as Lily fell backwards dragging James with her, and earned a round of applause from Remus and Peter who were laying on their blankets and watching the game from over there.

Sirius held out his hand to you, to give you a high five, as he celebrated, before gently diving off his back and into the water with a backflip.

You both laughed together and then he teased you “Told you we’d be fine, you could trust me more.”

“I don’t think I will Black, this was a one time thing for both our sakes.”, you replied teasing him back.

Before leaving you alone and returning to his friends he dived in the water, grabbed your legs and sank you down with him; causing you to let out a surprised scream once you realized what he was doing.

You reached the surface together, your bodies close to eachother and your faces a breath away. As you realized how close you were, you splashed his face with water, while he tried to apologize.

After the day at the Lake, Sirius realized that he didn’t hate you as much. It still annoyed him how you wouldn’t acknowledged his existence when you were together, or how you would talk to everyone but him at parties. And you would better not get him started on quidditch matches and how you cheered for everyone else, but never him.

Bloody Moony had been right, he was obsessing over you, and for what? Why did he care that you didn’t like him. Many people liked him- loved him even.

Come to think of it, he was better off hating you, but now he couldn’t. No, now he had grown to know you. And he had decided you were, likable.

You were smart and funny, he had to give you that.

In charms he would always watch how you would cast the spells, methodically and calm. The way your mouth voiced the words was well, beautiful. And there was one time, when a group of Slytherins had stopped you, Alice and Remus in the corridors. James and him were talking to a group of Hufflepuffs for their upcoming quidditch game and he only saw you from afar. He didn’t like the way your eyebrows furrowed as you listened to the boys talking to you, nor the way your body had taken a defensive stand. He wished he could walk up to them and hex them out of Scotland, but he had no business doing that, he didnt understand why he even cared that much.

But, why couldn’t he stop glancing over at your form, and loosen the grip on his wand?

Fuck it, he thought and muttered an “excuse me”, to James and the others while walking over you.

Before he could say anything though, and get into any trouble, he heard your voice, strict and irritated “Rosier, I’ve honestly grown tired of the blood purity bullshit, don’t get me wrong, insulting you was fun for the first two years, but we are graduating in a few months, maybe study for NEWTS, get a hobby, remove the stick from your ass?”

He smiled then, as he watched Rosiers face turn purple from trying to come up with an insult, and paid attention to your face, confident and smug.

He watched awestruck as you giggled with your friends, telling himself that this version of you; the relaxed and happy one is his favorite and he really wanted to see it more often.

He watched as you played chess with Peter and tried talking to you, but you were too focused to pay attention to him. He also tried commenting while you discussed with Remus, about the books you were reading, but admittedly he had no clue what he was talking about and you just stared at him, without saying anything back. 

It was hopeless; he couldn’t do anything to get you to talk to him, pay attention to him. He didn’t remember making friends to be that hard. He thought he was likable, and interesting but now he questioned everything.

One morning, during Slughorns potions class he woke up to the sight of you sitting next to him and whispering “James asked me to switch seats so he could sit next to Lily, for the Amortentia potion.”

“Oh, right okay.”, he replied back still half-asleep  “Wait, what potion are we making today?” “Amor-” you began to say

“Amortentia Mister Black,” interrupted professor Slughorn “And thank you for waking up to join us, it truly is an honor.”

“Now, who here can tell me what this potion is?” 

“Yes miss Evans?”, and as Lily started explaining Sirius felt his eyelids growing heavy once again.

The next time he woke up, was to the smell of his favorite pastries, the ones that Euphemia Potter made him every summer. He almost forgot he was in Potions class and thought he was laying in the Potters backyard, being served delicious strawberry muffins, but then he scented something different; less familiar but he could swear he’d smelt it before.

Suddenly the scent of oranges and hibiscus, overflowed his senses and he could clearly remember what it reminded him of. 

He thought back to the day at the Lake and how your body smelled on top of him. Then he was reminded of the way you smell every time he would tower over you in your chess games, or when you would be sat in the couch of his common room; analyzing literature with Remus. 

His Amortentia smells like you. You.

His eyes open fully now, and he can see the cauldron professor Slughorn has placed in front of him, while looking at him disapprovingly. As he turns his head he gets a glimpse of you, trying to gently reach the cauldron and smell the potion. 

Professor Slughorn calls you first and asks what you smelled.

You hesitated at first, and tapped your fingers on the desk nervously, “I smell old books and seasalt.”, he heard you say. He definitely does not smell like seasalt or old books. Brilliant, not embarrassing in the slightest bit. Of course he would fall for a girl, who didn’t give two shits about him, barely acknowledged him and looked at him as if he’d murdered her entire family. He desperately needed to take care of his mommy issues after graduation. 

“What about you, mister Black?”, asked Slughorn

“Strawberry muffins.” He said disappointed and under his breath, and then looked at you, wondering how he ended up in this situation.

A sunny Saturday morning, he found Remus sitting under a tree reading another muggle book of his, -about a woman who enjoyed walking and a man who loved her but despised her family?-

“Moony.”, he said as he sat beside Remus

“Padfoot.”, his friend replied, eyes glued to the book in his hands

“You remember that conversation we had about Lily’s best friend, you know the one-“

“In my little book club? Yes.”

“Well, complications have arisen.”

Remus shut his book and asked his friend “Complications?” 

“Yes.”

“What kind of complications.”

“I am glad you asked Moony, by the way, here is a chocolate bar I brought for you.”, he said handing out the sweet, which Remus cautiously accepted

“Well, you remember how I thought she hated me?” He waited for his friend to nod before continuing “For one, I haven’t made any progress with that and also I’ve recently come to the conclusion that I like her.”

“You like her.”

“Yes, painfully so.”

“Right, and- the complications?”

“I just told you.”

“No, you told me you like her, I don’t see anything complicated there, in fact I could’ve told you, you liked her months ago.”, Remus replied, chewing on his chocolate

“You are no help”, sighed Sirius dramatically

“Have you considered, I don’t know, talking to her?”

“Are you mental? Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Did you not hear the part where she can’t stand me?”

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know Moony, I thought you would know what I should do, has she told you if she likes anyone? Old books and seasalt, Old books and seasalt, old boo-”

“Wait a minute.”, Sirius muttered to himself and jumped at Remus sniffing him shamelessly.

“What in the bloody hell are you doing?”

“Stand still, I am trying to figure out something, maybe if I turn into Padfoot-”

“She doesn’t like me you git! Stay away.”, his friend shoved him away

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“But how sure-”

“Okay enough, I am leaving and you need to talk to her, because you are ridiculous and insufferable” he said to his best friend as he quickly stood up, taking his book and chocolate with him leaving a confused Sirius behind.

The next few weeks were a complete torment for Sirius, how could he of all people be pining over a girl; especially a girl he couldn’t stand in the beginning of the school year. Humiliating, that’s what he would call this new…situation.

He would never talk to you about his feelings, and what exactly was there to say. “Hello, I can’t really stand you and want to hex you every time you frown at me but I also want to grab your face and snog you until you forget your name?” No, he couldn’t say that.

Instead, he did everything he could to forget about you. He started going out with girls, but always ended up comparing them to you. Which resulted in; him absolutely shitfaced crying to them about you and the misery of unrequited feelings. He thought then, studying and quidditch would help distract him from his infatuation, but he could never focus and your face and voice infected his mind.

“That is enough” snapped Remus one day “You are being ridiculous.”

“You don’t understand Moony, I feel ill. This is killing me.”

“You are so dramatic.”, sighed Peter “Just confess already, let her reject you and then move on.”

“Sod off.” Sirius replied “Honestly Moony, this was supposed to stay between us. Why did you tell him?”

“Because I cannot deal with you on my own. And Peter is right, you should tell her.”

“Tell who what?” Asked a grinning James who’d just arrived in the dorm room.

“Our dear friend here, is having girl issues.”, an amused Peter said

“Who? Remus? Who is the girl?”

“Not me.” Remus replied and pointed at Sirius 

“Padfoot?” James asked with an open mouth “You, are having girl problems? How the bloody hell did that happen?”

Sirius replied with a deep sigh and buried his head in his pillow.

“Unrequited love.” Peter laughed 

“There is no girl in this castle who isn’t in love with Sirius.” Said James “Well, apart from Pomfrey, Minnie and well your cousins. Even though that last one is up for debate.”

The boy in question, raised his head and gave his friend a disgusted look before saying “Well, Prongs, sorry to shock you but there is.”

“Well who is she? Tell me.”

Sirius stood up dramatically and walked to his friend. He gave him a desperate look and then whispered your name in his ear.

James said nothing, for a few seconds “Prongs? Are you still there?”, his friends asked and then James let out a loud laugh; loud enough for the creatures deep inside the Lake to hear him.

“Are you done?” Sirius said impatiently 

“Yeah, I just need to catch my breath.” Replied James giggling causing Sirius to roll his eyes.

“You should definitely tell her.” He said as he calmed down and sat between Remus and Peter

“So you can laugh some more?” Sirius said annoyed 

“Just tell her mate, school will be over in a month, you’ll never see her again if things go bad.”

“But they will go bad, haven’t you seen how she looks at me? Like she hates me.”

“Yeah, well you weren’t a fan of her either, and now look at you."

“I didn’t like her because of her stupid pouty mouth and the way her eyes are so… so beautiful.”, he said theatrically

That last comment caused the boys to laugh at their friend

“This is such a disaster, Prongs, mate you need to help me. Obliviate me and save me from this- this utter humiliation.”, he said shaking his friend

“Hey. Grow some courage and tell her or stay miserable. Now, I need to see my girlfriend, excuse me, lads.”

With that, the three boys looked at eachother in silence, which Sirius eventually broke as he asked “How would I even tell her?”

“Just wait for the right moment”, the boys advised him. But the right moment never came. You were never alone, and when you were alone you were either in the library or the common room with your face buried in a book. 

And that is why Sirius Black found himself tonight, on a Friday night, walking around the corridors of the castle alone, whilst thinking about everything and nothing.

He felt nostalgic about graduating and never seeing this place again and he also felt a pain in his chest as he thought of you and how much he wanted to have you, while you wanted nothing to do with him. 

As he reached the common room he prepared himself to quickly flee to his dorm and sleep off the nights melancholia, but soon he heard laughter and loud voices that informed him escaping wouldn’t be that easy.

“Paaadfoot”, exclaimed a drunk James “Join us, come on.”

“Yes, we were about to play truth or dare, come!” Lily said laughing

As he got closer to his group of friends he caught you sitting there, with your drink in your hand looking at him awkwardly. He hadn’t seen you like this, relaxed, in a long time; and he couldn’t blame you, NEWTS were a breath away and everyone was stressed. Your eyes looked tired and your hair was messy, but you still looked beautiful. He was surprised he didn’t notice it sooner; how pretty you actually are.

“I was heading upstairs, wanted to go to sleep early tonight.”, he said as an excuse, wanting to be alone

“Stay.”, he heard your voice as he made his way up the stairs and then froze in place “If Lily forced me to join and not study, you have to play also.”, you quickly said when you noticed his eyes glued at yours

“Alright” he muttered and took a seat between Remus and Peter

After a few rounds of James asking Lily when she first started liking him, and then Lily daring Peter to do his best impersonation of McGonagall it was Peters turn to ask Sirius;

“Out of every prank we’ve done all these years, which one is your favorite?”

He laughed as he remembered all the memories he’d made in this castle, not all of them were good, but they were his and he cherished every single one of them. And what made them even more special was that the people he’d spent his best years with, were sitting next to him, at this moment.

“Ah there are so many, maybe the feathers? Or or the red paint one.”

“Red paint? Asked Lily 

“Ooooh yes, that was a good one, when was it again? Second year?”, asked James

“Third.”, you said

“Yeah thi- wait how do you know?”, Sirius quickly said confused

“Because I was the one covered in red and golden paint you moron!”, you shouted

“What?”

“Girls Bathrooms, in the dungeons. I got in perfectly fine and left drenched in Gryffindors colors, yay for house pride.”, you said amused

“Wait, how?”

“What was the prank?” Asked Lily confused

“We jinxed the bathroom stalls, but in the boys bathroom, thinking Malfoy and his friends would end up with our House colors.”, Remus replied

“How did you end up-”

“Red and Gold? I don’t know Sirius, maybe you jinxed the wrong bathroom.”, you said amused

“What did you do after?”, asked Lily, who was laughing now

“I ran to my dorm, but not before Rosier and his friends saw me. I was called ���lion cub” for the rest of the year!”

You exclaimed making everyone laugh; everyone except for Sirius. Is it because of a stupid prank that you hated him? He remembers now how you would look at him with distaste when he mentioned his pranks to you. His eyes were serious and his voice strict as he called out your name.

“We need to talk, outside.” He stood up waiting for you to follow him, but was met with your confused stare “Please”.

You were leaning against the walls with your hands crossed in front of you, as Sirius paced nervously before asking.

“That stupid prank is the reason you hate me?”

“What? I- no”, you said

“It is, isn’t it? You’ve been mad at me all these years for an idiotic mistake I made at 14!”, he said annoyed

“I have not been mad, I was at the start yes, but I got over it that same year when Malfoy ratted on you and you had to clean out the hippogriff stalls.”, you replied with a sincere smile, that caused him to grin before he asked again.

“Then why do you hate me, still?”

“I don’t hate you, why would you think I hate you?”

“Have you seen the way you look at me; like I’ve Avadaed your whole family. And you never talk to me, and when you do you’re sarcastic, as if you hate my whole being, but you talk to everyone else just fine.”, he said finally letting it all out, leaving his stupid crush out of course.

You remained silent for a while, thinking about what he had said to you, and what you would say back, or rather how to say what you wanted to say.

“I, sorry. Sorry about third year and sorry about now, its fine I’ve had a weird week.”, he quickly said, feeling bad for laying it all on you and causing you to be uncomfortable. He made his way back to his dorm, but you were quick enough to catch his arm and stop him.

“No, wait. You are right, I do treat you like that, and I am sorry. I don’t hate you, though.”

“Then what is it?” he asked confused

“I- you can’t laugh at me.”

“Okay.”

“I like you.”, you said at first and then continued “It was a stupid crush at first, but then we talked and you were funny and interesting and I felt like an idiot for liking you because you are you-“

His laugh was what interrupted your speech. And in all honesty, he couldn’t stop himself, everything seemed so ridiculous then. How he pined over you, and how dramatic he was being all his time. And, you, you liked him and that piece of information felt like a huge weight off his chest. Now, everything made sense. Before he could tell you everything and confess his feelings your angry voice stopped him.

“You said you wouldn’t laugh.”, you exclaimed and starting walking away from him

“No wait you don’t understand.” He said running after you

“Sod off, now that I think about it, I do hate you”

“Wait!” He begged

“No, goodni-” you replied without looking at him, but suddenly his hand was wrapped around your wrist and then his lips were on yours.

“What?”, you let out confused as you parted from him

“Sorry I didn’t know how else to-” , he said breathless before you kissed him again, grabbing his tie and wrapping your arms around him this time. He closed his eyes, and let himself bury his fingers in your hand and waist, pulling you impossibly close to him. Not wanting to let go, ever. You both sighed as you stopped, your lungs begging for air. You smiled at eachother and he looped his arm around your shoulders as you two walked down the corridors.

“So you don’t hate me.”, he said softly 

“No, and you, I take it, don’t hate me either.”, you replied with a smile and turned your head to rest at his shoulder.

“I tolerate you.” He joked and you raised your head, while hitting him with your shoulder. Tow high he replied with a laugh and a soft kiss.

“I like you, incredibly much.”, he whispered to your lips.

You ended up underneath the tree by the lake, with your back to his chest and your hands intertwined.

“So, who smells like seasalt and old books, because I know I don’t.” He whispered in your hair

“It’s a bit early to start being jealous isn’t it?” You grinned “I’ll tell you, when you tell me who smells like strawberry muffins.” 

“Is it that Hufflepuff girl talking to you at that party last month, because you both should know; I don’t share.”, you joked and turned your head back to look at him. He laughed at that and kissed your forehead before saying.

“Alright darling, I’ll let mrs. Potter know."

“What?” You said and the you both laughed.

"Old books, sea salt and your cologne. That’s what I smelt”, you confessed and he looped his arms around you, keeping you close, so close you could feel the beat of his heart.

“Want to go back?”, you whispered after a while

“No, not yet, I want you to myself, for a little bit more.”, he said as he closed his eyes and you hugged his arms before answering with a satisfied smile “You can have me for a lot longer than that.”

fin

feedback and criticism are welcome and needed &lt;3