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loonysbarn · 3 days ago

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Can we get dilf!rafe and milf!reader? Max lets it slip to rafe that his buddies ogle and find milf!reader so hot when they saw her pick up Max and Winnie from school a few times? You can choose how it goes afterwards!! I love your writing of their fam saurrrrr much

awe thank you bb 💕 I'm so glad you like it 🤭🤭🤭 sorry this one got a little long—but I hope you enjoy 😋💕 This story is meant to be read either alone or with the rest of the au.

+18 -> smut

𝓭𝓲𝓵𝓯!𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓸𝓷 𝔁 𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓯!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

c/w: teenage boys being gross, jealous rafe, swearing, ownership kink, possessive rafe, pet names, multiple orgasms, overstim., squirting, fingering, unprotected p in v, mirror sex, dirty talk, spanking, lots of cum, female oral (post-shared climax)

cameron kids= Max (18), Winnie (17), Rory + Poppy (4)

You lean into the counter, absentmindedly squeezing lemon after lemon into the glass pitcher. Cold juices run down your fingers, sticky as it slips into the creases of your palms and drips to your wrists. The whole kitchen smells like sugar and citrus, with that warm, buttery hint of cookies still cooling behind you.

The plate’s already half gone, devoured by teenage boys lounging in the common space: tall, tan, loud, sprawled across your furniture like they own the place.

“Sugar, please?” You ask, gesturing toward Kelce’s son, perched in front of the one cabinet you need.

“Yes, ma’am,” he hums, flashing you a grin as he hops down to grab it.

His hand brushes yours as he passes it off. You smile, polite and sweet as ever, returning to stir the mix.

“Fuck, she wants me,” he mutters to Max—just out of earshot.

Your son groans, tipping his head back against the cabinet. “Fuck off, Tripp.”

“Why else would she be in here squeezin’ her lemons?” Tripp groans, dragging the sentence out like it’s a double entendre.

“You’re still goin’, huh? Not scared?”

“M’not scared of shit—”

Before Max can answer, the door opens with a thud.

“Hi, Mom!” Winnie calls, sandals slapping the marble as she breezes in. Her boyfriend Jackson’s behind her, arms full, carrying the twins, still damp from the sprinkler, dressed like they’re headed out.

“Is it cool if we take the twins out for ice cream?” Winnie asks. Her tone’s breezy, but she looks sharply toward one of Max’s friends eyeing her up.

That same boy yelps when Max nails him in the arm. “M’gonna fuckin’ kill you,” he mutters, while the kid doubles down, clearly unbothered, shooting his shot at your daughter like it’s all just part of the game.

“Of course, sweetheart,” you say, crossing the counter for your purse.

“Mrs. Cameron, really—I’ve got it,” Jackson says, voice firm.

“That’s very sweet. But not necessary… Thanks for taking them off my hands.” You kneel in front of the twins gently brushing back your daughter’s curls; cupping your son’s cheek lovingly. “You two be good for your sister and Jackson, okay?”

You lean in to kiss their cheeks, and without realizing it, your sundress shifts. The neckline dips, your breasts press softly together, the hem lifts just enough to tease. You linger, whispering something about sprinkles and chocolate.

Behind you, the room goes silent.

One boy swallows hard. Another just stares—slack-jawed—like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“Max… Dude. This is your life?”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut the fuck up?” Max mutters, jaw clenched.

“I’d move in tomorrow,” Tripp grins. “Be your stepdad today.”

“Bet she tastes like sugar—”

“I said shut up,” Max snaps, louder this time.

Just then, another boy walks in from the hallway, Trevor. He catches sight of you, still bent low in front of the twins, and freezes. Smiling like the goddamn Cheshire Cat, he lifts both hands like he’s gripping your hips and starts thrusting the air behind you in slow-motion silence.

The other boys lose it—coughing, choking on laughter, trying and failing to keep it together.

You straighten up, sundress swaying back into place as you smooth it down with both hands, blissfully unaware.

“All right, go have fun,” you sing out, waving them toward the door.

You turn back to the pitcher, lift it to the sink, and flip the tap without thinking.

Water churns—lemon juice and sugar swirling, rising to the rim—as your gaze drifts out the kitchen window. And then you see him. Rafe…

His white t-shirt’s soaked through, hose in hand as he rinses down the G-Wagon. Sunlight turns the spray to glitter. Water drips down his arms, soaking the cotton clinging to every curve and cut of his chest and abs.

He turns, flipping his hat backward with one hand, jaw flexing as he wipes his brow.

Your thighs press together. Grip tightening on the pitcher just as the lemonade spills over, cold and sticky down your wrist. You fumble the tap, blinking fast, but your eyes don’t leave him.

His shirt clings to his back, practically painted on, while his blue swim trunks ride low on his hips and high on his thighs.

One hand coils the hose, and the other grabs the wash bucket. His chest flexes with every move, muscles rolling under wet cotton like sin in motion.

“Have fun, boys,” you call out, pouring lemonade into a glass, still watching him.

The front door clicks shut as you step outside barefoot. The grass is crisp beneath your feet; sun shining hot on your shoulders.

Rafe looks up the second he hears you. His mouth curves into a slow, knowing smile. “Oh shit, pretty,” he drawls, eyes dragging down your body. “That for me?”

“Mhmm,” you hum, offering him the glass—but he doesn’t take it. He steps closer, warm, wet arm curling around your waist, pulling you flush to him like he can’t help it. His mouth finds yours instantly—hot and slow. Your fingers hook behind his neck, greedy for more.

You giggle into the kiss, breathless. “How much longer?”

Rafe pulls back just enough to smirk, water dripping down his temple “What? You want somethin’, baby?”

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴ 15 minutes earlier…

The garage is quiet at first—just the clatter of golf clubs and the squeak of a sponge as Rafe scrubs the green off his chipping wedge. The radio hums softly from the corner, low and easy. But that peace doesn’t last.

Beer bottles clink inside the fridge; ice rattles in the machine. And just around the corner from where Rafe sits, the boys start talking their shit like they don’t have a care in the world.

“I’m done,” your son mutters—tone flat and fed up like he’s been saying all day.

“Not my fault your mom’s hot as fuck, Maxi.” One of the boys fires back, voice deep and smug. “M’just waitin’ for the day she gets stuck in the washer. I’ll pound her shit right there—”

“Fuck you,” Max hisses. There’s a sharp thud and a groan; Max hits his friend hard enough to give him a moment's peace from him, but it doesn’t stop the rest of them.

“Did you see her in that swimsuit the other day? Playing with the twins? That bikini? She’s still got an ass on her. Those tits too?” Trevor chimes in, practically drooling. “I wanna play with her twins. Slide my dick right between ‘em—”

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” Max growls.

“Hey, you fucked my sister, Max. Both of ‘em. Think I get to tug one to your mom… every night—”

“She’s so hot, bro. Like stupid hot,” another pipes up. “Your dad doesn’t deserve that. He can’t keep up. Can’t handle all that. His stamina’s gotta be shot.”

“She made me cookies like it was foreplay,” one of them says, breathy and laughing. “You think she ever looks at us and wonders…”

“She made cookies for my dad,” Max mutters.

“Yeah. That’s what I said—”

And then Rafe clears his throat, loud and measured. The sound slices through the room like a blade. So quiet you could hear the soft clink of a stolen beer cap hitting the concrete.

The boys scatter like mice out the side door and back into the house. Their smug laughter from moments before dies on their lips, replaced by frantic whispers of “do you think he heard” and the squeak of boat shoes skidding across the floor.

“Come here,” Rafe says, low and calm.

Max exhales hard, stuffing his hands in his front pockets. His shoulders drawn up to his ears as he drags himself across the garage floor.

“You wanna explain what that was?” Rafe asks without looking at him, voice steady as he cleans his club.

Max shrugs, sullen. “I mean, you heard it.”

“Yeah… I heard everything—”

“Every fuckin’ day,” Max mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Anytime we’re at the house. I try shutting it down—it’s impossible.”

“They were talking about your mother,” Rafe says. “You just gonna let that fly?”

“They’re fuckin’ idiots,” Max scoffs. “Just givin’ me shit. They’re not gonna do anything. And what am I supposed to do, huh? Beat the shit out of every guy who opens his mouth about mom?”

“Nah,” Rafe says, smiling without humor. “They’ll get the hint some way or another.”

“Well that’s not horrifying,” Max mumbles, giving him a side-eye—because he knows damn well Rafe might handle this himself.

“She’s not just your mom, you know. She’s my wife,” Rafe says, nodding toward the garage door. “So yeah. I know exactly how hot she is.”

“Ew.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Rafe grins. “I just had to listen to that perverted pissin’ contest over your mother. And Trevor’s sister? Really?”

“…Sisters,” Max murmurs, not meeting Rafe’s eye.

He cringes, face twisting in the exact same way his son’s had moments earlier. “Aren’t you dating Top’s daughter?”

“They’re Trevor’s sisters,” Max repeats. “Doesn’t count.”

Rafe stares at him. “And what’s the math on that? It doesn’t count? You serious?”

Max shrugs, then deflects. “Hey—remember who the enemy is here, alright? He was talkin’ about Mom.”

That earns a dry laugh. Rafe crosses his arms, leaning back against the wall, still giving Max a look like this conversation’s not over.

“I like that excuse better,” he breathes. “Y’all headin’ out?”

“Mhmm,” Max hums, already inching toward the door like he’s trying to disappear. “Just gonna grab some snacks.”

“Yacht Club?”

“Mhmm,” he confirms, eyes on the exit.

“Be safe,” Rafe says, a little quieter now.

Max mumbles something back as he pushes into the house, and the door shuts behind him with a soft thud.

Rafe doesn’t move. He just stands there for a second, staring at nothing, letting the quiet settle. He knows what he feels. Always has. He just doesn’t always want to name it.

He used to love the attention. The looks. The envy. Part of him still does. When you were younger, his friends couldn’t keep their eyes off you. Couldn’t help the comments, the sideways glances. And he loved it—loved knowing that no matter how many mouths whispered your name, it was his bed you came home to.

You were his. All his. Always. But this? This was different. Hearing that kind of shit from teenagers—his son’s idiot friends, their mouths full of his food, beers stolen from his fridge, spending long, lazy days on his boat—no. It didn’t feel flattering. It felt like a fucking insult.

The way they talked about you was like you were some option. Like if given half a chance, they’d step right into his role. As if they could touch you. As if they could handle a woman like you. His wife. It pissed him off. And he knew it shouldn’t—not like this.

It wasn’t new. It wasn’t shocking. But today? It got under his skin in a different way. Raw and hot and fucking personal.

He let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand through his hair. This is what happens when your wife is you. People want you. They always have.

He laughs under his breath—half at himself, half at the absurdity of it all—and reaches for the sponge and bucket again. He wasn’t gonna fight them. He didn’t need to. There were better ways to remind them where they stood.

They wanted to act grown? Act like they could love you, care for you, fuck you like a man? Fine. Let them watch. Let them see what a real man does.

Rafe lets the door swing shut behind him and strolls across the drive, relaxed, deliberate. His gaze lifts straight to the window above the sink—and there you are, stepping into frame like you were waiting for your cue.

Rafe squeezes the hose handle, blasting water against the side of the G-Wagon. He shifts a little closer, just enough to let the spray bounce back misting his skin, ricocheting off the glossy paint.

The sun is hot, but the water is cool against his skin. The soaked fabric clings to the muscles of his chest and abs. He tugs his shorts a little higher on his thighs, watching the droplets slide down his body.

Then he smiles again—cocky and quiet—as he pulls the oldest trick in the book: flipping his cap from front to back like he’s not thinking about it at all.

Next, his shirt. He peels it off slowly and casually and tosses it aside, revealing his tan, chiseled frame. The gold chain with your initial catches the light.

“Five… four… three…” Bang. The door claps shut. He chuckles to himself, smug, reading you like a favorite book. He doesn’t even have to look to know it’s you. But he does.

Rafe glances over his shoulder as he hears your bare feet brushing through the grass; sundress swaying in the summer breeze. And then he sees you, glass of lemonade in hand, eyes already locked on him like he’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted.

“Look at you,” he mutters, watching you float closer. You took the bait. You always do. And he lives for it.

He spots movement through the glass, Max’s friends still inside, lingering, pretending not to watch.

Rafe praises you as he always does, a breathy “mhmm” buzzing past your lips is the only thing passing before he’s kissing you deep, hot, and possessive—right there in the driveway, letting them see. Letting them know who you belong to. How good you fit in his arms. How easily he could take you wherever and whenever he wanted.

He pulls back just enough to breathe you in; Rafe brushing his lips across yours like he can’t stop touching you. His big hand drifts lower, sliding over the slight curve of your back before grabbing a handful of ass—firm, slow, and so intentional it makes your breath catch.

Heat rushes to your cheeks. You laugh quietly, barely holding it in. His shirt’s been tossed somewhere behind him, skin warm and bare against yours, that heavy gold chain glinting faintly against his chest.

The teenage boys barrel out of the house, faster than usual. Lugging the cooler through the grass as they look anywhere but at you.

“Where are you headed?” Rafe calls out, still holding your waist.

“Told you—yacht club,” Max grits, like a chore.

“Yacht club, huh?” Rafe echoes. “Sounds real productive. Why don’t y’all finish cleanin’ the car before you go burnin’ my gas?”

“Dad, seriously?” Max groans, letting the cooler drop to the grass with a thud.

“You’re about to torch another five hundred dollars of fuel,” Rafe says, grinning as he jams the sponge into one of the boys’ chests hard. “Don’t even get me started on yesterday. Three-fifty in food, six bottles of cheap-ass liquor—none of which I’d let past my lips or hers… It’s the least you can do.”

“Pretty sure that was all Winnie—”

“Spare me the bullshit,” Rafe drawls, his Southern accent soaked in judgment, cutting like his smirk.

“Since when are you washin’ cars anyway?” Max mutters, dunking a sponge into the soapy bucket. You try not to giggle but you can’t help it. Rafe’s flair for the dramatics is so visible in Max it’s like looking in a mirror.

Rafe laughs as well, already turning back to you. He reaches up, wiping a drop of water from your cheek with his thumb, pressing a kiss to your lips—gentler this time, like he’s taking back the moment before their arrival.

“Now what did you need, baby?” Rafe murmurs as the boys start scrubbing the truck. You glance up at him, feeling nothing but butterflies. Rafe bites his lip slightly, head tilted slightly, making your brain short-circuit. “Name it, princess,” he mumbles, thumb tracing slow, possessive circles on the small of your back.

“You.”

That one word has him grinning, dark and knowing. “You want me, huh?” He mutters, voice dropping an octave. “Alright. Do somethin’ for me.”

“Anything…”

“Go on back inside. Head to the guest room. Get on the bed, just like this. Don’t take a single thing off,” he adds. “I wanna take it off you. You think you can do that for me?”

“Yeah… yeah, baby,” you murmur, lifting up just enough to press your mouth to his.

He leans in, lips lingering like he’s already counting down the seconds. “Beautiful,” he mutters, voice low, that crooked grin spreading as his hand lands on your ass with a lazy smack. “I’ll be right behind you— ”

“Love you, Max! Have fun, boys. Be safe,” you call out, voice bright and sweet as you disappear toward the house.

The driveway shifts the second the door closes, all the sunshine snuffed out the second you’re gone. The boys go silent, scrubbing like their lives depend on it.

Rafe’s shadow stretches long across the driveway. He folds his arms over his broad chest as he surveys the group, his gaze unreadable—far colder than anger.

“Yacht club, huh?” He says, nodding toward the cooler. “Gonna load up the boat? Burn my gas, drink my liquor, make some memories? I hope y’all have fun,” Rafe adds, and if they didn’t know any better, they might think he means it.

“Thanks, Mr. Camer—”

“Maybe you’ll even get lucky,” Rafe cuts in, clean and easy. “Pick up a few country club girls: pearls, spray tans; the kind who won’t notice your hands shakin’ while you fumble with their bras.”

A nervous chuckle slips out, quickly catching Rafe’s glare, his lips curling into a fake smile.

“You’ve seen my wife, yeah?” He asks casually. “Beautiful. Fuckin’ stunning actually. Prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

He looks back at the house giving the boys a moment to breathe before shifting his sights to them again.

“I’ve been working since I was eighteen. Built this house. That boat. Everything you boys use like it’s yours.” He leans in slightly, voice tightening. “And even after all that—I don’t deserve her.”

That hits. You can see it land—all of them blinking like they’ve just been slapped across the face.

“So what makes you think you do?”

“We were just joking, Mr. Cameron. I swear—”

“That’s my wife,” Rafe snaps. The words hit like thunder in their chests. “Mine. Always has been. Always will be. And I don’t give a shit if you go home and jerk off thinkin’ about her—hell, that fantasy’s older than any of you.”

His smile returns, slow and razor-sharp. “But if you say another word—if you breathe another comment about something you’ll never fuckin’ touch…”

He steps forward, and they shrink; stepping toward Max is self-preservation. His eyes zero in on Trevor. The kid nods before Rafe says another word, like he’s praying it’s enough to stay alive. “I’ll make sure the only thing you’re sliding into is a fuckin’ ditch. We clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Trevor stammers.

Rafe claps a hand on his back hard. The slap echoed through the grounds, making the boy stumble forward with a wheezing gasp.

Then, just like that, Rafe turns and walks away. Calm and steady, like it didn’t happen. He passes Max on the way back to the house, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Love you, kid.”

“L-Love you too,” Max mutters, the lot of them holding their breath until he’s gone for good.

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴

You shift on the bed the second he walks in, soft and shy, biting your lip as your eyes meet his. His gaze darkens instantly, heat rolling off him like a wave.

“I know I changed…” You murmur, voice gentle as a pout tugs at your lips.

The robe’s already falling off your shoulders. Just hanging there. Lace underneath—barely visible, but that’s the point. One leg crossed, stockings tight on your thighs, garters showing just enough to make him stop breathing.

Rafe’s tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip as his eyes roam over you like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

He’s already hard, straining against the front of his swim trunks, jaw tight as his fists curl at his sides—like it’s taking everything in him not to rip that robe off you.

“Baby… Don’t apologize. Not when you look that fuckin’ good for me.”

Rafe steps closer, making your thighs part without thinking, giving him room, inviting him in. His hands slide up your legs—rough palms dragging higher—his thumbs hooking under the garter straps, snapping them against your skin.

“You bought this for me, didn’t you? Knew I’d lose my mind over this. Fuck, you know me too well…”

Your pussy clenches at the raw need in his tone. You toy with the satin belt at your waist, slowly teasingly letting the knot fall loose. The robe slips open completely as you lean back, arching your back, tits round in the pretty lingerie.

“Fuck... You don’t even realize what you do to me. The way you picked this out thinkin’ of me? Wantin’ me to see you like this?”

He kisses you, soft and slow, then starts to trail lower—his mouth brushing along your jaw, every touch unhurried, deliberate. His hand glides up your thigh and grips tight, spreading you open. His eyes are sharp, blue, and hungry—fixed on yours.

“Rafe…” You whine, already feeling your thoughts blur.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you for them,” he groans, hardly holding himself together. “Make sure they never look at you the same. Make sure they know it’s me in your head when you close your eyes. You know what they’ll never have?” He whispers, breath fanning across your lips.

“This. This soft little mouth. These legs wrapped around them. This sweet pussy drippin’ for them.” His voice drops even lower. “All mine.”

You blink up at him, a little crease forming between your brows like you’re trying to figure him out

He lets out this low breath, almost a laugh, but not really. “Fuck, you’re perfect… You don’t even see anyone else, do you?”

“Who, baby?” You whisper.

He scoffs, low and humorless as he tugs down his trunks, tossing them to the floor. “You should’ve heard what they were sayin’ about you.”

“Rafe…” You blink. “Is everything okay?”

Your words tip up into a gasp as he pushes you back suddenly, one knee sinking into the bed, his body climbing over yours. “Those boys,” he mumbles. “They want you.”

“Max’s friends?” You gasp as your face twists in disgust; eyes flicking toward the door.

Rafe grabs your cheeks, forcing your focus back to him. His fingers slip under the lace and he groans—low and guttural—when he feels how wet you are.

“Already soaked,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’ve been sittin’ here all sweet and innocent, like nothin’s goin’ on—when your pussy’s this fuckin’ desperate for me. Say you're mine… Who do you belong to?”

You whimper, breath hitching as he slips your panties to the side and drags two fingers through your slick slowly, savoring every second.

“Say it,” he demands, his forehead pressing to yours; hand working you open.

“You,” you whisper. “I belong to you—”

“That’s right… Mine to spoil. Mine to love. Mine to fuck.”

You go to touch him, but he grabs your wrists before you get the chance. Forces them up over your head, holding you there. His body presses into yours and when his hand slides down your thigh, it pulls a shiver straight out of you. “Uh-uh, angel. Not yet.”

His fingers curl just right, pressing into that spot that makes your hips jolt off the sheets. He keeps it slow, steady—watching your face with quiet adoration. He’s memorized every flutter of your lashes, every soft gasp that slips from your swollen lips. He knows what it takes… what you crave. And he knows you’re close.

“You’re gonna come for me, pretty,” he murmurs. “Just like this—”

You nod rapidly, falling apart not a moment later. “Fuck, Rafe,” you cry out, trembling as your pussy clenches around his fingers.

But he doesn’t stop. He keeps working you through it, fucking you with his fingers until you’re gasping into his mouth, thighs twitching, hips jerking away from the overstimulation. You reach for his wrist, gripping tight, trying to slow him down—but he groans against your lips, loving how little it takes for him to unravel you.

He catches the lace of your panties and rips them clean off, the tear sharp and sudden. The sound snaps through the room, and your legs twitch from the jolt.

Rafe pulls you off the bed, guiding you right where he wants you, not wasting a moment. “Hands on the glass,” he says, voice rough as he unhooks your bra with one practiced flick. His other hand clamps around your waist, steadying you.

You press your palms to the glass, cool beneath you. Your reflection stares back: hair a mess, lips wet, chest rising fast—tits bare as you beg for more, fighting to keep your eyes open already as they flutter shut.

“Eyes on me,” Rafe whispers roughly, his chest pressed to your back now; hips flush against your ass.

He pushes into you slowly, giving you every delicious inch, your greedy pussy pulling him in. “Shit, baby… You’re tight.” Rafe grinds in deeper, hand splayed across your stomach as he holds you there, impaled on his thick cock. “This,” he pants, dragging back and slamming in again. “This is my pussy. My house. My fuckin’ wife.”

Rafe sets a brutal rhythm, hips snapping against your ass with each thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, lewd and filthy. He spanks your ass, hard enough to make you jolt forward into the glass.

“Let ‘em hear it,” he growls. “Let those little bastards outside hear what I do to you.”

Your body trembles with every ruthless thrust; the mirror rattles under your grip, the sharp slaps of skin echoing round the room.

“Gonna cum for me, baby?” Rafe grits out, voice rough and hoarse.

“I’m gonna cum,” you gasp, voice breaking as the knot in your belly coils tight, ready to snap.

“Yeah?” He growls, dragging you closer, rough hands holding you right where he wants you. “Then fuckin’ give it to me.”

One arm binds around your waist while the other slips down, fingers working your clit in rough, relentless circles that make your legs shake. “Show me what I do to you.”

Your mouth drops open in a silent scream as your body jerks—cunt clamping down around him. You peel your eyes open, desperate to see him. And there he is in the mirror behind you: jaw tight, lip caught between his teeth as his hips slam into you again and again.

“Good girl,” he snarls, not letting up for a second. “You ain’t done yet.”

Rafe yanks you upright, chest to back, one big hand wrapping gently around your throat, thumb stroking just under your jaw as he fucks you deep and hard—so deep it’s almost too much.

You break with a choked sob, another orgasm tearing through you so hard your vision blurs. You go limp in his arms, legs shaking, body spent. He doesn’t let go. Just grunts out a rough “Fuck, baby,” right against your neck as his hips pump forward. One last thrust and he’s coming, cock throbbing inside you, breath hot on your skin.

You feel every pulse of it, thick and messy, spilling deep as he holds you there, buried and shaking, not ready to move.

Rafe nuzzles into your cheek, soft kisses dusting your jaw as your breath comes out in shattered little gasps. He listens to every sound. “You still with me, baby?” He murmurs, peeking over your shoulder with a teasing smirk.

“Barely,” you whisper, still catching your breath as you slump into his chest.

He lets out a soft laugh, mouth skimming the edge of your lips. “That smile,” he mutters, voice thick. “Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

You let your eyes fall shut, head resting against him.

He slips out of you slow, gentle to the last second, then gathers you up without a word. Carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing, sets you down easy, and smooths your hair from your face with the back of his hand. Just stands there for a beat, staring like he can’t believe you’re real.

“Rafe…” you breathe, voice soft and pathetic, so sweet it nearly breaks him. He smiles, crawling between your thighs. “You gonna tell me you can’t take another?” He whispers, hands sliding under your knees, pushing your thighs open wide. “Yes, you can… You always do.”

Rafe kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other, mouth warm against your sex. His stubble drags across your skin, rough enough to make your lip tremble.

Your hands shoot to his hair the second he dives between your thighs. His tongue works you over, lips locking around your clit as he sucks hard. You cry out, fingers gripping his hair, and he groans into you, the sound vibrating so deep it makes your legs shake.

Rafe’s fingers slide inside without warning, drilling his cum back into you until your back bows and your eyes blur with tears.

You sob, thighs quivering as your heels dig into the mattress, your body barely able to take it anymore; your brain not able to think of a single coherent thought.

“Give it to me. Let ‘em know who owns this fuckin’ bed, aight. You and me… You. And. Me.” A scream rips from your throat, so cock-drunk you cum without warning, soaking his hand, his face, the sheets beneath you, everything drenched in the proof of your pleasure.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” Rafe sighs in relief, licking and kissing through the mess, savoring every drop. He slaps your pussy once, firm and wet, just to hear the sound of it. “Atta baby. That’s what I fuckin’ needed… So damn good to me.”

He drags his mouth up your body. Every touch lingers, every breath shared. He settles over you, wrapping you up in him.

You reach for his face, thumb stroking along his slick jaw. He leans into your touch, his mouth just a breath from yours.

“I love you,” you murmur, voice barely there.

Rafe’s leans in, resting his forehead against yours. A quiet smile breaks across his face.

“I love you more, sweetheart,” he says, low and steady. “Always have. Always will.”

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴ the next morning

“I warned you,” Max mutters.

Tripp doesn’t reply—just stares into the void like something sacred was taken from him last night. Trevor’s slumped next to him, hoodie up, eyes hollow, chewing his thumbnail.

“Warned us?” Tripp breathes, voice shot. “About the wet bed? The screaming? The headboard hitting the wall like a metronome set to ‘destroy pussy’ all night long?”

Knock. Knock. Knock. Bauer adds, thumping his fist against the kitchen table. “All damn night.”

Max shrugs, calm as ever. “I told you not to talk about my mom.”

“…She was crying about it,” Bauer mutters. “Crying about dick—”

“Enough,” Max snaps.

Tripp rubs both hands over his face. “I’ve got PTSD. Did you sleep?”

“You think I slept?” Trevor huffs.

“You could’ve knocked,” Max says casually, sipping his orange juice.

All heads turn to him fast. “Knocked?” They spat in unison.

Max shrugs again, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. “Could’ve asked to crash in my room. I slept great.”

You walk in like it’s any other morning—light on your feet, humming under your breath, dressed in a tiny pajama set that has no business existing in a house full of teenage boys. Your tank’s stretched snug across your chest, love bites just barely visible where your robe slips open at the collar.

You pull the cinnamon rolls out, set them on the counter, steam rising fast. Without thinking, you grab the icing, swipe some with your finger, and lick it clean. You smile, small and sleepy, still feeling kind of floaty from the night before.

And for the first time in god knows how long they sat there in silence.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Tripp whispers as heavy footsteps echo down the hall.

And then—Rafe.

No shirt, just his signature gold chain catching the light as it rested against his chest. His skin was tanned, muscles cut sharp, and those sweats hung low on his hips like he’d just rolled out of bed—or hadn’t bothered to pull them up all the way.

“Mornin’, baby,” He murmurs, already reaching for your waist.

“Good morning,” you hum, letting him pull you into him—cinnamon roll tray still in your hands—as he kisses your skin; fingers curling around the handle of the fresh cup of coffee you poured him, steam rolling over the rim of the handmade Daddy mug from a Father’s Day past.

“For me?” He asks softly, like the entire house isn’t holding its breath.

You giggle, warm and syrupy. “Made your favorite.”

“Already had my favorite last night.” It’s a whisper meant just for you, but every boy hears it.

Rafe grabs a roll, swipes his thumb through the icing, and licks it clean like he’s still tasting you. He sips his coffee slowly, his focus unwavering.

“Breakfast on the porch, baby?”

“Yeah,” you smile like he asked you on a date.

Then finally, with one last glance at his house, his wife, and the group of broken boys who will never forget last night, he mumbles, smug as ever…

“Ya’ll have a great day. ”

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loonysbarn · 11 days ago

Note

can I put in a request for Rhett Abbott x Reader? They’re in his truck since they were “star gazing”but a hot steamy make out ends up with reader riding him and before he finishes, reader goes down on him.

DEAD OF NIGHT ╱ RHETT ABBOTT X FEM!READER

"you wake me up, you say it's time to ride in the dead of night"

+18 MINORS DNI 𓏲 ◟ ♡ ˖ ࣪ no use of y/n, fluff, explicit sexual content, unprotected p in v, oral sex (m!receving), best friend!rhett, dirty talk, explicit language, praise kink, grinding, save a horse ride a cowboy!!!! mention of unrequited feelings, mutual pinning, sexual tension, friends to lovers trope, stargazing under the wyoming sky with rhett!! <3

SUMMARY: you didn't really plan on spending tonight anywhere but in bed, binge-watching true crime and savoring wine. but when your best friend rhett abbott texts you at 1 am asking you to come outside, your comfortable night in turns into a starry, intimate confession beneath the wyoming sky. the lines of friendship blur deliciously into something deeper and hotter—under constellations and blankets on rhett's truck. and he finally shows you exactly how long he's been waiting to make you his.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: aaaaahhhh!!! thank you soooo much for requesting rhett!! this is my first ever fic for him and i'm so excited to write more outer range stuff!! ughhh i love rhett so fucking much you have no idea!! i'm already through season 2 and oh my god?? it's soooo good!!!! literally obsessed with rhett and cowboys. head over heels for my favorite bull rider!! he just does things to me gahhhhh stargazing, confessions under the night sky, and riding rhett?? sign me tfff up!!! thank you for this ask, i loved the idea so much<3 i hope you like it! love, your friendly neighborhood cowboy-lover, bri.

You weren't really planning on doing anything tonight. Your warm bed awaited patiently, the cold sheets a welcoming embrace, while an unopened bottle of red Sauvignon shimmered in the silver glow of the moonlight streaming through your window. Netflix was paused on your TV—a true crime documentary glowing softly on the screen—waiting patiently to wash away the week's stress.

Your phone buzzed, jolting you from your cozy haze. You groaned softly—who the hell was texting at nearly one in the morning?

Rhett🤠💛: You awake, sweetheart?

You bit your lip, smiling softly. Your heart fluttered involuntarily at the sight of his name on your screen. Of course, Rhett Abbott would be the culprit. Always Rhett, your best friend since forever, your ride-or-die cowboy with that infuriatingly cocky grin and sky-blue eyes that always made your breath catch in your chest.

You: depends on what awake means

He responded immediately, almost as if he'd been waiting for your answer.

Rhett🤠💛: Eyes open, heartbeat steady. You missin’ me?

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warm.

You: you wish, cowboy

Rhett🤠💛: I sure do. Come to your window.

Frowning curiously, your phone buzzed again—his picture lighting up the screen. You sighed, unable to hide your amusement as you swiped to answer.

"You're ridiculous," you murmured into the phone, padding across the floor and pulling back the curtains.

There he stood, propped against his trusty old truck, cowboy hat tilted just right, his smirk lazy and infuriatingly charming beneath the porch lights. He lifted his head to meet your gaze, and even at a distance, you could see his eyes shimmer mischievously.

“It’s almost one in the morning, Rhett. What the hell are you doing here?” you whispered into the phone, but he could hear the smile in your voice.

He chuckled warmly. “C’mon down, sweetheart. Don’t keep me waitin’. Got somethin' to show ya.”

“Fine, give me a minute.”

“Take your time, darlin’. Not like I'm freezin' my ass off or anything.”

“It’s barely cold, drama queen,” you scoffed, and he laughed lightly, a sound that melted into your bones.

You ended the call, grinning to yourself, excitement making your heart skip as you quickly shed your oversized shirt and slipped into a delicate white sundress, stepping into your worn, beloved cowboy boots.

You ran down, finding him exactly where you'd left him, the same stupidly charming smirk stretched across his face.

"Howdy, darlin'," he drawled, eyes flickering appreciatively over you.

“You’re obnoxious,” you teased, nudging his shoulder lightly.

“Ah,” Rhett countered easily, swinging open his passenger door for you, eyes glittering warmly beneath his hat. “But you love it.”

You hesitated dramatically. “You sure you’re not kidnapping me?”

Rhett grinned, eyes darkening playfully beneath his hat. “Kidnappin’? Well shit, sweetheart, sounds terribly hot.”

You scoffed, climbing up into the truck. "You're disgusting."

“Only for you,” he drawled, sliding into the driver's seat and firing up the engine.

As he drove, you stole glances his way. Rhett Abbott—playboy, flirt, and the keeper of your deepest secrets. He knew your favorite songs, your go-to midnight snacks, how you liked your coffee, and the names of every one of your childhood pets. He’d been there for your best and worst days, steadfast and irritatingly observant, noticing things about you no one else bothered to. Like how your brow furrowed when you were stressed, or the particular kind of silence you kept when something upset you. He noticed every detail. Every quiet shift.

God, you loved him.

You'd loved him—helplessly, recklessly, and quietly.

You’d loved Rhett Abbott for longer than you could remember, every stolen glance embedding deeper in your heart, every casual brush of his hand against your skin lingering long after he pulled away. Your love had become a secret you cradled close, hidden safely in shadows and subtle sighs, nestled in sleepless nights spent dreaming of what could be, wrapped in every heartbeat that stuttered at the mere sound of his laughter.

But confessing? Fuck no.

The thought alone terrified you. It was easy to joke with him, easy to laugh at his teasing comments and playful flirtations because that was Rhett. Cocky, charming, effortlessly alluring, the guy who could walk into any room and draw every eye. He had always been your best friend, your constant, your confidant. But turning this steady, beloved friendship into something else—something uncertain and dangerously delicate—felt far too risky.

And then there was Maria Olivares.

A shadow from high school, Rhett’s supposed ‘great love.’ You’d spent years watching him chase after her, hearing him speak her name like it was poetry he memorized. Though lately, you noticed he barely mentioned her anymore. Still, the echo of her presence lingered—a reminder that maybe you were just a placeholder, someone to distract him when the memories became too sharp. Maybe his lingering glances and softened touches were simply illusions your foolish heart conjured because you wanted them so badly to be real.

How could you risk it?

Because risking your heart felt like risking everything else too—every late-night phone call, every comfortable silence, every inside joke whispered conspiratorially between you two. Your friendship with Rhett Abbott was your safe place, a precious shelter built over countless nights spent laughing until dawn, confiding secrets no one else knew, sharing fears, hopes, dreams you trusted only to each other.

It was safer to keep quiet, safer to keep smiling and teasing, safer to pretend you didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered on you longer lately, the way his voice softened whenever he murmured "sweetheart," the way your heart skipped wildly, frantically, beneath his attentive gaze.

Because losing Rhett—even the smallest chance of it—would shatter your heart completely, leaving you lost and adrift without the boy you’d always loved quietly, desperately, hopelessly from the shadows.

So, you buried your secret deeper still, hiding it behind careful laughter and practiced smiles, behind sarcastic retorts and playful banter, hoping it would remain safely hidden—hoping, selfishly, that someday it might finally, mercifully slip free.

But until then, you'd guard it fiercely, keeping the love you felt safely, silently yours.

It was safer this way, even if it hurt.

And god, did it hurt.

“You’re definitely kidnapping me,” you teased lightly, noticing he was heading toward his ranch’s secluded pastures.

“Maybe,” he replied playfully, eyes gleaming beneath the moonlight. “Maybe I’m gonna murder you and hide your pretty little body somewhere out in these woods.”

“So romantic,” you deadpanned sarcastically.

He snorted softly, shaking his head. "Shut up, dumbass."

Beside you, Rhett’s heart beat quickly, his thoughts tangled and aching. He glanced at you—his best friend, his sweet torment. You were everything to him: your laughter, your teasing words, your stubborn kindness. He knew every hidden freckle, every quiet sigh, every favorite snack. He’d spent years drowning himself in meaningless distractions, Maria a distant memory that had long faded beneath your gentle presence.

He loved you desperately, fiercely, terrified that admitting it would send you running from him. Because if he lost you—he’d lose everything.

When Rhett parked in the open field, he hopped down smoothly, rounding to your side. Before you could protest, his strong hands gripped your waist, easily lifting you from the seat. You squealed in protest, and he laughed warmly, setting you down gently by the tailgate. Opening it, he revealed blankets and pillows piled invitingly.

You raised an eyebrow playfully. “If you wanted sex, Abbott, you could’ve just asked.”

Rhett leaned in close, breath warm against your ear. “Sweetheart, trust me—if I wanted that tonight, you'd already know.”

Your cheeks flushed hot as he chuckled, delighting in your reaction. His grip softened, gentle once more, easing you up to sit atop the truck bed.

“I remember you told me once—probably drunk off your ass—that you loved stargazin’,” Rhett said softly, almost shyly, glancing upward. “Thought you might like this.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He remembered. Always so perceptive, attentive to every quiet detail you'd shared, every fleeting whisper you'd half-forgotten yourself. Rhett Abbott somehow catalogued every secret part of your soul.

"Are you serious?" Your voice was breathless, touched.

"Dead serious," he confirmed softly, hopping onto the truck bed beside you, reclining back and patting his chest invitingly. "C'mere."

After a shy hesitation, you sank against him, head gently nestled over his steady heartbeat. The sky stretched out overhead, an ocean of glittering starlight, infinite, and breathtakingly beautiful.

Rhett pointed lazily upward. "Alright, stargirl. Which one’s that?"

“Orion,” you smiled.

He hummed approval, voice teasing. "Alright, what about that one over there?"

"Cassiopeia."

He chuckled warmly. “You’re real good at this.”

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed softly.

“Yeah,” Rhett murmured, voice softer. “So damn beautiful.”

Your gaze shifted, heart thumping, realizing he wasn’t looking at the sky—he was looking at you.

His fingers brushed tenderly along your cheek, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear. His thumb traced your lower lip lightly, and he whispered huskily, eyes searching yours, “You're beautiful.”

“Rhett,” you murmured breathlessly.

In the breathless heartbeat that followed, he surged forward, cradling your face in his strong, calloused hands, claiming your mouth in a fierce yet tender kiss. Your world spun wildly as you melted instantly into his embrace, lips moving hungrily, passionately against his own.

He groaned low into your mouth, desperation and relief laced in the sound. “God, sweetheart,” he murmured feverishly between kisses, “wanted this—wanted you for so fucking long.”

His tongue traced hotly along your lower lip, teasing entrance until your mouth parted eagerly beneath him, allowing him in, tasting and teasing until you moaned breathlessly.

“You drive me crazy, darlin’,” he growled softly, gripping the back of your neck possessively, deepening the kiss until it felt like he was stealing the breath straight from your lungs. “Think about you all the goddamn time.”

“Rhett—” you whispered, clutching at his shoulders, fingertips sinking into muscle, holding him desperately close. “Me too—god, please…”

At your whispered confession, something snapped in Rhett, and his kisses turned frantic, heated, teeth tugging lightly at your lip, dragging delicious moans from your throat. His hands roamed possessively, slipping beneath your dress, tracing urgently over the curve of your thighs, your hips, grasping firmly to anchor you closer.

“C'mere, baby,” he rasped, voice rough with need as he pulled you onto his lap. You gasped sharply, thighs parting instinctively, knees bracketing his waist. Your dress rucked up high, pooling carelessly around your hips as his hands gripped and kneaded your bare thighs, pulling you tight against him.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart—” he groaned, head falling back slightly as you ground experimentally against the rigid, straining bulge of his jeans. “Just like that, baby—god, you feel so fucking good.”

Your hands tangled into his soft hair, tugging lightly to tilt his head back, exposing his throat for your lips to explore hungrily. Rhett shuddered beneath you, growling deeply in his chest, fingers gripping tighter, pulling you closer, hips thrusting upwards desperately, chasing friction.

“So good,” he whispered fervently into your skin, teeth scraping tenderly at your collarbone. “So fucking perfect, baby—wanted to touch you like this for so damn long.”

You whimpered softly, rolling your hips faster, grinding harder against his hardness. He hissed sharply, fingers bruising into your hips, guiding your frantic movements, desperate to feel you closer, deeper.

“Need you, Rhett,” you pleaded softly, breath ragged and trembling.

He surged upright, pressing you flush against him, kissing you deeply, fiercely, as his fingers swiftly undid his jeans. “You’ve got me, sweetheart. Always.”

When you finally sank onto him, stretching deliciously around him, he groaned loudly—unrestrained, wild with pleasure. “Fuck—sweetheart,” he gasped, voice strained with raw pleasure. “Look how good you take me, darlin’—goddamn—so tight, so fucking perfect.”

You moaned his name, tossing your head back, riding him slow and deep beneath the watchful eyes of the stars. He leaned back against the truck bed, eyes glued hungrily to your flushed face, awed by every gasp and whimper falling from your parted lips.

“You look like a goddamn dream riding me like that,” he praised roughly, hands gripping your waist, guiding you up and down, matching each roll of your hips. “Fuck—just like that, beautiful. God, yes.”

Your nails dragged lightly down his chest, back arching beautifully beneath his heated gaze. Pleasure coiled tight within you, spiraling, pushing you to the edge until your rhythm faltered, breath catching sharply.

“Rhett—fuck—I’m gonna—” you gasped desperately, riding him faster, harder, chasing release.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he urged roughly, his thumb brushing firmly over your sensitive clit. “Let go—I wanna feel you come undone.”

His words sent you spiraling, shattering instantly around him. “Oh fuck, Rhett—” you cried out loudly, moaning shamelessly, trembling as pleasure consumed you, shaking wildly around him.

“Good girl,” he groaned, voice thick and hoarse with adoration. “So perfect, sweetheart—fuck, you feel so good.”

Before he could tip over the edge himself, you slid off his lap with a wicked smirk, sinking down onto your knees between his spread thighs.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, eyes darkening hungrily as your mouth enveloped him completely, hot and wet and perfect. “Oh fuck—baby, yes—”

He trembled beneath your touch, hips bucking involuntarily as your tongue swirled and teased. “God, your mouth—fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart—gonna make me come.”

You hummed softly, the vibration sending him spiraling, fingers gripping your hair desperately, gently guiding your head, hips thrusting shallowly, lost in your wet, warm mouth.

“Fuck—I’m—” Rhett gasped raggedly, head thrown back, stars dancing behind his eyes as he came undone, spilling hotly into your mouth. You swallowed obediently, savoring him, your eyes locked wickedly onto his flushed face.

“Come here,” he rasped breathlessly, pulling you urgently back up, crashing his mouth onto yours fiercely. He groaned against your lips, tasting himself, tasting you, the intoxicating blend making him dizzy.

“Goddamn, you taste good, baby,” he murmured breathlessly, forehead pressed tenderly against yours, fingers still threaded possessively into your hair. “I love you, sweetheart—I’ve always fucking loved you.”

Your heart skipped violently at his whispered confession. “You do?”

Rhett laughed softly, tenderly, kissing you again, softer this time, almost reverently. “More than I know what to do with.”

You smiled shyly, your fingertips tracing gentle circles over his chest. “I love you, Rhett. Always have.”

He exhaled, relief flooding his eyes, expression growing boyishly sweet. “Thank fuck for that.”

You laughed quietly, settling comfortably against him, nestled safely in his arms. “Mmm,” you teased lightly, drawing lazy patterns on his chest. “I could get used to this.”

His grin turned mischievous, cocky smirk returning as he pressed a teasing kiss against your forehead. “Oh, you definitely will. I ain’t lettin’ you outta my sight now, darlin’. Especially now that I know what your pretty mouth can do.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, giggling softly. “You’re impossible, Rhett Abbott.”

He chuckled deeply, wrapping his arms around you possessively, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Oh, but you love it.”

You tilted your head, gazing up into his beautiful blue eyes, heart swelling with affection, softness overwhelming you beneath the starlit sky.

“Yes,” you whispered quietly, truth heavy yet freeing on your lips, “I do.”

Beneath the vast Wyoming stars, Rhett held you tighter, knowing for certain now that everything he'd ever needed—everything he could ever want—was right there, safe in his arms.

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loonysbarn · 12 days ago

Note

shelby my darling! i’m so happy for you, congratulations! i would love a little somethin’ somethin’ with our beloved old man, dilf rhett, and this prompt from the age gap list: ❛ look at how well you take me. even though it's been so long. ❜ 🩵

fast times - dilf!rhett abbott x babysitter reader

18+ only. mdni. warning for slightly problematic age gap (15 years). face fucking. dirty talk. rhett is a dirty old man.

you nearly cried from relief as you hit ‘submit assignment’ on your last paper. ever. you were nearly a college graduate. four years of busting your ass, finally coming to an end. and for once, you were excited to go back home.

your school was far away, nearly seven hours from your family and friends. and it sucked. the last time you were home was christmas. the last time you saw rhett was new years.

the last time you felt his touch. his arms around you. his kisses.

long distance worked for you both but it was still difficult. you can only do so many facetime dates and phone sex before you start feeling a ping of longing and loneliness.

it was still a secret to your family. with rhett’s age and him being close with your father, you weren’t ready to give him up. or your family up. so it was just you and him. and his girls of course. they adored you. you watched them every summer you were home. grace begged you for show jumping lessons and ellie demanded on you showing her makeup tutorials. it was sweet.

the evening went on as you packed the last of your things into boxes and ate your processed mac and cheese for dinner. kraft should get an award for how much it helped you through the last four years.

you hadn’t heard from rhett all day, which was to be expected. calving season was in full swing and he was busy on his ranch wrangling ranch hands and two wild daughters. but still, you missed him.

the last bite of the pasta was making its way into your mouth when you heard a knock on your apartment door. slowly chewing the food, you set your bowl down on your oak coffee table and looked out the peep hole, nearly busting your face with the door as you threw it open and threw yourself into the arms of the man standing on the other side of it.

“hey, baby,” rhett’s marlboro laced voice rumbled into your hair, strong arms wrapping around your frame. “surprise.”

“what are you doing here?!” you squealed, not pulling back to allow any space between your bodies as he backed you through the open door, kicking it shut with his boot.

“figured i lend a hand and help you move back home. being a good friend of your dad’s and all,” he said, a lazy smirk on his lips. god, he looked delicious. his face had a pink shade to it, barely visible white lines from where his sunglasses typically rest across the bridge of his nose. the gray hairs that grew from his temples were nearly bleached white from the sun. the smattering of freckles on his cheeks. you wanted to fall to your knees.

and you did.

you pushed him back the few steps it took for him to be flush with the front door and fumbled with his obnoxious belt buckle, desperation clouding your last thought.

“needy little girl,” he murmured as his hands joined your own to pull his jeans down enough to expose his hardening cock. a small whimper escaped you as you wrapped your hand around the length through his boxers, his length growing beneath you with each stroke. “g’on. i know you want a taste.”

your mouth attached to his already leaking tip barely a second after his boxers were pulled down to his muscular thighs. his head slammed against the door as you suckled on the pink flesh, kitten licks to the slit. you missed teasing him like this. missed his taste. all musk and all rhett. you craved it.

it took several minutes of coaxing your throat to open for him but when he hit the back of your throat and your nose was nuzzled into the hair at the base of him, he moaned your name so loud you were sure your remaining neighbors heard.

“fuck, babygirl. just like that. missed that hot mouth. look at you,” his hand held the back of your head as you bobbed up and down on the length. you knew what he wanted and there was no denying you wanted it as well. your hand met his on your head and you pushed on a downstroke. that’s the only hint he needed.

his hands cradled both sides of your face as he started to slowly thrust his hips, causing you to gag slightly at the pressure.

“you know what to do if it’s too much. one tap for a break, two taps to stop.”

you just nodded, a trail of drool escaping the corners of your mouth. rhett’s eyes darkened and he entered another world. his hips began to piston against your face, cock going deep into your throat. he was all grunts and moans through gritted teeth as he used you for his pleasure.

“look at how well you take me. even though it's been so long. so fucking good for me. always good for me. best thing i’ve ever had,” rhett rambled, signaling he was close to his peak. it hit you both a bit unexpectedly. his warm release coated your throat and his hips stopped as your face was pressed against his soft stomach.

“fucking christ,” he heaved as you slowly pulled off the softening length. “never had a welcome like that before.”

rhett helped you up from the floor, noticing the wince that spread across your face from kneeling on the cold wooden floor.

“my turn.”

and you let out another squeal as he landed a heavy hand on your ass and nearly dragged you to your bedroom. all you can think is thank god the bed was still put together. and thank god you didn’t have to wait another second to be with your man.

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loonysbarn · 12 days ago

Text

Something Like Salvation

Owen Taylor x Reader

Summary: You visit home reluctantly, only to find Owen Taylor has returned. But some things are different now. No longer are you the obedient girl nor is Owen Taylor the pious golden boy. In quiet corners and long drives, you chase something warm and reckless. It may not be redemption... but for Owen, you felt something like salvation.

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, religious guilt & themes, explicit sexual content, nsfw, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, semi-public sex, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, mild praise kink, foreplay

Author's Note: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SMUT. Please note that this is set in a universe the Jem Starling DOES NOT exist. Owen is also NOT married here. Although I set this to be in a 2nd Person POV, my entire intention is to establish that Y/N is a full-grown adult.

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Chapter 3: The Flesh is Willing

You didn’t go back to the store for the next few days.

Not that it helped. The whole town felt smaller now, tighter, like it was closing in around the things you and Owen weren’t saying out loud. The walls of your childhood bedroom were too thin. The air is too heavy. And even the sky seemed like it was waiting for something to snap.

And then, the silence. Not dramatic. Not announced. Just a shift with texts tapering off until there was nothing. Not even a good morning. Not a goodnight. Just blank space where something electric used to live.

You checked your phone too often, left it on the bed beside you like it might buzz if you looked away. But he didn’t text, and neither did you.

You told yourself it was fine. Insisted that some distance would cool things down. Convinced that maybe it was better to let it fade.

But the quiet was deafening and it clawed at your ribs.

Across town, Owen stared at the same message thread in the last week. His thumb hovering over the message space, then pulling away. Repeatedly. Incessantly.

He had typed out at least five drafts and deleted every single one. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to say something, but because everything he wanted to say felt dangerous.

He wanted to ask if your lips still ached like his did. If you still felt his hands. If you were imagining the same things he was at night, just lying in bed remembering the sound you made when you rocked against him. But he said nothing.

And your reciprocal silence felt like permission to stop trying.

Some part of you always knew it couldn’t stay in the shadows forever. You were proven right soon enough.

The first rumor came from your aunt.

“She said she saw her behind the store,” she whispered to your mother in the kitchen. “With the pastor’s boy pressed close. Didn’t look very holy, if you know what I mean.”

You were halfway down the stairs when you heard it. You froze. Just for a second.

Your mom didn’t say anything. Not right away. Then: “She’s not seventeen anymore.”

It was quiet but nevertheless, cut deep. It made you back up the stairs.

You didn’t go out the next day, or the one after that.

You considered packing and just leaving. You wanted to get in your car and drive until the signal faded and the town was nothing but a story you didn’t tell anyone.

You didn’t want to face your mother, or the stares at the store, or the weight of this feeling. You were reminded why you wanted out of here in the first place.

You sat on your bed, a half-zipped suitcase at your feet, your fingers twisting in your bedsheet.

“Do you have to leave?” your sister asked from the doorway.

You looked up. “I need my peace back.”

She only nods, understanding. The guilt of leaving her behind again weighs on you.

The silence this time felt heavier. Like both of you were holding your breath. Like you were waiting to see if the weight of it would collapse whatever this thing was between you.

But the damage had already begun.

Owen sat in the church office, hands steepled in front of his mouth. The leather chair was too stiff beneath him and the cross on the wall was watching like a witness.

The elder, Pastor Gilmore, leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. The other elders sitting beside him, deliberating how to bestow judgement on him.

“There’s concern,” Gilmore starts.

Another elder cleared his throat. “A few people have noticed you spending time with… someone. A former member.”

Owen didn’t move. “I don’t understand. And I haven’t—”

“She’s a non-believer,” Gilmore cut in. “It’s about perception. You’re a leader. You don’t get the same margin for personal mistakes.”

“There’s no mistake.”

That silence afterward was thunderous.

Gilmore’s mouth tightened. “We’re not here to shame you, Owen. But there are expectations. Boundaries.”

Another elder added, “We’d like you to take some time away from public roles. Focus inward. Pray.”

Owen nodded slowly, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “Of course.”

No one said your name, but they didn’t have to.

They called it “perception.” They called it “confusion.”

Owen called it what it was: punishment for wanting something they deemed holy.

He kept his face neutral, gaze lowered. He said all the right things. Promised discretion. Boundaries. Reflection. But his hands shook under the table. His pulse didn’t slow until long after they left the room.

He stared at the cross on the wall for a long time, then he reached for his phone.

Still no message from you.

But he typed one anyway.

OWEN TAYLOR: Tell me to stay away. And I will.

It sat there. Sent. Read. No reply.

Owen stared at the screen, thumb hovering.

He typed again:

OWEN TAYLOR: Or tell me you want this too.

You didn’t reply. You wanted to.

You almost did. You typed it out three different ways.

“I do.”

“I can’t.”

“Come get me.”

But you sent nothing.

The next morning, your mom said nothing about the rumors and neither did your sister. But the silence at breakfast was thick, eggs scraping on ceramic, the clink of cutlery sharp.

You cleared your plate and left before you could say something stupid.

Suddenly, Owen was there again.

You were walking the long loop around the trail behind the church, the one you used to take just to get out of the house, just to think. The gravel crunched beneath your sneakers, birds loud in the trees. You were wearing headphones, trying to lose yourself in something else when a shadow broke your focus.

There he was. Like a mirage. Leaning against the split-rail fence near the bend in the path. Hat on, head bowed.

He looked up when you stopped.

Neither of you said anything at first.

Then: “Was hoping to see you here.”

You pulled your earbuds out. “Were you?”

He glanced away. “I didn’t come to ambush you.”

“I know.”

A beat.

“You got my message,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “I did.”

“And?”

You took a slow breath. “I don’t want to lie to you. But I also don’t know what saying yes would mean.”

His brow creased. “It means I’m in this with you. If you want me.”

You took the time to look at him, noticing details you normally wouldn’t. His eyes were tired. His jaw tense. His hands buried in the pocket of his hoodie like he didn’t trust what they’d do if he let them out.

You sigh. “I don’t want to be your downfall, Owen.”

He shook his head. “You’re not. You’re the only thing that’s made me feel honest in years.”

His words hit harder than they should have.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he added. “And not just the… the physical stuff.”

You raised a brow.

He almost smiled. “Okay. Also the physical stuff. A lot.”

That broke the tension.

You laughed, despite yourself. He finally takes a few steps closer.

“I’m not asking for forever,” he said. “I’m just asking for right now.”

You looked up at him. Your breath is caught somewhere between fear and want.

And then you closed the space.

This time, you kissed him first. It started soft. Careful. Familiar in a way that made your knees ache.

But it didn’t stay that way.

He slowly backed you up against the fence post, one hand cupping your face, the other sliding around your waist like he was grounding himself there. His lips parted against yours, tongue meeting yours.

And you melted. You made a sound — soft, needy — and that was all it took.

Owen groaned into your mouth and pressed in tighter, your hips aligned with his. His hands wandered lower, one gripping your thigh, the other sliding under your sweatshirt, fingers dragging along the bare skin at your back.

“We shouldn’t do this here,” you whispered breathlessly between kisses.

“I know,” he murmured, kissing down your jaw. “But I don’t care.”

His car was parked at the edge of the trail, windows tinted, hidden from the main road. You climbed into the back seat like you both had done it before, like your bodies were already used to folding around each other.

The door had barely shut before his hands were on you again, this time hungry and desperate..

Clothes didn’t come off all the way. Just enough. His flannel shirt shoved back. Your sweatshirt lifted. His fingers found your skin with a reverence that made your breath hitch.

You straddled him, knees digging into the upholstery, dress bunched high around your hips. His hand slipped beneath your underwear, fingers dipping through the heat of you.

“I want you.” he muttered, lips brushing your neck. “So bad.”

You gasped when he slid two fingers inside you, his thumb pressing up against your clit.

“Owen—” you breathed, forehead dropping to his shoulder. “Fuck.”

The sound of your voice saying that word made him groan. You felt him twitch under you.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he rasped, kissing your collarbone. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

You rocked into his hand. “Then don’t stop.”

Your hand found his jeans, working the zipper down, your palm brushing the length of him. He sucked in a sharp breath when you wrapped your hand around him, stroking slow, firm.

He tugged your underwear to the side and lined himself up, waiting.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice rough and frayed.

“Please,” you whispered.

He pushed into you in one slow thrust, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked on your face.

You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “Oh my God.”

“You feel—God,” he choked. “You feel perfect.”

You rocked your hips, the friction unbearable in the best way. His hands grabbed your ass, guiding you, grounding you. Your name tumbled from his lips again and again.

“You drive me crazy,” he muttered. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You leaned in, kissed him hard. “Show me.”

He did. The rhythm he built was fast, along with the urgency and the sweat. You came first, clenching around him with a strangled moan, hips jerking as you buried your face in his neck.

“Come inside. I’m on the pill.” You assured him

His mouth dropped open from the assurance. He followed moments later, groaning into your mouth, hand fisting in your sweatshirt as he spilled into you.

You collapsed against him, both of you trembling, breathless, wrecked.

The car was silent but for the uneven, matching breathing.

You didn’t say anything for a long time. But when you finally looked at him, he was already looking at you.

And that said enough.

You were on borrowed time.

That’s what it felt like. Not like a vacation, but rather a stretch of days pulled taut like thread between fingers, always ready to snap.

You fell into a rhythm. A dangerous, magnetic, honey-thick rhythm that made time bend. Mornings blurred into afternoons. Afternoons faded into dark, and somewhere between phone calls and hidden meetups, you paused the thought that there was an end to any of it.

The picnic was your idea.

A sun-dappled clearing behind an abandoned barn, just outside town. Private. Quiet. You spread a blanket on the grass, unpacked sandwiches and fruit, and kicked your shoes off. Owen leaned back on one elbow, watching you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“So,” he asked between bites, “Austin. What’s it like?”

“Loud. Messy. No one cares if you believe in anything. And there’s a taco truck on every corner.”

He smiled. “Sounds like freedom in the best way.”

You told him about work. The long days as an editorial assistant, spending hours shaping other people’s voices, how sometimes your wrists ached more from typing than from thinking.

“But I want to write,” you admitted. “My own book about what it’s like to leave a place like this. About the grief that comes with freedom. About how belief doesn’t just vanish, rather it mutates.”

He nodded like he understood it in his bones. “I’d buy every copy.”

“I want a cat,” you added. “Fat, dramatic, maybe orange. Name it Judas if it claws my furniture.”

He laughed, eyes crinkling. “You’re doing just fine out there.”

Later, when your head was in his lap and his fingers moved gently through your hair, you asked, “What would you do? If you weren’t here?”

“I think I’d teach,” he said eventually. “Somewhere far. Quiet. I liked Peru because I didn’t feel like I had to perform. I could just… show up. Sit with people. Learn.”

“Why haven’t you left?”

He hesitated. “Because when you’ve been told your whole life that you’re a shepherd, you forget you’re allowed to wander.”

You sat up, cupping his face.

He took your hands into his and tugged you into his lap. “Recently, you make it feel possible.”

There was a pause, something tight and vulnerable hanging in the air. Then, he adds softly, “I always had a thing for you, you know. Before you left. I would've asked your parents to marry you if you hadn’t run.”

You blinked, stunned. “You’re serious.”

He nodded, eyes flicking away. “You were already gone in your eyes. But I would've tried.”

You kissed him before you could say something that would make you both retreat.

It’s soft at first but it doesn’t take long before it’s hungrier.

His fingers dragged slowly up your thighs, coaxing your legs wider as he tugged you closer. Your hands slid beneath his shirt, fingertips brushing over warm skin. He hissed through his teeth. You felt him harden beneath you — sudden, unmistakable. He shifted and groaned.

“You always this distracting?” he muttered.

“I haven’t even started trying.”

Your thighs bracketed his lap, dress bunched around your hips, his palms sliding up your sides. You ground down against the hard line of him.

“You’re gonna kill me.” he rasped.

You reached between you, freeing him, and lined yourself up. He just held your hips steady while you sank down onto him. The moan that left his throat was guttural.

“You feel so good,” he said, voice wrecked.

You rolled your hips slowly, savoring every inch.

“Fuck.” He cursed low and helpless under his breath

It lit something inside you. He watched you gasp the moment he said it. Your hips moved faster, eyes pleading.

“You like that?” he asked, breath catching. “Me losing control like that?”

You nodded. “You sound free.”

That made him moan again, hips bucking up into yours.

“You feel like heaven,” he whispered. “And I don’t even care if it’s wrong.”

You rode him harder while his hands gripped your thighs, fingers leaving bruises.

You came with his name on your lips. Soon he followed, trembling, buried deep inside you.

Neither of you moved for a long time.

The chapel came after. Late. Quiet. Dangerous.

You locked the door behind you and leaned against it. Heart was racing, a mischievous smile on your face.

He stood at the edge of the room, eyes burning.

“This is a bad idea,” he whispered

You walked toward him anyway. He licked his lips in anticipation.

“You think I care?”

You pulled him to you, slowly backing until the back of your legs hit the table, your hands already working at the buttons of his shirt.

He immediately helped you up on the table. Stepped in between your open legs, wrapped it around his waist. The desk is cold beneath you, but his heat made you forget the location entirely.

When he entered you, there was no holiness. Only hunger. He was already too far gone.

“Owen—” you moaned when he thrust into you, full and deep and filthy against the worn wood of his desk.

You hold onto his neck as he sped up.

His head fell back. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“You keep coming back.”

His hands slid up your thighs, your hips meeting his again and again, the slap of skin echoing in a space meant for scripture.

He kissed your throat. Your jaw. His hand held you by the neck, thumb tracing your lips. You sucked on the tip of his thumb softly, making his breath hitch.

“I want to hear you come,” he said, voice low, commanding.

And you did. Loud, trembling, his name like a curse. He didn’t stop though.

“You’re so fucking hot when you say my name like that,” he groaned, pumping harder. “Say it again.”

“Owen—fuck—don’t stop—”

He came moments later, buried in you, his mouth open against your shoulder, breath ragged. You felt it all. The desperation. The hunger. The part of him that was absolutely unrepentant.

The cross on the wall watched.

You didn’t look away.

Next night, you called him.

“I’m alone,” you said, voice soft. “Mom and my sister are at my aunt’s.”

He groaned. “Don’t tell me that unless I can come over.”

“You can’t.”

“Then why are you calling me?”

You smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “Because I’m thinking about you. About your mouth. About your hands.”

He could feel you smiling. The idea alone was seduction.

He cursed under his breath and asked softly. “Are you touching yourself?”

“Not yet.” You say breathlessly

He replies carefully, “Do you want to be good for me and get under the covers?”

You obeyed and hum

“Tell me what you’re wearing.” he continues

Soft sheets. Bare legs. A tank top with nothing underneath. You let him know just that.

His voice dropped. “Slide your hand down. Slowly.”

You did. Gasps and breathy descriptions spilled between you. Details of where your fingers were, how wet you were, what you’d do if he were there.

“I’d pin your hands down,” he said. “Kiss you until you forgot your name.”

You whimpered.

“Touch yourself the way I would. Use two fingers.”

You followed, hips rolling, heart pounding. “Owen—”

“That’s it, baby. Just like that.”

You came with a gasp, biting your lip to stay quiet.

And on the other end of the line, he was panting too.

“I’m so hard right now,” he murmured. “I wish it was your hand. I wish I could watch you fall apart.”

“What are you doing?” you whispered.

“I’ve got my cock in my hand,” he groaned. “I’m imagining your mouth. The way you moan when I fuck you slow. God, you sound so pretty—”

He stroked himself harder, breath sharp and frantic now.

“You wanna know something?” he added, voice ragged. “I used to touch myself to the image of you in high school. Just the way you looked in church. I never told anyone.”

The confession wrecked you. “Owen.”

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

You moaned, the sound breaking as you reached your second orgasm, body shaking under the sheets.

He followed seconds later, a choked sound slipping from his throat. “Yes, baby. That’s it. That’s it.”

You both stayed quiet after, breath slowing, the line buzzing gently between you.

You lay there in the dark, hearts thudding in different houses.

And still, together. For now.

You didn’t know what came next.

But you weren’t ready to let go.

You drove out of town just after five.

No destination. Just the slow unraveling of familiar roads behind you. Owen’s hand on your knee while your playlist spilled from the open windows. The scent of his cologne mixing with the warm wind.

You wore a dress that would’ve raised brows back home. It was sleeveless, a little too short, cinched at the waist. But you didn’t care. You weren’t from that town anymore, not truly.

“God, you look…” Owen trailed off, stealing another glance. “Unreal.”

“I live like this now,” you said. “Austin taught me how to breathe.”

You glanced at him. “You know what that town does best?”

He shook his head.

“Cuts your wings. Even when you’re not flying. Even when you’re just trying to land.”

The town you stopped in was much bigger than your conservative town. Open, modern. Fairy lights strung between trees, families laughed over blowing bubbles while couples wrapped in quiet affection.

You chose a patio restaurant with soft music, low candlelight, and a table nestled beside ivy-covered stone. Owen held your chair. You ordered a glass of wine. He watched you like he’d never seen you drink before.

“You go out like this often?” he asked, lips curled into a crooked smile.

“Live? Yeah. I try.”

He stared a moment too long. “It looks good on you.”

You sipped slowly, letting the pause stretch. “Feels good. Like I’m not apologizing for breathing. You should try it too.”

“Was it hard?” he asked. “Leaving?”

You nodded. “The leaving part, no. The staying gone? Yeah. There were nights I’d look around and wonder if I was still allowed to be happy.”

He looked down. “I do that now. Wonder if this,” he gestured between you, “can be real.”

You leaned in. “It’s real. It just doesn’t come with rules.”

For dessert, you shared a piece of cake and laughed when he stole the last bite.

When he reached for your hand, you let him.

When he pulled you close beneath a streetlamp and kissed you, you kissed him back like it was your full-time job.

You checked into a modest inn with creaky stairs and a view of nothing. But the bed was big and clean, and the walls were thick.

You dropped your purse on the floor. He shut the door with his back.

And for a second, you just stared at each other.

Then, you urge, “Come here.”

He crossed the room in two steps.

You turned around for him. Quietly gave permission to help you undress. When his fingers reach for your zipper, you let him tug it down and let the fabric slip to the floor. His gaze tracked every inch.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

You kissed him then — deep, unfiltered. He groaned when your hand palmed him through his jeans.

He broke the kiss for a second to pull off his shirt, then slowly laid you on the bed. He followed, hovering over you. He kissed your collarbone, down to your chest, and when his mouth closed over one nipple, your back arched.

“Jesus,” you gasped.

His hands worshipped you. Slow squeezes, teasing pinches. You whimpered beneath him when you felt his tongue circling the tip of your nipple then gently sucking.

“You like that?” he asked, voice gravel.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”

You sat up, reached between you, and wrapped your hand around him.

Owen groaned. “Fuck, baby—”

You stroked him as he slipped his fingers beneath your panties. He found your clit first, rubbing gently, slow circles before sliding one finger inside. Then another.

Your moan cracked open the room.

“Watching you touch yourself would kill me,” he murmured. “Would you let me see?”

You nod before pulling away from him and scrambling onto your back. You spread for him as he knelt between your thighs, watching your hand slide through your slick folds.

“God,” he muttered. “You’re soaked.”

“Your fault.”

You met his eyes, continuing to rub yourself. Your hands didn't last before he leaned down and replaced your hand with his mouth. When he sucked your clit into his mouth, you cried out, hands tangling in his hair.

He licked softly, tentatively at first, making you shiver. It didn’t take long before his tongue moved fervently, coaxing your climax. You came shaking.

He immediately hovered over you after, flushed and hard.

“I need to be inside you.”

“Then don’t wait.” You assured

You guided him in slowly, gasping at the stretch, the fullness. Every inch a revelation.

“Holy shit,” he moaned. “You feel perfect.”

He slowly thrusted into you, both of you watching where your bodies met. His hands gripped your hips like he was trying not to come too fast. His movements controlled, savoring each movement.

You clenched around him, made him moan loudly against your mouth. Then he snapped.

He suddenly flipped you over, pulled you onto all fours, and slid back in with a grunt.

“Owen. Please.” You pleaded at the sensation

He only pulled you up, your back flush against his chest. His one hand splayed over your stomach, the other between your legs again.

“Touch me,” you whispered.

He obeyed earnestly. The hand over your stomach slid up to your breast, the other rubbed your clit.

“I want to feel you come on me again,” he growled into your ear.

Your eyes rolled back as he rubbed faster. Urging.

You came with a broken moan, head falling back, body trembling.

Owen followed with a groan, grinding deep as he spilled inside you.

You collapsed together.

A few hours later, you woke up to his mouth on you again.

The room was dark, but you could feel the heat of his breath, the way he kissed your inner thighs before laving his tongue up and over your clit.

“Owen…”

“I just want to taste you again.”

You were too sensitive, but it didn’t matter.

He took his time, building you up, whispering how good you tasted, how much he wanted to hear you fall apart. When you pulled him up and guided him inside, he slid in slow.

You were on your sides, facing the window. His arm curled under your neck, the other between your legs.

“I’ll never get tired of feeling you come around me,” he whispered.

You took his hand and pressed it right where you needed. “Rub me. Just like that.”

His fingers moved as he thrust into you slowly.

“Don’t stop,” you breathed.

He didn’t. Not until your body clenched tight and you cried out his name.

He came with a rough gasp, arms wrapped around you.

You stayed like that. Sweaty and spent until the sky began to lighten.

You drove home before sunrise. Owen’s hand stayed on your thigh the whole way.

You didn’t speak much, but the stillness wasn’t peaceful. He tried to remember how breath-taking you looked, the air blowing the hair away from your face.

Something had shifted.

The world outside was waiting.

And freedom was never free.

Taglist: @shantellorraine @slvt4her @anxious-alto @irlbaristaoc @re-permadrivercurse @lostwhitebunny @loonysbarn @msbyjackal @lewispullsman @wildflowernightmere @ae-aeitch @dontpulloutman @midnighttithe @sarapixieelliott08 @cloudyzip @yoong1stangerine @crashingout2point0 @alltimelowsuckedmydick @kez-bez @a1exisdelrey

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loonysbarn · 17 days ago

Note

Hiiiii i have a request 😛

bob floyd gets a concussion and is flustered and embarrassed when wife!reader tells him they’re married, and he doesn’t believe her because she’s so pretty

muaahahahaha😈😈😈 I absolutely loveee this !!!

warnings/tags: v minimal hospital stuff, anxious reader, (y/n) used like twice, fluff, bob is sooo in love lololl, very quick nsfw mention, also bob is southern because I SAID SO, reader is lowkey southern too cause i am and i’m projecting🥀

wc: 1.2k

a/n: sighhh i love bob so much, this was so fun to write :] thank you for the req !! plsss keep them comin !

It wasn't very often you were invited on base. You aren't not allowed there, you just never really had much of a reason to spend the day over there. So that's why you're a little fidgety as you make your way through the parking lot of the small hospital on base. That, and you had received a worrying phone call this morning.

You were lounging at home- enjoying your day off- when your phone rang. You recognized the number from the very few times you had been called by one of your husband's supervisors. A doctor had informed you that your husband had had to make an emergency eject during training and hit his head pretty hard.

You had panicked immediately but the doctor assured you Bob would be just fine; he just has a fairly serious concussion and his memory and motor skills are a bit wonky at the moment. You finished up the phone call and rushed over as quickly as you could.

You aren't waiting in the lobby very long before a nurse leads you back to your husband's room. Your heart almost breaks at the sight of him in his hospital bed, looking absolutely pitiful. He's sitting up slightly with his head tilted back facing the ceiling, his eyes closed and his breathing a bit slower than usual.

"Bobby? Honey, how're you feeling?" You're by his side in an instant, one hand caressing his arm and the other brushing along his forehead as his eyes flutter a few times before his head tilts toward you. His eyes are a bit fuzzy, unfocused, but he's still got that light he's always had- like the sun itself has taken root in him and couldn't help but shine through. "'m doin' okay, how're you?" He mumbles, his tone completely serious. You can't help but laugh at him; those southern manners imbedded deep in him. "I'm okay, just worried bout you, Bobby." You run your fingers along the edge of a small bandage on his forehead, before turning and reaching for his glasses.

Carefully, you slide them onto his face and watch in amusement as his mouth drops open. You go to speak, but he beats you to it; "I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." A pretty flush rises to his cheeks and his eyes stay wide open, like he doesn't want to blink and miss any microexpression you might make.

"Oh, thank you, handsome." You grin, cupping his chin with one hand and leaning in to brush your lips against his gently. You're shocked when his shaky arms do what they can to push you away- there's not much force behind his wobbly movements, but you back away and look down at him with furrowed brows. "Nonononono, stop stop- 'm married." He frantically tries to get out despite the slur in his voice.

"Baby-" You start, fighting the giggle in your voice. He shakes his head, a beautiful pout taking over his features. "I love my wife. She's perfect- you gotta back up." His eyes screw shut, he turns his head away from you, and his shaky hands rub his eyes. "Her name's (y/n), she's fuckin' great- pardon my l-language." He mumbles, mostly to himself at this point.

"Bob. My name is (y/n). My last name's Floyd. I'm your wife." You reach out to gently grasp his wrists. Bob whips his head toward you so fast he's dizzy for a few moments. You keep your eyes on him, unsure whether to laugh or call for a nurse. Once his eyes really focus on you he seems to deflate, his arms falling to his lap and his cheeks quickly heat up a bright red. He looks.. nervous. "You okay?" You hum, slowly reaching out for him.

A beat of silence passes before he opens his mouth, his bottom lip trembling, "I missed youuu." He finally says- his hand shooting out to meet yours. He overshoots it a bit, though, and smacks your shoulder. You let out a relieved laugh, grabbing his hand and interlacing your fingers together. God, he really scared you for a second. "You're really my wife? How?" He asks, looking absolutely amazed as you run your fingers along his cheekbones.

"It's a very long story, Bobby. But I love you." You grin, leaning down to kiss his forehead. He lets out a dreamy sigh, reaching up with his free hand to grip onto your shoulder. "Yeah? God, you're so pretty." He blinks up at you, unable to fight the smile on his face.

For a moment, you're stunned by just how beautiful he is- pink cheeks, wide eyes, and a boyish grin; a little beat up and bruised but easily the most gorgeous man you've ever seen. You chest seems to swell up with all the love you feel for your husband. You feel a tugging at your shirt and realize he's said something to you. "Sorry, what'd you say, honey?"

"'m tryna sweep you off your feet, sweetheart- you're makin' it hard." Bob grumbles, letting go of your hand to grip at the front of your shirt so he can tug you down with both arms. You let out a breathy laugh, allowing him to pull you closer. "I'm so very sorry." You grin against his lips before giving in.

He tastes the same, he's got the usual enthusiasm, his technique's just a bit wonky. You honestly wouldn't change it for the world. The kiss only breaks when he's gasping and you have to push him away or he won't stop. It's his favorite thing- drowning in you; in your eyes, your lips, your pussy. God, just the thought of having you has blood rushing to his dick so fast he's a bit lightheaded.

You press one last lingering kiss to his lips before you're pulling back and turning to grab a chair. "Doctor said you gotta spend the night here so-"

"Need my pillow- need to move my pillow." Bob's voice is urgent when he interrupts you and you're letting go of the chair and running your eyes over him to see if anything's changed. "Where? Are you okay? You hurting?" You question him as you carefully slide the pillow out from behind him. He just furrows his brows and chews on his lip as you hold the pillow beside him for a moment. "Where do you want it, Bobby?" You repeat, worry clawing up your throat.

"My lap." One of his wobbly arms grabs onto the pillow and tugs it toward him- you don't let go just yet, your fear turning to confusion. A "Huh?" tumbles from your lips and Bob is grinning. "So pretty, my wife.. Gave me a kiss and I popped a boner." He sighs, still fighting with you for the pillow as he starts to giggle to himself over the word 'boner'.

You let go of the pillow with an incredulous laugh and watch as he settles it over his lap. Surely there's no way he's at full mast with all the pain meds in his system- you almost want to check- but you just shake your head and settle into the chair next to his hospital bed. You thread your fingers with his and settle your head onto his boner-hiding pillow, keeping your eyes on his as he traces his unsteady fingers along your features.

Bob stares at you in wonder, wondering what he could've done to ever possibly deserve having you. "My wife." He murmurs, reverently, like he can't quite believe it.

"Maybe we'll renew our vows when you aren't so hopped up on pain meds."

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loonysbarn · 17 days ago

Text

the one with the runaway bride

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Reader

Word Count: 12.1k (damn)

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

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

Theo hated churches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Theo blinked.

A vision in white stumbled inside.

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

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

His mouth opened before he could stop it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, sir.”

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

The door slammed shut behind him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gasped, “You wouldn’t.”

He tilted his head, “Try me.”

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

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

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

He stared at you. Then sighed.

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

“So that’s a yes?”

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

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

He groaned. Loudly.

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

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

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

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

You were free.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh Merlin.

What had you done?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” He said finally, “I would.”

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

“Okay.” He echoed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re joking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You cook?”

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

“That’s not a yes.”

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

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

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

Safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snorted, shaking your head.

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

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

He gave a small shrug, “I told you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Theo didn’t interrupt. He just waited.

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

Theo’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing.

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

Silence stretched between you for a beat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

He should’ve never given them spare keys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The guest bedroom door creaked open.

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

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

Every sound in the room died on cue.

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

The silence that followed was nothing short of reverent.

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

And then—chaos.

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

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

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

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

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

“Dating.” You both finished in unison.

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

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

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

“I’m not blushing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I accepted. Platonically.” You stressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strangely at home.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You met his gaze. Your heart stuttered.

Was he leaning in?

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

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

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

You cleared your throat, recovering quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

“Theo!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Theo blinked, stunned.

You blinked, too, realizing what you just did.

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

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

***

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

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

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

Instead, she found you.

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

“(Y/N)?”

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

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

“(Y/N)!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her jaw dropped.

“No. Bloody. Way.”

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

A beat of silence.

Then—

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

Theo grimaced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laughed, hugging her back, “Deal.”

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

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

From behind you, Blaise gave a low whistle.

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“She doesn’t steal my clothes.”

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

Theo looked away, clearly caught.

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

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

Pansy froze mid-sip.

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

The boys blinked in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, he’s been thinking about it.”

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

***

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

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

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

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

“He drank.” Blaise said simply.

“Like a fish.” Mattheo added.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You smell like home.” He mumbled.

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t say that." You muttered.

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

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

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

“(Y/N).”

The voice cut through the air like a curse.

You froze.

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

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

Slowly, you turned in your seat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pansy,” you murmured, brushing your fingers against her sleeve. Your hand was shaking.

He took a step closer, “Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

You rose slowly, pushing your chair back, jaw tight, “Fine. Five minutes. Nothing more.”

“Absolutely not—” Pansy began, but you shook your head.

“I’m okay.”

You weren’t. Not even remotely. But you needed this to end. To really end.

The night air was sharp against your skin, the hum of the city muffled as you stepped into the alley behind the bar. You folded your arms, more out of defense than cold.

“So this is what it takes to find you now?” He said, voice curling with disdain, “Are you selling yourself like a whore on street corners now?”

You exhaled slowly, trying to keep your voice steady, “What do you want?”

He took a step forward, “I heard the rumors. People talk, you know. Especially when a bride vanishes in silk and ends up playing house with that filthy blood traitor Theodore Nott.”

Your lips parted in disbelief.

“I should’ve known,” he sneered, “You always acted so self-righteous. But look at you now — just another slag hopping into the next man’s bed. Must be nice not needing vows to spread your legs, yeah?”

The words hit like a slap, your stomach twisting with fury and disbelief.

“I’m done listening to this.”

You turned—and before you could even brace yourself, he yanked you sharply by the collar and slammed you hard against the brick wall. The air whooshed out of your lungs as your back hit the cold surface, the impact jarring your entire body.

His hands tightened suddenly around your throat, fingers digging into your skin in a cruel grip. You gasped for air, panic surging as darkness edged your vision.

“Don’t you dare think you can just walk away from me.” He hissed through clenched teeth, eyes wild and merciless.

You clawed at his hands, desperate to break free, but his strength was overwhelming, pressing down harder, choking the breath from you.

"Reducto!"

The spell hit him square in the chest, blasting him off you with bone-jarring force. He flew backward, crashing into the far wall of the alley with a sickening thud before collapsing in a heap, gasping and stunned.

Pansy didn’t hesitate.

She stormed toward him like a vengeful shadow, wand leveled between his eyes as he groaned and tried to sit up. Her voice was shaking—but only with rage.

“You filthy little coward,” she spat, every word laced with venom, “Touch her again, and I’ll break every bone in your body.”

He growled, trying to rise—Pansy kicked him flat in the chest, knocking him back to the ground with her heel, “Stay. Down.”

Your knees buckled, the sudden rush of oxygen burning your throat as you slid down the wall, coughing and trembling.

“Whoa—hey.” Pansy caught you, strong and certain, one arm steadying you as the other clutched her wand, “I’ve got you, love. You’re okay. We’re going home.”

And this time, you let her carry the weight.

***

The world spun sharply as Pansy apparated, the crack of displaced air still echoing in your ears. The warmth of her body vanished the moment your feet hit solid ground—wood floors, familiar scents. You were in Theo’s flat.

Laughter and chatter from the living room fell to a jarring halt.

Five pairs of eyes turned in unison: Theo, Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, and Enzo—all frozen mid-conversation, drinks in hand. The moment they saw you, everything dropped.

“(Y/N)?”

Your name left Theo like a punch to the gut.

You were trembling, arms wrapped tight around your middle as if they could hold your ribs together. Pansy still held onto you, as if she wasn’t entirely sure you wouldn’t collapse, and even she looked rattled under the scrutiny of the room.

“That fucker,” She said through gritted teeth, “Grabbed her outside the bar. Slammed her into a wall. Tried to—” her voice faltered, thick with fury, “She couldn’t breathe.”

Theo moved.

Fast.

He crossed the room in three strides, gently brushing Pansy aside like she was made of smoke. Then he was in front of you, hands hovering for a split second before he cupped your face, cradling you like you were something fragile and sacred.

His eyes roamed over your features—your split lip, your glassy eyes, the bruising fingerprints beginning to bloom like violets around your throat—and something in him shattered.

His jaw clenched, fury crashing through him like a tidal wave. He looked like he could tear the world apart.

“I’m fine.” You rasped, voice barely more than a whisper.

You tried to smile—a brittle, curling thing, “I know that probably doesn’t help my case, but… trust me, I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that,” Theo said softly, thumb brushing over your cheekbone, his voice hoarse and tight, “Don’t lie to me right now.”

Your breath hitched.

Draco hovered beside Pansy now, brushing her hair behind her ear as he muttered something only she could hear. She nodded once, giving her boyfriend a soft smile before turning her gaze back to you, eyes gleaming with steel.

Theo gently tugged you forward into his chest.

You didn’t resist.

You couldn’t.

Your limbs had surrendered somewhere between the alley and the flat, and he was warm, steady—home. Before you could stop it, a sob cracked loose from your chest, raw and shaking. Your hands fisted into his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to earth.

He held you tighter.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice trembling beneath the quiet, “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

The flat was eerily quiet now. One by one, the boys filtered out, their faces grim with the weight of what had just happened.

Mattheo lingered just long enough to press a firm, reassuring hand to your shoulder. His voice was low, steady, almost a promise, “You’re safe now. We’ll take care of everything from here.”

Blaise didn’t say a word. Instead, he gave a slow, deliberate nod to Theo, then to you, his expression taut with barely restrained anger and resolve.

Enzo’s jaw clenched as he glanced at you one last time. “He’s a dead man,” he muttered under his breath before turning away and joining the others.

You barely noticed them leaving. Your world had shrunk to the steady rhythm of Theo’s heartbeat humming against your ear, the comforting warmth of his hand pressing into your back, and the ache lodged deep in your chest — a raw, stubborn pain that refused to fade.

“I want him arrested. Tonight.” Pansy’s voice cut through the silence like ice, cold and deadly calm but laced with a fury that made the room vibrate, “Draco, I’m serious. He attacked her in public. Slammed her against a wall. Choked her until she could barely breathe.”

Draco’s tone was clipped, measured, but the sharp edge of anger was unmistakable, “You have a name?”

“Graham Bulstrode.” Pansy replied without hesitation, her voice razor-sharp and unyielding.

Draco’s jaw tightened, “Consider it done, my love.”

Every word settled into your foggy mind — distant but painfully clear. The tremble in your hands hadn’t stopped, but Theo’s arms wrapped around you only tightened, as if willing to keep the danger at bay. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, a quiet vow whispered without words.

When the door finally clicked shut behind the last of the others, the tension finally broke. The tears you had been holding back surged forward, hot and fierce, tumbling freely down your cheeks. You clung to him, the safety of his presence grounding you as the storm inside began to settle.

You buried your face in Theo’s chest, shoulders trembling as the sobs broke free, wracking your entire body with every breath. He held you through it, solid and steady, one hand gently combing through your hair like he could smooth away the terror still clinging to your skin.

“I’m so stupid,” You gasped, the words catching in your throat, “I’ve—I’ve thought about that moment for the past month. What I’d say. How I’d stand up for myself. I imagined throwing that stupid ring back in his smug face, saying something cutting, something final—but when it actually happened…”

Your voice cracked, guilt burning behind your ribs.

“I couldn’t even speak. I just froze. I have a wand but I couldn't cast a single spell. I let him say all that shit about me—about you—and I... I didn’t even defend you, Theo. I’m so sorry. I'm so useless.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He just held you tighter, like your apology hurt more than anything else that had happened. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet—gentle, but resolute.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

His words rumbled in his chest, warm against your cheek.

“I don’t give a damn about what you said or didn’t say to him. You don’t owe me a defense—not ever.”

You looked up at him, blinking through the tears. His eyes found yours, fierce and heartbreakingly soft, like you were something sacred—something he’d never let break.

“And you’re not stupid, (Y/N), or useless,” He said, voice thick with emotion, “You’re incredible. Brave. Stronger than you even realize. And I’m so fucking proud of you.”

His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead—gentle, grounding, safe.

“He’s not going to get away with this,” Theo whispered, “I promise you.”

You sighed, sinking deeper into him, like you could finally let go of everything you’d been holding in. His arms wrapped around you again, warm and sure.

“Come on,” he murmured, “Let’s treat that bruise. Get you something to eat.”

But you shook your head, face pressed tight against his chest.

“Don’t let me go.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore—it was tender, healing. You curled into him like you could disappear there, into the rhythm of his breathing and the thrum of his heart.

“I’m never going to let you go.”

And you believed him.

His heartbeat echoed beneath your ear, strong and unwavering. With every beat, the weight in your chest began to lift—slowly, steadily.

Safe. Loved. Finally, home.

***

A couple weeks later it was raining softly outside, the kind of slow, constant drizzle that blurred the windows and made the world feel far away. You and Theo were curled up on the couch, legs tangled, a blanket lazily thrown across your laps. A half-empty mug sat abandoned on the coffee table beside a crumpled takeout bag. The telly hummed faintly in the background, long forgotten.

“So then she goes, ‘I forgot to run the control,’” You said, exasperated, “and I swear to Merlin, I have never seen Slughorn that mad in his life.”

Theo snorted, one arm draped across your shoulders, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger, “Serves her right for always nicking your freshly ground moonstone.”

“Right? And of course, the one day I’m not there to supervise her, she completely tanks it. It’s not like I was goofing off—I was at the Ministry signing off the paperwork for Bulstrode's trial.” You sighed, “Slughorn knew, so I didn’t get in trouble, but I still have to repeat all her damn trials for the next few weeks. As if I don’t already have enough on my plate.”

“What’s keeping you so busy, Bella?” Theo asked, smiling as he gently unraveled the curl and let it spring back into place, “Maybe I can help.”

“Well, I’ve been needing to check out some apartments. Can’t really leave that to you, now can I?” You yawned, “But if you want, we could go together?”

Theo stilled.

He pulled back just slightly, brows furrowed as he studied your face, “Apartment hunting?”

You blinked, “Yeah… I’ve been looking at places closer to work. Just something small. I mean, I don’t make much yet.”

There was a beat of silence, then, “Wait—(Y/N), are you planning to move out?”

You nodded slowly, suddenly self-conscious, “I mean—I’ve been here for a while now and I love it, obviously, but I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I figured—”

“You think you’re overstaying?” His voice cut gently but sharply through your words.

You faltered, “Well, I just—”

“You’re not,” Theo said, a little breathless now, like the words had been sitting on the edge of his tongue for too long, “You’re not overstaying. I want you here.”

Your breath hitched.

“I want to come home to you. Every day. Not to an empty flat. Not to a world where you’re somewhere else.”

His hand found yours, threading your fingers together like a lifeline. His voice dropped lower, steadier.

“Stay. Please.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and sure, “I want to come home knowing the woman I love is safe. Here. With me.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, the world narrowing to his hand in yours, the soft thunder of rain against the windows, the warmth of his words blooming in your chest like magic.

“What do you mean, the woman you love?”

Theo let out a quiet laugh, a little stunned you hadn’t realized it already. His smile turned lopsided, eyes shining.

“Are you daft, (Y/N)?” He said, voice thick, “I’m in love with you. I’ve been taken with you since we were kids, and I’m still—” He broke off for a breath, like the truth was catching up to him all at once. “Still completely gone for you.”

Your heart did something unsteady in your chest.

“Say it again.” You whispered.

He cupped your cheek with one hand, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your heart stuttered. The words lingered in the air between you, delicate and heavy all at once—like the hush after a spell’s been cast.

You didn’t look away.

You couldn’t.

“I’ve loved you for a long time too, Theo,” You whispered, the confession trembling on your tongue, “I don’t even know when it started—when I began falling for you—but I did. And I fell hard. I mean, who wouldn’t?”

You smiled through the softness in your voice, “You’re the kindest, most patient man I’ve ever met… and I’m thanking my lucky stars that I met you on the day of my wedding.”

That pulled a laugh from him—warm, full, and brimming with disbelief. He tilted his head back slightly, grinning like you’d just handed him the entire sky.

You leaned in just a fraction, voice softer now, “I want to stay. Not just in the flat. In your life. With you.”

That did it.

Theo closed the distance, his hands cradling your face as his lips found yours in a kiss that felt like coming home. It was fierce and tender all at once—like a dam breaking, like every moment of yearning pouring out of him in one breathless, burning exhale.

You melted into him, arms winding around his neck, your body pressed close as the kiss deepened—hungry now, desperate. His fingers tangled in your hair, yours fisting in his shirt, both of you trying to memorize the moment, to feel every inch of it like it could make up for all the waiting.

Weeks—months—of unspoken words, of lingering touches and stolen glances, of intimate moments that always ended with breathless silences and aching restraint—crashed into a single breath.

Theo kissed you like you were his lifeline—like he’d been holding back a storm and had finally been given permission to let it break.

You gasped as his lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, your throat—reverent, hungry, like he was rediscovering you with every breath. “Tell me to stop,” He murmured, voice hoarse with restraint, “Say the word, and I will.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Instead, you tugged him closer, heart pounding under his palm as your fingers slid into his hair, voice trembling with a dangerous sort of affection, “If you stop, Theodore Nott, I’m sleeping at Pansy’s tonight.”

He let out a low, incredulous laugh—half-choked and fully wrecked—then kissed you again, deeper this time. Certain. Claiming. The rain tapped gently against the windows, forgotten behind the haze of fogged glass and the thrum of two hearts finally letting go.

And when he lifted you off the couch, carrying you down the hall with all the tenderness in the world and not an ounce of hesitation, the only thing either of you could think was:

About bloody time.

***

It was barely 9 a.m. when the front door to Theo’s flat creaked open—again, without so much as a knock.

Mattheo’s voice cut through the quiet, “I swear, if this idiot didn’t do the groceries and we hiked all the way here for his strawberries for nothing, I’m setting the place on fire.”

“I brought croissants.” Lorenzo offered brightly.

“You brought them from my kitchen,” Draco said flatly, “You literally stole them from my counter.”

Theo stumbled out of the bedroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “Do none of you understand the concept of boundaries?”

He was mid-scowl when Blaise’s voice drifted in from the hallway, “Don't you imbeciles think it's too early to—”

And then they all fell silent.

You had just stepped out of the bedroom—the master bedroom this time, not the guest room—bleary-eyed and yawning, wearing nothing but Theo’s hoodie. Again. Hair a little messy, legs bare, looking entirely at home.

Draco blinked, “Déjà vu.”

Mattheo let out a dramatic sigh, “Alright, but like… why is it always the hoodie and no pants? Not that I’m complaining—it’s just, you know what, never mind.”

Blaise leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed, “So what’s the excuse this time? Sleepwalking? Laundry explosion? Sudden amnesia about how trousers work?”

You didn’t even flinch.

“We’re dating,” You said flatly, tugging the sleeve of Theo’s hoodie over your hand as you rubbed your eye, “And I’m not wearing pants because I had sex with your friend. Good morning.”

Silence.

Four pairs of stunned eyes stared at you.

Lorenzo made a choked noise, “I—okay.”

Mattheo sputtered, hands flailing, “You can’t just say that without warning!”

“You asked.” You replied dryly.

Draco took a long sip of coffee, muttering behind the rim of his mug, “I owe Pansy ten Galleons.”

***

Bonus:

Your heart pounded as you stared at the closed doors, the soft strains of the wedding march beginning to drift through the wood. Your palms were sweaty around the bouquet you carried, nerves and excitement swirling in your chest.

Then, the doors swung open, revealing you in a stunning white dress, your smile bright and genuine as you began your walk down the aisle. The hush of the ceremony wrapped around you like a warm embrace, the aisle stretching ahead lined with friends and family.

A memory flickered through your mind—just a couple of years ago, you had run away from a different wedding down the hall, only to find refuge in this very chapel. It was here that you met your to-be husband, the love of your life.

Your eyes locked onto the man standing across the room, looking impossibly handsome in his tailored suit. His gaze locked onto you immediately, and for a moment, all the noise and bustle melted away. It was just you and him.

Only a few feet separated you now, but something in your heart couldn’t wait. Before you realized what you were doing, you broke into a gentle run—this time towards the groom.

Theo’s face broke into a gentle smile—the kind reserved only for you—as he reached for you. Before you could even think twice, his arms closed around you, catching you effortlessly. Your feet lifted from the floor as he spun you gently, twirling you in a slow, perfect circle.

The world blurred—lights, faces, music—all faded into a whirl of warmth and happiness.

He pressed his forehead to yours, a slow smile curling on his lips as he whispered, "You just can't wait to marry me, can you?"

You laughed softly, breath warm against his skin, "I couldn’t run away—tried it before. Too much work."

His eyes sparkled with amusement and love as he pulled you closer, the world around you fading into nothing but this perfect, shared moment.

***

EXTRA BONUS BECAUSE I CAN HEHEHE:

Hogwarts, Year 6:

You glanced across the potions table, scanning the clutter of ingredients before turning slightly toward the Slytherin bench.

“Theodore?” You said cautiously, holding your crushed lacewing flies with gloved fingers, “Could I borrow the asphodel? Just for a sec.”

He looked up from his cauldron like you’d just asked for his wand. There was a pause. Not rude, not angry—just... blank. Then, wordlessly, he slid the jar toward you across the table. His fingers brushed yours for the briefest moment when you took it. Cold skin. A little spark. His hand recoiled like he’d been burned.

“Oh. Um. Thanks.” You murmured, blinking.

He just gave a short nod, already turning away, jaw tight as he went back to slicing his valerian root like it had offended him personally.

You blinked again, confused, then padded back over to your side of the room where Pansy was lounging against the workbench like it was a chaise lounge in the Slytherin common room.

She quirked an eyebrow, “What was that?”

You shrugged, a slight pout forming on your lips, “I don’t know. I guess he just really doesn’t like me.”

Pansy snorted, “Please. If Theo really didn’t like you, you’d know.”

Meanwhile, across the room, Theo was absolutely not concentrating on his potion anymore. He was staring blankly into the cauldron, stirring too fast, ears tinged pink.

Your hands just touched.

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

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loonysbarn · 17 days ago

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😞

i'm so done with seeing and finding purely smut fics, what happened to yearning?? what happened to developing plots??character development??fluff?? angst?? hurt/comfort?? what happened to those monologues of characters that hurt your heart and made you go insane AGH

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loonysbarn · 17 days ago

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eternal love - james potter

summary: when harry comes home one night to have dinner with his parents, he catches an intimate moment between you and james, and wishes he would be home to witness them more often

When the green flames melted away from around Harry’s body and he stepped into the living room of the Potter household, Harry was immediately greeted with the smell of a cozy, homemade meal.

Harry took a step deeper into the living room, following the delicious smell of food across the living room and towards the kitchen, where he assumed his parents would be.

As he approached the kitchen door, Harry heard the soft giggles of his mother, and he came to a halt behind the door, peeking through its open sliver. The boy smiled fondly as he looked into the kitchen, spotting you sitting on the couch in the far end of the kitchen, usually reserved for family and friends to make conversation while people were busy cooking.

But now, you were sat on its edge with your husband’s head in your lap as he laid down on the warm sofa, legs kicked up over its border. You were looking down at your husband with a wide smile, brushing soft strands of hair away from his eyes.

James rearranged the spectacles on his face, that same hand reaching up to gently hold the back of your head, pulling you down so he could softly kiss you.

From across the room, Harry failed to hear bits of your conversation, but seeing your loving exchange was enough. He grinned as you brought your hand down to place it on your husband's chest, and James grabbed it, moving it over his heart, keeping his larger hand resting above yours. Harry pushed the door wide open, attracting both of your gazes towards him. James sat up, and the pair of you stood up in unison to greet your son.

“Oh, hi sweetheart!” You cooed, opening your arms for Harry to walk straight into. He rested his head on your chest as his arms wrapped around your waist, eyes shutting to help him be immersed in the moment. You pressed a soft kiss to Harry’s forehead, only letting go of him when he removed his arms from around you.

Harry laughed joyously as James engulfed him in a crushing hug, ruffling his son’s hair. “Missed you, kid.” He muttered into Harry’s ear, who returned those same words. “We’ve been waiting for you for a while.” James stated, watching as Harry struggled out of his jacket, tossing it onto the couch behind you.

“Snape was giving me a difficult time. Thank godric McGonagall showed up.” You made a disgusted sound at the sound of your old classmate, rolling your eyes at his mention.

“But you guys looked pretty cozy, eh?” Harry teased, slumping on the couch you were previously sat on with your husband. James grinned widely and you felt your cheeks heat up, still shy at the idea of being caught sharing such intimate moments with your husband, despite being married for so long you had a teenage son.

James strutted towards you, wrapping both his arms around your waist and pressing a shameless kiss to your lips. Harry made a show of loudly announcing his disgust over your display of affection, but it didn’t interrupt the smile on his face or the fact that he thought his parents were adorable.

Pushing James away from you by his chest, you walked around the kitchen island to check on the food in the oven, missing the cheeky smile your husband shot your son. You slid on thick mittens, taking the glass tray out of the oven and placing it on the stove.

“Do you boys want to eat in the dining room or in here?” Harry jumped up, announcing his decision. “In here!” You grinned, sliding a small towel onto the kitchen island and placing the tray of food atop it whilst James gathered the cutlery and plates.

As Harry sat down, he took notice of the loving stare his father was staring at you with as he approached you, wrapping his muscular arms around you in a gentle hug. Harry pretended to busy himself by filling his cup with water, but he couldn’t help but stare as James dug his face into the crook of your neck, kissing you there once before whispering “I love you so much.”

You smiled shyly, chasing James’s lips to kiss them shortly before turning your attention back to your son.

Though Harry knew his parents loved each other very much, it was nice to witness it in real time, and for a moment, Harry wished he could be home to see it more often than being at Hogwarts and watching his silly friends chase boys and girls who would entertain them for a week.

At least here, the love between you was eternal.

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @juliet-017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @potterheadlovespotter, @matcha-kitty13, @ravisinghs-wife, @amatoanima, @kitkatkl, @rory-cakes, @juliet-f017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @why-am-i-like-this18, @theoraekenslover, @animalcrossingshameless, @azure-drag0ness, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @girlontheblock

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loonysbarn · 18 days ago

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neeeeed more

service with a smile

joe singh (ginny and georgia) x reader

warnings: use of y/n (only one time), afab reader, fingering, smut, long as hell, rushed ending, grammar mistakes probably

a/n: this show sucks but raymond ablack has been fine since degrassi tng so i thought joe deserved a fanfic

joe singh is warm like the coffee he makes, he smells like cinnamon and old spice, and he always serves you with a smile. you come into the blue farm cafe almost every night, weird time to drink coffee but you hate mornings and only drink decaf anyway so it barely even counts, or at least that’s what you think. of course joe makes fun of you for your inability to drink real caffeine, and generally any drink that’s not coated in caramel and whip-cream, but you just tell him he has bad taste.

tonight was no different from any other night. you got off of work, grabbed your keys, and got on your way to the cafe. only it actually was sort of different. that was the short version of the story, what really happened was far less cute and cozy.

nevertheless, you arrived at the cafe. you felt stupid, walking into the almost empty building in your waitress uniform, mascara streaming down your face, 20 minutes till closing.

“joe?” you called out, tugging at your stupid dress. “uhm- is joe back there?” you leaned over the counter, quickly wiping your eyes.

and there he was. tall, pretty eyed, and that smile-that immediately dropped when he saw your face. “oh, y/n” his head tilted to one side. “hi joe” you replied, forcing yourself to smile, which caused a few salty tears to fall in your mouth. just then, he shouted in his loud voice, which you forgot he had sometimes because he always seemed so.. soft and gentle to you, “everyone get out, were closing early.”

it wasn’t that hard to clear the cafe, considering there were like two other people in there, but after he did, he didn’t waste a second waiting to hold your hand, wipe your tears, and ask you how you were feeling.

“ok” you nodded, watching him give you a look of disbelief. “not okay..” you stared at the blueberry scone that was now placed in front of you. and for some reason, the crying only amplified at that.

“shh.. shhh” joe walked around the counter, he somehow how seemed both calm and frantic at the same time. his hands tangled into your hair, holding your head to his chest as you sobbed. a gentle but strong hand stroked your hair, and for a moment you forgot about your shitty day, everything was perfect because he was there.

after a minute, you had relaxed in his arms, looking up at him with an embarrassed smile. “i probably look so.. stupid right now” you let out a breathless laugh. his soft smile returned, and he sat down across from you, letting the pressure of his arms fall from your shoulders, “not stupid, trust me, i’ve seen stupid and you’re nowhere close to it.”

you wiped a final tear from your face, stood up, and hugged him. “thank you” you whispered, head buried in his neck while his dark hair brushed your ear. his hands took a second to fall around your body, like he was surprised by the gesture. you pulled back only slightly to look at him and say “you didn’t have to do that for me”

and he whispered back “i did” before his hand cupped your face, and his lips met yours. he kissed you like he was telling you a secret that only you two knew, in a language that only you could understand. when he pulled away he didn’t stop holding you, whispering in your ear and leaving soft kisses on your neck. he stood up just to lean you against the counter and kiss you again, hands trailing down your body, untying your apron and letting it drop to the wood floor.

“come on” he whispered, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ears and taking your hand. he pulled you to the back of the cafe, pressing you up against the fridge door and kissing you all over.

“joe-“ you murmured between kisses, “let me take care of you” he whispered back, a hand slowly unbuttoning your dress. “if that’s okay” his breath fanned your ear. a nod was your only response. he let a finger trail down your collar bone “i want to hear you say yes” he kissed the spot he’d just traced with his finger, looking up at you with pleading brown eyes “can you do that for me?”

“yes” you replied almost immediately, seemingly more desperate than before. your hands began tugging at his shirt, helping him pull it off. joe was equally as desperate, your confirmation was enough for him to let that show. he finished unbuttoning your dress, letting it slide of your shoulders so you were left half naked. joe smiled, “you look so fucking good” he breathed, his bare chest to yours as you fidgeted with his belt. his hands trailed from your chest to in between your thighs, his knuckles balling up and running over your already damp panties.

“fuck- joe” your hands stopped unbuckling his belt and instead just gripped onto the loopholes of his jeans. your head leaned back, resting on the fridge door. “shh.. you just stopped crying, don’t start again” he laughed softly, his fingers curling under the lace fabric and pulling them down. his fingers ran over your folds, causing you to whimper again.

“it’s nice to know i have this affect on you” he hummed, his thumb beginning to rub your clit. he watched your reactions, responding to each of your moans. “that feel good?” his voice was quiet but low as he slipped in two fingers at once, pumping them slow, then fast. “so good” you cried, eyes rolling back as you felt a third finger join the previous two.

“joe- oh my god-“ your hands moved from his belt to grip his shoulders. “that’s it, good girl” his rough, tired voice praised. “come on.. cum for me.. please” he rasped in your ear before you did just that. for a few seconds, it felt like you were in heaven, like joe had brought you there. that feeling was followed by an insane amount of panting and sighs as you came down from your high.

joe simply retracted his fingers, licked them clean, and kissed your forehead. then he gave you that stupid smile of his and said “i’m glad you came tonight.”

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loonysbarn · 19 days ago

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My favorite boy Rhett🦬, and 🌽. With the prompts of dating the bad boy/secret romance!

Congrats on 3k Leah! 🫶🫶🩷🎉🎉

dog days | rhett abbott

❝ i tried so hard to quit you, like i promised my momma i would ❞

warnings: 18+ mdni, religious themes, smut, "but daddy i love him!" trope

🍓 part of my summer picnic event 🍓

as the local pastor's daughter, you were expected to marry a man in the church. a good, christian boy who loved jesus more than he loved you. there were a few eligible men in the church who fit that exact criteria. the new youth pastor, wide-eyed and hopeful of finding a wife. the choir director's son, who was fresh out of bible college and wanted twelve children.

but you didn't want any of them. you only had eyes for one man. one dirty, rotten, no good man. at least, that was what your parents would say. but when you looked at rhett abbott, you didn't see something rotten. you saw only goodness. kindness. respect. unlike the men your family wanted you to marry, rhett listened to your wishes. he didn't expect you to be his submissive, obedient little wife who bore him dozens of children. no, he saw you for who you were.

it was no surprise when you found yourself head over heels in love with him.

he wasn't a church going man. but his momma was there every sunday, while her husband lingered in the back, clearly only there because she'd asked him to be. you always stood at the door, per your father's request, to greet the parishoners every sunday. cecilia abbott always gave you a hearty handshake and a warm "good to see ya!" and you always got the sense that she meant it. her young granddaughter, amy, always gave you a hug. her husband, royal, always gave you a nod, a friendly twinkle in his eye, though standoffish as he was.

you liked the family. not because you knew them well, but because they were just the kind of people that were likable. the kind of people one might feel themselves led to get to know better. which was why you found yourself at their home one tuesday morning, basket of homemade jam, butter, and freshly baked bread tucked into the crook of your elbow. you expected cecilia to answer the door, or maybe even amy. but you were surprised when the door open to reveal a young man. tall, broad shouldered, and handsome as could be. scruff shadowed his jaw. his eyes told a story, as if he had seen some things. endured a few hard punches life threw at him.

he looked surprised to see you standing there on the porch, in your unassuming sundress that swept over your thighs when the late spring wind blew past. his mouth curved into a curious smile. "mornin'. you're the preacher's gal, right?" his voice was low. easy. smooth like golden honey.

you were caught slightly off guard over the fact that he knew you. "yes! i didn't know cecilia had kids." then you blanched slightly. "i-i mean, obviously she had kids, since she's got a granddaughter. but i just didn't realize she had...sons." inwardly, you cringed at yourself. great introduction. fantastic.

rhett smirked. "yeah, well, she probably don't talk about us much at church. must figure the good lord'll hit the place with a bolt of lightning if she does." his tone was light. testing the waters, to see if his bad joke would land with you, or if he'd overstepped and upset the preacher's daughter.

you laughed softly, shaking your head. "oh, that's not true. and i promise no mysterious lightning bolts would fall out of the sky if you ever decided to attend our church."

he hummed. "i ain't the church goin' type. nothin' against folks who are. just ain't my thing."

you nodded in understanding. "i get it. it's not for everyone."

that struck him, and his lashes fluttered as he looked at you, taken aback. he would've expected the preacher's daughter to be pushy. to tell him he needed to come to church, lest his soul end up in hell. but you didn't tell him that. grateful that you respected his wishes, he changed the subject, nodding toward the basket resting on the crook of your arm. "whatcha got there?"

you startled slightly, as if you'd just remembered why you'd come. "oh! sorry, this is just some goodies i made for your family. strawberry jam, butter, some homemade bread." you held the basket toward him, heart fluttering at the awe that softened his face.

once again, his lashes fluttered, and the apples of his cheeks rounded as he smiled. and what a pure smile it was. "wow. that's...that's really nice of ya. i'm sure this'll be gone real quick, all of us love bread."

you beamed at him. "i'm happy to hear that. there's plenty more where that came from, so, if you ever want more, i'll be happy to make it!"

"thank you. that's real sweet." his gaze lingered on you, as he reached out to take the basket. when his fingers brushed yours, warmth rushed up your arm.

neither of you realized it then, but that was the beginning of what would become a whirlwind romance.

the next time you saw him, it was at the rodeo. cecilia had invited you, and you decided to take her up on the offer. your parents came with you, and the three of you sat in the same row alongside the abbotts. this type of setting most definitely wasn't your parents' scene. according to your father, it was "worldly". but they came anyway, because it was the polite thing to do, since the abbotts had invited them.

when rhett was announced over the loudspeakers as the next rider, your heart caught in your throat. it didn't leave until he'd landed safely on the ground. thrumming with adrenaline. whirling around to look at the scoreboard, to see if he'd made good time. when his named soared to the top of the board, the crowd cheered. you found yourself jumping to your feet, cheering his name along with them.

afterward, you waited in the parking lot with your parents and the rest of the abbotts, waiting for rhett to come out so that you could congratulate him. when he came sauntering out into the lot, beaming from ear to ear, your breath caught in your chest. he was beautiful. glowing with pride. and that moment was what started your descent toward falling head over heels for him.

"you came!" he said, when he saw you, grin playing at his mouth.

"of course! wouldn't miss it," you assured him. his lingering gaze made your tummy flutter with butterflies.

as you followed your parents back to the truck, your mother murmured something about the abbott boy being promiscuous and sinful. something stung within you at the way she spoke about him, with disdain. she was merely repeating the gossip she'd heard. funny, when the bible clearly spoke against it. however, in your experience, christians were the worst gossips. your mother, the pastor's wife, was not exempt from that, it seemed.

ignoring your parents' feelings about rhett, you decided to attend every one of his rides from that night on. you were always there, whether your family attended or not. in the stands, cheering him on, steady and constant. and that was not lost on rhett. you would wait around at the end of the night to greet him, whether he had a good ride or not. eventually, you started going out to celebrate after his successful rides. he was the one who shyly suggested going out for ice cream that first time, as he wasn't about to take the preacher's daughter to a dingy old bar.

you shared a chocolate milkshake at odessa's diner, sitting side by side, knees touching. you laughed at his stupid jokes. you gave him your full attention. and he realized, as he reached out to wipe a drip of chocolate milkshake from the corner of your mouth, that he was falling for you. that night, he kissed you for the first time. he drove you back to where your car was still parked on rodeo grounds, and he stared at you for a moment, eyes burning with shyness and want. "i...i'd really like to kiss you right now," he breathed. but he didn't want to overstep.

"and i'd really like you to kiss me," you echoed. he leaned across the bench seat of his truck, and his lips met yours. tenderly. sweetly. not rushed or salacious. he didn't take, he let you give. let you lead. when you deepened the kiss, he melted into it. when your hands went to his hair, fingers weaving into the thick strands, his chest burned, his heart hammered.

when you parted, you were both breathless. your eyes were wide. his ears had gone red. "i...i should be getting home," you whispered. but you didn't want to leave. you wanted to stay here, in his truck, and kiss him until the sun rose. but you knew that you wouldn't be able to stop things from going further. the weight of desire had already settled in your belly, warm and not entirely unfamiliar.

"yeah," rhett agreed, voice wrecked. "d-drive safe." watching you leave broke something open within him. he wanted you to stay, but he didn't want to be too forward. it was a wonder you were even attracted to the likes of him. you were so good, and he was so...well, he was rhett abbott, who'd been not so subtly labeled as the town whore. the man who'd been through countless buckle bunnies. but that wasn't the case. not really. he let them believe it anyway, because it was easier than correcting them.

but you? he didn't want you to think of him that way. he didn't want you to see him as used, damaged goods. he wanted you to know that he had so much love to give. that he would respect you and your body, that he wouldn't just use you and toss you aside. he wasn't that kind of man.

thankfully, you didn't see him that way. you thought he was wonderful. a little rough around the edges, but his heart was gold. that was why you kept coming back. why you watched every ride. why you came to the abbott household every tuesday to drop off more bread and jam. and soon, you found yourself seated on his front porch, each with your own respective slices of toast with butter and jam.

you kept looking at him, and he felt like the luckiest man on planet earth. he found himself speaking before he could chicken out. earnest words that spilled from his mouth like water from a spring. "look, i know i don't bring much to the table. i ain't even worthy to breathe the same air as you. but i really like you, and i...i wanted to ask ya to be my girl. if you want to, that is." he held your gaze, fighting the urge to look away. he couldn't do that. you deserved eye contact.

something painful flashed in your chest, because you knew, if you said yes, you would have to keep it a secret. your parents would never approve. the church folk would be horrified. so you leaned forward, placing your hands over his own.

"i would love to be your girl. but i should tell you, i'm not in a good place, as far as my family, and the church goes. i can't tell them about you yet. we'd have to keep our relationship a secret, because if they found out...they'd be awful to you, rhett. i don't want you to have to deal with their judgment."

he swallowed, throat bobbing, eyes watering slightly as he shook his head. "i don't care about all them. i only care about you. they can say what they want. won't change how i feel about you."

your heart ached. "i just need time, okay? i have to figure out how to tell them about you."

rhett looked at you in earnest and said, "do what you gotta do. i know it can't be easy to figure out."

you should have given each other space after that. you should have allowed yourself to figure things out. yet, you found yourself returning to him. seeking him out, because you wanted to be near him. and, somehow, a secret relationship ensued. you kept it from your family. from the church. from everyone.

in a way, it was thrilling. exhilarating. you gave yourself to him in every way. he was your first everything. part of you felt ridiculous. he'd had experiences before you did. he'd lost his virginity when he was seventeen. and here you were, having lived a sheltered life, where purity was emphasized as the most sacred thing you could have. but you were so tired of minimizing yourself. so tired of being careful and perfect and everything a good pastor's daughter should be. so you threw caution to the wind, and you let rhett have you. all of you. and he handled you in a way that surprised you.

it wasn't that you'd expected him to be rough and inconsiderate. but you didn't expect him to be so attentive. the first time he had you, it was in the bed of his truck. blankets spread over the cool metal, in the middle of a moonlit field. you'd sneaked out of the house that night, though it felt silly to admit. you were an adult, after all. you could come and go as you pleased. but you were still trying to figure out who you were, and what you could do, out from under your parents' roof. but right then, spread out beneath rhett as the warm summer breeze rippled across the prairie, you didn't care about anything else but this.

his lips, hot and reverent against your skin. tongue swirling around your peaked nipples, hands exploring, but never taking. "you're so beautiful," he rasped against your skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake. his words were so sincere. he wasn't just saying it because he thought it was something you wanted to hear. he said it because he meant it. he was in awe of you, and your beauty. hardly knew what to do with himself when you spread your pretty thighs and whined for his heavy, swollen cock.

he fucked you achingly slow. savoring every moment. whispering praises. how good you felt, how he loved the sounds you made. you were his pretty little flower, and he was so enamored, so amazed that you would give him this honor. you, the preacher's daughter, allowing the filthy, rotten cowboy between your legs, buried deep, claiming you. and you wanted it, you begged for it. no one else was worthy of being inside you but him.

you didn't want any of the men your family wanted for you. you only wanted him. rhett, and his mouth that spoke profanity, but not to you. rhett, and his strong hands that were always dirty, but not when he touched you. rhett, with his eyes that only looked upon you, and no one else. because there was no one else. no other woman. just you. always only you.

that night was the first of many. you would find yourself in rhett's arms countless times. in the bed of his truck, in the loft of the barn, and, on a rainy night, he invited you into his room. his bed was small, but you made it work. you found yourself on top of him, body sheathed in the warm glow cast by his bedside lamp. he gazed up at you like you were the goddess of love herself, sent down to earth to bless him. his large hands splayed over your hips as he guided you. reverently. lovingly. you had to be quiet, because the rest of his family was in the house, but it proved difficult when he began to cant his hips up into yours, pulling broken whimpers from you. he had to shove his fingers into your mouth just to keep you quiet.

though it was hurried and you were forced to stay quiet, it was still filled with love and tenderness and everything your soul had been craving your whole life, you curled around him that night, after both of you were sated. bodies naked, pressed against each other in the close quarters of his bed. you brushed his curls away from his face and breathed, "i love you."

and as you drifted off, you heard him murmur, "i love you too."

but that tender quiet was shattered the next morning when incessant pounding rippled through the house, the source of it standing behind the front door. you woke with a start, gasping sharply, because you knew what day it was. sunday. how could you have been so foolish? so careless? you knew you were expected to be at church that morning. it was already past nine, and the service would begin at ten fifteen. you were supposed to help set things up for sunday service. naturally, your father would come looking for you.

rhett woke with a start, arm tightening protectively around you. he could see how frightened you were. see the shame on your face. "it's my dad. it has to be," you whispered.

"i can go talk to him. tell him you're not here," rhett offered. cautious. but there was something in his eyes. danger, perhaps. the desire to protect you.

too late. you already heard raised voices downstairs. you both bolted out of bed, and you searched for your clothes, haphazardly throwing them on, hands shaking as you did. rhett had just managed to get his jeans on and his belt buckled when the door swung open. instinctively, he moved to stand in front of you, broad shoulders shielding you. beyond your angry father was cecilia, who looked equally as angry, but not at you.

"pastor, you can't just come storming through my house!" she exclaimed.

"i'm taking my daughter home!" he insisted.

"she doesn't have to go anywhere," rhett countered. voice low. eerily calm.

"you don't get a say in this. you're the one who led her astray," your dad snapped.

at that, you reached out, grabbing rhett's forearm, stepping forward. you wouldn't stand for him to be insulted in front of you. because of you. "dad, don't. he didn't lead me anywhere that i didn't willingly want to go." your hand slid down to intertwine with rhett's. pledging your loyalty to the man you loved, because it was about damn time you stood up for yourself.

your father stared, incredulous. "you don't know what you're saying!"

"yes i do! i love him, and i want to be with him. i'm sorry i didn't tell you and mom, but you made me feel like i couldn't. but it's time i made my own decisions. and being with rhett is part of that. i won't leave him just because you tell me i should."

"you're going to throw away all your mother and i taught you, for some sinful, worldly man?"

you squeezed rhett's hand, anger snapping up your spine. "he's a good man. and even if he wasn't, doesn't jesus call us to love sinners, and not condemn them? i love rhett, and nothing you could ever do or say will change that." your tone left no room for argument. you stood your ground, though your heart pounded in your chest. never in a million years did you think you'd be standing up to your father. yet here you were, defending the man you loved, uncaring of what the consequences will be.

"you're making a mistake," your dad tried to reason.

"for the first time in my life, i'm actually not making a mistake. i've made my choice, and i know it's the right one."

your dad looked like he wanted to say so much more. but the clock was ticking. he had a sunday service to attend to. "this conversation isn't over," he finally said. but it was. you both knew that.

when he left, with cecilia trailing after him, clearly unhappy with the way he had stormed into the house, your body sagged against rhett's. "i'm so sorry," you whispered. "this whole mess could've been avoided if i'd just told them about you from the get go."

he turned your chin up toward him, already shaking his head. "no. they would've reacted the same, no matter when you told 'em."

he was right. with a deep sigh, you wrapped your arms around his waist. "all those things he said about you...i'm sorry. i want you to know i don't see you that way, alright?"

he nodded. "i know, darlin'."

you let him kiss you, before you brought your hands up to cup his scruffy cheeks. "we'll figure all this out. i promise."

"hey, i'm with you. no matter what happens, it's you and me."

—

*leaving this open-ended because i'm sort of considering writing a full length series on this!

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loonysbarn · 19 days ago

Note

thinking about rhett railing you in his truck during your lunch breaks 😌 he definitely cums in you before sending you back with a kiss on the cheek and a shit-eating grin

“and here i thought you wanted a romantic lunch date,” you found yourself teasing, as rhett pulled into a secluded area in the parking lot of your work place. just far enough into the woods that no one would know what you were doing, unless of course they took a closer look. beside you, rhett grinned knowingly as he threw the gear in park. “i wan’ have you for lunch,” came his reply. there was a dark glint in his eyes. hungry, but not the kind of hunger that a good sandwich could satiate. no, he wanted something else. and you were more than happy to give it to him.

shifting in your seat, you held eye contact with him as you leaned in close. “wanna know somethin’?” you murmured, walking your fingers up his bicep. “hm?” rumbling low in his throat. it sounded more like a growl that a tiger might make before pouncing on its prey. “i’ve been wet for you all morning, thinking about this.” it was the truth, after all. when he told you he’d stop by for your lunch break, there had been an electric charged meaning behind his words. all morning, you had been filled with anticipation, imagining what he was going to do to you once he got his hands on you.

his eyes narrowed, mouth parting. “yeah? you soak through your underwear?” he asked. you hummed. “why don’t you find out?” you moved to unbutton your pants, and he watched as you shoved them down to the floorboards, before you grabbed his hand, placing it between your thighs. instantly, he felt it. the wet fabric of your underwear, barely concealing your needy little cunt from him. you gripped his forearm, staring into his eyes. “please…i need your dick so bad. i feel so empty.” you took on that innocent-sounding tone of voice that he loved so much, and that was what did him in. “c’mere,” he growled.

it was a scramble of limbs and bodies. the squeak of worn car leather. the clink of his obnoxious belt buckle as your hands rushed to get it open. “wait, ‘ve got…shit,” he gasped when your hips rolled against his own. “i’ve got lube in the glovebox.” fumbling, you reached over, yanking open the compartment and shoving your hand inside. it took a moment, but soon, your fingers wrapped around a packet of lube. you retrieved it, victorious, before you settled on rhett’s lap once again, straddling him. he watched as you wrapped your hand around his cock, before you allowed the lube to spill onto the hard, blushing shaft. he was mesmerized as you loosely ran your hand alongside him, smearing the lubricant over his heated skin.

there was no time for teasing. no time for taking it slow. you had about twenty minutes until you needed to return to work, without looking suspicious. it was either fast and hard, or none at all. steadying yourself by placing your hands on his broad shoulders, you watched as he reached down, his own large hand stroking his shaft once, twice, before he aligned himself with you. “g’ on, sit on it, baby,” he urged. obediently, you began to sink down on him. slowly at first, hissing at the stretch, eyes fluttering shut. god, you’d never tire of the feeling of his thick cock sliding into you. it was addictive. and once you’d taken as much as you could, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his own as you allowed yourself to adjust. rhett grunted softly, hands coming up to grip your hips. “fuck, honey. lemme know when you’re ready. ‘ve gotta make it quick.”

you kissed him lazily, mouth hot and open. “i’m ready,” you breathed, “fuck me, rhett.” that was all he needed. holding you in place, he began to shift his hips upward, slowly at first, but quickly building a rhythm. determined to find that perfect angle, he experimented with different strokes, but the moment he nudged your hips forward, he hit the spot he was looking for. “oh my god!” you wailed, lurching forward. “right there!” he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face once again. anchoring his feet against the floor, he used the strength of his powerful quads to push up into you. “yeah? that’s your spot, ain’t it, girl?” taunting. cocky. and the thing was, he had every right to be cocky. because he knew exactly how to hit it. his dick wasn’t just for show. he could use it so effectively he’d have you seeing stars soon enough.

above him, your eyes were rolling back already. the windows had fogged up. the force of his thrusts jolted the truck. but you didn’t care. not when he kept hitting that spongey little spot within you. the one that made you sob out his name and leave claw marks on his back. “takin’ it so well baby,” he breathlessly praised. the only response you could muster was a nod, your eyes still squeezed shut. god, he felt so good. the power in his movements jarred you in a way that made your eyes roll back in your head, body falling forward against his, mouth open and drooling against his shoulder as he had his way with you.

“touch yourself for me,” he gritted in your ear. obeying, as if on auto pilot, your hand slipped between your bodies, fingers searching for your sensitive little clit. as soon as you connected, you squealed lowly, shuddering in his arms. the race against the clock only served to heighten the sensations you felt. it sped your biological response along, building and building until you were seconds away from reaching a crescendo. “o-oh my g—ah! fuck! i-i’m already cl-close!” you stuttered, and when rhett offered a particularly deep thrust, you couldn’t help the shriek that ripped itself from your throat.

“c’mon now, honey. your little pussy’s just squeezin’ me so tight. be a good girl and come all over this dick,” he urged, tone rough with desire. you were almost there. almost there. almost there. several more deep thrusts. your fingers working more deliberately against that swollen bundle. closer and closer and closer until, to your utter shock, you were coming around his cock, trembling like a leaf against him as you fell apart, crying out his name into the cab of the truck. he held you close, groaning breathlessly as you clenched around him like a vice. pleasure crackled at the base of his spine, threatening to consume him whole. fingers holding your hips in an almost bruising grip, he clenched his jaw and let his head thunk back against the seat. “fuck, fuck, fuck. jesus, darlin’,” he swore. he couldn’t hold it anymore. it hit him just as you came down from your own peak.

moaning high in his throat, he pushed his hips into yours, cock sliding deeper still, before he succumbed to it all. “yeah, that’s it,” he gasped, as he flooded your still spasming pussy with his sticky spend. “take it, baby. take every fuckin’ drop.” and you did, whimpering at the feeling of being so full. soon, it began to seep out around the edges of his cock, dripping down to his pulsing balls. and as you both floated down, you found yourself suddenly wishing that you didn’t have to head back into work, because that meant you would have to part from him, and it would leave you feeling empty after he’d just made you feel so full. even so, you found yourself smiling sleepily as you murmured, “mm, that was so fucking good. i love your cock.”

that pulled a laugh out of rhett as he kissed your nose. “your pussy’s pretty great, too,” he teased. you settled into him for a moment, face nuzzled against his neck, where he smelled like cologne and sweat and something so masculine and soft all at once. you left a kiss against his pulse point before you pulled back to reluctantly check the clock. five minutes until you had to be back. “damn,” you said in disappointment. you had wished to stay here a little longer and enjoy the feeling of his cock softening within you. but it was time to part ways. so, you very carefully pulled back, hissing softly as he eased himself out of you. “i’ll take care of ya proper when you get home tonight,” he assured you with a kiss to the corner of your mouth. then, he retrieved your panties from where they’d landed on the gearshift. he eyed them for a moment before he smirked at you, handing them back.

“wan’ you to walk back into work with my cum inside you,” he said. “nobody’ll know, but you will. you’ll think about what a dirty fuckin’ girl you are, walkin’ around with your man’s cum drippin’ outta your pussy.” his words made you whimper involuntarily, and you nodded as you plucked your underwear from his hand. “o-okay.” he had to admit, he found great satisfaction in watching you gingerly slide out of his truck, once your pants were back in place. you took a few uncertain steps forward, clearly still feeling the affects of what he’d just done to you. he thought of you walking into work with his cum smearing between your thighs, and his dick nearly twitched to life again in his jeans. “i’ll see y’ later, baby,” he murmured with a smile. “and don’t worry about it all leakin’ out. i’ll just fill you up all over again tonight.”

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loonysbarn · 19 days ago

Text

goodbye kisses

pairing: Rhett Abbott x reader

warnings: none

summary: the morning after a bad fight with rhett you don’t give him his goodbye kiss.

word count: .8k

You woke up without Rhett beside you for the first time in years. The night before you had instructed him to sleep on the couch, but waking up without his arms around you still felt uncomfortable. You sighed.

The fight had been bad. The worst you ever had. And it was your first since being married. You had made it a year without having one, which you were informed by all your friends was a very long honeymoon period.

Earlier that night Rhett had gotten thrown off his bull in the first round. He had been immediately rushed off to the hospital. He was fine. The doctor said he had two broken ribs and a mild concussion. When you got home that night you had said you would stay home with him for the week, but Rhett had told you he didn’t need it. He said he would just keep working. You spent the next two hours fighting about how he didn’t take care of himself enough. It turned into a fight about how you didn’t support his career and then a fight about how bull riding was going to kill him.

“You always want me to stop! You’ve never supported me!” Rhett yelled.

“That’s not true and you know it!” You spit back. “I go to every single one of your competitions.”

“Because you’re scared! Not because you care about it!” Rhett yelled.

“Of course I’m scared, Rhett!” You shouted. “You could die and you never let me help you when you’re hurt!”

“That’s because I don’t need you!”

That had ended the fight. You had left the room without another word and slammed the bedroom door behind you.

You took a deep breath as you headed out of your bedroom for the kitchen. Rhett was standing at the counter with breakfast made as he waited for you. You stopped in the doorway when you saw him.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Rhett called hopefully. You stared at him for a moment.

“I don’t need breakfast. There’s always donuts in the teacher’s lounge on Fridays,” you said. Rhett’s whole posture deflated.

“I thought you were going to stay home with me,” he said.

“I thought you didn’t need me,” you responded. You gathered your things by the door. “Bye, Rhett.” You left without another word. Rhett stood in the kitchen in complete crisis.

You didn’t kiss him goodbye. That had never happened before. Rhett started rushing to clean up so he could go after you but immediately gasped in pain when he moved too fast. He almost started rushing again, but paused. He was doing exactly the thing you hated.

Rhett took his time getting ready, being sure not to stretch himself too far. Rhett called Royal to drop him off at your school. He waved at the receptionist and then made his way back to your classroom. He opened the door and looked at you, a small smile on his face. You looked at him and then at your class full of second graders. They were in the midst of a reading assignment. You reluctantly rose from your desk and stepped into the hall with him.

“What?” You asked in a whisper.

“You didn’t kiss me goodbye,” Rhett said. You screwed your eyebrows together.

“Yeah, I know—”

“And I’m sorry,” Rhett continued. “And I need you. More than I need anything.” His hands came to rest gently on your hips. “I’m sorry,” he said again. You sighed.

“Me too,” you said, letting your hands fall against his chest. Rhett smiled.

“Please come home and take care of me,” Rhett requested.

“You don’t have to do it just to humor me,” you said.

“I’m not. It’s for me. I love it when you take care of me,” he said. “I just don’t always think I deserve it.” You gave him a sympathetic look before leaning up on your toes to kiss him. There was a small commotion behind the door. You looked over and saw a pair of eyes peeking through the crack in the door.

“Mrs. Abbott’s kissing the cowboy!” You heard a much too loud whisper. Rhett chuckled.

“Can you watch them while I go get someone to cover the class?” You asked. Rhett’s eyes went wide.

“You want me to walk into that room after that and let all those kids question me?” He asked.

“Yes,” you said. “It’ll be good practice for when we have ours.” Rhett beamed.

“Will making them be part of your caretaking?” He asked. You shook your head in disbelief.

“No,” you said with a smile. “You have two broken ribs.” Rhett groaned. “Don’t whine, you know I’m right.”

“Can I at least have the goodbye kiss you stole from me?” He asked. You giggled.

“You just got one,” you said.

“That was a makeup kiss,” Rhett said. “I want my goodbye kiss too.” You rolled your eyes before giving him a short peck. You started to release him to go find a substitute, but his hands stayed on your hips.

“You’re leaving me again,” Rhett said. “I get another goodbye kiss.”

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loonysbarn · 19 days ago

Text

absolutely love this

Shoulda Knocked (NSFW///MDNI)

A/N: hm bc y’all asked. DONT BLAME ME OKAY. It’s not my fault. Warnings: You will need holy water. Lock the damn door next time. (Also Rhett says “my girl” and you will lose your mind.) Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated ☀️

The plates were still in the sink. Syrup-crusted forks soaking in lukewarm water. Somewhere on the ranch, a screen door banged shut and bootsteps faded toward the fields. Morning sunlight slanted across the tile, catching dust in the air, slow and soft and golden.

You licked sugar off your thumb and caught Rhett’s stare from across the kitchen.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low. Warning. You blinked, all false innocence. “Don’t what?”

He stood slowly. Chair scraping. His shadow stretched long across the floor. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.” You tilted your head, mouth twitching. “Who says I won’t finish it?”

And that was all it took.

Two long strides and you were caged in his arms, your back against the counter, breath stolen right from your chest. His mouth was on yours in seconds—hungry, unrelenting—like he’d been starving since sunrise.

You laughed against his lips. "Thought we had chores." "Let the chores wait."

—

You made it to his room half-dressed and laughing, your bare legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth on your throat. The door slammed halfway shut, bounced, and stayed open just enough to doom you both.

He laid you back on his bed like you were breakable—then tore your shirt off like you weren’t.

“You in such a damn rush this morning?” you teased, breath hitching when his fingers slid between your thighs.

He didn’t answer. Just groaned when he found you already wet.

“You know what you do to me?” he muttered, mouth hot on your jaw. “Walkin’ around my house like that—in my damn shirt, no bra, those little shorts—barely wearin’ a damn thing—lookin’ at me like you want me to wreck you.”

Your back arched when his fingers pressed deeper, rough and sure.

“Maybe I do,” you breathed. “You gonna do it or keep talking about it?” His laugh was low, almost cruel. “Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll make sure you can’t walk to dinner.”

—

His belt hit the floor. You were flipped over like nothing—face down, knees pressed into the mattress, shirt still on but hanging off your shoulders. He didn’t bother with slow. Just spit on his hand, dragged it over himself, and pushed inside in one long, deep thrust that knocked the air out of you.

Your hands clawed at the sheets.

“Shh,” Rhett said, voice thick. “Gotta be quiet, darlin’.”

You nodded, cheek pressed to the blanket, and gasped when he drove in again. Harder. Deeper.

“God—Rhett—” “Quiet,” he warned again, but didn’t slow down. His hand pressed between your shoulder blades, holding you in place.

Outside, birds chirped. A tractor started somewhere in the distance.

Inside, your world narrowed to the drag of his cock, the creak of the bed, his name rasping out of your throat like prayer.

He bent over you, breath warm against your ear. “Told you not to tease me,” he murmured. “Told you I’d ruin you.”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

—

And that’s when it happened.

The creak of the hallway floorboard. The slow, careless push of a hand against the door.

And then:

“Rhett, you seen my—OH WHAT THE FU—”

You froze.

Rhett didn’t.

He twisted around just enough to yell, voice hoarse and furious:

“KNOCK, PERRY!”

Perry made a sound like a dying animal. The door slammed shut so hard the frame shook.

You collapsed face-first into the bed, mortified.

“Oh my god.” “Oh my god.”

Rhett didn’t move. Still buried inside you. Still hard.

“…You gonna get off me or…?” “Nope,” he said, way too calm. “You think I’m stoppin’ just ‘cause Perry can’t mind his own goddamn business?” You twisted to glare at him. “You’re sick.” He grinned. “You love it.”

Rhett was still inside you. Still hard. Still cocky.

You tried to pull away and yelped when his hands yanked your hips right back into him.

“Rhett—” He leaned over your back, kissed your shoulder, your spine, the dip of your waist. “Don’t play shy now. You were beggin’ five seconds ago.” “I wasn’t—” “You were.” His fingers slid under your jaw, turned your face so he could kiss the corner of your mouth. “Still are.”

Outside the room, the floor creaked—then heavy footsteps stomped down the hall. A door slammed somewhere near the kitchen. You prayed Perry didn’t walk into a wall on his way out.

Inside, your body betrayed you. Heat crawling back in. Your thighs trembling.

And Rhett knew it.

“You gonna let me finish, baby?” he whispered, voice gravel and honey. “Or you wanna be real sorry tonight?”

You swallowed hard. Nodded once.

“That’s my girl.”

—

This time was slower.

Not gentle—Rhett was never gentle—but worshipful in that way only he could be. Teeth grazing skin. One hand under your belly, lifting your hips just right. His other arm hooked around your ribs, palm splayed between your breasts, holding you tight.

He fucked you like you were his. Like no one else had the right. Like he didn’t care if the whole damn town knew.

“Still so wet,” he muttered, dragging his mouth along your shoulder. “You gonna come for me again?” “I—I already—” “Again.”

You sobbed his name into the sheets.

And he chased your second high like a man possessed.

The bed creaked louder now. No point pretending anymore. You were past shame. Past words. You clawed at the sheets, gasped his name, let him use you how he wanted because God, you wanted it too.

Rhett’s breath hitched. His grip on you tightened.

“You’re mine,” he grunted. “Say it.”

You did.

And then you broke apart, crying out into the mattress as he spilled into you with a curse, hips still pumping through it, chasing every last wave.

—

The silence after was obscene.

You lay there boneless, sweaty, mouth open against the blanket.

Rhett finally pulled out with a groan and flopped down beside you, chest rising and falling like he just ran six miles. One hand dragged down his face. The other found your thigh and squeezed.

“Shit,” he said, half-laughing. “I think I saw God.” You groaned. “I think Perry did too.”

Rhett snorted.

You rolled over and slapped his chest. “He’s never going to look me in the eye again.” “Good,” Rhett said, smug. “Means he won’t try nothin’.” “He’s your brother.” “He also needs to learn how to knock.”

—

You didn’t leave Rhett’s room for a solid hour.

Mostly because your legs weren’t working right, and partly because Perry might still be in the hallway clutching a Bible and rocking back and forth.

When you finally crept out, Rhett trailing behind you like a satisfied menace, the ranch house had gone suspiciously quiet.

Until you heard it: the unmistakable sound of Perry slamming every cupboard door in the kitchen, pretending to do something useful.

You paused in the hallway. Rhett reached over and gave your ass a full-on grab.

“Don’t,” you hissed. He smirked. “What? You’re walkin’ like you just got ruined. It’s cute.” “Rhett.” “What?” “Do not ever call me cute after your brother caught us mid—mid-—” He leaned in, brushed his lips against your ear. “Mid what, baby?”

You shoved him, face burning.

—

Dinner that night was... a war zone.

Royal was telling some story about cattle feed. Cecilia was humming while scooping potatoes.

Perry sat across the table from you.

He did not look up once.

Not when you said hello. Not when you passed the cornbread. Not when Rhett intentionally reached for the gravy boat across your chest and smirked the whole time.

You chewed in silence, eyes darting anywhere but the man who had seen everything.

Cecilia finally looked between you and Perry. Then at Rhett.

Her spoon paused mid-scoop.

“…Everything alright with y’all?”

Perry coughed violently into his napkin.

You nearly dropped your fork.

Rhett, absolutely unbothered, said, “Peachy.”

Perry stared down at his mashed potatoes like they owed him a refund.

Cecilia narrowed her eyes just a little. She knew. You knew she knew. Women like her always knew.

Royal, completely oblivious, just kept eating.

—

The Day After

You walked into the kitchen half an hour after Rhett, hoping the worst had passed.

It hadn’t.

Perry was already at the table with his coffee, flipping through a tractor catalog like it personally offended him.

The second you stepped into the room, he glanced up—froze—and then got up without a word and dragged his chair to the far end of the table, as if proximity might trigger another trauma flashback.

You blinked.

Rhett didn’t.

He just watched his brother relocate and smiled. Sat down in Perry’s abandoned seat like he was settling into a throne. “You sittin’, or you need help down again?”

You kicked his ankle under the table, heat rising in your face.

Royal, blissfully unaware, looked up from his newspaper. “Everyone sleep alright?” Rhett lifted his mug. “Like a baby.”

Perry choked. Actually choked. Coughed hard enough to slap his own chest.

“You good?” Royal asked. Perry cleared his throat violently. “Swallowed wrong.” “Right,” you muttered, stabbing your fork into your eggs like they were responsible for your humiliation.

Amy came skipping into the kitchen with her hair braided and her mouth already running.

“Uncle Rhett!” Rhett glanced up from his toast. “Yeah, kid?” “Why’d Dad tell me not to go near your room yesterday?”

You stopped chewing.

The world stopped spinning.

Cecilia, halfway through stirring honey into her tea, froze mid-circle.

Rhett, somehow, still didn’t blink. “’Cause I was busy.” Amy plopped into her chair. “Busy doin’ what?”

Perry’s fork clattered against his plate.

Royal looked between everyone like he’d walked into a Western stand-off.

You tried to slide further under the table.

Perry said, a little too sharply, “Eat your damn eggs, Amy.” “I was just askin’…” she grumbled. Rhett leaned back in his chair, eyes cutting toward you. “Guess I should’ve hung a sign.”

You kicked him again. Harder this time.

—

Cornbread Confession

Cecilia was elbow-deep in cornmeal by the time you tiptoed into the kitchen later that afternoon. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, flour smudged across her wrist, and a determined crease sat between her brows as she stirred like the world depended on that cornbread rising just right.

You lingered near the edge of the counter, unsure whether to offer help or disappear. Finally, you cleared your throat and reached for the butter dish. She handed it over without a word.

The silence that followed was thick. Tangible. Like you could spread it on toast.

And then, without looking up, she said evenly, “You know, I raised two boys in this house.”

You froze, butter knife hovering mid-air.

“There ain’t a single wall I haven’t heard through. Pipes too. Even vents. This place carries secrets like air.”

Your hand slipped. The butter knife hit the counter with a loud clink that felt louder than thunder.

Your cheeks flamed. Words scrambled in your head but refused to form.

Cecilia finally looked up. Her gaze landed on you with the weight of a hundred unspoken things.

Not cruel. Not even mad. Just... immensely powerful.

She didn’t sigh. She didn’t smile. She simply handed you the pan, her expression unreadable.

“Oven’s hot.”

You took the pan like it was a holy offering and obeyed in complete silence, your ears ringing, your soul leaving your body.

As you slipped it in, you caught her murmuring under her breath, more amused than annoyed:

“Don’t break his damn back next time.”

—

Barn Breakdown

You spotted Rhett and Perry heading to the barn just before sunset. You weren’t proud of yourself for creeping toward the back window, the screen slightly askew so you could hear.

But you also weren’t sorry.

Perry’s voice carried first, already halfway to explosion.

“You couldn’t just LOCK the goddamn door?” Rhett sounded utterly unfazed. “Didn’t know I needed to. You creepin’ ’round the hall like a feral cat.” “I WAS LOOKIN’ FOR MY DAMN NOTEBOOK!” “You found somethin’ better.” “I FOUND YOUR BARE ASS AND TRAUMA, RHETT.”

There was a pause. You could almost hear Rhett smirking.

“You’re welcome.” Perry’s voice went high enough to send birds scattering from the trees. “You’re disgusting! You defiled that room! You defiled HER!” “She was plenty involved, thank you.” “OH MY—”

Another silence. This one deeper. Darker.

Then came a groan that echoed like a dying ghost through the barn.

“I need holy water. And bleach. And a fuckin’ lobotomy.”

A crash. The barn door slamming hard enough to rattle the horses.

You ducked back into the house like your name was guilt and your sin had just been found out.

—

Royal Connects the Dots

Sunday morning came with too much sun and not enough shame. You were still nursing the bruises—physical, emotional, and reputational—from the last forty-eight hours.

You passed Royal in the hallway, pretending to look busy, clutching a half-empty mug of coffee like it might shield you from eye contact. Rhett was right behind you, freshly showered, shirt half-buttoned, hair slicked back in a way that should be illegal.

Royal glanced up.

Then down at the hickey blooming above your collarbone.

Then at Rhett.

Back to you.

His mouth opened. Paused. Closed.

“…You know what?” he said finally. “I don’t wanna know.” He turned toward the porch, muttering under his breath, “Just don’t break no damn furniture.”

You sipped your coffee and prayed for the floorboards to open.

—

The Call to Church

Cecilia popped her head in after breakfast, lips already pursed like she knew resistance was coming. “Church. Ten minutes. No excuses.”

You were mid-eye roll when Rhett sauntered in behind you, belt buckle shining, smug as sin.

“You’re comin’ with me,” he said, like it was already decided. You blinked. “To church?” “Mhm.” “After everything?” He grinned, the kind of grin that made your insides fold in on themselves. “Figure we both got stuff to repent for.” You scoffed. “You’d catch fire.” He winked. “Only if you sit on my lap.” “Rhett.” “Ma’am?”

You threw a spoon at his head. It hit him. He laughed anyway.

—

Hell in the Pew

You ended up sandwiched between Rhett and Perry in the third pew from the front.

Perry looked like he was doing long division in his head just to dissociate.

Rhett was pressed against your side, thigh to thigh, radiating body heat and bad decisions. He leaned a little closer every time you shifted away.

“Touch me and I’ll castrate you with this hymnal,” you whispered. Rhett leaned in like it was a dare. “Darlin’, we in a house of God.” “Exactly. He’s watchin’.”

The sermon began. The preacher's voice was slow and solemn, echoing through the rafters.

“Today, we speak of temptation. Temptation that may enter our homes, take root in our lives...”

You could feel Rhett’s smirk without even looking.

Perry coughed so hard you thought he might pass out right there in the pew.

—

Communion & Crimes

When the communion tray passed down the row, Rhett took the cracker, sniffed it like he was judging a wine tasting, and leaned toward you.

“Body of Christ,” he murmured. “Tastes a little dry.”

You crushed his foot under your heel.

He yelped.

Perry muttered, “I’m surrounded by heathens.”

—

Post-Service Sinning

Outside the chapel, townsfolk milled about, shaking hands and pretending they hadn’t just been mentally undressing each other during the sermon.

You and Rhett stood on the grass, trying to look normal.

Trying.

The reverend made his way toward you, hand extended, eyes kind.

“It’s always lovely to see young couples in the pews,” he said warmly. “Such a blessing to witness young love.”

You opened your mouth to say something safe, polite, God-fearing.

Rhett beat you to it.

“We’re real blessed, sir.”

You elbowed him so hard in the ribs that he actually choked.

But he didn’t stop smiling.

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loonysbarn · 21 days ago

Text

Got You (Where I Want You)

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You walk in on Bob staring at himself in the mirror.

Warnings: Fluff, with some intimacy thrown in there for good measure, because why the hell not, right? The sweetness is cavity inducing lol

Author’s Note: Had this idea yesterday and had to put pen to paper y’all, I don’t know what the hell got into me that made me push aside my other stuff for this idea, but I liked it too much to not go absolutely bonkers on my keyboard lol…Anyways, enjoy <3

Word Count: 4,785

Subject: FINAL HR WARNING - CONDUCT REVIEW (Walker/Starr Conflict)

From: HR Officer Marshall Greene

“Agents Walker and Starr are now under internal review for insubordination, hostile communication, and repeated disregard of team mediation protocols. One more infraction and we’ll initiate temporary removal from field rotation. Val has been informed. There will be no further email warnings.”

Walker (Reply All):

“Good to know HR thinks performance under pressure is ‘hostile communication.’ No wonder no one trusts leadership anymore.”

Ava (Reply All):

“Glad we agree that nobody trusts you.”

Yelena (Reply To: Ava and Walker):

“I swear if you get us all sent to HR group therapy again we are going to leave you both at the next extraction site.”

You choked on your own laugh, face half-buried in your pillow as your tablet buzzed again. Notification after notification trickled in like popcorn kernels catching heat–erratic, chaotic, and loud as hell. The entire thread was spiralling quickly, and all you could do was watch the digital tornado unfold before your very eyes. You sat up quickly, nearly dropping the tablet in your lap as you scrolled through the influx of new messages. One leg was tucked under you, while the other bounced with that familiar blend of amusement and secondhand dread.

Ava’s spelling had deteriorated into pure adrenaline–half her words missing vowels, full of heat and fury and thinly veiled threats. Walker had officially gone full defensive, slinging phrases like “operational leadership failure” and “compromised team integrity” like he was writing a dissertation for Val.

You snorted as Yelena replied again but to everyone this time with a simple:

“You guys are literally down the hall from each other, there’s no need to continue to document the arguing, just kill each other now.”

It was definitely a full-blown HR meltdown, and it was definitely going to warrant group therapy again, but the thread was just too good to keep to yourself.

Your thumb hovered over the screen for one more second, then you grinned, tossing the tablet to the side of the bed, because you knew exactly who would enjoy this as much as you.

Bob.

He was never in these threads–more because he didn’t even think to check them anyways. He was never mentioned, never cc’d. He just floated above the chaos like a gentle cloud of soft-voiced concern. He was never involved enough to be a direct problem, but he was always tuned in enough to notice when issues were brewing. He never participated in the drama, but he loved hearing about it. Only from you, though. Only when you read it out loud with your overly expressive hand gestures and dramatic reenactments–like you were performing Shakespeare in the park…But only for him.

It was a tradition. A rhythm that only belonged to you and Bob alone, because every time a thread decided to spiral into a tailspin of arguing, you sought him out immediately.

Sometimes it was in the kitchen over cereal. Sometimes it was on the roof, sitting hip to hip with your legs dangling in the wind. Sometimes it was huddled on opposite ends of the couch with your legs draped over his lap…And sometimes–like right now–it meant running to his room like you were delivering urgent news straight from the battlefield.

You glanced down at yourself–sports bra, and underwear–and let out a low huff. Bob had seen you like this before, technically. That’s what came with the territory of shared safehouses, mission recovery stations, and walking around the compound late at night when you thought nobody else was awake. Those were different situations though.

You padded across the room and yanked open your dresser drawer, rifling through your exercise shirts until you settled on a worn black t-shirt–oversized and thinning with age. You tugged it over your head in one swift movement, letting the hem fall just past your hips, then you grabbed a pair of navy basketball shorts off the back of your desk chair and shimmied into them with a quick hop-step, tightening the strings as much as possible so they wouldn’t fall as you rushed down the hall.

You scooped the tablet back up in your arms, the screen still glowing with the madness you’d left behind.

HR Officer Marshall Greene (Reply All):

“This is a formal thread, please refrain from using inappropriate language and making unfounded comments on others performances.”

The excitement only grew, as you slapped the tablet against your thigh, and bolted into the hallway.

The compound was quiet except for the distant clack of someone’s boots echoing down from the other wing–probably Ava pacing while she types another scorched-earth reply to the recent email. Regardless, you padded forward, barefoot but quick. The hum of the overhead lights casted your shadow along the wall as you rounded the corner toward the kitchen for a quick pit stop.

The fridge gave a quiet suction-pop as you pulled it open and reached for one of the bottled iced teas Bob always hoarded–hibiscus and lemon honey, the kind he insisted was the best. You grabbed one–already cool against your palm even though you had restocked them an hour ago–and tucked it into the crook of your arm as you shut the fridge with your hip.

”What’re you? A professional basketball player?” A voice from behind you asked.

You didn’t need to turn to know it was Bucky–leaning against the wall just outside the kitchen like he’d been planted there to deliver commentary on your outfit. His arms were crossed, dog tags peeking beneath the neckline of his exercise shirt. The glint in his eyes showed unmistakable amusement as he raised a brow at what you were wearing. You didn’t slow your pace though, you just tossed him a look over your shoulder.

”Careful Barnes, comments like that are how group therapy gets scheduled.” That earned a bark of laughter from him–rough and low.

”I’ll tell HR you threatened me with that iced tea bottle,” He called out as you walked off. You raised it above your head in mock-warning without looking over at him.

”Weaponized refreshments fall under Walker and Ava’s jurisdiction. Not mine.” You heard his chuckle echo faintly behind you, but your attention was already zeroed in on the familiar stretch of hallway that led to Bob’s room.

It was quiet here. Soft, almost. The air always felt a little warmer around his end of the corridor–in heat and in emotion in general, there was less tension, less noise, it was very…Bob. use him, his stacks of books, and the faint sound of whatever playlist he decided to put on.

You didn’t knock, you never knocked.

Your fingers wrapped around the handle and turned it without ceremony, pushing the door open like it was your own room, like it was a shared space you were both too sentimental to label.

“Bob! You are not gonna believe this thread..” You said as you were stepping into the room, clicking the door shut softly behind you before turning around.

And that’s when you saw him…And he nearly jumped out of his skin.

”D-Don’t you knock?!” He stammered, jolting like you’d fired a dart into his shoulder. His hands scrambled for the shirt slung half-off his desk chair, eyes wide, and cheeks flushing crimson, “I-I could’ve been–!”

”Naked?” You offered helpfully, lifting a brow as you stepped more into the room, “I think I’ve survived worse than accidentally walking in on someone mid-change.” Your voice had trailed off a little by the time you got to the middle of the room, because it hit you then–just how good he actually looked.

He wasn’t even trying, and that was probably the worst part–because you didn’t want to see him when he was…

The golden hour light poured through the west-facing window like warm syrup, catching the faint dampness along his skin and the light brown locks that his head sported. The light turned the droplets of water that still trailed down his back into halos of shimmer. His chest was broad and high with clean muscle, sharp and thick, and a bit swollen. There were red marks stretched faintly across his collarbones and the tops of his biceps, fresh from a too-hot shower–evidence of his notoriously sensitive skin. A small pink scar marked the space just under one of his ribs, thinned out from more than a decade of bearing it.

You had always known he was strong–he had to be because of the serum–but this was not what you were expecting.

Bob was built like a cathedral. Sturdy like he’d been carved from something permanent, and yet somehow he still stood like he was embarrassed of that.

”Bob.” You started, but he was already trying to pull his shirt over his head and failing–his arms were moving like they had forgotten how sleeves worked. Then after a second of struggling, he gave up with a frustrated sigh and just pressed the cotton against his bare upper torso like a towel.

“I-It’s really nothing…” He insisted, voice strained and high with shyness, “I-I was just…Looking at something.” Your brows raised as you padded even further into the room, placing the iced tea gently on the nearest stack of books.

“Got a rash or something? I know that Sentry suit probably isn’t a pleasant experience. It’s basically painted on…Probably got chafing in all the wrong places.”

“W-What? No! I–I don’t have a rash,” He sputtered, a nervous laugh catching on the tail end of his words. You could see his ears turning red, then watched as the flush crept down his neck and beneath the top he was holding against him. You grinned, leaning against the footboard of his bed, crossing your arms over your chest.

”So what were you looking at then?”

“I-It’s nothing…I swear…” His gaze couldn’t even meet yours, it just darted everywhere but your face: the floor, the ceiling, the bottle of iced tea, his desk lamp. His throat worked as he swallowed, and he shook his head, “It was n-nothing.” You sighed and, without another word, turned and sat on the edge of his mattress, tablet still in hand as you looked around the room–deliberately taking your time, giving him space to breathe. To maybe cool down a little before you asked him the same question again.

His room was neat, but not in a sterile fashion. He had bookshelves stacked high with paperbacks and limited edition copies of stories–science fiction, poetry, philosophy, he even had a few battered field manuals, but they looked like they hadn’t even been opened. A few of the books had some sticky notes jutting out in soft yellows, greens and blues, all in varying shades. There was a well-kept ficus in the corner by the window, catching sunlight in its leaves. One of his walls held a corkboard filled with photographs of places he had been with the team, with little notes he had kept from you–handwriting scrawled on torn napkins or on the backs of receipts. His Sentry suit hung off a hook like a molded second skin, and a flannel blanket was folded with precision at the foot of the bed.

“W-What are you doing?” Bob’s voice cracked with a soft, almost wounded hesitation. You didn’t look up from the bed right away, instead dragging your thumb along the edge of the tablet as you let the silence sit. Then you finally lifted your gaze, brow raised with soft mischief.

“Waiting for you to move,” You said simply. “So I can see what you could’ve possibly been looking at so intently before I barged in.” He shifted on his feet, his toes curling against the floorboards like he was trying to plant himself there and disappear.

”Y-Y/N, I wasn’t looking at anything…” You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes dropping from his for just a second–slowly taking his body in again from the reflection of the mirror behind him, the long, broad line of his back, the way the light caught in every indentation of muscle like it was sculpted for this hour of the day and no other. Then you looked back at him.

”So why’re you hiding from me then?” You asked softly, “You’ve seen me topless before…Thought you might’ve been comfortable returning the favour.” You joked. His eyes flickered to yours, then away again, lashes fluttering like a startled heartbeat. His grip tightened on the cotton he still held over his chest, the fabric slightly damp now from where it met his skin. You set the tablet down with a quiet tap on his nightstand, fingers curling loosely at your sides as you pushed off the bed and stepped toward him. The floor creaked softly beneath your bare feet. His breath hitched–just barely audible–but you caught it. His whole body tensed, like prey too stunned to run, and yet… He didn’t back away.

“Let’s look together, hmm?” You said, voice soft, it wasn’t a command…It was more of an invitation, “Turn and look in the mirror.” Bob’s eyes darted down to yours, nervous and questioning, the light in them flickering gold just for the briefest moment.

“W-What…?”

”Just…Trust me,” You whispered, inching close enough for your hand to find the edge of the shirt he was still holding to his front. You pinched the soft cotton between your fingers, “Turn and look in the mirror…And move this.” He stared at you, searching your face as if trying to find the trap. But there wasn’t one–not with you. So, with hesitantancy, he turned back toward the full-length mirror beside his bookshelf. His broad shoulders squared, his spine straightening instinctively like he expected to be judged, and slowly, he shifted the cotton away from his chest. He didn’t let it drop–he held it against his side like a safety net–but it no longer blocked his reflection.

You stepped behind him carefully, and rose up on your toes, putting your chin on his heated shoulder, eyes flickering over both his reflection and the way his skin flushed beneath you. The heat coming off his body was tangible, like the golden hour sun had been sucked up by his skin and refused to leave. His damp hair curled at the end where it had dried, and the slope of his shoulder tensed beneath your chin.

Up close like this, with nothing but the mirror before you both, it was impossible not to take him in fully–not just the parts you’d glimpsed, not just what the suit hinted at beneath all that gold-threaded armor and pressure. But this. Him.

The soft curve of his clavicle, just beginning to dry, still slightly pink from the heat of his shower. The small cluster of faded stretch marks that swept just beneath his chest, curling slightly toward the soft ridges of his ribs. They looked like pale lightning, half-silver in the light–evidence of how fast he’d grown into himself, into this body he never asked for. Another quiet mutation to accommodate the weight of what lived inside him. There were more across his lower stomach, ghosting down either side of his abdomen where the muscle swelled thicker. They branched just beside his navel and disappeared beneath the waistband of his joggers, pale and delicate, like silk run beneath sharp fingers. You wanted to trace them. God, you wanted to press your mouth to every single one.

His skin was smooth in some places, textured in others, but all of it was flushed with heat. And that light trail of hair that you’d never seen before–white blonde, so soft it nearly vanished unless you were this close–drew a path down the center of him that had you unconsciously tightening your arms just slightly where they curled behind his back.

“You definitely don’t have any rashes,” You said softly, voice light with teasing but thick with something warmer. “You’re just a handsome guy…That’s built like a house.” You gave a small shrug against him, trying to diffuse the sincerity with humor, but it still rang true. Bob’s shoulders stiffened immediately, and his reflection turned red so quickly you thought it might spread across the mirror itself.

“S-Stop it,” He muttered, ducking his head just slightly, like that might shield him from your words.

“Why?” You murmured, brows lifting gently. “It’s not like I’m lying to you.” He didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched for a second too long, and then his voice came–rougher, smaller.

“I-I don’t see it… I just see this…This person who’s not themselves anymore.” His jaw clenched a little, eyes glued to his reflection like it betrayed him. “Not like I u-used to be. Everything’s just…D-Different.” Your frown came slowly, spreading across your face with a heaviness that tugged the corners of your mouth down and softened your eyes into something deeply pained. You finally connected the dots.

He hadn’t been admiring himself in the mirror. He wasn’t checking for a rash or even trying to catch a glimpse of some half-healed wound. He was judging himself–tearing himself apart with every second he stared. Comparing himself to the man he used to be. The one he probably thought he lost the day he became more myth than man. Your heart twisted with it. That quiet kind of ache that came from loving someone too much to let them stay hurt.

“…Can I touch you?” you asked gently, voice barely above a whisper.

Bob’s eyes met yours in the mirror, startled like you’d touched a raw nerve instead of just offering kindness. His lips parted slightly, breath catching in his throat.

“O-Okay,” He said, like it was foreign–like no one had ever asked that before. You moved even closer to him, your chest now pressing against his back. You lifted your hand and just…Touched him.

Your fingertips met the warm skin of his stomach, just above the waistband of his joggers, feather-light. He inhaled sharply. Not in fear–just surprise. His stomach tensed for a second, then loosened, like his body didn’t quite know how to receive affection that came without demand. You smoothed your hand upward, tracing the soft rise and fall of his abdomen, the slope of strength beneath the surface. His skin was warm and velvety under your touch—damp in places from the shower, and soft in others from where his skin had healed from stress and strain and godhood.

“You’re so…” You breathed, thumb sweeping just beneath his ribs, “Unbelievably beautiful, Bob.” He blinked like he hadn’t heard you right. Like that word had never belonged to him.

“I mean it,” You said softly, your hand traveling up his chest now, resting briefly over his heart–feeling the beat pounding steady and strong beneath your palm. “You have no idea what you look like, do you?”

His breath shuddered. “N-Not like this…”

“Then let me tell you.”

Your voice dropped, low and tender, like a vow.

“This body,” You whispered, your fingers tracing the faint stretch marks just below his pecs, “This is a testament. To everything you’ve carried. To how hard you fought to stay here. How strong you’ve had to be. You didn’t just survive…You built this. And you built it with love. With the way you protect people. With how gently you hold things, even when you could crush them.” You leaned in, lips brushing the curve of his bare shoulder, kissing him once. Then again, higher, where the tension lived tight beneath his neck.

He shivered.

Not out of discomfort–but because he knew you meant it. Because your mouth on his skin felt more like an affirmation than anything anyone had ever said to him. His skin jumped beneath each press of your lips. Your other hand slipped around his waist, palm resting over his stomach again–feeling the subtle flex as he tried and failed to keep still.

“You’re real, Bob,” You murmured between kisses. “You’re good. You’re so good. And every inch of you–every mark, every muscle, every breath–is deserving of love.”

He made a sound then–a quiet, choked breath like he was holding something in his throat. His chest hitched slightly under your hand, and when you peeked up at his reflection, his eyes were glossed, gold flickering around the rims like he was lit from within. You tightened your arms gently, holding him from behind like a tether, your forehead pressing into the curve of his shoulder. Your lips grazed the top of his spine.

“Even if you can’t see it… I do.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Of breath. Of tension. Of emotion so thick it filled the space between your ribs and his.

After a few long seconds, his hand moved. Trembling at first, like he didn’t know what to do without being awkward, before lowering it to cover yours.

His palm was big, warm, and dampened with sweat, but you didn’t mind the way it felt. He held your touch in place like he didn’t want you to stop. His thumb swept softly along the edge of your hand, nervous but desperate to keep you there.

When he turned to face you, his breath hitched again. His eyes didn’t look away this time. He just stared at you like he was memorizing the moment.

You were still holding his waist. Still close enough that the warmth of him surrounded you like a sun. His hand lifted–slow, hesitant, like the moment might shatter if he moved too quickly. You didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. Not when his fingers brushed your jaw and then curled so gently against your cheek it made your eyes sting.

He held your face like it belonged in a museum among the works of art. His thumb grazed the space just beneath your eye, sweeping along your cheekbone with the softest pressure–as if he was trying to memorize the way you felt beneath his touch. Like if he just held you long enough, maybe he could believe this was real. That you were real. That someone had truly looked at him–all of him–and still wanted to stay.

Neither of you blinked.

The air shifted–thick with something golden and unspeakable, heavy in your lungs but light in your chest. Like standing on the edge of something vast and beautiful and knowing, this is the moment it all changes.

And then he leaned in.

Not in a rush. Not in some burst of passion where your teeth could possibly clash together. But slowly–like the sun melting into the sea. Like a secret unfolding, tender and certain, inevitable as gravity.

His lips met yours with gentleness you didn’t know you were starving for.

It was so soft it almost didn’t feel like a kiss at first. Just a breath of warmth, and a quiet hum of surrender blooming behind your ribs. His mouth moved against yours with cautious wonder, wanting more but keeping his thoughts under control just for this one moment–just so he could display his secret devotion to you.

The world narrowed to the press of his lips, the curl of his fingers that were still on your cheek, the faint tremble in his shoulders, and the heat of his bare skin where your hands moved now–trailing up his sides and over his back. You traced the soft slope of muscles with your palms, admiring, until your fingertips danced along the small of his back.

And that’s when he gasped.

The kiss broke as his body flinched against yours with a startled breath, a laugh hiccuping through the sound.

”I…Sorry,” He stammered, half-flushed, half-laughing, his hand falling from your cheek like he had ruined it. You grinned, still feeling your heartbeat throughout your entire body, your eyes shining.

”Don’t you dare apologize for a kiss like that,” You whispered, and before he could respond back to you–before he could shrink away or stumble over a hundred more nervous syllables–you leaned in and kissed him again.

It was just a quick one. A seal on the moment, something that could contain it. His breath hitched like he hadn’t expected it–like he still couldn’t quite believe you were touching him so freely, so warmly.

You pulled back just enough to smile against his lips and murmur, “Only you would apologize for something that sweet by the way.” Another blush lit his face instantly, rising to the tips of his ears like fire spreading across his skin. You laughed softly and pressed one last kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then you wrapped your arms around his waist and pulled him into a proper hug, letting your cheek press to his chest as he melted into your touch.

His arms folded around you slowly, his forearms curling tightly around your waist, his palms flattening against your spine, pressing your body flush to his like he wanted to make sure there was no space between you at all. You melted into the hold instinctively, sighing against his chest as the tension slid out of you like sand between fingers. Your cheek rested against the warm pillow of muscle just over his heart, and there it was–the steady galloping rhythm, thumping firm and fast beneath your ear. You closed your eyes for a moment, just breathing him in.

The scent of his shower was clinging to him and invading your senses now, there was sage, and a hint of pine, he smelled like a forest, or the wilderness–he smelled like the safest place you would ever come to know.

For a long beat, neither of you moved.

His chin dipped until it came to rest lightly on the crown of your head, a sigh escaping him–low, content, full of something that bordered on reverent. When he hummed, it was quiet and barely even a sound–just a vibration in his chest that pulsed through your cheek and down your spine like a tuning fork finding your frequency so he could slip in and be one with you. You smiled against him.

“So…” You started, voice muffled slightly by his skin, “Is there any chance you’ll start walking around shirtless more often now that I’ve thoroughly showered you with compliments?” He let out a soft, incredulous laugh–half embarrassed, half endeared–and you felt it echo all the way through your ribs. His hands tightened slightly at your back as he ducked his head a little further, his voice feathering warmly against your scalp.

“I-It’ll be u-under heavy consideration now, I think…” He mumbled, voice playful but still laced with that soft-spoken sincerity that was so uniquely his. You smirked.

“Hmm,” You hummed back, fingers curling gently against the thick muscle of his upper back before giving him a teasing squeeze. It made him jolt, just slightly–a tiny gasp of a flinch, like you’d shocked him. He barked out another laugh, and you pulled back just enough to look up at him.

“I’ll take that as a very soft yes,” You said, grinning up at him, your fingers still resting against the planes of his back. His eyes met yours–wide and dilated, but glowing now with something unguarded and bright.

“Y-Yeah,” He said shyly, a smile tugging at his lips, “I guess…I-If it’s for you, it might be okay.” He scratched nervously at the back of his neck with one hand as he looked down at you, then added sheepishly, “B-But you have to promise not to look at me like I’m a sculpture again…I-I almost combusted.” You laughed, arms still around his waist, resting your chin on his chest now so you could meet his eyes directly.

“No promises,” You whispered. “You are a sculpture. Just one that happens to blush when I compliment him.”

His face turned a glorious shade of red, and you watched the smile spread helplessly across his lips even as he tried to hide it. His hands came up again, this time cradling your jaw like it was something precious. His thumbs brushed softly against your cheeks, and he leaned in again–this time a little more sure of himself.

And when he kissed you again, it was with a quiet hunger. Still gentle, still sweet, but layered now with the quiet thrill of knowing that you saw him–really saw him–and loved every part you found.

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