#and his smile and his voice and everything

[lovebugism]

anything with domestic jackson!joel……. i miss him dearly

✶ ┄ END OF THE WORLD !

summary: you intervene when joel and ellie get into an argument, and try to find a way to tell him some shocking news of your own.

pairing: joel miller / f!reader

contents: s2ep6 spoilers, established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, pregnancy mention, loads of fluff + girl dad joel miller <3

“Your husband’s a lunatic,” an unfamiliar voice calls as you slide the rain-soaked jacket from your shoulders. 

You pause with it halfway down your arms, face twisted as you turn to the strange girl rushing down the stairs. One of Ellie’s friends, you presume, with auburn hair chopped to her chin and pale skin littered with tattoos. She tugs a flannel over her shoulders, concealing the faded locket on her forearm.

“Husband—?” you echo, voice laced with confusion. “—Who are you?”

The girl slides past you in the doorway without a word, ducking her head as she rushes down the porch and into the rain. You watch over your shoulder as she disappears into the downpour and wonder briefly what’s got her seeking refuge in a storm. 

Then you hear yelling, two muffled voices in a screaming match, coming from the bedroom the stranger had just left.

You realize, then, what she had meant by husband. 

And lunatic. 

“Joel?!” you shout with a nervous waver in your voice as you ascend the creaking staircase, skipping a step at a time and tucking the piece of paper in your hand into the back pocket of your jeans. The angry voices grow louder the closer you get to Ellie’s room. 

“—I guess this is what I get for tryin’ to surprise you, huh?”

“—I didn’t ask for any of this shit!”

“—That’s what a surprise is!”

You push the ajar door open with one hand, finding the two deadlocked in a glaring match in the center of the room. Joel holds the girl’s arm in a stern but gentle grip, while she keeps her free one balled into a trembling fist at her side. The arguing ceases when you appear in the doorway, but the angered looks twisting their features remain when their heads whip in your direction.

“What’s going on?” you pant, wide eyes darting between the two of them. “What happened?”

“This happened,” Joel spits and angles Ellie’s arm in your direction. The length of her forearm is adorned with fresh black ink — a long fern leading to a wide moth on the inside of her elbow — red around the edges and slightly swollen. 

Your face floods with a visible shock, though you fail to understand why it’s got Joel so angry. “It’s… It’s just a tattoo,” you say with an awkward laugh. “I don’t understand—”

“It’s not just a tattoo,” the man shouts, voice deep and gruff and accented. He drops Ellie’s arm to inch closer to you, gesticulating wildly with his weathered hands. “It’s all the teenage shit all at once. Drugs, sex, experimenting—”

“It wasn’t sex,” Ellie bites, dark eyes hardened. “And it wasn’t an experiment.”

“She’s seventeen,” you remind the man looming over you, as tall and angry as a black storm cloud. There’s a frown etched between his pinched, greying brows that you meet with a quiet smile. “We can’t expect her not toact like a teenager—”

“So, what?” Joel’s voice booms, much firmer than your soft one. “You’re— You’re takin’ her side, now? Is that it?”

“Obviously not!” you say, laughing. “We’re definitely gonna talk about smoking in the house, because it makes everything smell like shit—”

You look over Joel’s shoulder to flash the girl behind him a pointed look. Ellie cowers under your gaze, “Sorry…” she mumbles.

“And we need to set some ground rules about having people over, but—”

“But what?” Joel interjects, hands on his hips, already angry at you for something you haven’t yet said.

“But it’s just a tattoo. And it’s just some girl.” You wave your hand vaguely to the open door behind you, where the stranger had just scurried from. “It’s not the end of the world you’re making it out to be.”

The anger in Joel’s tired eyes flickers suddenly, like a snuffed flame. “I thought we were supposed to be a team?” he murmurs, low and slightly strained. You see the stress of the situation hit him then, a visible fatigue on his greying face. 

“We are.” 

Joel exhales sharply through his nose in place of a laugh. The corner of his mouth quirks in an emotionless half-smile. “Well, then, it’d be real nice if you took my side every now and then.”

His broad shoulder brushes yours as he walks past you out the door. “Joel!” you call to him, though his only response is the slam of Ellie’s bedroom door. The framed photos and paintings on the wall jolt softly in protest.

Ellie huffs a breath of relief when he’s gone. “Thanks…” she murmurs, shifting shyly on her feet.

“Don’t thank me,” you sigh and lean your weight against her desk. 

To your left is a birthday cake — chocolate icing, rainbow sprinkles, and her name written in cursive. You think it must be the surprise Joel mentioned earlier, since he’s done this every year right before her birthday. He always says that there’s no real time to worry about cake on the day, ‘cause he’s always got something elaborate planned for her outside of Jackson.

He was gonna take her on her first patrol at first light tomorrow, like she’s been begging for since she was fifteen. You hope he’ll still take her. You hope she’ll let him.

You feel the exhaustion of the long day in your tired bones, then. All the sleep you didn’t get and the early hours you spent feeling sickly hit you all at once. You feel more infected than human most days. It’s a palpable weariness Ellie can feel across the room.

“Then I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize either,” you tell her. “I mean, I was serious about you smoking in the house— and about you having people I don’t know over, but… You’re not doing anything wrong, okay?”

Ellie’s brows pinch. She eyes you from beneath her lashes like she’s half suspicious, too used to Joel and his never-ending lectures. “I’m not?” she wonders aloud.

“No. Not as long as you’re being safe, you know, with the weed and the… whoever that was.”

“Kat,” she finishes for you.

“Sure. I just— I think it’d be easier for Joel if you’d, you know, talk to him— to us. I know you don’t care about his permission or whatever, but I think it’d help if he felt… included.” You shrug like you’re offering her something, but it’s more of a plea than anything. “At least then he wouldn’t have to find you smoking weed and sneaking girls over all at once. He’s old, Els, there’s only so much his heart can take.”

Ellie fights back a smile and plops down on the foot of her bed. The old thing creaks softly under her weight. “I don’t know how,” she murmurs, running her finger over the fresh ink in her arm. “To talk to him, I mean.”

“I don’t either, sometimes,” you confess with a sigh and rise from your slouched position. “But I guess I’m gonna try.”

“Good luck,” Ellie lilts as you wrench open the door.

“Thanks,” you deadpan back. “I think I’m gonna need it.”

You take your time making your way to the garage, which is where Joel usually goes to let off steam. He holds all his love in his hands, but he keeps his anger there, too — which is why you find him working on Ellie’s handmade guitar in the quiet yellow lamplight. ‘Cause even though no one pisses him off quite like than soon to be seventeen-year-old, Joel Miller can’t love her anymore than he already does.

You knock softly on the already open door to announce your arrival.

Joel, with his back turned towards you, blows dust from the waist of the guitar as he sands down its edges. “I don’t wanna talk right now,” he murmurs gruffly, running his calloused palm over the smooth wood.

You exhale a breathy laugh before you mean to. Joel glares at you over his shoulder. You clear your throat and try hard to be serious. “Sorry. You just— You talk a lot about Ellie’s mood swings, but some days you’re just as bad,” you confess, inching closer with hesitant steps. “Like father, like daughter, I suppose…”

The corner of Joel’s lip quirks in a quiet smile that he rubs away with his hand, fingers brushing over his greying beard. You walk closer and smooth your palms over his tense shoulders. Joel tries to deny himself the intimacy, “I’m serious, I really don’t—”

You bend at the waist to press your mouth to his ear. “Shh…” you whisper there, right before pressing a kiss to his scruffy cheek. Your arms wrap loosely around his neck as you sprinkle chaste kisses everywhere you can reach. His cheek, his temple, his jaw, his neck. You bathe him in softness until it washes the learned hardness from his body — until he exhales a much-needed breath and relaxes in your hold.

“There you go…” you coo, embracing him with one hand while your other smooths over his silver curls. Joel’s head tilts instinctively into your touch. His heavy eyes flutter slowly shut. 

“I just don’t understand her sometimes,” he murmurs.

“I know. I’m sure she feels the same way.”

His brows pinch. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t think you confuse her the same way she confuses you? When you go from… barely talking to exploding out of nowhere?”

“I don’t explode,” he scoffs, face twisted with offense as he turns his head to look at you. You flash him a knowing look in response, which only offends him more. “I don’t!”

“You don’t ask her to open up, and then take it out on her when she keeps things from you.”

Joel glares when you straddle the bench to sit beside him. “You’re doing it again,” he deadpans and turns away, anxious hands messing with the half-done guitar in his lap.

“What?” you laugh. “Knocking some sense into you?”

Joel rolls his eyes in response. You reach for him, grabbing his scruffy chin with your thumb and forefinger to pull him closer and press a smacking kiss to his cheek. “I’m just kidding…” you lilt within a sigh and rest your head on his shoulder. “I know how you feel, Joel.”

You feel him shaking his head. “You don’t.”

“I do. I know every little thought that goes on in that head of yours, Joel Miller,” you insist gently, smoothing your cheek over his shoulder like a cat. “I know you love Ellie like a daughter. Like Sarah—”

The mention of her name makes him tense beneath you.

“—And I know that sometimes you miss Ellie like you miss Sarah. And I know that that confuses you, ‘cause Ellie’s still here, and that you just don’t want her to grow up… I get it.”

Joel flinches softly at your words, at the weight of them. His weathered features screw together, as though physically pained by the thought. He swallows hard and admits the hard truth out loud, “I just wanna protect her,” he mumbles, slightly strangled with emotion.

“I know you do. ‘Cause that’s what you always do,” you hum, resting your chin on his shoulder to gaze softly upon his profile. His features are strong and chiseled, like that of an ancient sculpture slightly worn with time. You smooth a rogue grey curl from his temple, chin bobbing as you speak, “But I think tattoos and weed are the least of our problems right now, all things considered.”

Joel huffs, broad shoulders deflating. 

Thinking about it now, he can’t remember why he got so worked up in the first place — why he resorted to the yelling place, as you called it, instead of just talking like a normal human being. But, in truth, nothing about him and Ellie has ever been normal. She was cargo to him one minute, and then he blinked and realized he’d set the world on fire if it meant keeping her safe. It’s a guttural, primal feeling he doesn’t think many people understand — least of all Ellie herself.

“Yeah. You’re right,” he sighs, southern drawl like honey, as he props the handmade guitar on the floor beside him. He rises from the workbench and guides you with him with a gentle hand on the outside of your elbow. “You always are,” he follows with a quiet, crooked smile.

“Thanks for admitting it, Miller,” you grin, and migrate instinctively into his arms when he opens them for you. 

You press yourself against him with every intention of melting in his warmth, inhaling his sea-salt scented shampoo when you nose into his curls. Joel buries his face in your shoulder and lets out a heavy sigh of contentment there. You try not to shiver when his beard scrapes the delicate skin of your neck.

“Ellie said she wants to move in here,” Joel mumbles against you.

“The garage?” you ask. 

He nods against you. 

“And what did you say?”

“Hell no,” he deadpans in response, then smiles to himself when he feels your body shaking with subsequent laughter.

“I’m not trying to take Ellie’s side, or anything, but… I don’t think it’s the worst idea ever,” you start slowly, awaiting his response. Joel stays silent to egg you on, and your eyes flit to the wooden panels on the ceiling, trying to find the words to say. They all just seem to strangle you instead. “I think that, you know, maybe we could use the extra room.” 

Joel parts from you, but only slightly. Just enough to peer down at you with a bearded face twisted in a gentle sort of confusion. “For what?” 

“I don’t know,” you shrug, even though you do know and you’re just trying to find the courage. “Maybe a nursery?”

It comes out like a question, like you’re just testing the waters — gauging his reaction. You don’t tell him, yet, that a nursery will become unequivocally necessary in the coming months, much sooner than either of you realize. 

The realization of such comes slowly. You watch his confusion deepen, then ebb slightly, before his face floods with a gaping look of shock.

“Are you…” Joel stammers. “You’re…”

“Pregnant? Yeah, apparently,” you answer casually, ‘cause you’ve had an hour or so now to get over the initial stupor. You reach into the back pocket of your jeans for the sonogram you tucked there for safekeeping. “I was coming back from Dr. Quinn’s when I found you and Ellie in a screaming match—”

Joel takes the ultrasound you offer him with shaking hands.

“Turns out, it wasn’t actually food poisoning,” you quip, crossing your arms over your chest to tuck your own trembling fingers under your armpits. “Even though I’m still almost certain that chicken alfredo Tommy made last week was, like, totally raw, but—”

Joel’s wide eyes flit between your face and the black-and-white photo in his hands. At the center is an indistinct blob, no bigger than a raspberry, and it sends his racing heart to the pit of his stomach. “You’re pregnant?” he wonders aloud, more firmly this time, though the words still sound a bit foreign on his tongue.

“Yep,” you answer, brows raised and smile wavering. “Surprise…” you lilt shakily.

Joel shifts on his feet before you, maneuvering the sonogram between his sweaty hands so he can wipe each one on his jeans. His mouth opens and closes for a few long moments as he tries to find the right words to say. It’s hard to, though, when his head’s racing a million miles a minute.

“Is… Is it…?” he trails off.

You don’t let him finish. “I swear to god, Joel Miller, if you ask me if it’s yours, I’m gonna be the one moving into the garage.”

Despite being half-breathless, Joel manages a quiet laugh. “No, I mean, is it… Is it a girl, or…?”

“Oh. Uh… It’s too early to tell, I think?”

“Right,” Joel nods. “Yeah. Obviously.”

Despite his obvious gracelessness, he’s been through this once before. He remembers every inch of his time with Sarah, who’d changed his life before she was even born. That all feels like lifetimes ago now, though — and, in some ways, it has been. 

The world went to shit, but it didn’t truly end until his babygirl died. And then decades flew by like minutes, and he found Ellie, and realized too late that she was his second shot at a life he thought was long gone. And when he got to Jackson, and when Jackson gave him you, he realized he could start living again — and that Sarah wouldn’t punish him for moving on. (Though she was always too kind for that, anyway.)

“I hope it’s a girl, though,” you say when Joel gets lost in his head, smoothing your hands over his chest. You think you can feel his heart racing beneath your palm. “I wanna keep you outnumbered, Miller.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” he mumbles, lips quirking in a quiet smile. 

Your grin comes more absentmindedly, relieved by his reaction. “So… You’re happy?”

Joel falters for a moment, ‘cause he can’t imagine being anything else — not when he’s got Ellie, and you, and this baby who’s not here yet. “Yeah,” he nods, slightly strangled when his eyes burn with unshed tears. “‘Course I am.”

He hugs you again, this time like he’s trying to press all the love in his heart directly into yours. His strong arms wrap tightly around you, like they have every day for years now, until he remembers his strength and jerks back like he’s burned you. 

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” he curses under his breath, holding you gently by the waist with careful hands. His dark eyes dart wildly from your smiling face to the barely-there bump beneath your sweater, scared that he’s hurt you somehow.

“It’s okay,” you laugh. “Keep holding me. I liked it.”

He abides you, ‘cause it’s in his blood to, though he’s clearly more gentle this time. He keeps one warm hand on your lower back and his other cradling the back of your hair. He presses his lips to the crown of your head and mumbles there, “‘M sorry for stressin’ you out today. Wouldn’t have made a fuss about it if I knew… Shouldn’t have made a fuss about it anyway…”

“Don’t worry about that,” you murmur sincerely into his chest, then joke quietly, “I want you to stress me out for a lifetime, Miller.”

You feel his soft laughter rumbling against your cheek. “I guess I can do that.”

[luvkimi]

satoru gojo—the strongest sorcerer—is an absolute softie when it comes to his wife.

the man could kill everyone in japan if he wanted to, yet when you're around, he's as dangerous as a kitten.

and that confused everyone around him.

how was it that even a murmur of your name would make the famous gojo gush and drop everything to talk about you? he could be in the midst of fighting a curse, but if his phone buzzes and your name is on the screen? that curse might as well accept its fate or be prepared for him to be on call with you for the remainder of the fight.

"toru, are you busy?" "not at all, baby—" his words would be cut off as the curse he was fighting attempted to land a hit on him, and the call would only fill with the sound of crashes before you realized what was happening. "are you seriously in the middle of a mission!?" your question remained unanswered for a second before you heard satoru laugh, "i mean, i was, but did you need something? money? sweets? a photo of your handsome husband?" "SATORU!"

it's clear to everyone that gojo is in love with you. he wouldn't just take a bullet for you, but rather a whole nuclear bomb if needed. he's willing to risk everything for you—even his job.

if he's in a meeting and you call him, he's picking up the phone no matter how many dirty looks he gets. what are they going to do about it? he's the strongest, but with the way he acts around you, you'd think otherwise.

his students have noted that every time you come into his classroom, he'd grin like a high schooler in love. he practically has heart eyes that you can see through his blindfold.

"gojo-sensei?" yuji's voice rang out in the classroom, "yes, yuji?" gojo's tone was filled with boredom as the man was leaning back in his chair—feet on top of his desk while he lifted a finger to pull back his blindfold. yuji was seen with megumi and nobara, and all three of them were pointing at the door. where you, his lovely wife, stood with a bento box. "you forgot your lunch—" "MY WIFE!" the sound of gojo's chair hitting the floor echoed as you took a step back from the doorframe, yet your attempt to move out of the way was pointless as gojo barreled toward you with open arms. his arms wrapped around you in a tight hug, and you let out a quiet sigh as you held the bento box up. "is my beautiful wife here to visit her husband?" "i'm here to give you your lunch, toru." "MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE LOVES ME ENOUGH TO COME VISIT ME!" while gojo continued to ramble with you still in his arms, the three students watched the scene with narrowed eyes. "do you think she ever gets tired of him?" nobara asked bluntly, and yuji only shrugged. they continued to watch as gojo only hugged you tighter, and a soft smile appeared on your face as he continued to talk. "i don't think so..." yuji mumbled before turning his attention back to his phone, and the others did the same thing. except for gojo. because his attention was on you and you only.

comments & reblogs are always appreciated !!

[p1psqueaks]

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — “CURRENT BOYFRIEND” PRANK

a/n: i’m sorry idk why i made zayne’s kinda serious and angsty, guess i’m still reeling from the effects of the main story </3

ZAYNE

You’re pacing around your living room with your phone pressed to your ear, laughing quietly at something your best friend just said. The afternoon sun filters through the windows, golden and soft, catching on the curve of your grin. Zayne is on the couch, reading. Or pretending to, anyway. You can feel his attention flicking toward you every so often.

“—No, I’m not going alone,” you say into the phone. “Zayne’s coming with me.”

You glance at him. He’s still reading, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, posture relaxed but alert in that way of his. You chew your bottom lip, a mischievous idea forming like lightning behind your eyes.

“Yeah,” you continue smoothly, loud enough for him to hear. “I’m bringing my current boyfriend.”

There’s a beat of silence from your friend, followed by a muffled laugh. But what grabs your attention is the subtle shift in Zayne. His eyes lift from the page, gaze pinning you like a blade pressed to skin — not sharp, but undeniably felt.

He sets the book down, slow and deliberate. “Current boyfriend?” he says, voice level, calm. Too calm.

You turn toward him, covering the phone’s mic with your hand. “Yeah?” you say, trying to bite back a grin.

He doesn’t blink. “What do you mean ‘current’?”

Your friend is absolutely losing it in your ear, but you ignore them. You’re more focused on the way Zayne’s brow furrows — not deeply, just enough to signal that you’ve touched something serious beneath that ever-composed surface.

You lift an eyebrow. “You’re not not my current boyfriend.”

Zayne stands, slow and measured, and crosses the space between you in three long strides. He stops a foot away, looking down at you with that infuriatingly unreadable expression of his.

“If I’m your current boyfriend,” he says, his voice low and quiet, “that implies there’s going to be a next one.”

The smile slips off your lips a little, because you weren’t expecting him to sound genuinely bothered. You see it now, in the tightness of his jaw, in the way he’s watching you — not angry, just… hurt.

You blink. “Zayne—”

“I don’t play musical chairs with my relationships,” he says, softer this time. “When I choose someone, it’s not temporary. So if you’re joking, fine. But if you’re not…” He trails off, leaving the thought unfinished, but heavy between you.

Your heart stutters in your chest.

“I was messing with you,” you say, finally. “I didn’t mean it like that. You know that, right?”

He watches you for a second longer. Then he exhales, a quiet sigh through his nose, and something in his posture eases.

“Good,” he says simply. “Because I’m not going anywhere. And I’d prefer it if you weren’t planning to, either.”

You swallow and nod, trying not to let your heart explode in your chest.

“Noted,” you murmur.

From the phone, your friend shouts, “TELL HIM I SAID HI!”

Zayne raises an eyebrow. You shoot him an apologetic look. “They, uh, say hi.”

He leans in close enough that you can feel the warmth of him against your skin.

“Tell them I’m not just the current boyfriend,” he murmurs, voice barely audible. “I’m the last one.”

You drop the phone.

XAVIER

He’s sitting across from you now, fork in hand, chewing on a ravioli like it personally wronged him. His cheeks are a little flushed, probably from the red pepper flakes he accidentally dumped on his plate. But mostly, you’re focused on the way his knee keeps bumping yours under the table, like he might be doing it on purpose, but also might apologize at any second.

The waiter comes by to check on your table, offering a polite smile. “How’s everything tasting?”

You flash a smile back. “It’s great, thank you. My current boyfriend and I are really enjoying it.”

Xavier’s fork stops midair.

The waiter nods, unfazed, and walks away.

You don’t even look at Xavier at first. You just take another bite of pasta and wait… three… two—

“What do you mean current boyfriend?” Xavier blurts, voice a little high, like his soul just left his body.

You look up, chewing. “Hmm?”

He’s staring at you, eyebrows halfway to his hairline, fork forgotten on his plate. “Did you just call me your current boyfriend? Like there’s gonna be a next one?”

You blink innocently. “Well, I mean… we are currently dating.”

Xavier slouches dramatically in his chair, eyes narrowed. “Okay. Wow. So I’m just a phase now? Like bangs? Or oat milk?”

You snort. “Bangs?”

“People always regret bangs,” he says flatly, pouting now. “You’re gonna regret me?”

“Xavier.”

“I’m just your little test boyfriend, huh?” He’s still going. “Just here so you can get back out there and find your forever man with strong jawlines and… and functional communication skills.”

You nearly spit out your water. “Functional communication skills? You’re literally the one sulking because I said one word.”

“That one word was current,” he says, pointing at you with a breadstick like it’s a legal document. “That’s, like… the most insecure relationship word. That’s, like, pre-breakup language.”

You lean forward, resting your chin in your hand, eyes dancing. “Are you jealous? Of hypothetical boyfriends who don’t exist?”

“I might be,” he mutters. “You didn’t say only, or amazing, or even adorable but clumsy and at video games. You just said current like I’m a passing trend.”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “Okay. First of all, you are adorable and clumsy and freakishly good at video games.”

He doesn’t look appeased.

You reach across the table and nudge his hand. “And second of all… I was messing with you. I just wanted to see what your face would do.”

He squints at you. “This is your idea of romance?”

“It is now.”

He pouts harder, but you can see the edge of a smile tugging at his lips.

“…Can you just, like, say boyfriend again?” he mumbles. “But this time with no weird adjectives in front of it?”

You smirk. “Xavier.”

“Yes?”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

He melts, slumping forward like you just healed him with divine affirmation.

“Okay,” he says softly. “I can keep eating now.”

“You didn’t stop eating.”

“That’s beside the point.”

RAFAYEL

The gallery is buzzing — soft music, clinking glasses, murmurs of “genius” and “visionary” floating through the air like the smell of paint that hasn’t fully dried.

You’re standing beside Rafayel, who is —unsurprisingly — dressed like someone who definitely knows he’s the main character. Long dark coat, rings glinting under the track lights, wavy locks falling just right, looking equal parts tortured artist and runway model.

He’s pretending to be humble as someone compliments his use of negative space.

You nudge his side. “You gonna tell them you spilled coffee on that canvas and then just rolled with it?”

Rafayel doesn’t miss a beat. “Never reveal the chaos behind the masterpiece,” he whispers, eyes gleaming. “That’s rule one of being a genius.”

You’re grinning, half-listening to someone nearby marvel at a piece Rafayel made at 3 a.m. after watching a documentary about the moon and crying for twenty minutes.

Then a waiter stops beside you both with a tray of drinks.

“Oh, thank you,” you say, plucking one off the tray. You gesture lazily to Rafayel beside you. “My current boyfriend will have one, too.”

There’s a slight pause.

The waiter smiles and moves on.

Rafayel turns to you with the slow precision of a man personally betrayed.

“I’m sorry — current?” he repeats, hand on his chest like you’ve just stabbed him mid-sip.

You blink innocently. “Yeah?”

He narrows his eyes. “You make it sound like I’m on a rental plan. Like I’m just your seasonal boyfriend — here for spring, gone by June.”

You sip your drink and shrug. “Well, you are limited edition.”

Rafayel gasps, spinning half a step away from you like he needs air. “Not you calling me disposable at my own art exhibition,” he says, utterly scandalized. “This is my night. My moment. I wore the dramatic coat for you.”

You stifle a laugh. “Are you genuinely offended?”

“I am aesthetically offended,” he says, fanning himself with a folded event pamphlet. “Emotionally bruised. My ego — cracked like cheap pottery. Do you know how many layers of emotional depth are under this coat?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Two?”

He glares. “Three. And a scarf.”

You step closer, brushing your hand against his. “I was joking.”

“Oh, really? Because I was about to demand a retraction and a public declaration of eternal love in front of the fruit platter.”

You lean in, barely containing your grin. “Rafayel?”

He looks at you, suspicious.

“You’re not my current boyfriend.”

His eyes narrow. “I’m not?”

You shake your head. “No. You’re my forever boyfriend.”

There’s a beat. Then he flings his arms around your shoulders in an overly dramatic swoop, nearly spilling both your drinks. “Finally. The respect I deserve.”

You laugh against him, and he mutters into your ear, “God, I love when you flatter me in public.”

You pull back and raise your glass. “To my one and only, eternally dramatic boyfriend.”

Rafayel clinks his glass against yours, smirking. “Now we’re speaking the same language.”

SYLUS

You’re out with Sylus at your favorite cafe — the cozy kind with mismatched mugs, moody lighting, and music that sounds like a slow-motion scene in an indie film. He’s sitting across from you, long fingers wrapped around a coffee cup, that smug little grin resting naturally on his face like it was born there.

He leans back in his chair, watching you over the rim of his drink, dark eyes glinting with quiet mischief.

“So,” he says, voice low and easy, “I assume this isn’t just a coffee date. You lured me here for something.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Maybe I just wanted to spend time with you.”

He smirks. “Right. And maybe I just come here for the foam art.”

You’re about to respond when the barista swings by your table with two pastries.

“Oh, thanks,” you say cheerfully, accepting them. You gesture to Sylus, smiling sweetly. “This is for me and my current boyfriend.”

The barista gives a polite nod and walks off.

Sylus, however, freezes like someone just called him a side character.

“…I’m sorry,” he says, slow and deliberate, “current?”

You look up, feigning innocence. “What?”

His eyes narrow, but the grin’s still there, cocky and dangerous. “Did you just call me your current boyfriend?”

You blink. “Technically, yes. You are my boyfriend. Currently.”

He sets his coffee down, leans forward, elbows on the table, and gives you that look — the one he uses when he’s about to win something.

“Oh, kitten,” he says smoothly, “I didn’t realize I was on a trial basis.”

You stifle a laugh. “There’s no trial basis.”

“Oh no, I get it. You’ve got, like, a subscription plan,” he says, all faux-understanding. “One Sylus for a limited time only. Cancel anytime. No refunds.”

You shrug. “There might be a survey at the end.”

He places a hand on his chest, gasping theatrically. “So you are shopping around. Am I just… a placeholder until Mr. Perfect shows up with a normal lifestyle and emotional availability?”

You grin. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

He leans in further, voice a little lower now. “Okay. But would Mr. Perfect know exactly how you like your coffee? Would he remember your favorite flowers? Would he put up with your insatiable hunger?

“Hey—”

“Would he,” Sylus says, lifting a brow, “kiss you like this?”

Before you can reply, he leans across the table and kisses you — soft, brief, but enough to shut you up and steal your breath in the most obnoxiously effective way.

You blink when he pulls back. “That was cheating.”

He shrugs. “So is calling me your current boyfriend like I’m going to expire next week.”

You exhale, defeated. “Okay, fine. You’re not my current boyfriend.”

He smirks, victorious. “Damn right.”

“You’re my permanent boyfriend,” you mutter.

He leans back, arms crossed, looking far too pleased. “Say it louder for the people in the back.”

You throw a napkin at him. He catches it without flinching.

“Still want to call me current?” he teases.

You reach across the table, grabbing his pastry. “You’re my forever boyfriend, but you’re currently not getting this.”

CALEB

Caleb’s fingers are laced with yours, warm and a little clammy, probably from nerves. Even after months of dating, he still gets flustered every time you kiss his cheek or say his name in a certain tone. Like he can’t quite believe this is real. Like he’s waiting for the punchline.

You’re walking through the park after grabbing smoothies — his is something bright and tropical, yours tastes vaguely like regret but you refuse to admit it — and the sunlight is hitting everything just right. Too perfect, really.

You glance over at him, cheeks a little sore from smiling.

And because the moment is sweet and lovely and stable…

You decide to mess with him.

A couple walking a golden retriever passes you and gives a friendly smile. You smile back and say, cheerily, “Just out with my current boyfriend.”

You swear you can feel Caleb’s soul pause beside you.

“…Wait.” He slows down, blinking. “Did you just say current boyfriend?”

You sip your smoothie. “Mmhmm.”

There’s a long pause.

“Current… like, temporary?” he says, voice cracking just enough to make your heart pang, even though you’re trying very hard not to laugh.

You glance at him. He’s staring straight ahead now, eyes wide, brow furrowed.

“I — I didn’t know there was an expiration date,” he mumbles.

“Oh no,” you say, as flat as possible. “Did I not mention the three-month boyfriend rotation policy?”

His face turns bright red. “That’s a joke… right?”

You don’t answer immediately. He starts doing the thing where he overthinks out loud.

“I mean — I thought we were doing okay. I even started leaving a toothbrush at your place! Was that presumptuous? Oh my god. Did I over-toothbrush?”

You finally break, laughing so hard you nearly choke on your smoothie. “Caleb, I’m joking!”

He looks at you, wounded. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“You said it so casually! Like I’m just the… transitional guy before you meet your soulmate at a farmer’s market or something.”

You stop walking, turn to face him, and press a hand to his chest. “You are not transitional. You are the soulmate from the farmer’s market. You are the guy who makes me braised pork ribs and plays me weird indie songs and says ‘sorry’ when he wins at video games.”

He’s quiet for a second, processing. Then, softly: “So… no expiration date?”

“Lifetime warranty,” you say, grinning. “Even if your snoring is kind of a crime.”

He laughs, finally. “Okay. But, like, just for my sanity… no more ‘current’ jokes, right?”

You squeeze his hand. “Only if you promise to stop apologizing every time we kiss.”

He gives you that soft, slightly crooked smile that always hits you right in the ribs. “No promises.”

“Then neither from me, current boyfriend.”

“Hey—!”

[cameronsbabydoll]

milk & honey — john price

pervy!john price x younger!pregnant!reader

warnings: age gap, power imbalance, lactation kink hinted, suggestive/soft smut buildup, dirty thoughts, price being a full-on menace, breeding/prey language

you show up ten minutes early.

little thing in a stretched-out dress that clings to your bump, a button-up cardigan barely hiding the way your tits are pressing against the fabric.

hair done. makeup light. cheap little folder tucked in your hands, pressed under your belly.

you knock.

and john price looks up from his desk and nearly groans out loud.

because you walk in glowing.

waddling a little.

smiling so big.

“hi! i’m here for the assistant position. sorry i’m a little out of breath, the stairs—”

“sit down, love,” he cuts in.

voice low, rough. already full of that accent and already wrecked.

you blink, cheeks warm.

“o-oh! okay.”

you sit. wince slightly. shift on the cushion with your knees pressed together, hands folding over your bump like muscle memory.

john watches.

watches the way you move slow, all careful.

watches the bounce of your chest — so full, nipples peeking through the fabric now that you're close.

you don’t even realize.

“how far along are you?” he asks.

doesn’t even open your file. doesn’t care.

“almost seven months.”

“you doin’ this on your own?”

you pause.

nod.

“yes, sir. just me and baby.”

he exhales. leans back in his chair, one hand dragging down his beard.

baby.

that fuckin’ word, from your soft little mouth.

he wants to say —

that belly should be mine. i’d fuck you again right now if i could. you’re perfect, made for it. full, warm, helpless little thing just waiting to be kept.

instead, he says:

“and you wanna work?”

you perk up.

“yes! just part-time. i don’t wanna strain myself, but i’m still able, and i wanna save some money before the baby comes.”

god.

you’re so fucking sweet.

he bets your apartment’s tiny. your cupboards half-full.

you probably eat cereal for dinner and watch baby videos at night. and now you’re trying to work — trying to be responsible — even though your ankles are already swollen and your belly’s in the way and you can barely bend over.

“i’ll do anything,” you add quickly. “i just need a shot.”

john looks at you.

hard.

long.

then he stands.

walks around the desk. comes to stand in front of you — tall, wide, shadowed in the doorway light.

you look up at him with big eyes.

“sir…?”

he crouches a little. one palm lands on the armrest beside you.

you freeze.

“you ever had a man take care of you proper?” he murmurs.

his hand brushes the curve of your belly — just barely.

“wh-what…?”

“not talkin’ about the father, sweetheart. i mean someone real. someone who’d put you in a warm bed and rub your back and pay for everything — make sure you never had to lift a finger.”

you swallow.

your breath hitches. thighs press tighter together.

“i-i just came for the job, sir…”

he smiles.

“mm. and i’m givin’ it to you. but you’re gonna be more than just an assistant, yeah?”

he leans in.

“you’re gonna be my girl. my pretty little secretary. sit at your desk and look sweet and full and happy for me.”

his hand smooths over your belly now — slow, deliberate.

“and i’ll take care of the rest.”

[berrryparfait]

❝ i don't look good in this dress... ❞ ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

♥︎ featuring: sylus, zayne, rafayel, xavier, caleb x fem!reader | prompt

— ༉‧₊ᐟ premise: you don't think this dress looks good on you... he begs to differ. 「i really don't see what you're seeing, babe.」

— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: fluff, shopping date, reader tries on a dress that hugs her curves and doesn't like how it looks, mentions of weight loss, insecurity, reassurance, he's whipped and worships the ground you walk on

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: lipstick – charlie puth

✧ a/n: requested work that i rushed to complete because i wanted all of u to know that u are GORGEOUS. do us all a favor and wear that dress girl ♡(>ᴗ•)

Nothing makes you happier than a shopping date with the love of your life. The way he’d been so eager to plan this day—to put a smile on your pretty face as if your happiness were his own… Well, it is.

You’d made preparations of your own, too. You had a rough idea of what you wanted to try on, and you’re determined not to leave empty-handed today. All that’s left is to slip into the dresses you’ve picked.

But when you finally zip this one up, it’s… not what you’d hoped for. And deep down, part of you knows—it’s not the dress’s fault.

“Babe, I don’t look good in this dress…”

Sylus lounges on the fitting room couch, one arm stretched out on top of the backrest. He’s been sitting here this whole time, thoroughly enjoying the view each time you emerge from behind the curtains.

He’s cleared out the store today for you to shop “in peace,” so it’s just you, him, and two store assistants in the room.

He frowns at your words, raking his piercing eyes up and down the length of your body once more. A disbelieving smirk curls his lips as he drawls, “Don’t be ridiculous, sweetie. You look ravishing in this dress—in fact, I’ll have them ring it up for us right now—”

“I-I don’t think I want this one, babe…” You sigh as you gaze at your reflection in the mirror, the dress cinching your body in all the wrong places. It just looks…unflattering.

Sylus waves the assistants away and studies your expression once more, realization dawning. He’s always thought you pulled off everything you’ve ever worn—to him, this dress is no different. But he knows about your insecurities…

“…I’ve made my opinion clear, Kitten, but you can’t seem to get it in that head of yours that you are unreasonably beautiful.”

You smile at his words, though it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. You’ve heard him compliment your looks a thousand times now, but insecurities aren’t so easily vanquished. They start and end with… well, you. No one else can touch them.

“I love you for that, Sy—but it’s not that simple. I’ve lived with these thoughts my whole life.”

His arrogant stance softens, and though the sureness in his voice remains. To him, your beauty is fact—an indisputable one.

“I don’t mean to undermine what you’ve been through. I only mean to highlight my perspective.” He stands up and twirls you around like you’re dandelions waltzing through a ballroom of wind, his hands memorizing every curve, every dip of your body. “If you could only see yourself the way I do… I’d squander the world for just another glimpse.”

Zayne leans against a wall, your leather purse in hand. He waits patiently while you try on each piece of clothing, occasionally pulling out his phone to skim through articles on cardiothoracic surgery training in Japan.

You step out of the fitting room wearing a form-fitting black dress, unsure what to think of it. It feels a little tight around your hips, and though you’ve been eager to try it on for days, you can’t help but feel disappointed. You glance at your reflection in the mirror and fight the urge to retreat into the fitting room before anyone else sees you.

Zayne catches the panic in your eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“It’s just… This dress makes me look chubbier, don’t you think?”

He tilts his head and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It accentuates your curves, which is hardly something to be upset about. You look beautiful—as always.”

His words warm you, but the tightness in your chest remains, your insecurities gripping your ribcage like a clawed hand. “I should lose some weight…” you mutter.

His brows knit together as he steps closer, concern softening his features. “Don’t sacrifice your health and wellbeing for the sake of meeting society’s so-called 'beauty standards. They’re unrealistic, fabricated, and frankly, unattainable. Your natural body is perfect just the way it is, and I mean that." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "This dress is gorgeous because you’re wearing it.”

He cups your cheek in his palm, and you smile up at him. Sensitive, adoring Zayne. While it’ll take more than an ultra-romantic speech to quiet the voice inside your head, his reassurance soothes the ache you’ve carried for years.

What once was a scar is now a patch of healing tissue—thanks in part to Zayne’s unwavering affirmations, and in part to your own efforts to love and accept yourself.

A group of girls are parading their outfits a few booths down from yours, giggling and squealing as they pose for photos. They’re stunning—slim and toned in all the right places, with flawless skin and sculpted jawlines.

You glance down at the dress you’re wearing, and it feels like a punch to the gut. How can you ever compete with girls like that? How do you look next to them? A nauseating wave of envy and self-doubt crashes over you, and your eyes instinctively seek out Rafayel for reassurance.

He’s staring at you with wide, hazy eyes, lips slightly parted as his gaze roams over your body. You blush, self-conscious, crossing your arms over your torso.

He jolts back to reality, the misty look on his face evaporating. “What was that for? I was enjoying the view.”

“You don’t have to lie, you know. This dress isn’t for me…”

He shakes his head, clearly baffled, and closes the distance between you in two strides. A half-smirk pulls at his lips as he says, “You’re kidding me, right? You look fuckin’ hot.” His hands trail down your thighs, raising goosebumps in their wake. “Can we get this one? Please?” he murmurs into your ear.

You gently push him away. “...Nah. It’s unflattering on me.”

Rafayel scoffs, but there’s a surprising tenderness in his eyes when he says, “Listen, babe, you’re the most drop-dead gorgeous woman on earth, and the fact that you can’t see that? It genuinely breaks my heart. Tragic, really—”

You smack his arm and chuckle, the heaviness in your chest already starting to lift. Bless Rafayel and his ability to pull you from the depths of your own mind. Turning back to the mirror, you glance at your reflection again and think… It does make your ass look amazing. “…Maybe I will get it.”

“That’s my girl.” His grin turns wicked. “I can’t wait to take it off you…”

Xavier is dozing off on the couch, his head drooping and his eyelids fluttering. It’s an adorable sight—one that nearly distracts you from the reflection in the dressing room mirror.

Your hands smooth over the fabric of the blue cocktail dress, its fit on your body…disappointing. This isn’t how it looked on the mannequin, you think, heat blooming in your cheeks. All at once, your insecurities come crashing down, suffocating you with reminders that you’re “less than”, that you’ll never feel truly comfortable in your own skin—

“I like that dress. You look good.”

You spin around to see Xavier now sitting upright, his gaze fixed on your back. “You think so?”

He nods, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. But then again, everything looks good on you. It’s you.”

You bite your lip, hesitant to turn around. “You don’t think it makes me look… I don’t know…bigger?”

“Uhh…?” He frowns, confused. “What do you mean? Turn around. I want to see it.”

Slowly, you turn to face him, baring the gentle curve of your breasts and the mound of your tummy. You avert your gaze, fidgeting under the weight of his stare.

“Oh.”

“You don’t like it?” your voice wavers, your heart freezing as the blood drains from your face.

He shakes his head rapidly and shifts in his seat. “N-No, it’s not that… I just— I—” He quickly folds his arms over his lap, and you understand immediately.

A laugh escapes your lips.

He glares at you. “Don’t.”

“I’m sorry! You’ve just really boosted my confidence today, that’s all,” you say between giggles. Suddenly, the mirror doesn’t seem so cruel. If this turns him on just by looking at it…

“Yeah, yeah, you’re hot. We get it…” he mutters, still throwing you dirty looks on the car ride home.

You spin around in the yellow sundress, the fabric hugging your curves and accentuating your hips. It looked different when the model wore it online…

Caleb is gawking at you from outside the fitting booth, arms crossed over his chest. “That dress looks so sexy on you, Pips. Let me get it for you—”

“Wait! I, uh… I don’t know how I feel about it…” You try not to betray your emotions, shoving the knot of insecurity down your throat. You’ve always struggled with body image, but you don’t want to worry Caleb by bringing it up.

Or worse—put those ideas into his head.

He steps forward, placing his hands gently on your waist as he takes in the way the fabric cascades down your legs, how it emphasizes your soft curves and full breasts. The very sight of you in it steals the breath from his lungs.

“Is this about your body?” he asks carefully, clearly afraid of striking a nerve.

You look down at your feet and shift uneasily, the nagging feeling intensifying beneath the weight of his gaze.

Caleb leans in and tilts your face up to meet his. “...Hey. I’ve traveled the world, and you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on, okay?” His thumbs stroke your cheeks with the softness of a summer breeze. “Why else would I be dating you—your personality?”

You glare at him, fighting to suppress a smile.

He wraps you in his arms before you can argue, and you melt into his embrace, allowing yourself—for once—to believe him.

You’re strong, funny, determined, and kind; and let’s not forget the fact that you pulled Caleb, the hottest pilot in any airport and the only man who sees you for exactly who you are.

“You’re the eighth wonder of the world, babe. Inside and out.”

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

[pitchsidestories]

See You in Lisbon II Alexia Putellas x Arsenal!Reader

romantic masterlist | platonic masterlist | word count: 1606

summary: Reader is Arsenal through and through. Her girlfriend, Alexia, on the other hand, bleeds blaugrana. Both can't wait to see each other at the final in Lisbon.

author's note: Hi everyone, when we started writing this fanfic, we never imagined the game would unfold the way it did. We hope this story brings you some comfort, no matter which team you were supporting in the final. And we'd love to hear your thoughts after you have read it. 🫶🏻🫶🏻

disclaimer: everything in this fanfiction is purely fictional and nothing corresponds to reality.

“Any plans for the weekend?”, you asked casually, the phone pressed to your ear. While waiting for an answer from your girlfriend, you traced the rim of your coffee mug standing abandoned on the couch table in your London flat. You bit back a smile, thinking about the weekend when you’d finally get to see her again.

“Yes, winning the Champions League.”, Alexia answered without missing a beat.

You rolled your eyes, still wearing an affectionate smile. That was typical Ale, always thinking about football.

With a smirk, you said: “See you in Lisbon, love.”

“Sure.”, you heard her grin, determined to keep this rivalry up until the final whistle of the Champions League final.

You paused, raising an eyebrow. “Wow. No Sure, amor?”, you asked, feigning a pout.

“No, not before the final.”, Alexia teased.

“Alright.”

“Maybe afterwards.”, your girlfriend added, relenting just a little.

“Can’t wait.”

“Oh, trust me. You won’t have anything to celebrate afterwards.”, she half-joked.

And yes, maybe you felt the same way: excited to see her again which you didn’t do as often anymore since your transfer to Arsenal but also absolutely ready to give it your all and bring that trophy home.

The day of the final promised to be something very special. Sold out stadium, sunny weather and that impeccable atmosphere only a Champions League final could provide. You could feel it as soon as you set foot inside the stadium.

While you focused on getting ready for the game, across the tunnel in the Barcelona dressing room, they were still busy teasing your girlfriend.

“Nervous, Capi?”, Jana asked her as Alexia pulled on her shirt.

She shook her head: “Not at all.”

Esmee grinned at her: “But you’ll see your schatje again.”

“No.”, Alexia replied calmly, shutting the young player up quickly.

Ona giggled from the other side of the room: “Oh wow, that’s brutal.”

“I won’t even talk to her until after the game.”, Alexia added with a laugh.

Meanwhile, Arsenal’s dressing room was equally alive and you were the centre of attention.

“Codi and Vic, stop smirking at me like that.”, you said, trying to sound as serious as possible but eventually, a grin broke through.

Laia blinked at you with exaggerated innocence: “We’re not doing anything.”

Victoria exchanged a quick glance with her before turning to you with raised eyebrows: “Yeah, we’re not the one who’s dating the enemy.”

“The enemy, huh?”, you echoed with a smirk.

Laia nodded eagerly: “Si!”

“Only for a game. It’s not like I’m dating a Chelsea player.”, you said with a nonchalant shrug.

Luckily for you, the Arsenal captain intervened: “Leave her alone, you children.”

“Yes, we’ve no time for that now.”, Renée added, glancing expectantly at the clock, it was almost time.

Quickly, you reassured her: “Don’t worry, we’re ready and fully focused.”

Before your team left the dressing room and stepped into the players’ tunnel, you formed a huddle. Your coach addressed you all one last time before the match: “Then I’ve nothing else to say but to quote the legendary Johan Cruyff: Go out and enjoy.”

“Let’s go and win this.”, you continued, your voice brimming with excitement.

Leah, who was standing beside you, added: “For Kim and us.”

“Can you keep me out of this, please?”, the Arsenal captain said, clearing her throat, uncomfortable with the attention. The midfielder didn’t want the added pressure; she intended to give it her all on the pitch regardless.

“Sorry.”, the defender replied with an apologetic look.

Determined, Kim clapped her hands together, and the huddle slowly broke as each of you headed for the tunnel: “Let’s go.”

The game felt like it lasted an eternity and yet, also like the blink of an eye. But luck was on your side. Stina, who came on late in the match, scored the winning goal.

When the referee blew the final whistle, you leapt into Alessia’s arms. Tears formed in both your eyes as she whispered in disbelief: “We did it.”

Euphoria pulsed through your veins until Laia’s serious voice grounded you: “Y/n? I think someone needs cheering up.”

Your heart sank when you spotted your girlfriend sitting on the grass, looking sad and dejected.

“Ale?”, you called softly.

She looked up and rose to hug you, murmuring into your ear: “Congrats.”

“You all played brilliantly you almost had us at the end.”, you remarked sincerely.

A pained smile crossed Alexia’s lips. “But you were better.” Seeing the concern in your eyes, she quickly added: “I’m alright.”

You hesitated: “See you later, or would you rather be alone?”

“I think I want to be alone.”, she answered. The Barcelona captain wanted you to enjoy the special night ahead with your teammates.

You nodded reluctantly: “Okay.”

“Come on!”, Victoria shouted.

“Go celebrate, amor. Tonight, I’m mad at you but tomorrow I’ll be proud we lost to you,” Alexia declared, giving you a gentle push towards your celebrating teammates.

Your heart was full of love for her, and for your team. You turned to look back at her and responded: “I can live with the hate for tonight, if tomorrow’s only love.”

“Disgusting.”, Beth grimaced playfully. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at her.

Unlike you, Alexia pretended not to hear the winger’s teasing remark. In her quiet confidence your girlfriend promised: “I’ll see you tomorrow. “

“Bye.”, you said softly, watching her turn her back on you. Before she disappeared into the group of Barça players, you felt someone tug on your arm.

You turned to see your coach pulling you into the direction of the stands.

“Renée, I can’t run anymore.”, you complaint through laughter. But of course, there was no way you'd miss out on celebrating with the fans.

“That poor girl gave her everything!”, Leah called over, thankfully jumping to your defence.

Renée still didn’t let go: “Yeah but I could see her getting sadder by the second.”

You felt your cheeks heat up, being read so easily by your coach was slightly embarrassing.

“It’s called empathy and this was about my girlfriend!”, you protested.

“Your girlfriend has three of those already, she will survive.”, Renée teased with a grin.

You paused to think about it, then nodded: “Good point, actually.”

“It’s time to celebrate yourself.”, Renée reminded you.

But you never even made it to the stands because Laia wrapped her arms around your waist and lifted you off the ground like it was nothing, She was beaming, absolutely exhilarated by the achievement.

You squirmed in her arms and laughed: “Laia, put me down!”

“No.”, she replied simply.

“Please, it’s time for the medals!”, you called out, pointing over toward the stage.

“Okay, but only because of that.”, Laia finally gave in and set you back down.

“Thank you.”

During the guard of honour, your eyes continued to drift, trying to find Alexias. She still looked crushed, only offering you a weak smile once the medal was around your neck. But you decided to give her the time she needed, tonight was for celebrating with your team.

The celebrations went on until the early morning hours. You only made it to bed when the sun had already started to rise so when it was time to get up, you felt groggy and disoriented.

Still half-asleep, you opened the door of your hotel room as you were already running late for breakfast. You nearly knocked over a bouquet of flowers waiting at your feet. You rubbed your eyes and picked it up without much thought.

“Who got you the flowers?”, Lia asked cheerfully, appearing down the corridor with Mariona on her side.

You blinked down at the bouquet like you were seeing it for the first time.

A quick check of the off-white card attached to the bouquet revealed the sender.

Grinning, you replied: “It’s from her. But you know what the note says?”

“What?”, Lia asked, intrigued.

“Enjoy the moment but next time, we’ll win again.“, you read the note out loud.

The Swiss woman remarked, amused: “That definitely sounds like her.”

“Seems like she’s already ready to go again.”, you realised, relieved.

Leah, who you hadn’t seen coming, gave you a light hug from behind and commented confidently: “Don’t worry. We won’t make it easy for her.”

With a finger pressed to your lips, you signalled for them to be quiet as you received a phone call from your girlfriend.

Mariona laughed quietly: “Ooh, she’s calling.”

You took a few steps away from the banter of your beloved teammates, heading to a quiet corner where you could look out at the sea.

“Morning, amor. Did you receive my surprise?”, Alexia asked gently.

Filled with deep gratitude, you answered: “I did. Gràcies.”

“You’re welcome. And I mean it—next time, we’ll win.”, your girlfriend emphasised.

Smiling, you shook your head. It was good to see her in that spirit again: “Lee already said we won’t make it easy for you.” You paused for a moment, then added lovingly: “Ik hou van jou.”

“I believe you. But we’ll be better then.”, she replied.

There was hopefulness in your voice as you asked: “See you soon?”

“Yes, promise.”

You had a few days off before joining the Dutch national team for the Nations League matches, but you already knew where you’d be heading first. You might play for different clubs, but beneath it all was a love that only grew deeper with time.

Lisbon had been wonderful, but you couldn’t wait to see her again in Barcelona where it all began between the two of you.

Home was no longer a place. It was in your girlfriend’s arms.

image sources: https://www.instagram.com/wchampionsleague/p/DKCwVPmIBVD/, pinterest

[adelliet]

Bob reynolds x f!reader

FATAL ACCIDENT

Summary: When Bob accidentally caught you in a deeply inappropriate moment, he decided to make it up to you. He brought muffins and suggested a movie night. Neither of you expected what would happen next… or how everything would change between you.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, unprotected sex (piv), dry humping, multiple orgasms, stimulating through clothes, cum in pants, soft sex, creampie, sleeping inside of each other, sweet ending, sub!Bob, use of Y/N

A/n: Hi there! I hope you'll like this story/smut! I really tried my best so…anyways, if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

It was late, well past midnight, when Bob found himself standing outside your door. The rest of the tower had gone quiet hours ago, wrapped in the peaceful hush that only came once the chaos of the day had settled. Lights were dimmed, hallways empty, and the low hum of distant generators was the only thing keeping him company. But he knew you. You were a night owl, always the last one to go to sleep. That’s what brought him here in the first place.

He told himself it was just a small question about the mission briefing tomorrow. Something minor. Something he could’ve asked anyone else, sure—but not at this hour. And not with the way his brain kept coming back to you, no matter how many reasons he tried to invent.

So, he knocked. A quick, rhythmic tap. Nothing.

He paused, waiting for your voice, footsteps, any movement. Silence. He knocked again—same rhythm, a little firmer this time. Still, nothing.

He called out your name gently, voice soft but just loud enough to carry through the door. Not a yell, but enough that you would’ve heard it if you were in there.

Still no answer.

That ache in his chest started to grow—tight, warm, and completely irrational. He knew you were probably just asleep, headphones in maybe, passed out after a long day. Nothing bad had happened. He told himself that twice, then again, like repetition would make it true.

But it didn’t ease the tension building behind his ribs. It didn’t stop the way his fingers curled against his palm or the faint pull in his stomach as the silence stretched on. And still—no sound from the other side of the door.

Bob’s worry was growing by the second. He knew that you were probably fine. But still, that uncomfortable knot in his chest didn’t go away. He lingered by the door, biting the inside of his cheek before clearing his throat softly.

“Can I come in?” he asked, still hopeful for a response.

Nothing.

He hesitated only a second longer before his hand reached for the doorknob. He turned it slowly, carefully, as though the metal itself might protest. The door creaked slightly as he pushed it open, just a crack at first.

He peeked inside, half-expecting to catch you mid-change or in a situation where he absolutely should not be present. But the room was empty.

No one in sight.

He stepped inside, carefully closing the door behind him with a soft click. The room smelled faintly like your perfume and something warm, like vanilla and fabric softener. Familiar and comforting.

But then he heard it. The sound of running water. A soft, steady stream. His eyes darted toward the bathroom door. It was slightly ajar, just enough for steam to be drifting out and curling into the air.

You were in the shower.

Relief rushed through him like a wave. You were safe. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and smiled to himself, already turning to quietly slip back out of the room. He could talk to you tomorrow. No big deal.

“Y/N?” Yelena’s voice rang out from down the hall.

Bob froze. Panic hit him like a truck. The sound of footsteps rushed toward the door. She was heading this way. Fast.

“Oh no no no,” Bob whispered under his breath, looking around in a frantic circle. His brain went blank. If Yelena saw him in your room, especially this late, especially without you even in the room, well, that would definitely send a message. One he wasn’t ready to explain.

His eyes darted to your closet. No good. Not enough room. Under the bed? He’d never fit. His thoughts were racing. The doorknob outside jiggled slightly as Yelena neared—

And in a moment of sheer panic, Bob made the only decision he could. He turned and slipped into your bathroom. The steam hit him like a wall and before his brain could yell STOP, he realized where he was. Inyour bathroom while you were still in the shower.

Bob’s hands were up like he was surrendering to an armed SWAT team, his fingers trembling as sheer panic rushed through his entire body. His chest was tight, breathing shallow, and every cell in his brain was screaming, Why are you here? Why the hell did you think this would be a good idea?

He stood frozen, wide-eyed and pale, as the sound of the shower continued, taunting him. There was nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. He was in the bathroom. With you. While you were still in the damn shower.

And before he could even string together a plan, or even a thought, he heard her again.

“Y/N!” Yelena’s voice echoed louder now, clearly already inside your bedroom.

Bob’s soul practically left his body. From inside the shower, your annoyed voice finally rang out over the sound of the water.

“I’m coming!” you shouted, clearly frustrated.

Then the stream shut off. Bob’s heart jumped into his throat. His tongue felt dry as sand. His skin was burning and cold at the same time. Oh no. Oh no. Oh God.

He stared helplessly at the fogged-up glass of the shower door, and when you slid it open— he saw you.

Completely naked.

Water still clung to your skin in droplets, sliding down the curve of your neck, your collarbones, gliding along your thighs like liquid silk. You hadn’t seen him yet, but he was already about to combust from embarrassment and sheer secondhand shame.

And then your eyes landed on him.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” you screamed, your voice pure panic and fury as you instinctively reached for a towel and yanked it around your dripping frame.

“I—I’m sorry—I didn’t—” Bob choked out, immediately spinning around to face the wall, his entire face a violent shade of red. His hands went back up, this time like he was trying to blot himself out of existence.

But fate wasn’t done dragging him through hell just yet. Because just then, Yelena pushed the bathroom door open. And paused.

“Woah. What the fuck is happening here?” she asked in her signature deadpan tone, heavy Russian accent slicing through the awkwardness like a hot knife through shame.

You, still clutching your towel and dripping on the floor, looked absolutely stunned. “I have no idea what he’s doing in here!” you snapped, eyes wide with a cocktail of betrayal and pure what-the-actual-hell.

Bob didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He was practically vibrating with anxiety, lips pressed into a thin, miserable line. His whole body was trembling like a leaf caught in a storm.

He was so unbelievably screwed.

It was the next afternoon when you heard a soft knock on your door. You didn’t even need to ask who it was. You knew instantly.

“Come in,” you called calmly, already anticipating the awkwardness that was about to step through the door.

Bob peeked his head in first, like he was making sure it was safe before fully entering. Then, with a hesitant “Hey…” he stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind him.

He looked… guilty. Shy.

His cheeks were flushed pink, his posture small and careful, and his legs? Slightly shaking. He was holding a plate of something in his hands—and the second he came closer, the sweet scent of freshly baked muffins filled the room like a warm, edible apology.

You were sitting on your bed, a book in your lap, one brow raised as you watched him silently. You weren’t mad anymore—but you were curious. And you were definitely going to make him squirm a little first.

For a moment, the room was wrapped in silence. Bob shifted awkwardly, his weight bouncing between his feet, clearly searching for the right words.

“I, uh…” he started, eyes flicking to yours then immediately down again. “I wanted to apologize… for yesterday. I—I didn’t mean for any of that to happen and… as an apology, I… got you these.”

He stepped forward, extending the plate like a peace offering, holding it out to you with a hopeful look in his eyes.

The muffins smelled amazing—still warm, soft in the center with little chunks of what looked like chocolate and banana. You looked up at him and took a deep breath.

He looked so genuinely remorseful. That kicked-puppy look on his face nearly made your heart melt. You knew he didn’t mean to barge in on you, and you definitely knew he wasn’t some creep.

Still. You had one burning question.

“Why were you even in there?” you asked gently, but there was still a bit of edge in your tone. You needed to hear it straight from him.

Bob’s arms retreated slightly as he clutched the plate back toward his chest, like the question caught him off-guard.

“I—I just wanted to ask if you were coming with us to the England mission,” he said honestly, blinking fast. “That’s all. I swear.”

Ah. That explained it. That put the final puzzle piece into place.

You nodded slowly, letting out a small breath and placing your book aside. You scooted forward, settling on the edge of your bed, resting your hands down on the mattress beside you.

Your expression shifted, now more playful than stern.

“So…” you said, tilting your head just slightly. “How much did you see?”

Bob blinked, clearly caught off guard by your question.

His eyes widened just a bit, and his shoulders tensed.

“Uh—I didn’t see anything,” he said too quickly. Way too quickly. “Like… nothing at all. Swear.”

You raised a brow. Just stared at him. That stare that you knew always made people squirm. Bob shifted awkwardly, the plate of muffins now looking like the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

You didn’t say anything. You just waited and it worked. Eventually, he cracked. His shoulders slumped as he sighed, gaze flickering down to the floor like it was the only thing willing to forgive him.

“Okay… I—I saw a little. But I barely remember, I swear. It was just a second.”

His voice was soft, guilty. And you couldn’t help but laugh. You shook your head with a smile and stood up from the bed.

“It’s fine, Bob,” you said with a gentle wave of your hand. “I’m over it.”

You walked up to him, close enough to smell the sugar and chocolate clinging to the muffins.

“You made these?” you asked, nodding toward the plate.

He nodded sheepishly. You narrowed your eyes, suspicious.

“You don’t bake.”

“I don’t,” he admitted with a shy chuckle. “But… I looked up your favorite recipe. I figured if I’m gonna apologize, I should at least do it right.”

His voice was so genuine, and there was something so… stupidly sweet about the way he stood there, just hoping they were edible.

You smiled again, softer this time, and reached out to pick up one of the muffins. You took a bite. It was warm, fluffy, and the flavor hit perfectly. Just the right balance of chocolate and banana.

Honestly? Kind of impressive.

“They’re actually really good,” you said, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Thanks.”

There was a moment. A quiet beat between you where something sparked. You looked at him. Really looked at him.

“Try one,” you offered, nudging the plate toward him.

“Oh, no, I—” Bob took a tiny step back. “They’re for you.”

Before he could make another excuse, you rolled your eyes, grabbed the plate from his hands and picked up another muffin.

“You’re eating it,” you said, no room for negotiation.

He opened his mouth to protest, but you were already pushing the muffin into it.

Literally.

He choked out a laugh as you shoved it into his face. He bit down instinctively, chewing with his cheeks puffed out like a squirrel, crumbs already on his lips. You giggled, watching him use his fingers to wipe his mouth, and that’s when something shifted.

Suddenly, time slowed. The laughter died down, but that flutter in your stomach didn’t. A pulse between your legs sparked to life, and you became acutely aware of the heat building inside you.

You watched the way Bob chewed, the way his jaw moved, the way his tongue darted out to catch a crumb near the corner of his mouth.

And just like that… you were wet. Soaking.

And all you could think about was how pretty he looked. How soft and gentle.

Of course, Bob had always been cute to you. From the very first time you saw him, with that messy hair and his little giggle that felt too soft for someone who flew jets and handled missions like a pro.

He was sweet. But never hot. Not in a “I want to drag you into bed and ruin you” kind of way. But now? Something had shifted.

You didn’t know if it was the ovulation hormones messing with your brain chemistry, or the fact that he saw you naked in the shower, or maybe it was his maddeningly addictive cologne, but something clicked.

And suddenly… he was sexy. Like, you-couldn’t-stop-thinking-about-his-mouth sexy.

You bit your lip and watched as Bob finished chewing the piece of muffin you’d shoved into his mouth. His lips moved slowly, tongue catching a few crumbs.

He swallowed, glanced at you and said, “It’s not that bad, actually.”

His voice pulled you out of your internal spiral. You nodded a little too quickly, letting out a soft hum in agreement, a smile playing at your lips. He smiled back, a little shy, a little unsure.

“Well…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “I should probably let you get back to your book.”

You tilted your head. “You’re not bothering me.”

But he still insisted. “Yeah, but… I mean—you probably wanna, y’know, process everything. I just—yeah.”

He moved toward the door, slowly, awkwardly, and you returned to your bed, settling into the pillows with your book in one hand and another muffin in the other, though your eyes weren’t exactly on the page.

Bob was halfway out the door when he paused and turned back.

“Oh! Uh—one more thing,” he said, his voice just a bit higher than usual. “Bucky finally helped me set up that TV in my room, so… I was thinking maybe, tonight, if you’re not busy, we could watch a movie?”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “You want me to be your test subject?”

He shrugged, smiling nervously. “I just don’t wanna sit there and watch it alone like a loser.”

You laughed softly. “Sure, Bob. I’m in.”

His smile widened, that same boyish grin that somehow made your stomach twist now in a very different way.

“Cool. Uh—great. I’ll… come get you later then?”

You nodded, trying not to look too eager. “Sounds good.”

He gave you one last smile before he disappeared behind the door, and the second he was gone your book was forgotten. Your thighs pressed together, the ghost of that look he gave you still lingering.

The lights were dimmed in Bob’s room, the only real glow coming from the soft flicker of the TV screen. You were both sitting on his bed, technically his bed, but it didn’t really feel like that now. Not with the way you were both perched on the edge of it, backs resting lightly against the wall, a shared blanket covering your legs.

You sat just far enough apart for it to be considered “friendly.” A safe distance. But god, you wanted to move closer.

The movie playing was some classic, older film, one of those feel-good, slightly cheesy ones with warm lighting and 90s nostalgia oozing out of every frame. It was so Bob. Of course he’d like something like this. Comforting, predictable and sweet. Just like him.

From time to time, your eyes would drift toward him. He was so focused on the screen, eyebrows twitching ever so slightly during tense scenes, mouth curled just faintly at the corners when something funny happened.

And maybe that was the problem. Because his pure, oblivious cuteness was driving you insane.

Your eyes trailed down to his hands, resting in his lap. To the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. To the way his Adam’s apple bobbed whenever he swallowed. You could practically hear the blood rushing in your ears.

You licked your lips, trying to focus on the movie, but the images blurred. You weren’t even listening anymore.

Why the hell was this happening to you? Why are you suddenly feeling like this? Was it the way his thigh was just barely brushing against yours under the blanket? Or maybe it was that familiar soft scent of his cologne, sweet and woodsy and him?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t fair. Not when he looked that innocent, completely unaware of the storm building inside you.

You’d been pretending to watch the movie for the last ten minutes, but let’s be honest—you hadn’t registered a single scene. Your mind was elsewhere. On him. The steady warmth beside you, the way his scent filled your lungs, the shape of his jaw in the soft glow of the screen.

And then… you cracked. You turned your head slightly, looking at him from under your lashes, your voice soft—almost too soft.

“Hey… um, I’m kinda cold. Mind if I scoot closer?”

It wasn’t even cold.

Bob’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, like you’d just asked him to recite Shakespeare in Russian. He blinked, then gave the tiniest nod.

“Y-Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

You moved closer, slow and deliberate. Your shoulder brushed his. He didn’t flinch—didn’t pull away. Good. But his whole body tensed like a drawn bow.

And then came the real move, you gently laid your head on his shoulder.

Bob didn’t breathe. Like literally, he just froze. His fists clenched in his lap, not from discomfort—but from sheer sensory overload.

He could feel you. All of you. Your warmth sinking into his hoodie, your hair brushing his jaw, your scent melting into the air around him. His brain short-circuited.

This wasn’t a dream, right? You weren’t just… doing this?

He swallowed hard, throat dry, trying not to move or ruin the moment. Your thighs were just barely touching under the blanket. That soft friction, the tension—goddamn.

You noticed everything. The way his jaw clenched. The shudder that ran down his spine. The way his breath stuttered ever so slightly.

Your lips curled into a small smile. He was nervous—but not in a bad way. Not because he was uncomfortable. He was nervous because it mattered to him. And maybe that made it all the more intoxicating.

The sexual tension was practically radiating off his skin—buzzing in the tiny space between your bodies, where your arms nearly touched.

You shifted just a little closer. So close now that you could hear his heartbeat pounding like a drum.

The movie was still playing, but your focus had drifted miles away. Not on the screen. Not on the plot. But on Bob.

The air felt thicker somehow, heavier with something unspoken. Every small glance at him only made it worse. That gentle look on his face, the way his eyelashes brushed his cheeks when he blinked, his throat bobbing every time he swallowed—everything was unbearable in the best kind of way. You had this ache, low and steady, impossible to ignore.

So you moved.

Under the blanket, slow and casual, your hand found his thigh. Just a gentle rest, as if you needed a place to land. Bob tensed immediately, his whole body reacting like a live wire being sparked. His breath hitched, but he didn’t stop you. Not even a flinch. He stayed still, as though frozen in place, except for the way his chest was rising just a bit too fast to be calm.

Your thumb began to brush soft circles along the fabric of his sweatpants. Just small, teasing motions, and yet you could feel how it made him react—his thigh twitching slightly beneath your touch, his jaw clenched tight, lips slightly parted as though he didn’t trust himself to breathe through his nose anymore.

You turned your head and whispered, slow and velvety, “By the way… those muffins? They were amazing.”

Bob blinked, once, twice, and barely managed a grunt of a response, like speaking full words would crack him wide open. He gave a slight nod, clearly trying to keep his composure, but failing beautifully.

You smiled, wickedly pleased, and lifted your head from his shoulder so you could really look at him. His eyes locked on yours immediately, wide and uncertain—but undeniably filled with heat. And hope.

“Did you…” you started, voice dipped low like velvet on skin, “like what you saw yesterday?”

He froze.

His lips parted, but no sound came out. His hands, still clenched in his lap, curled even tighter. It was obvious he was trying to say something, trying to figure out if this was real or a fever dream he was about to wake from. The red on his cheeks deepened, and his eyes darted from your face to your lips and back again.

“I—uh—I didn’t mean to—I mean—I didn’t really see—”

You leaned in closer, your hand still warm and steady on his thigh.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I don’t mind.”

And then you moved your hand. Just a little higher, right where his twitching dick was.

Bob let out a shaky breath—one of those breaths that almost sounded like a prayer, or a curse, or both. He looked like a man on the edge, hanging by a thread spun from every suppressed feeling he’d ever had for you. The tension in his body, the nervous flicker in his eyes, the way his lips parted and didn’t quite close again—all of it screamed one thing:

He wanted you. Badly. And you knew. You leaned in, lips inches from his ear, and asked one last question, barely more than a breath:

“Do you want me to stop?”

Your fingers moved slowly, so slowly it almost felt like an accident. A barely-there stroke through the soft fabric of his sweats. He twitched. You felt it. And still, he didn’t move. He just stayed still, frozen, his breath hitching in his throat and he couldn't even answer you.

Bob’s eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling. His lips parted slightly, a quiet sound slipping from his mouth—a mix between a gasp and a helpless whimper.

You turned your head just enough to see his face. His brows were drawn together, his jaw tight, and he looked so unbelievably vulnerable. Lost. Struggling. But not stopping you.

“You like it?” you whispered, voice low and warm.

He nodded, quickly, too quickly, but didn’t speak. You kept going, slowly, tenderly, through the fabric, feeling the way his whole body reacted to your touch. He was holding onto the edge of the blanket with white knuckles, his other hand hovering, as if unsure where to go or what to do.

“And did you like yesterday?” you asked softly, meaning the shower incident. You leaned a little closer, lips brushing his ear.

Bob choked on a breath, and his head tilted back slightly. “I-I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to— I mean—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. His voice cracked.

You smiled.

“I think you did,” you murmured.

And then, just as his breath caught and his hips gave the tiniest, helpless twitch beneath the blanket, you felt it. His whole body tensing, stuttering, a soft, broken noise escaping his throat as he came apart completely under your hand.

Bob froze, then practically curled into himself. Face flushed deep red, breathing erratic, shame washing over him like a wave.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he whispered. His voice was small, strained, like he wanted to disappear.

“No I'm sorry I didn't mean to,” you felt guilty, more than Bob did. You just wanted to tease him a bit, just a few touches. Who knew Bob was that sensitive, but in the end you didn't mind.

“I uh…it's been a while since I've been with someone…” Bob tried to explain himself, even tho he didn't need to. You understand. You smiled at him, sighing.

“It's okay…we can go slow,” your sweet tone calmed Bob down, his chest wasn't raising that fast, and his eyes softened.

The eye contact was so loud, but at the same time so quiet. Soft and gentle, barely brushing your lips against his, just testing the waters, but when you kissed him again, he melted. Your lips were making wet sounds, as you explored your mouths, touching your tongues and mixing your salivas.

After a long make out session, you slowly swung one leg over his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs, the quiet rustle of your clothes and the soft shift of the bed were the only sounds for a moment.

Settling on top of him carefully, you totally made him forget everything else but the feeling of you, the heat between you, the way your mouths moved together like they were made for this.

His hands finally moved to your hips, trembling just slightly, like he needed the confirmation that this was real.

The pressure of you settling onto him was electric. Your bodies fit together like matching puzzle pieces, your chest pressed gently to his, and you could feel the way his breath stuttered beneath you. Your forehead met his for a moment, just a shared breath, your fingers tangling in his tousled hair.

Then, really gently, you began to move. Not urgently, not to finish something, but to explore. The softest grind of your hips into his, dragging fabric against fabric, building friction that made his lips part in a quiet, broken gasp. His eyes fluttered closed, lashes kissing his cheeks, and his hands clutched your sides like he needed grounding.

You could feel it all. The growing heat pooling low in your belly, the ache between your legs intensifying with each shift, and the clear tension in Bob’s body as he whimpered helplessly. His head tipped back against the wall, exposing the long line of his neck, and his thighs tensed beneath yours.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly, your voice breathless but sure.

He nodded quickly, voice cracking. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, please.”

The desperation in his whisper made your stomach flip. You leaned forward, kissed along his jaw, his ear, and then back to his lips—this time slower, deeper, letting him feel how much you meant it. How much you wanted him.

And still, your hips moved. Measured rolls that made his breath catch and his hands dig just a little harder into your waist. The tension between you thickened like honey, sticky and warm, and everything slowed down.

He whispered your name like a prayer, and when you whispered his in return, voice thick with want and wonder, he shivered, completely undone beneath you.

Your fingers moved cautiously, tracing the hem of his shirt. You paused, eyes flicking up to meet his, giving him a silent chance to pull back. But he didn’t, he just nodded slightly, and that was all you needed.

You slid your hand under his shirt, your palm meeting the heat of his skin. He shivered immediately, muscles twitching beneath your touch, and you felt him grip your hips just a little tighter — not to stop you, but to anchor himself.

“Still okay?” you murmured against his lips.

He swallowed thickly, nodding. “More than okay.”

Piece by piece, you began to remove each other’s clothing, slowly, like unwrapping a secret. Every inch of exposed skin felt like a discovery. His shirt first, then yours. His eyes widened when he saw your chest, and for a moment, he just stared, completely speechless.

You smiled softly, brushing his cheek with your fingers. “You’ve seen me before, remember?”

“Not like this,” he whispered, voice rough and reverent.

His hands ghosted over your sides, hesitant at first, as if afraid you might vanish. But you didn’t, you leaned into his touch, and his hesitation melted into something bolder.

The more skin you revealed, the more the tension between you tightened, until it was a living, breathing thing. And when the last layer of clothing fell away, when you were both completely bare, there was nothing left to hold back.

Bob looked up at you, his hands trembling slightly where they rested on your hips. His eyes, full of something deep, searched yours, like he needed your permission again, even though you were already here, already his.

You leaned down to kiss him, slow and deep, your lips moving against his in a way that made both of you sigh quietly into the space between. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell faster, how his body tensed beneath yours as you slowly rolled your hips, letting the sensation build gently, teasingly.

He moaned — not loud, but broken, like the sound had been pulled out of him without warning. His hands flexed against your skin, not guiding you, just holding, grounding himself in the reality that this was happening. That you were here. That you wanted him.

“God… you feel so good,” he breathed, voice low and shaky.

You smiled softly against his neck, then whispered, “So do you.”

When he finally slid into you, it was careful — almost reverent. There was no rush. No hunger to claim. Just the slow, aching press of bodies coming together, like a deep breath being exhaled after being held too long.

Both of you stilled for a moment, your foreheads pressed together, hearts pounding in sync. You were full of him — not just physically, but emotionally. And in that moment, you swore you felt something inside you settle. Like a missing piece had finally found where it belonged.

You began to move together, slow and deliberate, each thrust more about connection than release. His hands roamed up your back, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades, like he couldn’t bear to let go of even an inch of you. Every time your hips met, a soft gasp or whimper left your lips, answered by the way Bob groaned low in his throat, utterly overwhelmed by how good you felt around him.

The air between you was thick with warmth, your bodies slick with sweat but never frantic. The way you kissed him between moans, the way his hands stroked your sides with a trembling tenderness, it all spoke louder than anything you could’ve said out loud.

“I’ve never—” he choked out, voice cracking, “—never felt anything like this.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Me neither.”

Your pace quickened slightly, not from desperation but because your bodies knew each other now, moved together naturally. You could feel yourself getting closer, and from the way Bob’s grip on you tightened and his hips stuttered slightly, you knew he was too.

But neither of you chased it. You let it build, let it take its time, let it matter.

And when you finally came — together, as if perfectly timed — it wasn’t explosive. It was soft. Like sinking into something that had always been waiting for you. You held each other through it, every muscle trembling, your mouths finding each other again and again as if to say, I’m here. I’m still here.

Even as your breathing slowed and your bodies softened, you didn’t pull away. You just stayed there, tangled together in warmth and silence, hearts thudding gently in the same rhythm.

The world had gone quiet. Neither of you spoke for a while. There was no need to. You were both still coming down from the high, your minds slow, your bodies heavy and satisfied.

Bob’s chest rose and fell beneath you, his heartbeat echoing faintly in your ear where your head rested against him. You could feel that he was still inside you, the connection unbroken, and neither of you seemed in a hurry to move.

You shifted just slightly, a tiny sigh escaping your lips as your thighs twitched from the lingering tension. Bob pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, the gentlest thing, like he was afraid he’d wake you even though you were still very much awake but fading.

Your voice was quiet, half-murmured against his chest. “You okay?”

He let out a breath, almost a laugh, and nodded slowly. “Yeah… I just… I don’t think I’ve ever felt this calm before.”

You smiled, your eyes closing at the sound of his voice, that low, warm rasp that made your chest flutter even now. “Me neither.”

There was a pause. Not awkward, not heavy, just peaceful. The kind of pause where two people are so content, silence feels like part of the conversation.

You felt yourself drifting, your body melting further into his. Your legs tangled with his, your arms limp, every inch of you relaxed in a way you hadn’t known you needed. You were safe. You were full — in every sense of the word. And his presence beneath you was like an anchor, a soft place to land after everything.

Your breath started to slow. Your eyelids fluttered, heavy. Sleep pulled at you like the tide.

And then, just as you began to slip under, Bob’s voice, barely there, a whisper made of breath and feeling, broke the stillness.

“I love you.”

He didn’t say it like he expected an answer. He didn’t even say it like he meant for you to hear. It was quiet. Almost scared. Like a secret that had waited far too long to be set free.

But you didn’t stir. You were already gone, lost to sleep in the safety of his arms, your face soft and peaceful against his chest.

Bob looked down at you, his expression unreadable for a moment, then full of something tender, something real. He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, let his fingers rest against your naked back, and closed his eyes.

He will never forget this moment.

And so do you.

[demon-at-peace]

DC + DP

Danny found it rather hard to discriminate, most ghosts did, they were rather wild. Claws, glowing skin, most weren't human. So really he learned to ignore the large teeth, the glowing skin, the creepy voices, and the other inhuman buts about people. He was also immune to the way they scarred people, the way you instinctually avoided them, winced when you saw them.

Not Danny, he'd smile at you ask you out for coffee, really he didn't seem to notice the monterous aura of demons and such. So supernatural beings liked him, they liked his laughter, they like his smile his quick-witted tongue. So Danny had a rather odd group of friends.

Really though most of them were villains, it wasn't really a surprise since other than with Sam and Tucker the only time he went out was with Dan or Jazz. As such it was either a bunch of therapists of villains. And sue him he'd sooner blow up the world than go to therapy.

The group was chill, most of which not rich evil people simply because neither Dan or Danny could stand them. Vlad was more than enough to deal with. So crimelords, demons, a plant lady and other assortment of people.

Dan had friends out of the group that Danny met, but for the most part it was just them. Danny also mi-ght have had a criminal record. I mean he had one before, for existing, shoplifting and property damage. But only the shoplifting was on his civilian ID.

Now he also had arson, property damage, and assalt of police officers. But honestly only the first two were that bad.

Acab for life, cops sucked ass. Unfortunately the officers were suing and he was now being hunted down by some infernal thing called the Justice league.

Honestly who would call themselves that? It was so pretentious! He though darkly as the lady with the W on her outfit went after him again.

pretentious aside why were they all dressed in lingerie type stuff. Like the spandex show everything, and the woman’s uniforms were a bit more than revealing! Seriously was this universes Heroes all into kinky stuff?

a couple weren’t so revealing, the one in black with the child (except the child was in a leotard?) the one with the arrows, and some of the magic ones, like the trench coat man! He at least had changed out of the hazmat suit at first chance!

anyhow really he should get out of here, except whoopsy daisy that laser vision just hit him. He landed pouting! “Really I burned a shed down! An empty shed! And like the officers were being racists dicks!”

“You also bulldozed through a wall!” One of the decently dressed heroes tells.

“yeah and? Y’all get away with public indecency I can get away with a bit of property damage!” Danny pouts.

“Public indecency?” The S dude asks.

“duh, like I can see everything! You might as well just paint your skin! I don’t need to see your pecs it ain’t even that hot out!!” He crosses his arms indignantly.

“you still need to pay for property damage!” The guy dressed in black scolds him.

“fine! when you stop dressing a child without pants! They are a thing you know! Besides he doesn’t even have armor!” Danny scowls.

“my costume is a tribute to my dead parents!” The kid bites out.

“and mine was a tribute to my death!” Danny rolls his eyes. “Just please add some pants!”

“Fine!” The kid agreed grudgingly, glaring at Danny.

“Shake on it?” Danny asks holding out his hand. Robin shakes his hands and Danny vanishes.

Robin doesn’t get pants. Danny doesn’t pay his bills. Years later after Tim is Robin, and Robin has pants Dick gets an email. Sure enough Danny payed his bills.

—-

huh it’s fluff? Also I updated my demon twins fic finally!!

Bye ✌️

[yukioos]

hiii, i’ve been stalking ur blog and i absolutely love ur writing ☺️☺️ may i request bakugou w a shy/introverted s/o who is a literal BADDIE but is clueless abt it 🙏 pls and thank you 🫶🫶

katsuki with an introverted s/o who’s clueless about how attractive they are

you sat at your desk writing quick notes, nothing too pretty but with handwriting readable enough to let someone borrow. entranced with what mister aizawa was writing on the whiteboard, you almost didn’t notice the whispers behind you. trying to quiet your mind, you stood silent and tried to listen in to what the boys behind you were talking about.

“dude, she’s so pretty! that lipgloss looks really good on her, you know? i’ve been thinking about it for days.” kaminari attempted to whisper, but ultimately failed. you smiled. he was probably talking about kyoka. he paused, “should i ask her out?”

a familiar voice rang in your ears, “ask her out and i’ll kill you, dunce face.” katsuki grunted, making you think maybe they weren’t talking about kyoka. hopefully, at least, considering katsuki’s your boyfriend.

you thought it’d be weird, however, for kaminari of all people to like you. you never thought you were concerningly attractive, or even ugly, just average, nothing special about you. you had an okay quirk, average grades, and a decent personality, but nothing went beyond according to you.

but to everyone else, you were better than average for almost everything. you practiced training and had amazing control over your quirk, excellent grades, and always studied, beautiful, and probably the kindest, funniest, and most comforting person someone could know.

katsuki especially agreed with all of that.

he hadn’t told many people that the two of you were dating, as you were shy and wanted privacy. he also agreed with you, as he wanted to surprise his friends with an ‘oh, i’m dating y/n by the way’ just to see the expressions on their faces. not showing too much pda in front of other people was what you and katsuki both preferred, but behind closed doors, you two were so openly loving.

but even when katsuki would compliment you, whether it was in public or alone, you always seemed confused, like you thought home was lying. he wasn’t, of course, but it was odd to hear something specifically sweet from his mouth. you hadn’t gained many compliments from others as a child, but you always accepted them, even if you didn’t outwardly agree with them.

one time, the two of you were going on a walk in the park near the U.A. campus. katsuki noticed your hair, and for some reason, the words just spilled from his mouth. he complimented, “i don’t know what the hell you did, but your hair looks amazing today.”

you tilted your head as he blushed, looking at the ground as the two of you walked side by side. you asked, “huh, really? i didn’t do anything different today.” murmuring the last part.

he chuckled, “well you always look amazing. i just really noticed your hair today.”

a chuckle escaped your mouth, “you’re just saying that because you’re my boyfriend, kats!”

he stared at you for a moment and looked caught off guard. he rolled his eyes, “that’s just a fact, idiot. you always look good, i’m not just saying that because we’re together. ashido was just talking about how you’re the greenest flag in the class, and during the second period, kaminari was talking to about how he wants to ask you out. i was close to exploding him right then and there.”

you raised your eyebrow with suspicion then giggled, “sureeee, they said all of that.”

“you seriously don’t believe me?” katsuki asked.

“nope!”

at least katsuki knew the truth, and when the two of you become comfortable enough to display your relationship publicly, he’ll be bragging about you left and right.

yay i loved writing this!! thank you so much for the req <3

[encredubitume]

IRON FIST ✸ LN04

Your daughter has an iron fist, and Lando is about to learn it the hard way.

PAIRING! ✸ Lando Norris x Single Mother!FemReader

WORDS! ✸ 1.5K

TAGS! ✸ Fluff. Not proof-read.

“She’ll probably seem closed off. Don’t take it personally. Ever since Isabella was born, it’s been hard for her to open up to strangers.”

Oscar’s voice is even, almost dull, but Lando picks up on the flicker of unease behind each carefully chosen word. Together, they move through the chaos of the Monaco Grand Prix; yet nothing is more frantic than Oscar’s pace.

In two years, Lando has learned to read his teammate's body language and its unsaid words. The tension in his shoulders and the tight fist at his side betray the calm he usually wears so well. He radiates apprehension⏤something so unlike him it disturbs Lando greatly.

It’s the first time his former neighbor from Hertford has accepted one of his invitations, and clearly, Oscar wants everything to be perfect.

“It took me a year to convince her to come, so please, don’t mess this up,” Oscar adds, confirming his theory.

“Wow. Who do you take me for? I do know how to behave, you know.”

Oscar stops in the middle of the paddock. He glances around, realizes people are filming them and pulls Lando aside by the arm⏤ignoring his protests⏤until they’re both hidden behind a broadcasting truck.

“What the hell, mate?”

Oscar gives him a wary look.

“I know you, Lando. And I know how this will go.”

Irritation flashes across the Brit’s face.

“Thanks, mate.”

“What I mean is…” Oscar shuts his eyes and draws in a deep breath, defeat written across his face. “She’s your type. Y/N, I mean. And she has a daughter. And you’ve been having this weird baby fever for weeks now. It's a disaster waiting to happen. I don't want you to scare her away.”

“I'm not an animal, Oscar.”

The latter runs a hand through his hair and sighs. Something in Lando softens at the obvious worry in his teammate’s eyes. He claps a firm hand on Oscar’s shoulder, who jolts.

“Don’t worry. I’ll just say hello. Nothing more.”

The second he steps into the McLaren motorhome, Lando regrets his promise.

The woman speaking with Lily is stunning, and the little girl in her arms, so adorable it takes everything in him not to coo aloud.

Maybe Oscar’s right. Maybe he does know Lando better than Lando knows himself, because this beautiful sight stirs something raw inside him, something he can barely suppress.

He clenches his jaw and looks away.

“Oscar!” a lovely voice calls.

You skips towards your former neighbor with a radiant smile, but your steps falter when you notice Lando standing beside him.

Before his eyes, you shift. The change is subtle, but the driver sees it—your arms tightening protectively around the child, your gaze darkening.

You're suddenly the Mother reincarnated, and to Lando, it turns you into something ethereal, a vision his eyes are thankful for.

“How’s my little princess doing?” Oscar coos next to him, his voice light and playful. Gone is the doubt from earlier.

The little girl babbles excitedly, arms outstretched to the Australian. Without hesitation, you hand her over. An irrational pang of jealousy twists in Lando’s chest as he watches the baby in Oscar’s arms and how easily the two interact.

He shoves it down and looks at you.

Your eyes stay on the duo, a fond smile tugging at your lips. Lando seizes the moment. He clears his throat and offers his hand.

“I’m Lando. Oscar’s told me a lot about you.”

You whisper more than you say your name, hesitant and guarded. Your hand is soft and disappears in his own. You are smaller than him, he notes. He could kiss the crown of your head without effort.

Lando blinks the thought away.

You promised to behave.

Reluctantly, he releases your hand and turns to Oscar, who’s now dodging the curious fingers of the little girl.

“And who’s this?”

“Isabella,” you say, cautious. “My daughter.”

At the sound of her name, the child turns—first to you, then to Lando, the only unfamiliar adult in the room. Her wide eyes study his face before locking somewhere onto the top of his head.

Then she beams, and something inside Lando cracks open.

He looks at you, whose expression is unreadable.

“May I...?” He gestures to Isabella, hands outstretched.

The baby, clearly recognizing the promise of a cuddle when she sees one, squeals and thrashes toward him. She kicks her little foot in Oscar’s chest, who grunts in pain.

You swiftly retrieves your daughter.

“I don’t want you to hold her.”

The words snap through the air like a whip. A few engineers turn around. Lando blinks. You exhale, adjusting Isabella on your hip.

“I just don’t like strangers touching her,” you explain more gently. “But you can say hello, if you’d like.”

Lando nods and flashes you a dazzling smile. Something flickers across your face, gone as soon as it appeared.

He crouches to Isabella’s level.

“Hey, love.”

“No!”

“You shouldn’t—”

Two voices cry out, but it's too late. In a blink, Isabella grabs a curl on Lando’s forehead and yanks.

The cry he lets out is far from dignified. He knows you heard it, and something in him dies a little at the thought.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Isabella, let go!”

But the toddler just giggles and tugs harder. Lando hisses.

“She does this all the time,” You try to explain while attempting to pull your daughter back. “It’s her favorite game. I should’ve warned you. God, I'm sorry. Isabella, let go of Lando!”

“It’s fine,” he mutters through clenched teeth, bent awkwardly.

How can something so small be so strong?

You grimace and step closer. A second, gentler hand dives into his curls to try and free him. The soft touch makes Lando’s heart thunder, or perhaps it is your newly-found proximity. His nose brushes your collarbone. If he concentrates hard enough, he can count the freckles on your skin and trace the seams of your bra beneath your white shirt.

Lando gulps, suddenly flushed.

“Oscar, some help maybe?”

He closes his eyes and inhales the sweet, floral perfume that overwhelms his senses—then yelps as Isabella finds another curl.

“Oh f— Fudge!”

One of his hands lands on your waist for balance; the other joins the tangle of hands in his hair. His fingers brush against yours—or maybe Oscar’s—and finally clasp around the tiny fist.

Isabella makes a curious sound.

“Maybe he should hold her,” Oscar suggests. “Might be the only way to get her to let go.”

Lando doesn’t need to see you to feel your hesitation—your body has stiffened under his hand.

“I suppose…”

Groaning, Lando stands, his back aching.

Reluctantly, you hand him Isabella, whose gaze stays fixed on his curls. Once nestled in his arms, she tilts her head and smacks her lips, once, twice, lost in serious contemplation.

“Alright, that’s enough,” you say, patience already running out, and step forward with outstretched arms. “We'll find something el—”

But you freeze.

Because Isabella releases his curls and wraps her tiny fingers around his index.

Lando's heart skips a beat. And his face breaks into a radiant smile.

He can’t help it. He brings their joined hands down and plants noisy kisses on the baby’s hand. Isabella bursts into delighted giggles.

“Hey you. Has anyone ever told you you’ve got quite the iron fist?”

Isabella drools in response. Lando chooses to take it as a yes.

When he finally looks up, he’s surprised to see you blushing.

“Sorry,” he winces, realizing how forward he’s been.

But, to his delight, you just shrug with a shy smile on your lips.

“'I'm sorry she took you hostage. It’s the first time she’s this... lively around someone new.”

“I’m honoured.”

They share a shy smile. Oscar clears his throat loudly, making you both jump. You blush deeper, shaking your head as you reach out again.

“Alright now, Isabella. Uncle Oscar and Lando have a race.”

Isabella whines as she’s pulled from Lando’s embrace. The sound slices something deep in him. Right then and there, he decides he hates seeing her sad.

“You’ll see them later,” you sooth, gently rocking your daughter.

As you both sway, your eyes flick shyly to Lando’s. He nearly chokes at the sight.

“If they want to, of course,” you add.

“I do,” he replies instantly, breathless. “I'll see you right after I win.”

Somewhere behind him, Oscar snorts.

But Lando means it. It’s a promise.

One he’s determined to keep.

When he crosses the finish line—There you go, P1 in Monaco, says his engineer—his mind isn’t on the crowd, or the glory. No. It’s elsewhere. On something softer.

The day after his victory, while videos of the drivers in nightclubs flood social media and scandals brew in their wake, fans wonder where Lando Norris has gone.

They should’ve looked further, past Monte Carlo’s frenzy, down a quiet alleyway in Monaco City.

Maybe then they’d have found the Grand Prix winner at a candle-lit table, sharing dinner with a beautiful woman and a little girl seated on his lap, tugging on his curls with an iron fist.

[sodqpuff]

୨୧ soon, love.

you fidgeted with gojo’s fingers, a shy smile tugging at your lips as you sat nestled in his lap, your head resting against his shoulder.

his long, slender fingers intertwined with yours, warm and steady, made to fit. “your hands…” you murmured, voice soft with awe, “they fit so perfectly with mine.” gojo chuckled, that familiar cocky lilt in his tone, but his touch was gentle as he lifted your hand to his lips.

he pressed a lingering kiss to your fingertip, his breath warm against your skin. “of course they do,” he teased, his voice dropping to a playful whisper.

“everything about us is perfect.” his thumb grazed your ring finger, pausing there with purpose, he pinched it lightly, his lips curling into a mischievous yet tender smile.

“soon, my love,” he said, his tone carrying a promise that made your heart flutter. “this finger’s gonna have something real pretty on it, just you wait.”

you tilted your head to meet his gaze, catching the glint of sincerity beneath his usual bravado. “you mean it, satoru?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper, laced with hope.

he leaned closer, his forehead brushing yours, that signature smirk softening into something only you ever got to see.

“i've never been more serious about anything,” he said, his voice low and warm. “you’re stuck with me, now and forever. deal with it.”

© written by kaizer | do not copy plagiarize or translate any.

[colouredbyd]

—So You'll Bury Your Own

brother!sirius black x fem!sister!reader x brother!regulus black, james potter x reader

synopsis: being a Black means learning to ache in silence, to carry what burns without letting it show. but healing, you find, is quieter still — braided through soft hands, old names, and voices that stay. and some burdens, it turns out, are lighter when carried together.

cw: Chronic illness, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, emotional breakdowns, grief, physical pain, mental deterioration, identity loss, emotional neglect,hospital scenes, overdose, allusions to death, trauma responses, self-hatred, references to childhood neglect, emotional repression, siblings reconnecting. happy ending!!!

w/c: 9k

based on: this request!!

a/n: i absolutely love this <3 it healed a lot in me </3 also who knew that wiseman would inspire this fic

part one dalia analyses of this!! masterlist

You just stare at him.

Like the world has turned inside out and dropped you in the heart of something you can’t name.

Sirius.

Your brother.

Not in memory or in ghost-form or in a stitched-up version from your loneliest dreams — but real, here, breathing raggedly in the doorway like he’s just clawed his way through hell and found you at the center of it.

His eyes are so red they look bruised, lashes wet and clumped like he’s been crying for hours and still hasn’t stopped. His chest rises and falls with frantic rhythm, the kind that doesn't belong to a boy but to someone broken wide open.

His face—he’s all wrong and all familiar. Pale where pride once sat. Crushed in the mouth. Swollen beneath the eyes. And still your brother. Still him.

You can’t move.

There is blood in your limbs but it no longer listens to you. Because you had made peace with leaving — with slipping out of this world like ink in water, quiet and unnoticed. You weren’t supposed to have to see the aftermath.

You weren’t supposed to look into the eyes of someone who would’ve stormed the afterlife itself to find you. You weren’t supposed to see what your absence would’ve done.

And then he moves.

It’s not a walk. It’s not even a stumble. It’s a collapse forward, all motion and desperation, arms reaching before words can form. He crashes into you like the air gave out between you both — a falling star, a scream unspoken, a thousand things too late.

His body slams into yours and you don’t even brace. There’s no time. The weight of him sends you both backward, tangled, breathless, hitting the floor in a clumsy, too-human heap.

“S—Sirius—” you try, but his arms are already around you, fists clenched in the fabric of your sleeves like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

He breaks.

Right there, right on your shoulder — his face buries into the curve of your neck like he’s never needed anything more, and the sound that tears from him is not a sob but a shattering. A noise pulled from the bottom of something that’s been hollowed out for far too long.

He cries with no elegance. No walls. No words. Just shaking and gasping and trembling and shaking again, the way grief does when it finally finds room to land.

“Don’t,” he whispers, cracked and hoarse and still so loud in your ear. “Don’t do that to me. Don’t leave. Don’t ever—”

You don’t answer. You don’t know how to.

You lie there beneath him, cold and burning all at once, and let him shake against your chest like a boy who never learned how to lose. His hands are curled into your shirt, and he’s trembling so badly it rattles your ribs, and you’re still stiff, still hollow, still bleeding nothing where everything should be.

And yet something—just a thread, just a ghost—shifts inside you. Not forgiveness. Not hope. Just the smallest, aching realization that someone came back for you. Not the version you wore in front of others. Not the one who smiled through it. But you. This broken, fading, raw thing. You.

“I didn’t know,” Sirius chokes, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hands cup your face, shaking. “I didn’t see it—I didn’t see you. And I’m your brother, and I—I should’ve known.”

You blink, slowly. He’s crying again. He hasn’t stopped. His face is wet and shining and messy and full of something awful and pure, and you hate him for making you feel something like warmth in a moment meant for ruin.

“I wanted to go quietly,” you whisper. “Without… hurting anyone.”

“Well,” he breathes, voice a rasp, forehead pressing against yours, “you failed miserably.”

And you laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because it hurts so much that your body can’t tell the difference anymore.

His hands are on your face before you even register the movement — warm, trembling, cradling you like you’re something breakable he’s just now learning how to hold. His thumbs brush over your cheekbones, as if trying to memorize the bones beneath your skin, as if looking at you isn’t enough — he has to feel you, anchor you, prove to himself that you’re still here.

He tilts your face gently to the side, and his eyes are scanning you in that frantic, desperate way people do when they’re checking for injuries.

You can see it behind the wet lashes, behind the tears still falling without his permission — fear. Bone-deep, soul-hollowing fear. Like he’s still waiting to wake up and find you gone.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, though your voice cracks at the edges, and your hands find his wrists, fingers curling tight. “I’m here.”

But then your gaze drops.

Blood.

It’s on your sleeve. On the floor. And smeared, thin and sharp, across the creases of his palm where glass must have shattered during the fall. His hands — the same ones that shook when he held your face, the same ones that once reached for yours across a thousand childhood halls — are streaked crimson.

From hugging you. From clutching too tightly. From crashing to the floor through spilled potion and broken glass and years of silence.

Your breath hitches. “Sirius—your hands—”

He looks down as if only now remembering. As if he felt nothing, so loud was the panic. Then he just shakes his head, jaw tightening.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, voice thick. “Doesn’t—nothing matters, not like that. You—” His voice breaks. “Why would you do that?”

He says it like he already knows. Like he doesn’t want to understand but can’t stop asking. His hands are bleeding and he still brings them back to your face, gently now, softly, like he’s afraid to hurt you more.

“Why would you do that, huh? Why wouldn’t you tell me? Why wouldn’t you let me in—?”

You try to speak, but he’s still unraveling.

“I should’ve been there. I should’ve—I should’ve written, or called, or showed up. I should’ve—fuck, I should’ve never left you like that. I thought—” He lets out a laugh that isn’t a laugh at all.

“I thought you hated me. You stopped talking and I—Merlin, I thought you were siding with them. With Mum. With everything. I thought you’d already made your choice.”

You blink slowly. Your throat feels like it’s wrapped in wool and fire.

“I was always punished for speaking,” you say, quiet. “Every time I raised my voice, she crushed it. So I stopped. I thought you knew that.”

Sirius flinches like you’ve hit him.

You don’t stop. The words are small and soft but each one scrapes from the hollow of your chest like glass. “I never stood against you. I never could. You’re my brother, Sirius.”

His eyes close. Something in his face folds. You watch the weight drop onto him like a cathedral crumbling — years of guilt, years of leaving, years of assuming you were just another echo of their mother’s hate.

And it’s not anger in his face. Not shame, even. It’s heartbreak. The kind that comes from realizing all the stories you told yourself to survive were lies — and someone else paid the price.

“I thought you hated me,” Sirius says again, but quieter now. “I thought you meant it when you stopped looking at me.”

“I never meant it,” you whisper, voice breaking like tide on rock. “I didn’t know how to mean anything anymore. She—she made me small. I was just trying to survive without disappearing.”

He laughs again, and it cracks down the middle. “Funny. I thought I had to disappear to survive.”

Your fingers twitch against his wrists. He still hasn’t let go of your face.

“I left because I thought staying would kill me,” he says. “I ran and ran and kept running and you—I told myself you didn’t need me. That if you did, you would’ve said something. Looked at me. Anything.”

“I was always being watched,” you murmur. “Every word cost something. And I—I thought you chose to stop seeing me.”

“I never stopped seeing you,” Sirius snaps, but not out of anger. Out of grief.

“I saw everything. I saw you shrinking. I saw Mum turn your light off room by room and I—fuck, I didn’t know how to stop it. I didn’t know how to stay and fight and still be whole.”

Your voice is a rasp now. “So you left us behind?”

“I left them. I thought you—” He swallows. “I thought you hated me for leaving Regulus behind. For not taking you with me.”

“I didn’t hate you,” you say. “I missed you.”

He blinks hard. The tears are falling again. “I missed you too.”

You look at his face, streaked in red and salt. His hands still tremble against your jaw. And something like grief twists inside you.

“I used to sit in that hospital bed and wait for you to look at me,” you say slowly. “You’d be right there for him, for Remus. Right there. And you’d never turn your head. Never once.”

Sirius opens his mouth, then closes it. Guilt flashes, molten and ugly, through every line of him.

“I thought if I looked at you,” he says at last, “I’d have to admit what I did. What I didn’t do. And I couldn’t. I was a coward.”

“I was your sister,” you say, and your voice is trembling now too. “And you didn’t see me.”

“I see you now,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll never stop being sorry.”

You nod, slowly, something cold sinking back into your spine. Something you can’t name. You press your lips together, watch his face — his bloodied palms, his storm of regret, his cracked voice.

“You’re my brother,” you say, like a truth, like a wound. Then, softer: “But your eyes were cold.”

He flinches like you’d whispered a curse, like your words shattered something brittle he’d been pretending was still whole.

His hands fall from your face not in anger, not in defense, but with the trembling reverence of someone letting go of a relic they finally understand they never deserved to hold.

For a moment — no, for longer than that — the silence between you crackles with everything that was never said. It hangs there, aching, bruised, begging not to be buried again.

And then, so soft it sounds like it’s breaking as it leaves him, he murmurs, “I know.”

His eyes drop. Because he can’t bear to meet yours — can’t bear for you to see that some part of him is still winter, still cold, still tangled in the darkness he chose over you. Because if he looks long enough, he knows you’ll find it.

The frost in him that never thawed.

You let him lead you through the quiet halls, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of everything you almost gave away. The weight of his arms was both a cradle and a cage — holding you upright, steadying your faltering steps, but also reminding you of every absence, every silence stretched too long between you.

You didn’t want to be seen here like this, didn’t want anyone to know the shape your desperation had taken. The last thing you wanted was whispers or pity trailing after you like ghosts.

So when he murmured low, voice rough with everything unsaid, “I won’t tell Madam Pomfrey, not a word,” you felt a fragile shard of relief crack open inside you. You nodded, almost too tired to speak, trusting him with the only secret you’d dared carry alone.

The infirmary smelled of antiseptic and old magic, the steady ticking of the clocks a quiet reminder that time was passing — though you wished it would stop.

Madam Pomfrey was busy with another patient, a boy from the Quidditch team, his arm wrapped tightly, grimacing in pain. She glanced at you with a practiced eye, reading the silent plea in your posture, but didn’t press.

Instead, she reached for her supplies and glanced at Sirius with a knowing look — one that said she’d seen this before, and she was ready.

Sirius sat beside you, his fingers curling protectively around yours as the bandages wrapped tightly around his palms. You noticed then the thin lines of blood tracing down his wrists from the broken glass he hadn’t bothered to mention.

You wanted to reach out, to ease it somehow, but your fingers felt too heavy, too fragile. You only watched as the tension in his jaw softened, the brief flicker of pain he tried to swallow.

When Madam Pomfrey turned her attention to you, checking your pulse and watching your breathing with that sharp, clinical care, you closed your eyes and let her work, feeling the cold press of her hands and the warmth of the potion she dabbed gently on your skin.

It soothed and stung all at once — like the pain inside you, raw and real and aching in every breath.

Sirius didn’t say much; his quiet presence was steady, but you could feel the storm behind his eyes, the fight he was waging not to unravel in front of you.

And then, just as quietly as he’d come, Sirius slipped away. His steps were soft, careful, as if leaving you was its own kind of punishment. You heard the faint creak of the infirmary door closing behind him and the hollow echo of footsteps fading down the corridor.

You were left with the sterile quiet, the ache in your chest, and the fragile promise that some secrets could stay locked between two broken souls — even if only for a little while.

You don’t ask where he went. You don’t let yourself wonder, because wondering leads to hope and hope is still too sharp. Instead, you sit in the hush he left behind, your hands folded in your lap like you’re still praying to be seen.

Madam Pomfrey moves quietly around you, fingers gentle on your wrist, eyes soft but heavy with knowledge she never speaks aloud.

“Not all wounds bleed, dear,” she says at last, voice low as if confiding something sacred. “Some sit in the marrow. Some take root in the bone.”

You nod, barely. It aches to move. It aches not to.

She touches your shoulder, not to fix but to reassure. “Warmth helps. Rest. Tea with thyme and a bit of honey. And something that sings. Even quiet pain needs a lullaby.”

You don’t have the heart to tell her your voice went quiet the day your brother stopped looking at you like you were still made of light and not just what remained of it.

The silence hangs fragile between you, stitched with the clink of glass and the soft rustle of linen — until it’s broken.

Screaming. Outside. Sharp and sudden like lightning cracking bone.

“Stop!” It’s Sirius. Loud, desperate. His voice shatters the calm like a stone through stained glass.

Madam Pomfrey snaps her head toward the door, already moving. “Stay here,” she instructs, tight and brisk, years of practiced authority kicking in.

“I swear, these boys will be the death of me.”

You don’t stay. Of course you don’t.

Because you already know.

You swing your legs over the cot slowly, every limb trembling with fatigue, but your heart beats fast and wild. The shouting grows louder. The door flies open before you can reach it.

And then —

He’s there. Regulus.

Not the polished version the world sees, not the cool shadow of a perfect Black heir. But a boy unraveling, wild-eyed and furious, his robes twisted, hair falling into his face, hands shaking with rage. “Where is she?” he’s demanding, voice fraying at the edges.

“Regulus—” Sirius tries, but Regulus ignores him.

He storms through the infirmary like a storm, tearing open curtain after curtain, ignoring the protests of beds still occupied. “Where is she? Where is she—”

You don’t move. You can’t.

The curtain pulls back with the soft, traitorous hiss of fabric betraying silence — and the world goes still.

You don’t lift your head. You don’t need to. The air has shifted — the way it does before a storm, or after a prayer that’s gone unanswered. You feel him before you see him. Regulus.

He doesn’t say your name.

He doesn’t have to.

His presence hangs in the room like breath held too long — like grief trapped behind ribcages and white-knuckled resolve.

You can feel the way he’s looking at you — not straight at your face, not at your hands or the thin sheet drawn over your knees, but lower. There, at your back.

At the braid.

The one you wore like a memory. Like a keepsake. The one only two people in the world ever loved. Sirius had tugged it. Regulus had braided it.

And now his eyes are stuck to it like it’s something sacred. Something ruined.

You look up — and your lungs forget what to do.

He stands at the foot of your bed like a ghost unsure of its haunting. Pale, gaunt in the way that says he hasn’t slept properly in months. His eyes — they look like frost bitten into storm clouds. Wet, wide, unblinking.

His hands hang by his sides. Trembling. Shaking like he’s holding back an entire tide of something unspeakable.

Behind him, Sirius stumbles in, breathless, voice sharp and breaking in one syllable: “What the fuck, Regulus?”

Madam Pomfrey snaps to attention. “I will not have a shouting match in my infirmary—”

But Regulus doesn’t even flinch.

And Madam knows. You see it on her face — in the way her mouth thins, the way her eyes flicker to you, then to him, then soften. She nods once, tight-lipped, and vanishes behind the heavy oak door, leaving only the three of you in the thick, trembling stillness of what’s left unsaid.

Regulus hasn’t moved.

You’re sitting upright now, your hands shaking in your lap, your shoulders curved inward like you could make yourself smaller, less breakable, less seen.

Still, his gaze doesn’t leave the braid.

The silence is unbearable.

“Reg—” your voice barely carries. It’s scraped raw, soft as snowfall. “Reg, please…”

He blinks — once — and you see the glisten in his lashes.

“Say something,” you beg, your voice catching, shoulders trembling now too. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that.”

But he does.

Like the braid is a funeral ribbon. Like you’ve carved something cruel into his chest just by standing there. Like he’s looking at the girl he grew up with — the one who used to hide poetry under her pillow and sneak cold apples from the kitchens — and seeing a stranger in her place.

You curl in on yourself. Press the heel of your palm into your eye to keep it from spilling again. But it’s no use. A sob leaves you — not loud, but enough to shatter something between you both.

Still, Regulus says nothing. He just stares. Hands trembling. Heart, you think, doing the same.

And it hurts.

Like watching a star collapse in real time.

Like remembering, all at once, every word you never said to him. Every letter you never sent. Every ache that grew between you in the years of silence and split loyalties and all the things you weren’t allowed to feel.

You want him to yell. To say you betrayed him. To say you ruined everything. Anything.

But he’s silent.

And it is the loudest thing you have ever heard.

Regulus steps forward, his movement hesitant yet inevitable, like the slow breaking of ice under a restless sky. His hands tremble ever so slightly, fingers curling and uncurling as if trying to grasp the edges of a fragile truth too sharp to hold.

His eyes, those dark pools of silent storms, lock onto yours with an intensity that both roots you to the spot and threatens to tear you apart.

Then, with a voice low and steady, carrying the weight of all the things left unsaid, he asks: “Is it true? Did you really try to kill yourself?”

The words hang heavy in the air, unsparing and raw, stripped of any softness or mercy. There is no sugar-coating here, no gentle circumspection — only the brutal, shattering truth laid bare like bones picked clean.

And as the question falls from his lips, you feel the coldness of it seep into your skin, like frost creeping into bare flesh. You realize in that moment that this is real — it’s not just a secret you’ve carried alone in silence, not just a shadow lingering at the edges of your days. It’s a living thing now, given breath and shape by his voice.

Even Sirius flinches at the sound, his shoulders stiffening as if struck by a sudden gust of pain he had tried to ignore. You stay still, breath caught in a fragile pause between surrender and denial, because hearing it named aloud—so plainly, so fearlessly—removes the last veil of distance and forces you to confront the ache in its full, terrible clarity.

Sirius steps in front of you before you can say anything — before you can find the voice buried beneath the wreckage of what Regulus’s question unearthed.

There’s a rage about him, but not the cruel kind — it’s blistering and desperate, the fury of someone watching something they love be handled too roughly.

He shoves Regulus back with a hand to his chest, not hard, but enough to draw a line between grief and guilt.

“That’s not how you ask,” Sirius hisses, voice shaking. “She’s still bleeding inside. You don’t get to storm in here and demand—”

“Don’t tell me what I get to do!” Regulus snaps back, eyes flaring, voice rising like a tide he can’t hold back.

“You don’t get to disappear for months and suddenly pretend like you’re the only one who cares!”

“I never pretended,” Sirius growls, taking a step closer. “You think I didn’t care? I found her. I was the one who—” His voice breaks, sharp and ugly.

“You weren’t there, Reg.”

“You left us!” Regulus’s voice is full now, a hurricane of sorrow and betrayal. “You left me. You left her. Don’t stand there and talk about who was there when you made it so we had to survive without you.”

Sirius recoils as if struck, and something bitter twists his mouth. “You think I wanted to leave?” His voice drops, not quieter, but heavier.

“You think I could stay when everything was falling apart and I couldn’t tell who was lying and who wasn’t and she stopped writing back and you—”

“I never stopped writing!” you finally choke, but neither of them hears you.

“You shut down!” Sirius shouts at Regulus. “You looked at me like I was the enemy!”

“You were the enemy!” Regulus yells, chest heaving. “You ran off to play rebel with your new family and left us behind to clean up the mess. You didn’t even say goodbye.”

Sirius takes another step forward, his face crumpling, years of anger and guilt and heartache tightening into something sharp.

“Because I didn’t know if I’d survive it. I didn’t know if I could say goodbye to you both and live with it.” His voice is raw now, splintering around the edges.

“I didn’t know who you were anymore. She stopped answering. You stopped talking. And I—I thought I’d lost you both.”

“And now she’s—” Regulus can’t finish it. He gestures helplessly toward you, voice cracking. “You almost lost her forever, Sirius.”

“I know!” Sirius roars, turning on him so suddenly you flinch. “You think I don’t know? I found the bottle. I found her barely breathing. I thought—” His hands shake as he rakes them through his hair.

“I thought I was too late. I thought she was gone. And I would’ve deserved it. Because I—I wasn’t there when she needed me.”

Silence swells between them for a breath, just long enough for the weight of it all to settle in the bones of the room.

And then Sirius turns to you, voice breaking as he points — not at your pain, not at your wounds, but at your heart. “She’s my sister,” he says, low but blazing. “She’s not blood. She’s more than that. She’s mine. And I let her down.”

Regulus stares at him, stunned.

And then his voice comes quiet. Shaken. Hurt in the most childlike way.

“And I’m your brother too.”

The words land like a blow, not loud, not sharp — just unbearably true.

A single tear carves a path down Regulus’s cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away. Doesn’t move at all. Just stands there, blinking, like Sirius has punched the breath from his lungs.

His chest rises unevenly, and he stares at the floor like it might hold some answer to everything they've both broken.

The silence has weight — not the soft kind, but the kind that drips like melted wax onto already raw skin. No one speaks. You can feel it tremble in the air between them, like a wire pulled too tight.

Regulus moves.

He yanks his tie loose with shaking hands — not neatly, but frantically, like it’s choking him. The fabric hits the floor with a soft, pitiful flutter, and he’s already reaching up to press trembling fingers into his eyes, but it’s too late. The tears come anyway, and this time, he doesn’t stop them.

“I’m your brother too, Sirius!” he finally bursts out, voice raw, like it’s been clawing its way up his throat for years.

“I was your brother before any of this — before you ran off and left us! Left me!”

His chest is heaving now, sobs breaking free without rhythm, and you’ve never seen him like this. Never seen his composure shatter so utterly.

“I was twelve!” he chokes, stepping back from Sirius like being near him burns. “I was twelve and you were everything. You were brave and stupid and loud and you laughed in the face of everything I was too scared to even whisper about. I wanted to be like you. I worshipped you.”

He laughs then — hollow, broken — and runs a hand through his hair, tugging too hard. “And then you left. You left. Didn’t even look back. Do you know what it did to her? To me?”

Sirius tries to speak, but Regulus cuts him off, eyes wild now, shining with the kind of grief that never found a place to settle.

“She stopped coming to me after you left,” Regulus says, softer now but still shaking.

“At first, I thought she was angry. But then I realized — she thought I’d leave too. She looked at me like she was waiting for it. Like I’d vanish just like you.”

Your breath catches, and Sirius goes still.

“And it killed me,” Regulus whispers. “Because I would’ve never left her. I never planned to. But she didn’t believe me — not really — not after you. And I hated you for that. I hated you because the moment you left, I started losing her too.”

His voice wavers again, breaks apart into something smaller.

“You weren’t just her big brother, Sirius. You were mine too.”

His hands are shaking at his sides, open like he doesn’t know what to hold onto. You think if he grips one more thing too tight, he’ll bleed. Maybe he already is — not from the cuts on his palms, but the ones he's carried since that day Sirius walked out the door and didn’t look back.

There’s a long, aching pause. Neither of them knows what to do with the grief in the room, so large it might swallow all three of you.

Your sobs are choking out of you in stuttering, fractured waves. “I—I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t trying to… I just didn’t know how to—how to stay,” you gasp, every word struggling past the agony clawing up your throat.

“I thought I was doing you a favour—both of you—I thought you’d be better off without—”

“Don’t,” Sirius breathes, pulling you tighter against his chest, his voice trembling. “Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that again.”

“I didn’t know how to ask for help,” you cry, fingers curling into Sirius’s robes, your whole body shaking from the force of grief finally spoken aloud. “I thought if I stayed quiet… if I just stayed small… maybe I wouldn’t ruin anything else.”

“You were never ruining anything,” Sirius whispers fiercely, like it physically hurts him to hear your words. “You’re not a burden, you’re not a mistake, you never were—”

“I’m sorry,” you sob again, looking past his shoulder at Regulus. “Reg… I’m sorry I stopped coming to you. I didn’t know how to face you after Sirius left—”

And that name, that ache, it cracks something in Regulus.

“You stopped coming to me because of him,” Regulus says quietly, like a wound being reopened. “Because you thought I’d leave you too.”

You nod, shame making your spine curl. “Everyone always leaves. I didn’t want to find out if you would.”

Regulus’s mouth trembles. “And you thought dying would hurt less than asking me to stay?”

You can’t answer, not really. So instead, you reach for him again. And this time, when his fingers catch yours, it’s with no hesitation.

He sinks to his knees beside Sirius, and for a second, the three of you are just breathing. No yelling. No silence. Just breathing.

“I hated you for it, Sirius,” Regulus says, the words escaping like they've been burning holes in his throat for years. His tie dangles from his fingers, forgotten, his shirt rumpled from the fall, his eyes rimmed red and shining with unshed fury.

“I hated you so much I could barely breathe some days. You were my brother. You were mine before anything—before Gryffindor, before your damn rebellion, before you decided we weren’t enough.”

He’s trembling now, voice cracking around the edges, the sheen in his eyes spilling over in quiet, furious tears.

“You were my brother, and you left. You left me in that house—left me with Mother and her silence and Father and his rules, and her. You left me to rot in a mausoleum while you carved out your freedom and never once looked back.”

Sirius says nothing. Not yet. His jaw tightens, but he’s still holding you, knuckles bone-white, like if he lets go now, you’ll disappear for real.

Regulus steps closer, shoulders heaving. “She stopped coming to me after you left. Did you know that? She used to come to my room at night and braid my hair with shaking hands. She used to hum under her breath when the walls got too loud. She used to talk about you like you hung the stars. And then one day she just stopped.”

Your breath stutters. You remember those nights. You remember stopping, too.

“I’d wait for her,” Regulus continues, voice barely holding. “I’d wait with the door cracked open just enough. I’d leave out her favourite books. I even carved her a charm to put on her braid—she never came for it. I thought maybe she was angry at me, too. But no, it was worse. She was afraid I’d vanish the same way you did. So she pulled away before I had the chance to prove her right.”

Sirius’s voice finally scrapes out. “I thought she hated me. I thought she stopped writing because she picked your side—because she believed everything they said about me.”

“She stopped writing,” Regulus hisses, “because every time she opened her mouth, someone hurt her for it. Because silence was safer. Because she learned that words were dangerous the night you left and didn’t say goodbye.”

You flinch.

“I kept hating you,” Regulus breathes.

“Because hating you was the only way I knew how to stay angry enough to survive. But you were the first thing I ever loved. And when you disappeared, something broke in me so violently I don’t think it ever healed. You were supposed to be the one thing I could count on.”

He swallows hard. Drops his tie to the floor like it weighs too much to carry.

“You broke her. And when she stopped needing me, it broke me, too.”

The words hang there like smoke. Sirius stares at the ground, breathing hard through his nose, mouth pinched like he’s keeping something back. Your body aches from sobbing, but something still lingers on your tongue.

The silence that follows is not empty—it is thick with the ache of unspoken years, of letters unsent and hands unheld, of nights curled around longing with no one to listen.

It’s the kind of silence that trembles, like the earth before the rain. You can barely hear the ticking of the infirmary clock beneath the weight of it.

Regulus stands frozen, tear-streaked and shivering in the dim light, and Sirius is still kneeling at your side, his arm locked protectively around you as if anchoring you to this moment. His chest rises and falls with breaths he doesn’t know how to take.

And then, without warning, Sirius rises.

Not with fury or resistance—but with something quieter, something breaking.

He crosses the small space between them in three slow steps and stops just short of touching. Regulus doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t breathe. His eyes are glassy and far away, like he’s still half-waiting for Sirius to turn around again and leave.

But Sirius doesn’t leave.

He steps in and wraps his arms around his little brother, the motion a little clumsy from all the years they went without it. His chin presses to the curve of Regulus’s shoulder. His fingers tremble where they cling to the back of his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius whispers. “I’m so—Reg, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know how much I left behind.”

At first Regulus stands stiff, every muscle locked tight like he might shatter from the touch. And then—

He sinks into it.

It’s not graceful. It’s not easy. It’s like grief wrestles with his spine before it lets him bend. But he does.

He leans into his brother’s chest and fists both hands into Sirius’s robes and lets out a sob that sounds like it’s been trapped in his ribs since he was twelve years old.

You watch them with eyes swollen and raw, your own heart a wounded bird beating against its cage. And before you know what you’re doing, you’re moving too—rising to your knees, crawling toward them like the gravity between the three of you has finally won.

Your arms wind around both their waists. One arm around Sirius, one around Regulus. A knot in the center. A lifeline in the dark.

None of you speak.

There are no names, no rebukes, no conditions.

Regulus's breath hitches against your shoulder, his fingers curling gently into your braid, like he's afraid it might vanish if he lets go. Sirius presses his forehead to yours, eyes clenched shut like he's praying through skin.

And you—weary, weeping, but breathing—you press your face into the space between them and let yourself be held.

No one wins this grief. No one walks away clean.

Because the Black name had always been a curse stitched into your skin—an inheritance of fire and frost. It did not cradle its children; it claimed them. Moulded them into altars of silence and expectation. And each of you—Sirius, Regulus, and you—had carried that name like a wound in a different place.

For Sirius, it had burned in his throat. It turned into rebellion, into shouting matches that ended in slammed doors and broken photo frames, in the kind of departure that tasted like ash and gasoline. He had to run because if he didn’t, it would consume him.

And so he ran, not knowing that the fire followed. That the emptiness he left behind in that cold manor turned into something sharp and echoing in the hearts of those who stayed.

For Regulus, it had lived in his bones. It didn’t scream. It whispered. Dutiful son. Perfect heir. He learned early how to fold pain into silence, how to smile with his teeth clenched. He bore it all—every twisted tradition, every expectation, every tightening collar—as if it were his penance.

Because someone had to stay. Because someone had to be the mirror their mother could still admire. But in the quiet, in the dark, it splintered him. You saw it. You saw how it hollowed him out, day after day. But he never asked for help. Because what right did the golden son have to ache?

And you. You were the secret between them. The one who did not shout, and did not stay, but simply endured. You curled your pain into the softest parts of yourself and made it quiet. Made it poetic.

The ache lived in your music, in your gaze, in the way you held them both from a distance even when they stood beside you. You became a ghost before you even had the chance to disappear.

The Black name haunted all three of you—but in different languages. In different ghosts. And maybe that was the cruelest part: the way it kept you from seeing each other’s pain. Because you were so busy hiding yours.

Because if you looked too closely, if you let them look too closely, they would see it. The ruin. The breaking. The unbearable weight of being born into a war you never asked for, under a name you didn’t choose, with a future you were too kind to believe in.

But now, here you are. All three of you.

No longer hiding. No longer running.

You’re a knot of limbs and sobs, of shivering hands and raw apologies.

Regulus clutches Sirius like he used to when they were children, when the thunder was loud and the manor darker than death. Sirius strokes the back of Regulus’s head like he’s trying to remember how to be someone’s brother again.

And you—you are cradled between them, your hand buried in Sirius’s collar, the other tangled in Regulus’s robes, anchoring both of them as much as they are anchoring you.

No one speaks for a long time.

Because words, for once, are not big enough.

Because grief has hollowed each of you into temples, and maybe—just maybe—this is where the gods of your childhood finally fall.

You pulled back slowly, like peeling yourself out of a dream that you weren’t ready to leave, your arms slipping away from their warmth, your body still trembling with the echoes of everything that had been said—everything that hadn’t.

The air between you had changed. It was quieter, softer, like the hush that falls after a storm, when the sky is still bruised and wet but the thunder has finally tired itself out.

You sat back on the narrow infirmary bed, your breath uneven, lashes damp, and stared down at your fingers twisting in your lap. The silence returned—not sharp this time, not cold, just cautious. And then, you said it. Quietly. Like it was just another thing to survive.

“Mother wrote me.”

They both froze. Regulus’s jaw tensed, Sirius’s shoulders stiffened behind you. You didn’t look up.

“She wants us to meet for Christmas.”

A long pause. Then, a tired exhale. Regulus ran a hand over his face like he could wipe the family out of him. Sirius just sighed—one of those long, too-heavy exhales that sounded like defeat wrapped in dry laughter.

“Course she does,” he muttered. “’Tis the season.”

And then, Sirius said, “C’mere.”

You blinked, confused, still folded in on yourself.

“What?”

“C’mere,” he said again, voice softer now, coaxing.

You turned, hesitant. Sirius was already shifting back on the bed, scooting until his back hit the wall and his knees spread apart just enough to make space for you between them.

It was a tight squeeze—three nearly grown bodies on a cot meant for a single patient—but somehow, you all managed.

“Closer,” Sirius said.

You let out a faint, bewildered breath but inched toward him anyway, letting him guide you. You ended up with your back resting against his chest, his arms gently encircling your waist, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your shoulder blades.

It was strange—comforting, anchoring—like being wrapped in the kind of warmth you had long given up believing you’d ever feel again. His chin settled lightly atop your head.

Regulus sat in front of you on the edge of the bed, your knees brushing his. He reached out without hesitation, took both your hands in his.

His fingers were cold at first—always a bit colder than yours—but the longer he held them, the more the warmth seeped through. His thumbs traced slow circles into your palms, grounding you like a spell.

He looked at you. Really looked.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. His voice didn’t tremble this time. It cracked, low and quiet and sincere.

“You’re my twin. I shared a womb with you. I share a name with you. Yeah?”

You blinked, and the tears started again, slowly.

“I’d share this pain too. All of it. If I could carry it, I would. If I could cut it out of you, stitch it into myself, I wouldn’t even hesitate.”

You didn’t know how to speak. It was like something was pressing into your ribs from the inside.

“And even if I can’t take it away—the heaviness in your bones, the ache that never seems to leave—I’ll be here. I promise. So please…” his voice faltered now, eyes wide and raw and flickering with something close to desperation,

“Don’t leave me. Not you.”

And behind you, Sirius was moving. Slowly, carefully. His hands, rough from years of fighting, from running, from surviving, were suddenly so gentle it nearly broke you.

You felt them reach for your braid—loosened and half-undone from the night before, frayed at the edges but still clinging together in the way you had always worn it. The way you had been taught to wear it. One braid. One girl. One legacy.

Sirius touched it like it was something sacred. Not a symbol of tradition, but of the little girl he left behind.

He began to undo it—strand by strand, knot by knot. His fingers trembled sometimes, and you weren’t sure if it was from guilt or grief or some ancient combination of the two.

The braid began to fall apart, softly, like snow thawing under sun. And with every loosened piece, you felt something in you unclench. Something that had been tight for years.

You cried.

But not with sobs. Not this time.

You cried in silence, the kind that shudders through your body like a song without lyrics. And you didn’t even know if it was because of Regulus’s words or Sirius’s hands.

Or maybe it was both. Maybe it was that they were both still here. Still trying. Still holding what pieces of you hadn’t crumbled away.

Your braid came undone completely, hair falling over your shoulders like the end of a chapter you’d been too afraid to close.

Sirius pressed his forehead to the back of your head, and whispered, “There you are.”

Regulus was still holding your hands, his eyes on your face like he was reading scripture.

The silence between them grew tender, no longer sharp or fragile, but thick with the kind of quiet that comes after all the shouting is done — when the hurt still lingers but the love is louder.

Sirius’s hand brushed a loose strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it back gently, reverently, like he was afraid to let it drift too far from him.

Then, his voice—low, half a murmur, half a tease—broke the hush.

“As much as I think you’re the prettiest girl to ever walk the bloody halls of this castle,” he said, fingers still combing lightly through the freed strands, “you’re much prettier with your hair out.”

You blinked up at him, tears still dewing the corners of your lashes, breath catching softly.

“I mean it,” Sirius continued, resting his chin atop your head again. “Don’t like seeing your hair all braided up. Not after what it came to mean. I’ll always undo it for you if you want. Every time. You can let it be free. You can let yourself be free.”

His voice was steady, but there was something quietly broken in it—like he knew how deeply the braid had rooted itself in you, like a chain dressed in silk.

You leaned into him just slightly, comforted by the closeness, and from across you, Regulus tilted his head, watching the two of you with something unreadable in his eyes.

Then he said, “Didn’t know you were capable of being soft, Sirius.”

There was a beat of stillness—then Sirius scoffed, a quiet huff of laughter breaking through the grief. “Hey, she’s my little sister. Of course I’ll be soft with her. I’m not a complete arse.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You laughed. Not a big one, not a loud one. But it slipped out of you all the same—shy, fragile, like something trying to live again.

Sirius smiled against your hair. “You’re not exactly the poster boy for softness either, Reggie.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but there was no venom in it. He looked at you again, watching as your hair fell like a shadowy veil around your shoulders, framing your face the way moonlight sometimes wraps around ruins.

Regulus was just opening his mouth to make what you knew would be a smug, likely sarcastic jab—something about Sirius finally learning tenderness in his old age—when the door to the infirmary creaked open with the subtle force of a hurricane.

Madam Pomfrey entered, arms crossed and expression half stern, half deeply fond. “As much as I find all three of you Blacks absolutely adorable,” she said, voice sharp but eyes twinkling,

“I’ve got a bleeding student here who needs tending to, and not a circus on my floor.”

Sirius snorted and slowly slid off the bed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Yes, Madam.”

Regulus followed, brushing the wrinkles from his robes as he stood, offering you a glance to make sure you were still steady. You nodded at him—quietly, gratefully—and the two of them stepped aside, giving Madam Pomfrey space to begin bustling about her potions and gauze.

You watched them for a moment, Sirius leaning against a cabinet with the ease of someone who had made chaos his home, and Regulus, stiff at first but slowly softening, arms loosely crossed, shadows beneath his eyes fading just a little as he watched his brother from across the room.

Then—something bloomed in your chest.

Without a word, you reached out, grabbed Regulus’s hand, and pulled him toward the door.

“What—?” he started, confused but not resisting, his fingers lacing with yours on instinct. “Where are we—?”

“Shh,” you said through a smile, tugging him through the corridor. “Just come with me.”

He followed. He always did.

You found an empty classroom bathed in slanting golden light, one of those quiet, forgotten rooms that still smelled like ink and chalk and childhood.

You rummaged for parchment—crumpled, half-used—and sat down cross-legged on the floor, folding and creasing with all the reverence of a sacred rite.

Regulus crouched beside you, watching you fold the paper with wide eyes, something flickering in them—recognition, maybe. Hope.

“Is that…?” he began.

You didn’t answer—just smiled, and when you were done, you stood, clutching the fragile little crown in both hands like it was made of gold. Then you stepped out of the room and started back toward the infirmary.

Regulus didn’t say a word, but he followed close behind. And just before you entered the room, you heard him whisper under his breath, voice barely audible, like something stitched from memory:

“Long may he sulk, long may he scream, but today he’s our king, crowned with dream.”

You almost burst out laughing.

Sirius looked up from where he’d been talking softly to Madam Pomfrey, clearly startled by your sudden return—and even more so by the smile on your face.

“Oi—what’s going on?”

You grinned as you approached, heart blooming with something fragile and bright. And with a kind of ceremonial grace that belonged in a castle rather than a school infirmary, you lifted the crinkled paper crown and gently placed it on his head.

He blinked at you.

And then you said, “Happy birthday, Siri.”

For a moment, the world didn’t breathe.

Sirius looked between you and Regulus, the memory dawning slow but sure, the kind that blooms in the bones before the mind catches up.

You’d done this every year as children—the crown, the phrase, the quiet sweetness buried in a house that knew so little of it. It was tradition, rebellion, and love all wrapped in paper creases.

He laughed. Softly, shakily. “You remembered?”

“Of course we did,” Regulus muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “You never shut up about your birthday.”

Sirius turned toward him, eyes damp and mouth tugging into a crooked smile. “You used to say it was a national holiday.”

“It was a national tragedy,” Regulus corrected dryly.

But there was no edge to his voice.

You watched the two of them smile—awkwardly, almost shyly—and you couldn’t help the way your own heart ached with it. Like something was being stitched back together with trembling hands. Not perfect. But mending.

And in the soft golden light of the infirmary, Sirius Black wore his paper crown like a boy who had lost too much but finally found his way home.

Regulus cleared his throat, the faintest quiver still lingering in his voice as he straightened, a tentative smile breaking through the storm of emotions clouding his face. 

“You’ve still got another year to annoy me—don’t waste it.” he said, voice steady but warm, the words carrying more weight than a simple greeting—an unspoken promise folded into each syllable. 

 “Happy birthday, Siri,”

-

The days had slipped by like snowflakes melting on warm skin, soft and silent, until Christmas had quietly wrapped the world in its chilly embrace.

Over a month had passed since that fragile moment in the infirmary, since crowns and whispered apologies had begun to stitch together the frayed edges of what remained of them.

Now, you sat on the edge of your bed, the weight of leather and cloth gathered around you as you packed your bags, each fold and tuck a quiet act of farewell — not just to this house, but to the lingering ghosts that had lived here with you.

Regulus’s calm presence was steady nearby, Sirius’s laughter still echoing faintly in the halls, both shadows woven into your thoughts as you prepared to leave, to find a different kind of family with the Potters.

The room was quiet in that in-between way — not sad, not soft, just filled with waiting. You stood by the mirror, fingers combing uncertainly through your hair, still not quite used to the way it fell freely now, unbound and loose around your shoulders like a secret you hadn’t told anyone yet.

Then came the knock, sharp and unapologetic, followed by the door creaking open before you could answer.

“There she is,” came the familiar voice, warm and arrogant and so full of light it almost hurt to look directly at it. “My absolutely favorite Black.”

You didn’t turn, just rolled your eyes at your reflection — though you didn’t hide the faint tug of your lips.

James Potter leaned against the doorframe, a walking sunbeam in boots far too muddy for the castle floors, his hair as unkempt as his sense of timing.

“You know, I’ve been emotionally devastated all week. Not one rude comment. Not even a single ‘Potter, get out.’ It’s been tragic, truly.”

You hummed softly. Your fingers trailed through your hair again, then dropped to the edge of the mirror. You looked... softer now. Or maybe just quieter.

James tilted his head, and for the first time in a while, that ever-glowing grin faltered. “Hey... you alright?” he asked, pushing off the door.

“You’ve gone suspiciously quiet on me, and I’m not used to being ignored this elegantly.”

You finally turned to him, something shy in the movement, something almost scared. Your eyes met his, steady but hesitant, like you were holding a secret between your teeth.

“Hey, James?” you said, voice smaller than usual, not sharp-edged or full of fire, just a bare whisper of a question.

He blinked, shoulders straightening instantly. “Yeah?”

You shifted, hands wringing in front of you, then took a breath like you were diving underwater. “Do you still... want to go on that date?”

It took him a second. A full second of stunned silence. Then:

“Wait. Wait—are you—are you saying yes?”

You nodded once, unsure, your cheeks burning.

James's entire face lit up like a starburst, bright enough to outshine the gloom in the corners of the room. “You’re saying yes?” he repeated, his voice climbing in disbelief, in utter delight.

“Are you messing with me? Because if this is some elaborate Black twin prank, I swear I’m not above falling for it, but I’ll go down dramatically.”

“I’m not messing with you,” you said, softer.

He stared at you, eyes wide, heart probably thudding too loud in his chest. “You’re actually agreeing to a date with me.”

You gave him a tiny, tired smile, the kind that meant I’m trying, I’m healing, I’m still here.

And James Potter — hopelessly besotted James Potter — just raised both hands in triumph, beaming like a boy who just got the girl of his dreams. “Merlin, it’s a Christmas miracle.”

You laugh — really laugh — and it startles you. The sound rises out of your chest too fast and too free, like it’s been hiding somewhere behind your ribs all this time, waiting for permission.

It echoes in the room like light catching on water, and for a moment, you forget you were ever someone who cried quietly in an infirmary bed with your braid too tight and your voice locked behind your teeth.

James is just standing there, watching you like you’re something he almost lost and just remembered in time.

That grin he always wears — cocky and bright — softens. His eyes crease, not with mischief but with awe. He reaches forward without speaking, without rushing, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

His fingers are warm, callused from Quidditch and writing too fast. His touch is so gentle it makes your throat ache.

Then, without asking for more, he leans in and kisses your cheek.

It’s soft. Not flirty, not teasing, just… soft. Real. Like he’s placing something in your hands that he wants you to keep.

“I like seeing you like this,” he says, and his voice is quiet, like he’s afraid to shatter the fragile thing blooming between you. “Not just laughing. Letting yourself laugh.”

You don’t answer. Not because you don’t want to, but because something in your chest is blooming too fast, too wide. Instead, you just hand him your bag.

He grins again, like he’s won something, and slings it over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing. “Come on, Black. Holiday awaits. And I plan to win Best Company, Hands Down.”

He holds the door open for you with an exaggerated bow. “After you, m’lady.”

You roll your eyes, but smile. You step into the corridor with him, your shoulder brushing his — and then you see them.

Sirius and Regulus. At the end of the hall. Arguing.

It’s not the argument that stops you. It’s how they look.

Sirius, of course, is chaos incarnate — shirt untucked, sleeves rolled, hair like a stormcloud. Hands moving wildly, voice sharp and amused all at once.

But Regulus.

Regulus looks like something cracked open.

His hair is a mess. Not windswept, not styled, just… undone. Soft curls tumble over his forehead like they’ve finally forgotten who they were supposed to impress. His shoes are scuffed. His collar is open. There’s no tie strangling his throat. His robes are wrinkled, like he didn’t bother smoothing them, like he didn’t think he needed to.

He doesn’t look like the perfect Black heir anymore. He doesn’t look like he’s trying to.

He looks like a boy who finally gave himself permission to breathe.

They’re arguing over something stupid — wrapping paper, probably, or the wrong gift for Euphemia — but it’s the kind of argument you only have with people you’re allowed to love. You watch them, your hand still in James’s, and something in you loosens further.

You hadn’t realized how tightly you were still holding it.

James gives your fingers a squeeze. Doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

You glance up at him. He’s still looking at you like you’re some new season he’s waited years to feel again.

They’re laughing.

It startles you, how soft it is. How human. It doesn’t echo like a curse. It doesn’t shiver like a cracked bone. It simply exists — this light, fragile thing — between the two boys you once thought you’d never see whole again.

Sirius is half-doubled over, clutching his side like he might fall from how hard he’s laughing. Regulus is shaking his head, cheeks flushed, that rare, real smile tugging his mouth wide open like a secret he forgot he still had. The moment stretches golden and unreal. For once, they look like boys.

Just boys — whole, breathing, and free.

You stand a few paces back, James at your side, his hand warm in yours. His thumb traces soft circles over your skin like he's writing a lullaby without words. You don’t speak. You just watch.

And as you watch, you feel it stir in your chest — not pain, not fear, but grace.

The quiet, trembling kind. The kind you thought had died the day you pressed a chair beneath the doorknob and tied your braid so tight it ached. The kind that says: You made it. Somehow, gods, you made it.

The three of you — Sirius, Regulus, and you — you carry the name Black like a birthright and a burial shroud. Like a blade tucked under the tongue.

You’ve all learned how to wear it in different ways: Sirius ripped it off like shackles, Regulus wore it like a crown turned collar, and you — you simply bore it in silence, braid by braid, day by day, trying not to crack.

Some days, you still feel it in your bones — that ache, deep and dull, flaring like a ghost during the cold. You know it will come back. Soon, probably. In quiet moments. When the room goes still and the world presses in. It will whisper that old hymn of despair.

But now, you know something else too: that it will pass. That not all pain means ending.

You’re glad you wore the braid that day. Glad for the heaviness of it. Glad it was that braid, tight and tired, that gave you away. Because Sirius noticed.

Because Sirius knew. Because your brother — dramatic, angry, wild Sirius — looked at a single twist of hair and saw the truth. That you were vanishing.

And he came. He ran to you.

You glance at James, who is still watching you with that half-smile, like he knows exactly where your mind has wandered.

His fingers tighten around yours as if to say: I’ve got you. I’ll keep holding on.

In front of you, the two boys who share your blood — your name, your ruin, your love — are laughing. And suddenly, you want to laugh too. You want to live.

You lean gently into James’s shoulder, and the three of them blur before you: your brother who left and returned softer, your brother who stayed and came undone, and the boy who never stopped waiting at your door.

It’s strange. How grief makes architects of all of us. How you learned to build your life on ash and memory. How you learned to survive the kind of love that comes with a coffin.

You don’t know what comes next. Only that your breath still fogs the glass. That your feet, somehow, still move.

So you do.

You walk — not away, not forward, but through. Through ash and memory, through the long echo of a house that taught you silence before speech, duty before desire.

A house where your name was an heirloom of ruin. Where hands pulled your hair into braids too tight, too perfect — a crown of obedience woven strand by strand.

But not now.

Now your hair spills loose down your back — untamed, unburdened, soft as defiance.

You carry the name Black not as a chain, but as a hymn — a quiet song for all the broken things that chose to live.

You carry Sirius’s laughter like a lantern in your ribs. Regulus’s sorrow like a psalm in your throat. You carry what’s left of your childhood in the curve of your spine. You carry yourself.

You carry the body that was taught silence. The body that ached in invisible ways. The body that stayed — even when the wind begged it to leave, even when the mirror didn’t look back.

You carry the illness no one could see, the exhaustion that braided itself into your bones.

You carry the love you couldn’t let in — James’s hands, James’s gaze, James’s waiting — all the gentleness you almost believed you deserved.

And still, you walk.

You do not braid your hair.

You do not say goodbye.

But when the frost climbs the glass again — when the old house calls to you in the voice of your mother, your fear, your past — you will not answer.

You will not kneel.

You will not weep.

You will gather your ghosts by name — every echo, every ache, every version of yourself that once begged to be small. And you will lay them down, one by one, with the care no one gave you.

And so —

you’ll bury your own.

I don’t usually write these; But this is for anyone still wearing their braids — the ones woven by expectation, by blood, by a family that taught you to stay small, quiet, grateful. If you know what it is to carry a name like a burden, to sit before a mirror with aching hands, trying to undo what the world once made of you — this is for you. For the ones who learned survival through stillness. Through obedience. Through being what was asked. I still wear mine too, Some days more tightly than others. But there is freedom in the unbraiding. In letting your hair fall wild. In choosing your own shape. Your own silence. Your own story. May your hands one day learn to unweave without trembling. May your softness survive. You are not alone. And you are allowed to be free. —with love, dalia

[hatethysinner]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴀʀʏ ʙʟᴜᴇꜱ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ʙᴏᴏᴋꜱᴇʟʟᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: The bell over your bookshop door rings at midnight, and a stranger steps through. Tired eyes, old voice, and a hunger he tries to hide. He says little, but lingers like he's waiting for permission to need you. You should send him away, but something in you wants to see what he'll do if you don't.

ᴡᴄ: 12.8k

ᴀ/ᴄ: firstly, thank you so much to everyone who enjoyed and interacted with let the wrong one in! i am so proud and so disappointed to be posting this because it's so shameless. if the fbi showed up to my door i'd let them take me to whatever white padded room they had waiting. i was up past midnight multiple times writing this out and it shows. just a completely unhinged self-indulgent mess. do not read without a rose toy (/j). as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SLOWburn, remmick is truly a fucking loser (pathetic!remmick supremacy), remmick will not leave the reader alone, reader is a know-it-all manipulative ass thought daughter, she's lowkey evil actually, don't read unless you support womens rights and wrongs, mutual yearning and obsession, vampirism, dacryphillia, overstimulation, blink-and-you'll-miss-it exhibitionism, sub!remmick, dom!reader, cunnilingus, p in v, ride 'em cowgirl, spit kink, praise kink, matching each other's freak, offscreen but confirmed stalking, excessive divider usage, probable excessive usage of "ain't" because i got worried about my accent skills, amateur knowledge of 1930s literature and bookstores, religious undertones if you squint, i think y'all know what to expect i'm not writing out everything

You were one of the lucky ones.

That’s what folks said when they stepped through the little wood-framed door, brushing snow from their shoulders or sweat from their brows, depending on the season. They always paused in the entryway. Like the air was thicker inside. Warmer, gentler, laced with something that asked them to hush their voices and unshoulder their weariness. Most folks did. They’d glance around slow, wide-eyed and awestruck, like they’d just wandered into a place stitched together by warmth and paper. Because they had.

Your daddy built it like that.

He opened the shop before you were tall enough to reach the counter, when your shoes still lit up when you walked and your teeth were missing in the front. A modest space, more narrow than wide, with walls that sometimes whispered when the wind pressed in. It was tucked between a shoe repair, where the scent of leather and oil clung to the brick, and a bakery that changed hands too often to name. But the bookstore never changed. It stayed.

He fought for it with every drop of charm he had and a stubborn streak the size of a mule. The bank didn’t make it easy. Nor the city. Nor the neighbors. But he didn’t flinch. Just smiled, signed the lease, and started sanding old shelves he bought for cheap from a shut-down place across town.

It wasn’t grand, but it had room to breathe.

The shelves didn’t match. The floors creaked. The ceiling had water stains shaped like cloud spirits. But the space had rhythm. Light pooled in through the front windows in the early afternoon, catching the golden flecks in the pine wood counter he carved by hand. You watched him do it over the course of a summer. His shirt clinging to his back with sweat, sawdust settling in his hair like snow. That counter had curves in it, places smoothed by a thousand passing fingers, elbows leaned, coins slid, mugs thunked down in thought. It remembered everyone who ever stood there.

The aisles were just wide enough for two people to pass without brushing shoulders, if one of them turned slightly. In winter, the windows fogged from the warmth of breath and the hiss of the radiator under the front table. In summer, he cracked the front door and the back one just right so the breeze cut clean through, carrying with it the scent of magnolia and newsprint. When the light hit right, the dust in the air sparkled, like it was carrying secrets you could almost read if you squinted hard enough.

He dreamed of it since he was a boy, back when books came secondhand and beat-up, passed along like contraband. Borrowed if you were lucky. Bought if you were white. His eyes always got faraway when he talked about those days, like he was watching some other version of himself hiding from the world with a paperback gripped tight like a life vest.

“There’s magic,” he always said, tapping your chest lightly with one thick finger, “in knowin’ a story nobody else does.”

So he painted the sign himself and hung it crooked on purpose, because he said perfection made folks nervous. He sold trinkets and newspapers and penny candy at first, just to keep the lights on. He let local kids read in the back for hours so long as they didn’t dog-ear the pages. And when folks started to drift in off the street, curious, then charmed, he opened the door wider.

People noticed.

Not all approved.

But he smiled at the right times, kept his voice low when he had to, and stayed on his side of town like they told him to.

But inside those walls?

He was king.

You took it over after he passed.

Not because you wanted to. You hadn’t planned for that. You thought you’d leave, travel, study something big with a title hard to pronounce. But when he died, sudden, quiet, the way only the kindest men seem to go, it was like the shop exhaled. And no one was there to breathe it back in.

So you stayed.

Not because you had his gift for conversation. You didn’t. Your voice didn’t carry like his. You didn’t know how to make strangers feel like they’d known you all their lives. But you had his steadiness. His eyes. His love of ink.

And the shop had raised you.

You’d spent your childhood curled between the shelves with your knees pulled tight to your chest, the pages of books flaring open like wings in your lap. You used to fall asleep in the window nook under stacks of fairy tales, the glow of the streetlamp outside pooling on your shoulders. You learned to read by tracing the letters with your fingertip, mouthing the words like spells.

You grew up there. Quiet, clever, a little too serious for your age, and always full of questions. The kind of questions books were made for. You learned the world in chapters, one page at a time, growing taller alongside the stacks.

Even now, the shop holds you like a memory refusing to fade.

The floorboards creak the same way when you step heavy by the register. The bell above the door still dings off-key. There’s a worn spot in the paint where the heels of his boots used to rest, and you never painted over it. The walls know your heartbeat. The ceiling hums with it.

The place smells of paper, cedar, and something floral you still can’t place. Not perfume. Not fresh. More like dried petals tucked in a forgotten book. There are candles flickering low behind the counter, their flames soft and steady, casting halos of gold on the spines of the hardbacks lining the shelves.

Outside, the windows are tinted now. Reflective. You can see yourself in the glass, wrapped in lamplight like a ghost caught in the pane.

It’s not strange for you to be up this late.

You have a habit of rereading old favorites until the pages feel like skin. You like the quiet. The familiar shuffle of turning pages. The low creak of the chair under your legs. The steady tick of the clock in the corner, marking time nobody’s watching.

The radio went quiet an hour ago, the static fading to silence when the last gospel track drifted away. Now there’s only the sound of night outside. The rustle of trees, the distant hum of a train slicing through the dark, far beyond the city line.

But tonight, something feels off.

You don’t know why. Not yet.

But your candle’s flame flutters suddenly, like it’s caught a breath. Not a wind. A breath.

You look toward the door.

There’s no bell. No sound.

But the air feels... thick. Like it’s waiting.

You don’t move right away. You sit there with your thumb hovering over the page, caught between the lines of a sentence and the prickle on the back of your neck.

You don’t want to turn it.

Not yet.

Then the door creaked.

A sound so small it barely pulled your eyes from the page. Your heart didn’t jump. Not right away. It didn’t need to.

The bell rang just after. Clear, bright, and true. Same one you fixed the summer it snapped off in a storm so thick the trees bowed like they were praying.

So that bell was yours. It knew what time it was. It didn’t ring wrong.

That’s what made the sound feel off now. Just a shade too sharp, too clean, like a voice cutting into a dream you didn’t know you were having.

The sign still said “Come In.” Your fault. You’d meant to flip it hours ago but got lost in the pages, lulled by the rhythm of ink and stillness. Still, no one ever actually came this late. Not really. Not unless they were meant to be here.

You closed the book. Not slammed. Just firm. A quiet full stop.

And there he stood.

Tall. Pale.

A white man.

Out of place in every way that mattered.

He filled the doorway like he didn’t know whether he wanted to be let in or turned away. Light from the streetlamps slanted behind him, casting his face in half-shadow, like the world couldn’t decide how much of him to reveal.

You didn’t move.

Your fingers curled around the spine of the book, thumb against the front cover, the weight of it grounding. The silence stretched between you.

He just stood there, breathing slow like he didn’t want to startle anything. His eyes swept the room, not lazily, but searching. Hungry. And when they landed on you, they stayed.

His voice came quiet. Almost careful. “Evenin’.”

You stared.

“We’re closed.”

Your tone was even. Flat. Not rude. Not kind, either.

Still, he didn’t leave.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move at all, not really. Just shifted the weight of his stare, like he was trying to remember a script. Like he’d played this scene in his head a dozen ways and still didn’t know which one this was. His smile was a flicker. Half-done. It twitched and died on his lips before it could mean anything. But under it, something desperate. Thin and frayed, like he was holding on to a thread he couldn’t name.

“Apologies,” he said with a shaky drawl, dipping his head toward the window, where the sign still swung faintly in the breeze. The porchlight caught the paint in the glass. “Saw the sign.”

You didn’t believe that for a second.

Nobody came here by accident. Not after midnight. Not across town lines like these. Everyone knew where they were supposed to be. Supposed to go.

He was tall, yes, but not in a way that meant anything. His frame was lean, his movements all hesitation and nerves. His coat didn’t fit right, like it had belonged to someone stronger once, someone he was still pretending to be.

You stood slowly.

The book stayed on the chair. Your skirt brushed the floor as you crossed barefoot to the counter, each step deliberate. No rush. No fear. Just weight.

You weren’t afraid of the man. You were afraid of what kind of story this was turning into.

He watched the whole way, his eyes flicking between your face and your hands, trying to read the space between your breaths. Like he expected you to call for someone. To yell. To throw something. To raise your voice.

You didn’t.

You let the silence answer.

“What can I do for you.”

No question mark. A line drawn in the sand.

He flinched, barely, but you saw it. Like a thread pulled too tight.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to cause any trouble,” he said, voice thinning out at the edges. “Just… seemed like a place a man might find a bit of quiet.”

You raised a brow, not moved.

“You always find quiet in closed shops?”

He scratched the back of his neck. A nervous tic, maybe. Or maybe it was just something to do with his hands, which kept twitching like they missed holding something heavier than a coat hem.

“Only the ones still lit up inside.”

He tried for a smile again. It trembled. Didn’t hold.

“Then I’d suggest you pass through quick,” you said. “I need to lock up.”

“Right,” he said, nodding too fast. “Of course. Sorry. I just-”

But he didn’t leave.

He stepped forward, just an inch, like something was pulling him. Then stopped himself and stalled in place, weight shifting foot to foot like the floor might open up if he stood still too long.

“I… don’t suppose you’ve got anything by Hughes?” he asked suddenly. Then, without pause, “Or Hurston?” His voice cracked a little on Hurston, like the name had caught on something inside his throat.

You blinked.

That was new.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just studied him.

A white man. Midnight. The wrong side of town. Asking for Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston.

It didn’t make sense.

It didn’t fit.

Men like him didn’t read voices like theirs. Not unless they had something to prove. Or something to steal.

He met your stare but his hands betrayed him, fidgeting at his sides again, tugging at the seams of his coat like he could pull himself together if he just gripped hard enough.

“You from around here?”

He laughed. Short, sharp, like he didn’t mean it. “Not anymore.”

Then quieter, “Ain’t got much left to be from.”

That silence stretched again. Wider this time. You didn’t try to fill it. You let it grow heavy.

He looked down at the floor like it might offer him a script.

You should’ve told him again to leave. Should’ve flicked the light off and locked the door and gone back to your chair and the soft, safe pages waiting there.

But you didn’t.

You said, “Hughes is second shelf, left of the register. Zora’s in the back, top shelf”

You paused. Watched him.

“And they ain’t alphabetical. You’ll have to look.”

He blinked.

Lit up like you’d handed him something holy.

“Right. Thank you. I- thank you.”

He stepped into the shop like the floor might vanish beneath him. Light. Careful. Fingertips trailing along the spines of the books nearest him, like the wood might spark or whisper if he touched it wrong.

And you watched him the whole way.

You didn’t trust him. Not even a little.

But something about the way he stood there, asking for voices not his, trying not to tremble. Something about his need made you pause.

It intrigued you.

You tried not to listen.

Tried to stay still behind the counter, eyes fixed on the book you’d set aside, though your finger hadn’t moved past the corner of the page. You heard the soft drag of his coat brushing the shelves, the sound of someone trying to move quietly without knowing how. The occasional squeak of a shoe sole. The low shuffle of indecision.

Then his voice floated back.

“Sorry to bother, miss. You said left of the register?”

You closed your eyes.

He’d been in the aisle all of sixty seconds.

“Second shelf,” you called, sharper than you meant it. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

A pause.

“It’s just, uh… the labels are all faded.”

You exhaled through your nose. Not quite a sigh. Not quite not one.

You pushed off the counter and stepped out from behind it, your skirt catching the air as you moved. He was standing a little too close to the shelf, squinting at the bindings like the titles might blink first. His coat hung open now, revealing a loose button-down tucked half-heartedly into worn slacks, belt twisted like he’d dressed in a hurry. His hair was still damp at the edges from the relentless humidity outside. It made you wonder why he was wearing something so warm in the first place.

He looked up when he heard you.

Not just looked. Jumped.

Shoulders startled up an inch, like you’d crept up behind him with a switchblade instead of bare feet and a mild expression. His eyes flicked to your hands again. You noticed that. Clocked it.

“Ain't mean to pull ya from your reading,” he said quickly. “Just didn’t wanna grab the wrong thing.”

You said nothing.

You crouched low instead, running your fingers along the lower shelf until they stopped on the slim spine of The Weary Blues. You tugged it free, checked the inside cover, and stood.

Then you crossed past him, just enough to brush by the nervous way he lingered too close to the wood. At the back shelf, your hand found the worn copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God with the creased corners and sun-faded cover. You held both out to him.

He hesitated.

Not out of disrespect. Out of something else. Like touching them would make it real.

When his hand reached for them, it touched yours first.

Only for a second. Less than. But it landed like heat.

You watched his fingers twitch at the contact. Watched him pull back slightly, then steady himself like a man who’d stepped into unexpected water. His skin was cold, lonely. Like someone who hadn’t had cause to brush against kindness in a while.

You gave him the books anyway.

He took them with both hands, careful not to touch you again. His eyes met yours briefly. Then dropped.

That should’ve been it.

But something in the way he flinched, not in fear, but in startled awareness, left a strange twist in your stomach. Not danger. Not quite.

You narrowed your eyes at him. Watched how he shifted. How he clutched the books like they were lifelines. How still he got under your gaze.

And maybe you should’ve gone back to the counter. Maybe you should’ve left it there.

But you didn’t.

You leaned just slightly closer, voice low. Baiting.

“You always get jumpy when someone tries to help you?”

He looked up again, tongue wetting his bottom lip like he was about to speak, then thought better of it. Instead, he nodded, too fast, like agreeing might save him from saying the wrong thing.

And that, that, made you want to keep going.

Just to see what else he’d do.

You led him back to the front in silence.

He didn’t try to fill it this time. Just followed, books clutched against his chest like they might steady his breath. You could feel his gaze brush the curve of your shoulder, your hands, the soft glow of the lamps pooling on the floorboards.

You stepped behind the counter, but didn't fill the space.

You stayed close. Leaning forward in a way that was probably too obvious.

The register clicked open with a metallic sigh. Your fingers moved slow over the worn buttons, each press deliberate. He laid the books down gently, almost mechanically, their spines aligning like he'd meant to do it. Like he’d practiced.

The light caught his face now, full on.

He looked younger in the shadows. But here, beneath the gold of your lamp, he was something else entirely.

His face was long and wide, covered in stubble that somehow looked neat and unkempt at the same time. Hollowed cheeks. A narrow nose that sloped like it had been broken once and never quite healed right. His mouth was set in a line that kept trying not to tremble. But his eyes...

They were wrong.

Not in a way you could name, not in any way you’d heard told, but wrong just the same. Too dark, too deep. And old. Old. You didn’t know how you knew it, but it pulled at the back of your neck. Some instinct deeper than language whispering that those weren’t eyes meant for a man that looked barely thirty.

Then there were his teeth.

You saw them when he smiled, faint and soft, like he didn’t mean for it to happen. A little too sharp. Animalistic, almost. Pointed just enough to make you question how close you wanted to stand.

And still, you didn’t move away.

“That’ll be four even,” you said, and held out your hand.

He blinked. Fumbled in his pockets. Fingers pulling out a crumpled bill like he hadn’t checked how much he had. When he offered it, your hand met his again, and this time you didn’t let go too quick.

Your touch lingered.

Not an accident.

Your fingers brushed his palm, smooth and dry and colder than before. You watched his throat shift like he’d swallowed something wrong. The money crinkled between you, forgotten.

You dropped it in the drawer without looking down.

Counted back the change slow. One coin at a time. Let your fingertips ghost over his as you pressed each one into his hand, watched how he tried not to flinch, not to twitch, not to breathe too fast.

There was something in his mouth now. A hitch. A tension.

You tilted your head.

His accent. It hadn’t struck you before. Too quiet. But now, with him this close, you could hear the undercurrents. Southern, yes. That lazy hush to his vowels, that slant that curled around the ends of his words like smoke. But buried beneath it was something else.

Not from here.

A roll that didn’t come from any county near yours. A roundness to the vowels that didn’t quite match the cadence of Mississippi. It had weight to it. History. Like old hills and cold winters. European, maybe. English, Scottish, Irish? Or something older still.

But the twang was real, too. Earnest. Like he’d worn it long enough to convince even himself.

You watched him shift under your gaze, trying to shrink inside that too-big coat.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

Simple.

But your voice dropped half a note, low and steady like it was loaded.

His eyes flicked up again. Held yours.

“Remmick, miss.”

Just that. No last name. With an unusual politeness in tow.

You didn’t smile. Nor did you give your name. You wanted him to work for that.

“Right,” you said. “Remmick.”

He shifted the books under one arm, his free hand ghosting over the edge of the counter like he wanted to say more, ask more, be more, but didn’t dare.

“Well… good evenin' to ya,” he said softly. The words caught at the edges, like they didn’t quite belong in his mouth.

You didn’t answer at first. Just watched him take a step back, then another, boots creaking against the old wood floor.

Then, finally, you raised your hand.

Not a wave, exactly. Just a slow lift of your fingers in something halfway between farewell and warning.

He seemed to understand.

The bell over the door chimed once as he slipped through, swallowed by the dark.

You didn’t move.

Not until the sound of his footsteps vanished completely.

The next night came heavy with quiet. Midnight again. And you were sitting in the same chair, same blanket folded over your knees, same book splayed in your lap. Different pages, but you hadn’t turned one in ten minutes.

The lamp cast its familiar pool of amber over the counter, the window, the shelves. Everything was still. Too still.

You hadn’t flipped the sign.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was habit, that your mind had simply been elsewhere. The story had you hooked, maybe. Maybe you were chasing some lost line between chapters, maybe that’s why you kept glancing at the door without realizing it.

The “Come In” flickered faintly in the glass, reversed in the dark like a whisper only the street could read.

You licked your thumb, turned the page. Tried to focus on the words. You didn’t remember them, even though you read them yesterday. Or maybe it was last week. Or maybe it didn’t matter at all.

It wasn’t like you were waiting.

You just hadn’t gone to bed yet.

You shifted. Crossed your legs under the blanket. Then uncrossed them. Stared at the “Come In” again. Just a sign. Just a little slanted piece of painted wood that always tilted left because the hinge was loose and you never bothered to fix it.

The wind slipped through a crack in the front window. Barely there, just enough to nudge the edge of the lace curtain and carry in a scent from the dark. Not smoke, not rain, something earthbound. Loamy. Cold.

You turned another page. Didn’t read a word.

Your candle’s flame danced sharp again, almost gleeful. You rubbed your thumb over your palm without thinking, the way you did when something was close. Some old habit from childhood, back when your parents told you to trust your instincts, even when they made no sense.

The bell rang.

Not loud. Not rushed. Just a single chime, clear as a knock to the chest.

He stepped through like he’d been summoned.

No coat this time. His shirt was pressed, collar sharp. Sleeves rolled just past the wrists in that careful way that said he’d redone them three, maybe four times. His hair was a little less wild, tamed with pomade and willpower. His boots were clean. Like he’d stood outside brushing dust from them just to make a better second impression.

And yet, nothing about him looked natural. Not the tidiness. Not the polish. He wore it like a child wore Sunday shoes. Tight across the toes, heavy on the ankles, stiff enough to slow him down.

His eyes, still dark, still glinting, scanned the room like he already knew you’d be there. They landed on you. Lingered. Not just in greeting, not just in recognition, but in reverence. Like he was taking inventory of you. The slope of your nose, the fullness of your lips, the tight, coiled crown of your hair haloed in the light. Like he was memorizing every feature he'd never had the right to admire this openly before.

And when they did, he smiled. A small, practiced thing. One that almost reached his eyes.

Like he was proud of himself for coming back.

And like some shameful, stubborn part of you was glad he had.

“Evenin’.”

Same greeting, but not quite the same voice. Still quiet, still that drawl sugar-coated in something older, something foreign, but this time with the faintest edge of self-assurance. Like he’d practiced it on the way over. Maybe even out loud. Like he hoped it’d sound natural if he said it just right.

You didn’t answer.

Not with words.

You rose instead, slow and smooth, letting the silence stretch as you crossed the shop in bare feet. Your skirt brushed the floor again, soft as a whisper, trailing you like smoke.

He stood straighter when you neared. Or tried to. You watched the twitch in his shoulder when your fingers reached toward him, the way his breath caught behind his ribs. The little gold chain around his neck winked against his shirtfront, barely there, nearly hidden beneath the buttons.

You reached for it without asking.

“It’s crooked,” you murmured.

It wasn’t.

Your thumb grazed the thin line of metal, adjusting it ever so slightly, letting your knuckles drift down the hollow of his chest. Just enough to feel the warmth beneath the cloth. Just enough to make sure he noticed.

He noticed.

Froze like someone struck dumb. Not like he didn’t want the touch. No, not that. Definitely not that. But like he didn’t know what to do with it. His lips parted on a soundless breath, his eyes locked somewhere over your shoulder like he was staring down a spectre only he could see.

The pulse under your fingers thudded once. Hard. Then again, faster.

You watched it.

You leaned in, just slightly, letting your hand linger longer than it needed to. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. But you could feel the tension ripple through him. Tight. Brittle. Wired.

When you finally let go, he exhaled like he’d been holding air since last night.

“There,” you said softly. “Better.”

He didn’t answer right away. His throat moved as he swallowed, mouth opening like he might say something, then closing again when nothing came. His eyes met yours, flicked down to your mouth, then jerked back up with a flicker of something like guilt.

It was a touch.

That’s all it was.

But the way he looked at you now...

It had unmade him.

You let the silence sit for a beat longer, watching how he stood there like he didn’t dare take a full breath without permission. Then you spoke, softly, like an idea you hadn’t quite finished shaping.

“I’ve got a thought,” you said, turning back toward the shelves. “Wait here.”

But you didn’t mean that.

Because you paused, half-turned, eyes sliding back to him, that little hook in your voice coiled just so, and added, “Actually… no. Come with me.”

He obeyed without hesitation.

No question, no protest. Just a nod, and then his steps fell in behind yours like they were always meant to. You didn’t look back to see if he was following. You already knew he was.

You smirked before you even realized you were doing it.

He’s learning.

The rows of shelves narrowed the deeper you went, books stacked tall and mismatched. Some still had penciled notes in the margins. Others bore names and stamps from a dozen different hands. You moved with practiced ease, fingers gliding along the spines, then stopped sharp in front of a little patch of well-loved paperbacks with sun-faded covers and creased corners.

You didn’t say a word. Just stepped aside and gestured.

His brow knit faintly. Then he reached out, tentative at first, letting his fingertips hover above the titles before settling on one with a cracked pink spine and a watercolor couple leaning too close beneath an umbrella.

You raised your brows but didn’t speak.

Interesting.

He held it up like he was asking permission.

You nodded. “Good. Take that. Go sit by the window.”

Again, no hesitation.

He moved, soft steps, book clutched in his hand like it might disappear if he wasn’t careful. He didn’t glance back once as he settled into the reading nook. A curved wooden bench carved into the front window’s alcove, piled with cushions in muted tones, threadbare but clean.

The light from the lamp behind the counter cast the glass in warm gold, bouncing off his hair and skin in a way that made him look more real than he had last night. Less ghost. More man.

You watched him a moment longer, then followed.

Your feet made no sound on the floorboards. You crossed the space and sank onto the bench beside him. Not too close, but not far. Not far at all. The cushions dipped with your weight, the fabric between you folding with tension that hadn’t been there seconds ago.

He sat stiffly, book unopened in his lap, hands folded atop it. Like he didn’t quite know what to do now that he was here. Like he was waiting for something. Or someone.

You.

Your gaze lingered on the side of his face.

The light revealed the fine things. His lashes, full and surprisingly long. The faint lines around his mouth that didn’t come from smiling, but from pressing his lips together too tight for too many years. His skin was fair in a way that didn’t come from the sun but from time, the kind of pallor that hinted at long shadows and colder places. Places you couldn’t name.

His hair had been combed, too. Not just finger-swept like last time, but deliberately styled, though it curled stubborn at the ends like it wanted to fight back. That little gold chain still gleamed at his throat, straighter this time. Not crooked, like you convinced yourself it was.

Still, he hadn’t changed enough to fool you.

Not with those eyes.

Ancient, heavy, and out of place in a face that didn’t look old enough to carry them. They flicked toward you briefly, then darted back to the book in his lap, as if afraid to hold your gaze too long.

“You gonna read it?” you asked, tone soft but edged with amusement.

He blinked like he’d forgotten that was the point.

“Right,” he said quickly. “Yes ma'am.”

You watched him flip it open with care, thumbs brushing the pages like they might bruise. The moment hung quiet, thick with unsaid things and the scent of paper and dusk. His breath was steady but shallow, as if he were still adjusting to the shape of this closeness.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t speak.

You just leaned back into the cushions, eyes on him, letting him pretend he was focused on the words.

When both of you knew damn well he wasn’t.

It was the way he held the book that told you first. Not the usual adulation you got from the diehards who lived and breathed these novels. No, this was different. His hands didn’t cradle it like treasure. They held it like a bomb. Like one wrong shift in pressure might set the whole thing off and scatter the pieces between you.

His thumbs rested too gently on the pages, barely pressing enough to keep them open. Like he was worried his fingerprints might offend the paper. As if the book itself might recognize him as an intruder. He wasn’t turning pages so much as he was coaxing them along, seemingly afraid they’d snap if he asked too much.

He read strangely.

Slow.

Stilted.

Each word passed through his lips like it needed permission. Like it carried weight. His lips parted with the occasional word, mouthed in silence, and then closed again just as quickly, like he hadn’t meant to let them slip. There was something priestly about it. Ritualistic. A prayer offered in secret.

His eyes, those impossibly ancient eyes, scanned line after line not with hunger but with hesitation. A wary sort of awe. Like he hadn’t held a romance novel in centuries. As if the softness written into the pages was a dialect he’d nearly forgotten how to understand.

And every time you moved, even just a flicker of a shift, a breath caught a second longer than usual, he looked up.

Not startled. Not afraid.

Attentive.

You scratched your cheek, his head lifted.

You smoothed your skirt, his eyes snapped upward.

You uncrossed your legs, then crossed them again, he swallowed, too loudly.

At first, you thought he was just skittish. Just someone not used to sitting this close. But then the rhythm set in.

He matched you.

Without realizing it.

Without even trying.

You leaned back in your seat, slowly. Felt the cushion press against your spine.

A second later, he leaned back. One beat behind you, stiff at first, then settling.

You tilted your head, absently, the way you always did when thinking.

He mirrored it. Not perfectly, but close enough to notice.

You shifted your breathing, let it slow. Long inhale through your nose. Shorter exhale.

So did he.

So precisely that it didn’t feel like coincidence.

It felt like mimicry.

Like you were the song, and he was trying to follow along without missing a note.

You frowned slightly, gaze narrowing. Maybe you were imagining it. Maybe you were reading too much into the silence, into the soft rhythm shared between bodies in the same room.

So you changed it.

Inhaled twice quick, then held the third.

Exhaled through pursed lips like you were cooling tea.

He matched it. Exactly. No hesitation. No thought.

Your pulse gave a slow thump. Not fear. Not quite delight.

You did it again, even stranger this time. Shallow breaths, uneven tempo, a stutter at the end.

He copied it like he’d been waiting for instruction.

Not a second too soon, not a second too late.

Not even pretending he wasn’t. As if he couldn't fake it if he tried.

It was eerie.

Unnerving.

You’d had admirers before. You’d had men try to get close. Men with charm and swagger, who leaned too close too fast, who spoke in low voices like they were offering you a secret. Men who wanted something.

But Remmick didn’t want.

He ached.

He ached to stay.

To keep.

To not mess it up.

It wasn’t that he feared you.

It was that he feared what being with you might require of him.

He feared being found unworthy.

And something in you, something cold and clever and mean, maybe, was curious enough to let it keep going.

You watched his knuckles flex where they held the spine. Watched his breath stutter when you shifted forward ever so slightly. Watched his gaze flick to your lips before darting away, embarrassed.

There was devotion in the way he sat.

There was hunger too, yes, but buried under layers of control so tight they might as well have been prison bars.

He wasn’t scared of you.

He was scared of doing anything that might make you not want him here anymore.

He was scared of disappointing you. Of offending you. Of being sent away.

Like he’d never had the chance to be with a woman like this. Not just someone beautiful, Not just someone sharp, but someone who saw him and hadn’t yet told him to go.

Someone who let him sit.

Let him read.

Let him exist.

You leaned back, let your fingers curl loosely around the edges of the cushions. Not looking at him this time. Just listening.

His breathing matched yours again.

You heard it.

Felt it.

Let it echo in your ribcage like a second heartbeat.

He hadn’t read more than five pages. Probably hadn’t retained a single one. But he was trying. Oh, he was trying.

Trying not to ruin the moment.

Trying not to ruin you.

Trying not to ruin himself.

And you watched it all. Watched him struggle to be small, to be quiet, to be acceptable, and something in your chest twisted. Not out of pity. Not even out of care.

Just fascination.

You wanted to see how far this would go.

How far he’d go.

And more than anything, you wanted to see if he could keep it up.

He hadn’t turned a page in three minutes.

You timed it without meaning to. Just sat there, letting your own gaze blur against the shape of his fingers still resting on the edge of the paper, and noted how still they’d gone. How he stared not at the next sentence, but straight through it. Breathing shallow. Body gone tense in the shoulders, like he was bracing.

Then he blinked. Once. Twice.

“Ya always light the window candles,” he said softly, not looking up.

The words were nothing at first. Just air. Noise.

But your stomach still curled.

You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t move. Just let the silence soak it in.

“Every night,” he added, quieter now. “Right ‘round eleven. Even if ya ain’t got customers.”

Still, you said nothing.

He turned another page, finally, but you watched his eyes. They didn’t scan. They didn’t read.

“You notice that just now?” you asked calmly.

He hesitated.

You leaned forward, hands steepled under your chin. “Or’ve you been noticin’ for a while?”

His lips parted. Closed. He looked over at you now. The air between you suddenly sharper.

“I-” he started, then tried to smile. “It’s just… somethin’ I seen. That’s all.”

You cocked your head. “From where?”

He faltered.

“That little inn down the road don’t got a view of this side.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out cracked. “I walk at night. Helps me think.”

“Does it?”

He nodded too fast. “Y-yeah. Sometimes I pass by. That’s all.”

You didn’t blink. Didn’t smile.

“Funny. You said yesterday you just stumbled in here.”

His jaw twitched.

A beat passed. You let it stretch like taffy, long and slow, until it thinned to almost nothing.

“I... did,” he said eventually, voice paper-thin. “Didn’t plan to come in that night. But I-I'd seen the place before. So I guess it felt familiar.”

“Familiar.”

“Mhm.”

“You been watchin’ me?”

His whole frame stiffened. A flicker of shame, or panic, or both, ghosted across his face. But it wasn’t the embarrassment of being caught in a lie. It was older than that. Worn. Like being cornered in a truth he thought he could keep buried.

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

You shifted in your seat, leaned in just slightly.

He didn’t move away.

“You been starin’ at my windows from across the street, Remmick?” you asked softly. “That it?”

He flinched. Not from your tone, which stayed silky smooth, but from the shape of your words. The accuracy of them.

“I ain’t mean no harm,” he whispered. “It weren’t… like that.”

You gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Then tell me how it was.”

His eyes dropped to his hands. You could see the effort it took not to wring them.

“I just… I saw ya. Few nights in a row. Sometimes through the window, sometimes outside closin’ up. You’d have your book in one hand, your keys in the other. Didn’t even know your name. Just-”

His throat moved as he swallowed.

“Ya looked steady,” he said. “A place that don’t change. Like you’d always be here if I needed to come back.”

That should’ve sounded sweet.

But it didn’t.

It sounded like a confession. A possession waiting to take root.

And for reasons you weren’t yet ready to name, you didn’t shut it down.

Didn’t throw him out.

Didn’t call it wrong.

Instead, you asked, poised and deliberate...

“How long you been watchin’, Remmick?”

He looked like you’d just asked him to open his ribs and let you see inside.

But you didn’t repeat the question.

You didn’t need to.

The pause spoke louder than anything he could’ve said.

Then, finally, his lips parted. “Few months.”

Your brow twitched, just slightly. Enough for him to see it.

“I-I ain't mean to,” he said quickly, eyes wide, hands lifted like he was surrendering. “I just- I saw you one night and then… it was easy to keep passin’ by.”

You leaned back slow, fingers dragging along the wood between you.

“You been lurkin’ outside my shop for months?”

His face crumpled like the word hurt. Lurkin’.

“I wasn’t-” He stopped. Started again. “I wasn’t tryna frighten you. Weren’t like that. I ain't know how to come in. Ain't think I should. Thought maybe if I stayed far enough back, you wouldn’t see me.”

“I didn’t.”

He winced.

You could’ve pushed. Could’ve watched him stammer his way deeper into the hole he’d already dug with his own too-honest mouth.

But you didn’t. Not yet.

You tilted your head, voice softer now. “So why now?”

His mouth opened. No sound came. Then...

“I got tired of bein’ scared.”

You stilled.

He didn’t look up. Just stared at the woodgrain of the table, like it might open up and swallow him if he wished hard enough.

“I been scared so long, I don’t know how not to be. But I kept watchin’, and you kept bein’ here. Kept leavin’ that light on. And I thought… maybe that meant somethin’.”

He finally looked at you.

And the way he looked at you, like you were the last fire in a dead city, made your breath catch.

He wasn’t lying.

And that was the strangest part.

You were used to men who talked. Who wrapped their hunger in charm, or cleverness, or teeth. But Remmick… he was bare. He didn’t even try to be anything else.

“You think I leave that light on for you?”

“No.” He shook his head, fast. “I- no. I ain't mean that. Just that… I hoped it meant I was allowed to come in.”

That did something to your chest you didn’t expect.

And suddenly, you didn’t want him to look at the table.

You wanted him to keep looking at you.

Only at you.

You leaned forward again, chin resting in your palm. “Well. You’re in now.”

He blinked. Almost like he didn’t believe it.

“Don’t mess it up,” you added, slow and sweet.

And Lord help you, he nodded like it was a commandment.

You watched his eyes. Watched how they clung to you like a lifeline, like the mere sight of your face was the only thing anchoring him to the moment. You could see it, plain as anything. The panic winding tighter beneath his skin, the quiet horror that he’d said too much. And maybe he had. Maybe he hadn’t said enough.

And then you smiled.

Not warm. Not cruel. Just knowing.

“Well,” you said, slow as molasses, “that still makes you a liar, don’t it?”

His shoulders tensed.

“I ain’t-”

You raised a hand.

He stopped.

“Watchin’ me for months and pretendin' you just stumbled in? That’s dishonesty, Remmick.”

His mouth opened again, then shut.

He looked like he wanted to explain. Wanted to pour out the right words, dig his way out of the pit he’d slipped into. But the silence between you left no room for excuses. And you didn’t fill it for him. You just stood, smooth and sure, brushing imaginary dust from your skirt like you were done with the whole performance.

The way his breath hitched…

You almost felt bad.

Almost.

His voice cracked, desperate before he could tuck it down. “I ain't mean no harm. I swear it.”

You walked to the door.

Unlatched it.

The bell above gave a soft jingle as you pushed it wide, letting the warm night air curl inside like smoke. The light spilled out into the dark, carving a golden archway he didn’t dare cross.

“You can go now.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

“I- what?” He stood too fast, nearly knocked himself over. “I ain't mean nothin’ bad. I just- don’t send me off like that. Please.”

You turned, hand still on the doorknob, gaze calm.

His breath was coming faster now, eyes darting like he was trying to find the version of you that wouldn’t be doing this. “I’ll sit quiet, won’t say a word. You won’t even know I’m here. Just don’t make me go.”

He took a step forward.

You didn’t move.

“Please,” he said again, voice ragged now. “Please don’t make me leave you.”

Leave you.

Not the shop. You.

And wasn’t that just the most pathetic thing you’d ever heard.

You tilted your head, quiet.

“I said you could go,” you repeated, soft this time.

That made him stumble.

But not back.

Forward.

Toward you.

But not close enough to touch.

Just close enough to be seen.

And you let him sit in it. That want. That begging.

The humiliation of it.

You could see how tightly his hands were balled at his sides. How his throat bobbed with every failed swallow. How badly he wanted to collapse to his knees and sob at your feet.

“You can come back tomorrow,” you said lightly. “If you behave.”

He swallowed so hard you heard it. Loud in the hush of the room.

Then he nodded.

Not like a man, but like a child handed a punishment he knew he deserved.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t move.

You gave him time.

Let him make the choice.

And when he did, it was with slow, aching reluctance. Every step backward like a string snapping off of him one by one.

“Evenin’, Remmick,” you said, voice sugar-sweet now, hand still resting on the open door.

He stood there a moment longer. Still. Wrung out.

Then, quietly: “G’night, ma’am.”

You didn’t answer.

You just watched him go.

Watched the dark swallow him.

And made no move to close the door until long after his shadow disappeared.

You knew he’d come back.

There was no need to check the sign. No reason to glance toward the door, or listen for the bell. You didn’t need to do anything at all. The air had already shifted, thickened with the weight of what was inevitable.

You were curled into your chair like you’d been there all night, though you hadn’t been able to concentrate for more than five minutes at a time. You told yourself it was the book. It was always the book. But your eyes traced the same paragraph for the third time, and your fingers tightened just slightly at the edges of the page.

Still, you didn’t look up.

You wouldn’t.

The clock ticked. Somewhere, a train whistled. The candlelight wavered once, then stilled.

And then you heard it.

The bell.

Soft. Perfect. Like a cue whispered by the world itself. The clock chimed midnight.

You didn’t lift your gaze, but you heard him. Felt him. The uneven shuffle of his steps. The small hitch in his breath.

He was back.

You turned the page.

The scent hit you first. Not bad. Just weary. Tired. Like sleep had refused him all night, and he’d wandered instead. Rain-damp clothes. Paper. Something earthy, mineral-like, maybe even metallic. Like he hadn’t meant to be anywhere but had found himself out in the wild with only his thoughts for warmth.

He didn’t speak at first. Didn’t dare.

The sound of the door shut behind him.

“I been good,” he blurted out.

Your lips twitched before you could stop them.

Still, your eyes didn’t leave the book.

“Real good,” he continued, voice cracking slightly with the rush of words. “Ain’t even come near the shop. Walked past it, but that don’t count. That’s just the sidewalk, right? Just pavement. I didn’t linger. Ain’t even look in the window. Well, I peeked, but only ‘cause I missed the smell of it. Missed you.”

That earned a slow blink from you.

He stepped further inside. His boots dragged slightly on the floor like they were too heavy to lift. Like his shame lived in his heels.

“I sat still all morning,” he said. “Didn’t wander, didn’t do nothin’. I thought ‘bout what you said. Over and over. Thought about why it was wrong. What I did. Even wrote it out. I did. Wrote it out.”

You closed the book softly.

Still, you didn’t rise.

Remmick stood in front of you now.

And good Lord, he looked a mess.

His shirt was wrinkled at the collar, sleeves rolled and uneven. His hair had a wild, raked-through look like he’d been dragging his fingers through it for hours. The shadow beneath his eyes was sharp, and the line of his jaw was clenched in barely-held desperation. Not even his chain looked presentable. He didn’t smell unclean, but there was a wildness to him now. Like if you stood too close, you’d hear the hum of his blood vibrating beneath his skin, frantic and restless.

“I didn’t lie, not really,” he said. “Just… held it. In. ‘Cause I didn’t wanna scare you off. Ain’t had someone like you before. Not in a long time. Maybe not ever.”

His accent pulled at the words, thinner now, stretched tight with pleading. That strange, syrupy Southern lilt gave way to something raw beneath. Sharper, guttural, not quite human in the way it frayed at the ends. It slipped, like his mask was crumbling, revealing a voice that hadn’t begged in centuries. Not just a borrowed twang anymore, but a whisper of whatever place had taught him that hunger in the first place.

You finally looked up.

He froze.

Then, slowly, like the world trembled beneath him, he knelt.

He didn’t say another word. Just lowered himself to the floor like it was natural. Like the hardwood was the only place he deserved to be.

Your legs were crossed, the hem of your skirt brushing his boots. He didn’t touch you, not yet. Just sat with his hands in his lap, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

You studied him.

He tried not to move under your gaze. Failed.

You tilted your head slightly.

He flinched.

“I ain’t sleep,” he admitted. “Couldn’t. Just kept seein’ your face. Thinkin’ of how soft your hands were. How still your voice is. You’re not like other folk. You look right through me, and it-”

He broke off, jaw flexing.

“I want to do right,” he said, softer. “Tell me how. Please. I’ll listen. I’m yours.”

You leaned forward.

He didn’t dare meet your eyes, not at first. Not until your fingers brushed the side of his face.

His head snapped up slightly.

You cradled his cheek in your palm, watching as he leaned into the touch. Like the heat of your skin might be the first kindness he’d felt in years.

He was trembling.

Not from fear.

From want.

His eyes closed, lashes fluttering like moth wings. You stroked your thumb along his cheekbone. Cooler than expected, but not cold. Never cold. Not with you.

His hands rose without thinking, resting on your legs. Then his shoulders followed, and soon, most of his weight was against you, folding like a supplicant at an altar.

You didn’t stop him.

Didn’t move.

Let him rest there.

Let him need.

Because that’s what this was. Not desire, not lust.

Need.

He was breathing in sync with you again, like your rhythm had become his only truth.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

His mouth moved against your knee.

Not in a kiss.

Not yet.

Just a whisper.

A plea.

You cupped the other side of his face, anchoring him.

He let out a sound. Quiet, fractured, grateful.

And stayed right there.

The weight of him on your legs wasn’t light. But it wasn’t heavy, either. It felt like gravity doing what it was always meant to. Like he had been built to collapse right here, in the hollows of your thighs, the shape of him fitted to the shape of your waiting.

You ran your thumb along the corner of his mouth, picking up a string of saliva along the way. Drool, thick and abundant. His lips parted. A breath spilled out.

He didn’t dare look up.

So you said it.

“Kiss me.”

Not a whisper.

Not a barked command.

It landed like a fact. Like dusk falling, like snow melting into earth. A truth that didn’t ask to be believed. It just was.

He didn’t move at first. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe.

He lifted his head like a man surfacing from deep water. His eyes, those beautiful, imperiled, bloodshot eyes, searched your face for any sign that you might take it back. That it might be a test.

It wasn’t.

You didn’t flinch.

And that was all it took.

He surged forward, and his mouth met yours with a force that stole the breath from your lungs.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t the kind of kiss you read about in the first chapter of a romance novel. It was the kind that belonged in the final act. The kind that felt like something was ending just as something else began.

His hands fumbled for your waist, your back, your shoulders. Any part of you he could grab to prove you were real. He held you like he was scared you’d vanish between blinks. Like you were smoke and he’d never had lungs strong enough to keep you in.

He moaned into your mouth. Low and wounded and starved. Not loud. Not filthy.

Desperate.

And grateful.

Like this was more than he thought he’d ever be allowed to have.

You clutched the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling tight in the rumpled linen, and he gasped against your lips like the pressure burned. He kissed like someone who hadn’t touched another soul in a hundred years. Thousands, maybe. Not properly. Not intimately.

Like every part of this might be the last.

He pulled you closer, though there was nowhere left to pull. His teeth caught against your bottom lip, breaking skin. Not intentional. Just too much, too fast, too hungry.

He pulled back immediately, breath hitching in horror.

“I’m-” he started, but your hand curled in his collar and you kissed him again, harder this time, and it unraveled something in him so completely that he made a noise against your mouth, something guttural and ruined.

Your hand tangled in his hair.

His arms caged you in, trembling with restraint, with fervor, with some old broken thing inside him that was only now waking up.

You pulled back just enough to breathe. His mouth chased yours, like instinct, like starvation.

He was panting.

You were panting.

And his forehead dropped to yours.

“I didn’t mean to-” he started again, but you shook your head. Barely a gesture.

He was still gripping your waist like the floor was about to give out.

He pressed his lips to your cheek. Then your jaw. Then your mouth again. Softer now, but still with the same unbearable urgency.

“I dreamt of this,” he whispered, voice all but crumbling. “Every night. Since I saw ya.”

You believed him.

How could you not?

He kissed like this moment was the dream. And he was scared of waking.

His breath shuddered against your cheek as he pulled back, just enough to look at you. His eyes were wide, dark, feral. Stripped down to the fundamentals of human existence.

“Please,” he begged. “I need to- can I-”

His hands were already moving, slow and reverent, like he was scared you'd vanish beneath his touch. They skimmed the sides of your waist, your ribs, the curve of your spine. Like he was learning you through touch alone.

He swallowed hard, throat working. “I wanna see ya. All of ya. Been dreamin’ ‘bout it. Wakin’ up in a sweat, reaching for something that ain’t there.”

His fingers found the hem of your shirt, toying with it. Not lifting. Not yet.

“Please,” he said again, softer. “Lemme see ya. Lemme-”

He cut off with a sharp inhale, like the words hurt coming out. Like they'd been buried in some deep, untouchable place inside him.

“I won't touch,” he sounded so earnest. So wrecked. “Not ‘less you want me to. But I swear, if you lemme, I'll worship every inch. I'll-”

He broke off again, jaw flexing. His eyes were pleading, desperate, broken.

“I'll do anything,” he breathed. “Just... please. Lemme look at ya.”

Your heart was beating too hard, too fast. Like it was trying to reach for him through your ribs.

“Yes,” you whispered. “You can look.”

And that was all it took. The floodgates opened. He surged forward, hands suddenly urgent, suddenly everywhere. He was mapping your skin like it was the only geography he'd ever need. Like you were the only country left to explore.

He peeled off your shirt, slow and cautious, like he expected you to change your mind. Like he expected you to pull the rug from under his feet, again.

But he didn't linger. Didn't stop. Shaking but determined, tugging at fabric, pulling at buttons, dragging clothing aside until there was nothing left between his gaze and your skin.

And then he just froze. Stared. Took you in like a dying man taking his last breath.

“God,” he whispered, voice sapped. “You're...”

He didn't finish the thought. Couldn't. Just looked at you like you were the answer to a question he'd been asking all his life. The beginning and end of every prayer he'd ever whispered.

And you smiled, being looked at like that. Like a God. A deity that commanded his unwavering, exclusive devotion. And like any God, you demanded more.

“Undress for me,” you said softly.

It wasn't a question.

His breath shuddered out unevenly, and he nodded. Not a hesitation in sight.

He stood slowly, like his body was weighed down by the gravity of what was happening. Like he could feel the significance of this moment in every bone.

His hands went to the buttons of his shirt first, trembling just slightly. He fumbled once, twice, then let out a soft, frustrated noise and just tore the fabric open. Buttons scattered.

You didn't flinch.

He shrugged the ruined shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. His undershirt followed, tugged over his head in one fluid motion.

And then he just stood there, chest bare, skin seeming to tighten under your gaze. Like your eyes were a physical touch.

His boots were next, kicked off with barely a thought. Then he went to his belt.

He paused for just a second, looking to you for confirmation.

You nodded.

He exhaled shakily and fumbled with the buckle. It came undone easily, the leather sliding out of the loops with a soft hiss.

He toed off his socks, then shoved his pants and underwear down in one motion, kicking them aside.

And then he was bare. Completely. Not just in body. In everything.

He stood before you, chest heaving.

His cock was hard, achingly so. Thick veins wound up the shaft, pulsing with each shudder of his heart. The head was swollen and pink. Glistening. A bead of precum pooled at the tip before spilling over, tracing a slow path down his length. He twitched, but made no move to touch himself. As if he didn't consider it a possibility until you allowed him to.

And you wouldn't. You had him exactly how you wanted him.

Slowly, he lowered himself back to his knees, hands resting lightly on your thighs, his touch gentle yet possessive. He looked up at you, his eyes laced with desire and something more profound. Veneration is the word that came to your mind.

“Please,” he pressed, as if trying to convince himself that he deserved it more than convincing you to relent. “Lemme taste ya. Just a taste. I swear I'll make it good for ya.”

His lips brushed against your thigh. A soft, tentative kiss that sent shivers down your spine. He lingered there, his breath hot against your skin. He squeezed your thighs gently, urging them to part.

You could feel his desperation, his need for your permission. He was squirming, his body aching for more, but he held back, waiting for your consent.

“Please,” he begged again, sounding tortured. “Need to taste ya. Need to feel ya on my tongue. Need to-”

You cut him off with a nod, a small smile playing on your lips. “Yes. You can taste me.”

The words were barely out of your mouth before he was moving, hands urgent and eager as he pushed your thighs apart, his body leaning in, his mouth already seeking your core.

He started at your knees, kissing his way up your inner thighs, his lips soft but his touch urgent. He was a man possessed. Gripping your thighs. Worshipping your skin. You could feel his hunger, his need, his desperation to please you.

When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused for a moment, his breath hot against your most intimate place. Then, with a slow, deliberate lick, he tasted you. His tongue slid through your folds, a long, slow lick that made you gasp, your back arching off the surface beneath you.

And then he dove in, his hunger relentless. His tongue explored every inch of you, hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he feasted. He sucked and licked and nibbled, his movements desperate and urgent, like a man starved and finally given a meal.

His groans of pleasure vibrated against your sensitive flesh, sending waves of sensation through your body. You could feel his enjoyment, his pleasure in pleasing you, and it only served to heighten your own.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and feral, mouth glistening with your wetness. “Ya taste like heaven,” he growled against your skin. “Even better than my fuckin' dreams.”

And with that, he redoubled his efforts, his tongue delving deeper, his sucks more insistent, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you to him as he devoured you.

Remmick didn't slow, didn't pause, didn't come up for air. His tongue was a relentless force, moving from your folds to your clit and back again at a breakneck pace. Each flick, each suck, each lick was a testament to his insatiable hunger for you.

You could feel the tension building in your body, a coiled spring ready to snap. Your hips bucked against his mouth, meeting his movements with your own desperate rhythm. Your hands found his hair, gripping tightly, holding him to you as if he might try to escape the torrent of pleasure he was creating.

His groans vibrated against your sensitive flesh, sending shockwaves of sensation through your body. He was as lost in this as you were, his actions fueled by a primal need to satisfy, to please, to devour.

“Remmick,” you gasped, pleading. “Don't stop. Please, don't stop.”

As if to answer, his tongue moved faster, his sucks more insistent. He pulled your hips tighter against his mouth, gripping your waist, holding you to him as he feasted.

You could feel yourself falling apart, your body tightening, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The world around you narrowed to the point of his tongue, the suck of his mouth, the grip of fingers

And then, with a cry that tore from your throat, you shattered. Your orgasm crashed over you, a wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful. Your body convulsed, your hips bucking wildly against his mouth as he rode out the storm with you, his tongue never ceasing its relentless assault.

But Remmick didn't stop. Even as your body began to relax, he continued, his pace slowing but his hunger undiminished. You were overwhelmed, your nerves on fire, every touch sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your body. The sensation was almost too much to bear, your skin hypersensitive, your mind a blur of ecstasy. He looked up at you, his eyes wild, mouth soaked, a sinful smile giving you another look at his predatory canines.

“Again,” he was near unintelligible, now. “I wanna feel ya come again.”

“No,” you whispered, hoarse from your cries of pleasure. “Remmick, no more.”

He froze, his body tensing, his eyes widening in alarm. The fog of lust cleared from his eyes. Replaced by a look of concern and uncertainty. “Did I hurt ya? Did I do somethin’ wrong?” That tone of genuine, unabashed fear returned. As if he was standing in front of that open door again, begging you not to send him away.

You smiled gingerly, your hand still cupping his cheek. “You were perfect, Remmick,” you assured him, gentle yet firm. “Now, I want you to move to the reading nook. I want to see you there.”

He nodded immediately, a mix of relief and eagerness in his eyes. He stood up hastily, his body still glowing with a sheen of sweat and desire. But before you could even think about moving, he was there, offering his hand to help you up. You took it, appreciating the strength and support he provided as you stood on legs that felt like liquid.

He didn't just lead you to the nook. He made sure you were steady on your feet the entire way. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close as he guided you to the cozy corner by the window. The nook where he read to you. Mimicked you. Begged you.

His body was still tense with anticipation, his breath slowly returning to normal. You could see the mix of emotions in his gaze. Desire, fear, hope. Something deeper, too.

“Remmick,” you said softly, your voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. “I'm not goin' anywhere. Not tonight.”

He let out a shaky breath, a deeply insecure smile playing on his lips. “I wanna make sure you're happy. That I'm doin' this right.”

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “You are. Now, just relax and enjoy this. Enjoy us.”

He nodded, a small, content smile playing on his lips as he leaned back, though not fully. You followed, straddling his hips as you positioned yourself above him.

“Lay down,” you commanded softly, and he complied without hesitation, his body molding to the contours of the nook as he stretched out beneath you. Those prismarine eyes bore into you, filled with nothing but adoration.

You could feel the length of him, hard and ready, pressing against your entrance. You took a moment to admire the sight of him, his chest heaving with each ragged breath, his muscles taut and defined.

“Hold my hips,” you instructed, and his large hands immediately gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you with a possessive, desperate strength.

You began to lower yourself onto him, inch by slow, agonizing inch. You could feel every vein, every ridge, as he filled you completely. His eyes rolled back, a guttural, incoherent moan escaping his lips, a sound so primal and raw it sent shivers down your spine.

You bottomed out, your body flush against his, your breasts pressing into his chest. He let out a shaky breath, body trembling beneath you. “Please, move, please,” he begged, hoarse with need. “I need to feel you move.”

You smiled, a slow, sensual curve of your lips, and began to ride him. You started slow, a gentle rocking of your hips, feeling him slide in and out of you, the friction building with each movement. But it wasn't enough. Not for either of you.

You picked up the pace, your hips slamming down onto his, taking him deeper, harder, faster. Each impact sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, your nerves alight with sensation. You could feel his hands on your hips, guiding you, urging you on. His fingers digging into your flesh, leaving marks that would fade but never be forgotten.

He chanted in an old language you weren't familiar with, likely the mother tongue of the faraway place you guessed he came from. His head thrashed from side to side, eyes squeezed shut,

You leaned down, your lips capturing his in a fierce, hungry kiss, your tongues dueling as your bodies moved in sync. You could taste his desperation, his need, his sheer, unadulterated ecstasy. You pulled back, looking down at him, his face a portrait of pure bliss and agony.

“Open your mouth,” you commanded, and he complied without question, his lips parting, tongue resting heavily in his mouth. You spit, a slow, deliberate stream of saliva that dribbled down his tongue, pooling at the back of his throat. He swallowed reflexively, his Adam's apple bobbing, his eyes never leaving yours.

You could feel his body coiling tight, his muscles tensing, his breath hitching. You changed the angle, your body leaning back slightly, giving him a new depth to explore. He let out a low, guttural groan, his body quaking beneath you as he found his release, his hot seed spilling into you, filling you completely.

But you didn't stop. You kept moving, your hips slamming down onto his, riding out his orgasm, drawing it out, milking every last drop of pleasure from his body. His cries turned to whimpers, body shaking and trembling beneath you, hands gripping your hips with a desperate, almost painful strength.

And then, the tears came. Silent, shuddering sobs that wracked his body, tears streaming down his temples, disappearing into his hair. You leaned down, your lips pressing soft, gentle kisses to his cheeks, tasting the salt of his tears.

“Shh, it's okay,” you cooed, almost taunting. “Let it out, baby. I've got you.”

He looked up at you, his eyes filled with unshed tears, body still shaking with sobs. “You're so f-fuckin' beautiful,” he managed to choke out, completely spent. “So fuckin' p-perfect. I can't… I can't even…”

You smiled, merely shushing his whines. You had never seen anything so beautiful, so raw, so real.

You could feel your own orgasm building, nerves on fire as your muscles instinctively clenched. You changed the pace again, your hips moving in a slow, deliberate grind, feeling every inch of him, the way he filled you, the way he completed you.

“I'm close, Remmick,” you gasped, raggedly so. A far cry from the steely demeanor you always carried.

He looked up at you, his eyes wide and intense, body still trembling with exertion. “I know, darlin’. I-I can feel it. You're somethin’ else when you're like this,”

His hands gripped your hips tighter, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you to him as you moved, as you chased your release. He was still hard, still pulsing inside you, but you could feel the tension, the strain, the sheer effort it was taking for him to hold on. To be there for you in this moment.

“You're doin’ so good,” he encouraged. “Just let it go. I'm right here with you. Ain't goin’ nowhere.”

And with that, you shattered. Your orgasm crashed over you, body trembling, hips bucking, nails digging into his chest. He let out a low, guttural cry. A sound of pure, selfless pleasure. His body tensed as he rode out your orgasm with you, hips moving in sync with yours, giving you everything he had left to give.

The world outside the window was still black.

Not the kind of black that came with sleep or stillness, but that deep, oceanic kind that pressed against the glass like it might swallow the shop whole. A cold wind tapped once, then again, against the panes, but the sound was too soft to pull your focus. The only thing you could hear was Remmick’s breathing. Still ragged, still uneven, like he hadn’t quite landed back in his body yet.

Your own chest was rising slower now.

The adrenaline had drained out of your limbs, leaving only warmth behind. Thick and heavy and strange. The cushions beneath you were slightly askew, the throw blanket hanging off one edge like it had tried and failed to cover something uncontainable. The air still smelled like him.

You weren’t sure you could breathe without pulling him deeper into your lungs.

Your hand rested low on his abdomen, where the tremors hadn’t stopped yet. He was flushed, head tilted back, mouth parted slightly as if waiting for something. Maybe breath, maybe words. The slick between you had cooled slightly in the open air, but neither of you moved.

The moment didn’t ask for motion.

Outside, the wind howled once. Higher this time, almost mournful. But no lights flickered. No car passed. No one knocked.

You were still alone.

Still unseen.

Still safe.

There was a thrill in that. Not just privacy, but secrecy. The knowledge that the two of you had made something here, something raw and holy and utterly indecent in a world that would never, ever be able to comprehend it. No one would guess. No one would imagine it.

You leaned forward slowly.

His eyes fluttered open. Glazed, desperate. Still begging, but quieter now. Not for forgiveness. Just for the chance to stay.

You kissed him.

Gently, firmly, like sealing a letter before sending it somewhere far away. He melted into it. Helpless again, the way he always was with you. And you tasted the salt at the edge of his mouth, not knowing if it was his tears or your sweat, and not caring either way.

When you pulled back, he followed instinctively, chasing the kiss without knowing he was doing it.

His breath hitched.

“I…” he started, but couldn’t finish.

You rested your forehead against his.

He let out something between a sigh and a sob.

“I wanna be better,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I wanna deserve this.”

“You don’t.”

He froze. Just for a moment. Then his throat worked, and his whole body shuddered.

But you weren’t cruel about it.

You reached up, brushed your fingers through his hair, and let your voice drop to a hush. “You don’t need to earn me, Remmick. That’s not how this works.”

He blinked at you like that didn’t make sense.

But he didn’t argue.

Didn’t say another word.

You let him stay there. Small and grateful and unraveling against you. One hand resting at your hip, the other fisted weakly in the blanket like he might drift off if he didn’t anchor himself to something.

You stared past him, at the darkness beyond the window.

There was no morning yet. No birdsong. No hint of light. The world hadn’t returned.

And you liked it that way.

His breathing was steadier now. Shallower. Slower.

His lips moved once, not quite forming a word. He was trying to stay awake. You could tell. Trying not to miss anything.

“Hey,” you said softly, pulling his attention back.

His eyes opened again.

You traced a slow line across his jaw, following the path of stubble like it meant something. He watched you like it did.

Then, finally, you said your name.

Quiet.

Careful.

Deliberate.

Just that.

Just your name.

His eyes went wide, and then impossibly soft. His mouth parted in disbelief.

You’d never told him before.

You weren’t sure why. It had always seemed too personal, too final. Like once he had it, he’d have a piece of you no one else did. But now that you’d said it, now that it was in the air between you.

You didn’t regret it.

He mouthed it back to you.

Once. Twice.

Then again, this time with sound. Reverent. Fragile. Yours.

You smiled.

Not the kind you gave to strangers or ghosts.

The real one.

And in that tiny, echoing silence, while the window fogged from the heat of your bodies, and the shadows stayed long and untouched, and the world outside forgot to turn, Remmick finally let himself exhale. Finally let himself rest.

You held him through it.

And didn’t let go.

[mwphisto]

Zayne: Misbehaved

~For @cayla21 who sent me the request! I hope you like it!

~ Bratty reader x Brat Tamer Zayne / not beta read, ignore small errors I'm dyslexic

Warning, this post contains: Smut, female masturbation, bratty behavior, Zayne is on a zoom call so like... spanking, no foreplay since MC took care of that herself lmfao, dirty talk, no degrading but he does scold her. WC: 2.8k

You had been feeling a tad bit neglected by your boyfriend recently.

You couldn't blame him for being busy, his job was demanding and strenuous so of course it took a lot of his time. You did your best most days to not complain, not wanting to add to his growing stress by whining about how much you miss him.

Being a brat was one thing, being a bother was another. And you'd much prefer staying far away from the bother side of things if you could help it. Zayne didn't deserve that after all.

Today was supposed to be your day, a rare day off with all of the recent wanderer attacks. Zayne happened to have the day to himself as well, naturally you planned on spending it together...

Until an urgent work call came in and now Zayne had been in your shared bedroom glued to his laptop for forty five minutes and counting. Bother him? No, of course not. You wouldn't dare distract him from the meeting at hand... right?

Wrong. You were annoyed beyond belief that the hospital couldn't give him a damn break even on his day off. While you may not have the right to go to the board and bitch on your boyfriend's behalf. You could certainly make use of your lost time.

You were quiet as you peeked into the bedroom, Zayne's desk was facing the door, the wall next to the closet as his background. You two had decided that was likely best since it looked put together, definitely not like a well loved bedroom.

He was talking, glasses hanging a little lower on his nose as hazel eyes scanned over papers in his hands. "The patient's treatment plan states..." blah blah blah, you tuned it out immediately. It wasn't like you'd understand what he was talking about if you listened.

Shouldering your way in, Zayne's eyes only flickered up for a second to acknowledge you before returning to his papers. Perfect.

"I understand, Dr. Alastor. But I wrote this treatment plan as such because..." there was a slight edge to Zayne's tone, one that sent a shrill of excitement down your spine as you padded over to his side of the bed. The voice filling his computer speakers seemed equally as tense, they clearly weren't seeing eye to eye.

With your back to Zayne, you reached for the hem of the shirt you had on. Yanking the material up and over your head in one go, the cool air of the room making your nipples harden almost immediately. His evol must be going a little haywire due to his frustrations.

You ached to glance over your shoulder, curious to know if your movements had caught his attention or if he was so focused on getting his way that he had tunnel vision. You held strong, reaching down to pull the waistband of your underwear from your hips. The garment sliding down your legs and falling to the floor.

You were completely bare, only daring to look at Zayne so you could crawl onto the bed and get yourself settled. When you did look, you jumped slightly when you realized his eyes were focused on you.

There was a warning look in his eyes, one that screamed don't you dare. But you were still peeved, you were going to do what you wanted while his ass was glued to that seat and that call. You only smiled at him, something soft and innocent as you crawled onto the bed and plopped yourself among the sheets and pillows.

Everything contradicted what you were doing, skin bare and taunting him as you let your thighs fall open in a butterfly position. You were already visibly wet, how long had you been planning this?

"Dr. Zayne? Your camera froze." heat flared in your lover's ears, head turning back to the camera so fast you couldn't stifle the small giggle that escaped your lips. He was going to eat you alive for this, punish you so severely you'd struggle to walk for a few days. You could feel it in your bones, Zayne wasn't going to show any mercy.

"My apologies, the connection was a bit spotty for a moment..." Still, he snuck a glance as your fingers began to massage your breasts. You had to be mindful of the fact that he was not only on camera but his microphone was on. If you made too much noise, they'd hear. As bratty as you could be, you knew not to cross that line.

The voice - a different male doctor - began ranting. From what you could gather, he was siding with Zayne. Didn't matter much to you as your fingers twisted and pinched at your perked nipple, lips parting as a slight gasp slipped out. In an instant, you heard Zayne's fingers click something on his keyboard.

"You've got two choices." Your hands stop, eyes locking with his. His hands are folded, effectively hiding his mouth from the webcam's view. "Either you stop what you're doing and wait for me to be done with this nonsense." Hazel eyes narrow at the computer screen briefly before returning to you. "Or you get dressed and we start this day over." You felt a giggle rising in your chest.

"Yeah, no. Don't wanna do either." Your hand snaked down the front of your body, gliding over your stomach before stopping just above your glistening cunt. "I'm having some me time while you work. Just pretend I'm not even here, if that helps you focus better."

You shoot him a wink, watching his jaw clench and eyes flare in disbelief as two fingers slip between your puffy lips. There's a twitch in your expression as your fingers graze your clit, slowly rubbing in a clockwise motion as your walls flutter from the sensation. "Dr. Zayne, what are your thoughts?" You don't falter in your movements as Zayne visible stiffens, a flare of annoyance in his eyes as he returns.

"You know my stance on the matter, I'm not budging."

The bickering begins again, but all you can do is move your fingers faster. You've effectively worked your lover up, the evidence straining against his sleep pants as your fingers work your clit.

Your other hand continued to tweak and toy with your nipple, toes curling as you clenched around nothing. The pleasure coursing through your pussy was enough to have small, barely audible whimpers leave your mouth. Completely incontrollable, coming out with each breath as slick covered your fingers.

You dared to sink them lower, leaving your clit alone as you pushed two slick fingers past your fluttering entrance. The whine was louder, Zayne's eyes sliding over to catch a glimpse of the sinful display.

"Fuck, Zayne. Need you so bad... hurry up!" You're grinning as you whisper, back arching off the mattress as you curl your fingers up and into that sweet spot. You grab your breast for support, squeezing the pliant flesh between your fingers and swallow a moan.

Zayne can't think straight, not when you're so boldly going against his wishes and pleasuring yourself feet away from him. He can't move, can't offer anything more to the heated debate unfolding on his screen. All he can think about is the sinful squelching of your fingers as you pump them in and out of your cunt.

He's going to ruin you, completely and utterly ruin you the second can end this call. A quick click of his keyboard, double checking he was muted, and then he spoke. "If you cum-"

"Course m'gonna cum, you can't stop m-me!" close, you were so close. The thrill of disobedience fueling your pleasure.

Zayne knew he had no control over the situation, his frustration bubbling to the surface as he clicked his microphone back on. "With all due respect, this is my day off. If you are going to butt heads for hours on end, save it for when I am back in work tomorrow morning."

You assumed the conference call was stunned, that sort of tone was one Zayne rarely let leave the house... technically he still kept it on a short leash considering you were still in the house. You weren't sure of what their responses were, your orgasm crashing into you and causing your fingers to stutter in their repetitive movements.

Your chest heaved from the release, eyes blinking open in time to see Zayne slamming his laptop shut. "You." A single word, that's all it took. A chill ran down your spine, legs snapping shut as you curled in on yourself. There was nowhere to run, your heart never calming down post-release because of the anticipation.

"You are such a defiant brat." Zayne's face was the picture of calm, collected, but there was that edge again, one that told you that he was on the verge of losing his mind. "I-I don't..." but you were fixed in place with a stare. There was no room to push the limits now.

"Did I give you permission to speak?" You had half the mind left to be defiant, yet your body was moving on autopilot. Your lips stayed shut as you shook your head, eyes going glossy as you stared up at your lover. "If I recall, I told you that you had two options and you did neither." His fingers were pulling at the hem of his shirt.

Inch by inch, toned skin was revealed to your hungry gaze. You'd never get tired of seeing Zayne shed his layers. "Then you further disobeyed me by coming on your fingers." the shirt fell with a thump, landing somewhere on the floor with your discarded clothing.

One knee went up on the mattress, urging you to slink back and away. Part of you wondered how stupid it would be to try and run, with the little dignity you had left you weren't sure making a run for it while bare naked was the smartest move. Even if you wanted to, your legs weren't quite working fully. Hadn't this been your goal?

"All while I was on a call. It's shameful, did you want my colleagues to hear you playing with your pussy like the brat you are? Did it turn you on to know that they're unaware of you masturbating on my bed? That I couldn't get up from the camera to put you in your place?" A hand wraps around your ankle and tugs you towards him.

"Answer me, you can speak."

"N-no it didn't, what turned me on was that you couldn't get up to fuck me stupid even if you wanted to-hey!" You were being flipped over, face connecting with the pillows as Zayne crawled onto the bed completely. "Don't you dare go running your mouth again." A hard slap echoed off your ass cheek, your lips sealing shut before any smart remarks could slip out against your will... habit maybe.

"Disobeying me." Another slap. "Touching yourself." Another slap. "Mouthing off to me." A fourth slap. Your ass cheek stung, heat radiating where Zayne had spanked you. "And this is for enjoying it." You squealed as he landed a slap on your sopping cunt, stinging pleasure zipping up your spine. "Naughty girl."

You couldn't think straight, air freezing in your lungs as you felt him nudging against your entrance. You craned your head back, fingers tightening in the sheets as your breasts pressed into the blankets. Zayne's sleep pants were around his thighs, just low enough to let his cock free. "Don't look." Another smack to your sore ass.

Your head returned to the pillow, not daring to mumble an apology. "Good girls get to watch, and you most certainly have not been good." Your throat tightened as he pressed, the pressure against your dripping hole enough to make your body tense. No foreplay, no preparation, you were wet enough as it is. Taking him without anything else was part of the punishment.

"You played with yourself more than enough, look at how messy this pretty pussy is." Zayne swallowed a groan as he stopped teasing your entrance, running the dull head of his cock between your warm, slick folds. "You've had me more than enough times, you'll live."

He was back at your entrance before you could even whine, pushing past the tight ring and sighing as you immediately suctioned around him. Arguably, the worst was done, the stretch brief before your body accommodated to being filled. Except, Zayne didn't push himself in further. Rather, he withdrew entirely.

"Z-zayne!" You squealed as he repeated the motion, pushing just the head in before pulling back out. Not stopping until he felt zero resistance. "You can handle it, you've done it before." His hands were gripping your waist with bruising force, sliding inch after inch until his hips were flush with your bruised ass.

"You're finally being good, if you behave maybe I'll give you a reward."

You couldn't breathe, stuffed so full you could only let your mouth hang open as you braced yourself for him to start moving. Zayne started moving, pulling back half way to roll his hips forward in slow deep motions. You could feel every inch, every vein, the curve of his head, each movement hitting that sweet spot.

It didn't take long for his pace to pick up, wet squelches filling the room as skin met skin with each thrust. "So defiant, what am I going to do with you." Zayne's voice was strained, hands sliding from your hips up to your breasts. He cupped them, bending over you to press his bare chest to your back. "You never learn."

A whisper against your ear, just as he rolled your perked nipple between his fingers. "M-maybe I just like disobeying." You couldn't help it, and it seemed Zayne was going to let it slide for once.

"A glutton for punishment, not shocking." You could only mewl, completely engulfed by Zayne's warmth and weight. One hand left your breasts, sliding down your stomach to slip between your soaked folds. "Wouldn't have it any other way." He pinched, earning a squeal before he began rubbing your overly sensitive clit.

Your second orgasm was building quick. With his hips pounding into you and his fingers toying with your cunt, you couldn't stop the string of curses that fled your lips. "Z-zayne 'm gonna cum..."

"Then cum, you have my permission." Your entire body trembled, if he wasn't going to edge you it could only mean... "fuck!"

Your walls spasmed around his length, forcing his hips to stutter in their movements as your cum dripped down your thighs "Someone is definitely listening now." You could only cling to the sheets, panting as Zayne's fingers and hips began their brutal pace once more.

"We're not stopping until I'm satisfied."

"S'too sensitive! Z-zayne!" But he didn't stop, didn't even hesitate. The wet sounds only amplified as he pounded you deeper into the mattress. "Y-you can take it, you've done it before and you'll do it now." Tears blur your vision, eyes screwing shut as painful overstimulation turns into blinding pleasure.

He was twitching, already close to coming. "Should I cum in this pretty pussy? Fill her up nice and full?" You babbled out some sort of yes, tears wetting the pillow below you as you cried out his name. "I'll fill you up so good you'll be dripping me for days." The kind of language Zayne reserved for you and you alone. What an honor.

"Please, Z-zayne! N-need it so b-ad." You were coming again, a high pitched squeal leaving you as you thrashed against the sheets. The warm gush of your release covering his thighs and the sheets below. "So filthy, making a mess of me and our bed." he was twitching, face flushed, his orgasm was right in his grasp.

A hard smack landed on your other ass cheek, a loud sob wracking your frame as Zayne ground his hips into you. "How badly do you want my cum? Do you think you deserve it?" God you couldn't even see straight, how did he expect you to answer him? You mumbled something, a slur of speech accompanied by the clenching of your walls. It was the best you could do, but Zayne understood.

"Could never deny you, even though you can be a royal brat."

Zayne's hand on your breast and grip around your waist was the only thing keeping you somewhat grounded. His rhythm turned sloppy, finally coming as he ground his hips flush against you. The warmth was all consuming, spreading through your body until you could barely keep your eyes open. "l-love you."

"I love you too, but I hope you know I'm not done with you yet." Zayne's tone was smug, cock still hard and twitching in your cunt. "I've got all day and night to make you see the error of your ways." You were positive he'd never get the message across. If it meant getting fucked like this? You'd defy him again and again.

[ilovemilestellersmoustache]

Save a Horse, Ride a Bob

Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: Taking someone to your hometown is a huge milestone for you, and seemingly Bob fits perfectly with everyone and everything, except for the fact the he managed to unknowingly place upon the “hat rule” on you. But hey? At least it works out in his favour.

A/N: This 100% was based on when John said “ride Bob into the sky”

WC: 2.7K

⸻

Bringing someone home had always felt… foreign.

Not because you weren’t proud of where you came from, quite the opposite. It was stitched into your bones, the red dirt roads, the smell of warm rain on fence posts, the summer nights heavy with fireflies and the distant lowing of cattle. But this town, with its long memory and watchful eyes, didn’t forget things easily. And it didn’t take kindly to people who didn’t understand its rhythm.

You’d never wanted to share it with anyone. Not really.

Until Bob.

It started small, the way he’d lean in to listen when you talked about riding horses at dawn, or how his lips quirked when you mentioned growing up in a place where the diner served pie before noon and the deputy coached Little League. He never interrupted, never made fun of it. Just listened like he was storing every word somewhere private.

And maybe that’s when you knew.

That if anyone was going to see where you came from, the soft underbelly of your story, the place where your heart had first learned how to beat… It should be him.

Bob Reynolds, with his soft voice and calloused hands, with his quiet smile and wide, storm wrecked heart. He was timid in the way kind people often are, like he didn’t want to take up too much space. But you knew, deep down, that this town would take one look at him and fold him into its patchwork soul like he’d always belonged.

⸻

You and Bob would drove up the winding roads in your beat-up truck, talking about your plans to show him the ranch, have dinner with your folks, maybe take him riding the next morning.

But then as the old house came into view, porch light already glowing golden against the falling sun, there were more than just your parents waiting. A half-dozen trucks were parked haphazardly near the barn, lawn chairs sprouting like dandelions around the fire pit, and you could hear laughter and screen doors slapping shut before you even killed the engine.

Bob looked at you, startled.

“…I thought it was just your family?”

You winced, a smile pulling at your mouth. “It was I guess, until I told my mama I was bringing someone home.”

He blinked. “You told her this morning.”

“Exactly.”

Bob’s brows lifted in slow, dawning realization.

⸻

When he stepped out of the truck, the warm twilight hit him first, that kind of golden dusk you only get in wide, open places. Crickets just beginning to chirp. The slow hum of cicadas. Dust kicking up around boots. The porch steps creaked under familiar weight as your mom came flying toward you, apron still dusted with flour, arms thrown wide. She hugged you like you’d been gone years instead of months.

And then she turned to Bob.

“You must be Robert.” she said, using his full name like she’d already claimed him.

He opened his mouth, but your father stepped up next, tall and sun-worn, giving Bob a long look before offering his hand. “You ride?” he asked, like it was a greeting.

“I… don’t think so?” Bob admitted sheepishly.

Your dad nodded once. “We’ll fix that.”

And just like that, it began.

Neighbors streamed in with casseroles and lemonade. Old classmates you hadn’t seen since graduation hugged you tight and gave Bob speculative, amused once-overs. Kids ran wild near the pasture fence, and someone’s dog had already claimed Bob’s shoes as a pillow. Your best friend from high school elbowed you with a grin, murmuring, “Damn, girl. You did good.”

Bob stood beside you, stiff at first. He wasn’t used to being the center of attention. Not like this. Not like someone’s person. But every time he reached for your hand, you gave it to him, steady and sure.

And slowly, he began to unfurl.

Someone offered him a cold sweet tea. Another told him he would look good in flannel. The neighbor’s teenage daughter asked him what he did, and when he gave her the world’s gentlest answer. “I’m just trying to be a good man” She sighed like she was about to write a love song about him.

You caught him later on the porch swing, ankles crossed, Henrietta the Chicken glaring at him from across the yard like she was sizing him up.

“Do I pass?” he asked you, voice low, amused.

You leaned into him, head resting on his shoulder.

“No one’s ever passed faster.”

⸻

That Friday night, you took him to The Spur, the town’s only bar-slash-dancehall, where the beer was cheap, the music was loud, and the wooden floor had seen generations of boots scuff it up with laughter and two-step.

You made sure Bob was dressed right. It took effort. He had the boots now, worn and scuffed. You made him wear jeans that actually fit. And a pearl-snap shirt in dark navy that made his shoulders look criminally good. The hat was the finishing touch, black, low-brimmed, rugged.

When he stepped out of your room, adjusting the collar and looking shy as hell, you damn near whistled.

“I feel like a theme park character.” he said.

“You look hot.” you corrected, walking a circle around him.

“Do people… wear this for real?”

“Every weekend,” you said. “Now c’mon, Reynolds. Let’s teach you how to dance.”

⸻

Inside the bar, it was all twang and laughter and the thick smell of fried food and whiskey. The band played fast and wild, and people hollered out each note. Bob stuck close to you like a lifeline, eyes wide as folks clapped him on the back, calling him “Hollywood” and “City Man” and asking how he landed you.

You taught Bob how to two-step.

Well, kind of.

“Left foot, then right. No- Bob. Other right.”

“I am using my right!”

“You’re stepping on my foot!”

“Sorry!”

You ended up just swaying with him in the middle of the dance floor, flushed from beer and embarrassment, his hands tentative as they found your waist. You tugged them tighter, grounding him, and that’s when something shifted. The tension in his shoulders loosened. His smile changed, real now.

He smelled like cedar and soap and just a trace of the cologne you told him to wear, the one with the little notes of vetiver and pepper that made your knees weak. The heat between you crackled with something unspoken, and for a few minutes, everything around you blurred into music and motion.

At some point during the night, after another dance, Bob tugged off his hat to run a hand through his damp hair. His face was shiny with sweat, his curls stuck to his forehead, and he looked dazed in that beautiful, happy way, like he still couldn’t quite believe he was here. Then, without thinking, he reached over and plopped the hat down onto your head, shaking his hair out to cool off…

It was a small, tired gesture.

But the moment it happened?

Electric.

The entire bar erupted.

Someone behind the bar bellowed, “WOOOOOO-EEE, RIDE THE COWBOY!”

“HOLY HELL!” someone else shouted. “BOBBY KNOWS THE HAT RULE!”

You stood very, very still.

More hooting. Boots stomping the floor. Someone whooped loud enough to rattle the windows.

Bob blinked, clearly lost, clearly panicking.

He looked at you, eyes wide. “I- uh- what did I just do?”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear with a smirk. “You don’t know the hat rule, do you?”

“…No.”

You reached up, adjusted the brim so it sat just right on your head, and said sweetly, “If a cowboy puts his hat on someone else’s head, it means they’re going home together.”

Bob turned scarlet. You’d never seen a man blush that fast.

“Oh.” he said, voice tight. “That’s- uh. That’s a rule?”

You shrugged, already spinning away with a teasing smile. “Town doesn’t make the rules. We just enforce them.”

Bob watched you walk toward the bar like you’d just turned his whole world upside down.

And from behind him, someone slapped his shoulder and howled, “Better saddle up, Bobby boy! That hat rule’s legally binding!”

He just stood there for a long second, still blushing, mouth parted in that stunned little way he got when you caught him completely off guard. Then you glanced back, cocked your head, and gave him a wink.

⸻

You drank, you danced, you laughed until your stomach hurt.

The old dive bar buzzed with warmth and off-key covers from the town band playing on the makeshift stage. Sticky floors, half-priced beers, and a neon sign that flickered like it had a secret, it was the kind of place that didn’t care what time it was, only that you were having a good time. And you were. Maybe more than you had in months.

Bob didn’t stop smiling, not once. Not when someone spilled a drink down the back of his jeans, not when the bartender got your orders wrong three times, and definitely not when he nearly tripped over the jukebox cord trying to avoid Henrietta, who had somehow followed you to the bar like a bad penny . His cheeks flushed pink, more from laughter than embarrassment, and he mouthed a frantic “save me” before ducking behind you like you were his personal shield. You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your beer.

The night wore on in golden, blurry edges. You danced like no one was watching, even though they definitely were. Arms loose around his shoulders, his big hands hovering just shy of your waist like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. But with every song, he drew in closer, more confident, until you were moving as one. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell beneath your fingertips, the soft warmth of his breath near your ear when he leaned in to tell you something stupid or sweet or both.

And hours later, when the crowd thinned out and the music turned slow and drawling some old country love song that could’ve been from your parents’ wedding, Bob didn’t ask. He just offered his hand, gentle and sure, and you took it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He pulled you into a quiet dance, his movements tender and deliberate, as if he was afraid to break the moment. Not once did he step on your feet. Not once did he falter. His arms wrapped around you like a safety net, loose but strong, and for a long time, the world felt small, just you, him, and the soft hum of a steel guitar in the background.

The cowboy hat stayed firmly on your head the entire time. Bob gave it a reverent little tilt when he looked down at you, like it was some kind of crown, like you were someone special, someone he’d waited years to find. And under the dim bar lights, with your head resting against his chest and his heart beating a little too fast, it was then he decided you really were.

⸻

The night air was warm and thick with the scent of wildflowers and summer sweet honeysuckle on the breeze, earth still holding onto the day’s heat. Crickets sang in the tall grass, and fireflies blinked like they were keeping time with your footsteps.

You walked back to the ranch under a million stars, boots crunching gravel, Bob’s fingers twined with yours like he never wanted to let go. He kept glancing over at you, smile crooked, eyes glassy with just enough of a buzz to make him bold. You were both a little tipsy. The good kind. The kind that made everything shimmer around the edges, like the world had softened and spun itself into something just for the two of you.

He bumped his shoulder against yours as you neared the porch. “This was… a really good night.”

“Even with Henrietta managed to track you down into the bar?”

He laughed loud, boyish, real. “Especially because of that. I got to hide behind you like a damsel. Very dignified.”

You giggled, heart drumming somewhere in your throat. And then you were at the door, old, creaky, paint chipped from years of weather and wear, and the moment you pushed it open, something shifted in the air between you. Something quiet and charged, like static before a storm.

Bob kissed you before you’d even kicked your boots off.

It wasn’t tentative or careful, not anymore. His mouth was warm and insistent, and you gasped against him, your fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt, tugging it loose. You stumbled backward into the hallway, knocking into a console table and nearly sending a mason jar of flowers tumbling.

“Door.” you murmured, laughing between kisses, trying to remember where your old bedroom even was.

“Where?” Bob’s voice was low and ragged, one hand splayed wide across your lower back, the other still cupping your cheek like you were breakable and sacred all at once.

“Left- no, other left- BOB-!”

You both slammed into the wall beside the staircase, right beneath your childhood photos, your third-grade rodeo ribbon nearly fell off its nail. You couldn’t stop giggling, and Bob kissed the sound right out of your mouth, breathing hard like he’d been waiting days to stop being so damn respectful.

He finally found the door, flinging it open with more enthusiasm than grace. You tripped over the threshold in a tangle of limbs and laughter, landing on the bed in a puff of quilted covers and heat. Bob followed, all long limbs and broad shoulders, kissing you like a man starved.

Clothes came off in messy, half-laughing pulls. His shirt over his head, your dress yanked down around your hips. Boots hit the floor with loud, lazy thuds. He paused to help you with the stubborn zipper, grinning when it caughtand you laughed so hard he had to hush you with another kiss, mouths brushing and breath mingling in the dark.

Then he pulled back, just for a second. Long enough to look at you.

To really look.

You were flushed and glowing, chest rising and falling beneath the thin cotton of your bra, his cowboy hat still perched crooked on your head. You blinked up at him, lips kiss swollen, eyes wide and a little wild.

Bob stood there like he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

He breathed out a shaky laugh. “Gotta live up to the hat rule, right?”

You bit your lip, reaching for him. “You better, Reynolds.”

And with a soft, reverent touch, he leaned forward and set the hat straight again. Like it belonged there. Like you belonged there with him, beneath him, in every version of the life he hadn’t dared to picture before now.

And then he kissed you slow. Not the urgent kind from the hallway, but something deeper. Something that lingered. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask,it told. That you were wanted, worshiped, known.

The mattress creaked beneath you as he joined you, the old springs singing their familiar tune. You let your hands roam his back, mapping muscle and freckle and scar, and he whispered your name like a saying. Over and over. Until it was the only thing that mattered.

His fingers trailing down your spine, gentle but certain, pulling you closer until every breath you took was shared. The warmth of his body pressed against yours was like coming home, steady, real, grounding. His lips moved from your mouth, to your jaw, to the curve of your neck, leaving soft promises with every touch.

You tilted your head, exposing more of yourself to him, your breath hitching when his teeth grazed your skin just enough to stir a fire. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, steadying you in the sweet chaos of your shared desire.

You didn’t rush. You let the moment stretch, every heartbeat syncing between you. There was no need for haste, no need for words—just the quiet music of two people who had found something worth holding onto in a world that often felt too loud.

When his mouth finally met yours again, it was slow and deliberate, a dance of trust and tenderness. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, as if to memorize every inch of him.

And outside, the stars burned on. Quiet witnesses to the beginning of something you didn’t have a name for just yet. Something real.

Something that felt a lot like home. He was home.

⸻

[wendichester]

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ where the road ends,

summary. you make dean want to settle down.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. fluffy

wordcount. 643

notes / warnings. domestic yearning, soft dean winchester with his guard down. warning for feelings 🗣️

It starts with the pie.

Not just a pie. Your pie. Warm, fresh, made from scratch and left on the counter in a battered little tin with a note that says: "Eat this or I’ll kill you." He laughs. Actually laughs. Out loud, like his chest forgets it’s made of concrete for a second.

He eats the whole damn thing in one sitting, leaning on the counter with fork in hand and eyes soft in a way he’d punch someone for pointing out. And that’s when it hits him—like a sucker punch with velvet gloves.

He wants this. The pie. The notes. The smell of something baking while he polishes guns in the living room. He wants mornings with you in his flannel shirt and nothing else, afternoons that smell like laundry and cinnamon, nights where he doesn’t have to sleep with one eye open.

He wants you.

Not in a motel bed. Not between hunts. Not in stolen moments and half-promises. He wants forever.

You find him on the porch of the house you're renting, boots kicked up, beer in hand, staring out at nothing. You walk up behind him and wrap your arms around his shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world—because with him, it is.

“You okay?” you ask, voice warm.

He tilts his head back to look at you, grin lazy. “Better now.”

You move to sit beside him, thigh pressed to his. The sky’s fading into gold, cicadas humming in the trees. It’s stupidly peaceful. He hates how much he loves it.

“You look like you’re thinking,” you tease, nudging him with your knee. “Which is dangerous.”

He hums. Takes a long sip of his beer before finally saying, “I ever tell you about that house I used to dream of as a kid?”

You shake your head.

He glances at you, smile soft around the edges. “Had a porch like this. Swingin’ bench. Barbecue out back. Big ol’ garage. A dog. Maybe a couple kids. Nothin’ fancy. Just... safe. Mine.”

Your heart skips. “You still think about it?”

He shrugs, but there’s no casual in the way he fidgets with the label on the bottle. “Didn’t for a long time. Figured that kinda life was for other people. Civilians. People who didn’t have blood on their boots and nightmares in their rearview.”

You wait. You know he’s circling the thing he actually wants to say.

Then, like it takes everything in him:

“But lately, I dunno... when I see you in the kitchen, or curled up with that book you like, or just... breathing easy? I start thinking maybe it’s not so far off. That maybe I get to want it again.”

Your throat tightens. “Dean...”

“I know it sounds crazy. Me, giving up the life.” He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “But for the first time, I’m starting to think the world might not end if I stop hunting. And even if it does...” He looks at you then—really looks. “If I gotta go out, I want it to be after I’ve had a damn good life. With you in it.”

You reach out and take his hand, lacing your fingers together. “You don’t have to be anyone else, Dean. You don’t have to know how to settle down overnight. But if this is what you want—me, a porch, that swing—I’m already in.”

He stares at you like you just handed him the moon.

Then he grins, eyes crinkling, something boyish and broken and beautiful lighting up his whole face. “You sure? I’m a pain in the ass, sweetheart.”

“You’re my pain in the ass.”

He kisses you right there, tasting like beer and forever.

The sun sets. The stars come out.

And for once, Dean Winchester doesn’t feel like he's running toward the end. He feels like he’s already home.

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