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xmarchwarden-of-lothlorienx · 2 months ago

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Luí na Gréine — Remmick’s Origins

Summary: How Remmick became a vampire centuries ago in 5th century Ireland.

Author’s Note: Putting my history degree to work to make this as accurate as possible! And just like my history papers, no beta reader either!! I’ve incorporated some Irish words/folklore so here’s a little guide:

• Cláirseach: A harp; One of the oldest instruments found to exist in Ireland (archeological evidence back to the 6th century).

• Cú Chulainn: A demi-god warrior figure from the Ulster Cycle of Irish mythology

• Tuath Dé: Old term for the Tuatha Dé Danann who are considered to be the pantheon of gods/goddesses of pre-Christian Ireland.

Remmick did not remember his last sunrise, or even his last sunset. He did, however, remember the moon that presided over the dawn of his nocturnal life. The moon was full that night, heavy with the weight of thousands of nights to come, and seemingly hesitant to climb into the sky above.

The midsummer’s evening was brisk in spite of the roaring fires and crowds gathered in merriment. Remmick’s fingers glided across the strings of the cláirseach and his smile could be heard through his voice as he sang. It was his first performance on his own as a Filí — years of studying and practice had finally gotten him here, the key musician and storyteller for a clan chieftains summer solstice feast. His music brought joy to those around him. It was his music that made the crowd feel as though they were dancing on air.

As Remmick played, the air around him seemed to buzz with energy. When he glanced up from his playing, he caught glimpses of those who were and those to come between the dancing couples and the sidelined old men laughing into their cups. The spirits appeared as people in different clothes of different times that somehow remained distantly familiar among Remmick’s people in the here and now. Seeing what others couldn’t had always been one of his specialties. All Filidh were historians, poets, and diviners of some kind, but Remmick was one of the few blessed with occasional visions from beyond the veil.

The celebration wound down with the approach of dawn. Families, individuals, and the occasional couple slipped away to wherever they were sleeping away the night's excess. Few people remained as Remmick plucked the cords of his cláirseach to start his final song of the night. A ballad of Cú Chulainn — something familiar that could sit with the celebration's remaining stragglers as they tried to find their way home. The song was one Remmick had favored since he was a child, yet he could not prevent the sinking feeling settling within him. The sun’s rays were nearly peaking over the horizon, and a darkness loomed around Remmick that his playing could not shake away. It was as though the air itself had reached the tipping point between ripeness and the early stages of rotting.

The Catholic monks came with their words sweet as honey and the conversion of Remmick’s people. Those who clung to the “savage religion” of old — the druids, the healers, the other poets — met the new Christianity with distaste, but slowly they too migrated out of the county as more and more people abandoned the old ways. In hindsight, perhaps Remmick should have joined them, but at the time he could not dream of abandoning what family he had, namely his father.

Remmick’s mother had died when he was but a child. Some of his siblings had made it to adulthood, while a few weren’t so lucky. Those that lived were settled with families and farms of their own now. His father had been a doting one with each of his children, but it was Remmick who had been the apple of his eye and now it was Remmick who primarily took care of the old man. His older brothers and younger sister dropped by occasionally — bringing a fresh brace of rabbits to use for dinner or a new woolen tunic to keep their father warm through the winter. Remmick stayed with their father the most when he wasn’t playing his music, which seemed to be requested less and less as several years flew by.

The last day Remmick had truly felt like himself was when his father insisted on making a day's pilgrimage to a grove hidden away among the trees and heather. The man was getting older, and Remmick had questioned if the trip was one he was fit to make, but he’d given in to his father’s wish in the end. The small trip would have likely remained unremarkable if it wasn’t for the turn in his father’s health that followed.

Upon arriving at the grove, Remmick noticed the pleased look passing over his father’s face. He glanced around at their surroundings. It was quite beautiful, the tree leaves turning the color of lapping flame over head and the gentle stream winding through the small clearing, but he didn’t understand why they had to come here of all places. Remmick followed his father to where the trickling water met the banks of the stream. He removed the small poke from his side to unpack a little food.

“‘You ever going to tell me why you had me drag you out here, Da?” Remmick asked with a hint of humor in his tone as he handed a hunk of bread over for his father to nibble on.

His father hummed thoughtfully before answering, “When I was a boy, I used to come here all the time.” He mused aloud as he slowly lowered himself to sit on the soft grass of the bank. “My uncle always told me that the stream’s water had the power to heal — even told me it could make a man live forever if he could stomach it.” The corner of the older man’s mouth quivered upwards into a smile at the memory.

“I see, so now I’m a part of your plan to achieve eternal life now, eh?” Remmick lightly shook his head as he softly laughed.

“Hrmph, that wasn’t my intention — can’t an old man visit the scenes of his childhood? Though I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try.” Remmick’s father winked with a hint of mischief. The gesture reminded Remmick of when he was a child and his father would do the same thing to signify he was letting the boy in on something solely between them. The old man leaned forwards, cupped his hands, and collected some of the cool water of the stream. He swallowed the water with a breath of satisfaction before leaning back to sit once more.

Remmick could not recall how long they spent sitting by the stream within the grove. He could however remember with painstaking clarity the moment his father collapsed once they’d started on the return trip home. The two had barely cleared the treeline of the forest, and Remmick had to carry his father the rest of the way. From his education as a Filí, Remmick had some basic knowledge of healing remedies. He tended to his father for three days, until he saw no improvement in the older man's condition, finally accepting defeat.

By then, the old healers of the valley had stopped practising or moved elsewhere. Yet, Remmick was feeling desperate. Desperate enough to swallow his pride and seek help from the Catholic monks residing a few miles away at their monastery. He left with his father who was quietly sleeping through the early afternoon. Before leaving, he took care to leave a bowl of cold broth and cup of water on a stool beside the bed should his father awake hungry or thirsty while he was gone.

Remmick traveled as fast as he could on foot without running towards the monastery. He stopped the first monk he met to implore for help. The monk was tending the verge outside the monastery, but placed down his shears and stood up from his kneeling position as Remmick started to speak. The young man told the monk of his fathers illness — how he’d suddenly collapsed after visiting the old grove. The monk's face hardened at the mention of the pagan wilderness the men-of-the-cloth rarely ventured into. He grilled Remmick on the specifics of his father’s condition and its circumstances. No matter how Remmick tried to please the man with his answers the monk seemed to only grimace more with every detail added.

Ultimately, Remmick had been dismissed — told to return home and “pray” for the merciful healing of that Christian God. The monk was wary of helping or paying a direct visit to Remmick’s father. Remmick supposed it was rooted in a fear of the illness being caused by the pagan devilry the monks spent all their time discrediting. He returned home with a seed of bitterness growing in him.

Remmick cared for his father for weeks after that. He used what little knowledge of medicinal herbs he had and used his music to comfort the sick old man whenever he could. It wasn’t enough, and the recommended “praying” certainly did nothing either. Remmick returned to the monastery a few more times to ask for help, but was continuously turned away with each time harsher than the last. After the last of these attempts, Remmick returned home one evening, his displeasure evident on his face. His father tried to lighten his mood with jokes and stories, but nothing dissolved the sour mood Remmick was in.

After dinner, his father tried to laugh which turned into a fit of coughing. “I don’t suppose I could stomach it after all, eh?” The old man spoke lightly as he referenced the day in the grove when they’d both been enjoying themselves.

“No,” Remmick murmured under his breath and sighed. The old man’s brows drew together in a look Remmick didn’t fully understand at the time before he bid his son goodnight. His father didn’t wake up the next morning.

His father’s death was the major turning point for Remmick. As in the nature of his studies, Remmick was well versed in his people’s history and the supernatural beings that were often interwoven into everyday life. Yet, all of that seemed to be crashing down. The songs of old were replaced by the low hum of monastic hymns echoing through the hills. The seasonal celebrations were falling out of favor as more and more Christian practices wormed their way into people's lives. The hypocritical monks that preached salvation and healing, yet were unwilling to extend their resources to the unconverted. The growing disruptions to his people’s way of life served to only nurture the bitterness that had taken root within Remmick when his father first fell ill.

He’d gotten the idea that something should be done, and why shouldn’t he be the one to do it? Through his music, Remmick had been able to connect with spirits of the past and future. Why not utilize that? Surely he could do something more, especially on a night when the veil between natural and supernatural was already thin. This line of thinking had led him to conspiring on utilizing Samhain to its fullest — to see what strength he may be able to garner through connecting with those beyond. A necessity to stop the end of all that he had grown up loving — all that he’d devoted years of his life to being a part of.

As the moon creeped into the sky on the evening of Samhain, Remmick traveled alone to the standing stones with his cláirseach in hand. His thoughts were a jumbled mess as he climbed the hillside and to the stones. He pulled his winter cloak tighter to block the cold currents of air cutting him to the bone.

A Filí could work some magic, yes, but Remmick was attempting something he didn’t fully understand. The sort of magic the Druids spent years understanding and harnessing, but they seemed unwilling or unable to put a hard stop to the influx of Christianity. With his cláirseach before him and the moon above, Remmick tried to call upon the Tuath Dé, the ancestors, anybody that could possibly lend him the strength to stop the erasure of their way of life.

The wind whipped around him as he strummed the chords and began to sing — a progression of notes and words he’d created just for this occasion. Maybe the ancestors or the old gods found fault with Remmick’s plea. Maybe he should have brought an offering, or perhaps they had abandoned their people after Christianity became the more prevalent religion. Maybe the demons and the Devil of the Christians were real and had heard instead. Maybe Remmick didn’t really know what he’d been asking for. Whatever it was, Remmick’s desire for the strength to combat the overbearing monastic presence became a twisted, knotted mess inside him. Until it formed into something darker, something beyond unnatural.

As Remmick played, his head began to swim. It felt as though he were trapped in a whirlwind - was he spinning or were the stones spinning? He tried to find an anchoring point to keep his eyes on to steady himself, but his surroundings wouldn’t stay still. It felt as though all the air was being siphoned from his lungs. He didn’t know when he collapsed. He only remembered the realization that he was sprawled out on the cool earth and the night's dew on the grass was damp seeping through his clothes. The last sight his mortal eyes could see was the pale glow of the moon above before his eyelids slid shut.

The tides of time could not be changed — not in Remmick’s experience at least. It seemed to him a cruel punishment for dabbling in a power he didn’t understand just for the chance of saving the way of life he’d loved so much. Living forever, becoming a monster relegated to the shadows, and unable to stop the continued destruction of his culture over the course of centuries. Wave after wave of colonization had crashed over where he had called home until seemingly none who remembered the songs, the dances, the religion of the old ways existed. Only Remmick remained.

#posted this on my main #so if any of you happened to enjoy sinners #come get yall juice #not tolkien

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xmarchwarden-of-lothlorienx · 2 months ago

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The Babysitter | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader

Summary: You didn’t have any superpowers, nor were you even qualified for the position, yet somehow a mishap between Alexei and Yelena ends up in getting you a new job. Bob-sitter.

Contents: No Y/N, fem!reader, college student!reader, no warnings apply for this chapter.

A/N: Wow chapter 2 only one day later? Crazy! I already promise that's not a rate I'll keep up, lmao.

Read it on AO3 Chapter 1

Chapter 2 - Keep Him Happy

1.5K words

So, Bob was not, in fact, a child. He was a grown man who seemed perfectly capable of taking care of himself. His face was somewhat youthful, so you weren’t sure exactly how old he was, but you’d wager it was older than you.

“Why is it exactly that you need a babysitter?” You asked directly. No use beating around the bush. You ignored the whole flashback memory thing, guessing you’d be enlightened with the details when the rest of the team came back. It wasn’t exactly a fond experience.

“Well, I wouldn’t say babysitter… It’s just, uh… best to not leave me to my own devices, I guess,” he shrugged. You nodded awkwardly, not sure what to make of the situation. The promised pay was good, you wouldn’t actually have to take care of him, just keep him company. It didn’t seem like a bad deal.

But even then, he was obviously unstable. Maybe what he needed was a mental health professional, not a ‘babysitter.’ You were probably just a temporary solution.

You sat in an awkward silence for a while, sipping your drink every now and then trying to think of a lighthearted topic to entertain him with. “So… Tell me about yourself, Bob.”

“Well, I’m… Bob. Short for, uh, Robert, as you might’ve guessed,” Bob nodded. You sighed inwardly, this was going to be tougher than you expected. Children were usually a lot easier, willing to tell you all of their and their parent’s business. Cats were even better, no need for talking. Bob was going to take some work.

“How’d you end up here, with these people, I mean?” You wondered. He seemed normal enough, but obviously the ‘New Avengers’ cared about him enough to try and keep him out of harm's way and around their building.

“It’s kind of a funny story, really. One second I’m in Malaysia in some lab for a medical study, the next I wake up in this bunker with these guys trying to kill each other…”

You squint your eyes in question. “That is… Funny?”

“Yeah now that I’m putting it like that it doesn’t sound very funny, does it?” Bob chuckled. It seemingly broke some of the tension. He asked you a few questions about yourself and your contact with Alexei.

“He seems very sweet,” you concluded. Bob agreed, letting you know the man definitely had his heart in the right place, though sometimes a bit overenthusiastic.

He told you about the rest of the team, and you noticed he was inconspicuously perceptive. He went one by one, wasting time by talking about the people surrounding him most days.

“Yelena looks really tough, and she is! But she’s really a big softie,” Bob spoke of her very fondly, a twinkle of adoration in his eyes.

“Ava’s a bit of a tough nut to crack, but she has a really good sense of humour. She’s a bit more reserved, but really has your back when you need her. She’ll deny it, though.”

You poured yourself another glass of soda, offering Bob one as well. He declined but thanked you for the offer to a degree which dazed you. You took a mental note of the skittish demeanour.

“John’s an asshole. Can’t really put it anyway else. He’s here, he’ll show up for the others, but… I can’t really say I’ve come to like him like the others. I’d put it as toloration. I mean he has a history… But who doesn’t? Doesn’t give him the right to be a douche, you know?” He obviously had a strong sense of righteousness, and John did not fit into that picture.

“And lastly there’s Bucky, but I’m sure you know about him. Congressman and such. He’s not around here much. He tries to be, but I feel like he’s still a bit wary of the team. Part of me thinks he just doesn’t want to get attached, which I can understand, given his past…” Bob looked out the window, seemingly lost in a deep thought. His eyes glazed over and an overwhelming sadness overtook his face. It’d gotten dark in the time you’d been here, the city skyline lit up with artificial lighting.

“Whatever you do, try to keep him happy, distracted and away from danger.” Yelena’s words echoed in your head. There was likely a good reason for the particular instructions.

“Well, Bob, thank you for opening up and telling me about them. I feel like we’re likely gonna be spending some more time together, so I really appreciate that you feel safe enough to share,” you smiled, distracting him from his spiralling thoughts.

Bob smiled before looking a little confused at his own actions. You felt like he might’ve maybe shared a little more than he’d intended.

You were racking your brain for another topic to talk about when the elevator doors opened once again. Bob deflated, hunching in on himself and making himself visibly smaller. You hadn’t even noticed how his posture had opened up during your conversation.

It was Yelena and Alexei, joking with each other in, was that Russian? They walked in as if they hadn’t just fought off whatever it was that had ransacked the subway and blasted itself into the building. You looked at them expectantly, waiting to finally get an explanation.

“Ah, right, babysitter. It’s quite late, maybe you should head home?” Yelena suggested, cracking her neck while unloading a few weapons on a side table like she was dropping off her keys after coming home from the office.

“Was this just a one time thing, or will I be coming back?” You wondered. You could use the money.

“That depends… Bob? Do you like her?”

Bob spluttered and gaped at Yelena, unsure of how to answer. “I– I mean, yeah, she’s– She’s nice. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“We can find different babysitter if you want. Many more on the app,” Alexei chimed in as he huffed and puffed, trying to get his suit off in the middle of the living room. It looked more like he was doing a form of experimental yoga.

“No, no. This one’s fine,” Bob winced. You’d really have to come up with a different title than ‘babysitter’ if this was going to become a lasting thing.

“Good, then she stays. Ava and John are debriefing Bucky. It was just some lowlife with some experimental tech, but man, whatever he was shooting with stung like a b–”

“Lena, language, we have guest,” Alexei shushed her. Yelena rolled her eyes in response.

She nodded her head at you, motioning for you to come with her. You shot Bob a quick glance, who gave you a tight lipped smile but seemingly encouraged you to go with her.

Yelena took you to a smaller separate sitting room and offered you a glass of whiskey, which you refused. “No drinking on the job,” you laughed.

“So, you’re probably wondering, why does a grown man need a babysitter? Well, I’m gonna explain. But first, what did Bob tell you?” she started, sitting down next to you and leaning on the back of the couch, resting her head in her hand. You mimicked her relaxed posture, putting a leg up on the couch.

“Not much, really. He told me a bit about you guys and how you met. He mentioned something about a medical study in Malaysia, but other than that nothing too memorable.”

“Did you happen to shake his hand?” Ah, there it was. Yelena could tell by your expression the answer was yes.

“Yeah, it happened to us, too. You see, Bob… He’s very strong. Stronger than all of us combined. But he’s not stable. He’s a bit of a grey area in the team. We keep him around because he’s nice, of course, but also because we can’t risk anybody else trying to get on his good side and abusing his trust.” She took a sip of the whiskey, relishing its taste before continuing.

“We’re still not really sure what his powers are, and it’s also not up to me to disclose all of the information besides the basics. All I can tell you is that we can’t risk taking him into the field, but we also can’t risk leaving him alone for too long. His abilities are closely tied to his mental wellbeing. It sounds a little degrading to describe it this way,” Yelena winced. She evidently had very conflicting feelings on the topic. You understood it must be difficult, wanting to keep him out of harm’s way without babying him.

“But it’s really a matter of keeping him happy and distracted when it’s necessary. He needs help, a lot of it, but we just haven’t had the time to figure out how to go about it. So for now, this is it. I’m sorry for all the confusion, but with a ‘job’ as unpredictable as ours, this is the reality. Can you handle that?” Her gaze was piercing, as if she was trying to read every single thought crossing your mind.

“You care about him deeply,” you observed.

She gave a fond smile. “I do.”

“Then I think I can handle it. As long as I don’t have to lie to him or beat around the bush, I can do my best to keep him company and help wherever I can. I can’t promise I’ll be perfect, but I’ll try.”

“That’s all we ask.”

It was settled, then. You were hired.

TAGLIST: @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @hopes-peak-akademy @rattheraddestrat @i-shall-abide @puer-aurea @kennywantskfc69 @spectacled-studies @hiddlebatchedloki

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xmarchwarden-of-lothlorienx · 2 months ago

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˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚𝑩𝒐𝒃 + 𝑩𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝑫𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝑾𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝑰𝒏𝒄𝒍𝒖𝒅𝒆 ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

pairing: bob reynolds x f!reader

a/n: Hi! This is my first Bob headcannon and what he would be like on a book date. I swear he’s giving book boyfriend vibes so I thought I would give it a shot!! If you have any feedback please feel free to voice it! Aghhhhhh! I literally love him so much! Anyways, enjoy! If you'd like to see more let me know!

Being a part of the new avengers meant three things: work, home, repeat. Unfortunately this also meant stressful missions and vicious bruises that needed tending to. All a part of the job, right? Trust me, all that stress gets to you one way or another.

Thankfully, you had an escape—losing yourself in the pages of a good book. Every couple of days you dive into a new story, each page pulling you into whatever adventure awaited. And once you were done devouring said book, you’d go to your favorite bookshop secluded away from the city to find more. You truly enjoyed reading, it was more than just a hobby, it was your peace.

Still, someone else had picked up on the way your eyes lit up.

Bob had always been observant. So when he saw you curled up on the couch in the living room of the new Avengers Tower, your favorite blanket draped over you, a book in your hands, he just watched you for a moment. Not in a weird “Edward Cullen" kind of way, but with quiet admiration, like you were the most peaceful thing he'd seen all day. Not to mention, the guy was absolutely smitten.

He found himself memorizing the way your eyes moved across the page, how your lips curled up slightly whenever you read something funny. You weren’t doing anything extraordinary, just existing, and yet, to him, it was everything. His crush wasn’t loud or dramatic; it was quiet, steady, and growing stronger with every shared glance and soft laugh you didn’t even know you let out.

There was a comfort in your friendship, the kind that didn’t need grand gestures or constant conversation. You’d bring him tea without asking how he liked it because you already knew. He’d make sure your favorite mug was always clean. You’d swap stories, share late-night takeout, and sit in silence without it ever feeling awkward. It wasn’t flashy, but it was real. Steady. The kind of friendship that made the world feel a little less heavy.

You also noticed Bob’s eyes on you—quiet, thoughtful, like he was trying to memorize the moment. At first, you brushed it off, thinking maybe you had something on your face or your hair was sticking up. But it kept happening. Not in a way that made you uncomfortable, never that. It was… careful. Like he was seeing something in you that even you didn’t always see in yourself. And maybe, just maybe, you started to look back. Not always, and never too long. But enough. Enough to catch the softness in his gaze, to feel your heartbeat flutter just a little faster when he smiled your way with those doe eyes. You didn’t say anything about it, didn’t want to risk the comfort of what you already had. But in those quiet, lingering glances, there was something unspoken. Something that made you hope he was feeling the same pull you were.

So one day, you took your chance and invited him on a little outing.

"Hey, Bob. Are you, um… busy right now? I was wondering if, well, if you wanted to come with me to the bookstore. It’s kind of my favorite spot, and I thought… maybe you’d like it too."

Bob blinked, caught off guard. “The bookstore? With you?” He rubbed the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. “Uh, yeah, yeah, I’d love to. I mean, if you’re sure. That sounds… nice.” He smiled, a little sheepish but warm, like you’d just made his whole day.

So with a quick change into some shorts and your favorite sweatshirt, you stepped out, only to find Bob waiting in the hallway, also in a sweatshirt, hands stuffed in the pockets of his joggers. He gave a shy little laugh when he saw you. “Guess we’re on the same wavelength,” he said, eyes meeting yours for a moment before darting away again, a little flustered.

The soft chime of the bell above the door greeted you both as you stepped into the shop. The air smelled like old paper and cinnamon from the tiny café in the back. Shelves towered around you like quiet sentinels, each one packed with stories waiting to be found. You take Bob to your favorite bookstore in New York, a cozy hideaway tucked into a quiet corner in the city.

Bob stood close behind you, his fingers brushing the edge of a display table as he looked around, wide-eyed. “Whoa,” he murmured. “This place is… kind of magic.”

You turned to smile at him. “I knew you’d like it.”

His eyes flicked back to yours, softer now. “I like it even more with you here.”

I feel like Bob is into poetry and mystery novels so that’s interesting!

You wandered through the store together, your fingers gently laced with Bob’s as you led him through the aisles, his eyes wide with quiet wonder. Bob lingered in the poetry section, fingers tracing the spines like they were made of glass. You watched as he pulled out a slim volume of Sylvia Plath and turned the pages slowly, reverently. “Her words feel like someone whispering in the dark,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

You tilted your head. “Do you read poetry often?”

He glanced at you, a bit bashful. “Sometimes. When I can’t sleep, mostly. It helps me feel… less alone, I guess.”

You nodded, understanding more than you could say. “That makes sense.”

Later, while you browsed the mystery section, he picked up a battered Agatha Christie and grinned. “I used to read these with my mom. She always figured out the twist before I did.”

“That’s so cute,” you said, laughing softly.

He smiled back, more confident now. “You’re cute.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, like a bookmark slipped between chapters.

You and Bob spent hours tucked between the shelves, flipping through pages of books that caught your eye and sharing quiet laughs over quirky titles. At one point, you grabbed a coffee from the little café tucked in the corner, while Bob opted for tea—he claimed coffee made him too jittery, and you couldn't help but smile at how endearing that was. His tousled brown hair fell effortlessly over his eyes as he read.

You and Bob left the bookstore, books in hand. You’d both made your usual ritual of recommending a book to each other, but this time, there was something different. You couldn’t resist picking up one of his suggestions, the cover catching your eye as you imagined diving into it. He, too, grabbed a book you’d been raving about for weeks, a shared smile passing between you as you realized just how well your tastes aligned. It wasn’t just about the books—it was about the connection, the quiet understanding between two people who knew how to make each other’s reading lists a little richer.

you guys even do a little book club and so you guys made it a cozy tradition. Every week, you had books in your hands, ready to dive into whatever genre was calling to you. Mystery, thriller, and even the occasional fantasy novel became the backdrop for your endless discussions. You’d both get lost in the twists and turns of a gripping crime novel, eagerly dissecting each clue, while Bob would always try to outguess you on the killer’s identity. When fantasy made its way onto the list, you’d get caught up in world-building debates, arguing over the best magic system or the most compelling hero’s journey.

What started as just sharing recommendations turned into a full-on reading ritual, a shared love of stories that brought you closer each time. And when the conversation would inevitably go off-topic, turning into laughter and playful teasing.

Your little book club nights with Bob had become sacred, equal parts literary critique and cozy hangout. But the moment you started swooning over a brooding assassin from the fantasy novel you were reading, Bob raised an eyebrow and shot you a look over the rim of his mug.

“Oh, he again,” Bob said with exaggerated annoyance. “Yeah, because nothing says dream guy like emotionally unavailable and probably hasn’t showered in three chapters.”

You giggled, unapologetic. “He’s complex, Bob. And tortured.”

“He’s fictional, Y/N. Meanwhile, I’m real, emotionally stable, and smell like cedarwood and good decisions.”

He playfully snatched the book out of your hand and flipped through the pages dramatically. “Let me guess, he saves the kingdom, but can’t save himself?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “You’re just jealous.”

Bob gave you a mock gasp. “Jealous? Of a moody elf-boy with trust issues? Please. I have better hair and a Costco membership.”

Still, later that night, you caught him secretly flipping through the book, mumbling something about “seeing what the hype is about.” You didn’t say a word, just smiled, knowing Bob would always be your favorite chapter.

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