#i have so much knowledge i don't want nor do i need

[galaxiasgreen]

🌦️☄️Wren & Wraith

Ominis x F!MC romcom-drama [M-rated, 2.5k]

"Come on, Ominis, you can't leave school with me as your only friend." Oh, but he could. He would— well, maybe not happily, he couldn't give Sebastian too much credit. But contently, certainly. It was too late for any shifts in the status quo now. And that was for the best. That was what he wanted – what he needed to survive. Keep his head down, blend in, never challenge the way of things. Never cause a ruckus or draw attention to himself unnecessarily, or be late. Ominis sped up, determined to get to the castle on time. He'd spent so long chopping and contorting himself to fit in that he'd weathered down to particles: invisible, unremarkable. And free.

The wren and the wraith don't have anything in common, except one thing… they're both trapped. Sixth-year Ominis Gaunt had no intention of doing anything more than surviving until he's old enough to escape his family, but when chaotic, naïve Muggle-born Tabitha Fulton-Smyth stumbles into his life with no knowledge of the magical world, Ominis proposes an arrangement: he'll help her to better fit in if she'll pretend to be his friend – and stave the unfortunately growing rumours declaring him the true Heir of Slytherin. But when gossip becomes fate, Tabitha's explosive magic becomes a source of untold mystery, and ruse becomes startlingly too real, Ominis realises that to get the peace he so desperately craves, he'll have to risk it all: his future, his destiny, and worst of all... his heart.

NEXT || AO3 | Wattpad

1. Same Old

In the list of things Ominis Gaunt expected to happen on his first day of sixth year, Muggle violence was not one of them.

"Guess what rumour I heeeeeard?"

It was mid-afternoon by the time he and Sebastian finally got on the road bid for Hogwarts, and Ominis was already frustrated. The morning wasted on Sebastian's arguments with his surly uncle Solomon, they would probably be late to the Sorting Ceremony if Sebastian continued to walk at his leisurely, cavalier, did not give one atom of a shit pace.

"I have no interest in whatever gossip you've managed to siphon out of the local tattlers. Now walk faster."

The fresh air and mild anticipation never failed to give him a shot of hope for the new school term. It was good to be away from Solomon's oppression, and his family's too. At Hogwarts, he was away from that responsibility as could be, and Ominis never took that for granted.

This year was his seventeenth birthday. The year he became a man.

"You'll want to hear this," Sebastian insisted, easily keeping pace with Ominis' longer strides. He was shorter, but much brawnier, with wide shoulders and enough muscle to make him popular with most girls, and some of the boys, in school. "There's a new student starting this year."

Ominis knew what lay at the other side of January: undertaking the true weight of the Gaunt name. Furthering social connections he didn't care to forge, arranging business in fields he held no interest in and juggling marriage proposals that brought neither passion nor levity. It was as he'd been taught since birth, each lesson drilled into him as precisely as a tomb engraving. Luckily, these were skills he could turn to his advantage.

Because Ominis Gaunt had a plan.

"There are hundreds of new students starting this year. That's how schools work."

"She'll be joining as a sixth year, our year, you dunce. And – get this – she had no magic before now. Last week she was more Muggle than a telephone box."

That was intriguing, but Ominis didn't want to give Sebastian the moral victory. "And how did you come about this rumour?"

"You know Mrs Oats, the old lady who I owl-sat for yesterday? She works at the Department of Magical Transport. Apparently had to sort a Thestral-drawn carriage last minute from London."

It was a fairly reliable source, and Sebastian wasn't prone to lying for the sake of it. Still, Ominis had no desire to speculate. He knew exactly where this was going.

The boy slapped him heartily on the shoulder. "It's so perfect I couldn't have made it up if I tried. You know what this means?"

"Another skirt for you to chase?"

"It means," he declared, ignoring him again, "another chance for you to make a new friend."

Typical. A knot in Ominis' stomach tightened. "We're not having this discussion again." As if he didn't suffer it enough from both him and Anne during summer. At least Anne knew when to shut up. Without her as anchor, Sebastian could prattle for hours.

"You can't keep pretending the problem doesn't exist, Ominis," he said coolly. "This is finally your chance to branch out and expand from the social circle you call me, my dormmate Sebastian and my best friend Sebastian."

"I don't have to pretend the problem doesn't exist because the problem doesn't exist."

"We're in sixth year! Almost full-fledged wizards! Come on, Ominis, you can't leave school with me as your only friend."

Oh, but he could. He would— well, maybe not happily, he couldn't give Sebastian too much credit. But contently, certainly. It was too late for any shifts in the status quo now.

And that was for the best. That was what he wanted – what he needed to survive. Keep his head down, blend in, never challenge the way of things. Never cause a ruckus or draw attention to himself unnecessarily, or be late. Ominis sped up, determined to get to the castle on time. He'd spent so long chopping and contorting himself to fit in that he'd weathered down to particles: invisible, unremarkable.

And free.

"You don't even know who this new student is," he said.

"Don't need to," Sebastian trilled, keeping up easily. "I have a gut feeling."

"That's just your stomach."

"Just you wait." Sebastian marched a few steps ahead, dragging his trunk with gusto. "This is our year."

Ominis sincerely hoped not.

As the first years were shepherded to their Houses, Sebastian shared the illicit rumour with every Slytherin in close proximity at the table. He was good with spinning stories, so it wasn't long before every sixth year was agog with speculation. Nerida claimed to overhear something from Professor Sharp.

"Supposedly there was a rogue dragon spotted flying over the Midlands," she whispered. "Fig and her, they got caught up in an attack. Do you think that's why they're late?"

"Forget late! They might've been hurt!" said Grace, scandalised.

Opposite him came a soft, girlish snort.

"What does it matter? She would've avoided it if she got the Hogwarts Express. Could she not board the train like the rest of us? Her people invented those things, after all."

Ominis' dormmates swore Maya Cavendish was the most beautiful girl they'd ever seen. Flawless bronze skin and thick ringlets of chocolate brown pinned into a chignon, she must've had the appearance of Greek goddess if she was pretty enough to disguise the rot beneath.

"Her people," Sebastian challenged. "You say that like it's a bad thing?"

"I can't imagine many Muggles have faced dragons before."

"Muggle-borns."

"Mmm." Maya sat up straight. "Regardless, you can't disagree it's poor form to be late on the first day."

Ominis couldn't, though her tone implied a lot more than an obedience to the rules.

The Sorting passed without fanfare, Slytherin taking its usual handful of hopeful misfits with squealy voices and barely-developed acne. When dinner appeared, Ominis levitated his usual amuse-bouche of a hen and rosemary filo tart onto his plate.

Then the doors clamoured, drawing his attention sharply left.

"We have one last one!" called a hurried Professor Fig. "Apologies!"

"Ah." On the front steps, Weasley fluttered a hand, calling for silence. "Thank you very much, Professor Fig. Forks down, students, this will only take a moment. Miss Tabitha Fulton-Smyth, if you'd please make your way over?"

A pair of shoes scurried inside.

"Sorry to hold up dinner!" the girl said, high-pitched like a mouse's squeak. "I swear I didn't mean to be—"

Maya murmured under her breath; the girl yelped and stumbled to the floor with a loud clatter. A trill of stifled amusement rippled around her, although it quickly doused as Fig helped her to her feet.

"Best not to run," he said gently.

There was a table between them but even Ominis could detect her face burning. With a more modest spring to her step, she made her way to the dais and sat on the stool, and before long she was Sorted into Hufflepuff.

The interruption was, perhaps, the only thing of note to happen during the feast, along with the usual announcements, new staff, a speech from head boy Lance Weasley, Quidditch trials in the coming weeks and an additional warning to be more wary of goblin presence in the Highlands. No change from the years before, then. It was irrevocably uninspired, normal. Another year at Hogwarts, and things were promising to be the same old.

Just the way he preferred.

As they eventually made their way to the common room, Sebastian knocked Ominis' arm. "Can you smell that, Ominis?"

"The garlic on your breath? Unfortunately."

"Wrong," he said, fluttering his palms outwards. "It's the scent of potential."

It was Sebastian's fault could've been the name of Ominis' autobiography.

No matter how many times Ominis shook him, prodded him, yelled in his ear, the oaf would not rouse even the slightest. Sebastian's sleep pattern was awry because of the amateur Beast-sitting service that kept him up into the night, and though tempted to leave him so he wouldn't have to suffer any more ridiculous soliloquysabout the winds of change, Ominis resorted to using Aguamenti and kicking the boy onto the floor instead. They'd had to skip breakfast to make it to Defence Against the Dark Arts on time, and Ominis snacked discreetly on a chocolate bar beneath the desk as Hecat opened the lesson.

"Sixth year sees you beginning to embrace your abilities as witches and wizards in the entirety. No more hand-holding. No more rigid guidance. From now on you will learn what it means to become an adult in our society. In today's lesson, we will settle everyone into the expectations I have with wandwork—"

A timid knock cut her off, followed by the groan of a door.

"H-Hello?" said Tabitha Fulton-Smyth. "Is this, erm... Defence class?"

"That is it. Welcome inside, Miss Fulton-Smyth. You can have the empty spot next to Master Prewett over there." As Tabitha dumped her bag, Hecat appraised her. "You have excellent timing. Professor Fig tells me you have some duelling experience. Is that true?"

"Er, I'm all right, like," she said. "It's sort of different when it's life and death."

So the dragon attack was true.

"I see," said Hecat. "Then I would like to see what you have learnt in action."

"In action?"

"... In a duel."

"No!" Tabitha blurted. "I mean, erm, no thank you, Miss. Someone else can go first."

Hecat laughed. "I'm afraid I wasn't asking. As I was saying, I want everyone on the same page, and you're a bit of a mystery. Not to worry, I believe you'd make a fine opponent for... Master Gaunt."

Ominis choked on his chocolate bar.

"He must find this all trivial," she continued with an edge to her voice, "since he believes it acceptable to eat during my class."

He quickly shoved the evidence in his pocket, but it was too late. Damn.

"With all due respect, Professor—"

"Request denied, Master Gaunt. Up you get."

As the class made room – and Ominis pinched Sebastian's arm hard – Hecat conjured the duelling platform down the central aisle.

"Master Gaunt, I will limit you to basic cast, the Levitation charm and the Shield charm. Miss Fulton-Smyth, you may use anything you like."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

She batted her cheeks twice. "Okay! I'll do my best!"

Her best would not be enough. Tabitha was as petite to him as a thumb to a forearm. She wore the full Hogwarts regalia, robes, blazer and all, whilst he'd already forgone his uniform down to his waistcoat, and her hair, riotous blonde curls tied poorly back in an amalgamation of ribbons and pins, could easily disrupt her vision. She wore glasses too, fiddling with them as she awkwardly clambered up the platform.

His family's duelling wisdom came back to him in waves. Light on your feet, think fast, be vigilant, understand their weakness. Another list, another easy set of steps to follow. He met her in the middle of the platform, preparing to bow, but Tabitha stuck out her hand instead.

"Nice to meet you, Master Gaunt!"

He had to resist a grimace as she shook like she was trying to extract the last drop of ketchup from the bottle. How could such a tiny, tiny hand be so... clammy?

"My name's Tabitha! Let's have a good fight!"

He surreptitiously wiped down his leg. "Indeed."

After bowing, they made their way to opposite ends. It was time to find out how she'd beaten that dragon.

"Ready?" called Hecat, as Ominis pushed his feet apart. "Begin!"

In what was not a show of sportsmanship but rather an assessment of her technique, he waited to allow Tabitha the first move, prepared to dart aside or arm a shield – but all she did was erratically wave her wand.

"Oh, crumbs, what was it again? Stupidly? Stupid fly?"

What? No, surely she didn't... He inched forwards as she jabbed her wand out.

"STUPID DIE!"

Instead, Ominis cautiously struck three basic casts that pushed her to the edge of the platform, and a fourth that blasted her straight off. Hecat cushioned the fall; the class erupted in confused whispers.

"Again, Miss Fulton-Smyth," said Hecat, as Tabitha stood up, catching her breath. "The spell you're thinking of is Stupefy. Try to fight back this time, hmm?"

"Right, sorry!" she babbled out, climbing back up undeterred. "He's really good!"

This had to be a joke. They'd asked her to join an advanced duelling class – and she couldn't do even the most basic offensive spell? He hadn't even tried! Hecat resumed the duel before he could question it, and to Tabitha's credit, she let out a determined huff and didn't hesitate.

"Stupefy!"

But nothing happened. Ominis flung basic casts towards her again, but this time she had the forethought to avoid them, backing further down the platform.

"Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!" She let out a panicked whine. "Why isn't this working?"

"You need the wand movement!" Sebastian the traitor yelled. "Vertical line down!"

"Ohhhhh! Stupefy!"

A sharp pulse whizzed by Ominis' ear. Finally, a challenge. He swerved left to dodge the next and raised his wand as she threw another.

"Protego." The spell ricocheted into the ceiling, rattling the bone dragon. "Levioso."

"EEEEE!" She pinwheeled into the air, shrieking, before three more blows to the chest shunted her off the platform with a hacked-out yelp.

Useless, again. This couldn't be the same girl that fought a dragon, it simply couldn't.

"I don't think she's ready for this class, Professor," he muttered, trying not to let his irritation show. "Perhaps one with the younger years?"

"You let me worry about that, Master Gaunt," said Hecat, ushering the girl back to her feet again. "We'll try once more, Miss Fulton-Smyth. Remember everything you have learnt... and give it your all."

The beating seemed to have knocked Tabitha's confidence. She pawed back up with a silent wince, wand arm quivering with adrenaline. The moment Hecat began the final match, she fired a basic cast – desperate and sloppy, he flicked it away and sliced forwards, weaving between each attack to trim the space between them.

"S-Stupefy!" He batted it away again, relishing the terrified squall she let out. "Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!"

Each Ominis swatted away like lint. He moved like high tide, undeterred and mighty, as engulfing yet impossible to grasp, and closed the gap in four strides. Tabitha's incantations became incoherent babbles until he pressed the wand tip to her throat.

Beaten, as easily as that.

"Don't take this personally," he said, charged with disdain, "but this is an advanced class, and if you can't keep up, you shouldn't—"

But she cut him off with a scream.

Tossed her wand aside—

And lunged.

He hit the deck with a hollow rattle, winding him as her weight crashed down onto his chest. He was so stunned at the manoeuvre he completely froze when she dug her elbows into his arm joints, screeching some sort of battle cry.

Same old, he'd promised himself – but no one had ever surprised him like this before.

"Wait a moment!" he choked out, struggling to find purchase. "This isn't how we—!"

Then she balled that tiny, tiny hand into a fist.

And sent it flying straight into his crotch.

A/N: I intend to update weekly (ish) with fairly bitesized chapters. If you'd like to be tagged with each update, let me know! Thanks so much for reading! <3

NEXT to come soon <3

Divider credit

[bitchlesshazard69]

MCD Rant? Okay, but who reads these? Everyone likes having their own opinion

Laurance time and time again has actively protested for woman and protected them. Over and over has he told Aphmau that if something was too much, she can back out. Over and over did he try to tell her that he was there for her, no matter how her feelings ended up. He constantly tries to give Aphmau the knowledge that if she didn't like something, it didn't have to be, like their relationship. Over and over has he protected woman, like Isabelle from her abuser- he even defended his own S'Aer (Michi).

Why was Aphmau still scared of him? Well, he's quite terrifying if we're honest. The hostility of his Shadow Knight side is so intense that when she looked him in the eyes, he almost killed her if not for Aaron's intervention. If Laurance's curse was so bad, then why didn't Aphmau just outright end their rising relationship? If it was too much? People pleasing goes a long way. Unfortunately, the situation just got worse without the proper communication.

If I were Aphmau, the proper thing would've been to talk it out with Laurance and say that each other should seperate to focus on themselves, giving full closure that cannot be mistaken. No one truly has a real grudge against Aphmau and Aaron's relationship in Minecraft Diaries, just how it formed. Out of miscommunication and angst of each other's lives.

If it were different, and Aarmau's relationship wasn't born out of lust and an escape from the world around them, it could've been better. The lust part is all the viewers really see when it comes to their relationship. How, instead of Aphmau ending things off officially with Laurance, she decided to do some very interesting things...in the woods...with Aaron. That's why at the end, she was viewed in such a negative light. I don't think anyone truly hates Aphmau, and it's especially not for her gender, but for her actions.

I stopped talking on Tumbler because time and time again I would see so many posts about how Laurance's and Aphmau's relationship was just one thing, while no one was able to see how dimensional all of it was, when really they both had an understanding side to it. Laurance wasn't treated as he should've been and left with no communication, even though he, himself, did his best at communication. Aphmau was expected to be able to have a steady relationship when it wasn't possible.

Both acted like children in a sense. Aphmau didn't want to speak her OWN needs and Laurance couldn't identify his disability in having relationships. Do I think one is more in the wrong than the other? Sure. Do I think both of them are clean? No. Aphmau couldn't have POSSIBLY known how bad it was to be a Shadow Knight, nor truly understand what is going on in Laurance's head. She could have never understood or predicted what could happen. Aphmau (and Laurance too) had to start realizing Laurance cannot be saved with the power of love. I do hate how "he's doomed forever because of this" message that MCD sent, I do not condone it at all, but that's what's there.

Laurance could've done his very best when it came to communication with each other, which he did, every episode almost, did he try to speak with Aphmau, but he couldn't be priority number one. Maybe in my own bias, I believe Laurance did nothing truely wrong, because everything that he ever did was out mental illness not being treated correctly by the people around him. The only person I can recall treating Laurance for how he wasn't like any other human was Vylad. Vylad seemed to be the only person that could look at Laurance and truly say "Yes, he is not fit for a romantic relationship. In his incapable form of mind, he cannot consent to this."

I'm tired of the back and fourth sexism of how they treated each other MUST'VE been because of gender. "Laurance is mentally ill but did all he could? No! His clinginess is assumed to be entitled misogyny. Is Aphmau a multidimensional feeling being who can make her own decisions but mishandled it? Nope! She's an abused bean that needs to be protected because everyone grapples to her with no real respect."

I can't believe I just said that, geez.

Summary: The gender wars on who's right really pushed me off of the platform when the original thing wasn't about gender at all, nor is it the stereotypical man abuses woman trope everyone says it is. It's always been about their quality of character and in my opinion I've shared how I feel about their quality of character. Neither character was truly an evil person with no redemption. Jess figured Aaron to be better for the MC and decided to try and slowly make Laurance some irredeemable, unsavable, psycho to Aphmau so Aphmau could have an angst and pregnant arc... (She didn't do a really good job IF this was the case because I don't see Laurance in that light at all and I still believe that Aphmau is more capable than she's written off to be) In the original planned version, it's clear to see that the message wasn't always "doomed forever and villainized from mental instability"

That's just how the viewers see it now. I need to to take my meds, bye.

(Stan OCD Aphmau and her little autistic brother Laurance for life, they need a sibling arc and a make up arc where they can just be happy and eat apples together while they both annoy Garroth to death because he's the true villian in all of this everyone blame him and let Aphmau and Laurance be besties)

[rintinningvt]

Started watching the Bayverse movies with my besties and... Are we just too gay for these movies??? Admittedly we only finished the first two and got through a quarter of the third, but the second one was such a drag to sit through at times and it probably doesn't help that we do NOT care about Sam that much. I hope that there is a character arc for him in the rest of the third movie. Because so far he has not been fun to watch in that one. He just comes off as a slight manchild to me, like... I can see why he would be frustrated with where he is in life but the way he acts with others and lashes out does not help him in the slightest. I do have to admit though that seeing him go to Cybertronian Heaven in the second movie was the funniest part for me and my besties lol.

I'll just hope that the other guy in the next movies will be at least a bit more interesting. Doesn't even have to be a good guy, just an interesting guy for me lol

[cerbreus]

theres a lotta things i wanted to do this year but I think the thing that would help me the most is to like. start personal projects that make me enjoy my work again. x( i wanna be excited about game development and making games again, it really helped me push myself to learn and get better and this stagnating just feels terrible. Knowing what I'm capable of but not being able to set on the path to getting there.

[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

fanart!

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.

[suiana]

I'm thinking about a yandere! secretary who's an absolutely manipulative piece of shit❤️

you hired him because his resume was impeccable and you thought he'd be a perfect fit for the empty position.

which... he is.

but the fact that he's younger than you by a decent amount and can be quite unprofessional at times does throw you off. is it something younger people like doing? is it normal to visit your employee's house with no one else around?

"hey boss, I'm thinking of inviting you over to my place tonight? just the two of us? we can drink and eat fried chicken together❤️"

"my dear, that is rather unprofessional don't you think?"

"what? no of course not. you're thinking into it too much."

it doesn't help that you're sort of a people pleaser and give into his demands easily.

you just want to see all your employees be happy! is that so wrong of you? of course not! and all your other employees (excluding your secretary) all appreciate and treat you with respect. and as you know by now, your secretary is an asshole who makes use of your easily swayed personality to get you to do... things in his favour.

but you don't know that! you just think it's because of the age gap that causes you not to understand his actions and words! surely he's not trying to love you right?

"boss~ don't you think i should meet your family? your parents? you met mine the other day didn't you? oh my parents absolutely loved you! they thought you were so sweet and-"

"w-well... that's only because you got a raise and you suggested i should inform your family about how well you were performing during work... there's no reason for you to meet my-"

"boss, be serious. do you hate me?"

"no of course not! i-"

"that's settled then! we can go and meet your family after this!"

"...yes, my dear."

with that said, he's also an excellent actor and knows how to play things to his advantage. by the time you realize what's going on, you'll already be trapped in the palm of his hand.

"my dear... i am so sorry. we shouldn't have slept together, nor gotten together. it was a severe lapse in judgement and I'm sorry that i crossed the line between personal and professionalism."

"what are you talking about darling? don't worry your silly head over all that. professionalism? who needs that? all the other employees think we look great together, and your family loves me! plus, I'm your boyfriend that you love, yes?"

"i-"

"now stop speaking about stupid things. you don't have to worry about that anymore. just listen to me. it's normal to date your secretary. it's what the younger people are doing nowadays! I'm already 26! so don't worry..."

and it's not like you can just fire him either. like i said, he does an excellent job at being your secretary. also the fact that he practically controls HR and influences them into thinking every other potential employee is subpar. so when you hold a meeting about whether to fire him everyone protests against it. but that's not important.

besides, he won't let you do that. why would you want to get rid of him? you only need him don't you? he's perfect for this job! you don't need another secretary. you don't need anyone else.

just him. only him.

and you two will be happy together as long as you listen to his words and don't try getting rid of him. after all, you might be older but times are changing! you need the hand of a younger and more knowledgeable person. he'll help you bring the company to greater heights and bring in more revenue for you!

so stop talking about how it's wrong. it's not. it's the way of the new generation! and he just.. loves you very much. way too much.

[yes-no-maybe-soo]

(Trigger warning: allusions to non-con, mentions of overstepping/ignoring boundaries. Nothing explicit or detailed but I still want to put warnings just in case it's triggering to anyone. Putting it under a read more to be extra careful. I just needed to vent a bit because this has deeply upset and infuriated me)

Made the mistake of opening my Twitter tab (I try to stay away as much as possible b/c I am wary of Valleydream Bloom spoilers) and the first thing I saw was a screenrecording of a café interaction where Sylus explicitly says that he isn't into choking. Which doesn't surprise me personally since, you know... this exists

He very clearly does not play about this shit. And rightfully so. His boundary just got crossed, and he doesn't tolerate that even from the person that he has longed for in his dreams. Which, again, rightfully so. No one has the right to overstep a person's boundaries no matter who they are to that person.

I figured that Sylus not being into being choked was common knowledge. Like yes, Sylus has kinks. And he is into BDSM. But that doesn't mean that he likes everything under that umbrella nor that he doesn't have explicit boundaries or limits, which some (mostly Booktok) seems to believe is the case with anyone being into BDSM or being kinky in general when that couldn't be further from the truth.

Anyway, boy was I wrong in my assumption. The reaction this "revelation" has garnered from a number of people is both surprising and disturbing tbh. It's one thing to be surprised but to say shit like "He's lying" or "Maybe he doesn't like it right now but I can change his mind" is just wild and frankly disgusting. On a number of levels.

First off... calling Sylus a liar. You know, the same man who literally never lies. Not even once throughout his relationship with MC. One of his core traits with her is that he is always genuine with her. He may evade certain topics like telling her explicitly about their past but he doesn't lie about it. He doesn't pretend they don't have a past together or that MCs visions aren't real. He has never lied to her and I highly doubt he ever will. It's not in his character. Never has been. And no one who cares about or understands his character would claim differently.

But most of all it just baffles and upsets me how quick and eager some are to dismiss Sylus' boundaries – Sylus, who is fundamentally a character all about autonomy and agency and consent. Who is celebrated for respecting MC's. And yet when it comes to his own? A lot of people like to act like he doesn't have them or that they can be tweaked. And I'm not just talking about the comments on this specific post, but in general I've seen kind of a lot of people adamant about controlling Sylus, or that claim that he would do literally everything MC would want. Even if it makes him uncomfortable. Which would be OOC for both characters.

Another reason why this is so upsetting to me and that I've talked about before is that Sylus is a character who's agency was forcefully – brutally – stripped away from him at a young age and for literal millennia. He has spent a good portion of his existence sealed away or locked up. That's a major reason why having autonomy agency and control is so important to him, and why he sets such clear boundaries for himself. Which MC would never cross because she loves and respects him as much as he does her.

And actually, I think this part about being treated brutally in the past is a major reason why Sylus is very cautious about being touched in certain vulnerable areas (neck, chest, head). He is just so used to being attacked and treated in a violent manner. Which breaks my heart.

Anyway, vent over. I just needed to do make this post for my own sake.

[battlefrankies]

one piece is so fucking good at communication. oda's always aware of how information moves around the world, how it can be misinterpreted, deliberately twisted, censored. there aren't that many series where the interplay of fact + the telephone game of its dissemination is depicted so organically beyond a one time use as plot.

the marines rewarding smoker for defeating crocodile is deliberate propaganda, and the WG's decision to hide the mass breakout at impel down to obscure a massive governmental failure. the news that sabo killed cobra was as much gov't lies as interpretation by the third-party news org and that misinterpretation was actively used by the revolutionaries. we're told that the whitebeard pirates instigated the payback war through public channels but find out from marco that blackbeard invaded first and they were acting defensively.

there are underground information channels where information is bought and sold in WCI, the same arc where we learn that katakuri takes such pains to conceal his meriendas from his siblings who believe him to be perfect, the same arc where we learn that brulee knew all along. not everyone has the same information and the information that's spread isn't always true, nor is it always false.

and then you have god valley, lulusia and ohara straight up wiped off the maps and their existence & histories erased. you need an immense amount of power to do that, which we understand the WG to have. wano that's isolationist and thus cut off from information passing in AND out of it. roger's final words which too many people heard, the WG couldn't have hidden that or stopped the great age of pirates even if they'd tried. televising the death of whitebeard and ace to demoralize pirates and put the age to an end, then whitebeard's announcement that the one piece is real which only spurred it on harder. there are too many other examples to list

ig ultimately it's not surprising that one piece puts such emphasis on the transfer of knowledge & information considering the mystery at the foundation of the series, but it's refreshing to see it in a piece of media and to see so many levels of it, to see different characters with different kinds of access to it. it's a constant, ongoing theme that's touched on from all different angles at all levels of the world from the personal to the global.

part of oda's mastery of character is just this constant awareness of Who Knows What and how that will affect their interactions with each other. nami's secret that wasn't a secret at all, usopp's final lie to his village, the chefs at baratie trying to drive sanji away so he can follow his dreams... yet misunderstandings because of bad communication are rare, and when a fight does happen because of stubbornness and pride getting in the way, it's not a funky plot driver but a hurtful, friendship-ending blowout.

i don't dislike miscommunication in fiction, but the way it's done is almost always... bad? i don't want to see adults with the emotional maturity of 12 year olds fighting over middle school level beef, if I'm not seeing the careful interplay of differential access to information & character personalities causing realistic and understandable breaks in communication, what's the point!!

[watcherintheweyr]

I can't believe I'm writing this

To open up with: IT IS ABSOLUTELY OKAY AND VALID TO BE DISAPPOINTED BY THE LACK OF WORLDSTATE CUSTOMIZATION IN DRAGON AGE THE VEILGUARD. I have my own disappointments about it!

Ok? We have that covered? We good?

Cool, moving on.

To people who are genuinely, hatefully angry, saying we will now be 'forced into Bioware's worldstate' (when this year alone they've stated there is no 'canon' worldstate more than once), or saying that none of our prior dragon age choices matter, I need you to take a step back and walk with me for a second, okay?

For starters: John Epler stated that one of the reasons they narrowed the choices is because they DO NOT want to invalidate the worldstates of their longtime players. However they also don't want to alienate newer players who don't have the history and lore of the past choices. It's a narrow line to walk.

Secondly, I want you to really look at the choices made by your Hero, Champion, and Inquisitor. Which of those choices genuinely affected NORTHERN Thedas, not Southern Thedas, to the point it would linger for years afterwards? Which of those choices weren't things that specifically affected or altered the sociopolitical Southern Thedas climate and landscape in lasting ways?

The Well? Kieran?

That only leaves that if your Inquisitor drank, they now have knowledge from ages long past... that Rook doesn't need. Rook has a direct line into Solas' history and a possible Veiljumper background, unlocking those very secrets on their own.

It's entirely likely and probable that the Well's fears and threats were a red herring. Think about it. We as a gandom have spent TEN YEARS worrying about the Well, about Solas, about Mythal.

Come June 2024, we're slapped in the face by the big bads of Ghilan'nain and Elgar'nan.

Morrigan likely isn't going to be close and friendly with Rook- so there's likely not much reason for her to tell us about her child or husband if she has them.

The rulers of Southern Thedas aren't going to affect us. We aren't tackling the current world ending crisis from the position of a leader of armies like the Warden and Inquisitor, but as leader of a small task force. The Southern Divine doesn't much affect us either- nor do Southern mage politics or templar politics.

Because Rook is an entirely new perspective.

Because Rook is in an ENTIRELY different sociopolitical climate/landscape.

I DO think there should've been ways implemented to specify your Inquisitor's bonds and personality. I'm HOPING maybe there still are that we haven't seen. But otherwise?

My Warden is free. I can say she's cured her Calling and is wandering the world with Zevran.

My Champion can retire into total obscurity with his husband or be quietly helping said husband destroy the slave trade. Either way.

Your history and choices in Thedas still matter. Your heroes still matter.

They just aren't Rook's focus.

Take a breath please. And stop sending death threats to the devs bc what the **fuck.**

EDIT:

further context from the devs on Bluesky

[bunbun-mochi]

In every love interest in Love and Deepspace, you always have to read the lores in order to understand why the character is the way they are. It is alright to dislike a love interest. I have a couple that isn't my favorite. But don't go online and talk trash about a certain love interest if you don't know their story, nor should you attack anyone who loves that love interest.

"Xavier is so lazy, I don't want him as a partner." "Xavier is such a pushover." Do you know why he sleeps so much? A pushover? For MC, yea, but for everyone else? No.

"Zayne is so cold." "Zayne is such a workaholic." "Zayne is so mean." Do you know why? Have you realized why he can't show affection? Have you read his story?

"Rafayel is so childish." "Rafayel needs to grow up." Again, did you read HIS backstory? I have seen the most negative comments about Rafayel, and this fishball doesn't deserve it.

I did not find many negative comments about Sylus. The few I found are that he's a red flag, which again, read his story.

Caleb has the second-highest number of negative comments on my page, and they sadden me. Especially after his release, people had come after Caleb's girlies, calling them inc*st and such. If you don't understand a country's culture and its use of certain words and go after people with just limited knowledge you have about that certain word, you just proved the definition of ignorance. Just because your culture doesn't use the word "brother" for anyone who isn't your brother doesn't mean another culture doesn't. Spoiler alert: Your culture or language isn't the only thing this world has. (BTW, ever read TGCF? Heaven Official's Blessing? Hua Cheng also calls Xie Lian "gege". Now, are they brothers? no. Do they see each other as brothers? no.)

Anyway, just play and enjoy the game. No need to ruin someone else's experience just because they liked a character that you disliked. Thank you.

[lily-sofii]

Hii! I am in love with your Raf nsfw alphabet. I can't imagine him being any other way cause you were so accurate. If you want, could you write a Caleb version? Thank you very much anyway byeee

Caleb NSFW alphabet

I am madly in love with you anon for this ask, we should get married fr

Warnings(?): I'm not the most familiar with his personality yet so it might be ooc, Caleb being weird and obsessive, slight mentions of drugging without your knowledge (just like canon lmao), the fanfic is just 𝔣𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔨𝔶, step-brother Caleb

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Caleb would rather die than to not treat you like a princess after sex. I mean, what kind of step-brother doesn’t want to take care of his sister? He does everything and anything you ask of him. Do you need a shower Pip-squeak? You got it. Want a snack or a drink? Caleb is on his way already! Wanna just fall asleep and stay in bed? Caleb will wash you down and cover you with the softest blankets. Don't worry about him, you're the only important one right now.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Caleb's favorite body part of his is the one which you like the most. Do you like his hands? So does he! Do you like his abdomen? He does too!

(Although if you did force him to pick a part himself, he'd pick somewhere where you left a lasting mark on him. Like the bite wound on his hand from when you were both kids)

As for his favorite body part of yours?. He'd say everything, he doesn't need one favorite part when he can just love all of them. But truly? He's obsessed with your chest. Any time of the day he grabs your chest, his hands sneaking under your shirt and your bra. His brain is addicted to how soft your breasts are under his fingers, how your nipples harden under his touch.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum, basically)

Caleb will cum inside of you, no matter what. Everytime you two are in bed, he cums inside automatically, not even asking. The only way for you to get him to cum anywhere else is to push him off of you just as he's about to cum or to say that you'll forever hate him if he cums inside.

D = Dirty secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

When you were teenagers and both still lived under one roof, he'd always jerk off to the thought of you, his lovely step-sister. Now, of course his friends and he used to talk about pornography and porn stars all the time, but Caleb never understood it. He tried it, he really did! But nothing could compare to the thought of you being with him as he was jerking off. Did he feel disgusted? Absolutely, I mean, he's jerking off to his step-sister. But it felt the best.

A dirty secret from the present? He's obsessed with the idea of feeding you an aphrodisiac. I mean, he's given you pills before without your consent, why not try it more? Although it is worth noting that he hasn't done it yet, nor will he have the courage to do so in the next 6 months or more.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Caleb knows what he’s doing because he knows you. He has no experience outside of you, because as cheesy as it sounds, he was saving himself for you and you only.

F = Favorite position (This goes without saying)

Caleb is okay with any position as long as you like it, although he does prefer positions where he can see your face. He enjoys seeing the pleasure on your face, the pleasure he’s giving you. Plus he also enjoys kissing you non-stop, leaving you out of breath.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Caleb is as serious as he can be in the moment. Sure, if anything embarrassing happens he’ll laugh at it, but otherwise he’s rather serious.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

I was gonna say that he only trims his hair, but in his design it is implied that he shaves, as seen here:

As for the hair itself? I’d say it’s slightly darker than the hair on his head and that it is thicker.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment? The romantic aspect)

Caleb is romantic with you 24/7, and it does not change when he’s intimate with you. If anything, it ten folds.

J = Jack off (Masturbation headcanon)

He'd jerk off almost every day when he was a teen, always thinking only about you. But upon becoming a fleet officer he didn't have time to do much. The only time he'd get to jerk off is when he had a free day (few days a month), and once again, his head would only be thinking about you no matter how hard he tried to think of anyone else.

As for the present? He jerks off anytime he gets needy and you’re not there. No matter where he is. Is he in a meeting and you text him? Well, he’s already hard and making his way to the bathroom to rub one out.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Due to Caleb's profession, I think he'd have a thing for bondage, especially handcuffs, and he'd be into uniforms, along with marking, like bites and hickeys.

For handcuffs, he'd cuff you and never let you cuff him.

For the uniform, it wouldn't matter. Sure, he loves to wear the uniform and to act higher than you, but you wearing the uniform turns him on the same, if not more.

Also, I am convinced he'd try to make you levitate up to his face to eat you out with his Evol while jerking off.

And there’s a slight chance that he has Dacryphilia, but he won’t admit it.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

I honestly think he’d want to do it anywhere if he was needy enough and if it was private enough. Most often he takes you in his home since it’s private and you barely leave anyways, but there have been times (far too many times) where he bent you over the control panel of the fleet’s airplane, or on a random wall in a public space where no one could see you two.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

YOU. Anything and everything about you is what gets him going, innocent or not. Oh, are you wearing his shirt? It's because you love him so much you wanna look like him, right?

N = No (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

I believe he’d try almost anything for you, as long as it gives you pleasure/turns you on. He just loves you so much that he’d do it even if it was odd to him,

Although a thing that he’d never do, is take you with anyone else. You’re his, just his. No one else can ever see you in the ways he does.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Caleb loves giving oral. Sure he enjoys it when you give him oral too, but he’s much happier giving you the pleasure.

As for his skill? Well, given the fact he has no experience before you, I’d say he’s definitely sloppy in the start. He does get better with time, noting how each of his movements make you louder or quieter.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

This mainly depends on Caleb’s mood. He’d rather enjoys slow and sensual sex, but if something happens when he’s at work, he’ll come home and fuck you until you are on the verge of passing out.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Caleb most certainly prefers to take you in the confines of his home, taking his time with everything, but that isn’t too common due to his always-packed schedule. Thanks to him being a fleet officer who barely gets any time off, there are many times that quickies between you happened, much to his dismay.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? etc.)

Caleb isn’t the biggest risk taker, but he does take them sometimes. I mean, whenever he asks you for a joined ride in his airplane you end up bent over the control panel with Caleb fucking you from behind, your face pressed against the glass of the front winndow.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

Caleb feels like he has infinite stamina, being able to go all night long if not longer. Although, if you start feeling exhausted, too overstimulated or like you’re gonna pass out, he will stop for you.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

When he was a teen he tried to DIY a fleshliight/pocket pussy, but failed horribly due to being terribly untalented in the crafts. So he just continued jerking off with his hand and until now that had stayed the same. Sure, he had the idea of buying a fleshlight, but he’s grown accustomed to simply using his hand.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

As much as Caleb loves to have soft and sensual sex with you, he also loves to tease you. And as much as he’d hate to admit, he finds it utterly hot when he makes you cry with his teasing.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

The first few times you were intimate, Caleb was rather quiet. Although after you asked him if he’s even receiving pleasure during intimacy, he let his voice go. Now most of the times when you have sex he whines and whimpers as he kisses you, moaning in your ear when the kisses break.

W = Wild card (A random headcanon for the character)

I think the step-sibling aspect of your relationship turns him on beyond belief. The forbidden aspect of it fueling his love (obsession) for you even more

X = X-ray (Let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Caleb is much bigger than average, and much thicker too. His cock has a curve to it with the tip being an angry red color.

And for the record, he knows more than well how to use it. Well, after the first few times at least.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Before you? It was honestly low (not counting when he was a teen) and he’d actively have to get himself horny but now? He’s horny almost 24\7 when he’s with you, when he thinks about you, or when you text him.

Z = Zzz (How quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Caleb makes sure you're okay. He watches you as you fall asleep and if you can't? He's gonna get you a nice drink that assures you will sleep. After all, he doesn't want you to be tired tomorrow, does he?

It also is rather common for Caleb to not sleep much himself. He just loves watching you sleep. Sometimes he can spend the whole night just watching your chest rise as you breathe calmly. He'd love to watch you like this every night, but he is the fleet's commander after all, so there are bound to be distractions.

Idk @scarasdarling wanted to be tagged, there ya go bud

[taeaura]

Yap yap yap yap blah blah blah blah more Thomas Hewitt emotional stuff

My favorite GIF of him oml so handsome

_____

Just saw a post talking about how Thomas probably never had any friends {hit very close to home}, which got me thinking about just how intensely that affected him. Humans require connections, it's essential to our survival and overall wellbeing. Thomas' main influence is his family; And let's be honest, his family isn't all that great at fostering a healthy environment. I don't blame them, I doubt they were raised any better.

Thomas already seems like a closed-off, reserved, and anxious person. His anxiety seems to manifest in small fidgets, excessive staring, zoning out{?}, aggression, and isolation. This paired with his skin condition, facial deformity, and difficulty speaking would make socializing extremely difficult for him. I doubt many people attempted to socialize with Thomas. He was probably that one kid in class who sat by themselves and never spoke up. {I used to be that kid, totally not projecting or anything..} It's fair to assume this stunted some social growth for him, and I doubt being seen as an outcast is any good for your confidence. Confidence isn't just necessary for presenting yourself comfortably, it's also essential for expressing your thoughts, emotions, and boundaries. Putting yourself out there, achieving goals and milestones.

This would most definitely bleed into his relationships {of any kind really, romantic, sexual, platonic, family.} He would not express his emotions to you. Not easily anyway. Want a man who communicates properly despite language / ability barriers? Not gonna happen. Thomas would most likely shut you out. Shut anyone out just to protect himself from further emotional pain. I doubt the Hewitt family puts any emphasis on healthy communication anyway. And Thomas doesn't have experience to model a healthy partner. I'm sure he's an affectionate person, just not by default. ESPECIALLY not during the 2003 timeline. His confidence has grown, sure, but his family has gotten even more socially isolated, making social cues less likely to be processed properly. Another thing, {which connects to the previous statement,} Thomas doesn't fully understand social cues. Not much anyway. {I've discussed this so much, I apologize for the repetition.} He's an observant, quick learner, but that doesn't mean his brain computes certain things {am I projecting? Maybe}. I don't think he'd understand that staring at someone whilst they eat isn't appropriate {to most people}; He'd probably stare into people's car windows from afar, watch people from other rooms/windows/doorways, ect. Now, that doesn't mean Thomas is a nosey guy; Because I don't think he is. He knows not to eavesdrop, and he knows when to mind his business. I think it's more of "I'm zoned out / I'm confused and trying to figure you out" type of staring.

I'm sure Thomas understands boundaries.....the family’s boundaries that is. Hoyt disrespects boundaries all the time; But Luda Mae puts him in his place when {she feels} need be. Monty just flat-out refuses to acknowledge boundaries. That guy is arguably worse than Hoyt; He'd be offending like Hoyt does if he still had legs, I'm sure of it. He's just not as vocally aggressive as Hoyt, but I'm getting off-track here. It seems like Thomas has to respect the family's boundaries, but they don't have to respect his. Nor do I think he understands how to set up boundaries. It's kind of an unspoken rule in the Hewitt household that the basement is Thomas' space. No one goes down there without reason. That's probably the only boundary they respect. {I'm sure Luda Mae gives him space and patience though.} Combining his lack of knowledge / experience with boundaries, his excruciatingly-low confidence, and his social alienation, Thomas would be very, very hesitant towards intimacy. Having to not only be physically exposed {which is such a sore subject for him,} but emotionally?? Mentally?? That's not something he's used to nor ever been encouraged to embrace. I doubt Thomas even understands sex on an emotional level. {What seems to be} His only experience with sex is through his uncles; And maybe Luda Mae's "no intimacy before marriage" lectures. And you KNOW how Monty and Hoyt view sex. There's no intimacy there; It's just the primal, selfish urges. Now, I'm sure deep down those two want genuine intimacy and emotional connection; They've just buried it so deep down to resist being seen as 'weak'. Thomas most likely picked up on this, at least some of it, which has influenced his views on intimacy. He'd really have to trust someone on EVERY level; He also might cry after, idk. OR feel very uncomfortable. Probably have a moment of existentialism and some serious rethinking to do. Not necessarily about the act itself, but how he views it and what he's been taught. To add onto his hesitance: I see a lot of fan fiction involving him and the reader getting married within 1-5 months, which just..doesn't seem too realistic to me. Thomas most definitely has a lot of self-doubt, and the family wouldn't adjust to someone that quickly. I'd say AT LEAST a year before they {the family} consider it. Anyway..this is long enough but I'm fully willing to do pt. 2 on anything I've covered before :)

TLDR: Thomas would definitely need some guidance, the whole Atlantic Ocean's worth of reassurance, and some lessons on boundaries.

____

Anyway, yada-yada, Thomas needs some guidance and emotional regulation tools, what's new - 🫀

[tojisun]

SIMON NEEDS SOMEONE TO TELL HIM HE DOEANT HAVE TO SAY I LOVE YOU BACK

HE HAS BEEN THROUGH SO MUCH, HE FOESNT BEED OEOPLE HOLLERING AT HIM FOR NOT SAYING I LOVE YOU

HE WILL:

Press kisses to your fingers and cheek

ruffle your hair

buy you your favourite drink

cuddle up with you during movie night

grunt praise when he’s going down/in you

tell you the smallest things you do that you don’t even notice you do because he’s whipped

thank you.

YEA THIS ONE THIS ONEE

the kisses on the fingers and him noticing the little things you do in passing makeS ME ILL

simon kisses your fingers and fingertips, but also him massaging your palms because you told him quietly that they're always throbbing when it gets a little too cold than usual :((

simon pushing your hair away from your face, playing with the strands during the quiet moments, holding them up while you apply perfume—

and the favourite drink?? godd he's not even into sweet drinks but he memorizes the order you always prattle off without judgement. it doesn't matter if you like your bubble tea with 100% sugar or if you want extra syrup in your iced coffee or if you ask for packet sugars for your tea, simon doesn't tease nor comment nor judge.

same could be said if you prefer bitter drinks or sour drinks - simon memorizes them all. (he knows all of them at the top of his head but he likes typing them up in his phone because he likes looking at the growing list of things that you like.)

cuddling you during a movie night GAHLEE thinking about the way he breathes you in, deep inhales before his chest rumbles—he is pleased. content.

and and the quiet whispers when he's taking you; telling you how good you're being for him, how delicious you taste, how beautiful you look when you're full of him, how addicting it is to be with you. wiping your tears away with murmured apologies, before biting his lip when you said you're not crying because it hurts. you're crying because it's too good. s'good si—

then the little things. he lists them when there's a lull in your conversation; brings up things you didn't know he noticed—

"you don't like it then," simon's voice shoots you awake from your thoughts and you startle, whirling to look at him,

"yeah," you say, realizing a beat later that he didn't ask. "how'd you know?"

"oh, you know," he huffs, fond. "you always tilt your head to the side—" he mimics the action, "when it's not the flavour you expected." then simon shrugs his shoulders like it's nothing big.

like the knowledge that someone loves you enough to watch you, to learn you, to understand your tells, is nothing big.

"ah," you croak out, feeling so choked up. "i see."

oh but he is so lovely

[sparklingblu]

Limerence (ft. ILLIT Minju)

I don't even know what to call this. Somewhat of a fluff but not really a fluff either. Something that just pops into my mind.

"So he asked 'Is it better to speak or die?' "

"That's the stupidest story I have ever heard"

Minju leaves no chance for you to savour that feeling that comes after quoting something particularly clever. Or she's just being a jerk as usual.

"You are just anti-romantic"

You protest though you know she will have thought of a retort before you finish.

"There's nothing romantic about this story"

"It's a love story for christ's sake"

"Where's the 'love' ?"

You slump back in your chair, defeated. Either she's too dumb to understand your point or you are just bad at telling stories. The latter's probably more likely.

The story's not an ordinary one in the first place. It involves a knight and a princess but it ends neither with a 'happily ever after' nor a bloodbath where they both rip their hearts out. There isn't even an ending.

'Is it better to speak or die?'

The last sentence on this paper of the dusty hard covered book which has turned yellow from the years it have endured. It's a mircale how it's still intact.

You mummur the question under your breath, trying to make sense of the words. But they are still nothing more than a jumbled mess in your mind.

The funny thing is, this is not your first time reading this story. You are actually too familiar with it. The setting, the characters, the way it almost seems to tell the secret you have carefully hidden; it doesn't make sense that you are still confused what this single question everything has lead up to mean. Still, you are here, no wiser than the first time you have read this tale.

In some time immemorial in an unknown kingdom lived a princess and a knight, each a good friend to another. Perhaps because of this closeness, the knight started to feel something more than companionship to the princess. Feelings that shouldn't exist given their scoial status. The princess knew it too though she ptetends to be oblivious. Nonetheless, the knight found himself unable to express his desires - torn between the fear of losing what he currently has and the turmoil of hiding himself. So one day, when he took his usual walk with the princess through the garden, he mustered up the courage to ask one single question.

"Is it better to speak or die?"

The End.

Anyone can guess at this point that the knight meant if it's better to put his feelings into words and sacrifice their friendship or die knowing that he will never have what he wants. You wish it's that simple.

You and Minju have been stuck in the same page for an hour now, still having no idea how to progress your assignment. The task was a paper on an in depth analysis on a tale of your choice. Now you regret not choosing 'The Tortoise & The Hare".

"Why do you choose this one anyway? There are like a million other better choices"

Minju says, gesturing at the endless shelves of books that surround you on all sides. Not millions but perhaps a thousand other choices you could have made in this rectangular bank of knowledge; the local library.

Somewhere distinct, you hear a bell chimes, signaling the arrival to the later hour of the night. You glance at your watch. It's already 9 pm. A cough reasonates from the counter near the entrance, emitted by none other than the librarian. The ghastly old woman seems to be signalling that we don't have much time left.

I don't have much time left.

Minju's translucent pupils are fixed on you, still waiting for your answer. You break out of the haze.

"Because it's.."

'Relatable'. The word is 'Relatable'. But she doesn't need to know that. Never.

"Interesting I guess"

You finish, not quite daring to meet her eyes. She might see the guilt of your dishonest words in them.

"Seriously? This is interesting? Next time you think something is interesting, feel free to ask my opinion"

"Not everyone have great taste"

You mean it to be a playful jab but her face distorts to something along the line of fury and hurt. And her lips part.

No. Please don't be mad.

Please.

"Jerk"

Her words put out the flames of fear threatening to rise in your chest. There. All good. She's not mad.

You let out a sigh of relief but quickly mask it as a half formed scoff. She can't know. So you waver her attention.

"Tell me then. What's your opinion on this story apart from it being hopelessly stupid"

Her lips stretch to a soft smile. You have put her back into her comfort zone.

"It's not about love like you think. It's about cowardice"

"Enlighten me"

She crosses her arms, the pose she always takes before her rosy lips spill out a waterfall of the most beautiful syllables. It also makes her look superior. The table, which is the only thing between you two seems like a brick wall now.

"The knight doesn't say 'I love you' or anything of that sort, does he? He's scared out of his wits so he decided to go for a safer alternative. That question. It literally says 'I'm a coward who can't even properly confess' "

Is she mocking you?

Probably not. She doesn't know. She will never know.

Still....

'Is it better to spek or die?'

A coward's attempt at love; complicated and imperfect. At least he has the courage to mutter those cowardly words.

"You are not wrong but can't it be that he's just scared of losing her?"

Yes. You are referring to yourself.

But she won't know.

"He already loses her after saying these words"

"You don't know that. You don't know what the pericess's answer was. She could have accepted him"

"You don't know that either"

Now she's fighting you with your own words.

"What would you have answered if you were the princess then?"

Is that an indirect confession? An attempt to ask her opinion without facing the shame that comes after rejection? You hope not.

"I don't know...I would probably ask him to speak in English"

"Not funny at all"

Your answer makes her raise her brows in disbelief as if saying - "I know I will never not be funny to you. You are too obsessed with me not to."

But that's impossible. She doesn't know.

Has she spoken these words aloud, you would happily agree with her. But that's just momentary courage. Your tongue would be tied to knots in a hearbeat if that ever happens.

That begs the question again.

'Is it better to speak or die?'

"Whatever" she says in exasperation. "I'm not lovey dovey enough for this"

"Seriously. Just tell me what you would have said"

There. You are pushing again, desperate for that answer even if it's not directed at you. You would cling to a tiny hope if it's ever a positive one.

"I don't know. Probably tell him to speak because I don't want anyone going suicidal mode because of me"

"He will still go suicidal if you reject him after he confess"

"Why are you asking me those? Were you in such a situation before?"

You surpress a chuckle that nearly slips your tongue.

What a fool you are Minju. You can't even spot the truth that's hidden in plain sight. The truth that has gone rusty and rotten because it has been locked up for so long. Still, it's not her fault.

You have hidden it so well.

She doesn't need to know.

"Yes"

You can't believe you say the word. It's as if someone has possessed you and put those words on your tongue.

"Poor you"

And just like that, it ends.

You have expected her to push you, given her curious nature. You want her to lend you the courage to say those words you have mummur countless times in your dreams. But she just leaves you hanging there like that. Cruel.

Can't blame her though.

She doesn't know.

Another cough pierces through the invisible viel that has seperated you two from the world outside.

9:25 pm.

5 minutes away until this tedious session of back and forth ends.

Why is it that you don't want it to end?

The papers in front of you are bare as they were an hour ago. The book still turned at the same page. The question that haunts you still lies there, imprinted in black.

'Is it better to speak or die?'

Neither. Because that's a stupid question just like Minju said. It's constructed to mess with your mind. You gotta stop dwelling on it.

"Anyway-"

Chimes

That sound. It can only mean one thing.

Minju pulls her phone out of her pocket, the glow of it illuminating her angelic feature as she turns it on. Not a moment sooner, her lips hold the prettiest of smiles.

And in all the wrong ways.

"Gotta go"

Her dismissal cuts through the tense air as she hurriedly put the papers back into her bag. Is she that desperate to get away from you?

"My boyfriend's waiting for me. We have a date tonight"

You are not angry. It would be wrong. Though it's only natural to envy the one who's living your fantasy. But the faults are not in our stars.

"Alright. Goodnight"

Minju's footsteps echo on the mahogany floor as she finally escapes the torturous session you have put her though, flying away to an embrace better than yours in every way.

But it's ok.

Because she doesn't know.

She gives a quick wave to the old librarian who does nothing to reciprocate the action. That hag doesn't know how lucky she is.

"Minju"

You call before the rest of her form disppears through these creaking doors. She turns on her heels, a stray strand of hair clinging like an unifinished piece of art to her forehead. The shadows cast by the moonlight does nothing to hide her.

"Yes?"

You breath.

And utter.

"Is it better to speak or die?"

___________________________________________

Took the famous question from the movie "Call me by your name". Though I alter the story. Thanks for reading this madness.

[spookwriter-xo]

Coppélia

Chapter 10 - The King

Chapter Summary - Hongjoong and Y/N have some much needed bonding time.

warnings: mentions of child death, grief, Hongjoong is infuriating, smut

Series Masterlist

MINORS DO NOT GO BEYOND THIS POINT

The documents I found in the library were full of knowledge that had never been printed for the public eye. Aurora had gotten so close, even having a list of suspects that she'd narrowed down to five people. I'd reviewed the documents secretly, keeping the papers under my bed the nights Jongho or Mingi would spend with me.

Seonghwa had started spending time with me during the day, even letting me teach him some of the ballet duets I'd learned over the years. I could really tell he was a fan in those moments, his eyes lighting up with the slightest bit of excitement.

I hadn't forgiven him, nor had I worn the ring yet. I don't think they deserved to see that yet.

On the nights Mingi or Jongho wouldn't stay with me, I'd stay up late working through the work that Aurora had left. Now that we were nearing the final show day for Coppélia I had more nights off during the week, only performing Thursdays through to Saturdays, which left me plenty of time.

Aurora had discovered another tell aside from poison. All of The Cobra's victims were 100% targeted. Not just random killings of the rich, no, it was calculated. She'd highlighted potential reasons why they would be targeted and who would be the killer for those reasons.

It made me wonder how many I knew now who had targets on their backs or still do. Did ATZ have one? Is that why Aurora was so stubborn in investigating?

One night I had gone downstairs for a glass of water. It was colder than usual tonight, I figured it would start snowing soon since the holidays were right around the corner.

As I climbed back up the stairs to go back to bed, I noticed the light under Hongjoong's office door was on. It wasn't unusual, I knew he'd stay up late most nights to work. However, it didn't stop my feet from carrying me towards the door. I had so many questions, and for some reason, I believed they could be answered by the most infuriating man I have ever made conversations with.

I stop at the door, I can't hear anyone inside, but I know he's in there. He's probably still in his work clothes, his hair messy with a stern yet concentrated look on his face. I softly knock on the door, hearing a groan from the otherside.

"Seonghwa, don't lecture me again." Hongjoong grumbles from the other side. Ny hand finds the handle, and I turn it, the door clicking softly as I push it open. "Seriously, I'm almost-" He finally looks up, realising it's me. "Oh."

"Hi." I say, stepping inside and shutting the door behind me.

"Why are you awake?" He asks, his eyebrows furrowed in suspicion.

"I could ask you the same thing." I respond, earning a quirk of amusement on his features.

"I'm working." He answers simply. "Couldn't sleep?" He asks.

"Yea." I answer, taking a seat in the plush chair across from his desk, one that wasn't there the last time I was in here. The place was tidier. Maybe he cleaned it thinking I'd come back inside.

I always had trouble sleeping around the holidays. Everything that could have happened back home happened around this time. And I mean everything. It was like a higher being had purposely put a curse on my family out of spite.

"You and I have that in common." Hongjoong smirks, placing his pen down probably for the first time in hours. "However I don't think you enioy my company much."

"I don't." I confirm

"Then why are you here?"

I hesitate for a moment. Would he react badly if I started asking questions? I made a promise to them over dinner that I wouldn't investigate anything, that I was just curious and wanted to know as much as I could. Eventually, I did let it slip to them about what I thought had happened to Chalita, before Hongjoong had told me she was alive, and I think the understanding was met.

"I want to ask questions." I say finally.

He nods slowly. "Go ahead."

"How much did you know about The Cobra?" I ask. He leans back in his seat, his right hand coming to hold up his head as he thinks for a moment.

"I know enough." He answers. "He tortured our world for years, killing those who he believed deserved it."

"Aurora thinks that his killings were targeted." I say, his face gave me no tell of how he was feeling in that moment.

"She'd be right, I suppose. It makes sense." Hongjoong says, standing up from his seat. His suit was a little crinkled, and his tie was loose, probably from fiddling with it. "He was an intelligent killer. I found it hard to believe that he just killed for sport, it would be a waste."

"And how he killed them... All their deaths were so specific." I say, sitting up in my seat. "Like Mr Sun. He has his face burnt off right after his modelling company sky rocketed through the market." He looks back at me, a tinge of interest in his eyes.

He hums in agreement, connecting the dots in his head. "It's a long shot."

"A long shot?" I scoff, standing up. "Are you kidding me?"

"Well, what do you want me to say? That I agree with you? So you'll run off and do the exact same thing Aurora did and get yourself killed?" He snaps. He'd never raised his voice at me, not yet anyway. I got the impression he was more of the teasing type.

"It would be nice, yknow. Considering you've done nothing but tease me since I arrived." I argue back.

"I thought you liked it?" He laughs.

"Well I don't! It's infuriating- You're infuriating!" I groan, throwing my hands up.

"Alright then princess." Hongjoong says, leaning against one of the bookshelves. "Keep ranting. What else do you hate about me?"

"It's not just you! It's everything about this place." I exclaim. "Only two of you talk to me and actually treat me like they want me here. Hell, Seonghwa is the one who invited me here, and he treats me like I'm some innocent doll for him to play with. And you -" I point my index finger at him, which makes him raise his eyebrow. "- You are one of the most immature men I have ever had to displeasure of knowing. Do you never take anything seriously? And when you do, do you always expect everyone to agree with you because guess what, they don't!"

He watches me, his expression showing a hint of pride at my outburst. He lets me rant for a while longer, about the other boys, that stupid ring Seonghwa gave me, and his stupid apology, the rules, and keeping me in the dark. Eventually, when I stopped, he grins widely, a laugh escaping his lips.

"You continue to surprise me." He cackles, shaking his head as he looks out the window.

"This is what I'm talking about!" I say, frustrated. "I tell you how I feel, that I'm upset, and you laugh at me!"

Hongjoong stops laughing, looking back at me. "You're really upset?" He says, scanning me for a moment.

"Yes! I've been saying that for weeks." I says, feeling my eyes burn.

He stands there for a moment. The amusement on his face vanished now.

"It's been a while since I've had someone voice their feelings so openly." He says, moving around to sit back in his seat. "When you spend so much time with someone, you just get the feeling that somethings wrong."

I stand there, my arms crossed.

"I should have listened." He says softly, looking me directly in the eye. "Please. Sit." He says.

I sit down, my arms still crossed over my chest.

"Aurora and I met through a business exchange." He says. "Before my parents passed, her and I were betrothed to one another." I look at him in surprise.

"As we got older, we grew to love each other. The others loved her too, and she loved them.. It was -" He stops finally looking into my eyes. "I want that with you." He whispers, leaning forward in his seat.

Something flutters in my stomach, and I break away from his gaze. I wanted it, I really did. To be loved so fully, that material goods wouldn't make me feel the same type of happiness.

"The Cobra isn't gone, Hongjoong." I say softly. "He could have a target on any one of you."

He nods. "I know, but the safety of you and them comes first." He says, pointing towards the door. "One wrong move and everything that I've ever loved disappears."

I shut my mouth, my eyes lowering in understanding.

"I know. But I've lost everything." I whisper. "He took everything from me."

"What happened in that house, Princess?" He asks gently, standing up and moving around the desk to lean against the front of it, in front of me. "Talk to me. I'll listen this time."

I look up at him as he leans back, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I thought Chalita was dead. You all know that now." I start. "I had another sister, Chaluai, she died at only 12 years old." His eyes soften as he listens. "I wasn't there when she passed... I had already run away, but I saw it on the news."

"5 years ago. I remember." He says softly. "They said she died in her sleep."

"It's a lie." I say. "She had been sick for months beforehand, the doctor found poison in her system around a month in, and my mother had everyone in the house fired."

"Poison?" Hongjoong raises an eyebrow.

"I can't remember the type, but yes."

"That sounds..."

"Like The Cobra?"

He nods at my words. "It seems like your family had a target on it's back." He says, his voice grim. "Maybe it was a good thing you ran away."

"I should have left sooner and taken her with me." I say, fiddling with my fingers.

"You should never blame yourself for things you had no control over." He says, moving to kneel in front of me. "You were a child too."

I watch him carefully as he takes my hands in his, his eyes never leaving mine. I liked this side of him, how he'd listen intently to every detail I said.

"Believe me when I say it's not your fault." He whispers. My eyes start to burn as tears threaten to spill, and he reaches up to cup my cheek.

"So you do know how to comfort people." I joke, fighting back the tears. He chuckles softly, standing to kiss my forhead before taking the seat beside me.

"I get it from my mother." He says.

"Tell me about them. Your parents." I say softly. our hands still holding tightly to one anothers.

"They were good people, didn't deserve what happened to them. Same with my brother." He says, looking down at our hands. "I was happy, we were happy. Then it all just got stripped away."

"It's hard... Losing your family." I say softly, squeezing his hand.

"It's strange how we all lost our families, yet all found each other." He says with a small smile.

"No one has a family?" I ask, I knew Jongho had lost his, but the others?

"Pretty much, everyone. San still talks to his sister." Hongjoong says. "Our parents however, are either dead or want nothing to do with us."

I felt a pang in my chest, maybe we weren't so different.

"Something on your mind, Princess?" He asks softly.

"A lot of things." I whisper. "I think a lot."

"I can tell." He chuckles. "I find it endearing."

I woke the next morning in my own bed. Hongjoong and I had talked for hours, and I must have drifted off not long after he started showing me some of his work. Funny.

I get out of bed and get ready for the day, I can hear them all downstairs already. Their lovely voices ricocheting up the stairs. I smile as I follow the noise. It had been a while since it was like this.

"Good morning!" Wooyoung chirps as I enter the dining room, the seat next to him open. I sit down, saying good morning to them all as I look out on the food before me.

"Pretty girl, can you pass me that?" Jongho asks, sitting across from me. I feel my cheeks burn at the nickname and hand him a butter knife.

"Sleep well?" Hongjoong asks from the head of the table. I give him a knowing look and nod, earning a wink from him.

The boys continue to chatter, their voices mingling as I try to listen to everyone at once. Even Yunho was chatty, his laugh boisterous as Mingi cracks a joke mid-conversation.

I wanted this. This is the life I wanted with them. I wanted to be in their circle, I wanted to love them and to be loved. It felt weird to finally admit it even to myself. It had been months now, and such little progress had been made. Maybe they were waiting for me to make a move this whole time?

"I have my final show next week." I finally speak up when their conversations die down. "I want you all to come."

Seonghwa smiles brightly. "The final show already? It feels like it only started a few weeks ago."

"You really want us there?" San asks, his eyes watching me curiously.

"I do." I say softly, glancing at Hongjoong.

"We'll come." Hongjoong says, taking a sip of whatever was in his mug, and I'm fairly sure it was alcoholic.

I smile widely at his answer. A few of them smile back, while the others turn their attention back to their meals.

After breakfast, Hongjoong asks me into his office. He takes my hand when we're out of sight and leads me back up the stairs.

He twirls me as we enter his private space, closing the door behind him with a soft click and locking it. He strides towards me next, pinning me against the front of his desk.

"You forgot something last night." He says, his gaze sending shivers down my spine.

"And what would that be?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

He grins before leaning in, sealing my lips in a kiss. He pulls away briefly, his grin widening even more when I chase him before pushing forward again.

His hands grip my hips as he deepens the kiss, letting out soft breaths as our tongues collide.

When we finally pull away, he rests our forheads together, catching his breath.

"You're perfect." He whispers before leaning back in.

His hand travels under the hem of my dress, his fingers dancing lightly across my skin. I jump up to sit on the desk, the dress bunching up around my hips as he stands between my legs. Our lips never break apart, like it was the only thing keeping us alive.

"Can I have you?" He whispers, his lips pressing sloppy and desperate kisses to my jaw and neck.

"Yes." I respond softly.

He brings his hands up and starts to unbutton his white button-up, slowly shrugging it off of his shoulders. I noticed a scar on his abdomen but decided to ask about it later. He groans as I reach forward to palm him through his trousers.

"I need you so bad." He says, his voice almost pleading. I had the leader of one of the most notorious mafia gangs begging for me.

His fingers push my panties to the side, one finding my core and slowly pushing in. He watches my face as my mouth hangs open in pleasure.

"Hongjoong.." I moan softly, my hands gripping his biceps. He shudders at the sound of his name on my lips.

"You're soaked, and I've barely touched you." He chuckles, pumping his finger in and out of me at a steady pace.

"Can I ride you?" I ask, surprising myself.

"Absolutely." He says, quickly removing his finger and hustling to undress himself further. I do the same, hopping off the desk and pulling my clothes off one by one as I follow him arlund to his desk chair.

He sits down, his hair a mess, and his erection is standing proud. I straddle him, his hands instantly finding my waist as I do so. He reaches a hand down between us as I brace myself on his shoulders to guide himself to my entrance.

His head rolls back as I slowly sink down onto him, a low moan escaping his lips. His hands gently massage my waist as I adjust to the position, his eyes on me as I started to move.

I rode him with expert skill, my moans lingering with his as we both chased our pleasure. His hands guided my movements, whispering soft praises into my ear.

"Good girl.." He says with a happy sigh. "Doing so well for me."

I whine softly as he bucks his hips up. "Can you go a little faster?" Hongjoong asks, almost sweetly. I nod, bracing myself again as I start to move faster. He bucks up into him, timing our movements perfectly that made me see stars.

"Perfect." Hongjoong grunts, his release rapidly approaching.

I could feel my orgasm slowly reaching its peak. My thighs burnt, and I'm sure Hongjoongs shoulders were in pain from my nails digging into his skin, but he didn't care. He was too focused on me, just me. His eyes never left my face, my body sonce we started. He wanted me.

"Gonna cum?" He questions, feeling me clench around him. "Cum for me." He says, his voice low but desperate. The encouragement was all I needed to push me over the edge, my orgasm triggering his own.

I relax on top of him, his arms wrapped around me in a comforting embrace. On hand, rest behind my head as he presses kisses to my forhead, the other rubbing my back.

"You okay?" He asks softly, his fingers gently tangling inbmy hair.

"Yea.." I whisper, my head resting on his shoulder.

We sit in comfortable silence, neither of us wanting to move away from the others' embrace. For the first time ever, I felt safe with Hongjoong, and I knew the others would be the same.

I just got to give them a chance.

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[grapenehifics]

One of my favorite activities while watching Revenge of the Sith (to distract myself from the pain, I guess) is finding little moments that had the potential to change everything. Anakin comes so close to turning back and making better choices, so many times. There are many more, but my top three today are:

-Dooku crushes Obi-Wan under a heavy platform and Obi-Wan passes out (??) for a while but then gets up, fights a battle, and seemingly suffers no ill effects whatsoever. What if this were actually treated like a serious spinal injury and not just a convenient way to have Obi-Wan out of the picture so Sidious can convince Anakin to kill Dooku? Obi-Wan is hurt, either temporarily or permanently paralyzed from at least the waist down, and therefore in in the infirmary and obviously in no shape to go to Utapau. Anakin, being obviously concerned about his master, spends all of his meager free time at Obi-Wan's side rather than with Sidious, and harbors no resentment about not going to Utapau (he didn't want to leave Obi-Wan, or Padmé, anyway), and maybe actually manages to take a goddamn nap.

-Speaking of Utapau - on the landing platform, Anakin says he wants to go with Obi-Wan, and that he could be helpful. Obi-Wan agrees that no doubt he would be. What if he actually did it? Obi-Wan's a Master, a General, and a Councillor. I'm sure he has the authority to say, "You know what, you're right, Anakin. Grab your things and let's go." I'm not sure this would be enough to avoid Order 66, but it would keep Anakin out of Sidious' way, and maybe he and Obi-Wan would return to the Temple together, only this time to save the younglings rather than murder them.

-A big part of Sidious' pitch to Anakin is that he and he alone possesses the knowledge to save Padmé (and by extension Anakin and Padmé's unborn child). That's Anakin's whole deal with killing Master Windu - he first tries to argue that Palpatine should stand trial, and it's only after Windu argues against that plan that Anakin takes Palpatine's side. But then immediately after, Palpatine says, and I'm paraphrasing but he basically admits, 'okay so I don't actually know how to save your wife. But uhhh you're really strong in the Force soooo I'm sure together you and I will be able to figure it out."

And Anakin just goes along with this! I realize he doesn't have (or, doesn't think he has, which are two different things) any better options on the table, but it feels very Anakin to me for him to be like, "um, wait a second, my new master. I thought you said you'd tell me how to keep people from dying? Padmé could die tomorrow. We do not have time to sit around in the Sith library and 'figure it out together'. You lied to me!" Anakin hates being lied to. This is an immediately stab-worthy offense.

This of course doesn't address Anakin's raging attachment issues nor his misplaced distrust of the Jedi, but it does prevent the creation of the Empire so all in all I'd take this as a win.

Anyway. I'm deep in the weeds of an entirely different RotS rewrite and don't have time to take on another, much less three, but they're enjoyable scenarios to think about, at least. They don't even need to be endgame Obikin...even if I personally think of them that way :D