#love how the furniture is mismatched

[mead-iocre]

Wife? | Leah Williamson x Reader

synopsis: "accidentally" calling Leah "wife"

warnings: none

wc: 3.7k words

There is another new tiktok trend. 

Again, not a viral dance routine.

This one was definitely more nerve-wrecking than the one you did a few weeks ago. With the other tiktok trend, you could pretty much predict how your girlfriend was going to react. However, with this one, it could go either way. 

The good thing was that the trend itself was still a fairly simple one. All you need to do was to call your boyfriend/girlfriend “husband” or “wife”, and film their reaction. 

From the embarrassingly long time you’ve spent scrolling through videos of other couples doing the trend, most of the reactions have been pretty positive. The ones getting pranked either grew shy or reacted excitedly at their new nickname– kissing their partner and playing it up with the camera. However, there was a video that you saw where the reaction was exactly what you were afraid of. A viral video of one couple, where the man getting pranked reacted quite cruelly. He immediately shut down the implications of the new nickname, leaving his girlfriend awkwardly staring at the camera in shock.

You just prayed Leah wouldn’t react as bad as that. 

Marriage was something you and Leah had talk about before. In passing. It was always a fleeting part of the conversation, something that never really went beyond the mutual agreement that you both saw yourself getting married one day. Whether that marriage was to each other was never really a topic of conversation. However, you could see yourself being married to her. Early mornings would be a hectic time since you both had had to leave for practice early. Afternoons on the weekdays would probably be spent having brunch by the river with friends, or spending time at home cuddled up on the sofa while a football match is blasting in the tv. Evenings would be spent cooking together, or arguing about who should be the main builder for the latest Ikea furniture that was purchased.

You just hoped she pictured a similar future. 

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“Hey everyone!” You smile brightly, waving at your phone’s front camera. A flood of hearts started floating across the screen, comments pouring in. Your phone is propped nicely by the new tripod your girlfriend had recently gotten for you. Leah had grown tired of you using random bits around the house to prop your phone up everywhere you had to do your tiktok lives, grumbling about how you always forget to put things back where they belong so she had to do it for you. 

In the middle of Leah’s kitchen, you were stood on the other side of the island, checking over the ingredients one more time. The kitchen around was a charming, lived-in space, with mismatched mugs hanging from hooks and spices haphazardly arranged on a shelf.  You were dressed in your favourite comfy loungewear set, your hair cascading down your back, and fuzzy slippers on your feet. You loved filming these tiktok videos and fans often left suggestions for your next video. However, what you enjoyed more was having someone with you to film. Usually, you could rope a teammate or two to participate in the latest tiktok dance, but other times, when you begged hard enough, you could sometimes convince Leah to film with you. 

Leah, oblivious to the prank looming ahead, was standing right beside you. Clad in a worn-out vintage arsenal t-shirt and grey nike track bottoms, she leans casually against the counter, arms clasped behind her back. Her hair is tied away from her face in a loose ponytail, short strands of blonde hair framing her face. After much nagging (and kisses), she agreed to go on live with you again. 

“I’ve gotten quite a few requests to have Leah back for another video.” You gesture to the blonde right beside you. “And I know you guys really enjoyed the last cooking live where we attempted to make Leah’s infamous pasta dish–“

“Which is a Williamson secret recipe mind you” Leah interjects with a signature finger point at the camera. “You lot should be grateful I shared it!”

amanda: first time im joining a live!!!! hellooo

maise: pls say JONAS OUT!

woso.fc: I made it and it was actually really good

katiesgirl: leah looks gooddddd. respectfully, y/n MOVE

“Yeah well thanks for sharing the recipe, Lee. Who knew a basic bolognese sauce and some pasta would taste so good”

“Oi! You love my pasta!”, Leah exclaims as she points at you accusingly. 

You laugh loudly, head thrown back. “To be fair the pasta that Leah makes is quite good” 

“good? good. mate you go for seconds–” You place your palm over her mouth to shush her, playfully glaring at her. The delicate skin around corner of her eyes wrinkle in amusement.

“Alright. I'll admit it. Your pasta is delicious.”

Leah pulls your hand away from her mouth, pressing a quick kiss on the back of it, and keeping it held hostage in hers. 

“Okay. Let’s get started. Today we will be making red velvet cupcakes!”, You turn to the blonde beside you, squeezing the hand that she was holding, practically bouncing on your toes in excitement. Red Velvet cupcakes were one of your favourite treats and Leah knew exactly how much you were craving it lately, hence why she had no complaints when you suggested the recipe. 

“But…”, Pausing for dramatic effect. You grab the box of ready-to-make mix and show it off to the camera. “We’ll be using cake mix to cut time”

The comments flood through- probably laughing at you for cheating the recipe. You were so excited for the cupcakes that you almost forgot that you were supposed to also be doing a prank on your girlfriend.  

Pulling out a mixing bowl from the cupboard and a couple of measuring cups, you set them on the counter with a clatter. “So, step one!” Leah read aloud, reading from the back of the box. “Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.”

You turn around to the oven behind you, dramatically turning the dial on the oven, earning a sarcastic round of applause from the chat and a few teasing comments.

“Now,” she continued, tearing open the box, “we need to pour this into the bowl. I think this is the most technical part.” She dumped the powdery cake mix into the bowl, a small cloud of white dust puffing into the air, making you both cough and laugh. You leaned in closer, your shoulder brushing Leah’s as you worked together, the warm glow of the kitchen light casting a soft shadow over your figures. 

You moved through the steps, laughter echoing as you watched Leah comically crack the eggs into the ball, exaggerating her movements and making faces at you. You glance at the chat that was a constant stream of comments and emojis. “I feel like we’re on a cooking show, but with way more judgment.”

“You lot can’t judge! we’re professional footballers— not professional bakers,” she warned playfully waving the spatula in the air. You giggled as you poured in the vegetable oil, watching the amber liquid sink into the cake mix. “Someone just asked what flavour of cake we’re making,” she read aloud. “It’s red velvet! Her favourite” Leah points a finger at you. 

“I wish more weddings served red velvet. It’s always vanilla or lemon— red velvet is superior!” Turning to the camera, you wave the whisk around. “I’d serve red velvet cake at my wedding” 

You don’t weren’t a hundred percent certain, but you swear you heard Leah mutter “noted” under her breath, but you pay it no mind. Maybe it was you brain playing tricks on you. 

The both of you two exchanged amused glances as the sound of the stand mixer continued to fill the room. It was then you noticed the a smudge of white flour on her chin, the pale powder a contrast to her lingering tan from your last holiday. How she even managed to get flour on her chin, you have no idea. 

“Look at me, love” Leah turns her attention from the chat back to you with an eyebrow raised. You gesture for her to turn her cheek to the other side so you can wipe away the dust of flour. Thumbing it away gently, you grin at her and whisper “messy girl” only for her ears. 

Unable to resist, Leah sneaks a quick kiss, planting a peck on your lips. You get a quick whiff of white musk and pear before you felt her lips soft against your own. Between the two of you, Leah was always more affectionate, uncaring for any eyes and attention from others around you. You, however, were shy by nature; however you weren’t opposed to how much your girlfriend loved on you so you gladly welcomed her affection.

“Thanks, baby” She whispered back to you, kissing the crown on your head since you were bowing your head, trying to hide your cheeks that you had no doubt were blushing bright red as of that moment. “Okay! Now we have to pour this into the pan and wait!”

As she carefully tipped the bowl over a greased cake tin, the batter flowed smoothly into it, spreading out evenly. “I’m actually enjoying this. Reckon I should quit football?” she said,  turning to you with a grin on her face. She taps the bowl to get the last bit of batter out. 

“Let’s perfect this recipe first, Lee. And stay with the football thing for now” 

lacy: stick to football we need youuuu

paige: no leah no arsenal

stephanie: Leah on Great British Bakeoff when?

awfcsgirl: im craving red velvet cupcakes now 

“Now into the oven it goes!”

You opened the oven door with a mock bow, and she slid the cake pan inside. Closing the door together, you give the camera a triumphant look. “And now we wait!” you say, leaning against the counter with a grin.

The live chat was buzzing with messages, some asking about decorating, others just enjoying the playful banter. Leah grabbed her phone to read a few comments. “People are really invested in what we’re going to top this with,” he laughed. “I’m thinking frosting. Lots and lots of frosting.”

You both moved to the kitchen table, pulling up chairs to chat with the audience while the cake baked. The timer on the oven ticked softly in the background. The conversation was relaxed and easy, filled with laughter as you both responded to questions from the chat. Every now and then, you would glance over at the oven, impatient, and Leah would joke about how you had the patience of a toddler.

When the timer finally beeped, you both jumped up, racing to the oven. The scent of baked goods filled the kitchen as she carefully opened the door and pulled the tray out, red and perfectly risen. “Look at that! It didn’t burn” she exclaimed, holding it up for the camera.

After letting it cool for a few minutes, you got to work on the frosting, spreading a generous layer of cheese cream cheese frosting over each of the cupcakes. The soft white contrasting beautifully with the deep red.

“There you have it!” she said, holding the cupcake you were working on for the final reveal. “From cake mix to masterpiece, with love and a little help from you guys!”

You turn towards the camera. “All right, guys. We’re about to do a taste test. Red velvet cupcakes, made from scratch, and zero fire alarms were set off in the process. A win for us.” 

“Moment of truth,” Leah whispered, glancing over at you with a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. You nodded, handing Leah a cupcake, your fingers brushing against each other as you exchanged the treats. You caught her eye and smiled, a playful glint in your gaze. And if Leah was paying attention to you she would’ve noticed the way you were pressing your lips together and nervously shifting on your feet, a telltale sign that you were up to something. However, your girlfriend was completely oblivious. She was already too focused on the cupcake in her hand, studying it like it was a masterpiece.

“Ready?” You asked, holding your cupcake up for the camera. Then, without any ceremony, you each took a bite at the same time. Leah took a generous mouthful of the soft, velvety cake, while you hesitated for a second; debating on whether now was the right time.

You took a smaller bite and instantly the rich, velvety cake melted on your tongue. The sweetness mixed perfectly with the tang of the cream cheese frosting. You closed her eyes, letting out a quiet hum of approval, savouring the flavour of your favourite sweet treat. When you opened your eyes again, you found Leah already watching you, her lips dusted with frosting. She grinned at you in approval, and prepared to take another big bite of the cupcake. As you watched her chew thoughtfully, you took your chance.

“You look like you’re enjoying it. Let’s let my wife give her review first” You said, your voice surprisingly dripping with casual nonchalance, as if you hadn’t just thrown a verbal grenade into the middle of your taste test. Instead, the endearment came out quite naturally from your lips.

Leah froze mid-chew. Her eyes wide, she slowly turned towards you, cupcake still in hand, as the word wife echoed in her mind.

“Wife?” She managed to say through her mouthful of cake, trying to play it cool but failing miserably. In the warm glow of the lights, you can see the slight flush of her cheeks, though she tried to cover it by taking another bite; her eyes narrowed at you, who was now struggling to contain your laughter.

The TikTok chat went wild.

awfc_fc: WIFE???

sav: Did she just say WIFE??

liv: DID I MISS A CHAPTER WHAT

zachary: WIFE??? HELLO?!

Unable to hold it in anymore, you burst into laughter, the kind that made you double over and clutch at your stomach. “What? It was an accident,” you say, though the mischievous twinkle in your eyes said otherwise.

Leah swallowed her bite, narrowing her eyes at you, though you can see a smile tugging at her lips. “An accident? Really?”

Wiping a tear from the corner of your eye, you straightened up, still grinning. “Yeah, it slipped out. Didn’t mean to call you my wife, love.” You sneak a quick wink at the camera. 

The blonde shook her head, trying to stay serious, but the grin she was holding back finally broke through. “You’re lucky this cupcake is so good, or else I’d throw this at you right now.”

“Oh, c’mon, you love it,” You teased, taking a victorious bite of your own cupcake. Now that the prank was over, you can freely enjoy the sweet treat. “And, technically, I’m not wrong. I mean, future wife, right?”

Leah felt her heart skip at that as she continued to gaze at you. She watched you enjoy your cupcake, humming after every bite. Your earlier words still hung in the air, lingering and nagging.

In the midst of you enjoying your treat, you noticed a small shift in her expression. Your teasing demeanour melted a little, ever so slightly. You tilted your head at her, trying to read the expression on her face. “I mean… eventually, right?” You asked, quieter this time, like you hadn’t meant for those words to slip out either.

Leah’s heart fluttered again at the way your voice caught slightly against the back of your throat when you spoke. Like there was a blanket of uncertainty and doubt over your words, which was a rarity for someone as self-assured as you.

She cleared her throat, feeling it tighten and clog as a result of the palpable tension in the air. This raw, vulnerable moment awarded a fleeting pause in the midst of a long day filled with football practice, article deadlines, red velvet cupcakes, and now sudden talks of the future-- it was overwhelming.

As you both sat in brief silence, the weight of unspoken words hung heavy in the air. Every heartbeat seemed louder than the last.

Always the fixer, Leah broke the silence first. She cleared her throat again, rolling her eyes playfully at you, trying to steer the mood back to light. She shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe. Are you rushing me? Otherwise I wouldn't put up with your pranks and accidents." The last bit was accompanied by finger air quotes.

She felt you were rushing her?

You looked down at your half eaten cupcake, absentmindedly tracing the edge of the wrapper. The prank was meant to be fun, but as the words "future wife" slipped from your lips earlier, you noticed the way leah's smile faltered, just for a second. Barely noticeable, but it was like a neon sign in your mind, glaring and buzzing, leaving your stomach knotted.

Had you unintentionally placed a burden on her?

You forced a smile, hoping it masked the uncertainty bubbling inside. It wasn’t like you meant to bring up marriage all the time—well, maybe you did. Looking back, it was always you initiating the conversation on marriage or your future together. But it was hard not to. After three years together, you could already picture every detail: the dress, the flowers, the vows. It was all so clear in your head, yet now it felt like you was rushing towards something Leah hadn’t even fully considered.

The uncertainty now gnawed at you. Part of you wanted to blurt out, “Are we okay? Do you really feel that I'm rushing you?” But the fear of hearing something you weren't ready for kept you quiet. Instead, you leaned back in your chair, feigning relaxation, while your thoughts swirled like a storm you couldn’t control.

"I really got you there, didn't i?" You tried to lighten the mood with another joke. “Who would’ve thought I could leave Thee Leah Williamson speechless by calling her my wife”

Shit.

Silence. 

Silence.

Silence.

There you go again, carelessly throwing the word away without making sure she was comfortable. You wanted to smack your head against the table, mentally cursing yourself. Maybe she really wasn't comfortable with the implications of that word yet. Maybe it was too soon.

Thinking you had made the moment awkward again, you try to backtrack. “I-I didn't mean--I'm not rushing you. At all. I was kidding--“

“Baby” 

You ignore her at first, turning to the camera to cover up your embarrassment. You desperately try to settle the way your heart was practically beating out of your chest. Maybe this prank wasn’t such a good idea in the first place.

“Baby”

You finally look at her. You lips were pressed tightly in a line, ready to end the live if she said the word.

“I got it.”

You tilt your head, furrowing your eyebrows, very confused by what she meant. “Wha–“

“I heard you the first time” You really couldn't read the expression on her face right at that moment. However, the corners of her lips were tipped up slightly, which is a good sign. 

You did not expect to hear the next thing that came out of her mouth. 

“I’ve already got the ring. I plan on marrying you. Just give me a minute to plan something, yeah?”

Your breath hitched, heart thudding in your chest as your eyes widened. You stared at the blonde, completely caught off guard, as if the rest of the world went still for a moment. Her expression was soft, teasing still, but there was something undeniably real in her eyes.

You opened her mouth to say something—anything—but words seemed to escape you. This time, it was you who was rendered speechless. You had known that a proposal might come sometime soon. In fact, you had been having thoughts about proposing to her yourself, but getting confirmation that she was thinking about it too has caught you completely off guard. But it was just like Leah to throw you completely off guard when she proposes. This was probably the most Leah-proposal ever. 

meademaa: CHAT IS THIS REAL

mac: I HEARD HER SAY RING DID SHE SAY RING

lacely: NO FCUKING WAY

goonerrr: PAUSE DID SHE JUST

“I know you lot aren’t acting surprised!” Leah turns her head towards the camera with a little laugh, completely oblivious to the fact that you still hadn’t spoken a word for over a minute or so– which was a new record for a yapper like you. 

You were usually quick-witted and composed, but in this moment, you felt utterly stunned, as if time had slowed to a crawl. Finally, you snapped out of it and turned towards the camera. There might be tears already welling in your eyes and your voice might’ve come out a bit shaky but no one could blame you. 

“R-right then. We’re ending the live here. Thanks for watching, everyone!” You round the kitchen counter hastily, practically speed-walking to turn off the recording button. You give the camera one more watery smile and wave, eyeing the flood of comments who are already giving ‘congratulations’ messages. 

alessiasextensions: DID WE JUST WITNESS A PROPOSAL

lessifc: CONGRATS MOTHESR

amber: wheres my invite to the wedding????

jordy: might cry or something 

You turn around to face your girlfriend– soon fiancé perhaps. You couldn't help but admire the way her eyes sparkled, the blues reflecting the gentle glow of the setting sun. Every feature of her face was etched into your memory – the curve of her smile and the crinkle at the corners of her eyes when she laughed.

Leah was in the midst of bringing another cupcake to her lips, and she’s got the widest grin on her face. She also looked lighter, more relaxed somehow, like she'd been finally free of a heavy load that's been weighing her down.

And in that moment, as your eyes meet hers, you knew with absolute certainty that you would wait for however long it took for her to ask you the question. You knew the moment you met her she would be someone special to you, so you could afford to wait a little longer. Besides, you already knew your answer. It would be the easiest ‘yes’ in your life. 

Sitting back in your seat beside her, you narrow your eyes slightly, pointing a finger at her.

“I want you down on one knee when you propose for real, you cheeky fucker” 

this has been in my drafts for a whiiiiile. i wrote and rewrote this one so many times until i was satisfied with how it played out.

dedicating this fic to the anon who gave me the idea back in march and everyone else who was waiting so patiently for it to escape the WIP jail lol.

hope it was worth the long wait <3333

comments and reactions appreciated!

・❥・- kisses, butter

*This work is my original creation. Please don’t copy, share, or translate it without asking for my permission first. Thanks for respecting that!

[mariasont]

Need a bimbo assistant reader x hotch fic where the team is making fun of hotch for having no sense of humour until we say smth like "what are you talking about? Hotch is hilarious!" And everyone just turns to hotch like "wtf??" To which he immediately changes the subject. But surprise surprise he's only trying to be funny around us to be charming 😛

The Funny Thing About Him - A.H

a/n: obsessed with this request bc this is so canon, i just know mans is saving ever stupid pun he sees on his blackberry to tell bimbo reader lololo

but thank you so much for the request lovely!

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: alcohol consumption, flirtiness galore, hotch being whipped and not knowing it yet, the team being a menace and lowkey bullying hotch, unintentional simping, bimbo!reader glazing hotch's sense of humor

wc: 1.9k

It was a rare thing for the team to spend time together outside of work, and even rarer to do so in a place like this. A dive bar that looked like it hadn't seen a deep clean since the Bush administration. But Garcia had insisted--no, demanded--that they all check out what she had referred to as her second office. 

So here you were, crammed into a tiny booth with the team, surrounded by mismatched furniture, sticky tabletops, and walls that had somehow absorbed the faint tang of stale beer as if it were part of their structural integrity. But after a round of drinks, then appetizers, then more drinks, it had become kind of charming in a deeply questionable way.

Everyone had seemed to have loosened up. Hotch, naturally, was the exception. Seated at the edge of the booth, he looked almost hilariously out of place, like someone had photoshopped him into the scene. His posture was straight as ever, his suit jacket neatly draped on the back of his chair, and fingers loosely curled around a glass of whiskey. 

He was listening, though, as he always did--dark eyes flicking to whoever was speaking, his small nods he only thing that gave him away.

You, however, were hyper-aware of Hotch for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with professionalism. The small booth had left you wedged between him and Garcia, and you couldn't decide if it was a blessing or a curse. On one hand, it meant you were close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, smell the woodsy, expensive cologne he always wore, and notice the little ways his expression softened just a hair every time you caught him glancing your way.

On the other hand, well, all those things were very distracting. 

Like, very distracting.

Garcia was mid-story--something dramatic about a terrible date, an allergic reaction, and a wig--but you weren't really listening. You were trying, of course, but your mind seemed too busy cataloging the way your elbow accidentally brushed against Hotch's every time you shifted, or how your knees kept grazing under the table.

Each time, you'd mutter a quick, oops, sorry, and each time, you absolutely did not mean it.

You liked testing the boundaries with him, liked noticing his reactions. In fact, you liked being able to notice most things about him--the little details no one else seemed to catch.

Like how he had this funny way of pressing his lips together when he was reading something particularly dense, like he was silently judging whoever wrote it. Or how he always seemed to have a spare hair tie ready in his desk drawer because yours snapped at the worst possible moments--and somehow, he always had it ready right when you needed it, like he'd been waiting for you to ask. 

Or how, right now, he kept subtly hovering a hand behind your head every time you leaned back in laughter, like he was ready to stop you from accidentally smacking the back of your head against the hard wood of the booth.

It made you feel warm and fizzy, like you’d downed one too many sugary cocktails. Which, honestly, you might have.

"Hotch," Garcia suddenly blurted, dragging you out of your thoughts. "Back me up here--there's no way this is the worst first day you've ever heard of."

He blinked, seemingly caught off guard. "I... I suppose it's up there."

Morgan grinned and shook his head. "Hotch, your definition of worst first date is probably someone not knowing how to file their taxes. You’ve got zero imagination for this stuff."

You glanced at Hotch, who just shrugged, not even bothering to defend himself.

No imagination, Morgan had said, and for some reason, you couldn’t help but try to picture it--Hotch on a date.

At first, the idea felt completely out of place, like imagining a celebrity shopping for milk. But then, the image started to take shape: he’d show up early, wearing one of those perfectly tailored suits that made him look like he belonged on the cover of GQ. He’d pull out your chair, open every door, and probably order something practical--like steak or chicken. And even if the conversation started stiffly, he’d listen so intently, like every word you said mattered. By the end of the night, you’d be completely smitten.

Not that you’d thought about it or anything.

“I think you’re underselling him,” JJ said with a knowing smile, glancing at Hotch. “He might not have the most obvious imagination, but he has a way of surprising people.”

Emily snorted. “Yeah, right. Hotch probably schedules his surprises. Like, plan to laugh sometime between 8:00 and 8:15 PM.”

Morgan grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Hotch doesn’t laugh. He probably just stares at people mid-joke, makes them uncomfortable, and calls it a win.”

Hotch arched a brow. “I wasn’t aware my sense of humor was under scrutiny tonight.”

“Oh, come on,” Morgan said, his grin widening. “You’ve gotta admit, Hotch, you’re not exactly cracking jokes left and right. Your idea of funny is telling someone they’re late for work when they’re actually on time.”

“That was funny,” Hotch deadpanned.

The table erupted into laughter, and even Emily shook her head, biting back a grin. “You’re proving his point, you know.”

“What are you guys talking about? Hotch is hilarious.”

The table fell silent. Every single person turned to look at you like you’d just claimed the sky was green. Even Hotch stiffened beside you, his glass halfway to his lips.

Morgan’s head tilted, his grin fading into something more incredulous. “What did you just say?”

“Hotch?” Emily asked, her face the picture of astonishment. “Did you… did you bribe her to say that?”

“No!” you said quickly, holding up your hands like you were defending yourself. “I mean it! He’s, like, really funny!”

“Hotch?” Garcia repeated, looking at you like you’d sprouted a second head. “Our Hotch?”

“How can you guys not think he’s funny? I laugh at his jokes all the time.”

Hotch, who up until this point had been composed despite the teasing, suddenly looked… well, less composed. His lips parted like he was going to say something, but then he clamped them shut, the faintest tinge of pink creeping up his neck and settling across his cheeks.

Emily smirked, glancing between you and Hotch. “Okay, now I have to hear these so-called jokes you think are hilarious.”

You turned back to them, still looking baffled. “Well, I can’t just, like, repeat them! It’s all in the timing. Hotch just… he has a vibe. You wouldn’t get it.”

The team erupted into laughter, but you just sighed dramatically, crossing your arms and turning back to Hotch. “Seriously, Aaron, tell them.”

Hotch cleared his throat, setting his glass down a little too forcefully.

 “So, Garcia,” he said quickly, his voice normal but his ears tinged red, “about this terrible first date—”

Hotch shot you a quick, almost panicked glance, but you pretended not to notice. Either way, you popped the fry into your mouth and smiled at him like you hadn’t just completely upended his reputation in front of the entire team.

Eventually the bar had mostly emptied out, including your team, the once-loud chatter replaced by the occasional creak of chairs and muffled laughter from the remaining patrons. You stood by the door, fiddling with the zipper of your jacket as another rush of cold air blew in when someone left. The chill bit at your cheeks. It wasn't the warmest coat in the world, but it was adorable, which you felt was more important.

Before you could even complain, however, Hotch stepped forward, placing himself squarely between you and the wind.

"Did you have fun tonight?"

You beamed at him, fingers idly playing with the end of your scarf. You took a small step closer--partly to escape the wind, partly for reasons you didn't feel you needed to disclose.

"Always," you said, tilting your head to examine him closely. "Did you?"

He nodded. "I did."

You blinked up at him. "Really? Even with everyone giving you such a hard time? I mean, they were relentless tonight.”

“They can’t help themselves." He huffed out a soft laugh, his breath misting in the cold air. Then, with a dry edge, he added, “And to be fair, I think I handled it better than you handled the fries Garcia stole from your plate.”

You giggled, covering your mouth with one hand. “Hey! That was a crime! I had every right to be upset!”

Hotch chuckled softly, shaking his head.

“See?” you said, poking him in the arm. “You’re funny! You are! Why aren’t you like that around everyone else?”

Hotch glanced at you, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly. “I think I just… read the room.”

Hotch’s vague answer left you with more questions than clarity, but you didn’t push him. The more you thought about it, the more certain you became—he was different with you.

Hotch didn’t crack jokes in the bullpen—not unless you were there. He didn’t tell silly stories during late-night case reviews—not unless it was just the two of you staying behind in the office, sorting through files. Like that time he told you about his college roommate, you’d laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe, and he’d chuckled softly, shaking his head like he hadn’t expected you to find it so funny.

Or the way he’d once walked by your desk and dropped a note on it that said, if it gets any colder in here, we’ll be solving frostbite cases next. You still had it tucked away in your drawer.

The thought made you feel a bit warmer, like you’d just downed a champagne flute in one gulp. Your cheeks hurt from how hard you were smiling, and before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out.

“You know, you’re the best boss ever. Have I told you that before?”

Hotch turned his head toward you, one eyebrow raised. “What do you want?” 

“Nothing!” you said quickly, your grin widening. “I’m just being honest!”

Hotch raised an eyebrow. "I hope you remember that next time you're twenty minutes late to a meeting because there was a sale at Bloomingdale’s."

You gave him your sweetest, most innocent smile.

“Well, maybe if you came with me to the sale, you wouldn’t have to wait twenty minutes for me to show up.” You leaned a little closer, your voice dropping into a teasing sing-song. “And I bet you’d look so cute holding my shopping bags.”

Hotch rolled his eyes, his expression impossibly dry. “I think I’ll leave the shopping bag modeling to Reid. He’s probably got the legs for it.”

You burst into a fit of giggles, covering your mouth with your gloved hands. “Okay, now you’re just messing with me!”

He exhaled a small laugh, finally relenting. “Alright, let’s go before you freeze.”

Still laughing, you looped your arm back through his and gave it a little squeeze as the two of you walked through the door. 

taglist: @readergf @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @broadwaytraaaaash @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @crouchingapple @navia3000 @aaronlovesava @bakugocanstompme @pansexualhailstorm @averyhotchner @looking1016 @everythinglizzy @sky2nd @alexxavicry @spencerssatchel @candyd1es @storiesofsvu @pleasantgardenwitch @kodzukenmaa @hiireadstuff @dilflover-3 @spennciesslut @phoenix-le-danseur-de-pole @jstcln @just-here-to-read13 @c-losur3 @wondergal2001 @oliver-1270 @ssahotchbabe @savagemickey03 @justanotherbimboslxt @imoonkiss @estragos @khxna @de-duchess @raysmayhem-72 @piinksdoll @justyourusualash @whimsicalpolitical @kcch-ns @cool-light32 @reidfile @sugarbutterbailey @ssamorganhotchner @persephonestears @moonyxstars @spookyysinsanity @proxxyshouse @spoolsofgreenspoolsofblack @imsonotweird @jungchloe @she-wont-miss @duchesz @may-machin99

join my taglist here!

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝓌𝑜𝑜𝒻 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝓍 𝑔𝓃!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Lately, things have been feeling off. You’ve been getting way more attention than usual, and not from anyone you’d expect. Someone’s been sneaking around your place, and you’re done just sitting back.

Here’s the twist, though—what if this person actually wants to be your dog? Yeah, you read that right. With a few clues, a little digging, and hanging out, you’ll know.

And you might just be hearing a “woof” real soon. 

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: This one's for @1heartsubm1ssivemen. Sorry for the delay, dearest, but I wanted to make sure I wrote the best smut possible for you. Honestly, when I read that request you sent me in the middle of lecture, it totally made my mood—it was so out of pocket, and I absolutely loved it. 

I’ve woven a bit of my own lifestyle into this, shaping it into how I personally see myself treating Sol.

Trust me—you’re gonna love every second of it.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: Sol x afab!reader, sub-Sol, dom!reader, gn!reader, smut, bdsm, possessive Sol, teasing, manipulation, power dynamics, pet play, praise kink, control, dominance, vulnerability, kink, intimacy, emotional intensity, slow burn, forced proximity, teasing, obsessive behavior, body worship, raw tension.

Look, living alone in an off-campus apartment?

Absolute dream. 

No roommates leaving passive-aggressive notes about dishes, no weird smells wafting in from a shared fridge, no one side-eyeing you when you stumble in at 3 AM with a suspiciously large tote bag full of things you probably didn’t need but absolutely had to buy. 

Just you and your perfectly curated chaos.  

And your place? It’s whimsical as hell.

The walls are covered in mismatched tapestries and posters—half of them vintage, half of them weirdly cryptic, like something out of an indie horror film. Fairy lights snake around the ceiling, tangled in ways you weren’t there last night, casting a soft, golden glow over everything.

There’s a collection of odd little trinkets scattered across the shelves—porcelain dolls with unsettlingly glassy eyes, tiny jars filled with things that look like cursed relics but are probably just cool rocks, and a slightly suspicious music box that sometimes plays a note or two on its own.  

The floor? Funky rugs galore. Every single one is different—one looks like an old Persian carpet stolen from a museum, another swirly like a fever dream from the ‘90s, and somehow, they all just work. The furniture is a mix of antique finds and comfortable, overstuffed pieces that you’ve practically melted into over time. 

Your couch? More of a nest at this point, covered in plush blankets, embroidered pillows, and at least three half-read books that you keep meaning to finish.  

The kitchen? Tiny, but absolutely drowning in charm. Mismatched mugs line the shelves, each one with its own little backstory—some stolen from diners, some gifted, some picked up because they spoke to you in some inexplicable way.

There’s a jar of honey on the counter, a half-melted candle that smells like cinnamon and something vaguely magical, and a fridge covered in postcards, weird magnets, and cryptic notes to yourself that even you don’t fully understand.  

And the best part?

The sheer vibe of the place. It’s cozy, it’s eerie, it’s you. 

A space that feels like it exists just slightly out of sync with reality, like if you turned a corner too fast, you might step into another world entirely. You love it here. You adore it here. It’s your little haven of weirdness, your own personal fairytale that doesn’t always make sense but always feels like home.

Except… there’s one tiny problem.  

You, uh… kinda have a stalker.  

Not in the full-blown, ‘call the cops and get a restraining order immediately way—at least, not yet’. But in the ‘this is getting really weird, and I might have to start locking my doors properly’ way.  

It started off small. Little things. Things that made you question your own memory more than anything. A book on your shelf slightly out of place, turned the wrong way when you swore you hadn’t touched it.

Your favorite mug—you know you left it in the sink, crusted with juice from your all-nighter, but somehow, it was mysteriously washed and put away. Annoying, but whatever. College was melting your brain, and maybe you were just forgetting things.  

And then there was the fridge.  

At first, you thought maybe you were imagining it, but no—there was more food. Not just any food, but your food. Your favorite snacks, the stuff you had literally run out of, were just… back. Sitting in the fridge like they had never disappeared in the first place.

The expensive cheese you told yourself you wouldn’t waste money on anymore? Back in the drawer. A brand-new carton of oat milk? Sitting pretty on the top shelf like it had always been there.  

You almost convinced yourself it was a roommate thing—except you don’t have a roommate.  

Then, the underwear went missing.  

Yeah. That’s when you started losing it a little.  

One missing pair? Weird, but maybe it got lost in the laundry. Two? Annoying. But three? Okay, no. Now you’re pacing around your apartment, flipping through your drawers like a lunatic, muttering under your breath, "There’s no way I’m imagining this. There’s NO WAY." 

That’s when it hits you.  

Somebody has been in your apartment. Somebody who knows your habits. Somebody who washes your mug stocks your fridge, and—apparently—has an interest in your underwear.  

And that? That’s when things stop being weird and start being a problem.

Because it’s not just the missing underwear anymore. It’s not just the fridge stocking itself or your mug getting mysteriously cleaned like you’ve got a ghost maid.

It’s the dreams. At first, you brushed them off. Everyone has weird dreams. Stress-induced nonsense, sleep paralysis, the occasional why the hell did my brain come up with that? kind of dream. But these?

These weren’t just dreams.

These felt real.

Someone holding you. Not the fleeting, vague sensation of a dream-hug, but something solid. Firm. A grip that lingered, too warm, too sure, like whomever it was had done this before. Like they belonged there.

Breath—soft and even, ghosting against your skin. The press of lips, deliberate and lingering, trailing from your temple down to your cheek, your jaw, lower.

And the worst part? The voice.

Not some faceless dream-stranger, not the usual nonsense whispers that fade upon waking. This was clear. Intimate. Kinda hot?? Like someone was right there, mouth pressed against your ear, speaking just for you.

"So pretty like this."

"Mine." 

"You don’t have to be afraid. I’ll always take care of you."

And yeah, normally, you’d just blame it on sleep deprivation. Stress. Maybe even some weird subconscious bullshit messing with your head. But last time you checked? You don’t wake up with bruises.

This is exactly why you’re standing in your bathroom right now, one hand holding your hair up, the other gripping the sink like it might do something to fix this entirely unacceptable situation. Your reflection stares back at you, looking just as pissed and exhausted as you feel.

Yeah. Those are fucking bruises.

Upper neck. Side of your throat. Deep enough to linger, tender enough to ache under the brush of your fingertips. Right where someone’s lips would have been.

Like the kind of mark a lover would leave. Slow. Intentional. Possessive.

Your stomach twists, a sick feeling creeping up your spine like ice-cold fingers pressing between your shoulders. You prod at the bruises again, wincing when a sharp sting shoots through your skin. Yeah—definitely real.  

Unless you’ve somehow started aggressively making out with your pillow in your sleep or developed a habit of sleepwalking straight into a damn wall, there’s only one explanation.  

Something’s been in your apartment.  

Someone’s been touching you.  

The air feels thick now like the walls are closing in, the dim glow of your lamp suddenly too warm, almost suffocating. Either you’re being haunted by the horniest ghost imaginable, or—  

Your stalker is getting real fucking bold.  

You exhale sharply, raking a hand through your hair. "And what the hell were they even after?" you mutter, scowling at your reflection. If he wanted to actually do something while you were asleep, he could’ve. But they didn’t. Why? Was he holding back? What the fuck is thier game?

Ugh. You shouldn’t be this used to this. Shouldn’t be thinking like this.   

"This is getting ridiculous…" you grumble, shaking off the chills running down your spine. Stepping out of the bathroom, you do a quick sweep of your windows. Still locked. Deadbolt on the door? Secure. No signs of forced entry. And you live on the third floor, so it’s not like some creep is climbing in through the damn balcony.  

So how the hell is they getting in now?

Now, you could call the police. That’s an option. But, uh… what exactly would you say? "Hey, officer, someone is mysteriously cleaning my dishes, refilling my fridge, and also swiping my underwear? Please help." Yeah. No. That sounds insane. You’d be laughed out of the station.

You could move out. That would be the smart thing to do, right? Pack up, break the lease, disappear into the night like this is some low-budget horror movie.

Except… yeah. That’s not happening.

Your lease isn’t up. And even if it was—this apartment is a steal. Literally. Because you’re not paying rent. At all. Your landlord? Super chill. Too chill, actually.

All you have to do is work your very specific (and slightly questionable) job, and in return? Free apartment. Free utilities. And best of all? He’s paying your tuition. This setup is golden. Platinum, even. You are not about to throw it all away just because some weirdo with boundary issues decided to play Domestic Phantom.

Still, if some creep thinks they can mess with you—thinks they can slither into your life like some discount horror movie villain—they’ve got the wrong one. Because you? You’re not about to be the dumbass who ignores all the red flags and ends up in a true crime documentary. Nope. Not happening.  

There’s gotta be a way to handle this.

A plan. A solution. Something.

But for now? You’re staying put. You wander into the kitchen, rip open a box of Pop-Tarts, and bite into one straight out of the foil—because, honestly, you’ve got bigger things to deal with than toasting the damn thing. Later, you’re changing the locks. And as for protection… your eyes narrow.  

Yeah. That might not be a problem.

You shove the paranoia down and focus on what you can control.

You get dressed. Something comfortable, something you. Mary Janes with soft knit socks, and a flowy black maxi skirt that moves like a whisper with every step. A black and red v-neck top sprinkled with delicate floral prints—subtle, but enough to make a statement.

Over that, a knitted wool cardigan, loose and cozy, its sleeves hanging past your wrists. A thin black choker wraps snugly around your neck, a long beaded pendant resting over your chest.

Your hair? Down. Messy but intentional. Just enough to veil the bruises. A bit of makeup, too—not too much, just enough to cover what needs covering.

Then? You’re out the door. Today’s agenda? Thrifting.

Something to take your mind off the weirdness crawling under your skin. You love thrifting—not just for the thrill of the find, but because it’s how you build your world. Your space, your aesthetic, your armor.

The thrift shop itself? A dump, but in the best way.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz and flicker, the one in the far-left corner struggling like it’s gasping its last breath. The air is thick with the scent of dust, old paper, and cheap lavender air freshener, the kind that doesn’t actually freshen anything.

The racks are overstuffed, clothes jammed together in a chaotic mess—vintage jackets crammed against grandma blouses, faded band tees fighting for space with outdated prom dresses.

And the shelves? A fever dream.

Antique picture frames missing their glass. Stacks of yellowed paperbacks nobody’s touched in decades. Rows of porcelain dolls, their glossy eyes following you no matter where you move. It’s a treasure hunt and a haunted house rolled into one.

And, like always, Sol is here. 

He’s become some sort of guard dog. You invite him thrifting, not because you love hanging out with him—okay, maybe you do, but you’ll never admit that to his face—but because no men come up to you and he’s always there when you inevitably find yourself hauling way too much stuff back home.

Stuff you absolutely cannot carry alone.

Plus Sol? He’s freakishly strong.

Like, ’s so strong it makes no sense for a guy who dresses like he just crawled out of an indie film. Ripped sweaters, and oversized band tees, and his hair always looks like he’s just rolled out of bed—he looks like he spends most of his time listening to sad guitar riffs in his bedroom. Not exactly the type you'd expect to lift heavy furniture with one hand like it’s nothing.

But there he is, standing near the iron-metal-and-glass bedside table you’ve been eyeing for the past few minutes. 

You test its weight in your hands—yep, heavy. Not happening by yourself.

“Hey, loser boy,” you call over your shoulder, already planning to rope him into doing all the hard work. Sol, who’s busy inspecting a studded belt like he doesn’t already have three of them, looks up with that signature nonchalant expression. “What?”

You point at the table, a wicked grin creeping up on your face. “Think you can carry this for me?”

He sighs dramatically like you’ve asked him to do something impossible, but without skipping a beat, he steps forward. One hand easily slides under the table’s base, lifting it as if it weighs nothing. The action is almost effortless, making your smug grin falter slightly as you watch him handle the furniture with way too much ease.  

His rings catch the bad fluorescent lighting in the store, glinting like they’re part of some mysterious charm he’s wearing for the day. Sol effortlessly shifts the weight to one arm and starts moving without even blinking.  

“You know,” he mutters, voice dry, “you could just get a shopping cart.”  

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, but then I wouldn’t need you.” 

His lips twitch like he wants to say something sarcastic, but the flush creeping up his neck betrays him. He’s embarrassed, or at least he’s trying to hide it, but you can see right through him.  

You take full advantage of the moment, your smirk widening, the kind of victorious grin that makes you feel just a little bit too smug. You know he hates it when you tease him like this. And yet, he always falls for it.

“Whatever,” Sol mutters, carrying the table toward the checkout area with a resigned look on his face. But you know, deep down, he doesn’t mind it. Not really. Because as much as he pretends like you’re a pain in the ass, it’s obvious he’s got a soft spot for you.

And that’s exactly why you keep him around. 

It’s not just the heavy lifting—although, that’s definitely a perk. It’s the way he’s always there when you need him, even if you don’t need him. You like having him around, even if you refuse to admit it out loud.  

At first, Sol's offers to pay for everything were just part of the routine, but then—he never stopped. Every. Single. Time. The way he’d shove his hand in his pocket, and pull out that crumpled bill with a look that said, ‘I’m paying and you can’t stop me’ was almost endearing. Almost.  

But you can’t let him.  

“I’ve got it,” you’d say, always with that perfect blend of aloofness and stubbornness.  

But Sol? He wasn’t backing down. You’d seen him try, so many times. At first, you thought it was just politeness—he didn’t want to feel like the moody guy who makes everyone pay for their own stuff. But no, there was persistence behind those actions. He genuinely wanted to pay for things, especially when you were involved.  

And, well... if he’s going to be so damn insistent about it, who are you to say no?  

Lowkey, you knew it wasn’t right to use him like this. You didn’t need to feel bad, though. After all, he was a volunteer. Mostly. You couldn’t help the way your mind wandered to the fact that well… Sol was cute. Tall, with that broody vibe that somehow always made him look like he was plotting something dangerous. He was the kind of guy who probably made people think twice before messing with him, though you knew better than to make assumptions.  

But more than that? The strength. The kind of strength that didn’t make sense for someone who seemed so out of place at times. He wasn’t one of the rich, perfect students walking around campus, acting like they owned the world. He wasn’t a golden boy who had everything handed to him. No, Sol had muscle. 

You liked that.  

That’s why, one day while sorting through cheap jackets in the thrift store, you asked him, “So, uh… ever been in a fight?”

He gave you that same annoyed look he always did, that eyebrow arching like you were the last person he expected to ask him that question. Then, slowly, a little smile formed. “Yeah. A few.”  

Of course, he had. He was the kind of guy who could handle himself in any situation, no matter how chaotic.  

“What about teaching me?” you asked casually, tossing another item into your pile. 

That got his attention. He stopped, looking at you like you had just asked him to walk on water. “Teach you?” he repeated slowly, like you were joking.   

“Yeah. You know, protect myself and stuff?” You shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ve seen the way some of these rich assholes treat the first-gen and lower-income students around here. They think they can just push us around. Some of them even bully people or treat them like pets.”  

He went quiet.  

“I don’t want to end up like that,” you added, quieter now. You didn’t want to explain the deeper reasons behind your request—didn’t want him to see too much. But he must’ve gotten it.  

After a moment, Sol nodded. “All right. I’ll teach you.”  

You almost didn’t believe him at first. Sol teaching you how to defend yourself? You had assumed it was a joke, some offhand comment he made while trying to sound tough. But here you were, weeks later, in the middle of moving furniture around in your living room, the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the dusty blinds, casting long shadows across the floor.  

The truth was, campus life isn’t exactly a cakewalk. You’ve seen the way people look at you when they think you’re beneath them—like you don’t belong, like you're just another person to brush aside. You could keep pretending it’s all fine, playing it safe, and hoping it’ll never happen to you, but the truth? The truth was too obvious to ignore.  

If you don’t start learning how to protect yourself now, you might risk becoming just another target. A victim of the system. Of people who think they’re untouchable like they own the world simply because they’ve got the privilege and the right connections. 

So, here you were. 

Your apartment is quiet, the only sound being the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the occasional creak of the old hardwood floors beneath your feet. A soft light flickers from the lamp in the corner, casting long shadows that stretch across the walls and the floor. 

It’s not much—just a regular night. Except it isn’t.  

You moved the coffee table aside, and now the center of the room is cleared, the space a little too open, a little too exposed for comfort.

Normally, this would be the part where you'd curl up on the couch, maybe grab a snack, or settle in with some comfortable TV show on your laptop. But tonight? Tonight, you're standing here in the middle of your living room, hands balled into fists at your sides, trying to ignore the slight discomfort crawling up your spine.  

Sol stands a few feet away, leaning back casually against the wall. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes? They’re locked on you, sharp as ever. Red-orange irises gleam in the dim light, intense and calculating. You swear he’s looking right through you like he's already analyzing every tiny movement you make.  

"All right, so, it’s all about balance first," Sol says, voice low and controlled. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, his expression hard to read. But then again, it’s always hard to read Sol. 

You swallow, trying not to make it obvious that you’re suddenly hyper-aware of how awkward this all feels. You're not exactly a fighter. You never had to be. Back in high school, you had a few run-ins and a couple of moments where you needed to stand your ground, but those were more the exception than the rule. 

Still, here you are, in the middle of your apartment, standing in a stance you’ve only ever seen in movies, bracing yourself not to look like a fool in front of the guy who, for whatever reason, agreed to teach you how to throw a punch.  

You nod, straightening up, trying to mimic his calm, practiced demeanor. The last thing you want to do is look like you’ve never lifted a finger in your life. Your fists are tight at your sides, the feeling of them somehow grounding you, even though they don't feel natural. You flex your fingers for a second, then tighten them again.  

Sol watches you for a moment, then his gaze softens, just for a second. You catch it—an almost imperceptible flicker of something in his eyes that makes you pause. It’s... amusement? You’re not sure. But before you can think too hard about it, he motions for you to step forward.  

“Shift your weight,” he says, his voice steady. “Lead with your hips.”  

You try, trying to remember what he said. Shift. Hips. Balance. It feels unnatural like you’re trying to bend in a way your body wasn’t built for. You step forward tentatively, unsure of where exactly your weight should go. It’s like every part of your body is working against you, your legs are unsteady, your torso stiff, and your movements jerky. You hate how awkward you feel. You feel ridiculous.  

Sol, however, doesn’t flinch. He just watches, those sharp eyes following every shift you make.  

“Better,” he mutters. “A little more fluid.” His voice is low, quiet, but still firm. “Don’t be stiff. Relax. You’re not trying to break something.”  

You nod, trying again, focusing on letting your body flow more easily, trying to mimic the ease with which Sol stands. But every move feels like it’s taking more effort than it should. Your legs don’t want to cooperate, and your arms feel like they belong to someone else.  

"Just focus on moving like you’re part of the room," he adds, voice softer this time. “Everything in here is in balance. You should be, too.”  

His tone shifts, becoming less like a drill sergeant and more... encouraging? Weird. You didn’t expect that from him, but it helps, just a little. You inhale deeply, steadying yourself. 

Sol’s still watching you, his stance casual but observant. There’s a subtle shift in his expression—a hint of satisfaction, maybe? It’s hard to tell. You try again, and this time, it feels a little more natural. Your weight shifts more fluidly; your posture loosens up. You’re not perfect yet, not by a long shot, but... it’s better. It’s not as awkward.  

"Good," Sol says, giving a small nod. "One more time. But this time—" He steps closer, just a fraction. His eyes lock onto yours, almost expectant. "Just let go. Don't overthink it."  

It’s hard not to. Hard not to get in your head about every movement. But somehow, with him so close, you feel a spark of determination, and before you can stop yourself, you let it all go. Your stance shifts, your weight flows, and your body moves more naturally. You feel it this time—your body, your balance, your control. It’s not perfect, but it’s... close enough.  

Sol takes another step back, his gaze lingering for a moment before he lets out a low breath. “Not bad. You’ll get there.”  

For a brief second, his tone is... softer. Like he's genuinely impressed. You can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment, even if it's only the first step.  

You glance up at him, not entirely sure what to say. You're not used to this—being taught by Sol. Hell, you’re not used to feeling like you can stand up for yourself, physically or otherwise. But here you are, one step closer to something you didn’t think you needed.  

Suddenly, your stomach dropped when you heard the rumble of Sol’s stomach. You both stopped mid-lesson, realizing you’d been at it for a while. He tilted his head toward you, his mouth pulling into a half-smirk.  

“Want me to order dinner?” he asked casually like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m thinking Chinese food. Like, the good stuff. Rice, bourbon chicken, sweet orange chicken…”  

Your eyes narrowed, half-worried he was trying to get out of finishing your lesson by offering food, but at the same time, the thought of not having to cook yourself was tempting. Your stomach growled in agreement.  

“You’re paying, right?” you asked, eyeing him suspiciously.  

“Obviously,” he said with a smirk that almost made you roll your eyes.  

“Fine. I’ll make room for your… generosity”  

You helped him with the call, and after a few minutes of placing the order, you shuffled back to the center of the room to keep practicing. Sol leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, and you could tell he was silently judging your form—but there was something in his expression that told you he wasn’t *all* that serious about it. You weren’t the most graceful person in the world, but at least you were trying. And honestly, that was more than a lot of people ever bothered to do.  

Soon, the smell of food started wafting in from the front door. The delivery guy had arrived. Sol made his way to the door, leaving you to do some last-minute stretching as you mentally prepared to eat your weight in takeout.  

When he returned with the bags of food, you felt a sudden wave of relief wash over you. Sol’s presence had a way of making you feel oddly safe, even though you were still pretty sure half the world would probably see you as just a piece of trash to kick around. But right now, right here, you had something for yourself. A plan. A way to stand up for yourself. 

And for once, maybe it wouldn’t feel like the world was just out to get you.  

You started setting up the food on your kitchen counter, the familiar scent of takeout filling the small space, making everything feel just a little bit warmer. Maybe it was the food. Maybe it was the lesson you’d just gone through with Sol—his unspoken instructions that made you feel just a little bit more capable. Or maybe, just maybe, it was him. There was something comforting about having him around, even when he was gruff, his usual silence hanging heavy in the air. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

“All right, dinner’s here,” Sol said, rubbing his hands together with a playful glint in his eyes. “You ready to actually fight someone yet?”

You glanced at him sideways, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Maybe. But only if they start with the orange chicken.” You pointed your chopsticks at him for emphasis, “That’s non-negotiable.”

Sol’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he rolled his eyes, stepping past you to the counter. You moved to the cabinet to grab the plates, feeling oddly lighter. Everything just felt easier in this moment, even with Sol hovering around.

The dull hum of the refrigerator, the quiet flicker of the overhead light—it was all just normal*, for once. Not a single thing felt out of place.

You reached for the plates, your fingers brushing the cool ceramic. But then, as if by instinct, a sudden movement behind you made you freeze. 

Before you could even process it, Sol’s large hand reached right next to yours, his fingers brushing against your skin as he grabbed the plates instead. His proximity was close enough that his shoulder grazed yours, and for a split second, you felt your heartbeat skip. You didn’t even realize how startled you were until the breath caught in your throat.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out,” he muttered, a little too quickly, the words slipping out as if they were forced, like he didn’t quite expect his sudden action to unsettle you.  

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, his next words caught you off guard. He was so close now that his voice seemed to vibrate against your ear. 

“You know if you ever actually want to learn to fight... it’s not always about hitting first.”

His words, casual and low, sent an odd shiver down your spine. Not because of the content itself, but because of the way his voice sounded—soft, but with something else. Something deeper. 

Unsettlingly familiar.

You blinked, your hand stiffening on the counter, unsure of what exactly had just happened. Was it just the way his voice was wrapped in that strange intensity? You'd always known Sol had a low, gravelly voice, but now that it was right against you, so unexpectedly close, it sounded different. Almost like—whispering to you. In a way that felt a little too personal.

For a brief, inexplicable moment, you wondered if he knew the effect his voice had on you. Maybe he did.  

You shook your head and tried to shake off the odd feeling creeping up your spine. It was probably nothing. Just Sol being Sol—gruff, distant, and surprisingly close when you least expected it.  

But still, something was definitely... off. 

Or maybe just on—in a way you didn’t want to think too hard about.

The rest of the evening passed in a comfortable blur. You and Sol settled on the couch, the two of you sharing the takeout containers, laughing over your less-than-adequate attempts at chopsticks. The usual tension between you seemed to melt away, replaced by something... easier. 

Sol wasn’t exactly the warmest person, but you’d learned over time to appreciate the way he didn’t expect you to be anything other than yourself. Even when he was being annoyingly gruff, he somehow managed to make you feel... well, normal.

You leaned back into the couch, feeling the weight of your full stomach and the quiet warmth of the room. The soft hum of the fridge, the distant sound of traffic outside—it was oddly peaceful. 

“So,” you said, glancing over at him. Sol had already pushed his food aside and was staring at the half-finished puzzle on the table—something you'd long since given up on. “Where do you even get your outfit ideas? You’re always looking so... put together. I need some tips.”

Sol gave you that side-eye like you were asking him about the meaning of life. "Outfits? What, you wanna dress like me or something?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "Nah, not really. Just curious. You’ve got that... thing, you know? That whole alt vibe. It’s kinda cool."

He shrugged, his usual “I don’t care about anything” face back in place. "Doesn’t really fit with your... vibe. You're too, I don't know, whimsical for it."

"Whimsical?" You rolled your eyes. "Dude, I'm not a damn fairy."

Sol didn’t even blink, keeping his eyes on whatever he was staring at. "Not exactly emo like me either. You’re more like... whimsical goth, you know? Mixing those flowery, goth vibes with a little playfulness. All those lush florals, patterns, moody colors, layers, and random little celestial shit. Doesn’t match." He paused, then added with a dry smirk, "You can't exactly wear black leather and chains and still call it cute."

“Cute…?” You raised an eyebrow at him, suddenly getting the feeling he was messing with you. “And I don’t even smell like a hippie, okay? I’m not out here smelling like patchouli.”

Sol leaned back, smirking like he knew something you didn’t. “Nah, you’re all about that herb life, I can tell. It’s like rosemary and lavender. You’re probably one of those people with a whole stash of essential oils or some shit.”

You stopped mid-bite, fork still in your hand. “Rosemary? I don’t... use that stuff.”

He gave you a lazy look, clearly unfazed by your surprise. “Yeah? Well, you kinda do. It’s not overpowering or anything, but it’s there. Like, maybe it’s in your hair?”

You blinked, taken aback. Lavender you could explain—you used that stuff occasionally with your shower routine, especially when you were winding down for the night, but rosemary?

You hadn’t exactly been using it religiously. You had a bottle of rosemary oil you mixed into your hair care routine on occasion, but it was a once-in-a-while kind of thing. Something that you do only at night,

"Really?" You asked, feeling a slight heat rise in your cheeks. "Is it that strong? I barely even notice it."

Sol just shrugged. "It’s not like it’s overwhelming or anything. Just... normal. You know, like some people have a scent that’s, well, theirs. Yours is herbal. Rosemary, lavender. You just feel like... fresh air."

It was strange hearing him describe you like that—like something natural, even pleasant. You wanted to argue, to brush it off, but for some reason, his words stuck. You never really thought about your scent beyond the occasional self-care routine. You’d never imagined someone would notice it so specifically. 

It felt oddly personal, but not in a bad way. 

You leaned back, trying to shake off the weird, almost embarrassed feeling that was creeping up your spine. "I’m not a freaking herb garden, Sol," you muttered, more to yourself than anything, but of course, your voice carried. 

Sol just let out a low chuckle, the kind that sent a little shiver down your spine, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. "Sure, whatever you say. But hey, if you ever want outfit advice, I’ve got you. Just don’t expect me to foot the bill. No way I’m going shopping with you," he said, sounding way too smug for his own good.

You raised both hands in mock surrender, grinning. "Deal. But you’ll owe me one for not making you teach me your ‘grumpy badass with a whole wardrobe of black’ look.”

His smirk only grew wider. "Yeah, well... you'd probably look ridiculous in it anyway." His voice had that unmistakable tease to it, the same one that made you want to roll your eyes and laugh at the same time.

"You're lucky you're cute," you muttered under your breath, trying to keep the teasing tone going. You shot him a playful glance, your lips curling up just slightly.

Sol didn't immediately respond, which was a little weird. Usually, he'd fire back with something sarcastic or just give you that deadpan stare. But this time? He just shrugged it off and leaned back into the couch like it was no big deal.

Not wanting to let it go, you suddenly got an idea. With a mischievous smile, you crawled over to him on your knees, careful not to knock over the empty takeout containers still sitting on the coffee table. Sol glanced at you like you were out of your mind, but you didn’t care. 

You tapped his nose gently, just enough to make him blink and look at you in surprise. "Cute," you said with a wink, leaning in closer, your breath a little shaky but definitely playful.

Sol raised an eyebrow, clearly annoyed by your closeness, but you couldn’t help it. You weren’t gonna back down now. As you hovered over him, your eyes naturally dropped to his neck, and that’s when you saw it—the green choker he was wearing, snug against his throat.

You couldn’t help it. A smirk slid across your face as you leaned back slightly, grinning. "Nice choker, emo boy. You trying to start a band or something?" you teased, your voice dripping with that sarcastic sweetness you knew would get under his skin.

His face went from mildly amused to instantly irritated. "Shut up," he muttered, leaning his head back just enough to avoid your gaze, clearly trying to act unaffected. But you could tell—he was annoyed, and maybe even a little embarrassed.

"Aw, come on," you teased further, tapping the choker lightly with your finger, "I didn’t know you were such a dark soul." You joked

"You're really pushing it now," Sol grumbled, but you could see the corners of his lips twitching like he was trying not to smile. He looked away again like he was pretending he wasn’t at least a little amused by your antics. 

You laughed, enjoying the playful tension. "Okay, okay," you relented, leaning back slightly and giving him a little space. "I guess you do look kind of badass in that choker, but—" you paused, narrowing your eyes teasingly, "—just don’t start trying to summon demons in my living room, all right?"

Sol rolled his eyes, but there was a faint, exasperated smile tugging at his lips. "You’re a real pain, you know that?" he muttered under his breath.

"Yeah, but you love it," you shot back, grinning widely. "Or at least, you put up with it. Big difference."

You couldn’t help it. With a playful smirk, you leaned in a little closer, your finger sliding under the clasp of his choker. You gave it a subtle tug, just enough to create tension, just enough to make him shift in place, but not enough to hurt. The motion was lighthearted, almost teasing, as you kept your eyes locked on his reaction. 

"Careful there, puppy," you teased, your voice sweet with mock innocence as you tugged on the choker once more. "You might wanna think twice about who you’re calling cute. Last time I checked, I’m a grown woman in college, and I can handle myself just fine."

Puppy? 

You could see his reaction before it even hit his face. Sol froze for a split second, and you could feel the air around you shift. His breath came out a little sharper, a little more ragged. His chest puffed up like he was trying to keep it together, but the tension in his jaw gave it all away. 

His usual, icy ‘don’t mess with me’ glare was nowhere to be found today. Instead, you got something darker—a mix of irritation and maybe a little something else that he was clearly fighting to suppress. 

You couldn’t help but smirk at the sight.

For all his tough guy persona, it was clear that ‘puppy’ had hit a nerve.

He chuckled, but it sounded more like a nervous little exhale. "Says the one who asked me to teach them how to fight," he shot back, trying to sound all tough and detached. But there was this subtle hitch in his voice that you caught.

You didn't break eye contact. Oh no, you were in full tease mode now, smirking like you’d just found a secret treasure. Slowly, you tugged on the choker again—just enough to make him squirm, watching him closely for any sign of cracking.

"Yeah, I did," you said, as casually as you could manage, even though your grin was practically stretched across your face. You leaned in a little closer, closing the space between you two. "But hey, it’s the least you could do for me, right?" you added, letting your words hang there like a little trap. "I mean, I’m just using you for your skills."

His chest gave a little hitch, and for a second, you thought he might drop the whole ‘I’m too cool for this’ act. His lips parted just slightly, like he was gonna say something, but couldn’t quite manage it. You could practically feel the internal struggle. 

Oh yeah, you were definitely getting under his skin now. 

Sol’s hand reached up toward your shoulder, and you followed his movements, almost mesmerized. It was like he was fighting with himself, trying to keep that icy composure. But you could see it—the tension in his jaw, the way his grip tightened, like he was trying to resist something. 

A smug grin spread across your face. Oh, this was good. You gave the choker another playful tug, just enough to make his breath catch, and raised an eyebrow at him. "Like what?" you asked innocently, feigning confusion.

Sol let out a low, frustrated sigh, leaning in closer, his eyes narrowing in on you with something that was definitely not just irritation. No, there was something else there now—something darker, like he was starting to unravel. His voice dropped an octave, rough and raspy. 

"You know exactly what you’re doing."

Oh, you heard it—the strain in his voice, the rough edge he was trying to mask. It wasn’t working. And you were loving every second of it. "Do I?" you asked, your voice dropping to a teasing whisper, just barely audible. 

"Maybe I do… or maybe I don’t…” 

Your eyes narrowed as you slid off the couch with a casual stretch, giving him just enough time to let it sink in. You stretched your arms over your head with an exaggerated yawn, finally deciding to show Sol a little mercy. “All right, all right, I’m done messing with you,” you said, pushing yourself up off the couch. “I need to clean up and crash early anyway.”  

Sol blinked a few times like he was still trying to shake off whatever the hell just happened between you two. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah?” His voice sounded a little off—like he was still recovering from you messing with him.  

You nodded, already gathering up the empty takeout containers. “Yeah, there’s an estate sale happening in the morning, and I want to be the first one there.” You shot him a grin over your shoulder. “They always have the best jewelry and vintage clothes—velvet, lace, the whole deal. I’m not risking some old rich lady snatching up everything before I get there.”  

Sol snorted at that, standing up and grabbing some of the trash to help. “Yeah, sounds totally worth losing sleep over,” he said, rolling his eyes. But then, after a beat, he asked, “You going with someone?”  

You paused, thinking for a second as you tossed a takeout box in the trash. You hadn’t really planned it out, but now that he asked…  

“I haven’t hung out with Crowe in a minute,” you said, turning to look at Sol. “Might text him later, see if he wants to come with.”  

It was subtle, but you caught it—the way Sol’s shoulders tensed just slightly, the way his fingers curled against the counter before he quickly shoved them into his pockets. His usual frown deepened, his mouth pressing into a thin line.  

“…Right,” he muttered, nodding a little too quickly like he was trying way too hard to seem unbothered. “Makes sense.”  

You raised a brow, amused. “What? Jealous?”  

He scoffed, crossing his arms. “Pfft. As if.” But his tone was just a little too defensive, and you didn’t miss the way he definitely wasn’t looking you in the eye.  

You smirked but decided to let him off the hook this time. 

For now, anyway.

As you started gathering the trash and stacking the empty containers, Sol—surprisingly—didn’t bolt like he usually did when chores were involved. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves and started washing the dishes without a word. You side-eyed him but didn’t say anything, just smirked to yourself and kept cleaning.  

The silence between you two wasn’t uncomfortable, just filled with the quiet clatter of plates and running water. Then, midway through scrubbing a pan, Sol spoke up. “I made you chamomile,” he said casually like it wasn’t a big deal. “It’s on the counter.” 

You blinked, looking over to see a mug of tea steaming gently next to a little bowl of freshly washed fruit. Your gaze flicked back to him, a little thrown off. “Uh… you made this?”  

“Yeah?” Sol didn’t look at you, focusing way too hard on rinsing off a plate. “I mean, you always eat it before bed, right? Figured I’d save you the trouble.”  

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms, a slow grin creeping up your face. “Huh. Didn’t know you paid that much attention to my nightly routine.”  

He clicked his tongue, finally looking at you with a glare that didn’t quite reach his usual level of menace. “Don’t get weird about it.”  

You chuckled but didn’t push it—he’d already looked about five seconds away from regretting saying anything at all.  

Once the kitchen was spotless, Sol muttered something about heading to bed early and, true to form, made a swift exit—like he couldn’t leave fast enough. You watched him go, amused at how suddenly eager he was to disappear.  

Finally.  

You let out a deep sigh, rolling your shoulders before heading to the bathroom. A hot shower sounded perfect right now—just you, the steam, and no one hovering or throwing weird energy into the air.   

The water was bliss, washing away the long day, and whatever lingering tension still clung to you. After drying off, you slipped into your favorite tank top and matching shorts, the soft lace trim brushing against your thighs as you moved. It was nice—cozy, comforting. Just what you needed.   

You grabbed the small bowl of fruit and the still-warm chamomile tea from the counter before flopping onto your bed, letting out a content sigh as you scrolled through your phone. Mindlessly, you popped a blueberry into your mouth, the burst of sweetness barely registering as your thoughts started drifting back to earlier.   

You squinted down at the cup of tea in your hand before sighing and setting it on your nightstand. Normally, you’d drink it, let the warmth settle in your chest, and let it lull you into sleep like it always did. 

But tonight? You weren’t feeling it. 

The night had settled into that eerie kind of silence—the kind that made everything feel heavier like the world had momentarily paused. No cars passing by, no distant hum of city life, just the quiet hum of your apartment and the occasional creak of the building settling.  

Wrapped in the warmth of your blankets, you lay on your side, staring at the ceiling. Your room was dimly lit by the soft glow of your bedside lamp, casting long shadows along the walls. The scent of chamomile still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint traces of rosemary and lavender from your hair.  

Sleep was creeping in, slow and heavy, but your mind had other plans. You had this weird way of thinking in the in-between—half-asleep but not quite dreaming, like your subconscious was having a conversation with itself. Thoughts came and went without effort, lingering just long enough to make you wonder if you were awake or not.  

And right now, those thoughts were circling back to him.

Sol paid more attention than you ever gave him credit for. That much was obvious now. The fruit, the tea—hell, even the way he noticed your bedtime habits. It was weird. Not bad weird… just interesting.

You weren’t sure what to make of it yet.  

But that moment—the way his voice wavered, how his whole demeanor shifted the second you mentioned Crowe?  

Mhm.

That says everything.  

You turned over, pulling the blankets tighter around you. At some point, exhaustion won, and you drifted off, the weight of your blankets making your body sink into the mattress, warmth cocooning you. Everything was still. Comfortable. And then… Something changed. A shift. 

Subtle. Small. But enough to pull you from the depths of sleep, your subconscious whispering that something wasn’t quite right. The air around you felt heavier like something unseen had crept in, pressing down on the room itself. Your subconscious stirred before you did, that primal instinct kicking in, whispering that something was off.  

You were not alone.

You didn’t move—not yet. Your breathing remained slow and steady, the perfect mimicry of deep sleep. But something was off. It was like something air felt different, charged with an unnatural stillness like the world was holding its breath.  

And then, you felt the stare.

Not touching you, not yet, but hovering just above—too close, too present. A shadow pressed against the darkness, an unseen figure dressed in black standing at the very edge of your space, watching. Studying. The fine hairs on the back of your neck prickled, a slow, creeping chill sinking deep into your bones. 

You didn’t need to open your eyes to know that whatever it was, it hadn’t moved. It was waiting.

Carefully, slowly, you shifted beneath the blankets, rolling just enough to press your face further into the pillow. The movement was subtle, natural—the kind of mindless stirring someone might make in the depths of sleep. But beneath the act, your mind aware, calculating.

Your fingers slid beneath the pillow, brushing against the cool metal tucked away underneath. The weight of it was grounding, a quiet reassurance against the uncertainty pressing down on you. Your breathing remained steady, even—controlled—but your pulse told a different story, hammering quietly against your ribs.

Still, the presence above you remained unmoving.

Whoever—or whatever—it was, they were patient.

If it were planning to kill you in your sleep, they'd have to get closer. You knew how this worked—hesitation was a killer. Worst comes to worst, the second they touched you—And then you felt it.

A subtle shift in the bed, a slow, deliberate movement that crept over your body, causing your heart to beat just a little faster. 

“Fuck… you smell so good as always…” The words came out in a low, almost reverent murmur, sending a ripple of heat through your spine. So human after all unless the demon can speak…

Your breath caught in your throat as something—someone—shifted, climbing over you with ease. Their weight settled above your back, warm and steady, and the air around you thickened, pressing against your skin as if the very space you occupied had shrunk. It was suffocating, but not in the way you were used to. 

“Let’s see…” the voice mumbled softly, each word vibrating against your skin as they gently moved your arm, lifting it with slow precision before letting it flop back down like a feather touching a surface. You barely moved, still lost in the haze of sleep, your senses tingling at the intimate gesture. “Like always, deep in sleep…”

A soft, almost teasing nibble landed on your neck, followed by a kiss, and then another, lingering longer this time, until the sensation made you involuntarily let out a soft whimper. The warmth of his lips left a trail of heat on your skin, and you could almost feel the ghost of his smile against your neck, something possessive in the touch.

He didn’t stop there, though.

The kisses kept coming, gentle at first but quickly growing more urgent, more insistent. A few more laps of his tongue, the wetness lingering on your skin as a mark slowly began to form—a visible reminder of his closeness. “I wish you were already mine,” he mumbled, his voice thick with a mix of frustration and desire.

You barely had time to react before you felt his hands—large, warm, and deliberate—sliding over your sides then through your tank top before cupping your bare breasts, and squeezing gently. His touch was slow as if savoring the warm sensation, his palms pressing against the soft body fat.

“We had such fun this week…” Sol murmured, his voice thick with something unreadable, his body flush against your back. Every inch of him was pressed into you, a heavy, unmoving weight that kept you caged beneath him.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, instead burying your face deeper into the pillow, hiding the deadpan look threatening to cross your face. Not that he would’ve noticed—he was far too preoccupied with you. He didn’t try to remove his hands, didn’t loosen his grip, just held you there, his fingers flexing slightly as he pulled you even closer as if that was physically possible.

His breath ghosted over the sensitive skin of your neck before he nuzzled into it, his hair tickling you just enough to make you squirm. He exhaled a shaky sigh, his lips brushing against your pulse. “So warm…” he muttered, voice low, almost dazed. His thumbs lazily circled your nipples through your tank top, drawing a sharp, involuntary shiver from you.

Then came the pressure—slow, deliberate, and completely overwhelming. His hips rolled against yours, a steady, unrelenting grind that had you sinking deeper into the mattress, trapped beneath his weight. Every shift, every movement, pressed you further down, his body practically molding to yours like he had no intention of letting go.

Your heartbeat hammered in your chest, breath caught somewhere between shock and something dangerously close to pleasure. You couldn’t move, couldn’t even think straight. The realization of just how powerless you were in this moment sent a strange thrill up your spine, one you weren’t sure you wanted to acknowledge.

Then—his hands tightened. His fingers suddenly pinched down hard on your nipples from inside the thin fabric of your tank top, sending a sharp jolt through you. A muffled gasp escaped, but you bit down on the pillow, silencing yourself. The last thing you wanted to do was react—at least, not in a way that would give him more satisfaction.

But god, no matter how absurd, how insane this situation was… the way his breath hitched, the way he whined against your neck, it was impossible to ignore the way it made you feel.

“But you just had to bring him into everything, didn’t you?” His voice took on a sharper edge, and you felt the grip on the edge of the bed tighten, the sheets crumpling beneath his hand with an intensity that made your stomach drop.

His breath was heavier now, almost ragged. “Why…? You’re supposed to be mine. No one else.”

A sharp, metallic zip cut through the silence—too close to your ear, making you tense instantly, every nerve in your body screaming. 

The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. 

“You belong to me.”

Your stomach lurched. 

Oh, hell no.

In another world, in another life where you were just a normal person, you would have screamed. You would have thrashed, kicked, fought with everything in you.

But here, now, at this moment, you were frozen—trapped in the paradox of something so inherently wrong yet laced with a twisted kind of exhilaration. It was sick, it was deranged, and yet, some primal part of you couldn’t deny the way your body reacted, betraying every rational thought screaming at you to move.

But enough was enough.

The suffocating weight of him, the heat of his breath against your skin, the way his hands roamed like he had some kind of right—it was pathetic. The creeping tension thickening the air, the sheer audacity of being cornered in your own bed by someone who had no business touching you—it had all gone too far.

Before he could whisper another possessive word, before he could dare push this delusion any further, you acted. Fast. Instinct took over, that survivalist part of you finally snapping out of its trance.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you reached beneath your pillow, your hand gripping the cold steel of the knife that had become a silent protector in your room. In a single fluid motion, you pulled it out and pointed the blade at the shadowed figure hovering over you, your knees digging into the bed as you spun to face them. Your breath came fast, adrenaline surging through your veins.

“What in the hell are you—!” You barely got the words out before a hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with a vice-like grip. Your pulse raced as they overpowered your attempt to retaliate, their fingers digging into your skin like a vice.

You couldn’t believe it. Your mind scrambled to process what you were seeing, but your body reacted first—stiffening, every muscle tensing as your breath hitched. Your narrowed eyes locked onto the face hovering above you, the weight of the moment pressing down like a vice.

You blinked, once. Twice. The air in your lungs stalled.

…Sol?

Draped in all-black—shiny jeans catching the faintest glint of light, a hoodie pulled just loose enough to shadow his face, and that unmistakable green-and-black striped hair tumbling down around his sharp features.

Your stomach lurched.

“Fuck,” you exhaled, the word barely more than a whisper, but the weight behind it was heavy. Reality hit like a slap to the face, sinking deep into your gut as your heart pounded against your ribs.

The knife trembled in your grip, muscles taut as you fought against the force pressing down on you. Sol’s hands wrapped around yours, strong—might you add—moving back with enough urgency to make your arms strain.

But you weren’t weak—you could feel the resistance, the way your strength shocked even him as the blade hovered dangerously between you both, a sharp, gleaming threat trapped in the tension.

Then came the weight—his body bearing down on yours, shoving you back against the mattress. Your breath hitched as his legs straddled you, pinning you beneath him with an overbearing heat that had your skin prickling. His chest almost pressed against yours, the rapid thud of his heart hammering against your palm where you still clutched the handle of the knife. It was erratic, unsteady.

His face was so close now—red-orange eyes wide, pupils blown with something unreadable. Shock? Confusion? There was a flicker of something frantic beneath it all, something desperate, something almost wild.

For a moment, the chaos in the room dulled. The air hung thick and unmoving. Your breaths, his heartbeat, the overwhelming rush of emotions—you were drowning in it.

The knife was just inches beside your neck, the cold steel almost grazing your skin, but you couldn’t even move it, even as you tried to hold your ground. His eyes were locked onto yours, filled with something almost like guilt—but something darker, too. 

A strange, terrifying silence followed as your free remained pressed against his chest, the other still gripping the knife, but completely helpless in his hold. His fingers wrapped around your wrists, pressing them hard.

And yet, despite his forceful position, despite everything that was happening, there was an unsettling calm in his eyes. He wasn't angry. He was shocked, thrown off balance. Caught in a moment of pure disbelief. The usual coldness of his gaze was gone, replaced with an unfamiliar, confused vulnerability that rattled you to your core. 

It was as if he was seeing you for the first time—like he'd never expected this. Never wanted this.

His lips parted in something between a gasp and a murmur, but the words never came. There was nothing but that intense, breathless stare, his grip tightening just a little more on your wrists as if trying to make sense of the situation.

Your mind was a chaotic whirlpool of shock and confusion. You couldn’t quite process it all—the shock of seeing Sol's face so close, lips almost touching—so overwhelming, the knife still a hair's breadth from your skin. And then the words came, so casually, as if this entire situation was something he had been expecting. 

"Shit, you scared me. You were awake this whole time?" Sol’s voice was rough, tinged with something between frustration and genuine surprise.

Your eyes—wide, almost bugged out—narrowed sharply at him. 

Who the fuck asks that type of question?

You couldn’t help the incredulity that bubbled up in your chest. "You're the one who scared me, dumbass." you snapped, irritation lacing your tone as the reality of the situation set in. The breath that had been held in your chest finally exhaled in a short, sharp burst of air. 

Sol seemed to snap out of whatever dazed state he had been in, his posture shifting as he let go of your wrists and lifted his body off yours. He cursed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Oh, sorry, that was kind of a reflex," he muttered, his hands still slightly trembling as he gently moved you, guiding you back onto your knees on the bed.

Your body, still wound tight with the fight or flight instinct, barely had time to process when he asked, almost too nonchalantly, "Seriously, sorry. I didn’t hurt you, did I?" The sheer absurdity of another question was enough to make your blood boil. Like this was all just some casual misunderstanding. 

As if you hadn’t just almost killed him for scaring the living daylights out of you. You felt your grip on the knife loosen slightly, but then, without thinking, you grabbed a fistful of his hair with your free hand and yanked it back—hard. He grunted in pain, eyes widening as you forced him to look up at you, his expression shifting from confused to slightly pained.

"I'm gonna kill you," you growled through gritted teeth, aiming the knife close to his neck—your voice low, but dangerously calm. "How the fuck did you get in here?"

Sol stuttered for a second, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift in power. He tried to collect his words, his lips moving but his voice barely rising above a murmur. "I, uh… I used aluminum foil to make a replica key and some string to take care of the chain door..." He trailed off, his eyes flickering to the side in embarrassment.

You blinked, dumbfounded for a moment. Aluminum foil? Your mind raced as the pieces slowly started to connect. 

“You damn criminal…” you muttered, more out of disbelief than actual anger. You couldn't even figure out if you were mad or just genuinely shocked. You hadn't expected him to be that resourceful—or reckless.

Sol winced, letting his shoulders slump in a mix of guilt and embarrassment. "Look, I didn’t mean to freak you out," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "I just… I just wanted to… see you."

Your breath came out in a slow exhale, still trying to process everything. The initial fear was starting to wear off, but the unease lingered in your chest. You'd thought you were dealing with a creepy stalker—and you kind of were—but this? 

This was something else entirely.

You let go of his hair slowly, your fingers slipping from the strands as you watched him wince, his body stiffening before he straightened up. He seemed almost... unsettled, unsure of how to process everything that had just happened. His eyes were wide, his breath still heavy, but there was a strange, almost fragile tension about him that you couldn't ignore.

"Y'know what?" You said, your voice steady and cold, a stark contrast to the mess that had just unfolded. "Sit right there on the floor. You're getting a lecture."

You pointed firmly to the ground, watching as Sol blinked in confusion, his brow furrowed in that typical, defensive way. "The floor?" he asked, clearly thrown off by your calmness, by the way, you were handling this whole situation as if it were just another normal day.

"Sol," you said, a slight edge to your voice now. "I will call the police if you don’t get your damn outside clothes off my bed and sit."

The tone in your voice left no room for argument, and within seconds, he was quick to obey, taking a seat on the floor with an uneasy expression. His movements were jerky, almost like he wasn’t sure what kind of punishment he was in for. 

"On your knees."  

Your voice was steady, but the look you gave him? Pure judgment—like he was some guilty puppy who just got caught chewing up your favorite shoes. You sat on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, watching him with the kind of unimpressed stare that could make anyone squirm.  

He hesitated, just for a second like he was debating whether he could still push his luck. But in the end, he obeyed, sinking down like some reluctant, defiant dog waiting for its scolding.  

Your patience? Gone. Shattered.

There was no point in playing nice anymore.  

"I'm done trying to use big concepts like 'crime' and 'common sense' with you," you deadpanned, your voice flat with irritation. "Clearly, that doesn’t sink in."  

Sol looked up at you, something between guilt and stubbornness flashing in his eyes, but you weren’t interested in whatever weak excuse he was cooking up. Not tonight.  

"For a stalker," you continued, tone sharp but eerily calm, "you really suck at this. First off, your voice. You talk too damn much. Every word practically screams ‘hey, it’s me, Sol.’" You tilted your head slightly, watching as his jaw clenched. "And your face? You flinched the second I mentioned Crowe, like you had something to prove."  

Then, as if casually dropping the final nail in his coffin, you added, "Oh, and nice touch with the fruit. Real subtle. Using it to hide the fact you drugged the chamomile tea. Let me guess—sleeping pills?"  

His reaction was everything. Just a flicker, just the smallest crack in his expression, but you caught it. His pupils dilated, his breath hitched—not enough for the average person to notice, but you weren’t average, and this wasn’t your first rodeo.  

You let the silence hang for a moment, let him feel the weight of it pressing in. Then, you drove the knife in deeper.  

"This whole time," you murmured, eyes narrowing, "you’ve been drugging me through my tea, haven’t you?"  

His gaze flickered, darting to the side for just a second—just long enough to confirm what you already knew.  

"Pathetic," you muttered, exhaling slowly as if you were genuinely disappointed in him. "You’re not good at this. And I’m done pretending I don’t know what’s going on."

Sol didn’t say anything at first, his lips pressed together as he took in your words. You could see his mind racing, trying to find the right thing to say, but for once, he was quiet. Completely still.

Your mind was still reeling from the chaos of everything that just happened—the weight of Sol on top of you, the knife almost glazed your neck, and the shock of realizing it was him who had been lurking in your space. Your heart was pounding in your chest as you kept your gaze locked on his—definitely not letting him off the hook. 

“Now, next subject,” you said, keeping your voice steady and unyielding, though your mind was still racing. You had to know why, had to understand this twisted mess. “Why in the hell were you trying to do me?”

Sol went stiff like you just smacked him upside the head with reality. His whole body locked up, and for a second, the air between you both felt suffocating. His mouth opened, but no words came out—just a slow swallow, his throat bobbing as his eyes darted downward like he was hoping the floor would just swallow him whole.  

“It started…” he finally muttered, voice strained like it physically hurt to admit. “How you’re always around Crowe whenever I see you.”  

You blinked. What?  

“And I thought…” he hesitated, shifting uncomfortably before finally meeting your gaze. “Leaving bruises across your skin would show that you’re taken.”  

You stared. Just. Stared.  

“…I’m sorry, what?”  

There was no way you just heard that correctly.

Ain’t no damn way.  

Sol's eyes flickered, guilt flashing across his face before he kept going—because apparently, things weren’t insane enough yet. “Which made me start… visiting. At night. While you were asleep.” His voice was quieter now, but not quiet enough to miss. “To leave those bruises.”  

Your stomach twisted.  

“And I—” He exhaled sharply, like even he knew how fucked this sounded. “I used those sleeping pills so you wouldn’t wake up during the process.” A beat. “Plus, that way, I could… look at you all I want.”  

Oh.  

Oh, hell no.  

Your entire body locked up as the reality of his words crashed into you. “Sol…” Your voice came out shaky, but the disbelief was firm. “You do realize that, like… literally everything you just said is beyond illegal, right?”  

A stalker.  

Your stalker.  

The one who had been making your life somewhat hell for weeks. The one who left those bruises, the one who drugged you, the one who had you spiraling, trying to figure out who the hell had been creeping around your home. Also, to mention that he’s been stealing your underwear—which is expensive may you add. 

And it had been him.  

Always him.  

You exhaled sharply, forcing your pulse to settle as you leveled him with a look. “I could have you arrested for this,” you said flatly, letting the weight of your words sink in.

Sol flinched at the weight of your words as if he finally realized the severity of what he had done. His face twisted with something like regret, “Please wait, I... I didn’t think it through,” he mumbled, his voice cracking under the pressure. “I just... I couldn’t help it,”

You shook your head, still processing, still trying to make sense of it all. 

"Couldn't help it?" you echoed, voice dripping with disbelief. "Couldn't help it?"  

Your hands clenched into fists as the weight of everything crashed over you again—every bruise, every unsettling feeling of being watched, every sleepless night where you knew something was off but couldn’t prove it.

And now? The proof was sitting right in front of you, looking like a kicked dog, as if that was supposed to make any of this okay.  

Sol’s jaw tensed, his fingers twitching at his sides. His usual cold, unreadable mask was crumbling, revealing something desperate underneath. “I know it was wrong,” he said, voice raw. “I know I shouldn’t have… but every time I saw you with him, I just—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding into his movements. “I wanted to make sure you were mine.”  

Your stomach churned. “So your big-brain solution was drugging me? Marking me without my knowledge?” Your voice sharpened, incredulous. “Do you have any idea how insane that sounds?”  

“I wasn’t thinking straight!” His voice rose slightly, frantic before he caught himself and sucked in a breath. He looked down, hands gripping the fabric of his hoodie so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “I just—” He stopped, struggling for words. 

“I just wanted you to see me.”  

You couldn’t even look at him right now. The shock of it all, the violation of your trust, the utter betrayal—like a rush of cold water had splashed over you, freezing you in place. Your mind was still reeling, trying to comprehend what had just happened. 

The man you’d trusted, the one you’d laughed with and joked around with, was now on top of you, his hands constricting around yours, pinning you down with a knife at your throat. The betrayal ran deeper than any wound he could have physically inflicted.

You couldn't understand it. 

Your grip tightened around the knife’s handle as you fought to steady your breathing, but the weight of it felt alien now, placing it on your nightstand. What was once a tool for defense had become a useless object in your hand. 

The rush of adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind a creeping, suffocating clarity that made your stomach twist. The weight of everything that had just happened pressed down on you, but instead of fear, something sharp and cold settled in its place. You scoffed, shaking your head as a humorless smirk pulled at your lips.  

“Oh, trust me, I see you now.” You flicked your fingers at him in a lazy, dismissive gesture. “And let me tell you, puppy, the view from down here? Not your best look.”  

Before he could process that, your hand shot out, gripping the collar of his hoodie in a tight fist, yanking him down toward you. His breath hitched, and his eyes widened for just a second—just long enough for you to see the flicker of surprise before he masked it.

But he didn’t fight it. If anything, his weight sank further onto you, his chest rising and falling against yours, heart hammering like a drumline.  

You lifted your chin, gaze locked onto his with a dangerous kind of calm. “Woof for me, Sol.”  

Silence.  

His pupils flickered, something unreadable swimming in that fiery gaze of his. Disbelief? Annoyance? Shame? You weren’t sure, and honestly, you didn’t care. What mattered was the way his body stiffened like you’d just flipped the entire dynamic on its head.  

After all,

Punishment is needed for a bad puppy.

His pulse was wild beneath your grip, his breath warm and uneven against your face. But this wasn’t about fear or retaliation—it was about control. A reminder. A boundary carved into stone. You weren’t some weak little thing he could toy with. He had crossed a line, and now? He had to face the consequences.  

“I…” His voice cracked slightly before he swallowed thickly. “I—what—”  

You tugged his collar tighter part from his hoodie, bringing him so close your noses almost brushed. Your voice was even, unwavering, not a trace of amusement left. “Woof, Sol. Or I call the cops.”  

That hit something. You saw it—the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed, the way his jaw clenched like he was biting back something ugly. The frustration flickered through his expression, tangled with something deeper, something messier.  

His breathing came heavier, nostrils flaring, hands tightening at his sides like he was debating whether to push back or fold. And then—  

A low, guttural growl rumbled in his throat, sharp and reluctant.  

You tilted your head, unimpressed. “Didn’t catch that.”  

Sol let out a slow, shaky breath, his shoulders rising and falling as he tried to pull himself together. His muscles, once taut with tension, eased just a bit, and he averted his eyes, licking his lips before hesitantly murmuring, “W-Woof?”  

You stared. Blank. Unmoving.  

…Did he seriously just question-mark bark at you?  

A deep sigh left your lips, exaggerated and dripping with disappointment. “Wow. That was sad.” You shook your head, crossing your arms. “Sounded more like you were asking for permission than actually committing. Maybe you’re not cut out for this after all. Maybe you’re not fit to be my dog—”  

“No—wait!” He stiffened, desperation flaring in his eyes as a soft whine escaped his throat, almost involuntary. “I can do it! I swear.” His voice wavered, but the need in it was unmistakable. He looked up at you, wide-eyed and eager, like he’d just been threatened with abandonment.  

And damn it, the whimper got to you.  

Your smirk faltered just a little as you reached out, fingers tracing along his cheek. “Oh, Sol…” Your voice softened, just enough to make him lean into your touch, his head tilting slightly like he craved it. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”  

But then—because you couldn’t resist—you let your smirk return, amusement lacing your next words. “But… I gotta admit, seeing you like this is kinda cute.” Your fingers trailed down, ghosting over his jaw as he pressed into your palm like a touch-starved puppy.  

His lips parted, breath hitching, but his eyes… oh, his eyes were full of determination now.  

He needed to prove himself. Needed to show you he was worthy of this. Worthy of you.  

And so, with far more confidence, he straightened up, held your gaze, and—  

“Woof.”

You had to bite back a laugh at how fast he reacted—it was honestly too damn funny. Sol, all broody and distant most of the time, but the second you threw him a little attention? A whole different story. 

And that tiny, earnest little woof he let out? Oh, so adorable. 

"Good boy," you murmured, your voice coming out softer, maybe a little breathier than you intended. 

The second the words left your lips, his whole body shuddered. Like the damn phrase physically did something to him. The satisfaction on his face was instant—like a puppy finally getting the praise it had been dying for. And god, that lovesick little smile of his? Paired with the way his red-orange eyes practically sparkled, pupils blown wide and pleading? Yeah, you were toast. 

How the hell were you supposed to say no to that?

With a soft sigh, you ran your fingers through his hair, nails lightly grazing his scalp. 

That was all it took. 

“Please…” he whispered, his voice barely holding together.

You tilted your head, pretending not to notice the way his whole body was trembling. “Please what, Sol?" 

His breath hitched. He knew exactly what you were doing, but he still took the bait. He had to. 

"Please," he rasped, looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him alive. "Please… praise me more… call me a good boy again… just—just touch me, please.”

You know what? Hell yeah.  

Your eyes flicked down, taking a deliberate glance at the hard bulge straining against his black skinny jeans before looking back up at him. The pout on his lips? Adorable.  

"Fine," you sighed, acting like you were doing him a favor.  

That was all it took. A grin split across Sol’s face, his whole demeanor flipping in an instant. “R-Really?” His voice cracked slightly, full of disbelief and excitement.  

You smirked. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear he had a tail, and it was wagging at full speed. "Mhm," you hummed, dragging it out just enough to make him squirm. "But first, we start where you already touched."  

With deliberate slowness, you peeled off your tank top, tossing it aside to reveal a lace bra that hugged your skin just right. Still sitting, you let your fingers slip under the waistband of your shorts, teasing just a little before sliding them down to reveal the matching underwear.  

Sol stayed on his knees, watching you like the eager little puppy he was. His gaze was fixed, his lips slightly parted, and the pink on his cheeks deepened. He looked like he was about to start panting at any second.  

You sighed dramatically, tilting your head. “You do realize this is my last good set, right?”  

His eyes snapped up to yours, confused.  

“Because, you know, somebody keeps stealing my underwear,” you accused, raising an eyebrow.  

He swallowed thickly, nodding, looking almost guilty. “I… I understand.”  

You grinned. “Oh, I know you do.” The tension crackled between you and him, thick and electric. You knew exactly how badly he wanted this—how much he wanted to touch, to feel, to worship you.  

It didn’t take long before he was right where you wanted him—kneeling in front of you, completely bare, having shed every last piece of clothing just for you, braless. His boxers were the only thing keeping him from pressing fully against you, but even that thin barrier wasn’t enough to stop the way his hips instinctively ground against the side of your bed. His breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling like he was barely holding himself together.  

“Oh, Sol~” you murmur, your voice dripping with faux sweetness as you reach into your nightstand. His head snaps up, his dazed eyes following your movements, and then—oh, then—he sees it. 

The collar and leash. 

His breath hitches, his gaze locking onto the items like he’s both terrified and mesmerized.  

“Oh dear,” you tease, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “You didn’t think you were getting off that easy, did you? After all that stalking? Oh no, sweetheart. We’re just getting started.”  

"Time for you to make up for it."  

And you meant every single word.  

You sank back onto your bed, the softness of the pillow cradling your head as you let out a slow, deliberate breath. Your legs parted almost instinctively, knees bending as your hands slid down your body with a practiced ease. Your fingers are hooked into the waistband of your underwear, tugging them down your thighs and letting them fall to the floor in a careless heap. 

The cool air kissed your skin, but it did little to temper the heat pooling between your legs. You spread yourself open with two fingers, exposing your glistening folds, and waited.

Sol’s gaze snapped to you, his eyes widening as if he’d been struck. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he seemed frozen—caught between awe and the overwhelming urge to close the distance. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his pupils dilating as he stared at your pretty, wet cunt.  

“Come here,” you commanded, your voice low and firm. You gave the leash a sharp tug, pulling him forward with enough force to make him stumble. A faint whine escaped his lips, but he didn’t resist. He couldn’t. His body moved as if drawn by an invisible thread, his knees hitting the edge of the bed as he leaned in closer, his face now inches from your heat.  

“Have you ever done this before?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, your tone teasing but not unkind.  

He shook his head quickly, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came out. His hands fidgeted at his sides, unsure where to land, his entire body radiating a nervous energy that was almost endearing.  

You smirked, reaching down to tap your clit lightly with a fingertip. “Sooo… You lick and suck here,” you instructed your voice steady but laced with a hint of amusement. Then, you dragged your finger down, circling your entrance before sliding back up in a slow, deliberate motion. “You can stick your tongue in here too, or use your fingers if you want. Got it?”  

He nodded vigorously, his eagerness almost comical. Without hesitation, he hooked his arms under your thighs, pulling you closer until your hips were flush against the edge of the bed. His breath fanned over your wetness, hot and uneven, as he leaned in, his nose brushing against your inner thigh.  

For a moment, he hesitated, his inexperience showing in the way his hands trembled and his breath stuttered. But then, as if something primal had taken over, he dove in. His tongue swiped up your slit in one long, clumsy stroke, and the sensation made your back arch off the bed.  

That first taste seemed to ignite something in him. His movements became frantic, almost desperate, as if he’d been starved for this. His tongue lapped at your clit with a messy, unrelenting fervor, his lips sealing around the sensitive bud to suck hard. Saliva dripped down his chin, his face a wet, glistening mess, but you didn’t mind. The sloppiness only added to the raw, unfiltered intensity of the moment.  

He was relentless, his focus singular. His tongue flicked and circled your clit, alternating between broad, wet strokes and sharp, precise flicks. Every now and then, he’d plunge his tongue deeper, exploring your entrance with a curiosity that bordered on obsession. His hands gripped your thighs tightly, his fingers digging into your skin as if he were afraid you’d pull away.  

You let out a breathy laugh, your fingers tangling in his hair as you guided him, encouraging him to keep going. “That’s it, oh my” you murmured, your voice thick with approval. “Just like that, such a good pup.”  

The praise seemed to spur him on.

His lips wrapped around your clit again, sucking with a rhythm that had your toes curling. His tongue worked in tandem, flicking and swirling until the room was filled with the sound of his messy, wet kisses and your soft, shuddering moans.  

You loved watching him—the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the way his cheeks hollowed as he sucked, the way his entire body seemed to vibrate with the effort of pleasing you. He was a quick study, his movements growing more confident with every passing second.  

His arms tightened around your thighs, pulling you even closer as he buried his face deeper, his nose pressing against your mound. His tongue dipped inside you, curling and probing, before retreating to lavish attention on your clit once more.

The alternating rhythm was driving you wild, and you could feel the tension building low in your belly, coiling tighter with every swipe of his tongue.  

“Good boy,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.  

The words sent a shiver through him, his hips jerking involuntarily against the bed. He moaned against you, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine. His hands slid up to grip your hips, holding you steady as he devoured you with an almost feral hunger.  

You let your head fall back, your eyes fluttering shut as you gave yourself over to the sensation. His tongue was everywhere—flicking, sucking, probing—and you could feel the heat building, spreading through your body like wildfire.  

Sol’s mind raced, his thoughts a jumble of heat and hunger as he remembered your earlier words about fingers. His arm shifted, sliding back as he pressed a single digit against your slick entrance. You were already so wet, and the way your body clenched around him as he pushed inside made his pulse spike. 

He curled his finger experimentally, and the sharp twitch of your hips told him he’d found the right spot. A low groan rumbled in his throat as he repeated the motion, his finger hooking inside you while his tongue dragged messy, sloppy strokes over your clit.  

The sounds were obscene—wet, hungry, and utterly unrestrained. His tongue flicked and sucked at your sensitive bud like he was starved for it, his lips sealing around you as if he could drink you in. Your legs shook, thighs trembling on either side of his head, and you let out a breathy moan as your head fell back against the pillows. 

Your eyes fluttered shut, surrendering to the sensation, but the noises kept you tethered to the moment: the slick slide of his finger, the filthy slurping of his mouth, the way he devoured you like he’d been parched for days and you were the only thing that could quench him.  

Sol’s gaze flicked upward, his eyes locking onto your chest. Your bra clung to you, the fabric doing little to hide the hard peaks of your nipples. They seemed to taunt him, begging to be freed, and his free hand moved almost on instinct. His fingers trailed up your stomach, slow and deliberate, until you felt the warmth of his palm near your breast.  

Your eyes snapped open, and you looked down just as his hand inched closer. With a sharp tug on the leash, you yanked him back, forcing his mouth to leave your clit with an audible pop. His lips were glistening, his expression a mix of frustration and guilt as he scowled up at you.  

“Sorry, no tits for you,” you reminded him, your voice dripping with lazy amusement. “Remember? You already touched them earlier. No touching.”  

Sol’s frown deepened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he watched as you reached behind yourself to unhook your bra, letting it fall away. Your breasts bounced free, and you couldn’t help but tease him, your hands moving to cup them, fingers rolling and pinching your nipples just enough to make him groan.  

“Eyes down, pup,” you chided, though your tone was more playful than stern. Reluctantly, he obeyed, his mouth returning to your clit with renewed focus. His tongue swirled and pressed against you, and you moaned, your hips rocking forward to meet his face. The heat of his mouth, the way his slender tongue worked you over—it was too much and not enough all at once.  

You tangled your fingers in his hair, guiding him as you moved against him, chasing the pleasure that coiled tighter and tighter in your core. Sol’s hands gripped your thighs, holding you steady as he devoured you, his every movement a silent plea for your approval. 

And as your moans grew louder, your body trembling on the edge, you knew he’d do anything to keep you right there—teetering between control and chaos.  

Sol’s brain was still playing catch-up. Like, seriously, was this real life? He, Sol, the guy who’d barely figured out how to flirt without tripping over his own words, was here—between your legs, giving you head as his life depended on it. 

And holy hell, you were hot. Like, unfairly hot. If he could’ve paused time right then and there, he would’ve snapped a mental picture of the view: your legs spread wide, your chest rising and falling with every shaky breath, and your breasts right there, practically begging for his attention. It was almost too much to process, but hey, he wasn’t about to complain.

Then you moaned his name, and his entire world tilted.  

“A-ah… Right there, Sol.”  

Your voice was like a jolt of electricity straight into his system. If he’d had a tail, it would’ve been wagging so hard it could’ve powered a small city. Instead, he’s humping your bed—to get off as much as he can.

He doubled down, his tongue working faster, more deliberately, like he was trying to memorize every inch of you. One hand gripped your thigh, pushing it up to give him better access, while the other slipped a second finger inside you, curling just right to hit that spot that made your breath hitch. And his hips—god, his hips—are hammering against your bed like he’s trying to drill a hole through it.  

All from the way you reacted—arching your back, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer—was enough to make his head spin. And when you started rocking your hips against his face, chasing your release, he felt like he was floating. Or maybe combusting…?

Honestly, it was hard to tell at this point.  

“F-Fuck, good boy,” you gasped, and wow, if that didn’t just short-circuit his brain entirely.  

You heard a low, guttural whine that vibrated against your clit. His eyes roll back, his body locks up, and then he’s cumming, just like that. It’s messy and raw and completely out of his control, his hips stuttering as he spills into his already ruined boxers. 

His chest heaves, his face flushed a deep red, and for a moment, he looks like he’s not even sure where he is. Like he’s just been launched into some other dimension where the only thing that exists is the aftershocks of whatever the hell just happened to him.  

Sol collapses against you his body completely spent. He’s trembling, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he lets out this shaky, broken groan that sounds like it’s been dragged out of the deepest part of him. His mind is a foggy mess, his limbs feel like jelly, and his cock? 

There’s was intoxicating about knowing you’re the only one who’s ever reduced him to this—who’s ever made him fall apart so completely that he can’t even form a coherent thought. 

It’s a power trip, really, and you’re not ashamed to admit how much you love it.  

But of course, you’re not done with him. Not even close.  

You tugged on the leash, pulling him up until his face was level with yours. His lips were a mess—glossy with your slick, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes wide with a mix of pride and desperation. And then you kissed him, deep and hungry, your tongue sliding against his like you were claiming him all over again.  

When you finally pulled away, a thin string of saliva and your cream connected your lips, and Sol couldn’t help but stare, dazed and a little smug.  

“Such a good job,” you murmured, your voice low and approving, and he felt like he could’ve run a marathon right then and there.  

You slowly pinned Sol to the bed with a firm hand on his chest, your fingers splayed over his rapidly rising and falling ribcage. His breath hitched as you leaned down, your lips brushing against his collarbone before trailing lower, leaving a trail of soft, teasing kisses down his torso. His skin was warm, slightly damp with sweat, and every touch made him shiver beneath you. 

When your fingers hooked into the waistband of his soaked boxers, he let out a shaky groan, his hips lifting instinctively to help you slide them off. 

His cock sprang free, already half-hard again despite the mess he’d made earlier. You couldn’t help but smirk at the sight—he was average in length, sure, but the girth of him was something else entirely.

Thick and heavy in your hand, it twitched as you leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the tip. Sol’s entire body jerked, a strangled sound escaping his throat as his hands fisted the sheets.

“N-not fair,” he managed to choke out, his voice wrecked.  

You chuckled darkly, your breath ghosting over his sensitive skin. “Oh, sweetheart,” you purred, your tone equal parts teasing and commanding. “You’ve already come once. Now it’s my turn. And here’s the rule: you don’t get to come again until I do. Got it, puppy?”  

He nodded frantically, his eyes wide and pleading, but you could see the flicker of determination in them.

Good.

You wanted him desperate, but you also wanted him to try.  

You climbed over him, straddling his hips, and took him in hand, guiding him to your entrance. The first press of his cock against you made you both gasp—him from the overwhelming heat, you from the sheer stretch of him.

Even though you’d prepared yourself, the girth of him was still a lot to take. You bit your lip, sinking down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he was fully sheathed inside you.  

“Fuck,” you breathed, your head tipping back as you adjusted to the feeling of him. He was stretching you so wide it almost hurt, but in the best way possible—like he was made just for you.  

Sol’s hands flew to your hips, his grip tight but not controlling. He was holding on for dear life, his chest heaving as he fought to keep still. “Y-you’re so tight,” he stammered, his voice trembling. “I—I don’t know how long I can—”  

“You’ll last,” you interrupted, your tone leaving no room for argument. “Because if you don’t, I’ll make you regret it.”  

You began to move, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles, savoring the way he filled you so completely. Every drag of his cock against your walls sent sparks shooting up your spine, and the way he looked beneath you—eyes blown wide, lips parted, every muscle in his body taut with restraint—only fueled your own pleasure.  

“That’s it,” you murmured, your voice low and sultry. “Such a good boy for me. Just hold on a little longer.”  

Sol whimpered, his fingers digging into your hips as he fought to obey. But you could feel the tension coiling in him, the way his cock twitched inside you as he teetered on the edge. You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and picked up the pace, your movements growing more urgent as your own climax began to build.  

“Fuck, you feel so good,” you moaned, your voice breaking as the pressure inside you reached its peak. “But don’t you dare come yet. Not until I—” Your words cut off with a sharp cry as your orgasm hit, your walls clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses.

Sol’s restraint shattered the second he felt it, his hips bucking up into you as he spilled himself inside you with a broken groan.  

You yanked the leash still connected to his collar, forcing him to face you. Both of you were panting, trembling, but you couldn’t help the satisfied smirk that tugged at your lips.  

“I said not to come yet,” you warned, your voice low and dangerous, though your eyes sparkled with mischief.  

Sol let out a breathless laugh, his arms wrapping around you as he pressed a clumsy kiss to your shoulder. “Sorry,” he mumbled, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. “You’re just… impossible to resist.”  

You shoved him back onto the pillow, your hand pressing firmly against his chest to keep him in place. “You’re lucky I’m on the pill,” you said, your tone dripping with mock sweetness. “Thank god I can do this now…”  

Before he could respond, you shifted your weight, lifting yourself off him just enough to slide back down onto his cock in one smooth, punishing motion. He gasped, his hands flying to your hips, but you slapped them away.  

“No,” you said firmly, your voice leaving no room for argument. “You don’t get to touch me. Not after disobeying me.”  

Sol whined, his head falling back against the pillow as you began to ride him in earnest. Your movements were relentless, each bounce of your hips driving him deeper into you, the stretch of his girth still overwhelming even as your body adjusted. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep them off you.  

“P-please,” he stammered, his voice breaking as his hips twitched upward, desperate for more friction.  

“Please what?” you taunted, slowing your pace just enough to drive him mad. “Use your words, Sol.”  

He opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out was a strangled moan as you clenched around him, your walls fluttering deliberately. You smirked, leaning forward to grab the discarded pair of your underwear from the side of the bed. Without warning, you shoved them into his mouth, muffling his whines and moans.  

“We don’t need the neighbors hearing you,” you said, your tone light and teasing despite the intensity of your movements. “Wouldn’t want a noise complaint, would we?”  

Sol’s eyes widened, a mix of humiliation and arousal flashing across his face as he nodded obediently. You could feel the way his body trembled beneath you, the way his cock twitched inside you as he fought to hold back another orgasm.

You picked up the pace again, your thighs burning with the effort as you rode him harder, faster, each movement calculated to push him closer to the edge without letting him tip over. His muffled cries grew more desperate, his hips bucking weakly beneath you, but you kept him pinned, your hands braced on his chest for leverage.  

“You’re going to learn to listen to me,” you said, your voice steady despite the way your pleasure was building again. “Or I’ll stop.”  

Tears welled in Sol’s eyes, “N-no, please don’t…” his body writhing beneath you as he struggled to hold on. The sight of him like this—completely at your mercy, tears streaming down his cheeks, his cock buried deep inside you—was almost enough to push you over the edge. But you held back, determined to make him suffer longer.  

Finally, when you could feel him teetering on the brink, his muffled whines turning into broken sobs, you leaned down, your lips brushing against his ear.  

Even as his body shuddered beneath you, his hips twitching weakly, you kept moving, riding him through your high and his, your pace unrelenting. His hands, which had been gripping the sheets for dear life, now lay limp at his sides, his strength completely spent. His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stared up at you with glassy, unfocused eyes.  

“P-please,” he managed to choke out, his voice barely audible. “I—I can’t…”  

“You can,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the way your own body trembled with exertion.

“And you will. Because you’re mine, Sol." You started, “My puppy. My guard dog. My pet. And you don’t get to stop until I say so.”  

You shifted your weight, grinding down on him in slow, deliberate circles, the overstimulation drawing a broken whimper from his lips. His cock, still half-hard despite the exhaustion wracking his body, twitched inside you, and you smirked, leaning forward to trail your fingers along his jaw.  

“Look at you,” you murmured, your tone equal parts teasing and adoring. “So desperate, so wrecked. And all for me.”  

Sol’s eyes fluttered shut, a tear slipping down his cheek as he nodded weakly. “Y-yours,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. “Always yours.”  

You kissed him then, deep and possessive, your tongue sliding against his as if to claim him all over again. When you pulled away, his lips were swollen, his face flushed, and his body trembling beneath you.  

You might’ve come like three times? Four? Honestly, you lost count at some point, too lost in the haze of pleasure to keep track. But Sol? He hadn’t come at all. Not once. And the fact that he’d held himself back like that, with his cock buried deep inside you, was nothing short of impressive. 

You could feel the tension coiled in his body, the way he trembled beneath you, his self-control hanging by a thread. It was intoxicating, the way he fought to keep himself in check, all because you hadn’t given him permission yet.

You leaned down, brushing a strand of damp hair from his forehead, your touch almost tender despite the relentless pace you’d set. Your fingers trailed down the side of his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before coming to rest on the collar that still sat snugly around his neck. The leather was warm from his skin, and you gave it a gentle tug, just enough to remind him—even as he teetered on the edge—of who he belonged to.

“Such a good boy,” you murmured, your voice low and sated, a purr of satisfaction that seemed to echo in the quiet of the room. Your heart-shaped pupils dilated as you admired him, your gaze sweeping over his prone form. He was a masterpiece of submission, every inch of him marked by your control, your desire, your ownership. The sight of him like this—so vulnerable, so utterly yours—sent a shiver of pride and possessiveness through you.

But you weren’t done with him yet.

You began to move again, your hips rolling in slow, deliberate motions, each one designed to drag another broken sound from his throat. His hands twitched at his sides as if he wanted to touch you but didn’t dare, and the sight of him like this—completely at your mercy, completely yours—was almost enough to push you over the edge again.

“Please,” he choked out, his voice ragged, barely more than a whisper. “I can’t—I can’t take it anymore. Please, let me—”

You shushed him gently, your fingers tightening around the leash as you leaned in closer, your breath hot against his ear. “Not yet, pup,” you whispered, your voice soft but commanding. “You don’t get to come until I say so. And you’re going to take it, aren’t you? You’re going to be good for me.”

He nodded frantically, his eyes squeezed shut as another wave of pleasure—or maybe it was torture—rippled through him. His cock twitched inside you, and you could feel the way his body fought to hold back, the way he clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. It was beautiful, the way he struggled, the way he gave himself over to you completely.

You kept going, your pace unrelenting, each movement calculated to push him closer to the edge without letting him tip over. His begging grew more desperate, his voice breaking as he pleaded with you to let him come, to give him release. But you just smiled, your heart-shaped pupils gleaming with satisfaction as you watched him unravel beneath you.

“Now you can come, pup,” you whispered, your voice soft but commanding.

The second the words left your mouth, Sol’s body convulsed, his cock pulsing inside you as he came with a muffled cry. You followed him over the edge, your own orgasm crashing over you in waves as you clenched around him, milking every last drop from him.

It was with a force that left you breathless, your walls clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses. Sol’s body jerked beneath you, his cock twitching inside you as he came again, his release spilling into you with a broken groan.

You rode him through your high and his, your pace unrelenting even as his body went limp beneath you, his eyes fluttering shut as he passed out from the sheer intensity of it all.

When you finally stilled, both of you trembling and breathless, you looked down at him with a satisfied smile as the leash was still in your hand, the collar around his neck a stark reminder of his place.

You shifted slightly, feeling the slickness between your thighs, the evidence of his release still dripping from you. The sensation only deepened your satisfaction, a tangible reminder of the power you held over him.

You could still feel the faint twitch of his cock inside you, even as it softened, and you clenched around him once more, savoring the way his body instinctively responded, even in his unconscious state.

With a soft sigh, you finally pulled yourself off him, your movements slow and deliberate. Sol’s body twitched at the loss, a faint whimper escaping his lips, but he didn’t wake. You stood, stretching languidly, your own body humming with the afterglow of pleasure. Your gaze never left him as you reached for a nearby blanket, draping it over his prone form with a surprising gentleness. 

Even in his submission, even in his wrecked state, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of affection for him. He was yours, after all, and you took care of what belonged to you.

You picked up the leash from where it had fallen beside him, running the soft leather through your fingers as you considered him. He looked so peaceful like this, so completely at ease, and you couldn’t help but smile. This was where he belonged, where he thrived—under your command, under your care. 

Your guard dog, your loyal pup, your Sol.

As you turned to leave, you paused, glancing back at him one last time. “Rest now, pup,” you whispered, your voice soft but firm. “You’ve earned it.”

And with that, you slipped out of the room, leaving him to his dreams, knowing that when he woke, he would be just as eager to serve, just as desperate to please. Because he was yours, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Completely wrecked, completely yours.

[lacydollette]

⋆˙⟡ BLESSING IN DISGUISE ⋆˙⟡

CHAPTER TWO

PAIRING lovely kook!reader x jj maybank

SUMMARY after reconnecting with your childhood best friend sarah, she introduces you to the pogues, and one of them definitely strikes your interest more than he should’ve

WARNING(S) slightly suggestive, jj being a flirt, kook x pogue dynamics, kie lowkey being a hater, mentions of readers and rafes past, spin the bottle, mentions of alcohol, kissing

The golden coast of Kildare Island's sunset painted the sky as Sarah guided you down the dirt path toward John B's chateau, feeling a bit anxious. After all your life wasn’t like any of theirs, and that scared you a bit. "Just... don't let JJ get to you. He's... well, you'll see." She warned you, knowing that her friend would try to hit on you every chance he got. You smirked, tucking your wavy hair behind your ear. "You're acting like I'm not used to guys like him. Trust me, I've handled worse."

Yet you couldn't stop the flood of nerves rolling through your body. Coming back to Kildare was one thing; entering the world of Sarah's pogues was another. For someone like you—Rafe’s ex, and being a "kook" in every sense of the word—this was like walking into enemy territory.

You couldn’t help but think of Rafe as you walked along the chunky trail, to him the pogues were always equal to filthy animals, so knowing that Sarah was now one of them made you curious. Of course, just like Rafe, you used to stay away from pogues, maybe with one exception, but that didn’t matter now. You were taught that your worlds shouldn’t mix, that it wouldn’t work, but knowing just how pathetic your old life was, it maybe wouldn’t be too bad of an idea.

Your little boots crunched against the gravel as you took in the sight before you: a quiet run down house that looked like it had survived one hurricane too many, mismatched furniture scattered across the yard, and a group of teens lounging in the chaos like it was their kingdom. As you stepped onto the property, a tall, blonde boy was the first to notice you, his face lighting up in surprise and excitement. He jumped down from where he'd been sitting and strode over, his grin wide.

"Dammit Sarah, if I had known that you'd bring over a goddess I would've put on less clothes." JJ drawled, his blue eyes locked on you. Now you definitely knew what Sarah was talking about. Nothing you couldn’t handle tho. Before you could respond, Sarah stepped between you, rolling her eyes. "JJ, seriously? Don't scare her off five seconds in.”

"Just being friendly," JJ said, holding his hands up in mock innocence. His eyes didn't leave yours, though, and you couldn't help the faint warmth rising in your cheeks. He was super hot. And you were definitely amused by his charm, lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. "And you must be the rowdy pogue with a reputation to match." You replied smoothly. JJ seemed a bit taken aback, and his grin widened, clearly enjoying the challenge.

"Guilty as charged. But don't worry, I'm harmless... mostly."

"Come on," Sarah said, dragging you toward the group. "Before he says something even dumber." Getting closer to the group, Kiara was the first to get up. She crossed her arms over her chest, her sharp eyes piercing through you, feeling skeptical. "So, you're y/n."

"Guilty," you said, echoing JJ's words with a playful shrug. You extended a hand. "It's nice to meet you." Kiara hesitated before shaking your hand. "Yeah, nice to meet you too." Her words were clipped, and you didn't miss the side eye Kiara shot at Sarah. But you didn’t judge her, after all you were kind of skeptical too.

Luckily the rest of the introductions went smoother. Pope was polite but distracted, and John B—Sarah's new boyfriend—was laid-back and welcoming, though his smile carried a hint of curiosity, like he was trying to figure you out. But it was JJ who lingered, his gaze following your every move, his flirty comments never far behind. It felt all so exciting.

"So, y/n," JJ said as you all settled into your seats, beers in hand. "What's a kook princess like you doing slumming it with us?" Sarah shot him a warning look, but you just smirked. "Wouldn't you like to know, hm?" JJ laughed, clearly enjoying the way you confronted him, while Kiara rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath.

As the evening wore on, the tension in the air began to ease. You found yourself laughing at John B's ridiculous stories, paired with JJ's enthusiasm, and even getting a nod of approval from Pope when you mentioned your favorite book. Kiara, however, remained a mystery to you.

"Alright, truth or dare time," JJ announced suddenly, grabbing a bottle from the sand. "No backing out." Kiara groaned, “Oh, come on.” though she didn't move to leave.

The first few rounds were tame, the dares harmless and the truths revealing just enough to keep things fun. Then the bottle landed on JJ. "Oh, here we go," Pope muttered, earning a laugh from the group.

JJ leaned back, spreading his arms like he was owning the place. "Hit me, baby." He smirked, eyes locked on you as a devilishly, alcohol fueled, idea came to your mind. You just couldn’t hold back, lips curling into a mischievous smile. "I dare you to kiss me."

The whole group fell silent, every eye darting between you and JJ. Even the fire seemed to flicker in response, the crackling flames being the only sound. JJ blinked, his grin faltering for a moment. "Wait—what?"

"You heard me," you said, voice steady. Your confidence was unshaken, though your heart was pounding in your chest. You weren’t even sure where the boldness had come from, but there was no taking it back now. Sarah laughed, burying her face in her hands. "Oh my god, y/n."

"Bold move," JJ said, his surprise melting into amusement. "I like it." He stood, brushing the sand off his jeans, and walked over to you. The air felt electric as he crouched down in front of you, his blue eyes locking onto yours.

"You sure about this, kook girl?" he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Scared?" You shot back, smirk growing. JJ didn't hesitate. In one smooth motion, he closed the gap between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was anything but shy. It was heated, bold, and left no room for misinterpretation.

The group erupted in cheers and whistles, John B's voice cutting through the noise. "JJ, what the hell, man?" As he kissed you there was an unspoken pull, the desire obvious in both of your movements. It felt good kissing him, really good, so when he pulled back you couldn’t help but pout a little. Yet his grin was even bigger. "You asked for it."

You laughed, cheeks warm, but you didn't flinch under the group's teasing. If anything, you leaned into it, your confidence high. You hadn't expected to feel this at ease with JJ, and his charm that ran just a little wild. It was different, and strangely, you liked it.

As the game continued, the bottle spun and landed on you. Not hesitating to pick truth, knowing you couldn't dodge forever and also not wanting to be a spoilsport. Kiara, who had been quiet for most of the night, leaned forward, her expression serious. "Why did you leave Kildare?"

The question hung in the air, and your earlier smile faltered. You felt your throat tighten, glancing at the flames and wishing you could disappear into the sparks. You hadn't exactly planned on going into your past tonight.

Sensing your tension, Sarah quickly jumped in, squeezing your hand. "Y/n went through a rough time," she explained, her voice softer than usual. "There was... a lot going on, and it was all a bit much. You all know how my family can be." She paused, eyes on the fire, then added, "And, uh... y/n dating my brother didn't help. It got... toxic, real fast."

Everyone went quiet, and you felt their eyes on you, shock written across their faces. Yup, somehow it’s always been a shocker for others when they found out you two used to date, cause now you both couldn’t be any more different from each other. Or weren’t you?

"You... and Rafe?" Kiara's voice was laced with surprise, though it held a hint of understanding now—maybe even sympathy. "Seriously?" You nodded slowly, not meeting anyone's gaze. "Yeah. It's not something I'm proud of. Trust me." You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of those words as you admitted them out loud. "I lost myself for a while. Leaving was the only way. I needed to figure myself out."

JJ was the first to break the silence. "Hey, everyone's got stuff they're not proud of." He shrugged, as if to say it didn't matter to him. "At least you're here now, right?" You managed a grateful smile, feeling some of the tension ease. The group smiled gently, their earlier reservations melting away. And somehow exposing yourself like that definitely made you feel good, the pogues giving you a feeling of security, treating you with a newfound gentleness.

As the fire died down, everyone began to yawn and stretch, the long hours of the day catching up with you, so John B offered to drive you, Pope and Kie home. While the two boys piled into the van, Kiara lingered for a moment, pulling you aside as you were about to walk up to the vehicle.

"Hey," Kiara said quietly. "I just wanted to say... I'm sorry. For being shady earlier. And for pushing you with that question." You blinked, definitely not expecting an apology from her. "It's okay. I get it—you didn't know." Kiara nodded, her expression softening. "Yeah, but still. You're not what I expected, but... you're cool. I'm glad you're here." You smiled, the words meaning more than you cared to admit. "Thanks, Kie."

As you climbed into the van, you felt something shift inside you. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you might actually belong somewhere.

LINKS .ᐟ series masterlist

TAGS .ᐟ @gibson-g1rl @beausling @bunnyrafe @rafescokewhore @starkeysprincess @rafesweetie @rafeslacy @rafesangelita @rafey-baby @starkeydolly @moremaybank @drewspinkbunny @drewsarms

[wonyowonyo]

Static Echoes (U. Aeri/Giselle X M! Reader)

Wc: 9.6k Tags: Angst? In a captivating city humming with static, a faded musician haunted by a lover’s ghost-voice and a photographer who blurrs every truth must choose: burn in the clarity of what they almost were, or drown in the beautiful ruin of what’s left. A/N: No scene banners for this one, just pure emotional angst. For the lad who asked for Giselle, I'll write a fluff to make up for this, trust hehe

Rain sluiced down the window of Y/N’s cramped third-floor walk-up, distorting the neon glow of the pawn shop sign across the street into a bleeding halo. Inside his dim apartment—a cramped realm of mismatched furniture, scuffed vinyl floors, and peeling posters of bands that once stirred his soul—Y/N hunched over his battered acoustic guitar. His fingers, worn from years of relentless practice and broken promises, plucked uncertainly at new strings he’d just installed. Somewhere in the background, a demo of “Moth Wing Hours” played on an aging laptop, its fragile melody looping relentlessly like a half-remembered dream.

Y/N’s apartment reeked of rosin and stale coffee, and every surface was cluttered with the detritus of a life half-lived. Amid scattered guitar picks, dog-eared notebooks of scribbled lyrics, and dusty vinyl records, the air pulsed with an undercurrent of longing—a ghost of musical glory days when his voice had burned with the reckless promise of forever. But now, that promise had faded into the static of everyday drudgery.

He had once believed his music could set the world ablaze, but time had a way of dampening even the brightest flames. Today, he was less a celebrated poet of chords and verses and more a reluctant music teacher, offering guitar lessons to disinterested teens. Their boredom was palpable, their questions laced with teenage cynicism, as if each chord he strummed was a reminder of the disconnect between his faded dreams and their insipid realities. Corporate gigs had replaced smoky dive bars; the sterile ambiance of upscale hotel lobbies and overpriced cocktail lounges left him feeling like nothing more than a ghost—a relic of a 20-something’s Spotify playlist that had long been forgotten.

As he tuned the guitar, Y/N’s eyes drifted to the rain-streaked window. Outside, the City of Seoul pulsed with neon life, a chaotic mix of transient lights and forgotten promises. The rain blurred the boundaries between past and present, and in that liminal moment, he could almost believe that the static in the background wasn’t just electronic noise but something more—a whisper from a memory he’d long tried to escape.

A sudden hiss from the ancient coffee machine in the kitchen shattered the quiet. The sound, almost spectral in its persistence, seemed to carry an echo of a laugh—low, smoky, and hauntingly familiar. For a split second, Y/N thought he heard Aeri’s laugh amid the hiss, a sound that had once lit up the darkest corners of his heart. In that instant, time fractured, and memories surged forward like a tidal wave: the clink of ice in a glass, the soft murmur of conversation on a fire escape, the reckless abandon of youth.

Distracted by the ghostly echo, his hand jerked, and the mug he’d cradled slipped from his grasp. It tumbled onto the linoleum floor, shattering into a constellation of ceramic shards that cut into his palms. He stared at the scattered pieces, each fragment a silent testament to a past filled with hope and now a present marred by regret.

Y/N’s thoughts raced. How had life reduced him to a curator of almosts? Almost-famous, almost-healed, almost-in-love. He glanced at the list on his cluttered desk—a litany of student names and dates, each entry a quiet reminder of those who had slipped away. Hannah W. flashed before his eyes, the note beside her name a sarcastic parenthesis: “nursery rhymes” from a canceled lesson. Fifteen years ago, such a cancellation might have ignited a fury worthy of a thrown phone, but now, he felt only numb resignation.

He ran a hand through his tangled hair and let his gaze fall on the cracked screen of his laptop. The demo of “Moth Wing Hours” continued unabated, its melody merging with the rhythmic patter of the rain. In that fragile moment, the past and present blurred—a bittersweet fusion of what once was and what might have been. The static in the apartment wasn’t just background noise; it was the heartbeat of his disintegrating dreams.

————————————————————

Miles away, under a different kind of light, Aeri’s world unfolded in stark contrasts. Her studio was a converted loft that doubled as a darkroom, its atmosphere thick with the smell of chemicals and the red glow of safelights. Here, she reigned as both artist and chronicler—a trauma paparazzo who captured the raw, unfiltered moments of human devastation. Images of bombed-out hospitals in Kyiv, ashen faces of wildfire survivors, and the solitary photograph of a child’s shoe half-buried in flood mud hung from the walls like spectral memorials. Each image was a frozen scream, a testament to chaos and loss.

Among these fractured narratives, one photograph stood apart with startling clarity. It was a portrait of Y/N, captured in the vulnerable quiet of sleep, bathed in the gentle glow of dawn. His face, soft and unguarded, bore the delicate lines of a man haunted by memories yet still clinging to fragments of hope. Aeri’s eyes lingered on it, her pulse quickening as she recalled that moment—a rare instance when the chaos of her world had paused, revealing a truth too intimate for her usual repertoire.

Her phone buzzed insistently on a cluttered table, its screen lighting up with a reminder of an impending deadline. Aeri’s agent was on the line, his voice crackling through the speaker with the brisk efficiency of someone used to demanding perfection.

“Look, Sash, The Times wants a quote about ‘UNSEEN.’ I need you to give them the usual—‘It’s about the elusiveness of truth’—and stop overthinking the damn artist statement,” he barked, his tone a mixture of impatience and exasperation.

Aeri pressed a thumb against her scar—a faded, jagged line from the ’16 riot in Istanbul that had nearly cost her more than just her pride. “I’m not overthinking,” she snapped, her voice low and tremulous with defiance. “I’m curating, shaping fragments of reality into something real.” She swept a hand through her ink-black hair and looked around her darkroom, where each photograph seemed to pulse with unspoken stories. “Truth isn’t elusive, it’s blinding. Sometimes it’s just too bright to face directly.”

Her agent’s voice cut through her reverie. “Just stick to the script, Aeri.”

As if in response to the mounting pressure, Aeri reached for a freshly developed print of Y/N’s photo. She held it up to the dim red light, marveling at the clarity that set it apart from the other blurred images—a moment of pure, unedited vulnerability in an otherwise chaotic portfolio. In her trembling hands, that image represented all the contradictions of her life: her success as a trauma chronicler and her inability to process the intimacy that this one shot demanded.

But as she adjusted the print, a misstep sent a splash of developer solution cascading over it. The clear lines of Y/N’s face blurred into a golden smear, the vivid detail dissolving like memories fading in the rain. For a long, heart-wrenching moment, she watched the image twist into something unrecognizable—a casualty of her own inner turmoil.

“Fuck,” she muttered, her voice barely audible over the steady hum of the chemicals. With shaking fingers, she retrieved the ruined print and, as if performing a ritual of both guilt and preservation, she tucked it away into a drawer labeled “UNDEVELOPED.” In that secret compartment of her studio, Aeri locked away not just a ruined photograph, but a piece of herself she wasn’t ready to confront—a reminder of the man whose sleep had betrayed his true self.

Outside, the rain eased into a gentle mist, and the city began to stir with a hesitant vibrancy. The blurred boundaries between past and present, reality and memory, persisted like a half-remembered dream. Aeri exhaled slowly, her mind a tangled web of creative passion and self-imposed isolation. Each ruined print, every blurred image, was a step in her journey to capture the inescapable truth—no matter how painful or beautiful it might be.

————————————————————

Later that evening, Y/N mounted his aging bicycle and pedaled into the night. The urban landscape, washed clean by the relentless rain, was transformed into a series of luminous reflections and fractured silhouettes. He navigated the slick, glistening streets with an air of weary determination, his mind heavy with the ghosts of unfinished songs and missed opportunities.

As he passed under a mural on 5th and Vine, a colossal billboard came into view. It was an arresting display—“UNSEEN: PHOTOGRAPHS BY AERI UCHINAGA’’ sprawled boldly across its surface. The image that dominated the ad was Aeri’s own, her face a study in defiance and vulnerability, half-consumed by shadow and light. Her eyes, sharp and inscrutable, seemed to challenge the viewer to uncover the secrets behind the facade. The billboard glowed with an almost otherworldly intensity, daring him to confront the specter of their shared past.

Y/N’s pulse quickened as he slowed to a stop, the chill of the evening mingling with the heat of buried emotions. Every detail of the billboard—the stark typography, the interplay of dark and luminous hues—spoke to the unresolved tension between him and Aeri. In that suspended moment, he felt the weight of every nearly-spoken word, every lost chance at redemption.

He fumbled with his phone, hesitating as he opened a new text message. His fingers hovered over the screen, a message forming—a tentative greeting, a whispered admission of his lingering feelings. “Heard you’re in town…” the message began, each word a tentative bridge between past hurts and uncertain hope. But as quickly as the words appeared, doubt flooded his mind. What if reaching out would shatter the fragile peace he’d fought so hard to build? The tension between longing and fear was as palpable as the damp chill of the night air.

In a moment of desperate indecision, he deleted the message. But the act of deletion felt like a small betrayal of his own yearning. His heart pounded in his ears as he stared at the dark screen, the silence more oppressive than the constant hum of the city. The electric tension of unsaid words and unfinished conversations surged within him, igniting a fury that he could no longer contain.

In a burst of anger and sorrow, Y/N’s hand clenched around the phone. With a swift, impulsive motion, he hurled it against the wall of a nearby building. The impact sent a shudder through the quiet street, and the sound of cracking glass echoed like a final exclamation mark to a conversation that would never be finished. For a few heartbeats, he stood motionless in the rain, the bitter taste of regret mingling with the dampness on his skin.

A bike messenger whizzed by, his whistled comment barely audible above the steady patter of rain. “Bad breakup?” the stranger teased, his tone light as if life’s hardships could be distilled into a single, offhand remark. Y/N managed a bitter smile in response, but the gesture was hollow—more a mask for the turmoil swirling inside than an expression of genuine amusement.

The billboard loomed above him, its vibrant, defiant image of Aeri a constant reminder of the unresolved chapters in their shared past. The rain continued to fall, each drop a muted percussion in the symphony of urban solitude. Y/N’s eyes traced the contours of her face on the billboard—the half-shadowed jawline, the fierce determination in her eyes—and he felt the sharp sting of memories both beautiful and painful.

In that fractured moment, as the rain softened and the city settled into a contemplative hush, Y/N realized that the static in his life—the noise of lost opportunities and unsaid apologies—was something he could no longer ignore. Whether it was the echo of Aeri’s laugh in the hiss of the coffee machine or the blurred remnants of a photograph hidden away in a dark drawer, the past had a way of intruding upon the present, demanding to be seen, acknowledged, and, ultimately, resolved.

As the neon lights danced on the wet pavement and the echoes of his shattered phone reverberated in his mind, Y/N stood at the crossroads of what had been and what might yet be. The city, drenched in rain and bathed in the fractured glow of memories, beckoned him forward. Somewhere between the static of his fading dreams and the promise of a new, uncertain dawn lay the truth he had long evaded—a truth as elusive as the fleeting smile of a ghost, yet as persistent as the rain that never ceased.

In that final, lingering moment before the night swallowed him whole, Y/N closed his eyes and listened to the symphony of his past—the haunting refrain of “Moth Wing Hours,” the whispered echoes of a love lost and found in the static, and the promise of redemption hidden within the fractured reflections of neon light. The journey was far from over, and with each beat of his determined heart, he knew that the search for truth, however painful and elusive, was one worth the risk.

————————————————————

The night deepened, and as Y/N finally mounted his bike once more, the city around him seemed to pulse with a renewed urgency. Every raindrop, every flickering streetlamp, every shard of broken glass on the pavement was a reminder of both the beauty and the brutality of a life lived on the edge of memory and possibility. He pedaled on, the remnants of his anger slowly dissolving into a quiet resolve. Tonight, beneath the relentless rain and the indifferent glow of neon, Y/N would confront the static that had haunted him for so long—and perhaps, in that act of defiance, find a way to reclaim the fragments of himself he’d long thought lost.

The urban night was alive with possibility, each corner and shadow a silent promise of stories yet to be told. As Y/N disappeared into the rain-soaked maze of city streets, his heart whispered a tentative hope: that even amid the static of shattered dreams, there might yet be a spark of something real—something that could light the way forward, however uncertain the path.

————————————————————

The memory of that humid summer night still burned like an old photograph in Y/N’s mind—a moment when uncertainty danced with reckless possibility. It was his first open mic at The Iris Room, a dive bar where the walls were as worn as the stories of its patrons. Y/N, just 24 and armed with a hopeful guitar and a pocketful of unsung songs, stood on a rickety stage beneath a single, sputtering spotlight. The audience, a ragtag collection of night owls and lost souls, leaned in with half-expected indifference.

As he strummed the opening chords of a song he’d never fully finished, his voice wavered between passion and apprehension. Every note carried the weight of his insecurities and the tender promise of new beginnings. Mid-performance, when he dared to let his guard down, a sharp voice cut through the din. “Stop singing like you’re scared of the mic, poet,” came a taunt from the back of the room.

He paused, heart pounding, and then spotted her—Aeri, 23, with eyes alight like flares in the dark. Her tone was mischievous and daring, a challenge that stung yet invigorated him. The remark hung in the smoky air, a spark that ignited something inside him. Instead of retreating into his shell, Y/N found himself grinning, a flush of adrenaline and defiance coloring his cheeks.

After the set, with applause mingled with playful jeers, Aeri made her way to him. “You’ve got guts,” she said with a wry smile, leaning against the peeling backdrop of a backstage door. “But you’re holding back—like you’re afraid to let the real you out.”

Her words, sharp yet tender, cut through his uncertainty. The moment crackled with the electricity of two lives colliding unexpectedly. They traded barbed compliments and earnest confessions in the haze of cheap beer and neon reflections. When the night was winding down and the band’s final chord lingered in the air, Aeri whispered, “Come on. Let’s ditch this dump and do something reckless.”

Y/N hesitated for only a heartbeat before grabbing his coat and following her out into the sticky summer night. They left The Iris Room together, laughter trailing behind them like a shared secret. The humid air was thick with promise as they hopped onto a beat-up car and sped away from the dim lights and stale smoke of the bar.

Their destination was as unconventional as their encounter—a towering, abandoned water tower on the outskirts of the city. Its rusted metal skin and precarious perch promised both danger and freedom. As they climbed the narrow, creaking stairs, the city below spread out in a patchwork of lights and shadows. At the top, the world seemed suspended in a moment of both vertigo and liberation.

Aeri pulled out her camera with practiced ease. “Hold that smile,” she urged, aiming the lens at Y/N. With the cityscape behind him and the wind whipping his hair, Y/N’s laughter echoed off the cold metal—a pure, unguarded sound. In that moment, as the shutter clicked, she captured not just his face but the raw, unfiltered joy of that reckless defiance.

Barely containing her delight, Aeri teased, “You’re like a chord that won’t resolve.” Y/N’s grin widened as he retorted, “Maybe I’m a bridge to nowhere.”

Their banter mingled with the roar of the wind and the distant hum of a city that never slept. In that dizzying height, every word, every glance, vibrated with the intensity of newfound chemistry. When Aeri’s hand brushed against his, the connection was immediate—a live wire that seemed to electrify the very air between them.

As the night deepened, the duo settled on a battered metal bench near the edge of the water tower. Aeri, ever the provocateur, pulled a worn flask from her leather satchel and offered it to him. “Here,” she said, eyes twinkling, “for the bold and the brave.” In a moment of playful rebellion, Y/N snatched it from her hand and pretended to take a swig, only to toss it back with a laugh. The flask, like their burgeoning connection, was both a challenge and a token—a symbol of defiance against a world that had too often demanded conformity.

Their conversation wove through the night like an improvisational melody—stories of past heartbreaks, dreams too wild for daylight, and confessions whispered over the hum of a forgotten city. Every word felt charged with meaning, every pause pregnant with possibility. As they descended the water tower, their fingers remained intertwined—a silent promise of adventures yet to come.

By the time they reached the ground, the horizon was a blur of deep blues and emerging hints of dawn. That night, in the raw, unfiltered glow of urban rebellion, they had forged an unspoken pact: to live as though every moment were both a beginning and an end, a snapshot of perfection in a world of nearly-there moments. Their first meeting had been a collision of contrasts—a clash of vulnerability and audacity, leaving them both forever marked by the brilliance of a summer that almost was.

————————————————————

In the weeks that followed, their whirlwind romance unfolded like a montage of vivid snapshots, each moment as fleeting and fragile as moth wings in a summer breeze. Aeri dragged Y/N into her nocturnal world, a realm of abandoned factories and forgotten landscapes, where the ruins whispered secrets of a once-thriving industrial past. At 3 a.m., when the city slept under a veil of darkness, she would lead him to places that pulsed with a raw, melancholic beauty.

One such night, they arrived at an abandoned factory on the outskirts of town. The building, draped in ivy and bathed in the ghostly glow of moonlight, seemed to breathe with memories of its past. Aeri’s camera was an extension of her steady hand, capturing each decaying detail with an artist’s eye. As she framed a shot of a rusted machine half-submerged in shadow, Y/N’s presence disrupted the serene stillness of her composition. He wandered into the frame, his eyes filled with wonder and a hint of mischief, transforming the image from a static relic into a living narrative.

“You always ruin the shot,” she laughed, shaking her head as she snapped a quick picture of him. But the irritation in her tone was softened by the affectionate glimmer in her eyes. In that brief exchange, Y/N felt both exasperation and adoration—a realization that she saw the beauty in his spontaneity even when it disrupted her meticulous plans.

In quieter moments, Y/N retreated to his notebook, scribbling lines of poetry and song lyrics that seemed to capture the duality of their connection. One passage in particular resonated with him as he wrote in a cramped diner booth, the words flowing almost unconsciously:

“You’re the flash that ruins the shot I’m the darkroom, begging for light.”

The line encapsulated everything: Aeri was a burst of brilliance that threatened to overwhelm the careful, shadowed spaces within him. Her presence illuminated parts of him he’d kept hidden away, and yet, it also unraveled the fragile fabric of his carefully curated persona.

But as with all passionate affairs, the summer was not without its fractures. One rainy afternoon, a letter arrived that upended their fragile idyll. It was from Aeri’s ex—a reminder of a past that refused to be forgotten. The letter was laced with bitterness and regret, accusing her of betraying what was once real. That night, in the cramped intimacy of her apartment, Aeri’s facade cracked.

Over clattering dishes and the low hum of an old fan, she confronted Y/N. “You’re romanticizing chaos,” she accused, her voice trembling with a mixture of fury and sorrow. “Every time you spin your tales, you turn our moments into some tragic myth.”

Y/N’s eyes, usually so soft in the face of her intensity, hardened in response. “And you,” he shot back, “are nothing but an emotional tourist—riding the waves of every storm without ever letting the calm in.”

The argument reverberated through the night, punctuated by sharp words and longer silences. Their love, once a spontaneous burst of light, now flickered uncertainly in the shadow of old wounds and unresolved grief. Yet, even as anger spilled over, the undercurrent of desire remained undeniable—a magnetic pull that neither could fully resist.

After the fight, they found themselves drifting into a fragile silence. In the quiet moments that followed, Aeri’s eyes wandered back to the ruined letters and half-packed bags, and Y/N’s mind returned to the pages of his notebook stained with hastily scribbled verses. The vibrancy of their summer began to show the scars of reality—a reminder that even the most luminous moments can be marred by the ghosts of the past.

Despite the pain, there was beauty in their chaos. Each spontaneous adventure, every whispered word and stolen glance, was a piece of the mosaic that defined their summer. Their love was a collage of moments—bright, blurred, and sometimes broken—but it was entirely theirs. In the dim light of early morning, as they lay side by side on a threadbare rug in a forgotten loft, the echoes of laughter and argument blended into a haunting melody. It was a love story written in stolen snapshots and fleeting verses, as transient and unforgettable as the moth wings that fluttered in the heat of summer nights.

————————————————————

Dawn crept in with an unforgiving clarity that shattered the illusions of the night. In the cold predawn light, Aeri moved silently through the narrow apartment they’d once shared, her footsteps echoing against tile and worn-out memories. Y/N lay still in a tangled heap on the bed, his eyes closed as if he could escape the painful finality of what was about to unfold.

She had always been the one to seize the moment—the wild, untamable spirit who never hesitated to break free. And now, as the first blush of morning painted the sky in pale pastels, she was leaving. The weight of their fractured summer pressed down on her with every careful step.

Y/N’s eyes fluttered open just as she paused by the door. He forced himself to remain still, feigning sleep as he watched her prepare to leave. In the quiet hush of that fateful morning, he sensed the end was near. The silence was thick, punctuated only by the distant hum of traffic and the soft clink of her keys in the lock.

Aeri lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, her silhouette framed by the weak light of dawn. Before stepping out, she pulled out her camera with a practiced precision. There was a final ritual she needed to perform—a goodbye captured in crystal-clear honesty. In a single, decisive moment, she turned the lens on Y/N, freezing him in a tableau of vulnerability. His face, relaxed and unaware of the significance of the shot, bore the deep lines of a man who had given his heart away too many times.

As the shutter clicked, Aeri’s hand trembled with the weight of what she was doing. In that silent snapshot, every unspoken word, every tear unshed, was captured in a moment of raw, unedited truth. Her eyes flickered over the image, then to the worn notebook on the bedside table where Y/N’s poetry had once spilled like secrets.

For a few agonizing moments, she fumbled with a crumpled piece of paper—a note that she had scribbled in a fit of conflicting emotions. The words were hurried and raw: “I’ll ruin us faster than art ever could.” The note, however, never found its way to him. In a sudden impulse, Aeri crumpled it into a tight fist and tore it up, scattering fragments of regret and unfulfilled promise across the cold floor.

Then, without another backward glance, she slipped out the door into the early morning haze, leaving Y/N alone with the echo of her departure. The apartment, once a sanctuary of shared dreams, now felt unbearably empty—a mausoleum of memories and lingering echoes of laughter.

Y/N remained still for a long while, the silence of the room pressing in on him like a suffocating fog. He listened to the distant sound of footsteps receding, each step marking the slow death of what had once been a blazing, uncontainable flame. In that quiet aftermath, he felt the sting of loss so acute that it seemed to tear at the very fabric of his soul.

He turned his head toward the window, where the first rays of the sun filtered through in brittle strips of light, and wondered if this was how every ending felt—both inevitable and shattering, like a masterpiece unraveled stroke by stroke. The crisp clarity of the morning betrayed no hint of the wild, transient passion that had defined their summer. Instead, it was a mirror reflecting back the broken shards of a love that had burned too fiercely to last.

For hours, Y/N lay there, caught between the desire to call out and the resignation of silence. He replayed every laugh, every heated argument, and every tender touch in his mind—each one a delicate thread in the tapestry of their brief, chaotic romance. And as the sun climbed higher, warming the cold floor beneath him, he realized that even in the midst of heartbreak, there was a strange, unyielding beauty in the truth of it all.

————————————————————

Years later, the echoes of that tumultuous summer still resonated in the present, converging in a singular, charged moment. Y/N arrived at the gallery with his battered guitar strapped to his back—a silent testament to a life that had wandered far from the reckless days of youth, yet never quite escaped their shadow. The gallery buzzed with the hum of murmured conversations and the clink of glasses, the air thick with anticipation and the scent of polished wood.

Across the room, under the cool glow of strategically placed lights, Aeri stood framed by a backdrop of her photographs. Dressed in a tailored blazer that contrasted sharply with the raw, unfiltered images of pain and beauty she had captured, she exuded an air of controlled authority. For a moment, as she interviewed a particularly enthusiastic art critic, her composure faltered. Her eyes lifted and met Y/N’s across the crowded room—a silent collision of past and present that sent a jolt through both of them.

Time seemed to pause as memories cascaded between them—the fevered nights on water towers, the stolen laughter under abandoned factories, the quiet devastation of that final morning. In that suspended second, the gallery, with its pristine walls and hushed whispers, transformed into a stage for their unresolved history. Y/N’s heart pounded in his ears, the sound mingling with the ambient chatter, as he took a tentative step forward.

The critic’s questions faded into the background as Aeri’s gaze held his, raw and unspoken. For a brief, fragile moment, they were transported back to that summer of almosts—the incandescent flash of youth, the daring risk of vulnerability, and the bittersweet taste of what might have been. Aeri’s hand twitched near her side, as if reaching out to bridge the gulf of years and regrets. And Y/N, with a mixture of hope and hesitation, wondered if the unresolved chords of their past could somehow be tuned to a new melody.

In the charged silence that followed, both recognized that the distance between them was measured not in miles or years, but in the scars and memories that each carried. The gallery lights, soft and unforgiving, illuminated every wrinkle of regret, every lingering smile of nostalgia. It was a moment where the weight of their shared history pressed against the fragile present—a reminder that even as life marched forward, the past never truly let go.

As the room slowly returned to its normal rhythm, Aeri cleared her throat, regaining her professional poise, while Y/N lingered at the edge of the conversation like a ghost from a time when every note mattered. In that brief, electric encounter, the silent promise of unfinished music hung in the air—a promise that perhaps, someday, they would dare to play their old song once again.

The past and present, woven together in a delicate tapestry of memories and unspoken truths, revealed a love that was never entirely lost—only transformed into a haunting refrain that echoed through every chord and captured frame.

The evening had settled into a heavy, indigo twilight as guests filtered into the gallery. The space, a converted industrial loft with soaring ceilings and exposed brick, was filled with hushed conversations and the soft clink of wine glasses. Overhead, a single spotlight traced slow circles around Aeri’s photographs—a sprawling body of work that oscillated between raw brutality and a fragile, dreamlike beauty. It was as if every image was a confession, a whispered secret meant for those brave enough to look beyond the surface.

————————————————————

Clusters of guests drifted among the images, their voices a murmur of appreciation and critique. One guest, a sharply dressed critic with a wry smile, stopped before a series of images that captured urban decay and intimate despair. He leaned in, appraising the photos with a measured gaze, then remarked loud enough for those nearby to hear, “Brave… if you like emotional voyeurism.” His tone was mocking yet laced with admiration—a dismissal that somehow validated Aeri’s work as both daring and disturbingly honest.

Y/N stood in a quieter corner of the gallery, a silent observer amid the well-heeled conversation. His gaze was fixed on a photograph titled “The Bridge to Nowhere.” It was a blurred shot of a water tower, its structure distorted by motion and shadow. The image seemed to capture something essential—a moment suspended between hope and futility, echoing the restless nights of their shared past. The photograph, much like the memory of that summer, was both haunting and achingly beautiful. Y/N’s thoughts swirled with the recollections of a time when every risk was a promise, when every misstep was a note in the symphony of youth.

The dim lighting in the gallery transformed the image into a ghostly vision. He could almost hear the echo of their laughter on that water tower, feel the electric thrill of their first encounter mingled with the uncertainty of what was to come. In that moment, every critique, every whispered appraisal in the room, faded into a background hum—insignificant compared to the relentless pull of the past.

Across the room, Aeri navigated her own storm of emotions. Dressed in a sleek, tailored blazer that belied the chaos of her inner world, she moved with a practiced grace. Yet every so often, her eyes would stray to the very photograph that haunted Y/N’s attention. It was as if, through that blurred image, both of them had found a piece of themselves they could never quite reclaim—a truth too raw to be confined to memory alone.

————————————————————

As the exhibit drew on, the tension between past and present reached a fever pitch. The gallery’s polished interior gave way to a narrow, fire-escape landing behind the building, a shadowy refuge from the pretension of art critics and connoisseurs. Here, the rawness of the night reigned again. The metallic scent of rain and the chill of concrete underfoot were a stark contrast to the curated beauty of the exhibit.

Y/N found Aeri leaning against the cold railing, her gaze fixed on the city skyline—a tapestry of neon lights and distant sirens. The space between them was charged, a silent battleground for words unspoken for too long. Y/N stepped forward, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and yearning.

“You took the truth and smudged it into something safe,” he said, his tone both accusatory and desperate. His words cut through the night, raw as the wind that whipped around the fire escape.

Aeri’s eyes flashed with a storm of emotions—regret, defiance, and a deep-seated pain. “You think I didn’t try?” she shot back, her voice low and measured, though every syllable trembled with the weight of old wounds. “I’d point the lens at you, and it’d feel like… like aiming at the sun.” Her words were a confession, a brittle admission that the process of capturing truth was as dangerous and blinding as confronting it directly.

For a long, suspended moment, the only sound was the rustling of their breaths mingling with the city’s distant hum. The fire escape, lit only by the feeble glow of a streetlamp, became the stage for a collision of their two worlds—one forged in the incandescent heat of passion, the other cooled by the bitterness of memory.

Aeri’s gaze dropped to the small leather case slung over her shoulder—the one that contained all her most intimate photographs, the images she’d hidden away from prying eyes and the relentless scrutiny of the world. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she unlatched it and drew out a single print. It was an image she had never dared show anyone—a photograph captured in the darkness of a forgotten night, a moment when vulnerability and raw emotion intertwined to form something irretrievably real.

Y/N’s eyes widened as he took in the image. The photo was of him—at a moment of complete exposure. His face was lit by a soft, almost unearthly glow; his expression was one of tender anguish and hopeful defiance. It was as if every line, every shadow on his face, had been etched by a memory too painful to forget and too beautiful to ignore. The clarity of the image was in stark contrast to the blurred aesthetics of “The Bridge to Nowhere.” It was the unvarnished truth, stripped of artifice.

“I—” Y/N began, but his voice faltered. The room around him seemed to dissolve, leaving only the image and the haunting echo of a song in his mind. The static of all his past regrets, hopes, and dreams crescendoed into a familiar refrain—a melody he had long tried to bury but could never forget.

In that moment, as if summoned by the intensity of his emotions, the first notes of “Moth Wing Hours” began to swell within him. The song, raw and unpolished, rose from the depths of his memory. It was a piece Aeri had never heard, a melody woven from the threads of their shared history and the silent spaces between their words. Its strains were both a lament and a declaration, a summoning of every lost moment and every almost-forgotten promise.

The sound seemed to transform the night. The city below, the cold metal of the fire escape, even the distant hum of traffic, all receded as Y/N’s inner world surged forth. He could almost see the images of their past—flashbacks of a summer ablaze with possibility, of stolen kisses and reckless confessions. The song was more than music; it was an outpouring of every fragment of his soul that had been buried under layers of static and silence.

Aeri’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she watched him. For so long, she had hidden behind her camera, behind her carefully curated images, in an attempt to capture the truth without facing it. Now, faced with the raw, unfiltered emotion of the man before her, her defenses crumbled. The photograph in her hand trembled as if it, too, could sense the gravity of the moment.

————————————————————

The confrontation on the fire escape marked a turning point—a precipice between what had been and what could be. With the hidden photo still clutched in her hand, Aeri took a tentative step forward. The quiet urgency in her eyes spoke of regrets and unspoken apologies, of a love that had once burned fiercely but had been dimmed by time and circumstance.

Y/N, still clutching the weight of the photograph in his mind, slowly retrieved his battered guitar from the case slung over his back. The instrument, scarred and weathered by years of neglect and forgotten melodies, was as much a part of him as the memories that haunted his every chord. He sat down on the cold, metal step of the fire escape, the city lights flickering like distant memories around him.

With deliberate care, he positioned the guitar against his knee and began to strum—a single, raw note that cut through the stillness of the night. The sound was unpolished, rough around the edges, yet it carried with it an undeniable truth. Each chord resonated with the cumulative weight of every missed chance, every whispered regret, every spark of defiant hope that had flickered in the darkness of their shared past.

As the melody built, so did the intensity of their unspoken exchange. Aeri watched, transfixed, as the notes of “Moth Wing Hours” filled the space between them. There was a vulnerability in his playing—a surrender to the truth that had long been hidden behind layers of static and distance. The song unfolded slowly, each refrain a delicate tapestry of sound that intertwined with the fragile remnants of their memories.

Tears welled in Aeri’s eyes as she absorbed the raw emotion in every note. Her camera, once a tool for capturing the fleeting beauty of the world, now hung limply by her side—a silent witness to the convergence of art and life. The layers of artifice and carefully contrived images fell away, leaving only the bare, unfiltered essence of who they once were—and perhaps, who they could still become.

For a long while, the two stood there on the fire escape, the night embracing them with its cool, indifferent arms. There was no physical contact—no desperate reach or trembling embrace. Instead, there was a communion of souls, a recognition that in the interplay of light and shadow, truth and art, they had found something worth preserving.

The music swelled, a crescendo of emotion that echoed through the empty streets below. Y/N’s fingers danced over the strings, coaxing the final notes from the guitar as if to seal the past and herald a new beginning. The song, filled with every fragment of their broken history and every glimmer of hope, hung in the air—a fragile promise that the static could finally fade.

In that suspended moment, the relentless noise of life—the criticisms, the ghostly echoes of mistakes, the ever-present reminder of what had been lost—began to dissolve. The collision of their worlds, so long marked by the fractures of time and regret, softened into a quiet understanding. The harsh lines of memory blurred, giving way to a tender, unspoken possibility.

Aeri’s tears fell silently as she listened, each drop a small testament to the emotions that had been held at bay for far too long. Y/N’s playing was not just a performance—it was an act of confession, a desperate attempt to reconcile the shards of a past that had been shattered by the weight of dreams deferred. The notes of “Moth Wing Hours” wove around them like a cocoon, a fragile barrier against the relentless tide of the world outside.

When the last chord finally faded, the silence that followed was profound. It was a silence filled not with emptiness, but with the unspoken promise of renewal—a moment where every raw, painful truth was met with the gentle possibility of forgiveness. Y/N’s eyes met Aeri’s, and in that exchange, both knew that the collision of their lives had not been an end, but a chance—a narrow, trembling opportunity to rebuild something honest from the ruins of what had been.

Without a word, Y/N set his guitar aside, the echo of his song lingering in the night air like a benediction. Aeri, still trembling, slowly retrieved the hidden photograph from her jacket pocket. In the weak glow of the streetlamp, she allowed herself a final, shuddering breath—a silent farewell to the ghosts of their shared past and an acceptance of the fragile, uncertain future that lay ahead.

For a long, aching moment, neither spoke. The raw, unvarnished emotion between them was palpable—a truth too heavy for words, yet light enough to bear hope. The static of all the past, the noise of regret and the clamor of what might have been, had finally begun to fade into the gentle hum of a new beginning.

As the city resumed its nocturnal rhythm, Y/N turned away, leaving the fire escape and the echoes of the past behind him. Aeri lingered a moment longer, her heart full of all the things unsaid and undone, then stepped back into the gallery. Inside, the harsh critiques and the polished facades of art awaited, but for a brief, transcendent instant on that cold fire escape, the raw pulse of truth had reawakened something long dormant.

In the days that followed, neither could entirely erase the memory of that night—the night when art and life collided, when every fractured note and blurred image spoke of a love both haunting and redemptive. Y/N continued to play his music, the unpolished notes of “Moth Wing Hours” now a permanent refrain in his heart. And Aeri, her camera now a little heavier with the weight of remembered truth, sought out new images—each one a step toward capturing not just the fleeting beauty of the world, but the unyielding truth of a love that had once dared to defy the static.

They never touched that night, never bridged the distance with a single embrace. But in the quiet resolution of their separate paths, there was a promise—a promise that though the static of their past might always echo faintly in the background, they had finally chosen to let the unvarnished truth shine through.

As dawn broke over the city one crisp morning, the remnants of the night’s collision lingered like a soft melody in the air—a reminder that even in the midst of shattered dreams and blurred memories, there existed a fragile, defiant hope. And somewhere in that hope, the truth of who they once were—and who they might yet become—was etched in every fading note and every captured image, waiting, quietly, for the day when the static would finally be silenced.

————————————————————

In that silent space between yesterday and tomorrow, the choices they made—of art, of truth, of love—resonated far beyond the confines of a single night. The exhibit had been a canvas for Aeri’s struggles, a testament to the pain and beauty that had always defined her vision. The fire escape had been their confessional, a place where raw truths were spoken in whispers against the roar of the city. And the final, tentative notes of “Moth Wing Hours” had been both an ending and a beginning—a declaration that, no matter how fractured the past, the future was theirs to create.

The collision of their lives, so vivid and violent in its intensity, had not been about reunion or reconciliation in the conventional sense. It was about confronting the ghosts of their shared history, accepting every imperfect note and blurred memory, and choosing, despite it all, to carry forward the fragile light of truth.

For Y/N, the music had always been a refuge—a sanctuary where every dissonant chord and every melancholic refrain held the promise of redemption. For Aeri, her lens was a way of seeing the world in all its painful, luminous detail. And for both of them, the choice to stand on that fire escape, to let the static fade into a quiet, unguarded melody, was a small act of defiance—a declaration that, even in a world awash with half-truths and muted regrets, there remained the possibility of something real, something unyielding.

And so, as the gallery lights dimmed and the night retreated into memory, the echoes of that fateful collision lingered—a testament to the power of truth, art, and the indomitable human spirit. In the space where music, memory, and image converged, a new chapter was written—a chapter not of perfection, but of raw, unvarnished beauty, where every note, every captured image, and every silent tear told the story of lives that dared to defy the static.

————————————————————

As the new day dawned, a subtle shift had taken place. The unresolved tension between art and truth, between the photographer and the musician, had not been erased but transformed into something more profound. The static that had once drowned out their voices now lay softened by the resonance of honesty—a reminder that, in the end, even the most fragmented hearts can create a symphony when they choose to embrace the full spectrum of light and shadow.

In that delicate balance between loss and hope, between memory and renewal, Y/N’s song continued to play—a song of truth, of love, and of the promise that the static would, at last, fade into silence.

Y/N’s world had shifted again. The past—every chord of regret, every flash of passion—had receded into a gentle hum, replaced by the steady cadence of life’s next movement. Now, he found solace in the familiar rhythms of teaching, where each imperfect note held the promise of discovery.

————————————————————

In a small community music school tucked away in a weathered building downtown, Y/N stood before a semicircle of students. The room was cluttered with worn instruments and scribbled sheet music, its windows streaked with the soft light of a fading afternoon. Today’s lesson wasn’t about scales or technical perfection; instead, Y/N introduced what he called “imperfect songs”—melodies that bore the scars of real life and the beauty of unfiltered truth.

“Music,” he began, his voice warm yet edged with a quiet intensity, “is never meant to be flawless. It’s the little mistakes, the unexpected pauses, that make it ours. Every off-key note, every stutter in your rhythm—it’s part of your story.” His gaze swept the room, catching the nervous smiles and tentative nods of his students, each clutching a guitar or keyboard as if it were their lifeline.

He led them through a simple chord progression, encouraging them to let their imperfections speak. “Play it with feeling,” he urged, “don’t try to make it perfect. Let the music breathe.” As the students hesitated at first, they slowly began to relax into the exercise. The room filled with a chorus of hesitant strums and tentative notes, and Y/N smiled, thinking of the songs that had once defined his own restless nights.

After class, a few students lingered, eager to ask questions or share fragments of their own stories. One student, a shy teen with a passion for lyrics, approached him quietly. “Mr. C,” she said, her voice soft but determined, “do you think it’s okay if my song isn’t… perfect?” Y/N knelt down to meet her eyes, his expression gentle. “Absolutely. Perfection isn’t what makes a song memorable—it’s the heart behind it. Remember, every masterpiece is born out of imperfection.”

As he walked home that evening, the city’s neon glow bathed the sidewalks in shifting hues. He thought of the moments when his own music had been raw and unguarded—a collection of fragments that somehow merged into the haunting refrain of “Moth Wing Hours.” Tonight, at a nearby dive bar, he would revisit that melody, offering it a new ending that spoke of transformation rather than despair.

————————————————————

The dive bar was a sanctuary for the misunderstood and the outcasts—a dimly lit den where the air vibrated with the sound of guitars and voices that had seen better days. Y/N took his usual spot on the small stage, his battered acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder like an old friend. The familiar murmur of the crowd wrapped around him, a living echo of his former life.

As he tuned his guitar, Y/N’s mind wandered back to the countless nights spent strumming the same chords in empty rooms, each note a testimony to his journey through loss, regret, and hope. Tonight, he would share a rendition of “Moth Wing Hours”—a song that had once captured the fleeting beauty of a love lost in the static of memory. But now, something within him had shifted. The static had faded, replaced by the warm afterglow of acceptance.

When it was his turn, Y/N stepped forward and began to play. The opening chords filled the room, gentle and unassuming at first, then building into a rich, resonant melody. As he sang, his voice carried both the weight of his past and the promise of a new beginning. When he reached the final verse, he paused, a moment of silence that hung heavy in the air.

Then, with a quiet certainty, he sang the final line: “We were the flash, Now we’re the afterglow.”

The words, simple yet profound, resonated with everyone present. For a moment, time seemed to slow as the audience absorbed the transformation encapsulated in that fleeting phrase. In that subtle shift from a burst of intensity to a lingering warmth, Y/N had captured the essence of change—the transition from the tumultuous brilliance of youth to the steady, enduring light of experience.

————————————————————

Miles away, in a quiet corner of the city, Aeri’s world was taking shape in stark, deliberate focus. Her studio was a space of creative solitude—a converted loft where sunlight filtered in through large industrial windows, illuminating rows of meticulously arranged photographs and scattered notebooks filled with handwritten thoughts. Here, amidst the controlled chaos of her artistic process, Aeri prepared for her final act of catharsis.

For weeks, she had wrestled with the decision of which image would define her upcoming exhibit. Every photograph she had taken was imbued with fragments of truth, yet one image haunted her—the clear, unblurred shot she had secretly kept, the one that captured the essence of what almost was. In that photo, Y/N’s features were rendered in sharp detail—a moment of vulnerable authenticity that had eluded her in every other frame. Now, with trembling resolve, she selected that image for submission, titling it “What Almost Was.”

Late into the night, with the exhibit deadline looming, Aeri composed a final email to the gallery curator. Her fingers moved hesitantly over the keyboard as she attached the image, her heart pounding with a mix of apprehension and exhilaration. In the message, she wrote: “This is the piece that captures the truth of our imperfection—the clarity in the chaos. It’s the one shot that reminds us that sometimes, the most honest moments are the ones we try hardest to hide.”

After sending the email, Aeri retreated to her studio’s back corner, where a small, worn mirror and a vintage camera awaited her next experiment. Tonight, she was determined to capture a self-portrait—a raw, unmediated look at herself that bore no filters, no distortions. With deliberate care, she set up the camera on its tripod, adjusting the focus until the world beyond the lens receded into a soft blur.

As she sat before the camera, Aeri allowed herself a rare moment of introspection. The image that would soon materialize on the screen was more than just a self-portrait—it was a declaration of self-acceptance, a recognition of every scar, every triumph, and every moment of vulnerability that had led her to this point. With a deep, steadying breath, she pressed the shutter.

The camera clicked, capturing a single, unadorned moment of truth. In the photograph, Aeri’s eyes met her own with a clarity that was both shocking and beautiful. There were no shadows obscuring her features, no layers of artifice to mask the raw emotion that lay within. It was simply her—unfiltered, real, and unmistakably present. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to see the full spectrum of her identity—the artist, the wanderer, the woman who had loved fiercely and lost deeply.

————————————————————

In the quiet aftermath of their separate acts of transformation, a subtle shift rippled through the city. Y/N’s classroom echoed with the sound of imperfect songs and tentative chords, a living reminder that beauty often emerged from the flawed and the unfinished. His dive bar gig had been more than just a performance—it was a reawakening, a reaffirmation that even the most battered heart could produce a melody that resonated with truth.

Aeri’s exhibit, bolstered by her final, unfiltered submission, garnered unexpected acclaim. Critics who had once dismissed her work as “emotional voyeurism” began to see a new depth—a vulnerability that transcended mere spectacle. The photograph titled “What Almost Was” became a focal point of the exhibit, its clarity standing as a testament to the unvarnished reality of love and loss. In the hushed reverence of gallery halls and intimate discussions, Aeri’s work spoke of both the fragility and the resilience of the human spirit.

As the days passed, the city continued its ceaseless rhythm—a blend of neon lights and whispered confessions, of dreams pursued and quietly abandoned. Yet, amidst the din, there were pockets of silence where new beginnings took root. In one such corner, a small, dusty radio in a second-hand shop began to hum with life. The static that had once obscured the truth of the world had finally faded, replaced by the clear, steady sound of a familiar melody—a song that echoed the journey from chaos to clarity.

Y/N, in his classroom, continued to inspire his students with his unconventional lessons. He often spoke of the beauty of imperfection and the strength found in vulnerability. His final line in “Moth Wing Hours”—“We were the flash / Now we’re the afterglow”—became a mantra not only for him but for every student who dared to embrace their own flawed, radiant journey. At every gig, at every lesson, the echo of that line reminded them all that even in the aftermath of brilliance, there could be a gentle, enduring light.

In her studio, Aeri hung the self-portrait next to “What Almost Was,” creating a small gallery of truths that were as clear as they were raw. Each image, each captured moment, was a step toward reclaiming her identity—not as an observer of chaos, but as a participant in the unfolding narrative of her life. With every click of her camera, she found solace in the fact that the clarity she sought was already within her, waiting to be acknowledged and celebrated.

The resonance of their separate journeys began to intertwine in subtle ways. A new student in Y/N’s class would ask him about the inspiration behind his teaching, and he’d speak of a summer long past—a summer where imperfections were not mistakes, but the very notes that composed the music of life. Meanwhile, a quiet art critic writing a review of Aeri’s exhibit remarked on the unexpected warmth and lucidity of her latest work—a testament to an artist who had finally learned to let go of the blurred boundaries between memory and reality.

On a crisp morning, as the city stirred awake under a pale sky, both Y/N and Aeri found themselves standing at the threshold of new chapters. Y/N, after another lesson filled with tentative strums and off-key harmonies, sat quietly by the window of the music school. He watched the rain wash away the remnants of yesterday’s melancholy, the droplets creating a transient mosaic on the glass. In that reflective moment, he realized that every imperfect song his students played was a promise—a promise that the beauty of life lay not in its flawless perfection, but in its raw, unedited truth.

At the same time, Aeri revisited her now-familiar studio, pausing to admire the self-portrait that had, in its unvarnished clarity, become a mirror of her own transformation. The image was a quiet revolution—a defiant declaration that she was no longer the haunted artist chasing ghosts, but a woman embracing her truth, every detail sharp and unblurred.

Somewhere in the gentle hum of the early morning, a solitary radio in a forgotten corner of the city sprang to life. Amid the soft whispers of a new day, the familiar strains of a song filled the air—a melody that had once been lost in static, now emerging with a crystalline clarity. The transformation was complete, the collision of art and life forging a new harmony in the wake of all that had come before.

Somewhere, a radio clicks on. The static is gone.

[slytherinsmuse]

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ Domestic Chaos | Draco Malfoy ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Fem! Reader

Warnings: I guess mention of sexual activity and condoms

Summary: Fluff, Comedy | Draco navigates through muggle life with the love of his life.

Word count: 8966

author's note: I am so sorry that this request took so long. But work has been hell before the holidays. Now that I have some time off I managed to finish it. I hope you like it! @malfoy-mrsdracomalfoy

The first week of living together with Draco Malfoy had been… an adjustment, to say the least.

You smiled to yourself as you wandered down the stairs of your new house, recalling the mix of chaos and charm that came in the start of sharing a home with Draco. Moving in together had been a big step, one you hadn’t expected to take so soon. But after months of navigating your relationship between your cozy Muggle world and his pristine magical one following your graduation from Hogwarts, it only made sense to create a space that was truly suited for the both of you.

Granted, the transition had been smoother for you than it had been for him.

Draco, for all his poise and pure-blood grace, had little to no experience with Muggle life. Your enchanted house—a quirky blend of his velvet armchairs and your mismatched cozy furniture—reflected that perfectly. It was a home where magical portraits coexisted with photo frames from your favorite vacations, where your television and laptop shared a shelf with his collection of ancient spell books.

It was perfect. Except for the moments where Draco had done his best to interact with Muggle appliances.

The faint sound of muffled clattering pulled you towards your kitchen, curiosity outweighing your desire to get yourself a hot mug of coffee. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you padded down the hall toward the kitchen. As you stepped through the doorway, you froze, your grogginess instantly replaced by disbelief at the sight before you.

The dishwasher, a seemingly harmless Muggle machine, stood wide open. Inside, dishes were arranged in what could only be described as abstract art. Draco stood in front of it with his wand drawn, muttering incantations under his breath. A suspiciously green, bubbling potion had been poured into the detergent slot, and—Merlin help him—a set of silver goblets that were very much not dishwasher-safe glinted proudly from the bottom rack.

“Draco.” you said carefully, crossing your arms and leaning against the doorframe, “what are you doing?”

He didn’t flinch, though his wand froze mid-air. “Using this infernal contraption you insisted on bringing into our home.” he replied, his tone clipped.

You couldn’t help the grin tugging at your lips. Our home. The words still gave you butterflies.

“This ‘infernal contraption’ is a dishwasher,” you corrected, stepping closer. “It cleans dishes. Without magic. That’s sort of the point.”

Draco huffed, a faint pink tinting his pale cheeks. “Well, it’s doing a poor job of it so far.”

“Probably because you’re trying to curse it into submission.” You peered into the dishwasher, your eyes widening. “Wait. Is that—oh my God, Draco, is that the antique goblet from your mother’s dining set?!”

He glanced at the goblet, then back at you, feigning innocence. “What? It needed cleaning.”

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “It’s over 200 years old! You can’t just throw it in a dishwasher!”

“Well, I certainly can’t hand wash it,” he said indignantly, crossing his arms. “Do you know how much trouble the preservation charms require? It’s exhausting.”

“Then maybe don’t drink wine out of a priceless artifact?”

“Then maybe don’t serve wine in cheap glass cups,” he shot back, a smug grin tugging at his lips. “It ruins the wine taste…”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, fine. Touché. But seriously, what is this… potion?” You gestured to the green, bubbling mess in the detergent slot.

“It’s a universal cleaning tonic,” he said proudly. “Far superior to whatever chemical nonsense Muggles use.”

“It’s not even liquid! It’s oozing! You can’t put that in a dishwasher!”

Draco frowned, glancing back at the machine as if it had betrayed him. “So what’s the proper way, then?”

You sighed, grabbing the small box of dishwasher tablets from the counter. “Watch and learn, Pure-blood.”

With a sigh you carefully removed the bubbling mess he had poured into the detergent slot. Draco watched with a mix of curiosity and mild indignation as you wiped it clean with a paper towel.

“This,” you said, holding up one of the tablets from the box, “is what you’re supposed to use.”

Draco tilted his head, eyeing the tablet skeptically. “That tiny thing? How could that possibly clean anything?”

“It’s designed for this, Draco. It dissolves in the water and works its magic—well, not literally, but you get the idea.”

You slid the tablet into the designated compartment and snapped the dishwasher closed, pressing the buttons to set the correct cycle. “And this,” you added, pointing to the buttons, “is how you actually start it. No wand required.”

Draco’s expression was unreadable as the machine hummed to life, its rhythmic sounds filling the kitchen. After a moment, he muttered, “It still seems unnecessarily complicated.”

“Complicated? You were about to duel the dishwasher,” you teased, crossing your arms.

Draco smirked, his signature smugness returning. “And I would’ve won.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you leaned against the counter. “You’re hopeless.”

Before you could say more, you felt his arms snake around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. His chin rested lightly on your shoulder, and his breath tickled your neck.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, his voice softer now, “but I’m learning, aren’t I?”

You snorted, tilting your head slightly as you felt his lips brush against the curve of your neck in a featherlight kiss. “Barely,” you teased, though your tone lacked the bite to make it convincing.

Draco chuckled, the vibration of it humming against your back. His kisses trailed lazily along the side of your neck, his hands tightening ever so slightly around your waist. Just as you began to melt into his warmth, a sharp, electronic beep shattered the moment.

Draco froze, his lips pausing mid-kiss. “What in Merlin’s name was that?” he asked, his voice tense and laced with suspicion.

You laughed, turning in his arms to face him. “That’s just the washing machine.” you explained, finding his baffled expression entirely too adorable. “It beeps when it’s done with a cycle.”

Draco frowned, glancing over at the machine as if it were an intruder. “Why does it need to announce its accomplishments? It’s not as though I announce every time I complete a task.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You sure about that? Because I distinctly remember you declaring victory the last time you hung up a picture frame.”

Draco scowled, though the faint pink creeping back into his cheeks betrayed his embarrassment. “That frame was enchanted to repel nails. It was a triumph,” he muttered defensively.

You couldn’t help but laugh, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair out of his face. “Draco,” you said, still grinning, “the Muggle world is going to kill you at this rate.”

He grumbled, tightening his hold around your waist and resting his forehead against yours. “Life is unnecessarily complicated without magic,” he muttered, his tone dripping with indignation. “Why would anyone willingly choose this… process over a simple charm?”

You smirked, tilting your head. “Maybe because some of us didn’t grow up with the luxury of a wand to fix all our problems?”

Draco pulled back slightly to look at you, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. “You’re saying you willingly endured this madness? What kind of resilience do Muggles possess that I’ve clearly been deprived of?”

“Patience!”

Draco scoffed, stepping back just enough to look at you. “Patience is for people with time to waste,” he said, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement.

You rolled your eyes, slipping out of his arms and heading toward the counter. “Come on, your Highness,” you said over your shoulder, pulling open the breadbox. “Let’s see if you’re capable of making toast without burning it.”

Draco followed you with a mock-offended expression. “I’ll have you know I’m perfectly capable of operating a toaster,” he declared, though his hesitation as he glanced at the machine suggested otherwise.

“Uh-huh,” you replied, smirking as you slid a couple of slices into the slots. “Here, I’ll start it for you. You can handle buttering them when they’re done. Think you’re up for the challenge?”

Draco leaned against the counter, folding his arms. “You’re underestimating me again, love. I’ll butter the toast so flawlessly you’ll weep.”

You snorted, turning to grab plates from the cabinet. “Sure, let’s call that your triumph of the day.”

As the toaster clicked and the smell of warm bread filled the kitchen, Draco busied himself setting the table—his version of setting the table, which involved summoning everything with a flick of his wand and arranging it with the precision of a dinner party.

“You do realize breakfast doesn’t require formal presentation, right?” you teased, sitting down as he placed a perfectly folded napkin by your plate.

Draco smirked, sliding into the seat across from you. “Just because it’s breakfast doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be elegant.”

You couldn’t help but laugh as he reached for the now-popped toast, applying butter with such deliberate care you half-expected him to use a ruler for even distribution. Shaking your head with a soft smile, you rose from your seat and quietly grabbed a mug from the cabinet, filling it with fresh coffee from the pot on the counter.

The warm aroma filled the kitchen as you set the pot down and returned to your chair, savoring the first sip in comfortable silence. Across the table, Draco finished buttering the toast and waved his wand casually, sending the coffee pot floating over to his side. It tilted gracefully, pouring a perfectly measured amount of coffee into his mug before settling back in its spot on the counter.

You raised an eyebrow at him over the rim of your cup. “So, pouring coffee is too much effort, but you’ll put on a show buttering toast?”

Draco looked up, his expression far too smug. “Presentation matters, darling. Coffee is utility. Buttering toast is an art.”

You snorted, biting back a laugh as you leaned back in your chair. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee and giving you a sly smile, “you can’t seem to get enough of me.”

“Debatable,” you shot back, though the way your lips twitched betrayed the truth.

As the two of you ate, the quiet hum of the dishwasher filled the air, mixing with the faint clinking of dishes and the comforting warmth of the morning. You couldn’t help but think that, chaotic as it was, life with Draco had its charm.

Halfway through breakfast, Draco cleared his throat, setting his mug down with a deliberate clink. “By the way,” he said nonchalantly, brushing a nonexistent crumb from his sleeve, “my parents have asked to visit for dinner this evening.”

You froze mid-sip, glancing up at him.“Tonight?” 

This wasn’t the first time Draco had invited his parents over since you’d moved in together, but it never got easier. The Malfoys had made their opinions about his choices abundantly clear. The arguments had been frequent and heated when Draco first announced his decision to move into the Muggle world. Dating mudblood, as Lucius had so delicately put it during one particularly venomous conversation, had been a sore point from the start. The disdain in their voices, though carefully masked in your presence, was never far from the surface. Still, Narcissa had tried to keep things civil, at least outwardly. Her maternal instincts, perhaps, outweighed her prejudices. Lucius, on the other hand, had never fully hidden his disapproval. The sideways glances, the veiled barbs—it all painted a clear picture. They saw your relationship as a deviation, something temporary that would inevitably pass. And yet, they remained fairly cordial in front of you, no doubt for Draco’s sake. Tonight’s visit felt like yet another test, one you were determined to pass—though it always left you walking on eggshells.

Draco nodded, as if this were the most natural announcement in the world. “Yes, tonight. Around seven, I believe.”

You blinked, setting your coffee cup down carefully. “Right,” you murmured, your mind already racing. “I’ll need to go shopping today before the shops close, then.”

Draco frowned slightly, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Shopping? Whatever for?”

“For dinner, Draco,” you replied, standing to gather your plate. “We don’t exactly have a stocked pantry suitable for hosting your parents.”

As you moved toward the sink, he waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll just send a house-elf to take care of it.”

You froze, staring at him over your shoulder. “Draco,” you said slowly, turning back toward the table, “We don’t have house-elves.”

He blinked, as though the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. “We don’t?”

“No,” you said firmly, placing your hands on your hips. “They don’t exactly come with Muggle homes, you know.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, a look of mild bemusement crossing his face. “Strange. Well, no matter—I’ll ask Father to send a couple over for the day.”

You stared at him, momentarily speechless. “You’ll what?”

He shrugged, as if this were a completely reasonable solution. “I’ll write him after breakfast. It’s hardly a problem.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again as you tried to formulate a response. Finally, you shook your head, rubbing your temples. “Draco, we are not borrowing house-elves from your dad.”

“Why not?” he asked, genuinely baffled.

“Because,” you said, sighing as you sat back down, “this is our home. I’m not dragging house-elves into it every time we have guests over. I’ll just go shopping, make a nice meal, and that’s that.”

Draco looked at you as though you’d just suggested cooking dinner over an open flame. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” you replied, sipping your coffee again. “This is how Muggles do things. Welcome to the real world.”

For a moment, Draco looked as though he might argue, but then he sighed dramatically, leaning back in his chair. “Fine,” he said, his tone begrudging. “But I’m coming with you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “To the grocery store?”

“Yes, to the grocery store,” he said, his expression a mix of determination and distaste. “If I’m going to endure this… experiment, I might as well see how it works.”

Smiling, you leaned over and gave him a soft kiss. “Alright then. I’ll go get ready.”

When you returned a short while later, Draco’s gaze immediately fell on the several empty shopping bags you were holding. His brows knitted together in confusion, but to his credit, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he simply followed your every movement with the intensity of someone trying to solve an unspeakable mystery.

You set the bags by the door and reached for the keys to the house, slipping them into your pocket before pulling on your shoes. Draco’s confusion deepened. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to leave,” you said, nonchalantly tying your laces.

Draco raised a perfectly arched brow. “And how exactly are we planning to get there? Apparition or Floo Powder?”

You snorted softly, shaking your head. “Neither.”

“Neither?” he repeated, the word dripping with disbelief.

“We’re walking,” you said matter-of-factly, straightening up and grabbing the empty bags.

Draco blinked, his expression torn between incredulity and exasperation. “Walking? Why on earth would we walk when we could be there in seconds?”

“Because,” you explained patiently, “the shop is close by, and it would be weird to just appear in the middle of it. Muggles don’t take kindly to people popping out of thin air near the frozen food aisle.”

Draco stared at you as if you’d just suggested climbing a mountain for fun. “This is madness,” he declared.

You laughed, patting his arm as you opened the door. “Consider it part of the full Muggle experience.”

Still grumbling under his breath about the absurdity of it all, Draco stepped outside with you, his silver hair catching the sunlight as he scanned the street. “Walking,” he muttered again, shaking his head. “What will they think of next?”

You only smirked, knowing the real fun was yet to come. Draco laced his fingers with yours as you stepped out into the crisp winter air, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots. He pulled you closer as you walked, his warm breath visible in the cold. The streets were lined with houses adorned with twinkling lights, wreaths on doors, and the occasional snowman standing proudly in a yard.

“I could’ve taken the car,” you said casually, glancing up at him, “but I don’t think you’re ready to experience traffic yet.”

Draco gave you a pointed look, though his lips twitched with faint amusement. “If it’s anything like the stories you’ve told me, I’d rather not risk my sanity—or my temper.”

You laughed softly, nudging him with your shoulder. “That’s probably for the best. One honking horn, and you’d be out of there faster than you could say ‘Pure-blood.’”

He sighed, his gaze drifting to the bustling scenery around him. The sidewalks were busy with people bundled in coats and scarves, some carrying shopping bags, others chatting cheerfully. There was a warmth to it all—a vibrancy that was so different from the cold, quiet grandeur of the Malfoy Manor.

“For all the stupidity the Muggle world has to offer,” Draco murmured, his voice thoughtful, “I’ll admit… I do enjoy how lively it is.”

You glanced up at him, surprised by the rare vulnerability in his tone. “Lively?”

He nodded, his icy eyes catching the glint of the snow-covered streets. “The manor was… beautiful, I suppose. Grand. But it was so isolated. Mostly empty land, save for the occasional visitor or house-elf passing by. There was nothing like this—” he gestured to the people around you, the soft hum of life that filled the air. “—no life, no… warmth.”

Your heart softened at his words, and you squeezed his hand gently. “Well, you’ve got that now,” you said, smiling up at him. “Even if it comes with grocery shopping and dishwashers.”

Draco smirked, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “It’s a compromise I’m willing to make,” he said, his voice teasing but sincere.

As the two of you continued walking, the snowflakes began to fall again, dusting the streets and your hair in a light layer of white. Draco tightened his hold on your hand, the moment between you quiet and peaceful as the world around you bustled with life.

As you approached the grocery store, you reached into your pocket and pulled out a coin, flipping it between your fingers before sliding it into the lock on a row of shopping carts. With a satisfying click, the cart popped free, and you grabbed it, turning to Draco with a smile.

He stared at the cart, then at you, his brow furrowing. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing?”

You laughed softly, gesturing to the coin slot on the cart. “It’s how you unlock them. You put in a coin, and when you’re done, you get it back.”

Draco’s confusion deepened as he examined the contraption with a critical eye. “Why would you need to pay for a cart? Isn’t that the store’s responsibility? Do you lose the money if you don’t return it?”

“Yes, you only lose the money if you don’t return it.” you explained, suppressing a giggle at his baffled expression. “It’s just a system to make sure people don’t leave the carts all over the parking lot… or steal them”

He tilted his head, considering this. “So, Muggles have to bribe themselves to do the responsible thing?”

“Pretty much,” you said with a shrug, trying not to laugh at the sheer disdain in his voice.

Draco narrowed his eyes at the cart as if it had personally offended him. “What a pitifully inefficient system,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Why not just enchant the carts to return themselves?”

You snorted, wheeling the cart toward the entrance. “Because not everyone has magic, Draco. This works just fine.”

He fell into step beside you, still looking slightly affronted. “I should write to the Ministry. There has to be some sort of international wizarding intervention for this level of absurdity.”

You smirked, patting his arm as you entered the store. “You do that. In the meantime, try not to hex anything while we shop.”

Draco grumbled something under his breath but followed you inside, his sharp gaze taking in the bright fluorescent lights, the neatly stacked shelves, and the bustling crowd. “This is going to be an experience,” he muttered.

“You have no idea,” you replied with a grin, steering the cart toward the produce section.

You wheeled the cart through the store, stopping in the produce aisle to grab fresh herbs and vegetables for the roast dinner. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Draco wander a few steps away, picking up various food items and squinting at the labels like he was deciphering ancient runes. It was adorable, really, but you couldn’t help but focus on your shopping. As you mentally ran through your list, you zigzagged through aisles, tossing essentials into the cart—seasoning, potatoes, stock, bread. Before you knew it, you were in the snacks aisle, debating between crisps and popcorn.

That’s when you realized it. Draco was gone. You glanced around, craning your neck to see if you could spot his silver-blond hair anywhere in the sea of shoppers. Nothing. You sighed, silently praying he hadn’t decided to duel the automatic doors or try to interrogate the self-checkout machine. Just as you picked up a bag of crisps, you heard his unmistakable voice behind you.

“Look at this!” he said, sounding thoroughly impressed.

You turned around, and there he was—holding a bright yellow plastic broom.

“They have brooms here!” he said, turning it over in his hands as if he’d stumbled upon the latest innovation in flying technology. “Never seen one like this… must be a new model.”

You froze, staring at him, your lips twitching as you struggled to keep it together. “A new model?” you repeated, barely managing to suppress a laugh.

Draco nodded, completely serious. “It’s so lightweight. And this handle… not wood, but some kind of sturdy Muggle material. I’ve no idea where the charms are hidden, though.” He ran his fingers along the bristles, frowning slightly. “Odd design, but maybe it improves aerodynamics?”

You pressed a hand to your mouth, fighting to keep your laughter under control. “Draco… that’s not… it’s not a flying broom.”

He blinked, his expression shifting from curiosity to confusion. “What do you mean? It’s a broom. What else could it be used for?”

“It’s for cleaning,” you managed, your voice trembling with suppressed laughter. “Muggles use it to sweep floors.”

Draco stared at the broom, then at you, then back at the broom. “You’re joking.”

“Nope,” you said, finally letting out a small giggle. “That’s about as far from a flying broom as you can get.”

Draco’s face twisted into a mixture of horror and disappointment as he looked at the broom again. “They’ve completely ruined it,” he declared, setting it back on the shelf with a level of disdain usually reserved for cursed objects. “What’s the point of a broom that doesn’t fly?”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore and burst out laughing, earning a few amused glances from other shoppers. “Oh, Draco,” you said between giggles, grabbing his arm. “Come on. Let’s get the rest of what we need before you find something else to ‘improve.’”

You couldn’t stop grinning as you watched Draco hover near the cleaning aisle, his gaze fixed on a row of mops. He tilted his head, his brow furrowing as he gingerly poked at the mop’s sponge end.

“What’s this for?” he asked, holding it up like it was a weapon he needed to disarm.

You chuckled, wheeling the cart closer. “That’s a mop. Muggles use it to clean floors—specifically, to scrub them when they’re wet or dirty.”

Draco’s lips parted in disbelief, and he blinked at you as if you’d just told him people used quills to sew fabric. “You’re telling me… they manually drag this thing around on the floor instead of just casting a Scouring Charm?”

“Pretty much,” you replied with a shrug, struggling to keep a straight face.

He shook his head slowly, muttering under his breath, “Primitive. Absolutely primitive.”

After returning the mop to its place like it had personally offended him, he stuck closer to your side for the rest of the trip, steering the shopping cart with surprising enthusiasm. At first, he pushed it tentatively, testing its movement, but before long, he was zipping down the aisles like a child with a new toy.

“Draco,” you called after him, trying not to laugh as he gave the cart a small push and watched it glide forward. “It’s not a racing broom.”

“Of course not,” he said, smirking but not stopping. “It’s much slower.”

Despite his antics, he peppered you with questions as you continued shopping, picking up random items and holding them out for inspection.

“And this?” he asked, holding up a box of instant pudding mix.

“It’s dessert. You mix it with milk, and it thickens into pudding.”

He frowned. “No wand required?”

“No wand required,” you confirmed, tossing the box into the cart.

He sighed dramatically, moving on to the next item. “And this?”

“A tin opener. It opens cans.”

Draco’s expression fell further. “What’s wrong with an Opening Charm?”

“Not everyone has one, Draco,” you said patiently, biting back a laugh as his disappointment deepened.

Item after item, his curiosity turned into sheer disillusionment. “Muggles really have to work this hard for everything, don’t they?” he muttered, picking up a manual whisk and giving it a dubious glance.

You smirked, taking it from him and placing it in the cart. “It’s not all bad. You’re surviving, aren’t you?”

“Barely,” he replied, pushing the cart forward with a little more flair than necessary.

By the time you made it to the checkout line, Draco had perfected his ‘long-suffering Pure-blood enduring the trials of the Muggle world’ expression, but you couldn’t help but notice the occasional glint of fascination in his eyes as he took in the bustling store around him. You were focused on unloading the cart, placing items neatly onto the till conveyor belt while Draco hovered a safe distance away from the machine. His cautious glances at the moving belt made it clear he wasn’t entirely convinced it wasn’t alive. Out of nowhere, he called your name, and you turned just in time for him to shove a small box into your face.

“What is this then?” he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and bewilderment.

You froze, your eyes widening as you recognized the box of condoms he was holding with an almost clinical detachment. Your face turned scarlet in an instant.

“Draco!” you hissed, snatching the box from his hand and glancing around to see if anyone had overheard.

“What?” he asked, genuinely confused, tilting his head as he looked down at you. “What are they for? Some kind of… candy perhaps?”

You swallowed hard, trying to find the right words without alerting the nearby cashier or the couple in line behind you. Pulling Draco closer by the sleeve of his coat, you whispered urgently, “They’re… for, um, protection. During, uh, intimate moments.”

Draco’s brows furrowed, his confusion only deepening. “Protection? From what? Are Muggles frequently attacked during—oh.”

The realization dawned on his face, his pale cheeks tinging pink as he took a slight step back. He cleared his throat, glancing at the box still in your hand. “I see. That’s… efficient, I suppose.”

You groaned, pressing a hand to your burning face. “Can we please not discuss this here?”

Draco, however, seemed more intrigued than embarrassed now. “Do they… work reliably? Or—how do you even put it on?”

“Draco!” you hissed again, cutting him off as you stuffed the box back onto the shelf behind you.

He smirked at your reaction, leaning closer and lowering his voice. “You’re blushing, darling. It’s adorable.”

“Because you just asked about condoms in the middle of a grocery store,” you muttered, turning back to continue unloading the cart, your face still burning.

Draco chuckled softly, clearly finding your embarrassment far too amusing. He stayed quiet for a moment, but out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him lingering by the shelf where he’d found the box. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he examined the options: strawberry, ribbed, ultra-thin. Before you could say anything, he plucked one off the shelf and, with exaggerated caution, tossed it onto the conveyor belt from a distance, as if it might attack him.

You blinked at him, your confusion only growing as you stared at the box sitting innocently amidst the rest of your groceries. “Draco… what are you doing?”

He avoided your gaze, suddenly very interested in straightening his coat. “What? I want to try them,” he mumbled, his voice almost innocent.

You bit back a laugh, shaking your head as you leaned closer to whisper, “Draco, you do realize these aren’t, like, some kind of Muggle novelty item, right?”

He finally glanced at you, his pale cheeks tinged with pink. “I’m perfectly aware,” he said, straightening his posture. “I just… want to see what all the fuss is about.”

You covered your face with your hand, torn between exasperation and laughter. “You are unbelievable.”

The cashier began scanning the items, and Draco, determined to prove himself useful, did his best to place them into the bags you had handed him. His movements were deliberate and almost comically precise, as if packing groceries was a skill to be mastered.

You watched with quiet amusement as he gingerly placed eggs into a bag, his face a mask of concentration. He only paused when the cashier announced the total and you pulled out a card to pay.

Draco’s eyes widened, his gaze darting between you and the small machine where you inserted the card. “That’s how you pay?” he murmured, half to himself.

“Yup,” you replied, suppressing a grin as the machine beeped, signaling the transaction was complete.

But what truly left him speechless was the receipt. The small slip of paper emerged from a hidden compartment with a faint whirring sound, and Draco stepped back slightly, his brow furrowing in suspicion.

“What now?” you asked, noticing his confusion.

He pointed at the receipt, his voice low and serious. “Is it enchanted?”

You chuckled, taking the receipt and tucking it into your pocket. “No, Draco, it’s just a record of what we bought. No magic involved.”

He said nothing, though his expression suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced.

Once outside, with the shopping bags evenly distributed between you, Draco slid an arm around your waist, pulling you close as you walked through the snowy streets. His grip was firm and grounding, but his face was set in a deep, pensive frown. You glanced up at him, his furrowed brows and slightly parted lips betraying the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind. Deciding not to interrupt, you pressed yourself closer to his side, letting your head rest lightly against the side of his chest. The walk home was quiet, save for the crunch of snow beneath your boots. Draco remained silent, processing the bizarre journey into Muggle life. You didn’t push him, knowing he’d speak when he was ready—or maybe not at all. By the time you reached your house, his frown had softened, though his eyes still had a far-off look. As you unlocked the door and stepped inside, you caught the faintest glimmer of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Next time,” he said as he set the bags down, his tone a mix of humor and resignation, “I’ll handle the receipt.”

—

You busied yourself in the kitchen, determined to make a flawless roast dinner for Draco’s parents. You knew they weren’t particularly fond of you or the fact that Draco was immersing himself in the Muggle world. Still, you were set on showing them that you belonged in Draco’s life, no matter how many raised eyebrows they threw your way. Draco leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed as he watched you work. His silver hair caught the warm light of the kitchen, and though his expression remained neutral, you could tell he was intrigued. You chopped, seasoned, and kneaded everything by hand, and it was clear he wasn’t used to such a process.

“You really do all of this without magic?” he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

“Yup,” you replied, sprinkling some herbs over the potatoes. “From scratch. It’s not so bad once you get the hang of it.”

Draco hummed in response, clearly not convinced but unwilling to argue. The quiet shuffling of aluminum caught your attention, and you glanced over your shoulder.

What you saw nearly made you drop the salt shaker.

Draco stood there holding an unpackaged, rolled-up condom in his hands, a deep frown etched on his face. He was holding it between his fingers like it was a particularly slimy slug, his lips curling in disgust.

You bit back a laugh, trying to focus on the potatoes as you replied casually, “You have to unroll it.”

“Aha,” Draco mumbled, clearly no less confused, as he turned and disappeared into the other room.

You shook your head, unable to stop the grin spreading across your face. For a moment, the kitchen was quiet again, save for the sound of the roast sizzling in the oven. Then came muffled grumbles from the other room.

It didn’t take long for Draco to reappear, still holding the condom. His face was a mix of defeat and lingering disgust as he held it up. “I have no idea how this thing works,” he admitted, his voice low. “And why does it feel so… disgustingly slimy?”

You couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing, clutching the counter for support as tears sprang to your eyes. “Oh my God, Draco,” you managed between fits of laughter.

He scowled, tossing the condom onto the counter as if washing his hands of the whole ordeal. “It’s not funny!”

“It is!” you replied, wiping at your eyes. “You look like you’ve been wrestling with it!”

Draco sniffed, clearly unimpressed. “I don’t understand how Muggles deal with this nonsense. Magical contraceptives are far less… revolting.” He glanced down at the discarded condom with a look of pure disdain. “It couldn’t even go on.”

You bit your lip, barely holding back your laughter as you stepped closer to him. Reaching up, you cupped his cheek gently, guiding his attention back to you. His silver eyes softened slightly, his frown easing as you leaned in and kissed him softly, your lips lingering against his just long enough to distract him from his frustration.

When you pulled back, your voice was low, your tone teasing. “You need to be… excited for it to work, Draco.”

Draco blinked, his cheeks immediately flushing a soft pink. He straightened, his usual composure cracking for a brief moment as he processed your words. “Excited?” he echoed, his voice slightly higher than usual.

You grinned, brushing past him to check on the roast in the oven. “That’s right,” you said casually, as if you hadn’t just sent his mind spinning.

Draco stood frozen for a moment, glancing back at the discarded condom as if it had betrayed him yet again. Then, he turned to you, his voice laced with indignation. “You could have told me that earlier instead of letting me wrestle with it like some kind of fool!”

You laughed, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Draco huffed, crossing his arms as he leaned against the counter once more, his pink cheeks still betraying him. “Muggles,” he muttered under his breath, though there was a faint, reluctant smirk tugging at his lips.

“Alright, Malfoy” you teased, brushing your hands off on a towel. “Go set the table before your parents get here, and I promise no more surprises. For now.”

Draco gave you a mock glare before turning to do as you asked, his mutterings about Muggle nonsense fading as he left the kitchen. You chuckled to yourself, shaking your head as you returned to your cooking. Living with Draco was chaotic, but moments like this reminded you just how much you loved having him in your world—even if he’d never quite understand all of it.

The table was set perfectly, as if Draco had spent as much time arranging it as you had cooking. You took a deep breath, smoothing your hands over your clothes as the knock on the door echoed through the flat. Draco opened it with his usual composed grace, greeting his parents with a stiff nod.

Narcissa stepped inside first, her expression polite but guarded as she glanced around the house. “Draco,” she said softly, pulling him into a quick hug. Her gaze flicked to you, and she offered a small, tight smile. “Y/N.”

“Mrs. Malfoy,” you greeted, doing your best to keep your voice steady.

Lucius followed behind her, his sharp features betraying nothing but disdain as he surveyed his surroundings. He inclined his head slightly toward you, though his lips never moved to form a greeting. It was clear that he was only here under duress, likely at Narcissa’s insistence.

“Do come in,” Draco said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the dining room.

As everyone settled at the table, the tension was palpable. Narcissa sat with perfect posture, her delicate hands folded neatly in her lap, while Lucius sat rigid, his cane resting against the table. His icy gaze swept the room, his disdain evident in every furrow of his brow.

Draco, however, seemed unbothered. He stood proudly, bringing out the food you had spent all afternoon preparing. He set the dishes on the table with a flourish, clearing his throat. “Dinner is served,” he announced, his voice filled with pride. “And before you ask—yes, it was cooked entirely without magic or the help of house-elves.”

Narcissa’s brows lifted slightly, a spark of genuine surprise in her eyes. “Really?” she asked, glancing at the dishes. “That’s quite impressive.”

Lucius, on the other hand, let out a scoff, his lips curling into a faint sneer. “Why anyone would willingly endure such a process is beyond me,” he muttered, earning a sharp glance from his wife.

You bit your tongue, focusing on serving the food as Draco sat down beside you, clearly unfazed by his father’s comment. The meal began in awkward silence, the only sounds coming from the clinking of cutlery and the occasional scrape of a chair.

Finally, Narcissa broke the quiet, turning to her son with a warm, curious smile. “So, Draco, what did you do today?”

Draco sat up straighter, his face lighting up as he launched into an enthusiastic recount of the grocery store trip. “We went to this… Muggle establishment,” he began, his voice carrying a mix of awe and incredulity. “You wouldn’t believe it, Mother. Rows upon rows of food and supplies, all sorted into sections. It was fascinating.”

Narcissa listened intently, her eyes softening as he spoke. “That does sound rather intriguing,” she said, her tone genuine.

Draco continued, describing the shopping cart, the conveyor belt, and the curious beeping machine at the till. “And did you know they have these tiny coins you put into the carts to unlock them?” he added, gesturing animatedly.

Lucius let out a low groan, pinching the bridge of his nose as if Draco’s enthusiasm was physically painful. “I fail to see the appeal,” he muttered under his breath, casting a glance toward the window as though contemplating apparating away.

You stifled a laugh, watching the stark contrast between Draco’s animated storytelling, Narcissa’s interest, and Lucius’s clear misery.

“I even packed the bags,” Draco added proudly. “It’s a ridiculous system, but I managed.”

Narcissa smiled warmly, her pride evident. “I’m glad to see you adapting so well, Draco. It’s important to understand how others live, even if it’s different from what we’re used to.”

Lucius muttered something unintelligible, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his cane.

Draco turned to you, his eyes bright with satisfaction. “See, love? Mother appreciates it.”

You smiled back, your heart warming at his excitement. “She does,” you said softly, glancing at Narcissa, who nodded in agreement.

Lucius, however, simply sighed, leaning back in his chair with a resigned expression. “Let us hope this… experiment of yours doesn’t last too long,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain.

Draco’s jaw tightened slightly, but he kept his composure, reaching for your hand under the table. His fingers squeezed yours briefly, a silent reassurance that he didn’t care what his father thought. The rest of the meal continued with a mix of awkward small talk and Draco’s detailed observations of the Muggle world. Though Lucius remained unimpressed, Narcissa’s quiet encouragement made the effort feel worthwhile. As the conversation wound down and the plates were nearly cleared, Draco suddenly leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the table. His sharp blue eyes glimmered with something unreadable, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I have something to show you,” he muttered, his tone casual but with a hint of mischief.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “What is it?” you asked cautiously, your brow furrowing as you tried to guess what he could possibly be up to now.

Draco stood up, strolling out of the dining room with the air of someone retrieving an important artifact. Lucius and Narcissa exchanged puzzled glances, while you felt a flicker of dread creeping up your spine. He returned a moment later, holding a familiar box in his hand.

Your heart sank as your face turned beet red. No. No, no, no, no.

He placed the box of condoms on the table, directly in front of you, and tilted his head with a curious smirk. “You never explained properly,” he said smoothly, though the faint pink on his cheeks betrayed his nonchalant demeanor. “I think it’s time I fully understood how they work.”

The silence in the room was deafening.

Lucius froze mid-sip of his wine, his expression a mixture of horror and disbelief. Narcissa’s lips parted slightly as her eyes darted between the box and her son. Meanwhile, you felt your soul leaving your body as your entire face burned hotter than the roast in the oven earlier.

“Draco,” you hissed, your voice a mix of mortification and desperation. “Not now.”

“Why not?” he asked innocently, his smirk widening as he clearly enjoyed your discomfort. “You said it was important to understand Muggle things if I am living here.”

Narcissa cleared her throat delicately, clearly trying to suppress a laugh. “Draco, darling, perhaps this is a… conversation better suited for another time,” she said, her voice calm but tinged with amusement.

Lucius, on the other hand, looked like he was ready to sink into the ground. “For Salazar’s sake, Draco!” he snapped, his pale face turning an uncharacteristic shade of red. “Have you lost all sense of decorum?”

Draco shrugged, unbothered. “I was merely curious, Father. Isn’t that what this move is about—understanding?”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “I’m going to die,” you muttered under your breath.

Draco leaned closer to you, his smirk softening into something almost endearing. “Don’t be dramatic,” he said quietly. “It’s just a box. Besides, you’re the one who said they’re important.”

“Not during dinner with your parents!” you shot back in a harsh whisper.

Narcissa stood gracefully, reaching for her wine glass and glancing at Lucius, who was visibly seething. “Perhaps we should take a moment to admire the décor in the living room,” she suggested, her tone light but firm. “Give them a moment to… collect themselves.”

Lucius rose quickly, eager to escape the situation, and followed her out without another word.

As soon as they were out of earshot, you turned to Draco, glaring at him through your lingering embarrassment. “What is wrong with you?”

He grinned, his pale cheeks still faintly pink. “I couldn’t resist.”

“Draco,” you groaned, covering your face with your hands. But despite your mortification, a reluctant laugh bubbled up, escaping your lips.

Draco chuckled softly, nudging you playfully with his elbow. “Hey,” he said, his voice laced with mischief. “It looks like my parents knew exactly what the box contained.”

You groaned louder, shaking your head as you peeked at him from between your fingers. “Why are you like this?”

“Because it’s more fun than I had ever experienced in my life,” he replied, smirking. “And because your reactions are priceless.”

You swatted his arm lightly, biting your lip to keep from laughing again. “You’re going to pay for this later.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Draco said smoothly, leaning back in his chair with an infuriatingly smug expression.

You shook your head, standing to start clearing the table. “Unbelievable,” you muttered, though the corners of your mouth twitched despite your best efforts to remain stern.

Draco stood as well, grabbing a plate and following you to the kitchen. “For what it’s worth,” he said, his tone softening slightly, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother look that impressed. You’re winning her over, you know.”

You glanced at him, your irritation melting a little as you caught the sincerity in his eyes. “Maybe,” you said with a small smile. “But your dad looks like he’s ready to disown you.”

Draco shrugged, setting the plate down on the counter. “He’ll survive. I’d say this visit is going better than expected.”

You arched an eyebrow, gesturing toward the box still sitting on the table. “Even with that little stunt?”

He smirked, leaning closer to press a quick kiss to your cheek. “Especially because of that,” he whispered.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered as you turned back to the dishes. Life with Draco was unpredictable, embarrassing, and absolutely worth it.

After a while, with the kitchen cleaned and dessert plates neatly arranged, you rejoined Draco’s parents in the living room. You placed the cake and a small pot of tea on the coffee table, smiling as Narcissa complimented the presentation. “It looks lovely, dear,” she said warmly, her eyes lighting up as she tasted the first bite. “And delicious.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy,” you replied, feeling a small wave of relief at her approval.

Meanwhile, Draco stood by the TV, flicking it on with the remote. The screen lit up, filling the room with sound and color. He had been obsessed with it ever since the two of you moved in, constantly exploring its features and marveling at the variety of channels.

“And this,” he began, gesturing to the screen, “is called a television. It’s a Muggle device that streams moving pictures and sound. There are different stations—some show plays or sports, others music or news.”

Lucius, who had been seated stiffly on the sofa, cast the TV a disinterested glance at first. But as Draco flipped through the channels, his gaze lingered, his eyes narrowing in a mixture of curiosity and intrigue.

Draco settled on a music channel, where a pop song played over vibrant, fast-moving visuals. Lucius leaned forward slightly, his cane forgotten at his side as his eyes remained glued to the screen.

Narcissa, meanwhile, sipped her tea and turned to you with a soft smile. “The cake is truly wonderful, Y/N. You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, glancing at Lucius, whose face was now bathed in the colorful glow of the TV. Draco was explaining the concept of music videos, his voice carrying a mix of excitement and pride.

“And these stations,” Draco said, pointing to the remote, “play music continuously. The visuals match the songs—like this one, see?”

Lucius didn’t respond immediately, his eyes fixed on the screen as if he were analyzing every detail. Eventually, he gave a slow nod. “Remarkable,” he muttered under his breath, clearly fascinated despite his obvious disdain for anything muggle.

Narcissa glanced at him with a knowing smile but said nothing, letting her husband enjoy his unexpected discovery.

After a while, Narcissa stood gracefully, placing her empty teacup on the table and smoothing the fabric of her elegant robe. “It’s getting late,” she said gently, her tone warm but firm. “We should be heading home.”

Lucius didn’t move. His gaze remained fixed on the television, where a lively music video was playing. His normally composed expression was slightly softened, his eyes darting between the screen and the remote in Draco’s hand.

“Lucius,” Narcissa prompted, her voice holding a hint of exasperation. “It’s time to go.”

He finally tore his gaze away from the screen, his brows furrowing slightly. “Yes, yes, in a moment,” he muttered, waving a hand dismissively as if he needed just a little more time to understand the contraption.

Draco smirked, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. “I think he likes it,” he whispered to you, his voice filled with amusement.

Narcissa gave you a knowing glance, her lips twitching into a faint smile before turning back to her husband. “Lucius,” she said again, a bit more firmly this time, “we’re leaving. Now.”

Lucius sighed dramatically, rising from the sofa but casting the TV one last, reluctant glance. “I suppose,” he said, his voice tinged with regret, “we can continue exploring this… device another time.”

You exchanged goodbyes at the door, Narcissa giving you a soft pat on the arm and a smile that felt almost maternal. Lucius remained as formal as ever, though there was an unusual glint in his eye as he glanced at the living room one last time.

As the two of them stepped outside, you lingered by the door with Draco. The crisp night air carried the faint sound of their voices as they walked toward the apparition point.

“You know,” Lucius muttered to Narcissa, his voice carrying just enough for you to catch, “we should consider getting one of those televisions for the manor.”

Narcissa’s laugh was soft but unmistakable. “I’ll make the arrangements,” she replied, her tone indulgent.

Draco closed the door, leaning against it with a triumphant smirk. “See?” he said, turning to you. “It wasn’t so bad.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I think you just converted your father into a TV enthusiast.”

“Not bad for one evening,” Draco said, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Though I’d say the real victory was your cake. Well done, love.”

You smiled, leaning up to give him a gentle kiss. “Thanks, but I think your TV demonstration might’ve been the real winner tonight.”

He smirked, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Of course. I am rather persuasive.”

Shaking your head with a laugh, you turned off the living room lights—a concept Draco still found mildly perplexing. He mumbled something about how inconvenient switches were compared to a simple wand flick as you guided him upstairs to your bedroom.

By the time you finished washing up and changed into your pajamas, Draco was already tucked under the covers. The glow from his nightlight—a softly enchanted orb you’d insisted on for his comfort—bathed the room in a warm, golden hue.

You paused at the vanity, applying cream to your face while sneaking a glance at him through the mirror. He was sitting upright, his brow furrowed as he read the label on the back of the box of condoms. His lips moved faintly as if he were trying to work out some sort of  instructions.

Biting back a laugh, you shook your head and turned off the main lights, leaving only the dim glow of his nightlight. Crawling into bed beside him, you couldn’t resist teasing him.

“Still trying to figure that out?” you asked, propping yourself up on one elbow.

Draco looked over at you, holding up the box with a faint smirk. “The instructions are absurdly detailed for something so… basic.”

You chuckled, resting your head on the pillow. “I’m not sure what you expected. Magic?”

“Honestly, yes,” he replied, setting the box on the nightstand and settling under the covers. “Everything’s unnecessarily complicated without it.”

You leaned over, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Well, if it gets too overwhelming, just remember—I’m here to guide you through it.”

Draco turned to you, his smirk softening into something warmer. “I’ll hold you to that,” he murmured, brushing a thumb lightly over your hand before pulling you closer.

As the nightlight cast its soft glow over the room, you snuggled into his side, grateful for the quiet comfort of the moment. Life with Malfoy was a whirlwind, but here, in the stillness of your shared space, everything felt just right. Draco was silent for a while, though you could feel him thinking, his body slightly tense beneath yours. Finally, his voice broke the quiet, soft and hesitant. “Could you show me how to use them? Tonight?”

You lifted your head to look at him, his silver eyes meeting yours, a faint blush creeping into his cheeks. Leaning in, you placed a soft kiss to his lips, lingering just long enough to reassure him. When you pulled back, you smiled gently, your voice a quiet whisper.

“Of course.”

The room fell into a quiet calm, the only sounds the faint rustle of the sheets as you moved closer to him. Draco’s arms wrapped around you, his touch steady and warm. Life in the muggle world had turned out to be far more surprising than Draco had ever expected. It wasn’t as grand or as effortless as the magical life he’d always known, but there was something about it—something real, unpolished, and oddly comforting.

Though, as he discovered later that night, the condoms were nothing special after all.

Likes, reblogs and comments are always very much appreciated! ♡

© slytherinsmuse. please do not copy, claim, translate or steal any of my works as your own.

[777heavengirl]

the one where you guess

sirius black x reader ! - 1,599 words masterlist bags masterlist

You guessed you should’ve seen it coming. 

You should’ve guessed this was the end. 

You had known Sirius Black since age 11. Since you got on that train, since he cracked nervous jokes under his breath while you waited to be sorted, since you started that new chapter of your life, he’s been the constant in your life.

You were kids together, reckless and loud and stupid. You were teens together, somehow even more stupid, somehow closer, somehow more alive and electric just from being attached at the hip. You had become adults together. Real people, with an apartment of your own and friends who expected a baby and a job and trips on the tube and purchasing vegetables form a farmer’s market. Adults, somehow still stupid, somehow closer yet farther than ever, somehow different but still the same. 

The truth was you had lived with Sirius Black since you were 11. Even at Hogwarts, you did the same things, you ate meals together, you walked around and joked and talked with your friends while the sides of your bodies were pressed together on the couch.

 In a way, nothing had changed.

It had been you and him since before you were you. 

You had never thought about what life without him would look like.

His bed was well made, tucked in, and without wrinkles. The cool grey of the sheets glared at you as you sat on them, disturbing it with the waves and folds that formed underneath your weight. It was the first time you had ever been in his room. At least the first time you had walked more than five steps inside. Now here you were, wrinkling his bed, staring longingly at his shut trunk and empty walls. 

Alone.

You guessed he was at the Potter’s. You didn’t know. He hadn’t said.

You hadn’t seen him since Regulus told him the news.

Walburga Black was dead. Died in her sleep with a peace she didn’t deserve, unpunished, calm, painless. Unfair.

 It had been three days. Not an alarming amount of time for anyone else. But for Sirius it was. Even in his anger the past few weeks, he still came home every night. Staring into your eyes briefly before he went into his room. But he came home nonetheless.

 He hadn’t since that day.

It was burned into your mind, into the back of your eyelids. The way his face fell, the mask of bravery falling quicker than you could ever imagine. You saw him again, the small damaged boy you first met.

Scared and shattered. You guessed he never stopped being those things.

Sirius and Regulus did not know how to love or comfort each other in any way that mattered. Even in the face of this, they only knew how to fight, silently and bitterly, without words, or loud and angry, with statements they’d never be able to take back nor forget. You knew this, you had always known this. The first words out of Sirius’s mouth being booming statements of how dare you’s and go bury yourself with her then’s. Regulus wasn’t any less biting. But at one point, between the yelling over each other and the cursing the dead out, Regulus started crying. Fat, hot tears streaming down his face as he continued to roar statements he did not mean, voice wobbling and hoarse as the grief overtook him. You could see the red rim around Sirius’s eyes and the way that he kept pressing his fingers into his eyes, the glare of the light bouncing off of the wetness that decorated his cheeks as well. He prayed n vain that the tears weren't visible.

In your kitchen, under the warm light that hung from the ceiling and in between mismatched furniture and handmade drinkware, the Black brothers were no longer made of stone,

Yet they continued to yell, at each other, at their deceased mother, at a father they both prayed would die off sooner rather than later. You couldn’t even tell what they had been arguing about, but if you had to guess it was probably not even against each other at all. 

It never had been. 

Sirius stormed out shortly after that, not even sparing you a glance. Regulus crumbled to the floor as he cried and you were left to pick up the pieces of the broken boy. As he left he tried, even with his skin blotchy from crying and cheeks still wet, he tried to harden his stare again. It didn’t work. But he thanked you, in his eyes a silent plea to never mention the incident again. Sirius is not allowed at the funeral, he said, I doubt he’d even want to go though and left.

So now you sat, three days later, on Sirius’s meticulously made bed.

It was hard not to feel hurt about the fact that he left. That even in his most vulnerable moment, he couldn’t bring himself to turn to you. Not anymore. 

You guessed this was the end.

Maybe he’d never come back, maybe he’d come back in the middle of the night and silently take his stuff out. Without a single word to you. Maybe he’d send James, or Remus, to retrieve his singular trunk. Maybe you’d never lay eyes on Sirius Black again.

You thought hard about it, your hands gripping the cold sheets so tightly your knuckles lightened. Maybe this is what you wanted, to move on, to grow apart, on your own.

Alone. 

Maybe you needed to be an adult alone, careful and quiet, and still after all this time, stupid. Your father certainly never let you forget it. 

You focused on the silence around you. Even in the empty room, with the bare walls and the boring sheets, even in the unnerving stillness it still felt like Sirius. You could smell his cologne, in the mattress, in the air, everywhere. The freshness of it reminded you of a windswept shore, like the ones you traveled around together after graduation. It was still somehow, earthy and mineral. He said it smelled like freedom.

You always said he was an idiot. 

But you understood what he meant now, even in the confines of his room.

His motorbike's helmet sat discarded on a chair, the glossy red and black of it staring at you. You began to notice, all of the little things thrown about, the used coffee cup, the wooden box that was overflowing with sticky notes, you could see your handwriting from where you sat, the pictures he taped to his wall right next to his bed, between the window and the corner of the room. You had never thought about it, never considered it, but even in its hallowed out state, Sirius’s room reeked of him. The ashtray near the window, the camera and developed film on the desk, the sweater Euphemia Potter had knitted him Christmas of sixth year on the back of the chair. 

Maybe his room hadn't been as empty as you thought. Maybe it had actually always been full of him. In a way.

You thought about the room being truly empty, you guessed it would come soon enough. No excessive amount of photographs, no helmet, no unpacked bags, no ash anywhere, and the smell of cigarettes and the freshness of his cologne gone.

A ghost to haunt you even if you were to move out.

If you could keep anything of his, you thought about this hard, already mourning what you were sure was to come— you’d keep the quiet afternoons. The ones where you curled up on the sofa, his arm around you, your legs over his. The ones where you’d silently giggle at the soap opera, and steal bites of his food. The ones where you could feel your heart beating in your ears and it grew harder to deny how much you loved him.

But no.

You could do this alone. Pick up more shifts, look for a job in the Ministry maybe. Maybe ask Mary to move in. Maybe move somewhere cheaper and be alone. 

Independent. 

You tried to think of yourself alone, in an apartment with white walls and neatly arranged pictures your dad would measure the distance and size between. Making sure they all looked even, he’d still yell at you for not being able to “do it properly by yourself.” Every image in a frame. Every piece of furniture matching and neat, and still. 

Quiet. 

Cold.

An apartment still as a pond. 

You felt like you were staring into it, from the bed, like you could reach into your mind and be there. In the stillness of such a place. Your dad would love it. Maybe you have a good job, maybe you even wear business clothes— neat slacks or skirts, in navy or black, with crisp white button-up shirts and heels that make your feet hurt but you’d never complain. Maybe you’d learn how to live on your own, balanced and dutiful and busy. Maybe you don’t see any of your friends anymore, and maybe you finally feel like an adult. You are older alone, somehow not stupid anymore, somehow lonelier, somehow more suffocated and overwhelmed just from being alone.

You didn’t notice the jingle of his keys, nor the turn of the lock or the door that opened. You stared at the ceiling, blinking back tears without realizing his presence at all. Not until he swung open the door and your head snapped down to see Sirius, standing at his door. Porcelain skin tainted with red splotches, eyes clouded from tears, and puffy features, remainders of how much he had cried.

You realized, at this moment— when your eyes met his grey ones,

Without him, you did not yet know quite how to live. 

A/N: happy halloween LMAO its a bit later than I wanted to post but its here nonetheless... Idk if the series is moving too slow, maybe if i uploaded more often but alas! uni has me by my nonexistent balls... also i promise they're going to start patching it up soon xoxo

hope u guys enjoy!

posting this one a day early for my lovely @neverthatsirius-jo <3 mwah

[winwintea]

stolen dance

PAIRING ↬ idol!park jisung x fem!reader

TAGS ↬ romance, fluff, they dance a bit, there is totally no angst, i would never lie!

SUMMARY ↬ jisung has been teaching you how to dance lately. but is it really to teach you or is jisung using these dances as a form of escapism to hold onto a deeper secret?

WORD COUNT ↬ 2.8k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ↬ in classic winwintea fashion here is jisung's birthday fic <33 suffer.

PLAYLIST ↬ stolen dance - milky chance; show me the meaning of being lonely - backstreet boys

“Alright, alright, one more time!”

Jisung grins, as he claps his hands and beckons you to step back into the middle of the room.

The living room is bathed in the soft amber glow of a single lamp in the corner, casting warm shadows across the room. The faint hum of a speaker plays an upbeat pop track, its rhythm pulsing like a heartbeat through the air. A pile of mismatched socks and sneakers sits abandoned by the couch, proof of your long evening spent dancing. You groan dramatically, flopping onto the couch instead. “I can’t feel my legs anymore, Jisung. This is basically torture.”

“Nope, no quitting!” he says, darting over and tugging you up by the wrists. His hands are warm, steady, and they pull you effortlessly to your feet. “We’re not done until you can at least try to keep up with me.”

You roll your eyes but smile, letting him guide you into position. “I’m only doing this because you’re making me, you know.”

Jisung smirks. “And because you secretly love it. Admit it, you want to keep up with me on stage one day.”

“Oh, sure,” you laugh, stumbling a little as he begins to guide you through a spin. “Me, a world-class dancer. We’re talking about K-pop standards too. Totally believable.”

“Hey, don’t doubt yourself like that!” Jisung says, catching your hand to stop your wobble. “Besides, I’m a great teacher. You’ll be better than me in no time.”

“Better than you? Let’s not get carried away.”

He steps back, giving you a playful once-over. “Okay, fine, maybe not better. But decent. Maybe passable.”

You swat at his shoulder, which only makes him laugh harder.

The music shifts to a softer beat, and Jisung takes a step closer. “Alright, let’s try that one move again. Step left, then cross. No, your other left—”

You fumble the step, tripping slightly, and Jisung reaches out just in time to steady you. His arm loops around your waist, holding you close for a moment.

“Gotcha,” he says softly, his voice losing its teasing edge for a second.

You look up at him, breathless but grinning. “You know, for someone who claims to be a great teacher, you’re not very patient.”

His lips twitch into a smile. “And for someone who says they hate dancing, you’re not as bad as you think.”

The room feels still for a beat, the music fading into the background. Jisung’s dark eyes linger on yours, something unspoken passing between you. It’s the kind of gaze that makes your heart skip, though you can’t quite place why.

“Anyway!” Jisung suddenly blurts, breaking the moment as he steps back with a sheepish grin. “Let’s try again. I’ll slow it down this time, I promise.”

“Good. My feet are already filing a complaint,” you joke, shaking off the strange flutter in your chest.

He grins, taking your hands in his again, and the music picks up once more. The two of you fall into the rhythm, tripping over each other’s feet and laughing so loudly that it drowns out the sound of the song.

The days start to blur together, each evening spent in the same corner of the living room. The small space becomes your personal dance studio, the furniture pushed against the walls to give you just enough room to practice. Jisung shows up every time with the same excitement, the kind that’s so contagious you can’t help but play along.

“Step, step, and pivot—yes! That’s it!” Jisung exclaims, clapping his hands together as you nail the move for the first time. His grin lights up the room.

You beam, sweat dripping down your face, and collapse onto the floor. “Finally! That only took, what, twenty tries?”

Jisung flops down next to you, still full of energy. “More like thirty, but hey, who’s counting?” He nudges you with his shoulder, handing you a water bottle.

You take a long sip and gasp dramatically. “I didn’t sign up for this boot camp, you know. What happened to ‘just a fun dance session’?”

Jisung leans back on his hands, smirking. “This is fun! Besides, you’re getting so much better. Look at you, two weeks ago, you couldn’t even figure out which foot was your left.”

“Wow, thanks,” you deadpan, though your smile betrays your mock annoyance.

The next night, the routine continues. The two of you move in near-perfect sync as Jisung teaches you a new routine to a faster song. Your steps are cleaner, your turns sharper, and when you finish the sequence without a single mistake, you both cheer so loudly the neighbor downstairs bangs on their ceiling.

“Oops,” you whisper, covering your mouth to stifle your giggles.

Jisung shrugs, unbothered. “Worth it. You nailed that!” He holds up a hand for a high-five, which you give him, laughing at how proud he looks.

But as the days pass, you begin to notice how your progress isn’t the only thing changing.

One evening, as you struggle through a particularly tricky move, Jisung stops mid-step. His gaze drifts off toward the window, his body going still.

“Jisung?” you call, snapping your fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Jisung?”

He blinks, shaking his head quickly. “Sorry, what? Did you say something?”

You frown. “You spaced out. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says with a too-bright smile, waving you off. “Just tired, I guess.” He grabs the remote and cranks up the music. “Come on, let’s run it again.”

You hesitate but decide not to press him.

Later, after another exhausting session, you collapse on the couch, panting. “I’m done. For real this time. My legs are basically jelly.”

Jisung sits beside you, his gaze soft as he watches you. “You’re really doing great, you know.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” you joke, but the sincerity in his voice makes your heart skip.

“I mean it,” he says, his tone quieter now. “I just... I like seeing you like this. Happy. Laughing.”

You glance over at him, and for a moment, he looks... sad, though the expression vanishes almost as quickly as it appeared.

“You okay?” you ask cautiously.

“Of course,” he says, forcing a grin. “Why wouldn’t I be? You’re stuck with me, remember?”

“Lucky me,” you tease, but his words stick with you as the night goes on.

The dance sessions grow more frequent, his enthusiasm almost desperate. Every moment feels heavier, though you can’t quite figure out why. You catch him watching you sometimes, his smile softer, as though he’s trying to memorize the way you move, the sound of your laugh.

“What?” you ask one night when his eyes linger too long.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, spinning you around before you can press further. “Just... don’t stop dancing, okay?”

You laugh, brushing it off, but there’s something in his voice that makes you wonder what he’s not telling you.

The music echoes softly through the living room as you and Jisung move together, your steps slightly out of sync but improving with each pass. The rhythm feels effortless now, the usual fumbling replaced by a newfound fluidity. You’re laughing, breathless but exhilarated, when the sharp buzz of Jisung’s phone cuts through the song.

It vibrates insistently on the counter, the screen lighting up in the dim room.

“Hold on,” Jisung mutters, his usual smile faltering as he jogs over to check it. He picks up the phone and stares at the screen, his expression shifting to something unreadable.

You wipe your forehead with the hem of your shirt, catching your breath. “What is it?” you ask, noticing the way he hesitates.

Jisung’s thumb hovers over the screen, and for a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, in a voice that’s a little too casual, he says, “It’s nothing. Just a friend checking in.”

You tilt your head, unconvinced. “Must be a pretty intense message to make you zone out like that.”

He glances at you quickly, forcing a small smile. “It’s not important. I’ll deal with it later. Come on, let’s not lose our momentum.” He sets the phone back down, face down this time, and crosses the room toward you.

Before you can say anything, he reaches for your hands and pulls you into a hug. It’s sudden, uncharacteristic, and tight. Tighter than his usual playful embraces. You blink, caught off guard.

“Uh, Jisung? You good?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he buries his face against your shoulder, his grip unyielding. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, almost fragile. “I’m just... really proud of you, you know? You’ve worked so hard.”

The hug lasts longer than it should, and something in his tone feels off. You try to pull back slightly to look at him, but he only holds on tighter.

“Jisung, what’s going on?”

He shakes his head against your shoulder and releases you just as abruptly as he hugged you. “Nothing. Seriously. Don’t worry about it.” His smile is back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Now, come on. Let’s run through it again. You were so close to getting it perfect!”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you press, still watching him carefully.

“Of course I am,” he says quickly, bouncing on his toes to reset the mood. “Now, less talking, more dancing!”

You hesitate but eventually let it go, letting him take your hand and spin you back into position. Yet, as the music starts up again, you can’t shake the nagging feeling that there’s more to the text than he’s letting on.

On the counter, Jisung’s phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up briefly before going dark. The message still sits there: "You ready to see her?"

The rhythmic click of Jisung’s shoes echoes down the hospital hallway, a stark contrast to the sterile silence that surrounds him. His hands are stuffed into his jacket pockets, clenched tightly as if to keep himself from shaking. The confidence and playfulness that had defined him earlier in the living room are gone, replaced by a hollow, heavy weight in his chest.

He pauses outside the door to a room, staring at the small plaque on the wall with your name printed neatly on it. His heart hammers in his chest as he exhales shakily, steeling himself before finally pushing the door open.

The fluorescent lights overhead hum faintly, casting an unforgiving brightness across the room. Machines beep softly, their rhythm steady and monotonous. And there you are. Completely motionless in the hospital bed, your face pale, your body almost swallowed by the thin blankets. Tubes and wires tether you to the machines keeping you stable, their presence stark and invasive.

Jisung freezes in the doorway, the sight of you knocking the air from his lungs.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice cracking. He steps closer, his movements hesitant and unsteady. The sound of the door clicking shut behind him feels deafening.

He lowers himself into the chair by your bedside, his trembling hands reaching for yours. Your skin is cold, unmoving, and his grip tightens instinctively, as though holding on to you will keep you from slipping further away.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I’m here, so… you can wake up now, okay?”

The only response is the steady beep of the heart monitor.

Jisung leans forward, pressing his forehead against the back of your hand. His shoulders begin to shake as tears spill over, falling silently onto the thin hospital sheet.

“You know,” he chokes out, his voice thick with emotion, “I taught you how to dance. I mean, not perfectly, but we were getting there. You were laughing so much, and—” He stops, his breath hitching as the reality of his words catches up to him.

Because it wasn’t real.

The living room, the music, the laughter— it was all in his head. His imagination, his desperate mind, had conjured you up to fill the unbearable silence you’d left behind.

“I just…” His voice cracks again as he squeezes your hand. “I just wanted to see you smile. To hear you laugh. Even if it wasn’t real.”

The weight of the truth crashes down on him, suffocating and relentless. His mind replays every moment of the past few weeks—the way he had clung to the image of you, teaching you to dance, pretending everything was okay.

His tears flow freely now, soaking into the fabric of your blanket as he clutches your hand like a lifeline. The room feels unbearably quiet, the sound of the machines and his muffled cries the only noises breaking the stillness.

He sits there for what feels like hours, talking to you about everything and nothing—how much he misses you, how much he needs you to come back.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice raw, “don’t let this be the end. 

But you don’t move. Not yet. And Jisung can only sit there, crumbling under the weight of his grief, as reality continues to sink its claws into him.

“I thought…” His voice cracks, and he pauses, choking back a sob. He grips your hand tighter, as if that alone could anchor him in this unbearable moment. “I thought I could bring you back. Even if it wasn’t real—” His words catch in his throat, and he pulls his hands to his face, muffling the anguished cry that escapes him.

Tears stream down his face as he looks back at you, his expression one of complete devastation. “It felt real,” he whispers, his voice raw and broken. “You were laughing. You were dancing. It was like… like you were still here with me.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against your hand as he begins to unravel completely. “I just wanted one more dance with you,” he says, the words slipping out in a strangled sob.

The silence in the room presses against him, suffocating and unrelenting. His shoulders shake as he cries, the weight of the last few weeks crashing down on him all at once.

“I don’t know what to do without you,” he confesses, his voice thick with grief. “You were the one who kept me grounded. When everything felt too hard, you… you were my anchor. You gave me a reason to keep going.”

He lifts his head slightly, his tear-streaked face staring at your still form. “And now…” His voice falters, his lips trembling as he struggles to find the words. “Now I don’t even know who I am without you.”

His gaze drops to your hand in his, his fingers tracing over yours with a tenderness that breaks his heart all over again. “Dancing with you, even in my head… it kept me going. It made me feel like maybe… maybe you were still with me.”

He swallows hard, the lump in his throat refusing to go away. “But they stole it from us,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “They stole our dance.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and final, as Jisung lets out another ragged sob. His grief pours out of him uncontrollably, raw and unfiltered, as he buries his face in his hands.

The walls of the hospital room seem to close in around him, the sterile brightness only amplifying the darkness he feels inside. He leans forward, pressing his lips gently to the back of your hand, his tears falling onto your skin.

“Please,” he begs, his voice breaking. “Please come back to me. I don’t care how long it takes. Just… come back.”

His words are met with the same unyielding stillness, the heart monitor’s steady rhythm the only response. And so he sits there, broken and lost, holding on to you as tightly as he can, afraid to let go of the only piece of you he has left.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” he whispers, his voice hoarse from crying. He looks down at your hand, his tear-filled eyes blurring the sight of your still fingers. “I want to believe you’ll wake up, but… what if you don’t?”

The question lingers in the air, heavy and suffocating. He lets his head fall forward, his forehead pressing against your hand as his shoulders slump in defeat. “I’m so scared,” he murmurs, barely audible. “Scared that I’ve already lost you.”

For a moment, the only sound is the steady beeping of the heart monitor.

And then it happens.

A faint movement—so subtle he almost misses it.

Your fingers twitch beneath his.

Jisung freezes, his breath catching in his throat. His head snaps up, his wide, tear-streaked eyes darting to your hand. “Y/N?” he whispers, his voice trembling with a mix of hope and disbelief.

He watches, his heart pounding in his chest, as your fingers twitch again—just the slightest motion, but enough to send a jolt through his entire body.

“Y/N!” he says again, louder this time, his grip tightening around your hand. He leans forward, his eyes darting between your hand and your face, searching desperately for any other sign of movement.

The heart monitor continues its steady rhythm, the faint beeping echoing in the room as the scene begins to fade.

“Please,” he whispers one last time, his voice breaking. “Please come back to me.”

TAGLIST ↬ @lyvhie @aquaphoenixz @galacticnct @yizhrt @polarisjisung @multifandomania @spacejip @peterm4rker @viasdreams @mango-bear

[55sturn]

✮ RUNNING INTO EX!CHRIS STURNIOLO AT A PARTY

inspired by + creds to: everyone that has written the ex!triplet au!

disclaimers: swearing, angst, mentions of drugs + alcohol, allusions of cheating [ no cheating ever happened ], chris is so in love with reader

you didn’t wanna be here in some dingy kitchen, complete with a slightly (severely) outdated interior, mismatched furniture in heinous colours that didn’t pair well, tacky printed wallpaper that mirrored the weird carpeting from the hotel in the shining, every surface in the house sticky with various spilt liquids, crushed cans and solo cups crunching beneath the platform of your doc martens with every step you took, and drug paraphernalia laying around everywhere you looked. you could even spot the cocaine straws and leftover residue of the white powder on the brown countertops. truthfully, in hindsight, it was not the best setting for two kids that just got scouted and eventually contracted for some of the best college hockey teams in the state.

but still, you plastered a smile on your face and showed up, for matt and chris, despite that you and chris had broken up a couple months ago. you know and witnessed firsthand how hard they worked to get this far in their hockey careers. and this party was being thrown to celebrate and commemorate their shared dreams coming to fruition.

the air was thick with weed and cigarette smoke as you made your way through the house, your eyes and throat burning with each blink and breath. the smell of skunky ass weed alone could give anyone in attendance the worst case of cotton mouth. you fought the urge to gag at the sight of couples and people who were obviously seeing one another shotgunning smoke into each other’s mouths or even just straight up swapping spit and dry humping one another.

you knew you were being a hypocrite and a bit condescending, considering that you were in those girls’ places less than six months ago. you and chris constantly put on a heavy show of pda, not caring who was around. but as you kept pushing through the crowd of people, your best friend stopped in her tracks, turning to face you so fast you’re shocked she doesn’t get whiplash.

“chris is head of the drink table tonight.” she hums right against the shell of your ear, and you’re quick to stiffen. this is the first time you’re going to see him since the breakup, and it’s not going to be easy considering how harsh the breakup was.

“fuck, i need a drink.” you groan, trying to come up with some way to get a drink without your ex seeing you.

“i’ll get a drink for you, wait here.” she smiles, turning and walking away just as fast as before, and you didn’t even have a chance to tell her that when chris is head of the drink table, he’s quick to limit a person.

you wandered aimlessly around the equally dingy living room, the soft LED lights making your head throb slightly, and you swore could feel the thump of the bass bumping in your blood stream. you knew you needed a drink if you were going to tolerate this any longer, so you took a deep breath before turning around and pushing toward the drink table. you felt your hands begin to tremble as you got closer to seeing chris with each step. you weren’t ready, and you didn’t think you were ever going to be. the fight had been a clash of angry words and deep cutting insults thrown at one another, most of them directed at you.

you stand on the side of the drink table, opposite of chris as he talked to one his buddies, contemplating turning around and pretending you were never there, but his friend taps him on the shoulder and nods toward you, and before you could leave, chris turns around, his eyes meeting yours for a brief second before looking away, only for him to look at you again.

“yo jason grab me a fruit punch truly.” chris calls over his shoulder, and the fact that he stills know what your go to drink has your stomach churning with nostalgia and something a bit more heartbreaking.

you’re quick to take the drink from him and walk away, but he’s quicker, much quicker to tap his friend into their shift and tag along after you, he’s one step ahead of you figuratively, always has been, it’s almost as if he could tell what you were thinking before the thought fully formed in your mind. and he’s quick to catch up to you, to gently grab your arm, pulling you back to face him.

“can we talk?” the words slip out of his mouth before he can even really think about them, and your body goes rigid as you look at him, the question you wanted to avoid had finally settled into the air, thick as the smoke that hung amidst the crowd of partygoers. and you go against your internal wishes as you nod, walking behind him as he pulls you to one of the bathrooms on the top floor, and you don’t question him as he sits on the counter across from the wall you’re leaning against partially to respect his space, mostly because his cologne is intoxicating and you fear that if you sit next to him, you’ll make rash decisions that wouldn’t be fair to either if you.

after a pregnant pause coupled with him watching your face intently, he hums a simple question that hurts more than it should.

“how ya been kid?”

“i’ve been okay, just trying to push through the rest of the semester, you?” you whisper, scared to break the rather agonizing and bittersweet tenderness that clings to the atmosphere.

“i’ve been, well, if i’m being honest, i’ve been a wreck. i miss you, y/n. more than i know i should given what led to us fighting and breaking up, but i don’t want to lie to you. but it’s fuckin’ with my head, you fuck with my head.” he sighs, fiddling with the silver bracelet dangling off his wrist.

“what do you mean?”

“i’ve been benched more these last few weeks than i have in my entire life playing sports, i’ve gotten enough penalties to be threatened with suspension because i’m angry and i hurt every day and i just want to believe that this is just some fucked up dream and that it’ll finally end and i’ll wake up next to you, but it’s like i’m stuck in a loop that started the day you walked out.”

“you mean the day you told me that i’m too much for you? the day you said that you could get with any girl you want, that you almost cheated on me?” you spit, not meaning to sound so angry, but the fact of the matter is, his words killed you. they hung over you like a dark grey cloud, repeating on an infinite loop in the depths of your mind every time you doubted yourself.

“yes. and i regret those words every single second. i’m not trying to justify it, but i could feel myself cracking under the pressure from my coach, under the self inflicted pressure of wanting to prove myself to you, to prove i was still worthy of your love. i wish i had asked for space that night, it would’ve given me a chance to take a deep breath and collect my thoughts instead of spewing hateful lies your way.” he murmurs, his eyes glossing over with tears as you watch him, your own eyes stinging ever so slightly.

“chris-“

“i don’t want to be one of those pathetic guys that begs a girl for another chance after doggin’ on them but god kid, i am so in love with you, you’re the girl i wanna marry, and if i don’t sit here and beg for one more chance, i’ll hate myself until the end of time. i don’t want us to end because i fucked up when i should’ve just taken a step back, i want us to end together, in rocking chairs on our deck when we’re eighty, with grey hair and wrinkly skin.” he pleads, climbing off the counter and dropping to his knees in front of you, his arms wrapping around your hips as he presses his forehead to your stomach, and as mad as you were and as much as his words hurt, the idea of not being able to love chris or feel his love again hurt just that tiny bit more.

the idea hurt enough to make you drop down to his level, your hands cradling his face as you promise him one more chance, but on the condition that he starts communicating with you, because you don’t want to lose him permanently to something that could’ve been so easily resolved, but you also don’t want to go through another night of hearing such painful insults thrown at you by the person that’s meant to love and cherish you. so you let him in again, because you love him, and you know him, you know his heart. because sometimes loving someone, means giving them another chance to prove themselves, it means forgiving their mistakes but not excusing them, and giving them an opportunity to heal and grow from them.

[aheathen-conceivably]

Zelda knew the way to City Hall by heart. Week after week she had picked up Violette from school, staring at it across the street while admiring how its stately white columns reflected the sunlight like a mirror. Now, she was standing right in front of it, too nervous to move her feet but too restless to simply stand still anymore.

She looked down at the card in her hand once more, even though she knew every line from anxious fixation. Alexander Barnes, Librarian. Letting out a deep breath, she put the card in her pocket before walking into the building.

As she stepped inside the heavy wooden doors swung shut behind her. Immediately, the noise and heat from the courtyard became a distant memory. In front of her another set of doors were open wide to a simple courtroom, one she hadn’t seen in half a decade. Quietly, a myriad of emotions overcame her, bolstering her resolve as she realized that maybe this place was a nexus of new beginnings for her after all. 

A new sense of calm accompanied her as she followed a dim, sparsely furnished hallway to a closed door inscribed with a shining metal plate. Alexander Barnes, Librarian. She stood still for a moment, listening to see if anyone was inside before she raised her hand and knocked on the door.

A distracted voice told her to enter, and before she could second guess herself she turned the metal handle and walked through the door. The office was small, filled from one corner to the next with books and mismatched furniture that made her think the whole scene was moments away from bursting at the seams.

In the middle of it all sat a man at his desk, his glasses beginning to fall down the bridge of his nose as he stared diligently at a stack of papers in front of him. At the sound of her footsteps, his gaze bolted up and he seemed not to recognize her. Both of them looked at eachother with embarrassment, and Zelda nearly turned on her heels and walked back out the door.

She tried to muster an apology before leaving unceremoniously, but just as she gathered the courage to do so, a smile overtook the man’s face and he pointed familiarly in her direction. “Mrs. Duplanchier! You must forgive me. You’ve caught me in the middle of a letter that has taken just about every ounce of my concentration. And all of this - the office - I mean, well, it’s just a mess, I fear. Would you - do you want to sit?”

His voice trailed off as he looked around the room for a chair. Other than his own there was only one, tucked into the corner and covered with books. As he moved them onto the floor Zelda’s eyes wandered through the room. He had books on every surface, tucked onto shelves, in stacks on the floor, perched precariously at the edge of the desk. But as she watched him move them to make room for her, she could tell that they had all been stacked carefully and with love.

“Ah! Here you are,” he rounded the desk and sat across from her, allowing her eyes to finish searching every square inch of the space without pressing her with questions. Her gaze finally settled back on his, which was still looking at her curiously. It didn’t seem to throw off her words quite as much as most people’s did. “This is - it's quite a collection you have here. I often thought the books I’d managed to collect were noteworthy but this - this is just remarkable.”

His eyebrow lifted slightly. “Do you have a collection?”

Zelda laughed lightly, mostly to cover up the embarrassment that she felt anytime she talked about herself. “It feels a bit silly calling it that here, amongst something so impressive. It’s mostly just books I brought from home - from England, I mean, when I was a girl. But I’ve bought what I could over the years.”

“England! I thought I may have heard as much back at the truck. How did you possibly end up here?”

Her eyes trailed away from him slightly, roaming back to the stacks of books that were lining the walls. “Its a long story, I suppose. One infinitely less interesting than any selection of which you have here. May - may I ask you about them? The books, I mean. And the truck. All of it really, how any of this came to be.”

With an affirmative nod of his head Zelda began the litany of questions that had come to her mind over the weeks of waiting for this meeting. There was very little about his job that she didn't want to know. Where had the books come from? Where did he drive? Was someone pay him to do so? Where was he headed next?

He answered each question thoroughly and patiently, as though no one had taken the time to have such an interest in his work before. As she reached her last question, where was he headed next, he smiled widely and pushed his glasses up even higher on his nose. “Nowhere, hopefully. I’m working on a request for the Works Projects Administration to open a permanent location in Strangerville.”

Zelda’s eyes went wide in disbelief. “A - a real library, here? In Strangerville?” 

“That’s my hope. Of course there are competing proposals but I’ve been surveying the region and the town is perfect. With the Route running through it and the abandoned Queen Annes up the hill, it’s exactly what the Administration is looking for.”

He could easily read the look on her face, a mix of childish amazement and interest, and ventured further, “Listen, I - I unfortunately can’t promise anything; but if you have an interest in the project I will need a team. They’ll want a catalog of everything I’ve collected and a survey of potential locations. I should know who the grant is awarded to in five - maybe six days? I’ll write to you, if you’re interested.”

“Yes!” She answered so quickly that her anxiety barely had time to register what she was saying. “I - would love that.”

Previous / Next

[wosola]

French kisses .2 - Lucy Bronze x French!Reader

Summary: This is during Lucy Bronze’s time playing for Lyon, she's just gotten into a relationship with R, a 22-year-old student. For R it is the first time sleeping with someone.

Warnings: This is an 18+ fanfic with explicit content, so minors DNI.

Part 1 here.

It was only a few days ago, but Sunday felt like a lifetime away as you recalled how your parents had adored Lucy. You remembered how Lucy had picked you up that Sunday, looking stunning in an outfit you hadn't seen before. She had arrived a full ten minutes early, a small smile on her face as she told you that punctuality was key.

You re envisioned the way your mom’s eyes sparkled when Lucy walked in with a bouquet of flowers, the perfect way to win her over; your mom loved flowers. "Pour toi," Lucy had exclaimed with a warm smile, her accent adorably imperfect as she stumbled over a few words in French.

Your dad had been equally impressed when Lucy handed him a bottle of expensive whiskey, having confirmed with you just the day before if it was an appropriate gift to give him. “I heard this is your favorite,” she’d said, her voice unexpectedly confident as she raised the bottle.

You adored the way she’d won your parents over. You where glad your parents where this welcoming, that they just wanted to see you happy, because you knew it was often not as pleasant for people to bring a same-sex partner home.

It was clear Lucy had learned everything she wanted to say in French, she’d probably rehearsed every potential compliment and conversational quip, ready for the moment she needed it. It worked though and in some strange way it made you fall more in love with her.

You felt a swell of pride watching her engage with your parents, laughing and sharing stories that bridged the gap between her world and yours. It was so nice to finally been able to bring someone home. Maybe it would be the only person you would ever bring home to your parents, because she was the love of your life.

Safe to say it had been a great success and the next dinner had already been planned before the two of you had left.

-

Now it was Thursday; the day you’d been waiting for. It was the day.

Your apartment was cozy, located near the university and just the right size for you and your roommate. It was great you could live there, as your parents lived outside the city, in such a rural place that buses didn't even dare to go near there.

The living room was a mix of mismatched furniture; a well-loved couch, a small coffee table cluttered with textbooks and half-finished mugs of coffee and a tiny kitchen that smelled faintly of whatever you’d cooked that week.

Earlier this morning, your roommate had teased you mercilessly about Lucy. “You’re glowing! I swear, it’s like you’ve got stars in your eyes,” she had said with a playful smirk, knowing you hated that kind of soppy stuff. But beneath the teasing, you sensed her genuine happiness for you, knowing you had found someone you really really liked and who liked you equally as much.

As you came back after classes that day, your roommate had left, spending the night at her boyfriend’s place. Leaving the space feeling oddly quiet yet filled with the thrill of anticipation.

So you had thrown yourself into preparation mode. You changed the bed sheets. You scrubbed the countertops and vacuumed the floors, wanting everything to feel just right.

Then came the shower, you put yourself through an extensive cleansing ritual, lingering for way too long under the jets, letting the hot water cascade down your back like a soothing embrace. Because besides wanting to feel clean, you where also nervous quite nervous.

Deciding what to wear was another challenge in itself. You tried on three different outfits, each time pulling everything off again and tossing it aside in frustration. Finally, you settled on a simple yet elegant outfit that hugged your figure perfectly, something that made you feel confident and beautiful.

As you stood in front of the mirror, taking one last look at yourself, you couldn’t shake the excitement mixed with a touch of anxiety. You took a deep breath, reminding yourself that it was just Lucy. The doorbell rang, pulling you from your thoughts and you knew the evening was about to begin.

Lucy showed up at your apartment with two bags in hand, insisting that you must not peek inside. “It’s a surprise amour,” she had declared, a mischievous twinkle in her eye that only made your heart race faster.

After exchanging a kiss, Lucy walked over to the kitchen and you stood there unsure of what to do. You watched as she moved things from one bag to another, a hint of excitement bubbling in your chest.

Finally, she spoke up, her voice cheerful. “Alright, love, if you want to unpack these things, it’s for dinner. I’ll just duck into your room for a bit and try to be quick, okay?”

She approached you again, planting another kiss on your lips and you smiled back at her, feeling warmth spread through you at her demeanor. “Don’t come peeking…” she joked, pulling you in for another kiss.

You broke the kiss and chuckled, “I wont,” waving her off as she disappeared down the hallway.

As you busied yourself in the kitchen, the anticipation of the night filled the air. You draped a dark red tablecloth over the coffee table, setting down all the different food Lucy had brought. You couldn’t believe your eyes as you uncovered the dishes. It was almost like a tapas table, but then all of your favorite things from different traiteurs. The logo from your favorite fromagerie was unmistakable on one of the little brown bags and your heart raced; you rarely treated yourself to these luxuries. Lucy had gone out of her way to buy all of it.

After placing down glasses and cutlery you only needed plates, so you walked back to the kitchen.

Lucy softly closed the bedroom door, as she was done setting things up and walked over to you. Coming up behind you, she placed a soft kiss on your neck.

You tensed momentarily but quickly relaxed into her touch. Your nerves were on high alert because of your nervousness. But you liked how she held you, her touch sending a delightful shiver down your spine.

“Ah, at the coffee table?” she asked, a surprised tone in her voice.

“Yeah,” you admitted sheepishly. “I thought it would feel.. less formal. We can change it if you want, but I thought… cozy?”

“It’s perfect,” Lucy assured you, her eyes gleaming with appreciation. “Perfectly us.”

You turned to face her, taking in the beauty of her features; her bright eyes, the gentle curve of her lips and the way her smile seemed to light up your kitchen. This was the face you had grown to love, the face you wanted to see first thing in the morning and the last thing before drifting off to sleep. You leaned in slowly, noticing how she tilted her head to meet you halfway, not taking the lead as she would usually do. The kiss was soft, filled with the promise you both felt lingering.

“Are you nervous?” Lucy asked quietly, pulling back slightly to gauge your expression.

“Uhm… I have nerves, but I’m mostly excited, I think,” you replied, your gaze dropping to where you absentmindedly played with her fingers, tracing their robust form.

“Well, I just wanted to say,” Lucy began, reaching up with her free hand to tilt your chin, ensuring you met her gaze. “If you want to stop at any time, you can always say so. I… uh, nothing will change between us if that happens, okay? For you, I would wait a hundred years if that’s what you need.”

You chuckled softly, your heart swelling at her words. Leaning in, you kissed her again, savoring the taste of her lips. “I love you.”

‘’I love you too,’’ with a smile on her face, Lucy gestured toward the food on the coffee table. “Okay, let’s eat then, I have searched all of your favorites, maybe I missed some I don’t know, I hope not but I-.”

You interrupted her, smiling ‘’are you nervous?’’ You asked her, hearing her rambling.

She scratched her neck, biting her lip. ‘’I want this to be perfect, for you.’’

‘’It is Lucy, don’t worry,’’ you took her hand as you took two plates in your other hand and pulled her to the couch.

After setting the plates down you settled down on the couch.

Lucy followed, settling beside you, she leaned forward to open the bottle of rosé crémant. You’d once mentioned liking it better than champagne and it made you smile that she’d remembered. You knew she hadn’t chosen it because it was less expensive but because it was what you preferred. It was something you loved about her, Lucy wasn’t just listening; she cared.

After filling your glasses, she handed one to you and raised hers to clink. You watched her, catching the slight hesitation as she searched for the right words to toast.

You chuckled and stepped in to help, saying what felt like the obvious toast “to us.” Your gaze locked with hers, and you tapped your glass to hers.

"To us," she repeated softly, her eyes meeting yours with a smile before she took a sip.

After that, the two of you eagerly started digging in to the food.

Lucy stacked her plate and sat back on the couch “Mmm, this is amazing.´´ she said with her mouth full. ´´I love all the food you’ve introduced me to in France.”

You laughed. “I could give you a dried-out baguette and you’d still enjoy it.”

Lucy rolled her eyes, nudging you with her elbow. “Not true. I have taste. Great taste, even.”

“I know, I was just teasing you.” You leaned in close, a playful glint in your eye. “Sorry,” you whispered, stopping just inches from her face.

She smiled, tilting her head even closer. “Hmm… I think you’ll have to make it up to me.”

You let your lips brush against hers, the anticipation crackling in the air. “And how exactly should I do that?” you said, taking the plate off of her and blindly put it back on the coffee table.  

“Maybe a kiss.” Her words were soft, lingering just against your lips before she captured them fully, her mouth warm and inviting. The kiss deepened, her hand slipping around your waist, drawing you in against her. You let go, sinking into the kiss, savoring the way her fingers grazed the small of your back. Shivering as her hands cupped your ass, fingers digging in, urging you even closer.

Without breaking away, you shifted onto her lap, you gasped softly as her hands found their way to your hips, holding you as she carefully flipped you both, positioning you between her and the couch. Your legs wrapped instinctively around her and you could feel her weight balanced on her forearms bracketing against you, her feet slipping on the smooth floor as she struggled to hold herself steady.

But none of that seemed to matter. The only thing that mattered was the feeling of her pressed against you, how her hips moving against yours, the barely restrained hunger in her touch. Her lips traced along your jaw, pressing against your neck in a way that sent chills across your skin. Each soft grind sent ripples of electricity through you, your breaths becoming shallow as you felt yourself getting unsteady.

Your fingers curled into her shirt as her lips moved softly along your neck, the sound of her low hum sending a rush of heat through you. Then, just as suddenly, Lucy seemed to become aware of something, pulling back to look at you, her gaze hazy and unfocused, like she’d just come back down to earth.

You smiled, biting your lip, your legs tightening around her, holding her close.

She gave you a breathless smile, leaning in to kiss you again, this time softer, a little more composed. "Uhm, we should continue eating, hm?" she murmured, her voice laced with both amusement and hesitation.

"Well.. I’m not that hungry anymore," you replied, eyes locked with hers. Your heart tutted loudly in your chest. Your cheeks felt burning hot and you ached for something. You didn´t know what for, but you where wanting.

Lucy´s cheeks tinged pink, but she managed to keep her gaze steady. "Okay," she breathed, though there was a flicker of unsteadiness there.

Noticing it, you chuckled, slowly loosening your legs from around her. "But we can eat, " you teased, ‘’if you are hungry…"

Lucy’s mouth curved into a mischievous grin. "Oh, I’m hungry,´´ she murmured in a low, playful growl, ´´but not for the food" sweeping you up into her arms.

You giggled, letting yourself melt into her hold as she carried you down the hall.

When you reached your bedroom, she set you back down just before the door, gesturing grandly. "After you."

Stepping inside, you smiled. Your bedroom was transformed; the curtains were closed, a soft glow of dozens of candles casting warm, flickering light everywhere, their soft glow enveloping you both. The bed was covered in rose petals, arranged in the shape of a heart.

"It’s beautiful, Luce," you murmured, touched. "You put so much effort into this."

She shook her head modestly, glancing away. "No, it’s really nothing, I just wanted to—"

You turned back to her with a chuckle. "The candles are fake, I hope?"

Lucy laughed, scratching the back of her neck as she joined you in the room. "Oh, yeah. I figured it was… safer… and you know, I could put them on already."

You nodded and closed the space between you, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips, wordlessly letting her know just how much everything meant to you.

Lucy held your gaze for a moment, eyes soft before she took your hand, leading you gently toward the bed.

The room felt warm as you stepped inside, the soft glow of candles casting flickering shadows on the walls. You turned toward Lucy, feeling the quiet electricity in the air between you both.

There was a heartbeat of silence, a moment where the two of you just looked at each other, taking in this instant you’d both waited for.

Lucy broke the silence first, her fingers brushing over your cheek, down to your jaw and pausing there as her eyes searched yours. Her gaze was soft, maybe a little nervous but entirely steady, holding a depth of care that made you feel like you were the only thing in the world she could see. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered, her voice thick with quiet awe.

A shy smile tugged at your lips, and you stepped closer, letting your fingers find the hem of her shirt. “Can I…?” you asked softly, meeting her gaze, asking without words if this was all right.

Lucy nodded, her hands finding their way to your waist, fingers light as though she were both carefull and eager all at once. You began to lift the fabric, inching it upward, feeling a heady mixture of nerves and excitement that made your fingers tremble.

As her shirt lifted, more of her skin was revealed in the warm candlelight and you let out a soft, almost breathless laugh. “You’re… hmm,” you murmured, not able to hide the excitement in your voice.

She chuckled softly, helping you remove her shirt.

Once her shirt was off, you let your fingertips trail slowly along her arms, feeling the curve of her bicep, your touch reverent as if she were something precious, almost sacred. She stayed still, watching you with parted lips, her breathing just a bit heavier then usual.

Your hand continued down over her shoulder and chest, tracing lightly as you went, feeling the defined muscle under soft skin. Fingers sliding over the line of her collarbone, pausing briefly at her chest before continuing downward to her stomach. Your fingertips brushed over the lines of her abs, feeling the strength there. She shivered under your touch.

Her own hands found the buttons of your shirt in response, looking at you for approval and after you nodded she took a steadying breath before unbuttoning them, her eyes never leaving you as more of your skin was revealed. She was quiet, reverent almost, as though seeing you this way was something that left her breathless.

And there you stood, inches apart, taking each other in. The hunger was there, palpable, but so was the sweetness, the awe, as though you were both seeing something rare and precious—something you wanted to savor.

Her lips found yours again, the kiss deepening as she guided you backward, her hands brushing over your shoulders and sides. When you reached the edge of the bed, she swept the rose petals aside with a quick swipe. She lowered you carefully onto the bed and you tugged her down with you.

With a quiet breath, you reached back to unclip your bra, letting the straps slide down your shoulders. Lucy watched closely, her gaze warm and attentive. She gently slipped the bra off for you, tossing it aside without her eyes leaving your chest.

You whispered her name, wanting her attention, ‘’Luce’’.

She lifted her head, searching your eyes with a slight smile.

"Take yours off too?" you asked, almost shyly.

She nodded immediately. “Of course.” She sat up slightly and tugged off her own bra, letting it fall to the floor as well before leaning back over you, her bare chest now in your view. Your gaze lingered, appreciating every detail, your lips parting slightly as you took in the softness and beauty of her skin, her hardened nipples inviting your touch.

Seeing you captivated, Lucy gently took your hands in hers, smirking a little as she guided them to her chest. She laced her fingers through yours, encouraging you to cup her breasts, your palms brushing over the sensitive peaks. You gave a gentle squeeze, feeling the heat of her skin against your hands, still entranced by her body.

Lucy’s smile softened as she took in your focused expression. “Feels good?” she asked amused.

“Mhm,” you murmured, still in a bit of a daze before you blinked, meeting her eyes. “Yeah.”

..

part 3 next monday

[fraugwinska]

I've seen fanfics about Alastor × deaf reader

But what about.. blind reader? Maybe they lost sight in some battle

How they would be confused meeting Alastor at first: did someone turn the radio on- oh, thats a demon talking!

And how confused would be Alastor as his feelings started to grow towards the reader: he just enjoys their company! What else can he do when they like to listen to him spilling the tea and just rambling about everything because of his soothing voice? His favourite listener

Then.. their relationships get a bit different as in another one relaxing evening together Alastor asks if they want to see him..

And on their confused silence he answers bringing their hands to his face for them to "read" his apperience..

Just thought it would be hella fun to read! Not good enough at english, sorry for mistakes

I love your writtings! 💕Stay hydrated and don't dare to overwork yourself ☝

Hiya lovely Anon! <3 I put my own little spin on your idea! I love fics like those, and this one sat in my drafts for ages - I hope the wait was worth it! Thank you so much for this ask! <3 Warning: Contains depictions of attempted SA, please read with caution - MINORS DNI!

The bookstore was always quiet in the evenings. Well, it was quiet almost always.

Hell wasn't the most... appreciative place for tombs and books that didn't have porn or egregious murder in them, so your shop wasn't really frequented much. Occasionally, a new sinner would find their way in, not yet taken by the unpunished excessiveness Pentagram City had to offer, and would buy a book or two, never to be seen again. The rest of your clientele were loyal regulars, mostly elderly demons and imps getting books for their masters in other rings. It wasn't much, but enough for you to get by, live a simple, modest life. Your shop was mundane enough as to not attract the more dangerous ones the city had to offer, yet held the beauty that only an antique bookstore could, with a reading room like atmosphere, mismatched armchairs scattered in between the high bookshelves and an old radio on the counter playing in the background.

That didn't mean there weren't moments you'd have to get yourself out of some serious situations. On rare occasions, the patrons of your bookstore became too demanding or rough with you, thinking they could intimidate or screw you over because of your... handicap. After all, how would you see the hand reaching in the register, or the little spell book slipping into the inside pocket of a jacket. The blindness you were born with on earth hadn't left you in your death, but the enhanced sensitivity of your other senses made things easier for you. You had learned to take your losses, unwilling to let these moments ruin your confidence in your work or diminish your spirits.

You navigated through the little store with ease, putting laid-out books back into their designated places - feeling the backs of the books like it spelled their names, and motion memory guiding you through the maze of furniture and shelves - your plain, long felt skirt softly brushing this edge and that wood panel. What you wore wasn't fancy, modern or stylish attire, but it was comfortable enough. And who were you kidding? At the end of the day, nobody cared for your less-than-ordinary appearance, but yourself.

Your mind had been drifting around between random topics for a while until, on your last trip back to the front desk, your round ears picked up the bell on your door and the faint sound of staticy talking, coming from the direction of the counter. A customer, at this hour no less! But you were sure you had turned off the radio hours ago... maybe the old thing was finally breaking down, you thought with a little sadness. You hurried to it, still hung back in your thoughts and babbling as you turned the desk to shut the little device off so your customer wasn't disturbed.

"Hello, I'm terribly sorry if you're bothered by the radio, I should have turned it off. Feel free to browse through-" you paused mid-sentence as the air shifted slightly. You had turned the familiar knob but the filtered voice didn't stop talking. Your ears moved around, as if the source was everywhere and nowhere at the same time, trying to determine its source, when the other occupant of the store laughed at the surprise written on your face.

"Apologies aren't necessary my dear, but that wasn't the little device here but me, asking for service. Although I'm quite fond of a little old fashioned tune - comes with the title of the Radio Demon, you see." He talked with amusement, or something in his tone seemed powerful and dangerous. As his words started to make sense to you, you held a sharp breath, struggling not to take a step back. Of course you've heard of Alastor, the Radio Demon, but you've never had the honor (or dread) of meeting him in person. Rumors had spread around in hell a long time before you'd even gotten here, stories of a powerful overlord who'd broadcasted the screams and torments of his victims, spreading fear to everyone, from sinner, to lesser demons, to even other overlords themselves.

"W-welcome to my store, sir! What can I help you with today?" You smiled pleasantly, hoping that showing him respect and going out of your way for a courteous interaction could possibly keep you from being torn to pieces. You heard the ruffling of fabric - a hand reaching into a pocket, wrapping it's fingers around a thick piece of paper, along a low, distorted chuckle. "A good friend of mine recommended your store to me, I am looking for a few... unusual books, hopefully to be found here."

You waited into the silence, one second, two, three. When he said nothing, only static noise slowly increasing in volume, you decided to speak again. "May you tell me the titles, sir?"

"If you'd take the list, little mouse, everything I need is on it." His voice had an edge of annoyance to it now. You didn't know when his presence had approached so close to where you stood, and couldn't decide if that was a good sign or not. You sighed, pulling the darkened glasses off you wore day in, day out, revealing the white irises that gave your blindness away. After a sound like a record scratch, you managed a helpless smile. "I fear if it's not in braille, it won't do much to hand me that."

The other demon was silent again, but the crackling static had dropped, and before you had time to add something that wouldn't get you gutted, he'd barked a laugh, sounding genuinely amused and entertained.

"My, isn't that a bit cliché, my dear? A blind mouse? Any chance you have two siblings?"

That joke was new. You dared to husk out a little laugh, too, your hands gently resting on the counter top. "I hate to disappoint, but no. I even have my tail still, no farmers wife with a knife."

There was a change in his stance, his coat sweeping the air as you heard the list was laid on the wooden surface in front of you, surprisingly not crushed or crumbling under the power of his hand. Coldness swept like waves of fog over the front desk and your hands, you pulled them away with a shudder, confused, but your patron just hummed.

"There, that should've done the trick. I'd rather not want to read my little.... requests aloud, they're a rather curious bunch, I believe. Very useful, though, especially those for more creative types in cooking."

You reached for the paper and thumbed through the braille letters one after the other, feeling a long list of more... taboo tomes you were sure wouldn't have even been mentioned in any respectable catalogue. Luckily, you were a glutton for oddities and curiosities, and with a small smile of pride you found that you had every book on the list on hand. Maybe it was this pride thatgave you the confidence so that you didn't reply and instead swiftly jumped ahead, bustling through the rows and pillars of bookshelves. Every step was calculated, from the short staircase to the tiny nook where you stored spell books and tombs of dark magic, navigating past all the tables and furniture to the particular bookcase containing ritualistic cookbooks. Once you had a feeling where a book would be located, you searched the titles by stroking the backs with the pads of your fingers, tapping quickly and analyzing the material and little bumps and nicks of the spines. Once found, you traced the edges of the piece and drew up a mental image in your mind to check it wasn't bent, dirty, torn or had any parts missing. Your fingers were your eyes, and they were keen.

As you carried the rather heavy stack back, the Radio Demon hadn't moved an inch from where you'd left him, as far as you could tell. It had been hard not to acknowledge him throughout the ordeal while your brain just went on autopilot after realizing he didn't mean to kill you, at least for the moment. On one hand, that was comforting; on the other hand, it was absolutely horrifying.

"Here you go, sir. Please, feel free to check if they are up to your standards." You set the books down carefully, counting the number of thick covers in the stack to be sure and your fingers brushed sharp talons as apparently the Radio Demon reached out to inspect the books as you offered. With a sharp inhale and a heated face you quickly drew back, stammering apologies. He only chuckled faintly, the static surrounding him crackling as if it, too, was amused.

You stood silently behind the counter and listened to him flipping through the pages, turning the books around to read their contents, humming here and there. He seemed content with the lot and you were sure that once he'd paid, he would leave, hopefully sparing your meager existence and not leaving any destruction behind.

"Very well! These will do perfectly, little mouse. And, I have to say, you have a very interesting collection. The quality of your inventory exceeds what Zestial promised. You might expect a few more visits from me in the future, if you don't mind."

The last sentence wasn't a question. It was a statement, underlined with the sound of a heavy stack of bills placed on your counter. Your hands confirmed what your ears already suspected - your patron well overpaid you.

"Not at all, sir, but you gave me too much mon...."

But the air shifted again, and a chime and a thud later you knew he had already walked out, his laughter the last thing you heard before the door clicked shut.

“...ey.”

What a peculiar man, you thought, still processing the entire experience. His voice had been darling, no wonder he chose radio as his medium. You were sure his smile you've heard so many demons whisper about was wide and predatory, but he had been so polite. Even the nickname he'd given you had been charming, compared to the names and remarks you've had thrown at you by lesser demons, and you shook your head at the ridiculousness of your face flushing at the memory.

'Little mouse.'

After a long moment, you finally counted the money and put the amount he tipped you aside in your hidden safe, making a note to yourself that you would give it back to him when he'd return. If he'd return.

Weeks passed and the Radio Demon had kept his promise and visited again. And again. And again.

The first time he came back and you, already flustered, offered to give back the surplus money he'd paid you, he was baffled before he heartily laughed and ignored your attempts to return it to him, instead buying three more books and leaving you with even more undeserved cash in your hands.

Almost once a week he'd return to your store, sometimes he'd have a whole list of books he'd want to buy, and he almost never left your store with empty hands. Sometimes he'd sit down in one of the many chairs to peruse a tomb you set aside for him, predicting he'd find interest in it as you learned his tastes in literature, and he'd hum almost happily when you found a new curiosity or a grimoire that was especially hard to come by. And sometimes he just came in for a quick visit, not even intending to buy a book but just to chat a bit. With every encounter your initial apprehension shifted into appreciation, so much so that you'd grow to eagerly await his return, the sound the bell made when he enthusiastically swung the door open or the slight distortion of your radio when he changed the station to one that suited his mood better.

You were a bit enchanted with him, if you were honest. Not only had every interaction been intriguing and entertaining, he'd been one of the rare visitors who hadn't maliciously mocked or threatened you, or worse. And you found that you enjoyed the small banters you could have with him, the fact that he treated you no differently than anyone else. It was refreshing, and each of his visits put a spring in your step for days, no matter how hard you tried not to think about him.

By the time several months had passed, he became your favorite client and he seemed to have an everlasting interest in your inventory as well as yourself. You learned that he was quite a wealthy demon with a seemingly insatiable appetite for entertainment, and always with an eye for quality, which you vowed yourself to provide in return, if only to keep him coming back. You found you could spend hours with only him at the store over freshly made coffee, discussing various literary concepts and historical events he used as references, and it was a delight to laugh together about some particularly odd rituals in books like 'Old Spells to Cure Thievery' or 'Blood Rituals of the Flaying Kink'.

Sometimes, when you'd hand him a new find or a heavy tomb, his hands would lightly brush yours and his voice would drop and become a bit softer, quieter as he cooed his nickname for you - 'Little Mouse'. With your lack of vision, you didn't know how his face looked nor how his expression would've surely changed - but his voice took on a tone that would be fitting for a date, and the touches made you shiver lightly and tingle and you felt heat spread all over your chest and the pit of your stomach when he did. If your body betrayed those reactions on your face, he wouldn't tease you for them. At least, you never noticed if he did. Maybe he had the grace to simply not remark on them, you thought, for once grateful for your blindness so you wouldn't have to see your own - surely ridiculously dumbstruck - expression reflected in the windows of your storefront. But the physical contact between you became more frequent, more deliberately made, and you'd caught his own quiet sigh every now and again when he lingered for just a moment longer before the doorbell chimed and he'd leave again.

One evening, as you were cleaning up and preparing for tomorrow's customers, a soft knock on the already locked door pulled you out of the haze of your radio's gentle tune. Turning around, you moved slowly towards the sound of the interruption, adjusting your dark glasses.

"My apologies, but we're closed for tonight, please come back tomorrow."

There was no reply, no sound of footsteps and your ears strained to catch a whisper of a sound, to find a new hint as to who was outside. Another knock, harder now, sounded and this time it took all your courage to approach. Your hair stood at its roots as your hands rested at the wooden door, your senses tingling that you better not open - that danger stood in front of your store.

"Please go, we'll be open again tomorrow."

Your reflexes, acting faster than your brain, made you stumble back as the glass of your front doors shattered into a million pieces. In a panic you tumbled to the floor, hands over your face as the pieces broke apart on impact. There were voices, rough and foreign sounding, that accompanied the stomping of boots. You shuffled back on the ground, trying to get out of the way before being stepped or kicked upon, reaching to the walls and bookshelves to find some stability to guide you in getting away from what was coming towards you.

"T-take what you want, please, I won't stop you. Just... just take it and leave."

Your words were shaking in fear and the little hope that a verbal warning and submission would placate the robbers. To your horror the voices - two, if your panicked mind didn't fool you - erupted into raspy laughter and you realized then that money might not be the only thing these demons were after.

"You were right, Hank. This is going to be easier than I thought, look at how helpless the bitch is."

"Told 'ya, Tommy Boy. An' the best part..." supposedly the one called Hank said deviously, and you were yanked up at your wrists and thrown over what must've been your counter, your glasses slipping and breaking at the impact and your eyes dwelling with hot tears. You recognized this voice… just a few days ago this demon had come into the shop, just as Alastor was about to leave, lingering around the shop and leaving quickly mumbling a half-asses excuse without buying anything after you asked if you could help him find something and Alastor's static crackled dangerously. The same smell of sharp sweat and wet tobacco lingered around him, making your stomach turn. "... she can't tell anyone who we are. Hoh, look, her eyes are some freaky shit, 'n you bet her tits 're freaky, too. S'not even our damn birthday but looks like we got ourselves a gift. 'Ya wanna go first?"

"You know me - Don't mind if I do."

With a heart beating out of your chest and shallow breaths, you tried to feel with your only free hand for something, anything, to defend yourself with. You had to defend yourself. Anything would be better than what horrific thing they were about to do. There was only the flat, leather bound accounting book close by, but it was better than nothing, and in a motion of impulse and fear you slashed with it into the general direction you felt the weight of Tommy settle onto the counter top above you. His complice bellowed angrily, making your ears ring, and Tommy snatched the weapon from your hand to throw it away. His breath smelled of filth and cold ash, the skin of your throat burned when he wrapped his calloused hands around it.

"We're gonna show ya your fucking place, worthless blind cum-chunk bitch, an' when we're done with ya..."

There was a sudden, instant sound of feedback, a wet splatter and a horrified scream and hasty, fleeing footsteps before a wave of relief washed over you as your neck fell free from the intruders grasp and you heard a familiar voice.

"Oh, my dear fellow, do go on. I'd love to hear the end of that sentence." A low, distorted chuckle followed. Alastor sounded different - menacing. Bone-chilling. If those words would've been directed at you, you would've been mortified. But it sounded like honey in your ears, knowing who the recipient was. "Ah, how silly of me - surely it's much harder to speak without vocal chords."

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip as the sounds of violence became ever more gruesome. A whipping sound, a wail and a choked gasp and two stomach-churning thuds of something hitting the floor.

"Well that's not handy at all - you can't even sign your pathetic pleas now. How unfortunate to be in such a vulnerable position, isn't it?"

A thud, then another - your stomach turned as the room got flooded with a different type of warmth. Your lungs and chest stung from the stench of iron and decay and your throat hurt as you realized one aura had vanished from the store and Tommy was most likely reduced to a fleshy pile on the ground. Suddenly you felt a sharp but warm, strangely long but familar hand cradling the back of your skull, pressing your cheek against a broad, angled shoulder, another wrapped tightly around your shoulders, resting under your ears. It was quiet, now - you could only hear your staggered breathing and Alastors static that had gone down a notch or two. You thought his breathing had become more labored, too, when he slowly, gently, let go and straightened you to bring you to a standing position, his hands shifting into their usual shape as they came to rest lightly on your upper arms.

"Are you alright, dear?" His voice was almost back to the tone you were so fond of - almost. There still was an undertone, a dangerous sharpness. Your fingertips instinctively grasped and searched until they met with the familiar texture of his clothing and you nodded.

"Y-yes... I think so, yes. What - what happened to the other one?"

There was a deep laugh, one you haven't heard yet from him. "Oh, my dear, no need to fret over that. I'll deal with that pest later. I should've dealt with him the moment he stepped into your store. An oversight I intend to shortly redeem."

It should have frightened you - should've made the situation so, so much worse, hearing that Alastor planned more torture for that vile creature, probably even an equally gruesome death like the one his friend got. But his words only calmed you. Made you feel... safer. Your fingers lingered on his suit longer than you expected, tracing the detailed seams of his lapels, smoothing out invisible wrinkles on the fabric, feeling the details of the cool, metallic buttons. And he let you. He stood still, allowing your hands to see what your eyes couldn't.

"I can't decide if it's a blessing or a shame that you can't see the carnage I caused. Although I am pleased that you didn't have to look at the ugly faces of those cretins who tried to defile you." He took your hands from his coat and placed them softly on his face. "But maybe… you can try to envision what your savior looks like, hm?"

His hands left yours again, though you found the sensation and feeling of his touch remained where he placed them. Your heart fluttered as you couldn't keep yourself from running your palms and fingertips over his skin, cautiously tracing his angular jaw, making out the distinct feeling and sharp lines of a toothy grin. Then you pushed further, fingers running along a slight bow and over the indent where his brows arched, his cheekbones prominent enough you felt the warmth of blood flushing under the skin as the mental image of his face got clearer.

You were in awe that you could do this, that he encouraged it even, but he allowed you the tender moment, making a muffled humming sound and exhaling quietly under your soft, curious touch. You realized at last that his eyes were closed for you, the skin there slightly pliant and firm at the same time. With the tips of your fingers, you followed the firm, straight bridge of his nose down the length of it and he inhaled sharply when you brushed his lips. The familiar sound of static increased just enough for you to realize there had been complete silence aside from your soft and his steady breathing. He opened his eyes again, slowly taking your hands away to leave a feathery light, lingering kiss on your knuckles as he hummed thoughtfully.

"Now, let me clean up this mess, we don't want you stumble over any... unpleasant bits." You heard a snap and felt the air whirring around you, filling with a thick, fog-like sensation as you heard your floors creaking, wood mending and cracking and tiny bits of glass swirling around you, piecing itself together and returning into their frame. Not even a minute later the shop felt normal again, the unpleasant smell gone as well, and with it the overall apprehension the threat had caused.

"Thank you, Alastor. Truly, I don't know what would've happened if you weren't..." you started, pausing as his hands wandered gently around your face to put on your miraculously repaired glasses. He laughed softly, tapping a gentle, slender finger on the tip of your nose.

"Luckily we didn't find out, did we? Ah, but, unfortunately, I'd say the night has been spoiled for us, given that there's another vermin to take care of." He walked behind you, carefully setting the accounting book you had used as an attempted weapon into your hands, his taloned fingers curling gently around yours as if to make sure you had a proper hold on it.

"You lock up when I'm gone, little mouse. And who knows - Maybe we'll continue to see each other... tomorrow night."

And then you felt another gentle peck, this time on your flushed cheek, and the door opened with the bell ringing, the faint crackle of a radio fading and his heavy, signature scent of burned wood and bourbon lingering around you as you hurried to bolt the doors shut, heart racing painfully in your chest at the prospect of adding even more parts of the Radio Demon to the image in your mind.

[niniwritesxo]

‘cute coffee guy’

roh jaewon x fem reader

pt.2 <-

summary: you enter a cute coffee shop having no idea what to order, what happens when a cute guy decides to help you out?

꩜ .ᐟ————————————————————————

the bell above the door jingled as you stepped into the daily grind, a cozy coffee shop tucked away on a quiet street corner. the smell of freshly ground coffee beans immediately wrapped around you, warm and comforting against the chilly morning air outside. the shop was charming, with mismatched furniture, chalkboard menu’s filled with handwritten specials, and shelves lined with quirky mugs.

soft indie music hummed in the background, and the buzz of quiet conversation gave the place a peaceful, lived-in feel.

as you made your way to the counter, the barista,

a guy with messy hair and a tattoo peeking out from under his rolled-up sleeve flashed you a smile. his name tag read alex.

“morning,” he greeted, his voice warm and casual. “what can I get for you today?”

you opened your mouth, but before you could respond, a voice from behind you spoke up in a tone that made you tense.

“are you seriously just standing there?” the woman behind you, clearly in a rush, tapped her foot impatiently. “there’s a line, you know. It’s not rocket science. just order something already.”

you blinked, taken aback by her bluntness, but before you could apologize, she muttered, “i don’t have all day,” and crossed her arms.

‘‘alex, give her a vanilla iced, oh and put it on my tab’’ a man sitting at the window, his laptop in front of him speaks up.

after a few minutes alex hands me the coffee the random man told me to get, great.

you look for a quiet place to sit and spot the man again, he has medium black hair, round glasses and is wearing a north face puffer jacket.

‘‘mind if i sit here?’’ you softly ask looking at the man sitting down, typing what seems like a essay.

when the man looks up you can see his full face, the way his eyebrow raised up when you spoke up, the way he stopped typing to look at you.

this guy was handsome, gosh.

‘‘oh yeah yeah, go ahead’’ he says before quickly standing up to pull the chair a bit.

as you sit down you thank him for the coffee and explain how you weren’t really that big of a coffee person.

“you’re welcome, jaewon by the way,” he said, offering his hand.

you introduced yourself, and soon the two of you fell into easy conversation. he asked what brought you to the coffee shop, and you explained you were escaping the rain and taking a break from work. when you returned the question, his eyes lit up.

“i write,” he said simply.

“like… essays or something?” you asked, taking a sip of your drink.

“something like that,” he replied, chuckling. “poems, mostly. and books.”

“oh, that’s cool,” you said, genuinely impressed. “do you do it like full-time?”

“i do,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “i’ve been lucky. a few of my books have done pretty well actually’’

“that’s amazing,” you said, your curiosity piqued. “what kind of books?”

he hesitated for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. “mostly poetry, but I’ve dabbled in fiction. stories about connection, loss, love and kind of all sort of things that make us human.”

‘‘oh i’ll definitely check it out some time!’’ you answer with a kind smile.

there was a quiet passion in his words, a depth that made you want to hear more.

by the time the rain had stopped, you realized you’d spent hours talking to jaewon. as you gathered your things to leave, he tore a page from his notebook and handed it to you.

“a little something to remember me by,” he said with a kind smile.

a few hours later you were sitting on your couch, eating take away noodles like your life depended on it. you haven’t ate since the morning and really needed these noodles.

when you grab your phone you see a text from your best friend ellie.

ellie <3:

hiii y/n, what have you been up to girl?

you:

hey elle! met the cutest guy at the coffee shop today, he bought me a coffee #iaminlove

ellie <3:

omg spill.

you:

okay so he was like a writer? apparently he is quite popular, i think he mostly writes poetry.

ellie <3:

don’t tell me his name was roh jae-won

you:

wait how..how do you know that???

ellie <3:

IT WAS? CALL ME RN

you were confused, no way he is THAT famous right?

as soon as you call ellie she goes on about how famous jae-won actually is, she told you how he has the best selling book in south korea right now.

you decided to look up his name and there it was, blogs, a sorts of new channels and fan pages talking about him, you click on the tumblr link you see with his name in it.

roh jae-won published today at 19:34:

and though the rain has gone away,

the memory still chooses to stay,

of the girl who made the coffee shop

a place where time forgot to stop.

and there you were, sitting behind your phone screen with your eyebrows scrunched together wondering if that poem was about you.

ellie <3:

no way, cute coffee guy has a crush on the one and only y/n??

you laugh at the message your friend send you, but jae-won was probably at that same coffeeshop daily so you bet it was just coincidental.

꩜ .ᐟ————————————————————————

(english is not my first language so if you spot any mistakes my apologies xo)

[lostinlovingrevery]

Smooches

Old Man Logan X F! Reader

A/N: This is short and sweet, no plot, just Logan coming home to you and relaxing.

Plot: You brighten Logan's world

Warnings: None! It's pure fluff, a little making out w Lo

Word Count: 1372

Another day.

Another day of putting up with know-it-all assholes, holier than thou customers who looked down at him like he was scum of the Earth purely because he was a driver and not some fancy rich haughty taughty dumbass who gambles his kids college fund away and cheats on his wife with some showgirl 20 years younger than him. 

Another day of aches that riddled his body- a body that used to be indestructible, able to withstand bullets, knives, hell even a fucking nuclear explosion. Now, he has scars haunting his skin, pain that riddled his muscles and bones. Sitting in the driver seat for hours at the time, taking only the occasional smoke and piss break, does no help for the pain. 

Another day of his endless lifespan, some cruel joke of god to keep a man like him alive on this Earth. A man who’s caused suffering, and now endures it. 

He put the limo in park, leaning back in his seat, taking a deep breath, before moving to shut the car off. He turned and looked at the old plant he now calls home. 

An old metal monster, forgotten, like him. Only to remember what’s waiting inside.

Another day….of you.

The thought of you was enough to motivate him to get out of the limo. He shut the door behind him, pushing the lock on his key fob and limbered over to the door of the factory; pushing the door open and making his way to the elevator. He hated the factory, the smell of oil and metal was strong enough that it gave him a headache and make him nauseous the moment he stepped inside. The place was dark, empty, and it wasn’t the most welcoming sight on his old eyes. Once he reached the elevator, he pulled the gated door open, and stepped inside.

 His mood heightening a bit, as he heard soft music playing on the floor of your living area over the sounds of the elevator grinding and squeaking as the pulleys did it’s job. The scent of something warm and spicy cooking wafted to his nose, slowly replacing the scent of metal. Reaching the floor, he pulled the elevator door open, a loud clank! and whine eliciting from it, and he made his way down the hall to the small space you and him have formed to resemble something of an apartment. 

He opened the door into the space that had been crafted to resemble a living room, greeted with the delicious smell of a stir-fry, a vanilla candle lit somewhere in the room, and the scent of you nearby. A welcome change compared to the smell of rust and metal in the rest of the factory, that was slowly being forgotten as he stepped further into the inviting place.  

Mismatched furniture thrifted from various stores from a local town, some from your old apartment decorated the place. Bookshelves decorated one wall, lined with books that you pick up nearly every week and promise you'll read eventually. Large curtains pulled shut to hide the night sky from the room, and to protect the inside from the drafty windows. Multiple lamps, strewn around and plugged in, creating a warm atmosphere- better than the ceiling lights that reminded him of laboratories. Pictures, filled with loved ones from both you and Logan's past decorated walls, shelves, and tabletops. How you managed to get ahold of some of them- such as a group photo of the X-men taken about 3 years ago, he didn't know and didn't bother to question. Somehow, you managed to take a small section of an old factory, and turn it into you and Logans quiet slice of heaven.

Kicking off his shoes, and pulling off his jacket and button-up shirt, throwing them on a nearby table, leaving him in his slacks and a wife-beater tank top; he walked to the couch and sat down with a harsh groan, the couch bouncing and creaking from the weight of him being dropped onto the cushions. 

“Doll? I’m home.” He called out, his voice sounded gravelly and husky. The sound of your footsteps quickly approaching from the kitchen and you soon appeared in the doorway, looking like an angel the way the light illuminated around you.

Wearing only one of his shirts, you bounded over to him happily, a beaming smile across his face- enough to make all his worries fade, as if the mere presence of you removed the poisonous material of his bones that was slowly destroying his body. You didn’t hesitate to straddle his lap, arms stretched over his shoulders, as you pecked his lips-

One

Two

Three times!

He chuckled quietly at the kisses, but you weren’t down yet as you moved to kiss the tip of his nose, then each cheek, and then his forehead. His hands settled over your hips, closing his eyes with a faint smile barely visible due to his thick beard, as you began covering his face with soft kisses, your hands moved to cradle his jaw. You landed on his lips once more- this time he made sure to capture you in a real kiss, as you molded into him, his hands reaching to press into your back and press you against him as he soaked in every ounce of you. Your soft lips moved against his chapped, and your tongue came out, wetting across his bottom lip and begging for entrance. 

Who was he to deny you?

Your kisses turned soft to something messy, spit and soft moans escaping as you laid down your love on him, you started to grind your hips on him, and he groaned, his hands moving back down to cup your ass. You parted from him, your lips swollen and spit covered, and smiled cheekily. 

“Hi.” You greet. He exhaled and grinned. 

“Hi.” He responded, his eyes had softened at the sight of you, the tension in his body fading, and the day he has disappeared into the recesses of his mind. You ran your hand down his chest, over his torso and back up his body, onto his shoulders. 

“Your day?” You asked.

“Usual.” He answers. “You?”

“It was good. Charles had a good day today.” You brought you hands over the back of his neck, intertwining with his hair as you examined his handsome face. How can it be possible that someone looks so good all the time? “We played a few games of chess- he won every round of course. And we did a little gardening too. The African Violets we planted are finally starting to come in!”

He nodded, happily listening to you go on about your day. It was your weekend off from work, and you took care of Charles during these days to give Caliban a break. He always admired your ability to stay optimistic, to stay strong in the face of adversity. Today was a good day sure, but even on the rough days you still always manage to pluck the positive between the cracks. A quality of yours he hasn’t quite picked up for himself, but considering his age it shouldn’t be a surprise that he’s set in his ways. 

His thumb mindlessly rubbed circles into your hip, and your fingers softly tugged at the hair on the back of his neck. He loved these moments. These quiet moments when he could forget about the world and focus on you. 

“Logan?” 

“Hm?”

“Were you listening?” You pout. He chuckled. 

“Course I was doll. You made a new recipe?” 

You smiled, happy that he was indeed listening. “It’s a stir-fry. It’s all done, I think you’ll love it. Got your favorite stuff in it.” 

“It smells great baby.” He hums. “I think though, I wanna have some dessert before we have dinner.”

A small pout on your face, as you put your hands on your hips. “After all that work I put into dinner?” 

He chuckled. “It’ll be there when we’re done. Cmon baby, give me some sugar.” He purred, looking up at you with a sultry expression. 

Your will gave way, you could never turn him down- especially when he looked at you like he wanted to eat you alive.

[daryltwdixon]

Home for Christmas

Daryl x Reader fluff

Celebrating 500 followers

Thank you so much for supporting my work and taking the time to read what I create!!! Writing has been a passion of mine for years, but it’s something I hadn’t picked up again until recently—after nearly a decade away from it. To know that people not only read my stories but enjoy them means the absolute world to me.

This blog and the friends I've made has reminded me of how much I love creating these little worlds, and it’s all thanks to your kind words, encouragement, and enthusiasm. You’ve reignited a part of me I didn’t realize I missed so much.

Here’s to more stories, more inspiration, and the love of Daryl Dixon we all share. I’m so grateful for every single one of you. ❤️

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for making this such a special experience.

The fire crackles softly, filling the room with a warm glow that flickers across the walls, casting long, lazy shadows over the worn furniture and the threadbare rug underneath you. Outside, the cold wind whistles against the windows, causing them to rattle every so often. But here, inside the warmth of the house, it’s quiet, calm. The world beyond these walls feels distant, dulled by the flicker of flames and the steady rhythm of your breaths.

You’re nestled in Daryl’s lap, his back propped against the base of the couch. His arms are a comforting weight around you, holding you close. With your legs folded across his, you lean into him, your head tucked beneath his chin. His hands drift absently through your hair, his calloused fingers catching gently on the strands before smoothing them out again. The motion is slow, unthinking, and so tender and sweet.

Every so often, he leans forward, his lips brushing against your temple, then your cheek, and once—soft and lingering—against your nose. Each kiss feels deliberate, like he’s committing every line of you to memory.

The smell of pine lingers faintly in the room, mingling with the smoky tang of the fire. There's a small Christmas tree in the corner, decorated with scavenged ribbons and mismatched ornaments. It glows softly with the faint light of a string of battery-powered bulbs. It’s lopsided, leaning slightly to one side, but it’s yours. And something Daryl had done just for you.

“Yer warm,” he murmurs just now, the words barely audible, his arms tightening ever so slightly around your body.

You hum in response, shifting slightly to settle deeper into him. The sound of his steady breathing and the warmth of his arms around you is enough to make you feel weightless. Somewhere down the street, the faint noise of Deanna’s Christmas party drifts through the stillness, laughter and music carried by the cold wind. But it feels a world away.

“They still going at it, you think?” you ask softly. Your voice is low, teasing, your cheek pressing against his chest.

“Prolly,” he mutters, his lips brushing against the crown of your head. “Ain’t missin’ nothin’, though.”

“I hope Carol at least saves us some cookies,” you say playfully, “Unless they’ve already devoured everything.”

“She prolly stashed some somewhere. Knows they’ll tear through ‘em.” He huffs a soft laugh, the sound more like a quiet rumble in his chest. “I ain’t worried.”

You smile to yourself, savoring this— just the moment. There’s something about the warmth of his voice, the way his hands stay so steady and gentle even though his whole world has been rough edges. His hands continue their stroking of your locks, and it feels like something precious, something you don’t want to let go of.

After a beat of silence, you shift slightly in his lap, angling your head to glance up at him. “Hey,” you murmur, a mischievous smile curling at the edges of your lips. “I’ve got something for you.”

Daryl tilts his head, his brow furrowing as he looks down at you. “What?”

“A Christmas gift,” you say, pulling a small, clumsily wrapped bundle from the pocket of your sweater. “Surprise.”

He frowns, his eyes darting to the package and then back to you. “Don’t need nothin’.”

“Well, too bad,” you say lightly, placing it in his hands. “You’re getting it anyway.”

He exhales sharply, but the way his fingers curl carefully around the gift betrays his curiosity. He peels back the paper slowly, methodical as always, and when he finally reveals the knife nestled inside, his breath catches. It’s one you made, though not entirely on your own—Rosita's talent for knowing how to disassemble an old, ugly knife and reassemble it onto a new handle had been invaluable.

But the handle itself, that was yours. Weeks of carving, sanding, and perfecting the grip until it fit in your hand like it belonged there. You’d smoothed out the wood until it was free of every imperfection, careful and precise as you could be. The laminate had been the hardest part to find—an essential finish to make it usable without risking splinters. Now, dark and polished, the handle feels solid, complete.

A single word is carved into the side: Always. The letters are uneven, the depth of each line a little shaky. You’d whispered that word to one another in quieter moments, a promise exchanged in place of three others meant only for the two of you.

Daryl stares at it for a long moment, his thumb brushing over the word. “You did this?” he asks quietly, his voice thick in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly shy. “Figured it might… y’know, come in handy.”

His lips twitch, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through the seriousness on his face. “S’perfect.”

“Even though the ‘A’ is a little lopsided?” you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

“That part’s perfect too,” he mutters, his fingers tightening around the handle. He lifts his gaze to meet yours, and there’s something soft and unguarded in his eyes. “Thank you. It… it means a lot’. Even with yer messy writin,”

You swallow the lump in your throat, smiling and leaning into him. “Good. ‘Cause you mean a lot."

He lets out a breath, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. “Love ya, hunny,” he mumbles, before pressing his lips against yours in a tenderness that leaves your heart aching.

You hum in response against him, leaning close and gripping his shirt in your hands. When he pulls away, his lips press into a thin line, his brow furrowing. “I, uh…” He shifts slightly, reaching behind him and pulling a small bundle out of the pocket of his jacket. “Found these for ya. Thought ‘bout just givin’ ya coal, but…” He chuckles, his eyes flicking to yours. “Figured this’d solve the problem instead.”

You take the bundle from him, unwrapping it carefully, and laugh softly when you see the thick, fleece lined leather gloves inside. They’re soft and warm, clearly picked with care.

“Fer when yer freezin’ yer damn hands off,” he says gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck. “And stickin’ ‘em under my shirt.”

You laugh, slipping one of the gloves on and wiggling your fingers. “They’re perfect. Way better than coal.”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe now you’ll stop tryna freeze me t’death and I won’t have to consider it fer next year,”

“Maybe,” you tease, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. “But I sure do love the face you make when I do it.”

He huffs, though his ears tint pink, and his arms tighten around you, pulling you closer. The fire crackles on, the warmth wrapping around you like a blanket, but it’s his lips, soft and lingering against your temple, that make you feel truly safe. He pauses for a moment, then presses another kiss to the crown of your head, his hands smoothing over your back.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The fire pops softly in the hearth, its light still casting everything into golden light. His thumb brushes absentmindedly along your back, and you find yourself marveling at how something so simple, so quiet, can feel like the most profound thing in the world.

You shift again, your hand rubbing along his sweater clad forearm as you tilt your head to look up at him, your voice barely above a whisper. “Merry Christmas, Daryl.”

His hand slides up to cup your jaw, fingers gentle as his eyes search your face with a gentleness only found in these sorts of moments. In the quiet, with just the two of you.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs, leaning in to press his mouth to yours, and for the first time in a long, long time, everything feels right.

[watchmegetobsessed]

TROPHY WIFE

A/N: it's been quite like a drought with me, i know, but writing just didn't come easy to me lately. but i finally felt inspired to write and this is the outcome so enjoy!

PAIRING: CEO!older!Harry x Reader

WORD COUNT: 2.6k

SUMMARY: You're not what one would expect a CEO's girlfriend to be like. You're not like all those trophy wives. But does it bother Harry? That with you it's not yachts and fancy drinks and modern luxury, just wildflowers, mismatched furniture and shared finances.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

There’s nothing better than waking up next to Harry.

Okay, there are some levels in that as well, because you truly love it when he is cuddling you and peppering your shoulder with kisses, being a total sweetheart, but there is just something even better when he wakes up needy so he ends up fucking you so well first thing in the morning that you keep thinking about it the whole day.

Today it’s the latter and you’re so glad about that. Tangled in the sheets, sweaty and eager to get more and more from each other, you just keep moaning his name until relief washes over you and it’s not even seven in the morning.

“I love you. So… so… so much,” he murmurs against your lips as he pulls you into his arms.

“I love you too,” you smirk and he just keeps kissing you.

When you first met Harry three years ago you would have never thought this is how you’d spend your mornings with him one day. He’s ten years older than you and it was a typical ‘he fell first’ situation where you tried to deny your feelings for him for as long as possible.

You thought you were as far apart as the poles, Harry was, and still is, a millionaire CEO, a true business man, living a life you could only dream about before. You, on the other hand, just finished your master’s degree back then and started working for a marketing agency that was linked with Harry’s company. You still remember the moment you laid your eyes on him, he was already looking at you with an expression that had your stomach in a knot.

He asked you out that day, not wasting any time and you said no. You said no exactly thirteen times before finally giving in and going on a date with him and you never let go of each other since then.

Now you live together and even though people tend to think that you just want to be his trophy wife and use him for his money, they can’t be more wrong. You still have your own job, you fight Harry to pay for groceries every other time and you tell him off every time he tries to give you money for nothing.

You’re equal and you never plan to use yourself just because you’re dating Harry.

He is still wrapped around you like a koala bear when you check the time and realize you better start get ready or you won’t make it to work on time.

“Uh, I need to get up,” you groan and just laugh when you feel him holding you even tighter. “Harry!”

“I want to hold you a bit more!” he whines like a child.

“I have work!”

Finally, your manage to peel him off of you and head over to the bathroom, feeling his pleased look as he follows you walk around naked. You like to tease him and all him a creep, but you both know you love it how obsessed he is with you even when you’re your truly natural self.

You’re standing in front of the bathroom mirror in your robe when he saunters into the room and leaning against the tiled wall he watches you apply your mascara in awe.

“You didn’t forget about tonight, right?” he asks, his eyes wandering down your body before returning to your face.

“Nope, fancy cocktails with your fancy friends.” You give him a teasing smirk.

“And you’ll have to wear a fancy dress,” he adds.

“I know.”

“I got you one, by the way.”

“Harry, you know you don—“

“I know I don’t have to buy you shit, but you also know I love spoiling you sometimes. The dress will be in your closet when you get home,” he states, all bossy and confident and you feel the tingles in your tummy from this side of him. It’s not often he uses his dominance on you outside of the bedroom, but whenever he does, it’s always the right amount to make you weak for him.

He pushes away from the wall and walking behind you he presses a kiss to the back of your head before walking towards the door.

“I have a last minute meeting, but I will be here to pick you up at seven.” And with that he walks out.

You leave from work early to get ready for the evening. Luckily, your work is pretty flexible and it allows you to work your schedule around the social events Harry asks you out to every once in a while.

It’s not often, though. You never talked about it, but it’s like both of you knows it’s not your favorite way to spend time together. Truth is, you don’t quite fit into the circles Harry runs in. You’re not talking about his close friends, they are amazing, Sarah and Mitch are wonderful people and you’d jump to have a double date with them anytime for example. It’s the outer circle, the people Harry doesn’t necessarily consider his friends, but he makes his rounds with them every once in a while to keep up a somewhat positive relationship with them, because they are loosely also business connections and he needs them.

Tonight is one of these events, some kind of fancy rooftop party for whatever occasion where the men are smoking cigars and drink expensive bourbon while the women look good, sip on their cocktails and gossip for hours. It’s not quite your setting, but it’s not that painful every once in a while.

When you arrive home you quickly get ready, gather your hair in a sleek bun, touch up your makeup and then walk into your closet to find an elegant black dress hanging there, waiting for you to put it on.

Harry knows your taste well, it’s not over the top, but the open back and high slit brings just enough spice to the look. You pair it with the diamond earrings he got you for your latest anniversary and when you look in the mirror you feel like a boujie, quite hot version of yourself, just what you need for tonight.

At 6:57 Harry texts you.

HARRY: You ready? I’m waiting for you.

Y/N: Be there in a minute.

You slip on your heels, grab your purse and then make your way downstairs. As you’re walking across the hall you already see Harry standing by his car, waiting for you with a huge bouquet of flowers.

All wildflowers.

You’re all smiles when you step outside and approach him.

“You look amazing, baby,” he smiles as he gathers you in one arm, pulling you in for a kiss.

“Need to look fine for my man,” you chuckles, patting his chest and running your hands down the lapels of his chic suit.

“This is for you,” he hands you the bouquet and you can finally have a better look at the colorful flowers.

It’s been an ongoing thing between the two of you, Harry has never given you any roses. After your very first date he just knew you weren’t the kind who wants the expensive rose boxes women beg their partners for. You’re different, unique and he knew you appreciate the beauty in things others might consider not fitting. Wildflowers are not quite what women who are dating a millionaire want, but it’s definitely what brings you joy.

“It’s beautiful, thank you,” you smile up at him and steal another kiss before he opens the car door for you and helps you into the passenger seat.

The event is what you expected, what you always expect. You make your rounds with Harry, he keeps a hand on your waist at all times, always making sure you’re alright, you have something to drink and he keeps asking if you’re cold, but it’s a warm late summer evening, so he has nothing to worry about.

At one point you part ways, it’s how it always goes, the men gather and the women form their circle as well.

“I swear, I was ready to jump off that boat and swim to the shore!” Riah, one of the wives gestures wildly as she tells a story about their latest trip to Italy, making everyone laugh.

The boat here means their luxury yacht and the reason why she wanted to leave was because they ran out of her favorite champagne. Relatable, right?

“Anyway, it was nice, we’re going on another trip next month. Y/N, wouldn’t you and Harry want to come with us?” she asks, putting you into the spotlight.

“Oh, um… I can’t really just go on a vacation on such a short notice. We usually put in our days off about two months in advance.”

The looks you get are worth a million dollars, truly. There’s confusion, pity, they obviously don’t understand why you’re working when you have Harry. They are all typical trophy wives, they spend their days shopping, going to the spa, spending the money they didn’t earn.

You don’t judge them, everyone gets to live their life the way they want, but they do judge you and that’s what irks you.

“Ah, I see,” Riah forces a smile to her face. “Well, next time… let’s plan it out like a year ahead.”

You notice the edge in her words but choose not to call her out and just nod in agreement.

“Hey, want to grab another drink?” Noora suggests you, saving you from the conversation that flows to the upcoming Fashion Week, something you will probably no attend.

Noora is the only person you get along well in this circle. She is a lot like the other women, she doesn’t work and she is definitely kept by her husband, but she is not blatantly ignorant towards people who are different from her.

“Don’t listen to Riah, she’s been a bit mouthy since she found out her cousin’s wedding cost more than hers.”

You can’t help but smile at her comment as the two of you walk up to the bar.

“I don’t know why they are always so shocked by my answers, I’ve been around for a while now and they still don’t understand me.”

“Because they don’t want to. They are happy in their little bubble,” Noora shrugs. “Just let it go. It’s not worth getting upset, you’ll just have to get through these nights.”

Nodding you let her bring something else up to talk about, but as your gaze wanders over to Harry your thoughts continue to swirl around.

He used to go on these random vacations all the time, before he started dating you he ran in these circles a lot more often, you know for a fact he went sailing to Italy at least five times a year and those weren’t considered vacations, he spent months away in Thailand, Dubai and in all corners of Europe.

It’s not like you don’t travel. You do and you love it too, but you’re also working and it doesn’t let you take two weeks off every other month. You’ve had plenty of adventures together, but you planned them all ahead and you also insisted sharing at least part of the cost. Your job pays well, but not ‘spend a month cruising on a yacht on the Adriatic Sea’ well.

Is it possible Harry misses it? That he wants you to be like these women? Free and ready to get on a private jet anytime he wants to drink his morning coffee by the Eiffel Tower? Does he want you to be his trophy wife?

His sixth sense is on, his eyes find you as you’re drowning deep in your thoughts and he shoots you a soft smile, mouthing: “You alright?”

You force a smile on your face and just nod, but you know it didn’t convince him at all, however this is not the time and place to have this discussion.

As the night carries on you just keep adding to your list of things that could possibly be an inconvenience for Harry.

Your job, wanting to be somewhat financially independent, your lack of enthusiasm for the social conformities that women in these circles are held against…

Arriving back home the feeling just intensifies, looking around the penthouse you notice how much it has changed since you’ve moved in. Before it was all modern luxury, precisely decorated, something out of an interior design magazine.

Half of the furniture has been changes, there are second hand pieces, little nick-nacks all around the place, a lot more colors and a lot less modernity.

Walking into your closet you step out of your heels and pull off your dress when Harry appears.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks. He doesn’t question if there’s something to talk about, he knows there is, because he knows you so well.

You take a few moments to think about how to put it all into words. Grabbing a big shirt you pull it on before turning to face Harry.

“Do you… Do you want me to be your trophy wife?”

Pure confusion takes over his handsome face as his eyebrows shoot up.

“Explain this a bit more to me, baby,” he asks as he casually walks closer. You know he wants to touch you, pull you into his arms, but he wants to give you space to voice your thoughts, so he just gently runs his knuckles down the side of your face.

“Does it ever bother you that I’m not like those wives?”

“In what way do you think you should be like them?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.

“It’s just… We don’t go on random yacht cruises, our home has mismatched furniture because I didn’t want to get rid of some of my stuff, I’m not… I don’t stay home, I have a job that I don’t want to give up… Do you want me to be more like them?”

He finally understands what this is about.

Takin your hand he pulls you out of the closet and sits on the edge of the bed, tugging you until you’re sitting on his lap, your knees on either sides of him. His hands rest on your naked thigh, soothingly running up and down as he looks you in the eyes.

“Baby, all I want is you. The way you are. No changes.”

The first wave of relief washes over you and then he continues.

“Do I want to travel the world as much as possible? Of course, but I also love that you want to work and build your own career, I love how ambitious you are and I wouldn’t want you to give it up just so we can go on yacht cruises every weekend,” he chuckles softly. With a sheepish smile you place your hands to his chest, feeling the heat radiating through his dress shirt underneath your palms.

“I love our home, I love the mismatched furniture, it’s a piece of you merged into a piece of me. I don’t want you to stay at home. Or I do, but only if that’s what you want to do. I want you to be happy. Are you?”

“I am,” you nod without hesitation.

“Then I’m happy too. I love you and I do want you to be my wife. The trophy part? Not so much.”

Now it feels silly you even thought about all of this. Harry never gave you a reason to believe he wants something different, you shouldn’t have let yourself be fooled.

“I love you too,” you smile at him before leaning in to kiss his soft lips. “And I love our life,” you mumble after several kisses.

“I love it too. The wildflowers, the secondhand furniture, our fights every time I try to pay for something,” he grins at you, hi army caging you into his embrace as he pulls you tight against him. “I love every unique piece of you and of us.”

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!