BATCOMPUTER FICTION

The wood groaned and splintered slightly under his white-knuckled grip, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You couldn’t hear it; you couldn’t see. All that existed was the heavy weight pinning your body down, the crushing warmth between your breasts, and the slick, relentless slide of Valko’s cock, sliding between them. Each desperate thrust brushed the leaking tip right against your parted lips. He straddled your stomach, hovering just enough to control the agonisingly slow pace before driving down hard once more.

Your hands throbbed with a dull ache from squeezing your breasts together, straining to make the channel as narrow and tight as possible. You knew exactly how much he craved the restriction. Precum slicked your skin, painting your chest, pooling at your collarbones, and smearing all the way up to your neck. He was relentless, driven by a desperate edge, his deep grunts mixing with breathless whimpers as his hips thrust roughly against you. The sheer volume of wetness was obscene, making his length slide with effortless ease and causing his eyes to roll back in pleasure. Beads of sweat rolled down his temples, dampening the short crops of his burgundy hair from the intense exertion.

It had started the way it always did, with the two of you tangled on the couch the moment he walked through the door from work. He still had his glasses on when you decided to turn up the heat. Valko was completely powerless against you. It was a warm, sunny afternoon, and you’d been walking around in a tight camisole that pushed your breasts up without any effort at all. He worshipped every single inch of your body, but that specific view? It had him twitching in his trousers instantly.

Which was exactly how you’d ended up here: pinned to the mattress, your boyfriend straddling your torso and fucking your tits. A perfectly ruined, utterly flawless evening.

“Val…” you whimpered softly, eyes rolling back.

Your lips parted a little, and the blunt head of his length slid in, stopping right before your teeth. The deep, vibrating moan that tore from his throat made your entire body buzz. You were aching just as intensely, heat dripping down your thighs while your pussy clenched helplessly around empty space.

“A bit more, pup. You can take it,” he rasped, looking down at you. The usual gold of his eyes had burned down to a dark, heavy amber, his pupils completely blown out. “Awh, do your hands hurt? It’s okay, just a little longer,” he cooed reassuringly, while your whole body shook from the rough, trembling rhythm of his hips.

His tail swooped down, brushing lazily across your bare thighs. You whimpered at the sensation, goosebumps erupting instantly as the soft fur rippled against your sensitised skin. He continued to slide in and out of the tight space you held for him, his balls tightening painfully as the friction pushed him closer to the edge.

“Pup… fuck… oh— babe…” he groaned desperately, his abdominal muscles locking up. Truth be told, and he really didn't want to fight it anyway, the overwhelming crest of his orgasm completely shattered his control.

A low howl tore from his chest, echoing through the bedroom and probably across all of Linkon, as he shot his load across your chest and face. Thick, burning-hot ropes of cum splattered against your skin. You gasped, squeezing your eyes tightly shut to avoid the risk of another eye infection. The heavy warmth spilled everywhere while he rode out the peak of the high, finally slumping forward until his head rested heavily against the wall above the headboard.

“My pup… look at you,” he whispered a long moment later. His eyes fluttered open, tracking down to look at you with a crooked, exhausted smile as he panted for breath.

His fingers reached down, tracing the contour of your face to smear a few stray drops across your skin. You never minded the mess; you always took it perfectly, entirely content with how completely he used you. Covered in his cum, you looked like a masterpiece. And looking down at you now, he already couldn't wait to stuff you full of it next.

A song drifted out from the little radio by the window, low and familiar. You didn’t notice Conrad’s footsteps before you felt him. You never needed to. He was simply there—an orbit you’d learned to trust, a presence as steady as breath. Warm hands slid around your waist, his nose brushing into the curve of your neck. A smile bloomed on your lips even before his did, even before you felt the soft graze of his mouth on your skin.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” he murmured, voice muffled against your neck.

The words loosened something inside you. You set the mug in your hand down carefully, as though the simple act deserved reverence.

“I know. Me neither. It feels like forever since we spent nights in the same place.”

And it had. Four years without his warmth had been too many. The rare meetings, scattered like compass points across the seasons, never enough to fill the distance. Each one too brief, too sharp with the ache of goodbye.

But this—this was different. This was a beginning.

“Come on, take a break,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin, making you shiver.

He tugged you back, gentle but insistent, and you let yourself yield. Step by step, you moved with him until the couch caught you both, laughter breaking soft between you. Sunlight spilled across his face, gilding his hair, setting his eyes alight. That impossible sea-color—green at the center, deepening toward the edge—pulled you in, made the world around you blur.

You reached up, brushing his hair back from his forehead. He caught your wrist halfway, turning your hand so he could press a slow kiss to the inside of it. The kind of kiss that didn’t just touch skin but sank deeper, grounding you.

Your sigh was quiet, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he said, his voice low, stripped of anything but truth.

“I’ve missed you too,” you whispered back, your body already leaning closer, legs curling over his lap as though they belonged there.

It had been only a month since the pieces fell back into place, since you finally drew a full breath without the ache of what-if. In that month, you had kissed, laughed, tangled together in the night, stitching time back into the shape it should have been. Almost whole. Almost healed.

And for the first time in years, the future didn’t feel like a question mark. It felt like a promise.

You caught the flicker in his eyes again, that hunger he tried to bury under patience. He’d been careful with you, letting you steer this fragile, rekindled rhythm. For that, you’d been grateful. But now—now you were done waiting.

A hum slipped from your throat as his lips wandered down your forearm, each brush lighting up your nerves. Your eyes fluttered shut, and the past came rushing in—nights tangled up under unfamiliar stars, the smoky crackle of the Cousins bonfire, his touch clumsy but tender because you were both so impossibly young. Children playing at forever. He had been even younger in spirit than you, a boy trying to fit into the shape of a man. And yet, even then, it had felt perfect.

Your eyes opened when his lips stilled. The decision had been in you for a while, curled up and waiting for the right moment. Now, with the last boxes nearly emptied and sunlight painting your bare shoulders in the heat of California, it felt right. Thank god for the sundress. Thank god for the warmth pressing through the windows.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, and the way his pupils darkened in response made your pulse stutter. You meant it. Every syllable.

“Are you sure?” His voice was low, careful, even as his hand found your waist and guided you closer. The question was a tether, his restraint hanging by a thread.

You shifted willingly, settling onto his lap, knees bracketing him as though you’d belonged there all along. Your arms looped around his neck, fingers tangling in the back of his hair.

“I’m sure.”

That was all it took. His mouth claimed yours in a rush, urgent and starved, the sound of your gasp swallowed between you. You clung to him, kissing back with the same desperation, the dam of four years breaking all at once. This past month had been a slow burn of almosts, but the fire finally caught, and it consumed you both.

His hands roamed—your sides, your back, your hips—like he needed to relearn you by touch alone, as though sight wasn’t enough. Each caress left you breathless, aching for more. You opened to him, lips parting, and his tongue met yours in a tangle that pulled a moan from your throat.

His grip tightened, palms firm at your hips, rocking you against him. Even through denim, you felt the sharp answer of his body, undeniable and heady. The kiss deepened, fierce and tender all at once, your heart thrumming in your chest like it might break through.

It wasn’t just hunger. It was years of missing, of imagining, of longing pressed into skin and bone. Every movement whispered I missed you. Every touch said I can’t lose you again.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he rasped, the words spilling hot against your lips before his mouth wandered down, grazing your jaw, your throat. You pushed your hair aside with shaky fingers, tilting your head to bare yourself to him.

A sharp whimper broke free when his teeth caught at your skin, pleasure tangled with the faint sting. Your hips jerked instinctively against his, the friction sparking heat low in your stomach. Every second left you wetter, needier, your body begging before your voice could.

“Conrad—” his name tumbled out in a gasp, fractured by the path of his mouth. His hands were restless, worshipful, claiming every inch of you while his lips found the neckline of your sundress. His tongue traced fire over your collarbone, and you felt your pulse stutter.

“You have no idea how hard it was to hold back,” he muttered, voice shredded with restraint, even as his fingers slipped beneath the hem of your dress.

He gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking higher and higher, the heat of his touch almost unbearable. “All this month… all I could do was think about this.”

A shiver racked you as his hand finally found the thin lace between your legs. He pressed against your heat and you arched into him, a desperate sound escaping your throat. He smiled against your skin, and then—slowly, deliberately—pushed the fabric aside.

The first touch of his thumb against your clit tore a cry from your lips. He slid lower, gathering the slickness there, and his breath hitched audibly.

“Jesus Christ… you’re soaked,” he groaned, lifting his gaze to you. Hunger burned in his eyes, but so did something softer—affection, awe, the weight of every moment you’d both lost.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice trembling but certain as your eyes met his.

But you didn’t need to beg. He gave without hesitation. His fingers pressed into you, stretching you, and the sharp burn of it pulled a moan straight from your chest. Your walls clenched around him, greedy, already aching for more.

His free hand anchored you at the hip as you moved instinctively, grinding down on his hand. Wet sounds filled the space between your moans, the room heavy with the pulse of your need.

“That’s it,” he whispered, watching you unravel above him. His voice was low, reverent. “Look at you.”

His eyes never left you, drinking in every flicker of pleasure that crossed your face, every desperate roll of your hips. He reeled in it, the sight of you undone in his lap, knowing it was him—always him—who could make you feel this way.

“This is mine,” he murmured, fingers curling deep inside you. “You’re mine.”

“God, you’re perfect,” he rasped, the words roughened by desire. “Look at you, sweetheart. Riding my fingers so good. You’re perfect.” His mouth returned to your neck, teeth grazing the skin as if to prove the point.

Then his fingers curled—just so—and your breath caught, your body going taut. The coil inside you drew tighter, hips chasing release with frantic precision. You were right there, ready to shatter—until a whine slipped free as he pulled his hand away.

Your eyes flew open, chest heaving, frustration painted across your face. Cheeks flushed, lips swollen from his kisses, you stared down at him in disbelief.

“Connie—” the protest broke in your throat, need sharp in your voice.

But you didn’t get the chance to finish. With a swift motion, he flipped you, pressing you down against the couch cushions. Your stomach hit the soft fabric, his weight a presence above you.

“As much as I love touching you like this,” he growled, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “there is no way in hell I’m making you come for the first time in four years without being inside you.”

Another needy sound spilled from you, muffled by the couch. Pillows tumbled to the floor as he made room, his hands slipping beneath you, lifting your hips until you were trembling and open for him. Your fingers clutched the armrest, knuckles whitening, your breath uneven.

Then—the pause. The rustle of denim. The metallic click of a belt buckle undone, the slow rasp of a zipper lowering. Each sound made your pulse race harder, the anticipation unbearable.

You whimpered as he spread your legs, his body settling behind yours. Heat radiated off him, and then—sweet, devastating torture—his thick length slid between your cheeks, dragging slowly. He was hard, throbbing, every movement sending sparks skittering up your spine.

You could feel how much he ached, how badly he wanted this—wanted you. His tip pressed at your entrance, teasing, smearing himself with your arousal, and you keened at the sensation.

Words abandoned you. All that was left was sound: gasps, whimpers, the sharp little mewls that betrayed how desperate you were. Your body quivered with the tension of waiting, the edge of it almost painful.

And still, he lingered there, right at the brink, like he needed one more second to take you in—needed to savor the truth of having you like this again.

“Fuck, you already feel so good,” he groaned, voice breaking on the words. One hand anchored on your hip, the other stroked himself a few more times before he pushed in, burying himself inside you in one swift, devastating motion.

Your moan tangled with his, sharp and helpless, as your walls clamped down around him. The stretch was maddening, almost too much after so long, and yet not enough all at once.

He stilled for only a beat, just long enough for you to adjust, before pulling nearly all the way out and slamming back in—hard.

Your cries filled the room, raw and echoing, as he set a brutal rhythm. His grip on your hips was iron, fingers digging deep enough you knew the marks would linger.

Every thrust drove you forward into the couch, the sound of skin on skin reverberating through the quiet apartment, underscored by his ragged grunts.

“Fuck,” he rasped, leaning over you now, his chest pressing to your back, his breath hot against your ear.

One of his hands slid forward, trapping yours against the armrest, holding you as though letting go wasn’t an option. His hips slammed into you with relentless force, shaking through your bones.

“No one—” his voice cracked, fierce and almost broken—“no one will ever have you like this again. You understand?”

You could only moan in answer, too far gone, your body giving him everything without hesitation.

“I’ll give you the fucking moon itself,” he growled, each word punctuated with another deep, punishing thrust. “If that’s what it takes to keep you here.”

The angle shifted and you shattered against him, toes curling as he hit that spot inside you over and over, your vision blurring with tears. The coil inside your belly tightened mercilessly, pulling you higher and higher. He felt it too, in the desperate way you pushed back onto him, in the way your hand clutched his with near-painful force.

“So fucking tight,” he groaned, hips driving harder, deeper. “So fucking wet.” Another thrust, harder still. “And so fucking perfect. All mine. Always been mine.”

His free hand snaked down between you, fingers finding your clit without hesitation. He circled it in sync with the punishing pace of his hips, rubbing you exactly how you needed. The sharp clash of pleasure was overwhelming—too much and not enough all at once.

Your back arched, hair sticking to your damp skin, every nerve in your body alight. You were right there, teetering on the edge, your cries unraveling into desperate sobs of pleasure as he pushed you closer, closer—

“Conrad—I can’t—” you choked out, your voice breaking, and he groaned low in your ear, the sound vibrating through you.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough but steady, his lips brushing your temple. “Don’t hold back, sweetheart. Don’t hold back. I’ve got you.”

Your whines grew louder, climbing higher, until they were almost sobs. His teeth sank into your shoulder, a sharp sting lost beneath the firestorm of pleasure.

His hips snapped against yours, every thrust harder, deeper, more desperate. You could feel him trembling behind you, teetering close to his own edge, but he held himself back with sheer will. He wouldn’t let go until you did.

“C’mon, sweetheart…” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear. “Be good for me. You’re gonna come for me, yeah?”

You cried out in answer, your body begging before your mouth could.

“Go ahead,” he urged, voice wrecked but commanding. “I want you to make a mess all over me.”

That was enough. His words sank deep, mixing with the relentless thrusts of his hips, and suddenly you were breaking apart. His name tore from your throat over and over, each syllable ripped raw as the orgasm crashed through you.

It hit like a tsunami—sharp, merciless, overwhelming. Your whole body shook under him, your walls clenching and pulsing as release drenched him. The rush left you undone, trembling, your face pressed into the cushions as you sobbed his name.

His grunt followed, guttural and broken, hips slamming in ragged rhythm until the dam inside him burst. He spilled into you with a shudder, his warmth flooding your walls as he groaned your name like a prayer. He thrust a few more times, sloppy and desperate, before finally stilling, buried deep.

The room was filled with the sound of your panting, the heavy crash of your breathing as the world stilled around you. He slumped against your back, pinning you down, but neither of you minded.

His lips pressed soft, reverent kisses over the bite mark he’d left on your shoulder. One of his hands stroked down your arm, the other smoothing over your side as though to soothe the aftershocks quaking through you.

Minutes blurred together, lazy and warm.

“Moving in never seemed this enjoyable before,” you muttered breathlessly, cheek pressed to the couch.

He laughed, the sound husky and alive, vibrating against your skin.

And you realized how much you’d missed that sound—missed him—missed the way joy could be so simple. All you wanted, from this moment forward, was to be the reason he laughed like that. Not just today, not just for the next sixteen years, but for every year after. Always.

╭┈┈┈┈┈┈╯ 𓆉 𓇼 ╰┈┈┈┈┈┈╮

A/N: New Tide is wrapped up! Thank you to everybody who enjoyed Oceans! We hit over 1k under the chapters, and I’m beyond words. Now, I do have planned a couple of past chapters just to give you insight into the breakup and the four years between that led to Oceans. Also!!! What the hell was that finale😭 I am SO writing the taxi and staircase smut, just you wait

You always felt him before he spoke. Sirius—leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, his grin softened into something that existed only for you. He hadn’t needed to announce himself; his presence was enough. He crossed the room slowly, unhurried, and lowered himself beside you without asking permission. His fingers brushed against yours, light as a question.

And you didn’t flinch.

He was the only one you ever let touch you. The only one who quieted the storm in your head instead of feeding it. Slowly, you shifted until your head rested against his shoulder, and the warmth of him settled through your bones. He said nothing. He never needed to. You spoke in a language built from silences and half-remembered moments—an unspoken understanding that belonged to no one else but the two of you.

You weren’t sure what you were to each other. But you had always been something. Everything.

“Sorry I was gone all day,” you whispered at last, your voice thin, hesitant, almost brittle. You hadn’t shown up for meals, hadn’t appeared in any of the classes you were meant to share. This was the first time he had seen you since last night.

You were curled up, legs crossed, your braid falling loosely over one shoulder. You were wrapped in one of his crewnecks—the burgundy one, heavy and soft, with Gryffindor embroidered boldly in gold across the chest.

Sirius leaned his head against the cool glass of the window beside you, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. He liked when you wore his clothes, though he would never admit it aloud.

“Where were you, darling?” he asked idly, reaching over to catch the end of your braid between his fingers and giving it a gentle tug.

“Nowhere, really,” you murmured, your voice so quiet it almost disappeared into the crackle of the fire. “Black Lake. The library. The Astronomy Tower,” you listed them off with a small shrug. “Anywhere people weren’t.” A sigh slipped from your lips. “I just… needed some time to clear my head.”

Your gaze drifted back out the window, following the trail of raindrops as they raced one another down the glass.

His fingers stilled against your braid, and when you glanced sideways, his grey eyes were softer now, shadowed with a kind of knowing. He watched the rain slide down the window like tears that weren’t yours. He understood that need—the pull toward silence, the hunger for spaces where no one looked at you as if you might shatter.

“Didn’t clear it enough,” he murmured, his voice low and rough at the edges. “Or you wouldn’t still be wearing my jumper like armour.”

He shifted closer, his arm slipping easily around your shoulders, drawing you against him until you were small and tucked beneath his frame—fitting there as though you had been made to. You didn’t resist. You never did.

“Next time,” he said softly into your hair, “take me with you.”

“Maybe I just like wearing your clothes,” you answered quietly, eyes still following the rain.

You lifted your hand, pressing your fingertips to the cool glass, tracing the lines of water that blurred the outside world. There was something calming about it; about touching what could never be held.

His scent surrounded you—smoke and leather, threaded with something you couldn’t quite name. Something uniquely his. Something like rain. You liked rain.

“You always smelled like it,” you murmured with a faint smile. “Like rain… and maybe the ocean?” You frowned a little at your own words. Both were water, both familiar, and yet their scents were entirely different.

And somehow, he carried both.

He laughed—low, warm, the sound rumbling against you like a purr.

“Ocean, ma petite étoile?” he teased in French, the words melting off his tongue before he switched back, his lips grazing your temple as though punctuation to the joke. “That’s just me smuggling seashells to you again. You never notice.”

He tugged the sleeve of his jumper further down until it swallowed your small hand, then brushed his thumb slowly across your knuckles. The touch lingered, patient and steady, like a vow disguised as something casual.

“You wear my clothes like they’re yours,” he murmured, quieter now, his voice dipping lower in the hush of the tower. “Which they are. Every damn thing I have is yours.”

His storm-grey eyes flicked to the window, where your blurred reflections stared back through the rainy glass—your frame wrapped in red fabric, his arm anchoring you to him as if he could tether you against the world itself.

“And if rain’s what I smell like? Good.” A smirk ghosted across his lips. “Means I match you better than your own house ever could.”

“You always match me better than anything,” you replied softly, leaning into his touch as though it were the most natural place in the world for you to be.

This—this calm, this quiet, this stillness—it was yours. Him. You. Together. Your safe space.

He might smell like rain, but you carried lavender and honey with you, always. The tea that coaxed you into sleep, laced sometimes with a whisper of jasmine. A floral warmth, never overwhelming, just soft enough to catch him off guard in the smallest moments—when you leaned over to grab your book, when you tied your hair up, when you brushed past him in the corridor.

His breath hitched, subtle but real, as if your very presence pressed its palm against his heartbeat.

“Merlin…” he muttered, his voice rougher now, darker, like gravel softened at the edges. “You say things like that and I forget how not to fall apart for you.”

He buried his face in your hair, inhaling slow—lavender, honey, jasmine. It filled his lungs, curled through him, stilling the noise that always lived in the back of his mind. You’d always done that.

“You’re in my head at the worst times,” he confessed in a whisper, words brushing the shell of your ear. “When I’m hexing Slytherin prefects or nicking James’s firewhiskey—you appear. Smelling like tea and trouble.” A pause. Then the curve of his smile against your scalp. “And then I have to stop being an arsehole for five minutes just to breathe.”

He shifted, pulling you tighter against him until you were folded fully into his chest, as though he feared the rain might wash you away.

“You’re my silencing charm,” he whispered. The kind of truth that belonged only to moments like this, when the rain could hold it without ever breaking it apart.

You smiled at that. You’d seen him hex those Slytherin prefects more times than you cared to admit, but you never interfered. It wasn’t your battle. You were always the bridge—between Gryffindors and Slytherins, between war and peace, his friends and yours. Just a small pocket of stillness wherever you could make it.

“Your… silencing charm?” you asked softly, tilting your face up toward him, lashes brushing shadows against your cheeks.

Your eyes met his, and your gentle smile deepened. There was something about the way you fit together—it never felt forced. It never had.

“Like a calming spell?” you teased, a grin tugging faintly at your pink lips.

He pulled back just slightly, enough to look at you properly, his storm-grey eyes mapping every curve of your face—the slope of your nose, the constellation of freckles dusted across honey-soft skin, the softness written into every line of you.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind your shoulder with a tenderness that settled into the quiet like it had always belonged.

“Worse,” he murmured, though the grin that formed contradicted the word. His chuckle deepened when you narrowed your eyes at him. “Better. You’re a spell I never want an antidote for.”

He bent closer, lips tracing the line of your jaw, then ghosting the corner of your mouth.

“You’re my secret addiction.”

You let out a small breath and close your eyes with a smile. His lips are warm on your skin, a little chapped from wind and weather, but still soft. Gentle. Familiar.

“I keep forgetting how charming you can be with your little words,” you murmur quietly as he continues to scatter kisses across your face. You nuzzle your nose against his like a cat, finally allowing yourself to unwind after the noise and weight of the entire day.

He laughs—soft, low, like embers catching in the hearth.

“Charming?” he echoes, before nipping lightly at the shell of your ear, his voice dropping into that velvet purr he saves only for you. “Je ne suis pas charmant, Star. Je suis seulement vrai avec toi.”

I’m not charming. I’m just true with you.

He leans back just enough to study your face—the flicker of your lashes, the faint flush staining your cheeks, the way you press closer as though gravity itself has rewritten its laws to centre on him.

“You’re shivering,” he says suddenly, catching the faint tremor in your shoulder. Not from cold—from release. The storm inside you, finally loosening its grip.

So he gathers you fully into his arms, wrapping you up, tucking you beneath his chin like a vow sealed in silence.

“Stay here tonight,” he murmurs against the crown of your head. “No libraries, no lakes… just this.” His fingers trace idle circles on your back, each one spelling the same word only skin can read: safe safe safe.

You hum softly, resting deeper into him. The idea of leaving—of walking back down to the dungeons, of curling alone in your dormitory—feels wrong now. You don’t want that. You want this.

So you nod.

“I think you’ve been my silencing charm since forever,” you whisper, your gaze drifting back toward the rain-dappled window where your reflections blur together into one.

His laugh is little more than a huff, a warm rumble in his chest. He presses a lingering kiss to your crown and pulls you impossibly closer, fingers brushing over the freckles on your cheek as though he’s memorising the constellations mapped across your skin.

And for a moment, he can see it. Years stretched ahead—of nights with you curled beside him, stealing his jumpers, murmuring in your sleep, being his spell. His quiet. His Star. His girl. The thought swells too large, too dangerous, so he swallows it down before it can spill out.

Instead, he buries his face in your hair and lets the silence hold him.

The world outside falls away until only the rhythm of rain remains, the steady beat of your hearts, the rise and fall of breath in the dark. His hand drifts upward, sliding slowly through your braid until the strands fall loose and soft around your shoulders. He works each tangle free with the kind of patience that says he could stay here forever.

His fingertips wander, tracing one freckle and then another, mapping the sky across your skin. His thumb brushes your brow, then the curve of your lip, as if each touch might carve you more deeply into his memory.

He leans close, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Do you know what my favourite sound in the world is?” he asks softly.

Your eyes flutter shut at his touch. It’s gentle, reverent—he’s memorising you, piece by piece, in case the sky ever tried to steal you away. He’s always said your freckles look like constellations. Always called you his star. But he doesn’t know, not really, that in your eyes he has always been the brightest of them all.

“What is it?” you whisper back, your voice hushed, heavy with the pull of sleep.

He watches your lashes lower, your face tilt toward him like a flower leaning instinctively toward the sun. His lips curve into a small smile at the sound of your voice, soft and curling faintly at the edges with your accent. He loves that, too.

His hand slips down your arm, finding your fingers and threading them together, grounding you both.

“It’s the sound,” he says low, tender, as his thumb strokes gently over your knuckles, “that you make… when you relax.”

He leans his forehead against yours, breath warm and steady.

“When you finally let yourself breathe.”

You chuckle faintly, the sound a feather against the hush of the tower. “I must make many of those sounds around you,” you murmur, squeezing his hand before bringing it to your lips. You press your mouth against his knuckles and keep it there, lingering in the warmth of the moment. Just letting yourself be. Letting you be.

A shiver cuts through him—sharp, silent, deep. Not from cold. Never from cold, not when you touch him like this.

He exhales your name, barely a breath, like it’s a secret the rest of the world was never meant to hear.

“Every one,” he whispers, voice roughened with reverence. “You make every single one around me.”

His fingers flex against yours as though holding onto this: the soft brush of your lips against his skin, the stillness, the trust in your quiet surrender.

“The rest of the world shouts,” he murmurs. “But you… you hum for me.”

And then—because only you could see this part of him—he rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes, surrendering the weight of himself to the closeness.

“I’d burn every star in the sky just to keep hearing it.”

“Don’t burn the stars,” you breathe, brushing your nose against his. Your voice is soft, but certain. “You’re the brightest one in the sky.” Your lips ghost the corner of his mouth as you whisper, “I’d hate to see you gone.”

His breath catches, sharp and unsteady, his chest pulling tight. It’s a war not to press you back against the window and kiss the words from your lips, not to lose himself in the truth you hand him so freely. He can’t remember the last time someone had said anything like that to him—without joke, without edge, without some ulterior motive.

Just soft. Just simple. Just truth.

His hand skims up your shoulder, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw, then rests beneath your chin, lifting your face gently until your eyes meet his.

Storm-grey eyes burn into yours, wanting, desperate, reverent all at once.

“You sound like you’re afraid to lose me.”

You tilt your head, gaze unwavering. “Of course I’m scared,” you admit softly, the honesty so stark it surprises even you. “Who wouldn’t be? You bring so much into everybody’s lives. And if someone dares to actually look at you—to really see you—it’s terrifying to think you could be gone one day.”

You reach up, brushing a stray lock of hair back from his forehead. “You bring so much brightness into someone’s world that it feels unbearably dark when you’re not in it. And yes—that’s scary.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

He lets your words wash over him like ash and starlight, heavy and luminous all at once. His breath comes uneven, slower now, because no one—no one, not James, not Remus—has ever named it so precisely. They saw the fire, yes, but never the fragility of it. Never how quickly it could vanish.

But you do.

Because you know what it is to burn from the inside out.

He catches your wrist, gently guiding your hand to his lips. He presses a kiss into your palm—lingering, reverent—before lowering it to rest over his heart.

“Then keep this,” he murmurs against your skin. “The beat of me.” His gaze fixes on yours, fierce, unyielding now. “You think I’m bright? You’re the one who sees. Who stays.”

A smirk tugs faintly at his mouth, but it’s softer than usual, fragile beneath the bravado. His thumb brushes across your lower lip, lingering.

“And darling Star… I don’t exist without you.”

A quiet sigh slips from you at his words. “You always have a way with words, don’t you?” you mutter, before letting your head drop against his chest once more, curling into him where he sits on the wide stone sill, your body folding neatly between his legs.

You close your eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. Each thump steadies you, each beat dissolving the last of your worries into nothing.

He wraps his arms more securely around you—one hand tangling gently in your hair, the other sliding over the small of your back, pulling you close as though gravity itself had been rewritten to bind you here.

“Mhm,” he hums into your hair. “Only for you.”

And it’s true. The jokes, the smirks, the careless swagger—those belong to the world. But this? The softness, the quiet words, the gentleness he offers when you can’t sleep? That belongs to you alone.

He presses a final kiss to the top of your head, letting his eyes fall closed.

Outside, the rain keeps falling, soft as a lullaby. Beyond the stone and sky, time marches forward, relentless.

But here—here in this tower—you remain.

Two breaths, two heartbeats, two broken constellations piecing each other back into whole.

You stayed with him that night. On that windowsill, curled into the warmth of him while the rain sang its steady lullaby against the glass. Back pain could be tomorrow’s problem—tonight belonged only to you both, to the hush between heartbeats and the hum of the storm outside.

Sleep pulled at you slowly, gently, until your lashes grew too heavy to hold open. For once, the nightmares kept their distance, edged out by the certainty of his arms around you—as though his very presence barred every shadow, every creeping dark thought from crossing the threshold of your mind.

He held you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable. And maybe you were. Just before sleep claimed you, you could have sworn you heard him whisper—low and soft, as though he didn’t mean for you to catch it—je t’aime. Maybe it was a dream, just another trick of drowsy thoughts. Or maybe, just maybe… he meant it.

Sirius watched as you finally let go in his arms, felt the last tension leave your body as your breathing evened out. A smile, faint but full of tenderness, touched his lips. He knew your nightmares well—had held you through them more times than he could count—and this time, they obeyed. They stayed away.

Good.

His fingers traced slow, idle patterns over your back, lulling you deeper into rest. He leaned down, the words leaving him in a whisper so soft the dark itself seemed to hold them close.

A secret only silence could keep.

“Je t’aime, ma étoile.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You sit beside him on the porch swing, the old wood creaking under your combined weight as the last breath of summer exhales across Cousins Beach. The sky stretches out above you in a blaze of burnt orange and soft lavender, streaked with delicate clouds that seem half-asleep. The cicadas hum their slow, hypnotic chorus from the trees nearby, their song steady and familiar—like a lullaby that only this place remembers how to sing.

The ocean breeze tousles his hair and lifts the ends of yours, warm and salty, brushing against your skin like a memory. It carries the scent of sunscreen, brine, and freshly cut grass from the back hill, all tangled together in that unmistakable coastal perfume. The cushions beneath you are sun-faded and still holding onto the day’s heat, like the house itself is reluctant to let go of summer.

Out beyond the dunes, the sea rolls in slow and lazy, waves curling over each other like they’re in no rush to reach the shore. The crash of them sounds like a soft, distant thunder. Farther down the beach, you can just make out the shapes of children chasing fireflies, their laughter pealing like wind-chimes over the sand. Somewhere in that blur of joy, you hear Jeremiah’s voice—unmistakable, bright and loud, always the centre of the moment.

But here, on the porch, everything is quieter. That hushed, golden-hour kind of quiet. The kind that wraps around you like a blanket and settles in your chest like nostalgia. The kind of quiet that carries old conversations in its folds—the ones you never had, the ones you still might.

You don’t say anything at first. Your shoulders touch. The heat of him seeps easily into your side, familiar and grounding. The wood groans beneath you both again, the same groan it always makes when the summer evenings turn heavy. You smell like beach air and tangerine soap, and when the breeze catches your hair, it brushes his shoulder like it has a mind of its own.

“I can’t draw today,” you murmur, the words quiet but real. “Too many thoughts.”

He nods without turning. His gaze is fixed on the horizon, where the sun is all but swallowed now, leaving behind a thin sliver of gold barely separating the sky from the sea.

“When do you not have too many thoughts?” he says, voice dry but not unkind.

You smirk. The corner of your mouth lifts as you nudge him gently with your elbow, the last flickers of sunlight catching in your eyes like golden embers. “You love that about me.”

Maybe he does. Maybe he always did.

He tilts his head back against the porch swing, letting the dying warmth of the day kiss his face before the night’s chill seeps in. Above you, the first stars start to show, timid and blinking through the purple haze. Somewhere down the beach, wind chimes sing a delicate tune, their glassy notes barely rising above the breeze.

You both fall silent again—not awkwardly, not tensely—just naturally. The kind of silence that fills the space between two people who don’t need to speak to be understood. It presses against your ribs, not with weight, but with presence. He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t have to.

You slip your hands into the pocket of the hoodie you're wearing—his hoodie—the way you always do when the wind turns cool. Your fingers brush something unexpected. Warmth. Skin. His hand. He must’ve had it tucked there too, and the contact shocks a breath right out of you. It’s quick, fleeting—but your fingers touch his, and in that moment, it’s like the air crackles.

You don’t pull away.

Neither does he.

The porch swing rocks gently, keeping time with your heart. The night has fully taken over now, the beach bathed in a hush of indigo, but his voice is barely above the wind when he speaks.

“Do you ever think,” he starts slowly, his words careful, gaze still lost in the waves, “that maybe… people were right about us?”

And the hush settles in deeper. Because even with the sea, the stars, and the soft noise of summer all around you, nothing sounds louder than that.

You glance at him at his words, head tilting slightly as you study his face—his profile caught in the last remnants of sunlight. That golden glow clings to him like something sacred, softening the shadows along his cheekbones and outlining the sharp line of his jaw.

God, he’s beautiful.

You don’t say it aloud, but the thought pulses through you like a heartbeat. You wonder if he even knows. If he ever sees himself the way you do—breathtaking in the quiet, in the stillness, in the in-between moments like this. There’s something about the way the green-blue of his eyes catches the dusk, like seawater in motion. You could drown in them. You already have, a hundred times over.

You let the silence stretch as you think over what he said. Not because you don’t understand. You do. You understood the moment he opened his mouth. But still, your voice comes soft, coaxing. “With what?”

You already know.

His eyes stay on the horizon, but his voice dips lower, like the truth might lose some of its weight if he doesn’t meet your gaze. “Us. Always together. Always attached at the hip.” A pause, and then, quieter: “My mom saying you should buy more white dresses.”

Your breath stutters just slightly at that. You swallow, tasting salt on your tongue—whether it’s from the sea breeze or his mother’s words echoing in your head, you’re not sure. They were true. She had said it, more than once. Always half-joking, always smiling—but you heard what was beneath it. That unspoken suggestion. That nudge. That expectation.

And it was silly, wasn’t it? You were just nineteen. You had time. You weren’t in a rush for white dresses, for veils and vows and last names. You just wanted this—the now, the way his body leaned unconsciously toward yours on the swing, the way the ocean breathed with you.

You press your chin to his shoulder gently, grounding both of you, your voice a little quieter when you answer, “Well... didn’t we prove them right?”

The porch swing shifts slightly with your movement, and you feel it—how his breath catches, like you’ve tripped some unseen wire inside him. His fingers around yours tighten just a little, just enough to be noticed. Just enough to say I felt that too.

“I suppose we did,” he replies, but there’s a thread of something underneath—thin, taut. A note of doubt barely concealed in the quiet. His eyes flick toward yours briefly, then away again, like he doesn’t want you to see it.

But you do.

You’ve always seen him clearer than he wants you to.

There’s something clouding his gaze, something worried. Not about what you said, but what it means. The weight of it. The pressure. Or maybe something deeper.

And suddenly, the idea of kissing him doesn’t feel like comfort—it feels like a cover. Like a way to distract him from what he won’t say. But the air is thick now, heavier than before, and not just with humidity. Something unspoken hums between you, pressing in.

You want to reach for him, want to touch his jaw and tilt his face toward yours, like that would undo the knot in his chest. Like your lips could quiet the storm you sense rising inside him.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

Instead, you keep your chin on his shoulder, voice gentler now. “Conrad... what is it?”

The swing rocks again, slower now, creaking softly like a heartbeat. He still doesn’t look at you.

But you wait.

You always wait for him.

He doesn’t speak for a while.

You feel it in the silence—the shift in him. That quiet, uneasy kind of thinking he does when something gets lodged in his brain and won’t come out. You can practically see it happening: the slight furrow in his brow, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes stay fixed on some far-off spot, unfocused. You know him well enough by now to recognise the weight of his thoughts before he ever says a word. And it’s starting to worry you.

You lean in gently, your nose brushing against the edge of his jaw, your breath ghosting over his skin as you inhale him. Pink pepper and lemon—his cologne, light and citrusy—mixed with the salt in the air and the deeper, earthier scent that’s just him. Ocean wind stirs your hair and rustles the porch around you, but all you can think about is how his shoulders are tense beneath your cheek.

You hate when he worries. It sinks into the space between you, makes things that are usually easy—touching, laughing, kissing—feel suddenly distant.

“It’s probably nothing,” he mutters at last, the words barely more than a breath. His tone is forced, like he’s trying to convince himself more than you.

But you know better.

You shake your head and tighten your fingers around his, firm and steady. “Stop lying to me,” you say, quiet but sure. “Let’s just talk. As always.”

There’s a pause—and then a huff, soft and short. Almost like a laugh, but not quite.

“Yeah. As always.”

And there’s something in his voice this time. Something flat. Not sharp, but close enough. Bitter, maybe. Disappointed. It scrapes against your chest, and your brow creases as you look at him.

Did you do something wrong?

The thought stings, unexpected and unwelcome.

He catches the way your expression shifts and sighs again, but this time it’s different—less tense, more apologetic. His face softens just slightly as he turns toward you, and his hand reaches out to brush your cheek with familiar ease. Then he leans in and presses his lips gently to yours, just a whisper of a kiss, grounding.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I just... my mind’s been running nonstop lately.”

You hum into the kiss, letting the warmth of it ease the tightness in your chest. The tension begins to melt just a little, like sunlight breaking through fog.

“Connie, baby, talk to me.”

Baby.

You feel the way his breath hitches at the word. He always did love when you called him that. There’s a flicker in his eyes, something fond and raw and vulnerable. You know he’d give up every penny, every breath, just to hear you say it again. To hear your voice wrap around his name and that word like a secret only meant for him.

He hesitates. Thinking. Weighing.

But then he speaks, voice low and quiet, like the words are delicate glass in his mouth.

“The party two days ago,” he says. “Who was that with you?”

You blink. Frown.

You replay the evening in your head—firelight, music, the familiar blur of too many friends, too many conversations. But you were with him almost the whole night. Weren’t you?

And then it clicks.

Tom.

Your ex. Long before Conrad, long before things ever turned real and intimate with anyone else. He’d stopped you briefly near the drinks table, asked how you’d been. That was all.

“It was Tom,” you say slowly, watching Conrad’s eyes. “My ex. Nothing important. He just wanted to catch up.”

Tom.

You see it the moment the name hits. His mouth tightens slightly. His eyes harden—not angry, but unsettled. He already hates the name. The guy. Even if he has no real reason to.

“Catch up?” he repeats, and there’s something different in his voice now. A subtle edge. Not jealousy exactly, but something adjacent. Something uncertain.

And you recognise that look instantly.

It’s the one he gets when he doesn’t want to admit he’s hurt.

You search his eyes, quiet for a beat, then nod slowly. “Yeah,” you say, keeping your voice steady. “He was just curious how things have been. That’s all. We talked for maybe a few minutes.”

You watch him carefully as you speak—every twitch of his jaw, every flicker of his gaze. You tell the truth plainly, with calm certainty, because there was nothing more to it. Just a brief conversation, a passing moment. But you can still see it in him. That tiny crack of doubt. That shadow of hurt.

And it twists something in you.

Because surely he didn’t think… no. He couldn’t have thought anything else. Not really.

Technically, the two of you weren’t together—not in the traditional sense. No labels, no announcements, no dramatic declarations. But still... it’s been a year. A year of public moments and quiet comfort. Of brushing your fingers through his hair in the dark. Of falling asleep on the same pillows. A year of choosing each other, again and again. It wasn’t undefined. Not to you.

Not anymore.

But he nods slightly, eyes shifting away from yours. The movement is small, but it lands heavy.

Your heart sinks a little, and your brows draw together in concern.

“Connie…” you murmur, your voice careful, soft. “What is this about?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just sits with it, shoulders hunched slightly, fingers still wrapped around yours but looser now—like he's slipping inward again, shutting a door he doesn’t want you to knock on.

You almost expect him to let it go. To bury it.

To do what he always does.

Pretend he’s fine.

But then, to your surprise, he speaks.

“Do you…” He pauses. There’s a hesitation in his tone that pulls your full attention back to him. “Do you talk to your exes often?”

The question catches you off guard.

Exes?

You blink at him, thrown for a second. Because—well, no. Not really. You think back, running through the list in your head. Except for Tom, there haven’t been any real relationships. Not anything that required “closure” or check-ins.

Just hookups. Flings. Summer things that never outlasted the sunburns. You’ve always liked the energy of new people, the thrill of being wanted, the freedom of not promising anything.

You started young. Sixteen, full of champagne bubbles and midnight laughter. Parties, beaches, crowded rooms where your name was whispered like a dare.

And he was there for so much of it. Watching, sometimes from afar, sometimes too close. He saw every messy, loud, beautiful part of your so-called “love life.”

You shake your head, reaching out again to close the distance between you. “No,” you say simply. “I don’t really have exes, and you know that.”

You search his expression again, hoping to ease the worry that’s etched there. He gives a small nod, but the tension doesn’t fade completely.

“I meant…” he trails off, then sighs. “Just people.”

Other guys. That’s what he really means. You hear it in his voice, even if he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t want to sound like some jealous seventeen-year-old. Doesn’t want to admit that even now, even after everything, there’s still a part of him that’s scared he could lose you to something less important. Something stupid. Something that happened before you two ever became this.

And that thought alone makes your chest ache.

You shake your head again, gently lifting his chin so he’s looking at you. Really looking at you.

Your fingers brush the edge of his jaw as you search his eyes—dark and clouded, like he’s waiting for disappointment to slip past your lips. But you don’t let him fall into that fear. You keep your voice steady, certain.

“Connie, baby, no. I don’t. I don’t meet up with anybody like that,” you say, your tone firm, even though his expression doesn’t shift. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

There’s silence between you as he studies you again, eyes flicking across your face like they’re searching for a crack. Something hidden. Some buried half-truth. But there’s nothing.

Because you’re not lying. You never have.

You’ve always been honest—honest to a fault, sometimes. Raw in your truths, open with your heart. Especially with him.

And slowly, almost cautiously, he leans in. Presses his forehead to yours.

“It’s not like you can’t,” he says quietly, like the words cost him something. “I’m just curious.”

And god—you want to slap him. Right across that infuriatingly perfect face.

Not like you can’t?

Is he serious?

You could feel the ache building in your chest, the bitter sting of disbelief. Because he’s the only one you want. The only one you see.

To kiss him. To touch him. To hold him in every damn way a person could be held—emotionally, physically, spiritually. Only him.

Has your past—the parties, the flings, the freedom—really planted that much doubt in him? Has he been sitting with this fear that maybe he’s just a temporary chapter in your story? Just another fleeting thrill?

You cup his face gently, fingertips against his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye.

“Why would I?” you whisper, the frustration bleeding into your sadness. “I don’t want to.”

He doesn’t pull away. Just stays close, warm and quiet under your touch.

“You seriously think I could even look at another guy when I have you?” you add, voice light with a trace of broken amusement.

And he just shrugs. That simple, pitiful shrug that says more than words ever could.

Because he doesn’t see himself the way you do.

He looks at you like you hung the stars—but talks about himself like he isn’t worthy of standing under them. Like loving you is something borrowed, not something he’s earned.

It hurts.

Because if there’s one thing you’re certain of in this world, it’s that Conrad Fisher deserves the whole damn universe.

Your brows knit together as you ask gently, “Did I ever make you doubt?”

His response is immediate. He shakes his head with urgency, like even the thought pains him.

“No, sweetheart. No. It’s not you. It’s me,” he says, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I just… I can’t turn off my mind. And you’re so damn perfect, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to keep you.”

It hits you harder than you expected.

Because he’s always been good with affection—telling you he adores you, making you feel wanted. But this? This is different. This is vulnerability laid bare. This is him, stripped of all pretence, clinging to something real.

You swallow the lump in your throat and smile, soft and aching.

“You just have to be you,” you murmur, fingers tracing his cheek again. “My Connie. And I’ll be here.”

He leans in further, pressing his forehead tighter to yours like he’s trying to fuse the distance between you. Like closeness will silence the doubt.

“You promise?” he whispers, voice frayed at the edges.

You sigh—long and deep—and it’s not because of him.

It’s because of you.

Because in that moment, you hate yourself. Hate every bad decision, every wild night, every reckless part of your past that ever made this boy—your boy—feel like he wasn’t enough.

You wanted to reassure him. To make it clear that this wasn’t just a fleeting fling, nor something that existed solely for your own benefit. He was more than that — he was the one for you.

“Can you wait for me? Just for a second. I’ll be right back,” you said softly, searching his eyes for a sign. After a moment, he nodded. You pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, hoping to convey everything words couldn’t quite capture.

Then, quietly, you slipped back into the house and made your way upstairs, your heart pounding as you headed toward the guest room—your room. You had to make sure he understood. Maybe it was time to make this whole thing permanent, after all.

Once inside, your feet carried you almost instinctively to the bedside table. You opened the drawer and pulled out a white journal, its cover dusted with glitter — a chaotic, youthful mess of sparkle that only your younger self could have created, messy yet strangely artistic. Bold letters sprawled across the front read: Connie & Me. You cradled the journal in your hands and headed back downstairs. The moment had come.

Returning to him, you nestled close to his side. His hand instinctively slid around your shoulders, pulling you gently closer. You settled the notebook on your lap, angling it so he could see. He glanced down, brow furrowing.

“What’s that?” he asked quietly.

You sighed, the weight of the moment settling over you.
“This is something... something that might help me be less of a crappy partner in your eyes.”

He looked at you, then back at the journal. You opened it slowly, revealing what you had carefully preserved inside. Everything.

It began with polaroids of the two of you as children — age seven and nine — building sandcastles, riding bikes, playing board games. The pages were filled with handwritten journal entries in your clumsy primary school script, sprinkled with doodles and drawings. He stared at it as if seeing a part of your world he never knew existed. Every page was a mosaic of memories, starting with your childhood together.

As you flipped through the pages, the memories grew richer and more detailed: first days of school, holidays, Christmas mornings, Halloween costumes. Movie nights, trips to the cinema, karaoke sessions, parties — each event painstakingly dated and illustrated.

Then, you turned a page that made his breath hitch, his eyes widening. There, in vibrant colours and careful strokes, was a drawing of a beach house — remarkably similar to his family’s — but with subtle details that only he would recognise. This was your dream house. The one you had been talking about for so long.

“Is that…” he trailed off, his voice barely audible as his hand tightened around you.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling with hope. “Our future. The one we’ve been planning.”

The beach house with its wide bay windows, a sprawling kitchen, and a breathtaking view of the ocean. The house where you’d sip coffee on the porch, watching sunsets paint the sky in hues of gold and crimson. A future filled with lazy mornings and stolen kisses, dawn surf sessions at the creek, and him making pancakes while you perched on the kitchen counter. A life where every moment was kissed by love, every minute cherished perfectly.

You flipped the page, and his body stiffened, tension rippling through him like a tightening chord. More drawings greeted him — a familiar beach scene, unmistakably Cousins. You had sketched round tables draped in white linen, adorned with wildflowers that seemed to dance in a gentle breeze. The soft pastel colours felt alive, as though the faint scent of salt air and blooming petals had seeped off the page, filling the quiet room with a fragile warmth.

He recognised it instantly.

“I want a wedding at the beach,” you had joked once, your eyes sparkling with mischief and hope, “A short dress, because I know you’re going to throw me into the water.”

And here it was — your dream wedding, immortalised in your careful, imperfect handwriting and whimsical sketches.

Suddenly, everything crystallised in his mind. This was more than just a journal. More than memories and past moments preserved. This was your past, your present, and your future. A future you imagined with him, sketched out in painstaking detail and bursting with hope.

“Y/N…” His voice was fragile, barely audible, a whisper weighted with emotion.

You shook your head slowly, like shaking away the doubts lingering in the air between you.

“I’m a crappy partner,” you confessed, your voice breaking slightly but steady in its truth. “I know that better than anyone. You’ve seen the wreckage — every reckless night, every wild party, every time I came stumbling home drunk, and you stayed up taking care of me, even though you didn’t have to. Maybe you were too young to bear that kind of responsibility, but you did it anyway. Water, aspirin, helping me change into pyjamas, holding my hair back so gently it almost broke my heart. You witnessed every other guy, every careless kiss, every mistake. You shouldn’t have...”

Your voice caught in your throat. You shook your head and closed the journal carefully, as if sealing away your deepest fears.

But when you met his eyes, you saw something there that made your heart tremble — vulnerability so pure, so unguarded, it was like he was laying his soul bare just for you.

You took a deep breath, grounding yourself in the weight of the moment. “I’m not surprised you doubt me. I’m not surprised you’re scared I’ll leave. But I promise you — I won’t. Not ever. And this,” you said, holding up the journal gently, “this is what I hold onto every single day. Every time we talk about our future — I mean it. You are my future, Connie.”

The pounding of his heart pressed against your ribs was a thunderous echo in your chest, a pulse you could feel in your fingertips. You realised then that he had never truly understood the depth of your feelings, the fierce way you clung to him, to us.

“All of this... it’s us. Our future. And you… you want it? With me?” His voice was hesitant, fragile, laced with disbelief and hope intertwined.

You nodded, your hands trembling slightly as you cupped his face, your thumbs tracing the familiar planes of his jaw.

“Only you. No one else. You’re my Connie, my baby. And I… fuck, I want you. Us. Our life together.”

His breath caught, and his nose brushed softly against yours in a tender, electric moment. “I want that too,” he whispered, “more than you could ever imagine.”

“I’m sorry my lifestyle made you doubt what I feel for you,” you admitted softly, your voice barely more than a breath but heavy with honesty. “Because I do feel it. And I’m not scared to say it anymore. I should’ve told you long ago.”

He shook his head, silencing you with a kiss that was slow, deliberate, and full of all the things neither of you could say. It was a kiss that answered every fear, every hope, every whispered dream.

“You’re my everything,” he breathed when he pulled back, voice rough with emotion. “From the day I met you, you’ve been everything—my whole world. And I never want to lose you.”

His vulnerability cracked open something deep inside you. Your lips found his again, heart pounding wildly, warmth flooding through your veins like liquid fire.

“You’ll never lose me,” you promised, your voice steady and certain, a vow that echoed in the quiet room like a sacred prayer.

For a moment, all the noise of the world faded away. There was only this — the two of you, tangled together in the fragile glow of hope and love, standing on the edge of forever.

╭┈┈┈┈┈┈╯ 𓆉 𓇼 ╰┈┈┈┈┈┈╮

A/N: Hello! Now you know how reader and Connie labelled their relationship. In their own way. In reader's own artistic way. This idea has been in my head for ages, and I hope you love it just as much as I do <3 if you’ve read it before, no you haven’t 🫣

Taglist: @maybankslover @mlt2000 @we-flower-fan @xxxabsss-blog @emory06 @ynnlvrs

@10hrs26mn @bellelamoon @radiant-m00n

@looonylils @agentsofsheilds

@jackierose902109 @riddlesbabygirlxoxoo

@yohanseyebrowmole @parkairis18 @keithyp00

@alltheloveamelia @mummmycrust @nerd4yous

@makdia @crack240

Eventually, the portrait hole creaked open, the sound echoing in the stillness of the room. You stepped inside, wrapped in the cool night air, not seeming to notice Sirius hunched on the couch in the shadows. Your eyes scanned the common room, searching. Your gaze swept past him at first—but then you spotted him. His frame partially illuminated by the firelight, arms folded, gaze unreadable.

You walked closer, a small, familiar smile playing at your lips. The kind you always gave him, like the world beyond the two of you barely existed. You sank down onto the couch beside him, crossing your legs comfortably as if this was just another night. No tension. No questions. Just the two of you.

“Thought you’d be asleep by now,” you said softly, propping your head on your elbow against the cushion, eyes gentle as always. “I was on my way to join you.”

Join him. Just like every other time.

But something in the air had shifted, and you could feel it. Subtle, but present. The warmth between you was still there, but under the surface, something pulled tight. Sirius sat up a little straighter, adjusting his position to face you better. His voice came low, barely above a whisper.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Your brows furrowed slightly, a flicker of concern passing through your expression, but you didn’t press. Instead, you leaned forward and rested your chin on his knees, your eyes studying his face in the firelight, searching for something unsaid.

“Where were you?” he asked finally, voice careful but quiet. The question lingered between you like smoke.

“Black Lake,” you replied, your tone light, nonchalant. You didn’t elaborate, didn’t offer details. Just that. As if it hadn’t been the only thing rattling around in his head since sunset.

Your fingers idly traced the hem of your sleeve, and then you looked up at him again. “Why couldn’t you sleep?” you asked, this time with a bit more weight in your voice—curiosity laced with worry. It was usually you who struggled with sleep. Not him.

He leaned back slightly, arms folding across his chest in a way that tried too hard to look casual. But you knew him too well. His jaw was tight. His eyes flickered, avoiding yours.

“Just couldn’t,” he shrugged. “Had a lot on my mind, I guess.”

Your chin still rested gently against his knee, but you tilted your head slightly to the side, waiting. Watching. His gaze finally met yours again, this time more steady. “Why were you at the Black Lake?” he asked, trying to keep the question even, unaffected.

“Was meeting up with a friend,” you answered, just as lightly as before. Shrugged it off like it meant nothing. Maybe to you, it didn’t. Maybe it was just a night walk with someone who didn’t matter. But to him—it had mattered all evening. The thought of you out there, with someone else. Laughing, talking. It had driven him mad.

And now, here you were. Oblivious to the storm you'd stirred up, more focused on the shift in him than the fact you'd never told him who you were seeing. You looked at him, your smile softening.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

Sirius clenched his jaw for a moment, teeth pressing together. That word—friend—echoed in his mind. Too vague. Too convenient. He hated how casual you were about it. How easy it was for you to leave him behind tonight.

“Nothing important,” he lied, brushing it off. He didn’t want to say the truth: that the silence of your absence had been louder than the fire, that he’d sat here with your name stuck in his throat for hours.

He shifted on the couch, the ache in his chest still lingering, still pulling. His voice dropped to almost a whisper as he looked at you again, expression unreadable.

“You’re back late.”

You frowned. Sirius never usually commented when you returned late—not like this. Most nights, he’d already be in bed by now, half-asleep, waiting for you to sneak into the dorm so you could curl up beside him without a word. Whatever this was… it felt off. Not just the tension, but him. The way he avoided your question, the way he pulled away—it wasn’t like him. He never hid from you. Never shut you out. If something was wrong, he just said it. Blunt. Honest. That was part of what you loved about him.

“I got caught up in a conversation,” you said slowly, your voice soft as you tilted your head, trying to read his mood. You reached for his hand—your usual gesture, the one that always grounded both of you—but he shifted, subtly, just enough that your fingers brushed only fabric. You frowned again, the knot in your stomach tightening.

“What’s going on with you?” you asked, brows pulling together, concern spilling into your voice. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Sirius didn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck, the nervous gesture making your chest ache a little. He looked cornered, like a wild thing trying to escape something it couldn’t quite name.

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

The words cracked the air between you like a whip, sharp and unexpected. Even he looked surprised by the force of it. He closed his eyes for a second, then sighed, running a hand through his hair with visible frustration.

“I just… I don’t like you being out so late, that’s all.”

His words only deepened your confusion. Not because of the sentiment—you knew he cared, even worried about you more than he’d ever admit—but it wasn’t just what he said. It was everything around it. The tension in his shoulders. The way he wouldn’t let you touch him. The coldness in his voice that didn’t match the warmth in his eyes.

You sat up slightly, pulling back just enough to look at him properly, studying his expression.

You were sure you left a note. Told James to give it to him before Quidditch practice, so he wouldn’t worry. So he knew not to wait up. Or maybe… maybe you hadn’t? Maybe you thought you had and forgot in the rush of the day. But still—it wasn’t like Sirius to get this upset about it.

“Well, sorry…” you murmured, your voice quiet but not defensive. “But I’m back now. So… we can catch up, or go to sleep, like always.”

Sirius exhaled slowly, guilt flickering behind his eyes. He knew he was being unfair, but that possessive streak—the one he hated and couldn’t shake—had gotten the better of him tonight.

“No, you don’t have to apologise,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair again. “I just… I was worried.”

He leaned back against the armrest, finally looking at you without flinching, eyes darker than usual. “Who were you with, anyway? This friend of yours.”

You sighed again, heavier this time. You weren’t trying to hide anything. But something in his voice made it clear he didn’t believe that. Still, you reached for him again—and this time, you didn’t let go. Your fingers closed around his hand and held it, gentle but certain. He hesitated for a second, but didn’t pull away.

“A friend from Ravenclaw. My year,” you said simply, your voice calm. “Nothing important, really.”

And it wasn’t. It was just some harmless conversation, something forgettable. All you wanted now was to slip upstairs, change into something warm, slide beneath the covers next to Sirius, and sleep. Just a few hours of peace. The day had been long enough.

But Sirius didn’t relax. He didn’t soften. That tightness in his jaw remained, his body tense beneath your touch.

“Right,” he muttered. “Just a friend.”

His voice was taut, too taut, and you could practically feel the knot forming in his chest. You hated how you knew what he was thinking. How he was overanalysing every word. Torturing himself over something that didn’t matter.

You let out a frustrated breath, squeezing his hand just a little.

He wasn’t being himself. Or maybe… maybe he was. This was the part of him that got trapped in his own mind sometimes. The version of Sirius that didn’t know how to say “I’m scared” without making it sound like an accusation. The version too proud to admit when he felt hurt or left out.

You shifted closer again, your voice soft, but firm this time.

“Pads… I’m gonna ask one more time—what on Merlin’s beard is going on with you?”

Sirius fidgeted under your gaze, his posture tense, shoulders tight with the weight of everything unsaid. You could see it—the way he shifted, trying to look unaffected, but failing miserably. He had always been proud. Vulnerability didn’t come easy to him, not even with you. Admitting to insecurities, to feelings that made him feel exposed… it was like surrendering a piece of himself.

“Nothing,” he said stubbornly, voice tight. “I told you, I’m fine.”

He tried again to pull his hand from yours, but you held on tighter this time, refusing to let him slip away from you. Not like this.

“Oh my—can you stop trying to pull away?” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. “I want to hold your hand, damn it.”

The frustration spilled out before you could reel it back. It stung—how the boy who used to cling to you like you were the last safe thing in the world now recoiled like your touch burned. He had been your anchor, your constant. The only person you ever truly let in, the only one you let touch you. And now… now he was pulling away.

Sirius froze.

Your words hit him like a blow, cutting through the fog of jealousy and defensiveness he’d wrapped himself in all evening. He hadn’t meant to hurt you. Merlin, he never meant to hurt you. And yet, here you were—hurt, confused, and still reaching for him anyway.

His eyes finally lifted to yours, those grey stormy eyes of his locking with yours. The firelight flickered across his face, throwing shifting shadows along the angles of his jaw. For a moment, he looked so young. So unsure.

“I… I’m sorry,” he murmured, the tension draining from his body all at once. “I didn’t mean to pull away. I just…”

I just don’t like the thought of you being with someone else.

You stared at him, searching his face, your brows knitting together as your heart ached in your chest.

“What the hell is going on?” you asked, your voice low, tired. “I come in here ready to go to sleep, happy to finally see you after a long day, because we’ve barely seen each other—and now you’re just… you’re pushing me away like I did something wrong.”

His chest tightened at the sound of your voice. You weren’t angry, not really. Just hurt. That made it worse. He hadn’t meant to make you feel like this. But he had. He’d let his emotions get the best of him. Again.

He sighed deeply, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I don’t know. I just… I didn’t like the thought of you being out with some other guy. It made me…”

He trailed off for a second, then forced himself to say it. “It made me jealous.”

You blinked, the word sinking in slowly.

Jealous. Sirius Black—cocky, unshakable, never-bothered Sirius Black—was jealous. Over a guy who didn’t matter at all. Over something that wasn’t even worth your time.

“Jealous?” you echoed, still trying to process it. “Why would you be jealous? I told you it didn’t matter. And I told you I was going to be back late—”

You stopped mid-sentence.

Wait. Did you tell him?

Suddenly uncertain, you looked at him again, more closely this time. His confusion mirrored yours.

“I told James to give you a note,” you said slowly, frowning. “Before Quidditch practice. I wrote something like, ‘I’ll be late tonight, go to sleep. I’m meeting with a friend to do DADA homework. I’ll try to get back to you as soon as possible.’”

You tilted your head, brow furrowed. “You didn’t get it?”

Sirius’s entire demeanour shifted. He blinked, as if trying to rewind the whole day in his mind.

“No,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t get any note.”

He sounded genuinely confused, and for a moment, the both of you sat there in silence, the fire popping gently beside you. Sirius’s mind was spinning—had James forgotten? Had he lost it? Why hadn’t he just said something?

You let out a heavy breath, dragging a hand down your face.

“Let me guess,” you muttered. “James got carried away chasing after Lily and forgot. Merlin knows it wouldn’t be the first time. He probably still has the note stuffed somewhere in his robes.”

You leaned back against the couch, exhausted now—not from the day, but from the sudden emotional whiplash.

You hated this. Miscommunication. The way it could ruin perfectly good moments. The way it could twist feelings and break things that were never meant to be broken.

Sirius stared at you for a long moment, guilt pooling in his chest.

You’d tried. You’d left a note. You hadn’t kept secrets. You weren’t hiding anything.

And still, he’d let his jealousy convince him otherwise.

Sirius let out a long sigh, frustration and guilt pooling in his chest like something heavy. He should’ve known better. James was brilliant on a broom but hopeless when it came to multitasking—especially when Lily Evans was involved.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice resigned. “That sounds exactly like something he’d do.”

Still holding your hand, he leaned back against the armrest, his grip softer now, more apologetic. His thumb brushed over your knuckles absently.

“I’m sorry I was being a git,” he said quietly. “I let my imagination run wild and turned it into something it wasn’t.”

You let out a small exhale and gave him a look—equal parts tired and affectionate—before gently pushing his knees apart. You crawled into the space between his legs without saying a word, letting your body settle against his. Your head found its place beneath his chin, fitting perfectly there like you always did, your weight warm against his chest. The fire crackled gently beside you, painting your skin in gold and amber hues.

“You’re an idiot,” you mumbled into his shirt, your voice muffled but teasing, the words softened by the affection behind them.

Sirius’s heart stuttered in his chest at the feel of you so close, like the world had finally righted itself. His arm curled protectively around your back, holding you against him like he’d fall apart if he let go.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” he murmured with a small laugh, the tension finally bleeding from his body.

With the hand that wasn’t holding you close, he reached up and gently tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. His touch lingered, tender, reverent.

“But I’m your idiot,” he added with a lopsided smile, the words almost whispered.

You tilted your head just enough to look up at him, your chin resting on his collarbone. The space between you barely existed now, your noses nearly brushing. In the flickering firelight, you could see it clearly—the softness in his storm-grey eyes, a look he reserved only for you.

“You are,” you said quietly, and even you could hear the weight behind those two small words.

His eyes searched yours for a moment, something unspoken passing between you. His arm around your waist tightened instinctively, pulling you closer into him, as if the nearness still wasn’t enough.

“I know,” he breathed. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

His fingers traced the curve of your cheek, slow and gentle, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips—subtle, but full of emotion. “You’re stuck with me.”

You let out a quiet laugh, the sound warm against his throat. “Sounds like a threat,” you teased, but your smile was soft as you leaned in, brushing your nose against his.

“Can we stop bothering with who’s whose and whether the other’s going to leave or not?” you whispered, your words threading between your breaths. “You’re mine. I’m yours. I’m tired of pretending like it doesn’t mean anything.”

Sirius’s breath caught at your words. His heart thudded in his chest, full and light all at once, like the very sound of your voice had knocked the air out of him.

“You’re right,” he said, and this time, his voice held no hesitation. “I’m yours. You’re mine. And we’re not going anywhere.”

He tilted his chin, finally closing the small distance between you, and pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss was soft—tender, sure—but it carried everything that hadn’t been said aloud until now. It was a promise. A claim. A surrender.

And as you kissed him back, something settled inside you. Warmth bloomed in your chest, and you smiled against his mouth like you were the happiest girl in the world—because in that moment, you were.

No more guessing. No more doubts.

Just this.

Him.

You.

Maybe you should’ve thanked the Ravenclaw boy. Or James, for being too distracted by Lily to deliver a single note. Whatever it was, it brought you here.

The line between you blurred a long time ago, and by now, it’s dissolved entirely. It’s official, sure, but labels never really mattered to either of you. You never needed words like "boyfriend" or "girlfriend" to know what you were to each other. Still, there’s something sweet in the quiet understanding that pulses beneath every glance and touch: I’m yours, and you’re mine.

Loving Conrad feels like waking up slowly on a Sunday morning—quiet, warm, timeless. And tonight, you’re making your way to his room with the same ease you’ve always had, the floor familiar under your bare feet, the soft cotton of his old T-shirt brushing your thighs. You’re careful not to wake Susannah or alert Jeremiah, though you doubt anyone would care. This wasn’t new. You’ve been slipping into Conrad’s room long before anything was declared between you. Everyone knows. And when he kissed you—he did it for the world to see.

At this point, the whole "guest room" charade feels silly. You’re not kids anymore. Sharing space with him has been the norm for years, even before either of you dared call it what it was.

You reach his door and push it open without a knock. His room is dim, bathed in a soft, honeyed glow from the bedside lamp. He’s on the bed, propped up against the headboard, his bare chest rising and falling gently beneath the covers. Only a pair of sleeping shorts clings to his hips. The moment your eyes meet his, that familiar smile curves across his lips—slow, lazy, warm.

You smile back, heart skipping, as he closes his laptop and sets it aside.

“You’re quite late tonight,” he murmurs, voice low, coaxing, as he lifts the blankets, wordlessly inviting you in.

You shut the door behind you with a soft click and crawl across the bed toward him. His room has always been your favourite place. It’s a perfect reflection of him—in the acoustic guitar leaning in the corner, the glint of trophies on the shelf, the textbooks stacked like tired soldiers on his desk. Soon, those will be replaced by heavier ones, full of college lectures and serious words. You’re wearing one of his old shirts—soft, slightly oversized, with a faded logo on the chest—and a simple pair of navy lace underwear that rests snugly around your hips. Your hair is braided back, still damp from your evening shower, in hopes of keeping the waves for morning.

“I was on the phone with my mom,” you say, laughter dancing in your voice as you settle against him, your body tucking easily into the curve of his side. “Aunt Jenny really wanted to join in.”

“She’s always been talkative,” he says, voice laced with fondness as his arm curls around you, pulling you closer.

The moment you’re in his arms, you inhale—and there it is. The scent of him. It’s always different here. In Cousins, it’s sea salt, sun, and wind. But in Boston, it’s something else. That cologne you gave him for Christmas a few years ago—lemon, pink pepper, a hint of mint—still clings to his skin. He’s never changed it. The fact that he still wears it makes your chest ache, in the best way.

His hand finds your hair without hesitation, fingers slipping gently between the strands. He scratches your scalp in slow, steady movements that make your whole body soften. You close your eyes, a quiet groan slipping from your lips, content and half-asleep already.

Nothing beats the feeling of his hands on you. In any way, at any time.

Your fingertips drift across his abdomen, tracing slow, idle circles on his skin. His muscles twitch under your touch, and you smile into his shoulder. You haven’t had much time with him this weekend. He’s been buried in books, studying until his eyes blurred, and you’ve had shifts at the café that left your hands stained with espresso and your limbs aching by evening. You missed him. Even in the same house, you missed him.

But now, in this moment, there’s no more distance. Just you and him, curled up in the safety of his room, where everything feels quiet and right and like the world has finally exhaled.

“I missed you today,” you whisper, voice soft against the hum of the quiet room. The words fall from your lips almost shyly, though you mean every syllable. You don’t always say it. But tonight, it slips out easily—like a secret you no longer want to keep.

His face softens the moment he hears it. That look—the one where all the walls drop. He loves when you say things like that. When you admit it out loud. It makes him feel seen, wanted, needed. Loved.

“I missed you too, baby,” he murmurs, his voice a low balm against your skin. His fingers never stop moving through your hair, gently untangling the strands as though he’s grounding himself in the feeling of you. Your hand still rests lightly on his stomach, tracing faint shapes against his skin.

“I’ve been a walking ball of stress lately,” he admits, barely louder than a breath. There’s something in his tone—tired, raw, honest. You lift your head and look at him properly, eyes searching his with quiet concern.

“You’re putting too much on yourself,” you say, the words steady but soft. “You deserve a break just like everyone else. You know that, right?”

He exhales, the sound low and weighted. You’ve seen it before—the way he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. Conrad has a bad habit of trying to be perfect. Of fixing everything and everyone, even when it leaves him splintered inside. He’ll set himself on fire just to keep others warm, and you’ve never let that go on for too long. You can’t. Watching him unravel hurts you too deeply.

Because if anyone deserves peace, it’s him. The sun, the moon, the fucking stars—you’d hand them over if it meant he’d smile a little longer. Hell, you’ve painted them for him before. But if he ever asked, you’d give him the real thing.

“Let’s just relax, alright?” he murmurs, his fingers drifting from your hair to your cheek, stroking your skin with the kind of tenderness that makes your breath catch. “I think I need that tonight.”

Your teeth sink into your lower lip as you lean into his palm. You do miss him—more than usual, more than you’ve even let yourself admit. Lately, he's been buried in books, chasing the future, pushing himself past every breaking point. And you’re proud. So unbelievably proud. But you still ache for him. For this. For touch. For the way he can ignite every nerve in your body with just one look.

You hum quietly, shifting closer until your noses brush. That simple touch sends a tremor through both of you. His breath catches—he always reacts like that when you’re this close—and his hand slips down to your waist, his grip tightening just slightly. You feel the heat of him, the simmering tension beneath the exhaustion. That kind of tired that doesn’t come from studying or late nights. The kind that says I miss you in ways I don’t have words for.

“I think relaxing is a great idea,” you whisper, your lips grazing his. The smallest spark. His eyes darken. You hear the sound he makes—a quiet groan, like he’s already slipping under—and you smile against his mouth.

“I have a few ideas, actually.”

Normally, he’d tease you. Ask what you were going to do. Drag it out just to hear you say it aloud. But not tonight.

Tonight, he’s starved.

His mouth crashes onto yours, all restraint shattered. The kiss is deep, desperate—like he’s been holding his breath for weeks and you’re the only thing that could fill his lungs. You sigh into him, your hand cradling his cheek, trying to pull him impossibly closer. The heat is immediate, all-consuming. His hand clenches around your waist as he shifts you onto his lap with effortless strength.

You straddle him, the hem of his old t-shirt riding up your thighs. He doesn’t hesitate—his hands move there, gripping your bare flesh like he’s anchoring himself. You feel his fingers tighten, feel the warmth of his skin searing into yours. When he bites your lip, you gasp, your arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer, tighter. You thread your fingers into his hair and tug gently. He groans again, the sound low and wrecked.

“You have no idea,” he pants against your lips, “how fucking much I’ve missed having you like this.”

Your breath stutters, and you tug at his hair harder, your body pressing down into his. He growls—an honest-to-god growl—and his hands slide down, kneading the back of your thighs with a kind of urgency that sends sparks licking up your spine.

His tongue slips between your lips, coaxing yours into a slow, dizzying dance. The kiss turns messy, all teeth and heat and hunger. Your hands move to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you try to anchor yourself against the rising tide inside you. The ache between your legs grows unbearable, the damp heat of your lace underwear clinging to you, and all you want is more. All of him.

You whimper into his mouth as his hands wander, teasing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. The sound you make is involuntary, helpless. Your lungs start to burn, but you don’t want to stop. Still, he seems to sense it—like he always does—and finally pulls away, both of you gasping for breath.

You rest your forehead against his, the space between you charged and trembling. Your lips are swollen, cheeks flushed, your whole body buzzing with tension and want. He’s panting too, his eyes blown wide with desire but still locked on yours like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

You stay like that for a moment—just breathing each other in, hearts pounding, skin flushed and electric.

“Connie…” His name spills from your lips in a breathless rasp, shaky and aching with need. You feel like you’re unraveling already—and he hasn’t even properly touched you yet. But the way he’s watching you? Like he’s starving. Like you’re the only thing in the world that could possibly satisfy him. It’s almost too much.

His eyes—dark, hungry, and completely locked on you—don’t waver as his hand slips between your thighs, pushing the soaked lace of your underwear to the side. The fabric clings to your skin, drenched, and the moment the cool air hits you, you gasp. Then his fingers brush over your clit—just once—and your whole body jolts, hips twitching instinctively.

“Fuck—” you breathe, barely able to get the word out as his fingers slide through your slick, collecting your arousal, dragging it down your slit. It’s embarrassing how wet you already are, how just his presence—his hands, his voice—can make you come undone like this.

You arch your back, chest pressing into his as your head tips back, baring your throat. And he wastes no time. His mouth descends to your neck, his lips hot and soft at first—then rougher, hungrier. He sucks bruises into your skin, tiny marks of possession you’ll try and fail to hide later. You moan, the sound swallowed by the heat of his mouth, your body grinding against his hand, chasing more friction.

He chuckles against your throat, but it’s not mocking. It’s low, reverent. His fingers finally slip inside you—one at first, so slowly it feels like a tease. You gasp, your walls fluttering around him in response, welcoming the stretch. You can’t help the soft moan that escapes you.

Then he adds a second finger.

Your breath hitches. The sensation is perfect—full and deep, just enough to make your toes curl but not enough to satisfy the greedy pull in your belly. You clutch at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself.

“Oh god—don’t stop,” you whisper, voice barely a thread. Your eyes flutter closed, your lips parted, every muscle in your body focused on the place where he’s inside you.

He watches you with awe—utterly transfixed. You, in his lap, moving on his fingers like you were made for this. Made for him. And maybe you were. His free hand slips beneath your shirt, skimming up your stomach, the warmth of his palm searing into your skin. He grips your hip tightly, holding you steady as you begin to move—your hips rolling down, seeking more, chasing your own pleasure with a desperation that borders on frantic.

The pressure builds fast when his thumb finds your clit, circling it with maddening precision. Of course he knows exactly how to touch you. He always has. It’s a language only the two of you speak.

“Connie…” you whimper, clenching around him. He groans at the feeling, and you feel it echo in your chest.

He adds a third finger.

You cry out, biting your lip hard to stifle the sound. The stretch is sudden, overwhelming, but perfect. You fall forward, arms wrapping around him for support. Your face buries into the crook of his neck as you pant against his skin.

“Missed seeing you like this, sweetheart,” he breathes out, his voice hoarse, reverent. “Fuck, you feel so good. So perfect.”

The words make your heart ache and your stomach twist all at once. He always says them like they’re truths written in scripture—like there’s never been a doubt. You don’t even realise how wildly your hips are moving until he tightens his grip on you, guiding you, anchoring you. The wet sound of his fingers working in and out of you fills the room, lewd and intoxicating.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that,” he murmurs, eyes locked on you like you’re the most breathtaking thing he’s ever seen. “You look so beautiful.”

Your body trembles, the tension in your core rising with every stroke, every curl of his fingers inside you. You’re lost. Absolutely drowning in him. His voice, his hands, his scent—everything is too much and not enough. Your nails dig into his shoulders as your moans grow louder, breath hitching every time his thumb presses just right.

“Connie, baby—fuck, don’t stop… please,” you whimper into his neck, your voice cracking as the edge draws nearer. His grip bruises your hip now, and you know it’ll leave marks come morning. You don’t care. You want the marks. Want the reminder that this—he—is yours.

“Shhh…” he soothes, his voice low and velvety against your ear. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re doing so well, riding my hand like this. Feels good, yeah? C’mon, baby, show me how good it feels…”

You bite his shoulder to keep the cry from tearing out of your throat. His fingers pump faster, deeper, and you can barely breathe.

You need more.

And then he finds it—that spot deep inside you that makes everything in you snap tight.

Your whole body seizes, a shudder wracking through you. He holds you tightly as your hips buck against his palm, your orgasm crashing into you so hard you swear the air leaves your lungs. Your head falls back and your lips part in a silent cry—but his hand is there, pressing over your mouth, catching the sounds that surely would’ve earned you teasing stares and knowing grins over breakfast.

“There you go,” he whispers, brushing his lips against your cheek, voice thick with pride and something deeper. “Shhh… gotta be quiet, sweetheart.”

You can barely hear him over the pounding in your chest, the trembling in your limbs.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “So perfect.”

His fingers slow but don’t stop, helping you ride out every last wave of pleasure. It’s too much, but you don’t want it to end. He knows exactly how to prolong it, how to coax your body through every shiver, every aftershock, until you collapse against him, boneless and dazed.

You’re floating. Warm, weightless, and held so carefully in his arms.

And he never stops looking at you like you’re everything.

You’re breathless, your chest rising and falling against his, your entire body trembling in the aftermath of your release. Every nerve feels lit from within—hypersensitive and aching for more. He slows his movements, fingers still inside you but gentler now, coaxing soft pulses from your already spent body. His hand moves from your mouth to the back of your neck, grounding you with his touch before he pulls you into another kiss.

This one is slower. Deeper. But still urgent in its own way—like he's trying to speak through it, say everything he's feeling without needing words. And you kiss him back like you’re drowning in him. Like you need his lips to keep breathing. It’s raw. Devouring. The kind of kiss that says don’t ever leave.

His fingers curl just right inside you again, and your body tightens, clenching around him involuntarily. You whimper into his mouth, still buzzing from the orgasm he just gave you, still helpless to the way he knows every part of you so intimately.

“You’re so beautiful when you come,” he whispers against your lips, his voice husky and reverent.

Your cheeks flush instantly, heat blooming beneath your skin. You look away, but he doesn’t let you. His gaze stays locked on yours, pulling you back in.

“Did you know that?” he continues, softer now. “Like a work of art. The kind you create.” His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, and your heart stutters at the way he says it—not lustful, not teasing—just honest. “I could watch you like this all the time.”

You never understand how he does it—how he can praise you so shamelessly, make your legs shake and your head spin one moment, and then, in the next breath, turn into this. Gentle. Unshakeably sincere. Soft in a way that’s more disarming than any dirty word could ever be.

You love that about him.

God, you love him.

Your foreheads rest together, breath mingling in the narrow space between you. You smile, still dizzy, still aching, still trying to catch up with the pace of your own heart.

“I missed that,” you rasp, voice hoarse and shaky from everything he just pulled from you.

His eyes soften immediately, and he kisses you again, lips curling slightly into a smile that you feel more than see. “I missed that too,” he murmurs, like it’s a secret.

His free hand drifts to your braid, fingers expertly loosening it as he slips the tie from your hair and slides it onto his wrist like a promise. Your hair falls around your face in soft waves, and he brushes a few strands aside, tucking them behind your ear. Then his leg shifts beneath you, spreading your thighs wider, and before you can register it—before you can breathe or brace or even blink—he flips you onto your back, body covering yours like a storm rolling in.

The gasp rips out of your throat as your back hits the mattress, your hands instinctively gripping his shoulders, eyes wide and wild. But he’s already there, already hovering above you, eyes locked on yours with that look. That look. The one that says you’re his entire world and he’s about to worship you like it.

His voice drops to a growl, low and sinful, his fingers now gripping your hips tightly. “And we’re far from done, angel.” He leans down, brushing his lips against your jaw, his breath hot and heavy. “By the time morning comes, the only thing you’ll remember is my name.”

His eyes are dark. Darker than before. Hungry. And you know what that look means.

It means you’re not sleeping tonight.

You swallow hard, your body already arching into his, legs falling open as if on instinct. Your underwear is already pulled off you, skin is flushed, your breath shallow, your heart beating too fast and not fast enough.

And the truth is?

You want it. Every bit of it. Again and again and again.

╭┈┈┈┈┈┈╯ 𓆉 𓇼 ╰┈┈┈┈┈┈╮

A/N: Closer glance into the past of Conrad and reader as an actual couple 💙 I had to write this since episode 5 aired. This is the part of their life when they’re already in an established relationship 🫣👀