#like Sun + Light in Constant Orbit?

[spotlightstudios]

I love writing Found Family, and I'm ngl, it's kinda why I stopped posting a lot of DCA content.

I did that thing where I stared at the characters for too long and said, "y'know, that's good sibling/guardian material" and then obliterated myself.

[nororitz]

Phainon who smiles at you brightly, the same as always, never changing. The senior student council member that pesters you constantly with dazzling blue eyes and a kind laugh. He refuses to leave you alone, as if he knows that it would be cruel to you.

Despite your assurance and seemingly fine appearance, Phainon looks at you with his eyes forming into crescents. He shakes his head and rests his chin on his palm, eyes never leaving your form. The intensity of his gaze speaks of adoration and you can’t help but quickly shift your focus to the book in your hand instead. Soft spring breeze blows strands of hair into your face, though you quickly tucked them behind your ears. Anything to distract yourself from that unfamiliar look of his, one completely peculiar to you, one that tugs at your heartstring.

Another laugh leaves his lips, his form shifting closer to yours, inquiring what you were reading. As always, you earnestly explain the content of the book to him. Without fail, his eyes are gentle, trained on the you who talks with a light of passion. Moments like these remain a constant in your memories. An incarnation of the sun orbiting around you warmly— Phainon, the beloved Phainon that breaks down your walls and embraces you so kindly and gently. Maybe, just maybe, peaceful days like these would last forever, where the light in his eyes would never fade.

a/n: i’ve been going through hi3 lore lately and the 3.2 quest ToT

[satellite-evans]

Bisous

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x reader

Summary: Charles' daughter loves to prank him <3

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings: fluff

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The morning sun began its slow ascent over the horizon, filtering through the sheer curtains of your Monaco apartment. The soft, honey-hued glow that spread across the room seemed to breathe life into every corner. The elegant furniture, a blend of sleek modernity and comfortable coziness, caught the light in just the right way, creating an atmosphere of peaceful serenity. Outside, the sounds of the city were a distant hum—a low, constant pulse that blended with the faint rustling of leaves from the balcony plants, which swayed gently in the breeze. Every so often, you could hear the soft cry of seagulls soaring above the harbor, a reminder of the water that lay just beyond the city’s edge. Together, these sounds formed a comforting melody, one that had become the soundtrack to your mornings. It was a rhythm you cherished deeply, a moment of stillness amidst the sometimes overwhelming pace of life.

The rich, inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted from the kitchen, swirling through the air and wrapping around you like a cozy embrace. It was your daily ritual—the one constant in your life that always brought a sense of calm. The familiar scent, warm and robust, settled in your chest as you took a slow, deep breath, savoring it. No matter how chaotic the rest of the day might become, this quiet moment was yours. It was the calm before the storm, the stillness before the world outside demanded your attention.

However, as is often the case with motherhood, this tranquil morning wouldn’t last long.

The soft, rhythmic sound of tiny feet pattering against the hardwood floor quickly broke the serenity. You turned just in time to see Amelie—your 2.5-year-old whirlwind—darting through the living room, her chestnut curls bouncing with every step. She was full of energy, her cheeks flushed with excitement, as she chased Leo, the family dog, around the room. The dog, who was equally enthusiastic, skidded around the furniture, dodging her tiny hands that reached for him. Her laughter echoed throughout the apartment, a sound so pure and infectious that it filled the space with a warmth only she could bring.

You couldn’t help but smile as you watched the playful scene unfold from the kitchen. Despite the exhaustion that motherhood often brought, these moments—these bursts of joy—made it all worth it. The sight of Amelie, with her sparkling eyes that seemed to mirror Charles’ in their depth, and her tiny arms flailing as she ran after the dog, made your heart swell. She was the perfect blend of him—her father—and you.

It was almost hard to believe how fast she was growing up. Just a few months ago, she was still babbling nonsensically, and now she could say over 180 words (yes, you had counted them all), stringing together simple sentences that left you in awe. The way she repeated words, mimicking both you and Charles, was nothing short of miraculous. Each new sentence felt like a little victory, a reminder of how quickly time passed.

Amelie’s bond with Charles was a thing of its own. The two of them were inseparable, a pair that seemed destined for each other from the moment she was born. When Charles was home, she followed him everywhere, clinging to him with a love that was both adorable and touching. It was no surprise that her first word had been ‘Papa.’ Whenever Charles was around, her little world seemed to revolve around him, her every action drawing him into her orbit.

Today, though, was different. Today was special. Charles was finally coming home after weeks of being away for races. The moment Amelie heard the news that morning, she could hardly contain herself. She’d been bouncing on the bed, her tiny legs kicking in excitement, her high-pitched voice squealing with joy. "Papa come today! Maman, me excited!" she had exclaimed, her face lighting up with the kind of joy that only a child could express.

You couldn’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm, pulling her into your arms for a quick hug. "I know, baby, I’m excited too," you said softly, brushing her curls out of her face. "But you have to save some of that energy for Papa so you can play together later, okay?"

Amelie nodded, her excitement practically radiating off her. "Otay, Maman," she had replied, her eyes gleaming with anticipation and went straight to the living room.

That promise was long forgotten as she was now chasing Leo around the living room, they were running around as though the whole apartment was their personal racetrack. The scene was one of pure chaos, but it was the kind of chaos that made life so full.

"Amelie Leclerc, can you please stop chasing Leo?" You called out playfully, though you could barely keep up with her giggles and the sound of her tiny feet tapping across the floor. You tried to grab her, but she managed to duck away with a squeal of laughter, running in the opposite direction.

Despite the exhaustion you could already feel creeping in, you couldn’t help but smile. Watching her run, her little body so full of life, it was impossible to not be filled with love. You finally caught her, scooping her up into your arms, the warmth of her small frame against you grounding you in the moment.

"What's up with you, young lady? Where is all this energy coming from?" You asked, brushing the hair out of her face. "It’s not even noon yet, and Maman is already tired." You teased, brushing the hair out of her face.

You carried her to the kitchen and began preparing her breakfast. Charles had always been very careful about her diet, ensuring she had balanced, healthy meals, and you followed that lead. Today’s breakfast was simple but wholesome—milk, cereal, a little fruit, and a slice of whole wheat toast, all made with love. She ate everything, happily chatting about how she was going to greet Charles and show him her new toy car collection. Her excitement was palpable, filling the space around you with a warmth that seemed to echo the sunlight streaming through the windows.

After breakfast, you helped Amelie get ready, brushing her hair and letting her pick out a pink bow to match her outfit—a red Ferrari T-shirt and tiny denim shorts. As she twirled around, admiring herself in the mirror, she beamed with pride. "Look, Maman! I am beautiful!"

Your heart swelled with love for her, your eyes soft with affection. "Yes, you are, honey—the most beautiful girl I have ever seen," you told her, your voice thick with emotion.

Just as you were about to sit down on the couch, the front door creaked open, and the familiar sound of Leo’s excited bark filled the apartment. The dog’s tail wagged furiously as he bolted toward the door, clearly recognizing the scent of the one person he always welcomed with open arms—Charles. You turned toward the door, and your heart skipped a beat as you saw your husband step inside, his face lighting up the moment he saw you.

Leo sprinted toward him, jumping up to cover him in kisses, and Charles laughed as he crouched down to greet him. "Hey, Leo! Did you take care of our girls? Good boy!" he chuckled, scratching the dog’s ears.

You ran to him, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"Hey, baby. Welcome home," you whispered against his skin, your heart racing at the feel of him in your arms once more. His familiar scent enveloped you, grounding you in the moment.

Charles’s response was immediate. He cupped your face with both hands, his lips pressing against yours in a kiss that was both urgent and tender. A soft, needy sigh escaped him as his lips trailed down to your jaw, then to the side of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin, and his hands roamed down your back, pulling you tighter to him as though he never wanted to let go.

"God, I missed you so much," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. His hands slid into your hair, gently tugging you closer, burying his face in the softness of it. "I thought about you every damn day. Your scent... the way you feel in my arms… I couldn’t wait to come home to you guys. Speaking of, where's Amelie? I missed her like crazy."

That was a good question. Normally, Amelie would be the first one to run to him, her little feet pounding against the hardwood floor as she squealed with excitement. But today, when you turned to see her, there she was, still sitting on the couch, staring intently at the TV, completely oblivious to her father’s return.

You raised an eyebrow, confused. “Amelie, look! Papa is home! Aren’t you happy?” You called out gently, stepping toward her with Charles following close behind. The two of you sat down in front of her, a bit hesitant, unsure of what was going on.

Charles leaned forward slightly, his voice soft but laced with concern. “Hey, chérie, Papa is home! Didn’t you miss me?” He gave her a hopeful smile, but his eyes betrayed a hint of nervousness, clearly wondering if she’d forgotten him after all this time.

You joined in, trying to jog her memory. “Amelie, remember how excited you were this morning? You even picked your outfit for Papa.” You smiled as you spoke, trying to make the connection for her.

Amelie paused, still staring at the TV, her little fingers absently tracing the edge of her shirt. Then, without any warning, she leaned in and gave you a big, sloppy kiss right on the lips, her face lighting up with affection. “MUAH! Maman, I love you,” she said in her sweetest little voice, her eyes sparkling with pure love.

You were taken aback for a moment, smiling warmly at her. You could feel the surprise and confusion rising in Charles’s gaze, his mouth slightly open as he looked from Amelie to you. Why wasn’t she rushing to him, as she always did?

The silence hung in the air for a moment before Charles spoke up again, his voice tinged with disbelief. “I knew it. She forgot me! Mon Dieu, my own daughter forgot me!” He let out an exaggerated groan, clutching his chest in mock despair.

You couldn’t help but laugh, though a part of you shared the same confusion. You reached over and gently placed a reassuring hand on his chest, your thumb brushing over his shirt as you looked up at him with a small smile. “Relax, Charles. She was ecstatic this morning. Maybe she’s just shy. You know how she can get when she's in a new mood.”

Charles gave you a skeptical look, but before he could say anything else, Amelie turned toward you again and planted another kiss on your cheek. “MUAH! Maman is mine,” she said, giggling as she gave you a tight hug.

The affectionate gesture only made Charles’s face drop even further. He sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “I’ve been replaced, haven’t I? She’s all yours now, Maman.”

Just as Charles began to stand up, clearly disheartened, Amelie’s expression suddenly shifted. A twinkle danced in her eyes, and before either of you could react, she burst out laughing, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Surprise, Papa! I joke youuu!”

With a squeal of laughter, Amelie jumped off the couch and ran straight into Charles’s arms. He was caught off guard for a moment, but then, as if on instinct, he swept her up into his arms, his heart visibly lifting as he pulled her close.

“Oh my God, Amelie, you pranked Papa! You got me so good, chérie!” Charles laughed, his voice full of relief and pure joy as he kissed her cheeks over and over, showering her with affection. “Papa thought you forgot about him! You’re going to be trouble, little one.”

Amelie giggled, her tiny hands grasping his face, and with all the innocence of a child, she responded, “I remember you. Always. I love you, Papa.”

Charles’s eyes softened, and he blinked away a tear that had unexpectedly formed. He held her tightly, his voice full of emotion. “I love you too, mon amour,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

You watched the scene unfold, feeling a rush of warmth flood through you. It was moments like these that made everything worthwhile—the simple, genuine love and affection that filled your home.

Amelie, still clinging to her father’s neck, turned toward you eagerly. “Papa, play cars with me now?” she asked, her voice full of anticipation.

Charles smiled, the familiar light returning to his eyes as he nodded. “Of course, let’s go! But first, a big group hug.” He pulled you both in close, wrapping his arms tightly around you and Amelie. The three of you stood there for a moment, savoring the closeness, the warmth of your little family.

“I love my girls,” he whispered, his voice filled with adoration.

You kissed his cheek, feeling a deep sense of gratitude and love in your heart. “And we love you too,” you replied, your words sincere and full of warmth.

[thedilfdiaries]

Moth to a Flame

Firefighter!Joel Miller x F!Reader

Masterlist

Wordcount: 6,877

Summary: During a fire station training session, seasoned firefighter Joel Miller becomes entranced by a volunteer's poise and spirit. When you lose your cherished nanna's ring in the hustle and bustle, Joel seizes the opportunity to return it.

Warnings: 18+, unprotected p in v, male masturbation, soft but dom!Joel, light alcohol consumption, f!oral receiving, reader wears a dress.

Notes: Tysm @joelslegalwhre for being the most incredible human and beta 💖 tysm @saradika-graphics for the divider

In the golden embrace of the morning sun, the fire station pulsates with an electric anticipation. The air is thick with the scent of determination and the metallic tang of polished trucks standing at attention. Joel Miller, a firefighter with a decade of scars and stories etched into his soul, feels the familiar rush of adrenaline as he prepares for the day's training session with live volunteers. The heat, the weight of his gear, and the omnipresent smoke are his constants, his companions in a dance with danger that defines his existence. Yet amidst this orchestrated chaos, a new melody captures Joel's attention. You stand there, signing waivers, a vision of delicate strength wrapped in an aura of grace. Your eyes sparkle as bright as the ring on your finger with a blend of trepidation and thrill. There's an undeniable resilience in your gaze, and in this moment, Joel is certain, he yearns to unravel the story behind those eyes.

As you slip into character for the training exercise, your performance is nothing short of mesmerizing. You become the embodiment of someone caught in tragedy's grip, each flinch and strained breath echoing through Joel's heart like a siren's call. The world around him blurs into insignificance; all that remains is you—a beacon amidst smoke and shadows.

Joel watches you intently as you navigate through simulated wreckage with elegance despite your role as an injured victim. Your portrayal is hauntingly authentic; it stirs something within him that goes beyond professional admiration—it touches on something deeply human and profoundly connective. With every second that passes, Joel feels himself being drawn deeper into your orbit, captivated by your enigmatic presence and vibrant spirit that shines even in play-acted despair.

As Joel moves closer to you during these drills designed to hone their skills, he finds himself longing not just for safety but also for connection.

———

As the echoes of the day's training drills dissipate into the quiet corners of the fire station, a stillness settles over the scene. The once vibrant cacophony of shouts and machinery now gives way to a serene hush, as if the very building itself exhales a sigh of relief.

In this newfound calm, Joel's gaze falls upon a glimmering object nestled against the concrete floor. He stoops down, his gloved fingers encircling the small, radiant treasure. It's your ring—the same one you wore when you first walked in, its presence etched in his memory from when you signed those waivers with such care. The ring looks well-traveled, its metal worn smooth by countless days and nights on your finger.

With a sense of purpose, Joel secures the ring in his pocket. He hastens through his post-training routine, shedding the day's sweat and grime under the cleansing spray of the station's shower before gathering his belongings to depart. But there's an unfinished task that weighs on his mind, one that cannot wait until tomorrow.

Approaching Beatrice's desk with a warm smile playing on his lips, he prepares to make his request known. "Beatrice," he begins affectionately, "my favorite admin."

She looks up from her paperwork and returns his smile with one of her own. "Joel Miller," she says with a hint of playfulness in her voice. "What brings you to my corner of chaos today?"

He chuckles lightly at her jest and nods towards her computer screen where he knows she keeps all their records meticulously organized. "Actually," Joel confesses earnestly, "I need your help trackin’ down my victim from today's exercise." He gently takes the ring from the safety of his pocket and holds it up for Beatrice to see. "She dropped somethin’ quite precious during all that commotion.”

"No problem at all, Joel," she chirps, her voice as bright as the sun filtering through the station windows. "Just give me a moment."

"Thank you, darlin’," Joel responds gratefully, his own smile mirroring hers as he waits for the information that will bridge the gap between him and you. The seconds tick by in anticipation, each one carrying the promise of an imminent reunion that stirs his heart more than any fire ever could.

———

As Joel strides toward your neighborhood, the address scribbled on the post-it note seems to pulse with a rhythm that matches his quickening heartbeat. The discovery that you live just a few blocks away from him in this cozy enclave feels like a serendipitous twist of fate. With each step he takes, the anticipation builds within his chest, a fluttering sensation that's both exhilarating and unfamiliar.

The trees lining the sidewalk whisper secrets as he passes, their leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. He navigates the familiar streets with a newfound sense of purpose, each step bringing him closer to your front door—and to the mystery that is you.

Upon reaching your home, Joel pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts. The facade of the house seems to reflect his own nervous energy back at him. He takes a deep breath and ascends the front steps, his heart pounding with an intensity he hasn't felt in years.

With a trembling hand, he reaches out to press the doorbell, but before he can, the door swings open. There you stand, framed by the doorway and bathed in soft afternoon light. Your yellow sundress adorned with white flowers accentuates your silhouette, while an intricate silver chain with two delicate pendant charms rests against your skin—a subtle allure that captivates him instantly.

"Hello?" you inquire cautiously, your expression one of mild confusion—a sign that perhaps you don't remember him as vividly as he remembers you from just hours before at the fire station drill.

"Hey there," Joel begins with an attempt at casualness that belies his racing pulse and slightly unsteady voice. He clears his throat and steadies himself before continuing, "I'm Joel from earlier today—the fire department training session." His hand instinctively lifts to present your ring between two fingers for you to see. "I believe this belongs to you."

Your eyes widen in surprise and relief as recognition dawns on your face—a beautiful tableau of emotions playing across it like sunlight dancing on water's surface. "My nanna's ring!" You exclaim softly while gently accepting it back into your care with delicate fingers poised between reverence and joy at its recovery.

The gratitude shining in your eyes is palpable as they meet his once more over this small but significant reunion of yours with such precious memories attached. Your words of gratitude hang in the air like a sweet melody, and with a gentle tug, you pull Joel into a warm embrace. "Thank you," you say softly against his shoulder, "you have no idea what this ring means to me. I thought it was lost forever."

As the hug comes to an end, you step back, your gaze drifting toward the interior of your home before returning to meet Joel's eyes. There's a sincerity in your voice that's impossible to ignore as you extend an invitation that catches him off guard. "I was just making dinner. Would you like to join me? It's the least I can do after you've returned something so precious."

Joel's hand instinctively moves to the back of his neck, a sign of his nervousness as he contemplates your offer. "Wouldn't wanna impose," he replies hesitantly.

"Not at all," you assure him with a reassuring smile. "It's just spaghetti and meatballs—nothing fancy."

The mention of a home-cooked meal stirs something within Joel. His demanding schedule often leaves him with little time for such simple pleasures, and the prospect of enjoying one now is unexpectedly enticing.

"If it's not too much trouble ma'am."

You catch the slightest wince in Joel's expression as the word "ma'am" slips from his lips, and you can't help but tease him a little. "Please, ma'am makes me sound like some old spinster," you say with a light-hearted laugh. You introduce yourself by name before extending your hand in greeting. You step back, holding the door open, an unspoken invitation for him to cross the threshold into the warmth of your abode.

Joel pauses, a momentary hesitation before he steps inside, his senses are immediately greeted by the intoxicating aroma of home-cooked food that fills every corner of the house. “Smells delicious," he remarks, his voice tinged with anticipation.

"Hope it tastes even better," you reply with a smile, gesturing around you. "Please, make yourself at home. Mi casa es tu casa, or whatever it is."

As you lead him through the foyer, he takes in the cozy living room, a space that feels both personal and welcoming. The walls are adorned with photographs—snapshots of your life, your loved ones, and cherished memories. A stack of books on the coffee table hints at your eclectic tastes, while a vibrant bouquet of fresh flowers adds a touch of elegance and freshness to the room.

You guide Joel to the kitchen, where he takes a seat at the island, a central hub of domestic activity. You head to the refrigerator, pulling out a couple of beers. "Drink?" you ask, holding one out for him.

You watch as Joel's eyes flicker with a hint of surprise, perhaps at the contrast between the expected glass of wine and the down-to-earth beer in your hand. "Didn't take ya for a beer girl," he comments, a playful challenge in his tone.

You let out a small giggle, the sound mingling with the clink of bottles. "My parents are the wine connoisseurs," you explain, rolling your eyes good-naturedly. "I keep beer on hand just to stir the pot. They turn their noses up at it, call it a 'poor man's drink,' but I love the simplicity. No need for fancy glasses or decanting—just open and enjoy." You twist off the cap and take a sip, your expression one of contentment. "It's my little rebellion."

Joel can’t help but smirk as he sips his beer. You lift your drink and take a refreshing sip before you set it gently on the counter. Turning your attention back to the stove, you tend to the sauce, stirring with a practiced hand, the rich aroma filling the kitchen and mingling with the yeasty scent of the beer.

Joel takes a long drink from his beer, the bottle cool against his lips as he watches you move gracefully around the kitchen. He's a sweet man, the kind who would offer the shirt off his back without a second thought. Yet, beneath that kindness lies a deep-seated longing—a desire to find someone like you to make his wife, to be the heart of his home.

As he observes you, his mind begins to weave elaborate fantasies. He imagines himself returning from a grueling day of battling flames, the anticipation building as he envisions you waiting for him in your charming sundress and apron, bent over as you retrieve dinner from the oven. In his mind's eye, you're sans panties, a detail that sends a thrill through him.

His pants begin to stir with this thought, an involuntary twitch that betrays his growing arousal. The fantasy escalates; he sees himself approaching you from behind with his erection straining against the fabric of his jeans. He imagines grabbing your hips and plunging into you with one swift motion, filling you completely as your moans of pleasure echo in his ears. The scenario is tantalizingly vivid, and it fuels the hardening of his cock, which now presses urgently against his denim confines.

The fantasy lingers too long—a delicious torment that has him shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He takes another swig of beer in hopes of quelling the fire that burns within him, all while keeping his gaze fixed on you.

You're oblivious to the storm of desire raging across from you as you stir the sauce on the stove and speak over the hum of the fan. Your voice is soft and inviting when you apologize for the noise and offer Joel another beer from the fridge—a gesture so simple yet so full of warmth.

Then it happens; as if by some unspoken cue in this erotic dance between reality and fantasy, you bend down to take out the garlic bread you've prepared. The hem of your sundress lifts just enough for Joel to catch sight of what he's been imagining; no panties—a confirmation that sets his heart racing and sends a jolt straight to his groin.

"Shit..." he murmurs under his breath while subtly trying to adjust himself in an attempt to conceal his burgeoning erection beneath the tablecloth draped over your dining table. "Mind if I use your restroom?" Joel asks hurriedly, striving for normalcy despite feeling anything but normal at this moment.

You turn around with a smile that lights up your face like a sunrise over calm waters—warm and welcoming without even realizing how much more fuel it adds to Joel's fiery imagination. “Of course, just down the hall, first door on the left."

"Thanks," Joel manages to say, his voice betraying a hint of awkwardness as he rises from his chair. He quickly exits the kitchen, his steps hurried as he makes his way toward the sanctuary of the bathroom. The door closes behind him, and in the privacy of this small space, he allows himself to feel the full extent of his arousal.

His hands find the cool wall in front of him, bracing himself as he tries to regain control over his body's reactions. But it's no use; the image of you, the fleeting glimpse of your naked flesh beneath that sundress, has ignited a fire within him that only one thing can quench.

With trembling hands, Joel releases his cock from the confines of his jeans and boxers, letting them fall to the floor. His fingers wrap around his length while his other hand presses against the wall for support. His thumb caresses his balls as he closes his eyes and loses himself in the fantasy of being inside you—your warmth enveloping him completely.

The sensation is overwhelming; with each stroke, he imagines himself thrusting into your wet cunt, feeling your body yield to him as pleasure courses through both of you. His breath hitches as he pictures your inner thighs slick against his hard cock, an image so vivid it feels like reality rather than mere fantasy.

His rhythm quickens; the sound of his heavy breathing fills the room as he chases release—a necessary escape from this fevered dream that has taken hold of him. With a final groan Joel reaches climax, spilling himself onto his hand in hot spurts while images of you dance before his closed eyes.

Once spent and with control regained, Joel cleans up and takes a moment to compose himself before stepping out into the hallway once more.

He reenters the kitchen with cautious steps; taking in every detail anew: how your hair sways gently with each movement; how gracefully you navigate around your own space; how utterly captivating you are without even trying to be so. Like an intoxicating drug coursing through Joel's veins—a potent mix that leaves him craving more.

You pivot gracefully, two plates cradled in your hands, their contents a testament to your culinary prowess. As you sit down beside Joel, he watches you with an intensity that borders on reverence. Every subtle movement of your hair, every shift of your body captivates him utterly. It's as though he's discovered a newfound addiction, one that courses through his veins and leaves him yearning for more—more of your presence, more of this warmth that seems to radiate from you effortlessly.

The scent of garlic wafts through the air, mingling with the aroma of freshly baked bread and homemade sauce. It's a comforting symphony of scents that causes Joel's mouth to water in anticipation.

"Hope it's good," you say with a hint of modesty in your voice, "sorry it's nothing more interesting."

Joel shakes his head emphatically after taking his first bite of pasta. "It's perfect," he assures you, his words genuine and heartfelt. "I honestly can't remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal like this. It's delicious—quite the step up from frozen pizza."

Your smile is radiant as you accept his compliment with grace. "Well, honestly," you reply with a light laugh, "I'll be repaying you for a lifetime for finding this ring for me. Come by anytime you're in the neighborhood."

"Funny thing," Joel responds between bites, "I only live a few blocks from here, down on Anderson." This revelation sparks an animated conversation between the two of you—a sharing of stories and dreams that flows as easily as the beer in your bottles. You talk about everything: work and family; friends and interests, and even your favorite bad movies that are so terrible they loop back around to being entertaining again.

After a few hours filled with laughter and learning about each other over drinks the camaraderie between you is palpable as you prepare to introduce Joel to what is perhaps one of the most delightfully awful films ever made—a movie so bad it transcends its own terribleness into something truly special.

"I can't believe you haven't seen it yet! We have to watch it; I'm putting it on right now! It's the best worst movie there ever is or ever will be." Your enthusiasm is infectious; even if Joel has his doubts about such bold claims regarding cinematic quality or lack thereof, he can't help but be drawn into your excitement.

“That's a serious claim, dunno if I believe it." Joel's words carry a playful skepticism as he raises an eyebrow at you, clearly intrigued by your passionate endorsement of the movie.

"Trust me!" You reply with an infectious enthusiasm that lights up your entire face. "You'll never want it to end." Your conviction is unshakeable, and there's a sparkle in your eyes that speaks volumes about the joy you find in sharing this guilty pleasure with someone else.

With a swift, almost eager motion, you spring up from your seat and make your way to the couch, a well-loved blanket clutched in your hands. You turn to look at Joel, patting the spot on the couch next to you with a warm, inviting smile that seems to brighten the entire room.

"I can't in good faith let you leave until you've at least seen this movie," you tell him, your tone half-joking, half-serious. It's a playful challenge, one that Joel readily accepts with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He rises from his chair, crossing the short distance to join you on the couch. As he settles in beside you, the cushions dip under his weight, bringing the two of you closer together. You can't help but smile as you pull the blanket over both of you, a cozy shield against the outside world.

The movie's opening credits roll across the screen, but Joel's attention is divided. He's acutely aware of your presence beside him—the warmth of your body, the soft rhythm of your breathing, and the intoxicating scent of vanilla and coconut that seems to envelop you both. As you snuggle into him, resting your head on his arm, Joel feels a surge of desire tempered by a wave of uncertainty.

His mind races with images of you—bent over, moaning beneath him, your body tightening around him as he imagines himself thrusting deep inside you. The fantasy is so vivid that it takes all his self-control not to act on the impulses that course through him. But then you shift closer to him, nestling into the crook of his arm with a contented sigh that makes his heart skip a beat.

Joel's arm hovers in the air for a moment before he gathers the courage to wrap it around your shoulders. The gesture feels natural yet charged with an electricity that hums just beneath the surface. You respond by snuggling even closer, your arms encircling his torso in a silent embrace that sends shivers down his spine.

This newfound intimacy is both exhilarating and comforting for Joel; it's as if he's found a sanctuary in the warmth of your embrace—a safe haven from the tumultuous desires that wage war within him. His heart rate begins to slow as he holds you gently but firmly against him, savoring the softness of your skin and the trust implicit in this quiet cuddle on the couch.

The thought of kissing you crosses Joel's mind more than once. Your lips look so inviting—soft and sweet like ripe fruit just waiting to be tasted. He imagines what it would be like to close the distance between you two; to feel those lips yield under his own; to explore every single curve and contour with an urgency born from longing and restraint.

But despite this overwhelming temptation, Joel remains cautious—mindful not to scare you away with his crippling desire.

As the movie plays out, Joel's thoughts drift further away from the screen. The plot, the characters, the absurdity of it all—none of it can hold a candle to the vivid fantasies that dance through his mind. The desire that has been simmering beneath the surface since he first walked through your door now threatens to boil over, fueled by every innocent touch and shared laugh under the soft glow of your living room.

His cock twitches with a life of its own, straining against the fabric of his jeans as the images of you flood his senses. He imagines cupping your breasts in his hands, feeling their weight and warmth; tracing the contours of your neck with his tongue before capturing your lips in a searing kiss; teasing your nipples with his teeth until they're as hard as the erection that throbs insistently beneath the blanket.

The need for release is overwhelming, and despite his best efforts to remain still and composed, Joel's arousal is becoming increasingly difficult to conceal. The blanket tented above his groin is a clear indication of his body's betrayal—a beacon signaling his unspoken desire for you.

He holds his breath, praying that you won't shift your hand any lower lest you discover just how much he's struggling to maintain control. But what Joel doesn't realize is that you've already noticed—it would be impossible not to with such an obvious bulge pressing against the fabric that separates skin from skin.

The knowledge that you are aware of his predicament only serves to heighten Joel's arousal. And then, without warning, you move—your hand grazing the top of his thigh before inching higher and higher still until it hovers just below where he needs it most.

Joel gasps as you begin to palm him through the denim barrier. Each movement sends waves of pleasure coursing through him. His moan is soft but audible in the quiet room; a testament to how much he craves your touch—how much he craves you.

As you continue to explore the contours of Joel's body with your touch, he feels a shiver run down his spine, a visceral reaction to the electricity that seems to arc between you two. The desire that has been building within him since he first stepped into your home now threatens to consume him entirely. He aches for you—for the taste of your lips, the softness of your skin, the warmth of your embrace. Every moment in your presence only fans the flames of his longing, and he finds himself teetering on the edge of restraint.

Your hand glides over his thigh, each stroke sending jolts of pleasure through him. His cock strains against the confines of his jeans, a testament to how much he wants you—how much he needs you. His breath hitches in his throat as he fights to maintain some semblance of control, but it's a battle he's losing quickly.

You see Joel's eyes flutter shut, a silent admission of how deeply your touch affects him. The evidence of his arousal is plain to see beneath the blanket that does little to hide his desire for you. His grip on reality—and perhaps more importantly, on the couch cushions—tightens as he struggles against the tide of yearning that threatens to sweep him away.

But you have no intention of letting this moment pass by unexplored. With deliberate intent, you move your hand higher still until it grazes the head of his cock through the denim that separates you. The sound that escapes from Joel is part sigh, part plea—a clear indication that his control is hanging by a thread.

In one swift motion, Joel captures your wrist, halting your movements and drawing your attention back to him. His eyes are dark with need as they lock onto yours; there's an unspoken question lingering in their depths—a question that hangs between you both like an invisible thread.

You give Joel a small nod, granting him silent permission to explore his desires. Without missing a beat, he leans in, his lips brushing against the tender skin of your neck. He lingers at your pulse point, his gentle suction sending waves of pleasure through you. His hand finds your thigh, caressing it with an up-and-down motion that makes your legs tremble with anticipation.

A soft whimper escapes you, and you bite down on your bottom lip in an effort to stifle the urge to scream out his name. Joel's fingers trace a path under your dress, moving upward with agonizing slowness. His smile broadens as he feels the warmth of your flesh beneath his fingertips.

He carefully lifts your dress off your body, casting it aside in one fluid motion, leaving you completely exposed and naked before him. Standing up, you take his hand and lead him towards the stairs that ascend to your bed. Joel is taken aback by your assertiveness—it's not what he expected from you—but his surprise quickly gives way to desire. All that matters is that he wants you, needs you. So he follows without question as you guide him upstairs to the intimacy of your bedroom.

You walk backward towards the center of the room, drawing Joel along with you. You gaze into his eyes and see pure desire shining back at you—a look that matches the yearning within yourself. In this moment, there's no room for doubt or hesitation; there's only the two of you.

In the dimly lit room, the air is thick with anticipation, each breath you take laced with the scent of desire. Joel stands before you, his silhouette a study in masculine beauty against the soft glow of the room. With a measured pace, he grasps the hem of his shirt, the fabric straining against the defined muscles of his body. As he lifts it over his head, the light dances across his tanned skin, highlighting the rugged contours of his chest and the salt-and-pepper dusting of his happy trail.

The sight of his broad shoulders and the solid expanse of his chest leaves you momentarily breathless. His physique is a canvas of hard work and dedication, each muscle carved from years of physical exertion. The soft dusting of hair trails down his toned stomach, leading your gaze to the waistband of his pants.

With a swift, almost impatient motion, he frees himself from the last of his clothing. His movements are a symphony of strength and grace, and as his pants slide down his powerful thighs, you catch your first glimpse of his manhood. His cock stands proud and erect, a beacon of his arousal, the skin stretched taut and flushed with the heat of his desire.

The sight of him—unabashedly naked and utterly desirable—sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. His cock is a testament to his masculinity; thick, with a defined shape that beckons your touch. A bead of moisture glistens at the tip, a clear sign of his readiness, and you can't help but imagine the warmth of his skin against your palm, the weight of him in your hand.

Joel's cock is a marvel of male anatomy, the veins tracing intricate patterns along its length, pulsing. It's a sight that is both primal and beautiful, the very essence of his maleness on display just for you. The coarse hair at the base only serves to accentuate its impressive girth, and you find yourself drawn to him, eager to explore every inch of his rugged, manly form.

As Joel hovers over you, his gaze rakes over your body with an intensity that sets your skin ablaze. He drinks in the sight of you, his appreciation evident in the hunger that darkens his eyes.

He takes a moment to explore, his rough palms gently cupping the softness of your curves, his thumbs teasing your hardening nipples. The contrast of his rugged hands against your delicate skin sends waves of pleasure coursing through you, and a soft moan escapes your lips, encouraging him to continue his sensual exploration.

You feel the weight of his body as he settles between your thighs. The coarse hair of his happy trail brushes against your sensitive skin. With a reverence that makes your heart flutter, he lowers his head, his lips tracing a path from your navel to the soft curve of your breast, his breath hot against your skin.

As Joel lifts himself, the muscles in his arms and shoulders ripple with the movement, casting enticing shadows across his skin. He leans over you once more, his gaze filled with a mix of adoration and unbridled lust. His lips trail a scorching path down your stomach, each kiss a tender promise that sends shivers of anticipation through you.

You arch your back, your body instinctively responding to his touch. Your breath hitches as he reaches the delicate juncture of your thighs, his tongue darting out to taste you. He licks and nips at the sensitive skin along your inner thighs, each touch of his mouth stoking the fire within you.

A smirk plays on Joel's lips as he reaches your clit, a knowing glint in his eyes that tells you he's fully aware of the power he holds over you in this moment. With exquisite tenderness, he flicks his tongue over the engorged bundle of nerves, each lick sending jolts of pleasure radiating through your body. You squirm beneath him, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through you.

His fingers part your folds, exposing you fully to his ministrations. He thrusts his tongue into you, exploring your depths with a hunger that leaves you gasping for air. His movements are deliberate and skilled—circling, probing, and sucking in just the right way to make your clit twitch erratically with need.

Joel's own excitement is palpable; with each moan that escapes your lips, his cock grows impossibly harder. The sight of him so turned on by pleasuring you only adds to the intensity of the moment.

As he continues to suck and flick his tongue around your glistening cunt , you can't help but voice your pleasure loudly, the sound echoing off the walls of the room. You push yourself further up the mattress, seeking friction against his relentless tongue as you chase the elusive wave of your orgasm.

"I'm gonna come," you pant out between ragged breaths, "please don't stop." Your world narrows down to the feeling of his tongue against your clit—a maddening rhythm.

As the words tumble from your lips, Joel's eyes flash with a primal hunger, and he knows that you're on the brink. He redoubles his efforts, his tongue working with a renewed fervor as he hears the desperation in your voice.

"That's it, such a good girl," Joel growls against your sensitive flesh, his voice rough with desire. "You're so fucking beautiful.”

Just as you're about to cum Joel pulls away and Joel's dominance takes center stage. He looms over you. His eyes are dark with desire, and there's a wicked glint in them that promises an escalation of pleasure and intensity.

"You like that, don't ya?" he rasps, his voice thick with lust. "Feelin’ my tongue on your wet cunt, makin’ you squirm and beg." He punctuates each word with a roll of his hips, his cock rubbing against your sensitive flesh in a way that makes your breath hitch in your throat.

"Yes," you admit breathlessly, the admission spilling from your lips without hesitation. You're past the point of being coy or reserved.

He grabs your wrists with one hand, pinning them above your head as he leans down to whisper in your ear. "I'm gonna make you scream my name until all your neighbors know exactly who owns this tight little pussy. "You're mine," he asserts, his voice a possessive rumble in your ear. "This little pussy is mine to fuck, mine to pleasure, mine to own.”

The raw intensity of Joel's words sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine. His dominance is a potent aphrodisiac, stoking the fire within you to a fever pitch. You're helpless against the onslaught of sensations—the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, the feel of his calloused hands restraining your wrists, the heat of his breath against your ear.

"Say it," he commands, his voice a low growl that resonates with authority. "Tell who this pussy belongs to."

"It's yours," you gasp, the words spilling from your lips in a rush of submission. "All yours, Joel."

A satisfied smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he releases your wrists, only to grip your hips with both hands. He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. The anticipation is almost unbearable; you can feel every ridge and vein of his impressive girth as he teases you with shallow thrusts, barely breaching your opening.

"Please," you beg, your voice laced with desperation. "I need you inside me."

With a grunt of approval, Joel gives in to your pleas, driving his cock into you with one powerful thrust. The sensation of being filled so completely takes your breath away, a mix of pain and pleasure that leaves you gasping for air. He doesn't give you time to adjust to his size, instead setting a relentless pace that has your body arching off the bed with each forceful stroke.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Your pussy feels like heaven wrapped around my cock baby."

You can't form coherent words anymore; all that escapes your lips are inarticulate cries of pleasure as Joel claims your body with an intensity that leaves you breathless. His hips snap against yours, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the room, punctuated by your desperate moans and his low, guttural grunts.

As he continues to fuck you with wild abandon, you can feel the familiar tightening in your core, a sign that your orgasm is imminent. Your inner walls flutter around his cock, gripping him tightly as he plunges in and out of your soaked pussy.

As the intensity of your shared passion builds, Joel's gaze locks onto yours, his eyes dark with desire and command. "Look at me," he orders, his voice a low, insistent growl that cuts through the haze of pleasure clouding your senses. "Wanna see you when you come for me."

Your eyes meet his, and in that moment, something profound passes between you. It's as if he's reaching into the very depths of your soul, claiming not just your body but every part of you.

With each powerful thrust, Joel drives you closer to the edge of ecstasy. The sight of him above you—his muscles straining with exertion, his skin slick with sweat, and his eyes burning into yours—is more than you can bear. You feel yourself teetering on the brink, a prisoner to the exquisite torment that is building within your core.

"That's it," Joel encourages, his voice ragged with need. "Come on, baby. I gotcha."

As you surrender to the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body, your orgasm takes hold, and you can't help but cry out his name. The sound of it reverberates through the room, a testament to the raw, unfiltered pleasure that Joel has coaxed from your very core.

In the midst of your climax, with your body trembling beneath him, Joel's voice breaks through the fog of ecstasy. "So damn beautiful when you come," he murmurs. "Seein’ you like this, feelin’ you tighten ‘round me—it's the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed."

His praise washes over you, amplifying the intensity of your orgasm. The knowledge that he finds you beautiful in this unguarded moment of pleasure adds a new dimension to the experience—a sense of being cherished and admired that goes beyond the physical.

The combination of his words and the relentless rhythm of his hips proves too much for Joel to withstand. With a final, powerful thrust, he reaches his own peak, his body shuddering as he empties himself inside you. His groans of release mingle with your cries of pleasure, creating a symphony of shared ecstasy that fills the room.

Joel's laughter suddenly fills the room, a warm, hearty sound that wraps around you like a comforting blanket. He pulls you close, his arm a secure band around your waist as he tucks you into his side. You can't help but smile, your heart fluttering in your chest as you press your face against the solid wall of his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat is a soothing counterpoint to your own rapid pulse and heavy breathing.

The reality of tonight's events still feels surreal to you. Here you are, nestled in the sanctuary of your bed, with a man who has managed to ignite a fire within you that you didn't even know existed. The thought flickers through your mind that this is something transient, something that might not be meant to last. But in this moment, none of that matters. All that matters is the connection between you and Joel—a connection that feels as real and as solid as anything you've ever known.

After several moments of comfortable silence, Joel's voice breaks through the quietude of the room. "That was perfect," he says, his words laced with genuine admiration and wonder. You can't help but giggle at his enthusiasm—it mirrors the joy bubbling up inside of you. Turning in his embrace, you find yourself lost in his deep brown eyes—eyes that seem to see right through to your very soul.

Leaning in, he captures your lips in a kiss that is both tender and passionate—a slow, sweet melding that sends shivers down your spine and makes your lips tingle with delight. You part your lips slightly, granting him deeper access as his tongue sweeps against yours in an intimate dance that leaves you breathless and yearning for more.

His hand finds its way into your hair, fingers gently tangling in the strands as he cradles your head with surprising gentleness for someone with such strong hands. Every touch feels electric—each caress igniting sparks beneath your skin until it seems like there's nothing else but this perfect moment suspended in time.

As the kiss comes to a gentle close, Joel pulls back just enough to gaze into your eyes, his own reflecting a mix of satisfaction and reluctance. His attention shifts momentarily to the alarm clock on your nightstand, its glowing digits announcing the arrival of midnight.

"Fuck," he sighs, the word a soft exhalation against your lips. "As much as I'd love to stay here with you, I really gotta head home and try to get a few hours of sleep.”

You offer him a smile that's both understanding and a little wistful, nodding your head in silent agreement. Leaning in, you initiate one last kiss—a sweet, lingering press of your lips against his.

"Guess it's true what they say," you murmur, your voice soft yet teasing, "heroes never rest. Go on, Mr. Fireman, get some sleep. But do me a favor and text me when you get home. I need to know you made it safely and weren't murdered on the way.”

Joel's chuckle is warm and genuine as he cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your cheekbones in a tender farewell. "I wouldn't dream of leavin’ ya worried," he assures you before capturing your lips in one final kiss.

With a reluctant groan, he extricates himself from the tangle of limbs and bedding, rising from the bed. You watch him dress, the moonlight casting shadows across his toned body, and you can't help but appreciate the sight of him—a man who embodies strength, courage, and unexpected tenderness.

Once he's fully clothed, Joel turns to you one last time, his eyes drinking in the sight of you lying there amidst the rumpled sheets. "I'll see you soon, pretty girl," he says, his voice filled with quiet determination. And then, with a final wave, he's gone—leaving you with the lingering scent of his cologne and the memory of his touch to keep you company through the night.

True to his word, your phone buzzes a short while later, the screen lighting up with a message from Joel

Made it home safe and sound. No murderers lurking in the shadows tonight. Sweet dreams, beautiful. I'll be thinking of you.

[sharieb]

Held in the Hollowed Fragments 1: My Emcumbarce Pragma

Pairing: LADs x non-mc (You)

Genre: Angst (not proofread)

Series' inspiration

Writer's note: I've decided to start a series of some sort, as my mind is brewing with ideas. However, to get started, I need a catalyst to trigger my momentum, so please forgive me for the angst I'm bringing. (Yes, I lovingly kissed all the bricks beforehand for this and the future posts.)

Word count: +1K

Next

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Life had always been cruel to me for as long as I could remember. The dull to sharp unbearable ache of watching the love of my life fall deeply in love with someone else, to fall for her, Mc unconditionally and wholeheartedly, that I had to continuously endure the sight of him falling to his demise, whether by the sacriface of his life for hers or lose of his sanity and will to live after her untimely demise, time and time again. A constant tragedy, yet, I have always been there by his side during his weakest and most vulnerable, to hold him in my warm embrace, whispering soothing words of comfort and encouragement to restore him to his best self, only for him to continue his pursuit of her while I watched on in the distance.

To him, I was a mundane necessity that was always around but never truly desired, like an ordinary harbour with a small lighthouse in the distance, a place for him to rest for a time before becoming forgotten once again, for the great horizon beyond my shores represents her. There were times when I tried to stop him and desperately keep him within the bay, in the safety of my warm embrace as the paths before him were not worth disregarding and sacrificing his life for a love that will end up killing him long before the love he desires comes to fruition, and yet, he and the new twisted plans that Astra had in store for him says otherwise.

She's worth the pain.

She's everything to me.

I can't live with the idea of not being by her side.

I'll do whatever it takes to protect her and make her happy.

I would rather die in her arms than not save her.

You don't understand what I'm going through.

He pushed me away, as to him I was just in the way of keeping her safe in his own embrace, even if it meant meeting his tragic end by her own hands or to forever be cursed to not being able to love her nor live a long life together.

If only he knew that I did understand, far more than he could ever imagine, but yet... He doesn't see it that way. To him, I'm not as special as her. I'm not the person who makes his heart race; the one who was never a constant thing in his mind. I'm someone who he'll drop everything that he's doing, just to be near to like she could, to have her eyes on him and him alone.

I'm not, nor will I ever be, the sun, his sun that lights up his world. The sun that he willingly orbits around while craving more of her warmth and care, as I was just a tiny moon that sticks around him during the nights and early mornings. The same small moon that reflects his sun's shine when she is gone for a time, and then pales in the sky as the sun takes back her rightful place. A moon that is always there but never greatly appreciated as much.

I hate it.

I hate how he always gives his life away so easily for her.

I hate the times where would he screams, shouts and grows cold towards me time and time again whenever I try to protect him from the inevitable, only to then hold his cold, lifeless body in my arms, or watch the man I love becomes the empty unrepairable shell of what he once was after she was gone.

I hate how in some lifetimes, I also end up sacrificing myself just for him to have a chance to be with her as I slowly fade away like a long forgotten memory.

Most of all... I hate that I was never enough for him to love instead.

But yet... In the end, he and I were no different. We're both willing to risk our lives to be with the love of our lives, even if the moments together were short and fleeting. In the end, we both never once regretted our decisions, even during this twisted game with fate. However, there will always be one consistent thing that makes our destinies different.

For him, it was the fact that he and the love of his life would meet each other again in another life. That their hearts and souls will always belong to each other, and there will be another chance to be together. As for me? What was even there for me to hold on to?

Where is the reassurance that I'll have a chance to be loved and cherished by him? To be the one who is constantly having his loving gaze on them, and to be in his boundless embrace of devotion.

...

Maybe there won't be another next time.

Maybe there won't ever be a chance for me to love him so openly, as his and Mc's love was already set in stone, and I was just destined to fade into the cold, lifeless void like always.

Maybe it was for the best that we'll never see each other again, my love. To live our lives from now on and in the many lives after as strangers. To never recall the times we shared, the moments and memories that I'd once loved and cherished with all my heart and soul. To live in different timelines, dimensions, worlds, or even universes.

Maybe it's for the best that Astra lets a different cosmic god take my soul to somewhere far away...but not without taking your cursed, tragic fate with me in exchange for my compliance, so that you can finally live a life full of love and happiness with her. For her to love you with just as much love as I did for you in all those lifetimes.

To give you my last and final act of love and wishes for you.

Goodbye, my love... my all in all...

My snowman

My dragon

My starlight

My fishie

My candy apple

My Emcumbrace Pragma... I hope we never meet again.

...

..

.

NO! COME BACK! I'M SORRY! DON'T LEAVE ME ALL ALONE, PLEASE!!!

[studioeisa]

haunted by my feelings 🎤 seokmin x reader.

some things go quietly, like candles in their final stretch. sputtering, still giving light even as the wax pulls away from the wick. that was you and seokmin. ⸻ ikaw mula noon anniversary series 🎵 multo, cup of joe

word count: 2.7k · includes: angst with a happy ending, romance; ex-boyfriend!seokmin, ghost metaphors, post-breakup regrets · supplementary: for maximum damage, this fic is inspired by this edit of seokmin !!!

The hallway light flickers again.

It’s been three weeks since it started. Just enough time to stop meaning anything useful. Too long to ignore. You’ve changed the bulb twice. Checked the circuit. Even tried talking to it. Nothing.

Now it clicks off completely as you pass beneath it, plunging that stretch of hallway into a sudden, hungry dark.

You stand there with a grocery bag bruising the inside of your arm, keys still in hand, the smell of mint and vinegar from the cleaner still clinging to your coat. Your heartbeat slows into the silence.

Something shifts at the corner of your vision. A shape that isn’t a shape. A breath where no one is breathing.

You close your eyes. Count to five. When you open them, it’s gone. Of course it’s gone. You live alone now.

You’ve started seeing ghosts. 

Not the kind with unfinished business or Victorian gowns, but the ordinary, accidental kind. A shadow caught in the periphery. A laugh in the next room. A feeling that something has only just left.

You used to call them monsters. Seokmin would stand barefoot in the hallway, wielding a rolled-up magazine like a sword. “Not on my watch,” he’d say, eyes comically wide, before lunging at the air. You’d laugh until your ribs ached.

Now, it’s just the air that aches. 

The flicker returns, dull and rhythmic, like the blinking of an old film reel. You move past it, slowly. Try not to look over your shoulder. The apartment groans with the settling of old heat. Pipes sigh like someone exhaling. You drop your keys into the bowl by the door and listen to them clatter—a sound you once loved for how it meant you were home.

But home used to be different. Home used to hum with music and bad singing and the smell of late-night ramen on the stove. Home used to bear traces of Lee Seokmin, and the relationship you built over three years. 

Now, the light flickers, and your apartment gasps for air with every day that passes.

It hadn’t died all at once.

Some things go quietly, like candles in their final stretch. Sputtering, still giving light even as the wax pulls away from the wick. That was you and Seokmin. 

You loved him in the way you love a song that once saved your life. Reverently. Completely. Even when the lyrics stopped making sense. He loved you like the sun. Bright, constant, unaware of how much it burned.

You remember the morning it finally frayed beyond mending. It was raining, slow and steady against the windows, like the sky had decided to grieve with you. Seokmin made you pancakes. He always made them too sweet, too fluffy, like he was trying to fix things with sugar. You sat on opposite ends of the couch, knees not touching.

You had said, “I think we’ve been playing pretend, Seok.”

He blinked. Laughed a little, like maybe it was a joke. Like maybe if he laughed first, you’d laugh too. But you didn’t. 

You stared down at your plate and went on, “We don’t talk about things anymore. We just… circle them. Like planets. Like we’re scared to fall back into orbit.”

He said your name so softly it barely broke the air. Then: “What is this? I thought we were okay.”

You had been okay. But okay was not good. Not happy. Not together, not really.

Somewhere along the way, you had stopped reaching for each other in the dark.

You’d lie back to back at night, a gulf of blanket between you. You’d say good night out of habit. Like brushing teeth. Like locking doors. You did it because it was what people in a relationship  did. Because the absence of it would be too loud.

So you said it again, in the quiet of that morning: “I think we’ve already said goodbye. We’re just waiting for the echo to fade.”

He cried. You hadn’t. There’s something sacred in being the one to end it. Not power. Not clarity. Just the quiet grace of knowing when to stop replaying a song.

Later, you folded his hoodie and left it on the bed. The gray one that always smelled like him—clean laundry and lemon soap. He didn’t take it when he left.

You still wear it sometimes, like armor. Like memory. It’s too big. It always was.

The light in the hallway flickers again. You swear under your breath.

It’s the same every night. The sharp electric blink, the stretch of shadow across the hallway floor like fingers reaching. You’ve taped the switch in place. You’ve prayed to the god of breakers and fuses. Nothing sticks. You start leaving the bedroom lamp on, but the dark doesn’t need full cover to find you.

Tonight, it’s worse. The bulb flares once then gives out entirely. You stand in the silence, half-expecting to hear footsteps that aren’t yours. The apartment hums with the weight of all that’s missing.

There’s still a dent in the couch cushion where Seokmin used to curl up after work. A faint scratch on the bathroom door from where he slipped once, laughing, knocking over your towel rack. His mug is still in the cupboard. You’d meant to throw it out. You didn’t.

You sit on the floor with your knees pulled to your chest, the dark folding around you like an old coat. Then, almost without thinking, you unlock your phone.

YOU [11:09 PM]: hey. weird question. do you remember how to fix the hallway light? it’s doing the thing again.

You stare at the message. Consider deleting it.

The read receipt comes fast. Then:

AA SEOK [11:11 PM]: yeah. i think the contact’s loose in the fixture. you can wedge a folded matchbook behind the base plate. should hold until you can swap it. want me to send a video?

You laugh to yourself. Softly. It catches in your throat.

YOU [11:09 PM]: no, i think i remember now. thanks.

He doesn’t say anything else. But he’s typing. Then stops.

You close your eyes. Let your head tip back against the wall.

There was a night, years ago, when the whole building faced intermittent blackouts. Summer storm. You lit candles along the window sills. Seokmin danced with a flashlight tucked under his chin, making shadow monsters until you were laughing so hard you were crying.

“You’re safe,” he had promised you. “Even if the dark shows up, I’ll be here.”

But the dark has shown up, and he hasn’t. 

You stand, slowly, and find a matchbook in the drawer. One of the old ones from your favorite tapas place. The one he used to surprise you with on late nights. You fix the light. It flickers, hesitates, then steadies.

The hallway glows again. Not warm, not quite. But enough.

You sit back on the floor and stare at the light until your eyes blur. And when the shadows come again, you let them. You’re not afraid of them anymore.

In the end, the light gives out with a final, bitter snap.

No flicker. No warning. Just dark.

You stand in the hallway holding a bowl of cereal and an unreasonable amount of grief. It's not about the bulb, not really. It’s about the silence that follows. You set the bowl down. Pick up your phone. Stare at his name.

Call.

He picks up on the second ring. “Hey,” he says, warm and a little out of breath. Like he had rushed to answer and was now trying to act like he hadn’t. “Did the matchbook betray you?”

You laugh, which surprises you. “It died. A heroic death.” (The same could be said about your relationship, you almost say, but that feels like a wound too tender to poke.)

“I’ll come by,” he says so quickly it makes your chest ache. “If that’s okay.”

You say yes before you think better of it.

That same evening, he knocks like he always used to. Two soft taps and a pause. You open the door, and there he is. Wearing the same navy windbreaker you once borrowed on a chilly beach night. His hair’s longer. His eyes, the same.

“Electrician Seokmin, reporting for duty,” he grins, holding up a small toolkit covered in Sanrio stickers.

“Do you moonlight now?” you ask, stepping aside.

He shrugs. “You know me. Jack of all trades. Master of none. Especially light fixtures.”

The hallway is dim with the lamp from the living room casting a long, golden haze. He toes off his shoes without asking, like he always did. Like nothing’s changed.

You follow him down the hall. Watch him open the casing with practiced ease. The silence is soft, companionable. Familiar. “Still smells like your lavender detergent,” he says absently.

You don’t answer. You’re watching the way the light paints his face—soft at the edges. You feel something uncoil in your chest, slow and strange.

“I missed this,” he says, too lightly.

You deflect. “Fixing broken things?”

He glances at you, then back to the wires. “Yeah. Something like that.”

The joke lands between you with a softness that hurts. You look down at your hands. “You didn’t have to come,” you say, half to yourself.

“I know,” he replies without missing a beat. “But I wanted to.”

When the light flares back to life—steady, clean—he steps back, triumphant. “Behold,” he says, arms raised, “the glow of my labor.”

You smile. It’s small, but real.

He doesn’t leave right away. You offer tea. He accepts. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, knees not touching. There’s a distance now, shaped like memory. But there’s something else, too. A warmth that hasn’t fully left.

In the golden spill of the hallway light, you let yourself feel it. Just for a while. Just until the tea has gone cold.

You’re both still sitting there, curled around mismatched mugs, the table between you cluttered with crumbs from the shortbread he brought without asking. He’s telling you about his new coworker who accidentally sent a love letter to the company-wide email list. You laugh, smile half-covered behind your hand.

“I almost admire the chaos,” you say.

He grins. “You always did.”

The clock ticks gently behind you. You don’t check it.

His eyes linger on your face in quiet moments, like he’s sketching you from memory. And maybe he is. You catch him doing it once and he looks away, smiling into his cup. 

Outside, the first tap of rain begins. Then the sound grows—gradual and steady, then sudden, like the sky gave up holding itself together. You both glance toward the window. “That’s really coming down,” you murmur.

Seokmin cranes his neck to look. “It’s fine. I’ve driven through worse.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You panic every time your wipers squeak.”

“That was once.”

“That was every time.”

He laughs, sheepish. “Well, I wasn’t planning to stay.”

You hesitate. Look at him. The soft fall of his shoulders. The damp ends of his hair curling from the humidity. He’s halfway standing, but not really. Waiting. ‘Wasn’t planning to stay’ his ass. 

“Stay,” you say. “Sleep on the couch. It’s still yours, kind of.”

Something flickers across his face. Hope, barely disguised. Something he doesn’t want you to see, but doesn’t try hard to hide. “You sure?”

You nod. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

You don’t wait for his reply. Just move down the hall, heart pulling strange and quiet in your chest. You hear him exhale. Soft, relieved. When you hand him the blanket—the one you two picked out in a department some lifetimes ago—your fingers accidentally, briefly brush his. But not really.

He says good night like he means it. Like he remembers what it used to feel like to say it. You don’t watch him lie down on the couch. You don’t check if he’s looking at you when you walk away.

You just let the light stay on in the hallway, and pretend it’s only for comfort.

You pretend it’s not for him. You think this, this little light, will be enough to get you two to the morning unharmed. 

But the power cuts out at 2:17 AM. 

The rain is a hush against the windows. Wet, rhythmic, and close. The apartment sighs into silence, every hum and whir of machinery folding into stillness like the house is tucking itself to sleep. Even the hallway light, always the last to surrender, gives up its ghost without protest.

You wake to the absence. It’s not the sound that startles you; it’s the lack of it. The unnatural quiet that settles deep in the bones of the walls, in your chest, like the world is holding its breath and waiting for something to go wrong.

Your fingers twitch beneath the blanket, instinctively seeking the old comfort. The spill of light beneath the door, the low buzz of the fridge, the reassurance of motion. But everything is still. Hollow.

In the dark, your thoughts get away from you. You remember the busted bulb in the hallway, the taped switch he used to fix and re-fix with stubborn patience. You remember how, after he left, the shadows grew teeth. How you convinced yourself the flickers were tricks of the eye, that the ghosts weren’t real, that you could live with their quiet watching.

You’ve grown used to fear as a companion. But tonight, it tightens around your ribs. Fast. Sour. Electric.

Then—

Soft, socked feet against the floorboards. Rushed, purposeful.

The door cracks open, leaking in the faintest outline of him. Seokmin.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, but steady. "It’s just the power. You're okay."

You can barely see him, but you know it’s him. Not some figment of your imagination. Not one of those dreams you’ve had post-breakup. You know that quiet certainty in his tone; the shape of him, framed by the glow of street light filtering through the rainwashed window.

He steps into your room like he still belongs here. Like some part of him never left. You swallow down the ache that rises. Your voice is thin. “Did it wake you too?’

He nods, moving closer. “Heard the fridge give out. And the silence. Then I figured you might be… you know. Doing the staring-at-corners thing.”

You let out a shaky, brittle laugh. “They’ve been worse lately,” you confess to the only person in the world who wouldn’t judge your fear, your paranoia, your grief. “The ghosts.”

He kneels beside the bed, not touching you. Just close enough that his presence warms the air. “They're not real,” he says. It’s not a dismissal; it’s gentler than that. A reassurance shaped like a vow.

You watch him. The way his shoulders rise and fall, the soft pull of exhaustion beneath his eyes. There’s kindness in the corners of his mouth, even now. Even still. “Will you—” You stop. Then try again. The request is soft, unsure. “Will you lie with me? Just until it comes back?”

He doesn’t blink. He just nods and climbs beneath the blanket as if his body remembers the space it used to occupy. As if the gap you left for him never fully closed.

His warmth bleeds into yours. He shifts until you’re curled together, your bodies finding old grooves. His arm drapes around your waist like it always used to. Your forehead presses into the hollow of his collarbone. 

You breathe in.

The silence doesn’t feel as loud. The shadows, for once, don’t reach. They stay tucked into corners. Obedient. Tamed. Respectful of the knight that once valiantly kept them at bay. 

Your voice is barely a whisper. “I forgot what this felt like.”

His lips find your hair. “Me too.”

For a long while, neither of you says anything.

Outside, the rain falls steady, a lullaby. Inside, there are no ghosts. No trick of the light. No dark thing waiting just outside the edge of vision.

Just Seokmin.

And you. Remembering what it means to reach for someone in the dark. Remembering what it means to love, not because you have to, but because you want to. Because love lets the light in. Because Seokmin is the light, and the love, and all that exists in between. 

For the first time in months, maybe longer, you sleep without watching the corners. 🎼

[ssweeterthanfiction]

Orbit

college!finnick odair x fem!reader content warnings: little bit of angst summary: you meet your estranged best friend. wc: 2k

masterlist. | part two

In our lives, we pass a thousand faces, hear a thousand voices. Some stay for a moment, some for years. And then there are the rare ones —the ones that leave a mark so deep, that even after time stretches thin and memories start to fade, their face, their voice, still makes the world slow down for just a second.

Finnick Odair was that for you.

He had been your sun.

From pre-K to eighth grade, the two of you were inseparable — two kids tangled together in every yearbook photo, every group project, every inside joke scribbled into the margins of a worn-out notebook. Your school had been tiny, the kind where the same twenty-five kids followed each other from year to year like ducks in a row, stuck in the same beige classrooms under the glow of flickering fluorescent lights.

You watched Finnick grow up, phase by phase. The Minecraft era, when he wouldn't shut up about building underwater houses. The time he got braces and wouldn’t smile for pictures. The summer he insisted he was going to be a marine biologist and memorized every fact about hammerhead sharks known to man.

And he had watched you, too. Through your Percy Jackson obsession—your Camp Half-Blood shirt on constant rotation, your hand always clutching the newest book like it was scripture. Through your quiet spells, your louder ones, your slow-blooming love of words and late-night journaling.

You knew each other like second skin.

And then, you didn’t.

High school was supposed to be a fresh start. You were tired of the sameness, the way the girls in your grade had started icing you out for reasons you never fully understood. You needed change. So, you were headed to the public high school. And Finnick? He was moving across the state to some swanky private boarding school.

Still, you had both sworn things would never change. You pinky promised before the eighth grade graduation, sitting cross-legged on your trampoline under the June stars. You would stay best friends. You would visit on weekends. You would FaceTime and text and never lose touch.

But time had other plans.

The goodbye hurt more than you thought it would. At your shared backyard graduation party, he’d handed you a small box. Inside was a necklace, a dainty silver moon on a thin chain. He wore the sun version around his neck.

“Best friends. Always,” he said, voice thick but steady.

You hugged him like it was the last time. And in a way, it was.

Then came the after. The quiet house. The empty driveway. The summer that didn’t feel like summer anymore.

You tried. You really tried. The texts. The late-night FaceTimes. The blurry selfies captioned with "miss you :(" and "we need to talk soon." But the truth was, you were both changing—growing up in opposite directions. He went to some private high school across the state. And you dove headfirst into your new school, trying to forget how badly middle school girls could break a person.

But eventually, the calls stopped. Then the texts.

By late winter of freshman year, you were watching him from afar—his face glowing on Instagram stories, surrounded by people you didn’t recognize, smiling a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. But maybe that was just your wishful thinking.

He had new friends. New school. A whole new life you didn’t belong in anymore.

You didn’t text. You wanted to. A thousand times. But your thumb always hovered over the keyboard, then moved away. He seemed happy. You weren’t sure he’d even remember the girl who used to wear Camp Half-Blood shirts and knew all his shark facts by heart.

You let him go.

Years passed like seasons—fast, blurry, warm in some places, freezing in others. And then, you were a senior in high school, opening your acceptance letter to the University of Panem.

You didn’t think about Finnick that much anymore. Not really.

But one night, while tapping through Instagram stories in bed, your thumb froze. You blinked. Then blinked again.

It was a repost of a college commitment post.

Congratulations to Finnick on his commitment to the University of Panem!! 🎓🎉 We are so proud of your accomplishments and are excited to see what you accomplish!

You dropped your phone on your face out of shock.

Because for the first time in four years, after all the silence, after all the growing up you did apart—Finnick Odair would be at your college.

And suddenly, the past didn't feel so far away.

Your alarm blared through your room.

Sleepily, you turned it off and unlocked your phone, eyes adjusting to the light. Move-In Day. Today was the start of your new life.

College.

You stared at the word written in your notes app, a list titled Dorm Must-Haves that you definitely didn’t finish packing. The adrenaline of this day was supposed to kick in. You were supposed to feel excited. But instead, you just felt...suspended. Not exactly nervous, not exactly calm. Somewhere in between.

Downstairs, you could already hear your older brother clattering around in the kitchen, loudly pretending not to be annoyed that he had to help you move into his school.

You sat up, brushing the sleep from your eyes. In the corner of your room, your duffle bags sat zipped, a heap of clothes and books and memories you were dragging with you. It was weird, packing your life into three bags. Even weirder, knowing everything was about to change.

You got ready quickly, shorts, an old Fleetwood Mac tee, and a hoodie tied around your waist.

Then you looked over at your desk.

The moon necklace sat where it always did, on the corner of your desk, still resting in the little box Finnick had given you. You hadn’t worn it in years, not really on purpose. It just felt like it belonged to a different lifetime.

Your fingers hovered over it.

You weren’t expecting to see him. The university was big, he could be anywhere, different dorms, different major, different people. It had been four years, and who knew if he even remembered you.

Still…

You slipped the necklace into your pocket. Just in case.

The drive to school was long and loud a mixture of your brother’s playlist, gas station snacks, and bursts of silence as you stared out the window, lost in thought.

You remembered road trips with Finnick. His sun-streaked hair catching the breeze through the open window, the way he used to dramatically sing along to pop songs he pretended to hate. The games you made up to kill time. The way the car always felt warmer when he was in it.

You shook your head.

It was just move-in day. No big deal.

You rested your head against the window and let the scenery blur. The sky outside was pale and still waking up, streaked with pink and gold.

Your brother talked, about school, about his freshman year disaster of a roommate, about everything you should pack for the communal bathrooms, but your mind kept drifting.

To him.

You hadn’t let yourself think about Finnick too much since seeing that commitment post. It was easier that way. Cleaner. But now, with your stomach fluttering and your whole life packed in a trunk, he was creeping back in.

Would you see him today?

Would he recognize you?

Would he even care?

You had no clue what dorm he was in, no clue what major he picked, no clue if he was even moving in today. The odds of running into him on a campus this size were probably slim.

Right?

The campus was already buzzing when you arrived. Cars lined the curbs, trunks were popped open, RAs shouted directions through megaphones. Bright-eyed freshmen dragged carts full of dorm essentials up concrete stairs, their parents trailing behind like pack mules.

Your brother parked near your building, Rose Hall, and the two of you got to work unloading. You made trip after trip: from the trunk to the lobby, from the lobby to the elevator, from the elevator to the third floor, where your new room was tucked away at the end of the hall.

It was hot. It was crowded. Your arms ached.

You were halfway to the elevator with a box of books when he nudged you hard with his elbow.

"Hey, isn't that Finnick Odair?"

You blinked. “What?”

He nodded subtly toward the grass, where a tall guy was laughing, tossing a football back and forth with some guy. Golden brown hair, messy in the way that was probably intentional. Broad shoulders. Confident posture. Even from a distance, he stood out.

It was him.

You recognized him instantly.

And just like that, your heart dropped into your stomach.

You expected to feel something dramatic, shock, butterflies, maybe even anger. But instead, it was this quiet stillness. Like your brain couldn’t quite catch up with what your eyes were seeing.

Finnick Odair was here.

And he wasn’t wearing the sun necklace.

You quickly looked away, pretending to read the label on the box you were holding. “I don’t know. Might be.”

You didn’t see him again the rest of move-in day.

Or maybe you just avoided looking.

The moon necklace stayed in your pocket—warm from your fingers, but still untouched. You weren’t sure why you brought it. Maybe part of you thought wearing it would’ve felt like a statement, like you were walking around campus with a banner that read I Still Care. Maybe keeping it hidden just felt safer.

By the time orientation rolled around two days later, you had almost convinced yourself it didn’t matter.

Almost.

It was hot. Way too hot for whatever cutesy “Welcome to U of P!” schedule the orientation team had cooked up. You sat under a tent surrounded by other freshmen, a drawstring bag full of free university merch at your feet, and a fake smile plastered on your face as your peer mentor tried to get everyone to do icebreakers.

Your attention drifted. You scanned the crowd.

You weren’t looking for him, not really. But your eyes caught on familiar hair, familiar height—too many guys here could’ve been him if you only glanced for half a second.

You had no idea how it would even go. Would he say hi? Pretend nothing happened? Would he even recognize you?

And then..

���Hey,” someone said beside you.

You turned.

He was just…there.

Finnick.

Older, taller, broader. His voice deeper. His eyes somehow the exact same. It hit you all at once, like a song you hadn’t heard in years playing from another room. You could barely breathe.

He looked like he hadn’t expected you to actually turn around.

There was a pause. Just a little too long to be normal.

You opened your mouth. “Hey.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I, uh- I saw you the other day. On move-in. I wasn’t sure it was you.”

You gave a tight smile. “Yeah. Same.”

A silence stretched between you. The kind that used to never exist.

“So…” he said, eyes flicking around like he was buying time. “You’re in Rose Hall?”

“Yeah,”

“I’m in Pallis Hall.”

You nodded. “Not too far from here.”

Another pause.

You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? Hey, remember when we promised we’d never lose touch? That worked out great. Why didn’t you text back? Do you still have your necklace?

Instead, all that came out was, “It’s…good to see you.”

He looked at you, really looked at you. His voice was soft when he said, “Yeah. You too.”

The peer mentor clapped their hands, snapping both of you back to the present. “Alright, time to break into your assigned groups!”

You stood. So did Finnick. For a second, you just hovered there, unsure if you were supposed to say goodbye or just awkwardly shuffle away.

“Well,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I guess I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah,” you replied, heart thudding. “See you.”

And then you walked away.

Like you barely knew each other.

A/N: WOW I AN ON A ROLL

[petalbcrnes]

✴ HOW HE LOVES.

. . . 💬: How do Tim Drake and Duke Thomas show their love for you?

TAGS: Sfw ; Fluff ; repost.

LINKS: Main Masterlist.

. . . 🌼 ’ . ”. ...

. . . 💬: TIM DRAKE HERE !

KNOWING: For someone like Tim, whose mind is his greatest strength, love is more than just a feeling—it's the art of knowing you completely. What is love if not a mastery of every detail, a calculated understanding of every step you take, every emotion you hide? Tim’s every move is meticulously planned, a chessboard of thoughts and intentions, each piece advancing toward perfection.

You are the center of his universe, the gravitational pull around which his every thought orbits. When Tim looks at you, it’s as if he sees the hidden layers you’ve kept from the world. Every shift in your mood, every fleeting thought that passes behind your eyes—he catches it, understands it.

He knows you.

When your eyes glimmer with doubt, he's already there, a steady hand reaching out. When you need a moment of calm in the chaos of your day, he’s planning that perfect getaway, the surprise trip to your favorite spot, or simply a quiet feeling like a breath of fresh air. A birthday gift that makes you gasp in delight, because he found exactly what would make your heart skip—he remembers the smallest details, the things you've mentioned in passing, tucked away like secrets only he could hold.

Tim doesn’t just observe; he reacts. A soft touch to the small of your back when you’re lost in thought, the kind of attention that never wavers, that fills every second. His conversations with you are like an endless, flowing river—words that draw you in, his voice a steady current pulling you closer, to explore deeper, to understand more. He listens, completely, without interruption.

A LOOK IN: Adjusting your collar, handing you your favorite coffee, catching your eye and knowing what you need, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, leaving you a note with a solution you didn’t ask for (He’s annoying, but cute).

. . ... . 🌻 ; .. ”

. . . 💬: DUKE THOMAS HERE !

LUDIC: To love Duke is to be swept up in a tide of joy that refuses to let go. It’s the feeling of being wrapped in light. His presence is a softness you wouldn’t expect from anyone but him, like a cushion of warmth that surrounds you, allowing you to breathe freely, to be yourself.

There’s an electricity to Duke—a constant hum of energy, of life. You can’t help but feel it when he’s near. He’s like the sun breaking through storm clouds, filling the room with golden beams that make everything feel possible. And that joy? It’s contagious. He’s a spark that catches, igniting your own heart, making everything else fade to the background.

He knows how to pull you into this joy.

His hands are always reaching for you—whether it’s to pull you close for a quick, spontaneous dance in the middle of the kitchen or to brush a lock of hair behind your ear with the softest of touches. His laughter is infectious, and when he holds you, it’s like you’re floating. His words aren’t just promises; they are the kind of things that sink into your skin, stay with you long after he’s gone.

"I’ve got you," he’ll whisper in the quiet moments. The reassurance is unspoken, but it hangs in the air. It’s in the way his eyes meet yours, steady and unwavering. The world feels like it can’t touch you when you’re with him.

A LOOK IN: Spinning you in the middle of a room, tucking your hair behind your ear, holding you close during a storm, handing you wildflowers with a grin, pulling you into a dance with no music.

A/N: @minorlyatfault gave me timmy when i asked for a character rec (if i remember correctly) and here it is! + promised @cinnamongrl2006 a timmie fic !! WHY ARE MY POSTS GETTING CONTENT LABEL WARNINGS?? THIS IS A REPOST!!! I AM SO SORRY GUYS :((

© petalbcrnes | all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, or modified. viewer discretion is advised.

[fear-is-truth]

ANAKIN SKYWALKER is completely enthralled by your daughter—a nova igniting in his universe, orbiting around the moon that is you—the brightest, most constant light in his life. he’s awestruck by how much the baby girl resembles you, how her tiny features echo your own. he studies the curve of her nose, the pink plush of her lips, even the way her little brow furrows, and everything about her fills him with wonder. the weight of the galaxy ceases to exist in these moments—his world wholly condensed into the moon and star that make his universe worth living in.

at night, your husband sits beside the cradle, using the force to gently rock her while humming fragments of the lullabies his mother used to sing. more often than not, he ends up asleep with your daughter cradled against his chest, her tiny fingers curling securely around one of his. you lean over them both, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead and then to your daughter’s downy head.

as you pull away, anakin stirs, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. he blinks sleepily, lips curving into a drowsy smile, and without a word, he shifts slightly, freeing one arm to pull you closer. his organic hand cups your cheek as he kisses you, sweet and lingering, lips warm like the first rays of tatooine’s twin suns rising over the dunes. when he pulls back, his gaze flickers between you and your daughter, a softness in his eyes that makes your heart swell with love.

“thank you. for everything.”

[corysmiles]

Runes and Ruin Part 4

An Arcane G/T Fic

Notes: Here's my christmas gift to the gt people I hope you enjoy jayvik angst and hurt/comfort time featuring Jayce taking tiny viktor to a gala event >:]

—————————————

After the day of the apology, the one Viktor had thought would never come, Jayce had gotten far more touchy with Viktor. It had started with that afternoon, Viktor asleep against his chest with a large warm hand pressing into him like a weighted blanket, not moving until Jayce had to get up to cook. It was nice while it lasted, the touch Viktor had always craved but could never ask for, but he knew it was likely a one time thing…

But then it continued on into the next day…and the next day, until the moments where Jayce wasn’t touching him in one way or another started to become few and far between.

When they were together it was almost like Jayce was a magnet, constantly drawn to Viktor’s presence, the Earth in constant orbit of the Sun, his hands itching to touch him whenever he was close, like it hurt to not be in contact. He’d always been a touchy person, Viktor knew that- it was impossible to avoid when they had spent so many years in the lab together. But this was new…and Viktor was sure it was going to kill him.

They had been working for a few hours already, Viktor nestled against the side of Jayce’s neck so he could better see the work desk. They had tried so many rune combinations by that point, entire pages in Jayce’s notebook filled with possibilities that never came to fruition.

Jayce huffed, brows furrowed in equal parts curiosity and frustration as another plant turned to dust on the table in front of them with a shock of blue light.

“Alright, so not that one,” Jayce sighed, as he crossed out the rune combination in their notes, his hand pressing with just enough force to smudge the ink at the end.

“At this rate I’ll be stuck like this forever,” Viktor scoffed, raising his brows at Jayce even though he knew the man couldn’t actually see him.

“We’ll figure it out,” Jayce responded, voice gruff and harsh, “If it can shrink you it has to be able to change you back, right?”

Viktor couldn’t help the frown that tugged at his lips, “I surely hope so.”

“It will.”

And really, who was Viktor to argue when he wanted it just as much…even if the consistent failures were starting to weigh down on him.

Before he could reply with some snarky comment, Jayce’s hand was on him, fingers wrapping around his body carefully, in a way that was becoming too practiced for Viktor’s liking. His whole world shifted as Jayce picked him up like he was nothing more than a tool, and it took everything in Viktor to not snap at the man for not giving him a warning first. But at the same time, the all-encompassing warmth of his forge-worn fingers felt nice, like a sweater on a cold day- although he’d never tell him that.

When he was finally placed down onto the desk, Jayce at least had half the mind to look apologetic.

“What?” Viktor snapped, face red as his head tilted up as far as it could to get a better look at Jayce.

“I…sorry,” Jayce’s eyes widened, “It’s almost six.”

At that, Viktor paused, he had almost forgotten about what Jayce had said that morning.

“There’s a gala tonight that I can’t get out of,” Jayce had said, head tilted back against the pillows with his thumb idly rubbing up and down against Viktor’s back, his tiny form resting snuggly on his chest.

Viktor had been half-asleep, body fighting to stay conscious under the warm weight of Jayce’s hand. The only response he could manage was a small tilt of his head.

“I was hoping maybe you’d come with me,” Jayce had said, voice tilting up hopefully.

And Viktor could remember his amusement- he knew Jayce wanted to keep him nearby while he was so small. He had asked before about coming to meetings, but Viktor’s response had always been a resounding no. It was almost endearing how Jayce kept asking, regardless of Viktor’s consistent and firm refusals.

The only problem was that Viktor couldn't remember saying no this time. Maybe it was the gentle warmth of Jayce’s touch or the promise that he’d get to spend more time close to the man he was weak for, but he was sure in the early hours of morning he hadn’t told Jayce no.

“Oh yes,” Viktor said, mouth running dry, “The gala.”

“Yeah. They wouldn’t believe I was sick again,” Jayce laughed, a soft deep sound that Viktor could practically feel in his chest, “But the new suit I got has a few pockets you should be okay in.”

And how could Viktor argue when Jayce looked at him with so much hope, his eyes wide and pleading for Viktor to stay with him.

“That should be fine,” Viktor shrugged, ignoring the way his heart pounded at the idea of being so close to Jayce for so long, “Just don’t intend to stay too long. I can’t promise I won’t start biting after an hour.”

“Only an hour?” Jayce laughed.

“Perhaps I can make it longer if we get to the lab early tomorrow,” Viktor sighed.

The grin he got from Jayce, wide and crooked and showing off the gap in his teeth, almost made the whole thing worth it.

“Deal.”

And that was how Viktor had gotten himself dragged to a gala- something he had never wanted to do even before the accident. The extravagant parties Piltover’s elite held were never his thing. He hated all the schmoozing and pointless talk that came of them, and while he knew they needed money, he was more than happy to let Jayce go alone. He always was the more charming of the two of them anyways.

Viktor was tucked securely in one of the side pockets of Jayce’s suit. The silky maroon fabric was warmed by Jayce’s body heat, making the small space feel nice and comforting, and like a cat, Viktor leaned into it. He couldn’t help how he instinctively pressed himself against the sturdy warmth of his partner. It was amusing to Viktor how even in the winter Jayce still ran hot, just like the forges his family was known for. And with how cold it was outside, Viktor was more than grateful for it.

While he couldn’t see out from his spot in Jayce’s pocket, he knew they had arrived at the gala when the silence of night in Piltover morphed into a loud cacophony of sound- voices and instruments and the shuffling of people- all overwhelmingly loud to his now extra sensitive ears.

Within seconds a heavy weight pressed against him almost like Jayce knew what he was thinking, and while he couldn’t respond (and he knew Jayce would push him back if he tried to look out) he was grateful for the touch. It grounded him, stopping his thoughts from wandering too far.

It didn’t take long at all before Jayce was swept away by possible investors; Viktor could feel his deep charming voice vibrating throughout his whole body. He could tell Jayce had had a few too many glasses of champagne when his steps became more uneven, jostling Viktor around in his pocket. Still, every few minutes a hand would press into him- a gentle reminder that Jayce still remembered he was there as he chatted with Piltover’s most elite.

“Jayce, it is very good to see you in attendance again,” Counselor Medarda’s voice boomed above him- the soft lilt of her voice all too familiar.

Even the soft touches did not help with the jealousy growing in Viktor’s gut, curling and venomous like a snake about to snap its jaws.

Viktor could practically feel his skin prickle.

“Mel,” Jayce said, voice soft and happier than he had heard it in a while, “It’s good to be back. I’m sorry I haven’t been feeling well lately.”

“Well I’m sure I speak for everybody when I say we’re glad to have you back in the spotlight,” Mel replied, and Viktor could practically feel how Jayce preened at her words. “It’s far less fun at these events without the golden boy.”

Jayce chuckled, small and tight, and that made the jealous part of Viktor beam. At least he could get real laughter out of Jayce.

“I’m sure,” Jayce replied, and Viktor could imagine the tight smile on his face, “Although I can’t say I miss watching Salo falling over himself after three drinks.”

In return, Mel laughed, the sound soft like bells, and Viktor retreated into the corner of Jayce’s pocket. Maybe if he could fall asleep he could ignore their conversation and in turn stop the bubbling jealousy in his chest. As petty as it was, he wanted nothing more than to pull Jayce away. He’d gotten so used to being the center of his attention that he had almost forgotten why they had drifted apart in the first place. He didn’t realize that Jayce hadn’t laid a hand on him in a while until someone came crashing into them.

Viktor huffed, body squishing against Jayce’s side as he heard a yelp and a muttered apology from someone likely a little too drunk. Over the sounds of the orchestra picking up, Viktor could just barely make out the conversation between Jayce and whoever had bumbled into him. Ever the gentleman, he heard Jayce asking if the man needed any help finding a seat.

Viktor didn’t have any more time to ponder the situation though before he realized that something was wrong- he felt cold.

Jayce had made sure Viktor would be comfortable in his pocket beforehand, and the silk fabric combined with the man’s body heat had been more than enough for Viktor to feel alright while at the gala. But then, right across from Viktor, he saw a gap where the threads of Jayce’s suit had been torn apart- likely ripped during the ordeal with the drunkard. The cool air from the gala blew in, making Viktor curl up further into the far side of the pocket, trying his best to stay far away from the ripped seam.

Above him Jayce’s voice boomed, and with every step Viktor was shook closer and closer to the hole. Frantically, Viktor tapped at Jayce’s side, hoping to get the man’s attention, but he received no response. All he could hear was the sound of laughter and the hushed conversation between Jayce and Mel. For the first time since the incident he truly felt small.

A moment later Jayce turned, just a bit too fast, and Viktor felt himself slip, the satin hard for him to get a good grip on. For a moment he was sure he was going to throw up.

“Jayce!” He yelled, hoping more than anything that Jayce would notice, but still there was no response- his pleas drowned out by the thrum of the gala.

Viktor barely processed Mel asking for a dance, his mind completely focused on holding on tight to the smooth fabric around him. But one more quick shift from Jayce as he took Mel’s hand was all it took.

Viktor yelped, arms covering his head as he slipped through the gap in the seams. Time seemed to freeze for a moment as his body met the cool air. Like a scared child he curled in on himself, but nothing could stop the quickly approaching tile of the gala hall. Seconds before hitting the ground he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that anyone, anything, would help him, but it was to no avail.

He hit the ground with nothing more than a soft thud to anyone listening. Pain shot through his leg, but the fire in his joints was nothing compared to the pure terror coursing through his veins. Adrenaline pumped through him as he stared up at the hundreds of people around him- all towering over him like mountain peaks- their voices loud and mangled together sounding like thunder to Viktor’s ears.

At the very least he could still see Jayce, although as one of his massive boots came down within steps of Viktor he felt his blood run cold. With each footstep, the massive people around him sent tremors into the ground making it difficult for Viktor to stay upright. Internally, he battled between wanting to stay close to Jayce- wanting nothing more than for the man to notice, pick him up, and take him back to his apartment where it was safe- and wanting to find somewhere hidden where no one would ever find him again.

But Viktor didn’t have much time to think before Mel’s shoe stamped down right next to him. The elegant wooden heel towered above him, and as she moved again he had to throw himself out of the way, rolling onto his side and causing more pain to shoot through his joints. Within moments, where he had been was covered by her shoe, and the thought of turning up on the bottom of it- nothing more than a smudge- made him feel sick.

He had to get away.

His blood pounded beneath his skin like a drum, the thump thump of his heart even louder than the musicians who were still playing regardless of the nightmare he was stuck in. It hurt, his leg felt like it was on fire from the fall, but he was alive and he planned on keeping it that way.

The familiar prick of tears stung his eyes as he took one last look up at Jayce, slightly wobbly from the alcohol and smiling wide as he talked with Mel. He wouldn’t cry though, he refused. Realistically, he knew this was happening whenever Jayce went to the galas, of course he did. He saw how the man looked at Mel. He knew he couldn’t compare even if the closeness of the past few weeks had started to convince him otherwise.

He had to go.

Viktor’s face scrunched up in pain as he trudged his way to the nearest sign of safety- the large gilded dining table near the center of the room. His eyes moved constantly darting back and forth between every single person in the room- calculating his chances of getting stomped on at any given moment. Luckily, he’d fallen where most people had decided to dance, meaning their movements were slow, predictable.

Even so, there were quite a few near misses, with him having to throw himself out of the way before finely polished boots smashed down on top of him like he was nothing more than a pest. By the time he got to the table, he was out of breath, his heart jackhammering in his chest. Even though he had really only covered what would have been a few steps at his normal size, his muscles seized like he had ran a marathon.

With a shaky breath he settled down against the leg of the table. From where he was he could still feel the tremors of every step as people passed by. The sight in and of itself was horrifying. He had gotten so used to being around Jayce that he had almost started to forget how terrifying it was to be so insignificantly small. In the first few moments, when Jayce had first found him after the incident, he’d felt horrified, and at that moment, sitting still under the table, praying that no one would notice him, he felt that same all-encompassing terror.

——————————————————————— Jayce was sure he was going to throw up, and he told Mel as such right before darting to the edge of the room. His hands checked his pockets for the tenth - hundredth - thousandth time, hoping that maybe he’d just missed him somehow, that maybe Viktor was still there. But it was to no avail, and to his own growing horror he only found a small gap in his pocket, the seams ripped apart.

Frantically, he checked his shoes to make sure nothing (or more correctly, no one) was stuck to the bottom, and even though he was sure he was getting some odd looks from the other attendees his mind could only think of one thing. He had to find Viktor.

He’d realized something was wrong after agreeing to dance with Mel. He’d felt awful for not attending a gala in so long since he knew she looked forward to him being there. Really, a dance was the least he could offer. But afterwards, when he’d reached down again to reassure Viktor that he still remembered he was there, he felt nothing, no bump in the fabric, no movement, nothing.

The horror must have been clear on his face considering how Mel immediately asked if he was alright, her concern clear from the softening of her face. But how could he be when his partner was somewhere in the gala hall on his own, small enough to be squished by one wrong step. Gods, Jayce was going to be sick.

He was sure he looked crazed to anyone passing by, eyes wide and panicked as they scanned the floor, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He could make it up to any possible investors once he was sure Viktor was safe, which he was, he had to be.

Once he was absolutely sure nothing on his shoes was his partner he took a deep breath. He had to stay calm. He recalled one night years prior when he and Viktor were working on their initial proposal for the Hexgates, only a few days before their deadline. At the time Jayce had been panicking, and the calculations he was working on were filled with mistakes. He remembered how Viktor took one look at the scrawled numbers before forcing him to sit and talk it through with him. He had told him then that nothing good came of such stress; that Jayce always worked better with a clear mind.

He struggled to keep a clear mind now.

But still, Jayce persisted. With his one goal in mind he marched back out into the thrall of people, his eyes glued to the floor for any sign of his partner. A few of the partygoers tried to stop him, to talk about Hextech or whatever new policies they wanted from the council, but with dry lips and weak words, Jayce excused himself every time. He didn’t miss how their eyes would flash with disappointment, but he could worry about that later. When he arrived back at the center of the room his search truly started. He was sure that he was around there when he’d last checked on Viktor.

“Jayce, are you sure you’re alright?”

His head whipped towards the source of the question, only to be met by Mel, her face scrutinizing and worried.

“Yes I…” Jayce struggled to find his words through his panic- his mouth felt like it was filled with cotton, “I dropped something.”

“Oh,” Mel tilted her head, amusement clear in her eyes, “Well, do you want help looking for it?”

The response he wanted to give was a yes; his immediate knee-jerk reaction was to spill everything to her. He trusted her- she could help. But the thought of what Viktor’s reaction would be to finding out someone else knew…Jayce couldn’t do it. He knew he’d been walking a thin line with Viktor for months, maybe even years, and they’d only just started to grow close again. He couldn’t risk his trust.

And that wasn’t even to mention the trouble they’d get into if anyone found out about what the Hexcore was capable of. Hextech was his connection to Viktor, he couldn’t risk that.

“No, I…I can find it,” Jayce muttered, his mouth a tight line as he waved off her offer, “Thank you.”

Mel’s brows furrowed, her eyes studying Jayce for a few moments before she gave in. He could tell she wanted to say more, to pry further, but within seconds she was being pulled away by another partygoer off into some other conversation.

Yet, as minutes passed and there was still no sign of Viktor, Jayce started to regret not taking her offer, even if Viktor would never forgive him for telling someone else about his situation. Every second without Viktor made his heart sink in his chest like lead. Time felt like a blur as he searched, frantic as he scanned the ground.

It wasn’t long before another feeling, heavy and all consuming filled his chest- guilt. Viktor hadn’t even wanted to join him at the gala; he knew that. He’d given Viktor the choice, but still, he knew Viktor only came because of him. And now Viktor was in danger…or worse…because of it.

His thoughts muddled together until they only consisted of one thing- find Viktor, find Viktor, please find Viktor.

Most attendees had already left before he finally spotted him, and the moment he did, he swore his heart stopped beating, his blood frozen in his veins. His partner’s tiny form was curled up against one of the legs of the dining table. He was still- too still for Jayce’s liking- but he was thankfully whole.

He didn’t think twice before leaning down and snatching him up in his hands. Immediately, Viktor thrashed against his hold; he’d likely been asleep, but Jayce couldn’t bring himself to feel bad when he was so simply overjoyed that Viktor was alive.

Jayce didn’t say his goodbyes before rushing to the building’s exit. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Mel watching him like a hawk, but he would worry about that later. The cold winter air hit him like a brick the moment he got outside, but the discomfort of it was barely a whisper in the back of his mind. His eyes darted around to make sure no one was nearby before he opened up his hands to really look at Viktor for the first time since he found him.

“Vik, shit, are you okay?”

In his hands, Viktor looked stunned, eyes wide and body stiff as he stared up at Jayce. His mouth opened and closed repeatedly like a fish out of water before his whole face tightened- his expression guarded.

“I… I just want to go home Jayce,” Viktor exhaled shakily, voice so quiet Jayce could barely hear it over the distant sounds of the city.

“Are you hurt? I’m so sorry I didn’t notice sooner,” Jayce panicked, voice wobbling with emotion, “I was trying to find you I promise I-”

“Jayce,” Viktor stopped him, his tone firm, “Please just…I just want to sleep.”

Jayce’s mouth flew shut as his thoughts raced. Thousands of apologies simmered behind his closed lips, but the look of defeat on Viktor’s face stopped them from boiling over.

“Yeah…yeah,” Jayce frowned, “We can go back to the apartment.”

Viktor nodded, still curled in on himself like he had been when Jayce had spotted him, and the uncomfortable silence and haunted look on his partner’s face was almost enough to finally break Jayce.

The walk back to his apartment was quiet and tense. Jayce held Viktor to his chest the entire way, uncaring of how odd it looked to anyone who could see him; he needed to feel that Viktor was okay. Unlocking his door was a challenge since his hands still shook from adrenaline, and as soon as he was inside he beelined for the bed. It frightened him how still Viktor was in his hands.

He couldn’t even bring himself to change out of his clothes as he laid down on the plush sheets, opening up his cupped hands to let Viktor out.

“I’m so so sorry,” Jayce muttered, not able to look Viktor in the eyes as he spoke, voice wet and thick with emotion.

He barely expected Viktor to respond.

“It’s not your fault,” Viktor sighed after a few awfully quiet moments, “I…thank you…for finding me.”

“I shouldn’t have lost you in the first place,” Jayce grimaced.

Viktor’s face flashed between emotions as he looked up at Jayce. He didn’t miss how Viktor leaned against his thumb, putting as little weight as possible onto his bad leg, and the thought of Viktor falling to the floor and having to navigate through all those people made Jayce feel sick.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Viktor frowned, tilting his head up to better see Jayce’s pained expression, “I don’t blame you.”

“I should’ve noticed sooner I-”

“Jayce,” Viktor practically snapped, brows furrowed in frustration, “Please, just… I am tired.”

Jayce made an expression much akin to a kicked puppy as he stared at Viktor, his eyes flickered between emotions, before he pulled his hands close to his face, Viktor along with them. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing, but the need to have Viktor close was nearly overwhelming. Gently, he pressed his nose against Viktor, allowing the warmth of his breath to ghost over the smaller man. He could feel how Viktor tensed up for a moment before relaxing against his touch.

“I’m sorry I just…I was so worried,” Jayce exhaled shakily, his lips just barely brushing against Viktor as he spoke, the action small but intimate. Viktor fell quiet in his hands, and as soon as Jayce processed how close they were he flushed with embarrassment.

Quickly, he pulled Viktor away, staring wide-eyed down at him, “I’m sorry I-”

“It’s okay,” Viktor stopped him, eyes wide and face unmistakably red.

Jayce stayed frozen still until Viktor waved to be brought close again, and Jayce couldn’t bring himself to fight it when all he wanted was to hold Viktor close after the whole gala ordeal. When Viktor was close enough again he leaned himself against the bridge of Jayce’s nose, as close to a hug as he could get. The action was slightly awkward, but before he could pull away Jayce pressed his nose back against him, pushing him even closer with his hands. His eyes scrunched tight as he let his shoulders sag and his worries be washed away by the small but comforting weight against his skin.

Again when he exhaled his lips just barely pressed against Viktor, and he couldn’t help how he wanted to stay like that forever. He could feel how Viktor tensed up from the proximity, but the smaller man didn’t tell him to stop, and Jayce was weak so he didn’t ask- too afraid bringing attention to their closeness would cause Viktor to pull away. He reasoned with himself that it was simply the comfort of his friend being close that he wanted. He just had to ignore the nagging want to press his lips fully against the man so carefully nestled in his palms.

That night he fell asleep with Viktor cradled against his chest, his thumb idly rubbing against his side as he rested. And all the while he couldn’t help but think about how nice it felt for the brief moment where his lips brushed against his partner.

[jetii]

By Your Name

Part One

Pairing: Wrecker x fem!Reader / Wrecker x Jedi!Reader

Words: 7,998/19,226

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! fluff, good-natured brotherly teasing, smut, this is mostly just smut actually, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), size kink, aftercare, dirty talk, Wrecker being a sweetheart that is a given

Summary: You and Wrecker are still figuring out exactly what your relationship means, and a month apart hasn't helped. Now that you're reunited again, nothing is going to stand in the way of the two of you getting what you want.

A/N: Greetings from horny jail! I didn't proofread this one that much so if you see any mistakes no you didn't.

Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist

Keeping your relationship with Wrecker a secret is easier said than done. There's no denying the spark between the two of you, and it only seemed to grow stronger in the days following your confession. To you, Wrecker is the sun, and you're a planet caught in his orbit, drawn in by his warmth and light. 

It's become increasingly difficult to keep things professional when all you want to do is pull him into a kiss, or spend every waking moment touching him in some way. Every time his fingers brush yours, or his hand finds the small of your back, the desire to kiss him, to hold him, to simply be with him is nearly overwhelming. And it's a feeling that only grows stronger the longer you're away from him.

Saying goodbye to Wrecker at the end of your tour with the Batch had been almost unbearable, and the distance has been agonizing. The weeks apart had dragged on, and the only solace you had was in the late-night calls and the occasional text. The longing had been a constant companion, and it had left you irritable and on edge.

But now, finally, the two of you will be reunited, and the excitement building in your chest is impossible to ignore. Even though it's been weeks since the two of you were last together, it feels like a lifetime, and you can't wait to be near him again. To feel his arms around you, his hands on your skin, his lips on yours.

The two of you had barely had enough time to figure out what exactly you are to each other before you left, and with the others around, there was little else you could do beyond a few stolen moments. But now, after weeks of anticipation and separation, you're finally getting the chance to explore things further.

And you know Wrecker is intent on making the most of the opportunity.

It was no secret that the man is incredibly tactile, and the fact that he'd been unable to touch you the way he wanted to, the way you both needed him to, had clearly taken a toll. His texts had grown progressively bolder, and the calls had lasted well into the night, and you'd spent hours on the comm with him, trying to keep your voice down while he told you everything he planned on doing to you once you were alone.

And now, you're on the same planet, finally, and the thought is enough to drive you crazy. You're already waiting in the hangar bay when the Marauder arrives, and the sight of it, the sight of him, sends a thrill of anticipation through you. The moment the ship touches down, the ramp lowers, and Wrecker comes barreling down, his arms outstretched.

"Hey, General!" he shouts. "Get ready, 'cause I'm gonna—"

You don't wait for him to finish. Instead, you throw yourself into his arms, and he catches you with ease, his arms wrapping around you, lifting you up off the ground. He spins you around, the two of you laughing and grinning like fools, and you're so happy you can barely breathe.

"Miss me?" you ask, breathless, your arms around his neck.

"Kriff, yeah," he says. "Wasn't the same without you."

"It wasn't the same for me, either," you murmur. "I didn't realize how much I would miss having you around."

"Me, neither," he replies.

He sets you down, but his arms stay locked around your waist, holding you close. The urge to kiss him is a physical ache, and the closeness is almost unbearable. But you can't, not here, not now, and so you settle for the feel of his arms around you, his hands stroking your back.

"I'm glad to see you," he says, his voice soft.

"I missed you, too," you reply, smiling up at him.

"I can't wait to show you how much I missed you," he whispers. The look in his eyes, the heat in his voice, sends a rush of desire through you, and you shiver. "Been thinkin' about it every day."

"Have you?"

"Yeah," he breathes. "And I've got a few ideas."

"Oh?" you ask, unable to keep the smile off your face. He's practically radiating energy, the excitement rolling off him in waves, and it's infectious.

Before he can respond, the sound of someone clearing their throat snaps you back to reality. The two of you turn, and you spot the others standing a short distance away at the end of the ramp. Crosshair and Tech look mildly amused, while Hunter looks vaguely uncomfortable, and Echo's expression is one of long-suffering annoyance.

"Uh, Wrecker," Hunter says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "You mind putting her down so we can go?"

"What?" Wrecker asks. "Oh. Yeah, yeah. Sorry."

He lets go of you, his hands trailing over your waist as he steps back. You brush your hands across your tunic, trying to quell the butterflies in your stomach, and Wrecker grins down at you.

"Sorry," you say, unable to keep the smile off your face. "It's been a while."

"Just save it for the ship,” Crosshair drawls as he passes by.

"Don’t worry, we will," Wrecker fires back, throwing an entirely unnecessary wink in his direction. Crosshair rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth quirks up. Tech follows, shaking his head with a small smile.

"I am glad that the two of you have reconciled your differences," he says, his eyes flicking to yours. "But please keep such displays of affection to a minimum in our presence.”

"Sorry, Tech.”

"We'll behave," Wrecker adds, but his tone is teasing.

"I doubt that," Echo mutters, but his eyes are crinkled at the corners. You flush, but can't help but return the smile. He's not wrong, after all.

"We'll try," you amend, and the others chuckle as they follow Crosshair out of the hangar toward the barracks. You and Wrecker walk a short distance behind them, keeping pace, and the silence is comfortable, the two of you walking shoulder to shoulder. He leans over and nudges your arm, and you glance up at him, catching the grin on his face.

You smile back, unable to hide your excitement, and the look in his eyes is almost enough to make your knees give out. You have no idea how you're going to get through the rest of the day, knowing that he's within arm's reach. Knowing that tonight, when the others have gone to sleep, the two of you will have the ship to yourselves. And the thoughts running through your mind are enough to have you squirming in place, eager for the day to end.

"Welcome back, by the way," you say, trying to ignore the flutter in your stomach.

"Glad to be back," Wrecker says. "And ready to start celebrating."

"Oh, is that what we're doing?" you tease.

"Mhm," he replies, his voice low and rough. "Gonna celebrate the kriff outta you."

You bite back a gasp, and your face heats up. You'd known Wrecker was forward, but the way he talks about wanting you, the way he openly stares at you, is still startling. No one has ever been so open with their feelings before, and while you're still getting used to the idea, it's nice. Reassuring. It's a reminder that this is real, that he wants you, and it's all you can do not to melt on the spot.

"Sounds like a good plan," you reply, your voice hoarse, and you resist the urge to fan yourself.

"Knew you'd see it my way," he says, and the look he gives you is enough to send a jolt of heat straight to your core.

The two of you continue on in comfortable silence, and you can't help but glance at him, taking in the sight of Wrecker finally back by your side. You can't deny that the past few weeks have been...frustrating. Being unable to be near him, or touch him, or even speak openly about how you feel has been agonizing. And the constant teasing and flirting via holo hasn't helped.

There are so many things you've wanted to say, to do, but haven't had the chance. Now, with the privacy and space, the temptation is nearly overwhelming. And the look on Wrecker's face tells you that he's thinking the same thing. You just need to get through the next couple hours without drawing too much attention, and then...

As expected, the celebration is a simple affair, a meal and a round or two of drinks at 79s. You've gotten used to the squad's traditions over the past year, and it's a relief to know that the evening won't drag on for hours. As it is, your patience is wearing thin, and you can tell that Wrecker feels the same.

"So," Hunter starts, his eyes fixed on the two of you. "Did you have a chance to talk about things while we were away?"

"Yeah, a bit," Wrecker says, shifting in his seat. His leg brushes against yours, and the contact sends a jolt of electricity up your spine. "Still workin' things out."

"I see," Hunter says. He takes a sip of his drink, his gaze flicking between the two of you, and he raises an eyebrow. "Just try not to make it too obvious, okay?"

"I'm not making any promises," Wrecker smirks, and the words are directed at his brother, but the way his eyes burn into you is unmistakable. You bite your lip, the heat on your cheeks nearly unbearable. The fact that he's so brazen, so shameless, is doing nothing to help your growing desire, and it's all you can do to keep a straight face.

"Wrecker, please," Echo groans, his eyes squeezed shut.

"Sorry, sorry," Wrecker chuckles, and his hand finds your thigh beneath the table, his fingers squeezing gently. You resist the urge to jump, trying to ignore the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of your pants. You can tell he's teasing, testing the boundaries, and the look on his face is almost smug. "I'll behave."

"No, you won't," Tech says, his eyes locked on his datapad. "But I suppose we will simply have to accept that this is your current reality."

"Guess so," Wrecker says, and the smile he gives you is blinding.

The rest of the meal is relatively uneventful, and the conversation is light, mostly centered around the mission, and what's to come. The Republic is preparing for another offensive, and you and the Batch have been assigned to gather intel on a possible Separatist stronghold in the Outer Rim. It's not an ideal mission, but it's better than sitting around doing nothing. And with Wrecker by your side, it will certainly be more bearable.

You listen as the others share stories, laughing and talking like they always do. Wrecker's hand stays on your thigh, his fingers tracing absentminded circles on your leg, and it's enough to keep you distracted, the anticipation growing with every passing minute. By the time the meal is finished, you're all but squirming in your seat, and you're desperate to get out of the crowded room.

"What about you?" Crosshair asks, and the sound of his voice pulls you back to the present. "Did you sit around doing nothing this whole time?"

"No," you reply. "I was training, mostly."

"Boring," Crosshair sneers, but his eyes are soft, and the look he gives you is teasing.

"I did manage to get a new scar, if that counts," you say, pointing to the healing cut above your eyebrow. "Had a run-in with a particularly unpleasant bounty hunter. She was faster than she looked."

"Ooh, lemme see," Wrecker says, and his hand finds your chin, tilting your face up. The gesture is casual, but the way his fingers stroke your cheek is not, and you shiver at the touch. He turns your face, his thumb brushing the healing skin, and the heat of his palm sears into your cheek. "Pretty nasty. You gonna live?"

"I think so," you manage, and his eyes sparkle with amusement.

"Good," he says. "Don't want anything happenin' to that pretty face of yours."

Someone makes a noise of protest, but you're too busy trying not to melt under Wrecker's gaze to notice who it was. His eyes flick over your features, his expression intense, and his fingers trail down the line of your jaw, coming to rest on your shoulder.

"Alright," Hunter cuts in. He slaps his hands on the table and stands, giving the two of you a pointed look. "Let's call it a night."

"But—"

"No buts," he says. "I can't watch this any longer."

Wrecker grumbles something under his breath, but he pulls his hand away, and the absence is nearly enough to make you whine.

"Fine," he huffs, rising from his seat. "See you all tomorrow."

You stand as well, your legs shaking. You're not sure how you're going to make it back to the ship, and the smirk on Wrecker's face tells you that he knows exactly what he's doing.

"Later," Crosshair says, his tone bored.

"Have a good night," Echo calls after you, his voice tight with discomfort. You glance back at him and offer an apologetic shrug, but he just waves you off. Tech is still buried in his datapad, oblivious, and Hunter gives you a long-suffering sigh as the two of you leave.

The walk back to the ship is agony. The sun has long since set, and the streets are dark, but the lights of the city are bright enough that it's not difficult to navigate. Still, the journey feels like an eternity, and every step sends a thrill of anticipation through your veins. You can feel Wrecker's presence behind you, his hand occasionally brushing against your back, his body close enough to touch.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" you ask as the two of you round the corner, putting some distance between yourselves and the others.

"Enjoying what?" he asks innocently.

"Teasing me," you reply, elbowing him in the side.

"Maybe a little," he grins, and the heat in his gaze makes you blush. "You know, it's hard not to be when you react like that."

"React like what?

"Like this," he murmurs, his hand sliding down your spine, coming to rest on the curve of your ass. His palm is hot and heavy, and the pressure is enough to make you gasp.

"I can't help it," you mutter, trying to ignore the desire that's pooling in your core.

"I know," he says, and his fingers squeeze, pulling you into his side. "And it's kriffing adorable."

"Shut up," you say, pushing against him. He laughs, the sound low and husky, and the way his eyes gleam in the dim light is more than a little distracting.

"Make me," he says, and his voice is teasing, but there's a note of challenge in it, and the implication sends a shiver down your spine. 

You turn to face him, and before you can second guess yourself, you reach out, taking hold of his armor and pulling him towards you.

Wrecker's lips meet yours in a searing kiss, and the force of it knocks the wind out of you. He backs you up against the wall, caging you in with his body, and his hands find your hips, lifting you up onto the tips of your toes. You moan against his mouth, and his tongue slips past your lips, his fingers digging into your flesh. The kiss is bruising, full of heat and want, and the way he moves against you, his body hard and solid, leaves you gasping for air.

He breaks the kiss, and his teeth nip at your lower lip, his hands wandering down, squeezing the swell of your ass. His breath is hot on your skin, his chest heaving, and the desire in his eyes is all-consuming.

"That shut you up," you whisper as his lips move down the column of your throat.

"Mhm," he mumbles. His tongue drags over the delicate skin, and you tilt your head back, giving him better access. "Keep doin' that, and I'll be quiet the rest of the night."

You laugh, the sound turning into a groan as his teeth sink into your flesh, biting down. His hands slide around to your back, pulling you flush against him, and his knee slips between your legs. The pressure against your core is enough to make you moan, and he chuckles against your skin.

"That's a dangerous game you're playing," you whisper, trying to catch your breath.

"Not the only one," he murmurs, his eyes finding yours. The hunger in his gaze makes your blood sing, and you swallow, trying to steady your pulse.

"True," you say, reaching up to cup his cheek. "But I'm not sure we should keep playing it. At least not until we get back to the ship."

He leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your lips, his tongue teasing the seam of your mouth. You open for him, and his hand comes up to cup the back of your head, holding you steady.

"Good point," he whispers as he pulls away, his nose brushing against yours.

"Come on," you say, and you nudge him backwards. Wrecker goes willingly, stumbling back a step, his eyes never leaving yours. "Let's go."

The two of you pick up the pace, and it's not long before you're making your way through the hangar bay towards the Marauder. There are a few people milling about the hangar, and a group of technicians working on a nearby ship, but none of them pay the two of you any attention as you approach the ramp.

The moment the door closes behind you, Wrecker pounces, pinning you against the wall, his mouth finding yours in a hungry kiss. You pull him closer, and he wraps his arms around you, lifting you up with ease. Your legs lock around his waist, and his hands slide down to grip the underside of your thighs, his fingers digging into the sensitive skin.

You break the kiss, your lungs screaming, and he moves down, pressing hot, wet kisses to the line of your throat. His mouth is warm and slick, his tongue leaving a burning trail along your collarbone. His hands find the hem of your shirt, and he pushes the fabric up, exposing your stomach.

"You really gonna keep quiet the rest of the night?" you ask, your voice hoarse.

"Do you want me to?" he murmurs, his nose brushing against the skin beneath your ear.

"Not particularly," you reply.

"Didn't think so," he says, and his teeth scrape against the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "You wanna know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you like it," he growls. His hands slip beneath your shirt, his palms sliding up the curve of your waist. "I think you like it when I tell you how pretty you are, or how much I want you."

"Maybe," you whisper.

"It's okay," he murmurs, his fingers dancing across your skin. "I like it, too."

You moan, the sound soft and needy, and he laughs, the vibrations tickling the sensitive spot below your ear. Wrecker's mouth finds yours again, his tongue plunging past your lips. He tastes like the liquor the two of you were drinking earlier, and the heady mixture is enough to make your head spin.

He breaks the kiss, and the next thing you know, he's carrying you down the hall, his pace hurried. Within a few steps, the two of you are falling onto the bunk, a tangle of limbs.

You land on top of him, straddling his waist, and Wrecker groans, his hands coming to rest on your hips. You grind down against him, the movement sending a rush of heat through your body. The contact is dizzying, and you do it again, relishing the way his eyes flutter closed.

"Kriff, cyare," he breathes.

"I thought I was cyar'ika," you murmur.

"Both. Either. Doesn't matter," he says, his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt.

"I think it matters" you say, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his lips.

"You really wanna talk about Mando'a right now?" he asks, and the amusement in his voice makes you laugh. You pull back enough to let him pull the shirt up and over your head, leaving you bare save for your breast band.

"I guess not. I'd rather do something else," you whisper, and Wrecker's eyes darken, his pupils dilating. His gaze trails over your chest, and his hands follow suit, tracing the line of your ribs.

"Me too," he murmurs. His fingers ghost across the band of fabric covering your breasts, teasing the edges. You give a slight nod, and he hooks a finger underneath the material, pulling it up and over your head.

Your breasts bounce free, and his eyes lock on them, his gaze burning. His hands slide up your sides, cupping the swell of flesh, his palms hot and rough.

"Mesh'la," he murmurs. He leans forward, his lips finding the slope of your shoulder. "So kriffing beautiful."

The praise makes you blush, and he kisses his way down the length of your chest, his lips trailing over the curve of your breast. You tilt your head back, closing your eyes as he licks a circle around your nipple, his tongue leaving a hot, wet trail.

"Wrecker," you whimper, and the sound seems to spur him on. His mouth finds your breast, his lips closing around the tight bud, his tongue swirling. You moan, the feeling electric, and he hums in response, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh.

He sucks and bites at the stiff peak, his fingers rolling the other, and the twin sensations send a rush of heat through your body. It's almost too much, and you can't help but squirm, the desire pooling in your core. Wrecker’s armor presses against your thighs, the pressure almost painful, and the need to feel his skin on yours is overwhelming.

"Take it off," you pant, tugging at the shoulder plates.

"Bossy," he chuckles, and the sound sends a jolt of excitement through you.

"I think you like it," you say, throwing his own words back at him, and the wicked grin he gives you is all the answer you need.

"You're right," he replies. He reaches behind him, unclipping the pieces of his armor and setting them aside. The process is painstakingly slow, and you can't help but pout. But when you try to move his hands out of the way, he lifts you off his lap and sets you down on the mattress.

"Hey!"

"I'm going," he says, a grin on his face. "Don't worry."

Wrecker stands, and the sight of him towering above you, his broad frame blocking out the light, is enough to make you tremble. He strips off the pieces of armor with practiced efficiency, revealing the black undersuit beneath. You stare at him, your eyes roaming over the thickly corded muscles of his arms and chest, the taut fabric stretched across his abdomen.

"See somethin' you like?" he teases, and the sound of his voice draws you back to reality.

"Yes," you say, clearing your throat.

"Yeah?"

"Yes," you repeat with a smile.

"Good," he says. He kneels before you, his fingers finding the hem of your pants. He undoes the button, and you lift your hips, letting him slide the fabric down.

He takes a moment to admire you, his eyes trailing over the curves of your body. He hums in approval, his hand sliding up your leg, his fingers stroking the inside of your thigh.

"Beautiful," he murmurs.

You watch as his hand slips lower, and his thumb finds the edge of your underwear, the touch light and teasing. The sensation is enough to make you gasp, and he does it again, tracing a line along the seam. Your legs part instinctively, and his hand cups the apex of your thighs, his palm pressing against the damp fabric.

"You want more?" he asks, and the huskiness of his voice is enough to make you ache.

"Yes," you breathe.

He pulls the underwear off, and you lie back, spreading your legs, giving him a clear view of the most intimate parts of you. He groans at the sight, his eyes raking over the soft flesh, and his hands grip your knees, pushing them further apart. You feel exposed, but the look on his face is nothing short of reverent, and the desire in his eyes is enough to take your breath away.

"Mesh'la," he whispers, and then his head is between your legs, his tongue finding the sensitive flesh. The contact is electric, and you moan, the sound muffled by your fist. Wrecker chuckles, his eyes locking on yours as his mouth continues its work. His lips and tongue are soft and warm, and his fingers grip your hips, pulling you closer.

"Stars, Wrecker," you whimper, and he hums in response, the vibrations sending a jolt through your body. You gasp, and he smiles, his mouth never leaving the apex of your thighs. His tongue traces circles around the stiff bud, his fingers stroking the delicate skin.

You squirm under his ministrations, the sensation nearly overwhelming, and he holds you steady, his hands like steel. You grip the sheets, trying to ground yourself, but it's a futile effort. Wrecker is relentless, his mouth devouring every inch of flesh, his tongue probing, his teeth scraping, and the heat pooling in your belly threatens to consume you.

"Wrecker, I can't—"

He stops, pulling away with a wet smack. His face is glistening, his eyes burning, and the sight of him is enough to steal the words from your lips.

"Tell me," he growls, his hands tightening on your thighs.

"I can't—"

"Can't what, cyar’ika?" he murmurs, leaning in, his breath warm on the skin of your neck.

"Can't wait," you manage. "Please."

He laughs, his fingers stroking the sensitive flesh of your thighs. He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, and his hand slips between your legs, his fingers finding the apex of your folds. You groan, the contact almost too much to bear, and his fingers tease the edge, sliding along the slick skin.

"I'm gonna take my time with you," he says, his voice rough. "Gonna learn every inch of your body, every place that makes you feel good. And I'm gonna do it until you're a kriffing mess."

The words send a rush of heat through your body, and you can't help but arch into his touch, your hips rising off the bed. He grins, his fingers parting the slick folds, and you bite back a moan as he slides the digits along the length of the slit.

"So wet," he says, and the pride in his voice is obvious. "Mesh'la."

He leans down, his tongue darting out, tracing the same path his fingers had just followed. Wrecker takes his time, his mouth exploring every inch of the exposed flesh. By the time his tongue reaches the sensitive bud, you're trembling, the pleasure almost unbearable. His fingers press against your entrance, and you nod, giving him the go-ahead.

He slips a finger inside, and you clench around him, the feeling almost foreign. It’s been so long since you've done anything like this, and the stretch is unfamiliar, the sensation a strange combination of pleasure and discomfort. He moves slowly, his lips and tongue distracting you from the intrusion, and the discomfort fades, the pressure turning into a delicious fullness.

"You okay?" he asks, looking up at you, his lips still pressed against the apex of your thighs.

"Mhm," you reply, and you roll your hips, letting him know you're ready for more. He grins, and he presses another finger in, his tongue swirling around the stiff bud. The stretch is almost too much, and you gasp, the pleasure making your head spin.

Wrecker moves slowly, his fingers curling, probing, searching for that spot inside you. When he finds it, he rubs the tips against it, and the jolt of pleasure is enough to take your breath away.

"Fuck," you gasp.

"Yeah?" he asks, his eyes glinting with mischief.

"Yes," you whimper.

"More?"

"Yes, please," you beg. "Please."

He complies, his fingers pressing deeper, and you groan, the pleasure almost too much to bear. Your thighs shake, and he hooks his free arm around one of them, pulling you closer, his lips closing around the bud.

It doesn't take long before the heat coiling in your belly becomes too much to bear, and you can't hold back the moans spilling from your lips. Wrecker keeps up the pace, his fingers pumping, his mouth devouring, and it's only a few moments before the tension snaps.

You cry out, the sound swallowed by the bulkhead, and your thighs clamp around his head, trapping him. The air seems to ripple around you, the Force flowing through you, and the room fades, replaced by blinding white light. You're weightless, drifting in the current, the pleasure rippling through your body.

When you finally come down, the room has returned to normal, and the pressure of Wrecker's mouth is nearly too much. You push him away, and he looks up at you, a smirk on his face. His lips are wet and swollen, and his eyes are bright with lust.

"That was somethin' else," he murmurs, his voice hoarse.

"What did I do?" you ask, your voice shaking.

"Not sure," he replies. He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, his tongue darting out, licking away the remnants of your climax. "But I liked it."

"Oh," you manage.

"You good?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "Really good. Stars, Wrecker, that was...”

"Just the beginning," he says, his hands finding your waist and flipping you onto your stomach. He pulls you up onto your knees, and the next thing you know, his tongue is on your folds again, the sensation making your legs tremble.

"Wrecker, what—"

"Told you I'd take my time," he murmurs, and his fingers slip inside you again, the pace agonizing. You groan, burying your face in the pillow, trying to muffle the sounds spilling from your lips. His hand slides up your spine, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling your head back. "I wanna hear you."

"I can't," you whimper.

"I'll stop if you don't," he threatens. "Wanna hear how good I'm makin' you feel."

"Fine," you groan. "Don't stop. Please."

"Good girl," he says, and the words send a rush of heat straight to your core. You feel yourself clamp down around his fingers, and his other hand grips the curve of your ass, squeezing hard. "Fuck, that's hot."

You moan, the sound loud and needy, and he rewards you by sliding another finger inside. The stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is worth it, and the thought of him inside you, filling you, sends a thrill of excitement through your body. You can't help but push back against him, grinding your hips against his face.

"Look at you," he says, and the awe in his voice is enough to bring tears to your eyes. "Fuck, you're perfect. So fuckin' perfect."

His mouth returns to its work, his tongue licking and sucking and teasing. Your legs tremble, and his arm wraps around your waist, holding you up as his fingers plunge deeper. The pleasure is overwhelming, and the room seems to fade around you, the only thing remaining the feeling of his mouth on your sex.

You can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything except take whatever he gives you. And the thought, the knowledge that you're completely at his mercy, is intoxicating. You surrender to the feeling, allowing yourself to let go, and the release is almost instantaneous.

You cry out, the sound torn from your throat, and the force of it threatens to knock you over. But Wrecker is there, his arms steadying you, his mouth coaxing every last ounce of pleasure from you. When the waves of bliss finally subside, you slump forward, the mattress soft against your cheek.

"Holy shit," you mutter, unable to form a coherent thought.

"Yeah," Wrecker says, his hand stroking the length of your spine. He leans over you, his mouth finding the soft skin behind your ear. His tongue darts out, licking the shell, and his breath is hot on your neck. "Still with me?"

"Barely," you whisper, and the sound of his laugh sends a shiver through you. You roll over slowly to find his face inches from yours, his smile wide and wicked. You reach up, cupping his cheek, and the softness in his eyes is enough to melt your heart.

"Hi," he murmurs.

"Hey."

He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. The tenderness is unexpected, and the taste of yourself on his mouth is more arousing than it has any right to be.

"I'm glad we're finally alone," he whispers, his nose brushing against yours. "Was about to explode."

"Mm," you reply. "Well, let's fix that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you say, pushing him back. He sits up, and you move with him, swinging your leg over his waist. He watches you with hungry eyes, and the desire in his expression is enough to stoke the embers of your own. You can feel his cock straining against the fabric of his suit, the thickness hard and insistent, and the realization of just how badly he wants you is almost too much to bear.

You lean in, your mouth finding the side of his neck, and he groans, his hands coming up to rest on your hips. You nip and bite at the exposed flesh as your hands slip underneath the hem of his shirt, and you peel the fabric up, revealing his chest. He lifts his arms, and the two of you work together to pull the garment over his head, tossing it aside.

You run your hands over his broad chest, your fingers tracing the line of his muscles, his scars, his tattoos. The expanse of his skin is a map, a landscape, and you want to explore every inch. He sighs, his eyes closing, and the contentment in his expression is beautiful. You kiss him again, and he groans, his hand reaching up to cup the back of your head.

"I could kiss you forever," he murmurs.

"That would be nice," you reply, your lips moving down his throat.

"Mhm," he hums. "But right now, I really, really wanna fuck you."

The words send a shiver of desire through you, and you pull back, giving him a smirk. You slide back, and his hands move to the closure of his suit, undoing the catches with ease. The fabric parts, revealing the thick shaft beneath. The head is dark and swollen, and a drop of precome glistens at the tip.

"Kriff," you breathe. "You're—"

"Big?" he says, grinning.

You swallow, nodding. You've felt him through his clothes, the evidence of his desire more than clear, but the reality is something else entirely. He's larger than any partner you've ever had, and the thought of taking him, of feeling him inside you, is both terrifying and exhilarating.

"That's putting it mildly."

"We can wait," he offers, his hands finding your hips, his fingers stroking the sensitive skin. "Or take things slow. We don't have to do anything you're not ready for."

"I appreciate that," you say. "But I really, really want this."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

He smiles, and his hand slips between your thighs, his fingers finding the slick skin. You gasp at the touch, rising up on your knees to pull his blacks down further. His cock springs free, the length curving up against his belly. He helps you pull the rest of the suit off, leaving the two of you bare before each other.

He sits up, his eyes raking over the planes of your body, his gaze hungry and possessive. He pulls you towards him, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, his mouth finding yours. His hands slide down your spine, cupping the swell of your ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.

"You sure about this?" he asks, his lips moving against yours.

"Very," you reply. You reach between the two of you, your fingers wrapping around his length. He groans, his head falling back, and his hips twitch, pushing into your grasp. Your fingers don't quite meet, the thickness impossible to fully encircle, and the size of him is daunting.

"You can change your mind," he says, and the words are choked, strained. "Just say the word."

"I won't," you say. "Trust me."

"Okay," he breathes, and the faith in his voice is enough to take your breath away. He leans back, and you raise yourself up on your knees, positioning him at your entrance. You take a deep breath, and then begin to lower yourself onto him. The head presses against the tight ring of muscle the sensation almost foreign. You press down, and the tip slips inside, the thickness stretching you.

"Shit," he mutters, his fingers gripping your hips. "Fuck, cyar'ika, you're so—"

The words turn into a loud, unrestrained groan as you sink down, taking him inch by inch. It takes time, the fullness overwhelming, but you persevere, the feeling of him inside you more intense than anything you've ever felt. The way his length fills you, stretching and stretching, the slight pain, the ache, the feeling of being whole, it's enough to drive all thoughts from your mind.

By the time Wrecker is nearly fully seated inside you, the both of you are trembling. He's panting, his eyes squeezed shut, his chest rising and falling in rapid breaths. You watch him, the sight of his reaction sending a rush of excitement through your body. It's the first time you've seen him lose control, and the knowledge that it's you, that you're the cause, is exhilarating.

You shift in his lap, grinding down on his cock, and he hisses, his teeth clenched. The pressure against the walls of your cunt is almost too much to bear, and it takes everything you have not to collapse. You lift yourself up slightly, testing the limits, and his grip on your hips tightens.

“Stay still,” he growls, and the command in his voice sends a thrill through you. “Don’t move.”

"Or what?" you ask.

Wrecker opens his eyes, his gaze burning into you. There's a dangerous glint there, and the promise in his expression is almost too much to take. You swallow, unable to look away. He smirks, and his hand comes up, his fingers wrapping around the back of your neck, holding you steady.

"Or I'm gonna have to fuck you into the kriffing mattress," he says, his voice rough. "You think you can handle that?"

"Maybe," you reply, and the confidence in your voice is surprising.

"Really?" he says. He shifts, his hips lifting off the mattress, and the movement pushes him deeper. The stretch is almost too much, but the sensation is exquisite, and the moan that escapes your lips is unabashedly desperate. "Sounds like you can't."

"I'm not convinced," you say, and the words come out more as a whine than a statement. Wrecker laughs, his lips curling into a smug smile. The expression should annoy you, but instead, it only adds to the heat pooling in your core. You like seeing him like this, confident and commanding, and the thought of letting him have his way with you is more than a little arousing.

"You're adorable," he says, and he tilts his head forward, his lips meeting yours in a searing kiss. You wrap your arms around him, and he pulls you closer, his other hand sliding down to the small of your back. The pressure is intoxicating, and you can't help but squirm, trying to find purchase. But he holds you steady, his mouth devouring yours.

He lifts you up, his hands gripping the curve of your ass, and his cock nearly slips out, the sudden emptiness jarring. But before you can complain, he's lowering you back down, sheathing himself inside you again.

"Oh," you whimper.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "You feel so good."

He lifts you again, and his pace is achingly slow, the movement careful, controlled. He's clearly holding back, and the knowledge that he's doing it for your benefit sends a rush of affection through you. You cup his face in your hands, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"Wrecker," you say. "Please."

"You sure?"

"Yes," you hiss, your head tilting back as he slides home. "Please, I want—"

"Tell me what you want," he growls.

"You," you say, and the confession is more difficult than it should be. "All of you. Hard and fast and— Fuck!"

The breath leaves your lungs as he flips the two of you, his weight pinning you against the mattress. He slides a hand beneath your hips, tilting them up, and his lips find the curve of your neck, his teeth scraping against the sensitive skin.

"Don't say I didn't warn ya," he growls, and then his hips snap, driving him into you. The movement is quick and powerful, and the impact reverberates through your entire body. The thrust is accompanied by a wave of pleasure, the feeling intense and all-consuming, and it takes everything you have to hold on.

"Holy shit," you mutter, your eyes squeezing shut.

"You good?" he murmurs, his hands finding yours, his fingers intertwining with your own.

"So good," you whimper. You wrap your legs around his waist, trying to anchor yourself, but the motion seems to have the opposite effect. The slight shift in position is all the invitation he needs, and he drives into you again, the force enough to push you up the bed. The pleasure is almost blinding, and the room blurs, the edges of your vision darkening.

"More," you beg, the word torn from your throat.

"Anything," he breathes, and then his mouth finds yours, swallowing the moan that spills from your lips. His hips set a relentless rhythm, his cock pounding into you, the friction delicious. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer, and his mouth never leaves yours, his tongue plunging past your teeth. The taste of him, the smell of him, it's enough to send you reeling, and the world around you fades, replaced by a single, searing point of pleasure.

You lose yourself in the moment, the feeling of his body pressed against yours, the warmth and strength and power of him. He surrounds you, engulfs you, consumes you, and the intimacy of the act, the connection between the two of you, it's unlike anything you've ever felt. The sensation is overwhelming, and you're powerless to do anything except take whatever he gives you. You let go, surrendering yourself completely, and the feeling is almost euphoric.

"You feel so fuckin' good," Wrecker pants, and the words seem to echo, his voice distant. "Can't believe you're—fuck, cyar'ika, you're perfect."

The praise spurs you on, and the next thing you know, Wrecker is kneeling before you, pulling you towards him. His hands grip your waist, his fingers digging into the sensitive flesh, and his cock plunges deeper. You cry out, the sound echoing around the room, and he groans in response, his movements becoming erratic.

"Fuck," he grunts. His hands slide down, cupping the curve of your ass, and he lifts you off the mattress, impaling you on his cock. The angle is intense, and you can feel the tension coiling in your belly, the pressure threatening to burst.

"I'm close," you gasp, and he nods, his face twisted with pleasure. He's lost control, the steady rhythm giving way to desperate, frantic thrusts, and the knowledge that he's close to coming undone is intoxicating.

"Touch yourself," he manages. "Come on, cyar'ika, wanna feel you come on my cock."

You do as he says, reaching down and sliding your fingers through the wetness between your legs. The contact is enough to push you over the edge, and you come hard, the orgasm tearing through you. The room goes dark, the pleasure nearly blinding, and the air seems to vibrate, the Force surging through you. You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except let it wash over you.

You feel yourself clamp down around Wrecker's cock, the walls of your cunt spasming, and he gasps, the sound raw and primal. He thrusts once, twice, and then his hips stutter, and he drives himself deep, the force of his climax making the bed shake. You feel his cock pulse inside you, filling you, and the warmth of his seed sends another wave of pleasure rippling through your body.

It seems to go on forever, the two of you riding out the aftershocks. You're trembling, and tears are spilling down your cheeks, but you can't bring yourself to care. You pull him close, your mouth finding his, and the kiss is sloppy, needy, the two of you too far gone to do anything except cling to each other.

When it's over, Wrecker rolls the two of you over, pulling you into his arms. His chest is rising and falling in rapid breaths, and his heart is pounding, the beat so loud you can hear it. You rest your head on his shoulder, your arm draped across his chest, and he pulls you closer, his nose buried in the top of your head.

"Holy shit," he breathes.

"That good, huh?"

"Good doesn't even cover it," he says. "Stars, that was...fuck, cyar'ika, that was somethin' else."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should," he murmurs. "Fuck."

You laugh, the sound muffled by his skin. He chuckles in response, and his hand strokes your back, his fingers tracing circles on your spine. You sigh, the touch soothing, and you close your eyes, letting the tension leave your body. You're exhausted, and the thought of moving is nearly unbearable. You’re more content than you can remember being in a long, long time.

"Don't fall asleep," he says. "Not yet."

"Too late," you murmur, the words slurred.

"Hey," he says, and his tone is gentle, teasing. "At least let me get a towel or something."

"Fine," you grumble.

He laughs, and the bed shifts as he gets up, the loss of his body heat jarring. You shiver, curling into yourself, and the next thing you know, he's pressing a damp cloth between your legs. The contact is enough to wake you up, and the realization of what's happening is both embarrassing and endearing.

"Wrecker," you say, pushing his hand away. "I can do that."

"Sorry," he mutters. "Should've asked."

"It's okay," you say, and the sincerity in your voice seems to reassure him. "I just don't want you doing all the work."

"I don't mind," he says, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "I like takin' care of you."

"And I like taking care of you," you reply. "Which is why I want you to come back to bed."

"Okay, okay," he says, smiling. He tosses the towel aside, and the bed dips as he climbs in next to you, his body pressed flush against yours. The feel of his skin on yours is soothing, and you can't help but melt into his touch. He's solid and warm and real, and the knowledge that he's here, that he wants you, is more comforting than anything else.

"Mesh'la," he whispers.

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

You turn, burying your face in the crook of his neck. His arms wrap around you, his body enveloping yours, and the words come easily.

"I love you, too."

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[aventurineswife]

hi! is sahsrau open? if not, plz ignore

sagau and sahsrau tugging on creator!reader’s sleeves for attention? 🤗

Aww, that's so cute wth :((

In the SAGAU, you’ve got characters like Venti, Nahida, and Childe practically hovering around you. Venti’s tugging at your sleeve with this mischievous grin, lyre slung over his back, saying something like, “Your grace, won’t you bless Mondstadt with your presence just for a bit?” Meanwhile, Nahida’s gently clinging to the other side, eyes wide and soft—just silently looking up like she’s waiting for you to notice her thoughts before she even speaks. And Childe? He’s playfully shoving the others aside like, “Hey, hey, I saw them first today!”

Now flip to SAHSRAU, and it’s a little more chaotic but equally needy. March 7th is hanging off your arm with stars in her eyes, trying to show you photos of the crew: “Look! Look! We added stickers for you this time!” Dan Heng’s just behind, tugging quietly with a light frown—he won’t say it outright, but you know he’s hoping for a few quiet minutes with just you. Then there’s Kafka, smirking from the side, pulling your sleeve just enough to make you turn her way. “Don’t forget who actually gets things done for you, Creator.”

They’re not competing (okay, maybe they are a bit)—but it’s this constant, low-level tug-of-war for your attention, like you’re the sun they orbit and they need their moment in the light. :DD

[vampiriito]

✮⋆˙ stepbro! rafe x bambi! reader

ᡣ𐭩. ݁˖ . masterlist.

There was a story your mom used to tell you when you were little. A strange, unsettling one for a bedtime tale, the kind that lingered long after the lights were out and shadows crept across the ceiling. It was about a cruel prince who hunted a young fawn in the dense forest beside his palace. How he chased her through tangled branches and dappled sunlight, his footsteps heavy, relentless, echoing through the trees. He cornered her, time and time again—but never struck. Not at first. He dragged it out, savoring the hunt as much as the fear in her wide, trembling eyes. He let her live in that constant, agonizing uncertainty—watching, waiting, always wondering when the final blow would come.

You could never quite remember how the story ended. The ending was always hazy, elusive—like a half-forgotten dream. Maybe it was meant to be that way. Maybe it was a warning, or a puzzle left for you to solve on your own. Or maybe, deep down, you feared you were about to find out for yourself.

Because sometimes, the hunter and the hunted aren’t so clear-cut. Sometimes, the cruel prince is less a monster and more a mirror—reflecting the pieces of yourself you didn’t know were fractured, sharp, or aching to break free. And sometimes, the fawn isn’t just prey but something stubborn, wild, and impossible to cage.

The move to the Outer Banks had been brutal. In Florida, summer had meant freedom. Salt-streaked boardwalks, Jeep rides with the windows down, diners that smelled like syrup and cigarette smoke. The ocean back home felt like a friend. Here, it felt like a stranger. Pretty, distant, cold. Like everything else.

Your mom, though? She was thriving. Practically glowing on Ward Cameron’s arm, newly minted as Mrs. Cameron and drinking in the fantasy. Ward was everything she’d ever wanted—rich, powerful, and polished like a campaign ad. He had that unnerving charm, too. The kind that curled off him like cigar smoke—pleasant at first, but it lingered too long and left a sour taste. You weren’t sure if your mom didn’t see it, or just didn’t care. Maybe it was easier to play pretend when you finally had the life you used to dream about.

The island itself was beautiful. Painfully so. Gilded skies, glittering waves, the kind of sunsets you could write songs about. But it was divided straight down the middle—Kooks and Pogues, rich and poor, privilege and survival. “Two tribes, one island,” they liked to say, but it felt more like two separate planets orbiting the same sun. That is, until the parties started. Then the borders blurred under the haze of liquor and heat, and everyone forgot who they were supposed to hate for a little while.

Some people clung to those lines anyway. Gripped them like lifelines.

Rafe Cameron was one of them. Your new stepbrother. Ward’s oldest, and every inch the heir he was raised to be—entitled, volatile, and furious in a way you couldn’t quite define. Like the world had already given him everything, and it still wasn’t enough. There was a sharpness to him that never dulled. A quiet kind of danger that didn’t shout. It simmered. Seeped into the air around him like static before a storm.

From the moment you moved in, Rafe made it clear: he didn’t want you here. Not in the house. Not in his world. You didn’t know if it was the invasion of space, the shift in power, or just the fact that you didn’t worship the ground he walked on—but something about you got under his skin. And he didn’t bother hiding it.

The two of you clashed like fire and fuel. Every conversation was a game of chicken. Every glance felt like a loaded weapon. Rafe didn’t yell. He needled. Mocked. Smiled like he already knew your secrets and couldn’t wait to use them. And you? You tried to match him. Tried not to shrink beneath that razor-sharp gaze. But sometimes, even when you held your ground, you walked away feeling flayed.

Worse than the fights were the silences that followed. Tense, brittle, like glass on the verge of breaking. Sometimes you'd catch him staring, long after the words ran dry. Not angry. Not smug. Just… searching. Like he couldn’t figure out how you’d slipped past his guard. Or maybe how he let you.

You never mentioned it. Neither did he.

But something about you rattled him. And as much as you hated it—you were starting to realize he rattled you right back.

It was the fourth party since school let out, and tonight felt particularly frenzied—driven by cheap beer, loud music, and the desperate itch for something unforgettable. The Cameron estate was packed to the rafters, pulsing with sound and sweat and the kind of manic energy that came with privilege and boredom.

Inside, bodies moved in a rhythm that didn’t quite feel human. Music thudded through the floors, lights flashing in dizzying bursts. Strangers brushed past you, sticky cups in hand, laughing too loud, their cologne heavy enough to choke on. You were dry-mouthed and overstimulated, every brush of skin stealing another sliver of your calm.

You hated it. These weren’t your people. This wasn’t your scene. Back home, parties were messy and warm, spontaneous and soft-edged—bonfires on the beach, road trips to nowhere, someone’s busted Bluetooth speaker skipping halfway through a song. This? This was a performance. And you were off-script.

Rafe’s crowd was even worse. Older, richer, more vicious. Their cruelty was subtle, polished, hidden behind teeth-whitened grins and perfectly timed laughs. Every time their eyes slid over you, it felt like you were being weighed. Measured. Dressed up in something that didn’t quite fit.

Sarah had found her own group—laid-back, artsy, softer around the edges. People you might’ve actually liked, if you’d let yourself try. But you hadn’t. Pride or fear—you weren’t sure which held you back harder.

So you stood in the kitchen, a half-melted drink in your hand and a permanent scowl on your face. Watching a couple make out like they owned the place. Listening to the music pulse through your bones. Trying not to look like you were counting the minutes until you could disappear.

You didn’t belong here. Not in this house. Not at this party. Not in this life your mom had carved for herself and expected you to squeeze into like an ill-fitting dress.

You were just about to slip upstairs, lock your door, pretend none of it had happened.

But then—you felt it.

That unmistakable pull. The tingle at the nape of your neck. That someone’s watching kind of heat.

You turned.

And there he was.

Rafe.

Leaning against the doorway like he’d been standing there the whole time. Blue eyes unreadable. A red Solo cup dangling from his fingers. And that look—cool and amused, like he’d caught you thinking something you weren’t supposed to.

Like the prince who found the fawn. And still hadn’t decided whether to let her run… or start the hunt.

In the dark and the chaos, he almost didn’t seem real—an apparition with sharp edges. His hoodie clung to him like a second skin, the black so deep it absorbed the light around him. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses this time, but the lack of them didn’t soften him. If anything, it made everything worse—his eyes too clear, too aware, too… sharp.

You shifted where you stood, a familiar tightness coiling in your chest—panic, maybe. Or dread. Or something jagged and hard to name, lodging itself between your ribs. Your teeth found the inside of your cheek, biting down just enough to ground yourself as your eyes locked—briefly—on him.

Rafe tilted his head back and drained whatever was left in his Solo cup, the curve of his throat easy and smooth, like he didn’t feel the weight of anything. Then, without looking, he dropped the cup. Just let it fall to the hardwood like the house wasn’t worth respecting. Like it wasn’t his fucking name on the deed.

You glanced away quickly, gaze darting to the fridge, to anything else. If you didn’t look at him, maybe he wouldn’t look at you. Maybe he wouldn’t smirk like he could see right through you, or mutter something to his friends later—about the girl with the big glasses and the nervous energy.

You pushed your frames up your nose, a reflex, and fixed your eyes on the couple tangled together by the fridge. They didn’t notice you. No one did. You blended too well into the background, like wallpaper, or a coat rack someone forgot to use.

The music pulsed up through your sneakers, rattling in your bones. The lights were dim and gold and too warm. The smell of expensive cologne and spilled beer clung to the air. Everything about tonight felt surreal, like a party you weren’t supposed to be at. A party you didn’t even want to be at.

And then you felt it—like a wire pulling taut between your shoulder blades. Someone was watching you.

You looked back before you could stop yourself.

Rafe.

Still there. Braced against the wall in the hallway like he owned the oxygen. His arms crossed. His eyes on you.

And the worst part? He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t talking. He wasn’t even pretending to be part of the party. Just watching—like he'd been waiting for you to crack.

Your pulse jumped. You looked away again, chewing the inside of your lip now instead. It was a stupid habit. But you didn’t stop.

When you looked back, he moved. Straightened up. Took a step.

You froze.

He didn’t weave through the crowd—he parted it, brushing shoulders with people like they weren’t even there, never apologizing, never looking. You knew he was headed straight for you before he even looked your way again.

Your stomach dropped.

He stopped in front of you, too close. Not touching. But close enough that his presence crashed over you like static. His cologne was strong, sharp. Expensive. It mixed with the smell of beer and sweat and heat. You could feel the warmth coming off him, could hear the low drag of his breath.

You didn’t look up. Not fully. Just enough to register the outline of his jaw, the curve of his smirk.

He didn’t say anything.

Instead, he leaned forward—reaching past you to grab a beer from the cooler behind you. His arm caged you in, palm flat on the counter beside your head, forcing you to flinch back a fraction. Your glasses slid down the bridge of your nose.

He didn’t need to come that close.

He did it because he could.

You swallowed and pushed your glasses back up with a quick flick of your finger, trying to calm the trembling in your hands. You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Not yet.

Rafe lingered even after he had the beer. Still leaning too close, his head tilted down like he was inspecting something. You, probably. Like he was waiting for a crack to show.

And yeah—maybe you flinched. Maybe your gaze dropped to the floor too fast, like prey refusing to meet a predator’s stare. Maybe that gave him exactly what he wanted.

But you stayed where you were. You didn’t step back. You didn’t run.

Your voice, when it came, was low. Dry. The sarcasm weak but present—more out of habit than confidence.

"Didn’t realize the beer was magnetically sealed to the wall behind my head."

Rafe didn’t laugh. Not really. But his smirk widened, one brow raising like you’d just made his night.

“You know,” he said, voice low and lazy, “for someone who hates being looked at, you’re not exactly great at hiding.”

You blinked, mouth twitching as you struggled not to react.

“I wasn’t hiding,” you muttered, more to your cup than to him. “Just… standing.”

“Oh. My bad,” he drawled. He took a long sip of his beer, eyes never leaving yours. “You just looked so comfortable. All alone in the kitchen. Squinting at everyone like they’re an alien species.”

You flushed. Instinctively reached for your glasses again. It was worse knowing he noticed. Worse knowing he remembered things. The way you fidgeted. The way you looked at crowds like they might bite.

You turned slightly, shoulder angling away from him, trying to reclaim just an inch of space.

“I didn’t come here to socialize,” you said softly, but it came out brittle.

Rafe clicked his tongue. “Yeah,” he said, gaze flicking lazily across your features. “That part’s obvious.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared past him like maybe if you focused hard enough, you could melt through the wall.

He leaned a little closer, like he wasn’t done yet. Like he wanted to make sure you heard him over the bass pounding through the walls.

"Having fun?" he asked, voice a notch lower. Mocking.

You exhaled slowly. Then turned your head toward him just enough to meet his eyes over the rim of your glasses.

Your smile was tight. Fragile. But it held.

"You're ruining it for me," you said, voice barely above a whisper. A scalpel, not a sword.

Rafe’s expression didn’t shift much, but his eyes gleamed—like he liked that answer.

Like maybe he liked you flinching more than you liked pretending you didn’t.

He leaned back finally, beer in hand, like he’d given you enough rope.

But you knew better.

You were still holding it.

And eventually, he’d pull.

Your brows knit together instinctively at the nickname—Bambi. Familiar, yes, but laced with something else now. Something darker. It sounded different in this setting, with bass thudding from the next room and his eyes fixed on you like that. You didn’t know what he meant by it exactly, but it settled beneath your skin like a chill—unshakable, unwelcome.

Your teeth found your bottom lip as your gaze flicked away—just for a second—before you yanked it back to his, forcing yourself to hold steady even as your stomach twisted. You scanned the room like maybe someone would interrupt, hand you an escape. No one did.

“I live here,” you said finally, voice low but laced with sarcasm so thin it felt brittle. You raised your drink in a half-hearted gesture, like that explained everything, even though your grip on the cup was just a little too tight. “Kind of hard to leave.”

You didn’t shift your stance, didn’t blink too fast or chew your lip again, but he made you hyperaware of everything your body did. Like he was taking inventory. Every twitch. Every breath. Every tiny, involuntary give.

“You’ve been here six months,” he said, voice low and rough. “Still don’t act like you belong.”

He stepped in closer, close enough for the heat of him to press against the space between you. His cologne was stronger now—earthy, expensive, mixed with sweat and something unmistakably male. It made your chest tighten.

Then his fingers lifted—light, unhurried—and brushed the edge of your choker. The shell beads clinked faintly under the touch, soft and shockingly intimate.

Your eyes snapped down, sharp, reactive. The touch was featherlight, but it felt like a spark on bare wire. Your breath hitched through your nose—sharp with irritation, mostly at yourself. At the way your pulse betrayed you. At how off-balance everything felt tonight.

Maybe it was the cologne. Maybe the freckles across the bridge of his nose, reminders that he wasn’t all carved marble and venom. Maybe it was the way his eyes crinkled faintly at the corners when he smirked—like he found all of this so entertaining. Like you were entertainment.

You hated the way he clung to you without touching, the way his presence wrapped around you like humidity—thick, heavy, inescapable. And worse, you hated that it got to you. That the flutter in your chest wasn’t about fear anymore.

“Because I don’t belong,” you snapped, voice low but biting as you looked up at him—really looked.

Your eyes, wide and dark and too honest, flicked between his like they might find something you’d rather not see. He always looked at you like this, like he was waiting for you to crack. There was something undeniably predatory in his stare—but also something... captivated. Like he couldn’t help it.

He called you Bambi when he was feeling cruel. Or bored. Or weirdly soft in the worst moments. It was a jab, but not a lie. You looked like a girl caught in headlights—lovely, out of place, and one wrong move from splintering.

And maybe that’s why he was still watching, longer than he should’ve, fingers still brushing the edge of your choker like it grounded him. Like you did.

“You don’t feel like you belong, bambi?” he murmured, voice roughened by something you didn’t want to name. His fingers traced lower, skimming over the delicate curve of your collarbone. The pads of them were rough, and your skin buzzed with every inch he took.

The red flags had been waving from the moment he stepped too close. From the shift in his tone—low, almost gentle. Too gentle. Rafe Cameron didn’t do nice. Not without a reason buried beneath it.

You remembered those early weeks with razor clarity. The way your presence had seemed to offend him. The condescension. The little public humiliations he served with a smile. How he’d pull you in just close enough to make you drop your guard—only to cut you down in front of his smug little circle.

So no, this wasn’t charm. It was strategy. A shift in tactics.

Your expression tightened, suspicion threading through every muscle in your face. Your gaze dropped to his mouth—quick, involuntary—then flicked back up to those ice-blue eyes, too sharp, too focused.

“You don’t have to worry,” you said, voice going syrupy-sweet, a sharp contrast to your eyes. “I’m liking the Outer Banks just fine.”

The smile you gave him was all sugar and teeth, mock-politeness dipped in venom.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He was too busy staring. The way he always did when your voice turned acidic and your eyes burned. You knew what he saw—big, soft eyes that betrayed too much, lips still parted from a breath caught in your throat. You looked like something fragile, even when you spoke like a blade.

He called you Bambi because he liked the illusion of fragility. Because he liked seeing if he could make it real.

His fingers traced the curve of your collarbone again, slower now, then moved upward to skim the underside of your chin. You should’ve pulled away. He should’ve stopped. But neither of you did.

And then his thumb ghosted over your bottom lip—gentle. Too gentle.

“You don’t seem very happy, bambi,” he said, voice low enough to rumble through your chest.

You jerked back, instinctively, the second his thumb made contact. It wasn’t rough, but it was invasive—like he had any right. Your sneer cut through the silence, but of course, he didn’t flinch. He just smiled. That smug, half-lidded look deepening like your defiance was dessert.

But you knew what he was doing. You knew.

You hated that your face still gave you away—sweet features betraying the fire you felt burning behind your eyes. That you still looked like something cornered, even when your voice hissed like venom.

“What do you want from me?” you snapped, too quiet and too direct, as your hand flew up to adjust your glasses—a nervous tic you barely registered. But he did.

Your gaze lingered on his mouth again—just a beat too long. Maybe out of disbelief. Maybe out of curiosity. Or maybe it was the heat blooming under your skin, the kind you didn’t want to admit had anything to do with him.

Rafe’s smirk curved higher at your glare, like he was savoring it. This was how he liked you—spitting fire, eyes shining with fury, too reactive to hide it. He had you backed into the counter, and he knew it.

“Oh, bambi…” he murmured, and his thumb brushed your bottom lip again. This time, you didn’t pull away.

“Aren’t you just precious.”

The word felt condescending on its own, but coming from Rafe, it landed like a slap—sharp, humiliating, and intentional.

"You think you're cute when you act all tough," he went on, voice a low murmur that slid under your skin like oil. His thumb moved from your lip to the ridge of your jaw, brushing along your cheekbone with a softness that made the gesture feel more invasive than tender. "When you glare and throw your little tantrums, thinking you have any power over me."

Your expression faltered. Just for a second. A slight dip in your mouth, the barest tremble in your lashes—but it was enough. Enough for him to catch it. To seize on it.

And he always did. Always managed to twist the moment until it bent into something ugly and mean. Until your reactions—your real, human reactions—felt like flaws he’d uncovered, like strings he could pull just to watch you unravel.

“I don’t want power over you,” you said, voice low and tight, fragile even in its defiance. “I just want you to leave me alone tonight.”

Your fingers shot up, warm and trembling, wrapping around his wrist—not with force, not really, but out of something raw and instinctive. You pushed his hand away from your face like it burned, and maybe it did. Maybe it always had.

Because it wasn’t just how he stared. It was why. Like he saw straight through you—right past your sarcasm and forced calm and into the bruised, unspoken parts you tried not to show. Like he was the only one who saw you not as you were, but as something fragile and foreign, a deer trembling at the edge of the woods with nowhere left to run.

Bambi. The nickname had always been a jab, but it wasn’t a lie. You were wide-eyed, reactive, soft in all the places he liked to press. And he loved watching you flinch.

His smirk faded slightly as you held his wrist, and for a flicker of a moment, something shifted. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unreadable but intense—too focused, too calm for how rattled you felt.

“You want a lot of things, Bambi,” he murmured, his voice softened now—not out of kindness, but curiosity. Like he was studying a creature he didn’t quite understand but wanted to get closer to anyway.

Your pulse thrummed against his skin. His heart under your fingers was steady, maddeningly unaffected. You hated how calm he was. How thrown you were.

“I want you to join your friends,” you said quietly, a tightness in your throat that made your voice feel smaller than it should’ve. “And stop playing with my mind.”

That made his jaw tick. A subtle reaction, but a reaction all the same. He took a step closer, the air between you shrinking again. The edge of the kitchen counter pressed into the small of your back. There was nowhere to go. He was towering over you now, shadowed in the low party light, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you like smoke—rich and heavy and dizzyingly masculine.

His hand rose again, fingers skimming your chin until you were forced to look up at him. His gaze dipped to your lips, then back to your eyes—lingering, dark.

“Play with your mind?” he echoed, a mocking note tucked under his breath. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip again, slow and deliberate. You didn’t pull away this time, and you hated yourself for it.

Then he tapped the tip of your nose lightly with his free hand, the gesture irritatingly affectionate. A cruel parody of tenderness.

“No, princess,” he said, his tone cooling into something razor-sharp. “It’s this pretty little face I’m interested in.”

This pretty little face.

The words clanged in your skull like an insult disguised as a compliment, like every awful thing he’d ever said dressed up in sugar. And that nickname—princess—it was never sweet. Not from him. It was soaked in disdain, always used to remind you of what you were before you landed here: softer, easier, untouched. A relic from a life that no longer fit, one he’d made it his mission to rip apart.

He was your step-brother. The one who spat venom across shared dinners, who twisted every sentence into a blade, who called you a leech to your face and meant it. And now he was looking at you like this—like you were something wanted.

Your jaw clenched. “Don’t patronize me,” you snapped, voice sharp but wobbly, tight with heat you didn’t want to name. You jerked your head to the side, breaking the contact with a flick of resistance that felt more desperate than defiant.

And in the silence that followed, you realized something else.

He liked this.

Not just the tension. Not just your fear. But you. The way you refused to yield, even when your hands trembled. The way you stood there—big, soft eyes blazing, chest heaving, lips parted from the breath you didn’t know you’d held—still trying to hold your ground. Still fighting.

Those doe eyes, the ones he never stopped mocking, had always been your curse. But maybe they were the reason he couldn’t look away.

Rafe leaned in again, his voice a whisper that brushed the shell of your ear like a secret, far too intimate.

“I don’t have to play with your mind, Bambi,” he said. “You’re already coming apart on your own.”

And the worst part?

You were.

Because somewhere beneath the irritation, the hate, the history—there was heat. Pulling you toward him like gravity. Dangerous, undeniable, and cruelly familiar.

And Rafe could see it all. In your lashes. In your lips. In the way you hadn’t really let go of his wrist.

Not yet.

Rafe remained leaning against the counter for a few long moments, watching you slip out of the kitchen and vanish into the thick crowd pulsing through the house. He hated watching you walk away—hated how easy it was for you to disappear. You slipped through his fingers like a glass figurine, always just out of reach before he could decide whether he wanted to shatter you or keep you.

His jaw tensed, muscles ticking as he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, trying to stop them from doing something impulsive. Like dragging you back. Like cupping your jaw just to see if you'd flinch—or lean in.

He couldn’t get the look on your face out of his head. That subtle flush rising up your neck when he stepped too close, the way your eyes darted to the side like you couldn’t stand the weight of his stare. He hadn’t meant to get under your skin. Not really. But he had, and the proof was in your silence, your retreat.

He needed air. A distraction. Something—anything—to drag him out of the spiral you'd triggered just by looking at him like that.

Rafe pushed off the counter and moved through the house like a storm cloud, past dancing bodies and smoke-filled corners, toward the back deck. The cool night hit his face like a slap, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly. A group clustered near the railing passed around tequila and something harsher, and he accepted both without hesitation, downing a swig before leaning back, bottle resting casually in his hand.

He tried to focus on the warmth spreading down his throat, on the girls lingering nearby with too-bright eyes and too-easy smiles. He let them talk, flirt, touch his arm—he even laughed once, hollow and sharp—but every few seconds, his eyes would drift back toward the sliding glass door, searching for you.

You were curled up near the pool, tucked into one of the lounge chairs like you were trying to make yourself small. Knees drawn up, arms loose around them, head tilted toward the water that shimmered under the glow of string lights tangled above like a scene from a movie trying too hard to be romantic. It should’ve been peaceful. But you felt like you were watching the party through a window, like the sound and light couldn’t quite reach you.

This place didn’t feel like home. It never had.

Florida had been messy, yeah. But it was your mess. You’d known where you fit there, even if it wasn’t always perfect. Late-night drives with friends, vodka pulled from glove compartments, bonfires on the beach where everyone knew your name. Here? You were a ghost in someone else’s castle. And the only one who seemed to notice was Wheezie—thirteen, awkward, too young to carry the weight of your confessions, but still the closest thing to company.

Sarah was a blur, always slipping through your fingers like she belonged to everyone and no one at once. Your mother was too busy playing rich-housewife dress-up with Ward to notice you hadn’t unpacked your heart since you arrived. And Rafe? Rafe acted like your existence was a personal offense. Except sometimes, in those rare, sharp moments when his stare lingered too long, he looked at you like he owned you. Like you were something to be figured out. Or maybe ruined.

You didn’t flinch when someone stepped into your light—part of you hoping, maybe, that it was him.

But it wasn’t. It was one of his friends.

“Yo. You good?” The guy’s voice was too laid back to be real, casual in that practiced, predatory way. You blinked up at him—tan, smug, beer can dangling like a party trick. You knew his type. Brant? Brent? Something entitled.

“Fine,” you said shortly, brushing hair behind your ear and sitting up just enough to make your disinterest clear.

A second one came up, sloppy with drink, his red cup nearly spilling. “You’re the Florida girl, right?” he asked, already halfway laughing.

You didn’t answer. Just stared.

“Rafe’s little sister,” the first one added with a grin, exchanging a look with his friend like they were about to share a secret they’d been dying to tell. “He talks about you, you know.”

Your stomach dipped. “Talks about me?”

“Oh yeah,” the second one chimed in. “Says you’re, like… delicate.” He gestured loosely to your curled-up frame, like you were some exhibit. “All skittish. Bunny-like.”

Your mouth tightened. Bambi. That stupid nickname again, carried out of Rafe’s mouth like smoke and settled in the mouths of people who didn’t even see you.

“I’m not really in the mood to be the punchline tonight,” you said as you stood, forcing your voice to stay calm even though your throat burned. “So unless Rafe sent you over here to play fetch, maybe go back to whatever testosterone pissing contest you came from.”

“Relax, Bambi. We were just being friendly.”

You blinked at the nickname but didn’t flinch. “Well, now you’ve been friendly. Congrats.”

You pushed past them with your head high, even as the shake in your fingers gave you away. You didn’t know where you were going—just away. Away from the deck, away from their eyes. But another blockade was already forming near the pool house, this time all hair extensions and lip gloss and faux-innocent curiosity.

“Whoa, where are you going, Florida?” The voice was syrupy, mean in that plastic way. A blonde girl at the front of the group grinned, clearly enjoying the performance.

Back on the deck, Rafe lifted his beer for another drink when Brett clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“You sure you’re not into that?” he asked, nodding toward the pool where you were now cornered by a gaggle of girls.

Rafe didn’t even blink. “Into what?”

“The whole delicate bunny thing,” Brett teased. “She’s out there looking like a lamb in a lion pit. Pretty ironic for someone who keeps pretending to hate attention.”

Rafe’s jaw flexed, his fingers tightening around the bottle.

“She’ll be fine,” he muttered.

Brett gave him a look, amused. “Dude, come on. You let this happen. Amy and the girls got wind you’ve been messing with her and decided to have a little fun. You could’ve shut it down.”

Rafe’s eyes flicked toward the group where Amy stood with arms folded and a venomous smile on her lips. He’d hooked up with her once, mostly out of boredom. She didn’t take rejection well.

“It’s not my prank,” Rafe said flatly. “They came up with it. I just didn’t stop them.”

“Right,” Brett snorted. “So innocent.”

Rafe didn’t respond. His eyes stayed locked on the scene unfolding by the pool. You stood stiff, your body language screaming discomfort even from a distance.

“She’s really hot, though,” Brett added, casually cruel.

Rafe’s grip tightened. “She’s like… a seven.”

Brett laughed, disbelieving. “A seven? You’re a damn liar. She’s a nine easy. And those eyes, man. She’s got that whole, look at me I’m soft and breakable thing. Guys go feral over that shit.”

“They’re too big,” Rafe said coldly, eyes still locked on you. “Creepy. Like a deer that doesn’t know it’s about to get hit.”

Brett just raised a brow, letting the silence say what Rafe wouldn’t. That he saw it too—the way Rafe stared, the way he always seemed to know where you were in a room.

“You think she’s hot?” Rafe asked suddenly, voice sharper than before.

Brett smirked, catching the edge under the question. “Hell yeah. Hot enough that watching her get eaten alive by those girls almost feels wrong.”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed, that tightness in his chest returning like a bruise he couldn’t rub out. He stared at you, small and alone in a sea of teeth.

“She’ll be fine,” he muttered again. But this time, even he didn’t believe it.

You looked between the girls and guys circling you, heart thudding quietly against your ribs, the music from the house feeling suddenly miles away. Amy, all blonde hair and glossed lips, was draped over your shoulders like you were best friends, but the weight of her arm felt more like a leash. Her fingers tapped lightly along your collarbone in a rhythm that made your skin crawl, and the way she threw amused glances at the guy beside her—Derek, maybe—told you everything you needed to know.

She leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear as she laughed at something he said, her breath sticky sweet with vodka. Then she looked down at you like you were some child about to cry over a scraped knee. That same sympathetic, mocking look girls like her perfected in private schools and summer yachts. You recognized it from Florida. It meant you don’t belong.

You tried to step to the side, to break the huddle they’d formed around you, but another guy shifted to block your path like it was all an accident. His arm raised casually to stretch—just enough to corral you in tighter. His grin twitched slightly, like he got a kick out of how flustered you were trying not to look.

"You’re so quiet," one of the other girls cooed, sipping from a thin metal flask. “It’s kinda cute.”

“She’s probably scared,” another voice said. It wasn’t teasing. It was cruel. Laced with something that sounded like challenge. Like they wanted to see how long you’d last before you broke.

You caught it then—the way eyes darted around the pool, how the guys kept glancing toward the deep end. How Amy’s smirk twitched higher every time you adjusted your glasses or shifted uncomfortably. Something was brewing. You weren’t stupid, no matter how many times they treated you like you were.

The Outer Banks was no different than Florida in one specific way—rich kids got bored, and when they did, they got mean.

Rafe's friends didn’t do nice. Not unless they were working toward a punchline.

And now, here you were, dead center of their circle. A convenient, lonely new girl. Glasses, nervous hands, and big doe eyes that made their cruelty feel even more cinematic.

Amy squeezed your shoulder like it was a comfort. Like she wasn’t sizing you up for the moment she’d push you just hard enough.

“C’mon,” she chirped brightly, voice saccharine. “We should take a cute group picture by the pool. Bambi in the middle, obviously.”

The others laughed, and the world seemed to tilt slightly on its axis as they started guiding you—gently, oh so gently—toward the edge of the water. You went still for a second too long, pulse hammering beneath your skin. The fake smiles, the rehearsed sweetness, the way no one was pulling out a phone. You knew this script. You just didn’t know what act you were in yet.

Rafe watched your body stiffen as Amy put her arm around your shoulders, guiding you toward the pool with the rest of the group. His eyes followed your hesitant steps, the visible tension in your posture, the way you weren’t smiling even when they pretended this was all a joke. You looked like a deer trapped in headlights—and somehow still too proud to flinch.

His jaw hardened, the knot of guilt growing tighter in his stomach, twisting his insides uncomfortably.

Brett elbowed him, a smug grin spread across his face. "Look alive, man," he said, clearly enjoying the sight of you being cornered by their peers. "Show’s about to start."

Rafe forced himself to look away from you, downing the rest of the beer in his bottle. The cold liquid didn’t cool anything inside him.

"Yeah,” he replied gruffly. “Show’s about to start.” He clenched his jaw, trying to push down the twinge of guilt that twisted in his gut. His hands curled around the empty bottle, knuckles tight. He reminded himself it was just a prank. Just something to put you in your place. Just something to remind you where you stood.

But his stomach didn’t stop turning. Not when your eyes darted up toward the deck. Not when you looked like you already knew he was watching—and still wouldn’t call out for help.

You felt your pulse in your throat as the group shifted, movement subtle and casual but deliberate in every step. Amy’s arm stayed looped around your shoulder, guiding you toward the lit edge of the pool with the kind of practiced grace that only came from years of social manipulation. You’d seen it before—how girls like her used fake warmth like a trap, how boys played dumb just long enough to say "Relax, it's a joke." You weren’t unfamiliar to this dynamic. It was just worse here, wrapped in Carolina humidity and privilege so thick it was suffocating.

“Picture time,” someone said again—maybe Derek, maybe one of the other nameless guys whose laughter always felt half a second too loud, like they were waiting for someone to cry. Their chuckles followed you like static.

You gave a small, reluctant shake of your head. “I don’t really feel like—”

“Oh, come on, Bambi,” Amy cut in, and you flinched at the nickname. It rolled off her tongue with such faux affection it stung more than when Rafe used it. At least with him, the venom was obvious. Amy was a different beast entirely—soft-spoken and cruel, her smile too sweet to be safe.

You tried again. “I think I’m just gonna sit—”

Amy laughed, loud and breathy, tossing her hair like it was all just a misunderstanding. “Don’t be shy. You look cute. You’ll thank me when you’re not, like, sixty and looking back at photos of your prime.”

Another hand touched your back. Not hard, not forceful. But there. Encouraging. Herding.

You glanced back at the house. No sign of Sarah. No one you knew. Your fingers clutched your phone tightly, unsure whether to text or bolt. But where would you go? You were already out of place in that kitchen, on that staircase, in this life. Now you were a deer surrounded by wolves in designer sunglasses and boutique bikinis, laughing about god-knows-what and staring just a little too intently.

“You like Florida, right?” one of the boys asked, draping himself across a lounger behind you. His tone was casual, but there was something simmering underneath it. “Bet you’ve fallen in a pool before.”

That earned a snicker from someone else. A quick exchange of glances. One of the girls giggled, too-loud and too-fake.

You stopped short near the pool’s edge, heels digging into the concrete. The water glistened beneath the lights, rippling gold and green under the surface. It might’ve looked peaceful if it didn’t feel like a trap.

Amy moved ahead of you, phone in hand, spinning around like this was just a normal photo op. “Stand here,” she chirped, motioning beside her. “We’ll get the pool in the background.”

You gave her a flat look, not moving. “I’m fine right here.”

But it didn’t matter. One of the guys behind you closed the distance casually, and another’s footstep echoed closer. You felt it—the way the air changed. How your gut twisted with something primal. Instinct.

They were going to push you.

You knew it now, with a clarity that made your skin crawl. This wasn’t random. This wasn’t a joke that “just happened.” This was planned. Organized. Decided.

Rafe’s friends didn’t just want to laugh—they wanted a moment. A spectacle. You were their new toy. The stepsister. The weird one. The Florida reject. The one Rafe always sneered at in front of others but maybe watched a little too closely when no one else was looking.

And if you went in that water? All of them would laugh. All of them would remember.

Amy took a step closer, beaming. “Ready, Bambi?”

And you weren’t sure what scared you more—the water behind you or the idea that, if you fell in, no one would stop it. Not even Rafe. Especially not Rafe. Maybe he was the one behind it all.

Rafe’s eyes remained fixed on the scene unfolding by the pool, his jaw tightening as he watched the group of idiots surround you. He could see you getting nervous, cornered. His friends had you trapped like some caged animal, circling around as if they were about to pounce.

One of the dumb shits said something to you and you shot them a look that even Rafe would’ve been wary of pissing off, clearly trying to stand your ground. Which was probably a bad idea with Amy around. That girl was a nightmare when she got pissed, even worse when she was drunk.

Rafe's jaw ticked as he caught a glimpse of the look on your face. You were trying to be confident, but he could see the slightest hint of nerves in your eyes. He knew his friends well enough to know what they were thinking. And he wasn't going to let them get away with it. Not tonight. His grip on his bottle of beer grew tighter as he watched his friends move closer to you, their laughter loud and obnoxious.

This was bullshit.

Rafe's grip on his beer bottle was so tight it looked like it might crack. He couldn’t just stand here and do nothing. Even though he was probably the one who got them all worked up in the first place. This was all his friends’ idea. Your face flashed through his mind again, the way your bottom lip trembled when he stepped towards you, the way you stumbled over your words when all those questions bubbled up in your brain. It almost made him feel bad. Almost.

Almost.

Your breath caught, lashes fluttering as you stood your ground, the sound of the pool filter humming faintly behind you—a dull, distant roar beneath the chorus of laughter and muffled music pulsing from the house. You could feel the chill radiating off the water, the anticipation humming like electricity in the air. A joke. A prank. That’s all this was to them. And you were the punchline.

Amy’s nails brushed your arm again, light and saccharine, like she thought you were stupid enough to mistake her sweetness for sincerity. “You’re so quiet,” she pouted playfully, tilting her head. “It’s hard to know what you’re thinking.”

You didn’t respond, just shifted half a step back—not enough to fall, but enough that they’d notice. The guy behind you, one of Rafe’s meathead friends in a backwards cap and no shirt, reached out lazily like he might steady you. Or maybe shove you. His fingers skimmed your elbow. You yanked it away like it burned.

Amy’s smile stretched wider, eyes glinting with something mean. “Careful, don’t fall in,” she said in a mock-concerned tone, her voice edged with laughter.

You scanned the crowd for him. Rafe. The only person here who might have enough control to stop this, if he wanted to. But he was nowhere. Probably inside, pretending this wasn’t happening. Or worse—watching from a distance with that smug half-lidded gaze, taking inventory of your humiliation like it was some science experiment he’d set in motion.

Your jaw clenched.

You were suddenly aware of how exposed you felt. The way your tube top slipped down if you didn’t keep tugging it up, the clingy fabric hugging your ribs. The thinness of your glass frames, which kept sliding down your nose from the summer heat and your nerves. The sheen of sweat slicking your skin. You felt like prey—skittish, soft, too pretty in a way that just made them want to ruin you more.

“Maybe she can’t swim,” another guy joked from the side, pretending to whisper but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Oh my god, can you not?” you snapped, voice sharp as it cracked through the air.

Amy blinked at you like a cartoon villain, all wide eyes and mock innocence. “Relax. We’re just playing.”

You swallowed hard, legs tense, breath shallow. They were too close now. Any sudden movement, a bump or a nudge, and you’d be in the water. Phone ruined. Pride obliterated. A camera flash away from being someone's viral story or private group chat joke. You thought of Florida—your real friends, your real life—and something ugly twisted in your chest.

You took a small step forward, away from the edge. Amy moved with you, not letting up.

“You should smile more, Bambi,” she added, arm looping back around your shoulders.

And all you could do was breathe, heart slamming against your ribs, wondering how much longer you had before the joke finally landed.

Rafe's grip on the beer bottle tightened further, his knuckles turning white as he watched the scene unfold. His blood boiled at the sight of Amy's arm around you, the way every guy seemed to be closing in around you like you were some kind of prey. And everyone was just laughing. His friends. Amy. The girl with the camera. Some of the guys, he could tell just by the look on their faces, were enjoying this. His jaw ticked as his fingers threatened to break the beer bottle in his hand.

And then the joke landed.

You felt it in the shift of Amy’s posture—how her hands gripped your shoulders just a little too tight, manicured fingers pressing into your skin like she was staking a claim. Her smile turned theatrical, performative, the kind meant for an audience. You watched her look over her shoulder, giving a knowing nod to another girl in the group who, right on cue, pulled out her phone and unlocked the camera. The girl’s eyes flicked up and down your body like you were something pathetic and hilarious to capture.

Then Amy stepped back with a soft little gasp, tilting her head and holding up her own phone now, the lens catching the pool lights behind you, framing your silhouette like a deer caught in headlights. “Let’s take a picture of you for your Insta story,” she said, all sugar and venom, her voice syrupy sweet. “You do have an account, right?”

The question burned. Condescending and cruel, a jab that wasn’t even subtle. You heard the laughter, quiet and scattered, building like background static in your ears. You knew what they were doing. Isolate you. Dress you up. Humiliate you publicly—so they could pretend it was just harmless fun when the guilt caught up. If it ever did.

“I don’t need—” you began, arms crossing reflexively, shoulders tight.

“No, come on,” Amy interrupted brightly, already lowering her phone and reaching toward you again, like she’d fix your hair or straighten your top—both of which were code for touching you in ways that made you feel like you weren’t real, just a doll for them to pose and push around. “You look so cute, we’ll make you the main character for once.”

A guy to your right laughed. “Yeah, for like ten seconds.”

You flinched.

“Bambi’s first cameo,” another voice said. “Better get the pool in the background.”

Amy’s eyes gleamed with a silent joke, one she didn’t even bother to hide anymore.

And that was when you knew. They weren’t going to take the photo. You weren’t going to post it. They were going to. They were going to take the picture, caption it with something snide, maybe tag you, maybe not. But it would get passed around. Laughed at. Archived.

And then?

They’d push you.

Rafe took another swig of his beer, his hands white-knuckled around the bottle. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything except watch Amy, watch the guys surrounding you like vipers about to strike, watch the way you looked like an animal backed into a corner. It made something angry stir in his gut, twisting his insides into knots. He shouldn’t feel bad. This was partly his fault.

But he did.

Amy stepped back with a teasing little skip, as if to admire the angle she’d staged. Her phone was already angled toward you again, recording this time—definitely recording. You could see yourself reflected in the black screen, seated and stiff with your legs folded awkwardly, cup balanced between your fingers, and a look in your eyes you didn’t like seeing mirrored. Wide, doe-like, uncertain.

“Okay—ready?” Amy sing-songed, too bright, too smooth. She didn’t wait for you to answer.

Before you could brace or blink, there were hands on you. More than one set—one of the guys behind you clapped your shoulder too hard, another brushed your thigh like he was helping you up. But it was Amy’s shove that sealed it—hands at your shoulders again, pushing firmly, deliberately, and suddenly everything tilted. Your glass fell from your fingers and clattered to the pavement, spilling the last few drops of your drink as your back arched and your arms pinwheeled uselessly.

And then—impact.

The water was cold and shocking and loud. It swallowed you instantly, dragging your body down into chlorine silence. Your arms flailed instinctively, legs kicking to find the floor of the shallow end. But your tube top slipped a little and the weight of your drenched clothes pulled at you. When you finally pushed your head above the surface, coughing and gasping, the sound of laughter broke over you like a second wave.

Laughter and phones. Screens pointed directly at you.

Someone whistled.

“Oh my god—did you see her face?”

“She looked like a wet cat—”

“Wait, wait, I didn’t press record in time—someone airdrop me!”

You blinked water out of your lashes, hands moving quickly to pull up your top and fix your choker. You were trembling. From the cold, the embarrassment, the realization that this—this moment—was exactly what they’d been building to since they circled around you.

Amy leaned down by the pool’s edge, smiling sweetly, crouching like a concerned friend.

“Oops,” she said softly, phone still in hand. “You okay? I thought you looked warm.”

Back in Florida, this would’ve crushed you. And maybe it still did—but there, at least, you would’ve been able to hide it. Your friends knew you. They knew how soft you were, how precious and emotional and sensitive in all the ways that made you human. You were still quiet, still careful, but you had room to breathe, to fall apart without an audience waiting to laugh.

But here—this—felt different. Crueler.

You stayed where you were in the water, arms gently stirring against the surface just to stay afloat, the weight of your soaked clothes dragging at your limbs and pride alike. Your lip trembled and your chin wobbled despite the sharp breaths you took in through your nose to keep it together. It wasn’t working. The tears were hot behind your eyes, clashing terribly with the cold sting of chlorine and humiliation clinging to your skin.

You glanced up again, slowly, cautiously—toward him.

Rafe stood just above, backlit by the string lights of the pool deck, his expression unreadable—until it wasn’t. Until the corner of his mouth twitched. Until he exhaled through his nose and let out a low, dry chuckle. One that didn’t match his eyes but still came. He shook his head like this was typical, like you were typical, like all of this was just one more punchline in the story of a weird, clingy girl who didn’t belong.

And then he laughed. Not loud, not like the others. But real enough to sting.

You hated that you looked for something in his face. A flicker of guilt, remorse, discomfort—anything. You hated that some tiny, shrinking part of you wanted him to defend you, to do something to stop the eyes on you, the laughter, the hush of whispers as phones lowered and the attention stayed fixed.

But he didn’t.

And now you were treading water both literally and emotionally, blinking hard to keep the tears from falling because once they did, you knew you wouldn’t be able to stop them. Not here. Not in front of them. Not in front of him.

You sniffed sharply and turned your face away, staring blankly at the pool’s far edge, the gentle ripple of light cast against the tile. Your arms floated limply, your legs aching as they kicked beneath the surface. You could still feel their eyes, still hear the giggles being stifled behind manicured fingers, Amy whispering something into Rafe’s ear as she leaned on him like you weren’t still right there.

You were alone. Completely.

No Esther. No Andy. No one to pull you out or help you laugh it off or wrap a towel around your shoulders and drag you inside. Just you—floating, humiliated, eyes glassy, throat tight, and face flushed with shame. And him, standing above you, not saying a damn thing—just laughing.

His laugh rang out above the music—low, smooth, threaded with the kind of amusement that made your stomach drop. Like this was all a joke and he was the only one in on the punchline. Amy clung to him like she was in on it too, nails painted the exact same red as the Solo cup in her hand, her fingers curling possessively around his forearm like she’d claimed a prize. His hand rested on her lower back with that casual confidence he always wore when he knew people were watching. And they were. Everyone was.

It clicked too late. The whole thing—his too-slow approach by the kitchen counter, the way he’d blocked your path just to say something cryptic and unimportant, how he stood so close you had to back up a step or two. It was buildup. Like a scene crafted with intention, all tension and pacing, except the tension wasn’t sexual—it was predatory. Like a psychopath playing with his food, smiling sweetly as he circled you with a knife behind his back. Your breath caught in your throat, lungs starting to cramp from the chill of the water and the weight of realization crashing over you.

You blinked up through soaked lashes, trying to get your bearings, but everything shimmered and distorted behind the wet lenses of your glasses. Useless. They slid crooked down your nose, and your hair—once carefully styled—now hung in limp strands against your cheeks, plastered to your skin with chlorine and shame. The burn in your eyes wasn’t just from the chemicals; it was from the tears that threatened to spill, hot and angry, mixing with the cold that had crept under your skin.

You treaded water aimlessly, heart hammering in your chest, limbs sluggish, like your body hadn’t caught up to the humiliation yet. You looked around for something—someone—but no one moved. No one flinched. Just shadows of people by the pool, their faces twisted in laughter or frozen in shocked silence, unsure if they were supposed to find it funny. That only made it worse. The indecision. The way people hesitated to care, like they needed permission.

Then there was Rafe. Towering above, untouched, pristine. His golden hair looked artfully messy, like he was born to ruin things and still look good doing it. His smile hadn’t faded, not even a flicker of guilt in his expression. Just pure, calculated detachment. Like this wasn’t personal. Like it was just another night. Another game.

He didn’t look surprised. Didn’t ask if you were okay. Didn’t offer a hand.

Instead, he leaned in closer to Amy, said something you couldn’t hear over the music and the water in your ears, and she laughed. Loud. Shrill. A sound that cut through you sharper than the cold ever could. They were still talking. Still drinking. Still basking in the attention, as if your presence in the pool wasn’t even worth acknowledging.

Your frown probably looked fake now, more of a grimace, your lips trembling from the cold—or rage. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that this had never been about an accident or a misunderstanding. It was about control. It was about him showing you just how little you mattered in a world where he pulled the strings and everyone else laughed when he said it was time to laugh.

And the worst part? He didn’t need to say a word. He didn’t need to look at you again. You were already drowning in it.

The laughter eventually broke. Not all at once—more like the uncomfortable tapering off of a joke that had gone too far, that dragged a little too long. A few people glanced at each other, eyes darting from your dripping frame to Rafe’s still-simmering smirk, the energy turning brittle in the space between the music and the water lapping at the pool’s edge. Someone mumbled something. Another tugged at a friend’s sleeve. Shoes scraped against concrete as the crowd started to dissolve, as if the aftermath of the joke made them itchy. Guilty, even.

One by one, they peeled off—back to their red cups and shallow conversations, distancing themselves from the scene without acknowledging it. No one helped. No one said your name. They just drifted like smoke after a fire, fading into the hazy string-light-lit night and pretending they hadn’t just watched someone be publicly discarded.

Except Rafe didn’t move.

He stood at the edge of the pool, alone now, his posture stiff and his gaze pinned to you like he couldn’t quite figure out what he’d done. Or maybe he was trying to decide if it had the effect he wanted. The crowd was gone but his mask hadn't dropped, though there was a flicker now—barely there—something tight in the way his jaw clenched. His hand fell from Amy's lower back like it didn’t belong there anymore.

You stayed where you were, chest deep in cold water, breathing unevenly, hair slicked to your skull, your soaked clothes clinging to every part of you that had just been on display. The silence between you stretched, warped, thick with chlorine and something far more suffocating. And still, he didn’t move.

Rafe’s brows twitched. Like maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t expected you to stay there. To not cry. To not scream. To not beg. You just floated—tired, humiliated, burning—and stared right back at him with a fury so quiet it made him hesitate.

His fingers flexed at his sides. His mouth parted slightly, like he might say something. Might offer you a hand. Might pretend to care, or maybe actually did, in some twisted, guilt-ridden part of himself he kept hidden behind bravado and cruelty. But nothing came out. He stood there, golden and untouchable, just watching you suffer in something he created—and for the first time all night, he didn’t look proud of it.

He just looked… frozen. Caught in the wreckage, unsure whether he was supposed to help you out or leave you in it.

You threaded the water more surely now that the crowd had dissolved, your movements calmer but still heavy, limbs dragging with the weight of what just happened. The sting of chlorine mixed with something hotter behind your eyes, but you refused to let it spill over. Not in front of him. Not in front of him. Your fingers curled over the pool’s ledge just as a shadow dropped beside you, and you flinched before looking.

Rafe crouched at the edge, forearms resting on his knees, tan skin glowing under the patio lights like this wasn’t anything. Like he hadn't just stood by and let you get shoved into the deep end of a humiliation he helped orchestrate. His smirk came slow, coiled like a snake sunning itself on stone. “Should’ve brought a swimsuit, Florida,” he murmured, voice low and slippery, every syllable cutting clean as glass.

You didn’t answer. Your brows only furrowed deeper, your silence thick and trembling. He was so close. His shoes were beside your hands. You gripped the cement like it was the only thing tethering you to solid ground.

His smirk wavered at the edges, faltering like he wasn’t sure whether to hold it or drop it altogether. Like he didn’t understand why your silence stung worse than anything you could’ve said. His eyes flicked over your face—your hair plastered to your cheekbones, your lashes stuck together, your lip caught between your teeth to keep it from quivering. You looked like you’d been drowned on purpose and still chose not to break.

And something about that made him reel.

Fuck.

He hadn’t expected to still be here, hadn’t expected to care once it was over. It was supposed to be a punchline—a warning dressed up in public humiliation. A lesson. He told himself that’s all it was. You were always too bright-eyed, too untouchable in that quiet, doe-like way that made people trip over themselves to be good to you. And something in Rafe hated that. Hated the way you made decency look easy.

So he played the villain. Because that’s what he was good at—older stepbrother, the prince turned sour, the boy behind the gold veneer who sharpened his teeth on jealousy and bitterness and turned it into charm.

But now, watching your hands shake just under the water, something curdled in his stomach.

You wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. Not with his eyes on you like that. Not when he looked like he was waiting for you to cry. Or maybe waiting for himself to stop feeling like this—tight and wrong and strangely cornered by the ache in your silence.

You could still hear his laugh. You could still see her hand on his back. That staged little picture they painted just to make sure you were looking. And you had. You’d looked. You’d watched it all unfold like a story you’d already read too many times, where the villain wins and the girl gets used for entertainment. You clenched your jaw, blinking hard. You were not going to give him tears. You were not going to give him you.

Rafe swallowed, slow. His hand twitched like it might reach out—but it didn’t. He just crouched there, watching you like some half-conflicted predator in a fawn’s meadow. Like he’d just remembered what mercy was and didn’t quite know what to do with it.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he added, softer now, gaze flicking to the water around you, voice slipping toward something it wasn’t supposed to be. Something almost uncertain. “It was just a joke.”

Your lip curled before you could stop it. You could taste the pool chemicals on your tongue, bitter and sour, like the taste of believing someone when they tell you you’re overreacting.

You looked up at him fully now, letting him see the betrayal—raw, unfiltered, boiling under your skin. And he flinched like you’d hit him.

Because he didn’t see the fawn this time. He saw the fury she could hold.

"Fuck you." The words slipped out quiet but lethal, your expression hardening as they cut the space between you. His smirk twitched, not quite faltering, but something behind his eyes shifted—like a tiny crack spreading through glass. You were still dripping, soaked and breathless, the chlorine stinging your skin and your pride worse. But you looked at him like you could peel the first layer of skin off his face just by staring—see inside his head, figure out what made him do it. What made him stand there and watch you flail and gasp while his friends laughed like it was all just a fucking game.

You tried to understand. Tried to trace the steps backward. What was the conversation before this? What had Amy whispered in his ear? Who dared him, who joked first, who asked if you could swim? Did someone even bother asking? But the more you tried to make sense of it, the more you remembered who you were dealing with.

This was Rafe Cameron.

And Rafe didn’t need reasons. He didn’t play by logic or emotion or remorse. He didn’t care if he went too far—because no one ever held him accountable. He lit matches for fun and left others to burn. And now you were the bonfire, smoke rising from your ears and salt in your mouth as you gripped the edge of the pool like it was the only thing tethering you to the surface.

You didn’t flinch when he laughed under his breath, didn’t look away when he crouched beside you with that prince-gone-rotten look in his eye. That same gaze he used to wear at family dinners when your mom told him to be nice and he’d smile with his teeth but not his eyes. He was good at pretending. Pretending you were annoying. Pretending you didn’t matter. Pretending he hadn’t spent the entire semester looking at you like you were something he wanted to break and keep all at once.

His voice came low, smug. “You’re being dramatic.”

You tilted your head, water still dripping from your lashes, vision blurred but your anger sharp. “You’re being psychotic.”

And even as you said it, your chest ached—not just with rage, but confusion. Because some small, stupid part of you had wanted him to be different. Some part of you had looked up at him from the water hoping, maybe, he’d reach for your hand. But he didn’t reach for you. He just sat there like a bored god on the edge of Olympus, watching his chaos unfold.

You wondered if this was how the fawn had felt in your mother’s story—trembling in the dark, knowing the prince could’ve struck her down long ago but didn’t. Because hurting her slowly was the point.

“Sweetheart…” His voice dropped low, thick with a slow, deliberate drawl that stripped the word of any real tenderness. It wasn’t an attempt at kindness—it was a barb, a patronizing jab aimed right at the soft spot he’d already figured out you had. “You’re the one about to have a mental breakdown over a lil’ prank.” He shook his head with a mocking sort of pity, clicking his tongue like a teacher disappointed by a failed lesson. His grin stretched wider, more genuine now—slick and sharp as broken glass. Any trace of hesitation or doubt had melted away under the pool’s harsh lights, leaving only satisfaction and cruelty shining in his eyes. “Might wanna get that checked out, Bambi… you might be severely mentally ill.”

He crouched at the edge, elbows resting on his knees, spinning one of his many silver rings like it was a weapon in his hand. His gaze flicked to your fingers curling tight around the pool’s edge, and for a moment, you swore you saw him weighing whether he’d step down and crush them—just to prove a point. The sick power trip was all too familiar, even if you’d only known him for six months.

You said nothing. Your legs kicked beneath the water, barely enough to keep your head above the surface, as if every breath was a battle you were losing. You fought to stay afloat—not just physically, but against the sinking weight of humiliation and fear and that raw, exposed ache inside you. Your chest heaved unevenly, your ragged breathing echoing painfully in your ears, sharper than the faint chorus of distant laughter from the others who’d long since scattered. And then the first tear slipped free, warm and salty against the chill of the pool water. You hoped the droplets from the pool masked it, but the sting burned just the same.

“Fuck you,” your voice cracked, shaky and wet, fragile yet defiant. “You didn’t even think about the fact that I could’ve drowned.”

His grin faltered for just a second—enough for a shadow of something unreadable to flicker through his eyes. But then he shook his head, as if brushing off an inconvenient thought. “Drowned? Come on. You’re tougher than that.”

His words were a lie coated in a challenge. The older stepbrother persona he wore like armor—the prince who twisted the game so that the prey was always on edge—never quite letting you forget you were outmatched. But underneath the cruel mask, maybe he felt the flicker of something else. Maybe the edge of guilt—or maybe just the satisfaction of seeing you tremble beneath his gaze.

You remembered the story your mom used to tell you: the cruel prince and the hunted fawn. How he chased her, cornered her, dragged out the fear because the hunt was more thrilling than the kill. Rafe played the prince to perfection—just cruel enough to keep you on your toes, just distant enough to keep you guessing whether he’d ever drop the act.

But right now, in the cold glow of the pool lights, all you felt was the weight of his stare, the echo of your own breathing, and the sinking realization that maybe this hunt wasn’t about to end anytime soon.

“Maybe you should see this as an opportunity,” he said with a casual shrug, like he was offering you some twisted gift wrapped in indifference. “Finally being noticed. Maybe God gave you a chance at befriending someone other than the bees and little birdies, Bambi…”

The nickname hit with a sharp edge, but it wasn’t just the word itself. It was the way he said it, as if you were something delicate and out of place—a fragile creature caught in a world that didn’t really notice you unless it was to mock. He played the part of someone amused by the unevenness of it all, like a prince watching a fawn stumbling through unfamiliar woods, his amusement folded in a quiet, cold smile.

You swallowed hard, voice shaky but steady enough to push back. “You can’t play God,” you said softly, eyes tracing the gentle ripples the water made around your fingers. “Send me plunging into the pool, hoping your stupid friends will want to ‘befriend’ me after I pull myself out…” The words felt small in the vastness of the night, like the cold water wrapping around you, making your body feel heavier. The space between you and him felt crowded somehow, like his shadow leaned over you, larger than it should have been.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, spinning a ring on one finger slowly. His voice lowered to a drawl, smooth and sharp all at once, “You think it’s about them?” The smirk he wore flickered under the pool lights, and there was a weight behind the words that made your chest tighten. “It’s never about them, Bambi. It’s about you. About making sure you remember where you ended up.”

You forced down a bitter taste in your mouth, trying to find some solid ground in the uneasy tension stretching between you. You wanted to push away the feeling that curled in your chest—the strange mix of irritation and something darker, something electric that you couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t just the way he carried himself, the way he claimed the space like he owned every glance and every breath in the room. It was more. An intensity that pulled tight at your skin, keeping you alert and uncomfortably aware of every moment.

Your legs moved gently, barely breaking the surface of the water, as you fought not to sink or let your voice break. Your breathing was uneven, but steady enough. You could almost hear the sharp thrum of your pulse in the quiet night air. And for a moment, the confident mask he wore softened just a fraction, like even the most assured could hesitate when faced with the weight of something unexpected.

He didn't say anything right away. Just crouched there, elbows on his knees, letting the moment stretch between you like a drawn string. His gaze moved lazily, from the frantic way your fingers curled against the concrete lip of the pool to the shiver that flickered down your arms when the wind cut across the water. You half-expected him to laugh again—say something sharp or smug to put you back in your place—but he didn’t. Instead, he reached up and tugged one of his rings off, turning it idly between his fingers as if trying to distract himself from something he couldn't name.

Behind him, the backyard was nearly emptied out now. The night had lost its party gloss, voices faded to a distant hum behind closed patio doors. Only the glow of the pool lights remained, painting the water in shifting blues and greens that danced over your face and shoulders. If someone were watching from inside, they might've mistaken the quiet between you two as something tender. But you knew better. And so did he.

“Thought you'd be crying more,” he said at last, voice low, almost thoughtful. “You look like the type.”

You scoffed, breath catching in your throat. “Sorry to disappoint.”

His eyes flicked back to yours. And for a second, the amusement slipped. Not entirely, but enough that it unsettled something in your stomach. You didn’t know what he expected from you—maybe for you to flinch, or shrink under his gaze, or hurl another half-broken insult—but you stayed still. Quiet. Legs still moving softly to keep you afloat, even though the weight of your clothes was dragging at you now. Even though your lungs felt like they were working too hard for not enough air.

He rolled the ring across his knuckles, slow and practiced, like it soothed him. “You don’t get it, do you?” he murmured, more to the pool tiles than to you. “This place—it eats people like you.”

“Then maybe you should’ve left me alone,” you said quietly, hating how small your voice sounded, even when your words held their edge.

His head tilted a fraction, a sharp breath escaping like a laugh that never quite made it. “I tried. You showed up anyway. You made it real hard.”

You stared up at him, confused by the shift—by the strange way his tone walked the line between blame and something else. A warning, maybe. Or regret, in its most unrecognizable form. And you hated that your mind went quiet trying to interpret him, because that’s what he did. He filled the silence and made you crave meaning in the chaos he left behind.

He stood suddenly, like he’d caught himself lingering too long. The spell broke with the scrape of his shoes against concrete. “Dry off before you catch something,” he said, turning toward the house. But he hesitated once more at the threshold of the light. “You should be careful around here, Florida. People get the wrong idea. Think you’re soft. Think you’re safe.”

And then he was gone—shoulders disappearing into the dark of the patio, the sound of the door swinging shut behind him echoing louder than it should’ve.

You stayed in the water a little longer. Breathing through the tightness in your chest. Letting the sting of chlorine and humiliation settle in your lungs. You didn’t feel safe. You didn’t even feel like yourself. But something in the way he said it—soft—made you want to prove him wrong.

Even if it meant staying in this world longer than you planned. Long enough to understand the rules. Long enough to stop being the hunted thing.

Maybe long enough to learn how to chase something back.

author's note! i had this idea on whim really, wrote down like a scrap of it before obsessing over it for an entire night until 6 am. this is like a longer wip so please don't judge it too hard. i'm also gonna make it more of a dark romance. i know i was supposed to post it along with lucky charm but i just couldn't wait!!! also it doesn't have a title yet so if you can help me decide that would be so great! the options: the cruel prince (basic duh), blame it on the kids (this one's inspired by a song), the fawn doesn't run, teeth in the thicket, where the prince waits, soft things shouldn't stray, glass-eyed creatures, pretty when you struggle (bc i love lana's song lol). talk to me and tell me if you guys like it and i'll sacrifice myself and add it to the on-going stories! love you, peaches💓 and join the tag-list if you just found me!

Tag-list*:･ﾟ✧ @cali-888, @bee-43, @jjscoquette, @melsbels-zip @stanseventeen @wh0reforbucknasty,@wtfisastiles,@annaconscience,@pqndxra,@carrerascameron,@nini2mem,@iynsane,@gublerstylesobrien1238,@wrldfilms ,@shayofandom @wren5650 @alimarie1105 @chuuuchuuutrain @ordinary-barbie, @p45510n4f4shi0n @literallylexie, @polli05927 @holyfootie @artbymin (sorry to this person because they asked me to be on the tag-list and somehow i forgot!) @stevebuckybarnest

[these-written-reveries]

Midnight Musings

‣ Pairing: Castiel x Reader (intended as romantic, but can potentially be viewed as platonic ?)

‣ Genre: Fluff, comfort

‣ Summary: A letter to you, from Castiel.

‣ Warnings: Vague reference to difficult times and poor mental/emotional wellbeing.

‣ Word Count: 671

‣ A/N: This was originally written on a whim for my bestie @jslittlebirdie, but I've decided to share it with the rest of the world as well. Perhaps other fellow Castiel lovers will appreciate what he has to say.

Y/N,

I can sense you are in need of some thoughtful reminders and perspective, as I know you’ve been going through a particularly difficult time recently that has caused you to slip into a state of jaded oblivion. It is my greatest hope that with the repetition of these words, woven into the letters I write for you while you sleep, that you will someday come to understand them to be true in the same way that I do.

Thoughts of you occupied my mind after you had drifted off to sleep tonight. I suppose that's not surprising news, as I'm always thinking of you, in some shape or form. 

This time, though, as I watched your delicate lashes flutter ever so softly in your slumber, and the way your lips remained slightly pouted while I smoothed a thumb over your furrowed brow—a reflection of the stress that haunts even your dreams of late, I was suddenly hit with a near-overwhelming wave of gratitude. I, Heaven's most abhorred angel—second only to Lucifer himself, am so immensely blessed by the opportunity of not just bearing witness to the beautiful soul and being that is you, but to truly see you, to know you, to love you, and be with you. How and why I've been so generously bestowed this blessing is beyond my realm of knowledge. I certainly don't deserve you—not after all that I've done, but I'm nonetheless grateful I'm here, experiencing every fleeting fluctuation of life by your side. 

You make me feel like all of this, all the bitterness of this world and life on Earth, is worth it. You've made me see that the harsh cruelty of existence is only outweighed by the beauty and love that lies all around and within us; some of it temporary, some everlasting. I see so much beauty and love in you, and it is one of many reasons I cherish you so dearly. 

You are a beacon of hope and solace in this world. I spend my days orbiting you like the planets do the Sun; observing you, admiring you, looking to you for the unspoken answers I've misguidedly sought in every other being, mission, and location before I finally met you. By merely existing as yourself, you answer my questions, soothe my existential woes. You help me see what really matters in this world, and that life truly is worth living, even when it seems so incredibly dismal and burdensome.

All I have to do is look to you, and I am at once reminded of how lucky I am to have a companion to trudge through the darkness with. You are my guiding light, and you are also my best friend. I strive every day to embody these roles for you, as well. I know in the deepest part of my being that as long as we have each other, we can get through anything. So keep holding on, keep fighting. If not for yourself, then for me.

Open your eyes to the beauty and love, big and small, all around and inside of you. It is always there, if you so choose to see it. Observe it, admire it, cherish it, hold onto it. That will be, what I can say with certitude, the crutch and guiding force that will get you through any dark times you may face. 

Remember, you'll always have me, whether it be physically by your side, or watching over you in spirit. I won't leave you alone, and my love for you will carry on far beyond your expiration.

In this vast, ever-changing universe, there remains a constant source of light, beauty, and love to anyone who is lucky enough to experience the magnificent soul that is you. What a blessing you are to this world. How much bleaker it would be without you. How truly lost and deficient I'd be without you. Even when you fail to see it, just know that I never will. 

I never will.

-Castiel

➼ Main Masterlist ➼ Request Info

‣Taglist: @jslittlebirdie @alittlesmartcookie

‣ If you’d like to join the taglist for Castiel, let me know by sending me an ask/message, or comment on this post!

[peachversace]

لو كنت طاقة، لكنت الموجب والسالب معًا

if you were energy, you would be both positive and negative—

[ nsfw ] — slight smut (18+) ;

gojo satoru x reader

⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Satoru’s touch is like the very infinity that makes him—immeasurable, undeniable, an existence that bends the fabric of reality around itself.

He is both force and paradox, the collision of positive and negative, the irresistible pull of gravity and the inevitable collapse of a star. He touches, and you move. He calls, and you follow. He presses, and you unfold beneath him, expanding like the universe itself.

The rhythm of his hips is celestial, an orbit as natural as the moon circling the earth—constant, undeniable, the kind of movement that shifts the tides and drowns civilizations. And yet, in this moment, he is not drowning you. He is carrying you, keeping you suspended in the endless sky of him. Your arms loop around his neck, fingers threading into the stark white of his hair, feeling the silken strands slip between your fingers. Your ankles lock at the small of his back, drawing him in deeper, urging him closer, but it’s impossible to have him any nearer than this—his body pressed flush against yours, his breath hot against your skin, his weight a grounding force in the vastness of your shared cosmos.

He is muscle and warmth, the heat of a sun barely restrained, and every movement feels like a whispered promise, a teasing contradiction between restraint and indulgence. He groans your name, a sound that vibrates in his throat before spilling into your mouth, and your breath stutters at the sensation. The way he moves is effortless, natural, like the world itself shifts to accommodate him. He makes pleasure feel infinite—every roll of his hips, every precise thrust, every flex of his fingers against your skin sending you spiraling further into him.

His lips ghost over your jaw, his teeth grazing before he bites, sucking a constellation into your skin. The sensation blooms, a mark of possession and reverence all at once, and you whimper his name—a sound that makes his fingers tighten on your waist, makes his breath hitch against your throat. He chuckles, the sound rich and breathless, and you can feel his smirk against your skin.

"That good, huh?" he murmurs, voice thick with amusement and something deeper, something nearly reverent. But there’s something in his tone—something teasing, but affectionate, something warm. Because Satoru is like that. Playful even now, even when he’s wrapped around you, inside you, even when you’re unraveling in his arms. He’s always been like this—cocky and relentless, but so undeniably, unbearably good.

If you could measure him in mass, you think he would be infinite—something too heavy to leave, too light to hold. He exists beyond limits, beyond reason, beyond anything that could ever truly be contained. His touch is like energy, flickering between fire and gravity, between destruction and creation. He could break, but instead, he builds. He could tear, but instead, he reshapes.

And you let him, because some forces are meant to be felt, not resisted. Because there is no resisting Gojo Satoru—not when he touches you like this, not when he makes you feel like you are part of something bigger than yourself, like you are something celestial, something divine.

He feels like the sky, like the heavens, like the edge of the universe itself—endless, untouchable, and yet, somehow, still right here, with you.

The closer he comes, the more you feel him stretch beyond limits—as if his existence cannot be contained within the fragile boundaries of flesh and time. Satoru is larger than the moment, heavier than emptiness, yet somehow lighter than air. He is a paradox incarnate, pressing into you with a weight that makes your body tremble, while his presence remains untethered, slipping through your grasp like stardust. He is both here and everywhere all at once, a force unbound, yet undeniably yours in this breath, this heartbeat, this collision of souls.

His pace quickens, the smooth rhythm of his hips shifting into something deeper, something more urgent. It steals your breath, forces a soft whimper from your lips as you press your face against his cheek, your nose brushing against the warmth of his skin. The scent of him floods your senses—clean and cool, something faintly sweet beneath the salt of sweat and the heat of exertion. Your fingers tighten in his hair, anchoring yourself, but it’s useless—he is gravity, and you are already falling.

Between his hands, you are reduced to something elemental, something raw and burning, a particle accelerating toward him with no hope of escape. There is no resisting this pull, no shielding yourself from the way he consumes. The feeling is overwhelming—being held like this, touched like this, as if he could press you so deeply into himself that no space would remain between your bodies. As if he could keep you there, locked within the infinity that makes him.

His lips find yours, and the kiss is searing. It brands, it claims, it dissolves every thought that isn't him. His mouth is soft but insistent, teasing but deep, and you swear you can taste something electric on his tongue—something unnamable, something endless. He kisses like he fights, like he lives—recklessly, unapologetically, as if he knows nothing in this world could stop him. And when he pulls back, just enough to breathe, his voice is low, almost dazed.

“God,” he murmurs against your lips, his breath warm, his words reverent. “You feel like—” But he doesn’t finish, because what could he possibly compare you to? When even he, limitless and all-knowing, cannot seem to name this feeling?

His hands roam, fingertips pressing into your skin, memorizing the way you shudder beneath him. Every touch lingers, every movement ripples outward like a cosmic wave, unmeasured by time, unrestricted by distance. He moves through you and around you, an energy that can’t be seen, only felt—absorbed into the marrow of your bones, soaked into the fibers of your being.

And when he finally stills, when he finally lets go, the feeling doesn’t fade. It lingers, infinite, stretching beyond what a single moment should be able to contain. Because Gojo Satoru is not just a man. He is a force. A phenomenon. And in his arms, beneath his touch, you are not merely held.

You are eternal.

تشدني، تحررني، وتتركني عالقة بين الانفجار والهدوء

—you pull me, you release me, and you leave me suspended between explosion and stillness.

[gotxpenny]

All That's Left

On VE Day in Zell am See, Y/N and Dick find themselves alone on a balcony overlooking the quiet, war-free town. With the war finally over, the two are faced with the raw possibility of love—and the choice to no longer hide from it.

Pairing: Richard “Dick” Winters x Reader

Prompt: “You’re acting like this doesn’t matter. Like I don’t matter.”

Word Count: ~2,500

Genre: Angst with a soft undercurrent of fluff

Setting: VE Day, Zell am See, Austria

Note || Heyyyyyy sooooo this is my first BoB one shot and my one of my first times posting on Tumblr soooo please be nice and please do enjoy this Winters one shot!!! Had to write my first one shot about my favourite ginger! (After Babe of course ;) )

gotxpenny’s masterlist

band of brothers masterlist

Zell am See lay quiet beneath us, kissed gold by the sunset, as the town slowly filled with the muffled sound of celebration. The lake shimmered like a pane of stained glass, its surface barely stirring—too calm, too perfect. It felt unnatural, almost wrong, after years spent choking on the smoke and steel of war. Peace wasn’t loud like we imagined. It was quiet. Too quiet.

I leaned on the balcony railing of the requisitioned villa, arms crossed tightly over my chest, holding myself together as the wind rustled the trees below like a memory. My heart thudded in my ribs, louder than the fireworks echoing from the village square.

Beside me stood Richard Winters.

He was as composed as ever—stoic, statuesque, his posture military-proud even now, even when the fighting had stopped. He wore his uniform like armour still, polished buttons catching the sun, the soft breeze tugging at the collar of his jacket. His auburn hair, always neatly parted, was ruffled slightly by the wind. It made him look younger for a moment. Like the boy I met at Toccoa, before the world bled colour.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, spine straight, jaw tense. His eyes—always impossibly blue, the kind you couldn’t look into too long without giving something away—were locked on the horizon. He looked like he was still out there, mentally preparing for the next mission. Like peace hadn’t registered as real yet. Maybe it hadn’t.

To everyone else, Dick was the calm in the storm. The man you followed without question. To me, though—he was something else entirely.

We’d trained together in the thick heat of Georgia, back when the world was only filled with blisters, barked orders, and dreams too big to say out loud. I remembered Toccoa like a fever dream: the grit beneath our boots, the screaming hills, the way we all learned to become steel or break trying. Lew and I were the loud ones, always talking, always laughing—until the day Winters walked into the mess like he’d been carved out of the goddamn marble of West Point. Polite, quiet, annoyingly disciplined.

I flirted with him just to watch him falter. I’d crack jokes during PT, nudge his shoulder at chow, whisper nonsense during briefings just to see if he’d smirk. He never pushed me away—but he never pulled me closer either. He just...let me orbit. Never let me crash.

We weren’t lovers. Not officially. But we weren’t just friends either. There was always something between us—unsaid, unspoken, unspent. Some fragile string neither of us had dared to tug.

Not during the war.

Not when the cost was too high.

But now—I glanced at him, the man who’d been my constant shadow and silent comfort through hell and back.

And I said the only thing that came to mind, “You know,” I said, my voice light, teasing like always, “This view could use a little champagne. Maybe a victory dance,"

He didn’t answer.

I glanced over, “C’mon, Winters, it’s VE Day. The damn war is over. Smile or something.”

Still nothing. His profile was sharp in the dying light, his jaw tight, expression distant. I straightened up, the playfulness slipping from my voice like a cracked shell.

“Are you even here right now?”

“I’m here,” he said quietly.

But not with me.

That was the thing about Dick. I’d known him since Toccoa—when we were both younger and leaner and the world still had edges. I’d spent the war tossing jokes like grenades at his calm exterior, poking at him just to see him flinch. I never asked him to laugh. Just to notice me.

And he always did. But only when no one else was looking.

And now, with peace stretching before us like unfamiliar terrain, I didn’t know where to go.

I reached for the thread that always pulled him back to me, “Remember that night in Bastogne? I told you I was going to marry a Frenchman and open a bakery in Paris. You told me I was delusional.”

“You were,” he said, but it was automatic. Flat.

I blinked, waiting for the smirk that never came, “I used to think it would be easy, you know?” I said softly, looking out at the lake, “That once it was over, once we won, things would just… slot into place. Like it all meant something," he turned his head slightly, but still didn’t face me, “And now we’re here. It’s done. And all I feel is—” I stopped myself. The wind picked up, brushing past us like a ghost.

It stirred the edge of his jacket and tugged at loose strands of my hair, but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t do anything.

I turned my head and just…looked at him. Really looked at him.

The man beside me was still Dick Winters—same sharp profile, same rigid spine, same hands folded neatly behind his back like he was waiting for a reprimand or a mission that would never come. But there was something missing. Something hollowed out behind his eyes.

He wasn’t standing at attention anymore. He was suspended. Paused in time.

He didn’t even notice the way my gaze lingered, the way I was searching him for some flicker of the boy I met at Toccoa. The one who was quiet but present. The one who’d nod almost imperceptibly at my jokes when he thought no one else was looking. The one who once handed me a mug of watery coffee in Normandy and muttered, “You deserve better,” like it meant more than breakfast.

That man would’ve met my eyes.

This one didn’t.

He stood like a statue, made of all the years we’d lost, and I realised how much the war had taken even from him—even from us. We’d made it through the blood, the cold, the grief, and the dust…but now? In the calm? He was farther away than ever.

It scared me.

And so, with my voice lower than it had been all evening, I whispered the words I had been swallowing for far too long, “You’re acting like this doesn’t matter. Like I don’t matter.”

That made him look at me. Really look.

My eyes burned, lips parted like the rest of the sentence had been torn from my throat.

“Y/N—”

“I flirted with you for three years,” I said with a cracked laugh, “I called you Captain Killjoy, I made you coffee in Carentan with rainwater and instant powder, I stood outside your tent in Belgium and recited Shakespeare in a damn blanket just to make you smile. And I thought…” I shook my head, swallowing hard, “I thought maybe after all of this, I’d stop being the joke.”

“You’re not a joke,” he said, sharply. Too sharply. His voice cracked the air like gunfire.

I looked at him, “Then what am I?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Dick’s jaw tightened the moment the words left her mouth.

Then what am I?

He felt the question like a gut punch, sudden and brutal. It echoed in the space between them, louder than the fireworks crackling distantly over the lake.

He didn’t know what to say.

He’d always known she was bold—shameless in her teasing, relentless in her pursuit of laughter in places it didn’t belong. She had been his light in the trenches, the warmth in the frozen hell of Bastogne, the only voice that could cut through the noise of war and make him feel human again. And he had let her. Hell, he had wanted her to.

He remembered every moment she spoke of.

The rainwater coffee—still warm in his hands after a sleepless night.

Her voice reciting Shakespeare outside his tent in a Belgian snowstorm, shivering beneath a threadbare blanket, just to get him to crack a smile.

Her laugh—always inappropriate, always alive.

And now…now she stood in front of him, wide-eyed and vulnerable in a way she never let herself be. And he couldn’t meet her gaze.

Because the truth was, he had let her orbit him all these years because he needed her to. Because she was the only thing he didn’t know how to command, couldn’t predict, couldn’t control—and it terrified him.

War had rules. She didn’t.

And now the war was over, and he had no excuse left. No orders. No distractions. No fire to hide behind.

He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but the words died before they reached his lips.

Because if he told her the truth—if he said what he felt—he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

So he did the one thing he never did with her.

He hesitated.

I stepped closer, and I saw it—fear. Not of me, but of something he couldn’t name.

“I’m not Nixon, Dick,” I whispered, “I’m not just another officer you pass letters to or trade cigars with. I stood next to you through the worst of it. And I know—I know I was just the one who made you laugh sometimes, the one you could brush off when things got too real. But I mattered. At least, I thought I did.”

“You did,” he said, “You do.”

“Then say it.”

His eyes searched mine, aching with something deeper than regret.

“I can’t…” he began, but it didn’t sound like conviction.

I nodded slowly, like I’d been expecting it all along, “That’s what I thought," I turned away, hands gripping the balcony edge so tight my knuckles turned white, “I wanted this to mean something,” I said, “I wanted us to mean something.”

Dick felt the ground shift beneath him—not literally, but in the way that mattered. The way that left a man unsteady when everything he’d tried so hard to hold together started slipping through his fingers.

She wasn’t yelling. She never yelled. That made it worse.

Her voice, raw and low, was the sound of something breaking. And he couldn’t bear it—couldn’t stand how much weight lived in her words.

I mattered. At least, I thought I did.

You did. You do.

The words tumbled out before he could stop them, but they weren’t enough. They never had been.

He could see it in her eyes, that familiar fire dimming to something more painful—something like goodbye.

When she told him to say it, to finally say it, he felt it rise in his chest like a tide. All of it—the longing, the fear, the quiet devotion that had grown like ivy around his ribs since Toccoa. How he’d watched her from behind formation, from foxholes, from across mess tents. How her voice had been the only thing that could pull him back when he felt himself fading into the numb place soldiers go to survive.

She had mattered. She still did.

But he’d buried it. Carefully. Deliberately.

He hadn’t let himself feel it—because to feel it meant acknowledging what he could lose. And he’d lost too many already.

When he said, “I can’t…” it wasn’t truth. It was protection. Of her. Of himself. Of the silence he’d wrapped around his heart like armour.

He saw it land like a final blow, the way she nodded like it was confirmation of everything she feared. The way she turned from him, hands gripping the balcony like it was the only thing anchoring her to the world.

I wanted this to mean something. I wanted us to mean something.

God, so did he.

But he had never known how to say the words. Not in a war. Not after it. Not even now.

And so he stood there—quiet, motionless—watching the only person who ever made him feel something real slip just out of reach.

Silence stretched between us like no-man’s-land.

Then—

“I was afraid,” he said quietly, “Still am.”

I froze.

“I watched men fall in seconds. Friends. Brothers. I held their dog tags in my hands, I buried them in snow and mud, and I told myself I’d never let it happen to you," I turned around slowly, “I couldn’t afford to love you,” he continued, voice breaking, “Because I wouldn’t have survived if I lost you too.”

Dick kept his eyes low, like if he looked at her now—really looked—he might not get the words out.

He’d carried this guilt for so long it felt like another uniform, another weight on his shoulders. But watching her turn from him tonight—watching her walk to the edge of that balcony like she was preparing to let him go—it cracked something open.

He hadn’t meant to say it.

But the truth had been building inside him for too long, pressing against his ribs every time she smiled at him like she didn’t know what she meant to him. Every time she laughed off his silence. Every time she waited for something he couldn’t give.

Until now.

Until the war was over, and there was nothing left to hide behind.

He hated that it took this long. That it took her pain—her tears—to force him to speak.

But he also knew that if he lost her now, without saying the one thing he’d never let himself say, it wouldn’t be fear that followed him. It would be regret.

And that, he couldn’t survive.

Not this time.

His voice cut through the silence—not sharp this time, but soft. Broken.

“I was afraid,” he repeated but in a whisper.

And I stopped breathing.

Because I had waited years to hear something—anything—real from Richard Winters. I had joked and teased and danced circles around that stoic wall he kept between us. I had accepted the distance, told myself I was fine with it, that I didn’t need him to say the words—as long as he felt something. As long as he stayed.

But now, hearing this? That it was fear that kept him from me?

I turned, slowly, like moving too fast might scare the truth away.

His eyes were on the floor, his hands clenched so tight at his sides I could see the tendons straining beneath his skin.

“I watched men fall in seconds. Friends. Brothers. I held their dog tags in my hands, I buried them in snow and mud, and I told myself I’d never let it happen to you.”

And suddenly, it hit me.

He hadn’t pushed me away because I didn’t matter.

He pushed me away because I did.

Because in a world where death could come without warning, he had tried to protect himself from the one loss he knew would destroy him.

It should’ve made me feel better. It should’ve felt like victory.

But all I felt was grief—for the years we lost, for all the love that sat quiet between us, unspoken and unspent.

The weight of it hit me like a punch to the chest.

“Dick,” I whispered.

He took a step forward.

“But now the war is over,” he said, as if he was only just realizing it himself, “And I don’t have an excuse anymore," he stopped a breath away from me, “So if you still want me—if there’s still something left of us after everything—I’m here. I’m right here," I stared at him, heart in my throat.

And then I did the only thing that ever made sense. I leaned in and pressed my forehead against his, eyes closed, breath mingling with his.

“I’m so damn tired of pretending I don’t love you,” I whispered.

He exhaled, trembling, and finally—finally—he kissed me.

Not like the war was over.

Like I was home.