#where everything is bright and warm and at the same time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cinnxmxngxrl · 24 hours ago

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“Sugar”

No Outbreak!Joel x f!Reader

Joel’s Masterlist

Based on a request I got on my DMs

Summary: You return to your hometown to care for your ailing father and your brother with special needs, leaving behind your bakery—and your dreams. Overwhelmed and alone, you find unexpected comfort in your neighbor, Joel Miller

WC: 7k

Warnings/Tags: fluff, smut, minors DNI, unprotected piv, oral (f!receiving), fingering, undisclosed age gap, undisclosed illness mention, stress, references to behaviors commonly associated with ASD.

The screen door creaked the same way it did when you were a kid — rusted, unchanging, stuck in the same soft whimper it made when your mom was alive. It groaned under your hand as you pushed it open, the sound like an old ghost stretching its bones.

You were coming home with tired eyes and a back that ached from early mornings spent kneading dough. You had your name on the window of a tiny bakery four hours away, a reputation for sourdough that could make grown men cry. People used to line up before the sun came up. You’d smile, tuck flour-dusted hair behind your ear, hand over something warm and sweet and know, just for a second, that you were good at something. Needed. Steady.

But now, all of that had to be left behind.

Your father had taken a fall—nothing life-threatening, just enough to leave him limping, bitter, and suddenly in need of help. And then there was Caleb—your younger brother, your heart. Nonverbal, sweet, and sensitive to noise and touch, Caleb needed structure, softness, predictability. You didn’t trust anyone else to give him that. You couldn’t. So you packed up, closed the bakery temporarily—you told yourself—and came back.

You wiped your hands on your apron and nudged the oven door closed. Muffins. Your brother’s favorite. Blueberry, if you could swing it. The kitchen was too small and too hot, the ceiling fan rattling like it might fall down any second, and your hands were cracked from too much soap and not enough sleep, but at least baking made you feel useful. Like something still worked when everything else didn’t.

Later that day, you walked outside to look for your brother and glanced over just in time to catch a tall, broad man in jeans and a gray T-shirt looking your way. Arms crossed, one brow cocked. He nodded once.

You gave a half-smile, a shy tilt of your chin.

That was all.

You had enough to carry without adding neighbors.

…

It wasn’t long before you met him properly. Joel Miller.

He introduced himself a week later while helping you lift a sack of potting soil out of your trunk. You’d been starting a garden in the back—tomatoes, squash, something about it reminded you of home before everything cracked. Hoping the rhythm of planting, watering, tending might calm your nerves. Joel had said something about the soil being too clay-heavy and offered to help you mix in peat moss. He was quiet, observant. Lived alone with his daughter, Sarah—bright, friendly, called you “ma’am” with a little grin.

…

Joel Miller doesn’t mean to spy.

But when his truck rumbles into the driveway around 6PM each night, there’s always that moment where he glances across the fence and sees you. Bent over, carrying groceries inside, or pushing a wheelchair ramp into place. Once, he watched you chase your brother barefoot down the yard, laughing even though you were out of breath, even though your smile looked like it might crack in half from exhaustion.

He’s got a good eye for people. Years of working construction will do that to a man—you learn how to read a room by the way someone holds their shoulders. Yours? Always tense. Drawn up around your ears like armor. Always trying not to show how heavy it is.

He noticed the way your hands trembled by 10 a.m., the way you always carried two bags of groceries and never asked for help. He watched you gently calm Caleb when the trash trucks rolled by and overwhelmed him with noise. The way your voice changed—soft, steady, full of practiced comfort. He saw you clean up after your father, even when the old man snarled, humiliated by dependence, too proud to say thank you. He heard you mutter it’s okay, it’s okay, when you thought no one was listening.

He watched you wear yourself down to threads.

All for people who didn’t know how to say how much they needed you. Who probably didn’t even know how tired you were.

And Joel saw the cracks in your armor.

The nights when your lights stayed on too long. The way you sat on the porch after Caleb had gone to bed, face in your hands, shoulders trembling just a little too hard to be blamed on a breeze. He didn’t say anything. But he stayed on his side of the fence, porch light still glowing, just in case you looked up and needed someone to wave at. Just in case you needed to know you weren’t invisible.

He doesn’t say much. Not at first.

Just nods at you over the fence line, a muttered, “Evenin’,” as he wipes sweat off his neck. Sometimes he leaves an extra bundle of firewood near your steps. Pretends it just fell off the truck.

But Joel notices. Everything.

And he’s starting to realize—he can’t stop.

One Thursday, the heat finally breaks.

The air is thick and wet, but at least it’s moving, the storm that rolled through the night before cracked the sky in half and left the streets smelling like dust and ozone. You’re carrying too many bags of groceries for your arms to possibly hold, the plastic handles cutting into your fingers, sweat trickling down your spine when you hear a voice behind you — low, familiar, and warm.

“Howdy,” Joel says.

You pause, breath catching, a carton of eggs nearly slipping from your grip.

“Oh, hey…” you say, catching your balance.

“Joel,” he reminds you, offering a small, crooked smile.

“Joel, right.” You give him a polite smile in return, shy, a little breathless.

“You need a hand with that?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for you to answer. His hands are already reaching, already taking the heaviest bags from your arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s okay, really,” you say, but your voice lacks conviction — and you don’t protest.

Joel just walks beside you, carrying the load like it’s nothing.

“Never seen you before around here,” he says as you both step onto the cracked walkway to your front door.

“No… I… I left a few years ago,” you say, shifting the bag in your hand. “But I’m back now. Had things to take care of.”

Joel doesn’t press. Just nods.

He steps into the kitchen and sets the bags down gently on the counter, like he belongs there, like this isn’t the first time he’s crossed the threshold of your life.

“Well, if you need help with… anythin’, I’m right next door.”

“Thank you, Joel.”

…

And it starts like that. Small things.

Joel changes the porch light when it burns out. You don’t ask—he just notices, brings his ladder over, and does it without saying a word. He helps you haul a busted dresser from the curb, his hands firm on the edges while you mutter something about termites and too many memories. He lets Caleb sit in his truck while you run to the store—“You like country music, bud?”—and doesn’t blink when Caleb claps too loud at a Willie Nelson song. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stare. Just grins when Caleb taps the dashboard like a drum.

And you?

You bring him pie. You bake too much when you’re anxious, when the world feels too loud and too full of things you can’t fix.

“Peach,” you say shyly, cheeks pink as you hold out the tin wrapped in foil. “Hope it’s not too sweet.”

Joel bites into it right there on his porch, standing barefoot in a white T-shirt that clings just slightly to his chest, sun catching the lines in his face. He groans, low and honest, the sound curling in your stomach.

“You tryin’ to kill me or marry me with this?” he says around a mouthful of pastry.

You choke on a laugh, startled and pink to your ears, trying to hide how much you’re blushing.

He just smiles — slow, warm, real.

Not the polite kind, not the distant one he gives most folks in town.

Just for you.

And suddenly, all those heavy days feel just a little lighter.

It happens on a Saturday night.

You’re sitting on your porch, elbows on your knees, the wood warm beneath your thighs even after sunset. There’s a half-melted glass of water by your side, untouched. Your body hums with exhaustion — not the sharp kind, but the kind that sinks into your bones after a week of taking care of everything and everyone but yourself.

Your eyes are half-closed when his voice rumbles through the quiet.

“You ever take a minute for yourself?”

You blink and sit up, startled. Joel’s leaning on the fence like he’s been there a while, two sweating bottles of beer in hand, the porch light catching on the edge of his smile.

“Sorry?” you ask, caught off guard.

“I said,” he smirks faintly, “Do you ever rest?”

You glance at him, then down the street like you’re looking for a way out of the question. “It’s not really about me.”

Joel doesn’t like the sound of that. It’s too familiar. He’s heard it too many times—from women who carry the weight of the whole damn world on their shoulders and call it love. From people who forget they’re allowed to need.

“I see you,” he says, and his voice is lower now, softer. His eyes flick over your face, your slumped shoulders, your tired mouth. “Always runnin’ around. Cookin’. Haulin’ things. You look tired.”

You open your mouth. Then close it.

Something in your throat tightens.

Joel scratches his jaw, like maybe he regrets saying it. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Just… if you ever need a hand with somethin’. I’m around.”

You nod. A small, barely-there smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Thanks.”

He steps up to the porch with one of the beers extended toward you.

You take it. You’re not much of a drinker — never have been — but tonight, the cold glass feels like kindness. Like relief.

“Can I sit?” he asks.

“You brought me a beer,” you say with a weak laugh. “It’d be kinda rude if I just kicked you off.”

Joel chuckles and climbs the steps with that familiar grunt, the kind men his age make without realizing it. He leaves a respectful bit of space between you as he lowers himself down beside you. The wood creaks under his weight. He hands you the bottle. You take a sip, and the beer is sharp and cold and exactly what you didn’t know you needed.

He doesn’t say anything for a while.

You don’t need him to. That’s the thing about Joel, he doesn’t talk to fill silence. He lets it stretch, lets it breathe.

“I used to sit out here every night,” you say eventually, eyes fixed on the dark yard. “Back in high school. Pretend I didn’t live in this house. Pretend I was anywhere else.”

Joel nods, slow and thoughtful, his gaze on the distance like he’s seeing it too.

“It’s hard,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “Coming back. They don’t mean to… but they pull at me. All day, every day. I feel like I’ve been running on empty for months.”

You let out a shaky breath, the truth bleeding out of you like water through cupped hands.

“I know I’m strong. I’m not helpless. But God, Joel… sometimes I just want someone to tell me I don’t have to be so damn strong all the time.”

Your voice cracks on the end of it. You bring the bottle to your lips to hide the way your eyes burn.

Joel doesn’t speak right away.

Then, slowly, he shifts behind you. Closer. The boards groan under his weight.

“Here,” he says, voice low and rough by your ear. “Lemme see your shoulders.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re wound so tight I can hear your muscles beggin’ for mercy. Just let me help a little.”

You hesitate. But something inside you cracks. Not loud. Just a quiet fracture — a tired, trembling thing that gives way.

You nod. Set the bottle down.

Joel’s hands are large. Warm. Calloused from years of work. He starts slow, thumbs pressing gently into the stiff muscles behind your collarbones, and you suck in a sharp breath at the pressure.

“You carry it all right here,” he murmurs, his voice low, a kind of reverent hush. “All of it. Like if you let go, the whole world’s gonna fall apart.”

Your throat works around a swallow. “Feels like it might.”

He doesn’t rush. His hands move in steady circles, drawing out knots like they’re made of memory.

“Let it fall, then,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to hold everythin’ alone.”

Your eyes sting. You close them, head dropping forward slightly. The weight of his hands, his words, his presence — it grounds you. In a way you haven’t felt in a long, long time.

…

Later, Joel sits alone on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers laced.

The house is quiet. Sarah’s gone for the weekend with her uncle, and the stillness makes everything louder.

He hadn’t meant for it to go that far.

The massage — hell, it wasn’t even a massage. Just a gesture. A small kindness. A way of saying: I see you.

But the truth is, when his hands touched your skin, something in him shifted. Something broke loose. It wasn’t lust, not exactly. It wasn’t clean, or easy. It was older than that. Deeper. Lonelier.

He hadn’t expected the way your skin would feel — soft and warm beneath his palms, like something fragile trying hard not to break. He hadn’t expected the sound you made — that little sigh, that barely-there release, and he sure as hell hadn’t expected the way it would wreck him.

And then you’d leaned back. Not even thinking. Just trusting.

And that had been the end of him.

Now the bedroom feels too quiet. Too honest.

He knows what this is. Knows what it could turn into if he let it.

But he also knows what the mirror shows him every damn day. The years. The scars. The cracks that never healed right.

You? You still had time. A whole stretch of road ahead. And Joel… Joel had already walked through fire and come out carrying ash.

But still, he can’t stop thinking about the way you looked at him tonight. Like maybe you didn’t care about the years, or the scars, or the weight.

Like maybe you just wanted someone to sit with you in the dark and say, you don’t have to be strong right now. I’ve got you.

And God help him.

Because he wanted to be that person for you.

More than anything.

One evening, you were sitting on the porch steps again, your head bent over a cold cup of tea, fingers curled around the mug like it might hold you together.

The sun had gone down an hour ago, but you hadn’t moved. Not since your father slammed the screen door and disappeared down the hall, grumbling about the cable being out, blaming the weather, the neighbors, you, whatever he could throw his anger at without having to face himself. Caleb was inside, stacking soup cans like building blocks, humming under his breath. Happy, for now.

But you looked like you were trying not to cry.

You missed your old life, missed baking, you could almost smell the scent of fresh dough, yeast rising sweetly in the air, mingling with the rich, buttery aroma of pastries just pulled from the oven.

Baking had always been your escape, your way of shaping comfort and joy out of simple ingredients. There was something sacred about the quiet hum of the ovens, the soft clatter of mixing bowls, and the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time a batch of peach pies came out golden and perfect—just like Joel had said.

Your jaw was tight. Your shoulders hunched. The porch light painted shadows under your eyes that hadn’t been there a year ago.

“Hey there, sugar.”

Joel’s voice was low, careful, like he didn’t want to startle you. But it did. You looked up, eyes wide, smiling and blushing at the pet name—Sugar. There was something about the way he said that word that sounded both sweet and incredibly hot at the same time.

He stood at the edge of your yard in a flannel shirt and worn work boots, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands stuffed into his pockets. Like he’d just stepped off a shift. Like maybe he’d been watching for a while and only just worked up the nerve to speak.

“You eat yet?” he asked.

You blinked. Shook your head without thinking.

“I was thinkin’ of makin’ chili,” he said, voice a little rougher now. “Sarah’s got a sleepover. Too much for one.” A pause. “Come over if you want.”

Your stomach growled before you could answer. You hadn’t eaten more than half a sandwich all day. Maybe less.

Your voice came out small. “Okay.”

He nodded once, slow, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “C’mon then, sugar.”

You stood. Left your mug behind. And followed him across the lawn like it was the easiest decision in the world—though something about it made your chest ache. Like the gesture was too kind. Like it might undo you.

It was the first time in weeks someone had taken care of you.

Joel’s house smelled like cumin and garlic and something deep and rich simmering on the stove. It wrapped around you like a blanket the second you stepped inside. There was warmth here, not just from the food, but from the space itself.

Lived-in.

A coat hung over the back of a chair. Sarah’s sneakers kicked off beside the door. A half-finished puzzle on the coffee table. A photo of the two of them smiling under a Ferris wheel, framed and proud on the mantle.

It was a home.

You lingered in the entryway, awkward, hands clasped like a kid at someone else’s birthday party. Unsure if you should sit, take your shoes off, or run back outside and cry behind the steering wheel of your truck.

Joel glanced over his shoulder. “Make yourself at home.”

You swallowed. Nodded. Your shoes stayed on.

“It ain’t much,” he added, already pulling bowls from a cabinet, “but the chili’s good. I promise.”

You sat at the kitchen table with your spine stiff, hands in your lap. Watched him move like he’d done this a hundred times—grabbing spoons, stirring the pot. There was a rhythm to him. Something grounding.

He ladled two bowls full, steam curling into the air. Grabbed a spoon. Then paused.

“Cheese or no cheese?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

He looked up. “I always ask Sarah. She says yes. I say no. Figure I better ask you too.”

And that—that—made you laugh. Soft. Unbidden. Like a cracked window letting in the breeze.

“Cheese,” you said. “Please.”

He gave a small nod, grating sharp cheddar with slow, even strokes. Slid your bowl across the table. Then sat opposite you.

You ate in silence. But it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t awkward. You were too hungry to pretend you weren’t. And the chili—God—the chili was perfect. Spicy, earthy, just sweet enough to settle something hollow inside you. You scraped your bowl clean.

Joel looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t. Just sat with you. Not pushing. Not prying.

It didn’t feel like judgment. It felt like patience.

Eventually, you broke the silence. Because the warmth in your stomach had spread to your chest. Because you were full for the first time in days and it made your guard slip.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.”

Your voice was quiet. Barely more than a breath. The spoon stilled in your hand.

Joel didn’t speak.

“My dad… he’s not a bad man. Just… proud. Stubborn. And Caleb, he—he’s good. He’s sweet. But it’s all the time, you know? Like my brain never shuts off. And I’m tired. I’m so tired.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until the first tear hit your wrist. You wiped it away fast, ashamed.

“I used to run this bakery,” you said, voice breaking around the memory. “My own place. I’d wake up at 3 a.m., roll dough, bake till noon. And I loved it. Every part of it. But I gave it up to come back here. I keep telling myself it’s temporary, but… I don’t know anymore.”

You looked down at your hands, blinking back tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to unload on you. I just… I guess I needed to say it out loud.”

Joel leaned back slowly in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. He didn’t look away.

“You’re doin’ everything for everyone else,” he said, low and even. “And no one’s doin’ a damn thing for you.”

The truth of it hit like a gut-punch. You stared at him, stunned, not because it was harsh, but because it was true.

“You ain’t weak for bein’ tired,” he added, voice quieter now. “You’re human.”

You blinked fast. Tried to breathe around the lump in your throat.

“Sometimes I think about just packing Caleb up and leaving. Taking him back with me. Starting fresh. But that would mean leaving my dad behind.”

Joel frowned, jaw tightening. “And what about you? When do you get to matter?”

Your voice cracked. “I don’t know.”

And then he did something you didn’t expect.

He reached across the table. Covered your hand with his. His palm was big, warm, rough—like everything he’d ever built still lived in the skin of him.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to carry it all,” he said, softer now. “Not by yourself.”

Your shoulders trembled. You nodded once. Fast. Because if you opened your mouth, you’d sob, and you couldn’t bear to fall apart in front of someone who had been nothing but kind.

But something inside you shifted.

Maybe it was the warmth of his hand. Or the way he didn’t fill the silence with empty words.

Maybe it was the first time in months someone looked at you—really looked at you—and didn’t expect anything in return.

Maybe it was the first time you believed someone might stay.

You still remember the first time you kissed him.

The porch had gone dark again—that same damn fixture that chewed through bulbs like candy, flickering out after barely a week, and you were up on a shaky old stool, arms stretched, fingers fumbling with the new bulb as dusk slipped toward dark.

You were just tightening the last turn when the stool wobbled—a sharp, treacherous lurch of one leg off the uneven wooden plank.

“Shit—”

Your breath caught, heart leaping into your throat.

And then strong hands caught you.

Warm. Steady. Unmistakably Joel.

One arm braced firm around your waist, the other coming up beneath your thigh to guide you gently down. You didn’t fall—you landed against him, your feet scrambling awkwardly to the porch floor, your whole body pressed to the solid wall of his chest.

“Careful, sugar,” he muttered, breath hot at your ear, voice rough and close and a little too soft for your thudding heart. “You tryna give me a heart attack?”

You let out a breathless laugh, more surprise than humor, your hand still clinging to his shoulder. Your face tipped up automatically, and the porch light, freshly fixed, cast a glow over both of you. Warm. Intimate. Like a spotlight on something neither of you had dared name.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, quieter than you meant. Maybe because he was still holding you. Maybe because you didn’t want him to stop.

Joel didn’t let go. His hands lingered low at your waist, thumbs just brushing the edge of skin beneath your hoodie.

“Still,” he said, voice steady but heavy, like he was trying not to say more. “Lemme do this kinda thing next time.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

He hadn’t shaved. His shirt was damp with sweat, clinging to his chest from yard work, and the ends of his hair curled slightly where it stuck to the sides of his face. But it was his eyes that got you—soft, warm, focused entirely on you, like you were fragile and rare and he didn’t want to break anything.

And suddenly, the lightbulb didn’t matter at all.

You climbed down slowly, but your hand, deliberately or not, brushed against his chest on the way down. And neither of you moved.

It was a moment suspended in air. Like standing at the edge of something tall and dangerous and beautiful. A quiet hum beneath your skin.

Joel’s voice dropped, barely audible. “I been tryin’ not to look at you like this.”

Your breath hitched. “Like what?”

He reached up—so gently, so slowly it felt like your body moved before your brain caught up—and brushed a piece of hair behind your ear. His thumb skimmed your cheekbone, a soft drag that made your whole face warm.

“Like I want you.”

Time cracked open.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because you did, you wanted him, had wanted him for weeks. Longer, maybe. Longer than you were ready to admit.

The kiss, when it came, wasn’t fire—it was smoke. Slow and curling and inevitable. His lips brushed yours once, tentative, like he didn’t believe you’d let him. But when you leaned in, just a little, he deepened it, his hand sliding into your hair, the other anchoring you to his chest like he needed to feel all of you at once.

Your hands found his shirt, fingers curling into damp cotton, needing to hold on to something, anything.

His arms came around you fully then, pulling you in until you could feel every line of him—broad chest, firm stomach, the barely restrained tension coiled beneath his skin. The kiss shifted, turned warmer, messier, like a need finally slipping through the cracks.

You broke away just to breathe, lips still brushing his.

“Joel…” your voice was a gasp, a question, a plea.

He kissed you again, slower now, like he was savoring something he’d been denying himself for a long time.

His hand drifted lower, beneath your hoodie, callused palm sliding across the bare skin of your waist. You shivered—not from cold, but from the sheer tenderness of it.

He groaned low into your mouth, the sound tugging at something deep inside you. You pressed closer, hands sliding up beneath his shirt, seeking skin. His breath stuttered. His hips shifted—just slightly—but enough that you felt him, hard against you.

And then—he stopped.

Abrupt. Breathless.

His forehead stayed pressed to yours as he sucked in air like he was drowning.

“Shit.”

You blinked, disoriented. “What—what is it?”

Joel’s hands were still on your waist, holding you like he didn’t want to let go. His eyes squeezed shut as he pulled back just enough to see you.

“We shouldn’t,” he said, voice tight and raw.

You froze. The words hit like a slap. “Oh.”

He saw it—the flicker of hurt in your eyes—and rushed to speak.

“It’s not you, sugar,” he said quickly. “Jesus, it ain’t you. It’s just—” He stepped back fully, ran both hands down his face like it hurt. “I don’t wanna start somethin’ with you just to make your life more complicated. You are too young f’me, and you already got so much on your shoulders, and I—fuck, I care about you too much to be one more thing you gotta manage.”

Your heart twisted in your chest. “Joel…”

He looked at you like it broke him. “You’re…” He shook his head. “You’re incredible. And I want this. I do. But you deserve somethin’ else. Somethin’ that’s not me.”

You stood still, the air between you suddenly cooler. But you understood.

This wasn’t rejection. It was protection. Restraint sharpened by care.

And that, somehow, made it ache even more.

Because he meant it. And you believed him.

That didn’t make it hurt any less.

But it made you trust him more.

It was past nine when you showed up at his door.

No call. No warning. Just you—hoodie zipped halfway, face pale, eyes dull from the weight of the day. You didn’t even knock properly. Just a soft, hesitant tap of your knuckles, like you weren’t sure you deserved to be there.

Joel opened the door in a T-shirt and sweats, hair mussed, a faint line of exhaustion on his brow. His eyes widened, not in surprise exactly, more like fear. Like he thought this might be a dream.

“Hey,” you breathed. Barely audible. Fragile. “You alone?”

He nodded. Didn’t ask a single question. Just stepped back silently, let you pass, and shut the door with a quiet finality that felt like safety.

You stood there in his dim entryway, fingers twitching at your sides, tension radiating off you like static.

And then—you cracked.

“It was a bad day,” you whispered, like admitting it made it real.

Joel didn’t move. Just listened.

“My dad fell again. Caleb lost it in the store because they moved the cereal aisle and I didn’t know. He screamed and sobbed while people stared like he was a fucking exhibit.” Your voice broke, trembling. “I cried in the car after. Not because of them. Not even because of him. Because I didn’t know what cereal he wanted.”

You let out a laugh that was more of a sob—wet, broken, raw.

Joel’s face—God, the way it fell when he saw you hurting like that—was almost too much to look at.

“I haven’t had one goddamn second to myself, Joel. Not to bake. Not to read. Not even to shower without someone banging on the fucking door needing something. I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired.”

Your breath caught, and you looked up at him, eyes wide, glassy.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

And that was it. The unraveling. The surrender.

Joel stepped forward so quietly you didn’t hear it, just felt it. His presence. Solid. Grounding.

Tears rolled down your cheeks.

“I need you,” you whispered. “And I know we aren’t… anything. Not really. But I need the way you look at me like I’m not some empty shell holding everyone else’s bullshit together. I need you.”

That shattered him.

He gathered you into his arms like he couldn’t stop himself, like the second he felt your body hit his, he knew he wouldn’t survive letting go. You collapsed into him with a sound that wasn’t quite a sob, wasn’t quite a sigh—just something deep and painful and desperate.

He didn’t say much. Just held you. Tight. Warm. Real.

“I’m here, sugar,” he murmured, mouth against your hair. “Right here.”

You nodded against his chest, shivering in his arms. “I don’t wanna do this alone anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” Joel said thickly. “Lemme help. Lemme be here f’you.”

Your eyes lifted to his, swollen and rimmed with tears. “Even if it’s messy?”

His thumb brushed your cheek, slow and careful. “Especially then.”

And when he kissed you—fuck, there was no going back. No restraint. No apologies. Just need. His mouth slotted over yours with aching tenderness, but his grip on your waist was possessive, like he needed to feel your bones under his palms, needed to know you were real.

He kissed you until your lungs burned, until your body arched into him without thinking, until you couldn’t remember why you were crying in the first place.

A rough, needy sound escaped his throat—low, primal, like he was holding something back and failing.

Then he walked you backward, lips never leaving yours, until the backs of your knees hit the couch. You gasped when you dropped onto the cushions. He followed—a heavy, hot presence between your thighs, one hand planted beside your head, the other dragging slowly up beneath your hoodie.

“I tried to stay away,” he rasped, mouth brushing your throat. “Told myself you had enough goin’ on… that I was too damn old, too broken for you.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, voice trembling. “Joel—”

“But then you show up at my door,” he growled, “and all I can think was how fuckin’ stupid I was for leavin’ that night on your porch with your lips still warm on mine.”

He tugged your hoodie up, his hands reverent, like he was peeling back something sacred. You let him. Raised your arms. Gave him permission. Gave him you.

And when he looked down at you—bare under the soft glow of the lamp—you saw it in his eyes.

Worship. Hunger. Need.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You’re fuckin’ divine, sugar.”

You pulled him down, crushed your mouth to his, wanting more. Needing more.

His hand dipped past your waistband, calloused fingers skimming hot and slow over bare skin. You whimpered against his mouth—a needy, broken little sound—and he swallowed it whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice like gravel. “Say the word, baby. I’ll pull back.”

“Don’t,” you whispered. “Please… don’t stop.”

That was it. That was all it took.

Joel groaned—a filthy, desperate sound—and kissed you harder. Rougher. His hand slipped lower, fingers dipping into your slick heat, and the moan you let out damn near broke him in two.

“You’re fuckin’ soaked,” he rasped. “You come over here wantin’ me like this, baby?”

You nodded, hips grinding shamelessly against his palm. “Needed this. Needed you.”

Two fingers pushed inside —slow, steady— filling you with a stretch that made your eyes flutter shut. He curled them just right, and your back arched, thighs trembling as your breath stuttered out in ragged little gasps.

His fingers worked you open, pressing deep, curling, teasing your walls. The wet, obscene sound of his fingers moving inside you filled the room, only broken by the soft, strangled cries you kept trying—and failing—to hold back.

Each stroke was deliberate, meant to pull every sound out of you. He didn’t just want you wet, he wanted you trembling, messy, ruined for anyone else.

“Please, Joel,” you gasped, your voice cracking under the weight of it. “Don’t stop—feels s-so good—”

“Tonight is all about you. About making you feel good, just like you deserve. You work so hard… let me give this to you.” His voice was low, reverent, like prayer—like worship—and every word seemed to sink into your skin like heat.

He watched every twitch, every gasp, like it fed something primal in him. His thumb dragged over your clit, a single, devastating swipe, and your whole body jolted, your hips bucked helplessly. A strangled sob ripping from your throat as pleasure crashed over you in waves.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

You did. And the way he held your gaze—steady, reverent, hungry—made your whole body tighten with want.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he murmured as he kissed down your chest, then your belly, pausing to mouth gently at the soft skin above your hip. “How you’d feel. How you’d taste. How you’d fall apart if someone just… took their time.”

You whimpered, breath shaking. “Joel…”

“Gonna take care of you, sugar. Gonna make you feel worshiped.”

Then he moved, sliding down between your thighs, kissing over your belly, your hip, his beard scraping your sensitive skin in the best way.

He spread your legs with steady hands, thumbs grazing your inner thighs like he had all the time in the world. Like this was something sacred.

“You smell like fuckin’ heaven,” he growled. “Bet you taste even sweeter than that peach pie you make.”

His breath ghosted over your skin, so hot it made you squirm, your thighs instinctively trying to close—until he spread them open again with a low, possessive growl.

“You deserve to be worshipped, sugar. Deserve someone who sees nothing but you, someone who lives to make you feel good.”

And then his mouth was on you.

Hot, wet, devastating.

You gasped when his tongue met you, soft and slow at first, just a gentle press, then firmer, deeper. He groaned like he could live off the way you tasted. Like he needed it—your slick, your heat, the way you melted under his tongue.

His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, steady, while his mouth worked—kisses, licks, teasing sucks that made your hips jerk before he calmed you with a firm hand to your belly.

“Easy now, sugar,” he muttered, tongue flicking your clit with maddening precision. “Let me take my time with you.”

That tongue was sin itself—warm, deliberate, unforgiving. Every flick felt like it rewired your nerves. Every slow drag had you twitching, clenching around nothing, aching to be filled.

His tongue licked a slow stripe through your folds, then circled your clit until your back arched and your fingers clawed at the cushions.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t give you a single breath to recover.

You were panting, whining, rutting up against his face without shame. He didn’t even blink, just held you wider, lower, like he wanted to drown in it.

He fucked you with his mouth like he meant to memorize every twitch of your body, every whimper, every desperate moan that spilled out of you.

His mouth worked in tandem with his fingers—two thick digits fucking deep, curling just right, pressing to that spot that made your toes curl.

Every push dragged another broken sound from your throat, and the slick, wet squelch of your body around him only made him growl harder.

“Lemme feel you fall apart, sweetheart,” he groaned into you. “Lemme drink you in.”

You sobbed. Literally sobbed. The pleasure was too much, too deep, like he’d reached inside and touched something you didn’t know you were allowed to feel.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he rasped. “Look how good you take it. Like you were made for this. Made to be loved like this.”

His fingers pumped faster, his tongue relentless, and you were unraveling so fast you couldn’t even think. All you could do was feel the rhythm of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, the drag of his beard catching slick against your thighs.

He sucked your clit harder, just once, and your whole body seized. A tremor ran through your thighs like a live wire.

You couldn’t speak. Only moan, high and breathy, fingers threading into his hair, hips lifting into his mouth before he pinned them again with a low, warning growl.

“Uh-uh. Lemme. Lemme have this.”

And when you came—it was loud, wild, wet—a cry tearing from your throat as your whole body spasmed under his mouth. He held you through it, murmuring your name like a prayer, even as you trembled and gasped, your body giving out beneath his hands.

Your thighs clamped around his head, but he didn’t stop—licking through your release like he’d earned it, like it was his right.

Joel moaned like he was coming too, grinding against the couch, keeping his tongue on you, licking you through the aftershocks while you trembled, boneless and wrecked.

When he pulled back, his beard was slick with you, lips swollen, eyes dark and wrecked.

But he didn’t reach for himself. Didn’t demand more. He just hovered over you, brushing hair back from your face.

“You okay?” he asked, voice raw, thumb tracing your thigh.

You nodded, dazed. “No one’s ever… no one’s ever made me feel like that.”

Joel leaned in, kissed your forehead. “That’s the only way I know how to touch you now.”

You looked up at him—face flushed, eyes glassy—and whispered, “Can I have you now?”

He stilled. Blinked.

You reached for him. “Please. I want to feel you. All of you.”

“You don’t gotta ask me twice,” he rasped. “But I need to hear you say it again. Need to know you want this.”

“I do,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his. “I want you. Not just tonight. Not just because I’m tired or broken. I want you because it’s you, Joel.”

His control shattered.

He kissed you again, rougher this time, like he’d been holding back and finally let himself feel how badly he needed you. His body pressed down over yours, the heat of him unmistakable through the fabric still between you.

He tore his shirt off in one motion, sweatpants shoved down to his thighs, cock heavy and thick, flushed dark with need. It slapped against his stomach, leaking already, pulsing with need like it was aching to be inside you.

You opened for him, no hesitation. Just yes—in every movement, every breath, every inch of skin you offered.

Joel braced over you, gaze locked to yours.

“Still okay?”

You nodded, chest heaving. “Need you inside me.”

He lined up and pushed in—slow, careful, so fucking deep—and you gasped, arching, clutching at him as he filled you inch by aching inch. Thick, hot, unrelenting, he opened you up with the kind of stretch that made your whole body seize.

The stretch burned in the most perfect way, your walls gripping him tight, pulsing around him like your body didn’t want to let him go. Your cunt clenched like it already knew who he was, like it belonged to him.

You’d never felt anything like it.

Like being claimed. Possessed. Worshiped.

He bottomed out with a broken moan, hips pressed flush to yours, like he never wanted to leave.

“Jesus fuck,” he groaned, burying himself to the hilt. “You feel like—fuck—like I’ve been waitin’ for this my whole fuckin’ life.”

He stayed there for a second, buried so deep you could feel the throb of his cock against your cervix, like he was trying to become a part of you.

“F-fuck, Joel,” you whimpered, voice catching in your throat as he sank in deeper, stretching you open with agonizing, delicious slowness. “S-so big.”

“Can you take it, sugar?,” he growled, voice rough and ragged against your ear. “I want you to feel good.”

A helpless sob spilled from your lip. “I-I am,” you gasped, barely able to breathe.

He thrust deep and slow, grinding his hips with every roll, letting you feel all of him, every thick, perfect inch. His cock dragged against your walls just right, pulling wet, slick sounds from your body that had him groaning like he was losing his mind.

Your nails dug into his back, mouth parted in soft, breathless cries.

The drag of him was obscene, slick and hot and thick, your body clenching tight around him every time he pulled back.

You were soaking him—dripping down his length, soaking the base of his cock, the couch beneath you a mess of heat and sweat and need.

“Don’t stop,” you gasped.

“Never,” he promised. “Not with you.”

Joel groaned like it hurt, like being inside you was too much, too good. “You feel—Christ, sugar, you feel like heaven.”

His thrusts turned rough, frantic, filthy—skin slapping, couch creaking, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest as he fucked you like he meant it. His balls slapped against your ass with every stroke, the wet, messy sound of him slamming into you filling the room.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, hips grinding into yours. “So fuckin’ tight, sugar… can’t believe I waited this long—”

You clung to him, breath coming in soft, desperate moans. Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back to pull him even deeper, faster.

“Joel,” you gasped, “I want it—want you all the way. Please, don’t stop—”

He kissed you hard, swallowing your plea with a growl as he drove into you faster, deeper, his hands gripping your hips like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

“Not stoppin’. Can’t. Not when you’re takin’ me so good—fuck—look at you.”

“I’m close,” you whimpered. “Joel—please—” You were trembling, cunt fluttering around him, desperate for release.

You cried out, hands scrambling to grip his forearms, needing something—anything—to anchor you while he drove into you with slow, punishing thrusts. Each one landed deeper, harder, until it felt like he was carved into your core.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes wide and desperate. “Look at me. Want you to see me when I cum inside you.”

You did. You looked at him and it was all it took for your second orgasm to explode inside your body, ripping through you like a fucking firestorm, your whole body locking around him, crying out his name like it was the only word you remembered.

And when he came, he let out a deep, broken moan, thrusting hard, grinding into you with everything he had—his seed spilling deep inside you, filling you, claiming you. You felt him pulse inside you, hot and thick, every spurt making your walls flutter, milking him for everything he had.

“Fuck… fuck, baby…” His voice went ragged, his rhythm stuttering, hips jerking with every pulse as he emptied himself inside you like he meant it.

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him through it, heart pounding wildly in your chest.

You felt full. Claimed. Loved, even if neither of you had said the words yet.

He stayed there for a moment—still inside you, skin against skin—like he couldn’t bear to leave that closeness.

He kissed your temple, murmured your name low and warm. And then, quieter still: “You don’t gotta carry everything by yourself anymore.”

Your breath hitched, and he pulled you closer.

“You hear me, sugar? You don’t have to be strong for everybody all the time. Not with me.” His lips pressed against your hairline, voice like gravel wrapped in honey. “I’m here now. I’m not goin’ anywhere. We’re gonna figure it out. Together.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just wrapped your arms around his broad back and held on like your life depended on it.

And maybe it did.

Joel’s hand stroked slow, soothing patterns across your spine. “You got me, sugar. All of me. Always.”

And in his arms, for the first time in too long, you believed it.

A/N: Thank you to the person who requested this for your patience. I loved the idea and hope it meets your expectations🫶🏻

Thank you too to everyone reading this for supporting my work and for your nice words🩷

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

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sceletaflores · 2 days ago

Text

OH HONEY, HONEY, I COULD BE YOUR KEVLAR || FRANKIE MORALES

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

｡𖦹°‧￫ PAIR: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧￫ WC: 4.6k

｡𖦹°‧￫ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, drinking, smoking, some spanish dialogue cutely sprinkled in, reader is ex-special forces, established relationship, implied age gap, insecurity, semi-jealous frankie mmmh, oral sex (fem!receiving), fingering, finger sucking, more brief allusions to a foot fetish whoopsies, p in v, public sex (bar bathroom RAAAHHH), creampie, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧￫ NAT'S NOTE: finally got off my ass watched triple frontier and i’m a changed woman. i mean it was kind of a snooze fest but pedro pascal in a slutty little baseball hat saying “come on, baby” for like three minutes? that’s pure cinema. i’m praying that my spanish isn’t absolute dog shit, i’m still not a hundred percent fluent and dirty talk is such a struggle so please give me some grace if it’s ass and maybe some pointers! that would be very very helpful thank you love you. title from beyonce's 'BODYGUARD' because it's a beyonce summer in this house. hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune! extra special shoutout to angel @daydreamingmiller for the wonderful gif!

you and the boys go out...

The bar is buzzing, alive with easy laughter and the sharp crack of billiard balls meeting in the center of pool tables.

It's a dive in every sense of the word, a real shithole. The kind of place where you can smoke indoors because the owner doesn't give a damn. The walls are littered in old road signs and vintage rock band posters.

The floor is sticky and all the booths have tears in the bright red leather cushions. Neon signs are hung sporadically, each one lit up with a phrase more vulgar than the last, drowning everything in different hues of red and blue.

It’s perfect.

It’s familiar, safe in the only way a shithole can be when you’re surrounded by people who’d take a bullet for you. Who’ve taken bullets for you, just like you have for them.

You’re not drunk. You’re not even tipsy.

You’re a couple drinks in and resting on the perfect knife's edge of pleasantly buzzed. You’re warm, a tingly kind of warmth that seeps into your skin all the way down to your bones and loosens your limbs.

The cigarette you bummed from Will only adds to it, smoke flooding your lungs and curling in wispy grey loops around your head like a halo on every exhale.

Music floats in the space all around you, a beat up jukebox is shoved in the corner spitting out song after song.

Lynyrd Skynyrd. The Rolling Stones. The Who. Guns N’ Roses. The Doors. Aerosmith.

Fleetwood Mac when that quarter you spent thirty minutes ago finally gets put to good use.

You’re standing near the same booth the five of you always pack yourselves in, sleeves rolled up to the elbow and some beat up darts in your hand. Benny goaded you into a game of 501 after his third beer made him feel cocky enough.

You’re sitting at 113. Ben’s only at 326.

He’s at the throw line, one eye squeezed shut as he lines up his aims for what feels like the hundredth time. Going Mobile kicks on as you wait for your turn with dwindling patience.

"You gonna hit the board or just warm up your wrist for later tonight?" you say over the music.

“Fuck you.” Ben doesn’t let his gaze stray from the board, flipping you off with his free hand. He finally takes his shot, but his dart hits wide—buried in cork about four inches from the bullseye. ”Damn!”

You laugh, a low, warm sound, pulled from the back of your throat. “Alright hotshot shove over, my turn.”

“Come on, Sniper.” Santiago’s voice calls from behind you. “Make it three in a row.”

Your laughter doesn’t fade as you step up to the throw line, rolling the darts in your hand to feel the weight of them. Your fingers curl around them, metal cool against your skin, the sharpness of the tips familiar. You take your stance without even thinking—weight balanced, eyes narrowed, limbs loose. It’s second nature.

The first dart hits just inside the treble thirteen. Sharp thunk. Clean.

The boys heckle you from the table, ranging from supportive—Santi and Will—to whining about the board being rigged—Ben. You don’t turn around, but you can’t fight the smug smile on your lips.

Another flick. Another hit—just right of the center. Double twelve.

“Bullshit,” Ben groans. “You said you were rusty, you goddamn liar.”

“I am rusty,” you say over your shoulder, spinning the last dart between your fingers. “If I wasn’t I would’ve beat your ass three rounds ago.”

You line up your last shot.

“Call it,” you say to no one in particular.

“Bullseye,” Will says.

You exhale slowly, wrist held high and right foot forward. You throw.

Bullseye.

The table behind you erupts. When you turn around, Ben’s groaning from where he’s leaning against Santi’s shoulder, who just gives a few approving slow claps. Will’s got that quiet, impressed smirk on his face.

You catch Frankie’s eye, he’s grinning behind the rim of his Modelo. All spread out on the left side of the booth, one leg kicked up over where you were sitting. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, showing off the dark hair scattered along his chest and the chain he bought from a street vendor in Ciudad Juárez when he was there on an assignment.

The very same one hangs around your neck, just under your collar.

You smile, a real one—small and just for him in the way it tugs your lips up. Frankie winks at you from under the brim of his hat, a look you’ve seen hundreds of times swirling through the chocolate brown of his eyes.

Later, it says. A promise.

You can't wait.

“Loser buys shots.” You make your way to the table, leaning your hip against the edge. “Next round’s on Benny.”

Ben rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “Kiss my ass.”

You smile down at him like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. “Not with aim like that, Miller.”

The laughter that surrounds the table is easy. That’s how it’s come to be with them. Even on days like this, when you all feel like ghosts, carrying sand in your shoes and shrapnel in your lungs.

It started a long time ago. You met Santi first, back in Kandahar. You weren’t officially on the books with the same unit as him back in the day—your ops were blacker than theirs—but you'd cross paths on enough shared missions to get familiar. He was cocky. You were mean. He liked that.

You pulled him out of a burning Humvee with a busted comms rig and a bullet in his thigh. He paid you back when one of your jobs got blown wide open in Girardot and saved you from bleeding out in a ditch after he dragged you two klicks to a medevac sight.

Through him came Frankie. He was quieter than you expected after all the stories, and thoughtful in a way that made you curious. It didn’t take long for something to shift there—some gravity between the two of you that pulled you closer before either of you had a chance to name it.

You still aren't sure when exactly it had changed. There hadn’t been one single moment. Just a hundred small ones. Quieter nights. Warmer looks. Shared smokes in the silence. And eventually, one drunken night back in Bogotá when he kissed you outside a safehouse, the rain dripping off his cap and into your collar.

Neither of you looked back.

Will and Benny came much later. A package deal, good on their own but great together. One couldn’t exist without the other. Ben brought the noise and a young, unshakable enthusiasm. Will brought the strategy and experience.

They all introduced you to Tom when you were back stateside. He was calculated and quiet, the only man you’ve ever seen clear a building with a heartbeat under sixty.

It all seems like a lifetime ago.

When you think back to it, it’s the smell of gunpowder and the phantom ache in your shoulder from the viscous recoil on your Barrett M82. It’s kevlar squeezed around your ribs tight enough to leave angry red lines of remembrance branded in your skin long after you took it off and the sound of bullets piercing flesh.

The six of you were never an official unit. You were all off-books more often than not. Contracts, black bag jobs, unofficial recon. Nothing that would stick. But when it went bad you called each other. Always. No matter the time zone. No matter the cost.

You’ve seen the best and worst of each other—on dirt roads, jungle trails, blacked out hallways. In safehouses and active war zones and cheap motels.

They’re your people. Your family, even if the word is slick with blood and drenched in ash.

It’s family nonetheless.

So when Santiago called about recon work in Colombia, you didn’t even let him finish the pitch.

You were in.

Now, months after everything went down—the heist, the Andes, the loss and anguish you all carried home—you’re here. In a shitty bar with your family. With Frankie.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

“Alright, alright.” Ben stands from the booth, carrying five empty shot glasses. “Nobody ever said I wasn’t a man of my word, what are we drinking?”

“Surprise me,” Santi says, already on his feet. “I gotta hit the head.”

Ben nods as he walks off, turning his attention back to the table. “Surprises all around?”

You shrug, stealing a sip of Frankie’s Modelo. “Works for me.”

Will shakes his head, sliding out of the booth. “Hell no, I’m coming with. This isn't spring break, I’m not knocking back any damn tequila shots.”

You watch them go, disappearing deeper into the crowd until you can’t make out their silhouettes anymore. You turn to Frankie, resting your palms flat on the table. “You up for a game, Morales? I’ll let you win if you promise to make it worth my while back home.”

Frankie laughs. “Only if you throw it just bad enough I don’t notice,” he says, chin dipped low, voice just rough enough to make your skin prickle. His eyes are fixed on yours—warm, focused, like he’s already replaying whatever making it worth your while might look like. Probably more than once.

You smirk, pushing off the table. “No promises.”

You make your way over to the board, plucking the darts out one by one. You’re alone for the first time all night, almost.

“Are you always this good, or is tonight just for show?”

The voice is unfamiliar—low and a little too close.

You glance over your shoulder. Young, younger than you–early to mid-twenties if you had to guess. He’s tall, lean and muscular in a way that screams college wrestling. Sharp jawline, white teeth.

You give him a polite smile. Nothing that invites, but nothing too rude either. You’re good at being nice. Trained for it. There’s strength in it, control.

“Used to be better,” you say, turning back to the dartboard and yanking out the last one. “But I’ll take the compliment.”

“Wasn’t just a compliment,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve been watching you. You’ve got a great arm.”

He’s not the only one.

Frankie’s watching you. You can feel it before you see it. Like a hum under your skin. A pressure point at the base of your neck.

“Thanks.” It’s as dismissive as you can make it, a clear send off.

The guy doesn’t take the hint. “Let me buy you a drink, maybe we could play a round? I’d love some pointers, I’ve never seen a girl throw like that before.”

A girl. You don’t even flinch.

“I don’t think you could keep up.”

He chuckles. “Oh, I don’t know.” His eyes rake up and down your body with all the subtlety of a car crash. “I’m a fast learner.”

You keep your posture relaxed, but your hand tightens a little around the dart. “Maybe, but I’m already here with someone.”

His eyes follow the way yours flick to Frankie out of habit, sizing him up unashamedly. He snorts, turning back to you with a cocky grin. “Is that your dad, or something?”

You don’t even blink, just cock your head and smile—sharp as a blade this time. “Careful,” you say, voice overly sweet and saccharine. “This girl might just lay you on your ass for that.”

It takes him a beat too long to realize you’re not joking. Your tone is calm, flat, with that old edge you haven’t used in years. When it sinks in, his eyes narrow, mouth working like he’s deciding whether to double down or cut his losses.

Smart boy chooses the latter. “Didn’t mean to cause trouble,” he mutters, taking a step back.

You toss the darts on a nearby table. “Then don’t,” you say, and turn your back on him.

Frankie’s standing by the time you reach the booth, he’s already got that look in his eyes. Quiet, a little withdrawn. His mouth twitches like he’s going to say something but doesn’t. You close the space between you, laying your hand on his chest.

“You mad?” It’s soft, quiet enough so only he can hear it.

He shakes his head, brows pinching together. “Of course not.”

His arm slides around your waist, big hand spreading out possessively over your stomach. He’s not lying, you know he isn't. It’s not you he’s mad at, it’s not even the jackass slinking his way back to his buddies he’s mad at.

He’s angry at himself.

You can see it still simmering under the surface, and it’s not real anger. Not entirely. It’s something else entirely—the insecurity he carries. The one that creeps in late at night when he’s lying behind you in bed, one arm slung heavy over your waist.

The kind that whispers in his ear that he’s not good enough when he sees someone younger—someone who hasn’t been through what he has, who doesn’t have a road-map of scars or night terrors or hands that still shake sometimes when they’re too still for too long. Someone without graying hair or creaking joints or the softer gut that comes with love and recovery.

Frankie still doubts himself, even after all this time. He doubts that he’s really what you want, that you’re not just stuck with him out of guilt or some fucked up version of shared trauma that ties you together.

“Hey,” you say gently, reaching up to hold the side of his face. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” His voice is gruffer now, lower. The furrow of his brow makes the skin in-between crease, you rub your thumb over it a few times until he relaxes his face.

You’re always struck by how handsome he is, even in the shitty neon lights bathing you both. His round, chocolate brown eyes stare down at you with so much care and love that it makes your chest ache.

“Get in your own head. You really think I’d be out here flirting with some college guy when you’re sittin’ twenty feet away looking like this?”

Frankie shakes his head, embarrassed. “I’m fine, baby. Just didn’t like the way he was looking at you, that’s all.”

You lean into him, pressing your chest to his so there isn't an inch of space between you. “You’re the only one I want. You’re it for me, Frankie.”

He doesn’t speak, his lips pressed into a thin line as he holds your unwavering gaze. You hope he can see the look on your face, that he can hear the truth and the weight of your words.

He wraps his arms around you and he breathes you in, pressing his nose into your hair. The tension in his shoulders eases the way it always does when you’re close.

It’s nice, a step in the right direction, but it’s not enough. Not yet. You can still feel the stiffness lingering in his body, the way he’s holding you more out of possessive worry than relief—like he’s still scared you’ll bolt at the last second.

You bite your lip, an idea sparking to life in your mind. It’s a risk, especially when Frankie’s feeling like this—but it also has an undeniable warmth flaring up in your stomach, phantom flames licking their way up your legs.

Besides, you’ve never been one to back down from risky situations. You made a career out of it.

You pull back, only slightly, just far enough to catch his eye. You notice the second he sees your pupils, blown out and dark as an oil spill. His brows furrow again, but it’s different than before. It’s curious, a silent question you’re more than happy to answer.

“If you want…” Your hand trails down his chest languidly until you’re toying with his belt buckle, hooking your pointer finger under the band of his jeans and tugging gently. “I could show you just how much I want you.”

Frankie’s eyes darken, his lips parting on a shocked breath. His arms twitch around you, fingertips digging into the fabric of your shirt. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

You don’t even wait for him to respond, your patience fizzling out into pure, blinding need.

You grab his hand and pull him behind you, slipping into the crowd without a backward glance. You lead him down the narrow hall past the pool tables, past the jukebox playing Dream On, until you reach the dingy single-stall bathroom.

The door’s not even all the way closed before Frankie’s on you. He backs you up against the graffiti covered wall, mouth already on yours—hungry, possessive, a little desperate. You love it when he kisses you like this, like he’s staking a claim.

His tongue licks a dirty stripe over the seam of your lips, fucking into your mouth when you moan. He tastes like beer, like lime and salt and something under it all that’s just him. It’s addicting, you can’t get enough—you never can.

Your hands are greedy—yanking his hat off and letting it topple to the ground carelessly, your fingers tangle in his curls, nails scratching along his scalp.

“You’re mine,” you murmur against his lips, breathless.

“Yeah?” he pants, kissing you again, hands skimming down your body.

He presses you into the wall harder, his hips grinding against yours, and you can feel him already. Hard, thick and aching through his jeans. Your pussy leaks wet and sticky into your panties, impatient and wanting.

“You really think I’d want anyone else?” you whisper against his jaw, licking the stubble, biting it. “You think anyone could fuck me the way you do?”

Frankie groans, hips jerking forward. His hands dig into the meat of your hips, hard enough to ache in the best way. You hope that it takes, that your skin is bruised come morning.

You rut against each other like you’re still overseas, like there’s mortar fire behind you and you’re stealing time you don’t have.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” you breathe, arching up against him. “Tell me how to make you feel better.”

“Wanna taste you,” he says roughly, voice thick. “Muero por saborearte, princesa.”

Heat rushes through you like an electric shock, lighting up every inch of your body. “Fuck, yes–”

Frankie drops to his knees before the words leave your mouth, hurried hands not even bothering to unbutton your jeans before he’s yanking them down your hips. He groans when he sees your panties—damp and clinging to your folds, soft cotton pulled tight.

“Que cosita linda...” It whispered, soft and almost secretive—like he’s saying it to himself more than to you.

You brace yourself against the wall, one hand gripping the chipped edge of the sink, the other in his hair when he mouths you over the fabric. He presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to your pussy, the hot drag of his tongue through the soaked material making your knees threaten to buckle.

“Frankie,” you gasp, hips twitching toward him. “Don’t tease—”

He hums like he likes hearing you beg, like he needs it, and then hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs in one swift, greedy motion.

The moment you’re bare to him, he’s buried between your legs.

He licks up your slit, slow and obscene, tasting everything you’ve made for him. He groans like it hurts, like your pussy’s a salvation and a punishment all at once. He spreads you open with thick fingers and dives in, eating you like he’s starved.

“Fuck—Frankie,” you gasp, knees almost giving, fingers fisting tight in his curls. He only groans, the vibration making your hands twist his hair tight in your grip as his nose bumps against your clit.

It’s loud, the way he devours you. He’s always been messy with it—and soon the filthy sounds of his mouth fills the bathroom, dirty slurps and sucks bouncing off the walls. Your head thunks against the hard brick behind you when you toss it back on a broken moan, you hardly notice.

You lift your foot off the ground, not hesitating as you press it against the thick line of his cock still tenting the front of his jeans. Frankie shudders, his eyes screwing shut as he bucks up into it, chasing the pressure.

“Shit, Frankie, I—” You whimper, dizzy, aching. “Need more—need your fingers—please—”

His eyes flick up to yours, dark and molten. “Show me,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to kiss your inner thigh, teeth scraping along the delicate skin there. “Show me what you want, hermosa.”

Your hand trembles as you reach down, slipping two fingers through the wet mess of your pussy. Slick and saliva coats your skin, eases the way as you circle your clit—once, twice—before you push them into yourself with a soft moan.

Frankie watches, eyes wide and rapt with attention. His hands knead the muscle of your thighs, his hips jerking up against the sole of your boot like he can’t help himself. “Mierda…look at you. So fuckin’ perfect.”

You fuck yourself slow, wrist twisting—and just as your thighs start to shake, you slip your soaked fingers out of yourself, strings of slick catching in the air, and bring them to his mouth. You don’t say anything, but there’s an unspoken order that fills the air between you.

Frankie’s a good soldier, he’d never disobey a direct order.

He looks up at you, gaze dark as he slowly parts his lips—his hot breath fans over your skin. Eyes locked on yours, he takes them in, sucks them deep, tongue curling around them lewdly. He moans at the taste, hand closing around your ankle to keep you in place as he grinds up against your foot harder.

You press your fingers against his tongue, rubbing the taste of yourself over his taste buds. Your pussy clenches weakly, pulsing with pleasure and emptiness.

Frankie pulls back, your fingers falling from between his lips with a soft pop. “Sabe como cielo.”

He doesn't give you a second to recover before he’s on his feet again, surging up like a man possessed. His hands grab your thighs, lifting you with ease, you wrap your legs around his waist instinctively. Your boots clatter against the stall wall with the motion, the dull thud-thud-thud drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears.

"You're gonna let me fuck you right here?" he pants, rutting against your slick heat through his jeans, the zipper catching on your swollen clit. "Right here, in this filthy fucking bathroom where anyone could hear us?"

You nod frantically, arms looping around his neck. "Yes—yes, fuck, Frankie, please—"

"Say it again," he growls, teeth scraping over your jaw. “Say my name like that again.”

"Please, Frankie," you whimper, biting his earlobe. "I need you to fuck me. Right now. Right here.”

That’s all it takes.

Frankie fumbles with his belt, one-handed, the other arm bracing your ass, keeping you pinned to the wall like you weigh nothing. The second his cock springs free, it slaps hot against your thigh, smearing precome across your skin. Thick and flushed, angry red at the tip.

You glance down and moan, already slick for him, already open.

He fists the base of his cock, running the head through your folds once, twice—and then he’s pushing in, slow and deep.

The stretch makes you cry out, back arching off the wall as he sinks in slow, his hips flexing forward inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt. You’re soaked and open from his tongue, but he’s still thick enough to sting just right. You feel all of him—every vein, every twitch.

Your nails dig into the muscle of his shoulders, your thighs tightening around his waist to drag him as close as you can.

"Mierda…tan apretadita," Frankie groans, forehead pressing to yours, sweat already dotting his temple. “Siempre tan buena pa’ mí.”

You whimper, heels digging into his back as your pussy flutters around him. He holds still for a moment, letting you adjust, his breath hot and erratic against your cheek.

“You feel that?” he pants, grinding up into you slow and deep. “Nobody else gets to feel this. Nobody else gets to fuck this pussy.”

“Only you,” you manage, voice thick. “Just you, Frankie—fuck, please—”

He starts to thrust, hips snapping into you with filthy, wet smacks, the obscene sound echoing in the tiny stall. The sink creaks beside you, the mirror rattling in time with every thrust. You’re soaked, dripping, cock-drunk already.

Frankie captures your lips in another dirty kiss, all tongue and teeth and stealing the breath from each others mouth. “¿Que sucia, te gusta eso, eh?” He whispers against your mouth, nipping at your swollen bottom lip. “You like taking it like this, with all those people out there? Anybody could walk by and hear us, baby. They could hear how good you're taking my cock.”

You whine into his mouth, nails dragging down his back, you can feel the thin material of his shirt straining under the force. The silk is so delicate, so fragile. That much more strength and you’d tear it clean down the middle. It makes your stomach clench, the idea of Frankie walking back out into the bar with his shirt in tatters, the angry red welts your surely leaving on his skin on full display.

“Tell me,” he pants wetly against your cheek. “Dime la verdad.”

“Yes,” you whine. “I love it. Fuck—I want everyone to know. Want them to know how good you fuck me, how good you make me feel.”

Frankie groans, a deep, almost animalistic sound. He grips your thighs harder, burying his face in the sweaty column of your throat.

Your whole body jolts when he pounds into you deeper than before, the angle filthy, punishing. The dark hair around the base of his cock scrapes meanly against your sensitive clit with every thrust, teetering just on the edge of too much and just perfect.

You’re gonna come—you can feel it already coiling inside you, white-hot and snapping.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna come, Frankie—” you cry, clutching his curls.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.

"That’s it, baby," he pants against your throat, licking the sweat from your skin. “Dámelo. Come for me. Let me feel you soak my cock.”

Your orgasm rips through you like a gunshot—fast, brutal, and all-consuming. Your thighs tremble around his hips, your boots slam into the wall, and you clamp down around him so tight that Frankie lets out a raw, strangled groan.

“Dios,” he groans, the rhythm of his hips stuttering. “You gonna let me fill you up?” His voice is a snarl now, hips slamming forward. “Gonna let me come inside you, baby? Gonna walk out of here dripping with it?”

“Yes,” you beg, drunk on it. “Come in me—fill me up, Frankie—want you to come inside—wanna feel it—”

“Fuck.” He slams into you one last time and stills, every muscle in his body drawn tight as he spills inside you with a rough groan. You can feel it—thick and warm, leaking down your thighs even before he pulls out.

You stay like that for a long moment—both of you panting, trembling, stuck together with sweat and come and something sticky-sweet that lingers in the silence.

When Frankie finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are soft again. Warm and full.

You reach up, brushing a sweaty curl off his forehead. “Feel better?”

He nods. Kisses you slow this time. “I love you,” he says against your lips, almost shy.

“I know,” you smile, cupping his face. “Now help me clean up before someone breaks the door down.”

“…I’m not pulling out yet.”

“Francisco—”

“I just got in a good mood, bebita. Don’t ruin it.”

You laugh into his mouth, still full of him, still dripping down your thighs, and it feels like the first time all over again.

mini nat's note: thank you so much for reading! i had a lot of fun with this one love you chickens <3

126 notes · View notes

fr0stf4ll · 2 days ago

Text

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 20

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 5.6k

Trigger warning; //

notes; hey hey, i don't have much to say beside that heavier chapters are coming ! It as been hard for me to write the high lord meeting, so i hope that you guys will enjoy it <3 either way, enjoy this chapter and see you soon (i didn't take a month this time woohoooo). With love xoxo

previous ✧

The palace of the Dawn Court shimmered in the morning light, its rose-gold spires catching the rising sun like blades made of stained glass. As Feyre's magic gently released you from the winnow, your boots met polished stone warmed by early sunlight. The air here always smelled of citrus blossoms and parchment ink—refined, bright, and impossibly clean.

You adjusted your dark, embroidered coat, the glint of starlight threading catching in the folds as you stepped forward beside Rhysand, Feyre, and Cassian. The wind tugged gently at your sleeves, a soft whisper against your skin, but the moment the great doors to the council chamber swung open… all warmth vanished.

Only two High Lords were present.

Thesan, robed in pale gold and deep plum, stood near the central table, his expression uncharacteristically grim. Helion lounged beside him, though even the usually radiant High Lord of Day looked subdued. He tapped his fingers against the table with practiced boredom—but his eyes, sharp as molten amber, never stopped scanning your group.

“Rhysand,” Thesan greeted, inclining his head. “Feyre. Cassian. Y/N.” His gaze lingered on you—sharper, more personal.

“Thesan,” Rhysand replied smoothly. “Helion.”

“Glad to see you well,” Helion murmured, his voice low, as if anything louder might shatter the air.

“I’d like to speak with Y/N, if you’ll excuse us,” Thesan said without preamble. His tone was polite—but it wasn’t a request. He was already stepping toward you.

Rhys merely nodded. “Of course.”

You followed Thesan through an arched side hallway of pale stone, the hush between you broken only by the distant sound of water from the ornamental fountains outside. When he finally stopped beneath a stained-glass window depicting the phases of the moon, he turned to face you fully.

“Rhysand’s letter reached me last week,” he said, voice quiet but sharp. “He said you were attacked. On your way back from the last healer summit.”

You nodded, trying to ignore the tightening in your throat. “We were ambushed near the coastline. Azriel and I where injured. It wasn’t random.”

“I didn’t think it would be,” Thesan said, folding his hands. “Whoever it was—they knew when you’d be returning. Knew where you’d be.”

Your silence said everything.

Thesan’s expression softened. “I’m sorry. I should have ensured more protection for your journey. It won’t happen again.”

You were about to respond when the sound of familiar footsteps echoed behind you.

You turned, already smiling.

“About time,” you said softly, as Thesan’s mate appeared at the end of the hall.

He looked much the same as always—sharp-eyed and calm, dressed in layered robes that spoke more of intellect than status. His smile grew as he stepped forward.

“I didn’t get the chance to see you last time,” he said, pulling you into a tight embrace. “And I hate that it’s under these circumstances that I’m finally able to.” His voice was warm and familiar, laced with a concern that didn’t have to be spoken aloud.

You closed your eyes for a moment, grateful for the embrace. “I’m fine,” you lied gently. “More or less.”

“More or less is better than not at all,” he murmured, pulling back to look you over. “I heard about what happened. I’m glad you’re still here.”

You smiled faintly. “Me too.”

Behind you, the shift in the air told you more company had arrived.

You turned to glimpse Kalias entering the chamber, his white hair tied back, eyes like fresh ice as he nodded a silent greeting. His consort followed close behind, offering a short bow. A ripple of soft robes and dark skin marked the arrival of the Summer Court delegation next—Tarquin, solemn as ever, his ocean-colored eyes sweeping the room with quiet calculation. Beside him walked Cresseida, her expression guarded but calm.

Thesan was still speaking—his voice low and measured, laced with the quiet control of someone trying not to let his worry show. His mate stood just behind him, arms crossed, brows drawn tight as they listened to your account of the ambush, and everything that followed.

You didn’t need to repeat the letter from Rask. The silence between the three of you, heavy with understanding, was enough. Thesan’s gaze flicked to the map projected behind you, then back to your face. “If what Azriel confirms matches what you received,” he murmured, “then we may be preparing for a war far beyond our comprehension.”

You were about to answer—another calm, clinical assessment—when you felt it.

A hand, firm and familiar, slid around your waist.

You stiffened, your heart leaping before your mind could catch up.

You turned—almost disbelieving.

Azriel stood beside you.

His shadows curled at his feet like restless smoke, still humming with residual adrenaline. His hair was wind-tossed, his expression carefully neutral. But the moment your eyes met his, you felt it through the bond like a punch to the ribs.

He’d seen it.

The continent was gone. Just as the letter had warned. Just as Finn had written.

Are you alright? your voice whispered through the bond, tentative. Scanning his face. Not for wounds—those were healed—but for the shadows still clinging to the edges of his expression.

His hand slid up your back, his palm resting between your shoulder blades. Better now that I’m with you, came the answer. Quiet, steady. Raw in a way he didn’t show anyone else.

You nearly flushed at the intimacy of it—but you didn’t pull away.

Thesan’s lips curved into something between sympathy and amusement as he stepped back. “It seems,” he said lightly, “that a few things have changed since our last conversation.”

You gave him a slow, knowing wink, laughed under your breath and stepped away, Azriel’s hand still pressed to the small of your back as he guided you across the room.

The meeting chamber had grown louder in the interim. Tarquin was seated now, calm and composed beside Cresseida, who scanned the gathered High Lords with sharp eyes. Kalias sat across from them, his consort murmuring something low in his ear.

You and Azriel returned to Rhys, Feyre, and Cassian, taking your place just as the chamber shifted again.

The room quieted as the doors opened once more.

The Autumn Court entered with a gust of cold wind and silent contempt. Beron walked at the front, his face unreadable. His sons followed, shoulders squared with practiced arrogance. But her seat—the Lady of Autumn’s—remained empty.

Your chest tightened. You had hoped… even though you’d known better.

She wasn’t here.

You didn’t have to say anything. Azriel’s fingers tightened on your side. His voice in your mind again—I know.

The room was nearly full. Quiet had settled over the gathered High Lords like a silk-draped blade—soft but perilous. Each court’s colors shimmered faintly in the golden light filtering through the high glass ceiling, casting strange reflections on polished stone.

And then the final doors opened.

Tamlin walked in like a storm with nowhere to go. Broad-shouldered, clad in green and gold, his expression unreadable—but colder than you remembered. He carried the weight of a High Lord long scorned, long humbled, but not softened.

But he wasn’t alone.

At his side walked Lila.

Her silver and green gown shimmered like dew-soaked moss, and her honey-blonde hair was woven into a crown of tiny braids. Her presence startled more than a few heads—Feyre’s brows lifted slightly; Helion leaned forward with open curiosity. Even Beron’s thin mouth twitched in mild surprise.

Lila, however, didn’t seem to notice the stir.

She caught your gaze across the room and instantly broke into a wide, eager grin. With both hands, she shook them in the air, fingers fluttering with fervent energy as she silently mouthed, Hi!

You gave her a discreet, fond smile and inclined your head, warmth blooming in your chest. Even here, even now, her energy was a comfort.

Then you felt it.

A stare—hot and heavy.

Your eyes flicked to the source, and when they met Tamlin’s, a shiver threaded down your spine.

His gaze was unreadable—part disbelief, part irritation, and just a sliver of something surprised. Perhaps at your presence. Perhaps at who you were seated beside.

Azriel’s fingers pressed lightly into your thigh beneath the table.

Reassuring. Possessive. Calm.

You didn’t break eye contact with Tamlin. Instead, you smiled at him—small, measured, not unkind.

His eyes narrowed slightly. Then he looked away, clearly annoyed.

What was that? Azriel’s voice slid through your mind, velvet-smooth.

He’s still mad I nearly burned his estate to the ground, you replied dryly.

You felt Azriel’s quiet laugh in your chest more than heard it—warm and dark like midnight smoke. His thumb traced a slow, lazy circle against your leg. He didn’t say anything more, but his shadows swirled around your ankles, content.

Once the last murmurs settled and all High Lords had taken their seats, Rhysand stood.

All eyes turned toward him.

His crown shimmered faintly above his brow, a subtle illusion of shadow and starlight. Feyre sat tall and poised beside him, her expression calm, but steel glinted behind her gaze.

Rhysand’s voice rang out with practiced clarity. “Thank you all for coming on short notice and thank you Thesan for hosting once again. I know how rare it is to gather the courts like this—especially under these circumstances.”

Silence met him.

Only the crackle of the hearthfire and the faint rustle of wings disturbed the stillness.

“We received a letter,” Rhys continued, “from Finn, Head Healer of the former kingdom of Rask. It was delivered just before the kingdom fell.”

A pause.

“He is dead now. Along with Rask, Montesere, and Vallahan.”

A murmur rippled through the table. Lila’s face blanched slightly. Kalias stilled. Even Helion sat forward.

Rhysand let the silence linger before continuing.

“In the letter, Finn warned us: Koeshiev’s assault has already begun—and his power is greater than we feared. He’s fractured himself—divided across multiple fronts, and wherever he goes, monsters follow.”

He turned, nodding once toward you.

“And this report was confirmed yesterday by Azriel, my spymaster, who scouted the remains of the continent and witnessed firsthand the destruction left behind. It matches Finn’s warning in full.”

Your stomach tightened.

Azriel didn’t speak. But the tension in his body, the way his hand stayed firm on your thigh, said enough.

Rhysand’s violet eyes swept the room. “We’ve tracked traces of Koeshiev’s presence near the central stretch of Prythian—between the Day and Dawn courts. We believe this is where he will strike next. Where this war will begin.”

The room exhaled. Cold and slow.

The meeting had begun.

And soon, the blood would follow.

The light filtering through the domed ceiling had shifted, golden morning softening into something cooler—muted, expectant. Rhysand’s voice still echoed faintly in the chamber as he stepped back and gave the floor to you.

You stood slowly.

Your hand slipped from Azriel’s under the table, but the warmth of his presence remained beside you, his shadows humming faintly as you moved into the center ring.

Every High Lord turned to look.

“The threat of Koeshiev did not begin with the fall of Rask,” you began, your voice clear, steady. “Nor did it begin with the warnings you’ve received in the past weeks. His presence has always been on the continent—quiet, buried beneath surface unrest and shifting borders. I know because I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

You glanced around the table, your gaze settling briefly on Helion, then Kalias, then Thesan.

“For centuries, we attributed the whispers of plague, sudden madness, and widespread illness to chaos. Coincidence. Local failures. But they weren’t. He was testing us—drifting beneath the surface like poison in a river.”

You paused, letting the room absorb that.

“It’s only after the Hybern war, after the Cauldron was shattered and reforged, that something seems to have changed. Perhaps that power shift awoke him, or perhaps he simply grew confident in our complacency. Whatever the reason… he’s not hiding anymore. And his reach has spread to Prythian.”

A beat.

“You must have heard from your own healers. Epidemics. Strange sicknesses that resist known cures. A rise in stillbirths, shadow fevers, or diseases with no clear origin. These are not natural. These are Koeshiev’s doing. The signs are already here.”

There was a long silence, broken by the inevitable.

Beron leaned forward slightly, steepling his fingers. “And you base all this on coincidence and interpretation? Isn’t it possible your experience has led you to see threat in every shadow, healer?”

The word was nearly spat, but you didn’t flinch.

You turned toward him with the same serene composure you’d held since the meeting began, and your voice, when it came, was calm. Too calm. It unsettled him.

“Do you believe your healers are incompetent, High Lord?”

Beron blinked. “What?”

You took a step closer. “Do you trust them?”

“Of course I do,” he snapped. “How could I not?”

“Then you should have no trouble trusting me,” you said smoothly. “I was the one who reformed your court’s outdated triage systems and centralized your supply networks. I’m the one who trained your head healer, Rordan.”

A muscle ticked in Beron’s jaw.

“I remember your court well. I remember your arrogance, too,” you added, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “But I also remember Rordan. He was bright, determined. He wanted to change things. I took him under my wing, and I gave him the tools to do it.”

Beron’s mouth opened—then closed.

The chamber had gone still.

You let the silence hang for a moment longer, then stepped back, your gaze never leaving his.

“If you trust your court,” you said gently, “then trust the people who shaped it.”

Beron didn’t respond. Didn’t need to.

He leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowed but quiet now. He would not challenge you again—not today.

You returned to your place beside Azriel, and as you sat, his fingers brushed yours beneath the table. There was something warm and proud flickering through the bond.

You were born for this, his voice whispered across your mind.

But you didn’t respond—not with words.

You only smiled.

The map projected at the center of the table shimmered under Helion’s spellwork—an ever-shifting landscape of Prythian and the bordering ruins of the fallen kingdoms. Pale threads of magic marked the fault lines, the contested zones, the wilderness between courts that no one had truly ruled in centuries.

That wilderness was now the battlefield.

“What’s the current population near the Dawn and Winter borders?” Hellion asked, his voice clear but tight. “If we begin evacuations today, can we move them safely before the front line shifts?”

Thesan stepped forward, eyes dark. “We estimate nearly fifteen thousand within the eastern third of my court. Farmers, old temple towns, small villages. Most of them won’t leave without proof that danger is coming.”

Kalias nodded grimly. “Same here. Some have lived on those outskirts for generations. We can move them, but it won’t be easy. And the roads aren’t safe.”

“That’s not the only issue,” Rhysand interjected, his voice cutting cleanly through the rising tension. “The terrain is wild. Unclaimed. Full of creatures most of us haven’t seen since before the War. I think that’s exactly why Koshiev is going there.”

A beat of silence.

“Because he can control them,” Rhys finished.

Your stomach turned, the thought settling over the room like fog.

Helion leaned forward, arms crossed, the light from the map casting flickers over his sharp features. “How much time do you think we have?”

You glanced at Azriel—he gave the barest shake of his head.

You answered for them both. “If we’re lucky, a week. Two or three days more realistically. He’s already moving. The longer we wait, the more ground we lose before the first blade is even drawn.”

A heavy silence followed. Tarquin looked toward his generals, who had remained mostly silent until now, and gave a subtle nod.

“We’ve already begun preparing safe zones,” he said. “We’ll receive as many as we can. The Summer Court will open its coastal strongholds.”

Helion nodded. “And the Day Court’s inland cities are ready to shelter the rest. Our envoys left hours ago—we’ll have the ports and gates open within the day.”

There was a brief pause. The kind of pause that only comes when everyone in the room knows that no matter how many choices they have, none of them will lead to peace.

“Then it’s decided,” Rhysand said, voice cold steel. “Refugees will be moved to Summer and Day starting within the next two days. Evacuation notices are already being sent.”

“And the armies?” Cassian asked, arms crossed.

“They’ll mobilize within the same window,” Rhysand confirmed. “We start pulling border patrols today. Frontline formations go into place by the fifth sunrise.”

No one argued.

Even Beron, for once, kept silent.

By the time the meeting drew to a close, the sun had climbed high overhead, casting thin lines of light across the chamber floor. The tension that lingered in the air was different now—sharpened, ready. The kind of quiet that comes before swords are drawn and choices made permanent.

You stood beside Azriel as the High Lords began to rise, exchanging clipped nods and muttered commands with their advisors. Tarquin paused briefly beside you, eyes thoughtful.

“You’ve done well,” he said quietly. “Let’s hope we have time to make it count.”

You offered a faint smile. “We’ll make the time.”

He nodded once and moved on.

The grand chamber began to empty.

Chairs scraped gently against the polished floor, and low murmurs filled the space as courtiers and commanders clustered in quiet groups. Rhysand and Feyre moved together, already discussing deployment strategy with Thesan and Kalias. Cassian had veered off toward one of the Dawn generals. And Azriel…

Azriel’s hand rested gently at the small of your back, his body close as the two of you began making your way toward the corridor Thesan had assigned the Night Court delegation.

The bond between you hummed—low, steady, warm. You could feel the ache behind Azriel’s focus, the exhaustion from what he’d seen, what he wasn’t saying. But for now, he was calm. Focused on your next steps.

Then a voice stopped you.

“Y/N.”

You turned, startled by the sound of your name from that mouth.

Tamlin.

He stood a few paces behind you, still cloaked in the green and gold of the Spring Court, his face unreadable. Azriel immediately tensed beside you. You felt Rhys, Feyre, and Cassian all pause at the edge of the hallway, heads turning, brows rising ever so slightly.

“I’d like to speak with you,” Tamlin said, eyes flicking to Azriel, then back to you. “Alone.”

Surprise cracked through the tension.

You glanced at your court, offering them a soft, reassuring smile. “I’ll join you soon. Go ahead.”

Azriel’s gaze lingered on yours. Are you sure?

I’m fine, you answered through the bond. Go.

He gave a short nod, hand sliding away from your back, though his shadows brushed your fingers in a lingering touch before he turned to follow the others.

Tamlin waited until they had gone before gesturing toward one of the side balconies. You followed in silence.

The wind was crisp, laced with the faint floral sweetness the Dawn Court always seemed to carry. The marble beneath your feet gleamed like moonstone, and the sky stretched endless above you—soft with clouds and streaked with the lingering light of early afternoon.

“I didn’t expect to see you at that table,” Tamlin said at last, stepping up to the balustrade. He didn’t look at you yet, his eyes on the horizon. “But I suppose it makes sense. I’d heard you’d settled in the Night Court.” A dry huff of a laugh escaped him. “Rhysand’s collecting powerful warriors like usual."

You didn’t bite at the jab. Just folded your hands in front of you.

“I heard,” you said gently. “And I wanted to say—I never had the chance to apologize. For leaving the Spring Court the way I did. Abruptly. Without any explanation.”

Tamlin looked at you then. His eyes were tired, the green dulled with wear and something far older. “It’s fine. Centuries have passed. Worse things have happened to me and my court since.”

You nodded once, accepting it. There wasn’t much else to say to that. The past was a graveyard full of ghosts neither of you needed to dig up again.

A beat passed before you asked, “How can I help you, Tamlin?”

His jaw worked for a moment. Then—quietly, surprisingly vulnerable—he said, “I’m sick.”

Your spine straightened slightly, instincts sharpening.

“Something’s wrong with my magic,” he continued. “And you’re the only one I know who might be able to help.”

You stepped closer, your expression softening. “What do you mean? What’s happening?”

He exhaled slowly, resting his hands on the edge of the balcony. “I’m sure you’ve heard—about me barely shifting back to my fae form over the last year. Well… it wasn’t on purpose. I couldn’t come back. I could feel myself in there, but it was like I was drowning. Like there was too much weight to fight through, and I just... stayed under.”

You were quiet. Let him speak.

“Lila helped. Of course she did. She stayed with me, brought me back more than once. But I don’t know if it’ll happen again.” His voice dropped lower. “And I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to come back next time.”

A silence stretched between you, the wind brushing gently through your hair, tugging at the edges of your coat.

“You lost control,” you said softly. “You weren’t weak. You were drained. That kind of magic, that kind of bond to the land… it reflects the state of the one who wields it. Your body didn’t shift because your soul didn’t know where it was supposed to go.”

Tamlin flinched—barely, but you saw it.

“It’s the kind of wound time heals more than anything else. But I’ll send you something. Tonic blends. Soothing tinctures. They’ll help with the physical drain, even if they can’t mend the deeper cracks.”

His shoulders dropped, just slightly. As though someone had let the tension out of a too-taut bowstring.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, genuinely.

You gave him a small nod.

Without another word, he stepped back, shadows curling at his feet. In a blink of golden light, he winnowed—vanishing into the air, leaving only the scent of Spring in his wake.

You stood alone for a moment longer, letting the wind wash over you, the memories, the past.

Then you turned and walked back inside.

The room assigned to the Night Court delegation was comfortably large, with arched windows and a private balcony that overlooked the eastern spires of the Dawn Court. The golden afternoon light pooled lazily across the floor, casting the whole room in a warm, sleepy glow—though no one here seemed remotely interested in rest.

Helion was lounging in one of the cushioned chairs near the fire, half a glass of dark wine swirling in his hand, his golden robes draped carelessly off one shoulder. Rhys sat near the hearth, Feyre beside him with a ledger open on her knee. Cassian leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, while Azriel stood in the corner, shadows slinking lazily near his boots, gaze fixed on the open door.

“I have to admit,” Helion was saying, his voice languid with curiosity, “I didn’t think she’d ever settle in one place. Let alone one court.”

Cassian grinned. “You’re not the first to say that.”

“She spent years in Day,” Helion went on, raising his glass slightly as if in toast. “Brilliant, sharp, too curious for her own good—always trying to find the exact limits of every spell, every theory. I saw her maybe three times. And each time I thought she’d vanish again in a month. Imagine my surprise when I heard she was in Velaris for good.”

He gave Azriel a pointed look, then smirked knowingly. “Well… I suppose she found a reason to stay.”

Cassian snorted from where he was leaning near the window. “What, did someone propose her that time too?”

Helion turned his head with an exaggerated look of scandal. “Oh, you really think you’re the first one to notice her, General?”

Cassian blinked.

Then narrowed his eyes. “Wait, are you saying—?”

Helion gave him a slow, wicked grin. “I didn’t say anything. But thank you for confirming you assumed I had.”

Feyre groaned. “Cauldron save us.”

Cassian raised both hands in mock surrender, laughing. “Alright, alright. Just kidding.”

Helion winked. “So was I.”

Maybe.

Then the door opened, and conversation halted.

You stepped in.

As if the room had shifted with your arrival, everyone turned toward you at once. Helion’s grin stretched wider as he lifted his glass in greeting. “Speak of the stars.”

Your eyes swept the room, immediately clocking Helion, who raised his glass again.

“What’s up, Helion?” you said, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

“Your reputation precedes you, as always,” he purred.

You made your way to the open balcony door, letting the cooler air brush your face as you leaned against the frame. Azriel shifted subtly at your return, his shadows curling in greeting. You met his eyes briefly before Rhys’s voice drew your attention.

“What did Tamlin want?”

“He’s sick,” you said quietly. “His magic is… turning on him. He told me he’s been unable to shift fully for almost a year. It’s like he’s being drowned from the inside.”

Silence.

Cassian’s posture straightened. Feyre’s brows knit slightly.

“He asked for my help,” you continued. “For a treatment. Something that might make it bearable.”

“Can you treat it?” Rhys asked.

You gave a slight shrug. “I’m not a psychologist.”

Cassian blinked. “A what now?”

“A mind-healer,” you explained, glancing over your shoulder. “He’s depressed, basically.”

A long pause followed.

Even Helion went quiet.

You turned fully back toward them, letting the silence settle for a heartbeat longer before lifting your shoulders in a small sigh.

“Anyway,” you said.

The conversation continued—shifting to strategy, rotations, logistics—but the weight of your words lingered. The acknowledgment that even High Lords weren’t immune to breaking.

Then a knock.

Rhysand lifted a brow just as the door opened and Thesan stepped inside, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

“Am I interrupting?”

Helion smirked without turning. “Always.”

Thesan’s eyes scanned the room briefly, unsurprised to find the Day Court lord here. “Of course you’d be here already.”

Rhysand rose from his chair, equally surprised and amused. “You don’t usually involve yourself with matters outside Dawn.”

Thesan gave him a cool look. “Don’t be flattered, Rhysand. I’m not here for you.”

Feyre snorted softly, and even Azriel allowed himself a shadow of a smile.

You watched the two High Lords face each other, different in every way—light and dark, formality and flair—and felt the weight of what was coming settle deeper into your bones.

It had begun.

And every alliance, every scar, every old wound… would matter.

You stood near the edge of the balcony, your eyes locked on the horizon. The golden light of the Day Court filtered through layers of clouds, soft and impossibly calm—mocking the storm you all knew was coming.

Your thoughts drifted, disjointed. Worry. Strategy. The weight of healing. The ache of what might never come to pass.

Behind you, you felt the curtains move.

You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Azriel stepped up beside you, silent as always, his shadows dancing faintly around your feet. He didn’t say anything at first, just let the quiet stretch between you, like a bridge no one wanted to break.

“Are you okay?” he finally asked, his voice low, intimate.

You gave a soft exhale. “As okay as I can be. The war is so soon…”

Azriel didn’t answer, but he wrapped his arms around you from behind, pulling you gently into his chest. His warmth sank into your skin, his breath brushing your temple. You tilted your head slightly and kissed his cheek, letting your fingers rest lightly over his arms.

Then you sighed. “You know what…”

You turned, heart pounding with sudden clarity.

Crossing the threshold into the room again, you didn’t hesitate. “Thesan.”

Everyone looked up.

He raised a brow. “Yes?”

“Is the chapel under the palace finished? I remember you were renovating it last time I visited.”

Thesan blinked, caught off guard. “We completed it last month. Why?”

“Perfect.” You reached back, catching Azriel’s hand. “Az, let’s get married.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Cassian choked. “Huh?”

Rhys and Feyre both gaped, their mouths wide open.

And then—

Helion burst out laughing. Full, delighted laughter that echoed off the stone walls. “Oh, I missed you.”

You turned to face the room fully, hand still in Azriel’s. “The war’s coming. Tonight might be the last night we’re all alive and together. So let’s go.”

Azriel looked at you like you’d just given him breath—something fierce and vulnerable blooming across his face. His hand tightened around yours.

“Yes,” he said, voice barely audible over the stunned murmurs. “Yes. Cauldron, yes.”

Thesan shook his head, smirking. “If you had told me three hundred years ago this would be happening, I’d have laughed in your face.”

“Same,” you said, half-laughing, half crying.

Cassian groaned. “Az, Mor is going to kill you for not being here for your wedding.”

“She’ll get over it,” Az answered, grinning. “No one killed Rhys and Feyre when they snuck off and married on their own.”

Feyre flushed. “That’s not the same.”

“You sure?” Rhysand added, recovering enough to smirk. “Because I remember someone yelling at us for weeks.”

Helion was still chuckling into his wine. “I’ll officiate, obviously. Someone has to add beauty to this mess.”

Thesan rolled his eyes. “No. I will officiate. It’s my court. My chapel.”

Azriel just looked at you like nothing else mattered. And maybe it didn’t.

You leaned into him, heart steady now. “Let’s do it before I change my mind.”

Azriel pulled you closer, forehead against yours. “I’m not giving you the chance.”

And just like that—amidst war plans, political tension, and the ache of everything unknown—a new vow was about to be made.

Because there was no perfect time.

Only now.

The sun had only just risen when you returned to Velaris.

The city was quiet in that way only early dawn allowed. Lamplight still glowed faintly on the cobbled streets, while the first rays of day slipped between rooftops and stirred the Sidra to soft silver ripples. The Night Court slept—but not you. Not Azriel.

The door to your home closed with a whisper, and the silence that followed felt reverent. Like the world itself had paused to make room for the gravity of what had just passed.

Married.

You were married.

You barely made it to your room before the exhaustion caught up to you both. No ceremony feast, no grand toast. Just a long, quiet embrace in the foyer. Just the look in his eyes. Just the feeling of his fingers brushing the ring on your hand.

Now—

Now you lay tangled together in your shared bed, in the golden hush of dawn.

The covers were kicked low, your limbs strewn across his, your head tucked beneath his chin. Azriel’s arms cradled you like he’d been waiting an eternity to do so—his touch loose in sleep, but never far. One of his wings was draped half over your frame, heavy and warm, as if trying to shield you from time itself.

The matching rings on your fingers glinted faintly in the morning light. Silver for you. Shadow-forged black for him. But the engraving was the same—an eclipse surrounded by stars. A symbol of everything you were together: not light, not dark, but both. Balanced. Whole.

And on your skin…

A new tattoo wrapped across your back, covering every inch of the old scars. You had barely looked at it until now, but with Azriel’s hand lazily trailing over your spine, you could feel the shapes it had etched into you—every line tenderly inked, every star a memory made permanent.

A crescent moon arched over your left shoulder blade, soft and glowing. A golden sun rested against your right, radiant and warm. Between them stretched a night sky of constellations and falling stars, weaving across your spine like a trail of light. Shadows danced along the edges—Azriel’s shadows, inked into the design, merging with light where your shoulder met your arm. The ink curled down across your side and wound over your hip, tracing old pain with new meaning.

And on Azriel—

The same sun. The same moon.

Inked over the brutal scars on his hands, wrapping around his knuckles and wrists in silent reverence. The stars stretched across his forearms like armor—like wings—and threaded with shadows that mirrored yours.

You didn’t need to look to know it was the same.

You could feel it.

The bond between you pulsed gently—low and soft and sacred. Like your souls had curled into each other during the night and refused to part.

Azriel stirred slightly beneath you, his lips brushing the crown of your head. You shifted just enough to meet his gaze, and he opened his eyes, golden and soft.

You touched foreheads, your noses brushing. The quiet between you was thick with everything words could never quite hold.

“I love you,” he murmured, voice raw from sleep.

“I love you,” you whispered back.

And you stayed like that.

Two broken creatures, bound together in silver and ink and shadow and flame.

The morning after your wedding was the last moment of peace you would know for a very long time.

The few calm hours of sleep that you got were the last ones you would have for a long time.

Before the sun reached its zenith, Rhysand’s message had arrived.

Koshiev’s armies had invaded Prythian.

They had crossed the eastern threshold with no warning, no mercy—ripping through the borderlands like a storm of teeth and ash.

This was the beginning of the war.

And maybe, just maybe…

The beginning of the end.

Of your end.

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ladsrlife · 1 day ago

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What are you doing step brother???!!!

Caleb x Reader

Where you start living with your step-brother for uni and the relationship starts to take an interesting turn...

Chapter 1💗

Chapter 2💗

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

Chapter 3

You wake up to a headache. One that’s between pounding and mildly uncomfortable.

As you get up you notice that you’re still in your jeans and t-shirt. Your reflection in the mirror is a sight to behold - messy hair, smudged mascara, puffy face.

Right, you drank too much last night.

You try to recall what happened. Much of it is a blur. Some memories of you dancing, yelling, laughing… getting dizzy…

You decide to take a shower. As you leave your room you say good morning to Caleb who’s already awake and sitting by the kitchen table.

You close the bathroom door behind you, undress, and turn on the shower. You feel the hot stream of water engulf your body. Your headache feels a little better.

You recall your short interaction with Caleb just now. As always, he looked spotless and ready, scrolling through his phone with a mug in his hand. A bystander wouldn’t be able to tell he drank last night too. You laugh at the difference between you and him.

You stop laughing when a sudden memory surfaces.

Of him groaning and caressing your foot.

His shaky, warm breath. Suppressed moans. The rhythmical sound of skin on skin. A wet sound unique enough that you can’t possibly mistake it for anything else. The low, deep, suppressed moan that filled the room.

The memory comes by like a flash.

Your body heats up even faster. Your stomach drops and you grip on the walls in a sudden bout of dizziness. Your breath comes out in ragged pants.

This was weird. The memory was weird, your reaction to it was even weirder. As much as it called to you, you wanted to run a way from it.

You try to shake it off by hurriedly showering like you got a meeting to run to. You wrap a large beach towel around your body and leave the bathroom. You slap yourself in the face a couple times before changing in your room, then apply some moisturizer before heading back into the kitchen.

“Mornin’ pipsqueak. Feeling alright?” Caleb greets you with a smirk above his mug.

You lock eyes with his purple ones. They’re clear and bright. For some reason you feel even hotter. You struggle to open your mouth.

“Why are your cheeks so red?” He suddenly asks in a concerned tone.

He swiftly comes over and towers over you.

“Do you have a fever?”

He asks, raising a hand to your forehead.

You're suddenly overwhelmed. His scent, his touch, his voice—everything crashes over you like a wave.

You flinch and push his hand away. "I'm fine. The water must’ve been too hot," you mumble, too quickly.

He blinks, clearly thrown off by your rough dismissal, as if he missed a line in the conversation.

It’s not like you to pull away from him.

"You sure?" he asks again, quieter this time.

"Yeah. I don’t have a fever. Just a slight headache," you reply, sitting down at the table to put some space between you and him. "Is this what a hangover feels like?"

He goes with the flow and settles into the seat across from you.

"Well, you did drink a crazy amount. You even hit that magical level of drunk where you tried to pet your drink like it was a cat." He chuckles at the memory, shaking his head. "Here, drink a lot of water. It helps."

He pours you a glass and slides it across the table.

"...Thanks," you murmur, eyes down.

“Want some eggs and toast? Eating carbs also help.” He gets up and heads to the counter top.

“Yes please.”

“You know, my friends were right. I'm glad I was there for your first drink.” He turns around and chats to you while making the food. “You drank and partied like a wild child off the leash. What would you have done if I weren’t around to take care of you?”

His demeanor is the same as always—quintessential Caleb. But his refreshing smile and upbeat voice stand in stark contrast to the dark, ragged, breathy moans buried deep in your memory, stirring a profound sense of dissonance. The Caleb in it is so different from the Caleb you know and see in front of you right now, that it makes you seriously question if you had dreamt it all.

“I think I went a bit overboard precisely because you were around.” You hide these thoughts within you and answer instead.

“That’s touching. But you gotta promise me you won’t drink like that when I’m not around.”

“Yeah yeah,” you brush him off. “Did you drink a lot last night?” You ask him. Maybe it was the booze that made him act weird.

"Not really. I don’t like drinking much.” So that possibility goes out the window. “It scares me—not having full control over my body.”

He walks over to hand you breakfast, and you reach for it.

Your fingers graze his, and you flinch.

In an instant, your hands pull back. The plate slips and crashes to the floor. The sharp crack of shattering glass fills the kitchen.

You look up to find a wide-eyed Caleb, frozen in tracks. His eyes are full of confusion.

You’re equally bewildered.

What the fuck is wrong with me? you chastise yourself.

The first time could be dismissed as a mistake, but a second time?

“…My bad,” you say, avoiding his questioning gaze. “I’ll clean it up.”

He stops you with a hesitant arm—close, but not touching.

“You’re barefoot. I’ll clean it.”

You sink back into your chair, watching him silently as he retrieves the dustpan and broom.

His face looks two shades paler, like he saw something he wasn’t meant to.

The clink of glass against the dustpan fills the quiet space.

He doesn’t ask why you’re acting weird.

Instead, he keeps his mouth shut and head down, like he’s holding something in.

And somehow, that makes everything feel even weirder.

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

Days pass, and the unspoken tension between you and Caleb shows no signs of easing.

For some reason, he acts like you have the plague. The casual touches—the hair ruffles, the absentminded caresses—are gone. Now, he keeps a full meter of space between you, like proximity itself might hurt him.

It leaves you restless.

The more he withdraws, the more you cling to fragments of the past—the way he’d pull you into his chest, the warmth of his hands on your head, and, to your dismay, the guilt-heavy memory of his moans, his body pressed against yours.

The harder you try to forget, the deeper it seems to etch itself into your mind.

Maybe it’s the shame. Or maybe it’s the fear. Either way, even as the need to reach for him grows stronger by the day, you can’t bring yourself to be the one to close the distance.

And then, just like that, while your head is a total mess, university starts.

You meet a lot of new people in your major and in your swimming club.

“Oh, wow, you’re Y/N, right?” A sophomore in your swimming club recognizes you in the locker room on the first day of swim practice.

Startled, you turn around, hiding your naked body beneath the swimsuit you were holding.

“Yes?” You reply.

“You’re Caleb’s sister!”

Her friends join at the word. They surround you like a flock of pigeons.

“Oh my gosh, you’re so pretty. Your family must have great. genes.” She must not know you and Caleb aren’t related by blood.

“Caleb and I are close.” Another says with her nose in the air.

“What do you mean close.” Another scoffs. “You listened to a seminar with him once.”

“Once more than you, bitch?”

“Excuse me?”

You hurriedly shout above the chattering.

“If! It’s okay-” they turn to look at you. “I’d like to change, please?”

At that, they sheepishly laugh and give you space.

But they’re persistent - they make sure to leave the best impression on you. They get your number and invite you to every gathering and opportunity they get.

You knew Caleb was popular in high school, but was it ever to this extent?

You really want to be proud of him, but it gets harder with every conversation, every message from another girl whose intentions couldn’t be more obvious.

Therefore you end up mostly keeping to yourself, and stick only to a small group of friends from your department.

“Shouldn’t you be, like, out partying or something?” Ethan asks during your first movie night with Caleb’s friends. “You’re a freshman. Second week of school. Peak chaos time.”

“I wasn’t invited,” you reply, settling onto the couch.

Ethan laughs like you just told the best joke he’s ever heard.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Ethan and his friend Jacob exchange a look.

“You’re hot,” Jacob says flatly, like it’s just a fact. “There’s probably a line of people waiting to invite you.”

“Yeah, like... Hollywood hot,” Ethan adds, nodding.

Before you can respond, Caleb clears his throat from behind them.

They both jolt upright as he walks into the room and sets a giant bowl of popcorn on the table—hard enough to make the kernels jump.

His expression is neutral, but his tone isn’t.

“I really hope you two aren’t trying to flirt with my sister.”

“We weren’t!” Jacob blurts out.

“They were.” Jessica chimes in casually from beside you, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Absolute clowns.”

Caleb mutters with a shake of his head, then grabs the nearest cushion off the floor and lobs it at Ethan.

Jacob yelps as a second cushion comes flying his way.

“Hey! We were being nice!”

Caleb just shrugs, a wide grin spreading from ear to ear. “This is me being nice.”

He then scans the room for a seat. The only open spot is right beside you.

His gaze lingers for half a second before turning away.

“Hey, Jessica,” he says casually. “Mind scooting over?”

She moves without question.

And because you were sitting next to her, you end up shifting too—all the way to the edge of the couch.

You pretend it doesn’t sting, but it does. He's distancing himself again.

You end up not being able to focus on the movie at all. Your mood plummets lower each time Jessica jokingly taps Caleb’s arm, or slightly shift towards him.

“But didn’t you say you love me?!” The actress shouts from inside the TV. “If you loved me, you wouldn’t be doing this!”

Exactly! You agree with the actress with clenched teeth. He shouldn’t do that if he loves her!

By the time the ending credits roll, you’re on the verge of tears.

You have a hard time socializing afterward. You thought you disguised your distraught well enough, but as everyone is getting ready to leave, Zayne quietly comes up to you and asks you in a hushed tone.

“You okay?”

Something about his gentle tone makes your throat tighten.

You swallow the lump of emotions rising up.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Thanks.”

You force a smile, looking up into his amber eyes.

He must be a damn good psychiatrist—catching what you tried so hard to hide and choosing to care anyway. Just as he turns to go, you call out.

“Zayne.” He pauses and looks back, head tilting slightly. You lick your lips. “Do you have space for an extra booking?”

Understanding flickers in his gaze. “Yes. How about I give you my number.”

“Sounds great.” you say quickly, trying not to sound too eager.

As he pulls out his wallet, you catch Caleb turning around in the background—his eyes landing on you.

You pretend not to notice.

“Thanks,” you say as Zayne hands you a crisp white business card.

You walk with him to the door, where everyone is starting to leave.

“I should be free next week.” Zayne tells you as he steps out.

“Sounds good!” you reply, voice bright.

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

Just as you’re about to turn around to go to your room, Caleb’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Free for what?”

You pause. “Huh?” You don’t really want to talk to him right now.

“You’re meeting up with Zayne?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

His expression tightens. The way he stares at you tugs out emotions you barely just suppressed.

Why is he looking at you like you’re the one at fault?

“What- you’re having dinner with him, or something?” His eyebrows furrow beneath his neat brown hair.

“Yeah. He seems nice.” You lie just to get on his nerves. “And hot.”

You turn on your heel, not waiting for his reaction.

But before you can take two steps, a hand roughly grabs your wrist and sharply pulls you back.

“Hey! What the hell, Caleb?” you shout, stumbling as he spins you around.

You’re about to push him away when he pulls you in for a strong embrace.

Your breath catches as his arms lock around you.

Your body reacts before your mind does- first going rigid, then melting into a warm, helpless puddle.

As he buries his head in the crook of your shoulder, you don’t know if the pounding heartbeat you feel through the fabric is yours… or his.

He doesn’t say anything.

“What’s wrong with you?” You demand, voice shaking, even as a wave of relief crashes over you at the familiar warmth.

You push at him half-heartedly, a pathetic attempt when your arms feel like jelly.

“Don’t push me away.” He murmurs, his voice low and rough in your ear.

It sends a shiver down your spine.

“You-” your voice falters. “You’re the one who’s been pushing me away…”

He tightens his embrace in response.

Your words disappear into the fabric of his shirt, swallowed by the steady rise and fall of his chest.

The anger that had been clinging to you these past few weeks slips away—quietly, like it never belonged.

Slowly, you lift your arms and wrap them around him, drawing him closer.

He exhales at your touch, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time.

You fully bury yourself in his warmth, something you missed for what felt like eternity. The ache of it nearly brings tears to your eyes.

“Is this okay?” Caleb whispers, pulling back just enough to look at you.

His amethyst eyes are soft and warm, like he’s asking for permission.

Permission for what?

You’re confused, but you feel like you should nod anyway.

And when you do, he smiles, brighter than he has in weeks, and pulls you back into his arms with a quiet sigh.

Nothing was really resolved, but some things are better left unsaid.

You close your eyes and hold on tighter.

Things are finally back to the way they were, and for now, that was more than enough.

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ────── Hope you guys enjoyed this!!!

Will try to update at least once a week :D (I'm actually on vacation now and have tons of time. Maybe I'll just speed through it while I have the chance)

Likes and comments are life <3

#lads #lads caleb #love and deepspace #caleb x mc #caleb x you #caleb #caleb x reader #caleb x y/n #loveanddeepspace #xia yizhou #lads fanfic

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sunsetmade · 4 hours ago

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The Click

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: She always is taking her digital camera out and taking pictures of her and Rafe.

The first time Rafe noticed it, they were sitting on the hood of his truck, legs swinging as the sun dipped below the trees in a slow, syrupy haze. The breeze tugged lightly at her dress, the air golden and warm. She reached into her tote bag and pulled out her small digital camera—worn from use, a little scuffed at the corners, and a pale pink strap wrapped around her wrist like a habit.

Click.

Rafe barely turned his head before she grinned and tilted the camera down to look at the preview screen, lips twitching in satisfaction. She didn’t even try to hide it. No sheepish explanation, no apology. Just that same sweet, light smile like the shutter belonged there in the moment with them.

“Did you just—” he began, a faint crease forming between his brows.

“Take a picture?” she finished, flashing him an innocent glance. “Yeah.”

“…Why?”

She shrugged and swung her feet again, the soft soles of her shoes thudding lightly against metal. “You looked nice. And the light was good. You’re all golden right now.”

Rafe narrowed his eyes slightly. “Golden.”

She nodded, lifting the camera again, her finger hovering over the button. “Yeah. Don’t move.”

Click.

And then she giggled. Full and soft, like the way her laugh always tumbled out of her when she caught something she liked. Not perfect pictures, necessarily—just honest ones. Fleeting, like little captured secrets.

Rafe rubbed the back of his neck, glancing off toward the water. “You always bring that thing, huh?”

She didn’t take it as judgment—just curiosity. She met his eyes and nodded again, this time more serious. “Yeah. I just… I like remembering things. This way, I don’t forget the small stuff.”

He didn’t say anything after that, just reached down to brush his pinky against hers where their hands rested side by side. She didn’t press him for more. She never did.

⸻

At first, Rafe kept his distance from the camera.

She’d hold it up, tilt her head, and he’d duck out of frame. Or turn away. Or smirk like he was too cool to be caught on film. His discomfort wasn’t cold or mean—just… guarded. Like he wasn’t used to being seen the way she saw him. Like the lens might catch something he hadn’t agreed to share.

She never pushed.

Instead, she filled up memory cards with everything else. Pictures of her shoes in the sand. Her coffee cup balanced on the porch railing. A lizard sunbathing on the driveway. And Rafe’s hands—always his hands—tangled in his hair, gripping the wheel, curled lightly around hers.

Sometimes, when she thought he wasn’t looking, she snapped him too. The side of his face as he stared out over the water. The curve of his back as he leaned down to fix her bike chain. His silhouette in the early morning light, sleepy and soft, standing in her kitchen shirtless with a mug of coffee and messy hair.

He never said anything. Not even when he knew she’d done it.

But she noticed, eventually, that he started standing just a little closer when the camera came out. Started watching her more while she adjusted the exposure or flipped through the shots on her screen. His eyes would flicker, unreadable. But he didn’t pull away.

The real shift, however, came one quiet morning on the dock.

She was crouched at the edge, barefoot and careful, trying to photograph the ripple of a dragonfly hovering over the water. The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, but the light was already calming and gold, warm enough to paint her skin in soft pastels.

Rafe padded up behind her and stood silently, watching for a long moment.

He loved how still she got when she was focused—like the whole world narrowed down to the space between her hands and the shutter. Like nothing else mattered.

“You gonna post that one?” he asked quietly.

She looked over her shoulder, eyes bright. “Probably not. It’s more for me.”

Rafe hummed, then crouched beside her, their shoulders brushing. His hand found hers, covering it loosely. “Can I see?”

She turned the screen toward him. The dragonfly, out of focus. The light, dreamy. The corner of her own knee in frame.

He smiled a little, lips twitching at the edge. “You really do take pictures of everything.”

She nodded, resting her chin on her shoulder to watch him. “I like remembering how things felt.”

He was quiet again, but this time it felt different. He tilted his head, then gave her a look.

“Wanna take one together?”

She blinked, stunned.

“…What?”

“You heard me,” he said, smirking a little. “C’mon, let’s do one. But only one.”

Her heart flipped. He was serious.

“You—okay. Yeah. Okay.” She scrambled to her feet, brushing her hands off on her shorts. “Wait, let me clean the lens, hang on—”

Rafe chuckled and stepped beside her, letting her angle the camera with slightly shaking hands.

“Just hold still,” she whispered, glancing up at him.

Rafe leaned in slightly, his hand resting casually at her lower back. She could feel the heat of his palm even through her shirt.

Click.

She looked down at the screen.

“Oh,” she whispered.

He wasn’t smiling—he never did for pictures—but he looked soft. Almost gentle. And her eyes were shining, cheeks a little pink, like she’d been caught mid-laugh.

Rafe looked over her shoulder.

“…You’re not gonna delete that, are you?”

She turned, eyes wide. “No. Never.”

After that, things changed.

Not overnight—but gradually.

Sometimes he’d stand behind her and rest his chin on her shoulder while she looked through photos. Sometimes he’d point out a shot and ask what she liked about it. He started noticing things she might want to photograph before she did. “Hey, baby, look at that shadow on the porch.” Or “Sun’s hitting the tree weird right now—you want it?”

And then came the selfies.

They were sprawled across her bed, half-asleep after a long beach day, the fan spinning lazily above them. Her camera sat on the nightstand, within reach. So of course she reached for it on instinct.

He cracked one eye open. “What’re you doing?”

She grinned sleepily. “You look cute.”

“I look dead.”

“Dead cute,” she teased with a giggle, already lifting the camera.

He groaned, flopped dramatically back onto the pillow—but didn’t stop her. He just rolled onto his side, tugged her closer by the waist, and pressed his nose against her temple.

Click.

“You’re ruining my image, y’know,” he mumbled.

She turned toward him rubbing her nose against his. “What image?”

He squinted at her. “The ‘too cool for all this cheesy shit’ one.”

She laughed quietly, soft and warm and close. “I like this version better.”

⸻

The photos started to pile up.

They were everywhere—photos of Rafe with his arms slung around her waist from behind, chin tucked over her shoulder like he belonged there.

One morning, after she made pancakes, he crept up behind her while she poured syrup, wrapped his arms tight around her and pressed a kiss to the crook of her neck. She giggled, grabbing the camera in one hand that was sitting on the counter�� and tilted it just enough to catch the moment.

Click.

The shot came out blurry—her in smiling widely, Rafe’s face buried in her skin—but it was perfect. Honest. A little messy, like them.

Another day, they sat on the grass outside Tannyhill, sharing a carton of strawberries. She popped one into his mouth, and while he was still chewing, she leaned in and kissed the corner of his lips, laughing when he smirked and licked the juice off her thumb.

Click.

Later that night, he scrolled through her camera, stopping on that one. He stared at it for a moment.

“You make everything look… like it means something.”

She leaned on his shoulder. “It does.”

⸻

Then, unexpectedly, he started taking the camera himself.

It started subtly.

One lazy afternoon, they were lying in her bed—her back against his chest, both sun-tired and quiet. The camera was on the nightstand. Rafe reached past her and grabbed it.

She tilted her head, curious. “What are you doing?”

“Shh,” he said, already lifting it.

She blinked. Then blinked again when the flash went off.

Click.

He turned the screen toward her.

The photo showed her, tucked against him in soft light. Eyes half-closed. Freckles on her nose. A sleepy smile.

“I wanted to remember that face,” he said simply.

She stared at him, heart in her throat.

Rafe shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I dunno. You always take pictures of me. I thought… maybe I want to remember things too.”

Her smile deepened and she turned her body so that she was laying chest to chest on him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled into his warmth. “You’re cute.” She muffled out and he simply huffed to hating his grip on her.

⸻

Then there were the cute moments.

Like when they went to the coast and she brought the camera, of course.

The beach was nearly empty, the wind soft and salty, sky wide and cloudless. They’d rented a little cottage for the night—a place with creaky floors and seashell wind chimes and an old radio that only played static and early 2000s pop.

They wandered barefoot, toes sinking in the sand, hands tangled like it was instinct.

She took a picture of him holding her hand against his chest.

Later, he took one of her as she spun in the surf, with her arms out and dressed in a bright yellow bikini. Her cheeks hurt from smiling.

That night, he kissed her just as she lifted the camera. His hand curled in her hair, her laughter caught in the middle of the shot. The photo was tilted, unfocused, and full of joy.

Another one was taken with the camera propped on a rock, on timer mode.

Rafe had pulled her into his lap just as the shutter clicked. She was facing him, grinning, hands on his chest. He looked up at her like she hung the damn moon.

They both stared at that one for a long time.

He didn’t say it out loud, but she knew.

That one was his favorite.

Or on one rainy afternoon, she found him sitting on her couch, hoodie on, buzzed hair slightly darker and wet from a quick run to the gas station.

She plopped down next to him, legs over his lap. Camera in hand.

He groaned softly. “You’re insatiable.”

She stuck her tongue out. “You’re handsome. Suffer.”

Click.

Then another, as he leaned forward and kissed her bare knee, smirking at her smugly through the lens.

Click.

“You’re not even pretending to be reluctant anymore,” she teased.

He tugged her closer by the waist, hands warm against her skin. “That’s because I like how you look when you’re holding the camera,” he said. “Focused. Like nothing else exists.”

She blushed. He always knew exactly what to say when she wasn’t expecting it.

And then—so gently—he kissed her.

Soft. Lingering.

Click.

That one wasn’t even posed. It just happened. Her arm stretched out, finger finding the shutter without looking, catching them mid-kiss. Her hand on his cheek. His eyes half-closed.

It looked like love.

And that’s because it was.

⸻

Then came the album.

She made it quietly, in the quiet way she did most things—with care, intention, and a heart too full to say everything out loud.

She didn’t tell him at first. It wasn’t for attention. It wasn’t even meant to be seen right away. Just something she needed to make. For herself. For him.

It was a small, leather-bound photo album she kept tucked beneath her bed, away from the world. A secret collection of stolen moments that never made it to Instagram. No filters. No captions. Just the truth of them—tender, unposed, unguarded.

Photos she took when he wasn’t looking, or when he was but didn’t mind. Him leaning sleepily on her kitchen counter in boxers while yawning, one hand rubbing his eyes. One of him crouched down, tying her shoelaces with a crooked grin because her hands were full and he liked fussing over her. A shot of their hands clasped lazily on a sun-warmed dock, shadows long, the kind of day that stretches forever in your memory.

There was a series from her bathroom mirror—four selfies snapped in a flurry of laughter. The first with her tongue out. The second with his mouth pressed to her cheek, half teasing, half adoring. The third mid-laugh, their faces crinkled with joy. And the last… the last was quieter. Both of them looking at each other, close and still, like time had slowed down and the rest of the world had vanished.

One night, without saying much, she pulled the album from its hiding place and pressed it into his hands.

He didn’t speak at first. Just sat there on the edge of her bed, turning each page with careful fingers, thumb brushing over every photo like they might smudge or fade if he touched them too hard. Like they meant something.

And maybe he didn’t have the words, but when he looked up, his eyes said enough.

He kissed her after—slow, deep, and certain. Like he finally understood everything she’d never said out loud.

⸻

The final change was big— at least in her eyes.

They were packing up after a long, golden afternoon on the bluff—empty containers scattered across the picnic blanket, the scent of strawberries still sweet in the air. The sun was sinking low, melting into the ocean in a blaze of orange and rose-gold, casting everything in honeyed light.

She had grass tangled in her hair, bare feet dusted with a mixture of sand and dirt, she wore his hoodie that filled her nose with his scent, the sleeves swallowing her hands.

The breeze was soft, tugging strands of hair across her face as she laughed at something he’d said—something dumb, probably. He was always doing that, making her laugh when she didn’t even realize she needed to.

As they folded the blanket and shook out the crumbs, she slipped her arms around his neck, rising on her tiptoes to kiss him.

But just before their lips touched, he suddenly reached between them, gently taking the camera from her bag. Without breaking eye contact, he flipped it around and took a picture of them.

Click.

She blinked. “What was that for?”

He smiled, eyes soft, gaze steady. “You’ve taken a thousand pictures of me,” he said. “Figured I should take at least one of you.”

She gave a breathless little laugh, cheeks flushing. “Rafe, that wasn’t even in focus.”

“Don’t care,” he said, already turning the screen toward her.

“That’s the one I want to remember you by,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Her throat tightened at the way he said it. So simple. So sure. Like he meant it more than anything he’d ever said.

Her voice wobbled. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

He didn’t tease her. Just stepped closer, arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her in like he couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. He pressed his face into the curve of her neck, breathing her in.

“Good,” he whispered, lips brushing her skin. “I’ll get a picture of that too.”

-making a second masterlist so this fic and ones I post after this will be on that one (haven’t posted it yet)

#outer banks #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron fanfics #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe imagine #rafe x reader #rafe cameron x reader #obx fic #obx x reader #rafe cameron #rafe fluff #rafe cameron fluff

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slippinmickeys · 1 day ago

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Familiar (12/?)

It was pissing rain. The kind of downpour that made the browning leaves on the trees overhead droop and curl under the weight of the constant onslaught. Dana was soaked through, cold even in her new wool cloak, and miserable beyond belief.

Beside her, the fox looked slightly less worse for wear as the water ran off his thick coat in stream-like rivulets.

They had been walking for over a day now in an aimless direction. It was time, Dana thought, to come up with some kind of plan. If the townspeople pursued her—which she thought likely due to Alexander’s scorching anger—they had probably long since given up. The label of ‘witch’ had likely not followed her this far from her village.

There was, however, nowhere at present to go. No towns were nearby that she could see, no bells ringing in the distance, not even another crofter’s cottage where she could wait out the weather.

Ahead there was a tall evergreen tree, and she stepped under it and onto the fragrant needles littering the forest floor. It was drier here, but the rain still collected and dropped. Fox sat primly next to her and as she looked down at him, connecting eyes, her body gave a full-on shiver. His ears twitched and he nosed her cloak in question. “I’m cold,” she said, her teeth starting to chatter, “we need to find shelter.” She looked up at the stately tree. “Better than this.” Fox took off in a flash of damp fur, and she could only assume he was off to look for a place she could warm up. Doing her bidding. Like a familiar should. Christ, she thought. If she were a witch she would warm herself. Summon some spell that dried her clothes and conjured up a cup of warm, spiced wine.

But she was powerless. She had no magic, even if magic did exist, which, knowing her companion, she had to reluctantly accept. She lowered herself to the forest floor. Unwilling to soak the seat of her dress on the soupy wet needles, she leaned back against the trunk of the tree and pressed her weight into feet that felt like two blocks of ice.

Ten miserable minutes later, Fox reappeared. “Have you found something?” she asked him through chattering teeth.

He yipped once—the first sound she’d ever heard him make—and darted off ahead, turning to make sure she followed.

***

The cave was barely a cave at all—just a shallow recess tucked beneath a jutting rock face, sheltered from above and dry enough to feel a bit like salvation.

Dana stumbled into it and dropped her pack. “This’ll do,” she muttered. It would have to.

She scraped her wet hair out of her face and pulled Bite out so the blade wouldn’t rust. Then she began gathering what bits of wood she could find beneath the trees just outside the mouth of the cave. Everything was wet. Twigs snapped, but they wept water when she tried to light them. She scraped flint against iron, again and again, hands shaking, sparks landing and dying in the damp mass of would-be kindling.

Fox watched her from the cave mouth, unmoving. Patient.

“I just need—” she growled, striking again. “Just one spark to catch. Just one.”

But nothing caught.

Her hands were numb. Her knees were soaked. Her bones ached.

She sat back on her heels, shoulders collapsing, and stared at the sodden pile. Her throat felt thick. Her vision blurred—not from smoke, not from wind—but from the raw helplessness gnawing at her chest.

If I could will a fire into existence, she thought, I would. I would burn the forest down for just a flicker of warmth.

She stared miserably at the wet triangle of kindling, her fingers curling into fists.

And then—

A thread of smoke.

Fox lifted his head.

Dana blinked.

A soft tendril rose from the center of the pile like a hot breath sighed into cold air.

She leaned forward, not breathing. And in the same moment that a sudden pressure bloomed just behind her sternum—hot and tight and unfamiliar—a flame flared.

Real. Bright. Hungry.

It licked up the damp kindling like it was dry and seasoned and soaked in oil.

She jerked back. Her hands sparked with warmth—her fingertips tingling as though they'd brushed a hedgehog’s back. She looked down at them, then at the fire, then at Fox.

He had stood.

He padded closer, watching her, then the fire, then her again. His gold eyes were alert, calculating, but beneath it—excitement. Recognition.

“I…” she whispered. “I didn’t do anything. I just—”

But she had.

And Fox knew it.

He circled around her and then lay beside her, his fox body pressed close to hers.

Dana didn’t argue.

Her whole body still shook. Her fingers trembled. She was soaked through, head to toe, and now that the fire had caught, now that there was a small, focused ball of heat just in front of her, the cold settled into into the rest of her, into her very marrow with fresh cruelty.

Fox nosed at her hip and curled closer, tucking himself against her side. She hesitated only a moment, and then, as she’d longed to do for as long as she’d known him, she buried her hands in his damp outer fur, seeking heat. She found it just beneath his thick outer coat. It was like the warm fuzz of a young chick—plush, thick, soft.

Warmth radiated off him like a living stove. His fur wasn’t just a pelt—it was something enchanted, something meant for her.

She sank her fingers deeper.

Heat spread slowly through her frozen knuckles and down into her wrists, her arms, her chest.

The last thing she remembered before sleep took her was the sound of the fire cracking and the feel of thick, warm fur beneath her palms.

***

She woke to the sensation of movement—change.

It started beneath her fingertips, which were no longer tangled in fur but pressed flat against warm skin. Smooth. Hot. Alive.

Her eyes flew open.

Fox—not the fox—sat beside her.

She jerked upright with a gasp and snatched her hands away.

They had been under his tunic. Flat on his bare chest.

He blinked at her, unbothered. His hair was damp and pushed back from his face, but the autumn-colored tunic he wore was dry—laced only halfway, and he wore dark breeches underneath. The fire beside him made his skin glow.

“Leave them,” he said calmly, watching her. “Your hands are like ice.”

She flushed, full and fast.

“No. I—no.” She scrambled backward slightly and tucked her hands under her arms. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

Fox didn’t press.

But he watched her in that way of his—quiet and unblinking.

The fire burned low but steady. But her clothes were still soaked and her body still shivered.

Fox frowned, as if just seeing her again.

“Do you have any other clothes?” he asked.

Dana reached for her satchel. Opened it. Rifled through her old cloak, the linen shift, the extra pair of socks, the bundled chemise. The blanket from the monastery, wet and useless.

All of it was soaked.

She didn’t need to answer.

“You need to take your clothes off,” he said simply, “so we can dry them.”

Her head snapped up. “Absolutely not.”

“There’s no heat in them,” he replied. “You’re going to get sick.”

She glared at him, her whole body shaking now. She hated that he was right.

He seemed to sense her hesitation. He stood–only able to stoop under the low overhang of the rock–and gestured toward the open air just outside the cave. “I’ll leave you to your privacy.”

“No!” she said, more forcefully than she meant to. “Then you’ll be wet, cold, and miserable as well.”

He paused. Looked at her.

She was certain her lips were blue. Her teeth chattered.

Without a word, he stripped off his tunic and handed it to her.

“Take off your clothes,” he said gently. “Lay them out on those rocks. And wear this.”

He kneeled and turned his back.

The cave was too small to offer real privacy. But he didn’t peek. Didn’t shift.

Dana hesitated—then slowly, cautiously, peeled off her soaked boots and garments. She watched him like a hawk as she undressed, but he didn’t turn around. Not once.

His back was smooth and muscled, faint scars trailing down one shoulder. He was strong, lean and powerful.

She laid her clothes on the rocks and finally pulled his tunic over her head.

It was still warm. Still smelled like him—woodsy, wild, clean. Something like pine and something like smoke.

She curled up, pulled her knees to her chest, and wrapped the fabric over the top of them like a cocoon.

“I’m decent,” she said.

He turned around—and Lord help her, he was magnificent.

Wide shoulders. Strong chest. Muscles that moved like coiled rope beneath skin. A trail of dark hair disappeared below the edge of his breeches. His eyes met hers, and she quickly looked away, heat rushing to her cheeks.

He sat beside her in the only space there was—close. Almost too close.

“Are you warming?” he asked.

“I am,” she said, though her feet were freezing.

He looked down at them as if he had read her mind—pale and bare and poking out from beneath the hem of his tunic on her body.

“May I?”

She hesitated—then nodded, lifting her feet toward him, her misery outweighing her sense of propriety.

He took them in his hands, large and warm, and began to rub.

She had to twist slightly to face him, lift her legs, and she realized with a flash of panic that he might be able to see up the edge of the tunic.

But then his thumbs pressed into the arch of her foot and she moaned.

Her head fell back. “God.”

Something flashed in his eyes.

She felt it—low in her belly, hot and startling.

And she did not pull away.

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #msr #au #familiar #WIP #slow burn for you

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itsncthingpersonal · 3 days ago

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"Yeah? That'd be wicked." A sense of relief washed over him after being invited back, glad to know that his rather unfortunate first impression had been overlooked by the other. It might even become a memory they could laugh about one day whilst recalling it to others. How did they become friends? Well...funny story. "I'll definitely swing by sometime." There were plenty of videogames he was already eyeing up, determined to experience them as they were plunged into darkness once more, but most importantly, it was the thought of getting to know Russell more. He was a right character. From already knowing about the supernatural, to being completely unfazed by a vampire throwing up black sludge everywhere, then teaching him about a new console, he intrigued Rudy. There was definitely more to him. And it would be a real shame to part ways without catching up again. So the vampire pushed the boat out and offered to walk Russell home, mirroring the same smile he received as it was accepted.

"Brills. Yeah, I'll wait outside...no rush, mate!" Without thinking, forgetting about what happened before, Rudy reached out to give Russell's left arm a friendly squeeze. That was his force of habit, and it was only after he pulled away and stepped outside, did he realise and silently cursed himself. Even though the other male had reassured him that it was okay, there was still a part of Rudy that worried he was overstepping. But he'd always been prone to connecting with others, whether that was giving them a pat on the shoulder, offering them a hug, or even leaning into their space to show them that they had his entire attention. Despite what happened to him, the pain and suffering growing up, all he knew how to give was kindness. He never wanted to be like his dad, determined to break the vicious cycle, by trying his best to be good everyday. Even on the days where he felt nothing but anger, clouding his mind with a red mist, Rudy caught himself before letting it consume him. It was something he constantly worked on getting better at.

"All done?" He commented as Russell finally appeared to complete his final checks, pushing himself away from the wall he was leaning against to stand besides the other. Glancing up at the shop sign once more - HIDDEN GEMS - he committed the name to memory, making sure to note down the location for visiting later. "Cool, let's go!" Stepping aside to give him room, Rudy fell into step with Russell as they started off down the street. The streetlights were bright, highlighting most things in a warm hue, and giving them some visualisation for what was ahead. But the vampire had night vision, so he could see everything clearly, even down to the minor details. It was always calm at this time of night, and he often drove around without a destination in mind, simply for the serenity of an empty city. There was nobody else around, which should have been unsettling but instead, it provided a sense of ease. At least no more hunters were lurking around.

They fell into easy conversation on the walk, which did turn out to be short, as his street came up sooner than the vampire anticipated. Or maybe he was that engrossed in their conversation that he didn't realise how much time had passed. "Oh, is this you?" He remarked as they paused outside a property, before turning to face Russell with a crooked grin. "Sweet! Well...thanks for everythin' again-oh my god, it's Erika." Glancing over Russell's shoulder, he was bewildered to see the stark blue of his Ford Escort MK3 parked haphazardly half-way down the street, her tyres mounting the pavement. "Sorry, that's my car. I wondered where I parked her!" Out of every single street and she ended up here; a weird coincidence.

"Anyway," he laughed, reaching into the right pocket of his leather jacket to fish for his car keys. They jangled as he pulled them out, partly due to the many quirky keyrings he had attached to them. "Thanks for everythin', Russ. You really didn't have to do that for me, but you did, and I'm super glad to have met you, yeah? I'll come visit the shop sometime!" Taking a few steps back down the property path, the vampire gave a little wave as he made to depart, before faltering for a few seconds, seeming to contemplate something, until deciding to turn back around again and stand in front of Russell.

"Do you want to swap numbers? Stay in touch that way?"

"Y-yeah, it, it was, it was, well, I can't really compare be-because I, I never, I never knew any, any dif-different," Russell said, "But I'm, I'm sorry that, that you, you didn't, you didn't have that..."

Russell knew it wasn't his fault of course, but he still felt that he needed to express sympathy in some sort of way. He doubted that Rudy wanted to hear about his own family experiences either. Not when he was doing something fun.

"It's, it's, it's real amazing to, to see how, how far Mario and, and Donkey Kong and, and their character designs and, and their games have, have developed over, over the years," Russell said, "And, and Mar-Mario himself becoming one, one of the biggest faces in, in gaming. But, but I, I can un-understand what, what you mean. I, I think a, a lot of people like, like a, a good pace. You might, you might enjoy a brawler or, or a shoot 'em up in, in that case as, as well."

Russell fell into quiet once he placed the little chart up on the wall so that Rudy could look at it and concentrate on learning and playing the game. Russell couldn't help smile when he saw that Rudy was enjoying himself though.

"Oh, heh, well, I, I play plenty when, when I get home and, and when it's a, a slow moment in, in here or, or the cafe, I'll, I'll get out one, one of my, my handhelds and, and play on that," Russell said, "And, and it's nice to, to meet like-likeminded people who, who enjoy them too."

But then he allowed Rudy to continue to concentrate. Russell busied himself with various small tasks around the shop, just to make it easier for those on shift tomorrow while he had his day off. it was a good coincidence that it was his day off tomorrow.

"No, no problem. I'm, I'm glad you, you did," Russell said with a small but genuine smile, "Heh, well, I'd, I'd most likely end, end up being awake even, even if I, I was home. So, so you don't, you don't need to worry there. But, but I guess it's, it's a good point, I, I should, I should probably try, try to get, get some sleep. As, as long as, as you'll, you'll be okay."

He rubbed at the back of his neck briefly as he started to get lights turned out again.

"But, but you, you're welcome to, to come by when-whenever you, you want," Russell said, "I know, I know it, it wasn't um, id-ideal for, for you at, at first, but, but it has been real, real great meet-meeting you."

But then that smile widened just a little, and it even caused the corners of his eyes to crease up a bit.

"Oh not, not too far. We, we can walk," Russell said, "That, that would, that would be nice. I'll, I'll just, just get all, all locked up real, real quick and, and then I'll be, I'll be with you, ok-okay?"

#pushspacetocontinue #run away and lead a life without consequence // interactions

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boycritter · 10 months ago

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august is like if being 17 was a month in the calendar year

#transitional period #where everything is bright and warm and at the same time #you know what’s coming #you know the chill that’s about to settle into your bones #it’s like if lead weights were covered in syrup

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pucksandpower · 8 days ago

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Midnight Sun

Oscar Piastri x astrophysicist!Reader

Summary: for the first time, the girl who studies stars becomes someone’s sun

You are not built for this.

Not the headphones clamped too tight on your ears, not the sterile studio lighting that hums faintly overhead, and definitely not the bright-eyed producer trying to coax a smile out of you like it’s some quantum equation.

“You’ll be great,” she insists, bouncing on her toes like the floor’s electrified. “Just … a little looser, yeah?”

You blink. “That sounds like medical advice.”

She laughs too hard, probably to cover up the silence on the other side of the glass where the sound engineer sits. You glance toward him, but he’s preoccupied adjusting levels. You consider making a run for it.

“You said the guest was from Doctor Who,” you say instead, squinting at the notes you scribbled on the back of an old star chart. “I prepared for someone who at least pretends to know physics.”

“Close,” she chirps, already halfway to the door. “He’s dealt with time — just at 300 kilometers an hour.”

You don’t process that fully before the studio door swings open and someone breezes in with the kind of easy, unhurried energy of a man who lives without traffic or consequences.

“Hi,” he says, and it’s almost apologetic. His accent curls around the syllables like it’s trying to make them less obtrusive. “Sorry I’m late. Cab driver took us to the wrong building. Twice.”

You look up.

And you blink.

“That’s Oscar Piastri,” someone whispers into your headphones — probably the producer, definitely smiling — and suddenly you understand the joke. He’s not from Doctor Who. He’s from McLaren.

You stare at him. He notices.

“I know,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “not exactly Neil deGrasse Tyson.”

“No,” you reply, slowly peeling off one headphone. “But he also hasn’t won Baku.”

“Yet,” he grins.

You’re not smiling. Not exactly. But you’re no longer glaring either, and he seems to take that as a win.

***

They mic him up quickly. He sits across from you, spinning a pencil between his fingers like he’s back in school, half-listening to the rules being rattled off in his ear. When the producer gives the signal, the red recording light blinks on.

“Welcome to Stars Between Us,” you say into the mic, voice steady, clipped. “I’m Dr. Y/N Y/L/N. I study black holes, gravitational waves, and all the strange ways time can bend and fold. Joining me today is — unexpectedly — Oscar Piastri.”

He laughs. “Unexpectedly is fair.”

You glance at your notes. They're useless. None of your questions about the TARDIS or relativity in sci-fi apply now.

“So,” you say, pivoting, “what brings a Formula 1 driver to a podcast about astrophysics?”

He leans in, suddenly serious. “Honestly? I’m curious. There’s a lot about racing that feels … surreal. Like time moves differently when you’re in the car. I wanted to know if that’s just adrenaline or if there’s something real behind it.”

You narrow your eyes, reluctantly intrigued. “You’re asking about time dilation?”

“Is that what it’s called?”

You nod. “Special relativity. When you approach the speed of light, time moves slower for you compared to someone standing still.”

“Sounds useful in a race.”

“Only if you’re traveling at 299,792 kilometers per second. You’re just … fast.”

He smiles. “Thanks, I think.”

There’s a beat of silence. Not awkward, but considering.

“What does that feel like?” You ask, almost against your better judgment. “Driving that fast?”

He pauses, and something shifts in his face. He doesn’t reach for a joke.

“It’s quiet,” he says. “Everything else fades. The noise becomes background. It’s just … instinct and motion. Like the world slows down and speeds up at the same time. You’re nowhere and everywhere.”

You stare at him.

“That’s … poetic.”

He looks startled. “Wasn’t trying to be.”

“That’s worse.”

He laughs again. It’s warm, low, not forced. The producer signals something behind the glass, but you wave it off.

Oscar rests his elbows on the table, eyes fixed on yours like the room’s contracted around the two of you.

“What about you?” He asks. “What’s your version of being in the car?”

You pause.

There’s a constellation blooming behind your ribs now, hesitant and bright.

“I watch stars collapse,” you say finally. “And try to make sense of why they do. I teach, late at night. I go home. I draw them, sometimes.”

He raises his brows. “Draw them?”

“In a notebook,” you mutter. “It’s not important.”

“No, it is.” His eyes flicker. “Why draw them if you already know what they look like?”

You don’t have an answer for that. Not really.

“To remember that they’re real,” you say after a while. “That they’re not just data. That they existed.”

He nods, slow.

“That’s the thing about fame, too,” he says. “People think it’s this massive, burning light. But it’s only a flare. It burns out quick.”

“Like a supernova.”

“Exactly.”

You both sit with that for a minute.

Then he glances down, sees your fingers resting on a battered leather notebook, and grins.

“Let me guess — constellations?”

“Mostly. Sometimes nebulae.”

“You ever draw racetracks?”

You snort. “No.”

He looks disappointed in the theatrical way, like you’ve just told him Santa isn’t real.

“Guess I’ll have to bring my own then.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t tell him to leave.

The red light on the mic blinks off. You both pull off your headphones. The studio suddenly feels smaller.

He stands, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves, and stretches like he’s been sitting still for too long.

“Thanks for not kicking me out,” he says, half-teasing.

“I considered it.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” He smiles. “But seriously. That was cool. Weirdly calming.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who needs calming.”

He gives a little shrug. “That’s ‘cause I’m good at pretending.”

You should say something polite. Professional. You don’t.

Instead, you ask, “Do you ever wish you’d done something else?”

He looks genuinely surprised by the question. But he doesn’t brush it off.

“Sometimes,” he says. “I don’t know what. But sometimes I think about it. Especially when I’m not sure who I’m doing this for anymore.”

You nod. Quiet understanding passes between you like an electrical current.

“Maybe you should draw more racetracks,” you murmur.

He smiles, opens his mouth to respond-

Then his phone buzzes. A sharp interruption.

He checks it, winces. “I’ve got to go. Team thing.”

You nod, already pulling your thoughts back into your chest like a turtle retreating into its shell.

“Good luck,” you say, casual, a little too clinical.

He hesitates, then starts to walk to the door — stops, spins back.

“Oh. My water bottle-” He looks around. “Did I leave it?”

You glance at the table. “No idea.”

“Damn. Well, no worries.”

He waves, one last flash of a smile, then he’s gone. The door clicks shut.

You exhale, sit for a moment, then begin to gather your things. The headphones. Your notebook. A pen that’s run dry.

And there, tucked just beneath the edge of the table, almost hidden-

His water bottle.

Plain. Scuffed. You reach for it, about to set it on the counter for someone to return, when you see it:

A small sketch drawn in Sharpie.

It’s crude, but deliberate. A racetrack — one you recognize from the way the corners loop, the way the chicane bends back on itself. Monaco.

You pause.

Your thumb runs gently over the linework.

Then, without really thinking, you slide it into your bag.

Later, when the lights are off and the stars are out, you’ll press your fingers to that curve again and try to understand why your heart is moving like it’s found some new orbit.

***

The message arrives two days later.

It’s early evening and your phone buzzes as you’re halfway through transferring rough calculations from a whiteboard to your notebook, elbow-deep in chalk dust and equations about stellar death. You glance at the screen.

Instagram DM from oscarpiastri

Your first thought is why do I even have notifications on for this app?

Your second thought is oh no.

You stare at it. Don’t open it. Just … look.

You’ve barely touched your Instagram account since undergrad. It’s a digital graveyard of telescope selfies and star trail experiments. You don’t even know how he found you. You consider not opening it at all. But curiosity — that wretched, shimmering thing — wins.

The message is short. Innocent.

oscarpiastri

Thanks for the chat the other day. Really enjoyed it.

You don’t reply.

You tell yourself it’s not personal. You’re just not someone who does casual messaging. You don’t like small talk, and Oscar Piastri feels like small talk. Fast cars, bright lights, the occasional philosophical tangent — but none of it rooted in the quiet gravity you orbit.

You close the app.

And then, three days later — another ping.

This time, it’s 2:17 a.m. You’re on your balcony with a mug of tea, too wired from class to sleep and watching Orion climb over the skyline like he owns the place.

oscarpiastri

What’s the name of that star you mentioned? The red one near the edge of Taurus?

You stare at it, baffled.

He remembers. He listens.

You type. Delete. Type again.

Then finally, you send.

yourusername

Aldebaran.

The response comes in less than a minute.

oscarpiastri

That’s the one. Looked it up, but your way of describing it was better.

You bite your lip. He’s probably just being nice. But something flickers inside you anyway — soft and unsettling.

You should leave it there.

But then you type:

yourusername

It’s often called the “eye” of the bull. It’s not actually part of the Hyades cluster, it just looks like it is from here.

oscarpiastri

So it’s a loner pretending to be part of the group?

You pause.

yourusername

Something like that.

***

After that, it unspools gradually. Almost imperceptibly.

Not a flood of texts or calls. Nothing loud or demanding.

Just … voice notes. Little ones. Scraps of sound tossed across time zones.

The first is from him. Late. You can hear hotel AC in the background and the faint rumble of a distant elevator.

“Hey. I’m in Suzuka now. Couldn’t sleep. Watched this video about neutron stars you mentioned in the podcast and my brain hurts. Did you really say one teaspoon of that stuff weighs four billion tonnes?”

He pauses.

“I think that’s the weight of my eyelids right now. Good night. Or good morning. Or whatever it is where you are.”

You listen to it twice.

Then you send one back.

It’s short. You’re walking home after a night lecture, boots crunching over salt-stiff pavement. Your voice is low, breath visible in the cold.

“Technically, it’s about a billion tonnes, not four. But the number’s less important than the idea. Density like that — it defies everything we understand. Anyway. Hope you got some sleep.”

You almost don’t send it. But then you do.

And after that, it becomes a habit.

A quiet ritual.

***

“Have you ever felt like time changes depending on the country?” He says one day. “Like, I landed in Australia and my brain reset to childhood. Haven’t been here in ages. The stars are upside-down.”

You laugh into your phone.

“They’re not upside-down. You just never learned the southern sky.”

“Then teach me.”

And so you do. Piece by piece. Over fragmented voice notes and links to star charts. He sends photos from hotel windows — night skies dulled by light pollution, but earnest in their effort.

One day, you’re in the lab, cleaning equipment after a lecture, and a colleague walks past your open laptop.

“Is that Oscar Piastri quoting you?”

You glance up. “What?”

She points at the screen. A muted interview is playing on auto-repeat from a motorsport feed. You hadn’t realized the tab was still open.

The caption underneath reads.

“We think of time as constant, but it stretches and shrinks depending on your frame of reference. It’s wild.”

— Oscar Piastri, in an interview from Jeddah.

You stare at the screen.

You don’t breathe.

Because that line — that exact phrasing — is yours. You said it to him. Offhand. At 3 a.m. in a voice note while explaining why GPS satellites have to account for relativity.

You sit down.

Hard.

Your heart’s doing something very stupid in your chest. And the worst part?

You don’t hate it.

***

Later that night, he sends you a photo from a Melbourne airport bookstore.

It’s a star map. Rolled up, rubber-banded, creased in one corner.

oscarpiastri

Thought of you. Bought this while flying back from visiting family. Gonna hang it above my bed.

You grin despite yourself.

yourusername

That’s the northern sky. You’re in the southern hemisphere, genius.

oscarpiastri

… Shit. What if I hang it upside down?

Then, a follow-up photo.

It’s blurry. The lighting’s terrible. But the subject is clear.

A tiny telescope. Child-sized. Plastic. The kind you buy in the “educational toys” aisle.

It’s perched on a hotel windowsill.

oscarpiastri

Bought one. Fix it?

You laugh so hard you drop your phone.

***

By the time you realize what’s happening, it’s too late.

You’re used to him now.

To the unpredictable pings of his name across your screen. To the long silences followed by sudden outbursts of curiosity. To the way he says “your stars” like they belong to you.

You don’t tell anyone. Not because it’s secret, but because it’s yours. And that — somehow — feels rarer than anything.

And it’s not romantic. Not exactly.

But it’s also not not romantic.

You’re standing in a grocery store one evening, half-reading a list off your phone when your screen lights up with a new message.

oscarpiastri

What’s the name of the star that’s always behind you?

You frown.

yourusername

Behind me when?

oscarpiastri

When you’re walking home. I see it in your stories sometimes. The one that flickers near the rooflines. Looks stubborn.

You blink.

You hadn’t realized he watched those.

You scroll through your own stories. Grainy footage. A lamppost. A shimmer.

yourusername

Altair. Part of the Summer Triangle.

oscarpiastri

Sounds like a spaceship.

yourusername

It kind of is. It’s spinning so fast it’s not even round anymore.

There’s a pause.

Then another photo comes through. His telescope again, now perched next to a hotel room cup of tea and a very rumpled travel pillow.

oscarpiastri

Gonna find it tonight.

You reply before you can stop yourself.

yourusername

You won’t. It’s not visible from where you are.

Another pause.

oscarpiastri

Then tell me what is. I’ll watch your stars tonight instead.

You freeze.

The message sits there. Not loud. Not pushy. Just … real.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then you record a voice note. Your voice is soft, uneven.

“Look due west. About thirty degrees up. You’ll see Canopus, it’s one of the brightest. You’ll know it when you do. It doesn’t twinkle as much.”

You hesitate.

Then add, almost inaudibly. “It’s always made me feel less alone.”

You hit send.

And the night moves on. But something else stays.

***

A few days later, you receive a package at your office.

No note.

Just a Southern Hemisphere star map — this one beautifully illustrated — and a sleek black journal with faint constellations etched into the cover.

You trace the lines.

And in that moment, for the first time in your measured, structured little life, you let yourself fall just a little bit out of orbit.

***

You’re not supposed to be watching the race.

You’re supposed to be prepping slides for your 6 p.m. lecture on stellar nucleosynthesis — the chart on the evolution of elemental abundances still half-finished, your notes scattered like meteor debris across the desk.

But your laptop, traitorous and gleaming, is open to a livestream. The race is in its final laps.

Oscar is leading.

Your heart is misbehaving in ways you’ve tried to intellectualize and failed. It pounds — not like something mechanical, but like something alive, startled and pacing.

You adjust the volume and pretend this is just … scientific curiosity. A physics-enthusiast’s idle interest in speed, aerodynamics, G-forces. But when his name flashes across the top of the leaderboard, glowing in white against black, you make a sound — soft and involuntary — that doesn’t belong in any academic setting.

When he crosses the line first, fist raised, team yelling in the background, you press a hand to your mouth.

And then, quietly, you whisper to no one, “You did it.”

You don’t message him.

You know his phone’s probably a furnace of alerts. It’d be ridiculous. Presumptuous.

Still, you keep the window open, watching the post-race interviews unfold like a dance you’re learning in reverse.

At one point, he smiles — really smiles — and it’s like the stars blink out for a second, jealous of the attention.

You close the laptop.

Then you do something completely uncharacteristic.

You open your camera.

Not the front-facing one. Never that.

Instead, you aim it upward, from the park bench outside the department building. The sky tonight is low and smeared with a watercolor wash of indigo and silver. There’s a crescent moon tucked behind the clouds like a secret. Your notebook is open on your lap, constellations half-sketched in pencil. A tea flask beside you. Your coat wrapped around your legs like armor.

You take the photo.

And, after five full minutes of hovering over the send button, you DM it to him.

yourusername

Congratulations.

That’s it.

No emoji. No overthinking.

You shut your phone off and go back to your lecture slides, trying not to hope.

***

He calls two hours later.

Not with a voice note.

A video call.

You freeze when you see his name blinking on the screen.

The rational part of your brain — mildly frantic, deeply British — screams, decline it, for god’s sake, you’re not even wearing proper socks.

But your hand moves of its own accord.

You answer.

The screen goes black, then flickers to life.

He’s on a rooftop.

Lit by golden streetlamps and distant city noise. His hair’s damp, curled a little from the shower. He’s wearing a hoodie and eating something out of a paper bag.

“Hi,” he says, like it’s not 3 a.m. in London. Like this isn’t completely insane.

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

“Hi,” you manage. “You won.”

“I did.” He grins, mouth full. “Thought about you.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“During the cooldown lap. I was thinking about that thing you said. About time. How it stretches.”

“Time dilation.”

“Yeah. It felt like that. Like I was moving through something slower than everyone else. It was … quiet. Clear.”

You stare at him through the screen, barely breathing.

“And then,” he adds, grinning again, “I saw the photo.”

You look down, cheeks hot.

“I wasn’t going to send it,” you mutter. “It’s not even of me, not really.”

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “But it is you.”

You don’t say anything.

He shifts the camera. Shows you the skyline — soft orange lights, a tower blinking red in the distance.

“I’m on the team hotel roof,” he explains. “It’s quiet up here. I wanted to see stars but there’s too much light. Still nice though.”

You smile without meaning to. “I can tell you which ones are behind the clouds.”

“I’d like that.”

And just like that, you fall into orbit again.

The conversation stretches.

From the sky to the race to the taste of churros from a street vendor (“Life-changing,” he says, waving the bag at the screen). He asks about your students, and you tell him about the undergrad who thought neutron stars were “just edgy white dwarfs.”

He laughs so hard you worry he’ll drop the phone.

Time dilates, just like you said it would.

You only realize how much of it has passed when the sky behind you turns pale.

“Is that dawn?” He asks, blinking.

You glance behind you. “Looks like.”

He rests his chin on his fist. “Should we sleep?”

You consider it. “Probably.”

But neither of you ends the call.

Instead, you both sit there.

Watching a world shift toward morning.

***

You don’t mean to let him in.

Not like that.

But three nights later, it all breaks open.

You’re supposed to be asleep. You’ve got your departmental review the next morning — a committee of stone-faced academics armed with funding reports and agendas.

But you wake up in a cold sweat. Palms tingling. Heart galloping like it’s trying to outpace the past.

You sit on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, and try to breathe through it.

It’s not your first panic attack. It is your first in months.

You try every trick: grounding, counting, reciting star names like prayers.

It’s not working.

So — on a reckless, breathless impulse — you call him.

He picks up on the second ring.

Doesn’t say anything.

Just listens.

You don’t speak either. Not for a full minute. All he hears is your breathing — ragged, shallow, afraid.

Finally, you whisper, “I’m okay. I just … I didn’t want to be alone with it.”

Still, he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

He’s there. Solid and quiet as gravity.

After a while, your breathing evens out. You wipe your face. You lean back against the cold tile.

You don’t even realize you’re speaking until the words are already halfway out of your mouth.

“My mother died when I was seventeen,” you say.

Oscar’s breath catches faintly on the other end.

“She was sick for a long time. I’d just gotten my first telescope. She used to sit outside with me, even when she was too tired to stand. Said the stars helped her forget her body was failing.”

You close your eyes.

“After she died, I stopped going outside for a while. But eventually … I came back to it. Because it was the only thing that still made sense. The only thing that felt big enough to hold it all.”

You swallow.

“Stars are all I have left.”

Silence.

Then, his voice — rough, certain.

“You have more than that now.”

You don’t reply.

You can’t.

Because if you speak, you’ll cry again.

But you don’t hang up.

And he doesn’t go anywhere.

***

The next day, your departmental review passes without incident.

Your pulse is steady the whole time.

When you get home, there’s a message waiting for you.

oscarpiastri

I found Canopus again. Still stubborn.

You smile.

And for the first time in your life, the space between stars doesn’t feel so lonely.

***

You say yes to the awards ceremony because saying no would have drawn more attention.

That’s the irony, isn’t it?

You’d rather drink comet dust than be in a room full of polished people and flashbulbs. But this is for a science outreach grant, and your department is quietly ecstatic. You’ve become a reluctant poster child for “brilliant and relatable,” thanks to the podcast and your stargazing voice notes that somehow got repurposed for a university social media campaign without your permission.

You try to laugh it off.

But it feels like your insides are folding.

Because Oscar will be there.

McLaren’s a sponsor of the initiative. Something about youth engagement and STEM and sleek orange backdrops. He texted you about it with the kind of emoji-free confidence you’ve come to recognize as his version of enthusiasm.

oscarpiastri

Looks like we’re both on the guest list. Wear something with stars.

You hadn’t replied.

You couldn’t.

***

The night before the event, you ghost him.

Delete your Instagram account.

Turn your phone off and shove it into the bottom drawer of your desk.

You spend the evening in the astronomy lab with the lights dimmed low, pretending to fine-tune your lecture notes while your chest caves in by the hour. Your email inbox piles up. Your hands tremble.

You try to picture yourself standing next to him. In public. Under bright lights, photographers shouting names you don’t even want to be called.

But the picture won’t form.

Not fully.

Not without a fight inside your skin.

So you stay.

Safe.

Invisible.

***

You don’t expect him to come.

You definitely don’t expect him to show up in person.

But the next day, mid-afternoon, you’re walking across the stone quad on your way back from a student meeting, notebooks clutched tight, trying not to overanalyze a second-year’s strange interpretation of gravitational lensing.

You see the hoodie first.

Then the cap, pulled low.

Then the boy underneath it, standing awkwardly beside the bench under the cherry tree that never quite blooms properly in spring.

Oscar.

Your breath stops.

He’s holding nothing. No bag. No sunglasses. No shield.

Just his hands jammed into his hoodie pocket like it’s the only armor he’s got.

You freeze mid-step. The wind kicks at your coat.

He sees you.

And it’s over.

He walks toward you, slowly. Not fast. Like you’re a scared animal and he doesn’t want to startle you.

“I was going to wait,” he says, voice low and wrecked and somehow still gentle. “But I figured if I waited, I might not get the chance.”

You glance behind you. Around. Anywhere but directly at him.

“Why are you here?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Then-

“You disappeared.”

“I had to.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You hug the notebooks closer to your chest. “You don’t understand. I’m not built for that world.”

“It’s just an event-”

“No.” You cut him off, shaking your head. “It’s not just an event. It’s cameras. It’s questions. It’s people looking at me like they know who I am because they watched a five-minute clip. It’s being asked to perform a version of myself that I don’t even recognize.”

He steps forward, slow again.

“I wasn’t asking you to perform.”

You’re already unraveling, you can feel it — the tightening in your throat, the heat behind your eyes.

“You don’t get it,” you say, voice cracking now. “You live in the spotlight. You’re seen. All the time. You get parades and podiums. I survive by disappearing.”

He stares at you. Really stares. Not like he’s judging. Just … taking it in.

Then he exhales.

Hard.

“I didn’t come here to drag you into anything,” he says, quieter now. “I just wanted to say one thing.”

You say nothing.

He takes one more step, and you don’t back away this time.

He lifts a hand — carefully — and cups your face like it’s something fragile and familiar all at once.

“Then I’ll find you in the dark,” he says, his thumb brushing just under your cheekbone, “every time.”

The words hit you like gravity.

Your breath shudders out.

And for a moment, it’s just the two of you in that pocket of the world where time bends — somehow still, somehow heavy with the weight of everything you’ve been afraid to say.

“You shouldn’t have come,” you whisper.

He smiles, barely.

“I couldn’t stay away.”

***

The conversation that follows isn’t neat.

You cry. Not in some cinematic, graceful way — your nose runs, your eyes puff, and at one point, your voice cracks so hard you almost don’t recover it.

But you tell him.

You tell him about the version of yourself you’ve had to build over years — quiet, professional, unobtrusive. A woman of data and precision and folded-back emotions, so she couldn’t be mistaken for weak or needy or out of place in a room full of men.

You tell him about being seventeen and seeing your mother’s name etched into a hospital form the day she stopped responding to treatments.

You tell him about watching friends peel away in the aftermath. About learning how to be okay alone.

And then, at the end, you say it again.

“I don’t want to be seen.”

His hand is still on your cheek.

“Too late,” he says.

***

Later, somehow, you end up sitting beside him on that same campus bench, your shoulder brushing his.

He offers you half a chocolate croissant from a paper bag. “Bribery,” he says.

You take it.

Only because your hands are shaking less now.

He nudges you gently.

“I didn’t come here to pull you out of hiding,” he says. “I came here to be wherever you are.”

You look down.

“Even if where I am is nowhere?”

He tilts his head, considering. “Then I’ll make nowhere feel like home.”

***

You stay up all night. Thread between your teeth and needle in hand, stitching constellations you know will be beyond the clouds tomorrow onto the hem of your sleeves.

You only poke your finger twice.

***

The next morning, you show up at the awards ceremony.

Wearing a dress with tiny embroidered constellations along the sleeves.

Oscar’s already there, talking with someone from the foundation, looking infuriatingly calm. He spots you and stills completely.

Then smiles.

It’s not for the cameras.

It’s for you.

And just for a second, you let yourself smile back.

Even if you still want to disappear.

Even if you’re still afraid.

Because maybe you don’t have to do it alone anymore.

***

You don’t speak for weeks.

Not after the ceremony. Not after the photos. Not even after you sat beside each other in a quiet car on the way home, his pinky brushing yours like a question you never answered.

It starts with silence.

Then continues because neither of you knows how to break it.

You think about texting him every day.

You draft a hundred different messages.

Delete them all.

Because what would you even say?

“Sorry I panicked?”

“Sorry I don’t know how to be someone people look at?”

“Sorry I don’t know what you want from me?”

No version sounds like enough. Or safe.

So instead, you disappear again.

But this time, the quiet isn’t comforting. It’s suffocating. You don’t retreat into stargazing or sketching or soft evenings with tea. You just fold inward. Disappear even from yourself.

You cancel two nights of lecture Q&As. You stop checking your work email. You ignore your friends’ texts, your supervisor’s concerned voicemails. You walk home in the rain without an umbrella, letting it soak through your coat, because maybe that’s what it takes to feel something right now.

You convince yourself it’s over.

That you ruined it.

That he must’ve realized what a terrible idea it all was — that you’re too much, or too little, or just too you.

You sit at your desk one night, chin in your hand, staring at the mug of cold tea beside your notebook, and whisper, “You idiot.”

Not to him.

To yourself.

Because why would someone like him wait for someone like you?

***

The package arrives on a Thursday morning.

No sender listed. Just a small cardboard box with a Woking return address you don’t recognize. It’s light, padded, taped up neatly.

You hesitate before opening it.

Then tear the seal.

Inside is a mug.

A simple white ceramic mug with a black line printed around the side.

You stare at it, blinking, because it’s the track.

That track. The one from his water bottle. The one you held in your hands months ago, running your fingers over the tiny, smudged Sharpie lines like they meant something.

And they did.

Now, they’re printed clean and perfect on the mug’s curve, looping around like a silent orbit.

Underneath the track, in unmistakable handwriting:

Still orbiting.

You don’t mean to cry.

But your throat tightens instantly.

You press a hand to your face. Sit down hard in your desk chair. Stare at the mug like it just cracked open a part of your chest you’d buried deep under logical layers.

And then — without thinking — you pick up your phone.

No hesitation this time.

No drafts.

You dial.

He picks up on the first ring. “You got it?”

You close your eyes. “Yeah.”

Another beat. You think maybe he’s holding his breath too.

“I didn’t want to crowd you,” he says. “But I didn’t want to disappear either.”

“I thought you were done,” you say, voice thin. “I thought I pushed you too far.”

He exhales, low and rough. “You could push me into another galaxy, and I’d still find a way back.”

Your hand tightens around the mug. “Oscar …”

“I missed your voice,” he says. “Even when it’s telling me about gamma-ray bursts at 2 a.m.”

You let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“I’ve been a coward.”

“No,” he says. “You’ve been surviving.”

You don’t reply.

You can’t.

Not until your voice steadies.

Then, softly, like the words are being born as you say them. “I want to come to you.”

Silence again.

But this time, it’s charged with something electric.

“You sure?”

“No,” you say. “But I want to try.”

***

You book the ticket that night.

Direct to Nice.

Your first time flying in years.

You don’t tell anyone, not even your department. Just leave a sticky note on your office door that reads back soon, not quitting and hope no one panics.

The airport is chaos. The flight is worse. You nearly turn around three times, your heart hammering at the gate, in the bathroom, mid-air turbulence over the Channel.

But then Monaco.

Sunlight. Sea. Heat.

And him.

He’s waiting just outside arrivals.

Baseball cap. Hoodie. Trainers. A bouquet of white daisies in one hand.

No cameras.

No entourage.

Just him.

When he sees you, his whole face lights up. Not in a dramatic, movie-star kind of way. Just quietly. Completely.

Like the sun came out of him instead of above.

You walk toward him, suitcase wheels humming.

Neither of you says anything at first.

You stop right in front of him.

His hands twitch — like he wants to hug you but isn’t sure if you’ll let him.

So you make the first move.

You step in, press your face to his shoulder, and wrap your arms around his middle.

He exhales against your hair.

And holds you like he’s been waiting a lifetime.

“Hi,” you murmur.

“Hi,” he says, kissing your temple. “You’re here.”

“I am.”

You don’t cry.

But you want to.

***

His flat is all sun-washed wood and minimalist lines.

Too clean. Too quiet.

He tosses his keys on the counter. Offers you a bottle of sparkling water and a blanket, in that order. Like he knows your order of priorities.

You curl up on his sofa, legs tucked under you, mug of tea he made (with sugar, but not too much — he remembered), and your notebook open in your lap.

He sits beside you, one leg folded, body angled toward yours.

You start to read. An old favourite — Sagan or Leavitt or something soft and scientific and laced with poetry. You lose your place halfway through a sentence when his fingers brush your shoulder.

You pause.

“Keep going,” he says.

So you do.

And his hand moves gently — tracing constellations down your back with one finger.

Scorpius. Orion. Cassiopeia.

“Is this creepy?” He murmurs, lips close to your ear.

“No,” you whisper. “It’s … perfect.”

More silence.

“You know,” he says, “I never cared about stars before you.”

You glance sideways. “And now?”

“Now,” he says, his finger drawing a spiral just above your spine, “they remind me of your voice.”

You swallow. Hard.

He leans in closer, forehead nearly resting against yours.

“You’re not just my sun,” he whispers. “You’re the whole damn sky.”

You close your eyes.

Breathe in.

And let yourself believe it.

***

It’s been six months.

Six months since Monaco. Since a rooftop and daisies and a too-clean flat you made imperfect by shedding your cardigan on his floor and your doubts in his bed.

Six months of airports and voice notes and the soft click of your toothbrush beside his.

He still lives fast. You still live quietly. But the distance doesn’t feel as dangerous as it used to. He finds you in every city. You follow him in the night sky, even when you can’t be there.

You leave him notes in his luggage — tiny Post-its with sketches of constellations he hasn’t learned yet.

He sends you blurry pictures of hotel ceilings and titles them missing you, probably upside down.

Neither of you says “forever.”

But you both say “soon.”

And that’s enough.

***

Now it’s September, and you’re standing backstage at the Barbican, adjusting the mic clipped to your collar, trying not to vomit.

The TED Talk team is bustling behind the curtain. Someone hands you a bottle of water. Someone else adjusts your lighting.

You’re dressed in black, simple, classic. Hair tucked behind one ear. Notebook in hand — not to read from, just to hold. A small anchor.

The talk is on entropy.

You’ve practiced it a hundred times.

But it doesn’t stop your hands from shaking.

Not until you glance out past the curtain, eyes scanning rows of shadowy heads, and spot him.

Front row.

Oscar.

No cap. No hoodie. Just a dark jacket and that stupid, perfect grin.

He’s sitting with one ankle crossed over a knee, hands folded in his lap, like he’s never been more at home in his life.

You mouth, you came.

He winks.

You don’t remember walking out onto the stage.

You just know you’re there.

***

“I want to talk to you about decay,” you begin. “And about love.”

A few eyebrows raise.

You smile.

It’s a soft, self-deprecating thing.

“The second law of thermodynamics tells us that entropy always increases. That systems move toward disorder. That heat dissipates. That structures break down. It’s a law. Not a suggestion.”

You let the words settle.

“There’s a strange comfort in that. That the universe doesn’t make mistakes. That even our undoing follows a pattern.”

You shift on your feet, fingers brushing the edge of the podium.

“But I think about how stars collapse — how they burn through all their fuel and still find a way to shine brighter, just once, before the end.”

Pause.

“And I think about love. How it, too, can feel like entropy. Unpredictable. Messy. Disruptive. We spend so much time trying to contain it. Understand it. Prove it won’t fall apart. But maybe …”

You glance down.

Then up again.

Right at him.

“Maybe it doesn’t need to be controlled. Maybe love is beautiful because it follows its own physics.”

You take a breath.

“In my own work — mapping dark matter, tracing invisible currents through the universe — I’ve learned that the things we can’t see often shape us the most. And that some constants are worth holding on to.”

You close your notebook.

And smile directly at him.

“Even if it breaks the rules.”

***

Backstage is a blur of applause and champagne flutes and someone from MIT asking for your slides.

But Oscar is waiting just beyond the wings, hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall like he’s been standing there his whole life.

You spot him the second you exit.

He lifts an eyebrow. “So, entropy and love, huh?”

“Don’t.”

“What?” He says, holding his hands up in mock innocence. “I was just wondering if I’m the heat loss or the unpredictable variable.”

“You’re the interruption,” you say, smirking, stepping into him. “The system disturbance.”

“I’ll take it.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes still full of something that makes your stomach twist in that dangerous, lovely way.

“You were brilliant.”

“I was terrified.”

“You didn’t look it.”

“I was staring at you the whole time.”

He kisses you before you can say anything else.

Quick. Certain.

Like punctuation.

Like gravity.

***

That night, back at your flat, you’re the one who’s quiet.

You’re lying across your bed in your TED Talk outfit, heels kicked off, toes brushing the duvet, hair spilling across the pillow like you forgot you’re not supposed to be the disheveled one in this dynamic.

Oscar is sitting beside you, his shirt wrinkled, tie loosened. He’s holding your hand absentmindedly, like he doesn’t want to forget it’s there.

“I’m proud of you,” he says.

You nod, but don’t reply.

He shifts. “Hey.”

You look up.

“You okay?”

You hesitate. “Yeah. Just … I don’t know. That felt like a before-and-after moment.”

“It was.”

You close your eyes. “What if people expect more of me now? What if that was the peak?”

“Then we climb another mountain,” he says, completely serious.

You laugh.

Then sigh. “It’s stupid. I should be happy.”

“You’re allowed to be scared and proud at the same time.”

You squeeze his hand. “Thanks, Professor Piastri.”

He chuckles. “Please. I’d be a terrible professor. I’d forget to assign homework and bring everyone donuts.”

You nudge him. “You’d be great at it.”

“Only if I taught a class on you.”

“That’s creepy.”

“Is it?” He says, standing suddenly and walking to the window.

You sit up. “What are you doing?”

He draws the curtain back.

“Come here.”

You stand, wary. “It’s midnight.”

“Exactly.”

He opens the window wide. The city air rushes in — cool, sweet, a little smoky.

“Lay down,” he says.

You glance around. “On the floor?”

“No,” he says. “On the windowsill.”

You stare at him.

He raises a brow. “Trust me.”

You do.

God help you, you do.

You climb onto the wide windowsill — an old Victorian flat, stone ledge cool beneath you — and lie back, careful not to knock over a half-dead succulent.

Oscar settles beside you, shoulder to shoulder.

Above you: stars.

Scattered faintly, blurred by the city glow, but still there.

He points.

“That’s Orion.”

You smile. “I know.”

“That’s the one with the belt, right?”

“Yes.”

“And over there …”

He squints.

You wait.

“… is the one I’m naming after you.”

You blink.

“Me?”

He nods solemnly. “Yep. It doesn’t have a name yet, so I’m calling dibs.”

“That’s not how astronomy works.”

He shrugs. “Sue me.”

You turn your head. He’s still looking up, eyes tracking some invisible pattern across the night.

“You don’t even know which one it is,” you say.

“I do,” he says. “It’s the one that’s always there. Even when the others fade.”

Your heart lurches.

He turns to you then, face barely lit by the city lights.

“I don’t care about the physics,” he says. “Or the rules. Or entropy.”

Pause.

“I care about this. You. Right now.”

You close your eyes.

His hand finds yours on the windowsill.

And somehow, that’s enough to make the whole sky feel closer.

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rafescherie · 19 days ago

Text

✮⋆˙ losing your virginity with bsf!rafe.

warnings — 18+. MDNI. reader losing virginity, lots & lots of praise.

cherie's note — this one needs a disclaimer i think; for the purpose of the work, i mentioned something along the lines of people who wait until after college being losers — i want to preface i do not think this way, but believe rafe and his best friend would definitely talk something like this. it's all make-believe!

you couldn't remember how the conversation had even started. maybe it was the ambiance — the television humming with that faint cool blue glow, whatever rafe had thrown on half-watched and long forgotten, a half-smoked blunt tutting between the two of you for the past couple of hours. somewhere along the way — you couldn't quite remember when — you'd let it slip.

you had never done anything. with anyone.

not that it was a big deal — it wasn't. but it was surprising, especially for rafe. the same rafe known for his reckless hookups and casually cruel behavior, who'd experienced it all years ago. he'd always assumed you had too, and never told him.

but as soon as you'd mumbled something about not wanting to be one of those losers who waited until after college to have any sort of sexual experience, the idea popped into his head like a fucking lightbulb — clear, bright, and impossible to ignore.

"what if i did it with you?"

maybe that's where it really started, actually.

his hands are warm and solid where they grip your hips, holding you steady as you straddle his lap, your thighs hovering just above him. your heart’s going too fast. your lip is caught between your teeth, eyes flicking between his and the space between you — like you’re still deciding, like you could still change your mind.

his gaze is darker than usual. blown pupils, flushed cheeks, mouth parted slightly as he stares up at you like he can’t quite believe this is real.

"we don't need to do this," he swallows, voice low and rough, like it's scraping its way up from his throat. his eyes drop to your lips. "you sure?"

you nod. maybe not totally sure, but sure enough. your stomach is tight with nerves, dread curling in your gut at the thought of the pressure, the sting — but when you look at him, the way he’s waiting for your word like it’s everything, it almost seems worth it.

“i—i wanna do this, ray,” you say quietly, and it’s the first time you’ve called him that in weeks.

his grip tightens on your hips. just a little.

“okay,” he whispers. “just breathe. go slow. i got you.”

you reach between the two of you, fingers trembling as you guide him to where you need him — tip nudging right where your body’s warm and ready and nervous. he keeps his eyes on yours the entire time, one hand sliding up your spine, the other still firm on your waist.

you lower yourself onto him slowly — a shaky inhale spilling from your lips as you feel him start to stretch you open, inch by inch. it’s not pain, not exactly — it’s pressure. overwhelming and unfamiliar and a lot.

“fuck,” he mutters, his head dropping back as he exhales through his nose. "nice and slow, pretty girl."

you squeeze your eyes shut. “is it supposed to feel like this?”

“you’re doing perfect,” he breathes, lifting his head again, blue eyes searching your expression. “you okay?”

you nod, jaw clenched.

“keep going,” you whisper. “please.”

he groans, low and guttural, as he helps guide you down the rest of the way, hips lifting just a little to meet yours. when you finally bottom out, your whole body goes still — breath caught in your throat, limbs trembling.

“there you go,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “you did it.”

you nod, blinking fast, and whisper, “feels so full.”

“yeah,” he huffs, brushing a kiss over your cheek. “we’ll go slow, promise. i won’t move until you tell me to.”

you don’t expect the way it makes your chest ache. how gentle he is. like you’re something fragile. like you matter.

like maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

you sit still for a moment, adjusting to the stretch, the fullness — his thick cock buried deep inside of you, twitching slightly with every shaky breath he takes. the feeling is foreign, but delicious. rafe doesn't move — wouldn't dare, not when there was so much trust on the line. his hands rub slow, absent circles into your skin, and his lips brush your collarbone like he's trying to ground you.

“you okay?” he asks again, voice barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid to break the moment.

you nod, slower this time. “just… weird. good weird.”

he smiles — barely there, but it softens something in his expression. “yeah. it’s gonna get better, promise.”

you take a breath, and then another, and then roll your hips — just the tiniest bit. the movement pulls a gasp from your lips, and a sharp inhale from him.

“jesus—” his eyes flutter shut, head tilting back against the headboard as he groans. “you feel so fuckin’ good.”

you do it again, a little more this time. your hands plant on his chest, finding your rhythm slowly — small, tentative rocks of your hips that make your thighs tremble and your head swim. it’s overwhelming and messy and nothing like what you imagined, but it’s him, and it feels right.

his grip shifts, one hand sliding to the small of your back to guide you gently, the other gripping your thigh tight like he’s holding back everything he wants to do.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your face, like he doesn’t wanna miss a single second. “you’re doing so fucking good.”

his praise goes straight to your stomach, makes the warmth there coil tighter. your brows knit together, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you rock into him a little harder — his cock dragging slow and thick against that sensitive spot inside you, making your breath hitch.

“r-rafe,” you whisper, voice shaking. “feels… better now.”

“yeah?” his hands tighten on your waist. “told you.”

he bucks up slightly, meeting your next roll with a soft thrust — not rough, not fast, but deep enough to make your body jerk and your nails dig into his chest.

you whimper, and that sound alone has him cursing again, jaw clenched like he’s barely keeping it together.

"feels good, huh?" he asks, calloused fingertips tickling the exposed skin of your hips. he presses a firm, lazy kiss against your jaw, his other hand interlocking with yours for an added bit of reassurance.

your hips move on instinct now, chasing the way he feels inside of you — deep and warm and so good it's making your head spin. every roll of your hips sends sparks through your stomach, that tightening coil getting hotter and hotter the longer you keep going.

rafe's gaze stays on you, watching you like he's never seen anything so pretty. hands firm on your waist, guiding you, steadying you.

"you're doing so good," he whispers, voice ragged, eyes flicking between your face and the spot where you're joined for the first time ever. "swear you were made for me."

your breath hitches, lashes fluttering as you grip his shoulders, trying to stay anchored through the pleasure that’s starting to take over.

“ray,” you gasp, soft and shaky. “it feels… i don’t know—i think i’m gonna—”

“i know,” he murmurs. “i know, baby. just let go. i’ve got you.”

he lifts his hips just slightly, pushing up into you at that perfect angle — again and again, unhurried but deep, and it makes your thighs tremble. makes your back arch. makes your whole body light up from the inside out.

and then it hits.

your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, stealing the breath from your lungs. you cry out, clutching him tighter, hips stuttering as your body pulses around him — every nerve ending on fire.

“fuck,” he groans, holding you through it, hands gripping you like he never wants to let go. “breathe, baby… you’re doin’ so good. i’ve got you.”

you collapse against him, chest to chest, face tucked into his neck as you try to catch your breath. he strokes your back gently, rocking into you a few more times before you feel him still, his breath catching, hips pressing up tight to yours as he lets go with a soft, broken sound.

you’re both quiet after that.

just the rise and fall of your breathing, your bodies pressed together, hearts thudding out of sync.

you don’t say anything at first. you don’t need to.

his hand finds yours. fingers lacing.

and he kisses your temple like he means it.

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zaczenemiji · 11 months ago

Note

I really wanted to ask if you could do like a GN! It can be fem too it doesn’t really matter—

The Reader where like Ultraman can transform bigger too but they're more inspired by Mothra (like a mothra suit). I think it would've been like so cute to see Emi go all awe and clingy to the reader because how bright and heavenly they look💕

Kenji gets all jealous seeing his kajju daughter prefer the reader over him a lil bit. tall parents raising baby monster

Emi’s Favorite

Kenji Sato x Reader

Word Count: 1,546

Genre/Warning: Established Relationship, Family Dynamics, Jealousy (very slight)

Author’s Note: Loved this idea so much, thank you for this first request! Emi with a moth mommy ⋆˚ʚɞ

MASTERLIST

Something about your boyfriend changed the night after Gigantron’s “attack” on Tokyo Dome. That night, you were supposed to help him fend the kaiju off but he insisted he’d do it on his own.

For some reason, you were glad you did not join in because (1) their fight became a pursuit in the sky, and (2) you could not zoom in the air the same way Ultraman does. The only reason you’re able to fly is because of your wings—moth wings on your suit, which would put you at a disadvantage in the case of an air chase.

You were supposed to come over to his place that night to check on him because you were sure that the skirmish had caused more damage to his already injured shoulder. However, your calls were left answered by Mina, telling you that Kenji had already fallen asleep.

Deciding not to disturb him, you simply let him be. But in the days that followed, something surely wasn’t right. He couldn’t focus on his games, he looked so fatigued and restless all the time, and oh good gracious, there were now dark circles under his eyes.

He just looks so stressed and you were so upset with the fact that he didn’t want to tell you what’s going on with him. The time he got into a fight with the other players was the end of the line for you.

You barged into his house, finding him by his bathtub, in front of a TV, watching the news about him. The usually peaceful atmosphere in his house was now charged with tension as you made your way towards him. At that moment, Kenji was praying so hard the kaiju in his basement would keep still.

He still wouldn’t tell you what’s wrong. “It’s not about us. It’s about…” he said, “…something bigger. Something I’m not ready to share yet.”

Your eyes softened at his response, though the ache in your chest remained. You made him promise to talk to you when he’s ready and he agreed. You can’t stand seeing the love of your life like that but at the same time, you didn’t want to force him to do anything against his will. Taking up Ultraman was already enough of that.

Almost two months, after the incident, he seemed back to his old shape. Better, even. And thank heavens, finally, he could now tell you about what happened.

“There’s a what below?!” You asked in disbelief. The two of you were standing in front of the elevator and for a moment, you think your ears are playing tricks on you.

“A baby kaiju,” he replied and went on to explain everything. Still in disbelief, you took in everything with a nod. He placed his hand on the small of your back as he guided you into the elevator.

The moment you saw the big pink baby, you gasped. Emi made happy noises as you approached. However, upon noticing you, she suddenly began to cry.

Kenji was tapping on the glass containment in an attempt to shush her. But to no avail, Emi just cried harder.

“I’m sorry, she doesn’t know you yet,” Kenji apologized. “But I assure you, she’s a sweet big baby.”

Remembering how, at first, Emi only recognized Kenji when he was Ultraman, you decided to try something.

“(Y/n), what are you—“ Before Kenji finished, a soft glow enveloped you, and moments later, you emerged in your giant form. Your wings spread wide, shimmering with black patterns and warm tones of yellow and orange.

Emi’s cries slowed, her curiosity piqued by the sudden change. She opened her eyes, sobs turning to soft hiccups as she stared up at you in wonder. Her claws tapped the glass as she reached out, trying to grasp your wings.

Kenji watched in awe as Emi’s distress melted away. “I think it’s working,” he whispered.

“May I?” You asked, gesturing to the lid of the containment unit. Kenji gave a nod of approval. Carefully, you turned it before lifting it off.

You lowered yourself closer to Emi, your wings fluttering softly as she climbed up her containment. The gentle breeze they created seemed to soothe her further.

Emi let out a delighted squeal, her earlier tears forgotten. She toddled closer to you, her claws gently touching the edge of your wing. She let out a happy chirp, eyes sparkling with joy.

Kenji stepped closer, a relieved smile spreading across his face. “Wow, she loves you in this form,” he said.

You smiled down at him. “She’s just like her dad,” you replied. “She knows a good thing when she sees it.”

Kenji chuckled before he himself transformed into Ultraman. He sat beside you with Emi in between the two of you.

Your wings gently enveloped Emi in a comforting embrace. She was now calm and happy as she traced the pattern of your wings with her claw.

“Gentle, baby,” Kenji said as he rubbed her head.

She continued walking around you and playing with your wings until she tired herself out. She walked in front of you and climbed on your lap, nestling her head on your stomach.

“Awww, baby,” you cooed. You gently picked her up into your arms and gently swayed.

Kenji moved close to you, wrapping an arm around you. You nestled into his arm, head resting on the junction of his neck and shoulders. The three of you slept like that for the night.

The next morning when Emi awoke, she immediately looked for you. Realizing that the moth lady was missing, she cried. Mina was quick to assist her, playing videos of cartoons and Kenji to calm her. To Mina’s surprise, none of them worked.

“Who’s making my baby cry?” Kenji asked as he approached. He expected her crying to cease once she saw him. However, that is not the case.

“Huh?” He questioned. Emi always calms when she sees him. “Mina, try showing her pictures of (y/n).”

Mina did as told and as miraculously as yesterday, Emi stopped crying. “It seems like she got herself a new mother,” Mina commented.

With Emi’s growing fondness of you, you found yourself frequenting at Kenji’s house more than ever. She was just so cute; like a live plushie when you’re in your giant form.

“Hi babyyyy,” you cooed as you transformed into your giant form. You scooped her up, her head nuzzling against you. Her earlier play was abandoned in favor of your presence.

You walked in on Kenji and Emi playing baseball together. And you didn’t mean to interrupt but when you saw her walking towards you, you knew you had to transform.

Kenji smiled at the scene. “She really loves you, you know,” he said.

You smiled back, feeling a warm glow inside. “I love her too,” you replied. “She’s such a sweetheart.”

Emi chirped happily as she climbed up your torso and onto your shoulder where she could watch and touch your wings.

Kenji watched the interaction, his smile fading slightly as a twinge of jealousy crept in. His baby kaiju shows a different kind of joy when you’re around.

He loved Emi dearly, but lately, it seemed like she preferred your company over his. He couldn’t help but feel a bit sidelined.

“She really lights up when you’re here,” Kenji said, trying to keep his tone light.

You glanced at him, noticing the slight edge in his voice. “She lights up when you’re here too, Kenji,” you replied. “She loves you.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know, but… it feels like she’s more excited to see you than me sometimes.”

You tapped the space on the floor beside you, gesturing for him to switch to Ultraman. Thankfully, he did not resist.

You moved close to him as he sat beside you, his hand finding its way to your thigh. Your head automatically rested on his shoulder.

“You’re her dad, Kenji,” you said. “She loves you so much. Maybe she’s just fascinated by my wings right now.”

You felt Kenji nod, although the jealousy still lingered within him. “Yeah, maybe,” he replied. “I just want to be enough for her.”

You leaned back to look at him. Your other hand which was not holding Emi on your shoulder, moved up to hold his face. “You are enough. You’re everything to her,” you said. “And to me.”

Emi squirmed out of your hand, gently jumping off your shoulder and landing on your lap. She toddled over to Kenji. He looked down at her, his heart melting as she reached up, wanting to be held. He picked her up, and she nuzzled against his chest, purring softly.

“See?” You asked with a smile. “She adores you.”

Kenji hugged Emi close, his jealousy fading into thin air. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess you’re right.”

You spent the rest of the day playing with Emi, taking turns holding her and making her laugh. By the time evening rolled around, she was content and sleepy in Kenji’s arms.

Before reverting to your original form, you kissed Emi’s head and then leaned in to kiss Kenji. “I’ll be back soon,” you said. “Take care of our little one.”

Kenji smiled, his earlier worries forgotten. “We’ll be here, waiting.”

Taglist is open! Comment if u wanna be tagged on future Kenji oneshots

@scribble0rat

#kenji sato x reader #kenji sato #ken sato x reader #ken sato #ultraman: rising #ultraman #emi ultraman #fanfiction #oneshot #mothra

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