That's what I tell people when they ask why Frankie Morales knows my drink order better than I do. Or why the quiet man with the soulful eyes finally loosens up in my presence.
Just friends.
That's what I tell myself when he calls me on his drive home because he saw a sunset and thought I'd like it. When he leaves little voice messages that say absolutely nothing important but still do.
When he texts me that he made it home. As if I was waiting to know. As if he knows I was.
Just friends.
When he remembers things nobody else does. The anniversary that makes me quiet. The song I always skip. The way thunderstorms make me nervous. The fact that I need the TV on to sleep when my head gets too loud. That I am the only person who knows about the ghosts he carries like luggage.
Just friends.
When I find myself looking for his truck before I even get out of my car at any gathering. When a room feels wrong until he's in it. When something good happens and his name appears in my mind before anyone else's. When no one apart from me knows the shape of his loneliness.
Just friends.
When he says my name in that soft, careful way he does that makes my stomach flip. Like he's holding something fragile. Something far more than words. And when I say his, his eyes crinkle in a laugh bright enough to feel like sunlight.
Just friends.
Until one night we're sharing a bed because life has a funny sense of humor and we're adults who can handle it, right ?
Just friends.
With a pillow between us that feels like a whole ocean. I fall asleep facing the wall and he falls asleep facing the other direction. Until somewhere in the middle of the night, while the world is quiet enough to tell the truth, our bodies betray us.
Just two tired people reaching for comfort.
And when we both wake with only the sun as our witness, neither of us moves. His arm is still around my waist. My hand is still curled against his chest. Neither of us says a word.
Because suddenly just friends feels like the biggest lie we've ever told. And yet neither of us is brave enough to call it anything else.
This is a little different than what I usually write, but my bestie @rhapsodyofdarkness gently nudged(read: bullied) me into publishing this, so there you go.
I absolutely LOVE the way this is written. The repetition of "Just friends" at the beginning of every sectoon is such a clever choice because each new paragraph becomes another piece of evidence proving the exact opposite 😮💨
And I think writing it in first person makes it hit even harder. It feels intimate, almost confessional, like we're sitting inside reader's head while she desperately tries to convince herself of something she stopped believing a long time ago. Every "Just friends" feels a little weaker than the last, a little less convincing, until it becomes impossible not to see the truth hiding between the lines 🥹
Also, the way you focus on all those little things instead of grand declarations? Those tiny everyday acts somehow feel more romantic than a hundred love confessions
And THAT ENDING
"Because suddenly just friends feels like the biggest lie we've ever told. And yet neither of us is brave enough to call it anything else."
EXCUSE ME????? 🫨😭💔
This felt so soft, painful, tender and so very you
-`♡´- tags: soft!Frankie, safe love, a lot of feelings, fluffiest fluff
summary: While a storm rages outside Frankie recognizes the saftest place is in your arms.
word count: ~ 460
a/n: Happy Frankie Friday from the sidelines! I hope this little fluff warms your heart just as much as it did mine writing it. Btw, I am working on something bigger behind the scenes involving our favorite pilot. Hopefully I can tell you more about it soon. 😉
The storm was raging outside, throwing itself against the windows hard enough to make the glass shudder in its frame. There had been a time, not even that long ago, when sounds like that made Frankie tense instinctively. Sweat gathered at the small of his back while ugly memories flickered behind his eyelids like lightning. A life carved open by violence had a way of following a man home, even years later. It never mattered much that the things he had done were in the name of a country. That kind of reasoning didn’t quiet the ghosts. Didn’t help him sleep either.
The only thing that ever truly silenced the noise in his head was you.
Your body tucked against his, his arms wrapped around you tight enough to feel real. Face buried into your hair while he inhaled the familiar scent of vanilla and something warmer underneath it. Something impossible to bottle up into words because it was simply you. Home in a way Frankie had never allowed himself to believe existed for men like him.
In all the years Frankie Morales had spent dragging himself across this godforsaken earth, he had become terrifyingly good at running. Never staying anywhere long enough for roots to catch around his ankles. Movement was easier. Easier than explaining himself. Easier than letting anyone look too closely at the wreckage. “No strings attached” had become less of a preference and more of a survival tactic he wore like armor. Or at least that was what he told himself.
Then somewhere along the way, there was you.
You made him pause long enough to wonder if the life he’d been living was actually freedom or just another kind of prison. Frankie had been buried so deep inside himself for so long that some days he couldn’t even see the sky anymore. Days blurred together. Time passed without him noticing. Survival became muscle memory.
But you came into his life like sunlight through storm clouds, soft and stubborn and impossible to ignore. And for the first time in years, he realized he would move mountains just to keep that warmth close to him.
Now peace looked like this: the two of you tangled together in bed while rain battered the world outside. You complaining sleepily about him taking up too much space while simultaneously stealing the blanket for yourself. Frankie smiling quietly against the curve of your shoulder blades anyway, because somehow this became his favorite thing in the world.
To be loved gently.
To be held without expectation.
To learn, little by little, that not every touch had to hurt.
Wrapped up in your softness, Frankie was finally beginning to understand that staying still wasn’t weakness after all. Sometimes it was the bravest thing a person could do.
The way you write Frankie never fails to amaze me since the very first time I read you (a long time ago 🥹💜)
I love that this isn’t really a story about a storm outside the window, but about the storms he’s carried inside him for years. The contrast between the man who spent his life running and the man slowly learning how to stay is so beautiful and so deeply Frankie.
“Freedom or just another kind of prison” is such a powerful way to describe him. Because that’s exactly what makes your version of him so compelling: you understand that beneath the charm, the jokes, and the easygoing exterior, there’s a man who has spent a long time believing that distance is safer than connection, even when secretly craving for it
And then there’s reader. Not as some magical cure, but as someone who gently gives him a reason to put down the armor and rest for a while. The softness of this piece is what makes it hit so hard. The blanket stealing, the sleepy complaints, him smiling into her shoulder while the storm rages outside... it all feels so intimate and lived-in
My favourite line might be:
"To be loved gently. To be held without expectation. To learn, little by little, that not every touch had to hurt."
Because at its core, that’s what makes Frankie so special to me. Not that he learns how to love, but that he slowly learns he deserves to be loved too 🥹🥹
Absolutely gorgeous, as always. How much I had missed you writing about him 💜
pairing: Frankie Morales x Fem! Reader
summary: You left for a bar not expecting much and end up with permanet fingerprints on more than your heart.
tags: sexual tension, first meeting, public sex, Frankie the consent king, alcohol mention, some negative thoughts
wc: ~2.2k
a/n: Long time not publishing so which better moment to rescue this silly thing I had buried on my drafts than Frankie Friday?
You didn’t usually go to places like that.
Bars felt loud in a way that didn’t invite you in, only reminded you how out of place you were. Too many bodies. Too much noise. Too many versions of yourself you no longer recognized reflected in dark windows and half-empty glasses.
That night started with two mojitos and zero expectations. Just the need to keep moving. To stay out. To exist somewhere that wasn’t your apartment, your couch, your thoughts.
Your ex used to say you were too much. Too loud. Too impulsive. Too emotional. So you learned to shrink. To soften your edges. To become agreeable, quiet, careful.
By the time it ended, you didn’t know what was left of you.
So you stood there, leaning against the bar, the glass sweating between your fingers, feeling like a ghost wearing your own face.
And then he appeared.
He didn’t enter the room loudly. He didn’t demand attention. He simply took up space in a way that felt solid and calm. Broad shoulders stretched beneath a worn jacket. Dark curls escaped from beneath a faded baseball cap, the kind that looked like it had been with him for years. His stubble framed a mouth that seemed used to holding back words, and his eyes, warm and steady, moved through the room with quiet awareness.
Frankie Morales.
You didn’t know his name yet. You only noticed how the air shifted when he sat on the empty stool beside you, how suddenly you felt less alone in your own skin. There was something about the way he carried himself, quiet, solid, like he’d learned the hard way how heavy the world could be. It pulled at you before you even realized it.
He didn’t open with a line. Just a glance. A small, crooked smile.
“Long day?” he asked.
His voice sounded calm. Grounded. Like he wasn’t in a hurry to be anywhere else. You laughed, surprised by how easily it came out.
“Long… life.”
That earned a soft huff of amusement from him.
“Yeah,” he said. “I get that.”
You talked. At first about nothing. The music playing too loud. The bartender who kept messing up orders. How neither of you had planned to stay out late. And then, without noticing when it happened, the conversation drifted into softer territory. More honest ground.
You told him things you didn’t usually say out loud. About feeling hollow. About missing the version of yourself that laughed easily. About how you barely recognized who you had become.
You expected him to fix it. Or joke it away. He didn’t. He listened. Really listened. When he looked at you, there was no pity, no judgment. Just something steady and attentive, like he saw you clearly without trying to reshape you, and that quiet attention made your chest feel warmer than the alcohol had.
“You don’t sound gone to me,” he said gently. “Just… tucked away.”
The words settled deep in your chest. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the way he said it, like he meant it. But you felt it: a small, sharp spark waking up inside you.
Alive.
You caught him looking at your lips more than once. His gaze would linger for a second, dark eyes softening, before he dragged them back up to yours, almost like he was scolding himself. That small struggle in him made your stomach flutter in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. It made you feel somehow wanted… but not hunted. Desired, but respected. And that felt dangerously addictive, so much so that, without even realizing it, you started flirting back. You leaned in a little closer when you spoke, let your smile linger, touched your hair without thinking. It surprised you how easily it came, how naturally your body responded to his quiet attention.
God, he’s dangerous, you thought. Not because he looked like trouble, but because he didn’t. Because for the first time in a long time, sitting next to someone didn’t feel exhausting, or performative.
When he suggested going somewhere quieter to talk, you nodded without thinking.
The moment you stepped outside, the cool night air brushed against your skin. The noise of the bar faded behind you. You laughed again at something he said, lighter this time, freer. Like the version of you that existed before everything became so careful.
You didn’t make it far.
The alley behind the bar felt narrow and strangely intimate, cut off from the streetlights and the noise. A single lamp flickered above, casting soft shadows across the brick walls. You turned to say something, and Frankie was suddenly very close.
Too close.
His tall presence filled the space without overwhelming it. You caught the scent of him then: clean skin, faint soap, and something warm underneath. His hand brushed your arm, slow, almost tentative.
You didn’t pull away.
For a second, the responsible voice in your head warned you this wasn’t smart. That he was a stranger. But you were so tired of being smart.
So when he leaned in, slow and deliberate, giving you time to stop him, and you didn’t, he kissed you.
The kiss hit like a release. Deep, grounding, hungry in a way that felt controlled rather than reckless. His mouth moved against yours with quiet intent, his tongue sliding in like he already knew you’d let him.
And you did.
Your hands fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer. The kiss grew heavier, breath turning uneven, bodies pressing together in the narrow space. You felt the solid heat of him, real and unmistakably affected, and instead of panic, you felt powerful.
Wanted.
You broke the kiss only to catch your breath, forehead resting against his. His thumb traced your jaw, gentle despite the tension humming between you.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
You nodded, already breathless. Already past pretending.
His hand slipped lower, sliding beneath the hem of your black top with unhurried certainty. Warm fingertips traced the skin of your stomach, then moved higher, cupping your breast through the thin lace of your bra. He brushed his thumb over your nipple, slow and deliberate, feeling it tighten under his touch. You shivered, a soft sound escaping your throat.
He didn’t rush. His fingers explored with quiet focus, learning what made your breath hitch, what made your hips press forward instinctively. Then his hand drifted lower, slipping under the hem of your skirt. His fingers brushed the sensitive skin of your inner thigh before he paused.
“Can I touch you here?” he murmured against your lips, voice low and rough, but patient.
You managed a shaky “Yes” and that was all he needed.
He touched you like he was listening to every reaction, sliding his fingers beneath your underwear, finding you already slick and warm. He circled your clit with steady, patient strokes, then slowly slid a finger inside you, curling it just right. The rhythm was unhurried but sure, building heat with every movement. Your legs trembled. Your fingers dug harder into his broad shoulders as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.
That was what undid you. Not just the touch, but the way he paid attention. The way he asked. The absence of pressure. The permission to simply fall apart.
You pressed closer, the brick cool against your back, Frankie’s body warm and solid in front of you. His mouth returned to yours, slower now, deeper, swallowing the gasps and whimpers you couldn’t hold back.
When it crested, it caught you by surprise. You gasped against his lips, thighs tightening around his hand as the pleasure rolled through you, sharp and overwhelming, wave after wave. Frankie stayed with you through it, murmuring something low and soothing against your skin, his fingers still moving gently until the last tremor faded.
Your breathing gradually slowed, but the heat between you didn’t fade. He stayed close, so close you could feel the hard line of him pressed against your thigh. Then he shifted, hips rolling forward once, slow, deliberate, letting you feel exactly how much he wanted you.
You felt him fully then. How hard he was. How much he was holding back.
Another rush of want bloomed low in your belly, hot and insistent. Your hands, which had been fisted in his jacket, then grew braver. You slid one down his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt, the way his breath hitched when your palm pressed lower, cupping the hard line of him through his jeans. He groaned softly into your mouth, hips pressing into your touch, and the sound sent a rush of heat through you.You stroked him slowly over the denim, amazed at your own boldness. But right behind it came the familiar voice:
Be good. Be careful. Don’t want too much. Don’t take up space.
The voice that sounded like this every time you’d been chosen only when you were easy, quiet, undemanding.
For a split second you wanted to silence it. To stay reckless. To let your body decide.
But you couldn’t. Not yet. So you pulled your hand back, breathless and a little stunned, resting your forehead against his chest.
“Wait. I-”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Frankie didn’t push. His hands stayed warm and respectful at your sides, his breathing measuring. He simply waited until the silence felt safe again.
“Okay,” he said softly. “That’s okay.”
He didn’t move away immediately. He stayed there with you, letting the moment settle instead of break.
“I should go home,” you whispered.
“I can walk you,” he offered gently.
You shook your head. “No. Not tonight…”
He nodded, understanding. “Then at least let me call a taxi and wait with you until it arrives. I’d feel better knowing you got in safely.”
You hesitated only a second before nodding. The walk back toward the street was quiet. Too quiet. An awkward silence settled between you, thick with everything that had just happened and everything that hadn’t. When you reached the curb and the taxi was already on its way, Frankie finally spoke, voice low and careful.
“Hey… I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to push or make you feel like I was taking advantage of you. I just thought… you wanted it too.”
“I did,” you admitted, voice low. “I do. It’s not that. It’s just… I’m not like this… anymore. Or… I don’t know. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and regret it. Not because of you, I mean, but because… oh god, I don’t even know how to do this without overthinking everything.”
The words came out messy and half-formed. You kept talking, trying to explain feelings you barely understood yourself. Frankie listened without interrupting, his thumb brushing slowly over your hand in a soothing rhythm.
“I get it,” he said softly when you trailed off. “More than you know.”
When the car pulled up, you reached for the door handle and lingered a second longer than necessary. The night still clung to your skin, your body still humming faintly, reluctant to let the moment go. Frankie stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets, dark curls tucked under his cap. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t ask you to stay. He simply looked at you, steady, contained, like he understood that this was something meant to pass.
Something brief. Something that would not survive daylight.
But then, Frankie’s voice stopped you one last time, just when you opened the door.
“Wait-” He gave you a small, hopeful smile, when you turned to look at him again. “Can I at least have your number? So we can do this right next time. In daylight. Without the chance of morning regret.”
You hesitated only a second before pulling out your phone. When you handed it to him, both of you were smiling. Small, a little shy even, but real.
He typed his number and gave it back, fingers brushing yours.
“Text me when you get home safe?” he asked.
You nodded and whispered a farewell.
Once inside the taxi, as the city blurred past the window, the warmth slowly receded. What remained wasn’t longing or regret. It was awareness.
You hadn’t gone out looking for anyone. You hadn’t wanted disruption. But you had found proof.
Proof that you were still capable of reacting to the world. That laughter could still escape you. That desire could still bloom, sudden and inconvenient, inside your chest.
That the version of you who felt alive hadn’t died. She had just been kept small. Contained. Taught to wait.
And in a bitter kind of irony, it took someone fleeting, someone who arrived without promises and left without staying, to return your pulse to you.
It had been only a spark. But sometimes one brief flash is enough to light up everything you thought had gone dark.
Jud thought hell would come in the form of punishment.
A crack of thunder.
The wrath of God poured down onto the unworthy.
Not this.
Not the way your perfume lingered in the empty church long after midnight prayer.
Not the sight of your hand disappearing beneath your dress just enough to reveal skin that no righteous man should notice. And yet — his eyes found it anyway, every single time, like a wound seeking the knife that made it.
He had devoted his life to God so completely that he once believed himself untouchable. Holy in the way lonely men mistake themselves for when they simply deny every human thing inside them.
Then you smiled at him once in candlelight.
And suddenly devotion felt less like salvation and more like standing barefoot in a fire and refusing to move.
Because wanting you was not gentle.
It was ruinous.
The kind of hunger that made prayer sound thin and useless in his own mouth.
“Devotion felt less like salvation and more like standing barefoot in a fire and refusing to move” EXCUSE ME?????? That is SO good, I am obsessed with that line
Also “prayer sound thin and useless in his own mouth”, Jud, baby, the catholic guilt is NOT winning this round 😈
A little different from what I usually post on this blog. A little less structured, a little more soul than story. But sometimes a piece settles inside me so heavily that keeping it to myself feels almost wrong.
wc: ~230
There is something cruel about loving you.
Not cruel in the way people think love is cruel — not screaming or shattered plates or hands that bruise the other.
Cruel in the way the ocean is. Powerful and endless. The way it keeps returning to shore no matter how many centuries pass. The way I think maybe God made me with too much longing in my ribs and then let me meet you anyway.
Maybe that is the tragedy of us.
Not that we are forbidden.
But that we keep finding each other at the wrong time.
As if the universe keeps testing whether love can survive devotion.
Sometimes I lie awake beside you and listen to your breathing in the dark, steady and soft and wonder if your soul recognizes mine with the same terrifying certainty.
If somewhere beneath all that restraint, beneath the scripture and guilt and trembling hands, you feel it too. That unbearable feeling of coming home to someone you were never supposed to touch.
So tell me: Can I devote my soul to yours and can we find each other again and again until we finally stay?
Until there is no more running. No more loving through locked doors and trembling prayers. No more hiding.
Just you.
Just me.
And whatever merciful thing exists beyond this world finally letting us keep what we suffered for.
want more ? main masterlist
tags (tell me if you wanna out or in!) @rhapsodyofdarkness @judasjud @rosetintmworld @likedovesinthewnd @ch3rrybl0ssomtree @poetrypoesblehhh @sidelit @knives-out-boy @soealt @explorerof-theunknown @post-apocalyptic-rebel-leader @strawberrymochi07 @peelfreshapple @sea-eyed-dream @roryheartz @prxncess-gestirn @doomprincesswrld @dumb-blondeee
The ocean metaphor in this absolutely destroyed me btw 😭 “Cruel in the way the ocean is” is SUCH a gorgeous way to describe a love that keeps returning no matter how impossible it feels 🥺💜
And the first person voice in here makes everything feel so intimate, like you’re being let directly into someone’s soul while they’re unraveling in real time
This is forbidden love and yearning ultimate goodness, I am obsessed with it
something so special about someone who takes their time to make you come. not edging you, but showing you patience and eagerness in learning how to unravel you. mumbled sweet words to coax your attention back on them when you're getting into your head about 'taking too long'. if anything they just scoff, maybe getting angry on your behalf for whoever made you feel this way in the past. as if getting to taste and feel and worship you for hours isn't the best thing that ever happened to them. their intention is not to push you over the edge in record time but to get to know you inside out, no matter how long it takes. they rather come untouched in their pants than to stop giving you everything you deserve and more. your pleasure is their pleasure.
summary: He has survived war, loss, and loneliness before but nothing prepares him for the silence waiting at home.
word count: ~540
author's note: This is angst with a side of angst. It's one of the many things in my graveyard of docs and today on Frankie's day, I thought why not make you all suffer with me? 'Happy' FF >:)
Frankie doesn’t even remember the drive home.
He knows Santi was talking beside him, trying to be gentle, trying to keep him tethered. But it all blurred together—the sound of tires on pavement, muffled crying somewhere two rooms down, the smell of antiseptic still clinging to his skin.
He stares at the apartment door longer than he should.
The key doesn’t turn right away. It never does.
When he steps inside, the silence cracks.
There’s your favorite mug in the sink. The one with the chipped handle you refused to throw away. Your fuzzy socks are still kicked under the couch, the ones with little crescent moons. The jacket you swore you didn’t like when he bought it for you hangs from the back of the chair—worn in all the right places.
It’s your home.
His home.
Yours together.
But now it feels like a stranger’s life.
Frankie makes it as far as the bathroom before the shaking starts. His hands fumble with the buttons on his shirt, pulling it over his head, the fabric damp where your tears soaked into it. He turns on the water and doesn’t wait for it to heat up. Just steps into the cold, hoping it might numb something inside him. He presses his forehead to the tiled wall and finally lets the sob tear out of his chest.
One loud, wounded sound.
Then another.
After that silence again, just the sound of water falling.
His hand slams against the wall once, hard enough to sting. His voice cracks in the mist.
“She doesn’t remember me.”
His eyes squeeze shut as the memories hit like lightning.
The first time you said I love you.
The time you danced in the living room in your pajamas, singing into a wooden spoon.
The way your eyes sparkled when he called you his girl.
The yes you whispered into his mouth when he slipped the ring onto your finger.
The way you looked at him like he was the safest place in the world.
Now you look at him like he’s a stranger.
And the part that hurts the most is that you don’t know you’re breaking his heart. Because how could you, when you don’t even remember him or the love you shared?
He sinks to the floor of the shower, arms wrapped around his knees, water running down his face like it’s trying to drown the ache. He cries until he’s hollow. Until there’s nothing left but steam and the sound of your name echoing inside his chest.
He’ll show up again tomorrow at the hospital, watching the woman he loves drift somewhere between her past and her future.
And the day after that.
And every single day as long as it takes.
Even if he has to make you fall in love with him all over again.
Even when, right now, he’s a stranger wearing the shape of someone you once loved.
You were the warmth in his winter. The light in every version of the dark he had ever found himself in. So whatever happens, Frankie would hold you close to his heart and honor your light while you try to find your way back.
tags: sexual tension, body worship, priest k1nk, religious imagery & guilt, blasphemy, church sex, kissing, forbidden desire, Jud is a boob man I don’t make the rules
summary: Father Jud has spent years praying desire away. Then you walk into his church after dark.
word count: ~1,8k
archiveofourown ˙⋆✮
The church is dimly lit, only the warm glow of candlelight spilling across the nave. Silence hangs heavy in the holy halls as you step inside, your footsteps echoing softly against old stone. The air smells faintly of wax and incense, familiar and comforting in a way that makes your chest ache.
Slowly, almost instinctively, you make your way toward the altar.
That’s when another pair of footsteps echoes through the church.
You turn.
And there he is.
Your priest. Father Jud.
Your breath catches embarrassingly fast at the sight of him. Tall and broad shouldered beneath dark clerical clothes, dark hair slightly tousled like he’s run a hand through it one too many times tonight. The candlelight catches across the sharp lines of his face, softening nothing about him. If anything, it only makes him look more dangerous. More unreal.
You instinctively incline your head, polite as you were taught. “Father Jud…”
He waves it off immediately, not rude, just firm. “Good evening. No need for formalities like that.”
The correction makes you freeze for half a second before you nod. “Of course. Sorry.”
“No, it’s alright,” he says quietly.
And then he steps closer. The air shifts with him somehow, warming around you until he’s close enough for you to smell the faint traces of incense clinging to him and something warmer underneath. Something unmistakably him. Your pulse stumbles when his fingers gently lift your chin, guiding your gaze up to his.
Up close the candlelight dances across his features, turning his eyes impossibly dark. You can make out the faint freckles scattered over his cheeks, the slight tension in his jaw like he’s holding himself together by sheer force alone.
“Why are you here?” he asks softly.
You should step back. Keep your polite distance. But you can’t seem to move.
“I don’t know,” you admit truthfully, your voice thinner than intended. “I just…felt the need to come here.”
His gaze lingers on you for a moment too long. For one dangerous second it flicks down to your lips before returning to your eyes so quickly you almost convince yourself you imagined it.
“You’re always welcome here,” he murmurs. “This is a sanctuary for all those in need.”
“I know, Father,” you whisper. “Thank you.”
He smiles then. Warm and devastating. The same smile that has haunted you through lonely nights and guilty dreams alike.
His free hand settles carefully against your waist, large and warm even through the thin fabric of your summer dress. The touch feels electric, enough to pull a shaky breath from your lungs. Slowly he guides you backwards until your hip presses against the edge of the altar, cold marble contrasting sharply against the heat suddenly blooming through your body.
“Tell me,” he says quietly, voice rougher now. “Is this what your heart truly desires?”
You swallow hard. Your first instinct is to lie. But standing beneath God and candlelight, with him looking at you like that, you can’t bring yourself to.
“Yes, Father.”
Something in him breaks at the answer. His hand drifts slowly along your side, over the curve of your waist and down your thigh until he hooks your leg around his hip. The movement pulls him directly between your legs and suddenly the hard length of him presses firmly against you through layers of fabric. Undeniable. Sinful. Real.
Your breath catches.
Your hand finds the back of his neck instinctively, fingers curling into the soft hair there as you press closer without even realizing it. His head dips forward in something dangerously close to surrender, his grip tightening on your thigh while both of you breathe hard in the close proximity.
“Father?” you whisper shakily.
“I am going to hell for this,” he mumbles against your mouth before lifting his gaze back to yours. His free hand cups your cheek with startling tenderness, thumb brushing softly along your jaw like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you.
Your eyes drop briefly to his lips before finding his gaze again. “I’ll follow close behind then.”
That’s all it takes. He kisses you like a man starving.
Not polite. Not restrained. Nothing like the composed priest standing at the pulpit every Sunday. His mouth crashes against yours with the force of something long denied, long imagined. Like he’s thought about this far too many nights and finally lost the strength to resist it.
One of his hands tangles tightly into your hair while the other grips your thigh hard enough to bruise. A needy little sound slips from your throat and he swallows it instantly, pressing you harder against the altar as his grip shifts lower, squeezing at your ass.
Your head falls back when his mouth leaves yours.
He kisses down your jaw, your throat, lingering at every pulse point until your hands are buried helplessly in his hair. There’s confidence in the way he touches you, in the way his mouth worships your skin, far more than someone denied intimacy for years should possess.
His lips drift lower. Across your collarbone. Into the soft valley between your breasts.
Then he unties the front of your dress. Cool air kisses your skin as he bares your chest to him fully and the look on his face nearly ruins you.
“You’re divine,” he breathes, awestruck.
Then his mouth finds your breast.
You moan softly the second his lips close around your nipple, unabashed and desperate in your need as he sucks gently, greedily. One large hand cups the other breast, squeezing softly, feeling the weight and softness of you while you arch further into his touch.
“Father Jud…” you gasp shakily.
“God help me,” he groans against your skin as he presses his face between your breasts like it’s the holiest place he’s ever known.
Your fingers rake through his dark hair while he stills there for just a second, breathing hard against your chest like he’s trying to gather control again. But it doesn’t last long. Nothing about this feels controlled anymore. His mouth moves to your other breast, giving it the same reverent attention while one of your hands fumbles blindly between your bodies for the zipper of his slacks. You finally manage to tug it down just enough to slip your hand inside his underwear.
He’s hard and heavy in your palm. The second you wrap your hand around him he goes completely still against you, a sharp hiss leaving him at the contact.
“Jesus…” he breathes helplessly.
You bite back a smug little smile as your hand begins to move slowly over him and he lets you. Completely.
His whole body jerks in your hand. A broken sound escapes him, rough and wrecked, his forehead falling against your chest while your fingers stroke him slowly, experimentally, feeling the sheer size and heat of him pulse in your palm. The candles around the altar flicker wildly, throwing gold across the sharp lines of his face, the sinful parting of his lips.
You had never seen him like this.
Not composed. Not gentle and distant behind folded hands and holy scripture.
Just a man. A desperate one.
“Don’t—” he breathes shakily, though his hips betray him immediately, pressing further into your touch. “God, don’t start something you can’t finish.”
The warning only makes warmth coil lower in your stomach.
“And what if I want to finish it?” you whisper.
His eyes lift to yours then.
Dark. Starving.
You feel the exact moment something inside him snaps.
His hand tangles tightly into your hair before he kisses you again, harder this time, messy and consuming. Your back arches against the altar as his tongue slips into your mouth and steals the breath from your lungs. The church suddenly feels too warm, too small, filled with the sound of breathing and desperate sounds neither of you bother hiding anymore.
“Father—”
“Jud,” he interrupts against your mouth immediately, almost angry with it. “Please. Just Jud.”
The plea hits deeper than it should.
“Jud,” you whisper obediently, and he groans like the sound alone could ruin him forever.
His hand slides beneath your dress, fingertips dragging up the inside of your thigh until your body trembles around him. He feels it instantly. Every reaction. Every tiny shiver.
“So sensitive,” he murmurs, dazed by it.
Your breath catches as his fingers press between your thighs over soaked fabric and his head drops forward with a low curse.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers hoarsely. “You’re already—”
You whimper softly when he rubs slow pressure there, your grip tightening around him instinctively. His hips buck once into your hand before he catches himself, chest heaving beneath the loosened collar of his shirt.
The sight of him undone like this makes your entire body ache.
“You have any idea,” he breathes against your lips, “how many nights I’ve prayed this away?”
Your heart stutters. “And did it work?”
A humorless laugh leaves him. “No.”
Then his fingers slip beneath your underwear and you nearly lose your mind right there against the altar.
Your mouth falls open soundlessly as he touches you properly for the first time, rough fingertips finding heat and softness and every place that makes your knees weaken instantly. He watches your face the entire time like devotion, like worship, like he’s memorizing every expression you make for confession later.
“Beautiful,” he whispers again, almost disbelieving. “You’re so beautiful.”
Your hand leaves him only long enough to fumble with the buttons of his shirt, desperate for more skin, more warmth. You shove the fabric off his shoulders clumsily and he helps impatiently, breathing hard when your palms slide over his bare chest.
Then suddenly he lifts you effortlessly onto the altar.
You gasp as the cold marble kisses your thighs.
“Jud—”
“I know,” he says immediately, voice wrecked. “I know where we are.”
But he doesn’t stop.
His large hands spread your thighs wider, his stare fixed between them with open hunger now, reverence twisted into something dangerous. You can barely breathe under the intensity of it.
“You still want this?” he asks roughly.
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“Yes,” you plead instantly. “Please.”
Something feral flashes across his face.
He steps between your legs again, one hand wrapping around himself while the other grips your thigh to ground himself. Your pulse pounds violently as he lines himself up slowly, both of you shaking now from sheer anticipation.
The tip of him drags through your slickness once and his head falls back with a groan so deep it echoes through the empty church.
“God forgive me…”
And then—
You wake with a violent gasp.
Darkness.
Your bedroom ceiling.
Your chest heaves painfully as you bolt upright in bed, tangled in sheets damp with sweat. For a second you genuinely don’t know where you are. Your heart is hammering so hard it almost hurts.
The dream still clings to your skin like heat. You press a shaky hand over your face. Embarrassed.
“Oh my God…”
As you move your head just slightly, you catch the beginning of dawn outside of your window; pale blue starting to bleed into the sky.
And somewhere far away, church bells begin to ring.
Thanks for reading 🩶
Want more? main masterlist
tags (tell me if you wanna out or in!) @rhapsodyofdarkness @judasjud @rosetintmworld @likedovesinthewnd @ch3rrybl0ssomtree @poetrypoesblehhh @sidelit @knives-out-boy @soealt @explorerof-theunknown @post-apocalyptic-rebel-leader @strawberrymochi07 @peelfreshapple @sea-eyed-dream @roryheartz @prxncess-gestirn @doomprincesswrld @dumb-blondeee
I started reading thinking “girl I dunno” and two minutes later I was clutching my chest like a victorian woman dying of tuberculosis 🥵
The sexual tension in this??? Absolutely delicious. The SECOND he touched her chin I already knew everybody involved was doomed, he went so direct to physical contact. And then this man had the AUDACITY to say “you’re always welcome here” while internally being two seconds away from folding her on the altar like a camping chair????????? Siiiiir
Also Jud being all tortured and reverent while actively losing the war against his own horny thoughts is taking me out 🫨🫨
“I am going to hell for this” SIR YOU WERE HALFWAY THERE THE MOMENT YOU ENTER IN SCENE
And don’t even get me started on the “just Jud” part, that's something I always love. There something about a man begging to stop being “Father” for one second 🔥
This entire fic feels like being possessed by catholic guilt and ovulation simultaneously 🙀🚀🌌 But I love the fact that even it's so hot and quite explicit it is written with so much taste 10/10
one year ago, i gave life to two people who were never meant to be easy.
and i never— not even for a second— expected them to become what they are now.
"FireFish" were never just a story. it was a place i bled into, a version of love that didn’t ask for permission to exist, even when it hurt. they were messy from the start, annoyingly human and a little bit doomed from the start and i loved them for it in a way that felt almost unfair to everything else i’ve created ever since.
and a year later… they’re still here.
the love, the ache, the weight of them — it never really left. if anything, it settled deeper. quieter, maybe, but stronger. like something that chose to stay. and i think that’s the thing i keep coming back to:
pain like that doesn’t exist without love just as deep.
they hurt because they mattered. they still do.
there are pieces of me in every quiet glance between them, in every almost-touch, in every moment they chose each other even when the world made it impossible to stay.
and the most surreal, most humbling thing i’ve ever experienced is that they didn’t just live in me.
they lived in you, too.
people met them and carried them. felt them. hurt with them. remembered them.
that will never not feel like magic to me.
because what greater achievement is there, really, than creating something that lingers? something that follows people long after they finished reading? something that leaves fingerprints on hearts that were never mine to begin with?
it’s been a year, and they are still here.
in the quiet.
in the music.
in all the small, impossible ways of loving them through the ache.
happy anniversary to the love that burned fast, broke, and stayed anyway, forever. 🐝💔🦋✨
attaching their playlist here as well, that i still listen to regularly.
(all graphics in this post are made by myself)
i am tagging some people who were there from the start to invite them to scream with or at me.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to put into words just how lucky I feel for having been there from the very beginning, watching them come to life, slowly, painfully, beautifully. It feels like witnessing something that wasn’t just written, but becoming.
What started as a story never stayed that way for me. Somewhere along the line, Elena and Frankie, our FireFish, stopped being characters on a page and turned into something real, something I carry with me in a quiet, permanent way. There’s a place in my heart that belongs to them, and I don’t think anything else will ever quite fit there the same.
They mean more to me than I ever expected they would. In the silences, in the almosts, in the way they chose each other. There’s something so achingly human about them that it lingers. It stays.
And I think that’s what makes them so special to me: they don’t fade. They don’t soften into something distant or easy. They remain: vivid, painful, deeply felt.
Being able to experience them, to feel them, to keep them… it’s something I’ll always be grateful for.
Happy anniversary to a story that never really ended, and to a love that still lingers, quietly but forever, like a song stuck in our heads hearts
Summary: When cramps and desire collide, Santi takes care of you in the most intimate way possible: slow, bare, and full of love.
Tags: Smut, period sex, unprotected PiV, tender lovemaking, established relationship, aftercare, fluff, emotional intimacy, caring partner! Santi
Wc: ~3.4k
It’s been one of those days.
The kind where every brush of fabric against your skin feels too much, and every glance from him just makes it worse. You’ve been restless since morning. Your body aching, hormones doing whatever kind of cruel dance they’re into this week, your period arrived one day early.
Santi doesn’t notice at first. He’s half-focused on something on his phone, that familiar little furrow between his brows, the serious look that always gets to you. You’ve tried to distract yourself all day - cleaning, folding laundry, pretending you’re not thinking about how warm his hands are when they rest on your hips, or even lower.
By dinner, you’ve dropped three hints already.
First, you stood too close while he was chopping vegetables - brushed against him “by accident.”
Then you made a soft noise when you bent to get something from the oven, the kind that isn’t quite pain but not quite innocent either.
The third was probably too obvious - when you told him your cramps were bad and he asked if you needed a heating pad, you said, “Maybe just you.”
He’d laughed softly, not catching the tone underneath.
Now you’re on the couch, a movie playing you couldn’t describe if your life depended on it. Your legs are draped across his lap, his hand idly resting on your thigh, and it’s driving you insane with want.
You shift slightly, your breath catching.
He looks at you. “You okay, cariño?”
You smile too sweet, too casual. “Yeah. Just… tense.”
If he notices how you press your thighs together after, he doesn’t say a word.
He sets the remote aside, eyes still on you, searching now. There’s that small furrow again, the one that means he’s paying attention.
“Tense?” he repeats, voice soft. “Like sore tense…?”
You shrug, eyes again on the screen. “We can call it like that”
He hums thoughtfully, like studying you, his thumb tracing idle circles on your thigh. The sound and his touch makes something flutter in your lower stomach.
“Did the painkiller help?” he asks.
“A little.”
He nods slowly, then shifts just enough to face you, one hand finding the curve of your knee, the other brushing a strand of hair from your face. His touch is warm, careful, like he’s holding something fragile.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
You move before you think, sliding one leg over his lap, settling on him. His hands come up instinctively, not to pull you closer, just to steady you. Santi's warmth seeps through everything: your clothes, your skin, the ache in your body, and you feel your want for him intensifies.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. You can feel his heartbeat under your palms, the slow, steady rhythm grounding you.
He studies your face, eyes gentle. “You don’t have to hide things like that from me, you know?”
You tilt your head just enough to meet his eyes. The look there makes your pulse stumble. Soft, yes, but intent. You can feel the way he’s holding himself back.
“I wasn’t trying to hide it. I’ve been trying to send you signals all day,” you complain softly, making a little pout. “I really did try. You didn’t notice.”
He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before coming back up. “Guess I was trying too hard not to.”
You blink. “Not to what?”
His lips curve, slow and small, like he’s letting you in on something he shouldn’t say. “Not to notice you like this.”
Your breath catches. The room feels too warm, the sound of the movie long forgotten.
He shifts just slightly beneath you, not enough to close the distance, just enough to remind you it’s there. That he’s there.
His brows lift slightly. “You could have just told me.”
“I just… didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Or push for something you didn’t want,” you admit.
“Cariño,” he murmurs, “you couldn’t ever make me uncomfortable.”
For a heartbeat, everything stills.
The air feels different, heavier, charged. His hands stay on your hips, warm and steady, but there’s a question in the way his thumbs hover, like he’s waiting for permission.
“C’mon, tell me what you need, nena,” he says quietly.
It’s not a demand, not even a request. It’s a promise, that he’ll listen. That you can trust him to.
You meet his eyes, your stomach tight with everything you have been holding in all day. For a long moment, the only sound is your uneven breathing.
“I… I need you,” you whisper.
His pupils dilate slightly, the smallest flicker of something dark passing over his face before it softens into something unbearably tender. His hands move just enough to rest more firmly on your hips, grounding you without rushing, without demanding.
“You do?” His voice is low, almost a murmur, carrying a warmth that makes your core twitch.
You nod, unable to look away, the admission leaving you feeling exposed but safe all at once.
He starts to slide his hands along your thighs, slowly moving up toward your waist, slipping beneath the oversized T-shirt you’re wearing. A shiver runs through you at the warmth of his touch.
Then he kisses you, soft at first, sweet, but carrying a contained urgency. The kiss doesn’t stay gentle for long; it grows more insistent, more needed. He lets out a quiet growl against your lips as he moves you closer, seeking to feel that full closeness, the connection that makes your heart race and your body awaken. It’s hard to tell who of the two of you wants this more, in that moment that seems to stop time.
You start to move on top of him, and you can feel him awakening; the friction and the warmth of your bodies pressing together through the barrier of your clothes making your head spin.
He helps you with your T-shirt, letting it fall away as he holds you closer. His eyes stay fixed on you, full of awe and tenderness, like if you’re the most beautiful thing he has ever seen and he can’t believe how lucky he is to call you his.
His hands move gently along you, careful, reverent, as if every touch is a promise. You let out a soft, breathy sound when he cups and squeezes your breasts and he looks at you, concern and adoration mingling in his gaze.
“Do they hurt?” he asks softly.
“A little,” you whisper.
He continues, careful and reverent, as if every touch on your skin is an act of devotion. You tilt your head back, letting him trace open-mouth, reverent kisses along your neck and shoulders, your collarbone, then the valley between your breasts. He worships them with his mouth; slow, open kisses, the wet heat of his tongue circling each nipple with exquisite care. Every brush of his lips sends a shiver down your spine, and you feel the quiet electricity between you.
Your hands weave into his short, dark curls, flecked with silver, holding him as close as you can without letting go. You can feel the warmth radiating from him and it makes your chest tighten with something like awe and longing.
Now it's you who helps him pull off his shirt, your fingers brushing against his skin as you work together. Both of you laugh at your own impatience, soft, breathless laughs that bubble up uncontrollably. The sound makes your heart race, and for a moment it feels like the world has shrunk to just the two of you.
Your laughter falters as your lips meet again, muffling the sounds into the quiet hum of a shared, lingering kiss. You feel the warmth radiating from him, the steadiness of his hands, the unspoken trust in the way he holds you. Every glance, every touch, every quiet laugh carries a weight of intimacy that makes your pulse quicken, a delicious tension that’s both thrilling and comforting all at once.
His hands drift toward your waist, tracing the line of your underwear, and suddenly you both pull back from the kiss, eyes locking in a silent question.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” you ask softly, the reminder of your state still fresh in your mind.
He shakes his head slightly, a small, earnest smile tugging at his lips. “No,” he says gently, his voice low and steady, “what matters is… are you comfortable with us continuing?”
You feel a rush of something warm in your chest: awe, relief, and the undeniable intimacy of being truly seen. In that moment, it’s impossible not to notice the depth of his care, how every word, every glance, every pause is measured to make sure you feel safe.
You study his face, the seriousness mixed with tenderness, and you realize he’s not thinking about himself at all. He’s only thinking about you, your comfort, your trust, your boundaries. It’s a devotion that makes your heart ache, a quiet kind of hunger that doesn’t need to be spoken.
You nod, a little breathless, a little shaken by the intensity of being so utterly known. “I… I’m comfortable with it,” you whisper.
His eyes soften, a sigh escaping him as if a weight has been lifted, and he leans just slightly closer, careful, patient, letting the moment linger. You can feel the warmth of him near you, the steadiness of his presence, and the unspoken promise that nothing will happen unless you want it to, that he will always, always prioritize you.
“Then let me take care of you.”
He moves you carefully, guiding you down from his lap, where the result of your movements over him are more than evident, and lies you back on the couch. Every movement is gentle, deliberate, as if he’s trying to make sure you feel completely safe and comfortable.
“Just give me a moment,” he says, disappearing briefly. When he returns, he has a towel in his hands. You lift slightly, letting him adjust it under you, grateful for the care in his actions, the attentiveness in his eyes, the quiet devotion in the way he looks at you.
There’s a soft intimacy in these small gestures, in the way he pauses to make sure you’re okay, the way he waits for your approval before he touches, the way he makes even the simplest act feel like a promise that he’s entirely here for you.
His body molds then against yours, careful, patient, every movement deliberate. Lips capturing yours in a long, deep kiss, his hands roaming over your body with both care and restrained hunger. Every caress is a question, every touch an affirmation: I’m yours, if you want me, he seems to say, and you answer with every movement, every breath, every soft, muffled moan between kisses.
Your fingers trace along his back, pulling him even closer, and he groans softly, lips leaving your own to kiss and nibble along your neck, teasing the spots he knows make you shiver. “You feel so… perfect,” he murmurs, voice low, vibrating against your skin.
Slowly, his hand slides between your thighs, and when his fingertips touch the seam of your underwear, he pauses to look at you, searching your eyes.
You nod and guide his hand further, arching into him, letting him know you’re ready, and he follows every signal, lips leaving gentle kisses along your jaw and neck, murmuring soft, husky words against your skin.
He kisses you again, lips deep and insistent, as his free hand continues to explore your body, tracing every curve, memorizing every line. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, gasps and moans escaping between kisses, your bodies moving together in perfect, aching rhythm.
Santi's fingers press in the wetness between your thighs, slick with arousal and the unmistakable evidence of your period. He doesn’t flinch. If anything, his touch becomes more reverent. His fingers keep moving with deliberate, gentle insistence, and you tremble, gasping as waves of heat and pleasure course through you. He watches your reactions carefully, eyes soft, always attentive, lips brushing yours as you shivered under his touch, until a beautiful, overwhelming release washes through you, leaving you breathless and trembling.
He kisses you immediately, muffling your sounds, lips claiming yours in a mix of tenderness and raw desire, as if every gasp, every moan belongs to him. Your hands move instinctively, impatiently tracing along his crotch, and Santi pauses for a moment, holding your chin gently, eyes searching yours.
“Are you really sure?” he asks, voice low and steady. “If not we… we can stop here, anytime…”
“I’m sure,” you whisper, voice shaking with desire. “I don’t want you to stop. Please… don’t stop.”
A slow, approving smile curves his lips, and Santi kisses you again, deeper, hungrier, as he finally gives in completely to the desire.
He frees you both from the last restraint of clothes and then, slowly, deliberately, he enters you, a shiver running through both of you. Your bodies press flush together, every nerve alive, every touch magnified. This is the first time you feel each other like that, just skin against skin, without the barrier of the latex. The world shrinks to the rhythm of your hearts, the heat of your skin, the soft gasps and moans that escape in tandem.
He moves with careful, deliberate tenderness at first, letting you adjust, letting every sensation sink in. And then, slowly, gradually, the rhythm builds, a perfect unison, bodies moving together as if they have always known this cadence. Every thrust, every brush of skin, every soft sigh and moan is a conversation. No words needed, just the language of your bodies. Santi holds you close, lips pressing yours in between movements, murmuring soft praises.
You arch into him, fingers clutching his back, nails grazing, pulling him closer, matching his rhythm, losing yourselves in the heat, the closeness, the exquisite, consuming connection. Each movement sends waves of pleasure coursing through both of you, a perfect storm of desire, trust, and surrender.
The rhythm between you both quickens, a wild, desperate harmony of bodies and breaths. Each movement pushing you closer to the edge, each touch igniting sparks that travel through every nerve. Santiago's lips never left yours, stealing your gasps, murmuring soft, husky words of praise and need: “You’re incredible… so perfect… te quiero… te quiero tanto…”
And then, the crescendo hits. Waves of pleasure course through you both, bodies shuddering together, breaths mingling, hips pressing in perfect unison, moans muffled against each other’s lips. Time seems to stretch, every heartbeat, every gasp a testament to the connection, the surrender, the love between you.
The world vanishes, there is only this, only heat, only the overwhelming sensation of being utterly, completely joined.
And then the unavoidable happens.
You tremble first, a soft, breathy sound escaping your lips as the wave of pleasure rolls through you. Your body arches against his, hands threading into his hair, drawing him closer, wanting him to feel the same intensity you do.
He groans, voice low and raspy, as your rhythm pulls him over the edge. He lets himself go, pressing fully into you with a last, deep thrust, and fills you with warmth, with him, in the most intimate, unguarded way you have ever shared. Every movement, every shiver, every sigh speaks of trust, desire, and the depth of what you feel for each other.
He holds you tight through it, forehead pressed to yours, lips capturing yours as your bodies tremble together, grounding each other in this shared, exquisite intensity. And when it finally subsides, the rhythm slows, replaced by a quiet, lingering heat. Your breaths heavy, hearts still racing, wrapped around one another in the perfect, intimate closeness only you two know.
For a long moment, the world is just breath; slow, uneven, shared. The room hums with the quiet echo of what just happened. The air feels heavy, alive, yet peaceful. Santi doesn’t move right away. His body stays close to yours, connected to you, skin warm against skin, his hand tracing slow, absent circles on your side, as if he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of your breathing.
You both stay like that, suspended in the soft afterglow. Your pulse still stumbles here and there, his heart beats steady against your chest. When he finally pulls out and lifts his head to look at you, his eyes are calm, deep, almost tender enough to undo you all over again.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice hoarse but gentle, his hand resting now in your low stomach. “You okay?”
You nod, a soft smile tugging at your lips while you move to curl against his chest.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “More than okay.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, brushing your hair back, fingertips lingering at your temple.
“Good. That’s what I wanted. Nothing that a good loving session can’t fix,” he teases, tone light and playful, the one he only leaves out with his closest ones, though there’s a quiet reverence underneath that makes your throat tighten, one you try to hide with a chuckle.
“Don’t be an idiot,” you mumble, smiling against his chest.
He grins, the sound of his laughter rumbling low against your skin. “What? I’m just saying the truth.”
You laugh softly, the sound easy and warm, before glancing toward the couch beneath you. “I just hope I didn’t ruin your sofa,” you whisper with a sheepish smile.
He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Hmm… Don’t worry about the couch,” he says, smirking. “It’s seen worse. But if you did, I think it was worth it.”
You snort, playfully nudging his shoulder, and he catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. The air feels lighter now. Warm, drowsy, familiar. You cuddle against him again, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your skin, and when you finally close your eyes, it’s to the sound of his calm breathing beside you, steady and safe.
The quiet between you feels soft, unguarded. Maybe that’s why you say it, a confession that slips out before you can stop it.
“I’ve never… done something like this before,” you murmur, voice small against his chest.
For a beat, there’s silence, then a warm, low laugh vibrates through him. “Like this?” he teases, feigning innocence. “What, exactly, are we talking about, mi vida? Period sex, creamp-”
Your head snaps up, eyes wide. “Santiago!” You gasp, half laughing, half scandalized.
He grins, delighted by your reaction, laughter spilling easily into the space between you. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he says, though the sparkle in his eyes says he’s only half sorry.
You swat at him lightly, but you’re smiling too.
Then his expression softens, that easy smile fading into something steadier. He shifts just enough to meet your gaze fully, fingers brushing your jaw.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You’re really okay with this, right?”
You nod, the warmth in your chest spreading at the care in his tone. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I wanted this.”
He studies you for a moment, searching, not for doubt, but for truth. When he finds it, his shoulders ease, and he presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Good,” he murmurs, voice dropping to something low and rough. “Then that’s all that matters.”
You let your head rest against his chest again, smiling against his skin. “You’re impossible sometimes, you know that?”
He hums, pretending to think it over. “Hmm… maybe. But…” his grin turns lazy, wicked, “... if you ever need me to, I can be impossibly good again later.”
You let out a quiet laugh, half exasperated, half delighted, swatting at his chest. “Santi!”
He just laughs softly, wrapping you closer. “What? I’m just making sure you’re feeling better, cariño.”
The laughter fades into quiet again, comfortable and warm, your bodies still tangled together in the narrow space of the couch. And in that small, golden stillness, it’s impossible not to think that maybe this is what safety feels like.
And maybe, in all the ways he takes care of you, you also have finally learned what love is supposed to feel like.
tags: angst, hurt no comfort, best friends to almost lovers, violence mention, past and present
summary: Some loves don’t end they just get left behind in the rain.
word count: ~960
archiveofourown ˙⋆✮
The rain soaked you down to your bones as your feet hit the pavement, not carrying you fast enough away from the ache. You were shivering, your clothes plastered to your skin, but none of it mattered anymore. It felt impossibly small in comparison to the ache clawing inside your chest. You barely registered the footsteps following you as you stood in the pouring rain, letting it drown out everything else. It settled over every sense of yours like a second liquid skin.
“Wait—wait—” his voice cut through the steady patter of the rain.
It used to be comfort. Used to be the one thing you returned to when everything else got too loud.
You stopped walking, tipped your head back, looking up at the sky that granted you the small mercy of hiding your tears.
“You are my best friend, how can you—” your voice broke under the weight of it.
“I know, okay? I know it’s not easy. You think it is for me?”
You hugged yourself, arms wrapped tight like you could hold your own pieces together long enough to face him. It took a second before you found the courage to turn around.
“Don't tell me this is hard for you when you’re the one leaving. Leaving me behind like I'm not—”
“I have no choice!” his voice cracked, rough and desperate. “If I did, you know I wouldn't do this to you. You're the light of my life too.”
“Am I now?” you hissed, the words sharp as they tore their way out of your chest. “You have a really shitty way of showing it.”
His hand dragged through his dark hair, rain-soaked strands sticking to his forehead. “I am aware.”
“What am I supposed to do without you?” your voice trembled despite everything. “I am lost. I will be slowly decaying here, Jud.”
“Hey—hey, no.” He stepped closer, slow, careful, like approaching something fragile. His hands found your shoulders. They used to be grounding. Warm. Now the touch felt unbearable.
Your vision blurred as hot tears mixed with the rain, running down your cheeks in uneven streams.
“How can you leave me?” you whispered. “Just like that?”
His brows pulled together tightly at the accusation. “I need to or I'll end up dying in that ring.”
You shook your head, breath hitching. “And I will when you leave. He's going to beat me to death when you’re gone, Jud.”
“He won’t.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because you’re leaving too.”
You stilled, confusion cutting through the grief as you looked at him. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out an envelope, thick, worn at the edges. When he pressed it into your hand, you felt the weight of it immediately.
Cash. More than you had ever seen.
“Judas… what—?”
He shook his head, cutting you off gently. “It’s enough for a start. Somewhere new. You can leave.”
Your fingers curled around it, but your gaze never left his face. “I can come with you,” you said, quieter now. “If you want me to leave too…”
"You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I won't drag you into my shit.” His voice softened, but it didn’t waver. “It’s not good for you.”
You scoffed, wet lashes clinging together. “Did I ever look like I cared?”
His mouth twitched just barely. Dangerously close to a smile. “No.”
You made a small, broken sound—something like see—but he stepped closer instead. His fingers moved to your face, brushing damp strands of hair away with a gentleness that didn’t match the bruises on his hands.
“I want you safe,” he murmured. “You hear me? and I can't make sure of that if you’re with me. But I'll find you, okay? I promise.”
You searched his eyes—the same storm-blue that shifted with the seasons. Lighter in the sun, darker when he lost himself to violence. But right now, they were steady. Honest. The way they had always been with you. All you could do was nod.
He pulled you into him then, folding you against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing firm between your shoulder blades like he was trying to anchor you there. His lips brushed against the crown of your head, and the softness of it made a sob tear out of you.
Your hands fisted in the back of his soaked shirt, clinging like he was the last piece of driftwood in a raging sea.
“I will miss you,” you mumbled into him, words muffled and breaking. “So much.”
His arms tightened around you, his voice hoarse. Strained.
“I’m going to miss you too, more than you know. But this isn’t the end, yeah?” he swallowed hard. “We’ll meet again.”
So you stayed like that for a moment that couldn’t hold everything it was asked to carry. Drenched in rain and something bigger than either of you. A love so fragile it barely was able to bloom.
Just two teenagers, too afraid to name what had always been there.
—
It's raining again when you turn the postcard between your fingers.
The edges are worn soft, the ink on the front nearly washed out with time. Your thumb traces over it absentmindedly before you flip it over.
His handwriting. You hadn’t seen it in years. For the longest time, you barely remembered his face, only the feeling of him. Until the day it appeared on the news. A passing mention. A suspicious death of the local priest from a town over.
It had struck you like lightning. He had been so close.
Your throat tightens as your eyes settle on the words, written in that familiar, uneven scrawl:
I am sorry. I really tried.
Please don’t forget me.
— J
Thanks for reading 🩶
Want more? main masterlist
tags (tell me if you wanna out or in!) @rhapsodyofdarkness @judasjud @rosetintmworld @likedovesinthewnd @ch3rrybl0ssomtree @poetrypoesblehhh @sidelit @knives-out-boy @soealt @explorerof-theunknown @post-apocalyptic-rebel-leader @strawberrymochi07 @peelfreshapple @sea-eyed-dream @roryheartz @prxncess-gestirn @doomprincesswrld @dumb-blondeee
The whole rain scene?? (love me a rain scene and if it's angsty, even better 😈 YASSS). It feels so raw and immediate, like everything is already breaking and neither of them knows how to stop it. The dialogue feels so real too, like they’re both saying things while meaning something much bigger underneath… uuuf
And the way you write them… it’s that kind of love that never even gets the chance to fully exist, but it’s there the whole time, in everything they don’t say. It makes it even worse (better 😈😈😈💜💜)
Also Jud giving her the money instead of taking her with him??? 😭😭😭😭 You can feel that he loves her and cares about her sm in the way he thinks is right, even if it’s the thing that breaks them 🥹
And then the postcard??? After all that??? You really said “let me finish this off properly” 👹👹 It doesn’t even feel like closure, just… something left open and aching.
God, I love it. I know I am alone in this ship but this kind of endings? Yas, give me hundred, directly injected in my veins
Since you’re reading across fandoms. Who are some authors you found that you think really stand out ? Someone you’d say “that one deserves a book deal“ ?
Some non-HP stories I love are listed below, alphabetised by author.
Since book deals are mentioned in the ask, I described them by genre rather than fandom. You’ll notice these are market-friendly genres.
@berryispunk - In the Woods (I Knew Your Eyes) is a werewolf supernatural romance, but better than just that. Rain, fog, something watching you from the treeline, and a connection that feels a little too inevitable to ever be safe. It leans into yearning hard, but it never loses that sense of danger underneath.
---
@greenvillainredemption - what would they do if they found us out is a tender, humorous coming out story that earns its warmth but without being saccharine. It’s about a man who accidentally outs himself via a rat at the dinner table, and this fic somehow makes that both the funniest and most emotionally resonant moment in the piece.
---
@j-intherain - Dragonfly is a slow-burn romantic drama with a literary bent. It’s about childhood sweethearts separated by time and circumstance, reunited under impossible conditions. It has religious conflict, a marriage standing in the way, and two people trying very hard not to want what they already want.
---
@mistressaugury - Tempests is a psychological horror wrapped in sci-fi. It’s built on unstable memory, identity, and the slow erosion of what’s real. It’s the story of a pregnant diplomat who survives a crash only to slip between realities, one where she’s safe and one where she’s been reshaped into something terrifying.
---
@quietly-kept - the ways of the lord are inscrutable is a contemporary romance with religious tension. A priest and a volunteer discover that some connections transcend the boundaries meant to contain them. It explores what happens when restraint finally breaks in the presence of someone who feels like home.
---
@rhapsodyofdarkness - Echoes of a Past is a Victorian gothic romance. A young woman arrives at a forbidding manor, a mysterious lord, and a house that seems to remember her from somewhere she’s never been. Atmospheric, beautifully written, and building toward something that feels genuinely uncanny.
---
@youngshaowei1991 - Muted Serendipity is a slow-burn paranormal romance about a time-displaced woman who navigates a houseful of vampires on wariness and wit, with a disability that makes her silence its own kind of weapon. If you read paranormal romance for protagonists who earn the softness rather than starting with it, this one is for you.
-`♡´- tags: sweaty!Frankie, slightly bratty!reader, dirty thoughts, almost public indecency
summary: Frankie refuses to make you feel like you're too heavy to carry.
word count: ~ 780
a/n: Hello from the other side! Please don't take this post too seriously, I didn't either while writing. But since today is our favorite pilot's day, what better way to celebrate him than some over-the-top gym fantasy? Enjoy my feral gremlins. <3
“You think you’re too heavy for me?” he asks like you just said something blasphemous in front of God himself.
It started as a throwaway comment. Half-teasing, half self-conscious, murmured into his shoulder late at night while lying on top of him. Something about squishing him. You barely remember saying it.
But he remembers.
And now, you’re in the gym.
Frankie doesn’t usually bring people here. This is his quiet place. His rhythm. His control. But today he’s got something to prove.
You’re perched on the edge of a bench, water bottle in hand, still unsure how exactly you let him drag you along. And then you watch him start to load the barbell. One plate. Then another. And another.
“Frankie…”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“That’s a lot of weight.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
He adjusts the bench. Rolls his sleeves up. Sits under the bar like he’s preparing for war. You can feel the shift in the air—the quiet snap in his focus, the sharp set of his jaw. And suddenly he’s someone else. Not just your Frankie. But someone determined and beautiful.
And then—
Thrust.
The bar rattles. His arms flex, shirt clinging to every ridge of his chest and shoulders. Sweat already blooming down his spine. His hips snap up with startling power and precision.
“One.”
Another. And another. He’s gritting his teeth now, jaw tight, breath rough through his nose, veins like lightning across his forearms and neck.
Your thighs press together involuntarily.
“This,” he bites out through clenched teeth, lifting again, “is baby weight.”
Thrust.
“You’re not heavy.”
Thrust.
“You’re mine.”
Thrust.
“And I could lift you all damn day.”
By the time he racks the bar, chest heaving, sweat beading on his brow, curls damp and clinging to his temple you’re only able to stare. There’s no hiding it. Jaw slack. Breath shallow. Brain running on one loop:
Hip thrusts. Thighs. Frankie. Sweat. Frankie. Moans maybe. Frankie.
He wipes his face with the edge of his shirt, exposing the trail of hair under his navel, and glances at you with a slow, knowing smile. Damn what a sight.
“Still worried, cariño?”
You’re not. You’re burning. You don’t even remember your own name at this point.
You follow him into the locker room like a woman possessed. Your bag? Who cares. Your water bottle? Gone. All you see is the way the sweat glistens on his neck, the curve of his back, the pull of his shorts over his thighs—God.
And the second the door closes, he’s on you. His hands on your waist, your back hitting the wall, his mouth at your neck, your jaw, the hollow beneath your ear. He’s warm and flushed and wrecked and wild.
“You were staring,” he mutters, voice low, dark. “You think I didn’t notice?”
“I wasn’t—” you gasp, already losing the thread of logic, “okay, maybe I was.”
“Stacked that weight just so you’d see. So you’d stop saying dumb shit like that. You still think I can’t handle you?”
You don’t even answer. You can’t. You just nod, or shake your head—he’s too close, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your leggings—
And then—
SLAM.
The locker room door creaks open.
A guy walks in, towel around his neck, earbuds in. Freezes. Blinks. Realizes. Backs out slowly.
Frankie goes still. Forehead against your shoulder. Breathing like he’s been shot. You’re trembling meanwhile. Dizzy with adrenaline. Frustrated. Feral for this unfairly attractive and sweaty man.
Frankie pulls back, cheeks flushed, curls damp and sticking to his forehead, lips parted like he’s seconds from saying something he’ll regret.
You try to lean in again but he stops you with a soft, wrecked growl:
“No, not here.”
And then—
He lifts you. Throws you over his shoulder, effortlessly, like you weigh nothing.
“Frankie—!” You squeak.
“Shut up. You started this.”
You’re laughing, flustered, your heart punching against your ribs as he stalks through the gym like a man who’s about to commit a crime.
People stare. Someone whistles. Frankie doesn’t care.
He doesn’t break stride until he opens the car door like it offended him personally.
The car ride is quiet. Except for your breathing. And the death grip he’s got on your thigh. The muscle twitching in his jaw. The white-knuckle hold on the steering wheel. Every red light feels like a punishment. You really need to bite back a laugh.
He doesn’t play music. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t even blink. Just takes the fastest route home like a man on a mission.
When he finally slams the gear into park, he turns to you—eyes dark, voice low:
“Upstairs. Now. And don’t bother taking off those leggings. I’ll do it with my teeth.”
I just opened this for a cute little read and instead got personally attacked by hip thrusts??? 🫨🫨🫠🫠🫠
Frankie said “baby weight” while lifting all that weight with his hips and suddenly I forgot my own name. The sexual tension??? Illegal (I can't blame reader). The locker room interruption??? I screamed 🤣🤣 Poor guy. The carrying her out like a potato sack??? SIR
10/10
I came for a fic of my favourite writer and person in the world and I left with an imaginary gym membership 🥵🥵
