This Is Such A Good Series!

This is such a good series! 😍

you know you never stood a chance masterlist - COMPLETE

qz!Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: Explicit. 18+ only.

Status: complete! (with the exception of some deleted scene ficlets that do not affect the main story)

Series Summary: When your neighbor Joel finds out you've resorted to prostitution to make ends meet, he makes sure he's your first client, and proposes a different deal.

Series Warnings: Joel is mean and bad with feelings, dub-con due to the power imbalance, prostitution (we support sex workers in this house), qz life comes with its own warning, canon-typical violence, vaginal sex, anal sex, oral sex (m&f receiving), spanking, inexperienced reader, free use, can I still call this qz Joel if they eventually leave the qz? I say yes

also on ao3

1: you know you never stood a chance

2: call on me

3: cover up where you've been

4: beg me to take care of things

5: steal from yourselves

6: hold me like a grudge

7: lest we bleed ourselves

8: in this world, it's just us

epilogue: maybe light a candle

deleted scenes:

I've written (most of) most of these but have no eta on publication.

1: you don't have to go home

2: comfort in this run down world

3: braids - coming Jan. 28

4: silver lake alternate version - coming Feb. 11

5: new moon - coming Feb. 25

Such a fun story 😍

Title: Scotty Doesn't Know

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Summary: Scotty doesn't know you're hooking up with Dieter

Tags: songfic, smut, infidelity, dieter is a loser, scotty doesn't really deserve this he's just annoying, crack taken seriously, porn with the barest of plots, barely edited. WC: 2.8k

A/N: the song came on and I thought it would make a funny dieter fic? I'm shadowbanned and marked explicit rn, so lemme earn it with this gratuitous smut fic.

Scotty doesn't know that [Reader] and me

Do it in my van every Sunday

She tells him she's in church but she doesn't go

Still she's on her knees and Scotty doesn't know

–

The parkin' lot, why not?

It's so cool when you're on top

Dieter: Here 8=D

You slip out of the church, the preacher just getting started, and head to the back of the parking lot. Dieter’s beat up old VW bus, affectionately called “The Van,” is nestled between two big pickup trucks. Even if Scotty drives by the church, there’s no way he’ll see that Dee is here. 

You pull open the side door, cringing at the loud rattle. Dieter is completely naked, laid out in a suggestive pose and smirking at you. 

“You’re a fucking idiot, Dieter.”

“But I’m cute. Get in here!” 

You clamber into the van and roll the door shut behind you before sitting on the old beat up mattress beside Dee. He plucks at the thin straps of your sundress. 

“I like this, baby. It’s pretty. Take it off.” 

You roll your eyes at him but strip your dress off anyway. You ditch your panties while you’re at it and kick both your sandals into the very back of the van, before sitting back down on your knees beside Dieter. He pulls you in for a sloppy kiss with way too much tongue, and you shriek and slap his chest. 

“Quiet! You wouldn’t want Scotty to find out…” he waggles his eyebrows at you. 

You push him so that he falls flat on his back and straddle him. He slips his hand between your legs, dragging his thick fingers through your slick and then pushing one inside to the knuckle. The chunky ring on his middle finger digs into your labia. 

“Ow Dieter, your fu- fucking ring is stabbing me.” 

“I’m not taking it off.” Dieter pumps his finger into you just to emphasize his point and you whimper. 

“I actually can’t stand you. It’s gonna bruise,” you whine.

“Not like Scotty goes down on you enough to ever see it.” 

You roll your eyes at him, but he has a point. You’re the only one who will know, and you’re not necessarily opposed to having Dieter’s mark on you as long as Scotty won’t find out. Instead of answering him, you lean forward and kiss him. Dieter adds his middle finger, curling his fingertips against your walls and fuck it feels good. 

You suck Dieter’s bottom lip into your mouth and pull back, nipping his lip before you separate from him completely. “Lemme ride you.” 

“Fuck yeah!” Dieter pulls his fingers out of you and slips them into his mouth as you line up with his cock. You sink down on him slowly, pressing your hands into his chest. Dieter’s head drops back onto the mattress when you bottom out. “It’s so cool when you’re on top,” he breathes, palming both of your tits. 

“It’s so cool when you shut up,” you retort, but some of the bite is lost in how breathless you sound. You lift up on your knees, letting him slide almost completely out of you before you drop back down. Dieter grabs your hips and forces you to roll them forward, dragging your clit along the coarse hair at his base. You let your head fall back between your shoulder blades. Let Dieter drag you back and forth on his cock until you can’t hold in your whimpers anymore. He’s so deep inside you, grinding into your g-spot, it’s not long before you feel your cunt flutter around him, feel yourself soak him with your slick. 

“That’s right baby, come on my cock,” he smirks at you. 

“You know, you don’t have to speak,” you say, pulling yourself off him. 

“Wait! I didn’t get to come yet,” Dieter pouts at you. And god help you, it’s too adorable to resist. His plush bottom lip sticking out and his big brown eyes welling with undoubtedly fake tears. 

You get situated between his thighs and take his dick in your hand. He looks extremely relieved, as if not coming would have been the end of the world. You lick a stripe from his balls to his tip, eyes never leaving his, and he whimpers, still pouting a little. You roll your eyes at him and suck him down to the root. He tries to buck into your mouth, but you pin his hips down and set your own pace. 

You cup his balls in your hand, rolling them gently as you suck him off. He rests his hands on the back of your head, not pushing or pulling you, just wanting to touch you. 

You really need to get back inside before the preacher wraps up his sermon, so you slip one finger behind his sack and press it into his perineum. Even indirect stimulation to his little bundle of nerves drives him insane, and his grip on the back of your head tightens as he comes down your throat with a strangled cry. 

“Fuck! Fucking fuck fuck fuck.” 

You pull off him with a pop, swiping your thumb across your bottom lip to make sure nothing spilled out. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Dieter sighs. 

[Reader] says she's out shopping

But she's under me

And I'm not stopping

“I’m at the mall. I’ll see you later, okay?” 

“Sure thing, babe. Love you!” Scotty hangs up before you even have to answer him. You shove your phone in your pocket and knock on Dieter’s apartment door. 

You hear a weird amount of shuffling and banging around before the door opens. Dieter’s hair is a complete wreck, his ratty green robe is hanging open to reveal nothing underneath, and eyes are still bleary with sleep. 

“It’s 3 in the afternoon. Did you just wake up?” 

“Yes. Now get in here,” Dieter grabs your hand and pulls you into his apartment. He slams the door shut and continues dragging you by the wrist until you’re in his room. His bed, or rather his mattress on the floor, is unmade… but at least it has sheets on it. 

Dieter doesn’t waste time stripping your clothes off of you, tossing his own robe into the pile on the floor. “So where are you today?” He asks as he kisses your neck, walking back toward the bed. 

“The mall,” you tell him as you sink down (way down) onto the bed and pull him on top of you. 

“Won’t you need shopping bags for that lie?” Dieter asks, dragging his aquiline nose down your throat, between the valley of your breasts, and kissing your belly. 

“He won’t notice,” you sigh, putting your hands in his messy hair and pushing his head down between your legs. You’re already wet, just from seeing him naked at the door, as much as you hate to admit it. 

You’re really not sure what it is about this loser that turns you on so much. It’s probably his massive dick and pretty face – two things Scotty is not in possession of. 

Dieter licks a stripe through your folds and moans at the taste. You love how much he loves to eat you out. Dieter pulls your legs over his shoulders and buries his face between your legs, stuffing his tongue in your cunt and grinding his nose into your clit. You tug on his hair and he whines into your skin. 

He pulls back and nips your thigh. “Dieter! Don’t–” He plunges two fingers into your cunt, cutting off the reprimand. His ring nestles right up to the bruise he left the other day and it hurts, but you like it. 

“Don’t make a mark,” Dieter mocks. “I know, baby.” He places his lips over your clit and sucks on it in time to the thrust of his fingers. You fucking love his mouth, tell him as much with a long groan of his name. He curls his fingers into your walls, nibbles lightly on your clit. You arch your back and pull his face into you by his hair as you come, cunt clamping down on his fingers. He works you through it, gently massaging your g-spot until your body relaxes. 

“Fuck, Dieter.” 

“That’s the idea, babe.” Dieter pushes your legs off his shoulders and climbs on top of you. He rests his weight on one arm by your head and hitches your thigh over his hip with the other. His hard cock runs through your soaking pussy a few times before his head catches on your entrance and he slides in to the hilt. 

His head drops to your shoulder and he shudders out a breath. “Always feel so good, baby.” 

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him tight to you as he starts rolling his hips. One of your hands slides up into that tousled mess of hair on his head and the other clings tightly to his shoulder. 

You tilt your head back, giving him space to kiss your neck as he ruts into you. Filthy, drawn out moans spill from your lips every time he bottoms out. His only sounds are little grunts of exertion, muffled by your skin. 

He drops your thigh and sits up on his knees, pulling you into his lap. He wraps his hands around the underside of your thighs and pushes your knees up toward your chest. “Gonna fuck you for real now, baby. Gonna make you scream my name.” 

You’d roll your eyes at him, but you know he’s right. He pushes back inside you, giving you a second to adjust to the new angle, and then he starts slamming his hips down into you. He’s hitting something so deep, you know you’ll be feeling it tomorrow. 

Maybe that’s his goal. 

You dig your nails into his shoulders, dragging them down his back as he absolutely rails you. (He doesn’t have a girlfriend to hide the marks from). “Oh GOD, Dieter. FUCK.” You curse as he bottoms out again and again. 

His curls are sweaty with exertion and hanging over his forehead, bouncing with every thrust of his hips. You focus your eyes there as you feel your entire body tense up. He drops one of your legs and leans forward, crashing his mouth into yours just as you come on his cock. The tight squeeze of your cunt around him sends him over the edge and you feel his hips stutter as he comes inside you with a groan. 

He collapses onto the bed beside you and drags you into his arms, not even bothering to clean you up. You curl up on his sweaty chest and he nuzzles his face into your hair. 

“So what time do you have to be done ‘shopping?’” 

“Too soon.” 

I can't believe he's so trusting

While I'm right behind you thrusting

[Reader]'s got him on the phone

And she's trying not to moan

It's a three-way call and he knows nothing, nothing

Your phone rings not even a full minute after Dieter makes you come all over his face. You flail your arm out to the side until your hand hits the bedside table, fumbling around for the device.

It’s Scotty.

“Hey baby!” you answer in a probably-too-chipper tone. 

“Hi, babe. What are you up to?” Scotty asks. Dieter signals for you to put the phone on speaker, which you don’t do. 

“Oh just reading. How was your day?” Dieter grabs your hips and flips you over on the bed, so that you’re lying on your stomach. You suppress the yelp that almost falls from your lips. 

“Put it on speaker,” Dieter growls in your ear. “Or I’ll make this even harder for you.” You feel yourself get even wetter despite your annoyance. 

You put the phone on speaker and listen to Scotty continue to ramble on about his day. Dieter pulls your hips backwards until you’re on your knees. He drags his fingers through your very wet core and strokes his dick a couple times. 

“Oh, I’m sorry Scotty that su-ucks,” you stutter as Dieter sheathes himself inside you. 

“You good babe?” Scotty’s tinny voice filters out of your flip phone. 

“Yeah! Just choked on my own spit…” 

Dieter snorts and you shoot a glare over your shoulder at him. He smirks at you, drawing his hips back and sliding back in slowly. He’s not dumb enough to cause your skin to slap together, but he is a fucking idiot for doing this in the first place. 

Scotty keeps rambling on about some asshole customer at the Dairy Queen he works at, and you bite back a moan as Dieter grinds his hips against your ass, pressing his cock in deep. 

He grabs your hair in his fist and pulls so that your head is tipped back and starts fucking into you at a steady pace, stopping just short of bottoming out so that the only noise is the wet drag of him through your core. 

“What’s that weird sound in the background?” 

“Huh?” Your body tenses with anxiety, but it just causes you to tighten around Dieter and fuck if it doesn’t feel good. 

“There’s like, a weird noise I don’t know.” 

“Probably just my cat, babe.” Dieter snorts again, but you can’t really do anything about it in your current position. You decide to stop worrying so much and enjoy yourself. 

You drop down to your elbows and push your ass higher in the air. The change in angle has his cock brushing your g-spot on every thrust and you bite your pillow to muffle any noises you don’t manage to hold back. 

Dieter fucks you as hard as he can without making too much noise – he doesn’t really want you to get caught, after all. Half the fun is cucking Scotty. 

“Okay babe, I gotta get back to work. See you later?” Scotty drones.

“Later!” You manage to choke out before scrambling to flip your phone shut. The second it’s closed, you toss it on the floor and let out a loud moan. Dieter finally starts fucking you like he wanted to in the first place, and the loud slapping of his hips against your ass fills the room. 

You come with a scream, burying your face in your pillow and thrusting your hips back to meet Dieter’s. He fucks you through it and doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting deep inside you, hitting something that has you screaming into your pillow. He doesn’t stop fucking you until you come again, and only then does he follow you over the edge. 

He pulls out and spreads your ass cheeks, watching his cum drip from your hole, then he drapes himself over your body and whispers in your ear. “Was that your first three way?” 

You’re so fucked out you can’t be mad at him, which was probably his goal. You giggle deliriously. “Mmhmm.” You drop all the way down to the bed, sprawling out. Dieter wiggles in close to you and wraps his arms around you. 

His front lawn in the snow

Life is so hard 'cause Scotty doesn't know

Scotty doesn't know

I did her on his birthday

It’s Scotty’s birthday. So really, you should be by his side. Instead, he’s inside getting wasted with his friends, and you’re in his side yard… getting railed by Dieter. 

Dieter has you against the house, your long skirt pinned above your hips, and one leg hitched around his waist. His lips are attached to your neck and you should really tell him to stop before he leaves a mark, but you don’t want him to. 

He snaps his hips into you rapidly and you brace yourself on his shoulders and rock your hips to meet his thrusts, panting into the frozen air. 

“It’s cold as fuck, Dieter, hurry.” 

“You fucking hurry.” He slips his hand between your bodies and starts rubbing your clit. 

“Oh fuck, just like that,” you whine. You’re so fucking close to coming – just a couple more minutes like this and you’d be clenching on his cock. But life doesn’t always work out that way. 

The sound of the back door slamming causes both of you to jump and your foot slips out from under you. Both of you go crashing to the icy ground, Dieter landing on top of you. 

“What the fuck is going on out here?” Scotty asks, clearly pissed. 

“Oh SHIT!” Dieter starts to try to come up with some bullshit excuse, but you just scramble to your feet and take off running to the front yard. Dieter follows close behind you, dragging his pants up as he runs. 

You throw the side door of his van open and jump in as Dieter hops in the front seat. Scotty makes it to the curb right as Dieter peels away. You slam the door shut and fall back on the mattress. Dieter glances back over his shoulder, a big goofy grin on his face. 

“So I guess Scotty knows.” 

I hope you enjoyed this truly ridiculous fic <3

Video from the Sundance Festival! He looks so good!

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C2Q4usMsSRC/?igsh=c2diZ2czb3J5OWpl

we were literally just screaming about that with @fuckyeahdindjarin

y'all

i am fucking dead

DEAD I SAY

THE HAIT, THE OUTFIT, THE SMILE JUST UGHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Jesus Christ. Smoked while reading this and feel like I need another one 🥵🥵🥵

Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.

Sleazy swimming instructor!Frankie Morales x f!reader Rating: 18+ My masterlist

Summary: In an effort to feel more like yourself and less like the sheltered girl you always were, you take up swimming lessons, unaware of the temptations that are placed in front of you by a man you think might be the devil himself.

Warnings: Smut, non-TF AU, implied age gap, the touching is dubcon/almost noncon at first but she’s really into it so idk, infidelity, reader is married to John Smith, Christianity, sleazy!Frankie, dom!Frankie, oral (f, m receiving), face fucking, cringe protected PIV with reader’s husband, semi-protected PIV with Frankie, creampie, reader was raised Christian and is still practicing, doubting one’s own faith etc, blasphemy, praise kink, religious references, taking the Lord’s name in vain, rough sex, double dipping??, ass play, come play, brief reference to abortion, inappropriate student teacher relationships, weed, possessiveness, mention of doodee in a public pool.

A/N: Special shoutout to @5oh5 for giving me so many fantastic ideas for this!! This one's dedicated to my demonic sub mommy @gracieispunk, the #1 Frankie fan. I'm treating this as my 4k followers celebration, so thank you four thousand times over for following me, for reading my fever dreams put into words, for your comments and messages and everything else. This has been such a fun hobby for me and I hope to give you all even better stories in 2024 🤍

“Damn he really about to give her the father, the son, and the holy semen.” - @atticrissfinch

Word count: 10.9k

The smell of chlorine penetrates your nostrils while the sound of children yelling and screaming and hollering and splashing grates your ears. The community pool is a place that shouldn’t scare you but somehow does, making your eyes shift side to side, looking at the big blue rectangle and the small blue rectangle, one with people swimming laps and the other with kids floating around with those puffy, plastic, floaty things around their arms.

You grab the cross that rests against your chest, wind the thin gold chain around your finger and swallow around a lump in your throat, looking down at your black swimsuit, wondering if it might have been a little too low cut after all, leaving little to the imagination. You would love to turn on your heel right now, to sprint out of here, and find an activity less daunting to start off your year of taking up hobbies to become more independent, to learn how to trust in God and spend time with Him while learning something new. 

You've always been told what to do and yet, sometimes, it feels as though you don’t know how to do much of anything. It was time for you to do something for yourself, everyone at church agreed, and you’re not sure who suggested it but something lit up within you when swimming lessons were suggested. It offers independence and self-sufficiency, they said. It’s a survival skill too, really, if you think about it, not just a hobby. But the deep water is so daunting, the tiled bottom you can barely see from where you stand, and the chemical filled, blue water sloshing against the drains. 

Learning how to swim, a baptism — what’s the difference, at the end of the day? They both involve dipping your head under the water to become something, at the hands of someone who has done this many times, who hardly sees the novelty anymore while you go through your transformation. It must become routine for them, and you hope it does for you too, that you’ll be able to dive into the lake by John’s family cabin and go for a swim in the mornings when you head down there for the summer. You never knew why your parents never taught you, whether it was your mother’s neuroticism and firm boundary that the beach water could never surpass your knees, or your father’s insistence you went to choir when your friends went to the pool. None of it matters now. 

You dip your head and whisper a quick prayer, holding onto your cross, asking God for courage to do something so out of your comfort zone, thanking him for the confidence to come here today in the first place. It wasn’t an easy decision, praying over it with John, then deciding to tell your parents that you would be skipping family dinner on Sundays to take swimming lessons, ensuring them that of course you’d still come to church, and of course you’d join them for coffee and of course you’d go to Bible study with the girls on Thursdays instead. It surely wasn’t a coincidence that the only lessons were available on the Lord’s day - you thank him also for the opportunity to spend time with him one on one for eight weeks, hoping that you can bring something new to the table when you return to your family dinners. 

You jump at the sound of your name, snapping out of your moment of recollection, your attention directed up to a man standing in front of you, holding his hand out to introduce himself. He’s wearing swim trunks, a light colored shirt with some sort of birds on it, and a pair of awful looking flip flops — bright red and frayed at the edges, probably a decade old. 

“Frankie,” he says with a smile on his face, a smile that deepens the crows feet above his cheeks, that warms his stunning brown eyes, “I’ll be your instructor for the next few weeks, we exchanged a few texts earlier.” The fluorescent lights behind him illuminate his messy hair, the halo of golden brown curls that point in all different directions, that he pushes his other hand through while he raises his eyebrows. 

“Yes, right, Frankie,” you say, nodding and smiling back. Your mouth is dry, hands beginning to tremble. What is this strange feeling? Your face feels hot all of a sudden, heat flashing over your cheeks and your temples. Your chest feels like it’s about to break out into hives or something. But he looks so… Scruffy. There are silver threads in his mustache and in the patchy beard covering his jaw — he looks nothing like John and yet you remember feeling something similar to this the first time your now-husband took you out on a date. 

“You ready?”, he asks, and you don’t miss the way his dark eyes sweep over your bathing suit, how it hugs your hips, your waist, your chest, how his gaze lands on the golden cross you’re playing with and the rings on your finger, the gold band and the silver one next to it the one with the sparkling diamond. You don’t miss the little smirk that pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Alright, señora,” he says, tipping his chin towards the large pool, “Let’s go.” 

You bite back a smile at his words, at being called anything but sweetie. 

“We’re gonna start off pretty easy,” Frankie says as he walks you towards the shallow end of the big pool. He unbuttons his shirt and throws it to the side, revealing a set of broad shoulders, his brown curls dipping into his neck and the width of his back as he climbs down the ladder into the water and motions for you to follow. “Come down here and we’ll have you just walk a little, back and forth, nothin’ crazy.” 

You nod, hands still trembling and that heat sticking to your chest and cheeks, different from the heat in the dry heat in the room. You curl your hands around the railing and carefully take one step at a time, descending into the blue pool, pausing halfway down, breaths moving a little faster. 

Temptation, temptation. The ladies at church told you that you might meet a handsome man one day who makes all kinds of promises, who sweet talks and says he’s good for you, who makes you stray from the Lord and lets the darkness swallow you whole. He has the devil in him, they said, and he will be sent to test the strength of your relationship to God, to your trust in Him and your faith. 

“What's the holdup?” 

You hear Frankie’s voice from the water and feel the waves crashing against your thighs, snapping out of your frozen state and taking the last step down, the surface of the water reaching your waist as you slowly walk towards him, elbows cautiously lifted in the air. 

He waves towards himself and you take three more steps, closing the distance with a bit of a stumble, tripping before Frankie catches you with his hands around your waist, stabilizing you with a firm grip, with big hands and thick fingers spanning an obscene amount of your skin. You gasp at the sensation and he pulls you closer as he clicks his tongue, playfully scolding you for running in the pool, winking and sending a shiver down your spine that settles in your womb with a low throb. 

But he doesn’t let go of your waist, even when you reluctantly try to squirm out, brushing against his bulge in the process, under the water, wet pieces of fabric dragging over each other while he looks at you with those deep, dark eyes, those mesmerizing, brown orbs that make you swallow around a lump in your throat when he cocks an eyebrow. 

“Promise to be careful?”, he asks. The raspy timbre of his voice turns everything around you into a blur, the screaming and splashing suddenly drowned out by the sound of his breaths as he waits for you to respond. 

“Yeah.”

“Good girl.” Your face flashes hot at the nickname, cheeks burning with embarrassment and lust. He leans in, hands still circling your waist, thumbs digging into your bathing suit, and his lips hover right by your ear. “Let’s start with some of that walking, just back and forth,” he says, his tone a little lower now, pulling you even closer for a moment, “Can you do that for me?” 

With goosebumps covering your arms, with desire pulsing in your cunt, you nod, and he releases you, letting you turn and walk away from him, putting one foot in front of the other, feeling the waves crashing against your ribs at every step, turning to walk back to him where he stands with his arms folded over his naked chest, smirking like he did earlier, in a way that should irk you and creep you out but instead makes something inside of you fizzle and flutter. 

More praises, perfect, good girl, then you try to listen carefully when he talks about proper breathing technique. It’s so difficult, he makes it difficult, especially when he tells you to bend over, just like that, and touches the small of your back, pushing it slightly. Your common sense couldn’t be further away from this pool, but your eyes flit down to your chest and you see the cross resting there, a few droplets of water surrounding it, skin glistening and nipples hardened under the wet, shiny, black swimsuit. 

You glance back up, and before you know it, your lungs are filled with air and you’re bending over to dunk your head under the water, plunging in and holding there for a few moments, taking in the soothing silence of the pool, before coming back up, breaking the surface and being met with the noise again, looking up at Frankie. 

“You can hold your breath pretty well,” he remarks, swiping his thumb across his bottom lip and nodding in approval, “That’s good to know.” He takes a step towards you and looks down at your wet lashes, clumped together, the drops of water sliding down your clavicle and into the suit. 

“Before I forget,” he says then, clearing his throat and gesturing to your swimwear, “You might wanna wear a two piece instead of this, it’s more aerodynamic, you know, under the water? Helps you swim faster, less fabric weighing you down and such.” 

“Oh, okay, yeah,” you chirp. He’s the expert — who are you to say that he’s wrong? 

“I’m gonna have you floating on your back now,” he says then, and spins his finger, urging you to turn around, then gesturing for you to lean back against his chest. You take in as much air as you can and lean back, letting him catch you with two hands on your back, and your head leaning onto his shoulder. A whiff of his cologne hits you, your breath hitches in your throat, and you feel one of his hands sliding down to your asscheek, cupping it and squeezing, forcing a little whimper of your throat, one you’ve never heard yourself. 

You feel the rumble in his chest when he chuckles, and you hope he can’t feel you pushing your ass further into his palm, rubbing against it almost, like a cat in heat or some poor, lost person under the spell of something dark, something twisted and demonic. 

When you look up at him, he’s staring at your chest, and again, you should be so incredibly uncomfortable, you should feel violated and upset and creeped out. But you have never been this aroused in your life, and that sweet pulsing in your cunt, the ache in your clit and the sensitivity of your nipples tells you that you’ve never truly enjoyed your body and what it is capable of — your God-given body, with God-given feelings and sensations you never knew existed, that John has never evoked in you. Both of his hands come to your behind then, holding you up while you rest a little closer to his neck, breathing him in, and he kneads your flesh while you spread your legs, entirely upon instinct, with no thoughts running through your mind other than a want, a need, for him to touch you somewhere else. 

You don’t know how long you float there, or how long you spend holding onto the railing and kick your feet while he has a hand under your lower stomach to hold you up and his eyes on your ass, but your breathing is heavy and your insides are hot and tight until the session is over and he helps you out of the pool, where the cold air hits you along with the reality of what happened in the heat of the water; the sinful reality of your dance on the edge of adultery, of accepting the touch of another man, one who does not value the sanctity of marriage, judging by the way he looked at your rings with mischief in his eyes. 

“Thank you, Frankie,” you say curtly, a tight lipped smile holding back the storm of emotions in your chest — the guilt, the regret, the arousal, the strange gratitude you feel towards this man for showing you how your body can make you feel. 

“See you next Sunday,” he winks, drying off his chest with a towel. 

—

The drive home is unbearable, the ache between your legs so distracting that you fear you might drive off the road. The guilt should consume you but your primal brain brushes it off, too excited for the carnal desire that has sprung up within you, itching for release, for the touch of that man again. 

You feel possessed almost — this is not attraction, it is not love or comfort, it’s something entirely different and dangerous. It slithers around your limbs and tightens around your throat, and the lightheadedness that should concern and suffocate you, instead feels delicious. It feels like adrenaline and blood coursing through your veins, it feels like your clit swelling and your nipples perking up, like his bulge feeling a little firmer the second time you came near it. 

Lies spill out of your mouth when you arrive home, when John asks how it went and you say it went well but that it was a big step. He seems to understand when you say it was quite scary at first and that you feel the want to pray about it, to debrief almost, with God, that you only need a few minutes to yourself before you can start making dinner for the two of you.

The bedroom door shuts behind you, the lock flipped, and you kneel at the foot of your bed, hands clasped together in prayer, unsure of what exactly you’re about to ask for. 

You try anyway, thanking God for the courage to step out of your comfort zone, for a knowledgeable instructor, but at the mention of Frankie, at the thought of his broad chest, his curls and his eyes, the dull throb behind the fabric of your panties makes a reappearance, an ache between your legs that won’t settle no matter how hard you try to shake it off. 

It feels like an affront to God, truly, being so distracted when you speak to Him, and so you decide to revisit after cooling off. You flop down on the bed with a sigh, noticing after a moment that your legs have spread and the button on your jeans has popped open. The locked door stares at you, reminding you that John will not be barging in, no matter what you do. 

So with the feel of Frankie’s touch still burning your skin, around your waist and hips and asscheeks, you slip a hand into your panties and slowly begin to rub your clit, stifling your moans as they catch in your throat, not moving an inch so as not to evoke suspicion. Your body is so flooded with arousal that you come mere moments later, his name on your tongue, and then the bitter aftertaste of reality. 

Back onto your knees at the edge of the bed, you ask for forgiveness this time too, and for the courage to stick to these lessons, despite your apprehension surrounding your ability to swim. 

—

Sunday, the Lord’s day, another afternoon standing across from Frankie, and you’re wearing a two piece this time, at his suggestion, one that barely holds the flesh of your chest and behind. He suggested a warm-up before today’s session, and so you find yourself doing stretches with your eyes fixated on his shorts, and the massive bulge he has seemingly made no effort at  trying to hide. 

He clears his throat before he speaks with a chuckle, “Checking me out?”

You avert your gaze and brink profusely, feeling that heat in your cheeks again, “No, I’m— I’m sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he muses, glancing down at his crotch,  “Probably not every day you see that kinda thing, with the whole, you know—” He gestures towards the cross dangling from your neck and you grab it in response, in defense perhaps, refusing to admit that he’s right. 

Never have you seen this kind of thing, never have you seen this kind of man. You’ve been so sheltered that you’ve barely even seen yourself. Frankie is everything you have been told to fear, and everything that begins to churn inside of you, stirring and bubbling up to the surface, slithering into your trembling arms. 

You should be so afraid of this man, of the spirit within him that draws you in and makes you commit such awful acts of sin against your marriage, against the vows you’ve taken and the promises you’ve made your husband — promises that a little part of your mind reminds you that he has taken as well, but that he does not keep, because he does not keep you with his actions or his words. Rather, he relies on you being kept, out of obligation and loyalty, never suspecting that outside of the four walls of your home lurks a man whose only intention is to take, to steal, to corrupt and to lead astray. 

Frankie tells you to do jumping jacks and he stares at your chest while you do them. 

—

Someone calls his name as you step down the ladder and he tells you he’ll be right back. You carefully descend down into the water again, a little less scared this time, and wave your arms around under the surface, creating little waves with your hands in figure eights while you pass the time. 

“Hey, señora,” he calls out a minute later, and you look up at him as he approaches the pool. He takes a couple steps down and pauses to look at you, to observe how you stare up at him with wide eyes, your nipples giving you away again, thighs clenched together under the water. 

“I could get used to you looking up at me like that,” he mutters, tilting his head, his tongue in his cheek, his brow arched. 

You barely even understand what he means but you can tell it’s something that, again, should drive you straight out of this pool and into your husband’s arms, but you like looking up at him too for some reason. 

Despite your heart being in your throat and your arms trembling a little at Frankie’s attention, you begin to swim with ease, stretching your arms out and pushing the water behind you, kicking your legs and getting a few feet further every time, staying at the shallow end of the pool. 

Then Frankie takes a few steps back, into a deeper section. “Swim towards me,” he winks, holding his arms out and waving towards himself. So you launch forward, kick your legs and wade through the water, and when you get close to him, only an arm’s length away, you feel his fingers brush against your tummy and his hands sliding around to grab your waist. 

He turns you around but doesn’t let you swim away yet, holding you against himself, pushing your ass into his crotch, onto his erection, as he praises you, good girl. 

Your arms fail you when he releases you from his grip, and you splash around, arms waving and legs floundering, convinced you might drown until he grabs your waist and pulls you towards him. You grab his forearm to stay afloat, breathing fast, nearly panting, distracted and horny and frustrated at yourself. 

“You’re unfocused, baby,” he coos into your ear, tracing his fingertips down the muscle that connects your neck to your shoulder, holding onto your waist with his other hand, “That’s dangerous, you know? Need to be aware of your surroundings.” 

“S— sorry,” you whisper, tilting your head to the side to stretch your neck further for him. 

“I know one thing that might help,” he whispers, nibbling on your ear, taking it between his teeth and pulling it slightly, “It’ll relax you, then you can refocus.” 

“Yeah, that— that’s a good idea, whatever it is.”

He releases you from his grip while he whispers, “Just gonna go tell the management that someone shat in the other pool, then we’ll be alone, alright?” before getting out and heading towards the front office. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but before you know it, a lifeguard comes out, blowing a whistle, waving his arms and instructing everyone to get out of the water. Frankie speaks to him for a moment and the lifeguard nods, and then he’s back in the pool with you, watching everyone filter out. 

You stand against the tiled wall, with Frankie in front of you, pretending to make conversation while he submerges his hand and starts to tug at the strings of your bikini bottoms. Your hand shoots out and grabs his bicep, and you eye him as he tugs one final time and the fabric peels away from your mound. The last person leaves the pool, the lifeguard has disappeared already, and he moves to the other side, one firm tug and your bottoms are floating between your legs. He fishes them out and throws them over the edge of the pool, letting them land with a wet smack on the tile, and nudges your legs apart with his foot, bringing his hand to the apex of your thighs, running a single, thick finger through your folds. 

“Think I know what you need, little miss crucifix,” he croons, then looks to his side to see that the coast is clear, puts both hands on your hips and hoists you up onto the edge of the pool, pushes your legs apart as you squeal in surprise and holds them open. He wastes no time, his tongue crashes against your clit and he eats you like a man starved, sloppy and wet and dragging his tongue up and down and side to side, he sucks and releases and nibbles and pulls.

You lay down, only to arch your back and let him spread your legs further, growling into your pussy, pushing his tongue into your opening and rubbing the tip of his nose on your clit so that you’re constantly stimulated, coming back up to lick and suck until you’re coaxed into an earth-shattering orgasm that rings in your ears and rips his moaned name from your throat.

You cover your face with your hands, coming down from your high, your back hitting the tiles while you feel him kiss your folds and your inner thighs. The searing heat of his touch and the biting cold of your indiscretions coalesce into something that sends goosebumps over your arms, and the water on your skin suddenly feels freezing. You sit up and watch him push up on his hands just a little, just enough to get closer. 

“This cannot happen again,” you assert as you close your eyes, holding your hand out in front of you, not touching him, but also not stopping him from pressing kisses to your wet chest, licking up the drops of water sliding down between your tits, “I am not a cheater, Francis.” 

“My name is Francisco,” he mumbles into your neck, sliding his tongue over your skin and biting into it after. The sound of his name, how his voice carries the syllables — it echoes in your mind, it makes you gasp for some reason, sending a new wave of goosebumps over your arms, following the one from his lips on your pulse. 

“Okay, Francisco, well, this is never happening again.” The insistence in your words is rendered useless when you tilt your head to the side, stretching the column of your throat, giving him more space to claim, space that he covers with his lips, one kiss at a time. 

“If you say so,” he whispers, his hand making its way to your jaw now, your ear sliding between his middle and ring finger, tilting your head back so he can raise up and begin to kiss you, angle your face and slide his tongue into your mouth. You moan into his mouth immediately, never having been kissed like this, with determination and lust and the taste of your pussy on his tongue. 

He places both hands down on the tiles on either side of your ass and lifts up fully from the pool, making the water slosh and little waves crash around him he pulls himself out and up over the edge with his lips still on yours, urging you down on your back while he kneels on the drain and lays down on top of you. His hard cock grinds into your naked center and he growls while tasting behind your teeth, then strokes your tongue with his own, takes your leg and hooks it over his hip. 

He overwhelms you with his scent, his weight, his sounds, the size of his cock. He sucks on your tongue and bites your bottom lip, pulls on it and moves to your neck, sucks on your skin and sinks his teeth in. The way he thrusts his hips, the way he humps you, it’s animalistic and wrong and terrible and it turns you on so severely that you can feel your slick dribble out of your opening and slide down between your asscheeks, mixing with the water below. You’ve never heard sounds like the ones coming from his throat and his chest, more masculine and rough than anything John has ever uttered, more hungry and wanting. 

John. 

Shit. 

You tap Frankie’s shoulder just as you feel the head of his clothed cock begin to push into your hole, his wide head barely entering you, and as much as you want to rip down his swim trunks and let him fuck you right here, you get a single moment of clarity when you look up and see the sun shining in through the square window in the ceiling, the rays of sunlight radiating down, reflecting off the shimmering surface of the pool, giving Frankie that halo again, those radiant curls sticking out in every direction. 

“What?”, he murmurs, and you wonder if that’s how he would sound if you woke him up from his sleep. It makes your insides twist but you can’t think about the implications of any of that now. 

“I— I have to go, sorry,” you say, wriggling out from under him, grabbing your wet bikini bottoms, already gone cold. 

“Alright,” he sighs, but before he lets you out from under him, he wraps his paw around your neck and anchors you right there as he leans down to kiss you again, with barely any tongue this time, only a light sweep across your swollen bottom lip, before he plants a kiss to your mouth and then whispers, “See you on Sunday.” 

He raises up and climbs off, heads over to the rack with towels and picks one up, coming back to hand it to you — one that you unfold and realize is incredibly small, clearly meant for children, and he smirks at how your struggle to cover your chest and your naked center as you stumble to the showers. 

—

Thursday Bible study feels like pulling teeth. 

Of course marriage is the topic of the day, and you would’ve known, had you checked the schedule before leaving the house. You’d fake any illness necessary to avoid sitting in Betty’s living room, around her dining table, hearing about how much your friends value their godly marriages, how much they feel like they’ve been brought together by God, destined to meet and be with one another. 

Betty says that Cameron was placed in front of her one day, that there is no such thing as a coincidence, and you think of Frankie in half a second. You think of the ad you came across, the availability only on Sundays, how quickly he spotted your cross, your ring, how he immediately knew how to push your buttons. 

What would your life look like if this was not how you spent your evening? What does Frankie do with his free time? 

Questions you shouldn’t want the answer to, and yet you still wonder. 

Somehow, the topic of sex is brought up. The other women giggle, one of them flushes pink and red in the face, another fans herself. 

“It’s a part of marriage,” Betty says, sing-songy in her tone, “We shouldn’t be afraid to talk about it.” Reassuring nods around the table encourage her to keep going, and she looks down at her notes, then begins to talk about abstinence, the wedding night, about learning and figuring things out with your partner. 

One of the girls shares a story about going away on a trip, and her husband making love to her all night. More stories follow, the girls opening up one by one, but even the most detailed stories leave something to be desired. The more you hear, the more you feel Frankie’s firm grasp, his aggression, his want to take as well as his drive to give. You feel the hardness of his big cock, his hands on your thighs, his voice, low and raspy. 

You excuse yourself to the bathroom and take a few minutes to cool down, and the pieces begin to fall in place. 

For every saint there is a sinner, for every day there is night, for every angel there is a demon, and for every John there is a Frankie. For every Sunday dinner with your parents, there is an empty hall, a warm pool and Frankie’s head between your legs. 

Frankie has been sent to test your faith and your faithfulness, your loyalty and your dedication.

The only issue is that you’re so incredibly weak in your self concept, your beliefs, your awareness of your needs and your desire for your wants that you don’t stand a fucking chance. 

You might go to Hell, but at least the burning touch of Frankie’s hand will guide you there. 

—

The clock on the wall ticks every second and you find yourself counting to ten, then restarting, counting to then, restarting, letting the sound fill the silence of the dinner table as you sit across from your husband. Neither of you have said much of anything during the entire meal, and while you’re relieved that he doesn’t seem suspicious, you can’t help but feel a little irritated at his inability to notice that you’re being awfully quiet. 

It’s probably best if you don’t talk anyway.

“So, um—”, John clears his throat and offers a sheepish smile as he spins his fork around in his hand, “You wanna get down and dirty tonight? Thought maybe we could try a new position.” 

You smile back, hoping that maybe a new experience with your husband will curb your curiosities about Frankie, that they’ll ground you again and remind you of why you saved yourself for him, why you’ve decided to hide the truth of your indiscretions, not wanting your marriage to dissolve. “Sure,” you say, simultaneously wondering what’s gotten into this man who usually only lasts around ten minutes in the missionary position, never very creative despite the porn you know he has consumed over the years, that he had to seek counseling for at the church, at one point, realizing he was being tempted and seduced by the ways of the flesh, that a Godly man would not consume such materials. 

He wiggles his eyebrows at you, real frisky today it seems, cheeks blushing and that sheepish smile returning, “I was thinking about, like, doggy, you know, from behind?” 

You nod, chewing on your last bite of dinner, looking down onto your plate with only a bit of tomato sauce remaining. “Yeah, that— that sounds good, I just have to clean up a bit and then I can meet you in the bedroom?” 

—

When you walk in, John is already undressed, lying under the duvet with his hands folded, eyeing you as you begin to remove your clothes, slipping off your sweater and throwing it over the ottoman in the corner, unbuttoning your pants while you hear him whistle from the bed. Sometimes he takes your clothes off, but most often you find yourself taking them off when he’s already naked in bed. You flash him a glance while you take off your bra and panties, dropping them on the floor and stepping over, lifting up the sheets and getting under. 

You remember all the wonderful things the older ladies at church told you about the marriage bed, about how magical it felt to finally be intimate with their husbands, learning together, finding out what they like. Until now, you’ve found out a little bit about what John likes but not too much about yourself, and he doesn’t seem too interested to find out much more than how he can get himself off. Before the wedding, you had kissed, held hands, hugged, even took a few naps together on your couch. Both of you had felt tempted, but you were proud of having waited, having saved yourself, giving yourselves over to one another on the wedding night, fumbling with the condom, unsure of how to properly arrange your limbs, getting through it in one piece and trying again the next morning. 

But despite the year that has passed since that night, things in the bedroom haven’t changed too much. John is more steady with the condom now, slipping it on despite your birth control pills, never letting you feel his bare skin inside of you, only in between your folds for a few moments before he pulls away to rummage through the nightstand. 

Tonight, the silver packet is already placed next to the pillow when you snuggle into John’s side, tentatively giving him a few kisses on the lips. He’s hard already, but the erection that pushes into your thigh when he turns over feels different this time. Selfishly, you find yourself wondering what it would feel like to have something bigger grinding into your flesh, something more like— 

You don’t go there. 

After less than a minute of kissing, a few light pinches to your nipple and a full grab to your tit, John nudges your legs open and starts to descend towards the foot of the bed, taking the time to kiss down your torso as he makes his way to your spread legs. It’s been a while since he did this, and for a moment, you fear that he can tell it hasn’t been as long for you. Maybe you can blame it on being stressed, if your responses aren’t what he’s used to when, if you’re honest with yourself, you can’t remember how you responded to his tongue anymore. 

He begins to lick your clit, one stroke of his tongue after another, wedging a finger into your opening, drawing it in and out, unaware that you’re about to crawl out of your skin, feeling the anxiety begin to creep up when you realize that it surely won’t be enough to get you anywhere, and that even after several minutes of slobbering over your sex, you surely won’t be wet enough to take him, or to even take another finger at this rate. And if he notices that something is different, if he asks what’s going on, the all-consuming guilt of your affair will spill out through the cracks and destroy everything in its wake.

So for the sake of your marriage, just this one time, you allow yourself to go somewhere else inside the confines of your own mind — to the edge of the pool, where Frankie pushed your legs open, where he ripped off your bikini bottoms and devoured you, where he nibbled on your folds and sucked on your clit and made you convulse with pleasure. You close your eyes as you think of him, incredibly guilty but turned on nevertheless, believing that this is what she meant when your mother said that marriage is sacrifice. 

You get wetter — wet at all, really — and John pulls away. He never lets you finish when he goes down on you, either with a remark about it taking too long and his boner going down, or noticing you’re close and jokingly pouting that it’s unfair if you get to come now and he has to wait until later. Sometimes you wonder what kind of porn he watched, if his attitudes and beliefs about sex have changed since he was a teenager. He reaches over and grabs the condom, and you can see the tip of his tongue poking out as he slips it out of the foil and finds the right side, rolls it on and climbs between your legs. 

There is something unappealing about the whole ordeal, something about the way he focuses so hard that barely any attention is paid to you, about how disconnected from his own body he seems, not letting his touch guide much of anything, deciding on an action and then following it rather than letting his desire guide him. Not that it would guide him anywhere pleasurable for you, but you think it might be more attractive to see him taking what he wants. 

Not that you’ve seen that more than once. 

“Okay,” he breathes, steading himself on his elbows on either side of your head, guiding his cock to your entrance and pushing it in, giving a few preliminary strokes, his back stiff as a board, grunting when he finds a rhythm he’s happy with, not entirely consistent, thrusting fast, not hitting the place inside of you that you’re doing everything in your power not to think about the existence of — the little spot that the tip of Frankie’s finger nudged into and stroked, the spot you should forget about. 

You snake your hand down between your legs and rub at your clit, changing up the direction, the speed, shifting and speeding up and slowing down until you can tell John is close. “Wait, wait,” you say, in an uncharacteristic expression of wanting to get your own before he gets his, “Just— I wanna come, sorry it’s taking some time.”

He groans and pulls out, sits back on his heels and swats your hand away, placing his own fingers on your clit and rubbing in a circular motion, asking if he’s doing it right, getting increasingly agitated as you try to adjust his movements, sighing and giving up at the end of it. “You’re not gonna come anyway,” he groans, moving his hand to his cock to give it a few strokes, trying to get it back to its former state of hardness.  

Something about the visual of him, about the contempt in his voice, makes something flare up inside of you. It makes something start to burn as it coils and weasels its way into your ribcage, turns up the heat of your blood and makes the edges of your vision darken. It’s as if something is taking over you, possessing you, using you as a vessel, reaching its hand out to you to say, enunciate the words I feed you and then take my hand, let me bring you somewhere you are allowed to be selfish and where you no longer need to sacrifice. 

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” you smile and grit through your teeth, the sickening guilt replaced by something new, something devious and wrong and demonic, “How about— you said you wanted to try something?”

He flashes you a grin and you get on all fours, feeling him shift around and enter you again, pulling your hips back in an unstable manner, while you fake a few moans and he thrusts in some sort of jumpy, inconsistent pattern, until he comes silently and flops down on over you. 

You tap your fingers on the sheets and turn your head to smile at him, “I’m just gonna go get cleaned up.” He puts his hand around his dick and pulls out, discarding the condom while you pick up your clothes and snatch your phone off the dresser, heading into the bathroom. 

After locking the door behind you and sitting down on the toilet, you grab your phone and stare at the contact name Frankie Morales for what must be a full minute before you open a text message to him.

“What’s your address?” 

Your phone is silently put on the countertop while you wash your hands and get dressed, the flushing of the toilet covering up the beep of his response being received mere seconds later. 

“i’ll send in a sec. door’s open but no panties allowed in the house so pls be mindful of the rules. they r very strict” 

You roll your eyes and wait until his address follows in a second text, then the wheels start to turn. An excuse and a coverup form in your mind while you pull on your pants and your sweater, a way to get out of this hell for at least one night, to see what it is you’ve been warned about for so long, to see if one person’s abyss is another’s salvation.  

When you come out of the bathroom, your hand is on your lower stomach. 

“Hey, I’m just gonna go to the store, okay? I think my period’s coming soon and I’m out of pads,” you say, nodding towards the door, “I’ll run some errands while I’m at it so just text me if you need anything, I’ll do the whole round.” 

“Okie dokie,” he says, and you turn the corner, stepping out into the hallway before you let the resentment set in any longer. 

—

Frankie’s place is, unsurprisingly, in a dodgy part of town, one with frequent sirens and more than a handful of boarded up storefronts. There’s a chill in the air when you step out of your car, on the other side of the street from a house with a single porchlight on, lighting up the entrance and the wall of the garage next to the door. You slam the car door closed and take a breath, looking up at the full moon and shaking your head at yourself. Of course it would happen on a night like this, of course it would happen on a day you haven’t felt Jesus’s presence, on a day you wonder if he really does care for you after all. 

On a day that you feel the embrace of something else, another shadow wrapping his arms around you and promising you that your desires will be seen, heard, honored, that your wants and needs will all be fulfilled. More than fulfilled, you’ll be allowed to gorge yourself if you go with him, if you turn away from the light and embrace the darkness.

You ring Frankie’s doorbell and take a step back, fidget with the rings on your finger, necklace forgotten despite the cold touch of the gold on your skin as you stand outside and wait. The door opens to a dimly lit house, the smell of weed and cologne permeating your senses. You should be turned off, you should be grossed out, you should be so unimpressed. 

And yet, your pussy is already throbbing at the first inhale of his scent, and at the sight of him as he opens the door, chuckling while he pulls off his baseball hat and runs his fingers through his mess of curls, then puts the hat back on and adjusts it with both hands, and takes a step closer. 

“That was fast,” he muses, leaning into the wooden frame leading the way to his living room. His bicep strains the sleeve of his t-shirt as he leans on his elbow. 

“Shut up,” you quip, your breaths heaving, “You know just as well as I do that I shouldn't be here so don’t push your luck, Francisco.” 

He laughs at that, taps his knuckles against the frame and takes a breath, cocks an eyebrow and looks down at you, at the porchlight drenching you in golden rays as it contrasts with his own figure in the doorway, the shadowy inside of his house. “Who am I in your eyes?”, he asks, taking a step towards you and circling your waist with his hands, pushing you over the threshold of his territory, into his space, “Some kind of Antichrist? The devil himself? Put in your life to lead you astray? Make you sin?” 

His hands are on your back and the door is still open behind you, eyes adjusting to the warm lighting in his living room that stretches into the kitchen, the couch illuminated by the TV and the hazy air above the coffee table, the ripples of smoke coming from a joint halfway tucked into an ashtray. 

“Maybe...”, you murmur, looking down at his shirt with your hands on his chest, swallowing so hard you hear the gulp in your throat, “They told me he'd be tempting, and that's all you've done… Tempt me, into— into adultery.” 

He cracks a smile and leans over to close the door behind you, stepping closer when the door snicks shut, until your feet are between his. Refocusing on you, he narrows his eyes as he whispers, pushing your hair over your shoulder with one hand, the other on your hip, “What have I done? Tell me.” 

You run your hands up the fabric of his shirt, slide them up along his neck, the patchy scruff on his jaw, up, up, a little further, until you reach his hat and carefully take it off, toss it over to his couch and run your fingers through his hair, separating his curls while he gazes at you in a way that you can feel on your skin, in a way nobody has ever looked at you, not on your wedding day and never since. 

“Tempted me into adultery with—”, you say, your voice as shaky as your breaths, gesturing to his chest, then his face, his hair and then his shoulders, his arms, “All this.” You step back, open up the space between your bodies, and with a sudden wave of courage, nod towards his crotch, “And that.” 

He seems to like that, pulling you back in and curving both hands around your hips, leaning in to brush the tip of his nose along yours. “Godly cock wasn't doin’ it for ya?”, he whispers, with his eyes blazing, darker than they’ve ever been. His touch is scalding, heat rolling off the skin of his neck and arms, almost as hot as he makes you. 

“Shut up,” you mutter, convincing no one, not even yourself. 

His lips come to the side of your neck, the bristles of his thick mustache scratching your skin, scruffy and a little unkempt, with hints of gray. Sleazy old man. “You’re going straight to Hell, you know that, right?” He seems to enjoy mumbling terrible things into your skin and pressing the words into your body with a kiss immediately after, sealing it with a lick of his tongue, “No space for girls like you in heaven.” 

“Shut up—”

“Maybe even purgatory, adultery is pretty bad,” he chuckles, arms wrapping tighter around you, his hard cock pushing into your stomach through the fabric of his sweatpants. A drop of arousal seeps out of you at the feeling, into your panties, still wet from the lubricant on the condom from earlier. 

“Shush, stop—”

He shakes his head and interrupts you with a kiss, finally, dragging you along the floor, through the dim light of his living room, the kitchen, the hallway, to his even darker bedroom, to the unmade bed opposing the reclining chair covered in clothes. With his tongue in your mouth, he undoes your pants and pulls them down, kissing along the edge of your underwear when he’s squatting down, grabbing your ankles and stepping you out of your jeans. 

“I told you no panties,” he whispers, teasing the seam of the fabric, moving further in, licking a stripe over the lace covering your clit, making you gasp, “You’ve been such a good girl until now, what happened?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, looking at his hair and wanting so badly to drag your hand through it again, to feel those thick curls on your fingers. 

“You seem agitated.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“No, I don’t,” he mocks, pulling your panties slightly to the left, revealing part of your mound, kissing the skin that makes contact with the air. “What happened? Got shitty sex from your husband or something? Came here to get the real thing?” 

You roll your eyes at him, at the reminder of why you’re here, on one hand wanting to say that yes, it’s only because my husband sucks in bed, and on the other, trying not to spill that you make me feel something I couldn’t even conjure up in my dreams and you’ve possessed me like a demon and I don’t want you to leave my body and I love how you feel. 

“How about that,” he marvels as he raises to his feet, moving his hand to your chin and tipping your face up to look into his eyes, “Crawling to the cross… Finally gonna let me fuck that tight ass little pussy? Not reserved for Jesus anymore? Or your husband?” 

“Thought so.” Frankie smells like sweat and cologne and weed, and this is a terrible idea and you really shouldn’t be here but your sweater slips over your arms just as easily as your bra, as easily as his own shirt falls from his body and his sweatpants drop to the floor. 

“You're gonna smell just like me when I’m done with you,” he coos, and you hate how much his words go to your clit, to your nipples and every other erogenous zone he might discover on the surface of your body, “Gonna smell like my come, my cologne, my spit, my sweat… Like my bed—” 

You whimper and he kisses you, then murmurs into your lips, “But first you’re gonna suck my cock, and then I’m gonna fuck you.” He rips your panties down your legs and forces them off, then pushes you to your knees and tells you to open up, digging his thick fingers into your cheeks to pry your jaw open. 

Your lips part, jaw separating wider as he rubs the tip of his massive, impossibly long cock on your lower lip, sticky with precome as it oozes out from his slit, and he groans at the sight, putting his free hand on the back of your head. John never forces you to your knees, never shoves his cock past your lips — he begs and pleads, lays on the sheets and takes your mouth in silence, tensing up a little before he comes. 

But Frankie, 

“Hope you don’t have a fucking gag reflex,” he mutters, then pries your mouth open a little more and presses his cock in, deeper and deeper until his tip hits the back of your throat, placing one large hand under your chin and the other on top of your head, holding you in place while he tips his head back and thrusts. 

Frankie fucks your face, relentlessly and without reprieve, shoves his head down your throat, makes you drool and claw at his thighs, forces little sputtering, choking, gagging sounds from you, ones that spur him on and make him growl and moan, pushing in as far as he can and retracting until only his tip is left within. John would have come by now, you note to yourself, sated and done for the night, but Frankie only gets harder, with your nose buried in the coarse dark curls on his pelvis, inhaling his musk, your eyes sliding back at the scent. So masculine and so fucking hot. 

“That was your warm-up,” he pulls out with a groan, slips both hands under your arms and pulls you up, leaning you over the bed, kicking your feet apart and slotting his dick between your asscheeks. “Know we haven’t gotten to the backstroke section in the lesson plan yet,” he chuckles, thrusting gently, sliding his length over your asshole, “But you can think of this as another type of backstroke, hm?” 

“Yeah,” you whimper, hands fisting in the crumpled sheets beneath you while he pushes you up on the mattress, teasing your entrance with his tip now, bare and dripping, letting your wetness coat him as he feeds you less than an inch at a time, drenching more and more of him before he pushes in, the first time you’ve felt a naked cock inside you, a loss of another type of innocence, an intimacy not awarded to you by your husband. 

“Tight fuckin’ fit here,” he remarks with a low whistle, “Looks like John Smith didn’t do much to stretch you out.”

You whip your head around in absolute horror, “How do you know his name?”, and Frankie looks at you, dumbfounded, mouth open, brows scrunched together as he pauses. 

“His name is John Smith?” He’s on the verge of a laugh now, dragging a hand down his face, through his curls, then coming to scratch at his beard, “Are you serious right now?” 

You roll your eyes at him and concede, “Yes, Frankie, that is his name.”

“That’s your husband’s name — John Smith.” 

“Yes,” you sigh, “Frankie, do I need to remind you of what I said when I showed up here?” He pushes in a little further then, amusement plastered all over his face, his sly smirk doing something to you that you can’t quite place, as if you feel it in your chest somehow. 

“Remind me of what?” He tilts his head, wraps your hair around his fist and sinks all the way into you, bottoms out and watches it punch the air out of your lungs, a pathetic little breath escaping you while your eyes slide into your head and he gives your hair a little tug. “Remind me of what?” 

“That I shouldn’t be here,” you breathe, bordering on delirious already, clenching your walls around him just to feel his size, to feel every curve, every vein, his skin, the burn starting to set in from how you gape around him, fucked open and stretched out. His, now. “I think you might be the Devil or something.” 

“Don’t give me that much credit,” he laughs, sliding out, pressing back in, grinding into your cervix and tugging at your hair, listening to you moan, leaning over to whisper, “I am so much worse.” 

Then he starts to fuck you, deep and almost punishing in its fervor, his hand gripping your hip so hard you swear he could crush your bones, hand fisted in your hair and pulling on it until your head leans back, and he towers over you, forces you to look up at him while he pounds you from behind, while he shows you how a real man fucks you, one who isn’t tied down and restrained by the shackles of a past spent trying to be pure, trying to suppress his instincts. 

Frankie lets go of your hair and purses his lips, lets a glob of saliva fall to your crack and watches it slide down while brings his thumb to his mouth, wets it with spit and reaches down between your cheeks, rubs your tight ring of muscle and gently pushes in while you look back at him, eyes wide with apprehension. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolls his eyes, pushing further in when he feels you relaxing around his finger, “Sodomy in front of the Lord, I get it.” 

You roll your eyes back at him. 

“I can promise he’s not looking in here, baby, he doesn’t wanna see this any more than that little husband of yours does,” he says, then narrows his eyes in that way you hate, “What was his name again?”

“Shut up,” you groan, and the hand on your hip finds your hair again, tugging it back harshly while his wide thumb sinks in fully.

“What was that?” he growls, giving you a hard thrust when you don’t respond, your slick seeping out and smearing over your inner thighs when he withdraws and fucks back into you, makes your flesh shake and jiggle. 

“Forget it,” you mumble, letting your hands slide out in front of you, suspended by his hand in your hair, feeling your ass bouncing against his hips at every thrust, the wet squelch of your pussy taking him and his balls smacking against your clit, sticky and sinful and the best feeling you’ve ever felt. 

“That’s what I thought.” He lets go of your hair, letting you fold in half as your chest hits his sheets and your face is buried in his scent again, and he reaches around to put two fingers to your clit, circling it quickly, bringing on your orgasm in mere seconds. You soften, letting him in even deeper, sucked in by your pussy while your asshole flutters around his thumb, and he chuckles, muttering under his breath, easy to please. 

He keeps rubbing, despite your whines and whimpers, fucking you and playing with your clit until you come for him again, then flips you over onto your back, pulls you to the edge of the bed and slides back in. You glance down at his pelvis, sticky and wet with your arousal, thick hair he hasn’t trimmed in what must be months, dark curls you want to feel against your sensitive little nub. Both of his hands slide under your ass to lift you up, his cock reaching so deeply his name rips from your throat with a loud moan, the first followed by more, forced out one by one, his name in there again somewhere, incoherent almost. 

Then he lays you down, pushes you up on the bed and kneels between your thighs, lays down on top of you and cages you in with his bulging arms. He captures your lips in a kiss as he grinds into you, pushes his pelvis into your clit, lets his sweat smear across your torso, your shoulders getting covered in the concentrated scent of his underarms. 

You're gonna smell just like me when I’m done with you. 

It’s like you’re being baptized in his scent, drenched in his perspiration, in the saliva covering either side of your neck from his wet kisses, his precome dribbling out inside you, the taste of it still on your lips. 

“Frankie—”, you pant into the crook of his neck, fingers twisting in his hair, your other hand on his upper back, holding him close, “Frankie, I’m gonna— I’m gonna come, I—”

He shushes you with another kiss, with a rumbling growl, letting you come before he throws your ankle over his shoulder and he pounds you until the sound of your moans drowns out the sirens outside the window and his snarls, his curses, the wet slap of your bodies and his grunts when he takes your other ankle and folds you in half again, pushes your knees into your chest and shows you how you’re meant to be fucked. 

You can tell he’s close, closer than he wants to be, muttering how fucking tight you are between grunts and moans, both hands gripping your hips, pulling you back onto him with every thrust, his cock so deep within you that the room is a blur, hazy from the darkness, the air thick with the smell of sex. His thrusts slow, trying to abate his orgasm, failing to when you tighten and whimper his name again, when you arch your back and suck him in further, until your walls suffocate him and he grunts your name, panting with his jaw hanging open, lifting up to look down at how he splits you in half. 

“Hope you’re on the pill or something,” he groans, while his cock pulses and swells inside of you, while ropes of his come fill you and slide down his shaft. Then he chuckles, his voice going low and gravelly, “You know, so you don't have a little demon baby in here you won't let yourself get rid of. That wouldn't be good for business, would it?”

Crushing you with his weight again, he bites and kisses your neck, staying lodged inside your cunt, body pressing you down into his sheets, a drop of his sweat sliding down your chest, your own heat dampening the backs of your knees. His lips find yours, tongues twisting together, heavy breaths filling the silence in the air. You swallow his saliva, you’d drink it if you could, his blood or his spit or his come. 

“You’ve never had that before, huh?”, he murmurs into your mouth, “Never taken a load like that?” 

Your hips squirm in response while you shake your head, and another laugh rumbles in his chest. “You like it, though, you like having my come inside you.” You don’t dare tell him you’ve never had a load inside of you at all, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being the first to own you like this, the first person to risk something. He pulls out and brings his hand to your core, lets some of his spend seep out onto his fingers, and smears it over your folds, your clit, up to coat your nipples, your lips, then back down to rub it into your asshole. 

“You like when I cover you in it,” murmured and low, his eyes dark again, piercing and paralyzing while you raise up on your elbows and look up at how he towers over you again, “Not so Godly anymore when you're covered in the Devil's seed, huh?” 

“No,” your voice is weak, little more than a squeaking sound.

He cranes his neck down to smell your shoulder, your arm, your chest and your neck. “Told you you’d smell like me,” he whispers, pressing his lips into your chest, right above where he marked you, “Nothing left of you now, it’s just me. All me.” 

His finger comes to your stretched out, gaping entrance. It collects more of his slick, warm load, and he brings it to your chest, one streak across and another down the middle. He crosses you with it, with the evidence of your lust, your sin, your adultery, your submission to darkness and evil, to your own wants and your own primal drive towards this man, the desire for you that you sense in him. 

“Yeah, now you know who you belong to.” 

You look down and see the glistening cross of semen, your nipples still glossy, filthy and revolting and terrible and making your pussy clench so hard another thick drop splashes out of you and onto this bed, your clit beginning to ache again, wanting more and more and more. 

“See that?”, he tilts your chin up with one hand, the other planted on the mattress, muscles bulging out, his wet, semi-hard cock hanging between his legs, come still seeping out of him, dripping from his slit, “Don't need God when I’m here to tell you what to do, baby.” 

 “No?”

“Nah,” he slides his hand around your neck to cradle the base of your skull, moving his knees to the outside of your hips, shifting closer until his cock is in your face. “And now you’re gonna lick up all my come, you’re gonna suck my dick till I’m hard again, and then I’m gonna teach you how to ride me.” 

“Okay,” you whisper, lashes fluttering, lips parting at the sight of his thickness, his length, the flushed red tip. 

“Not just gonna teach you how to swim, sweetheart — gonna teach you how to take my cock. Mine, just mine, until you can’t do without it, until you come crawling over here every night, begging for it, until you pray to God and ask him to free you from being so cockdrunk and addicted to me.”

You pause for a moment, looking up at his face, eyes adjusted to the darkness now, and then, “Frankie?” 

“Yes, angel?"

"Teach me.”

Header and banners provided by @saradika-graphics

I also post on AO3 if anyone prefers reading over there!

Francisco "Frankie" Morales:

Through The Motions: You and Frankie decide to start a family. Regardless of your mental illness and the challenges it faces.

Parents to Lovers Series: A series of one-shots with the same family, listed in chronological order but posted randomly.

Suprise!Pboy:

Dirty: Meeting a stranger at a bar.

Dieter Bravo:

Memories: What happens when your husband, Dieter, forgets who you are?

Walk in the Park: Taking a walk in the park

Some Broken Hearts Never Mend: You're there for Dieter time and time again, when will enough be enough?

Broken Hearts Mended: Dieter tries to fix his past with you. (Part 2 of Some Broken Hearts Never Mend but can be read as a standalone)

Javier Pena:

When It Rains: On a stake out with your partner and then it starts raining

Joel Miller:

Wrong Delivery: Sleepin' with the hot construction guy doing the remodel at your work, he winds up buying flowers for someone else...

Softer: Joel's feeling a tad self-conscious

Marcus Pike:

Paper Rings: Marcus wants to ask you an important question.

Dave York:

Lies, Excuses, and Bullshit: A man with a double life willing to do anything to keep his obsession around, and a woman who doesn't know what she's gotten herself into.

Thanks for the reblog 🥰 Frankie is definitely one of my comfort characters 😍

Through the Motions

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x Reader

Summary: You and Frankie decide to start a family. Regardless of your mental illness and the challenges it faces.

Warnings: Mental health, cussing, pregnancy, bit of angst, comfort, fluffff, pretty much sums it up

A/N: Sooo…. This would be my first fic I’ve ever actually put out for the entire world to read. I used to have several 5 subject notebooks full of fanfic for myself and my cousins to read cause they were the only ones I trusted with that part of my brain. 15 years later and here I am. I had 4 different friends read it before I posted. All of which gave amazing input and helped me with wording, grammar, punctuation, etc. I love you guys!!! @hessofather(knows all about mentally ill pregnancy cause she did that), @jay-zzle(Spanish expert), @bi-panda(help with grammar and punctuation) and Sarah(helped with wording, who needs to get a tumblr)

Special shout out to: @chloeangelic- Thank you for being so helpful to this newbie with your writing advice! You saw this fic before it became what it is now, hopefully it’s still as interesting as you thought it was to begin with @gracieispunk for just telling me to go for it! ❤️❤️❤️

HERE GOES IT! 🫣

At the time you felt like this was a good idea, that you were strong enough to handle it, that it would get better as time went on. Except now you’re not so sure.

*****

It was your idea first, trying for a baby and Frankie was ecstatic. You’d discussed kids before but it was always in a wishful way, too nervous to stop the meds to actually try. Late one night while in bed you decide to talk about it once more.

“What if you can’t handle my episodes?”

“Such as…” He asks moving on his side propping up his head with his fist.

“Well… I’m kinda, actually no, I’m crazy without meds. You haven’t had to experience that side of me but other people have. I had so much rage in me all the time, I would snap in an instant at the smallest of things, there were days I couldn’t even get out of bed. I almost lost my job at one point.” You say rubbing your face trying not to think of the past without meds. He moves your hands and cups your cheek turning your head towards him.

“Hey now, we don’t have to do this. It’s up to you. I’d love it if we could have a version of you and me out in this world but it’s not a necessity if you don’t want to. I’m still going to be here whether we decide to do this or not”

“Oh god, the manic episodes! I’ve gotten those under control finally because of the meds but the mania was almost just as bad as the depression! Sooo many bad decisions, honestly surprised I don’t have a kid already. Definitely had a rise in my labido during the manic episodes,” with widened eyes and a panicked look you start to back track “Sorry! I’m so sorry! I’m rambling now.”

“Shhh, we all have a past,” Frankie laughs, shaking his head, “If we’re being truthful here though- if we try for a baby that would be helpful, right?”

You laugh and roll your eyes.

“Yeah, I guess you got me there.”

*****

Thinking about it and doing it are two completely different things. The trying part was definitely fun and then it happened. Those two pink lines happened a lot faster than you were expecting. What now? You have to get off your meds. That’s what you have to do now. It’s really happening. There is now a life growing inside of you. You thought you were ready for this. Mentally trying to prepare yourself for the moment the meds had to stop, the pregnancy hormones and what they’ll do, the changes your body will go through, the mindset you’ll need to have going through this, so much to prepare for. Then the first slip up happens. It took 3 weeks, 3 weeks for the first incident to happen.

“Oh, I see!” You say gritting your teeth, “So I need to have supper ready for you when you get home? Like I’m some 50s fucking housewife?!”

“That’s not what I even said. All I asked was what are we having for supper? I did not mean what are YOU making for supper.” Frankie said as calmly as he could. He never thought his army training would help him in a situation like this. They teach you how to handle dangerous territories, hostile situations, survival, and so much more. But this? No one ever trains you for this. For a hormonal, mentally ill, pregnant lady.

You can feel your face hot from anger turning into one of embarrassment and shame instead. Your bottom lip begins to tremble. You realize your mistake immediately. Not sure if it’s the mental illness or the hormones rushing through your body. It all kinda feels the same right now. Frankie notices the change immediately and rushes towards you.

“Bebé, bebé, bebé,” He says quietly wrapping his arms around you, pushing your head into the crook of his neck. “It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re okay. We’ll get through this just like everything else. I’m here.”

“I hate this!” You sob

*****

Your entire pregnancy you feel as if you’re going through constant loops. The manic and depressive episodes coming in waves. You sense it before it happens, a lot like when you can smell rain before it starts. The only thing is when. When is it going to hit you? Will it be a depressive episode? Where you find it near impossible to even get up but you have to in order to make sure things are ready for this baby. Will it be a manic episode? Where you have so much energy it feels like you’re going to crawl out of your own skin but also in a way beneficial because you can get so much ready for the nursery. Will it be one of sadness, anger, anxiousness? What will it be and can you make yourself stop it? Doubtful, you never can, just like now.

**9 months later**

He plops down at the kitchen table sighing. The baby has finally gone to sleep. After 2 hours of crying there is finally silence.

“What‘s wrong?” Frankie asks

“I don’t know.” you sigh, putting the last bottle in the dish rack to dry.

He can tell something is wrong by your actions. The way you’ve been rigid. You’re so stiff. You’re so tense. You feel on edge about every little thing.

The baby is crying. Needs changed again. The baby is crying. Needs fed again. The baby is crying. Needs soothed again. The baby is crying. When is there time to sleep? So over-stimulated it’s almost too much to bear.

It’s only been 2 weeks since the baby arrived and you’re back on meds finally. As with all things though, it takes time.

“What’s wrong? Hermosa, please tell me.” he asks again

“It’s just one of those days.”

One of those days, the hatred for yourself you feel. Am I a good mom yet? Am I doing everything that needs done? Is there anything I missed? I have to be perfect on the outside. Why am I NOT perfect on the outside? Can I even pretend to be perfect? The internal battle is almost too much. You don’t want to look at him. You don’t want him to see how much your mind is making you suffer because he will see it, he always sees it now.

“Baby, please talk to me!” He pleads

You push yourself off the kitchen sink and finally turn around wrapping your arms around yourself and you know he sees it. Your mind starts racing. He thinks you’re a failure. He wants to give up on you. He doesn’t want to deal with you anymore.

He gets up and takes a step closer, you take a step back. Not ready for the comfort, the consoling, the pity party to ensue. He grabs you before you can get too far away.

“You're an amazing momma. Don’t sell yourself short!”

“Hold on,” You start to remove yourself from him, “I need to get the hamburger out for supper tomorrow.”

He furrows his brows letting you go and sighs, “Will you sit down, please?”

Reluctantly you sit down and your mind starts racing and panicking again. Why does he want me to sit? Why did he sigh? Is he mad at me? Did I do something wrong?

The baby monitor goes off and you start to get up again

“Stop, sit. I got this. Stay here.”

So you sit. You sit at the kitchen table with your mind spiraling and wondering what to expect next. Can he change the diaper? Can he make the bottle if the baby needs feeding? Can he soothe the baby to go back to sleep? What does the baby need?

You hear the crackle of the monitor

“Momma is so tired, isn’t she? She needs a break sometimes. She takes such good care of you while I’m at work.“ the baby starts to wail louder, that must be the getting diaper changed cry, “Oh yes, I know mi vida, it’s so cold and momma does it better but daddy is here and can do it too.” Low and behold you are correct!

The baby stops crying. Soothed for now. Who knows how long it’ll be before they’re awake again. Frankie comes back to the kitchen.

“Mi amor, we should get to bed.”

You nod while he grabs the baby monitor then your hand, in a daze you let him lead you to the bedroom. He helps you change your clothes for the first time in three days. Frankie grabs your brush, he gently brushes til the knots are out of your hair and he puts it in a bun the way you like. He grabs you around the waist and guides you into the bed. Laying there together, he’s whispering words of praise to you, “Eres hermosa, you’re a good momma, you’re perfecto for me and our baby” placing soft kisses to your neck with each phrase, and then you hear his soft snoring. With silent tears falling down your face you finally start to drift off to sleep, you suddenly remember you forgot the hamburger meat. You try to move but with Frankie’s warmth and tight grip surrounding you you easily give up, guess there is always tomorrow.