This Was Such A Good Read! That Ending

This was such a good read! That ending 😭😭😭

Precious || Sugar daddy ! Lucien Flores x reader

Summary: You meet with your sugar daddy at his California residence. (2k words)

CW: sex in exchange of money and luxuries, feelings, slight angst, infidelity (Lucien is married), jealousy, daddy kink, English and Spanish pet names, f masturbation, fingering, blowjob, praise kink, dom!lucien, unprotected p in v, emotions, sad-ish ending (sorry i'm feeling emo), minimal editing. Also, I haven't seen the movie, so this might be OOC,

A/N: We all saw that video right? Thank you twitter for this. Also, thanks to @ozarkthedog who inspired some of this.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

When you made an arrangement with an older man for money, you hadn't expected that he would be... hot. You also didn't expect to fall for him.

But standing in front of you, Lucien Flores was something else. A colorful, silk-like shirt let you see glimpses of golden skin. Expensive jewelry on his throat. A wedding band on his finger as he brought the cigarette to his lips. From a wife he did not care about. A wife he left at his main residency.

But here, in California, everything was a dream. He treated you like a princess, all you had to do was to be pretty and let him fuck you, which wasn't hard when he was so handsome, and when you were madly in love with him.

"Was your trip okay?"

"Yes, everything was perfect. Thank you for the first-class trip, daddy."

He smirked and let the cigarette fall to the ground, before crushing it with his shoe. He sat on one of the lounge chairs on the patio and patted his lap to encourage you to sit on it. You climbed up and wrapped your arms around his neck, bringing him down to you. His strong cologne tickled your nose.

"I missed you." He whispered, and you wished you could believe him. You wished he had missed your personality, your humor, and not only the way you sucked his cock.

"I missed you too." You responded truthfully.

“Sweet girl. What am I gonna do with you?”

“I don’t know, what will you do?” You responded mischievously.

“Did you bring the bikini I got you? Will you go lay prettily in the pool while I get some work done, hm?”

You nodded enthusiastically, and got off his lap to strip off your tight dress to reveal the red bikini that covered barely anything. The top was just enough to cover your nipples, and the bottom was more of a g-string than anything else. Lucien’s gaze devoured you, making you feel vulnerable, but hot.

You did as he said, laying in the pool on top of an oversized donut as he took work calls on the patio, attentive dark eyes looking at you from time to time.

After an hour under the sun, waiting for him, you got bored, and you wanted to play. Lucien was still on a call with a client, and you vaguely heard him speak Spanish, words about house prices and vague promises. You waited until he looked at you, then, your hand sneaked under your bikini bottoms that left little to the imagination. Like an automatism, your fingers recolted some of your wetness before circling your clit. The point wasn't as much to pleasure yourself than to provoke Lucien.

His eyes darkened, his attention fully on you as he kept speaking. He simply curved his fingers in your direction, beckoning you to come closer.

So, you did. You ungracefully got out of the pool and walked towards him like an obedient puppy.

"What are you doing?" He mouthed to you, while his client talked on the other end.

"I'm waiting for you." You responded innocently.

Lucien didn't seem satisfied with your answer. He got closer to you, until you were stuck to the patio door, your ass leaving a mark on the clean glass. He kept talking on the phone, as if nothing peculiar was happening, and he pulled your bikini to the side, so he could access your seam. His fingers went through your slit, sensing how wet you were. He looked at you with a disapproving look, and you gasped as he started circling your clit.

"... yes sir, with your budget, I certainly can find you the house of your dreams... I'll see you on Friday."

He hung up and put his phone in his back pocket.

"You want my attention so bad? You have it now." He groaned. His free hand held your waist tightly, and you wished he kissed you in that moment.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and bucked your hips against his fingers, gasping when he put two of them in your wet hole. He started pumping them in and out unceremoniously, filling the air with your obscene wet sounds. You cried softly, your back arching against the door.

"Lucien... please...I'm sorry..."

You felt him hitting that spongey spot inside of you again and again, as his palm rubbed against your clit. Your legs started to shake, and he held you up as you almost fell under the intensity of your orgasm.

"There you go baby..." He pressed his nose against your hair as he guided you through your ecstasy, inhaling your sweet, intoxicating scent. When your eyes met his, you stopped fearing he would push you away and you pulled him into a kiss. He crowded you against the house, holding you tight as he responded back with his whole body.

Only to be interrupted by another phone call. He groaned and let go of you. Still, his hand held your shoulder and he slowly pushed you to the ground.

"You will suck me off while I take this call, yeah?"

He took the call before you could say anything, but he knew you would obey. You unbuckled his belt and pulled down his pants and boxers until his dick sprung free. Thick, uncut, and perfect. You salivated just looking at it. You started by licking the tip almost timidly, looking up at him through your lashes as he talked about serious work-related stuff. He looked so in control. You took him in the warmth of your mouth slowly, his hand cradling your head indicating that you were doing a good job. You were so horny for him, you could barely hear him talk, only hearing the soft vibrations of his deep voice. You bobbed your head up and down slowly, how he liked, sometimes adding a bit of teeth, just grazing the sensitive skin.

"Good girl." He mouthed to you, and you warmed up at the praise.

You accelerated eventually, hollowing your cheeks to make him feel everything. His hips bucked lightly into your mouth, encouraging you to keep your pace. His breath was getting heavier, and you could tell his concentration was failing him slowly.

"Can I call you back? I have another line I have to take. Yeah, okay."

Lucien hung up and dropped his phone to the floor.

"God... this mouth of yours, baby."

One of your hands played with his heavy sack as you kept sucking him, his body responding to you with thrusts.

"Let me come on those pretty tits." He breathed.

You hurriedly untied your top and just as you let his cock fall out of your mouth, he guided his cock with his hand as his come started spurting out. He painted your chest, and you let him make a canvas out of you.

Lucien helped you up and pecked your lips.

"Go wash up, make yourself pretty for your daddy while I finish a few calls. I left a few things for you in my room. We'll have dinner and I'll spend the night focusing on you, okay?"

"Okay, daddy." You looked at him one last time, and you disappeared in his house.

Lucien treated you like a princess, and you indulged in a delicious meal in his presence. You tasted the best wine the restaurant had to offer.  You enjoyed his company and you talked about everything. The only cloud to your evening was a call from his wife, and you tried to burry your jealousy. Your job was to be the young and pretty mistress to the rich man, not his wife.

But you knew Lucien read you like an open book. When he brought you home, to his large bedroom, he crowded you against the wall, one of his large hands beside your head, the other one low on your back.

“What was that about, baby?”

You couldn’t look at him, couldn’t bear his big, sad brown eyes that would unravel the truth so easily. The hand beside your head cradled your jaw, and you had no choice but to look at him.

“Nothing.”

He tsked. “Don’t lie.”

“I don’t like when you talk to your wife when I’m here. It feels… wrong.” You sighed.

“Mi corazón… ” He cooed. “I have to play the part of the loving husband. Doesn’t mean you’re any less precious.”

You bit your bottom lip, swallowed your tears.

“Prove it.”  

Lucien leaned in, and his lips grazed yours, his big nose bumped against the tip of yours. “You’re my precious little thing. Can’t live without you.”

Your body responded to his, molding against his chest as you arched your back. He kissed you, fiercely. The hand against your face almost bruising. Your whimper of his name died against his lips, swallowed by his tongue. When you came back out for air, his lips traced your jaw, your neck, your cleavage. Expert hands unzipped the dress he bought for you, and it pooled at your ankles. You kicked it away, and in a hurry, you undid his soft shirt. You leaned down to kiss his chest as he smelled your hair, holding you close.

“I want you.” He whispered painfully. The older man guided you and discarded your body on fire on his comfortable bed. Lucien got rid of his pants as he took the time to look at you, sprawled on his bed, dressed in precious lace. “My pretty girl…”

You felt heat rush to your face, and you realized how much you wanted to be his.

 You both peeled off the last layers separating you, and he laid between your spread legs, his body warm against yours. You were always so ready for him. It took him mere seconds for to make you come, only so he could slide into your wetness easily and selfishly. He didn’t deserve you. You wrapped your legs around his hips as he stilled. Your cheeks were wet with tears, that he kissed away.

“Look at me.”

You did with a weak smile.

“There you are, my pretty girl.” He cooed.

“Yours, yours yours” You chanted back as he started moving slowly, but with strength that took the breath out of your lungs and made you close your eyes.

“You’re always taking me so well.” He praised. “Keep your eyes on me. Keep your mouth occupied, mi corazón.”

You sucked on the chain dangling from his neck, the metallic taste keeping you grounded as you watched him with adoration. You muffled your cries and kept your eyes on him as he started thrusting his hips faster, making your eyes want to roll in the back of your head. But you kept your focus on him, on the slight crows feet around his eyes, on his smile lines, on his beautiful, adoring eyes.

“You will come on my cock, baby.” His hand reached to where the two of you were joined, and his thumb pressed on your swollen clit, circling it at the same messy rhythm as his hips, letting you tighten and convulse around him. “Good girl.”

His words, his fingers, and the tip of his cock that kept hitting your G-spot made you see stars. You kept your eyes strained on him as you choked his dick and came around him with a muffled moan. He guided you through it, before grabbing your hips and fucking you deep and fast. His chain left your lips, and you replaced it with his mouth, kissing him slow and deep.

“W-Where do you want me?” He groaned inside your mouth.

“Inside.”

Lucien cursed as he spilled inside of you, before laying against your body, his head on your shoulder as he caught his breath. You caressed his curly hair and held him close, scared of loosing him.

“I love you.” You said in the smallest voice possible.

He looked up at you with sad eyes, and he kissed you long and slow. He would break your heart and you both knew it.

Ohhh! This is so good! 😍

the howler monkey

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Dieter Bravo & gn!reader rating: Mature (18+ only!) warnings: no smut but some nudity, implied drug use/addiction, little bit silly, mildly angsty, performance anxiety, screaming, Dieter Bravo's soft cock. basically mild hurt/comfort/fluff with my usual bit of silliness. word count: 2.8k summary: You got him here, he was safely tucked away upstairs and everything was going, mostly, according to plan. So, who the fuck is screaming?

A/N: For the Dieter Bravo Brain Rot Club March Server Challenge - you're unhinged and I love you all. Dieter would be so, so proud of us. Circus mention in honour of Clown!Dieter.

TROPE: Only one bed and forced proximity PROMPT: "You're going to get us arrested." "Oh, I've always liked the idea of you in handcuffs."

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On days like this, getting Dieter Bravo out of the house was more like wrangling an overtired toddler than it was dealing with a full grown man. At least, you assumed it was. You didn't have a toddler for reference, but you did have a Dieter and, sometimes, that felt worse. He stalled and delayed for so long that by the time you finally - finally - got him out of the door, it was quite literally a race to get the the airport.

The flight hadn't been much different, having to practically drag him through the terminal with head down and sunglasses on to cram him into his window seat. Truth be told, you didn't know why you were flying with him anyway, only to fly back later tonight. Still, as long as it wasn't your money on the line, what Dieter wanted, Dieter got.

But now it was done. You got him here relatively unscathed, all things considered, and Dieter had been deposited in his room, ready to get a full nights beauty sleep before the press descended and the festival opened. All that was left to do was check in with his publicist and you'd be on your way back home, where you couldn't wait to crawl into bed and have a few blissful days to yourself.

So, as is the natural way with these things, it's when you're just finishing up with his publicist in the back of the bar that it all starts. It's nothing but a few strained looks from the hotel staff to begin with.

Then the phones start ringing. Every single one.

And when the phones can't be answered quick enough, hotel guests start crowding around the lobby, whispering amongst themselves about the screaming.

The screaming.

And your blood turns cold. Because it's not. It couldn't be. He wouldn't.

The publicist pays no attention, continuing swiping through his phone and yammering away. Not your circus, not your monkeys, you try to think to yourself as the lobby just gets busier and busier.

But then the hotel manager rushes in, sickly sweet smile plastered on his face, Dieter's publicist blissfully unaware as he stares down at his phone, looking at schedules and interview times and literally anything but the chaos evolving around you.

"Excuse me? Excuse me," he's saying, wringing his hands together as he approaches the table. "You're with Mr. Bravo?"

His publicist doesn't even bother looking up, simply nodding as you stare, open mouthed, into the lobby.

"It seems we have... a bit of a problem," he whispers with wide eyes. "Mr. Bravo is uh... well, screaming. It's disturbing the other guests. I'm afraid if he doesn't stop we're going to have to ask him to leave or call the police."

Well, shit. This is your circus, and that is your monkey in particular.

You're swiping the extra key card out of his hand and making your way out of the bar and into the packed lobby as quick as you can while his publicist sits there, arguing that Dieter would never (he would), that he was quiet (he wasn't), and so it couldn't possibly be him (it absolutely could).

The elevator feels so slow, the whirl of gears and an unseen mechanism pulling you up and up, as you ascend the many floors of the hotel. Then, in a blink and with another creak the doors are about to pull themselves open, and you swear you can hear it already.

The fucking screaming.

You're running now, the elevator doors barely open before you're squeezing through them, not caring for the noise you make as you thud heavily down the hallway. What would a little extra noise matter when there's someone screaming blue murder inside one of the hotel rooms.

Tapping the card, the lock on room 819 illuminates green and you're throwing open the door, the screams having subsided for a moment, and shutting yourself inside and trying to catch your breath.

Aside from the silence, it's dark. That's the first thing you notice. The second thing you notice is Dieter Bravo is nowhere to be seen, even in the dim light creeping around the window.

"Dee... Dieter?" you whisper into the darkness, hoping beyond hope that he's not here and he hasn't been screaming for the past fifteen minutes.

A small, hoarse voice floats toward you from much further away than you'd expect him to be able to be given the size of the room, "Who is it?"

"Dieter? It's me. What the fuck is going on? Where are you?" you loud whisper into the hotel room, running your fingertips across the wall as you creep forward. From what you can tell it looks the same as when you left him here. Nothing is wrecked or overturned, and he hasn't had another sudden burst of artistic inspiration - the walls look the same as they did when you shut the door to Dieter looking forlornly out of the window to the city below.

"What do you mean?" comes the muffled voice. It's closer now, but you still can't see him. There's no lump on the bed, no one sat in the chair, and he's not lying spread eagle on the floor.

"Dieter, where the fuck are you?!"

He sighs, and you hear a slap, like the sound of a hand hitting a flat, solid surface. "Under here, numbnuts."

You take another step forward, peaking under the desk, seeing no sign of Dieter. Turning toward the bed, you try to find somewhere else to look under to find wherever Dieter has stashed himself when you see it.

Two bare legs sticking out from under the bed, the end of his soft green robe just poking out from beneath the frame.

"Dee... what is going on, why are you under there? There was screaming, they think it's coming from in here."

Dieter's silence is all you need to confirm it was indeed coming from in here, from him. Pinching your nose, you ready yourself for whatever he's going to throw at you this time.

"Why are you screaming?"

"Come under here."

"Dieter, no, it's disgusting under there, they don't clean these -"

"I'll tell you if you come under here."

"No, I know this is a nice hotel, but the floors are still filth-"

Dieter cuts you off, a loud scream ripping out of his chest and rattling around your head at a frequency that makes you feel like your skull is about to burst. It must hurt, is all you can think, his throat must be raw and his mouth dry. Panic sets in - hearing a scream like that will do that to a person, you suppose. You panic not just because it must hurt, but because if there was one thing you knew, despite Dieter Bravo's flair for dramatics, he wasn't a man to scream for no reason. And, as much as you hate to admit it, you can't help but think down to Dieter's publicist likely still sat in the bar - Dieter will be impossible to interview tomorrow if you don't stop him soon, and that's if he's even allowed to stay in the hotel much longer.

So, you do the only thing you know how to do when a metaphorical fire in the shape of Dieter Bravo threatens to burn everything down. You throw yourself over it and hope for the best.

"DEE! DIETER! OKAY, OKAY!" you shout, trying not to grimace as you get on your hands and knees to crawl under the cramped space under the bed, ignoring the grit and dust already on your palms.

"Fuck. Shit, Dieter. Ow." You're wedged under there with him now, ass sticking up in the air as you cram your upper body under the bed frame. You can see the vague shape of him under here, a Dieter shaped profile visible in front of you as he stares blankly up at the underside of the bed.

"What's wrong with you?" you ask, somewhat breathlessly, only to watch Dieter tense up at your words. Shit. You didn't mean it like that, and you certainly didn't say it like that either, but before you can take it back and apologize, he beats you to it.

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong with me," he says in a voice so much smaller and quieter now that your head is right beside his.

"Sorry. Look, I didn't - I meant, why are you screaming, Dee. They said they'd have to kick you out or call the cops. You're going to get us arrested."

"Arrested, huh?" he says thoughtfully, turning to look over at you. "I've always liked the idea of you in handcuffs."

"No, Dieter," you say, and even though you know he can't see you, you roll your eyes in the dark anyway.

Dieter's sigh is so big it picks up errant dust swirls it around under the bed. The urge to swipe at your nose is strong but you resist, knowing from the state of things and the chalky feeling of your palms that it'll only make things worse.

"I'm nervous," he finally says, and that's all you needed to hear.

His face is turned toward the underside of the bed when you crawl backwards. It takes a moment for him to notice, but as soon as he does he's whimpering and taking in a breath big enough that you know he's going to scream again. But you're not leaving, and instead you roll onto your back with an oof and slide yourself under the bed to look up into the nothing with Dieter.

You think back to other times he'd been like this. Too scared to perform, anxiety taking root, frightening him off into some dark quiet corner of a set or his house. You'd found him in his closet once, the only thing apparently capable of coaxing him out was watching you unbutton your shirt a little more because you'd gotten so hot sitting in the stifling little room with him. When he'd finally made his way out, it had been with his eyes glued to the extra patch of skin you'd uncovered and the trickle of sweat dripping down your chest.

Dark as it was, visual distractions wouldn't work this time.

"How many times do you have exactly the same thoughts, and how many times does everything turn out okay anyway? You're good at this, Dieter. You're going to be amazing tomorrow, just like you always are, and I'm not saying that to pressure you to perform, but just because you are. You're amazing."

"Yeah, right," he scoffs, slapping a hand dramatically down on the floor again with a grunt.

"I'm serious. You have a lot to be proud of."

"A lot to not be proud of too."

"Well, you know what to do about that."

"I'm not going to rehab."

"I've never told you to."

Dieter sighs again, because you were right. You had never told him to go to rehab. You never would. It didn't feel like your place to - you were only his assistant. He knows this and you think - know - that sometimes he'd like for you to just tell him to get it together and go, but you don't. "I know."

You don't know how long you both lie there in silence and darkness after that, softly exchanging breaths under the bed. You do know it's long enough for your mind to wander back down to the bar and all the people now going about their evenings. It's not lost on you that no one came in to check on him before you. That now that he'd been silent for several minutes, no one had bothered to knock on the door to see if he was okay. None of them cared, not really. You knew that and, worse of all, Dieter knew that. The people here didn't care about him unless he was being a shiny, glitzy movie star who could say and do the right things in front of the cameras.

Scuffling feet alert you to his movement as Dieter move shuffles toward you, his head colliding gently with the side of yours. You make no effort to move and neither does he, choosing instead to lean his head against yours and rest it there.

The signs are obvious then. The small weave of his head as his eyes track invisible shapes in the dark. The twitch in his fingers, the bounce of his foot. He'd been a mess all day, you can see that now, and whatever he had taken since getting here was somehow making it better and worse all at once.

"How much have you taken this time?"

His breath catches, caught doing something he said he wouldn't do, not here, not this time. But he doesn't lie, not to you. He'd stopped doing that a long time ago, and that was as much progress as you could ever hope for.

"Too much. Not enough. I don't know."

"Okay," you say, even though it isn't, not really. He should stop. You wish you could do more to stop him.

"Will you stay?" he murmurs, even though he knows you have a flight to catch. He'd paid for it when he demanded you come with him, promising you a few days off while he was stuck at the festival answering the same questions over and over again.

"You know I can't, my flight is in a couple of hours, I need to get through the traffic -"

"Please stay."

"There is nowhere for me to stay, Dieter. You don't need me here and I couldn't get a room if I tried. Everywhere nearby is booked." Assistants don't sleep with their employers, assistants don't sleep with their employers...

"I do. I do need you. I'm not asking you to stay anywhere else, I'm asking you to stay here. Stay with me," he mumbles. "I can sleep under here if I have to. Just stay." Assistants don't sleep with their fucking employers...

"You're not sleeping on the floor. And I- I can't." By this point you don't know why you can't, because maybe assistants don't sleep with their employers, but you and Dieter were always a little bit, well... y'know.

"Please."

And your resolve never was that strong where Dieter was concerned. Not really. "Fine. I'll stay. I need a shower and I need to go -"

"You can borrow some of my clothes," he says quickly. "We can shower - separately, I mean - get room service - fuck I'm starving - and then when we sleep, we can cuddle?"

You can't help but laugh, smiling up at the bed at how quickly his mood could turn around, particularly where cuddling and a good meal were concerned. Sometimes, when he was really tired, or high, or sad, or a combination of all three, he'd ask you to cuddle. You'd always settle on stroking his hair instead, watching his face as his jaw relaxed and sleep finally pulled at his features before sneaking away. Today, you had nowhere else to be so, you think, you may as well stay to cuddle.

"Yeah, Dee. We can cuddle."

You talk over room service - fancy toasted sandwiches and warm chocolate chip cookies that weren't on the menu, but Dieter had the audacity to ask for anyway. When you shower, he waits outside the door for you, restlessly stepping from foot to foot. You wait for him too, convincing him to leave the door open a little just in case, and he does so without question. A few minutes later he comes out, flushed red from the heat of the water and totally naked. You don't bat an eye.

Your skin still feels damp when you're climbing into bed, grateful to be on top of it and grit free now rather than under it. Dieter soon follows, crawling naked on all fours before tucking his legs under the sheets beside you.

You talk for a little longer, listening as Dieter sounds more and more slurred with sleep, before flicking the light off. He fidgets, shuffling closer to you until his arm wraps around your chest, resting his hand softly on your shoulder, his nose nuzzling into your neck on the pillow you now share. It's not comfortable, not for you, but the contented sounds coming from Dieter and the way his face twitches against your bare skin tells you he's holding back tears, that he needs this. You can be uncomfortable for one night, you think, just before he hooks his leg over yours, well and truly pinning you to the bed.

"Dee?"

"Yeah?"

"Your cock is on my leg."

"I know."

"Okay, well... G'night Dee."

"Night," he says straight into your ear, smacking his lips as he snuggles into your side, soft cock squished against your leg. And when, somehow, sleep ignores your discomfort and pulls you under barely a few minutes later, you swear you can feel Dieter press his lips to the bare skin of your neck.

Holy shit! Apparently I woke up today just wanting alllll the angst 🤣 This was such a good read! Imma go in further detail…

The way she finds them together! Oh my heart! But good for her! Her telling him off at the end had me smiling like an idiot! Also, fuck Joel! I don’t think he deserves another chance!

The falling | joel miller x f!reader, 5k

Summary: It’s a weird feeling, the moment you realize you’ve lost everything. You're falling. It is never ending, the falling, even after the moment, that exact moment, is long gone. Or you catch Joel cheating on you. The world comes crushing down.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, ANGST. That's it. Ok, bye. But seriously, angst, a whole lot of angst, alternated POVs, husband!joel, wife!reader, cheater!joel, married couple, Joel fucks another f!person, reference to sexual activity but nothing too detailed, as I said before-ANGST, excessive use of the word fuck, Joel is kind of a dick on this one, as always let me know if I missed anything!

A/N: Let me know how you feel about this lost little puppy, I know he sounds arrogant and awful, maybe I can rectify that, on a second part. If you're interested in a closure for these two, hit me in the comments! Thank you for taking the time to read anything I write! Love you all! 🥰😘

Dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics

It’s a weird feeling, the moment you realize you’ve lost everything.

Everything dear and loved and cherished and so close to your heart. Your heart itself.

You still can’t decide if it’s liberating or torturing, to have that exact moment burned in your thoughts like a Polaroid.

But the pain is real. The pain is excruciating. It spreads like vines through your whole body, starting from the pit of your stomach in the form of a bile you try to hold back, moving to your heart’s agonizing clench, licking to the ends of your numb limbs which remain obstinately immobile. It feels almost like floating, but not exactly.

You’re falling; you’re still falling as if there’s no luxurious, expensive floor underneath your feet, holding you surprisingly still up. You wait for the landing, the crush, unmoving, unblinking, not quite breathing. It is never ending, the falling, even after the moment, that exact moment, is long gone.

Your designer’s tote bag, another unnecessarily extravagant gift from your husband, drops from your hands to the floor with a loud thud.

Joel’s thrusts stop immediately and he turns his head to look behind him, while he’s on his knees, balls deep in a female body on all fours. His eyes shut tightly in something you’re not sure how to interpret, dropping his head between his shoulder blades and his palms squeeze the hips of the female body he's holding, until his fingertips go white.

And you’re just standing there, on the threshold of your bedroom, taking in the scene. It’s weird how the mind works under stressful situations. Is the absurdity of the reality that keeps you calm? Is it your brain’s reaction to protect you from collapsing? Are you shutting down right now?

You feel your eyes unable to move around and at the same time you see clearer than ever, as if you’re looking through a wide-angle lens.

You notice all of the stripped clothes, which they don’t seem hastily taken off, the way they pool on various surfaces of the room; they took their time undressing each other.

You notice the crystal tumbler of a half finished liquid, Joel’s whiskey, on his side of the nightstand; they took their time having fun.

You notice the absence of a condom on Joel’s cock as he removes himself from the female hole he was buried deep, all splayed out for him and now you; they took their time before, it seems, there is an intimacy there. This is not a stranger, this is not a first time.

Joel is calm, collected even, as he stands to his full height, grabbing his pants from the floor next to the king sized bed and putting them on. Calculated, steady movements, he looks like he’s trying to stay in control of the situation, diminish it to something else. You pray he doesn’t go down that path.

You look behind him, the female body’s gathering itself into a ball, sitting on your bed now, hands hugging it’s knees, trying to protect its nudity. Your eyes roam her form until they settle on her face. Oh, you know her. She looks -hm, there’s a mosaic of emotions behind her eyes, which are surprisingly bold to look back at you. You see shock, you see fear, you see.. satisfaction?

“Darlin’” Joel’s approaching you, crossing the ridiculously big room, with a steady pace.

His chest is heaving from the effort to regulate his breathing, he’s sweaty, his muscles all bulged from the interrupted fucking, his curls -your curls, fuck, that hurts- damp. He’s so handsome in all his disheveled form. He looks like your Joel.

Imaginary flashes of her fingertips combing through his hair are passing through your mind and you feel your esophagus contracting, a sense of a burning hot liquid moving up to your mouth. You swallow it down.

He reaches to touch your arm, don’t you dare, is all you mutter lowly, still without moving a muscle as if you do, the world will come crushing down. It already did, didn’t you get the memo? Your voice feels foreign to your ears, your tongue feels rough like sandpaper. He obeys.

When does this falling end?

“Baby-”, he tries again, while he steps forward, a condescending tone to his voice, like he’s addressing a toddler.

“Don’t-”, you roll your eyes in your head, god, he smells so good, even with the sweat someone else poured out of his skin, he smells so fucking good. He smells like your Joel. “Don’t come any closer.”

“This-” he exhales heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, as if it’s an unnecessary effort to explain, as if you should understand; of all people, you should know, “this doesn’t mean anything-” his hand gesturing between him and the female body, “she doesn’t mean anything.” You should understand, baby, you should know.

And for the first time her eyes leave yours and land on the face of the deceiver. If this wasn’t happening to you right now, you would take pity on her pained expression. You almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

“Does she know that?” you ask him, your eyes never leaving her tangled form on your bed.

Joel snaps his head to her direction, narrowing his eyes in warning, “Yes, she does.”, his voice comes out strict and final, signaling there’s no room for doubt. He doesn’t sound like your Joel.

“I need you to leave.”, you breathe barely audible, your eyes still on her face; now she doesn’t know where to look, the rug pulled out from under her feet from the man she had inside her minutes ago.

His gaze is cold and indifferent, as if everything is her fault, looking still in her direction. She looks like a deer caught in the headlights, the empathetic part of your brain feels for her.

“Get your shit and get the fuck out, what are you waiting for?” he snaps at her.

“Not her, you.” you whisper, it’s impossible to speak louder, all of your energy powers your two standing feet.

He turns to look at you, shocked, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape.

“Wh- what are you talking about, sweetheart?” he tries to reason with you, “We need to talk, to-”

“Joel-”, you try again and thank god he’s interrupting you, you don’t have the strength to negotiate right now. Let the dice roll. It’s all fucked, anyway.

“This is my home; I’m not leaving.” he simply states, shaking his head from side to side, staring at you expectantly.

“You’re right. This is your house.” you acknowledge, coming to a painful realization. “Everything is yours; you own everything, don’t you?”, you smile sadly, crouching down to collect you bag.

You turn on your heels and leave the residence formerly known and felt as home, behind you.

Alarm system disabled.

Joe’s hairs are rising on the nape of his neck, when he checks the alarm app notification on his phone, thinking you came back home.

It’s been an awful month without you, without being able to contact you. He knew where you were of course, he could not for the life of him leave that information escape him, but he didn’t pressure you with an unexpected visit, he knew better.

It’s been a month. That’s plenty of time. You took your time and now you’re ready to talk. You have to be, this can’t be the end of this relationship, this marriage.

He presses your number and hits call. Fuck, he’s still blocked. Maybe you forgot to unblock him, it’s ok, it doesn’t mean anything.

He checks the house’s cameras. Shit. That’s not you. What is she doing there? What the fuck is going on? Alright, he’s going back to the house.

He stands on his feet, right in the middle of a meeting with the board and just leaves them. There’s a distant muttering of where does he think he goes, what happened, what’s gotten into him, this is important for the upcoming deal, but he pays no mind to them.

He needs to talk to you.

“Yeah, I think I’ve got everything you need,” Maria facetimes you, showing around your closet via her camera. “I’m loading the suitcase to the car and I’m out of here.”

“Thank you Mar-”

“MARIA?” Joel’s voice travels through the space from the ground floor, up.

“Shit, shit, shit, what am I gonna do?” Maria whispers to you turning the call to voice only.

“Just take the suitcase and leave, it’s ok, I only got personal stuff if that’s what he’s worried about. Let him check if it comes to that.”, you try to calm her down.

“Ok, ok-” Maria grabs the handle of the suitcase and moves to leave the walk-in closet.

“Hey.” Joel comes through the door to the bedroom taking in the scene. He hasn’t set foot in this room for nearly a month now.

“Hey.” Maria sounds pissed on the line.

“What are you doing here? Where's Tommy?”, Joel’s face frowns in question. “Tommy's not my keeper, his my partner. My husband, not that you would know what that means, apparently.” Maria just shrugs and moves to pass him by.

“What are you doing, what’s going on here?” he insists, blocking her way.

“I’m just collecting som-”

“How is she? Is she ok?” his voice softening when he asks about you.

“Oh, please, Joel, how is she? Really?” Maria scoffs at him. “She doesn’t want to see you, Joel or hear from you, that’s how she is.”

“Yeah, I gathered that much, thank you.” he mocks back. “Is she on the phone, can I just talk to her?” he extends his arm to reach for the phone. “Over my dead and cold body.” Maria says, pressing the phone on her chest.

His eyes are raging storms, his nostrils flaring with quiet rage. He takes a deep breath “Can you please ask her if I can talk to her, just for five minutes?”

“Why don’t you call her, Joel?” Maria taunts him, emphasizing the pronunciation of his name.

Joel just stares back at her, unfazed. Maria doesn’t move a muscle, lifting an eyebrow quizzically. Well, she did move one muscle.

Joel sighs exasperatedly “She blocked my number.”

“I wonder why that is.” Maria twists the knife, “I guess you have your answer, then.”

“Christ-” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “just- just ask her, please.”

Maria lifts the phone to her ear, rolling her eyes in frustration in the process. “Hey, Joel’s here, he’s ask-”

“Yeah, I heard everything.” you interrupt her, “No, I don’t want to talk to him.” Maria is shaking her head negatively at him as you talk, to pass the message.

Joel’s face goes cold and emotionless. “Well, tell her if she wants her belongings, she needs to come and get them herself.”

It’s been five weeks now and you can’t keep living in your best friend’s and sister in law's clothes. You’re gonna have to go and grab your stuff yourself.

Because it wasn’t enough what you’ve been through, what you’ve heard until you reached that goddamned bedroom door, what you’ve witnessed when you’ve entered, now he’s making you go back there to humiliate you. As you’re checking your calendar for your work schedule to decide on a suitable day, it hits you. You have Joel’s calendar on your phone, too. You always do, it was the only way to have some time together between his visits to work sites and board meetings and bussiness trips and fucking-behind-your-back, apparently.

And then you remember that day where you both stole some time off and decided to spend it cuddling with each other on the couch, talking nonsense and laughing at silly things and hugging and kissing and fucking all night long.

A brainstorm of thoughts run through your head instantly. How could he do that to you? He looked so happy in your arms. Maybe he was right, maybe it was nothing, maybe you should understand, you of all people, you should know. Do you need to do an STD test? How careless could he be? Where there others? Did he ever love you? Do you want to know?

Does it really matter?

You focus again on that day. He’d told you about a big deal coming up, one of the biggest in his career, if not the biggest so far and how important it was to the future of the company.

You searched frantically through his calendar until you found the date of the final meeting, the date where they’d seal the deal. Because there is no way they weren’t. If Joel wanted it so badly, he’d find a way to make it happen.

And you knew your husband, ironic as is sounds now. He was focused to a fault. He wouldn’t even check his phone that day. He’d done it every time since you were together. History indicated that he probably had other reasons, too, for not checking his phone in a timely manner, but you wouldn’t dwell on that. Not right now. Because now you had your chance.

That date was your chance.

Alarm disabled.

Joel’s phone is vibrating momentarily, not that he noticed, it was silent and tacked away in his jacket pocket, the jacket itself hanging on the back of his chair.

Don’t fuck it up, don’t fuck it up, don’t fuck it up, he’s chanting in his mind, under all this calm and confident demeanor, he’s sweating inside.

This is it, this is it, this is it, he repeats like a mantra, watching his opposite CEO, Leo Marks, playing with the pen between his fingers. He’s inspecting the contract again and he’s so close, so close to what he wanted. The room is silent, the long table full of seated lawyers and consultants from both sides, holding their breaths in charged expectation.

Joel knows that Marks is going to sign. He knows it. He worked for it. He convinced him, he made his vision clear as day and he lured him in. This is it. He got this.

Then your face appears in his mind. No, not today, he can’t do this today. You will have to wait. Like you always have. Joel shakes his head slightly, as if to remove you from his thoughts. His fingers get itchy, he wishes he could just check on you. Yes, he just want to check on you.

Are you alright? Are you thinking about him? Do you miss him like he does? Do you stay wide awake at night replaying the same scene over and over until you feel physically ill? Do you know that he thinks about you? Did he show you at all that night? Maybe he should have appeared at your friend’s door out of the blue. Maybe you think he doesn’t care. All he was trying to do was give you space. Respect your boundaries. Let you work everything out.

Fuck.

He reaches for his phone. He doesn’t know why. He knows his number is still blocked. He checks every night, when he's too exhausted from the lack of sleep and prays he could listen to your voice, or the soft sound of your breath when you slept next to him. But he fishes it out of his jacket pocket, anyway and then he sees it.

38 minutes ago.

Alarm disabled.

Alarm disabled. Alarm disabled. Alarm disabled, the only thought repeated in his head. He immediately searches the cameras for you but no movement is recorded right now. Maybe you already left. His heart rate spikes, his temples feel the pressure of his blood pumping violently in his veins. Cold sweat pours out of his body.

He’s squeezing his eyes shut, mentally counting all the places without cameras inside the house. What if you are still in there and he just can’t see you?

Fuck.

Mark’s voice extract him from his thoughts, “Mr. Miller, everything looks in order as we agreed.”

Joel snaps his eyes back to him, slightly irritated, “Of course it does, your legal team already did a thorough check all these months to get us here today.”

“Yes, yes,” Marks laughs entertained, “I just wanted to look it over one more time, I mean, we really are going to…”

What if you’re still there? What if this is his chance? He could always try to reach you after the deal, convince you to hear him out. Yeah, he can do that. He doesn’t need to chase you down. He can wait a little bit longer, can’t he? He can have it all, right? He was the man that had it all.

A mail pops up on his phone, a compliment note from the management of one of both your favorite hotels in Europe, thanking you for choosing their establishments for your stay, once again. Shit. You’re fleeing the fucking country? Are you fucking serious?

“..Mr. Miller?” Marks insists.

“Hm?” his eyes are glued to the screen of his phone.

“I said, before we sign, I need you to walk me through it one more time.” he demands like a little child asking for its favorite bedtime story. “I mean, this is the project of my dreams. I need your reassurance that this is as important for you as it is for us, that it’ll be your only focus for the foreseeable future.” he looks at Joel expectantly.

His only focus.

For the foreseeable future.

Fuck.

“HONEY!”. Your blood runs cold in your veins to the sound of his baritone voice. Your hand freezes over the shelf with the t-shirts, not making a sound. You didn’t take that long, why is he here? Why isn’t he in his meeting?

Joel enters the bedroom but you’re not there. Fuck, you hear the curse running softly from his lips. You don’t move, you don’t blink, you don’t breath.

He moves to leave and check elsewhere but then he stops. You hear soft steps and you see the door of the walk-in closet opening. His wide form blocks the light from the outside, his broad shoulders almost taking up all the space of the frame.

He looks disheveled, his baby blue shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned at the top, his hair a mess, like he kept combing his fingers through them. You don’t dare meet his eyes though. You keep your gaze as far as his chin goes, concentrating on the bare patch there. His sole presence electrifies you like he’s already touched you. Your whole body feels on fire and frozen simultaneously. God, you missed him.

“I was calling for you.”, he breathes out and you can feel his fear pulsing through his body. He’s scared you’re gonna run. That’s why he doesn’t leave his spot, blocking the door.

“I know.”

“Were you hiding from me?” his brows are furrowed in a seemingly pained expression from what your peripheral vision could help you understand.

“No, I just chose not to answer you.”, you lower your head, looking at your feet.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” you say hastily, but he’s waiting for a real answer. You breathe deeply, “It- it felt too domestic, you calling for me, me answering back, like how we were before.” He nods, biting his bottom lip. “What are you doing here, Joel?”

“In our house?” the edges of his lips are slightly turned up, his head tilting to one side.

“No, this is your house as you said yourself.”

“Darlin’, you know I didn’t mean it like that..” he sighs in regret, his head deepening in his shoulder blades in an effort to attract your gaze upwards.

“But you’re right.”

“I built it for you.” his voice soft, like it’s a secret mend to stay that way.

“Hm.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” his brows raise in genuine surprise.

“Nothing, forget it.”

“No, tell me.”

“You first.”

He looks perplexed, he forgot your question.

“What are you doing here, right now, Joel?”

“I got the alarm notification and.. it was the only way I could talk to you, honey..”

“But- your meeting-”

He searches your eyes, although you refuse to look at him, analysing your confused expression and it hits him. He smiles in understanding, nodding his head. “So, you chose today on purpose..”

You don’t respond, you keep looking everywhere but his eyes.

He laughs through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. “Did you really think that I wouldn’t drop everything to come and see you?”

“I really did.”

He gasps in disbelief, almost offended.

“Baby, look at me, please; look at me..” he pleads with you softly. You close your eyes as if in fear you would obey, your chin trembling from the effort to remain calm.

“Baby, look at me. I want you to look at me, now.” he presses in a more authoritative way. He thought he could order you around? Break you?

“No.” you shake your head.

Joel calls you by your name but before he has a chance to spit another soft command-

“I SAID NO!” you open your eyes, targeting them to his chest, tears spilling uncontrollably now. You can see from your periphery the look of shock on his face, because you never yelled before. Ever.

“Why, sweetheart?”, he retreats back to his soft side.

“Because that’s exactly what you want. And you can’t always get what you want, Joel, not anymore.” You can’t hold back your tongue now.

“Jesus Christ,” you grit through your teeth, “what do you want from me, hm?” your eyes keep dancing around his face but never on his eyes. He looks dumbfounded, his lips part slightly but you don’t wait for an answer. “What else do you want? Is this some kind of ego thing? You expected me to shout and break things and hit you and tell you to leave her and come back to me? Because your ego is safe, Joel, if that’s what you worry about. I didn’t leave you, you did that first when you went behind my back. So, you walked out on me and not the other way around. Happy? Ready to go on with your life?” You’re grabbing the shelf where your hand previously rested so hard, trying to steady yourself.

For the first time Joel is speechless. He doesn’t know what to say. He can’t find the words to defend himself, to convince you about his feelings, to soothe you at the very least. He begins to have a glimpse of how he appears in your eyes right now. How much damage he’s done, even before that night. How much ground he lost over time.

“Darlin', I just wa-” he begins softly, almost like walking on eggshells, but your body visibly tenses, you jaw shuts tight, your eyes rolling back in your head.

“Stop, just stop! Stop saying what you want! Stop making this about you! Don’t you see? You keep asking me for what you want! Have you stopped for a second, just a second, to think what I want? What I need? I don’t- I don’t recognize you anymore.”

“I-” he closes his eyes in distress, “I love you.” His last retreat. He’s trying anything that could help him. He doesn’t get it. He can’t. He’s not capable. But he used to be. He was the most empathetic person you knew. What the fuck happened?

Your eyes snap though the open closet door at his admision and on to the perfectly made bed.

His gaze follows yours behind his back and shakes his head once more in regret.

“It really didn’t mean-”

“Joel-” you warn him, “have some self respect and don’t say what I think you’re about to say. At least have the guts to admit exactly what you did, I’d appreciate it more.”

He exhales heavily, you’re not giving him an opening to fix this. You’re hanging onto every word he mutters. Not a single one of them is left unparsed and he's not used to that. He knows that if he does not control his anger right now, it's game over.

Heavy silence is hanging between you, each one lost on their thoughts.

“Do you know when you really lost me, Joel?”, you ask him eventually.

Half an hour ago he would swear he had all the answers, but now? Now he sees he’s in the deep, so he stays quiet, searching your eyes that still won't reach his, for answers.

“You lost me when you humiliated her in front of me.”

His face goes white, shocked, he can’t believe his ears. His mouth opens and closes but he makes no sound, how on earth does he respond to that?

“You still don’t get it, do you?”, you pinch the bridge of your nose exasperatedly. “You valued her enough to endanger our wedding, you valued her enough to bring her to our own house, to our bed, Joel; you valued her enough to fuck her raw, to let her know that you were unhappy with me, before I had a chance to realize it myself-”, Joel interrupts you almost panicked “I’m not un-” and for the first time your eyes pierce his in such an anguish that the words die in his throat. “-and then you just diminished her like she was nothing, just to prove a point to me. While she was naked, vulnerable on our bed. And trust me, this is not me defending her, she is as responsible for this as you, but you’re the one I married, not her. I expected better from you, Joel, not her.”

Now he’s the one averting his eyes from you, looking down on his overpriced shoes, his demeanor defeated, this is not the Joel you know anymore.

“And what was the point, Joel? Hm? What? That she means nothing? Then why were you with her? Why did you choose her? Why did you spend your precious time on nothing, while I had to make an appointment to see you? That’s what you did with me, too? I mean nothing, too? Just a warm hole to fuck when convenient?” he snaps his head back to you, shaking it in denial frantically, his eyes blown wide and red from all the emotional stress you push onto him.

“But I guess I got my answer about a month ago, hm?” It’s one of those moments that epiphanies hit you as you speak uncontrollably, you just can’t stop your mind from running wild, your mouth from spilling bile, your heart from pounding so hard in your chest, your ears start to ring, your grasp on the shelf tightening even more for balance.

“And that tells me a lot about who you really are. It’s not just about the fucking, Joel, Jesus-, -for the brilliant man I know you to be, you’re stumbling through your blindest moment.”, you shake your head in disappointment, tears still running freely down your face, licking your jawline and falling like a waterfall to the carpeted floor. You feel so done, you find it pointless to explain any further.

“I- I don’t know you, Joel, I don’t know who you are anymore. Maybe I never did,” you conclude, “maybe you’re right,” you slowly nod to yourself, “and everything is my fault after all.” you whisper, not sure if you want him to hear that part.

He did. “I never said that it was your fault, baby. When did I ever say that?” his face is contorted in pain, “None of this is your fault, none of it, you hear me?” he wants so desperately to cross the fucking room and hold you tight, crush all your pain and insecurities and self hatred under an asphyxiating hug. He also knows that he won't make even two steps before you flee, or step back from him and he can’t for the life of him witness that. Because that’s how much he needs you. He prefers you standing there, where he can see you, where he can have you, even if you wither and die under the enormous trauma he’s putting you through.

“So stupid.. I was- I am so stupid..” you’re repeating to yourself almost deliriously, rubbing your fingers on your forehead.

“This isn’t you, sweetheart, you don’t talk like that, don’t- don’t do that to yourself.” Joel tries to bring you back.

“But this is you, isn’t it, Joel? The real you?” you bite back. “This isn’t me, really? How do you like the new me, Joel? Do you take pride on your creation?” you laugh bitterly at him. “Yeah, how you’d always call me? Polite little thing? Sweetheart?” you’re infuriated now, a rise fighting to explode through you. “How does it feel, Joel? To know you’re responsible for changing someone to their core? To know you had that much power over them?”

Joel’s shaking his head once again in desperation, hot tears spilling from his eyes, god, had he ever cried before? this is not a battle he can win, he sees that now. The damage is too great. What on earth was he thinking?

“Please, please honey, can we just take a breather, sit down and talk about everything?” he pleads with you, a last thread of hope shinning in his red rimmed eyes.

“Take a breather..” you mutter through your teeth, “you mean the breather you took while you were fucking someone else instead of talking to me?”, Joel shuts his eyes in defeat, there’s nothing he can say anymore. “I think you got it backwards, Joel.”

You take a steadying breath and command your legs internally to hold on a little while longer and move forward; clothes, suitcase, life left behind.

“Don’t contact me again, unless is via your legal team.” is the last bullet that hits Joel’s chest, right through his broken heart.

Paper Rings

Pairing: Marcus Pike x f!reader

Warnings: MDNI blog in general is 18+ go on now, get. Fluff, innuendos, panicked Marcus, cussing, think that's it?

Summary: Marcus wants to ask you an important question.

Mood board made by the amazing @jay-zzle, divider made by @saradika-graphics

Prompt by: @swiftispunk, let me know what ya think!

thank you @notjustjavierpena for taking a look at this and helping me with it! ❤️

Masterlist||AO3 Link

Tonight’s the night, Marcus thinks on his drive home. He’s going to ask her to marry him. After their first date, he knew deep down she was the one. Three years later and the feeling hasn’t changed. He’s asked her dad’s permission, the ring has been sitting in his dresser for months now, the reservations have been made at Mastro’s Steakhouse. He clicks the remote for the garage as he pulls into the driveway, taking a deep breath in and out before getting out of the car and going into the house.

You hear the door open downstairs; Marcus must be home. Just in time too; he had told you earlier this morning about making reservations somewhere and to dress pretty like you always do. Working on the finishing touches of your makeup, you see his reflection in the bathroom mirror smiling at you, leaning against the doorway.

“Hey babe,” you greet him with a warm smile, “I am almost done. Is there anything you need to do to get ready?”

“Not much,” Marcus responds, walking away from the doorway to the dresser, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you’re still in the bathroom, and slowly opening the drawer he knows the ring is in, “Need to use the bathroom before we go and might change my suit jacket.” His hand creeps to the very back of the dresser, feeling for that velvet box he knows all too well is there. His fingers touch it, grasping it in his hand, quickly pulling it out, and shoving it into his jacket pocket just as you’re leaving the bathroom. He shuts the drawer quickly and turns to look at you.

“What are you doing?” You ask, giving him a suspicious look.

“Nothing,” he replies, raising his eyebrows, noticing the lone pair of socks on the floor that escaped the drawer as he was pulling the ring out, “Was going to change my socks. My feet feel gross.”

“Okay?” You giggle, shaking your head, getting your shoes on, “Weirdo.”

“Shush, you love me and wouldn’t have it any other way.” He grins at you, picking up the socks and going to sit on the bed.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” You grin, “Will you help me with the back of my dress?”

He helps zip your dress up, giving the back of your neck a light kiss, shucking off his suit jacket, and laying it on the bed on his way to the bathroom.

“I’ll meet you downstairs.”

__

“Where are we going?” You ask, looking over at Marcus, waiting for the red light to change.

“Now what’s the fun in telling you when it is supposed to be a surprise?” He says, squeezing your thigh, “Patience.”

You roll your eyes and scoff. The car starts moving again when the light turns green. Marcus is so meticulous in everything he does. Always has a plan, a certain way of doing things, likes to be spontaneous to an extent but usually always a set schedule. You love those things about him, he’s the comfort in the chaos that life can sometimes be. He pulls  into one of the fanciest restaurants in Washington D.C.

“Oh my god, Marcus,” you whisper, “How on earth did you get a reservation?”

“I was able to make some calls,” he says, stepping out of the vehicle, making his way to your door. “Had some people who owed me some favors.” He explains, opening your door for you and offering his hand. You take his hand and let him lead you. Handing off his keys to the valet. Walking into the restaurant you are greeted by the hostess.

“Good evening, sir,” she says with a bright smile, “Name?”

“Should be under Pike.”

“Ah yes, right this way.” She says, marking in the book and grabbing a couple menus before leading the way.

You cannot believe your eyes looking around at this place. There is a bar, a live jazz band playing, and plenty of couples sitting at the other tables.

“Is this table okay, Mr. Pike?” The hostess asks when she stops at an empty table.

“It’s perfect, thank you.” Marcus smiles, stepping over to the chair closest to you and sliding it out for you.

“Your waiter will be right with you.” She says, giving a small nod setting the menus down on the table.

You sit in the chair, grabbing the menu, watching Marcus move to the other side of the table to sit down across from you.

“So, Mr. Pike,” you smirk, “What on earth is the special occasion?”

“Just wanted to take you somewhere nice,” he replies, cocking an eyebrow, “Is that not allowed?”

“You’re up to something.”

“I am not,” Marcus grins, opening his menu, “What do you think you’ll have?”

“I’m thinking the salmon, although those crab cakes would be a good start, don’t you think?”

“Whatever you want, baby.”

“Good evening and welcome to Mastro’s Steakhouse, I’m Jared and I’ll be your waiter this evening.” A young man who approaches the table says, “Can I get you two something to drink?”

“I want whatever wine pairs the best with the New York strip, sweetheart?”

“You know, I’ll think I’ll do the same thing he’s doing, Mr. Wine Connoisseur over there,” you laugh, “Whatever pairs well with the salmon dish.”

“Alright, I will ask the chef what he thinks would be the best.”

“Oh!” You say as Jared starts to leave the table, “Crab cakes! We want the crab cakes as our appetizer.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

—

It’s now or never, Marcus thinks. The evening went exactly how he wanted it to, the meal was fantastic, the wine amazing, the dessert ordered to go will be arriving soon. This is the perfect moment to ask her.

“You know,” Marcus says, grabbing your hands, rubbing them softly, “You were right, I do have something special planned for us.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Marcus takes a deep breath in and lets it out, “Babe, I knew from the moment that I met you I wanted to be with you.”

He pulls your hands to his lips and gives them a soft kiss.

“After our first date, I knew you were the one I wanted to be with for the rest of my life.”

He stands up and gets down on one knee. You can hear people begin to whisper around you, watching the scene before you unfold.

“Oh my god” You say holding his hand tighter, “Marcus?”

“Baby, I love you so very much and I—” he says, patting the pocket of his suit jacket. “Fuck.”

“Babe?”

“No, no, no,” Marcus says, frantically searching his suit jacket and pants. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go.”

“Marcus,” you say, holding his face, “Look at me.”

He looks up at you with those big brown eyes you love. “I swear there’s a ring. I changed my jacket not even think—"

“Babe, I don’t care.” You smile, interrupting his panicked ramblings, “Ask me.”

“But the ring?”

“Don’t care, ask me.”

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes!” You say, wrapping your arms around his neck slotting your mouth against his. You can hear several of the other patrons clapping.

“Congratulations!” Jared says, returning to your table with your dessert.

“Thank you!” You say, beaming with joy.

—

On the drive home you can’t stop smiling like an idiot while holding Marcus’ hand. This is everything you dreamed about as a little girl; finding the perfect person to spend your life with and that is Marcus through and through.

“I still can’t believe I forgot the fucking ring!” Marcus says, shaking his head.

“Babe, you could’ve asked me with a ring made of paper and I would’ve said yes,” you laugh, “That’s the last thing I care about.”

“Well, a paper ring would be better than nothing!”

Approaching a gas station on the side of the road, an idea popped into your head.

“Stop!” You yelp, “Stop at that gas station!”

Marcus gives you a sideways look but pulls in regardless. Never one to refuse your requests.

“Cash?” You ask with your sweetest smile.

“Why’d we stop here?” He asks, rolling his eyes while getting his wallet out and handing you a twenty. You just give him a mischievous grin while getting out of the car. The door dings when you step into the gas station, making a beeline to the candy aisle and finding exactly what you were looking for: A bag of ring pops. Unable to contain your excitement, you let out a little squeal while grabbing them and head to the front.

“That’ll be $4.98.” The cashier says after ringing up your candy. You slap the twenty down on the counter and grab the bag running out.

“Thank you! Keep the change!” You shout behind you.

Getting back to the car, you see Marcus shaking his head trying to hold in his laughter. You make quick work of opening the bag, getting one singular ring pop out, and opening that as well, tapping on his window quickly, telling him to get out of the car.

“What on earth are you doing, honey?” Marcus laughs, opening the car door.

“You said something would be better than nothing,” you laugh, “Here’s something!”

You hand him the ring pop. He shakes his head looking at it.

“Baby,” Marcus starts looking up at you. “A ring pop? Really?”

“Marcus!” You huff, crossing your arms, “Are you gonna ask me?”

“Here?!” Marcus looks at you with surprise, looking at the ground, “Babe, this is a gas station parking lot!”

“And?”

“Babe, my pants—“

“Marcus Vincent Pike,” You scold, giving him a look that he knows means business.

“Okay, okay,” He says laughing, grabbing your hand, sliding out of the seat of the car with one knee on the ground, “Baby, will you make me the happiest man in the world and marry me?”

“Duh!” You say, jumping up and down as he slides the ring pop onto your finger. “It’s beautiful!”

Marcus bursts into laughter as you shove the ring pop into your mouth. “Tasty too!” You say after popping it out of your mouth.

Marcus grabs your hand, lifting it to his mouth, pushing the ring pop in, hollowing his cheeks a little, letting out a soft sigh. You can feel your mouth getting dry while you watch him suck on the ring pop. The makeshift engagement ring makes a soft pop as he lets it leave his mouth.

“I can think of something that’s sweeter,” he says with a sly smile and wink, letting go of your hand.

Thank you for tagging me in this! I loved it! 😍

Dial Drunk - A Frankie Morales One Shot

Young Frankie x f!reader

Rating: Explicit 18+ minors dni, please read the content warnings on this one 

Word count: 7,700 

Summary: Home has always been the boy next door.

Content: This gets pretty dark so please do read the warning, but I promise there is a happy ending, modern day Triple Frontier AU, (mostly) soft!Frankie, some descriptions of reader but she is meant as a universal (however you would like her to be bub), she has hair and there are outfit references, no age gap, reader & Frankie either teens or early 20’s, specific content warnings: references to neglect/poverty, a parent death, references and consequences of domestic abuse, brief violence, drug and alcohol references, addiction, mega angst. The good stuff? we’ve got flirting, kisses and smut; protected PIV (reader is on the pill but not mentioned), oral (f receiving – this is Frankie, come on), fingering, very light dirty talk, pet names (sugar), Frankie POV. I’ve tried to remove any overt British-isms but some may have slipped in. Please note, we’re always Fleabag coded here. Let me know if I’ve missed anything, I know this one isn’t an easy read.  

A/N: This story just flew right out of me, I was like a woman possessed. When I say I listened to Dial Drunk by Noah Kohan about 40 times? I know it covers some really hard topics and I totally get it if it’s not your thing, but I hope the love reader & Frankie have for each other helps you get through it and I promise a happy, fluffy end for them. They’re best friends, idiots in love but we’re going big on the angst. I don’t normally let my reader be rescued by a man but this Frankie did something to me and I let him save the day. I LOVE HIM. 

HUGE thank you to @pascalssbabyy for letting me run one million ideas past her & being so amazingly supportive, and of course to my America consultant @katareyoudrilling. You two are the dream. Big kisses to @luxurychristmaspudding for being an incredible cheerleader! Dividers by @saradika/@saradika-graphics

Listen to: Dial Drunk by Noah Kahan, specifically the Post Malone version, and also there are references to Homesick as well.

DIAL DRUNK

You know it’s a fucking cliche, but you’re pretty sure you’ve been in love with your best friend since you were eight years old. He’s a fucking idiot. Always has been. But he’s your idiot.

Frankie Morales has been the boy next door for as long as you can remember.

It was never a particularly nice area, but as the years wore on, the yards became unkempt, the children more feral, the parents increasingly absent. By the time you were teenagers you were both used to going to school on empty bellies and nipping into each other’s houses for three minute showers whenever the water at home was shut off, again.

You never spoke about the indignities that came with being dirt poor, of the realities of parents that either removed themselves or were far too present. You hated when you weren’t able to scrub the filth from under your fingernails and he couldn’t stand when his Dad had money for liquor. But there was solace in the silence. Comfort in a shared nightmare that you never spoke into existence with each other.

It made you brittle, old before your time. It made him dangerous, impulsive, but also quick to seek out relief in an easy laugh. When you think of Frankie, it’s often a picture of him laughing, heavenly crinkles around his dark eyes and a single dimple which you loved so much, that pulls into your vision. He always saw it as his mission in life to make you laugh, sought it out at all times as he tried to take you away from the harshness of your shared reality and gift you some joy for a few brief moments.

It was easier when you were ten, got significantly harder once the hormones kicked in at thirteen and then downright near fucking impossible once you both hit eighteen. A lot less to smile about then.

Frankie washed through girlfriends like they were going out of fashion, seemingly a different girl squished between you and him on the bench of his ancient pick-up truck each month. You never bothered to be anything more than polite. The worst offenders were the shiny ones, the prissy ones that turned their noses up at you and treated Frankie like a novelty toy. A bit of rough that would fuck them in the parking-lot, behind the bar which cast only a cursory glance over your fake IDs.

He was almost impossibly handsome, it was stupid. Fully aware of the effect he had on women, he always used it to his advantage. You’d watch with sharp eyes as he gave teachers, social workers and truant officers those big brown eyes on full blast, lifting his cap quickly and smoothing his hair to the side in the way he did when he was nervous. Boy could get away with murder if he wanted.

You were hardly an innocent in it all. Maybe you and Frankie were more alike in that respect than you’d care to admit.

Your penchant was for the football boys, preferably rich and dumb, easy on the eye and light on the conversation. You got what you needed and then hot-footed it the fuck out of there. Something from their parent’s well-stocked liquor cabinet or a packet of smokes ‘borrowed’ on the way out. No one ever complained, let the trash take itself out.

It was a minor miracle you’d both graduated high school with no teenage pregnancies and only two or three suspensions between you. Your teachers couldn’t contain their glee that you were both off their hands, but also still in one piece. You’d bowled down those corridors with a capital T for Trouble; Frankie in his signature blue cap and more than a hint of mischief, you in your regulation black boots and permanent scowl.

The thing about your Frankie is, he’s a fucking idiot, but he’s also smart as hell. There was no fucking way he was going to stay in this no horse town forever.

There were plenty of opportunities over the years for your close friendship to cross over but you both held back, something sacred in the secrets you held together, a thread that ran through your lives that the promise of sex would have cut through and left you both dangling alone. It was all too tightly wound, and you were both too frightened to go it alone.

Until you had no choice, until he decided to up and leave you. The fucker.

“I can’t smoke weed no more Sugar, not if I’m gonna get into the army.”

You are stunned into silence, so you take a long drag of the joint you were supposed to be sharing, sitting together on a ratty blanket in the flatbed of his truck. You let the haze settle into your mind, feel your limbs soften, exhale into the night air. Your eyes are heavy already, your mouth dry. You swallow thickly. Take a sip of the cheap-ass can of beer you hated the taste of but was a necessary evil.

“You not going to say anythin’?”

“What do you want me to say Frankie? You’re abandoning me. Just like every other fucker.”

It would ideally have come out as a hiss, but your voice is too low, drowning in the weed and you can’t hide that you’ve had the air knocked right out of you. Your one constant, deserting you. Mother. Fucker.

You use the pot to blank you to nothingness, let yourself go entirely numb, so that you’re giggling like a fool by the time Frankie has to practically carry you out of the truck and up into your bedroom. The house is empty, cold. The lights won’t turn on so you’re in the dark.

Your feet are like lead; you let Frankie pull your DM’s off and you float back down onto the unmade bed, somewhere between this world and the next. You’re soft and pliant as he sits next to you with his knees firm on the bed, takes off your borrowed, too big, plaid shirt in an effort to make you more comfortable. It switches on something in your addled brain.

Maybe this is the right time. Nothing to lose now.

You undo the top button on your denim cut-offs, wiggle out of them in a way you hope is alluring, eyes closed so you don’t have to meet Frankie’s. You can feel his gaze on you. He’s completely still.

You’re just in a tight white tank and black panties now, but the room feels hot and clammy suddenly. A pulse of anticipation. You can feel it in your cunt, a beat of desire that you normally close your ears to. You open your eyes, taking in the look of confusion on Frankie’s face; you lift your hands up to him to stroke at the beginnings of a patchy beard.

“Sugar, what are you doing?”

“Come on Frankie, can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it?”

Your arms are too heavy, you let them fall back behind your head, a delicious stretch so you know your tank top will ride up, giving him a better view of your soft tummy, letting your chest rise and fall with a gentle desperation you know he can feel.

His hands almost, almost, reach to touch your face, but he leans back on his haunches instead, lets his hands fall to his feet by his side.

“You’re high as hell baby, we gotta stop. This… this ain’t right.”

You try to sit up on your elbows, but the movement brings spots to your eyes, makes you feel dizzy. You flop back down again. Instead, you reach for one of his hands, draw it up to your breast and place it on you; his eyes flick back and forth between your eyes and your tits, feeling your nipple pebble underneath his touch. He can’t help but let his fingers curl around you, the softest pinch that makes a gentle whine escape from your throat.

He licks his lips so slowly, runs his thumb over the wetness but doesn’t take his other hand from you. He’s a little stoned too, but not nearly as gone as you, his eyes still bright. Considering all the implications of what this might mean.

There’s a heat at your core you need him to feel, you’re practically burning for him and he needs to know.

“I want you to touch me Frankie.”

“I…”

Your hands are gentle but firm, you pull him down so he’s lying beside you, hand still at your breast, breath caught in his throat.

You watch lazily as he runs his fingers down your body, traces the outline of your waist and reaches your belly button, before hovering just above where your panties begin. Your breath in, so there’s a visible gap between the material and the softness there calling his name, beckoning him to let go of reason. He’s just a man after all.

You’ve never even kissed and all you can think of is what it would be like to have his tongue on your pussy, feel the heat that’s emanating from him, between your soft thighs. As if reading your thoughts, he dips his head down and places an almost chase kiss on your stomach, letting his tongue taste the salt of your skin for just the briefest of moments. Fuck. Your hands are heavy on him, rubbing against the thickness of his dark hair greedily and willing him to take you in his mouth, fuck away this pain you’re feeling with his tongue, make you forget that he ever mentioned leaving.

His hand cups your still clothed cunt and holds you tight, you swear he must be able to feel you pulsing beneath his touch.

“Fuck, I could come just lookin at you sugar, hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You don’t mean that Frankie. You’ve got with plenty hotter girls.”

He shoots you a hurt look, “You seen yourself Sugar? I gotta practically sit on my hands to stop me reaching out and touching that ass, squeezing those tits. You’re… fuck… prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

His hand is grinding against you now, you keen at the praise, lift your hips to meet his fingers and let the pleasure thrum through you. He lets one finger slip underneath the cotton and you know he’s going to find you soaking wet for him. He drops his face down so it’s an inch from you, works his finger into your wetness and looks deep into your soft, stoned eyes.

“This all for me Sugar?” He brings his fingers to his lips, licks your slick right off before he dives not one, but two, thick digits back into you.

“Fuck yes Frankie. It’s always been you.”

He kisses you then. So easy, it’s almost like you’re in a dream, wrapped in a lightness that both pulls you down to earth and makes everything feel unreal. Part of you wishes you weren’t quite so high but you know, as he pulls at your tongue with his own and sighs heavily at the way you instinctively twist together, that this never would have happened sober. He tastes like your sex and something else you can’t put your finger in. You hope it’s not regret.

His fingers don’t stop moving in you, his thumb now pressing against your clit, a jangle of nerves rushing through your spine and you can feel yourself tightening around his fingers, as he ruts his hips against you for some friction. Something clears in the fog of your mind for a second and you realise you want to feel him, desperately. You remove your hands from deep within his hair and undo the top button on his jeans so you can stuff your hands down his pants. It’s all a bit teenage but then that’s what you are? 19 and on the cusp of something, the precipice of forever.

Frankie’s dick is everything you dreamed; weighty, thick, so hard in anticipation. And already weeping for you. You wipe your thumb over the top and savour the wetness of his pre-cum, letting your hand trail down his length before taking him firmly in your grasp. He groans as you pump him languidly, but you can’t really concentrate; his tongue in your mouth, fingers in your pussy and dick in your hands, is all too much for your scattered mind to handle, it’s too much for your body to comprehend. It pushes you over the edge into bliss and you convulse around his fingers, an ‘oh fuck’ dropping from your lips and you turn your face from his as you feel heat crash into your cheeks from your orgasm.

Your hand is still tight around his cock and you marvel at how hard he is. Frankie stutters beneath you, “Sugar I’m gonna come right in your hand, can I… can I fuck you?”

“Please Frankie, I want to feel you, I need to feel you.”

He whips his top and jeans off and you’re still pulsing from your orgasm as he lines himself up and slowly pushes in the tip.

“Oh shit, you’re so tight Shug. I’m not gonna last a minute.”

“I don’t care Frankie, please.” You’re practically begging him, it feels so good, the burn of him, that it’s him. Frankie. Finally.

Inch by inch he invades your senses, makes you so full of him, moving slowly, experimentally, before his lips brush yours again. He rests his forehead on yours, skin burning with desire, stilled for a heartbeat so you can enjoy the connection of your bodies melted together.

It’s just about now that you realise this isn’t a crush, that you love him. Something that can’t be undone is ripping apart inside you.

As you stare into each other’s eyes, he begins to move in earnest, fucking into you at a pace that verges on desperate, the noises coming from him are wild; he paws at your breasts, nips at your throat and you lift your hips to meet him with each thrust.

“Jesus Christ sugar, I can’t…” He grits his teeth, stops moving so he can yank you down by the hips and have access to where you need him, your pussy stretched so beautifully around him. He uses your own slick against your clit, rubbing in tight, firm, circles, just the right amount of pressure, not daring to move lest he explode. The look on his face, it’s so serious all of a sudden, it takes you by surprise, his desire to bring you pleasure, the care that pours out of him and you almost feel hopeless at how pure he is.

The warmth rises in your belly and you tip into oblivion; it feels like love.

He comes as you tighten around him, unable to stop himself, crashing down against you in a wave of pleasure, lips searching for yours again in the dark. You lie together like this, entwined, hot and sticky, in a state of bliss and grief all at once.

“Shug, I’m gonna miss you so much.”

He still leaves; nothing changes except your whole world.

Four Years Later

Your mom died. Although it was a shock, she fell down the stairs dead drunk and never woke up again, it had felt so inevitable that your brain had taken months to comprehend it was real. A gradual decline you’d been a witness to your whole life. Something you’d been dreading forever and now the worst thing had actually happened.

Frankie sent flowers and you cried in the grocery aisle thinking about him.

Your much older half-brothers came home for the funeral, but they only stayed for one, very raucous and horrendously drunk, night. With your dad nowhere to be found, they said they wanted you to have the house.

It still had a big old mortgage, so it was a burden as well as a blessing, but the three of them promised to send a little bit of money each month and you had your job at the diner and working as a receptionist at the insurance place to keep you ticking over. It was doable and at least your home was still yours. You felt inexplicably tied to it, both the house and the boy that no longer lived next door.

This damn house was how Jason happened. Things kept breaking in it, years of neglect meant it was practically rotting from the ground up, and he was always offering to help out. Inevitably you fell into old patterns from when you used to make-out at parties in high school. It was fine. He was fine. Useful to have around until somehow, he seemed to have moved himself in and things started to change between you.

Slowly, a kind of cruelty crept back into the house. Maybe it was cursed, maybe you were destined to always be haunted by unhappy people searching for meaning at the bottom of a bottle, or the tip of a needle. Jason became your problem and no matter how many times you threw him out, he wormed his way back in with false hope and the usual addict’s playbook of tricks. You hated yourself for it. Although not nearly quite as much as you hated him.

You’ve checked yourself out of the hospital and there’s nothing to drink in the house. You crash about for a few minutes trying to find Jason’s hidden stash, but he’s drunk the house dry. Again. You let out a little cry of frustration.

The locksmith is coming in a few hours and you can’t bear to go through that process again sober. You know you’re not supposed to drink on the painkillers they’ve given you, but who would you fucking be if you didn’t spice up your pain meds with a little whiskey chaser?

You know you don’t have enough cash for a whole bottle without even having to look in your purse. A perfunctory glance and now you’re certain you’re going to have to go to the bar if you’re to drink anything stronger than some piss-weak beer from the 7-Eleven.

Your right arm is in a brace and you wince when you blink, with dark purple and yellowing bruises down one side of your face. It’s so clear to everyone in the bar what’s happened to you and you jut your jaw in anticipation of anyone saying a single word. One functioning arm or not, you will take any fucker down who says anything. You feel like a cornered cat; claws sharp, no fear, only rage and a snarl for anyone in spitting distance.

Darlene behind the bar shifts her weight uncomfortably, ventures a cautious, “Shit honey. You ok?”

“Fine thanks Darlene. I just need a drink, please.”

Darlene’s generous with her measure and a few extra coins fall into your hand as she passes you your change. It takes everything in your willpower not to break down and cry right there.

You grit a ‘thank you’ through watery eyes and take an empty booth to nurse your drink in silence. You thank the lord that no one comes up to you. You’ve set your bruised face to a firm scowl and stare off into nothingness as you let the whiskey warm your blood and take the edge off the anxiety that’s still coursing through your veins.

You’re aware Jason could have killed you this time. Very nearly did. You lift your glass up to your lips with a shaky hand.

That’s why you don’t see Frankie at first, you’re practically in a trance when he spots you and does an immediate double take.

You practically jump out of your skin when he slides into the booth unannounced, pushing another double whiskey over to you.

“What the fuck happened Sugar?”

You haven’t seen him in years.

There’s a new scar across his cheek, his hair longer than it’s been since he went through that phase at 16. You hate that you know that, still know that. Almost curls poking out from under his baseball cap.

“Jesus Christ Frankie, you can’t creep up on someone like that.” You take the drink without acknowledging it, add it to your already swirling system.

“I tried to get your attention Sugar, but you obviously didn’t hear me.”

“Yeah well, probably got a busted ear drum along with everythin’ else.” You shrug your shoulders in forced nonchalance but it fucking stings and you suck in your breath in a way that feels way too dramatic.

“Shit Sugar, what the fuck? This Jason? That son of a bitch, I always hated him.”

“You always hated him?” You are so sharp he needs to watch himself or you’ll cut right through him. “When he was sweet as apple pie in high school and you used to go out on benders with him all night, you hated him then did you? You didn’t know shit Frankie. Don’t tell me I should have known better.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant at all… I just… I… he was never good enough for you? None of them were.”

“Yeah, ‘cause whole armies have walked over me, ey? Dumb slut was bound to end up with a wrong’un, the way she gets through men? Think we’re done here Frankie. I gotta get back for the locksmith, try and keep your old drinking buddy out of my fucking house before he fucking kills me, or I get done on a manslaughter charge.”

You down the drink in one go, suppress the shiver it sends down your aching spine.

“Shug, let me help? Is there anythin’ I can do?”

“Frankie, you don’t even know me anymore? You haven’t been here for four years. Don’t you dare come riding back into town on a white horse thinking you can make anything better. You forgot about me before, I suggest you do the same again.”

You’d stalk out but it hurts too much, so you just kind of limp away in the saddest fashion. Fuck him. Fuck this.

Frankie’s POV

After watching you slink clumsily out of the bar, Frankie stares at your two empty glasses for longer than is sensible. A rush of thoughts chasing him in circles; this was not how he’d thought seeing you again would go. It was a lot more like a Hallmark movie in his head, all soft smiles and whispered ‘I missed you’s’. But your reality had never looked much like a warm focus, made-for-TV, romance. It was sharp and hard, no promise of a happy ending. He knew he was stupid for creating these scenarios in his own head without consulting the one person who would actually have been able to put him right, tell him to stop being such an idiot. You would have set him straight. You did set him straight; no white horse, remember?

Fucking Jason. He did always hate that guy. Although not for the reasons you thought; it was because it made him feel sick to watch Jason touch you. Jason was always a lowlife, although it was hidden under new, well-fitting clothes and shiny, clean hair. Fucking obnoxious. He can still remember that dizzying moment he’d first seen you making out with Jason at a house party all those years ago. He’d actually thrown up, blamed it on the disgusting home-brewed moonshine that was being passed around.

He meant it when he said none of those boys were good enough for you, but Frankie really, truly, still doubts if he is good enough.

These years he’s been away, he’s done things he’s not proud of. He’s not the man he once was, not the boy that you knew so well.

Yet… maybe that’s a good thing. His boys, his new, found-family of Benny, Will and Santi, they lift him up. Help him to believe that he can be something more, could be enough. Santi practically bullied him about it, always asking about you, getting him to pull out his treasured, somewhat tattered photo of you and warning Frankie if he didn’t make a move soon, he was going to have to come visiting.

You deserve so much; Frankie wants so desperately to be the one to give it all to you. This fear of fucking it up, making everything worse rather than creating a space for the life he’s always dreamed of for you both, it’s paralysing.  

So, instead of doing the right thing, swallowing his fear and marching right over to your place, he’s done as his father always did, and hidden himself at the bottom of a bottle. He was only supposed to be nipping into the bar for a glass of Dutch courage before he went to your house to find you, but as with a lot of Frankie’s plans, that’s been thoroughly derailed.

Four drinks in, he’s practically freewheeling by the time he staggers up to the bar, again. Darlene looks less than impressed. 

“Been a long time since we’ve seen you round these parts, Frankie. What brings you home?”

“My Pop’s going into a home, gotta help him move and sort out the house. And… well…” He nods his head to the door, as if you’re still standing there, scowling at him.

Darlene’s got a tight lipped smile, mouth set in a hard line; “Always been unfinished business between you two. I was surprised when you didn’t come home for her Mom’s funeral? Those brothers of hers caused quite the ruckus.”

“I was deployed, Darlene, couldn’t go nowhere.”

She just hmmms in response, pours Frankie one of her special measures, even with him already so unsteady on his feet. People don’t always know the best ways to show love and care.

He’s knee-deep into a nonsense conversation with some of the old timers around the bar, tongue thick with booze, when Jason makes an appearance. Frankie doesn’t doubt that Mommy dearest bailed out her golden boy without a word of reproach and now he’s tipped himself straight back into the nearest bar. Fucking typical. 

Frankie knew he would be mad if he saw Jason, but the force that descends on him, the pure rage that flows through his veins, it takes even him by surprise.

He’s been in plenty of bar fights before, hell, for a while it was the weekend’s regular entertainment. This is different, this is almost like an out of body experience; he’s watching himself as he literally launches himself at Jason. From 0 to 60 in as long as it takes Jason to clock it’s him and let out an, “Oh! Fuck, Frankie! I…” 

Last time he was in a fist fight with Jason they’d both been skinny delinquents, with only youth on their side. Now Frankie’s been honed into a literal fighting machine, whilst Jason has mostly sat on his ass drinking, when he’s not been picking on women half his size. Frankie knows it’s not a fair fight, that any judge would say Frankie attacked without even the slightest provocation, but there’s not a thought in his head as he pummels Jason. He has him pinned to the floor and there’s an awful wet crack when his fist connects with Jason’s jaw.

It takes three of the old boys to haul Frankie off and even then, he tries to go back, tries to twist himself from their grasp and get to the dazed, bleeding motherfucker sprawled out on the floor.

Frankie bellows at him, “You go near her again, I will fucking kill you. Do you understand?”

Slowly he comes back into himself, can hear Darlene shouting his name, see the blue flashing lights through the bar window. He stops struggling against the older men’s grip on his shoulders, lifts his palms up in submission, lets out a harsh, deep sigh.

Might just have made things a bit worse here. He mutters a ‘shit’, when two police officers come sauntering in.

“Frankie Morales! Long-time no see, buddy! Looks like you’ve been catching up with old friends.”

Frankie offers up his hands to Officer Danny with no resistance, his heart rate slowly coming back to normal. He gives Danny a somewhat sheepish smile while the officer handcuffs him. The other cop gives Jason a little poke with his boot to check he’s still breathing; he groans but no one makes a move to help him. There’s obviously very little community concern about Jason’s welfare.

“Officer Danny. Been a while.” 

It’s hammering it down with rain when they enter the darkness of the evening, Frankie is soaked to the bone by the time he’s sat in the back of the cop car. He leans against the cool of the window, wills himself to feel more sober, for his thoughts to become more ordered and not a jumble of regret, shame and fuck, such a longing to see your face.

Doesn’t think twice about giving you as his emergency contact.

Unfortunately, you have the police department number saved in your phone. It’s practically on speed dial. It flashes up and you pick it up almost instantly, still on high alert.

“Sugar, it’s me. Look, I might just have fucked things….”

You hang up.

You can tell by the slur in his voice that Frankie is wasted, and your stomach drops to your knees as you consider what it could be that he’s done. An uneasy feeling washes around your stomach, this is the last fucking thing you need.

The phone rings again. And again. And again.

You ignore it each time; you’re not here to clean up Frankie’s fucking mess. You’re in enough of a nightmare already without having to deal with whatever the fuck it is he’s done this time. You thought his years away would have at least straightened him out; he was supposed to be a military man now, not being picked up stinking drunk from seedy hometown bars.

A different number flashes up this time. Your old school pal, now a police officer, Danny, who you’re pretty sure is stood next to the drunk tank looking directly at a hammered Frankie sat between the usual reprobates.

“Hey hun, you not going to answer your boy Frankie’s call for help?”

“Danny…. He’s not my boy. He’s not my problem, I got enough of my own…” You pause and wait for Danny to fill the silence, but he offers nothing. “Fine. What the fuck did he do?”

“I believe he was defending your honour, hun. We’re going to let him sober up and then chuck him out, I doubt Jason will be pressing charges any time soon. Thought maybe you’d like to come pick your knight in shining armour up in a few hours? Can you drive with your arm?”

“I can drive just fine…. Jesus Christ.” You can’t help it, your lips curl into a smile. A feeling that might be akin to pride creeps under your skin, tingles in your chest. You wish you’d been there to see it. “Is he ok?”

“Jason?”

“No, fuck Jason. I hope he rots. Frankie? He ok?”

“Not a scratch on him.” You hear it in Danny’s voice too. He’s suppressing a grin and you let one take up residence on your face, it stings but it’s worth it. You haven’t let happiness in for months.

“I’ll come get him in a couple hours. Don’t tell him though, let him stew in his own juices for a bit.” You add a very unconvincing, almost too soft, “Fucking idiot.”

Danny’s still laughing at you when you hang up again.

You’re sat in the police station on the hard, purposefully uncomfortable, scratched plastic chairs. You’ve been here far too often recently, the ladies on the front desk give you an overly warm smile and you find yourself glowering at your black boots. Someone you don’t actually know brings Frankie out to you, deposits him on the seat next to you with his stuff in a brown paper bag resting by his feet. He pulls up his cap quickly, flattens his hair in one smooth move. You’re making him nervous.

He starts to speak, but you don’t want to hear it, don’t want to hear anything.

All you want is his arms around you, to be pressed up against his dirty, blood flecked flannel and smell Frankie, your Frankie. The sweat, the drink, the all of him. He envelopes you, holds you as tight as he can bear, so aware of your fragile physical state. You want to live here, want to forever be pressed up against his hard chest, soft belly, firm arms locking you in. You breathe it all in. 

“Sugar, I am so sorry.”

You don’t move away from him, shake your head into his chest, trying to dismiss any thoughts that he may have about needing to be sorry.

Your voice catches in your throat as you look into those beautiful, soulful eyes, “Frankie, I don’t want to die in the house I grew up in.”

“We’re not gonna let that happen, Shug. We’re gonna get you out of here, I promise.”

Suddenly, every phone in the place seems to be ringing at once, you look around at the frenetic energy that has appeared as if from nowhere. Danny is quickly by your side, frown firmly etched into his forehead.

“Hun, we’ve got reports there’s a fire back at your place, jump in my car with me I’ll take you there.” He tuts, “Don’t just sit there Frankie, you’re coming too.”

“Jason?”

“Jason.”

You’re in Frankie’s new home, a six hour drive from your own.

Even with four boys living in this apartment, it’s cleaner than you could ever get your house; it always had a residue of something unsavoury even after you’d scrubbed and scrubbed.

Not that you’ll ever be on your hands and knees trying to scour that kitchen floor ever again. Now it’s gone. Burnt to the fucking ground. Jesus Christ. It still doesn’t feel real.

Frankie’s bed is so, so, soft. After years of never having proper sheets on the bed you just know he’s gone out and got the finest cotton he could find, and you let yourself sink into it. You’re shaking, it must be the adrenaline leaving your body. You’d slept all the way here in the car. That’s what children do apparently, when they’re scared; they find somewhere to sleep, to escape fearsome things they can have no control over. You do feel like a child again, safe with Frankie by your side once more, letting him cocoon you away from the world.

You’re not tired now; on high alert, your nerves are rattling, and you wish, wish, wish you could stop your body from shaking so violently. You close your eyes and feel a few stray tears run down your face.

You hear Frankie come back into the bedroom and crawl slowly up next to you, trying to be as light as possible so as not to disturb you. He kisses the tears away, holds you against him, solid and warm, as you let the ripples of fear continue their travels through you. He nestles into your neck, breathes you in.

“I was always coming back for you Shug. I never should have left you so long, I just always thought I needed a bit more cash, to get myself more sorted, and then I could make everything better.”

“We never needed any money Frankie, why did you think I wanted that? I just needed you.”

“No… thing is Shug, we do need money. We do. Ain’t romantic, but I don’t want what we had before, I wanna keep you safe, keep you warm, have the lights always on if you want them.”

“I always felt safe with you Frankie. Always.”

“Even when we did stupid shit, like stealin’ Mrs Ramirez’s car?” He stutters a laugh, some of the dumbest shit you’d ever done.

You suppress your own laugh, try to keep your mouth set in a firm line. It may be his role in life to make you laugh, but it’s your job to try and maintain the facade that he’s not funny, doesn’t know exactly how to tip you into giggles even when the sky is falling in.

A simple, opportunist joyride in an unlocked car had turned into a nightmare when you’d both realised Mrs Ramirez’s fucking ancient cat was in the basket in the back. You’d practically wet yourself cackling as you’d abandoned the car and Frankie had slunk back to Mrs Ramirez’s house, making up some bullshit about finding Princess Diana (no word of a lie) abandoned on the side of the road. She was so grateful she’d given you both a load of homemade cookies, that you’re pretty sure were chock-full of her medical marijuana. You damn near laughed until you’d cried that evening; stoned out of your heads and replaying the moment you’d both clocked the fucking cat yowling from her basket, again and again.

“Princess fucking Diana.”

You give into the laughter, let your fingers twist into his hair and enjoy the flash of bright white, even teeth, contrasting so beautifully against his golden skin. You’ve missed the sound of Frankie’s laughter so much, but even more? The sound of your laughter melding together, you mirror each other in the pitch and volume, always. Somehow, over the years, it’s become the same laugh.

The chimes of your laughter, they quickly become tears. You try to hide your face in your hands, to stop Frankie seeing you, you feel so pathetic. But he won’t let you hide from him. There are tears in his eyes as well.

“You’re going to stay here with me Sugar.” It’s not a question.

You try and mull it over, find some way to protest, but you can’t land on a single reason not to. The house is gone, but with that will come insurance money and no monthly mortgage payments to make. You’ve never loved your jobs, won’t miss the town gossip that will surely be circulating for months while Jason awaits trial for his part in burning everything to dust.

You could just be here, safe, with Frankie.

“I’m gonna run you a bath. You’re gonna love the tub Shug, it’s enormous. Santi’s got some bubbles I’m gonna steal.”

He washes it all away.

This new beginning is clean, soft, with Frankie right beside you.

You sit in the bath with your knees pulled into your chest, water almost scalding, just how you love it. Frankie is squeezed in behind you, his large frame somehow wrapped around you and his legs must be uncomfortable, but he doesn’t complain, uses a sponge to sop your skin so you’re soaking. In another time it might have been sexy to have your wet skin slippery against each other, but this feels different. Almost ceremonial, there’s a hushed quiet between you.

He’s so gentle, knows you’re still hurting, cleaning every scrap of your skin until it’s practically shining. He uses a jug to wash your hair; you tip your head back and gaze at him, watch the frown etched into that beautiful face, he’s concentrating so hard he doesn’t notice for a few moments, tiniest hint of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, but when your eyes do connect he gives you a wicked grin.

That’s him, that’s your Frankie.

He uses his fingertips to run the shampoo through your locks, rubbing circles into your scalp with a pressure that feels as close to bliss as you can get. He rinses your hair clean and then repeats the process with the conditioner, twisting your hair into a tight coil to remove the excess water. You’re never felt cleaner in your life.

You let yourself lie back against his broad chest, eyes closed, hand now on Frankie’s knee. Thumb running against the dark hairs and hard bone. Frankie’s chin is resting on your shoulder, a tickle of his scruff against you as he lets his hand trail down your left arm, the right is hooked over the side of the bath as you try and not get the brace wet. 

Something flickers, the energy shifts almost imperceptibly; you stretch out your legs and turn your face with the tiniest of movements so that your lips are a breath away from him.

“Shug….” Whatever he was going to say, you kiss it away.

He carries you, wrapped in the softest of towels, back to his bedroom. Peppering kisses all over your face, naked as the day he was born, golden skin still shiny wet. You’re near hysterical in your laughter when you hear Santi exclaim a ‘holy shit Frankie’ as he catches sight of him in the corridor. Frankie just gives him the biggest grin you’ve ever seen and pushes open the bedroom door with his shoulder.

He carries you over the threshold like a newlywed, “Been dreamin’ about your pussy for four years Shug, I hope you’re ready.”

You wrap your arm tighter round his broad shoulders, lean into the shell of his ear, “Take me to bed or lose me forever Frankie.”

The laughter barrels out of you both, a thousand recollections of movie nights tucked up together to keep warm, empty tummies but the glow of the TV keeping you both distracted. No cable, you’d just had to watch whatever was on. Must have seen Top Gun thirty times.

This is you and Frankie; a quilt of memories that holds you together, wrapped in long, hungry summers, holding each other in the dark as a TV flickers, or hiding in the garden while a storm rages in your kitchen. Maybe you’d like to forget some of these squares, sown into your consciousness against your will, a patchwork of the depths of despair you’ve experienced together.

Frankie was always your light in the dark, you were his comfort in the chaos. Now it’s time to make new memories.  

For Frankie, being between your thighs is like an act of worship. He lets out a hum of pleasure that you can feel at your very core as he trails kisses down your tingling flesh, rubbing that fine nose deliberately against your clit and letting his tongue explore you. He’s taking his time, enjoying each pulse of his tongue, each graze of his teeth against the softness of you, swirling your slick with his own spit, so set on his path to make you come undone for him. He flattens his tongue, moving his head quickly from side to side and you buck against him, but he’s pressing you firmly down by the hips, not letting you wiggle free as a stream of almost incoherent obscenities escape your quivering lips.

“Jesus, fuck, Frankie, feels so good, please, please, shit, please, don’t stop.”

He laughs at the merest suggestion and it sends another wave of pleasure through you, you begin to mirror his laughter, but it disappears into the air as a gasp when he pushes two fingers into you, focusing his licks and nips on your clit as he works to find the softest spot in you, curling and pulsing so that you’re a mess of want and ecstasy underneath him.

You prop yourself up on your good elbow so you can watch him under hooded eyes, his eyes are glistening with delight, blown black with desire, pulsing his tongue in time with the rhythm of his fingers. You groan with pleasure, a warmth spiralling up your spine and the fucker actually winks at you as you fall apart.

Bliss on bliss, you clutch at his hair, pulling at it and letting your head roll back as your orgasm washes over you and you throb around his fingers. 

He kisses you deeply, your release wet around his scruff and you can’t get enough, feel desperate for more kisses, more sex, more Frankie. You reach for his hard cock and hook your leg over his thick thigh, dragging him into your heat. Fuck it feels good, it feels right. The stretch is divine, he has to stop kissing you to let out a groan of pleasure, snapping back his hips and diving deep into you again and again.  

You’re both panting by the time he pulls you up onto your knees, holding you tight against his chest across your breasts, fucking up into you from behind as he rubs his fingers against your soaking seam and you card your hand through his hair. He showers you with kisses at your throat, whispers into your ear.

“I fucking love you Sugar.”

“I’ve always loved you Frankie.”

He spills into you as you come around him, a heat that makes you both collapse onto the bed together. Soft, burning, blissful.

You’re sat curled up on Frankie’s lap, watching the three boys attempt to make you a slap-up breakfast around you. It’s absolute chaos. Santi is insistent that he makes the best pancakes ever, throwing you overly flirty glances as he cracks the eggs and promises the most delicious breakfast you’ve ever eaten with a smirk. You’re already half-full from the bacon Benny insisted you try and the protein smoothie Will forced you to drink. They’re shouting at each other, but it feels like music; there’s joy here and you? You already feel a part of it.

Frankie holds you close, arms wrapped around your tummy, skin hot against yours. You let your head lean on his shoulder, taking it all in.

You have never felt more safe; you are protected, warm, belly full and the lights are blazing.

Tagged in some Frankie fans, but let me know if you'd like to be taken off: @yorksgirl @ptime1999 @1-bb @theanothersherlockian @pedrosballsack @fandx14 @rav3n-pascal22 @ozarkthedog @clownd1ck @ghotifishreads @theywhowriteandknowthings @magpiepills @survivingandenduring @mothandpidgeon @bitchwitch1981 @bitchesuntitled @freelancearsonist @misstokyo7love @chronically-ghosted @readingiskeepingmegoing @sp00kymulderr @survivingandenduring

This is so good Bug! 😍

Putting this here and running away 🙈 I’ve never shared my art before but this is what I worked on today