⭑ - allusion to/references to/sexual content (you are responsible for what you read)
❤︎ - fluff [all sfw ofc]
❀ - heavy topics (read warnings & read with caution)
✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧
Joel Miller
⭑ Comfort(ers) & Sheets
[joel is your comfort, and he has his ways of keeping you tangled up in his bedsheets in soft mornings with him.]
Logan Howlett
⭑ It Will Come Back [ongoing series]
[logan cage fights at your bar, you find him unexplainably attractive, hoping one day he’ll return to you.]
-A Kiss from a Rose [release TBD] [it will come back, cont.]
Frankie Morales
❤︎ Look After You [christmas fic]
[Christmas is special this year, you and Frankie have a daughter, but you have something to tell him about the next piece of your family.]
❤︎ Family Vacations
[frankie is the first boyfriend you’re bringing on the family reunion beach trip, traveling together brings firsts for both of you.]
Javier Peña
⭑ Drive
[javier has never failed to bring you on your Saturday drives, and this time is no exception.]
-Lightning Crashes [release TBD]
⭑ Leather & Lace
[you and javier have a dynamic that falls into place just like the two of you.]
Marcus Acacius
❀ - Heaven
[you see no way out of your future of an arranged and loveless marriage, and you ask your dearest friend Marcus Acacius to assist you in your final choice.]
✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧
if you liked any of my fics, dont be afraid to let me know!!! I adore ALL of your feedback, and it keeps me motivated to keep writing. Thanks for reading!!! <3
Comfort(ers) & Sheets - Joel Miller x Reader [Drabble]
[moodboard for moodboards sake can easily be read as game or hbo joel <3]
warnings/themes: allusions to sex, no smut, fluff, lots of romance/love, pov swap, implied plot, it’s sweet & short that’s it.
a/n: just a quick drabble based on a thought I had at 11pm when I should’ve definitely been sleeping. thoughts loved and appreciated if you enjoy <3
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You could spend every late Sunday morning all wrapped up in the huge white comforter you’d invested in when you moved into this house from trading.
Specifically under it, with your very sleepy husband sprawled out on his side of the bed, as you lay, naked (Joel had made sure of that the night before) your stomach pressed against the mattress, your fingers tracing down his face, over his nose. His scars.
The cool summer breeze from the morning seeps in with the dim sunlight, the warmth and coolness all at once of the oversized, stuffed blanket makes you want to lie there forever.
He doesn’t stir. Not anymore. When he knows you’re there he stays still, content even in his sleep.
You slip out of bed, only a loose sheet wrapped around you, opening the back patio door and settling in a rocking chair he’d built for you. You watch the trees behind your home, in the warm sun, your body sore and relaxed all at once. You took pride in that, even if Joel didn’t believe you. He made you feel like you could just…melt, soak into the dark ground and dig your way right back out just for him again.
“Sugar…” Joel all but spoke loudly as he leaned on the doorframe, he’d been there for a few minutes now, but he wouldn’t tell you that. In his mind, when he got to watch you think, about anything, he’d been blessed by some divine grace to have you.
“Honey.” You smile, turning enough to see him.
“Still early…come back to bed?” He offers, his tone convincing, always too convincing.
“We have a day to start.” You remind him, as he leans down to take up your hand, letting you make sure the sheet that covered you was wrapped still. You’d shown him every piece of you, and every second of that he wanted more. But until he had you safe and comfortable…that piece of you only he got, stayed hidden to the world, and to him.
“The day can wait on us.” He replies simply, picking you up completely as he carries you back in, and you shut the patio door.
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Your soft breath. That’s what he listens to. It’s the same as a heartbeat to him. It means you’re alive, and still here with him, sheet left to the floor, the same with your clothes, to be found when you meet the day. His eyes watch your resting face, pensive but restful nonetheless. His right hand snakes into your hair and out, a repeated motion, his left placed over yours, on his bare chest. He’d managed it again. Managed to keep the most beautiful and most precious thing in his life in his bed, sure, with his head buried deep between your thighs, and a slow and sleepy push back into sleep.
But he likes it that way. He’d stay like this for an eternity if he could, ignorant to every sin and deformity that is the world now, mapping out every inch he could of you, instead of escape routes and patrol paths.
He wanted every piece of you, just the way you are.
His eyes are tired but the last thing he wants to do is sleep. He watches his calloused hands, destroyed by the grips of countless guns and weapons.
He should marry you again.
Even with the years that take a toll on both of you now, years that you can let show on your faces and bodies, he wants to be smooth like a whiskey on a bar with a new finish, soft like a shower, washing the dirt from your body after a long day, a relief to you the way a breath of fresh air feels after the restriction of a gas mask. Those are the things he strives, no, begs some higher power to be.
Even in his dying breath, he is yours. That’s all he knows.
[a/n: hi lovelies i am horrendously sick right now and im probably gonna sleep all of tomorrow, so i figured I’d release this a tad bit early. if there are errors near the end forgive me, i am extremely feverish. I will probably end up going back to fix things when im feeling better. happy early valentines! enjoy!]
Summary: Push and pull, give and take. You and Javier are two sides of the same coin, and your balance is a Stevie Nicks & Don Henley song.
Warnings: GRATUITOUS references to Leather and Lace by Stevie Nicks & Don Henley, if you have not heard the song, go listen immediately! we love Stevie in this house, mentions of sex/sexual themes, cigarette references, cussing (it’s javi idk what you want me to say), marriage mentions, no pressure tho, tad bit of angst if you squint, they’re in love and it’s disgustingly perfect, fluff
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Leather. That was the smell you could always recognize off of Javi. When you buried your nose in the crevasse between his shoulder and neck. The wear of his jacket rubbed its scent onto him, and in turn took the smell of cigarettes and his cologne. You’d bury your nose the same way in it when he’d leave it at your apartment, a sign he was coming back. The early mornings where you’d find it discarded with his leather boots at your door, a lace piece of yours with it. You’d gently hang it up, and go to make him a cup of coffee in the warm morning sun. You’d sneak back into your room, and settle the steaming cup on the side of the bed he’d claimed that seemed to retain that leather just as well. You’d have slipped a satin and lace nightgown over yourself, you knew would be discarded again for the sake of the man wanting to see you. You’d learned not to get up and groom yourself into looking like a doll, he’d praise your bedhead and sleepy eyes instead. Your sheets would be tangled over his hips, and when he began to stay the night, he’d sleep on his stomach, tan back and messy hair all on display. The scratches you’d left made your cheeks fill with a blooming feeling, tingling with some mild embarrassment. His brown eyes shut, his aquiline nose pressed against the pillow, lips plush and parted. He didn’t snore loudly, some small sounds, but he did drool, so did you, so what was the harm? The nights you spent unwinding the cold exterior he earned from his life, his job, and god, when he cried…soothing him felt like comforting the scared and vulnerable part of him that questioned why you even stuck around. Those deep brown eyes glossed over, body melted against yours, with a loss of control over his vocal cords, it seemed he didn’t fully know how to cry. It was years of letting things build up, holding reason and rationality over emotion every minute, that made him that way. You’d wanted more than anything to press your lips to his parted ones, but you knew how quickly he’d wake. Sometimes, you’d brush the curls that formed overnight at the back of his neck, or trace down the curve of his back, waiting for the smell of brewed coffee, and you to wake him.
Lace. How Javi’d undress you, god, you were beautiful, the lace of your choice decorating your chest or hips, or both. He could leave it to the floor, but the image stayed in his mind for days. And when he’d detach his sweat covered body from yours, and gently clean you up, and himself, before slipping one of your satin nightgowns over you, just before he could wrap his arms around you, and let you melt into him and fall asleep. Not before those sleepy eyes of yours met his to tell him goodnight, or make a witty remark, preferably both. The moonlight would illuminate you, the way you’d lay with him allowed him to stay up later and admire the shine on your thighs, just below the soft-colored lace trimmings. He’d give it all to spend his life between them, touching them, laying on them, Christ, just staring at them. He wouldn’t reach for a cigarette. He’d run his hand up and down your back, and into your hair. He’d note how your already messy hair became more messy, lips parted, drool definitely against his chest. He wished you were awake sometimes so he could just kiss you and let you smile and laugh at yourself, while he’d tell you he loved nothing more than your comfortability with him, drool and all. He wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked, how pretty you were when you’re tired, and how much he fucking loved you. He always found himself wondering why it was him you chose, you, all soft and a pure source of security and comfort, chose him, a stubborn asshole with a cold fucking dememor and a smoking habit. He’d let at least an hour pass before he'd fall asleep. He knew damn well when you were awake, how could he not notice your absence? It wasn’t that he needed you to make him his coffee, or that he needed you to clean up after the two of you, he just knew how you’d touch him so delicately, to avoid waking him. He relished in the feeling and the thought that you did the same thing in the morning that he did at night.
Leather and Lace. One evening, you were up later waiting on him, it’d been a few nights of sleep due to how late he’d been coming home. You were already in your nightgown, but this time you’d slipped his jacket on, since he’d left it. When he did get home, the exhaustion in his mind and body slipped away like it was never there, and he fucked you like he never had before, leaving the two articles of clothing on your body. Something about it made his mind shut off and focus solely on you. He only stripped them off of you when he knew you were getting too hot.
“I’m gonna ask you something and I’m not gonna be upset if you say no, hermosa. We can forget I ever said anything.” He had gently removed his jacket from you, setting it on the nightstand, so you could cool off. Though, he pulled you to lay on his chest, and so you could close your eyes and sleep. You figured his hand was reaching for a cigarette from the pocket of his jacket as he moved.
“Hm?” You kept your eyes shut for a moment, but as you registered how his words sounded, you opened them and rested your head on your hand to look up at him.
“I wanna marry you. Even if it’s not…tomorrow, or next year, but I wanna marry you when you’re ready.” He spoke to you, eyes trained on you, and the hand on your back had something in it. He brought it up to you. “Don’t have to wear it. If you don’t wanna or if you don't like it.” He let you reach for the small box, watching as you opened it in silence. You’d been wearing the ring in the pocket of the jacket the entire night, and you hadn't noticed.
“I love you.” You spoke quietly, viewing the ring. You always wore that color, it was a perfectly set gem, too. You couldn’t have asked for better.
“I love you, too.” He responded in a way that had you seeing a little porch in Laredo, Texas, with two rocking chairs and his jacket hung up on the side of one and a pair of his worn boots next to yours, and a couple smaller pairs. You slipped the ring on with shaky hands. “Take that as a yes?”
“I wanna marry you too. And don’t you dare think for a minute this is coming off my finger.” You smiled so brightly at him he swore he could see little feet and hands making noise and your lace wedding dress hung in a shared closet with his jacket, retired but not forgotten.
What you wanted, he’d give and what he wanted, you’d give. What he gave you’d take, and what you gave, he'd take. A balanced force that was the two of you existed since the moment he’d first touched your body, slipped off your lace bra while you went for his leather jacket. That balance wasn’t gonna fade, that you were both sure of when you both fell asleep that night.
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[a/n: so in fever land right now but i need me a javi :,c]
Warnings: suicidal intentions/attempt from reader!!!! [DO NOT read if you cannot handle this theme. You are responsible for what you read, please protect your mental health!!!!], mentions of readers betrothed husband being a pos/pedophile, Ancient Rome is a warning in itself, time warning sexism/misogyny (not from Marcus.)
Content: suicidal intentions, dramatic writing in tragedy style, Marcus & reader grew up together and remain best friends, Marcus is unmarried, in the Roman army, reader is betrothed under her fathers choice, he is a piece of shit, reader does not want to be married, a lot of crying, poison, terms of endearment, no y/n here ever, they’re in love and it hurts, plenty of angst, sad, sad, sad, Marcus is a lover and a comforter, ambiguous ending (room for a second part.) let me know if i missed anything.
Summary: You see no more ways out of your arranged marriage to a man undeserving of a soul, besides one. You ask your closest friend, Marcus Acacius, to help you.
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Marcus Justus Acacius.
The Marcus you grew up playing swords with, when no other boy would.
The Marcus who helped you adorn your hair with flowers you picked in the summer evenings in your family villa’s garden.
The Marcus who now watched you sit at the head of the banquet hall’s table. Your wine untouched. Your body adorned with jewels and satins, you smell of oils and fragrance your handmaids had tenderly put to your skin as you bathed.
Your husband-to-be attempting to woo a young girl who couldn’t be more than thirteen under the influence of the wine he’d been consuming.
Your Marcus Acacius watched you from across the hall.
He’d planned to indulge in more than plenty of wine this evening. For reasons you would have believed to be celebration in your honor. Reasons he would know to be losing you to a serpent of a man, to the wealth he provided your father for your hand.
But he found his eyes wandering to you and your safety every moment, and his hands not reaching for wine but staying at his side.
Acacius always had feelings for you. Never once did they falter. He never married. Citing his military career as his excuse.
As your father’s guests let their intoxication be their new party host, you decided this was your window. You stood quickly, slipping out of the room, unnoticed, by all but one.
The only one you desired to notice you leave.
You slipped into your chambers, preparing the glass of wine you’d poisoned, and planned to drink, and fall asleep into the arms of a compassionate god.
When you heard the sound of your door opening, you knew it to be one man. You left the glass on your nightstand, standing still in front of your door.
“My lady?” Acacius spoke softly, stepping in cautiously to avoid seeing you indecent. Being his lady remained true after all these years. You wanted to be remembered by him in such a way until your memory died with him, and him alone.
“Acacius.” You found yourself quickly swayed in emotion, stepping forward to wrap your arms around his neck, and hold your head in the crook between his neck and shoulder.
“My lady, what plagues you?” He wrapped his arms around you, a hand rubbing your back.
You hadn’t known when you’d begun to cry, and the moment he heard the change in your breath, see, you always began to breathe from your mouth first, he remembered well, he buried his hand in the soft curls of your hair, the other taking the task of rubbing your back.
“Please, tell me what plagues you?” His voice pulled you back, a jealous and selfish part of him was hoping to know it was your betrothed.
“I cannot go through with it.” You spoke shakily. A hand finding his curls in habit.
“You will not…marry.” He finished his thoughts aloud to you.
“I have no more time left, Marcus,” you let your gaze find his, staring up at him. “I will not serve such a man, I will not marry him.”
After a few beats, he pressed his forehead to yours, a familiar touch, as his larger nose bumped yours.
“You do not have to.”
“I have no way out, no choice. My father will hear nothing of it, I cannot depend on a savior.” You spoke, convicted, closing your eyes as warm tears escaped down your cheeks. “I…I have one option.”
The boy you’d grown with appeared there in his eyes, when you opened yours, a world away. The boy you wanted to lay you tenderly amongst your bedsheets, and touch you slowly.
You were so young, so innocent then. Your love for him was pure, never tainted by your family, his, war, status, wealth, Rome herself.
“My dearest, what is it?” He had this tugging feeling. One that yearned to run away with you and marry, that evening, hoping your thoughts dreamed the same.
You paused. You owed him so much more. How could you ask this of him? How could you tell him? How could you do this to him?
“…If our years together, if our friendship means nothing now, as I am expected to wed,” you stared at him. “Then you must leave me now, Acacius, and never speak of me, of this again.”
“How could you believe I would not consider our relationship now? I care for you, my lady.”
“If you feel obligation to me, my dearest friend, help me go? Help me find a warmer embrace beyond this life?” You continued your statement.
“I…No, tell me you do not mean to-“ He registered your words in his mind, slicing them down, calculating them and determining an answer.
There was Acacius, in his eyes, the man who you trusted most, the one who would do anything for you, the soldier Rome believed to be its next hero. The man you wanted to toss you to bed and conquer you as though you were to be another Roman province.
“My lady? Tell me you are not meaning to ask me to help you take your life?” His tone became more firm.
“I mean to. I am.” You spoke softly, “I see no better end than finding solace in the comfort of my dearest friend’s arms while I take my final breaths in this awful world.”
The thought of living alone in a world where someone as soft as you could not bear any longer; it was tearing apart his heart and soul. He’d give his own life if only you’d be free.
His throat felt swollen, lips dry, as he pulled away, cupping your cheeks rather firmly.
“Stop this. Stop it at once, don’t speak of such things, I will not lose my brightest flower on her darkest night.” He spoke, in something of a murmur only made for the minds of poets. And for you.
“Marcus,” you smiled pitifully at him, tears painfully pulling at your eyes, “I see no other end, humor me one last time?”
At that moment, the Acacius you knew was devising a plan himself, humor me one last time.
“What is it you ask of me?”
“I want to rest in your arms tonight, one last time, and let my final breaths be of your skin, of comfort.” You explained quietly, staring at him, as he brought your foreheads back together. He could never say no to you.
“Okay, my darling, okay.”
“I couldn’t bear to let myself bleed in front of you, let myself be bled, horrified, and cold when found…I’ve chosen poison,” you explained, you had him, didn’t you? He’d agreed, and he’d always kept his word to you.
You stepped away, only for the moment to pulled the glass up, and to your lips.
To Marcus Justus Acacius, this was not your time.
It took him but the blink of an eye to restrain you in his arms and toss the glass to the floor, red wine staining your sandals and his, glass shattered amongst the tiles.
“Marcus!” You struggled against him, he kept you firm back against his chest, arms keeping yours from reaching for him.
“You will not do this! I will not stand for it nor allow it!” He snapped, tugging you closer to stop your struggling.
“How could you stop it?!” You snapped back, hot tears against your cheeks as you wriggled against him. “If not this evening it would be tomorrow morning, if not then if would be the afternoon, the evening! If not now, it will happen soon! I swear it!” You hissed out at him, frustrated that you could not overcome his strength.
“Stop! You will not, and you will never speak of such things again! You will live!” He paused, resting his head against the top of yours, only then did you realize he was crying, a sniffle left him, “you will live.”
“I cannot!” You needed this, didn’t you? No matter how you were breaking his heart, you needed this….didn’t you…?
“Why?! Why do you seek the solace of death so desperately you must leave me?!” He snapped back.
“I cannot live to marry such a pig! I cannot watch him seek to defile young girls, and I certainly cannot bear his children!” You almost screamed at him. You’d never been this angry—especially at him. You tried once again to escape his grasp. “I will not!”
“Then he shall not have you. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever, my lady, please…” he spoke, calmer as you felt tears fall from his cheeks into your hair. You heard him out, and stopped squirming a moment, he took the chance to turn you around to face him, still in a vice-grip to keep you there. “I swear it, I will not allow it. I’ll give up my estate, every coin that’s ever touched my hand, every piece of clothing off my back, I will fight, fists or swords, that he will not have you.”
“I cannot ask that of you! All I asked for was one last moment of peace in your arms before I die!” You felt hot and frustrated, you’d never force him to do that for you. He did not owe you anything, now.
“You are not asking it of me. I am telling you what I will do.” He spoke firmly, despite the redness that plagued his eyes. Was he Acacius? Was he Marcus?
“I’m yours.” The only title he ever wanted, the only name he desired to be called, yours, fell from his lips. Now, he could not fear rejection, as he’d fight for your hand, or for your freedom. He’d fight for you. Whether you wanted him or not. He’d give everything up, for you. “And you’ll marry…”
At the sound of that you nearly growled at him for deceiving you once more, squirming and slumping your full body weight down. You hit the ground, with his arms still fully around him on your knees, he sits with you, and you sob.
“Stop, please, my lady, stop,” he holds you and comforts your body as no other has ever been able. “Listen,”
You continued crying against him, though you stopped wriggling like a child.
“You will marry me. You do not have to marry that barbarian, you’ll marry me.” He explained quickly before you could become upset again.
You almost freeze in his arms, breathing unsteadily, your arms hesitantly around his sides, his hands around you, he pulls back to press your foreheads together again.
“Even simply to free you, you do not have to love me as a wife. You are my only dearest friend, we can be wed, without the pretext of romance.” He spoke to reassure you, if you did not desire him the way he did, you. “But if you seek my love as more, I have more than enough to devote to you, my lady.”
You stared into his eyes, the eyes you’d stared into more than your own. There was nothing seeking to deceive you.
“…more.” You seemed to choke out, through your sore throat. “Marcus-“
“No, let me, first, you deserve more from me, and I owe it to you. I love you, I have always loved you, my dearest. I will never seek to stop loving you.”
You couldn’t speak, so you sobbed, grasping onto the fabric of his garments, holding so tight you may as well have ripped them away.
“Shhhh…rest, my love. It’s okay, you’re safe, rest.” He brushed through your hair affectionately, as he whispered promises to keep to safe. And who were you to doubt him now?
You shut your eyes and buried yourself against his chest, sobbing yourself to cries, and cries to sleep in his arms.
That night, for once, unlike the two teenagers you’d once been, he carried you to bed, and laid with you as you slept, touching your soft curls, unafraid to be caught. And you slept soundly, the same way you always did as he held you.
He didn’t sleep. Not a moment.
He watched over you like the moon did the rising sun. Like he always had.
He’d delicately removed your jewels, and hairpiece and pins, setting them where the wine had been on your nightstand.
He loved you, and with all the bravery and courage everyone had attributed to him, he finally had enough to make his greatest desire known.
He is, has been, and will forever be yours.
Marcus Justus Acacius was a foreign name unless it was placed upon your lips, but being yours, that, that was natural.
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[a/n: if my seasonal depression is good for one thing, it is sad writing. i hope this was enjoyable, hopefully not too sad, but if it was, marcus is there with comfort and love. i hope those who celebrated the holidays had a wonderful time, i meant to write a holiday themed fic for the one and only my javi peña, but almost had a few clark griswold-ish crash outs the last week. Hell, i might still write some holiday fics. I hope everyone is well, much love. <3]
[a/n: he’s too beautiful I couldn’t not write this. enjoy my thoughts on being married to this beautiful man.]
Warnings: smut (unprotected do better than these two!), dirty talk, I love you’s.
Content: established relationship (marriage), fluffy and warm, no use of y/n, escalates quickly to hot and a bit dirty, then back to soft and warm, The Cars & classic rock (self indulgent I know…), Javis hands, your sundress, Javi drives with ONE hand and you know it, old truck bc I love them, smut in said old truck on the side of a dirt backroad, a beautiful man and a sunset, minor mention of kids. [let me know if I missed anything my honeys <3]
Summary: Javi takes you both on your Saturday evening drive.
Saturday drives with Javier. That’s what you looked forward to when the weeks got hard. Without fail he took you somewhere more remote, just to enjoy the sun or the rain, and the breeze, and you.
Your chosen sundress draped lazily over your legs, the thin fabric giving a nice and somewhat unwanted layer between your bare thigh and his hand.
This one you work up to slipping yours over, you’d describe his hands as soft and calloused and large and warm all at once. In contrast to yours, always cold, shaky. You lean on the back of the old truck’s seat, staring at him, sun in the reflection of his aviators, other hand on the wheel, eyes on the road.
You were convinced that him driving with one hand had to be one of the most attractive things you’d ever seen, despite being told for years that it wasn't safe, even on these old backroads.
Your eyes focus on the hand that makes turns and slight adjustments.
You could see the wear of his hand, the work it’s done.
You could feel the touch of his fingertips and callouses from his gun without really feeling it.
He turned you into a mess.
The soft hum of The Cars over the local classic rock station filling the comfortable air. One of your favorite bands, you hum along, and he glances at you with a hint of a smile playing on his lips…fuck.
What did he do to you?
“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Your husband spoke, giving you that grin.
“Nothin’” You smile back, tracing your fingers down his, eyeing your worn wedding band.
“I know you’re not thinkin’ all about glam rock.” He teased, chuckling as he surveyed the empty road ahead, fields as far as he could see.
“Maybe not.” You smile again. “Maybe just your hands.”
“Somethin’ that simple?” He asked you, grinning a little more.
“Yeah…something that simple.” You laughed softly, wrapping yours around his, pulling it up just a little higher on your leg. You leaned over, you head on his shoulder, watching the road ahead, the grassy fields.
You had a sense of safety, that you didn’t ever think you’d feel in an old truck with someone else driving. The confidence in each turn and press on the gas pedal made the ride smooth, and comfortable. He didn’t think about that, but you did. It was another way he provided you security.
“Mi esposa bonita…how are you?” He asks sweetly, quickly turning his head just to kiss your head.
“Good again.” You respond. You love these drives…nothing is better than getting away. No work, no responsibilities, no problems. Just him.
“I like this dress.” He twisted the fabric between his fingers a little.
“I know you do.” You smiled watching the golden lighting of the sun beginning to set. “You wanna pull the truck over and show me just how much?” You tease, not honestly expecting him to…before you felt the turn, the swift sounds of his unbuckling seat belts and laying you down quickly.
“Sure.” He smiles politely, leaning over you and kissing you deeply, running a hand through your hair, as your leg wraps around him. That look in his eyes, might have been there the whole drive—craving you, waiting for that little invitation to touch.
The fabric of your dress pushed back with the movement, you weren’t sure how it’d escalated so quickly, but somehow you never knew till his lips were on yours, making you lose all those deep rooted senses. He seemed to paint down your jaw, down your neck, to your collarbone, till his name fell off your lips like an unwritten poem you never thought of.
You don’t care how much you’ll really have to cover up by tomorrow.
The straps of your dress delicately pushed aside to press reverent kisses to your shoulders, the thin flowy fabric of your skirt pushed up enough by those big hands
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Javier, Javi, Javi, Jav are your only coherent thoughts each extra time his hips meet yours, every time you feel his hands shift up and down your legs as you move rhythmically.
He’s got a way of looking at how he ruins you. Not in aggression or lust even. In some pure form of love he can only attribute to the beauty that is you, he stares at you, with deep brown eyes you know you could stare back at forever.
You pull him closer on top of you, with a soft, “Javi,” in his ear, as you dig little crescent moon shaped indents into his freckled, tan back you admired so much.
“C’mon, pretty girl, this is what you were looking for huh?” All he got was a whimper from you, he knew damn well he wasn’t getting full sentence answers with how well he made you feel like you were being split in half. No matter how many times you took him, you wouldn’t get used to that fucking delicious stretch.
His hand stayed on you hip to keep some leverage, while the other buried itself in your hair, pulling back enough to allow him to kiss and nip down your neck and now crudely exposed chest.
You got him like this—turned him into an animal. He got a great look at you like this, the sunset illuminating your skin just right, dress pushed down to your stomach, and pushed up to your hips, fuck-drunk on him.
“How’s that? This just what you needed? To be driven all the way out here and fucked with your dress all bunched up?” Javi muttered solely to get into your head and invade every single one of your senses. “Too impatient to take it off? To not even wear any panties with this little number?” He pulled your hair back just enough to get you to gasp. “Christ, I love you.” His voice had a moment of weakness, catching his breath, only you could do that to him, god how lucky was he to have met you and got you on your back like this.
He’s the one who’s got you skipping underwear.
“Fuck, Javi, I love you.” That’s all you could really think—let alone say anymore.
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Snuggled up to your husband while he drove you home, trying your best to not to ruin the seat covers with the come dripping between your thighs.
You’d given up on saving your dress, that was a lost cause with how turned on he must’ve been.
Either way, you were wrapped up in his side, these Texas roads you learned to love leading you back to the home you called yours now. His free arm wrapped around you, the other driving, his eyes on the road again…Saturday drives. Something you’d never get tired of, something you’d be sharing with your children someday. (Javi liked to add someday very soon.) And you’d keep wearing the pretty sundresses he liked, pretending the rest of the world wasn’t there while The Cars hummed in the back of your mind on that scratchy radio.
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feel free to leave any feedback!!! this was fun to write cause it had me blushing and kicking my feet while writing <33
knowing that Pedro woke up feeling the same sense of anger as everyone is, is really comforting tbh. I just know that if he ever crossed paths with Donald Trump, he wouldn’t hesitate to punch him in the fucking face 😭
[a/n: hi!! It’s been a minute but your girl is back with some good ol’ wolvie. another joel fic is in the works, and possible a part two to this one depending on feedback <3 love yall]
Warnings: angst, brief smut (NSFW), cage fighting, alcohol, cigar, mention of cat death :(
Content/themes: angst! cage fighter!logan, bartender!reader, not really an age gap idk I see reader as a full grown established adult, based of the hozier song, reader & lo hookup in this chapter but don’t get together, fear of love, mild smut, big stray cat metaphor, possible mutant!reader, reader has a sexy car so, brief section on their backseat of her car sex, the claws come out (or did they?), idiots who deserve comfort and love and need to recover from years of trauma to love each other because they are meant for each other
Summary: A stray Wolverine finds his way into your bar looking for the cage fights. But you both find something you swore off a long time ago. [1.3k words]
You knew better. You’d known better since you were told at age 7 not to feed the stray because he’d keep coming back. But you never really learned your lesson, since that cat proved to be the sweetest of them all. He’d curl up to you when you left your window open at night, push up against your legs in the backyard when you’d come home from school, hiss at any other person or animal. That’s why they put him down, when the neighborhood decided he was too aggressive.
Love like that wasn’t something you'd ever find again. The unconditional protectiveness you received all from simply feeding a stray with your kindness. And that's how you got him killed.
Never again.
To say your love life was parallel to a nun’s would be an over exaggeration. No man had ever drawn in your love the way a stray could.
The tragedy that is a stray.
Maybe you gravitated to working in this bar because everyone here was a stray. Everyone an orphan, who was someone’s, once. It helped that the cage fights were rather entertaining. Watching grown men lose their shit over losing bets, dealing out drinks left and right, everyone who came through had a level of respect for you, everyone’s favorite bartender.
“What can I get you?” Your voice flowed with the familiar words, watching the new face turn up to make eye contact with you, a cigar hanging from his lips, a good head of hair and a worn face.
“You the lady to talk to about getting in on these fights?” He asked, giving you a questioning eyebrow.
“No, Jimmy takes all the bets around here, pudgy guy, beard, back right.” You pointed past him, to Jimmy. Instead of following your finger, he gently waved his hand, looking back at you.
“No, are you the lady to talk to about fighting?” He rephrased, and you grinned. Fresh meat, right?
“Sure, I need a name.” You replied with the grin still on your lips. He looked fit, you wondered if he’d be getting his shit rocked in the cage within the hour. Or preferably by you, and not in that cage.
“Logan.”
“I need a fighting name. Privacy, and whatever.”
“Wolverine.” He puffed out the cigar’s smoke, a smell that this place already reeked of.
“The Wolverine, that's a new one. Welcome.” You smiled more genuinely, waving over one of the announcers, alerting them to your newest competitor. “Can I get you a drink, while you wait?”
“No, just the fights.” He replied, observing you in a way that made it seem like he was taking all of you in.
“Sure you can take more than one round in the ring?” You tilted your head a bit, observing him in the same way, the tension something burning that you squeezed as you spoke, as if it’d choke him up.
“You’d be surprised.” He cracked a grin, you almost wanted to take that in a different way with the way his eyes lingered on you.
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You weren’t exactly surprised that he was a good fighter, but it's been 3 hours of continuous beatings, without a cut or a bruise to show for it, he liked to make eye contact with you, doing some dance on that tightrope you were both walking this evening. You wouldn’t complain about the view, since he started he’d shed the jacket and shirt he’d had on. It helped that he won every fight, with a somewhat practiced ease, which made plenty of viewers upset for the losses of their bets.
As the night winded down, bets closed, drunks left angry or big winners. Some frequent patrons lingered on your stools, or in the seats. You watched Logan return to the same stool as earlier.
“Would our very own Wolverine like a beer?” You offered again, wiping up some spilled beer on your bartop.
“Logan’s fine. And yeah, hun, whatever you’ve got in a bottle.” You were used to terms of endearment used by men for you around here, but nothing like the way it fell off of his lips. It made something burn in your body, a sense of nervousness and excitement, that had you grabbing the first bottle you could for him.
You popped the top, moving it over yout bartop into his hand, and part of you wanted to ask how he was unscathed from all the beatings he’d supposedly taken.
“Anything else, Logan?” You asked, more soft than you intended, taking in his appearance. What was it about this particular stray that you felt needed you? Like the way your neighborhood one had? It felt pathetic, the way you tried to straighten yourself out after the slip of your voice.
“No, darlin’. Unless you’ve got a name for me?” He grinned the same way he had earlier, and you could feel the blush dusting your cheeks.
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That’s how you made it to the backseat of your black 67’ Ford Galaxie, being fucked like you don’t think you ever have been. Something about digging your fingernails into his skin, the way you couldn’t even see any indents with how hard you pressed, maybe it was the dark? Your legs wrapped around his hips, secured by one strong arm, the other holding himself up above you, buried in your hair. He didn’t seem the affectionate type, maybe you were wrong.
You were so lost, you couldn’t distinguish the small praises and growls on his breath, even if they met your ears like a goddamn symphony.
Something made you make eye contact with him that night, making what should've been a regular hookup into something much more intimate than it should be.
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Maybe he shouldn't have looked into your eyes that night. Maybe he shouldn't have given himself a taste of something he should never have deserved once in his life.
But he did.
And by the time you were asleep on him, maybe he should have woken you up, told you he should go. Maybe he should have denied himself the tug you had on something deep inside him, what could be a tug on the heart he swore he didn't have.
But he didn't.
And in the morning when you said goodbyes, it wasn't nearly as awkward as it should've been, at least to him, he liked watching over you that night. He craved that tugging he felt inside of himself to curl up with you, so close you couldn't ever leave him, so close that he would let nothing hurt you.
After years of losing every person he’d ever loved, some wall stayed built, a locked door that kept him out of the warmth of your embrace.
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You figured you wouldn't see him again for a long time, he’d told you he was a wanderer, traveling from place to place, with no home to call his own.
He reminded you of that stray cat, and maybe you should've ran the moment you felt like you needed to give him comfort and the home he deserved. You swore you’d never let someone who needed you die again.
But this was a man, a man whose mind had to be wired differently than a cat’s. But something told you part of it wasn't wired differently, the something that heard to skint of metal in the dark of your backseat when he’d damn near growled and come with you.
If the man wasn’t like your stray, why did he have the claws to prove that he was? You reminded yourself that was your imagination, because just as you turned your head to the sound, the glimmer of metal was a figment of your fucked-out mind, not really slipping back between his knuckles.
Hung up on a hookup? How pathetic. You’d never see this man again, he'd never stumble into your bar again, looking for a fight, and finding you instead.
Finding something neither of you wanted to give a name, yowling at the door you stayed on either side of, pleading to come in.
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[a/n: I LOVED writing this!!! PLEASE let me know if you enjoyed, it’s much appreciated PLUS it will help me know if yall want another part to their story <3]
Family Vacations - Francisco “Catfish” Morales x Reader [oneshot]
[a/n: stuck in the airport with a delay that is killing me wishing i had a frankie <\3 anyway, enjoy! moodboard was slammed together 2 minutes ago. Love yall <3]
warnings: judgemental family (at first), alcohol mentions [warnings will be added as this continues]
content/themes: family beach vacation, airports, planes, Frankie is adorable, fluff, no use of y/n, family names made up, part 1, wip short series, not proof read till i get out of this goddamned nightmare of a airport
Summary: Your first time traveling with your boyfriend, to a family vacation. You’re tired, and want to sleep on his shoulder.
You could appreciate the simplicity of two seats on either side of a plane. No middle seat. Your only issue was change. As much as you hated traveling alone, you had a boyfriend to share travels with. One who was admittedly a little broad shouldered to be sitting in economy seats, poor guy.
But that meant less sleeping upright and more sleeping on said shoulders. You weren’t really sure how he’d react to that. Despite the months spent together, this was your first time traveling together. You felt that was a make or break opportunity, you’d known a few exes to be rather hasty or difficult with you while traveling. Frankie was all calm expressions and put together with tickets and luggage. No speed walking to get to a gate, with a two hour layover. Just handholding and conversation about what you’d get for your breakfast/lunch, time blended together when you woke up at 3 in the morning. He always offered you the window, after he’d seen you staring out at your first flight, but deep down, he liked being a barrier between you and anyone else.
He was just as stressed through TSA, boarding, etc… as you were, but he could tell his calm demeanor allowed you to relax a little. If that wasn’t sexy enough, the baseball cap fit snug on his head, with little tufts of his mess of curls poking out underneath, the cotton t-shirt pulled over the chest you know you left marks on a few days ago, denim jeans, boot cut looked just a little too good, was plenty.
Sitting in your 20 A and B seats, the windows shut and the air conditioning blasting, you decided to try it, test the waters. You carefully slid the plastic of the window cover down, the view becoming nothing but bleak clouds. He squeezed your hand, only a gentle reminder that he was there.
You were exhausted anyway.
You leaned your head over, on his shoulder, to which he leaned in, the arm rest already pushed up long ago between the two of you. He wrapped a protective arm around you, nuzzling his head onto yours. Success. No movement or shifting away, or excuse to not be a pillow for you. It took you mere minutes to shift from a half-asleep mindset to completely asleep.
Your family wasn’t always the most agreeable, or easy to be around. With separated parents, it was just your dad’s side. Your grandparents had finally bought a beach house, instead of renting one every year.
Your father and step-mother had already met Frankie. You weren’t really worried about how your family would like him—more so how they would act around him. Your dad and uncles had quite the habit of getting a little more rowdy or loud when they’d had a few extra alcoholic beverages. You usually just went to bed early, or played with your little cousins.
You were the oldest, and he was the first significant other to join the vacation week. To say you had a few warnings for him was an understatement.
You only woke up to some turbulence closer to the end of the 2 and a half hour flight, your boyfriend out like a light. You rubbed your eyes, forgetting about the mascara that was on your eyes. You sighed, reaching down to awkwardly free your carry-on backpack, pulling out your phone. You flipped through some music, the droning on of the pilot announcing your descent.
Frankie usually slept fine anywhere, you figured that was a result of the years spent in the military.
He only woke up when the plane hit the ground for a rather rough landing, he sat up, stirring to look at you. “Goddamn airline pilots…” he muttered before pulling his phone from the seat back pocket, checking the time, and weather, to try to predict what it’d be like once you stepped outside.
You leaned a bit closer to shift his hat back straight on his head, a teasing smile on your lips, he gave you a grumpy face, before letting you kiss his cheek.
There was nothing like that humidity hitting your face the second you stepped outside of the air conditioning. As nice as it felt to be away from the daunting reality of travel, the creeping sweat down your back as your backpack rested there was not delightful. You craved the backseat of your grandparent’s minivan, the cold drinks they brought and the blasting AC.
Frankie’s uncomfortable shifting gave you the hint he felt the same about the heat, he let go of your check bag, running and hand under his hat as he held it up enough to straighten out his unruly curls.
“My grandparents are about 5 minutes out, Franks, wanna sit?” You offered, bumping his shoulder.
“Baby, I’ve been sitting all day, if I even think about a bench you’ll have a 80 year old man on your hands.” He chuckled, and god how you loved that sound. “…so, how nice exactly are your grandparents?”
“Judgemental…at first. My grandma might talk your ear off about sweepstakes and our family. Just listen and smile.” You shrugged, taking in the hint of nerves on his face and in his words. “My grandpa likes that you’re a pilot, apparently. He was Air Force.”
“Okay…I can manage there. Your aunts and uncles?” He asked, he was always one for knowing all the details beforehand.
“Also…judgemental. At first. My Uncle James is pretty chill though, he’s married to Penny. She’s very southern and kind. My uncle Lou might come off as a bit of a dick at first, well, maybe for a bit, but that’ll fizzle out. He’s married to Jess, who’s kind of a neurotic mess, kinda micromanage-y.” You listed, trying to keep it as organized as you possibly could. “You’ve met my dad…and my stepmom…”
“So…I’m guessing you’ll be spending most of your time with the little guys?” He asked upon hearing the lineup of family members.
“Mostly. It’s more fun to tug them around in a raft or toss them into the waves than talk about adult life bullshit downing White Claws.” You shrugged again, your hand slipping down his arm to intertwine your fingers. “They’ll like you, maybe even more than me, you can toss them farther. And probably dig better holes than me.”
“Now my only goal is to be the favorite.” He laughed softly at your admission of the title of favorite cousin. His hand shook yours playfully.
“That…should be them.” You smiled, spotting the familiar minivan, looking up at Frankie, as he braced himself, looking like someone was about to taze him.
lying in bed with joel miller in the early morning all warm and cozy beneath the sheets and nuzzling your face into his scruff and breathing him in while he pulls you in close and kisses your hair
Comfort(ers) & Sheets - Joel Miller x Reader [Drabble]
[moodboard for moodboards sake can easily be read as game or hbo joel <3]
warnings/themes: allusions to sex, no smut, fluff, lots of romance/love, pov swap, implied plot, it’s sweet & short that’s it.
a/n: just a quick drabble based on a thought I had at 11pm when I should’ve definitely been sleeping. thoughts loved and appreciated if you enjoy <3
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You could spend every late Sunday morning all wrapped up in the huge white comforter you’d invested in when you moved into this house from trading.
Specifically under it, with your very sleepy husband sprawled out on his side of the bed, as you lay, naked (Joel had made sure of that the night before) your stomach pressed against the mattress, your fingers tracing down his face, over his nose. His scars.
The cool summer breeze from the morning seeps in with the dim sunlight, the warmth and coolness all at once of the oversized, stuffed blanket makes you want to lie there forever.
He doesn’t stir. Not anymore. When he knows you’re there he stays still, content even in his sleep.
You slip out of bed, only a loose sheet wrapped around you, opening the back patio door and settling in a rocking chair he’d built for you. You watch the trees behind your home, in the warm sun, your body sore and relaxed all at once. You took pride in that, even if Joel didn’t believe you. He made you feel like you could just…melt, soak into the dark ground and dig your way right back out just for him again.
“Sugar…” Joel all but spoke loudly as he leaned on the doorframe, he’d been there for a few minutes now, but he wouldn’t tell you that. In his mind, when he got to watch you think, about anything, he’d been blessed by some divine grace to have you.
“Honey.” You smile, turning enough to see him.
“Still early…come back to bed?” He offers, his tone convincing, always too convincing.
“We have a day to start.” You remind him, as he leans down to take up your hand, letting you make sure the sheet that covered you was wrapped still. You’d shown him every piece of you, and every second of that he wanted more. But until he had you safe and comfortable…that piece of you only he got, stayed hidden to the world, and to him.
“The day can wait on us.” He replies simply, picking you up completely as he carries you back in, and you shut the patio door.
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Your soft breath. That’s what he listens to. It’s the same as a heartbeat to him. It means you’re alive, and still here with him, sheet left to the floor, the same with your clothes, to be found when you meet the day. His eyes watch your resting face, pensive but restful nonetheless. His right hand snakes into your hair and out, a repeated motion, his left placed over yours, on his bare chest. He’d managed it again. Managed to keep the most beautiful and most precious thing in his life in his bed, sure, with his head buried deep between your thighs, and a slow and sleepy push back into sleep.
But he likes it that way. He’d stay like this for an eternity if he could, ignorant to every sin and deformity that is the world now, mapping out every inch he could of you, instead of escape routes and patrol paths.
He wanted every piece of you, just the way you are.
His eyes are tired but the last thing he wants to do is sleep. He watches his calloused hands, destroyed by the grips of countless guns and weapons.
He should marry you again.
Even with the years that take a toll on both of you now, years that you can let show on your faces and bodies, he wants to be smooth like a whiskey on a bar with a new finish, soft like a shower, washing the dirt from your body after a long day, a relief to you the way a breath of fresh air feels after the restriction of a gas mask. Those are the things he strives, no, begs some higher power to be.
Even in his dying breath, he is yours. That’s all he knows.
Look After You (Christmas Fic) - Francisco “Catfish” Morales x Reader
[moodboard for moodboard’s sake]
Summary: It’s the first time you’ve had Frankie home for the entire month of December, and you have some exciting news for him.
content/warnings: fluff, established relationship, reader & frankie are married, they have a daughter, girl dad frankie, classic christmas (no sad beige bullshit here), reader is pregnant, pregnancy announcement, their daughter is rambunctious & sweet, daughter is named Valentina (Val for short), Santiago appearance, alcohol mention (santi and frank have a beer lol), these two are so sweet you wanna throw up [2k-ish words]
a/n: okay first fic on tumblr, this feels weird. and yeah it’s wayyyy too early for Christmas but i hate that it’s snowing where i am and im pretending im happy about it (aka writing fics about Christmas) let me know what you think!!! <3
Christmas had stopped being a time to relax a long time ago. Even more so once you had your daughter. And your husband. But, Frankie was plenty of help, this evening, among many others, he’d offered to completely take over the bedtime duties for Valentina, that you normally split 50/50, so you could have some time to yourself, which you opted to wrap gifts.
It was the 23rd, and the wrapping was a little late admittedly. He’d offered everything under the sun, a hot bath, a home cooked meal, etc. You’d chosen to wrap gifts. This was the first year you got to spend the entire month with him. And Val was three. You settled down on your bed, with a bunch of gift bags, wrapping paper and a few bows. The gifts you planned for your daughter on your left, and a few for your husband on the right.
By 7 o’clock, you’d wrapped everything. Gift tags were what you had left. In your hand writing, you started to write your first name. On your daughter’s gift. You silently laughed at yourself, trying again, with a different tag, addressing it to Val, from Mama.
You’d never get used to it in the best of ways.
You smiled at the tag, feeling stupid. Stupidly happy. The amount of joy that children got out of Christmas, would last forever, and seeing the joy from your daughter made all the work worth it.
Then you got down to your husband’s little stack. A few useful items he’d asked for, a book he’d wanted, and a framed photo of the two of you. One from the day you told him you were pregnant with Val. Taken on a digital camera, he’s smiling wide, genuinely, while you press a kiss to his cheek. He had been trying to find time to get all the photos printed off the camera and frame some, specifically that one to put on his nightstand. You wrapped that last.
Cause that wasn’t the only part of the gift. You had a letter, and more importantly, a pregnancy test.
A positive pregnancy test.
You looked at it for a moment, you only found out a few days ago, and decided you’d surprise him on Christmas Eve, with the photo.
A swift knock was put on the bedroom door, to which you hid everything at your side, throwing your sweater over it. “Francisco Morales if you walk in here you may not live to see Christmas Day.” You call out, in a joking tone, as the door cracked open.
“Hey there, Mrs. Catfish.” You place the voice immediately. Santiago. “Heard you were wrapping gifts in here?”
“Yeah, you’re safe.” You chuckle lightly, standing up off the bed to hug him as he stepped in to greet you. “What’re you doing here?” You wrap your arms around him with a smile on your face.
“Holy…shit.” You furrow your brows, hearing his tone as you pull back, following his gaze. Fuck. “Looks like it’s Mama Fish of two.” He chuckled, looking back at you with a smile before you shushed him quickly.
He got a kick out of the nickname he’d come up with when he’d found out about Val.
“Yeah, looks like it.” You smile, the reality kicking in a little. “Frankie’s supposed to find out Christmas Eve so keep it zipped.” He chuckles again, taking it to heart.
“How far along?” He asks as you made an effort to finish putting everything neatly into its little box, and labeling it with his name.
“Four weeks. Only found out on the 19th.” You say quietly, stuffing presents into the closet, behind some storage boxes, stacking a few spare blankets over it for good measure.
“Damn.”
“Don’t even do the math, Santiago.” You warn with a fake scowl.
“Guess me taking Val for the weekend paid off.” He jokes as you shoot him a look, opening the door and leading him back out into the hall to the living room to find Frankie.
The Christmas lights on the tree were plugged in, blues, red, purples, oranges, greens, yellows…you’d refused to give in to the sad beige trends, you wanted your daughter to have the Christmas you did. Full of life and color, and strange ornaments with memories and crafts and photos. Frankie was in the kitchen in the fridge, digging for drinks.
“You found her?” He calls to Santi, to which he replies with a simple “yep.” “Either of you want a beer?” He asks, Santi gave you a look to which you held up a finger in warning.
“No, honey, just water for me.” You reply, and he came into the living room a few moments later, two beers and a water. You thanked him and smiled, sitting down next to him on the couch while Santiago sat in one of your armchairs.
You spent the rest of the evening talking, catching up and laughing. Your daughter slept like a rock, and eventually you checked on her, making sure she actually was asleep. She was the spitting image of both of you, snoring softly. Your pride and joy, you never thought any man would ever make you feel safe and loved enough to have a child, a home.
The last two weeks, you’d been watching Christmas movies with Val and Frankie, curled up on the couch, as she got all excited about Christmas, and winter, and presents.
Last night, she’d begged to make cookies she’d found in an old cookbook of yours. Gingerbread cookies the three of you decorated to look like each other, accompanying the little house she decorated. She passed out from a sugar high on the couch between you and Frankie at only 6 in the evening. A miracle, for a girl like her. He’d talked to you about how much he loved the two of you, quietly playing with your hair, for almost an hour before you both fell asleep.
By the time Santiago left, you both were tired, like average toddler parents were. You drag a blanket from the back of the couch, pulling it up and over the two of you, curling up with him for a minute.
“Good day?” Frankie asks, like clockwork each night he wanted to hear what you had to say. His eyes reflect the Christmas lights, and somehow every ounce of admiration and love he held for you.
“Good day. Got all the presents wrapped.”
“I’m glad, all ready for Christmas?” He rubbs your arm, pulling you closer.
“Very. You?” You look up at him, hand finding his soft brown curls, you see him wear more frequently now. Standard Oil practically owned his head of hair until you came along and convinced him the curls and little grays were perfect to you.
“I think so. Wrapped your gifts last week.” He grins down at you, hand falling at your waist, fingertips grazing your back and pulling you just a bit closer. You smile at him, God, you love him. His eyes shine a little more in the light of the tree, pulling you up to kiss him sweetly, your hand pressed gently to the side of his face.
“I love you.” You murmur, reaching just a bit farther up to press a kiss to the tip his nose, one of many things you adore about him.
“I love you, hun.” He kisses your cheek in return, letting you rest on his shoulder, just against his neck. You play with the hem of his shirt, yawning slightly. “How’s a hot shower and bed sound?” He asks with a slight chuckle, you can feel it deep in his chest, with his heartbeat. The one he knows beats just for you.
By the next evening, dinner is served, chicken (considering your daughter won’t touch turkey), mashed potatoes (her favorite), and green beans (cause somebody needed her greens.)
“Mama, do we get to open presents tonight?” Your daughter asks, her spoon spinning around in her potatoes.
“Only one, since Santa hasn’t come yet, sweetheart.” You grin, watching her take another bite, smiling at you and Frankie.
“Do you think I’ll be able to hear the reindeer? When he’s on the roof? Cause I can’t see Santa?” Val asks, pulling her hair out of the little ponytail done by Frankie from earlier when she’d “helped” him outside shovel the snow on the sidewalk, messy from her little hat.
“I don’t know about that…but I heard Santa has been leaving behind something extra special if we leave him some milk and cookies tonight.” Frankie smiles, explaining to his daughter what she could expect if she tried to stay in her bed and sleep.
“Hmm…I think we should get to bed soon, Val cause Uncle Santi called before dinner and told me Santa had already come to his house.” You hum like it's nothing, and your daughter shoots up, finishing the remainder of her plate, and Frankie smiles at you.
“Can we go get my pjs? And brush my teeth? I wanna go to bed!” Val forgets she could even have one present tonight.
She takes Frankie’s hand, tugging it a little, watching you for approval. She drags both of you, through her bedtime routine like you usually have to do for her. You kiss her goodnight, and tell her Christmas will be there the sooner she goes to sleep, and that you love her. You lean on the doorframe, watching Frankie talk to her, telling her goodnight and that he loves her.
Your hand finds your abdomen without really thinking. Jesus Christ do you love him, and God are you glad to be the one having his children.
You quickly tuck both hands in the pockets of your jeans as he turns to you, walking out with you. He takes your hand, leading you back to the living room.
“I’ve got something for you.” You say softly, he presses a kiss to your head. You reach under the couch, as you’d hidden it earlier in the day, and he chuckles a little. You hand him the box and settle with your legs over his lap, he brushes your knees with his free hand. He looks at you to see if it’s okay to open, his hands making the box look much smaller than it was. You nod, encouraging him a little, a small smile on your lips.
He shakes off the top, pushing back the wrapping and looking at you, a large grin on his face, taking up the photo frame, setting the box beside him. He pulls you in tightly, still holding the framed photo. “I’ve been meaning to do this, this is amazing, thank you-”
“Frankie, I’d take another look in the box before you thank me, honey.” You joke slightly, he lets go of you, giving you a confused look, taking the box back up, taking back some more of the wrapping, he looks back up at you, his eyes wide, and you don’t even know how his smile got better. He wraps you up in his arms again, pulling you up to hold you as close as he can.
You’re every good piece of him, you’re the one thing he could ever dream to have.
“We’re having another baby!” He’s impossibly happy, excited and holding you tight, kissing you repeatedly before you can even say another word. “I’m a dad, again…” He lets you go a little to look at you, glancing down at your stomach, and back to your eyes. “Thank you…”
Those big, brown eyes and that smile, that got you here in the first place.
You’re smiling, blushing with how excited he is. He pulls you back in, once again, elated, with little tears at the corner of his eye, holding you close. The only place he wants to be.
“I- I’m only four weeks. Only found out a few days ago, just wanted to surprise you.” You stumble over your words, and he kisses the side of your face, still holding you but loose, so you could breathe, and he could look at you.
“It’s amazing. It’s more than amazing, it’s the best fucking Christmas gift.” He grins at you, hands rubbing your arms up and down as if to warm you. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too, Francisco.” You just about melt into his arms, his comfort the same as a blanket while it snowed outside.
He made you happier than you could’ve ever believed you deserved, let alone believed you would find. And yet, he reminded you somehow everyday of how much he didn’t deserve you.
