4.7k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader
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summary: frankie's romantic fourth of july plans go awry when your boss pulls the plug on your beloved jukebox.
warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), swearing, dual POV, descriptions of food and drink, reader is described to have hair (not descriptive of what color/length/etc.), angst, pet names (baby, angel, carino, etc.) explicit smut
A/N: thank you to everyone who has sent messages for the past sixteen months encouraging me, checking in to say hi, all of the above. I'm not on tumblr often, but this series is one I hope to finish, even if it's with spans of time in between. our diner babies have an ending in mind <3
The Fourth of July lands on a Friday this year.
For most, that means a three-day weekend filled with fireworks, a case of cold beer, and backyard barbeques.
But for the people in the service industry?
“What do you mean my time-off request is rejected?” Frankie tails the mother manager of Tommy’s Diner, Carla, as she weaves through the kitchen. A symphony of water spraying dirty dishes and chatter of the fellow kitchen staff fills the room.
Carla lets out a light, dry laugh, a playful grin dancing on her lips as she studies the work schedule with keen eyes before she hangs that clipboard right up on the wall. “Well, sugar, the Fourth is our third busiest day of the year, right after that first Saturday of summer and just behind when the county fair’s demolition derby wraps up. All those hungry folks need a place to settle in, and bless their hearts, Golden Corral shuts down by eight.”
She operates like a well-oiled machine, using the plush of her ass or hips to bop open the swing door between the kitchen and the dining area, grabbing the decaf and non-decaf pots from their station. “You’re the best cook we got and the only one trained enough to handle rushes. I’m counting on ya, baby.”
Frankie forces himself to slow his strides, because with Carla’s body shaped like a teacup, he could easily outpace her. So instead, he trails her with his tall body looming over hers, his hands anxiously running through his hair before he adjusts the red bandana back around his forehead.
“Come on, I don’t ask for much,” Frankie smirks as he takes the coffee pots off her hands and tops off the next few tables.
Carla mutters something snarky about the vacation time he just took off to go fishing.
“Please,” he opts for his softer tone, honey-amber eyes meeting hers. “I have a hot date this weekend.”
Frankie’s gaze drifts to you, leaning against the wall by the landline, the phone nestled between your ear and shoulder. The to-go order stretches on as you scribble on your notepad. Your nose twitches like a bunny, fingers twirling the phone’s cord. Frankie feels like his chest might burst from the inside.
He turns to Carla and lowers his voice. “I’m takin’ her camping. Romantic, right?”
At that, Carla laughs hard enough to hold her stomach and tilt her head back. “Child, what about that girl makes you think she likes camping?”
Frankie presses his lips together, thinking it over. A weekend in the wilderness, twinkling stars above, hard ground below, probably isn’t your idea of a getaway. He’d have to think of something else, and fast.
Carla rolls her eyes and promises to cross him off the schedule for the fourth time, adding with a snide little sigh that she can’t wait to see what he comes up with.
On the morning of the Fourth, you’re greeted by a not-so-welcome sight.
There’s an I’M BROKEN :( sign on the jukebox.
Your fingers trace the Sharpie on white printer paper and push down extra hard on the tape at the corners, holding it in place.
Why does it bug you so much? The ache plagues you even after you put your purse in Frankie’s locker and clock in by the back entrance.
Sure, it had been stuck on four songs for a few months and the keys were sticky, but it marked the start of the morning routine. A few quarters in the slot, a song to match the mood, then a wipe-down of the counters and pie case.
Now, it was broken, and so was your goddamn mood.
It’s a last resort to end up in the owner’s small back office. Everything was dingy from cigarette smoke, and the curtains were stained by the sun. There were unmentionable colored stains on the carpet, and the tiny room was cramped with disorganization.
Sat behind the desk with his tiny reading glasses was the owner’s son, Rudy.
Rudy’s been out of town a lot. Strange, but honestly a relief. He’s an asshole. The sleazy moves he used to pull are gone, but only because Frankie’s presence has grown more physical. A firm hand at the waist, thick fingers threading through your hair, a kiss pressed to your lips in the back lot before leaving at the end of a shift.
Those things send a pretty obvious message. Not just to Rudy, but to everyone you work with.
You and Frankie are together. A romantic pair.
Carla’s started glancing at Frankie whenever she asks about the weekend. Do-it-all Paul brings the shift meal ticket straight to him, knowing he makes it exactly how you like it. Even Lou, the sixteen-year-old busboy who mopes while he mops, put together a playlist for the two of you.
The best part? It fills your stomach with butterflies. Excitement. Happy nerves. It was a weird type of new attention you were receiving. The other thought that has surfaced is that everyone was acting extremely normal about it.
Did they see it coming? Did your personalities make sense together? Has this been brewing in plain sight since the day you were both hired? That was the bamboozle of it all.
How it made sense to everyone else before it made sense to you.
“Shit,” Rudy said breathlessly, his fist clutching his short sleeve button up shirt at the heart. Your wide eyes greet him as you finally knock on the doorframe to his office. “You know I hate loitering.” He huffs, shuffling some papers into a manilla folder and out of your sight.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” you start, staying firmly at the entrance of his office and not coming in any further than one has to. “I saw that the jukebox was down. When is the repair guy coming?”
Rudy sighs and meanders around his office, closing the empty safe that sits on the floor in an old closet while he paces. “Well, the old girl isn’t actually broken.” His admission makes something in your blood boil.
“Don’t tell me you’re selling it.” Your voice is warning, wavering with heat.
Rudy doesn’t look at you, only shakes his head and slides his jacket on. He grabs an old baseball cap and pops it on, merely shrugging. It makes you feel inferior.
Rudy’s always been known for shady dealings. Selling the food was never enough. If he thought he could make a quick buck, he’d pull out the ceiling tiles and scrap metal from the diner’s core without a second thought.
“Listen, sweetheart, I know you’re fond of the thing. It gives the place character, sure. But it’s too much to keep her running. I-, I mean, we need the money. A collector’s swinging by this weekend to take it off our hands. Carla’s got the instructions. It’s already handled, alright? We’re lucky he’s taking it as it is, it’s really a piece of junk.”
His hastiness alerts you.
Crossing your arms, you frown as your lips settle in a snarl. “So, where are you going during this lucrative sale?”
He mutters as he locks the office door, barely glancing at you while nudging you aside. “You’d be a lot easier to deal with if you smiled more and kept your mouth shut. Hold down the fort. Don’t screw it up.”
The busy morning does little to keep your mind at bay, something uncomfortable still itching below the surface. Your gut has always been strong, but this time around, you really have no idea what it’s trying to tell you.
Is the jukebox some weird omen describing your relationship with Frankie? If something is broken, don’t even bother trying to salvage it, get rid of it? Or was Rudy just continuing his usual sketchiness?
The stress of the jukebox makes your stomach uneasy. Knowing you only had another twenty-four hours with the classic beauty made your fuse short.
Frankie could tell. And as much as he tried to help, the crowding around you only made things worse.
“You’re cranky.” He obviously states on the drive home.
You scoff, jaw twitching with annoyance. “Thanks, really appreciate that.” Your apron’s sticky with syrup, and you reek of the grease trap. You lean against the window, letting the breeze slip through the cab of his truck. You don’t look at him. You don’t need to.
Your body says enough.
The really annoying part is that you hadn’t seen him all week. He went out of town to go fishing with Santi and Benny, so that knocked out Friday night through Monday evening. That meant taking opposite shifts to earn back the cash he lost during vacation. And you’re pissed at yourself that this is the mood you’re in by the time you finally get to be together.
Irritated. Prickly like a cactus.
So you sulk for the entire ride home. And him making jokes trying to lighten up the mood only twisted the knife.
“I need a shower,” you sigh, dropping your purse on the kitchen counter upon entering his apartment and pulling at the black elastic in your hair.
“Can I come?” Frankie asks slyly to which you snidely smile.
“I think not.”
Frankie shrugs casually and leans against the bathroom’s door frame. “Fine by me, but then you’ll be sittin’ next to an awfully smelly fry cook on top of the ferris wheel.”
Ferris wheel?
Your eyes lock onto his. The smug curl of his lips makes it hard to stay mad. It's annoying how easily he gets your attention. You were set on sulking, but now you're caught wondering what he's going to say next.
You cross your arms and lean against the opposite side of the door’s frame. You sigh, rolling your eyes as you slowly unzip your apron, the material falling to the floor and pooling around your ankles. “Fine. But no funny business. I had a bad day, and I’m not in the mood.”
Frankie grins like he’s already won something. You ignore it, stepping into the bathroom and flicking water toward him when he gets too smug.
The sky is navy blue, but the lights from the carnival are what captivate your attention.
Frankie parks his truck in the grass and immediately takes your hand as you walk under a large, lit-up white and red-striped tent where he pays for admission.
It’s beautiful chaos. Food vendors have their trucks lined up, electric signs blaring what they cater from corn dogs to deep fried turkey legs. You can hear children screaming as you pass each ride, a familiarity from childhood passing through you.
“I love the carnival.” You admit slowly, still a bit hesitant from your day earlier. You’re here, but not in it yet. Frankie can sense the hesitancy in your body, but the curiosity in your eyes makes him hopeful he can turn your day around.
“Here,” Frankie offers you a cotton candy cone, pink and blue fluff intertwined. “A sweet for my sweet.”
You can’t help but roll your eyes, taking the stick nonetheless. “Who made you so cheesy?”
“You think I’m cheesy? You would’ve loved my abuelita. All she did was watch telenovelas. She’d sit me in her lap and watch my expressions. I’d get extra candy if they were big, exaggerated.” Frankie smirked as he plucked pink floss from the cone, letting it melt on his tongue.
As the two of you continue to walk down the lane, a kid running after his friends trips and falls right in front of you. Before you even have time to react, Frankie knelt down beside the boy, offering him a hand.
“Hey, y’okay?” Frankie brushes some dirt off the kids shirt and the boy lets out a tired huff.
“M’okay, thanks,” he says shyly to Frankie, smiling sheepishly before he stands and returns to chase after his friends.
Your boyfriend straightens up beside you and you hold his hand a little tighter, your walls finally down for the night.
Frankie’s eyes light up, his amber ones staring down at yours. “There’s my pretty girl.” He murmurs, pushing the brim of his hat up just a smidge, so that when he leans down and kisses you, it doesn’t bump your forehead.
He hums softly, the taste of your lips always something that brings him joy. “You wanna go on the ferris wheel?”
Side by side in the green painted cart, you’re slotted in at the hip so close that your knees bunch up next to Frankie’s. His arm easily slips around your shoulders and the back of the seat bench, always looking for a way to be closer to you.
“It’s pretty,” you whisper, eyes attached to the skyline. There wasn’t much out here in the means of cities and skyscrapers, but it was the beautiful twinkling sky that was better than any city lights.
“See? Carnival magic. You almost stopped scowling.”
You shoot him a look, but all the scraped edges of it are gone. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Once the ferris wheel is full, you start going. It’s impossible not to laugh like a little kid, especially with Frankie by your side. He makes you lighter. He’s comforting, able to calm your bad weather with a few validating words.
He asks to kiss you at the top. It might be the most romantic moment you’ve shared.
As the cart lowers and there’s a lull, Frankie sighs and says, “Heard they’re hauling that old jukebox out this weekend. Honestly, I’m surprised it didn’t catch fire last summer.”
Pursing your lips, you can feel your mood shift. Your body stiffens and your gaze lands somewhere by the corn dog vender as you pass the first full spin of the wheel.
“It still worked fine.”
Frankie doesn’t pick up on your body language. So he keeps talking.
“It’s ancient. Nobody uses it. I think you’re the only one I know who…”
It clicks. It’s like you can hear it registering in his brain that the dusty, old piece of crap actually means something to you.
But it’s too late, because all that annoyance comes bubbling fast back to the surface.
In a warped part of your brain, becoming the old dusty jukebox is your fear. A metaphorical one. If something sentimental and familiar can be discarded, maybe the same could be said about you.
FRANKIE’S POV
She’s gone quiet again. It’s impossible not to notice when her energy shifts. Some people might describe it like a hurricane, and maybe she is, but that’s not how Frankie sees it.
Imagine driving through the rain. All grey clouds and windshield wipers squeaking as her tears fall from the sky. The droplets are so heavy, they beat down the road and the rooftop, it forces you to take notice. The rain is so loud, so strong and commanding. But then, passing under a bridge for the briefest of moments, everything is silent.
She can be a hurricane all she wants, and Frankie will be the bridge.
He lifts his tattered cap, runs a hand through his waves, and tucks the hat back on tight at his forehead as he catches up with your fast pace towards the exit of the carnival.
“You gonna tell me what just happened?”
You shrug. “Nothing happened. You just made your opinion very clear.”
“About what? The jukebox?”
You give a short laugh, your jaw twitching as your fingers flex with all the extra energy you’re building up. “Forget it.”
The tension simmers between you both and he’s still lost in the interaction. And you certainly won’t spell it out for him, beautifully stubborn.
You parade through the lanes of parked vehicles, the night sky casting a navy blue film across the trees that line the grassy lot. It’s the peak of the carnival and most folks are inside, the grassy area of parked cars quiet. They leave a waft of warm energy as he weaves through the aisles, hot on your trail.
He speaks your name, but before he can say anything, you’re tugging at the passenger door harder than necessary. It flies open with your strength.
Before you get the chance to crawl into the truck and slam the door, he’s got his hand on the frame.
“You close the door, you break my fingers.” He warns.
“Then move.”
You pull. Frankie stalls the door again. And you look at him like you might just kill him with fury.
“What the hell is your problem?” You snap.
Frankie inhales deeply, pausing in silence for a moment. He presses his tongue against his cheek, glancing from the carnival, then back to you.
“I thought we were havin’ a nice time. I don’t know what happen, spell it out to me like I’m fuckin’ stupid.”
You frown at that, a flash of pain flickering behind your eyes.
“You’re not stupid, Francisco."
He tries again. “You’ve been pissed since this morning. And now you're throwing daggers at me because I said the jukebox was busted. I don’t get you sometimes.”
You finally snap, not shouting, but your voice is sharp as nails. “It wasn’t just busted. It was mine. And nobody even told me it was being sold. They just decided it didn’t matter anymore.”
He watches you, then says carefully, “This isn’t about the jukebox.”
You look at him, walls flickering at the sincere brown eyes he lands on you. “Maybe not.”
A laughter from a couple down the lane breaks his focus, and he takes you by the hand and guides you to the cab of his truck, where it’s more closed off.
The silence turns heavy but different. His eyes drop to her mouth, then back up.
“You always get mean when you’re scared,” he says, voice low.
“Don’t be an ass,” you shoot back, but the edge is gone. It sounds more like a sigh.
His eyes are on you now, steady and unreadable. You hate that. You’d rather he laugh it off or tease you. But he just watches you, eyes growing darker.
“I’m right here.”
Your breath catches just slightly, but you cover it with a scoff. “You say that like you’re some big emotional safety net.”
“I’m not. But I don’t leave when you get hard to deal with.”
You glance at him, lips parting like you might say something, but nothing comes out.
Instead, you look down at your hands. Frankie takes the opportunity to slot his fingers between yours, his calloused skin catching against the soft give of your palm.
“I know what the jukebox meant to you,” Frankie says. “I should’ve said something different. I’m sorry.”
You nod once, still not looking at him. “Yeah, well. Doesn’t matter now.”
“It does,” he says. And his voice dips lower, almost a whisper. “Because it made you look at me like I wasn’t on your side. And I don’t like that. I’m always on your side.”
Of course he’s on your side. He’s never given you a reason to doubt that.
A groan leaves you, an exhausted one that feels like a weight off your shoulders.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know if it’s a control thing with losing the jukebox or,” More gibberish flies out of your mouth in a way of trying to explain this reaction.
Then it clicks as fast to you as it does to Frankie.
His signature smirk graces his lips. He glances around the grassy parking lot, adjusts his hat, and stands with his hands on his hips. “When’s the last time you got off, cariño?”
YOUR POV
That pulls your gaze back.
What did he- oh. The fishing trip. He’s been gone all week. You were in too much of a mood to notice the signs earlier.
The coiling in your stomach, the electricity snapping across your skin, an ache that could only be solved by getting off.
Heat rushes to your face, warmth spreading across your body as you sit there, dazed and unsure what to do with yourself.
Not a moment later, Frankie releases the tailgate and tips his head to the side, motioning for you.
“Get in.” His tone is calm, but the authority in it settles over you like a hand at your back.
Your stomach drops, a sudden rollercoaster plunge. You obey, your feet sinking into the dewy grass as you quietly follow his instruction and climb into the truck bed.
Instead of your knees digging into the floor panel, they crawl across a dark blue furniture pad.
Frankie shuts the bed with you inside, his hands catching the side panel as he pulls himself up. One cowboy boot finds the tire, then he lifts, swinging his other leg over in one practiced motion to join you.
“What are we-”
“Shhhh.” His voice is low and steady as he settles back against the truck’s rear window, legs shifting to make space. He extends a hand toward you, an unspoken invitation to come closer.
You slot your body between his legs, your back meeting the warmth of his chest.
Like a lock and key, you piece together and he kisses you slowly.
All the stress of today seems to melt and you’re at his mercy.
Frankie’s tongue glides against yours, a hand of proud ownership holding your face by the underside of your jaw. Mine.
A heavy breath fans out between you as Frankie’s other hand slips under your shirt, feeling the way your belly tightens as his featherlight touch tickles at your skin.
His kisses pull your focus, easing the tension in your shoulders and loosening the tightness in your posture, and your legs spread just a little wider.
A cocky scoff leaves his lips, shaking his head at you and your nose brushes his.
“Needed this real bad, didn’t you, baby?” The palm of his hand cups one of your breasts, greedily squeezing at the bra-clad flesh.
The grip he has between your jaw and your tit leaves you breathless already. It’s embarrassing to feel so fucking needy.
“Please, Frankie,” you plead, large eyes with pupils the size of saucers staring up at him.
“Please, what?”
An impatient groan fills the air and he clasps his hand over your mouth. He stares daggers down at you, so chilling that you freeze.
A couple that you couldn’t hear before walks closer, their distant chatter growing louder as they walk near.
Frankie bites down on his lip and your eyes gloss over at the sight. An insolent moan muffles against his hand.
His eyes snap back down at you, the hold on your mouth tightening. He shakes his head at you, holding back a smirk.
The couple’s words start to echo, something about the games being rigged but the fried oreos tasting good.
Your lips part as Frankie’s teeth sink into your earlobe, a pitchy little whine muffling against his hand as the sensation makes your nipples tingle.
His hand slowly releases from your mouth, moving back to the underside of your jaw as he makes you look up at him. “You can be as much of a slut as you wanna be, but you need to be a quiet little slut. Can you do that, angel?”
Somehow he works angel and slut in one sentence and all you can do is desperately nod against his chest.
“Good girl,” Frankie praises as his soft lips attach to yours once more, but now with a bit more hunger and bite.
His scruff grinds against your face and all you can think about is how badly you miss that feeling between your legs.
His large palm pulls down your bra, your breasts spilling over as he moves from one to the other, always giving his favorite girls equal attention.
Your hand clutches at his shirt, his mouth concealing your desperate whine as he tugs and twists at your taut nipples.
It gets all too real as his hand slips between your legs, blindly undoing the button to your jean shorts as he moves his kisses down to the supple flesh of your neck.
You tilt your head, giving him better access, and the zip of your shorts cuts through the quiet darkness.
The sensation hits you, eyes going bleary once his thick fingers start feeling over your wet panties. He circles his domain before pulling the material aside. He can’t help but break his kisses and take a look at your glittering pussy.
You whisper, “Seems like you missed me too.”
He groans out something needy. “Fuck, yeah I did.”
Another group of people are heard weaving through the lines of vehicles and Frankie’s got his hand on your mouth again.
He slides two of his thick fingers between your slit, the slip between your aching hole and your pulsing clit has you breathless.
You curse against his hand, and his forefingers tap your cheek a few sharp times, a firm reminder to stay quiet. The sharp pain only excites you more.
“You want me to stop?” he growls, and you shake your head fast. “That’s what I thought.”
The motions start slow, gentle ministrations to ease the nerves jittering through your body. He works you up slowly, creating a pace that has you wiggling in his lap and gasping against his hand.
There could be people staring at the two of you and you’d have no idea, your eyes are rolled into the back of your head as he plugs you with two of his thick fingers.
The stretch is glorious as he slowly works himself deeper and his thumb takes over massaging your clit. He’s knuckle deep and you start to see stars in your vision.
“Fuckkk,” you moan against his hand, biting your words as he slowly starts to spread his fingers inside of you.
A distant high-pitched whistle grabs your attention, Frankie’s too, but his movements don’t stop.
“Look up at the sky, baby, look up,” he encourages as he fills you to the brim again, enough to make your jaw drop.
You want to release your screams, your moans, it’s not something you can hold back much longer.
Frankie’s hold on your mouth turns lax as a bright red and blue firework blasts into the dark sky, the colors blurry as you curse into the open air.
“Fuck, I’ve never felt you so wet,” Frankie mutters into your ear, nipping at your helix as the pace of his fingers work you to an approaching crest.
Your orgasm bubbles inside of you, desperate for release. The squelching noises of your juices are hidden by another firework soaring into the air. Then another. And another. All different shapes and colors as they fill the sky’s starry canvas.
Frankie guides the underside of your jaw upward and all you can see is the hazy heavens filled with rainbow colors and the smoke of the pyrotechnics.
Your walls clench around his fingers and the ache in your stomach only grows. His thumb adds more pressure to your clit. Faster than you realize, you’re grinding your hips against his hand and getting his fingers into that perfect spot only he knows.
“Fr-Frankie, I’m coming, please, please,” you start to beg, as if he’d stop.
“That feels so fuckin’ good, doesn’t it, princess? Cum right on my fingers, missed you all week, all I wanna do is taste you.”
The fireworks rumble, the big finale approaches.
The sky erupts all at once, a storm of color clawing up the sky and fighting for space. Bursts overlap, crackling and booming, like the night is shaking apart.
They bloom in layers, first blue, then green, then purple, and red, each explosion chasing the next until the sky is nothing but bright lights. The drumline makes your heart pound, your jaw going slack as your orgasm strikes deep in your cunt.
Sparks rain down like falling stars, until everything fades into drifting smoke and silence.
Your body goes limp and exhausted in Frankie’s strong arms, still framing you and keeping you upright as applause erupts in the distance.
Your boyfriend praises you as you come down from your high, gently stroking your sensitive clit every now and then just to see you jump like his little play-thing.
Finally, he slowly removes his digits and brings them to his lips. His tongue glides effortlessly before his mouth consumes. There’s nothing left to see but the way his eyes roll into the back of his head.
Frankie’s dark eyes open and he looks at you fondly.
“God, you looked so fucking beautiful with fireworks in your eyes.”
Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Main Masterlist | Notifications Blog
I love you, I'm happy you're here, and I appreciate you.
10.5k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader
Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Main Masterlist | Notifications Blog
summary: frankie sees his father for the first time in years over a tense birthday dinner.
warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), marijuana, smoking, swearing, dual POV, descriptions of food and drink, reader is described to have hair (not descriptive of what color/length/etc.) and wears a swimsuit, explicit smut, pet names (baby, angel, carino, princesa, etc.), allusions to bad parenting/parental abuse, descriptions of a parent abusing drugs and alcohol, and an additional warning that I'm considering a spoiler (please heed these warnings and do not read if you are concerned these may be triggers - if you're a fan of the series but fear the unspoiled trigger may affect you, pleaes message me and we'll talk!)
A/N: *spongebob voice* four months later... special thank you to @devineconjuring for being my beta for this chapter. annie is more than a masterbeta, she's also my cheerleader and co-conspirator. thank you lover <3
Irina’s European Bakery has the best bread and pastries in town, if not the world.
Irina is an older Russian woman whose gray hair is always tied back in a braided bun. Her face shows her age, but she wears her smile lines with pride, as she should. Her parents immigrated to America with nothing but $500 in their pocket. After finding work, they saved up as much money as possible and opened a small bakery named after their daughter.
An old Russian proverb says that girls should be able to sift flour before they can walk and knead bread before they can talk. Irina’s mother took that pretty seriously, considering Irina was in the kitchen beside her mother, learning all her delicious family recipes by the time she was a toddler. She was too short for the table, so she’d stack up old baking cookbooks to learn.
Now, all these years later, Irina runs the bakery with her three daughters, who yell at each other in Russian. Let’s just say that, with all the time you’ve spent with Irina smoking out back in plastic lawn chairs, you’ve picked up a couple of phrases.
After a loud metal bowl clangs on the floor and shouts echo from inside, you turn your head over your shoulder with narrowed eyes before returning your attention to Irina.
“Did Vera just say she would stab Nadia with a steel dough cutter?”
“Your Russian is improving,” Irina let out a stale laugh and a tired grin. “You want something. Spit it’tout.”
You roll your eyes at her crassness and offer her the rest of your cigarette. “It’s my boyfriend’s birthday tomorrow. I’ll give you free breakfast for a week if you make him your Vatrushka. With the strawberry jam on top?”
“Boyfriend? You get boyfriend and don’t tell your Russian mother? Since when d’you have boyfriend, eh?” She shifts her jaw around before lifting the lit cigarette to her mouth between two stiff fingers, taking a long drag with narrowed eyes. All of a sudden, she begins to grin obnoxiously. “Must be that pretty boy you complain about all the time. What was his name? Francisco?”
With wide eyes, your jaw drops at her words. “He’s still just as insufferable and annoying. But now he wears a different title.”
Irina says something cocky in Russian along the lines of I told you so, but you convince her to make the Vatrushka–sweet dough buns filled with cheese. Frankie likes the ones with a fruity jam on top; strawberry or raspberry are his preferences.
When you first started waitressing at Tommy’s, you’d bring different pastries from Irina’s to schmooze the line cooks. Usually, in case you rang in an incorrect order, which, at the time, was every day.
Frankie would always eat the ones with the strawberry topping and moan after taking each bite. Then he’d say some half-ass thank you with his mouth full and lips cast in a sparkly sugar coating.
Irina snuffs out the last of the cigarette and smiles, lines forming by the outer corners of her eyes and under her thick cheekbones. “We have a deal. You come back tomorrow morning for it, yeah?”
“Thank you,” you eagerly coo, biting into the soft, chewy cookie she gave you for visiting.
The drive back to Frankie’s apartment is set against a yellow and orange sunset. It’s nice to reflect as the radio crackles out a Fleetwood Mac song, the wind whistling through the window that’s rolled down a crack. Things are so different from a year ago.
Work used to be work–rolling silverware, counting change, and praying for decent tips. Just trying to get through the day scrubbing tabletops and making pots of coffee.
There was a tall goofball in the back kitchen who was a little older, always flirting with you whenever he got the chance. He wore a red bandana that you’re not sure he ever washed. He donned a crooked smirk and mischievous eyes that never failed to rake slowly up and over your body whenever given the chance.
He used to call you Princess and still does sometimes, but now he calls you by your name more often than not.
You once despised him for his sleazy comments about how short your skirt was or how he could smell your pretty perfume. Now, he puts butterflies in your stomach and talks a little sweeter to you. He puts whatever wants and needs you have above his own–eats where you want to eat for dinner dates, lets you pick the movie, cooks dinner at your request, and drives you places when your busted beater car goes down.
And you realize he’s loved you for a really, really long time.
You’re only just starting to get it, to pay it back. But Frankie doesn’t see it that way. There is no sort of give and take. He’s never asked you to pay him back or said you owed him when he needed a favor.
Frankie just might be the most devoted, loyal, kind, loving, imperfect human you’ve ever come across. And he’s your fucking boyfriend.
You once thought you were unloveable because it was so easy for people to leave and extra easy to push them away when they got too close. But not Frankie. Frankie was patient. He waited for you, never gave you an ultimatum, and always validated that you were allowed to take your time.
You’re getting it now. You’re really getting it. Francisco Morales is your person.
This is a love story.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Frankie, happy birthday to you,” your voice singsongs in the late morning hours. You hold a mini strawberry and cream cheese vatrushka with a single lit candle shoved into it in one hand and a lit blunt in the other.
“God, you’re perfect.” Frankie lays slumped against his headboard, his orange tabby Leo curled in his lap as you shuffle up the bed on your knees before displaying his sweet before him. A sleepy smile eventually breaks across his face, and he shakes his head as he glances between you and the flame.
“Isn’t this a fire hazard?”
Frankie pulls you closer by the arm, causing you to fall softly into his front. Leo doesn’t seem to mind as he stretches his legs out and wanders to the edge of the bed. You glance down at the vatrushka as your fingertips make imprints in the sweet and soft dough. Frankie’s head tilts as he considers his birthday wish. It’s curious, the look behind his eyes. He waits a moment before taking in a large inhale and blowing out the flame in one go.
He chuckles at your sleepy cheer, shaking his head as he plucks the blunt out of your hand, takes a hit, then bites into the flaky birthday treat.
“You’re my favorite person,” he speaks through muffled bites, holding up the vatrushka for you to bite into, to which you easily comply.
“And you’re mine. Happy birthday, Frankie.”
He smiles against your kiss, and you think this is what lips are made for: gentle morning kisses where you can feel the other person grinning into your mouth.
In honor of Frankie’s birthday, on top of it being a Saturday, you insist that he spend it however he wants. Fishing, hiking, visiting the zoo, going to the movie theater, whatever he wants.
“I wanna see you in something hot,” he remarks with an all too obvious smirk.
An hour later, you’re out and away from your small town and at the beach under the hot Texas sun, wearing your favorite swimsuit. You always feel gorgeous in it, and Frankie’s adoration of your body only adds to it.
Trudging through the sand, you manage to find an empty spot that is a little more private, farther from the parking lot and all the other beachgoers. Frankie pulls the cooler stocked full of beer and food behind him, his eyes focused on your backside.
You can’t help but taunt him as you glance over your shoulder. He’s watching your ass move with each step you take in the grainy sand. “My eyes are up here.”
“Mine ain’t,” Frankie mutters, shifting his jaw from side to side as his exposed upper half basks in the sun’s heat. It makes your own focus shift. You should be throwing down the beach blankets, and Frankie should be setting up the large umbrella with a red-and-white striped pattern around the outer canopy. Instead, you’re both a little lost in the sight of one another.
Frankie’s dark chest hair swirls along his pecks, and you can’t help but observe the line of hair that goes down the midline of his abdomen before growing thicker again at the very top of his cherry-red swim trunks.
Your lashes flutter, and something deep inside your stomach tugs with yearning. At this moment, with a shirtless Frankie galavanting across the sandy beach and other eyes lingering on his tanned and toned body, you’re reminded that outside of Tommy’s Diner, Frankie’s hot.
It was hard to see before, behind the guise of his sloppy work clothes and sweaty bandana. But free of it all, half naked on the beach with thick chest hair splotched along his torso, he was turning heads. And by no means were you jealous; you were staring along with them.
“Hey,” he playfully barks, your head snapping up as he smirks goadingly down at you, closing the distance between your bodies as his lips linger next to your ear. “My eyes… are up here, Princess.”
Fuck. You are so caught.
That nagging feeling burning in your core would have to wait.
Frankie, ever the chef, prepared a gorgeous picnic basket with munchies to hold you both over in the sun. There’s fresh fruit and sandwiches, his favorite salty chips, and you stuffed two ice cream sandwiches in the drinks cooler so they would stay as frozen as possible.
You enjoyed the distance away from the eager families with screaming children and frat boys throwing footballs and frisbees. This is your perfect slice of heaven. You always liked each other’s company more than anyone else’s.
Frankie makes a point to thoroughly spread the cold sunscreen across your body, not afraid to cop a ‘birthday feel.’ Lounging under the umbrella on a beach towel, you lay between Frankie’s legs and continue where you left off in a book you had read on and off throughout the year. The smooth pages feel warm from the sunlight, and a soft breeze makes the heat comfortable, like you could fall asleep under the sun. Your face lies against his glistening chest as he rests his chin on the top of your head, reading your book with you.
Once the sun’s beating rays finally get the best of both of you, Frankie runs with you through the coarse sand until your feet touch cold water.
“Slow down!” You belt. “It’s cold, you asshole.”
Frankie’s got his arms snaked around your waist, tightly holding onto you as he only drags you further into the water, the cold blue lake reaching the tops of your legs and rising. A breath catches in your throat as it reaches your stomach, but once you’re in, your body quickly adjusts.
“Sometimes you gotta dive right in,” Frankie remarks with a smirk, pulling you under before you can protest. You hold your breath, and the sounds of the world turn hollow.
Your vision is cast in a deep blue, and the resistance of the water slows all of your motions. The sun’s beams glimmer through the surface but fade as they sink deeper. The giggling children and chittering adults you could clearly hear on the surface now sound distant and muffled.
Turning your head, your hair floats and swishes slowly as Frankie enters your view. He’s such a goofball that he holds his deep breath in his puffed-up cheeks. You bring your hand up to poke his cheek, and air bubbles float out of his mouth to the surface. He doesn’t last more than a few seconds before rushing up and out of the water.
“What was that?” you ask upon your own break to the surface, the water rippling around both your bodies as you kick to stay afloat. Your panting breaths fill the space between you, Frankie weakly laughing.
“I was trying to hold my breath!”
“In your cheeks? You look like a chipmunk with a month’s worth of nuts lodged in there.” You can’t help but tease him–you’d never seen him do that before!
“What? Like it’s so weird to hold your breath like that?”
“I can’t name one person-”
“Not one?!” He exaggerates.
“-Not one person who holds their breath like you do.”
“So you’re sayin’ I’m pretty special,” Frankie smirks, always finding some way to inflate his ego. “Thank you, princess.”
Cooling down in the lake was both energizing and tiring. Frankie led you back to your towels and umbrella, drying you off before he wiped down his soaked self. It’s impossible to ignore the way water droplets glide down the slopes of his broad shoulders and trickle down the definition of his stomach, running all the way to his swim trunks.
“Did your parents ever not let you swim after you ate?” Frankie asks with a mouthful of his ham and Colby Jack cheese sandwich on sourdough bread. “Like that saying, you should wait at least thirty minutes after eating before going into the water again?”
The picnic basket he packed was filled with sandwiches, cut-up fruits, and a store-bought birthday cake–arguably the best kind.
You hum a response around a piece of fruit before you swallow. “Yeah. I was always terrified that I was gonna die if I did because they never fully explained the reason why. Like my family never said to avoid swimming after eating because…” You fill in the blanks with random hand gestures.
Frankie narrows his eyes. “Why do they say that? Is it just a lie like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny?”
You match his confused face. “What do you mean, like Santa Claus?”
You both buy into the bit momentarily before laughing and googling the exact reason behind the saying. Turns out it’s most likely just a myth that if you don’t let your body have time to digest your food, it could cause you to have stomach cramps while swimming. But again, myth, so you both moved on.
“I don’t know how you feel about lying to our kids, but telling them about a fictional fat man that slides down chimneys to deliver presents feels sort of asshole-ey. I mean, ten years, that’s a long time to keep up a ruse.” Frankie says offhandedly, making your eyebrows shoot up for a moment.
Kids, huh? It was an untalked-about subject.
As soon as he said it, he seemed to have picked up on the weight of his words.
“Uh,” Frankie faltered and anxiously ran his fingers through his wet curls, which were still dripping dry. “Please don’t think too much about that. Stop. Stop your brain.” He teased as his hands came up to grab the side of your head, jostling it lightly.
A laugh of relief bubbles past your lips, and you cup his cheeks softly as you bring him in for a soft kiss. “It’s okay. I think it’s sweet you think about our future. And… you saying that didn’t exactly scare me.”
Shocking, right? Are you getting over some stuff? Is this the growing people have been talking about? You pat yourself on the back after gliding through that conversation with ease.
Frankie’s face splatters with rosy heat, embarrassed by the words that slipped through the gate of his brain. You reach over and squeeze his knee, offering him a red strawberry that matches the apples of his cheeks. “It does seem sort of asshole-ey to lie to them–and for that long, too. But you might change your mind seeing their faces all excited. Y’know, Christmas magic and all. Besides, somebody’s gotta eat the cookies and drink the milk. That should be us.”
You both revel in that moment, one where talking about your lives intertwined in the future doesn’t scare you so much anymore. Kids, yeah, that was a big conversation, but you’d let future you and Frankie figure that out.
Frankie’s eyes soften, and a light and gentle smile appears on his lips. It was a look of pride. One that you didn’t know you craved.
He kisses you again and again, exchanging giggles and hiccups past your lips as the sun moves closer to the horizon.
You’re not more than a foot back into Frankie’s apartment when he asks, “You wanna smoke?”
A flicker of surprise crosses your face, but he merely shrugs. Clad in nothing but swim trunks and a short-sleeve button-up left undone, his sun-kissed chest is fully exposed, drawing your gaze. You resist the urge to scold him for smoking right before dinner with his father–it’s a source of stress for him, and you’d promised to support him in any way you could.
Grabbing a pre-rolled cone, you pack it with focus, evident in how your knitted brows almost kiss. Once the ground-up green fills the cone to the brim, you twist the end of the rolling paper, gently bringing the joint to his lips and offering him the lighter.
He stares down into your eyes, something intimate passing between you.
“Light it for me,” he mutters around the joint.
You hold your breath as the flickering orange flame meets the end of the joint, Frankie’s eyes slowly growing hazy as he inhales.
Frankie’s shoulders draw back to his spine with how much he takes, and you know that he’ll be buzzing after this large of a hit.
He takes the joint between his index and middle finger, removing it from his pink lips. You expect a large, grey puff of smoke on his exhale, but he surprises you.
Frankie closes the distance between you, one large palm sinking warmth into your hip, the other gently tilting your chin to brush your lips with his.
With a tilt of his head, he exhales, and the cloud forms a narrow bridge between you as you inhale his smoke. The warmth of his breath mixes with the bite of weed, and you’re entranced.
Before the last bits of fog fade, his mouth attaches to yours. It’s not hasty, but deep, like he’s inhaling you. He wants every particle, every taste, and every piece of you in his lungs. He’s intoxicating like the lingering smoke, all heady and bold.
You part to catch a breath, eyes softening as your lips gently brush against the coarse hair of his stubble. He presses a kiss to your cheek and doesn’t let go of your hip, both of you wrapped in each other.
Your high is less intense than the one Frankie is surely feeling, but it’s nice, like you’re floating with him.
A slow smile curls on your lips as you gently pat his chest. “I have to shower.” Your eyes betray you as they linger over his features.
He sighs defeatedly and moves to the bed, watching you move about the room while he takes another long drag. “Wait,” Frankie directs you with two crooked fingers in your direction, his voice raspy from the smoke. “C’mere.”
You narrow your eyes at the man but ultimately abide by his wishes. Once you’re close enough for him to reach, he drags you into the bed with him, guiding your legs to straddle his lap.
His eyes rake over your body, taking all of you in. His dark lashes flick up, and he licks his cherry lips. “Kiss me first.” His voice, rich and commanding, only heightens the sensation in the pit of your stomach. There’s a raw magnetism to him, an undeniable allure in the way he casually leans against the headboard, jaw twitching with desire.
His fingers glide dangerously over the strings of your swimsuit, and you know he’s eager to get you bare. He closes the gap, starting slow as your mouths kiss in a dance that has your hips working slow ovals over his lap.
Your arms snake around the tops of his shoulders, fingers knotting into his dark windswept waves.
He kisses you with lazy movements of his tongue against yours, no urgency in how he removes your swimsuit with care and delicacy. He touches your skin like you’re something sacred, praying to a goddess he doesn’t feel he deserves.
His kisses are impactful, each one making your heart skip a beat.
The joint goes out in the ashtray on his bedside table as you get lost in exploring one another’s bodies.
“Be with me,” he whispers against your lips, a touch of yearning exposed. “With everything going on, just… be here with me, baby.”
You nod breathlessly, a hand on his jawline guiding his lips back home.
Frankie’s large hands untie the strings, letting your top fall loose to expose your breasts. A shiver travels up your spine as his fingers dance down your back, all while he places slow kisses along the column of your throat.
Every touch feels heightened, more intense, like you can feel the energy and space between you as if it’s tangible. It’s the high, you remind yourself.
Frankie’s hot mouth suckles on your nipple, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud until it grows perky in his mouth. It sends a shockwave down to your core, a loose whimper leaving your throat as you work yourself against Frankie. His swim trunks tighten, his cock hardening with the friction.
“Fuck, angel,” he whispers breathlessly, moving to your other nipple as your chin tips to the ceiling in pleasure. “You’ve made this the best year of my life, cariño.”
Warmth travels to the back of your neck, that floating feeling coming back tenfold as he pleasures your most sensitive body parts and gifts you compliments.
Frankie moves you to your back, and he notches his knee at the inside of your thigh, spreading your legs further apart as his body slots perfectly between your soft thighs.
He presses slow, open-mouthed kisses in the valley between your breasts, all while he curls his greedy fingers around the band of your swimsuit to pull off anything that remains in his way.
“Take off your clothes,” you accidentally beg, gliding the heels of your hands along Frankie’s hips to nudge down his cherry-red trunks.
Naked together, you fit like two puzzle pieces. This never used to feel like a possibility, but now, it was your everyday. The very thing you were afraid to be–someone who could be vulnerable and fall deeply in love–was what you had become.
You know you’re high, and you’re feeling more in touch with your feelings than you normally would, but simply put… you’ve never felt better than this.
Frankie’s hard against your center, rocking his hips against yours. He fists his shaft and pumps a few times. He plants one palm beside your head, his strong bicep bulging as he runs his tip up and down your dripping center. The muscles in your thighs jump anxiously at his teasing caresses. You hold your breath, biting back a needy whimper when his tip catches at your entrance, and he pushes into you.
Frankie’s dark eyes find yours, a smirk dancing across his lips as he leans down to the shell of your ear and whispers, “Tell me what turns you on.”
Your blown-out pupils go wide, your lips parting. “What?”
Frankie licks a warm stripe along the shell of your ear before nibbling your lobe. “I asked what turns you on. Spit it out, princesa.” The sensation of goosebumps flies across your skin, and you gasp as his cock plunges deeper and deeper.
Your jaw aches as your mouth falls open wider, but no words come out.
He’s so fucking arrogant. The man you used to know so fondly in the kitchen of Tommy’s Diner is now between your legs with the same old smirk and a mischievous glint in his eyes.
It’s hard to think when all of your senses scream Frankie. The heady scent of sweat on his skin after spending a day in the sun. His body crowding yours as his thick body carves a spot made just for him between your legs. Not to mention the stretch of him making you want to scream.
The answer to his question is there, almost reachable, but every time you get close, your senses become overwhelmed again.
“Fuck, I like,” your eyes roll into the back of your head as his firm hand comes up and squeezes the plush of your breast, sending a shockwave of arousal down to your core. “I-I like it when I can feel your weight on top of me, feels good to be held down,” you admit.
Once the first truth is out, Frankie rewards you by bottoming out inside you.
Your body tenses underneath him, a gasp bouncing off the walls.
Just as you get used to being full, he reels his hips away, and you’re left missing him. You need more, more, more.
A dark chuckle escapes Frankie as his stubble scratches perfectly along your cheekbone. “What else?”
It’s a desperate thing to want someone to fill you up so badly, clear your mind, and hold you in this space with them. So you babble.
“Goddammit,” you whimper, your breath catching as he slowly sinks into your warmth once more. “I like that you take control when you talk to me like I’m-I’m—”
“Like what?” Frankie grunts.
A string of curse words from both parties mingle between you, his lips and teeth on the curve of your jaw as he fills you up completely, starting a steady rhythm.
You swallow the lump in your throat, hands searching desperately for something to hold on to, so you settle for one in his windswept waves and the other on his bicep. “Like–fuck–like I’m your sex toy, when you use me. I feel good when you feel good.”
None of this has ever been said aloud, only in actions. When Frankie fucks you, it’s like you’re the center of his universe. You’re his goddess, and his bed is the temple in which he worships. The thought of this used to scare you, to have someone know and appreciate you so profoundly. Now, it’s like you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Frankie is the center of your universe.
Frankie nuzzles his nose against yours, a lopsided smirk on his lips as he stares into your big, blown-out eyes. You’re both so out of it, floating in something deeper than love.
“You want me to use you?” His husky voice ripples in your ears.
All you can do is wobble your head up and down as he gives you his first powerful thrust. “Yes,” you squeak. The headboard bangs against the wall, and your body falls deeper into the plush mattress.
He keeps a pace–one that’s not rushed and eager, but he never lets up fully. Every slow drag of his hips leaves you breathless, and when he plunges back inside, it feels like you’re whole again.
Frankie rips your claws from his flesh and pins your wrists above your head, using his upper body strength and the hand planted on the bed to keep him hovered. All the muscles in his body are taut and on display, his biceps bulging and the veins in his arms highlighted.
He looked like a fucking god.
“I like using you,” he grunts, “Never thought I’d get the chance to use you. Now,” he pants as he locks his fingers with yours. “Now, I use you whenever I damn well please.” His husky voice growls in your ear, causing a shudder to slip up your spine.
Frankie grinds his hips against yours, the coarse hair that grows along his base stimulating your clit. Your thighs pulse, the nerves thumping excitedly as the crescendo of your orgasm builds.
One gasp, two, turns to three, and your back arches off the mattress as he forces your legs wider, pushing them toward the direction of your head so you’re splayed open for him at the perfect angle.
Your hazy brain is in pleasure overdrive, Frankie’s hips slapping menacingly against yours, ignoring the stretch of this position, just drilling himself into your pussy and taking what he needs.
It’s easy to forget how strong Frankie is. At the diner, he throws fifty-pound bags of flour and sugar over his shoulder and hauls hefty cases of meat to the freezer weekly. He’s built. And watching him fold you in half with only one arm supporting his weight while the other spoils your clit is exactly how you’re reminded of this.
You cry out his name in a wrecked, overstimulated sob. He only smirks.
“Fuck,” he breathes, “that’s a good girl.” His thumb adds pressure to your pearl as he works tiny ministrations around her. “This pussy is so goddamn perfect. Goddammit, I wanna finish deep inside her.”
It’s heart hammering, this orgasm more sneaky than all the rest as it twirls recklessly inside of you. Your hips sting and your lungs are pinched of air, but seeing this hot lumberjack of a man on top of you has your orgasm racing to the finish line. And he’s doing exactly as you asked–crushing you with his weight as he sinks lower and lower over your body while he uses you however he likes.
It’s perfect.
In a chorus of curses and breathy pants, you finish in unison. You can feel his cock pulsing inside you, a dirty rhythm that works in sync with your pulsing cunt.
Frankie rests his forehead against your temple, neither of you letting go of one another. You whine as he pulls out, leaving a mess between your centers. You don’t even realize you’re kissing. Everything just feels so natural and calm.
All of it comes crashing down when you lazily look at the display on his alarm clock.
“Shit,” you gasp as you push Frankie off, grabbing his hand and yanking him out of bed. “We’re gonna be late!” Frankie groans exhaustedly, tripping over his feet as he follows you from his bedroom to the bathroom, all while watching your ass with each step you take.
“Fuck! The water is too cold!” His muffled voice echoes after you yank the shower handle, apparently not far enough to warm.
“It’ll warm up. We’re gonna be so fuckin’ late!”
Dinner with Frankie’s father was quickly off to a bad start. Getting Frankie in the truck was hard enough, but getting him to decide on the right thing to wear had been nearly impossible. Not perfect, but right. It feels important to emphasize that Frankie’s not looking for approval from his shit dad, but there is a certain weight pressing over tonight. It wasn’t exactly one he was looking forward to.
He’s run his hand through his perfect waves about fifteen times, and it’s made his roots oily and his pretty curls a bit frizzy. He resigns himself to the fact that he’ll have to wear his hat, but he worries the restaurant will be too fancy for a hat with a large bass on the front.
“We can cancel.”
“No,” he mutters, staring in the mirror as he adds some sink water to his hair. He’s being short with you, but he doesn’t mean it. He’s an anxious ball of energy, and this was your time to step up. His eyes dart to your softer pair in the mirror. His large hands grip the pearly sink’s edge as he releases a sigh that sounds like it holds the weight of his world.
You slowly wrap your arms around his middle, pressing the side of your face against his oak-brown jacket. Slowly, your hands move up his body, and you feel his heart racing against his ribs. He braces even tighter against the sink, closing his eyes as his body relaxes in your hold.
“Please, let me help,” you ask as you push up on your tip toes and notch your chin over his shoulder. His panicked face ultimately releases tension and he nods.
After you sit him on the toilet seat and tie a towel around the tops of his broad shoulders, you spritz him with water from a spray bottle.
“You know, I used to have bangs-”
“Bangs?” Frankie interjects as his anxious hands settle on the back of your thighs, his own widening to allow you further into his space.
“Yup, bangs. They were really cute,” you pause to run a thin comb through his hair, “but the thing that sucks about bangs is if your skin gets oily on your forehead, your bangs get oily. But I didn’t always want to jump in the shower or wash my whole head again, so I’d do a sink bath. I would soak just my bangs with water, shampoo them, rinse, and then style.”
“Is that what we’re doing to me?”
You hum something affirmative, giving Frankie a small dollop of shampoo that smells like coconut and turmeric. The best thing you ever did for this man was to get him away from the 3-in-1. Nothing needs to be that ratio. Ever.
As your fingers gently massage into his scalp, allowing the shampoo to grow white and foamy, he closes his eyes in a moment of peace. Your movements are slower, synchronizing with his tender breaths.
He breathes your name, a little desperate for your kind heart.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
Shaking your head, you wipe your sudsy hands on the towel wrapped around him before gently clutching his cheeks. “Stop,” you insist, angling his chin to look up at you. You’d never seen his eyes so round and hurt, like he was preparing for the pain that was about to come. “We don’t have to go. He left his number on the letter. I can call and cancel.”
The decision weighs heavily on him. His tongue prods against the inside of his cheek before he ultimately shakes his head. “This will be the last time I see him. Even if he comes back with apologies or claims that he’s changed, I know this is where it stops. I refuse to let him hold any power over me—not even in my mind. He took my childhood. I won’t let him take any more of my life.”
He takes solace in your touch, his arms tightening around your body. He looks up at you like you hold the moon and the stars in the sky. You never knew you could be this important to someone.
Witnessing Frankie with his father was similar to experiencing the seven stages of grief–one emotion after the next, all barreling toward the inevitable fallout.
Frankie appeared prepared when he walked into the buzzing restaurant. He carried himself with the quiet tenacity of a soldier stepping onto a battlefield, fully aware of the scars it bore; however, this battlefield consisted of wine glasses clinking and white tablecloths with polished and proper stainless steel cutlery.
The strained and tumultuous terrain of his relationship with his father was familiar ground. Yet, he moved with a sense of purpose, as if bracing for the inevitable clash while refusing to back down.
The sundress you wore to the classy restaurant hugged your curves–the ones Frankie held onto like a life preserver. A tall waiter with strawberry-blonde hair guided you to a table along the wall of windows.
You held your breath at the sight of the older man who sat alone at the four-chaired table. His resemblance to Frankie was striking: the same dark brown eyes, sharp jawlines, and aquiline noses. His hair was curlier than Frankie’s, streaked with far more silver. The faint wrinkles at the start of their eyebrows were identical, though deeper with age on his father’s face.
A distinguishable difference was their eyes. People say the eyes are the windows to one's soul. Frankie’s eyes are filled with warmth and kindness, whereas his father’s appears tired and worn after years of hardship. His father’s frame was smaller and thin, his cheekbones slightly hollow–a stark contrast to the tall and broad man at your side.
The older man stood from his spot at the table as you neared, removing the cloth napkin from his lap.
“Francisco,” he greeted, his voice jagged and grainy like gravel. “Nice to see ya, son. You look good.”
Frankie’s tight-lipped grin and firm nod were all he offered before turning to you for a proper introduction. “This is my father, Anthony.” With the silence between them, his father’s gaze awkwardly averted from his distant son to the woman standing protectively by his side. Anthony reached his hand across the table, a lopsided smile on display as you shook his cold hand politely.
“Nice to meet you, sweetheart. You must be Francisco’s…” His words trailed off on purpose, allowing you to fill in the blank.
“Girlfriend,” you said definitively, “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Morales.” Knowing their past, you withheld judgment in your face and smiled softly. For the first time tonight, Frankie cracked a small smile.
Was it the first time you announced and accepted the title?
Everyone held their breath until Anthony ultimately stuttered on his footing and slowly moved to grip his chair. “Please, please, sit down,” he urged, disguising his misstep as honest hospitality.
Your eyes curiously shifted to Frankie’s, but he simply pulled your chair out for you and sat down stiffly on his own.
One could slice the tension at the table with a knife.
Anthony cleared his throat and smiled, sliding what appeared to be a birthday card across the table. It was in an eggshell envelope, but the vibrant color of balloons glared through under the lighting. “Happy birthday, Francisco.”
Frankie stared at the envelope. In slanted letters, his father’s handwriting was displayed in jagged pen strokes. It wasn’t just a birthday card, not really. Opening that card opened the door to a relationship, and Frankie wasn’t ready for that. But the gesture was kind enough.
You’ve always been tough—a girl who’s seen her share of heartbreak and disappointments. That’s why you kept your heart so carefully guarded when things first started with Frankie. It felt safer that way.
In a strange twist of fate, you now find yourself wishing Frankie could learn to do the same, that he could build the kind of walls and boundaries you had mastered to protect himself from his father. It wasn’t something anyone else could do for him; he had to find the strength not to get his hopes up and keep his heart safe.
Taking a deep breath, Frankie tapped the card with the pads of his fingers and nodded gently. “Thanks, pops. Let’s eat.”
Frankie's POV
The first half of dinner was spent catching up over expensive steaks and creamy garlic mashed potatoes, talking about how the two of you met. The tension knotted in his shoulders begins to unravel, and the headache lurking behind his temples eases its grip. Your thumb traces gentle, unhurried circles on Frankie’s knee, each touch radiating a soothing warmth that melts away the weight of this moment.
Frankie thought he knew what he was going to say to his father. He would be cold and cut him off, tell him this would be the last time he saw his son’s face, and pay for his own birthday meal because he didn’t need his father anymore. Despite the challenges he faced, he had come out the other side.
Still, he couldn’t deny there was a sad, pathetic piece of him that wanted to hear certain things from his father’s voice. He wanted to hear him say he was sorry and regretful for being a piece of shit. That he felt horrible about missing out on Frankie and his little sisters’ childhood and that they had to grow up without him. And that he hated himself for leaving their family when mom needed the help of a grown-up, not a young boy who didn’t know how the world worked.
Before it all went sour, there was some good. Frankie, the firstborn, was his father's pride and joy—his miniature reflection with the same sharp eyes and wild dark curls. And if Frankie was to be his father’s son, there was much for him to learn.
His father took him to his first rodeo. Frankie wore his shiny new brown boots and a cowboy hat to match, cheering loudly as he sat on his father’s shoulders to get a good look at the cowboys roping the cattle.
Frankie wasn’t allowed to touch the barbeque. Still, he remembers being perched on his father’s hip as he prepared traditional asado and empanadas. As the smell of sizzling meat filled the air, his father told him stories of how his father had taught him the art of cooking these quintessential meals.
They sang his mother’s favorite folk songs to her, played soccer, and went fishing. Frankie began to remember that, for a time, his father had been a pretty good dad.
He doesn’t remember a whole lot after that. It’s like a few years of his childhood were blocked out and repressed, probably for the better. The last strong memory he truly recalled was the physical fight he had with him when he was ten years old. Maybe he was eleven? Twelve? His memory never felt concrete, but the images his mind displayed were vivid and unhappy.
So why did he find comfort in how they shared the same smile? The way that their cheeks rounded and their eyes glittered when they talked about things they cared about.
Frankie's resentment toward his father was beginning to crumble—not completely, but the barriers he had constructed were gradually being dismantled by the only person he'd entrusted with the tools to do so. The same hands that had built those walls now seemed to know exactly how to take them apart. A charming smile here, a hearty laugh there, and Frankie found himself yearning for the impossible: to feel like he had his dad back again.
It was stupid. He knew it was. Putting hope out there into the hands of someone who had broken it time and time again. Maybe he was too trusting or sanguine. He couldn’t explain it. He tried to stay neutral and reserved, but the laugh echoing from his throat surprised even him.
“I didn’t break ma’s lamp. You did.”
His father’s raspy voice wheezed, shaking his head with a wide smile. “Francisco, you threw your football in the living room, and she told you to take it outside so many times—”
“Noo,” Frankie strung out the syllables, setting his fork down on his plate and jabbing his pointer finger toward his father. “I did take it outside. You broke it when you stumbled in one night and-and I remember I woke up to the glass shattering.” Frankie’s mouth hung open for a few moments, both of them pausing their amused faces as realization set in.
Anthony’s eyes glanced down to his food he’s barely picked at before ultimately nodding. “No, you’re right, that was… yeah, that was me.” He cleared his throat, and the moment settled, the waiter swinging by to clear our plates and offer dessert and boxes for leftovers.
“No box,” his dad said, to which Frankie’s eyebrows furrowed. It was an expensive meal, and he had nothing more than a few spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and bits of his steak. “But it’s my son’s birthday. Do you have a slice of cake we can get him?”
Frankie’s eyes slowly softened, squeezing your hand under the table as he looked at you with a boyish look in his eyes. Your expression made him falter, confused for a moment before he felt another reassuring squeeze to his hand.
He leans over and whispers in your ear, “You okay?”
Were you okay? It felt like you were watching the first hour and thirty-eight minutes of the movie Titanic, right before it hit the iceberg.
You tried to discount yourself. Maybe you were just being paranoid or protective, but something seemed off with Anthony. This was your first time meeting Frankie’s father, and you knew nothing about him other than Frankie describing him as a piece of shit. Frankie’s guard lowered so quickly, and now he was easily unraveling before his father, who seemed to be drinking it up.
In no way are you saying that you hoped that Frankie would have punished his father more. You’re just a bystander who responded to a few basic “get to know you better” questions from Anthony, but Frankie pushed all his concerns to the wayside as early as when the appetizers were brought out.
You take in a shaky breath and smile softly at your birthday boy.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Are you?”
He nods and smiles warmly, hoping to ease your concerns. But his ease of doing so only made something sour settle in the base of your stomach.
After the waiter disappeared for dessert, Frankie turned back to his father. “No box? Dad, you barely ate.”
Anthony hesitates before quickly rebuffing the offer. “It’s fine, m’not all that hungry. Had a late lunch.” He scratches at the inside of his wrist and then along his neck before sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms.
But Frankie was insistent. “That’s what the box is for, have it for tomorrow. The steak was really good.”
“M’fine.”
“You just ordered an expensive ass meal. Take it home and eat it, dad.”
“I don’t like steak that much.”
“Then why did you order it? Just take it-”
“Dammit, Francisco,” His father scoffed angrily, slamming his fist down on the table that caused the salt and pepper shakers to jump and your silverware to clatter. “I said no.”
Something burns in both of their eyes, uneasiness settling over the table as Frankie slowly sits back in his chair and crosses his arms–a mirror of his father–as silence follows.
Of course, the waiter returns at that moment with a slice of chocolate cake and a candle sticking out the top. He lights the wick as a gaggle of waiters and waitresses join in to sing Frankie happy birthday. By the end, they grow quiet and soft, and all Frankie and his father do is stare at each other.
“Happy Birthday…” the waiter says with a tight-lipped smile as you slowly nod your head to get him away from the iceberg.
After a moment of silence, you glance over to Frankie, whose hardened exterior has resurfaced after his father’s outburst.
Frankie visibly gathers his strength before letting out a half laugh, half scoff. “What d’you got? Or are you in withdrawal again?”
You look between them, Frankie’s hold on your hand tightening instinctively. Resting your other hand on his forearm, you offer him an out. “Let’s just go.”
He either doesn’t hear you in his growing rage or chooses to ignore you. Because he’s looking for a fight. You can see it in how his lip snarls, his jaw is wound tight, and his eyes pierce his father's with unwavering hatred.
Anthony sighs uncomfortably and shakes his head with a frown. “M’sorry I snapped at you.”
“Anything else you’re sorry for? Do you want me to roll out the red carpet for your apologies? It’s a long list, and I don’t have all night. So how about you tell me what the fuck is wrong with you? I’ve never seen you this skinny and there’s no fuckin’ white in your eyes; it’s just yellow. The hell is wrong with you, Anthony?”
The shift from dad to Anthony visibly makes his father’s eyes grow sorrowful. Frankie’s outburst causes the nearby tables to gawk again. You feel guilty. He brought you here for support and you’re just about as stunned as the rest of the restaurant.
“Frankie,” you offer warmly, looking between his father’s wary eyes and Frankie’s stern look. “We don’t have to do this. We can go home.”
“No, no. Tell me why you mailed that letter. I haven’t heard from you in ten years, and now you wanna see me on my birthday? You need something. You’d never reach out to me with just the love in your heart. So, spit it out. You’re sick, aren’t you?” Frankie’s words are slick with venom, but all you can see is the little boy whose features are worn with disappointment.
Anthony noticeably has tears welling in his eyes, his round fingernails as white as the tablecloth in front of you as he wipes them away. For a moment, you all hold your breath before he ultimately nods.
You watch Anthony’s shaky hands run down his face, seemingly uncomfortable to lay his weaknesses out on the table. “Yeah, son. M’sick.” He takes Frankie’s cold silence as a nudge for him to explain further. “I don’t know, guess it started with liver disease then turned into the cancer. They did lots of tests, and all that turned into a biopsy.” Anthony opens his mouth to speak before taking a moment to find his words. “Docs say I’m not a candidate for a transplant. Kinda disqualified myself after all those years of downing shit I shouldn’t.”
The revelation changes the energy of the table. It’s clear what he’s implying.
“You were going to ask Frankie if he’d donate part of his liver?” Your voice lacerates the tension between them. Your gaze flicks over to Frankie, whose expression is entirely unreadable.
Anthony scratches his skin and stares at the flaming candle wax melting downward onto Frankie’s birthday cake.
“I didn’t want to tell you. Not today. It’s your birthday, and I wanted you to be happy.” Anthony forces up a wavering laugh, but it only makes things worse.
Frankie’s jaw shifts from left to right, and he looks from Anthony down to where you hold his hand for support.
After a breathy sigh, Frankie expels the truth that’s sat with him for decades. His eyes are solemn and devoid of hope once again. “I’m never happy when you’re around, dad. You’re not here to say you’re sorry. You’re not here to make things right. You’re not here for me. This is about you because you’ve got fucking cancer!”
Frankie’s bottom lip quivers. You can’t tell if he’s so angry he could cry or if he’s so sad that he’s angry with himself.
“You can tell me you’ve changed, that you’ve gone to substance abuse meetings and got sober, but the cancer came on anyway. I don’t know or care what pulled you out of the gutter. I just know it wasn’t me, wasn’t your family. If you’re just here to apologize and ask for my forgiveness as part of your stupid twelve-step program, just know that they don’t fix the years of absence and abuse. Ma was a good woman, and we were good children. You’re fucking poison, Anthony, and now you’re soaking in your own poison like a sponge. You’re sick. And you’re not getting a thing from me.”
Frankie whips the cloth napkin off his lap and onto Anthony’s plate of cold food. His next words are enough to cause a shiver up your spine. “And if I hear that you ask my sisters for a cut of their livers, I’ll fuckin’ kill you myself.”
The tables around us start to whisper and gasp at that, turning their curious, eavesdropping ears like owls as they chitter about the drama at table thirty-four.
Anthony sat across the table with his lips parted, eyes filled with hurt but more so of an understanding that he deserved this. He wiped at his eyes again and slowly nodded, giving you a half-apologetic smile.
“It was nice to meet you, sweetheart.”
The ride back home in Frankie’s truck is quiet. He couldn’t even stand the radio’s Top 40 as he jabbed his thumb into the volume button and let the truck cab fall mute.
He was wrestling with what to say. So were you.
No words felt right or good enough. What could you say to make him feel better? Or were you not supposed to say anything and let him feel this pain? Would he wallow in it, or would it help him resolve his feelings?
These questions were answered for you as his wavering voice ended the silence.
“Please,” Frankie’s tired voice whispered, “tell me somethin’ good.”
You look up. You’re parked outside his apartment building, the truck idling in the dead of night as the navy sky watches over you both with twinkling stars.
At the sight of Frankie’s silent tears gliding down his cheeks, you feel compelled to take the pain away in any capacity possible.
In one swift movement, you lift the center console that separates you from him and lock it in place, filling the space beside him. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him to you. His arms hesitate but ultimately snake around your lower back, and the hold he has on you only tightens as he realizes this is exactly what he needs.
Your fingers weave into the mess of curls at the nape of his neck, his hat knocking off his head as he buries his nose into the space between your shoulder and neck. A sob escapes from somewhere deep in his throat, and it thrusts you into tears.
You've never experienced a love so profound that their pain becomes your own, cutting through you with an intensity that defies all reason.
Frankie's POV
Frankie’s experienced overwhelming sadness before. When he was a child, it used to be all he knew. All those memories were coming back, not in little flickers of light, but huge waves that made him feel as if he was drowning under the weight of all that he endured.
The corners of his vision crackled and glitched like an old, broken television. His hearing went fuzzy, and he could only hear the pounding of his heart.
His father returning only to leave him with more scars and tears was too much to handle. He should have said no to seeing him. He should have left when you offered. But for some reason, he was drawn to his father.
He wanted his apology and attention. To be the one to let him down this time. To take back his personhood and disown his father for good.
A part of him hated to hear that Anthony was doing better than he was before, because why couldn’t he have gotten better for him? Was he not good enough? Was he not worth turning his father’s life around?
These horrific questions ping-ponged inside his brain until he couldn’t breathe. The fear and anxiety surged all the air from his lungs, and what was at first a tearful release of cries turned into strangled breaths.
He was losing control, suffocating on his thoughts. His pulse throbbed angrily against his throat and his bleary eyes could sparsely make out the shape of your body against his.
“Fuck I can’t—” Frankie’s eyes clenched closed, talking only making things worse. Heat filled his head, a thin layer of sweat gliding across his skin as he gasped for air.
The echo of his name breaks the high-frequency buzzing in his ears. He blinks through his tears, feeling your thumbs swiping away at the waterfalls on his cheeks.
“Frankie,” you whisper, voice steady and strong, like an anchor in a hurricane. “I’m here. Breathe with me.” Your hands take his trembling ones and guide them to the much slower, more relaxed rhythm of your heart.
“I can’t,” he chokes, his voice raw and jagged.
“You can,” you said, your thumb making circles over his clammy and cold palm. His fingers twitched against your own, wanting to pull away but unable to garner the strength.
“Look at me, Frankie.”
For a moment, his gaze fluttered around the cab of his truck before it finally centered on you.
Frankie stares into your eyes, and his memories are pulled in a separate direction–one filled with the blinding yellow light that filters through the diner in the early mornings and paints the entire room in sunshine and gold.
The clock reads fifteen minutes after seven in the morning.
“You’re late, Francisco,” your teasing voice echoes like he’s in a dream. You’re haphazardly trying to balance a serving tray of pancakes, toast, an egg scramble, and a cute Mickey Mouse waffle you had made yourself. He knows because you put the two sausage links on Mickey’s eyebrows, bright red strawberries on his cheeks, and a whipped cream smile along his signature grin. You walk towards a family of four, but he quickly rushes to your side and takes the teetering tray from your hands.
“I got it, Princess. Do me a favor and say we came in together, and I’ll make your breakfast special for you. With a coffee.” Frankie entertained you with a wink, knowingly playing into your flirtatious repertoire.
You scoffed and gave him that wicked smirk, your eyes catching the sunlight and turning into a completely different color that he would love to explore under a microscope for hours if given the chance.
“Deal,” you smile with ease as you hand him the packed tray. He quickly serves the happy family before following you like a dog into the back kitchen.
“Ah-ah-ah, Francisco Morales. Do not tell me you were late again, or I’ll have to whoop that cute little butt of yours out onto the street, and you’ll be lookin’ for a new job.” Carla, the manager, held a motherly tone whilst playfully snapping at her favorite line cook as she brewed a fresh pot of coffee.
Frankie pauses his footsteps halfway through the kitchen like a kid caught stealing a cookie from the cookie jar. Your head whipped to look up at him, both of you sharing a look until you casually shrugged. You point to the tray in his hands and look adorably confused.
“He was helping me carry some plates out. Oh, Frankie, did you forget to clock in again? We came in together. You can write in his time card the same as mine.” You’ve always been a terrible liar. You gulp after each nervous breath.
Carla lets out a not-so-convincing mhmm before she walks through the swinging door.
Frankie smirks down at you with a breath of relief, tying his dirty apron behind his back and hanging his hat on a hook while he replaces it with his red bandana. “I so owe you. Let me take you out for a drink tonight.”
“Only in your wet dreams, Francisco.”
“Good,” your voice whispers to him. He blinks, and he’s back with you in his truck, his vision a lot less foggy and his breathing slower.
“That’s good. Now, follow my breaths.” You draw in a deep puff of air, exaggerating the motion so he can see. “In through your nose and count to four,” you wait, thumb still rubbing soothing circles on his hand, which is the grounding touch he desperately needs. “Now, out through the mouth for six.” You count with him, and he starts to feel his senses return to him unhurriedly.
With each breath he takes with you, he grows steadier by a fraction. The tension strung tight between his shoulders and neck slowly eases.
One of your hands leaves his to press against his damp cheek. His skin burns under your palm, but it feels good to sense your gentle touch.
“You’re not alone,” you murmur. He’s not sure if he started leaning his forehead in or if it was you, but your skin lightly brushes, and he craves the feeling of love you so easily give him.
“Tonight was… a lot. I’m so sorry, Frankie. But you’re not facing this by yourself. I’m not leaving you. I’m here.”
You both eventually fall into a hug once more, his head dipping and resting against your shoulder as his breathing mellows. You wrap your arms around him tight, and the compression helps. He can feel his breaths this way.
“I’m here,” you repeat, your voice a steady promise that he knows to be true. “You’re who I want. I love you.” Your fingers thread through his messy hair, and he lets out a soothing hum of appreciation.
He pulls together the strength he needs to find his voice. It’s rugged and muffled against your warm skin. “I love you.”
The next morning, Frankie notices the pale white envelope sticking out of your purse. It was the letter his father slid across the table before shit hit the fan.
Your eyes catch on to his one-sided staring contest, padding across the carpet with two mugs of coffee in your hand as you’re quick to distract him. “I didn’t want to throw it away without your permission, and last night didn’t seem like the time to ask.”
He nods understandingly but stands anyway, grabbing the card silently before settling back down beside you on the couch. You pull the thick dark green blanket over both your laps and slowly run your hand up and down his back, working supportive circles over his freckled skin.
“You don’t have to read it,” you remind him. He wonders what would hurt worse: knowing what’s inside or never knowing.
“Am I a glutton for punishment?” Frankie asks with his familiar teasing smile, ripping open the envelope by its seam, letting out a long breath before looking down at the card.
It’s abundantly clear that his father perused the birthday card aisle and followed the signs alphabetically from boss, brother, child, to nephew, sister, son and chose the first one with a funny picture on the front.
Frankie cocks an eyebrow and shakes his head in annoyance at the sight of a large cartoon grizzly bear who dons a bow tie, glasses, and a party hat and balances the words Happy Birthday, Son! over its head.
Your hand protectively wraps around his bicep, your temple connecting to his shoulder as you rest your head there. Your beautiful eyes flick up to meet his under dark lashes as you exchange a wary glance.
Frankie presses a kiss to your lips, one that feels like heaven after a night of hell.
He’s unsure what to expect when he opens the card. His jaw shifts from left to right at the sizable letter written with a pen on the inside. Maybe he had more to say that he could never properly verbalize.
“What’s it say?” Your tender voice asks beside him. Frankie takes a deep breath before clearing his throat and reading for himself.
“Francisco, I don’t know where to begin or if these words will even matter to you now. I made so many mistakes when I was younger, ones I know I can’t take back, no matter how much I wish I could.
I’m sorry I never came into your room when I heard you crying. I’m sorry that I stopped coming to my arranged visitations with you. I’m sorry that I didn’t attend your high school graduation. I’m sorry I’ve let you become someone I don’t know anymore. You deserved a better dad, someone who didn’t let their own mess spill over into your life. I see that now and see how much I took from you. I wish I could take it all back and change it. I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t even know if I deserve it. Learn from my mistakes and be a better man than me. Truth be told, I already know you are.
Happy birthday, Francisco. I hope it’s not too late to say these things, even if I should have said them a lifetime ago.
-Dad”
whatcha think? probably our most dramatic episode thus far. hope you liked the angst xx that's for reading all this, that's crazy! you just read 10k+! can't believe you spent all that time reading my little fic chapter :')) ily
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word: lake
warnings/information: post-outbreak, canon-typical aspects of tlou
a/n: my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!
It’s been days of walking under the hot Tennessee sun, attempting a cross-country trek to find refuge.
After your and Joel’s hideaway was raided and trashed, you decided it was time to find the whispered safe haven community that you heard through old radio chatter during your stay at the Atlanta QZ.
The summer was cruel, the temperatures skyrocketing easily into the 100s and making your clothes stick to your body. Your map signals that you’re in a national forest close to the border of Kentucky. It’s been hours since you last looked, just heading North in the same general direction.
Exhaustion is evident in your steps, each one labored and dragging. If it weren’t for Joel, you wouldn’t have the will to continue. But you both made a lot of promises together, one being that where one goes, the other follows. Always.
Joel aggressively smacks his neck, a groan of annoyance leaving his throat. “Fuckin’... bloodsuckers.” He mutters, wiping away an insect and then the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
Out of habit, you reach for your water bottle, only to curse to yourself a moment later, knowing it was dry. “We need water, Joel.”
He sighs and extends his hand to help you down a steep slope. “I’know, baby.”
You worry about Joel. He can survive fights against armed raiders and rabid infected, but no one can survive without water.
Another pesky mosquito takes a nip at your arm, and you’re quick to slap your hand to end the prickle of annoyance. “Christ, why are there so many mosquitos?”
Joel pauses, eyes darting from left to right before he pulls his map from his backpack. “Mosquitos means water.” He trails his finger along the estimate of where you are before tugging you North, the sounds of the ecosystem growing louder as you approach a large blue lake just beyond the hill between the thicket of trees and bushes.
“Joel, water! Miles of it!” You gasp in shock, seeing the blue in the distance, and it quickens your eager pace. “Joel, water! Miles of it!”
At the grassy shore, you unclip your pack and kick off your boots. Peeling off your shirt and cargo pants, you glance at Joel, who is pushing down his jeans and smiling widely at you.
The lake is cold at first touch, but once submerged, you feel like all the nerves in your body go lax. Your mind clears, and in this moment, you feel like this isn’t the end of the world. You aren’t trying to survive every minute of every hour of every day. You aren’t a burden on Joel’s back. You aren’t scared to think about tomorrow and what it may bring.
You float. Joel floats beside you, a protective man keeping you at no more than arm’s length as he wades in the water.
Joel’s husky voice breaks the serenity. “We’ll camp here, maybe try to catch some fish or squirrels.”
Shaking your head, the water ripples. You close your eyes as the sun makes the water droplets on your face sparkle. “Just a little bit longer, Joel… float with me.”
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word: tidal wave
warnings/information: thalassophobia aspects (fear of the ocean) fluff, angst, reader is described to have hair, but the length, color, texture, etc. is left unwritten
a/n: it's summer in the seasons of life challenge! my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!
The nightmare is always the same.
A tidal wave approaches in a nightmarish blue swell that grows as it surges closer.
Frankie’s frozen in place, unable to move, left only to panic and dread its unstoppable approach.
The water is fluid but has the harshness of a wall. His stomach flips, feeling the inertia of a downfalling roller coaster as the wave closes its distance and surrounds Frankie.
The sky opens up, rain clouds and lightning striking through the cobalt sky. The scent of summer rain fills the air, its sweetness a cruel contrast to the chaos of the storm.
He goes to move his feet again, unsure if he’s trapped in quicksand or too afraid to move. Either way, the wave only gets closer and closer to Frankie, reaching a height as high as a ten-story building.
He closes his eyes and turns away.
When he opens them again, he’s staring at the same beach from a distance on a tall cliff. Now, he’s forced to watch the wave approach you on the beach. You stand still, the wind rippling through your hair as the wave surges closer.
Frankie screams your name, the syllables tearing through his throat as tears well up in his eyes.
“Run!” He tries to warn you, inching towards the cliff but there’s no reaching you in time.
Just as the wave surges, ready to consume you entirely, the dream begins to fracture, and its once-clear focus fades as a dark vignette creeps into the edges of his vision.
“Frankie, baby,” you rub your hand up and down his clammy chest, your tired eyes searching his bleary, panic-filled ones.
His breaths are fast, unable to calm the way his heart slams recklessly against his ribs.
He sits up abruptly, pulling you into him as his hand gently cups your cheek, his fingers weaving through your hair to cradle the back of your head. His strong arms envelop you, holding you close, gratitude and relief radiating from every touch that you’re still here with him.
You squeeze him tightly and nuzzle your face into his neck, sponging soft kisses on his skin to bring him back to reality. “It’s okay, you’re okay. Was it the nightmare again?”
The room swims in a pale blue light, his mind still trying to leave the realness of his dream and only exist in this room with you.
He’s had these dreams before. Something consumes him, or he becomes submerged in something he can’t escape. Fight or flight takes over, and he’s fearful.
It’s often stress-related; he loses control or becomes overwhelmed. He doesn’t always do well with change and all these things manifest in his dreams, usually the same one.
"Was it the big wave?" you murmur, your fingers softly threading through the hair at the nape of his neck. His lips brush weakly against the side of your head, grounding himself with physical surroundings. Your skin feels cool against his warmth, a soothing contrast, and your hair carries the faint, familiar scent of the conditioner from your shower the night before.
Frankie sighs and runs his large hand down his face, scratching at the beard stubble on his cheek. “Yeah, it was.” But this time, you were there, and he couldn’t save you.
You drag his hand to your lips and gently kiss his knuckles, intertwining your hand with his and pushing the duvet off his body to allow his skin to breathe.
All you want is to ease his burden, to steady him when the weight of his past feels too heavy. He’s your person, your safe harbor, and though you may never fully grasp the shadows his military service left behind, you’ve made it your mission to stand beside him, offering light where there’s darkness.
Slowly, you ease him back into the comfort of your bed, his large arms wrapped tightly around your body and not letting go. Your fingers trace soft lines along his bare back, following the curve of his broad shoulders and the contours of his muscles. His face burrows into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin, while your chin rests lightly on his soft, messy curls.
You stay there, holding him, listening to the rhythm of his breathing as it slows. Long after he drifts off, you lie awake, silently hoping that tonight’s quiet comfort might ease the weight of tomorrow.
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word: cake
warnings/information: fluff, implied smut
a/n: this is my first attempt purposely writing for a gender-neutral reader! please feel comfortable messaging me if there's anything that I missed. I often write for f!reader so I appreciate the help! my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!
Dieter is no longer himself tonight. Tonight, he steps into the spotlight for his Broadway debut, embodying the cunning and complex Edmund in King Lear.
He staggers across the stage, as Edmund has been mortally wounded. He collapses to the floor, weakly looking out to the audience as he clutches his wound.
“I pant for life: some good I mean to do, despite of mine own nature. Quickly send, be brief in it, to the castle; for my writ is on the life of Lear and on Cordelia. Nay, send in time.”
He falters, his character’s strength fading as death hastily approaches. He collapses back, struggling to say conscious, before ultimately losing consciousness.
Dieter bows to the crowd, flowers tossed to his feet by his devoted fans. He kisses the tips of his fingers and sends his love to the crowd, his attention turning to you, the up-and-coming stage actor who has captured most of his attention during his rehearsals.
At the cast party, the cast and crew of the production mingle and cheer to their first of many shows.
Now, Dieter has never had much patience when it comes to rules. Especially when someone tells him he can’t do something. This case is especially true when the director, with an intense nasal pitch, makes a big fuss about not touching the cake until the speeches are over.
By halfway through the speeches, Dieter is restless. Swaying on his feet, inching closer to you through the room. You stifle a giggle behind your champagne glass, shaking your head knowingly.
“Don’t even think about it,” you whisper and glance back towards the large cake with buttercream frosting.
He just can’t help himself.
He chuckles softly and swipes his index finger into the corner of the cake, smearing a little frosting on your nose.
You feign shock, dropping your jaw dramatically before taking a bit of frosting from your nose and dabbing it on his own.
“Tststsk!” The director’s assistant hisses in a low whisper-shout, only making your suppressed laughs harder to hide.
Dieter smirks, his eyes glinting with mischief as he leans in close, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Let’s get out of here.” His large hand slips into yours, his grip warm and firm as he tugs you away from the crowd, weaving through the mass of bodies until you’re just outside his dressing room.
"I want to taste your cream," he mutters under his breath, his words carrying a suggestive tone that makes heat slip down your spine.
“Dieter!” you protest, though the laugh in your voice betrays you.
The name DIETER BRAVO gleams on the star plaque, while muffled thumps against the closed door hint at the chaos unfolding inside. You'll surely land on the cover of Page Six by sunrise.
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word: joy
warnings/information: angst, father-daughter love makes up for it
a/n: I always think of @mrsmando when I write about pre-outbreak!joel and especially sarah, thank you for all your loving words of our favorite father daughter duo <3 my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!
She said she’d know the moment she held them. She claims not to have known or felt herself leaning one way or another for the past nine months.
How do you know if you want to keep your baby or give them up for adoption?
How do some people just know the instant they see that little plus sign on the pregnancy test, as if it’s an answer already written?
What if you’re like Joel and Maggie—just nineteen and twenty, too young and naive to know any better, yet stubborn enough to try?
For the past nine months, Joel had felt a growing distance from Maggie, an ache of disconnect that lingered like a heavy ache in his chest. But he was trying for both of them, even when it felt like he was the only one holding things together.
Their families were somewhat supportive, though their concern seemed less about them as individuals and more about the urgency of a hasty marriage.
Maggie said no.
Joel couldn’t fault her. As he sank to one knee, the moment felt empty. The words on his tongue tasted like a lie, and the thought of pretending he could be happy in a marriage built on this felt like another lie. But despite it all, he’d do it. He’d go through with it to have his family.
He’s always wanted kids. He just didn’t anticipate it to be this quick or to feel so goddamn unprepared.
How would they pay the bills? Maggie wanted to go to a nice university, get her grades up for the first two years at a technical, and then transfer to a big city.
Joel couldn’t see it. He didn’t want a big city, didn’t want the distance, and he definitely didn’t want Maggie to leave.
Then they got pregnant.
It was an accident, it was stupid, but it happened.
Now, he stood in the delivery room, gripping Maggie’s hand as sweat clung to every inch of her body. She pushed, cried, panted, until, finally, it all culminated in the sharp, frantic cry of a newborn.
“It’s a girl!” The team cheered, but it felt like they were the only ones celebrating.
A girl. How had he never considered it? All this time, he had only ever thought about boys: his brother, the football team, his blue-collar friends. A girl? It was like a whole new world had just opened up.
One look was all it took. He saw how small she was, fragile in the vastness of the world, as though she were too delicate to survive in it.
Joel was awestruck.
“Oh, Mags,” Joel whispered, his voice thick with emotion as tears welled in his eyes, watching the labor and delivery team gently take her to be cleaned up and swaddled in a warm blanket. “She’s beautiful.”
When they returned her, wrapped in a little pink blanket and hat, he felt completely lost, yet, somehow, he had never felt more exactly where he was supposed to be.
“How about you go first, Mom, after all the hard work?” the nurse suggested gently.
Joel already knew by the look in Maggie’s eyes.
Their baby could have been the most precious thing in the world, and Maggie still wouldn’t have been able to bring herself to care for her. She fell silent, tears silently tracing her cheeks as she made her decision.
The nurse turned to Joel, her eyes full of uncertainty, unsure of how to offer comfort. With hesitation, Joel cradled his arms where his bundle of joy was placed for the first time.
She was warm and crying. And by the wetness on his face, so was he.
Joel never imagined walking out of the hospital without Maggie, carrying their newborn in his arms, the world's weight resting solely on his shoulders.
He didn’t understand Maggie’s decision, but he’s never held it against her. The moment that little girl cried out into the world, she became everything to him—a silent promise, a love that words could never capture.
And Joel had his doubts.
Was he smart enough to be a single father? Unselfish enough? Kind enough?
He doesn’t know what he ever did to deserve her. He couldn’t understand what he’d done to deserve her. She embodied everything pure—compassion, courage, love, curiosity, empathy.
She was the very essence of everything good in both Maggie and him.
Sarah.
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word: book
warnings/information: smut!!! pussy pronouns!!! joel being a book boyfriend!!! oral f!receiving!!! fingering!!! dirty talk!!!
a/n: joel miller, you will always be famous. my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!
Joel slowly nudges your legs open with a gentle guide of his hand, his lusty eyes flicking between your sleep shorts and the flustered look on your face.
“This how they do it in your books?”
Your mouth is watering. You’ve never felt more attracted to Joel, all broad with his chest puffed band looking to prove something.
He’s noted how enamored you’ve been with a particular book series. One book after the other, he swears he sees you clutching a book with new cover art every night. But whenever he asks about it, you clam up.
He thinks, it’s just a book, right?
But after leafing through the pages of your most recent obsession left on the nightstand, he’s intrigued.
There’s a lot of fucking sex in here. A lot.
No wonder you always wiggle around in bed when you read it. You’re turned on as hell.
This book was clearly written for the female perspective, but thinking about doing these things with you was getting him a little riled up, too.
Now, he’s here, quoting similar lines from your book while his mouth makes out with your cunt. His tongue works slow and precise movements up and down your seam, moaning at the taste of you as your fingers comb through his greying waves.
You whimper his name as he gently suckles on your clit, his tongue and teeth flirting with your sensitive bundle of nerves while his thick fingers stretch your throbbing pussy.
“Joel,” you pant breathlessly, digging your head into the pillow as your stomach only tightens with immense pleasure.
“Know she likes this,” Joel mutters with a smirk against your folds, his lips lacquered in your arousal. “Know this pretty pussy likes bein’ taken care of. That’s all she needs, someone to take care of her.” He curls his fingers, the tips gently massaging that special spot only he can service.
“Oh— shit,” you gasp, your thighs beginning to shake as your impending orgasm sinks low in the base of your stomach. “Joel, fuck, your goddamn mouth,” you groan his name as he attaches his mouth to your pulsing clit, your thighs clamping around his head.
Everything he spoke was pure filth.
“She’s so damn pretty, baby. Wet just for me. You know how much this turns me on? You laid out on this bed, takin’ what I give you. Eatin’ this pussy so good, you can barely talk.”
Joel’s taunts make you whine, your body writhing against his possessive hold as he reaches up your front, his fingers toying with your peaked nipples. It’s just enough to push you over the edge, every nerve in your body set alight simply by what your books have taught him.
“Holy hell,” you pant as he licks his fingers clean, a smirk painted on his lips as he writes the letter J on your thigh in your sticky arousal.
“You can have your book boyfriends, I don’t mind,” Joel mutters as he runs his fingers along his square jawline, “but you’re mine off the page. Okay, baby?”
What do you say?
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word: spring cleaning
warnings/information: fluff!! literal fluff!!
a/n: sorry (not really) that I keep choosing Frankie as my inspiration for many of these prompts, he is just so lover boy!! my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!
Francisco Morales has always been the boy next door. From grade school to high school, your lives ran parallel. You shared the same school bus stop and the same backyard fence.
It all began when he saw you cruising the cul-de-sac on your Razor scooter, his shy smile lingering until you rode up and asked if he wanted a turn. That was the moment your friendship truly began—joined at the hip from that day forward.
High school changed things. Francisco turned into Frankie, and Frankie got… hot. All sharp features and soft brown eyes with floppy curls often nestled under a hat. Meanwhile, you were navigating the awkwardness of acne and insecurities, and your circles didn’t quite overlap the way they used to.
Life pulled you in different directions—you went to university, and Frankie enlisted. You assumed he’d forgotten about you, imagining him making new friends, finding someone special, and leaving your shared past behind.
Then, last Christmas Eve, Frankie appeared at your parents' doorstep, clutching a tin of cookies his mom had baked. The surprise visit turned into hours of catching up over hot cocoa and nostalgia.
That night rekindled something neither of you had realized you missed. A year later, he wasn’t just the boy next door anymore—he was your sweet, goofy boyfriend, and today, he was helping you tackle early spring cleaning at your parents' house before they moved to Florida.
“Florida must have subliminal radio waves for retirees.” He grunts as he yanks down the rickety wooden ladder to the attic, shifting around boxes until his eyes land on one with Barbie stickers and childish scribbles with a marker. “What do we have here?” he teases, descending the ladder with the box cradled against his chest.
Your heart sank. “Frankie, no,” you warn, lunging forward to grab it.
“I spy some diaries!” Frankie beams, heat rushing to all parts of your body in panic.
“Please don’t read those. I’m begging you.”
Frankie holds up the thickest one, a compound notebook with a black and white cover that has your name and the year scrawled over it in a gel pink pen.
Frankie scoffs playfully, eyeing you over curiously. “What’s the worst it could say? Did you confess to a crime in here? With a pink glittery pen?”
“Frankie, please,” you groan, face buried in your hands.
Those pages hold so many memories from high school. You remembered bits and pieces of what could be inside, but you knew at least a few pages described your torrid girlish crush on Francisco. Your boy next door.
His playful grin softened as he studied your expression. He placed the notebook back in the box and set it on the floor. “Okay, baby. I won’t look. I was just messing around.” He crossed the room, wrapping an arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’m sorry.”
The relief you feel gives you the courage to flip through the journal, finding one page in particular. “One page. And one page only. Okay?”
Frankie’s eyes lit up as he slid behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. Together, you found the page—his name, scrawled in a big heart pierced with an arrow.
He tightened his hold, and you felt the warmth of his blush against your cheek. “You had a crush on me?” he murmurs, his voice low and awed. “I used to have a crush on you. You were so cool, and I never told you how I felt. You always just seemed so much smarter than me, and you didn’t care what anyone thought. No way in hell did I think you’d be into me.”
You turn in his arms, both of you smiling like teenagers again.
He shakes his head and pulls you in for a deep kiss, his rough hands melting at the hold he has on your jaw, taking in the love notes scattered throughout your journal. “I could have had you all this time.”
You shake your head and squeeze his hands assuredly. “Our timing is just right.” The attic, the journals, and the past faded away. In this moment, it was just the two of you—and the love that had finally found its time.
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word: blossom
warnings/information: fluff, frankie has some lingering issues after being sent home from deployment
a/n: thought of this while staring at my boss' orchid blooming and about my failed attempts at keeping a cactus alive. the center picture is from @wildemaven! my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!
Frankie imagined that being sent home from deployment would be heaven. However, his life as a civilian was lonely and a little terrifying, if he’s honest.
Often surrounded by a band of his brothers, there was never a quiet moment. He once longed for silence and prayed for a moment of solitude. Being home, everything changed.
He hated the sound of his breathing at night, how it ricocheted off the walls and filled the emptiness. He hated the quiet drives in his truck and fucking despised how there was no one to sing along to the radio. This wasn’t the freedom he had envisioned.
Instead of searching for company in all the wrong places, he found himself somewhere he never expected: the local farmer’s market.
Frankie saw the flyer pinned to the bulletin board at the hardware store, decorated in bright, vibrant colors that listed the spring dates.
Hell, why not?
With his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, he wanders through the market. Golden jars of honey glinted in the sunlight, freshly scored loaves of homemade bread filled the air with a delicious aroma, and vibrant blooms spilled from every corner, painting the scene in vivid color.
That’s when he saw you.
Hair tamed by a red bandana, hands caked in dirt, an adorable smile on your pretty lips that had him in a trance. Truly, he had no idea he was even walking towards your stand until you greeted him.
“Good morning, how are you?”
For a moment, he froze, words failing him as he stared blankly, his brain scrambling to catch up. Finally, he cursed himself inwardly, forcing a smile and managing a simple “Hi.”
You smile softly and nod, turning to speak to another customer who had wandered up. Frankie takes a moment to compose himself and looks around your stand, decorated by a red and white checkered picnic blanket and a chalkboard that displays your prices.
“If you have any questions, let me know.”
He flicks his eyes up to yours, taking in how they’re framed by dark lashes. He doesn’t want to lose your attention, so he points at the first potted plant he sees. “What’s that?”
You gasp softly at Frankie’s apparent good taste, moving to the folding table behind you to retrieve the plant with a colorful blue pot. “This beautiful blossom is actually a cactus. It’s kind of hard to tell because it’s covered in these little pink flowers, but she’s super easy to take care of. Good in small spaces.”
“This plant is prettier than me,” Frankie jokes, his tone light but his eyes searching yours.
Your smile widens, breaking into a laugh so warm and sweet it feels like the closest thing to heaven. He soaks it in, wishing he could play the sound on a loop forever, anything to keep the crushing silence at bay.
Frankie’s never cared for a plant in his life, but he hands you a twenty-dollar bill and insists you keep the change.
"Thank you," Frankie speaks softly, his eyes warm as he sends you a grateful nod. "I'm back home after a while away, and it's been... an adjustment."
"Hey," you say softly, your hand gently catching his arm before he can walk off. You hold out the cactus, your smile kind and warm. "Cactuses are survivors. They adapt and bloom, no matter how tough the environment is. Feels like a good thing to have around, don’t you think?"
Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, Frankie wonders if you’re talking about more than the plant in his hands.
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word: marshmallow
warnings/information: fluff, winter games, cold temperatures, alcohol consumption, my more casual writing style
a/n: in honor of completing the winter section of the seasons of life challenge, I thought I'd have a little fun with my favorite Delta crew! my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!
It’s a really stupid game, like really fucking stupid. What started as a drunken dare during a bitterly cold January training camp evolved into a full-blown tradition among Frankie and his Delta Force buddies.
If you’ve ever seen New Girl, it has the same nonsensical, chaotic rules as True American. But the Delta Force crew call it “A Tit-Bit Nippy.” It celebrates endurance, chaos, and sheer stupidity in the face of freezing temperatures.
The game combines random challenges, a heavy dose of trash-talking, and a complete disregard for frostbite as the players compete to be the last one standing.
Don’t get lost in the hypotheticals or the parentheses; this is how the game works:
All players (You, Frankie, Benny, Will, Pope, and Pope’s girlfriend Samara) strip down to their underwear and boots. You form a circle around an unlit campfire (which will come into play later), and one player is chosen as the Snow Emperor, who starts the game.
Each round, the Snow Emperor assigns a challenge, and failure to complete the challenge results in being exiled (sent back inside the snow cabin where you must wear a loser sash.
This game is not for the weak, and if there’s anything you love more, it’s making these macho military men shiver in their boots.
After a frozen beer is used for spin the bottle, it lands on Frankie as the Snow Emperor.
He’s quick to dash around the group as everyone groans and complains, as he was a ruthless Snow Emperor last year. But that was before you joined the group, and you’re ready to give your boyfriend the added challenge.
“Snow Emperor 2025, bitches! Strip!” He belts, chugging the slushie beer as everyone grimaces for their torturous time ahead.
“Why did we agree to this?” Samara asks in a whisper as she sheds her black winter coat, a shiver already traveling up her spine. “You and I could be in town shopping, drinking hot cocoa, melting away in a sauna. But instead, your merciless boyfriend is going to put us through the wringer. Frankie says he’s undefeated, but he refuses to talk about that one year Benny bested him by eating yellow snow.”
You send her a sigh and a shrug, slowly pulling your top up and over your head, Frankie’s eyes noticeably lingering on your figure. “Because… I think I Catherine the Great his ass.” Both of you snicker before exiting the cabin, ready for the challenges ahead.
“Hey,” Pope reprimands Benny, whose eyes are lost on Samara’s gorgeous body. “Focus on the game.” He backhands his friend’s balls, forcing a grunt up Benny’s throat as he clutches his frozen grapes in pain.
The challenges and eliminations are as follows:
Frankie hosts a snow angel relay, and the first person to make a perfect snow angel without screaming wins. Will won, the infamous Ironhead making a tall and broad snow angel with a mute expression. His brother, Benny, wasn’t so lucky, screaming after a minute and shivering all the way back inside.
Next, the Snow Emperor has his loyal subjects guess the temperature outside. The farthest guess loses and, therefore, has to belly-flop into a large snow pile. Samara, bless her heart, is from a warmer climate and guessed far too low. She was thus sent to her execution (snowflop).
Frankie won his icicle duel against Pope, and you won yours against Will.
To warm up, you both took a shot of god-awful vodka. If it were tequila, you would have been fine, but this tasted like nail polish remover and bleach.
“Second place gets the sled of shame,” Frankie smirks as he stares across the unlit campfire at you, both pale, cold, and shivering with the freezing temperatures.
Despite it all, you’re smiling because this is the most fun you’ve had in winter since you were a little kid. “What the fuck is the sled of shame?”
“Runner-up gets tied to a sled and dragged around the frozen lake by everyone else while we all scream shame!” He laughs maniacally, putting his hands together and blowing warm air against his palms.
You eagerly smack his hands away and narrow your eyes on the tyrant. “Quit the chit-chat. How do we end this, Morales?” A puff of warm air leaves your mouth and moves like a ghost in the wind, everyone watching from the window of the snow cabin to see who will come out on top.
Frankie wears a wicked smirk and reaches down for a handful of snow. “Snowball sniper. One round, end-all. No blocking with your hands. First one hit, loses.”
This would be a snow war to end all wars. He would not win. You swore to Samara you would try, and try you must.
You find safety behind a stack of wooden logs, readying up some preparatory snowballs as Frankie aims for your head and misses. You throw one, two, three snowballs, but he’s more agile than he looks. He chases you around the cabin, both of you breathless and panting. His fail was slipping on some ice, groaning in pain as he lay helpless in a blanket of fresh snow.
You slowly cross over to the fallen soldier, the snow crunching under your boots. He looks at you with soft eyes, the sun setting behind the clouds for good as he grimaces at the sight of a large snowball in your hand. “Just… get it over with.”
“Shame to see it end like this,” you mutter. With respect to the Emperor, you fall to your knees and kiss him, purely a distraction to give the final blow: a snowball to his hat-covered head.
Cheers erupt from the warm cabin, everyone sprinting from the warmth and wrapping their arms around you and Frankie as the men rejoice in a rendition of “War is Over.”
“All hail the Nippy Queen!” Frankie proclaims, lifting his beer in a triumphant toast. The rest of the group cheers, now bundled up and gathered around the roaring campfire, where marshmallows crackle and glow in the heat of victory.
He turns to you with a teasing grin, his dark eyes glinting in the firelight. “What is your first royal decree, my love?”
The others lean in expectantly, smirking and elbowing each other, waiting for your answer. You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head at the absurdity of it all.
“My first decree,” you announce with mock authority, “is that next year, we celebrate New Year’s on a tropical island!”
The camp erupts into laughter, everyone already dreaming of sandy beaches and piña coladas—anything but another round of A Tit-Bit Nippy.
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word: freezing
warnings/information: war, injury, blood, medical-related stuff, angst, frankie harbors secret feelings for you
a/n: I wrote half of this whilst at the car dealership for 5 hours so you all get ANGST! my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!
The chopper’s blades roar above you, but with each heavy blink, the sky turns brighter, and the rhythmic whoop whop whoop in your ears grows distant.
All sounds echo and leave a ringing sensation that makes your head feel a strike of pain. You whimper and writhe against the stretcher, willing yourself to pass out to evade the agony.
Every time you open your eyes, you see something different: the tail rotor spinning, the doors to the cockpit closing shut, and the air thickening as you take off until your body feels weightless.
“Easy now,” a protective voice barks. The man’s dark waves whip around in the wind, his hat keeping them tame. The roar of the chopper faded, but Frankie’s voice stayed steady, a lifeline pulling you back.
The rotors are loud, whipping dust and debris into the air upon takeoff. “What happened?” Frankie’s pilot asks for clarity as they evade an ambush in a country they had no place being in.
His hands tremble as they carefully search you for blood, his vision clouded by panic and his thoughts racing in a frantic blur. His training should take over—it’s what he’s prepared for, what he’s done countless times when life changes in an instant. He knows he should focus: take a breath, assess the situation, and help the person in front of him. But this is different. He’s not just saving anyone; he’s saving the woman he’s loved with an intensity he’s kept buried for years. Out of respect for the bond you share as partners in the field, he’s guarded that love like a secret, but now, with you in his arms, the weight of it feels impossible to ignore.
There was no room in war for love.
The pilot snaps at him again, soaring through the air at a speed that has his lungs chasing lost breath. “She—was caught in the aftermath, there was an explosion, she didn’t pull back when we radioed, I think she was trying to get others to safety.” Of course, you were. War did a lot of fucked up things to people, but your humanity stayed constant.
Every beat of the rotor felt like a countdown, and Frankie wasn’t ready to run out of time.
Your eyes peak open, and he can only imagine the unsteadiness you must feel. “I’ve got you, just stay with me, cariño. You’re gonna be okay.” His tone was reassuring, his hand in yours. Your grip was strong.
His other hand gently cradles your head. His fingers retract at the warm blood that drips crimson down his fingers. “Definitely got blown back. She’s got a hit to her head. Maybe a concussion.”
Frankie’s no doctor, but you’re looking at him with eyes that prays he’s a God, someone who can save you and be your guardian angel.
“Frankie,” your teeth chatter, “I’m f-freezing, please don't let me go.”
Not a moment later, he’s securing a heated blanket over your front and squeezing your hand tighter, not wanting you to lose your hold. “We’re almost to base. They’ll get you patched up, okay? You're gonna be okay, baby.”
You close your eyes and interlock your fingers with Frankie’s. With your hand in his, he silently vowed that losing you was never an option.
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word: hot chocolate
warnings/information: secret relationship, implied age gap, fluff, descriptions of food
a/n: this is my roommate/besties hot chocolate recipe and you must try it!! we've had it everyday for a week and it's so damn good! puts me in a happy winter mood <3 my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!
It’s warm, swirling in your mouth and spreading across your tastebuds like wildfire. It’s sweeter than you expected, leaving you wanting more.
“Mm, Joel,” you moan softly, eyes fluttering open after a blissful first taste. “This hot chocolate is amazing. Definitely better homemade. All my parents ever did was warm up a cup of milk in the microwave, then pour one of those Swiss Miss hot chocolate packets into it. This is delicious.”
Joel’s warm, deep chuckle fills his small kitchen as he slowly stirs the hot chocolate with a ladle. The whisk lies forgotten on the spoon rest, watching as he fills his owl mug with the sweet chocolate liquid.
“I can’t take all the credit. Sarah stirred it up one night and taught me how to make it. Now, whenever she’s visiting from school, I make it for her in the winter. Pretty good, huh?” He raises his brown-amber glazed mug to your navy blue one in a cheers, both of you letting out a satisfied sigh after the sip.
The hot chocolate rests warm in your stomach and mellows your entire body temperature.
“Mm,” you hum with more in your mouth, quick to swallow it down. “Do you have mini marshmallows?”
Joel tuts, a playful smirk on his lips as he already starts walking towards the pantry. “Do I have mini marshmallows.. course I do.”
And with that, he’s sprinkling a handful of white marshmallowy fluff into your mug, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. You’re so happy you could burst, your legs dangling as you sit on the countertop doing little kicks of joy.
This is damn near perfect. Joel in his green and orange flannel, you in your sneakers, your eyes dazzling as you draw him in for another soft kiss.
Damn near. Like, your best friend is upstairs getting ready with no idea that you’re down here kissing her dad. Damn near.
“I’m ready!” Sarah’s voice bellows from the stairs. As soon as her footsteps are in earshot, you’re off the counter and Joel is at the farthest point in the kitchen.
He sends you an apologetic smile, one that you mirror.
“Thanks for that recipe, Mr. Miller.” After another long sip, you share the mug with Sarah who smiles around the edge of it. “What’s in it again?”
Joel casually shrugs and crosses his arms, his broad body leaning back against the counter. “S’pretty simple. Start with two cups of milk in a saucepan over medium heat. Stir in a tablespoon of sugar, a tablespoon of brown sugar, and two tablespoons of cocoa powder. Once it’s warm and whisked together, add a quarter cup of chocolate chips and two tablespoons of milk chocolate. Let that melt and blend together, then stir in a teaspoon of vanilla extract right at the end. Keep stirring until it’s smooth and creamy—don’t let it boil. That’s it. Perfect hot chocolate, every time.”
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word: fireplace
warnings/information: fluff, descriptions of food, alcohol consumption, the connection to oberyn (partner, wife, friends, unattached, etc.) is up to the reader
a/n: I was thinking and envisioning warmth and immediately thought of our sweet prince of dorne. my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!
The Prince of Dorne’s golden robes complement the crackling embers of the grand fireplace.
The months spent planning the Festival of the Long Light had finally come to fruition, as today was the winter solstice celebration to welcome the return of longer days.
It’s a long-standing Dornish tradition to celebrate with candles, lanterns, and bonfires to symbolize resilience and hope, even during the darkest time of the year.
Prince Oberyn says that it strengthens the Dornish spirit. It’s ultimately his way of drinking wine from dawn til dusk while the crowds of happy townsfolk gather for archery contests, combat displays with flaming spears and swords, and dining on the winter citrus feast.
After a day of indulgent celebration, the Prince has succumbed to the heady effects of wine, his sharp wit and natural charisma now softened into a playful blend of teasing flirtation and extravagant storytelling.
“Do you recall how I earned the nickname the Red Viper?” He muses, a lopsided smile on his lips as he leans along decorative pillows with you by his side.
You take a sip of your warm spiced wine and nod thoughtfully. “I do believe that you will tell me-”
“House Yronwood was one of the most powerful houses in Dorne, only second to House Martell, of course,” he eagerly jumps in with theatrical hand movements, “Our houses have always had a… strained relationship.”
“Treacherous,” you hiccup.
“Yes, often to their family’s wrongful pride and our political dominance.”
“Surely,” you amuse him, both pausing to laugh with the sweet red wine coursing through your veins.
“During our family gathering, the youngest heir to House Yronwood, Draymond, insulted my family’s honor. I wouldn’t let it stand.”
His eye contact is powerful, amber eyes highlighted by the flickering flames of the fireplace. The wood could use stoking as it hisses and whistles, but Oberyn’s loving hand gliding up and down your side has you in a trance.
“You wouldn’t let it stand, my love.” You agree, Oberyn’s dark head of hair nodding with a distracted lull as he glances to your lips.
“I ended the duel without delivering a fatal blow, only striking him with a glancing hit. What appeared as a prick had the young heir collapsing hours later, stricken with pain and a fever. I had coated my sword with a non-lethal poison.” Obern smirked around his golden goblet, throwing back what was left of his cinnamon-spiced wine.
Confusion laces your features, tilting your head with intrigue, your eyes ultimately softening. “You did not aim to kill him.”
The handsome prince found solace in your understanding. “It was never my intention to let it escalate. Some men wield their tongues like weapons—loud, reckless, and prone to stirring trouble. They rarely find peace, nor do those around them. After that... enlightening encounter, the family gave us no further grief. I realized then, if I wished for a peaceful princehood, I had to quell the storm before it could even gather."
Your eyes must appear dazzled and surprised, causing Oberyn to smile back at you.
"I have lived a life of many adventures," Oberyn begins, his voice low and rich, each word dripping with quiet confidence. "I studied the arts and pleasures of the Free Cities, fought alongside legendary sellswords in Essos, and played dangerous games of power in Volantis." He pauses, his hand rough yet deliberate as it tilts your chin upward, his thumb brushing lightly along your jawline. His gaze, intense and unyielding, meets yours. "But you," he murmurs, his lips curving into a seductive smile, "you are the only adventure I crave now."
His hand, scarred from years of wielding a sword, presses gently against your cheek. It's a tenderness that contrasts with the fierce strength it once knew. His lips are soft and inviting, his tongue lining yours as you taste the cherry wine that still lingers.
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word: scarf
warnings/information: fluff, meet-cute
a/n: @iknowisoundcrazy inboxed me a super adorable meet-cute a few months back, and I haven't stopped thinking about it! I tweaked it a little with the setting because I also wanted to send some new year's love to @jolapeno and pay homage to her masterpiece, late night texts! I love you both! - my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!
Moving to the city felt like an appropriate change.
Your life before was stagnant. Same friends and hobbies, no new boyfriend, same old job. And in many ways, moving to the city did give you a lot of new opportunities. You were fresh-faced in a new career path, meeting cool people through work and social outings, and you picked up different ways to keep your hands busy while watching TV and stuffing your face with Chinese takeout.
One constant in your routine has always been taking a moment to step outside for fresh air during the workday. Even in the most corporate of settings, staying cooped up indoors all day is never an option.
Perched on your favorite park bench, you sip a coffee and stare menacingly down at the daily crossword in the paper. You wiggle your pen back and forth between your middle and index finger, glaring at the puzzle as if it offended you.
“Norma blank. Three letters across,” you mutter to yourself. Norma Jean? Isn’t that a Michael Jackson song? No, that’s Billie Jean. You bite down on the top of your pen and let out a slow sigh.
“Rae,” a low, raspy voice mutters beside you. The stranger meets your eyeline and tips his chin towards your crossword. “Norma Rae. It’s a movie before your time. Sally Fields plays a factory worker who becomes involved in a trade union at the factory she works at. It’s good.”
Your crossword lies forgotten on your lap as your attention drifts to the striking man nearby. His black leather jacket shields him from the city’s biting wind, while aviators with yellow-tinted lenses add a touch of intrigue. A ’70s-style mustache frames his face, perfectly complementing his jet-black hair. Handsome, older, and effortlessly confident, he doesn’t hesitate to strike up a conversation, teasing you about your glaring gaps in film trivia.
“Thanks,” you whisper, back in concentration mode as your pen fills in the missing letters r-a-e.
It’s a rare thing, sharing the same bench with a stranger in this city, but somehow, there he is beside you, his presence an unexpected disruption to the quiet rhythm of your break.
A quiet tension lingers between the two ends of the park bench. Part of you hesitates, worried that breaking the silence might make you seem unhinged. Yet another part of you silently wills him to speak first, hoping he'll bridge the gap.
You both sip your coffees in unison before you’re back at it.
Frodo’s burden, ring. Bird food, seed.
The grip on your pen falters as you encounter another impasse.
Your work break is meant to be a sacred reprieve, but instead, you're faced with a fiendishly challenging crossword that has every mental gear turning at full speed.
“Pen.” The stranger notes. He’s already glancing at you and your half-filled crossword puzzle once again. His shades are off this time, revealing eyes as dark and intoxicating as aged whiskey—both dangerous in excess.
“I’m sorry?”
“Pen. Bold choice, you must be pretty confident,” He remarks, sliding closer to you on the bench, his voice warm and teasing. He extends his hand, and for a moment, you hesitate, unsure if he’s expecting a handshake or the crossword. Then his smirk deepens, his palm steady and waiting. Without a word, you place the pen in his hand, feeling the brush of his fingers against yours.
“Dryer accumulation, lint. Old hag, witch.” His handwriting is vastly different from yours. He sketches in the letters with messy dashes and capital letters that make your dainty lowercases look sweet and delicate. “Hawaiian volcano, Mauna blank… Mauna Kea.”
“Loa,” you intercept the pen before he can fill in the empty squares incorrectly. The stranger connects the dots and nods slowly with a stolen smile. “It’s Loa because 38 down is… Lotus for Sacred flower.”
You find yourselves inching closer as you focus on filling in the missing letters. His hand is still holding the ghost of your pen and what was once a casual gesture shifts into a firm handshake, his grip confident, his eyes roaming over you without a hint of hesitation. There's an undeniable weight to his gaze, one that holds no shame.
“Javier. Six letters across, phone number’s ten down,” he murmurs, his voice low and assured. Before you can respond, he takes the pen from your grasp, casually scrawling his name in elegant cursive over the top of your crossword. As he writes, the phone number stretches down the page. Javi. Just like that, he’s left his mark.
“As fun and embarrassing as this was, I should get back to work,” you say, the heat rising from your cheeks all the way to the tips of your ears. Wow, was he smooth.
With your nerves in a jumble, you scramble to pack up your belongings, already bracing yourself to scream about the cute stranger you met when you meet up with your girlfriends later tonight.
Javi is quick to his feet, something familiar outstretched in his hand. “Woah, hold on, hermosa,” his deep, commanding baritone washed over you as the compliment slipped effortlessly from his lips. “Your scarf.”
You could not be more uncouth if you tried.
“Thanks,” you say with shy smile, your fingers weaving around the fabric, but he doesn’t let go.
“You’ll call me?”
He steals a small laugh from you, the wind sending a shiver up your spine. “I think I have to,” you say. “There’s a new crossword every day with nuanced references.”
“So, same time and place tomorrow? Let me buy your coffee.”
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word: snow
warnings/information: established relationship, pure fluff
a/n: this is me re-writing my author's note because my queue failed me! so I'm just getting around to seeing this and properly posting my seasons of life challenge masterlist and my first post ((now a day late >:[)) - my banners are by @saradika-graphics <3 shoutout to @beardedjoel and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!
“You’re going to freeze your ass off,” you warn your Florida-born and-raised boyfriend Frankie, whose half-packed suitcase consists of breezy button-ups and cargo shorts.
His adorably confused expression glances from his open suitcase to your dubious look. “How cold can it be? Thirty degrees sounds like nothin’.” He sassily retorts, pinching your chin between his fingers and thumb as he angles your chin upward so that he can place a soft kiss on your lips.
It’s his first Christmas visiting your side of the family. You were leaving palm trees behind for Castleton green pines, and his wardrobe was drastically underprepared.
“Let’s see. Christmas in the Midwest will consist of thirty-degree temperatures, colder if there’s a windchill. You have no warm hat, gloves, or jeans without holes in the knees. The only type of boots you own are hiking boots, and those won’t keep you warm if we have to walk through the snow.”
There’s a glimmer in his eyes, something mischievous and almost kid-like. “You think there’s gonna be snow? A white Christmas?”
Frankie has always been devoted to the warmth that central Florida offers, never tempted to swap it for a colder climate. Snow is a rarity in his world—he's only experienced the occasional fleeting flurry. By the time those delicate flakes touched the ground, the warmth quickly melted them away, leaving no trace behind.
You didn’t promise him anything, especially with climate change and all, but as soon as your plane had touched down, fat white snowflakes passed by your airplane window with no agenda or intent. They were weightless, the reminder you needed to hold with you as the end of the year approached.
“Looks like you’re getting your wish,” you whisper to Frankie, interlocking your fingers with his as he joins you in staring out at the midnight blue velvet sky where snow begins to fall steadily.
Your heart soars as your boyfriend’s gaze lingers on every window you pass, from deboarding the plane to the grand floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the planes landing and departing on the tarmac. He couldn’t resist the excitement of his first real snowfall.
Having grown up with snow days that shut down schools and heavy flakes piling up inches at a time, you had almost forgotten how magical snow could be.
Frankie’s smile is unwavering, a grin stretched wide across his face as you exit the airport’s main entrance, scanning the lot for your dad’s truck.
“Baby,” he murmurs, his breath swirling in the icy air, visible like a fleeting ghost in front of his face. “I can finally do it, just like in the movies.” Frankie’s excitement spills over as he drops his duffel bag on the sidewalk with a thud, stepping boldly out from the shelter of the airport canopy into the falling snow. He tugs his jacket tighter around him, the cold air making his cheeks rosy. “We had snow once,” Frankie says, staring at the flakes. “Didn’t even stick. Mom made us cocoa just to celebrate.” He grins at the memory and looks down at you. “This? This is a whole other level.”
You giggle as Frankie sticks out his tongue and dives his head from side to side in search of a flake to land on his tongue. “You’re doin’ this with me,” He holds your hands and twirls you under the night sky, both of you chasing snowflakes and cheering when they eventually melt on your warm tongue.
“We should build a snowman tomorrow. This is perfect packing snow,” you remark casually, pressing your shoe into the thick, powdery layer already blanketing the ground.
Frankie’s eyes damn near bulge out of his head. “We can build a fucking snowman?!”
2.4k / pairing: tattoo artist daddy dom!joel miller x sub f!reader
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chapter summary: You and Joel mutually pleasure each other while “researching” porn.
chapter warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), no outbreak/TLOU, Joel is a tattoo artist with tattoos and piercings, Joel and reader are in the pre-phase of creating porn together, watching porn together, unspecified age gap, established relationship, reader is described to have hair and is able-bodied (but otherwise, unspecified), swearing, dirty talk, smut, lots of pet names (angel, bunny, etc.), dacryphilia (kink = getting aroused by tears), dom/sub dynamics, innocence kink, praise kink, degradation kink, pain kink, daddy kink, oral (m!receiving), size kink, fingering (f!receiving), squirting, hair pulling, one (1) pussy smack, pussy and cock pronouns
A/N: this was written as a mini chapter within the cherry thrill series but can be read as a standalone. a hugehugehuge shoutout to @devineconjuring because without her support, I wouldn’t have even thought about sitting down to write this when the creative burst finally hit! everyone thank annie for beta’ing this mini-chapter! divider is by @firefly-graphics!
Eyes glazed over in lust, lips parted, skin warm with desire — both of you.
You and Joel rest your backs against the headboard of his bed, gazes unbroken, staring at your laptop screen.
Porn.
Anal. Amateur. Bondage. Free Use. Hardcore. Softcore. You’re watching the A-Z catalog with your partner. Was this a kink? Because trying to sit next to Joel while watching porn, trying not to get worked up, felt like a twisted game.
Joel knows you’re turned on. You haven’t stopped squirming beside him for at least twenty minutes. It was agonizing at this point to be so wet, so aching for touch, a deep breath of air nowhere in sight. And it was your stupid idea.
If you were going to film porn, it was only logical that you see what’s out there and get a sense of what you’d be open to filming with Joel. What was your comfort level? Would you start out by appealing to the amateur audience with limited cuts and genuine passion? Or would you like it more if Joel had all the control, playing into his role of being your dom, and ordered you around like his little cock slut?
All these videos had you questioning which category you fit in. Even worse, these videos, which were meant to be for research, had turned you on to the point of no return.
You can feel him looking at you out of the corner of your eye. You’d have to be blind not to notice how hard he’s become in his sweatpants. It’s almost thrilling at this point to see who breaks first.
Your body shudders as Joel moves to change the video to the next one. Christ, help me. He chooses something from the exhibition category, and you can feel your stomach twisting with desire.
“You doin’ alright?” His gravelly voice rumbles from beside you, a weak mhmm leaving your lips in response. Your eyes trace over the dark swirls of ink that curve around his forearm and flourish into a larger design on his bicep. You remember the day you asked if it hurt—if the needle pressing into flesh left behind more than just beauty. He didn’t answer; he just shot you a sly smirk, the kind that left you wondering if the pain was part of the allure.
Joel reaches over, his firm hand squeezing your trembling thigh. It feels like a force of nature, the way you gush harder at the physical contact. You swallow the lump in your throat as you feel his hand move to the waistband of your sweats.
You don’t move, don’t breathe. Both of your gazes are fixed on the laptop screen, not shifting even when his fingers curl inside your wet panties. He parts your pussy lips, feeling her warmth and arousal soak his fingers. A shaky breath leaves you as one of his fingers slowly circles your swollen clit.
“Joel,” you whisper breathlessly, your forehead resting against his tattooed bicep.
“I know,” is all he has to say.
His fingers dip lower, swirling the tips around your desperate hole before finally sinking in.
You stare at the video, but it’s like white noise at this point. Neither of you pays attention to the screen, but the blood rushing to your ears forces you to catch every moan and grunt from the partners in the video.
“Jesus,” you can’t help but pant out. “Please,” you weakly beg.
All Joel does is tut darkly. “Jesus ain’t here to save this wet pussy, angel, I am. So you better start beggin’ me.”
As Joel starts to slowly finger your pussy, you realize it’s less about needing to orgasm and more about the process of feeling satisfied together.
With your head resting on Joel’s arm, you press soft kisses against his tan skin as your hand reaches past the waistband of his grey sweatpants.
Your touch is electric. You watch as Joel sits up straight beside you once you start slowly stroking his already hard cock–he’s heavy in your hand, your gentle fingertips able to feel all the prominent veins of his shaft.
Joel’s low groan fills the room, and you know he’s struggling to keep himself from ripping your panties down your legs and getting his fill of you.
But that’s not the game you two are playing.
Your hot breath fans across his skin as he crooks his fingers to just the right spot within your cunt, the feeling unexpected as he stretches your sweet pussy. The sensation forces your hand to squeeze Joel a little harder, a distinct growl of both pain and pleasure fueling his ministrations. Once again, you’re reminded that pleasure protects you like a shield, and pain is the only thing that can penetrate it. Pain doesn’t just hurt Joel. It transforms him.
“I wanna bend you over like that,” he admits, his tongue playing with his lip piercing out of habit. Your hazy eyes slowly flick from Joel to your laptop. The video has changed again. The man in the video currently has a housemaid bent over the kitchen counter, doing whatever he pleases to her, while his wife sits in the dining room simply flipping through her newspaper and drinking her coffee.
You’re not as good at this as Joel is; you can barely speak as he pleasures you. “W-We’d get caught,” you breathe out, your hips grinding against his fingers as his thumb starts to work over your pearl.
Joel hums darkly, shifting a third finger into your entrance. It’s a burning stretch, one that forces out a low whine from deep in your throat. Your touch all but abandons Joel, his jaw tightening as you remove your hand from his swollen cock.
You stare deep into his dark eyes as you lick a slow stripe up your palm, excess saliva trailing down your hand before you return it to his aching member.
“Fuck,” he pants, his head falling back to rest on the headboard with a hard thud. He doesn’t fucking care. The pleasure outweighs the pain.
“Come here, baby,” Joel instructs as his fingers exit your warmth.
You whine like a brat but follow his instructions. He pulls you onto your knees, moving your upper half over his lap and shoving his sweatpants down so his cock is finally free.
“Use that pretty mouth of yours. Always so perfect for me,” he coos. “Now go slow.”
His words have you mewling in pleasure, resting your head on his lap as you suckle his tip into your warm mouth. It’s teasing, but you want to go slow, to do what he told you to. You want him to last.
He pulls your sweats and panties down, your warm pussy and the globes of your ass shocked by the cool air hitting your skin. You let out a needy whimper–he never fails to pleasure you, even while chasing his own release. Arching your back, you put yourself on display for him.
“Keep watchin’ the screen. Good girl,” Joel mutters as he slowly gathers your hair in one fist, lazily dragging your head up and down his cock. He fills your mouth, and for a moment, you forget to breathe. Your eyes grow teary, your body flinching as you choke down his length in a desperate attempt to taste his salty finish. Swallowing down as much of him as you can, you bury your nose against the coarse dark hair at the base of his shaft, gulping around his length. Desire ultimately outweighs Joel’s orders for you to go slow, and you begin to suck his cock at your own more eager pace. His grunts of pleasure fill your ears, the grip on your hair only tightening, whatever restraint he has left quickly deserting him.
Joel is a man whose sexual pleasure derives from control—a fragile dominance that feeds his pleasure. But that control is unraveling, slipping through his gasp faster than he can regain himself.
“Hey,” he grumbles, yanking you off his shaft by your hair. He slips out of your hungry mouth–you still try to get him back into the safety of your warmth as he reprimands you. A spank to your aching pussy with his heavy hand sends a shockwave of throbbing need across your body, jolting you to life as you let out a whine for him. “I said slow. It’ll feel better the longer you wait, I promise. For both of us.”
You have to trust him. You know he knows best.
Swallowing down thick spit, you nod against his grip. “Yes, daddy. I’m sorry, daddy.”
That goddamn name. It pulls something from deep inside of Joel, a monster in hibernation that’s hungry for something to cross its path and wake it up.
And you just did.
“Good girl.” The grip he has on your hair tightens, and you’re back to stuffing his cock down your tight throat.
You follow his instructions. The speed is slow, as promised, but every touch feels exhilarating. Your senses are on overdrive. The tingling in your scalp, the feeling of his two thick tattooed fingers plugging your cunt, his thumb circling your already charged clit–it was all so desperate to unfurl.
You can feel Joel pulsing inside your mouth, ready to gush like a volcano on the verge of eruption. You trace the vein on the underside of his cock with your tongue, his precum adding a layer of tanginess to your tastebuds.
You weakly moan against him, trying to force out as much excess saliva as you can. It drips down all his inches and coats the hair on his balls. Your arousal leaks down his fingers. The woman in the video lets out strangled moans from the kitchen counter, and finally, the man’s wife takes notice of the two fucking on the counter. She acts shocked, catching them both in the act.
Joel wins.
You cry out against his cock and tighten the suction you have on his shaft, slurping and letting out lewd sounds as you quicken the pace of your mouth. You ignore the pain in your jaw and neck, eager to taste his salty release. Joel must agree that the game is up because his hand no longer guides you–he simply pumps his fingers faster inside your desperate cunt. Your hips drive back against his hand, the heel of his palm adding extra friction to your clit.
“Goddam, you wanna choke on it that bad? Fill your mouth up, wishing it was your pussy? Listen to this good little pussy purr,” Joel moans out as he massages the spongy walls within your cunt, and you can already feel your stomach begin to spasm.
You gluck gluck gluck around his dick, mouth filled with so much of him that it makes you light-headed with lust. He rips you away from his cock, but only for a moment, a rush of air filling your lungs as he lays your head on top of his thigh. Your eyes are wild and lost, desperate for one thing and one thing only.
“Tell me,” Joel demands, the veins in his neck pulsing as the crease between his eyebrows deepens. “Tell me what you are, what you want.”
You whine something pathetic as Joel’s fingers only quicken inside your cunt. “Fuck!” you cry out, your entire body shuddering over his lap as you keep stroking his sticky cock with your hand.
He makes you admit your thoughts, your sexual desires, and everything you're thinking out in the open. It forces you to be vulnerable with your sexuality–something that doesn’t come easy for you, but Joel willingly helps you navigate.
If you want to finish, you need to spill your secrets and fantasies.
It surges like a headrush, electric along your spine and needy for him as you find your words.
“I-I’m such a fucking slut for your cum, Joel, please baby, I wanna taste you so bad,” you stutter and slur as Joel hums approvingly. His thumb wipes away a stray tear, something comforting and warm in the way he praises you for trying. You feel your orgasm working its way up through your bones, through the heat in your stomach, until it slips down your spine. “I-I wanna feel it down my throat, I want it to be my last meal, I- fuck, I feel so fucking dumb with your cock in my mouth. I worship him.”
Joel’s hanging onto every word, his chest pumping with the added fuel to his ego. His jaw clenches tighter and tighter, teeth gritting as he groans your name at the praise.
“Christ,” he mutters, enamored by your words and how pretty you look with his precum and your saliva glistening on your lips. “Such a good girl for me, so fuckin’ perfect.”
Something different pools at the base of your stomach, something you don’t fully understand, but it’s familiar. You whimper in embarrassment because it almost feels like you need to pee, but you don’t, your thighs getting splashed by something more than an orgasm, and Joel really fucking likes it.
“Oh god, d-did I-”
“Yeah, bunny, you fuckin’ squirted for me,” Joel growls as he drags you back over him.
You’re slurping at his cock, and it doesn’t take long for you to both reach the orgasm you’ve been holding out on while watching this damn porn.
Glistening tears flow down your cheeks, your brain dumb with pleasure as the euphoria finally floods the tight clench in your stomach. Your release pools down Joel’s fingers, his own more desperate and needy as he shoots white-hot spurts down your throat. You moan against his shaft and roll your head from side to side, nose buried in the thick hair of his happy trail as you swallow around his cock like he taught you.
Joel groans out in pleasure, your tongue still lazily lapping around his shaft. “So fuckin’ good, that was so hot, baby. Jesus Christ.”
He strokes your hair, and you both slow to nothing, feeling like you’ve run a marathon. His fingers stay buried inside your wasted cunt, your wet mouth weakly panting against his warm thigh. Joel reaches forward and closes the laptop.
“Did you… did you see any positions you liked?”
You don’t respond right away. You know he’s talking to you, but it takes a few moments for it to register.
“I think… I’ve got a few ideas for our debut.”
Joel chuckles tiredly, laying his head back against the headboard once more.
“We’re really doin’ this? We’re gonna make porn?”
You sigh weakly and find the strength to sit up, facing the weathered look Joel is sporting. You give him an innocent smile as you wipe your chin with your forearm. “That’s right, daddy.”
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