Reading Queue List

Idk if that's a thing, but I'm gonna make it a thing Basically all of the fics I'm planning to read

[sancastarcs]

i really really like chosoyuki but i don't think i have ever read an ao3 fic of them that isn't just sex. Where are the deep dives fics, the au's where they meet, the longing and yearning? Pegging is good but like choso and yuki did have a dynamic!!!! (Even if it was underdeveloped). Why not develop it more??? Where are the analyses for yuki, perhaps the second female character that Gege Akutami actually is bothering to write ???

[sawymredfox]

The Small Things of a Whole

Part II: A kiss

The second part is here! I had a lot of fun writing it. Seriously, I'm so in love with these two! My darling @schnarfer, thank you for your staunchly support🥹. And to @bergamote-catsandbooks, @milla-frenchy, and @encasedinobsidian, thank you for letting me ramble about my boys. Love you!!!♥️

Part I// Series Masterlist // Masterlist// AO3

pairing: Frankie Morales x Ben Miller summary: Ben wants his man's attention, and he makes sure to get it. word count: 2100 tags/warnings: fluff, non sexual-intimacy, kisses, two boys in love

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

The beer bottle weighs between Frankie's fingers. Not much, just enough to remind him of its presence while he spins it. It's still mostly full. Sweating, the cold moisture coating the glass dampens his skin as his fingertips travel down its shape to grasp it. Frankie raises it, bringing the rim to his lips, to slowly take a sip, savoring the bittersweet malty taste that invades and refreshes his mouth.

He's sitting with his brothers around the back porch table with the chocolate aroma of his birthday cake still permeating the air as the dishes and cutlery lie spread on the surface, not having any rush to tidy them up. Sharing with Will and Santi the last drink of the day as the sun embarks on its journey down the sky, bathing the garden with vibrant hues of toasted yellows and molten oranges. A kaleidoscope of color, ethereal, chilling the air enough to drive Frankie to grab the denim shirt he freed himself from while grilling the steaks for their dinner on the barbecue a couple of hours ago. He can hear Will and Santi’s girls, Hannah and Yovanna, talking and snickering on the other side of the porch, having usurped the porch swing to gain privacy- the corner for their girl talk, away from their men. While Lucia plays on the grass.

Frankie blinks, absorbing every detail and sensation. Musing on how he's tempted to title this moment as perfect, as the bliss, the joy, pure and perfect, of this instant invades him, surrounding every inch of his body, freezing time, stilling his movements for a spell, making him shudder with its significance, how tangible it is.

This happiness is the kind he believed he couldn't have anymore, too hollow and damaged by the army and the drugs to be worthy of, having caused too much pain to deserve it; till his baby girl was born, and he got to hold her, feel her warmth against his chest, feel her ribcage expand as she breathed in tempo with her heart, beating with strength, under his hands. The love he felt for her had imbued him, flooded him. So mighty and endless, it left him breathless and reshaped him. Giving him the push to wake up and find the resolve to heal, not just survive, cling to the broken pieces of himself, and hope for the best. For Lucia at first, and for himself afterwards, finally forgiving himself and accepting the care of his family, even if it was too late to save his marriage with Gabriela.

Ben's voice snaps his attention, halting his reflections. He's coming back from inside the house, talking loudly, happy to be surrounded by his people. Frankie is attuned to Benny's timbre, husky and deep, always soothing him. There's a lilt of mischief in his tone now, though, one Frankie's intimately acquainted with -he'd say he's an expert after having been on its receiving end many times before- and means trouble, one that won't get satiated by teasing the girls and making them laugh for a spell. Frankie doesn't have time to brace himself for it, ponder why, or what might have caused it. As soon as he begins to turn, he's attacked, and everything becomes blurry for a second.

Ben moves fast, a nimble hunter certain that he's about to get his prey, craving it, foregoing the chair he had used while they ate, to sit on Frankie's lap, his favourite spot, chuckling at Frankie's bewilderment.

"Easy!" Frankie protests loudly, but with too much fondness in his voice for his complaint to have any bite, unprepared to have a lapful of Ben but already obliging him, doing his best to steady them as he accommodates Ben, and not allowing Ben's force throw them out of the chair. He splashes the floor with his beer, precariously holding the bottle, almost dropping it as he grabs Ben's hip with his free hand. "You don't fit."

"You know I fit," Ben states, pausing for a second to ogle Frankie with intent, foreboding what he's about to do. He grins, wide, toothy, and honest, a perfect mix of affection and mischief. A smile that makes Frankie fall in love with him again and boil with exasperation. Frankie can only glare at him, feeling the heat sneak in and cloak his countenance.

Between the two of them, Ben is the one who uses more pet names. Frankie will call him babe sometimes, or tesoro between the sheets, when their bare skin is sweaty, and the passion is fervent, running wild between them. He doesn't need them. He calls him Ben. A name he took for himself, owning it, highlighting his place at Ben's side, for everyone else calls him Benny, or Benjamin, when his mother is angry at him. Ben, though, loves to use endearments, whisper them to Frankie's ears, press them to his lips, his chest, or yell them across a room. Sweetheart. Darling. Baby. Honey. Lover. Hot stuff. And the worst of them, the one that never fails to make him flush like a high schooler with his first crush. Big boy. 

The gleam in Ben's irises as he gazes at Frankie gives him away, revealing that he knows what he's doing, that he’s being wicked, and relishing in it. Delighting himself as the blush blankets Frankie's cheeks and goes down his neck, aware of how far down it goes. 

"Don't you, big boy," Ben challenges, laying his charm thick on the endearment, unashamedly getting comfortable on top of Frankie's legs. Ben waggles his eyebrows, smirking, stealing Frankie's beer, taking a sip as his arm circles Frankie's shoulders and buries his fingers in Frankie's curls, scratching his scalp, lasciviously staring at Frankie's eyes, ready to land his final blow. "Last night proves it." 

God help him, but Frankie loves him. He truly does, with every fibre of his being, with a force he only loves Lucia with. Even when Ben annoys him, telling him to do something he is about to do, or he's already doing. Even on those rare times, when his whole body shakes with anger while they argue. Even in this instant, when he's facing the brunt of his teasing.

The quiet that follows is piercing. Broken by Will and Santi's respective exasperated curses. A  blend of 'fuck' and 'for Christ's sake' that land flat on deaf ears, too feeble to break the enchantment between Frankie and Ben.

“Stop,” Frankie warns him, pinching the flesh of his hips. It’s a growl encasing his command.

“Why?” Ben stares at him, pleased, daring him, moving his hips with purpose, a slight tilt enough to notice Frankie’s reaction to his proximity, his weight on top of Frankie. Frankie's cock twitches, showing interest, starting to thicken. “You’re gonna have to make me, hot stuff.”

Frankie falls for Ben's taunt, raising his hand from Ben's side to grab his hair and pull it hard enough to elicit a sigh from Ben's chest, witness his arousal dilate his pupils and part his lips as a rosy hue blooms, sweeping across his nose, up to the tip of his ears.

Frankie tugs Ben's face closer to his, sliding his hand under the curve of Ben's neck, rubbing his nose against Ben's jaw, despite Will and Santi's whining protests. He ignores them, smug for having gotten the upper hand over Ben's teasing, and hungry for his man. 

Frankie softly brushes his lips to Ben's chin, murmuring, “later, tesoro”, as he coaxes Ben into a kiss.

Ben laughs into the kiss, their mouths open, slotting together as their tongues slide, seeking to dance. Ben tilts Frankie's head how he likes, with firm fingers seizing Frankie's nape, palms spanning over his jaw, feeling his stubble, taking what he wants with determined devotion as Frankie groans into Ben's mouth. The kind of kiss that could easily grow, become real lust, and filth. Heat that pulsates through their veins with barely touching each other. 

It doesn't. It stays light, lingering caresses that savour the intimacy, playful. Chasing each other to see who leads and who follows. 

The interruption doesn't take long. It comes in the form of crumpled napkins being thrown at them, making Ben and Frankie chuckle and break the contact as Ben flips the bird at Will and Santi.

“If we,” Will starts, pointing his index to Santi and himself, “can’t get all lovey with our girls without getting objections, you two can’t either.”

“It was just a small kiss,” Ben rebuts the statement, smug, taking another sip of the beer he just stole. “You two are so whiny today."

“A small kiss? And the foreplay?” Santi mocks, looking at Will in disbelief at Ben's audacity. 

Over Santi’s growl, Will protests, fueling more comments from Santi. “You two scarred us for life!”

“Sure, as you wish, you blushing virgins. What did I miss?” Ben asks, barking out a laugh, disregarding them, plainly and with no ounce of guilt, happy to have ruffled their feathers, not making any attempt to leave Frankie’s lap as they keep bantering. Ben relaxes against Frankie's chest, settling as he catches Frankie’s palm and weaves their fingers together, tightly for a second, tender and grounding as he caresses Frankie's knuckles with his thumb.

They start to clue Ben in, sharing the plans they had been pondering while he was away, the idea of the four of them, and the girls; Yovanna, Hannah, and Lucia, sneaking away for a couple of weeks during the summer, infecting Ben with their cheer, as he starts to offer his thoughts.

But Frankie stays mute, overcome by his feelings for Ben.

When things began to shift between them, when they walked the edge, before their lips touched, before they realized romance was a seed taking root, but when friendship wasn't enough to define their relationship, and touch started to linger, growing bold and avid, Frankie had been terrified of reaching. Of asking for too much, deemed as excessive, and being refused. It wouldn't have been a first for him. 

Ben had surprised him, reciprocating with the same fervour, the same greed, emboldening Frankie, releasing his want. It had felt natural right from the start, as the intimacy flourished, bare of big declarations, but filled with trust and reverence. He had become addicted. 

The guarantee of being accepted, sought with the same longing, still perplexes Frankie sometimes. Like right now, when there's a free chair next to him, but Ben chose to sit on his lap. 

Frankie's palm slips under Ben's t-shirt, caressing his side, taking Ben's weight as he melts against Frankie, humming with pleasure, blissfully happy, not caring if his legs go numb as he rests his face on Ben's arm.

“That'd be great. Right, sweetheart? Lucia would love it.” Ben presses his shoulder to Frankie’s sternum, demanding his attention.

Ben looks down, steadying Frankie with his gaze, steadfast, oozing adoration. There's an awareness in his eyes, a hue of profound understanding, as if he recognized the thoughts shimmering in Frankie's mind and shared them, leaving Frankie breathless.

The weight he's been carrying for the last couple of weeks lands in his chest, not heavy or distressing, but freeing. It settles in his bones, bringing assurance, bestowing a certainty, deep and unmovable.

The question he’s been trying to pronounce, that shall reveal the ring he's been hiding between his socks, black titanium with a band of gold in the center, and brings a set of vows to withstand any trouble, to last for a lifetime, a question he already asked for the wrong reasons years ago, it's suddenly easy, clear, tickling his tongue, begging to be asked.

“Yeah…” Frankie nods, nuzzling Ben’s shoulder, pressing his lips over the maroon t-shirt Ben is wearing, one of his, again. “Maybe we could go somewhere colder and get a break from the scorching temperatures we get every summer,” he offers.

Frankie can smell the mix of their softener and Ben's rich scent and aftershave as he exhales through his nose, pressing his mouth to his back one more time, following the conversation as it moves from one thing to another. Something gentle and resolute flickers in his irises, unseen, a promise to himself.

His hesitation hadn’t been born out of doubts, of mistrusting their commitment. Fearing being denied. Ring or no ring, Frankie is sure that they are in this for the long haul, that they are it for each other. 

The delay had come from his desire to create a special moment, something meaningful they could remember fondly, which drove him to overthink and dismiss every opportunity he got.

The truth now bows in front of him, simple and undeniable. As long as they are together, the moment he asks will be sacred, maybe a little messy or corny, but ultimately perfect, theirs.

There's no need to wait anymore.

He will ask tonight once they are alone. 

Part I: A hug

Npt! (because there was interest on my WIPs and people who read the first chapter and asked to be tagged) @thundermartini @aurorawritestoescape @604to647 @sixhours @baronessvonglitter @berryispunk @arcane-fox @whocaresstillthelouvre @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @thedilfdiaries @kokoluwie @jennaispunk @missadangel @almostfoxglove @the-blind-assassin-12 @maggiemayhemnj @simpingforjoel @cozymochaa @littlepedrito @pattwtf @readingiskeepingmegoing @copperhalfcent @littleredpandanaps @pedrit0-pascalit0 @maried01 @just-ashlee

[river-fics-deactivated20230108]

I Do- Simon “Ghost” Riley

A/n: Finally part 2 of the first fic! There might be a part 3 if ya’ll REALLY need it! Please get the hints!! PLEASE

Summary: You’ve been enjoying the bliss of being with Simon until another mission pulls you into reality.

Warning: Fluff :), Angst, swears, mention of injury, plot twist, ANGST

Part 1

Keep reading

[till-the-moon-calls-me-home]

Dear Benny, Part 7.

A/N sorry I was gone so long.  It’s getting spicy. I made a new play list not for Dear Benny but just for fun. Bop, Bop, Bop. Just a bunch of bangers by ladies. 

Warnings: Sexual Nature. Mention Of blood. 

Part One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six. 

Song: The Bones - Marren Morris. 

You were sat in your barrack logging data. The day had been hard and long and although you had said goodnight to everyone you were hours away from sleep. There were two reasons sleep was going to be hard to come by tonight . The first one was simple, you just couldn’t leave the information you had gathered in your notebook. You had to enter it into your laptop and then onto a thumb drive.

The second reason was a little more complicated.  A year or so ago you had been subjected to a nightmarish situation. The things that had occurred  couldn’t just be wished away or pushed down.  You had gone to a therapist and you had taken a break from working. And even though you had processed it and had worked through the trauma sometimes you found yourself sweat soaked and unable to sleep.

 Most of the time you had control over it,. You could stick it in a box like the one you had put Benny in and let the memories flow through you like sand through an hourglass. Each and everyday it became easier but then days like today would happen. Today death brushed your cheek with his finger and no matter how much you wanted to be able to just let it go ; you couldn’t. You figured maybe you could rush to sleep. Maybe you could beat your brain but the heat clung to your skin like dew drops.  It was hard to get comfortable in this heat when it never fully left the air even though the sun had hours ago.

Keep reading

[littlemisspascal]

Part 1: Hello, My Name Is…

Summary:

“Hey.” A hand lightly grabs onto your elbow just as you turn to leave. You turn back, butterflies fluttering in your stomach at Javi’s proximity, that same soft look in his gaze. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you. I think we’ll make a great team.”

It takes a second for the words to register and when they finally do—

Oh.

You nod your head, smiling wide, a surge of excitement washing over you. “Me too, Javi. Me too.”

Pairing: eventual Javi/Fem!Reader “Oddball” (OFC)*

Word Count: 7000+

Rating: T

Warnings: Formula One AU ft. multiple Pedro Pascal Cinematic Universe characters, Human AU, Canon Divergence, Switching POVs, Worldbuilding, Social Media Fic, Headlines inspired by true events but edited for this plot, Slowest of Slow Burn, Language

Author Note: So excited to begin the next arc of this story & for Javi and Odds to finally meet 😊 Thank you everyone who’s given this series a chance, I appreciate all of you!

Winter Banners credit here!

A03 Link | Series Masterlist

*see series masterlist for more info

Keep reading

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Grays

Frankie Morales x f!reader

{ Main Masterlist }

Rating: M

Summary: Frankie wants you to cover up his grays. You want to knock some sense into his salt-and-pepper head.

Warnings: Insecure Frankie in need of self-love comes with his own warning, Reader is a hairstylist and has a related nickname, no physical descriptions other than that Reader has hair that can be dyed, not-quite-friends to *respectfully looking* dynamics, mentions of hair, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, sexual innuendos, lots of teasing and banter.

Word count: 4.8k

Notes: The origin story is here if you missed it. This is dedicated to my Frankie soul sister LJ @prolix-yuy who encouraged me to write this many months ago ❤️ As always, I’m an anxious mess writing for a new-to-me Pedro boy, so please be gentle with me (cos it's my birthday week) 🥺

I have a part 2 (with smut) in mind. I love where this leaves off, but who am I kidding. I probably won’t be able to help myself 😂

The bell on the door chimes with a sweet tinkle, cutting through the low, insistent purr of the hair clipper buzzing in your grasp. You don’t look up as you spy broad shoulders and a battered Standard Heating Oil cap crossing the threshold out of the corner of your eye.

‘Are you lost, Morales?’ you drawl indifferently, focused on the task at hand. ‘I have an appointment with Pope today, not you.’

‘He booked it under his name. Thought you’d take it as a prank if I called in myself.’

You look up to meet his gaze reflected in the mirror sitting in front of Greg, your current customer. ‘I wonder why he’d think that.’

Frankie shrugs, leaning against the reception counter with his arms crossed. ‘Beats me.’

You snort. ‘Really? You’ve insisted loudly and repeatedly for as long as I’ve known you that you don’t see the point of going to a hairstylist when you can have Pope cut your hair with kitchen scissors in his bathtub.’

‘C’mon, Shiv.’

‘Oh, he knows my name,’ you gasp sarcastically. You turn to Greg, who’s clearly amused by this exchange, and loop him in. ‘He usually just grunts at me.’

At this point, Ashton - your apprentice and all-round salon maverick - makes an appearance. Clearly having caught the tail-end of your conversation with Frankie, he glances between the two of you with an arched eyebrow. ‘Are we back to chasing customers away, boss?’

‘Sit his ass down but he doesn’t get a free drink,’ you instruct. ‘I’ll get to him when I get to him.’

Ashton goes ahead and ignores your orders point blank, per usual. After hanging up Frankie’s jacket and settling him at the station furthest away from you in the far corner of the salon, you see him sneakily give him a coffee. He can never resist the handsome ones.

You take your sweet time with Greg, cleaning up his sideburns, even though you’re basically done with him - just to tick off your waiting customer.

Not that it works, and you know it won’t. He just sits there, his wide frame filling up the chair, still as a rock. The dog-eared, months-old magazines strategically placed on the table for idle reading lie untouched. That’s Francisco Morales for you.

You’ve been orbiting each other since sixth grade, as all kids in your close-knit neighbourhood do. In fact, most of your customers went to your school. 

You don’t even remember how it started - probably at a sleepover - you discovered one day that you’re handy with box hair dye. By freshman year, you were colouring your fellow classmates’ hair in the girls’ toilets after school, earning enough pocket money to keep your cabinet at home fully-stocked with new hair products on rotation.

Your ever-changing hair colour got you into trouble with the headmaster more times than you can count, who nicknamed you Shape Shifter. Your friends abbreviated it to Shifter, then over the years, whittled it down to Shiv, and it stuck.

After being gifted a set of styling scissors for Christmas one year, you started hanging out at the neighbourhood salon, hustling for an apprenticeship. You practised what you observed on your fellow students, giving out haircuts on the bleachers on non-game days for a couple of dollars (the fee waived if something went disastrously wrong).

That’s how you first met Benny - his then cheerleader girlfriend took him in for a haircut when it got too long for her liking. When you eventually opened your own salon years later, he was your first paying customer, having come home after being honourably discharged from the army.

During the early days, when you struggled to fill your appointments and he couldn’t win a fight to save his life, you made a pact. You would do his hair at a heavy discount for his posters and promotions, and in return, he would let you use his photos for the salon’s marketing.

And it worked. Well, not that you had anything to do with him turning his fortunes around on the MMA circuit, but he had everything to do with getting customers through your door. It only got busier when Santi joined the ranks a couple of years later, and even though Will only shows up when his hair gets really unruly, they both sit in front of your camera with no complaint in return for mate’s rates.

Having these guys on your salon’s social media keeps both the gents and the ladies booking up your appointments.

Frankie Morales, though, is a different animal.

When you finally appear over his left shoulder, his coffee is all gone and he meets your eyes in the mirror nonchalantly. He’s leaning his whole weight on his right elbow on the armest, his left arm outstretched and blunt nails tapping on the table, the only hint of impatience he’s giving away.

He’s good at that - he’s the laid-back one out of the boys, the one who hangs back and observes with arms crossed, but quick to crack a grin and throw in a wicked barb when the occasion calls for it. Nothing ever seems to faze him, and probably nothing does - you hear that makes a good pilot, and from what Pope lets on, he’s a damn good one.

It also makes for highly effective bait for the ladies. He’s a popular fixture on the local bar scene - let’s face it, all of the boys are. You’ve seen him in action more than once when Benny or Pope invites you along on a night out, more often than not without Will since he had a baby girl with his high school sweetheart last year. Frankie’s brooding, quiet, beer-sipping act often works better than Benny’s over-the-top flirting or Pope’s Casanova bit.

But that’s neither here nor there.

Hands on your hips, you goad him, ‘Alright Morales, how do I know you’ll pay up, you cheap bastard?’

‘Pope says to put it on his tab.’

‘Music to my ears.’ You tap him on the shoulder. ‘Sit up and off with the cap.’

With a grumble, Frankie lifts the cap up by the beak, ducking his head as he does so. He tosses it onto the table offhandedly and shifts in his seat, but you’re not fooled by his unconvincing air of indifference. From the way he plasters his palms to the top of his denim-clad thighs, as if to stop them from fidgeting, you know he’s feeling vulnerable. 

You can’t say you’ve ever seen Frankie without his headgear - now that you think about it, he’s been wearing it since high school. Heck, he might have gone through several incarnations of that blasted hat in the years in between. You’ve caught glimpses when he lifts it up to fix his hair, but otherwise, all you see is what peeks out from underneath, the longer wisps that coil around his ears and the curls at the back. 

As it turns out, there’s really nothing to hide - sure, the cut is blunt and his hair lacks shine, but both can be easily fixed. You step into his space and comb through his locks, starting at the base of his skull and working your way up the sides. 

The contact startles him - he practically jumps out of his skin, and you don’t miss the way the veins on the back of his hands pop and he digs his nails into his legs.

'Easy, boy,' you soothe with a teasing undertone, earning yourself a glower from the pilot. As much as you enjoy needling him, you do want your customers to be comfortable. So you let slip a deliberate but genuinely appreciative hum as the dark tendrils, subtly tinged with grays, part softly at your prying fingertips. ‘Wow, your curls are really thick.'

He looks up, an unsure frown on his brow. ‘Oh. Is that bad?’

‘No, Morales, it’s definitely a compliment,’ you tell him encouragingly - your bark has always been worse than your bite. ‘What do you use to wash your hair? It’s a bit dry.’

He shrugs. ‘Shampoo.’ At your insistent stare, he snaps, ‘What?’

‘Don’t lie to me, Morales,’ you warn him in a stern voice.

He huffs and gives in. ‘Fine. It’s a 2-in-1 body wash. I get it at the gas station, happy?’

You shoot him a smug grin as he rolls his eyes. ‘Well, you’re using proper shampoo from now on, and conditioner.’ He opens his mouth, a complaint on the tip of his tongue, when you hold a finger up at him. ‘Don’t argue with me, mister. I’ll throw in a couple of bottles on the house to get you started.’

‘Fine,’ he concedes. Unfailingly polite even when grumpy, he adds, ‘Thanks, Shiv.’

Your trusty swivelling stool screeches in protest when you drag it over on its wheels, before you take a seat and address the elephant in the room. ‘So - I’m guessing you’re here because of the wedding.’

You get a grunt in response. Scratching a particularly scrappy patch of his beard that has turned prematurely silver, he says, ‘My ma says I should cover up my old man grays for it.’

You snort, shaking your head. ‘Ha! And you tell your mother I say - hell no, ma’am! I will do no such thing.’

Frankie blinks at your unexpectedly adamant response. ‘What?’

‘I said, hell no,’ you repeat. Turning his head to the side with two fingers on his stubbled cheek, you comb his locks upwards to study the way the grays blend in softly with the umber, matching the ashen flecks in his beard. He doesn't start as badly at your touch this time, but there’s a telltale tick in his jaw, and you can almost hear the tension that thrums just below his skin where a late summer tan still lingers.

‘See how your grays are mainly coming out on the underside?’ you point out. ‘I like the way they just peek through the brown, it gives more depth to your curls. Natural highlights, if you will.’

He looks unconvinced and swipes at a smattering of silver with dismissive fingers. ‘Dunno. Thought the grays make me look old.’

You chuckle. ‘You’re no spring chicken anymore, Morales, and I mean it in a good way. Grays are natural - they will look even better when you start using actual shampoo and conditioner. Trust me, the salt and pepper works on you. I’m not dyeing your grays, and that’s that.’

For the first time today, Frankie turns his head and looks directly into your eyes. ‘My mother’s coming back to town for the wedding, you know. And she remembers where you live.’

You laugh. ‘Go ahead and send her my way, you know I’m not scared of her.’

He scoffs at your big talk. ‘You should be.’

Your relationship with the Morales matriarch is complicated, to say the least. She was always hard on you when you were a kid, thinking you were too wild and undisciplined. Now that you’re grown, you’re still torn between your admiration for her as a single mother who raised a good man, and the woman who never tires of dishing out criticism, warranted or not.

You give him a reassuring pat on the back, solid and warm under your touch. ‘Leave your mother to me, Morales. The grays stay, and I’ll make sure you steal the show at the party.’

‘Your funeral,’ he quips.

‘You just worry about getting yourself to the wedding,’ you retort, cracking your knuckles. ‘Now, are you ready for some pampering?’

Frankie rolls his eyes, but you see the corner of his mouth tick up in a vaguely upward direction - and you take it as a win.

‘Relax, Morales.’

‘I am relaxed,’ he insists through gritted teeth.

‘You’re about as relaxed as a cow on the butcher’s block. Unclench.’

For someone as economical with words as he is, his body certainly says a lot. Every single part of him seems hellbent on making his discomfort known. He breathes a frustrated exhale through his nose, brow deeply furrowed, his glare burning holes into the ceiling.

The leather seat of the backwash barely contains his tall build, his t-shirt stretched to the seams across his chest as he leans back into the basin. He’s bouncing his left leg irritably, the tight denim straining against his lap.

You try - valiantly - not to gape too obviously at the conspicuous bulge nestled snugly between his thighs under his belt buckle. But you can’t avert your eyes from something of that size. It’s against the laws of physics. Or something.

Even from where you’re standing, at the top of the basin peering down the slope of his body, its heft is clearly testing the structural integrity of the zipper of his jeans. Imagine the view from the other side -

Clearing your throat, you bodily press down on Frankie’s shoulders which are coiled up like the hood of an angry python, forcing them to loosen up. He jerks as if he’s a copper wire and you’re electricity. You tease, ‘So sensitive. You act like you’ve never felt a woman’s touch before, Morales.’

‘You know that’s not true,’ he growls at you, the prominent vein in his neck starting to pulse in frustration.

‘No, you’re right - I do know,’ you smirk, dragging out your syllables.

Your tone has him frowning at you, upside down. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I mean - I know,’ you repeat with a conspiratorial wink.

He narrows his eyes at you. ‘What do you know, Shiv?’

You wriggle his eyebrows at him suggestively, enjoying yourself far too much. ‘I own a salon, Morales. I hear things from the ladies about town.’

One large palm reaches up to shield his face in embarrassment, a pained groan escaping between the gaps of his fingers. ‘For fuck’s sake - kill me now.’

You laugh, wrestling his hand from his face to with an impish grin. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve only heard good things so far - Frankie big boy Morales.’

He blushes so hard that his ears and neck go a livid red, and for a minute, you’re actually worried that he’d pass out from not enough blood reaching his heart. Not keen on the prospect of having to explain to the emergency services that you teased the poor man into an aneurysm, you turn on the water and cut short your little chinwag with a good-natured chuckle. 

His hands are still tightly clamped around the armrest when you carefully run the shower head along his hairline and behind his ears, soaking his curls. His biceps flex from the tight grip and the lean muscles strain against the sleeves of his t-shirt. 

At least he closes his eyes when you start with the shampoo. The velvety lather froths as you patiently wash his hair, which clings to his wet curls like vanilla frosting. The deep crease between his brows eases with each gentle swipe into his locks, and the invisible force pulling his lips downwards slackens. By the time you rinse out the bubbles, you don’t miss the way the tension in his body unwittingly goes with it down the drain.

When your nails slide slickly into his hair with the conditioner, his stubborn body finally, slowly unfurls. His head tips back of its own accord, baring the column of his strong neck as he leans inadvertently into your touch. Colour returns to his knuckles when he releases his death grip on the backwash. 

You smile to yourself, scraping your fingertips along his scalp in a firm massage, watching his chest rise and fall as he teeters on the brink of consciousness.

As your thumbs trace a confident path down the back of his skull, they appear to find a particularly sensitive spot near the base of his neck, and it's as if a switch is flipped. You witness the exact moment he breaks - his back arches off the leather seat, his obstinate lips part with a strangled half-sigh catching in his throat as he yields his full weight into the palm of your hands.

If you're not careful, you could get used to this.

‘Still with me, Morales?’ you tease quietly.

He garbles incoherently, and you grin.

Frankie practically molds into the chair like warm wax when you shepherd him back to the styling station. You’re so chuffed with yourself that you don’t even feel the need to gloat at the way his eyes are glazed over and how his head lolls into the soft pressure when you run a fluffy towel through his hair. The man recoiling at the mere brush of your fingers a distant memory.

You run an assessing eye over him, brushing out his locks to gauge your game plan. ‘I like this length on you, so I’ll just trim the split ends and tidy up your sideburns. You’ll benefit from some layering too - it’s a bit heavy on top right now.’

From the way he blinks owlishly at you, you know he doesn’t catch a single word. He shrugs and says matter-of-factly. ‘You can’t do worse than Pope.’

The salon is quiet this afternoon, as it tends to be on Wednesdays. You let him enjoy the peace for a little bit and tap your foot to Ashton’s playlist as your styling scissors move over his curls in metallic snips.

‘Tip your head forward for me,’ you instruct, sliding around the back of his head on your wheels as you probe, ‘So - how are you feeling about the wedding?’

The fabric of his t-shirt bunches over his shoulders as they quirk noncommittally.

‘It’s just a few days away.’

He makes an indifferent noise. But you’re not so easily dissuaded from conversation, and he knows it.

‘Can’t be easy - watching your ex get married.’

Frankie pins you with a long-suffering stare in the mirror. ‘We broke up a year ago.’

Getting onto your feet, you ruffle your fingers through the crown of his curls. ‘Yeah, but you dated for years. She sure moved on quick.’

He huffs a sardonic laugh. ‘Thanks, Shiv.’

Swapping out the styling scissors for blending shears, you argue, ‘What? It’s a legitimate observation. I’m just making conversation here.’

‘Or we could just sit here quietly.’

Ha. As if you ever listen to him. You press on, ‘Why did she invite you anyway?’

Frankie’s sigh sounds a lot like surrender as he humours you. ‘It’s a damned if she does, damned if she doesn’t kind of situation, I guess. The whole town’s invited.’

‘You sure she isn’t trying to flaunt it in your face or something?’

‘Flaunting implies I still care. I don’t.’

You give him a juvenile nudge nudge, wink wink. ‘Well, on the bright side, you’ll definitely get laid, being the heartbroken ex and all. Chicks love that shit.’

He dispatches a side-long stare in your direction. ‘I’m not heartbroken, and that’s not why I’m going. And you know none of this is any of your business, right?’

‘You’re no fun,’ you pout.

He quips, ‘As a professional hairstylist, you really should be better at making polite conversation.’

You snort. ‘Do you really think it’s a good idea to call me rude when I have scissors in my hands?’

Frankie watches you work in the comfortable lull that’s settled between you, gliding the blades along strands of his curls pulled taut, before running a fine-toothed comb through to brush out the loose tufts. Soft coils land on the floor around his chair as you work your way methodically through his layers.

‘Are you going to the wedding?’ he asks eventually.

You shrug. ‘Maybe, depends on my schedule. I gotta say, I’m kind of curious to see how tacky it will be.’

At his eyebrow sternly cocked, you argue, ‘I know she’s your ex and all, but she’s always been a bit tacky. I mean, that remodel of your house was just tragic.’

Frankie frowns. ‘How do you know all this? You’ve never been to my house.’

You wink. ‘Benny tells me everything when I do his hair.’

He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Of course. Benjamin fucking Miller.’

You give him a pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, I’m on your side, if it helps.’

‘I don’t need you on my side.’

You flash him an insufferable grin. ‘Too bad, Francisco. I am and there’s nothing you can do about it.’

The hairdryer drowns out any further conversation, and Frankie quietly studies you as you cord your fingers through his hair, ruffling it as it dries.

It’s still a bit damp when you switch off the hairdryer and reach up to pull a couple of jars from the shelf above. ‘On the day of the wedding, I want you to wash your hair just before you style it. You have a hairdryer at home, right?’

He throws you a pointed look. ‘I’m not a heathen.’

You grin. ‘Down boy, just checking. Now, you’ll dry your hair until it’s still a bit wet, like so.’ Presenting the styling mousse to him, you say, ‘Then go on and grab some product - you only need a dollop.’

He dips his index finger into the pot, scooping up a generous blob. Your attention is unexpectedly piqued at the sight of his hands. 

Have they always been so big?

Realising he’s staring at you in wait, you shake yourself out of it. ‘Ok, rub the mousse onto your fingertips and run them all over your hair, combing from root to end.’

Frankie does as he’s told, face set to a serious scowl as he impeccably goes over each section of his locks, staring into the mirror to make sure he gets every strand. For the first time, you see the pilot in him up close, and you wonder if he’s this thorough about other things, like -

Laundry, your mind interrupts as it careens on the brink of the metaphorical gutter. Get your shit together, Shiv.

‘Good,’ you smile when he’s done, hoping he doesn't see the strain in it. ‘Now, I want you to rake your fingers through the roots when you dry your hair all the way.’ In demonstration, your nails burrow into the base of his thick hair, then you wriggle your fingers upwards towards the ends. ‘It will give you lots of volume and really show off this cut.’

Passing him the hairdryer, you watch him critically in the mirror. He imitates your movements, a bit clumsily and far too cautiously. Leaning down to his ear so he can hear you over the whir, you instruct him, ‘Don’t be gentle, Francisco. C’mon, harder, deeper - don’t hold back.’

He chokes and pins you with a wide-eyed stare in the mirror that glances right off your oblivious self. Along with your words, nothing about this exchange would register in your head in any other way until much, much later tonight, when you replay the conversation in your head in that limbo between sleep and wakefulness. 

It may or may not have you squealing into your pillow in latent embarrassment - and something else.

But for now, you’re happy with the way his hair has set, and you gesture for him to switch off the hairdryer. Turning his chair towards you and away from the mirror, you scan your eyes over him and make small adjustments - tucking a couple of strands behind his ear here, a couple of final snips there. 

As a final touch, you bury your fingers into his locks, dragging your fingertips through the roots to impart a final tousle so that the curls are loose and soft. You preen at the way he sways into your contact, all shyness gone, his hooded eyes half-closed - before he seems to catch himself and sits up with a self-conscious ahem.

Grabbing a small bottle from the shelf, you say, ‘Last thing - your beard is a bit dry as well. This oil will keep it nice and moisturised, just two or three drops after you wash up in the morning will do.’

Tipping his face up by the crook of your finger and opening up his neck to you, you smooth the ointment along both sides of his jaw, rubbing circles into his neatly trimmed whiskers and all the way up his sideburns. Sliding downwards, your hands seek out the closely shaved stubble tucked beneath his chin. Then, by sheer momentum, your palms continue down his throat in a slow, sticky descent, until the pads of your thumbs slot into the hollow between his collarbones, your fingers resting at the base of his neck where you feel his pulse rabbiting underneath. 

The air thickens and shifts between you. When he swallows, you feel the ripple of the moment against your fingertips. 

His eyes are on you, and suddenly he’s too close, his skin too hot under your hands. To your horror, something akin to shyness rears its head and you almost stumble backwards to put a safe distance between you.

Scrubbing the oily residue from your hands on a towel, you break the moment with a wink and a steadier smile than you actually feel. ‘You look good, Morales. Ready to take a look?’

‘As if you would take no for an answer,’ he mumbles under his breath. Fondness might be too strong of a word - but you don't think you're imagining the faint trace of amusement in his voice.

With a dramatic ta-da, you spin his chair around with a flourish.

Frankie Morales is obviously not a vain man - he most likely owns five pairs of jeans that he’s worn on rotation for the past fifteen years, his t-shirts are washed ragged, and his trusty leather boots have seen better days. He probably doesn’t use a mirror other than for purely utilitarian purposes, like checking if there’s something stuck in his teeth from his last meal.

But right now, by the way he’s holding his breath as he meets his own eyes in the reflection, you can tell that he’s really looking at himself for the first time in a long while. 

You pretend to busy yourself with tidying up the styling station as you discreetly sneak glances at him, feeling strangely bashful for intruding in this moment. When he remembers to breathe again, he tilts his head left then to the right, and back again, even swivelling his chair from side to side so he can peer round the back.

You’ve parted his waves to the side, the lighter cut allowing his curls to carry their natural shape. The healthy sheen, courtesy of the mousse, tempers his grays to a softer, burnt silver that catches the light fetchingly as he moves. Reaching up, Frankie pushes back a stray curl that falls over his eyes, and his back straightens in a quiet show of confidence.

Running a salon is hard work and often thankless. But on days like this? You know you’re meant to do this.

A dramatic gasp draws both of your attention. Ashton is clutching at his chest, backed up against the neighbouring styling station, gaping at Frankie. ‘Mister - you look good enough to devour. Look at that salt and pepper, I’m living for the grays. Doing the Lord’s work, Shiv!’

You laugh as Frankie flushes, scratching an invisible itch on his forehead. You brush the loose hairs off his shoulders with a towel and give him a nudge. ‘See? I’m not the only one who thinks you look good with the grays. You better stock up on the condoms, Morales, the ladies will be all over you at the party.’

He shakes his head self-deprecatingly as he stands up, rubbing his palms on his jeans, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. ‘I doubt it, but - thanks. I appreciate this, Shiv.’

He shrugs on his well-loved burnt yellow jacket, the one with the sleeves perpetually folded up above his wrists and grabs his cap. You hold out a paper bag with the free shampoo and conditioner you promised him, throwing in a jar of hair mousse for good measure. ‘You’re welcome, and you better not put your hat on again this afternoon after all that hard work.’

His fingers brush yours when he takes the bag from you, then, as if it’s the logical next thing to do, he leans down to press a chaste kiss to your right cheek, his stubble coarse against your skin - and you know without looking it’s the gray patch in his beard that brushes against your jaw as he draws back. You fumble, feeling heat prickle the back of your neck and blooming in your rib cage. 

He flashes you the most self-assured smile you’ve seen on him this afternoon, which has you biting your bottom lip. ‘I won’t. Maybe see you at the wedding, Shiv.’

It takes you five full seconds to regain motor functions. By the time you unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, Frankie’s already out of the door with a spring in his step.

In companionable silence, you and Ashton watch the pilot strut - because that’s what he’s doing, he’s strutting with a confidence that becomes him - across the road through the glass front of the salon.

‘What a dish,’ Ashton sighs dreamily, flopping into a chair as if his limbs have given out. ‘I hope he comes back soon.’

You smile. A girl could always hope.

Notes: It's the first time I'm using a nickname for a Reader, but I have a real soft spot for Shiv, and I think she deserves one. I'm not sure where the fandom stands on this, does it disqualify the fic as a reader insert? If anyone has an issue with this, please let me know! For me, Shiv has no physical descriptions so to me she's still a reader insert.

I don't know if anyone expected this kind of dynamics between these two, but it's been so much fun to write with a bit of antagonism in the mix. I hope you enjoyed this, reblogs and comments are so, so appreciated as always. Thank you for reading ❤️

[mouthymandalorian]

I really screamed over the 2-in-1 body wash from the gas station I truly cannot. This was adorable. And if a nickname disqualifies a reader from being a reader then I’ve never once in my life actually written a reader fic bc I give them all nicknames. They’re fun.

Your Frankie is a babe and Shiv is absolutely precious and this made me all warm 🥰

[guess-my-next-obsession]

August - MASTERLIST

this series contains 18+ content in select chapters (marked by *) and therefore is strictly MINORS DNI.

Chapter One

Chapter Two*

Chapter Three*

Chapter Four*

Chapter Five [7/26]

Chapter Six [TBA]

Chapter Seven [TBA]

Chapter Eight [TBA]

Chapter Nine [TBA]

Finale [TBA]

[ofstoriesandstardust]

same mistakes masterlist

updated 07/17/2022

note: fics should generally be read in the proceeding order but past the original trilogy, you’re free to read them however you so choose

Keep reading

[heyhilana]

Masterlist

Just some guidelines so please read.

1. All my upcoming/posted fics are here. When I have officially queued them, there will be a date next to them on this masterlist. As of right now, I am only writing for the characters you see here. But perhaps I will write other characters later on it just depends!

2. I take requests, but they will not be out as fast as others since I take my time. I can take fluff, smut, or angsty ones it just depends on the idea. Once I feel that I can write it, I will try to message you to let you know that I didn’t forget about it but if you want something kinda quick unless it’s just a small headcannon, it’s likely gonna take some time. Also, I do reblog prompts here and there so if you want to request from those, be my guest <3

3. The only things I will not write are dd/lg, anything extreme like somno/cnc (the only character I could see that with is Dave but I’ll leave those kinds of fics with other writers,) and just anything that I don’t feel capable of writing such as a certain character (i.e., Ezra, Oberyn although I want to finish the work I started.) If anything, I may direct you to someone else that can give you what you want.

4. With the exception of the Los Jefes mini-series, all my stories are uploaded on Fridays at 1 PM PST. Los Jefes chapters are on Sundays at 11:30 AM PST.

5. Yes, I write rpf’s from time to time. I don’t write them often but here and there I do if I have a certain idea or if I have a request. If you have a problem with that, I suggest ignoring them but please don’t ask for them all the time. I prefer writing Pedro’s characters since there’s more wiggle room in creativity and I also don’t like incorporating his personal life in it i.e., his family and friends.

Key: | Smut: 🌑 | Mostly Smut: 🌘 | Angst: 🌗 | Mostly Fluff: 🌖 | Fluff: 🌕 |

Updated: 6/17/22

Pedro Pascal

Teasing: Complete!

Part One (x) 🌑

Part Two (x) 🌑

Part Three (x) 🌑

Hot Chocolate Thief 🌕

Stick to the Script 🌑

Javier Peña

The Informant (series)🌗🌑🌕

Say Yes (With Carillo) 🌑

One Shot Till the End 🌗

G.A.N.E. Universe with Javi x !f reader (co-workers to lovers)

Synopsis: Javi and you are partners. You both have played on the idea of flirting and messing around and on one fateful night, you do. But alas, complications with feelings and pushing away tears you apart. But with time, things can possibly mend.

Goodbyes are Never Easy 🌗 🌘

Welcome Back to Colombia 🌗

Suppressed Memories 🌗

Hold Me Close 🌗🌑🌕

Oberyn Martell

Clash of Houses (series)🌑🌗🌕

Love, Actually🌕

Sex or Murder🌑

Agent Whiskey

Risky Nights 🌑

Eating for Two 🌕

Hidden in Plain Sight 🌕

Yoga🌑

Francisco (Catfish) Morales

Keep You in My Heart🌗🌕

Just One of the Guys 🌗🌕

Flights🌕

Din Djarin/Mandalorian

Massages 🌑

Take It Slow 🌘🌕

Firsts🌕

Dieter Bravo

Phone Sex 🌑🌒

Welcome Home 🌑🌒

Marcus Moreno

The Parent Trap 🌕

Javi Gutierrez

Los Jefes Universe

Synopsis: Javi G has recently lost his brother and you are a well-renowned leader in arms dealing that has watched Javi from afar. A phone call that leads to meeting Javi on purpose is lucrative, but perhaps the burning desire of crossing the lines threatens professionalism.

Updates: Sundays at 11:30 AM PST. I will make sure each installment is in order <3

A Proposition 🌕

First Day 🌕🌖

Swimming 🌕🌖

Surprise Dinner 🌕🌑

Poolside Lovin’ 🌑🌕

Show Off 🌑🌒

Headcannons, asks, prompts, drabbles

Javi seeing you for the first time 🌖

Polyamorous relationship with Javi, Horacio, and Steve 🌘

Who would be the most kinky in bed (All the boys) 🌘

Jack takes care of you when you get hurt/confesses his love for you 🌕

Drinks with Jack and some friends leads to a series of confessions🌗🌖

A Reunion with Frankie🌗

Pedro returns home from filming 🌖🌑

[ladytrashbird-deactivated202308]

The Price of Souls | Ch.0 Pray for Us Sinners

a haunted!Triple Frontier story told in perspectives

Ch.0 | Ch.1 | Ch.2 | Ch.3 | AO3

the trashbird masterlist

Premise: after killing Lorea and stealing his blood money, the boys of the Triple Frontier find the stolen goods come with haunted strings attached — but not before signing the curse over to Molly.

Rating: M

Words: 517

Warnings: gratuitous cursing, mentions of blood, no real spookage here

Notes: okay, so i did not expect that one random haunted!Triple Frontier post to get as much attention as it did (a whopping 28 notes, thankyouverymuch), nor did i expect even myself to like the idea so much.

so here i am, a clown, dipping but a single toe back into fandom.

please note this will not be a frankie/pp-centric fic. we will have a peek into everyone’s lives post TF before focusing on Molly, with probably some Molly x Benny overtones.

Lorea would never admit to having nightmares about the scores of people he’s killed or had killed in the pursuit of his wealth. But he has them.

He most assuredly has them.

This is the price he pays for his crimes against humanity, for the spilled blood of the innocent and wretched alike.

But money can only soak up so much blood before it begins to soak up souls as well.

Keep reading

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

Calls from the bubble

In which Dieter drives his therapist/friend (with benefits it’s complicated) insane during the filming of cliffbeasts 6

Group-project with the discord besties

Updated: April 11th 2022

Day 1, Los Angeles 3:33am. / UK 11:33am

Day 1, Los Angeles 11:26am / UK 7:26pm

Day 2, Los Angeles 12:15pm / UK 8:15pm (written by @chaoticgeminate)

Day 3, Los Angeles, 6:45pm / UK 2:45am

Day 3, Los Angeles 11:07pm / UK 7:07am

[crazyk-imagine]

One Shot Master List

Additional summary: One call was all it took for her to come running back to her boys. Maybe after this mission Benny and Ser can admit what they’ve been keeping from one another. Everyone else knows and of course Frankie, Will, and Tago want the two to just shut up and kiss already but either one of the two always have some sort of “excuse”. Not this time. now is the time for them to make some damn tough choices. 

T/W: Major cursing (every chapter), violence, guns, blood, death, character death, injuries, ptsd

Table of Contents

I. Epigraph

II. Prologue

III. Chapter I: Old Friends

IV. Chapter II: The Adventure Begins

V. Chapter III: Locked and Loaded

VI. Chapter IV: Air Troubles

VII. Chapter V: Camp Activities

VIII. Chapter VI: Coming Around the Mountain

IX. Chapter VII: The End is Near

X. Chapter VIII: Let’s Go Home

XI. Epilogue

Fun little add ons

Playlist

One Shot Characters

One Shot Edits Pt. 1 // Pt. 2

One Shot Collage

[joels6string]

Irredeemable Masterlist

Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Summary: A diamond ring is no match for Dieter Bravo, nor is your self-control.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only! By reading this you are asserting you are over 18.)

Content: NSFW, infidelity (lots of it), pining, yearning, angst, fluff, drug use, smut (specific tags in individual chapters), no Y/N

Dieter fucking Bravo owned far too much of you than he had rights to.

Chained. That was the right word for what your life had evolved to. Chained to contracts, a carefully crafted public image, a man you no longer loved, and to a secret that threatened to tear you apart and make you whole all the same.

Keep reading

[writeforfandoms]

Not the Villain

Not the Villain - Marcus Moreno x f!reader - The Heroics really think they have a good lead this time on a group of villains that has been plaguing them for years. However, when they arrive, they’re too late - everyone is gone. Well. Almost everyone. One person has been left behind…

Chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five | chapter six | seven |

[jedimaster3000-deactivated20250]

Soulmates Masterlist

Frankie Morales x Fem!Reader

Fluff, angst, smut.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Specific warnings are listed at the beginning of each chapter.

Preface:

A definition of a soulmate: a person who is perfectly suited to another in temperament.

- - -

Tag List Form

- - -

Chapter Index:

Part 1: Soulmates

Part 2: Pride in secrets

Part 3: Medicine for the body and soul

More parts to be announced!

[oncasette]

SUN BUMMIN’

Frankie Morales x Fem! Reader

summary: Frankie finds himself on a two-week cruise with his ex-fiancé barely a year after their breakup. He thought he was over her, being the one that had ended things, but, then again, his ex had always known more about how he felt than he did, anyway.

warnings/content: canon non-compliance, no-tom, smut, lovers to enemies/strangers to lovers

main masterlist | taglist | playlist

SERIES PARTS—

P. Cough Drops & Chamomille

I. Sun Bum & Rum ( coming soon )

[pedropascalsx]

Potent - Dieter Bravo x F! Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Sex Pollen, Swearing, P in V sex, Oral (Both m&f) receiving, voyeurism, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Dieter Bravo being Dieter Bravo.

Word Count: 5.2k Words.

A/N: This is my FIRST attempt at Sex Pollen. I tried. Also I tried to make Dieter as Dieter as possible but yeah. I really hope you like it. I wasn’t sure whether to post it but thought, whats the worst that could happen? Enoy!!

Keep reading